Latest Posts by kk-lizz - Page 3
Hello,my name is Yousef Hilles from Gaza. I followed my campaign and was verified by @el-shab-hussein I hope you can help you can help Campaign number(209)
deadpool’s #1 song on spotify wrapped is casual by chappell roan send tweet
What if Crosshair has aversion to raw seafood (especially fish) after being stranded on Kamino for 32 rotations? Let's face it - raw fish were most likely his main source of sustenance after rations run out (if he even had any).
There will be most likely a journey ahead of him, as people of Pabu seem to be predominantly fisherfolks. He could have a hard time going to the lower levels of Pabu or at least avoiding going out at certain times of the day when fishermen unload their catch.
Also as calming as fishing together might seem to Wrecker, first few times were extremely taxing for the sniper.
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See more of my fix-it posts here -> [LINK] <-
My fanart masterlist -> [LINK] <-
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STAR WARS: The Clone Wars/The Bad Batch © George Lucas/ Dave Filoni/ LucasFilm/ Disney
cody, tending to obi-wan's wounds: how would you rate your pain?
obi-wan, a little out of it— pain meds slowly kicking in : zero stars. would NOT recommend.
cody, chuckling softly: that isn't exactly what i meant, mesh'la; but it was helpful nonetheless, now stay still..
winning shot
That Old Song
Pairing: Crosshair x Female Reader
Summary: After pining after him for months, you get the chance to see Crosshair one more time before he ships out with his squad to Kaller.
Tags: SFW. Kissy-kiss, pre-relationship, general softness, implied tragic romance
Word count: 1693 words
Read on AO3 | My one-shot masterlist
This one was inspired by That Old Song from the Slime Rancher soundtrack because it gives me tragic romance vibes and even though I always wanna give Crosshair a happy ending, I really felt inspired to explore the more tragic side of canon because we all know what happens to him by this point (and season 3's not even over lol Lord help us)
The sky turned purple as the sun on Anaxes began to set. The warm toned twilight would always bring a sense of foreboding with it, but you were used to it. The hangar on Anaxes was not a front line, but it was still a warzone, and war didn't discriminate. It took away, it destroyed, it forced goodbyes, but like the stars that were rising in the ever-darkening sky, there were always gleams of hope that traced finer, beautiful shapes if you knew how to look for them.
He was such a glimmer, at least to you.
You hadn't stepped a foot inside the base since the Havoc Marauder landed. Though repairs and refueling were insistently handled by the team's own engineer, you had the honor of being the only mechanic around whom Tech would even allow to set a finger on the hull of the modified Omicron-class attack shuttle. While he was off running diagnostics and the rest of the squad loaded up on rations, you were finishing up putting away the supplies you'd needed for a standard oil change. You caught the scent of the oil coming from your gloves, which you carefully removed to reveal your hands, the skin on them soft and surprisingly well taken care of despite your profession. At that moment, you could hear the subtle pacing behind you, and a gentle smile formed on your lips. You'd had so many encounters with them that, while short, had already allowed you to recognize how each of the defective clones walked - you'd gotten the chance to know such a detail from many clone battalions, but you didn't enjoy knowing any of them as much as you did for Clone Force 99.
The steps approaching you were light as a feather resulting in lifelong training for stealth, and long resulting in a tall silhouette. Carefully paced one after the other, you knew he was already smirking at the sight of you. It was simply who he was.
You turned around and your eyes landed on the silver hair and the deep brown eyes that would reflect sunlight so beautifully whenever a golden ray hit them just right - that was the only thing that made you yearn for sunshine in the middle of that twilight. Regardless, you couldn't help but grin at the man approaching you. Being in his presence was everything that occupied your thoughts when he was gone.
"Thought you'd be here," he said while chewing on a toothpick.
The giggle that left you was just a bit too obvious for your taste, but you muscled through it. "Aren't you smart."
"I hope you haven't been here all week," he teased. "I don't tell you when I'll be here in my letters for you to tie yourself to the hangar."
"It might surprise you to know I'm always exactly where I need to be," you smirked, your hands traveling to your hips. "I just happen to be needed here right now."
Crosshair, who was always so stern and so serious, let out a chuckle in front of you. The way others talked about him, even his brothers, you were already sure by then that you were one of the only people he ever did that around, and the low sound of his laughter and the way his chest fluttered when he did made you feel your knees giving out on you. Finally, Crosshair took a couple of calculated steps toward you, decreasing some of the distance between the two of you. He looked down at you, silent for a moment, so peaceful you could hear the wind blowing at your sides. Despite the cool breeze, all you could feel on your skin was heat.
"Have you heard the rumors?" You asked him.
Crosshair nodded, the seriousness returning to his face. "Yeah. War's ending soon."
Sarcasm flooded his previous remark, and you gave him a bittersweet smile. "You don't seem all that happy about it."
"It's not that," Crosshair replied. "I'm not in a position to assert or expect anything."
"Right," your mind went back to your initial pondering on the cruelties of war, but you decided to focus on the man in front of you. "Will you be headed to Coruscant?"
Crosshair shook his head. "We're needed on Kaller."
"Oh," you said. "I see. Kaller... snowy, full of clankers."
"My specialty," Crosshair purred.
You giggled. "So... maybe it's safer to say that I'll see you again soon?"
As you were talking to him, you inched closer to Crosshair. Your hands were down at your sides, but you couldn't help but notice how close his hands were to yours, and how easy it would be to reach out and touch his gloved fingers with your bare ones. What you hadn't realized up until that moment, even with all the letters and the hours you'd spent thinking about Crosshair, was how desperately you needed to hold him, and to be held by him.
But Crosshair sighed, hesitant. "Darling..."
"We haven't been sending each other letters for months now just because," you whispered. "Have we?"
A faint smile appeared on his thin lips. "No."
Your own smile, though soft, grew at him, and your eyes seemed to sparkle.
"Crosshair..." You sighed, the dreaminess finding its way into your voice.
He couldn't help but laugh again. "Well, damn. You really are smitten."
Flustered, you looked away, but Crosshair reached out to gently hold your chin and have you look up at him again. He took in the way you were looking at him, with sparkling eyes and an adorable smile, your cheeks warm and your silhouette glowing with hope, like a girl first entranced by puppy love. Your hand went up to perch itself over his wrist, but as you did, your romantic heart stilled itself when the thought of him leaving soon bled into your mind, forcing the smile to slowly disappear from you.
"What is it?" He asked.
You chuckled bashfully. "I just..."
You feared the effect of your words, you feared that it would put a pressure on him that he didn't need, one that no soldier deserved to be burdened with. But inside you, a flame burned, one that prompted you to simply speak now, to not hold back, to not reduce yourself and your feelings to letters and comms. Crosshair, the man of your dreams, finally stood before you, his hand on your skin. You would never forgive yourself if you wasted this opportunity now that you had it.
Because how in the world could you have known what happened next?
"I just don't want you to leave," you whispered. "I never do."
Crosshair gave a soft exhale as he rolled the toothpick to the opposite corner of his lips and spat it out to the side only to look at you again, his gaze turning gentle on you. His other hand traveled up to your face, and now he cupped your cheeks with a steady, soft grip.
"Would it help if I told you I don't want to leave you here either?" He asked.
You smiled softly. "It's nice to know that."
Your eyes met, and you were overtaken by the desire to collapse in his arms and become one with him. You valued each second you'd been gifted to look at his face; your gaze traced the tattoo over his right eye, memorizing the little textures where the ink seemed to falter - you'd never noticed it wasn't a solid line, it looked like it'd been drawn over the artisanal canvas of his skin. You basked in his warmth as your hands reached out to his waist, and you pulled yourself closer to him, and while you did, part of you wanted to curse and lash out at the fact that you hadn't done this sooner.
But you were there now, and that was enough to calm you. And if the war was ending, you wanted to cling to the hope that you'd be in the arms of your beloved again soon.
"Crosshair?" You asked.
With his gaze, he prompted you to continue.
"I..." you said. "I want to kiss you."
Crosshair didn't wait longer, and he slowly lowered himself to gently press his lips to yours. You felt as if every star in the sky above you would explode at that moment, and your arms slid up around Crosshair's shoulders while his slid around your waist. A kiss that started out softly didn't hesitate to become what you could only describe as romance itself, fully engulfing you both in one wavelength as your lips danced together, timeless in your own right. Softly, you moaned at his taste, and you vowed never to forget the sensation of his lips on yours, warm and intoxicating, like it would give you everything you'd ever need for the rest of your days.
You never wanted it to end, but the time came for Crosshair to set you down again. You hadn't even noticed when you'd started to stand on your toes, but when the soles of your feet were back on the ground, you looked up at him with hope, with love, and with the unspoken desire to scream "don't go" building up and eating you up inside.
With all those feelings in your gaze, looking at you nearly broke Crosshair's heart.
Your hands gently traveled to Crosshair's cheeks and you felt his stubble growing in beneath your fingertips. You gave a light chuckle and added that detail to the many you'd remember from that night, and finally, you smiled brightly at Crosshair.
