Tbb X Reader - Blog Posts

Happy Weekend! I was wondering if you could do an angst fic w/ TBB x Fem!Reader where they’re on a mission and the ground crumbles beneath her and she falls and they think she could be dead? Thanks! Xx

Happy Thursday! Sorry for the delay, I hope this is somewhat what you had in mind😊

“Echoes in the Dust”

The Bad Batch x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Falling, presumed death, grief, survivor’s guilt, panic

The ridge was narrow. Too narrow.

You moved with your blaster raised and your jaw set, following closely behind Wrecker as the team pushed forward. The rocky terrain was riddled with ravines, fault lines, and fractured earth—left scarred by years of shelling and seismic bombardments. The mission was supposed to be simple: infiltrate a Separatist holdout and extract data.

It was never simple.

“Movement on the northwest cliff,” you called into your comm. “Looks like clankers repositioning.”

“Copy that,” Echo’s voice crackled. “Tech, I’m sending coordinates to your pad.”

Hunter glanced back at you, just a flick of his head, a silent confirmation. You nodded. I’m good.

You were always good. Until the ground gave out beneath you.

It was subtle at first—just a soft shift under your boots, like loose gravel. But then came the snap. A hollow, wrenching crack that echoed through the canyon like thunder. The rock splintered beneath your feet. You didn’t have time to scream.

Just time to look up—into Hunter’s eyes.

“[Y/N]—!”

You dropped.

The last thing you saw was his outstretched hand, just a second too late.

Then the world became air and stone and darkness.

⸻

Above, everything exploded into chaos.

Hunter hit the ridge on his knees, arms dragging at loose rock, clawing like an animal trying to dig you back out. “No, no, no—”

Echo slid in beside him, scanning with one cybernetic arm extended. “I can’t see her. It’s—kriff—it’s a vertical drop. She went straight down.”

“I should’ve grabbed her!” Wrecker was pacing in wild circles, fists clenched, eyes wet. “I was right in front of her—I should’ve—she was right there!”

“She didn’t even scream,” Echo murmured. “She just… vanished.”

“I’m scanning for vitals,” Tech said, already tapping furiously at his datapad, but his voice was thin. “There’s no signal. No movement. Her comm—either it was destroyed in the fall or… or she’s—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Hunter snapped, voice like a knife.

The wind howled through the crevice she’d fallen into, dragging dust and silence with it.

Crosshair stood several meters back, motionless, his DC-17M dangling loosely in his grip.

“Say it,” Echo growled, glaring at him. “You’ve been quiet this whole time. Just say whatever snide thing you’re thinking so we can all lose it together.”

Crosshair’s eyes flicked up, storm-gray and unreadable.

“She’s dead.”

“Shut your mouth!” Wrecker roared, storming toward him, but Echo shoved himself in between.

“She could be alive,” Echo said fiercely, though his voice cracked. “It’s possible. People survive worse.”

Crosshair didn’t move. “Not from that height.”

“I said shut it!” Wrecker shoved him back, but it was all broken fury—guilt bleeding through his rage. “She was smiling, dammit. Right before. She looked at me and said, ‘We’ll all get out of this,’ and I didn’t even answer her back—!”

“Stop.” Hunter’s voice cut clean through the storm.

He stood now, rigid and furious, his back to the team, staring into the void where you’d fallen.

“She’s alive,” he said.

Tech looked up from his pad slowly. “Statistically—”

“I don’t give a damn about statistics.” His voice was hoarse. “I felt her. She was right here. She’s part of us. She wouldn’t just be… gone.”

His hand trembled slightly. Not from fear. From the weight of it.

He was the one who told you to cover the flank. He was the one who said the ridge was stable enough.

She trusted you, Crosshair had said.

No. She trusted him.

And he’d failed her.

Hunter turned and began strapping a rope to his belt.

“Sergeant?” Tech asked cautiously.

“We’re going down there. All of us. We don’t stop until we find her. I don’t care if we have to tear the planet apart.”

Echo moved first. “I’m with you.”

Wrecker stepped up beside them, his breath hitching. “Me too. Always.”

Even Crosshair nodded, silent again.

As Hunter stood at the edge, ready to descend into the place where you vanished, a single thought thundered in his mind:

She can’t be gone.

Not you.

Not when your laugh was still echoing in his ears. Not when you told him last night, during watch, that you’d be careful. Not when he never got to tell you that he needed you more than he ever let on.

