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lorelune · 4 months ago

Text

of carnage

|| blade x reader || E/18+ || shared toxicity, band au || wc: 8.8k || ao3 ||

You and Blade are mutually assured destruction. You know this, and yet it does not stop you from chasing after him.

minors, antis and ageless blogs dni

notes: well hello :3c this fic is part of a trade i did for some LOVELY selfship art with MOST BELOVED @rabbbitseason!! they asked for toxic bladie and reader and i come to DELIVER 🙏 setting and au are heavily inspired by my time in my local music scene and all of the 💀that came with it. i'm glad it can be all get repurposed into blade smut 🫶 THANK YOU!! to bitti for giving me so many fun wants to craft around!! THANK YOU!!! as well to @ofmermaidstories and @2kmps for beta reading!! now, please mind the tags on this one and enjoy <3

CW: dark content, band au, dubcon, pain during sex, bleeding during sex, toxic relationship between blade and reader, angst, hurt/a little comfort, manipulation, gaslighting by blade and the reader @ themselves, face slapping, spanking, spitting, reader smokes cigarettes, reader drinks, self destructive reader, past blade/dan heng, implied unrequited jing yuan/dan heng, kernels of jing yuan/reader

“Are you going to the gig tonight? Fu Xuan asks as if the answer isn’t obvious already.

You crane your neck back to look at her from your roost in front of your full-length mirror. Your knees dig into the carpet and the tips of your fingers are tinged with black. You’ve spent the better part of the last thirty minutes attempting to perfectly smudge the smoky line of eyeliner on your lower lash line. A tube of dark, red lipstick (his color) and sticky gloss rests on the fluffy carpet beside your folded knees.

“Of course.” You can’t make yourself smile, not when your stomach is in knots. “Are you?”

“I should if you are going,” she huffs, leaning against your doorframe. “You need a chaperone.”

(She’s probably right.)

“Please tell me you’re joking.” You grimace and turn away, unable to meet her gaze. She’s too good at reading you. “I’ll be just fine on my own, thank you very much.”

“... He’s playing, isn’t he?”

“I mean, yeah.” You rub more aggressively at the widening smears around your eyes. “But that’s not the only reason.”

“Sure.”

“It’s not, really.” You meet her gaze with a glance in the mirror. It’s hard to keep, her stare intense and full of judgment— (And worry.) “There’s a bunch of good bands tonight. There’s a touring group— all the way from Pier Point.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You have no faith in me, do you?” You pout, keeping your voice light, and hoping it comes off as a bit of a jest.

When you finally turn to face Fu Xuan fully, she dips to sit beside you, on her own folded knees. She plucks your soon-to-be-worn lipstick off the ground and uncaps it, just long enough to see the color, before sighing and closing it once more with a pop.

“Not really, no.” Fu Xuan leans against your side, cheeks puffing out. “Not when it comes to him—”

“You can say his name, you know.” You smear chalky highlighter on your cheeks with your fingertips. “It’s not a slur. He’s just some guy.”

“‘Some guy’,” She groans. “If he’s really just some guy, why don’t we skip the gig tonight and stay home? We can order in some nice food, and I could invite Qingque.”

“... I—”

“You know that going is a bad idea, right?” Fu Xuan sighs. “We’ve gone over this before.”

“I’m aware of that.” You can’t suppress your scowl any longer, turning to face her. “Blade is fine—”

“He treats you like shit.”

“He treats everyone like that.”

“That doesn’t make it better. If anything, that makes it worse. You deserve better.” Fu Xuan sounds genuinely upset. “And you can do better. Easily. With literally anyone else, even if you find them at one of your nasty house shows. Try entertaining the thought?”

“You don’t have to be so—” You turn to her, fist balling up on your knees— “So mean about it.”

“It’s messy.”

“And it’s not your business.”

“It’s not!” Fu Xuan says, exasperated as she rolls her eyes. “I really shouldn’t even be bothering, but you are my friend. And it is painful to watch you chase the tail of a man who will hardly give you the time of day or bare minimum respect. Excuse me for showing concern.”

“Your concern is noted.” As it has been before. “But I’m fine. I wasn’t lying earlier— there’s other groups I want to see tonight. You... don’t have to come along just to babysit. I’ll be alright. I know you hate them.”

“I do.”

Fu Xuan crosses her arms and exhales, something angry and burning. “At least let me drive you. I can pick you up later too. Rather I do than some stranger or him—”

“Blade. His name, Fu Xuan.”

“Blade.”

“God, you do say it like a slur.” You roll your eyes, the pit in your stomach having become larger and darker. You swipe below your eyes and thank an Aeon or two that your eyeliner is waterproof.

...

The house venue is a bit out of town, in the rural suburbs on a lot that’s big enough to host a crowd and not bother the nearest neighbors. Fields streak by during your journey, humming with junebugs and chirping with late- summer crickets. Low hills roll by as a harvest moon rises, waxing and half-full.

Fu Xuan drops you at the curb and idles as you collect yourself. A crossbody bag carries your essentials (your phone, your sticky lip products, a lighter to go with the pack of cigarettes that you actually don’t smoke, and two condoms shoved against the bottom). You fiddle with the strap against your shoulder.

“Call me when you need me to pick you up, okay?” Fu Xuan taps the steering wheel. “I’ll be awake.”

“Okay, mom.”

“I mean it—”

“I know.”

“Don’t go home with Blade. Or let him drive you home. He handles a car like he’s trying to kill himself.”

It’s a fair assessment but you still shake your head, trying to seem good-natured despite the rot you feel curling in the back of your throat. Bile, rising, before you have a drop of liquor in you. It’s a little pathetic; you’ll really think so in retrospect. For now, you walk toward the venue itching for a drink in your hand or familiar company. Thundering bass and ripping guitar vibrate from the basement windows, shaking the ground beneath your feet.

A crowd clusters at the back of the house. Folks swap cigarettes and clutch cans of cheap beer and flasks decorated with stickers. You quickly survey, looking for, searching for him—

(He’s usually out here before his set, hiding away somewhere with Kafka sharing cigarettes and glaring at anyone dumb enough to make a pass at her.)

A hand grabs you by the shoulder, and you nearly jump out of your skin. “Oh my gosh, you’re here! I didn’t know you’d be coming to the gig!”

It’s March, you know. She is easy to identify with the sweet, candy-like perfume she wears and the slight press of her almond-shaped gel manicure into your shoulder. March turns you abruptly, throwing her arms around your shoulders and squeezing. Too tightly, knocking the air out of you in an instant. You give her a tentative hug back and pull away quickly. The contact scalds you.

“Have you seen—?”

“Blade?” March pouts and tilts her head. “You know, I feel like you only come to these things to see that guy. He’s nothing special. And I have seen him. He was off sulking a while ago, by the sheds in the back of the lot.”

“... I’ll have to check. Thanks, March.”

She sighs as you walk away from her, before calling out to Stelle (who is always a step or two behind her anyways.)

You feel— bad about how you treat them. They’re both good people. So is the third in their trio, Dan Heng, a man with a beautiful face and an eerily calm demeanor, especially when compared to his companions. The group of them was introduced to you back when you first started attending these shows, hanging around the scene, and sweating in the basement of mildew-filled houses. They were some of your first friends, and easy to mesh with when you gave yourself the time and space to. Stelle always had a flask with lukewarm vodka or tequila, and March kept a case of seltzers in her trunk. Dan Heng was the ever-reliable sober cab.

(It was nice back then. Before you had become so entangled with Blade and the subsequent social politics that came with chasing and occasionally fucking the hot, albeit emotionally-unavailable bassist of HUNTERS. It was far easier to hold those friendships than to orbit around a man who you can never tell if he hates you or wants to fuck you in his back seat.)

You find Blade tucked away around the side of the house, cloaked in shadow while taking long drags of a cigarette. The cherry glows in the dim light. From the basement window peeking out from the ground, a red glow pours out, illuminating the well-worn combat boots he wears. They’re crusted in filth, falling apart at the toe.

(You’d still lick them if he asked you to. Hump them if he asked you twice.)

Another figure stands across from him. Serene, arms crossed, with storm eyes visible even in the poor lighting. Dan Heng keeps a perfectly neutral expression as he speaks, hushed, to Blade who wears a scowl so perfectly that it looks like he’s carved of immovable stone rather than not flesh.

You’re not quite within earshot. You can’t make out their words, only their tone. It’s an angry exchange, one that’s charged with heat lighting and ire. Blade spits something at Dan Heng, venomous in his tone like he so easily is. Dan Heng replies back something so cooly that it’s like a low-tide wave lapping at your feet.

If you were better, you would turn around and leave. Neither of them know that you’re here, so close. It’s invasive to listen, but you know that there’s... history between Blade and Dan Heng. You’ve always wondered what it is, and considering that Blade has the emotional availability of a rotting vegetable, you won’t be getting those details out of him.

Maybe witnessing their dynamic (yet again) could provide you some clarity—?

(And maybe, if you know why Blade was so, so hurt by Dan Heng, you can do better. You can be the exact thing that Blade wants, and then he will want you, just as much as you want him.)

You listen more keenly:

“I’ve asked you to stop booking shows where the Express is already playing.”

“And I’ve asked you to get off my dick and stop being such a priss, but it doesn’t look like you’ll ever do that.”

“I’m asking you to be reasonable.”

“Sure, because clearly asking me to not play prime gigs is ‘reasonable’. Not to mention you should be taking this up with Kafka or Elio, not me. Did you just want an excuse to talk, Imbibitor Lunae—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What, have something else you’d prefer to be called? I remember plenty of things you liked hearing. Want me to name a few?”

“Hold your tongue—”

A stick cracks behind you and you nearly jump out of your skin.

“Bladie~” Kafka purrs behind you, hands sliding up over your shoulders, hot breath over the back of your neck. “We’re on soon. Soundcheck in five, Firefly has a vodka shot for you if you want.”

You’re frozen.

Blade grunts from around the house, and as he does, Dan Heng emerges from the shadows quickly, on hastened feet, and nearly stumbles when you see him. Your expression must be— fucking stupid. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed as Kafka runs her nails up and down your neck.

As Dan Heng practically sprints off, Kafka croons quietly into your ear, “And what are you doing all the way back here? Looking for Bladie again?”

You don’t need to speak for her to know your answer. Blade’s steps thud against the ground over the short, dry grass.

