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write4cench · 8 months

Text

distractions.

summary: central cee and you decided to collaborate together on a track together, but when things get a little too heated your minds drive… elsewhere

pairings: single!central cee x reader

genre: smut.. just smut

word count: 2.6k+ (unedited)

a/n: this is my first smut lmao can't believe i've done this, i mean i couldn’t help it central cee too fine. i’m not the best at it though.. 😁😁🙏🏾

central cee and you both spend your time in his private studio, located in his apartment. it's decently sized but not too spacious, regardless it gets the job done and the both of you manage to produce and record your lines for the track.

you've both wanted to work with one another on a song together and so have your fans, they've been awaiting this for so long that your management team decided it was the best decision.

you stand on inside of the booth looking down at the lyrics sheet that lies in front of you, humming the rhythm before the track plays within your headphones and you begin to sing along over your back vocals.

cench sits in front of you layed back in one of the wheely chairs that sit behind the booth, he watches you sing nodding his head to the rhythm of the song but also impressed by your vocal abilities.

it's the two of you alone in the studio which is quiet unusual considering the fact that during the last studio sessions the studio was filled with friends of central cee who decided to show up.

but instead this time, it's only the two of you. but it feels far from awkward it feels comforting and you both focus on getting the work done.

the song's chorus comes to and end and he stops the instrumental from playing again, upon finishing you glance at him and put a thumbs up asking him if you did good enough of a job, he nods and you do a small celebration that makes him laugh.

he begins to speak but it's too muffled due to the soundproof booth so you take your headphones off and open the door slightly to hear him better, "you did great, we don't even have to run it over again." he admits and you smile.

"you sure, i feel like some of it was a little off." you tell him but he shakes his head in refusal so you decided to leave it since it is his song after all.

"can i hear it over?" you ask him and he nods playing it over again, you put the headphones back onto your head and listen to it carefully.

the song starts off with central cee's wonderful rap that as usual never miss, the song then slips into the chorus that you sing and the beat drop before it sounds perfect.

the booth of you glance at one another in satisfaction at the song so far, sharing a smile as it continues before stopping at the progress so far.

"i think it's great so far." you say with a sigh as you sit behind the booth on one of the wheely chair turning yourself side to side.

"it's more than great." he mumbles.

the room is quiet and you decide to take out your phone, you glance at the time to see it read 10:43pm, it's getting later and you consider leaving within the next 20 minutes.

he finds an interest in the piano in front of the two of you, playing random notes that don't even sound too great together, you watch him finding the sight hilarious he notices so and shrugs embarrassed.

"i'm not too much a piano player," he sighs shaking his head trying to save himself, "i took lessons for a week and gave up on it." he clarifies and you nod your head numerously in a joking manner.

"can you even play any instrument?" you ask him genuinely and he shakes his head, your mouth drops in disbelief.

"maybe it's something i should get into, i don't play anything." he admits before smiling sheepishly.

"i'll show you something."

your hands find a placement onto the keyboard, testing out the position by pressing down on the notes to get the right keys. you begin to play something small and watch how his face turns into full surprise.

you smile as you continue before you get to distracted by him watching you and pause, "i can't focus with you watching me like that." you tell him annoyed and he laughs.

"forget i'm even here." he sighs closing his eyes and leaning back into your seat; you watch him do so frowning.

"how am i supposed to forget your there." you tell him but he doesn't respond so you exhale deeply before continuing to play the piano.

you'd admit, it's been a while since you've last played the piano but you've impressed yourself by still remembering the notes to the piece you play every single time.

you continue to play the piano forgetting he's even there until you come to an end, when you turn to look at him he's still laid back into his seat with his eyes closed, his hood lying over his head.

is he sleeping?

you hit him on the side of his arm and he winces before sitting upright, his hand rushing to soothe where he was attacked, "that fucking hurt." he groans and you smile to yourself.

"were you sleeping whilst i was playing?" you question him and he sighs still whining over the punch you just gave him.

"you didn't need to punch me like that," he starts watching how you only smile, "i wasn't sleeping, i was just resting my eyes innit."

you hum in response and watch how he sits upright in his seat rolling the chair over to stand beside you, he glances over the keys on the piano before speaking. "teach me something." he says.

"what am i supposed to teach you." you question him, he shrugs his shoulders with a yawn not helping you one bit.

"i dunno, maybe a chord or some shit." he utters and you bite your lip in thought of watch chord to do. he watches as your hand runs along the keyboard thinking of a position before it plays a chord.

he watches you carefully and when the pleasing sound rings he glances at you only to find you looking at him already, "did you see that?" you ask him and he shakes his head.

you roll your eyes in response, "what, am i supposed to get it on the first try?" he questions you confused only to see you nod.

you watch as his tattooed hand reaches over attempting to do the same hand movement that you did, but it doesn't succeed to make the correct sound.

"no, your supposed to do it like this." you mumble, your hand reaching over to correct his. you move his hand one down along and place it on top of his getting him to push it down as it sounds the correct chord.

"what chord was that?" he asks you curiously, you glance to look at him and it's only then you both notice how close you are to one another.

"c." you say. upon hearing your response he laughs to himself and you watch him confused, after seeing your confused face he stops laughing.

"it wasn't a c, for central cee." you mumble.

"yeah, definitely."

"you're not that special." you joke to him as you move your hand away from his and he nods gazing at you, it's only when you look up that your eyes meet his.

"mhm."

silence. you don't know what to say to him and you won't lie the way that his voice sounded when he hummed did something to you. you feel your cheeks begin to redden and you mentally curse at yourself.

luckily, the room is tinted dark blue so it's impossible for him to notice a thing; or it could just really be due to your melanated skin.

it's obvious that he notices how he's caught you out of words as a smirk grows upon his face, you watch his lips do so until he brings you out of your thoughts. "i got you quiet, i won." he mumbles.

you remain quiet not saying anything until the space between the two of you becomes smaller, before you could think of anything your lips press against his.

you can feel his smirk widen against your lips wider before he kisses you back, deeper but not too desperate. you don't even notice the fact you've just kissed central cee, your mind is just completely filled with.. desire.

the kiss runs long and you feel his arms wrap around your lower waist bringing you close to him, but the inconvenience of the chairs makes you get up from your chair and sit up on his lap instead.

it's then that everything hits you and you pull apart from his lips, your chest heaves numerously in sync with his and you eyes glance all over his face as you realise what's happening.

his gaze reads something completely different, his once playful eyes have turned dark and hazy showcasing lust instead it makes you ache for more and the position of you siting up on him creates even more need within your lower region.

"fuck." he says and before you know it, he's kissing you again. the kiss is more desperate and you fall into it, he takes the dominance but you try to keep a hold of everything by wrapping your arms around his neck.

you feel him grow harder and harder beneath you just how you grow desperate and desperate, you need him badly just as bad as you need him. you'd never ever think that tonight would turn out the way it did.

your hips subconsciously begin to move slowly against his but he grabs a hold of you stopping you, his lips part away from you and you frown at him, he sees this and smiles.

he kisses your neck and you lean your head back giving him even more space, you don't care that you'll probably end up with hickies all over your neck when you feel him slightly bite you, all you need is him.

"i need you so bad." he mumbles against your neck before pecking your neck all the way up to the side of your face, you look at one another before it hits and you share a smile.

before you know it your up from his lap and your hands occupy themselves into pulling his sweats down, when you see the sight of his harden self through his pants you glance back up at him only to see him covering his face with his hand.

you pull down his boxers and he springs free his member hitting you against your nose catching you aback, you stare at him for a moment but a moment too long and he peers down at you.

"don't just stare at it." he groans and you smile, you lick the tip of his cock and the pleasing sensation sends a moan to leave his lips. you tease him, your tounge running around the tip where he's most sensitive and he moans.

he grows to desperate and before you know it his hand comes up to your head, he finds a comfort in your hair before he pushes your head down his shaft slowly.

you breathe through your nose as you take in his size before growing used to it and beginning to pump your head slowly down his shaft continuously causing him to groan quietly.

he uses your head to help him reach his high, pumping you slowly down him but also muttering how good you are occasionally. you feel your eyes begin to water slightly but luckily you don't have to much of a gag reflex.

"fuck, you're so good." he groans as he watches you take him, his hand helping to move your hair away from your face, he closes his eyes tightly as he approaches his orgasm.

his moans become shorter and more intense and it's then you can tell that he's about to release any minute. perfect. you pull away from him and he looks down at you confused.

you watch as he glares at you annoyed, "what the fuck was that for?" he asks you but you don't say anything rubbing your mouth clean with the back of your hand.

his eyes don't leave you once, reading nothing but pissed at the interruption of his orgasm, he watches you as you take off your trousers and pants; his cock twitching ever so slightly as it pleads for your attention.

"you think i'd let you cum first?" you ask him and he furrows his brows in complete denial.

you approach him as you kick away your lower clothes that pool around your feet, glaring at him "fuck me then." you tell him, he watches you with his mouth agape never expecting to see you turn into a completely different person.

you lean against the producing equipment waiting for him expectantly, but when you feel his presence behind you and his hands hold your ass you let out a moan.

he slaps your ass, making you gasp at the sudden pain before he rubs your cheek to soothe it. he pulls out a condom from the inside of his pocket and you turn around to glance at him at the sound of it opening.

"you had that on you all along?" you ask him and he grins taking it out before pulling it over his cock.

"knew i'd need it." and with that he pushes himself into you slowly without warning making your mouth agape.

he waits for a moment until he's all the way in you before he starts to move, thrust in and out of you each time causing you to moan.

your bodies are in sync as he fucks you getting turned on by the sight of you bent before him as he fucks you senseless. he gradually becomes more faster and his thrusts become stronger.

"shit." you moan although your words sound all messed up due to the rocking back and forth you experience from his thrusts.

your hands hold onto the bumpy toggles in front of you trying to find something to hold onto as you take each thrust that runs through you. you're floating in ecstasy and it all feels too good.

he moans many things under his breath that you can't pick up on too busy by being engulfed in the intense pleasure you experience as you gradually approach your high.

you feel his hand reach over underneath you, rubbing your sensitive clit whilst he takes you; the feeling of him inside you, but his hand rubbing on your sensitive bud makes it all eventually unbareable.

your moans become louder and more desperate as you feel your high approaching; once again his hand slaps your ass earning another loud gasp from you.

your hair is held up my his hand and it's obvious your makeup is probably fucked up by now, but at this point that doesn't even matter to you anymore. everything just feels too good.

you reach your orgasm and pant vigorously, he notices this and pulls out of you rubbing himself with his hand as he releases himself inside of his condom.

you rest your head on the equipment in front of you as you both catch your breath, it's only then that you feel your legs become to grow all achy and weak.

"shit, my legs." you laugh to yourself as you wobble; he notices this and laughs tying the condom and obviously throwing it into the bin.

"good luck." he jokes and you roll your eyes.

"i need to shower." you complain feeling all sticky as usual after sex, he hums in agreement.

"i'll shower with you." he smiles.

you attempt to push him away but due to your growing weak legs you fail, instead complaining about how sore they are. seems like central cee has won in keeping you quiet.

"so are we gonna work on the track again?"

"probably not for now."

