104th Battalion - Blog Posts

So um me and my friend were playing a roblox drawing game because we were bored lastnight andd

The theme/prompt thingy was ‘Wolfpack’ and i instantly thought of the Wolfpack obvs!!!

So I drew a 104th trooper and Plo, and wrote ‘Plo’s bros’ and my friend was not impressed (they also accidentally made it gay by putting a heart between the trooper and Plo but i forgive them cause they know nothing abt Star Wars)

They said the green thing at the bottom was meant to be Grogu. I don’t even know.

Also don’t judge us for playing roblox it was very late and we were very bored

(banging on table) PLO'S BROS PLO'S BROS PLO'S BROS

insomnia's a bitch bc i finished this at like 11 pm and it is now (about) 7 am and im vibrating as im typing this out. anyways last capcut edit (hopefully!!) and last edit before mini hiatus (less fun)

sidebar; huge fkn shoutout to whoever made this playlist. its now canon that this is what plo would have the wolfpack play over their comms on missions

(x) click me!! choose me!!

Wolfpack as bizarre t shirts

i dont know the 104th as well so pls let me know if i missed your favourite...

Hiya babes! Hope you’re doing well! Just outta say I absolutely adore your writing and always brings a smile to my face when you post!!

I was hoping you could do an angst fic where it’s the boys reactions to you jumping in front of them taking a hit/bolt. You can choose the clone group! Xxx

Thank you so much — seriously, your kind words mean the world to me!! I’m so glad my writing can bring a little light to your day 💛

I hope you don’t mind that I decided to go with the Wolf pack for this one. I hope you enjoy 🫶

⸻

“For the Pack”

Reader x 104th Battalion (Wolffe, Sinker, Boost)

⸻

You don’t think. You just move. That’s what instinct does when family is in danger.

The air was thick with heat and cordite, the jungle humid enough to choke on. Blasterfire lit the treeline in wild flashes—red bolts cutting through the green like angry stars. You pressed forward with your saber raised, breath tight in your chest, the Force buzzing like a live wire beneath your skin.

This wasn’t supposed to be a heavy engagement. Just a scouting mission. Routine.

But nothing about war ever stays routine for long.

“Wolffe, move it! You’re exposed!” you shouted, watching him duck behind cover just as two more shots chewed bark over his head.

“Copy that,” Wolffe growled, popping off a few retaliatory blasts. “Boost! Sinker! Sweep the right flank and flush that nest!”

“Already on it!” Boost called from somewhere in the brush.

“We’re getting pinned down out here!” Sinker added, tone sharp but controlled.

You moved closer to Wolffe, saber up, covering his retreat as he repositioned behind the half-blown trunk of a felled tree. The rest of the battalion had spread out, covering the ridgeline, trying to locate the sniper.

That’s when it hit you—the feeling.

The Force spiked.

Time slowed.

A heartbeat ahead of the moment, you felt it: danger, aimed at someone you couldn’t let go.

Wolffe was turning. He wasn’t going to make it in time.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

A leap. A cry. A single instant of instinct and fear and absolute certainty.

And then the bolt hit you square in the back.

Wolffe didn’t register what happened right away. One moment he was turning to call out an order, the next there was a flash of blue, the hum of a saber, and a sickening crack of a body hitting the dirt.

“—[Y/N]?!”

You were lying on your side, smoke rising from your robes, your saber a few meters away, deactivated.

You weren’t moving.

Sinker screamed something wordless over comms. Boost shouted your name.

“MEDIC!” Wolffe was already moving. “Get me a medic now!”

He slid to his knees beside you, hands already tearing open the fabric around the wound, even though he didn’t know what the hell he was doing—just doing. There was too much blood. Too much heat coming off your skin. You were smaller than him, younger, not armored like they were. You were a Jedi, yeah, but also just a kid compared to the rest of them.

His kid. Their kid.

And you’d taken a shot meant for him.

⸻

Hours Later you were in bacta now. Still alive. Barely.

The medics said it was touch and go. The bolt had burned through muscle and clipped something vital. You’d coded once during evac, but they brought you back. Your saber had been returned to Plo Koon, its emitter dented from where it had slammed into the ground.

Wolffe sat in the corner of the medbay, helmet off, armor streaked with dried blood—your blood. He hadn’t moved in two hours.

