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buryustogether · 3 years

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𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒑𝒔𝒚 𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒂

summary : as a singer at an underground cantina in the lower levels of coruscant, you see sketchy figures come and go. however, it seems that one has been sticking around longer than the others.

pairing : crosshair x f!reader

word count : 6.3k

warnings : drinking, unwanted male advances, attempted assault, gun violence, smut, oral (f receiving), exhibitionism, semi-public sex, cum play, running away together, strangers to lovers

You saw them all.

You saw the good guys, the ones that subtly slipped you charming smirks across the room and only followed your sways and movements with their dagger-like eyes when they believed you were no longer looking. They were the ones that stayed after hours and politely asked you for your holocode so that they may take you out sometime; each time that you declined, they said that was fine, to have a good night. But they always came back, they always pushed again and again, and the golden facade they had once wore in the beginning ground away into something you no longer were able to tolerate.

You saw the rougher guys, the fellows that whistled when you turned or batted your eyes against the blinding lights bathing you in fluorescent beams. Those were the ones that did not push, rather than shove, in the way that they bought you drinks and asked the bartender when you got off and attempted to charm you into some half-filthy set of sheets that you would most likely be booted from come the next morning.

And, of course, you saw the worse men. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, given your sketchy and disreputable surroundings, they were the ones that had been convinced somewhere in their lives you were only there to serve and fulfill their drunken desires. They dared to push the limits and tried to touch you on and off of your stage, pour dissolving agents in your drinks suspecting the waitresses and tenders would be on their side, even went as far as to try to follow you out and tail you back to your apartment in Happyland just past the cantina’s territory in Slum District G17.

You had seen them all, and yet there was something about the man sitting in the far corner that failed to fit into any of the pre-assigned categories of your regulars - and not-so-regulars.

It was a usually packed night when you first saw him, sitting by his lonesome in the backmost booth secluded in the darkest nook of the cantina. From your spot on the stage, swarmed by men of all races and species that practically drooled over your shimmersilk dress and plush lips as they rode out the lyrics of your song, you were able to see every face that stared back at you. There were the single males, of course, cruising girls at the bar or watching your every movement; then there were the gaggles of women, a few of which also cast you longing glances; the couples, the drug dealers, the souls who simply came to have a drink and listen to the tunes… they all slipped under your radar, invisible to your trained eye that skillfully swept across the bar.

But he did not. You had never seen him before, never even once around in the back alleys or on your days off when you came for the free drinks and chats with your favorite bartenders. You were unable to make out too many distinguishable features from your spot on the stage, the glitter stuck in the corners of your eyes shining like the stars far above your head, but you could see the most defining aspects of the stranger. He was thin and wiry, a short bristle of stark white hair atop his head. At his feet beneath the table, he shielded a long, dark case with his ankles, nudging it further beneath the booth when he seemed to think anyone traveled too close to his little alcove. He held a round glass of amber liquid between his fingers on the table like it would escape should he let it go for even a moment.

From your position, you could not tell if he was looking at you, but his head was turned your way and failed to ever waver, even when the waitresses stopped to offer him a refill or a meal to go along with his drink. It seemed that he always declined, because no food ever arrived at his table, and his glass only ever emptied and never filled again.

Finally forcing yourself to pull your gaze from the curious guest, you guided your attention back to the rest of your audience and raised your voice to approach the end of the set you were performing. Your heart swelled with the resounding final notes and your fists raised above your head, your soul lost in the few last strums and thundering moments of the song. For some reason you could not place your finger on as you squeezed your eyes shut, you imagined yourself singing to only the single man in the corner, and him alone. You could practically feel his eyes on you as your wails turned to a curving note that ended the song, and your chest heaved for breath when the music came to a halt and the clapping began.

