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.
You're entitled to your opinions but sometimes you should really keep them to yourself.
Gree's hairstyle isn't "two bacon strips glued to his head", it's not "only honoring the dead in that they never have to see it", it is an ethnic hairstyle specific to the Mandalorian diaspora and all subcultures within it.
Yes, it's fiction. But making fun of a fictional ethnic hairstyle only sends the message to your readers of color that you think it's okay to make fun of real ones. So if you don't actually believe that, maybe keep that in mind when you're writing.
"It's okay because it's his brothers teasing him." First, if you are the author, the characters are tools of your will. Second, I do not have the words to describe the sheer disconnect in people of the same culture mocking him for something so implicitly culturally important. Third, and not most important but likely most poignant, even family does not get to mock the way you grieve.
If you think Gree's hair is ugly, that's your prerogative. Out of universe, maybe the writers and animators could've chosen something different. In universe - whether writing or acting as an established character, an original character, or a reader insert - keep it to your damn self or write realistic consequences.
If you walked into a bar that is primarily a safe haven for Black folk and started making fun of afros and box braids and marley twists and locs or telling people to "fix" them, you'd get your ass beat, you'd get thrown out, or you'd get cold-shouldered by every Black person and every decent non-Black person who overheard or was told for the rest of the night, depending on everyone's available energy to deal with your shit.
If you walked into 79's that is primarily a safe haven for ethnically Mandalorian clones and started making fun of Gree or Boost's hair or telling them to "fix" it, you'd get your ass beat, you'd get thrown out, or you'd get cold-shouldered by every clone and every decent non-clone who overheard or was told for the rest of the night, depending on everyone's available energy to deal with your shit.
I'm so goddamn tired, y'all, and this is a hill I have chosen to die on. Racism doesn't start and stop at whitewashing. If you disagree, block.
Heya, I really love your Dogma/Wolfpack series! I was maybe wondering if you could do a post battle drabble (heh that rhymes) of them destressing (sfw or nsfw). It would be quite lovely💕
Putting this under a cut for suggestive situations, heated kisses, and biting. Do not read further if you don’t want to read that:
Tensions run high, the heat of battle shifting focus onto each other as it often does, and Comet finds himself pinned between Sinker and Boost before he has time to get his bearings after Dogma pushed him away. Apparently, this is just what Dogma had been waiting for though, and he closes the distance while Sinker and Boost keep Comet’s arms loosely restrained so Dogma can get his fill of kisses.
Wolffe slips into the fray, sneaking arms around the others and drawing close to them, biting open-mouthed kisses into every inch of hot skin that he can reach. “Commander!” Dogma exclaims in a gasp as Wolffe’s teeth find his newly bared shoulder. He twists around to chase the sting of the bite with his own kisses, desperate for more attention that will soothe the battle-heat from his veins.
