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crosshairlovebot · 16 hours

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bewitching mr. batchbury / crosshair x f!reader

pairing: crosshair x f!reader

description: ever since you met him and he ignored you, mr. batchbury has completely infuriated you. but as you spend time with the batchbury's as their sister's companion for the social season, your feelings for him become confusing and you cannot get the handsome silver-haired man out of your head.

REGENCY AU

word count: 8,649

warnings: none. kissing (making out, neck kisses). secret crushes. hate to love. misunderstandings. crosshair being annoying.

after writing regency hunter i knew i had to write regency crosshair too :') this exists in the same universe as hunter's piece so there are allusions to his romance :) this was so fun to write! crosshair has always been mr darcy coded to me so there's definitely an influence from p&p! i hope you enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it!

also posted this on ao3. feedback is welcomed, reblogs are appreciated.

PART ONE

Mr. Carlisle ‘Crosshair’ Batchbury was completely and utterly infuriating. It did not matter that he was cripplingly handsome, uniquely distinguished by his strange grey hair, tall and lean stature, and a smattering of a port wine birthmark over his right eye – his personality was maddening.

And yet, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Acting as a companion to his little sister, Meg Batchbury, for London’s social season, you had spent many hours in the presence of the infamous Batchbury Brothers.

After returning from the war where they had started as lowly soldiers trained under a Commodore of the Royal Navy, they had made their fortune by collecting a wealth of prize money with an unbroken streak of successful battles. The band of brothers had been the talk of the ton, their rise from rags to riches captivating every gentleman and woman – but it was the mamas and their daughters who found themselves completely taken by them. When they’d ascertained the brothers had only enlisted to secure a future for their sister, their hearts were all of a flutter – for handsome, brave soldiers who were family men made perfect husbands.

The eldest Batchbury – Hunter – was already married, much to their dismay. But that still left three viable brothers for them to sink their lacey fans and dance cards into. When they’d heard the Batchbury’s would be attending this year’s social season, cries of delight were heard across the ton.

As a favour to your friend – the eldest Batchbury Brother’s wife, you’d promised you would accompany Meg to various balls and act as her companion and confidant for the season. Meg had expressed her desire to attend this year, now that her brothers had returned home. She’d been regaled with tales of fancy parties, endless food and dancing, and wanted to experience it for herself.

“It’s…a little more than that, Meg,” you’d told her carefully, cautious of her ideas that had seemed to be formed naively. “The point of these balls and parties is for matchmaking.”

Meg had waved her hand, dismissing your words. “Oh, I am aware. But I’m not interested in such things at present.”

You’d frowned. “But attending the social season does send the message that you are interested.”

Meg just grinned ruefully and shrugged. “Then I’ll just do my best to avoid it.”

You had shaken your head, smiling along with her. You’d sighed with some relief, knowing you’d not have to try and steer her from unsuitable matches or chaperone strolls in Hyde Park and could just simply enjoy time spent at extravagant balls and luncheons.

You were past the age of eligibility and the thought of simply attending a London social season to enjoy it was simultaneously scary and exciting. To know there were no expectations on you from your own family or on Meg, it was freeing.

You had joined the Batchbury’s at their London residence, and from the very moment you set foot inside the newly acquired townhouse, your eyes were drawn to the youngest Batchbury brother, Crosshair.

You’d been welcomed enthusiastically by Meg, who had petitioned her brothers to attend the London social season, much to their behest. But they had been kind and amiable when you were first introduced. You hadn’t been sure what to expect, but you had been surprised at how large they all were, and their history as soldiers was clear with their injuries and the weathered look of their faces. You already knew Hunter, who’d just returned from his honeymoon and itching to return to the country to his wife, but Wrecker and Tech had all been a picture of politeness upon introductions, meeting you with manners that were clearly practised. But Crosshair had stood behind, arms crossed, a scowl etched into his brow with no sign of it disappearing. He’d immediately met you with hard eyes the colour of coffee that were so scrutinising you had flinched.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Batchbury,” you’d said as you curtseyed, trying not to be bothered by his gaze.

Mr. Batchbury had looked you up and down, brow remaining creased as he seemingly evaluated you before his eyes met yours for a moment before looking away from you without greeting. You’d been puzzled by his lack of manners, and then hurt by his rejection and then angry, for who was he to be judging you? He did not even know you. And from that moment, Mr. Crosshair Batchbury was a rude annoyance you endured only for his siblings, despite his handsomeness – which only added to your irritation.

How cruel, for such beauty to be wasted on someone so dreadful.

He held that same hard gaze now, watching you from the other side of the Kenobi’s ballroom. The room was filled with people, and a string quartet played a cotillion that had those on the dance floor that separated you from Mr. Batchbury bouncing lively to the music.

It was the final ball of the season, and at the request of Meg, she wanted all the brothers in attendance tonight and they were completely powerless to say no.

Being in such close quarters with the four brothers for the season meant you not only saw their brash, loud, clever and cunning natures, but also the immense love they had for their sister. Each brother was different, but it was obvious what connected them all was their strong sense of family and loyalty. You had observed it all.

Wrecker’s love was boisterous and loud and coupled with fierce hugs and booming laughter. Tech’s affection was more subtle, but you’d find it in the way he consumed knowledge with the intent to share, to provide answers to questions his family asked; prepared for any situation. Hunter’s care was gentle and warm yet with a firmness that was steadfast and immovable. Crosshair, despite your feelings towards the other less amiable parts of his personality, showed love quietly, often through gesture or merely listening. He would grumble at Wrecker’s affection, but never push it away. He would listen to Tech’s ramblings even when everyone had vacated the room. And when Hunter’s strength managed to wane, Crosshair would swoop right in, ready to support in however he could.

Seeing this kind of love juxtaposed with the other parts of his caustic, sharp and, quite frankly, snarky personality was what vexed you the most; knowing he had the capacity for such softness and kindness but chose not to use it.

And actively chose not to use it with you.

You sipped your champagne, meeting his gaze from across the dance floor, ignoring the warmth that ignited your rest at his gaze. He mirrored your movements with his own glass of brandy, and you couldn’t help but drop your gaze to his lips that lay gently on the rim of the glass and think back to that moment in the greenhouse at the Across the Stars Ball where they were anything but gentle on your own.

Prince Anakin Skywalker and his wife, Queen Padme Amidala held their annual ‘Across the Stars’ ball at their London palace and it was the event of the social season. Everyone who was everyone in the ton was invited, and that now included the Batchbury family – much to Meg’s delight and her brother’s chagrin.

Meg had been ecstatic upon receiving the invitation and begged for her brothers to accept so that she could attend. As the first ball of the season, it was the first time all the brothers would be seen by the eyes of the ton, and you watched on from your place in the drawing room as they argued about etiquette and dancing, of which they had little experience.

“If we go, we will be expected to dance and socialise,” Hunter told his brothers.

“Sounds like a marvellous time!” Wrecker grinned, rising to his feet from where he sat on the settee that he practically dwarfed.

“You don’t know how to dance, Wrecker,” Tech pointed out from the armchair, raising an eyebrow as he looked up from his book, a wooden cane he used to aid his walking lent against the side table. He pushed his spectacles up his nose. “None of us do except for Hunter, who had clandestine lessons in a garden maze with his now wife.”

The eldest Batchbury blushed, port wine stain darkening as both Meg and Wrecker giggled. You smiled too, a book open on your lap.

Mr. Crosshair Batchbury remained silent from his seat on the writing desk, where he was penning something diligently in a notebook with his non-wooden hand.

Perhaps one of the most admirable traits about Mr. Batchbury was that he taught himself how to write with his left hand after losing his right in the war. Meg told you that he had spent weeks holed up in his room alone, practising his script until it was perfect and unsmudged. It was quite remarkable, to be so determined.

Now, he observed his siblings with his steely gaze as he casually dipped the end of the quill in ink, raising and lowering the feathered tool gently in the pot, sparing it no glance.

You always wondered what he was writing in that notebook. He never seemed to be without it. It lived in the back pocket of his trousers, and you’d often found him in different places throughout the townhouse, writing in it.

Once, early in your stay, you’d seen him lounging in a bay window that overlooked the streets of London, one leg outstretched and the notebook leaning on the other he’d pulled up as he wrote in careful hand. You’d almost walked past him, but your footsteps had stopped on their own accord. The sun was hitting him just right, bathing him in a golden glow that made the silver strands of his hair glitter and the warmth of his brown skin radiate through the small alcove. He had on a cream-coloured shirt, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, the collar of it wide and its ties undone, scandalously revealing the dip in his lean chest. His left side was closest to you, and his hand was poised so the side of it didn’t drag over the graphite words he'd just penned. You could see his wooden hand rest on the book to keep it steady.

