I realised I never actually posted this here, my design for Crosshair's helmet. Based on the Ice Vulture from Barton IV. I love what it symbolises for Crosshair, and I think that's something he would like to be reminded of, not to mention how it is also associated with Mayday, and keeps his memory alive too!
„The most favorite dance seems to require taking off the shirt. The guests who initiated it are obviously clones, but they look a bit older and behave differently. Some kind of elite troopers, maybe Commandos. Behave like Mandalorians. Legendary first ARC troopers? Upright posture, proud, strong moves. The facial expressions part of the dance? The fierce Mandalorian beauty just joined! Great, then this is the dance I should learn first!“
Barton IV, though a mountainous ice planet seemingly devoid of any life, has as diverse an ecosystem as some of its neighboring planets in the Trailing Sectors. It is famous for its black ice vultures, but that is largely because the vultures are one of the few creatures capable of surviving out in the open air, weathering the snow and winds from the moment they learn how to fly. The vast majority of other wildlife manages to eke out their living in caves, beneath the snowfall, or underground. The drill wyrms fit into the last category and are one of the planet’s largest animals, but they are by no means the only thing living beneath the ice.
Otter-eels are the largest megafauna of Barton IV and have been, for millennia, responsible for the massive ice caverns carved out beneath the planet’s permafrost. With the front body and head of what we know to be an otter and the tubular body and tail of a moray eel several hundred feet long, these creatures dig out large portions of the earth underground, usually around the natural geothermal vents where it’s warmest, though the smaller ones will sometimes seek out the proximity of hellbender nests with the same objective in mind.
The mammoth eels secrete a type of slimy musk that deters predators based on its pungent smell (though those living on Barton IV will be the first to tell you they have no idea what kind of creature could possibly prey on an animal whose head itself is sixty feet from forehead to chin), the slime coating the rock and ice of their dens and warrens. When relatively fresh, the slime can be harvested and boiled down into a thick, concentrated paste that can be smeared on the perimeter of properties and homes (or yourself, if you’re really desperate) to keep some of the more dangerous wildlife at bay.
The otter-eels have a symbiotic relationship with the aforementioned hellbenders, warmed by the proximity of their own nests and the magma chambers the hellbenders spawn from. Hellbenders are a large salamander-like creature with a body most believe is actually made of magma (though humanoids have been unable to get within proximity for confirmation), largely crackled black skin with currents of bright orange showing through the ever-changing seams. Sometimes called magma-salamanders, the hellbenders rely on the otter-eels to create new pathways for migration and exploration, eating the smaller prey animals the otter-eels are unable to or are uninterested in.
As the hellbenders crawl along the walls of ice and rock, the concentrated heat of their bodies melts the otter-eels’ secretions and fuses it with the ice, creating a near-indestructible coating that reinforces and smooths over the rock, giving it a glossy, tempered transparisteel finish. This effect has, over the years, created incredibly sturdy and resilient cave systems, the ones closest to the surface eventually populated by sentients as civil centers. The ice on the surface is clean and clear enough that even several dozen feet underground the sunlight often still shines through in patches here and there, and the magma chambers and salamander burrows provide enough warmth for the caves to be habitable.
Baricouda are amphibious cervids capable of swimming underwater much like water buffalo, though over longer distances. They have the appearance of a semi-aquatic caribou, but their most notable features are the spine-like antlers that fold together when on land, and the incredibly sharp teeth found in two rows in their mouths. The baricouda are omnivores and largely feed on fish, mollusks, and other aquatic creatures, but they are capable of and do travel in herds through parts of the forests found in ice caverns near sentient populations. It is unclear whether they migrated or were brought down by sentients moving underground, but they are used for their fur, fish spines, patagiums, meat, and antlers, in addition to their use as occasional steeds, beasts of burden, or underwater sled haulers.
Baricouda, though not aggressive to humanoids while alive, can be struck by a rare form of wasting disease and will enter a strange decaying state that indicates they are close to death (if they’re not dead already; it’s hard to tell). Their eyes glow a soft, unsettling white, their fur begins to fall out, and they take on a mottled, dark gray-green color to their smoother, more aquatically-inclined skin, which will then start to slough off as the disease progresses. Algae and kelp gets caught on their spines, mimicking the look of a mane of hair.
