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hayatheauthor · 4 months ago

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Have u done a post on anatomy of swordfight? Or like weapons in general. I have a lot of different weapons planned out: bow, different types of swords, daggers, shields, spears, etc. I can't find a single proper guide explaining how to write fight scenes for these that make sense.

The Anatomy of Writing a Sword Fight

Thank you for the ask! I really love your ideas/reqs and will be making at least 2 more blogs as a reply to this ask (that will cover bows etc). For now I've gone with swordfights.

This guide dives into the technical aspects of sword fighting—from the types of swords and injuries to the medical realities of treating these wounds.

My long-form posts are usually filled with long detailed paras but this time I wanted to focus more on the 'facts' and had a lot of things to cover so I stuck to concise pointers for each area. That being said, feel free to ask follow-up questions if needed!

Understanding the Blades

Firstly, here's a quick breakdown on the types of swords and their impact on injuries

Longswords Longswords are double-edged, straight blades often used with two hands. They cause deep slashes capable of severing muscles and tendons, and thrusts that can puncture organs or arteries. Heavy blows can also break bones.

Rapiers Rapiers are thin, pointed blades designed for thrusting. They cause precise punctures targeting vital organs or arteries. Less effective for slashing but deadly in skilled hands.

Katanas Katanas are curved, single-edged blades optimized for slicing. Their shape allows for those gory slashes that can amputate limbs or expose bones. Thrusts can also be fatal.

Sabers A saber is a curved blade with one sharp edge, typically used on horseback. These blades are designed for slashing, often causing wide, shallow wounds.

Short Swords and Daggers Smaller blades that are used for close combat can sometimes fall under the sword umbrella based on their shape and length. A Jambiya for example is categorised as a 'short sword'. These work for deep puncture wounds in tight quarters. Can sever arteries or puncture the heart or lungs.

In short, the design influences the wounds. Remember:

Straight blades are versatile, causing both slashes and thrusts.

Curved blades focus on slicing, leaving gaping wounds.

Thin blades like rapiers target precision strikes to critical areas.

Types of Sword Injuries

As mentioned above I'm trying to cut to the chase with this blog so for each injury type, I've covered what I think are the key points. These are the appearance, severity, blood loss caused by this type of wound, and pain levels. I think these four basically cover everything a writer needs to know when picking their poison.

Slash Wounds

Appearance: Long, open cuts with jagged or clean edges depending on the blade.

Severity: Superficial slashes may damage only the skin and fat layers, but deeper cuts sever muscles, tendons, and even arteries.

Blood Loss: Significant, especially if major arteries like the femoral (thigh) or brachial (arm) are cut.

Pain: Immediate burning or stinging, with sharp increases if nerves are involved.

Thrust Wounds

Appearance: Small entry wounds but potentially deep and catastrophic internal damage.

Severity: Can puncture vital organs such as the heart, lungs, liver, or intestines.

Blood Loss: Often internal, leading to hidden dangers like haemorrhaging or collapsed lungs.

Pain: Stabbing pains that radiate outward, especially if organs are pierced.

Blunt Force Injuries

Appearance: Bruising, swelling, or fractures from strikes with the flat side or hilt.

Severity: Can lead to broken bones, ruptured vessels, or concussions.

Blood Loss: Minimal unless skin is broken.

Pain: Deep aches or sharp, localized pain from fractures.

Assessing the Severity of Wounds

When assessing the severity of a wound, there are a few important things to keep in mind. To make it easier, I've put together a quick checklist to help you out.

Location: Wounds to the head, neck, or chest are often life-threatening. Injuries to limbs are less fatal but can lead to significant blood loss.

Depth: Shallow cuts are often cosmetic but painful. Deep wounds risk severing arteries, damaging organs, or causing fractures.

Angle: Oblique cuts may glance off bones or armor. Direct thrusts to unprotected areas are far more dangerous.

What Happens When Each Area is Wounded

It's kind of a given that each area of the body is different and would thus cause different reactions when pierced. While many writers stick to the 'blood dripping from the mouth, hand desperately clutching the wound' look, I think it's a good idea to consider the medicinal side of your injuries.

Are there arteries in this area? Vital organs? Muscle and tissue? Here's a quick breakdown of those questions (no I haven’t mentioned every area or organ of the body):

Limbs

Forearms and Upper Arms: Severing the brachial artery results in rapid blood loss. Cuts to tendons disable grip strength or arm movement.

Thighs: The femoral artery is a critical target. Damage here leads to exsanguination within minutes if untreated.

Calves and Feet: While less life-threatening, injuries here severely limit mobility and can cause nerve damage leading to paralysis.

Abdomen

Liver: Heavy bleeding due to its vascularity. Potentially fatal without intervention.

Stomach: Leakage of acidic contents causes severe internal infections.

Intestines: Punctures lead to sepsis from spilled waste material.

Kidneys: Severe back pain and rapid blood loss from renal artery damage.

Chest

Lungs: Punctures cause pneumothorax (collapsed lung), leading to difficulty breathing and chest pain.

Heart: Even small cuts are often fatal due to rapid blood loss and cardiac tamponade (fluid pressure around the heart).

Ribs: Fractures can puncture lungs or other organs.

Neck

Jugular Vein or Carotid Artery: Severing either leads to death in under two minutes from blood loss.

Trachea: Obstruction causes immediate respiratory distress.

Spinal Cord: Severance leads to paralysis or death.

Back

Spinal Cord: Injuries vary from numbness to total paralysis depending on the location.

Kidneys: Vulnerable to back stabs; severe bleeding and pain radiating to the abdomen.

Face/Head

Cheeks: Slashes leave disfiguring scars but are rarely fatal.

Eyes: Punctures result in blindness and intense pain.

Skull: Blunt force may cause concussions or fractures; penetrating wounds can be fatal if they reach the brain.

Treating Sword Fight Injuries

In the chaos of a sword fight, providing immediate care can mean the difference between life and death. The first priority is to stop the bleeding. For deep cuts or arterial wounds, use a clean cloth or pressure bandage to compress the injury. If the bleeding doesn’t subside, especially in limb injuries, apply a tourniquet above the wound, ensuring it’s tight enough to restrict blood flow without causing further damage.

Once bleeding is controlled, stabilize the victim. Immobilize fractures with makeshift splints, and in cases of suspected spinal injuries, avoid moving the victim unnecessarily to prevent exacerbating the damage. Finally, cleaning the wound is critical to minimize infection risks. Remove debris carefully and irrigate the wound with clean water if possible. Though battlefield medicine is rudimentary, these steps provide a fighting chance for survival.

Also, one thing people forget to go over is temperature. Keeping the victim warm is essential, as blood loss can lead to hypovolemic shock, which compromises the body’s ability to circulate oxygen.

Historical vs. Modern Treatment

The approach to sword fight injuries varies dramatically between historical and modern contexts. While I can’t completely break down the differences, here’s (what I hope) is a quick overview that will aid in your research.

Historically, treating wounds was rudimentary at best. Herbal poultices were applied to reduce inflammation, and cauterization—burning the wound to seal it—was a common but agonizing method to prevent bleeding and infection. Stitching techniques were crude, and the lack of sterilization meant infections like sepsis or gangrene were often fatal.

Fret not, modern medicine offers a more hopeful prognosis. Sterile wound care, antibiotics, and surgical interventions allow for precise repairs to severed arteries, muscles, or organs. Advanced imaging technology can assess internal injuries, while blood transfusions and IV fluids combat shock effectively.

This just underscores how important it is for writers to consider what timeline their story is set in. Sorry but your medieval prince won’t just have a full recovery after suffering a brutal gash, especially not if his only source of medicine was love interest’s xyz solution. Infections are a very real issue. In fact, most deaths during that time were due to infection. Do your research.

The Psychological Aftermath

The aftermath of surviving a sword fight extends far beyond physical wounds, leaving lasting emotional and psychological scars. Many survivors experience trauma or PTSD, manifesting as flashbacks to the battle, vivid nightmares, or an overwhelming sense of anxiety, especially in situations that trigger memories of the fight. I would absolutely love to see people incorporate this in their writing! If your modern OCs can get flashbacks and nightmares after a single gun altercation what makes you think the medieval ones won’t experience something similar?

Survivor’s guilt is another common burden, particularly if the character witnessed comrades die or was forced to make life-and-death decisions during combat. These emotional struggles can deeply shape their personality, making them more cautious, resentful, or even vengeful. Villain arc here we come!

One thing to remember; physical limitations compound the psychological toll. Permanent injuries like chronic pain, reduced mobility, or disfigurement can remind a character daily of their ordeal, influencing how they interact with others and navigate the world.

As a writer it’s important to take recovery into account. Exploring these aspects adds depth to the character’s recovery arc, making their journey more relatable and human.

Remember folks; a sword fight isn’t just a moment of action—it’s a fight as brutal and dangerous as any knife or gun altercation you can think of (if not worse).

Crafting the Fight Scene

To end this blog, here are my (and various Google articles’) two cents on what you should be focusing on/keeping in mind during a swordfight.

Writing a compelling sword fight requires balancing technical accuracy with emotional resonance. Pacing is key: alternate between rapid exchanges of blows and brief pauses to allow tension to build. These pauses provide an opportunity to describe a character’s thoughts, pain, or strategic planning.

Sensory details bring the scene to life—capture the sharp clash of steel, the metallic tang of blood in the air, the searing pain of a wound, and the slickness of a sweat-soaked grip on a sword hilt.

Focus on the characters themselves to make the scene more engaging. Highlight their emotions, such as fear, determination, or desperation, alongside the physical toll of the fight. Show how fatigue sets in, how their breathing becomes labored, and how every swing of the blade drains their strength.

Injuries should be portrayed realistically; instead of dismissing wounds as minor setbacks, use them to heighten tension. A cut to the leg might slow a character’s movements, while a stab to the shoulder could make wielding their weapon excruciating.

Balancing these elements ensures your fight scenes are not only thrilling but also grounded in a visceral reality.

Resources for Writers

Books:

"The Book of the Sword" by Richard Francis Burton

"Medieval Swordsmanship" by John Clements

Videos:

YouTube channels like "Skallagrim" and "Scholagladiatoria" for sword reviews and techniques.They’re very helpful for all sorts of weapons actually so OP I think you should consider stalking their channels you’d find a TON of info (I get most of mine from them lol).

Articles:

I don’t have any precise ones but to boost your research consider medical journals on trauma and wound care. Oh and historical accounts of duels and battles.

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animaraptor · 4 months ago

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Old anatomy study about Cablesupplies aliens who evolved from "squids" animals

Also 3d variant:

"The skull of Cablesupplies is very different from the skulls of terrestrial vertebrates. Consisting of calcified chitin, it consists of almost identical upper and lower parts, two mandibles and thin pedipalps. Let's look at each of them separately.

The head consists of 4 plates, previously forming a carapace around the head. Each of them carries one eye socket and one large fenestra. The eyes at the top are fully functional, whereas the eyeballs at the bottom only help to swallow food, as is the case with terrestrial frogs. Also on the upper plates in front there are nasal passages leading air from the upper mandible to the lungs of the trunk. Moreover, the nasal passages do not intersect with the esophagus and mouth, which is why Cablesupply can eat and breathe at the same time.

In the middle, the plates are connected by bone tissue, in which there is a bed for tissues and joints of the pedipalps. Along the edge of the plate and the bed there are ridges, to which most of the muscles of the jaws, pedipalps and necks cling.

There is no usual mouth in front of the skull - just a simple hole. It is the bone-limited size of the pharynx and oral cavity that causes Sabre-bearers to chop their prey into small pieces with the help of oral appendages and middle limbs. However, Sablenos still have full lips. this allows them not to choke on water hunting and dig the ground without eating it.

The mandibles of the Cablesupply are made of pure chitin and have notches exactly in the center. Rows of notches can be either 1 or as many as 5. At the end of both mandibles there are special movable beak-like hooks, however, in many species it is either lost or replaces the mandibles themselves. There are several nostrils on the upper mandible - one is the main one, and the others are "corrugated" slits like gills, on which olfactory receptors are abundant. These gills can work in isolation from the main nasal passage, which is why they remain functional under water. Pedipalps help Cablesupply to push food into their mouths. They consist of 3 fragments, being modified plates, mandibles and hooks. In some species, pedipalps become claws, in others they become analogous to antennas or murderous weapons. This is the most mobile part of the skull of the Saber Bearers.

Since Cablesupply do not have a spine, their neck consists of 2 bones, similar in structure to a human arm. On top of the bone is the spinal cord and trachea, and along the bottom is the esophagus. The former are protected by a special capsule of connective tissue, a layer of adipose tissue, muscles (not shown) and an analog of osteoderms."