"Let me know where you end up after Kaller," you said.
Crosshair smiled softly. "You know I will."
You knew it would be time for him to leave soon, so you resolved to be with him in the time you had left. You threw your arms around Crosshair and held him tighter than you'd ever held anyone. You didn't mind the armor under your soft body, all that mattered was you were holding him.
And fervently, during those last few moments, you prayed neither Kaller nor whatever came after it would take him away from you.
Thank you for reading! Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!
👆👆👆💓🩷💗🩷💖💗
redraw meme to cope lmao
Made a meme bc I found this pic of tech being annoyed
Template below
🙌✨✨💖💖💖💖
they both reached for the gun
my girls
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(06/19/2024)
Divider by: @cafekitsune
Hunter: I don't think we can mansplain, manipulate, or malewhore our way out of it this time
Crosshair: manslaughter it is
they ruined my life fuck them fr i hate them sm
Cody: Obi-Wan and I don't use pet names. Rex: I see. Hey, what do bees make? Cody: Honey. Obi-Wan [shouting from the next room]: Yes, dear? Cody: Rex: Cody: Rex: Don't ever lie to my face again.
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A Shift in the Galaxy
Neurodivergent Tech Week 2024 Day 2: Comfort Person @neurodivergent-tech-week
Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Word Count: 1424 Summary: Tech writes a letter to Crosshair after fleeing Kamino, a letter he will never send. Crosshair finds it after Tech's death. WARNINGS: Canon Compliant Character Death, Grief, Heavy Angst READ ON AO3
Crosshair,
I am not quite sure why I am doing this as you will never see it, but… talking to the others seems… hard. We’re always so busy now being on the run from… well, from you, I suppose. Though…
It’s not really you, is it?
I have to tell myself it’s not. I have to look at the facts, put things in order. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one doing so. Hunter is… You know him. He likes to keep moving forward, and keep moving forward, putting things behind him without analyzing, or taking another look because he has to think about his squad.
And I can’t accept that.
I can’t accept that this is you.
Things just don’t add up. They don’t feel right, like the entire galaxy has shifted its place in the universe.
Order 66 went out. That happened. And you tried to follow it. You tried to execute that padawan we were helping without provocation, without good cause.
That’s not you.
You like to sit and think, you like to act carefully, and with the utmost precision. I know you do.
It was as if part of your mind was overridden. Just not all of it.
You were harsher.
You were angrier, especially with Hunter.
You wanted to distance yourself.
You were taken from our cell.
What were you taken for, I wonder?
I suppose we never did find out, though I have a few horrible hypotheses. (Experimentation, perhaps?)
Thinking about it turns my stomach, it makes me all tense. I wish I could have done something to stop whatever had happened from happening. Yet, I believe I am supposed to think about you being taken from our cell. It is another fact to add to this complicated situation. Another fact to add to the list that suggests you didn’t actually want us taken captive, or dead. Another fact to add to the list that suggests you are not well, that you are not yourself.
I worry about myself sometimes—the inhibitor chip. What if mine activates? What will I do? And what of the others?
Will I do what you did? Will they?
Are you… still in there?
Are you alive, Crosshair?
Or is it just the Empire now?
What did they do to you?
I find it ironic that you were the person I always went to when I needed comfort. Your steady silence was supportive, a strength that I think others might overlook. I need you right now, but I need you because you’re not here. How funny is that? Though, funny isn’t the right word. This isn’t funny at all.
This is…
I am…
I am afraid.
But I hope you are okay. I hope the Empire isn’t hurting you, causing you even more harm. I hope you’re still in there somewhere. I hope you can fight this.
I miss you.
I’m not exactly supposed to talk about it, I don’t think. There’s so much else we need to discuss that conversations about you are quickly ended. And we have Omega to look after, after all. I know she barely knew you, but she seems to miss you too. I find comfort in that—in knowing that I am not alone in caring for you now. I wish you knew you were a person who could be loved, that you could accept that you are in fact a person like the rest of us, with needs and feelings. (Or are you even that anymore? I don’t have enough data to analyze the situation. I feel like I am looking at a gaping hole where evidence should be, where answers should lie. Where are the facts? The numbers? I grasp for them, but what is there to hold on to?)
I know Hunter misses you. He just won’t say it. I hope someday you can believe that he did, that he didn’t want this for us, for you. I think he has to keep going because if he looks back at Kaller, at you being taken from our cell, then he will believe he failed, that he wasn’t the leader we all needed him to be.
He still is, in my opinion. I believe Hunter is a great leader, and I know at the end of the day you carry this belief as well. Or you did. Perhaps, somewhere in there…?
On Kamino we had had difficult choices to make, and we’d had to make them quickly. You have to understand, we could not have stayed. Not even for you.
My heart clenches as I type these words.
I would have liked to stay for you, perhaps. But it would not have been the ideal situation. The Empire would have hurt me too, would have hurt all of us. They would have made me lose myself, like we lost you. And I do not believe in them. I cannot. I refuse to. How can you…? Can you…? No, the inhibitor chip. It’s the inhibitor chip.
My wish was that you could have come with us, that maybe we could have helped you.
Even now I am trying to collect the right data so I can build a scanner for the inhibitor chips, to—I don’t know—perhaps remove them.
Is that possible?
I hope it is.
I miss you.
I want you back.
We… we have your armor and your gear, by the way. I hope we can have the chance to return it to you someday.
I feel unmoored without you here, like there’s something missing for me to lean on. It’s… lonely, despite being around the others all the time.
Whatever you’re doing, wherever the Empire has you, I hope you’re okay.
That’s all I want.
I just want you to be okay.
And if being okay means you don’t need us anymore, then I… I will try to understand.
Just please be safe. Be careful.
The Empire is dangerous.
I fear it will consume us all.
— Tech
The words on the datapad blurred before Crosshair’s eyes, and his legs lost all their strength. He collapsed hard, sitting on a rock, breath forced out of him.
He bowed his head, putting a hand over his eyes.
And he couldn’t breathe.
Why couldn’t he breathe?
It was then that he realized he was letting out harsh, ragged sobs, ripping right through his throat from his chest, tearing its way out of him, stealing his breath, his life.
He knew he had been Tech’s comfort person, had known since they were little cadets. And he had loved the moments where Tech sat with him, leaning against him, sometimes talking, sometimes just doing his own thing. Crosshair had never needed to say much to make Tech feel better.
To think that he had needed him, and he’d been…
Crosshair knew that the inhibitor chip wasn’t his fault, but the rest of it…
And yet Tech had thought of him, had written to him, had cared, had wanted him to know that the others cared too.
Now Tech was gone—a gaping hole in Crosshair’s life, a wound in his torso so large he didn’t know how he was alive some days.
His last memories had been of them on Kamino, of Crosshair wanting to be left behind. Why had he done that? He knew why. He’d had his reasons. And they all felt so stupid now. The time he’d squandered, the distance he’d put between himself and his brothers.
Tech had died trying to save him.
Tech had written to him.
Tech had cared.
And Crosshair had thrown that all away, had shoved Tech and his family so far from him it was like they had been in different galaxies, separated by his own actions, his own feelings. His own idiocy.
Crosshair had made Tech need him, and he hadn’t been there, hadn’t been able to comfort him.
For one devastating, fleeting—perhaps cruel—moment, Crosshair thought he could feel Tech leaning against him, could feel Tech seeking comfort from him. Then it was gone. He was gone.
Crosshair was all alone, nothing but birdsong, and crashing waves to fill his emptiness.
He hugged the datapad to his chest, and sobbed till the world seemed to rip apart.
Tech had been right: there had been a shift in the galaxy, and now it was missing one of its most incredible lifeforms. The galaxy was a lesser place for not having Tech in it, and Crosshair worried, that he was a lesser person without his brother.
the voices win again, so here’s Hunter
the voices win again, so here’s Hunter
the voices win again, so here’s Hunter
Sick Day
Crosshair wakes up sick, and Omega proves herself the best big sister. Written for the @summer-of-bad-batch prompt Lula and inspired by the nagging sore throat I have today. (Edit: it’s Covid!!! Why!!!) ~1000 words of comfort fluff, set a year or two after the Batch settle on Pabu.
---
Crosshair groaned, rolling over in his bed, the covers twisting around him. He shivered despite the layers of sheets and blankets. That didn’t seem right. He slowly blinked his eyes open and swallowed, grimacing when his throat felt like fire.
Oh. Great. He was sick.
There was a knock at the door. He propped himself up on his elbow and glared blearily at the sound. Omega stood in the open doorway, looking in on him with concern clear on her face. “You’re still not up?”
“I’m sick,” Crosshair said thickly. “Stay away if you don’t want the plague.”
“Sick? With what? Hunter and Wrecker and I are fine,” she said, taking a few steps into the bedroom.
He waved a hand at her in irritation, trying to warn her off. “How should I know? I’m not a medic.” He sighed, rubbing his face. His skin felt hot, even to his own touch.
“You don’t look good,” Omega said worriedly. She’d closed the distance to his bed and now leaned over him, smoothing his short sweaty hair back from his forehead. “You’re burning up!”
