#tech x gn!reader | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

starrylothcat · 9 months

Note

Hi! I was wondering if I could request spicy Tech (gn reader plz also sorry if you're not doing requests right now! You can ignore this if you aren't)

More spicy prompts! Thank you for this Tech ask, anon. This is my first time fully writing Tech so please bear with me…I hope it’s satisfactory 😉

I wasn’t sure if you wanted something from the spicy prompts list, so I chose “Just lay back and let me take care of you.”

Offering a Hand

Warnings: NSFW 18+. You give Tech a hand with his work (you give Tech a handjob)

Pairing: Tech x GN Reader

Word Count: 1400. These are getting longer. Lol

Spicy Prompts

You and Tech had been tinkering all day, doing much-needed repairs and tune-ups on The Marauder.

The others had just left to search for some parts at a nearby junkyard per Tech’s request.

You slyly stayed behind, saying Tech needed your help with repairs to the navigation system. That was a bald-faced lie, and everyone knew it, but it was an excuse to be alone with your boyfriend.

You were in the cockpit, as was Tech. He was hunched on the ship’s floor, soldering a piece of equipment he had ripped from underneath the main console.

His jaw was set tight, fingers working quickly and expertly, his eyes set in intense concentration.

You swallowed, a familiar spark igniting in your loins, thinking of what those fingers could do, how you wanted that intense, yellow-tinted gaze on you, your lips on that incredibly alluring jawline…

“Do you need assistance with something?” Tech questioned without looking toward you, continuing his work.

“No…just enjoying the view.” You remarked as you schooched next to him, pressing your shoulder to his. You were also on the floor, trying to sort a pile of wires that was untouched.

“Can you hand me the servodriver since you are just “enjoying the view” and not assisting me like you told the others?” Tech adjusted his goggles, glancing at you momentarily before going back to his tinkering.

You chuckled, remembering Hunter’s look when you said Tech needed your help and you should stay behind.

Hunter knew that wasn’t true, but gathered Omega, Echo, and Wrecker to go to the junkyard, knowing you wanted privacy.

“Sure...only if you kiss me.” You leaned into him more, the aroma of hot metal mixing with his natural musk flaming the fire inside you even more.

Tech stopped, placing his soldering equipment down, looking fully at you.

“I presume your proximity to me and the promiscuous tone in your voice means you will not be handing me the servodriver, correct?”

“That’s right.” You smiled, brushing your hand across his cheek.

Tech adjusted his goggles. “I also infer you stayed behind, not because you wanted to aid me, but to be alone with me. Is that also correct?” You bit your bottom lip, nodding.

“Ah. What would you like to do?”

You took one of Tech’s hands in your own.

“Well, I was thinking I could actually give you a hand if you’d let me.” You raised your eyebrows, seeing if he’d catch your meaning.

You could see Tech’s cheeks darken slightly as he cleared his throat. “Oh, I see.”

You leaned in, your nose brushing against his as you moved your other hand up his thigh.

You could hear Tech’s breath hitch, his own hands coming to your shoulders as your lips met.

“It’ll be a while before they get back. And besides, you look like you need a break.” You muttered against his lips, giving his upper thigh a hearty squeeze as you grazed your hand over his crotch.

Tech gripped your shoulders and let out a low groan as he leaned toward you, kissing you back, his body relaxing as your mouths moved together.

“Just lay back and let me take care of you.” You whispered as you pulled away momentarily, seeing a quick flash of hunger pass over his brown eyes. “We have time before the others get back.”

Your hands roamed up and under his shirt, watching Tech begin to calculate behind his goggles as you tried to tug his shirt off.

“Taking into consideration the travel time to and from the junkyard, and how quickly they may be able to find the parts, we more than likely have an hour before they return. So I suppose you can…assist me.”

You grinned mischievously, crawling on top of Tech’s lap, his shirt halfway up his torso, him still calculating how much time you might have alone.

“Sounds like plenty of time, don’t you think?” You asked before taking his lips on yours again, and Tech finally helped you get his shirt off.

Your hands roamed his lean form, and you could feel his muscles flex under your gentle touch.

You pressed down into his lap, feeling him harden beneath you.

Tech’s hands were now skirting under your shirt, touching all the places he knew elicited a response from you.

He had every inch of your body mapped and memorized, knowing exactly where and when to touch you to get the best response.

You hummed in contentment against his lips, those expert fingers working their magic as he caressed your skin.

You released his lips from yours, yanking off your shirt and going straight back to an impassioned make-out session.

You began kissing down his chin and nibbled on his jawline as Tech pushed his goggles back into place.

You worked to undo his pants, making quick work of his many straps and pockets, tossing them to the side with a thud as you slipped a hand under his waistband. You carefully ran your fingers up his now hard length, relishing how he felt.

This situation was one of few where Tech was speechless, a shaky sigh from him the only sound he could emit.

Tech grunted while you teased the head of his cock with your fingers, eyes wide under his goggles as he stared down at your careful ministrations.

You loved how he felt under your fingertips, his velvety head already wet with precum. You used your thumb to slowly spread it around, and you could feel Tech tremble against you, his quiet sounds of pleasure catching in his throat.

“Hold on.” You said, quickly jumping up off his lap and running to your bunk, digging through a small drawer. You grabbed the bottle of lube that Tech loved to use on you, but this time it was all for him.

You squirted a generous amount on your hand and hurried back to where he was eagerly waiting, now sitting in the pilot’s seat. You stepped up to him as he tugged his pants further down his thighs.

“Easier access and more comfortable for the both of us.” He stated as you sat back on his lap, Tech’s rigid cock pressed against his belly.

You reached down between the two of you, gently sliding your hand up and down his length, a hiss of approval escaping through Tech’s clenched jaw, his eyelids fluttering at your touch.

You squeezed and twisted your fist in a languid rhythm, also knowing just how he liked it.

Tech grabbed at your waist, his head leaning back against the headrest as you worked his cock with your hand.

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but a low groan came out instead as you squeezed him a little harder.

You watched his chest heave faster, his other hand digging in to the armrest as his brow furrowed, concentrating and focusing on how you were making him feel.

“F-faster.” Tech urged, sweat beading on his brow, his breath labored.

You obliged, increasing the pace of your fist around his cock, loving how you could feel every ridge and vein slide across your palm as Tech came apart in front of you.

Tech suddenly grasped the back of your head, bringing you to his lips, his mouth hot and desperate on yours as you worked him.

“Close…” was all Tech was able to utter, his pleasured moans becoming louder and more frequent.

You couldn’t help but let out a blissful sigh, seeing how much pleasure you were bringing him as your other hand reached down to tenderly squeeze and cup his balls.

Tech twitched and bucked against you, his head falling back again to the headrest, cursing under his breath.

“Cyare…I won’t…last much longer.” Tech warned, his goggles now sliding down the bridge of his nose.

With a final twist of your wrist, Tech let out a long groan of your name, his pearly release coating his lower abdomen and chest.

You eased him through his orgasm, feeling his cock twitch and throb under your palm, milking him of every drop, drunk on the sight of him fully undone just by your hand.

You stroked him a few more times, rubbing your thumb over his sensitive head as Tech tried to compose himself, pushing his goggles up with his hand, steadying his breathing.

“That was…satisfactory. Thank you.” He leaned forward, kissing you sweetly in thanks.

“I hope it was more than just satisfactory.” You teased as you hopped off him, grabbing a clean towel from your bunk.

A small smirk tugged at the side of his mouth. “It was, very much so.”

You leaned over him, gently cleaning him up as he softly ran his hand down your face.

“Thank you, cyare.” Tech tugged his pants back up and you sat on his lap again, leaning onto him as he held you. You felt his hands wander, his fingers now slipping under your waistband.

“Based on my calculations, we still have plenty of time for me to return the favor.”

Tech’s words were husky in your ear as you smiled into his neck, shivering at his touch. “It’s my turn to enjoy the view, hmm? Now…where did you put that lube?”

A/N: Am I sorry for continuously posting smut and having a great time writing these? No. 😅

Taglist: Taglist: @blueink-bluesoul @pb-jellybeans @the-cantina @king-chaos-world @wolffegirlsunite @523rdrebel @dukeoftheblackstar @sleepingsun501 @wanderer-six

#tech tbb #tech x reader #tech tbb x reader #tech x you #tech tbb x you #tech smut #tech x gn!reader #starrycatwrites #the bad batch smut #thirsty clones #tbb tech #the bad batch fanfiction #tbb smut #x reader

251 notes · View notes

starqueensthings · 3 months

Text

Dork Love: Part Four

chap1 | chap2 | chap3

Pairing: Tech x GN!reader (can be read as ND!Tech x ND!GN!reader if you squint)

Summary: never thought I'd see the day, but here is the final part of Dork Love! Things happen, questions are answered. I won’t say any more for fear of spoiling things. Make sure you’ve read the previous three parts before proceeding.

Rating/WC/POV: Teen+ readers, but no real warnings. 7847 words (I hate myself too, don’t worry). 2nd POV but from Tech’s perspective.

A/N: thank you to the always lovely @staycalmandhugaclone for proofreading, and for reminding me that unstiflable, as much as I’d like it to be a word, is not LOL like “so fetch” it just ain’t gonna happen!

That autonomic demand to narrow his eyes was irrepressible, and the onslaught of light pouring in through the open door dazzled him to near paralysis as he stood in the shadows, pistol raised and poised to fire blindly if or when the situation required. But even through long lashes near-opacifying his vision, Tech’s astute mind instantly noted the familiar, swaying cadence of the figure stepping through the threshold, its movements much less hurried and frenetic than his sergeant’s broad-shouldered, deliberate strides would have been as he hastened to provide backup. In that subsequent second, as Tech’s eyes screamed in protest and the alleged assailant stepped delicately atop that worn wood floor, a cresting wave of unadulterated relief and realization crashed into his heaving chest and forced the bated breath from his lungs.

“Thank the Maker,” he exclaimed as he attempted to swallow the panic that had taken up residence in the back of his throat.

His feet took him urgently toward you, stowing his pistol in it’s holster with a deftness that his trembling hands should not have possessed, and the now-redundant flashlight fell with a thud to the floor, spinning away to uselessly brighten a forgotten corner as he closed the space between you and flung his arms around your shoulders.

The startled gasp that escaped your lips at the unexpected movement went ignored. He spared no consideration for the way your arms balked against the restriction of his unexpected embrace; your choked and stuttered demands for distance and clarification registered even less in his mind than your obvious sense of alarm. He would explain after… He’d offer a million apologies in just a minute… What mattered most to him in this second was that you were safe— you were there in front of him unailed, injury free and not bludgeoned to death by the bloodied hammer still imprinted in his mind's eye.

“T— Tech?!” you stammered, the futile attempts at tugging your arms free creating barely enough leverage to tip your head back and peer upward at your captor. “Is that you? What— what are you doing here?”

“You are alive,” he spoke, seizing the brief opportunity that your acknowledgement presented and retightening his grip around your shoulders.

“Of— of course I am?” you answered, the snort of incredulity almost completely muffled by the power of his embrace as you slowly reciprocated his affection by encircling his narrow waist. “How did you get in here?”

But your behest for an explanation once again failed to pull even a fragment of reasoning from his lips, that brilliant mind utterly failing in its feat to process the emotional undulation of your perceived murder, and he hung his head silently into the gap above your shoulder, greedily breathing in the same scent he’d spent countless mornings trying to imagine were in the bunk next to him.

“This doesn’t look like any ‘perilous and life-threatening event’ that I’ve ever been a part of.”

Hunter’s amusement, while somewhat muffled by the modulator in his helmet, was entirely apparent in the small chuckle that followed his quip. Tech snapped his head toward the door, the intrusion he’d utterly forgotten was on its way taking quick advantage of the adrenaline still doping his blood and setting every inch of his akin aprickle. Yet… having your form pressed against his in that quiet moment of long-anticipated reacquaintance had embedded him with a need for you equally as powerful, and releasing you from his clutches felt oddly like he was willingly permitting a limb to depart his body.

“Who— who are you?” you voiced as you turned toward the door, shielding your eyes with the same hand that had last been the recipient of Tech’s converged affection.

“Hunter,” the sergeant chirruped, boots treading thoughtlessly atop that trail of morbid, red breadcrumbs as he crossed the room and extended a hand. “Glad to see you’re not dead.”

“Why would I be dead?” you asked as you shook his hand, a very potent confusion still swaddling every word that left those lips.

“Good question,” Hunter chuckled, tipping his head forward slightly to pull that painted plastoid bucket from his head. “Can’t say I have an answer. Tech was losing his marbles about a limp fickle tree or someth—?”

“Ficus,” Tech interrupted, feeling a fresh surge of embarrassment rise to his already heated cheeks. Those frenzied emotions… the atypical and unbridled panic from mere minutes ago was being quickly usurped by a coursing regret for the composure he’d altogether abandoned the minute your safety was in question.

He cleared his throat and shifted his goggles on his nose, shying away from your inquiring gaze as it returned to him. “My apologies for the infiltration,” he continued, readjusting his helmet needlessly under his arm. “My brother and I returned with every intention of completing the required electrical repairs, only to find the premises looking uncharacteristically derelict. Regrettably, I had no means of contacting you, so I permitted myself entry hoping to affirm your safety, or collect clues to identify the assailant.”

He chanced a glance in your direction; the way your wide eyes darted intently yet curiously back and forth between his instantly threatened to steal the justification still poised on his tongue, and watching your lip disappear between your teeth saw the battle against that implacable itch to reach for your hand vigorously resurrected.

“There was undeniable evidence that harm may have come to you,” he offered, reaching instead for his datapad and tipping the screen toward you. “My scanners indicated blood of a human origin splattered in several places, with a significant percentage of it congealing atop the handle of a hammer still perched in the sink. Objectively, all access points to the establishment appeared to have been boarded to prevent any external supposition, eliminating any obvious need for an investigation. Your beloved flora was presenting with several signs of neglect, and I noted a discarded caf beside the computer that my scanners confirm has been sitting undisturbed for nearly two dozen rotations.”

“Ew, what?!” you exclaimed as your expression shifted abruptly from concern to disgust, nose scrunching as you peered over your shoulder toward the counter.

“Is that what that smell is?” Hunter queried under his breath, his throat bobbing heavily as if trying to steel himself against the cresting heave in his stomach.

But the notion of the abandoned dish and its putrid contents didn’t befuddle you as it had Tech, instead he watched your eyes soften and roll before an incredulous scoff huffed from your nose.

“Figures,” you groused with a small shake of the head. “He has the wherewithal to put a bloody hammer in the sink but not the dirty mug.”

Tech paused, your grumbled words failing to establish even a scrap of sound reasoning in his already overladen mind, and the slight cock in Hunter’s brow as he turned to glance inquisitively at his brother clearly indicated he was equally as confused by your insufficiently explanatory grievance.

“Who’s ‘he’?” the sergeant asked on their behalf.

“My father,” you answered with another disgruntled roll of the eyes. “I asked him to come here and seal the place up for me.”

“Your father left this carnage?” Tech posed, unable to keep the bewilderment from his voice. “How peculiar.”

“But… why?” Hunter added.

“It’s a long story,” you replied, failing to conceal a large yawn with the back of one hand as the other stretched high above your head. “And I’ll happily tell you the whole thing once I get some caf in me. Give me a few minutes to turn the power back on and then we can catch up.”

The first twinge of an adoring smile tugged at Tech’s lips as he watched you first heave a preparatory sigh before squaring your shoulders and reaching for the handle of that soiled mug. With your nose pinched tightly between your fingers, and your cheeks expanded to their full capacity under the strain of a held breath, you carried the dish at arms length and retreated to the back door. Tech watched you go without even really seeing you… eyes unfocussed, mind spinning tirelessly. It seemed wholly impossible that attempting to ascertain his feelings for you during their trek along that sunlit pathway had rendered him so uneasy that he nearly faceplanted; then mere seconds later, he’d hurled headfirst into a panic so foreign and inexplicable that even Hunter, his most astute brother and the person who likely understood him most in this galaxy, had difficulty navigating Tech’s discombobulated fears. Now here he stood, the ravaging tornado of emotions spanning the last half an hour, only a thing of the past. His mind, instead, brimming with nothing but absolute certainty of his affection for you, and it wasn’t until (“...oof!”) you tripped over the long-abandoned spools of wire and nearly slooped that rancid liquid all over the floor, that a distant glimmer of reality returned to him, and he hastened to retrieve the discarded flashlight and hand it over to you.

“Was that a hug I just saw?” Hunter jeered, knocking his fist against the dome of Tech’s shoulder the second your figure vanished into the enshadowed hallway.

The genius soldier did not answer, offering his brother a mildly embarrassed, reproachful glance before shifting his attention to the device in his hands.

“You know Tech,” the sergeant persisted, keeping his voice tactfully low. “You’ve pulled some really impressive tricks out of your arsenal over the years, but I don’t think I’ve ever been more impressed by you than I am now.”

Tech let his brother's indirect praise wash over him, turning his response over in his mind several times. “It is most peculiar,” he uttered quietly to the screen as the lights flickered into life overhead, “That simply the notion of this companionship can trigger such dichotomous sentiments.”

“What do you mean?” Hunter queried as he stepped toward the front door and pushed it closed.

“Well… it seems implausible that one individual could initiate both anxiety and comfort in another, as they are contradictory emotional responses that otherwise do not theoretically coincide.” Tech kept his eyes pointedly downward to the illuminated device in his hands as he spoke. “How is it that my fear for the safety of another is rendered so paramount, that the notion of having lost said person clouds the judgement in which I hold in such high regard, particularly so when the person in question is one of whom I hardly know? Yet, the moment I deem their safety established, I am overcome with a protective urge so robust that I would unquestioningly forfeit the use of my limbs if encircling them promised a shield from any potential harm?”

The momentary silence that ensued post-confession was undoubtedly amplified by the recent extermination of fracas from the outside world, yet nothing reverberated louder amongst the walls of that dusty shop than the proud pause that proceeded Hunter’s answer, the smile doming his inked cheek as he stepped back toward his brother entirely missed by the genius still staring deliberately downward.

“I don’t know,” the sergeant answered slowly, placing a discerning hand on the top of Tech’s shoulder. “Feelings are powerful things… I guess we don’t give ‘em enough credit.”

“Indeed,” Tech agreed as he finally lifted his gaze, eyes flashing as he peered at the space where you were due to appear at any moment…

“Hunter?” he added quietly as a thoughtful silence reemerged.

“Yeah, ‘vod?”

“I do not think I will ever tire of this ‘feeling’.”

Hunter’s response was stolen off his tongue by the squeak of old hinges as you pried that back door open with the toe of your shoe, reappearing moments later in the doorway with a green mug held carefully in one hand and a clear glass of water in the other; the way your lips pursed and hitched to one side as you focussed on maneuvering toward the counter without spilling either liquid, rearousing the tingle under Tech’s skin.

“What’d’ya say we pull these boards down?” Hunter spoke loudly, clapping his brother on the arm before turning to face the obstructed windows.

“That would be fantastic,” you said, carefully depositing your steaming mug beside the computer. “I’m handy enough in my own right, but I don’t trust myself not to pull a ‘Dad’ and take a finger off trying to get them down.”

“It’s not a problem,” Hunter answered, dismissing your comment with a wave of his hand as he crossed the room and debated which of the wood panels to dismantle first. “Tech, let's start with the one on the right—”

But Tech heard none of his summons, too enraptured with the charming crease between your brows as your concentration shifted toward your drooping plants, hands lovingly tipping that glass of water into the clay pot housing your limp, little tree.

“—and then we’ll just go along the front and rip 'em down one by one. We can stack them in the corner out of the way for now. Ready? Tech…? Tech.”

“Coming.” Tech wrenched his gaze from you and hurried to meet his brother next to the furthest of the boarded windows.

“I’m a little alarmed at how easily you broke in,” you admitted with a smirk as the duo trod past the counter moments later, carrying the first the half-dozen bulky boards between them.