He’d find you.

Or die trying.

⸻

The descent into the ravine was slow, agonizing, and silent.

The team moved as one—Hunter leading with a lantern clipped to his belt, casting narrow beams over jagged rock and twisted earth. Echo and Tech followed with scanners, mapping every crevice. Wrecker moved boulders with his bare hands, gritting his teeth with each one. Crosshair, ever the rear guard, watched from behind, but his silence was sharp, eyes flicking everywhere.

Hunter’s voice echoed through the narrow stone corridor. “Check every ledge. Every outcropping.”

“She could’ve hit a rock shelf and rolled,” Echo said, carefully scanning below. “Or worse…”

“Don’t,” Wrecker said. “Don’t even say it. She’s alive. She has to be.”

They moved deeper into the ravine—until the beam of Hunter’s light caught something.

“Wait,” Tech whispered, grabbing Echo’s arm.

There—thirty feet below them, half-buried under collapsed shale and bloodied stone—was a figure.

Your figure.

You were sprawled on your side, your body twisted unnaturally, one leg crushed beneath a slab of rock. Blood soaked through your jacket. Your head had struck something hard—too hard—and you weren’t moving.

Hunter nearly dropped the lantern.

“[Y/N]—!”

He was down the rest of the way before anyone could stop him, crashing to his knees beside you.

“Don’t move her!” Echo shouted, sliding in behind. “Not yet. Let me check—”

But Hunter’s hands were already trembling as they hovered over you, too afraid to touch. Too afraid that this—this fragile, broken thing—was all that was left.

“She’s breathing,” Echo said. “Shallow. Pulse is—kriff—irregular. She’s lost a lot of blood.”

Wrecker dropped beside them, tears already streaking the dust on his cheeks.

“Is she—? She’s gonna make it, right? Echo?”

“She’s unconscious,” Echo said quietly. “And we need to get her out now.”

“Spinal trauma is possible,” Tech added, eyes locked on his scanner. “Multiple fractures. Her femur is broken—bleeding into the tissue. Concussion. Rib damage. Internal bleeding likely.”

Crosshair didn’t come any closer. He stood just at the edge of the light, staring down at you with an unreadable expression.

“You said she was dead,” Wrecker growled, voice shaking.

Crosshair didn’t respond.

Because he knew now—death would’ve been kinder than this.

The med evac was chaotic.

Hunter carried you the entire climb back—refused to let anyone else even try. He held you close to his chest like something fragile, as if you’d fall again if he let go. Your blood had soaked through his armor by the time they reached the surface.

Back on the Marauder, the team worked together in silent urgency. Wrecker helped secure you to the gurney. Echo and Tech patched what they could. Crosshair kept watch, pacing like a trapped animal.

And Hunter… he sat beside you.

His hands were covered in your blood.

“I should’ve caught you,” he whispered.

No one argued. No one corrected him.

Because part of them believed it too.

You twitched in your sleep once—just a small movement, a flicker of pain across your brow—and Hunter nearly leapt out of his seat.

“She moved!” he barked.

“She’s still unconscious,” Tech reminded. “That doesn’t guarantee cognition. The swelling in her brain—”

“I don’t care what the scans say,” Hunter growled. “She’s fighting.”

He reached down and brushed a blood-matted strand of hair from your face.

“You hear me?” he whispered, voice cracking. “You hold on. You fight like you always do. You’re not going to leave us like this.”

Wrecker sat on the floor beside the cot, staring at your hand dangling off the edge.

“You’re not allowed to die, okay?” he said, softly, almost childlike. “You still owe me a rematch.”

Echo leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched tight. “She shouldn’t have been the one to fall. It should’ve been—”

“Don’t,” Tech said, just as quiet. “We all blame ourselves. That’s not useful now.”

Only Crosshair said nothing.

But later—when the others had finally dozed off in shifts, and the med droid was running scans—he sat beside you alone.

“Idiots, all of them,” he muttered. “They think they lost you. I know better.”

He rested his hand beside yours.

“You’re not dead. You’re just too damn stubborn.”

There was a pause.

“…So come back. Or I’ll never forgive you.”

You didn’t wake up that night. Or the next.

But your vitals held.

You were still fighting.

And the squad—your family—never left your side.

⸻

It started with a sound.

A weak, choked wheeze from the medbay.

