#art fight team spice

[artfight]

Vote for your favorite team between the two!

TEAM SPICE won during the 2020 Art Fight event, coming at 317,914 attacks valuing at 6,332,569.03 points. Team Spice lost to Team Moon in Round Two, Bracket One of 2024's Showdown.

TEAM SUN lost during the 2017 Art Fight event, coming at 64,014 attacks valuing at 598,258.52 points. Team Sun lost to Team Werewolves in Round One, Bracket Eight of 2024's Showdown.

[toonagi]

happy artfight the site has fucking died again as per artfight tradition <3

when things start working again you can find me here! --> https://artfight.net/~Toonagi

yknow if you. if you want to murder maim kill me. wink wink

[coffee-mouse]

I’m on Team Stardust this year!

[stageturn]

art fight attack on @yearningsailor >:)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[hadthatdreamagain]

art fight theme sona skins <33

which ones ur fav???

[squishy-lombax]

Here's another set of Art Fight boarders! Here we have Team Sugar vs. Team Spice! I was on Team Sugar that year because I have a huge sweet tooth, even when it's refreshing and fruity like seen here. I'm really happy with the how the Team Sugar boarder turned out, but I admit, I did struggle with the Team Spice boarder. I was unsure what drink was being featured in the official images from Art Fight, so I literally just Googled "spice drinks" and went with this fun styled glass I saw on multiple images.

These boarders are free to use if you participated in @artfight during the year 2020!

[onyxgalaria-art]

slowing down on attacks

tags bc funny: @conscharacterscentralised, @0046incognito and @fakinhage

[green-with-envy-phandom-event]

Welcome to our third consecutive year of Green With Envy!

Open for first timers and the obsessed, we welcome all skill levels to this art based event. Just like before, the event comes in two parts with a few minor changes to spice up this year's competition.

Anyone Can Enter a Line Art!

Love to line but hate to color? This side is for you! Part one is the slow build up, where artists create this year's line art. Over the course of two months a form will be open and waiting for anyone to drop a Danny Phantom themed line art in. Crossovers welcome! Unlike our previous years, we will be keeping all the 2025 line art a secret until the drop date! 

Color To Compete!

During Part Two of the event, things rev up and turn competitive. If you sign up for this half, you better be ready to color! When the line arts drop, the fighting begins. For those who want nothing more than to go crazy over a brand new, Danny Phantom themed coloring book, this part is for you. The goal is to color as many of the line arts from the first half of the event as physically possible with the rest of your small team. Unlike other DP events, GWE will have 10 whole coloring teams, so expect to get cozy with your new mates while you strategize! 

And when we say strategize, we mean it. >:3 Green With Envy is unique in that the points you earn can be snatched away! How many your team gets depends on when you complete a coloring, how you complete a coloring, and to whom the line art was assigned. (Don't worry, you can color any line art, including unassigned ones!) Trickery is just as important as the speed and skill of your artistry here! Drop the ball and your points just may be Poached right from under your pencil tips!

~~~~

GUYS, THE 2024 ZINE IS DOOOOONE!

@englandamericaitaly NEARLY DIED MAKING IT BUT IT WAS SO WORTH IT! Check out the 358 page masterpiece here!

Welcome back to the gremlin enclosure! Thanks everyone in the Phandom for showing the event so much love!

Big shout out to @ecto-stone for letting us use their kick-butt line art from last year's event to make this year's banner! And to @furiarossa, @ovytia-art, @ecto-stone, @breakfastatmiles, @jamiethebeeart, @half-deadmagicperson, @ectoblastfromthepast and @cakeractuallyarts for coloring it!

This year's Links, Info and Important Dates below!

The official hashtag for the event this year is #greenwithenvy2025

In-depth Rules can be found here!

Tutorial can be found here

FAQ can be found here

The discord server for this event is here

~~~~

Line Art and All Sign-ups Due: Friday, February 28th (02/28/25) 11:59 pm, Pacific Time Zone

Coloring Starts: Friday, March 7th (03/07/25) 8:00 pm Pacific Time Zone

Coloring Due: Sunday, April 6th. (04/06/25) 11:59 pm Pacific Time Zone

Sign-ups for line artists are here

Sign-ups for colorists are here

Line artist submissions go here 

Colorist submission form can be found in the Discord.

