#''creative'' miniseries

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"Creative" Miniseries

Warnings and Information: Because some of these get suggestive, we're gonna say Minors DNI.

I went down a list of creative hobbies at random, so some of these may not necessarily "fit" our 501st boys in blue. This is more a creative writing exercise than a serious list of headcanons.

If I miss someone from a certain unit, or you want to see so-and-so with a different creative hobby than the one I went with at random, let me know and I can do another part just for them. It doesn't have to be in the form of a request, but you're welcome to make one (it'll be easier to keep track of that way/guarantee I'll see it)!

Word count: 1,507

Captain Rex 

If his cyare was a photographer, he keeps their photos on the inside of his chestplate, anywhere really, but the most important one is over his heart. They don't stay very nice for long due to friction, but that's okay. He keeps extra copies and dutifully replaces them when he gets a spare moment. He started doing this after Umbara. The photo he always, always keeps over his heart is of him taking care of his brothers. He doesn't know why you snapped that photo of him stepping off the gunship, one arm tucked around an injured, unpainted Shiny and the other free hand patting someone on the back. But there's something about the way he looked to you behind the camera that made you take the picture. It's the picture that came after it, though… A delicious and sultry little snapshot of you posing suggestively with his helmet. That one, he keeps very, very well hidden. 

Tup

If his cyare was a jeweler/beader, he proudly boasts all the experimental jewelry. On more than one occasion he wishes he had his ears pierced, but he knows it'll just end badly if he ever has to take his helmet off quickly for any reason. You made a hair-tie for him once as a sort of compromise. It was made of a dark leather cord and the odd tear-drop shaped bead kicking around in your box of materials that hung so beautifully, delicately, from the cord; nestled between two spherical beads on either side. It was more of a sea glass blue than the proud navy of the 501st, but it looked nice against his hair all the same. He used to wear it around his wrist when he slept. He's not sure when he lost it. But it was his favorite thing you'd made for him. So when you make him a replacement, something similar that he can keep around his neck this time, he makes a great effort not to lose this one. 

Jesse

If his cyare had the patience for a needle and thread, he finds secret details added to his blacks and his other fabric wear in embroidery floss. Miniaturized star charts. An animal or a flower he told you about from his last campaign. Short jokes when you had the time to meticulously plot out each letter to make them all legible. Strings of coordinates. Kamino. Your home planet. Where you first met. Where you had your first… ahem, "flight" together (or nearly did). The next place you wanted to go on a date. Jesse ends up getting a lot of cogs stitched into his belongings, usually with a note that reads "If you can find all the icons of the Republic I've hidden, we get to do whatever you want the next time you have shore leave. There are 16 cogs. You have 12 standard hours to find them all. Good luck, ARC trooper~" and Jesse always finds them all. 

Dogma

He counts himself lucky his cyare delights in drawing him so much. Portrait studies in all sorts of mediums. "I have something new I want to try! Will you model for me, please?" Watercolor. Oil pastel. Gouache. Pencil. Charcoals. Colored pencils. Ink. Heck, even crayon. You take such care to capture every little detail of his face, his tattoo. It was dependent on the medium, but sometimes the details of his tattoo were so crisp, it was like looking himself in the mirror. You've drawn him up in his armor a few times, but you find the impersonal plastoid so… "blasé" (which had been an odd choice to express your disinterest). You'd much rather be drawing him. His face. Just all of him posed in anything and everything he wore (or didn't) while looking so disciplined and compliant for you. You've even hinted you'd love to do some… anatomical study sessions with him, whenever he thinks he's comfortable with the idea. 

Fives

He counts himself very lucky he didn't get himself thrown out of his cyare's pottery studio the first time he wandered in and found them in the middle of throwing at the wheel. Building a vase to replace yet another decoration that had been ruined in a bout of roughhousing by pulling up and pushing in the lump of clay in your hands. "Hah. You sure know how to work your hands and fingers. Bet you have really-" and he'd been hasty to shut his mouth with the gentle ticking of one of your brows in a go on, I dare you sort of fashion. All his worries were disarmed with a simple laugh when you said he was welcome to watch you work, but you'd prefer to have a little warning next time before he came barging in. The clay moved so fluidly, so effortlessly in your hands as you built beautifully balanced vases and designed intricate pitchers and teapots for the Jedi Temple, Fives suspected you could throw in your sleep. And, oh yes, you certainly had expert control of your fingers whenever you promised him a more "private demonstration". 

Echo

He thinks his cyare has the voice of an angel. They sing. They can croon, or warble, and they can get somber and bluesy. It's all beautiful to Echo. Suddenly that song he was sick to death of on the radio goes from barely tolerable to beautiful, and almost hauntingly so. His cyare could take an upbeat ditty popular on the dancefloor of 79's and turn it into something romantic and heartfelt by slowing down the tempo, and drawing out the words just the right amount. And you could do the opposite, too. He's almost positive you could take a funeral dirge meant to be sung quickly under one's breath while they hastily buried the dead in their armor could become so soulful and twice as meaningful. Your voice is like magic to Echo, and it soothes him to hear you sing as you wander about the house.

