Bad Batch - Blog Posts

Angst! Echo x OC (Dawn) Unspoken Love (pt. 1)

Y’ALL THIS IS MY FIRST FANFIC EVER!!!!!! I am so excited to finally publish my first story on Tumblr. I have been inspired by everyone in the The Bad Batch community to write this story <3

@zoeykallus​ is one of my favorite creators on this website! I was inspired by her to work on this. 

Warnings: Mentions of death and grief (takes place during Order 66)

Word Count: 700

Summary:  Echo and reader knew each other before Order 66, and kept a long distance friendship (although they both had feelings for each other). After Order 66, the reader goes silent - leading the Empire to file her as deceased. Echo was devastated by this information. Rex recruits reader and the Bad Batch for a mission. Echo and reader are reunited after many tribulations. 

DECEASED?

"Dawn S. - DECEASED."

Echo couldn't believe what he was reading on his holopad. He began to pace around the Marauder; Hunter could feel Echo's blood pressure and heart rate increase.

Echo's chest rose with every breath he took. Tears are rolling down his prominent cheekbones onto his chest plate. His breaths were becoming louder and uneven, which concerned Hunter. His bodily strength gave out. Allowing himself to finally feel- his tears turned into a river, sounds of a broken man escaped him, and the pain he felt covered his entire being. Consumed by the grief of not only losing the woman he loved from afar but also losing the last best friend he had before the Citadel.

Omega, not understanding his grief, wanted to reach out to him. Her small hand making its way to his shoulder was abruptly held by Hunter. Looking up at him with a confused expression, she saw her brother looking at her with caution. Silently communicating with her that it was not the right time to comfort Echo. Behind Hunter, Omega focused on her other two brothers. Tech kept looking at the ground while Wrecker was shedding tears on behalf of his brother's loss.

Echo's legs were spread while his back was arching into the lower bunk. The painful sobs he released were felt by every soul in the Marauder. His squad allowed him to let out the pain he felt, which he was thankful for in the future.

Not knowing that his other half was alive.

- - - - -

Coruscant (Order 66)

Dawn found herself at the Jedi Temple while Clone Force 99 assisted Kanan Jarrus at the last minute. She enjoyed seeing younglings grow stronger and was fascinated by their relationship with the force. Her loving gaze turned into one of concern as she heard clones running into the room armed. As she was about to ask whether the temple was under attack. The clone trooper attempted to shoot at the closest youngling by his side. The Jedi master and Dawn were too late to save the youngling but made their way to the clone trooper- easily defeating him, he fell to the ground. Dawn had her blasters out, shooting at the Clone troopers from behind while the Jedi master took the front clone troopers. The Jedi master and Dawn were ushering the children out of the room.

The clone troopers were too much for the Jedi to handle all alone. They kept this method for quite a while until they encountered too many at the front. Dawn finished them off and reached for the dying Jedi. The last words she heard were, "Protect them… run away … far from here."

Dawn's head looked down as she felt a weight on her lap. The Jedi master entrusts her with the lives of her younglings by protecting them with their lightsaber. Dawn doesn't hesitate to turn on the lightsaber as she and the kids run away. They found a window where they could go down and hide (the fall is pretty high, but they are using force). She stayed in the back, ensuring each child would go down safely. She heard shouting from afar and ran towards the noise, fighting back against any who tried to harm her and the children. She was wounded by three shots but kept up the fist fight she began with a clone. Her back was facing the window, which gave the clone the idea to push her through the window.

Her scream was deadly as she flew. Feeling the pressure from gravity surrounding her prompted her to close her eyes. Waiting for the deadly impact at the bottom of the Jedi temple. A place where she began working and developed multiple friendships with the people who attempted to kill her that night. Remembering the good times she had with a particular clone, someone to who she never had confessed her love. The biggest regret she had at that moment.

Dawn abruptly felt the force hug her as she landed peacefully on the cement. Looking around, she found the eyes of the kids she swore to protect.

---

Dun, Dun, DUN!!! How is it so far? Any feedback??!! 

I love the Senate party series; especially Echo and Hunters 💕

Senate Party - Hunter Ending

Link to Part 1

You let out a frustrated breath as you grabbed the soft fabric of the next dress. None of the others had felt right and you really didn’t want to go on the hunt again. 

Fortunately, this dress was probably your favorite and not just because of it’s luxuriously soft fabric. The color was your favorite and as you put it on you took note of how it came in at your most flattering point. The top half was elegant and the bottom flowed nicely, allowing you room to walk. 

The dress felt so natural and soft against your skin. Somehow it felt like being wrapped in a soft blanket while still letting your skin breathe. It was damn near perfect.

You stepped out of the dressing room, feeling confident. 

