#And Croshair | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sinfulsalutations · 2 years ago

Text

𝕦𝕟𝕤𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕕 ⋆*･ﾟ𝕔𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕥𝕣𝕠𝕠𝕡𝕖𝕣 𝕔𝕣𝕠𝕤𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕚𝕣

➼ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ ☆ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱʜᴀɪʀ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

➼ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ ☆ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱʜᴀɪʀ'ꜱ ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢ ꜱᴜɪᴛ. ʜᴏᴏᴋᴜᴘꜱ ᴀʀᴇ. ʜᴇ ɪɴɪᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴛʜɪɴᴋꜱ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴀ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜰᴜᴄᴋ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ʙᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴅᴏɴᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʜɪᴍꜱᴇʟꜰ.

➼ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ☆ ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴇᴇʟꜱ, ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ, ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱʜᴀɪʀ ɪꜱ ʙᴀᴅ ᴀᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ꜰᴜᴄᴋꜱ ᴜᴘ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇꜱꜱ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ ꜱᴇx, ʀᴏᴜɢʜ ꜱᴇx, ᴏʀᴀʟ ꜱᴇx (ᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴅᴏᴍ/ꜱᴜʙ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄꜱ, ʜᴜʀᴛ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ, ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ

➼ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ☆ 7.7ᴋ

➼ ᴘᴏᴠ ☆ ᴛʜɪʀᴅ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ

➼ ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ ☆ ᴇᴍᴘɪʀᴇ ᴀɴᴛꜱ - ɢᴏʀɪʟʟᴀᴢ, ɪ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴅʀᴜᴍꜱ, ɪᴄᴜ - ᴘʜᴏᴇʙᴇ ʙʀɪᴅɢᴇʀꜱ, ᴀ&ᴡ - ʟᴀɴᴀ ᴅᴇʟ ʀᴇʏ, ꜱᴡᴇᴀᴛᴇʀ ᴡᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ - ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇɪɢʜʙᴏᴜʀʜᴏᴏᴅ, ꜱᴏʀʀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴏʀʀʏ - ᴛʏʟᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴏʀ, ᴄᴏᴏʟ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ - ʙᴏʏɢᴇɴɪᴜꜱ

⋆ ★ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀɴ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʀᴏʟʟᴇʀᴄᴏᴀꜱᴛᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ. ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱʜᴀɪʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ɪɴ ɴᴜᴍᴇʀᴏᴜꜱ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘꜱ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴍʏ ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ɪᴛ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰɪᴄ ɪꜱ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴅᴋ ɪꜰ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ᴏʀ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ɪᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴀꜱ ɪ ᴅᴏ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴀᴍ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴘʀᴏᴜᴅ ᴏꜰ ɪᴛ. ꜱᴏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱᴀɪᴅ, ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ

➼ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰɪᴄ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ɴꜱꜰᴡ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ 18+ ᴅɴɪ

⋆ ★ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀᴏ3 ⋆*･ﾟ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀᴍ

Crosshair isn’t a man of many words.

He never will be;

it simply isn’t in his nature.

He expresses dislike with a scowl and dark stare, and amusement with a sly chuckle. If one were to ask, the sniper wouldn't be able to remember a time he’s smiled with a genuine feeling of happiness behind it. He is cold, he is closed off, and has always been that way. But to say that it benefits him more often than not would be a stretch.

Because of this, attachments are a rarity; his brothers in squad and blood will be there deep in his heart for evermore, an unmovable part of him that's been there since the beginning. Crosshair couldn't imagine a world without them. No one else has the privilege of making space in his life, in his mind, in his heart the same way they have.

Not until she comes along.

She is just a one-night stand, at least at the beginning. Another pretty face in the crowd that lets Crosshair take her to bed. Or, in this case, against a wall in a dingy alley beside 79's.

Her hands scramble for purchase as he steadily rocks his hard length into her, keening at every touch, every graze of his bare skin he oh-so-generously graces her with. He smirks, tucking a stray hair behind her ear rather gently, but staring down into her eyes as though she was his prey and he was soon to feast.

"Feel good, hellcat?" He asks, darkly grinning at his own teasing. For a moment, he gazes up again as his dick throbs inside of her, and her pussy clenches, his eyes fluttering closed, succumbing to the pleasure. He's still able to make out the noise of a hum, and opens his eyes to catch her approving nod, feels the way her thighs close harder around the cold plastoid of his armor to push him in deeper, bring him closer.

"Yes, yes, yes..." She whispers through parted lips and a tight throat, before encouraging him to keep going, please, ruin me. So he does. He leaves harsh bruises under the fabric of her clothes, chokes her out, growls when she misbehaves until she comes hard and with a guttural moan, making a mess all over his kit.

She’s a stress reliever, and judging by all of the scratches she's left over any bare skin she could reach, he is the same for her. It's soothing, it alleviates the tension building up in his joints, a good one-time pick-me-up.