P.S. Remember when looking at the dates to account for your daylight saving's time. What day it happens on depends on where you are in the world!

~~~~

Looking for links to last year's stuff?

2024 Free-To-Color Line Art

2024 Masterpost

[rosenclaws]

Random stuff about Logan that I think are true

Hogwarts House - Gryffindor

He’s super skilled at Defense against the dark arts and dueling but his worst class is flying.

You would think he’s a beater or something on the team but he has no desire to get on a death trap broom tyvm.

ATLA Element - Earth / Metal Bender

Absolutely participates in underground fighting lmao.

Did get his ass kicked by Toph

Myers Briggs - ISFJ

Percy Jackson Cabin - Ares (could be Hades but im leaning more towards Ares)

He gets along with animals more than humans for sure but he actually prefers prey animals over predator. While he gets along with both he had a soft spot for smaller weaker animals and has a desire to protect them

He doesn’t like Horror jump scare movies because he doesn’t like to be surprised but he does like thrillers.

Given his age I think he’s pretty cultured and familiar with a lot different cuisines and languages. But idk how well he handles spice lmao.

I think he supports the arts but doesn’t really partake much in them himself. He has gone to musicals and stuff but he’s not a painter or writer. He does appreciate their importance though.

He’s a big hockey guy obviously and sometimes his Canadian accent slips out when he’s watching it or around other Canadians

He thinks American flavors or things are disgusting and too processed

He doesn’t like rom coms but not because they’re cheesy and silly but because he’s been through so much heartbreak and when he falls he falls hard that it leaves him a little bitter seeing couples on screen get their happy ending

He’s the kind of teacher who swears in class and says he’s doesn’t care but everyone loves him and he really knows what he’s talking about and keeps things interesting.

He likes Cats over dogs and doesn’t trust people who don’t like cats.

He doesn’t have a hair care at all. It just does that on its own.

He has favorites and he doesn’t really try to hide it but he’s a harsher grader on them so people don’t try and complain.

Everything he knows about pop culture is learned against his will.

thats it for now but if anyone else wants to chime in please do

[ohanny]

may i present to you....

pit babe: bones au

kenta is the socially awkward forensic anthropologist who would much rather be excavating the remnants of an ancient civilization in papua new guinea but unfortunately while he was fiddling with a mass grave situation in mexico he had a bit of a run in with the cartels which led to a knee injury and he's sadly confined in a lab with elavators and shit until it heals. he is not amused.

jeff is kenta's prodigy intern who also keeps saying he would rather be excavating the remnants of an ancient civilization in papua new guinea because think of the academia but actually? he is waaaaaaay happier doing his squinty work in a climate controlled lab with state of the art technology and no chance of cartels. also socially awkward because he got his phd at 22... and he was raised by kenta.

babe is not just an fbi agent... he is a rockstar fbi agent. he's young, he's sexy, he does not care about the politics of it all - he's here to catch the bad guys and be a badass. he just knows when someone is guilty and nothing is going to stand between him and an arrest. like sure, the search warrant didn't come through yet but he swears he heard screaming inside the apartment 😇

kim is ex-military special forces, assigned as babe's new partner because someone needs to keep babe in check and kim at least understands the basic principle of "it's not enough to bring the bad guys in, you need to also keep them in" so follow the protocols and don't give defense attorneys a field day. but really, he's just way better than babe at appearing legally trustworthy and they quickly become the bestest of crime fighting friends.

alan is the lab boss and also the regular sort of flesh pathologist although at this point it's like 30 for autopsies and 70 for keeping the lab from exploding. he is the one fully functioning normal adult there... except for that one time no one has let him live down. the day jeff came in, alan's first impression of him was a very nice ass bent over the autopsy table. he might have let out an involuntary, breathy "wow" and when jeff turned around, to avoid an hr violation, alan was like "i meant the subject!" which he then realized to be the body of a fully intact, naked, young woman. needless to say he did not make a great impression and worries jeff still thinks he's some creepy perv who lusts after dead bodies.

charlie is the lab chemist. he loves a man with a gun. he would also like to state that despite (alledgedly) being on some government watchlists, he had an impeccable safety record and never misused government equipment to do shit like determine the secret spice blend in kfc chicken or to brew lab wine until north joined the team so none of the "incidents" are his fault.

north is the bugs and plants guy. his "lab assistant" steve is actually a furry lil spider. he believes aliens are real and built the pyramids and, as a hobby, debates conspiracy theories with kenta. he might be a secret millionaire heir to a sketchy oil dynasty who anonymously funds the lab because a boy needs his toys, right????

dean is the actual non-spider lab assistant and basically a human calculator with a degree in theoretical mathematics. he's super excited to work in crime fighting and always volunteers to go on the field. has he perhaps tried to take the academy exam once or twice? yes. has he failed for reasons he thinks are utter bullshit? also yes. but shhhh. he will nail it the next time with babe and kim's help, he's sure of it.

way is the fbi psychologist and criminal profiler who helps them with cases and also would absolutely love to study babe and babe's justice boner and how this might have something to do with his serial killer doctor father but sadly babe does not want to cooperate. honestly, the entire science squad is like a smorgasbord of personality disorders, which make his own anxiety and depression look totally functional in comparison. this makes him happy.

pete is a lawyer working for the state prosecutor's office. and no, babe, he can't get you a warrant based off the "vibe" the guy gave off, he needs actual evidence and "please, for the love of god get it in a way that doesnt require me to represent you in court." loves to stroll over to the fbi building to personally request way for a psych eval or a consult. it's because he has the time. it has nothing to do with his hopeless crush.

winner is a defense attorney. he and babe have this eternal beef where winner loves babe cases because there's always a technicality he can get his client off on and babe hates winner because defense attorneys are money hungry scum bags defending criminals. but really, winner is out here making sure everyone's constitutional rights are being met! it's not his fault private sector pays better. he has student loans, come on!

sonic is the press liaison and PR representative. neither babe nor kenta understand why their teams need one, until sonic points out just last week kim's quick intervention was the only thing that saved a journalist from babe's right hook and the last time the lab had a high profile case, north brought the python who strangled the heiress into the press conference to state it was innocent and kenta demonstrated the legitimacy of his skills by pointing out every reporter who's had plastic surgery done. they get on his side after they realize none of them had to talk to anyone anymore.

tony is the head of the archaeology department, specializing in egypt. is he also running a smuggling and authentication scheme for illegally acquired artifacts on the side? sure. might he also be a secret cannibal they have to fight in a season finale? why not!

[static-sulker]

I might maybe possibly be thinking of a modern fantasy apartment AU with the main crew. All of them being stupid ass magical roommates without tadpoles...Just letting them be happy.

Also my Tav is in there because...yeah. His name is Silk and he is such a silly guy ridden with the 'tism. Drow Warlock who sees the good in everything... Such a...A yeah...

Little notes i've been conjuring about this...

Gale and Wyll made a chore chart in the kitchen, with little magnets for each person. Astarion regularly will switch his magnet in the middle of the night just so he doesn't have to do the fucking dishes and EVERYBODY knows besides Gale and Wyll. Wyll is on the fence about it, but Gale wholeheartedly believes when Astarion lies through his teeth about never having done it.