Hardcase

He's always had a bit of a hard time sleeping thanks to the leak in his growth jar that made him hyperactive. His brothers have made more threats to tape or tie him down into his bunk than he can count. So his cyare, clever thing that they are, comes up with something so simple, Kix is kicking himself for all these sleep inducers he could have saved himself had Hardcase started using this sooner. He loves the dirty jokes he can make about his cyare's hobby as a crocheter. "They're a hooker in their spare time! And they've got a whole room full of WIPs and chains, too! I get to help if I promise to behave." It's right about the point that he brings up all the various types of yarns and threads and everything in every color under the sun that they've collected from all over the galaxy that people realize Hardcase is talking about how many blankets, dish cloths and table runners (whatever the kriff those are) his darling's made. "Why the kriff did you have to make it all sound so kinky, Hardcase? You're telling me they just made you a blanket?" It's not just a blanket to Hardcase. It's far more comfortable than those scratchy GAR sheets. It's soft, and it's warm, and because this was something that cannot be made by machine ("Those articles on the Holonet are full of it! Crochet CAN NOT be replicated by machine!") and instead, with an amount of patience that would make his head spin, just for him, Hardcase finds himself falling asleep and staying asleep much easier than before. 

Kix

He's almost glad that he complained about a lackluster medical infographic he'd been asked to distribute to his brothers in front of his cyare. "That's… that's the worst visual artwork they could have possibly chosen on how to perform the Heimlich Maneuver." You had taken one peek over his shoulder as you removed the shoulder bell that bears the shattered red cross on it and agreed. "That's absolutely awful. And their layout is atrocious; who the kriff designed this? Not someone in the GAR, I hope. I can do better than that." You fired up your graphic design software and spent the next several hours tweaking with the design of a new handout. No silly novelty fonts that made it hard to distinguish an "N" from an "M". Concise bullet points of medical information that was easy to understand. You consulted him to make sure it was up to snuff after several hours, and Kix could have collapsed in his euphoria when you asked him what he thought of an additional handout you'd thought of and had started working on. You remembered his complaint about this new medical drama going around the galaxy and how it was full of false information that a lot of his brothers had taken to heart. "Cyare, you're a lifesaver!" It makes you laugh between his kisses when you remind him that you're only a graphic designer, and he's the medic. 

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"Creative" Miniseries

Warnings and Information: Because some of these get suggestive, we're gonna say Minors DNI.

I went down a list of creative hobbies at random, so some of these may not necessarily "fit" our Bad Batch and Wolfpack boys. This is more a creative writing exercise than a serious list of headcanons.

If I miss someone from a certain unit, or you want to see so-and-so with a different creative hobby than the one I went with at random, let me know and I can do another part just for them. It doesn't have to be in the form of a request, but you're welcome to make one (it'll be easier to keep track of that way/guarantee I'll see it)!

Word count: 2,010

The Bad Batch 

Crosshair 

His cyare writes him poetry, short stories, and fake scripts. Wordsmithy about purple mountains crowned in silver snow. His retellings of how he wiped out fifteen battle droids in one shot becomes fit for the silver screen when you present him with the scene. He's thought about carefully etching your poetry about him into the stock of his gun. But he couldn't decide on just one line; how could he pick just one when they were all so good? He's thought about the filthy praise you've written for him on strips of filmsi when he misses you most. He's memorized every word before he discreetly drops the strip into a puddle on the landing pad, or some water cupped in the palm of his hand, to let the evidence dissolve and melt away. He knows you keep your records if you ever wanted to do a reading while you ravish him; just like you promise on paper while maybe being too timid to tell him out loud. No two lines have ever been quite the same. It never fails to make him feel so loved when every word you write is chosen with utmost care. Even the parts about himself he despises he's found himself slowly coming to love. You've been wonderful for his self-image, in many ways. And you constantly surprise him. He's never imagined you could be so crass when you write how much you want to ruin him in bed. Him. Hunter asked if Crosshair had gotten some bad news because he could hear the sniper's heart racing wildly, once. "No… everything's fine." Crosshair insisted in a way that didn't quite convince Hunter, but he thankfully let it go.