“It was quite simple,” Tech offered, lowering his end of the board to the dusty floor in the corner and keeping it stable while Hunter tipped it against the wall. “With the correct tool and the appropriate leverage, one can deactivate such an unsophisticated deadbolt system with relative ease. If the security of your store is of utmost concern to you, I would recommend installing a mechanical upgrade; one that permits only those who carry an individually coded microchip to ent—”

“What’s with the boards anyway?” Hunter interrupted, leading his rambling brother back toward the windows.

“I, uh… I was on Ryloth.”

The soldiers froze, hands stalling in their feat of tugging the next of the boards down while they exchanged fleeting, dark looks. “Ryloth?” Hunter repeated. “In the middle of a war? Hmm… that’s kinda—”

“Kinda risky. I know,” you agreed, looking somewhat crestfallen as you perched your chin in your palm and gazed listlessly out the now transparent window. “In my defense, the war hadn’t really reached Ryloth when I bought my ticket. Though, admittedly, I would have gone anyway with the situation being so dire. Those poor kids… Maker, I feel for them. And it’s only going to get worse as access to medical supplies gets increasingly challenging…”

Hunter looked back at Tech and raised his eyebrows, confusion etched into every superficial line of that tattooed face as he readjusted his grip around the edge of the wood panel and tugged it free of its shoddy adhesion.

“Are you being intentionally vague?” Tech voiced innocently while shifting his goggles on his nose. “Or have I simply overlooked a myriad of implied details?”

“No,” you snorted, glancing at him with an unexpected affection and igniting a blush to his cheeks potent enough to force his gaze away from you again. “Sorry, I’ll backtrack a little…” As you picked your head out of your palm and perched yourself, instead, in the desk chair behind the computer, Tech reached for his end of the nearest board and gave it an assertive tug. “About a month or so ago, an impoverished family came in here looking for some help. There were these three kids– cute as a button, but losing their eyesight pretty rapidly. Their mom has a degenerative visual disease that the kids ended up unknowingly inheriting, and Dad was at-a-loss for what to do. There’s no cure for the condition itself, but I told them I’d make some glasses for them that would help preserve the vision they had left. I tried to expedite the process as much as possible, but they fled the planet before I could finish.”

“They wouldn’t stick around for free glasses?” Hunter asked incredulously, eyes attuned to the floor below him as he walked carefully backward to the corner where they’d stashed the first panel.

“Their situation was pretty destitute,” you answered sadly. “Anyway… once their glasses were done, the only option left was to hand deliver them, as I don’t particularly trust inter-stellar couriers anymore with all the rampant piracy these days, and… well, part of me has always wanted to do some missionary work. Unfortunately, it was barely an hour after my shoes hit the sand outside of Lessu that the blockade was implemented, and all public transports were barred from entering or leaving the system. So I—”

“You’ve been trapped on Ryloth!” Hunter groaned. “For weeks!”

“That explains the fetid caf,” Tech chimed.

“Please don’t take this as a complaint,” you continued quickly. “Being on Ryloth and living with that family was an unforgettable experience, and one of which I would never have been granted the opportunity, but… I was more than a little worried about this place; this level of the Undercity is notorious for petty theft and pickpockets thanks to its proximity to the lifts, and the affluent clientele that trickles in from the surface one level above. A few days after I landed, I managed to get a transmission back to my Dad and asked if he’d come and secure the store until I could figure out how to get back, but… I think I might have drastically overestimated his handyman skills. He admitted to me afterward that a poorly-aimed hammer strike had done some damage to both his left thumb and my floor. He conveniently didn’t mention he was growing a mold farm in my favourite mug.”

“Any substantial trauma to the thumb could prove detrimental,” Tech spoke up, tipping the second board on top of the first. “The thumb houses several primary vascular bodies including the Princeps Pollicis, a major artery branching from the deep palmar arch. If the artery itself has sustained enough significant external force to cause a secondary dermal laceration, it has the potential to elicit substantial blood loss, not to mention warrant a possible surgical repairment.”

“And that explains the mess,” Hunter agreed, pointing toward the puniceous trail still adorning the floor beneath their feet.

“Mess is an understatement now that I’m looking at it,” you chuckled. “I’m still not sure if I want to thank him for helping me or invoice him for all the cleaning I’m going to have to do before I can reopen this place.”

***

It took just shy of an hour to remove and rehome the barriers your father had inexpertly installed, and the welcome addition of the dazzling sunlight through the now-unobstructed (albeit dusty) windows had the store feeling nearly exactly as Tech remembered. As he and his brother trod back toward the counter, dabbing droplets of sweat from their brow with the backs of their hands, the Ficus Elastica on the counter stood proudly erect in, what appeared to be, its own personal ray of sunlight.

“Thank you so much,” you sang as they approached, the grin atop your lips challenging that bright celestial body in the sky for its title as the most radiant entity in the galaxy.

“Not a problem,” Hunter answered as you hopped out of the chair and walked around the counter to meet them. “If the panels are still here the next time we’re planetside, I’ll get Wrecker to come rip up 'em and throw ‘em out back for you.”

“That’d be great,” you nodded eagerly. “He’s the only one I haven’t met yet.”

“Actually speaking of…” he continued, “I should check in and make sure Crosshair hasn’t lost his temper and used him for target practice. Gimme a second and then we can start the wirin–”

“I can manage.”

His interjection was abrupt, slipping off his tongue nowhere-near as passively or nonchalant as he’d intended when Tech opened his mouth to reassure his sergeant, and the responding look on Hunter’s face readily confirmed that Tech had also failed to conceal that burgeoning need to be alone with you. But he was fighting a losing battle; the trio stood only inches from where he’d first wrapped his arms around you. Despite continuing to dodge each other’s bashful glances, the near-irresistable urge to grab your hand and wreath you with his arms hadn’t left him since releasing you, and he was more determined than ever to swallow that ever-plaguing apprehension and physically communicate how much you’d been on his mind since your last encounter.

“I am capable of completing the installation without assistance,” he added politely. “And Crosshair was particularly irascible this morning despite having acceded to his demand that I park the ship in an area of complete shadow, so the need for a supervisory presence is likely heightened.”

“Shadow?” you interrupted questioningly from Tech’s elbow. “What does he have against daylight?”

“Hurts his eyes in the morning,” Hunter answered offhandedly. “You sure, Tech? We lost time with the whole ‘possible-murder’ thing. Think you can tackle it alone?”

“I will not be alone.” He glanced fleetingly in your direction before swallowing.

Hunter hmph’d quietly, mimicking his brother and glancing your way as his lips twitched against the impish smirk he continued to stifle. “Well alright then,” he conceded, returning his brother's mildly guilty look with a rather knowing one of his own. “I'll leave you two to get… reacquainted. Just don’t abandon your comm again; there are no ‘unscheduled breaks’ from war no matter what you say.”

“Thank you for the help,” you said, extending a hand toward the retreating sergeant. “And for making sure I’m not dead.”

Hunter offered you a smile and a respectful nod before his face disappeared behind that painted plastoid again, and he made his way toward the front door. Distant, yet raucous laughter filled the shop as he pulled the door open and stepped over the threshold.

“Oh… and don’t forget, Tech,” he added, the visor of his helmet poking back around the door unexpectedly. “We’re leaving for Felucia at first light tomorrow. Midnight curfew.”

***

As you locked the door behind the departing sergeant, Tech stooped and collected the coiled wires from the floor, tossing them over his shoulder before following in your wake toward the sanctity of your workshop. Despite your established safety, he couldn't prevent his eyes darting toward that large aluminum basin as the kitchenette passed on the left, the tool that had so-instantly horrified him now scrubbed clean and leaning benignly against the side of the caf maker to dry. The moldy mug, however, was nowhere to be found, though the peculiar addition of a small, tightly tied garbage bag sitting on the floor by the fire exit had Tech near-certain he’d never see that red ceramic again.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you offered as you veered right into the fabrication lab, the slight chuckle beneath your words recapturing Tech’s attention. “It seems that’s a habit I’ve unintentionally fallen into. First I gave you a heart attack about your goggles… then this. I’m regularly quite the bore, I promise.”

Tech bit back the retort on his tongue as he stepped through the doorway— you, a bore? Well that seemed even less likely than Crosshair dropping to his knees and begging them to forgive his abhorrent attitude.

“An apology is not required,” Tech spoke instead. “It would appear that I jumped to an inaccurate conclusion upon arriving here to find you missing. It was a most uncharacteristic overreaction, and one from which I now-suffer a great compunction.”

“Compunction?” you repeated, brows furrowing at the implications of his confession as you reached gently upward and began to lift those heavy coils from his shoulder. “Why?”

Tech hesitated for only a breath, watching your nimble fingers blanch under the weight of the wire as you took it from him. “Well… several years of advanced training and exposure therapy have rendered me effectively inured to a multitude of scenarios that others may deem distressing,” he divulged as something near concern wiped the smile from your lips. “Yet, I failed to maintain control of my emotions in the face of your disappearance. I became largely inexorable, making objectively impetuous and questionable decisions.”

“Tech,” you uttered in little more than a consoling whisper, his stomach lurching as your free hand collected his from somewhere near his hip, those slightly chilled fingers weaving their way in between his before the soft, consoling brush of your thumb nearly weakened his knees. “There is nothing to regret. Worrying about someone is nothing to be ashamed of, and arguably even less so if that person is someone you care greatly about. In fact, an initial surge of panic followed by attempts to verify their safety is likely the expected psychological response to such concerns. You walked into what looked like a very foreboding situation and had no data to disprove your suspected theory.”

“I suppose that is correct,” Tech shrugged, dropping his gaze to the toe of his oily boot, “Though it has been several years since I last studied the sympathetic subsection of the autonomic nervous system in response to traumatic stimuli.”

“Sounds like an interesting read,” you mumbled through a sarcastic smile that prompted the return of his gaze. “Tell me– if the same situation presented itself again, would you not react similarly? Would you not do everything within your power to make sure that someone was okay while everything around you was telling you they’re not?”

“Of course I would.”

“Then that’s that,” you answered simply. “There’s no reason to regret your actions, just like I don't suffer any contempt for getting myself stuck on Ryloth. Making the trip there was the best and potentially only solution based on the information available to me at the time. Things went awry… and that’s okay, because we should always do what our gut is telling us to do when it comes to things and people that we care greatly about.”

And there it was: that intemerate benevolence that he wholly adored about you, reemerging to knock him over the head with a validation that he’d never experienced before… and the subsequent moment, as his eyes locked on yours and his grip on your hand tightened, he felt truly seen as himself. Not Tech the highly-skilled soldier… not Tech the ingenious mechanic responsible for keeping the GAR’s most elite squad in the air… not Tech the pilot who loved his datapad above all else and never slept. You saw Tech… accepting and welcoming him as he is; validating his infrequent displays of vulnerability as if humanity was something he could and should experience first hand without fear of persecution or judgement.

“Oh, and don’t think I didn’t catch that,” you added, brow shifting into a devious arch as a playful smirk tugged at your lips.

“Catch what, exactly?”

“The oxymoron you dropped in there: ‘found you missing’. Someone can’t be found and missing, hun. But keep dropping them– I’ll catch ‘em every time.”

Was it that teasing smile, or the enamoring, little puffs of air that escaped your nose as you snickered in the wake of your own coy intelligence? Or could it be the way your gaze kept darting from his eyes to his lips, that had him feeling as if he were suddenly hovering? The ground had, at some point, simply disappeared from below those smeared and blackened boots– vanishing into nothingness with everything else that had previously encircled them underneath those dim, humming lights. There was simply nothing but your hand interlaced with his. Nothing but the soft flutter of your eyelashes as they danced with every subtle shift in your gaze, and the unobtrusive quiet of an empty building that promised no foreseeable interruption. Every unhurried second ticked into the past by the chrono on the wall saw him pulled toward you by a force presented to him only once previously– when he’d boldly adorned the back of your hand with the same gesture that he longed to press to your smiling lips.

But… did you want that? Was your heart also hammering heavily in your chest, threatening to send the room spinning more than it already was? Were you as captivated with his eyes as he was with yours, letting that effulgent twinkle dazzle him like the radiance of hyperspace did? Had the last month also seen you seeking out moments of solitude, keen to forgo the mundanity of the present in favour of vanishing into the memory of him? The memory of an utterly ineffable connection?

Or were you standing there watching his eyes flutter closed, wondering what in Maker’s name you’d done in your past life to warrant having to endure such an awkward encounter? Was your mind frantically trying to find the words to politely reject his bold advance? Were you desperate to yank your hand from the clutches of his clammy gloves, and assert that he simply complete the required electrical repairs and then vanish indefinitely?

That sabotaging little flitter of doubt was enough to have Tech leaning backward, eyes opening to their full extent and quickly darting toward his boots while he reached for his goggles and shifted them needly atop his nose.

“Tech?” you whispered as he pulled his hand from yours, stowing his gauntlet comm in the pouch at his thigh before tugging at his gloves.

“I should initiate the electrical deconstruction,” he muttered as his face burned, pulling his datapad from its holster and bringing it to mere inches from his nose. “Can you please deposit those coils in the corner underneath the panel?”

“Sure.”

The sigh that preceded your curt answer was near deafening, circling around that quiet room what seemed to be half a dozen times before it dissipated into the now suffocating quiet. And while that soft huff of exasperation had near-tortured him, it was the unbridled disconcertment wholly engulfing your reply that stole his attention back from his device, and he watched with a sense of suppressed horror as your face fell rapidly into, what looked to him, an expression of dispirited chagrin.

***

Tech spent the next several hours near-furious at himself. Thoroughly incensed that his body never failed to repeatedly fall into the encompassing urge to physically connect with you whilst his mind remained downright incapable of elucidating the veracity of his perception, and infiltrating every modicum of that surging desire was an equally powerful right-hook of uncertainty.

Chiefly infuriating was your continued, unwavering kindness; he could barely stomach the ever-gracious way you offered to help him at regular intervals. Truthfully, he’d like nothing more than to have you hovering at his elbow for the entirety of the process, handing him whatever tool was required to progress the installation and witnessing him do what he truly did best while he chattered endlessly about the importance of matching the electrical capacity of the wire to its respective fuse. Yet, every time his eyes met yours, he was harrowingly reminded of his close shave with humiliation; reminded of the sheer confusion he’d seen behind your eyes as he pulled away from you, and your persisting geniality had him nearly-suspicious it was nothing more than a front upheld until the work was complete.

For the sake of niceties, and as a measly effort to atone for his self-proclaimed embarrassing behaviour, he accepted the glass of water you’d offered him shortly after he began the labour-intensive work, though despite the layer of dust gathering in his throat with every inhale, it sat untouched on the counter beside the lens generator.

He took his frustration out on the task at hand, snipping wire casings with an unnecessary gusto and scowling anew with each new electrical breaker that he clicked into place, but it seemed no degree of mechanical tinkering could distract him from the resentment coursing through him. Even the addition of a small radio, churning out happy-go-lucky, intraplanetary hits every couple of minutes was no match for his morose mood.

“Tech?” he heard you probe from the doorway several hours later, as he stooped over the sink in the kitchen and began to scrub the grime from his hands.

“Mmm?” he answered, ignoring the prickle erupting on the back of his neck at the sound of his name leaving your lips. He felt you approach, listening to the muted scrapes of your shoes on the floor as you neared, casually leaning against the counter in his peripheral vision.

“My brain might still be on Ryloth time but… were– were you about to kiss me?”

His stomach plummeted to his toes, eyes quickly unfocussing on that aged and rusted drain, hands briefly hesitating in their attempts to rid his skin of the encrusted soot and grime that had accumulated over hours of working in the walls.

“Yes,” he admitted after a poignant swallow, and found himself watching the drain noisily consume the stained suds falling from his fingers, hoping the gurgling sound would be loud enough to drown your surely impending stammered apologies for the uncomfortable misunderstanding and your request that he leave and take his misguided feelings with him.

“Well why didn’t you?”

His head jerked somewhat awkwardly; he’d nearly snapped his gaze toward you, only to stop himself part way through as the sound of your stifled chuckle surprised him. Tech stilled upon realizing that laugh had not sounded chastising at all. Nor jeering or humiliating, nor repulsed or repugnant. It sounded almost… frustrated. Indignantly accusatory, as if you were mildly annoyed that he hadn’t kissed you.

He reached blindly for the towel folded on the counter adjacent the sink, lips pursing as he thoughtlessly ran that cloth between his fingers until his skin began to revolt against the continued abrasure.

“Tech?” you whispered, the delicate probe successful in only fleetingly drawing his gaze.

“My affection for you, while subjectively highly enjoyable, is paired with an exponential degree of uncertainty that I have never previously experienced,” Tech divulged to the fabric in his hands. “And there are recurrent moments when, despite all other variables suggesting otherwise, I suffer an inherent doubt that you would ever reciprocate my feelings. You are well educated and even better mannered… meticulous with the quality of your work… exceedingly intelligent… your compassion for others and your willingness to assist them, even where the circumstance would deem reciprocity impossible, is truly unrivaled by any person I have ever met and… and…” He paused to regain control of his words as they spilled uncontrollably from mind to mouth.

“Tech, hun,” you cooed through the ghost of another exasperated laugh. “You are all of those things too. You have no vested interest in this shop yet here you are, laying on your back in the dust, doing several days worth of electrical work so this place can function at peak productivity and make my life easier. You graciously donated several hours of your time last month to help me plough through the mountain of work that had been looming over me for days. You broke in here ready to hunt down and assault whomever it was that had allegedly harmed me without even a thought for yourself. Despite having malignantly convinced yourself that you lack emotional intelligence, you have a truly exceptional mind. You are uncommonly and refreshingly polite, and you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, which is saying something because I’ve seen a lot of eyes. I– I’m kinda crazy about you, too.”

A truly exceptional mind? Refreshingly polite? Did you believe all of this to be true? He searched every inch of your face for any signs of insincerity, any fragments of dishonesty, any twitch of the lip that might disenchant the gratification coursing through his veins from your admonishment.

“Well,” he continued, attempting to keep his tone neutral as the realization that he’d likely blown his chance with you threatened to kick his heart clean out of his chest. “With any luck, another moment shall present itself where I may demonstrate how much you undoubtedly mean to me.”

He jammed his finger needlessly against the bridge of his goggles, dejected gaze dropping back to boots now dirtier than ever while a quiet, albeit forlorn sigh left his lips and he resumed inattentively fiddling with the little towel.

“Well,” you mimicked. “Since, the ‘ideaology of luck’ is, apparently, illogical… allow me.”

He must have stumbled over his toes in the subsequent second, though the most he’d ever be able to offer was a deduction based on the force you’d used to tug him toward you. In the reality of that moment, your perfect response to the divulgence of his feelings and the unexpected affirmation that you, too, felt similarly, had instantly rendered him euphorically ignorant to anything other than the feeling of finally having your lips against his.

That damp little towel somehow ended up displaced and draped atop the caf machine, but exactly how and when it had left his hands was a mystery that did not need solving. There was simply nothing else worthy of consideration or acknowledgement in that moment; nothing more important than the small drafts of warm air cascading across his cheek every time you shifted your lips atop his; nothing more prudent than the small yet mighty grip you maintained on the collar of his chest plate keeping him no more than a breath away from you. Somehow, you ended up perched on the counter next to that hammer, its existence now so inconsequential that it wasn’t even spared the courtesy of a glance as it fell over and landed with a thunk behind the caf machine. Tech didn’t even notice you blindly lift his goggles from his nose and rest them on his forehead, though the tender brush of your thumbs along the chronic indents on his cheeks sent shiver after shiver down his spine.

It wasn’t until your lips separated from his, and he was enveloped almost entirely with that same feeling of permitting a limb to depart his body that he returned to some semblance of awareness.

“Are you still uncertain?” you asked him with a smile that sat somewhere on the border of devious and playful.

“Darling,” Tech answered near-breathlessly, “The only notion unclear to me at this point, is how I will survive until I can see you again.”

“Speaking of…” you sighed, gesturing to the small chrono embedded into the caf machine. “You should probably head out. It’s nearly midnight.”