Karlach and Halsin go on grocery runs in the mornings. Karlach goes for the running part, while Halsin comes along for the run as well as to stop Karlach from buying the most horrendous shit. The one time she went alone very early in the houses lifespan, Karlach bought like 3 bags of go-gurt, about 50 dollars worth of cheap booze, and a big piece of raw steak to cook. She burnt said steak. But she's trying now, at least.

The team will take turns every now and then to get Astarion blood from themselves as it gives Astarion a lot more energy then normal settling blood. BUT they do have "blood bags" that they set up in the kitchen fridge whenever they know nobody with the right blood is gonna be available to give him blood if he needs it. They TOTALLY get it by legal means and it TOTALLY doesn't melt Astarions heart that they try so hard to help him.

Silk finds a stray dog in the alleys of their building one day when they went out to work (they do freelance art with their magic for like startups, it's fun). After casting "speak with animals" they find out this dog, Scratch, is waiting for his owner to return. His owner was killed out by some gnoll gang downtown. When they come back from work later in the evening, they find Scratch again, still waiting. Long story short, Silk adopts scratch in their very strict "no pets" rule of an apartment. And don't get me STARTED on the owlbear cub. Lae'zel and Halsin were out, originally to get some spare lightbulbs and tools for the apartment and find the little critter getting chase by some goblins in some backalley parking lot. Lae'zel plans to ignore the thing, but Halsin assists the cub. Once done, they plan to leave, before the cub begins to follow them home. Halsin names the cub "Vauva" and Lae'zel soon becomes SO attached.

They have presentation nights, where everybody makes slideshows about literally anything. Last week, Gale made one about the conflicts of archmages and the idea of apprentices. Karlach then made a tier list on the worst monsters ever documented, Lae'zel helped with that one. Shadowheart made this whole discussion over her favorite and least favorite teas (she fuckin' hates green tea for like no reason). Wyll made one on Baldurs Gate history. Astarion made a smash or pass list of all of the political leaders in Baldurs Gate. Silk made a presentation on the weirdest underdark myths and rumors they have heard on their time above ground. Halsin presented (well more like persuaded) on getting a new herb for their kitchens row of herbs and spices set on the windowsill. They have too many and he got like 5 minutes of stand time before Karlach kicked him off.

Lae'zel hate-cleans when shes mad at somebody in the apartment. Basically, she cleans every room in the entire fucking apartment BESIDES any of said "victims" parts of the house. One time, she got into a fight with Shadowheart and threw all of the dirty laundry she had so carefully put into the laundry room back into her room just all over the fucking place. If shes calm though, the house is normally fairly clean under her and Wyll's watch. It's one of the only things they agree on.

Because every bg3 piece of content I make loops back to bloodweave, I think they would have a little reading time together. Like whenever everybody is settling down for the night and they are up for it, they take this lovely window seat couch/bed thing in Gales room and just take out a good bottle of wine and a book for each of them and just read until late. They originally did this separately, but when the two find themselves both in the living room at 2 in the morning reading, they decide in silent agreement to make it routine. They sometimes read in silence, other times just talking absently about anything. Shadowheart finds out first by coming in to Gales room late one night to return a book he lent to her to find the two both passed out, tucked away in the window, books still in hand before they accidentally passed out. Shadowheart then teases them with photos the morning after.

Karlach and Lae'zel both do these really intense shadowboxing exercises in Karlachs room whenever the two have freetime and enough energy to go through with it. It's a heated bitter rivalry in the eyes of the githyanki, but Karlach just loves a little workout with her friend! Lae'zel does enjoy the workouts, as she doesn't get many options to really let off ALL of her steam, even if she works at a gym as a personal trainer. She is constantly told shes a bit TOO rough with the clients so she has to "tone it down". So it's nice.

Astarion and Shadowheart have girls nights. Like they paint each others nails and watch like twilight together (ironically they get so heated at how wrong they get it. "Just another human writer writing about shit she doesn't get" is used a lot in their rewatches). They also talk about like...their feelings. But it's very sparse and done so by a copious amount of wine (wine with a heavy amount of blood on the side for Astarion). Both of them never got to have moments like this in their childhoods, of just pure calmness and domestic childhood enjoyment, so they make due with what they can.

BY THE HELLS I JUST REALIZED I WROTE THIS MUCH. DAMN OKAY.

[artfight]

Vote for your favorite team between the two!

TEAM SPICE won during the 2020 Art Fight event, coming at 317,914 attacks valuing at 6,332,569.03 points. Team Spice lost to Team Moon in Round Two, Bracket One of 2024's Showdown.

TEAM SEAFOAM lost during the 2024 Art Fight event, coming at 1,417,276 attacks valuing at 62,042,802 points. Team Seafoam is a newcomer to the Showdown!

[valeriefauxnom]

Unintentional Comedy - Dragalia and Feh Artwork Edition

So, remember Alfonse, from FEH?

Y'know, this dude?

For an okay crutch for those without Gala Euden or Albert or other handy light swords they didn't want to invest in, he was rather popular, only partly owed to any pre-established fondness FEH players had since they already knew him. People liked the more expanded personality we got than FEH's bare-bones story, additionally before they started trying to spice Alfonse up in more recent books.

In his story, however, one of the events that happening is Euden falling off a cliff, shortly followed by Alfonse.

Miraculously, cliff-falling isn't quite as dangerous in Dragalia Lost as in real life (also demonstrated by Leonidas in Stranded Scions, etc...), and the two survive. Alfonse has some sort of injury to his foot, however, conveniently hampering his ability to move but not much else.

Euden, being Euden and unwilling to throw anyone to the wolves, comes up with this idea:

Nothing atypical here, right?

...Well, as it was revealed in a book published two years later than his debut in Dragalia, Fire Emblem Heroes Character Illustrations, Volume 1...

Alfonse is 180cm tall, AKA 5'11.

...Is it any surprise coming from 195cm/6'5 and 180cm/5'11 parents? Someone check the Askran royal food for steroids that Sharena has apparently not been consuming, presumably because she's instead dining with heroes in the barracks.

I digress.

Now, as I've gone over before here, here's where it gets hilarious in retrospect.

In short, Ranzal, the resident big buff burly dude of Dragalia...is stated to be 6'1/185 in the joke comics.

...And while literally nobody else got an even vaguely-official number to their height, Dragalia instead opting for a 'comparison heights' to keep track of who's shorter and who's taller in a pair... Euden often seems to wind up in the 150-155cm/5'0-5'1 range or even shorter when in illustrations with Ranzal:

At most, I've seen him crack about 5'9/175cm in the comics, which aren't exactly a stable source of art, as demonstrated by these two panels, in which both seem to be on flat ground and standing pretty straight:

I need to stop before I mindlessly repeat the other post, but my point remains:

Euden, by most depictions, is tiny. A literal short prince/king.

And yet, no matter what way you slice it, he's trying to carry a dude that seems to be quite a bit taller, let's say. How much, we'll never know, but the fact remains he'd likely need to pull out a dragon phone to search 'how to carry people much taller than you?' just in case and hurriedly read a wikihow 10-step article explaining some strats, were it not for the fact that dragons would have destroyed smartphones in Dragalia a long time ago (good move, dragons....?).

I will admit that there are a few arts that frame them as the 'same height' but I would more point to the fact Euden, when drawn with crossover characters for promotional art, is usually portrayed on an 'equal footing', so as not to have one take up more space/attention. Also, the Feh team might not have even decided on a height for Alfy boy before!

Even then, he's still portrayed as shorter than 5'9/175cm Joker in some art:

So yeah. Crossover art is not exactly consistent, and all I can do is look to the general trend in the 'canon game' of him being absolutely dwarfed by Ranzal.

Now, it's one thing for Euden to be lugging about Alfonse for a while.

The idea he might have done so with such a potential height disparity is pure comedy.

No wonder he's so tired after a while, lugging about another human who is both taller, heavier, and also wearing armor!

