The Bad Batch - Tumblr Posts
SPOILERS!!!! IF YOU’VE NOT WATCHED THE BAD BATCH FINALE DON’T READ BELOW!!!!!!
WTF! WHY??!!??! WHY TECH!! WHAT DID HE EVER DO!!! THE GOGGLES!! OMG WHATS CROSSHAIR GOING TO DO WHEN HE FINDS OUT!?!!!!!?!!?
JUST WHHHHYYYYYYYY???!!
I CAN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT IT!! IT KEEPS REPLAYING OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN IN MY HEAD!!
MAKE IT STOP!!
To all my amazing Star Wars the bad batch fans out there!
It’s going to be okay! We’re going to be okay. Techs going to be okay. As many other people I follow on here have said if there’s no body, he’s not dead. Like people have said this is the Empire we’re talking about. THEY LIE!
ALSO!!
If echo and Gregor can survive being blown up, hunter falling god knows how far down a cliff, Anakin being burned alive, Ashoka being resurrected, wrecker must have gotten his scar somehow and he’s still here! I’m sure there’s plenty more that I’ve missed but I refuse to believe he is gone! I mean all that character building just for this!! And he’s got phee to think about.
I know it’s hard but I believe he’s alive out there!
Anyone with me?!!!
So I’m fully on the Tech Lives train, but I’m still grieving and I’m struggling to sleep at night too now
I’ve attached some websites to help with grief as I’ve read others posts about how they’re feeling and I’m hoping this might help alleviate some of the pain
Unfortunately some people are unable to express their grief over Tech to their friends as they don’t watch the show or don’t understand but the Bad Batch fandom are here
Also my inbox is always open if someone needs a shoulder to cry on
Okay so I don’t know if anyone is in the same boat, but is anyone else absolutely terrified that Tech (I’d like to believe he is still alive) is gonna end up brainwashed and working for the imperials on Project Stardust or some other highly specialised project? Or they’ll turn him into some winter soldier version of a death trooper?
Im positive we’ll get a season 3 (🤞) but I didn’t realise how much of a Tech girl I was until the finale and now I feel sick just thinking about what Filoni might do to him 😭
So I’m sorry but I needed to get this out. The second volume of the bad batch is out and it hurts so bad 😭
I felt physically sick when my phone played this song (why did I put it on shuffle?). I could see the scene in my head!! It hurts so much 😭
OOOOHHH YEEAAAHHH BAD BATCH SEASON 3 HERE WE COME!!
THEY BETTER ALL HAVE A HAPPY ENDING ON PABU!!!
This is surprisingly on point. I’ll fight for anyone but not usually myself 😂
Which Bad Batcher are you based on arbitrary questions I came up with?
I made a Bad Batch quiz guys! Take it here.
Why do i do this to myself?
Inspired by @paperback-rascal ‘s prompt and glorious artwork where Crosshair, after being left on the landing platform on Kamino, suffers from sunstroke, I wrote this fic!
Sun-Kissed
Hot, sunny days were rare on Kamino. However, as the sun beat down and Crosshair began to feel faint, he stared up at the cloudless sky and realized that he had made a mistake. Perhaps the Empire wouldn’t come for him after all.
Characters: Crosshair, Wrecker, Tech, Hunter, Echo
Wordcount: 3,303
Chapters: 1 of 3
Warnings: Blood, vomit, talk of death, descriptions of heat stroke, descriptions anxiety and feelings of betrayal.
Hours ago, (Days? Weeks? Years? The time seemed to slip through his fingers like sand) Crosshair had watched the Havoc Marauder become smaller and smaller until it was nothing more than a single point of reflected light, far, far away, and he’d been certain that the Empire would come to retrieve him. He was important, after all. He was a commander. They needed him. Didn’t they need him? Wasn’t he important? Did he matter at all? Or was he nothing more than a dark stain on a pinprick of light, so small and insignificant that nothing in the great vacuum of space could hear his tiny cries for help?
After hours and hours and hours, the skies remained silent.
Yet Crosshair, ever the good soldiers, persisted. He had used his com to alert the Empire of his escape from the ruined Tipoca City; he’d given them his coordinates and tipped his head towards the sky, certain that, at any moment, Rampart’s star destroyer would emerge from hyperspace and appear at the zenith to take him home.