There is nothing different about this night than any other hookup; she is like all of his nightly escapades. He doesn’t bother listening to what comes out of her mouth when she attempts to make small talk, or orders herself a drink at the bar, or when she tells him her name; it isn’t relevant if she moans the same, feels the same as any other pretty girl he could've chosen. Attachment and intimacy won't make a difference; the frantic, anonymous fucking Crosshair indulges himself in would quench his thirst all the same, he believes.

She is nothing special.

Until he makes a large mistake, in his opinion: fuck her a second time.

They see each other again. Months later at 79’s when the boys celebrate a successful run of missions with drinks. She’s there. The same booth as the first time they met, talking to a shiny young reg with bright eyes and a smug twist of his lips. For the first time, he takes in her smile; the eager grin she wears while talking to the trooper, nodding with ardor, fascinated at whatever osik he had to say.

Something inside of him, deep in his gut, twists at the sight. He places his drink down and stands up rather abruptly.

“Where are you going?” Hunter asks, but Crosshair only waves a dismissive hand and doesn’t bother looking behind him.

“I’ll be back,” He says before striding over to the booth. Standing taller than all the other troopers conversing and careening their bodies around him, he is a walking shadow; creates one when he leans menacingly over her and the reg, who, at closer inspection, is groping her knee with tanned and sinewy fingers. But his eyes don’t linger over the gut-twisting sight for too long; he looks back up into her eyes.

“Are you busy?” He hisses, and her mouth drops ever-so-slightly. When Crosshair sleeps with a pretty girl, he only registers just enough to remember the face if he so inconveniently bumps into them again. But when he looks at her at that moment, he takes in more of her; the shape of her cheeks, the way her eyebrows push together, the twinkle in her eye captured by strobing dance lights that illuminate the bar. The melodic rise and fall of her chest is a reminder that the gaping girl in front of him is a real person, not just a vessel for his sexual frustration. All the new information is stored in his mind for future use (if the time ever even comes, he reassures himself confidently).

“I’m…” She begins, before taking her bottom lip between her teeth and looking back at the reg, who watches Crosshair with distaste.

“I am,” She finishes with her eyes glued to the other clone.

But Crosshair won’t have it. A hand he's pressed on the booth table moves to curl around her chin, and he clicks it back to his face. She complies without hesitation, just as obedient as she was when they fucked. Crosshair smirks.

“Is he someone important?”

Her head barely shakes under his tight grip. She is able, however, to suck in a tight breath of air and exhale shakily as she answers him.

“No,” She trembles.

He huffs, looking back at the shiny with a sharp eye, and signals for him to leave. The reg scoffs and rolls his eyes.

“Asshole defects,” He says bitterly, outwardly disapproving even as he shimmies out and gives Crosshair access to join her instead. The moment makes him smugger than anything. He slides in beside her the second the reg is gone, eyes never leaving hers.

She blinks out of the trance he cast her in, but then does her mouth shut, and she quickly frees herself from his grasp on her chin and scowls.

“I was talking to him, you know,” She whines, ridiculing his actions, but he only hums and shrugs without a care.

“You didn’t seem to protest when I told him to leave,” He retorts.

Her mouth shuts promptly after that; Crosshair smirks.

The two fuck again after that. This time in an out-of-order `fresher at the back of 79’s.

“We could go back to my place,” She offers even as he guides her through the door. Crosshair shakes his head and brings her closer to his solid chest.

“Need you now, hellcat.”

It’s filthy. She drops to her knees at his request and lets him reach the back of her throat with his cock, steadily holding himself there until he felt satisfied and let her take some pleasure for herself. Then he fucks her on the sink, first facing each other so Crosshair can kiss and nip at her chest, before turning her around when she gets close to finishing and making her watch herself come undone in the mirror, Crosshair’s looming figure above rocking into her with deep and heavy strokes.

“Tell me,” He demands, eyes drifting to the way her knuckles go white as they clutch the bathroom sink tiles. “Who’s making you feel this good?”

“Y-” She begins, but the sentence ends with a whimpered moan and her head falls. Crosshair's hand comes to her scalp and grips the roots of her hair, pulling her head up so she can continue looking in the mirror. He shoves himself into her roughly, the pad of his index finger swiping over her clit, and her mouth falls with an unconfined moan.

“C’mon, you pretty little thing,” He continues, cruel and harsh and brutal.

She gulps hard and does her best to keep eye contact with his piercing stare. He notices more and more about her now the longer he looks, the longer he is in her; the little squeaks she makes, the path her tears tread when they fall down her face, the pattern of her breathing when his hand is curled around her neck, holding a thumb to feel her pulse. The little, particular fragments of her, the things that make her something special, begin to take space in his mind the second time he takes her.

“Y-You are,” She finally finishes her sentence and comes with a sweet, sugary sigh. Her eyes flutter close and she weakens under him, and Crosshair almost empathizes with the messy excuse of a woman under him. His grip on her hair loosens as he rocks into her once, twice, before finishing as well deep inside of her fluttering cunt.