Tech glanced at the old clock as it mocked him. 23:44 pm. Just enough time to collect his tools from their scattered displacement around the fabrication lab and depart the store. He’d be climbing the Marauder’s ramp within minutes… silently deposit his pack in the cockpit… settle down at the workstation to tinker with his current modification project and reminisce about his afternoon in your company. But… why? Surely if his squad members were already tucked into their bunks, or quietly preparing their weapons for deployment tomorrow, there would be no harm in staying here a little longer with you? “There are no unscheduled breaks from war, no matter what you say…” The sergeant had been referencing his previous alibi; the off-the-cuff excuse Tech had offered his brother after the previous, irresponsible mistake of letting his comm depart his person had ensured him unavailable and unreliable.

His jaw tensed under the audacity of what he was about to do.

“Please excuse me,” he requested of you politely, stealing a chaste peck of a kiss from your lips before stepping backward and extracting his gauntlet comm from the cargo pouch where he’d previously stored it for safekeeping.

“Hunter,” he spoke after activating that little blue light. “What time are we set to depart for Felucia?”

“0600…” his sergeant answered suspiciously. “But curf—”

“I will see you then.”

“Te—!”

Tech silenced his comm with the blind poke of a button and tossed it carelessly to the countertop where it came to rest next to the hammer, his hands instantly reaching to cradle your waist while he chased your kiss so eagerly that you nearly toppled backwards.

***

An hour. It took an hour to stop kissing long enough to resume talking, and then several hours after that to accept that neither of you were going to achieve any other productive tasks that night. Still wholly invigorated by your union, Tech declined your midnight offer for a caf, though with how the taste lingered on your tongue between sip and kiss, he may as well have drank a cup on his own.

At quarter-past two, you dragged him by the hand back toward the lens edger and lifted his goggles from his nose. You first giggled about how much he absentmindedly squinted in the void of his regular, average eyesight, before instantly launching into an educational titter about precisely why humans even developed that anatomical squint response, and how effective it can be at temporarily improving visual acuity. And while he longed to query every fact against one of which he’d researched on his own time, he’d found a new use for his lips that he much preferred.

Shortly after four, as you locked your hands around his waist and groaned into his chest about having to spend the next several days on your hands and knees, scrubbing the floor in preparation for the reopening of your store, Tech accidentally knocked over a bottle of effervescent blue liquid; the same concoction you’d used to disinfect his glasses previously, and a quick glance at the ingredients list while he collected the dripping container had him instantly yammering about how the peroxide additive would be the perfect solution for removing the embedded blood stains.

A short time later, an unseen gang of bad mouthed adolescents were heard hollering on the other side of the fire exit door, their voices amplified by the stillness of the night and the empowered notion that they were loitering where they were not permitted, and despite their inebriation posing no apparent threat while you remained behind a locked door, Tech still refused to let you leave the backroom until he could confirm their exodus.

At half-past five, an oversized yawn barely concealed by your hand reminded Tech that, despite wishing Father Time would simply abandon his post and gift him a moment with you free from that nagging and imminent deployment, his squad was waiting for him; his sergeant likely highly perturbed and waiting for the pilot’s next transparent excuse.

“How do the eyes feel now?” you asked over your shoulder as you walked ahead of him toward the front door, his pride-and-joy helmet bobbing near comically on your head as it concealed the smile that he could hear lay atop your lips.

“Much improved,” he answered, breathing in what he could before your companionship would be lost to him for another little while.

“Thought so!” you chuckled proudly, the modulator in his helmet distorting the music of your amusement. “Changing the refractive indices of a lens can sometimes initiate a bit of a hiccup in visual processing, especially when paired with changes in curvature and correct application of coatings, but the foreign sensation typically dissipates within a rotation or so.”

“May I remind you, you need not have gifted me new lenses.”

“I just supplied the material,” you argued, helmet wiggling again as you casually shrugged away the innocent condemnation in his tone. “You did all the work the last time you were here. They’ve been sitting here waiting for you to come back so I could put them in your goggles. Plus, yours were in… questionable… condition, and if your last set were any indication of Kaminoan knowledge of refraction, you’re much better off with these. How do you feel about the slight tint after wearing it for a few hours?”

Tech forced his gaze toward the window where the sky was undoubtedly beginning to lighten under the embrace of the sun's first morning rays. He, truthfully, hadn’t given that slight yellow tint any thought in some hours; what was initially found quite unusual had quickly morphed into something… “Quite calming,” he answered.

“There’s built-in blue light protection, too, for all the quality time you spend with that datapad. Give it a month or so, and your circadian rhythm will thank me.”

You stopped when you reached the front door and turned around to face him. Despite the exhaustion having swollen the tender skin beneath your eyes, there was no denying they were still alight and twinkling as they watched him approach. But Tech stopped shortly after you did, knowing that the nearer he reached the door, the nearer he’d be to leaving, and he wasn’t yet done processing the night's events. The budding sunrise on the other side of the glass was bringing with it an understanding he never knew he’d been deficient. So this… this is what he spent his days fighting for. Feelings like this. Companionships like ours. People like you who spent their time trying to better the lives of others without even a hint of motive. Someone who cared if he returned or not.

Tech sighed, very aware that finding the correct words to elucidate his feelings for you was simply a task for another time. For now, as the sun continued to betray him by rising ever higher with every lingering breath, he wanted every last second with you to be one completely void of thought.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” you probed suddenly, breaking into his torpor. He refocussed his gaze and found another of those playful smiles crinkling your eyes, palm raised to shoulder height and facing him.

He let only the ghost of scoff depart his nose as his lips lengthened under their own smile, and he resumed his approach, not stopping until the toes of his boots were nearly touching yours. As he reached upward and gently pulled his helmet from your head, a faint ache erupted in his chest, amplified by the quiet snicker that left you and the regretful reality of that sound being one he would not hear for the foreseeable future.

“Five,” he whispered after tucking his helmet under his arm, interlacing his gloved fingers with yours and holding tightly to your hand.

“Correct,” you breathed, eyes fluttering closed as he rested his forehead against yours. “If your next mission is counting fingers, you’ve got that in the bag.”

“Considering Felucia is widely known as the Planet of Fungal Forestry, I would deem that largely improbable. However–” he added, identifying the first flickers of fear behind your eyes, “–it is highly probable that I shall return by month’s-end.”

“If Cranky Crosshair doesn’t use you for target practice first?”

“Cranky Crosshair compares naught to Hunter when he’s truly angry. Hence why I must not be any later than I already am. Goodbye for now, darling.”

He stole one last, lingering kiss from your lips before reaching for the handle on that vibrant yellow door.

***

ragu list: @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @starrylothcat @secondaryrealm @dystopicjumpsuit @freesia-writes @sev-on-kamino @littlemissmanga @523rdrebel @wings-and-beskar @wolffegirlsunite @sunshinesdaydream @clonemedickix @echoqk @drafthorsemath @jediknightjana @moonlightwarriorqueen @starstofillmydream @mooncommlink @multi-fan-dom-madness @wizardofrozz @trixie2023 @clonethirstingisreal @rabbitstu99 @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @mythical-illustrator

#bad batch fan fic #bad batch fanfic #bad batch Tech fanfic #tech x reader #tech x gn!reader #x reader #starqueenswrittenworks #starqueensedits #tech Tuesday

70 notes · View notes

seriowan · 1 year

Text

beach bum love (tech x surfer gn!reader)

summary: the one where tech won't stop worrying about his cyare while they're out on the water

pairing: tech x gn!reader (no mention of pronouns)

warnings: spoilers for tbb s2ep13; a few steamy kisses and a suggestive comment but nothing too crazy in this one; tech is just a big ol' worry-wart and reader is a surfer (surfing is also called waveboarding in this because it felt more fitting for the whole space-vibe)

word count: 2.5k

a/n: this is my contribution to those who were impacted by episode 13 for reasons. ♡ while i do love phee, i also love tech and in my mind, he'll always be tech fans' nerdy lil' boyfriend 🤍 i'm also checking out for the night — it's three in the morning and i have to be up in four hours 😙🫶🏼 enjoy!

♡ masterlist ♡

Every morning was the same. The same steps; same routine; same everything.

Wake. Get ready. Eat fruit. Drink caf. Grab your board. Head to the shore.

Even after Lower Pabu had been wiped out by the tsunami, you found it best to slip away before the sun could rise over the horizon. With reconstruction taking place during the day and tired folks sleeping away at night, it was a sad but relieving experience to be able to stand on a bare beach, illuminated by nothing but the moon and the stars.

It was particularly quiet on this specific morning. The birds had yet to sing their tune within the trees and the moon-yos weren’t awake yet to watch you from the shore. The murmur of city chatter was virtually silent as Pabu’s residents slept in their beds. All that was left was you and the crash of waves. Crickets chirped from the jungle brush and way off in the distance was the faint impression of boats as fishermen left their ports to begin their day of gathering.

Taking advantage of the silence, you set your board down and took a seat beside it. You shut your eyes and exhaled through your nose, connecting with the silence… the ocean… the distant seagull that cried above your head. Every breeze was cold, teasing the freezing waters that you were about to dive into. In your moment of solitude, you accepted the start of a new day; a fresh breath taken as you thanked the universe for another chance to feel sand between your toes and the moon’s light on your face.

When the time came to swim, you stripped out of your clothes and remained in your swimwear, shivering at the cold winds. You tied the leg rope around your ankle and stood, hauling your board underneath your arm.

You stepped into the ocean little by little. First, a testing touch with the tips of your toes, just to feel the temperature. As expected, the waters had yet to become warmed by the sun so they were cold; cold enough for you to withdraw your leg with a sharp breath.

“Kriff,” you muttered to yourself, scratching your head in uncertainty. “Sure is colder than usual right now.”

After giving yourself a moment, you inhaled deeply and forced yourself to step in a bit deeper than before, the water rising all the way up to your mid-shin. It was cold and it was not fun, but it was something that you knew you needed to overcome if you wanted to catch the best waves.

So, with another deep breath, you muttered a little curse under your breath and began striding deeper into the ocean. It inched up your body, igniting your skin with goosebumps as ice-cold waves crashed against your skin. You felt the sand shift between your toes, shells poking your heels every so often. It wasn’t until you were waist-deep that the water felt slightly more bearable than before, but you still had more to go before it could become unnoticeable. It pulled you to and fro with its strong tugs, sparking an eagerness in you when you noticed how perfect the waves were.

You positioned your board so that the nose was pointed towards the waves and with your hands on the rails of the board, you pushed yourself up, swinging your legs over it until you were lying flat on your stomach. The temperature of the water hit you harder than ever, causing you to grind your teeth. With a sharp exhale, you started paddling, your arms cutting through the water smoothly as you made your way out to open waters.

As you paddled out, you scanned the horizon, searching for any sign of incoming waves. You could feel the salty water splashing against your face, the moon illuminating the little droplets until they glistened like crystals in the air. Finally, you reached the perfect spot where you could wait for the right wave, attentive eyes watching the horizon as they came.

In your moment of waiting, you turned to look at the island. Lower Pabu’s ruins had skeletons of reconstructive frameworks all over the area, turning the once-busy part of town into a desolate wasteland. It would have been eerie had you not grown up on those streets, making it rather sad than frightening. Part of the reason that you shied away to surf in the morning was due to the fact that you were rebuilding your own ruined home with the thanks of your boyfriend and his brothers.

A gentle rock caused you to turn, eyes darting out towards the horizon. Excitement bubbled inside you as you anticipated catching your first wave of the day.

It didn’t take long before a set of waves appeared in the distance. You paddled hard, positioning yourself perfectly to catch the second wave in the set. You felt the wave lift you up and push you forward. With a quick push upwards, muscles burning from the effort, you stood up atop the board and rode the wave with ease, feeling the wind in your hair and the spray of the water on your face.

It was a short ride but that was to be expected. You were simply testing out the waves - easing your limbs as they adjusted to the water and the waves.

Paddling back out into the depths, you took a moment to just lay on the board, chin against your forearms as you swayed forward and back with each gentle wave. The sky began to go from a dark navy to a baby blue, orange lining the horizon as the sun rose bit by bit. The winds grew warmer while you watched the clouds take shape, stars slowly fading until they were hardly visible. The birds began to sing from the island and the moon-yos hoots were loud enough to hear from your spot in the ocean, causing you to smile the moment you saw a flash of green sitting on the sand.

And it seemed that the island wasn’t the only thing to wake at the first sign of light.

His figure was a blur but visible nonetheless. Tech sat on the shore in his casual attire — the only difference seemed to be the towel resting on his shoulders and the spare bag now sitting by his foot. He sat on a small blanket, lifting his hand above his head in greeting. You greeted him back just before the sound of roaring waters caused you to turn, eyes widening at the massive wave that was barrelling your way.

Again, as the wave rolled against you, you pushed yourself up to your feet and focused hard, maintaining your balance as the wave swept you up and quickly sent you rushing towards the shore. Its giant arch rose over your head, creating a tube that you flawlessly traversed through. You crouched down to gain better stability, fingertips skimming through the water as you continued your path through the beautiful turquoise barrel. With the ease of a professional, you exited the tube at the right moment, allowing the wave to crash and join the ocean while you approached the shore.

You jumped off before you could hit the sand, diving under the water only to resurface soon after. Cold droplets dripped from your lashes, streaming down your face from your hair as you hauled your board under your arm and stepped out onto the sand. Muscles burning from the effort, you wobbled gracelessly atop the sand, grinning at your goggle-eyed boyfriend as he peered up at you with the smallest smile on his lips.

“Good morning, love,” you cheesed, dropping your board beside him before bending down to give him a kiss. He obliged, only to scrunch his nose at the cold water that dripped on his face. He pulled away quickly, backtracking so that he wouldn’t get wet.

“You’re drenched,” he noted, frowning, “And freezing. Need I remind you that you can catch hypothermia if you are not-

“-careful of how long I spend in the water,” you finished, flopping down on the blanket beside him. He grimaced at the water that splashed against his bare arms. “I know. I’m careful, see?” You gestured toward the ocean. “I didn’t even go on the big waves just for you.”

“I appreciate that you are taking care of yourself for my sake,” he murmured, tugging the towel off of his shoulder to throw around your own. You smiled and leaned against his side, chuckling when he grunted at the water that dripped from your soaking skin. “However, I am not quite fond of you coming out here by yourself. I would feel much more at ease if I knew that you had someone here to watch you.”

“For?”

Tech pushed up his goggles, pulling out his datapad to quickly type on it. “Drowning accounts for sixty percent of waveboarding deaths, and it can result from a head injury or a malfunction with your leg rope-”

“Tech,” you said softly, causing him to look at you with the subtlest trace of worry in his eyes. With a gentle hand, you cupped the side of his face, cracking a smile when he tensed at your cold fingers. “I love that you care and I love that you worry, but I’ve been doing this since I was a little kid. It’s fine — I know what I’m doing.”

His brows furrowed just slightly but, after a moment of hesitation, he nodded and looked down at his datapad as if the thing was useless. When he put it down at his side, you noticed the off-put movement of his body language. It was almost as if he was dismayed by the fact that you didn’t want anyone to watch you waveboard.

Then, as if a lightbulb clicked, it all suddenly made sense.

Brushing a droplet of water off of his face, you leaned over and kissed his cheek, smiling when he glanced at you in surprise.

“However,” you sang, climbing over his legs to sit on his lap. “I wouldn’t be opposed to having you join me. Just so that I’m not out here alone. Having to get down here at night is actually kind of unsafe now that I think about it and if you want you can-”

“Yes,” Tech agreed with a firm nod, setting his hands on your hips. He didn’t seem bothered by the fact that you were drenched anymore. His heavy brown eyes held onto yours with enough adoration to make you melt against his touch, your hands sliding up his chest and over his shoulders. “I would like to join you. Perhaps I can keep track of your personal records and best performances. A-And possibly take a few pictures and videos of you while you are on the water.”

“For archival purposes, right?” You teased, leaning forward to steal a kiss. “Definitely not for your own personal enjoyment.”

“Of course,” he muttered as he kissed your chin, neck, and continued farther down your wet chest. “Archival purposes only.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, eyes shutting at the feeling of his heated lips against your sternum. “Why does it sound like you have a secret motive?”

“Because I do,” he shamelessly murmured against your skin, lifting his head to kiss your chin once more. “I just wish to have a digital memory of you in the instance that I must leave the island. Then I can have a piece of you wherever I may go in this galaxy.”

“Oh, Tech,” you muttered softly, cupping the sides of his face. He shut his eyes when you skimmed your fingers through his hair, nails raking across his scalp in a soothing gesture. You kissed his forehead, the bridge of his nose, and then settled on his lips, moving them in a slow tempo before you muttered against his mouth, “What will I ever do with you?”

“I have a few recommendations,” he said in a low, suggestive tone, causing you to rock your head back in a laugh.

“Wow. Way to dial it up, you romantic.”

“I was simply following your cues-”

Again, you laughed and smashed your lips against his, grinning into the kiss. His hands slid to your back, pressing you against his chest as your lips danced, the faintest moan slipping from him when you scraped your nails down his back.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of that brain of yours,” you teased when you pulled away, leaning back to playfully bite and tug on his bottom lip.

The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile as he shrugged. “I assume that is a good thing.”

“Oh, it’s a very good thing,” you assured as you rolled off of his lap. Standing up, you brushed your hand over your head, tossing a few droplets of water on Tech. He narrowed his eyes at your antics, causing you to giggle and lean down, kissing him before he could complain. “Means my love for you will never run out.”

“I suppose that is a good thing,” he mumbled, causing you to stamp a few quick pecks against his lips.

After a series of quick kisses and his playful nudge against your thigh, you picked your board back up and started walking towards the water. With a turn, you waved your hand above your head and shouted, “You said you wanted some pictures, right? Well get that datapad of yours out, baby, ‘cause I’m gonna give you a show!”

“Be careful!” He called after you, his expression twisted in both amusement and worry. “Be mindful of the temperature — and if the wave is too severe then please do not attempt to ride it! You do remember the last incident-”

You stopped before you could enter the water, swiveling around with a hand on your hip and a frown on your face. “Hey! You promised you wouldn’t bring that up!”

“You almost drowned!”

“But I didn’t! I’m still here aren’t I?” Tech’s unamused expression was enough to make you sigh, rolling your eyes. “Alright, alright. You worry too much.”

“I worry enough.”

“You’re worse than my mother-”

“At least your mother and I share the same concern for your well-being-”

You walked backward in the water as you called out, “Alright! Just tell me you love me already!”

“Just- agh, fine!” He shook his head before cupping his mouth. “I adore you! Stay safe!”

“And I adore you! Get ready for pictures - and make sure you get my good angles!”

Tech just shook his head, a small smile hiding behind his datapad as he snapped picture after picture of you riding wave after wave. While you grinned and cheered, doing moves that made his blood pressure soar, Tech was just pleased that he could now start his day with his beloved. In his mind, there was nothing more enjoyable than beginning a new day with your smile and energy, even if it had a tendency to make him worry.

In the end, your habit to seek adrenaline and his tendency to be by your side and care for you was something he quite enjoyed; something that he wouldn’t change for the world.

“Tech! Watch this!”