The most disturbing part of the illness is its tendency to compel the baricouda to lurk underwater but near the surface of oft-frequented watering holes and river inlets, enticing creatures closer to the water’s edge in order to reach out and pull them under with their teeth, swimming into the shadowed depths to drown and presumably eat them. Folk tales say the baricouda of legend and myth would hypnotize their prey, luring them into the water to climb onto their backs, taking hold of the kelp as the baricouda dove beneath the surface. Once an afflicted baricouda succeeds in capturing its prey, neither the animal or its victim are seen again.
—
On the surface of the planet, a variety of wildlife dots the landscapes from the salt flats at the equator to each of the arctic poles and every glacier, plain, and mountain range in between. The largest mountain range known as “the Vulture’s Spine” (or simply “the Spine”) is home to several hardy breeds, each of them unique.
The crystalback hydra is a type of reptile with the ability to change its scales’ color and pattern in order to camouflage itself from predators and prey alike. They begin as juvenile snakes and have strong muscles to constrict their prey before eating them, but they also have incredibly venomous fangs with a venom that coagulates the blood within a victim’s body, killing them in a matter of seconds. If the crystalback is cut in half, each piece will regenerate as a new snake over the course of a week; if faced with a crystalback where one manages to come out alive at the end of the encounter, the remains must be disposed of by fire to fully kill it.
If the snake is allowed to evolve and mature into an advanced pupation of the species (a process that does admittedly take many, many years), it becomes a four-legged reptilian mammal with the head, neck, tail, and partial pattern of the snake, the camouflaging furred body of an asharl panther, and the legs and feet of a mountainous cervid. These mature crystalback hydras are much more deadly and difficult to kill, especially since a severed head now results in a much faster regeneration of two heads, a process that happens every time a head is cut off. The mammalian body has every weakness a normal mammal would though, and can be killed with a lethal strike to the chest or abdomen.
The hydra’s remains are still recommended to be disposed of by fire, but it is possible for the pelt to be salvaged without consequence; if prepared by a specialized taxidermist the scales and fur will still take on the color and pattern of its surroundings, camouflaging the wearer, though it does take longer for the camouflage to acclimate than it did when the creature was alive. If you’re a hunter lying in wait though, it can prove an invaluable resource.
There is a type of burrowing, ichthyic-mammalian creature the size of a large massif somewhat like a mole or gopher in its efficient ability to rapidly displace earth and snow at the topmost layer of the planet’s crust. These creatures have a squashed, elongated face and snout that looks somewhere between a catfish and a star-nose mole, wide, strong mouths with rows of small teeth, poor eyesight, and a telltale dorsal fin or ‘sail’ shaped much like that of a small spinosaurus.
The dorsal sail of the excavators is able to detect vibrations above the earth, guiding it towards prey animals like the snow trout that flit through fresh powder, and its visibility on the surface is a warning to those above the snow that they are in the vicinity. They have burrows that wind strategically around and through the mountains, giving them access points to hunting spots and mating grounds. Their poor eyesight, however, does mean that when they poke their head up above the snow to bite their prey and drag it down under, they sometimes grab animals they cannot actually eat.
These creatures have been known to latch onto humans and drag them beneath the surface, or to the tails or feet of the ice vultures (prompting a very large, very surprised bird to flap up in indignation, searching for the subterranean offender. Humans are not so lucky.).
Some ice vultures have learned to hunt the excavators by luring them to the surface, pulling them out with their talons once they latch on. The technique has been used by humanoids familiar and brave (or stupid) enough to fish them out by sticking their arm up to the shoulder into one of the burrows, making enough movement to entice the creature into latching onto the entire arm. The hunter in question can then hook their hand to the inside of the creature’s gullet and pull them out. It is recommended that said hunters be accompanied by other people who are equally as strong and foolhardy in order to brace the main hunter and pull them back once they get a bite.