He cleans her up with toilet paper wordlessly when he finally slips out. He’s surprisingly tender, careful when his hand slowly swipes over her used cunt, slow and tantalizing, perhaps teasing if he didn’t know any better. Her hands come to his shoulders to hold herself steady as she shakes with aftershocks, humming pleasantly when he swipes over her overstimulated clit.

“How long has it been?” She asks suddenly, her voice cutting through the tight, silent air that surrounds them. Crosshair looks up from his intense focus below and tilts his head, eyes squinting. She blinks obliviously. “Since the first time, y'know.” She tries to explain.

Crosshair’s face doesn’t change, and he looks back down as he finishes cleaning her up.

“A while,” He says lowly.

“Hundred rotations at least?” She queries. He nods. “Where have you been?” When she asks, Crosshair can tell that it isn’t malicious. She’s light and calm with her tone, despite the question feeling more critical than anything. She is genuinely curious.

It takes him a moment to come up with a response.

“My squad is on the road a lot,” Crosshair explains, and she hums. He turns away to expertly toss the towel into a wastebasket a few feet away and looks back at her. She still sits bare on the kitchen sink, level with his face thanks to the elevation.

“You’re not part of a normal battalion, are you?”

Crosshair shakes his head. The next words come out more of a hiss, like a snake trying to hold back its bite.

“Clone Force 99.”

She nods.

“I’ve heard about your squad.”

“From the regs?” He says adversely, and she nods again.

“You’re quite famous," She remarks.

Crosshair scoffs and turns away. He doesn't know how to approach this situation; it is all new territory. Now recalling all his previous hookups, he's suddenly unsure if he’d ever talked to one this long, this much after the deed. They'd usually tuck themselves in, say something along the lines of 'that was fun' or 'we should do this again' and go their separate ways, never seeing each other again. But not only has he slept with her a second time, but he'd disclosed more personal information than he has with all other partners combined.

“Not for good things,” He comments while he looks back; her eyes drift away, and she shrugs, taking in a deep breath.

“You’re respected.”

“Because we’re menacing,” He scoffs breathily. Her lips screw tight with ambivalence.

“I don’t find you very menacing,” She tells him, hands slowly beginning to fall from his shoulders. He backs up and lets her push herself off the sink and grab her discarded panties and skirt from the grimy fresher floor. She swiftly dresses again, and Crosshair tucks himself into his pants, eyes not leaving the other’s gaze once. The whole short moment of time is strangely coordinated and intense, oddly intimate despite their hands not feeling each other up. Crosshair's chest tightens under the pressure of her longing gaze, but he tries to ignore it; fighting back with his level head. His better thinking wins this time, but if the feeling gets stronger... he might have a problem on his hands.

Once they're both back in their clothes, she leans back on the sink, staring up at Crosshair with doe eyes. He looks back to the mirror quickly to take a glance at his own appearance. Not one piece of his armor besides his codpiece came off while they fucked. But there is still something unruly about his appearance; his hair, usually gelled to his scalp, is wildly tossed around, and a purple bruise-like mark has formed in the crook of his neck. They are both messes, but at least he is composed. She, covered in little love bites and marks with untamed hair and stretched clothes, isn’t in the slightest. She doesn’t care and doesn’t keep a close watch on her own undoing and vulnerability as Crosshair does.

“How long will you be off-duty?” She asks. He’s almost taken aback by the question, blinking rapidly at her with a strange twist of his lips. He can understand why she asks; logically and on the surface, at least. Crosshair knows he’s a good fuck. But he’s never been with a girl more than once to see the effects of their nights together.

“We’re going back to Kamino tomorrow,” He tells her, almost melancholic. Even he, so out of touch with his own feelings, can sense his shift in voice; it's bemusing. Her expression drops.

“Oh,” She mumbles, overtly louder than what she initially intended. He remains as neutral in his face as possible.

But suddenly, his hand, twitching with hesitance, reaches over to her arm, gripping her wrist tightly as his other hand fumbles for a pen. He finds one in a side pocket and quickly scribbles in capitalized, messy handwriting over her soft skin. She doesn’t protest; only watches wordlessly with her lips parted in a delicate manner.

He clicks the pen and puts it back in its spot and looks at her with a lift of his chin.

“My frequency.”

She blinks, still feigning doe eyes and innocence. It’s almost, almost (he has to repeat mentally to assure its truth) adorable. The moment is stored in his mind.

“Message me tonight. I’ll let you know when I’m back on Coruscant.”

She breaks out of her trance, quickly fumbling and looking down at the link, looking back up with a shaky exhale and a nod. Crosshair smirks, but if she isn't anything like him, she’d know it was far closer to a genuine smile.

He walks her out after that, a hand protectively hovering over the small of her back; they walk beside each other, but their eyes look anywhere else that isn’t back at them. And they only make it past a few booths before he begins to itch in his own skin.