“Uh-huh,” he agreed. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He shivered again, pulling the blankets up to his nose and squinting up at her. “Just leave me to die. It’s the only way.”
“Oh come on now,” Omega said, but this time she wore a hint of a smile at his hyperbole. “Okay, if you’re still able to be snarky, I guess it can’t be too bad.” She squeezed his shoulder with her hand. “I’ll get some things for you, all right? You just sit tight.”
“Do I look like I’m going anywhere?” he mumbled.
“Very funny, Crosshair.”
It was a few minutes when she returned, arms piled high with various items. She pulled his bedside table out with her foot, leaning down and depositing everything she’d brought onto its surface beside where his prosthetic hand lay.
“Crosshair. Wake up.” She nudged him slightly, and he blinked hazily at her.
“I’m up.”
“All right, here’s what we’ve got.” She held out a metal flask, waving it in front of his face. “Cold water. I want you to drink all this before you go back to sleep. You have to stay hydrated.” She helped him sit up, and it was a measure of how crappy he felt that he didn’t even have it in him to make a face at her. He let her help him into a sitting position, and he took the bottle in his left hand after she opened it. “Do you want your other hand, or --”
He waved her away with his stump, and she left the prosthesis on the table in its case. He didn’t always use his hand; it was necessary for many tasks, but just as often he preferred to go without, as it took extra effort to use and control. Wouldn’t be much point when he was stuck here in bed. He took a drink of the cold water, flinching as he swallowed, his throat a bed of knives. But the water was deeply refreshing, and he forced himself to take a few more drinks.
“Good. Here, we’ve got some other things. Lozenges if your throat’s bothering you, medication for a fever, an extra blanket, toothpicks if you need them….” She looked up at him hopefully.
Crosshair nodded to the bottles of medication. “I’ll take some of that.” He traded her the bottle of water for pills tapped into the palm of his hand, tossed them into his mouth, then took back the bottle of water to take a swallow. Maybe that’d help him feel less like something that had been scraped off of somebody’s boot.
He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. “I was supposed to be down at the docks today. Let Beryx know I’ll be late --”
“Oh no you don’t,” said Omega sternly. “You stay in here and rest. I’ll let her know you’re sick, but don’t overdo it. I know what you’re like, little brother.”
He managed a chuckle, though his throat seared. “I guess you do.” He managed to finish the bottle of water. “Satisfied?”
“Very. If you didn’t let me help, I was going to go get AZI,” Omega said. “I still will, if you get worse.”
“Threats now, is it?”
Omega giggled. “Oh, there you are. Good. Give me a minute, I forgot something.”
“I can hardly wait.” He drowsed against the wall for a moment, waiting for her to return. She was such a good kid. There was a warm glow in his chest that had nothing to do with the fever.
“Here we go,” she said. He opened his eyes to see Omega holding Lula in his arms, offering her out to him.
He hesitated.
It’d been years. The last time he’d really had anything to do with the tooka doll had been after Kaller, after the Order, when Wrecker had pummeled him with her. It hadn’t done anything to help the ache in his head that he now knew had been the inhibitor chip, and it certainly hadn’t done anything to help his unsettled, paranoid mood.
But he also remembered being small, legs throbbing from growing pains, head aching after hours focusing on target practice, curling up with Lula in his bunk and jealously guarding her from his brothers. She’d belonged to all of them back then, a secret gift from 99, something all their own in a world where they knew they themselves were owned. She’d been the reason they’d picked those colors for their armor, even if they would rather die than admit it to the regs.
A reluctant smile creased his face. “Fine. She can stay.” He lowered himself back to the bed, burrowing back under the blankets, and Omega tucked Lula in snugly beside him. “But if anyone asks, you made me take her.”
“Of course I did,” Omega said with a conspiratorial wink. “Everyone knows I’m even more stubborn than you are.”
He snorted, closing his eyes, sleep calling once more to him. But there was one last thing he needed to do. “Hey. Omega,” he said softly.
“Yes, Crosshair?”
“Thank you.”
from twt
Promises Made (pt. 3/3)
Part One | Part Two
Pairing: Crosshair x fem!Reader / Crosshair x Jedi!Reader
Words: 10,651 / 23,314
Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! angst, hurt/comfort, themes of grief/death/mourning, protective!Crosshair, mutual pining, smut, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, overstimulation
Summary: Crosshair is back, and you're the only one who still can't seem to forgive him. When you finally have the lead you've been seeking since the extinction of the Jedi, you seize the opportunity to escape the constant turmoil his presence causes you. Of course, Crosshair has other plans.
A/N: Okay yes so this chapter is almost half the entire word count, and yes it's because of the smut, but it's also because of love. Thank you so much to everyone who commented and shared this fic. I hope this is the satisfying ending you were hoping for. 💙
Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist
Crosshair stood vigil while you moved dirt and silt, using the Force to finish smoothing over the makeshift grave. He remained quiet as you knelt beside the fresh patch of earth, placing the stone on top. And he watched as you bowed your head, saying a quiet prayer for the Jedi Master.
You did all you could, burying him deep under a layer of rocks and snow, a final resting place for the man you once thought of as a father. You weren't able to give him the funeral pyre he deserved, not with the storm raging around you, but at least he had a final resting place. And maybe, you could come back when the weather was better, and have a proper ceremony.
Now, you stand, your Master's lightsaber in your hand, the wind whipping at your face. You're chilled to the bone, but the pain is nothing compared to the grief in your chest. You stare at the ground, at the stone that marks his grave, and the tears are a welcome relief.
Crosshair remains a respectful distance away, and you can feel his gaze, his concern. His presence is a comfort, and you take a deep breath, your eyes slipping closed.
"We should head back," he says quietly.
You nod, and the tears sting your cheeks. But your feet remain rooted to the ground, the grief like a physical weight holding you in place.
"Hey."
Crosshair's voice is soft, and you feel his hand on your shoulder. The world comes back into sharp focus under his touch.
You turn to look at him, and the sight of him is almost enough to make you break down. He moves closer, his gaze sweeping slowly over you, and his other hand lifts, gently wiping the tears from your cheeks. You want to say something, but the words die in your throat.
He pulls you to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around you. The sudden movement surprises you, and you gasp, but his grip is strong, and you let yourself melt into his embrace.
"It's okay," he murmurs. "Let it out."
The small hiccups you allow yourself turn into sobs, the sound muffled by his armor as he rubs circles on your back. It's been a long time since anyone's held you like this, and you can't stop the tears.
"I've got you," he says quietly, barely loud enough for you to hear over the wind swirling around you.
You wrap your arms around him, holding onto him like a lifeline. Crosshair is strong and solid and real, and you can feel the weight of his arm around your waist, can hear the beating of his heart through his chest. His fingers brush against the nape of your neck, and you shiver. He doesn't let go, doesn't loosen his grip, and you can feel the warmth of his touch spreading slowly throughout your body.
You're not sure how long he holds you, but you know the two of you can't stay out in the storm forever. You pull away, wiping the tears from your eyes.
You feel the embarrassment creeping in, and you hate the fact that he saw you like this, weak and vulnerable. It's why you wanted to do this on your own, yet you can't help but be grateful for Crosshair's company. You’re not sure if you would have been able to go through with it without him.
He pulls his arm away, his hand lingering on your shoulder. "You ready?"
"Yeah, I..." You look down at the lightsaber in your hands and back to the grave. Your throat feels tight, and your voice is rough.
"You should keep it," Crosshair says.
"I can't. It's his, I—"
"He would've wanted you to have it."
You shake your head, unable to respond. You're not worthy of the weapon, the honor, and you're not sure you'll ever be.
"Take it," he says, his voice soft. "It's the only thing you have left of him."
"But—"
"Take it," he says again. His voice is almost pleading. It makes you hesitate, and your fingers twitch.
He lifts his hand, covering your own. His touch is gentle, and his fingers curl around yours, his gloves pressing against your skin, molding your grip.
"Thank you," you whisper.
"Don't thank me," he says, his tone serious. "You deserve it."
Your heart swells, and your throat tightens.
"Okay," you say at last. You tuck the saber into your bag, the weight heavy against your hip.
"Come on," he says, tilting his head. "Let's get back to the ship."
You follow him, and the two of you trudge through the snow. It's nearly up to your knees now, and the wind is blowing hard, making your teeth chatter. Your wet clothes cling to your skin, your feet are freezing, and the temperature is dropping fast.
By the time the you're nearing the landing zone where you left the Marauder, you're shivering uncontrollably. Your limbs feel stiff and numb, your joints aching. Crosshair keeps pace beside you, and he doesn't say anything, but his hand is on your arm, supporting you.
The Marauder looms ahead, the ship's silhouette stark against the horizon. You can see the outline of the cockpit, and you try to pick up your pace, eager to get inside and away from the snow and wind. You're shivering violently, and you can feel the cold seeping into your bones.
"Are you going to be okay tonight?" Crosshair asks.
You're not sure if he's referring to the weather, or the loss, or both, but either way, you know the answer.
It’s not the one you give him, though.
