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foli-vora · 4 years

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worlds collide

A/N: Hi, I’m in my feels tonight so have some angst! (That gif is breaking my fucking heart.)

Pairing: Din Djarin/gn!reader

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: violence, blood, death

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Din didn’t know how or when it happened. All he knew was that it did happen. He awoke, however long after the initial blast, in a startle, hand shooting to the beskar covering his face as he pushed himself into a sitting position. People were screaming, running erratic paths through the fire and debris. Stomach lodged firmly in his throat, he looks to his side where he expects to find the Child, his child, tucked up safe in the sack he had fashioned from old pieces of scrap material he found on the Crest.

He whips around in alarm when he finds nothing but ruins. Where was the kid? Why wasn’t he here? Dust coats the gloves covering his hands as he pushes through the remnants of fallen buildings around him, showing away piece after piece of rubble, desperation clawing away at his insides as he continuously comes up empty.

Where was the kid? The kid. Where was the kid?

And then a memory hits him.

Your smile. Not the polite half smiles you would offer others, mere strangers passing by on the streets, no. This smile was all his. The smile that he swears brings the stars he travels through to your eyes. The smile that is seared into his mind, that’s painted across his eyelids every time he finds a small amount of time to rest.

You grin up at him and make a sly little comment about his stiff armour digging into the soft sack carrying the sleeping baby, gently lifting it from across his body and hanging it upon your own, hand automatically rubbing soothing circles over the little lump through the coarse material.

“I told you he wouldn’t wake,” you shoot him a smirk, walking further ahead to admire the various materials and trinkets laid across tables throughout the market.

He pauses, coming to a stop between the bustling patrons, taking a moment to watch you. Watch the way you tread between the buyers, the way your hand automatically cradles the sack protectively if someone pushes too close, the way your eyes soak up each new object and entity you encounter with eager, curious eyes.

You notice the absence of his intimidating presence only a few steps ahead and turn to him questioningly. Tilting your head, you smile inquisitively, taking a small moment of your own to admire him and the incredible gleam of his armour against the bright backdrop of colourful banners and busying shoppers.

Peace.

That’s what he had felt in that moment. And though you had never seen him without the heavy helmet covering his face, he knew you saw him. In more than the physical sense. But where did it go wrong? When did the peace meet its end? When did it melt into the overwhelming sense of loss he feels now?

Your eyes flicker to something over his shoulder, brows pinching together. The immediate sense of dread that crashes over him the second your eyes widen in fear has him moving instantly, not caring about what’s there, what you’re seeing – just filled with the drowning need to reach you, to reach the child, to protect.

Had you called for him? In his current state, he doesn’t recall. The explosion had been so loud. He knew he had called for you – your name ripping from his modulator with a blinding urgency that left his throat feeling raw and then… nothing.

Frantic, he continues to push his way around, ignoring the people that pull on his armour-clad arms and beg for his aid. He doesn’t have time. He refuses to help them while you and the Child are missing. He won’t help a soul until he knows where you are, knows that you’re both unharmed, that you’re both safe.

He’s not sure what sound falls from his lips when he catches sight of your boots sticking out from beneath a piece of fallen wall. The breath gets sucked from his lungs, bile rises in his throat, and then he’s running, not caring about who he shoves down along the way – he just needs to get to you.

The adrenaline pulsing through his system has him hefting the piece of rubble off of you and then he’s on his knees, gloved hands gently, urgently, pushing at your shoulder until you’re on your back. He can’t see you, not the real you. Dust and blood cake your face and no matter how hard he scrubs along your skin; he can’t find you.

His hands follow along your frame, feeling along the side of your body and then… there he is. The Child chirps sadly, blinking dust from his wide eyes, and wiggles from the soiled sack, stumbling onto unsteady legs. He turns to look at you, large ears dropping in sorrow at the sight of your battered body.

“I know, kid. They’re gonna be fine.”

You were going to be fine, because there was no other option. You’d have a bump on the head, complain about it for a few days, get on his nerves, and then be fine. Healed. Alive.

He swears his heart jumps a beat when your face pinches, features contorting in discomfort. He hates knowing you’re in pain, but he’d take it. Quite happily. At least that meant you were still here, still with him. He waits, but your eyes don’t open and he gets impatient. He taps your cheek once, twice, again just a little bit harder.

Why aren’t you waking up?

He shakes you; hand locked firmly onto your shoulder, fingers digging into your skin. The desperation that’s leaking into his voice starts to intensify the longer your lashes stay against the skin of your cheeks. Come on. You’re alright. You’re alright. Wake up –

And then finally – Stars, finally – your eyes flutter. The two suns hovering in the sky blind you, and you lift a heavy hand with a groan to cover your face. Relief floods him in an overwhelming wave and he crumbles over your body like he’s just ran nonstop for miles. You’re okay. You’re fine, everything’s fine.

His hands are everywhere when you eventually sit up – cradling your ribs, supporting your shoulders, a gloved palm against your cheek as you blink blearily at the scene around you. What happened? You don’t have the strength to ask. His grip is tight as he holds your hands, gently pulling you to stand. He doesn’t move away once you’re on your feet and it’s a good thing, too – you tremble, head melting into a vicious spin, and your legs give out from under you.

He has you in his arms before you’re even halfway to the ground.

“I’ve got you.” Always.

He cradles you the entire hike back to the Crest, the Child cuddled up to your chest as he coos gently at you, keeping you awake and as alert as possible. Din doesn’t stop moving, powered purely by the desperation to get you back to the ship, back home, somewhere safe. He kicks blankets across the cold grated floor and delicately lies you down, careful not to jostle you too much.

Your face puckers in agony, but soon you relax with a soft exhale, watching him through tired eyes as he moves the kid to his hammock before rushing back to your side. The gloves come off in an urgent tug and soon you’re rewarded with the heat of his fingertips trailing across your skin. His touch disappears, and you wish you could voice your protest, wish you could beg him to put them back.

You watch as tanned hands reach and grasp at the helmet, pulling it up and off and then – oh. Din blinks down at you with wide brown eyes, assessing every bit of damage he could see without his visor hindering his view. A scratch here, a scrape there – nothing bacta won’t fix. You’re fine. Everything’s fine. His eyes fall back to yours, and he half smiles, somewhat shyly, as you study his previously secret features.

Beautiful.

Your hand moves, fingers desperate to feel the scruff covering his jawline, but it falls short and you try to frown in frustration but lack the strength to contort your features. His own hand shoots up and helps yours on its journey, and soon you can feel it – scratchy against the skin of your palm.

His other hand is warm across your forehead and you smile weakly at the look of pure adoration on his face, his dark eyes flicking over your features. He had no regrets removing his helmet. He would have removed it in front of you one day, anyway.

“I’ll get you some water, cyar’ika.” He murmurs, bending to press a soft kiss to your forehead. You weakly move your head ever so slightly, greedily chasing his lips with your own, desperate to feel them just once, and your heart bursts as he grins, eyes crinkling and dimple appearing. What a sight. He lets his nose trail softly against yours before moving to your lips. His kiss was everything you had dreamed – tender, loving… and it chased away the chill that seemed to have taken a hold of your body, even if just for a few seconds.

“D-Din –” Why is it so hard to speak? You feel so weak. You want to tell him so much. He needs to know what he means to you. You’ve never been able to say the words and now you’re filled with regret. But surely, he knows. He must. You need to thank him for… for everything. For showing you the stars, for making you believe in yourself, for showing you that it’s okay to stand your ground when someone tells you to move. Maker, you need to speak. He needs to know. “Din,”

He hushes you lightly, dancing his warm fingers across your jaw affectionately. “Save your strength, cyare.”

Your eyes well as you watch him stand and leave. No, stay. Stay, please. He tries to be quick as he retrieves you a drink, but the water pressure on the Crest is questionable to say the least. He also fills a small bowl to start cleaning your skin of the filth that cakes it, desperate to see the horror of the day washed free from your skin. He returns after a short while, expertly juggling the many bits and pieces in his arms, and stops short of the makeshift bed.

You’re still. Completely unmoving. Your chest no longer moves, fighting for gasps of air. Your eyes were open, pointed to where he had disappeared into the fresher, but they lacked life. They’re vacant, hollow. They stare right through him. He all but drops everything in his arms, falling right beside you.

Swallowing around the bitter taste in his mouth, he tries to speak. “C-Cyare?”

His hands move to your face, and he recoils at the chill of your skin. Heat, you need heat. His thumbs rub across your cheeks, desperate to work some sort of friction against your skin. He wills your eyes to focus, to gaze back into his. Breathe. Maker, please, breathe.

“Cyar’ika, I’m here.” He moves closer, hands darting over your body, indecisive of where to touch, where to hold you. No. You’re fine. You’re fine. He feels the cracks start to form, his world quickly falling apart in his hands. “I’m here. Please, cyare – I’m here.”

Yes, he is… but you’re not.

Tags: @anu-simps @seasonschange-butpeopledont @withasideofmeg @you-got-me-starry-eyed

#the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x gn!reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x gn!reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x you #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfic #star wars fic #mando #din djarin #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal

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fanfoolishness · 4 years

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Fulminating (The Mandalorian)

(Din suffers a complication after nearly drowning on Trask. He and the Child recover together. Maybe it's enough. 5000 words, canon-compliant, angst, medical whump, hurt/comfort, sign language. Set during Chapter 11: The Heiress. Don't say I didn't warn you about the whump - but the comfort's there, too.)

Thank you to @lastwordbeforetheend, @art3mys and @honestlyhufflepuff for helping talk me through this! You can also find this story on AO3 if you prefer.

***

The air streams past him, tugging at the free edge of his cloak as he descends. He tilts his head upward, watching Bo-Katan and her cruiser climb to the edge of the atmosphere. They’ll take the ship, and he’ll take the Jedi’s name.

It’s not the deal he wanted -- hell, they aren’t the Mandalorians he wanted -- but she gave him what he needed in the end, and he’ll respect that.

He coughs, chest feeling heavy, and lowers his head as the air rushes past. That’s better.

He aches as the rush of the fight leaves him. He’s not getting any younger, and while firefights are what he’s built himself for, taking an entire cruiser hadn’t been on his agenda. Especially coming off the disastrous crash landing on the ice planet with the kid and the passenger; he’d hit his head pretty badly in the landing, beskar helmet or no, and he still feels a nagging headache now that the action’s over. He scowls under the helmet.

The Rising Phoenix burns clean as the docks rise up before him, and he lands clumsily, staggering. He’s got to work on that. In all the traveling lately, his training has slipped. Koska in particular has given him some ideas for how to better utilize the Phoenix in combat, and he’ll have to consider incorporating the techniques into his own fighting style.

Din pulls a deep breath as he straightens up, slightly winded by the landing. Time to collect the kid and get going.

Leaving would be a good idea, if not for the fact half the port is still quiet. He glances around, realizing it’s still early in the morning and the Mon Calamari he paid to tend to the Crest is nowhere in sight. Fine. Maybe he and the kid will grab some sleep in the inn. How long has it been since they got any rest?

His feet fall heavy on the wooden docks, his boots scuffing. Yeah. A room might do them good.

***

It takes him a good twenty minutes to make his way through the narrow alleys to the Frogs’ home. He’s a little slower than usual, though he’s got good reason to be weary. The door slides open at his knock and the happy couple greets him, gesturing to a water-filled dish on their table. A tadpole splashes back and forth, and Din’s foundling stares at it with wide eyes and half-opened mouth, barely noticing that Din has come for him.