There are just too many eyes, too many snides and comments and words being exchanged between gossipy and judgemental regs. He shifts the weight of his armor, but it just seems to make it feel heavier. But she is unfazed, doesn’t notice how uncomfortable he is with familiarity, with being recognized as being with someone.

“I have to go,” He says abruptly; she whips around. Her head tilts and but his face remains expressionless and inaccessible. All at once, he takes more of her in; the marks he left that are barely hidden by the neckline of her top, her red and swollen lips, and her chest rising and falling almost in sync with the pounding music that claps over his eardrums. The longer he looks at her, the longer he stays, she makes space in his memory. Perhaps that’s why he gave her his frequency. He’s got to make use of the knowledge, or else it would be just useless space taken up by a girl who didn’t mean anything, nothing to him.

“OK,” She answers, surprisingly compliant with his abrupt change in thought. But he can sense it; there’s something artificial about her expression.

But Crosshair doesn’t let himself dwell on it for too long. He spins on his heel and walks away and back to his brothers without another parting word.

* * *

“Tech, are you finished?” Hunter asks vexed, arms crossed as he leans across the Marauder and glares holes in the back of his brother's helmet. He turns to Hunter and nods.

“I’ll be done momentarily,” Tech assures him, and Crosshair grumbles, standing up from where he sits beside Wrecker on the ramp, twisting a toothpick between his teeth as he trudges into the ship with heavy steps. Once he is out of earshot from the rest of his squad, he leans against a wall and rubs his forehead with a groan. Perhaps he had a little too much whiskey the night before; though he can't even recall drinking more than a few sips before he saw her and stopped in his tracks completely. But this hangover is less physical. Is an emotional hangover even possible? Maybe he can ask Tech to research it.

That’s when he gets the message.

His helmet chimes from his bunk. If Crosshair were a different man and not a completely calm, completely collected sniper, he might’ve jumped or been startled. Instead, he glances at his helmet and `pad beside it laying on his unmade bed. They both blink rapidly with a clicking sound of an incoming message.

He walks over (faster than he would admit) and reads the new conversation at the top of his bar, sent by an unknown frequency.

729-NWS-47-K-6: Hi. It’s me.

His heart might’ve stopped. He isn’t sure. Maybe it didn’t, and might have if he was someone else entirely. Someone who didn’t refuse to feel much for anyone. But he can’t deny the new sensation, something bordering on a giddy excitement, that rushes through his lungs and leaps out of his throat.

She doesn’t give him the grace of her name that he so quickly forgot, so with a grumble, he saves it as the only thing he can think of. Then he types,

Crosshair: I told you to send me something last night.

It shows she’s seen his message, but she doesn't start typing for a short, but tedious moment.

Hellcat: I forgot to.

Another text immediately follows in succession.

Hellcat: I’m sorry.

Crosshair is only slightly dumbfounded; he almost sends one saying that she didn’t need to, and got to a few words before he deleted all of it and left the message box blank as he thinks of what to say. Why would she feel the need to apologize? Not unless he’d acted as though before, that she needed to apologize for every single action he didn't like. His stomach twists again, the same way it did when he saw her flirting with the reg, and Crosshair poignantly decides then that he does not like the feeling.

Crosshair: It’s fine.

Hellcat: Are you off of Coruscant already?

Crosshair: Soon.

Hellcat: Oh.

Hellcat: Let me know when you make it to Kamino. Stay safe.

He freezes in his tracks. The words, like the rest of her, crawl inconspicuously into his skull and places themself there. His mind wants to yell;

She cares! She actually cares!

He can almost feel it happen. For the first time, Crosshair can physically pinpoint how he tries, launches into something new; everything with her, from her smile to her body, the things she says and the way she says them, it’s slowly burrowing itself into his head; perhaps even his-

Quickly, he catches his breath silently and shakes the idea out of his head.

He quickly messages her back,

Crosshair: Ok.

closes his `pad, and shushes his thoughts before his brothers are able to walk in and ask him what he was doing.

After that day, it is ten weeks; fifty days before he is back on Coruscant.

Crosshair doesn’t allow himself time or space to think of her; despite his mind being stubborn on keeping the pieces of her he can vividly remember deep in the crook of his thoughts at all times. He doesn’t message her once, not to ask how she is or what she's doing. Though his data-pad glares at him vehemently from his bed as he cleans his rifle in the main quarters, disapproving and shaking its head for not being nicer to her. But his `pad should know damn well by now; Crosshair doesn’t do nice. Or feelings at all.

She's no exception.

At least that’s what he tells himself when he messages her almost the instant that their ship lands on Coruscant again.

She responds only a few minutes after; asks him to meet her at a cafe, somewhere in the heart of the city nearby where she works, she explains. He says 'OK' to her and ends it at that but panics at the prospect of having to deal with his brother's interrogation. It goes as well as he expects.