Your eyes opened again and the golden lights that bathed you in a sea of glory had brightened, giving you the full imagery of an angel that had come from a neighboring galaxy. The patrons clapped as if their lives depended on it, cheering and demanding more. Your gaze glided to the man that had so peculiarly caught your attention, and you found that he was, indeed, staring at you. He did not clap like the others, but once he knew he had your eyes, he courteously raised his glass and tipped it in your direction. In what you hoped was a rather smooth motion, you dipped your head in thanks and gave a small flicker of the shimmersilk of your dress that resembled a fan of starlight. In a sort of response, he nodded, then tossed back the rest of his drink.

The rest of the night paced onwards like a nervous droid at the Tipsy Tooka, and your songs eventually died down into low croons and murmurs to accompany the empty chairs and bare tables left behind in the wake of the rush. Only a number of patrons remained, and they didn’t seem to mind when you at last stepped off your stage to retire for the evening. Your heels clicked against the dark tiled floor as you approached the bar, where the tender already had your regular drink waiting for you.

It must have been the good voice day you’d just had, or perhaps the liquid courage that was currently slithering down your throat, but you found yourself approaching the booth in the corner. The sounds of clinking glasses and low, hushed murmurs surrounded you as you stopped at the table’s edge, your toes coming dangerously close to the sleek black case hiding behind the man’s ankles. He lifted his head to face you, and it was here up close that you were able to catch the more defining features of his face and appearance.

The few faded layers he wore only did so much to cover the slight bulge of muscle in his shoulders, disproving your earlier presumption he was all bone and no meat. The crosshairs tattoo circling his right eye complemented the fleshy scar that marred his temple, a patch of skin that looked as though it had once been boiled and stung before the healing process could have begun. A toothpick hung from his thin lips, switching sides of his mouth as if on its own accord as he glanced up at you like a rather bored-looking predator being confronted by his own prey.

“Care if I join you?” you asked, and your own voice startled you with how quiet and steady it was. After an evening of singing as if your life depended on it, speaking regularly was always a struggle of an adjustment. When he studied you for a long moment, you began to think that you had crossed a line. But then he nodded once, giving you the permission you were seeking.

Sliding into the booth across from him, you pulled the delicate material of your dress over your legs and leaned back to take a sip of your drink. The taste was lively and like fuel to the fire attempting to coax itself into a visible flame in the pit of your belly. “New down here, stranger?”

The man had returned his stern, ever watchful gaze to his drink, but it was evident that he was listening by the way he shifted himself into a position to mirror your own. “Just passing through,” he muttered shortly. His voice was cold and raspy, as if damaged by years of saving it until it truly mattered.

You gave a short little hum before taking another swig and running a fingertip over the rim of the glass. “You play music?” you asked innocently, gently tapping the toe of your shoe against the black case beneath the table. You thought it to be a case for carrying an instrument, a few tools, perhaps. You were surprised when the corner of his lip twitched in what could have been akin to the beginning of a smile.

“Something like that,” he said, tone wistful and dripping with sarcasm all at once. He trailed off into a comfortable silence that, at the same time, demanded to be filled. He glanced up at your now-dim stage. “Quite the show you put on. You entertain like that every night?”

An amused harrumph escaped your lips, and you found yourself still emboldened than you would have normally been. What was so different, so special about this man? You couldn’t place it just yet. “Only when I see someone I like in the crowd,” you said. His eyes flickered up to meet yours for just a fraction of a second before he dropped them again. You took a breath, and told him your name. The toothpick in his mouth switched sides again, and you thought for a moment you were mesmerized in the way you were unable to take your gaze off of it.

“Hmm,” he grunted in return, and you found it rather amusing, how guarded he was, and yet how enraptured you had become in just looking at this man for a single night. His slim fingers, covered with form-fitting gloves, were still snaked around his own glass, and every twitch and gentle movement they made grabbed your attention as if they had snapped themselves in front of your face. “See something you like, dollface?” he spoke again, pulling your attention back to his quirked expression.

Allowing a ‘you caught me’ sort of sound to drift from your lips, you crossed your legs and studied the nail polish on your fingertips that was beginning to chip. “I could have asked the same thing, the way you were watching me this evening.”

“What can I say? I’m a watcher. I observe.”