——-

Keep reading

My IT Girl Playlist So Far ( updating everytime I find a new song)

1- Ariana Grande: God Is A Woman

2- Ariana Grande: Just Like Magic

3- Aliyah’s Interlude: IT GIRL

4- Megan Thee Stallion: Cocky AF

5- Nicki Minaj: Super Bass

6- Nicki Minaj: Did It On Em

7- Nicki Minaj: Feeling Myself ft Beyoncé

8- Future: You Da Baddest ft Nicki Minaj

9- Nicki Minaj: I Am Your Leader ft Cam’Ron & Rick Ross

10- Nicki Minaj: Favorite ft Jeremiah

11- Nicki Minaj: I’m The Best

12- Ciara, Nicki Minaj: I’m Out

13- Doja Cat: Woman

14- Flo Milli: Conceited

15-Nicki Minaj: I’m Legit

16- Nicki Minaj, Drake: Truffle Butter

17- Nicki Minaj: Hard White

18- Meghan Trainor, Nicki Minaj: Nice To Meet Ya

19- Queen Key: My Way

i-..

BAD BATCH SPOILERS

I hope Boba runs into Omega since they both have the purest jango dna 🥺🥺🥺

When you had write a lot of good things...

But in your mother language.

And you have to translate all of these in English...

(some tropes/fandom I've write on it)

I imagine Hunter felt this way but also the viewers, like that’s our girl! Our girl is all grown up now and going to fight the Empire. Where did the time go?

Now her Daddy's in the kitchen Starin' out the window Scratchin' and a rackin' his brains How could eighteen years just up and walk away Our little pony tailed girl Growed up to be a woman Now she's gone in the blink of an eye She left the suds in the bucket And the clothes hangin' out on the line

This song is Suds in the Bucket by Sarah Evans, and I think the chorus perfectly fits Tbb epilogue

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.

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.”

“The Stillness Between Waves”

Crosshair x Reader

Pabu, post-series finale.

⸻

Pabu was alive in a way Crosshair didn’t trust.

It didn’t hum with ships overhead. It didn’t reek of oil and war. It didn’t echo with the weight of command or the thrum of tension beneath every breath. It just… was.

Seagulls circled the docks at dawn, squawking like idiots. Kids yelled, feet slapping on sandstone. The trees rustled in an offbeat rhythm that never stopped, and the air always smelled of sea salt, grilled fish, and ripe fruit fermenting in the heat.

He hated it.

Except he didn’t.

⸻

The people here didn’t stare at his missing hand. They didn’t ask if he’d lost it saving someone or killing someone. They just noticed, nodded, and shifted baskets or tools so he could carry them with his off hand.

He still hadn’t told them his name.

You were the first person to say it out loud.

“You don’t look like a Crosshair,” you said, half-laughing, barefoot on the edge of a weatherworn dock. “You look like someone who’s trying very hard not to care what anyone thinks, but secretly cares a lot.”

He gave you a long, unimpressed stare. “You talk too much.”

“And you sulk too much.”

That got a smirk out of him.

⸻

Your home sat along the middle tier of Pabu, tucked between wild flowering vines and one of the best views of the ocean. You’d lived there your whole life—grew up learning tide patterns, storm warnings, how to fish with traps and nets and patience.

You never once said “thank you for your service” or asked what Crosshair had done in the war.

You just asked if he wanted to help you set crab traps or throw stones into the water.

Sometimes, when the wind died down, you sat beside him on the cliff paths and told him stories. Not important ones. Just the kind that reminded him the world was still turning. That people still existed without orders.

One night, after a heavy rain, you gave him a glass bottle.

It had been washed up on the beach—inside, a note: “If you’re reading this, you’re alive. And that’s enough.”

“Found it when I was sixteen,” you said. “Kept it. Never opened it until this year. Figured I’d give it to someone who needed it more.”

He held it in his one hand for a long moment. The glass was warm from your touch. The note inside felt… real.

“…Thanks.”

You smiled. “Was that hard?”

“Extremely.”

⸻

He hadn’t gotten a prosthetic yet. Couldn’t bring himself to.

The scarred stump still ached when the air pressure shifted. Sometimes he looked at it and imagined the rifle he used to hold. The precise balance of metal and bone. The impossible stillness.

Now, he shook from time to time. Not from pain. From stillness.

He didn’t tell you that.

But you saw it anyway.

“Everyone here’s missing something,” you said, gently, one night beneath the low firelight. “Some people just hide it better.”

He didn’t answer.

So you leaned your shoulder against his.

Just… stayed there.

No pressure. No performance.

He stayed too.

⸻

It wasn’t until days later—when he instinctively caught your elbow as you slipped on a mossy stone, one arm wrapped around you to steady your fall—that something cracked open.

You looked up at him, breathless and close.

“You always this chivalrous?” you asked.

“No,” he said. “Just with you.”

And for once, he didn’t pull away.

⸻

The knock came softly. Not the kind meant to wake someone—just a hesitant brush of knuckles against wood. As if whoever stood behind your door wasn’t sure they should be there.

