Chapter Text
This is stupid.
Crosshair leaned against the wall, arms crossed, scowl present, with a piercing glare sharp enough to cut through the bottle sitting innocently at the center of the circle.
He didn't want to play this stupid game. He wasn't even interested in the first place.
However, when he tried to make his escape earlier, a large arm was around his neck and he was being dragged back by Wrecker. A second attempt, and it was Hunter blocking his path with his arms crossed and a stern look. And another attempt, it was Echo who teased him of being a coward—and that irked him even more.
He willingly returned to the circle before his ego got wounded.
So now, here he was.
Pretending not to watch the damned bottle, cursing everything and everyone in his head.
Wrecker had already explained the rules earlier, and it was the most ridiculous thing he has ever heard. Seven minutes in a closet, or in this case, the Marauder's tiny storage compartment, with whoever the bottle landed on. And until the time was up, they weren't allowed to leave or open the door.
And by the looks of it, he has five options.
Wrecker was definitely not his top choice, unless he wanted to get crushed in that tiny space and die from the lack of air. He'd like to walk out perfectly fine, not get all his bones broken and his lungs punctured by his ribcage.
Hunter was also not a favorable partner.
Considering the sergeant's perceptive senses, Crosshair would spend the entire seven minutes trying not to get scrutinized by him. Plus, he hated that Hunter could easily read him like a book—even when he didn't say anything.
Tech was a good option, he can tolerate his ramblings, or maybe he can just tell him to shut up while they spend their time in silence. Unless he starts to open his mouth, then there won't be anything to stop him.
Echo was the ideal partner, even when he knew the right words to say to annoy him, he could still be tolerable. Cordial, respectful, and knew how to keep himself in check without being told to do so. A perfect candidate to be stuck with.
And then, there was you.
His toothpick shifted across his lips, lifting his gaze to see you sitting close to Tech. Too closely. Anyone with a good pair of eyes and a functioning mind would know that proximity could mean something else.
You were smiling at something he was rambling about, occasionally laughing and peering over his shoulder to see his datapad. Meanwhile, his brother welcomed it all. The closeness, the laughter, even the peeks which led him to fully show you what was in his datapad, and he never did that so easily to anyone.
The sight triggered something within him, a ugly thing that festered into dark seed.
His mind wandered to scenarios.
Both of you and Tech stuck in that small compartment, standing too close, chests flushed together, and the heat from your body merging with his. Just thinking about it made his jaw clench. He hated how it made his blood heat. He hated how much it lingered in his head longer than he liked. He hated how much you weren't even aware of it—
"Stare harder, and she'll evaporate on the spot." Hunter's low voice came up beside him, causing the sniper to grit his teeth.
Crosshair threw his toothpick aside, redirecting his glare at his side. "And what do you want?"
Hunter fixed him with a knowing look, a smug grin resting on his lips. "For you to admit your feelings. Maker knows how long you've been brooding at every corner doing this. . . thing."
"What thing?" Crosshair shifted his body, turning to face him fully. "What exactly am I doing, Hunter?"
"I'm not blind, Cross. I see the way you look at her."
"And how do I look at her?"
"Same way she does to you when you're not looking."
Masking his confusion, the sniper merely scoffed. "You must be seeing things."
However, Hunter was undeterred. "And you're not seeing enough. For someone with enhanced sight, you sure don't know how to use it."
Anger sparked in his chest, taking a step closer to the brunette as he pointed a finger at his chest.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Unbeknownst to them, the bottle was already spinning, and the four of you were watching the scene unfold.
Hunter stood his ground, hostility flickering through his amusement. "Means they don't have anything going on, and you'd know that if you'd only look."
"Uh, guys?"
"And how would you know that?"
"Guys."
"Why don't you see for yourself?"
"Guys."
The two whipped around in unison, exclaiming "What?" at the same time.
Tech adjusted his goggles whilst rolling his eyes. "If you two are finished with your dispute, you would know the bottle has stopped."
Crosshair blinked, and when his eyes sank to the floor, his heart followed.
Kriff.
Hunter whistled low, aiming another knowing glance at him through his peripheral vision. But before the sniper could glare at him, the sergeant chuckled, a smug tone in his voice as he spoke again.
"Would you look at that? Lucky you."
But Crosshair didn't believe in luck. He didn't believe in any miracles. He believed in efficiency, precision, and guaranteed success. In seeing things with his very own eyes. And there was no way in all star systems that this was happening. He knew he should've walked away when he had the chance. He should've left the room instead of protecting his pride.
But what he really should've done was throw that kriffing bottle outside the ship before it spun.
Hunter rested his hand on his shoulder, grinning lightly. "Now, go on. Seven minutes. That's the only rule–"
"No," Crosshair hissed the venom through the word, shrugging off his hand. "I'm not doing this."