Din almost hates to pull the kid away. He’s downright enchanted by the tadpole (the kid better have minded his manners!), curious and fascinated and protesting as Din scoops him up. He congratulates the couple on their child and heads out into the alley, the kid chattering away unintelligibly. He’s been using that little voice of his much more lately, and though Din hasn’t picked out any words he understands, it’s a comforting sound. He chuckles a bit at the kid’s chatter, the laugh slipping into a brief cough that he swallows down. He wishes, not for the first time, that he could understand what the kid has to say.

The kid’s voice burbles cheerfully in his ears. Probably telling him all about his exciting night, staying with the Frog family. Maybe he’s asking where Din has been, or wondering where they’re going next. Din hasn’t a clue. He tries to pay attention, but finds it strangely difficult to concentrate and walk at the same time.

It’s not far to the inn. Half a klick at most. He’s walking at a normal pace, not running, not sprinting.

So why, then, is he breathing so hard?

He pauses against the wall of a small fishery shop, leaning against it slightly in a way that would look casual to a passing observer. He takes a deep breath, then coughs wetly, chest rattling.

You’re fine, he tells himself firmly, but his chest rises and falls like he’s been running.

His helmet swivels left, right. Quarren, Mon Calamari, humans, they scurry past Din and the child, but more than a few turn to stare at the two of them. This is too open. He needs to get back under cover until he can figure out what’s going on. You are both predator and prey, intones the Armorer, and oh, he knows it. His gut clenches a warning.

The Phoenix roars on his back, carrying them the rest of the way. He holds on to the kid with both arms and the kid giggles, enjoying the ride, but Din just focuses on breathing.

***

The innkeeper stares at him. “One night, then?” he grunts.

Din reaches into his hip pouch, pulls a stack of credits out, more than what’s needed. He forces himself to slow his breathing, though his chest hurts with the effort. He swallows. Modulates his voice to sound gruff and intimidating. “One night. And no questions.”

The innkeeper nods, holding his hands out in an appeasing gesture. “Whatever you say, Mando.” He tosses Din a fob to unlock the room. “Up the stairs, third door on the left. Food sent up to the room’s extra.”

Din merely nods. The kid, nestled in the crook of his arm, looks up at him, frowning. His ears sag down to his collar, and he wraps one hand over Din’s wrist.

Din makes his way to the stairs, shoving past a few Quarren there for their breakfast. They grumble, but they get out of his way; news travels fast about what a Mandalorian can do when pressed. They clear a path for him as he approaches the narrow stairs. With his back to the barroom, no one able to see him directly, he allows himself the luxury of a few deep breaths before he begins. He needs every one.

The flight of stairs isn’t long. Fifteen steps, maybe. But he has to grab the handrail with his free hand, gripping it tightly. His head swims, and the inside of his chest sears, burns, aches. He sucks air through an open mouth, shivering.

“Dank farrik,” he hisses, and regrets the extra breath expended on the curse. He has to rest halfway up the stairs, slumping against the wall with his head spinning.

He makes it up the rest of the flight, through the hallway, to the third door on the left. It slides open and he stumbles through the doorway, barely noticing the door sliding closed behind him as he staggers to the lumpy four-poster bed. He sets the kid down carefully before he sinks onto the bed with a thump. He struggles to remove the Rising Phoenix. He manages to rest it on the floor at his feet, and stays leaning forward, curled up over himself.

What’s wrong with me?

He desperately tries to run the possibilities. Poison? No, no, nothing’s broken his skin, he hasn’t eaten since he left the ship.… He shivers again. Is he sick? This doesn’t feel like any sickness he’s ever known before, coming on so fast like this, hitting so hard…

He sits huddled on the edge of the bed, panting. His helmet’s sensors chime at him. Normally vital signs are measured in the background, but he forces himself to focus on the corner of the display through his visor, where it flashes a warning: Blood oxygen level below 90%.

Oxygen… lungs… going under the water after the kid, struggling as the seal on his helmet slipped, as the seawater rushed up over his face, into his mouth and nose --

But I was fine, he tries to tell himself. He tries to remember if he inhaled the water or if he spat it back out, but all he remembers is frantic choking, flailing, a confusing jumble of cold and weight and struggle. I was fine --

He coughs again, the action bowing him over himself, and he gags on fluid in the back of his throat. He retches, gulps, tastes something metallic. Blood.

Fuck. Fuck.

His mind races. Battlefield first aid is taught to all Mandalorians, but he doesn’t remember what he’s supposed to do here. What here even is. His mind blanks for a second, or an eternity.

He suddenly remembers a function of his helmet he’s rarely used. He toggles it on with a jerky swipe over his vambrace. He can’t carry an entire tank of oxygen with him, since it’d be a clear explosion hazard in his line of work, but the helmet does have emergency oxygen concentrator ability. Enough to double the atmospheric content for low-O2 planets. He breathes deeply of the fortified air, and for a moment he feels a little calmer. This’ll fix things. Just need a little more air, a little rest, I’ll be fine --

It’s not enough.

The display in his helmet says it’s concentrating the oxygen at maximal levels, but damn it, it’s not enough. He wheezes, straining.

The display says a lot of things now. It’s going fucking haywire, streaming readings for his heart rate, his oxygen, spiking or crashing in ways he’s never seen. He forces himself to focus on the room beyond him instead of the screeching vitals, tries to focus on fishnets lining the dingy walls, a cramped closet refresher, a little wooden table to sit at, a round window letting in muted daylight.

It’s not working. Din drags in breath after frantic breath, coughs again, feels something frothy in the back of this throat. He tastes metal. He’s -- he’s suffocating --

No. No. This is just a sickness, I just have to get through the worst of it, just breathe -- just breathe --

But he wants to tear his helmet off, he’s so hungry for air, he wants -- he needs --

Firm pressure on his lap, movement, something besides the flail of his chest. It’s the kid. He’s almost forgotten about him in his struggle, and seeing the kid calms him slightly. Just slightly.

He manages to lower his head, though it makes him dizzy. The kid’s dark eyes stare up at him, his little face scrunched up and worried.

“I’m fine,” Din gasps, though clammy sweat clings to him inside his suit, though his heart still races. Does the kid understand him? He coughs, the sound harsh and wracking. “I just need to -- rest --”

Rest. Yeah. Yeah, that should help. Maybe he’ll be better off laying down in a different position. Holding the kid against him, he tries to ease himself down on the rumpled bedding. But as soon he’s down, he realizes it’s wrong -- on his back, he feels his armor crushing him -- smothering him --

He jerks upright, clawing at his chest, undoing the catches of his armor. His cuirass loosens and falls to the bed beside him. He leaves it. The pressure eases, barely.

The kid in his lap lets out a wail, and Din realizes that the kid knows.

What if I don’t -- what if he’s alone -- if this gets worse -- His heart rate jumps at the unfinished thought, pounding until he can feel the veins in his neck throbbing, the pulse thready. He slumps against the post at the end of the bed, wrapping a hand protectively around the kid. No. I’ll be fine.

He has to be fine. For both of them. He wishes he could tell the kid --

***

Grogu feels, sees, senses ripples in the Force, just as he senses ripples in the water where a frog might be near. Most of the time, it comforts him, feeling its swirls and eddies.

It isn’t comforting now. It’s scary. The Force is disturbed, the ripples churning waves. His protector, his person clings to him, and Grogu feels fear panic wrong.

Grogu flinches, his stomach hurting. He doesn’t know what’s happened to the man, but there’s something in the man’s chest that isn’t right, something that shouldn’t be there, something that makes it not work the way it’s supposed to. Grogu tilts his head up and rests one hand against the man’s armor, whimpering.

The man is shaking. His voice catches. “It’s -- it’s all right,” he chokes, but Grogu can feel how hard he’s working to breathe, how his voice sounds different. It sounds wet.

Grogu whimpers again, tries to reach out in the Force. He has to help him! The man flickers in the Force in a way Grogu remembers once from a misty dream, the day he sent the fire back; he was so sleepy after the flames ran away. But the man feels like he did then, faint and far away, and this time, Grogu understands what it means. Faint and far away and fading.

Grogu tries to talk to the man. Tries to tell him that he can help. He makes his voice loud, but the man’s breathing is louder. It’s not working.

He gets to his feet in the man’s lap, hurriedly bracing his hands against the man’s laboring chest. This close he can hear the wrongness inside him even without the Force, his ears catching terrible crackles over the man’s pounding heart. It shouldn’t sound like that. He knows it in a way he doesn't have the words for.

The man is soft without the armor, but the cloth and leather he wears are still thick and hard to get through, under Grogu’s hands. Grogu tries to reach, tries to make the Force inside the man move and change. He’s done it before, he has to try now, has to try to help him --

But it’s hard to shift the Force inside the man. He’s still wrapped in most of his armor, no skin to touch. Maybe one of the Masters from long ago could fix the man without touching him, without pressing skin to skin, but Grogu doesn’t know how. He wraps his claws around the heavy vest the man wears under the armor, and he cries at him, trying to make him understand.

“Please --” the man rasps. “It’s -- don’t be afraid --” He coughs again, thin reddish fluid beading at the bottom of his helmet. Flickering -- far away --

Grogu sinks into the man’s lap, breathing hard himself. The man’s fear is overwhelming, making it hard for Grogu to think. He’s felt it before from him when things got scary, but always the man’s bravery was bigger, more powerful, so much brighter in the Force than his fear.

But it’s all that Grogu can feel from him now.

He has to do something. The man still flickers. He looks around wildly, sees the man’s hand, limply resting against the bottom of Grogu’s robe.

“Hey, buddy,” the man wheezes. “You’ll be -- okay --”

Grogu is already pulling at the man’s wrist. He’s seen a little flash of skin here before, where the glove meets the armor. He fumbles with it, but it’s on too tight for him to budge.

“What --”

Grogu pulls hard at the glove, and the man helps weakly with his other hand, his fingers clumsy. The glove slips down at the wrist, exposing light brown skin, a thumb. The man crumples against the post at the end of the bed, the line of him all wrong, head rolled to his shoulder. He’s so faint.

Grogu curls one hand around the man’s thumb, presses the other hand against his palm. The man’s skin is cool and sweaty and calloused. Grogu holds his hand as hard as he can, and he closes his eyes, and he reaches.

He can't make sense of what he feels through the Force. Water, but there shouldn’t be water here. Breathing, but the air doesn’t help. Grogu concentrates, but it’s hard. It’s not like when that other man’s arm was hurt in the dark by the creatures, when Grogu could reach out and feel the way the poison wasn’t supposed to be there, the way the arm wanted to be normal again. The Force flowed to the hurt part, and it made it like it was before.

But now he’s confused, the fear so loud and painful, making it harder for Grogu to understand the problem with the water and the air and the lungs. He clutches the man’s skin, claws digging into his strong hand. He tries to do what he can, tries to tell the man’s chest to be normal, to work, to help.

The Force shimmers. It flows, and something goes out of him, into the man.

But it’s not like before. The other man’s arm got better so quickly, the poison disappearing, the flesh coming back to itself. It doesn’t feel that way now; he’s not sure what it feels like. It feels… like something slow, like something calm and quiet, like something gentle.

Grogu lets go of the man’s hand, his mouth twisting. He knows he didn’t understand enough, didn’t get it quite right. He lets out a soft wail, sinking down into the man’s lap and staring dejectedly at his hands.