You sensed the truth in his words, and yet you were somehow able to pick up on the slight undertone of something else hidden in the subtext. It was lost to you, but for now, you supposed it didn’t matter that much. You finished your drink before sliding the empty glass to rest beside his at the edge of the table. “Forgive me, but I didn’t catch your name?”

His head tilted to the side, as if he found your question humorous, but he wasn’t allowing himself to show it. “I didn’t say it,” he hissed in a low, teasing way that ruptured a balloon of butterflies in your stomach. He seemed to think. “Crosshair. But I go by a couple titles down here in the dark.”

Attention snapping to the small tattoo marking the left side of his face, you felt your brow slink upwards into an expression of playful suspicion. “I thought you said you were just passing through.”

Crosshair did not look as though he regretted his slip of the tongue. Even if he did, he was a master of keeping his facade plain and neutral. “Who said I’m not?” he replied with a tilted smirk.

The next evening, he was there again. He sat in the same place and ordered the same thing, and he watched you sing. The night after that, he was also there. The long black case never failed to be at his feet or by his side on the cushion, but no matter how many times you asked him to see, he would not open the latches and give you a peek. He carried it with him everywhere, from the cantina to the streets where he disappeared after the bar closed, to your apartment door when he walked you home.

It could have been a matter of weeks - you really hadn’t been counting - when the thick tension between the pair of you at last came to a head.

Your arms raised above your head in a show of power and soul as your song reached its last final notes, and the audience was already bursting into an uproar of applause and cheers at your feet. It was a grand, marvelous feeling, being surrounded by those who looked at you like a goddess, like an otherworldly entity they only had the honor of even looking at. And yet, despite their hollers and whistles that fell upon deaf ears, you only had eyes for a single face far from the crowd before you. Crosshair’s gaze was set upon your languid movements and your heavenly figure as if you would disappear if he even dared to blink. He had long ago memorized your sets, and by the time you had curtseyed and started off stage, he had already moved his case to make room for you at his booth.

It had become a sort of rhythm the two of you fell into; you finished your show for the night, and he would allow you to sit with him and talk over drinks until the sun threatened to rise with the new day. A number of times had he walked you home - first to your building, then your floor, and finally your front door - but he never made any sort of move in the slightest. He kept close to you in the darkened streets of the Lower Levels, but he reserved the distance between you at the same time. It wasn’t as if you really cared at the moment; you couldn’t deny he was devilishly handsome, but you were content to continue your little ritual for the time being.

The neon lights of the cantina tossed shadows across your features as you made your way to the bar, where you waited patiently for the bartender to mix up your regular. Half-leaning against the glass surface of the bar, you dared a glance over your shoulder and found Crosshair already watching you with the eyes of a hawk. He blinked, then offered the ghost of a smirk. I’m waiting, the smile seemed to say.

You were just about to kick off the rather crowded countertop, seeing as the tender was struggling to keep up with the ten o’ clock crowd, when you felt the weight of a touch on your shoulder. Turning, you found a man standing behind you, baring his own flirtatious lip. He was considerably taller than you and wore fine materials that could have come from Naboo itself. He was handsome, yes, but you felt confident enough to declare you were no longer seeking a pretty face; you had one at the booth in the corner.

“I don’t mean to sound too forward,” said the man and swirled the teal liquid in his glass, “but I enjoyed your show tonight. Best joint I’ve been to in a while - especially down here, you know?”

Politely, you offered a halfassed smile and nodded your head once in some attempt to tell him you weren’t interested. “Thank you,” you said and turned back to the bar.

To your dismay, it seemed the unwanted attention was far from over. As he carried on, he managed to tiptoe a bit closer so that your chests were just inches apart and you were able to smell the alcohol on his breath when he spoke. “Say, what’s a pretty girl like you doin’ in a kriffhole like this? It’s dangerous down here; lots of sketchy people that wind up in these kinds of cantinas.”

“Well, you said, your voice teetering with impatience, “I suppose you would know, wouldn’t you?”