"Yeah," you mutter. "I'll be fine."
He sighs. "Liar."
"I'll manage."
"No, you won't." He shakes his head, and the gesture is almost exasperated. You can't help but huff.
"Why, are you offering to cuddle?" You try to smirk, to deflect with humor, but his grip on your arm tightens.
"If it'll help."
Your heart skips a beat, and you stare at him. The cold is making you delirious, that's the only explanation for the words that leave his mouth.
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah.” Crosshair avoids your gaze. "You can sleep in my bunk."
"Okay," you say after a moment, and his head snaps up, as though he can't believe the word came from your mouth. The grip on your arm tightens.
"Really?"
You shrug, trying to ignore the way your heart races at the thought of sharing a bed with him. You tell yourself that it's the cold, that he's offering comfort, and that the offer has nothing to do with any lingering feelings he may or may not have.
"Yeah," you say, and the word comes out a little too hoarse. "Why not?"
There's about a million reasons why not, but you don't say them. Instead, you wait, watching him carefully. He looks at you, and even though you can't see his expression, you can feel the intensity of his gaze.
"Alright," he says, his voice gruff, and the hand on your arm moves, sliding up to rest on your shoulder.
The two of you reach the ship, and the ramp opens, a blast of hot air hitting you in the face. Crosshair helps you up, and the warmth feels so good that you want to cry.
You immediately throw off your bag and kneel to brush the snow from your boots, and you're vaguely aware of him moving past you, toward the cockpit. He tugs off his helmet and tosses it aside, and it lands on the floor somewhere with a dull thump.
By the time you get your legs to cooperate and rise, Crosshair is already settled in the pilot's seat, running through the preflight checks. Despite being the better pilot of the two of you, you let him take control, not trusting yourself to fly right now. You're tired, and you're cold, and the grief is weighing heavy on your heart.
When you slide into the copilot's seat, he glances over at you, his dark eyes meeting yours. You stare at each other, and you have the urge to say something, anything, to break the silence. But he's looking at you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip, and the words die in your throat. He turns away just as quickly, his attention returning to the console, and the moment passes.
You try to help him prep the ship, but the exhaustion is too much, and the adrenaline is wearing off. You can't stop shivering, and your muscles ache, the pain nearly unbearable. Crosshair pushes your hand away when you try to set the coordinates back to Pabu, and you can't find it in you to fight him.
He lifts off, the ship groaning in protest, and the wind howls outside. The Marauder shudders, buffeted by the harsh weather, and the engine whines as he navigates the ship into the atmosphere. He's tense, his fingers curled tightly around the controls.
He engages the hyperdrive once you break through the clouds into the atmosphere, and the ship hums, the stars stretching into hyperspace. You slump in your seat, exhaustion and grief taking their toll. You lean your head back, and your eyelids droop.
You're barely aware of him as he stands, and the next thing you know, you feel his arms scooping you up, lifting you easily. You blink, and his face is inches from yours. Your arms wrap around his neck instinctively, clinging to him as he walks.
"I can walk," you protest weakly.
"Shut up," he says, but you can hear the concern in his voice. "You're freezing."
You try to come up with a witty retort, but the words don't come, and you're too tired to care. Crosshair carries you through the ship, and you close your eyes, resting your head against his shoulder, the heat of his body a welcome relief.
He sets you on the edge of his bunk, and his hands are gentle, careful. You're not sure what to say. The moment is surreal, and the exhaustion is making it difficult to focus. Your eyes blink open, and he's kneeling in front of you, his face just inches away.
"Let's get these off," he says as he starts to pull at your soaked clothing.
"Cross, I can undress myself," you say, the embarrassment making you blush.
"Just let me help," he sighs, his voice oddly quiet.
"But I—"
"I'm not letting you freeze to death. Now shut up and let me take care of you."
"Cross, really—"
"Please," he says, and the word is so foreign to his vocabulary that it gives you pause. "Just...let me do this."
"Okay," you murmur, the sincerity in his tone almost enough to make you cry.
He starts with your socks, trailing puddles of water on the ground, and your jacket goes next. The fabric clings to your skin, and his hands are slow and careful as he pulls the material away.
You shiver, and the chill is still lingering. He reaches for the hem of your shirt, his fingers brushing against your lower stomach. The contact sends a jolt of something through you, and you inhale sharply.
"Sorry," Crosshair mumbles, his voice hoarse.
"No, it's...it's fine," you manage.
"I won't look."
"Crosshair, I—"
"I'll just close my eyes, and—"
"No, it's fine," you say. You reach up, your hands grasping the hem of the shirt, and you lift it over your head before he can say another word.
Crosshair doesn't move, doesn't speak. His breath catches, and you're sure he's staring at you, but you're so focused on trying to get your arms untangled from the sleeves that you don't care.
You're in your bindings, and the material is damp, sticking to your skin. You fumble with the fabric, tugging at the straps. It takes a few attempts, but finally, it loosens, and you exhale in relief. It slides down your shoulders, revealing your breasts, and you drop it onto the floor. You shiver, the cold air hitting your skin, and your nipples harden.
You look up at Crosshair, and he's frozen, his gaze glued to your exposed skin. He's staring at the scar above your heart, the one that he gave you, the one that should have killed you. His expression is hard to read, but his hands are trembling, and his breathing is shallow.
The silence is suffocating, and you have the sudden urge to cover yourself. He swallows, his throat bobbing, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. His gaze sweeps over you, and his fingers flex.
"You said you wouldn't look," you remind him, a small smile tugging at your lips.
Crosshair blinks, as though coming out of a daze.
"Sorry, I..." he trails off, his voice thick. "You're—" He clears his throat. "Your pants."
"Oh, right." Your hands move to unbuckle your belt, but they're shaking, and your movements are clumsy. You fumble with the clasp, cursing under your breath.
"Here," he murmurs, and his hands move yours aside. His fingers brush against the skin of your stomach, and you suck in a sharp breath.
"Thanks," you manage, and the word comes out as a whisper.
His fingers work quickly despite the tremble of them, undoing the belt and sliding it free. Your pulse is racing, and your mouth is dry, and his touch sends a spark of electricity through you.
He tosses the belt aside, and his fingers find the button of your pants, and he pops it open.
"Up," he orders.
You do as he says, and he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your pants. He drags them down, the fabric clinging to your thighs. His movements are slow and deliberate as he pulls the material free from your legs before they join the pile of clothing on the floor.
You sit before him, wearing nothing but a pair of underwear, and the chill is still clinging to you, your skin pebbled with goosebumps. Crosshair kneels at your feet, his eyes boring into you as they rake over your exposed skin. His gaze lingers on the scar on your chest, his jaw clenching.
"It's not a big deal," you say, trying to reassure him.
"It is."
"What happened wasn't your fault."
He looks up at you, his eyes burning with a strange intensity. "Yes, it was," he says, his voice low and raspy. You reach for him, but he pulls away, your movements too slow and sluggish to catch him.
"I'm going to change," he mutters. "Try not to pass out."
"I'm fine," you protest.
"Your lips are blue," he says. "And your hands are shaking."
He reaches for your wrist, his grip gentle, and he lifts your hand, holding it up for inspection. You glance down, and sure enough, your fingers are trembling.
"F-fine, maybe I'm a little cold," you mumble.
"You're not cold. You're hypothermic." He lets go of your hand and stands, setting his rifle against the wall.
"It's just—"
"Hush."
You huff, rolling your eyes, and you fold your arms over your chest, hugging yourself in an attempt to get warm. You watch quietly as he begins to take off his armor, the motions practiced and methodical, though more rushed than you’ve ever seen it.
The first piece comes off, followed by another, and another. He doesn't stop until he's standing before you in his blacks, and then he lifts his shirt over his head. The sight takes your breath away. He's muscular, lean and strong, and the desire to reach out and touch him is overwhelming. The only thing you can do is stare, and it takes all of your self-control not to gape at him like an idiot.
He slips past you, and the bed shifts beneath his weight. You turn to look at him over your shoulder, and he's lying on his back, one arm tucked behind his head. He's looking up at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling evenly. Crosshair glances over at you, his brow furrowing.
"Lay down," he says, patting the mattress.
You hesitate. "You sure you don't mind?"
"Lay down," he repeats, his tone firm.
You obey, shifting onto the bed, and the mattress is warm, the sensation almost painful against your skin. He grabs a blanket from the end of the bed and wraps it around you, tucking it in. You curl up, the exhaustion is making your eyes heavy.
The bed is small, and you're close, too close. But it's warm, and he's warm, and it feels so good you want to cry. Still, you can't seem to relax, your limbs stiff. Your skin prickles, and your muscles are tense.
"I can move—"
"Stop talking," he growls. "Go to sleep."
"You're bossy."
"And you're a brat," he grumbles, and his hands slide over your bare skin, tugging the blanket tighter around you.
You smile, the words bringing a strange comfort. He moves closer, his body pressed against yours. You're acutely aware of him, the sound of his breathing, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
You shift so your back is flush with his chest. He hesitates, frozen, and then slowly his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you against him.
