Side blog for me to find some of my fav star wars reads & you should totally check them out bc the writers are bomb. Main blog is @abigfanofyours NSFW AND 18+ as fuck
hi I’ve loved your stuff for years and never got round to sending a request in when they were open so hopefully here’s my chance
Can I have some fluff with female or gender neutral reader with Crosshair? Whatever the prompt is up to you! Thank you so much if you decide to do this 😊
A Brush of Love
Pairings: Crosshair X Gender Neutral Reader
Word count: 2.6k
Plot: During a rare bit of downtime, you accidentally paint Crosshair’s helmet instead of your own. Expecting him to be furious, you’re shocked when he not only keeps the doodles—but “gets even” by painting something on your helmet that changes everything.
Warnings: safe for work, light teasing, mild language, oblivious pining, soft Crosshair, fluff, reader(gn) is an artist, a little embarrassment.
These days, downtime is pretty rare.
But when it is available, your favourite way to spend it is with a canvas or your sketchbook—pencil, charcoal, or even paint and a brush. Paint was hard to come by out here, so you’d defaulted to oils, which took a bit of convincing for the boys to accept the smell of.
Still, you woke one morning to find a small boxed paint kit tucked under your bunk, wrapped in a scrap of old cloth as if someone didn’t want the others to see. Nobody ever stepped forward to take credit. You didn’t push it. It warmed you a little too much to wonder who it might’ve been.
Art kept your nerves together, and the others understood that by now.
Wrecker always checked his giant hands before even hovering near your work, muttering, “No smudges, no smudges.” Echo would lean over your shoulder when you squinted too long, gently offering, “Do you need lighting?” Tech, who insisted your sketch of him needed “more accurate proportioning,” hovered anyway.
Crosshair never said anything.
He watched, though.
Always from a distance. Always with that unreadable slant to his eyes, pretending he wasn’t studying the way your fingers moved.
Today, the Marauder was blissfully still. You’d already filled a page with quick figure sketches: Hunter twirling his viroblade, Tech hunched over a datapad like a gargoyle and Wrecker lifting Gonky with one hand.
Your helmet sat on the weapons rack behind you. Blank. Scuffed. Boring. Begging for personality. For weeks the idea had bounced around your head that maybe you would add some little doodles.
You set your pencil down, brushed the graphite from your fingertips, and reached for it.
Your fingers just grazed plastoid when Hunter called out across the hold, urgency clipping the edge of his voice. “Hey, can I get a hand with something?”
“Yeah, coming!”
A whole stack of crates had been arranged in the exact wrong order and it took all of you longer than you liked to sort out. By the time you wiped sweat from your brow and stretched your back, dusk light was slipping through the Marauder’s ramp.
You headed back to the rack, grabbed your helmet without even thinking, scooped up your paint kit, and slipped outside before nightfall swallowed the light.
The air was cool, dust brushing around your boots as you settled on an overturned crate. You hummed to yourself, flipping open the little paint tins, dipping your brush into the first colour.
You toyed with ideas such as patterns, symbols, tiny flowers or maybe a loth-cat but after a moment you finally decided on something easy. Cute spirals that blended into small, petal-like shapes.
You’d only been working for five minutes when you turned the bucket to get a better angle.
And froze.
This was NOT your helmet.
Your stomach dropped so fast you nearly choked on the breath you sucked in.
This was—
“What are you doing?”
You snapped upright so fast your brush nearly flew out your hand. Crosshair stood ten paces away, his expression blank. He marched toward you, long strides kicking up dust.
“Heck, Crosshair—” You scrambled to your feet, holding his helmet between slightly shaking hands. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise— I thought it was mine. I can clean it off, I swear—”
He stopped right in front of you. Close enough for you to see the slow shift of his jaw as he rolled the toothpick between his teeth. His eyes dropped to the helmet—covered in delicate spirals and tiny flowers—and then slowly lifted to yours.
He didn’t say a word.
You swallowed hard. “I’ll get something to wipe it—”
“No.”
He yanked the helmet from your hands in one swift motion and tucked it under his arm.
“No?” you repeat, startled. “Crosshair, seriously. I’m really sor—”
“I said no.”
His tone wasn’t angry. Abrupt, yes, but not sharp.
He exhaled through his nose, pinched the bridge of it briefly, then muttered, “I’ll deal with it.”
He was being weirdly calm. You blinked. “Are you sure? I really didn’t mean—”
He raised a hand, silencing you with barely a flick of his fingers. “I’ll deal with it,” he repeated, eyes lingering on you for a long, unreadable second before he turned and strode back up the ramp of the Marauder.