#art #illustration #artist on tumblr #small artist account #biology #speculative biology #xenobiology #speculative zoology #aliens #squid #anatomy

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literaryvein-reblogs · 4 months ago

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hey!! i really love your posts and trust me when i say this but you're practically doing a work of charity by making all these synonym lists. 😩🫶

i was wondering if you could compile monument vocabulary. vocabulary to describe the intricate and exquisite designs inside historical buildings. tysm!

Some Historical Architecture & Interior Design Vocabulary

Acanthus Leaf - A leaf decoration often used on furniture, particularly on brackets and legs.

Acroterium - Originally an ornament on the roof corners of Greek temples. In classical furniture, similar ornaments applied to the top corners of secretaries, bookcases, highboys and other furniture.

Amorini - Cupid ornaments found on Italian Renaissance furniture.

Anthemion - A honeysuckle design from classical Greek decorative motifs. Term refers to any conventional flower or leaf design.

Antique - Could be anything ranging from a piece of furniture to art. The U.S. government considers any item over 100 years old to be an antique, whereas most collectors use 50 years as a benchmark.

Apothecary Chest - A low chest with small drawers that was originally used to store herbs for cooking and medicinal purposes.

Arabesque - Decorative scroll work or other intricate ornamentation consisting of foliage, vases, leaves and fruits, or fantastic human and animal figures.

Baroque - A highly ornate decorative style that originated in Italy in the 1600's. The style is characterized by irregular curves, twisted columns, elaborate scrolls and oversize moldings. The Italian equivalent of French "rococo".

Bibliotheque-Basse - A low cupboard with shelves for books. Doors are often of glass and sometimes fitted with grilles.

Bullate - Having the surface covered with irregular and slight elevations, giving a blistered appearance.

Cabriole leg - An ornamented furniture leg with a double curve structure.

Chevron - A 'zigzag' pattern characteristic of Romanesque decoration that is often carved around pillars, arches and doorways.

Chinoiserie - A European style of design that is meant to mimic elements of East Asian art.

Console table - A freestanding table, often found in the entryway of homes, that typically serves as a space for decorative elements.

Enfilade - A series of rooms that are connected via doorways that align with one another (commonplace in grand castles, like the Palace of Versailles, or even museums).

Etagere - A freestanding or hanging set of open shelves, designed to display trinkets or other decorative objects.

Gilding - A coating with a thin layer of gold or gold-like substance.

Klismos - Ancient Greek style of chair with saber shaped legs splayed at the front and back. The back legs continue up to support a shoulder-height curved back.

Laurelling - A decorative feature using the laurel leaf motif as its basis.

Lozenge - A diamond shaped decorative panel. Term comes from the Middle English word for stone.

Niche - A recess in a wall for displaying a sculpture or other accessory.

Ormulu - A metal resembling gold. Used as mounts and decorative effects on furniture.

Ovolo - A continuous ornament in the form of an egg which generally decorates the molding called the "quarter-round". Eggs are often separated from each other by pointed darts.

Passementerie - Fancy decorative trimmings such as tassels, tiebacks and ribbon.

Régence Style - This furniture style spanned from about 1715 to 1723, when France was ruled by a regent. This style of furniture design was a transition from massive straight lines to graceful curves.

Sconces - A type of light fixture that is fastened to a wall for support.

Swan-Neck Handle - A curved handle popular in the 1700's.

Trompe l’oeil - A technique used to trick the eye into thinking that something flat, like a wall, is actually three-dimensional. This is often achieved through photorealistic painting.

Victorian - An architectural style defined by highly ornamented design and grand, sweeping facades.

Wainscoting - A type of interior wall paneling that covers the lower portion of a wall.

"Traditional" Interior Design

When talking about traditional interior design, most are referencing a design style that originated in the 18th and 19th century throughout Europe. However, it’s worth noting that other cultures have their own versions of a traditional style that may not look the same as this more Western version.

Traditional Design Elements. Though not exhaustive, a traditional interior will often make use of the following elements:

Emphasis on symmetry and order

Traditional architectural details such wainscoting and crown molding

Classic decor elements such as chandeliers and bookcases

Neutral color schemes with pops of bold colors, often in jewel tones

Upholstery and textiles tend to be subtler (cotton, velvet, or wool, for example)

Furniture pieces with traditional silhouettes, though they’re often updated with modern elements or finishes

Layered window treatments and draperies; curtain valances aren’t used often

Classic patterns such as plaids, damask, or florals

Flooring tends to make use of darker wood

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Word Lists

Previous posts that include some related words you might find useful:

Some Architecture Vocabulary

Some European Renaissance Art Vocabulary

Some Medieval Art & Architecture Vocabulary: Part 1

Some Medieval Art & Architecture Vocabulary: Part 2

Some Roman Art Vocabulary

Thanks so much for your kind words, you're really sweet! I tried to include a wide range of terminology since you didn't specify which time period you were looking for. Do go through the sources if I wasn't able to include here what you need in your writing. Hope this helps <3

#terminology #architecture #interior design #writing reference #writeblr #dark academia #spilled ink #literature #writers on tumblr #writing prompt #writing inspiration #history #writing ideas #creative writing #writing resources

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bunbun-mochi · 3 months ago

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Never His Heart

Xavier x MC

Warning: angst, (with comfort, maybe? depends how you look at it)

Word Count: ~300, no proofreading

Preview: As the crowned prince of Philos, Xavier has his own responsibilities. His father, the king, refuses him to marry MC and arranges a marriage with someone else.

"Let's elope."

I remember Xavier saying that to me several months ago. But here we are, him on the altar while I'm standing on the side only as a guard. I felt my heart twist in thousands of different ways.

I should've said yes. I should've listened to my heart and not my head. I knew it was wrong for me to abandon this world, but I was taught to protect it.

Now I regretted it.

I gripped tightly on my saber as I watched the bride walk onto the altar. I felt tears threaten to spill when vows were spoken.

"I do," I heard her say.

But only silence from him.

I looked up only to see him press his mouth in a thin line. For a brief moment, I saw him glance at me before looking back at his bride.

"I do," he whispered.

Cheers erupted, glasses clinked, and joy was spread on this joyous sight. But all I felt was emptiness. The only thing I look forward to is when the bell rings to indicate the wedding is over.

Because then, I can cry to my heart's content.

I stare at the stars in the distant sky. A lone shooting star zipped through the sky. Every time that happens, I would make a wish.

This time, I didn't. Because no matter how many shooting stars there are, none will ever fulfill my wish. Because he is gone.

"I thought I would find you here." I heard a voice behind me. I felt my heart stop for a moment. Tears poured out of my eyes again.

Then warm hands embraced me from behind. And that's when my heart started to untwist itself. I leaned into the warm embrace. I wished we could do this just as much as we had done before, but I knew that wouldn't happen. He's now married. To someone else. I felt him gently kiss my neck. Part of me wanted to push him, to tell him it was inappropriate, but part of me wanted to hold him closer until he had to go.

"Let's elope." I heard him say it again.

I looked into his sky-blue eyes, filled with anticipation and hope. "But..."

"I didn't sign anything. Let's go."

"Now?"

"Yes."

I felt the corners of my mouth curve up. "Alright. Let's elope."

She grew up with everything. Her father was very influential with the royal family. Whatever she wants, she gets. When she saw the crowned prince, she knew who she wanted to marry.

However, this was the first time she didn't get what she wanted.

Every time she gets, she tries to get the prince to fall for her. But each time she gets closer, she ends up getting further instead. His eyes never lay on her but on someone else.

He only smiles for that someone else.

He only touched with his bare hands with that someone else.

He only talked so softly and so lovely to that someone else.

But with her. He only looks at her, touches her, and talks to her when it is necessary.

But when her father finally pulled some strings, she finally got her wish.

She stood on the altar, beaming, thinking she had won in life. She finally married the love of her life.

Oh, how wrong is she. She married him, but never his heart.

His heart had already been taken by someone else. That someone else. And he never intended to give her his heart.

In the end, the only thing she got was the marriage certificate. Because the prince is nowhere to be found.

He had left her for someone else.

To this day, she is left by her lonesome self, while the person she loves is with his lover.

Note: Ok, I need this off my chest. I didn't read much of the myth stories for all LADS LI (except Sylus standard myth) bc I'm terrified. I heard it's sad and I'm scared to read them. So here's my question, why did the previous king of philos just force Xavier to not see MC? Or like force him to marry someone else or something? idk, I think I've been reading too much manhwas.

Dividers, headers, banners, and templates used on this post are from @uzmacchiato

#love and deepspace #lads xavier #xavier love and deepspace #xavier fic #xavier angst #xavier fluff #xavier

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tgrailwar-zero · 2 months ago

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Before we depart...

[quietly make prayers over the dead Valkyrie]

She- she was an enemy, Saber, but it really wasn't her fault. Her mind was part of a network, and something really really scary got into that network. More likely than not, she and her sisters... won't be nice anymore.

...

Oh- right, before we forget, there were some hornet-lookin' Attack Programs in the lobby, when we passed through, so it could be a good teambuilding exercise. Plus they probably don't have some tragic backstory so destroying them is relatively guilt free.

RICHARD: "Hm. Is that so...?"

RICHARD: "I do too. Come, let's sally forth!"

You returned back to the main hall, just in time to see the white attack program about to exit the building.

It stopped, turning towards you.

GIL: "...Hm."

The young king snapped his fingers, a portal manifesting behind the program as a chain lashed out, aiming straight for the neck. And then--

--You saw as the chain clashed against a barrier, cold and sturdy-- eerily similar to the one that had composed the barrier trapping Berserker. Another cold, long stare from the program as it raised it's sword, and you saw droves of those white insect programs manifest out of thin air.

The white attack program turned, walking and heading towards the exit of the base as the swarm of insectoid enemy programs surged towards you.

GIL: "Ah, they've multiplied."

RICHARD: "Then we'll just have to smash through! Consider this warm-up for our next enemy. Sir Lancelot takes the ones on the left, I take the ones on the right, and you simply watch and learn, o' child king."

GIL: "You really just keep talking, don't you?"

LANCELOT: "AAAAAAAARRRRHHH--!!"

There wasn't any avoiding this. Time to fight!

SWARM BATTLE RULES:

You've been caught in a swarm battle! When it comes to swarms of easily beatable enemies, it's best to just let your Servants cut loose and provide support.

Being a Master means having a strong grip on the battlefield, providing solid orders, and catching things that even your Servants may miss in order to lead them to victory. Enemy swarms have a set amount of damage they inflict to the party's Endurance Gauges. Swarm battles also have a blanket cost of -1 Mana for each party member, which can't be reduced.

With a perfect balance of your orders (meaning, poll options), this damage can be fully mitigated.

With an imperfect balance, the group takes the set damage and the member(s) involved in the option that had the least amount of votes take an extra point of damage to their Endurance.

Since these are relatively weak enemies, the 'swarm damage' is set to simply '-1 Endurance'.

Successfully balanced swarm battles can also prompt new combo attacks as your Servants learn how to fight alongside each other! Additionally, showing strong Master skills will raise your Servants opinions of you!

#thgw story #endless whispers #thgw: chapter 9

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thesassypadawan · 1 month ago

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His Universe (Obi-Wan x Darling!Reader)

Summary: Fates. Always intertwined, forever connected. Constantly changing, evolving. Adding new factors, elements. No matter how far they stray, they will find a way time and time again to come back to one another. Meshing together their galaxy and his universe.

Notes: A little collab between myself and @everydaydreamer. Go check out her half for Vader, Qimir, and the Empress…Their Galaxy. This is the story that comes after the last fight between Obi-Wan and Vader in the Kenobi series.

(Obi-Wan)

“You were my brother. I loved you.” Those words have plagued him ever since that horrific day. Playing over and over, infinitely torturing the tattered remnants of his soul. And although they have grown quieter as the years dragged on, nearly a whisper on the edge of his conscious. The phantoms haven’t echoed this loud, till now…

A slight breeze blows across the desolate landscape. Dissipating the thin fog, just enough to reveal the dark lord himself, Vader.

Dozens of thoughts, emotions, long repressed memories course and swirl throughout his fragile psyche. As he stares upon the twisted, distorted outline of his former apprentice.

“Have you come to destroy me, Obi-Wan?”

Willing, calling forth that inner strength. Obi-Wan straightens, steels his resolve. Igniting his lightsaber. Sapphire bathing, illuminating his weathered and hardened features. “I will do what I must,” he replies cooly. Falling easily into that old, familiar form…pointing and leveling his blade.