Part of you knows you should scramble away and pretend you weren’t just lurking like a stray dog begging for kitchen scraps. It’s humiliating to be caught by Kafka (yet again), doing the same shit on a different day. Another part of you, one which is much louder, more persuasive, and saccharine sweet, urges you to face Blade. If you get caught in his maw, good.

Your hands shake as Blade emerges from the dark.

He looks like death. Ghostly pale skin with deep purple eyebags, like bruises. His eyes are cut carnelian, ethereal and volcanic against his parlor. A cigarette hangs between his plump lips, threatening to burn and melt the pieces of his fringe that hang around his cheeks. Long, wild black hair, tipped in faded crimson, falls down his back in frizzy waves. His arms bulge obscenely in the tight, black shirt he wears. A carved jade pendant hangs off of his belt.

Blade stares you down and his scowl deepens, turning even more sour. He mutters something under his breath, something unintelligible but cruel. It’s not the first time he’s spoken to you that way. He’s done so more loudly and more brutally.

You—

(Hate it. You love it. Well, maybe not love, but you crave the way that Blade is awful to you. You’re horrible.)

“Better get inside now,” Kafka hands drift to your waist, tugging on the belt loop of your pants. You let out a little yip. “I’m sure the front row is filling up fast. No need to spy on Bladie if you get a prime spot during the actual set, hm?”

She’s right; she usually is.

Kafka leaves you with an elegant twirl, humming one of HUNTERS songs from their new EP under her breath. You know the tune. You’ve been playing it on repeat for the last two months.

It’s easy to follow the jarring trills of soundcheck as you float inside the home, following the trail of people headed toward the basement. Descending down the rickety, railingless stairs into thick, humid air that reeks of sweat, beer, and fledging mold. Down, down, down you go— maybe to hell, where you perhaps belong.

...

Moon Drinker by HUNTERS

You taught me that the high moon

Was our lovers’ sigil

How quickly did you throw away our runes

How empty is your cup

Moon Drinker

That you would break mine too

...

The gig is decent. That’s how these shows tend to be and you enjoy them just enough to tolerate the stench and humidity of grungy basements like this one.

Three bands play, IP3, the Express, and HUNTERS. The interest you expressed to Fu Xuan about Pier Point’s IP3 was a lie, but they’re not bad. The frontman, a blond with eyes like inverted crystals, has a sultry edge to his voice that verges on sexual. It’s a cleaner sound that rips into something dirtier, filthier, as their set goes on.

The Express follows IP3. You’ve seen them more times than you can count, but the trio is still nice to listen to, even now. March always plays with the crowd in between her harmonies in a way that riles folks up just enough without causing abject chaos. The band plays a new song you don’t know, one that is angry and loud and so unlike their normal sound. Dan Heng is on vocals, rather than solely on guitar, and you’re reminded of how mournful and melodic his voice can be. The exact words of the piece get eaten by the cement foundation of the basement, but you imagine that it’s an elegy.

HUNTERS is last on.

They usually are, as their music is the loudest and gnarliest, and they’re typically the most well-known (even if they have a shit reputation and their crowds leave trashed venues in their wake). You feel— insane when they start playing. You know all of their songs, even if you don’t really like their music. Kafka’s voice is hypnotic in a way that’s disarming, even on a recording. Silver Wolf is too good of a drummer for the caliber of band that they are, and Firefly shreds easily on guitar, trained on strings since childhood, but using her talents in a grunge band rather than on a world stage.

Blade’s bass playing is messy. Though his tempo is sure and unwavering, the actual rhythm drags and punches in intervals that verge on unnerving. You have never been able to place if this is due to whatever rage and poison he carries into music making, or if his fingers are as arthritic as Kafka jokes that they are.

It doesn’t really matter, in the end. The sound blends together in a cacophony that sounds like the way bursted flesh looks. If you could taste the way their newest EP sounded, it would be the iron tang of blood and the acrid burn of bile.

You’re fucked for it— for Blade. You’ve been since you first became tangled in this web.

A pit opens in the middle of the crowd, small at first, but rapidly widening, with more and more people throwing themselves into it. They bounce around and bash against the individuals at the sides of the pit, only to be shoved back in a moment later.

You try to stay away from it. Instead, you watch Blade like a fucking pervert.

The basement has gotten hot. Steamy, if you look hard enough at the air that barely circulates against the low, pipe-ridden ceiling. Blade has thrown his hair up in a high ponytail, wisps of hair still cling to his neck and temples, sweat visibly rolling down his neck. His shirt sticks to his toned chest as the overclocked speakers try to keep up with the HUNTERS most recently released song— ‘MOON DRINKER’.

Blade doesn’t look at you. Not once.

His eyes are fixed elsewhere, deeper in the crowd, beyond the bodies in the pit and those who hang at the outskirts by the house’s ancient boiler. Blade’s attention is fixed on— something (someone. You can assume who.) Not once does his gaze drift down his instrument, and never does he acknowledge the way you stand in the front row, so close, with your attention squarely on him.

(This is normal. So normal, it’s painful.)

The pit expands even further, widening as more gig-goers jump into mosh as one song bleeds into the next. You almost get swirled in yourself as a stranger slams into your side with enough force to nearly knock you to the ground.

A broad, warm hand catches you by your bicep, hoisting you up before you even have a chance to fall.

“Be careful now,” It’s Jing Yuan (who is much too powerful and rich to be at a basement show, but yearning pushes you both to do stupid, nonsensical things) who speaks directly into your ear, so you can hear him even as your ears ring muffled. “Are you alright?”

You turn to nod at him, flashing him a thumbs up and nervous smile. The cologne he wears permeates the space around you, overpowering the sweat and mildew with ease. He gives you an easy smile and a squeeze, before letting you. He sidesteps your frame to be closer to the pit, crossing his arms over his chest and shielding you from the worst of the throng.

You’re grateful for the cover; it would be embarrassing to topple over right in front of Blade.

It takes you a moment to recenter yourself, lost in Jing Yuan’s scent and the roar of Firefly’s final, aching guitar riffs. You look back to HUNTERS once more as they finish out their set in a loud, carnal flourish. The expensive speakers they’ve dragged with them are going to fucking blow out—

Blade is staring at you.

Not into the crowd, toward the placid face and cold heart that so clearly plague him, not to his bandmates or instrument, but looking at you.

In the red-lit basement, his eyes nearly glow, unnatural in their anger as they always are. It seemed more concentrated, feral and crystallized in its intensity. Rage. You want to cower under it while your insides feel hot and frigid all at once. He pierces so easily, so thoughtlessly. As the crowd erupts into cheers and shouts as the set ends, you cannot move. Staked in place.

Not once does Blade look away from you, and his mouth does not deviate from the twisted frown he wears.

...

Swordmaker by HUNTERS

If I were forged alongside you,

Do you think I would forgive you then?

If iron was your skin,

Steel your lungs

and lead your heart,

You would be easier to hold.

Empty are memories

Full is the garden

And bloody is the blade.

…

You should be better than this.

Blade slams you up against the back of the shed, the motion jarring and far too fast to be pleasant. Your head knocks painfully against the wood and peeling paint, and despite how you whimper with the impact, Blade doesn’t react. He doesn’t seem to care.

(You know he doesn’t.)

He hikes your leg up over his hip and grinds against your core through your pants. The motion is rough, clumsy and far too harsh to be pleasurable. The dry friction through your panties makes you squirm and dig your nails into his shoulders. Blade grunts in your ear. You think he likes the pain.

The gig was only let out half an hour ago, and plenty of people are still milling around. Whispers are circulating about if and where there will be an afterparty. You weren’t paying much attention to them— they’re easy to ignore— especially when Blade had been dragging you by the wrist just far enough away from the main house to fuck without being overtly noticeable.

(Barely, though. Blade can be loud and you can be loud when you’re with him. You’re tempting fate to be caught, seen with him in this way. It’s an open secret that you’re the scraps that Blade entertains himself with, but you would rather not be caught with your literal pants down.)

Blade smells like cigarettes and sweat. The scent of unclean smoke tangles in his unruly hair as you get a grip on it and tug. The juncture of his neck has the faintest hint of some cologne you’re sure he doesn’t know the name of and stale sweat. You press your lips there and dare to drag your tongue across his skin and taste him. It’s not a good taste, not necessarily, but you love it. Salty and filthy. (It’s disgusting, but familiar and morosely comforting.) You are drunk on it and it makes you feel pathetic at the same time.

A growl sounds in your ear as Blade pins you with his weight to the shed. Dragging you back from his neck, he grabs your jaw, forcing you to look at him fully.

“Don’t leave marks.” He paralyzes you with his stare and sneer.

“I’d never.” You try to sound earnest, even if it’s a lie. Because you would— you’d bite and tear at his neck (like he does at yours) until the skin there is black and blue. Happily, you would leave hickies above his collar. Split his lip and bite his jaw hard enough to bleed. You could wear his blood on your teeth and smile for once at these fucking gigs.

Instead, you do not bite him. You just let Blade maul you as he desires.

He grinds against your core. The pressure is unpleasant at this point, too much and too little all at the same time. When you whimper now, he just ignores you and slips his hands under your shirt. He grabs your waist in both hands and squeezes.

“Turn around,” says Blade, already twisting you himself, so your front is pressed against the shed.

“H-Here?” You laugh nervously. Despite your... reputation, something cold, unwelcome and uncomfortable settles in you. “C-Can’t we go to your car? Or inside?”

“Maybe later.”

(It’s awful. It’s sick, the way your heart flutters at the implications of ‘later’. ‘Later’ means more of him. More of Blade’s time, his touch, his hardly-there care. More scraps for you to gorge yourself on, more time to beg for more. It’s sick. It’s sick how fucked you are for him.)

Blade reaches around your front to undo the button at the top of your trousers. In a swift motion, he has them around your thighs. Just enough that he can bend you over and access your cunt with some amount of ease. He keeps your panties on at first (he usually does this. You’re never sure why. You can delude yourself into thinking it’s him taking his time with you, but you know that that is a lie).

Blade places one of his hands on the back of your neck to flatten you against the shed, while the other must be unbuttoning his own pants to get his cock out, based on the jingling of metal and shred of a zipper. You swallow, your mouth dry. You’re dry, but you know that if you try to touch yourself to prep at this point, Blade will only be meaner.

