I've Never Drawn Droids Or Clones Before, So This Was A First! :) Thank You @mr-damian-s-power For Your

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐑 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

a/n: I just wanted to write some fluff!

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝑨𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒓𝒏 🗡️

・At first, he tilts his head, lips parting like he might question it. But then he sees your expression; calm, trusting, maybe a little playful, and something in him softens.

“I can try,” he says, voice rough around the edges, but warm. “It’s been… a long time since I’ve braided anyone’s hair.”

・You sit together near the fire. His sword is laid beside him, boots still dusty from the road.

・And yet, he treats the moment like it deserves stillness. Like your request has pulled him out of time.

・His hands are calloused, weather-worn.

・You can feel him being careful not to tug too hard.

・He works in silence, brows furrowed in concentration.

・His fingers move slower than Legolas’, less sure than Faramir’s, but steadier than you’d expect.

・Every now and then, he huffs out a breath that sounds like a quiet laugh.

“You have too much hair for this to go unnoticed,” he murmurs. “The braid will hold, but only just. It may rebel before the day is done.”

・But still, he continues.

・And when he finishes...it’s a bit uneven. Slightly lopsided with a few bits of hair hanging out.

・Yet it was done with love and effort and the kind of care no one taught him

・He rests a hand briefly at the base of your braid, like he’s grounding you. Or himself.

“There. You’re ready.”

・And when he sits back, he doesn’t say anything else.

・But throughout the day he watches you, making sure it holds, and if were to come loose, you can come back to him.

・He'll braid it again. Every time.

𝑳𝒆𝒈𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒔 🌙

・He blinks once, slow and surprised, then tilts his head, curious.

“It would be my honor,” he says, with the kind of sincerity that makes your chest tighten.

・Legolas doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t tease.

・He treats the request with deep, quiet admiration. Almost as if you've asked him to perform an ancient rite...which you kinda have.

・He steps behind you in complete silence.

・With featherlight, gentle hands (you hardly feel them at first), he works. And he does it quite quickly.

・You realise this isn't the first time he's braided hair before.

“Each braid has meaning,” he murmurs. “Length. Type. Tension. In my realm, we braid for protection. For remembrance. For love.”

・You go still. He doesn’t elaborate.

・And then he sings.

・It's soft, in Elvish.

・And not one that you know. But it feels old. Comforting. Like wrapping your arms around a loved one you haven't seen in a while.

・When he finishes, he runs one finger gently along the braid’s edge

・And when you turn to look at him; eyes shining and heart full, he meets your gaze and adds, ever so softly:

“You should ask me again sometime.”

・Because this wasn’t just a braid.

・It was a memory.

・And he plans to make more of them with you.

𝑩𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒓 🛡️

・Oh how he melts.

“I’ve never been asked to do something like that...But I'll try.”

・He moves to sit behind you, shuffling so that his legs are around you.

・Boromir's hands are big, definitely too big for this, but he continues anyway.

・As he gathers your hair, gently brushing it out of your face and into his palm, he mutters:

“You’ll have to forgive me if it’s not Elvish-perfect,” he murmurs. “We weren’t taught much about braids in the White Tower.”

・And then he grows quiet, thoughtful. This isn’t just a braid anymore. It’s a way to show you affection...a part of him enjoys it.

・Although he is trying to make it perfect.

・At the end, the braid is a little loose, a little uneven, but strong.

・Woven like a promise.

・He secures it with a small leather tie from his own belongings; nothing special, but something his.

“There. Done.” A pause. “I hope it’s alright.”

・You turn to thank him, but he’s already looking away, trying not to smile.

・Fingers twitching like he wants to touch your hair again but won’t; unless you ask.

“If it ever comes undone,” he adds quietly, “you know where to find me.”

𝑬́𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒓 🏹

・He thinks of it as a challenge...straight away.

“You don’t think I can?”

"Ugh! That's not what I meant?"

"What did you mean?"