You sigh, the warmth from his skin seeping into yours, and you melt into his embrace. His breath fans against the back of your neck, and you can't remember the last time you were held like this. A strange feeling builds in your chest, one you can't name, but it's overwhelming. The pain of losing your Master is still fresh, but the grief is lessened somehow.
"Is this okay?" he murmurs.
"Yes."
Crosshair curls tighter around you, his arms like a vise. You're surrounded by him, the smell of blaster oil, the sound of his breathing, the heat of his skin. The exhaustion is taking its toll, the warmth of his body too soothing to resist. Your eyes flutter closed, and you let the darkness take you, his heartbeat lulling you into a dreamless sleep.
You wake to the feeling of an arm draped over you, and a body pressed against yours. You blink, and the events of the last two days come rushing back. You're practically naked, and Crosshair's body is pressed against yours, nearly every inch of available skin touching. His chest is flush against your back, and his legs are tangled with yours.
His arm is wrapped around your waist, his fingers splayed against the softness of your stomach, and his breath is warm against the back of your neck. Your heart skips a beat as his fingers twitch against your skin. A rush of warmth floods you, and you swallow, your cheeks flushing.
For a moment, you can't remember how you got here, and what led to this. Then, you remember. You remember the way Crosshair helped you, the way he comforted you, the way he took care of you. And now, you're lying in his bed, and he's holding you, and it feels...nice.
You should get up, and the thought crosses your mind, but it's not the one you focus on. Instead, you find yourself leaning into him, enjoying the warmth of his skin, and the way his body fits against yours.
Crosshair's arm tightens around you, and he lets out a sleepy groan, pulling you closer. He nuzzles your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin. Your heart stutters, and you freeze, not daring to move.
"Hey," he rasps, his voice thick with sleep.
"Hey," you whisper back.
"How are you feeling?"
"Better."
And it's the truth. You're still tired, and your muscles are sore, but you feel like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders. You're not sure if it's the fact that you were able to finally get the closure you needed or if it's because of the man holding you, but you're grateful for the relief.
You shift, and Crosshair's hand rests on your hip, his fingers digging into your skin. He presses against you, his chest molding against your back.
"Don't," he mumbles.
"Don't what?"
"Don't go," he says, and there's an uncharacteristic note of pleading in his voice.
You roll over to face him, and his eyes are half-lidded, his gaze heavy. He's still wrapped around you, his arm snaked around your waist. His cheeks are flushed, and his jaw is stubbled, and he's even more handsome than you remember. Your stomach flutters, and your pulse quickens.
"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper.
He moves his hand to your face, cupping your cheek, and the gesture is so tender, so unexpected. He runs his thumb over your skin, his eyes locked with yours. You can feel his breath, hot and quick against your lips.
"Good," he breathes.
You're not sure who moves first, but his lips are on yours, his kiss urgent, demanding. Your body responds instinctively, and you melt into him, letting him consume you.
Crosshair's hands roam over your body, exploring every curve and contour. He's rough, and he's hungry, and the way he kisses you makes you weak in the knees. You arch into him, and his kiss grows more heated, more desperate. You part your lips, and he slips his tongue into your mouth, deepening the kiss.
Your hands hold tight to the back of his head, pulling him closer, and he moans against your lips, his fingers digging into your skin. The sound is needy, and it sends a rush of heat through you, a shiver running down your spine. You break away, panting, and he chases your mouth, his lips ghosting over yours.
"I've wanted to do that for a long time," Crosshair murmurs.
You laugh, the sound breathless, light and airy. "I can tell."
He huffs and rolls his eyes. "Shut up," he mutters, a smile tugging at his lips.
"Make me," you tease.
He's on top of you in a heartbeat, and his body is a delicious weight on top of yours. His hands are on either side of your head, caging you in with a mischievous smirk on his lips. You can't help but smile back.
"You want to be like that, huh?" he says, his voice low and dangerous.
You smile sweetly. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
He nips at your neck, his teeth grazing the skin, and you let out a soft moan.
"What were you saying?" he says, his voice husky.
"Just that—" He bites down on your neck, and you let out a gasp, the sensation sending a shockwave of pleasure through you.
He kisses the spot he bit, his lips soft and tender, and his hands roam over your body. He trails kisses along your jaw, down your neck, and across your collarbone, his touch leaving a burning trail in its wake.
It's overwhelming, his scent, his heat, his presence. Your senses are filled with him, and you close your eyes, losing yourself in the feeling. His lips are on your skin, his teeth scraping gently, and his hands are everywhere, exploring, mapping, memorizing. You don’t want it to stop, but it's starting to feel like too much, too fast.
"Cross," you murmur. He doesn’t respond, his lips dragging across your skin, and you try again, your voice tight. “Crosshair.”
He freezes, and his head snaps up. He looks at you, his dark eyes wide and worried. "What's wrong?"
"What are we doing?" you ask.
He frowns, his eyebrows knitting together. "I thought it was pretty obvious."
"That's not what I mean."
Crosshair pulls away, and you feel a pang in your chest as you see the look on his face, the hurt in his eyes.
"Do you want to stop?" he asks quietly.
"No, I..." Your voice trails off, and the words seem stuck in your throat. "I just... I'm not sure where this is going."
He sighs. "I don't know either."
"It's not that I don't want this," you say quickly. "I just..."
"What?"
You take a deep breath. It's a risk, admitting the feelings you've kept hidden for so long. But the desire is overwhelming, and the fear is stronger.
"Earlier, out there...I said a lot of things, some of them I didn’t mean," you begin. "I don’t want to hate you, and I don’t want you to have to work for my forgiveness. You already have it.”
You push yourself up so you're sitting, and he does the same. You both sit with your backs against the wall, the blanket pooling at your hips. He's quiet, watching you, his expression unreadable. His silence gives you courage, and you continue.
“What I want is a fresh start. What happened yesterday, it was a turning point. For both of us. I don't want to hold onto the past. I'm sick of all the anger and resentment."
"You deserve to be angry," he says quietly. "After everything I've done, you have every right."
"I am," you admit, and the words come out with a hint of a bitter laugh. “But I’m also so happy to have you back, Crosshair. It doesn’t matter, not anymore. It's not worth it, carrying the anger around. I care about you too much for that.”
He shakes his head, and his gaze drops. "I don't deserve you," he whispers. "I've done terrible things. You know that."
"It's in the past," you say, reaching out to cup his face. His stubble is rough under your fingertips, and his jaw is clenched hard underneath your hand. "You can't change it."
"I know." He sighs. The weight of the galaxy seems to settle on his shoulders, and to see it holding him down makes your chest hurt.
"I forgive you," you say, and the words are easier than you expected. "We all have. Maybe it’s time you forgive yourself too.”
Crosshair's gaze snaps up, his eyes locking with yours. There's a flash of something, and you see the way his lips tremble. His throat bobs, and he swallows. "You really mean that, don't you?"
You nod. "I do."
"How?" he asks, his voice hoarse.
You shrug. How can you explain it, the way your heart aches when he looks at you, the way his touch sets your skin on fire? How can you explain the way he makes you feel, the way you crave his attention, his approval? How can you explain the way your world feels whole again now that he's by your side?
The words don't come, and instead, you rub your thumb across his cheekbone. His breath catches, and he closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. When he opens his eyes, they're glassy, and there's a sheen of tears. You brush them away, your touch gentle, and he exhales.
You can't help but lean forward and press a kiss to his lips, and he leans into you, his hand finding your waist. The kiss is soft and sweet, the kind that takes your breath away, and when you pull away, you're left wanting more.
“I’m sorry I left you behind," he whispers, his voice breaking. "I should've stayed. I should've protected you."
"Cross, I left you behind. If anyone should be apologizing, it's me." You take a deep breath. "I'm the one who abandoned you."
"I don't blame you for what happened." He shakes his head, and his jaw clenches, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He swallows hard, the sound is audible in your closeness.
You run your thumb over his cheek, and he closes his eyes, his body trembling under your touch. You pull him closer, and his head comes to rest on your shoulder. He's tense, and you can feel the way he's holding back, keeping himself from falling apart.
The realization hits you like a ton of bricks, and the weight of it is suffocating. You've spent so long being angry, blaming him, that you never stopped to think about how he was dealing with his own feelings. How much pain has he carried since that day? How much guilt? You abandoned him, and he was alone, and there's a chance he could've been killed, and...
It's a lot. And the realization of it hits you all at once, your throat tightening, your vision blurring with tears. You've been so caught up in your own pain, in your own grief, that you didn't even stop to consider his. And the thought, the shame of it, is crushing.
Crosshair clings to you, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist. You can’t tell if you’re trembling, or if he is, or maybe it's both of you. The emotions are overwhelming, and you don't know what to do, how to comfort him, how to make it right.
All you can do is hold him, so you do. You wrap your arms around him, holding him as close as possible. You rest your head against his, your cheek pressed against his temple as small tremors rack his body.
You don't say anything. You can't find the words, can't bring yourself to speak. So you stay there, holding him, giving him the time he needs.
It feels like hours before he speaks. His voice is quiet, barely a whisper.