#central cee x y/n #central cee imagines #central cee smut #central cee #cench #central cee x reader #centralcee #centralceeedit #central cee x you #reader x central cee

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crabdrabbles · 3 months

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Hiii Crab so happy to see you write outside of our rants/idea chats and my fellow delulu cod enjoyer! Would love to request Platonic!141 + Reader (sorry if this is long and somewhat confusing lol). You can do headcanons, drabble or whatever you comfy for. An idea that popped in my head kinda semi personal: Civ or 141! Reader though has parents and family is the reader is quite something else. Reader despite having somewhat normal upbringing still feel empty; they shouldn't be feeling this numb and empty deep inside of them. The reader craves the love that they give but couldn't or lack of receiving it back, though they don’t expect it or selfishly want it. Just someone who understands them even in their deepest darkest secret or flaw then boom cue the task force 141 unexpected yet welcoming to their life and maybe the one that the Reader can lean and let them be vulnerable on (finally).

Take your time on doing this Looking for to your other writing genuinely -Cee, your fellow Soap delulu

GN!Reader & 141 (Mostly Price)

Warnings: Slight angst Ships: None. A/N: This absolutely ran away from me and I do not at all regret it, hope you enjoy, Cee!!! Words: 3549

Almost your entire life had been a cycle of self doubt that also started to churn and twist into self-hatred. You blamed yourself for the feelings. Afterall, you had a relatively normal upbringing. Two parents who were both present in your life, both of whom worked so that you all had food on the table and a roof over your head. A luxury that very few had.

The least you could do for them is follow the path that they wanted to put you on, no matter how much you didn’t want to do it. Because you loved them.

So you excelled in your education, studying hard to try and impress your parents– to make them love you just as much as you loved them for everything that they did for you for your entire life. They wanted you to do all three sciences despite the additional workload it would add to your already stretched thin time? Then you would do them, take any extra classes after school in order to keep up with the work and not lag behind any of your peers.

There was no such thing as a social life, either, not when you had homework and projects due. Friends were few and far between. Generally, most people left when they realised how hyper focused you were on your grades instead of social interaction.

Did a classmate get a higher grade than you on a test? Well obviously you didn’t study hard enough, you just needed to dedicate more time to school even though school was all you had.

Did you get the highest marks in the class? Good, that was what was expected of you. Why didn’t you get full marks? You were better than that. You would do better because you loved your family. They showed it in their own way, of course, by encouraging you to study harder and get better grades. That was their love language, and yours was doing as they asked without a second thought. Because, at the end of the day, you were lucky to have an upbringing like you had. You would ignore the hollow void clawing at your chest because you had no right to feel that way– not when you had a roof over your head and parents that loved you(?).

It was when you came top of the class with full marks in a recent test, you came home with a beaming smile on your face and proudly showed the test to your parents. They took the papers from your hands, flipping through your work with critical eyes, before handing the papers back to you.

‘Well done, we’re so proud of you.’ That was all you wanted them to say to you. That was all you needed to hear. To know that they loved you.

‘Your penmanship is terrible.’ Was what you got instead. When you tried to point at the big 100% in green pen, you were waved away. ‘How are you expected to get a job when you write like a child? I’m surprised the teacher could even read your answers’.

After several years of balancing a work and educational life and paving a way for a line of work that you didn’t want for parents you should have been grateful to have, you decided that enough was enough.

No matter how hard you worked, no matter how high your marks were, they would never be proud of you. They would never return the love that you had for them until you nearly killed yourself trying.

Spending your entire childhood, teenagehood and all of your current adulthood trying to please your parents predictably would damage one’s psyche. You had no friends, family who had never been devoted to you as you were to them, and high grades serving as the foundations to a prison-like future.

You dropped out of University. The only option forward that you saw was joining the army in the vain hope that the empty feeling inside of you would dissipate when you actually did something that you believed was more worthwhile than any University course.

So you threw yourself into the military, working harder than all of the other recruits and training at every chance you could.

Your skills and determination became widely recognised amongst your peers. It took several years, but you eventually caught the eye of none other than Captain John Price.

Impressed by your willpower that not many soldiers possessed, he offered you a place on the 141.

Naturally, you agreed. You believed that being part of such a well renowned and respected team would finally beat back the lingering self doubt and emptiness that had curled itself around your heart.

It didn’t. If anything, it made it worse.

You were invited to join the 141, sure, but they had already established their own relationships between each other, had already bonded into a close knit group, and you were simply an outsider. Yes, you had been hand picked by Price himself, but that didn’t mean you were part of the team. They had their own inside jokes that they told to one another, leaving you feeling left out on most days.

And you felt… lacking around them. Ghost was stronger, Gaz was faster, Soap was smarter (he was a demolitions expert for crying out loud!), and Price was almost all of those rolled into one. They all complimented each other as a team. Meanwhile you felt like a spare tyre, a master of nothing and barely a jack of any trade.

Despite how you felt about it all, they all called you ‘kid’. Regardless of age gaps between yourself and the rest of them, the nickname stuck mostly because you were the newbie. It came as a surprise that it wasn’t spat with vitriol as your peers before had, but it was in fact said with… an affection you couldn’t quite place.

You couldn’t ignore the hole in your chest that had been chipped at over the years, forming a gaping maw that no reassurances could really mend.

Doubt lingered in the back of your mind, chipping away at your sanity as you prepared for the worst. How long would it take before they realised you weren’t good enough?

You were so deep in your doubts that you didn’t realise that you had been distancing yourself even more than before until you overheard a conversation in Price’s office a few months down the line.

“-- they don’t belong on the team.” Gaz said as you passed Price’s office and your heart dropped. It was only the tailend of what he had been saying but you had gotten the gist. You wanted to stay, to listen to the conversation more and listen to what your team had to say about you, but you didn’t. What you were going to hear were likely things you had already told yourself right from the start. You keep walking on, ignoring the sting of tears burning in the corners of your eyes. The blood rushing in your ears prevented you from heating the rest of the conversation.

“-- not only are they acting like they don’t belong on the team, but they’re acting like they’re not good enough.” Gaz continued, sighing in frustration.

“Maybe they need more time.” Ghost rumbled in reply, “Let them come out of their shell a little bit. Best not rush these things.” He was talking from experience, after all.

“Aye… maybe I can invite them out for drinks or sommat? I wouldn’t want them getting transferred before we got to know them a little more.” Soap had been the one that had tried the hardest to get close to you but had also tried to give you space so as to not suffocate you with his personality.

“They won’t be getting transferred.” Price said with conviction, tapping his desk, “I chose them to be part of this team and this is where they’re going to stay. Let me have a word with them first.”

“Aye, sir.”

— — — — — —

You found yourself in the smoker’s shelter outside the main building. It was late enough that most of the soldiers had gone to bed or off to do their own things elsewhere so you doubted that you would be bothered for a little while. Just enough time for you to get your thoughts together. Your tears had dried in your eyes a few minutes ago, making them sting in the cold air. You didn’t need to look in your reflection to know that you probably looked like a wreck– entirely unbecoming of a soldier of your apparent status.

You didn’t want to get transferred. Despite your distance with the 141, you didn’t hate them. Far from, actually, you held a great deal of respect for each and every one of them. It was just that you felt like you didn’t have your place amongst them. Not good enough to be associated with them.

“Bit late to be out here in the cold, chuck.” A voice startled you out of your thoughts– one that you would recognise anywhere from the low rasp of a smoker's lungs.

“Captain.” You croaked, wincing at the patheticness in your voice. There was a scuff of boots as Price came closer, leaning into your line of vision with a furrowed brow which only furrowed more as he took in your dishevelled appearance.

“Something on your mind?” He asked kindly, perching on the arm of the bench to give you some personal space. He left his question open, allowing you any chance to steer the conversation how you wanted to. There was no judgement for catching you at your lowest, no disgust at your red rimmed eyes— just polite understanding and a non verbal offer of pleasant company.

“Why did you pick me, Captain?”

The question made him tilt his head, a frown beginning to tug on his features. You were worried you had insulted him.

“What brought this on, huh? Someone say something to you? Need me to have a word with them?” He straightened his back, scowling. Whilst you felt like you didn’t have a place in the 141, you could never deny the shield of protectiveness that Price held over his team. You remember in the back of your mind the day that some General who thought he was hot shit had the audacity to undermine Soap as nothing more than a ‘yappy dog’ when offered the Scot’s demolitions expertise. Price had appeared almost out of thin air and almost ripped the General a new one and things would have escalated into a fist fight had Laswell not intervened. It wasn’t as though Price didn’t think his own soldiers were capable of defending themselves, but he couldn’t care less about punishments aimed his own way over that of his Sergeants and Lieutenant. It was just a surprise that the protective streak extended over you, too, despite your distance to your teammates.

“I’ll sound stupid.” You mumbled, looking down at the ground as if expecting him to chastise you like a child. He didn’t.

“I’ve had my fair share of stupid over the years. Try me.”

“... and ungrateful.”

“I once had a guy punch me in the face two seconds after I took a bullet that would have killed him.” Price countered with a cut off chuckle once he remembered what was probably a mission long finished and cleared his throat. “C’mon, tell Captain what’s on your mind.”

And he sounded so sincere when he said it. Sounded like he genuinely wanted to hear what was going on in your head– that he was willing to waste what was already his important and limited time on someone like you.

“Sir—”

“John.” Price corrected gently, crows feet more noticeable at the corners of his eyes scrunched up when he smiled, “We’re off duty, you don’t need to be so formal.”

“... John.” You echoed, finding that you really didn’t like saying that. It felt like calling your teacher by their first name in primary school or a classmate’s parent other than their last name.

“Now, c’mon, tell me what’s on your mind. Might not be a therapist, but I’m better than bottling it up.” You wondered in the back of your mind how often Price did this. Sat with his soldiers and talked with them, offered them a listening ear to hear their vents and fears. You couldn’t help but feel honoured to be one of the few he willingly offered said time to. Your silence stretched on as you thought of the words to say, how to phrase what you wanted to say without sounding unappreciative of the opportunity that Price had offered you when he requested you join his team.

“I don’t feel like I belong here.” You blurted once the silence had stretched on for long enough to border on uncomfortable. John’s face fell and you quickly realised how bad that sounded and rushed to correct yourself.

“No, no, wait, let me explain–” the Captain closed his mouth to allow you to continue speaking, but you could tell that it was hard for him. “I just… you could have anyone better than me, you know? I’m not a demolition expert. I’m… I’m not the best Sniper. I’m the slowest on the team, pretty sure I’m the weakest–”

“Nope.” Price interrupted, finally breaking the bubble of your personal space as he took a proper seat next to you on the bench but still respecting the distance enough to keep a few inches between you. “Nope, not lettin’ you say another word.”

“But–”

“Nope.”

“Cap–”

“No.”

“But you could have anyone better—“

“But they wouldn’t be you.” He deflected easily. Far too easily. He leant back on the bench, crossing one leg over the other as he folded his arms over his chest. His fingers twitched and you could tell he was itching for a cigar but didn’t light one out of respect.

“Alright, sure, I can ask Laswell to give me one of the best soldiers in the SAS and have them brought here tomorrow. They could be the best of the best, top of their class, better than you and maybe even better than me. But that’s a bit of a stretch.” He winked and earned a weak chuckle from you. “But they won’t be you. I don’t pick just on skill alone, kid, I pick based on how I feel people would fit into the team. I chose you because I knew that you’d be perfect.”

“As for not being a demolitions expert, let me let you in on a little secret. I’ve no fucking clue about demolitions, either. And you don’t have to be on the team to be the ‘best Sniper’. You’re better than most, and that’s what’s important. As for being the weakest– did you or did you not bodily lift Gaz in a fireman’s carry during training the other week while he was trying to act as an injured civilian? Quite dramatically, might I add. Swooned and everything.”