The most he does is run two fingers over your slit, over your panties. It’s barely enough contact on your clit to be felt, but you gasp and shudder anyway. Canting your hips back, you try to encourage more contact. Anything he’ll give you.

He sighs behind you. Disappointed. Aggravated. It makes you want to cry.

Blade peels down your panties. The cold air shocks you, your core tightening up, but you hardly have time to adjust to the temperature before Blade’s equally cold hands fully part your folds. He sighs again, pulling away only to spit on his fingers, and smear his saliva around your hole. It feels dirty. You feel dirty.

When Blade pulls away, you whine at the loss of contact (at how cold it is, at how the crowd milling around smoking cigarettes and cheap weed is just on the other side of this dilapidated shed crows and laughs into the night). You swear you can recognize March’s giggle above the din of conversation.

You’re brought back to your entanglement with a harsh slap to your ass. Harsh and audible. The sound that escapes your lips is choked and high.

“Don’t get distracted,” Blade huffs. He spits again, presumably on his dick.

You nod, latching onto the pain radiating from slap to your ass. As if sensing it, Blade lays down another strike. This one is hotter, harder. He isn’t holding back. It is sure to bruise the tender flesh there. A mark. Something that will tangibly ache, something leftover from your tryst.

You could cry.

The velvety head of Blade’s cock nudges your folds. He brackets you into the wall, arms on either side of you. Heat radiates off his chest and sinks into your spine.

“‘Feels good?” He asks, voice hoarse as he coats himself in your meager slick.

“Y-yeah,” you lie. It’s not enough to feel good. You don’t care.

Blade seems content enough with your answer as he bears down on you. Flattening you to the dirt-covered shed, he hitches his hip down, then up, trying to fit the tip of his cock into your hole. He maneuvers your hips as he pleases, grunting when the tip of him catches on your cunt. When you dare to whine, even the smallest sound, he cracks his hand down on your ass again. Your vision speckles into darkness with the shot of pain and—

(The roar of anxiety and subsequent shame when you realize how much quieter the milling crowd nearby has become.)

“Hold still.” Blade's voice has sunk low, gravely with the cigarettes he’s been smoking all evening.

The next time his cock touches your opening, he presses in without hesitation.

It’s—

It’s too fucking much.

It is, it always is, every single fucking time he fucks you. Any prep he gives you is perfunctory. Blade will never lavish you with attention, not in the way that you probably need. That you—

(Might even deserve.)

No, the most that Blade will do is fuck you filthy behind a shed, near some of his more well-adjusted peers and probably come inside of you. On past occasions, he has let you suck him off in the backseat of his car. He’s only accidentally (‘accidentally’) came on your face a few times. Less than ten, more than five. Once, he ate you out for a few minutes, but you swear to god he was groaning someone else’s name as he did.

(You’re fucking pathetic.)

This is always too much. Blade is too big. Too big, even if you were stretched and primed with a few fingers like would be right and proper. As tight and dry as you are, it’s painful. He has to grind into your cunt with rolling little thrust so he can fit himself in at all. Each one shocks a breath out of you, a shattering, fragile sound.

When Blade bottoms out, he lays flat over your back. The weight of him is suffocating. His corded muscle is all dead weight above you as his cock twitches inside you. You can’t tell if he’s idling to allow you some time to adjust, or purely for his own leisure. You can’t be sure. You don’t want to ask him either.

“You’re tight.” Blade’s voice threatens to break.

(Of course you are. He’s the only person you will let fuck you, and these trysts only occur every few weeks, when there’s a show that you can be cornered at.)

He bucks into you, deeper still. The head of his cock is touching parts of you that shouldn’t be touched.

You whimper, “Blade—”

He growls in response. It’s a raspy and low tone that makes arousal burn in your gut and leak down your thighs. (You hope so anyway— it’s more wet and you don’t think it hurts enough that you’re bleeding.) Blade fucks you in earnest, then. There’s no delay, no waiting, no potential for momentary, perceived niceties. He pulls out of you almost completely, then thrusts back into you in one single motion. The friction burns and your vision wavers.

(You still moan like a whore.)

You feel— dirty. Disgusting. Pathetic as he fucks you like. You don’t feel like a person as he fucks you; you never do. How could you? The grip he uses on your hips is too bruising and the force and strength he’s using to brutalize your cunt is just too much. He fucks you like he’s taking anger out on a piece of drywall. Blade shares physically with you in the way a dog shreds a chew toy to bits, then leaves it on the ground to fester.

Blade grunts next to your ear, nipping there.

He doesn’t kiss you— well, not often. He can’t with your current position. You wouldn’t expect him to anyway. Sometimes he leaves a ring of dark hickies across your neck, like a collar. You like those, but he always waits an extra long time to see you after he marks you like that.

(You presume to make sure that the bruises have fully yellowed, then faded. A clean canvas.)

Blade’s pace increases, just before he pulls out. His cock rests on the cleft of your ass and he tips his forehead to rest on the shed, just beside yours.

“You’re still dry.”

“Sorry—”

He cuts you off. “It’s fine.”

...

It apparently isn’t fine.

Blade drags you toward the house. He barks at someone, then Kafka, to find a room. You feel dazed as he does. Out of your body, as you receive a number of knowing and unknowing stares from the lingering show-goers who cluster around a firepit.

(How many of them heard you just now? How many know the exact sounds you make when in barely-there pleasure? In certainly-there pain? How many of them know the sound of Blade’s too-big cock slapping into your too-dry cunt?)

It makes you feel sick to think about.

A room must be found for the two of you, as Blade drags you up the stairs of the back porch.

As he does, he hesitates.

(He has so rarely done this.)

His gaze is not on you; it pierces elsewhere in the dark. A floodlight off the back of the house illuminates a section of the yard, and just beyond its reach, nestled somewhere between the dark and light, he fixates. His jaw sets and locks.

There are figures, you realize.

They’re easy to identify once you actually focus. One is lithe and short-haired, the other broad-shouldered and long-haired. Dan Heng and Jing Yuan. Speaking on the outskirts. It feels private. Their attention turns from their hushed conversation to the two of you as Blade stares daggers and swords into them. As if he could pierce them with nothing more than his silent rage and angry eyes.

You freeze.

Their expressions are obscured in the lowlight, but you can almost feel the looks they give you. Like a sickly mucus that gets stuck to you and rolls down your flesh in slow, cold globs.

Dan Heng (once so dear to you, still probably dear to you—) looks guarded, thought darkened. Contempt twists his expression, anger following just after. You’d ever wager that he’s disgusted, maybe. Probably with you, because he knows you’re better than this. Beside him, Jing Yuan wears an expression of careful passivity, of geniality, as he always does, but it’s tinged with something sad and old. For all parties involved in this silent, momentary exchange.

Jing Yuan regards you directly, slowly blinking at you, as though he was a large house cat intent on making you feel safe, and not a presence that only drives the bubbling anxiety in you higher.

It’s a seconds-long encounter that stretches for an eternity. You cannot make yourself move. You cannot feel anything other than rotten and small.

Blade lets out a harsh exhale and yanks you away. The scene breaks and you’re dragged inside. He whispers under his breath, vitriol-tinging his tone. Your panties feel sticky and wet as you walk.

Kafka had found a room for you, on the second floor of the house. God knows whose it actually is. You don’t get a good look at the room as Blade pushes you inside.. It’s dim, the only light is licking in from the dirty window, an afterburn from the raging bonfire outside. You hear muffled voices still, leaking in like a draft.

Blade locks the door and pushes you onto the unmade bed.

It’s a cheap mattress with flannel sheets. It smells like old weed smoke and cheap incense. Fu Xuan would tell you that you deserve better than this. You think you might.

Blade climbs on top of you, jaw still locked, and eyes far away.

(You do wonder what happened between him and Dan Heng. Something did. Something gutting and heartbreaking— you hear it when Blade sings. A betrayal, an intangible knife cut but still so painful. Dan Heng has always spoken about Blade with a type of protective neutrality. He warned you to never get involved with Blade. To stay away, to not get on Blade’s bad side, and if something did entangle you with him, Dan Heng could sort it out. He has always cared so fiercely for those he loves; it’s a shame that you have squandered it.)

(Blade is a sentimentalist. Blade is so held in the past that it chokes him. It always has, during every moment you’ve shared with him. He lingers in the bloody past, he holds it in his hands with a grip that’s meant to snap bird wings and flay flesh. He hates Dan Heng. He still loves him, though. You see it on his face sometimes. You hear it in Blade’s music. The ache, the death, the unending grief and mourning and rage that the man simply won’t let go of.)

(It is obsession.)

It shouldn’t make you bitter to think about. Yet, it does. It’s not your place to hold those types of feelings, let alone express them. For so many reasons, Blade will never see you as anything more than a cheap fuck. You think Dan Heng is the primary one. Over time, you’ve grown bitter. Resentful.

Blade pulls off your shirt in one swift move. He’s slower than he usually is. More deliberate. His hands are shaking, like how they do just after he finishes a set. It’s… off—

You hate it. You hate that the lingering pain of someone else will effect Blade more than you ever, ever could in the present.

You grab a fistful of his hair and tug. His breath catches as you do.

”What the fuck is your deal?” You sneer at him. There’s a cruel edge in your voice that does not sound like you. Blade brings out the worst in you, and you fall prey to it, so easily.

Blade glances up at you, eyes sharp like cut gems. He says nothing.

”You and Dan Heng,” you laugh. You don’t mean to— you don’t, you don’t— and you yank Blade’s hair so he has to look at you better. “It’s pathetic, you know. How you look at him like a kicked fucking dog. What happened between the two of you, anyways?”

Blade freezes. So do you.

You’ve misstepped so brutally. So stupidly and tragically and idiotically. You’ve pushed too hard for what—?

Blade is on his haunches in an instance and he slaps you across the face.

Your head follows the force of the impact, forcing your face to the side. Your cheek smarts. It wasn’t— that hard. Blade is strong. He could do worse. Still, it shocks you. The pain is enough to make you gasp and reel.

”What the fuck—“

”Don’t,” Blade grabs your jaw, “open your mouth about things you know nothing about. You should know better.”

You should. You do.

”I could know more, if you ever told me, I don’t know— anything?” You laugh in his face, manic behind your eyes. You’re crushing the delicate nature of your cheap arrangement like how a child would crush a flighty butterfly’s papery wings.