"Just wanted someone to braid my hair, you ass."

・You weren't even teasing him, but then it becomes a whole thing.

・He kneels down behind you like a man preparing for war. Cracks his knuckles. Rolls his shoulders. And in turn, you roll your eyes.

・When he actually starts, there's a shift. The bravado eases and he becomes focused.

・His rough fingers, to your surprise, are steady.

・And you can feel the care as well...and feel, a protective energy.

・Like if anyone tried to touch your braid he'd punch them.

・When he’s done? He absolutely beams. And before getting up, he tugs the end playfully, then stands back with his arms crossed.

"There. Just got your hair braided by a Third Marshal...that's got to be worth something."

・If someone compliments it later, he absolutely puffs up with pride (but plays it off like it was no big deal)

“Looks good doesn't it. I did it. She asked me. Only right I made sure it was done proper.”

・And although Eomer doesn’t say it out loud, in his mind he promises something wolfish and loyal:

No one touches what I’ve claimed with my hands.

𝑭𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒓 🌾

・At first, he blinks—slow and surprised, like he thinks he misheard you.

“You would trust me with something so personal?”

・He isn't teasing. No, Faramir is genuinely honoured.

・Because he's the kind of man who sees tenderness as something rare and doesn’t take it lightly.

・You sit between his knees, and he treats your hair like something sacred.

・The word 'gentle' repeats in his head over and over.

・His hands are warm as he gathers your hair from your shoulders

・His fingers accidentally touch the bareness of your neck and goosebumps erupt.

・You go red; luckily he can't see your face.

・Faramir barely speaks, only jums softly under his breath; something old, maybe a lullaby he remembers from his mother.

・Every now and then he asks, in a light voice:

“Does this feel alright?” “Too tight?” “Shall I start again?”

・Once he's done, (he took his time on purpose), he wraps the end with a small ribbon.

One you didn't know he'd been keeping. As he ties it, it's as if he's sealing a promise.

・For a moment longer than they need to, his fingers linger.

“There. You’re ready to meet kings and storms alike.”

・And if you could see his face, you would notice a faint flush on his cheeks

・Like he's been given something sacred...and he hopes you'll ask him again tomorrow.

𝑮𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒍𝒇 🪄

・His first reaction is a slight chuckle, partially amused.

“My dear, it has been centuries since I was asked for that favor.”

・He takes a seat and motions for you to sit in front of him. Your legs are crossed on the floor, and your hands are fidgeting in your lap.

・You can feel his long, elegant fingers begin to pick up hair. A slight shiver runs down your spine at the image of it.

・At first he murmurs, in a language you do not know. But his voice is peaceful, and you can hear the chirping of night bugs.

・He knows exactly what he's doing. You’d expect an old wizard to fumble, but Gandalf’s hands are steady

・It takes a while, but the murmurs turn into little humming and you cannot help but smile.

・The braid is meticulous, elegant, maybe a little too perfect.

・You end up with something that feels sacred, like it should be worn into battle or a coronation.

・After he's done, he gives a small hum of approval. In a wistful voice he says:

“So the wind will not catch your thoughts and carry them away.”

・And then he lights his pipe, looks off toward the horizon, and pretends it was no big deal.

・...But for the rest of the journey, he walks a little closer to you.

Captain Rex x Jedi Reader

Summary: After a blast on Umbara, Rex saves you and you are forced to remain in a bacta tank the rest of the campaign. You try to reach out to Rex through the force and he hears your warnings about Krell’s betrayal. When the truth comes out, Rex is consumed with guilt.

The skies over Umbara were poison.

Choked in mist and war.

And somewhere beneath it all, you bled into the dirt.

The blast had taken you hard—chest scorched, body broken. Rex had been the first to reach you, his voice cutting through the chaos, calling your name like it meant something more than rank or Jedi title. He held you as the medics arrived, armor slick with mud and grief.

He didn’t let anyone else carry you.