You were already awake.

Pabu was quiet at night—so quiet, sometimes it felt like the island held its breath while the sea whispered to the cliffs. You liked that silence. Usually. But not tonight.

Tonight, something in you itched.

You opened the door barefoot, hair tangled from tossing in bed, lantern in hand.

And there he was.

Crosshair.

Bare-chested in loose sleep pants and boots, as if he’d thrown on the first things he could grab. No weapon. No cloak. No sharpness in his eyes—just shadows.

You blinked, taken off guard. “Crosshair?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t look at you, either.

He was staring past your shoulder, jaw tight, that missing hand hanging stiff at his side like he forgot it wasn’t still whole.

You lowered the lantern a little. Let the soft light reach him without pressing too close. “You okay?”

Silence.

You could hear his breath—too fast, like he’d been running or trying not to.

He shifted. Like he was about to speak.

Instead, he shook his head.

And still didn’t leave.

So, you stepped back. Just one step. Just enough.

“…Come in.”

He hovered in your doorway for a second longer. A soldier waiting for permission.

Then finally—finally—he moved.

The door closed with a soft click, and the weight of him filled your small space like a storm.

He didn’t sit. Didn’t talk.

Just stood there, arms at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

You crossed the room, pulled a blanket from the couch, and held it out—not with pity. With choice.

“Take it or leave it.”

His eyes flicked to you then.

A flicker of something… human. Something wounded.

He took it.

You sat on the floor by the open window, letting the sea breeze move through the warm room, and waited. Not for a story. Just for him.

Eventually, he joined you. Knees drawn up, the blanket over his shoulders, that haunted look still tucked behind every line of his face.

“I had a dream,” he said. Voice low. Raw.

You didn’t interrupt.

“They left me,” he added. “I was… screaming. And no one turned around.”

You watched his hand. The one hand. Clenching.

“I couldn’t even hold my rifle. Couldn’t fight back. I just stood there. Worthless.”

“That wasn’t real,” you said gently.

His jaw flexed. “Felt real.”

You leaned back against the wall, eyes half-lidded. “Sometimes the past grabs you like that. Won’t let go until you rip it out by the roots.”

He looked at you. Noticed the way you weren’t looking at him—but near him. Close enough he could speak. Far enough he didn’t feel cornered.

“…Why’d I come here?”

You tilted your head toward him.

“Because you didn’t want to be alone.”

Silence again.

Then softer—softer than you thought he could manage—he said, “You make it easier. Breathing.”

You smiled, small and true.

“Then stay.”

And he did.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t sleep.

Just sat beside you while the tide rolled in, and the lantern flickered low, and—for the first time in a long, long time—he let himself rest.

Not as a soldier. Not as a weapon.

Just a man.

Bruised. Tired. Still here.

And maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to survive it alone.

⸻

The scent of eggs and something burning pulled you gently from sleep.

You blinked against the golden light spilling through your window, warmth already seeping into the room. Birds chirped somewhere up in the palms. The sea whispered low and lazy outside.

And in your tiny kitchen—Crosshair.

He stood shirtless, the thin blanket you’d given him still draped over his shoulders, bunched awkwardly at the elbows as he tried to manage a small pan one-handed.

You sat up slowly, watching him fumble with the spatula in his off hand. Every motion was too stiff, too careful, like he was trying not to admit how difficult this actually was.

There was a tiny line between his brows. Concentration. Frustration.

A hiss of oil popped.

He flinched.

You slid off the bed quietly and crossed the room barefoot.

“…Need help?”

“No,” he said instantly—too fast.

You smiled, stepping closer anyway. “You sure? Because your eggs look like they’re losing a war.”

He didn’t glance over. “I’m adapting.”

Your voice was soft now, near his shoulder. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

“I’m not.”

He was. But you didn’t push.

Instead, you reached past him to turn the heat down a little. Let your fingers brush his wrist—not enough to startle. Just enough to say I’m here.

He didn’t pull away.

That felt like something.

You leaned in, your voice like the morning breeze, warm and teasing. “For the record… it smells better than it looks.”

He gave a low snort. “I’ll keep that in mind, chef.”

And that’s when you did it.

You stepped in close, reached up gently—and kissed his cheek.

Just a press of lips. Soft. Unrushed. Not asking anything from him.

He went completely still.

You could feel the tension in him coil tight—but not in fear. Not anger. Just something… undone.

You pulled back slowly, eyes searching his face. “Thank you,” you said, voice barely a whisper. “For being here.”

His gaze dropped to you. Quiet. Intense. Like he was trying to make sense of you.

“…Didn’t think I’d want to stay,” he admitted, voice hoarse.

“And now?”

Crosshair looked down at the half-burnt eggs. The soft light catching the curve of your cheek. Your hand still barely brushing his.

“…Still don’t.”

A pause.

“But I think I will.”

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.