Bad Batch Preferences - Blog Posts

Hiya lovely! I was wondering if you could do a Bad Batch X blind force sensitive Reader where they did the painting of her on their ship but since she can’t see she doesn’t mention it but the bit are flustered because she’s like their version of a celeb crush because of unorthodox on the battle field.

Very much enjoy reading your stories! 🧡🧡

“Echoes of a Legend”

The Bad Batch x Blind Jedi!Reader

Even before the Order made it official with her rank, she moved through warzones like a rumor given form. Jedi Master [Y/N], field strategist and warrior monk of the Outer Rim campaigns, was a living contradiction—unpredictable, untouchable, devastating.

And blind.

Not metaphorically. Physically. Her eyes were pale and unseeing, but the Force made her a weapon no enemy wanted to face. Not when her saber moved like liquid flame, her bare feet danced across fields of blaster fire, and her instincts cut sharper than any tactical droid could calculate.

Clone troopers told stories of her—how she once Force-flipped an AAT into a ravine because “it was in her way.” How she never issued orders, only spoke suggestions, and somehow her men moved with perfect synchronicity around her. How she’d once been shot clean through the shoulder and kept fighting, citing “mild discomfort.”

To Clone Force 99, she was something between a war icon and a celebrity crush.

They’d never met her. Not officially. But they’d studied her campaigns. Memorized her maneuvers. And after Tech had painstakingly stitched together footage from her battlefield cams, Wrecker had pitched the idea: “We should paint her on the Marauder.”

It had started as a joke.

But then they’d done it.

Nose art, like the old warbirds from Kamino’s ancient archives. Cloak swirling. Lightsaber ignited. Body poised in mid-air, wind tossing her hair. There were probably more elegant ways to honor a Jedi Master. But elegance had never been Clone Force 99’s strong suit.

And now, they were docking on Coruscant.

And she was waiting for them.

“She’s here.”

Hunter stared at the holopad in his hand. Her silhouette stood at the base of the landing platform, backlit by the setting sun, cloak fluttering in the breeze.

“Right,” Echo muttered. “No turning back now.”

“She doesn’t know about the painting,” Crosshair said. It wasn’t a question.

“She’s blind,” Tech replied. “So in all likelihood, no.”

Wrecker, sweating, mumbled, “What if she feels it through the Force?”

No one answered that.

The ramp lowered.

She didn’t move as they descended, but they all felt it—that ripple in the air, like entering the calm center of a storm. She stood still, chin slightly tilted, as if listening to their boots on durasteel. Her hands were clasped loosely behind her back. No lightsaber in sight. But the power radiating off her was unmistakable.

Then she smiled.

“I thought I felt wild energy approaching,” she said, voice warm, low, and confident. “Clone Force 99.”

The voice didn’t match the chaos they’d expected. It was calm. Even soothing.

They all saluted, more out of reflex than formality.

“Master Jedi,” Hunter said, his voice lower than usual.

“‘Master’ is excessive,” you said, tilting your head. “You’re the ones with the art exhibit.”

Hunter’s face went slack. Echo coughed. Tech blinked. Crosshair’s toothpick fell.

Wrecker choked on his own spit.

“…Art?” Echo asked, voice high.

You turned toward the ship—just slightly off to the side.

“The painting. On the nose of your ship. I hear it’s flattering.”

Hunter’s jaw clenched. “You… saw it?”

“No. I heard it. The padawan of the Ninth Battalion told me. With great enthusiasm.”

Wrecker groaned and dropped his helmet onto the ground with a thunk.

“I haven’t looked,” you added gently. “Don’t worry.”

That… only made it worse.

“I wasn’t aware I’d become wartime propaganda,” you continued, starting toward them with measured steps. “But it’s not the strangest thing I’ve encountered.”

Crosshair muttered, “Could’ve fooled me. You yeeted a super tactical droid off a cliff on Umbara.”

“I did,” you replied, smiling faintly. “He was being condescending.”

They walked with you through the plaza toward the Temple, though it felt more like a parade of sheep behind a lion. Despite your calm presence, none of them could relax. Especially not when you turned your head toward them mid-stride and said:

“Which one of you painted it?”

Silence.

Tech cleared his throat. “It was… a collaborative effort. Conceptually mine. Execution—shared.”

You grinned. “Collaborative pin-up Jedi portraiture. You’re pioneers.”

“I’m sorry,” Echo said sincerely. “We meant it as a tribute.”

“I know.” You touched his elbow lightly as you passed. “That’s why I’m not offended.”

Hunter, walking beside you, couldn’t help but glance down. You didn’t wear boots. Just light wrap-around cloth sandals. Not exactly standard issue for a battlefield. But then again, you were anything but standard.

“You don’t need to walk on eggshells around me,” you said to him softly.

“We painted you on our ship,” he replied, the words gravel-rough. “Forgive me if I’m not sure what I can say.”

You turned toward him, unseeing eyes oddly precise. “Say what you mean.”

Wrecker—trailing behind with his helmet under one arm—whispered, “She’s terrifying.”

“Terrifyingly interesting,” Tech whispered back.

“She can hear you,” you called over your shoulder.

Wrecker squeaked.

By the time they reached the Temple steps, all five were sweating—some from nerves, some from heat, some from the sheer existential dread of having their war-crush walking next to them and being nice about the whole embarrassing mural situation.

“You’re staying onboard the Marauder for this mission, aren’t you?” you asked as they paused near the gates.

Hunter nodded. “Yes, Master Jedi.”

“Then I suppose I’ll be seeing myself every time I board.”

Sheer panic.

“But don’t worry,” you added with a smirk, sensing it. “I’ll pretend I don’t know what it looks like.”

Crosshair grumbled, “Or we could repaint it.”

“Don’t,” you said, suddenly serious. “It’s nice to be remembered for something other than war reports.”

And then you were gone—ascending the Temple steps with grace that shouldn’t have belonged to someone without sight, cloak trailing like shadow behind fire.

The Batch stared after you.

“She’s—” Wrecker began.

“I know,” Hunter said, almost reverently.

Echo exhaled. “We’re in trouble.”

Hiya! I absolutely love your writing and always look forward to your posts

I saw that request about the commanders catching you with their helmets on and I was wondering if you could do that but with the bad batch?

Again, love your writing. I hope you have a great day/night!

Hey! Thank you so much—that means a lot to me! 💖

I actually was planning to include the Bad Batch too but wanted to start with just the commanders first.

⸻

HUNTER

You weren’t expecting to get caught.

You were standing in the cockpit, wearing Hunter’s helmet—not for mischief, really, but because you were genuinely curious how he functioned with his enhanced senses dulled. You wanted to know what it was like to see through his eyes. To feel what he felt.

The helmet was heavy. Too heavy.

He walked in mid-thought, and you froze.

Hunter didn’t speak. He just stood there, half in shadow, his brow furrowing slowly like he was processing an entirely new battlefield situation.

You didn’t say anything either. You just… stood there. Helmet on. Stiff-backed. Guilty.

Finally, he stepped forward.

“…That’s mine.”

You took it off and held it out sheepishly. “I wanted to see what you see. It’s filtered. Muffled. How do you live like this?”

Hunter took the helmet from your hands and gave you a long, unreadable look.

“I don’t. I adapt.”

Then he brushed past you—close, deliberate—and you swore his fingers grazed yours just a little longer than necessary.

⸻

WRECKER

“Whoa!”

You heard the booming voice before you could even turn.

You were in the loading bay, helmet pulled low over your face as you tried to figure out how the heck Wrecker even saw through it with one eye. It was like wearing a bucket with a tunnel vision problem.

He charged over with the biggest grin you’d ever seen.

“Look at you! You’re me!”

You pulled the helmet off, grinning. “I don’t know how you walk around with this thing. It’s like being inside a durasteel trash can.”

“I know, right? But it looks great on you!”

He took the helmet back, turning it in his hands, then gave you a wide-eyed look.

“You wanna try my pauldron next?! Or lift something heavy?!”

You laughed. “Maybe next time, big guy.”

Wrecker beamed. “You’re so getting the full Wrecker experience.”

You weren’t sure what that meant, but you were both strangely okay with it.

⸻

TECH

You had only meant to try it on for a second.

But you made the mistake of reading one of his datapads while wearing it. And once the internal HUD booted up? Well, curiosity took over.

Tech returned from the cockpit to find you hunched over in the corner, still wearing his helmet and scanning system diagnostics.

His voice was clipped. “You’re tampering with active interface systems.”

“I’m learning,” you shot back, not looking up.

He blinked, then stepped closer, fingers twitching in that nervous way he did when he wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or horrified.

“You activated my visual overlay filters.”

“I figured out the encryption pattern.”

Now that caught his attention.

He slowly knelt beside you. “How long have you had it on?”

“…Twenty-three minutes?”

He swallowed. “And you’re not… disoriented?”

“Nope. Just slightly overstimulated.”

There was a pause.

Then, quietly: “You may keep it on. Temporarily.”

You turned. “You trust me with your helmet?”

He cleared his throat. “Don’t make it a habit.”

But he was already adjusting the fit at the sides of your head.

⸻

ECHO

Echo did not find it cute.

He found it concerning.

The helmet wasn’t just gear. It was part of his reconstructed identity—a thing he wore not because he wanted to, but because he had to.

So when he saw you on the edge of his bunk, wearing it—your legs swinging slightly, gaze distant—his chest tightened.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice rougher than he meant it to be.

You looked up, startled. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I was just… wondering what it’s like. Living with this.”

He stepped forward slowly, kneeling to your eye level. “It’s not something I’d want you to understand.”

You pulled the helmet off, placed it in his hands. “I didn’t think about that.”

He let out a quiet breath, then shook his head. “No. You did. That’s why you’re here thinking about it.”

You gave a soft smile. “I wanted to know you better.”

He swallowed hard. “You already do.”

⸻

CROSSHAIR

You knew exactly what you were doing.

And that was the problem.

You sat in the sniper’s perch in the Marauder, elbow on one knee, head tilted just slightly as you stared down at the deck below—wearing his helmet.

You heard the footstep. The sigh.

“Really?” His voice was lazy, drawled out like he wasn’t fazed, but there was a subtle tension underneath.

You didn’t look at him. “I wanted to see what it was like. Looking down on the rest of the world.”

He chuckled once, dry and sharp. “And? Is it satisfying?”

“No. It’s lonely.”

Crosshair was quiet for a long moment. Then he climbed the ladder halfway, leaned against the edge of the platform.

“Don’t get comfortable in it.”

You turned your head, voice just a little softer. “Why not?”

“Because if you wear it any longer, I might start to like it.”

You handed it back.

But you were both thinking about that line for the rest of the day.

Hey! I’m not sure if you’re still doing requests if not completely ignore this lol

But if you are I would love to see a version of TBB x reader where she falls with tech during Plan 99 and they have to survive together and make it back ♥️

“The Fall Doesn’t End You”

The Bad Batch x Reader

You saw it happening too late.

Tech’s voice—calm, resolved, final—echoed over the comms:

“When have we ever followed orders?”

And then he shot the cable.

You screamed his name as the rail car detached and plummeted.

You didn’t think. You couldn’t think. You just ran and jumped.

The world turned into chaos. Smoke. Fire. Wind tearing at your skin. The others were screaming over the comms, but it all became static in your ears.

Your jetpack roared to life, catching you mid-fall. You dove through the air, scanning through smoke and debris—

There.

Tech was falling fast, arms flailing for balance, unable to stabilize.

“I see him—” you gasped.

You slammed into him midair, arms locking tight around his chest.

The jolt nearly knocked the breath out of you both. He twisted in your grip, shocked, eyes wide behind those cracked lenses.

“You—what are you doing?!”

“Saving you, obviously,” you grunted, arms straining as the added weight pulled hard against your pack.

The thrusters shrieked in protest, struggling to adjust. Too much mass. Too much speed.

“I’m going to burn the stabilizers!” you snapped. “Hold on!”

The blast from the pack kicked against the drop, slowing your descent—but not enough. The treeline raced up toward you. Your HUD flashed a critical warning. You’d burn out before you cleared the ridge.

You flipped, twisting mid-air to cushion him as much as you could.

Then—

Impact.

A scream tore from your throat as the world shattered around you. Dirt. Leaves. Stone. The smell of ozone and blood. Something cracked inside your chest. Your pack gave a final shuddering pop before it died completely, hissing smoke.

You rolled, skidding through the underbrush. Your helmet cracked against the earth, and the world blurred at the edges.

Everything hurt.

But you were alive.

And so was he.

You groaned and dragged yourself up, muscles screaming. Your armor was scorched, one gauntlet bent out of shape, ribs probably cracked.

“Tech,” you rasped, blinking through your visor. “Tech—are you—?”

He was lying a few meters away, not moving.