Blade shakes his head, smothering a laugh. He wrangles you forward, half-off risen from the bed, and parts your lips with his thumb. Before you can react, bite, claw— he is raising himself higher than you, dwarfing you in height, and spitting down into your mouth, onto your tongue.

”You don’t know when to shut up, do you?” He pats the side of your face, over the cheek that he struck. It burns. In another world, this touch would be tender. Here, you can only wince.

Before you can reply, continue to run your mouth and rile him up further, Blade kisses you.

It shocks you, stuns you.

He— he hasn’t ever kissed you before. It’s never been an explicit boundary, but never once during these trysts has Blade ever initiated this type of contact. It has felt dangerous to do so yourself. Something that’s too intimate, too personal to share. The core of your entanglement is the way he uses you. It’s impersonal.

A kiss, you think, implies something more tender.

You gasp into his lips, and he takes the opportunity to all but violate the inside of your mouth. His tongue plunders inside, licking at his own spit that you have yet to swallow. A noise chokes off in the back of your throat. Something desperate and shocked that you hardly recognize. It’s filthy. He nips at your lips and pushes you back down.

Blade devours you.

It’s too much, really. It’s a gesture of tenderness that has been so thoroughly mutilated, calling it a kiss feels paltry. The way his lips are on your own is much more like an argument and a subsequent conquest. One in which you lose ground. He nips at your lower lip, snags it between his teeth, and tugs it as he pulls away.

You pant, the sound of your own breath roars in your own ears. Your hands are still buried in his hair, grip unyielding, anchoring you.

Blade smiles, something poisonous and satisfied. You are too drunk on the singular kiss he gives you to care that much.

“That’s all it takes, is it?” He laughs, the sound dark and rolling, like the sound of an earthquake cracking the earth.

He already knows you’ll beg for scraps. God forbid he gives you even a morsel more.

The bed squeaks as he flips you by your hips so you’re laid flat, belly-down on the dirty sheets. Blade spanks your still-clothed ass for good measure before rustling around behind you. Assumedly to disrobe, just enough to fuck you. Assumedly, to ignore the condoms you brought (knowing he would disregard them—). Assumedly, to fuck you with every inch of your life.

You want it. You want him so badly it physically hurts.

(Or, maybe you tore while he had you behind the shed. Who is to say?)

Blade clamors behind you, shaking, arthritic hands tugging your pants by the waistband. He doesn’t even bother to unzip them this time. Your panties get pulled down along with them, and they get tossed elsewhere in the barely-lit room. Blade spits behind you, and a sound of too-dry stroking follows.

“D-do you want me to suck you off?” you ask with a hum. You’d let him fuck your face, if he asked. Or, if he wanted. Blade wouldn’t ask.

“No.”

“Just let me know.”

Blade sighs behind you, but you think little of it.

You brace yourself up on your elbows, lowering your upper half to be flat against the bed, and arching your hips as high as they’ll go. It’s as if to make yourself look appetizing. You hope it entices Blade, even a little.

(Please, you need him to want you. You need him to want you so badly. Please, please, please—)

The head of Blade’s cock rubs as your hole, down to your clit, then back up again a few times. He’s so hot, it’s like he is burning you. Contact that scalds. The contact against your clit is... nice. It’s the most warm up he has graced you with in a while. You could crave more, but settle for this.

“C’mon Blade,” you whine. Your voice sounds airy. “Fuck me.”

He doesn’t reply, not with his voice. The rocking of his hips becomes more pronounced, and the slide of him against you becomes slicker. Still too big, too hot, but wet at least. Which is a bonus. Pre and blood are probably leaking onto the shaft at least a little bit too.

It makes it easier once he slides home in a single blow.

It’s too fucking deep— especially with this angle. The head of his cock presses against your deepest parts, bruises them in a place where no one can see or feel but you. Blade is huge, the girth of him stretches you as his hips rest against your ass.

A wretched noise bubbles up past your lips. Something between a cry and a plea, for more, for less— to go home, to be in a warm, clean bed with someone who actually cares— you aren’t sure. Your desires have been twisted up and wrong for so long, you can’t tell what you really want.

It makes you feel rotten, and then there’s only one thing you want.

(To hurt.)

Blade fucks you, then. Fully in, fully out of. Long and deep thrusts that carve out your insides in a brutal way. It’s violent. He leans over your back, and braces himself over you. You feel small, stupid, and hurt. A horrible swirl of things that make tears spring up at the corners of your eyes. You bury your face in the crusty pillow you’d manage to snag nearby—

And Blade tugs it away immediately. His big, calloused hand curls to hold your jaw up, so every pitiful whine and whimper you let out can’t be muffled. The bed squeaks as his thrusts slow.

“Don’t hide.”

“I-I won’t.”

“You were.”

“I won’t a-again—”

“You want this, don’t you?” Blade growls in your ears, then moves to the most fragile skin of your neck and bites.

(You do, you do— god you do. You need this.)

You nod, and Blade keeps biting. His jaw nearly locks. You’re sure that you’ll be bruised for a week.

Blade scoffs and rears back, grabs your hips in both hands for leverage. And he fucks you.

That’s all it can be, really. You can’t get a solid hold on anything. The pillow has been thrown off the bed, and you struggle to find purchase on the sheets. All you do is take it. Pleasure, or something like it, builds in your core and goes nowhere. It simmers but never crests anywhere near orgasm.

You don’t mind. This is enough.

Blade’s pace increases, never frantic. Never with him. Manic maybe, insane, tortured and damaged, but never frantic. Not with you. His rhythm falters as his cock slides in and out of you, slick beginning to stick to the inside of your thighs.

His hand comes down on his ass. The other cheek, this time. It’s enough force to bruise again. You’ll have trouble sitting for a week.

As Blade nears his peak, his rhythm stutters. His breath grows harsher and more strained. His grip goes from bruising to breaking. You gasp with the pain, but don’t tell him to stop. His cock brushes against your cervix, and never your sweet spot.

Blade flattens you to bed, prone, and puts his entire weight on top of you as his orgasm hits him. A strangled cry shatters from his lips into your ear as he fucks you too fast and too hard. A gush of warmth fills your insides, spilling to your outsides when there isn’t enough of you to hold all of him.

The bed frame slams into the wall with his final few thrusts.

You lay there, in the filth, in the pain and the dissatisfaction of the tryst, and rot.

...

Blade leaves you there, at some point.

Not right away, but eventually. He rolls off you at some point, catches his breath for a while, checks his phone, then rises to right himself.

You cannot make yourself move. The only thing you can make yourself do is take slow, measured breaths. Each ache in your body is punctuated, loud and unignorable now that the fizzling pleasure of sex has dissipated. What’s left of it is this: carnage.

“You have a ride home?” Blade asks. He must be near the door, based on the sound of his voice.

Fu Xuan’s warning words come to mind, and shame fills your belly.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

And he leaves.

You rot for a while longer.

This is not the first encounter that has gone this way. Blade fucks you like this and leaves. There’s no reverie or sweetness. There is using and being used, and the conclusion that always follows is this. Cooling, soon-to-be dry cum leaking out of you in thick droplets and a bite mark on your neck you’ll need to conceal for the next two weeks. Blade will ignore you like he doesn’t know you, next time he sees. But still fucks you like a toy.

It’s awful. It’s all you want.

You force yourself up at some point.

You’re surprised to find that your pants and panties are in a heap on the end of the bed. You are sure that they were tossed farther, but perhaps you misremember. Painstakingly, you rerobe yourself. Moving your legs in such ways hurts so bad, you could cry. You probably did cry while Blade fucked you.

The quick stop in the squalid bathroom confirms this. Mascara smudges around your eyes and down your cheeks. The sticky gloss you were wearing has been smeared away. Not even a stain of the crimson remains.

You feel hollow as you walk down the stairs, outside, toward the bonfire and its rapidly dwindling flames. A few folks still millaround, people you recognize, just barely, though no one you could call a friend remains around the pit. Stelle, March, and Dan Heng are long gone, probably. You’d feel too ashamed to look them in the eye anyway.

Someone offers you a warm beer and you take it. Your hands shake.

Hollow and wordless, you move around the backyard like a specter. Part of you wishes you were one, just something mostly formless and shapeless. Transparent. No one could see you make a fool of yourself that way. There would be no witnesses to your desperation and perversion.

You swallow back bile when it rises in your throat, and wash it down with a chug from the can.

You’re surprised to find Jing Yuan idling around the corner of the house. He looks up when you near him, and he greets you with the same genial smile he always wears. He nods to the space next him, already plucking a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket on his shirt. You take one, and he lights it for you in the next instant.

“It looks like you needed that,” he hums. He doesn't take one for himself, only tucking the carton away and out of sight.

“Maybe.” You want to vomit. Or slide down the wall of the house and rot there.

He laughs then. It’s too... warm of a sound for how you feel. For how dirty these venues are, and for the company that you have come to hold, it feels dissonant. Jing Yuan is too kind, too patient.

(He cannot be your friend because your ruin would spread to him, maybe.)

“Take as many as you like,” he urges with a hum, and settles next to you.

Silently, you ruminate. Descend into yourself. You suppose, given the events you’ve seen tonight, that you’re both stewing in something akin to yearning.

(Jing Yuan is better than you for it. He, at least, doesn’t sleep with his unrequited adored in someone else’s bed after a messy house show.)

“Do you have a way home?” asks Jing Yuan, breaking you from your slow-rolling spiral.

You shake your head. It would be rude to call Fu Xuan so late. You— you hadn’t really thought about a ride. Not yet.

Jing Yuan looks you up and down and his smile looks sadder, “How about a ride home?”

“Sure.” You nod.

The ride back home in Jing Yuan’s (too nice, too expensive, too decadent) car is quiet. An album from a band you don’t recognize plays at a low volume. Soothing, soft voices, so juxtaposed from the venue you leave behind. Maybe you just can’t recognize the words because you’re decaying. Your phone lays in your lap, over your aching thighs.

[no new messages]

(Because Blade never messages you after a fuck. You’re not worth that much to him.)

...

Gingerly, you unlock your front door and enter your little apartment. Fu Xuan lays on the couch, on her back, with her phone against her collarbone. Her mouth is parted in peaceful sleep, though her hair is still done up, all of her pins are still in.

(She waited for you, again. And you failed her, again.)

You don’t know how she puts up with you. Or why either.

