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zoeykallus · 1 year

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Okay, First, LOVE YOUR STORIES. THEY'RE MY FAV❣️

AND SECONDLY AFTER SEEING IMPERIAL TECH SUGGESTION OF YOURS… *squeals like a fan girl*

I’m sorry for making this dumb request (and please ignore this if you must..) But female reader accidentally seduce Imperial bad batch all of them separately! IVE SEEN IMPERIAL HUNTER, CROSSHAIR, TECH BUT NEVER SEEN ECHO OR WRECKER AS IMPERIAL BEFORE!!! *fans with a red blush*

Aloha!

THANK YOU SO MUCH❣️ :))

Not sure how you accidentally seduce a person, but I'm gonna try something....

The Imperial Bad Batch x Fem!Reader - Dangerous Seduction HC's Part 1 Of 5 -

Warnings: Suggestive / Sexual Themes / Strong Language / Dirty Talk / Angst / Dub-Con / Filthy / Smut /18+

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You belong to the resistance. Unfortunately, you have fallen into the clutches of a special unit of the Empire, Clone Force 99 also known as Bad Batch. The interrogation goes completely differently than you expect, between you and the soldier who is supposed to interrogate you, a strange intense tension arises.

AC: These HCs probably don't make much sense, and mainly consist of sexual tension and spicy incidents. Summed up; these HCs portray TBB like an upside down universe, they have still some of their very own traits, but they are "evil", so to speak. Yes, I do have a very dirty mind. It's never boring in here. Probably the most extensive HCs I have written to date. It's more like Five spicy One-Shots.

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Following Parts:

Part 2 : Echo

Part 3 : Tech

Part 4 : Wrecker

Hunter

You've been sitting alone in an interrogation room for several minutes. The room is illuminated with bright, sterile-looking light. The handcuffs have been removed from you; there is no escape from this room anyway. There are certainly guards in front of the door, and the door itself is locked with a code.

You look up hastily as the door opens with a hiss. One of the men who caught you, enters, you recognize him by his armor. It's black like most of the Empire's special forces, but it's still not standard. At first sight, it looks to you as if it were made of different armors.

The man moves slowly, confidently. He moves with the confidence of a hunter who has cornered his prey, a predator that you can't escape.

He takes off his helmet, and you are surprised by the face you see under it. Masculine, prominent nose, a dark tattoo covers half of his face. His hair is a bit longer and tied back with a black bandana.

You flinch as he noisily puts the helmet down on the table with a swing. His dark gray eyes look at you piercingly. He reacts to your defiant look with a smirk that gives you goosebumps.

"You can act as much as you want, you can't fool me".

He stands up, comes around the table and bends over you from behind, his mouth close to your ear, his arms to your left and right at the table. His voice creeps under your skin as he says almost suggestively, "I hear your heartbeat, I sense your every movement, smell your fear"

His voice is deep and slightly smoky, the way he talks so calm and firm, intimidating as well as stimulating. You feel his hot breath on your ear and on your cheek. The tingling under your skin becomes more intense and the temperature in the room seems to rise.

Somewhere hidden deep inside you, you find the courage to tell him, "I'm not going to tell you anything".

You barely get the words past your lips, you feel paralyzed by his presence. But when he grabs you, pulls you out of the chair and pushes you against the wall, a startled cry escapes your lungs.

His body presses you against the wall, one of his thighs between your legs. His thigh touches the triangle between yours, only for a second, almost ghosting over it, but you feel the touch very clearly through the thin fabric of your pants.

Like a pulse, heat shoots between your thighs against your will. His strength, his self-assured presence that takes over the room, has befuddled your mind, otherwise you can't explain your body's reaction to him.

You feel moisture gathering in your panties and bite your tongue as he suddenly pauses and takes a deep breath.

He laughs softly, a beautiful, sexy and at the same time blood freezing sound.

"I can smell your arousal as well as your fear".

You swallow, actually you can't imagine it, but why else had he just taken such a deep breath and known exactly what you were feeling right now? Coincidence?

You are still paralyzed, you don't fight back, don't try to escape either. One part of you wants to feel him, the other hates you for it. When his hand starts to unbutton your blouse, you keep very still and look at his fingers as if hypnotized.

His hand lays flat on your bare breastbone, and he says, "It's throbbing as hard as it is fast."

A single, soft word passes your lips, "Please"

He looks up into your face, and you can barely withstand his piercing dark eyes.

"Please what?" he asks quietly, almost tenderly.

You don't know yourself what you wanted to say. If he should touch you, leave you alone or not hurt you. You didn't really know what to expect, all you felt was his closeness and the heat spreading inside you.

He moved his leg, rubbing his thigh, the armor plate, over your pubic. It instantly began to tingle in your pussy, more of your juice gathering in your panties and already seeping through the fabric, leaving a trail on his armor.

One of his hands clenches around the back of your neck, the other on your right hip as he continues to move his thigh, back and forth, back and forth. He takes another deep breath and growls softly.

Very suddenly, he lets go of you, and you almost topple forward as he squats in front of you and unzips your pants. You don't say a word, just watch him as he pulls the fabric down from your hips, slips them over your ankles and tosses them aside, just like your panties.

You can't believe that he is now looking directly at your naked pussy, the wet flower, the scent of which attracts him so magically. You have no idea how hungry this imperial soldier is for you right now.

Another deep breath, he sputters the breath out again. When he looks up at you, his eyes are so dark, almost black, from his dilated pupils.

Then his tongue shoots out, and he begins to lick you greedily. A hoarse gasp comes out of your mouth, automatically you open your thighs a little wider.

When he starts to drill his tongue into your pussy, you can't help but automatically grind against his face. He lets you, not bothered at all, on the contrary. As his prominent nose rubs over your swollen clit, he drills his tongue further into your moist heat, your juice running down his chin, dripping onto his chest plate. His hands grip your buns tightly, pressing you against his face. You hear him slurping again and again, taking in your arousal as if he needs it to survive.

Your thighs tremble, your swollen pearl pulses under the friction, and the feeling of his tongue darting into your hole again and again is overwhelming. But when you reach into his hair on impulse, he stops, jumps up and stares at you. His gaze is wild, different from before. He whirls you around, pressing your back against the tabletop.

With one hand on your sternum he pushes you down on the table, with the other, he loosens his codpiece and pulls the pants of his blacks down a bit. His hard length pops out behind it, thick, proud and pre-cum leaking.

He's still holding you down on the tabletop. You willingly open your legs for him. As he reaches for his cock with his free hand and rubs it over your damp folds, you moan softly, expectantly.

"You want my cock, don't you?"

With a nod, you say softly, your cheeks heated, "Yes."

"Louder," he demands.

"Yes!"

"Yes, what?"

"I want your cock inside me!" you outright scream at him, ashamed, aroused, heart racing wildly.

The smile on his face isn't warm or friendly, it's knowing and deceitful.

"Then tell me where your shuttle is hidden, the shuttle that has the goods you stole from the Empire".

Your hesitation angers him. He pushes against your entrance, but doesn't penetrate you.

"Tell me, and I'll fuck you senseless, that's what you want".

You tremble on the table, from arousal, anticipation and shame. He dips his tip a tiny bit and withdraws from you again.

"Come on, tell me, we both know you want this".

When you finally tell him the coordinates, he penetrates you, long, slow and deep, stretching your little hole with his thick cock, with a deep moan. It's overwhelmingly good.

"Good girl," he coos before he starts pounding into you, making good on his promise.

Ko-Fi (If you feel like giving me some coffee)

@rintheemolion

@andyoufollowyourheart @clone-whore-99

@brynhildrmimi @kaliel2310

@misogirl828 @tech-deck

@meshla-madalene

@chxpsi

@thebahdbitch

@nahoney22 @ladykatakuri

@darkangel4121

@ttzamara

@arctrooper69

@padawancat97

@agenteliix

@allsystemsblue

@palliateclaws

@either-madness-or-brilliance

@ortizshinkaroff

@andy-solo1

@hunterssecretrecipe

@heyitsaloy

@greaser-wolf

@extrahotpixels

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faiiryteethh · 7 months

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ive been living with sensory issues my whole life, i freak out when someone makes small changes to my routine, like i hate doing spontaneous things, most of the time i hate physical affection, & i have such a hard time socializing & making friends. i have bipolar disorder and other disorders like anxiety, etc. but my treatment for those things doesn't help with these other issues i have. i hate being like this and i want to work toward change but i don't know what to do to work toward it. 😞

like i said i have trouble making friends and i always have since i was a kid. i've always felt like an alien compared to other ppl. and that's fine because i prefer being alone. but i hate that i can't act normal in social situations and ppl always think im rude or weird when im not trying to be 😢 and it sucks because i kinda have to be in social settings sometimes because i have children. and i dread it for these reasons every time. nobody is interested in the same things as me. and when i talk about my interests ppl tell me im too obsessed with something or tell me its weird altogether. which hurts. and when i am able to make "friends" i always get taken advantage of because i can never tell when someone is taking advantage of me and my kindness or if they have malicious intentions with me. and i feel stupid every time because my bf will tell me they are "obviously playing you" or my mom will say stuff like "can't you tell that they aren't interested?" or the one i always get is "why can't you see that this guy is flirting with you/trying to sleep with you."

idk if im just having a panic attack or a mental breakdown or what. but this has been building up inside of me for years. i feel so stupid and weird. i have to carry lotion around with me because if my hands don't have moisture on them at all times i literally sit there with chills going up my spine and i can't touch anything. certain clothes make me want to rip my skin off. and my family gets annoyed every time i have to run back in the house because i forgot to grab it. which just adds to the guilt i feel for being this way and i can't control these issues no matter how hard i try.

i've literally made so many lists and "rules" for myself on how to act around ppl and i try so hard to follow them just to get through whatever event is going on.

i think thats why i throw myself into my interests and use them to escape reality so much. once i find something i like i become obsessed with it forever and i talk about it so much to the point where my bf tells me its too much. certain characters and shows are the only thing that brings me comfort sometimes. i have so many unnecessary lists and categories for my interests. i know its very time consuming and pointless but just having them makes me feel better. like pinterest for example is my best friend lol. making these lists and stuff just soothes me in a way. as stupid as that sounds. but even tho it comforts me it still makes me feel stupid because ive never met anyone else who does that.

i've never ever spoken about this stuff online/publicly before. mainly because of embarrassment and fear of being bullied for it since ive already been relentlessly harassed for a million other things. i just have so much anxiety all the time. and doing pointless things helps with it but i want to stop feeling this way. or at least have answers as to why i am this way so maybe i can fix it. im tired of feeling awkward or different from other ppl. i want to be normal and pleasant to be around. i want to get along with the other parents at school functions instead of being scared to talk to ppl. i can't even make eye contact with anyone i talk to. ive tried since i was LITERALLY a child and no matter what i always get scared or nervous and look away. and its really noticeable to other ppl because they've mentioned it to me.

i'm posting this to vent but also maybe someone reading this has gone through the same thing or can help me. because i feel so hopeless and im scared im going to be this way forever. ive only been able to find info on the sensory thing and ive found that there is no way to get rid of it. ive tried everything and ive given up on that. but i know i can change my actions and how i interact with ppl if i can just figure out WHY i am like this.

pls don't laugh at me or say anything mean if you choose to comment on this post. i already have so much anxiety and fear about posting it. i don't want sympathy or anything like that. i just need help 😞🥺😢

i have an appointment booked for seeing a psychiatrist but that isn't until november i haven't seen one since i was a little kid. so i'm hoping to maybe get some answers in the meantime.

i already can't work and im getting disability soon because my bipolar is so crippling. it affects my ability to function so much. and i have these other problems on top of it. the fact that i can't even make a living like "normal" ppl makes me feel bad about myself already. and since i can't get a job or a career i want i just want to feel normal in my everyday life and around ppl AT THE VERY LEAST.

