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keldae · 6 months

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Blossoming romance prompt: surprising them with their favourite treat

The last two days had been the longest of Deviali’s life. Being abducted by mindflayers was already bad enough, and it honestly should have been her death sentence by now – maybe it was the gods slowly punishing her for all the times she’d stolen from priests and clerics who left their coin purses unattended in Wyrm’s Crossing.

But then fighting alongside a Githyanki warrior (who had only reluctantly identified herself as Lae’zel) and another half-Elf stranger (Shadowheart, she had introduced herself as) to crash the ship, and yanking a stray wizard out of his portal, and nearly being shanked by a pale Elf, and spending one night huddled in the ruins of an ancient temple before fighting off a swarm of goblins and being granted temporary sanctuary in a druid grove, along with a pack of tiefling refugees? “No one at home will ever believe this,” Devi muttered, shaking her head. “They’ll think I’m trying a new line to get out from the Fists’ idea of justice.”

“Are you accustomed to trying to talk your way out from law enforcement?” the wizard, who’d introduced himself as Gale of Waterdeep, asked with a small chuckle.

“More used than I am to breaking myself back out of being arrested,” Devi muttered. She poked at her bowl of potato porridge, wrinkling her nose slightly. While she supposed she wasn’t in a position to be picky with food, and she also supposed she should be grateful to the tieflings for sharing their supplies with the pack of tadpole-infected wanderers, she’d grown up on all things potato in the Lower City of Baldur’s Gate, and the porridge wasn’t her favourite food.

“A common thug. How uncouth.” Astarion – the pale knife-happy Elf – looked down his nose at Devi, having already finished his serving of the porridge, with much grimacing on his part. Apparently whatever upper level of society he hailed from didn’t eat peasant food often.

“Brave words from the person who pulled a dagger on me less than a minute after meeting me,” Devi retorted. “Besides, I ain’t a thug. Just a damn good thief.”

“Clearly not that good, if you have to talk your way out of trouble regularly…” Astarion commented.

Devi’s eyes narrowed threateningly, but she felt Shadowheart set a hand on her shoulder before she could get up. “If we have to work together to find a cure, then try to get along,” the cleric said, giving both Devi and Astarion a look – with a look tossed at Gale as well for good measure. “Bickering isn’t going to accomplish anything.”

With a sigh, Devi settled back into her seat, leaning against a rock and trying to get comfortable. “Anything about home we’re missing in particular?” she asked after a moment of uncomfortable, awkward silence among the group.

“My library,” Gale immediately said. Somehow, that answer didn’t surprise Devi in the slightest.

“A comfortable bed,” Astarion commented. “And not a bedroll.”

Shadowheart hummed in thought. “Besides having my head to myself? Decent wine.”

Astarion seemed to perk up. “Oh, I’d like to change my answer now…”

Devi snorted in amusement, then set her bowl down. “For me? Honestly, pumpkin soup from this one particular tavern in the Lower City. It tastes almost how my mother used to make it.”

Gale tilted his head slightly. “Of all the things you miss about home, you miss pumpkin soup the most?”

“Not just any pumpkin soup,” Devi clarified. “Just that particular one. I’d actually been on my way to get some when…” She shrugged and gestured to her head. “And I’ve been wanting it the last tenday. Don’t suppose you and your wizardly powers could conjure something up…?”

Chuckling, Gale shook his head. “I’m very good at what I do, but I’m not that good. Conjuring items is one thing, but food is nigh impossible if you want it to be in any way satisfying. You’ll have to take that up with Mystra, I fear.”

Devi groaned and slouched against her rock. “Then I hope we make it back home soon, without our parasites.”

—

Almost a month later, and no decent pumpkin soup had come across Devi’s path. She sighed as she slouched on a chair in the Last Light Inn, nursing a mug of beer and listening to the Harpers and tieflings marching around on different tasks. Moonlight Towers was going to be a huge challenge to undertake, even with the Harpers backing her crew up. And Devi was no tactician, nor strategist – she was just an ordinary thief from Baldur’s Gate, who had somehow been regarded as a symbol of hope that the tadpoles and the Absolute could be resisted.

How in all the hells had her life wound up like this?

She almost didn’t register the sounds of bootsteps on the wooden floor until she saw a flash of purple out of the corner of her eye. When she looked up, she saw Gale standing beside her, holding a tray in his hands. “You looked uncharacteristically melancholy,” he said with a tentative little smile. “May I join you?”

As if Devi could say no to the handsome wizard, even if he didn’t know how fully her heart belonged to him already. She nudged another chair at the table out for him to take a seat beside her. “You’re welcome to interrupt my brooding anytime,” she said with a grin. Curiously, she looked at the tray as he set it down on the table; a second later, her eyes widened at the two bowls filled with bright orange contents. “Is that…?”

“Pumpkin soup,” Gale confirmed with a wink. “One of the Harpers knew the tavern you were speaking of when you mentioned missing their soup, and claims to make the best replica of said soup.”

“I mentioned that once, Gale – I didn’t expect you to remember!” Devi picked up one of the bowls and took an appreciative sniff of its contents. “Oh, it smells right…” She closed her eyes, for a moment imaging herself back in her favourite slightly-sketchy tavern back home, with a bowl of her favourite soup before her, the normal denizens of the Lower City mingling around her, with someone playing a barely-tuned instrument a few booths over and a brawl close to breaking out over a dice game. She could almost forget where she was, in the heart of shadow-cursed lands, trying to figure out how to permanently kill an undead general in service to the Absolute without going insane from the shadows… although she couldn’t quite forget the handsome wizard beside her – not that she wanted to ever forget him.

She took a tentative sip from the spoon Gale had helpfully brought along with him, and softly moaned in pleasure. “Oh, I could kiss you right now,” she said, before her brain quite caught up to her mouth. Her eyes flew back open as she looked sidelong at Gale. “Er, I mean…” she started, trying to figure out how to explain that she’d been entertaining thoughts of kissing the wizard for at least the last two tendays, wondering what his lips tasted like, imagining running her hands through his long, dark hair…

Gale’s ears were red, but he appeared pleased, to go by his smile. “If I had known that I could win your affections with pumpkin soup, dear lady, I would have made a greater effort far earlier,” he chuckled.

“I’m no ‘lady’ and you know it, Gale,” Devi retorted, although she was smirking. “There’s not much that can buy me so easily, but this soup? Definitely on that list.”

“Forgive my curiosity, but what else is on that list?” Gale settled into his seat beside her, taking his own cautious first sip of the soup. “Oh, that is quite good.”

Devi tilted her head in thought for a moment. “Gold, obviously, or a good heist to plan out. And flowers – I love roses, like you might have guessed from my neck tattoo. And…” She hesitated. “I’ve heard that in the northern reaches, you can sometimes see lights dancing in the sky at night, brighter than even the moon. I saw a painting of them once, and it was gorgeous, and the artist said the painting didn’t do the actual sight justice. That’s something I’d sell my soul to see.”

“Lights dancing in the night sky, and roses, and unlawful schemes?” Gale chuckled. “You are a complex woman, Deviali. I’m sure that you’ll get to see those lights without needing to sell your soul, though.”

“You really think so? I’d never even left the Baldur’s Gate area before this whole adventure,” Devi said, for the moment ignoring Gale’s use of her despised full name. It didn’t sound nearly as bad when it came from his lips. “My plan was to steal a lot of gold and then buy a trip anywhere else, to see the world beyond the Lower City and Wyrm’s Crossing.”

Gale smiled fondly. “Fate has a curious way of making things work out. Waterdeep is north of Baldur’s Gate, far enough that in the winter on a clear night, I have sometimes seen those lights dancing in the sky myself. In another time, I would have taken you home with me and let you see the lights for yourself.”

Seeing dancing lights in the night sky wasn’t usually the reason Devi heard people expressing a wish to take her home with them, and she secretly hoped it wasn’t the only reason Gale wanted her in his home city. “We’ll get back to civilization alive,” she firmly said, “and we’ll deal with our tadpoles and the Absolute, and then you can take me home to see the lights. And if Mystra doesn’t like it, she can kiss my backside about it.”

That got a small smile from Gale. “One of us has to be the eternal optimist, I suppose,” he commented. “And you have a force of will that could make the gods hesitate in their steps… even Mystra.”

“Good,” Devi said with a firm nod. “The Absolute is on the top of my list of gods to throat-punch when I get the chance, but Mystra’s not far behind for what she’s done to you. The rest of the gods can form a line.”

“I’ve never had anyone offer to punch a deity before in defense of me,” Gale chuckled, looking more relaxed and at-ease than he’d been since the crew had met Elminster on the mountain pass road and gotten his grim message about the Orb. “It’s rather flattering.”

“And nothing less than what you deserve, especially for finding my favourite soup in the middle of nowhere,” Devi responded, grinning. “You’re my favourite wizard – I ever mention that?”

“I’ve risen that much in your esteem, just for bringing you soup?” Gale smirked. “How many other wizards am I up against?”

“I mean, most of the other wizards I’ve met were real pricks,” Devi admitted. “But you’re kind, an’ sweet, an’ smart, an’ don’t walk around with your staff up your ass.” And handsome, and talented, and compassionate, and too damn good-hearted to be stuck with an ilithid tadpole in your head… not that she could say all of that out loud.

“Tragically, I do know more than a few other wizards who meet your description,” Gale chuckled. “And few enough would track down a specific pumpkin soup in a cursed region for the behalf of a charming half-Elf thief with a heart of gold. Their loss, I must say.”

“Damn straight. Maybe I wouldn’t be so inclined to rob ‘em all blind if they weren’t entitled, arrogant jerks. Ain’t a bit like you, aside from the whole ‘magic’ thing.” Devi cheerfully nudged Gale in the side, little more than a light tap with her elbow. “Keep pullin’ miracles like finding soup like this, and you’ll be safe from any thievery from me.”

“Oh, I do have a magic touch with miracles,” Gale said, winking at her. “Ask nicely, and perhaps I’ll show you another one later.”

A sentence like that shouldn’t have made Devi’s heart skip the way it did. She was used to receiving flirtatious statements like that – she’d grown up in the Lower City, for hells’ sake! People had been flirting with her since before she was of legal age. Yet the relatively tame statement from Gale, only a little bit suggestive, made her want to squeal in excitement like a girl. Instead, she let a casual grin show itself on her face before she widened her eyes innocently. “Oh Mister Archmage Gale of Waterdeep, would you be so kind as to show your favourite Baldurian thief another miracle?”

That made Gale burst out laughing, half at Devi’s words, and half at the way she made a show of fluttering her eyelashes at him. “How can I say no to such a sincere plea as that? Give me some time, and I’ll work my magic for you.” He chuckled and gently returned Devi’s nudge with his own elbow. “But enjoy the soup for now – I’m told it’s not as good when it’s cold. Your miracle will come along later.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Devi assured him with a grin. Any excuse to watch Gale at work with the Weave was a good excuse, and if he was doing something with her in mind? She was excited to see what he could conjure up.