“Then you…” Crimson bursts forth. Casting its eerie and unsettling glow on that ghastly helmet. “…will die!”

(Darling)

Sparks fly. Red and blue clashes against each other, the sounds echoing around the empty moon…

Standing in the small cockpit, you watch in awe and horror as the scene unfolds outside. With one hand holding tightly onto the token that hung from your neck, the other protectively resting on your swollen belly. Waiting for the inevitable outcome.

It was foolish, reckless of you to come along. But you couldn’t let Obi-Wan go by himself. Let him bear this weight, face such an emotional challenge - his fallen brother alone…

Calloused palms rested on, gripped your shoulders gently. While those piercing, cerulean eyes stared deeply into yours. “Remember, the moment you see my saber extinguish. The moment you can no…”

Voice faltered and wavered, words died on the tip of his tongue. It pained you to see him like this. Unsure, his air of confidence and that blazing spark of hope absent. After he had only rediscovered, reignited it once again.

“I know,” you whispered up at him, your own tone trembling slightly. “If I no longer feel you within the force, I get off this rock. Fast, discreetly. That’s not going to happen though. All four of us are going to make it back home. Whole and in one piece.”

The faintest of smiles had crossed his tired face. Rich sounding chuckle bubbled up from his throat and rumbled in his chest. For a sweet, single second. “Then perhaps that is what will come to pass. After all, I haven’t known an instance when your intuition was wrong. My darling wife.”

That moment had been sweet, fleeting. Just like the kiss he placed on your lips and the two on each side of your bump. Before he departed down the boarding ramp, disappearing…

Sparks flew and the wielder of the red saber fell onto one knee. The blue remains standing fast, hovering cautiously above. Without a single doubt, you know this battle has ended. Your jedi knight coming out the victor. And yet, deep down, there’s a nagging feeling? A sense of unease? A disturbance?

Another smaller, hooded figure appears seemingly out of nowhere behind Obi-Wan. Blinding bolts of purple lightning erupting from their fingers, enveloping his body in its eerie glow. Causing white-hot, searing pain to race through his veins - through your shared bond. Until…

As suddenly as it begins, it ceases. Leaving you hunched over, clinging to the ship’s console. Reeling, breathing heavily. Tears freely spilling forth, blurring your vision. While you helplessly witness him writhe and twist. Collapse to the hard ground.

Despite him having thrown up his walls, severed the connection. You know in your heart, feel within the ever-flowing currents of the force… “A-Alive,” you mutter between gasps and sobs. “Alive.”

Without hesitation, without a second thought. You grab the other saber he had brought, the one he had hoped and prayed he could finally return to its rightful owner. And abandon your ship, your promise to Obi-Wan. Running headlong into the night, towards the three retreating forms. Towards the quickly closing bay door.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Carefully, stealthily you move through the sterile looking hallways. Keeping to the shadows and side corridors. Following the sparse, faint traces of Obi. While trying to avoid the ominous, sinister ones that also resided on this station. The ones you know you had no chance of defeating if they come across or find you.

It’s that thought which haunts and weighs heavy on your mind. As you navigate twist after twist, turn after turn of the seemingly infinite maze. When suddenly, two sources of that menacing darkness appear…with the soft swish of electronic doors.

Immediately, you pop back around the corner. Pressing yourself against the wall, evening out your breaths. Trying to make your signature, the twin’s, smaller within the force. Gripping your weapon firmly, finger hovering above the ignition the entire time.

Sith Lords or not - you weren’t going to go down without a fight.

Hearing the heavy footfalls of the masked duo quickly approach. You were quite certain that you would soon be discovered. However, just when you were about to bring the blazing, azure blade to life…they pass you by.

Anger, mixed with concern, radiating from them. Far too busy arguing between themselves to take notice or glance in your direction. Thank the maker.

Waiting an extra moment or two for the pair to be completely out of sight, the weight of their dark auras to fully vanish. You slip inside the dimly lit room they had vacated, after ‘coercing’ the lock and scanner to allow you entrance. And are meet by the sight of…

“Hello there. General Kenobi.”

Slumped in a corner of the cramped cell. Battered, clothes torn in some places. Obi-Wan picks up his head at the sound of your voice. A look of annoyance, exasperation briefly flashes across his dirt and blood smudged face. Before softening into his usual bemused smile. “Hello there to you too, sweetheart. Stubborn as ever, I see.”

“Not me,” you tease, attempting to make light of the situation. By feigning hurt and offense. Giving your belly a loving tap. “Nooo, you have it all wrong. It was our precious little ones’ idea-”

Shouts, muffled orders, frantic movements not too far outside the door.

“Right. Sassy banter and proper reunion later. Rescue now,” you hurriedly say. Activating your saber, holding it extremely close to the durasteel bars.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It didn’t take long to also ‘persuade’ them, along with the lovely alarm. (Which ‘happily’ fell silent when you interested your blade into its core.) And soon enough you find yourself traversing those lifeless corridors once more. Your beloved husband in tow.

“It’s not far from the hanger,” you mutter. Staying a few paces behind and keeping your voice low. Using and covering your presence with the commotion from the tiny congregation pill and medical droids, troopers. Who appear to be all following one another, flocking towards a particular point in the station. “I saw a small ship there earlier. If we can board it, we can escape undetect-”

The words fall short, dry up in your mouth. You pause, freeze up not too far away from an open door. Where your eyes widen, observing the scene that plays out. Almost in slow motion, you watch the two masked men rush to the side of a woman. Swaddled in black robes, roughly your age. Clutching, rubbing a bump nearly as big and round as your own. Her face tensed and contorted in…

A sharp pain shoots along your spine, the muscles in your lower back clench. You squeeze Obi-Wan’s hand tightly, your breaths come out in small pants. It was almost like you were going into…

“Darling…Darling?” Mutters frantically, softly. Holding you close to his side, his other hand protectively cradling your tummy. “Are you all right…the boys?”

Time speeds up once more and the door slides shut. Blocking your view of the woman, the commotion within your body coming to an abrupt halt. “F-Fine,” you manage to stammer, attempting to recenter yourself. “Let’s…let’s keep going, get back ho-home.”

And, true to your intuition… All four of you made it… Whole and in one piece…

#obi wan kenobi #obi wan #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan x reader #star wars obi wan #sw obi wan kenobi #obi wan kenobi fanfiction #obi wan fanfiction #star wars #star wars fanfiction #obi-wan kenobi #obi-wan #obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan x reader #obi-wan kenobi fanfiction #obi-wan fanfiction #ewan mcgregor #ewan mcgregor x reader #ewan mcgregor fanfiction

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snipsnipsnippy · 10 months ago

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Can I just talk about Leia’s lightsaber? For probably a long time..

First, I want to say aesthetically she’s gorgeous. She’s so unique. She’s so sleek. She looks like a Jedi masterpiece.

But goddamn does she suck to use.

So to start from the top, we see this beautiful legacy through Leia’s saber. We have the thin neck and rings calling back to Obi-Wan/Luke’s second saber and the vertical grips calling back to Anakin/Luke/the “Skywalker saber”. And we’re told it’s made of silver and copper with mother of pearl?! which just screams Padmé and Breha to me. I love how certain details of a character’s lineage pass through their sabers. Just beautiful.

And obviously because I love Leia and her lightsaber is beautiful I bought one of these but specifically to use, not to display. And oh boy. The amount of blood I have spilled on this saber is terrible, and no I don’t mean hurting someone else. This is my own literal actual blood from getting sliced and diced by this hilt.

Because those vertical grips are the worst ever idea to put on a handheld weapon. The reason they worked on Anakin’s is because they’re straight and thick and chunky and, most importantly, blunt. The whole feminizing sleek-ifying thing they did with Leia’s - while stunning - renders it useless because the grip is curved and those edges and corners are all hard and sharp. One slip, and it will slice your hand. Not to mention just all over make it uncomfortable to use.

And this is one of those beautifully deep things Star Wars has just stumbled into creating because I don’t think it was ever intended or thought about much more than making a pretty prop.

But it is absolutely poetic that Leia’s lightsaber, representing her journey into the Force, is genuinely something that causes her pain despite bringing her closer to her family. Her entire history with the Force is written into this one tool, which she built with her own hands, and yet wielding this tool is only going to harm her and lead her down a painful and treacherous path that no amount of skill or care can save her from. And for her then to walk away from this because it is too difficult to bear or because her family was telling her that her role is elsewhere in a field that she loves that loves her back is just the most perfectly illustrated piece of Leia’s story.

In short, I absolutely hate this lightsaber, but because of that, I absolutely love the story it tells.

#leia organa #star wars #star wars meta #anakin skywalker #luke skywalker #ben solo #lightsaber #like kind of a headcanon #snippys headcanons no one asked for #l

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silvrash-797 · 1 month ago

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Febuwhump 2025 - Glacial Creep

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Chapter 2: Concealing an Injury

Sky slashed his way through droves of monsters, intent only on the chest he saw glinting on the other side of the room. Righteous fury simmered in his gut, fueling each stroke. He laughed humorlessly to himself.

If there was one thing you could count on a sword spirit for, it was their unflinching dedication to their purpose, their cause. Sky wanted Four, so Ghirahim had turned to the same tactics – send legion after legion of monsters to block his path – in his attempt to stop him.

But Sky had learned a few tricks from his brothers, and he wasn’t afraid to fight dirty. He pulled out every stop, every trick, every item he could think of, razing the monsters one by one until finally, finally, the last one crumbled to dust.

All the better for him that none of them had black blood.

Carefully, he wiped the monstrous ichor from Fi's blade, keeping her free of her sheathe in case more monsters tried to get in his way.

He flipped the lid of the chest open one-handed. Inside, on a cushion of blood-red crushed velvet, lay a key.

A key. Simple. Unadorned. Exactly what he needed to save his brother.

Sky palmed the key and turned back the way he had come, sprinting in bursts, careful to preserve his strength. The teeth of the key bit into the leather of his gloves with how tightly he clenched it in his fist, but he didn’t care.

He couldn’t be late again.

Sky's ears twitched as a thin, shrill cry pierced the silence of the hallway outside the transparent door. Four!

He slammed up against the door, fumbling with the key as he looked for his brother.

There! Pink ice encased Four from knees to shoulders, encroaching on his neck. Four had his head thrown back as far as his bonds would allow, tear tracks striping the sides of his face.

Ghirahim leaned over the Smithy, fingers all over his face.

The key clicked, and something inside Sky broke. The bars across the door had barely fallen before Sky burst through, Master Sword blazing in his hand and a furious howl in his throat.

-----

Something slammed against the door. A key rattled in the lock.

Sky was back. Four would have sobbed in relief, but the ice compressing his chest made anything other than shallow gasps exceedingly difficult. Fresh tears leaked from his eyes.

He'd been so afraid that Ghirahim would kill him, or that the ice would completely cover him, before Sky returned. Still, he fought with everything he could muster to survive, to endure.

The torture wasn’t the hardest part. No, the hardest part had been keeping his rib cage expanded while the ice crept up it so he’d have room to breathe. Keeping his head back so the ice stayed far away from his mouth and nose was nearly impossible, but he’d managed.

The ice froze his clothes, froze his blood as it dripped freely from numerous tiny stab wounds, froze the breath in his lungs, but it could not touch that small seed of warmth Sky had planted before he left.

Now Sky stood just outside the room, fighting to get in, and that small seed blossomed into hope that this nightmare would soon be over.

“Tch,” Ghirahim the demon clucked petulantly. “I had quite hoped I’d be able to finish my work here before the Skychild’s return.” He ran his fingers across Four's cheeks, swiping away the tears, leaving a burning trail behind them.

Four convulsed against the touch, shivering as the ice reached his throat. He gulped a pitiful, whimpering cry before his throat refused to move, and the ice crept toward the point of his ears.

“Well, no matter.” Four heard the ice rod the demon had been using clink against the floor, somewhere near his feet. “We can continue this once I’ve taken care of the bug.”

The hum of active magic resonated through Four’s bones, and his heart sank. He’d been hoping the rod would deactivate once free of the demon's grasp.

A long black saber materialized in the corner of his vision before Ghirahim centered himself in Four's line of sight. “Do not worry,” the demon sang, walking the fingers of his free hand from the ice at Four's throat, up his chin, over his mouth to press gently on the tip of his nose, “I will drag this out as long as I can.”

The demon vanished. Tears fell unchecked as Four heard the door's lock and bars disengage and the first clang of steel on steel as Sky's battle cry split the air.

Then the ice covered his ears, dulling all sound and sensation.

It moved toward his chin. Soon his mouth and nose would follow. Then asphyxiation, unless he simply froze to death first.