Not even Fives.

Not even when General Krell barked at him to return to the line.

Once the 501st finally breached the airbase, Rex made sure you were stabilized in the nearest field medcenter. They submerged you into a bacta tank, pale and silent, your saber charred and clipped to Rex’s belt instead of your own.

He stood watch over you every night when he could—alone, visor off, hands balled into fists. Fives had noticed. Hardcase had joked about it once.

He never joked about it again.

_ _ _ _

The First Warning

It came while Rex was reviewing troop formations alone.

A sudden pressure behind his eyes, like a gust of wind had blown through his skull.

“Rex…”

Your voice, faint—like a ripple across still water.

He froze, datapad slipping from his hands.

“General?”

No answer. Just the distant hum of machinery and the low buzz of the bacta tank nearby. He turned toward it. You floated within, unconscious, brow furrowed like you were fighting something that didn’t live in the waking world.

Then—again.

“He is not what he seems…”

Rex’s heart skipped. “General? What—what does that mean?”

But the connection faded, leaving only silence and misty breath against the tank’s glass.

The Second Warning

Rex didn’t sleep that night. Or the next.

Krell was pushing them too hard. The losses were piling. Something was off.

And then it happened again.

He was armoring up when he felt it—a cold sliver down his spine.

“They are not your enemy…”

“He is.”

Rex’s blood ran cold.

“Who?” he whispered into the dark. “Krell? You mean Krell?”

But again, the connection blinked out like a dying star.

He ran his gloved hands through his hair, helmet dangling from his side.

It made no sense.

Krell was a Jedi. Brutal, sure—but wasn’t war brutal by nature? Could he really be turning against them?

_ _ _ _

The Betrayal

And then they were deployed. Told the enemy had stolen clone armor. Told to open fire.

The forest exploded with blasterfire and screams.

And then—

"Cease fire!" Rex’s voice tore through the chaos. “Cease fire!”

It was too late. Bodies littered the jungle floor.

Clones.

Not Umbarans.

His own brothers.

He fell to his knees, helmet slipping from his fingers, the sound of battle replaced by the echo of your voice—

“They are not your enemy. He is.”

He finally understood.

Krell.

He had known. You’d tried to tell him. From inside that tank. From wherever your mind had drifted in the Force, tangled in pain and bacta and fear for the men you both loved.

He felt sick.

Krell needed to pay for this.

_ _ _ _

After Krell’s capture—after the rage, the betrayal, the ghostly silence of the men—

Rex stood outside the medcenter again. Watching you.

You were healing, slowly. Still submerged. Still fighting to wake.

He placed a gloved hand against the glass.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You tried to tell me. I didn’t listen. I should’ve—”

He swallowed hard, guilt a coiled wire around his throat.

“I’m not losing you too.”

And somewhere inside the Force, you stirred.

_ _ _ _

The Force shifted.

Like a breath held too long, finally exhaled.

A weight lifted.

A darkness lifted.

You surged back into consciousness before your eyes even opened—gasping silently in the thick blue haze of bacta, heart racing, the phantom echo of betrayal still ringing through your veins.

He was dead.

Executed.

Dogma.

You felt it.

The weight of his blaster in his hands. The fury. The confusion. The pain.

It is done, the Force whispered.

The war on Umbara was over.

But the ghosts would linger.

You woke gasping, dragging in breath like it hurt. The medical droid flinched back with a startled beep. Your lungs ached. Every inch of you was stiff and raw from mending bones and torn flesh. But you were awake.

And more importantly—alive.

“Captain!” someone called outside. “She’s waking up!”

You barely had time to get out of the tank before boots pounded toward you. Rex stormed in, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes wide and wild and disbelieving. You gave him a weak smile.

“Took you long enough,” you rasped.

He stopped cold. A dozen emotions flickered across his face. Disbelief. Relief. Guilt.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he said quietly.