Panic surged in your throat. You stumbled over to him, dropping to your knees.

He groaned—loud, agonized.

Good. Groaning was good. That meant breathing.

“Are you hurt?” you asked, fingers trembling as you touched his faceplate, carefully pried the helmet off. His brow was bleeding now, from the impact, not the fall. His lip was split.

“Left leg…” he grit out. “Something’s wrong. I heard a pop. Possibly dislocated. And my wrist…”

“Don’t move,” you said, voice hardening as you hit your survival mode.

He looked at you, dazed. “You—you caught me.”

“Yeah.” You pulled a half-smirk. “Might wanna say thank you when you’re not bleeding.”

He gave a sharp, breathless huff that might’ve been a laugh.

Then his eyes flicked to your pack, lying in a heap of fried circuits and blackened wires.

“…You’re not flying us out of here, are you?”

You glanced at the damage and exhaled grimly. “Not a chance.”

Your wristplate buzzed. The comm was faint, barely functioning, but you caught Hunter’s voice—choppy, panicked. Static swallowed most of it.

You switched it off. If you could hear them, the Empire might too.

You looked back at Tech. His hand was already moving to retrieve his broken goggles. Always thinking. Always working.

You knelt beside him, breath still ragged, and said low, “We’re not dying here.”

His gaze met yours. Quiet. Sure. Familiar.

“No,” he said. “We aren’t.”

You tightened your grip on your blaster, your hand brushing his for a second longer than necessary.

“Then let’s move.”

⸻

The forest was dense and unforgiving, branches clawing at your armor like hands trying to drag you down. Your muscles burned, and your ribs throbbed with every breath, but you carried Tech over your shoulder, his leg now firmly splinted with scavenged durasteel rods and cloth from your ruined cape.

He didn’t complain once.

He never did.

Even bleeding and pale, his mind was sharp.

“There’s a decommissioned Imperial scout outpost approximately 6.2 kilometers north. If they haven’t wiped the databanks, I might be able to reroute a distress beacon—or override one of their transports.”

“You’re bleeding out,” you grunted. “And I can’t run on half a lung, so let’s just focus on getting there without dying.”

A pause.

Then softly, dryly:

“You’re quite bossy when you’re in pain.”

“You only just noticing?” You smirked through your cracked visor.

“Your wrist?” you asked, eyes scanning the treeline as you pushed through the brush.

“Relocated,” he muttered, breathless but focused. “Painful, but functional.”

“Good.”

His lip twitched. That half-smile — the one that barely anyone else ever noticed.

It was there for you.

You found the outpost by nightfall, hidden beneath a rock shelf, half-collapsed and long abandoned.

It wasn’t empty.

Two scout troopers still patrolled its perimeter—lazy, inattentive. You took them both out silently. One to the throat, the other dropped with a knife to the back.

You dragged Tech inside. He immediately began work at a busted console while you blocked the entry with a broken speeder and set charges at the entrance — just in case.

“Can you fly a Zeta-class transport?” he asked from the shadows.

You blinked. “I can break a Zeta-class in six different ways. Flying one? Yeah.”

He nodded once, expression unreadable, even as he struggled to stay upright.

“Good. There’s one still intact on the lower dock.”

His hands moved fast, bloodied fingers typing commands and bypass codes. “If we time this right, we can access the flight deck and use their call codes to leave under the guise of a refueling run.”

You stared at him. “You think of all this while hanging off my shoulder in the forest?”

He didn’t look up. “I had time.”

There was a moment of silence between you both.

“You shouldn’t have jumped,” he said suddenly, voice soft.

You didn’t look at him. “You shouldn’t have fallen.”

A beat of silence.

“…Statistically, your survival odds were—”

“Tech.”

He paused.

You finally turned to him. “If you say the odds were against me, I’ll break your other leg.”

His eyes flicked down. Another twitch of his lips. “Noted.”

⸻

The escape was anything but smooth.

You blasted off the dock just as alarms blared through the ruined outpost. A TIE patrol picked up your trajectory within minutes, but your flight path was erratic and unpredictable — Tech feeding you nav data mid-chase, even while clutching his leg and gritting his teeth through the pain.

One TIE clipped your right engine.

“We’re going down.”

“Not on my watch,” you hissed, flipping switches, forcing power to the thrusters with every ounce of skill you’d ever learned. The transport rocked violently but didn’t fail.

It took every dirty flying trick in the book, but you broke atmosphere, hit lightspeed, and screamed into the void.

Only when the stars elongated in the viewport did you sag back into the pilot’s seat, chest heaving.

From the co-pilot’s chair, Tech exhaled, his head resting against the panel.

“See?” you whispered. “Told you we weren’t dying.”

His voice came softly. “You’re infuriating.”

You gave him a faint grin. “You’re welcome.”

⸻

When you limped off the stolen transport at the far end of the Ord Mantell hangar, the world felt both heavier and lighter.

You barely took two steps before Wrecker barreled into view, yelling your names like a freight train.

“TECH?! (Y/N)?!”

You barely had time to raise your hand before you were scooped up in a Wrecker hug, your cracked ribs screaming in protest.

Tech was half-carried by Echo, who swore under his breath and held him like he was glass.

Hunter came in slower, quieter—eyes wide with disbelief. He said nothing at first, just looked at you both, jaw tight.

You gave a tired nod.

“We made it.”

“You jumped after him,” Hunter said hoarsely.

“I wasn’t letting him go alone.”

“We thought we lost you both.”

You shrugged, voice rough. “You almost did.”

Then, Omega burst through the crowd.

She barreled past the others, braid flying, and threw herself at Tech, tears streaming down her cheeks.

She collided into Tech so hard it nearly knocked him over—arms thrown around his waist, sobbing into his chestplate. He froze for half a second.

Then, slowly, awkwardly—he put his arms around her.

“I thought you were gone,” she choked out.

He glanced at you over her shoulder. His voice was soft, quiet, and full of something he didn’t have a name for.

“I was. But she caught me.”

Omega pulled back, blinking through tears.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for bringing him back.”

You froze for a second, unsure how to respond.

Then you rested your gloved hand on her head. “Couldn’t leave him. Not even if he wanted me to.”

“But,” you added, “I did have to carry him across half of Eriadu. That’s worth something.”

Tech, for once, didn’t have a comeback. He simply looked at you with those calculating, unreadable eyes of his.

And in that quiet moment, you understood each other completely.

Later That Night Tech sat beside you on the Marauder ramp, stars glittering overhead.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

Then, softly, he spoke.

“You risked everything.”

You leaned back against the hull, shoulder grazing his. “So did you.”

He hesitated. “You don’t… expect me to say anything emotional, do you?”

You snorted. “Stars, no.”

“…Good.”

Another silence.

Then, your fingers brushed his — just slightly. Not grabbing. Just there.

And his hand… stayed.

Bad Batch/Clone Force 99 Material List 🖤♠️💀🩸💋◾️

|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |

The Bad Batch

- x Jedi Reader “About time you showed up” 🏡

- x Reader “permission to feel” 🏡

- x Fem!Reader “ours” ❤️/🏡

- x Fem!Reader “Seconds”🏡

- x Fem!Reader “undercover temptation” 🌶️

- x reader “Say that again?”❤️

- x reader “Echoes in Dust” ❤️🏡

- x Reader “Secrets in the Shadow”

- “The Scent of Home”🏡

- Helmet Chaos ❤️🏡

Hunter

- x Mandalorian Reader pt.1❤️

- x Mandalorian Reader pt. 2❤️

- x Pabu Reader❤️

- x reader “good looking”❤️

- x reader “Ride” 🌶️

- x reader “What is that smell”❤️

- x Plus sized reader “All the parts of you” ❤️

- x Reader “Flower Tactics”

Tech

- x mechanic reader ❤️

- x Jedi Reader “uncalculated variables”❤️

- x Reader “Theoretical Feelings” ❤️

- x Reader “Statistical Probability of Love” ❤️

- x Reader “Sweet Circuits” ❤️

- x Reader “you talk too much (and I like it)”

- x Fem reader “Recalibration” 🌶️

- x Jealous Reader “More than Calculations”

- x Reader “There are other ways”

-“Exactly Us” ❤️

- “The Fall Doesn’t End You” 🏡/❤️

- “Heat Index” ❤️

- “Terminally Yours” ❤️

Wrecker

- x Shop keeper reader❤️

- x Reader “I wanna wreck our friendship”❤️

- x Reader “Grumpy Hearts and Sunshine Shoulders”❤️

- x reader “Big enough to hold you”❤️

- x Torguta Reader “The Sound of Your Voice”❤️

- “Heart of the Wreckage” ❤️

Echo

- x Senator!Reader❤️

- x reader “safe with you”❤️

- “Operation: Stay Forever” ❤️

Crosshair

- x reader “The Stillness Between Waves❤️

- x reader “just like the rest”❤️

- x Fem!Reader “Right on Target” 🌶️

- “Sharp Eyes” ❤️

Captain Howzer

- x Twi’lek Reader “Quiet Rebellion”❤️

- “A safe place to fall” ❤️

Overall Material List

Hi! I had an idea for a Bad Batch or even 501st x Fem!Reader where the reader has a rather large chest and when it gets hot she wears more revealing items and the boys get distracted and flustered? I love the stuttering and blushing boys and confidence reader stuff. Nothing too explicit or so maybe just flirting and teasing. Hope this is ok! If not I totally understand! Xx

“Too Hot to Handle”

Fem!Reader x The Bad Batch

You had a feeling the Republic’s definition of “temperate” varied wildly from your own. The jungle planet was a boiling mess of humidity and unrelenting heat—and your standard gear? Suffocating. So, you did what any sane woman would do: ditched the jacket, rolled up your tank top, and tied your hair up to survive the heat.

The result? Your… assets were on full display.

“Maker,” you heard someone mutter behind you.

You glanced back over your shoulder, smirking. Tech had walked face-first into a tree branch. Crosshair snorted.

“I told you to look where you’re going.”

“I was looking,” Tech replied, voice just a little too high-pitched to be believable, glasses fogging.

Hunter cleared his throat and tried very hard to keep his eyes on the map in his hands. “Alright. Let’s move out.”

“I don’t mind staying here a bit longer,” Echo said, then instantly regretted it when you raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh?” you asked, strolling up to him. “Because of the view?”

Echo flushed crimson from ears to collarbone. “I—I didn’t—I meant the trees. The foliage. The scenery. The mission. Definitely not you.” He looked like he wanted the jungle to swallow him whole.

Crosshair rolled his eyes, muttering something about “bunch of kriffin’ cadets.”

You leaned toward him, hands on your hips. “Not enjoying the view, sniper?”

He gave you a cool look. “I’ve seen better.”

But the twitch at the corner of his mouth told you otherwise.

Wrecker, on the other hand, had absolutely no filter.

“You look awesome!” he beamed. “Kinda like one of those holonet dancers! Only cooler. And better armed!”

You laughed. “Thanks, Wreck. At least someone appreciates fashion.”

Hunter still hadn’t said anything. You stepped closer, just close enough that your shadow fell over him.

“Something wrong, Sarge?”

His gaze finally met yours. His pupils were slightly dilated. “You’re, uh… distracting.”

You grinned. “Good.”

He cleared his throat. “Let’s keep moving. Before someone passes out.”

You turned, leading the squad again with an extra sway in your hips—just for fun.

Behind you, a chorus of groans, a snapped branch, and Tech asking if overheating counted as a medical emergency confirmed one thing:

Mission accomplished.

⸻

You knew exactly what you were doing.

The jungle’s heat hadn’t let up, but neither had the effect your outfit was having on the squad. Sweat clung to your skin, your tank top clinging in all the right (or wrong) places. Every time you adjusted the strap or tugged your top down slightly to cool off, you heard someone behind you trip, cough, or mutter a strangled curse.

Crosshair was chewing on the toothpick like it owed him credits. Echo’s scomp link clinked against his chest plate as he tried and failed to keep his eyes off you. Tech had adjusted his goggles four times in the last minute and was now walking with a datapad suspiciously close to his face—like he was trying to use it as a shield.

And Hunter?

Hunter looked like he was in hell.

You’d catch him watching you—eyes flickering up and down, then away, jaw tight, nostrils flaring like he was trying to rein himself in.

“Everything alright, Sarge?” you asked sweetly, dabbing sweat from your neck and catching his gaze as it dropped.

His voice cracked. “Fine. Just… focused on the terrain.”

“Funny,” you said, stepping close, letting your voice dip low. “I thought the terrain was behind you.”

Crosshair choked.

Hunter exhaled, flustered and trying not to visibly short-circuit. “Focus, all of you. We’ve got a job to do.”

“Hard to focus,” Echo muttered under his breath. “Some of us are… visually impaired by distraction.”

