[not that i wouldn't] PG-13: Ferus, OCs
Disclaimer: George Lucas owns Star Wars. I am not making any profit from this work of fan fiction.
Author's note: follow-up to "to the brave," for estora . Gerald is her OC. Set in the Freefallverse.
[not that i wouldn't]
Orun’s eyes widen almost comically as Olin does a spit-take. They stare at each other, appalled, for about half a second before they fall all over themselves trying to deny it.
“No, no, we’re not -”
“We’ve never -”
They break off, staring at each other again, and shake their heads in unison.
“I mean, not that I wouldn't -”
“We’re just -”
“Or, uh, not that I want -”
“Wait, what?”
Ferus stops in the middle of his floundering to gape at his companion, obviously just catching up to the conversation. Gerald has never seen anyone look quite so stunned: he has did she just say what I think she said? written all over his face. It’s kind of adorable.
Ryn blushes a deep fuschia that breaks her cool and makes her look like a kid again. Not for the first time, Gerald wonders about her real age.
“I’m just saying -” she begins, then cuts herself off with a sharp shake of the head. “We’re just friends, Captain Su’Lac. Why do you ask?”
Gerald looks from Orun to Olin and back again. “Actually, I was talking about you and Makesh.”
Silence. Gerald watches them try to look everywhere but at each other. Finally Ryn takes a deep breath. “Makesh worked for my brother.” Then she grimaces and takes another pull from her bottle. “No,” she says decisively. “I mean, he did, but that’s not really the story.” She spins the bottle in her long skillful fingers, cut and scraped from whatever fights she’s been in lately, defending a Republic that isn’t hers.
“My parents died when I was five,” she says hesitantly. “And my brother didn’t really know ... how to raise a kid. So I followed him around on campaign, and ... I don’t know, I guess he thought I would just magically turn out okay.” Her mouth twists, not quite bitter but a little more than rueful. “Makesh became the person who took care of me. He was the one who made sure I had a place to sleep and that I went to bed on time. The one who got me an extra blanket if I was cold. Bandaged my cuts if I got hurt in training.” She looks into the bottle as though she might find her lost childhood there. “Now it’s my turn.”
It’s a sad story, though Orun doesn’t say so. Gerald can almost see her as a child, a scrappy little kid with dark hair and huge green eyes.
More telling, he can almost see Makesh. It’s so like him, to step in and take care of things that no one else has noticed. A lost child, falling through the cracks ... but not on his watch.
He’d have been gentle, Gerald thinks. And probably silent. Makesh is even less verbal than the girl he helped raise. But he’d have tucked her in with perfect competence. He might even have been tender, vulnerable with a child the way he never would be with a lover.
His chest twinges, remembering Makesh’s stoic lovemaking, the stillness in his face even as Gerald cupped his hands around their cocks and rubbed them together. Not much got a reaction out of Makesh.
He’d grunted softly when Gerald slicked his length with the bead from his leaking tip. Bit his lip as Gerald pumped him with a calloused hand. He’d thought, then, that the younger man might actually crack his reserve and moan out loud. But he’d watched his throat close tight, stifling a scream of release as he gave up his seed into Gerald’s hand: hot and sweet enough that the feel of it on his own cock as Makesh returned the favor, long fingers slipping and twisting over his heated skin, made him come, too.
He hadn’t managed to be as quiet about it as Makesh.
And that was the problem with them, always had been: it was like they had some unspoken competition in which the one who showed feeling first always lost.
It was the stupidest thing Gerald had ever been involved in, and it made him ashamed.
Just let me get you back, he thought at Makesh’s memory. Let me get you back, and we’ll put this thing to rest. No more holding back. You can win every time, just as long as you’re safe.
It takes him a minute to realize that his companions are staring at him oddly. For a single, horrifying second, Gerald is sure he must have spoken his thoughts aloud, and can’t imagine what he should say in excuse.
Then he catches Orun’s eyes and remembers Makesh’s eerie tendency to know what others were thinking.