"What's the rush?" Hunter teases him when they finally get their ship on the ground and away from the main hangar. He snaps his head to his brother and glares. Hunter only smiles warmly. "We just got here."

Wrecker trudges up from behind and slaps his shoulder roughly, and Crosshair scowls and swats him away.

"Yeah, got some important business to attend to?" He asks.

Crosshair grumbles.

"I'd like to have some peace and quiet for once away from you all," He speaks spitefully, a mean eye squinting at the two. "I don't get enough of that around here."

Wrecker laughs.

"You sure don't!" He exclaims deep from his belly before walking away satisfied. Hunter takes a little longer to be convinced. He still stares at Crosshair with a suspicious side-eye.

"... just comm us if you get yourself into any trouble," He says, taking a few steps to softly pat Crosshair's shoulder. He accepts it, though grimaces internally at the contact.

"Yeah, got it," He responds, letting out a long breath of relief once Hunter leaves. The second the two join back with Tech and drift all their focus away from him and his business, Crosshair whips around and starts heading to the address she told him to go to.

He isn't eager. He isn't. His mind and his body doesn't absolutely itch to see her again. To feel the little dips and curves and crevices of her body again. Restore the fragments and pieces of her that he lost in the time away. No. That's not what this is at all.

It's just another hookup. With the same girl as before. In her apartment. Where she and her identity lives.

He practically strides through the door, pushing it open with one arm, and scans the place without any regard for others. The only thing that matters right now is her-

Not her. Not her. This is, has to be about him. His ache and his crutch and his pleasure. Right. If he keeps going around being concerned over her, he'll lose himself. He just knows it.

She stands up from where she sits tucked into a corner and waves him over. His head snaps to her and she smiles when they make eye contact; he stops himself from giving her the common decency of grinning back.

He walks over, chin dipped down and eyes closed in on her. Everything around him fades into the background and she takes center stage. She stands across from him, hands meeting at her front and she bites her lip.

"Hi," She says, rather simply, but it is enough. Crosshair's lips flatten into a line, his own way of greeting her, and she blinks and averts her gaze away again, almost shameful in the flutter of her lashes. His gut twists.

Fuck, he doesn't like this.

Caring for how she reacts and thinks of what he does.

"...Hey," He finally says, and she looks up. He can see her tongue sitting uncomfortably in her mouth, catching how her fingers quickly interlock and dispatch from each other in timorous movements. He thinks it's pity, the softness he then shows with the weakening of his posture and how he walks closer to her, but it is something else entirely that he hasn't caught onto yet.

“Why did you ask me here?” Crosshair asks coarsely. The glaring stares from other patrons tingle and itch where they train their eyes on him; the customers, all citizens of Coruscant really, should be used to seeing clones off-duty roaming the streets, but Crosshair is sure they’d never seen a trooper that looks quite like him in a cute, quaint cafe that radiates everything she is and he isn’t.

“I just got off work,” She says, glancing away for a moment nervously before looking back. “I was planning to grab my dinner here when you messaged me.”

Crosshair nods stiffly before sitting down across from her. His legs leisurely spread and he hangs an arm on the back of the chair, looking perfectly relaxed though everything inside him was strung tight as a weaved cloth. The back of his head, the one that controls his primal instincts, mutual respect and kindness, begs him to ask her what she does for work, but he stops himself, lest he wished for her to take up more space in his mind.

She finishes her food just before the sun sets and then she takes him to her apartment not far away. Guiding him by his wrist, Crosshair can feel the slight tremble in her actions, even as he just watches her swiftly careen through throngs of city-dwellers and slot her keys into the door. He’s [positively] still, carefully composed to ensure he did not look anything but.

And once they make it to the threshold, he backs her up into the wall and takes her just like that. She tells him the bedroom is just down the hall, but he positively tells her again that he needs her now. The cool chalk of the wall paint felt less personal than fucking her in her own bed.

Steady and determined, she pushes herself up onto her tiptoes and kisses him hard and good, gripping the collar of his shirt hard as his hands hover over her waist. She swipes her tongue over his bottom lip, begging for more control, but Crosshair pulls away. When she whines, he only clicks his tongue melodically, like a disappointed teacher, and grasps her wrists, pinning them together above her head. She yelps, but he swallows the sound with his tongue, forcing itself into her mouth roughly and without much coordination.

It’s only after he breaks away to catch his breath that he berates her in a throaty voice,

“Who told you that you can do that?”

She whimpers and her chin quivers. He coos, his other hand coming up to cup her jaw and lifting it to get a better look at her face.

“I’m in charge here, hellcat.”

He presses his hips into her, and his warm bulge presses against her lower stomach, and they simultaneously groan at the feeling. Slowly, he rocks himself against her, tantalizing and oh-so-sweet; he bites his lip and looks away to try and come across as if this is only torture for her.

“Don’t you forget it," he grits out.

The sex is catastrophically good.

