I originally intended for this to be a Kraglin/Reader story but I got carried away with details. It could technically still be read that way as the character isn't given a name, so interpret this as you wish.
Kraglin hated clubs.
Dance clubs, specifically, and made sure every one of his comrades knew it too. There was no shame in it. Just like everyone had their own alcoholic or weapon or lover preferences, Kraglin had his own favourite ways to spend his nights planet side. Ways that didn't involve obnoxious, cramped buildings full of high dipsomaniacs.
One green recruit was either supremely inconsiderate or just that daft. Kraglin'd been dragged into the shifty underground club by Half-Nut; Reluctant and protesting, like one might be when visiting the dentist. The bastard wouldn't leave it alone, insistent on following the glowing lights down to the seedy establishment below.
No, Half-Nut couldn't go solo, Captain's orders after an unfortunate event last shore leave. And unfortunately the batty rook had taken an awkward shining to Kraglin, leaving him with the lucky job of chaperone. Not that it made much difference, Kraglin would lose the greasy-haired ravager to the pulsing sea mere moments after entering the threshold.
It's so loud, so busy, so hot, and Kraglin hated it. Always had, baring the negative experiences to back it up; hidden scars in his mind that never fully healed. Sure, he was a fan of the alcohol and attractive beings but that's what brothels were for. Didn't get any enjoyment at a place so disorientating you never knew who had a hold of your crotch.
And the dancing, if you could call it that, was just godawful. Too frantic, too many limbs vying for space, too much public exposure. No-thank-you.
Resilient in his ways Kraglin makes for the bar, pushing through bodies of all varieties. The entire place seemed to be one giant dance floor, or war zone, depending on how you look at it, the bar being the metaphorical light at the end of the tunnel (or not since the whole place was so damn dark, save for the swirling neon lights that sliced across the crowd). He swears he feels someone grope his ass at one point but ignores it, couldn't pinpoint the culprit anyhow.
He's rewarded for his march with an empty stool and a ready bartender. They're young, spunky and spiky, offering Kraglin a boatload of fruity specials guaranteed to have you seeing stars without even stepping out into the night. Kraglin declines, going with his tried-old tipper. If he's got to sit here and ordure the constant noise and heat then he at least wants something semi-bearable sliding down his throat.
The first mate watches, every move of the bartender tracked with intensity. Another reason he's wary, these joints are notorious for adding 'extra flavour' to their beverages. Either this punk is reputable or can sense the warning stench he's giving off, they make no funny moves and sits the drink before Kraglin with a pleasant smile that's too toothy to be genuine.
Kraglin downs it, quick and needy. Another is prepared and left waiting, ice melting quick and leaving a wet ring beneath the base of the glass.
He plonks the glass down, empty, and sighs, laying his elbows on the bartop, chin resting atop bruised knuckles.
This is...okay. Not desired, but tolerable. Surrounded by strangers, anonymous in the gloom, Kraglin can keep to himself; try and enjoy the cool drinks and get lost in thoughts of the next bot he plans on bedding. Ideally he should be keeping an eye on Half-Nut, dingbat'll probably end up grinding against the wrong person as usual, however just the thought of stepping out into that chaos has his stomach blanching. It's replaced with a more desirable mental image, one best suited to the magazines stuffed under his bunk.
He gets into it, lids fluttering shut, racket blocked out momentarily. He can see the bot's skin, coloured and synthetic, imagine the quiet, plush private room fitted for pleasure. His head lolls dreamily on his shoulder and a dirty grin forms on his face.
When he opens his eyes again, fantasy interrupted by a need of more enlightenment, they're locked with a patron three stools down.
Lilac eyes stare intensely at his face. He almost mistakes them for glow beads, fun little necklaces that emitted a neon glow when snapped, a staple of these clubs. The being they belong to, female, he presumes, from their silhouette at least, doesn't break the contact. She smirks, confident, flirty, and says something that gets lost to the surrounding madness.
Kraglin looks behind him and back again, finding the patron still gazing at him, curious orbs gleaming like fairy lights. The comment, now convinced it was directed at him, was short and casual-like. Could have been 'get lost' or 'manky prick' just as much as 'hey handsome'.
He plays it safe, shrugging it off as nothing. Can hardly see her face, let alone confirm if she's his type or not. They've probably just mistaken him for someone else, anyhow. Isn't hard to do.
The girl, releasing her friendly comment had gone unheard, or misinterpreted, hops off her stool and plants herself on the vacant one to Kraglin's right. He too busy counting the bubbles in the bottom of his glass to notice.
Up close she can see the object of her interest better and smiles a little wider.
"Nice tattoos!" It's all but screeched, coupled with a jabbed nail at Kraglin's neck.
Kraglin jerks sideways, something sharp caught at the corner of his vision. When he turns he discovers it nothing more than the painted claws of the persistent patron, pointing at the dark marks dotting his skin. It's amazing she can even make them out in the gloom, let alone find them 'nice'. He tips his head, doesn't take the chance to check her out, grunts. "Thanks."