Wrecker heard it first—he’d been sitting on the floor beside your cot for the past hour, humming under his breath and telling you stories like he had every day since they pulled you from the ravine.

But when he heard your breathing stutter—heard that awful, wet gasp—he was on his feet in an instant.

“Tech!”

Footsteps thundered in from the cockpit.

Tech was there in seconds, datapad in one hand, expression already shifting from calculation to panic.

“Vitals are dropping. Pulse erratic. Respiratory distress—dammit—her lung may have collapsed.”

The med droid whirred a warning in binary, and Tech shoved it aside, already working to stabilize you. Wrecker stood frozen, fists clenched at his sides, helpless as machines blared and blood began soaking through your bandages again.

“She was getting better,” Wrecker whispered. “She was breathing normal yesterday. You said she was stabilizing!”

“I said her vitals were holding,” Tech snapped, voice tight and uncharacteristically sharp. “I also said we didn’t know the full extent of internal damage yet. The concussion is worsening. There’s pressure building against her brainstem. Her body is going into systemic shock.”

“Then fix it!” Wrecker’s voice cracked. “You fix everything! Please—”

Tech’s hands moved fast, too fast—grabbing gauze, recalibrating IV drips, re-administering stimulants. But beneath the precision was fear. A gnawing, brittle kind of fear that made his fingers shake.

“I’m trying,” Tech said, barely above a whisper now. “I’m trying, Wrecker.”

Your body jerked suddenly—just a twitch, but it sent a ripple of panic through them both.

Tech cursed under his breath. “She needs proper medical facilities. A bacta tank. A neuro-regeneration suite. This ship is not equipped to handle this kind of trauma long-term.”

“So what, we just wait and watch her die?” Wrecker whispered.

“No!” Tech snapped, louder this time. “We don’t let her die.”

He slammed his fist down on the console—just once—but the sound echoed like a gunshot through the Marauder. Wrecker flinched. Tech never lost control. Never raised his voice. Never made a sound unless it meant something.

And now, he looked like he was about to break.

“I’ve calculated a thousand outcomes,” Tech murmured, softer now. “And every variable keeps changing. Her body is unpredictable. She’s unstable. But she’s also resilient. She’s survived things that should’ve killed her ten times over.”

He looked up then, eyes glassy behind his goggles.

“But if we don’t find a way to get her real care—soon—we will lose her.”

Wrecker turned away, one massive hand covering his face. He’d never felt so useless. Not when they’d crashed on Ordo. Not when they’d been stranded on Ryloth. Never like this.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I’m strong. I can carry her. Fight for her. But I can’t fix her, Tech. I can’t even hold her without hurting her worse.”

Tech approached quietly, placing a hand on Wrecker’s shoulder—a rare gesture.

“You are helping,” he said. “You’re keeping her tethered. She needs that. She needs us.”

The med console beeped—soft, steady. A pause.

Then a spike.

Her heart rate surged. Your head tilted slightly to the side. Blood trickled from your nose. Another alarm.

“No, no, no—stay with us,” Tech muttered, already grabbing the stabilizer. “Don’t go. Not yet.”

Wrecker dropped to his knees beside you, voice trembling.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You don’t get to leave like this. You didn’t even finish your story about the time you pantsed Crosshair in front of the general. Remember that?”

He sniffed, brushing a strand of hair from your sweat-slicked face. “You said you’d tell me how you pulled it off without getting court-martialed. Said you’d sing me that dumb lullaby you like. Said you’d stay.”

Your fingers twitched.

A tiny movement. Almost nothing.

But Wrecker gasped.

“She moved!”

Tech’s head snapped up. “What?”

“She moved! Her hand—right here—she twitched.”

Tech scanned you again. “Neurological activity spiked. Minimal, but—”

You let out a weak, pained breath.

Another wheeze. Then a garbled sound—almost like a word, trapped somewhere deep in your throat.

“…H-Hun…ter…”

Both men froze.

Tears filled Wrecker’s eyes.

“She said his name…”

“She’s still in there,” Tech whispered, blinking quickly. “Cognitive reflexes are initiating. That’s… that’s something.”

He turned to Wrecker, and for once, there was nothing cold or clinical in his tone.

“There’s still time.”

They kept watch through the night. Neither slept.

Wrecker read to you from the old datapad you always teased him for hoarding.

Tech adjusted your vitals every hour, even when nothing had changed, just to keep his hands busy.