“Heh.” His plush lips - too plump, too innocent-looking - twisted upwards into what could have been akin to a cruel smile. “I like you, sweetheart.” He downed the rest of his drink, then jerked his head in the direction of the front doors. “What do you say we ditch it. You’re done for the night, aren’t you? I could show you a much better time than sitting in a lousy bar for the rest of night.”

“Not interested,” you replied, at last coming forth and smacking him with the blunt truth. Finally, the bartender slid you your regular drink across the glass and you accepted it, turning around to make for the booth in the corner.

There was a small part of you that began to panic when he followed you, stretching out an arm to snag your wrist before you could slink away. It wasn’t as if this hadn’t happened before, unfortunately. But you always escaped unharmed, thanks to the security prowling the perimeters and a few good samaritans; yet, that didn’t mean you didn’t get frightened when something threatened to start up.

“Oh, come on, baby, I stayed through the entire show just to ask you.” The man’s grip became tighter around your flesh, digging into the skin, and a jerk back towards him caused you to drop the glass and let it shatter beside your feet. It seemed that as soon as the shards scattered, a whirlwind of action set into startling motion. Just as he had reached out to take your shoulder in some dominant, threatening move of exasperation, a familiar figure entered your line of view and connected with him in a single fell swoop.

The stranger released you and you staggered back a few feet, teetering on your heels. Crosshair towered over the man, who now clutched a nose spewing blood, and raised his arms to heft a powerful-looking rifle inches from his face. In a moment’s time, you understood; that’s what he kept in that black case of his. He wasn’t passing through; he was hiding out. An assassin? A fugitive? You didn’t have time to consider the possibilities before he lowered the barrel to press against the assaulter’s fleshy cheek.

“Weren’t you taught to keep your hands to yourself, you shukking piece of scum?” he hissed, voice a low and dangerous octave that you had never heard before. He may have been intimidating simply sitting alone in a booth drinking, but here, in the middle of a silent cantina with a gun powerful enough to take off a man’s head, he was the definition of terrifying.

The man that had touched you waved his hands wildly in a gesture of surrender, blood still pouring down the side of his face from his broken nose, thanks to the stock of the modified weapon. “Dank farrik, okay, okay!” he howled, spreading his lips to show a display of scarlet painting his teeth, as well. “I’m sorry! Please don’t kill me, man, I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t gon’na do anythin’, please-“

Crosshair’s jowl twitched with what could have been irritation before he nudged the rifle over an inch or two and fired. The blast planted itself in the tile floor just beside the man’s ear, accompanied by a few shouts and yelps of surprise from the surrounding patrons. The stranger yelped and took the opportunity to scramble away, nearly tripping over himself in his mad dash to the door.

The patrons’ attention quickly fell back to what they had been doing before; this was the slums; they saw potential shootings every morning over where someone was standing on the street. But you remained frozen on the spot, even after Crosshair had settled the rifle back against his shoulder and turned his sharp gaze to yours. As if this was an everyday occurrence to him, he produced a fresh toothpick from a pouch on his hip and placed it between his lips.

Never before in your life had someone gone to such extreme measures to protect you from something as simple as a couple unwanted hands. You had seen much worse - being cornered in an alley, trailed home, nearly drugged - and no one had ever come close to defending you in the way he just had. It caused your chest to become laden with butterflies and lead all at once, and you found both elements slowly seeping their way into the pit of your lower belly, down to a place that caused your pupils to blow wide and your mouth to run dry.

Did he care about you in such a way he was prepared to kill a man over your safety?

Crosshair bit the end of the toothpick, then motioned for you to join him at his regular spot, as if nothing had happened. Forcing your legs to finally move, you stepped over the pieces of shattered glass at your feet and followed him. Then, at the table, he uncharacteristically took your hand in a gentle manner and pulled you to sit down beside him, instead of your usual spot across the tabletop. The shimmersilk of your dress brushed over the dark material of his pants and your thighs touched as he slowly began to disassemble the rifle and carefully place it back inside the case.