Some part of you wants to vomit. Wretch, like it’ll purge the awful, disgusting thoughts warming you. They do not serve you. You should just—

(Know better. You gain nothing from entangling yourself from Blade. The sex is... enough. Because Blade doesn’t know his own strength sometimes and makes it hurt, unintentionally toeing the line between too little and too much. It’s still not worth it. It shouldn’t be worth it. You’d be better off never going to any gigs, ever again. You wouldn’t have to disappoint and embarrass yourself to your old friends then. You wouldn’t have to linger in the yearning of others while never having that affection given to you.)

You collapse atop your bed. Your makeup has been roughly scrubbed off with an old towel, and you can feel the crunchy remnants of mascara clinging around your eyes. You can’t make yourself care. Burying your face in your pillow, you burrow into your blankets. You’ll probably be sore and hungover tomorrow... today? The songbirds are just beginning to chirp their morning arias. It makes you sick to your stomach.

As you begin to doze, your phone vibrates.

[one new message]

blade: did you get home

Your mouth feels dry and your chest feels so tight you could die.

you: yeah. jing yuan drove me.

[seen: 5:11 AM]

You hold your breath as Blade begins to type. Then stops typing. Then begins again. It goes on for several volleys and you really do think you might puke.

blade: get some sleep

You drop your phone somewhere in your sheets. Giddiness fills your chest, despite the exhaustion and ache and bone-rotting fatigue. Elation causes you to smile, something wide and girlish that you have to hide in your pillow, lest it be beared to the world.

(It’s a scrap. It’s nothing. It’s worse than the bare minimum and the bar is already in hell.)

But, it’s something.

A morsel. Something to clutch onto and hold and cherish.

You want to put his words between your teeth and swallow.

#lore writes #blade x reader #ren x reader #hsr x reader #thank you to bitti for giving me so much juice to work with!!!#thank you to my early 20s and my time in the local music scene to reach about the most toxic men you can imagine <3 #ENJOY LOVES <3

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shuavez · 19 days ago

Text

2:58am — j.ww

tags/warnings — waiter!wonwoo x reader. no warnings!

a/n — i love pancake parlour. that’s it that’s the fic.

The diner is quiet, save for the soft hum of the company Spotify playlist filling the air and the occasional sound of banter drifting from the kitchen, where the cooks are talking about anything but the food. The bright lights above cast a muted glow over the half-empty tables, the remnants of late-night customers already cleared away.

You’re finishing up wiping down already-clean tables, the cloth warm and damp in your hands, the rhythmic motion soothing after hours of not much happening. The clock on the wall ticks lazily toward 3 a.m., and it’s just you and Wonwoo left.

“God, it’s dead tonight,” you mutter, pushing the last of the crumbs off a booth with a sigh. You glance over at Wonwoo, who’s leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

He looks up at you, his lips curling into a smile. “At least we have a place to ourselves.” He’s always so calm, always managing to make even the dullest hours feel comfortable.

“True,” you reply, leaning on the counter next to him. “I’m almost too comfortable. I feel like we should start a podcast or something. ‘Pancake Philosophy.’ I mean, we have all the time in the world for deep, philosophical conversations, right?”

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “I’m not sure you’re ready for my thoughts. Some of them are too deep for you.” His voice is playful, but you catch the hint of affection behind the teasing.

“Too deep, huh?” you tease back, grinning. “I bet you’re the type of guy to have a secret stash of journals filled with all your musings.”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes, but his smile lingers, as it always does when you’re around. “If I had a secret stash, I’d probably burn it. Who needs to remember all that nonsense?”

“I think you secretly want to be a philosopher. Bet you’ve thought about it,” you poke, leaning in a little, eyes narrowing playfully.

“Maybe.” He looks at you, his expression softening a little. “Maybe I just want to be good at something.”

“Pretty sure you’re already good at everything, Wonwoo,” you reply, giving him a half-hearted eye roll. “I can barely get my one job done, and you’re over here making pancakes look like art and being wise at the same time.”

He laughs at that, shaking his head. “You’re being dramatic. But you do have a point. I’m good at pancakes.”

“You’re the best at pancakes,” you affirm, nudging him with your shoulder. It’s playful, easy—like it’s always been between you two. There’s a smoothness to your friendship, a shared understanding without needing to say much. You’ve both been here countless times before, these quiet hours at the end of the night, and it’s always felt like home.

From the back, you hear Jeonghan’s voice echoing out to the front of the diner. “You two still here? I’m done with you. Go home already.”

You glance up at the clock—it’s almost 3 a.m., and he’s right. You’ve been finished with your shift for a while now, but there’s something nice about hanging around with Wonwoo, the air light and comfortable.

“Well, guess we’re done,” you say, gathering your stuff and heading toward your usual booth. “I’m not gonna complain about leaving early, but I swear, one of these days, I’m going to be too good at this job.”

Wonwoo falls in step beside you, nursing a stack of pancakes the cooks had kindly prepared for your knockoff. “I’m sure you’ll make it to employee of the month eventually. Don’t worry.”

“You’re really gonna stick with that ‘employee of the month’ thing?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “At this rate, I’m more likely to get ‘most likely to break something before the end of my shift.’”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure you’ve already won that award. Multiple times.”

“Rude.” You give him a playful shove as you both walk to the far booth in the corner of the diner, slipping into your usual seats. “I’m not that bad.”

Wonwoo chuckles, reaching immediately for a fork. “Let’s be real—if anyone’s gonna break something, it’s you.” He smirks, poking idly at the edge of a pancake.

You roll your eyes again, grabbing the syrup and drizzling it over the pancakes that still sit between you two. “I’m not that clumsy, alright? I can handle a few spatulas and a knife without causing a catastrophe.”

“Sure, sure,” he says, his smile widening. “If you say so.”

You settle into a comfortable silence after that, just the sound of your forks scraping against plates filling the air. It’s a simple, ordinary moment, but it’s perfect in its own way. You’re used to this—eating pancakes at 3 a.m., laughing over the stupidest things, making fun of each other like friends do. But tonight, something’s different.

After a while, Wonwoo finally speaks again, his voice a little softer, more serious. “Hey, uh… I was thinking.”

You glance up at him. “That’s dangerous. You thinking always leads to something weird.”

He laughs, but there’s something nervous in it. “Maybe. But, uh… you wanna go out sometime? Like, outside of work?” His words stumble over each other, but you catch the sincerity in them, the way his gaze lingers just a little longer than usual.

You freeze, your fork halfway to your mouth, and blink. Wonwoo’s never been the type to make bold moves—he’s always been the quiet one, the one who observes more than speaks. The idea of him asking you out feels like something out of a dream.

“Like a date?” you ask, a little breathless.

“Yeah,” he confirms, voice quiet but earnest. “I mean… I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Just didn’t know how to ask. I didn’t want to make things weird.”

You stare at him for a moment, heart pounding in your chest, and a slow smile spreads across your face. “I’d like that,” you say softly. “I think I’d really like that.”

Wonwoo visibly relaxes, his smile returning, this time warmer. The tension that was there just a moment ago melts away, and the air between you two feels lighter. He looks down at his half-empty plate, suddenly unsure again. “I’ll… figure out when and where. I’ll make it good, I promise.”

After a few minutes, you finish the last bite of your pancakes, and you both slide out of the booth. The night air hits you both as you walk toward your car, the cool breeze stirring the stillness around you. There’s a slight unease in the air, but it’s not bad—just new.

There’s a pause—an almost awkward silence, but it’s filled with the weight of unspoken feelings, the kind that have been lingering in the air for far too long. Wonwoo shifts on his feet, then looks at you, his voice low and careful. “Can I… can I kiss you?”

The question, so polite and sincere, takes you by surprise. It’s almost as if he’s asking for permission to release something that’s been building between you two. You nod, a little breathless, and his hand comes to rest gently at your side.

He leans in slowly, cautiously, like he’s afraid he might break the fragile tension between you. When his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft at first—tentative, almost awkward, as if both of you are learning how to fit together in this new way. But then, with a shift of his weight, a soft sigh against your lips, it changes.

The kiss deepens, the rhythm coming naturally now as you both move in sync. It’s a release, an exhale of everything unsaid, and you lose yourself in the warmth of it. His lips are gentle yet insistent, his hand tentatively brushing the side of your face, and you can feel the quiet urgency that’s been hidden beneath the surface.

Just when you’re beginning to lose track of time, a voice breaks through the moment.

Jeonghan’s leaning against the door, holding a trash bag. “Well, look at that,” he says with a sly grin, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “I’ve been counting down the days until Wonwoo grew a pair.”

You laugh, pulling away from Wonwoo with a grin, and Jeonghan’s teasing only makes the moment feel more real.

“I’ll text you,” you say to Wonwoo, quickly pulling out your phone and setting a time and place. The promise of a real date, outside of work, feels like something new and exciting.

As you drive away, the taste of hot fudge and maple syrup lingers on your lips, mixing with the sweet anticipation of what’s to come.

#seventeen fluff #wonwoo fluff #jeon wonwoo fluff #seventeen imagines #wonwoo imagines #wonwoo x reader #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #svt fluff #svt imagines #elle’s worx

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moonstrider9904 · 10 months ago

Text

do i wanna know?

one shot masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3 | beta read by the wonderful @jedi-hawkins and @freesia-writes

Pairing: Crosshair x Fem!Reader

Summary: You've been seeing Crosshair for months when he's on planet, seemingly only as friends. But one night when he's back, you meet him at your favorite bar, and you get the feeling his flirtatious ways might mean a bit more. Should you get your hopes up, or would that be your heart's last mistake?

Tags: 18+ only. Smut, oral sex (female and male receiving), female masturbation, unprotected vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, light nipple play. Flirting, alcohol consumption, smoking, mentions of war and canon-typical violence, foul language, angst. Also, I am basing some of Crosshair's appearance on this magnificent art here.

Word count: 7056 words

Playlist: Do I Wanna Know? by Arctic Monkeys

The man who filled your thoughts that night leaned over the billiards table. He closed the left eye, leaving the right, tattooed eye open, and he shoved the cue forward with a strength and precision you couldn’t help but find seductive. The sound of the resin clinking as the multiple billiards balls made their way across the table was soon replaced by whistles and calls celebrating Crosshair’s trickshot, after which he straightened up next to the table and looked at his opponent, holding out his hand to collect his wager.