You remembered that practice mission. Quite fondly, actually. Gaz was a civilian and , after being struck by a foam bullet from Soap, had dramatically screamed in agony and crumpled to the floor. When you had lifted him up and over your shoulders, the bastard continued to wail something along the lines of telling his non-existent spouse that he loved them and that his money be given to his equally non-existent children. Soap got in another shot to the man’s head, knocking off his cap in the process. Distracted as you were trying to haul your teammate out of the danger zone, you couldn’t help but laugh thinking about it now.

“Last time I checked, Gaz is somewhat heavier than a sack of flour. Don’t tell him I said that, I’ll hurt his feelings.” Price was right, you supposed. You were more than capable of carrying Gaz over your shoulders, maybe even Soap or Price himself if the time called for it. Ghost you weren’t so sure about, though. The man was a walking mountain.

“What I’m trying to say is that you have to give yourself more credit. You’re more than good enough to be on my team. I chose you for a reason.”

You… did not expect that sort of reassurance from Price. You had hoped for something along those lines, yes, but perhaps with a thrown in criticism or three. You waited for a ‘but’ that never came. The man snorted beside you and when you gave him a quizzical look, he waved off your concern.

“Shit, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think the next thing out of your mouth would be that your parents never hugged you as a kid.”

Your silence made him slowly turn his head towards you. It would have almost been comical if the situation wasn’t. His face crumbled and a wounded sound emerged from his throat.

“Sometimes they did!” You rushed to defend the people that raised you. “And they gave me food and shelter, clothes when I needed them–”

“Fucking hell. No, that’s what they’re supposed to do because they’re your parents. What about telling you that they were proud of you? That they loved you? I saw your records. Top of your class in not just your training but in your education, too. Triple sciences, mathematics, all of it. They had to be proud of you for that? My parents would have killed for me to get even a passing grade in my GCSEs.” You looked down at the ground and it was Price’s turn to have his eyes fixed on you.

“They were proud of you, weren’t they?” He asked again, leaning forwards so he could catch your eye, his own filled with concern. “Kid?”

“I don’t talk to them much anymore.”

Price inhaled sharply and he leaned back again, looking around and clenching his jaw as if fighting back his anger. His fingers twitched again. You admired his self control as he was still yet to grab a cigar that you knew he kept on his person. Usually in his breast pocket while his lighter was in his right pocket.

“Listen to me.” The Captain said, a more stern edge to his voice now that he had gathered his thoughts together. “Whatever your family said to you— how they treated you? Forget it. They showed you obligation. Not love. They didn’t want what was ‘best’ for you, they wanted bragging rights. What you’ve achieved– here, in bootcamp, in university and in school, is something to take pride in– no, no, look at me.”

Your gaze had trailed to the side so you avoided looking at your Captain in the eyes. He noticed and clicked his fingers to gain your attention back on him.

“Don’t look away from me because I want you to listen to what I’m gonna say and I want you to look at my face as I say it.” Your eyes met his blue ones, “You should be proud of everything that you’ve achieved in your life. I’m sorry that your family never told you that and I’m sorry that I haven’t said that enough to you since you joined 141.”

You opened your mouth to say something– to argue or disagree but he shook his head.

“No. It’s my turn to speak now. I’m proud of you. I am so proud of you. Everything you’ve done and everything that you’re yet to do, I will always be proud of you. You’re an exemplary soldier and I knew the moment I saw you that you would be a perfect addition to the 141 and you have proved me right time and time again. You belong on this team just as much as the rest of the boys. Do you understand?”

So many words– proud, proud, proud. That’s all you had wanted to hear for so many years from someone whose opinion mattered to you. You wanted to be seen and Price, this godsend of a man, had seen you and more.

“Kid, do you understand me?”

You nodded once and then realised that Price wouldn’t have been able to tell through your shaking. Tears blurred in the corners of your eyes and you nodded again, not trusting your voice in case it shattered.

“What do you need from me?” Price’s voice was oh so soft, like he was talking to a frightened fawn. He could see how much his words had affected you and it clearly broke his own heart.

“A hug.” Your bottom lip wobbled and his face softened as he opened his arms, twitching his fingers to urge you closer.

“I can do that.”

You leaned into him and he quickly wrapped his arms around you, drawing you in close. You could smell the lingering scent of his last cigar. The smell of his office and cleaning oil. You felt his chin on the top of your head and felt how his chest rumbled as he spoke.

“You’re part of the 141 whether you like it or not, alright? Me and the boys want you here for as long as you want to be.”

At that moment, for the first time in your life. You felt wanted. You felt appreciated and you felt seen.

have a request? send one in!

#modern warfare 2 #modern warfare 3 #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #johnny soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #platonic task force 141 #platonic task force 141 & reader

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psychedelic-ink · 1 year

Text

𝑻𝑨𝑻𝑻𝑶𝑶 𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑰𝑺𝑻 𝑫𝑰𝑵 & 𝑬𝒁𝑹𝑨 𝑯𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑪𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵𝑺

I got a tattoo today and always wanted to write a tattoo shop au but since I don't really have the time to write a full-on fic right now I decided to write a couple of headcanons 💜

no warnings but it's a bit long so I put it under the cut

Ezra

Ezra talks quite a lot, which makes him the perfect tattoo artist for those who are shy, or for newcomers. He asks an endless amount of questions about the design and urges you to ask questions as well.

His left arm is covered in a sleeve of swirling, abstract patterns that seems to move and shift as they moved. The black ink was contrasted by pops of bright red and deep purple, creating a sense of depth and dimension.

His right arm was adorned with a series of smaller tattoos, each one unique and meaningful.

He has a very light hand, which again, is perfect for newcomers.

Despite his cherry and bright attitude, he will tell you straight whether you will regret the design you chose or not. This man can be brutally honest.

He prefers making and tattooing his own designs but he doesn't mind making shapes you might find on the internet.

Ezra very much enjoys using color and prefers more intricate designs.

He will flirt and tease you, especially if you're shy, in fact making shy people open up to him is one of his favorite hobbies.

"you're doing so good for me"

"just a bit more and we're done"

Cee asks for a tattoo every time she visits but Ezra, saying that she's still too young, draws on her arm with a pen instead. From time to time Cee brings her designs to show him, she's quite talented.

Cee promised Ezra that he'll be the first one to ink her.

Din Djarin

Din is quiet and thoughtful when he works, he prioritizes the comfort of the client and asks everything that needs to be asked.

Before he starts he reassures you that you can ask him anything about the process.

His neck is adorned with a series of interlocking circles and triangles and his upper chest is covered in a series of historical symbols and motifs. You're pretty sure he's covered from head to toe.

He's a neat freak when it comes to his tools and doesn't allow anyone else to touch them.

He might not be talkative but he's excellent at reading his clients; especially when they're not sure of something or if they want something changed before the inking process actually starts.

He enjoys his job very much and finds it therapeutic most of the time.

Din makes his own designs but tends to save them for the people who are closest.

Sometimes he brings Grogu with him (especially when he can't find a babysitter) and he fills with a sense of pride when Grogu watches him with wide eyes.

Like Cee, Grogu also asks for a tattoo, but he's even younger so it's a hard no. He's about 5.

He does have regulars and has been asked out a couple times but usually says no because of both Grogu and his job.

Din works with music, that's non-negotiable. Thankfully for his clients, he has good music taste

I am open to any kind of thoughts, requests, and more headcanons! Send me an ask!

#din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin #din djarin x you #din djarin x y/n #mando x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian au #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian #ezra prospect x f!reader #ezra prospect x you #ezra prospect x reader #ezra prospect #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fic #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #tattoo artist au

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fuckyeahdindjarin · 1 year

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Cee!!!! Congrats (again)! You’re absolutely amazing and i love all these game ideas!

And I’m sorry, I can’t stop thinking about sending Pedro Boys to Shiv’s salon. I have to know, how would she (and Frankie) be with Marcus Moreno? Sure, he can be sweet, but the man has a playful edge to him that’s hard to deny 🖤

Shiv’s Salon: Marcus Moreno

Thank you for sending this request (and that hot dilf pic) in Cat, I’m so flattered that you trust me enough to send your man to Shiv 🥰 As I mentioned, I loved the dynamics between Marcus and his mum, and this pretty much wrote itself ❤️

580 words | warnings: meddling mother, harmless flirting, I only watched Marcus clips so apologies if he’s OOC

‘Are you single, honey?’

‘Mum!’ Marcus pinches the bridge of his nose and looks up at you apologetically. ‘I’m sorry. That was wildly inappropriate.’

You grin, putting away the layering shears. ‘I’m afraid not, ma’am.’

Mrs. Moreno clucks. ‘What a shame.’

‘No, mum, we’re happy for her,’ cuts in Marcus. ‘I’m terribly sorry about this.’

‘I mean, if I wasn’t -’ you trail off suggestively with a wink.

He chuckles. ‘You don’t need to flatter me. I’m already paying for her birthday makeover.’

Squeezing Mrs. Moreno on the shoulder, you say, ‘Alright, birthday girl, your hair is perfect, and Ashton will take care of your mani pedi next in our backyard spa.’

‘Thanks Shiv,’ the older woman gives you a kiss on the cheek before she follows Ashton out back - who brazenly winks at a visibly amused Marcus and mouths I’m single, call me as he closes the door behind him.

You tap Marcus on his shoulder as you meet his eyes in the mirror. ‘Something I can do for you while we wait?’

He shakes his head. ‘Oh no, don’t worry about it. I have to go pick up my daughter in fifteen minutes.’

‘C’mon, I don’t have any other customers right now.’

Marcus smiles at you, corner of his eyes wrinkling behind his thick black frames as he surrenders easily. ‘Ok, uh, I guess - can you show me how to style my hair? Like for a date?’

You rub your hands in exaggerated excitement. ‘Alright, mister, now we’re talking. What kind of look do you wanna go for?’

‘No idea,’ he shrugs and swipes at his untidy locks a bit self-consciously. ‘I’m just a single dad who struggles to even condition his hair - show me what looks good.’

Taking a fine-toothed comb, you trace a parting down the far right side with the pointed end, then you start combing down the hair so it sits tidily on his scalp. Marcus watches you in the mirror, attentive but relaxed, as you turn his face slightly to the left so he can see what you’ve done so far.

‘See how your natural hairline follows the sideburn right down to the beard to your jawline? I like how smart this looks.’

Brushing the pad of your index finger on his prickly facial hair, you feel his jaw twitch and a flash of heat under your skin. You arch an eyebrow at him, ‘Down, boy.’

He clears his throat. ‘Sorry.’

You wink at him. ‘You don’t want to get my boyfriend jealous.’

Marcus grins. ‘I can take him - probably.’

Moving to the other side, you show him how he should brush the rest of his hair and to tease a bit of height on his fringe with hair mousse. A couple of spritzes of hairspray, and you’re done.

Marcus stares at you intently in the mirror. ‘How did you do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘Know what looks good on me?’

You grin. ‘I’m old and wise.’

He teases, ‘You sure you’re not single?’

‘Save that charm on someone who actually is available, Mr Moreno,’ you reply in mock admonishment.

With a glance at his watch, he gets onto his feet and gives you a two-finger salute. ‘Appreciate this Shiv, I’ll be back with Missy to pick my mum up later.’

You give Marcus a wave as he walks off with a spring in his step that reminds you of Frankie strutting away from the salon when you cut his hair the first time.

