#bobathots

(Un)surprisingly, Crosshair makes for a quick study. Beneath the stony, oftentimes sullen disposition, he’s a simple man. Of course, that simplicity didn’t necessarily limit himself from branching out into an actual person, but you could boil him down to one thing and one thing alone: control. Whether it was his genetic acuity that shaped him into the sniper persona or vice versa, control centered him, grounded him, tied him so close to his sense of duty and personhood that sometimes it was hard to tell the two apart.

So when you had offered two rotations prior to take the reins—offered both as something new and the hypothetical of release from, well, everything that kept him in a perpetually alert state of coiled tension—you honestly hadn’t expected for Crosshair to pause, rolling his toothpick thoughtfully between his teeth, and accept.

There’s certainly a part of you that hopes the manufactured brevity to your tone is enough to soothe the anxiety radiating from where Crosshair makes himself prim and small on your bed, smaller still without the bulk of his dark armor weighed over his shoulders. But, against your better judgement, a low-lying anticipation simmers at the base of your lungs when you finally shuck the day’s sweat and blaster smoke to the side.

He’s seen you undone under him time and time again, beads of sweat following the smug lines of his expression as he bent you to his—and, to be entirely fair, your own—pleasure. And as satisfying as that arrangement has proven itself to be, curiosity has always been that single, nagging vice at the back of your head.

Who can blame you for wanting a taste?

“You remember it, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, and you catch the heavy dregs of uncertainty (perhaps even bashfulness, ha) dragging at his voice.

“Then say it,” you prod. You gently nudge the point of your knee up against Crosshair’s calf and offer him a mirthful glance. And when that doesn’t seem to banish his withering hesitance, you drop down onto the bunk beside him, grasping his hand in yours and squeezing snug.

“I—” he clears his throat with a soft wince: embarrassment. “I don’t think I’ll need it.”

“Cross,” you warn. Because if you were going to do this, you were going to do this right.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath, scrubbing his palm over the highest points of his cheeks. You wonder if the warmth over his cheeks is the same as your own, desirous and shy as you venture into those dark, uncertain places hand in hand. “Tooka, happy?”

“Very happy,” you grin, and you lean close to press a quick peck to the corner of his mouth.

Crosshair leans towards you, lips parted to chase your touch, more, more. But he’ll have his fill, and you’re quick to dart away, leaving him even more disoriented than he already is, all wide eyes that seek you like fading light.

You’re tempted to indulge him because it’s not often that he looks like a kicked loth cat (and he does a damn good impression when he does). But you manage to stuff down the creeping sympathy, opting instead to reach into the pocket of your trousers and produce a well-worn headband.

“Please tell me that’s not Hunter’s.” The rosy edge of desire vanishes from Crosshair’s voice as he catches sight of the broad black swatch of fabric in your palm. In its place, the testing edge of judgement so often home in Crosshair’s snide play.

“Ew, no—what? That’d be weird. And gross. Who do you think I am?”

That seems to do what your previous efforts could not, and your heart jumps when Crosshair responds with a soft snort and shrugs. He’s not resentful, not in the slightest. It’s just trepidation, jumping into uncharted waters with nothing but the trust that your hand, snug over his, would hold fast.

But the laughter settles, drawing back to reveal something that hums quiet between the small eternity between you. Even with your thigh pressed close against Crosshair’s own, you feel him drawing away, hesitant and wanting all at once. You gently pull his hand between you, squeezing once.

“Trust me?” you murmur.

Crosshair offers you a tremulous look, more nervous than apprehensive. You suppose it’s only fitting of him that relinquishing his steady grip over control might be more appealing in concept than on the eve of practice. Nonetheless, when you meet his gaze, you find the kind of uncertainty that heralds excitement, careful but enamored all the same. He nods.

“Then let me take care of you.”

Finally, as you raise your hands to his temples, pressing the dark fabric over his eyes, the tension pulls away from his coiled muscles, dropping his shoulders and bowing his head as you reach around him and tie a knot over the back of his silvery hair. He exhales long and slow as the knot settles snug over his scalp, warmed by the creases left behind by your fingertips and the sudden comfort yet complete unpredictability that shrouds his senses.

Testing the waters, you bring one hand to his cheek, just barely ghosting your fingertips over the lean lines of his jaw, and you are rewarded with a full-bodied shudder that shocks through Crosshair’s form as his lips gently part around his toothpick. Without that precious ability to see, he sits in your palm at your every whim.

You lean forward, gently biting your teeth around the tapered free end of his toothpick, and you feel him swallow hard when you free it from his mouth and drop it to the floor.