You stood there, rooted to the spot, guilt clawing at your ribs.
“Idiot,” you muttered, tapping your knuckles against your forehead. “Force-damned idiot.”
Of all the helmets to grab, you had to take his. Wrecker would tease him for cycles, and Crosshair already had a short fuse on good days.
You waited outside a few minutes, working up the nerve to follow, then climbed the ramp.
“We’ve just received a transmission from Captain Rex.” Tech called the moment he saw you.
You barely heard him at first, scanning the hold for Crosshair, searching for a glimpse of dark armour with fresh flowers. Nothing.
Tech repeated himself, a little more pointedly, and you jolted out of your thoughts long enough to nod and sink into a seat.
You assumed Crosshair was in the cockpit.
Possibly sulking.
Possibly simmering.
Probably hiding the evidence of your accidental vandalism before anyone else noticed.
You stared down at your hands, the faint stain of paint still clinging to the pads of your fingers.
Maker, you hoped he wouldn’t stay mad.
The next evening you’re back on Kamino and the endless storm thundered against the white walls of the barracks as sheets of rain streaked down the windows
You sat alone inside the squad’s quarters, perched at Tech’s messy workbench. The only clear space being the part you had tidied for your sketchbook. Loose wires, open datapads, stripped comlink parts and scribbled diagrams were shoved aside so you could finish an old drawing: a twisting Felucian tree with luminous leaves you’d seen months ago.
Your pencil moved in soft strokes, lost in memory and oblivious to the rest of the galaxy. Just how you liked it.
Meanwhile, across the training complex, the other five were gearing up for a battle droid simulation.
Training hadn’t even started yet when Wrecker’s voice boomed through the prep area.
“Crosshair’s got FLOWERS on his helmet!”
Crosshair stilled before answering with a snarl as if to say, ‘shut up’.
“Wrecker,” Hunter warned without even looking up from tightening his vambrace, “drop it.”
But Wrecker didn’t seem to want to.
“I’m just sayin’,” he laughed, clapping Crosshair’s shoulder (which Crosshair immediately shrugged off), “if he didn’t want people to notice, maybe he shouldn’t’ve kept the paint! He didn’t even wipe one lil’ petal off!”
Crosshair’s shoulders tensed and the toothpick in his mouth almost snapped and pierced his lip.
“Maybe,” Wrecker continued cheerfully, “he kept it ’cause someone special painted it. Y’know… maybe he li—”
“Wrecker.” Echo interrupted, annoyed already even when he wasn’t the source of the conversation. “Stop. You’re winding him up.”
Tech, busy checking the simulation parameters, added dryly, “If he becomes distracted during the exercise, I will be holding you responsible for every missed shot.”
Wrecker went silent. Though a giant grin still plastered his face as he held up a heart shape in the shape of his hands directly to Cross.
He said nothing. Just clenched his jaw, helmet tucked under his arm, spirals and flowers still fully intact and marched away. He would train on his own for now.
Back in the barracks, you were still lost in the swirls of Felucia’s bark, completely unaware of the chaos your artwork had caused.
You only looked up when the sliding door hissed open and Crosshair strode inside. His annoyance was obvious.
“That was quick,” you said automatically, glancing at the chrono on the wall with a small frown as training shouldn’t have been finished yet.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Your gaze drifted from his face and then to the helmet tucked beneath his arm.
It was still adorned with your doodles from yesterday evening. Something screamed in your mind that he might have been teased about it. You swallowed, unsure whether to feel guilty or amused.
You dropped your pencil, letting it roll onto the workbench with a soft clink, and leaned your arms against the surface. “Uh… are you sure you don’t want me to…?”
“To what?” Crosshair retorted, sliding onto the edge of his bunk. The helmet rested beside him while he began tending to his rifle, wiping the barrel with precision.
You bit the inside of your cheek, suddenly aware he was being difficult on purpose. “Clean it off. Obviously.”
His hand rubbed the cloth over the metal, but he paused mid-stroke, fingers lingering over the barrel as if deep in thought.
You couldn’t help it—your stomach fluttered. He wasn’t jumping at the chance to get rid of your doodles. He actually seemed okay with them. The absurd thought that maybe he liked what you’d done made your face heat up. Ridiculous. Completely ludicrous. You shook it off, telling yourself he couldn’t possibly feel that way.
Crosshair finally broke the silence. “Where’s your helmet?”
You raised a brow, tilting your head toward your make-shift hammock in the corner. “Under there,” you reply but kind of regretting it the moment he moved.