"I should have been there," Crosshair says, and his voice cracks.
You swallow past the lump in your throat. "I should have come back for you.”
He pulls away, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy. There's a look on his face, a mixture of guilt and shame and regret. He shakes his head, and his fingers find your jaw, his touch feather-light. His thumb brushes over your cheek, wiping away your tears.
He leans forward and presses his forehead to yours. You close your eyes, and you can feel his breath on your lips, your noses brushing.
You've missed this. The closeness, the intimacy. You've missed him.
Crosshair pulls you closer, and his lips ghost over yours, his movements hesitant, uncertain.
You've spent the last few weeks trying to bury these feelings, trying to pretend like they weren't there, and now, they're bubbling to the surface, and you can't fight them.
You don't want to.
You give in, kissing him, and his body reacts instantly. He's pressing against you, his arms wrapping around your waist, his grip almost bruising.
You let him pull you closer until your bodies are flush together. He's warm and solid, and his mouth is hot and insistent, his tongue teasing yours.
His hands are in your hair, his fingers tangled in the strands, and the kiss grows more heated, more urgent. His teeth graze your bottom lip, and you moan into his mouth.
As soon as the kiss starts, it stops, and he leaves you breathless as he pulls away, gasping for air. You can't stop staring at him, the way his eyes are dark with desire, the way his pupils are blown wide.
He leans forward, his lips hovering over yours, and his voice is low, barely a whisper. “I don't deserve you."
You huff, barely stopping yourself from rolling your eyes. You're tired of hearing those words come from his mouth, and you can't stop the irritation from rising in you.
Crosshair's grip on you tightens, and his eyes are pleading. He's searching for an answer, for some sort of reassurance, and you realize it's the first time you've seen him like this, so unsure of himself.
Your irritation fades, and your anger melts away, and all you're left with is a deep ache, a longing for the man who holds your heart.
You reach up, cupping his cheek, and your voice is soft, reassuring. "Yes, you do."
His expression is one of disbelief, as though he can't comprehend the idea that you would forgive him, that you would love him, that you would want him. He's always been the one to push people away, to keep his distance, and the fact that he's letting himself open up to you is a huge step. It's one you're grateful for, and you're determined to not take it for granted.
“You do, Cross," you murmur. "You deserve to be happy."
He closes his eyes, his brow furrowed. You watch him, and you can't help but wonder what's going on in his mind.
His voice is hoarse when he speaks, the words barely audible, “I don't want to hurt you again."
You smile sadly up at him. You understand the sentiment. The last year has been a constant battle, a constant struggle. It's a cycle, a vicious one, and you're tired of fighting.
The two of you have both made mistakes, and you're both haunted by them. You're both guilty, and you're both paying the price. But you're here now, together, and maybe that's all that matters.
You can't help but laugh, and it releases some of the pressure that's been building in your chest.
Crosshair's eyes snap open, and you shake your head to quell his concern, the laughter dying on your lips.
“We've spent the last year hurting each other, Crosshair. And for what? Why can't we just let go of the past, and move on?"
He hesitates, and you can see the doubt in his eyes, the fear. But you can also see the hope, the desire. He wants to move on, and he wants to be happy, and he wants it with you. The realization is a relief, and the weight on your chest is gone, the tension easing. You grin up at him, and his lips twitch, a small smile tugging at the corners.
“I think we've both suffered enough, don't you?" you murmur.
His lips part, as if he's about to say something, but the words don't come. You wait, watching him, and you can see the thoughts swirling behind his eyes.
Finally, he speaks, his voice is tentative and low. “Okay.”
"Okay," you say, and you lean forward, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.
You pull away, and his gaze meets yours. He's still holding you, his grip tight, as though he's afraid you'll disappear, but the hand on your cheek is gentle.
Crosshair’s fingers run up through your hair, and his thumb brushes against your skin. He lets out a deep breath, his lips inches from yours. He's looking at you like he's seeing you for the first time, his gaze filled with wonder.
"What?" you ask, suddenly self-conscious.
He shakes his head. "I'm just... I don't know how I got so lucky."
Your heart swells as much as it hurts. You’ll help him understand in time, help him see himself the way you do. But for now, you can’t help the teasing grin from forming.
"You're a real sap, you know that?"
He huffs, the sound a mix of a groan and a chuckle. "And you’re a brat.”
"Yeah," you say, a smile tugging at your lips before you press a kiss to his nose. "But you love it."
Crosshair hesitates for a moment, stiffening slightly. He clears his throat, and your heart skips a beat.
You can't tell if you've made a mistake, if you've crossed a line, but the words are out there now, and there's no taking them back. You search his expression, looking for a sign, any hint of what he's thinking.
He swallows hard, and his eyes dart away, his cheeks tinged pink.
"Yeah," he murmurs at last, his voice barely above a whisper. "I do."
He turns back to look at you and catches sight of the bright grin on your face, and his flush deepens.
“Shut up,” he murmurs, and then he leans in, his lips brushing yours in a tentative kiss.
You respond eagerly, and his hands slide up your body, caressing your skin. He's gentle, his touch almost reverent, and his movements are slow and deliberate, as if he's trying to commit the feel of your body to memory.
You run your fingers over his head, tugging him closer as you lie back against the pillow, and the action spurs him on. His hands explore every inch of your body, and his touch leaves a burning trail in its wake.
Crosshair breaks the kiss, his lips ghosting over your skin, trailing kisses down your jaw, your neck. His fingers trace the swell of your breasts, his touch light enough to send shivers down your spine. He brushes his thumb over your nipple, and you let out a gasp, your body arching into him.
"Is this okay?" he murmurs against your neck.
"Yes," you breathe, your voice thick with desire.
He takes a nipple in his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud, and his teeth graze the skin. The sensation sends a jolt of pleasure through you, and you let out a quiet moan.
His fingers pinch your other nipple, teasing the sensitive flesh. Your hands grasp his shoulders, and his muscles are firm beneath your touch, his body taut with desire. You drag your nails down his back, and he groans, the sound sending a wave of heat straight to your core.
His hand moves lower, his fingers tracing a path down your abdomen, and he cups your mound, his touch gentle. He strokes your folds through the thin fabric of your underwear, his movements slow and deliberate. Your body responds instinctively, your hips bucking into his touch, pressing eagerly into his palm.
"Fuck," he growls as he feels how wet you are through the fabric of your underwear.
"Please," you whimper.
"Patience," he says, his voice thick.
His fingers slip inside underneath the waistband, and he dips a finger between your folds, teasing your entrance. You moan, your hips jerking as he ghosts over your clit, sending sparks of pleasure through your body.
"Please," you beg, your voice needy.
"Not yet," he murmurs.
"Why not?"
"Because I want to take my time," he says, a low growl that makes your stomach clench.
He continues his torture, and your breath catches in your throat as his fingers find your wetness, sliding up and down the length of your folds. He gently curls his fingers, watching you closely while rubbing his index pad against your entrance.
You shudder, and he presses his finger inside of you, the digit slick with your arousal. You whimper, and his free hand wraps around your waist, holding you in place.
"I'll give you what you want," he promises, his voice husky, "but first, I want to enjoy this."
"Cross," you whimper, your voice breaking.
He hushes you, and you whine. His movements are unhurried, and his thumb traces lazy circles over your clit, his touch agonizingly slow. Your breathing grows ragged, and your body is coiled tight, and the feeling is both sweet and frustrating.
You squirm, trying to increase the pressure, and he stops his movements, pulling his finger from you.
"Behave," he orders.
"I don't want to," you protest, your tone petulant.
He lets out a growl, and he hooks his thumbs under the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down. You help him remove the garment, and it joins the pile of clothing on the floor before he sits back on his heels, taking in the sight of you.
"Spread your legs," he commands.
You do as he says, and he leans forward, his breath hot against your skin. He dips his head between your thighs, and his tongue flicks out, teasing your folds. You gasp as he licks a stripe up your wetness, his tongue exploring every inch of your sex.
He finds your clit, and his lips close around the sensitive bud, sucking and licking the small bundle of nerves. Your body writhes, and your fingers hold tight to his head, pulling him closer. His finger teases your entrance, and your breath hitches.
"Please," you whimper.
"What do you want?" he says, his voice rough.
"I want you, Cross. Please.”
He groans, and his finger enters you again, his touch firm. He crooks his finger, and he rubs the sensitive spot inside of you, his tongue lapping at your clit. The tension inside of you is building quickly, and you're teetering on the edge, the pleasure almost overwhelming.
"I'm close," you breathe.
He adds a second finger, and you can feel the tremor in his hand, the strain of his muscles. He continues his assault, and your body trembles, your orgasm fast approaching. You grasp the sheets, and your body tenses, your back arching.
"Cross!" you cry out, and you come undone, the pleasure washing over you. Your walls clench around his fingers, and he groans, the sound vibrating against your clit. He continues his ministrations, his tongue and fingers drawing out your release until you're spent, and you collapse on the mattress, breathless.
You both moan as his fingers withdraw, and he sucks them clean, his eyes never leaving yours.