“Why the hell would she do that?” Sinker muttered, pacing with his helmet tucked under one arm. He was flushed, angry. “We wear armor for a reason. We train for this. She’s a Jedi, not a clone. She’s not supposed to—”

“Be willing to die for us?” Boost cut in, voice tired. “Guess she missed that memo.”

Sinker let out a long, low sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face. “We’re the ones who throw ourselves in front of people. That’s the job. That’s our job.”

Plo Koon stood at your bedside, one hand lightly resting on the glass of the tank. He’d been silent for most of it, his calm presence a strange contrast to the chaos.

“She has always seen you as more than soldiers,” he said gently. “You are her brothers. Her family.”

Wolffe finally spoke, his voice low and rough. “She’s part of the pack. And the pack protects its own.”

“But she nearly died protecting you, Commander,” Boost said. “What does that make us?”

“Alive,” Wolffe answered. “That’s what it makes us. And when she wakes up, she’s going to be reminded that we never leave one of our own behind.”

Sinker stopped pacing, jaw clenched.

“She’s not gonna get off easy for this.”

“Oh, hell no,” Boost muttered. “Soon as she’s conscious, I’m yelling at her.”

“Not before me,” Wolffe said, standing finally. “I’ve got seniority.”

They tried to joke—tried to banter—but it didn’t land. Not yet.

⸻

Your vision was blurry. Everything felt heavy. And sore. So sore.

“Hey—hey! She’s waking up!”

Voices. Familiar. Warm.

You blinked hard. One blurry helmet. Then two. Then a third face appeared—scarred, grim, but so full of relief it almost didn’t look like Wolffe.

“About damn time,” he muttered. “Thought we were gonna have to start arguing over who got to carry your sorry ass out of here.”

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a croaky whisper: “Pack…”

Boost leaned in closer. “Yeah. We’re here.”

Sinker had a hand pressed to your arm, trying not to squeeze too hard. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

You smiled weakly. “Didn’t think about it.”

“No kidding,” Wolffe said, arms crossed now. “You jump in front of another bolt like that and we’re stapling your robes to the floor.”

Plo Koon stepped forward, voice kind and firm. “Rest now, little one. You have done more than enough. The pack is safe. Because of you.”

You let your eyes fall shut again, not from pain this time—but because you knew they were watching over you.

Always would.

“The Butcher and The Wolf” Pt.1

Commander Wolffe x Princess Reader

Summary: On the eve of her planet’s first cultural festival in fifteen years, a disguised princess shares an unforgettable night with Clone Commander Wolffe on Coruscant. By morning, secrets, sassy droids, and a high‑stakes security briefing threaten to upend duty, reputation, and the delicate opening of her world to the Republic.

A/N: The planet and culture is entirely made up.

The gunship descended through Coruscant’s evening traffic like a steel predator, repulsors howling against the cross‑winds that curled between transparisteel towers. Inside, six clone commanders—Cody, Bly, Gree, Fox, Bacara, and Wolffe—occupied the troop bay in various stages of fatigue. They were returning from Outer‑Rim rotations, summoned straight to the capital for what the Chancellor’s aide had called a “priority diplomatic security brief.”

Wolffe used the flight to skim intel. A blue holotablet glowed in his flesh‑and‑steel hands, displaying the dossier of the delegation scheduled to arrive from Karthuna—an independent Mid‑Rim world geographically unremarkable, culturally singular.

Karthuna: quick file

• Isolated, mountainous planet of evergreen valleys and obsidian cliffs.

• Atmosphere saturated with trace kyber particulates—reason scholars cite for the population’s universal Force sensitivity.

• Government: hereditary monarchy tempered by a warrior senate.

• Religion: none. Karthunese creed teaches that the Force is lifeblood, neither moral compass nor deity.

• Average citizen competency: lightsaber fabrication by age fifteen; state‑sponsored martial tutelage from age six.

The data fascinated the commanders—especially the by‑line marked Princess [Y/N], Crown Heir, War‑Chief, locals refer to her as “The Butcher.”

Wolffe scrolled. Combat footage played: a tall woman striding through volcanic ash, twin‑bladed plasmablade in constant motion, severing MagnaGuards like wheat. Every slash bled molten silver where molten metal met crystal‑laced air.

Psych‑profile excerpt

“Displays strategic brilliance and extreme kinetic aggression.

Disregards conventional ‘light/dark’ dichotomy—identifies only ‘strength’ and ‘weakness in harmony with the Force.’