Without a word, he stood and retrieved it, moving back toward you. You stared up at him, jaw slack, trying to process what the heck he was doing.
“Budge up,” he demanded, not harshly, but with the sort of quiet authority that left no room for argument.
You scooted a little to the left, giving him space to settle beside you.
“What are you doing?” you asked slowly, cautious, eyeing the way he started flipping through your paintbrushes, selecting one and opening a small pot of paint.
“Vandalising your helmet,” he stated simply.
Your stomach dropped. Well… maybe you deserved this. But still, it was a mistake! “D-do you have to? It was an acci—”
“Do you have a blue colour?” he interrupted, completely uninterested in your pitiful plea. His tone was calm and dangerously focused, as if your protests were background noise.
You blinked, then caught the faintest glint of something in his expression; calm, yes, but also… deliberate. Like he was testing you, or maybe just daring you to say no. You swallowed hard as you handed him the small pot of paint..
Your hand brushed against his as you passed him the pot. You froze, heat crawling up your neck, and quickly snatched your hand back, pretending to fuss with a loose pencil.
Crosshair didn’t flinch. He merely dipped his brush into the paint, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he looked down at the helmet and began his act of purposeful vandalism. All the while you sat stiffly beside him.
“Please don’t draw anything rude on it…” you muttered, “I do have to have a uniform of some sort.”
A faint smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth.
Your eyes widened. “Crosshair—”
Before you could crane your neck to peek, he tsk’d sharply and angled the helmet farther from you, elbow coming up like a shield.
“Don’t even think about it,” he drawled.
You huffed, dramatic and miserable, and slumped forward, chin dropping into your palm. Your other hand idly nudged your abandoned drawing, sliding the flimsi back and forth without actually looking at it.
Despite trying not to look, you felt his gaze flick toward you.
Not long, just a second or two. Long enough to make your pulse skip.
Every time your eyes started drifting his way, he snapped his attention back to the helmet with suspicious urgency, as if you’d caught him doing something he shouldn’t.
Your fingers began tapping on the worktop, fidgety and impatient, creating tiny tremors across Tech’s mess of tools.
Crosshair groaned. “For kriff’s sake sit still.”
You scoffed. “Sorry. Didn’t realise you needed complete silence for your… masterpiece.”
“If you want it neat, stop shaking the table,” he shot back, not even looking at you.
“…If I’m getting a lewd painting, it can at least be tidy,” you muttered to yourself.
His smirk returned but he didn’t deny it which did nothing to help your nerves.
Finally, he sat back, dropped the brush into a jar of water. “All done, have a look.”
You didn’t look. If he’d drawn something mortifying, you’d rather die later than right now.
“I said,” Crosshair tilted his head, voice lightly mocking, “take a look.”
“I’ll look when you’re gone.” You stretched your arms above your head in a weak imitation of a yawn. “I need to emotionally prepare, you know.”
He didn’t argue and didn’t taunt.
He simply stood and slid the helmet across the table toward you, turning it just enough that the paint faced you.
You sighed, defeated, and let your eyes flick to the surface
It wasn’t some crude joke or anything embarrassing. It wasn’t even messy.
It was one clean word: mesh’la
You blinked. Twice. Three times.
Then looked up at him, facing his back.
Crosshair was already halfway back to his bunk. “I don’t understand,” you called, “What does this even mean?”
He stopped mid-step, shoulders shifting as if debating whether to even answer. Finally, he turned just enough for you to see his gaze.
“It’s a word,” he said, low and simple, “that describes you.”
You stared. “Great. Typical.”
He watched irritation settle across your face, and the faintest, driest sigh escaped him“You don’t know what it means.”
“Well, I can’t see it being anything pleasant,” you shot back. “Probably means idiot. Or ‘dickhead.’”
Crosshair hummed, almost amused sound, and slung his rifle over one shoulder. “Maybe,” he starts, “you should check what it means before assuming.”
You grumbled under your breath something incoherent and something probably impolite.
Crosshair’s quiet hum echoed in your ears as you began digging through the clutter on Tech’s desk as you look for a datapad.
“‘Maybe you should check what it means,’” you mimicked under your breath as you finally found a datapad buried under a heap of wiring. Victory.
You shot Crosshair a glare. He was leaning in the barracks doorway, arms folded across his chest, one boot crossed over the other, all coiled in smugness. The faint tilt of his head told you he was enjoying this far too much.
You scowled and typed the word into the translator with quick, irritated jabs: Mesh’la.
The results popped up. You blinked. Then blinked again to make sure your eyes don't pop out of your skull.
Beautiful.
Your jaw slackened and heat shot up your throat so fast you almost choked.