#kh

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s0lar-ch3ri · 1 year

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making this a series ig (spoilers, mostly minor, idk well just have to ROLL WITH IT AND SEE)

episode is starting from zero, episode 1 (quick note: i love how excited everyone is aty the beggining for this camoain, so heartwarming) "'for all you audio listeners your about to hear what a man catching on fire sounds like' 'and also a house catching on fire'" "so its like 3 belts? yeah" "this character sucks not enough belts" ok chip hasnt been described and hes already drawn blood "how much trouble does this woman have keeping her pants up holy shit" "anything that looks valueable, take it" "whats a barrel" instant love with this campaine from here "ill carry this" "ok" "but w h y" “this is the fastest I've ever committed arson in a campaign” "ok as soon as we light this ill let them know so they die an honorable death" "but the barrel is terrified of fire" "so this is a barrel" "lets blow up this popcicle place" hes trying guys "grab a barrel as well i need to study" "in you multitude of belts" when did i forget jay had so many and got bullied for it "i hope she didnt find any more belts in there" ok but whenever i hear marshal jon being described the dopamine just floods out "oh! that wasnt the bathroom!" "no it was not, it was the room where we got the explosives" "WHAT ARE YOU GRABBING THE EXPLOSIVES FOR" "to blow up your ship" bro i loved how gill interacted with people before what an idiot /pos "gill make a-dont make anything you told the truth" gotta love grizzly doing a save "and jay you go to kick this man in the back of the knee and you do you realise that his calf muscles are literally built like boulders" "i want to put my hand on his shoulder" and so it begins the convincing! yes gill go!! "hang on let me see that...big j" "JON, ITS YOUR CHOIIIIIIIIIIIIIISE" "as the door is blown off-" "did somebody fart?" ah yes gill you lit the explosive that makes people fart" "BACHOW!" please dont stop this man from making random noises its great "is your skin always wet or is it dry?" GRIZZ ASKING THE REAL QUESTIONS!! "you are to learn a lesson from the moisture master!" remember when gill made his title canon now, its 6 seconds to 20 minutes in "THOSE PIRATES!" man knowing him now its kinda strange to hear him hunting them down "i just occasonally grab people and im like 'you can be better'" cant believe gill went from telling people to be better to just immedately trying to solve their problems (like not even 2 episodes later if im remembering right) "excellent jay you are a fog frog" "im gonna steal somebody's hat then run out the door" jay stealing chips job now "im passing the barrel out the window" i remember when hed just be a problem for any stealth kind of movements "MY FRIEND SAID HE DOESNT WANT YOU TO HAVE AN ADVANTAGE" "there is still time" ITS STARTING WOW "you get the sense this guy cannot see very well" i forgot he had sight problems "YOU BLEW A HOLE IN OUR TOWER" "and you blew a hole in my heart" ACCIDENTAL FORESHADOWING AND A GREAT MOMENT FOR SHIPPERS?? HOW MUCH IS CHARLIE FEEDING US WITH GILLION TIDESTRIDER!?!!? (spoiler: a lot) "can i make a persuasion check?" "sure" if charlie never said this we would never have the future pirate jon, IF HE NEVER GOT A 16 THINK WHAT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED "you cant tell if i cry a single tear or if im usually that moist" the fact that he is can make for an angsty hc that nobody really would notice gill crying "jon didnt make it" oh this better not be another accidental foreshadow "you see, a pink frogtupus" everyone being excited for the preztal reveal was also all of us huh dont lie! "i look like a big flounder" fanartists canon gill description /j "god damn it big j" friendly reminder that (from what ive seen) marshal jon is the only character gill gave a nickname, and he had met him like 20+ minutes ago "YA BOY GILL ABOUTA BE FRIED" "ima just grab them both and jump" ngl i cant put my finger on it but calmer gillion probs the chaos control thats needed because of him being feral "jon this is for you" *proceeds to get an 8* (would have been epic if he suceeded that charisma tho) "jon, the power is- eyeh" "i look over wistfully (?) 'but w h y?'"

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words-by-elliott · 8 months

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oh my gosh there are like 17 of y'all now. Wowsers. I've been busy finding housing and trying to scrape together enough coin to make that happen. My phone broke too so I just downloaded Tumblr on the new one.

I've been doing witch activities recently. and I think this blog is a safe space to share my experiences and seekins.

as far as experience goes, I'm quite the novice. In magic I mean. but I'm exploring this part of me and trying to figure out what this is, and what it can be. to put it shortly, I am patient. I am open. I believe.

I bring this up because today I had much progress in this pursuit.

In the morning I communed with the sea. I grew up on the Raritan Bay, in my home and my love, New Jersey. It was a 10 minute walk to a quiet local beach. Despite this it had been years since I had fully communed with her. I regret taking her for granted. Especially because now I live a 45 minute drive from the ocean.

But I made it today, while it's still hot as fuck out. There was a lovely picnic, basking in the suns embrace, and of course, the bay.

I swam among the jellyfish with the friend who drove me. I helt held by the cool waves. I felt myself healing. I took my heart and mind stones in for a attunement before I left.

When we got back to the city I met my girlfriend.

I told her,

"Sorry I smell brackish."

She replied,

"you kinda have a brackish vibe all the time, it's really attractive."

It one of the best compliments I've ever received. I love that woman.

The day was not without stress. I struggled. I cried. There's a lot going on right now, I'm up in the air again.

But like, and this is gonna sound like a weird turn, Ive had this pumpkin from october of last year. She made it 11 months before she started growing mold.

This pumpkin has given me so much love and support these past few months. Everytime I saw it I would smile and laugh because it seemingly refused to decay.

It remained. Until now. A month from a year, and a month before my lease is up.

I said goodbye. Took a moment to thank her for the joy she's provided. Lit some insense and blew some smoke at her to send her off.

I kept the stem. Cut the flesh off, (which I'll make into paints later), and scrubbed away what was left of the pumpkin bits.

I love that pumpkin. I truly believe there's a joyful spirit inside of it, that I've fed and nurtured with my own joy and love. And it in turn has fed and nurtured me.

I made a necklace out of the stem. I believe that her sprit resides in it, and that that spirit is my friend. I get to take her with me wherever I want now, but I'm thinking about letting her cure so she doesn't get fucked up by moisture or something.

[the charms she wears are my heart and mind stones]

So yea, feeling very witchy rn. It's September so tis the season I suppose. But I remain excited for future lessons, experiences, and friends.

#witchblr #witchcraft #new witch #beginner witch #relics #nature #spirituality #spiritual development #pretty rocks #magic #mage #wizardposting #positivity #blooming #happy #healing

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magnoliamyrrh · 24 days

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How come your hair hasn't fallen out from braids? From what I have heard this is what happens?

man bc this is just a folktale that if you Ever do braids and you dont have afro hair Even Once your hair will absolutely fall out or be messed up forever. this just isnt the case sorry lol

- even ppl with afro hair can get traction alopecia from braids if they get the braids done way too damn tight to the point where theyre crying their scalp is bright red and you can see the hair pulled out by the root

- if you dont know how to take braids out this will definitely cause issues but when i had my hair long id do braids so small id use a needle to take them out and it was fine

- ive done this several times for a year + now and never lost hair. when i had my real long hair id do it to protect my hair when i knew id be too depressed to actually care for it, it was the better alternative

- when its braided i moisturize the hell out of my hair and scalp, usually oiling it at least once every 1-2 days (my hair also can take a lot of oil tho)

- i have thick hair which helps, i have a lot of hair strands to hold up the weight of braids. i also tend to do them very small and many, which means there isnt too much pressure on my head

- how you care for your hair is important. again, moisturizing and oiling, deep oiling before and after, and sleeping with silk scarfs and with hairstyles which dont put too much pressure

- there are non afro cultures which do braids. ie tibetans turks bulgarians and romanians

- ive been doing this for quite awhile and i still have very thick hair :)

#when u do ur real hair its not good for the very ends of it if u do it small ill tell u that #but i never rly cared abt that bc i needed to trim the ends anyway

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the-lonelybarricade · 2 years

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They Are the Hunters, We Are the Foxes

Part IV: A Garden of Wilted Flowers

Elucien Week Day 4: Parallels, @elucienweek2022

Summary: Nesta had been very firm in her instruction not to stray from the path. The path was safe—sprinkled with iron dust every morning by the mercenaries who protected their villages. But Elain had spied the blackberries, plump and ripe for the taking, if only because no sensible human would have dared. Ordinarily, Elain wouldn’t have. Too terrified of the fae and what she heard they did to young, pretty human girls like herself. But today, Elain was to be married. Even facing the woods was less daunting than that.

CW: Little red riding hood AU. Dubious morality, mildly dubious consent, forced marriages, smut, and gratuitious use of the word "wife". Unhinged from start to finish.

Read on AO3・Elucien Week Masterlist・Series Masterlist

Previous Chapter・Next Chapter

Despite Helion’s urging, Elain did not end up seeing much of Velaris outside their bedroom. They had hired their staff and visited the seamstress in the same day—practically within the same hour, from their shared urgency to find somewhere private to copulate.

If their carriage could be considered private. Or the backroom of the seamstress’s shop. Or the water feature in front of Helion’s manor. Every second not spent breathing the air from his very lungs made Elain feel as though she were suffocating.

He was a sickness and the cure.

She knew he lived on a mountain of secrets, but she would let them bury her alive if it meant she could continue feeling his lips on her neck. On her breasts. Lower.

“Here?” His lips pressed against her hip bone, tongue darting out to taste her salty skin. She felt damp, still slick with sweat from when he had taken her in their bed hardly ten minutes ago.