“Visual impairment is no excuse for tactical inefficiency,” Tech said quickly, though his goggles were definitely still fogged.

“You need help cleaning those, Tech?” you offered, reaching for his face.

He actually jumped back. “N-No! That is—unnecessary! I am quite—capable!”

“Ohhh, she’s killing ‘em,” Wrecker laughed, totally unfazed. “This is better than a bar fight!”

“Speak for yourself,” Crosshair growled, barely maintaining composure as you brushed past him.

You were leading again now, hips swaying slightly more than necessary, hair sticking to your damp neck in a way that was definitely catching eyes. You tugged your top lower again and heard an audible thunk—someone had walked into another branch.

“Seriously?” you called over your shoulder, amused.

There was silence, then a shame-filled voice: “…Echo.”

You bit back a laugh.

Hunter suddenly barked, “Break time. Ten minutes.”

The squad dropped like they’d been released from a death march.

You stretched languidly, arms up, chest forward, fully aware of the eyes glued to you.

“Maker,” Hunter muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m gonna lose my mind.”

You leaned in close, hand on your hip, voice like honey. “Want some water, Sergeant?”

He blinked at you. Twice. “If I say yes, are you going to pour it over yourself again?”

“…Maybe.”

He turned a deeper shade of red than his bandana. “You’re evil.”

“You like it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

And just like that—you turned and walked away, leaving five broken clones behind you, questioning every life choice that had led them to this mission.

Happy Weekend! I was wondering if you could do an angst fic w/ TBB x Fem!Reader where they’re on a mission and the ground crumbles beneath her and she falls and they think she could be dead? Thanks! Xx

Happy Thursday! Sorry for the delay, I hope this is somewhat what you had in mind😊

“Echoes in the Dust”

The Bad Batch x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Falling, presumed death, grief, survivor’s guilt, panic

The ridge was narrow. Too narrow.

You moved with your blaster raised and your jaw set, following closely behind Wrecker as the team pushed forward. The rocky terrain was riddled with ravines, fault lines, and fractured earth—left scarred by years of shelling and seismic bombardments. The mission was supposed to be simple: infiltrate a Separatist holdout and extract data.

It was never simple.

“Movement on the northwest cliff,” you called into your comm. “Looks like clankers repositioning.”

“Copy that,” Echo’s voice crackled. “Tech, I’m sending coordinates to your pad.”

Hunter glanced back at you, just a flick of his head, a silent confirmation. You nodded. I’m good.

You were always good. Until the ground gave out beneath you.

It was subtle at first—just a soft shift under your boots, like loose gravel. But then came the snap. A hollow, wrenching crack that echoed through the canyon like thunder. The rock splintered beneath your feet. You didn’t have time to scream.

Just time to look up—into Hunter’s eyes.

“[Y/N]—!”

You dropped.

The last thing you saw was his outstretched hand, just a second too late.

Then the world became air and stone and darkness.

⸻

Above, everything exploded into chaos.

Hunter hit the ridge on his knees, arms dragging at loose rock, clawing like an animal trying to dig you back out. “No, no, no—”

Echo slid in beside him, scanning with one cybernetic arm extended. “I can’t see her. It’s—kriff—it’s a vertical drop. She went straight down.”

“I should’ve grabbed her!” Wrecker was pacing in wild circles, fists clenched, eyes wet. “I was right in front of her—I should’ve—she was right there!”

“She didn’t even scream,” Echo murmured. “She just… vanished.”

“I’m scanning for vitals,” Tech said, already tapping furiously at his datapad, but his voice was thin. “There’s no signal. No movement. Her comm—either it was destroyed in the fall or… or she’s—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Hunter snapped, voice like a knife.

The wind howled through the crevice she’d fallen into, dragging dust and silence with it.

Crosshair stood several meters back, motionless, his DC-17M dangling loosely in his grip.

“Say it,” Echo growled, glaring at him. “You’ve been quiet this whole time. Just say whatever snide thing you’re thinking so we can all lose it together.”

Crosshair’s eyes flicked up, storm-gray and unreadable.

“She’s dead.”

“Shut your mouth!” Wrecker roared, storming toward him, but Echo shoved himself in between.

“She could be alive,” Echo said fiercely, though his voice cracked. “It’s possible. People survive worse.”

Crosshair didn’t move. “Not from that height.”

“I said shut it!” Wrecker shoved him back, but it was all broken fury—guilt bleeding through his rage. “She was smiling, dammit. Right before. She looked at me and said, ‘We’ll all get out of this,’ and I didn’t even answer her back—!”

“Stop.” Hunter’s voice cut clean through the storm.

He stood now, rigid and furious, his back to the team, staring into the void where you’d fallen.

“She’s alive,” he said.

Tech looked up from his pad slowly. “Statistically—”

“I don’t give a damn about statistics.” His voice was hoarse. “I felt her. She was right here. She’s part of us. She wouldn’t just be… gone.”

His hand trembled slightly. Not from fear. From the weight of it.

He was the one who told you to cover the flank. He was the one who said the ridge was stable enough.

She trusted you, Crosshair had said.

No. She trusted him.

And he’d failed her.

Hunter turned and began strapping a rope to his belt.

“Sergeant?” Tech asked cautiously.

“We’re going down there. All of us. We don’t stop until we find her. I don’t care if we have to tear the planet apart.”

Echo moved first. “I’m with you.”

Wrecker stepped up beside them, his breath hitching. “Me too. Always.”

Even Crosshair nodded, silent again.

As Hunter stood at the edge, ready to descend into the place where you vanished, a single thought thundered in his mind:

She can’t be gone.

Not you.

Not when your laugh was still echoing in his ears. Not when you told him last night, during watch, that you’d be careful. Not when he never got to tell you that he needed you more than he ever let on.

He’d find you.

Or die trying.

⸻

The descent into the ravine was slow, agonizing, and silent.

The team moved as one—Hunter leading with a lantern clipped to his belt, casting narrow beams over jagged rock and twisted earth. Echo and Tech followed with scanners, mapping every crevice. Wrecker moved boulders with his bare hands, gritting his teeth with each one. Crosshair, ever the rear guard, watched from behind, but his silence was sharp, eyes flicking everywhere.

Hunter’s voice echoed through the narrow stone corridor. “Check every ledge. Every outcropping.”

“She could’ve hit a rock shelf and rolled,” Echo said, carefully scanning below. “Or worse…”

“Don’t,” Wrecker said. “Don’t even say it. She’s alive. She has to be.”

They moved deeper into the ravine—until the beam of Hunter’s light caught something.

“Wait,” Tech whispered, grabbing Echo’s arm.

There—thirty feet below them, half-buried under collapsed shale and bloodied stone—was a figure.

Your figure.

You were sprawled on your side, your body twisted unnaturally, one leg crushed beneath a slab of rock. Blood soaked through your jacket. Your head had struck something hard—too hard—and you weren’t moving.

Hunter nearly dropped the lantern.

“[Y/N]—!”

He was down the rest of the way before anyone could stop him, crashing to his knees beside you.

“Don’t move her!” Echo shouted, sliding in behind. “Not yet. Let me check—”

But Hunter’s hands were already trembling as they hovered over you, too afraid to touch. Too afraid that this—this fragile, broken thing—was all that was left.

“She’s breathing,” Echo said. “Shallow. Pulse is—kriff—irregular. She’s lost a lot of blood.”

Wrecker dropped beside them, tears already streaking the dust on his cheeks.

“Is she—? She’s gonna make it, right? Echo?”

“She’s unconscious,” Echo said quietly. “And we need to get her out now.”

“Spinal trauma is possible,” Tech added, eyes locked on his scanner. “Multiple fractures. Her femur is broken—bleeding into the tissue. Concussion. Rib damage. Internal bleeding likely.”

Crosshair didn’t come any closer. He stood just at the edge of the light, staring down at you with an unreadable expression.

“You said she was dead,” Wrecker growled, voice shaking.

Crosshair didn’t respond.

Because he knew now—death would’ve been kinder than this.

The med evac was chaotic.

Hunter carried you the entire climb back—refused to let anyone else even try. He held you close to his chest like something fragile, as if you’d fall again if he let go. Your blood had soaked through his armor by the time they reached the surface.

Back on the Marauder, the team worked together in silent urgency. Wrecker helped secure you to the gurney. Echo and Tech patched what they could. Crosshair kept watch, pacing like a trapped animal.

And Hunter… he sat beside you.

His hands were covered in your blood.

“I should’ve caught you,” he whispered.

No one argued. No one corrected him.

Because part of them believed it too.

You twitched in your sleep once—just a small movement, a flicker of pain across your brow—and Hunter nearly leapt out of his seat.

“She moved!” he barked.

“She’s still unconscious,” Tech reminded. “That doesn’t guarantee cognition. The swelling in her brain—”

“I don’t care what the scans say,” Hunter growled. “She’s fighting.”

He reached down and brushed a blood-matted strand of hair from your face.

“You hear me?” he whispered, voice cracking. “You hold on. You fight like you always do. You’re not going to leave us like this.”

Wrecker sat on the floor beside the cot, staring at your hand dangling off the edge.

“You’re not allowed to die, okay?” he said, softly, almost childlike. “You still owe me a rematch.”

Echo leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched tight. “She shouldn’t have been the one to fall. It should’ve been—”

“Don’t,” Tech said, just as quiet. “We all blame ourselves. That’s not useful now.”

Only Crosshair said nothing.

But later—when the others had finally dozed off in shifts, and the med droid was running scans—he sat beside you alone.

“Idiots, all of them,” he muttered. “They think they lost you. I know better.”

He rested his hand beside yours.

“You’re not dead. You’re just too damn stubborn.”

There was a pause.

“…So come back. Or I’ll never forgive you.”

You didn’t wake up that night. Or the next.

But your vitals held.

You were still fighting.

And the squad—your family—never left your side.

⸻

It started with a sound.

A weak, choked wheeze from the medbay.

Wrecker heard it first—he’d been sitting on the floor beside your cot for the past hour, humming under his breath and telling you stories like he had every day since they pulled you from the ravine.

But when he heard your breathing stutter—heard that awful, wet gasp—he was on his feet in an instant.

“Tech!”

Footsteps thundered in from the cockpit.

Tech was there in seconds, datapad in one hand, expression already shifting from calculation to panic.

“Vitals are dropping. Pulse erratic. Respiratory distress—dammit—her lung may have collapsed.”

The med droid whirred a warning in binary, and Tech shoved it aside, already working to stabilize you. Wrecker stood frozen, fists clenched at his sides, helpless as machines blared and blood began soaking through your bandages again.

“She was getting better,” Wrecker whispered. “She was breathing normal yesterday. You said she was stabilizing!”

“I said her vitals were holding,” Tech snapped, voice tight and uncharacteristically sharp. “I also said we didn’t know the full extent of internal damage yet. The concussion is worsening. There’s pressure building against her brainstem. Her body is going into systemic shock.”

“Then fix it!” Wrecker’s voice cracked. “You fix everything! Please—”

Tech’s hands moved fast, too fast—grabbing gauze, recalibrating IV drips, re-administering stimulants. But beneath the precision was fear. A gnawing, brittle kind of fear that made his fingers shake.

“I’m trying,” Tech said, barely above a whisper now. “I’m trying, Wrecker.”

Your body jerked suddenly—just a twitch, but it sent a ripple of panic through them both.

Tech cursed under his breath. “She needs proper medical facilities. A bacta tank. A neuro-regeneration suite. This ship is not equipped to handle this kind of trauma long-term.”

“So what, we just wait and watch her die?” Wrecker whispered.

“No!” Tech snapped, louder this time. “We don’t let her die.”

He slammed his fist down on the console—just once—but the sound echoed like a gunshot through the Marauder. Wrecker flinched. Tech never lost control. Never raised his voice. Never made a sound unless it meant something.

And now, he looked like he was about to break.

“I’ve calculated a thousand outcomes,” Tech murmured, softer now. “And every variable keeps changing. Her body is unpredictable. She’s unstable. But she’s also resilient. She’s survived things that should’ve killed her ten times over.”

He looked up then, eyes glassy behind his goggles.

“But if we don’t find a way to get her real care—soon—we will lose her.”

Wrecker turned away, one massive hand covering his face. He’d never felt so useless. Not when they’d crashed on Ordo. Not when they’d been stranded on Ryloth. Never like this.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I’m strong. I can carry her. Fight for her. But I can’t fix her, Tech. I can’t even hold her without hurting her worse.”

Tech approached quietly, placing a hand on Wrecker’s shoulder—a rare gesture.

“You are helping,” he said. “You’re keeping her tethered. She needs that. She needs us.”

The med console beeped—soft, steady. A pause.

Then a spike.

Her heart rate surged. Your head tilted slightly to the side. Blood trickled from your nose. Another alarm.