You leaned back against the pillows, wincing. “You didn’t.”

He stepped closer, slowly, like he couldn’t quite trust the sight of you.

“But I lost them,” he said, voice low. “And I didn’t stop it.”

Your heart cracked open.

“I tried to warn you,” you whispered, reaching out. He took your hand instantly, holding it like a lifeline.

“I know,” he said. “I heard you. In my head. I thought I was losing it.”

You gave his hand a soft squeeze. “You weren’t. I was with you. As much as I could be.”

Rex’s shoulders dropped. The weight of war carved deep into his bones. For a moment, he looked every bit the tired, worn man behind the armor. And you loved him more for it.

_ _ _ _

The medcenter was quiet. Clones moved like shadows—silent, grieving, stunned. You sat upright now, draped in a simple robe, IV lines gone. Still sore. Still healing. But awake.

Rex lingered by your bedside long after the others had gone. He hadn’t spoken in minutes.

Finally, he said:

“They were mine.”

You looked up.

“My brothers. And I shot at them. I followed orders. I didn't question it. Not until it was too late.”

He was shaking. Just slightly. But it was there.

You moved closer, taking his hands again.

“You trusted Krell because he wore the robes. Because that’s what they trained you to do,” you said gently. “You weren’t wrong for trusting him, Rex. He was wrong for abusing it.”

His jaw clenched.

“I should’ve listened to you. I should’ve—”

“Stop.” You reached up, brushing a hand against his cheek, the first real touch you’d shared in weeks. “You did what you could with what you had. And when it mattered—you stopped him. You saved who you could. And you survived.”

He closed his eyes, swallowing hard.

“I don't feel like I did.”

You leaned in, brushing a soft, chaste kiss against his forehead. The kind only you were allowed to give him. The kind no one else could ever see.

“You did,” you murmured. “And you’re not alone.”

Rex didn’t say anything, but his fingers tightened around yours, grounding himself in your warmth.

The battle was over. But the war, within and without, would go on.

I’m I the only freak who finds Old Man Hunter hot?

Helllo! I was wondering if you could a spicy bad batch x fem!reader where she used to be a dancer/singer in like a sleezy club, did what was best for easy money. But an op comes up and she needs to it again and the boys didn’t know she had a history of it and are like “oh shit” find it hot but get jealous of the other men. Idk if this makes sense 😅

love your wring! Xx

“Undercover Temptation”

Bad Batch x Fem!Reader | Spice + Jealousy

⸻

The mission sounded simple enough.

Infiltrate a seedy club on Pantora. Gather intel on a black-market arms dealer that frequented the place. Blend in. Make contact. Get out.

Cid had been vague about the details, just that it required “a certain skill set.” And when her eyes landed on you, there was a flicker of something like smugness.

“You’ll fit right in, sweetheart,” she’d said. “Used to be your scene, didn’t it?”

The Batch didn’t know what she meant by that. But you did.

You’d left that part of your life behind when you joined up with Clone Force 99. The sleezy clubs, the music, the makeup, the stage lights — the easy money, the wandering hands. You’d done what you had to. You were good at it. Too good.

Omega had stayed behind, thank the Maker.

⸻

The club on Pantora was everything you remembered from your past life — sweat-slick air, glitter, smoke, and the kind of stares that made your skin crawl in ways you’d long buried.

Cid hadn’t exactly warned the Batch what she was getting them into. Just said it was a “special assignment” and only you could pull it off.

You hadn’t worn this in a long time — short, shimmering dress clinging to every curve, makeup smoky and sharp, hair teased and wild. A performer. A seductress. A mask you’d once worn to survive.

But stepping out into the room full of hardened clones, nothing could’ve prepared you for the heat in their eyes.

Hunter looked you up and down, slow and deliberate, his brows furrowed like he was trying to remember how to breathe.

Wrecker’s jaw dropped, cheeks flushed. “Maker, baby…”

Echo stared like he’d short-circuited.