#kel writes #kel answers prompts -- in a timely fashion this time!#greyias #BG3 #baldur's gate 3 #spoilers for Act 2 #Gale/Tav #Gale/Devi #Gale of Waterdeep #Deviali #slow burn #affection through food #food is a love language #blossoming romance

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ramayantika · 3 months

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Devi Sita (Goddesses, Rishikas & Women)

Spring had passed away with blooming lotuses, mating birds, and the call of the koel. Sita, who adored Vasanta out of all seasons, had to spend the most romantic season in captivity by the fearsome ruler of Lanka.

Not one day went by when Sita could breathe in peace. After turning down his advances, Ravan, in a thundering voice, ordered Sita to be sent to Ashok Vatika and to be continuously tormented every day, every moment, until her strong will breaks.

The Rakshasa clan is a merciless one. Their females, the Rakshasis, even more. Their ruthlessness and barbaric ways are known to strike terror in the hearts of people, and ascetics have always been troubled by their repeated assaults.

The Rakshasis, as per the orders of their king, spent no moment to torment Sita. From throwing icy cold water to wake the drowsy Sita to butchering meat in front of her, on some days where they wanted to play with Sita’s emotions a little more, they would narrate how Ravan would butcher Ram’s flesh in front of her.

Spring passed into summer. The humid climate of Lanka made Sita perspire immensely. Sweat clung to her skin, and the sun shone brightly on the fair princess, who sat silently under the shade of one of the Ashoka trees, her mind constantly thinking about the whereabouts of Rama and Lakshman. The summers were brutal for Sita. Though she had spent so many years in the deep forests, she did have plenty of fresh fruits and water to nourish herself, unlike her situation in Lanka.

The Rakshasis starved her, dehydrated her to a great extent, and laughed when one fiery afternoon she fainted. Only when the Lankan queen Mandodari arrived to visit Sita did the queen strictly order food and fresh water to be brought to Sita.

If the days were filled with terror and threats, the nights, though spent alone, were filled with nightmares for Sita, who often woke up screaming Rama’s name, only to feel the cold, gusty wind brush her slender flesh and the rocky bed under the tree where she took shelter.

Yet, Sita, despite all her mental and physical wounds, always admired the beauty of Ashok Vatika. The clear lakes filled with exotic blooms and beautiful sculptures in dancing poses reminded her of Ayodhya. Marigold bushes reminded me of Mithila. The serene fragrance of the yellow and orange flowers made her fondly think of the garlands she wore around her arms and feet in Panchvati. Sita rarely smiled in the picturesque garden. She never got the chance to sit there happily, but there were rare moments in the company of the lush trees and flowers, like one day when a few squirrels nuzzled to her and she smiled truly and lovingly at the small, adorable creatures.

But living beings are capable of sympathy and pity, even for a brief moment at least, but pity and compassion do arise in their hearts. It could be out of guilt or maybe an honest realisation of their crude actions, but somehow, compassion comes out, and the stony hearts of the Rakshasis did melt a little with the cold, stormy showers of monsoon in Lanka.

One night, a raging storm blew by Lanka. The howling winds had extinguished the fiery torches that lit the gardens and courtyards of the grand palace. The Rakshasis too ventured inside to take cover while a frail Sita sat beneath the same Ashoka trees, knees huddled together and arms across her chest with chattering teeth as the torrential rains pelted against her lithe body and her surroundings.

One of them, named Ratangi, combed through her wet, curly hair when her eyes fell on Sita. Sita, who with each day appeared thinner, her lustrous and radiant face etched with greyness and dry texture, signs of ill-health and despair, sat with her eyes closed and her dry lips muttering the name of Rama. Though Ratangi and her companions sat afar, they could read the familiar movement of Sita’s lips to decipher Ram’s name.

Ratangi had pointed to another companion and pointed at Sita. The other Rakshasi rubbed her eyes and said, “She is the enemy, but it would be a lie if I said that I don’t admire her resilience. So many months have passed by, with no sign or message sent by her husband, yet she is steadfast in her belief about him. Such immense strength is admirable indeed.”

Ratangi’s eyes softened towards Sita. Her thick, bushy eyebrows came together in a frown as she said, “Don’t you think we should help her? The storm is brutal, and she is already so thin and frail. It will kill her.”

The other Rakshasi nodded at Sita’s condition but questioned, “What about the king’s orders? And if by any chance the princess gets to know that we have helped her, we will be punished.”

Ratangi dryly commented. “The princess enjoys tormenting this poor woman. She derives a sick joy from it.”

The rain mercilessly pelted the concrete grounds of the gardens. Some of the large ornamental trees had been bent down to combat the rain and winds. Ratangi and her companions looked at each other’s faces and then back at Sita, who had started shivering, but not once did her lips stop uttering Rama’s name.

Ratangi got up in desperation. “This woman doesn’t deserve to die in such a pitiful way. I am getting her over here.”

Gathering a straw hat kept against a wall, she quickly leaped to Sita with large strides and picked her up when the familiar sound of anklets made Ratangi halt in her steps.

“Maharani Mandodari.”

Mandodari, the chief queen of Lanka, stood in the harsh, stormy rain without a cover. She looked at the petite Sita in Ratangi’s arms and caressed Sita’s forehead. “We are all going to pay for this sin.”

Ratangi’s eyes lifted back to the queen, who stood with a passive expression on her face. Mandodari simply said, “My husband doesn’t strictly monitor Sita’s health or her lifestyle here. I can’t free Sita, but as a woman, I can make her life a little easier.” Checking for Sita’s pulse, Mandodari continued, “Sita is to be nursed back to health with treatment by our royal physician. None of the Rakshasis are to be engaged in troubling Sita any longer. Do your guard duties, but none of those sick illusions and cruel remarks. I can’t stop Shurpanakha, but make sure that none of the Rakshasis join her to make Sita’s life worse than hell any longer.”

Ratangi and Mandodari walked to bring Sita inside to provide some warmth to her body. “We have performed enough sins that we have the noose of Yama hanging around us. Let’s leave behind some good deeds, at least for the queen of Ayodhya.”

And from that stormy night on, Sita’s life in captivity in the lovely garden of Lanka improved. She was fed the juiciest of fruits, nutritious grains, and pulses, and nobody ever served her murky water to drink. The Rakshasis sometimes gave some of their garments to Sita, who graciously accepted a few of them.

***

“Why are you still hell-bent that your Rama will free you? Don’t you know Ravan has captured so many powerful warriors and hasn’t even spared the gods too?” Ratangi cries out to Sita, who sits as peacefully as a sage immersed in meditation.

“I am not afraid of death, Ratangi, or my husband. I know Rama, but you don’t. He is kind as a dove, but when in rage, he becomes the destroyer himself.”

Some moments ago, Ravan arrived at the garden to threaten Sita to submit to him. “If you don’t submit to me, O Sita! You will meet with terrible destruction at my hands after a month! This very day, a month from now, I shall devour you."

Sita, who had enough of Ravan’s violent and intimidating threats, especially after the cruel incident where Ravan showed the beheaded Rama to Sita to break her mind, silently challenged Ravan’s final warning with a fixed, fiery gaze.

Ratangi and a few other Rakshasis who had grown to like Sita grew terrified at Ravan’s threat. After the Lankan king left the garden, they rushed to Sita and sat around her feet.

The afternoon sun drenches the entire garden in golden light. The large trees cast dark shadows on the ground, but unlike the hot winds of summer that pricked everyone, the cool winter breeze brings a pleasant sensation to Sita and all the other Rakshasis in the garden.

Sita, in her tree bark garments and long cotton scarves, looks at the shimmering water of the lake. The swans bask under the sun, their eyes closed, as if enjoying the warm company of the sun. Sita smiles and keeps a cheek on her eyes as a small smile curves on her lips.

Ratangi, however, finds no peace, unlike Sita. She asks, “How can you sit so calmly? You only have a month to live. You don’t even accept our help to cross you over to your land. Even if Rama and your brother-in-law Lakshman cross the ocean, how will they penetrate the defences of our kingdom?”

Some months ago, Sita would always sit morose. Shurpanakha never left any chance to insult Sita or scare her with brutal images of Rama’s death. But Sita was a courageous princess, a woman with the resolute determination to survive all odds.

‘My Raghunandan will fight even the gods for me. He is my strength, and I am his. He will fight on the battlefield with your king soon and take me away. And my battle is here in this garden, all alone. I keep winning every day, and I know Rama will avenge me soon. Ravan’s pot of sins is overflowing.’

The other guards gasp. Sita calmly, with a brave look in her eyes, looks at no one but the calm lake. Sita’s words were blasphemous!

Ratangi and her companions look at one another. Astounded at Sita’s indomitable spirit, they closed their eyes and prayed to fate, for they seldom believed in the celestials above to bring Sita and Rama together, at least for one last time.

And what’s a king without his loyal people and followers? Ratangi and her companions grew kind and stretched a hand of friendship to Sita, but in battle they would side with their emperor. A sign of true and maybe flawed loyalty in terms of the ‘greater good’.

Nobody speaks a word. Sita no longer looks at the crushed flowers beneath her feet, but her eyes always fall on the loveliest of flowers that bloom in the garden. The cold doesn’t bother her anymore, and she gladly welcomes the sun on her body.

It’s only a matter of time, and like a lion, will my Rama take me away from here?

A chain of events brought about the ominous sign of Lanka’s destruction. Ravan’s soldiers, servants, and all the guards, Rakshasas and Rakshasis, try their level best to douse the fire burning away their kingdom like a raging forest fire.

Ratangi notices the blazing look in Sita’s doe-like eyes and gulps. The entire Ashok Vatika, too, burns. The dry twigs and leaves serve as fuel to let the fire capture everything in its vicinity. Sita stands on the concrete platform, her head high, and for a brief moment, she sees Hanuman leap across the large roofs of the palace with a fiery grey trail in the sky.

Flames surround Sita, and though she has seen endless fires in her nightmares, this time her face bears a glow as radiant as the enormous orange flames around her. She braces the powerful heat emanating from the fire and draws her eyes close once again with her lips, remembering Rama’s name like the chants of a mantra.

Sita’s open hair flying in the strong winds and the fiery radiance of her face make her appear like Devi Durga, and never did Ratangi think about bowing to another woman except the royal ladies of Lanka. Her head bends down automatically in reverence, fear, and awe at Sita.

Ratangi had seen Sita as the delicate doe-like princess when she was brought to Lanka. She saw how Sita was the rightful queen of Ayodhya after displaying her firm grit to survive and to stay stable after months of mental and physical torment, and tonight Ratangi saw Sita look like a powerful goddess of destruction.

She only mutters one statement after witnessing the surrounding flames destroy everything in their wake. “Lanka is doomed.”

--- xxx ---

The last second chapter of my short story collection titled, Goddesses, Rishikas & Women. There are other stories, some that you all have read, and the rest shall be revealed later in the future.

This scene is my imagination of Sita in Ashok Vatika. I hope I could do some justice to Sita's character.