Not only that, he later tries and partly succeeds in fighting heavily armored soldiers (who are admittedly aiming to capture him and kill Alfonse) with Alfonse 'draped across his back like a sack of potatoes'. Talk about determination, adrenaline, and/or the simple principle of 'small but mighty'!

Maybe that's why Alfonse was saying "I don't think that's wise" at the start there before he quickly found other rationale besides 'you sure you can give a piggyback without my feet dragging along the ground the whole way?'

My case rests, Your Honor: they unintentionally made part four of Alfonse's personal story a lot funnier to envision by publishing an art book 2 years after he first existed in Dragalia Lost!

[somestorythoughts]

Eldritch Echo

So. I haven't seen the Bad Batch and don't really intend to, but I have read some fics (please do not take that as me saying that's the same as understanding the story) and between that and my thoughts of eldritch stuff in Star Wars and a cool art piece I came across that I think was referencing something I don't have the context for, I started wondering what it'd look like if of the Bad Batch, Echo was the only eldritch/cryptid/vampire/otherwise not human one. NOT because of the Techno Union, but because of something that happened sooner OR he'd always been like that. And I might put a bit of that in my vampire clones thing but I was thinking eldritch and I ended up writing a thing. So. Enjoy:

Edit: Masterpost

***********

Crosshair’s willing to admit he doesn’t dislike Echo. He respects the guy’s resilience and his willingness to go with the flow, which is necessary for someone working with their team, even as he rolls his eyes at Echo’s tendency to twitch at the state of their ship and his reluctance to drop the “sir” when talking to Hunter. More than that Echo has zero qualms about sassing him if Crosshair picks a fight and it’s a lot of fun to rile him up.

That said. Echo is also really freaking weird.

Crosshair is very observant, between his eyesight, his role on the team, and his training he had to be and either something’s very off about Echo or he’s started hallucinating because he keeps seeing things that don’t make sense. Not for a reg and not for a cyborg.

He explains this the Hunter once, trying to see if he’s noticed anything, and Hunter frowns. “Can you give me an example?”

“His eyes for one.”

Hunter blinked. “What?”

“We all know what most trooper’s eyes look like. And we’ve seen some variations. But they don’t change color. I’ve seen his eyes go golden or violet, and it wasn’t the lighting.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes I’m sure what do you take me for?” Crosshair snapped. “Look. Next time we’re on a sunny planet. Take a look at his shadow. It doesn’t match him at all. I’ve seen it prowling around him like a tooka without him or a light source moving. It doesn’t look like him either. And remember that time we were sparring and he panicked and bit me? I asked Tech, the Techno Union didn’t do anything to his teeth, but I know what bitemarks look like and that was not it.”

Hunter sighed. “I’ll pay attention but-” He paused. “Huh.”

“What?”

“It might not be anything.” He replies and only knowing that he’s getting to the point keeps Crosshair from interrupting. “But remember how I told you guys that people smell like animals? They’re distinct from each other, and you know I can’t describe it cause I tried to describe you guys, but it’s not like they smell like flowers or old books or whatever people like to think they’d smell like unless they’re wearing a scent. Echo, he doesn’t smell like a trooper. I just never thought about it for some reason.”

“And what does he smell like?”

Hunter frowned as he tried to find the words. “Well. He does smell a bit like a trooper and a bit metallic. But he also smells like, what’s was the spice in that cake you liked so much? The one we found on that mission with the weird vultures?”

Crosshair hummed. That had been a really freaking good cake. “The lady said it was a cardamon cream cake. So he smells like cardamon?”

“Cardamon and lilies and wet dirt is the best way I can describe it and I know it’s not his soap cause he uses the same stuff as the rest of us. So yeah. I guess I’ll pay attention.”

Two days later Crosshair gets confirmation that something’s up in a way he did not expect.

Because walking around in the dark in the middle of the night is his job so it’s already odd to find Echo leaning against the cabinet in their ship’s tiny kitchen in the pitch dark. “You’re going to trip reg.” Crosshair says and leans over to get the lights when Echo looks up.

And twelve pairs of golden violet eyes meet Crosshair’s.

He staggers back, trips over something, falls. “Crosshair!” Echo grabs his hand, pulling him up, then scrambles for the lights as if he forgot they might be necessary and Crosshair yelps as the light hits his eyes.

He blames that and the shock for blurting out; “What the hell are you Echo?”

Echo blinks, looking hurt. “I’m a trooper. Like you all.”

“Troopers don’t have twenty-four freaking eyes.” Crosshair hissed. They aren’t there now, he’s got 2 brown eyes in the exact same shade of brown nearly every trooper has, but Crosshair knows what he saw. He knows what he’s been seeing.

Echo tilts his head. And he grins. It’s a smile Crosshair’s seen before, whenever Echo’s about to respond to his taunts with something cutting and clever, part “take that” and part inviting him to share the joke. There’s nothing off about that smile save for that it’s mirrored in Echo’s shadow, splayed against the cabinets behind him too dark for their lights.

“The Bad Batch.” Echo muses, like there’s a joke Crosshair hasn’t caught yet, and he’s never had a reason to call Echo dangerous even when he didn’t trust him, but he’s starting to feel cornered even though Echo hasn’t moved. “You think you’re the only strange ones. ‘Don’t worry Rex, we know how to handle a reg.’ Never mind that Torrent was always a little crazy, or it used to be. Never mind that I was an ARC and a damn good one, and we’re all more than competent. And I appreciate what you all did, in welcoming me into the squad, I appreciate it more than I can say, and I do really like you guys, but you are so freaking cocky. So certain you can handle anything. And to be fair you’re damn good at your job, but sometimes it’s annoying. So.” He grins that taunting grin again. “You want to know what the reg’s deal is? Figure it out.”

He leaves. His grinning shadow lingers a moment before following. Crosshair stares.

And then decides that a glass of water isn’t gonna cut it and goes for the stash of moonshine.

[netherfeildren]

The Cassandra Complex : Chapter II : Prometheus

Series Masterlist

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Canon typical violence; Blood and gore; Mentions of drug and alcohol abuse; Description of injury; Angst; Possessive behavior

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word count: 6.7K

Read on AO3

CHAPTER II : PROMETHEUS

What is mortality after all but divine doubt flashing over us?

-Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red

As the days turned to weeks turned to months since that moment in the dark with the Mandalorian, there had been a steadily rising thrum of tumultuous, frenzied energy coiling within you. A ball of hissing, ravenous snakes ready to strike at any moment. Desire turned to want turned to a demand that you were ill equipped to deal with – emotionally and mentally.

You’d had many things in your life that you’d wanted but had not been able to have, and yet that did not mean that you’d ever been good at not getting them. Impulse control, a staying hand, were not things the Maker had blessed you with. 

You’d met an old Ugnaught female with a penchant for loving spotchka and Sabacc a little too much. More than she’d ever enjoyed keeping steady work or following the rules or anything else really. You and she had some things in common when it came to that pesky little issue of impulse control. After a brief acquaintanceship, she’d put you on to a group that met sometimes on Nevarro to… support each other… or better yet, to sit around and discuss your issues and vices together in some pseudo imitation of self improvement – the art of staying one’s hand, or whatever you wanted to call it – and if it was not with much success, it was with intention, which you thought was, in the end, just as significant. She said she found the meetings understanding or companionable or something you pretended to tell yourself you didn’t care about. 

And sometimes you went. 

If for nothing else, to feel as if there were at least a few people in the entire galaxy who knew your name, who knew you were alive, who knew you were alone. You sat there amongst the old and weathered humans and the other ragtag team of varying organics and even the occasional droid, and listened to their stories and their losses and their fear during the reign of the Empire – their struggle, their fight, their apathy now, to survive, to stay afloat in the bleak imperial aftermath. 