It’s what Crosshair tries to convince himself is the reason he keeps coming back to her and her only.

He doesn’t think she’s seeing (or interested in for that matter) someone else, at least he hopes, but he tries to come off as though she doesn’t have such a hold on him. Stiffly wrapping an arm around her torso when he falls asleep beside her. Not giving a goodbye kiss when he leaves the morning preceding. Messaging her with the most boring, dry conversation starters.

But the façade starts to melt away more than he wishes.

She’s able to make him smile, actually smile, at her messages.

Hellcat: I think you might be a rare subspecies of loth-cat.

Crosshair: ?

Hellcat: One came in today with tooka pox. Little guy was a menace. Territorial, moody, and would lash out if he felt threatened. More importantly, their breeds’ natural fur color is gray.

Crosshair: …Are you saying I am a loth-cat?

Hellcat: Just that this one is your reincarnation. You can’t prove me wrong.

Crosshair: Touché.

He’s learned more about her than he’d ever bargained for. She’s a veterinarian at a nearby hospital and likes to bring some of her patients home and give them more comfortable conditions than the poor quarters in the clinic. He’s visited her apartment numerous times, welcomed by a feline rubbing itself against his leg with a purr or a bird squawking incessantly if he gets too close.

He lets her hold him, even when he won't speak.

The first time it happens it's when he returns from a long string of long and exhausting missions. He barges in without any warning to her. When she jumps from the kitchen, he quickly sprints over to her and grips her waist, making sure she sees him, sees his eyes, and they both are calm.

"`t's just me," He says lowly, hands softly moving up and down her waist.

She sighs, chest heaving down before her nose scrunches and she slaps his shoulder roughly, sending him backward. He gawks.

"What was that for?!"

"Don't fucking do that!" She whisper-yells, waving a hand in his general area. "At least message me first before you come running in. Or comm. I thought you were a murderer!"

He glares, but she doesn't stand down. When she crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows, he finally lets up with a scoff, softer and more apologetic than he intended.

"You're right," He says, bringing a hand to try and knead at the knot in his forehead. "I got worked up."

Hesitantly, her arms drop and she takes a step toward Crosshair, arms coming to his shoulders. When he looks back at her gaze, he immediately gets stuck in the intense atmosphere she creates with just her stare.

"What are you worked up about?" She asks, gently and carefully, as though she was an animal tamer trying to trap a wild lion in her cage. Crosshair bites his lip, letting it go quickly with aimless worry before he answers her with his lips.

She squeals ever-so-slightly, but he swallows the sound; his body takes hers and quickly presses her against the counter of her kitchen. His hands drift lower until they softly take the backs of her thighs and lift her to sit atop and have better access to his face. The moment allows her to break away from him quickly, eyes widening as he tries to dip in for another, but she pushes him back with her hands.

"You didn't answer my question."

Crosshair grumbles, dipping his head down. Surprisingly, she takes matters into her own hands and grips his chin between two shaky fingers, lifting it back up to look at her.

"I'm gonna kick you out of my apartment and not let you back in if you don't talk to me. I'm not kidding."

He huffs and keeps his head in place, but his eyes drift away.

"Past few rotations..." He begins aimlessly, with no real direction to where the sentence is heading. He clicks his tongue and looks back up at her, who's patiently listening with such attentive eyes he almost feels undeserving of her time and energy. "...they've been rough."

She nods.

"That's okay," She assures him, hands softly acting as a pillow for his face. He gratefully takes the spot to rest but acts as though the touch doesn't have such an effect. "That's all you have to say. `It's enough for me."

Crosshair bites the inside of his cheek, muttering a quick 'good' before he seizes her parted lips and takes her to the bedroom, fucking her rough and hard in her own bed.

She knows far too much about him. Even if that sentence is all he's ever disclosed of mental turmoils, his body language, the grace of memorizing his curves and special unique parts of him is more than he's ever shown to anyone. Crosshair is unsure if she even realizes it.

He notices small things about her, little mannerisms that piece together her identity. The way she always stops when she sees a street performer and tips them any extra credits she has in her pocket. How she always manages to find some humor in his dry comments. The books that line her walls and little crevices of her apartment.

Slowly, the longer he stays, the more she becomes something special. The more she makes space in his mind– and his heart.

And it is terrifying.

She can feel it. Crosshair just knows it. Her touch lingers ever so slightly longer than before when he leaves her in the mornings; she holds back the urge to reach out and leave him with a kiss permanently etched into his skin. She can feel something different. For the first time, they are both on the same page; they're holding each other back, and it is all his fault.

It isn't her responsibility to make him open up. But perhaps she feels that obligation; why else would she give him such control and power over her body? At this point, after becoming such consistent parts of each other's lives, it couldn't just be a sexual dynamic. No matter what he does to her.

"Please, please, why-" She whispers one night as he goes down on her. The last word catches his ear, and he briefly looks up at her face. She scrunches her nose, tears forming in the corners of her shut eyes and catching in her eyelashes, letting out heavy pants between such small mumbles it's practically impossible to fully hear.