He hears a quiet, tired voice. Feels the man shift, feels his hand with the rolled-up glove brush against his cheek. Grogu looks up through sleepy eyes and sees the man’s helmet upright again, looking steadily at him.

“Kid?” A long, ragged breath. A hoarse voice. His shoulders rise and fall with big breaths, but not as fast as before.

The man pulls him closer, and Grogu’s ears swivel. The crackles are getting softer. Going away.

“Thanks, kid,” the man whispers.

Grogu gazes up at the man, and he manages a tired little smile. The man is getting brighter in the Force. No more flickering. And underneath the man’s fear, Grogu senses brave again.

***

Din isn’t sure how long he’s been sitting there, leaning against the post at the end of the bed, holding the sleeping kid in his lap. He only knows he’s been working, and it is work, at breathing.

In, and out.

His helmet display flashes numbers at him. They aren’t normal. Oxygen, heart rate, respirations. But hell, they’re so much better than they were.

He doesn’t know what the kid did. The bare skin of his hand tingles in the cool air, and he’s almost afraid to cover it up again, in case it reverses what the child did to him.

For him.

All he really remembers -- things are hazy, even though it was at most only a few hours back -- is the panic, darkness at the edges of his sight, a terrible, unending hunger for air.

And then something quiet and soft, gently washing over him. It was enough.

He coughs again, but it’s easier than before. The rattle’s faint, thin, clearing. He’s not a medical droid, but he’s sure of it anyway: he’s going to make it.

The kid yawns beside him, half-wrapped in Din’s ragged cloak. He squints up at Din, his expression wary. Worried.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, his throat raw. “Are you okay?”

The kid whines a little, his ears swinging low at the way Din’s voice sounds so rough. Din feels an ache that has nothing to do with his lungs and everything to do with the kid’s anxious face.

“Don’t worry. I’m gonna be fine,” Din manages. “You helped me. Saved me.” The words are hard to force out, but he knows they’re important. Hell. What the kid must have seen -- what he must have thought was going to happen -- He freezes, remembering a dark cellar, explosions, a day of red robes in the smoke.

No. That’s not gonna happen. Not to him.

Din cradles the kid into a hug, his ears brushing against Din’s chest and shoulder. The kid hugs him back as hard as he can with his small arms, and he can feel the child trembling.

“Hey, hey,” Din murmurs, though he’s getting winded with all the talking. “I’m sorry I --” He huffs, keeps going even though it’s difficult. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

The kid reaches up to rest one clawed hand against the cheek of the helmet. Din blinks, startled at the closeness, but the kid keeps his hand against the beskar. Din mirrors the gesture, resting the knuckles of one hand against the child’s soft cheek.

“We’ll be okay. You and me, pal. Understand?” he asks gently.

The kid blinks those large, dark eyes, and Din wonders if he’s failed to reach him. Then the child lowers his hands, letting out a cheerful babble with a tilt of his head, and the tension in Din’s chest and gut falls away.

Yeah. He’ll be okay.

The kid chirrups again, voice rising in a question. Din thinks he recognizes what the kid is asking. “You hungry?”

Food. He dimly remembers a few ration bars, tucked in at the back of his belt, swiped from the Crest before they’d left. He sets the kid down beside him, then pulls out two bars and unwraps them both for the kid. Din’s thirsty, after everything, but the idea of food holds no interest yet.

“Here,” Din rasps. “Eat.” He carefully straightens up, taking a moment to slowly swing his legs over the edge of the bed. What normally takes a second leaves him breathless.

He gets to his feet, using the bedpost for support. He’s still wearing boots, his armor aside from the cuirass. It’s all so much heavier than it should be. He lets out a hiss between his teeth and crosses the room to the refresher, one step at a time. Water.

Once inside the refresher he sinks down onto the seat, removing his helmet and setting it into his lap. He glances up and sees his face in the cracked, streaky mirror, the skin blotchy and pale, hair a matted tangle, eyes swollen. There’s residue on his face, dried pinkish red around his mouth and nose. The sight makes him run cold.

It had been so close.

He flicks the water on, strips off his gloves and sets them into his upturned helmet. He cups his hands together beneath the faucet, the cold water spilling over the edges of his palms.

He drinks, and it’s enough.

***

The ship awaits them. Unfortunately, it's barely better off than it was when they left it. The Razor Crest drips with Mon Calamari detritus, rope rigging and tangles of seaweed crisscrossing the ship's hold. Din shakes his head, stepping aboard with the kid in his arms. It’s not great. It’ll do to limp along to something better.

He allows himself a faint chuckle, putting himself in the same category.

He’s mostly recovered. He can still feel it, the way his lungs don’t fully expand the way they should, the way he gets a little winded when he’s up and walking around. But he’s so much better than he was, and getting better every day. Thanks to the kid, and his powers.

He glances down at him; he seems fascinated by the Crest’s new decorations. Din brushes a hand over the back of the kid’s head and the little one coos, reaching out to bat at a clump of seaweed.

“You like this, huh?” he asks. “Don’t get used to it.” Soon as I’m up to it, this stuff’s getting spaced.

The kid giggles at the slimy seaweed in his hands, and Din softens. Maybe he’ll leave it up for a little bit, anyway.

He carefully takes the ladder up into the cockpit, only huffing a little. He’s grateful for the way he takes oxygen in, the way it sustains. He finally turned off the oxygen concentration function of his helmet this morning, and he hasn’t missed it. It’s a good feeling, one that’s been growing as he’s gotten closer to recovery.

He doesn’t remember much of the past few days. He remembers the Quarren innkeeper hollering outside about their time being up, until Din lurched to his feet and shoved a pile of credits at him through the crack in the door. He remembers the innkeeper, mollified, bringing up bowls of steaming soup and leaving them out in the hall for Din to slowly bring inside, one at a time. He remembers how good it tasted, rich and briny and hot, hot, hot. He remembers sighing so loudly the kid’s ears twitched, and the kid let out the longest, tiniest, happiest sigh Din had ever heard.

***

He remembers a realization.

He had found it hard to talk on the second day, between the lingering heaviness in his chest and the bone-deep exhaustion. The kid, though, had seemed to bounce right back after using his powers, and had taken to relentlessly exploring the room for things to do.

Din watched him roam, crawling under the bed, playing with the empty drawers of the dinged-up dresser, trying to climb up the wall to see out the window. The kid was gonna hurt himself if he wasn’t careful, and Din couldn’t afford another scare. He reached out and planted the kid on his lap the next time his circuit around the room brought him close.

Inspiration struck. So it was hard to speak. So what? He had options.

He held up a finger. The kid watched keenly.

Look here, he signed in Tusken, fingers splitting and then rising up to his visor. The kid tilted his head, focusing.

We can talk like this. A wide sweep, a hand raised up near the mouth, palms spreading wide. Din waited. The kid had seen him use Tusken before, but for some reason, Din had never tried it with the kid. He’d always seemed to understand Basic well enough for how young he seemed to be, but he’d never spoken a word of it that Din could make out. He wondered why he hadn’t tried this earlier.

Do you understand? Din asked, hands flattening, circling, ending with a soft point of the index finger. He asked it a few times, varying the speed and size of the question, trying to see if the child understood.

The kid’s ears quivered, as if trying to catch something far in the distance. He held out his small three-fingered hands, and tried a clumsy sign for you.

Din leaned forward, hitching a sharp breath at the effort. Do you understand me?

The kid signed you again. Tried it a few times, the word smoothing out the more he tried, getting clearer.

Good job. It was hard to say if the kid really got it, or if he thought it was just a game. But it was promising to see his ears perking up, his dark eyes wide and interested, his mouth in a toothy, tiny grin.

Din smiled beneath his helmet. If this worked, they might be able to understand each other a lot better. The kid could ask him for help. Din could make it clear what was off limits and not to be bothered with. It was heartening as hell, a bright spot glimmering in the midst of some of the shittiest days he’d had in years.

And then a name swam into his head, causing his hands to drop, slowly, back into his lap.

Ahsoka Tano.

It wasn’t going to matter soon if the kid learned Tusken or Basic. He’d be back with the Jedi.

And Din would be alone, again.

His hands, trembling, spoke for him. Fingers flashed much too quickly for a beginner to learn; phrases scaffolded in front of him, words in motion, hands unfolding with meaning he knew the kid couldn’t hope to guess. The little one gazed up at him.

Thank you for saving my life --

I promise I’ll help you, no matter what --

I’m really going to miss you, kid --

Din’s eyes stung. He blinked once, twice, and stilled his hands. He’d said too much. The kid reached out and held onto his palms, his hands weighing almost nothing at all against Din’s own.

Din swallowed, looking into those trusting eyes. “Okay, kid,” he said hoarsely. “Come on. Let’s try again.”

***

Din shakes the memory off. He knows what he has been quested to do, that Mandalorians keep their word. He’s promised to find the place the kid belongs, and he would rather die -- nearly did -- than leave that promise unfulfilled.

The door to the cockpit slides open, and Din groans. The Mon Calamari’s handiwork is even more ridiculous here than in the rest of the ship. A dangling fishnet slaps him in the helmet, and he shoves it aside irritably as he buckles the kid into his favorite seat. Even through the helmet, the whole place stinks of brine.

“Mon Calarami,” he grumbles. “Unbelievable.”

He powers up the ship, starts easing it into the atmosphere. The ship shakes beneath him, clearly wounded. He can tell by the feel and the instrumentation that the ship should hold together for travel… barely.

A strange noise catches his attention, and he reaches out, grabbing some kind of sea creature that looks like it was about to pounce on the kid. The child burbles with delight and Din shakes his head. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. He squeezes until he’s sure the creature’s dead, then hands it to the kid for a snack. It’s not as hideous as some of the things he’s seen him eat, anyway.

“I finally know where I’m taking you,” Din tells him. “But it’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”

The starfield opens up before them. He takes a deep breath -- hold together, now -- and punches it to hyperspace. The stars ribbon past them, and Din leans back in his seat, relieved. It’ll be enough to get somewhere safe. Before they find the Jedi.

The ship vibrates around them, and Din makes a running list in his head of things he needs to check, wiring that needs to be redone, processes to recalibrate, repairs that need to be made, Mon Calamari detritus that needs to be jettisoned. He could start work on it now. Get it done. It'd be the efficient thing to do.

Instead, Din turns to the kid. “Hey. You wanna practice what we learned?” His hands flash before him as he speaks, tracing out the sentence structure in Tusken. “You can do it.”

He knows he doesn’t need to bother. He can speak again without losing his breath, and what’s more, he knows the kid will leave him soon. He knows it’s not enough time to teach proficiency, that it probably won’t make a difference for the kid in the long run.

But the kid likes it, and Din does, too. Maybe that’s enough.

The kid stares at him intently, moves his small hands in little circles, makes a fist. He grins, clearly pleased with himself.

Din laughs, hands shifting in affirmation, echoing the kid’s words. “That’s right, kid.”

The kid’s hands sign again, repeating the phrase Din had gone on to teach him, the signs clumsy but clear.

You. And me.

#the mandalorian #din djarin #grogu djarin #grogu #clan mudhorn #the mandalorian fanfiction #noromo mando #whump #noncardiogenic pulmonary edema is the diagnosis if anyone is wondering #and treatment is basically... oxygen and sedation #it ain't fun!#my Mando fic

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brittababbles · 4 years

Text

Target Practice

Din Djarin x female reader

Authors Note/Warnings: Well… this is Young Din, and Young Din was a wild child. He’s about 23 here. So… warnings, let’s see. A hint of dub con, various somewhat light bdsm elements (tying up, blindfolding, biting without drawing blood, overstimulation), possessive Din, drug use, Din’s a mean lover. I don’t know you guys, this just kind of came out…

You ever have the feeling you’re being watched? you think, feeling the hair on your scalp prickle slightly.