Post‑engagement behavior: known to laugh while binding her own wounds.”

Fox leaned over, eyebrow visible above his red ocher tattoo. “That’s the princess we’re babysitting?”

“Exactly,” Wolffe answered, voice rough like gravel in a barrel. “And tomorrow she sits across the table from half the Senate.”

Bly grinned, toying with the jaig‑eyes painted on his pauldron. “At least the briefing won’t be boring.”

⸻

79’s was hellishly loud tonight: drum‑bass remixes of Huttese trance, vibro‑floors that tingled through plastoid boots, neon that reflected off rows of white armor like carnival glass. The smell was ionic sweat, fried nuna wings, and spiced lum.

Wolffe anchored the bar, helmet on the counter, already two fingers into Corellian rye. Cody lounged to his left, Rex to his right—fresh in from a 501st escort shift and still humming combat adrenaline.

“Can’t believe you two convinced me out,” Wolffe growled.

“Brother, you need it,” Rex said, clinking glasses. “Whole Wolfpack can feel when you’re wound tighter than a detonator.”

“Give him five minutes,” Cody stage‑whispered. “He’ll be scanning exits instead of the drink menu.”

“Already am,” Wolffe deadpanned, which made them both laugh.

The cantina doors parted and conversation sagged a note—she glided in. Cropped flight jacket, fitted vest, high‑waist cargo shorts; thigh‑high laces and a thin bronze braid that caught the lights like a comet tail. She had the effortless cheer of someone stepping onto a favorite holovid set—eyes round with delight, grin wide enough to beam through the floor.

She wedged in beside Wolffe, flagging the bartender with two raised fingers. “Double lum, splash of tihaar—one for me, one for the glum commander.”

Wolffe arched a brow but accepted the glass. “You always buy drinks for strangers?”

“Only the ones glaring at their reflection.” She tapped his untouched visor. He couldn’t help a huff of amusement.

Cody’s own brow shot up; Rex’s eyes widened in instant recognition. Princess [Y/N] of Karthuna—The Butcher—yet here she was in civvies, acting like any tourist who’d lost a bet with Coruscant nightlife.

Rex leaned close to Cody, speaking behind a raised hand. “That’s her, isn’t it?”

“Credits to spice‑cakes.”

“She hasn’t told him?”

“Not a word.”

Rex smirked. “Five‑credit chip says Wolffe figures it out before sunrise.”

Cody shook his head. “He won’t know until she walks into the briefing at 0900. Make it ten.”

They clasped forearms on it.

The woman matched Wolffe sip for sip, story for story. Where his anecdotes were sparse, hers were color‑splattered and comedic.

When the DJ shifted into a thumping remix of the Republic anthem, she grabbed Wolffe’s wrist.

“I don’t dance,” he protested.

“You walk in circles around objectives, right? Close enough!”

She dragged him into the crush of bodies. To his surprise, he found a rhythm—left, pivot, step; her laughter bubbled each time his armor plates bumped someone else’s. Cody whooped from the bar. Rex held up a timer on his datapad, mouthing 48 minutes left.

At the chorus, She spun under Wolffe’s arm, back colliding with his chest. Up close he saw faint, silvery scars beneath the vest’s armhole—evidence of battles that matched his own. Yet her eyes stayed bright, unburdened, as if scars were simply postcards of places she’d loved.

“Commander,” she teased above the music, “tell me something you enjoy that isn’t war.”

He paused. “Mechanic work—tuning AT‑RT gyros. Clean clicks calm my head.”

“See? You do have hobbies.” She tapped his nose. “Next round on me.”

Back at the bar Rex leaned over to Cody, “He’s smiling. That counts as suspicion.”

“Wolffe smiles once a rotation. Still ignorant.”

⸻

Near 02:00, after shared tihaar shots and a disastrous attempt at holo‑sabacc, She flicked a glance toward the exit.

“City lights look better from my place,” she offered, voice honey‑slow. “I’ve got caf strong enough to wake a hibernating wampa if you need to report at oh‑dark‑hundred.”

Wolffe’s lips twitched. “Lead the way.”

As they weaved out, Cody elbowed Rex. “Timer’s off. Still clueless.”

“Sunrise isn’t here yet,” Rex countered.

“Credits say briefing,” Cody insisted, pocketing the imaginary winnings.