The skies, however, remained silent, and Crosshair’s requests for rescue remained unanswered. Crosshair, however, was steadfast and waited patiently. He had been loyal to the Empire. Surely, they would come for him. He had earned that right—the right to be rescued, the right to be needed. He had proven himself worthy.
Did they know that he had disobeyed orders? That he had turned his gun on the TKs in order to protect his old squad? Did they understand the depth of his failure, as his brothers did?
Crosshair’s armor was thermo-regulated, designed to withstand any weather. He could spend hours in the sweltering heat, crouching on burning sand; he could endure sub-zero temperatures, buried in the snow and ice for as long and the mission required; he could brave hail the size of his fist and comfortably wait out torrential downpours, all without consequence—
But this black shell was not his armor.
As with every faulty simulacrum the Empire attempted to recreate in a more “perfect” form—like his squadron of conscripted soldiers; like the medical treatment he’d received after Bracca; perhaps even like Crosshair himself—Crosshair’s fancy new imperial armor was nothing more than a cheaper, poorly-designed, less functional recreation of something the Republic had done right.
As the hours ticked by, heat began creeping into his dark armor until his sweat-soaked blacks were plastered to his back. At some point, to wipe the sweat out of his eyes, he removed his helmet with trembling fingers, and it slipped from his weakening grasp, tumbling off of the platform and disappearing into the dark waters below. He cursed and dug the heels of his palms into his eyes to keep himself from screaming in frustration.
Where was the Empire? Weren’t they coming for him? Hadn’t he proved he was worth-while? He felt stupid and childish and jealous and afraid. What if the Empire never came for him? Would the Batch come to his rescue, if he cried out for help?
Tech and Echo and Wrecker had pointed their blasters at him. In the pods, when he had lifted his rifle to rescue the girl, they had pointed their blasters at him, as if they thought he had intended to slaughter Hunter or the child. Why would they think that? Hadn’t he proved, over and over and over again, that he was unwilling to kill them? Even under direct orders and the heavy influence of the chip, every shot he fired missed. In the end, he had picked his brothers over his sloppy TK squadron; he had murdered them to rescue his brothers. He had sided with them. His loyalty, as fierce as it was for the Empire, had always been to his brothers first. Hadn’t they seen that? Hadn’t he proven himself worthy of their trust?
They had turned their blasters on him.
Crosshair’s fingers dug into the side of his head, pain sparking across the length of scarred flesh. Their lack of trust was understandable, he supposed. Perhaps they hadn’t known about the inhibitor chip. Perhaps, when he shot Wrecker, they assumed he had done so of his own volition, and their trust in him had shattered in an instant. He hadn’t wanted to shoot Wrecker. He hadn’t wanted any of this. Did they know that? If he told them, would they believe him? Would they rescue him if the rains came and the violent waves threaten to swallow him whole? Had he earned that right?
The heat was becoming unbearable. The platform was small and there was not place to take shelter from the rare, sweltering sun. His legs hurt. His head began to swim. He began to pace to keep himself concentrated on his objective.
...what was his object, again?
Right. To be rescued.
So Crosshair waited. The Empire was coming for him. Somebody would come for him. Right?
Why would they? His traitors thoughts asked.
Crosshair’s chapped lips curled into a snarl. Because I am a commander. He answered. Because I am important.
You are expendable. His thoughts replied. You have always been expendable.
When he was a child, he had struggled in social situations. He lacked Wrecker’s sense of humor, compassion, and good nature; he lacked Tech’s inability to be effected by the cruelty of others; he lacked Hunter’s rationality and empathy. He didn’t consider himself an enjoyable person to be around and, for the most part, kept to himself for fear of further ostracization. Unfortunately, his lowered self-esteem began to effect his team-mates during training courses. It was easy to become so consumed by his fears that he was somehow a burden on his teammates, that he lost focus on his objective and his accuracy suffered. Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, his worst fears began to manifest: his team began to fail because he couldn’t keep up.
So he trained. He trained and he trained and he trained. He spent hours on the shooting range, forgoing sleep and food to refine his craft. He wasn’t created to be somebody’s brother or friend, he was created to be a sniper. It was in his DNA. It was, in his head, the only reason that people kept him around. During those long, sleepless night, as he set into the routine and his mind began to wander, anxiety festering like an abscess, it was easy to imagine his three older brother barring the door of their barracks and refusing to let him enter unless he proved his worth.