They had ventured into the bathing room with the intention to get clean. Somehow she’d ended up braced on the edge of the pool, steam curling up from the bubbling water to wind around her wrist, her stomach, her neck. The hot moisture that hung in the air only exacerbated the wet heat of her skin. Collecting at her neck, beneath her breasts�� between her thighs.

Perhaps that had more to do with Lucien, water raised to his chest as he perched happily between her legs. It seemed like he got to use the water while she was being subjected to a tongue bath. Which, truthfully, she had no complaints about.

Except— “Lower, please.” She grabbed his hair, warm spring water dripping between her fingers.

He smirked. “What do you sa—”

“Lucien.” She tugged, impatient with his games.

The low, rough chuckle she earned in response splintered across her skin like the droplets that fell back into the pool, rippling the water where they fell. Elain knew what that was like. For a single drop to spiral out of control, until it was something else entirely.

That’s how it felt to have kissed him for the first time.

One small drop, just enough to taste. Enough to become addicted.

And now there was no going back.

Lucien brought his mouth to her center, lips parting in the most sinful kiss. Her head fell back as he tasted her, his tongue lapping just as desperately as she felt. Like he had become addicted, too.

She gasped as his tongue teased at her entrance. He brought his hands over her hips to still her attempts to grind into him. And from where he held her down, the span of his fingers were so wide that he was able to brush his fingers over her clit. Only enough to tease a whine out of her.

Elain tugged at his hair again, intending it to be a punishment. But from his hum of approval, she thought he considered it the opposite. She did it again, feeling so empty she would try anything to get his tongue inside her.

Lucien only swirled his tongue in a slow, lazy circle. His eyes were bright with humor as he tweaked his fingers playfully against that hooded bundle of nerves. He laughed at her attempt to buck her hips.

With a frustrated groan, she yanked on his hair harder. He must have taken pity by the way he plunged his tongue into her center. Elain sighed, some of that ache satiated at feeling Lucien inside of her. It seemed that any part would do, though Lucien certainly seemed to have his preferences. Sometimes it felt like she couldn’t keep his mouth off of her.

It was a perfectly lovely habit, and she was certain it was an oddity among men—though she had known no others who could confirm or deny her suspicion. It became tedious, however, in those moments where a need struck her so severely that nothing but his cock could satisfy it.

Elain felt that need, clawing up her bones, on this very occasion. She tugged at his hair again, this time trying to pull him away.

He pushed closer, hands tightening where they pressed her against the rough stone.

“Lucien,” she complained, pulling him away again.

In response, he growled, fucking his tongue into her faster. That pressure amped up her craving until it was a hot, demanding thing that she was suddenly frantic to be rid of.

“Lucien,” she urged again, pulling until she was certain it would make him sore and still he continued, adding pressure to his fingers at her clit until she was keening, the pleasure so demanding it bordered on pain. Her vision had gone blurred, and maybe the heat was making her light headed because suddenly everything went white.

She screamed, the sound bouncing endlessly back and forth in the large cavern. There was no time to register the way she was being heaved off the rock. One minute she was collapsed on her back atop the wet stone, and the next she was half-submerged in water. Her muscles were still fluttering from orgasm as Lucien sheathed her onto her cock, and the resulting feeling sent her mind spinning.

Elain choked, collapsing into his chest as Lucien thrust into her, stretching her body maddeningly tight around him.

“Fucking perfect,” he grunted. “Like you were made for me.”

She could only nod from where she buried her face into his neck, each moan lost to his smooth, freckled skin.

“Say it,” he growled, punctuating the demand with a thrust that pushed the air out of her lungs. “Please.”

Elain knew what he was asking for. It was no trouble on her part to guide her teeth over his neck, scraping along the column of his throat. She felt him shiver. “You’re mine.”

He moaned, his thrusts becoming erratic. Elain felt herself clench around him and knew they were both moments from being dragged over the edge. Just for revenge, she sunk her teeth into his neck.

Lucien came without warning, growl so loud it shook the cavern. She moaned, fingers digging into his skin as she came at the sensation of her husband spilling inside her. They clung to each other, both gasping. Both sweaty and filthy despite standing in the pool of warm, soapy water. From where she laid her head against his chest, she could hear his rapid heartbeat underneath. An echo of her own.

“Does it ever stop feeling like this?” she asked softly.

“I hope not,” was his reply.

Elain couldn’t help but agree.

They ended up staying a full week at Helion’s manor. Doing little other than fucking.

And despite the fact that they could just as easily achieve the same in their own manor, Elain could tell Lucien was sad to leave.

He kept his head at the window from the moment they departed, watching the passing streets and shops Elain would have loved to explore if she could stand a minute without undressing her husband—which presently seemed very unlikely.

“What if I kept you here?” he murmured, staring longingly out over the city. “We need never return to that horrid place.”

Elain wished she was brave enough to ask what memories haunted him. If she thought their manor looked like a prison from the outside, she could only imagine a childhood inside those cold, unfeeling walls.

“I don’t… I don’t want to leave my sisters,” she whispered, thinking about his promise to have them live on the estate. Was that selfish of her to want?

Lucien looked pained. “They could come here, too.

“That seems an awfully big burden to put on Lord Helion,” she said, frowning to even

consider asking such a thing from the generous Lord. Especially after they had been such disruptive guests.

“We could sell the manor and buy our own place in the city,” he proposed, studying each of the passing houses like potential candidates.

Elain couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped her, surprised that it was mostly a thing of affection. “I’m not opposed,” she admitted, reaching across to take his hand. She squeezed it, which encouraged Lucien to take his eyes off the window long enough to stare over at her. The open adoration on his face made her heart constrict. “But regardless, we need to go back. For now.”

“Promise me we’ll return,” he whispered, looking back out the window.

And how could she say no, when he had such hope in his eyes? The secrets, the marriage arrangement, the unspoken stain it left on their relationship… perhaps they could leave it all behind in that manor. Take her sisters from the village and never look back. The thought filled Elain’s chest with hope, too.

She smiled softly at him. “I promise.”

Elain was picking flowers the second time she saw the fox.

It had been naive of her to stop on the path, especially after she promised Lucien she would not wander. Convincing him to let her visit her sisters alone had been a conquest in itself. And her insistence of traveling on foot, over the long winded path through the wood, had been distressing. But she knew her sisters better than anything, and she knew that his charming smiles and flashy wealth would earn him no favors. They saw him as the man who had stolen her away, and they would trust nothing she said in his presence, nor in the presence of a footman or maid who could report back to him.

So she went on foot, with the promise to be very well behaved and not to stray from the path. But Elain had spied the begonias, so deep a red they reminded her of Lucien’s hair. Though her sisters had never taken to gardening quite the same as Elain, she remembered that Feyre always had an eye for colors and she would love the vibrancy of its petals.

Ordinarily, Elain wouldn’t have. Not after she’d promised Lucien.

But the flowers were so close to the path that she could justify it to herself. It wasn’t nearly so risky as the blackberries she’d fetched all those weeks ago, and nothing had happened on that occasion.

Apart from the fox. Her gentle friend, who she wondered after often. If she was being honest with herself, perhaps she had wandered into the woods in the hope of seeing it.

And truly, it was its fault for indulging her.

Because there it was, as though her recklessness had summoned it.

She knew it was her fox, because it had that same scar over its eye. Elain thought it would be an extraordinary coincidence to run into two foxes with identical scars. Though she could have guessed it was the same fox by the way it was staring at her, like it was extremely disappointed to have caught her straying from the safety of the path on a second occasion.

“Hello again,” she said pleasantly, though she absently wondered how something so small and cute could look so disapproving. “I don’t have any berries with me today.”

The fox turned its head as it listened to her, leaving Elain with the ridiculous impression that it could understand her. Perhaps she was so eager for company that her mind was willing to play all manner of tricks on her to achieve it.

She had last seen the fox hardly a few weeks ago—but what a few weeks it had been. Her husband’s kindness, it seemed, was no mask at all. He continued to be nothing but gentle with her, both in behavior and manner of speaking. Elain was grateful for it, might in another world have been open to courting with him properly.

Except that he kept a hoard of secrets, and she was convinced they were of the darkest variety.

Not that they interfered much with their married life. Elain went back to sleeping in her bedroom when they returned to the manor and Lucien returned to doting on her in every capacity available. Often that meant sleeping in her bedroom and worshiping her with his tongue. When she invited him to join her, that is. Elain would ask him to sleep there permanently if she didn’t enjoy the way his face lit up every time she asked. It was never an expectation, regardless of how often she shared her body with him. She loved him a little bit for that alone, regardless of whatever dark secret he carried.

Elain huffed a sigh, turning her attention back to the fox that was staring at her so intently. Like she held the secrets of the world and might impart her wisdom to its fluffy, perked-up ears.

“You might be pleased to know that my husband is not so cruel as I feared he would be,” she whispered, so it stayed a secret between herself and the fox. The only other creatures around to hear were the begonias and the surrounding wood, and she did not think they would tell.

The fox took a step closer, eyes wide and curious enough that she supplied, “He’s actually very kind. Though I would caution you not to be caught by him.”

Elain shuddered to think of the stuffed fox that had adorned their entryway. It was gone now—buried, she suspected, or thrown out somewhere she had not found it.

Warm rays of sunlight stretched through the leaves to stroke the fox’s fur as it ventured closer still, coat gleaming like a new copper coin. It was close enough now that Elain could reach over to pet it, if she so desired. It was no small impulse by the way her fingers twitched where she still had them poised around a begonia’s stem. Her hands were smudged with dirt and sticky with sap.

It would be a shame, she thought, to get dirt all over the poor, well-groomed fox.

The fox didn’t seem to harbor any such concerns, for it pranced right up to her until she felt its fur brush her ankles. It curled its large, fluffy tail around its body and stretched beside her as though it hadn’t a care in the world.

“Peculiar thing,” she said to it, marveling at its out-turned ears and otherwise relaxed expression. “With that scar, I would have thought you’d be more mistrusting.” Its ears twitched, like it were listening intently to her words, but its expression was fixed intently on the begonia she was still in the process of plucking.

Elain sighed, pulling the flower from the bush to add to the carefully selected bushel in her other hand. She made a big show of wiping her hands against the moss to get the sap off, half-heartedly hoping to scare him off. She didn’t want the fox to become used to coming near people for company, lest Lucien or one of his guards encounter the creature and decide to do something untoward. But the fox hardly reacted to her movements.

It only quietly observed her, measuring every sound in the creaking forest as she rose to her feet.

“I’m visiting my sisters,” she said to it. “So I really must be going.”

Unlike before, the fox did not sit and watch her leave. It bounded immediately to its feet and followed at her side, back towards the iron path.

Elain couldn’t decide if she should be touched or concerned. It felt nice to think it had chosen her in some strange way. That this thing had seen her in the woods and taken such a liking that it decided to follow her on the journey. Wearing her red cape as she walked alongside it, she couldn’t help feeling they were kindred spirits in some way.