Cold terror burned across his body. He shivered inside his icy prison, unable to move, barely able to think or breathe. His lungs ached for air he could no longer give.

His heart beat furiously against his ribs, driving his frail breathing faster and faster, hiccupping sobs trying and failing to emerge from his locked chest and throat. Tears flooded his cheeks as panic lapped at his consciousness.

The ice crested his chin and cheeks. The warm bloom of hope in his chest withered.

I’m going to die.

He closed his eyes against the flood of tears, lips trembling with cold and fear.

The ice rose again, and the trembling stopped.

A frightened whine slipped from his nose before darkness pulled him under. Sky…

-----

Sky danced around the room, jabbing, thrusting, parrying, blocking, utilizing every conceivable technique to maneuver himself closer to Four. Determination and fear battled inside as he watched the clear ice creep further and further up Four’s head and heard his desperate gasps.

A glint of metal and bluish stone caught Sky’s eye – an ice rod, glowing steadily, pressed up against the ice at Four's feet.

Finally! He knew what to do, how to save his brother.

He blocked a heavy overhand strike from Ghirahim's blade, then swept his leg out toward Ghirahim's feet. The demon skipped out of range, and Sky sprinted to Four's side.

He kicked the ice rod away, taking vicious pleasure in the way it skittered and snapped across the floor.

Ghirahim glowered. “Now you’ve done it. You’ve ruined my beautiful experiment.”

Sky took the opportunity to brush frost away from Four's nose and mouth, gratitude making his knees weak as tiny breaths ghosted along his fingertips. He turned back to the demon, lightning flickering around his sword hand. “I’ve only gotten started,” he growled, raising Fi toward the heavens.

Holy light flickered along her blade, reacting to the lightning he generated in a sinuous dance. With calculated precision and burning rage, Sky sent Skyward Strike after Skyward Strike into Ghirahim’s defenses, standing as a grounding point between the Demon Lord and his helpless brother.

Lightning crackled throughout the room as Sky hammered all his fear, anger, hatred and desire to protect, protect, protect into the one who tormented his brother until finally, finally, Ghirahim’s sword and armor shattered and he lay, trembling, on the floor.

Sky panted as he pressed Fi into Ghirahim’s throat. A long moment passed where they stared at each other, victor and loser, before Four's thin breaths broke through Sky's pounding heart.

Suddenly, his righteous anger burned itself out, and he sighed, exhausted. He pulled Fi away from the demon's throat minutely. “Get out,” he said lowly. “Get out, and never touch my family again.”

Ghirahim hissed, hatred burning in his eyes. “You’ve not seen the last of me, boy,” he vowed, snapping his fingers. In a shower of black, white, yellow and red diamonds, the Demon Lord vanished.

Sky sagged, wiped Fi down, and sheathed her, whispering a heartfelt thanks as he did so. He turned to face Four, wondering again why there was a band of pink ice covering his torso. He couldn’t see anything different, and looking at the ice rod, it appeared to be completely normal.

Maybe Four would know. Sky just had to figure out how to free him.

A familiar shape sitting on one of the low tables nearby caught his eye. Four’s adventure bag lay partially open, spilling a handful of items across the tabletop. Sky looked through the items on the table and inside the bag, finally pulling out a lantern he prayed would do the trick. Quickly, he packed away all the other items and fixed Four's pouch to his belt, leaving his hands free.

He lit the wick of the lantern and brought it close to Four's face. Immediately, the ice began to melt, and Sky heaved a relieved sigh. Gently, he cupped Four's newly-exposed cheek with one hand, trying to rub some warmth into the pallid skin.

Four's eyelids fluttered at the change of lighting and Sky's touch. They opened sluggishly, gaze glassy and unfocused. He blinked slowly, shivering as more and more of his face and neck were freed.

Sky watched Four’s gaze wander around the room as he tried to reorient himself; his heart broke at the confusion and panic he could read plain as day as Four tried to move still-immobilized limbs. Labored breathing picked up again, and Four's eyes started rolling back into his head amidst pooling tears. Sky knew he had to do something to help keep Four conscious.

He patted at Four's cheek again, trying to direct his brother’s gaze. “Four, buddy, you with me?”

Clarity returned to Four's eyes as they snapped toward Sky's. The tears spilled over his cheeks as a smile bloomed on his face. “Sky,” he whispered, naked relief in his eyes and voice. The ice had melted far enough that Sky was able to cradle Four's head against his chest as the Smithy sobbed.

Sky continued to hold Four close as the lantern worked its magic. Something sticky dripped down Four's neck onto his fingers and he brought them up to his face, curious. Red droplets…like…

Horror flooded Sky as he stepped back and took a closer look at Four's mostly thawed body. The ice itself hadn’t been pink. It had been concealing dozens upon dozens of incisions along Four's torso, arms, and upper legs. Ghirahim must have made them right before the ice crept over the wound, allowing Four to feel the pain without bleeding to death. Now that they were exposed, they’d begun to bleed freely again.

Four sagged in his bonds, still quietly sobbing, as the last of the ice melted away. His body quaked in the throes of hypothermia, shock, and blood loss. Sky plucked a dagger from his boot and sawed at the ropes holding his brother upright, gently easing Four to the floor as the last one snapped.

He plunged his hand into his pouch, pulling out his last bottled fairy. The tiny sprite chimed madly as she caught sight of Four. She practically pushed the cork out herself in her haste to get to the fallen hero.

Soft pink light, eager chimes, delicate fingers smoothing over bloody skin…Sky watched with deep gratitude and awe as the fairy pulled Four back from the brink. His shivering eased, his brow smoothed out, and a contented sigh escaped his lips as he drifted off to sleep.

Sky pulled off his sailcloth and wrapped Four in it before he gathered the still-trembling body close to his own, both to share body heat and to assure himself that Four was okay.

He wasn’t late.

He defeated Ghirahim.

Four was alive.

Resolutely, he set out to find the rest of the Chain.

#Silvrash writes #Febuwhump 2025 #no.26 #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu sky #lu four #ghirahim #godslayer sky <3 #tw blood

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imogenkol · 1 month ago

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— WIP WEDNESDAY

tag list (ask to be added or removed!): @socially-awkward-skeleton @neonshrike @inafieldofdaisies @voidika @florbelles @adelaidedrubman @simonxriley @tommyarashikage @buggknife @aceghosts @carlosoliveiraa @risingsh0t @unholymilf @thedeadthree @cassietrn @jackiesarch @d-esmond @loriane-elmuerto @shellibisshe @katsigian @captastra @simplegenius042 @theelderhazelnut @g0dspeeed @strangefable @statichvm @jacobseed @cptcassian @auricfog @euryalex @confidentandgood @e-the-village-cryptid @raresvtm @minaharkers @elligatorrex

their chokehold on me is tightening the closer we get to s2 and the definitely fake marriage for cover when needed is making me deranged sooo

“Before I forget.” Imogen reached into one of her coat pockets and pulled out a small black leather pouch. “Here,” she said casually as she placed it in Bix’s hand.

“What is this?” the mechanic questioned as she opened it.

The bounty hunter kept her gaze on the contents of the pouch, her posture stiff, but she explained in a conversational tone. “Should the need to claim me as your wife ever arise again, I figured it may be beneficial to ensure your role appears convincing.”

To her surprise, a ring fell out and directly into Bix’s palm. The first thing she noticed was a stark contrast between the black metal on the outside of the band and the polished electrum on the inside. The design was simple and elegant — practical without being flashy — exactly according to Bix’s taste. Then she noticed a thin inlaid strip that wrapped around the middle of the band. A shallow well had been carved along the ring and filled with some sort of organic material, Bix guessed. Either dust or dirt or ash, she couldn’t quite tell, but it was sealed with a hard transparent material that would protect it from everyday use without dulling the clarity. With it came a thin chain necklace, should Bix choose to wear it around her neck instead of on her finger.

The ring was beautiful, and something about it felt familiar, but Bix had no clue what to make of the gift — if it could even be called that. “Where did you get this?”

Imogen shrugged. “From materials I had on hand. For the most part.”

Her gaze was finally torn away from the ring to stare at the other woman blankly for a beat as she put two and two together. “You made it?”

“Don’t sound so shocked, darling,” Imogen said with a slightly tense smirk. “I have constructed lightsabers, a ring is quite simple in comparison.”

At the mention of it, Bix’s eyes were drawn to the weapon Imogen always kept on her belt whenever it wasn’t in her hand. “Wait…” Bix started thoughtfully. She reached over and grabbed the hilt, pulling it free — Imogen didn’t so much as blink at the invasion of personal space, but then again, Bix had gotten away with worse violations — then began to compare the material to the ring and noting that the metals were identical.

“I managed to cut off just enough for a band without compromising the hilt’s structure,” Imogen said, again maintaining a casual tone.

That’s when Bix realized this was not some tool to use as a disguise or excuse when needed. If that were its sole purpose, Imogen would have purchased a simple band from a convenient jeweler as an afterthought. This ring was far more than an afterthought. In fact, a lot of thought had gone into it, more than she believed Imogen to be capable of. Bix found herself moved to know she had taken the time to not only make the band by hand, but to risk her own lightsaber — her own heart, she had once described it as — to create a piece of herself to give to her lover.

“And the… what is this?” Bix absentmindedly handed the saber back to Imogen and held the ring more preciously in both hands, lifting it up for a closer look. “Dirt? Dust?”

“A little piece of home.”

Another realization hit that caused Bix to fall in love with Imogen all over again. How had she not known as soon as she saw it? The russet hue of the dirt was unmistakable now that Imogen had revealed its origin.

Bix pulled the band to her lips and closed her eyes as if she were about to say a quiet prayer over it. Holding this ring was the closest to Ferrix — to home — that she had been in a long time. Perhaps the closest to it she will ever be again. And Imogen just assured that Ferrix would always be with her. Not just in her heart, but as a real tactile thing that she could see and touch. It meant the whole galaxy to her.

“How?” Bix asked hoarsely as a stray tear raced down her cheek. She cleared the aching lump in her throat and quickly wiped it away.

“I have plenty of experience with keeping my presence on Ferrix unseen, as you well know.” Her posture straightened a bit as she sighed and folded her hands behind her back. “It was a brief visit.”

Bix stared at her, taking in the beauty of her features. Everything from Imogen’s sharp jawline to the shape of her lips, the angle of her nose, her piercing gray eyes. Everything Bix adored. Everything she loved. Bix could tell by the way her jaw twitched that Imogen sensed her shameless observation, but she still kept her eyes fixed on everything but her. It hadn’t dawned on Bix until then, but she concluded that Imogen was nervous, further cementing the gesture of this gift. All that Imogen missed was a question. A question Bix didn’t need to hear explicitly to answer.

“Yes,” Bix said as if she were simply agreeing to a dinner suggestion.

Imogen’s sly grin softened and she finally focused on the shimmering dark eyes of her lover, but she still raised an inquisitive brow. “I don’t recall asking any questions.”

The mechanic smiled back at her knowingly and shrugged. “The answer is still yes.”

#oc insp: imogen kol #bix caleen #ship insp: if i had a heart #Imogen deciding to make the ring fully intending for it to be both what she says it is and a ‘thank you’ for protecting her in the hospital #but then realizing oh shit maybe it IS the real deal #no wedding for them tho they’ll just make a pit stop at the local galactic courthouse and not tell anyone about it #until someone notices the ring that Bix switches from her finger to around her neck depending on the situation #someone being like ‘hey um…what’s that’ and Bix responding with a ‘yeah we’re gay married keep walking’

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netherfeildren · 1 year ago

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The Cassandra Complex : Chapter VIII : Melpomene

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Heavy angst; Descriptions of depression; Jealousy; Possessive behavior; Rough sex

A/N: I’ve been waiting for this one for a really, really long time.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 7.3K

Read on AO3

CHAPTER VIII : MELOPMENE

When is it polite to let go of someone’s arm after you grab it?

Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red

You’re in the dark cavernous lair of your master, and he is there too, chained, beaten. Helmetless.

Horror.

A flash of brown hair, you blink away – no, no, don’t look.

That terrible voice, terrible for its harrowing familiarity, telling you that you’ll never escape, that you can run from your past, but you cannot run from yourself, from the thing that you are. Your desires, your attempts at reform are futile when you were born poisoned.

But no, no, I wasn’t – I wasn't born poisoned. I was benevolent and good, darkness made me a fiend.

I had a mother and a father.

A flash of his eyes – No, no – don’t go in there. That isn’t for you.

Are you afraid?

Terrified.

