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Tbb Hunter X Reader - Blog Posts
YAAA IM SUCH A HUGE FAN OF YOUR TBB WORK AND I FINALLY HAVE A REQUEST IDEA…
Mandalorian reader who speaks in Mando’a to herself when she thinks she’s alone, and one day cf 99 overhears her!!
tysm if you do this, like I said I love your work and I’m so excited to read more <3 take care lovely!!
Thank you x
I hope this is somewhat close to what you had in mind.
“Secrets in the Shadows”
Bad Batch x Reader
The cantina was loud as usual, reeking of stale spotchka and poor decisions. You sat in the corner booth at Cid’s, helmet off but gauntlets still on, nursing a cheap drink and a cheaper job. You’d just come back from a run that paid in credits so light they could float off your palm. Figures.
You muttered to yourself, low and in a tongue most beings on Ord Mantell didn’t understand.
“Kriffing dikkut,” you muttered under your breath, just loud enough for your own ears. “Ni ru'kir not even cuyir sha borarir today… bal par meg”
You swirled your cup, leaned back with a scowl. In your mind Cid’s got no honor, no plan. Just her greasy fingers in every job on this rock.
Another sip. You were speaking louder now. You thought you were alone. “Meh Ni had options, Ni Ru'kel tettar kaysh shebs off a roof”
“Interesting,” came a voice just behind you.
You froze. Slowly, you turned your head—and saw the familiar faces of Clone Force 99. Hunter stood with his arms folded, head tilted. Tech was already tapping on his datapad. Crosshair had a toothpick in his mouth and that smug glint in his eye. Wrecker was smirking like you just said something hilarious. Echo said nothing, but his gaze was sharp.
“You speak Mando’a,” Tech noted, without looking up. “Quite fluently.”
You stood quickly, not bothering to hide your annoyance.
“No osik,” you snapped. “Didn’t exactly mean for the whole squad to eavesdrop.”
Crosshair chuckled. “You talk to yourself in a dead language, and we’re the weird ones?”
Your visor snapped down. “It’s not dead. Just sleeping. Like a rancor with teeth.”
Hunter took a step closer. “Why keep it quiet?”
You didn’t answer at first. Just stared, then finally said, “Because it’s mine. Because people like Cid don’t deserve to hear it. Because you aruetiise don’t know what it means to carry a name that was earned, not assigned.”
Wrecker looked genuinely hurt. “Hey, we’ve fought with you, bled with you—”
“Doesn’t make us vod,” you interrupted. “Not yet.”
Echo stepped forward, quieter than the rest. “We’re not trying to be something we’re not. But we do understand what it’s like to have your culture stolen and your purpose used.”
That made you pause.
You looked at him for a long time, the words catching in your throat. Then, finally, you said it—soft, but clear.
“Ni ven, ori’vod. But you tell that chakaar Cid if she lowballs me again, I’ll weld her bar shut.”
Crosshair’s smirk widened. “I’ll get the torch.”
Hunter let out a rare chuckle. “Fair enough. Next time, maybe just let us know when you’re venting in Mando’a. We’ll knock first.”
You gave a subtle nod and walked past them, muttering under your breath again.
“I don’t trust you. Not yet.”
But your pace slowed at the door. Just for a second.
And none of them missed it.
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 was so happy to see you take requests!! I was wondering if you could do a Hunter X reader where she takes care of his hair? Plays with it and brushes it maybe then he confesses his love for her?
You write so beautifully and I would love to see any of your added flare! 💖
“Flower Tactics”
Hunter x Reader
You’d never admit it out loud, but you were obsessed with Hunter’s hair.
Not just in a “wow, that man is rugged and beautiful” kind of way—which he was, obviously—but in a “let me run my fingers through it and brush it until it shines like war-hardened silk” kind of way. It was therapeutic. Meditative. And, much to your delight, he let you do it.
Today, he sat cross-legged on a crate while you perched behind him on a bench, methodically brushing through his dark locks. His bandana was off, laying beside him, and he looked entirely too relaxed for a trained soldier.
“Y’know,” you mused as you carefully untangled a knot, “if you were any more relaxed, I’d think you were napping.”
“I might be,” Hunter replied, voice low and content. “Your fingers are dangerous. You could put a rancor to sleep with that touch.”
“Is that a compliment or a warning?”
“Both.”
You laughed and leaned forward slightly, tugging the brush down again. “So… you’re telling me I have tactical hair magic?”
“I’m saying if you ever turn on us, brushing me into unconsciousness would be an effective ambush.”
A beat passed.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” you said sweetly, and Hunter let out a low, amused chuckle.
“I like her,” Wrecker announced from across the Marauder’s hull. He was munching on something that definitely wasn’t a vegetable. “She’s got a whole plan to take you down, and you’re just sittin’ there like a sleepy tooka.”
“Only because you’re jealous I’ve got hair to brush,” Hunter quipped back.
Wrecker puffed out his chest dramatically. “You think if I glue some on, she’ll brush mine too?”