"Why, why..."

The pity in his eyes is a weakness, he thinks. He leaves one last lingering, messy kiss over her soaked cunt then flips her around to her stomach, and fucks her from behind as impersonal and brutally as he can. It's for the both of them, he fails to realize; they're both caught up in their own minds to even see what might truly be happening to them.

He is catching feelings, and he knows if he were to leave now, it wouldn't be unscathed.

“When you first gave me your frequency…” She begins one night after he comes home to her, still tangled in sheets and panting with exertion. He perks up from where half his head is buried in a pillow, an eyebrow raised. She looks at him with thoughtful eyes, barely illuminated by the pale moonlight. “You never messaged me once.”

Crosshair looks at her, almost perplexed, but he isn’t confused at all. He rather doesn’t know what to say.

“Neither did you,” He manages to rebuke. She blinks at him, mouth slightly agape, and she shrugs with no real point. When she slumps her head back onto the pillow beside him, still looking into his eyes with a look of misplaced longing, the gut feeling twists, pokes and prods at his insides harder than it did before. She reaches out and hangs an arm lazily over his shoulder, and everything inside of him wants to flee, retreat with a white flag all the way back into his comfort zone. But he stays. The soft look on her face is a treasure even the deepest and most fortified parts of him wish to keep.

“Crosshair?” She speaks softly.

“Yes?” He answers.

“Have you been…” She pauses, carefully treading over her next words. “Seeing anyone else?” She says the word seeing so unsure, so frail and worried he holds back the shakiness of his limbs begging him to just hold her.

“Are you seeing anyone else?” He snaps back, automatically and without much thought. But when he sees the shift in his eyes, his gut ties a knot in his stomach.

She frowns.

“Please don’t answer my questions with questions,” She tells him.

He bites his lip, gazing away for a long moment. The world pauses; his body is on fire lying down and listening and clawing at the grasp of any survival. Any salvation that this isn’t an attachment.

“I’m not…” He mutters so quietly and tenderly to intentionally assure that she doesn’t hear. But she does and she perks up, eyes wide despite the tire he can sense in his body. Without any thought of what it might be interpreted as, what she might think of it, he crawls into her closer, mouth hovering over hers. She's able to feel the quivering of his lips as he speaks. “I’m not as long as you aren’t.”

With the moonlight peaking through gray curtains, he can see the sweet grin she wears at his admittance.

“I’m not either,” She tells him. He exhales through his mouth, head dipping down to look away and his body shakes. Fucking shakes, at her words. Her hand grips his shoulder, grounding him in his place, but his mind still spins in his skull. It's overwhelming, just those three words. Suddenly, everything about her is so present; her touch and her breathing, her body against his. He feels, feels so fucking much for the first time, and doesn't know what to do with it. Instead, it spills out raw and without any of his macho overcoating, and he decides to let his body speak for him as he reaches out to kiss her; for the first time, it’s soft.

She squirms ever-so-slightly, as if a ghost hadn’t walked through her and instead enveloped them in their arms, but slowly melts into it as he continues so persistent. He adjusts their positioning, pulling her by the waistband of her panties and holding her thigh with a calloused hand. He hikes it up, asking her, begging her with his touches to do anything, fucking anything to let him know that she is here and she is present and everything is okay.

So she does. She tentatively crawls on top of Crosshair, her legs wrapping around his slim waist and he groans once they part, hands slowly slipping under her panties and holding her with such need, so much yearning it physically pains him.

His chest seizes and he gasps against her when she rocks her core against his crotch abruptly, feeling himself grow under her. She looks down at him, hands on either side of his face, eyes blown wide, surprised at her own sudden movement.

"Is-" She begins, ending the sentence with a short, honey-coated whimper when he takes two large handfuls of her ass and pushes her down on him. He smiles crookedly, but she quickly catches her bearings. "Is this okay?"

The question seems silly, but it's important that she asks; he can't recall a time that he'd let her have even an ounce of control during sex. Resolve weakening under her kind, lustful stare, he gulps and nods, Adam's apple bobbing.

"Yeah, yeah," He grits out, groaning breathily when she rocks her hips again. "Just... keep going. Please?"

She looks at him timorously, but he gives her an encouraging thrust with his own hands still on her ass. She sighs, leaning down and pecking his lips softly.

"Okay," she mumbles, almost to herself more than him, and kisses him again.

A hand softly drifts down to his bicep, squeezing it while the other sinks into his scalp, fingers slipping into his hair, her legs tightening around his thighs with every slow wave up and down his hardening cock. She moves languidly, comfortably until she finds a suitable rhythm, one that has him keening into her mouth once she finally reaches down into his boxers and wraps her hand around his cock.

"Fuck," He swears, gritting his teeth. She looks up from where she gazes down and her eyes widen.