He barely fit in the small space, one foot of his long legs pressed flat against the wall opposite him and half bent at the knee. He didn’t look comfortable, but he never really did anywhere in the house. He always looked like he was trying to slot himself into the new life they’d acquired but could never really find the right position for it to work.

When you thought back to that tableau, you were sure that was the moment you realised just how handsome he truly was, and the moment your thoughts and feelings for the standoffish and biting Mr. Batchbury became all muddled.

Sensing your eyes on him, you watched him flick his gaze to yours. “What?”

You flinched as his hard brown-eyed gaze landed on yours with a piercing fierceness. “Nothing. My apologies.”

Mr. Batchbury looked at you, his eyes trailing over you before moving back to your face, studying it before he returned his gaze to his writing, pencil moving once again.

You swallowed as you watched his movements, and the words fell out of you before you could stop them. “What are you writing?”

Mr. Batchbury froze, and he looked at you with a scrutinising regard. “Why?”

“I’m just curious. You never send any letters, and whenever I see you, you’re always penning something.”

He narrowed his eyes at you and continued on, suddenly trying to bridge this distance between you that both puzzled and annoyed you. “It must be something you love.”

His eyes widened. “What?”

“What you’re writing.” Your face burned, but maybe if you found a connection; a common ground, then maybe this strange dynamic between you would end. “If you return to it every day, you must love it.”

Mr. Batchbury stared at you before slamming his notebook closed and standing up. You watched him as he sent you a scathing look, eyes hard and port wine stain a deep red. He brushed past you without another word before stalking away. You were shocked and completely and utterly confused. What had you said? What had you done? But your befuddlement just returned to the anger and disdain you’d already held, but now multiplied.

Mr. Batchbury was rude and unapproachable, nothing you did would change that. So, you were done being amiable towards him. No matter how attractive he was.

Coming back from your memory to the drawing room, you shut your book and stood, making your way across the room, nearing the writing desk.

“Perhaps I could give you all some lessons? So you can dance once or twice to keep up appearances. I would suspect that the quadrille would be easily mastered by former soldiers.”

Wrecker and Meg’s eyes lit up and they spoke simultaneously. “Would you?”

You smiled at them and nodded. “I would be happy to. Dancing is the best way to spend a party.”

“And build affection between partners,” Meg smiled, reciting something you’d told her.

“Well, yes, that too,” you smiled, and you saw something grey move in the corner of your eyes as Meg jumped up darted towards you to through her arms around you. “How wonderful! We can start lessons this afternoon, so we are ready for the ball on Saturday.”

“Whatever you want, Meg,” you gently untangled her from you and clasped her hands.

She grinned, squeezing your hands before turning to her brothers, of whom Wrecker and Hunter seemed genuinely happy for her. “Isn’t this exciting? A real ball!”

“Yes. It is most thrilling,” Tech kept his eyes on his book, his voice unenthused despite its sincerity, but it made you smile. You looked towards the writing desk and saw Mr. Batchbury’s scowl had only deepened, the quill in his hand unmoving and dripping ink on the page.

“Are you not excited too, Mr. Batchbury?” you slid over to the desk, eyes drifting down to the inked parchment as subtlety as you could manage, but Mr. Batchbury swiftly closed the notebook with a soft thud, preventing you from reading anything.

“It’s rude to impose your eyes on personal writings,” Mr. Batchbury’s raspy voice hissed at you. It was like a coiled snake, and it lit up your insides in the most improper way, wrapping itself around your bones and staying there long after you left his presence. His eyes met yours in a blazing stained gaze. He was so alluring, his face all angles and silver hair kept close to his head. There was a ghastly-looking scar on the side of his head he sustained during the war. His brother Wrecker had one too. But it did not detract from his good looks, at least not to you.

You stopped yourself from rolling your eyes and instead slid him a look that showed your distaste. “My apologies. I had no idea of your writings being the personal kind. But you still haven’t answered my question Mr. Batchbury, and one might say that is rather rude too.”

Your back and forth with Mr. Batchbury no doubt tired everyone to no end, but no matter how hard you tried, you simply were incapable of ignoring his remarks. Something in you needed to put him in his place, but it only seemed to spur him on more, driving the wedge harder between you both. It no longer mattered how many times Meg had to step between you two, it did not do anything to change your behaviour towards each other. You could not stand Mr. Crosshair Batchbury, and he could not stand you.

He scoffed in response. “I won’t be attending dancing lessons. Nor will I be attending the ball.”

“But you must!” Meg pleaded to her brother, but his coffee-coloured eyes only remained on you.

“What a shame,” you said, no disappointment in your voice at all. “But perhaps it’s best. No one will want to dance with someone so impudent and rude as you are anyway.”

Mr. Batchbury’s lip curled in a snarl before he pushed his chair back roughly, wooden legs screeching on the floorboards, snatched his notebook and stalked out of the drawing room.

“Must you provoke him?” Meg sighed. You watched the room’s remaining brothers share a glance at each other that you could never decipher.

You dropped your shoulders, suddenly feeling bad that you’d upset Meg. She was so lovely, like a little sister. You looked at her sullen face, her blonde hair swept into a braid and tied with a red ribbon – the Batchbury’s had seemed to adopt it as their family colour. She was so full of light.

“I’m sorry, Meg,” you said sincerely before holding out your hand. “Shall we learn the quadrille?”

That afternoon was spent teaching Meg and Wrecker how to dance a slew of dances that would be performed at the Across the Stars Ball including the quadrille, the cotillion, the scotch reel, the Naboo country dance and the waltz. Tech played the piano, unable to dance due to his injuries, and you paired with Hunter, who made the perfect partner for your instruction since he knew the dances already. Wrecker and Meg laughed as they stepped on each other’s feet and spun around. Their laughter was infectious, and you and Hunter and Tech laughed along too until you were all laughing so hard that you were unable to dance, and Tech was unable to play.

You caught your breath, hand on your chest as it heaved inside the confines of your corset, smiling at Meg as she pantomimed how ridiculous Wrecker had looked only minutes ago when you thought you saw a flash of grey hair up in the balconied eaves of the townhouse’s small ballroom. You frowned. Surely you were imagining such things.

It seemed as if the entire population of London was in attendance at the Across the Stars Ball, their ballroom was full of gentlemen and women, debutantes as well as members of the aristocracy and even parliament. Everyone was dressed in their finest gowns and suits coloured in rich navies and purples, gold and silver embellishments, fitting into the celestial theme perfectly. You swore you saw the elusive Duchess Satine Kyrze who rarely ventured from her country estate in Mandalorshire and even laid eyes upon Prince Reginald from the far-off Kingdom of Kamino, or Rex as he preferred to be called – the ton’s gossip mill had come to the conclusion that he was a close friend of Prince Skywalker.

You watched along with Tech as the Batchbury siblings – minus the youngest brother – took to the floor. Hunter and Wrecker took turns dancing with Meg, much to her delight and the scrutiny of the ton, but the Batchbury’s cared little for impropriety and more for their sister’s happiness. After lessons this week, they had taken to the dances fairly quickly and you smiled as they performed the steps as if they’d been doing them all their lives.

Hunter switched out with Wrecker, needing to catch his breath. You smiled at him.

“Are you missing the wild seas yet, Hunter?” you joked.

Hunter returned your smile. “Not even the decks of the Marauder could’ve prepared me for this.”

You laughed before Hunter excused himself for a drink. You sipped your champagne, listening to the whispers from those around you as they discussed the Batchbury’s debut at the most anticipated ball of the season.

“They’re a little…odd.” The voice dripped with pretentiousness from behind you, her tone all nasally.

You watched Wrecker lift Meg up and spin her around in an improvised turn that was not part of the choreography, both laughing loudly with glee. They were having the time of their lives.

“Odd is putting it kindly.” This voice blubbered with pompousness. You gripped your champagne glass tightly.

“This is why I believe we need to stop just anyone from acquiring fortunes, because this happens. Common people have no place here.”

You just about broke your glass, and your shoulders raised as you were seconds away from turning around and dressing the pair of snobs down, but Tech put a hand on your arm to stop you.

“Pay it no mind,” he said evenly, his hands returning to the top of his cane in front of him.

“But they’re being so cruel,” you protested, shoulders sagging.

He shook his head before pushing his glasses up his nose. “It is nothing we are not used to. It no longer affects us. We know who we are, and that’s all we’ve ever cared about.”