“Did he hurt you?” he grumbled shallowly.

Self consciously, you glanced down at the place on your wrist where the man has grabbed you. Red indents shaped like his fingers had been left behind, but it was nothing that wouldn’t disappear by the morning. “No,” you said quietly, as if your own voice would betray you if you spoke too loudly. You knew that you should have been terrified of sitting with this man now, scared he would do far worse than some creep in a bar half drunk and barely standing. But yet, you found yourself even more incredibly entranced by his persona, the enigma that he was. You found yourself imagining things that you shouldn’t have been - but what was the harm in entertaining your little fantasy for a while? It wasn’t as if he could read minds.

For the rest of the evening, you stayed by Crosshair’s side. He glared daggers at any man - or woman - that dared to get too close, and at one point he had wrapped his arm around the back of your seat to provide a sort of barrier between you and the rest of the cantina. Or, perhaps, he was claiming you as taken, as a goddess with an exclusive worshipper that would die defending his grace. No matter what the intention was, you didn’t mind. After having so many people hit on you with the sole purpose of trying to get some, it was refreshing, arousing, even to have someone hold you so close.

It was these thoughts, and the still-heavy thundering of your heart in the wake of what happened, that spurred on your next actions. One hand still grasping the new drink he had ordered you, your free hand traveled from your own lap to his. If he was surprised, or startled, he didn’t show it. He allowed your fingertips to graze from his knee to his waist before you would backtrack and do it all over again. The first sign of being even slightly fazed by your ministrations was a barely-audible exhale that was a little louder than the others. His jaw was clenched and his eyes were fixated on an empty spot on the ceiling. When you halted, you were pleased to find that his hips followed your hand, silently asking for more.

For what seemed like hours, as the cantina slowly emptied until it was just you pair and the rest of the closing staff, you continued to touch him up and down his leg. Never trailing too close to the place he obviously wanted it the most, you let yourself wander from the outside of his thigh to the curve that dipped inwards between the two. He sucked in a breath each time you did that, clutching his own glass so hard you thought he might have broken it with his bare hand.

You only stopped, much to his exasperation, when the bartender asked if you would be staying. You said only for a while longer. He left the keycard to the doors on the bar for you and left, and finally, the two of you were alone. The air was heavy with tension, seemingly of every kind you could think of, before he took a breath in an attempt to ground himself.

“Do you do this to every man that saves your skin, dollface?” he asked.

You gave a hum in response, not yet allowing your fingers to find his leg again. “As surprising as you may find it,” you murmured, “you’re the first that has.” He turned his head to look at you, eyes full of a muted wonder. “But even if you weren’t,” you went on, shifting so that you brought yourself closer to the side of his face, “nobody this planetside would compare to you, Crosshair.”

It seemed that his name upon your lips sent him over the edge, because the moment you uttered that single word, he pounced on you like he had been chasing you for miles and had at last caught up. His hand reached out to hold the side of your face as he pressed his lips against yours in a feverish way, like he hadn’t tasted anyone else his entire life. Your fingers found clutches on his top layer as you allowed him to pull you into his lap, thighs covering his own as you straddled his hips. Your eyes were closed, but you could feel every movement, every touch, like a light show of color and tricks before your very gaze. His other hand moved to grasp the back of your neck and bring your face even closer to his, if that was possible.

It wasn’t long before you felt the warm, slick sensation of his tongue prodding at your swollen lips, asking permission to enter. You granted him access at once, emitting a quiet groan at the feeling of his tongue exploring the roof of your mouth, your teeth, your own. The open-mouthed kiss felt as if a thousand blaster shots were being fired around you, surrounding you in a haze of red and blue, but you couldn’t have cared less. All there was, was this mysterious man, and the way his touch alone made your heart swell into something you had never felt before.

Crosshair’s patience for anything but the endgame seemed to be wearing thin, because one moment he had you in his lap, sucking your very soul from your mouth, and the next he had set you down on the cushion and shoved the table between the two seats out of the way. He stood straight again and stared down at you hungrily, eyes locked onto yours as both your chests heaved for breath you would never find.