“Cyare, you're going to hurt yourself-!”

taglist form - message me or lmk in the form if you would like to be removed <3

@queenquazar @mo-i-ra @boomtowngirl @lucyysthings @nahoney22 @elismor @techs-ass @echos-girlfriend @babygirlrex0504 @questforgalas @littlebluebatbrat @crosshairs-wife @discarded-beskar @lucyysthings @dangraccoon @burningfieldof-clover @cyarinka @zaddymaul @corona-one @eloquentmoon @maulslittlemeowmeow @misogirl828 @theclonesdeservebetter @frietiemeloen @pinkiemme @torchbearerkyle @stcrmhond @ivela3 @kaminocasey @sunflowerrex @nekotaetae @literallydontlook @agenteliix @starqueensthings @fives-lover @ladykatakuri @sunshinesdaydream @roguethe0tter @chicknstripz @sskim-milkk

#tech x reader #tech x gn!reader #tech the bad batch #tech #the bad batch #tech bad batch #bad batch #tbb tech #tbb #tech x reader fluff

233 notes · View notes

anxiouspineapple99 · 1 year

Text

Okay here goes nothing! My original fic has turned into a monstrosity because my maladaptive daydreaming said “bitch we need to Tolkien tf outta this.” So I may post that one later when I’m done fleshing it out and I may not if the dopamine kick for my currently unmedicated ADHD wears off. However, it did result in this (longer than I intended) one shot. I feel pretty vulnerable posting this tbh but it’s good for my anxiety to do this. A few notes before continuing. I almost wrote this in third person because while I love reading me a good character X reader fic when other writers use “you” whooooo boy was that hard for me. Also because it was born of MD, the initial story was a first person OC but I don’t feel comfortable writing that yet so here we are. Okay I am rambling now sooooo here I go before I read it again, see everything I hate about it and chicken out!

Fireflies

@deewithani asked to be tagged when I posted so hi and I hope you enjoy! 😊

Rating: Teen+

Pairing: Tech x GN!reader

Word count: 2017ish

Warnings: fluff. Lots of it cause I love fluff. Fluff so sweet your teeth might fall out.

One cycle. It had been almost one full cycle since The Batch had landed on your secluded planet of the Outer Rim. You’d made your way here following Order 66 and the villagers of the tiny island on which you now lived were more than welcoming. You were still heartbroken, however. You were alone. You felt like a failure. You were a Jedi healer and you couldn’t save any of them. Your former master, the younglings, your friends in The Order, your friends that were clones. So when The Batch arrived you were conflicted. Torn between the fear that they may also turn on you but also feeling immense comfort in their presence. You kept your secret, you couldn’t get hurt if they didn’t know. Regardless, you began to open back up slowly but surely. You made cookies for Omega and Wrecker, shared dry jokes with Echo, and carried out pleasant conversations with Hunter. However as the days pressed on, you found yourself seeking Tech’s company the most. You loved hearing him talk about anything and everything. You shared your own scientific and medical experience (withholding key details about your time as a healer) and theories with him. You loved the lively debates and learning from him. Watching him working on the Marauder was your guilty pleasure pastime. You felt almost normal again.

Nonetheless, you were feeling guilty for not being completely transparent about who you were. So tonight was the night. You were going to tell him everything. Sort of. Actually you were going to drop massive hints. Tech was brilliant. If he hadn’t figured out your secret yet, you were certain he would figure it out tonight. You decided you would take him to your special place; a secluded alcove off the beach. In your early days on the island you’d accidentally discovered it was home to a small swarm of Tython Fireflies which only hatch during the warmest cycles, like now. They’re also Force sensitive and tend to gravitate to Force wielders. He should be able to connect the dots with that alone, you thought to yourself. Also, you really did want to show him the fireflies; and, maybe, you just wanted to be alone with him. Even if just for a short while.

“Tech! Are you available tomorrow evening? There is an incredible natural phenomenon that I think you would appreciate!” You had asked him. “Yes, I am available,” he’d told you. “Fantastic. Meet me at the old trail just an hour before dusk,” you’d instructed.

“You’re early,” you cheekily teased when you opened your door to an unexpected knock. “Obviously. Is that a problem?” Tech answered. You shrugged, “Nope. Just an observation. Are you ready?” “Lead the way,” he answered, holding an arm out, beckoning you to walk ahead of him. You shot him a flirtatious grin over your shoulder as you led him down the path to the alcove. Maker, was he incredible. You reveled briefly in his Force signature as you walked, noting its warmth. You loved the companionable silence the two of you shared. Almost as much as you loved the conversations. As you traversed the rocky tide pools you pointed out native species and he shared stories of aquatic species he, his brothers, and Omega encountered while on missions. You could listen to him talk all day. You admired how effortlessly he trekked over the uneven and slippery path; graceful and almost entirely silent. He was bloody beautiful and you wanted to look at him forever.

“It’s just this way!” you excitedly called to him. You reached out to the tangle of vines hanging from the rocky ocean cliffs. Pulling them back revealed a weather beaten opening. The two of you emerged on the other side into a small inlet. From the rock face poured a waterfall into a small lagoon. In it were some of the biggest and most elegant Goldies you’d seen, and was saying something because the ones that were kept in the Jedi Temple were impressive.The inlet was draped in exquisite greenery, trees, and radiant flowers. The sand was soft and still warm and the birds were singing their roosting songs as the sun crept lower toward the horizon. “We are here!” you exclaimed, holding out your arms and doing a little spin. “Quite impressive. There is a wide array of flora and fauna here I haven’t seen on the rest of the island,” Tech mused as he wandered about inquisitively with his datapad in hand. You giggled at how cute he was inspecting each flower, fish, and insect, rattling off facts about the ones he knew and making notes to research the unfamiliar. You walked up beside him, “There’s more. Do you see those pods hanging from the trees?” You asked. “I do,” Tech responded, adjusting his goggles. You continued, “Those are the egg sacks of the Tython Fireflies. They only hatch during the warm cycles, like now. When dusk arrives in only a few moments those will open with thousands of new hatchlings ready to spread their wings.” Tech began typing on his datapad, “Fascinating! Tython Fireflies, I know I have heard of those before—“ Before he could continue, you grabbed his arm, “Shh! Look! They’re beginning to hatch!” You both stood still as the pods split and the fireflies emerged, slowly at first. As their wings dried they began to pour from the pods like shimmering gold water. You could hear their songs within the Force, however the audible humming of their wings was also lovely. You held a hand out; first one and then another landed in your palm. One, five, eventually ten and twenty little lights encircling your outreached hand, they were warm and found comfort in the Living Force within you. Tech watched speechless for a moment, completely enraptured by the sight before him. You, under the emerging stars, in this picturesque location with sweet fireflies landing in your hands like they were pets. Time escaped you as you both basked in the moment.

“Ah yes, Tython Fireflies, I recall now. In Mando’a they are called “be’jetti Ka'ra '' or the Jedi’s Stars, because they are particularly fond of Force sensitive---” Tech stopped, looking at you with the sudden realization. “Hm, that is interesting,” you hummed coyly, confirming the unspoken between the two of you. “Wait. I want to show you something else,” you added as you grabbed his hands. You cupped them as if you were preparing to pour something in them, “Don’t move.” You walked to the nearest pod and scooped a handful of the new hatchlings. They hummed and buzzed in your hands, sounding happy and comforted by the living Force they felt in your fingers. You slowly walked back to Tech and gently placed them into his cupped palms. You then tenderly placed your hands around his, brushing his knuckles softly with your fingertips. As the hatchlings gathered their strength and their glow intensified, they illuminated his face. His brown eyes looked even more beautiful than you thought possible. He held your gaze and your heart felt as if it would leap from your chest, the space between you closing slowly. You sighed, smiled, and then whispered, “On my command, hold them up. Three…two…one…now.” Together, you raised your hands into the air and the hatchlings took flight swirling and dancing around you both as if there was a song neither of you could hear. As they dissipated into the foliage you moved to sit on a rock closest to the lagoon. “Well? What do you think?” you tentatively probed. “About which part? Your being a Jedi or the impressive light show you’ve just shown me?” he answered walking toward you.

“Both, I suppose.”

He sat next to you, thigh pressed against yours. You were suddenly keenly aware of how warm he was, soft, and kriff, he smelled amazing. You inhaled deeply taking in his scent, a combination of smokey and subtly spicy with the faintest remnants of oil likely from his constant tinkering on the Marauder.

“I am surprised I did not realize before now that you were a Jedi. In retrospect there were many signs I should have picked up on. However, I do not blame you for not being forthcoming before tonight. Though, you are safe with us. We have all had our chips removed and Omega never had one. As for this,” he motioned with his hands indicating he was now speaking about your surroundings. “This was remarkable. And I thank you for sharing it with me. It has, however, led me to ponder a hypothesis I have been rolling around recently. With your permission, of course.”

“Of course. I always enjoy a good experiment!” you chirped with a smile. He shifted to angle himself toward you. He confidently smirked as he tipped your head up, thumb and index fingers tenderly holding your chin. He then moved in and kissed you firmly. You didn’t hesitate and leaned into it bringing your hand to his cheek.

“Fascinating,” he crooned as he pulled back. “I believe this hypothesis will require further testing.”

“Well then, I suppose we should get to work,” you cooed as you leaned in again. The next kiss was deep and desperate. Tech’s fingers dug into your waist, pulling you to him while his other hand was fervidly tangled in your hair. Your hands roamed from his face to his neck, pulling him in not wanting to let go. You were tangled in each other for an unknown amount of time, hands roaming, drinking each other in under the stars.

And then his comm began to buzz. You both reluctantly pulled back, out of breath and ravenous for more. “One moment,” he sighed.

“Tech where are you?” Hunter’s irritated voice cut through the peaceful night air. “There are some repairs we need to finish here and you said you’d be back by now.”

“Apologies Hunter. We were…delayed,” Tech answered shortly, adjusting his goggles once again.

There was a pause and then a quiet chuckle from Hunter, “I see. Just try not to wake us up when you get back.”

“Copy that.”

“It is late. We should start making our way back,” you sighed, closing your eyes and focusing on Tech’s fingers that had made their way back to your hair. He sighed and leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. “Yes, I know.” He stood up and extended his hand to you. You took it, momentarily marveling at how perfectly your hands fit together. As you made your way back together you leaned into his shoulder and said, “You know, my Mando’a is pretty rusty. I’d love to learn more.” Tech squeezed your hand and replied, “Fortunately, I am an exceptional teacher.” You laughed and he smiled warmly at you. Your laugh was musical to him. “I was going to say that you’re lucky that I’m an excellent pupil,” you teased. He bumped your shoulder with his arm playfully and chuckled.

The walk home was far too short for both of you. When you arrived you stalled trying to avoid the inevitable end to the night. “Thank you for coming with me tonight, Tech. It far exceeded my expectations and is, without a doubt, now my favorite experience there. And thank you for trusting me to test that…hypothesis,” you said as you smiled shyly, just missing his gaze.

He lifted your head so he could meet your eyes with his, “You are the only one I wish to test that hypothesis with. And I will continue to do so until you no longer wish to.” You blushed and answered, “This will be an extremely long running experiment then.” You stood on your tip toes and placed a soft kiss on his lips, “Good night, Tech.”

You turned to go inside but he held on to your hand a moment longer and uttered, “Mesh’la.” You stopped and turned to face him once again, “What?”

“Consider this your first lesson in Mando’a, mesh’la.”

“Oh! And what does that mean?”

He brought his hand to your face and you pressed your cheek into his palm as he answered, “It means ‘beautiful’.”

71 notes · View notes

motte-the-goblin · 11 months

Text

Beach day

Just a little something happy and fluffy I threw together because they deserve it.

Notes: tech x GN!reader, established relationship, shirtless batch, gawking lol

Idk, enjoy!

It was almost always warm on Pabu. Today was an especially beautiful day though, so you convinced the Boys to have a Beach day.

You had stayed behind with Omega to prepare a few snacks for everyone while the Batch migrated to the beach armed with towels, a blanket and a big parasol.

Visibly turning more and more impatient, hopping from one leg to the other, unable to focus on her task, you decide to let the little Clone go on ahead, handing her a small basket with fruit and Water canteens.

“Bring this to the Boys,I’ll be just a few minutes.”, you explain as you sent her off. Smiling, you watch Omega skip down the cobblestone path towards the Beach before returning to the sandwiches you were making.

On your way down to the beach, a heavy basket full of sandwiches and cookies tucked under your arm you suddenly realize that this would be the first time seeing them Shirtless.

Weird thought, but okay. You mutter to yourself, grinning a little though at the prospect.

The five men were all no doubt handsome, how could they not be, seeing they were clones after all and clones were generally exceedingly good looking.

And you didn’t question for a second that they were all probably ripped.

Not that it mattered at all, you didn’t mind softer Bodies but you couldn't deny the appeal of a nice, muscular, toned Torso.

You caught yourself gnawing at your lower lip whilst you were picturing the Batch shirtless and stopped yourself quickly in your tracks.

Shaking your head slightly at yourself you continue your way down, slipping out of your sandals as you reach the soft yellow sand.

Shielding your eyes from the sun with your hand you look around for your friends. Wrecker’s uncanny, booming laugh, followed by a loud splash directs your attention to your left, where they had settled down.

You see Omega’s blonde head perking up out of the water, where Wrecker had thrown her in playfully. They were splashing each other, laughing happily. A warm smile grew on your lips seeing them like this.

They all deserved some fun after all they had been through with the War, Cross leaving, the whole Eriadu debakel… getting Cross, Tech and Omega back from Mount Tantiss…

A shiver runs down your spine remembering those horrible times.

Quickly you redirect your attention to right here and now. On this beautiful, sunny day on your little paradise Island.

“I brought sandwiches!”, you call out as you walk towards the blue parasol.

Hunter and Cross were lounging on towels, soaking up the warm rays and you couldn’t help but let your eyes slowly wander across their bare Chests.

As you had expected - chiseled. You didn’t expect them to be completely covered in Tattoos though, but then again it made sense with their face tattoos and all.

“Like what you see?” Hunter's low voice pulled you out of your thoughts. He was looking up at you through one open eye, chuckling lightly at your startled reaction.

“Well, uhm… I…”, you feel busted for a second, before you remember that these guys have been your friends for quite some time now and you didn’t have to be weird around them.

“you’re quite easy on the eyes.”, you grin in response, reaping a confident smirk from both men.

“We know.”, Crosshair snarled, making you chuckle in return.

You turn towards Echo and Tech who were hiding underneath the beach Umbrella from the unrelenting Pabu sun.

“Cyare.” Tech’s soft voice made your insides melt. He tapped next to himself on the blanket so you put the basket down, placing yourself next to our boyfriend.

“Hey, There.”, you say softly, chewing your lip.

You’d been officially a couple for about three weeks now and you still got so nervous around this brilliant clone.

That he was only wearing a thin linen tunic that was loosely bound in the front, revealing a good part of his neck down to his Sternum, was not helping. You could vaguely estimate his physique underneath the light fabric and noticed that he also had some Tattoos. you made a mental note to ask him about those one day.

Once again trapped in your thoughts you didn’t perceive tech’s gaze falling down to your lips and only when you felt his breath fan over your skin you noticed him leaning in for a kiss.

With a little surprised “Oh” you closed the gap and sighed at the butterflies exploding in your stomach as his soft lips met yours.

An amused snicker from Echo forced you two apart to look at him.

“Oh don’t mind me, you’re adorable.”, he waved off.

Smiling to yourself you settle into Tech’s side, who immediately puts his arm around your shoulder, drawing little circles on your skin with his thumb.

The three of you look out on the Ocean in comfortable silence, watching Wrecker and Omega joshing around, now throwing a big beach ball between the two of them.

Tech sighed contently and planted a little kiss on your head, squeezing your shoulder gently.

“Thank you cyar’ika. We really needed this.”

Your head resting on his shoulder, you smile up at him.

You were so glad that they were all back safe.

_________

#tech x reader #tech x gn!reader #star wars tbb #oneshot #tech lives #bad batch

61 notes · View notes

neyswxrld · 5 months

Text

a taste of tech

Tech x reader (gn)

summary: Making broken chocolate with Tech!

warnings: none, just fluff

word count: ~740

advent calendar masterlist

a/n: this is the sixteenth fic for my advent calendar and my excuse to shamelessly picture tech with a chef's hat.

When you asked Tech if he wanted to make broken chocolate with you, you didn't expect him to go into full Chocolatier mode.

But then again - it was Tech. What else did you expect?

And that is how you're standing here in your kitchen. While he even chose to wear an apron and a chef's hat, you're lucky you found a similar pair of socks to wear in the morning.

"You know that making broken chocolate isn't a piece of art?" you ask him, a little bit stunned. Even though you think he is slightly overdressed, you still have to admit that he looks absolutely cute with his hat.

"Yes, it is. The chocolate can't get too hot. Otherwise, it won't taste good. And it won't have that beautiful shimmer. On the other hand, the chocolate can not be too cold, or it will be too liquid and the swirls won't look good," he explains, carefully helping you to unwrap some of the chocolate bars and placing them on the baking tray.

"I pre-heated the oven already. That means we won't have to wait for so long until everything is melted," he informs you, going to work right after and putting the tray in the hot oven.

You aren't surprised as he even pulls a thermometer out of his apron's pocket and puts the one end next to the chocolate while he sticks the other end with the small display to the door.

"Have you already thought about how your chocolate pieces will look like?" you ask him, turning around and scanning all the different ingredients you took out of the cabinet while he was dressing up.

"I rather thought about how it will taste. I wanted to put some freeze-dried strawberries and raspberries on it, with a breeze of finely chopped nuts. And maybe, in the end, I have to try and put some salted sticks to a single corner. Wrecker said I should try that, but I am not sure about it, and, admittedly, confused about his preference of a sweet and salty mixture of a snack," he says, putting his thumb and a finger on his chin while thinking. "What about you?"

"Oh, I don't know yet. Maybe I'll try some sprinkles and edible glitter. Or I could make a snowman!" you think aloud, shrugging your shoulders in the end.

"Excellent idea. I think it will look perfectly fine," he encourages you while going over to the oven again, looking at the thermometer.

After some minutes, he pulls out the tray again, placing it carefully on the counter.

"Here," he says, giving you a toothpick and starting to make some swirls, mixing the light and the dark chocolate together.

You do the same, careful that the white chocolate doesn't get too many dark swirls. After that, both of you silently start to decorate your halves of the tray, and while Tech's side is starting to look very tasty and unbelievably pretty, you feel like a unicorn pooped on yours. Maybe -just maybe- it was too much glitter.

Nevertheless, it's about the taste and not about how it looks. You keep telling yourself, at least trying not to let yourself bring down your mood.

Tech looks like he's enjoying himself, and you wouldn't bring his mood down by saying how unsatisfied you are with your side, either.

After quite some time, during which you started to get demotivated by the minute, Tech finally finishes too and happily looks down at his and your creation.

"Now, we just have to let it cool down," he explains, putting the tray in the fridge.

As soon as he turns around, your moroseness fades as quickly as it came.

On his cheek, Tech has some chocolate smeared around, which makes you grin widely.

Before he can even ask why you're grinning like a madman, you almost jump him.

"Taste test!" you laugh airily, licking a wet stripe across his cheek, "cleaning" the chocolate off his face.

Immediately, a sweet taste mixed with the flavor of berries and hazelnuts carries across your tongue. Tech's decision to add those ingredients really was a good one.

"How does it taste?" he asks, a little bit confused.

"Hm... You're sweet like ever. With a little bit of chocolate flavor," you smirk, wiping your sleeve across his cheek carefully. You enjoy the pink shimmer that paints his cheeks, placing a last small kiss on them.

TAGLIST:

@isthereanechoinhere96 @trixie2023 @freesia-writes

#the bad batch #star wars #tbb #tbb tech #bad batch tech #tech fanfiction #star wars tech #clone trooper tech #tbb tech x reader #tbb tech x you #tbb tech fluff #tech x gn!reader #tech x you #tech x reader #broken chocolate #all i want for christmas advent calendar #star wars advent calendar #tbb advent calendar

24 notes · View notes

clone-anon · 1 year

Note

I'm having a really hard time right now with my confidence and could use a clone friend (so, request is platonic). Everything feels overwhelming like I want to run away and hide, but I also want to be seen. Tech is my favorite. I do like physical contact with friends I trust, but not new people.

I can relate to this so, so much! Deep breath. Here we go.

You were trying to keep it together while everyone seemed to have a conversation around you. You hadn't been part of the conversation for awhile, going silent, mind rushing. You just couldn't take any more information and that voice started grumbling about how you couldn't handle things, weren't smart enough, people didn't like you, no one wanted you around, you weren't worth anyone's time, you were just a bother.