And if you want to find more updates about this book, you can head over to my id: @samridhi.writes for all book updates and excerpts (meko audience bannani hai apni vahan so you all would mean the world to me 🥹💗💖)

Taglist: @swayamev @jukti-torko-golpo @navaratna @kaal-naagin @alhad-si-simran @houseofbreadpakoda @inexhaustible-sources-of-magic @krishnaaradhika @krsnaradhika @ramcharantitties @krishna-priyatama

#samridhi writes #desiblr #hindublr #goddesses rishikas & women #sita #ramayana #short story

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probably-a-plant-thing · 2 months

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ive said this before but i love how u draw nny’s eye all fuckrd up! do u have any other headcanons for the boy (appearance-wise or like idk character-wise in general)

Thannnk you :D

Devi killed him when she kicked his ass, right?? Or at least was really close to it when she left him for dead?? I think he survived entirely because Wall Monster didn't want its main source of food to die so it's forcing him to keep kicking.

Idk how exactly to draw it yet but I like to think his nose is crooked a little to the left because he didn't bother setting his nose correctly. Also, he does have a scar or something under his jaw.

i just like silly lil aftermath wounds.

#jthm #johnny the homicidal maniac #tumblr moots #silly lil headcanon hours

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mahi-wayy · 16 days

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𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈 - 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐌

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 - 𝐈 | 𝑷𝑹𝑰𝒀𝑨𝑻𝑨𝑴𝑨

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________________

The golden palace of Mahishmati was probably one the grandest things that can be found in the kingdom, with the family it inhabits being the grandest of it all. The shining walls of the palace have witnessed generations coming and going but if the walls could talk they would easily claim the current generation the most interesting one.

A stubborn queen mother, a good for nothing prince consort father, a secretly depressed adopted son, his fierce wife to be, a wounded son of absent parents and his fire like fiance. All lived under the same roof and under their personalities, the grand palace seemed not more than a mere hut.

Sivagami Devi, the woman in charge of anything and everything that happened in the palace. Whether it be the food that was being made or the policies for the kingdom, nothing goes on the floor without her approval.

Bijjaladeva, an alcohol addicted prince consort, a man rotting away. His son has been acting weird these days and that irks him more than his nephew ever did.

Amrendra Bahubali, the crown prince, the upcoming king of Mahishmati. He has spent most of his life in bliss oblivion but the past few months haven't been kind to him and now that he has started thinking about his, his life has never been kind.

Devsena, the princess consort, is set to marry Bahubali in two weeks. A fierce and opinionated woman not afraid to speak her mind, she hasn't found many allies among the grand walls of Mahishmati but the ones she had were probably the only she will need.

Bhallaladeva, the soon to be royal commander of Mahishmati's royal army, a broken boy. He has been trying to change a little, coming out of what his father has shown him to what the actual reality was.

Rudrani, the second princess consort, got engaged to Bhalla a few months ago. A kind woman with a fierce personality she is the fire that protects what it encircles with warm flames.

Six people, six different kind of personalities, six different kinds of relationship dynamics all coming together under three wings of the majestic palace.

Everyday was some kind of battle.

For instance, Bhallaladeva was currently locked in an inner conflict with himself while also wrestling his brother as a sparring partner. If pressured into answering as to who he was closest to in the family, the older prince would very surprisingly and very reluctantly take the name of the younger prince.

At the very same time he would rather die than admitting this infront of his family but some weird force did tell him that the younger one knew that the soft spot Bhalla had for him until their teens was coming back, very slowly but it was.

The biggest proof being the admission of all the murder attempts he had made on his brother. For months there was an unsaid wall between them until Bahu very reluctantly offered him forgiveness and he took it.

He has felt a little lighter ever since, even now as he holds the younger man in a headlock, there is a smile begging to stretch in his lips as the younger flails his arms around to break the lock.

Bhallaladeva always thought losing to his brother would leave his wounds even more painful but once they started to mend their relationship he felt them healing, just a little. Part of the reason he decided to forfeit the throne and let him have it, is that he doesn't think he is suited to take the pressure of being the supreme authority just yet.

He was satisfied, even happy, to be the royal commander. He liked slamming the soldiers down on their back, defeating groups after groups of them with bare hands in training. Listen, the sadistic tendencies will eventually leave him, just give him time plus he has always been a harsher, more practical teacher.

So yes he was enjoying being the upcoming general however the same can't be said for his father.

The thought of the alcoholic old man is enough to distract his mind from the grip and that's all it takes for his brother to slip and kick his feet from under him.

He groans, landing on your back which so happens to start bruising is not cool. Bahu kneels beside him, his smile slowly dropping and brows frowning in concern.

“You good? That was way too easy.”

“I'm fine shortstack.”

The name does the trick and immediately distracts his brother and he goes from being concerned to making a vaguely offended sound in his throat.

“I'm just an inch shorter than you!?”

“Still shorter.”

He lets a very small smile slip on his lips as he sits up, Bahu walking away grumbling something about unfair bullying. The man was just a child to be honest.

Bhallaladeva gets up, stretching until his shoulders crack before following the path his brother walked, picking up his sarape on the way and wrapping it around his back and shoulder. No one needs to know about the bruises he bears.

—

When Devasena first came to Mahishmati it was everything she had ever heard of. A gigantic prosperous kingdom, a land of kind people looked upon and after by the most majestic palace and family on Earth.

But soon enough did she realise that the perfect looking royalty was anything but that. Their marriage was basically a deal her fiance made with his mother and she always had suspicions about Bhallaladeva.

He seemed like he was always hiding something and didn't have a genuine bone in his body well that was until a month back.

Something seems to haved shifted in the older prince and while she was about to call bullshit the way it seems to light up her lover's eyes she held back.

She won't say she likes the older prince very much, she tried to kill her man on multiple occasions for lord's sake but her lover seems happy and she won't disrupt it at any cost.

Even now also, she smiled as he whined about his brother was bullying him, as he says, for being a inch shorter and it made her smile. He has been a little low for few days so it was nice to see him being a little childish.

The past few months haven't been kind to him with his mother still refusing to accept her as suited partner for him even if she was getting them married and then the whole confession from Bhallaladeva and his uncle wasn't kind to begin with.

But it was all stable. For now.

“But you are an inch shorter, no?”

She says just to get out that adorable pout form on his lips as she chuckles pulling at his cheeks. He was beyond adorable but the peace was disrupted when a commotion broke out outside.

A soldier came in after knocking, his face twisted in panic and worry.

“What's wrong?”

“My prince, there has been an invasion in the palace by a handful of bandits.”

“What!?”

This was not believable, infiltrating the borders of the country was close to impossible how did these men get in the palace. She didn't have time to worry about that, grabbing her sword and following Bahubali out of the room.

The golden palace was thrown into chaos, soldiers were everywhere, rushing to secure the large area of the palace. She herself killed two of the bandits, Bahubali taking down three as they headed towards the courtroom.

They push the heavy doors open to find a blood fest, close to five people were dead but the pieces of their corpses made it look like ten men have died a brutal death.

At the centre she finds the man she knew would be behind all this.

Bhallaladeva stood in the centre of the empty court, his face was splashed with blood, his mace dripping the red liquid it was covered in as he panted softly.

This was the exact reason Devasena didn't trust him at all. This monster of a man, was he even aware of things such as trust, loyalty and life?

Her eyes widen when her fiance steps in his brother's direction, light on his feet until he notices a shoulder wound. His concern must have diverted his attention and he ends up stepping on a piece of metal, the sound echoing in the room.

A yelp almost leaves her lips when the older prince puts back one of his feet for leverage and swings the mace full force, the younger prince missing it by a hair. He stumbles back though and his disbalance seems to break the whatever bloodthirsty trance the first prince was in and the man stretches a hand to stabilise him.

She sighs but her brows frown in concern, what the hell is this behaviour, Bhallaladeva almost smashed his own brother's face. Before she could start a quarrel though one of the palace servants rushed in.

“Your highness, the older princess is here.”

“What!? Why would you let her in when you know we have inflators in the palace!?”

The roaring sound of the first prince surprises her, just who was this woman who was coming in.

“Mercy my lord but the queen mother ordered us not to let anyone suspect something is wrong within the palace and we did manage to stop her carriage but she decided to walk her way inside.”

She sees her lover face-palm and the older prince curse under his breath before the latter pushes away the servant and strides out and the younger prince just follows him.

She too falls in steps with them, her curiosity guiding her steps to match the pace with the Mahishmati princes.

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tags : @mayakimayahai @warnermeadowsgirl @vijayasena @voidsteffy @jkdaddy01 @allari-ammayi @mellaga-karagani @rambheem-is-real @ulaganayagi

#bahubali fanfic #bahubali the conclusion #bahubali #bahubali the crown of blood #amrendra bahubali #amrendra bahubali x devsena #bhallaladeva #bhallaladeva x oc #south indian fanfic

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portlandrowismyhome · 1 year

Text

Borrowed Time: Chapter One

A little fanfic I got suckered into writing by @the-biscuit-agreement ‘s incredible prompt. Huge thanks to @lemonsharks and @oceanspray5 ‘s additional ideas.

This is that Lockwood and co serial killer prompt…

Tag list (or interest list for those who showed interest in the prompt. If you aren’t interested in the fic no worries): (also my Lockwood friends in general): @neewtmas @givemea-dam-break @thedonutdeliverygirl @ikeasupremacy @wellgoslowly @edmundlockwood @narnianweirdos @tangledinlove @so-true-jestie @oblivious-idiot @paysomeonetopaysomeone @peachesanddandelions @myownpainintheass @sadwinistic @almostlikequake @saelterlude @fandomscraziness22 @everythingwillend @uku-lelevillain @atlabeth @carlyleons @smol-being-of-light @losticaruss @superpositvecloudshipper @totally-not-an-npc @paranorahjones @malteevars-kee-devi @teaandtoastandthyme @jesslockwood @krash-and-co @lucy-j-carlyle

Please note this is a sideblog and all replies will come from @waitingforthesunrise

This takes place four months after The Hollow Boy: Lucy is an independent agent who starts investigating the wrong case, and Lockwood has always been living on borrowed time…

Warnings: mild language, general pain, angst, suggested injury, death, car accident, hint at torture, threats, hurt/very little comfort (yet). I’m so sorry, guys…

“Miss Carlyle.” Inspector Barnes sighed, flipping over the newspapers strewn across his desk. “Trust me. This is a case to let go.”

“What cases do we let go, Inspector?” Lucy leaned forward. “We’re agents. Getting to the bottoms of things is what we do.”

“And DEPRAC’s job is to make sure that’s the only thing you go to the bottom of,” Barnes said. “Miss Caryle, you have almost no evidence. You have no team. You certainly have no proof. There’s nothing here, and frankly this will only cause you danger I’m unable to help you with.”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Lucy snapped. “You called me here.”

Barnes rubbed a hand across his jaw. Lucy stared stubbornly at his desk. They were sitting in his office; well-lit, clean, and smelling strongly of chemical cleaner. Lucy clenched her jaw, determined not to lose the silent battle. She was so tired — Barnes had called her and left no choice but to return to his office immediately after work. And now she was sitting here in front of his desk, wasting time…she could be eating breakfast, or in a warm shower…the hot water cascading over her tired shoulders….