“Do me a favor, mesh’la,” he crooned as he began to pull off the gloves covering his hands. “Take off that pretty dress for me, will you?”

You had never rushed to obey an order so fast in your life. Removing the offending garment with only enough care so that the expensive material wouldn’t rip, you slipped yourself out of it and set it off to the side. He seemed to be in awe over the fact that you were only left in a thin pair of panties, your breasts bare to him and his sinful gaze that wandered you like a coiled snake’s. Slowly, as if he were trying to tease you, he lowered himself to his knees before you and gripped your thighs tight. His hands were slim and his fingers long and calloused, aiding your filthy imagination as far as it dared to go.

“All those karking fleabags that frequent this place were right,” he said, obviously thinking aloud as he placed one hand over your right breast. A low moan escaped your throat when he rolled the sensitive bud between two fingers, testing your limits and noting your reactions. “You truly are to kill and die for.”

In one fluid motion, he ripped your panties down your legs and buried his face between your thighs, which had parted like the gates of heaven for him. You were unable to stop the piercing, practically pornographic moan that ripped through your vocal chords and echoed throughout the little bar. Arms wrapped around your legs to keep you open, he ate you out like he hadn’t eaten in days. His tongue licked stripe after stripe up and down and through your folds, garnering your slick on the link muscle and making a show and swallowing it with ease. Heading you chanting his name like a prayer led him to shift on his knees, propping one of your legs over his shoulder and attaching his lips to your clit.

“Oh, kriff! Oh, Maker, Crosshair. Just like that - ah!” The strings of curses and howls and moans ruptured from your throat like a lothcat in heat, and if anything, it only made him move faster. He eventually trailed his tongue down, down, down to your entrance, which he greedily licked before entering. You were sure you felt him smirking against you as he circled his tongue around inside of you, his sharp nose bumping against your clit and sending you hurtling towards the edge.

“Cum for me, pretty girl,” he said, only removing his tongue long enough to command your release. “Let me see you tremble.”

For a moment, you believed yourself to have blacked out from the intense, searing pleasure that had suddenly snapped within you. Your body spasmed as if you were being electrocuted, thighs tightening around his head, nails running across his scalp and through his hair like your life depended on it. A wail accompanied his pleased grunts and huffs as he lapped up everything you gave him, his eyes never once leaving you as he coaxed the last bit of cum from you with the tip of his tongue. A thin sheen of sweat covered your face, your head lolled against your shoulder, and you only looked up when Crosshair stood to reveal the very prominent - and very bold - outline of his erection in his pants.

“You are,” he cooed in that low, downright sinful voice of his as he sat beside you and pulled you back into his lap, “the sweetest, most insatiable creature I’ve ever met.” He moved forward to kiss you again, and you were able to taste the tangy taste of yourself on his lips as he held you close. “Now,” he said when you broke apart, his hand fisted in your hair, “you’re going to sit here while I fuck you senseless, dollface. Understand?”

Unable to stop a shiver of excitement from coursing through your veins, you nodded your head and reached out to stroke his face, as if you couldn’t believe he was a real person. “Yes, sir,” you panted, clenching around nothing at the way his eyes darkened and his movements to free his cock quickened.

Crosshair pulled his pants down just enough for his dick to emerge, and you let out a mumbled groan at just the sight of it in his hand as he stroked its length a few times. The tip was swollen and already leaking a fair amount of precum, the color nearly matching the shade of the rosy tint that had taken over his slim cheekbones. “Be good girl,” he whispered, raising you up so that he could position himself just below you. You gasped when you felt the tip running through your soaked folds, and he gave a wicked chuckle at the way your hips involuntarily bucked against him. “Eager little thing, aren’t you?”