Hunter was an incredible leader, wise and dedicated, and his senses were incredibly sharp; Wrecker was strong and kind and gave good hugs; Tech was intelligent and witty and he could fix anything;
And Crosshair was angry and rude and he could shoot good.
A drone could do his job.
So he practiced. He practiced and practiced and practiced until he was better than everybody, and he was certain that he had proven his worth and secured a place in Clone Force 99-
And they abandoned him.
The taught the girl to shoot. They gave her his com. They replaced him.
They turned their blasters on him.
Crosshair’s face began to hurt. The skin that stretched across his cheeks and forehead began to burn, as if they had been pulled too tight. He knelt at the edge of the platform, hoping the spray of salty water would cool his sunburnt face, and his legs gave out from under him, nearly sending him plummeting into the water, where he would be swallowed up and forgotten.
“Expendable. Adjective. First definition: describing an object of little significance when compared to an overall purpose, and therefore able to be abandoned. Second definition: describing an object designed to be used only once, and then abandoned or destroyed,” Tech recited. His voice came rolling in on the waves, and Crosshair propelled himself to his feet, twisting around frantically in search of his brother, but nobody was there.
“That’s why we never came back for you!” Wrecker’s disembodied voice boomed over the nothingness. “Because you don’t matter at all!”
“Actually, we were pretty happy to get rid of your sorry ass. Things are better now that you’re gone,” Echo’s voice made Crosshair stamp his foot and clamp his hand over his ears.
His head was pounding. His heart was racing. Suddenly, he pitched forward and vomited into the ocean. With such desperation that his fingers dug into the sharp edges of plastoid and bled, he pried off his armor and stripped off the top half of his blacks, practically throwing it into water with the hope that the wet material would cool down his sweltering skin. But the water-logged cloth was too heavy for his heat-weakened grasp and was eventually tugged away by the current.
Crosshair laid there, on his stomach, for a long time. The sun kissed his back until it blistered. The skies remained silent. Nobody was coming for him. His lips cracked and oozed blood. His mouth hung open and his dry tongue felt too heavy and made swallowing painful. At some point, he stopped sweating, and his skin dried in the sun like leather.
He wanted to go home. He wanted his brothers. He didn’t care if they never trusted him again. And... of course they wouldn’t- they held him at blaster-point. They came back for Hunter, but not for him. Never for him.
They abandoned him.
He was expendable.
Crosshair laughed, almost hysterically. He wanted to cry, but there wasn’t enough liquid in his body to produce tears. Would they forgive him if he apologized? Would they rescue him if he begged them to come back?
Forcing himself up onto his hands and knees, he vomited again. There was nothing left in his stomach, so the convulsions brought up only bile until his stomach was empty of that substance as well. It was liquid he couldn’t afford to lose. Unfortunately, the spasm didn’t stop. He heaved and heaved until his sides ached and his throat burned. When, at last, the cramping stopped, he collapsed onto his side and gasped for air.
He was frightened. He was dying.
Moving as if on auto pilot, he retrieved his com and inputted the Marauder’s frequency—he knew it by heart.
He said something into the com, but he wasn’t sure what. He couldn’t hear himself speaking anymore. He felt like he was standing above himself, watching his body bake in the sun.
Slowly, slowly, he once again tried to push himself onto his hands and knees, but the effort proved to great, and he lost consciousness.
- - -
When Crosshair woke, he was laying on his bunk in the Marauder. He didn’t even need to open his eyes to know where he was—the smell was pungent and familiar. Slowly, he cracked his eyes open. The room was dim. Pain coursed through his head—he could feel his pulse pounding behind his eyes—but the bed beneath him was soft and cool, and he felt so relieved he wanted to cry.
“Hey there, Cross. How’re you feeling?” That was Hunter’s voice. Crosshair squeezed his eyes shut, afraid that, if he turned his head, nobody would be there.
“Cross?” Hunter asked again, voice gentle, and the sniper felt a firm hand rest on his chest.