"That was..." you start, but the words die on your lips.
"Yeah," he agrees.
You reach up, cupping his face. He's flushed, his breathing labored, and his pupils are blown wide. The arm he’s using to hold himself up trembles at the effort.
"You're shaking," you say.
He lets out a soft chuckle. "So are you."
Crosshair shifts his weight, resting his elbow on the bed, and the movement brings his body closer. His eyes search yours, and the intensity of his gaze is almost too much.
"What are we doing?" he asks, his voice a hoarse whisper.
"I don't know," you say, your thumb brushing over his skin. "But I don't want it to stop."
"Neither do I."
He leans in, and his lips capture yours, his kiss hungry, desperate. You taste yourself on his tongue, and his hand roams over your body, touching and teasing every inch of your skin. You touch him back, exploring the hard planes of his muscles, and his body shudders beneath your fingertips.
He breaks the kiss, and his forehead rests against yours, his breathing heavy.
"Fuck," he breathes.
"What is it?"
"I can't—" He takes a deep breath. "I can't stop thinking about all the time we wasted."
You swallow hard, and your chest aches. He's right. The last year has been hell, and the two of you have wasted so much time.
"We'll make up for it," you promise.
"I want to," he murmurs. "I need you."
His words send a thrill through you. He needs you. He wants you. You’ve waited so long to hear him say it.
"I need you too," you admit. You push yourself up and roll over, so you're on top of him, straddling his lap. You rock your hips, grinding against him, and his erection is hard and straining beneath his blacks.
He huffs a laugh as his hands come up to hold your hips. "I've wanted you for so long. I've wanted this."
His words send a shiver down your spine. You've wanted him too. And now that he's here, he's real, and he's in front of you, the feelings are almost too overwhelming.
"You have me," you whisper around the lump in your throat.
He pulls you close, his arms wrapping around your waist. His lips are inches from yours, his eyes locked with yours. "Promise me."
"I promise." Your hand trails down to grab his, locking your little fingers together. You hold your hands up so he can see them, your mouth lifting up into a soft smile. "I pinky promise."
He snorts softly, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "That's a pretty serious promise."
"It's the most serious one I can make," you say solemnly.
He laughs. The sound is warm and genuine, and it lights up his entire face. Your chest aches, and it's almost too much, the way his expression changes, the way his features soften.
You're tired of holding back. Tired of being scared. You've wasted too much time already.
You lean forward, pressing your lips to his. His hands slide up your back, and he pulls you closer, deepening the kiss. You melt into him, letting him consume you.
The kiss is intense and desperate. You pour everything you have into it, everything you've been holding back. Your body responds, and you press against him, your hips grinding against his erection. He groans, his body arching into yours, and the sound sends a jolt of heat straight to your core.
He pulls away, his breathing ragged, and his eyes are dark with desire. His hands grip your hips, and he rolls over, pinning you beneath him. You wrap your legs around his waist, and he grinds against you, his erection straining against the fabric of his blacks.
He reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit. You gasp as he circles the bundle of nerves. He's not gentle. His movements are quick and rough. The pleasure is almost overwhelming, and you buck against his hand, desperate for more.
His other hand grasps your wrist, and he pins it above your head. His grip is bruising. He continues his assault on your clit, his movements relentless.
"Come for me," he growls.
You can't hold back the moan that escapes your lips. Your body is on fire. Every nerve is alight with pleasure. The pressure builds within you, the tension coiling in your stomach. You're on the edge, teetering, and you can feel the release coming.
“Please,” you whimper. “I need you.”
His hand leaves your wrist, and he grabs the waistband of his blacks. He pushes them down, and his erection springs free. You can't help but stare at him, at the way his body moves, the muscles rippling under his skin. His cock is hard and straining, bobbing against his stomach as he turns to kick his blacks away.
Then he’s back on top of you, your skin flush against his. He's hot and heavy against you, his body a welcome weight, and his length presses against your stomach. He grinds his hips against yours, his cock rubbing against your folds.
The sensation is too much. The feeling is too good. You're on the edge again, the pressure building.
His fingers tease your folds, and he finds the wetness pooled at your entrance. He gathers the liquid on his digits, his touch featherlight, and you whimper. He pulls away, and his hand wraps around the base of his cock. He slowly pumps his length a few times, coating it with your wetness. You can’t help but watch, your mouth parting slightly.
"Are you ready?" he asks.
"Yes," you breathe.
He positions the head of his cock at your entrance. He's not gentle, and you don’t want him to be. He thrusts his hips forward, pushing into you. Your walls stretch to accommodate his length, and he groans, his body shuddering.
You cling to him, your nails digging into his back, and when he bottoms out, his pelvis grinding against your clit, you cry out, the sensation sending a shockwave of pleasure through your body.
He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. His hand comes up to cradle your head.
"I'm going to move," he murmurs.
"Yes," you breathe, unable to hide the relief in your voice.
He pulls out and thrusts back in. The slow drag of his cock is maddening, stoking the fire that he’d ignited. His movements are deliberate and steady, each one calculated and controlled. It’s almost too much. You want him to let go, to lose control, to ravage you.
"Harder," you beg.
"No."
You huff, frustration rising in you.
"Please."
He lifts his head to look at you. His pupils are blown wide, the black nearly eclipsing the honey-brown, and his expression is one of determination, his jaw clenched. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't."
"I don't want to rush this," he murmurs. "I want to enjoy it."
His words are sweet and earnest, but the effect is lost in the desperation, in the need. You can't help but groan in frustration.
"I need you," you plead. "I need all of you."
His lips twitch into a smirk. "Be patient."
"You're such a tease," you complain.
"And you're impatient."
He leans forward and kisses you. His mouth is hot and insistent against yours. His tongue swipes across your lips, seeking entrance, and you grant it, his tongue sweeping into your mouth. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and your arms wind around his shoulders.
His hand moves down to your clit, his fingers circling the sensitive bundle of nerves. You moan, and the sound is swallowed by his kiss. His movements are slow and deliberate, his touch gentle. He's taking his time, and you're not sure if you love him or hate him for it.
You break the kiss, gasping for air, and his lips move down, trailing kisses across your jaw, your neck. His teeth graze the sensitive skin there, nipping at the flesh, and you cry out, the sensation sending sparks of pleasure through your body.
His movements speed up, and the fire inside of you burns hotter, the pressure building. His fingers continue their ministrations, his pace unrelenting.
"Cross," you moan. "I'm so close."
He chuckles, the sound low and rough. "I know."
His mouth finds yours again. His tongue teases yours as his fingers continue their assault. Your body tenses, the release almost within reach.
When his fingers pinch your clit, your orgasm rips through you. Your walls clench around his cock, and you cry out as the pleasure floods your veins. Your body shakes with the intensity of the orgasm. It's a wave that washes over you. It's pure ecstasy.
His cock is still buried deep inside you. He’s slowed his thrusts to a gentle rocking motion, the movements soothing, allowing you to ride out your high.
When you come down, the aftershocks still coursing through you, his hips speed up. You’re so sensitive, it’s almost too much, but he feels so good, filling you, stretching you. You can't help but moan.
"Fuck," he groans. “You’re so tight.”
You can tell he's close. His thrusts are faster and deeper. He's chasing his own release. You tighten around him, trying to push him over the edge. His eyes fly open, his gaze meeting yours.
"I want you to come," you whisper.
"Not yet."
"Please."
"I'm not finished with you," he says, his voice rough.
He pulls out, and the sudden emptiness is almost painful. His fingers thrust back into you, and the pleasure is sharp and intense, the pressure building.
He fucks you with his fingers, his movements rough and quick. You moan and writhe beneath him, the sensation almost overwhelming. Your walls are still sensitive from your orgasm, and the feeling is almost too much.
"I can't," you whimper. "I'm so sensitive."
"Shhh," he hushes.
Crosshair curls his fingers, finding that spot that makes you see stars, and you can't stop the scream that escapes your lips. The tension coils in your stomach. You're on the edge again. Your body is shaking.
You nearly scream as his fingers leave you, your walls clenching around nothing. He leans down and captures your mouth with his, muffling your cry. His kiss is bruising, his tongue demanding. His lips trail down your neck, his teeth nipping at the skin, and the sensation is overwhelming, the pain mixing with the pleasure.
His hands are everywhere, touching, caressing, teasing. Your body is on fire, the pleasure almost too much to bear.
His hand slides down to cup your ass, his fingers digging into the flesh. You cry out, and he uses his grip to lift you. Your legs wrap around his waist automatically. His other hand moves to his length, pumping it a few times, coating it with your wetness.
He pulls his lips away, his breathing labored, and he looks at you, his gaze filled with hunger and longing.
"Ready?"
"Yes," you whisper.
His grip on your ass tightens, and he pulls you closer. His cock teases your folds, sliding between them, and the sensation is agonizing. You whimper, the need for him growing, the need for release.
"Please," you beg.
He pushes into you, the head of his cock stretching your entrance. He feels thicker than before, his length harder. Your walls are still sensitive, but the feeling is too good. You want more. You need more.