⸻

Lift doors slid open to a loft bathed in city‑glow: vibro‑harp strings hanging from ceiling beams, half‑assembled speeder parts on the coffee table, and a breathtaking skyline framed by floor‑to‑ceiling transparisteel. Nothing screamed royalty—just a warrior’s crash‑pad with too many hobbies.

She kicked the door shut, tossed her jacket aside, then hooked a finger in the lip of Wolffe’s breastplate. “Armor off, Commander. Café’s percolating, but first—I want to map every one of those scars.”

His growl was more pleasure than warning. “Fair trade. I’m charting yours.”

Outside, airspeeder traffic stitched luminous threads across Coruscant night. Inside, two soldiers—one famous, one incognito—lost themselves in laughter, caf, and the slow unbuckling of secrets yet to be told.

⸻

Warm dawn slanted through the loft’s unshaded transparisteel, painting the tangled figures on the bed in amber and rose. Wolffe lay on his back, left arm pillowing [Y/N] against the curve of his chest; her hair falling softly, draped over his cgest. For the first time in months he’d slept past first light, lulled by the quiet cadence of another heartbeat.

A sharp bweep‑bwap‑BWAA! shattered the calm.

The door whisked open and a battered R4‑series astromech barreled in, dome spinning frantic red. Right behind it minced a sand‑gold TC‑protocol unit with polished vocabulator grille and the prissiest posture Wolffe had ever seen.

“WHRR‑bweep!” the astromech shrilled, panels flapping.

The protocol droid placed metal hands on its hips. “Really, R4‑J2, barging into Her High— er, into my lady’s private quarters is most uncouth. Though, to be fair, so is oversleeping when a planet’s diplomatic reputation depends on punctuality.”

[Y/N] groaned into Wolffe’s shoulder. “Five more minutes or I demagnetise your motivators.”

“I calculate you have negative twenty‑two minutes, my lady,” TC sniffed. “We have already been signaled thrice.”

Wolffe swung out of bed, discipline snapping back like a visor‑clip. He retrieved blacks and armor plates, fastening them while [Y/N] rummaged for flight shorts and a fresh vest.

“Got a briefing myself,” he said, adjusting the collar seal. “High‑priority security consult for the Senate. Some warlord princess from Karthuna is in system—Council wants every contingency.”

[Y/N] paused, turning just enough that sunrise caught the concern softening her features. “I heard talk of her,” she ventured lightly. “What’s your take?”

“Files say she’s lethal, unpredictable. Planet locals call her The Butcher.” He shrugged into his pauldron. “Frankly, senators don’t need another sword swinging around. Volatile leaders get people killed.”

A flicker of hurt crossed her eyes before she masked it with a crooked grin. “Maybe she’s…misunderstood?”

“Maybe,” Wolffe allowed, though doubt edged his tone. “Either way, job’s to keep the civvies safe.” He slid his helmet under an arm, suddenly uncertain how to classify the night they’d shared. “I—had a good time.”

She rose on tiptoe, pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “So did I, Commander. Try not to judge anyone before breakfast, hmm?”

He touched the braid beads lightly—a silent promise to see her again—then strode out, door hissing shut behind him.

Y/N] exhaled, shoulders slumping. R4 emitted a sympathetic woo‑oop.

TC clucked. “I did warn you anonymity breeds complications. Still, we must hurry. The Chancellor expects you in the Grand Convocation Chamber at 0900.”

A wicked spark replaced her melancholy. “No, the Chancellor expects a Karthunese representative—he never specified which.”

She strode to a wardrobe, withdrawing a slim holoprojector and thrusting it at TC. “Congratulations, you’re promoted.”

TC’s photoreceptors brightened alarm-red. “M‑my lady, I am programmed for etiquette, translation, and the occasional moral lecture, not military security architecture!”

“Recite the briefing notes I dictated last night, answer questions with condescension—your specialty—then schedule a follow‑up on the command ship. R4 will project the holomaps.”

The astromech warbled enthusiastic profanity at the prospect.

[Y/N] buckled a utility belt over her civvies and moved toward the balcony doors. “If anyone asks, I was delayed calibrating kyber flow regulators. I’ll review the security grid this afternoon—after I explore a certain Commander’s favorite gyro‑shop.”

TC gathered the holo‑pads in a flurry. “Very well, mistress, but mark my vocabulator—this deception will short‑circuit spectacularly.”