“No,” you replied immediately. “But I’ll draw flowers on your scalp.”
Tech sighed. “Please don’t encourage him.”
“Oh, I’m not encouraging,” you grinned. “I’m enabling. Very different.”
You reached into the little pouch at your side and pulled out a tiny cluster of wildflowers—yellow, blue, soft white. Carefully, you started weaving them into Hunter’s braid.
He noticed.
“…Are you putting flowers in my hair?” His voice held that dangerous edge, but you could hear the smile buried underneath.
“Absolutely.”
“I’m a soldier.”
“Even soldiers deserve to look cute.”
“Cute?” he asked, amused.
“Devastatingly cute,” you corrected, giving the braid a final tug. “There. Now you’re battle-ready and bouquet-chic.”
From the back, Echo groaned. “I can’t believe I’m seeing this.”
“You’re just mad no one wants to flower-bomb your hair,” you teased.
“He doesn’t have any,” Omega piped up helpfully, skipping into the room. She stopped in front of Hunter and beamed. “You look so pretty!”
Hunter raised an eyebrow. “Pretty, huh?”
“You should let her do your hair every day,” Omega added slyly. “You smile more when she’s touching it.”
Hunter froze. So did you.
Wrecker burst into laughter so loud it shook the crate.
“Oof! She got you good!” he said, pointing at Hunter like it was the funniest thing he’d seen all week.
You cleared your throat, cheeks warm. “Smart kid.”
“She’s not wrong,” Hunter muttered.
You blinked. “…What?”
Hunter turned, slowly, looking up at you with that intense expression that made your brain short-circuit. “I do smile more when you touch me.”
It wasn’t a tease. It wasn’t a joke.
He meant it.
Your breath caught in your throat. “That’s… dangerous information.”
“I trust you with it.” His gaze softened. “And maybe a little more than that.”
You stared at him, heart hammering. “Are you saying…?”
“I’m saying I love it when you brush my hair. I love it when you laugh. I love it when you drive the others crazy, and when you sneak me extra caf rations, and when you make even this ship feel like home.”
Wrecker snorted. “Finally.”
Echo made a gagging noise. Tech muttered, “Statistically speaking, it was only a matter of time.”
Omega clapped her hands and declared, “About time!”
Hunter smiled up at you through his flower-crowned braid. “So? What do you say?”
You bent down and kissed his forehead, fingers brushing gently through his hair. “I say… I’m going to need a lot more flowers.”
⸻
The ship had gone still.
No snark from Echo. No clanking from Wrecker. No light tinkering from Tech. Even Omega was tucked into her bunk, curled up with Lula like the galaxy couldn’t touch her.
And in the silence of that rare peace, Hunter sat on the edge of your bed with his back to you, braid still woven down his back, the tiny wildflowers now a little wilted from the heat of the day.
You stepped behind him quietly, holding the soft brush he always let you use. Always yours to borrow.
“Can I?” you asked gently, even though you both already knew the answer.
Hunter nodded once. “Please.”
So you started at the bottom—slowly, carefully loosening the braid, your fingers delicate. The petals came free one by one, falling onto the blanket like pieces of some strange memory.
He didn’t speak. Not yet.
And you didn’t push him.
Instead, you moved gently through his hair, unwinding the tightness of the day. With each pass of your hands, his shoulders lowered, his breath slowed.
You didn’t need the words.
But you wanted them.
You loved him. You’d known it for a while now. And maybe you were scared that if you said it, it would break the fragile, perfect peace that this quiet moment gave you both.
But you didn’t have to say it first.
He did.
Softly. Barely above a whisper. Like it had been resting on his tongue all day, just waiting to be safe enough to speak.
“I love you.”
You froze—just for a breath. Then smiled so softly it ached in your chest.
“I know,” you whispered back, fingers brushing behind his ear. “I’ve known.”
He turned to look at you. Hair loose, shadowed eyes soft, vulnerability written in every line of his face.
“Then why haven’t you said it?”
You leaned in, resting your forehead against his. “Because I wanted you to say it first.”
Hunter huffed out a tiny laugh. “Tactical move.”
“Always,” you smiled.
He reached up and cupped your jaw gently, his touch feather-light. “I love you,” he repeated, more sure now. “Not just when you’re brushing my hair. Not just when you’re teasing the others. Always.”
You kissed him this time—slow and lingering, hands tangled in his now-loose hair, wild and soft between your fingers.
“I love you too,” you whispered into the space between your lips.
The flowers were gone. The braid undone.
But somehow, this moment felt even more whole.
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.”
Hi! I was wondering if you could do a Bad Batch x Fem!Reader where they haven’t realized how much they like her and having her apart of the team because they didn’t want to get attached but then they see her with other clones having fun and being tactical and huggy with them. I’m a sucker for jealous tropes and the “she’s ours” stuff! Thank you! Xx
“Ours”
The Bad Batch x Fem!Reader
Featuring: Commander Wolffe, Boost, Sinker (104th)
⸻
The Bad Batch didn’t realize how much they liked having you around—until you weren’t just around them anymore.