Crosshair had won yet another match that night. As he took the amount of credits he’d wagered from his last opponent, he dismissed himself from the competition with a carefree wave of his hand, and with dark amber eyes, he made his way to you.

“Don’t you look pretty there, cheering me on,” he purred.

You crossed one leg over the other and leaned back on the chair pretending you didn’t care much for what he was saying. “You say I’m pretty, but you’ve barely paid attention to me tonight, handsome.” You smirked at him and winked when you finished your sentence, and Crosshair couldn’t help but smirk back as he took a seat across from you.

He took another sip out of his whisky and looked over at your glass of beer. “You nearly finished that.”

“My point exactly,” you shrugged.

“Come now,” Crosshair moved his chair over closer to you and slid his glass to match his new position on the table. “I was getting credits to spoil you.”

Your head jerked in his direction and you pouted up at him. “Really? How?”

Crosshair chuckled next to your ear, his warm breath over your skin sending shivers through your body. “I was thinking… we could get another round of drinks…”

“Uh-huh?” You prompted as your body leaned closer to him against your will. You could spend weeks, months even, trying not to appear too needy or desperate to him, trying to balance out your pleas to have him closer with your wit and your sarcasm, but all Crosshair had to do was lean in close and purr at you, and you were on your knees.

“We can have as many as you want,” Crosshair continued, “and then…”

You turned and met his eyes when he trailed off. “And?”

He leaned back on his chair and took a sip out of his whisky. But you, in turn, leaned forward to match him, taking the drink from his hand and sipping on it yourself.

“And then what?” You asked again.

Crosshair chuckled, the sound deep and enticing. He took his drink back from you and set it on the table, only to then reach for your chin with his hand, cold from the icy drink he’d just held. Crosshair looked you in the eyes, and for a moment you swore his gaze softened, but it soon regained its usual fire as his grip tightened when he pulled you close.

“Play your cards right and tonight might be your night,” Crosshair crooned.

You felt yourself clench around nothing between your legs, and before you had a thought of what to respond, Crosshair got up from the chair and made his way past the billiards tables to the bar, where he gestured to his drink and yours at the bartender.

That man was dangerously sexy.

You thought he’d come back to the table with you, but instead, you saw him heading towards the back of the bar when his glass was refilled. He looked back at you and signaled you to follow him, and you obeyed. Before leaving, you took the last fried cheese stick from the plate at the center of the table and ate it on the way, and when you walked past the bar, the bartender handed you the beer bottle Crosshair had ordered for you. You took it with a smile and followed Crosshair behind the bar to a storage room. It wasn’t too dim that you feared for your life, but it wasn’t well lit enough to attract any other attention to it, and inside it, Crosshair waited for you. You watched him stand there sipping from his whisky, looking gorgeous in those dark gray trousers and pitch-black shirt topped by a black leather jacket.

Crosshair turned around and let his gaze pierce into you, and a smirk formed on his lips as he approached you. Unsure what to expect from him, your heart squeezed when he reached his arm past you to close the door behind you, and when he pulled his arm back, he once again took his hand up to your chin and lifted your face up to look at him.

“Cross…” You sighed.

He chuckled. “You do want this, right?”

“Yes,” you nearly moaned. You set your beer down next to you on one of the boxes and let your hands snake up his chest until they found rest at the base of his neck. His free hand slid down your body and found the curve of your waist, pulling you closer—he didn’t need many more words before finally leaning down to kiss you.

It was everything you’d been fantasizing for months. Crosshair’s lips were warm and they kissed you with intent, igniting your veins and drenching you between your legs. You couldn’t help but whimper into the kiss as you clung tighter to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. You had to stand on your toes to press yourself closer to him, feeling yourself getting drunk on the whisky you could taste in him. Your arms shook, your legs felt as if they wouldn’t hold you up, and your heart threatened to beat out of your chest when you felt his hardness begin to press up against your body.

“Take me,” you mumbled. “Take me now, Crosshair.”

He chuckled. “Needy. How cute.”

With a strong grip, Crosshair led you towards one of the larger crates in the room and he let you go just to pat on the surface. You obliged and hopped onto the crate, sitting and parting your legs to let him press closer to you. With one hand still holding his drink, Crosshair wrapped an arm around your waist and resumed kissing you. Hungrily, you kissed him back and ran your hands all over his body. You felt the lean lines on his back and the strong muscles on his chest. You tried to get a feel of his arms, but there wasn’t much you could feel over that leather jacket, so instead, you let your hands return to his abdomen. Through the fabric, you could feel the lumps of his abs as well as some of the scars he’d gotten over the years, but choosing to focus less on the soldier and more on the man, you let your hands make their way downward.

Crosshair let the hand on your body travel as well. He felt himself getting harder at the sight of you in front of him, eager to let him in, your legs parted letting the fabric of your skirt barely attempt to hide the panties from his sight. His hand brushed down past the end of your skirt over the skin of your thigh, and Crosshair let his nails slightly dig into your flesh as he ran his hand down your leg. You whimpered and tightened your grip on him, your back straightening and making you press your breasts onto him, a reflex Crosshair may have enjoyed too much as you felt him grin into your lips.

His hand made its way up your body again. You felt his touch going up your leg and your belly until it eventually reached your chest, and he let his fingers expand over the curve of one of your breasts. Your breath hitched when Crosshair caressed and massaged you, squeezing with the perfect amount of strength to send your mind reeling without any pain, and soon, his fingertips found the bud of your nipple, which he freely pinched just enough to draw a moan from you.

“Fuck…” you whimpered.

Crosshair gave a low laugh. “You’re gonna have to be quiet, darlin’. We’re only allowed in here so long as we don’t make a scene to the whole bar, understood?”

You nodded, licking your lips before reaching down to grab the hem of your blouse, pulling it up and off your body. Crosshair’s gaze darkened as he glanced at your breasts and the delicate black bra that covered them. You reached back to undo the hook of your bra and he helped you take it off, growling as he saw the way your breasts fell freely. With a smirk, Crosshair managed to tear his gaze from your mounds and looked you in the eyes, holding his glass out to you.

“Hold this, darlin’,” he gave you the glass.

Dazed, you held onto his drink. Crosshair now had both of his hands free, and he first held the sides of your torso with his fingertips resting on your back, and he pulled you up while bending down and trailing kisses starting at your collarbone. He traced his lips over your chest, relishing in the way your panting made it go up and down while he brought his hands to your front again. Crosshair took one breast in each of his hands and resumed the massaging and caressing, and soon after, he started lightly pinching at your nipples before bringing his lips down at the level of your breasts.

You suppressed a moan as best as you could when Crosshair placed his lips over one of your nipples. He gently sucked on the bud while his hand continued to massage the other one, making you crave more. You slowly rubbed your hips against the crate under you and felt the dampness between your legs delicious with the friction. Heat rushed to your cheeks when you felt your own pulse down between your legs, so you threw your head back and enjoyed as Crosshair had his way with you.

Much to your pleasure, Crosshair soon resumed his way down, and the emptiness on your breasts was soon compensated by the sight of Crosshair kneeling down before you with dark eyes as he reached for your panties under your skirt. You wiggled to help him get them off and felt the cool air against your moist cunt. You heard Crosshair suck air in through his teeth, and he let his hands slide from your ankles up your legs until firmly grasped your hips.

When you finally felt his tongue against your cunt, you had to constantly convince yourself not to succumb entirely to the bliss—you didn’t want a shattered whisky glass ruining the moment. You moaned as quietly as you could, but the ecstasy wasn’t any less present in the lack of volume. Crosshair pressed himself deeper into your flesh, devouring you, expertly working his tongue and his lips over your all too sensitive clit. You couldn’t help but use your free hand to continue massaging one of your nibbles, just a little extra to enhance the pleasure you already felt.

And as Crosshair flicked his tongue quicker over your clit, you felt yourself getting closer to climax, causing you to press your hips forward onto him. It made him moan, his voice rumbling low in your flesh and making you roll your eyes back, dangerously close to release. Crosshair’s pace didn’t relent. He continued to suck away at your clit until you felt your hips quiver and the temperature of your body oscillate between hot and cold. Your mind went blank as you tried your best not to moan out his name—you were sure everyone out at the bar would hear you if you did. Your body squirmed on that crate as Crosshair continued to make you his own, and you were so gone that you barely noticed when his tongue left your pussy.

You whined softly when you realized he’d stopped. Crosshair was standing back up, and he reached for the glass of whisky in your hand, taking a long sip of it and downing half of its content. Crosshair grunted as the alcohol burned his throat, his chest heaving slightly after his efforts with you. You didn’t hold out your hand to take the glass from him again—messy as you were, you weren’t close to done. You wanted more, and you wanted him. You got down from the crate, and Crosshair watched you in confusion that turned into delight when he saw you kneeling down before him and reaching for the zipper of his pants.

“Oh, such a good girl,” Crosshair purred as he reached his free hand down to brush your cheek. You were still focused on undoing the button and zipper, until you finally pulled down the fabric to free his erection from confinement.

Your mouth watered at the sight. Sucking him off was yet another of the fantasies you’d had for months, just one more thing you dreamt of doing with him every time you met up with him at the bar. Every time you’d questioned if Crosshair was into you had led to that moment, alone with him in that storage room. He’d already claimed you, now it was your turn. You wrapped your fingers around his girth and took him into your mouth, starting off with just the tip, sucking and circling your tongue around it getting used to the taste.

Above you, Crosshair downed the rest of his whisky and set the glass down on another box beside him with a loud toc, moaning softly and whisper-grunting out “Fuck!” as you took more of his length in your mouth. Your breathing deepened, struggling ever so slightly at the fullness in your mouth, yet resolved to see it through. Still, you were aching between your legs as if your folds begged to be touched. It wasn’t like you needed both of your hands to suck Crosshair’s dick, so you took one of them down and rubbed small, quick circles on your clit, whimpering softly into his shaft.

Crosshair looked down at you. The way you had his cock in your mouth, the way you touched yourself, it nearly made him lose all sense of reason. His gaze softened at you as though it were filled with wonder and adoration more than desire. Crosshair reached a hand down and took some of your hair in his hand, stroking the curve of your head before resting his hand down beside your cheek again. The gesture prompted you to look up at him, and when you did, you nearly climaxed again when you noticed how beautifully he was looking at you. At that moment, Crosshair didn’t look like a man only thinking of sex, he looked like a man who adored you completely. Yet another one of your fantasies was coming true.