Tech made an odd choking sound behind his datapad.

And then there was Crosshair.

He had a toothpick between his lips, eyes dragging over your legs, slow and dark. “Didn’t know you used to work a stage,” he murmured, voice like smoke. “That explains a lot.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you smirked.

He grinned. “Means now I know why the hell I’ve been dreamin’ about you on your knees.”

Echo made a noise of protest. Wrecker looked like he was about to explode. Hunter didn’t say anything — but his fists were clenched.

You went on stage anyway. Because this was the mission.

You knew how to move. Knew how to keep attention. The intel target was in the VIP booth — you’d been instructed to lure him out, get close, plant a tracker, and distract him while Tech accessed his datapad remotely.

But the Batch? Yeah, they were distracted too.

Crosshair watched from the shadows, his shoulders tense, jaw tight. He was normally smooth, sarcastic — but this? This had him on edge.

Hunter paced by the back exit like a caged animal.

Wrecker glared at every man who so much as breathed in your direction.

Echo kept muttering, “She shouldn’t have to do this,” under his breath.

Tech… he was sweating. You were pretty sure his goggles fogged up.

The moment it all went to hell was when a drunk mercenary tried to grab you mid-performance.

Your eyes had locked with Hunter’s for a split second — a silent signal — when a hand yanked you roughly by the waist, spinning you mid-dance. You tensed immediately, smile faltering.

The guy was laughing, leering, pulling you flush against him.

And Hunter moved like a damn predator.

One second he was at the exit, the next, he was slamming the guy into the stage floor, snarling, “Don’t. Touch. Her.”

You barely had time to react before Crosshair had his rifle out, providing overwatch from the rafters, eyes sharp and deadly.

Echo pulled you behind him protectively.

Wrecker cracked his knuckles with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “You touched the wrong girl, pal.”

Tech looked like he wanted to kill the man — but also couldn’t stop blinking at you in that outfit.

The bar erupted into chaos.

Shots rang out.

You ducked low as the crowd screamed and scattered. Your target made a run for it — but not before Tech tagged his datapad. Crosshair clipped his shoulder with a clean shot. Wrecker handled two mercs trying to flank you.

You moved to help Hunter — but he was down.

Your heart dropped.

You rushed to his side, kneeling beside him. “Hunter!”

He was bleeding — blaster bolt to the shoulder, unfocused eyes still locked on you. “’M fine,” he rasped. “Saw… saw that guy grab you. Should’ve—shit—moved faster.”

You pressed a hand to the wound. “Don’t be an idiot. I’ve had worse hands on me. We’re getting you out.”

“Not while you’re still dressed like that,” he muttered weakly.

Behind you, Crosshair took out another would-be attacker, and growled through clenched teeth, “If anyone else touches her tonight, I’m leaving bodies.”

Echo lifted Hunter over his shoulder while Wrecker covered the retreat. Tech dragged you out by the hand, pulling you through a back hallway while still rattling off data from the merc’s pad.

“You… that performance,” Tech blurted, breathless. “I’ll be reviewing the security footage later. For… mission purposes.”

You just grinned, eyes flicking to where Crosshair covered the rear, rifle smoking.

Back on the ship, patched up and safe, Hunter leaned against the medbay wall, arm in a sling.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.

You leaned in, brushing hair from his face. “Yes, I did. It was the job.”

“Next time,” he growled, “you wear that in our quarters. For us. No one else.”

Wrecker appeared in the doorway. “You gonna do another show, babe? I got credits.”

Echo followed. “Don’t encourage her.”

Tech was already setting up a holoprojector. “I have some… strategic questions about your technique.”

Crosshair just smirked from the shadows, toothpick twitching.

“Next time,” he said, “I’m bringing handcuffs.”

Your smile turned wicked. “Oh? For the targets?”

His smirk widened. “No.”