And in the silence between beeping monitors and heavy breaths, they both spoke to you—about nothing, about everything.

Wrecker told you about the time he and you almost got arrested on Corellia for stealing bad caf. How your laugh had made him feel human again.

Tech told you the probability of your survival was now sitting at 18.6%, up from 9%. And that statistically, if anyone could beat the odds, it was you.

Wrecker chuckled through his tears. “Told you, didn’t I? Too stubborn to die.”

Tech looked down at your still hand, then whispered—just once—“Please… don’t.”

⸻

The Marauder was silent.

Tech had finally collapsed from exhaustion in the co-pilot seat, goggles askew, still clutching the datapad with your vitals. Wrecker was curled on the floor next to your bed, snoring lightly with one hand near yours. Crosshair sat with his back to the far wall, arms crossed, eyes closed—but not asleep.

And Echo stayed awake.

He always did.

He was seated at your bedside, one cybernetic hand gently resting on the edge of the cot. The hum of the ship’s systems filled the space between the heart monitor’s steady rhythm. Your breathing—still shallow, but no longer ragged—was the only music Echo needed.

He hadn’t moved for hours.

You’d gotten worse. Then better. Then worse again. And through all of it, he’d held on. Let the others break. Let them rage. He had to be the one who didn’t fall apart.

But now, as he sat alone in the flickering light, his thumb brushed your bandaged hand—and he whispered, “You can’t keep scaring us like this.”

Your lips moved.

Barely.

He straightened. “Hey…?”

Your fingers twitched under his hand.

Your head shifted slightly on the pillow, a soft whimper escaping your throat. Your eyelashes fluttered—slow, disoriented, like your mind hadn’t caught up to your body.

“Hey.” Echo leaned closer, voice trembling now. “Come on… come on, mesh’la. You’re safe.”

Your eyes opened.

Just a sliver at first. Squinting into the low light.

“…Echo…?”

It was a rasp, a whisper, but it was real.

Echo’s mouth fell open.

And for the first time since the fall—since the screaming, the blood, the race against time—his composure cracked.

You blinked slowly, pain visible behind your glazed eyes. “W-Where…?”

“Still on the Marauder. We haven’t moved. We couldn’t.” His voice was low and hoarse. “You weren’t stable enough.”

Your brow furrowed faintly. “Hurts.”

“I know.” He gently adjusted your oxygen mask, smoothing your hair back. “You took a hell of a fall.”

You tried to shift, but your body betrayed you—wracked with weakness, ribs aching, limbs sluggish.

Echo placed a firm hand on your shoulder. “Don’t move yet. Please. Just stay still.”

You obeyed—too tired to fight it.

“I thought…” You coughed, eyes fluttering. “Thought I heard Wrecker crying.”

Echo actually smiled, though his eyes were wet. “Yeah. That happened.”

You let out the faintest exhale—almost a laugh. “He’s a big softie.”

“Only for you,” Echo whispered, squeezing your hand carefully. “You scared him half to death.”

There was a long pause.

You looked up at him, brow knitting again.

“…You thought I was gone, didn’t you?”

Echo’s throat tightened. “We all did.”

“But you stayed.”

“Of course I stayed.”

Your gaze lingered on him. He looked exhausted. Hollowed out. His prosthetic arm twitched like he’d been clenching it too long.

“You haven’t slept.”

He laughed quietly—bitter and warm all at once. “Didn’t want to miss this.”

Another silence.

And then, so faint it barely reached him, you whispered—

“…I’m sorry.”

Echo stared at you, stunned.

“For what?” he breathed.

“For falling. For worrying you. For being weak.”

His expression broke. “No.”

He leaned in, voice rough. “Don’t ever say that. You didn’t fall because you were weak. You fell because the ground gave out. Because war is cruel. Because life isn’t fair.”

He blinked back tears. “But you lived. And that means more than anything.”

Your vision blurred—not from injury this time, but from the emotion in his voice.

He looked at you like you were the most important thing in the galaxy.

“I thought I lost you,” he said. “And I wasn’t ready.”

You let your eyes close again, overwhelmed by exhaustion—but you smiled softly through cracked lips.

“I’m here.”

He pressed his forehead gently to your hand, exhaling a shaky breath.

“You’re here.”

When the others returned—when Hunter stumbled in and dropped to his knees, when Wrecker cried again, when Crosshair stood frozen for a full minute, just staring—you were already asleep.