But the water was shut off due to a leak at her apartment, and there would be now arm breakfast or inviting smells awaiting her. Only crusty dishes and a sulking skull.

It had been four months since Lucy had left Portland Row.

Barnes cleared his throat. “Let me make sure I understand. You first took the case from a Miss Helen Younge, correct?”

Lucy nodded. Miss Younge had been young no longer when they had met; the whispery, frail old lady worked at the take-out shop where Lucy often bought doughnuts. Miss Younge often showed Lucy pictures of her cats, but that had been the extent of their interactions until the day the old woman had seized Lucy’s wrist over the cash register and whispered, you’re an agent, aren’t you? Oh, I’m in such trouble…

Barnes studied a notebook. “She offered to pay you?”

“Of course. I am an independent agent. But it was more…”

“A favor?”

Lucy nodded. “She’s an old woman working at a bakeshop, Inspector. She could never pay for a Fittes or Rotwell team.” She didn’t bother to hide the bitterness in her voice; who knew how many nights Miss Younge and others like her had spent, anxious and afraid of things they were unable to see, knowing an inspection alone would cost them precious food?

If Barnes noticed it, he didn’t let on. “Surely you didn’t inspect the property at night?” He squinted at the paper. “An apartment building, nonetheless.”

“Of course not. I did it in daylight. But…” Lucy hesitated. “I thought it would be just a weak Type One, an old person’s death or something, but…”

“Yes?”

“There was a strange whispering.”

“Miss Carlyle, you are a Listener, and sources do have a habit —“

“I found the Source, sir. It was just a simple Type One and gave almost no trouble. But I don’t think it’s the only ghost there. There’s something else, maybe more than just one.”

Lucy paused, remembering the sticky brush of a spiderweb against her face, the quick rush of cool air, the sudden suspension of time.

“It says here,” Barnes said, “you ‘found yourself stuck in a time-loop.’ You have no idea when it could be from, or what it’s stemming from. You’re convinced it’s connected to the Type One, but that it’s not the cause.”

“Exactly.” Lucy eagerly leaned forward. “The voice, it kept saying the same thing, over and over—”

“— help me, I’m dying, he took care of you, so now you’ll kill me too,” Barnes finished in a bored tone. “Very concise for a ghost.”

Lucy brushed off his skepticism. “Of course there was more, that’s just what was clear — Inspector, this ghost was murdered. Maybe Miss Younge’s Type One, too.”

“Wouldn’t it have been a bit stronger, then?”

“Not if it was a miserable, elderly person living alone in an apartment complex with a cat and a bottle of pain pills. Those are a dime a dozen, Inspector. The person might not even know they were murdered. Not until it was too late.”

Barnes groaned. “You have the Source, don’t you.”

“Not on me,” said Lucy. She did. It was in her knapsack, securely sealed in iro; a small, initialed pocketknife.

“Miss Carlyle—”

Lucy hurriedly shuffled through her knapsack, and held out a stack of papers. “Look, Inspector, I found these in the library — it’s a murder case, I’m sure, I think this might lead to the victim, an unnamed body — the Source gets clearer every time I listen to it—”

“Miss Carlyle!” Barnes brought his hand down on the table. “I don’t have time for this. DEPRAC can’t keep you off the case, but consider this a warning. Whatever happens after this is on you. And —“

The door banged open. Lucy looked up to see an ashen-faced assistant gabbling into a hand-held receiver.

“Sir!” The assistant said. “Sir, it’s urgent…there’s been an accident outside, a body…”

Barnes jumped to his feet and hurried out the door, and Lucy, after hesitating for a moment, followed.

Clouds were gathering in the sky overhead; the air smelled like rain. A cool breeze tugged at Lucy’s hair as she hurried down the steps after Inspector Barnes and towards the knot of people gathered near the road.

“They said it was a green van,” the assistant said. “Just barreled through and drove off…”

Voices rose excitedly from the gawking group. “Came right out of nowhere, he did…just slammed into the poor thing…never had a chance….”

“DEPRAC Inspector!” Barnes roared. “Stand back!”

The crowd drew apart, and Lucy had a clear view of the blood streaked face staring empty-eyed at the sky.

It was Miss Younge.

There was a blur of ambulances and shouting and the passerby offering eager comments. Lucy couldn’t look away from the sightless eyes and crumpled cardigan of the old woman. Her head pounded; it couldn’t be real, couldn’t be happening. Miss Younge had given her a sandwich only that morning! The blood spattered across the pavement…

Barnes tried to steer her towards the steps, but she caught his sleeve.

“Miss Carlyle —“

“Inspector.” Her voice was ragged even in her own ears. “Don’t you see? Don’t you understand? This is proof! She must have been coming here to tell me something, she must have found something out! She was murdered, I —“

“Lucy,” Barnes said gently. “There’s been an accident. I understand you’re distraught. Go home, get some sleep.”

“Don’t you get it? This isn’t an accident, this is murder!”

Barnes glanced at the crowd, the assistant waiting nervously, the flashing lights of the screeching ambulance. “This was an accident, Miss Caryle. You’re conjecturing —“

“No!” Lucy stumbled back. “No, it wasn’t.”

An official approached, holding a clipboard. “Inspector, if you’d step this way…”

Barnes looks down at the paper, and when he looked up, Lucy Caryle was gone.

He swore under his breath.

Lucy paused in front of Miss Younge’s apartment building, breathless. She had run all the way from DEPRAC headquarters, rapier digging mercilessly into her hip, stopping only at her apartment to retrieve the skull. Lucy would rather have died on a bed of hot coals than admit it out loud, but she felt safer with it at her side. She bent over, gasping.

The skull groaned from inside her knapsack. “You know, I said that all that greasy food would slow you down. But did you listen? No, of course not. Why listen to your friends? Oh wait…” It cackled. “You only have one!”

“Shut up,” Lucy said abruptly. She was digging in her pockets for the key Miss Younge had given her. The key she had been going to return today….

But there was no time for that. She needed to focus, keep her mind clear. Find any clues before DEPRAC took over. She bounded up the stairs, skull complaining loudly in her ear. Hurry, hurry, hurry…

The door was unlocked.

Lucy tapped it hesitantly and it creaked slowly open.

“Put me down!” The skull complained. “I can’t see a thing!”

Lucy slid the jar out of the bag and set it in the corner. The room was dark and musty; a few half-empty bookshelves, a stained quilt covered the sagging bed…and that strange muttering whisper in her ear sending shivers up her skin…

Something warm and furry brushed against her leg and she almost jumped out of her skin.

“Skull! You could have warned me.”

“Oh, because that’s my job now? You haven’t even apologized for this morning, and you expect me to hand out my exceptional services for free? Besides, it’s only a cat.”

The orange cat meowed hesitantly, and Lucy bent down to brush its back.

“God, no,” the skull said. “Lucy…I see what you’re thinking, Lucy, and the answer is no!”

“We have to take it.” Lucy straightened up and began to examine the dusty bookshelves. “Miss Younge won’t be coming back.”

“It’s a cat. Cats live like the little demons they are. ARGH! It’s coming closer, Lucy, make it stop, it’s so ugly…”

A sharp riiiing cut through the skull’s moans. Lucy jumped, glancing at the phone. Just a call. Probably some elderly friend, looking for a chat. And she’d have to tell them…

She picked up the receiver. “Hello, I—“

“Hello, Lucy Carlyle.” The voice was smooth; slippery, sharp, and entirely unfamiliar. “I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you. Might I add how beautiful you look this morning?”

Lucy froze. “Who is this?”

“A businessman. Looking for a deal.”

Lucy shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t my number.”

“Oh, no. It’s your location. But why leave a message when I can reach you like this? I knew you’d come for the cat, anyway.”

The sounds of the skull arguing faded away. “What did you say?”

“Look, darling. You’ve had a good run. A good case. Why, if you go home now, you’ll even find a little payment on the doorstep.”

“A payment for what?”

“Dropping the case, of course.” The voice was like silk. “And never speaking about it to DEPRAC again. We wouldn’t want to bother our silly little head about it, would we?”

“I’m not dropping the case!”

“Oh?”

Lucy scrambled for time, a cold weight in the pit of her stomach. “So you know something? Miss Younge was murdered?”

“Oh, Miss Younge.” The man made a disgusted noise. “She was small and unimportant.”

“The Type One, then?”

“No, my dear. This is about Lockwood.”

Four months. Four months. And her world still reeled at the sound of his name.

Lucy swallowed. “What does Lockwood have to do with this?”

“What doesn’t he have to do with this is a better question. Everything about you traces back to him eventually, doesn’t it? But it’s simple: you bury the case or I bury the boy. After I’ve had some fun, of course…And come on, Lucy. We both know catching him wouldn’t be the hard part.”

“I—”

“You need to drop this while I still have the restraint for it. Think how hard it will be for me to stop after I’ve heard him beg like you have. The boy’s practically screaming for someone to end his misery already, and trust me — when I’m done, he will be. And I’m sure you saw that last case put him in the hospital for three days…No, our Locky’s been looking for death a long time…”

Lucy’s ears were ringing, her nose full of the heavy must of dust and cat. “I—“

“Good day, darling,” the voice said, and hung up.

Lucy clenched the receiver, staring at the faded wallpaper. Her knees were shaking. God, he was right. That hospital visit. A broken leg. She had scanned the papers every day for news of Lockwood, hoping she wouldn’t find a death announcement, hating herself for it every time…

The skull was making horrific faces at the cat, which was inching closer. The skull yelped as Lucy swept it into the bag and bundled the cat in her arms.

“What kind of treatment is this, huh? And we’re going home, I hope…”

“We’re going to find Lockwood,” Lucy said briefly. “Before it’s too late.”

Lucy didn’t bother with the bell or the iron line. She threw herself at the door, hammering at the wood, a horrific panic clutching her heart. The voice had seemed so sure, so certain. She had imagined her re-entry to Portland Row many times; in one particularly gratifying scenario, Lockwood had been on his knees begging her, the hugely successful businesswomen, to save his beloved house. And now it was her begging for entry…she kicked the thoughts aside and hit the door with her foot.

The door swung open unexpectedly and she fell into the dark hallway. George was staring at her, eyes round from behind his glasses, a rapier in his hand.

“Lucy?” He said blankly.

“George,” Lucy gasped, the cat leaping from her arms. She brushed her hair back with a sweaty palm. “Is Lockwood here? Hurry, please, I need to see him!!”

Holly appeared over George’s shoulder, wrapped in an elegant coat. “Oh, it’s Lucy! And she’s brought us a cat!”

“Please!” Lucy pushed past them towards the library. “Where is he? Lockwood!”

“Oh, Lucy,” Holly whispered.

Lucy paused, the quiet house settling over her like a heavy weight. For the first time she noticed George and Holly’s coats and hats, rapiers strapped to their waists.

“We were just going to find you,” said Holly.

Lucy swallowed. “I..”

George heaved a sigh. “Lucy, Lockwood’s been missing for two days.”