He ain't proud of his tattoos, each one a fierce reminder of a time he messed up, wasn't quick or cunning enough, and got thrown into a cold cell devoid of all but a promise of unpleasantness. He hadn't even been of the legal galactic age when the gun first punctured his neck, leaving a scrappy squiggle in its wake.
He'd considered reversing the effect, then concluded there were more pressing things he should be worried about. Laser removal cost a crap-ton anyhow, funds no ravager would waste on something so trivial.
She jabbers something, quieter, and yanks off one of her fingerless gloves. Exposed on the back of her hand is ink in a similar vein to Kraglin's, crude and dark and squiggly. She waves it practically in his face, unabashed, proud even, despite covering it up just as quickly. Kraglin vaguely gets the self-conscious urge to hike up his collar.
He doesn't, instead gripping his second glass, glugging the sour liquid with the ardor of a dehydrated rat.
This girl, or whatever they are, doesn't leave. She shrieks again, voice pitched and leaning close, something tart suddenly assaulting his senses. Kraglin recognises drug store perfume when he smells it.
"You lonely?!"
Hell no. Despite being A. indeed practically alone, no red-coats (aside from Half-Fuck) in the vicinity, and B. almost always up for a rowdy wham-bam, this was not the time. Not here, surrounded by public, not with someone he can't even connect with. For all he knew they were one of them toxic species or the spawn of some warlord or some shiz.
Once again he shrugs, nonchalant and dismissive.
"Me too!" Her smile reaches shining levels, showing off blunt teeth. They're slightly discoloured, not that you could tell in the shadow. Kraglin thumps down the glass and faces her with his meanest scowl.
"Ah don't wanna fuck ya." At least he's upfront about it. No use in dragging this out longer than it needs to be. "Not interested."
He doesn't care if she takes offence, probably just another poser party-goer.
Though, upon allowing a closer inspection (hard not to take notice seeing as their thighs are basically brushing, when the heck did she get so close?) she doesn't look like the raucous sort neither. Maybe a bit rebellious, but not in a provocative way. Most of the morons around them are done up, skin, scales and fur flashing, soaked with sweat and glistening grossly.
Her ensemble's practical. Slim jeans, unzipped sleeveless jacket, basic makeup, chest covered by a fitted tank top and relatively flat. Certainly not his general preference, but could have been welcomed, had the situation been different.
Her reaction is closely guarded, expressed to a stain on the bar top. Is she taken back? Was that a surprised widening of eyes or a flash of embarrassment? Undecidable, not that he cares.
"Neither do I." It's the first thing she hasn't yelled, spoken softly yet Kraglin still hears it, glancing just in time to see the smile drop from her face. She's brings it back quick, though it's switched to more of a simper."Just wanna...hang."
"...Hang?" He let's the word do so. What kinda person just hangs in a place like this?
"Yeah," She nods, knuckles wrapping on the metal counter. "Nothing wrong with that."
"I don't wanna dance neither." Best to make that clear too. Kraglin isn't too sure what she means by this 'hang', but if it involves moving his backside from his stool to the dance floor she can bloody well F-off.
"We don't have to dance," she states, crisp and smart as if it was glaringly obvious.
"Well we can't exactly hold a conversation," He can hardly hear her, every shouted word more like a whisper. She shakes her head again.
"Doesn't matter!" Kraglin makes that out, though more through exaggerated gesture than anything. "We can just sit. No talking or touching." She backs up a little to prove her point, palms raised in a show of admission.
Kraglin turns it over. It's a odd proposition but, unlimitedly, not the worst compromise. He's willing to go along with it, make peace to bring peace, and if nothing else she can be a decent decoy, warn off any other wasted sods interested in making moves. Kraglin shows his agreement with a stiff nod, forcing his face into something other than a scowl.
She perks, flags down a drink, and rotates herself ninety degrees left so she's directly facing him. She rests one elbow on the bartop, happily watching Kraglin as he tries not to shrink.
Okay...she's watching him. Kraglin isn't self-conscious, doesn't have no reason to be, he's the damn first mate of a flarking ravager ship. He takes her challenge and stares right back, daring and pointed.
Kraglin sizes her up from top to bottom, not in the usual way a ravager might; like a shiny jewel ripe for swiping. More like an object of mystery, something you're not quite sure what to make of.
She's slender, not much visible muscle, maybe tall? Can't decide sitting down. Her hair, violet? Indigo? Black? Again, hard to tell, but it's chopped into a punky do held back with a check-patterned bandanna. The strobe lights glint off jewellery, adorning neck and ears. Silver, unlike Yondu's preferred gold, and not as ornate. Simple studs and the like. There's a bag at her hip, black leather and buckled tight.
He concludes her a rebel of sorts. Maybe a bounty hunter? Maybe a simple renegade? Or just a gutter punk out for trouble. There's no missing appendages, no ugly scars, though he couldn't confirm unless checking beneath all that fabric.
She's no stunner, at least compared to the dancers who grace the stage at Contraxia's finest. Too spindly, too modest, too ragged-looking...kinda like himself. Thought that never stopped him trying for tail before.
One question plays on Kraglin's mind though, as he drains legal poison from his glass.
Why is she so happy?