Still, Elain laughed. “I have a feeling you’re only following me because you don’t trust I’ll stay on the path.”

The look it sent her was one of such human judgment she would have believed he was something more clever than a fox altogether. But it was trotting alongside her, over the iron dusted pathway that no fae could cross.

Just a fox, she assured herself. Just an exceptionally clever fox.

“I wish you could speak,” she said to it thoughtfully, finding the walking helped her mind wander. “I feel as though you would have many insightful things to say.”

It cocked his head, as if to say, Oh really?

“I would ask how you got your scar,” she continued. “My husband has one too. Right in the same spot, oddly enough.” She frowned. “I’ve never asked him how he got his scar, either. I think a part of me is afraid to ask.”

The fox, of course, said nothing. But somehow its silence felt expectant, like it were begging her to continue.

And who else could she admit it to? Not her sisters, who would encourage her to run and never look back. Not her husband, who would deny every wrongdoing just as he’d lied to her face. This little creature, though, would listen.

“He is hiding something from me,” she said. “Something awful, I just know it.”

The fox ducked its ears behind its head and made a soft whimpering noise. Pity? An apology? It was so difficult to tell, but it tugged at her heart all the same.

They came to a fork in the road. There was the plain path, which led to the village, and a small dirt path to the left that had clearly been made in foot traffic alone—and not a large amount of it, given the wildlife that invaded each side. It was so ill-maintained that brambles clung to her dress and cape as she pushed through, the fox slinking quietly at her feet.

She sped up at the sight of a thatched roof in the distance, smoke puffing out of the chimney to signal that someone was home. It did not take her long to fly down the familiar path and fling her fist against the worn wooden door.

It opened to wide blue eyes and a soft mouth that fell open with surprise. “Elain?”

“Hi,” she gushed, seconds before she was pulled into a tight embrace.

“We missed you,” Feyre whispered. The fingers fisted in her cape said as much. “Did you come here all by yourself?”

Elain found herself glancing over her shoulder, prepared to tell her sister about the strange friend she had made in the woods. But the fox was nowhere to be seen. “Yes,” Elain breathed. “I wanted to come alone.”

Those blue eyes were so discerning as they swept Elain over from head to toe, searching for any sign of injury. “And how is Graysen?”

Her heart went still. That name. She knew that name. “Graysen?”

“Yes, Graysen,” Feyre said, brows bunching with concern. “Is he treating you well?”

Cold, icy water slithered through her veins. Lord Graysen, she remembered. That had been the name in the letter, which Nesta had read aloud while Elain sobbed hysterically into a pillow. Her heaving gasps had drowned out so much, but the name felt unmistakable now.

Graysen.

“Of course,” Elain said stiffly, forcing a smile she knew Feyre did not believe. “He is treating me very well.”

“I’m surprised he let you visit.” Her voice was low. Even with no one but the trees to overhear, it was wise to use caution when speaking poorly of a Lord. “The tales of how his mother was treated are…” Feyre blinked, studying Elain’s expression and thinking better of it.

“They were rumors, anyhow. It’s easy to spread word about someone who never left the house to deny them.”

It was charitable of Feyre to say, though the words were laced with a question Elain could not answer. She tried to, anyway. “Graysen speaks very fondly of his mother.”

Feyre nodded. “I’m sure he loved her dearly.” Then, an awkward pause where neither knew exactly what to say.

It was not the reunion Elain wanted with her sister. Feyre was clever, and she could sense Elain’s energy was off. But what could she say? Let Feyre believe she was lying and that her husband treated her unkindly. It was better than the truth.

“Nesta is tutoring the baker’s son. She should be home soon.”

Tutoring, for a loaf of bread. Sometimes giving dance lessons to the butcher's daughter, in exchange for cuts of meat he likely would have thrown out regardless. Elain used to tend gardens on the condition she could salvage some of their vegetables. All to supplement whatever food Feyre could scavenge as deep into the woods as she would dare. It was a hard life, but suddenly she longed for its simplicity.

Feyre opened the door wider. “Why don’t you come inside? You must be tired after your walk.”

I’ve had enough killing to last a century.

What had Lucien done? Why? And more importantly, if she stayed with her sisters, or fled, would he turn his wrath on them next?

Elain took a step back. “Actually I should… I should really be going. The walk took longer than I anticipated and Lu—Lord Graysen wants me home for dinner.”

“I…” Feyre looked around, then said quietly, “Elain, you’re safe here. You can speak freely. Whatever you need, we’ll figure it out.”

“I know.” And she did. She knew that her sisters would follow her to the ends of the world. That if she asked them to run, they would flee with her before the sun touched the horizon. For a moment, she entertained the idea. How far would Lucien chase her? What lengths could he possibly go to, when their marriage had been a farce to begin with?

“I know,” she said again, blinking back tears. If she spilled them, Feyre would not let her go back. And Elain needed to get her answers. “But I assure you I’m fine. Truly, I just mistimed my arrival. I will come back, perhaps tomorrow?”

A different younger sister might have taken the outburst personally. Been upset or angry. Feyre only pressed her lips together, eyes glistening.

“Of course,” she said softly. “You are welcome home any time.”

Elain gave her sister a tight hug in farewell. She wavered longer than she should have, trying to draw from the courage of clever, tenacious Feyre. She had always quietly endured, always stepped up to do what was necessary to survive. Elain needed to borrow some of that spirit to face the man parading as her husband.

It took ten steps from the cottage door before the door shut. Elain didn’t dare look back, though she knew Feyre watched her warily. Perhaps weighing the cost of forcing Elain to stay, or insisting on coming with.

It took another five before the fox reappeared.

“Shy?” She asked it, the words gritted. Sweet as the fox was, she did not have the patience for entertaining such folly.

The foxes ears fell, and she immediately felt guilty.

“Sorry,” she whispered, feeling tears brim her eyes now that she was away from Feyre. “It’s just… my husband—” she choked on a bitter laugh— “Actually, he’s not even my husband. He’s just a liar. And likely a murderer.”

Those soft auburn feet paused in their step, and Elain found herself stopping too. The fox stared at her through wide russet eyes, tail tucked low and ears pressed flat against its head.

“I don’t speak fox,” she snapped, frustrated. Why was she humoring this? It was a fox. It didn’t even understand what she was saying; it was likely just picking up on her change in tone and behavior.

Still, it stared at her like it understood. Eyes expectant, slightly sad. And there was something about being pitied by a fox of all things that finally made the tears break through.

“He lied to me.” Elain sunk to her knees. Her cape and dress dragged over the dirt, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. “I knew he was lying, but…” Not about this. She had believed he was her husband. Had started to…

The fox crept forward with such caution that she felt like the wild animal, the thing that might snap at any second. But it came closer until it could press its fluffy head against her hand. It was an urging motion, moving its body beneath her in a way that caused her hand to stroke down its back. Its fur was softer than she expected, warm from the sun and fluffier than any blanket they had in their home.

Perhaps it was simply an animal that wanted attention, but it was able to stun Elain out of her sadness. At least temporarily. “You want me to… pet you?”

In answer, it rolled onto its side and stretched, exposing the white fur on its stomach. Elain warily reached forward and pressed her hand against its soft chest. She released a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding in, her lips parting open as the creature practically preened at her touch, arching closer in encouragement. Its snout parted to show sharp teeth and a long, pink tongue as it began making the strangest chittering noise.

Happy, she thought. It sounded happy that she was petting it. And she found herself… feeling that way, too. Found herself laughing at how sweet this little woodland creature was and how odd the circumstance.

She felt touched that this thing had seen her in the woods and taken such a liking that it followed her all the way here. That despite her fake husband and the pretend roles they’d played, she had still found something that was uniquely hers. A friend that was honest, if only because it could not speak enough words to lie.

“Sweet fox,” she cooed, affection flooding her chest as she watched its eyes sink shut in pleasure. “Will you come home with me? I’m afraid to go alone.”

The fox opened its eyes, some of that joy dissolving to sadness. Or perhaps that was her own joy fleeing as reality pressed back in.

She lifted herself to her feet. The fox quickly did the same, ears lowering once more as it watched her lift her cape to wipe the tears from her eyes. The smell of her sister's perfumes still lingered on the fabric, lending just a little more courage. Elain resolved that she would not let Lucien see any of her sorrow, only her anger.

Elain took a deep breath and put one foot in front of the other—found that it became an easier thing to accomplish when she saw the fox was walking beside her. She was not alone. She had her sisters and her fox, lending her the strength she needed to take on the world.

Or in this case, her husband.

When the large, towering walls came into view, Elain had to coax the fox into her arms to hide beneath her cape. The guards hardly blinked as she passed, and she was certain there were fewer of them than she remembered.

It caused her head to swim with questions. How many people had Lucien killed? Lord Nolan and Graysen and all their staff? How else would he dismiss them, when they would have known he was not their master? And the guards… how had he gotten past them? She glanced over to the tall, impenetrable walls. Climbing them would have been impossible.

I have never killed a faerie.

Human lords do tend to be useless.

I’ve had my fill of it for a few centuries.

Elain was so close to the cottage now, she could see the details of the iron door. Iron. He couldn’t be a faerie. She had watched him open the door, touch his bare hand to the iron frame. Perhaps he’d been a servant, she thought. Already inside the manner, and treated cruelly until the day he snapped. That did not explain Lord Helion. A servant would not have that sort of relationship with a Velaris Lord.

She thinks I’m some spoiled Lord’s son who had no concern for her willingness in our marriage.

Isn’t that exactly what you are?

A Lord’s son. Of who? Helion’s face flickered behind her eyes, his charming smile that was so like Lucien’s. The way they expressed affection toward each other more readily than she had ever seen from two men before. But they looked practically the same age, it would have been impossible.

Unless they were fae.

It would explain so much of Lucien’s behavior, how he could be so animalistic at times. It would explain why he would want Lord Nolan and his son dead.

It would not explain why he had stayed to pretend to be her husband.

Elain was trembling as she opened the heavy iron door. The fox, bundled tightly against her chest, laid its head against her neck in what she convinced herself was an extension of comfort. It did make her feel steadier, and she hugged the creature closer in an effort to soothe her racing pulse.

“Lucien?” she called, listening to her voice bounce against the empty entryway. All the weapons and hunting trophies were long gone, which she was grateful for. She couldn’t imagine it would be a welcoming sight to the fox she had smuggled inside.

One of the servants from Velaris ducked her head and offered Elain a pleasant smile. “I’m afraid he stepped out, lady. Not long after you left.”

“That’s alright,” she said, forcing a smile in return. It at least gave her time to think. To plan.

This was a house of people whose lives were dedicated to killing the fae. There must be weapons stashed somewhere, designed for that very purpose. For now, she headed to the kitchen and slipped a knife beneath her cape when the cooks weren’t looking.