You stood up and started walking, not really paying attention to where you were going. You only headed to a clearing, away from the Marauder, away from town, away. Your walk turned into a jog and you didn't even register the tears in your eyes. You finally stopped near some trees, sitting underneath them, trying to catch your breath more from your emotions than jogging.

As you tried calming down that nagging feeling showed up again. You wished someone had noticed and followed and yet you were terrified to be vulnerable with anyone. It wasn't until this moment that you noticed someone had followed.

"Might I be of assistance?" It was Tech.

You looked up to see his face covered in concern and kindness. You nodded. He was about the only person you wanted to see right now. With Tech, you were safe.

"May I sit down?"

You nodded again and he sat on the ground next to you. Tears were still streaming down your face and you pulled back a sniffle. Tech looked at you and lifted his arm. You moved in and the weight of his arm grounded you. For several moments you breathed and seemed calmer until the tears came back. You started sobbing over your fears that wouldn't seem to go away, trying to explain to him how you felt.

Tech took a minute after you finished before responding, "We both know that you are smart, you are worthy, you are enough. You're my dear friend. I know that logically, saying these things will not offer an immediate fix, but please do not feel you must run away when these thoughts appear. You are more than welcome to run to me."

You looked up at him to see the warmest smile in the galaxy. His eyes conveyed how much he cared for you. You hugged him and quietly promised you would come to him next time. When you pulled away he offered you a tissue and rubbed your shoulder.

"I am here for you," he said. "Just as I know you are always here for me." He looked directly into your eyes and added, "You are never a bother."

"Thank you for coming after me," you said.

"I have learned from Omega that sometimes when people seem to want to be alone, they might need someone to follow them." He paused and reiterated, "I am always, always here for you."

#tech anon #tech x reader #tech x gn!reader #gn!reader #tbb fanfiction #the bad batch fanfiction #clone anon responds #tbb tech #tech #tech bad batch #tw: panic attack #panic attack #tagging that because this could also be a description of a panic attack mayday voice in my experience #reader insert

45 notes · View notes

lady-pug · 11 months

Text

How do we move on?

Summary: You and the Batch have decided to head to Eriadu in hopes of tracking down the location of Doctor Hemlock and maybe have a chance at saving Crosshair. But you have a bad feeling about this. After the whole thing goes down, you’ll need the help of your family to face the consequences.

Pairing: Tech x Reader

Word count: 2,2k

Warnings: this one is preatty heavy on the angst: major character death, grief, mourning (this contains spoilers)

Notes: This one is ONE SAD BOI. This honestly was inspired from my own recent experience with grief, including a few quotes that I myself have said. So this is slightly self-indulgent in that sense. I'm already working on part 2 so I hope to have that out soon.

I really hope you, dear reader, enjoy this (I really want to write for the other boys as well). As always if you spot any mistakes, please feel free to warn me and I'll correct it right away, and feedback is always welcome and appreciated.

Reader’s gender not specified.

Next part | Masterlist | Read on AO3

“Tech, come in! Tech, what’s going on?!”

Only static greeted your ears.

“Hunter?!” you shouted into the commlink yet again “Wrecker? Anyone?”

No one was answering.

“Does anyone copy?!” your chest tightened, a horrible feeling washing over you.

The Batch had decided that the best course of action if you even hoped to find Crosshair was to fly to Eriadu and sneak into Tarkin's base, planting a tracker onto Hemlock’s ship. You had protested from the beginning, sensing something was off.

“Tech?” as you were preparing to leave Pabu you had wandered outside where he stood, nose glued to his datapad.

“Hmm?”

You walked up to him until your toes touched, something you always did when you wanted his full attention. This was your way of letting Tech know what you had to say was important, which he always respected.

“What is it?” he asked, lowering his datapad.

You sighed. You didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news, to spoil the only chance you might have to save their brother, your friend, but something was gnawing in your stomach, telling you not to go.

“Should we really be doing this?”

His face twisted into one of confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“This… mission.” crossing your arms, you averted your gaze, looking anywhere but at him. “I know this is our only option in order to save Cross, but…”

Trailing off, you shrugged, chewing at your lower lip, a bad habit you had picked up during the war and the goggled clone often scolded you about.

“But…?”

You closed your eyes, leaning only slightly closer to him, and took a deep breath.

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

It was Tech’s turn to sigh.

“I know this mission could be potentially dangerous,” he placed a comforting, yet slightly patronizing hand on your shoulder “but from an objective point of view all of our missions are.”

“Potentially dangerous?” you scoffed, dodging away from him, his arm falling limp by his side “Tech, this isn’t like blowing up some clankers, o-or racing on Safa Toma. T-This is real. We’re infiltrating an Imperial Base holding some of their highest ranking officers, we-” you tried swallowing around the lump in your throat.

“Well, yes, but we have done much-” he adjusted his goggles before preparing to launch into a long explanation that most likely involved statistics of some sort. However, he must have caught something in your expression, some hidden feeling deep in your eyes, that made him pause.

Taking a hold of your elbow, his touch so gentle you almost mistook it for the wind, he seeked your gaze, trying to get you to look at him.

“What is this really about?” he questioned, his voice soft.

Your lower lip quivered. How could he not see it?

“I’m scared, Tech.”

His eyes softened. The smallest of sighs left his lips as he gently held your chin with his forefinger and his thumb, tilting your head to look right into his eyes.

“I know you are concerned. But you do not need to worry.” the corners of his lips lifted into a small smile “I won’t let anything happen to you, dear.”

You chuckled humorlessly, tears brimming in your eyes.

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

Tech’s grip on your face tightened just a fraction. His eyes, on the other hand, softened even more.

“I know that you care for our safety. But if we want to retrieve Crosshair, it’s a risk that we have to take.”

A lone tear made its way down your face. Then another. Tech moved his other hand to cradle your cheek, his thumb slowly collecting fallen tears as they escaped your eyes.

“At least let me come with you.” you whispered.

As the team’s medic (and the only person Tech minimally trusted not to wreck the Marauder) you often stayed on the ship as the getaway pilot, prepared to take off at a minute’s notice. But this time you had an awful feeling telling you to be there with them. To keep them safe.

He closed his eyes briefly before looking at you again, his eyes the most sincere you had ever seen.

“You can’t. As our medic, it is in our best interest that you stay away from- that you stay on the ship.” he stuttered, like he was stalling “We need you safe. I-” his breath hitched almost imperceptibly “ I need you safe.”

A sob clawed its way up your throat, but you suppressed it. Trying to blink away your tears you stepped back from him, before jumping into his arms. You knew Tech wasn’t one for physical touch, but you couldn’t hold back anymore. If there was a chance you might not see him again, you needed this.

“Then promise me you’ll be careful.”

His arms, first tense and unsure, slowly curled around you, bringing you closer to him. His face nuzzled into the side of your head, so you felt more than you heard when he whispered:

“I promise.”

Now though you wished you had argued harder, that you had gone with them. A massive explosion had just gone off inside the base and you couldn’t get in touch with any of them, and you were starting to panic. Breathing deeply through your nose, you started a counting exercise the head doctor had taught you when you were training to become an issued GAR medic. You couldn’t lose it now, they might need you at any moment. Perhaps the empire had just jammed their communications after the explosive went off.

Just then you heard the sound of blaster fire in the distance. Looking out the Marauder’s windshield, you could see a few figures running in your direction. They were quickly followed by white armored soldiers, firing at them. Grabbing your blaster, you punched the controls to lower the ship’s ramp and quickly fired at the troopers that were trying to hurt your family.

With your help, the Batch managed to board the ship safely. Wrecker rushed in, carrying an unconscious Omega to the bunks in the back, quickly followed by an injured Hunter and an out of breath Echo.

“Echo, grab the controls.” Hunter ordered.

“What happened? What’s the damage, Sarge?” you asked the same question you always greeted them with when they came back from a mission while already fetching the medpack. Then something occurred to you “Where’s Tech?”

You could see Hunter’s shoulders tense, but he didn’t answer you, still barking orders at Echo, who was busy engaging the engines.

“Get to Ord Mantell. AZI can help her.”

“Hunter!” you shouted, walking up to the sergeant “Where is Tech?!”

Hunter finally looked at you, his expression solemn. He didn’t need to say anything. You knew.

“We have to go back.” you whispered, voice growing agitated with newfound desperation “We have to go back! Echo, turn this ship around!”

“Wait-” Hunter tried to stop you, but you only walked closer to the cockpit.

“We have to go back!” you shouted, growing more and more desperate as you noticed the ship had already left the planet’s atmosphere and Echo was getting ready to jump into hyperspace “We have to go back for Tech! We have to go get him!”

Hunter enveloped you in his arms, restraining you to prevent you from reaching for the controls. You struggled against him, frantically trying to get to the pilot’s seat.

“We have to get Tech! We have to go back!” your own voice sounded foreign in your ears and your words didn’t make sense to yourself anymore. All you could hear was a loud ringing, accompanied by a pressure in the back of your skull. You couldn’t breathe, your chest felt like it was collapsing into itself and every breath was too arduous to take. You just had to reach the controls. Once you did, you’d turn the ship around and everything would be alright again.

“Wrecker!” you faintly heard Hunter call out, but it was muffled, like you were underwater.

You registered something cold and sharp being pressed against your neck, but when you realized what it was, you were already slipping into unconsciousness.

When you came to, you were laying in a bed. The mattress was on the harder side, stiffness creeping onto your back. You sat up, still groggy, taking in your surroundings. It was a room, small, stuffy, warm. Then you noticed. In the corner, under the desk, was a can of black paint. Something sparked in your memory, you helping a certain goggled man to paint over the red stripe on his helmet. This was the room Tech often bunked in while in Cid’s parlor on Ord Mantell.

“You’re awake!” you heard an excited, albeit only slightly, voice speak from the doorway, turning to see Wrecker sticking his head out into the hallway “Hunter, get in here!”

When he turned back to you, you startled, eyes widening at his appearance. His neck was encased in a cervical collar and, you frowned, his eyes were missing their usual glint.

Hunter came rushing in, a look of relief settling on his features when he laid his eyes on you. You noticed that he, too, was covered in bandages.

“Good to see you up, doc.” he muttered.

“What happened?” you asked, even though you were certain you wouldn’t like the answer.

“The mission was compromised.” he explained vaguely.

“No, Hunter.” you hissed through gritted teeth. “What happened to Tech?”

Hunter sighed, sharing a glance with Wrecker that made your blood run cold.

“He initiated plan 99.”

Your heart sank. Plan 99. The one plan the Batch had never, ever considered using, and you genuinely hoped never would.

Leave one of our own behind.

Named after the one clone whose sacrifice meant saving the entire base back on Kamino, plan 99 was only supposed to be a contingency plan. A hypothetical, far away idea, not… not this. Not this very real, very tangible, thick, gross feeling.

You felt a gentle, large hand being placed on your shoulder, only now noticing the tears streaming down your face.

“I’m sorry, doc.” Wrecker whispered, his face reflecting the very same heartbreak that was probably etched onto your own features.

Your chest ached. Your lungs felt like they were on fire. Your heart, on the other hand, felt both hollow and extremely heavy at the same time. Your heartstrings felt like they were about to snap.

Sitting down next to you, Hunter pulled you into his arms, hiding your sobs from the galaxy. Wrecker, ever the gentle giant, sat on the other side of you, draping himself over your back in a protective hug. And you cried.

You sobbed, like you never had before. You screamed until your throat felt raw. You cried. That’s all you did for a while. And just for a little while, nothing else mattered, except for your tears, streaming down your face, and the tears of your friends, your brothers, who finally decided to let go and just feel. To truly feel what they hadn’t allowed themselves to feel until now, too preoccupied in getting Omega to safety. To feel the gaping absence of one of theirs.

Once your tears ran dry, you lifted your head from Hunter’s chest, and instantly wished you hadn’t. You caught a quick glimpse of your own reflection on the small mirror over the desk and hated what you saw. Staring back at you was someone ugly. A disfigured non-person, a shade of who you once were, it looked like you, except it was hideous and broken. Disgusted with what you saw, you turned back to Hunter to ask about Echo and Omega as something dawned on you.

“I-I never-” you whimpered, your breath hitching in your throat “I never got to tell him…”

You trailed off, a fresh wave of tears burning in your eyes.

“Trust me,” Hunter interrupted “he knew.”

“W-what?” you asked.

“You didn’t have to say it. He knew. He always knew.” he sighed, looking far away “And he wasn’t the best with words, you know that, so he never said it either. But he loved you too.”

Your heart clenched painfully in your chest.

“H-how?”

Wrecker let out a tiny laugh.

“He’s Tech.” he smiled down at you “He was the smartest of us all.”

Wrecker paused, before smiling sadly at you.

“He also said he was sorry.” he shrugged “For not keeping his promise.”

You fell silent, a million and one questions flowing through your mind. He loved you too. He was sorry. He was gone.

“How do we move on from this?” you questioned, your voice quiet, almost as small as you felt in that moment.

Hunter shook his head.

“I- I don’t know.” he whispered, defeated. You knew him well enough to know he felt like he failed as a leader, something you knew wasn’t true.

You glanced away from them, closing your eyes and letting out a shaky exhale. Just then you felt your hand being enveloped in another, warm one.

“But whatever happens next,” Hunter continued “whatever we do, we’ll figure it out together.”

As Wrecker also grabbed your other hand, you laid your head on his shoulder, suddenly feeling crushed by the weight of it all. The man you loved most in the whole galaxy was dead, and he didn’t even get to say goodbye. You didn’t know if you could come back from this.

But you were willing to try. As long as you had your family with you.

#tech x reader #tbb tech x reader #the bad batch tech x reader #tech x you #the bad batch tech x you #tech x gn!reader #tbb tech x gn!reader #the bad batch x gn!reader #tbb x reader #the bad batch x reader #tech fanfiction #the bad batch fanfiction #tbb tech fanfic #the bad batch tech fanfic

36 notes · View notes

neon-junkie · 2 months

Note

How would TBB react to seeing the reader about to leave on a night out dressed up in a super hot outfit?

Gender-neutral reader, but feminine presenting. Words like 'beautiful' and 'pretty' are used!

Hunter - Even with half of his face tattooed, he still manages to blush through the thickness of the ink. - He's truly lost for words. - Hunter has an adorable stutter as he compliments, "wow, you look… nice- I mean, incredible. Good. Beautiful?" - Hunter then facepalms as he scolds himself for picking "nice" as his first compliment. Ugh, you look so much more than nice! - You'll both be giggling as Hunter takes a deep breath, and begins going into detail about how good you look, highlighting the specific parts that really stand out to him. - You're heading out with friends, but Hunter is quietly hinting that he wants to come along. Totally not because he's jealous or anything, but because he hopes to meet your friends, right? The friends that he's met several times before? Yeah! - Tell him that you'll still be looking this good when you come back home later tonight, and he'll get the hint. - However, he may need to leave a fresh mark or two on your neck, just to get the point across that you're taken.

Echo - This poor, poor man is going to turn the deepest shade of red when he finally sees you. - Why, just WHY did you have to wear that specific outfit that he loves so much?! And you're going out without him too?! Oh, what a tease! - Echo is lost for words as he gushes over you. He feels like it's his wedding day - How is he this lucky? How did he land an angel like you? - There's a tear in his eye as you smother him in kisses, reassuring him that you're all his, that you're the lucky one for being with him, that you can't wait to come home and snuggle up with him later. - Echo doesn't ask for much, but he would like to be kept in the loop on your whereabouts. Purely for your own safety! - "And when you reach the next bar, just comm me. Your friends have my comm number too, don't they? If anything goes wrong, and you want picking up-" blahblahblah. - One final smother in reassuring kisses, and you're good to hit the town!

Wrecker - His mouth instantly hangs open, his eyes turn wide, and his facial expression swiftly turns into a grin as he comments, "HOT!!" - You know in cartoons where the character's mouth drops open, and they begin howling and barking? Yeah, that's Wrecker. - Seriously, you look hot, and Wrecker's going to ensure that you know it. - "Look at you! I can't believe I got myself an angel as sweet as you!" - He'll mention how he's sad that he's not tagging along, but he'll assure you that it's important you spend your time with your friends. - Wrecker isn't as clingy as he seems. After all, he'll be right here, waiting for your return. - And when you do return, all your hangover needs will be met. A tall glass of water waiting for you, a midnight snack, breakfast in bed, and a big buff man to cuddle you back to health!

Tech - This will go one of two ways: - Option one: Tech eyes you up and down, and with a firm nod, he comments, "that is suitable attire for your evening. I hope you enjoy yourself." - Option two: Tech's brain short circuits. He can barely muster up a thought, let alone a comment. Radio silence, but his expression says it all. - Either way, Tech is more than impressed with your outfit choice, and how stunning you look. He just… struggles to find the words, like a deer in the headlights. - Give him a few moments, and you'll be met with suitable praise. "How exquisite you look, a truly elegant and radiant creature." - Tech can't pinpoint one specific word to describe how beautiful you look, so instead, he selects the most complex and in-depth ones. He doesn't want to rely on a 'standard compliment.' - A few kisses later, and you're off to meet your friends. All the while, Tech begins pacing around the Marauder like a lost puppy. He needs to keep himself occupied until you return!

Crosshair - He's instantly thirsty for you, smiling cheekily as he eyes you up, gawking at the sight of you. - Crosshair has a way with words, and spews out his praise, all whilst kneading at your waist, his hands trailing down to grab your ass whilst he steals a handful of kisses from you. - And then it dawns on him… - You're going out with your friends tonight, not him… - Jealousy swiftly takes over, and his compliment turn into teasing (yet petty) jabs. Nothing to hurt your feelings, though. - "Any reason why you're wearing this tonight? Do you need more attention? Am I not enough for you?" - Whilst his tone is teasing, there's a desperate need for validation. - Yes, he knows you'd never be stupid and hurt him, but… can you please remind him one more time? - Don't be surprised when you leave, and minutes later, Crosshair sends you a holotext. "Comm me if you need anything, Beautiful."

#tbbwriting #the bad batch #tbb #tbb x reader #the bad batch x reader #reader insert #gn!reader #fluff #hunter x reader #echo x reader #wrecker x reader #tech x reader #crosshair x reader #tbb fanfic

711 notes · View notes

verybadatwriting · 4 months

Text

To Be Held

Summary: Reader is injured.

Warnings: Angst, blood, and wounds

Notes: Thank you so much @arctrooper69 for the request and @promptsbytaurie for the prompts! :D

Prompts:

“You did so good. Don’t worry, you-you did so good.”

“Hey, hey, shhhh. Shhhh. You’re okay.”

“I know, I know it hurts.”

Gn!reader

Word count: 1,019

Tech often held you like this. Your head tucked against his neck and shoulder, his arms wrapped around you, holding your chest to his, you were safe. Sometimes the two of you were curled up on your bed, sometimes you were seated atop the Marauder, Tech quietly mumbling about the stars, but never before in a pool of your own blood. You tried to drift away in these good memories, let go of the pain.

A surge brought you back. Tech’s hand pushed against the wound on your upper back. The blood quickly seeped through his fingers.

“Aah.” You writhed at the pain.

“I know,” He said, “I know it hurts. Just stay awake. Please.”

“Did…” You started to ask. “Did we do it?”

“Yeah,” Tech said after a moment, amazed you could be thinking of the mission while bleeding out “You did it. You did such a good job.”

“Really?” You asked, a slight waver to your voice.

“Don’t worry, you–you did so good.”

“I-is anyone else… hurt?” You managed between shaking breaths.

“No,” Tech held you tighter. “The rest of the Batch is fine. They’re on their way. They’ll be here soon. You’ll be okay…. You’ll be okay.”

“Oh,” You said, taking another deep, shaky breath. “It’s that bad?”

You leaned back, pushing away from him so you could see his face. His front was soaked with blood. Your blood. You looked up at his eyes, but they were focused on the horizon.

“They’ll be here soon,” He repeated. He sounded like he was trying to reassure himself more than you.

“Hey.” You said, reaching a hand up to his face and tilting it down to face you. Your bloody fingers left four lines on his cheek. He lifted his similarly bloody hand from your back and grasped your fingers.