And then the brilliant spark of a lightsaber spearing you through the belly – burning so bright hot it’s almost like ice, a burning gone to numbness, a burning gone to madness.

You look up, and the saber is through Din’s chest then. The bright red of the plasma mixes and mingles with the dark crimson of his blood, and the helmet is gone, destroyed beneath the fist of a darker power, his face is right there, right there, right there, your last chance to look–

You wake with a start to the sight of his slow shifting back beneath a thin undershirt. The fabric, soft and worn, and you can almost taste the scent of his skin you know it holds. The shining curve of the back of his helmet.

The ouroboros of your own demise… but never his. No matter what, no matter anything.

“Din.”

He turns immediately, blaster and an old oil rag in hand. “Cyar’ika–” voice full of concern, just at your tone. He’s already setting the blaster down.

“I had a bad dream.”

He stands without comment, going into the fresher, you listen to the water run, the lights go out, and then he’s there, sliding beneath the blankets into the cocoon of your bed, skin bare and warm. He pulls you into his arms, the safest place in the entire galaxy, and there are tears in your eyes and a fracture spanning like a spider’s web through your heart. You feel the soft press of his mouth at your hairline, slow moving, the deep inhale as he takes in your scent. “What was it, cyare? Tell me.” His rough hand finds its way up the back of your shirt, another beneath the edge of your underwear to grasp at the soft swell of your bottom and pull you further into him.

You shake your head, “I don’t know,” lie, “Something terrible,” truth. You think of the first lie you’d ever told him, I’ve never met a Mandalorian before, and you wonder if there will ever be a day that he’ll look back on all this, this time of yours together, and regret it, resent it, hate you.

He presses your head into the space beneath his chin and lets out a deep breath you feel fan and flutter around you, the wide expanding of his strong chest. “I’m here. It’s alright now.” He’s here. It’s alright now.

“Promise me–” you say suddenly.

And his answer is immediate and without hesitation when he says: “Anything.” But what promise you need you can’t say exactly – stay, don’t leave me, love me.

He’s beneath you, inside of you, sleeping beside you so that you can always feel the press of his belly into your naked back, the dig of his fingers into your softness, his hot breath against the back of your neck. Your whole lives seeming to have intertwined in an inextricable way, and still, it’s not enough. Still, there’s something panicked humming beneath your skin, sending your blood to boiling, your heart running away from you. You run your palm up his chest and over the thick mass of his shoulder, hugging yourself to him tighter. He’s here, he’s here, he’s real and alive, and you are your own sick ouroboros again and again and again. Eternally destroying and recreating yourself, the things around you.

But you could never destroy him, of that you’re certain. You’d do the worst, end yourself before you could ever hurt Din, and you realize, with something like finality or fate or the end of myth, that time is no longer on your side.

He decides to take you back to Nevarro after Maldo Kreis. Angry, furious, with himself that his grand idea to take you to the hot baths had seemed to do more harm than good in the end, for some reason he could not, for the life of him, come to understand. You were suffused with a melancholy he could not fight, no matter what he seemed to do, blue and somber, in a way he’d not seen you before. In a way that terrified him. Worst of all, the fact that he could so easily see through your attempts to fight it off for him, trying to distract him with your voice and your mouth and your cunt from the wan truth of you. The sound of your silence hurt him, the dark marks stained beneath your eyes gone dull and lifeless which worried him like nothing else. Distracted and tired and clinging to him in nervous fright constantly, childlike in your fragile vulnerability. And Din, he watched you with a focused obsession, tracked you and took stock of all your movements and moods and habits and expressions, with an intensity that would have probably perturbed you had you the wherewithal to pay more attention, but your mind was gone so far away, eyes vacant, energy low, nights full of terrors and panic.

He thought he understood, the reminder of your past the attack had brought on had to be something more than difficult. It was difficult for him to only imagine it, and he’d not been the one to live it. But there was more… there was him, he could see it in the way you clung to him, desperately, with panic, but your eyes… there was a distance in them too, a wariness when you looked at him, something like an apology and a newfound darkness he could tell was well known to yourself but new to him. He feared that you were discovering something about yourself in relation to him that you couldn’t fathom, as if he were a reminder that you’d been subject to the will of another for so long, your whole life, and you couldn’t again allow yourself to fall under the subjugation of another thing, feeling, something you were unprepared for, had not expected.

And another, irrational, not entirely easily controlled part, the part that sometimes forewent strategy and patience and charged into a fight, guns blazing, wanted to grip you by the shoulders, take your face in hand and shake you, demand you tell him what was wrong so he could just fix it. He was sure he could fix anything that came your way, fix anything you needed, do anything you needed, be anything you needed. He could, he could, he knew he could if only you gave him the chance.

“Will you be alright here for a while? I’ll be just over there – with Karga.” He points over to the dim corner of Nevarro’s cantina where the Guild master Greef Karga sits jovially hooting and drinking and guffawing Mandalorian, Mandalorian at the top of his lungs, trying to get Din’s attention. He’d heard something of a shouted girlfriend and I was sure he was a droid which Din was choosing to ignore, too consumed with the vacant look on your face as he cups the soft skin of your cheeks, the heat of your skin suffusing the leather of his gloves. There is a gauntness to you that hadn’t been there a few days ago, no matter how much food he tried to ply you with, and Din’s stomach churns and flips with nerves like he’s never experienced before. You nod your head slowly up at him, eyes huge and dry and lashes so long they make his heart pinch and throb. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he begs once more, low and urgent through the modulator, but you remain silent, only nuzzling your cheek into his palm, tilting your head further into his touch. He sighs, so full of aggravation and impotence, “I’ll be quick,” he tells you before turning on his heel towards Karga.

He’d decided he was going to tell him he’d be taking a short break from the Guild. He’d look for local work here and stick a cork in taking bounties. You were tired, anxious, you needed rest. He’d find a nice, calm place for the two of you to take up in for a few days, a few weeks, however long you need. And he knows you need it. Din knows of the things you need. Din knows you. As you’d weaved through the busy streets of Nevarro, the gaggle of various Outer Rim tongues sounding around you, you’d clung to him, nervous and jumpy, a vein of paranoia stiffening your muscles, flooding you with apprehension, your tiny fingers entwined between his thick leather clad ones so tightly he was sure it must’ve hurt you. He’d tried to huddle you beneath his arm, nestled into his side with a calming hand on your waist, but he knew your peace was put on. He knew there was something making you scared, something you weren’t saying out loud. And it was his responsibility to know what you needed, to give you what you needed, and any sort of failure in that regard was entirely unacceptable. He was failing you right now, and he needed to rectify it as soon as he could. Staying put for a while seemed like the right first step.

The man slips into the seat next to you as soon as Din turns his back. You turn in your seat, flagging down the barkeep and ignoring the peering gaze you can feel flicking against your face as the man, not very inconspicuously, inspects you. Your eyes flash towards him quickly, immediately clocking him as a non threat and deciding to ignore him, but you catch the surprised widening of his eyes as he takes stock of your own, the bi-colored shock of them.

“Whoa–those’re really somethin’.” Human, but has a strange accent, nothing you’ve heard before, and you give him a non-committal hum. “Sad though…” He adds as an afterthought, resting his elbow on the edge of the bar to cup his chin in his palm. He strokes two fingers along the scruff of his jaw contemplatively.

Your eyes jump back to his face, “Excuse me?” He has a shock of white blonde hair nestled at the front of his hairline.

“Got the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen, pretty.”

“Sad?” You spit, offended.

“Sad,” he nods his head solemnly, mouth twisting in a wry half smile. The twang of his accent cuts off the ends of his words. “What’s got you so blue?” And although you comprehend what the words he’s saying are… you don’t understand. You feel yourself shaking your head, frown marring your brow. “Aren’t you sad?” He presses. His voice sounds too full of air, breathy or unnaturally round or something too strange for you to name. You decide you don’t like it. There’s something knowing in the way he spits them out. Something like wisdom.

You blink furiously, give a fractional shake of your head, “No…” like a question. “I don’t think so. Not sad. More– more,” You don’t know why you’re speaking to him. You should turn the other way, find another seat, go get Din, but the words keep coming. Something about that fucking accent, the way his face is designed to stretch over his bones. Din isn’t going to like it if he sees you talking to a stranger. But you give another fast shake of your head, squeezing your eyes shut tightly. No, sad isn’t what you are. You turn back to look at him, eyes wide and understanding now, “I’m angry.” Terror had made you cruel for so long, but you still held the capacity for softness, he had shown you that. Sadness at times too, perhaps. But now, no… sad wasn’t what you were at the dawn of your realization. At the reality of what would happen here soon. You are angry, you think: I am just a girl, but I am also angry. Maker, I am also angry. Your unfocused eyes look back at him, wide and maybe terrified. Shocked at the true sight of what it is you’ve been carrying around in your heart these past few days, after the Thalassians, after the reality of loving Din. Because you do, you love him, you love him, you love him, and you’re so fucking angry. You’re in love with him, and you’d do anything for him, give anything for him. And you don’t think that you know how to love someone without swallowing them, without destroying them, and you also know that you could never do that to Din. Not to him. And you’re angry that this is your truth. That this is what you are, what you’d been made. He doesn’t deserve an angry sort of love, and yet, it’s the only sort you have to give him.

The stranger hums like he understands, taking a long sip of his Spotchka, nodding appreciatively at you or the liquor, you can’t tell. But he understands, you can tell for some reason. “The Mandalorian is yours?” He tips his head then turns to peer over his shoulder where you know Din is doing business, a smarmy little smirk blooming over white teeth. His incisor is chipped, there’s something charming about the imperfection, and you think you need to change your earlier appraisal, there is something dangerous about him. You can’t tell what, maybe something conniving or deceitful, like a snake, and perhaps, not a danger towards you, but still… there’s something there.

You turn now too, to look towards where he’s speaking with Karga. He stands so tall, a gleaming spire of beskar and strength. Wholly untouchable as if there were some invisible boundary separating him from lesser men. You can’t answer his question. The reply lodged in your throat like a thorn. Desire is about vanishing, and you want him more than anything. But is he yours? He would give himself to you surely. Without thought or question. Perhaps, in his mind, he already had. But there’s something about that which you know is wrong. Like the saber. Like the Thalassian planted seed. And so what is it about a person deserving a thing? What is it about absolution? You can so desire it – again like vanishing – but that desire is… what? So unattainable sometimes, non-existent. Just because you want a thing doesn't mean it’s possible, real, yours. The strange man asks again, “Is he yours?”

And so you tell the only truth that you think is real in terms of Din, “He would be.” But can he be? He frowns, but with a smile, folding his face in such a way that you can’t one hundred percent tell what it is he’s trying to express, his eyes roving your face as if he’s never seen such a creature. He probably hasn’t.

“I think you’re lyin’.”

“I’m not.”

“You are sad–” he interrupts, “You just don’t realize that’s what it is yet. Anger’s good at masking sadness, doesn't mean it’s not there no more. ” You’re about to tell him to fuck off before you tear through his mind because who in the Maker does this little man think he is, when a huge, leather wrapped fist slams down onto the bar’s surface between the two of you, sending the glassware and fellow cantina patrons to jostling and yelping.

“Fuck off,” he says for you instead, growled through what you can tell are gritted, gnashing teeth. Reading your mind like always. The stranger jerks back with a laugh and a howl. Din’s other hand comes up to wrap gently around your throat, stroking softly at your thrumming pulse, a sign of possessive ownership.

“Well, hello to you too, Mandalorian,” the stranger says, tipping his chin, giving a flourished little salute, suave and calm and entirely provoking.

“You’ve got three seconds to move before I make you move.”

“Oh, he’s a real hoot, isn’t he?” The man says to you, ignoring the tower of aggressively looming beskar, all riled testosterone and possessive protectiveness.

“Do you not enjoy having your head attached to your shoulders?”

You roll your eyes up at Din, the stranger was annoyingly perceptive and brazen, but entirely harmless as well, no need for all these theatrics. “Ignore him – he’s only half civilized,” you say, placing a soothing palm against the armor over his belly.

“You know, one doesn’t much often see Mandalorian’s anymore,” he says conversationally. Not very good at reading social cues, this one. You take a small sip of the tea you’d ordered, leaning back into Din’s abdomen, settling in to watch how he handles this.

“My people are scattered across the galaxy now. It isn’t safe for us to converge out in the open,” monotone and serious, in that way of his. The complete opposite of this man’s casual, melodic voice like a teasing song.

“We kill that which we cannot tame. It’s the way of men.”

“Lesser men, perhaps.”