You grin to yourself proudly. Damn, you’re good at your job.

Fuck Yeah 1.2k Sleepover

#fuckyeah1200sleepover #shiv’s salon #marcus moreno #marcus moreno fanfiction

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lawsvalentine · 1 year

Text

Working in Fast Food • Monster Trio HC• (SFW)

Modern!au

CW: Cursing, crack

Cee’s note: This was random asf sgdjdn but I have so much horror stories from working in fast food from my experience with customers and working with coworkers . So i thought why not have the Monster Trio share my pain 😌. I had a lot of fun writing this, so hope y’all enjoy 💓

Luffy

This boy is ALWAYS eating

Doesn’t matter if he’s in front of customers, he will EAT

Gets kicked out of the kitchen often because he keeps eating the customer’s orders

Has tried every item on the menu. Every. Single. One

Since he has tried everything on the menu, he started creating his own concoctions out of boredom

I’m talking the most diabolical combinations you’ve ever seen and this man will look you dead in the face and say it is good

“What….the HELL…is that???”

“Oh this? Hehehe this is my newest masterpiece! They should put this on the menu”

“You trying to kill somebody?”

“Huh?”

“Luffy, that is a heart attack on a bun! Please spit that out”

“Hehehe but it’s so good Y/N, here taste it”

“GET THAT AWAY-“

Absolutely HATES being the cashier

He is not very good with handling money.

Counting not being a strong point for him, he ends up making lots of mistakes on cash

A customer almost threw hands because he gave them a 5$ in change when it was supposed to be a 20$ sgdjdn

Loves his job mostly bc of the food

Zoro

This man is always late asf to work

Most times it’s 5-10 minutes late but sometimes it will be whole HOURS

One time construction was being done on his usual route to work and he got lost asf and practically missed his whole shift

“I’M HERE!”

“Zoro, we closed ten minutes ago”

“FUCK!”

Only works day shifts bc he once fell asleep while working a night shift

Is oddly really good at being a cashier bc he is like a closeted math wiz

Like he will know a customer’s exact total before the register does shdjdj

Rarely gets rude customer’s because of how big and intimidating he looks

One customer tried to complain and almost shit himself when Zoro glared at him sgdhdj

Gets lots of attention from female customers but is completely oblivious to it

Hates his job but needs it unfortunately

Sanji

Takes his job WAY too seriously

Like this man acts like this shitty fast food joint is a fine dining restaurant

But highkey the best cook in the restaurant

The food always comes out BUSSIN when he’s behind the grill

Burgers extra juicy and fries extra crunchy 👌🏽

Has gotten in trouble for being too flirty with the female workers

Always making special meals for the female coworkers with or without requests

Sadly, not the same for the male coworkers

“Ladies only, Jackass”

Is never the cashier, because he scared away too many female customers with his outbursts that one time shddjj

“Hello, I’ll have the-“

“YOU CAN HAVE THE ENTIRE MENU FREE OF CHARGE, MY DARLING! ANYTHING YOU DESIRE MY LOVE AND YOU SHALL RECEIVE IT! OH HOW BLESSED I AM TO BE IN THE PRESENCE OF SUCH BEAUTY!”

Absolutely hates how much food gets wasted at the end of the night

Will secretly take the leftover food and give it to the needy on his way home from work

(Authors note: sooooo i was gonna do more characters, but that would make this really long so might do a part 2 with other OP characters 👀)

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sunshinemarauder · 8 months

Note

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love! ❤️

Hi Joy!

Never Quite Awake - I worked the hardest on this and it is something I can 100% be proud of writing 💗

this thing called love - they are my Ultimate Jily. i think i got into their heads well here

when i'm not with you (think of you always) - soppy jp reigns supreme... it's not a sunshinemarauders fic without Extreme Pining

what would you do? - self-indulgence to the max. I'm vaguely embarrassed to have written this but whatever

fanged geraniums - I was just going to say "silly fifth-year jily" then I realized it's more than that. I think I did a good job capturing the subtleties of their fifth-year dynamic through the lens of a very oblivious character lol which is harder than it seems

I have realized that while I might have many published fics on ao3 I don't really like a lot of them lol. I definitely struggled to find five.

@aidanchaser @shiteatinggrin @annabtg @cascader @ohmygodshesinsane @kay-elle-cee

if any of you haven't done it yet!

#asks #joyseuphoria #this is my sign to write better stories lmfao #i have the potential to do so i think #and good ideas #next step: execute

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orangechickenpillow · 1 year

Text

Just thinking about the way that Ezra only ever gets mad at Cee twice in their entire time knowing each other.

Even though she shot him in the arm, something that, I would say, one could rightfully get a little pissed about, he disarms her without hurting her and only ever snaps/shows anger when she doesn’t get him a field kit. Because, yeah, he’s in pain, and he’s bleeding out, and this kid isn’t helping him, so he gets frustrated -- but that’s it. He never blames her for wounding him, even later when he starts experiencing complications, all he ever says is “It seems that your bite still has some venom.” That’s all. Even when he’s hurting, and they’re arguing, and she’s holding a gun to his back, he never once brings up her shooting him or uses it against her, not even as an offhanded comment. Because she did the exact same thing he would have done in that situation.

And the second time he gets mad at her: when she hesitates to leave him behind. When he tells her “You get the gun and you go,” and, for a brief moment, she hangs back. Then we see anger, because what the hell are you doing, kid? I’m not worth your life, you’ve got to save yourself, so “Get out of here.”

I feel like it just really says something about Ezra as a person. About how quickly he adapts to situations. About how willing he is to collaborate with people. About how he views survival as something that leaves no grudges to be held, and if this little girl has to hurt him to survive, then fine. About how her not being willing to hurt him to survive made him mad because this whole time she’d been so indifferent to him, and he really, truly believed that she’d be able to just leave him behind because who was he to her? Nobody. And hell, she’d done a damn good job of looking out for herself so far, and hell, he really likes that about her, so why isn’t she leaving me?

For a killer, he sure is a sweetheart.

#ezra prospect #prospect ezra #ezra (prospect)#prospect 2018 #prospect movie #prospect #pedro pascal #as always well done on the acting sir #cee prospect

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prolix-yuy · 2 years

Note

Congratulations on your milestone, lovely!! Thank you for writing and sharing your stories with all of us and brightening this corner of the world with your presence!

For your requests, I’d love to see what you do with: Ezra & Emptiness of attaining false dream

Oooooh. OOOOOOH. This is a very interesting combo! I haven't done much writing for Ezra yet, so let's have a dive into some Prospect shenanigans.

Phantom

Pairing: Ezra x Unnamed OFC

Summary: The aftermath of the Green bestows a kindness on Ezra he doesn't expect. What is he to do when he's given everything he fought for?

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, allusions to sexual acts, male masturbation, amputation and rehab talk.

Notes: This got away from me quickly but was really interesting to explore. Mistakes on rehabilitation for amputees are my own, I'm basing this on my experiences with PT which are nowhere near as traumatic as Ezra's. I'm also taking some liberties with the ending of Prospect, so enjoy a mostly canon-compliant interpretation of the ending.

Quiet and Ezra have never been bosom friends.

On too many jobs he’d been directed to change to a different channel just so his other prospectors could get a few moments of silence. He’d had books taken away, his lips bloodied by fists, or his mouth kept blissfully occupied to shut him up. If he knew what was good for him he would have learned the value of quiet early on. But the ever-racing litany of words threatening to break his teeth were always out of his control. He twisted them to his will, found newer and more flowery ones each time, all in service of letting companions tolerate his ramblings.

But now, here on the Pug, he’s robed in silence.

He always thought of his mouth as a separate organism from his body. Through heat and cold and pain, nothing seemed to quench his need to proselytize. Certain words felt nice passing by - elegant, myriad, bombastic, precious - the way his tongue would glance off his teeth and lips to produce the sounds.

With a tremor of hysteria, he thinks the loss of a limb must have been the final straw.

The silence began as Cee piloted the ship from the Green, blood loss and trauma stealing away his ever-present quips and turns of phrase. His lips were dry and cracked, all the panting and force of keeping himself alive draining his body. When his eyes lolled back in his head Cee began speaking, telling him of a story of friends growing up in a brighter world. She would shake him and demand summaries of the parts she’d just relayed, or ask him to recap the cast of characters. After the first few times Ezra realized she was trying to keep him alive, so he fought harder, struggled against the fading at the edge of his vision.

They barely made it to the Pug before blissful darkness pulled Ezra under.

He woke in a sterile hospital room, shot full of painkillers and stuck full of tubes. Alone at first, he blinked blearily against the harsh white light before a glass door slid open and Cee entered. She was a new girl, washed and dressed for air they both could breathe. Ezra held his, waiting for what the fierce channel rat who rescued him would do. Was this when she would exact her revenge for her father’s death? Or remove another limb for threatening to barter her to the cultists? He was weaker than a babe, no fight left in him even if he possessed the strength.

“Little bird,” he croaked out, “it seems yet again I am in your debt. Name the price. Take what you want.” It’s maybe the simplest sentence he’s ever uttered. Cee shifted on her feet, taking in the hospital room before cold eyes landed on his face.

“Half,” she answered, eyes challenging Ezra.

“Of what?” he moaned out, throat rasping.

“Of the Queen’s Lair,” she said, and a smile threatened to grace her face.

The news of an aurelac haul found in the depths of their stolen ship does elicit more words from Ezra’s lips, most curses or elations. It was larger than either of them expected, especially since the mercs needed a prospector so badly. Ezra shuddered to think what might have become of the person who’d harvested the treasure trove they now were fortunate enough to hide.

Cee had to be the one to cash it in, little bits at a time so as to not arouse suspicion. She combed her hair differently, tried to look older, and it was working so far. The first deposit, cashed in while he was unconscious, was met with no argument beyond normal negotiations.

“That does sound agreeable,” he finally sighs, struggling against the drowsiness of the drugs in his system. “With your newfound riches I’m sure you’ll be off to explore the galaxy. Though I may need your help getting out of this damned hospital before you abscond.” He thinks he hears Cee snort as his vision swims out of focus.

“You’re gonna stay here until you make sense again, Ez.”

The next time he wakes, he’s in a new location, with significantly less machinery accompanying him. It’s quieter, and cleaner. And he’s not alone.

“Sold another gem, and got you a better room,” Cee says near his elbow. He turns and she’s holding a drink with a straw by his mouth. His eyes flicker from the cup to Cee’s face, eliciting an eye roll.

“If I wanted you dead I wouldn’t have even brought you here,” she snarks, and he takes a tentative sip. Water, cool and refreshing, cracks a sudden need through his body. He greedily sucks down the small cup, gasping and wetting his cracked lips. She shakes her head and moves to refill the glass.

“How much?” Ezra asks, shifting to sit more upright. He leans too far, his right arm shockingly not there to counterbalance which spikes his heart at the fear of falling. His abdomen clenches in time, and only his skin burns in embarrassment when Cee turns back to him.

“Enough that I doubled back twice to avoid being followed,” she says, holding the straw back out for him. He grimaces and palms the cup instead, but the weakness and unfamiliarity of using his left hand makes for an ungraceful path to his mouth. He sips once, letting the water bead on his sensitive mouth.

“Then we are fortunate indeed,” he says, letting his eyes close briefly. All he can seem to do is sleep right now. “You shouldn’t have squandered it on this room.” Cee snorts.

“They were going to toss you out on the street with a handful of antibiotics and gauze. This is the amputation wing, and we’re going to stay as long as you need.” Ezra watches the girl with confusion, and mistrust.

