busy woman !

she/her, 21, multifandom

[gyogun-luo]

I can do like him!

[aniisol]

"tech is the sensible one" the first we see of the bad batch ever is him crashing his ship onto an occupied landing dock for fun

"crosshair and hunter are the sensible ones" it's canon that, in the six-ish months that echo was with the bad batch before order 66, he watched them fight each other hard enough to draw blood multiple times

"echo is the sensible one" when the bad batch invaded tantiss and saw that someone released a violent mountain-sized zillo beast as a distraction, they immediately came to the conclusion that it was either echo or the echo-trained omega

so now we have to face the facts that wrecker is the most responsible member of the team

[therainjumper]

Bacara on action! He is just standing there, menancingly.......

[crosshairlovebot]

a tender homecoming / crosshair x gn!reader

pairing: crosshair x gn!reader (no y/n). reader has a nickname.

description: in which a tired crosshair returns home to you.

word count: 3,334

warnings: non-explicit nudity (i guess), mild sexual references. otherwise, this is just soft domestic fluff with crosshair.

seeing crosshair on mount tantiss broke my heart, and i couldn’t get the idea of crosshair loving having his hair washed out of my head either. so i wrote this <3 there are also not enough soft crosshair fics out there, so i’m on a mission to remedy that. 

also posted this on ao3. feedback is welcomed, reblogs are appreciated <3

The sun had just set on Coruscant, and a holo was playing in the background as you did the dishes, humming quietly. It had been a long day, your boss had been breathing down your neck all day, and it was nice to finally be home in your little apartment, relaxing. You’d gotten home a couple of hours ago, had a shower, made yourself dinner, poured a drink, and caught up on some of your favourite holodramas.

Spending time alone was something you’d grown used to. You enjoyed it, but it was hard to ignore the moments when you missed him.

Keep reading

[mxulshxdowlord]

If I was a reg I’d absolutely despise Hunter because what do you mean he’s genetically identical to me and yet somehow hotter, has sick ass special abilities, a sexy ass voice, is the sergeant of a squad who adore and are fiercely loyal to him, and gets called in for every special mission because he’s just that damn good at everything

[tanobatcher]

bf!wolffe headcanons: dog-coded affection a/n: he's such a puppy boyfriend. but he thinks he's scary.

gn reader warnings: none

bf!wolffe who loves long walks with no particular destination. it might be his among his favorite forms of quality time with you. he rolls his eyes when you grab his wrist and pull him toward a pretty sunset that you want to get closer to, but his gaze slowly softens as you come to a standstill beside him, leaning your head against his chest in comfortable silence. he’s never given himself the chance to appreciate the small beauties, until you stepped into his life.

bf!wolffe who is at the door literally every single time you come home. he won’t admit it, but he gets a bit antsy when you take too long, and it’s getting late, and he’s solemnly debating whether or not to go out and get you himself. the separation anxiety is especially real after he lost his whole fleet to the malevolence—his fear of losing you makes him extra protective and worried on the inside.

bf!wolffe who gets jealous when someone else is giving you affection and even MORE jealous if you’re being affectionate to someone else. he’s a territorial little shit and doesn’t try to hide it. he appears next to you all of a sudden with a deep scowl etched into the lines on his face and pulls you away, only to be shamelessly needy later in private. “you smell like him,” he grumbles, hugging you tight as his body pins you down on the bed. you stroke his hair and kiss him on the forehead. “someone sounds jealous,” you tease. he glances up at you, clearly displeased. he shifts forward, closer to you until your faces are just inches away from each other. “i’m not fuckin’ sharing you.”

bf!wolffe who usually wakes up before you, so he waits for you with his head nestled in the crook of your neck and presses slow, warm kisses across your skin until your eyes flutter open.

bf!wolffe who secretly likes when you hand feed him things that you want to share with him. he used to shake his head whenever you ask him to try what you’re eating, but as your boyfriend he is OBLIGATED to say yes (duh). now he always leans in close as you hold some snacks to his lips or push a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth.

bf!wolffe who sucks at admitting he needs attention so he just kinda nudges you until you get the hint and start scratching his head. sometimes he’s more demanding and just puts your hand where he wants it but other times he wants to be ~subtle~ especially if you’re busy watching your tv show or something that’s distracting you away from him. like why aren’t you giving him attention…he does that heavy sigh too as if he’s got bills to pay and shit. so dramatic.

bf!wolffe who is less of a traditional, lovey-dovey cuddle on the couch type of guy and instead just falls asleep on top of you or in your lap. it’s like he’s holding you hostage because now you can’t move or else he’ll wake up (grumpily) so you end up snuggling into his chest eventually. he loves opening his eyes to the feeling of your body nestled between his big, beefy biceps, his lips pressed against the crown of your head as he kisses you before falling back asleep.

bf!wolffe who lowkey likes being called a good boy

guidelines | clone masterlists | clone hcs (tumblr) | clone hcs (tiktok)

[c-e-d-f]

“Hunter has nice hair” WRONG. Even if this man knew what conditioner is he wears long curly hair loose under a helmet. As a former hockey player I can tell you the kind of knots he must get on a regular basis are CRAZY. His hair is a frizzy mess comprised mostly of split ends and tangles. His only saving grace is that he lives with a bomb tech and an electrical engineer who love him enough to apply their skills to periodically detangling him.

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“The Stillness Between Waves”

Crosshair x Reader

Pabu, post-series finale.

⸻

Pabu was alive in a way Crosshair didn’t trust.

It didn’t hum with ships overhead. It didn’t reek of oil and war. It didn’t echo with the weight of command or the thrum of tension beneath every breath. It just… was.

Seagulls circled the docks at dawn, squawking like idiots. Kids yelled, feet slapping on sandstone. The trees rustled in an offbeat rhythm that never stopped, and the air always smelled of sea salt, grilled fish, and ripe fruit fermenting in the heat.