The sergeant merely raised an eyebrow. "I thought good soldiers followed orders? Or are you suddenly not a soldier?"
From the side, Wrecker let out a loud laugh and a "Burn!" while slapping his knee.
Tension brewed like a storm—dark and heavy—as the room plunged in complete silence. His muscles tensed, a coiled snake ready to strike, or a trigger ready to fire. Amidst the tension, suspicion emerged through the smoke.
Maybe they had planned this right from the start, and Hunter purposefully distracted him from watching the bottle. Maybe Tech or Echo made the bottle stop directly towards him, and Wrecker was the one who suggested this game after all. As much of a di'kut his brother was, Wrecker could be playfully tricky when he wanted to be.
"Fine," Crosshair pushed past Hunter, bumping his shoulder on the way. "I'll play your stupid game."
Behind him, he heard the others snickering to themselves. Echo told you to behave while in there, and your response hit him harder than any blast to his chest.
"No promises."
Then, he heard your footsteps catching up.
When he glanced over, you were walking beside him wearing a calm smile on your face.
But he saw the glint in your eyes, daring and bright. "Not backing out, are you?"
He clicked his tongue, retrieving another toothpick from his pouch. "I already tried."
The door to the storage compartment hissed open, and the two of you entered quietly as if marching to your death. The space, as he expected, was designed to only hold weapons and other gears they constantly use. But now, it was emptied just for the sole purpose of this game. It would've been tolerable, if it weren't for the fact the space was tinier than a turbolift.
One person could fit perfectly fine, but with two?
Crosshair didn't doubt there wouldn't be much area to move around, unless he wanted to contact. But no, it won't end that way.
You stood directly in front of him, tilting your head up to meet his stare. He didn't look away, holding your gaze steadily as the door shut closed and the room was blanketed with darkness. His sight wasn't as adaptive as Hunter's, but even through the low visibility, he was able to see your features clearer than he liked.
He could see the dilation of your pupils, adjusting through the lack of light, as well as the miniscule squint of your eyes to make shape of him.
The air was thick with the scent of dust, steel, and the faint trace of your perfume. Something so uniquely yours, but in this tightened space, it might as well be his as well. It clung to his clothes like poison, and he hated how sweet it smelled. He hated this childish game, he could be doing something more productive than this. Instead, he was stuck here with you, of all people.
"Not much of a talker, are you?" You spoke after a moment, and he could hear the smile in your voice. "Relax, Cross. I don't bite."
He kept his walls higher, his glare sharper. Because he knew, if he took the bait, it would lead to choices he would regret. One of them being testing to see if you actually meant your words.
"You just talk too much," He deflected smoothly, erasing the image in his head of your teeth sinking on his neck. "Now, shut up. We'll play this game quietly."
Silence again.
Except it wasn't silence, not really. There was your breathing—measured, deliberate—and his heartbeat, which he refused to acknowledge was louder than normal. Faster than he liked. He kept himself glued to the wall, not allowing his arm to even brush against yours. It should've felt peaceful. It should've felt comfortable.
Why did it feel more suffocating?
Why did it feel heavier than the one earlier?
And why was he getting affected by it?
He watched you through half-lidded eyes, assessing you, as though you were a target he couldn't quite line up. Every shift of your posture drew his attention. The way you tilted your head, the flick of your wrist when you crossed your arms tighter, the calmness in your stance despite the tense situation.
The difference between your height shouldn't spark a wild satisfaction in his chest, subconsciously standing straighter to loom over your figure.
He wondered, what was going on in your pretty little head? Were you trying to ignore the same images he sees in the dark? The same closeness, the same contact, the same sensation provoked from hushed whispers and bruising kisses.
One minute.
You met his gaze again, and he inhaled sharply. "You really hate me that much, huh?"
His mouth curved, not a smile exactly, but maybe a ghost of one. "You think too highly of yourself."
"Meaning?"
"Hate takes effort. You're not worth that much energy."
The way your eyes narrowed almost made him grin. He could see you biting back a retort, could see the color rising in your cheeks—most likely frustration, not embarrassment. But beneath that heat was something else, something that mirrored the sharp pull in his own chest.
Whatever it was. . . It was dangerous. But somehow, it excited him.
You took a step closer. "You act like you're above it all, but I think you like having someone push back."
His smirk stretched, toothpick shifting. "And you think you're the one to do it?"
This time, the air shifted.
Thicker, hotter, and painfully real.
He could smell your soap even closer—something faintly floral, soft, and entirely out of place here. It almost disoriented his focus, but he stood his guard. He didn't move, didn't even flinch, but his eyes followed you the way they'd follow a blaster bolt mid-flight—precise and unblinking.