A more threatening predatory animal that usually lives in the mountains is a type of large wolf. They have dense fur in a range of greyscale colors, range in length of 10-13 feet (3-4 meters) from nose to tail’s end, weigh upwards 350 lbs/160 kg, and would be otherwise unremarkable if not for their additional offensive and defensive attributes.
These mountain wolves have thick, bony frill plates surrounding their neck and throat that protect them from lethal retaliatory attacks. They are somewhat flexible and jut backwards from the head, hard to see beneath their thick fur. The plates’ secondary purpose is to protect the venom sacs in the throat behind either side of the jaw that fill the wolf’s teeth with a paralytic venom meant to immobilize their prey. The paralytic keeps the prey alive and their blood moving until they can be dragged back to the wolves’ den. The wolves are intelligent, fast, nimble over jagged terrain, and hunt in coordinated attacks of five or more. The wolves have even been rumored to be capable of taking down the smaller ice vultures, and their bite and habitat has led the sentients of Barton IV to irreverently refer to the attacks as a deadly game of “freeze tag.”
Junk rats are found on several planets, and though no one is sure when the invasive species was introduced to Barton IV, most people suspect they came on the few starships that found their way to the icy wastes and they proliferated from there. Called so because of their proclivity to nest in ductwork, junk yards, the walls of starships and industrial factories (and the occasional unlucky droid), junk rats gather and harvest scraps of inorganic material to line their nests with, anything from copper circuitry to galvanized aircraft cables. Their biggest threats are electrocution when biting or traversing especially high-current conduits, or the primary predator willing and inclined to hunt them known as the spitfire.
Spitfires are a semi-feline-like creature distantly related to the nexu and asharl panthers, though their bodies are smaller and shaped a bit differently due to their natural double-jointedness and elastic excess of skin. Despite their bulk, their skeletal structure and flexibility allow them to… displace certain bones and squeeze through crevices and unnaturally-angled passageways in the caves and mountains of Barton IV, the visual of their limbs reaching from the darkness a bit like the ice spiders of Maldo Kreis as they curve their multi-jointed legs through the tunnels. The gangly limbs and flattened ribcage can then be rolled or pulled back into place as they slink along the walls and cave ceilings with their tarantula-like paws, silent as they stalk small vermin and other prey.
Spitfires are nimble and powerful jumpers, they are fast, they have night vision and natural camouflage, and unless an area is well lit, they are usually only detected by the reflection of light in the tapetum lucidum of their eyes, or by the green bioluminescent glow visible through its throat pouch as it rears up and readies to spit acid at its prey. Said acid is meant to incapacitate and/or blind its victims, and the spitfires have excellent aim.
Because of the near-100% fatality rate that results from encounters with a creature such as this, capture and further study have proven to be futile endeavors, and their weaknesses remain unknown.
Number 9 on the rarepairing masterlist, we have... Crosshair/Mayday! You know how it's gonna' go; it's angsty, it's heartbreaking, it's intense (even in the sex scene). It's war, and this fic tries to reflect all of those conflicts. I tried to end it in a good note, though!
Xx, Blue.
"THE POWER OF ANOTHER'S TOUCH" – CROSSHAIR/MAYDAY 💔🔥
WARNINGS: REFLECTIONS ON ABANDONMENT & LOST FAMILY, REFERENCES TO DEPRESION, MALNUTRITION, MIND CONTROL, BLOOD AND WOUNDS, TOUCH STARVED CHARACTER, PENETRATIVE SEX.
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Crosshair has developed the habit of watching the black vulture that ocassionaly flies over his outpost on Barton IV. It's a powerfull creature; with sharp eyes and claws, always silently watching and patiently waiting for the perfect moment to take advantage of. He has always been a bit like that, if he comes to think of it. He wonders if the animal feels alone too.
The vulture circles over his head, perhaps wondering if the soldier is about to drop dead. Crosshair's hand is soaked; trying to stop the gush of blood that trickles down the small space between the chest and stomach plates of his imperial armour. It's bad luck –or awfully precise– that the rebel managed to sink his blade in his body right there. Crosshair is just glad it missed his lung. With so many troopers to replace him, he knows the Empire wouldn't have moved a finger to try to save him.