You’d been reassigned temporarily to assist the 104th Battalion for a joint operation, something about terrain recon and hostile base infiltration. The job was meant to be routine. Easy. Quick. But it had stretched to three weeks, and that was three weeks too long for Clone Force 99.
“She’s fine,” Tech said for the third time that day, eyes on his datapad but noticeably less focused than usual.
“Of course she’s fine,” Crosshair muttered. “She’s annoying. Won’t shut up. Talks too much. Laughs at stupid jokes.”
“She does make the barracks less quiet,” Echo added, but his words sounded more like a confession than a complaint.
Hunter remained quiet, brooding in the corner, arms crossed. Wrecker finally broke the silence.
“I miss her.”
No one argued.
⸻
When they finally returned to Anaxes to regroup, they weren’t expecting to find you on the tarmac—leaning against a gunship, laughing with Commander Wolffe and his men.
You had your arm slung around Sinker’s shoulder, mid-sparring banter, sweat-slicked and flushed from training. Boost was tossing a ration bar at you like it was a long-running inside joke, and Wolffe—stoic, grumpy Wolffe—was standing beside you with the faintest upward tug at the corner of his mouth.
You laughed and said something that made the entire squad snort.
Wrecker stopped dead in his tracks. “Wait—are they hugging her?”
Crosshair’s scowl darkened. “Why the hell is she touching Sinker?”
“She’s laughing,” Echo muttered. “At his joke.”
Hunter’s jaw ticked. “Let’s go.”
⸻
You saw them before they could storm up and cause a scene—which, let’s be real, was already inevitable.
“Hey!” you called out cheerfully, waving them over. “Look who finally decided to show up. I was beginning to think you all forgot about me.”
“We didn’t,” Hunter said. The rest of them were staring daggers past you at the Wolfpack.
Wolffe raised a brow and drawled, “We took real good care of her. Didn’t we, boys?”
“Too good,” Sinker smirked. “She’s basically one of us now.”
“She is one of us,” Boost added, throwing his arm around your shoulders with obnoxious ease. “Got the bite to match.”
You didn’t see it, but every member of the Bad Batch visibly twitched.
“She’s not a stray,” Crosshair hissed, stepping forward.
“Could’ve fooled us,” Wolffe shot back, “considering how quick you were to let her slip away.”
“Wasn’t our choice,” Tech said stiffly.
“You sure?” Sinker smirked. “Didn’t seem like you were fighting too hard to keep her.”
You raised your eyebrows. “Okay, woah, no testosterone fights on the landing pad, please.”
Wrecker pointed dramatically. “You hugged him!”
You blinked. “You’ve hugged me!”
“Yeah but that’s different!” he whined.
“Why?” you challenged.
Silence.
Hunter stepped forward, voice lower now. “Because you’re ours.”
Your breath caught.
Wolffe’s grin turned downright wolfish. “Took ‘em long enough.”
You looked between both squads, caught between amusement and surprise. “So let me get this straight… the 104th is adopting me, the Bad Batch is reclaiming me, and I didn’t even get a say?”
“You always get a say,” Hunter said, quieter now. “But we want you to know how we feel.”
“And how’s that?”
Wrecker was first. “I missed you.”
“I hated not having you around,” Echo added.
“Everything was quiet,” Tech admitted.
“You’re mine,” Crosshair said, almost growled. “Ours.”
Your eyes flicked to Wolffe and his boys.
Wolffe shrugged. “Guess we’ll let you go this time.”
Sinker grinned. “But if they mess up, you know where to find us.”
You snorted. “What is this, the clone version of a custody battle?”
Boost winked. “Only if it means you come back for visitation rights.”
You laughed. “Alright, alright. I’ll go home. But I am visiting the 104th again. You guys are a riot.”
Hunter stepped closer, head tilting. “As long as you come back to us.”
You smiled, softening. “Always.”
The air between you and the Batch shifted—less tension, more heat, more home. Hunter didn’t touch you, not yet, but his presence lingered close, electric.
You turned back toward Wolffe and the others, grinning. “Thanks for everything, boys.”
Sinker gave you a two-finger salute. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“Yeah,” Boost chimed in, winking. “Just remember which pack took you in first.”
You rolled your eyes, walking backward toward your original squad. “You’re all insufferable.”
“And you love it,” Wolffe called after you.
echoed behind you.
Then, low—too low for most ears, but not for Hunter’s enhanced senses—Wolffe muttered to his boys, voice almost casual:
“She’s still got a bit of wolf in her now. Let’s hope they can keep up.”
Hunter stopped walking.
His head tilted just enough to catch the last of the words. Not angry. Not threatened. Just… cold.
Possessive.
His jaw flexed.
Crosshair noticed first. “Problem?”
Hunter didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked to your back—laughing with Wrecker about something stupid—and then back to the 104th retreating into the barracks.
“No,” he said finally. “No problem.”
But when he looked forward again, his voice was steel-wrapped velvet.
“They can howl all they want.”