“We need to keep pressure on the wounds,” He said, “Or else… or else you’ll …”

You nodded, and allowed him to pull you closer. His chin was tucked on the crown of your head, your cheek pressed to his collar. Seeping into the ground was your blood. Too much of it.

“Tech,” you started, surprised at how weak your voice sounded, “I love you.”

“Shh, no, no. Don’t talk that way.” He shook slightly as he soothed you. “Shhh. Shhh. You’re okay.”

“Please,” You pleaded, “Just say it back.”

A few moments passed. Tech seemed to be mulling it over, coming to terms with something.

“I love you, too,” He eventually whispered, as if the words were so fragile that saying them too loudly would shatter them.

Reassured after hearing that, your breathing changed. The slow shaky breaths became shallow, and too fast.

“I love you,” Tech continued. “And all the little inside jokes we have. And how you can always find a way to make Omega laugh. And how… how you listen when I ramble. And when you talk about the future and your eyes fill with life. And when you smile.”

When he said that you smiled weakly against his shirt. Listening to him, you almost didn't mind the cold numbness spreading from your fingers and toes. Or the pain in your torso. One again, you could be lost in his voice.

Your body was slowly shutting down in a last ditch effort to save you. Your entire being went numb, every muscle and tendon relaxing. At least that meant your breathing finally slowed. Your eyes drifted closed. The coppery taste of blood faded, along with the burnt smell from the ash and rubble.

“Hey?” Tech squeezed you tighter. “Stay with me. Please.”

As your hearing – your last lifeline to the world of the living – faded, you faintly heard the sound of the Marauder flying low.

Then there was nothing but darkness and a dull ache that you couldn’t quite place. You felt it deep inside, like you had been gutted, and smoldering coals had replaced your insides. It was the deepest grief you’d ever felt. It started to fade away, but you heard a familiar voice.

“Stay with me. Please.”

Tech. You thought. I need to get back to Tech.

Although it felt like your limbs were made of lead, and weighed down in tar, you fought. This dark abyss wasn’t it for you. Not yet. You tore yourself from the inescapable stillness, despite the coals burning from inside.

You had to see Tech again. Hug him. Hold him. Tell him it would be alright. Save him from the pain you’d seen in his eyes.

After what felt like a lifetime, you heard something. It was muffled voices, ones you recognized, which slowly became crisper. You smelled sterile medical supplies, and felt your chest rising up and falling down with each breath.

Pain accompanied consciousness. You could stop fighting, slide back into the abyss, but that would mean never seeing Tech again, so you soldiered on.

With one last push you flung your eyes open, and you were back. Breathing, living, hurting. You’d escaped from the void, and you were back in your body.

You turned your head, and saw Tech in the seat next to your bed. He hadn’t changed his clothes, as evidenced by your dried blood. You didn’t know if it would ever come out. He had a faraway look in his eyes. The same one he had while waiting for the rest of the Batch to come save you two.

You shifted slightly, and he snapped to attention at the sound.

“Cyare,” He whispered, reaching out to take your hand. “Welcome back.”

His eyes scanned your face, as if he was trying to make sure you were real. You squeezed his hand to reassure him.

“I am,” You said, voice scratchy and weak. You cleared your throat, which triggered a sharp pain. You let out a small gasp.

“Are you okay?” Tech asked, his eyebrows furrowing together. You looked at the lines in his face, deepened by a lack of sleep and surplus of concern. Reaching one hand up, you cupped his face.

“I’m fine, love,” You smiled up at him, and he returned a weary smile.

#star wars #tcw #writing #tech x reader #tbb #the bad batch #bad batch #x reader #gn!reader #tbb tech x reader #tech angst #tech x reader angst #angst tech x reader #tech x you

300 notes · View notes

littlelioncub43 · 1 year

Note

Walking up behind Eddie and greeting him with a playful smack on the ass for the first time: Did you just? On his?? Aaand he's hard.

Well, yes. HeheheHEEEEEEEEEEEEE

"Mornin', handsome," you croak playfully in your sleepy voice as you exit his bedroom in your pajamas, but before he can turn to greet you, your hand is swatting his behind through his sleeping pants.

He jolts in his spot standing at the kitchen counter, his brain literally static as he processes what's just happened and how he feels about it. Judging by the tent in his pants, he likes it. A lot.

You're drawing a cup of water when you feel Eddie corner you in, his hard on rutting into your ass and his lips attacking your throat.

"E-Eddie!" You giggle and playfully try to wiggle out of his grasp (totally not grinding on his dick to tease him more). "What's gotten into you?"

"Sweetheart, you know how flattery works with me."

#tech tuesdays #tech tuesday #eddie munson x you smut #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x gender neutral reader #eddie munson x fem reader #eddie munson x female!reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x gn!reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson #little lion literature

753 notes · View notes

starqueensthings · 11 months

Text

Dork Love: Part One (of probably three because I can’t be tamed)

AO3 | Next Chapter

Summary: A scowling stranger brings a damaged riflescope into your store for repair and, always willing to defer responsibility for the sake of charity, you take on the challenge. When you return it to him, he brings along another… obstacle. An adorably goggled, bad-postured obstacle who seems as infatuated with your intelligence, as you are with his twinkly (magnified) eyes.

Pairing: GN!Reader x Tech (can also be read as ND!GN!Reader x ND!Tech if you squint)

POV/Rating/WC: 2nd, all readers welcome, 6355 Words.

A/N: This masquerades as a Crosshair fic at first, but I was insistent on writing something other than Medic!Reader for this one, and Tech is not the kind of man that develops intimacy quickly so it’s structured as a slow burn with a little more backstory. Extra thanks to @staycalmandhugaclone for beta reading this one… twice. She catches all my made up words (slajacked? embarriered? LOL) and makes my disjointed writing readable. LYSM ❤️

A heavy sigh, laden with guilt and culpability, left your lips at the sight of the impending workload behind your cash register. The teetering stack of acrylic trays, each holding the paid invoice of an order in need of processing, sat benignly on the counter, awaiting the moment that you would finally succumb to the gnaw of responsibility and turn your wandering attention to them. The smattering of plastic containers that you’d locked the door on without even a breath of anxiety, your overstimulated mind full of assurances that you’d gift them your undivided attention the following morning, had somehow mutated into a looming tower of things to do and the desperate desire to defer them again now consumed you.

The impeccant ring of the bell that hung above the door had thankfully silenced, and the void of its tinkling alarm saw a peaceful moment of respite and a fresh mug of caf wreathed by hands covered in dried lens polish and seemingly permanently stained with the ink of your trusty red lens pen.

In spite of the lingering exhaustion and the continuous ache in your feet, every complaint that threatened to spill from your tongue was swallowed and substituted with a quiet murmur of appreciation. Since you’d purchased the optical store from your uncle, you’d been blessed with an expanding clientele and an increasing revenue, though despite the economic growth, the inception of your ownership had been fraught with challenges. Your uncle was, and always had been, a kooky and eccentric old chap, and one that had stubbornly deferred his retirement from the industry for decades too long. His later, wizened years had seen him develop a peculiar and surreptitious habit of concealing his deteriorating mind with impugnable, makeshift repairs on his already ancient optical equipment. More troublesome than his DIY endeavours, however, was the recurrent burying of evidence, ensuring that his mounting financial hardship was conveniently camouflaged and ‘misplaced’ with the several hundred overdue invoices. Three consecutive years later, and thousands of credits funnelled regrettably yet optimistically into the pocket of an accountant, the metaphorical dumpster-fire that you purchased from your father’s zany older brother had finally turned profitable.

The storefront was auspiciously located on the uppermost level of Coruscant’s nefarious ‘Underworld’, meaning the demographics of your clientele was as diverse as the galaxy was. Politicians, concealing their bulging wallets beneath expertly-sewn and ornate robes, were some of your favourite customers to interact with, as years of experience in medical sales had seen you master the tactful art of disengaging lowball negotiations. Paradoxically, it was the impoverished customers making their way up from the callous clutches of the lower levels that posed your biggest challenge; their often heartbreaking stories of systemic neglect fueled the philanthropic flame that flickered deep in your gut. The inception of the war had enchained many in the shackles of financial hardship and desperation, and while pleading ignorance and naivety was the route that many Coruscanti citizens opted to take, the desire to temporarily close your shop and traverse the galaxy doing missionary work was becoming difficult to stifle.

Yet you were as logical as you were benevolent, and despite the constant pull towards a life of nomadic altruism, the fact remained that you had invested too many days and even more credits resurrecting this business to simply abandon it in its infancy.

The squeak of the rolling desk chair echoed around the quiescent room as you sat yourself down behind the computer, determined to use the hot caf in your hands as a catalyst to ignite the engines of motivation into life. The chrono on the wall ticked on, unaffected by the looming task list that you continued to abscond from; moments stretched to minutes, your hands poised and motionless over the keyboard, and the resolve to work kept simply evaporating, wafting into the air and vanishing faster than the steam from your mug.

‘Damnit, I forgot to water my plants this morning…’ Your eyes were affixed on a the pair of prescription swimming goggles nestled in the tray that you’d perched in front of you nearly twenty minutes ago, yet the mental image of your limp fig tree, neglected the decency of water for the second straight week, was all your unfocussed eyes could see. ‘But I should probably prune it before I water it… and if I’m going through the hassle of pruning it, I should probably repot it fi—’

The sudden jangling of the bell broke you from your listless stupor, sending a startled jerk through your shoulders and pulling your gaze upward to the figure stepping into your space. The detail of his appearance remained momentarily obscured, shrouded in the shadows cast by the bright sunlight pouring in the door behind him, though it was immediately apparent by the rigid armour that enveloped his tall frame that he was a soldier or mercenary of sorts.

“Hello,” you called to him, alerting him of your presence behind the counter, but his response to the greeting and the small smile you’d hitched onto your face, was nothing more than a nod of acknowledgement, his eyes narrowing slightly as they darted around the walls of your shop.

Curiosity tipped your head to one side, and you watched him with reserved intrigue as he neared the counter, his big, metallic boots thunking heavily on the wood floors with every step. The armament that adorned his figure was dark, and unlike anything you’d seen before. The clone troopers on Coruscant typically wore protective suits of white plastoid, and were conversationally quite warm and friendly, but this man’s presence, complete with a frown and a crosshair tattoo, issued none of those vibes.

“What can I do for you?” you probed, ignoring the protest of your aching feet as you stood and met him across the counter. He hastened to fold his arms over his chest, throwing into sharp relief the sniper pole extending proudly from his left shoulder bell.

“What do you know about scopes?” he asked you, the smoke that bathed his words raising the small hairs on the back of your neck.

“What kind of scopes?” you quizzed back to him, wrenching your eyes from the intimidating tool on his shoulder. “Oculars? Speculars?”

“Rifle.” In stark contrast to the way he carried himself— slithering and softly, as if he funneled every effort into not preventing his movements from making a sound, his reply was direct, curt, and impatient, and despite your best efforts to repress it, the contradiction pulled a small smirk onto your face.

“I should have known,” you answered apologetically, gesturing with a flick of your eyes towards the pole on his pauldron, and for the second time in as many minutes, he forewent a spoken response, instead flicking his eyebrows and letting the ghost of a laugh huff from his nose.

“I studied a decent amount,” you continued, bewilderment budding inside of you as the peculiar stranger reached around to a pouch on his belt and retracted a toothpick. “But we don’t sell them. We’re mainly a spectacle sho—”

“I’m not buying,” he interrupted with another impatient little shake of his head. “There’s something… off… with mine.”

The intentionally vague nature of his complaint prompted the arch of your left eyebrow to raise, and it was with genuine perplexity that you replied. “Off? In what way?”

The rhythmic dance of toothpick across scowling lips filled the silent space of his hesitation, and the shadow of scepticism flitted behind his eyes as he peered down his nose at you.

“It sounds idiotic,” he muttered through teeth clenched around his wooden pacifier, “But the visuals are being distorted… and it seems to be at random.”

Your brows furrowed against the continued ambiguity of his complaints, and though you would never voice it aloud, his grievance did sound somewhat idiotic and nonsensical. Intermittent distortion through a set of lenses was not a concept you had ever come across, as typically someone’s vision was either clear, or it wasn’t. His hesitation to provide the description now seemed warranted, and it was your turn to entertain a scowled moment of hesitancy as you fought to digest his undetailed explanation.

“I’m not following you,” you sighed, both coming up short on an explanation and growing increasingly wary of his man-of-few-words attitude. “Do you have it with you?”

He unfolded his arms from their knot across his chest, exposing a thin, black plastoid case previously invisible by the tight ensconce of his gloved hand. The rigid container looked vaguely familiar to you, though your mind barely had a moment to dawdle in potential recognition before he was deftly unlatching the closure on the lid and pulling the scope from its velvet bedding.

Eyes widening with wonder, you collected the tool from him, your outstretched hand instantly sagging under the unexpected weight of the equipment. Your exposure to military grade weapon accessories, and knowledge of the various optical tools available for combat was limited, but one did not have to be an expert in the field to know this was a highly sophisticated, and highly coveted tool.

“Sometimes I’ll line up a shot with no issue,” he divulged, his sharp eyes dissecting your movements as you rotated the scope delicately in your fingers. “Other times, the image of the target seems warped. But I haven’t been able to establish a pattern, and none of my brothers see anything wrong.”

“Hmm,” you acknowledged, concentration pulling your lips tightly to one side. “That’s definitely… odd… and it seems random? Intermittent?”

He offered nothing but a small grunt of confirmation, supervising your twiddling of the tool with unwarranted intensity as if poised to pounce should you dare to mishandle his prized possession, but curiosity had entirely banished your unease of his demeanour, and it was eagerly that you returned the ocular to your eye.

The Snellen chart, hung at eye level across the room and inscribed letters of varying sizes, became the recipient of your attention; while designed to measure how effectively one could see at a specific distance without their glasses on, it acted appropriately well as a makeshift visual barometer for your diagnostics. Though despite alternating eyes, rotating the scope both clockwise and counterclockwise, and shifting your position behind the counter to create a variance in lighting, you failed to see anything that was overtly distorted or warped. The notion that you may not be able to solve the stranger’s problem simply because you couldn’t see it to diagnose it, pulled a disappointed frown onto your lips, usurping the confident determination you’d felt only minutes previously.

Still, he watched you mercilessly, impatience and expectation etched into the every superficial crease on his forehead. It was only as you moved to the lower the scope, prepared to sadly explain that he’d have to try elsewhere, did your departing gaze finally catch a micro glimpse of the issue. The distortion was there… but barely, and his brothers’ failure to corroborate the issue became instantly validated.

“Interesting,” you mused under your breath, locking your gaze on the minutely warped quadrant of the chart and turning the scope slowly in your fingers. “I think I see what you’re talking about,” you continued quietly, your refusal to lose sight of the issue subconsciously keeping the tone of your voice hushed. “It… it doesn’t seem like an issue of direct clarity, so the integrity of the lens coating must be intact… and the reticle itself is orientated at the correct rotation, so that rules out the first focal plane…”

Your hushed diagnostic rambling trailed away to silence as a theory emerged to the forefront of your mind. Before his frowning lips could wrap themselves around a sardonic response, you lowered the equipment from your eye, gripped it tightly in your hand, and flung your arm aggressively downwards, a motion reminiscent of trying to force a small amount of ketchup through the opening of a large bottle. His posture straightened hastily, and his horrified expression on his lithe face combined with the sharp gasp that slapped his throat, had you momentarily fearful he might pluck the toothpick from its clamp between his teeth and toss it at you like a javelin.

“Kriff, be careful.” It was not a request but a demand, leaving his lips in a hiss that suited his demeanor much more than that curt impatience he’d emanated earlier. “That’s my favourite scope.”

His warning went ignored, a prideful self-satisfaction smothering the duress of his mistrust as you peered through the scope again and found the resolution you had expected. “Ha,” you cheered in a whisper, orienting yourself towards him again. “Look now. Tell me if it’s any different.” You held the weighty scope out to him and gestured to the chart across the room. Still tinged with the horror brought on by your seemingly impulsive disregard for his property, his scowl intensified, exacerbated by a budding sense of scrutiny, but despite his dubious disbelief, he took the tool from your extended palm and brought it to his tattooed eye.

The speed in which he ran the scope through his own set of visual diagnostics was nothing short of remarkable, and it was this behavior, not the hissed warnings of care that reinforced his attachment to the tool. “Hmm,” he eventually grunted, his expression now impassive. “Seems normal actually.”

Eager to share your theory, you shifted your weight to your elbows. “I’m thinking the second focal plane might have dislodged in the chamber somehow,” you advised him. “Is there quite a bit of recoil from your rifle?”

A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, almost entirely banishing the tension in his brow and softening his expression to a nearly unidentifiable degree, and it was only barely that you contained the smile threatening to engulf your own features. “She’s got a bit of a kick,” he admitted slyly, flicking the toothpick noisily with the tip of his tongue. “But that’s not going to change. So what now?”

You sighed through your nose, gaze affixed on the piece of equipment clutched in his long fingers as a merciless tug-of-war erupted in your mind. It had been years since the opportunity to tinker with something as niche and unique as a long-range rifle scope had fallen into your hands, but the mountain of work already awaiting your attention was formidable, and could not be ethically delayed any longer.

“I’ll see what I can do,” you offered, sheer curiosity sending a right hook in the direction of your better judgement. “But I won’t be able to identify the root of the problem, or the solution, until I take it apart and run diagnostics on the individual pieces.”

His softened expression receded entirely, the soggy strip of wood in his teeth continuing to dance across now scowling lips as he cocked a dark eyebrow and glowered at you, but you matched the reemergence of mistrust with a neutral stare, drumming your nails lightly on the desk between you and watching the cogs of indecision turn behind his eyes. His top lip flattened slightly, tense with threats and warnings of caution that he longed to voice aloud, but he was as aware as he was cranky; his desperation for a solution seemingly outweighing his skepticism, and he restrained every admonishment lingering on his tongue.

“Like I said,” he snarled, refusing to soften the glare he was sending your way. “It’s my favourite scope.”

You swallowed against a mixture of disappointment and offense, embittered that this unnecessarily stern man had actively sought your help with his problem, but was too suspicious and wary to grant you the permission to fix it, despite having seemingly identified the root of the issue before his eyes. You hitched an ingenuine smile to your face and shrugged, perching yourself back on the seat of your squeaky desk chair and pulling the swimming goggles towards you. “It’s your choice,” you reminded him, rousing your slumbering monitor to life with the prod of your finger. “You can leave it and be no worse off… or I can take it apart and have a go at fixing it.”

Silence ensued in the following moment, a quiet broken only by the occasional click of wood against molar and the rhythmic tapping of your fingers on the keyboard, but despite his seemingly steadfast refusal to accept your offer, he didn’t move from his perch against the counter.

“Fine,” he grumbled, taking you by surprise and immediately stealing your attention back. “But I fly out at sunset, so I’ll need it back before then.”

“I can do that.” Thrilled by the valid excuse to delay ordering it (and its neglected comrades) for another few hours, you happily pushed the acrylic tray housing the goggles away from you and stood from your chair. “I close up shop before then anyways. Actually, there’s a shooting range about a block west of here. I can meet you there in a couple hours, and you can fire off a couple shots to see if my handiwork holds up.”

“Deal.” He stood up straight and plucked the strip of wood from his lips, flicking it to the floor at his feet without a second thought. “Name’s Crosshair.”

“Crosshair,” you repeated after offering your name in return, and with a gesture towards the tattoo around his eye you said: “Should have known.”

***

The sun that had so refreshingly bathed the planet that afternoon was readying itself for another night of slumber, sinking ever lower toward the horizon with each passing minute, and its void in the musty industrial building sent a shiver down your back.

A small alcove set into the wall, adorned with a smattering safety notices, acted as a landing zone for those entering and exiting the active firing lanes. An obnoxiously heavy, rolling durasteel door separated the two areas, and it was with an almost comical level of exertion that you managed to roll the door ajar just wide enough to squeeze through the gap. The audible rumble of the long-ago seized wheels was lost amongst the echoing din that bathed your ears in the room beyond; each of the two dozen lanes occupied by a duo of armed beings, jeering at each other over missed shots and poor grips.