You softened your smile at him. You knew how the Batchbury’s had grown up in destitution and had endured many hardships to get to where they were now. You had grown fond of them all since joining them as Meg’s companion, and it just wasn’t right that people thought they were undeserving of their fortune. Out of anyone, they deserved to be happy and live without worry. You wished all of the ton believed that too.

You placed your now empty glass on a passing tray before turning to Tech. “I’m taking some air.”

“Leaving so soon?”

You whipped your head to see Mr. Batchbury in all his handsome glory. Similarly to his brothers, he was dressed in a dark grey tailored suit embroidered with silver thread, unintentionally matching his hair. His front pocket held a red pocket square, like all his brothers as a representation of their family. He towered over you, his trousers accentuating his long legs as they tucked into his shiny black knee-high boots. You flushed as he looked at you, the corner of his mouth upturned in his infuriatingly attractive smirk.

“Mr. Batchbury,” you stammered out. “I’m surprised you’re here.”

“As am I,” Tech blinked behind his spectacles. “You have expressed your distaste for these events, Crosshair.”

Crosshair scowled out at the dance floor, his eyes finding Meg and Wrecker. Hunter was held up somewhere, no doubt the bar was filled with people of the ton wanting to make his acquaintance, much to his discomfort.

“Yes, well, I don’t like being left behind,” Crosshair spoke bitterly, grabbing a glass of champagne from a tray. He sipped it, grimacing at the taste. You knew he hated champagne. “Is there nothing stronger?” he complained.

“There’s a bowl of punch on the other side of the room that has been spiked with a liquor that tastes like an oil lamp, if that is more to your taste,” you said dryly.

“Funny,” Mr. Batchbury drawled before downing the rest of the champagne. The string quartet finished the music, and everyone gave a gentle applause. People moved on and off the dancefloor in a sea of bodies as they prepared for the next dance of the evening.

“Care to dance?” Mr. Batchbury held out his left hand towards you. You looked up at him in shock, mouth agape.

“I’m sorry?” Had you heard him right?

Mr. Batchbury rolled his eyes and emphasised his outstretched palm. “A dance. Would you like one?”

You looked at him incredulously. He wanted to dance with you? The man who did not hide how much he disliked you and your presence in his household with his family. The man who did not acknowledge you at all and when he did, did so with such disdain that it was tangible. And yet he held out his gloved un-wooden hand towards you.

You looked at Tech who watched the interaction with interest, a look on his face you couldn’t decipher. You crossed your arms at Mr. Batchbury. “Is this a trick?”

“Would you give me an answer,” he hissed, growing impatient and agitated.

You studied him for a moment, trying to find any mischief or dishonesty in his gaze, but found none of it. Was he truly asking you in earnest? You couldn’t fathom it. It crossed your mind to reject him, to say no and humiliate him in front of everyone but something tugged in your chest. He’d come here of all places, even though he vehemently expressed his dislike for balls and intention not to attend. Even though he never seemed to feel comfortable in this new life he had and to dance with you in front of everyone was making a spectacle of himself.

And Mr. Batchbury, you had learned, did not do anything he did not want to do, and it seemed as though he did indeed wish to dance with you, but you could not place why. No one had asked you to dance in such a long time, and you doubt Mr. Batchbury made a habit of asking anyone to do anything at all, much less dance with him. It simply seemed…cruel to reject his offer – and you could not deny the part of you that actually wanted to dance with him; to be close to him in a way that wasn’t through argument.

Your inconvenient crush on the youngest Batchbury brother should not be encouraged…but it would be nice to dance.

Cautiously, you placed your gloved hand into his, his fingers wrapped around yours securely, but not tightly. His palm felt firm and strangely comforting against yours as he led you onto the dance floor and you watched the side of his face in fascination. He looked at you when you reached your position on the floor and dropped your hand. You looked up at him, his hands behind his back, and he stared down wordlessly at you, his eyes studying you intensely. You averted your gaze, landing on Wrecker and Meg in the next row, who were watching you both with curious expressions.

Your eyes slid back to him when the music began, and you met his bow with a curtsey. His eyes never left yours as he took your hands gently in his and performed the first step, moving towards each other and passing by the shoulders. He was poised and effortless in his movement, which surprised you.

“I thought you did not know how to dance,” you whispered, not sure why your voice decided to lower so.

Mr. Batchbury didn’t answer, the corner of his mouth twitching like it was about to smile. You frowned as you came together again.

“You didn’t attend my lessons with your family,” you whispered again a little louder.

You almost tripped over your own feet when you saw Mr. Batchbury’s mouth lift into a small, amused smile. Your frown deepened which only seemed to make him more delighted. What could he possibly be smiling about? You held his hands as you spun in a slow circle, his thumbs gently resting on your knuckles, brushing yours. You watched him, the way his whole face seemed to change just at the lift in his expression. The way the crease in his brow went away, the smile lines on his face deepening and his eyes filled with mirth. It was breathtaking.

Your mind then went back to the flash of grey hair you saw up in the balconied eaves of the Batchbury’s ballroom and it all became clear.

��You watched, didn’t you?” you asked, though you knew you were right. “From the eaves.”

Mr. Batchbury was silent for a moment, his smile falling back into that pensive line, as if he was annoyed you’d seen him and caught on to his little game.

“And if I did?” he countered, passing by your shoulder again. He hardly ever answered a question directly and it drove you to such frustration. You rolled your eyes.

“Why would you not come down and learn properly? Are you embarrassed, or do you simply hate me that much?” you held hands again, moving down the line on the dancefloor.

Mr. Batchbury scoffed, a light puff of air from his nose. “I don’t hate you.”

“Could’ve fooled me, sir,” you snapped back, sarcasm dripping from your voice.

The dance continued, and you moved towards him and turned so your back was to his front, and one of his hands found your waist and the other held your hand. You lay your hands on his as you both moved in a circle with some other couples. Your chest tightened as you felt his hands on your body as he pulled you close to him. You felt his hand rest in the dip of your waist, and you were so aware of the way his fingers flexed against your palm. His touch ignited your body in ways you never believed was possible and you tried to control the heat that rushed to your cheeks and up the back of your neck. How could he illicit this response from you when you were constantly at odds? It was nonsensical.

You were hoping he couldn’t tell your fluster when you felt him bend down to your ear, breath tickling you there.

“I do not hate you.” His voice was like gravel, and you felt the vibrations of his low voice move down into your bones. It flared through you, goosebumps prickling across your skin, and you fought off a shiver that threatened to travel down your spine. You spun away from him, returning to face him once more.

Mr. Batchbury looked at you with that same pensive, almost emotionless expression, and you felt the irritation in you rising as you passed by his shoulder again, circling him.

“You always ignore me when I am in the room, and if by some miracle you do acknowledge my existence, you reject any civil conversation with me with caustic barbs and scowls. You all but yelled at me when I innocently inquired about what you write in your notebook. So, please explain to me why I should believe you don’t hate me when it’s clear that you do.”

Mr. Batchbury’s expression remained impassive despite your blunt claims, fanning the flames of your ire until they were ablaze with fury. You wished he was not so handsome, that his touch and proximity did not affect you so – it made this all the more difficult and confusing. You returned to your place and watched as he passed by your shoulder, circling you. You waited for his response, waiting to see how he came to his own defence, but it did not come.

He had nothing to say, and that hurt even more. For it meant he truly did hate you.

You laughed humorlessly, shaking your head, feeling tears begin to prick your eyes and you tried to hide your hurt as the music came to a close, thankful your dance was over.

You curtseyed as he bowed, chastising yourself for getting upset at how he treated you. He did not deserve to mould your feelings in this way. You shook your head again, face aflame and tears threatening to spill down your cheeks in front of everyone – in front of the person you loathed the most yet whose eyes haunted your dreams. You quickly walked off the dance floor without another word. You ignored the calls of your name from Meg and instead made your way towards the doors that led to the gardens.

When you made it outside, the cool air prickled your skin, and you took a deep breath, closing your eyes. There were small droves of people outside among lanterns, their chatter an even din to your ears. But you needed to be further away. Stray tears falling, you went down the steps and into the gardens, away from the ball and the people.

The Queen and Prince’s staff had not placed the lanterns everywhere, and soon you left them behind as you walked through the well-kept gardens towards the glass building which could not be anything but the greenhouse, your feet crunching softly on the gravel pathways. You wrapped your arms around yourself and looked up at the sky as you walked, at the constellations that littered the blue night with glowing dots. You smiled tearfully at the reminder that you were only a small part of something much bigger, and nothing could truly matter so much when the stars existed. Even if it felt like the opposite.