Crosshair cracked his eyes open. There he was, right beside him. There they all were, playing a round of sabaac on the floor beside his bed. He wanted to cry, but no tears came. He couldn’t help but think of all those hours he’d spent alone, on the shooting range, and he was happy. They’d come back for him, hadn’t they? Had he proven his worth?
“There he is! We thought you were never gonna wake up!” Wrecker boomed with a grin. There was no greater sight in the galaxy.
“You look like shit,” Echo said with an equally warm smile, and Crosshair allowed the corners of his mouth to twitch upwards.
“I feel like shit,” he agreed, his voice hoarse.
Wanting to be with his brothers, Crosshair rose from the bed slowly. His body was numb and his head felt hazy, like he was hungover, or waking up from sedation. It was hard to think straight. His skin hurt. Once upright, he paused for a moment as a wave of nausea rolled over him. His mouth suddenly tasted tangy and Echo, scowling, passed him a rag.
“Here. You’re getting blood everywhere and I just cleaned the floor,” he grumbled.
Blood?
Crosshair knit his brows together as confusion welled up into his throat and his stomach twisted with worry. He pressed the cloth against his nose and his eyes widened in surprise when it came back coated in blood. His nose was bleeding. Why was his nose bleeding? Should he be worried? Should the others be worried?
There was a heavy, uncomfortable pressure that suddenly swelled in his abdomen, and he groaned, doubling over and pressed a hand to his hip. A sharp, hot pain spiked across his lower back and, for a moment, he thought, with some panic, that he was dying. However, after a moment of labored breathing, the pain subsided (or grew distant and numb) and his fear eased.
“Acute renal failure,” Tech surmised, pushing up his goggles with one finger. “Your body is too hot, and it’s lost too much fluid. Your brain is swelling and your kidneys are shutting down,”
Too hot? No, no, no, that wasn’t right at all. He was on the Marauder, wasn’t? They’d rescued him, they’d cooled him off. He was home, he was forgiven, he was safe. Right?
Crosshair grit his teeth as panic flashed through him. As usual, he attempted to stuff the more vulnerable emotion away, hiding it behind a thick layer of anger. His brothers were watching him, but nobody moved towards him. They didn’t seem to care. Why weren’t they doing anything?
“Help me!” he snarled, stepping towards his brothers, and Tech merely quirked a brow.
“Crosshair, we can’t help you,” he said, as if the fact was obvious. “This isn’t real. You betrayed us. Surely we wouldn’t give you this much autonomy if you were actually on board the ship with us. Don’t you remember? You commed us for help, and nobody answered,”
“You’re lying,” Crosshair’s voice was tight and practically dripping with vitriol.
“Why would I lie? How would that benefit me? Or you, rather, as I’m not really here. Thiis,” Tech said, gesturing to the room around them. “Is just your brain, processing what it feels like it needs to,”
“What?” Crosshair cried, sharp and indignant. Blood continued to stream down his face. He tried, with great irritation, to wipe it away, but it always came back and the flow only grew heavier.
“You probably just wanted to pretend like you weren’t going to be alone when you died!” Wrecker exclaimed with a hearty laugh.
The panic, in that instant, was blinding. Something tugged on his leg and, when he looked down, he immediately wished he hadn’t: the room was filling, ever so slowly, with tar. Crosshair grasped, nearly choking on the breath as it caught in his throat, and tried, desperately, to pry his legs out of the muck.
“There’s no use fighting it, you know,” Echo said gently, moving forward and resting a comforting hand on the sniper’s shoulder, just as the sniper had done for him when they’d rescued him on Skako Minor. “It’s going to be okay,”
Echo’s words of comfort sparked a wildfire of furious, blind anger in Crosshair, who violently shoved the ARC trooper backwards.
Crosshair twisted around, as if he could find somewhere else to escape. Behind him was a white, sterile hallway—like the ones in Tipoca City—so impossibly long that he couldn’t see the end of it. One by one, the lights began to switch off, and darkness began creeping up the hallway.
“A clever analogy,” Tech said, intrigued. “Your organs are shutting down,”
“Fuck off,” Crosshair spat and Tech merely shrugged.
“Hey! Leave ‘im alone! He’s only here ‘cause you want him here!” Wrecker bellowed. He was still sitting on the floor, unbothered as the tar swallowed up his legs and continued to climb.