He caught up to you in two strides.
“We’re the ones she’s running with.”
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.
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.”
⸻
Hi! I don’t know if you’re doing requests, if not ignore this. I love your writing! My request would be bad batch x Jedi!reader( can be gen) where it’s their reaction to you having to save them and do a bunch of cool badass force moves to get to them. 🩷
Absolutely— I will gladly take any request x
I hope you enjoy this, I kinda went off on my own little world at the end.
⸻
Title: “About Time You Showed Up”
Bad batch x Jedi!Reader
The op was supposed to be simple: get in, grab the intel, get out.
So naturally, it was a disaster by hour two.
The Bad Batch was cornered inside a decrepit refinery complex, hunkered behind a wall of overturned crates as blaster fire lit up the air. Explosions cracked the walls. Wrecker was bleeding. Tech’s datapad was sparking. Crosshair was out of ammo.
Hunter muttered a curse. “We need backup. Now.”
Crosshair scoffed. “You mean the Jedi?”
“Don’t say it like it’s a bad thing,” Tech said, wincing as he adjusted his shattered goggles. “They are highly efficient warriors, after all.”
“Well, ours is late,” Echo gritted, shielding Wrecker with a dented durasteel panel. “And I don’t think those guys outside are going to politely wait for her.”
Then, like the Force heard them bickering—
The air dropped a few degrees.
The wind shifted.
And then the main door of the facility exploded inward—not from detonite or a charge, but like something had pushed it in with terrifying, silent power.
Smoke billowed.
And out of it stepped you.
Cloak trailing behind you, lightsaber already humming in your hand, you walked into the chaos like you were late to a dinner party—not a battlefield.
“Sorry I’m late,” you said, lifting your hand.
Three enemy droids shot into the air like ragdolls, slammed into a pipe overhead, and sparked out. “Had a bit of traffic.”
Wrecker blinked. “That… was awesome.”
Hunter stared as you leapt forward, deflecting blaster bolts without looking. “Remind me never to complain about Jedi again.”
You moved like a shadow. One second you were blocking a shot, the next you were throwing your saber, calling it back mid-spin, flipping off a wall, and dragging a pair of guards toward each other with the Force so they knocked heads and dropped.
“Show off,” Crosshair muttered, but there was something weirdly close to admiration in his tone.
“Excuse me?” you called as you force-pulled a turret off its base and crushed it into a ball. “You want to do this next time, sharpshooter?”
“I mean… I wouldn’t mind the view,” Crosshair said under his breath.
Tech, oddly calm amid the chaos, adjusted his goggles with a broken-off screw. “Fascinating. You manipulated five separate Force events within a span of—”
“I’ll send you a diagram later!” you called.
You sliced the control panel, opened the bulkhead, and gestured. “Come on, boys. I’m not babysitting this op all day.”
Hunter helped Wrecker to his feet. “That was… intense.”
Echo gave you a half-grin. “We’d be dead if you hadn’t shown.”
“You would be,” you said smugly. “Good thing I like you.”
“Is that a Jedi flirting?” Crosshair drawled. “Should I be worried about a lightsaber through my chest or a date?”
You raised a brow. “Depends. Are you always this cocky, or is it the blood loss talking?”
Crosshair smirked. “You tell me.”
As the team jogged after you, Tech whispered to Echo, “I believe this is what organic beings refer to as ‘tension.’”
“You think?” Echo grinned, ducking blaster fire as you launched an enemy into a vat of molten ore with a flick of your hand.
“Let’s save the flirty quips for after we’re not being shot at,” Hunter grumbled—but he wasn’t exactly not smiling.
You stopped mid-run, looked over your shoulder, and grinned. “Then pick up the pace, boys. You can flirt after we survive.”
⸻
The air inside the safehouse was still hazy from Wrecker’s attempt at cooking, and someone had definitely patched Crosshair’s blaster wound with duct tape and attitude.
But everyone was alive. And that was saying something.
You were seated cross-legged on a crate, calmly cleaning your lightsaber with the kind of peace only someone who had deflected about 200 blaster bolts could muster. The Force hummed around you, quiet but alert.
Hunter dropped onto the floor nearby, arms resting on his knees. “You always fight like that?”
You looked up, raising a brow. “Like what?”
“Like gravity doesn’t apply to you and you’re mad at every object in a ten-meter radius.”
You grinned. “Only when people I care about are in trouble.”
Crosshair, lounging against the wall with his arms crossed, scoffed. “So, you do care.”
“Don’t get excited,” you teased. “I’d do the same for my hydrospanner.”
Wrecker burst out laughing while Crosshair smirked like he’d just been promoted.
Echo, who was calmly running diagnostics on his arm, chimed in: “I don’t know. I think you’ve got favorites.”
You shrugged. “Maybe.”
Tech looked up from where he was scanning his datapad, eyes sharp behind his cracked goggles. “You know, from a technical standpoint, some of your techniques—particularly the telekinetic manipulation mid-flight—could be extremely beneficial in combat.”