“We?” he asks, “I was under the assumption that you would be leaving with your half of our haul never to be seen again. Are you extending our tenuous partnership?” Ezra’s attempt at humor barely covers his true disbelief. Cee moves towards the door and throws a look over her shoulder.

“It’s easier for me to have a guardian while I’m cashing in my half. Not as suspicious.” Ezra’s mouth quirks up a bit as something catches her eye. It’s the nicest thing she’s ever said to him. “Be nice to the staff, they’ve been keeping you alive.” She passes through the doorway as a woman in white medical scrubs enters. She’s clean, neat and bright, smiling at Ezra in a way that is too genuine for him to return.

“Cee’s told me your name is Ezra. I’m your head nurse. Happy to see you’ve been staying awake longer. How’s the pain?”

“Whatever you have been mixing into my blood has done wonders for my demeanor. I keep forgetting I’ve lost my main implement,” he says, and where before he would expound and weave his words as she worked, his tongue feels thick and tired when he looks to his right and sees nothing there. Like a trick of the light, waiting for his arm to reappear from behind his back. When he truly focuses on the terminated end it makes his stomach churn.

“We’ll start weaning you off soon so you can begin your rehabilitation. The physical therapist will be in shortly to go over your plan.” Ezra frowns lightly at this. Rehabilitation sounds long, arduous, and expensive. He has to question Cee closer about the cost next time they’re alone.

“Thank you,” he says, realizing the water cup is still in his hand. He reaches to put it on the bedside table as the nurse leaves. Torso twisted, he tries to sit back up but unbalanced as he is, his hips cant to one side and his hand scrabbles to grab the bed rail. His right arm reaches out to grab at something, anything to pull him back up.

Right, nothing there. He’s definitely falling now.

A shick of a door, a few quick steps, and there’s a small solid body at his side pushing him back upright. Ezra’s face ends up pressed lightly against their throat, a floral scent laced with antiseptic and soap filling his nose. He bares his teeth and fights to sit back upright, heat flashing over his cheeks and down his spine.

“Are you all right?” his savior asks, and Ezra’s shame keeps his eyes glued to his hands…ah, hand.

“My apologies, ma’am, I find myself to be embarrassingly over my head. I imagined nothing would be more traumatic than the act of losing my arm, but apparently this…” Ezra slaps his hand against his chest for emphasis, “helplessness is aiming to humiliate me further.” A hand, cool but deceptively firm, rests on his good shoulder as Ezra looks up at her.

She has gentle eyes and lines in her face, a strong frame but weight on her shoulders, and beyond all she is kind. It takes Ezra a moment to find any words again, and when he does they are less eloquent than he’d hoped.

“Who are you?”

Her eyes crinkle as she pats his arm.

“I’m your physical therapist. Though I’m sure you’ll have many more names for me over the next several weeks.”

Ezra did indeed find many more names for the “good therapist” in charge of his steady recovery.

Kevva-damned menace.

Torturer.

Fiend.

These were spit between clenched teeth as he struggled to adapt to life without his arm. In the first week he found himself reaching for items with his right hand - door handles, utensils, railings - before realizing there was only a subtle lift of his shoulder to show for it. Some things came easy, like balancing and moving in a space without his usual bulk. Other things were annoying, like two-handed tasks and acts that required precision. The worst was anything requiring fine motor skills. Writing angered him, the fat stylus both mocking and cramping his left hand. The number of times he’d swept the items, pad of paper and all, off the table and stomped around in frustration became unworthy to count.

Through it all his good therapist stayed and watched patiently. His furious words and little outbursts didn’t phase her. When he asked about her temperament as she picked up crumpled paper for the umpteenth time, her answer was simple.

“I’ve seen worse from worse men.”

The quiet revelation chilled his temper, made him sit on the edge of the bed and give her space. She finished the therapy early, letting him know she’d be back at the same time tomorrow. He ruminated on the pit in his stomach, worrying that he’d lumped himself into the category of “worse men”. It had been some time since he cared if anyone perceived morality in his actions.

The next appointment he tried to be more patient, and was rewarded with sunny smiles and gentle touches on his good shoulder when he pushed himself just a little further than the day before. Cee notices when she comes to visit, raising an eyebrow at Ezra as the good therapist leaves him for her next appointment.

“She’s nice,” she says nonchalantly, making Ezra roll his eyes as he settles back in the bed.

“What is our magic number today, little bird?” he asks.

“Three hundred thousand.”

Another significant uptick. Ezra’s nose scrunches.

“The value is still mounting?”

“Doubles almost daily now that the Green is out of reach.”

And the number does keep climbing. Cee sets up accounts to hide the profits from prying eyes and curious prospectors. Ezra’s accommodations remain private and well tended, his wounds healing better than expected. His good therapist keeps up the work even when he lets a curse or three slip out beneath his breath. She’s even started responding to them.

The greater menace will be trying to wipe your own ass.

If you think this is torture, just wait until you have to twist a bottle cap.

I didn’t think you were a religious man, Ezra.

The way she says his name, long on the syllables and short on the consonants, sends a thrill up his spine. His body has become more sensitive, lighting up at any touch now that his familiar one is gone forever. Especially her small cold hands that grip him so strongly. He’s tried to give himself release in the small hours of the morning, but his left hand is a weak facsimile to his right. Or to any willing partner. But once he discovers thrusting into the tight circle of his palm as he lays face-down on the bed gives him more control, he spills embarrassingly quickly to her memory.

Seeing her every day, beyond being distracting, also reveals the difficulty of her life. It's hard not to see her overly-worn clothing, the way she eyes leftover food by his bedside, or the tense conversations he sometimes hears through the glass window of his room. He never indicates that he notices, but pushes half his sandwich to her even if he's still hungry, or pretends to be engulfed in a book when she enters with red-rimmed eyes. The Green took his arm, but some people lose more each day than anyone ever notices.

Seven hundred thousand.

Then nine.

Then over a million.

Two.

Cee’s been resourceful, and careful, sometimes gone for days so she can cash in aurelac on another ship. Ezra worries for her in a way that feels strangely paternal, but she comes back richer every time.

His therapy is coming to an end, the healing well on its way and not much more to learn that can’t be done outside the medical facility. He drags his feet a few days longer until he realizes one last request could prolong his good therapist’s presence.

“I would like to purchase a prosthetic,” he asks the head nurse, who instead of looking at him like a thief and a scoundrel, brings out a book of choices, neat numbers written beside each option. He flips to the center, the hero image a fully integrated lifelike facsimile. It costs a small fortune, but with someone holding a large one he’s not so concerned. The head nurse’s eyebrows shoot past her hairline but she makes no comment, dog-earing the page and stepping out to make a phone call.

Two weeks to get it manufactured, a few days to calibrate it, and Ezra would be whole again.

His good therapist is furious.

“You did all of this work just to get a prosthetic?” she says incredulously, hands on her hips. Ezra tries to placate her with a hand on her shoulder, but she pulls away from him quickly.

“It’s not for naught, my dear. I needed to learn to provide for myself and you’ve been an exceptional teacher,” he says, trying to turn on the charm that’s gotten him out of trouble before, but a nerve’s been struck and cannot be soothed.

“Those cost more than I made in a year, and once you’re plugged in they’re practically seamless. You’ve wasted my time, Ezra, and your own. Just buy your way out of your problems if you’re so inclined.” The venom in her voice hammers at his heart, and the next time he puts his hand on her she sweeps it away with force. Blood pounds in his ears - fight, fight, fight - as he lays his expansive palm on the base of her neck and pushes her up against the wall. Nose to nose, thigh pressed to the outside of hers, his bared teeth and quick breaths contrast against her wild eyes and bubbling anger. He did this for her, to be around her, and the spite boiling over her lips rips through him. He doesn’t know if he wants to rough her up or fuck her, or fuck her roughly. His cock is achingly hard but he refuses to press it against her, one tiny shred of the man he’s grown into holding him back.

The crack of something harder than flesh against his shin topples him to one side, a string of curses flying from his lips. She swept her leg into the bone of his, but the pain was sharper than he expected. Once stars stop exploding in his eyes he looks at her, closer than the drugs and the pain let him before, and the truth of her rage comes out.

“You too,” he says, leaning back against the wall as she straightens out her clothes. She hides it well, gait even and smooth, pant legs wide enough to avoid detection. He would have never expected.

“Infection on Gallus 9. I lost both legs below the knee.” Her admission is quick, clinical, and Ezra’s heart burns at it. "Not everyone can be as lucky - or as privileged - as you, Ezra."

“I’m sor…” he tries to say, stumbling to his feet, but she’s swishing out of the room, the minuscule shift in her stride finally revealing the double amputation, the hidden aids. Shame colors Ezra’s vision as the door closes behind her. Then the cloud of lust still pumping through his veins spins him to face the wall, unfastening his pants and taking himself in hand before crushing his hips against it. Desperate little thrusts drive him over the edge, moaning through lips smashed against cool plastic. The shame returns soon after.

She doesn’t come the next day, or the day after. Ezra asks after her, but the cheery head nurse only purses her lips and tells him she’ll return soon. Cee stops by with another update.

“I only have one left, and it’s the biggest. The Starstripper just docked, and it’s got a huge aurelac trade. After that…” She pauses, and the smallest hint of uncertainty skitters across her face. Ezra gives her a smirk back. They hadn’t talked about what would happen once their funds were procured.

“After that, little bird, we may go where our desires and our pockets take us.” Cee snorts and turns to look at something on the table behind her, hiding the smile Ezra hoped to get.

“Where’s your ‘good therapist’? She finally get tired of being called your personal demon?” Cee tries to redirect, pulling the smirk off of Ezra’s face. His hand worries at the fabric covering his lap.

“I fear I upset her past the point of reconciliation. I discovered we were more alike than I previously understood, and a decision on my part gave way to her ire.”

Cee holds up the glossy prosthetics magazine, opened to the promised replacement page. Ezra nods once, his eyes skimming back off it.

“You know these expensive ones tend to be finicky. Could cut out on you in the middle of a harvest, and then where would you be?” she muses, flipping through the pages.

“If you think I’ll continue prospecting after the Green, you’re the one who should be confined to a medical facility,” he grumbles. Cee’s eyes shoot up to his.

“Then what are you planning on doing with the rest of your life, old man?”

The question haunts Ezra long after Cee leaves for her aurelac barter. With the final sale, all the spoils of the Green are theirs. Some of it he views as payment for the horrors he survived, more of it as comfort in his coming years. Fewer years than Cee has ahead, and if she’ll let him he’ll alter their deal. Give the girl enough to truly fulfill her dreams. She’ll say he’s going soft. He’ll say his spite was lost with his arm. They won’t talk about it again.

But after that, Ezra has no clue what to do. His goal of one last haul, one final job to be set for life finally achieved. He now has more money than he thought possible. And nothing feels different. The itch of adventure is maybe a little duller, but then again he could never see himself settling down. Domesticity is a home and he would be a feral dog tearing at the doors to escape.

“What to do now that you can do anything,” he whispers to himself. There’s one idea, small but bright. It’s short term, but he thinks it might be the start of something.

Ezra wanted this to go a different way. He wanted her to find out that he canceled the prosthetic, instead opting for a simpler one with no bells or whistles. Enough to get him by if he needed it. He wanted her to come to him because he asked, and for her to listen to him explain his life and apologize for his actions.

Instead, she bursts into his room while he’s in the throes of agony.