Crosshair squeezed his eyes shut. “What’s going to happen to me?” he croaked, his voice hoarse from the dryness of his throat.
Hunter knit his brows together and put a heavy, comforting hand on Crosshair’s shoulder. “You’re going to die,”
“And when high-tide comes, you’re body will be swept away and eaten by the aquatic life. Eventually your armor and bones will sink to the bottom and falling sediment will collect on them until you’re buried. If you’re lucky, over millions of years, you might be fossilized,” Tech explained. “So, at least your life won’t be a total waste,”
The pressure in Crosshair’s abdomen was mounting. Behind him, the lights continued to flip off, one by one. “How pleasant,” he sneered. Then, suddenly, his shoulders slumped. “Will you remember me?” he asked his brothers.
Hunter smiled. “Of course we will,” he said.
Crosshair’s eyes narrowed and flickered over to Tech. “Will you really?”
Tech smiled. “Not likely,”
“What d’you want, Cross?” Wrecker asked.
The sniper’s eyes drifted shut and he swayed; one hand gripped his abdomen, and the other hand gripped his head. “I want... I want to go back home,” It was a horrible, frightening thing to admit, but he was so tired. He didn’t want to be angry anymore. He didn’t want to fight. He wanted to go home.
When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer on the Marauder. Instead, he was in their barracks on Tipoca City. His brothers were small and dressed in red and blue outfits they had worn as cadets.
Everything was so much easier back then.
Tech looked up from his workbench, his goggled a little too big for his head. Hunter, who sprawled out on his bunk reading a holo-novel on his datapad, sat up and grinned.
“Cross! You’re back! Where were you?” he asked.
Crosshair stepped closer on wobbly legs. “I... was at the shooting range,” he explained, and Tech frowned, sticking out his bottom lip.
“You spend too much time there. You’re not getting enough sleep,” he tutted.
“Yeah! And we miss you!” Wrecked exclaimed. His face was not marred by any blast scars. He had a full head of curly, dark hair and two big, brown eyes.
“You missed me?” Crosshair echoed, almost in disbelief.
“Of course we missed you. You’re our brother,” Echo protested. Echo... Echo wasn’t supposed to be there. He was small and healthy and whole, and Crosshair was glad he was there.
“What if I can’t shoot good enough?” Crosshair asked, and his bottom lip quivered.
“So what?” Hunter asked. “We don’t care how good you can shoot. We’re just happy you’re here,”
Crosshair took another wobbly step forward and rubbed his eyes. His vision was starting to blur around the edges. He looked to Tech, expecting the clever young clone to tell him not to fall asleep, but he merely smiled.
“It’s okay, Cross. We’ve got you,”
“Are you sleepy?” Wrecker asked. He wiped his sticky, jam-covered fingers on the bedspread and rose from his bunk. The gesture was disgusting and so, terribly familiar. Crosshair wanted to cry.
“Yes, Wrecker. I am extremely exhausted,” he croaked.
“Aww...! Come here!” His older brother exclaimed and outstretched his arms.
The sniper stumbled forward, desperate for the comfort and safety of his big brother’s embrace. He felt awful. Wrecker would make him feel better. Wrecker always knew how to make him feel better.
Crosshair collapsed, alone, on the landing platform in the middle of the Kaminoan oceans. Far above him, the skies came to life as the Havoc Marauder emerged from hyperspace and appeared at the zenith.
NOOOOOO!!!!!
So Imperial Tech story is growing in my brain and I have to share this scene with everyone!
"Wait...is that...TECH?!" Wrecker asked his eyes wide as their brother walked in in matte black armor.
"Tech?" Hunter asked, tension across his shoulders as more shock troopers filed in and surrounded the launch bay.
"You must realize how foolish this endeavor is, Hunter," Tech said, his voice as cold as Kamino rain. "Statistically speaking, without my aide, Clone Force 99 has less than a forty percent chance of surviving off of Kamino and without my help."
"You're not coming with us?" Crosshair asked, his Firepuncher ready but aimed at the ceiling.
"That statistic is if I do not follow my orders and hunt you down to bring you to justice for desertion and betrayal to the Empire." Tech snapped, eyes going to Crosshair. "I will be following my orders, should you leave. That brings your survival percentage to less than 13 percent. And with a child? Less than three."