The world was spinning again.

Lucy felt a hand on her elbow, and Holly guided her into a chair. “Hurry, George, put on some tea, she’s probably frozen…oh, I’m so sorry…”

George made a disgruntled noise. “She still hasn’t said what she’s doing here.”

“I got a phone call,” Lucy said numbly. “About Lockwood. There’s this case — it was a warning, and I …Oh, my word.”

Holly set down a mug. “We were just going to look for you. We thought, maybe…”

“He wasn’t with me,” Lucy said.

They all jumped at the shrill ring of the phone. The sound sliced through Lucy with a cold recognition. She rose.

“I’m alright, Holly, really. I — I need to answer that call.”

“You don’t even work here!” George said, following her into the hall. “It’s not your job!”

“You never answered them even when it was your job,” she shot back. “And this one will be for me.”

The receiver was cool in her hands. She stared at the dark bookshelves, breathing in the familiar smell of Portland Row. “Hello?”

Silence.

Hope filled her. Maybe it was just a wrong number — a grocery order —

“Hello, darling,” the voice said, a soft chuckle hiding in it’s voice. “What a pleasure to hear your voice again.”

“Wish I could say the same for you.”

“My, my. Sass this early in the day? Did your little pals miss you?”

She gripped the receiver. “Where is he?”

“Where is he? But you’ve guessed that, haven’t you, Lucy Caryle? Best Listener in London. Head like that on your shoulders. You know where he is.”

“I swear if you’ve hurt him,” she whispered. “It will be the last thing you ever do, do you hear me? I swear—“

“Oh, Lucy,” the voice crooned. “If I hurt him? You should be begging me for a little mercy.” He sighed. “What would you have guessed? DEPRAC arrived at the apartment only five minutes after you and started a Source sweep with a double team. Your Mister Barnes trusted you a little more than you thought. But that’s besides the point…”

“I don’t know you have him,” Lucy said. Geroge’s worried face loomed in her vision, Holly right behind him, hands clasped under her chin. “You could be lying.”

“I could.” The voice hummed lightly. “How would you like me to prove it to you? His voice saying your name? A handkerchief?”

Her stomach clenched. “A recording. A piece of fabric. Could have gotten them anywhere.”

“True,” it mused. “What about a finger? You’ve stared at his hands enough; you’d know them anywhere, wouldn’t you?”

“I—“

“Or his ring? The one you thought you might wear on your finger one day.” It chuckled. “Still time for that. At his funeral, maybe —“

“Where is he,” Lucy spat into the phone. “Where is he, you stupid bastard!?”

“Now, now,” the voice tsked. “I’m not cruel. Why don’t I just put him on the phone? Be a good girl and listen to his demands, now.”

Lucy’s stomach dropped at the familiar voice over the phone.

“Luce,” Lockwood said warmly. “It’s been a while!”

“My word, Lockwood,” she said faintly. It was him, really him; his voice and his nickname for her… “What are you doing?”

“A spot of business. Quite nice, really.”

She could hear the rough edges in his voice now, the little gasps on the end of his sentences, like the air was whistling through his lungs.

“Lockwood,I—”

“It’s so good to hear your voice again, Luce; you have no idea. Wish you could have popped round for some tea the other day, though. George made your favorite.”

“Lockwood!”

His voice was weary when he spoke again. “Yes, Luce?”

She turned away from the others. “What’s going on, Lockwood? They couldn’t find you — I was so worried — where are you? Where do I need to go? I’ll come and I’ll —“

“Not to worry,” Lockwood said cheerfully, but it sounded forced, as though he was saying it through clenched teeth. “I’ve got it all handled, Luce. Everything’s under control. You’re not running yourself to the ground over me, are you, Luce? Get some rest and take care, you hear me? And stay at Portland Row as long as you like. Oh, and tell Holly that I broke one of her pink teacups the other day. She can order a new set. My apologies.”

Lucy’s gaze rose to meet Holly’s horrified eyes. “Lockwood!” She spat, trying desperately to keep the panic from her voice. “Tell me where you are, I swear — dear God, Lockwood, this isn’t a joke—”

“Isn’t it? That reminds me: I heard a particularly good one the other day, I made a note to tell you…” Lockwood hissed sharply. “Ah. Oh, that’s better.” There was a sliding sound. “Just needed to sit down.”

“You’re hurt, aren’t you?” Lucy knew she was babbling. “Lockwood, please, please—”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s okay, Luce.” Lockwood’s voice was perfectly calm, with only a slight tremor to remind her they weren’t sitting across from each other at the breakfast table. “I promise.”

“No!” She gasped for breath. “No, you swore you would never lie to me again, Lockwood — you swore—”

“Lucy!” Lockwood chuckled, but inhaled sharply as though it pained him. “I’m taking care of a brief issue. It’s business as usual.”

“No, Lockwood, it’s not! Just tell me, please, please—”

“I’ve spent my life feeling like a weapon,” Lockwood said quietly, his voice echoing over the phone. “Always living on borrowed time. I never could tell if the weapon was pointed at myself or at others. But I’ll make damn sure it isn’t pointed at you.”

A ragged sob caught in Lucy’s throat. It wasn’t real. She’d wake up tomorrow, in her own bed, and Lockwood would still be an annoying prick who lived nearby, and she would have a chance to fix everything. It couldn’t end like this.

And here she was, already acting as though it was the end.

“No,” she whispered into the phone, her voice growing louder. “No! NO. DAMN YOU, LOCKWOOD, YOU ANNOYING BASTARD — JUST TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE, YOU’RE NOT GOING TO DIE, I WON’T LET YOU, I—“

“Listen to me, Lucy,” Lockwood said, his voice suddenly urgent. She broke off, sobbing for breath. His voice was quick and direct, like they were on a case together. “Take the Source. Listen exactly to what it says, and then tell Barnes. Okay? And then take it to the furnaces and burn it. Understood? You’ll be alright. Everything’s under control.”

“No,I—”

“One last thing,” said Lockwood, his voice shaking just a little. “Luce, I needed to say…there’s not much time, but I lov—”

There was a sharp beep, and the line went dead.

~ To be continued ~

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bits-and-babs · 1 year

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𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐈𝐀 — 𝐄𝐙𝐑𝐀 (𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓)

↳ summary: Abandoned by your prospecting crew, you team up with a fellow castaway to survive the hostile environment of Bakhroma.

↳ pairing: ezra (prospect) x f!reader

↳ [6.7k words] content: 18+ MDNI. Violence, injury, use of the name 'Little Bird' (canon), medical scenes. Fingering, riding, p in v sex, unprotected sex (ain't no condoms on a moon, girlie, but you better wrap up!), oral (f receiving). This is a @beskarbabs remaster — original post date 2021.

Ezra masterlist I| main masterlist |I join the taglist here

On your journey to Bakhroma, you'd heard an old wives' tale. Somewhat of a ghost story passed around the three-member crew during drunk nights while the long-haul space freighter floated in endless space. The unit said that other Prospectors that had survived the trip to the moon claimed that anyone who stepped foot in The Green was consumed with greed. How they were overcome with voracity upon the sight of the first Aurelac gem obtained, how Prospectors would literally kill for more of the obscure crystals, for the money that came from selling them, even just to be able to possess them for themselves. You had laughed.

How you wish you had taken them seriously.

Clutching your right arm in distress, you stumble through the foliage surrounding you on shaky legs. There's no denying the agony crawling up your arm in tendrils. You also lack oxygen, food, water and a weapon to protect yourself. Yet, you aren't as afraid of this as you are of the likelihood of other Prospectors wandering the forests. Given the traumatic event you managed to survive only hours ago, you could happily live the rest of your life without seeing another Prospector again, even if that shortened your life by force of circumstance.

Your crew, many of which you had grown up with, had stranded you on a hostile moon, of which its air was unbreathable, with little to no chance of survival. Despite the ache in the soles of your feet and the searing pain that shot through your arm with each step, this irrevocable fact left you numb: there was no accident. They'd abandoned you.

You didn't even observe when the atmosphere amongst the crew changed; it had all happened so fast. Having landed in the Drop Pod without incident and safely navigating The Green without needing to fire a single shot from the two Frontiersman guns you shared between the three of you, it had all gone so smoothly. Even the first Aurelac extraction had been successful.

If you were to pinpoint a moment you could pin the blame on for your fellow prospectors' change in attitude, it was when they first set their eyes on the crystal that they extracted from the hideous organism's membrane.

There was no way around it; everyone had become greedy. Their ridiculous ghost tale had manifested itself. They had harvested as many as was needed and then some more, and some more. The storage cases were overflowing and impossible to close without bursting at the seams. Some Aurelac gems were too big to fit into the case and had to be carried by hand.

When the time for harvesting was up, the group wandered back to the Pod. Maybe if you had been more observant and taken heed of the muted conversation, you could have avoided this mess entirely.

Upon returning to the Pod, the atmosphere had curdled. Stasya and Devi had control of the weapons since the very start of the mission, and you now found the barrels aimed at you. Stasya, the self-appointed leader of this expedition and all-around pretentious air-head, had decided upon leaving you on Bakhroma, initially claiming there wasn't enough weight capacity to take all three of you back home on the Pod.

"That is nonsensical, and you know it!" You'd insisted, wondering whether or not Stasya had secured her helmet correctly. She had to be going insane. Surely the toxic air had seeped into a crack in her armour-

"We have at least 140 pounds in Aurelac gems," she'd replied abruptly, her stance aggressive, "We need to leave you." You were in shock, bewildered by her statement. No matter how hard you tried to interpret her logic, it wasn't making sense...

"But we were cautious that we didn't pack too much equipment to ensure we had capacity for the harvest- I don't see how we could have breached the volume that we can't all make our way back safely," you contend, incredulous at her insinuation. When she didn't respond and instead aimed her Frontiersman Gun up between your eyebrows, your attention flitted to her overly-protective grip of the handle to the storage case in her free hand. Finally putting two and two together, you scoff, looking between Stasya and her power-grabbing number two, Devi.

"You are being ridiculous! We have an even split of the money we'll make from the gems-" You'd tried to plead for your life, well aware that abandonment on The Green was a definite death sentence. Devi interrupted.

"We get a much bigger cut if you're not involved," he pointed out rather callously. These two crew members, your friends, had been tainted by the very same greed they had forewarned in their ghost stories, passed on by other Prospectors, and were willing to sacrifice you for a shot at blood money.

Maybe it was the pressure of the situation, the rising panic in your stomach, but time seemed to slow down as the gravity of their plan for you began to set in. That same alarm sent you into fight mode.

It had all happened in what felt like a microsecond. Charging at Devi, you grabbed the gun in his hand with both of your own in a reckless attempt to foil their plan and turn the tables. You grit your teeth, straining at the exertion it took to try to pry his fingers from the weapon. Devi panicked, the gun slipping from his grip, and he began screaming at Stasya to do something.

She did.