He hated it.

Except he didn’t.

⸻

The people here didn’t stare at his missing hand. They didn’t ask if he’d lost it saving someone or killing someone. They just noticed, nodded, and shifted baskets or tools so he could carry them with his off hand.

He still hadn’t told them his name.

You were the first person to say it out loud.

“You don’t look like a Crosshair,” you said, half-laughing, barefoot on the edge of a weatherworn dock. “You look like someone who’s trying very hard not to care what anyone thinks, but secretly cares a lot.”

He gave you a long, unimpressed stare. “You talk too much.”

“And you sulk too much.”

That got a smirk out of him.

⸻

Your home sat along the middle tier of Pabu, tucked between wild flowering vines and one of the best views of the ocean. You’d lived there your whole life—grew up learning tide patterns, storm warnings, how to fish with traps and nets and patience.

You never once said “thank you for your service” or asked what Crosshair had done in the war.

You just asked if he wanted to help you set crab traps or throw stones into the water.

Sometimes, when the wind died down, you sat beside him on the cliff paths and told him stories. Not important ones. Just the kind that reminded him the world was still turning. That people still existed without orders.

One night, after a heavy rain, you gave him a glass bottle.

It had been washed up on the beach—inside, a note: “If you’re reading this, you’re alive. And that’s enough.”

“Found it when I was sixteen,” you said. “Kept it. Never opened it until this year. Figured I’d give it to someone who needed it more.”

He held it in his one hand for a long moment. The glass was warm from your touch. The note inside felt… real.

“…Thanks.”

You smiled. “Was that hard?”

“Extremely.”

⸻

He hadn’t gotten a prosthetic yet. Couldn’t bring himself to.

The scarred stump still ached when the air pressure shifted. Sometimes he looked at it and imagined the rifle he used to hold. The precise balance of metal and bone. The impossible stillness.

Now, he shook from time to time. Not from pain. From stillness.

He didn’t tell you that.

But you saw it anyway.

“Everyone here’s missing something,” you said, gently, one night beneath the low firelight. “Some people just hide it better.”

He didn’t answer.

So you leaned your shoulder against his.

Just… stayed there.

No pressure. No performance.

He stayed too.

⸻

It wasn’t until days later—when he instinctively caught your elbow as you slipped on a mossy stone, one arm wrapped around you to steady your fall—that something cracked open.

You looked up at him, breathless and close.

“You always this chivalrous?” you asked.

“No,” he said. “Just with you.”

And for once, he didn’t pull away.

⸻

The knock came softly. Not the kind meant to wake someone—just a hesitant brush of knuckles against wood. As if whoever stood behind your door wasn’t sure they should be there.

You were already awake.

Pabu was quiet at night—so quiet, sometimes it felt like the island held its breath while the sea whispered to the cliffs. You liked that silence. Usually. But not tonight.

Tonight, something in you itched.

You opened the door barefoot, hair tangled from tossing in bed, lantern in hand.

And there he was.

Crosshair.

Bare-chested in loose sleep pants and boots, as if he’d thrown on the first things he could grab. No weapon. No cloak. No sharpness in his eyes—just shadows.

You blinked, taken off guard. “Crosshair?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t look at you, either.

He was staring past your shoulder, jaw tight, that missing hand hanging stiff at his side like he forgot it wasn’t still whole.

You lowered the lantern a little. Let the soft light reach him without pressing too close. “You okay?”

Silence.

You could hear his breath—too fast, like he’d been running or trying not to.

He shifted. Like he was about to speak.

Instead, he shook his head.

And still didn’t leave.

So, you stepped back. Just one step. Just enough.

“…Come in.”

He hovered in your doorway for a second longer. A soldier waiting for permission.

Then finally—finally—he moved.

The door closed with a soft click, and the weight of him filled your small space like a storm.

He didn’t sit. Didn’t talk.

Just stood there, arms at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

You crossed the room, pulled a blanket from the couch, and held it out—not with pity. With choice.

“Take it or leave it.”

His eyes flicked to you then.

A flicker of something… human. Something wounded.

He took it.

You sat on the floor by the open window, letting the sea breeze move through the warm room, and waited. Not for a story. Just for him.

Eventually, he joined you. Knees drawn up, the blanket over his shoulders, that haunted look still tucked behind every line of his face.

“I had a dream,” he said. Voice low. Raw.

You didn’t interrupt.

“They left me,” he added. “I was… screaming. And no one turned around.”

You watched his hand. The one hand. Clenching.

“I couldn’t even hold my rifle. Couldn’t fight back. I just stood there. Worthless.”

“That wasn’t real,” you said gently.

His jaw flexed. “Felt real.”

You leaned back against the wall, eyes half-lidded. “Sometimes the past grabs you like that. Won’t let go until you rip it out by the roots.”

He looked at you. Noticed the way you weren’t looking at him—but near him. Close enough he could speak. Far enough he didn’t feel cornered.

“…Why’d I come here?”

You tilted your head toward him.

“Because you didn’t want to be alone.”

Silence again.

Then softer—softer than you thought he could manage—he said, “You make it easier. Breathing.”

You smiled, small and true.

“Then stay.”

And he did.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t sleep.

Just sat beside you while the tide rolled in, and the lantern flickered low, and—for the first time in a long, long time—he let himself rest.

Not as a soldier. Not as a weapon.

Just a man.

Bruised. Tired. Still here.

And maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to survive it alone.

⸻

The scent of eggs and something burning pulled you gently from sleep.

You blinked against the golden light spilling through your window, warmth already seeping into the room. Birds chirped somewhere up in the palms. The sea whispered low and lazy outside.

And in your tiny kitchen—Crosshair.

He stood shirtless, the thin blanket you’d given him still draped over his shoulders, bunched awkwardly at the elbows as he tried to manage a small pan one-handed.

You sat up slowly, watching him fumble with the spatula in his off hand. Every motion was too stiff, too careful, like he was trying not to admit how difficult this actually was.