If the sniper pole protruding menacingly from his shoulder wasn’t enough to make him easily distinguishable in the shadows opposite, then the stunning contrast of his silver hair and his dark armour certainly was, and it was with haste that you crossed the room toward his pacing position. The separation from his prized possession seemed to have rendered him, shockingly, more impatient than hours previously, the soggy toothpick between his frowning lips dancing ceaselessly while the thumb on each of his hands aggressively cracked the knuckles of its neighbouring fingers. But while his appearance and obvious restlessness had initially captured your attention, it did not hold it. Something else caught your eye… someone else.

A second man stood in close proximity to the sniper, almost identical in height though the stoop in his posture, brought on by the intent downwards gaze toward the device clutched in his hands, ensured a less imposing presence than his broad shouldered, glaring neighbour. He seemed at first glance, to be an extraordinary dichotomy to his companion, the perfect ying to Crosshair’s yang; where one’s hair shone brightly in the light of the buzzing fluorescent bulbs overhead, the other’s reflected the dark of shadowed corners, where one’s cuirass was deliberately painted dark, the other’s remained white, adorned with colour only minimally, and where Crosshair’s impatience was evident, with his sharp eyes darting mercilessly around the room, his companion seemed content to remain still, gaze affixed to the screen only inches from his nose.

‘Must be one of his brothers,’ you concluded as you approached the loitering duo.

Crosshair detected your arrival almost immediately; the intensity of his unrelenting gaze as you crossed the room to his position rendered your friendly “hello,” completely redundant. A double-take interrupted the greeting poised on your tongue for his companion, the unexpected allure of his features, thrown into relief by close proximity and the fleeting shift of his attention from the device in his hands to you, rendered you briefly inarticulate.

He continued to look remarkably different from his brother at second glance, with a squarer jaw, fuller lips, a more substantial frame (disguised by poor posture, a slight bow in his legs, and significantly less armour), and a set of dark goggles framing a pair of stunningly warm, brown eyes.

“Any luck?” Crosshair probed impatiently, opting to forgo niceties for the second time that day.

“Yeah, some,” you assuaged with a nod, tearing your gaze away from his brother. “My first assumptions were largely correct. The second focal plane must have dislodged in the scope’s housing at some point. Unless you knocked it pretty forcefully against something, a theory I can rule-out based on the otherwise pristine condition of the equipment, it was likely the extended period of repeated recoil that caused the dislocation.”

The large, goggled eyes had directed themselves to you again, this time almost urgently and paired with an abrupt jerk of his head in your direction. The jarring motion stole your attention mid-sentence, the recited explanation rolling off your tongue turning laggy and discombobulated under the intensity of his wide-eyed, astonished stare. Your eyebrows lifted slightly as you turned to face the slack jawed stranger, but no sooner did your gaze fall onto his blushing face, did he avert his focus from you again.

“Okay, and?” Crosshair asked, his probe prompting you to frantically try and find the lost train of thought from the previous second.

“Honestly,” you continued, redirecting your attention to the sniper, “With how minutely displaced the lens was, I’m impressed you even noticed.”

“Impressed?” Crosshair repeated, cocking an eyebrow in apparent disbelief. “Why?”

“Well… mathematically, any change in the relative vertex distance between focal planes will cause a deviation in the refracted ray, thus distorting the perceived real image…” The goggled man’s head snapped violently upwards again, his eyes widening to the size of dinner plates as his attention darted back and forth between you and his silver haired brother. “...but the second focal plane was only dislodged by about a millimetre. You must have pretty fantastic eyesight to pick up on such a small visual misalignment.” A fleeting glance to your right confirmed that the goggled man’s twinkly brown eyes were affixed on you, and it was with a foreign sense of budding shyness, that you extended the plastoid box out to Crosshair.

“Did you fix it?” he queried, collecting the offering and promptly unlatching the lid.

“Only temporarily, unfortunately.” A disappointed grimace weighed down your response. “It likely happened during the initial dislodging, but the bevel that holds the lens in place is significantly chipped. I’ve re-embedded it into its grooved housing, but I wouldn’t rely on it being a permanent solution.”

The disappointment that saturated your explanation did not seem to be mutual as the sniper wasted no time dropping to a knee beside you and pulling the pack from his shoulders. He retrieved the scope from its enclosement first, abandoning its container to the stone floor at your feet, before collecting and clicking together the deconstructed rifle parts that he wore on his back. Eager to avoid being accidentally knocked by the intimidatingly long rifle barrel being mounted into place, you turned and took a small step sideways.

The toe of your boot, however, didn’t descend as gracefully as you’d intended, instead snagging itself upon something domed and rigid, simultaneously sending your right ankle tipping sideways, and your arms outwards in a frantic motion to stabilize yourself. It wasn’t until you’d steadied the breath in your lungs that your eyes located the tripping hazard, ready to kick it away lest you step on it again. Embarrassment flooded your veins. It was a boot…

“Oh kriff, I’m sorry!” you cried, immediately relieving your fingers of their iron grip around the goggled man’s forearm. “I should have looked before I moved. Did I hurt you?”

Fuelled by the pounding of your heart in your chest, a heat rose quickly and earnestly to your cheeks as dazzling brown eyes widened behind those goggles again. An awkward silence expanded in the air between you as he failed to answer, and you hastily shifted your attention to Crosshair’s retreating figure, reconstructed rifle pointed upwards to the ceiling as he headed towards the nearby shooting lane.

“You did not. Our footwear is impregnated with a multilayered durasteel core that is able to withstand over 150kg of pressure, and you do not appear to have a mass equivalent to or exceeding that. However, the unanticipated need to anchor yourself with my arm nearly caused me to drop my datapad.”

It may have been the curt, matter-of-fact tone in which he spoke, another complete inverse to the slithery smoke of his brothers voice; it may have been the awkward and inelegant cadence of his reply; it may have been the adorable shift of his goggles on the bridge of his nose as he averted his gaze from you again that triggered a flutter in your gut, but for the second time, you found yourself momentarily tongue-tied.

“That would have been bad,” you somehow managed to force out under the duress of the giddy smile fighting to adorn your lips.

“Indeed,” he breathed.

His attention returned bashfully to the illuminated screen in his hands, the tops of his ears reddening slightly against the brush of his dark hairline, and you took the deviation of his gaze as an opportunity to survey his goggles. It was not the untraditional choice of eyewear that warranted your curiousity, as a strapped goggle was an entirely appropriate choice for a soldier who was likely constantly active, nor was it the recording device, mounted expertly along his right temple and aglow in the dim lighting of the corner either. It was his lenses: tragically thick, horribly smudged, and inducing a degree of magnification that you saw only rarely in the industry.

‘Poor hyperopes,’ you thought to yourself, the inherent squint of his eyes as they fought to focus through a series of ungodly fingerprints pulling an adoring smile onto your lips.

“Sorry if this is a little strange but… can I clean your lenses?” You spoke deliberately lightly and aloofly, intent on ensuring that he took no offense to your offer, and it was with a subdued tentativeness that you watched the adam’s apple bob in his throat.

“Clean my lenses?” he repeated, returning his gaze to you with dark brows knitted slightly in befuddlement.

“Yes,” you confirmed, blindly reaching into your bag for your trusted, green microfiber cloth. “They are filthy, and I don’t know how you can see anything.”

An unexplained affection welled inside of you as his thin fingers nimbly shifted his goggles again, exposing the repeated gesture as a soothing motion; the smallest of irrelevant movements acting as a pacifier against situations where discomfort threatened to provoke him.

“I did not realize the poor nature of their condition,” he admitted, indefinitely suspending the back and forth of his attention by stowing his datapad away into one of many pouches around his waist.

“You wouldn’t,” you answered with a small shrug and a smile, watching his features tense momentarily under the duress of pulling his goggles off. “Hyperopic, or ‘far-sighted’ people, by nature, struggle to see anything in the immediate vicinity of their gaze. That’s why they can never tell if their glasses are dirty or their lenses are scratched. So… you can’t help it.”

“You… are correct.” He answered slowly, his tone still dripping in what sounded like pleasant astonishment as he extended his goggles out to you. “A mutation in my genetic structure caused an innocent yet bothersome bilateral malformation of my corneas, resulting in a significant degree of hyperopia.”

“That’s probably putting it lightly.” A small chuckle left your mouth as you swaddled the left lens with your cloth and began to deftly wipe away the sea of fingerprints. Much like Crosshair had while his precious scope was being tended to in the foreign clutches of a stranger, this man watched your practiced hands intently and possessively as you worked to polish away any signs of a smudge.

The fluorescent bulbs suspended two-dozen feet above you were nowhere near as effective as the optical-grade backlit yellow panel that sat in the corner of your workshop, but were just luminescent enough to affirm you’d removed the last of the oily smears before you pocketed your cloth. A knowing smirk peeled its way across your lips as you shifted the lenses to-and-fro in front of your mildly squinted eyes, observing how the biconcavity on the front surface bent the reflection of the overhead light. “What’s the nature of your prescription?” you questioned as your left eye closed and your fingers rotated his goggles. “I’m assuming just based on the Against-Motion principle, that you’re probably around a +8.00? Maybe a +9.00?”

He blinked rapidly and repeatedly, seemingly trying to rid his vision of the anatomical blur that would forever plague him in the void of his goggles before answering.“I… am not certain of the exact dioptric correction,” he divulged, now grinding his knuckles into his eyes. “But I believe your estimation to be accurate. I am impressed that you could make such a determination based loosely on the principles of magnification alone.”

“It’s my job.” While you were able to modestly shrug away the giddiness of his inferred praise, your composure was no match for the accentuation of his sharp jawline, thrown into relief as the first hint of a smile tugged his cheek toward his ear. “I handle dozens of lenses every day,” you continued, averting your eyes to the goggles you held out to him. “I’m well practiced.”

“That is obvious.”

The affable response waiting just behind your smirking lips was halted in place by the return of the sniper as he reappeared at his brother’s side, his lithe face impassive and his rifle already snuggled into its cradle in his pack.

“Big improvement,” he uttered, the nod of appreciation that followed his words filling you with a mixture of relief and pride. “What do I owe you?”

“Not a thing,” you answered with a dismissing wave of the hand. The sight of notoriously scowling lips now taut behind a satisfied smile was enough to support that delaying your nefarious to-do list, while undeniably irresponsible, was the right decision. “It was actually nice to have a bit of a challenge for once. Like I said, it’ll hold for a while but it’s not a forever fix.”

“Disappointing.” Faster than it had come, the sly smile on his face disappeared, replaced in a breath by a glum grimace as he plucked the toothpick from the tight clamp of his teeth and flicked it to the floor at his feet. “Pretty sure that model is out of production now.”

“Sure is,” you confirmed, sympathetically matching his grimace with one of your own. “I did some research today—” (goggles snapped his head in your direction again) “—from the limited information that I could find, your model was the last that incorporated a biconcave first focal plane. But… I actually found an alternative tucked away in my workshop.” You reached a hand blindly into your bag, the keys to your speeder jingling as you roughly pushed them aside in search of the stiff plastoid box you’d shoved into the depths before leaving work. “The internal components are the same, but the barrel attachment clip differs from yours.”

Crosshair spared the offering only a microglance before the crease between his dark brows deepened, his top lip flattening at the thick layer of dust that blanketed the white plastoid case. You grinned apologetically at the sight of his disgusted expression, and an understanding began to click together like puzzle pieces in your mind. Crosshair’s man-of-few-words ethos was not one of implied supremacy as you had initially presumed, he simply communicated more effectively with his expressions and mannerisms than he did with words.

“The box looks like it hasn’t been touched in centuries,” you admitted, pushing the case into his chest, “but the scope itself is pristine. You’re welcome to keep it if you think it’s suitable.”

His gaze danced across your features skeptically as if dissecting it for any sign of an ulterior motive that hadn’t managed to previously identify, but the reassurance you offered by means of a small smile must have silenced his concerns, as he moved to unlatch the container and flip it open.

It was barely an hour after Crosshair had departed your establishment that you realized why the plastoid case that housed his scope had seemed vaguely familiar to you, and it was with a sense of excited urgency that you’d jogged to the back corner of your workshop and snatched the step stool from beside the broom. Tucked away on the top shelf of a precariously hung cupboard above the lens polisher and caked several decades worth of dust, the white box sat seemingly waiting for you. Countless times in the past had it been regarded as nothing but left over detritus from your uncle, unceremoniously pushed aside and ignored as you fervently looked for something else among the clutter, but today, as recognition had flared inside of you, it’s time in the spotlight had finally come.

The sniper’s abnormally long digits pulled the foreign scope from its foam mattress, hovering it in front of his tattooed eye while turning to orient himself toward the target sheets on the opposite wall.

“Hm… not bad actually,” he relented a moment later, turning back around and holding the scope out to his brother. “Tech, do you think you could modify the barrel attachment?”

So his name is Tech. The wordless introduction ensured another flush of your cheeks, and eager to repress the giddy smile that threatened to expose you, you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth and ignored the brown–eyed man still passively gaping in your direction.

Crosshair shook the scope impatiently in the space between them, seemingly hoping the motion would shatter the muted reverie in which his brother was currently enthralled. “Tech? …Tech.”

“Um… yes,” Tech confirmed to your surprise, having collected the tool from his brother and agreeing to the task without even sparing it a glance. “Yes… I am able to… attach… myself.”

The chuckle that threatened to spill from your lips forced your gaze to the floor. The weathered and worn painted concrete beneath your boots was nothing but the epitome of lusterless and drossy, but in this moment of featherbrained awkwardness, you’d never seen a more interesting floor.

“Maker, since when can you not talk?” Crosshair hissed through clenched teeth.

Hot in the face and growing increasingly embarrassed by both the awkwardness of the conversation and the rapid emergence of this schoolgirl crush, you turned your attention back to your bag, thrusting your hand into its depths once again and pretending to dig around for something. Your peripheral vision saw Tech shift his goggles on his nose again, and immediately retract the datapad from his waist pouch.

You cleared your throat quietly before adjusting your bag on your shoulder and swinging your keyring noisily around your finger. Tech was blushing furiously and had turned his gaze to the screen of his small device, fingers dancing across the multicoloured buttons as if he’d injected rocket fuel directly into his knuckles. Crosshair, on the tail end of an elaborate eye roll, shook his head impatiently and huffed.

“You sure about this?” he asked you, tapping the lid of the plastoid box in his hands.

“Absolutely,” you answered without even the thought of hesitation. “It was just taking up very limited cupboard space so, if you want it, it’s yours.”

He nodded once, surveying your expression fleetingly once more before tucking the parcel under his arm. “Thanks again,” he mumbled, tossing you a casual three-fingered salute of acknowledgement before turning on his heel and heading the opposite way to the heavy, sliding door.

The sudden abandonment at the hands of his brother seemed to have roused Tech from his vigorous tango of typing, and his magnified eyes flickered to yours only briefly before darting towards the door. Mild amusement pulled another smile to your lips as discomfort erupted across his features; his jaw tensed, his posture straightened, and despite having spent the previous dozen minutes intermittently gawking at you, he now avoided your gaze.

“You better go,” you smirked, gesturing towards the disappearing head of silver hair. “It was nice to meet you. Good luck going… wherever it is that you’re going.”

“The ideology of ‘luck’ is illogical,” he intoned, raising a know-it-all finger into the air, the gesture somehow only intensifying your affection for him though he continued to evade eye contact, “but the sentiments are appreciated. And it was a pleasure gaining your acquaintance as well.”

His stooped frame made it barely three long paces before an urgent idea erupted in your mind. “Tech, wait!”

He turned his slumped shoulders back around to face you, mild curiosity etched into the small furrow in his brow as he lowered his datapad and held it limply at his side. “Keep this,” you offered, extending out the green microfiber cloth to him. “You need it more than I do.”

He stared, adorably flummoxed, at the fabric in your hand. “Keep it in one of your six hundred pockets,” you added with a goofy smirk and small gesture down to the series of cargo belts that seemingly adorned every inch of his tall frame. A mildly affronted expression ghosted across his face, but it was succeeded almost instantly by the same small smile that had sent your heart aflutter earlier. He took the cloth from you with a small nod, tucking it into the pouch perched just above a dangling spanner wrench on his hip, before muttering a quiet “goodbye” and continuing toward the door.

#the bad batch #bad batch #bad batch fanfic #tech x reader #tech x gn!reader #tech x you #starqueenswrittenworks #starqueensedits

178 notes · View notes

nahoney22 · 1 month

Note

Hi! i love your writing and was wondering if you could do the tbb (or just tech if you dont wanna do all of them) reaction to their gender neutral S/O pulling out their old instrument or color guard equipment from their marching band days and practicing what they remember (i dont even know if star wars has an equivalent to marching band/color guard lol but i picked an old practice flag up for the first time since high school earlier and the thought popped into my head for this request..) feel free to disregard this if it’s not something you wanna write, keep up the amazing work!!

Colour Guard Memories

The Bad Batch Boys X GN!Reader

How The Bad Batch react to you pulling out your old instrument or colour guard equipment.

warnings: none, gender neutral reader, can be read as platonic or romantic, Batchers admiring/encouraging reader.

authors note: this is a really cute idea and sorry it has took so long to do anon. In the UK we don’t really have marching bands/ colour guards aside from royal parades from what I know so I’ve relied on Google to help me out 😅 enjoy!

Echo

"Think we've got everything?" Echo asks, sealing the final box of your belongings.

As you survey the sea of packed boxes, you're struck by the realisation of just how many possessions you've gathered over the years. It's only now, in the process of moving out of your family home, that the extent of it hits you. After what feels like an eternity of packing and stacking, you're finally done and you couldn’t be any more grateful for Echo's helping hand.

"I hope so," you reply, wiping your brow and straightening up, hands on your hips. "Now, all that's left is to get it onto the ship." The prospect of lugging boxes onto the ship isn't exactly thrilling, but you're itching to kick back and relax.

Echo chuckles and reaches for one of the sealed boxes, but disaster strikes as the bottom gives way, sending its contents tumbling to the floor. "Well, that's just great," he says wryly.

Letting out a sigh, you join him in gathering up the scattered items. Amidst the chaos, something catches your eye: an old, familiar object. "No way!"

Startled by your sudden excitement, Echo turns to you. "What is it?"

"It's my Sabre!" you exclaim, holding up the cherished item for him to see.

He blinks in surprise. "Uh, your lightsaber?"

You playfully roll your eyes at Echo, a mischievous glint in your eyes, as you take the equipment into your hands and wave it at him. "You've known me long enough to know I'm not a Jedi, Echo," you tease, giving the Sabre a quick twirl. "It's from when I used to be be a colour guard for a marching band."

Echo chuckles, shaking his head in amusement. "I didn't know you did that."

"Yeah! I loved it. Want to see what I can still do?" you ask, a hint of excitement in your voice.

"The floor's all yours," he says, stepping back to give you space.

You take a moment to steady yourself, feeling the weight of the stainless steel Sabre in your hands. With a deep breath, you begin your routine, the familiar movements flooding back to you. As you twirl the Sabre with practiced precision, you can't help but feel a surge of nostalgia. However, in the midst of your performance, disaster strikes as the Sabre slips from your grip, narrowly missing a nearby window.

"Okay, okay, I'm a little rusty. Give me a second," you laugh sheepishly, quickly retrieving the saber and regaining your composure but Echo was still smiling and impressed throughout.

Determined to redeem yourself, you focus on each movement, executing smooth transitions and intricate spins. With each flourish, you feel a sense of satisfaction, the familiar rhythm of the routine bringing back fond memories. As you finally come to a graceful finish, you can't help but feel a sense of pride wash over you.

Echo applauds, a smile playing on his lips. "That was really impressive. You should've told me you could do that before."

"We all have our hidden talents," you grin, a twinkle in your eye as you admire the old memory in your hand before carefully tucking it back into the box. "Anyway, we should probably get going before I get distracted again."

