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Hiya! I absolutely love your writing and always look forward to your posts
I saw that request about the commanders catching you with their helmets on and I was wondering if you could do that but with the bad batch?
Again, love your writing. I hope you have a great day/night!
Hey! Thank you so much—that means a lot to me! 💖
I actually was planning to include the Bad Batch too but wanted to start with just the commanders first.
⸻
HUNTER
You weren’t expecting to get caught.
You were standing in the cockpit, wearing Hunter’s helmet—not for mischief, really, but because you were genuinely curious how he functioned with his enhanced senses dulled. You wanted to know what it was like to see through his eyes. To feel what he felt.
The helmet was heavy. Too heavy.
He walked in mid-thought, and you froze.
Hunter didn’t speak. He just stood there, half in shadow, his brow furrowing slowly like he was processing an entirely new battlefield situation.
You didn’t say anything either. You just… stood there. Helmet on. Stiff-backed. Guilty.
Finally, he stepped forward.
“…That’s mine.”
You took it off and held it out sheepishly. “I wanted to see what you see. It’s filtered. Muffled. How do you live like this?”
Hunter took the helmet from your hands and gave you a long, unreadable look.
“I don’t. I adapt.”
Then he brushed past you—close, deliberate—and you swore his fingers grazed yours just a little longer than necessary.
⸻
WRECKER
“Whoa!”
You heard the booming voice before you could even turn.
You were in the loading bay, helmet pulled low over your face as you tried to figure out how the heck Wrecker even saw through it with one eye. It was like wearing a bucket with a tunnel vision problem.
He charged over with the biggest grin you’d ever seen.
“Look at you! You’re me!”
You pulled the helmet off, grinning. “I don’t know how you walk around with this thing. It’s like being inside a durasteel trash can.”
“I know, right? But it looks great on you!”
He took the helmet back, turning it in his hands, then gave you a wide-eyed look.
“You wanna try my pauldron next?! Or lift something heavy?!”
You laughed. “Maybe next time, big guy.”
Wrecker beamed. “You’re so getting the full Wrecker experience.”
You weren’t sure what that meant, but you were both strangely okay with it.
⸻
TECH
You had only meant to try it on for a second.
But you made the mistake of reading one of his datapads while wearing it. And once the internal HUD booted up? Well, curiosity took over.
Tech returned from the cockpit to find you hunched over in the corner, still wearing his helmet and scanning system diagnostics.
His voice was clipped. “You’re tampering with active interface systems.”
“I’m learning,” you shot back, not looking up.
He blinked, then stepped closer, fingers twitching in that nervous way he did when he wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or horrified.
“You activated my visual overlay filters.”
“I figured out the encryption pattern.”
Now that caught his attention.
He slowly knelt beside you. “How long have you had it on?”
“…Twenty-three minutes?”
He swallowed. “And you’re not… disoriented?”
“Nope. Just slightly overstimulated.”
There was a pause.
Then, quietly: “You may keep it on. Temporarily.”
You turned. “You trust me with your helmet?”
He cleared his throat. “Don’t make it a habit.”
But he was already adjusting the fit at the sides of your head.
⸻
ECHO
Echo did not find it cute.
He found it concerning.
The helmet wasn’t just gear. It was part of his reconstructed identity—a thing he wore not because he wanted to, but because he had to.
So when he saw you on the edge of his bunk, wearing it—your legs swinging slightly, gaze distant—his chest tightened.
“What are you doing?” he asked, voice rougher than he meant it to be.
You looked up, startled. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I was just… wondering what it’s like. Living with this.”
He stepped forward slowly, kneeling to your eye level. “It’s not something I’d want you to understand.”
You pulled the helmet off, placed it in his hands. “I didn’t think about that.”
He let out a quiet breath, then shook his head. “No. You did. That’s why you’re here thinking about it.”
You gave a soft smile. “I wanted to know you better.”
He swallowed hard. “You already do.”
⸻
CROSSHAIR
You knew exactly what you were doing.
And that was the problem.