Phantom pain came and went in the past weeks. It often felt like itching along his lost forearm and palms, a healing wound. A quick dose of painkiller would knock him out for the worst of it. This, however, was no subtle itch. A raging burn flays his lost skin, his corporeal form clenching as he gasps through gritted teeth. Sweat bathes his body in heavy musk, tendrils of hair sticking to his forehead. He buzzed the head nurse, who then called the good therapist’s private number when his pained grunts and vocalizations rose to an upsetting level.

She’s tired-eyed but alert when she hurries into the room, Ezra’s spine taught as he fists the blankets on his hospital bed.

“Ezra, I need you to try and focus on me. What’s the pain like?” she asks, and her soothing timbre becomes a life raft in his sea of pain.

“Emmoliation,” he chokes out, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as he begs Kevva for forgiveness, to end his pain in whatever way she sees fit. Her voice pulls him back.

“Ez, I need you to imagine something for me, right now,” she says, firm authority in her voice. He’d teased her before that her tone could drive a man to give her anything she wanted, and then reveled in the light embarrassment that colored her features. A pang of regret - that he wasn’t able to formulate another quip in her presence - inflicts pain and leaves quickly.

“Ezra, look at me,” she orders, and he manages to lift his head and shoulders off the bed. She’s leaning over him with her hand outstretched. “Take my hand,” she says simply. Ezra moves to grasp it with his left, but she bats it away.

“No, take it with the right one.”

Ezra huffs out a sarcastic laugh but her face is deadly serious.

“Focus everything on taking my hand. Think of what it feels like, the sensations. How tight you’d grip, the temperature. Focus on it.” Ezra sits up more fully and nods, the room falling away around him as he stares at her hand. Smaller, strong and feminine, neat nails, always cold. His own would engulf it, his ever-present heat warming her chilly digits. The distance is so close he knows his elbow would bend, and he traces the path of his phantom limb to her solid one.

“Spread your fingers,” he asks, his own voice startling him. She does, and as the burn begins to recede he pictures sliding his thicker fingers between hers. How her knuckles would shift wider, the stretch apart as he laces them together. His mouth hangs open, tongue resting just behind his bottom teeth but barely as the fire becomes a smolder and then dies down.

“Ezra?” she asks, and when he lifts his eyes to her face she’s close, watching him with trepidation.

He knows he should speak, tell her what’s to come. That he put her name on one of the accounts Cee set up, enough for her to make a gentler life for herself. That he was leaving tomorrow to take Cee to a planet with an atmosphere, a school, adventures a child should have. That he had an inkling of a plan, something involving a ship of his own and the roaming life he could never escape. That he hopes she will let him contact her in his travels. Purpose was still a fuzzy outline, but he could find a new dream with time and his immense resources.

He should tell her all this. Let her speak her pain and part as friends, if nothing else.

But Ezra has always wanted something just out of reach.

So instead he cups the back of her head with his good hand, his only hand, and brings his lips to hers.

And maybe for the first time in his life, his dream is as sweet as reality. She kisses him back.

END

#lj's 500 follower celebration #ezra x female reader #ezra x reader #ezra prospect fanfiction #ezra prospect x you #ezra prospect x reader #ezra prospect fic #prospect fanfiction #ezra prospect x original character #prolix fics

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tate-lin · 1 year

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15 Questions with Ly Minh

Thanks for the tag Cee! 🥰

Tagging @justahalfling @ihaventpickedausername @iced-ginger-tea @andromeda-grace @kaiyo @iriswords @yors-truly @words-after-midnight @islanded-in-a-stream-of-stars @sabels-small-sphere @leebrontide @pure-solomon @mattresses-and-macaroni @thepixiediaries @poetinprose @arowanaprincess @hd-literature @freedominique @mariahwritesstuff @ls-daydreams @mrbexwrites @wildswrites @thecrookedwriterspath and anyone else who wants to do it!

[Not pictured are her numerous burn scars]

1) Are you named after anyone?

Heyy I'm Ly Thi Minh, and nope I'm not named after anyone. Honestly though, with how common my name is in Vietnam, I very well could be lmao

2) When was the last time you cried?

Well that escalated quickly.

3) Do you have kids?

I only just turned 15 so if I do have one, be sure to attend my funeral tomorrow!

(P.S. Bring plum blossoms or I'll rise out of my grave and eat you :))))

(P.P.S. Nom nom nom slurp slurp slurp)

4) Do you use sarcasm?

No ♥️ /s

5) What's the first thing you notice about people?

Their threat levels. Practically speaking, what else would you notice?

6) What's your eye colour?

Dark brown. There's not much variety in Southeast Asia, I'm afraid.

7) Scary movies or happy endings?

Happy endings. Why would I want to deliberately make myself miserable?? Please, if I wanna scare myself, all I need to do is look in the mirror 😂

8) Any special talents?

I recently discovered that I'm freakishly good at dodging shit, so let's go with that.

9) Where were you born?

Vietnam, in New Hanoi! It was my childhood home and 75% of it got reduced to rubble :)

Now I live in Lorelei, United States. It kinda sucks but it's also kinda cool. You can say that I have a... Love-hate relationship towards it, I guess. I had to leave, obviously, of course I had to, but it's not exactly a crime to miss it, y'know??

10) What are your hobbies?

I used to do jigsaw puzzles. I even got into a Facebook group where we borrowed puzzles from a shared collection and Kalisha would help me frame up my pieces 'round the house. We haven't done that in a while though... The last one I did was a really cool piece of various Pokémon with a stained glass window effect. Kalisha bought it for my birthday and she even helped me put it together. I don't think puzzles are really her thing though haha

11) Have you any pets?

Má got a goldfish for me once and I named him Lucky. He died the next day though, so I guess he was actually Unlucky.

12) What sports do you play/have you played?

Barrier Ball! I don't know if you've heard of it but it's a popular game in America where there are goal posts on the ground, in the middle of the air, and high up in the sky. I know that there are other sports where you can use barriers to run around in the air but this is extra fun cause there are some volleyball elements too, like our setter-like midfielder. I actually wanted to do that, but I got forward instead. It's not bad though; it's kinda fun to 'disappear' and come out of nowhere with a shot. Like a sniper :)

Freaks out the opposing team every time haha

13) How tall are you?

5'5... I can't believe I think in feet and inches now; what have I become???

14) Favourite subject in school?

Math, I guess. Once you get into the rhythm, your brain kinda just switches off. It's actually really relaxing.

15) Dream job?

Uhhhhh I don't know. Does anyone really know what they wanna do at this age?

Besides Má, I guess, but that's cause she's crazy over ethreasts. Not everyone has such an obvious passion though, and especially not me :/

#joker of ashes #ly minh #tate lin writes #tag game #15 oc questions

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write4cench · 6 months

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kisses and braids.

summary: you braid central cee’s hair, but he seems to be a bit too distracted.

pairs: girlfriendreader x boyfriendcee

genre: fluff + making out?

word count: 1.2k

a/n: idk about u but something about braiding a mans hair just does it for me. 😩

“oakley, if you don’t stop moving i swear your braids won’t turn out right.” you complained as he leaned over to pick up something that he managed to drop on the floor, a smile only grew on his lips amused at your annoyance.

central cee and you were seated in the bedroom of your apartment as he found himself comfortable upon the floor, rested on a pillow within your legs whilst you were seated upon your bed.

it was a random time within the evening when the idea of braids came across his mind and of course he turned to you, pleading for you to braid his hair.

and now here you were, braiding his hair into cornrows and having been doing so for the past hour or so, only getting to about half of his head.

one thing about central cee is that he had a lot of hair, but for some reason despite your advice, he always decided to keep it underneath something.

“shit, does it have to be this tight?” he asks you as his tattooed hand comes to rest upon his newly braided hair, you giggled at his silliness.

“baby i’m sorry, but if you want them to look good for longer they can’t be loose.” you insist to him and he sighs, staring off towards the television in your room.

“i just wanna look good for my show this saturday.” he mumbles as he opens a packet of whatever it is that he decides to eat, eyes glued onto the screen.

you pick out a comb and part his head, pulling apart his hair as you do so. “you always look good, “ you start causing an adorable smile to grow on his lips, “why don’t you just keep your hair out once in a while?” you ask him.

he shrugs his shoulders, “i guess it’s too much work innit, at least now there’ll be something done to it.” he insists, implying towards the braids you do.

you pull off of his head and lean back checking out your job so far, unable to see the front you sigh. “can you like turn this way?” you ask him.

you tilt your head towards him to get a better view of the job you’ve done so far. the two of you make eye contact with one one another and a smile grows upon his lips.

“what’s funny?” you ask him confused, comb in other hand. he smiles brightly and adorably, “nah nothing, you just look cute when you’re focused.”

you roll your eyes upon hearing his words and it only makes him laugh, “shut up.” you mumble. “it’s real cute.” he continues.

the room fell quiet and you turned your focus back onto braiding as neat as you possibly could do so, you were on the final braid luckily so it wasn’t a hard job.

cench was too busy eating upon on the crisps within his hands as he found himself interested in whatever it was that he was watching, one thing about the two of you is although you might not talk a lot with each other, something about the quiet company is comforting.

his hand came to playfully hit against your leg in a rhythmic form, the sudden feeling wasn’t annoying but comforting knowing the way he would be playful with you.

“why are you hitting my leg now?” you ask him, slightly moving after each hit of his hand, he doesn’t stop instead continuing on not uttering an explanation causing you to let out a stressed sigh. "alright i guess you want to be annoying." you mutter, loud enough for him to hear.

your hands focus on finish the braid, your hands interwinding his hair between one another as you approach the end, trying to finish it as fast as you possibly can, and when you do you sit back and glance at the finished product.

cench remains seated for a moment, filling his mouth, when he doesn't feel your hands on his hair he turns around to look towards you, eyes wide and hopeful, you beam.

"are we done?" he blinks and you nod your head, he exhales tired yet excitedly whilst you lean over, wrapping your arms around his shoulders pulling him into a hug from behind, he eases into your embrace.

"i'm tired." you yawn as you rest your hands for a short moment, "get some rest." you insists and you refuse, shaking you head.

as soon as you lean back he gets up from the floor, stretching for a short moment and you watch him do so. you take the chance to get up from the bed as well, standing beside him.

"wanna see how it looks?" you manage to say through a yawn, he only looks towards you with thankful eyes, pulling you into his arms.

you almost squeal at the sudden affection, his arms rest against your lower back as he holds you close, his eyes studying yours noticing how you pretend to wish to pull away from him.

"i asked you if you wanted to see your hair, not if you wanted to kiss me." you tell him and he tiredly laughs, arms still holding around onto you. "i don't care, why can't i be close with my girl?"

his head comes to teasingly rest against your shoulder and you giggle as you find a comfort in wrapping your arms over his own, you feel him pecker a few lips onto your skin and since your ticklish a few laughs manage escape through your lips.

"stop." you manage to say through your laughter a hand gently holding onto your head, but he only continues holding you close, you feel his lips form a grin against the skin of your neck.

as soon as he pulls apart you meet eye contact once again, you don't utter a word instead your smile lingers upon your lips and one mirrors upon his own. you lean in, your lips meeting his and he doesn't hesitate to kiss you back.

you kiss one another a passionate moment, enjoying the feeling. the sound of your lips against one another sounds throughout the silence and the comfort of your bedroom. you forget about everything, instead you're focused about spending this moment with the man who you truly love.

you pull away from the kiss when you feel it begin to grow a little too heated, feeling the tingles and sparks that flow throughout your body. playfully you push him away from you, his arms widen and his mouth drops jokingly confused yet enjoying the act.