He nods concedingly, “Perhaps,” and swallows his glass down full, looking at you, eyes full of laughter, over the brim. “What a little liar you are, pretty. He is…” yours, and there’s laughter in his voice and his mouth and his movements too, not just his eyes. “Well, it’s been swell. We’ll be seein’ you, I think.” He winks at you as he slip hops off his stool, landing on straight locked knees with a little jolt. “And don’t you let her lie to you too,” he tells Din. Something about the man is nothing but provoking, riling the beskar bound ball of tension at your back into fury. You lean your head back against his chest, not acknowledging the other man’s farewell or that last remark as he slithers off. No need to poke the beast further. Din moves out from behind you, taking the stranger's seat, seething as he forces you to take the first word with his silence.

“Stop your sulking. He approached me.”

“Of course he approached you. And I'm not sulking,” he sulks.

“Oh, no?” You snort. “My mistake.”

“You smile for that di’kut, but not for me?” He demands, probably even stomping his foot a little bit which you’d normally find funny, but instead, wipes the laugh off your face.

“I do smile for you, Din,” you say in a small, hurt voice, and he wants to gnash his teeth and howl and do something entirely uncivilized, barbaric, even. That bantha shit sliding in to chat you up the second he’d turn his back. Din finds, with a lot less shame than he probably should have, that he absolutely hates when other men approach you, doesn’t much care, either, what that makes him. He can’t blame them, of course, eyes of pure magic like the ones looking up at him are hard to ignore, harder to walk away from. That doesn’t mean he can’t throw a fit over it. “And I wasn’t smiling for him.” He huffs, looking out at the rest of the dim cantina. Karga had taken his decision with good natured humor, understanding by the way Din’s head kept subtly turning in your direction that there was something more pressing that needs his attention and care at this moment. But your eyes look so hurt, like he’d said the worst thing possible at the worst time possible, he backtracks immediately, “I’m just kidding, it was a bad joke, cyare. I know you weren’t smiling at him.” But the hurt look doesn’t go away, and he feels, a little bit, like he’s going to throw up. “If I admit I’m an ass, will you give me a smile?” He tries to laugh, gives the gem of your earring a little tickle, and you try to return the gesture so limp he can’t even pretend to believe it.

You shake your head, giving up your false smile with a sigh, “How many pucks did you get?” And his heart beats faster than an X-wing. You aren’t going to like this, but he’ll be firm, stand his ground. This is what’s best.

“I didn’t get any,” he tells you slowly.

You blink a slow, confused blink. “What do you mean you didn’t get any? Why not?”

“I told Greef I’m taking a break.” You pull your hand back from the hold he’d had on it, expression going cool and icy, the bright eyes, the one like a scream going dim as a whisper. This is what’s best, Din knows it, he’s sure of it.

“Why would you do that?” Your voice is very small, very almost hurt again.

“I think it’s what’s best for now. We need a break.” He sees your shoulder jerk. “I– I need a break. I told you, I’m tired. You’re tired–”

“I’m not tired.”

“We both just need to settle for a time, I think. This is what’s best. And this is what we’re doing.” He’s rambling, tongue tied, heart beating too fast, worried and afraid and so in love with you that if he can’t fix this he’s sure he’ll die. He’s sure it’ll be the end of the world because he knows – Din knows that something’s wrong. He looks back at your face, and it’s so grave, so gaunt and small and easily breakable, “I think this is what’s best for us right now, cyar'ika. Don’t you?”

“No,” you shake your head furiously, try and stand up off your seat, but he clamps a big hand over your shoulder, forces you to stay in place and you bare your teeth at him. “Let go–”

“No, we’re going to talk about this.”

“I don’t want to fucking talk. This– this isn’t– I didn't want you to do this. I don’t need you to do this for me. I’m fine. If you aren’t then that’s your problem. But I’m fine, and I don’t need any fucking rest or to get trapped here in this backwater shithole. No– no.” You try and force your way to standing again, and he presses you down, goes to his feet instead to loom over you. Entirely in a panic now. You’re so angry. You’re so angry and looking at him like… in no way you’ve ever looked at him before. And once again, he’s miscalculated. This was the wrong move. A push in the wrong direction.

“Okay, hold on– just… hold on. I didn't– I didn’t mean to insinuate… or–” He can’t get his head on straight, his tongue to work, can’t think of the right thing to say, the right way to make it all be okay between the two of you again, to make that dark shadow leave your eyes. “I just thought if we had some time to ourselves that it’d be–” You wilt like a flower, a long sigh like a whimper leaving your body, seeming to take all your strength with it. A felled weed tramped beneath his overbearing boot. “I’m sorry. I’ll get the pucks. It was a bad idea,” he says even though he knows it isn’t, even though he knows he’s telling the both of you a lie. You simply turn away from him, a thrumming pulse fluttering in the muscle of your jaw. But your eyes are dry, almost flinty, but dry, and so at least, he tells himself, he hasn't made you cry.

You’re up and out of your seat before he can even make it all the way back to you after he’d gone back to Karga with his tail tucked between his legs to retrieve his pucks, and fuck this, you have no reason to be angry with him. He’d been well intentioned, he’d been– what? Trying to mend a sinking ship. He calls your name low as you weave through the busy cantina, men turning to look at your ass as you go which has him snarling, hackles raised as he passes them, stomping after you. He calls your name again, and he watches the jerk of your head, as if you want to turn back to him but won’t let yourself and that makes him fucking angry. You’re running away, you’re running away, and he feels so helpless to stop you, like the two of you’ll be trapped in this constant chase for the rest of your lives.

Din has never been one to give in easily to his anger, but he gives into it now. Watching the line of your steel straight back scampering ahead of him, every so often your head jerks slightly to the side to check that he’s still there, slinking after you, stuck in the chase once again, as if you don’t trust the tether of your power that’s always there between the two of you to tell you that he’s still here following. As if you aren’t sure, don’t know that he’ll always be here. That there’s nowhere else for him to be or go after all this, after you. The Crest comes into sight and his heart beats so hard he’s nauseous, sweating beneath his helm. You quicken your steps, and he lengthens his, gains on you until he’s practically breathing down your neck, looming behind you, your movements jerky and jittery. And as soon as your foot makes first contact with the gangplank his hand is shooting up quick as a viper to clamp down around the back of your nape and pressing you forward so that you’re stumbling, held up only by his guiding grip, and shoving you into the open hatch, following at your heels and slamming his fist against the security mechanism, locking the two of you inside. He’s on you before you can even think to turn around, ripping your cloak from around your shoulders and shoving you up against the durasteel wall, pinning you there like some sort of trapped butterfly. “If you want to fight, cyar'ika, I’ll pretend we’re fighting. You only have to say so,” he bends his head to say, right at your ear, his other hand digging beneath the edge of your trousers and pulling them down along with your underwear over the swell of your ass, baring you to his gaze. You struggle, spitting and hissing, but don’t tell him to stop, don’t tell him no. He slides his palm between your legs, “Wet little cunt,” he grunts, pushing two of his leather clad fingers inside of you, immediately going deep, fucking you hard, jostling them back and forth inside of you to listen to the wet rattle of your cunt for him. “Feral little thing. Are you going to tell me you don’t want it? That you’re angry with me? Did you like that boy? Is that it?” And you arch your hips, a ragged moan and no, no, Din, I do want it. I don’t want to fight, please. He pulls his fingers from you with a wet sucking noise, lands a sharp stinging slap to your ass, listening to the pretty sound of you whine and keen for him, and he’s so fucking angry and hard. There’s something electric and aggravated and upset inside of him. Something that feels wrong and on the verge of something terrible. Another slap, another, pressing you harder into the wall so that you’re forced up onto your tiptoes. He opens his own trousers, pullings his sticky tipped erection out and fists it tightly, punishing in his grip, jacks it once, twice, and he’s bending at the knees, notching at the mouth of your cunt and pressing all the way inside to the end of you. He feels the bump at your cervix and the resulting cry when it hurts just a little too much, swings his hips back and does it again and again and again. Fucks you with a brutal edge he knows’ll make you cry, but that you’ll like nonetheless, want more, harder. “H– how’re you always so soft and so wet and so pretty for me? Huh? Always so ready to get my soft cunt nice and fucked, right? Always ready to let me in and ride you however I need? Right, little one? Say yes. I want to hear you say, yes, Din.”

Yes, Din.

“I just want what’s best for you–” he tells you, a continuation of your earlier conversation he doesn’t need to remind you of, and then more spitting and hissing and struggling from you, riling your anger up again. He pulls his gloves from his hand with the edge of his teeth and gives you his palm to gnaw on like the rabid thing he knows he’s turned you into. Sharp little teeth immediately savaging into the flesh of his palm as soon as he wraps his hand over your mouth, tugs your head back so that he can look down into your eyes from above, all the while his balls slap wetly against your cunt, jolting you forward, making you cry and spasm around his cock.

Once, when you’d thought he’d been asleep, he’d heard you tell him he was like a god in the shape of a man, and that you’d always thought that was supposed to be you. Din never feels more like a god among men than when he’s riding your cunt, balls deep inside of you.

“I need to come,” slips your warbled moan against his palm, spit slicked and tear stained.

“What you need is to be fucking grateful and take it how I say,” he snarls, riding you harder, watching the rebound of your ass against his pelvis on every thrust inside, the way the slick root of his cock splits you open, the drag of your walls against him when he pulls out just to snap back in. He grunts and whimpers and tries to make you understand without words that if you leave him he’ll die, that he needs you to be okay, that he’ll do anything. He has the sinking, clawing feeling that you’re not going to listen. Why does it feel like all you’re doing is saying goodbye to me? And he’s so fucking angry he wants to cry. Angry and afraid and helpless, a small child once again watching his whole world go away from him. Entirely without choices or home.

“Do you want my come?”

“Yes, yes, I want it so badly,” and your tears roll over his fingers, lose themselves in the cracks between.

“Beg me for it.”

“Please, come inside me, Din–” please, please, please. “Fill me up.” He tightens his hold on you, harsher than he should, rips open the front of your tunic and twists your breast tightly in his grip, presses you up and into the wall so that he’s pretty sure your toes leave the ground and grinds the tip of his spitting cock at the mouth of your womb while you go tight as a fist, the best thing he’s ever felt in his entire life, the only thing that matters, vision going white to black to nothing and fills you with his come, feels you suck and milk him with your cunt. He pins you there with his hips, pants as if he’d just fought for his life, for something he knows he can’t keep. That was maybe never meant to be entirely his. He realizes, like a surprise in that very moment, the thought occurring to him out of nothing, that he’s never seen the true, pure color of your eyes unburdened by the helmet. Open and staring at him, only him, and he regrets it bitterly, knows then that he could have done so much more. It’s some sort of curse, some sort of punishment, this realization. “What’s best for me is to please you,” he tells you. Just so that you know. Just so that he’s sure it’s been said out loud. So that it’s there.

“You know that no matter what, I’m always yours,” And because you’ve said it out loud, he supposes it must be true.

“Where does your next adventure take you?”

He cocks his head to the side, pauses the cleaning of his blaster, dallying while the pre-flight checks work. The curve of the helmet gleams so bright for one second it almost blinds you, and you shut your eyes tight, open them again. “Further into the outer rim. Karga’s given us a tricky one this time.”

Us.

You’re quiet for a beat, letting him pretend – face trying to prevent itself from fracturing, wavering, by sheer force of will. “I think, I’m afraid– I think all my adventures will be over very soon.”

“Why’s that?” Slow and measured, your last game here at this moment.

“Oh…” you tilt your head side to side, let the sin you’re about to commit, simmer and slide between your ears. “The wrong choices – made over and over again.”

Another beat of silence, perhaps, trying to measure where you’re trying to take this, trying to hold off. He resumes his task. “That’s a shame.”

Do you ever kiss?

No.

That’s a shame.

You smile briefly, a whole other girl ago, “Perhaps, you’d have taken me away on all of yours, forever. I would have liked it, you know? With you, I might have liked it forever.”

He freezes now, his favored silence – the impenetrable facade of his helmet like a dark yawning pit come to swallow you whole. You know his intention is to bend you to his will, force your hand into something easier for him to understand, to face. You close your eyes and lean your head back humming. “Yes, I think I'd have liked it quite a lot, actually.”

“Cyar’ika,” he murmurs, and he already knows, so what’s the point in being brave or honorable? “Spit it out.”

“What do you mean?” Playing difficult and obstinate, playing the fucking coward, you do not open your eyes, do not give him the respect or consideration he deserves looking him in the eye while you break him. You see the rest of your life branching out before you, behind your closed lids, like the branches of a shuura tree. The branch before this moment, heavy with the fruit of your potential, your togetherness, and the branch alone, after, empty of him. There is a part of you that screams that this is a mistake, that you will regret this for the rest of your days. You continue anyway.