Even across the hanger, easily a thousand meters away, with at least ten people between you, you can feel the Mandalorian’s gaze upon you. It makes you shiver, though certainly not from cold. Hardly. The hanger is hotter than sin today. You’ve stripped down to a thin, practically transparent slip of a shirt and a tight pair of shorts. Which is maybe what is drawing his gaze. Maybe.

You swivel on the spot and return his stare, meeting the line of his visor solemnly. He’s leaning casually against the loading ramp of his ship, the ship you’d worked so hard to repair over the last week. He’s completely ignoring the activity behind him as the crew loads the Razor Crest for a job. No, he’s not interested in that. He’s interested in the long expanse of bare skin of your legs, the way your top clings to your breasts. You can’t even see his face, but you can feel it in his stare.

It wasn’t completely unjustified. You were lovers, of a sort.

You’d never once seen his face; no one had, as far as you were aware. But you knew enough. He was a 20-something young human man under all that beskar. Young, and fiery. It came out in waves as he pounded your body into his mattress.

You tried hard not to think about what he did when he was off the station. You’d heard that Twi’lek cackling as she retold the story in the cantina.

Target practice…

Not that you were surprised particularly. It was just so… brutal.

But that wasn’t an especially unwarranted descriptor when it came to Mando. Brutal.

You turn your attention back to the blaster you’re repairing, and with the comings and goings of ships in the hanger, manage to miss the Razor Crest’s exit. When you look back up, he’s gone.

The job will take hours. You shrug to yourself and focus on your work.

When you straighten your spine several hours later, it’s quiet in the hanger. A few odd engineers are scattered about the large room, but otherwise there’s very little movement. Deciding you need a break from your small pile of half-repaired weapons, you stand and stretch, reaching your arms toward the ceiling and arching your back.

A gloved hand snaked around your throat. There’s no pressure, but you gasp all the same.

“Come with me,” his modulated voice growls in your ear.

You put up no fight. Why would you fight him when a faint buzz is growing in your belly? He steers you almost mechanically through the corridors, passing nobody along the way until he reaches his quarters. Without a word he opens the door and shoves you inside.

He’s on you in an instant, crowding you, pressing you backward into the bed. His beskar is cold; you can feel it through your shirt easily.

“Looking so pretty, out there where anyone can see you, hmm?” he hums softly, pinning you beneath him.

Abruptly something cool snaps closed around your wrists, and he deftly adjusts your arms until he can lock the binders to the thin metal bars that make up the headboard of his bed. You squirm, adjusting to your new position, as he leans back to admire the way you’re stretched out before him.

“So lovely. But even in this, I think there’s more to see,” he says.

He caresses your collarbone gently. Then, abruptly, seizes the neckline of your shirt and rips it clean down the middle. You give a soft squeak of surprise as the much-cooler air of his bunk hits your skin, making your nipples pebble. Mando tears more strategically at the sleeves, ripping the shirt off your body completely. You eagerly lift your hips, allowing him to finish undressing you. Then he wraps the ruin of your shirt around your eyes.

He’s off the bed in an instant. The room goes dark as you stare at the ceiling, already breathing heavy. You hear the sound of metal impacting metal as he discards his armor. There’s the unmistakable hiss of the locks of his helmet, a final muted clang of the beskar hitting the floor, and then silence.

Without warning, he’s between your thighs, making no effort at subtly. He bites harshly at your legs, causing you to yip with each impact.

“Mine,” he growls, “your pretty little legs are mine, cyar’ika.”

His voice is no longer modulated by the helmet. The tenor of his words spread up your spine.

“That pretty face is mine. Your ass? Mine. And this wet little pussy? Whose pussy is this, (y/n)?”

You crane your neck to look at him, knowing full well you can’t see a thing, and gasp out your answer as he slowly sinks a finger inside you for emphasis.

“Yours” you whimper.

You feel him grin against the skin of your inner thigh.

“That’s right, sweet girl. It’s all mine.”

His lips impact your pussy so suddenly that you find yourself trying to scurry up the bed. He pins you down with one arm slung across your pelvis, slipping the finger on his other hand, already buried inside you, out only to push two in. His tongue swirls around your clit, eagerly laps at your lips, then returns to your clit again. You don’t realize you’re shrieking, only that there’s some sound filling the room. He pulls your orgasm from you rapidly, far faster than you’ve ever come, stroking your insides with a pair of calloused fingers as you clamp tightly around them. Your hips try to buck against the pressure from his arm, but he’s far too strong for you to throw him off. You’re gasping for breath, eyes rolling, when the soft ripple of his laughter finally penetrates your brain.

“Good girl,” he purrs, slipping his fingers out of you and arching over you.

You’re far too out of touch with reality to respond, and barely notice as he reaches off to the side of the bed momentarily.

“These perfect tits are mine too, sweetheart.”

You feel something powdery fall across your chest. The strange, harsh scent hits your nose a moment later. Spice. He presses his face to your breasts and snorts the powdering substance off your skin.

“Oh, Maker,” you groan, unable to contain your words

“Not quite, sweetheart,” Mando mumbles.

He nuzzles against your chest for a moment, though you can practically feel his skin warming under the influence of the spice. His hips are cradled between your legs and you can feel how hard he is against your oversensitive skin. He strokes his fingers over your ribcage before abruptly rearing back to inspect his work on your pussy.

“Think you’re wet enough for me, sweet girl?”

You whimper in response. You can feel the soft press of the head of his cock against your entrance as he waits for your answer.

“Use your words, pretty girl,” he says smugly.

“Yes,” you whisper, “Yes yes yes please…”

That’s all the encouragement he needs. He sheaths himself in you in a single thrust, punching the air from your lungs as he does so. The stretch is magnificent, and you gulp in a breath of air before letting out a cry of his name.

“Mando, gods, Mando, please…” you whine as he pounds relentlessly into you.

You have no idea what you’re pleading for, only that it feels like the only thing you can say. Your cries mingle with his grunts of effort. His fingers wrap around one of your ankles and you suddenly find your leg draped over his shoulder. The angle allows him to somehow hit a deeper spot inside you. You can feel your body tightening, the spring under your skin preparing to release. You want to scream, but he’s pounding into you so hard you don’t think you can catch your breath enough to scream.

“Uhn. So tight. So perfect. Come for me, pretty girl,” he growls

As abruptly as the first, this orgasm hits with the force of a sucker punch. You writhe underneath him, shuddering as electricity tears up your spine. You finally let out a scream, feeling your pussy clamp down on him. It doesn’t slow his pace at all, however, and he continues to pound you straight through it. You twist your free leg around his hips in an attempt to draw him closer, fuller inside you somehow, as the throbbing inside you eases slightly.

“Mando, Mando… Mando,” you chant his name at him.

“That’s my girl. That’s my girl,” he answers, equally as mindlessly.

More unexpectedly than anything, your body reacts to his words in a third orgasm so strong you arch off the bed, nearly yanking your shoulders from their sockets in the process. Your vision blinks with stars as your head presses downward, shoving your chest further up into his. This time he groans, and his thrusts lose their rhythm. You’ve got his cock in a vice and his ragged thrusts seems to drag the walls of your pussy with them.

Abruptly, he lets out a loud groan, arching away from you and pulling himself from inside you. You feel something hot spill over your breasts. He groans again and collapses into your chest. You can feel his cock twitching against your thigh. His full weight is on top of you, but the solid mass of his body is oddly comforting in the moment.

“Oh, cyar’ika,” he mumbles into your skin.

Lazily, almost as if it’s a reflex than an actual thought, Mando reaches up and unlocks the binders around your wrists. The moment your hands are free, you tangle your fingers in his hair. His curls are lightly dampened with sweat. You scratch your fingernails against his scalp lightly, earning you a languid moan. He slowly arches down your body, coming to rest with his head near your chest.

You’re so distracted by the sensation of his body weight that you don’t notice the catlike licks to your breast until he’s nearly finished. It penetrates your stupefied brain that he’s lapping his own cum off your chest, and the thought alone makes your pussy clinch.

“Mando…maker….Mando…” you pant.

He smiles. You can feel the edges of his teeth on your breast.

“Ready to go again, cyar’ika?” he purrs.

You moan. He chuckles softly.

“I guess so…”

You wake up on your back, your eyes still covered, aware of the weight of one of his arms slung across your midsection. The room is pitch black, but you make no move to take off the blindfold. You reach out carefully, finding the soft strands of his hair with your fingers. You brush a little curl off his forehead, earning you a soft grunt.

“Good morning, sweet girl,” he mumbles.

You don’t answer but continue to trace his features unseeingly. Mando closes his eyes, seeming to enjoy your touch.

“I’m sorry I was little rough with you last night,” he says slowly.

“A little?” your voice cracks and harmonizes with itself, still recovering from your shrieks of the night before, “Mando, I can still feel you inside me.”

“Good,” he mutters, leaning forward and capturing your lips with his.

He pulls the breath from you with a single, deep kiss. You drape your arms around the back of his neck and twist your fingers into his hair. He gives a soft groan into your mouth, making you shudder under him again.

And then he’s gone, his weight fully removed from you as he unclasps the binders from his bed. You hear the clatter of metal again as he reapplies his armor, then something soft drapes across your chest.

“You can’t walk the corridors like that,” he says slyly.

Unable to find a response, you trace the object on your chest and realize it’s one of his own shirts. You hear the door open, then close, and you abruptly yank off your blindfold.

You’re alone in the room. The ruins of your shirt hang in one hand. The sheets are tangled around you, showing the full evidence of your exertions the night before. Carefully, you shimmy into Mando’s shirt, then hunt up your shorts from yesterday and pull them on. Your legs feel weak, wobbly, and you lean against the wall while getting your bearings.

When you’re sure you can walk the distance to your own quarters, you slip from the room, hoping to catch nobody’s eye as you slink along the corridor. There’s no glint of beskar; Mando’s nowhere to be seen.

When you reach your own bunk, you slide inside and immediately rip his shirt from your body, inspecting the marks he’s left across your breasts, your ribs, your belly. You pull the shirt to your face and inhale his scent slowly before sinking into your own bed, feeling oddly empty without him near.

#din djarin x reader #mando x reader #din djarin X you #mando x you #din djarin #mando #the mandalorian #pedro pascal #wow what is this #hmmm #britta writes #target practice

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elderbwrry · 3 years

Text

The White Hound

When Hux becomes Supreme Leader, one of his first orders is to put Kylo in white. He didn't realise it would be quite so inconveniently distracting.

From discussions with @kyberkills about Adam Driver in white on the set of Gucci.

Tags: Mature audiences, Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren, assorted very minor ocs, Supreme Leader Armitage Hux, Hound Kylo Ren, some violence, kylo does do a murder, a TEENSY bit of Beheading, but it is not the focus, Denial of Feelings, Married Couple, Blood, sex mention, fashion of the First Order, one day that'll be a real tag i swear *shakes fist at god*, the first order have only heard of three colours ever

Wordcount: 1913 - also on ao3

Hux narrowed his eyes.