While Kraglin's putting together facts in his head the girl watches, intrigued. She stirs her drink with the requested twisty straw, also conducting a mental analysis of this odd man.
The flame patch isn't lost on her, burning proudly on his shoulder, stark and intimidating. She knows about ravagers, integral, due to her profession. But she's not afraid, that's squished down, replaced with a jolt of thrill.
He wears wine red leathers, a jumpsuit, swamping his wiry frame. It makes her think of a song, something heard on the international-galactic radio, and she sings a few hushed lines. He looks at her funny then, bushy eyebrows hiking up in question. She shakes her head and grins.
He doesn't smile back. His teeth are visible though, jutting out over his top lip, metallic and sharky. She wishes to hear him speak, without the backing of a hundred other voices all groaning along to the same tune. Ravagers are known for their variety of accents, particularly their hick twang, something she finds fascinating.
And her mind wanders, wonders why he's so distant, not enjoying himself. Another little tit-bit she'd picked up about the ravagers: they were particle to past times of the sexual nature. This ravager could have any girl or guy in the joint. Sure, he's not conventionally handsome, but there's just something undeniably attractive about those scars marring his face.
Realisation dawns, sending a flare of warmth to her chest.
Maybe we have more in common than it seems.
If only they could have met under different circumstances. Maybe...No! She chided herself sharply. They couldn't have met in any other circumstances, at least not in the way she'd fantasise. Best settle for right now instead of lingering in imagination, make the moment last.
She does, content to stare into the murky blue of his eyes.
Time moves slow, measured only by Kraglin's growing drunkenness. He's not wasted yet, far from obliterated levels, but there's a churning feeling in his gut, uncomfortable and queasy. He thinks about taking a visit to the bathroom, needs to piss anyhow, and spins around, tipping off his stool in a dizzy stumble. He squints in what he hopes to be the direction of the mens' and steps.
His intent had been to step, his foot having ulterior motives.
Kraglin pitches forward, legs accosted by a infection of pins and needles, useless in stopping his fall. Just as he's prepared to kiss the floor something yanks his harness, halting the momentum. Kraglin's vision swims as he's righted, dragged swaying back onto his perch.
It takes a minute or so for his brain to get unmuddled. The pressure on his back is removed, settling on his knee instead. His vision remains shaky, in and out of blurriness, finally settling after a good hard blink.
It takes another minute for him to comprehend what's his looking at.
"You okay?" It's mouthed, a silent question screamed from her expression alone. Those eyes are back, alight with, not concern, certainly, but something other than playfulness.
It's not okay.
He tries to say something, what he hopes is confident, but all that comes out is a gurgled "mm' fine."
It's getting too much, the churning in his stomach dialled up to funfair-ride levels, sweat building under his jumpsuit. He reaches for drink number X, not caring that he'd most likely be seeing it again real soon in addition to the other liquids filling his body. An obstacle blocks his path, fingers caught in a cage of worn leather. His jaw parts in silent shock.
...She's holding his hand.
He should be angry, no one keeps a ravager from his alcoholic indulgence. Even if it became less of an indulgence hours ago, now nothing more than a weak coping mechanism.
She knows, pulling them towards her and away from the grubby glass. Kraglin isn't aware of what she's been sipping, didn't bother to ask. Couldn't have been tainted, her eyes are too clear, brain too quick. Unless her species was immune to the effects of alcohol. He doesn't know.
His hands are gently lifted from their trek across the bar and onto her lap. Kraglin allows it, brain moving too slow, breath coming too fast to really protest. Then she's just staring at him again. Her gaze ain't cold or judgemental, mocking a weakness he has no control over; It's oddly reassuring, something to focus on, everything around them just background noise. All that matters is his breath is evening, syncing with the slow stroke of her fingers over his.
Whatever that moment was, it's is ruined spectacularly by Half-Nut. He sways over, a giggly giddy mess, practically falling into Kraglin's lap. Kraglin flounders, ripping his hands away and spewing curses as he fights the sloshed ravager.
The girl watches, thoughtful. There's no biting comment, no laughter or smirks, she doesn't need to assume. The relationship on display here is visible on his face, grimace accentuated with a neer-cute blue hue.
She pushes off her stool, shaking the stiffness from her legs. Doesn't linger, no parting words, just delays long enough to give one last genuine grin and a nod before slipping into the unknown. She's lost instantly, not that Kraglin could tell, too busy trying to shove off Half-nut before he puked all over him.
When Kraglin wakes up on his bathroom floor next cycle, mildly hungover and grumpy as hell, memories of the night come and go. It's sketchy, fogged by the spirits in his bloodstream. He recalls the club lights and a stranger, odd and cheerful but mysterious as the untraveled caves on Morag.
Yondu ribs him in the mess hall. "Ya meet anyone special last night?"
Kraglin shrugs, too nauseous to force down his breakfast. "Yeah, I guess ya could say that."
Yondu whoops in approval, slapping his first mate's shoulder. "Lucky boy. Get their number?"
"Nah," He runs a hand over his neck, stares into the bowl of sludge with bloodshot eyes. "Pretty sure ah'm never gonna see her again."