But Echo met Hunter’s gaze.

And nodded.

“She woke up.”

And for the first time in days, the silence didn’t feel so heavy.

“You Talk Too Much (And I Like It)”

Tech x Reader

You always had a lot to say. About everything. Planets, food, stories from childhood, dreams you had the night before, conspiracy theories, music recommendations, the absolute travesty that was the vending machine on Cid’s ship. Most people tuned you out after five minutes. Echo smiled politely. Wrecker nodded along even if he didn’t follow. Hunter gave that big brother, I’m listening but please stop look. But Tech—

Well, Tech never said much at all.

You were sitting beside him in the Marauder, your legs crossed on the seat, recounting—quite animatedly—a story about the time you tried to fix a speeder bike and ended up launching it through your neighbor’s wall. Your hands flailed in the air like you were directing a play.

“And I swear, it wasn’t even my fault! The wiring was labeled wrong, and boom! Gone. Just through the wall. Like—whoosh!” You gestured dramatically. “And the guy didn’t even get mad! He just looked at me like, ‘Again?’ Like it was normal! I mean, do you know how often something has to happen for someone to say ‘again’ like that?”

You laughed at your own story, expecting the usual silence or maybe a smirk.

But Tech didn’t even glance away from his datapad. “Statistically, it would take three prior incidents to normalize an event to that degree of resignation.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“Assuming he’s of average emotional intelligence,” Tech continued, typing something, “and factoring in a baseline tolerance for property damage, he would need to experience approximately three similar accidents before responding without distress.”

You stared at him for a moment, a grin creeping onto your face. “That’s… actually really interesting.”

“I ran a simulation once on behavioral desensitization. It was… enlightening,” he added, finally sparing you a glance over his lenses.

“Tech,” you said, leaning in slightly, “do you actually listen when I ramble?”

He looked confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I dunno… I talk a lot. Like, a lot a lot. You’re always so quiet.”

“I am processing,” he replied. “You provide a considerable amount of verbal data, but I do not find it unappealing.”

“…That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about me talking too much.”

He tilted his head, brows slightly raised. “It is?”

You laughed, this time softer. “You’re kind of weird, Tech.”

“Correct.”

“But I like that.”

He hesitated for a beat, then reached into his tool belt and held out a tiny, modified comm unit. “I made this for you.”

You blinked. “What is it?”

“It’s a personal recorder. For your stories. In case I’m not around to listen… or if you wish to remember them later.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Tech… that’s the sweetest, nerdiest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

He adjusted his goggles. “You are enthusiastic and loud. But I find the consistency of your presence… statistically comforting.”

You bit your lip to keep from grinning too hard.

“Wanna hear another story?” you asked.

“I’ve already adjusted the comm’s storage capacity for it.”

You didn’t know how to describe the warmth blooming in your chest—but you didn’t need to.

Tech already had a formula for it.

⸻

It started with the recorder.

Then came the noise-canceling earpieces—not for him, but for you. “In case you ever want silence but don’t want to stop talking,” he’d explained, eyes glued to a schematic, oblivious to how much your heart melted.

He began cataloguing your favorite snacks and replicating them with a portable food synthesizer. “I’ve programmed your preferred balance of salt and sweetness,” he said one night, handing you a makeshift granola bar that tasted weirdly perfect.

The best part? He never made a big deal about it. Just slipped things into your life like you’d always been part of his code.

One evening, after a mission that left the team bruised but alive, you found yourselves alone in the cockpit of the Marauder. The others were sleeping, recovering. You weren’t tired. You rarely were when Tech was nearby.

You sat cross-legged in the copilot’s seat, chewing absently on a snack bar, eyeing him as he fiddled with his datapad.

“Tech,” you said, drawing his attention with a sing-song tone.

“Hm?”

“You always listen to me talk about my stuff. But you never tell me about yours.”

He didn’t look up. “That is because my interests are largely theoretical and statistically uninteresting to the average person.”

You snorted. “Okay, first, I’m not average. And second—says who?”

He paused. “I… suppose I assumed.”

“Well, you assumed wrong. Come on, tell me something. Anything. What do you like, Tech?”

He shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “I like many things. Theoretical physics, starship schematics, linguistic anomalies…”

You leaned in. “No, not like a list. Talk to me. Like I talk to you.”

He looked at you. Really looked. You’d never seen him nervous before. But this? This was vulnerable. And Tech didn’t do vulnerable. Not in the usual sense.