When you reached the door, you pushed it open and closed it quietly behind you. The temperature was much warmer than it was outside, and you could feel the heat seep into your skin. You walked further in, marvelling at the various plants that grew and seemed to flourish in this environment, some of them you’d never seen before in your life. There were fruit trees and shrubs, flower bushes and others. The greenhouse was lit inside, giving the plant life an orange glow in the night. You walked around stone fountains and admired the stone statues, letting the ball and its people slip away.

You didn’t know why you were so hurt by Mr. Batchbury’s actions and lack of words. Something about him flared up a part of yourself you didn’t like. You hated meeting his barbs with cutting remarks, it was exhausting. You hated ruining your time spent with the Batchbury’s, so aware of their youngest brother and primed for any words that may be sent your way. You spent almost every waking thought fixated on Crosshair Batchbury and no matter what you did, nothing could sway your mind elsewhere. Always thinking about his stupid words that fell from his pretty lips and his even more stupidly handsome face with those searing brown eyes that spread fire through you when you looked into them.

You kicked the edge of the fountain with a frustrated sound coming from your throat and then sat on the edge and put your head in your hands. You felt more tears fall down your cheeks and you sniffled, wishing you had a handkerchief.

You could not deny it to yourself any longer.

You were completely enamoured by Mr. Crosshair Batchbury, and the hurt you felt was because you wanted him to like you. You kept fighting with him because it was the only way he would look at you with those pretty eyes of his. Ever since that first introduction, you wished his attention to be filled with the love, care and kindness you knew he possessed. But his handsome angled face would only ever send you daggers. So, with nothing else to do, with no explanations to why he did not like you, you just kept arguing with him, over and over again. But nothing ever changed. Whatever you did, whatever you said would never win him over, and you were exhausted.

You deserved better than that.

You heard footsteps running inside and you quickly straightened, eyes wide. You wiped your face and hoped your eyes weren’t so red. The footsteps stopped and you turned to your right and scoffed when you saw the source of all your hurt, confusion and desire standing there in all his glory.

“What do you want, Mr. Batchbury?” you asked, but did not want an answer. He looked at you, beautiful brown eyes trained on your face, and you watched them search your features for something. You laughed humorlessly and kept talking.

“Wanted to see if I finally cracked? If your words, or lack thereof I should say, finally landed their blow? Well, they did, sir. They did. You win. I’m not playing this game with you any longer, I am tired of it.”

“What game?” he croaked out, standing there all tall and handsome with a crease in his brow you wanted to press away with your thumb. Oh, how you wished he’d just been nice to you. It would’ve been so much easier.

You stood up and smoothed your gown. “Our arguments. I don’t want to have them anymore.”

He looked at you, incredulous. “The ones you started?”

“I did not start anything!” You hissed at him, balling your fists. “You did!”

Mr. Batchbury took a step closer to you, his voice deepening with disdain. “Please enlighten me, because I distinctly remember you disliking me from the moment we met, and nothing could change your mind.”

You rolled your eyes before narrowing them at him. “That’s rich coming from you, Mr. Batchbury, seeing as though you were the one who decided I was not up to your standards upon our introduction.”

Mr. Batchbury reeled back. “What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” you spat, taking a step towards him. “You looked me up and down and decided that was it, you’d seen enough of me. And now I simply plague you by existing. Shall I reiterate my words from the ballroom?”

“I know perfectly well what you said.”

He was so close to you now and you had to crane your neck to meet his eyes. When you were this close, you could see the uneven outline of his port wine stain across his eye, the deep red a contrast to his brown skin. You watched the way the colour flared with his emotions, and you wanted to place your fingertips over it, feel if it was as hot as his anger. He scowled down at you, his shoulders broad despite his lean frame. He was intimidating to most, and he knew it – but he never scared you. This attention that he gave you in these moments only solidified your wish for him to look at you in other ways. For those burning eyes of his to look upon you with love and not disdain. You drew yourself up as tall as you could, meeting him in every way except the way you wanted to, hoping your voice didn’t tremble.

“So, you do not deny it? That you took one look at me and decided I was not worthy of your company.”

Mr. Batchbury’s face softened ever so slightly. If you had blinked, you would’ve missed it. “That’s not what happened.”

You smiled only to hide the immense hurt that only seemed to cut deeper with every moment he continued to look at you like that. “Oh, please, spare me.”

Mr. Batchbury’s eyes searched your face. What did you look like to him right now? You must look unkempt with the mess of your emotions. You were not good at hiding any of them, all the anger and hurt seemed to show up in the creases of your face and across your skin. Did he feel bad about the mess he had made you? Did he feel anything which was not frustration and vexation towards you? You could not imagine it. His face had softened marginally since the beginning of this spar, but the only thing it could be is pity; pity that you believed such things, pity that you couldn’t take the arguments anymore.

Pity that you felt for him in ways he could never fulfil.

You felt your eyes brim with tears, and you took a step back, putting distance between you. Being so close to him was not helping in any such way. This had to stop.

“You know, sir, just because you are rich, tall, and a handsome war hero does not mean you can treat people like they no longer matter. You and your family are wonderful people. The love you have for each other is truly remarkable and if I ever had a family, I would hope they are as close as yours is. I love your brothers and sister dearly, but it does not take away from the fact you have continued to provoke and anger me, and I will no longer allow it.”

Something shifts in Mr. Batchbury; he straightens and his once steady feet falter as he looks at you, like he’d just been knocked off balance. You stare at each other, his eyes wide and yours full of hurt and surrender. He blinks, processing your words, and you realise what you’ve just let slip from your tongue.

Handsome. Handsome. Handsome.

Wonderful. Wonderful. Wonderful.

The words linger in the air between you both, and you feel yourself stiffening as your mouth opens slightly, before closing again. You could not take the words back. Your secret was out; he knew what you really thought of him.

Despite all the insults and affronts towards him, you did think he was wonderful and handsome, and the love he showed his family made a different kind of warmth seep through you. Not the warmth of anger, but the warmth of admiration and love.

Mr. Batchbury seemed to recover from the weight of your words, shifting on his feet, but his eyes never left you. You watched his face soften, harden then soften again, the creases around his eyes and mouth betraying his usual stoic face. You watched as he took a tentative step closer to you, his voice barely above a whisper as he spoke.

“You won’t, will you?”

You felt the breath of his words tickle your face and you looked up at him, heart beating so fast you were sure he could hear it in this quiet, empty corner of the greenhouse. You swallowed. What was he doing? His words sounded like a challenge, but his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it; softer than it had ever been towards you.

But you’d been burned by him before, and you stood your ground, on guard for the insult that would surely follow. Your voice was low with your response, mustering up as much challenge as you would with his eyes looking down on you.

“No, I won’t.”

You were unprepared for his next words, delivered in that same softness as before but not coated in an uncertainty that puzzled you and caught you off guard. “What will you allow then?”

You blinked up at him, eyes moving between his. Were they even softer than before? Your eyes trailed down his face and watched the way his lips pressed together. You quickly met his gaze once more, your reply coming out strained. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Mr. Batchbury voice was unnervingly gentle as he said, “Will you allow this?”

He silently lifted his gloved hand and put the end of it between his teeth. You watched the movement, eyes trained on his mouth as he pulled it off and let it drop from his mouth to the floor. Then he took your hand in his bare one softly, and his wooden one cradled your elbow. Your breath hitched at the touch. His eyes left yours only for a moment as he pinched the seam of the tip of your silk glove, just above your middle finger. Then his gaze returned as he tugged, slowly pulling your glove from your arm until it was bare. Your chest began to rise and fall rapidly as you moved your eyes between his and his movements in quick darts.

“What are you doing?” Your voice rushed and breathless.

His voice was calm, if not slightly bored as he dropped the glove to the ground. “Seeing what you will allow.”

Mr. Batchbury began to do the same with your other glove, repeating the movements carefully. You blinked up at him, your heart racing and your stomach flipping over itself once you felt his hand move across the bare skin of your arms and hands. His palm was not rough, but it was not quite smooth, either. It was dry, warm, and large and completely engulfed your own hand, and you imagined his other hand would’ve felt the same if it had not been lost. His hand was a working one; a hand that had held rifles and pulled on ropes; a hand you knew held his sister’s when she was little; a hand that learnt how to write when he lost his other; a hand that carried around his leather-bound book tightly; a hand that had held you close to him when you had danced; a hand that removed your gloves so artfully you felt the sensations move through your entire body.

A hand that was, in fact, gentle with you in ways his words had never been.

You stared at him, and he looked at you as he held your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles in a gesture that seemed almost instinctual. He’d done that during the dance too, you realised. You thought it had been done absently, but what if…it was intentional? You searched his face and saw a vulnerability you had never once seen grace his features. It made him look boyish, and something in your chest bloomed before you realised what you were doing.