“Relax.” She flashed a grin eerily similar to last night’s barroom mischief. “What’s diplomacy without a little theater?”

⸻

Senators, Jedi, and clone commanders straightened as doors parted.

—but instead of a sun‑circled war‑princess, a polished TC‑protocol droid glided to the rostrum with an astromech rolling at its heel.

TC’s vocabulator rang out, crisp as a comm‑chime.

“Honored Supreme Chancellor, venerable Jedi Council, distinguished Senators: Karthuna greets you. My lady regrets that urgent kyber‑compressor calibrations prevent her personal attendance, yet she bids me convey our joy at opening our borders for the first time in fifteen standard years so all may share our five‑day Cultural Festival Week. We trust today’s briefing will guarantee every guest’s safety and delight.”

R4‑J2 pitched a starry holomap above the dais; TC segued into ingress grids, crowd‑flow vectors, and defensive perimeter options with dazzling fluency.

At the back rail, Commander Wolffe’s remaining eye narrowed.

“That’s her astromech,” he muttered—he’d tripped over the same droid en route to the caf‑maker two hours earlier.

Cody leaned in, voice low. “So—how was your night with the princess?”

Wolffe’s brain locked, replaying dawn kisses, scars… and the sudden absence of any surname.

“Kriff.” His helmet nearly slipped from under his arm.

Next to them, Rex sighed, fished from his belt pouch, and slapped the credits into Cody’s waiting palm. Cody tried not to smirk too broadly.

Bly caught the exchange and coughed to hide a laugh. Gree murmured, “Told you the Wolf doesn’t sniff pedigree till it bites him.”

Unaware of the commotion between the Commanders, TC finished with a flourish.

“Karthuna will provide one hundred honor guards, full medical contingents, and open saber arenas for cultural demonstration only. We look forward to celebrating unity in the Force with the Galactic Republic.”

Polite applause rippled through the chamber. Mace Windu nodded approval, even Chancellor Palpatine’s smile looked almost genuine.

Wolffe, cheeks burning behind his visor, managed parade rest while his thoughts sprinted back to a kiss and the words try not to judge anyone before breakfast.

The princess had played him like dejarik—yet somehow he respected the move.

Cody clapped a gauntlet on his pauldron. “Cheer up, vod. At least your about to spend more time with her.”

⸻

Next Part

Hello! I gotta say I love how you write the banter between the clones and it honestly is so funny and cute. Could I get a Fox or Wolfe x reader where maybe he goes to wear something that he doesn’t know reveals a few marks from you the previous night and his brother notices and tease him? That’s the main request but I’d love if you’d add anything else plot wise to make it more full and complete Xx

“Battle Scars”

Wolffe x Reader

Wolffe didn’t go out often. Boost and Sinker practically had to drag him to 79’s that night, not because he hated it, but because he hated the noise, the chaos, the unwanted attention.

But mostly?

He just preferred being alone with you.

Unfortunately for him—and fortunately for everyone else—Sinker had shouted something about “you owe us after ditching two poker nights in a row,” and now he was stomping toward the bar in a casual black shirt (one you may or may not have helped him out of the night before), grumbling like a man headed to execution.

He hadn’t noticed that the neckline sat just a little wide across the collarbone. Or that a certain faint purple mark was blooming just below the edge of the collar on the left side. Or that there were more—not too obvious, but definitely visible if you were looking.

And Boost and Sinker? They were looking.

“Kriff, Wolffe,” Sinker said, the moment they’d taken a booth and ordered drinks. “You finally let off some steam, huh?”

Wolffe blinked, raising a brow. “What?”

Boost leaned in with a sh*t-eating grin. “Don’t act like you don’t know. I can see the bruise on your neck from here.”

Wolffe stiffened. “It’s not—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Sinker cut in. “That’s either a love bite or you got in a fight with a Nexu.”

Boost sipped his drink, eyes glinting. “And judging by the one just peeking above your collar? Our dear commander got wrecked.”

Wolffe growled, yanking his collar up slightly. “Shut it.”

“Who’s the lucky one?” Sinker asked, already leaning across the table like he was digging for state secrets.

“None of your damn business,” Wolffe muttered.

“That means it’s definitely someone we know,” Boost said with delight.

“Is it one of the medics?” Sinker mused.

“Maybe that intel officer with the legs?”