He doesn't bother to go to the medbay –it doesn't hold the same warmth it did in Kamino, who would have guessed he'd miss that– but instead walks straight towards his private room. It's probably the only advantage of being the leader of his small specialized unit. He's glad of not having to share with the other men.
He's focused on that goal; on not crumbling in the middle of the corridor to soak into a pool of his own blood. He ignores the pain, the fear, the fatigue; he puts all his remaining energy into taking one step after the other, his figure remaining surprisingly stoik. No one would be able to tell he was hurt if they walked by him. No one really knew him in here, after all...
"Crosshair?" the voice almost echoes in the silence of the corridor, and the soldier's feet falter.
Except one person, though.
"Not now" he drawls, tone neutrally bored, resuming the pace of his steps towards his room.
The feet follow him; and Crosshair feels a mix of satisfaction and irritation swirling inside of him. He turns another corner and he finally enters his sleeping quarter area.
The other man stops behind him in front of his door.
"You're bleeding. You've got bacta in there?"
Mayday's voice is somewhat neutral too; but neutral feelings wouldn't have brought him to this length. No one indifferent would have followed him to his room.
"No" Crosshair's answer is short and clipped. He's not used to this. To being seen. He has forgotten how it feels, how to cope with it. "I've got needles and threads".
Crosshair unlocks his door with his code. A pretty easy system to hack into, if he's honest, Tech would have absolutely no trouble in... Crosshair enters the room and carelessly throws his sniper against the wall. Tech had abanadoned him, and so had done the rest of the Batch –Echo, Wrecker, Hunter– and they could be dead for all he knows. Perhaps they wish Crosshair to be dead too.
"I'll do it for you" Mayday offers, stepping inside as well before the door closes with a swoosh after him. "You're probably gonna' do a shity job if you try to do it yourself".
Crosshair opens his mouth to argue, to bite and snap and claw away at the man with his words; but the older clone sends him a glare and gestures to the bunk pressed against the wall.
"Shut up and sit down. The sooner we finish, the sooner you'll be able to rest".
Crosshair swallows his reply down. He doesn't know if he'll ever be able to truly rest. To truly sleep. The guilt, the anger, the sadness, the pain, are too much to push out of his mind; no matter how fucking exhausted he is.
He doesn't have the strength to argue, though; so for this time, he complies.
Mayday patiently waits while Crosshair removes his platings; sorting through the medical kit in silence. Crosshair grimaces when he tugs his upper body glove off; the blood making the fabric stick to his skin and making carefully tearing it away painful and uncomfortable. It hangs on his hips; and when he breathes a sigh of relief Mayday finally turns towards him.
Crosshair does his best to ignore him. He tries to forget how the trooper's eyes focus on his bony hips and ribs; his sunken stomach, and the clear physical signs that reveal how much he has been struggling with his mental health as well. He glances to the side; unable to watch Mayday's silent concerned face, to hold the weight of his stare. He doesn't offer any excuse, any explanation; and Mayday doesn't ask them from him.
"This is probably gonna' hurt like a bitch, but you already know that" he says, dapping a small gauze in desinfectant, and placing a hand on Crosshair's side to firmly hold him in place.
Crosshair can't help his physical reaction. He trembles, brutally visible, from his shoulders to all the way down to his toes. Goosebumps erupt all over his skin; and a small sound catches on the back of his throat.
It's pathetic, really, how Mayday can pull that answer from his body when all he's doing is making sure he isn't going to move when he pushes the needle through his skin. Crosshair feels him glancing up at him, trying to read into his facial expresion; but he stubbornly stares to the opposite side of the room, still in silence.
Mayday hums and keeps cleaning the wound, resorts to stitching, and if he notices Crosshair shivering at the clinical contact of his warm hands pressing against his skin here and there he doesn't utter a thing.
When Mayday finishes and leaves, Crosshair swallows the heartbreaking need to ask him to stay. Please.