“No, no, no—stay with us,” Tech muttered, already grabbing the stabilizer. “Don’t go. Not yet.”

Wrecker dropped to his knees beside you, voice trembling.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You don’t get to leave like this. You didn’t even finish your story about the time you pantsed Crosshair in front of the general. Remember that?”

He sniffed, brushing a strand of hair from your sweat-slicked face. “You said you’d tell me how you pulled it off without getting court-martialed. Said you’d sing me that dumb lullaby you like. Said you’d stay.”

Your fingers twitched.

A tiny movement. Almost nothing.

But Wrecker gasped.

“She moved!”

Tech’s head snapped up. “What?”

“She moved! Her hand—right here—she twitched.”

Tech scanned you again. “Neurological activity spiked. Minimal, but—”

You let out a weak, pained breath.

Another wheeze. Then a garbled sound—almost like a word, trapped somewhere deep in your throat.

“…H-Hun…ter…”

Both men froze.

Tears filled Wrecker’s eyes.

“She said his name…”

“She’s still in there,” Tech whispered, blinking quickly. “Cognitive reflexes are initiating. That’s… that’s something.”

He turned to Wrecker, and for once, there was nothing cold or clinical in his tone.

“There’s still time.”

They kept watch through the night. Neither slept.

Wrecker read to you from the old datapad you always teased him for hoarding.

Tech adjusted your vitals every hour, even when nothing had changed, just to keep his hands busy.

And in the silence between beeping monitors and heavy breaths, they both spoke to you—about nothing, about everything.

Wrecker told you about the time he and you almost got arrested on Corellia for stealing bad caf. How your laugh had made him feel human again.

Tech told you the probability of your survival was now sitting at 18.6%, up from 9%. And that statistically, if anyone could beat the odds, it was you.

Wrecker chuckled through his tears. “Told you, didn’t I? Too stubborn to die.”

Tech looked down at your still hand, then whispered—just once—“Please… don’t.”

⸻

The Marauder was silent.

Tech had finally collapsed from exhaustion in the co-pilot seat, goggles askew, still clutching the datapad with your vitals. Wrecker was curled on the floor next to your bed, snoring lightly with one hand near yours. Crosshair sat with his back to the far wall, arms crossed, eyes closed—but not asleep.

And Echo stayed awake.

He always did.

He was seated at your bedside, one cybernetic hand gently resting on the edge of the cot. The hum of the ship’s systems filled the space between the heart monitor’s steady rhythm. Your breathing—still shallow, but no longer ragged—was the only music Echo needed.

He hadn’t moved for hours.

You’d gotten worse. Then better. Then worse again. And through all of it, he’d held on. Let the others break. Let them rage. He had to be the one who didn’t fall apart.

But now, as he sat alone in the flickering light, his thumb brushed your bandaged hand—and he whispered, “You can’t keep scaring us like this.”

Your lips moved.

Barely.

He straightened. “Hey…?”

Your fingers twitched under his hand.

Your head shifted slightly on the pillow, a soft whimper escaping your throat. Your eyelashes fluttered—slow, disoriented, like your mind hadn’t caught up to your body.

“Hey.” Echo leaned closer, voice trembling now. “Come on… come on, mesh’la. You’re safe.”

Your eyes opened.

Just a sliver at first. Squinting into the low light.

“…Echo…?”

It was a rasp, a whisper, but it was real.

Echo’s mouth fell open.

And for the first time since the fall—since the screaming, the blood, the race against time—his composure cracked.

You blinked slowly, pain visible behind your glazed eyes. “W-Where…?”

“Still on the Marauder. We haven’t moved. We couldn’t.” His voice was low and hoarse. “You weren’t stable enough.”

Your brow furrowed faintly. “Hurts.”

“I know.” He gently adjusted your oxygen mask, smoothing your hair back. “You took a hell of a fall.”

You tried to shift, but your body betrayed you—wracked with weakness, ribs aching, limbs sluggish.

Echo placed a firm hand on your shoulder. “Don’t move yet. Please. Just stay still.”

You obeyed—too tired to fight it.

“I thought…” You coughed, eyes fluttering. “Thought I heard Wrecker crying.”

Echo actually smiled, though his eyes were wet. “Yeah. That happened.”

You let out the faintest exhale—almost a laugh. “He’s a big softie.”

“Only for you,” Echo whispered, squeezing your hand carefully. “You scared him half to death.”

There was a long pause.

You looked up at him, brow knitting again.

“…You thought I was gone, didn’t you?”

Echo’s throat tightened. “We all did.”

“But you stayed.”

“Of course I stayed.”

Your gaze lingered on him. He looked exhausted. Hollowed out. His prosthetic arm twitched like he’d been clenching it too long.

“You haven’t slept.”

He laughed quietly—bitter and warm all at once. “Didn’t want to miss this.”

Another silence.

And then, so faint it barely reached him, you whispered—

“…I’m sorry.”

Echo stared at you, stunned.

“For what?” he breathed.

“For falling. For worrying you. For being weak.”

His expression broke. “No.”

He leaned in, voice rough. “Don’t ever say that. You didn’t fall because you were weak. You fell because the ground gave out. Because war is cruel. Because life isn’t fair.”

He blinked back tears. “But you lived. And that means more than anything.”

Your vision blurred—not from injury this time, but from the emotion in his voice.

He looked at you like you were the most important thing in the galaxy.

“I thought I lost you,” he said. “And I wasn’t ready.”

You let your eyes close again, overwhelmed by exhaustion—but you smiled softly through cracked lips.

“I’m here.”

He pressed his forehead gently to your hand, exhaling a shaky breath.

“You’re here.”

When the others returned—when Hunter stumbled in and dropped to his knees, when Wrecker cried again, when Crosshair stood frozen for a full minute, just staring—you were already asleep.

But Echo met Hunter’s gaze.

And nodded.

“She woke up.”

And for the first time in days, the silence didn’t feel so heavy.

I saw your fic “What’s that smell” and thought it was absolutely beautiful! I was wondering what would be the rest of the batches reactions to the new smells. I can’t imagine what their ship would smell like and then having it change and maybe even be cleaner. You’re the best! Xx

Their ship would 100% smell like oil, sweat, blaster residue, old caf, dusty armor polish, and wet dog on a good day.

Here is what I believe the rest of the batches reactions are.

Crosshair

The first time he notices it, he’s practically scowling.

He hates things he can’t immediately explain, and suddenly the ship doesn’t smell like burnt wiring and recycled air anymore — it smells like…

something soft.

Something warm.

Something he can’t stop breathing in.

He’s so annoyed about it he follows you around for an entire day, sniffing the air like a pissed-off lothcat, trying to figure out if it’s you or if someone installed a karking air freshener.

When he finally realizes it’s you, he just stands there staring at you for a long second, lips pressed into a tight line.

Then he mutters:

“You smell… distracting.”

Like it’s a personal insult.

Will absolutely lean in closer than necessary just to breathe you in — but if you catch him, he’ll immediately go “Hmph” and pretend you’re the weird one.

Wrecker

Wrecker’s the first to flat-out say it.

He scoops you up into a bone-crushing hug one day, immediately sniffs, and then pulls back with wide, amazed eyes.

“Whoa! You smell amazing! Like… like sunshine! And pastries! And soap!”

He is obsessed after that. Every time you walk by, he inhales dramatically like a toddler discovering their favorite candy.

“Can we keep ya?” he jokes — but he means it. You’re like a walking comfort blanket for him.

The Marauder slowly starts smelling better too because Wrecker starts cleaning more — purely because he wants the nice smell to stick around.

Tech

Tech notices immediately, but being Tech, he processes it differently.

“Interesting,” he says aloud the first time you pass him. “The olfactory change is quite pleasant.”

Then he starts… researching it.

He runs calculations about human pheromones and attraction rates. He theorizes that your presence might lower the crew’s stress levels by up to 23%.

He doesn’t even realize he’s orbiting closer to you during missions until Wrecker points it out.

Embarrassed, he adjusts his goggles and mutters something about “optimal proximity for psychological benefits.”

Translation: You smell good and it’s making his brain short-circuit, help.

Echo

Echo notices it like a punch to the face because he’s so hyperaware of sensory input now.

The Marauder always smells like metal and grime — he’s used to it — but you?

You smell like rain hitting dry ground. Like something clean and alive and real.

It shakes him a little.

Reminds him of before — before the war, before everything.

He tries to be subtle about it, but you catch him lingering near you sometimes, jaw tight like he’s trying not to let himself want it.

One day you brush past him and he closes his eyes for half a second, just breathing you in.

He doesn’t say anything about it for a long time.

Until maybe you tease him — and he finally admits, voice low and rough:

“You make this whole ship feel… less like a graveyard.”

Which might be the most devastatingly sweet thing Echo could ever say.

Hi! I was wondering if you could do a TBB x Fem!Reader +any other clones of your choice, where they keep using pet names in mandoa like cyar'ika, mesh'la, and maybe even riduur?(because they might’ve gotten accidentally married? Love those tropes)

but the reader has no idea what they mean and that they’re pet names or that the batch likes her. Eventually she finds out of course and a bunch of stuttering cute confessions?

Your writing is so amazing and i literally can’t get enough of it! Xx

“Say It Again?”

TBB x Fem!Reader

You had gotten used to the way clones talked — the gruffness, the slang, the camaraderie. But ever since you’d been working more closely with Clone Force 99, you’d noticed something… different.

They used weird words around you. Words you didn’t hear other troopers saying.

Hunter always greeted you with a gentle “Cyar’ika,” accompanied by that intense little half-smile of his.

Wrecker would beam and shout, “Mesh’la! You came!” every time you entered a room — like you were some goddess descending from the stars.

Crosshair, as always, was smug and cool, throwing in a soft “Riduur…” under his breath when he thought you weren’t listening, though you never figured out what it meant. He often smirked when you looked confused, and somehow that made it worse.

Even Tech, who rarely used nicknames at all, had let slip a casual “You’re quite remarkable, mesh’la,” when you helped him debug his datapad. He didn’t look up, but you felt the heat in his voice.

And Echo? Sweet, dependable Echo — he was the least subtle of them all.

“You alright, cyar’ika?”

“You look tired, cyar’ika.”

“Get some rest, cyar’ika.”

You were starting to think “Cyar’ika” meant your actual name.

But something was off. The others never used those words with each other. Only with you.

So, naturally, you asked Rex.

And Rex choked on his caf.

“You—what did Crosshair call you?” he coughed, wiping his chin.

You repeated it: “Rid…uur? I think? I dunno. He said it real low.”

Rex gave you the slowest blink you’d ever seen and then rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Riduur means… spouse. As in… wife. It’s what you call your partner.”

You froze. “What?!”

“And cyar’ika?” he continued, amused. “Sweetheart. Mesh’la is ‘beautiful.’ They’re… Mando’a pet names. Very affectionate.”

The blushing.

The flashbacks.

All those words… those looks… Tech calling you remarkable like it was a scientific fact, Crosshair smirking like he had secrets, Echo’s voice dropping a full octave every time he said cyar’ika…

You marched straight into the Havoc Marauder like a woman on a mission — and promptly forgot how to speak when all five of them looked up at you.

“…You okay, mesh’la?” Hunter asked gently.

You blinked. Your voice cracked. “…You’ve been calling me sweetheart?”

The room went dead silent.

Echo dropped his ration bar.

Wrecker panicked. “Wait—you didn’t know?”

Crosshair chuckled and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Told you she didn’t know.”

Tech frowned at him. “Statistically, the odds of her knowing were—”

“You called me your wife,” you said, pointing at Crosshair like he’d committed a war crime.

He shrugged. “Didn’t hear you complain.”

You stammered something completely unintelligible, covering your face with both hands, and Wrecker let out the loudest, happiest laugh you’d ever heard. “So… does that mean you like us back?”

You peeked through your fingers. “…Us?”

Hunter stepped forward slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “We all… kinda do. Like you. A lot.”

You were red. Like, fruit-on-Ryloth red. “You’re telling me five elite clones have been flirting with me in another language this whole time?!”

“…Yes,” they all mumbled at once.

Crosshair grinned like he’d won a bet. “So… Riduur?”

“Riduur?” Crosshair repeated, lifting a brow like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just dropped a romantic thermal detonator right in front of everyone.

You stared at him. At all of them.

Hunter’s quiet guilt. Echo’s embarrassed fidgeting. Wrecker’s hopeful puppy-dog smile. Tech’s analytical interest. And Crosshair’s smug little smirk that you really wanted to slap off his face… or maybe kiss.

You swallowed. “I—I need a second.”

And then promptly turned on your heel and walked right back out of the Marauder.

⸻

You spent the rest of the day spiraling.

Sweetheart. Beautiful. Wife.