“Stop playing fucking games with me.” He knows you too well now, your eyes snap open, too much risk.

“This has been fun, but don’t you think it’s about to have run its course? It was never supposed to be forever. And– you– you have plans. If you want to stay… that isn’t what I want.” The words burn like acid, like the worst thing you’ve ever done. All lies. You watch his left shoulder jerk back as if you’d struck him, shot him.

“Say it.”

Your belly twists with nausea. “Say what?” A cold sweat sprouts across the back of your neck, and your face feels aflame with heat, you think you’re about to be sick. You try for another smile.

“Tell me you’re leaving me.”

“Don’t be–”

“Fucking tell me. Tell me you don’t want to be with me anymore.”

“I think this is enough.” You cannot, you cannot say those words. It would be too great a lie to tell, even for you. And you have already lied to him so much.

“Coward,” he spits. Truth. At least one of you still possesses the capacity for such a thing.

“Perhaps.”

“And what? You’re just going to be alone again? This is what you want?”

You’re choking on your own breath. “That–” you clear your throat, “No.”

“No? Fucking look at me.”

You snap your head back towards him, the terrible darkness of his visor, and for one moment you feel so fucking angry that you can’t look in his eyes right now. “What do you want from me? I can’t give you what you want. I can’t. I don’t have it in me. I am not sorry.” Lie, lie, fucking lie.

“Cyar’ika, please, why don’t we just–” He stands, moving towards you.

You cut him off, take a step back, away. “No, Din. I’m ready to move on. There’s no reason to draw this out. We both knew it had to end eventually. We want different things.” You’d always known how it would end. You always know how everything will end.

“After everything? After all this? That’s pathetic. It’s sad.” You’re pathetic, is what he surely means, but he moves towards you again, the subtle inclination of his body towards yours as if he were trying to absorb the last of your touch just once more.

“Why? Coming from you? You’ve always been alone? Why is it sad for me?”

“Because– because we– I don’t…I don’t want that for you. And we have–”

You can’t hear him say it. The proverbial we, you both wish this could have been.

“There’s so much you don’t know,” And there are tears in your voice, tears in your eyes, tears streaming down your cheeks, and there is anguish in his own voice when he begs, “Then tell me, tell me everything, and I’ll help you bear whatever burden you think you must carry on your own.”An impossibility, for worse than anything else, worse than him hating you for your lies or your evasions or your secrecy, for running, what would be worse than anything else would be for him to hate you for what you really are. The truth would be death-dealing. You’d not survive it.

You give him the full weight of your gaze – one last look. Brilliant and strong and intelligent. So brave. A good man – this is a good man before you, honest and true, and he deserves better than you. You refuse to let him think he could love a thing like you. Someone who has done the things you’ve done. This too shall pass.

And then one last bit of truth: “I didn’t think I believed in anything anymore. But I believe in you. There’s nothing to be sad about. I’ve never really lived,” But then again, another lie, for with him, you had.

“But you deserve the chance to. By the Maker, you still ought to. If you believe in me then stay with me. Fucking stay. Don’t leave me,” the words spit through clenched, furious teeth and he sounds like he’d cry if he could, and you feel as if you’ll die if he does. You can’t acknowledge it. There’s a star of red, in the vast darkness of you, bleeding out, fractures in the ice of your heart. That desperate wretched thing that so desperately wants to live. You gather your satchell which you’d hidden from him by your feet behind a crate. Ready to flee as soon as you possibly could. Nothing but a coward and ghoul.

“This is what I want. You have to give it to me,” and then returning his own words back to him, “You can’t say no to me, you can’t tell me no,” and even as you say the words, there is a part of you shocked, howling that he isn’t keeping you by force. Hurt by it. You want him to wrestle you to the floor of the Crest and chain you to himself. And it’s irrational and ridiculous, for you are the one that’s doing this, the maker of your own demise like always, this is what you’d told yourself you want, what is necessary. And yet you’re still hurt, still shocked.

You turn towards the open hatch. “Don’t get yourself killed,” you hear yourself say with your back to him, words you’d said to him once before, what seems so long ago now after all this. After the two of you. A whole other girl, creature, monster.

“Would you care if I did? Die?” Voice full of venom and hurt and smallness. “It’s amazing to me that one person can have the ability to be so singularly selfish. What about me? What about what I want?” You wish he’d hit you, take up his blaster against you, anything else, but you know he’ll give you what you ask for nonetheless. He can’t say no to you, you’d made a deal of sorts, with those words, after all. He knows what you are and what you are not, and he has always understood the things you need. And you wish that you were anything other than this, anything but what you were made to be. That you could have so wholly changed yourself that you could forsake every terrible thing that you’ve ever held within you to make you into the venomous little thing that you are. You beg him with your mind, your heart, your tears to not let you leave, to not abandon you. To not heed your poisoned words, your vile heart, your uncaring actions. Please, please, Din, see me for what I really am. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I was made like this. I have been broken beyond repair, and I am sorry.

Instead and cowardly: “Or do. I don’t give a shit. I don’t plan on coming back here anyways.” You ignore the rest. What he wants is inconsequential in this instance because he wants the wrong thing. He cannot want you to keep. You are not a thing to be kept – too savage, too broken, too dark. One day he’ll see this and thank you for what you’re doing now.

But despite this moment of self awareness, on the back end of that thought comes the whisper: Don’t leave me. I’m sorry.

But he does not see, and he goes anyway.

The two of you part ways and beyond the pain of anything else you’ve endured, the abyss of the dark, the loneliness, the pain inflicted by hands crueler than you could ever dream of being, this hurts more than all the rest.

You’re still there, pretending you’re not waiting for him, months later.

He does not return. And you are left blind to the fact that for a long time to come, he will be on a mission of his own – with a little boy, special and magical beyond even your own imagination.

Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din

As if you’d lost a limb, a chunk of your heart ripped from you. You miss him so much it makes you want to die.

Time passes anyway.

You are afraid that you will think of him forever, for the rest of your life, and you are afraid that you will never be in the same place again.

Time passes anyway.

It is two years before you see your Mandalorian again.

[END OF PART I]

Interlude

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

#TCC fic #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin smut #din djarin imagine #din djarin x you #din djarin x female reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian x reader #pedro pascal characters

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derww · 5 months ago

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DAY 28: POSESSION

CW: Death, violence, religious themes

He wakes up and feels a knife by his throat.

Firstly he panics, but then sees the person holding it and it's Mapicc – in Spoke's body, but it's still Mapicc. After that, he calms down instantly.

– Pina colada, - he says and the weight on his neck disappears. Mapicc nods and pulls a knife away.

– Welcome back, Zam.

It cannot be said that everything is fine with Mapicc himself too: he has never been able to get used to the inability to see clearly beyond his nose, the desire of this pathetic body to complete deformation and the continuing flow of the inaccessible but too great power of God in the blood. His center of gravity had been knocked down, and Spoke's twin blades, instead of the falcata destroyed in the explosion, were too light for the comfort and lingering blows. Zam gives him his saber, taken from the corpse, but even it lies wrong in insufficiently material fingers.

It's a coinflip every time – who will wake up, who is responsible. Zam was stronger, more tenacious, but Spep was also breaking through from time to time. They were afraid that one day it would be Minute who would wake up. It never happened but they couldn't afford to let their attention wane. Their worst enemy in the middle of their base is a death sentence.

Sleepwalking, Zam was unstable in his activity and could pass out half a step away. But he refused to give up – he wrestled control for himself, adapted to the sword from Minute's corpse, and moved step by step.

Jumper was standing against them. And two immortal gods with their wings torn off. Void and chunkban were the only ways to solve the problem, and they burned too many Ashes bookbans to deal with them themselves. At least while they have another option.

Mapicc had to learn to identify each of them by vague figures, Zam had to study how to faint safely, and Ro had to withstand the loads and fight over and over and over again. Only Clown looks as always, but even his hands are gradually starting to tremble.

Jumper is chosen by the gods, and they feed her with divine apples and crown her with a laurel wreath, and black and purple and red ribbons are woven into her cropped hair. She has no shortage of armor, she always has the exp bottles and golden apples, she almost creates potions out of thin air and never removes bright pink elytras. But she is still mortal. Unlike Ash and Squiddo, Jumper is still mortal.

Zam refuses to sleep. As long as the body belongs to him, he uses it, no matter how exhausted it is. Spep's body is not his own, it is weaker and more vulnerable, it is not hardened in endless battles and days of grinding, and one day Zam exhausts it so much that Spep who wakes up in his own body next cannot even move a limb.

They manage to push Squiddo into the void, but before that, she point-by-point blows up Mapicc on the spot. This time it's Zam who has to grieve for his dead partner, but he just doesn't have time for it. He and Ro have to climb out of another chunkban, and he is knocked out almost immediately after. The next time he wakes up, it's Clown who's holding him and asking for the password. Zam thinks wearily that he would like to cry.

Instead of two gods, there is only one now – and Jumper, she is still here, angel wings and one more ribbon in her hair – and Ash is noticeably gloomy, carrying a bible of saving the world under his arm. In such a man, with pointed facial features and dark eyes, black lightning burns from the Bhaal sunk deep into the skin are especially noticeable.

This time, Ash throws an inventory ban at Clown, and Clown doesn't even have time to say anything. While Ro cuts Jumper off, Zam writes a first book for the bookban with unnaturally icy fingers and then breaks the shulker on the build limit right above Ash. When he finally gets down and reunites with Ro, he can barely stand on his feet, and Ro, taking on some of the weight, brings him back to their base. Home. Zam's pupils roll up halfway through, but he finally falls asleep only inside the base. Ro leaves him on the bed, making sure he doesn't break his neck or swallow his own tongue, and only then allows himself to take a break.

This is... Exhausting. It wasn't the first time Ro had been involved in a war, but never before had it demanded to give it his all. This war had been going on for a month, and every new day was full of deadly dangers and demanded to give everything for the sake of a ghostly chance to achieve something.

But they almost did it. Jumper was left completely alone. Neither Squiddo nor Ash will be able to help her, and the world border is so small that they can always find her. And Branzy still hasn't revealed himself as their ally...

Just a little more, and he can finally get it over with. Kill Jumper. Destroy the world. Retire. See Mapicc again. He nods to himself. Take a rest, and then end the world, reminds Ro to himself, and then passes out.

Zam wakes up before Ro does. He moves with both mechanical and slightly awkward movements. For some reason, there is no pupil in his whitened iris.

#cw death #cw violence #cw religious themes #princezam #roshambogames #mapicc #d.fics #lifestealtober2024 #fanfiction #only 2 more to go

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hannibalzero · 1 year ago

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WITH MY WHOLE HEART

Vaderwan au wip. Attempt number 2

(a reminder)

Maybe I'm just overthinking it? Please let me know?

🐰❤️🐰❤️

Anakin put his knife away, looking at the crude little heart with an A + O in the middle of the old oak tree in the emperors courtyard. He looked to the other little boy beside him and gave a smile taking his hand.

“Do you have to go, Anakin?” Obi-Wan lower lip was wobbling as he looked down holding Anakin’s hand tightly, desperately trying not to cry now. “I know its a great honor to be chosen as a page, under my uncle Qui-Gon-Jinn. But I’m going to miss you.” Obi-Wan looked into Anakin’s blue eyes.

“I do, I can’t be a servant forever. Mom needs me, plus when I come back as a knight? We can be together.” Anakin excitedly explained to the other nine year old boy. “Don’t cry Obi, it won’t be that long.” He encouraged.

Obi-Wan wasn’t a crying type of child, he only cried when something was desperately upsetting. “Bu-but, You’ll have to become a Darth knight! So much so that the emperor’s hunting hounds. The most elite of his knights.” Obi-Wan was balling using his long sleeves to wipe his eyes, the way all children did.

Anakin hugged Obi-Wan tightly helping the prince sooth himself.

“Then that’s what I’ll do, I’ll become a sith. Gane my title as a Darth and come back to you.” Anakin pressed their foreheads together. “I promise.” He vowed to the little prince with the copper hair.

Chewing his lip for a moment, Obi-Wan locked eyes with Anakin. “You’re supposed to seal promises with a kiss.” Obi-Wan informed with that know it all prince tone of voice. “I promise that I will wait for you Anakin.” Obi-Wan gave Anakin a simple child like kiss as he ripped a button off his soft green play dress.

A copper button with a running rabbit was place into Anakin’s hand.

“I promise” Anakin held button close to his chest….

That little copper button had been with Anakin, now Darth Vader for seventeen years.