The Magistrate in front of him was droning on and on, and had been for the last half hour. Ordinarily, Hux enjoyed a bit of grovelling, but the issue of it was that she was notgrovelling, she was delivering a very carefully worded monologue about the lengths her government was willing to go to in order to comply with the First Order's expanding jurisdiction over the Galaxy. It was too well put together, and Hux could already tell that nothing she was going to promise – once she finally got to her point – would be comprehensive enough for Hux to accept. He demanded submission. He demanded absolute order.

Still, perhaps she would surprise him, besides which it would be better to hear her entire point before rebuffing her, and, as Supreme Leader, time was Hux's to command.

On his left, the Praetorian Guard swapped their spear from their left to right hand. The Magistrate's eyes flicked over to the guard at their movement, and both of her own guards tensed, though they had been removed of their ranged weapons when they arrived. Hux shifted to lean on the other armrest of his throne, his arm poised on its elbow, his hand lazily positioned in the air. The Magistrate refocussed, evidently understanding Hux's subtle message that he should be displeased were she to disrespect his gracious attention, but it was the first crack Hux had noticed in her collected facade.

Of course, Hux knew what she didn't; the guards were exemplarily trained, and that particular movement was the signal of disturbance on the surface levels of the vast mega-ship which served as Hux's seat of command.

Hux readied himself in case the disturbance grew more serious, the Magistrate's words becoming thinner and thinner to his hearing as he mentally constructed the likeliest cause for this correlation of events; she was merely a distraction, her escort ship a vehicle for whatever forces were acting out this misguided plan.

It was a pity – he really had hoped she would surprise him.

Another slight adjustment of grip on the spear of his guard told him Ren was on his way. The knowledge inspired in Hux a sense of satisfaction, which he put down purely to that of knowing his hound had swiftly dealt with the issue.

The Magistrate was still talking. Her government's armies would be powerful enough to cause a problem, which was why Hux had been hoping for a diplomatic transition of power, but now there was little choice other than to take the system by force. And here she'd given him the opportunity, Hux mused as he smoothed down his blood red tunic.

The door at the far end of the throne room swished open, and immediately Ren was marching his way down the central aisle, stormtroopers at his heels along with one of his own knights, and, for one glorious moment, they were a vision all in white. He looked serious, his chin lowered as he glowered forward, his dark hair sweeping back due to the speed with which he was advancing through the otherwise static climate-controlled air. His alabaster robes gleamed in the strip lights. Hux himself had approved the uniform redesign that placed Ren in his current long culottes and figure-flattering shirt, stripped of the cape, the helmet, the things he hid behind before Hux took power. Ren had complained – about the style and the unfamiliar colour and many other things besides – but eventually caved under Hux's pressure; after all, what was grander than a besuited knight in white?

Quite suddenly, Hux found himself surging to his feet. Red – blood red – red, all over Ren's right hand, shoulder, hem, boots. Was he hurt? What had he done to get so filthy with it?

Hux was distracted, so, when the Magistrate drew a pistol and pointed it directly at him, the first he knew of it was the clankof the Praetorian Guards' armour, the warning cry of “Supreme Leader!” and the growl of Ren and his lightsaber igniting. Hux had only time to stare down the barrel of the weapon and consider exactly what he might die from, before the electric flash of the sabre split the air between the Magistrate's head and body and everything in between.

In the background, two further sounds of blaster fire were directed at the Magistrate's guards, along with a buzz of trooper commands and heavy booted footfalls as they surrounded the enemy, who were variously stunned and dead. Hux allowed himself a moment to look at the bodies and consider what would have to be done. Then, he mentally postponed that consideration and turned to Ren, whose chest was heaving as he stepped around the body, closer to Hux, but without taking his eyes off what he'd done.

Hux descended a step, his cloak swishing behind him, but one was all that was needed before Ren was right in front of him, seemingly only reassured that Hux was safe by proximity. Hux paused, hoping Ren wouldn't pull him into some kind of unwanted embrace – he didn't want to get blood on his robes – yet bracing for it somewhat eagerly.

“What is the situation?” he asked.

“Resistance,” came the gritted reply.

Hux raised an eyebrow. “They weren't her government's forces?” The potential ramifications of this were reeling through his mind, so the question was more to himself, but Ren nodded anyway.

“I recognised some of them. They must be desperate, to send such veteran members on a mission like this.”

Ren's tone caught at Hux. It was pained, more so than usual. For someone who had killed so many people and betrayed so many others, Kylo could get awfully trapped in the emotion of some single, awful actions. His lightsaber was still crackling at his side, scorching a mark into Hux's immaculate stairs. “Ren,” Hux prompted, modulating his tone to be more compassionate. It still sounded canned, but at least he was trying.

Ren didn't respond.

Frowning, Hux reached his gloved hand out to Ren's bare, bloodied one, fingers trailing over his raised, tightly gripping knuckles. Something akin to concern found its way into Hux's throat this time as he repeated, “Kylo?”

The lightsaber died at the same time Ren's attention snapped away from where the stormtroopers were quickly moving the body, to Hux. “She almost shot you.”

Hux's head quirked; was that what this show of emotion was about? Ren had looked so furious when he'd attacked the Magistrate. The intensity of Hux's emotions did not match, either for his own life or for Ren, but something inside him felt off, like data buffering, at the reminder that Ren cared so much.

The memory of their marriage ceremony remained fresh in Hux's mind; he thought about it often for this exact reason. Ren had been draped in white then too, and gold and jewels and lace and rare flowers. He had been radiant, especially with how much more meaning had flowed through his vows than Hux had been able to inject into his own. At the time, Hux had absently thought that Ren deserved to say his vows to someone who actually loved him, but hadn't much cared. Indeed, for himself the whole exercise was one of cementing his claim to the throne via marriage to Snoke's heir, something which he thought Ren had understood, despite his eager acceptance of the proposal, but since then it had become increasingly, unignorably obvious that Ren loved him. He thought this was real, and that Hux, emotionally reserved with it as he was, loved him back.

Hux had to take some of the blame for that; he'd done nothing to dissuade the idea. He'd played into it, given Ren power and purpose, played the role of husband to it's fullest extent. He'd gone through all the motions – nothing that he hadn't done before, really – except that the act was getting harder. When Ren played with Millie, Hux had to stop himself from smiling. When Ren stepped unselfconsciously out of the shower, Hux had to avert his eyes and suppress a blush. When Ren lavished adoration onto his body, the shudders he sent through Hux felt all too real.

Now, too, Hux had to tell himself that he was acting out of expectation, because his subjects were watching, when he took another step down to Ren's level and, holding him gently by the elbows, looked over the blood splatters, asking with too much concern, “Are you hurt?”

Ren looked down at himself, at the darkening spots of a slaughter over snow, as if only now realising his state. “Oh, no, this isn't mine.”

“Well,” Hux chided, noting that the colour of his red leather gloves was not so dissimilar to the splatters on Kylo's right side, “it would behove you to take more care next time. You'll need new robes, now you've stained these.”

“You could always put me back in black,” Ren objected, but it was laced with something Hux had come to recognise as his flirting voice.

“Never,” Hux said with more vehemence than he intended. He wasn't sure why he was so against it, other than that he loved the way Ren shone in white. No, not loved. Adored? Not right either, both too strong for him to justify to himself. He settled with preferred. “Go get cleaned up,” he ordered, to avoid thinking about it.

Ren's clean hand raised to Hux's waist. Months ago, Hux had had to stop himself from jerking away at such a touch, but now he was used to it, had to stop himself from leaning into it, even. He'd learned Ren's touches well, just as Ren had learned that Hux would not tolerate being touched by his bloody hand, and as such kept it at a distance. “Come do it with me?” Ren asked, lowering his voice and whispering into Hux's ear, “You know fighting makes me horny”.

Hux shook his head. No, he had plenty to be getting on with; planning the offensive on the Magistrate's home star system, minimising the fallout and outrage from the remaining systems who had yet to join the First Order, tracking the origin of the Resistance members. Still, the head shake was more firm than it would have been if he wasn't thoroughly tempted.

Ren let out an annoyed exhale. “Fine,” he said, and, barely a moment later, Hux was tugged forward into a firm kiss which gave just enough of a taste of hunger that Hux was under no illusions as to what Ren meant when he pulled away and said, “I'll be waiting for you when you're done.”

And maybe Hux was tired, maybe he was shaken by the – rather pedestrian – attempt on his life, but he forgot himself. His hand threaded itself up into the hair at the base of Kylo's neck, thinking how soft it would feel if it weren't for the gloves and drawing him in for another, more lingering kiss this time, one that tasted of the surprised little noise Kylo let out. This time, when they separated, it was as if Kylo's gorgeous white robes had been tinted with the crimson of Hux's; his own colour, rather than the blood of their enemies. The image seared itself into Hux's retina, and promised to be the only thing he could think about until he next saw Kylo. The white really did make the red come out nicely.

“I'll be there soon.”

#kylux #fanfiction #my writing #kylo ren #armitage hux #im putting them in clothes again #white can be goth too ok #star wars #check tags

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writefinch · 4 years

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Dear Dairy, Pt.1 (cn: noncon, Mm, kidnap, emphasis on *forced* feminization, induced lactation, milking, bondage, drugging, induction of gender dysphoria in a cis guy, things of that nature)

7th July 2018

Cold day today. I dusted off my scarves for the first time this year. Not literally, they'd been vacuum sealed and packed away when the weather turned in October. I threw out the red and yellow knit scarf, something I should have done last year, as it's far too Harry Potter. I was going to pick out the UMIST scarf but that felt a touch dull for the first scarf of the year. In the end I picked out the green silk paisley, which I felt provided a contrast with the pink shirt. I wore them with the second-hand grey Armani that I've yet to have tailored; I haven't yet decided if it's worth the trouble. I'm leaning towards yes, as I received two compliments today, one from Jason's database administrator, a charming and flirtatious--to say nothing of attractive--lady from Perth. We've talked about the possibility of meeting up for drinks at some point, and I'm increasingly inclined to take her up on the offer.

Experiment C2 is adjusting to his newfound freedom since his release last week. It was sad to see him go, and I'll cherish the time we spent together, our first night especially when he violently objected to the idea of servicing me. Oh, how he kicked and fought, clawing at his neck chain, scratching me, biting, swinging wildly. He bloodied my nose rather viciously and left me in no mood for sex that night, to the extent that I almost let him go entirely.

Of course, his demeanor changed altogether after I bagged him. A clear plastic bag over his head, taped around his neck, watching him gasp and writhe for air that isn't there, screaming his silly little head off until he's sure that he's taken his final breath, then tearing a tiny hole over his nostrils. I let him suck in four generous lungfuls of air before I bagged him the second time, and I went through seven bags before allowing him a rest. After that he became such an agreeable and solicitous cocksleeve you'd have thought he was raised in a merchant marine!

Still, he was unsuitable both physiologically and psychologically for the experimental interventions, and I only have so much space in the cellar, so I had to let him go. Some of my social acquaintances are keeping a close eye on him. He's been told that running his mouth will lead to nothing but the cold grave, and I believe he's a bright enough lad to take that to heart.

I'm beginning the search for his replacement tomorrow.

20th July 2018

I've found him! I've found him I've found him, he is everything I've been looking for, he is perfect, it is as if God placed that boy on earth for no other purpose than my need for him. I can barely contain my excitement.