They’d been calling you those for weeks. Months, maybe. You were out here thinking it was some fun cultural expression or inside joke you weren’t in on—and it turns out you were the joke. The target. Of five clone commandos’… affection?

It didn’t feel like a joke, though. It felt sincere. Soft. Safe.

And scary.

Because you liked them. All of them. Differently, but genuinely. The thought of them caring about you—of whispering pet names they grew up hearing in the most intimate, personal ways—made your chest ache in a way you didn’t know how to handle.

⸻

The next day, you avoided them.

The next day, they let you.

The third day, Hunter found you in the mess hall, sat beside you without a word, and handed you a steaming mug of caf.

You looked at him.

He didn’t speak right away. Then: “We’re sorry. If we made you uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” you blurted out. “I just… didn’t know how to react. I’m still trying to figure it out.”

Hunter nodded, eyes kind. “We can stop. The nicknames, I mean.”

You hesitated. “No. I don’t want you to stop.”

He smiled, just a little. “You sure?”

You nodded. “I think I like them. I just… I want to know what they mean now.”

⸻

So, one by one, the boys showed you.

Wrecker said “mesh’la” every time you helped him carry heavy crates, with a goofy grin that made your stomach flip.

Echo said “cyar’ika” after every quiet conversation, letting the word linger like a promise he wasn’t ready to say aloud yet.

Tech, precise as always, began to offer direct translations.

“You look stunning today, mesh’la—objectively, of course.”

Crosshair didn’t stop with “riduur.” He started calling you “cyar’ika” too—softly, in rare unguarded moments—and he never looked away when he said it. Like he meant it. Like he knew what it was doing to you.

And Hunter? Hunter started saying “ner cyar’ika.” My sweetheart.

⸻

It wasn’t instant.

But slowly, their voices stopped making you flustered—and started making you feel home.

You started saying their names softer. Started touching their arms when you passed. Started blushing less… and smiling more.

And one day, while standing beside Wrecker during maintenance, you reached up on your toes, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Thanks, cyare.”

He blinked. His whole face lit up like a nova. “You said it back!”

Later, you caught Echo outside the ship. Nervous, swaying slightly on his heels. You pressed your hand into his and whispered, “You can keep calling me cyar’ika, you know.”

He looked down at you with wide eyes. “You really don’t mind?”

You shook your head. “I like it.”

And Tech, when you repeated “mesh’la” with a teasing little lilt, glanced at you and—just this once—forgot what he was doing.

Even Crosshair dropped his toothpick when you looked him dead in the eye and whispered: “You keep calling me your riduur. What does that make you, then?”

He blinked. Once. Then smiled. Really smiled. “Yours.”

⸻

By the time you curled up beside Hunter one quiet night, your head on his shoulder and his hand tracing slow circles on your back, he murmured “ner cyar’ika” and you didn’t freeze or stammer.

You just smiled.

Because now you knew.

And you finally, finally understood that you’d never been the joke.

You’d always been the reason they smiled.

Helllo! I was wondering if you could a spicy bad batch x fem!reader where she used to be a dancer/singer in like a sleezy club, did what was best for easy money. But an op comes up and she needs to it again and the boys didn’t know she had a history of it and are like “oh shit” find it hot but get jealous of the other men. Idk if this makes sense 😅

love your wring! Xx

“Undercover Temptation”

Bad Batch x Fem!Reader | Spice + Jealousy

⸻

The mission sounded simple enough.

Infiltrate a seedy club on Pantora. Gather intel on a black-market arms dealer that frequented the place. Blend in. Make contact. Get out.

Cid had been vague about the details, just that it required “a certain skill set.” And when her eyes landed on you, there was a flicker of something like smugness.

“You’ll fit right in, sweetheart,” she’d said. “Used to be your scene, didn’t it?”

The Batch didn’t know what she meant by that. But you did.

You’d left that part of your life behind when you joined up with Clone Force 99. The sleezy clubs, the music, the makeup, the stage lights — the easy money, the wandering hands. You’d done what you had to. You were good at it. Too good.

Omega had stayed behind, thank the Maker.

⸻

The club on Pantora was everything you remembered from your past life — sweat-slick air, glitter, smoke, and the kind of stares that made your skin crawl in ways you’d long buried.

Cid hadn’t exactly warned the Batch what she was getting them into. Just said it was a “special assignment” and only you could pull it off.

You hadn’t worn this in a long time — short, shimmering dress clinging to every curve, makeup smoky and sharp, hair teased and wild. A performer. A seductress. A mask you’d once worn to survive.

But stepping out into the room full of hardened clones, nothing could’ve prepared you for the heat in their eyes.

Hunter looked you up and down, slow and deliberate, his brows furrowed like he was trying to remember how to breathe.

Wrecker’s jaw dropped, cheeks flushed. “Maker, baby…”

Echo stared like he’d short-circuited.

Tech made an odd choking sound behind his datapad.

And then there was Crosshair.

He had a toothpick between his lips, eyes dragging over your legs, slow and dark. “Didn’t know you used to work a stage,” he murmured, voice like smoke. “That explains a lot.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you smirked.

He grinned. “Means now I know why the hell I’ve been dreamin’ about you on your knees.”

Echo made a noise of protest. Wrecker looked like he was about to explode. Hunter didn’t say anything — but his fists were clenched.

You went on stage anyway. Because this was the mission.

You knew how to move. Knew how to keep attention. The intel target was in the VIP booth — you’d been instructed to lure him out, get close, plant a tracker, and distract him while Tech accessed his datapad remotely.

But the Batch? Yeah, they were distracted too.

Crosshair watched from the shadows, his shoulders tense, jaw tight. He was normally smooth, sarcastic — but this? This had him on edge.

Hunter paced by the back exit like a caged animal.

Wrecker glared at every man who so much as breathed in your direction.

Echo kept muttering, “She shouldn’t have to do this,” under his breath.

Tech… he was sweating. You were pretty sure his goggles fogged up.

The moment it all went to hell was when a drunk mercenary tried to grab you mid-performance.

Your eyes had locked with Hunter’s for a split second — a silent signal — when a hand yanked you roughly by the waist, spinning you mid-dance. You tensed immediately, smile faltering.

The guy was laughing, leering, pulling you flush against him.

And Hunter moved like a damn predator.

One second he was at the exit, the next, he was slamming the guy into the stage floor, snarling, “Don’t. Touch. Her.”

You barely had time to react before Crosshair had his rifle out, providing overwatch from the rafters, eyes sharp and deadly.

Echo pulled you behind him protectively.

Wrecker cracked his knuckles with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “You touched the wrong girl, pal.”

Tech looked like he wanted to kill the man — but also couldn’t stop blinking at you in that outfit.

The bar erupted into chaos.

Shots rang out.

You ducked low as the crowd screamed and scattered. Your target made a run for it — but not before Tech tagged his datapad. Crosshair clipped his shoulder with a clean shot. Wrecker handled two mercs trying to flank you.

You moved to help Hunter — but he was down.

Your heart dropped.

You rushed to his side, kneeling beside him. “Hunter!”

He was bleeding — blaster bolt to the shoulder, unfocused eyes still locked on you. “’M fine,” he rasped. “Saw… saw that guy grab you. Should’ve—shit—moved faster.”

You pressed a hand to the wound. “Don’t be an idiot. I’ve had worse hands on me. We’re getting you out.”

“Not while you’re still dressed like that,” he muttered weakly.

Behind you, Crosshair took out another would-be attacker, and growled through clenched teeth, “If anyone else touches her tonight, I’m leaving bodies.”

Echo lifted Hunter over his shoulder while Wrecker covered the retreat. Tech dragged you out by the hand, pulling you through a back hallway while still rattling off data from the merc’s pad.

“You… that performance,” Tech blurted, breathless. “I’ll be reviewing the security footage later. For… mission purposes.”

You just grinned, eyes flicking to where Crosshair covered the rear, rifle smoking.

Back on the ship, patched up and safe, Hunter leaned against the medbay wall, arm in a sling.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.

You leaned in, brushing hair from his face. “Yes, I did. It was the job.”

“Next time,” he growled, “you wear that in our quarters. For us. No one else.”

Wrecker appeared in the doorway. “You gonna do another show, babe? I got credits.”

Echo followed. “Don’t encourage her.”

Tech was already setting up a holoprojector. “I have some… strategic questions about your technique.”

Crosshair just smirked from the shadows, toothpick twitching.

“Next time,” he said, “I’m bringing handcuffs.”

Your smile turned wicked. “Oh? For the targets?”

His smirk widened. “No.”

You’re writing is amazing! I had two things

1: What is a trope you love writing?

2: Can there be a Bad batch x reader, where she’s loves to cook. When she joins them she cooks for them and they love her cooking (once they get used to having something other than ration bars). Maybe she even sends them with packed lunches for when they go off.

Thank you x

I don’t have a trope in particular I like writing, but I’m a sucker for a good enemies to lovers or anything angsty or tragic

⸻

“Seconds”

The Bad Batch x Fem!Reader

⸻

They weren’t sure what to make of you at first.

A civilian-turned-ally. Handy in a fight, steady under pressure, and weirdly good at organizing their storage crates. But most of all, you cooked. Like, really cooked.

No one had expected it—not after surviving off ration bars, battlefield meals, and the occasional mystery stew Crosshair pretended didn’t come from a can. But then you’d shown up with a patched-together portable burner and the stubborn attitude of someone determined to make something edible from nothing. And you did.

The first time you cooked, it had stunned them into silence.

The scent of simmering broth wafted through the corridors of the Marauder, followed by spices and roasted meat and something buttery that made Wrecker’s eyes water.

Tech was the first to speak, nose twitching. “That is not protein paste.”

“Unless someone’s finally weaponized it,” Echo said, cautiously hopeful.

Hunter didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned in the doorway of the galley with arms crossed, watching the way you moved—calm, focused, humming to yourself as you stirred a bubbling pot. There was something disarming about the scene. Domestic. Gentle. Strange.

Crosshair gave a low whistle from where he lounged. “Are we keeping this one?”

No one answered. But no one said no.

⸻

It became tradition fast.

You cooked whenever there was downtime, wherever there were ingredients. You scavenged herbs on jungle moons, traded for spices in backwater towns, stretched every credit and crumb into something warm. Something human. You’d hand them plates and bowls and containers like they were weapons before a battle—only these made them feel… grounded.

Every day you could. Breakfasts on quiet mornings. Late dinners after brutal missions. You adapted what ingredients you had, learned what they each liked—Tech hated onions but loved citrus, Crosshair liked spicy food that burned the tongue, Echo had a sweet tooth he tried to hide, and Hunter… Hunter liked comfort food. He’d never say it out loud, but you caught the softness in his expression whenever you made something simple and warm. Like home.

They never asked you to. But they stopped saying no.

Eventually, you started packing lunches for them. Personalized. Thoughtful.

Crosshair’s were spicy and wrapped with a snarky note.

Wrecker’s came with double servings and a warning label.

Tech’s included clean utensils and clear labels, because of course they did.

Echo’s always had a little dessert tucked in the side

Hunter’s would just have little doodle/picture you’d drawn

⸻

They’d left you behind this time. Not because you couldn’t handle yourself, but because someone had to stay with Omega. She wasn’t ready for this mission, and neither were you—still recovering from the last one, a blaster graze healing at your ribs.

The ship was quiet. Omega wandered in around dinner time, drawn by the smell of whatever you were cooking.

She climbed up onto the counter like it was the most natural thing in the world, chin resting on her hands as she watched you slice vegetables and stir broth.

“That smells better than anything I’ve ever had on Kamino,” she said dreamily.

You smiled. “I’ll take that as the highest of compliments.”

She watched you for a while, head tilting. “You always look really happy when you cook.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

You thought about it as you stirred. “Because food makes people feel safe. Even in the middle of a war, a good meal can remind you what it’s like to be human.”

Omega was quiet for a beat. Then: “You make them feel safe.”

You didn’t answer right away.

She squinted up at you. “You really care about them, huh?”

You nodded. “They’ve been through hell. They deserve someone to care.”

She grinned slowly. “You’ve got a crush on one of them.”

You almost dropped the spoon.

“Excuse me?”

She giggled. “I knew it!”

You tried (and failed) to play it cool. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on,” she said, sliding off the counter. “You pack lunches. You make special snacks. You stitched Wrecker’s sleeve when it ripped, even though he didn’t ask. You added hot sauce to Crosshair’s meal because he once said it tasted better. You kept Tech’s favorite tea even though no one else drinks it. And you stayed up all night once just to make sure Echo’s respirator didn’t fail after that dust storm.”

She paused, smirking. “One of those meant more.”

You turned back to the pot. “You are way too observant.”

She laughed. “So, who is it? Wrecker?”