She felt the fox whimper quietly against her chest, earning her an odd look from the nearest cook. He said nothing, and Elain quickly fled the kitchen before he could realize she was carrying an animal beneath her cape. Though, as the Lady of the house, she was perfectly entitled to do so.

“It’s not for you,” she assured the fox, certain it was startled by the knife she now carried carefully in one of her hands. “It’s just… for protection."

Elain carried them up to her room before she set the knife on her bed stand and carefully released the fox onto her bed. It watched her, so intently, as she locked her door and pushed her vanity in front of it. When faced with the famed, inhuman strength of a faerie, it was probably a pathetic deterrent. But it set her heart at ease, just as the knife she slid beneath her pillow, and the fox that curled up beside her as she laid on the bed.

She pulled the fox close, pressing her face into its neck. It still smelled like the forest, which unnotched some of the tightness in her chest. Just enough that she felt she could breathe again. Perhaps it was selfish of her to bring this creature into her home and expose it to Lucien’s mercy. She could not imagine it could do much to defend itself against a faerie.

But the fox made her feel she was not entirely alone. The way it curled its tail around her waist and tucked its face into her breasts made her feel cared for. Safe, despite their mutual defenselessness.

Elain stroked her fingers absently through its soft fur until the motion lulled her to sleep. She dreamt of Lucien, his hard body enveloping hers as his fingers stroked through her hair, telling her over and over again that he was sorry. That he loved her and he was sorry.

When she woke at dawn, sunlight breaking through the window, it was the fox that laid beside her. The windows were still shut, the vanity still pushed in front of the door.

Her stomach grumbled as she sat up, and the fox raised its head. It was staring at her in that same disapproving way as before, saying sternly with its eyes, you need to eat. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before, but going downstairs ran the risk of seeing Lucien.

She could imagine him, ever doting, coming immediately to her door when he came home. He had probably been hurt to find it locked, concerned when she didn’t come down for dinner. It was odd he hadn’t knocked or called for her, but he did not know she had discovered the truth. Perhaps he decided she must have eaten dinner with her sisters.

Still, he would be filled with questions the second she opened the door to him. Insisting she tell him how her day went while he plied her with food and affection. Her heart ached at the thought. She wanted that, wanted it to be true and not built on this filthy, gruesome lie.

Regardless, she could not hide in her room without Lucien getting suspicious. Carefully, she slid the knife out from beneath her pillow and tucked her hand discreetly into the cape she had fallen asleep in.

“Stay here,” she murmured to the fox. “I’ll bring back some food.”

It ignored her, leaping from the bed to follow behind as she pushed the vanity away and unlocked the door.

The hall was quiet. They had not hired much staff, considering there was only two of them, and Elain considered it was still fairly early. The door to Lucien’s room was shut. If she was lucky, he was still sleeping. The fae had extraordinary senses, she’d heard, and he would likely be able to hear her sneaking past if he was awake.

When she was able to pass the door without it opening, she breathed a sigh of relief. And then immediately shrieked, when she nearly collided with a poor servant carrying fresh linens.

“Lady,” the servant breathed, placing a hand to her own chest. “I apologize for startling you.”

“It is I who must apologize,” Elain said, shifting her eyes back towards Lucien’s door. If he hadn’t heard her footsteps, then he’d certainly heard her shriek.

The servant followed her gaze and frowned. “The Lord didn’t return to the manor yesterday, lady.”

“He didn’t?”

Elain ignored the way the servant’s eyes drifted to the floor. Her brows furrowed at the sight of the fox, but she made no comment.

“No, lady. Not that any of us were made aware.”

How odd. Where could he have gone? Did he know she discovered the truth, perhaps guessed that her sisters would reveal it?

“Thank you,” Elain said, nodding her dismissal. The servant hurried on her way, glancing over her shoulder at the fox as she went. Elain understood it was a strange sight. And if she were being honest with herself, she didn’t know why she had decided to take the creature with her. It was just that she needed to not be alone, and there was something about the creature’s presence that comforted her. Smoothed over every crease in her heart.

It reminded her of the way she felt when she was around…

She glanced down at the fox.

The fox stared up at her.

Somewhere in the distance, a clock struck the hour. Each methodical ring notched a new piece into place.

One.

I’m getting married today.

Two.

I’ve never even seen his face before.

Three.

He lives at the end of the road.

Four.

I would ask how you got your scar. My husband has one too. Right in the same spot.

Five.

Elain ran.

Her footsteps thundered against the wooden floorboards, likely waking anyone who was still asleep. She didn’t care, not as the fox gave chase. He was obviously faster than her, and Elain tried to think quickly. She couldn’t outrun Lucien, there would be no use trying to flee. She had been made a fool more times than she could count. And now her very survival relied on outwitting the fox.

She half-tripped down the stairs in her urgency, and she knew that Lucien had slowed down. Like this was all just a game to him. Elain dashed blindly down the corridor. Where did he store the weapons? Did he burn them?

The front door stung her fingers as she slammed her hand into it, desperately grappling for the handle as Lucien came to a stop and sat down in the entryway. His patience spoke volumes to her about the futility of her situation. What could she even do against a faerie?

Outside, the sun had not fully parted from the horizon. The woods would still be dark at this hour, but could they be anymore dangerous than the creature lazily following behind her? If she made it as far as the guards, could they do anything to stop him?

Lucien stayed where he sat in the entryway, russet eyes curious as he waited to see what she would do next. There was a small garden shed, but Elain had been inside of it and there was certainly no weaponry to be found there. A trowel would be just as useless as the knife she still held in her hands.

But—there. A hatch to the cellar. A place that had felt so ominous she hadn’t dared satisfied her curiosity to look inside. She sprinted towards it. Judging by the panic she registered in Lucien’s expression, how he immediately leapt out the door to dart after her, she thought she must have made the correct decision.

The hatch rattled as she fell over it, jamming the lock open with more force than was necessary. There was a high pitched, screaming noise that came from Lucien. A sound that she thought had been a threat.

As the doors pushed open with such force that they smacked into her face and immediately threw her onto her back, Elain realized the sound had been a warning. A man with a shock of filthy brown hair and dirt-smudged clothes fell on top of her and immediately seized Elain by the throat.

His spare hand was dripping with blood as he clutched a glass shard so sharply it cut into his skin. And he poised the tip to her breasts.

Lucien skidded to a halt. She glanced towards him to see his lips were curled into a snarl, showing off his sharp teeth. His hair stood up as he hunched his body like he were preparing to leap onto the man.

“Move, fox, and I’ll put this right through her chest,” the man warned, pressing the tip deeper to make his point. Elain gasped from the sting, and Lucien immediately went still.

He had bright blue eyes—they were the most pleasant thing about him, considering his tattered clothes and reeking scent. She wondered how long he had been locked in that cellar. Likely as long as she had been parading as Lady of the manor.

“Elain Archeron,” the man said. His grip on his neck lightened at the realization of who she was. She had thought it was a good sign. Until his upper lip curled into a sneer, and he said dryly, “How nice to finally meet my wife.”

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#They Are the Hunters We Are the Foxes #Elucienweek2022 #Elucien #Elucien fic #Elucien fanfiction #Elucien fanfic #Elain x Lucien #Lucien x Elain

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grvntld · 1 year

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9 march 2023—💐🥜 day hehe oha ayan i used it olredi wink wOnk chariz lmao ang haba naman ng title ng araw na itez kklk okie ito na yung buong post bbyE charOt game

ang happy lang tahday ♡ y'all know olredi the deal with my floral corset and my non-floral starbs cup so lezz skip that whole parteh and just say that i went to starbs and got my pistachio frappe thingy. there i was also able to write two articles. it was just for one brand, though, but izz fine. im happy abt that still. i wrote two articles bc they served a lot, and supah looooong food articles are just not my thing, ykwim?¿??¿ so yeah, dazz what happened, and so that means i could focus tmrw on writing recipe articles again. hehe. i just find them to be a breeze to write more, i guess, so yay!

after that, moosey and i had a sponty eat out in megamall. well, we shopped a bit at watsons bc my skin needs some extra moisturization. the cold weather is just drying my maarti skin really bad. moosey also got a few of his essentials. hehe. once we were done with that, we then went to marugame udon bc i miss it soooo much! moose and i had our go-tos, which are spicy pork udon and beef udon. i got us our fave sides too: tonkatsu, ebi katsu, and kani katsu (((+++ cheese sausage bc i was feeling extra hihi))).

we were supposed to watch the new john wick film, but it's still not showing pala. lol. so then we decided to watch the new avatar film bc ive been wanting to watch that for like ever but the next showing was at 8:30pm and the film is a lil more than 3 hours so that means we're gonna be home late and the furbebis will be home alone longer than we planned to, so yep, you guessed it, we decided to just skip the cinema for today since we miss the furbebis olredi (((+++ we are responsible furparents awOwOw))). nyahahaha.

now we are all resting on our bed, ready to sleepobeepo. hehe. (o˘◡˘o)

p.s. my skin now feels extra hydrated and moisturized. thank u v muuuuuch~

#cookie #tahday is a good day awiiiiiih~#icecream #i did not check this for errors so excuse me if you ever see anything

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cactuswaterscactusfields · 1 year

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Never About Us - Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Designated Traitor

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 5.0k

For anyone who has trouble imagining a sith din, here’s a link to a Tumblr post with something I made on mandocreator.

Chapter Warnings: Angst, Violence, Suspense, graphic depictions of violence, injury, IVs, compound fractures, and mentions of death. Choking. Loneliness. Loads of anxiety. This one has a pretty graphic description of injuries and blood, so if that kind of thing bothers you, please don’t read this chapter. A teensy amount of desperation. Lots of pain and suffering.

Translation guide: Beroya (mando’a): “Bounty Hunter”

Osi’yaim (mando’a): “Shithouse”, a very cowardly person. Very very heavy insult.

Thank you to Geo and Wren for beta-reading this! I appreciate you each and every day!

Your POV

The first thing you notice is the quiet. Your whole life, you’ve been surrounded by noise, always surrounded by unescapable sound that is always in the background, that you have to focus on, have to find, but it’s always, always there. Whether it’s the noise of ships taking off and landing, your boss talking to a potential client over a holo, the creaking of machinery, the rumble of a hyperdrive, or the gentle rumble of your neighbor’s sonic. There is always something going on, something to entertain your ears, but no, not here.

You’re surrounded by nothing but silence. You sit up, and the gentle orange glow of a nightlight greets your eyes. The silence begins to throb, as your heartbeat thuds loudly enough to be heard.