She shot you in the arm, causing you to drop to your knees with a cry as you pawed at your wound with your palm. It burned white-hot, and you almost doubled over at how the pain pulsed from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes. Your vision had begun to blacken around the edges through the blurriness of the pained tears that welled in your eyes. Yet, despite your obvious distress, your agonising cries fell on deaf ears. Aiming his now secured gun at your head, Devi breathed heavily as he attempted to ease the shudder that wracked his body.

Adrenaline had coursed through you in your body's subconscious effort to numb the pain, and you rocked your torso backwards and forwards, battling the onset of unconsciousness. Through your astounding agony and the way your jaw throbbed from the strain of gritting your teeth as an anchor to ground you to reality, you'd managed to make sense of Stasya's final address to you.

"You should be grateful. We're allowing you to live. It's up to you whether or not you make an effort." She muses before turning on her heel and leaving you on the muddied floor of The Green, Devi following quickly behind her.

✰

You can't recall how long you've been staggering through the forests by yourself in your endeavour to find water. It's already hot in The Green, and your adrenaline spikes have caused you to sweat even more and edge you further towards dehydration, to the point your throat feels like sandpaper whenever you swallow. Whatever liquids you had drunk before leaving the Pod have now seeped through your pores, making your undersuit stick uncomfortably to your hot skin and your wound burns from the salt of your sweat.

Having lost all sense of direction some time ago, whether that was due to the ever-changing forest line or the pit of emptiness that sat in your stomach that growled in protest at the lack of nutrition in return for your bodies labour to trek across this forsaken moon, you are entirely disoriented.

You can't go on much longer like this. Not only are your vitals appearing utterly grim, but breathing has become much more challenging. You're running out of oxygen, and your lungs are beginning to ache. It begins crossing the threshold of uncomfortable, morphing into something akin to pain. You clutch at the fabric at the chest of your environment suit, struggling to maintain a calm disposition while also supporting the drive of a survival instinct.

You're so tired.

Despite your best efforts, anxiety and dread rip through your body and inundate your logical brain. You can feel your chest heave, the onset of a panic attack. You lurch forward in your hysteria, rushing in your despair to find something that could help. You aren't even sure what you are looking for, only that you're looking for something that would enable you to survive.

You see the fallen tree log at your feet, but the blind panic is so overwhelming that you don't have time to react. Pain racks up your ankle and calf as you trip over the damned thing, falling forward and rolling down a muddy hill. You're falling so fast that the trees and grass look like a green and brown smudge through the glass visor of your helmet, like some arcane painting. You hold your hands out to brace yourself, to stop yourself, but the mud is slippery, and there's nothing to grab onto until you reach the very bottom and come to a stop, groaning weakly at your arm's complaints.

You sit up slowly, hands braced on either side of your hips to keep balanced as you move in the soaking, sticky mud. Checking your oxygen supply, you have enough to last at least another 5 minutes. Then you'd have to rely on the air in The Green's atmosphere. A few hours of that would kill you. By your estimations, you had an hour to find shelter and breathable ai...

The view when you look up and take in your surroundings is breathtaking. Having landed in some kind of wide open valley, you have an uninterrupted view of the horizon the forest had once concealed. You're enclosed from behind with bright yellow wildflowers, the remnants of the flora in the woods you had quite literally tumbled out of, but what lays before you now is a beige-coloured wasteland surrounded by mountains. With no camouflage to hide behind, the skyline is perfectly clear. Suspended in the sky, much to your astonishment, is a colossal moon, similarly toned neutrals to the floor beneath you, but with brilliant splashes of rusty oranges and reds.

You're not sure whether it was the inevitable feeling of your life slipping away with each passing second or whether the sight before you is washing away all of your fear, but when you finally hear the hiss of your oxygen tank running out, you don't feel frightened. Pulling the latch on your helmet, you slowly remove it, noting the sting of the spores in your throat, the tickling in your lungs that reminded you the air on this globe was toxic. If this was how you were to die, at least you had a beautiful view.

So you sit back in the grass and mud, taking in the stunning view, and let time slip away. The absence of hope wasn't as petrifying as you had imagined; it was calming. So serene. In your moment of peace, you can't feel the pain in your arm despite it worsening over the hours of wandering aimlessly. It's a simple resignation, one that doesn't take much thought at all. You would return to the stars here and become a part of this ecosystem. While hostile, it's certainly gorgeous.

You tilt your head back, observing how the celestial bodies twinkle and frame the gargantuan moon in the sky. The breeze picks up slowly, tickling the skin of your exposed face and neck while the sun soothes and warms it.

When you cast your eyes behind you, taking in the expanse of your surroundings over your shoulder, you're jolted from the tranquillity and suddenly reminded of your dire situation. Not only is there an Aurelac cluster nestled in the grass to the left of you that you had narrowly avoided hitting during your fall, but there's also a person beside it dressed in an environment suit. They're staring, Boscelot Frontiersman gun aimed straight at you. Terror rips through your veins as you attempt to scramble to your feet.

"Wait, wait!" You gasp out, eyes wide as you put your hands out to show you aren't a threat. The sun reflects from the glass visor covering their head, preventing you from seeing the person's face. The suit is old. Keeping the gun aimed at you, they point to their radio, asking you to turn it on. You crouch slowly, pointing to your helmet to alert him that you must reach for it. He seems to understand, as he has no quarrel with you picking it up and slipping it onto your head. The rustling of the trees and gentle blow of the breeze cuts out when you're sealed in, and as you connect the radio, their voice echoes in the plastic chasm.

"You won't endure much longer if you persist without oxygen." It's a man. The voice is unexpected. It's low and laced with an attractively smoky tone. So smooth, it almost flows and ebbs with each word. You've never quite heard an accent like his, the twang new to your ears.

"I won't endure if you decide to shoot me either," you point out bitterly, mocking his extravagant phraseology. You've had enough of this planet having it out for you. Your lack of luck today was becoming almost humorous, but your limited patience certainly wasn't. Did it have to torment you like this? Why couldn't it finish you off quickly and not at the hands of another Prospector, considering you had already had enough of them too?

You hear a throaty chuckle at your mocking comment, though there's no humour to that either. The stranger keeps aiming his gun at you, taking a few steps forward. The sun, still reflecting from his visor, causes you to squint when it targets your eyes, hoping to see his face before he kills you.

"It appears that your words hold venom," he begins. You sneer slightly, already past the point of no return as far as you are concerned. He lowers the barrel of his weapon ever so slightly then, and you assume he's studying you.

"It has been quite some time since I heard the sound of a fellow human's voice," he laments, taking another step forward, "How nice it is to exchange utterances with someone who understands me." Had he not stepped out of the sun and revealed his face, you would have made some snotty remark about how you can't understand him anyway, his flamboyant verbiage creating a difficulty of comprehension. However, the sun's rays don't extend this far, and the moment his face is revealed, you find yourself stunned into a shocked silence.

Given the age and weathering his environment suit shows, he's younger than you would have expected. A beige-green colour with notes of black, he had been completely hidden among the leafage. His jaw is square, covered with dark brown stubble and a moustache on his upper lip that he's miraculously maintained well, given his situation. After all, you could safely assume there wasn't an endless supply of razors on the moon.

From what you can gather from his face, his skin tone is honeyed, and his aquiline nose is subtle though the bridge does arch enough to be noticeable from this distance. He's rather handsome.

You're so focused on his face that you almost wholly overlook that his right sleeve is knotted just below his shoulder, indicating he has lost his right arm. So many questions cross your mind, but the predominant query is... How had he survived even a second in this environment with only one arm?

"Though," he continues, disrupting your evident surprise, "It would also appear you have been impaired. What happened, Little Bird?"

Discounting his name for you, you consider your answer carefully. How would he react to knowing that you had come to harvest Aurelac? Is that what he's here for too? The likelihood of him seeing you as a threat to his harvest and killing you was more feasible than letting you go. But you're running out of time, and your lungs are screaming from the intake of a toxic atmosphere. So you decide upon the truth.

"My crew-mates shot me," you admit stiffly, coughing from the strain the spores are putting your body through, "We came to harvest Aurelac, but they left me behind. Wanted to split the harvest between the two of them."

The man standing before you considers your words, his expression unreadable. You're sure he's about to shoot you. A second bout of coughs breaks the tense air, making him relax a little.

"So the other Little Birds flew the nest and left you behind," he muses, watching you struggle with a quirk of his lips. He seems to take a moment to think about something before asking you another question.

"Are you..." A pause. "Are you out of oxygen?" He asks, nodding his head to your helmet. Despite what you think is a pretty obvious answer, you nod weakly. He lowers his gun.

"Will you be able to walk? You took quite the tumble." He fucking saw that?! Just how long had he been watching you?

Again, you nod, wondering where he plans to take you, given his miniature inquisition. He slings his gun over his shoulder and holds his only palm out to you.

"Hand me your oxygen tube," He orders, curling his fingers in and out for emphasis. You stumble awkwardly on your injured ankle, grabbing the tubing and making your way over to him. Despite your better judgement, you are willing to trust him. Your urgency for aid outweighs any wariness you have for him. The man takes the tube from your palm, feeding it into his oxygen tank with ease. The surge of fresh air into your lungs and the instant relief from the burning brings you solace.

"We need to revert to my Pod. Can you make the journey?" He asks of you, commanding the situation flawlessly. You nod again, at a loss for words at this man's generosity. Finally, he turns his back to you, leading the way back up the hill you fell from. It's a struggle, especially given the slickness of the mud, but the stranger manages to help you up with little effort despite his handicap.

"You can't keep the lesion exposed to the air like that. The spores contaminate it," he continues to make conversation. You're not sure if you're thankful for the silence being broken or want him to remain quiet, but you listen to him regardless. "It will make you feel bilious, and then it poisons the tissue in the arm... Resulting in necrosis." He's far too knowledgeable in the effect of Bakhroma's spores on the limbs for you not to think that is what caused the lack of his own. It spills from your lips before you even have the chance to stop it.

"Is that what happened to yours?" You blab. He doesn't stop walking. In fact, he doesn't answer your question at all.

"I'm Ezra," is all he states, his way of an answer, you suppose. The silence following is arduous and highly discomforting, considering Ezra just told you there was a likelihood of your arm turning black and dying due to the exposure to spores. It's now that you make the decision that you wish he hadn't spoken at all.

Without a response, Ezra answers instead, amusement in his tone ringing throughout the tense atmosphere.

"You're innominate? I guess I'll stick to calling you Little Bird then," he muses, once again leaving you stunned by his use of vocabulary. He's like a walking thesaurus, spouting words you've never heard before and blindsiding you with his knowledge of language. You are so blinded that you miss his asking for your name.

At this point, the blissful feeling of reassurance hits you like a tonne of bricks. The Pod is just ahead of you now, and you have to chew on the inside of your cheeks to prevent the sting of tears of consolation from devolving into full-fledged sobs. Not five minutes ago, you had truly convinced yourself that you would die. Now safety is just within your reach.

Ezra moves forward and opens the hatch for you, helping you inside. It's not large, but it's just spacious enough for you not to feel claustrophobic. The first thing you notice is that it has been kept very neat, almost to the detriment of a homely feel, as the steel-grey walls, floor and ceiling give off an almost hospital feel. There are few of his things on display, and you just assume he keeps most of his possessions in storage.