One such survivor with a nasty love for Spice, needled you the worst. His face was haggard, tired, and there was something so forlorn about him, something that sent a sudden flash of fear through you. Is that what I will be one day? Is that what I already am? I am a person, you think wearily, aren’t I? His voice was tough and ragged, as if he’d gone out into the lava fields and swallowed a chunk of ashen rock to fill his belly, savaging his throat in the process, grating your ears and your nerves.

“Nothing really feels better than when I’m drinking a bottle of spotchka, Spice humming through my veins, watching the sunset. My worries, my fears… they don’t weigh as heavily on my shoulders. And what else is there to do? This is easy. I am good at this. It is a simple thing, even if I must forsake all the rest. And I am tired. I want peace.”

You could understand this. 

What else had there been to do under the subjugation of a darker and more powerful force than you could have ever been? You had been young and alone and terrified. In possession of a power beyond your understanding. You had been enslaved, trapped, abused, and then, for a moment, on a precipice. One which you’d taken a leap off of at the first chance. Now though, you were tired, and you too, wanted peace. Even if you weren’t entirely sure if you still believed in the concept. Once, it had seemed easy to lay down and take it, do as you were told. Until it wasn’t, or… until there had been the opportunity for something different. When the Sith lords were crumbling into obscurity and failure one by one, until only you and your master remained. A singular darkness in the galaxy. A lone chance, a step too far, to run had been all you’d needed. A flash of beskar in your mind – screaming, the snuffing of a silver flame –  you blink the nightmare, memory, away, be honest with yourself, eyes pressed together tightly, spiky lashes crinkling between your lids.

And you, girl? What about you? What do you have to tell?

Me? Nothing. Nothing to tell – nothing you’d not burn me for.

Or the truth: it was discovered that I could wield the Force when I was a young child. I was hunted, my parents were slaughtered, and I was stolen. Turned and enfolded into their cult. I never had a chance. I never had a choice. I am trying to find my choices again. 

The Jedi, the Sith, the Empire, they all fell a long time ago. I need to let the past die, but I will not die with it. So, you do not share that which would get you killed. You could very well be taken for an Imperial remnant and hunted, executed. No matter that you’d been just as powerless, despite everything, just as tortured, just as subjugated as anyone else, in all the ways that really counted. Despite everything – sometimes this great power counted for very little.

They had wanted to make you a God, but a God muzzled, a God restrained. 

God struck, God swept, God nonsensical. 

Your dreams are always strange and violent now – nightmares of a terrible past coalescing with hopes of a better future. How to reconcile that hideous thing you had been once before with the better thing you were trying to be now? Too difficult to conceptualize. No matter how many times you listened to your strange group of fellow survivors and vice-havers – a funny thing for what would they say, do, to you, if they knew that unlike their spotchka or Spice addictions, your predilection was of a darker nature – to kill, to maim, to destroy?

You leave Nevarro for a time, after that realization. That no matter how much you might ingratiate yourself, no matter the connections you may pretend to make, there is still that, there is still the truth of you. 

The second time you meet him, you are where you should not be. 

You’d come to Corellia. Filled with a sick and twisted sort of glee that you could roll around in the worst underbelly of the galaxy and survive, hold your own. It was an exercise in restraint and brawn and arrogance, too, perhaps. The crime syndicates running untethered, spice trade, and the harsh reality of industrial life made for a cesspool of the worst sort of cretins. 

In some ways, it was exciting for you, and you knew you were looking for something. Something to whet your appetite, quench your thirst, fill the void. 

After all, it had been two months, what felt like millenia, since that dark storage alcove where he’d imprinted himself in you. Weeks of having the ghost of him haunt you, the memory of his rough voice whispering phantom-like in your ear, seeing him in your dreams, your nightmares. Desperate interludes in whatever cold and lonely bed you’d claimed for the night, your fingers rubbing frantically at your slippery, swollen clit, trying to chase that feeling he’d pulled out of you and failing. Mandalorian, Mandalorian, Mandalorian. And then, one late night, when you’re on the trail of one such lead towards self destruction, masqueraded as a good time, there, around the corner, in the distance – like a wound of beskar looming in the night – it’s your Mandalorian. 

You pause your skulking, stepping back to wrap yourself in the shadows, away from prying eyes. You take him in. Fucking tall and broad, outlined in pale flickering silver. He’s arguing with a young Corellian, sticking his finger in the male's face threateningly, other hand hovering menacingly over his blaster, and you can’t help but snicker. Surly beast, that he is. There is a large part of you that does not want him to see you, who had hoped you’d never again come across him, and then a quieter, but infinitely harder part of you to ignore…

The helmet snaps towards you suddenly, as if sensing your attention, cocks to the side –  very much like some predatory animal casting sights on its next meal – his next bounty. You don’t need further warning, you spin on your heel and start in the opposite direction. Heart knocking on the walls of your chest to be let out, let me out, let me out, I want to go with him, cunt going tight and wet, ridiculous, desperate.

A chant that sings: again, again, again, chase me again. Catch me again. I don't know you, but I missed you anyway. I remember you, and I want you. 

That dark, red thread snaps taut again, humming with the song of your fates. You already know how this is going to end. How you want it to end.

You always know how everything is going to end. 

You pick up your pace, trying to confuse him with your turnarounds, sliding through the alleys and archways and scurrying around corners quickly, and then on one particularly slippery turn, there he is. An impenetrable wall of beskar that you’re slamming into, jarring your brain within your skull, shaking your heart in the cage of your ribs, jostling an impish little giggle out of you. 

A pause to catch your breath, he’d cut around and surprised you somehow, “Mandalorian.”

“Brat.” You laugh, his voice is still the same. The depth of it, not a figment of your imagination. 

“Fancy meeting you here. On holiday?” You croon, dragging a single, provoking finger across his chest plate, stepping closer to him, pressing up on your tiptoes to grin up at him. You listen to his huff of vexation through the modulator. Oh, don’t pretend, shiny. I know you love this too. 

“What are you doing here? Corellia isn’t safe.” Stern, stern tone. If you’d let him huff and puff at you, you’re sure he would. 

You roll your eyes at him, as if anything on this planet could do any real harm to the likes of you. “Oh, don’t I know it. I’ve caused the greatest trouble while I’ve been here. It’s been terrible fun.”

He shakes his head down at you disapprovingly, one hand propped on his hip like he’s gearing up to chastise you, readying that menacing finger to shake at you too. You shimmy up against him some more, pressing your breasts up against his chest plate, and you listen to a whisper soft groan vibrate through that impenetrable mask. Not so impenetrable as to keep you out, though, so it seems. You tuck the tips of both hands into the top edge of his breast plate to pull your own face up towards his, and even then, he still has to crook his neck down to look at you. He doesn’t buckle, not even a little bit, under the weight of you trying to hang off of him. You feel one of his hands come up to cup the sharp edge of your elbow, and even through the thick fabric of your dark tunic and the leather of his gloves, his touch feels like fire, like the Force. Stronger than anything else in the whole universe. For some reason, you can feel that deep well of power within you stir at the sight of him, at his touch, like a swirling pool of magma, waiting to rise up and spill out unencumbered. You feel on edge, stretched thin and held together only by frayed seams. 

“Did you miss me, Mandalorian?” He tugs you slightly further into the shadow of the building’s side looking up and around the two of you for one moment, oh, yes, yes, yes, again, again, making sure your surroundings are clear. 

“You like to be chased,” he says back.

“I like to be caught.” 

“By me.”

“By you.” Truth.

“Only me.” It seems he’s finally learned to flirt.