There was a tiny line between his brows. Concentration. Frustration.

A hiss of oil popped.

He flinched.

You slid off the bed quietly and crossed the room barefoot.

“…Need help?”

“No,” he said instantly—too fast.

You smiled, stepping closer anyway. “You sure? Because your eggs look like they’re losing a war.”

He didn’t glance over. “I’m adapting.”

Your voice was soft now, near his shoulder. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

“I’m not.”

He was. But you didn’t push.

Instead, you reached past him to turn the heat down a little. Let your fingers brush his wrist—not enough to startle. Just enough to say I’m here.

He didn’t pull away.

That felt like something.

You leaned in, your voice like the morning breeze, warm and teasing. “For the record… it smells better than it looks.”

He gave a low snort. “I’ll keep that in mind, chef.”

And that’s when you did it.

You stepped in close, reached up gently—and kissed his cheek.

Just a press of lips. Soft. Unrushed. Not asking anything from him.

He went completely still.

You could feel the tension in him coil tight—but not in fear. Not anger. Just something… undone.

You pulled back slowly, eyes searching his face. “Thank you,” you said, voice barely a whisper. “For being here.”

His gaze dropped to you. Quiet. Intense. Like he was trying to make sense of you.

“…Didn’t think I’d want to stay,” he admitted, voice hoarse.

“And now?”

Crosshair looked down at the half-burnt eggs. The soft light catching the curve of your cheek. Your hand still barely brushing his.

“…Still don’t.”

A pause.

“But I think I will.”

[unconsciousxreality]

Keep Me Warm | 1 (Hunter x F!Reader)

keep me warm 1 hunter x fem!reader

summary:

Reader is very protective of Omega, a quality that Hunter can appreciate in many ways.

notes:

TAGS: Hurt/Comfort | Protectiveness | Found Family | Family Dynamics | First Kiss | Sharing a Bed | Domestic Fluff | Mando'a Language | Clone Troopers Speak Mando'a | Mando'a Pet Names |

AO3 Link Chapter 2 Next work in series: Stoking the Fire

The small apartment you kept in Ord Mantell City wasn’t home so much as an emergency crash pad. As a career mercenary, you’d never found a ‘home base’ very practical; even between jobs, you preferred to reside on your own ship. It wasn’t all that comfortable, but you’d made peace with the fact that your life as a merc would never be classified as comfortable–at least, not until you got out from under Cid’s scaly thumb. 

Though, you supposed, without having owed Cid you may have never been thrown together with the batch. 

It started as a one time deal to provide over-watch, and while you knew you were a good sniper, you also knew those skills are not what landed you a seemingly permanent place within their odd little family. It had been Omega, who clung to you from the first day, who pushed past your defenses and gave you something to protect for the first time in a long time. Your life had always been lonely, disconnected; you shielded yourself from loss by not allowing anyone close enough to break your heart. The urge to shield Omega in the same way was visceral; she was so vibrant, so willing to see the light in even the darkest of places. 

And so you swore to safeguard her. Keep her from harm however you could manage. It helped that you were a damned good mercenary, not only a weapon in battle but shrewd too. Sharp in a way that her brothers, career soldiers, were still learning. They were used to being supported by the Republic, but you lent them your connections, your credibility, not to mention your ship. In return, they gave you their trust. 

It was something you treasured, something you wanted to cultivate. The apartment was a step toward that. 

Much like you, the batch was accustomed to the bunk of an assault ship. They could hot-rack on the Marauder, but it wasn’t terribly conducive to long periods—and in their past life, they’d also had barracks to return to from time to time. You rented the apartment to serve as a place to go to decompress, or when someone was injured. It hadn’t been much to start with, no more than a kitchen, a ‘fresher, and floor space enough for a couple reasonably priced beds. 

You woke up on one of those beds to the sound of Hunter’s barely suppressed hiss of pain as Tech re-bandaged his most recent battle wound. Omega was still asleep, curled into your side, blond hair sticking up every which way from under the comforter. Careful not to wake her, you shifted, focusing on what was going on out in the main room of the apartment. It was dark outside the smudged window. It must have been more than a few hours since you and Omega had collapsed into the bed and promptly passed out, both of you exhausted on your return from Bora Vio. 

“M’fine, Tech. That’s enough.” 

“You were shot at close range directly through your chest plate. You are not fine. ” Tech sounded exasperated. “It took two stimpacks to revive you on Bracca. I realize you are accustomed to putting your own well being aside on the team’s behalf, but if you do not rest and allow the bacta to do its job–” 

 “ Alright, enough. I hear you.” Hunter sounded irritated, but resigned. He hadn't allowed Tech to really treat him until after Omega had been recovered, only strapped a bacta patch to himself over his blacks. His singular focus in getting her back had seemed to keep the pain from settling (well, that and the stims running through his veins) but once the Marauder landed on Ord Mantell, he was listing to the side dangerously. Wrecker half carried him through the city to the apartment, as it was slightly better stocked with medical supplies than the ship.

Echo had busied himself turning a few ration packs into a quick meal while Tech and Wrecker lay Hunter on the low sofa. In the 'fresher, you looked Omega over for injuries and tried to ignore the pained curses coming from the other room. She seemed physically unhurt, but the fear had yet to leave her haunted eyes. 

“Will Hunter–will he be ok?” She had asked, voice small. You cupped her cheek and smiled as best you could in the circumstances. 

“Tech knows what he’s doing; go on, get cleaned up and then we’ll go check on him.”

While she used the sonic, you fetched a rumpled tunic from your bag of civvies for her to wear. It hung like a dress off her small frame, good enough until you could clean her usual shirt and pants.

The both of you had checked briefly on Hunter, who assured Omega he would be fine, shooing her off to rest. If she hadn’t already been swaying on her feet, you thought she would have put up more of a fight. Instead, she’d burrowed into the bedcovers, pulling you in with her. Though you still needed a turn in the sonic and a bite of whatever Echo had managed with the rations, you allowed yourself to relax beside her. 