He is an itinerant surf bum, twenty years of age, single, underemployed, estranged from his family. He has flowing blond hair, a few wisps under his chin that can barely be called a beard, deep brown eyes, and a lithe, rangy figure that seems to be slowly growing into the top-heavy carrot-shaped build of a classic surfer. He's been living in town since May, surfing most days, doing temp jobs, lodging in the spare bedroom of a friend of mine.

What a perfect physique! His body is accustomed to being dashed over rocks and whipped by surf, what fun I will have finding and surpassing his tolerances for pain! Oh, to restrict and ration out air to a boy who has trained himself to hold his breath underwater since he was a young teenager, to see those taut muscles stretched over a rack, I cannot wait, I can't wait.

I won't speak or write his name. I now take every action with the foregone conclusion that he is mine, and that he is already Experiment C3. In my mind, he is already in my cellar.

My friend has kindly allowed him to get behind on his rent, and C3 apparently plans to move to Sydney in ten day's time, driving out across the country in his decade-old Ford Ka, surfboard strapped to the roof. When he disappears a few days before that, people will assume he left to avoid paying his rent.

They won't be wrong, in a sense. C3 won't be worrying about rent for a long, long time...

26th July, 2018

It hasn't been an easy choice, and it is in fact a decision I've been struggling with for some time now, but I've decided to let my hair go grey. I'm almost forty for heaven's sake, and I noticed my first grey a year before the financial crisis. Ever since then I've been religious in my application of dye and toner, carefully concealing each and every one of the pale little buggers that pops up, but it's gone from something I'd do after a haircut to something I'm doing twice a week. I won't rush it, I'm going to ease off the dye over the course of the next year or so, but by next July I'll be au naturelle salt and pepper.

Work remains dull but tolerable. I know I'm blessed to be able to do most of my duties from home given my hobbies, but there's a certain sense of removal from everything, as if it's not really a job at all and I'm back at university doing a coursework-intensive compulsory module. On the other hand, I do enjoy going to the office in a way that I did not when I was going there five days a week!

Experiment C3 is screaming his head off again, I think. It's very faint, and I've turned off the air conditioning in the sitting room so I can hear it coming up from below. I suppose I can't blame the boy, given the circumstances. He hasn't seen me since the drugs wore off, and he's in the same configuration I first kept C2 in: his feet are in snowboard boots and locked into clips in the floor, his neck is in a steel collar connected to an eyebolt on the floor by a one-metre chain, his wrists are cuffed and pulled up towards the ceiling by another chain, he has noise-cancelling headphones strapped over his ears blaring white noise, and he's wearing a blindfold snug enough to prevent him from even blinking underneath it.

He's been there for seven hours now, since three in the morning. He can neither stand nor sit nor lie down, he cannot turn around, he cannot see--though it is pitch black in the cellar even if he wasn't blindfolded--he cannot hear his own voice, and I very much doubt he has any idea how he got there.

As I said, I haven't been down to see him properly yet, so I'm monitoring him at a distance via CCTV and also his pulse and blood oxygen readings. I'm keeping him watered through an IV drip and I'm not at all worried about feeding him just yet, though I'm sure he'll be getting hungry given that I emptied out the contents of his guts with an enema while he was still unconscious. I want him properly good and woozy from sleep deprivation before I introduce myself, either forty-eight hours or until his vitals get a tad skiffy, whichever is shorter. By my word, I am not an impatient man!

Of course, given the close monitoring required, I'll only be getting a few more hours sleep than he will. I suspect I'm getting the better half of the deal. Ah, the poor thing just wet himself. He needn't worry, it's all going into the bucket between his feet, and it'll go to good use later.

I've calmed myself down since his capture, for practical reasons as much as anything else, but I am still abuzz with energy. I am already looking forward to writing my next entry!

28th July 2018

I introduced myself to C3 today.

He spent an impressively long time in the stress position before he was unable to push his legs and instead dangled from his wrists, almost twelve hours, at which point I let the wrist rope go slack and allowed him to collapse. To prevent him from sleeping I intermittently blasted him with high pressure cold water whenever his pulse dropped below 100, for about a further four hours until I decided he'd had enough rest and strung his wrists back up.

He lasted five hours that time, so I let his wrists down again and stood sentry with a paintball gun, giving him a good and proper three-round burst whenever he stopped whimpering. Up again, barely an hour, down again, where I pinned him to the floor with wiring from an electric fence, set to deliver low-intensity zaps across his arms and chest whenever it seemed as if sleep was a possibility. He only got a few shocks, I think the first few put him in such a state of alarm that he didn't dare relax enough to be given another.

I strung him up a few more times, sometimes combining the motivators--his quivering thighs made a delightful target for paintballs as he tried to hold them in a crouching squat--until we reached the forty-ninth hour. I then played my recorded introduction tape through his headphones. It was identical to the one I'd played for C1 and C2, which was itself similar to the one recorded for B4 through B9.

Of course, as the deaf and blindfolded boy was crouch-squatting in place hearing my voice tell him that his old life was forfeit, that he was livestock now, that he would be used as a sex slave, that disobedience would only lead to misery, and the details of the hormone treatments he would be on, I was standing in front of him, masturbating.

My timing was impeccable. Just as the last lines of the recording said "if you're wondering when you'll meet me, I'm right in front of you," I came all over his whorish face. I'm afraid I'm no Peter North, I've no more than four spurts and the first one is always rather watery, but I nailed him right between the lips with one burst and smeared the rest over his face with the tip of my cock. He froze up rather delightfully during the whole ordeal, barely flinching as I cleaned off the tip in his hair.

I took the microphone and spoke directly into his headphones. I told him he'd been in his predicament for two days so far, that he was to obey my simple instructions, and that if he did he would be allowed food and allowed to rest. I told him that I would not require him to speak at any point during these instructions, and that if he so much as whispered I'd keep him strung up without food for another two days. He nodded in agreement, which earned him a hard slap, as I'd not asked him to nod or shake his head. I told him then to nod if he understood, which he did.

I freed one of his arms at a time, telling them to keep them in place and move them only as and when I told him to move them. He obeyed--a far quicker learner than C1--and I put him into the straitjacket. I unlatched his boots one at a time, putting him in ankle cuffs with a short length of heavy chain between them. I injected him in the buttocks with his first dose of anti-androgens, a painkiller, and his hormonal cocktail, and I removed the IV from his arm.

At that point I led him to his cage, a 2x3 metre cell, 1.5 metres high. I removed his blindfold, though it did him little good as it was pitch black in the entire room--I'd switched off the lights and was working via a set of light amplification goggles--and pushed him onto the wipe-clean bedroll.

"Lie still like a good little boy until the lights turn on, and then you can help yourself to some food," I said to him. He made a sound as if to respond, then silenced himself, lying still in his bonds.

The lights were on a timer, and they came on harsh and bright when I was upstairs, watching him through the CCTV on my desktop with a fresh pot of coffee. Three of the walls of his cage were walled off with a tarp, allowing him to see about a fifth of the basement through the remaining wall. Inside his cage was his bedroll, a doggie bowl full of oatmeal and bananas, a small plastic trough filled with fresh water, and a litter tray.

I considered staying up and watching him, seeing the fear grow in his eyes, his first attempt at eating cold food without the use of his hands, the humiliation of pissing in a litter tray, but I was exhausted. As soon as I've finished writing this entry, I'm going to take a well-deserved nap.

4th October 2018

The truffle salt from Coles is a waste of time. Don't misunderstand me, it's useable, it's palatable, and it has the necessary truffle aroma. "Has" is the key word there, it's got the half-life of Fermium and after a week in the cupboard it's now just table salt with black specks in it. I think I'm going to invest in some decent truffle oil at Christmas.

C3 is coming along marvelously. The combination of injections and a high-fat, high-calorie, vitamin-rich diet have had a visible impact on his physique. His skin has softened even further from a clear and healthy surfer's complexion to almost peachlike smoothness and he now has visible jiggle on his thighs, stomach and buttocks. Most importantly, he's now the not-at-all-proud owner of a set of A-cup breasts, complete with sensitive, pebble-sized nipples.

His breasts are extremely sensitive. He's told me as much directly, but I've confirmed it through experimental means. A few light stripes under the nipples with the cane used to bring a wince to his face when he first came under my care, now it brings him to his knees, and the mere sight of the thing leads him to cry and whine rather prettily.

He did have some issues with portion control, in that he wasn’t eating the full servings of food I had prepared for him. This was unreasonable and short-sighted on his part: while plain, I have not asked him to eat anything that I wouldn't willingly eat myself, and while I am not a professional cook I am certainly a talented amateur.

The solution was a simple one: if even a smear of food remains in his dish, I do not feed him for the next two to four days. I only had to enforce this rule twice, and he's finished every meal I've put in front of him for the past two months.

He's gone without sleeping for the last forty-eight hours, he's gone without speaking for the last three weeks, and I've added a low dose of LSD to his drinking water. Tonight he should be somewhat tractable for the induction of a hypnotic state. I am not trying to control his behaviour--there's nothing I want him to do that I couldn't compel him to do through more reliable means--but for an in-depth interview. In concert with a lie detector and a regulated dose of barbiturates, I am going to make him bare his soul to me.

There are a few specifics I'm interested in, such as confirming my assessment of his sexuality and gender identity, and it never hurts to shore up my security by inquiring of any planned means of escape or rescue, but in great part I am doing this for morale effect: I want him to have no respite from me, even inside his own mind. He will learn that he has no more control of his thinking than he does of his eating, sleeping or exercising.

Speaking of which, I had to leave him in an armbinder for a few nights when he insisted on doing press-ups in his cell. The additional restraints distressed him greatly, and he's seemed afraid to even move lest I restrain him further. That was back in August, and I have since acquired an elliptical trainer which I allow him to use daily, good behaviour permitting.

I will write again tomorrow with details of tonight's interview, and I only hope it's more productive than C2's interview was.

5th October 2018

Well, that was elucidating.

I left C3 unrestrained for the interview. It was his first time free of shackles and cuffs outside of his cage since he'd arrived, as I wanted him to be relatively comfortable and I was confident that his drug cocktail would prevent any serious escape attempts.

He is not a natural hypnotic subject and I was only successful in inducing a semi-trance state. I don't think he achieved a trance, but I think he believed he was in a trance, and for my purposes that was more than sufficient. He talked for hours and provided an unabridged history of his life so far. His parents, his brothers, his schooling, his love of surfing and camping, his romantic attachments and rejections, his childhood friends and bullies, his fear of dogs, his earliest memories, his deepest shames, enough to fill a short memoir.

The interview lasted for ten hours, with breaks every two hours to allow him to pee (as I'd also allowed him to drink lime cordial from a cup while he spoke) and to adjust his dose of drugs and deepen his trance state. He cried frequently and easily. He bears a great amount of shame and guilt for someone so young and so relatively innocent--raised by Catholics, naturally--and spent half of the fifth hour in uncontrollable hysterics. I let him rest his head in my lap and stroked his hair as he cried, and he clung on to me like a man drowning. Once he ran out of tears he had a bout of cathartic laughter, and after that a calm passed over him, and he remained in a state of detached, cooperative calm until I ended the interview.

Of course, most of this was filler and background information for the parts that truly interested me: his sexuality and gender identity. Both were perfect. His sexuality is less important but still delightful. He is entirely heterosexual and repulsed by men. He still has nightmares about the one time I have molested him so far, when I coated his face with cum shortly after his chapter. You wouldn't believe how hard I got as he told me that!