Returning his hands to your hips, he slowly guided you down onto himself. Latching yourself onto his shoulders, you tossed your head back to moan loudly, giving him the opportunity to attack your neck with relentless sucking and the gentle grazing of his teeth against particularly sensitive spots. Inch by inch he filled you, stretching you so deliciously you didn’t think it was possible. When he bottomed out, not even having begun to thrust, his cock brushed against that soft, spongy part of you that made you see stars before your eyes. Immediately, you began to ground your hips against his, only stopping when he grabbed your chin to hold between his thumb and index finger.

“Ah-ah,” he tisked, that alluring, dangerous smile of his contorting his lips. “What did I say?” Without waiting for an answer, he shifting his legs to spread even further apart - including your own, knees planted on either side of his thighs - and nearly pulled you off of him before ramming himself back into you. He possessed a strength you hadn’t even suspected, but it wasn’t as if you were complaining. A tidal wave of pleasure ran through you like a powerful shot as he dragged his dick through your walls, able to feel each and every vein and ridge across him. Again, he pulled away only to thrust back up into you, causing spots of black to dance in your vision.

Crosshair fucked you good and hard, his hips picking up speed before you were bouncing on top of him, cheeks tinted pink and mouth slack jawed at the intense power of pleasure he was making you feel. Again and again, he snapping up into you, his thighs hitting yours, and it was a wonder you didn’t fall off of him, how hard he was going at it. The sound of skin against skin was only complemented by the erotic pants and moans you both emitted, groaning one another’s names like a mantra.

Soon, just when you could feel that familiar coil beginning to tighten in your stomach, his hand trailed to the place where you were connected to press his thumb against the sensitive nub of your clit. You practically screamed against him, hands fisting in his short hair as he began to work tight circles on the bundle of nerves. Electricity shot through you like fire, from being fucked so wonderfully to the little motions of his finger, it was all so good, too good.

“Cross-s, please, I’m gon’na-“

“Do it, then,” he said between nips on your raw, fleshed neck. “Cum. Now.”

Between his hard, snapping, rocking motions, his thumb, and the achingly demanding nature of his tone, you felt yourself fly off the edge. The coil in your belly came undone again with a powerful snap, and you trembled wildly as you shook against him. He held you tightly as you came, kissing your neck, your chin, your lips, until you couldn’t figure where your orgasm ended and his kissed began. You felt your release pooling around his cock, but it wasn’t enough for him.

With a determined grunt, Crosshair snaked his arms under your thighs and lifted you just enough to lay you down on the cushion of the booth. Once situated, where he had himself caging your limp body under his, he went right back at it, pounding away in search of his own release. You whimpered and gasped, holding the back of his neck as his rhythm grew frantic and erratic, slamming into you with wild abandon. You reached up to place a feather-light kiss on his cheek, and it was all over.

With what seemed to be every ounce of his self restraint, he pulled out of you and desperately stroked his cock once, twice, before he came across your abdomen with a twisted shout. Spurts of cum painted your flushed, sweaty skin, and when he was spent, he watched in awe as you scooped it up with your fingers and placed it on your tongue. You even flicked it out to show him before closing your mouth and swallowing.

It was some time later when the two of you emerged from the Tipsy Tooka, looking a little more ragged than when you both went in. He carried his gun case in one hand, the other fishing a toothpick from his pouch. There seemed to be a silent question hanging between you that neither of you wanted to address.

What now? Would he continue coming to the bar? Would you fuck one another every night until one of you didn’t show up anymore?

“Listen, dollface,” Crosshair said finally. He leaned back against the wall of the narrow alleyway you stood in, glancing upwards at the highways above your heads. “I’ve been here too long. Got a few people I’m trying to shake.”

You felt your heart sink in your chest, your breath catching in your throat. He was… leaving? After all that?

“Can’t take you with me,” he said, as if going over his own thoughts aloud. He looked you over. “Don’t want to leave you here.” There was a long, long moment of stillness, of silence, while he weighed his options. “They’ll come for you if you stay,” he finally said. “That scene tonight let people see my face. I can’t have that.” In a smooth, almost loving motion, he reached out to cup the soft flesh of your cheek, smirking at the way you leaned into it. “Care to come along for the ride?”

“…Yes.”

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