You still felt grungy when you woke up those few hours later to the sound of Hunter being re-bandaged in the other room. There was another bed in the main room, and you assumed Wrecker was passed out there from the snores that filled the whole apartment. The front door slid opened and shut softly. You were just thinking about how to extricate yourself from Omega when Hunter appeared in the dark doorway, naked from the waist up except for the new bandages. “She ok?” he asked when you met his eye-line. 

“For now,” you murmured. “You?” He shifted, and then came to sit on the side of the bed opposite you, on the other side of Omega. 

“I’ll live.” You could see the grimace he tried to hide, even in the dark. “Tech and Echo went back to the Marauder.” He must have sensed your confusion, because he continued, “I think Tech still needed to burn some energy, didn’t want his fiddling to interfere with her resting. They’ll be back later.” 

You sighed. None of you were strangers to that post-battle high; sometimes it would take full rotations to work the anxious energy out of your bodies and calm the mind. 

“Hunter?” both of you startled slightly at Omega’s voice. She reached out toward him, grabbing his arm as if to assure herself she wasn’t dreaming. 

“I’m here, Omega. It’s alright.” Hunter was so soft with her; your heart clenched as his hand dropped over hers. “Rest a little longer ok? I’ll be on the couch.” He moved to stand, but her grip only tightened. Her head came up and there was genuine fear in her eyes. 

“No, wait!” She looked so young, so scared. It nearly broke you, you couldn't imagine what it did to her brother. “Please just–please stay.”

Hunter looked over to you for approval; you nodded, about to slide out of the bed so he could take over, but Omega’s vice like grip caught you before you could. 

“Both of you?” She pleaded, and you couldn’t do anything but lay back down. It wasn’t that big a deal, you thought, as Hunter settled; you were both just doing what you could to comfort Omega, who drifted off again almost immediately. You couldn’t imagine the kind of stress her little body and mind had been through, and not only in just the past 72 hours. She deserved any and all comfort you could give. You curled around her on instinct, your arm over her side, and felt your palm connect with Hunter where one of his hands gripped Omega’s. He glanced over at you, something unreadable in his dark eyes. Too tired to think about it, you left your hand covering theirs. You figured if you were crossing a line, he’d let you know. 

The last thing you registered before sleep claimed you again, was what could only be Hunter’s thumb tracing patterns in the skin of your palm. 

The soft light of early morning filtered through the windows, rousing you gently from sleep. You felt wrapped in warmth; you had turned over sometime in the night, now facing away from the bed’s other occupants. Omega must have been clinging to you like she did Lula. As your eyes slowly opened and adjusted, you felt the heat behind you rearrange itself. 

You blinked. That felt much bigger than Omega.

And–oh–those were definitely not Omega’s arms wrapped around your belly, tightening and pulling you closer. You froze. 

With the amount of space open on the side of the bed you faced, you calculated there could only be two of you still in this bed, and it was decidedly not you and Omega. 

Fully awake now, you felt his breath on your neck and realized that your legs were tangled together too. Well, kriff. Hunter’s bare torso and arms caged you in, but somehow it wasn’t fear that sprung to your mind. You didn’t feel restrained, or even uncomfortable. No, the heat radiating off him soothed your aching muscles, the pressure of his limbs against you were a solace. You liked being this close to him. 

“Hunter,” you whispered, hoping not to startle him. If he floundered away he might fall off the edge of the bed, and well, he was still injured. 

“Mmmf,” he responded, still half asleep.His hand opened, palm side down on your stomach, fingers splayed out as he pulled you impossible closer. You oscillated between amusement and horror, sure that he had no idea what he was doing. He huffed out a breath, and you shivered as you felt it behind your ear. 

You could feel the beginnings of a telltale dampness between your legs, and your heartbeat started to get away from you. If he kept this up—but he wouldn’t would he? He’d wake up, spring away from you, and never look you in the eye ever again. There goes your steady partnership with the batch, there goes the tentative feeling of family you’d been dreaming of all your life and finally thought you’d finally found.

“Stop thinking so loudly.” He muttered against your shoulder. Your jaw dropped. 

“You’re awake ?” You hissed, after a thick pause. He rumbled a laugh, and it’s like you could feel it down to your bones. He let you go, pulling his arms partially back, but didn’t move his body away. You turned over to face him, cautious and disbelieving. Hunter met your questioning eyes with a crooked little smile, then reached over to push a lock of hair behind your ear. 

“Omega’s eating. She told me to keep you warm.” As if that explained everything. “I’m sorry if it was too much.” He still made no move away from you; you eyed him, trying to ascertain whether this was all a big joke or if something had changed between you–without you realizing. 

As if he could sense your uncertainty, he visibly sobered, and leaned his face down to touch his forehead to your own. 

“You are important to us, you know that right? Important to…me.” It was all you could do not to tremble against him. You felt dizzy, and you could not break his gaze. 

“I know,” Your voice was weak. Bravely, you brought a hand up to cup his jaw, tracing a cheekbone with your thumb. If this was all a cruel dream, if you woke alone in this bed and never felt his skin against yours again, you still think you could die happy. You still think this could be enough. 

Hunter drifted even closer, his lips millimeters from your own. He paused.

“Can I?” The sensation of his breath intermingling with your own made your chest tight. You nodded, your noses bumping together. There was a soft pressure as his dry lips slotted over yours. You could feel them tilted in a smile. 

It was like you broke out of your reverie all of a sudden; you pressed against him and deepened the kiss, his arms wrapped around you and pulled you ever closer. The heat of him permeated every part of you, and you felt like you had finally come home. 