He’s scrambling for something to say when Orun gives him one long look and turns to Ferus, grinning mischievously. “Now tell me about that lady next door.”
Author's note: follow-up to "to the brave," for estora . Gerald is her OC. Set in the Freefallverse.
[not that i wouldn't]
Orun’s eyes widen almost comically as Olin does a spit-take. They stare at each other, appalled, for about half a second before they fall all over themselves trying to deny it.
“No, no, we’re not -”
“We’ve never -”
They break off, staring at each other again, and shake their heads in unison.
“I mean, not that I wouldn't -”
“We’re just -”
“Or, uh, not that I want -”
“Wait, what?”
Ferus stops in the middle of his floundering to gape at his companion, obviously just catching up to the conversation. Gerald has never seen anyone look quite so stunned: he has did she just say what I think she said? written all over his face. It’s kind of adorable.
Ryn blushes a deep fuschia that breaks her cool and makes her look like a kid again. Not for the first time, Gerald wonders about her real age.
“I’m just saying -” she begins, then cuts herself off with a sharp shake of the head. “We’re just friends, Captain Su’Lac. Why do you ask?”
Gerald looks from Orun to Olin and back again. “Actually, I was talking about you and Makesh.”
Silence. Gerald watches them try to look everywhere but at each other. Finally Ryn takes a deep breath. “Makesh worked for my brother.” Then she grimaces and takes another pull from her bottle. “No,” she says decisively. “I mean, he did, but that’s not really the story.” She spins the bottle in her long skillful fingers, cut and scraped from whatever fights she’s been in lately, defending a Republic that isn’t hers.
“My parents died when I was five,” she says hesitantly. “And my brother didn’t really know ... how to raise a kid. So I followed him around on campaign, and ... I don’t know, I guess he thought I would just magically turn out okay.” Her mouth twists, not quite bitter but a little more than rueful. “Makesh became the person who took care of me. He was the one who made sure I had a place to sleep and that I went to bed on time. The one who got me an extra blanket if I was cold. Bandaged my cuts if I got hurt in training.” She looks into the bottle as though she might find her lost childhood there. “Now it’s my turn.”
It’s a sad story, though Orun doesn’t say so. Gerald can almost see her as a child, a scrappy little kid with dark hair and huge green eyes.
More telling, he can almost see Makesh. It’s so like him, to step in and take care of things that no one else has noticed. A lost child, falling through the cracks ... but not on his watch.
He’d have been gentle, Gerald thinks. And probably silent. Makesh is even less verbal than the girl he helped raise. But he’d have tucked her in with perfect competence. He might even have been tender, vulnerable with a child the way he never would be with a lover.
His chest twinges, remembering Makesh’s stoic lovemaking, the stillness in his face even as Gerald cupped his hands around their cocks and rubbed them together. Not much got a reaction out of Makesh.
He’d grunted softly when Gerald slicked his length with the bead from his leaking tip. Bit his lip as Gerald pumped him with a calloused hand. He’d thought, then, that the younger man might actually crack his reserve and moan out loud. But he’d watched his throat close tight, stifling a scream of release as he gave up his seed into Gerald’s hand: hot and sweet enough that the feel of it on his own cock as Makesh returned the favor, long fingers slipping and twisting over his heated skin, made him come, too.
He hadn’t managed to be as quiet about it as Makesh.
And that was the problem with them, always had been: it was like they had some unspoken competition in which the one who showed feeling first always lost.
It was the stupidest thing Gerald had ever been involved in, and it made him ashamed.
Just let me get you back, he thought at Makesh’s memory. Let me get you back, and we’ll put this thing to rest. No more holding back. You can win every time, just as long as you’re safe.
It takes him a minute to realize that his companions are staring at him oddly. For a single, horrifying second, Gerald is sure he must have spoken his thoughts aloud, and can’t imagine what he should say in excuse.
Then he catches Orun’s eyes and remembers Makesh’s eerie tendency to know what others were thinking.
He’s scrambling for something to say when Orun gives him one long look and turns to Ferus, grinning mischievously. “Now tell me about that lady next door.”