You step up onto his big boot with the tip of one small foot, really trying to climb him in earnest now, bringing yourself up even closer to him, and he wraps his other hand around your waist beneath your cloak, the tips of his long fingers splayed over the top swell of your ass to press your pelvis into his. You bury your nose into the folds of his cape around his throat, breathing in the warm, masculine scent of him, hooking an arm around the back of his neck. You want to kiss him.

“Last time, you said, maybe next time. Is that now?” You breathe into that dark space beneath his helmet’s edge.

You listen to his soft groan, the two of you pulling each other in even closer, trying to meld yourselves to each other, liquid metal’s mixing, beskar melted and writhing amidst fire and flame, and as you’re about to beg him to find another dark alcove for the two of you, you sense them at the same time that his helmet snaps up and to the side, right as they’re descending upon the shadows where you’re hidden, too late to block their blaster fire as they open upon the two of you without any sort of protection to shield yourselves with. Your reaction time is delayed blocking their attack, distracted by him, by his touch, and too long since you’ve openly and freely wielded your power, and he spins, suddenly, huge frame hunching over your smaller one to protect you from the onslaught, to shield you. You hear the bolts of plasma make contact with the beskar over his back, and then his harsh, pained groan as they meet the unprotected places between the gaps in his armor. You spot the Corellian he was arguing with before, over his shoulder. 

A savage growl rips from his throat as his knees buckle, and you wrap one arm around his strong waist, trying to hold him up as he struggles to remain upright. He’s been hit badly in the side, you feel the hot seep of his blood spill. You raise your other hand over his shoulder then, a furious seeping coil starting to move through your body. 

“You’re hit,” you whisper up at him. One of his hands claws at your shoulder, he’s so heavy, while the other braces against the wall behind you, trying to remain upright. 

“My blaster,” he snarls, “Take my blaster. Run.”

“It’s alright,” you say calmly, even though you feel anything but. You can feel his life force literally seeping out of him, and you’re hit, square in the face, with the realization of how truly strong he is. He is so potent, so alive, that his presence in the Force is almost a physical thing despite his lack of powers. The Force lives through us all, and he is powerful, all in his own right, purely for the vitality of him. 

He is strong and good, and that seeping coil turns into a ravenous howl.

There is a group of five organics of varying species surrounding the two of you, frozen by that lifted hand of yours. It closes into a fist, and three of them fall instantly dead, minds pulverized under the force of your power. The edges of your vision go slightly dark. 

“It’s going to be alright,” you say gently to him again. His hand on your shoulder is twisting painfully into your clothes, your joint straining beneath his strength, and he shakes you sharply, trying to push you away. “Fucking go. Why aren’t you moving?” One of his knees buckles, his voice wavers. He’s bleeding out so fast. You grip him beneath his elbows and start to slowly help him lower to the ground. One of his knees suddenly gives out, cracking harshly against the hard ground beneath. “What are you doing?” There’s a flavor of desperation infusing his tone. As if he’s worried for you. As if he is worried for you. “There are too many of them, and I’m–” His voice cuts off with a choked snarl of agony. He’s hurt, he’s hurt. You need to move quickly, or he’s going to die. 

“It’ll be alright, Mandalorian. Wait here. I’ll be right back for you.” He says something more, something growled that sounds suspiciously like, fucking hate it when you say Mandalorian like that, can’t kriffing do as you’re told, but your attention is no longer on him. You step in front of him, blocking the sight of his fallen form from the two remaining, soon to be dead, males. You cast a wide net of the Force around the four of you. Besides the three dead bodies, there is nothing else awake and lurking in the shadows for about a two kilometer radius. Lovely. 

The Corellian is obviously the leader. You look towards the other first, a big, ugly Trandoshan, and as you set your sights on him, you release him from his paralysis, giving him a moment to get his bearings and reach for his blaster. He scrambles to pull it from its holster and fires directly at you. And at your once again raised hand, the beam of plasma freezes mid air in a thrumming, angry screech of red magma. You listen to the Trandoshan’s horrified gasp, watch his eyes go wide and terrified through your splayed fingers, “You’re–”

“Yes. I am.” You send the blaster beam back in his direction with a slight flick of your wrist, piercing him directly through the throat, and leaving a wide, smoking hole of charred flesh clean through its ugly neck. The body falls to the damp street with a harsh thud.

“And you?” You turn toward the Corellian. “Were you his bounty?” His eyes are frenzied, manic, terrified, “Ah, Sith got your tongue?” The acrid scent of urine permeates the air, and you let out a barking little chirp of a laugh. You can feel the Mandalorian fading behind you, struggling to stay alert. No time to play with your food. There is a part of you, small or large, you can’t tell now, in the haze of the Force overwhelming you after not having used it like this in so long, that is worried that this is a step in the wrong direction. You haven’t killed in a long time – not since that last one. No – don’t think of it. Not now. Not with him here. And perhaps, this is a step in the wrong direction, a step backwards, but there’s really no choice. They’ve hurt him. 

You have no choice other than this. 

You reach for your lightsaber strapped into a holster low on your thigh, an inconspicuous place where you can hide it in the dark folds of your clothes. You’ve not wielded one since your escape, since that last time. Your heart beats painfully in your chest, and you can’t tell if it’s more of a blood hungry sort of excitement or out of fear for him, lying wounded behind you. 

-

“No… I’m just kidding.” A girlish little giggle, “I’m not a Sith anymore. Don’t worry. If I were still that, I’d draw this out. Make you suffer for a very, very long time for hurting him.” You pull something from your person then, and the night is filled with the crackling hissing sound of an igniting lightsaber. He’s never seen one in person before – only heard of them in stories. The dark street illuminated with the bright light of a violet colored plasma cross guard that sputters and wavers furiously, unstable, like the sound of metal being clawed to shreds. Despite the protection of his helmet, Din squeezes his eyes shut for an instant, afraid that the bright light would blind him, sear his retinas from their sockets. 

You are a burning effigy washed in the violet light of righteous fury as you stalk slowly towards his, soon to be dead, bounty. Din has no power, but if he did, he is certain that he would be able to feel your presence in the Force as surely as he feels the blaster hole in his flank. Even powerless, he’s sure he can feel the humming waves of your strength brushing up against his armor clad form. 

“She’s never been wet before.” Your voice is inexplicably lovely, soft and lilting. It had been the first thing he’d noticed about you, after those hypnotizing eyes that had terrified him for the intensity of feeling they conveyed, the two warring colors, one lighter than the other, one cast in perpetual darkness and the other so vibrantly bright it almost glows. The way they’d enthralled him, forced him to go after you that night on Nevarro, if only so that he could look into them one more time. “You’ll be my first blood with this – I made her just recently…” You say casually, lifting the lightsaber up to appreciate it between the two of them. The Corellian is frozen still, and Din assumes that you’re holding him so. You’d killed all the rest without so much as a blink. You’d stopped the fucking blaster bolt mid air. Din has never witnessed such a thing in his entire life. He thinks, for a brief moment, that perhaps, he should be frightened, or worried. He’s bleeding out, he’s dying, prone on the ground and vulnerable, and this girl is of a capacity he’s never encountered thus far in all his travels through the galaxy. 

But he is not.

For some reason, the Mandalorian is not afraid. 

“Pretty, no?” You croon at the Corellian, and if Din was of a sound mind, and not currently delirious from blood loss, he’s sure he’d not have felt that twinge of ridiculous jealousy twist through his gut at hearing you give that soft voice to another male. You twirl the blade so fast he scarcely catches it, then lets your wrist fall, the angry buzzing tip of plasma touches the ground so it screeches and hisses. You seem to deflate for a second, arms hanging limply at your sides, and shake your head at him. “You hurt him,” you say so softly he has to strain to hear through the haze of blood loss. He’s fading. He does not want to leave you alone. “You shouldn’t have done that.” 