“No.”

“Tech?”

“Definitely not.”

“Echo?”

“Closer.”

“Crosshair?”

You gave her a look.

She grinned wide. “Fine, fine. I won’t guess. For now.”

You stirred the pot again and said, softly, “It doesn’t matter.”

Omega’s voice was gentler. “Why not?”

You shrugged. “Because maybe it’s safer this way. Just being part of this… this crew. This little found family. It’s enough.”

She looked at you for a long moment. Then she slid onto a nearby stool and rested her chin in her hand again.

“They’ll be back soon,” she said. “You gonna tell them dinner’s ready?”

You smiled quietly, not looking up. “They’ll smell it.”

hello! this is my first time sending any sort of request so i hope this is the right place! i absolutely love your writing and was wondering if you could write Hunter x a plus sized f reader (more specifically a reader struggling with loving her body). maybe sfw with a hint of suggestiveness? thank you!! <3

“All the parts of you”

Hunter x Plus-Sized Fem!Reader

⸻

You stared at your reflection in the mirror of the Marauder’s fresher, scowling as you tugged at your shirt. It clung to the softest parts of you. The waistband of your pants had folded over—again—and if you stood a certain way, your stomach looked—

“Like a whole moon orbiting around me,” you muttered under your breath, smirking bitterly. “Galactic gravitational pull and all.”

It was your thing, after all. Make the joke before anyone else could. Keep it light. Pretend you didn’t care. Pretend you didn’t hurt.

You didn’t hear Hunter step in.

“You always talk about yourself like that when you think no one’s listening?”

Your heart skipped, stomach sinking faster than gravity.

You turned. “Well, yeah. Someone’s gotta say it. Might as well be me before someone beats me to the punchline.”

He didn’t laugh. Not even a twitch of a smirk.

“Don’t do that,” he said, voice low and steady.

You raised an eyebrow, trying to brush past him. “It’s just a joke, Sarge.”

His hand came up, gentle but firm, stopping you before you could flee.

“It’s not funny,” he said. “Not to me.”

You tried to shrug it off, even as your throat tightened. “Relax. I’m not fishing for compliments. I’m just realistic, you know? Built like a bantha in body armor. It’s fine.”

He blinked slowly. Once.

Then, “Don’t say that about my girl.”

Your breath caught. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he interrupted. “I haven’t said it yet, but you are.”

Your protest fizzled somewhere in your chest.

He stepped closer, and now his hand was on your waist—your soft waist, the one you avoided letting anyone touch—like it belonged there.

“Do you know how hard it is for me to keep my hands off you when you wear that shirt?”

You blinked. “You mean the shirt that makes me look like a wrapped ration pack?”

“I mean the shirt that hugs you in all the right places,” he murmured, sliding his hand along the curve of your hip like it was art. “The one that reminds me exactly how good you’d feel in my arms. Or on my lap. Or under me.”

Your cheeks burned. “Hunter…”

“I love how you look,” he said. “But more than that, I love you. All the parts you try to cover. All the jokes you use to hide the things you’re still learning to live with.”

His tone was quiet. Serious.

“You don’t need to pretend with me.”

Your throat ached. Your hands twitched at your sides like they didn’t know whether to cover your face or grab his.

“I don’t know how to believe you,” you admitted softly.

“That’s okay,” he said. “Let me believe it for both of us until you can.”

You stared at him, all your words gone, and he kissed you—slow, reverent, grounding.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like something to fix.

You felt like someone wanted.

⸻

Later that night, you made another joke about needing “extra rations to fuel all this real estate,” and he didn’t hesitate.

He pulled you flush against him, kissed your neck, and growled in your ear:

“I hope you’ve got extra, sweetheart. I plan to spend all night exploring every damn inch of you.”

⸻

A/N - kind self inserted here, I’m a bigger girl and tend to make the jokes before anyone else can, not that most do

Hiiii! Could you do a Bad Batch x Fem!Reader where she’s like their new general (a force user but not a Jedi) where she’s trying to keep her distance to stay professional and to not fall for them but maybe she wakes up from a nightmare or has a really bad day and she goes to wrecker and sees if those hugs are still available? The others obviously see and a bunch of cute confessions? Love all the additions you add too!! Love all your work! Xx

“Permission to Feel”

Bad Batch x Fem!Reader

The Clone Force 99 barracks were quiet for once.

No late-night sparring, no Tech rattling off schematics, no arguments about snacks between Wrecker and Echo. Even Crosshair wasn’t brooding out loud. Just silence—and the hum of hyperspace.

You should have been grateful. Instead, you sat on your bunk with your face buried in your hands, heart hammering from the aftershocks of a nightmare you couldn’t quite shake.

You weren’t a Jedi. You never claimed to be. Not trained in their ways, not chained to their rules. You were something… other. The people on your homeworld called you “Witchblade.” A war hero. A force of nature. The Republic called you General.

But tonight, you were just a woman shaking in the dark, trying not to feel too much.

And failing.

The vision—whatever it was—had left your skin cold and your chest too tight. It wasn’t just war. It was loss. Familiar faces, falling.

You told yourself it was just stress. Just echoes from the Force. Nothing real.

But you couldn’t stay in this room.

Your feet found the floor before your mind caught up. You moved through the ship barefoot, shoulders hunched, arms crossed like you could hide the vulnerability leaking from your ribs.

Wrecker’s door was cracked open. Dim lights. Soft snoring. His massive frame curled on a bunk made way too small.

You hesitated. So many reasons not to do this. Not to cross that line. Not to give in.

But still—you whispered, “Wrecker?”

He stirred. Blinking. Yawning. “Hey, General…” His voice was warm and rough, like gravel and sunlight. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer at first. Then: “Are those hugs… still available?”

He was already opening his arms before you finished.

You didn’t cry. Not really. But when your face pressed against his chest and his arms wrapped around you like a fortress, you breathed in a way you hadn’t in days. Weeks. Maybe ever.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

You nodded against him. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

You felt the bed shift behind you, and only then realized others had stirred. You didn’t need to turn to know Hunter was standing in the doorway now, gaze sharp but not judging. Crosshair leaned against the frame, arms crossed but brows drawn together. Echo hovered behind him, concern etched into the lines around his eyes. Tech, as usual, said nothing—but his gaze softened when it landed on you.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you mumbled, pulling back.

Wrecker held you a second longer, then let go gently. “It’s okay. You’re allowed.”

You sat back. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable now. Just… full. With things unsaid.

Hunter stepped in first. Sat across from you, elbows on his knees. “You don’t have to carry everything by yourself, you know.”

“I’m your commanding officer,” you said quietly.

“You’re you,” Crosshair replied, from the doorway. “That outranks any title.”

“I wasn’t trying to—” you started, but Echo interrupted gently.

“You were trying not to fall for us. We noticed.”

You blinked. “What?”

Wrecker chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, you’re not as subtle as you think, General.”

Tech pushed his goggles up. “Statistically, we have all exhibited signs of attachment. It is entirely mutual.”

Your heart stuttered.

Hunter leaned closer. “We don’t expect anything. We just… we care. And if you want this—want us—you’re not alone.”

You looked at them. Really looked.

These men—outcasts, experiments, your greatest allies—they weren’t just soldiers under your command. They were your anchor. And maybe you were theirs.

You exhaled, tension uncoiling from your shoulders like a storm breaking.

“Then… maybe I’ll stop pretending I don’t want you.”

Hunter smiled softly. “That’d be a good start.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes. “Finally.”

Wrecker just wrapped his arm around your shoulder again, and you leaned into it like it was the safest place in the galaxy.

Wrecker never stopped holding you.

He rested his chin on your head now, gently rocking you. “You don’t have to say anything,” he rumbled. “Not tonight. You can just stay.”

That simple.

You can just stay.

And so you did.

You stayed.

Sat nestled between the one who understood your silence (Echo), the one who sensed your pain (Hunter), the one who read your walls like blueprints (Tech), the one who’d never admit he cared but always acted like he did (Crosshair), and the one who’d give you the biggest piece of his heart without needing anything back (Wrecker).

Eventually, someone—maybe Echo, maybe Tech—tossed a blanket over your shoulders. Wrecker shifted, cradling your body like it was made of starlight and trauma. Hunter sat beside you, his hand finding your knee, thumb stroking softly in rhythm with your breath.

You drifted off like that.

Not in your quarters.

Not alone.

But safe, for once.

Warm, held, and finally—finally—seen.

“Grumpy Hearts and Sunshine Shoulders”

Wrecker x Female Reader

⸻

The ocean was too blue. The sky was too clear. The people were too… happy.

It annoyed you.

Not because it was bad—it wasn’t. Pabu was a dream. A sanctuary. A rare piece of untouched paradise in a galaxy still licking its wounds. But after everything you’d seen, done, survived, the cheerfulness of it all hit you like sunburn on old scars.

So when Wrecker waved at you the first morning you arrived—big smile, bigger voice, bouncing down the stone steps like a gundark on caf—you nearly turned around and left.

But you didn’t.

You stayed. You unpacked. You avoided him for two days.

And then?

He showed up outside your door with a grin and a crate of fresh fruit.

“You need help settin’ up?” he asked, already peeking past your shoulder like he owned the place.

You crossed your arms. “You just looking for an excuse to snoop?”

Wrecker blinked, then grinned wider. “Only a little.”

You tried not to smile. You failed. He saw.

“You smiled! I saw it, so no denying it!” he said, delighted, as if he’d won a war.

“That wasn’t a smile. That was… mild amusement. Don’t get cocky.”

“Oh, your smile is so beautiful!” he declared, plopping the crate on your counter like he lived there. “I’d love to see it more often.”

You raised a brow. “Flattery? Really?”

“Not flattery,” he said, serious for a second. “Just the truth.”

And just like that, your walls cracked a little.

⸻

A week passed. Then two. You stopped flinching when he knocked. You started helping him haul supplies. You let him drag you into town gatherings, always with the same grin and the same cheer.

“You’re definitely the only person I would do this for,” you grumbled once, dragging your boots through the sand on the way to a lantern festival.

“I know!” Wrecker beamed, looping a thick arm around your shoulder. “I’m special.”

“You’re loud.”

“I’m charming.”

You snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You smiled again.”

“Damn it.”

⸻

One night, you found yourself sitting beside him on the docks. The moon cast silver streaks across the water, and Wrecker was humming some out-of-tune melody you didn’t recognize.

“You ever stop being cheerful?” you asked quietly.

He shrugged. “Used to. After Crosshair left, and after Echo… yeah. I had some bad days. Real bad. But Omega helped. So did Pabu.”

You nodded slowly.

He looked at you, more thoughtful now. “You got bad days too, huh?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly: “Sometimes it feels wrong to enjoy peace. Like I haven’t earned it.”

Wrecker shifted closer. His hand brushed yours, warm and solid. “You don’t gotta earn peace. You just gotta accept it.”

You looked at him, brow tight. “You make it sound easy.”

He grinned. “Nah. It ain’t. But I’m here. Omega’s here. You’re not alone.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“I’ll do it,” you whispered after a long pause, “but only because you asked me to.”

“Do what?”

You finally leaned your head against his shoulder.

“Try. To enjoy it. This place. You.”

Wrecker’s face turned redder than a sunset. “Well, hey, no pressure, but—I really like it when you smile.”

You chuckled.

Then, finally—finally—you smiled again.

“Theoretical Feelings”

Tech x Female Reader

⸻

“Tech, you’re smarter than you look,” you said, fingers flying across the datapad as you recalibrated the long-range scanner’s neural relays.

Tech didn’t even glance up. “Is that a compliment for my intelligence or an insult for my appearance?”

You smirked, biting the inside of your cheek. “Maybe both. You’ll never know.”

That got him. He looked at you over the rim of his goggles, blinking once. “You are remarkably cryptic for someone so precise in data analysis.”

“And you’re remarkably dense for someone with a photographic memory.”

He opened his mouth—no doubt to deliver a factually loaded rebuttal—but Omega’s groan from the doorway cut him off.

“Ugh, will you two just kiss already?”

Wrecker let out a bark of laughter from the other side of the room. “They’re both so smart and yet so stupid. It’s kinda impressive, honestly.”

Hunter passed by without even looking up from his weapon check. “I give it three more arguments before one of them short-circuits.”

Echo, lounging at the gunner’s console, rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen better communication from malfunctioning droids.”

You turned bright red. “We’re not—! I mean, it’s not like that.”

Tech, completely deadpan: “I fail to see the logic in a kiss solving anything.”

“Oh my stars,” you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You’d think two geniuses wouldn’t be so emotionally… constipated.”

Omega laughed as she flopped into a chair. “Is that what it’s called?”

“Yes,” you said, shooting Tech a sidelong glance. “He’s got a whole datacard full of tactical strategy, but apparently no folder for feelings.”