“I bet it’s—wait.” Boost froze, grinned wider. “It’s that civvie he always walks to the transport bay, isn’t it? The one with the nice voice—what was her name again?”

Wolffe looked like he was calculating murder odds.

“[Y/N]!” Sinker snapped his fingers. “She’s always smiling at you. Maker, I knew it.”

Wolffe stayed dead silent, drinking his beer with the expression of a man who would rather fight General Grievous shirtless than have this conversation.

“Wolffe,” Boost said slowly, “you sly di’kut. You’ve been holding out.”

“You’re smiling,” Sinker said, pointing. “Look at him, he’s smiling. That’s a post-blissful-night smile.”

“I am not smiling.”

“You are,” Boost confirmed, nodding sagely. “You look like a man who got thoroughly appreciated. Several times.”

“You know what,” Sinker said, raising his glass, “I’m just proud. Our boy’s finally unclenched.”

Wolffe muttered, “I will kill both of you.”

⸻

It was well past midnight when you heard a familiar knock—two short, one long—on your door.

You opened it to find Wolffe standing there, looking deliciously rumpled. His black shirt was half-untucked, collar slightly askew, his hair a little mussed, and that glare in his eye… the one that always meant either someone pissed him off, or he was thinking about you.

He stepped in without a word, the door hissing shut behind him. You crossed your arms, leaning back against the wall, hiding your grin.

“Well, hello to you too, Commander.”

Wolffe stopped in front of you, eyes narrowing.

“You,” he said lowly, voice rough with exhaustion and a hint of that familiar gravel. “Left marks.”

You blinked innocently. “Did I?”

He arched a brow. “Sinker counted three. Boost said one looked like it bit back.”

You tried—really tried—not to laugh. “I told you not to wear that shirt.”

“It was the only clean one,” he growled.

You shrugged with mock innocence. “Not my fault your brothers have eyes.”

Wolffe stepped in closer. His voice dropped, heated now. “They wouldn’t shut up.”

“Poor you,” you cooed, lifting your hand to his collar and gently tugging it further aside to admire your handiwork. “But if it’s any consolation…”

You leaned in, lips brushing just under his ear.

“I’d be very happy to leave more.”

Wolffe stilled for a moment. Then you felt the sharp exhale of his breath, the way his hands suddenly found your hips, firm and possessive.

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

You smirked. “Not tonight.”

His mouth was on yours before you could get another word out, rough and hungry and just the right kind of desperate. You didn’t mind. You’d apologize for the marks never.

And judging by the way he walked you backward toward the bedroom?

Neither would he.

104th Material List🐺🩶☑️🌚

|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |

Wolf Pack

“For The Pack” 🏡

Commander Wolffe

- x Jedi Reader (order 66)❤️

- x “Village Crazy” reader❤️

- x Jedi Reader ❤️

- x Reader (79’s)❤️

- Rebels Wolffe x reader “somewhere only we know”❤️

- x reader “Command and Consequence”❤️

- x reader “Command and Consequence pt.2”❤️

- x Fem!Reader “still yours”❤️

- x Reader “hit me (like you mean it)”❤️

- x Reader “Tactical Complications”❤️

- “Battle Scars” ❤️/🌶️

- “The Butcher and The Wolf” ❤️ multiple parts

Overall Material List

Hi! I was wondering if you could do a Bad Batch x Fem!Reader where they haven’t realized how much they like her and having her apart of the team because they didn’t want to get attached but then they see her with other clones having fun and being tactical and huggy with them. I’m a sucker for jealous tropes and the “she’s ours” stuff! Thank you! Xx

“Ours”

The Bad Batch x Fem!Reader

Featuring: Commander Wolffe, Boost, Sinker (104th)

⸻

The Bad Batch didn’t realize how much they liked having you around—until you weren’t just around them anymore.

You’d been reassigned temporarily to assist the 104th Battalion for a joint operation, something about terrain recon and hostile base infiltration. The job was meant to be routine. Easy. Quick. But it had stretched to three weeks, and that was three weeks too long for Clone Force 99.

“She’s fine,” Tech said for the third time that day, eyes on his datapad but noticeably less focused than usual.

“Of course she’s fine,” Crosshair muttered. “She’s annoying. Won’t shut up. Talks too much. Laughs at stupid jokes.”

“She does make the barracks less quiet,” Echo added, but his words sounded more like a confession than a complaint.

Hunter remained quiet, brooding in the corner, arms crossed. Wrecker finally broke the silence.