You should not have to face this alone.

Another lightning fast twist of your wrist, the violet beam an arc of pure light through the night’s dark air, and then: “He’s mine.”

You slice the Corellian diagonally from hip to shoulder. Din does not think the creature even has a moment to realize what’s been done to him before the two halves of its body are sliding clean and wet against each other and crumpling to the ground with a sickening thud. 

When you turn back to look down upon him, your eyes are filled with so much fear and hurt and desolation, and Din must close his own eyes to shutter himself away from the terrible sight of your pain. He never wants to see that look in you again. 

You seem to be a complicated amalgamation of a woman. At once strange and mercurial and violent. Wholly unreachable, unknowable. And then at the next moment: frightened, tender, soft. With a vulnerability that brings every protective, fighting instinct out in Din. Everything that makes him a Mandalorian. Everything that he holds so dearly within his Creed, you call to, after only one meeting in the dark. To protect you, to care for you, to venerate you. And the shroud of loneliness, the air of other that surrounds you, as if you’d never known the soft touch of a caring hand, the loving embrace of a mother – calls to the very same things within Din’s own soul. The same things he’d never had but always wanted. They were the same, and yet, so vastly different. Existing on two separate ends of the galaxy's spectrum. Creatures meant to be enemies, perhaps, to kill each other. And yet here he found himself, prostrate and bleeding on the ground as you defended his life. Entirely at you mercy.

And now you’ve saved him.

His eyes flutter shut once again, consciousness winking away. 

-

He’s as heavy as a star blasted bantha, and you feel that your bones will surely crack and crumble to dust beneath the weight of him leaning over your shoulder while you try to get him coherent enough to move his legs and walk. While at the same time, as inconspicuously as possible, trying to use the Force to support him on his other side, a tendril of power applying pressure to the ragged, bleeding hole in his side without drawing too much attention to yourselves. And then, also, of course, with the added strain of tugging the two separate halves of his bounty behind you, wrapped in some discarded tarp you’d found because even bleeding out and two paces away from dropping dead he’d still had the wherewithal for a muttered, don’t leave my bounty. If you roll your eyes at him any harder they’d surely fall right out of your skull. 

You are a small human, and he is a big, big man. Who is currently providing absolutely no help. 

“Kriffing come on, Mandalorian. You’ve got to help me out here. You’re heavier than a fucking rancor covered in all this metal.”

You see him shake his head out of the corner of your eye, trying to stir himself into coherence, “How did you do that?” He slurs.

“You’re fucking heavy,” you whine, drawing out the vowel at the end and ignoring his question. 

You hear a small huff of air pass through the modulator, “You’re just too– too small.” His words are too slow, his voice too weak. You try and propel the two of you forwards faster. 

“Psshh, don’t provoke me, or I’ll drop you.”

“How’d you– you do that? T– Too small…” A pained, savage snarl as he stumbles. You exert more of the Force to prop him up. Fuck it, if someone notices the two of you, you’ll just kill them. What’s one more after you’d just gone and done away with five in one fell swoop after months and months of nothing – of peace?

You’re sure your mind, and that disgustingly soft heart that’s been trying to force its way to life inside of your chest recently, will make you pay for this later. 

“I’m a wizard,” you deadpan. You’re sweating beneath your heavy layers, slightly dizzy from exerting so much power so quickly. You’re beginning to think that going completely cold bantha steak and cutting yourself off from the Force had been a mistake. You feel wrung out and stretched thin and weak. 

“No– not, little one,” he stutters.

“That’s it. I’m dropping you.” But you clutch your arm tighter around his waist, pressing your cheek up against the space between his shoulder pauldron and the edge of his chest plate. You can feel the sweltering heat from his skin steaming through the heavy material of his underweave. 

“Are not.” You can hear the wet gasps of his panting breath under the helmet, and the sleeve of the arm you have wrapped around his waist feels soaked through with his blood. You don’t know how he’s still conscious and making the best attempt he can to walk after all this. 

“Maker, what do you eat, beskar for breakfast also? Just tell me where your damn ship is before more of those mudscuffers find us.”

“Landing bay seven,” And you thread your fingers through the hand of the arm he’s got slung over your shoulders, tightly. You have to move faster. You have to make him be okay. But despite your anxiety and desire to rush, the two of you make your way slowly through the Corellian alleyways. Him, struggling to remain upright, you, trying desperately to not make your invisible strength entirely obvious. 

And you fail to notice the slithery little Twi’lek, watching the two of you from the shadows, completely unaware that she will await your return to Corellia for a long, long time to come. 

-

Dragging his heavy ass in through the open hatch of his, believe it or not,  piece of shit pre Imperial gun ship, with a grumbled, nice hunk of junk, that all he’d been able to counter with was a defensive hiss, as your arms were about to snap off under his weight, feels like a singular sort of victory after what the two of you had just gone through. His feet stumbling over one another, he’s just on this side of consciousness when you finally make it within the safety of his ship. He melts into a crashing heap of beskar on the durasteel floor, and you finally let go of the disgusting weight of the dead Corellian, as you move quickly to shut yourselves inside, engaging the security system and motion sensors, lest someone else decide to catch the two of you unawares. Spinning quickly back towards him to start ripping the beskar plates off his chest to get to his injury. You quickly realize that the armor is held together by complex magnetics hidden beneath each piece and swiftly disengage those over his chest and abdomen. He’s got on a thickly woven underweave beneath the underplates, and you make quick work of unfastening the closures on that, as well, but when you’ve reached the last layer of his clothing, a thin, dark undershirt, you pause. The material is warm and soft and worn, something you’re sure he must don all the time and meticulously maintain and care for, like all the other pieces of the intricate uniform of his Creed. A Creed which you’re not certain you’d be breaking by looking upon the uncovered skin of his chest and abdomen. But he’s dying, you think, and you have to save him, and you can feel the physical and intangible manifestations of that slow crawl towards death in the spill of his hot blood on your hands, slowly drooling onto the metal floor, as well as the slow seep of his life force out into the ether. He’s dying, and you have to save him. 

You push the last layer, keeping him covered from your eyes, up his chest. The blaster wound is a ragged mess of blood and charred flesh, to his right flank. The trajectory positioned high in the upper quadrant of his abdomen so that you’re fairly certain it must have nicked his liver. You probe gently at the wound inside with a tendril of the Force, and your panic ricochets up to a shrill crescendo within you – yes, he’s hit badly, a laceration to the uppermost corner of the organ. You move to stand quickly, sweating and stumbling in your panic towards the compartments along the walls of the hull, ripping open drawers and cabinets until you come across his med kit. There are bacta injections, hard to come by, but of course he’s well supplied – you can only imagine the collection of injuries he must have gathered throughout his travels, and patches inside, and you return to kneel at his side, knees cracking painfully against the cold, hard floor as you fall next to him. Hands shaking, vision slightly blurry, you pop the cap off of the syringe, and try and take deep steadying breaths as you pull down the neck of his shirt to get at the uppermost part of his shoulder. When you press the aggressive looking needle into his skin he jerks, and the sound of the helmet rolling against the floor has your eyes shooting up to his face, “It’s okay,” you try and soothe. “You’re going to be okay. I’m going to fix this.” You press down on the plunger slowly, watching the bacta slowly make its way from the glass barrel into his arm. He gives a low groan of pain as the thick substance enters his muscle. Please, please, work. Please, you have to be okay. You pause for a second once the injection is done, watching the shallow, quick hiccups of his breath, the rapid dip of his abdomen, as if he’s struggling to continue the act, in pain. Fuck. You rip open one of the bacta patches and carefully place it over the gaping wound, reaching for two more after that to make sure the entire large circumference of the hole in his side is covered, and then go still. His breathing is still rapid and shallow, almost gasping, and you take in, for the first time, the entire vision of his naked chest and abdomen. Thick, strong waist, tapering down into slim hips, smeared in the dark vermillion of his blood, you watch the shifting of his abdominal muscles beneath his smooth, golden brown skin. You’d pushed his shirt high up on his chest, but you grip the edge to pull it down a little lower, making sure he’s only as uncovered as necessary. You’re not entirely sure how quickly the bacta should work – why isn’t he waking up, why isn’t he saying anything, why isn’t his breathing normalizing?