He groans, and the sound is raw and primal. His hips buck, and his cock fills you completely, his length buried to the hilt. The pace he sets is punishing, the feeling intense.
"Cross," you gasp.
"You're so tight," he groans. "So perfect."
"You feel so good," you moan. "Fuck."
His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass, and his other hand wraps around the back of your neck. His grip is bruising, but you don't care. You like the way his hands feel on your skin.
You lean forward and press your lips to his. The kiss is sloppy and messy. He's lost in his own pleasure, his movements rough and uncoordinated. You can't get enough, and you moan into his mouth as he finds the right spot.
"I'm close," he rasps.
“Me too,” you manage.
Your fingers dig into his shoulders, and you cling to him as he brings you both closer and closer to the edge. Your walls flutter around him, the tension in your stomach tightening. His movements become erratic, and his body tenses. You know he's close. You can feel the tremors running through him.
"Fuck," he groans. "I'm—“
“Inside me," you moan. "Please."
The words are barely out of your mouth when he stills, his cock pulsing inside you. You can feel the hot spurts of his release filling you. The sensation is overwhelming, and you scream his name.
Your orgasm hits you hard and fast, and you clench around him, your walls milking him. Your body shakes with the force of the pleasure, and your ears ring.
When the aftershocks finally subside, he collapses on top of you, his breathing ragged. You can feel his heart racing. Your arms wrap around him, holding him close. You never want to let him go.
You're still trying to make sense of what just happened when Crosshair's hand comes to rest on your hip, his fingers tracing slow circles. The sensation brings you back to reality, and you open your eyes to find him staring at you, his expression filled with concern.
"Are you okay?" he murmurs.
"Yeah," you say, your voice hoarse. "That was..."
"Intense," he finishes, and he flashes you a crooked smile.
You laugh softly. "That's one word for it."
His smile fades, and he shifts his weight, pulling away from you. He slips out of you, and you can't help the soft whine that escapes your lips. You can already feel the soreness setting in.
He leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to your lips. "I'll be right back."
He slides off the bed and disappears into the fresher. You roll onto your side and press your thighs together, the action doing more to soothe the ache than you'd expected. When Crosshair returns, he has a warm, wet washcloth in hand, and you can't help but smile.
"Thanks," you murmur, reaching out to take the cloth from him. He pulls his hand away.
"Let me," he says softly.
Your breath catches in your throat. He climbs back on the bed and gently pushes your legs apart. His movements are careful as he wipes the cloth over your sex. He's gentle and thorough. You can't help but feel like his touch is more intimate than anything else the two of you have done tonight.
When he's satisfied, he tosses the cloth aside. He lays down next to you, his head propped up on his hand, and his eyes are soft, filled with affection.
"Hi," you say shyly.
"Hey," he murmurs. He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your lips.
Your heart swells. You can't believe this is happening. It all feels like a dream. You never thought he'd ever be like this with you. You never thought you'd have the chance to be with him again.
You feel tears start to prick the corner of your eyes, but you blink them away, choosing instead to reach out and trace the contours of his face with your fingers. He closes his eyes and lets out a sigh, his expression relaxed.
"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice soft.
"Admiring you," you murmur. You can’t keep the affection out of your tone, and you don’t try.
Crosshair snorts, and if you weren't so close, you wouldn't have noticed the hint of redness that spreads across his cheeks. You shake your head and chuckle at the sight. He's adorable.
"You just fucked me so hard I can’t feel my legs, and now you're embarrassed by a little compliment?" you tease.
His eyes open, and he gives you a look. "I hate you," he grumbles.
You grin. "No, you don't."
"You're right," he says, his voice a low rumble. "I don't."
Crosshair pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you, and you press your body against his, enjoying the closeness. Your hands roam over his skin, your fingers tracing the scars that litter his body. You can't help but wonder how he got each and every one of them.
His hand comes up to hold yours, his thumb brushing against your knuckles.
"Thank you," he murmurs.
"For what?"
"For letting me in. And for forgiving me.”
You swallow hard. His words are so simple, but they mean so much. You know it hasn't been easy for him. You know he's been struggling. You've seen the guilt and the pain. And despite all of that, he's here.
You lean in and press a kiss to his chest. "I'm so proud of you."
"I'm not—"
"I am," you say firmly.
He swallows hard and nods. It’s obvious the words are difficult for him to hear, and you can’t help but wonder the last time someone told him those words. If they ever did.
You reach up and brush your thumb against his cheek. "Do you have any idea how much you mean to me?"
His lips part, and his eyes search yours. He looks overwhelmed, his emotions written plainly on his face.
"I'm starting to," he murmurs. "But I—"
"I love you," you blurt out. "And not just because of this. I've loved you for so long. And I've wanted this for so long."
He blinks at you, his eyes widening slightly. Your heart leaps to your throat.
"Sorry," you apologize sheepishly. "Too much?"
He shakes his head and lets out a shaky breath. "No," he says softly. "It's not."
"Oh," you say.
He leans forward and kisses you, his lips soft and gentle. Your body relaxes, the tension seeping out of you. His hand slides up to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours.
"I love you too," Crosshair whispers.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," he murmurs. "So much."
He takes a deep breath and leans back against the pillow, his eyes fixed on the bottom of the bunk above you. "I…had a lot of time to think about things while I was…away. And I realized a lot of things. About myself. About us. I realized that I didn't know what I had until it was gone."
You watch him. His jaw is tense. His brow is furrowed. He's still struggling with his emotions.
"Cross," you murmur.
"I'm not good with words," he admits.
"It's okay," you say.
He takes a deep breath. "I missed you," he says. "I missed everything about you. And I regretted so many things. I thought about what we could have had if I had let myself have it. And I... I don't want to waste any more time."
You can't help the tears that roll down your cheeks. He's so sincere, and his words are so heartfelt. It's overwhelming. You lean in and kiss him, pouring every bit of emotion into the kiss. You want him to know just how much you care. How much he means to you.
"I'm glad we didn't waste any more time," you say.
"Me too.” He clears his throat, his gaze searching yours. “I wanted to ask you something."
"Okay," you say slowly, hesitantly.
Crosshair shifts underneath you, and you prop yourself up on your elbow, watching him curiously. He sits up, and his hand comes up to cradle your face, his touch gentle. "I'm... not really sure how to do this."
You feel the heat rising in your cheeks, and your heartbeat quickens. "Just ask.”
"I was wondering," he says, his voice soft. "If you wanted to make this, us, official."
He takes a deep breath, and you can feel his nerves, his anxiety. You stare at him, stunned to silence. You're not sure how to respond. You hadn't expected this, not yet at least. Maybe not ever. You never really allowed yourself to hope.
"I know it's complicated, and I know it's going to be hard. But I—"
"Yes," you interrupt, and his eyes snap to yours.
He blinks at you. "What?"
"Yes," you say again. "I would love that."
"Really?"
You laugh softly. "Did you think I'd say no?"
You can't keep the amusement out of your tone. His nervousness is so endearing. You never thought you'd get to see him like this.
"No, I just…huh,” he breathes. His brow furrows, his expression thoughtful.
"What?"
"I wasn't expecting you to agree so quickly.” Crosshair smirks, his gaze meeting yours. "I was ready to make a case. Give you some time to think it over."
His hand moves from your face to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, and his eyebrows lift. "You must really like me."
“Shut up.” You huff and roll your eyes. "I love you, you asshole.”
"I love you too," he says, his voice is warm, and his words are sincere. You lean in and kiss him, your hands moving to his shoulders, pulling him close. You can't get enough of him. You're not sure if you ever will.
When you finally break apart, he lets out a contented sigh and pulls you back down, his arms wrapping around you, holding you tight. He brushes a few strands of hair away from your face, and his expression softens.
"I can't promise you much, but I can promise you that I'll always be there for you. No matter what happens. Even if things go to shit, even if we get separated. Even if...”
He swallows and looks away, his expression darkening. You know what he's thinking, what he's trying not to say.
"Cross," you murmur. "I'm not going anywhere." You cup his face, your gaze meeting his. "And neither are you."
He nods, and his mouth lifts up into a soft smile. "I'm not letting you go. Ever."
"That's a lot of promises," you tease.
He huffs. "Yeah, well, I'm full of them lately."
You press another kiss to his lips, and the two of you settle into a comfortable silence. He pulls you closer, his grip tightening. His eyes flutter closed, and he lets out a deep, contented sigh. “Now let’s go back to sleep. You wore me out."
You chuckle and close your eyes, nestling your head against Crosshair's chest. The sound of his heartbeat is soothing, and the steady rise and fall of his chest is calming.
You never imagined this would happen, but here you are, wrapped up in his arms. And for the first time in a long time, everything feels right.
You feel safe, and you feel loved. And as sleep pulls you under, you realize that this is exactly where you belong. You're home.
Taglist: @covert1ntrovert @bruh-myguy-what @baddest-batchers @spicy-clones @qvnthesia
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Its actually funny that I drew Hunter so many times, that my style had changed/improved completely for him. First photo it’s the recent one, and the second is the first time I drew him.