You were holding hands with Mr. Batchbury in a greenhouse, and his skin was warm against yours.

You shook your head, face aflame. “This isn’t proper,” you choked out.

His voice was soft once more. “Do you want to stop?”

You looked at him. You had lamented only moments ago of how you wished he would show you the kindness he showed his family, and now here he was, holding your hand. How did he move from throwing barbs towards you, to such gentle gestures? How had the hostility between you shifted so quickly into softness? Your surrender to this game between you, your secret feelings towards him that had finally revealed itself after hiding them behind venom-soaked words. Something in that had changed the way he looked at you, how he spoke and how he held you.

What did it all mean?

But as he looked at you, finally looking at you with something other than hate, you couldn’t bring yourself to push him away.

“No,” you whispered.

His eyes softened once more, and it was an expression you’d grown very fond of in the past minutes, and you found yourself getting lost in the tourmaline of his eyes. They were the colour of a fireplace, of cinnamon sticks in hot cider – and maybe that was Mr. Batchbury to his core. Sweetness on the edges of the tart acidic warmth that permeated you as you consumed it.

You wanted to reach up and touch his face, see if the stubble that lined his jaw was rough against your fingers, you wanted to trace the line of his port wine stain, and see if his eyes closed with the touch, or if they stayed trained on you.

You felt your cheeks heating as he continued to look at you. What did he see now when he looked at you? Still the mess of anger and hurt? Or the unhidden feelings of enamour you had hidden for so long?

You felt his hand on yours squeeze before he swallowed, and slowly moved his face closer to yours. It was a cautious kind of movement that left room for you to push him away, but you couldn’t – or wouldn’t. And instead, the thump of your heart filled your ears as his lips inched closer to yours, both your gazes dropping to each other’s lips. He paused and you felt the breath of your name over the lips.

“Yes,” you breathed back.

“I have never once hated you,” Mr. Batchbury whispered before he pressed his lips to yours.

You had never kissed anyone in your life, and all your knowledge came from novels or chatters overheard from servants. But this kiss wasn’t like anything you have ever heard or read. It started off sweet, tentative a little unsure as you both tried to figure out what to do and what felt good. He pulled you closer, so you were pressed up against his chest, and his arms went to your hips whilst yours draped themselves over his shoulders. He lifted you so your feet were on top of his, and you pressed your tip toes into the tops of his boots as the kiss deepened, both of you finding your footing as you grew used to the ministrations. He smelled like the fireplace his eyes matched, and you breathed him in as Mr. Batchbury’s lips claimed yours. Your body was on fire as felt his tongue at the seam of your lips and you couldn’t hold back a moan as you tasted him. He tasted of the champagne he’d downed earlier, and you could feel the hardness of his frame against you, like nothing was close enough.

“Enchanting,” you thought you’d heard him say between kisses.

The kisses you’d heard about had never detailed the kind of passion and want this kiss held. The greenhouse’s heat coupled with the heat of this embrace was making you hot all over, your body tingled with the need for more. And as the kiss went on, you both became more frantic, gasping between each kiss. His hands moved up and down your back, holding you securely against him and your bare hands grasped at the short strands of his silver hair that lay at the nape of his neck. He groaned as you tugged at them and kissed you harder, his hot mouth slanting over yours as he pulled you in deeper, bodies pressed together like nothing was close enough.

“Mr. Batchbury,” you breathed as his lips left yours to move down your jawline to your neck. You pressed your hand against his cheek and felt the stubble, confirming the roughness of it you had imagined. God, you wanted him everywhere – improper be damned. How could something that felt so good be so improper? Why were people denying themselves this for the sake of propriety? You feared you could never get enough of this, of him.

“Crosshair,” he insisted, just like his lips as they pressed into your skin, nipping at your exposed collarbones.

“Crosshair,” you repeated before he swallowed your breath with his lips once more.

He let out a groan that you felt vibrate into your lips and chest and something about that sound, the deepness and loudness of it in the bubble you both had made, brought you back to yourself, and you remembered where you were and realised what you were doing.

You pulled away, chest rising and falling, eyes wide and cheeks burning. Your face was so close to his, and you took him in. His eyes were blown, brown irises bright, and his mouth parted with swollen lips. His port wine birthmark was a deep red as his skin flushed. You felt his chest press into yours as he breathed hard, and he blinked at you.

In his face, you saw a man who’s kissed you senseless, who held you to him, who’d touched your bare hands, and had been so gentle, all you had ever wanted him to be with you and yet, you felt yourself freeze.

Was this real? Or another cruel game at the expense of your feelings? One where he told you he never hated you, kissed you until your knees buckled then spat cruelties later on? Was he lulling you into complacency so his acid tongue would burn you when you weren’t expecting it?

The thought hit you like a twelve-horse carriage and the guard you’d foolishly let down flew back up. You’d lost your mind; taken by your fantasies. Mr. Batchbury was never gentle with you, no matter how much you wished it – why would he start now?

You couldn’t be sure. But you were not going to be hurt by Mr. Batchbury again – your heart couldn’t take it.

He rasped out your name, your kisses still lying in his throat and you felt yourself jolt before wrenching yourself out of his embrace.

“I have to go,” you strained out, already feeling your eyes burn with tears.

You watched his expression change into one of shock and then indignation. “What?”

“This shouldn’t have happened,” you choked before turning away from him and running back through the greenhouse the way you came, leaving Mr. Batchbury behind.

i hope you enjoyed this FIRST installment!! bc ofc! what is a regency romance without a steamy encounter!! ANYWAY stay tuned!!

(i am travelling for a bit so part 2 will be posted sometime in december! thank you for your patience!)

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TAGLIST FORM

#larissa writes #crosshair x reader #crosshair x reader fic #regency au #crosshair bad batch fic #the bad batch crosshair fic #regency au fic #the bad batch fic #bad batch fluff #tbb crosshair #crosshair bad batch x reader #tbb x reader #tbb crosshair x reader #the bad batch fic au

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electrikworm · 22 hours

Text

Playing Pretend: Chapter 1

Relationships: Crosshair & Wrecker, Crosshair & OC (one-sided)

Content Warnings: Torture, whipping, Forced to hurt somebody, Blood and Injury, Zygerrian Slavery

Summary:

Being part Zygerrian, infiltrating a Zygerrian gang is all too easy for Crosshair. Things get significantly more difficult when Wrecker is captured. Crosshair is forced to torture his own brother as to not blow his cover. As things keep getting worse, Crosshair begins to wonder how Wrecker will ever be able to forgive him when he can't even imagine being able to forgive himself.

Chapter 1 written for @ailesswhumptober day 22: Forced to hurt somebody else and whipped

Written for @squad-724 Hybrid au, with amazing art by her as well :)))

Word count: 5,336

Read on Ao3

Despite his best efforts, Crosshair frowns when the whip is handed to him. It's an old-fashioned thing, made from heavy leather, thinning out towards the end and tipped with three heavy metal spikes. "What's wrong?" The Zygerrian that handed him the whip asks. She's the second in command of this little crime ring Crosshair's infiltrated, going by the name of Asesh. "Weren't you boasting about your ability to torture?" Crosshair scowls, ears flicking. His supposed skill in interrogation is the one of the reasons he was hired by the gang in the first place, beside his Zygerrian heritage. Whilst he hasn't got training in that area, he's certain he can improvise. Only issue is, he never anticipated he'd have to do so on one of his brothers.

The mission had been going fine. Infiltrating a Zygerrian gang isn't all too dificult when you're part Zygerrian yourself. They were all too ready to involve Crosshair in their group. Which was great of course, that's why he was chosen for the mission. Having Zygerrian blood will make Crosshair seem more trustworthy. It'll make it more likely that vital information will be shared with him.

All Crosshair needed was confirmation on if this gang was involved with the disappearance of two important senators. But things went slower than anticipated. He didn't want to push them to share something, worried he might cause them to distrust him. Maybe he should have been more persistent, than maybe things wouldn't have went so badly. With no way to safely contact his brothers, he had no way to inform them of the delay. They arrived for his extraction like planed and Crosshair had to hastily send them away. They'd gone unnoticed, or at least, that's what Crosshair thought until he was called for a meeting and Wrecker was dragged in, bound, gagged and beaten. He's not looked at Crosshair once since he's been manhandled onto his knees in the middle of the room by two of the larger gang members. "Whips aren't exactly my style," Crosshair says, trying to hand it back.

Asesh smiles, far too softly for someone asking Crosshair to torture his own brother. Of course, if she finds that out, they'll both be in Wrecker's position.