“That—” you stuttered, staring at the screen in disbelief. “That can’t be… I must’ve—”
You typed it again. And again. Each result came back the same.
Very slowly, you lifted your gaze.
Crosshair hadn’t moved from the doorway. His expression was almost blank, carefully controlled… but there was something in the slight raise of his chin, the faintest flex at the corner of his mouth, that gave him away.
Satisfaction.
“W-what…” you breathed, barely managing to get the words out. “Why?”
You were filled with just genuine, overwhelmed confusion as your fingers curled around the datapad to keep them from trembling.
Crosshair didn’t answer. He simply shifted his rifle higher on his shoulder, gave the smallest nod and pushed off the doorframe.
“See you later,” he murmured.
And then he was gone. Boots echoing down the hall and leaving you sitting in the mess of Tech’s half-disassembled gadgets, clutching a helmet with ‘beautiful’ painted on it.
Your face was on fire. Hot. Burning. You pressed your palms against it, trying to think, trying to breathe. Crosshair. Crosshair.
He… he actually liked you. And you were pretty certain you liked him too.
Okay but genuinely, I only want out of this movie what I get out of all the other Star Wars movies which is:
I get to appreciate fun puppets and practical effects
I go "WOW" at something cool/dramatic/large in space
I am repeatedly told that loving your friends is sometimes enough to do the scary thing and that it's always worth it and then I see that play out on screen
A Large Creature tries to eat the main characters at some point but everyone survives it
The good guys win at the end
I'm not expecting a complicated and emotional cinematic masterpiece, I am expecting a Star War. And because Pedro Pascal is in this one, I ALSO want to see him suffering and horribly wounded (hot) and covered in blood (HOT) and then I want to see him staring deeply into that little puppet's eyes and doing a sad little dad smile. (cute)
And then I want to take what I loved and set the rest on fire in my fics for all time. Likes to charge reblogs to cast.
what if like. bad batch x reader where reader is a medic (HUNTER CANT DO EVERYTHING HES TIRED 😭) whom they have hired and taken in as part of the team. she’s really understanding and sweet and the type to call all her patients ‘sweetie, or honey, or baby’ in like an ‘i know it hurts, sweet boy just a teeeeny little prick, okay?’ sort of way. so the batch like all separately start to have teeny little crushes.
“Just a Teeny Prick, Sweetheart”
Bad Batch x Reader
Hunter was tired.
Exhausted, really. The kind of tired that seeps into the marrow of your bones, the kind that sleep doesn’t fix anymore. He was holding his squad together with sheer willpower, dwindling rations, and stim packs, and Tech had said something the other day that actually stuck:
“Statistically, it would be more efficient to outsource a trained medic. We are ill-equipped for sustained self-triage.”
That, paired with Wrecker nearly bleeding out after a skirmish on Corellia because someone (Echo) had “accidentally” used the wrong bacta dilution, finally pushed Hunter to agree.
You came highly recommended.
And you were… different.
⸻
The first time they saw you in action, you were crouched over Wrecker’s arm, cooing at him like he was a scared child.
“I know it stings, baby. Just a teeny prick, okay? You’re doing so good, honey.”
Wrecker—literal tank of a man, bruiser of nightmares—was blushing.
Hunter stood behind you blinking slowly. Tech actually stopped typing. Echo raised an eyebrow. Crosshair made a noise in his throat that might have been a suppressed laugh.
You, of course, were oblivious to the storm you’d just kicked off.
“All done!” you announced brightly, patting Wrecker’s arm as you bandaged it up. “You were so brave, sweetheart. Go on, get yourself a treat.”
Wrecker beamed. Like a puppy who’d been told he was a good boy.
And from that moment on, everything changed.
⸻
Hunter didn’t mean to stare. He really didn’t.
But he started noticing things.
The way your voice softened when you worked on him—“Deep breath, baby. In and out, just like that—good boy.”—and he’d nearly dropped dead right there. The way your hands lingered just a second too long when you pressed a bacta patch to his ribs. How your touch didn’t hurt even when it should.
He’d caught himself looking at you more than once while you cleaned your kit or tucked your hair behind your ear. You hummed while organizing supplies. You smelled like sterile wipes and something sweet. You called him “darlin’” once and he had to physically leave the room.
He started volunteering for med checks even when he was fine. “Just making sure I’m cleared for the next mission.”
You smiled every time. “Of course, sweet boy.”
Hunter was not okay.
⸻
Tech was confused at first. Your bedside manner was… statistically illogical. Surely grown men didn’t need to be called “sugar” or “darlin’” to survive triage.