"Am I doing fine?" She asks tentatively, slowly twisting her hand over his length. He sighs.

"You're doing fine," He assures before his head falls against his pillow and his eyes shutter close. It feels so good, so much better than any other time she'd been teased with this much power. He'd like to say he doesn't know why, but they both know the real reason. "Kriff, you're doing perfect."

He can feel the smile that plays on her lips against his skin. She reaches up and connects their lips once again. It is the only thing about the moment, the movement of their bodies that exudes such innocence in it, pure admiration. It's so much. He quickly breaks away when he feels himself getting lightheaded.

Crosshair exhales raggedly against her lips, and she opens her eyes, tilting her head with a questioning gaze.

"I..." He begins, eyes burning with the intense gaze they hold. "I promised... fuck." He genuinely cusses himself out at his struggle to just get even the simplest words out. But could she blame him? When has he never been this upfront about his emotions in his life? "I promised myself I wouldn't- allow myself this."

Her lips part and her eyebrows furrowed. They close again and she asks before he can continue.

"Allow yourself... to be taken care of?"

"Yes," He answers quickly. "But, no, that's not what I meant."

She blinks twice consecutively but doesn't say a thing. So he continues.

"I promised myself I wouldn't allow... an attachment." The menacing, cobra-like persona inside of him emerges with the final words; he hisses them as if they were a curse he was casting on an unsuspecting victim. Or a taboo word he uses with such indictment no one could gasp in surprise at the use. "Promised myself I wouldn't fall in love." He rewords.

The face she flashes is one he's seen before, in the eyes of many other girls, and for a brief moment he wonders what makes it so much better in her eyes than the others. What if he'd never seen her again after that first night? What if he'd never allowed himself a second, third, or fourth night with her? He wouldn't have this at all. He's giving her so much that he didn't even realize he needed it until it finally came out, whether like this or with his body.

How could he have ever thought falling in love with her was a mistake?

"Are you still promising yourself that?" She finally asks softly against his lips, starting to pick up rhythm again. Her hand loosens over his cock and her lips part over his, resting just where he could easily sink back into his kiss. But she waits for him to respond before she keeps going.

He trembles out a shaky breath into her mouth when he talks.

"As-As long as you don't break," He stammers, so strangely insecure in his own voice and how it sounds. But she doesn't seem to care. He takes in a deep breath, steadying the erratic rise and fall of his chest before he continues.

"As long as you don't break my heart," He says. She nods thoughtfully, hand slowly drifting up from his cock and resting on the space right above it as she listens.

"I promise," She says before taking both of her hands, cupping his face between them, and kissing him hard with fervor. He lights up under her, one hand holding the one she has on his face and the other keeping her on top of him as he adjusts to sit up, back against the headboard, giving them both more access. Once they're in the position, she adjusts again, leg lifting up so she can slowly peel her panties off. His hand drifts down to her core and she sighs.

"I promise," She repeats. He grins, but it's more genuine than smug. Her lungs skip a breath and she hiccups with a squeak at the sight.

"I heard you the first time, hellcat," He says, parting her folds softly and softly moving his fingers back and forth as he talks. Her eyes flutter and she softens against him. "I believe you."

She smiles and surges forward, tangling herself into him. One hand drifts down his chest, softly trailing over the waves of his muscles and scars, like a soft blanket of heaven, and the other holds the back of his head, gripping his hair as a rock while she grabs his length. And he lets her. Lets her have control. Is perfectly fine sitting back, letting her decide his movements for once. It's another form of liberating.

Lining him up with her entrance, she looks up at him while sinking down, steady and kind and sweet. He'd never seen eyes so perfect in his life. And when she's fully seated, he lets out a guttural cry and groans,

"Thank you."

She smirks, slowly squirming in his lap to get comfortable, trying to find the ropes to being on top of him like this.

"Why are you thanking me?" She asks, half cheekily and half genuine.

The little minx, he wants to think, but a part of him has to admire her for being the one getting him worked up instead of the other way around.

"For this," He gestures to her body, but they both know he means more. He means that he's thanking her for the space in her bed, the place in her cunt for him to let out his frustration, the space to speak about things he keeps to himself if he wishes to, the genuine smiles she elicits at her silly jokes and the little quirks he's so devotedly memorized.

He means thank you for everything.

Thank you for your love.

She nods but doesn't answer, only kisses him again before she starts moving, finding a pace above him with a hand placed over his stomach, pushing him down further, encouraging him to relax, let her do this. He does, happily pinching her hips softly and rocking his hands with her movements while they both sweetly, languidly take in each other.

And when they both finish, almost exactly at the same time, she finally answers.

"It's my pleasure."

He looks up at her with a long, intense stare, not one hidden behind masks and forts of hardness, but one unfiltered and filled with so much emotion, it's almost overwhelming for both of them.

But it's safe for him to drown if he wishes.

For once, Crosshair is okay diving headfirst into something new.

359 notes · View notes