"You're really going to do this, Tech? You have no issues with what Rampart tried to order us to do?!" Hunter bellowed, glaring at his little brother; or whoever was standing in Tech's body.
"We were built and designed not only to follow orders, but also to have the highest success rate on missions in the former Grand Army of the Republic. The republic is now the Empire for the safety of all beings in the galaxy. You cannot fight your nature, Hunter. Without the Empire you will die."
The only reasons I have to live anymore are all of the new Star Wars tv series Disney is making
Happy Autism Acceptance Month!
I'm glad that we have these characters which mean so much to us and our representation! They mean a lot to the community.
clone force 99
(chapter 1 of my rewrite)
[id: it’s a drawing of the Bad Batch heads stacked together going Echo, Tech, Hunter, Crosshair, and Wrecker from bottom to top. Echo is wearing the cybernetic headpiece and modified arc armor with dual pauldrons. He is depicted with duller brown skin, burn scars that cover half of his face, some short hair, and a bit of facial hair. Tech, who is drawn with brown skin, reddish orange hair and a scar on his cheek, is wearing his usual light grey armor and black goggles. Hunter, also depicted with brown skin and his bandana, is wearing his dark grey armor, as is Crosshair, who is drawn as albino with freckles concentrated on his cheeks and forehead, and Wrecker, who is drawn with brown skin, rounder features, and a scar that starbursts from his left ear, which has partially melted. /end id]
Now this may not get a lot of notes but I worked really hard (over the course of several days and a lot of late nights) and I wanted to share this. I’m an amateur at best but i drew these with that one TikTok trend for my friend @dangraccoon (congrats on marriage!!) this is their OC Jaine Vale (go check them out!)
As I said, I’m not the best artist but I’m really proud of these :)
Tagging my friends so it can get at least four notes 😭 @sevdidntdie @janthesevenette @fionajames @will-is-silly @imconfusedbutok @hellhound5925
(The last picture is a picture of my own hand that I traced because I CANNOT figure out how to draw hands. I traced the first pic because I started crying when I tried freehanding the hands.)
CLONES AS RANDOM TIKTOKS PART 8 LETS GOOOOOOOOO
Goodnight Kisses |Wrecker x medic!reader|
Warnings: Pure fluff, small mention of stitches, mention of blood
You met Clone Force 99, known as The Bad Batch, when you were assigned as their medic. They weren’t particularly fond of you at first, saying they didn’t need a medic, but when one mission went slightly wrong, they started warming up to you. The first one to warm up to you was Wrecker, and from there on your relationship blossomed. One thing led to another and when you had gotten hurt trying to help the others, Wrecker told you that he loved you and couldn't live without you. So here you were tonight, sitting on Wreckers bunk, patching him up after he got too close to an explosion.
"You need to be more careful, Cyare," You tell him as he winces when you put a patch over a more severe burn.
"I was! But them Tooka's would've gotten hurt if I hadn't protected them!" He gave you a warm smile and his usual booming laugh, proud of himself.
You let out a small chuckle, still worried but glad that he was able to be so happy and loving in a time so cruel and dark. You put the final patch on him before you start putting all the medical supplies away.
"There you go Cyare. And if I find out you did something like this again, it won't be the bombs killing you, it'll be me, understand?" You give him a stern but loving look.
"Yes ma'am!" He saluted you as he had a wide grin across his face.
You finish putting everything away after about five minutes. Wrecker was sitting with his back against his pillow, arms open to you. You look at him and giggle, climbing between his legs and cuddling up to him. He wrapped his arms around you, reveling in the warmth you gave him. He snuggled his head into your hair, inhaling your scent. You lean back into him, feeling relaxed and comfortable after such a long day. You were just about to fall asleep when Tech walked in.
"I'm sorry to have disturbed your show of affection for one another but Hunter seems to have opened one of his stitches and we need you to stitch it back up, " at which he walked out, most likely back to Hunter.
Wrecker let out a groan and squeezed you closer to him.
"Oh come on! Do you have to go?" Wrecker pouts, not wanting you to leave him.
"I'm sorry baby, but I have to. If he doesn't get his stitches stitched up again then they could get infected," you rub the back of his hand, trying to ease your way out. He grumbled before picking you up and placing you on his knee. He gave you one last squeeze as he let go.