There is one thing that catches your eye, though. Despite the almost solitary cleanliness of the Pod, there are two cot beds. One is neatly made, pillows put into place, and covers smoothed out so there are little to no wrinkles. The other is messy, with pillows askew and covers pushed into a crumpled mess in the left-hand corner of the mattress. You glance back at Ezra, who's entering the Pod from behind you.

"We need to execute the procedure to preclude infection, Little Bird. Sit down. You may remove your helmet in here too." He orders, pointing to the neatly made bed as your seat. You do as he says without question, sitting down cautiously and taking off the crash helmet as he makes his way over to storage, riffling through whatever was in the containers. You need to fight the urge to cry again with the relief of the strain of your body weight on your feet, having been wandering for hours amongst harsh terrain.

Ezra returns to you, med kit in hand. He lays it down next to you on the bed, removing his helmet now that his hand is free. Of course, you had seen his brown hair back in the valley, but you hadn't noticed the little blonde tuft at the front of his hairline. It's cute and gives him somewhat of a boyish charm. He takes this moment to give a weak smile.

"I need you to disrobe from the environment suit. Do you require my assistance?" He asks you, tilting his chin to your arm. You're so taken aback, probably overwhelmed and exhausted from the extremity of the events that had unfolded so quickly that you find yourself at a loss for words. Once again, you merely nod, accepting his offer of help gratefully.

You use the hand of your healthy left arm to pull down the zipper on the front of your environment suit, while Ezra works to pull down the shoulder from your right. He's vigilant in ensuring the collar doesn't catch on your wound on its way down. Then, working together, you unpeel the suit from your torso until it hangs around your hips, your sleeveless body glove exposing the blast to the outside of your bicep.

You decide not to look at it.

"Will it hurt?" You finally speak to him, and Ezra's eyes move to your face momentarily. He seems to consider his answer carefully while he raises his wrist to his mouth, ripping the velcro of his gloves and pulling them off with his teeth. He takes the item of clothing, laying it neatly on the bed beside the med kit.

"I'll do my utmost to keep your discomfort to a minimum," is his reply. While it does nothing to quell your initial fears, you appreciate his honesty and consideration. You look around the room, trying to find something to focus on as Ezra works through the med kit, taking out whatever he needs to start the procedure.

"Remember to breathe," he murmurs, his voice suddenly very soft. It causes chills to break out across your skin, even though the fear of pain is causing you to sweat. Inhaling slowly, you feel your lungs expand in your ribcage to the point it grows tight before exhaling again, fixating on the sensation to distract yourself from the pain.

"Hey," he whispers softly, pulling your focus back. You glance up at him through your lashes and find him gazing back at you. His expression is tense and cautious. He doesn't want to hurt you, yet the inevitability traps a sense of trepidation between you. Deep-rooted panic settles in the pit of your stomach, making your blood rush through your veins quicker.

"Look me in the eyes," he takes your chin now, holding it a little tighter with his fingertips to ground you. Your eyes probably gave away your internal panic.

You nod weakly, looking to catch his eyes and-

And time just stops.

It's humiliating; you know you would be blushing if you said it aloud. His irises are a deep and warm earthy-brown, as though Ezra had spent so much time amidst the rich soils and thick mud here that it had almost become a part of him. Looking into those eyes, you felt like you were orbiting around him. Maybe the spores had left you with irreversible brain damage from the very little time that you had your helmet off in the valley, or perhaps he was quite possibly the most handsome man you had ever seen.

Once he notes that you're holding his gaze and breathing steadily, he sets to work. You hear him pick up something from the kit, a top popping from it. He hesitates for a moment but holds your gaze still.

"This will sting," he admits. There's a splash of a lukewarm liquid before the burning starts. You grit your teeth, straining against the scorching sensation. It prickles, an intense itching following that is so bad you feel your toes curl in your leather boots. Yet, you maintain eye contact. You cling to the empathy that's there and appreciate his understanding.

He lays down the tube, eyes flicking down for just a moment to pick up an item. A Patch Gun. Ezra stares back at you, pulling the stopper with his teeth and lining up the nosel with the wound.

"Breathe in," he commands, and you do. You breathe so hard and fast that your sternum aches with the strain. The sound of medicated foam being released from the Patch Gun reaches your ears before the pain does. When it hits you, you release the air in your lungs with a strained whine, squeezing your eyes shut as the agony rips through you. Like the initial wound, it seers white hot, spiralling down your arm to your fingertips and up your neck muscles. Your jaw is tight, tears springing to your eyes.

"Good girl," Ezra soothes you, pulling the patch gun away from your arm. Leaning back into the searing torment, you moan as he helps you to lay back against the mattress to ride out the peak. It's not long until the intensity slowly ebbs away until you're blinking your eyes open to find he's putting the stuff back into the kit box to lay back into the storage containers. You can see the peripherals of your vision pulsing rapidly, skin buzzing all over as you come down from the tense and excruciating high.

Time seems to both slow and accelerate in this mid-conscious state. What feels like hours passing by is probably only a few seconds, but you're exhausted. That fatigue catches up with you so fast that you barely have the chance to catch it before your eyelids droop. Sheets pull up to your shoulders, and their comfort is enough to finally push you to slumber.

✰.

There's a suspended moment when you ease back into consciousness. You are aware that you're awake, but keep your eyes closed in an attempt to fall back into unconsciousness. A dim thrumming in your bicep pulses with each beat of your heart inside your chest. It's not painful, just unpleasant. You pull your eyebrows together slightly, your other senses finally beginning to awaken with you.

You can hear Ezra moving around in the Pod, searching for something in the storage containers. You blink your eyes open slowly, still curled up on your side. He's just ahead of you. Having shucked his environment suit, he's dressed in a deep camo-green, long-sleeved shirt tied just beneath his amputation and a pair of grey sweatpants. You can't help but feel like you're imposing on his privacy, seeing him dressed so casually and watching him walk around his own space.

"Ezra?" You croak his name. He glances up quickly from what he's doing, eyes settling on you. He looks relieved, eyes crinkling around the edges as he smiles at you.

"You awoke! Do you need liquids?" He asks, pacing his way over to you. He leans over the bed, placing the back of his palm on your forehead to feel your temperature— though you're certain he gets a reasonably inaccurate reading. The moment his honeyed skin touches yours, your cheeks heat up as your heart hammers in your chest. You're not sure why his presence is suddenly so debilitating for you, but when he looks expectantly into your eyes for an answer to his question, you swear your brain short-circuits.

"Yes, please," your voice is raspy from the lack of use, and your throat aches as the words pass your lips. He smiles that same smile again, rendering your heart almost completely useless before he turns on his heel to grab you a glass of water.

You know exactly where this is coming from. Your very sudden attraction to him comes from months of loneliness. While your abandonment by your crew had come as a shock, it certainly wasn't a surprise. They had always been much closer and would go days without acknowledging your existence if you didn't make an effort to talk to them. Maybe this had been the plan all along?

Regardless, despite being in the presence of other people, your isolation had made you utterly starved of touch, needy for attention. Along came Ezra, coming to your aid and focusing all his consideration on you.

Stars above, you were desperate. Shockingly so.

You look up, seeing him stroll over with a cup of water in tow. He settles himself down on the bed, laying the cup on the bedside table to hold your waist as he helps you to sit up in bed. You're almost sure he doesn't mean to, but his fingertips brush the slither of skin exposed between your undershirt and your bottoms. It sends a tremor up your spine. It's so intense you swear you can feel it on the crown of your head.

"You had me concerned, Little Bird," He smiles, passing the water over to you, "But you're out of the woods now." Ezra sounds almost as relieved as you feel. He keeps his gaze on your bicep for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he plans his following few sentences. Nothing acceptable seems to come to mind, so he remains silent, the unspoken words hanging in the air and causing a thick tension between you as you sip at the water.

You cast your own gaze upon his arm, or lack thereof. The questions in the valley swarm your mind again, much louder in the silence than they had been at that moment.

"Did you amputate it yourself?" You work up the courage to break the stillness with a whisper, and once again, he casts his eyes upon your face. You'd known him less than thirty waking minutes, yet you had already reconciled multiple things you admired in him. His smile, his hair, his use of vocabulary.

However, it was how he looked at you when he spoke to you; how he gave his full attention and hung on every word was your favoured attribute. It may be that those spores *had* caused some form of irreversible damage to your brain chemistry...

"No," he chuckles, fingertips moving to brush at the stump of his arm underneath the fabric, "No, it was my companion who dismembered it." You sense almost a fragility hidden deep beneath his extravagant persona. It doesn't take a genius, a person with Ezra's knowledge of dialect, to see that the unspoken words indicated the partner he spoke of was no longer with him.

You try to steer away from what appears to be an emotional subject for him, deciding upon another question to ask.

"What made you decide to help me?" The query falls from your lips so easily. Ezra's own quirk up slightly.

"Your candid account of what you had experienced touched me deeply. Had you told me a differing narrative, I wouldn't have been so lenient," he admits to you, those earthy orbs finding flitting between your own once more. You swear he's doing it on purpose now.

"But I empathise with you. Many moons ago, I found myself in your state of affairs, my own crew deserting me. Words and metal were exchanged, and I found myself alone on this very same celestial body with no help." His hand takes your own, brushing his thumb along your knuckles as he speaks.

"I was hoping I could be of service to you, help you in your moment of need... You might help me in mine." You pause, taking in those words with surprise. Help him? What could a man who had survived an extended time in such a hostile environment, alone and with only one arm, possibly need your help with?

Ezra turns his hand slowly, his knuckles brushing up your forearm absentmindedly as he talks. Yet, for a man so equipped to be savage and cruel, he also managed to maintain a very soft, gentle side.

"I lost my partner," he confirms. There's a tender, mournful look in his gaze. "I met her not unlike I met you in the valley. She was heedful but intrepid. An astonishing companion..." He trails off slowly, that pain finally reaching his expression as he gathers himself.

"I miss having a partner. I'm half the man I once was and can no longer defend myself adequately. I require a confidante and associate." He looks expectantly at you.

"You're asking me to stay?" You question, your surprise reaching your voice. Was he always this trusting? Or was it simply because you were both stuck here regardless?

"Yes. Truth be told, I miss the company. Besides, how could I turn down your companionship when you are as bewitching as you appear?" He muses, a smirk spreading across his lips as you let out a bemused laugh.

"Are you saying I'm pretty?" you grin, unable to hold your overwhelming attraction to his charms. He just nods slowly, tracing his palm up your bicep and over your neck until he's teasing at the skin stretching across your jaw's bone with his thumb. He's methodical in his strokes, almost contemplative.

"After all, it's not as though you could leave without oxygen," he points out teasingly, but the smile slides from his face almost as quickly as it pulls up. The air is charged around you, a pull so strong you're convinced that Ezra can feel it too.

You begin to wonder if Ezra was as desperate, as touch starved and deprived of affection and care as you are.