 Your mouth fell open as he licked into you, his teasing hands tracing up your spine, and you moaned before you could stop it. Your teeth closed on his bottom lip when he tried to pull away, keeping him close and making him shudder. Hunter gripped your hip and pulled it flush against his, and you let out a little gasp, breaking the kiss, as his hard arousal pressed against your core. Hunter looked at you, pupils blown. You blushed, pinned under his dark gaze. 

“I could smell you,” he murmured. “When you thought I was asleep. I smell you now.” 

You whimpered. Before you could answer him, a sharp knock thundered at the bedroom door. 

“You two better not be naked in there!” Wrecker called out. 

Hunter groaned, eyes shut and flopped onto his back, away from you. Embarrassment flooded your system, and you buried your face into the pillow. 

“Wait, why would they be naked?” Your eyes flew open at Omega’s little voice piping up. Hunter had the decency to look cowed, even blushing a little. 

“No reason, Omega, go finish your food,” he called out. Hunter let loose a long sigh. “Better get up.” He tilted his head toward you, watching as you slipped out of bed and stretched. You still needed a turn in the sonic and a change of clothes, but whatever had changed between you and Hunter left you feeling brand new despite the clinging sweat and dirt. 

You moved to his side of the bed, bare feet silent, and pulled him up to stand beside you. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pulled him down for another kiss. 

“Thanks for keeping me warm, sarge.” 

[mcrdvcks]

wizards in winter

summary: You’re freezing during an outdoor patrol on a snowy world, and Hunter notices before you say anything. word count: 4.0k+ pairing: hunter (the bad batch) x fem!reader notes: me??? writing for hunter in the year 2025??? it's been a year since i wrote for him or any of the bad batch so this was a nice return to my roots. writing this got me literally giggling and blushing and kicking my feet. also, consider this my (late) entry for dincember, hosted by @dindjarindiaries. i did the prompts for week 1 - snow, cold, gloves. hope y'all enjoy!!! warnings/tags: no use of y/n, the team - hunter, echo, tech (because i said so!!! tech lives!!!), wrecker, and omega, some sort of mission on a snowy planet, wrecker is a little shit, fluff, soft!hunter, omega is a cutie pie, not proofread 12 days of christmas masterlist

The ramp lowers with a hiss of hydraulics, and the cold hits immediately. It isn’t gentle or gradual. It slams into you like a living thing, sharp and invasive, forcing its way through layers of fabric and armor with a biting persistence that makes your breath catch in your throat. Snow stretches out in every direction, pale and untouched except for the faint marks left by the ship’s landing struts. The sky hangs low and heavy, clouds thick with the promise of more snowfall.

You step down after Hunter, boots crunching into packed ice, and already your fingers feel wrong inside your gloves. Stiff. Numb at the tips, even though you’d sworn they were fine back on the Marauder.

“Atmospheric temperature is well below the local average,” Tech says, adjusting his goggles as his scanner hums to life. “Approximately twelve degrees colder than last year’s seasonal reports.”

Wrecker lets out a loud laugh, steam puffing from his mouth. “Feels great! Beats melting in armor any day.”

Echo shakes his head, though there’s a faint curve to his mouth. “Give it an hour.”

Omega hops down last, bundled up and bright-eyed despite the cold. She looks around with open wonder, boots sinking slightly into the snow. “It’s beautiful,” she says, breath fogging in front of her. “Do you think it’s always like this?”

“Unlikely,” Tech replies. “Statistically speaking, prolonged storms of this magnitude—”

Hunter lifts a hand, quieting him as his helmet tilts subtly, scanning the horizon. You know the look by now. Focused. Alert. Every sense tuned outward. “Let’s move,” he says. “We’ll sweep the perimeter and see what those readings were about.”

You nod along with the rest of them and fall into step as the group fans out, your boots crunching rhythmically against the snow. The wind cuts harder once you’re clear of the ship, slipping through seams you didn’t even realize existed. You tuck your chin down slightly, breathing slow and steady, refusing to let it show on your face.

You’re fine. You’ve handled worse than a little cold. Still, your shoulders tense when another gust rolls through, stronger than the last, and you shove your hands deeper into your pockets between steps. The snow reflects the light back up at you, bright enough to sting your eyes, and the silence of the place presses in. No wildlife. No distant machinery. Just wind and white and the soft hum of Tech’s scanner somewhere behind you.

Hunter slows half a step, just enough that you nearly bump into him. “Formation,” he says evenly, though his eyes flick sideways instead of forward.

You adjust without comment, moving slightly to his side as the patrol spreads out more deliberately. Wrecker lumbers ahead, breaking through drifts like they’re nothing, while Echo keeps Omega close and Tech mutters to himself as data scrolls across his screen.

You tell yourself you don’t notice Hunter angling his body to block the worst of the wind when it kicks up again. You definitely don’t think about how the space beside him feels warmer, even through armor and gear.

Your fingers ache now, a deep, pulsing cold that crawls up your knuckles. You flex them slowly, once, twice, keeping the movement small so no one comments. The last thing you want is to be told to turn back before the mission even starts.

Hunter glances over again, this time lingering. His brow furrows almost imperceptibly beneath the bandana, and his head tilts, like he’s listening to something only he can hear. “You good?” he asks, casual on the surface, but there’s an edge beneath it.

You look up at him, forcing a smile that you hope passes for normal. “Yeah. Just cold.”

The word betrays you a little. Your voice comes out tighter than you expect, breath hitching at the end. You clear your throat quickly and keep walking, eyes fixed on the terrain ahead. “Copy that,” he says, but he doesn’t look convinced.

Snow crunches underfoot as the patrol continues, the wind howling low across the plain. Somewhere behind you, Omega laughs at something Wrecker says, her voice bright against the cold, and for a moment you wish you could feel it the way she seems to. Unbothered. Warm.

Instead, you focus on putting one foot in front of the other, ignoring the numbness creeping steadily upward, unaware that Hunter has already noticed far more than you intended to give away.