Still, after a moment, he gave a small nod.

“I find… gravitational lensing phenomena quite fascinating,” he began, almost shyly. “When a massive object distorts space-time, it bends light around it. It allows us to see stars that would otherwise be hidden. It’s a rare glimpse into the unreachable, a way to observe what we otherwise could not.”

You blinked, taken aback by the sudden spark in his voice.

“And—when you combine that with redshift patterns and the curvature metrics of distant galaxies—”

He was off.

Tech’s eyes lit up behind his goggles. His hands moved as he talked, describing invisible models in the air. The way he spoke was fast, clumsy, full of jargon, and absolutely beautiful. He was so excited. The same way you were when you told your stories.

You didn’t interrupt. You didn’t tease. You just smiled and let him go.

Eventually, his words slowed, and he caught himself, clearing his throat.

“I… apologize. I may have over-answered your question.”

“No,” you said softly. “You were perfect.”

His eyes met yours.

You reached over and touched his hand. He froze, then slowly turned his palm to hold yours.

“Tech,” you murmured, “when you talk like that, it makes me want to kiss you.”

He blinked. “Statistically, that is a highly favorable reaction.”

You grinned. “Tech.”

“Yes?”

“I’m gonna kiss you now.”

He hesitated a beat. “Proceed”

And when your lips touched his, soft and warm and a little clumsy, he exhaled like it was the first time he’d let go of logic and just felt something.

Afterward, still holding your hand, he said, “You make even chaos… feel structured.”

And you decided right then that you were never going to stop talking. Because if you kept talking long enough, Tech would keep listening—and maybe, just maybe, he’d keep answering too.

Hi! I was wondering if you could do a TBB x Fem!Reader +any other clones of your choice, where they keep using pet names in mandoa like cyar'ika, mesh'la, and maybe even riduur?(because they might’ve gotten accidentally married? Love those tropes)

but the reader has no idea what they mean and that they’re pet names or that the batch likes her. Eventually she finds out of course and a bunch of stuttering cute confessions?

Your writing is so amazing and i literally can’t get enough of it! Xx

“Say It Again?”

TBB x Fem!Reader

You had gotten used to the way clones talked — the gruffness, the slang, the camaraderie. But ever since you’d been working more closely with Clone Force 99, you’d noticed something… different.

They used weird words around you. Words you didn’t hear other troopers saying.

Hunter always greeted you with a gentle “Cyar’ika,” accompanied by that intense little half-smile of his.

Wrecker would beam and shout, “Mesh’la! You came!” every time you entered a room — like you were some goddess descending from the stars.

Crosshair, as always, was smug and cool, throwing in a soft “Riduur…” under his breath when he thought you weren’t listening, though you never figured out what it meant. He often smirked when you looked confused, and somehow that made it worse.

Even Tech, who rarely used nicknames at all, had let slip a casual “You’re quite remarkable, mesh’la,” when you helped him debug his datapad. He didn’t look up, but you felt the heat in his voice.

And Echo? Sweet, dependable Echo — he was the least subtle of them all.

“You alright, cyar’ika?”

“You look tired, cyar’ika.”

“Get some rest, cyar’ika.”

You were starting to think “Cyar’ika” meant your actual name.

But something was off. The others never used those words with each other. Only with you.

So, naturally, you asked Rex.

And Rex choked on his caf.

“You—what did Crosshair call you?” he coughed, wiping his chin.

You repeated it: “Rid…uur? I think? I dunno. He said it real low.”

Rex gave you the slowest blink you’d ever seen and then rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Riduur means… spouse. As in… wife. It’s what you call your partner.”

You froze. “What?!”

“And cyar’ika?” he continued, amused. “Sweetheart. Mesh’la is ‘beautiful.’ They’re… Mando’a pet names. Very affectionate.”

The blushing.

The flashbacks.

All those words… those looks… Tech calling you remarkable like it was a scientific fact, Crosshair smirking like he had secrets, Echo’s voice dropping a full octave every time he said cyar’ika…

You marched straight into the Havoc Marauder like a woman on a mission — and promptly forgot how to speak when all five of them looked up at you.

“…You okay, mesh’la?” Hunter asked gently.

You blinked. Your voice cracked. “…You’ve been calling me sweetheart?”

The room went dead silent.

Echo dropped his ration bar.