“Trust me.”

Chest heaving, he nods again.

“Safeword?”

This time, there is no snark to accompany a begrudging response. “Tooka.” Instead, his voice dips breathy and low between the long breadths between his soft exhales, his beating heart.

“Good boy.”

You surprise yourself at how natural the praise feels, rolling from your tongue and rising over the ambient hum of the ship around you. It fills your chest with something like affection, bordered pride that only swells as you watch him shudder, his lips parting just a little wider to pass that barely-there whimper riding on his exhale.

The hard planes of his body, that star map you’ve committed to the deepest parts of your heart, are familiar terrain under your skin as you flatten your palms over the sharp jut of his collar and travel lower. You pause the heels of your palms over the base of his ribs, pressing softly against the quickening rise and fall of his chest. Satisfaction curls sweet and rich over the tip of your tongue as his stuttering inhale shifts the air around you.

With slow, firm force, you push him backwards onto the bunk, Crosshair’s elbows catching his slow descent over the dark grey sheets until finally drops his head back onto the firm mattress. His chest heaves.

Your fingertips pass over the sinew and soft scar of his abdomen, chasing how his breathing expands from his chest and leaches tension over the length of his torso. You’re certain this isn’t new, not when your intimacy has you stealing the other’s breaths between stuttering gasps. But to feel it under your palms, thrumming and deep—it sets your nerves on fire.

Control. It’s wholly and entirely yours.

You still as the pads of your fingers catch the faint ridge of his waistband. And a part of you is smug with the power of reversal, that it wasn’t Crosshair offering you a knowing smirk as he parted your thighs and pressed close, that it was you, privy to only the deepest intimacy Crosshair could offer.

But it’s exactly that which keeps the power from rushing to your head, stymying the teasing mischief for something warm in your stomach when you trail lower and gently cup over the straining bulge in his blacks. And it grows fonder when Crosshair’s legs jerk with a labored puff of breath, the same one he breathes into your ear when he finally pushes up deep inside you and presses his skin close against yours. He whines, a straining, soft noise through his bitten lips, and you’ve teased long enough.

Crosshair makes a soft noise, somewhere between a gasp and a whining moan, when you finally hook your fingers over the hem of the dark fabric and expose the curved strain of his cock. He’s so open, you think as you reach forwards (though, you suppose being deprived of the one sense that reigned king would do that to you).

You don’t need to be able to see the half of his face rising above the bridge of his nose to envision the soft knit of his dark brows, eyes squeezed shut and lashes fluttering with every soft noise that passes his lips. You don’t need to see the half of his face bound under that broad swath of fabric to envision how his expression breaks from restraint to unbridled euphoria when you trace the edge of your nail down the underside of his cock.

“Please,” you think you hear him whisper past a breathy moan.

Whatever he might have had prepared, the whole gamut of biting, bratty demand to wide-eyed pleas, tumbles back into his throat when you finally climb onto the bunk by his hips, lick the flat of your tongue over your palm, and wrap it snug around the middle of Crosshair’s cock. Instead, you watch with a satisfied awe as he jerks up into your touch, spit-slick lips parted in a silent cry.

“You want my hand or my mouth?” you croon, pumping slowly from the thick base of his erection to the ruddy tip. You want him to feel every quiver of your touch as you run your thumb over the pearly drop of precome beaded at the crown of his cock, reveling in his shudder beneath you. You want to be the only thing he feels.

“Mouth,” he chokes out. “Please.”

“You’re so polite today,” you muse, reaching up with your free hand to rub your thumb over the plush bitten skin of his bottom lip. Emboldened, you slip your finger past his lips, grazing over his teeth as you push the pad of your thumb over his tongue, all the while slowly working your hand over his cock. “The good boy gets what he wants, then. Right?”

For a brief moment, something like disbelief occupies the warm air between you—you, amazed at how easy it is to hold the reins tight; him, stunned that somehow, you in control was as good, if not better, than being the commandeering weight to push your face into the pillows.

Crosshair nods, trembling as you squeeze softly over the base of his cock.

“I need to hear it, mesh’la.”

The last line of his restraint crumbles at the sound: one only ever given from him to you, yet suddenly brought back to him with the full brunt of lust, affection, the secret words you’ve come to call your own. Crosshair bucks up into your hand with a low groan, gasping soft and breathy when you slip your thumb from his mouth and hold him down to the mattress.

“Yes, please.”

You smile and dip low.