“I have folders,” Tech protested, indignant. “I just haven’t… opened them.”

You crossed your arms and leaned back in your seat. “Well, maybe you should. Before I go flirt with Echo just to see if he can keep up.”

Tech’s goggles glinted as he straightened, spine stiff. “That would be inefficient. Echo’s humor is marginally less compatible with yours. Statistically, I am the superior match.”

The room went dead silent.

Even Hunter looked up.

“…What?” Tech asked, genuinely confused. “Was that not the correct response?”

You blinked, lips parting, but nothing came out at first. Finally, you leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table.

“Tech,” you said slowly. “Are you… trying to court me via statistics?”

“Well, that is the language I am most fluent in,” he said, as if it were obvious. “I have also calculated the probability of your reciprocal affection to be relatively high, based on prolonged eye contact, increased heart rate during proximity, and your tendency to brush your hair back when speaking to me.”

Your face went completely warm. “You noticed that?”

“I notice everything about you,” he said plainly. “I simply haven’t known what to do with the information.”

Your heart stuttered—because for all his clinical language, there was vulnerability behind it. Soft. Honest. Tech didn’t lie. He just struggled to feel out loud.

You offered a small smile. “You don’t have to do anything… except meet me halfway.”

He tilted his head. “Can you define halfway in this context?”

You stood up, stepped in front of him, and placed your hand gently on the side of his face—just enough pressure for his breath to catch. He froze like a statue.

“This,” you whispered, “is halfway.”

“Oh,” Tech said softly, eyes wide behind his goggles. “I see.”

And then—slowly, cautiously, with all the finesse of a man defusing a bomb—he leaned forward and kissed you.

Echo let out a low whistle. Wrecker whooped. Omega cheered.

Hunter smirked to himself. “About time.”

When you pulled back, Tech looked dazed. Awestruck.

You grinned and nudged his shoulder. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Tech adjusted his goggles. “I must say… I found it remarkably agreeable.”

“You’re so weird,” you whispered, grinning.

He smiled back. “Yes. But apparently, I am your kind of weird.”

⸻

Hi! Could I request a Crosshair x Reader? The reader was a medic in the GAR and would occasionally be called to treat the Bad Batch and loved to over-the-top flirt with Crosshair. After Order 66, the reader treats him after the fall of Kamino, and is reunited again on Tantiss?

Thank you for the request!

Because I’m evil I made this really sad and tragic - hope you enjoy!

⸻

Title: “Just Like the Rest”

Crosshair x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Injury, death, angst

When you first met Crosshair, he was bleeding all over your medbay floor.

Not dramatically, of course. That wasn’t his style. He’d taken a blaster graze to the ribs, shrugged it off, and sat on the edge of your cot like he couldn’t care less if he passed out.

“You should’ve come in hours ago,” you said, kneeling to check the wound. “This is going to scar.”

Crosshair’s eyes barely flicked toward you. “Scars don’t matter.”

You raised a brow. “To you, maybe. I, on the other hand, take pride in my handiwork.”

His lip curled in the barest ghost of amusement. You took it as encouragement.

You started showing up whenever they did. Crosshair got injured just enough to give you an excuse to flirt outrageously. You called him things like “sniper sweetheart,” “sharp shot,” and once, when you were feeling particularly bold, “cross and handsome.”

He rolled his eyes, glared, told you to shut up more times than you could count—but he never really pushed you away.

You weren’t blind. You saw the way his gaze lingered when you turned to walk away. The way he always sat a little too still when you touched him—like he was trying not to feel something.

⸻

You pressed the gauze a little firmer than necessary against Crosshair’s side.

“Careful,” he grunted.

You smirked, dabbing the bacta. “Sorry, sniper. Didn’t realize your pain tolerance was that low.”

Crosshair didn’t dignify that with a response. Just narrowed his eyes at you and clenched his jaw.

You loved getting under his skin. The other clones were easy to treat. Grateful. Polite. But Crosshair? He glared like you’d personally insulted his rifle every time you patched him up.

It made him interesting.

“You know,” you added, taping down the final dressing with a wink, “if you ever want me to kiss it better, just say the word.”

Crosshair exhaled sharply through his nose—something between irritation and disbelief.

“You ever shut up?”

You leaned in close, your voice dropping to a purr. “Not for you.”

And then you walked off, grinning to yourself, because Crosshair might’ve looked annoyed, but you caught it—the way his eyes lingered just a second too long.

You never expected anything from it. It was just a game. A slow, stupid, hopeful kind of game.

And then the war ended.

⸻

The transition from the Republic to the Empire didn’t faze you at first.

Same job. Same uniform. New symbol on your chest.

You weren’t naïve, just tired. The war had dragged on for years. Maybe peace, even under control, wasn’t the worst thing.

Besides, you were just a medic. You weren’t in charge of policies or invasions. You fixed what was broken. Saved who you could. And in your mind, the war was finally over.

You didn’t question the new rules. Not then. Not when Crosshair disappeared. Not even when Kamino began to feel… emptier.

When the call came in that Crosshair had returned—injured during the fall of Kamino—you were the one they requested. Of course you were.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you were just a medic, doing your job. Nothing more.

But when you saw him again, lying on that cold table, soaked in sea water and rage, something shifted.

“You’re quiet,” you said as you cleaned blood from his temple.

He didn’t answer.

“You could say something. Like ‘Hi, I missed you,’ or even just a classy grunt.”

Crosshair stared at the ceiling like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“I thought you were dead,” you admitted softly, your voice losing the humor. “And then I thought… maybe that would’ve been easier.”

His gaze finally cut to yours—sharp and cold. “Didn’t stop you from joining them.”

You stiffened.

“I didn’t know what was happening, Cross,” you said. “None of us did. I didn’t even see the Jedi fall. I was in a medtent treating troopers shot by their own.”

He said nothing.

“I stayed. I helped. I didn’t know you’d… chosen to stay too. Not like this.”

His voice was quiet, bitter. “So you’re leaving again?”

“I wasn’t supposed to be here at all. They only brought me in to stabilize you.”

He scoffed. “Figures. You’re just like the rest.”

That sentence struck you harder than any wound you’d treated.

Your hand froze on his bandage. Your throat tightened.

You stepped back.

“You think I didn’t care?” you said, barely more than a whisper. “I flirted with you for years, you emotionally constipated bastard. You could’ve said something. You could’ve stayed.”

He didn’t answer. He just looked away.

And this time, you were the one to leave.

⸻

The Imperial Research Facility on Tantiss was hell in sterile form.

You hated it the moment you arrived. The black walls. The quiet whispers. The clones in cages. The scientists with dead eyes.

But you told yourself you had no choice. You’d seen too much to be let go. You’d signed too many lines, accepted too many transfers.

And if you were going to be stuck in this nightmare, you might as well try to help the ones left inside it.

So you stitched up soldiers with no names. You treated mutations the Empire refused to acknowledge. You whispered comforts to dying experiments when no one else would.

And then one day—you saw him again.

You found him slumped against a wall, one arm dragging uselessly, his uniform half-burned.

“Crosshair.”

He blinked blearily. When he saw your face, he flinched like you’d hit him.

“Oh,” he said. “Of course. You.”

“I should’ve guessed you’d find a way to almost die again.”

You knelt beside him, voice low. “Let me help you.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched you with a raw, wounded anger that made your stomach twist.

“You knew I was here,” you said. “Didn’t you?”

“I heard rumors,” he rasped. “Didn’t believe it. Figured if you were here, you’d have visited. Unless that was too much effort.”

You stared at him. “You think I wanted this?”

“You chose this,” he said coldly. “You always do.”

You wanted to scream. To shake him. To make him see what this place had done to you. What the Empire really was. But Crosshair didn’t want sympathy. He wanted someone to hate.

And you were easy to hate.

Even if the way his fingers brushed yours when you patched his shoulder said otherwise.

Even if you still smelled like the cheap soap he used to mock, and he still remembered exactly how you smiled when you wrapped his wounds.

Even if he was still in love with you—and still convinced that meant nothing.

⸻

Tantiss was built to be soulless—white halls, dead lights, silence where screams should’ve been. You learned how to survive here by becoming invisible.

But now you were doing something dangerous. Stupid, even.

You were trusting again.

Crosshair hadn’t spoken much after that first time you treated him—just short questions, sarcastic comments, clipped observations. But he stopped flinching when you approached. Stopped spitting daggers every time your fingers brushed his skin.

And sometimes, on the rare nights when the lights dimmed and the cameras looked the other way, he’d ask things.

“Did you know what they were doing here?”

“Do you regret staying?”

“Why did you help me?”

You answered every question honestly, because lies were for people who didn’t already carry each other’s ghosts.

And then came her—a ghost you didn’t expect.

Omega.

They brought her in bruised, shackled, but defiant. You knew who she was—of course you did. You knew what she meant to Crosshair even if he’d never say it.

The first time you saw her, you crouched beside her cot and said:

“Name’s [Y/N]. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Omega didn’t trust you, not at first. But you earned it, one moment at a time.

You fixed her shoulder. Snuck her extra food. Sat with her at night when the lights made her cry.

Crosshair was the one who really got her to open up.

She’d whisper across the room in the dark.

“You look grumpy, but you’re not really.”

Crosshair muttered something like “Keep telling yourself that.”

She smiled.

You’d watch them from the corner of the lab. A tired soldier and a fierce little kid, clinging to the only family they had left.

You started planning.

You spent weeks preparing—disabling door locks, stealing access codes, memorizing shift schedules. You taught Omega how to sneak. You warned Crosshair how many guards you couldn’t distract.

The night came fast.

Crosshair didn’t ask questions—he moved like a man with nothing to lose. Omega stuck to his side like a shadow. You guided them through hallways, down lifts, past sleeping monsters in bacta tanks.

You reached the final corridor, the one that led to the hangar.

That’s when he stopped.

“Where’s your gear?” Crosshair asked. “We don’t have time to backtrack.”

You shook your head. “I’m not going.”

He stared at you like you’d just said the sky was falling.

“What the hell do you mean, you’re not going?”

“I’m on every manifest. Every shift schedule. Every system. I don’t make it out. Not without putting you both at risk.”

Omega grabbed your hand. “But we can’t just leave you!”

You smiled—God, it hurt to smile. “You have to. You’re the only ones who still have a shot.”

Crosshair stepped forward, chest heaving. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Maybe,” you said softly, “but I’m making the call.”

He didn’t say anything for a long time. Just stared. Like he wanted to remember everything about you—your face, your scent, your voice when you weren’t bleeding or angry.

And then, quietly:

“I should’ve said something. Before. Kamino. You deserved more than—”

“I knew,” you said. “I always knew.”

You kissed him. Once. Brief. Like a secret passed between souls.

“Get her out,” you whispered.

And then you ran back toward the alarms.

⸻

The cuffs chafed against your wrists, biting into raw skin. The interrogation room was colder than usual—designed to break people long before the scalpel touched skin.

You weren’t broken.

Not yet.

Dr. Royce Hemlock entered like he always did: calm, unbothered, surgical. He closed the door behind him with a quiet hiss. No guards. He didn’t need them.

He looked at you like a specimen already tagged for dissection.

“Dr. [Y/L/N],” he said softly, hands clasped behind his back. “You’ve been busy.”

You didn’t speak.

He circled you, like a predator measuring bone width and muscle density.

“You falsified clearance reports. Tampered with door access logs. Administered unauthorized sedation doses. Facilitated the escape of two highly valuable assets. All while wearing the Empire’s crest on your coat.”

You tilted your chin up. “You forgot ‘ate the last slice of cake in the mess.’”

Hemlock’s smile was thin, sterile.

“I misjudged you,” he said. “I assumed your compliance stemmed from belief. But it seems it was convenience.”

“It was survival,” you corrected. “Until I realized survival meant becoming the monster.”

He stopped behind you, his voice like ice against your neck.

“Do you know what fascinates me, Doctor?” he asked. “Loyalty. The anatomy of it. How some will kill for it. Die for it. And how others—like you—will throw it away for a defective clone and a girl with a soft voice and wild eyes.”

Your voice didn’t shake.

“They had more humanity than anyone in this facility.”

Hemlock’s footsteps were deliberate as he moved back in front of you. He looked down like you were an experiment that had failed on the table.

“Your medical clearance is revoked. Your name will be stripped from the archives. You will die here, and no one will remember you.”

You met his gaze. “Then you’ll never know how I did it.”

That made his mouth twitch. Just slightly.

“You think you’re clever,” he said. “But you’re just like all the rest. Sentimental. Weak. Replaceable.”

You leaned forward, blood on your lip, defiance burning in your chest.

“No,” you said. “I’m unforgettable.”

Hemlock pressed the execution order into the datapad.