He sometimes masturbates in his cage, which he tells me is mostly from boredom than any sexual desire, and he fantasizes about sex with women. He has little interest in sadomasochism, no interest whatsoever about taking a submissive role, and aside from a weak interest in pegging he is plain vanilla. He has fantasies about sex in public, fucking multiple women, being woken up by receiving oral sex, and seducing older women.

His gender identity is much the same: male, through and through. He has insecurities about being slight and physically unimposing--related to bullying in school--and about being insufficiently masculine. He takes pride in the callouses in his hands and the scars on his body from surfing, and wishes that the thin, pale stubble on his face was thicker.

It's of little surprise then that he finds the changes from the hormones to be a cruel and unwanted imposition. His breast growth makes him feel powerless and disgusted with himself, he can feel his muscles weakening, the tenderness in his breasts is terrifying and degrading, and even the topic of penile and testicular shrinkage made him choke up and sob. He says that even when I allow him to sleep, his mind feels clouded and he finds it increasingly difficult to identify the particulars of his emotional state, which swings and changes in ways he is not used to.

Again, I must reiterate how promising this is. My experiments concern the induction of sexual neuroses and physical development on non-consenting subjects. C1 was unsuitable because he--well, she, more likely--was a little too keen to embrace the role I had planned for her.

C3 is sleeping now. I haven't actually left our impromptu "therapy room" and he's drifted off with his head in my lap. He needs the rest. I have big plans for him, after all.

24th October, 2018

I took a trip to the cinema today. Specifically the single-screen cinema in the back of the adult bookshop. C2 is turning tricks for the manager. I don't think it's his first career choice but for some reason he's been unable to get a job anywhere else in town. He tried being an independent streetwalker for a while, which didn't work out well for him as he was quickly picked up by the local police and treated rather roughly. Almost as if they were keeping an eye on him!

The manager of the adult bookshop got in touch with him, I believe he was waiting for him outside the local lockup in fact, and informed him of a safe, reliable means of plying his trade. Now he sucks cock in the back room cinema along with a handful of other whores in exchange for a roof over his head and ten percent of the ticket sales.

He was apparently given a second tour of the police cells for not handing his tips over to the manager in a timely and honest manner, so his left eye was still swollen shut when I saw him today. His garb was delightful: pastel pink yoga leggings with the Adidas stripes down the sides, and a duck egg blue midriff-cut t-shirt with "BOY" on the chest, with a female gender symbol in place of the O.

I sat down next to him in the otherwise empty cinema and flashed him my ticket, which had set me back $84--worth every penny--and he flashed me a charming smile. There was no glimmer of recognition in his eyes, like all of my experiments and side projects he'd never seen me without a mask. He put his hand on my thigh and told me his name, which I've already forgotten. The feature began, a rather energetic video from the noughties with Kelly Wells, Hillary Scott and Layla Riviera, prompting C2 to get on his knees in front of me. He gagged a little when he unzipped my jeans, not because I was unwashed but because I'd applied a generous quantity of deodorant and aftershave so that he would not recognise me via scent.

I enjoyed a slow, leisurely blowjob for the next hour, where he displayed all the basic techniques I'd so painstakingly taught him as well as a few new ones he'd picked up more recently. There's something to be said about consuming porn this way, not just the oral service but also watching the film from the beginning, without skipping forward to my favorite parts or switching between videos, letting myself slowly build towards my climax at the same pace as the on-screen action. I came just before the money shot, pulling out to cum all over C2's face as Kelly Wells guzzled piss on the big screen, and let C2 lick and suck my balls until the credits rolled.

Before he or I got up, I took out $20, waved it in front of his eyes, and then used the notes to wipe cum up from his face. He flinched at the roughness, scowled, told me to cut it out, and put his hand on my leg as if to push away from me. I said three words.

"Punishment position three."

It was as if I'd reached inside him and squeezed. He let out a pitiful squeak, straightened up on his knees, pushed out his chest, put his hands behind his back, closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and let his tongue hang out. I stuffed the cum-soaked banknotes between his mouth.

"Be good, C2," I told him as I stood up. He didn't move a muscle as I walked out of the cinema, and as the door closed behind me, I heard a single muffled sob. It was an enjoyable experience and I certainly needed it after the last few days because C3 has really been a handful.

It began on the weekend when the first signs of lactation appeared. C3 has been getting increasingly upset with the changes to his body, his widening hips, his weight gain, his shrinking musculature, his shrinking genitalia, and his C-cup breasts. The breasts are especially upsetting, he complains that they ache constantly and are tender to the slightest touch. In any case, when the first droplets of milk dribbled out of his nipples something snapped.

Through tears, he told me that he refuses to eat, that he cannot live with the things I am doing to him, and that I should either let him go or kill him. Obviously this is unacceptable. I told him I was not treating his request with any seriousness, and that if he did not eat his meal, he would go without for the next several days. He nodded forlornly, but still refused the food.

I strapped his hands into leather mitts to prevent him from improvising methods of self-harm, and continued as normal. For the next three days, he refused to respond to commands or obey orders, remaining silent and going limp. He wailed in pain when I caned his soles and slapped his tits, but he continued to wallow in self-pity.

He was ravenously hungry by Wednesday, but when I gave him the opportunity to eat, he would not. I left the bowl of food in his cage overnight, and in the morning it remained untouched. He had not thrown it out or despoiled it, he had simply ignored it in an admirable, if misplaced, display of willpower. I gave him one final warning that there would be serious consequences if he did not eat now. He refused, so I applied the consequences.

I fitted him into a padded restraining board, on his back, his arms, legs, chest, stomach, forehead, chin, wrists and ankles held in place by canvas straps. He could not move an inch, not that he was trying particularly hard. A hollow dildo gag with a breathing hole went into his mouth, principally to prevent him from trying to bite off his own tongue. I catheterized him and inserted a hollow plug into his backside, not overly gently in either case, much to his consternation.

Then, intubation. I fed a heavily-lubricated silicone hose into his left nostril. He thrashed and twitched, as is expected when such a procedure is performed without the aid of benzodiazepines. Undeterred, I asked him to start swallowing, lest the tube end up in his lungs. He did as much gagging as swallowing, but after a few eventful minutes I felt the tell-tale glide of it being pulled down his esophagus and into his stomach.

Once the tube was taped in place under his nose, I attached the free end to a pump until it drew fluid out from within him. A few drops of this fluid onto pH paper revealed it to be stomach acid, which hopefully meant that the hose was not in his lungs. I then attached the hose to the feeding machine, and explained to C3 exactly how it would work.

He would have his meals and water combined into a slurry, kept at a cool four degrees celsius, and injected into his feeding tube. The pressure inside the hose would make breathing difficult or impossible while the food was being pumped, and the volume of his meals--around a litre and a half of slurry--meant that each feeding would be spread out in thirty second bursts, delivered semi-randomly over the course of an hour.

As I told him this, I undid my belt and began to masturbate. Despite the obvious temptations, I had not molested C3 in an overtly sexual manner since that first facial at the beginning of his captivity. By combining molestation with removal of autonomy, I wished to impress upon him the importance of obeying me with whatever autonomy I allow him to have.

I pressed the button on the feeding machine as I approached my climax. C3 squealed and gurgled like a drowning cat from the sensation of ice-cold sludge pumping through a tube in his sinuses and down into his throat, choking as the diameter of the tube expanded enough to cut off his breathing. He thrashed in his restraints with such force that he almost moved the gurney beneath him!

Seeing tears stream from his eyes was too much, and his eyes were precisely where I aimed. I landed a good few ropes on each eye, which he scrunched shut in disgust. When the tube stopped pumping I pried open his eyelids with my fingers and made sure a good quantity of my burning, stinging cum got in each eye, then smeared the rest across his face. He tried to blink it out, with little success, and before he could do much else I applied the padded blindfold. He hates and fears the eye-shutting pressure from the neoprene padding at the best of times, and wasn't overjoyed to wear it with his eyes gunked up with sperm.

He's been like that for the last three days, unable to move, speak or see, fed three meals a day through his nose. The only interaction he's had is when I've unrestrained his individual limbs and allowed them some movement, one at a time, to prevent bedsores and deep vein thrombosis, and when I come down to grope his sensitive tits. He is only able to relieve himself through the catheter and through enemas.

After a few days of stick, he's almost ready for the carrot. Tonight I am making pork carnitas with soft tacos, which he has told me is his favourite meal. I have also purchased one of the Harry Dresden books, which he told me he is an avid reader of. When dinner is ready, I will make him an offer: he will ask me for normal food and apologize for forcing me to use the feeding tube. In return he will be allowed out of his restraints and returned to his comfortable cage, along with his favourite meal and a good book, which he will be allowed to read during his spare time as long as he behaves himself.

I hope he accepts, for his sake and mine.

16 November 2018

C3 had his first true milking today! I've been teasing dribbles of milk from his nipples with my fingers for weeks, but today the volume was so high that I had to deploy a handheld breast pump. He whimpered for the duration but was obviously relieved by the reduction in pressure. It was as if he found the whole ordeal rather humiliating.

The milk is rich, a touch gamey, and less sweet than expected. I don't think the taste will be anything to write home about while his stress levels are so high, and I think that will be the case for some time. I've taken half for myself, and I'm mixing the other half into his food.

He's been docile since the force feeding. The intensity and inevitability of the punishment is part of it, but the rewards are equally important. My deal is that he can ask for anything once. Obviously I laugh at certain requests--he's not getting a phone or a two-way radio--and some things require compromise, but otherwise I have been accommodating. His cell now contains a lamp he can turn on or off, two dozen books and graphic novels, an old mp3 player, and a box of wet wipes. His relief from the constant boredom of being confined in a cage for twenty hours a day is palpable, and he has chosen the comfort that obedience brings over the misery that stems from disobedience.

He has asked if he'll ever be free from this basement and I truthfully said yes. One day he'll be walking around outside free of physical restraints and he will sleep at night in a bed he can truly call his own, though I'm unsure if he'll ever truly be free of me. He takes comfort in the fact that he has not yet seen my face or anything that might identify me, as he reasons that I am therefore not incentivized to bury him in a shallow grave to protect myself. His conclusion is correct but his premise is wrong; he'll know who I am eventually and I still won't fear him.

I'm currently milking him once per day regardless of his feelings on the matter, and I think this has hidden from him the fact that he now needs to be milked. Without his daily milkings the pain in his breasts would become unbearable, and soon he will develop mastitis if he's not milked. This will form another important part of his development: begging for things that are distasteful but necessary. With the exception of the wet wipes, there is nothing inherently humiliating in the things he's asking for. I believe he'll find begging to be milked intensely humiliating, and more humiliating still because of the tolls I'll extract from him when he goes down that road.

A brief note on his physical changes: his breasts are bigger but they remain C-cups for the time being. There are now a striking set of stretch marks on the sides and undersides of his breasts, along with some smaller, subtler ones on his thighs and buttocks which have also thickened up nicely. At some point I'm going to give him a regular schedule of retention enemas until he gets stretch marks on his belly befitting a pregnant little broodslut. His skin is delightfully soft and I'm shaving his face daily until the home electrolysis kit arrives. The combination of hormones, daily exercise bike sessions, and a lack of any upper body resistance training has changed his physique from a surfer's build to a more bottom heavy one.

As soon as I have finished writing this entry I am going to give him two gifts. The first gift is an ear piercing. It will be home to a yellow plastic tag, a miniature version of a cattle tag. The second gift is his name. He's not C3 anymore, and he's certainly not whatever stupid name he called himself before I acquired him. He has lovely tits and he's a milk cow, so his name will be Cowtits.