You tilted your head. “Are you saying you want to train with me, Tech?”
He cleared his throat. “For research purposes, of course.”
Echo leaned back against a support beam. “I wouldn’t mind a session or two either. Might pick up a move or two that doesn’t involve being thrown across a battlefield.”
“I think I should go first,” Hunter said mildly. “Since I’m the one who has to keep all of you alive.”
Wrecker raised a hand. “Hey, I want to train with the Jedi too!”
You looked around at all of them. “Let me guess… you all want to train now?”
“Better than watching Crosshair try to flirt,” Echo muttered.
“I don’t flirt,” Crosshair said flatly.
“You stared at their hands for five minutes straight,” Hunter pointed out.
Crosshair didn’t deny it. “They’ve got good saber grip. It’s tactical.”
You smirked and slowly stood, clipping your saber back to your belt. “Alright. We’ll start tomorrow. One at a time. You’ll get a feel for the Force, and I’ll see who whines the least when they land flat on their back.”
“I never whine,” Crosshair muttered.
“Good,” you said with a wicked grin. “You’ll be first.”
Wrecker fist-pumped. Tech adjusted his datapad like it was a test. Echo and Hunter shared a look that said, We’re all going to die.
You stretched your arms and turned to leave.
“Oh,” you added over your shoulder. “And if you’re all so eager to get closer to the Force… don’t forget it can read minds.”
Five men froze. Completely.
You didn’t have to look to know exactly which ones had immediately panicked.
Yeah. You were going to have fun with this.
⸻
You stood in the middle of the field, arms crossed, calm as ever.
The Bad Batch lined up in front of you like misbehaving cadets at a very weird summer camp. Wrecker was bouncing on his heels. Crosshair looked bored already. Echo was trying to focus. Tech was holding a notebook. And Hunter—Hunter was watching you like he was trying to anticipate your every move. Again.
“Alright,” you said, voice light. “Rule number one: you are not Force-sensitive. So stop trying to feel it. You’ll just give yourself a migraine.”
Tech quietly lowered his fingers from his temple and put his notebook away.
“Instead,” you continued, pacing in front of them like an instructor, “we’re going to focus on reflexes, awareness, and how not to swing a lightsaber into your own leg.”
Wrecker raised his hand. “Wait—do we get lightsabers?”
You blinked. “Do you want to lose an arm?”
Wrecker grinned. “Kinda depends on the story I can tell after.”
Echo muttered, “Maker help us.”
You tossed a training baton at Crosshair, who caught it one-handed with zero enthusiasm.
“Let’s see how you handle this, sharpshooter,” you said, smirking. “Try to block me.”
Crosshair rolled his eyes. “I don’t need a magic trick to win a duel.”
You raised your training blade. “That’s cute. Try to last thirty seconds.”
What followed was the most stubborn, cocky, and utterly chaotic sparring session you had ever experienced.
Crosshair lasted eighteen seconds. He blamed the sun.
Hunter was fast, perceptive, and nearly knocked you off your feet once, but then got distracted when you smiled at him. He never admitted it.
Echo was calculated but got annoyed when you used a Force push to trip him mid-roll. “Not fair,” he growled, flat on his back.
“I told you I’d use it,” you shrugged.
Tech kept trying to guess your next move based on logic. Unfortunately, you were using the Force. And chaos.
“I have a theory,” he said, face-down in the grass.
“I’m sure you do.”
Then came Wrecker.
“Alright,” he said, grinning like a kid about to break a toy, “gimme your best shot.”
You dodged his first three swings. The fourth came very close.
“Easy, big guy,” you huffed, ducking under his arm. “This is training, not deathmatch—”
“Oops!” Wrecker slipped on a rock, stumbled forward, and you had to Force-jump to avoid being pancaked. You landed behind him, breathing hard.
“That was… impressive,” you managed.
“Did I pass?” he asked, hopeful.
“Pass? You almost Force-chucked me into next week!”
“Cool.”
Later, as the group collapsed in a sweaty, bruised heap under a tree, you sat cross-legged nearby, sipping from a canteen.
“I’ll admit,” you said with a sly grin, “you’re all… slightly less hopeless than I expected.”
“High praise,” Echo muttered.
Crosshair lay back, arms behind his head. “So when’s the advanced class?”
You tossed a pebble at his head. “Never.”
Tech looked up from scribbling notes. “I would still like to record your movement patterns. Possibly… for private analysis.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Private?”
Hunter cleared his throat, cutting in fast. “I’d be up for a meditation session. Just us.”
You blinked. “You meditate?”
“I do now.”
Wrecker sat up. “Wait, I want to meditate too!”
“No, you don’t,” Echo sighed.
You lay back in the grass beside them, arms tucked under your head, eyes half-closed. “You know… for a bunch of non-sensitive, chaos-wielding commandos… you’re not so bad.”
Crosshair, eyes closed, smirked. “Careful, Jedi. Keep talking like that, and we might start thinking you like us.”
You smirked back. “I do like you. I just like kicking your asses more.”