The terrain shifts as you move farther from the Marauder, the snow growing deeper and less compacted. Each step takes a little more effort than the last, boots sinking just enough to drag at your legs. The wind doesn’t let up. If anything, it sharpens, sweeping across the open plain and cutting into exposed skin with deliberate cruelty.

Hunter adjusts the formation with quiet hand signals, spreading everyone out while keeping sightlines clear. Wrecker pushes ahead without trouble, leaving a messy trail of footprints behind him, while Tech pauses every few meters to scan the area, his breath fogging up his goggles before he impatiently wipes them clear.

“Readings are still fluctuating,” Tech says, frowning at his datapad. “There’s an energy spike somewhere nearby, but it’s inconsistent. Almost rhythmic.”

“Like machinery?” Echo asks, glancing toward a low ridge in the distance.

“Possibly,” Tech replies. “Though the output doesn’t match any standard—”

Another gust of wind slams into you, stronger than the rest. It steals the breath from your lungs and sends a shiver down your spine that you can’t quite suppress this time. Your shoulders hitch before you catch yourself, jaw tightening as you force your breathing back into something steady.

Hunter notices. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just slows his pace again, subtle enough that no one else comments, until you’re walking directly beside him. His presence is solid and grounding, his stride steady, and you find yourself unconsciously matching it just to stay upright against the wind. “You’re lagging,” he says quietly, eyes still forward.

“I’m not,” you answer immediately, a little too fast. You hate how defensive it sounds, so you soften it. “The snow’s deeper here.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You glance up at him despite yourself. His gaze flicks down for just a second, sharp and assessing, before returning to the horizon. It makes your chest tighten in a way you don’t quite understand.

Your fingers are properly numb now. Not just cold, but that deep, aching numbness that makes everything feel clumsy and distant. You flex them again inside your gloves, trying to coax sensation back, and nearly stumble when your foot catches on uneven ground.

Hunter’s hand shoots out without hesitation, gripping your forearm and steadying you before you can fall. “You alright?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, pulling your arm back a bit too quickly. “Yeah. Just didn’t see the dip.”

He doesn’t argue, but his grip lingers a second longer than necessary before he lets go. The warmth from his touch bleeds through the fabric of your sleeve, startling in contrast to the cold, and you have to resist the urge to lean back into it.

Ahead of you, Wrecker turns and calls out, “hey, Sarge! There’s a drop-off up here. Looks like the land slopes down toward that ridge.”

Hunter raises two fingers in acknowledgment. “Copy that. Hold position.”

The team slows to a stop, spreading out instinctively as they assess the terrain. You plant your feet and try not to sway, focusing on the horizon while the cold seeps deeper into your bones. Your breath comes out in thin, controlled puffs, but your teeth chatter once before you can stop them.

Hunter hears it. He turns fully toward you this time, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You said you were fine.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “I am. It’s just colder than I expected.”

“That wasn’t the question,” he says.

You hesitate, just long enough for him to read the answer in the pause. The truth is written all over you if someone knows how to look. The tension in your shoulders. The way you keep curling your fingers like you’re trying to wake them up. The faint tremor in your breathing that you can’t quite control anymore.

Omega’s voice cuts in before you can respond. She jogs back from where Echo’s standing, boots kicking up little sprays of snow as she skids to a stop in front of you.

“Are you cold?” she asks, concern creasing her brow.

You smile at her, trying to keep it light. “I’m okay. I promise.”

She doesn’t look convinced, and neither does Hunter.

“Tech,” Hunter says, without taking his eyes off you, “how long until that next scan finishes?”

“Approximately three minutes,” Tech replies. “Assuming no further interference.”

“Good,” Hunter says. “We’ll pause here.”

Wrecker grins. “Break time already? Nice.”

“It’s tactical,” Hunter adds flatly.

You know better, but you don’t call him on it. Instead, you shift your weight and try to shake some life back into your hands. It doesn’t help much. The cold feels stubborn now, settled deep, and the longer you stand still the worse it gets.

Hunter steps closer, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours when the wind surges again. This time, he angles his body deliberately, blocking you from the worst of it. His presence cuts the cold just enough to make a difference, and you hate how much relief you feel. “Next time,” he says quietly, so only you can hear, “don’t wait until it’s this bad to say something.”

You swallow, throat tight. “I didn’t want to slow everyone down.”

His jaw clenches at that, something like frustration flickering across his expression. “You’re part of the team. That includes knowing when to speak up.”

You nod, even though the words settle heavily in your chest. He’s right, and you know it, but knowing doesn’t make it easier to admit weakness out loud.

The scan finishes with a soft chime, Tech calling out new data, and the patrol prepares to move again. As you start forward, Hunter stays close, matching your pace step for step, his attention divided between the terrain ahead and the quiet, undeniable truth he’s already picked up on.

You might not have said anything, but he knows now. And he isn’t going to ignore it. The patrol resumes, but the rhythm is different now.

Hunter keeps the pace slower without announcing it, subtle enough that Wrecker doesn’t complain and Tech doesn’t comment on inefficiency. The ridge looms closer, its shadow stretching long across the snow, and the wind changes direction as you approach it. Instead of cutting straight at you, it funnels between the rock formations, sharp and unpredictable, slipping through gaps in armor and fabric alike.

You try to focus on the mission. You really do. You listen to Tech’s muttered analysis, to Echo’s quiet updates as he checks their rear, to Omega’s soft questions about the terrain. Still, the cold keeps tugging at your awareness, demanding attention no matter how hard you push it aside.

Your steps feel heavier now, like your boots are filled with lead. The numbness in your fingers has crept into your palms, dull and uncomfortable, and when you curl your hands into fists, it takes real effort to make them move.

Hunter notices all of it. He doesn’t need to look this time. The shift in your breathing is enough, shallow and measured in a way that tells him you’re conserving warmth. He can hear your pulse, faster than it should be for a simple patrol, and the faint hitch every time a stronger gust hits you square in the chest. “Echo,” he says over the comm, “take Omega and swing a little wider. I want eyes on that slope.”