"Seems to me, it bothers you that I might be." You muttered slowly, and he wasn't sure if he caught the subtle glance to his lips correctly. "So? Does it bother you?"
He leaned forward, just slightly, voice dropping to a serpentine rasp. "You really don't know when to stop, do you?"
You stayed quiet for a moment, and this time, there was no mistaking your eyes dropping.
"Do you?"
For a heartbeat, he almost did something reckless. He almost closed the distance. He almost took the bait. But no, he wanted to draw this longer. Like all of his shots, he needed to find your weakness first before firing. And he didn't need a rifle to do so. All he needed was a push. Just a tiny one to see if you'd break first.
Two minutes.
Crosshair pinched his toothpick, releasing it from his teeth.
You were about to say something else, when he pressed the toothpick against your lips.
In the darkness, he saw your eyes widening—glancing down to the wooden piece—before they returned to his with visible shock and confusion. But he wasn't looking at you. No, he was focused on the toothpick resting on your plush lips. He pressed harder, both of your breath hitching, as he slowly trailed the tip to your bottom lip—tugging it down, careful not to prick you.
But Crosshair didn't stop there.
His eyes never strayed, following the deliberate descent. Under your chin, down your throat, and to the middle of your collarbones. When you gulped, he briefly paused his track. You didn't move, neither did he. As if afraid to break the spell encased in that space.
Then, he brought the toothpick up again. Gliding the sharp tip across your skin, until it found its way back to your lips.
No words were exchange. No sounds other than your combined heavy breathing was heard.
This was dangerous.
But he didn't expect how far the danger would go, until your lips parted slightly.
And he clenched his jaw the moment you bit on the end, pulling it away from his fingers. All the while staring up at him through a cloudy gaze.
Your tongue flickered out, shifting the toothpick aside, and he only watched in rapt intensity.
"Does it bother you now?"
The breath he inhaled was sharp, glare darkening.
"You're playing a dangerous game, doll."
He didn't give you time to respond, because in the next moment, he snatched the toothpick from your mouth and replaced it with his own. He pushed you back until you were pinned to the wall, mouth covering yours, leaning down to devour you fully.
If a kiss tasted like something, this would taste like a battlefield.
It tasted like smoke, desperation, and a domineering need to conquer. It tasted like the blood in his mouth when he was wounded, tainting his tongue no matter how many times he tried to spit it out. It felt like the molten heat of adrenaline coursing through his veins at the brink of death.
It consumed every nerve of his being, and all he could think about was to consume you back.
Three minutes.
You pulled him closer by his collar, smirking into the kiss. "You didn't answer my question."
He growled, kissing you harder. "Shut up."
Then, he grabbed both your wrists in one hand and raised them above your head. When you resisted, he gripped them harder and groaned at the sound of your soft whimper. Even now, you still tried to defy him. You still tried to challenge his authority, fight his control, but he knew it wouldn't last long. One thing about him—once he found an opening, he wouldn't hesitate to attack.
"Infuriating," The word lost its heat and meaning when he sighed, almost in surrender. "That's what you are. You're nothing but an infuriating distraction."
"A distraction?" You breathed shakily. "That means you let me distract you."
His teeth caught the skin underneath your ear. "I do. And I hate it."
But did he really hate it when he seized your lips again, swallowing your sounds before they can escape from him? Did he really hate it when you arched your back, chest flushed against his, while his other arm snaked behind you to pull you even more? Did he really hate it when he was quickly becoming addicted to the taste of you?
The warmth from your body, the way you perfectly melted against his, and the rabid hunger shared.
Did he really hate it when he wanted to claim all of those for himself?
And when you moaned his name, pleading and ruined, he almost shredded all of his armor to take you right then and there. But his resolve was firm, he can't take you here. Then, you said it again, while he ravished your neck, and Crosshair almost sank to his knees—either to beg for forgiveness or to commit another sin between your thighs.
Instead he placed his knee between them, before he can.
Four minutes.
You panted, lashes fluttering open to see his knee between your legs. "Not the first time you did this to a girl, I bet?"
He clicked his tongue, glare so piercing it could cut your throat before you could speak again.
"And if it's not? What would you do?"
"Nothing."
"Not even jealous?"
"Jealous?" You scoffed, reciprocating his glare. "Don't think highly of yourself, Cross. You're not the first man to have me like this too."
That hit him square in the chest, fueling that ugly thing he felt earlier when he saw you with Tech. Until he realized, it wasn't anger. It was jealousy. He shouldn't even feel that way. You weren't his. He wasn't yours. But somehow, he didn't like the idea of someone else having you.
