#No 'ow the edge' moment done by a brooding guy will ever be as impactful as if it is done or even attempted by a happy go lucky guy

[empty-blog-for-lurking]

Saw someone talk about how Tim Stoker is Lance McClain coded and this further proves my agenda that Lance deserved a revenge obsessed arc

[a-lil-perspective]

A Conundrum of Crimson and Confessions

A/N: Crosshair X Reader. A side of Crosshair no one asked for, but I indulged in nonetheless. :) [Warnings: Mild?Swearing—terms in-universe and out]

@shadow-hyder @starflyer-104 @thegoodbatch @obiorbenkenobi @karpasia @kriffingunlucky @leonidas-banana-phone @everyonehasanindividuality

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You blame the amassment of tinkering parts splayed across your desk for the reason of your immense grumblings and shouting of obscenities at 03:00 in the morning. Exhaustion riddled your body, yet obligations towards the completion of your project and the deadline speeding towards you left you currently denying intimacy with sleep.

Sighing deeply, you roll your shoulders to weed out the tensity between your shoulder blades from having been hunched over the desk-space for hours. A groan escapes your lips, a begrudged admission to no one in particular.

The harsh clang from the spillage of products off the table—several colliding metals consisting of mainly duraplast parts with the impact from the durasteel floor—had you in an absolute tizzy.

“Oh, fuck me!”

“That’s the plan.”

You whipped around to behold the sniper of Clone Force 99; poised in his most deliberately domineering posture and, unsurprisingly, equipped with his usual acerbity as an amused smile replaced the usual scowl etched into his features.

Did he just...?

How long has he been...?

”Door was unlocked.” He explained, and the way he somehow utilized an invisible scope to zero in on your headspace before addressing his findings left you unsettled, to say the least.

Right. So that just means ‘come on in’? You stifle an eye-roll.

Fatigue may be enveloping your startled frame, but at that moment you’d be damned if you were going to psychologically invite the sniper in as a front-row guest to witness any effect he has on you. Your stupefied demeanor quickly recovered in favor of mirroring his own indifference.

“Ah, Crosshair—to what do I owe the pleasure of your impudent presence?”

Pleasure—Exactly the objective.

He was so pleased you inquired.

Despite hyper-fixated with the prospect of his lips on yours, Crosshair relied on the innate perfection of his self-control to get his point across tonight.

For now, his eyes simply narrowed slightly. “What are you doing awake?”

His inquiry was absolutely frivolous; of course he knew why you were awake in the dead of night. As if the miscellaneous parts littered across your space wasn’t obvious enough, to which the sniper’s preeminent eyesight had allowed him to quickly analyze every inch of the room before even settling his eyes on your very desirable form—your very weary form, at that—Crosshair was in full remembrance of the undertaking of your current commission.

He pointedly decided your project would have to come to a standstill, for he was a man on a mission.

Something about his tone pricked a defensive nerve as you stiffen, a jolt of vex buzzing through to animate your sneering body language and sardonic tone.

“Oh, I’m sorry Sir, I didn’t realize I had failed to report in to you for my curfew.”

“Charming.”

“Between the two of us? Someone has to be.” You eyed accusatorially up and down his lanky frame, thoughtfully regarding him for a moment before folding your arms across your chest to quell the growing disquietude—if you knew anything about the brusque sniper standing before you, it was that he was deliberate and methodical in every sense of the word. In that moment, all other obligations of yours became lost to the mission of wholly discerning the man’s agenda for tonight.

What are you after?

A bit of investigation. A little goading. A lot of validation. The sniper was eager to know if you reciprocated his advances with shared enthusiasm; the result of too many pent up hormones and a repressed but ever-growing attraction for the woman in front of him who plagued his thoughts constantly, who became the sole reason the other half of his sheets felt so cold at night.

Crosshair planned on taking his usual precise aim before firing right at your emotions.

And of course, the sniper won’t miss. He never does.

He wanted to know all of your secrets.

You were curious about all of his, too.

“So tell me, Crosshair,” you prompt after a brief staring contest with the man; a swirling tone sweeter than honey contrasting your underlying aura of commandeering. “Are you drunk, or are you always this aroused at 3 AM?”

“I’m not drunk in the slightest, and—“ he shrugs nonchalantly, “—I found myself missing your company.”

Your jaw sets, and a wry smile graces your features in response to his attempt at justification. “So let me get this straight: you uninvitedly waltz your ass into my quarters in the middle of the night, all turned-on and expecting me to just—“

“Tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing.”

“...I would’ve knocked, first.” You remain curt in your admission.

“I’m glad the feeling is mutual.” Crosshair did, in fact, feel satiated by your confirmation. A chuckle emitted from deep within his chest, for proof.

His response further perked your attentiveness, a sharp nip coursing through your body as if suddenly submerged in a freezing lake, and you felt yourself nearly choking on air as you regarded him in authentic bafflement.