The older clone pays him a visit four days later. Just like he did with the vulpture, Crosshair wonders if Mayday feels alone in this icy planet; if he feels that cold that goes deeper than freezing the tip of your toes. There's no other explanation, really. A regular imperial soldier wouldn't have bothered with checking on him. They aren't what normal people would consider friends; but perhaps there's some sort of recognition and understanding there. Two clones, men of a past world, trapped in the Empire's claws without a blindfold over their eyes but still nowhere else to go.
Crosshair doesn't say a word. Not even a "hello". He lets him step inside his room, and then, voluntarily and without prompting, he takes his shirt off. Perhaps it's just a way of speeding up things, because he knows Mayday won't leave without making sure his wound is healing up nicely. Perhaps it's just Crosshair'd way to ask for his touch on his cold skin.
Mayday is smart enough to read into it.
He carefully grazes the corners of the scarring; and Crosshair shivers. Mayday doesn't pay any mind to it. He continues examining him, his movements perhaps too slow and exploratory to be considered purely clinical.
The older trooper finally abandons all pretense and allows himself to caress up and down the sniper's sides. His hands are gentle, and warm, and it's so unusual and pleaseant that Crosshair's body trembles violently and his eyes inmediately lock into Mayday's. It's a heavy stare; but the man stares back.
"Are you going to fight me, if I keep touching you?" The trooper quietly but calmly asks.
Crosshair stays silent, his mind spinning with the implications of those words, and Mayday interprets it as a "no". Crosshair can't say it out loud; he understands. For someone so tightly coiled as the sniper, Mayday feels like he has done a good job unwrapping the mess and intense person he is. Perhaps suffering makes you wiser.
One by one, clothes get abandon by the floor; until the two soldiers are naked as the day they left the tub, pushed into a life of slavery and repetitive heartbreak. Their hands explore and caress and claws and holds; their lips kiss and traces and suck and bite til they taste blood. Mayday takes his time opening Crosshair on his fingers; the sniper releases a broken cry when the older man makes him sink on his cock.
It's slow, intense, deep and emotional. Mayday slides his throbbing erection in and out of him while his arms close around the sniper's skinny body; and Crosshair feels trapped in a delicious way he hasn't experienced before. It's overwhelming; how his body is just forced to feel good, to shiver and moan at the little electric explosions that zig zags through his nerves every time Mayday hits his prostate.
Crosshair's knees tremble; and he has to push his hands against the wall in order not to fall. Mayday grabs his hips tigther and rutts inside of him. Crosshair's mind fly far away from the room. It's not the same way he has grown to dissociate with the mental torture the imperial doctors push him through; when he tries to escape the prision of his hurting body. It's different; this warmth, this pleasure, this human closeness, feels so good he's almost dizzy, drunk on it, his body moving in autopilot while his mind is able to finally relax and feel free.
Mayday groans and cums inside of him. Crosshair cums too after a few tugs of the man on his weeping cock. His mind quietens.
They're both breathing heavily. Crosshair slumps against the wall, pressing his sweaty forehead against it. Mayday follows, his own forehead resting against Crosshair's shoulder.
The sniper is glad that his face is hidden away like this; that Mayday can't see the silent tears that run down his cheeks.
"Should I stay?" the man asks, barely more than a whisper, the moment vulnerable and delicate.
Crosshair moves, and Mayday's spent cock leaves him. He lays down on his bunk without answering; though his body shifts to one side, a space left unnocupied on his back. Perhaps that is answer enough.
Mayday melds to his back; hugging him towards himself with an arm wrapped over the sniper's hip. Crosshair's body untenses again; his quiet worries vanishing. He tugs Mayday's arm tigther; burrying his thinner body in his warmth and tenderness. He's still afraid; because this is too nice for him to keep. Because good things always end abandoning him.
Mayday sighs his own relief, contentment and hope and pecks the back of his neck.
"Okay" he whispers, closing his eyes even if it'll take ages for him to fall asleep, memorising the feeling of the thinner, complex man against him.
Crosshair prays this won't be the last time they do this; or at least, that Mayday will continue to be close to him even without the sex.
Mayday makes a quiet decision. If the sniper doesn't take proper care of himself, he will; and if he ever leaves Barton IV, leaves the Empire, he'll take Crosshair with him.