Unlike the slow deliberation of your earlier touch, you seal your lips over his ruddy cockhead with one smooth motion, pressing your tongue flat against the underside and hollowing your cheeks. And the heady taste of salt, of trembling anticipation, of him, only sweetens when you flick your eyes up to catch Crosshair tip up his chin, dig his heels into the mattress, and sob.

You sink his cock deeper into your mouth, achingly slow while you continue to work your fist around the base of his cock, and close in a way that coaxes soft, whimpering noises from his lips as he turns his head and clenches his jaw.

Flicking your eyes upwards, a pang of regret shocks through your chest that you aren’t able to see Crosshair come undone from the slightest of touches, tame in comparison to some of your particularly energetic nights. But you do away with the thought as quickly as it comes as his blunt cockhead brushes over the back of your tongue.

His pleasure has always been yours, yours his, you think as you pull back, just until your lips part around the tip of his cock while he shifts and gasps beneath you. You’ll have your turn soon enough.

Before you can sink back down, swallow him as deep as you can, the air by your cheek shifts, and expecting the worst, you lift your chin. But where you expected some stifled yellow light, Crosshair’s fingers feel blindly around you until they find purchase over your cheek. His relief is palpable as his stuttering touch curls over your skin and holds you close.

You smile.

“Trust me?” you ask again, your lips mouthing softly over his cock, catching thick smears of precome over your skin.

“I trust you,” he whispers.

Crosshair cries out, hoarse and as loud as he’s been all night, as you drop your mouth near-midway down the straining length of his cock in one motion, lavishing your tongue under his pulse. His hand tenses over your jaw, blunt nails digging light into your skin as his fingers curl with that bone-deep shock of pleasure. And if the breathy, desperate noises he whimpers into the alcove of the bunk are of any indication, you have a good feeling he’ll want to do this again.

You moan around him in answer. It doesn’t matter to you that his brothers might hear, only a few panels of durasteel away and connected by the reverb of a narrow ship corridor. They probably do hear, but all that matters now is Crosshair, coming impossibly more undone under your tongue as he runs his trembling thumb over the skin of your cheek.

His hips buck up towards you, catching the back of your throat with a soft sting that reaches your nose. If you weren’t so desperate, you might have pinned him down harder or pulled away entirely to let him think about what he had done. But as much as you want to chase this power play, hearing him lose himself to you has you desperate for his touch.

You follow him with every uneven jerk and thrust up into the wet heat of your mouth, letting him take his fill. You simply stroke firmer as his skin warms over your tongue. It’s all so hot, the air heady and thick as you breathe in sharp through your nose and lean into his palm, and you wonder what it feels like, anchored to nothing but you, his sole light in a world gone dark.

His motions fall uneven, his hips twisting against your touch, his breaths becoming deeper, louder as they bounce over the steel ceiling overhead. He’s close.

You twist your fist over his cock, redoubling your efforts. You sink down so far over his cock that your eyes water as you crush the head up against the back of your throat. Heavy and thick, it muffles down a soft gag for you—it’s the deepest you’ve ever taken him. Crosshair notices, and he nearly wails.

He’s been good, you decide as you all but choke around him. He can take that coveted control back. You gently rub his hand, unspoken assent, and his hand slides up your jaw to finds purchase at the back of your head to fuck you down onto him in earnest.

And you take it, eyes blurring with tears and shallow inhales through your nose, holding still and letting him fuck over your tongue until he’s taken his fill. It doesn’t take long for him to spill down your throat, a low, hoarse groan passed between his lips as you struggle to breathe between every dutiful swallow of his thick come down your throat.

“Good boy,” you rasp as you pull the blindfold from over his head.

Crosshair meets you with unfocused eyes, full of wonder and a shaky haze that finds focus on you alone in the low light. Over the ache in your knees, you crawl up to meet him, collapsing down beside him with a soft sigh. He meets you with habit, practiced and true as he tips down his chin and presses his lips to yours, tasting himself on your skin when he swipes his tongue over your lip.

“How was that?” you whisper, breathing soft over his lips.

You tilt your head up enough to catch your nose over Crosshair’s. He still meets you with that same stupor, but you see it begin to mellow into something other than the shock of enjoyment in submission in a man who has only ever known control to be his. It’s quiet and raw, splitting open your chest with that rare kind of warmth that the broad expanse of space and war leave little space to grow.

Yours, whispered and cradled close between your beating hearts, yours alone.

“I’ll remember the safeword,” Crosshair says finally, his voice distant and soft as he still rises out of the aftershocks of his orgasm. But in that weary daze, you catch the rosy relaxation, vulnerable and yet increasingly less rare in your palms. Relief, pride, joy, honeyed goodness rises to the apples of your cheeks at the sound.