“Copy,” Echo replies immediately.

Omega hesitates, glancing back at you. “Be careful,” she says, earnest and worried, before Echo gently guides her away.

Once they’re a few steps off, Hunter slows again, letting Tech and Wrecker drift ahead toward the ridge. “Talk to me,” he says quietly.

You open your mouth, then close it. The truth feels heavier than the cold, lodged somewhere behind your ribs. “I’m okay,” you start, then falter when he raises an eyebrow. You sigh, breath fogging faintly in front of you. “I didn’t think it would get this bad this fast.”

“That’s not the same thing,” he replies.

“No,” you admit. “It’s not.”

You stop walking when he does, boots crunching softly into the snow. Standing still makes the cold spike sharply, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep from reacting. Hunter steps closer without hesitation, fully blocking the wind now, his shadow falling over you in a way that feels strangely protective.

He reaches for your hands. You tense instinctively, embarrassment flaring, but his touch is firm and unyielding. He pulls your gloved hands between his palms, pressing them together with slow, deliberate pressure. Even through layers of fabric, the warmth is immediate and startling. “You can’t feel them,” he says, not asking.

You shake your head once. “Not much.”

His jaw tightens. He glances toward the ridge where Tech and Wrecker are busy scanning the area, then back down at you. Without another word, he slips one glove off with his teeth and guides both your hands inside it, enclosing them against his bare palm.

The contrast makes you inhale sharply. Hunter’s skin is warm—solid, steady heat that seeps into you almost painfully at first. He adjusts his grip, thumbs pressing gently into your knuckles, coaxing circulation back with slow, careful movements.

“Hunter,” you murmur, half protest, half something else entirely. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” he interrupts quietly. “You’re shaking.”

You hadn’t realized it was that obvious. The wind howls against the ridge, but you barely notice it now. All of your awareness narrows to the space between you, to the way his hands hold yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His focus is absolute, eyes fixed on your fingers as he works warmth back into them, expression tight with concentration.

Behind you, Wrecker lets out a loud cough that sounds suspiciously forced. “Oh no,” he says loudly. “Would you look at that, Tech. Absolutely nothing to see over here.”

Tech doesn’t even glance up from his scanner. “Your attempt at subtlety is statistically ineffective.”

“Hey, I tried,” Wrecker shrugs.

Hunter ignores them, though a faint exhale leaves him, something close to a huff of amusement. He keeps your hands where they are, unmoved by the attention. “You don’t get points for pushing through this,” he says, voice lower now. “If you get hurt out here, the whole team pays for it.”

You swallow, throat tight, repeating what you said earlier. “I didn’t want to be the reason we stopped.”

“You’re never the reason,” he replies immediately. The certainty in his tone steals your breath far more effectively than the cold ever could. “You matter. That’s not negotiable.”

The words settle deep, warming something in your chest that has nothing to do with temperature. You nod, unable to find a response that doesn’t feel too fragile to speak out loud. He finally eases his grip, though he doesn’t let go completely. Instead, he adjusts your scarf, tugging it higher to shield your neck, his fingers lingering just long enough to make your pulse jump. “Next time,” he says quietly, meeting your eyes, “you tell me sooner.”

You manage a small smile. “Okay.”

With one last squeeze of your hands, he steps back, slipping his glove on again and turning toward the ridge as if nothing out of the ordinary just happened. But as you start walking once more, warmth slowly returning to your fingers, you’re acutely aware of the shift between you. Hunter stays close, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours with every step, and this time, you don’t try to move away.

The ridge provides just enough cover to break the worst of the wind. Snow still swirls through the air, but it no longer cuts straight through you, and the difference is immediate. You breathe a little easier, shoulders loosening now that you’re not fighting the elements head-on.

Tech crouches near the base of the rock formation, scanner humming as he adjusts its settings. “The energy readings are stronger here,” he says. “Still irregular, but localized. Whatever’s causing it should be close.”

Wrecker plants himself nearby, arms crossed as he peers out over the slope. “So we’re not freezing for nothing. Good to know.”

Echo stands watch with Omega tucked close at his side, his posture relaxed but alert. Omega keeps glancing back at you, her expression thoughtful, like she’s piecing something together. Hunter stays where he is. Which is still beside you.

You become painfully aware of it now that the immediate urgency has passed. The warmth lingering in your hands. The way your body has adjusted to his presence, like it’s decided this is where you’re meant to stand. You flex your fingers again, surprised to find sensation returning, slow but steady.

“Feeling any better?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “Yeah. It’s coming back.”

“Good,” he says, but he doesn’t step away. Instead, he shifts slightly, angling his body so you’re still shielded from the worst of the wind curling around the ridge. The move is instinctive, unthinking, and that’s what makes it hit harder.

You hesitate, then speak before you can talk yourself out of it. “I didn’t mean to put you in that position.”

He looks at you, genuinely puzzled. “What position?”

“Having to… stop things. Take care of me.” You huff out a breath, shaking your head. “I know you’re responsible for everyone. I don’t want to make that harder.”

His expression softens, something steady and intent settling into his gaze. “You don’t make it harder,” he says. “You’re part of what I’m responsible for.”

There’s no grand declaration in his tone. No drama. Just truth, delivered plainly, like he expects you to understand it the same way he does. You swallow, heart thudding a little harder. “You don’t have to watch me that closely.”

“Yes, I do,” he replies without hesitation. Then, quieter, “I want to.”

The admission hangs between you, fragile and real. You don’t look away, even though every instinct tells you to deflect it with humor or change the subject. Instead, you let it settle, let it warm you in a way the gloves and scarf never could.

Hunter exhales slowly, like he’s realizing he said more than he intended. “You push yourself,” he continues, voice lower. “I get why. But you don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“I know,” you say, and this time you really mean it.