You’re in a bed. A warm, soft, squishy bed with blankets that keep you at the perfect temperature, surrounded by metal walls and an unforgiving metal ceiling. You know this bed. You know it very well, it’s the bed the Mandalorian Inquisitor put you in after your little run-in with the Trandoshan on Hoth. Anger. Rage. Bloodcurdling fury. It comes back to you. He had said those magical words, and then your vision went dark.

“I need to leave.”

It echoes in your mind as if it’s the only song you’ve ever heard. That, coupled with the deafening silence, causes you to get up out of bed. You need to do something. You need to hear something. You need something. Your ears are pounding as the blood rushes away from your head when you stand, and your vision goes spotty. You feel yourself lose your balance, and you fall into a wall, your shoulder letting out a throb of protest.

Your vision finally returns, and your hearing soon follows, and…you realize there is a distinct lack of Mandalorian Presence on the ship. You take a step, and your ankle begins to ache again, but you continue on your path. It’s not the worst thing you’ve felt, and you can deal with it. Right?

You hope so. You open the door, and a quiet hull greets you, a soft beeping sounding out occasionally from the water recycling unit, showing that it’s operating. After a moment, you realize it’s still processing your shower, meaning you haven’t been out for long. You stretch and make your way to the hatch. No sound means you’re not in hyperspace, and the fact that the ship isn’t running means you’re not moving. The oxygen recycler isn’t running, which means you’re on a habitable planet.

The only question…which one did The Mandalorian abandon your sorry ass on?

You reach up to press the hatch opening, and the hull creaks for a moment before the hatch slowly opens.

Green. So, so, so much green. Your eyes and mind take a moment to adjust to the sheer life around you, and you’re greeted by a pleasant sight. Green trees, green moss on rocks, green grass on the ground. The wind gently blows past your face, and you smell it. Moisture. Your father told you of this smell, of its name. Petrichor. The smell of rain after it’s fallen. You can feel all the lifeforms around you in your blood, in your bones, and in your mind like a massive web spreading over the entire planet. You reach your hand out, and a droplet lands on it from a tree somewhere above the ship. It’s cold, fresh, and you gently shake it off before you take your first tentative step into your new surroundings. Your feet gently squish on the mossy dirt, and it sticks to your feet slightly, leaving the smallest flecks of green on them. You take another step, and a cold rock greets your foot. You see something fly through the trees, and then it’s followed by something else. Your senses tell you it’s a form of some kind of flying lizard or bird, something endemic to wherever the hell you are.

It’s beautiful.

You turn back to the inside, and after wiping your feet, you find the clothes you had been wearing before you got hurt on Hoth. You pull them on in the ‘fresher, before zipping up your boots. Time to investigate. You look back one last time at the ship as you creep down the ramp, and your eyes widen.

A modified Razor Crest.

Where the hell did he get one of these? Not one, but two Razor Crests in what, a week? These pre-imperial fortresses are rarer than spice, and yet you’ve flown in two.

It at least explains the familiarity you felt earlier.

You take a deep breath in, and the crisp air is heavenly to your sand-blasted sinuses and recycled-air-acclimated lungs. Now, the question is…

Where in the kriffing hell did The Mandalorian Inquisitor leave you?

–

Din POV

His footsteps tap softly on the metal floors. He looks out at the lava lakes in the distance, and even through his modulator and air filters, he can smell the burning rocks and sulfur of this once-lush planet. The atmosphere here keeps the planet so, so, dark, and the burning lava flows from ever-spewing mountains keep anyone who would want to attack the fortress very much dead. He grew up in this place. It’s a miracle he doesn’t have lung issues, with the thick, choking ash threatening to ruin his very life.

Mustafar. Home of the Fortress Inquisitorius. The place where he learned that his destiny was to hunt Jedi, force sensitives, and quash any rebellions that may happen under the Empire’s watchful eye. But does he believe that is the case? He stops mid-step, and he remembers the things he saw in your mind.

Suffering. Agony. Pain beyond anything he’s ever experienced. Deaths of innocents and guilty alike, a black saber falling into hands gloved in rich leather from a bantha hide, black sleeves, and those eyes. Those eyes inside that shadowed face that he can’t help but remember. Not force sensitive, no. Those eyes are cruel.

And he sees you. A child, a little girl, young, holding onto a man he assumes to be your father. He can sense the force from the man. He’s powerful. His alignment is not light, not dark, but somewhere in the middle. Din has heard of these people before. Gray Jedi, the Grand Inquisitor called them. Sinners, staying in a forbidden middle. “Do not be like them,” the Grand Inquisitor said. “You cannot choose two opposites. It is either death or salvation.”

Din shivers at the memory. Even though he is an Inquisitor, and his hands have been marred with thousands of bloodstains, the Grand Inquisitor and those above him are not to be trifled with.

He continues walking, and finally, his destination is in sight. The Library of the Fortress.

This Library has Sith and Jedi holocrons, data, information like nothing anyone outside of this building could ever imagine. This is the place that Inquisitors turn to when they have questions about a target, although, in most cases, it’s how to kill their victim, rather than, in Din’s case, save your life.

He almost feels bad for leaving you on Sorgan, but he’ll be back soon enough. He found you a Razor Crest with a bedroom, and though he almost killed his resources trying to do it, he got one. You seem to like Razor Crests. He’s not sure why, but he likes them too. Sleek, hard-to-trace, pre-imperial gunships with an arsenal that would make a bounty hunter cry. He then went to Hoth..and his mind trails back to Sorgan. The planet has very few people on it, little technology, and it’s a good outer-rim hideout for those trying to escape from the Empire. It’s not perfect, but it will have to do until he can come and get you. Come and get you. That phrase sinks into his mind for a moment. Is he actually about to do this? Is he about to rescue you, to take you away from those claws of the empire that have haunted you your whole life?

He walks into the library and..stops. He closes his eyes, lifts his arms, and the information found inside the library begins to slowly flow through his mind. The Purge. The rebellions leading up to it, the slavery. So he has–

An echo of mechanical breathing.

Kriff.

He snaps out of his meditation and his hand slowly lands near his saber.

“You are walking along a thin line, Inquisitor. Be careful not to fall.”

Din turns around.

Black durasteel helmet, mouth-ventilator grill, two black and red-tinted eyes, a cape that touches the floor, two leather gloves, a box of mechanical lights on his chest, and a red saber gleaming slightly off the floor. Metal shoulder plating, a waist cape, and two black boots that are absolutely silent. A small woosh-woosh sounds out from his helmet every so often, the only indicator of his presence beyond the total darkness that swirls from his presence. It’s all-consuming, a signature men have feared, a signature that has taken the lives of those so innocent, and done it unflinchingly. It covers Din’s mind, and it’s hard to separate his thoughts from the darkness of this cyborg in front of him.

Lord Vader.

“You lied to me.”

Din tries so hard to make his voice not shake, and he can see his helmet gleaming off the eye plates of Vader’s.

“You should have followed orders, Mandalorian.” He utters Din’s title like it’s a slur, and his helmet tilts slightly.

And then the tightness starts. Din’s free hand lands on his throat, and he clears his voice, trying to get some air back into his already-starving lungs. His vision begins to flicker with little starry lights, and the edges of his sight dim slightly. He thinks of you, thinks of the joy you felt upon coming out of the shower, your laugh as he broke something in the ship on accident. He hasn’t known you for more than a few days, and already..how have you wormed your way into his beskar heart?

He waves his hand, and finally breaks the choke by force-pushing the sith lord back. He gasps, and his throat and lungs burn as air rushes back into them, vision returning. He steps back and quickly pulls his saber off his hip.

“You know what this means, don’t you, Din Djarin?” He knows Din’s name. Din watches the durasteel-clad man, and Vader steps toward him and raises the crimson blade that has been so many’s last sights before an inevitable and agonizing death. Din raises his saber to block the strike, and their blades clash with a shower of red sparks.

Din has always been a capable fighter. Since he was young and taken in by the Empire, he has excelled at blaster fighting, saber usage, and even the force, but here..he’s a fish out of water. Vader has been around for so, so long, he’s a master at the force, his signature is the strongest Din’s ever seen, and he’s gone toe-to-toe with masters far more advanced than Din. And Din gets to fight him. Kriff.

But, Din needs to. Vader lied to him. Vader lied about the purge, about what happened to his people, about why there are so few left–Din’s vision begins to go red. Red, red like blood staining the white armor of the troopers who executed the children, red like the fire from the carpet bombing of Mandalore’s surface, red like the blade in his hand. He looks up at Vader, and Vader tilts his head. Din rears back, stepping aside from the downward arc of Vader’s would-have-been-fatal blow, and swings at the sith lord’s mechanical core. But Din is getting sloppy. Vader flicks his hand, and Din’s launched back. The crunching of metal and stone walls sounds out as Din’s beskar smashes into the wall behind him, and Din’s unarmored side screams in pain. He hisses in pain, before standing up, and a soft plip, plip sounds out from nearby. Din looks down slowly, and sees red beginning to drip down from his side and onto the floor.

Kriff.

He takes a step, side continuing to choke his reasoning in the back of his mind, and Din swings again at Vader.

Vader blocks Din’s strike, and then twists his hand.

And Din’s throat tightens, crushing like a vice around his windpipe. Din slowly lifts into the air, and your face comes to his mind again. Like a sun, your face, smiling as you eat the first real meal you’ve had in veritable years, looking occasionally up at him, trying to hide the joy that’s wafting off you like a perfume, staining your signature with positivity, shining at him as his vision becomes tunneled. Your face is all he can see, the flickering lights dancing around your face like an artificial halo, and his hands slowly lift, almost as if to touch the face that isn’t there, to hold the light that died with the night of a thousand tears.

And then the lightning starts.

Like a storm from his fingertips, it arc toward the black-durasteel-clad man, and Din hits the ground. Blue trails of pure force electricity enter the cyborg’s system and Vader steps back, smoke beginning to rise from the electronics on his chest. Din looks down for a moment, the crackling still jumping from one fingertip to another like lightning rods. He feels powerful. The man who lied to him his whole life about what happened to Din’s people, the man who orchestrated the attack on Din’s home, the man who is the reason Din is the orphan of a massacre culture, is currently debilitated, if only for a moment, by Din’s doing. The red hot rage begins to cool down, and begins to solidify in his heart as a dull ache. Din’s always hated being angry. It makes him so, so, so very powerful, and yet he hurts so deeply afterwards, as if the two halves of him are tearing eachother apart. He is an inquisitor, he is supposed to be strong, and yet..he is a mandalorian. His secrecy is supposed to be his survival. His clan is supposed to be his survival, and..they’re gone. Everyone is gone.

Except you.

He reaches his hand out, and the lightsaber he dropped during the choke lands in his waiting grasp. You. Your face, in his mind. Your eyes, piercing like firestorms through an inky black expanse. The pain in his heart, for the moment, subsides, as he thinks of you. He needs to get back to you.