“Take her to Sector E,” he told the guard at the door. “Immediate termination.”

As the guards hauled you to your feet, you locked eyes with Hemlock one last time.

“You’ll lose,” you said. “Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someone will bring this place to the ground.”

He tilted his head, amused.

“And who will that be? The sniper who tried to kill his brothers? The child?”

You smiled through bloodied teeth.

“They’re more than you’ll ever be.”

⸻

They didn’t let you say goodbye.

They didn’t let you scream.

But you didn’t beg.

You thought of Crosshair. Of Omega. Of the escape you made possible.

And you went quietly.

Because monsters didn’t get the satisfaction of your fear.

⸻

Later, through intercepted comms, Crosshair would hear the clinical report:

“Subject [Y/N] – execution carried out. Cause of death: biological termination. Body transferred to incineration chamber.”

He replayed that sentence ten times before he crushed the headset in his hand.

Hunter didn’t say anything.

Wrecker just placed a heavy hand on his brother’s shoulder.

And Crosshair—who hadn’t prayed in his life—looked out at the stars, and wished he believed in something that could carry your soul home.

Omg! I saw you take requests! I love your work especially bad batch! I was thinking a Hunter x Fem!Reader where the reader is new to the ship, like medic or maybe even a soldier? But she uses like perfumes and obviously a different soap and he’s obsessed with trying to figure out what she smells like and with how nice it smells? You’re amazing! :))

Absolutely - sometimes I run out of ideas so love getting request! I hope you like it x

⸻

Title: “What Is That Smell?”

Hunter x Fem!Reader

⸻

The Marauder had always smelled like metal, boot polish, and testosterone. Maybe a little like burnt caf on bad days. It wasn’t bad—it was just what Hunter was used to. Predictable. Familiar.

Until you showed up.

Fresh off an assignment with a battalion on Christophis, you were the newest addition to Clone Force 99—medic, technically, but you could hold your own in a fight too. The regs had spoken highly of your skills. That’s all Hunter needed to approve the transfer.

What he hadn’t anticipated was you.

Not your skills, not your sharp tongue or how fast you could stitch a man back together mid-firefight.

No, what Hunter hadn’t anticipated—what was currently driving him up the kriffing wall—was how good you smelled.

⸻

It started on the first day.

You’d walked up the ramp in your gear, throwing a satchel over your shoulder, hair pulled back, confidence in your step. The moment you passed him, it hit Hunter like a punch to the senses.

Sweet. Warm. Not too strong. Not floral, not fruity. Something clean. Something… familiar but elusive. He couldn’t place it.

His head had snapped toward you like a damn hound on instinct.

You hadn’t noticed—too busy joking with Tech about the medbay setup.

Hunter had clenched his jaw and focused. Or tried to. You walked past him again and—there it was. A whisper of something rich and soft. Stars, what was that?

⸻

The next few days were worse.

Every time you were near, his senses lit up like a battle alert. The scent of your soap after a shower. The subtle perfume that lingered on your neck and collarbone when you leaned over the holotable. Even the way your gear smelled—fresh, clean, nothing like the usual musty armor worn too long.

Hunter could track someone through a jungle with a five-day head start, but your scent was all he could think about, and you were right there—constantly in his space, brushing shoulders, handing him bandages, laughing at something Wrecker said.

He was losing it.

⸻

He caught you in the galley one night, the ship quiet, everyone else asleep.

You were perched on the counter in sleepwear and a hoodie, cradling a cup of caf like it held the secrets of the galaxy. The scent hit him again—stronger this time. No armor, no barrier. Just you, soft and warm and godsdamn intoxicating.

“You okay?” you asked, eyes flicking up to meet his.

Hunter blinked. “Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”

You tilted your head. “Too much stimcaf or just the usual war trauma?”

He smirked. “Bit of both.”

You chuckled, then held out the cup. “Want some?”

He stepped forward—and nearly flinched when the scent hit him again. His jaw tightened.

“You good?” you asked, raising a brow.

“I, uh…” He cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What do you wear?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

Hunter rubbed the back of his neck, ears flushing. “I mean, you smell… different. Not in a bad way! Just… I can’t place it.”

You stared at him for a beat—then burst into laughter. “Is that what’s been bothering you?”

He scowled, only mildly embarrassed. “It’s been driving me nuts. I can’t figure it out.”

You hopped off the counter, still laughing, and came to stand close. Too close. He tensed when you leaned in just a little, tilting your head.

“It’s amber and sandalwood. Little bit of vanilla. And my soap’s just some fancy one I stole from an officer’s shower kit. Want me to make you a batch?”

Hunter’s brain short-circuited.

The scent was right there—intimate, surrounding him, and your voice was low, teasing.

“I—uh…” he stammered, then pulled back just slightly. “No. No, I think I’ll go insane if everything smells like you.”

You smiled slowly, eyes dark with amusement. “So… it’s a problem?”

He gave you a flat look. “Yes.”

You leaned in again, grinning. “Guess you’ll just have to get used to it, Sarge.”

Hunter’s voice was gravel. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

⸻

Title: “Ride”

Hunter x Reader

Warnings: slightly sexually suggestive

⸻

You swore he was doing it on purpose.

That whole “silent and brooding” thing he had going on? Weaponized. His voice, low and gravelly, the way he leaned against walls like they were built just for him, arms crossed and muscles on full display. He moved like he had time to kill and knew exactly how dangerous he looked doing it.

You were not immune. Maker, you were struggling.

It didn’t help that the Hunter Effect seemed to get worse during downtime. No blasterfire, no missions, just a hot planet, a half-broken fan in the corner of the Marauder, and him doing pull-ups in a sweat-soaked tank top like he was in some holodrama made for thirst traps.

You were trying not to stare. Failing miserably.

Hunter dropped from the bar with a soft thud and turned toward you like he’d felt the heat of your gaze. Probably had. Damn enhanced senses.

“You alright over there?” he asked, voice rich with amusement.

“Fine,” you replied, a little too quickly.

He raised a brow as he walked past, close enough to brush your shoulder with his—on purpose, probably. You bit your lip. Hard.

“Y’look a little flushed,” he said, and there was that grin. The knowing one. “Could be the heat. Could be something else.”

“Could be your ego,” you fired back, refusing to look up from your datapad.

He didn’t answer, but you could feel the smirk behind you.

Later that night, the heat stuck around—and so did he. The others were asleep or off doing their own thing, and you ended up side by side with Hunter near the edge of the ship’s loading ramp, sitting in the dark, stars overhead. You were close—closer than you usually allowed yourself to be.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just passed you a flask of something strong and let the silence settle.

Then—

“You know,” he said, voice quiet, “I’ve noticed how you look at me.”

Your breath caught.

“I don’t mind,” he continued, “but I figured I’d give you the chance to stop pretending.”

You turned to face him. He was already looking at you, intense and calm, like he’d been waiting for this moment.

“Pretending?” you asked, trying to play dumb.

He gave a soft chuckle. “You’re not subtle, mesh’la. And I’ve got good instincts.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Because honestly… yeah. He was right. And you were caught.

Hunter shifted closer, gaze dropping to your lips just briefly—enough.

“I’ve been watching you too,” he added, voice low now, like a secret. “Listening to how your heartbeat changes when I get close. I like the way you look at me. Like you’re thinking about what it’d be like.”

Your throat went dry. “To do what?”

He smirked. “To ride.”

You choked on air.

“I meant a speeder,” he said, utterly deadpan.

You shoved his arm. “You’re a menace.”

“You love it.”

You paused.

“Yeah,” you admitted softly. “I really do.”

His smile dropped into something deeper, something real. His hand brushed yours, lingered.

“Then maybe it’s time we stop dancing around it.”

You looked at him—really looked. The man you fought beside, trusted with your life, laughed with, wanted like nothing else.

“Okay,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s ride.”

He leaned in, lips ghosting yours.

“Hold on tight, sweetheart.”

⸻

“I wanna wreck our friendship”

Wrecker x GN!Reader

⸻

“Why’d you bring me flowers?” you asked, squinting up at Wrecker from the cot in your makeshift corner of the Marauder. You’d twisted your ankle on the last mission—nothing dramatic, just stupid—and now he’d shown up with a bouquet of local wildflowers. Half of them were wilted. One had a bug.

He scratched the back of his head, sheepish grin spreading wide. “’Cause you got hurt. And you like pretty things.”

“You carried me bridal-style over your shoulder,” you reminded him, raising a brow. “Pretty sure that’s enough.”

Wrecker snorted. “You weigh nothin’. I carry crates heavier than you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He chuckled and plopped down beside you, taking up half the damn space as usual. Your thigh touched his and neither of you moved away. You hadn’t for weeks. Months, maybe. The casual touches had crept in like sunlight through cracked blinds—innocent, warm, and unavoidable.

You’d always loved Wrecker’s energy. Loud, wild, reckless. But lately, you were noticing things you hadn’t before. The way he’d glance at you when he thought you weren’t looking. The way his laugh softened when you were the one making him smile. The way his hand would linger a little longer when helping you up.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what it was.

But… you didn’t know what he wanted.

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, voice gentler than you expected.

You blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

“You got that thinky look. The one you get when you’re worried I’ll jump off something too high again.”

You laughed. “That’s a fair worry.”

He leaned closer. “You sure you’re okay? ‘Cause, uh… I’ve been meanin’ to ask you somethin’.”

Your heart stuttered. “Shoot.”

He rubbed his palms against his thighs. “We been friends a long time, yeah? And it’s been real good. I like you. A lot. Like, a lot a lot. More than just the regular ‘I’d body slam a bounty hunter for you’ kinda like.”

You stared at him.

“I think I like you best when you’re just with me and no one else.”

“You, uh…” he swallowed. “You ever think about us? Bein’ more?”

You looked at Wrecker—your best friend. Your chaos. Your safety.

“I do,” you said softly. “I think about it. All the time.”

His eyes lit up like a sunrise. “Yeah?!”

You laughed, heart fluttering. “Yeah.”

“Well, kriff,” he grinned, scooping you into a hug so strong it knocked the air out of your lungs, “you should’ve said something sooner!”

“I didn’t know if you felt the same!” you wheezed, still laughing as your ankle throbbed in protest.

He looked at you with a soft kind of wonder. “You’re my favorite person, y’know that?”

You touched his cheek, grinning. “Wrecker?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re mine too.”

⸻

Title: Good Looking

Hunter x Reader

⸻

The cantina flickered with low, golden light. One of those places where time didn’t move right—where music played like a memory, and everyone spoke a little softer after dark.

You sat on the edge of a cracked booth, legs stretched, nursing a cheap drink you weren’t really drinking. Your armor was off, your hair a mess, and there was still grime on your hands from the skirmish earlier that day. You should’ve been back at the ship, cleaning up or passing out. But you weren’t.

Because he was still here.

Hunter leaned against the bar, arms crossed, talking quietly to the bartender. His bandana was off for once, letting those wild curls fall free around his face. He looked tired—always did—but he still stood like he carried the weight of everyone else’s safety before his own. That kind of burden was its own kind of beauty.

You didn’t realize you were staring until he turned and caught you.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did you.

Eventually, he walked over. Sat across from you without asking, sliding into the cracked booth like it had always been meant for two.

“You okay?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Still got all my limbs.”

He smirked. “That’s a start.”

You studied him under the flickering cantina lights. He was always so composed in battle, so sharp, so focused. But like this, up close and quiet, there was something softer behind his eyes. Something a little tired. A little lonely.

“You’re always looking after everyone else,” you said suddenly, voice low. “Who looks after you?”

Hunter blinked, caught off guard by the question. He looked down, then back at you with a small, dry laugh. “You know… I don’t really think about it.”

“You should.”

You reached out and brushed a thumb across his knuckles—just once, just enough.

He didn’t flinch.

“You’re good looking when you’re not pretending to be indestructible,” you murmured. The words slipped out like a secret.

Hunter tilted his head, smile crooked, eyes watching you like he was trying to decide if he was dreaming or if he just hadn’t let himself want this before.

“You’ve been drinking,” he said.

You held his gaze. “A little. But I’d say it sober.”

He leaned forward, forearms on the table, his voice low and gravelly. “Then say it again.”

You felt your breath hitch, just a little.

“You’re good looking, Hunter,” you said. “But I think I like you even more when you let yourself feel.”

A beat passed. Two. He looked down at your hand, still near his. Then he reached for it—gently, carefully, like something fragile in a war-torn world.

“I think I feel too much when I’m around you,” he said. “And that scares me more than battle ever could.”

You didn’t answer. Just let the silence sit between you—heavy, intimate, real.

The music kept playing. The world outside kept spinning. But for now, it was just the two of you, sitting across from each other like the war had paused. Like the night belonged to people who’d been scarred, and tired, and still dared to want something more.