Behind you, Wrecker clears his throat again, louder than necessary. “Okay, so,” he says, drawing out the words, “either it’s getting real quiet because there’s danger nearby… or because something else is happening.”

Tech doesn’t even glance up. “Statistically speaking, this level of interpersonal tension suggests the latter.”

Wrecker grins. “Ha! Called it.”

You feel heat creep up your neck that has nothing to do with the cold, and you open your mouth to protest, but Omega beats you to it. “She was cold,” Omega says simply, like that explains everything. She looks between you and Hunter, eyes bright with understanding. “Hunter helped.”

Echo snorts softly. “That tracks.”

Hunter shoots Wrecker a look that should probably be intimidating, but Wrecker just grins wider. “What? I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to,” Hunter replies flatly.

Omega smiles at you, wide and unguarded. “I’m glad you’re warmer now.”

“Me too,” you say, meaning more than she knows.

Tech finally straightens, tapping his datapad. “The anomaly appears to be non-hostile. Likely a natural energy fluctuation beneath the ice. No further action required.”

Wrecker throws his arms up. “Yes! That means we can head back, right? Somewhere less… breezy?”

Hunter nods. “We’ll regroup and head to the ship.”

As the team starts moving, Echo gently steers Omega ahead, murmuring something to her that makes her giggle. Wrecker claps Tech on the shoulder and launches into a story about an old mission when he built a snow fort twice this size, leaving the two of you momentarily behind.

Hunter waits until the others are a few steps ahead before speaking again. “You okay to keep moving?” he asks.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. Especially now.”

He glances at you, just for a second, and something like relief flickers across his face. Then he turns forward, falling into step beside you as naturally as if that’s where he’s always meant to be. This time, when your shoulder brushes his, neither of you moves away.

The Marauder comes into view through the drifting snow, dark and solid against the white landscape. Relief settles into you the moment you see it, tension easing from your shoulders now that the patrol is truly over. The ramp lowers with a familiar mechanical whine, warm air spilling out in a way that feels almost decadent after hours in the cold.

Wrecker is the first one up the ramp, stomping snow from his boots as he goes. “I’m telling you, that place could’ve used a hot caf stand,” he says loudly. “Or at least a heater the size of a speeder.”

Echo follows close behind with Omega, helping her shrug out of her outer layer once they’re inside. She chatters happily about the snow, about how the wind sounded like it was singing, about how she wants to come back someday when it isn’t trying to freeze everyone in place.

Tech pauses just inside the ship, already engrossed in his datapad. “I will be recommending additional thermal insulation upgrades,” he mutters. “The data gathered today suggests a non-negligible risk—”

“Noted,” Hunter says, cutting in gently. “We’ll look at it later.”

You linger at the base of the ramp for a moment, brushing snow from your sleeves and flexing your fingers one last time. They move easily now, warmth fully restored, though the memory of the cold still lingers in your bones.

Hunter waits. He stands just inside the ship, one hand resting against the frame of the doorway, watching you with that same quiet attentiveness he’s carried all day. When you step inside, the temperature shift makes you sigh despite yourself. “Better?” he asks.

You nod, smiling. “Much.”

Omega looks over from where she’s settled into one of the seats, already halfway wrapped in a blanket. Her eyes light up. “You should sit here,” she says, patting the spot beside her. Then she glances at Hunter, grin widening. “There’s room for both of you.”

Echo gives Hunter a sideways look that’s far too knowing for comfort. “She’s not wrong.”

Hunter opens his mouth to object, then closes it again when Omega’s hopeful expression meets his. He exhales, defeated. “Alright.”

You settle into the seat, warmth seeping into you from all sides now. Hunter sits beside you, close enough that your arms brush, close enough that you can feel the steady heat of him even through layers of gear.

Wrecker plops down across from you, boots up on a crate. “See? Told you we’d survive,” he says cheerfully. “Barely.”

Tech doesn’t look up. “Survival was never in question.”

As the ramp lifts and the engines rumble to life, the Marauder shudders slightly beneath you. Snow disappears from view as the ship rises, leaving the frozen world behind.

Hunter reaches into one of the storage compartments near the seats and pulls out a small thermal pack. He hesitates for half a second, then hands it to you. “Just in case,” he says.

You take it, fingers brushing his. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t pull his hand away right away. Instead, he shifts, angling himself so his shoulder presses more firmly against yours, offering quiet warmth without a word. Omega watches the exchange with a pleased little smile before leaning back against Echo’s side, content.

The ship settles into its steady hum, lights dimming to their usual glow. Outside, the cold planet fades into the distance, but inside the Marauder, it’s warm. Steady. Safe.

You let your head rest back against the seat, exhaling slowly, and Hunter stays exactly where he is. Neither of you says anything.

You don’t need to.

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes

12 days of christmas: @ornateglass @taygrls @vampsan @cucumbermel @goobers-mcgee

[carbon-corrie]

As promised, the Bad Batch!

I’m kind of obsessed with the idea of clones taking holos after missions they’re particularly proud of. Also, I love the Dad Batch as much as the next, but I ADORE their Frat Bro days!

(One day I’ll stop drawing clones in T-shirts and put them in proper gear, but today is not that day.)

[thatbitchfromkamino]

hunter bad batch that fuck ass bandana, long hair, and slutty little waist will not atone for your sins

[secretly-a-trekkie]

This prison of flesh will NEVER stand in my way to actually being productive.

What's that? You drew more star wars fanart? Again???? Godddamnit.

[secretly-a-trekkie]

Naturally my first instinct when I get a nosebleed is to take a bunch of selfies for reference purposes

[kokosnusslos]

this is so shit bro

[amikoroyaiart]

Just realized I forgot to share my work for @theclonewarszine

Here is Fox, Wolffe, Bly, Cody and Rex having blast at 79's 🥰

[wldasi]

don't have time to draw something new for his special day so here's an old one reposted