“Mandalorian,” you whisper, and the helmet shifts the tiniest bit towards the sound of your voice, the fingers of his left hand twitch and curl inwards. You place your other hand low on his belly, the edge of his shirt still gripped in your hand and scoot closer to him, your bent knees pressed into his hip. “Please–” you whisper and you realize your cheeks are wet, tears making a slow stream down your face. Your voice breaks, “Please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” You don’t know why you’re apologizing, but you know that this is your fault. You distracted him, led him on that ridiculous chase. He’d have captured his bounty and been safely on his way if it weren’t for you. “I’m sorry. Please, I’m so sorry.” Not again, please, I can’t have done this again. You let your head hang forward, your torso bending slightly so that your forehead is pressed into his hip as you let your desperate and pathetically terrified tears fall. This is your fault. One more terrible thing come at your hands.

If you could only – don’t even think it, you do not possess the capacity for that sort of goodness – but the hopeless thought worms its way into your mind anyway, if you could only heal him with the Force. But you’d never possessed that sort of ability, only the strongest of Force users could wield their power for healing, and despite the fact that you can still feel the deep well of your power churning in your veins right now, after your brutal display on the streets of Corellia, you know that such a thing is beyond your capability. Such an act only possible to those with great aptitude for light wielding or those dark siders who were willing to pay a great and terrible price, that of stealing vitality from another being to enact such a power.

And you hate yourself more in this moment than all the others. You wish desperately, painfully that you could be a different sort of person, a different sort of monster. That you could be good. That you possessed the ability to do good with this Force that roils through your veins, and that should have helped you, but had only ever truly hurt you. 

What is the point of this great power within you, you think, if you cannot wield it in this most necessary of moments? In this instance when, more than any other, you wish you had the strength of the Force to heal him. With your head still pressed to his hip and your hands still on his chest and belly you open your eyes to watch your tears roll over his tan skin. I’m sorry, you think again, I wish you had never come across me. You watch the slow journey of your tears as they slide across his hip and drip silently down onto the floor of the hull, mixing with the dark crimson of his spilled blood. 

You’ve never been one for much faith in any sort of higher power, too many times in your life when you’d wished for something greater than you to come and save you gone unanswered, but you pray to the Maker in this moment that the Mandalorian survive this, please, please, he is good, please, let him survive this. Your eyes flutter closed, you feel the sweep of your lashes against his warm skin, and you pray to the Force and the Maker and any other entity out there in the vast, unending galaxy that a creature such as this, one who is strong and valiant and good, not be felled by an association with the likes of you. And as you think, please, just this one thing, just this one time, I’ll never ask for anything else ever again if you only save him now, you feel that space deep within you, where the very nectar of the Force lives in your soul, shift and churn, and it is as if one of the very building blocks of the core material that makes you what you are, slides out of that place and slots itself into him. Plugging away at the gaping, life threatening wound and mending his torn flesh and healing that which had been savaged. You feel the very fibers of him stitch themselves back together at that outpouring of yourself into his own body, and he has a piece of you now, even if he is unaware, even if, perhaps, he would not want it, you’ve given yourself to him in a way you’ve not ever done with anyone else before. Slotted yourself within him and plugged his wound away to heal him. 

You feel your body sag into his, all strength suddenly leaving you, but you force your muscles into movement and push yourself up off of him so that you can look up at his helmet covered face. His breathing suddenly stutters, and you freeze, your heart screaming in panic, but then he takes one long, deep breath, the wings of his rib cage flaring wide, and the rhythm returns to a slow, measured cadence. You take in the expanse of his strong abdomen, muscled, but also slightly soft around his belly button, the tantalizing trail of hair that disappears into his trousers. There are old scars and rough patches of poorly mended skin scattered across him, but his skin is also still soft and smooth and warm. His body is a weapon all on its own, battle hardened and made strong and resilient out of a necessity for survival, and beautiful. Above all else, he is beautiful. His long limbs are splayed wide on the durasteel floor. His cape is tangled around his throat and shoulders, and you move to pull the trapped folds from around his neck, giving him more freedom to breathe deeply. You tug the fabric down to spread out at his side so that you can lay on top of it. Your head is spinning now, your heart beating so fast you feel the rebounding rush of your blood in your eardrums. You’ve overexerted yourself, drawn too much power too quickly. Head spinning, vision going slightly dark at the edges, you feel a sharp, piercing pain behind your left eye, and your arms give out as you let yourself curl into a ball at his side, tucked into the crook of his underarm beneath his splayed limb. Right before you lose consciousness, you remember to pull his shirt down the rest of the way. He should be covered when he awakens, you don’t want him to worry that you’d violated him in any way, looked at his face or seen more of him than was absolutely necessary. He should feel reassured. You do not want him to be worried or afraid. 

When consciousness finally winks away, like a singular dying star in the vastness of space, your fingers are still twisted in his shirt over his belly.

Chapter III

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

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[tgmsunmontue]

SunMonTue's 2024 Top Gun Advent Fics and art

HERE on AO3 or links below to the Tumblr posts.

This was a challenge I set myself to write AND draw something EVERY DAY from a prompt list. Most of them are drabbles or snippets and one-shots.

All fairly benign, explicit fic indicated, art which gets suggestive.

Hot cocoa - Hangster - Tumblr

Christmas at Sea - Hangster - Tumblr

Surprise visitor - General - Tumblr

Air Show - Hangster - Tumblr

Hallmark movie - Hangster - Tumblr

Hometown - Hangster - Tumblr

Hard Deck - Hangster - Tumblr

Top Secret - Hangster - Tumblr

Mistletoe - Hangster - Tumblr

Away from Home - Hangster - Tumblr

Decorations - Hangster - Tumblr

Secret Santa - Hangster - Tumblr - Explicit longer fic

Team Bonding - Hangster - Tumblr

Confessions - Hangster - Tumblr

Christmas music - Hangster - Tumblr

Unexpected gift - Hangster - Tumblr

Sugar & Spice - Hangster - Tumblr

Chapstick - Hangster - Tumblr

Eggnog - Hangster - Tumblr

Snowball fight - Hangster - Tumblr

Icicles - General - Tumblr

Holiday Party - General - Tumblr

Stockings - Hangster - Tumblr - Mature Art

Getting ready - Hangster - Tumblr - Mature Art

Reunion - Hangster - Tumblr

Serenade - Hangster - Tumblr - Mature Art

Dancing - Hangster - Tumblr

Starlight - Hangster - Tumblr

Christmas at TopGun - Hangster - Tumblr 1/3

Rings - Hangster - Tumblr 2/3

New Year's Eve - Hangster - Tumblr 3/3

Too many links for me to add to my Master List so will be linking to this post instead. 👌