“I miss her.”

No one argued.

⸻

When they finally returned to Anaxes to regroup, they weren’t expecting to find you on the tarmac—leaning against a gunship, laughing with Commander Wolffe and his men.

You had your arm slung around Sinker’s shoulder, mid-sparring banter, sweat-slicked and flushed from training. Boost was tossing a ration bar at you like it was a long-running inside joke, and Wolffe—stoic, grumpy Wolffe—was standing beside you with the faintest upward tug at the corner of his mouth.

You laughed and said something that made the entire squad snort.

Wrecker stopped dead in his tracks. “Wait—are they hugging her?”

Crosshair’s scowl darkened. “Why the hell is she touching Sinker?”

“She’s laughing,” Echo muttered. “At his joke.”

Hunter’s jaw ticked. “Let’s go.”

⸻

You saw them before they could storm up and cause a scene—which, let’s be real, was already inevitable.

“Hey!” you called out cheerfully, waving them over. “Look who finally decided to show up. I was beginning to think you all forgot about me.”

“We didn’t,” Hunter said. The rest of them were staring daggers past you at the Wolfpack.

Wolffe raised a brow and drawled, “We took real good care of her. Didn’t we, boys?”

“Too good,” Sinker smirked. “She’s basically one of us now.”

“She is one of us,” Boost added, throwing his arm around your shoulders with obnoxious ease. “Got the bite to match.”

You didn’t see it, but every member of the Bad Batch visibly twitched.

“She’s not a stray,” Crosshair hissed, stepping forward.

“Could’ve fooled us,” Wolffe shot back, “considering how quick you were to let her slip away.”

“Wasn’t our choice,” Tech said stiffly.

“You sure?” Sinker smirked. “Didn’t seem like you were fighting too hard to keep her.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Okay, woah, no testosterone fights on the landing pad, please.”

Wrecker pointed dramatically. “You hugged him!”

You blinked. “You’ve hugged me!”

“Yeah but that’s different!” he whined.

“Why?” you challenged.

Silence.

Hunter stepped forward, voice lower now. “Because you’re ours.”

Your breath caught.

Wolffe’s grin turned downright wolfish. “Took ‘em long enough.”

You looked between both squads, caught between amusement and surprise. “So let me get this straight… the 104th is adopting me, the Bad Batch is reclaiming me, and I didn’t even get a say?”

“You always get a say,” Hunter said, quieter now. “But we want you to know how we feel.”

“And how’s that?”

Wrecker was first. “I missed you.”

“I hated not having you around,” Echo added.

“Everything was quiet,” Tech admitted.

“You’re mine,” Crosshair said, almost growled. “Ours.”

Your eyes flicked to Wolffe and his boys.

Wolffe shrugged. “Guess we’ll let you go this time.”

Sinker grinned. “But if they mess up, you know where to find us.”

You snorted. “What is this, the clone version of a custody battle?”

Boost winked. “Only if it means you come back for visitation rights.”

You laughed. “Alright, alright. I’ll go home. But I am visiting the 104th again. You guys are a riot.”

Hunter stepped closer, head tilting. “As long as you come back to us.”

You smiled, softening. “Always.”

The air between you and the Batch shifted—less tension, more heat, more home. Hunter didn’t touch you, not yet, but his presence lingered close, electric.

You turned back toward Wolffe and the others, grinning. “Thanks for everything, boys.”

Sinker gave you a two-finger salute. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Yeah,” Boost chimed in, winking. “Just remember which pack took you in first.”

You rolled your eyes, walking backward toward your original squad. “You’re all insufferable.”

“And you love it,” Wolffe called after you.

echoed behind you.

Then, low—too low for most ears, but not for Hunter’s enhanced senses—Wolffe muttered to his boys, voice almost casual:

“She’s still got a bit of wolf in her now. Let’s hope they can keep up.”

Hunter stopped walking.

His head tilted just enough to catch the last of the words. Not angry. Not threatened. Just… cold.

Possessive.

His jaw flexed.

Crosshair noticed first. “Problem?”

Hunter didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked to your back—laughing with Wrecker about something stupid—and then back to the 104th retreating into the barracks.

“No,” he said finally. “No problem.”

But when he looked forward again, his voice was steel-wrapped velvet.

“They can howl all they want.”

He caught up to you in two strides.

“We’re the ones she’s running with.”