Your vision blurred, however, when your rubbing on your clit made you climax again. The waves of your orgasm made your lips tighten around Crosshair’s thickness, drawing a low moan from him. He mumbled a few other words you didn’t bother listening to. You were too deep in your orgasm to make sense of anything anyway. You only came to your senses when you felt his hand tugging your cheek ever so gently, bringing your rubbing on your clit to a stop as you looked at him again.

“I want to cum inside you,” Crosshair whispered as he helped you up and hastily helped you back onto the crate where he first had you.

You sat in a similar position as you had initially, with your legs parted and welcoming him to do whatever he wanted with you, and Crosshair leaned in close enough to have to rest his hands on the wall behind you just after sliding his length into your warm, wet walls. Your hands clung to his shoulders, clawing at the leather jacket that made him look dangerously handsome, and you felt your body bouncing with every thrust he gave into your hips. You could hear Crosshair grunting softly between luscious thrusts, as well as the sound of the bottles of alcohol within the crate clanking against each other with his movements. Softly, you whimpered—your cunt was already too sensitive from two orgasms. A third one was beginning to creep up on you, this one boiling deep inside you and promising to rattle you to your very bones. While you waited for it, you looked at Crosshair, his eyes dark and focusing on yours as he fucked deep into you.

You took a hand behind Crosshair’s head, curling your fingers in his hair, as you rested your forehead on his while never breaking eye contact. You wanted to be looking into those eyes when the pleasure took over you, and by the stars, it was everything you dreamed. When the waves of your third orgasm started, all you saw was Crosshair. All you felt was him. You wrapped your legs around his waist and tightened your grip, feeling your arousal dripping from your cunt and splashing your skin, and by extension his, and the only thought in your mind was his name. Not long after your walls had clenched around his cock, you heard Crosshair give a grunt and you felt his warmth filling you inside.

You had longed for that sensation, and it was unimaginably better than you ever could have anticipated. Crosshair then stopped his thrusts as the ropes of hot, thick cum continued to splash inside you, and when he was done, he slowly pulled out of you as you both attempted to catch your breaths.

The entirety of your weight still rested on the hard crate underneath you. You couldn’t feel any of the cold from the wall anymore. Its temperature had merged with the one Crosshair had made you feel—your inability to think about anything other than the wall behind you lay testament to how dumbfoundingly well he had just taken care of you. Your breathing slowed as you made contact with his beautiful amber gaze, his irises making you shiver with expectation as he got up and began leaning closer and his arms snaked towards you. Perhaps he had more in mind for you? You silently begged he would.

Your heart skipped a beat. Without warning, you felt the contact of Crosshair’s bare fingertips on your own, heedfully sliding across your palm from your pinky finger and forward towards your thumb. What you thought was an honest gesture of taking your hand turned out to be him reaching for his trousers for a pack of cigarettes, and before breaking eye contact with you to pull one out, you saw something flash in his eyes you didn’t know what to make out of.

Crosshair lit the cigarette and took a long inhale like it was the fresh air he yearned for. He watched you as you slowly regained composure and reached for your bra and your blouse, attempting to dress again.

“Need help with that?” He crooned.

“I’m good,” you replied. “But let me know next time you want to take these off me.”

Crosshair scoffed, taking another breath from his cigarette.

When you finished dressing you got down from the crate and stood firmly on the ground. You made your way over to Crosshair and he opened the door of the cellar, standing aside to let you through first. You smiled at him and were just about to step out the door when you hastily remembered your beer was still in there—no way you were gonna leave that abandoned. Though you focused on your drink, you did manage to hear Crosshair chuckle as he walked after you back towards the bar.

Crosshair draped an arm around your shoulders as you both walked back to the table you’d chosen earlier. He pulled a chair out for you to sit and went across to sit in front of you, and shortly after, a waiter brought him another glass of whisky. You hadn’t even noticed when he’d ordered—were you that awestruck from your recent encounter in the cellar?

“Do you want anything else, doll?” He asked you.

“What?” You snapped your attention to him, stuttering. “No, no, I’m… good.”

Crosshair chuckled. You could tell he was just being cocky.

The night wore on mostly in silence as you finished up your drinks. Though many of your daydreams had just become reality, you weren’t sure what was going to happen next. You were happy to suggest more things, but you were also curious to see what Crosshair had in mind. If nothing else came up, you would ask him to your place, and maybe he could spend the night, maybe you could play something on the holo for background noise while he made you his own again…

You set your empty beer bottle down on the table and looked up at him, your eyes wide and beckoning him. In one gulp, he finished his whisky and began to stand up, and you followed.

Crosshair looked over at the bartender. “Put it on Hunter’s tab, will you?”

You saw the bartender nod, but you quickly focused on Crosshair again as he adjusted his jacket. He put the cigarette out on the ashtray on the center of the table and finally looked at you, smirking softly as he began to make his way towards the exit with you next to him. The cool air hit you hard when you were out on the street, and without any prompt, you felt Crosshair placing his jacket over you.

“Thanks,” you mumbled.

You both stood in silence, and the absence of words or plans was destroying you. Finally, you reached within you for courage.

“Would you like to go back to my place?” You asked him.

Crosshair chuckled as he reached a hand for your chin, letting you see the snake tattoo that was prominent on his forearm. The gesture and the ink made you clench around nothing all over again.

“You still want more?” He hummed.

“Yes,” you admitted. “But I was also thinking maybe we could just… spend the night? You know, if you’re tired. Just us.”

He chuckled again. “Can’t. I ship out early.”

Your heart sank. “Crosshair…”

He raised a brow at you, prompting you to speak.

“I want to know…” you trailed off. “What we did back there… it wasn’t nothing, right?”

“Did it feel like nothing?” He asked.

“Well, no—”

“Don’t fix what isn’t broken, darlin’,” he evaded you.

“You know what I mean,” you said. “We’ve been meeting up for months. I want you, Crosshair, more than just in a hidden cellar.”

Crosshair sighed. “Please don’t go and ruin this. Not now.”

You felt your heart plummeting inside you. Were you delusional? Those times his eyes had softened at you, his fingers brushing your cheeks with such care, was it all yet another daydream you’d fabricated? Had you just made an utter fool of yourself?

“Oh…” you whispered. “I…”

He sighed. Crosshair looked like he was about to say something else, but you didn’t want to give yourself more reasons to get your heart broken.

“That’s fine, I… I got it wrong,” you said before he could speak.

“Come on, doll,” Crosshair faced you. “I’m always on the move and way too close to blaster fire for us to be a good idea.”

“Then what the hell was that back there?” You gestured at the cellar.

“I like to have my fun.” Crosshair shrugged.

Fury boiled within you. “Are you kidding me? That’s what you mean, that I’m just a bit of fun?”

“I mean I’m not tied down, and neither are you,” Crosshair looked you in the eyes. Whatever emotions he showed before, this time you were sure he was completely serious.

But knowing he was being honest didn’t make things any easier.

Crosshair sighed. “Look, just…”

You looked at him, not knowing whether to hope for him to say something to remedy your feelings or not.

“You’re great,” he said. “And I look forward to seeing you when I come back to this planet. But don’t mistake this for something else. You’d be wasting your time with me.”

“I wouldn’t,” you tried to appeal, walking up to him and wrapping your arms around his waist. “Crosshair, I am mad for you! Tonight has been everything I’ve been yearning for months. You are all I want, this is all I want.”

He didn’t say anything to you. He simply looked you in the eyes with dismay.

Slowly, you unwrapped your arms from Crosshair’s waist. “But… you don’t want that.”

Crosshair looked upset. You figured he wasn’t a monster, and anyone would appear upset when making such a rejection. For your sake, you wouldn’t make anymore of it. Crosshair was difficult to read as it was.

You took his jacket off and handed it to him. “You’ll be needing this.”

“Babe, don’t do this—”

“You either do or you don’t, Crosshair,” you said, unwilling to have your time be wasted. “And right now you’re telling me you don’t, so…”

For a moment, Crosshair seemed to sadden.

You sighed. “I should just go home.”

Crosshair tore his eyes from you for a moment and he took the jacket from your grip in a surprisingly gentle manner. “I guess you should.”

You managed to meet his gaze. You didn’t want him to be out of your life, as much as you were heartbroken by him pushing you away. And the thought of him being out at war, all alone, with his life on the line every day… The idea of something happening to him and you not being in his life somehow was even more dreadful than the idea of losing him whilst having had the chance to love him.

But there was no changing Crosshair’s mind.

“Be safe,” you managed to say.

Crosshair looked at you again, his eyes laden with sorrow. Had you been more naive, you would have expected him to tell you not to leave, that he was wrong, he’d been an idiot, that he did want to be with you. But waiting for something that wouldn’t happen was too painful, and you decided to be the one who left first.

You walked homeward without looking back, and as a tear rushed down your cheek, you tried your best not to blame yourself for thinking your feelings could go both ways.

Blue and white specs of hyperspace surrounded the Marauder. Crosshair sat in his usual chair, in his usual pose of having one leg crossed over the other while the Firepuncher rifle rested across the length of his shin. Holding the rifle, his thumb tapped rhythmically over the scope in tandem with the beat of the song he was listening to on two very discreet yet very loud earbuds. The bass and the guitar, the strong and steady drums reminded him of himself, but the lyrics only made him think of you. The stoic sniper kept a straight face during the multiple times he listened to it, and his mind was able to ponder on many things at once.

What were you up to? Why was he doing something he’d openly laugh at someone else if they were doing the exact same by listening to a rock song thinking of you? What were you wearing that day? How many more men had perished in the battle he was headed to since he and his squad received the briefing? Was it even still daytime on Coruscant? And if it was night time, were you in the arms of another? He hadn’t given you a reason to cling to him anyway, not the last time he’d met you.

He focused his mind on you, your eyes staring up at him, the warmth of your body against his and the pitch of your little whimpers, the way your fingertips curled around his hair when he made you squirm and how your soft lips felt on his skin. He thought back to the moment he nearly took your hand and fooled himself into grabbing a cigarette instead. And then he’d done it again when he told you it was all a bit of fun, when he said he didn’t want to be yours, when he stood there watching you walk away from him.