Rebels Wolffe x Reader

Summary: Wolffe x Medic!Reader set post-Order 66 during the Rebels era. Listened to the song “somewhere only we know” by Keane and made me think of old man Wolffe.

⸻

The sky of Seelos burned orange as another sun dipped beneath the jagged horizon. The Ghost had landed hours ago, stirring the sand, dust, and old ghosts from their resting places.

You stood at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, scanning the ramshackle AT-TE turned-home ahead. Your breath caught when you saw him—helmet under one arm, same eye scar, same heavy gait. But time had added weight to his shoulders and silver to his hair.

Wolffe.

He hadn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he had and just didn’t believe it. You smiled.

“Well, kark me,” you called, stepping forward, “either I’m dreaming or the years have not been kind to you, old man.”

He froze mid-step. His one eye widened, flickering with something too raw to be masked. His voice was gravel when he finally spoke.

“Medic?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Still calling me that after all this time? Not even a ‘hey, great to see you, thought you were dead’?”

He dropped his helmet, closing the distance in long, heavy steps. You didn’t realize you were trembling until he reached you—until his gloved hand gently took your arm like he wasn’t sure if you’d disappear.

“You left,” he said. Not accusing. Just fact.

“So did you,” you whispered. “War ended. Republic died. So many of us died with it.”

A moment passed where neither of you breathed. The wind whistled over cracked metal and dry earth. The sun dipped a little lower.

Wolffe’s eye searched your face like it had answers to questions he never dared to ask. “Why now?” he said. “Why here?”

You glanced back toward the Ghost, where Sabine and Zeb were offloading supplies, Hera and Kanan deep in discussion. “I’m with them now. The Ghost crew. Ezra brought us out here. Said there were… good men worth finding.”

Wolffe looked away. “Not sure that’s true anymore.”

You touched his cheek—scarred, weathered, familiar. “Still wearing your guilt like a second set of armor, huh?”

“Maybe.”

“I remember when you used to smile,” you murmured. “Used to fight like hell, patch your brothers up, then sit with me under stars on Ryloth like the war wasn’t chewing us to pieces.”

His silence was heavy, but he didn’t pull away. Just watched you with that quiet intensity he always had.

“I’ve thought about you,” you said. “Over the years. Wondered if you made it. Wondered if you found peace somewhere.”

“This is the closest I got,” he said, glancing back at the AT-TE. “It’s not much.”

“It’s something,” you offered. “Somewhere only we know.”

A tired smirk tugged at his lips. “Still quoting that old song you used to hum in the medbay?”

You shrugged. “Catchy. And depressing. Fit the vibe.”

He chuckled—actually chuckled. It was a rare sound, worn and dry but still alive. “You really haven’t changed.”

You leaned in, nudging his shoulder. “You have. More lines. More grump. Less hair.”

“I shaved it.”

“Sure, sure. That’s what they all say.”

He shook his head, muttering a fond “damn smartass” under his breath.

The sun was nearly gone now, and the stars began to appear, faint and blinking like the ghosts of all you’d lost.

You stepped closer, chest brushing his armor. “You think we could find that peace again?” you asked, soft. “Maybe not like before, but… something close?”

He didn’t answer right away. But his hand found yours—calloused, warm, grounding.

“Stay a while,” he said. “Just… stay.”

You squeezed his hand.

“For now,” you said. “I’ll stay.”

And under a Seelos sky, two remnants of a broken galaxy found the smallest sliver of something whole. A memory made real. A place only you two remembered.

Somewhere only you knew.

⸻

i'm still at the restaurant btw. if u even care

Tech is so cute Ɛ>

The cast of the Original Trilogy had cliched, boring character concepts that were executed wonderfully enough for it not to matter. 

 The cast of the Prequel Trilogy had interesting concepts that were executed poorly enough to make them seem utterly stupid. 

The cast of the Sequel Trilogy had amazing, thought-provoking concepts that were executed in the town square and put up on pikes as a warning to others.