“Well,” he says, resting a hand on your shoulder, “you should perform for me again sometime. If you want to that is.”

There’s a shine in his eyes, genuinely in awe of you and your talent. “I’ll definitely think about it.”

Hunter

Low on credits and desperate for some food to fill your stomachs, you and Hunter venture into a bustling market on a remote planet, hoping to find some opportunity to earn a bit of cash.

"See anything?" Hunter asks, strolling alongside you as you take in the sights and sounds of the market.

"Not really," you reply with a frown. The market is dimly lit, offering little in the way of useful materials, and the locals don't seem particularly welcoming. It's no wonder Hunter insisted on accompanying you.

But then, something does catch your eye. "Hey, that looks like one of my old flags," you remark, pointing to a colorful flag tucked away at the back of a small pop-up stall.

Hunter stops beside you, his interest piqued. "You used to spin those, didn't you?"

You chuckle at his phrasing, yet surprised that he remembers since it was just something you mentioned in passing once. "Yeah, I did. Not sure if I still have the touch, though."

A smirk spreads across Hunter's face as he holds up a finger, indicating for you to wait a moment. A bit embarrassed, you watch as he approaches the seller and strikes up a conversation. After a brief exchange, Hunter returns, flag in hand. "Let's put that theory to the test, shall we?" he suggests with a grin.

"Hunter! Did you just pay for that?" you exclaim incredulously as he shoves the pole into your hand.

"No," he says with a mischievous grin, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "But they said if you can impress them, you can keep it."

You narrow your eyes at him, a mixture of amusement and disbelief dancing in your gaze. "Fine. But I'm warning you," you declare, stepping into a clearing and scanning the area to ensure there's enough space before attempting to recreate a routine you haven't performed in years. "I'm not as good as I used to be."

Taking a deep breath, you grip the pole firmly and let muscle memory take over as you start spinning the flag with practiced precision. The fabric unfurls in vibrant arcs, catching the sunlight and casting colorful patterns across the ground. With each twirl and flourish, you feel a surge of nostalgia as memories of your days in the colour guard come flooding back.

As you continue your impromptu performance, you can't help but lose yourself in the rhythm of the routine, the flag becoming an extension of your body as you spin and swirl with grace.

Hunter is watching you silently and appears to be actually enamoured by your performance. His eyes are wide in surprise.

When you finally come to a graceful finish, you turn to Hunter with a triumphant smile, the flag held aloft in your hand. "How's that for impressing them?" you ask, a hint of pride in your voice.

“That was… wow.” Is all he says, a proud smile on his face. He takes one look to the seller who just gives a brief nod. “And the flag is yours it seems.”

Hunter comes up beside you once more but you feel a tug on your top, turning to face a young child who was holding out credits to you. Bashfully, you accept and the credits swiftly came flooding in.

“Heh, seems like you still got it.” He nudges your side playfully.

This could be a pretty safe way to earn some extra credits it seems.

Wrecker

"Wrecker, come look at this!" you call out excitedly, beckoning your companion over.

With Wrecker's assistance in tidying up the Marauder and transferring some items to the Remora, you stumble upon an unexpected treasure: an old snare drum tucked away amidst the clutter.

"Woah, what's tha’?" Wrecker asks, intrigued, as he joins you on the floor, his eyes fixed on the instrument in your hands.

"I used to play it in a marching band. Forgot I even had it," you reply with a wistful smile, the memories of your band days flooding back, tinged with nostalgia and a touch of sadness for times gone by.

Wrecker notices the flicker of emotion on your face and decides to lift your spirits. "Well, go on then. Give us a beat," he encourages, nudging the drum closer to you and offering a drumstick.

You smile gratefully, feeling a rush of anticipation as you accept the drumstick from his outstretched hand and pick up the matching one from the ground. "Just so you know," you say with a playful glint in your eye, "it sounds much better in a chorus rather than individually."

With a deep breath, you position the drumsticks in your hands, feeling the familiar weight and texture of the material. Closing your eyes, you let muscle memory guide your movements as you begin to play. The rhythmic tapping of the drum reverberates through the air.

As you lose yourself in the music, your fingers move effortlessly across the drum's surface, producing a lively beat that echoes off the walls of the ship. With each stroke, super fast and then skilfully slow, you feel a sense of liberation.

Wrecker watches in awe, a grin spreading cross his face as he listens to the infectious rhythm you create. For a moment, all worries and cares fade away, replaced by the joy of listening to you play. Flourishing a finish, your cheeks warm to Wrecker applauding enthusiastically.

"Tha’ was amazing!" he exclaims, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "You've still got it."

You grin, feeling a surge of pride at his words. "Thanks, Wrecker," you reply, a sense of contentment washing over you. "Maybe we should start our own band."

“Definitely!”

Tech

"Is this yours?" Omega's voice interrupts your thoughts, drawing your attention to the slim case she's holding. As you approach, a wave of nostalgia washes over you at the sight of the familiar case.

"I haven't seen this for a long time," you smile warmly, taking the case into your hands. Kneeling down, you blow the dust off and flip open the lid, revealing your old clarinet nestled inside.

Omega's eyes widen with curiosity as she peers at the instrument. "Wow, that's cool! Did you play it?"

You nod, a fond smile on your face. "Yeah, I used to. In a colour guard and in parades."

"Can you play something now?" she asks eagerly.

Before you can respond, Omega suddenly calls out, "TECH! COME HERE!"

Tech, engrossed in his data pad, looks up in surprise and heads your way. "What is the nature of my presence this time, Omega?"

Omega launches into an exaggerated explanation of your discovery and her request. "Listen to them play."

Tech adjusts his goggles and looks down at you with curious eyes. "I was not aware you could play any instrument."

"I haven't in a long time," you admit sheepishly, wiping the mouthpiece and adjusting the bridge keys. "But I can give it a try."

With a deep breath, you bring the clarinet to your lips and begin to play a soft, melancholic tune. The notes fill the air, weaving a gentle melody that seems to resonate with the quiet stillness of the surroundings. It was a gentle tune, a stark difference to the ones you played in parades.

As you play, you notice Tech glancing up from his data pad, his expression softening as he listens intently to the music. It's a rare sight to see him so engrossed in something other than his work, and you can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction knowing that your music has captured his attention.

By the time you finish the piece, Tech is still watching you, a thoughtful look on his face.

Omega bursts into a loud applause meanwhile Tech smiled at you. “I would not mind you playing that whilst I do some repairs... it’s rather relaxing.”

Crosshair

“What are you doing?” Crosshair's voice breaks your concentration mid-performance, and you freeze as your arms flail, causing the wooden rifle to slip from your grasp and clatter onto the grass.

You spin to face the clone, feeling a flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck. "I found my old rifle from when I used to perform," you explain quickly, bending down to retrieve the prop. With a flick of your foot, you send it spinning into the air, catching it effortlessly as it falls back down. "Want to see?"

Crosshair eyes the rifle with a hint of intrigue, his skepticism giving way to mild interest. "Perform? Rifles are for shooting. Not messing around with.”

“It’s wood, idiot.” You knock on the equipment before you then shrug, a sheepish grin tugging at your lips. "Anyway, it’s called rifle spinning. I used to do it as part of a routine in a performance group. It's more about coordination and showmanship than anything else. Wanna see?” You ask again.

Crosshair nods slowly, his gaze lingering on the rifle as you twirl it expertly in your hands. He stands back as you shows off your moves and he couldn’t hide the small impressed smirk forming on his lips. "You’re quite impressive I’ll give you that. But don't let it distract you from our mission." The compliment was rare but not one you were going to refuse as you give him a smile of thanks. But, he was right. There were more pressing matters at large.

You chuckle, nodding in agreement as you secure the rifle back in its holster. "Of course not. Just a little trip down memory lane."

Masterlist

Tags:

@littlefeatherr @kaitou2417 @eyecandyeoz @captxin-rex @jesseeka @theroguesully @ladykatakuri @jambolska-grozdova @arctrooper69 @padawancat97 @staycalmandhugaclone @ko-neko-san @echos-girlfriend @fiveshelmet @dangraccoon @plushymiku-blog @chrissywakingup @pb-jellybeans @nunanuggets @sleepycreativewriter @erellenora @zippingstars87 7 @ezras-left-thumb @the-rain-on-kamino @tech-aficionado @grizabellasolo @therealnekomari @tech-depression-inventory @brynhildrmimi @greaser-wolf @tinyreadersmur @seriowan @kaminocasey @marvel-starwars-nerd @ladytano420 @ladyzirkonia @thesith @raevulsix x @mssbridgerton @cw80831 @knightprincess @crosshairlovebot @imalovernotahater @id-rather-be-a-druid @the-bad-batch-baroness @lulalovez @green-alm0nd

#nahoney22 writes #gn reader #the bad batch #tbb #tbb echo x reader #tbb hunter x reader #the bad batch x gn reader #tbb wrecker x reader #tbb tech x reader #tbb crosshair x reader #tech bad batch #Hunter bad batch #crosshair bad batch #wrecker bad batch #echo bad batch

126 notes · View notes

knightprincess · 17 days

Text

Softness Suits You (Tech x GN! Reader)

Words: 2k Warnings: None - unless you count Kriff and Karabast as swearing. Note: Gender Neutral - Use of You and (Y/N) A part of the Bad Batch Gift Exchange @cloneficgiftexchange For: @theunderscorekinginyellow Prompt: "Softness Suits You"

“(Y/N),” called Tech, skidding to a halt as he rounded the corner. Blaster fire passed the corner mere seconds later. “Now is not the time to give up on me,” he commented, pulling you back to your feet. You’d slipped down the durasteel wall you’d been learning against with a sharp groan of pain, an arm tightly wound around your midsection, the other putting pressure on another unseen wound hidden beneath your armor and the layers of fabric.

“Wasn’t the time for the plan to go wrong either,” (Y/N) voiced, recalling how the mission had gone sideways quickly. “We went over the plan five times,” you grumbled, blowing out an agonized sigh as the stabbing pain grew in strength.

“I got the package, didn’t I?” responded Wrecker, the sound of blaster fire being exchanged echoing through the com.

“Anyone injured?” came Hunter’s smokey voice. Omega’s innocent one followed, celebrating after hitting another target with her energy bow. Echo soon confirmed he and Wrecker were slightly banged up, but nothing serious. Their main problem was being pinned down.

“(Y/N) got hit, unsure how serious it is,” announced Tech, seemingly ignoring your comment that you were okay. Even when it was evidently obvious you were anything but. You were losing blood, feeling dizzy and shaky, and could barely stand on your own two feet, and Tech had stated you looked paler than usual.

“Tech, get (Y/N) back to the Marauder,” demanded Echo, his voice severe and unyielding. The job for Sid meant little compared to the life of a friend.

“Omega will meet you there,” said Hunter. The young clone’s protests shortly followed his words. “That’s an order,” he added, slipping into a mix of his previous Sargent Mode and that of a protective father figure trying to protect their child and family. “The rest of us Plan 13.”

“Oh yeah,” exclaimed Wrecker, launching into the attack on droids and mercenaries alike. The human wrecking ball wasted little time running head-first into the battle again. His actions a reminder of his days as a soldier of the GAR, back when everything was simpler before the dark times began to strangle the galaxy.

“Oh brother,” mutters Echo before readying himself to rejoin the battle before him. Pushing aside the memories of the many food fights on Kamino before it was bombarded and forgotten about—memories of his brothers of the Domino Squad, 501st, and Bad Batch.

“Ready?” asked Tech, placing his D17s in the holsters for the time being, reaching for your arm to pull you back to your feet. Directing the arm around his neck as his own snaked around your midsection. Hearing the sharpness in your breath as you began to limp forward. The pilot soon pulled the yellow-tinted screen of his helmet down, scanning you over to get a clear idea of the damage and injuries sustained.

“What’s the prognosis, Doctor?” sarcastically asked (Y/N), your eyes glazing over as you become confused and disorientated. “Is it as bad as Crosshair’s friction burns from the Skako mission?” you asked with a light chuckle, wincing shortly after with the pain shooting through your ribs.

“I would argue that was worse,” answered Tech, recalling Crosshair grumbling for days afterward—even more so when Wrecker refused to let him forget about it. “However, this is a close second,” he said, trying to keep your spirits up and offer a distraction from your injuries and dire state.

“Damn. I was hoping to top him this time,” replied (Y/N), as if you had forgotten Crosshair wasn’t there. Instead, he had chosen to return to the Empire, even after they had bombarded Tipoca City with all of them inside. “Still working on that plan to get him back,” you add with the smallest of grins.

“Crosshair … chose a different path. We have to accept that, even if we don’t agree with it,” spoke Tech with a prang of sadness. Thankful when the Marauder came into view, Omega was already on the steps, waving at them with a small smile of her own. At least until it hit her, Tech was all but keeping you up now.

“What happened?” questioned Omega, quickly running back up the steps, moving to get the medical kit stowed away aboard the ship. At the same time, Tech pulled (Y/N) over to the sleeping racks upon getting you aboard. Nodding to Omega in thanks, when she brought the medical kit over to him, he reached for stem cells and bacta gel in hopes of aiding the healing process.

“We could use a lift,” came the booming voice of Echo, the coms lighting up with the disagreement between the Arc Trooper, Hunter, and Wrecker.

“That with or without Omega hanging from the ship and me falling out or over something?” asked (Y/N), doing your best to lighten the dreary mood and keep Omega from seeing just how bad things were. You had a soft spot for the kid and the boys.

“It was an unscheduled study break,” Tech voiced in response. At least explaining Omega hanging from the ship. A smirk appeared across his lips upon remembering the two separate incidences regarding (Y/N) falling over something and falling from the ship completely. “And momentarily lapse in coordination.”

“Just patching (Y/N) up, then we’ll be there,” announced Omega, keeping the trio of Hunter, Echo, and Wrecker in the loop.

“This is going to hurt,” stated Tech, receiving a (Y/N) famous deadpan look in response. At least informing him, he was pointing out the obvious again, without calling the exceptionally minded clone by the normal nickname. Captain Obvious.

“You mean more than it already does?” You asked, the next part of your comment forgotten as the bacta gel burned like someone had poured the lavas of Mustafar into your open wounds. “Kriff!”

“Language” worded Wrecker via the comm link.

“Aurebesh,” you replied, much to Omega’s amusement. Tech could only shake his head and roll his golden eyes.

“Switch out the words, (Y/N),” spoke Hunter, once again the familiar sound of blaster fire following his words, hinting at the trouble the trio was in now.

“Yes, Papa Hunter. Next time, I’ll use Karabast,” quickly shot (Y/N), not noticing Tech had stepped close with an anesthetic, at least not until he caught you with it.

“Rest for now (Y/N). Omega and I can handle the extraction,” announced Tech. He made sure you were lying comfortably on his rack before heading to the cockpit with Omega. The young clone gave Gonky his own mission to watch over you while you slept.

When (Y/N) finally woke up, the Marauder was on stable ground, and the ship was quiet—too quiet. The only noise was Gonky waddling the length of the ship with the normal “Gonk” on repeat, although the droid did seem to be pestering Tech, who sat at the communications desk just in front of the sleeping racks.

“Where’s the others?” you asked with a cracked and broken voice. Your throat was dry and scratchy from the lack of use. Slowly, you moved your head to look around the ship. The cockpit was empty, void of Echo and Wrecker. The rear gunner's port had no Omega resting there, although Lula and her little clone trooper were. Hunter was nowhere to be seen either. Only Tech and Gonky were there.

“Wrecker and Omega are following through with their tradition,” Tech replied, standing and walking over, an unreadable expression painted on his features. The moment he reached you, he placed a soft hand on your forehead, relief washing over him minutes later. "Hunter and Echo are delivering the package to Sid.”

“How long was I out?” you asked. Then it hit you: You were no longer on Eadu but instead back on Ord Monell.

“Just over a day,” started Tech, helping you sit up. “I’d appreciate it if we didn’t repeat what happened,” he added, pushing his goggles back up the bridge of his nose.

“I’m not gonna let you get shot, Tech, and I did tell you to leave me,” argued (Y/N), feeling relief now the majority of your pain was gone, either nulled by the anesthetic or washed away by the bacta healing the wounds.

“We don’t leave our own behind,” stated Tech, a matter of factly, with a pointer finger raised, as if to drill it into your head and make it stick. “The others are fine as well. Wrecker still thinks the scans are invisible spiders,” he added, allowing his stiffness to melt a little upon hearing your small ring of laughter.

“Hunter and Echo still the parents?” (Y/N) asked, side-eyeing and suspicious, just in case something had changed while you were out for the count.

“Careful (Y/N), your softer side is showing,” joked Tech. “Either that, or you hit your head harder than I thought.”

“Or I’m high as a kite and hallucinating,” you commented.

“Not lost your sense of humor, " Echo said upon boarding the ship. A scratch now donning his cheek below the left eye. However, the worry plaguing him now seemed to melt away.

“Mustafar would freeze over before that happened,” (Y/N) replied with a small smile, “Or Hoth would warm up.” You quietened for a few minutes before it hit you: Tech had said your soft side was showing. Didn’t it always when you were around your found family? “Wait, what you mean my softer side is showing?” you questioned, hearing Echo chuckle as he held his hands up in surrender before walking off to the cockpit.

“I don’t mean to offend you,” started Tech, suddenly uncomfortable, even more so when his hopes of you missing his words were dashed. “Normally, when out in the field or around Sid, you appear like Crosshair, stoic, cold, and armed with snide comments for enemies and sarcastic ones to lighten the mood,” he rambled, hoping to explain away what he now saw as a blunder.

“Tech,” you softly call, a sweet grin appearing now as you made it apparent you weren’t offended by the comment, merely curious.

“I thought it was obvious. Softness suits you,” directed Tech,

“Will you two make it official already?” voiced Wrecker as he and Omega returned to the ship. Hunter followed along behind, slightly confused by the comment but smirking nonetheless.

“Way to ruin the mood, Wrecker,” (Y/N) replied. “I’m recruiting Omega to help terrorize you the next time you go speed dating.”

“That was one time.”

“Wrecker went speeding dating?” questioned Echo

“Yup, It’s right up there with Hunter and Crosshair waking up handcuffed in a fountain,” you reply, hearing Omega laughing,

“I hate your memory right now,” commented Hunter, his cheeks redding as he sat down at his normal spot.

“Please do tell me more,” commented Echo, knowing he and Fives got up to some crazy things, along with Kix, Hardcase, and Jesse, things he often got a chuckle out of when he allowed himself to remember them. However, he wanted to know more about what the rest of the batch got up to during the war.

“No! I’m gonna die of embarrassment,” replied Wrecker, recalling the speeding dating disaster. Their first shore leave after joining the war effort. (Y/N) as their Jedi had told them to have fun, not expecting to get a call from Fox informing you, your squad was spending the night in detention.

“Wasn’t that bad” replied Tech, trying to soothe the situation. Although he’d admit you laughing from behind him wasn’t helping.

“I want to hear about it,” Omega called, her sweet, innocent voice seemingly breaking through. Hunter and Wrecker shared a glance, knowing (Y/N) couldn’t deny the young clone anything, although, thankfully, you told the stories in a child-friendly way.

“Was that the one I have no memory of?” asked Tech, recalling they’d gotten up to a lot of mischief. He’d personally set off a few security breaches from hacking sensitive information. Wrecker had set so many alarms off with his explosives that the Coruscant Guard had come to expect it and, at points, used it as a training exercise. Hunter and Crosshair found themselves in contests with different goals. Meanwhile, (Y/N) collectively named everything the Lame Game.

“Yup,” replied (Y/N), popping the p. “Never did find out how you ended up black-out drunk under the booth table. Or why you were wearing Wolffe’s helmet?” You laughed.

“Tech’s right; Softness does suit you,” replied Hunter, the smallest of grins appearing across his lips as he got comfortable, ready to relive the embarrassing moments of the past. “You’re still the best storyteller, though.”

KnightPrincess Masterlist

65 notes · View notes