Why, for the love of kriff, was this moof-milker so obsessed with his own enigma and cryptic translations?

“I don’t understand you.” Was all you could confess through your huff of exasperation.

His head cocked to this side in contemplation, approval in his own shroud of mystics discernibly written across his face. “Why don’t you come and figure me out, then?”

You scoff. The nerve of this guy. “Because I’m much too tired to play this game.”

One moment you brisk the man in passing, and the next, you find yourself caged in the sniper’s arms; your back firmly pressed to the cold durasteel wall. His lips hovered dangerously over your own before his silky voice permeated just past the shell of your ear.

“Who said anything about a game.” The purr of his voice, low and reverberating, both a question and an answer, left your knees trembling slightly against him.

“That’s all this is.” You manage to spew, the words leaving a bitter taste on your tongue in solidifying your trepidations.

“Are you sure about that? Think very carefully before you answer, Y/N.” Hot breaths created from his each enunciation puffed seductively into your neck and coerced the soft skin to submit with goosebumps in offering, to which Crosshair eagerly received with the greeting of his lips.

Your voice became tight and thickly coated with a festering desire that you desperately tried to swallow through the tension. Think very carefully. You forcefully willed your hand to not reach up in that instant to drag your fingers through his short hair in an indulgent reaction to his nuzzle. A strained smile tugged at your features, and you thanked the Maker your sense of humor was there to offer it’s aid.

“Yes, I’m absolutely sure I don’t want to be coaxed into your bed.”

“Who said it had to be in the bed?” He retracted from the crook between your collarbone and jawline to coolly regard you.

Damn. He was good. Too abrasive for his own good; but you’re a liar if you claimed he didn’t incite an increasing clench of emotions deep in your core.

He knew all the right buttons to push.

You grit your teeth in increased frustration and your own looming arousal. “Stubborn, aren’t you?”

“I like to think of it is... ambitious.”

“Duly noted, but ambition will get you nowhere here. Not acting like a pompous ass.”

Is that really the way he came across?

“I’m just a man who knows what he wants.”

“That being...?” You fall uncharacteristically timid, an obscure sense of dread permeating your thoughts over the pending answer your intuition has already fully acknowledged.

“I think we both know the answer to that.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears, and the heartbeat thrum through your chest became a deafening cacophony that momentarily overpowered your weak chuckle. “No. You’re just drunk, and you need to sleep.”

You reinstated the notion, trying to convince yourself more than him, of a truth you knew was a lie.

A brief flash of anger flickered across his dark, brooding eyes. “I told you, I’m completely sober—the only thing I’m intoxicated by, is you.” There was an edge to his voice. “And what I need, is you.”

Crosshair forced himself to not become transfixed on the way your mouth lay agape in that moment. He willed his lips to not close yours—not yet—instead opting to close the remaining space between the two of you; open space he decided that neither of you actually needed. Your entirety became firmly pressed to Crosshair. His thin frame held you tightly, but not harshly. You were caged in a determined grip. There was nowhere to go.

Nowhere else you wanted to go, if you were honest.

“I...” you faltered. Words suddenly failed you, utterly abandoning your vocal chords.

“Somethin’ wrong, cyar’ika?” His voice feigned innocence and his warm hand, previously resting at the nape of your neck, now slid with deliberation to the front, and his smirk only grew at the feeling of the quickened pulse in your neck now throbbing against his palm. The pad of his thumb trailed seductively down the soft column of your throat, stroking the words trapped within. “Don’t worry, I’ve got all night to wait.”

You forcefully clear your throat, suddenly aided in the very tangible redirecting to the muscle just below his waist now pressing against you; lacking all subtlety and completely contradicting the man’s statement, making a liar right out of him.

You’ve met your match, sniper.

“Do you, now? Sure you can handle it?” You tease, fingers ghosting over the hardened area before momentarily hovering. “Think very carefully before you answer, Crosshair.”

You unabashedly flashed your own wide smirk of satisfaction at the way his lips pulled into a tight line to muffle his grunt in a naturally sensitized response to your touch.

Gotcha.

“You’re catching on.” He praised, quickly recovering.

“I’m a fast learner.”

“Indeed.” The sniper mused, allowing his eyes to wander with deliberation over you before meeting your gaze once again. The intensity of his stare, the light scrunching of his nose and brows when he did, left you absentmindedly wondering if that was the same display of fervent concentration he portrayed under his helmet whenever about to nail his next target.

Except you were not simply his ‘next target’.

You remained undeterred by his intensity, unflinching under his perusal.

“Now what, ram’ser?”

His brow arched in consideration. The back of his nimble fingers brushed the peaking scarlet along your cheekbone, a stroke of encouragement as he shrugged.

“Your move, Darlin’.”