Wrecker panicked. “Wait—you didn’t know?”

Crosshair chuckled and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Told you she didn’t know.”

Tech frowned at him. “Statistically, the odds of her knowing were—”

“You called me your wife,” you said, pointing at Crosshair like he’d committed a war crime.

He shrugged. “Didn’t hear you complain.”

You stammered something completely unintelligible, covering your face with both hands, and Wrecker let out the loudest, happiest laugh you’d ever heard. “So… does that mean you like us back?”

You peeked through your fingers. “…Us?”

Hunter stepped forward slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “We all… kinda do. Like you. A lot.”

You were red. Like, fruit-on-Ryloth red. “You’re telling me five elite clones have been flirting with me in another language this whole time?!”

“…Yes,” they all mumbled at once.

Crosshair grinned like he’d won a bet. “So… Riduur?”

“Riduur?” Crosshair repeated, lifting a brow like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just dropped a romantic thermal detonator right in front of everyone.

You stared at him. At all of them.

Hunter’s quiet guilt. Echo’s embarrassed fidgeting. Wrecker’s hopeful puppy-dog smile. Tech’s analytical interest. And Crosshair’s smug little smirk that you really wanted to slap off his face… or maybe kiss.

You swallowed. “I—I need a second.”

And then promptly turned on your heel and walked right back out of the Marauder.

⸻

You spent the rest of the day spiraling.

Sweetheart. Beautiful. Wife.

They’d been calling you those for weeks. Months, maybe. You were out here thinking it was some fun cultural expression or inside joke you weren’t in on—and it turns out you were the joke. The target. Of five clone commandos’… affection?

It didn’t feel like a joke, though. It felt sincere. Soft. Safe.

And scary.

Because you liked them. All of them. Differently, but genuinely. The thought of them caring about you—of whispering pet names they grew up hearing in the most intimate, personal ways—made your chest ache in a way you didn’t know how to handle.

⸻

The next day, you avoided them.

The next day, they let you.

The third day, Hunter found you in the mess hall, sat beside you without a word, and handed you a steaming mug of caf.

You looked at him.

He didn’t speak right away. Then: “We’re sorry. If we made you uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” you blurted out. “I just… didn’t know how to react. I’m still trying to figure it out.”

Hunter nodded, eyes kind. “We can stop. The nicknames, I mean.”

You hesitated. “No. I don’t want you to stop.”

He smiled, just a little. “You sure?”

You nodded. “I think I like them. I just… I want to know what they mean now.”

⸻

So, one by one, the boys showed you.

Wrecker said “mesh’la” every time you helped him carry heavy crates, with a goofy grin that made your stomach flip.

Echo said “cyar’ika” after every quiet conversation, letting the word linger like a promise he wasn’t ready to say aloud yet.

Tech, precise as always, began to offer direct translations.

“You look stunning today, mesh’la—objectively, of course.”

Crosshair didn’t stop with “riduur.” He started calling you “cyar’ika” too—softly, in rare unguarded moments—and he never looked away when he said it. Like he meant it. Like he knew what it was doing to you.

And Hunter? Hunter started saying “ner cyar’ika.” My sweetheart.

⸻

It wasn’t instant.

But slowly, their voices stopped making you flustered—and started making you feel home.

You started saying their names softer. Started touching their arms when you passed. Started blushing less… and smiling more.

And one day, while standing beside Wrecker during maintenance, you reached up on your toes, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Thanks, cyare.”

He blinked. His whole face lit up like a nova. “You said it back!”

Later, you caught Echo outside the ship. Nervous, swaying slightly on his heels. You pressed your hand into his and whispered, “You can keep calling me cyar’ika, you know.”

He looked down at you with wide eyes. “You really don’t mind?”

You shook your head. “I like it.”

And Tech, when you repeated “mesh’la” with a teasing little lilt, glanced at you and—just this once—forgot what he was doing.

Even Crosshair dropped his toothpick when you looked him dead in the eye and whispered: “You keep calling me your riduur. What does that make you, then?”

He blinked. Once. Then smiled. Really smiled. “Yours.”

⸻

By the time you curled up beside Hunter one quiet night, your head on his shoulder and his hand tracing slow circles on your back, he murmured “ner cyar’ika” and you didn’t freeze or stammer.

You just smiled.

Because now you knew.

And you finally, finally understood that you’d never been the joke.

You’d always been the reason they smiled.