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.”
⸻
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.
Hunter x Pabu Reader
⸻
Pabu Festival Night
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting golden light over the sea as the village of Pabu came alive with lanterns, laughter, and the mouthwatering scent of street food. Strings of glowing paper lights swayed between buildings, and music floated through the air—something old, joyous, and deeply local.
You were elbow-deep in flour and slightly burnt noodles at a stall near the center square, laughing as a group of children tried to help and made an absolute mess of everything. Your hair stuck to your face, there was something sticky on your pants, and your smile had never been wider.
Hunter leaned against a post nearby, arms crossed, eyes locked on you like you were the only person on the planet. His squad hovered beside him, all wearing variations of amused smirks—except Tech, who was deeply invested in analyzing the music’s rhythm pattern with furrowed brows.
“Stars, he’s doing it again,” Echo said, nudging Hunter’s side with his elbow.
“Doing what?” Hunter muttered, not looking away.
“Staring at her like she’s a dessert he’s too afraid to order,” Wrecker said with a laugh. “Come on, Sarge, just tell her she looks pretty with noodles in her hair.”
“She does,” Hunter said under his breath, then quickly shook his head. “Shut up.”
“She’s going to think you’re broken,” Tech added dryly. “Most humans engage in verbal communication when expressing attraction.”
“You’re all insufferable,” Hunter growled.
“Hey, Hunter!” Omega’s voice chirped brightly, cutting through the banter as she skipped over, cheeks pink with excitement. “Did you ask her yet?”
Wrecker snorted. “Maker, Omega, we’ve talked about subtlety.”
“Oh! Right,” Omega grinned, then leaned up conspiratorially, stage-whispering way too loudly, “You should ask her though. She wants you to. I asked.”
Hunter stared at her, stunned. “You what?”
“Matchmaking,” she said proudly. “Crosshair said you’d drag your feet forever so I thought I’d help.”
“Crosshair’s not even here.”
“Exactly. I’m doing his part too.”
Before Hunter could come up with a coherent response, you turned and spotted them. Your smile brightened when your eyes landed on him.
“Hey! You guys just gonna lurk or actually join the party?”
Hunter stood straighter, clearing his throat. “We’re—uh—considering our options.”
“I’m voting for food and dancing!” Omega beamed, grabbing Hunter’s hand and dragging him forward. “Come on, she saved us noodles.”
⸻
Later, By the Dancing Lanterns
You swayed barefoot on the warm stone path, clutching a sweet drink in one hand and laughing as locals pulled strangers into their dancing circles. The music had picked up, and lights flickered off the sea like tiny stars had dropped into the water.
You spotted Hunter hanging at the edge of it all, looking like a soldier at the edge of a battlefield he didn’t quite understand.
You approached him slowly, grinning up at him as you offered your hand. “Dance with me?”
He blinked. “I don’t dance.”
“You’ve got enhanced reflexes and perfect rhythm,” you said, teasing. “You’ll be fine. I’ll even go easy on you.”
A beat passed. His eyes searched yours, and then—to the shock of everyone within fifty feet—he took your hand.
The music wrapped around you like warmth as he followed you into the circle, stiff at first, focused too hard on every step.
“You’re thinking about it too much,” you whispered, drawing closer. “Let go. It’s just you and me.”
His hand slid to your waist, a bit hesitant, a bit bold. “Easier said than done.”
“Well,” you murmured, brushing your fingers along his chest, “if it helps… I’ve wanted to touch you like this for a long time.”
He exhaled sharply, eyes darkening. “You really know how to mess with a guy’s focus.”
“I have excellent timing.”
He finally smiled—small, crooked, but real. “You do.”
You moved together, slower now, drifting into your own little orbit as the circle of dancers spun around you. The music faded into the background, and all that remained was the warmth of his hands, the steadiness of his breath, and the unspoken pull that had been building for months.
⸻
The festival had died down, lanterns bobbing on the sea, distant laughter echoing through the trees. You and Hunter sat by the water, his arm loosely around your shoulders, your head resting against him.
“Didn’t think I’d ever have this,” he said quietly.
You turned toward him. “What?”
“This kind of life. Something soft. Someone like you.”
Your heart twisted. “You deserve this. All of it.”
His fingers brushed against yours, then threaded together slowly. “I used to think needing someone made me weak.”
“And now?”
He looked at you, voice low. “Now I think it makes me human.”
You leaned in, letting your lips brush against his. “Took you long enough.”
From somewhere up the hill, Wrecker’s voice bellowed: “Pay up! I told you they’d kiss before midnight!”
Omega cheered. “You’re welcome!”
Hunter groaned and buried his face in your shoulder. “They’re never letting this go.”
“Good,” you smiled. “Neither am I.”
⸻
Sergeant Hunter x Mandalorian Reader - pt.2
The bustling streets of Coruscant were a blur of light, noise, and endless movement. The Bad Batch had been given a rare shore leave, and Hunter had eagerly taken the opportunity to get a bit of downtime away from the usual chaos of war. It wasn't often they were allowed to relax, but even soldiers like them needed a break.