"How long have you been alone?" You manage to force through the quiet between you. His thumb trails beneath your jaw again, the pad tenderly outlining the column of your throat. You swear your heart is beating hard enough for him to feel it beneath your skin, but you do your best not to draw attention to it.

"Some six to eight months. I lost track after the fourth," he admits his voice a murmur. Those deep globes flick back up to yours, considering the expression they hold, reading your sympathetic gaze. His lips curve into a small, meek smile, very unlike the personality he'd displayed to you. But Ezra was such an open book; you felt you knew everything you needed to know about him already.

In a universe, so advanced and technological, science had been able to explain away every form of mystery and coincidence that humanity had ever thought up. But there was something about Ezra, the way he had stumbled into your life and saved your own, that made you feel like this was some sort of fate. Destiny. He was meant to find you.

You're bold with your next move, moving your unhindered arm up to place your palm over Ezra's wrist, forcing him to take you by the throat. He looks surprised at first, looking between where he held you and your expression. You can see the number of questions running through his mind slip away as you lean forward.

There's this moment of suspense between the two of you, your chest so tight as you find your breath escaping your lungs a little heavier than a moment ago. Your lips are so close, millimetres away. You can taste him on your tongue, can smell a citrusy scent. It's oddly like oranges, sweet and tangy. Those lips you're so needy for tilt upwards, smirking at the drawn-out wait of you psyching yourself up to make a move.

"I wouldn't leave even if I had oxygen," you sound hushedly. It wipes that grin off of Ezra's face, the implication of your words not having time to sink in before you're pressing your lips to his in a desperate kiss, so full of tender and agonising need that wholly consumes the both of you.

He squeezes his palm around your throat, not enough to choke you but enough to apply light pressure, and uses the leverage to pull you into a deeper kiss. His lips are soft, barely exposed to fresh air due to the ventilation in the Pod and the constant covering of his helmet. It's intoxicating, and you find yourself slipping so fast into this heated embrace that you forget to breathe entirely.

Ezra leans you against the mattress slowly, trailing his palm down your side ever so gently despite the heated frenzy of your lips. He's highly aware of the bruising you sustained during your fall in the valley, and in any other moment, you would have been overwhelmed by his consideration, but he tastes so sweet on your tongue that you cannot help but lose yourself to him. You're certain Ezra can feel you melt into his touch as his tongue traces the plush of your lips, groaning softly as he allows his hands to explore the heat of your skin.

He begins with feather-light touches on your hip, squeezing gently to test for sore spots before he adds pressure to his grip. You hum in appreciation into his mouth, your fingers trailing through the dishevelled brunette curls at the side of Ezra's temple before working their way to the nape of his neck and taking root there.

Brushing his palm up your abdomen slowly, Ezra's fingerprints map the ridges and bumps of your muscles and the bones of your ribs. He moulds his lips against yours in a softer kiss before pulling away, smirking as he feels your ribcage expand with a sudden gulp of air.

"You need to respire in order to survive, Little Bird." he mutters, the pad of his thumb brushing the underside of your breast, "Don't say I've restricted your ability to perform a basic human function." You giggle breathlessly, appreciating him trying to break down the intensity of the situation as he presses a delicate kiss to the tip of your nose, between your brows while he waits for you to catch your breath again.

"May I touch?" He asks you, ensuring that it's what you want. You nod feebly, finding yourself at a loss for all words apart from those that sounded like you were pathetically begging. Your skin buzzes as his palm cups your breast, squeezing gently.

"You are just heavenly," he murmurs into your ear as you tilt your head back with a soft moan. It's been so long since you were last touched by someone else that every skim of his skin against yours sparks embers of heat beneath it. He groans softly as he feels your nipples harden under the fabric of your undershirt. Only then do you notice the strain his body is under, having only his elbow to balance.

"I can-" you pause to consider how you want to put this, "I could get on top." There's a break in his purposeful movements, almost as though his brain has buffered at your words. Swallowing a moan that he manages to catch in his throat, Ezra nods quickly and turns to lie on his back.

The dynamic changes almost instantly as you straddle his hips. You can feel the atmosphere change around you, as though the ambience shifts and clicks into place. When Ezra's hand finds your hip, you feel empowered. So you lean over, kissing him with a hunger that allows him to experience your breathlessness.

A soft whine escapes you as you feel his hips shift, the stiff bulge in his sweats brushing against your clit through the pants of your environment suit that he had left on you when you fell asleep. The friction, mixed with the tension in the air, seems to unlock a primal side to Ezra. He leans up suddenly, pressing open and sloppy kisses to your throat. He's nipping and sucking on your skin as you fumble with the waistband of your environment suit to push it over your hips.

Quickly pulling your legs out of your clothes, you're left in only your undershirt and underwear. Ezra pulls you back over his hips, grinding up against you and letting out a groan that almost reverberates in his chest. You're both grabbing at each other in your desperation, months of pent-up frustration and lack of intimacy fuelling the both of you with little thought.

As he continues his ministrations to your neck, you pull down his sweats, easing them over his hips. You can't help but pause as you reveal his cock, Ezra having decided not to wear underwear beneath his sweatpants. He presses another open-mouthed kiss to your jaw, teeth brushing your skin with the smug smirk that spreads across his face.

"What's the hold u- oh fuck-" he chokes out as you brush your clothed cunt over his exposed crotch. He grips your hip hard, pupils expanding until the earthy brown of his iris' are almost entirely swallowed by them at the feeling of your slick leaking through your cotton underwear and streaking across the length of his dick.

"My sweet... Let me..." He trails off, his thumb hooking underneath your underwear and pushing them to the side. You can feel him brush against your pussy lips, your thighs shaking at the heat that settled between them. Then, before you even have the chance to beg for his touch, he's brushing his fingers through your folds and spreading your slick up to your clit.

You jolt at the sudden pleasure that arcs up your spine, head lolling back as the feeling practically liquifies you. Ezra is rubbing your clit with his print in small, tight circles, and you swear you could cum right there. But, almost as quickly as he starts, you must stop him, grabbing his hand and pinning it to his side.

"Little Bird, why can't I touch y-?" He cuts off as you lift yourself, sinking down onto his cock slowly. He squeezes his eyes shut, throwing his head back against the pillows and practically tearing up as he feels your cunt flutter around him at the stretch.

"E-Ezra," you splutter his name, bracing your hand on his chest and digging your nails into the sun-kissed skin to the point pink blooms underneath. He's stretching you so wide it's almost like he's splitting you in half, enough for you to need to spread your legs wider in order for you to feel like you can take him all.

"Good Girl— so good. Just a little more," he coos, kneading the tips of his fingers against your hip to ease you. Sucking in a deep breath, you sink yourself down to the hilt, whimpering at the intense stretch and the delightful sparks of pleasure that come with it. His cockhead is spearing up against something that makes your thighs tremble.

"Hah, ah..." You try to steady yourself against his hips, only rocking them slightly as you adjust to his size. He's gazing up at you like you're the most dazzling gem he'd ever seen, pupils tinged with enough awe and reverence to make you feel like you are some kind of goddess.

You begin to grind into him, a chorus of moans and gasps falling from your mouths as bliss spreads through you. You can already hear your blood rushing in your ears, your heart pounding in your chest so hard you swear you can feel your ribs crack. He's filling you up so well, hitting that spot in you with each bounce of your hips.

"Brighter than the stars, Little Bird- Fuck, you're so beautiful," Ezra growls, using his grip on your hip to rock them harder against his. Meanwhile, you're speechless. Your mouth is agape, panting out with a squeak every time he fills you up to the hilt repeatedly. It's all happening so fast and building so much that you could scream.

That's when Ezra switches his position, hoisting you up slightly as he plants the heels of his feet into the mattress. You sob loudly, tears of excruciating ecstasy slipping down your face. They drip from your chin as he grabs your ass, kneading it and using its leverage to bounce you on his cock. He's pounding into you, his dick hitting your cervix with each thrust.

"Ezra- Ezra, that's hah- that's-!" You wail, eyelids slipping shut as you focus on chasing your pleasure with each sway of your hips, making sure the head of his cock hits that mind-numbing spot inside you that just makes your toes curl.

Your focus is broken when Ezra grabs your chin, dragging your face forward so your noses bump together. Your eyes fly open in surprise.

"You're going to look at me when you cum," he orders, voice indicating this wasn't up for negotiation. You couldn't find it in you to argue anyway, completely cockdumb from the way he fucks you. When he sees that you're pliant, he resumes absolutely destroying you, relying on the relaxation of your body to allow him to thrust his hips into you without using his hand on your hips. He keeps his fingers under your chin but slips his thumb past your kiss-swollen lips and into your mouth, ordering you to suck.

You hollow your cheeks around his digit, running your tongue over the ridges of his thumb print as you keep eye contact with him. He growls out, losing himself in the fervency.

Abandoning that thought, he rushes to remove his hand from your face and press it to your abdomen. He moans out, delighting in feeling his cock slip in and out of your cunt. He can feel the rippling of your muscles and skin with the force he's using to pound into you. Every ridge of his cock adds to the overwhelming feeling as he moves in and out of you, the pressure he's applying to your pubic bone enough to launch you to your orgasm, but then he begins ruinous thrusts that knock your cervix and that sweet spot inside that have your legs turning to jelly with a scream.

You cum so hard that white blooms across your eyes, splitting you down the middle and pulsing devastatingly between your thighs. It sends heat from the bottom of your feet to the top of your head in gentle waves. Tilting your head back, you sob as he continues to thrust in and out, to ruin you completely.

He's babbling, voicing gorgeous and heartwarming compliments, but you're unable to discern them, still in the peak of your orgasm as it just builds and almost reaches a point of rapture that has you in pain. It's when you slam your fist against Ezra's sternum in an attempt to pull yourself from the earth-shattering orgasm that you hear him yell out, painting your fluttering walls with his cum. His thighs tremble, and you fall against his chest, fighting to drag air into your lungs to rid your eyes of the black spotting in your vision.

You lay there for a while, feeling like you're spinning despite your head securely resting on Ezra's shoulder. Your muscles were so tense from your orgasm that it now feels like they're melting into the mattress, seeping through and dripping out of the bottom and onto the floor of the Pod. You feel entirely liquified.

Then he's turning you both over gently, using his hand to brace the back of your head before it hits the mattress and gently laying it down with your body. You whine from the loss of contact, assuming he's getting out of bed or going to redress.

So when he dips his head between your thighs, brushing his tongue through your folds to taste the mix of your cum together, you can't help the moan of shock, overstimulation seeping down your thighs and pools in the base of your spine. He focuses his assault there, swirling the tip of his tongue around your clit until you're sobbing once more.

On your journey to Bakhroma, you'd heard an old wives' tale. Somewhat of a ghost story passed around the three-member crew during drunk nights while the long-haul space freighter floated in endless space. The team said it had been passed down from other Prospectors who had survived the moon trip. They claimed that anyone who stepped foot in The Green was subjugated by greed. While Aurelac gems definitely pleased Ezra, it appeared he found the treasure between your legs much more valuable...

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