And so, he begins to run. Like thunder smashing down on clouds of suffering, his footsteps pound on the metal-and-stone flooring of the Library, and then the hallway, and then he sees his ship, approaching so quickly like a blur, whizzing toward him, his muscles are burning like fire, his lungs heaving, his breathing uneven and shallow, and–

He’s thrown to the ground in front of his ship, in front of the escape from the only life he’s ever known.

And then the breathing begins. That horrific siren’s song, the melody made of a simple percussive whoosh-woosh, that death sentence and execution in one, simple sound.

“Be careful not to fall, inquisitor. Your feet may not be able to carry you again.”

Crack.

Din’s left leg, already burning from the unexpected exertion, cries out in agony as his femur fractures. Kriff.

Din lets out a growl, and looks up at Vader slowly. His vision begins to tunnel again, the pain deafening any residual logical thought, any sort of strategy that could get him out of this mess, and for a moment, he understands the pain that Vader must have gone through to get him to this point. It kriffing hurts, like someone stabbed him in the leg, twisted the knife, and left some kind of nerve poison behind. Din’s been hurt before, it’s part of his life and training, but his bone fracturing is not something he has ever wanted or planned to experience.

“Osi’yaim..” Din curses, looking down at his leg for a moment. He immediately regrets that decision, as a small shard of white sticks out through the flight suit. Blood begins to stain the surrounding fabric, leaving his exposed bone and skin stinging from the air. Compound Fracture. Din has seen people die, seen injuries worse than this before, but his own body? His vision begins to swim. His eyes are watering, stinging more, and it’s hard to think about anything but the agony. But he needs to get up. He needs to get up, for you. For you. To come to get you. To come to save your life, to take you away from Sorgan to somewhere this cyborg in front of him will never find you, will never hurt you again. He slowly pushes himself up and leans against the ship behind him, and mutters a string of curses under his breath. Vader’s helmet slowly tilts down to look at Din’s leg, before the breathing ceases for a moment, almost as if Vader is laughing under his breath.

And then he turns, and leaves, with a single refrain as his departing call.

“Djarin-008, Designated Traitor.”

–

Din finally makes it into the cockpit of his ship, groaning in pain, and he’s getting lightheaded. He knows what bloodloss will do to the body, and couple that with the fact that he got choked twice by a Sith Lord, got thrown into the wall, stabbed in the side with maker-knows-what wall material, and his leg definitely has a compound fracture, it’s a miracle he’s awake and coherent enough to be thinking at all.

He presses buttons like it’s his lifeline, muscle memory acting as his savior, and he feels the ship lift into the air and then jump into hyperspace, leaving behind the only life he’s ever known. Did he just betray the emperor by attacking the second-in-command, Sith Lord Darth Vader, for lying about an event that happened years ago? Did he just paint a bloodred target on his back for two words? For a girl he’s barely met, barely spoken to, and only cared about because he had a gut feeling? His sith-brain is calling him a million different things, telling him how that was so stupid, that was such a terrible idea, and yet…he feels like he did the right thing.

As he leans back and looks down at his wounded leg again, his hand lands on a nearby med kit. He slowly reaches in, and his hand closes around a bacta-filled syringe, the mint-green material a stark contrast against the slowly fading vision of Din’s mind. He has to set the bone, he has to get back to you, he has to save you…

And everything goes dark.

–

You see the ship land, and the signature onboard tells you one thing and one thing only.

The Mandalorian is in trouble.

He feels different. Lighter, lighter like taking off a coat, or unshackling oneself. His signature feels significantly lighter, almost as though he’s shedding the inquisitorial chains that have held him. But that’d be stupid, wouldn’t it? He’s one of the strongest members of the most powerful organization in the galaxy, with power beyond your wildest dreams. He can kill a man by tilting his head and end a planet just by saying the word. And yet, he feels different.

You creep toward it, blade drawn, and as the sun sets in that great blue sky, the forest around you darkens ominously. Your hindbrain is in full throttle, every single rustle of a leaf or brush making you jerk your head one way or another. Your shadow begins to disappear into the darkness of the forest floor, and the once-comforting green life around you suddenly doesn’t feel so safe.

You know of predators. Before you had even walked, your father had told you stories of the great Mythosaur that used to walk among the sands of Mandalore, of the first Mandalorians that killed it and took it as their insignia to eventually define your entire culture. You’ve heard of the krait dragons that haunt Tattooine’s dunes, the sand people that mercilessly take the travelers, hunters, and tradesmen that dare to cross their territory.

But you’ve never had to face a predator before. You’ve faced inquisitors, you’ve faced stormtroopers, but those weren’t predators. Those were men you could sense, you could read, could predict and dodge and escape from. Not predators. Predators are monsters that haunt your nightmares, smell your traces, and find the blood and sweat and tears you leave behind, creeping toward you as you catch your breath in front of a tree and–

You jerk your head around, a branch snapping off in the distance. Your adrenaline spikes, and you begin to run toward the ship. When it comes to monsters, you have a blade that can cut through almost anything, but that doesn’t mean you know how to use it. Your father hoped that you would never have to draw your blade, and as such taught you how to fight without it, but not with it. Unfortunately, having a blade in this day and age is a death sentence, so it’s for the best that you’ve lacked teaching.

That doesn’t mean, however, that you don’t hope to the maker that you can learn really quickly. You’re not safe, and it’s as though every shadow off in the distance is watching you, a glint you see out of the corner of your eye before disappearing under your searching gaze. You finally reach the metal apparatus in front of you, and its hull door opens quietly. It’s a small starfighter, much thinner, and sleeker, with more aerodynamics than your Razor Crest. You still can feel his signature inside, which means he’s alive.

That doesn’t tell you whether he’s okay or not. You finally enter the ship, feet clanking quietly on the ramp, and you see it.

Blood. Painting the walls, the floor, the black pleather seat in front of you. You take a step, and you see his hand. Dropped, hanging off the side of the seat, stained with blood and whatever else. You quickly stride to it, and what greets you is not a pretty sight.

His leg is wrecked. His femur is broken in two, sticking up through his skin and flightsuit, marrow leaking blood along the jagged edge, as the smallest amount of blood gurgles up through the torn muscle and soaks into the already saturated flightsuit. His helmet is lulled to the side, and you see a bacta syringe in his hand, still full, having apparently passed out before he could use it. First things first, he needs help. Badly. You have some medical expertise, but not enough to set back a bone. You can suture, so maybe you could help there, but he may not survive this leg being ruined. He needs help.

You slowly lift him from the seat, trying to get your hands under his knees and back without further damaging his leg, and you turn toward the open entrance of the ship. If you use the bacta now, his leg will be permanently ruined, and he’ll be lucky to keep it.

So, you hope.

As you run through the woods, leaving a dribbling blood trail in your wake, feet pounding on the soft, moist grass and moss, you finally see the Crest in the distance. You flick your hand, and the hatch thankfully immediately opens. You leap up the ladder and place him on the copilot’s seat, before muscle memory takes over and you slowly raise the ship into the air, the engines roaring. You look around, and you see smoke rising into the air in the distance.

People.

You jet off toward them, and a small village greets your eyes. A few ships lie in the shipyards, and upon closer inspection, this little town feels perfect for two fugitives to hide. You land quickly in an open spot, before lifting him up again. His helmet stirs as you leap down the ladder, landing hard on your feet, pain screaming into your ankle, and you sprint off the ship towards the nearest building with a red cross on it. People quickly clear out of your way, and as you finally enter the building, you’re flooded with people trying to take him from you.

He slurs for a moment, voice rough and scratchy, and he looks at you, before whispering a few simple words in mando’a.

“Don’t let them take my helmet.”

You nod, and then..it’s quiet.

He’s taken back for surgery, you’ve relayed his request to them, and they’re taking care of him. Your hands are stained red. His blood, his pain, on your hands. Why did you just help a man who tried to kill you naught but a few days ago? Why did you just save his life? You sit down slowly in a chair, comers and goers leaving a wide berth between you and their own paths. You sit there for hours. You can sense him, he’s in pain, and here you are. Quiet. In a hospital room, on some backwater planet somewhere in the galaxy far, far away from your now-cursed home planet, without anyone to tell you where to go or what to do with your life. And so, you wait. And wait. And wait.

Eventually, after a while of sitting quietly, occasionally getting up to look around and find something to read, without anything striking your fancy, a woman in white comes out. Her eyes meet yours, and she walks over.

“Are you the one who dropped off the Mandalorian?” You nod.

“He’s awake.”

You stand up quickly, and you both walk back through a set of wooden double doors marked “DO NOT ENTER” in Aurabesh, and for once you are glad you can read. She stops in the doorway of a room, and as you slowly arrive behind her, you see him. He’s thrashing against the restraints of two nurses’ arms and leather straps holding his arms and chest down, and he snarls before his visor lands on you. And he calms. The nurses slowly release him, and you step toward him. Your eyes trail down toward his leg, and it’s wrapped in a thick casing of bandages and cast material, with an IV bag of bacta connected, the tube disappearing somewhere deep into the bandaging. Light filters in through the windows, a stark contrast to the darkness of his helmet and the reflective black plasteel of his t-panel. But the key is..he’s alive. It looks like they cut the bottom half of his flightsuit off, and left the upper half, but took his armor off. They placed it in a corner of the bedroom, and he seems almost…naked without it. Sure, he has the skintight flightsuit on, but that hides no details, tracing along the curvature of his muscular arms, his thick neck, and the pecs that could kill a man. He watches you, and you slowly sit down in a chair next to the bed that a nurse placed.

“You’re alive.” Your voice is shaking slightly. Your eyes sting slightly, could it be you were worried about him? You look down at the blood still caked onto your hands, staining your sleeves, marring your once clean nails. His hand gently takes yours, and he studies it.

“Thank you.” He tilts his visor, and his helmet leans back against the pillow, hitting the wall behind him with a dull thunk.

“Where are we? What happened?” Your voice seems hollow.

“Sorgan. It’s in the Outer Rim. I went to the Fortress Inquisitorius and encountered Lord Vader.” The name makes your spine shudder and your blood run ice cold. Vader. Second in command of the entire Empire. A former Jedi, your father has told you. Someone very powerful, someone who killed hundreds of innocent children because he was commanded to, someone who has killed mercilessly and without hesitation. You can still remember the day you learned of him, your father showed you a picture, and you had to sleep in his bed that night because the nightmares of the black durasteel helmet haunted you.

“What happened next?” Your voice is definitely shaking. “I was declared a traitor to the empire.” What?

“I am a fugitive.”