As they wandered the lower levels of Coruscant, they found their way to 99's, a popular clone bar. It was loud, filled with clones from different units, and the occasional few off-duty soldiers mingling in the mix. Hunter felt the familiar weight of the day's stress melt away as he sank into a chair at one of the tables with his squadmates, taking in the relaxed atmosphere. They'd earned this, after all.
Hunter leaned back in his chair, absentmindedly scanning the room, when something—or rather, *someone*—caught his eye. A woman, dressed in civilian clothes, her dark hair swept back in a simple ponytail, moved gracefully through the crowd. She was laughing with a few off-duty soldiers, her carefree attitude contagious. There was something about her presence that stood out in the crowded bar, a certain energy that seemed to draw attention without her even trying.
Hunter couldn't quite place it, but his eyes lingered a moment longer before he turned his attention back to his comrades. "I'll be right back," he muttered, standing up and slipping through the crowd towards the bar.
The woman noticed him immediately, her gaze locking with his for just a brief moment. Something flickered in her eyes, a flash of recognition so quick that it almost didn't register in the chaos of the bar. But to Hunter, it felt like a gut instinct. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd seen her before, but he pushed it aside. It wasn't as if he made it a habit to keep track of every face he saw.
Reaching the bar, Hunter leaned against it and ordered a drink, scanning the room once again. He wasn't used to these civilian crowds, and he quickly realized he was a little out of place. His rough military demeanor didn't quite blend with the casual energy of the bar. But, as usual, he didn't mind standing out.
The woman from earlier moved toward the bar, a playful smile tugging at her lips as she sidled up next to him. "Another soldier on shore leave?" she asked, her voice low but warm. There was a teasing glint in her eye, as though she had all the time in the world and was just here to enjoy the moment.
Hunter smiled, his usual wariness easing slightly. "You could say that. First time I've had some real downtime in a while."
She raised an eyebrow, leaning closer to the bar as she grinned. "Must be nice," she said, giving him a sidelong glance. "I don't get much of that, myself. Always busy."
Hunter chuckled, unsure of whether she meant that as a joke or something more serious, but decided to roll with it. "I can imagine. You seem... well, busy right now," he said, motioning to the group of soldiers she had been talking with earlier.
She shrugged nonchalantly. "Just making the most of it. A girl's gotta have her fun, right?"
There was something about her confidence, her carefree attitude, that made Hunter want to know more. The sense of familiarity nagged at him, and yet he couldn't put his finger on why. She was different from most people he met on shore leave—mysterious, elusive even, yet approachable.
"How about you?" she asked, her eyes scanning his face with a look of curiosity. "What's your story? You don't seem like the usual type of soldier. Something about you is... different."
Hunter took a sip from his drink, trying not to let his thoughts get the better of him. "I'm with a special unit," he replied, choosing his words carefully. He didn't want to give too much away. "But yeah, I guess I'm a little different from the standard soldiers you see around here."
The woman laughed lightly. "I can tell. You carry yourself like you've seen more than your fair share of... action."
Hunter's lips quirked into a smile. "Something like that."
A moment passed, the air between them charged with an odd, unspoken tension. Hunter didn't know why, but he felt an inexplicable draw to her, a sense of familiarity that he couldn't shake. But before he could say anything else, one of the other soldiers from her group called out to her, signaling her to join them.
"Looks like they're calling me back," she said, turning to face him with a casual wink. "But it was nice meeting you, soldier. Maybe I'll see you around."
Hunter nodded, his mind still racing with that strange sense of recognition. "Yeah, maybe."
As she turned to walk away, a thought flashed through Hunter's mind—something about her seemed so familiar, so deeply embedded in his memory. But before he could dwell on it, the group of soldiers she'd been with crowded her, and she was lost to the noise of the bar.
---
Later that night, Hunter sat back at the table with the rest of the Bad Batch, the quiet murmur of conversation surrounding him. But his thoughts kept drifting back to the woman he'd met at the bar. There was no mistaking it—she had *definitely* seemed familiar.
He couldn't place her, though. It was a feeling that gnawed at him, like a puzzle piece that refused to fit, no matter how much he tried. But there was no time to dwell on it. The mission would come soon enough, and he'd have to be focused.
But somewhere, deep down, something told him that this wasn't the last time he would see her.
---
**Meanwhile,** the woman—the Mandalorian bounty hunter—watched Hunter from across the room, her eyes narrowing as she took another sip from her glass. She knew that he wouldn't recognize her, not with her face uncovered and her armor gone.
But *she* recognized him instantly. The man who had saved her life. The man she had crossed paths with before—the man she had promised herself to forget.
She leaned back in her chair, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. For now, she was content to keep her secret. There was no need for him to know the truth—not yet. Not until she was ready.
And besides, part of her found a strange thrill in seeing him again, so close, but unaware. It was easier this way—keeping the past buried, and enjoying the present for what it was. Just two people having a good time.