Wrecker

His cyare spoils him with home cooking. Absolutely spoils him. Sweets and breads and stews. Meat so mouthwatering and tender it falls off the bone. And the best part is you make enough so he can eat until he's had his fill. He's full for one rare moment in his life. No bland ration bars. No under-seasoned food from the mess. You always make it just how he likes it, and some extras that he takes home with him for his brothers, made how they like it, too. He's not sure he's ever seen a single recipe card. He's pretty sure you have a flawless memory. He offhandedly mentioned it had been a while since he'd had something once, and the next day, you whipped up exactly what he'd been craving. Right down to the spices and the drinks you paired with the meal the first time. So when he jokes that the two of you could really give him a case of deja vu by engaging in a certain "after-activity" once you've had some time to digest, he finds that's exactly what you had in mind. Mornings after he spends the night, he's made breakfast in bed. You might find yourself engaged if you do that enough times! He might not even have a ring or any sort of commemorative accessory ready for the moment, but he's so swept up in feeling so loved by you that he wants to feel like that forever. What better way than to ask to be yours?

Hunter

His cyare has the greenest of green thumbs he's ever seen in this galaxy. You can tell what the soil needs from feeling it between your fingers. You can deduce what ails your plants with startling accuracy before ever consulting the Holonet. Your garden thrives with life in such a small space; unlike anything he's ever seen. Herb and flower and produce. You have an idea for a hydroponic garden that you've been flirting with the idea of; something you can propagate here that you could let him keep on Kamino. A little secret piece of greenery to break up all that sterility of white and silver. He loves to spend time with his hands in the dirt with you, watching you prune and weed with precision. He may not understand how you keep all the seasons of planting and blooming and harvesting straight in your head, but he appreciates your brilliance and your knack for filling your garden with so much growing in tandem. You invited him once to do a little late night planting in the new flower beds, but the two of you ended up fooling around so much that the beautiful seedlings from the nursery remained untouched until sunrise. (It took Hunter three days to get all the dirt from his hair.) Eventually he can tell what section of your garden you spent the most amount of time in by the way you smell at the end of the day. "You've been in the herbs again. Maker, I love it when you smell like this…" You laugh softly, feeling your skin tingle pleasantly wherever his hands begin to roam. "Good. Because tomorrow I plan to fertilize the new patch I made, and we both know you're not a fan of the fertilizer. But I need to get things ready for you to choose your own little things you want to learn to grow."

Tech

His cyare shares an interest in puzzles and programming. Logic puzzles, jigsaw, sudoku, crossword, word searches, mazes, memory and recall, you name it. Anything that tests your reasoning and intelligence. You've slipped so many little ciphers into your messages together, and sent him many tasteful images. He needs to crack three layers of unique encryption to get to it. Were the files in his datapad not so important in order to perform his part in the Grand Army of the Republic, you'd gladly give into the idea of sending him a virus that would do something harmless, or cause a minor nuisance like changing his primary language from Basic to Shyriiwook to Huttese to Dathomiri to Rodian all at random. "It would be fascinating, not knowing what language you're going to get the next time you pick up your datapad," you tell him, trying to explain why you hesitate to entertain this fantasy, "but what if you needed to show something to Commander Cody and he doesn't speak Kel Dor?" You have a point, he concedes, but he files this odd fantasy away for another time. Maybe when the war is over. Letting his exceptional mind go to waste would be an utter shame. Letting an opportunity to be involved with you in this mutual hobby going to waste would be criminal.

Wolfpack

Commander Wolffe

His cyare's poor hands are full of splinters all hours of the day. "I wish you'd wear gloves, or something…" he grumbles worriedly as he assists you in working a particularly nasty splinter free. It's in there deep… and he's this close to taking you to one of the medics on board to make sure it's out before infection sets in. "But it's just not the same without the feel of the wood in my hands if I wore gloves." you tell him. You don't mean it to be dismissive of his feelings. You know he's only thinking of your best interests and your safety in mind. He always is. The idea of woodworking, something that could be very demanding on your hands, something that could too-easily go wrong if you didn't mind the blade of your whittling knife didn't scare Wolffe, but it didn't comfort him either. "I see enough hurt to last a lifetime when I accompany General Plo Koon on relief efforts. The thought of you… Please promise me you'll be careful." You nod softly. Promising that you're doing your best. You're always doing your best. "I'll be careful. I have to be if I want this to look good." He's never asked his cyare what they make. Not because he doesn't care, but because he's so preoccupied that he doesn't get to see anything while it's still being worked on; he's only seen the finished results. All of them are so beautiful. But for once, since he knows this one is still in progress, he wants to know what you've spent the better part of the month working on. What you're so determined not to screw up. "It's you. And your men. As a whole pack of loth-wolves." you tell him. "I just finished Comet today. Would you like to see?" 

Comet

Mapmaking for fun was his cyare's hobby. Maps and diagrams of anything, really. Phony star charts filled with made-up constellations that were named after him and his brothers and the General. What an underground wolf den would look like if it was large enough to host the entire Wolfpack. You even made maps of some of his dreams. Sprawling cities where people could have enough space to dance in the street. You tried making a diagram of the time Comet had assisted General Windu from the precarious wreckage of a Venator-class ship that had been reportedly sabotaged, but it was ultimately abandoned. Something about that incident was spoken of so quietly by the Clones. "General Plo says the one responsible was just a kid…?" The diagram was trashed and instead you worked on something related to the Aleena people. 