"we need to stop there." you tell him warningly, it almost as if he knows the affect you have on him since he doesn't complain and you know that he knows.

"alright." he simply says.

nothing but love fills his eyes and it's almost as if you always catch yourself smiling whenever you're with him. "i love you." you say.

he remains quiet for a good moment, realising he's about to catch himself saying something he never thought he would, you watch him expectantly watching how his lips agape to utter the words, just when he's about to he buries his head into his hands.

"i love you too."

#cench #central cee #central cee imagines #central cee smut #central cee x reader #central cee x you #centralceeedit #central cee x y/n #central cee fluff

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insomniamamma · 2 years

Text

Pigment: Ezra x f!reader w/Cee

A/N: So this idea was kind of kicking around and then the Writer Wednesday prompt gave me permission. I know for certain that I'm not the only one who headcanons Ezra using writing and drawing as a way of building up dexterity in his non-dominant hand. Apologies if this is too derivative. This is fairly early in the Prickle 'verse timeline. Takes place after "Rain." Reader's nickname is 'Artichoke' but Ezra also calls her 'Prickle' or 'Prickle-girl'. Warnings: Mentions of old injuries. Mentions of violence. Food mentions. A little anxiety on reader's part. Mild language.

You didn't mean to look. It just kind of happened.

Acora is a trinary system, two main-sequence stars that orbit each other in a slow precise dance, and way out, past the smattering of gas giants and icy worldlets a T-class brown dwarf that the researchers on the bench nick-named Big Pink. Two suns means that certain times of day are unbearable for suit-work, so the three of you wait in the tent. The pod is mostly powered down, so not to overtax the coolant system and even with the scrubbers and chillers running no one wants to move much. You hear Cee shifting around in the upper bunk, tinny sound from her music player punctuated by snippets of singing. She forgets sometimes and sings aloud. You don't mind. Ezra sits propped up, scribbling in a spiral bound book resting on his knee, scratching away with a nub of graphite pencil. Probably running pull numbers or orbit curves, fuel-to-mass and all that. You wonder why he doesn't just use his tablet. Seems like it would be easier. You try to distract yourself from the rising heat, the tiny pinholes lining the tent's seams that sizzle like little stars, irritatingly bright while you try to read. It doesn't help that you've read this particular mediocre locked-room mystery multiple times. You already know who done it. That's how it goes. Most decent sized benches have some form of lending library, or at least junk dealers willing to make a trade. Paper books are surprisingly valuable out here. You don't have to charge them. They won't shit out if you drop them. Software glitches or botched updates won't turn them into useless bricks. Acora is not a decent sized bench. A skeleton crew of ice miners to keep her fueled and the flying, other than that it's all researchers. Geeks studying the workings of a trinary system. All of them seemed a bit wiggy, like when there was a dust storm back home and you'd have to seal everything up and kick on the scrubbers and try not to murder each other while waiting for the sky to come back. These aren't even real storms, your Gran kept saying, we aint had a real storm since they started dropping ice down the well. Still, by day four or five everyone would have tight smiles and big jittery eyes and once you'd watched your two older brothers start beating the shit out of each other in the kitchen because one ate the last sweet roll without sharing and Ma had to wade in with a broom to break it up. Not that you really expected a station full of scientists to start wailing on each other, but it didn't seem like any of them had been off bench in a good while. The rumpled botanist who's shelling out for live samples from this gruesomely hot little moon exuded that sense of being bottled up in spades. She talked rapidly and told the three of you far more than you needed to know for the task she hired you for, smiling big all the while. Your hand drifted downward to the thrower at your hip. Cee caught the motion and gave a little shake of her head. She was stimmed up to her eyeballs, she'd told you later. My father would get like that sometimes. As long as her money's good, who gives a shit, right? A quick and dirty little job while the freighter unloads and refuels, a three cycle turnover. You try to settle in and ignore the sweat sliming your skin, juicy rattle of the chillers struggling to cope. Best to wait for first sundown, Ezra told you, we'll still have plenty of light but a lot less heat. You peer at him over your book. He is deep in concentration, taps the eraser end of his pencil against lower lip and then against his forehead as if he could knock his ideas loose, brows pushed together in thought. Kevva, he's got pretty eyes, you think, and he glances up at you, a small smile quirking one side of this mouth and you wonder if you've said it aloud, feel heat creeping into your face. "Good book?" "It was the first time through." "Don't worry," says Ezra, "There'll be better pickings on Tirana. It's just a hop, skip and a jump. You can trade for more reading materials there." "Hop, skip and a jump," you echo, the both of you knowing full well that you'll be finishing this novel and then re-reading one of the other half dozen you've got stashed under your bunk before you hit Tirana Bench. "Right." Ezra chuckles and you turn your attention back to this foolish story. Bench-boss's asshole son gets snuffed and the plucky hero has to figure out who did it, all sealed up in a ring with the potential killers, femme fatale ship captain inserting herself into the mess. You know all the twists, familiar as the weight of your suit and body armor on a drop, as Cee's music, as Ezra's snores as he drops off into sleep, soft rasps off to your left, and you feel your own eyes growing heavy as well, a sort of reflexive slide into sleep, too hot to do much else, you rest your book on your chest and let your eyes fall closed, sinking into the unintentional rhythm of tent-noise, the chillers, soupy and rattling from sucking humidity out of the air, small comfort knowing the water is going right into the tanks, that it won't all be cycled piss, Cee's music, some Vayok synth pop she picked up two drops back, Ezra's small snores, and you're almost out yourself, right on the edge, things starting to turn soft and unreal, when a sharp sound snaps you back.

You push yourself up on your side. Ezra's notebook lays on the dusty floor, face down, front and back covers splayed like wings, pencil not far off. Must've fallen asleep writing. You frown. He's had that notebook since before you've been crew. He would not like to see it wrinkled and left on the floor. You pick it up and brush the dust off, straighten the pages, smooth the wrinkles back down and that’s when you notice that his technical notes are not notes at all, or at least not entirely. He has drawn Cee to the life, the tilt of her head, music player covering her ears, that far-away face she gets when she's listening to something new. A Central-standard date pencilled in beneath. You shouldn't look, you should place it beneath the corner of his bunk where he's got his data pad charging, and his stash of Shock-berry Limited Edition Bitz-Bars (as if he had to stash them, they were nasty on so many levels that you and Cee had handed over your share of them in a wordless trade for the regular kind, better the devil you know). You flip a page, curiosity getting the better of you. A cluster of heptagonal shapes, and you feel yourself smiling. The fossils on CJ's World, opaline red, winking in the sun as you pulled them out of the soft sediment. A good and easy haul, low risk. You'd seen a rainbow rising out of the distant sharp cut canyons, and found Ezra's hand folded warm around yours. That was a good day, you think, listening to Ezra's soft snores. "You sure you stripped the aux input panels?" He asks clear as day and you freeze, but then he shifts and the snores resume. One more page, you tell yourself, then we stop being a snoop. The next page bears your face and your name, not 'Artichoke', but the one you signed on the line when you joined this little crew. You in profile, but that can't really be you, can it? You recognize your tactical gear, the webbing that holds your thrower to your thigh, your knife-sheath, the tool belt you wear in place of armor when you're on a friendly drop, but there's a small soft smile on your face, a light in your eyes that he's somehow managed to imply in a few graphite strokes and paper left blank. He's drawing weak-handed, that must be it. You flip the sketch book closed and place it beneath the corner of his bunk with the rest of this things. You lie back in your cot and stare at the pattern of shifting light over the tent, waiting for your mind to settle. It takes some time.

Tirana Bench is a ramshackle hub but there are plenty of stalls in the commerce ring to poke around in. This is how it goes. Once the pod is supplied and the next job negotiated, there's usually a little time for the three of you to split up and get whatever incidentals you need for the next leg of your endless trek around the Great Arm, books, music cylinders, special snacks, extra consumables. Used books, a hand lettered sign reads, one for one trade. You've left what you mean to trade with the man running the shop, and you've got a few promising novels tucked in the crook of your arm when something else among the junk catches your eye. A flattish metal case the length of your hand opened to show wells of bright pigment, cracked, obviously used but with plenty left, a clutch of fine bristled brushes held together with a bit of string. Paint-kit, the tag reads, near new. You fold it closed and examine it, turn it in your hands. If Cee was here you'd ask what she thought, but she's off somewhere else in the commerce ring, making her own deals. The label is mostly missing, faded yellow against the plain grey metal. The catch is s small button and when you push it, the lid pops open on its own. That's what sells you. Ezra can open it one handed. You add it to the clutch of books. He's gonna think it's silly, you think, and the proprietor obviously agrees because the trade for the battered tin of colors is two novels. "That's highway robbery," you grumble. "Where else you gonna find honest-to-Kevva art supplies in a dump like this? Lose two stories or take your trade elsewhere." "Fine," you say and take the slimmest two volumes and slide them back across the counter, "We good then?" "We're good," he says and you tuck the remaining books and paint-kit into the bag slung over your shoulder. "Safe flight, spacer." You nod. Spacer as a form of address still feels weird, like a title you haven't earned. You wonder if that feeling will ever fade, if that small voice that says you have no business out here in the black will ever shut up.

You find yourself hurrying along the ring, suddenly wanting to reach the pod before anyone else, because now you're wondering how Ezra will react to your gift, your present, and you feel silly. You imagine his brow arched quizzically, what's this now, Artichoke? Kevva. You can almost hear him. If you get to the pod first you can stash your things without the others seeing, your books, your vac-packed saar jerky, some new socks because you wore holes in the ones you'd gone off world in, and this little tin of used but mostly good paints. And then you can just not think about it for a while. Gods this is stupid, why are you so worked up? So nervous at the idea of giving Ezra a gift? This is something friends do for each other. Give each other little trifles. Doesn't mean more than that right?

Of course Ezra and Cee are both in the pod when you get back, Ez arching an eyebrow at you. You're late, Artichoke. By, like, two sixteenths, says Cee, snapping one of the pods many storage compartments shut, rolling her eyes, you had a good half buffer. "That half might make the difference between us shoving off without you," says Ezra, "Clear?" "Clear. It won't happen again," you say, feeling heat rise to your face. "I trust that it will not."

You hurriedly stow your things and brace yourself for the change in grav as the can-hauler you're clipped to undocks, the flywheels spinning up to dampen the bench's spin and then transfer their momentum to the freighter's smaller ring, grav meant for passengers and cargoes that can't tolerate microgravity, a sick sideways upward lurch and it still doesn't feel right, you find yourself breathing hard, swallowing saliva that tastes metallic. "Here," says Ezra, reaches across and hands you a wrapped piece of candy, "Spice-root. It'll help your stomach. Hold it in your mouth for a spell. You'll be alright." You take the offered candy and tuck it into your cheek. "I always keep some of this on hand," says Ezra, "You never know when your inner ear's gonna decide that you're going backwards and sideways all at once." You try to slow your breathing and just listen to him talk, Ezra's voice is like a warm steadying hand. "Amateur," says Cee, with a teasing grin. You crunch your spice root candy between your teeth and give her the finger. Ezra chuckles. "Seems like you're about back to normal, there, Prickle-girl."