But deep down, she knew this was only the beginning. The past had a way of catching up with them all.
---
Sargent Hunter x Mandalorian Reader pt.1
---
The sound of blaster fire echoed through the narrow alleyways of the war-torn city. The Republic had been fighting for years, but the true cost of war weighed heavily on everyone—soldiers and civilians alike. Sergeant Hunter and his squad were on a mission: to extract a high-ranking separatist official, someone who held vital intelligence. But things had gone awry, as they often did.
"Alright, boys, spread out," Hunter said, his voice calm but commanding. "We're on a tight timeline."
The Bad Batch—Hunter, Wrecker, Tech, Echo, and Crosshair—moved with precision, their enhanced skills making them unmatched on the battlefield. As they advanced through the streets, a shadow flickered at the corner of his vision. A figure clad in Mandalorian armor stood silently against a crumbling wall, watching them.
Hunter's instincts kicked in immediately. He had seen many soldiers and mercenaries, but there was something about this one—a presence, a coldness that didn't quite fit the norm of the typical bounty hunter. She wasn't in full view, but even from a distance, he could tell she was skilled. Her helmet was shaped with the distinct Mandalorian T-visor, and her armor bore the unmistakable dents and scratches of someone who had seen too many battles.
He motioned to Echo, signaling him to take point. "Cover me."
The rest of the squad adjusted their positions, but Hunter moved toward the alley, cautious but intrigued. The Mandalorian's eyes never left him. She didn't reach for a weapon, but she was clearly ready for one if needed. He approached slowly, his blaster at his side.
"Are you lost, soldier?" her voice was low and guarded, but there was an undeniable strength to it.
"Just looking for someone," Hunter replied, studying her carefully. "You?"
"Same," she said with a slight tilt of her head. There was an unreadable expression beneath her helmet, but Hunter could hear the slight hint of amusement in her voice. "But I don't think you're the one I'm after."
Hunter furrowed his brow. "Then you're not a threat?"
She chuckled, and it was a sound that made his instincts flare. "Not to you, no. I'm just trying to survive, same as everyone else."
He took a cautious step closer. "I don't know many who would wear Mandalorian armor and not fight for a cause."
The Mandalorian paused, her posture shifting slightly as she adjusted her stance. "My cause is my own, Sergeant," she said. "I'm no different from you, except I work alone."
Hunter tilted his head, studying her. "You don't seem like someone who works alone."
The Mandalorian's hand subtly rested on the hilt of her blaster, but she didn't draw it. "What do you know about me, Sergeant Hunter?"
Hunter's gaze narrowed slightly. She knew his name. It was strange—he hadn't told her, and yet her tone had a knowing edge. It piqued his curiosity even further.
"I know you're a mercenary of some kind," Hunter said, testing the waters.
"Close enough," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of bitterness. "But I'm no mere merc. I'm a bounty hunter. And I have my own code to follow."
Hunter nodded slowly. He'd encountered bounty hunters before, but there was something about her—her confidence, her skills—that set her apart from the usual hired guns.
The two stood in silence for a moment, the distant sounds of war barely breaking the stillness between them.
Hunter wasn't sure why he felt so drawn to this woman, this Mandalorian. Maybe it was the way her presence seemed to hold steady in the chaos. Maybe it was the way she didn't back down, didn't flinch under the weight of the situation. But something in him—the soldier, the leader, the man—couldn't help but want to know more.
"Why are you here?" he asked quietly, his tone more personal than he intended.
Her voice softened slightly as she answered, "Same reason as you, Sergeant. I'm looking for someone... or something. And maybe, just maybe, we're both after the same thing."
Hunter's interest peaked. "What do you mean?"
"Let's just say," she began, "I've been hunting a certain individual who's not exactly on the Republic's side. And I'm willing to do whatever it takes to bring him down."
Hunter's gaze hardened as he considered her words. "I get that. But the Republic's not going to take kindly to a bounty hunter crossing their path. Especially a Mandalorian."
The Mandalorian gave him a wry smile. "I've never been one to follow the rules."
Hunter couldn't help but chuckle. "Yeah, I've noticed."
They stood there, exchanging glances, understanding the complexity of the situation. For a moment, there was a quiet understanding between them—two warriors, both driven by duty, yet standing on opposite sides of the battlefield.
"So," Hunter said, "what happens now?"
The Mandalorian's gaze flickered toward the distant sounds of blaster fire and explosions. "Now? We finish the mission. But don't get too attached, Sergeant. My code is my own."
"I don't plan on getting attached," Hunter said, though he couldn't deny the pull he felt toward her, an unspoken connection between two soldiers caught in a war that neither fully understood.
They exchanged one last look before turning back to their separate paths. The mission was still at hand, and neither of them had time to deal with distractions—at least, not yet. But as Hunter moved back to join his squad, he couldn't shake the thought of the mysterious Mandalorian bounty hunter, wondering just how much she was hiding beneath that cold exterior.
And maybe, just maybe, their paths would cross again. The war had a way of bringing people together, even when they didn't want to be.