Boost

His cyare promises him when they first get together that the gifts of soap are not a jab at his hygiene, or rather, lack of it since he only bathes with regularity when he's on leave. "I-I just make so much soap… And I'm always trying new things. Fragrances, I mean! If you don't like any of them, you can give them to your brothers or throw them away and I swear I won't be mad." you tell him when you give him a mesh sachet of travel-sized soap bars when he asks what you've been up to since your last date together, in the beginning of your relationship. You had picked up soap making as a hobby in the three months you've been apart. His brothers certainly think they all smell nice, and they feel cleaner when they can smell something they haven't gone nose-blind to after nothing but regulation cleaners and soaps for years on Kamino. "Hey, Boost! Tell your sweetheart I really liked the thing they called lavender! I love the way that stuff smells. Do you think you could get some more of it for me?" He feels a little bad that when he goes to visit, he comes with what's for all intents and purposes a list of soap orders. "They're offering to pay if it means they don't have to use the communal body wash dispensers." 

Sinker

Leatherwork became his cyare's hobby of choice after Sinker had an opportunity to finally take care of a few things he hadn't had the time for in a while. Cleaning out his footlocker, being at the top of his list. You'd offered to help, curious to see what you'd find, partly, but mostly just glad to spend a little time with him. "Huh. Don't remember this… Why'd I keep a roll of plain leather? Oh: you know what, this must have been from that one planet back in the-" he stops himself, laughing. "Eh, the sector's not important. It was a thank you gift from the locals of the planet after we delivered relief supplies to them once we took care of a Separatist blockade. The General said it would have been impolite to refuse. I don't really have a use for it, or the time to make anything with it… But if you like it," he tells you, seeing the way you smooth your hands over the rich leather again and again, "I'm sure you'll find a better use than just sitting in my footlocker for it." He never thought you would have taken the suggestion to heart, but he's glad to see you've found something you enjoy and can pass the time with. When you present him with a small leather bag embossed with the image of the Wolfpack, he asks if you wouldn't mind making the same for his brothers out of their rolls. You'd be happy to.

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"Creative" Miniseries

Warnings and Information: Because one of these get suggestive, we're gonna say Minors DNI.

I went down a list of creative hobbies at random, so some of these may not necessarily "fit" Cody and Gregor (in the interest of time since I'm posting away from home, I cut Waxer and Boil from the original list). This is more a creative writing exercise than a serious list of headcanons.

Word count: 420

Commander Cody

His cyare is a tattoo artist, and a kriffing good one at that. He's seen you do scar camouflage, cover-ups, in-memoriam pieces, and he's seen perhaps hundreds of your tattoos on the skin of his brothers that have been directed to your parlor. There's a piece of you with him if he knows where to look. As Marshal Commander, he doesn't see you often, but he still sees the evidence of you. You're everywhere. You've inked every thing: flowers, names, animals, insects, star maps and planets and even some nose art for the Republic gunships has been commissioned from you. "No-no, you misunderstand their advertising; soldiers of the GAR and GAR property have discounted rates. Nothing they make looks cheap, it's the prices that are cheap. But their work is beautiful and worth every credit." Cody assures a young soldier who's heard through word of mouth that you offer cheap tattoos to Clones. The brother looks at him with a curious expression, deciding quickly that if he's going to ask his question, he better do it while he's either brave enough, or foolish enough. "Do you have a tattoo from them, Sir?" Cody smiles, head bobbing once. "Can I see?" Cody shakes his head this time at the courageous question, still smiling as he explains. "Afraid I can't do that. It's under my armor." Your permanent addition to his body is explained and described in detail, however. A simplistic rendition of a sun, and in orange Aurebesh, one single word. The thing he strives most for in the name of the Republic. "Grek-leth-osk-resh-yirt."

Gregor

His cyare took up scrapbooking some time before Sarrish. Well, he thinks so, anyways… Memories from that time before he took a job as a dishwasher on the planet Abafar can be incredibly patchy when he doesn't actively try to recall what happened. But whether or not it's the first time or the fifth he's seen some of his loved one's scrapbooking pages, Gregor adores the attention to detail, and the care you put into curating these pages. Stamps, stickers, and decorative tape make up the pages you dedicate to things you want to remember. But there's a much more raunchy project you've been working on on the side. You haven't shown him yet, but you've promised him that as the pages progress, he should find himself plenty hot and bothered. "Can't be working too hard all the time, Captain~" you tell him with a salacious smile when you finally gift it to him.

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