And yet—
“You did amazing, sweetheart,” you said once, after removing a shard from his thigh. “So still, such a good patient.”
He’d never flushed so fast. His datapad nearly slipped from his fingers. The next day, he updated your medical database for efficiency—and also uploaded a music playlist that made you beam and say “Oh! This is perfect, thank you sugar.”
He recalibrated your scanner after that.
And your med droid.
And the lighting in the medbay.
And then started inventing reasons to come back. “Mild tinnitus,” “possible corneal abrasion,” “a faint ache in my ankle.” All documented. All excuses.
He was fine.
He was not fine.
⸻
Echo didn’t trust you at first. Too soft-spoken. Too sweet.
But then he watched you work during a firefight—calm under pressure, patching him mid-cover behind crates while blaster fire flew overhead.
He looked at you sideways, something twisting in his chest.
Later, after the fight, you came to check his stitches. “You really held it together,” you said with a warm smile. “Tough cookie.”
He snorted. “I’ve been called worse.”
You tilted your head. “Well, I call you Echo. And you’re one of my favorites.”
He didn’t know what to say. He just nodded and looked away.
And when you touched his metal arm without flinching—even thanked him for holding his own gauze—he felt… seen.
He was used to being patched up. But not to being cared for.
Now he sits just a little closer to you at meals. Offers you the first ration bar. He pretends not to notice when you call him “honey” again.
But he does.
⸻
Crosshair didn’t say anything for a long time.
He watched you. A lot. Silently. Unnervingly.
He noticed how your hands didn’t shake, how your tone stayed steady. You never flinched from his scars. You never forced him to speak.
One day, you caught him cleaning his rifle with a nasty cut on his hand.
“Cross,” you said gently, crouching beside him. “That’s gonna get infected, baby. C’mere.”
He raised a brow. “You call all your patients baby?”
You smirked. “Only the stubborn ones.”
He let you clean it. Didn’t complain once. Not even when you blew gently on the wound before bandaging it. His ears turned red, though.
“You’re good at this,” he said quietly.
You winked. “Don’t tell the others. They’ll want special treatment.”
He definitely did not steal one of your gloves to keep in his kit later.
Definitely not.
⸻
Wrecker had it bad.
From the second you cooed at him and called him “sweet boy,” he was gone.
He came to you for everything. Paper cuts. Headaches. “Funny feelings in his tummy” that were totally not butterflies. He’d pretend to limp just to get you to touch his shoulder.
And you? You were so nice about it.
“Oh, baby, you poor thing. Let me kiss it better.”
You didn’t actually kiss it. But he thought about asking. Just once.
He made you a little plushie out of spare parts and gave it to you with a bashful grin. “It’s you! Well, kinda. I made it ‘cause you always take care of us.”
You squealed. Hugged it to your chest. “This is the cutest thing anyone’s ever made me!”
Wrecker nearly passed out.
⸻
Eventually…
You start to notice.
How they hover just a little too long. How they all suddenly have “injuries” every time you do inventory. How they flinch slightly—but in a good way—when you call them sweetheart.
One night, you say it out loud at dinner.
“You boys sure do get hurt a lot. Almost like you’re doing it on purpose.”
They all freeze.
Then Echo coughs. Tech pushes up his goggles. Wrecker drops a fork. Crosshair mutters, “Told you it was obvious.” And Hunter—poor Hunter—rubs the back of his neck and avoids your eyes.
You lean forward, resting your chin in your hand with a smile.
“It’s okay,” you say sweetly. “I don’t mind being the team’s favorite. As long as I get paid in compliments.”
Wrecker nearly yells, “YOU’RE SO PRETTY.”
Tech immediately corrects, “Statistically, she has extremely symmetrical features.”
Crosshair sighs. “Maker, you’re all pathetic.”
Hunter just looks at you, dead serious. “You keep us together. You matter.”
You blink. A little stunned.
Then you grin. “Guess I better stock up on bacta patches, huh?”
they will never convince me to take fuck out of my star wars fics. i'm fine with throwing in some kark and kriff and osik and shab whatever that's all well and good but they will have to pry the real life swear fuck from my cold dead hands. kark simply does not hit the same and canon can eat dirt when i've decided it's time for commander cody to say "what the fuck are you talking about sir" or some shit equivalent
Remember when they gave us the Solitary Clone and made us sit with that for a week and then hit us with Echo and Hunter working space GrubHub and gave Tech a Ben Schwartz robot rival
andulkaphoto
turnnoffyourmind
prguitarman
titsay
areudirty
gamechangershow