Despite your absence, Crosshair had been seeing you for nights since his shore leave on Coruscant ended. You were constantly on his mind, much to his annoyance. The fact that every dream and every song lyric brought your face back into his sights was a constant reminder of his own incapacity to admit something so basic—but if it was so basic, why did that feeling fucking eat him away from the inside out? Crosshair sneered. He was at a point where he feared only the unspeakable horrors of war would succeed in removing you from his mind, a fact he didn’t know if it would be terrible or merciful. But he, alongside everyone inside the Marauder, was in for one hell of a battle, already forecast to be one of the bloodiest of the war.

If that didn’t do it, nothing would.

Crosshair’s head swayed forward and back as exhaustion took over him, and he had no sense to even make out how beneficial it would be for him to get a few winks of sleep before reaching the trenches that waited for him on landfall. Blurs of you raced through his mind as the chorus of the song echoed in his subconscious for another countless time, and after what had only felt like seconds, Crosshair regained consciousness to a Marauder that was navigating the transition between space and the tremorous atmosphere of their destination.

Even the clouds foretold the misery that waited for them down there.

Crosshair still had the earbuds on, shielding him from the sounds playing out before him, but he was able to make out Hunter’s silhouette approaching him as he mouthed the words be ready, and a cold shudder took over Crosshair as he saw Hunter had an aura of dread in him as well.

The Marauder shook from the heavy turbulence around it. Crosshair removed the earbuds and slipped his helmet over his head, and he took his rifle, ready for anything. If he made it out alive, he’d probably ask you out for whisky the moment he saw you again.

You couldn’t help but feel wary when your doorbell rang. No one ever visited you, you weren’t expecting anything to be delivered, or anyone to drop by, you didn’t even have anything planned that night. In the absence of anything going on, you figured you’d make your way across your little apartment to the door.

“Who is it?” You called.

From the other side of your door, you were met with hesitation. You were then surprised by hearing your name being spoken in a coiled, smooth voice, its pitch low that made your name sound like the galaxy’s rarest delicacy.

You opened the door.

There stood Crosshair, dressed in black and gray like he usually would when he met you at the bar. This time he wasn’t wearing a jacket, and the short sleeves of his shirt let you see the snake tattoo on his forearm that you loved so much, as well as the veins and thin layer of hair that made you wild. Still, as much as you loved that tattoo, the detail of a fresh, light-brown scar on his other forearm didn’t escape you.

You still hadn’t forgotten the way you’d parted the last time you were with him—you weren’t about to foolishly welcome him in again.

“What are you doing here?” You asked him, your voice plagued with more genuine curiosity than the spite of the walls you tried to put up.

Crosshair didn’t speak. He stepped forward and took you in his arms, quickly wrapping them around your silhouette as though clinging to your back and waist. The way he pressed your body to his was alien, but by no means unwelcome. You felt his heartbeat quicken against you as his grip gradually tightened, and as he straightened his back, you had to lift yourself to be on your toes.

“Crosshair?” You inquired.

He gave a brief shake before steadying himself again. “I needed to see you.”

With a brief sigh, your heart sank. You’d watched the news over the past few days, and now that a soldier was clinging to you for dear life, you managed to put two and two together.

“You were on Umbara, weren’t you?” Your voice was barely louder than a whisper, somber, yet comforting.

Crosshair loosened his grip just enough to look you in the eyes, and the snark and wit were suddenly gone from his gaze replaced by revelation.

“Your brothers?” You followed up. “Are they okay?”

“They’re all fine, but…” Crosshair trailed off. “Too many platoons. Too many families were broken.”

You never thought he cared that much. You gently reached a hand up to cup his cheek, and he leaned into your warmth while having one of his own hands fly up to meet your own, holding your palm closer to him. You could see the remorse in his eyes, but you wouldn’t be arrogant enough to believe that remorse was only caused by you. You feared the answer of your next question.

“Did you…?” You couldn’t even bring yourself to finish the thought.

Crosshair shuddered at the memory of a blue and white helmet under his scope. He shuddered at the thought of what would have been and how many more would have fallen if Rex hadn’t run past him waving his arms. The idea of someone, anyone, using him against his brothers, controlling him with sinister motives and turning him against his own brothers… Crosshair knew how dangerous he would be, and the thought terrified him.

“I need you,” Crosshair admitted. “All that time, I needed you. I didn’t want to die out there. I didn’t want to kill one of my own.”

“Hey…” You comforted him. “None of you knew.”

Crosshair cupped your hands with his face, the gentle gesture rendered desperate with his grip giving away how starved he was.

“I need you,” he said again, a faint growl appearing in his voice. “I need to know if you feel this agony when you’re away from me, if you’d be the only home I would return to. I want to be too fucking busy being yours to die out there. I want to be yours I’m willing to crawl back to you every fucking time.”

Your eyes widened in endearment and disbelief at the words he’d spoken. “I thought you didn’t want that…”

Crosshair’s gaze and grip softened as he leaned in closer to you until his lips fell on yours. He only broke the kiss to look you in the eyes again, more serious than he ever could be.

“I was an idiot,” he admitted.

You chuckled softly. “You kind of were. But so was I. I should have admitted my feelings too, long ago.”

Crosshair smiled softly and shook his head. “Wouldn’t have made a difference. I’m too stubborn.”

You giggled, cupping his face. “I like you stubborn.”

His smile turned into a smirk. “I know.”

Your hands traveled over to his chest, where they rested gently. “Would you like to go somewhere? Clear your head?”

“I was wondering if you’d let me take you up on the offer to spend the night,” Crosshair answered without hesitation.

You smiled. “Absolutely.”

“But no cheesy soap operas on the holo,” Crosshair added.

“You sure?” You grinned with mischief. “Scandal Gal is getting really good. I think Flair and Puck are finally gonna get together.”

Crosshair directed a deadpan stare at you, but that was one of your favorite expressions on his face. You giggled, wrapping your arms fully around his shoulders as you softly kissed his chin.

“I’m here and I’m yours, you hear me?” Your tone softened.

A subdued exhale left Crosshair as his gaze turned gentle on you, but his grip around your waist hardened. Before you made sense of the door of your apartment finally closing, Crosshair pressed his lips to yours with his movements quickly igniting a passion between you. You forgot the holos and the music and whatever refreshments you could have offered your guest. There was only one thing you wanted to do that night.

The stumbling between your apartment’s door and your bed was a blur, but as soon as you were able to make sense of being in your bedroom, you felt Crosshair picking you up and setting you gently on the bed. He crawled on the bed too, perching himself up on his knees to pull his shirt up over his body to cast it aside, and you couldn’t help the tiny whimper that left you at the sight of him.

Crosshair was gorgeous, with his beautiful bronze skin apparently glowing in the light of your room. The snake tattoo on his forearm seemed more prominent when he was shirtless, but your eyes were drawn to the area of his chest where you couldn’t help but stare at the thin layer of hair near the center, as well as the little 99 tattooed underneath his left pec. There were also scars scattered around his torso, all balanced out with the lean lines of his muscles.

He smirked at the sight of you, proud that you apparently liked what you saw. You knew he wasn’t done, for he then proceeded to undo his trousers, which you gladly watched him do. When Crosshair was naked in front of you, you hurried to take off your blouse and your pants, which he helped you out of, until at last you lay bare and naked underneath him.

The electricity of the moment paled in comparison to the cellar at the bar the other night, an occasion far more desperate and wanting at the time. This was far more intimate, even romantic, as Crosshair leaned down and made contact with your skin. You felt yourself engulfed in his warmth as he kissed you again. He switched between your lips, your chin, and your neck, ravishing you and making you feel like you were among clouds. You rested your head back on the pillow and let him have his way with you, which would pleasantly surprise you sooner rather than later when you felt his fingers beginning to stroke you between your legs.

A moan escaped you like honey. Crosshair applied the right amount of pressure to your folds to make the pleasure begin to flow through your body, steady and delicious. Your arms wrapped around his back, pulling him closer as you continued to kiss him, and when you brushed your tongue past his lips to wrestle with his, you felt his long finger slipping inside your walls to stroke and curl inside you. Hungrily, you moaned into him, partly wishing it was his cock inside you rather than his finger, but you wouldn’t rush things.

Delectably slowly, you felt yourself getting closer to climax, and the way your moaning escalated lay testament to that. Your grip around Crosshair was as hard as it could be, and when he began to feel your walls tighten around his finger, Crosshair emerged from your lips and gasped for air, looking into your eyes. You pleaded to him with your gaze not to stop, to please continue and push you over that edge you so desperately wanted. All it took was a smirk from him to finally do it, and you began to quiver underneath him as you moaned loud enough for the adjacent apartments to hear you. Incoherent mumbles escaped you, but among them, Crosshair was able to make out the words kiss me, please, and he obliged.

You drowned in the feeling of his lips on yours while your orgasm endured, and as the waves wore off, you felt Crosshair shifting your positions. Now, his back lay flat on the bed and you were on top of him, and it was only then that you broke the kiss to position your entrance on top of his erection. You both moaned in unison as you sat down on him, and with his strong hands, Crosshair helped you bounce up and down rhythmically.

“Come here,” Crosshair beckoned.

You leaned forward while Crosshair continued thrusting upwards, and you enjoyed the feeling of being close to him once again. Your lips found his and you kissed him with the same fire as before, only pausing to look into his gorgeous eyes as the pleasure filled you again. Your attention lingered on every one of Crosshair’s tiny grunts and moans—they were enough to send sparks through your whole body, and you felt you could listen to him do that forever. Crosshair’s grip on your hips tightened, thrusting into you at a speed you felt was impossible, and at that rhythm of pounding, you quickly shattered over him in another orgasm, moaning louder than before and quaking on top of his body. You felt your arousal squirting out of you and dripping onto his skin, a feeling you knew he picked up on when he moaned deep and delicious into the room. Not long after that, the familiar sensation of hot ropes of cum strewing inside of you made you see white, and you felt your body rise and fall in tandem with Crosshair’s heavy breathing as he slowed down and tried to recover himself.

“Mine…” Crosshair mumbled. “Fuck, you’re mine.”

You moaned at his words and leaned down to kiss him. “All yours, handsome…”

With the strength he had left, Crosshair tightened his grip around you and flipped you over, and now, he was on top of you.

Your man, your lover, was nowhere near done with you, and you were ready for nights like those to become a regular part of both of your lives.

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