Another realization struck him. What would happen then when the timer goes off? Will you go back living your lives, together yet separate, pretending none of this happened?
That this happened just because of the game?
Will he continue fighting his battles everyday, trying not to think—to miss—this brief moment with you?
Or worse, you'd belong to someone else while he watched.
No, he really didn't want that. He hated that idea more than he hated this game. Because at least hating the game got him closer to you like this. At least here, he can kiss you senselessly, and pretend you didn't hate him too.
"You still didn't answer my question," Your voice softened, and his resolve cracked by a fraction.
He breathed out slowly, shakily, gazing into your eyes with conflict gleaming in his. "Which one?"
Nearing your face, your nose grazed his as you whispered against his lips. "You really hate me that much?"
Crosshair blinked, momentarily stunned, and something in his throat tightened.
Five minutes.
The answer to that was simple, and he was just too stubborn to admit it. Because in truth, he was just afraid. Afraid that you were only doing this because of a stupid game. You only kissed him back because he forced himself on you. He might act like he didn't care, but that's because he was only afraid—that you'd never return his feelings and he'll live his life trying to erase this—you—from his memory.
Your lips pressed on the side of his mouth, so undeservingly soft for him, and he closed his eyes to savor the warmth it left behind.
"Do you really hate me, Cross?"
He didn't answer you.
Only turned his head to kiss you again, rougher than before, as if to release the remaining hatred simmering in his blood.
He kissed you like he was trying to prove that he didn't.
He didn't hate you.
He hated himself for wanting you.
He hated himself for being a stubborn coward. And most of all, he hated himself for not doing this sooner. And somehow, you understood him. You kissed him back like you were trying to prove something to yourself—that maybe you were tired of these games too.
Nudging his knee between your thighs, your strangled moan made him shudder as you immediately chased the sensation. Grinding over his armored thigh, whimpering into his mouth. He released your wrists to grab ahold of your hips, pulling you back and forth, pushing you harder on him.
Your hands were in his hair, scratching his scalp, tugging on short silver strands. His lips returned to your neck, teeth nipping on skin, tongue soothing the stinging marks. It was something straight from his darkest fantasies—buried so deep he never thought it would happen.
But here he was—marking you as his—while you let him.
It wasn't just lust. It was fury, resentment, longing, and passion all combined. Every time he pulled away, you pulled him back. Every time he made a new mark on your neck, you'd beg him for more.
The hunger masked the hesitation, until the hesitation became need.
He could handle going back to what you once were before after this. Friends, comrades, camaraderies. He could handle your rejection if you ever decide this was a mistake. But what he couldn't handle was letting this opportunity go. Even for just a brief moment, even for seven minutes, you were his.
And he was yours.
Before he could go back to battle, back to reality, he'd savor this piece of heaven. Even if it was just an illusion.
Six minutes.
"One minute before we barge in there!" Wrecker's booming voice resounded outside the door, his giggles fading into the distance.
Sighing, Crosshair laid his forehead on your shoulder, hiding his face from your view. "I don't hate you. I only thought. . . you hated me."
He felt you tense, and for a while you didn't utter a word.
Of course, what was I thinking?
He set you down, putting himself at a distance, the walls rebuilding quickly.
But before he can shut himself off, you blindly touched his face.
"I never hated you, Cross." You cradled his cheek, stroking the line of his tattoo under his eye. "I thought the same thing. Thought you hated my guts. Guess we should've sort that out earlier."
Oh.
Something much more dangerous than jealousy ignited inside him. Something he often felt, but refused to acknowledge time and time again. Hope. It warmed his chest, unfamiliar but he allowed it to fill him. And when both of your palms met his cheek, with your lips meeting his—gentle and forgiving—the warmth sparked into flames.
He molded himself into you, melting completely, tilting his head deeper to chase the heat from your mouth. Together, you burned. With your arms slowly encircling around his neck. With his tongue stealing your breath, and your bodies pressed together.
Someone knocked on the door, causing the both of you to part from each other.
"Time's up, sweethearts. Wrecker wants the next round." Hunter called out, knocking once again, before his footsteps disappeared.
But you two didn't pay him mind.
Crosshair huffed, collecting his breath. "Idiot."
Chuckling, you pecked his lips. "You heard him. Next round's about to start."
He contemplated whether to release you or to keep you here with him, and finally decided. His arms released your waist, but his eyes never left you, following your frame as you made your way to the door.
You were about to open the panel, when he suddenly spoke from behind.
"Lock it."
You blinked, turning around in question. "What?"
The sniper loomed over you, raising a hand and pressing on the lock button himself. When it clicked, your body shivered at the sound. Then, his breath was next to your ear—warm, dangerous, and promising.
"I'm not done with you yet."