His visor studies your reaction, trying to gauge what you will do, you can tell. Will you run? Will you join him, will you turn him in exchange for a hollow promise of freedom? If you were to turn him in, there’s no guarantee the empire would keep its promise, no guarantee you’d even make it off-world before the emperor shoots your ship out of the sky and leaves you burning to death in a crater of your own creation. But you won’t. He saved your life, you saved his. Your blood has been on his hands, his on yours, and you two are in a tidally locked position of two force-sensitive Mandalorians trying to escape the claws of a selfish emperor. You can’t just leave him. “That makes two of us.” You look down at your shoes, trying to avoid his gaze. His grip tightens slightly.

An idea comes to your mind. You signed up, before you left, with Greef Karga. You went to Nevarro, took the bounty, and though it wasn’t quite successful, with someone watching your back, you could become a better bounty hunter, and maybe even find your father. The only question…does he want to join you? You two should be enemies. He tried to kill you on Geonosis. He hunted you down on Hoth. He should have shot you. He should have killed you. He should have ended your life. And yet…he didn’t. For some unknown reason, or due to pure insanity, he decided to save your life, to kill the trandoshan trying to take you as a prize, and left the inquisitors for you. For you. So…perhaps it’s for the best that he stays. Just for a moment, just until you can find your father, get back to Mandalore, and find somewhere that the emperor won’t find you. Until then, it's for the best. Maybe.

“Do you want to stay with me?”

–

Thank you so much for reading! I’m sorry that this chapter took so long to write, I was in the midst of finals season. That’s all over now, though, and we should be back to our regularly scheduled programming in the next couple of weeks. I hope you enjoyed it!

~Cactus

#din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #star wars #angst #the mandalorian #fanfiction #mandalorian x female reader #mando x female reader #mando x reader #mando x you #mando x f!reader

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redroom-rainbowguts · 1 year

Text

A Gross Experiment

Word Count: 1950

Tw: Sexual assault, blood, kidnapping, drugs, medical horror, self harm, non con

The blonde haired woman forced her eyes open, drowsiness quickly dissolving into panic as she realized where she was. White pulled up a stool, shifting his weight so the wheeled legs propelled him forward towards her. He glanced up at the woman he’d strapped to a vintage medical table. Though old, most of the mint green bed was in perfect condition, save for some bits near the edges that had cracked to reveal the foam cushion inside.

“You know, you’re pretty lucky,” he said. She squirmed against the leather restraints holding her arms and legs in place. “Most people don’t get any sort of anesthesia. If I wanted to fuck with a compliant subject, I’d just grab someone from the morgue or something, you know? Why go out of my way to rob someone of life if I just wanted to play with a bunch of lifeless organs? The screams, the fighting, the gaze somewhere between rage and despair, that’s what makes it feel like I’m actually doing something. What can I say, it feels good to make a difference.

But you, you my dear, I’ve got plans for you.” White stood up, peeling tape from the woman's head. She winced as layer after layer ripped the hair from her head; he’d been meticulous in wrapping it around not just her mouth but her neck as well to ensure she couldn’t simply work it off with enough moisture and patience. Her lip quivered.

“W-What are you going to do to me?” She asked. He trailed a finger along the IV connecting her arm to a bag of fluid. He twisted a small clamp at the base free, and the clear liquid dribbled down the thin tube into her vein.

“Assuming my theory is correct, something that’ll feel really, really good.” Too many questions to choose from left her silently incredulous. White smiled. His gloved hand wiped a stray tear from her cheek as he spoke again. “I may have brought you here unwillingly, but I’m not a liar. I’ve been nothing but open with you about my intentions, haven’t I? I’m simply a student studying and working hard to further my own education. Even when we met I said I bet you’d be a fantastic lab partner.” White traced a few of the still healing cuts lining her abdomen- an appetizer he’d selfishly indulged in as she’d slept. “And I was absolutely correct, working with you has been lovely.”

The woman opened her mouth, but no words came out. Whatever was being fed into her veins was making her limbs feel heavy. No, not just heavy, they didn’t feel at all. A violent tingling washed down her body, leaving pure nothingness in its place. She may as well have been a consciousness capable only of sight and hearing. She managed to squeak out a confused gasp just before the paralytic stole that from her as well. White perked up.

“Ah, I was wondering how long it would take for the anesthesia to kick in. Like I said, it’s not often I use it, so I wasn’t entirely sure just how long it would take.” He scribbled down a few notes. “I’ve put a lot of work into ensuring what I use is as fast acting as possible, though I have to sacrifice some degree of speed or else it’s far too volatile. I don’t need you dropping dead on me before we’re done, it’d be such a waste!”

The woman couldn’t decide whether his rambling was making the situation better or worse. It humanized him, somewhat, a bit like when a doctor explains everything going on to a nervous patient. But on the other hand, he had obviously drugged her at some point to kidnap her, and now he was not so much speaking to her as he was speaking at her with the same calm disconnect as a mortician referring to a cadaver.

“I’ve always had a soft spot for bugs. They’re so often misunderstood, and people generally make assumptions about them without putting in any real effort to understand them.” White rifled through a set of medical instruments he kept under the table. Every so often he placed one onto a nearby metal shelf, making clear his enthusiasm whenever fear broke through the anesthesia and caused her breath to hitch.

“Take slugs, for instance. They’ve got no shell to hide in like snails do, but this allows them to hide and squeeze through much smaller spaces, getting away from predators with much more ease than just hiding in a flimsy shell. And their slime, it’s actually so thick and viscous that they could slide over a razor blade without taking any damage, isn’t that cool?”

She stared at him.

“That’s actually what made me think about this. People create a fluid that smooths over the friction involved in sex. Sure we can stretch, but that can only go so far, especially with an unwilling participant.” He nonchalantly pressed a hand against her bare crotch, pausing for a moment before giving it a few gentle strokes.

“I just want to know how far that extends. If a pussy can accommodate a dick, then what else can it take? Sure, I could probably just collect a sample, figure out its structural integrity, blah blah blah and call it a day, but-” White pulled a syringe and a little bottle from the shelf, making a show of loading it and flicking away the air bubbles. “-but I’m really more of a hands-on learner.” He finished, sliding the needle into her mons pubis. Within moments the nothingness was replaced with a burning ache localized specifically to the surrounding area of the injection.

White nodded excitedly as her face, though numb, still reddened. “I’m actually really proud of this one. Stumbled across it by accident awhile ago when I was still using myself to experiment on. See?” he interrupted himself. “I’m nothing if not fair. I am more than willing to take the pain I dish out if it’s in the name of science.

Though,” he chuckled sheepishly. “I admit I was a bit too squeamish to do this one. That’s where you came in! I’ve given you a drug that actually coats the veins in a kind of shield that blocks the effects of the anesthetic within a very small area. That way you’ll stay nice and still for me while I, to put it crudely, fuck around and find out.” He laughed at his own dry humor for a moment before placing his hand back into her folds.

Furrowed, concentrated brows replaced his smile as he rubbed her clit in soft, patient circles. By all accounts it should have been at best ineffective and at worst uncomfortable. The assault, the drugs, the way he tried to eke arousal from her in an unnervingly clinical, mechanical way, nothing about this was anywhere near putting her in the mood. But seeing as her entire sense of touch both started and ended where his fingers danced over her skin, the woman found herself relieved that the paralytic was stopping her from pressing even harder into his hand. She tried to think of something, anything else that would take her out of this moment. As he slipped a finger into her ready opening, she felt guilty wishing he would have added even more.

“You’re really red, y’know. Feels good, huh.”

Right. This was torture. Bizarre, sure, but that didn’t change the horror of her predicament. Bodies are made to adapt to bad situations, so of course hers was only responding like this until- Fuck. FUCK! White added several fingers, rubbing against her walls as they trailed closer to her g spot. He inched forward before drawing back and deliberately delaying her gratification. He edged her again and again, making her desperation that much more intense. The woman had become so slick that every thrust, no matter the speed, elicited a thick squelch that was impossible to ignore in the otherwise silent room. His gloved hand as well as the table was more than soaked with her musk. She could smell her own arousal and wanted nothing more than for him to, at the very least, take away the rest of her senses too so she could pretend her body wasn’t so desperately into whatever weird ass experiment he was conducting.

“Hm, I’d say you seem about ready.”

Ready? Her eyes pleaded with morbid intrigue for him to elaborate, but she quickly wished they hadn’t. He pulled out a gruesome looking tool. It had multiple sharp edges lined up so as to form a cylinder of knives. Without skipping a beat, White took the tool to his own arm, looking her dead in the eyes as he peeled off a thin slice of skin. He winced, but remained cool in his composure.

“Do you like it?” He asked genuinely, waving the flap of skin before flicking it out of the way. Beads of blood lazily formed as his body got the message that it had been injured, but he ignored them and allowed them to dribble down as he spoke. “I wouldn’t say I’m a master welder, but I think this turned out pretty cool!” She felt sick; he couldn’t possibly be planning on- her stomach dropped. White lined up the contraption with her entrance, and carefully he began working it into her.

Despite everything in her silently screaming in terror, her pussy hungrily clenched around the tool. There were no words to describe the sensation. Despite him remaining slow and gentle in his movements, it felt like the slowest rough fuck of her life. It was simultaneously maddening, and to her dismay, bliss. Her body craved more, harder. From what she could see, there was now blood pouring alongside her arousal. All she could think was this should hurt so much worse. White climbed up onto the table, straddling her. He placed a hand on her still numb chin as he drove the tool deeper inside.

“There’s one final thing I need you to do for me.” he growled. His hand pistoned steadily, each time pressing right against her g spot. “Cum.” Her desperate pussy more than happily obliged. She throbbed and clenched against the bladed dildo. Each edge sank deeper and deeper into her walls as she rode each wave of euphoria the orgasm forced upon her.

The pleasure dissipated far quicker than it had built up. No sooner had she begun piecing her consciousness back together than when the reality of the situation was finally able to reach the rational part of her brain. It didn’t just hurt, it was agony. The woman’s lower body seized into what felt like the worst cramp of her life. The world began to spin, and she gazed lazily at the blood now covering her legs, the table, White, and a fair portion of the cement floor as well.

“Hey now, finally had enough?” White stroked her face which was now covered in both tears and her own blood. “You did a great job! I’ve never gotten this far into the experiment before a subject gave up on me! I’ll clean you up after I finish writing down my findings, okay? And then if you wake up again, I’ll make this up to you, I promise! I’ll share what conclusions we can draw, and we can-”

The woman’s hearing faded, and her vision followed soon after. With a sick sense of hopelessness, all she could think was I hope I lost enough to kill me. Not only to escape the living Hell White had thrown her into, but to avoid seeing him follow through on his promise.

#I originally called this 'another gross experiment'#and I'm begging my past self to elaborate #WHAT WERE THE OTHER EXPERIMENTS #murderbabe #murder oc #leech writes #2022 #leech ocs #grey #also multiple times I accidentally wrote Grey because depending on mannerisms my brain just fills in the closest matching name #the hardest edit was finding all the times I messed that up /hj #leech.grey

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