mav·er·ick

Aniya loved how effortlessly he picked her up and brought her back down. She sank into the softness of his bed and drank in the quiet tenderness in his voice, committing them to as careful a memory as she could. Her palms trailed along his shoulders, fingers tracing muscle, one up the back of his neck to bury in his hair, the other down his arm.

“Yeah,” she confirmed after a beat too long, not from hesitance or fear this time but because there were so many more things to drink in. Not even residual fears and anxieties of the day, of moments prior, could take away from this warm moment.

Her hand slipped from his arm and she propped herself up to meet him as he came down and kissed him for once without asking.

He met her kiss readily, and brought a hand to support her head. Slowly, and without breaking the kiss, he lowered her to the pillow. He settled on an elbow himself, his legs entangled with hers: partly on top of her, partly next to her, so as not to smother her with too much of his weight. To leave her wiggle room, a way out, despite an undeniable want to wrap himself around her.

Only after minutes, did he break away. 

“I don’t wanna be dramatic–” He spoke softly, almost whispered. A grin crinkled skin around his eyes and down his cheeks, “But if another bomb were to drop on Boston to freeze this moment in time, it’d be fine with me.”

He’d be exactly where he’d want to be. 

But he left that part implied, unspoken. And he certainly wouldn’t admit it’d be everything he’d want out of what was left of this stupid life. That no other ambitions of his came remotely close enough to top it. 

No, he wouldn’t add any of that. That kind of inane shit from the mind of an infatuated, lovestruck jackass, wouldn’t do either of them any favors. Not now.

How much is too much, too soon?

I know how to be a one-night-stand. I got that one down. And I know how to be a husband, but how the fuck do I go about being anything in between. I don’t fucking remember.

What do you need? Goddamn tell me.

Is it really that hard to know what you want? ‘Cause I know what I want. Must be my fucking god-given talent in this life. That’s what I bring to the table, apparently. Not good for much, but at least I can make up my goddamn mind.

No sooner had the bar seen the last of Asher’s shit-eating grin than voices rose up in various, isolated spots in the crowd of people bemoaning, complaining and grumbling their (often disparaging) opinions on the guy.

Rick tore his eyes off the door that had closed on Asher’s heels, shot a look across the room, and turned back to the bartender.

“I don’t see what everyone’s problem is. That man’s a ray of sunshine.”

One great advantage to quitting the mercenary business was that Rick no longer needed to devote as much time to engage in gossip, trying to distil scraps of useful information from people’s everyday conversations. 

He was barely even listening, nursing his drink at the bar when the topic shifted to Rori. He didn’t know quite how it happened, but suddenly all eyes were on him.

“What y’looking at me for? I don’t know what her deal is any more than you. The closest I got to her was her elbow in my face.”

If there was one universal topic of conversation that would always come up between Andy’s mutual acquaintances, it was what the fuck a nice, decent young man like him was doing, running with the Gunners.

Rick had just about had it with the whole thing. He was done devoting even the smallest amount of energy to it. Clearly, the kid had his reasons to stay, otherwise he’d have made more of an effort by now. There was no fucking sense– no point at all, debating something none of them had any control over, and Rick didn’t want to hear about it anymore.

“If he wants out, all he has to do is ask. I’ll help. You tell him that. And that’s the last I’ll fucking say on it.”