“You've never used a whip before? You've truly been kept from your heritage for far too long,” she says, shaking her head. “First I find out you don't speak Zygerrian, now this. Next you'll tell me you're against slavery.”

Asesh laughs, loud enough to make Crosshair's ears hurt. Crosshair joins her, faking amusement at the crude joke. It's not the first horrible thing of hers he's had to pretend to find funny, but this time hurts the most by far.

“I'll give you advice, don't worry,” Asesh says with a grin, patting Crosshair's back. “It will do you good to learn, to connect with your heritage. Whips also make for good exercise.”

Crosshair forces a smile.

“Don't we usually use a different type of whip?” Crosshair asks, inspecting the object in his hand.

Electro-whips are extremely painful, but to Crosshair's knowledge, are designed not to leave permanent damage. The leather whip he's holding looks vicious, if given a choice, he'd swap it for the electric variant. He's not getting out of doing this, might as well try and reduce the harm done to Wrecker.

Asesh scoffs. “Electro-whips are good, but are to keep merchandise from losing value. And we don't need this little intruder in good shape by the end of this.” She closes the gap between her and Wrecker, grabbing his face and laughing. “And have you seen him? Hideous! A few more scars won't make him uglier.”

“What even is he?” one of the guards asks, wrinkling their nose. Asesh shrugs.

“Part Lasat,” the second guard speaks. “Look at his feet and ears.”

The first pulls a face. “Never seen one of those.”

“You know, big, hairy, weird legs,” the second continues. Asesh shuts him up with a wave of her hand. Crosshair doesn't say anything. Best none of the Zygerrians know he has any familiarity with Wrecker or his species.

Crosshair has to fight the urge to put himself between Asesh and his brother as she prods at his face, dragging her claws across it near his blind eye. Wrecker's always nervous when someone's on his blind side, Crosshair can see the discomfort in his eyes as he tries to twist out of her grip.

“I did not know Humans could even breed with Lasat, but I can see why they don't do so often. The mix isn't very pretty, is it?” Asesh laughs as Wrecker mumbles something.

Pulling the cloth used to gag him out of his mouth, the fabric catching on Wrecker's sharp teeth, Asesh leans close.

“You can make this very easy for yourself, half-breed. Tell us who you work for and what you were doing sneaking around our property and it will all be over.” Asesh smiles, tipping Wrecker's head back far enough to make Wrecker squirm. She runs a hand over his short, purple hair, trailing her claws along his pointed ears, first the intact one, then the one torn by the blast that took Wrecker's eye.

“Kriff off,” Wrecker growls. “You don't scare me.”

Barking a laugh, Asesh looks back at Crosshair, gesturing to him with her free hand. “See him? He lacks experience, yes, but Cross will more than make up for that in the passion he shows for cruelty.” She leans in close enough for Crosshair to have to strain to hear what she hisses into Wrecker's ear next. “Once he's done with you, you won't even be able to crawl out of this room.”

Doing his best to remain neutral, Crosshair swallows. He's been laying it on thick the last few days, telling the Zygerrians all kinds of tall tales about how much he enjoys the suffering of others. He really wishes he'd just kept his mouth shut.

Not only will he have to torture his brother, he will have to pretend to enjoy it. Crosshair swallows thickly against the nausea building steadily.

After motioning for the guards to turn Wrecker so his back's towards them, Asesh splits Wrecker's plain shirt with her claws. Once torn enough, Asesh slips the ruined item of clothes of his chest. Lines of fresh blood run down Wrecker's skin where she's raked her claws over it.

Wrecker barely flinches. Crosshair knows things won't stay that way for long.

Turning to Crosshair, Asesh grins, flicking the blood off her claws. “Try it,” She says, indicating the whip.

Crosshair watches the weapon unfurl onto the floor, testing its feel. It's heavy. Aiming at an empty spot in the room, Crosshair swings it weakly. If he proves how bad he is at using it now, Asesh won't suspect anything when he goes easy on Wrecker.

Asesh hums as she watches Crosshair's pathetic display. Putting her hands on her hips, she narrows her eyes at Crosshair. For a moment, Crosshair thinks she's caught on to him. If so, he'll have to get out of here as fast as he can. With Wrecker of course. There's no way he's leaving him here alone.

“You really are bad with whips,” Asesh says, laughing to herself.

Crossahir fakes mild offense. “I said so, didn't I?”

“Let me show you.” Asesh moves to Crosshair's side, putting her hand over his on the hilt of the whip. She moves his arm for him, showing him the correct way to swing it.

When Crosshair swings it again, still holding back, it cracks loudly. Wrecker flinches at the noise, catching Asesh's attention. She leans close to Crosshair.

“See that? He may act tough, but he's terrified already. He'll be crying at your hands soon enough.” Her teeth glint as she smiles widely, making Crosshair want to shove her far away from himself. She turns back to Wrecker, speaking loudly again. “Now, anything you wish to share?”

Wrecker stays silent.

“Seems he wishes to do things the hard way. Cross, don't worry yourself too much about aiming. Just hit him as hard as you can.”

Crosshair hesitates. He can't miss Wrecker, it would be obvious he'd done so purposefully. He also can't let Asesh see he's not giving it his all. Holding his breath, Crosshair draws his arm back.

He tries to avoid the organs he knows are relatively exposed on Wrecker's lower back. The thick leather of the whip leaves an immediate welt of Wrecker's back, but Crosshair's aim really is bad, and the thin tip hits Wrecker's shoulder, splitting the skin there. The sharp tips even wrap around his shoulder, digging into the muscle at the front.

Wrecker cries out, making Crosshair's heart drop.

Asesh lets out a delighted shriek. “You are a natural! It's in you're blood, as I have been telling you.”

Wrecker's ears twitch nervously as awaits the next lash. Crosshair just holds the whip, unsure how to proceed. The Zygerrians will want him to continue, but he won't do so unless told so.

He glances at Asesh, hating himself for having to execute what ever order she'll give him. She gives Crosshair an encouraging nod and smile, leaving him both no option but to smile back and swing the weapon at his brother again.

Crosshair longs for his helmet as he brings the whip down on Wrecker's back again. It's bad enough having to hurt his brother, Crosshair could do without having to pretend to like it as well.

He avoided hitting Wrecker's shoulder with the tip again, but he's fairly certain it caught the muscle on Wrecker's upper arm.

Wrecker doesn't cry out this time, a bit back noise of pain being all that leaves him. Crosshair feels sick.

Asesh circles Wrecker as Crosshair is forced to continue. The lashes begin to layer across one another, clearly hurting a lot worse when the do judging by Wrecker's reaction. He's nervously retracting and extending the claws on his feet, even when Crosshair isn't actively hitting him.

Crosshair almost gasps as a particularity badly aimed swing leaves a deep cut diagonally across Wrecker's upper back, quickly having to cover the noise by faking a laugh. There's pride in Asesh's eyes as she watches Crosshair. It makes him want rip her throat out.

“It's good to laugh when you are having fun,” she says. “Don't let anyone here make you feel like you can't.”

Asesh stands directly in front of Wrecker as Crosshair strikes him the next three times, clearly enjoying herself as her eyes focus on Wrecker's face.

“Give me that,” Asesh says, pointing at the whip in Crosshair's hand. He thinks he's done something wrong until she continues. “His expression is amusing, you have got to see it.”

Willing his body not to hesitate, Crosshair walks around Wrecker, handing Asesh the whip as she passes.

Wrecker can barely look at Crosshair, only glancing up at him shortly. Kark, are those tear tracks? Crosshair's made his brother cry in the past, they've all done so at one point when they got into arguments. Never like this though.

When no one is looking, Crosshair one handedly uses their squads apology sign at Wrecker's eye level. He isn't sure Wrecker's seen it, and even if he has, Crosshair's not sure how Wrecker could ever forgive him.

Asesh cracks the whip without letting it hit Wrecker, delighting at the way Wrecker tenses. Wrecker looks up at Crosshair, expression almost neutral if it weren't for the pain he's covering up.

Then the whip lands on his back and Wrecker's face scrunches, teeth clicking at how fast he clenches his jaw. It takes every bit of willpower Crosshair has not to react to his brothers distress. He has to force his ears and tail from flicking as he watches Wrecker suffer, willing his expression and body language into one of enjoyment.

Asesh wastes no time before continuing, bringing the weapon down on Wrecker over and over in quick succession. Wrecker's hands shake where they're bound in front of him. He's barely able to keep upright, Asesh only giving him a break if the guards have to right the way Wrecker kneels.

When she stops, breathing heavily from exertion, Crosshair can see blood splattered on the floor either side of Wrecker.