Privacy is an odd thing living in a drop pod for extended periods. Clipped to a bench it's not so bad, there are places you can go, things you can look at, food stalls, bars and the like. You can get away from each other for a little bit. Clipped to a freighter? It's been a mixed bag so far. Depends on the ship. Depends on the whims of them flying her. At best there might be a grotty little mess hall where you can get a hot meal. At worst you are locked down in your pod, with no view and nothing but the same shit rations you eat downworld. It's not entirely unfamiliar, being cooped up. The winds would kick up so high back home that the sand and flying dust could scrape you raw and bloody if you got caught out in it. Privacy is a matter of claiming it, and everyone agreeing to it. When Cee has her music player over her ears, you and Ezra know not to bother her, likewise when you are reading, or when Ezra is running points or calculations or drawing. Silence will fall between the three of you. Not unwelcome. Just everyone doing their thing, usually after you've eaten your last meal of the day, no rules, just an easy habit the three of you have fallen into. Except tonight you can't seem to settle in. You've read the first five pages of the horror novel you traded for on Tirana Bench at least a half-dozen times. It's not that the story or writing's bad, you just can't concentrate. That little metal box in your storage compartment is burning bright in your mind like a lump of radioactive material. You glance over at Cee. She's fast asleep, music player knocked askew. You know eventually she'll take it off in her sleep. Ezra is still awake. Of course he is. Better now than when Cee is awake. She'd probably roll her eyes and call you a goof-ass, but it's not her judgement you worry about. She'd probably also tell you to quit waffling. You abandon your novel on your crash couch and fetch the paint kit from your storage locker. "Hey, Ezra?" "Yeah?" You turn to him, holding the little box behind your back. "I, uh, found something I thought you'd like. On the bench." He's sitting up on the edge of his crash couch, legs hanging over, sketchbook spread across his lap, looking at you expectantly. You offer him the paint-kit. He looks at the battered metal box and then back up at you, that little line starting to stitch itself between his eyebrows. You feel yourself starting to smile a little at his confusion. "Push the button," you say and he does and the dented lid springs up. You set the box on the sketchpad, flat surface folded open and step back, hands worrying at each other. Ezra raises his hand to his mouth. His face runs through a complication of emotions. "I saw some of your drawings. I didn't mean to pry, you fell asleep and dropped your book and I didn't think you wanted it getting all dirty, and I saw this kit and thought you might like to try some colors," Your face and neck go hot. You're rambling. "I mean, you always say how you gotta have the right tools for a job and I saw this and figured I'd get you some tools. It doesn't mass much more than a book. I thought--" "Get me a squeeze bulb with some water, yeah?" "Yeah okay," you say, and snag a squeeze, "You're gonna try it now? It's kind of late-" Ezra makes a dismissive noise. "We've got fifteen and a quarter cycles cooling our heels in this pod," says Ezra. You look at him and he is beaming, dimples sunk into his scruffy cheeks, eyes warm and crinkled, he glows and you feel yourself warmed by him, feel yourself mirroring his smile.

"Plenty of time to sleep," you say and plop down next to him with the squeeze bottle of water, "I think this big well is meant for the water." "I think so too," says Ezra, and his smile falters slightly, "Can you hold the paints for me? I can finagle some sort of lap board later, maybe one of the grading trays--" "Sure, Ez, I've got you." You rest the box on your knee so he can reach. Ezra wets the brush and dips it into one of the paint-wells, long dried pigments soaking up into the fibers. He strokes the bristles over the paper, a long blue squiggle, experimenting with pressure and thickness. Dips a second brush into the clean water and uses it to draw the blue across the paper, staining the fibers, fading color like some sort of magic trick. "How do you know how to do that?" Ezra shrugs. "My mother drew and painted when she had the time," he says, "I used to watch her and she'd let me try my hand at it, but I was never any good." "Well that's bullshit," you say. The blue squiggle becomes a fractal pattern, an oxbow river seen from orbit. "It's not though," says Ezra, rinsing the blue out and going for a deep green, "Cee got me my first blank book. I had to teach my weak hand how to be clever. I meant to teach myself how to write again. I'd copy out my letters over and over and my hand would cramp after a spell. Drawing helped me loosen back up." A constellation of green dots and drips make a forest, tiny pink pin-pricks a field of flowers. "My handwriting is still utter dogshit though," he muses, fully focused on the sketchbook in his lap, "Funny how that works." "Kevva might take a lot from you, but she always gives something back," you say, one of your Gran's expressions popping out of your mouth unbidden. "Just so, Artichoke, just so."

#writer wednesday #ezra x f!reader w/cee #ezra prospect x f!reader #prickle 'verse #prospect AU #prospect fic #pedro pascal #writer-wednesday

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cee-grice · 4 months

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Heyy Cee happy New Years' Eve!! 🥳

To end off the year, what are the top five influences for your book and how have they shaped you as a person? 🤩

happy New Year's Eve to you too, Tate<33

omg....ok I'm gonna expose myself for you all now so play nice pls thank u

the biggest influence for this story would have to be D&D. I had really gotten into playing it last summer, which was when I started thinking about this story, so you can really feel the influence in some parts haha (especially the magic system lol...). this whole story began with me creating an encounter featuring Endra, actually (with a stat block and everything lol), and I got so obsessed with the idea that I. made a whole story about it LOL. I would say D&D has... introduced me to a bunch of cool people, and everyone you meet, I think, shapes you a little as a person, so there's that haha. but also it made me think more about expansive worldbuilding, and thus appreciate it more as well. IDK I feel like it just made me love fantasy in general all the more:D

the second influence would have to beeee minecraft/dreamSMP. both, really, in their own ways. minecraft more on the lore aspect and magic system, weirdly enough??, and dsmp in the, hm, complexity of character relationships, I'd say? nothing specific, but more so the vibe. and my story is all about complex character relationships, so!! I also wrote quite a few fanfics for it, and that really helped with my confidence in writing, I'd say. I hadn't before had such a supportive audience, and they're very much to blame for my decision to actually take this Seriously haha. by that alone I'd say this shaped me most as a person/writer :v

thennn third influence, my jobs?? it just so happened that I was surrounded by pathology when I began this story, and I just sort of? gravitated to it as a central story point?? kinda wild, now that I think about it lmao. but yeah, idk, I feel like this job that I have made me mature a little more x)

ahmm fourth influence, maybe arcane? more of a subconscious one, though, as only when a friend pointed out some similarities did I go 'oh yeahhh' lmao. I did very much enjoy arcane, and although I watched it a good while before I'd started this story, some stuff must have stuck with me subconsciously haha

as for the fifth one...also more of a subconscious one, but Mo Dao Zu Shi. starting a story with necromancy is just an S tier story hook, in my opinion, so I did kinda yoink the idea from here haha, although, again, I hadn't done so intentionally lol. I also really liked the dual timelines and definitely wanted to write something with such a structure. this story sort of introduced me to modern Chinese fantasy, and I really gotta read more of it ahhhh, but yeah, always nice to broaden your literary horizons:D

#ty for the ask eee i had to think quite a bit about this one lmao #hope u have a great new year's<33

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tiredassmage · 1 year

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“shielding the other one with their body “ for any ship who pipes up 👀

This one has been taunting me for ages and I finally put the idea I had about it down, but endings???? Who is she??? Can't figure out how to end this one because I had a single cute scene in my head and the technicalities of what they're doing is definitely above me, but it's also above Cee, so I guess it works? xD

[touch prompts]

x-x-x-x-x-x-

“Why the kriff did we agree to this?” Cee hissed shakily as she squeezed her eyes shut.

“Relax,” Oliver murmured against her hair, “We’re almost there, I promise.”

“Right,” she ground through her teeth. “'Just relax.' One bad step and we both go plummeting to our deaths. You sure got a lot of faith in me, spyboy.”

She was pressed up against him on a pitiful excuse for a walkway on the top of some hideout or another - the details from his debrief were escaping her at the moment. Thinking about anything that wasn’t the warmth of his chest against her back right now was liable to make her nauseous.

He chuckled lightly, but steadied a hand on her hip as she reached for the next ladder. “All you gotta do is jack me in to that panel, remember? The rest is all me.”

“Mmhhm,” Cee hummed. She wrapped her hands tighter around the polls as she pulled upwards. She could see it now. Just a little more. “If I fall, Oli-”

“I know, I know, you’ll haunt me for the rest of my life. You’re doing great, sweetheart,” he said. As promised, he was right behind her every step of the way.

She leaned back into his steadying hold for support as she started to finally haul herself up onto the narrow platform.

“Risha, we’re almost in position,” he reported.

“Delightful. Standing by. Try not to die.”

“Risha!” Cee hissed.

“Focus, baby,” Oli encouraged, “She’s just trying to lighten your nerves.”

“Real funny way of doin’ it,” Cee complained, carefully lowering herself to sit on the platform with her feet dangling free and her back against the panel wall. Nar Shadaa’s lights danced energetically in all directions and she felt her heart drop into her stomach.

Who the kriff thought it was alright to hide a security panel all the way up here? Probably hoping anyone plummeted to their deaths at some point. It’d keep all those Cartel secrets safe or… something.

“Hey,” Oliver said carefully, eyeing her as he set out a datapad beside her. “Stick with me, alright?”

She nodded, but her wide eyes didn’t move from the depths of the city.

“Help me with this wire, yea?” Cee finally blinked as Oliver braced carefully against the ladder. “I need you to hook us in. The data spike should be in-”

She scooted a bit closer to rustle through the inner pockets of his jacket. A mild frown of concentration flickered across his lips. “I think- Other side, sweetheart,” he murmured.

“Not what I would’ve planned for our honeymoon,” she muttered, noticing out of the corner of her eye the way his lips shifted into an amused smile doubtlessly due to the flush rising to her cheeks.

Sure enough, she located their data spike in his other pocket. “I’ll get you something nice, once we’re done with this job,” he said. Cee squinted at him, leaving him an opening to press a quick kiss against her nose that made her stick out her tongue. He merely smirked before he nodded to the panel. “Now, let’s crack open that panel and see what we’ve got.”

“You owe me so big for this, Oli. Tell that jackass back at command-”

“Into that top right spot there.” He shifted how he was braced to indicate a socket near a small, blinking light. “Alright.” He eyed the datapad set out beside her on the walkway. “Give me a minute to get into the network. Risha?”

“Starting to come through. Filter out the garbage and I’ll forward what they want.”

“Yup.”

“D’you… I dunno, want up here instead?”

Oliver quirked a brow without moving his eyes from the datapad. “Nah. Unless you want to-?”

“No, no, I’m. I’m good,” Cee shook her head and puffed out a sharp, short breath. “I’m not going back down there alone.”

He smiled faintly. “That’s what I thought. We’re almost done, I promise.”

“Right.” Cee gripped the edge of the platform until her knuckles were white. “Oli? Just keep talking to me.”

“Alright then,” he said with a light shrug. “Where did you want to go?”

“Huh?”

“Nar Shadaa’s obviously off your list,” he said with the flicker of an amused smile. “Where do you wanna go?”

“Uhm… Somewhere warm, for one,” Cee mused. “I have had enough of this snowy blizzard planet nonsense.”

“No romantic returns to Hoth then,” he teased. “Got it.” Cee stuck her tongue out briefly. “Hurry up, spyboy. They’re gonna start missin’ us up here and I am not going to try to run on all of these narrow little death traps.”

"I'd still be right behind you," Oli offered.

She finally eased into a smile. "I know."

#answered #touch prompts #swtor fanfiction #swtor fanfic #vs: king and lionheart [smuggler!tyr]#dot words #ch: cee #i love them your honor

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