"Go ahead and help him, but hurry back!"
You give him a smile before pressing a quick peck to his forehead, before leaving rather quickly so you could get this done and over with. Walking to where Hunter was, you saw that he indeed ripped one of his stitches open, blood seeping out.
“You boys are going to be the death of me,” You breathe out as you gather your medical supplies. After about twenty minutes of trying to get Hunter to sit still, you finally got it stitched back up. Putting another patch on it, you scold him for not being more careful and for not resting. You give the other boys a lecture about being careful and resting before heading back to Wrecker. Once you open the door you see Wrecker curled up with Lula, likely waiting for you. You smile and walk over to him, his arms open now.
“Tumblebun! That took forever!” He exaggerated his words.
You rolled your eyes and cuddled into his arms, his warmth soothing you. You let a laugh out and hold his hand once his arms wrap around you in a comforting hug. Bringing his hand up to your lips, you give it a soft kiss, placing more kisses on his knuckles and fingertips. He let out a soft sigh, never thinking that he could be more in love with you then in that moment. His mind quickly changed when he felt you massaging his hand, peppering it in light kitten kisses. He let out a quiet groan of relief from the pains he’s been feeling. After a couple minutes of just massaging and kissing his hands he takes them away. You look back at him confused, before he picks you up and turns you around so you’re facing him. With confusion still on your face, he starts kissing your face, your forehead, cheeks, eyelids, nose, and finally, your lips. You deepen the kiss, feeling safe in his arms. You pull back, needing to breathe. He gives you a wide smile and kisses your forehead and nose again.
“Mesh’la, all mine. I couldn’t have asked for anything better! See, even Lula agrees!” He grabs Lula and brings her to your face.
You giggle and kiss his face back, making sure to not leave a single spot untouched by your love. He lets out his booming laugh, his face turning a light shade of red. He accepts the love and when you were caught up in giving him kisses, he picked you up and turned you both onto your sides. He brought you close to his chest, spooning you. You snuggled into him, his warmth radiating off him. You felt him kissing the top of your head, loving all the attention he was giving you.
“Copikla, all mine. I couldn’t have asked for anything better,” You softly spoke, repeating his words from earlier.
You couldn’t see, but he gave you the most love struck look this man could have. He quickly pulled you closer, if that was even possible, before pulling the thin blankets over you both. He gave you one last kiss to the top of your head before laying his head down.
“I love you, Mesh’la,” He spoke in a hushed tone, sleep slowly taking him.
“I love you too, Cyar'ika,” You say while closing your eyes, sleep, finally taking your body as you felt him large and warm hands protectively hold your body.
@fakegingerrights @renon4224
A little teaser for a series I'm writing, it's a Tech x Reader fic with angst, and fluff!
@fakegingerrights
Waking up in a pitch black room wasn't uncommon for you. What was though was not feeling the chains that bound you to that cold metal table, always holding your bruised and frail body. You laid there in pain, fear pumping through your chemical infused veins. Slowly opening your eyes, you could barely see, but there was something unusual. Looking around slowly, there were no scientists or medical tools in sight. As your eyes finally adjusted to the dark room you took in more of its features. Your mind took a while to process these new changes to your off looking environment. The room was pure white, or at least that's what it seemed to be. You moved your head slightly, pain soon following, spreading all throughout your tired body. At this angle you could spot a door out of the corner of your eye. It seemed to match the room's color scheme, white. A million thoughts, a million questions, were running, swarming, around in your exhausted mind, despite having probably slept for a while. After about five minutes, you were able to sit up. Your body was in so much pain, but you pushed through, ignoring your throbbing head. Your limbs were sore from hours of needles penetrating your skin, pumping unknown chemicals into your veins. Looking around, you couldn't remember the last time you saw a change of scenery. You wound up in this horrible place during one of Cid's missions. You couldn't even remember what it was for, only that it was stupid and dangerous. You can remember though, that the last one to be calling out your name as you fell from the ship that was taking off; after being shot in the leg by who you're certain was Crosshair, was Tech.
Look who I drew!! I love how it turned out!!
@fakegingerrights @sunrisemcash @justanauthor17