You sat in the sniper’s perch in the Marauder, elbow on one knee, head tilted just slightly as you stared down at the deck below—wearing his helmet.
You heard the footstep. The sigh.
“Really?” His voice was lazy, drawled out like he wasn’t fazed, but there was a subtle tension underneath.
You didn’t look at him. “I wanted to see what it was like. Looking down on the rest of the world.”
He chuckled once, dry and sharp. “And? Is it satisfying?”
“No. It’s lonely.”
Crosshair was quiet for a long moment. Then he climbed the ladder halfway, leaned against the edge of the platform.
“Don’t get comfortable in it.”
You turned your head, voice just a little softer. “Why not?”
“Because if you wear it any longer, I might start to like it.”
You handed it back.
But you were both thinking about that line for the rest of the day.
Every time you answer one of my requests i giggle and kick my feet while having a little happy meltdown as i read it. Your fics genuinely brighten my day and they make me so happy <3
Anyways-
What about a crosshair x reader where the reader is really happy go lucky and doesn't care about his snarky comments at all (sometimes shooting back a few). BUT- cross lowkey has a crush on them and his comments are his way of flirting. The reader picks up on this and starts "flirting" back with insults and the rest of tbb thinks they're crazy.
Also maybe the reader is also a really good sniper which is why they even caught crosshair's attention in the first place
Ok bye darling i hope you have a good day／night <3
Thank you xx I truly appreciate all the love and comments I get on all my fics ❤️
Crosshair x Reader
Blaster‑clean silence ruled the gun‑rack alcove until you flipped the long‑range sight guard open with a soft click.
Crosshair’s pale eyes slid your way. “That latch is louder than your entire trigger discipline.”
You grinned. “Funny—coming from the guy who coughs every time he exhales. You swallowing sand again, long‑neck?”
Echo, working on the nav console across the corridor, winced as though a thermal detonator had rolled under his boots. Wrecker mouthed They’re both crazy, and went back to bench‑pressing a cargo crate.
Crosshair’s lips tugged into what passed for a smile. “Keep rattling, sunshine. Won’t change the grouping on your last target sheet.”
You tilted the datapad so he could see the tight cluster of holes—dead‑center, half‑credit size. “Looks like it changed yours, though. Jealousy kicks the barrel left, apparently.”
For half a heartbeat his eyebrows lifted—barely—but you caught it. That microscopic flash of you‑impressed‑me that he could never quite smother.
He lounged against the bulkhead, toothpick rolling between his lips. “Blind luck.”

“Luck’s just skill nobody believes in yet,” you shot back, sliding the toothpick from his mouth with two fingers before he could react. You tucked it behind your ear, matching his lazy stance. “Besides, you’ve been staring since Ord Mantell. If my shooting’s so bad, why watch?”
Hunter’s tread slowed as he passed, sensing the static but wisely continuing on. Tech muttered from the upper gantry, “Statistical probability of combustive banter reaching critical mass: ninety‑two percent.”
Crosshair’s voice dropped, all gravel and embarrassment he’d rather chew than admit. “Maybe I appreciate a challenge.”
You leaned in, noses a breath apart. “Maybe you appreciate the view.”
Wrecker’s crate hit the deck with a clang. “I knew it! They like‑like each other!” Echo groaned, “Please don’t say ‘like‑like.’”
Crosshair didn’t move, but the tip of his ear darkened. “Put my toothpick back.”
You placed it between his lips, brushing gloved fingertips over the scratch on his chin. “Earn it aft‑side, sharpshooter.”
He caught your wrist—not rough, just sure. “Next op, fifty‑meter wind, angled shot, moving speeder. One bullet. Loser buys rations for a month.”
“Make it two shots,” you purred, pulling free. “One for the target—one to carve my initials in your ego.”
Behind you, the squad’s collective groan thudded louder than artillery. But as you strode toward the weapons locker, you felt his gaze marking every step—steady, precise, unmistakably interested.
And for once, Crosshair let the toothpick rest perfectly still, the curve of his mouth admitting what his words never would: he’d just been out‑sniped at his own game—and he liked it.