Vader had the button on a thin chain around his neck, the running rabbit that was impressed onto the copper was hardly there. Worn down from years of him wearing the button. It was hard to believe how small the button was, or how big it used to feel in his hand.

He couldn’t bring himself to get rid of the copper, or smith it into something else. Because every time he looked at the little round copper, he would think of the smell of jasmine. Being in the shade of that old oak tree, and the sweet little kiss that he had shared with Prince Obi-Wan Kenobi.

In a way? Vader considered that kiss to be the end of his boyhood.

After that little kiss, life as a knights page started. Magics, saber training, battles, negations, dragon taming, the loss of his right arm, War and glory.

The emperors attention and approval.

Anakin had earned his title as a Darth, one of the three hunting hounds of Emperor Sidious.

His favorite.

Anakin Skywalker was now Darth Vader, rider of excautor the largest of dragons in the empires control.

Vader’s control.

#star wars #obikin #obi wan kenobi #my writing #anakin skywalker #fanfic #vaderkin #vaderwan #with my whole heart au #feedback please #to dumb #pulling out my hair #writing is hard

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synapsid-taxonomy · 1 year ago

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On Smilodon mouth tissue

Keep in mind through this entire post that this is pretty rough and I don't specifically study sabercats. But we might as well take a closer look at the controversial Smilodon lip and gum tissue and see what it'd look like step-by-step. Let's start with a Smilodon skull (real fossil, not cast) with articulated sabers. Keep in mind the tip of this saber is broken off.

You can pretty clearly see the division between the enamel-covered portion of the teeth and the cementum. In modern felids, this cementoenamel junction is roughly where the gum line ends, and this is also what Riviere and Wheeler 2005 concluded for Smilodon. So if we take that and apply a gumline to this skull, it looks like this:

Now that looks like a pretty deep gumline! The full canines of Smilodon don't necessarily need to be covered by lips; even though they are covered by enamel, it's a very thin coating that doesn't require extensive hydration. This is also the case with the fangs of musk deer and Chinese water deer, who have their canines hanging on the outside of the mouth. These fanged deer, as well as tusked synapsids like walruses and Tiarajudens, have canines that project far beyond the bottom of the lower jaw (see below for the alternative) - and none have the massive bloodhound lips you may see around for Smilodon.

The gums, however, would need to be hydrated and covered by the lips. So that pink line could be an indicator of the minimum extent of the lip margin. But what I notice about these gumline comparisons is that we're looking only at the skull. If you bring in Smilodon's mandible and articulate it so that the mouth is closed...

The gumline doesn't go below the margin of the lower jaw. So the upper lips would not need to droop beyond the margin of the lower jaw. And as discussed above, the rest of the canines wouldn't necessarily need to be covered. Goodbye bloodhound Smilodon. This is consistent with how the lips do not droop beyond the margin of the mandible in any "saber-toothed" animal. Fanged deer and walruses have exposed canines. Clouded leopards keep their impressively-sized canines in the mouth; while the lips are relatively big, they don't droop over the lower jaw...

And saber-toothed animals that aren't smilodontines - including other true sabercats like Homotherium - don't actually have teeth that project beyond the bottom of the lower jaw (accounting for tooth slippage). Most of them have a deepened "chin" that follows the sabers. So it's possible, if not likely, that these animals simply had sabers covered by the soft tissue of the lower jaw when the mouth was closed. That would keep the teeth and gums moist regardless of how far down the gums went. Even if the teeth were exposed, the upper lips still wouldn't need to go very far down to keep the gums moist (you can see where the cementoenamel joint is on the Eusmilus skull replica in the lower right).

(top: Homotherium; bottom left, Thylacosmilus)

Now let's take the rigorous reconstruction of Smilodon from Turner et al. 2011 - and overlay it over the image above, to see if "traditional" Smilodon lips would cover all of this expanded gumline or not.

That looks like a pretty close match, I'd say! Being generous (and looking at clouded leopards as a very rough guide), I can see the margin of the upper lip maybe going like this. Lippier than usually pictured, but not shockingly so.

So not much would change.

Now, why would Smilodon need such deep gums? Simple - the longer a tooth is, the easier it is to break off. So more extensive gum tissue would help stabilize the sabers in the mouth. Which makes sense. The current model for sabercat predation is that they would subdue prey using their beefy muscled forelimbs, and only use the sabers at the end for the killing neck-puncturing bite. Don't wanna break them beforehand.

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fruitkingfrog · 1 year ago

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[ID: A full page drawing of Orion holding Lightray, Orion’s hands are under his legs and Lightray is playing with Orion’s hair, they are looking into eachothers eyes and smiling. Behind them is a rainbow Mother box inspired circuit pattern, with seventeen alternate universe versions of them in the various borders and fifteen much smaller alternate universe versions of them over the borders. The word "Multiverse" is framed in dots on the frame on the left. End ID]

late 2021 Lightrion week day 6 - Alternate Universe! &

New Gods November 2023 - Week 4, Day 4: Alternate Realities!

once upon a time it was said that only one version of the New Gods exist across all Earths, but its rarely reflected after that. Most of these AUs are canon, some after 1/2 canon (featuring only one of the duo), and some are my own ideas :D This december is going on three years since I got into New Gods!

commission info & ko-fi links available on my pinned post♥!

♥ reblogs appreciated! do not repost/edit/etc

Closeups, detailed IDs under cut:

[ID: Box one: Orion and Lightray from DC, depicted as anthro cartoon dogs from the neck up. There is a purple background with black kirby krackle behind them.

Box two: Thorion and Bald’r with their foreheads pressed together, smiling and looking into eachothers eyes. Their hands are clasped in front of Bald’rs shoulder. Thorion has shoulderlength blond hair and wing-like ears on his helmet, which exposes his face. Bald’r has black hair, and wears a blue cape over his armour.

Box three: Lightray as a Blue Lantern holding off an attack from Orion as a Red Lantern. Orion is snarling, striking at Lightray with claws and spitting red acid. Lightray is smiling at him, reaching out one arm and holding Orion’s wrist in the other. Blue and Red kirby krackle surround each of them.

Box four: Two anthropomorphic dinosaurs, one is red, blue, and yellow with a spiky back and saber-teeth, he is wearing a helmet. The second is a white and yellow pterodactyl with a red and black symbol painted on his chest.

Box five: Two mech suits, Orion’s slightly in front of Lightray’s. Orion’s has his helmet, a pink face, blue collar, and red shoulders. Lightray’s behind him has his gold headpiece and flames coming from the top. Orion and Lightray sit side by side on the shoulder of Orion’s mech, faced away from viewer. Lightray is reaching over to Orion’s thigh and they are watching a sunset together.

Box six: Hunter and Neon Black, two men closely resembling Orion and Lightray, but with thicker armour and darker clothes. Hunter is turned away but looking over his shoulder, while Neon Black is pressed into his chest and smiling.

Box seven: Orion and Lightray based on the style of Mike Mignola, Lightray is thin and wearing a white top with a gold V mark, and long gold gloves that reach up his arms. Orion has a low cut red shirt and blue shoulderpads. He and Lightray are smiling at eachother.

Box eight: Future State Orion with a matching Lightray, their heads are pressed together and they're holding eachother's faces and smiling. Orion has pink skin and flaming hair, Lightray is similar, both have gold headpieces resembling their usual counterparts.

Box nine: The top of two mock-Simpsons style figures, one with a red/black bowlcut and one with orange hair and a silver headpiece with a "v" on it, meant to be Obrian and Flightrisk from Radioactive Man.

Box ten: Lightray faced away from the viewer, glaring at Orion, who is lacking a helmet and has long, wild hair. Orion has a darker outfit based on his Gods and Monsters uniform, with a silver harness. Barda is next to him in an outfit similar to her regular one, she looks concerned and is reaching to pull Orion back. Behind them are buildings from New Genesis.

Box eleven: Orion's death scene from Gods and Monsters, Lightray is holding Orion back while Highfather's staff kills him.

Box twelve: Orion standing with his hand by his hip, Lightray is flying by his side and smiling with his hands raised, drawn in a Jack Kirby inspired style.

Box thirteen: Young Justice Orion looking back at Lightray, who is smiling at him.

Box fourteen: A sketchy drawing of Lightray and Orion, using unused New 52 designs. Lightay has goggles and red gloves, Orion's helmet has more pieces to it and his top is sleeveless.

Box fifteen: Highfather Orion from The Dark Side leaning into a kiss from Lightray, who is playing with his hair.

Box sixteen: Batman Beyond Lightray looking worried at Orion, who is faced away from the camera. Lightray has his eye injury and bandage, Orion is maskless.

Box seventeen: New 52 Orion and Lightray relaxing on the grass. Lightray is pressed into Orion's side with a knee over his stomach. They're smiling at eachother.

Final image: Several small figures, showing Lightray and Orion together as they appear in Scribblenauts, New 52, Source of Freedom, The Dark Side, Mike Mignola, Lantern corps, DC Mech, and Dark Multiverse. Lightray from Superman/Batman: Generations and Earth-51, and Orion as his 80's costume, Kenner Super Powers, two Lego forms, and his clone from The Great Darkness saga.

END ID]

1: Orihound and Lightstray from the New Dogs (Earth C-Minus). Inspired by the art in their first/only appearance Captain Carrot and the Final Ark #3, by Scott Shaw, Scott Koblish, Tom Luth, and Drew Moore.

2: Thorion and Bald’r the Lightbringer of the New Asgods (Amalgam Earth). Inspired by the art .

3: Lightray and Orion as members of the Lantern corps, designed by me. In this universe, an Apokolips-raised Orion loses all sense of control when given the red ring and decimates the population of Apokolips, then turns on Atrocitus for manipulating his mind. Seeing a threat to all Lantern Corps, Lightray of New Genesis volunteers to defeat Orion and retrieve his ring. Lightray’s design is based on his formal wear from volume 3, Orion’s is based on his rebirth uniform. OK i dont know if they can work out in this one honestly i just thought it’d be cool, theoretically

4. Lightraydactyl and Orionodon, designed by me. The JL fighting Darkseid instead of Orion is a pet peeve of mine, but Jurassic League didnt even leave room for the New Gods to exist. i love the dinosaurs comic though Lightray was pretty straightforward, Orion’s design took inspiration from Darklyoseid’s canon design by Juan Gedeon, a sabertooth tiger (for Tigra), and Orion’s main universe costume for the colours.

5. Orion and Lightray Mechs. DC Mech killed Orion off in issue one boooooo! but it did mean i didnt have to design my own for his (Lightray's is mine though). This was inspired by one of the covers for Pacific Rim, because I will be thinking about a pacrim AU for them forever now.

6. Hunter and Neon Black. These guys aren’t actually LR and Orion, just two random inmates disguised as evil versions of them iirc, but I liked Neon Black’s design.

7. Orion and Lightray, Mike Mignola’s scrapped 1990′s New Gods animated film designs.

8: Orion and Lightray from Future State: Green Lantern, Lightray was designed by me.

9: O’Brian and Flightrisk of the New Guards from Radioactive Man.

10. Orion and Lightray (and Barda) from a personal AU of mine, using designs inspired by the Gods and Monsters film.

11. Just the Gods and Monsters death scene, to break things up.

12. Orion and Lightray inspired by Jack Kirby’s art.

13. Young Justice.

14. Scrapped New 52 Lightray and Jim Lee’s unused Orion design.

15. DCAU/Batman Beyond

16. Superman: The Dark Side. I was going to make Lightray transparent at first, like ambiguously a hallucination or a ghost or something but i didnt like how it looked all that much.

17. New 52 - I sometimes like to imagine these guys are from like a Pocket dimension modeled after the Fourth World, where everyone is shallow and awful like n52 canon/fandom perception.

18. Minis - Scribblenauts, Lightray's older appearance in Superman/Batman: Generations (he has an earlier appearance similar to his main universe suit, but with a yellow tone), New 52, Source of Freedom Orion plus the miscoloured Lightray that appears twice, The Dark Side, Earth-51 Lightray, 1977 Orion, Mignola again, Kenner Super Powers Orion, Lantern Corps AU, Orion effigy from The Great Darkness Saga, both Lego Orions, original illustration colours, DC mech, and Dark Multiverse: Flashpoint.

a few months ago i got to finish with this very long term project :D thank you to everyone who encouraged me with kind words while working on this :D The final Lightrion week pic is finished and ready to post whenever i get around to it.

#fourth world #lightrion #lightray #orion #dc #dc comics #new gods #dc fanart #lightrion week #new gods november #dc comics au #multiverse #dc multiverse #zoo crew #dcau #young justice #new 52 #gods and monsters #dc mech

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