Smiling at Crosshair, Asesh motions hims to move closer to Wrecker. “Go on, interrogate him. And get your claws involved. It's a beautiful experience, sinking your claws into a lowly creatures flesh.”

With a quiet, shaky breath, Crosshair grabs Wrecker's face like Asesh did, keeping his claws away from the skin. Instead, he sinks those on his other hand into Wrecker's shoulder where Asesh can see them.

Wrecker hisses in pain, making Crosshair want to let go. He doesn't.

“Tell us who you are and what you were doing here,” Crosshair hisses.

“You'll get nothing from me,” Wrecker barks, voice strained and breathy. Crosshair has to tighten his grip as Wrecker squirms, making him cry out again.

“Speak,” Crosshair yells. Wrecker just keeps fighting against his grip in response. He manages to shake Crosshair off, falling onto his side in the process. Asesh finds this extremely amusing.

“Take over for me Cross. You are young and have a lot of energy,” Asesh orders, Extending her hand holding the whip. Drops of Wrecker's blood fall from it and onto the floor in the time it takes Crosshair to walk to her.

Wrecker's back is in a sorry state, almost making Crosshair react to the sight. Deep, bleeding marks layer the skin, tearing it to shreds in places. Crosshair's hand trembles slightly as he allows the whip to unfurl again.

If Asesh lets this go on much longer, Wrecker will die.

She asks Wrecker questions as Crosshair continues as slowly as he dares. Wrecker screams every time he's hit now. Crosshair isn't sure he'll ever be able to forget the sound.

When Asesh finally calls an end to the torture, Crosshair feels like collapsing.

“A night on the floor will make him more agreeable,” Asesh smirks. She's about to walk off when Crosshair stops her.

“What about infection?” he asks. He's pushing his luck, but with how open Wrecker's back is, it's worth the risk.

“Why would we care about that?” one of the guards huffs, only to be shut up by a hand gesture from Asesh.

“No, he is right. Our prisoner will die on our terms, not from some infection.” She pats Crosshair's back affectionately, before gesturing at the guard she interrupted. “Find something to use as disinfectant, alcohol or salt, I don't care. And bring a large piece of cloth. We don't waste medical supplies on prisoners.”

It dawns on Crosshair that Asesh is going to use this to hurt Wrecker even further.

The guard leaves and Wrecker is forced onto his stomach on the floor, bound hands stretched out far in front of him. Asesh takes the whip from Crosshair's hands and his stomach drops.

“Watch this,” she says, nudging Crosshair's side playfully. Asesh brings the whip down on Wrecker's exposed lower legs. She catches him right near the ankle, making him kick his legs up.

Asesh naturally doesn't leave it at that, ordering Crosshair to straighten Wrecker's legs each time he squirms away from her. Thankfully, Crosshair isn't forced to use the whip on his brother this way as well as Asesh stops when the guard returns.

Wrecker's still left with bunch of new welts and cuts, a few ugly ones across the bottom of his feet, damaging the pads situated there. Crosshair cringes at the sight, playing the motion off as him shaking his arms out. He knows that Wrecker has a lot of feeling in his feet and a lot more range of motion than a human would. The damage will affect him badly.

“What did you find?” Asesh ask the guard.

“Salt,” he says. In addition to a package of salt, he's holding a blanket, made from rough material by the looks of it.

Upon Asesh's order, he hands both the items to Crosshair.

“Have fun,” she says genuinely, pointing at Wrecker.

Faking a laugh, Crosshair kneels down next to Wrecker. He's panting for air, cheek pressed to the floor. The skin on his back is in shreds, even peeling off in places.

Nausea threatens to overcome Crosshair as he watches his brother's chest rise and fall, shifting his back, glistening with blood.

Crosshair tips some salt into his hand. The situation would be bad enough, but the guard's managed to find particularly coarse salt. Its rough edges will only add to the way it will irritate Wrecker's wounds. He's not sure this is better than the risk of infection. Once again, Crosshair wishes he'd kept his mouth shut.

Just as he's about to pour the first of the salt onto Wrecker's back, Asesh interrupts him.

“Is he purring?” She exclaims, laughter bursting out of her.

Now Crosshair's been made aware of it, he hears it too. It makes his heart hurt. The urge to lay down beside his brother and purr as well, to maybe make him feel just a little better, is near overwhelming.

“Like a scared child! Pathetic,” Asesh continues. She kicks Wrecker in the ribs, making him gasp. Crosshair laughs automatically, not even fully realizing that he's doing so anymore.

When Asesh signals him to continue, Crosshair empties the content of his hand onto Wrecker's back. Wrecker writhes as the salt clings to his open wounds, whimpering and gasping as the sting sets in. Continuing, Crossahir pours salt directly from the container, moving as fast as he can.

“No need to rush,” Asesh intervenes. “Enjoy yourself! Really get the salt in there. We wouldn't want our prisoner to get an infection.” She smiles at Crosshair, encouragingly. Crosshair looks down at Wrecker's back before nodding. That way, he doesn't need to manage his expression too much.

Being mindful of his claws, Crosshair starts using his hands to rub the salt deeper into Wrecker's wounds. Wreckers howls in pain, struggling to get away from Crosshair. He pushes his torso off the ground, but Asesh is there to stop him, putting a boot on the back of Wrecker's neck.

She nods at Crosshair, looking pleased.

Crosshair does his best to block out both Wrecker's screams and anything coming from Asesh as he continues. His hands soak with blood as he works. Crosshair doesn't want to imagine what the rough crystals of salt must feel like rubbing against open injuries,

Once he's done, Asesh hands him the blanket. “Wrap it around his chest. It will stop the bleeding.”

The material of the blanket is awful to touch, the kind Hunter couldn't stand. Having it used as makeshift bandages should classify as a type of torture in and of itself.

As carefully as he dares, Crosshair wraps the fabric around Wrecker's torso, having to force him onto his back to tie it at the front. The wounds on Wrecker's arms and legs remain open, salt acting as the only barrier between open skin and the surrounding world.

Asesh, with Crosshair's help, maneuvers Wrecker to his knees. He sways slightly as he sits slumped.

“You will talk,” Asesh hisses, grabbing Wrecker's face again. “It is only a matter of time.”

Wrecker growls, lunging forwards to snap at her. Asesh laughs, avoiding his bite easily.

“You are amusing,” she says. “I like hurting creatures with a little fight in them. Makes breaking them all the more fun. Maybe I'll keep you.”

With a hand wave, Asesh gets the guards to pull Wrecker onto his feet, dragging him out of the room. He can barely keep his legs under himself, leaving bloody marks where ever his feet make contact with the floor.

Asesh follows the guards, so Crosshair won't stick out doing so. At least he'll know where Wrecker is being kept.

It's a small room, smaller than the one used for interrogation. Maybe it was once used for storage, but now, it's been fashioned into a bare cell. Asesh wasn't kidding about making Wrecker sleep on the floor.

Swiftly, Wrecker is shoved to the ground, hitting it hard. Crosshair just about catches how Wrecker curls up on his side and the sound of him purring quietly to himself before the door is slammed shut.

The only thing Crosshair wants to do now is be alone, somewhere dark where no one can see him.

But Asesh asks him to follow her, so he does.

She steps out of a door towards the back of the base the gangs set up. It leads into a narrow ally, barely illuminated by a humming neon tube just over the door. Asesh leans against the wall, lighting a cigarette. She offers one to Crosshair, like she does every time. He declines.

“Suit yourself,” Asesh shrugs. She smokes in silence for a while, at least having the decency not to exhale smoke in Crosshair's direction. There's small specks of blood on her hands, making Croshair want to look away from her.

Looking at his boots, he spots the state of his own hands. Dry and drying blood is caked on his skin, concentrated around his claws. The contrast to his pale skin is stark. Crosshair's skin itches. He wants to scratch at it until any trace of Wrecker's blood is gone.

“You've never been taught how to break a slave, have you?” Asesh asks, cigarette barely held between her fingers as she gestures.

Crosshair shakes his head.

Asesh clicks her tongue before taking another drag of her cigarette. “Never even owned one, have you?”

Crosshair shakes his head again, looking anywhere but where Asesh is standing.

“I guess it is not uncommon. Not everyone can afford them, especially with large portions of our trade being ruined by this Galactic Republic,” Asesh scoffs. “It is sad that you have been kept from your culture. It is hardly your fault you have inferior blood running through your veins. That is no excuse to keep you from who you really are.”

Crosshair nods, turning his grimace into a smile. “You've done a lot to make that right.”

He looks at Asesh, regretting the action when he spots the soft, fond smile on her face. Crosshair needs the gang to like him if he's going to get any information from them, but he doesn't like this one bit.

“We'll get information from the prisoner sooner or later, but I plan to keep him. I will use him to teach you the slave trade,” Asesh says, putting a hand on Crosshair's shoulder. “If your work today is any indication, you will make a fine slaver.”

Crosshair feels sick. He hasn't felt this unwell since he was a cadet. But all he does is continue smiling. “I'd like that a lot.”

Asesh laughs. “I knew you'd agree! After how much fun you had with the prisoner, there was no doubt in my mind!”

He'd fooled the Zygerrians, Crosshair just hopes he hasn't fooled Wrecker.

“Now, go, eat, get some rest. No need for you to keep an old woman like me company,” Asesh laughs. “Think of some other things you'd like to do to that prisoner as well,” she says with a dangerous glint in her eyes.

Crosshair's about to turn away from her when she grabs his arm. “And Cross, don't let anyone say your human blood defines you. You're a truer Zygerrian than many pure-blooded ones will ever be.”

“Thank you,” Crosshair says, playing off his disgust as modesty.

“I mean it. You're made for this.” With a smile, she lets go of Crosshair's arm and goes back to smoking.

Crosshair doesn't stop or let himself get distracted the entire way to the quarters he has set up in the gangs base. He barely breathes the whole duration of the way.

Once he's in the small room, he drops himself on his bed, going limp.

The day couldn't have gone worse. Not only did he fail to get the mission done in the time frame he should have, but his slow progress has landed Wrecker in a horrible situation.

He must hate Crosshair, there's no way he doesn't. Crosshair has to believe that Wrecker knows Crosshair would never enjoy hurting him like that, but even so, Wrecker must hate him for getting him stuck in this situation in the first place.

Shifting onto his side, Crosshair stares at his bloody hands. There's nothing he can do to fix the situation now. All he can do is continue the mission. If he doesn't, Crosshair's put his brothers lives in danger for nothing.

He can't risk bringing Wrecker any useful item or giving him medical help. If anyone notices, Crosshair could blow his cover. But Crosshair has to check on him, just to see what kind of state Wrecker's in.

When most of the gang is sleeping, then he'll go.

It's agony, doing nothing as he waits. He only leaves his room once to wash his hands. The blood doesn't seem to come off. It's like it's soaked under Crosshair's skin.

He doesn't eat. Crosshair feels like he should be hungry, but the thought of food just makes his nausea worse.

Crosshair hates being like this, useless. He's done nothing, achieved nothing this mission. Except for torturing his own brother of course.

The Zygerrians trust Crosshair, but not enough to share valuable information with him. And all Crosshair can do is keep playing this game, keep hurting Wrecker until he completes the objective.

What's worse is, Crosshair actually liked Asesh.

Crosshair's young, a new member of the gang and not even a full Zygerrian. Other members made sure to remind him of this. Not Asesh. She was nice from the start, looked out for him, was easily impressed by his skills and made sure to point out when he did something worthy of praise.

Asesh treated Crosshair like an actual living, breathing sentient being. Natborns don't do that often.

It didn't matter to Crosshair that she was a horrible person, none of that affected him. It's easy to play along with someone's bad behavior and values if none of them are directed at you.

But now Wrecker's their prisoner, now Crosshair's forced to act on those opinions he pretended to have.

Even after washing his hands, Crosshair can still smell the blood. It's like the scent clings to him, his clothes, his hair, his skin. He can't escape it.

Once the lights in the hall are turned off for the night, Crosshair wastes little time in retracing his steps to the cell Wrecker's been left in.

Only standing at the door does it dawn on Crosshair that he doesn't have a key or code to get in.

Staring at the panel next to the door, Crosshair thinks. The guard didn't use a code or key card, did he?

Hesitantly, Crosshair pushes a button on the panel, than another. He repeats the process until inexplicably, the light at the bottom of the panel flashes green and the door slides open.

That isn't very secure, Crosshair thinks to himself.

The inside of the room had it's door panel removed. Crosshair groans. That makes the chances of one of the Zygerrians seeing him much higher. He'd have preferred the privacy of a closed door.

The room is dark, but it's easy to make out Wrecker's curled up form on the floor near the wall. He's shaking, purring quietly.

Glancing into the corridor behind him, Crosshair waits. When he can't hear anyone approaching, he moves to Wrecker's side, moving slow as to not spook his brother. Once close enough, he crouches next to Wrecker, hovering his hand just above Wrecker's shoulder.

“Wrecker?” Crosshair asks, carefully letting his fingers brush across Wrecker's skin.

Wrecker flinches, gasping in pain as he crawls away from Crosshair's touch. Crosshair watches in horrified silence as Wrecker struggles to avoid being near him. It's entirely justified, still hurts to be exposed to that truth.

Stepping over Wrecker, Crosshair goes down to his level again, this time in his line of sight.

“Please, stay calm,” Crosshair pleads. “I'm not here to hurt you.” The last thing Crosshair needs is the Zygerrians being alerted of his presence in the cell.

Wrecker shifts, eyes widening as he looks up. He's not struggling anymore at least.

“Cross?” Wrecker's voice is hoarse. Crosshair mentally kicks himself for not bringing any water for his brother. Groaning weakly, Wrecker tries to sit up. Crosshair makes him stay down, hating the way Wrecker seems to shy away from his touch.

“I'll complete the mission soon, I promise,” Crosshair says. It would be easy to leave with Wrecker now, but there's no telling what will happen to their squad if they fail a mission this vital. The lives of important people are at stake. The Republic will value those over the life of clones, especially experimental ones. “Things will continue tomorrow, but I'll get you out of her. I just don't know when yet.”

Wrecker nods, laying his head on the ground. His eyes are barely open, half lidded as he goes back to purring. Quietly, Crosshair joins him as he looks him over. The blood on Wrecker's arms and legs is drying, wounds still looking wet. The blanket has red stains where it covers Wrecker's back.

“Does it hurt?” Crosshair asks, immediately regretting the stupid question. Crosshair can't get anything right today.

Humoring Crosshair for some reason, Wrecker nods. “S'okay if I don't move or breath too hard,” Wrecker mumbles, eyes falling closed.

Crosshair almost puts a hand on Wrecker again, but stops himself. Wrecker clearly doesn't want Crosshair touching him. Crosshair has to respect that.

“For what it's worth, I'm sorry,” Crosshair says, knowing his apology is entirely worthless. Wrecker's silence seems to indicate that he agrees.

That's when footsteps echo down the corridor. Crosshair leaps to his feet, looking for a rout of escape. Maybe if he's fast he can slip out of the cell unnoticed.

No, the person approaching is too close already. There's only one way Crosshair's getting out of this without blowing his cover.

With a quiet apology to Wrecker, Crosshair kicks him in the ribs, just hard enough to make Wrecker cry out.

“Speak!” Crosshair yells, surprising himself with how loud he is.

A familiar laugh filters into the room.

Crosshair looks up to find Asesh leaning on the door frame.

“I thought I would find you here,” she smirks.

Crosshair freezes. Does she know? Has she known this whole time?

“You're so eager to cause suffering, aren't you, Cross?” she continues.

“He should have spoken by now,” Crosshair says, hoping Asesh isn't just toying with him.

“These things take time, don't worry.” Asesh walks closer, threateningly. “But you are right. It does help to keep prisoners from getting any rest.”

She laughs. Swiftly, she hooks the heel of her boot over Wrecker's chest, flipping him onto his back. Wrecker gasps for breath as he arches off the floor, short, pained noises leaving him.

Asesh puts her weight on Wrecker's ribs, leaning forward towards Crosshair. Wrecker whimpers.

“You however need your rest. I admire your passion, but sleep is important. We will continue tomorrow,” Asesh says, leaning far enough to pat Crosshair's arm.

Soon as she takes her weight off of Wrecker, he turns onto his side. Asesh begins to escort Crosshair out of the cell, not before kicking Wrecker in the back for good measure.

Standing outside the cell, Crosshair feels worse than he did before. He'd managed to make life more miserable for Wrecker, just because he wanted to make himself feel less guilty by fishing for forgiveness.

“Sleep. I need you in top form tomorrow,” Asesh speaks as she closes the door to the cell. Crosshair catches one last glance of Wrecker's form against the far wall.

Crosshair nods, making his way back to his sleeping quarters. There's no way he's getting any decent rest. Not when he knows Wrecker is suffering a few corridors over.

#cw blood #tbb #tbb wrecker #tbb crosshair #whump #wrecker whump #my writing #cw torture #zygerrians #I had so much fun with this #ailesswhumptober2024 #tbb fanfiction

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