Cowtits. I think it suits him.

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starksvixen · 4 years

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Shattered - Part 2

Summary: A Jedi and a Mandalorian. Impossible right? Not for Satine and Obi - Wan. Hell, he even said he would leave the Jedi Order for her. But you wished it was you...

A/N - I have only watched a few episodes of Clone Wars so I am not overall familar with Satine and Obi - Wan’s romance. I just thought it would be a spicy fanfiction hehe. This story is also not based on any specific Clone Wars episode, but rather an imaginary situation.

There is a reason the quote “what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger” is around. Despite the deep cuts left in your chest due to your shattered heart, you used the pain as fuel, a purpose. To become hardened, to never let another man into your heart like that again. You were a Mandalorian and much to Satine’s dislike, you were a warrior at heart, meant to protect others and your people.

You repeated these words to yourself over and over during your stay on the planet. Keeping your conversations short with the Jedi while you trained by yourself. Only talking to Satine if she promised to not bring up the heartbreak.

With every other attack that came against the Duchess, you became more accurate, more deadly. You were liking the person you were turning into, a true Mandalorian. A warrior in your armor that people feared. It felt good to no longer be the weak girl the General had left you as.

Until today.

You watched the ships being loaded up closely, ensuring that none of those droids could stowaway. Every time you saw one crawl into the luggage, your blaster was up by your eyes and the droid would be dead on the ground.

This time, Obi Wan was shoving something into one of the luggage carts as you watched one crawl it’s way onto the bag. Without a second thought, you quickly shoot it off, not minding the shot’s close proximity to the Jedi’s head.

Apparently, that was Obi Wan’s last straw, storming over to you. You let a soft sigh release, one soft enough your modulator couldn’t translate. Still gentle as ever, he grabs your arm and takes you inside, to a secluded corner away from prying arms of workers.

“What the bloody hell has gotten into you, (Y/N)?” he exclaims into a whisper.

“I’ve been doing my job,” you reply in a flat tone.

“No, you haven’t. You’ve been avoiding me, shutting out Satine, taking more risks. All you ever do is go from training by yourself to sitting in your room doing Gods knows what. It’s not healthy!”

“It doesn’t matter...”

“Yes, it do-”

All you hear is Satine’s scream, sending your entire body into flight or fight. Pushing past Obi - Wan, you run out to the tarmac to see the place littered with dead clones and Satine in the hands of a pirate.

Quickly, you lift your gun to take out the threat, but an invisible Force pushes the tip to the ground. You look at Obi - Wan, your eyes wide underneath your mask as his hand stays subtly lifted.

“Put the Duchess down, or you will regret it,”

“And how would I regret it? The Duchess is worth more then the two of you combined!” the pirate laughs.

That’s when the Force on your blaster was released. With a smirk beneath your mask, you quickly shoot the leader, sending his lackies into a blood induced rage.

Out of the corner of your eye, Obi - Wan wordlessly takes his place behind your back, hearing the loud buzz of a lightsaber being enacted. All of them were coming at you both too fast for you to shoot. So as the first one came, you used your blaster to smack them straight across the face.

Given the small space in time, you grab your staff from your pocket, clicking a button to expand it. Then, as each pirate came running towards you, you could easily smack them out of the way. Reaching into the slot on your armor, your pulled the blade seated there and stabbed each of them in the thigh as they landed. The bastards weren’t going to get away with this.

Once all of the pirates were either dead or groaning on the ground, Satine runs towards you. Quickly looking away, you return your weapons to their proper place as you think she is running towards Obi - Wan. But she runs straight into your arms and without hesitation you hold your oldest friend close to you.

“You shouldn’t have fell for the trick,” she whispers.

“(Y/N), no!” you hear the real Satine from behind you.

Just as the changeling uses her hidden blade to try and slit your throat, she freezes with the blade pressed slightly into your skin. The changeling fell to the ground, a lightsaber shaped hole in her chest.

Obi - Wan looks at you with wide eyes as you breathe heavily. Without him, you most likely would have met your doom. The pure adrenaline coursing through your veins helps you to ignore the steady stream of blood pouring all over your armor from the wound on your neck. You bend and quickly grab your blaster, your eyes scanning what was left of the luggage carts for any more threats.

“Anakin, get the Duchess on board and get us out of here. I’ll take care of (Y/N),”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Anakin quickly escort your friend on board and the ship roaring to life. As your body realizes she’s safe, your knees give out under the pressure of your sight spinning. Before you fully collapse to the ground, a pair of strong arms keeps you up, throwing an arm around his shoulders and helping you onto the ship.

Once in a secluded room, Obi - Wan quickly closes the door, your heart picking up at his presence. He quickly collects what he needs from nearby storage carts, obviously waiting for you to take your helmet off.

“Thank you for your help, but I can take care of myself,” you hoarsely say, the pain from your neck intensifying.

“She’s safe with Anakin, you need me more,”

You sigh hard once he collects everything and sets it beside where you now sit. As he goes to take your helmet off, you quickly snatch his wrists to stop him.

“(Y/N)...what did I do to break your trust?” Obi - Wan whispers, picking up on the subtle que.

“You didn’t...”

Slowly, you release his wrists, your helmet clad head pointing towards the ground as you felt the weakness you always felt around him set in. Tears spring into your eyes from the pain in your neck and the one in your chest.

“What did I do to lose you?”

“I made you, so you would be happy,” you softly say, the pain escalating at an alarming rate.

“But my dear, I have been quite the opposite,”

“What are you talking about? You’re with Satine, I see how you look at her.”

“How I look at her pales in comparison to how I look at you,”

You stay silent, trying to process his words and suppress the butterflies to threaten to tear your gut in two. The vulnerability sets in, making you tense up, making the pain even worse all over. You can’t help but a small, audible sob echo from you as it all becomes to overwhelming.

“My love,” you hear him whisper. “I’ve never been interested in Satine.”

Slowly, you feel his hands rest against either side of your helmet. This time, you don’t stop him. You opt to keep your head tilted to the ground, the stickiness from the blood against your neck adding to the overwhelming feelings that blur your mind. You feel the metal slip away from your hair, a fresh wave of cool air hitting your face and neck as Obi - Wan slowly removes your chest plate next. He lays them like Satine does, in a certain order, always showing respect.

“(Y/N), it’s you.”

You feel two fingers slip between your chin, lifting your face to meet his as your tears begin to slow.

“It’s always been you,”

He leans in without pause, you meeting him halfway through until your lips collide.

All of the emotions pent up, the same things that had overwhelmed you moments before, were gone. Your mind was clear for the first time in months, the only thing running through your thoughts was him. The way your lips danced together, like they were somehow training together in your minds, it sent goosebumps up your spine and down your arms.

There was something in the way his hands slipped from your face to your hips, like if he let go you would disappear again. Your seated position changes as you stand together, his frame pressed so tightly against you despite your remaining armor you could feel every muscle. As if it was engrained, your arms slip up his chest, around his neck, into his hair. Gently, you pull at the roots, not to force the kiss away, but as a silent message of longing. How much you had waited for this moment.

Eventually, you come up for air, both of you sharing a soft pant at the tension broken between the two of you. A smile unlike any other graces your face, happiness replacing the adrenaline that was once in your veins.

“I love you, (Y/N) (Y/L/N).” he whispers, his swollen lips pressing against yours softly with his words.

“And I love you, Obi - Wan Kenobi,” you whisper in return.

After some time, he sat you down again, cleaning and stiching up the wound on your neck. Not without a chaste kiss here and there however. As he threads the needle through the last point it was needed, a thought comes to mind.

“What about the Order?”

A soft silence settles between you as the Jedi ponders your words. But only for a moment.

“When Satine first caught onto my feelings, I told her I would leave the Jedi Order if you told me too,”

As he threads and ties off the last stitch, your eyes connect again as you ponder his words now too.

“I couldn’t possibly ask that of you,”

“But then we can’t be together, (Y/N),”

You ponder once more.

“What they don’t know can’t kill them,” you mumble softly, running a hand through his tangled locks that still somehow remained soft.

“You want to keep it a secret?”

“Until you’re ready to leave, not for me, but for yourself.”

“How did I get so lucky to have a gorgeous and smart woman?” he says with a cheeky smirk.

“Shut up and kiss me already, Obi,”

Once again, he doesn’t hesitate, your lips joining in a hungrier matrimony then before. Slowly, you lay down on the bench you had been sat upon, coaxing your Jedi to hover over you. Without his lips leaving yours for a second, he braces himself above you. Just as his lips leave yours to travel elsewhere, a jolt in the ship alerts you both to your arrival back on Mandoa. Obi - Wan groans softly at the lost chance of having some fun, but the same smirk you had fallen for etches his face as he whispers to you:

“Another happy landing,”

Tag List: (leave a comment to be added)

powerpuff-bucky

Would anyone want a Part 3? Maybe like an Epilogue?

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venusandromedadjarin · 4 years

Text

Not Mandalore

Ch. 7, A Glint of Beskar

18+ eventual smut, flashbacks with violence, sexual tension, 1.9k words

The next planet is a few days away, which you’re grateful for since it’ll give him time to rest. As you play with the kid and his silver ball, you sit across from Mando, scrutinizing every slight movement and waiting for him to either wake up or freak out. It’s so quiet in the hull that you try to occupy yourself with the child’s coos, asking him questions in a whispered voice so that he’ll fill the silence with nonsense.

Eventually the child starts to get sleep, his big eyes gradually being covered by droopy eyelids. Instead of putting him back in his capsule, you open the door to the cot and set him in there with his blanket. He falls asleep immediately, the silver ball clutched in his hand. The door slides shut with a small hiss.

Earlier, you tried to get Mando up on the cot while it was pulled out of its compartment, but you couldn’t lift him onto it and he wasn’t much help. He’s currently still passed out in the makeshift bed on the floor, and you crouch down next to him to feel his heart beat through his chest. It’s definitely gotten stronger and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Even though you’re scared of leaving him alone, you decide this might be your only chance to shower. Between taking care of him, the kid and cleaning up the huge mess in the hull, you’ve barely had enough time to wipe the blood off your hands, much less change your clothes.

As the steam fills the refresher, you peel your shirt and pants off, the fabric stiff with Mando’s blood. All of your bruises are gone, and you look down at your rib cage to see your own birthmark. Stepping into the warm water, you sink into the memory.

“Mommy? What is this?” She looks at where your small hand is trying to grab at a mark on your side; gently pulling your hand away, she smiles.

“That’s our family birthmark. All of the girls have them, see?” She lifts her shirt to show you hers and you reach out a small finger, poking at the crescent shape on her side.

“Why?” Your voice is small in the little hut, the heat outside making the indoors stifling hot.

“Our ancestors had them, but you aren’t old enough to know why yet. You might not know for a long time. One day you’ll meet someone with a different mark-”

“Oh, like my friend?”

Your mother jerks her eyes to yours, taken aback by your comment, “What friend, y/n?”

“You know him. We play.”

“The Djarin boy, right?”

You nod, suddenly afraid that you might be in trouble. You also don’t want him to get in trouble, it was bad enough after playing near the lava.

“I wish I could tell you everyth-“

Her response is cut off by the echoing sounds of blaster fire and screams-

The memory is cut short by a sudden groan outside, and you quickly shut off the water, wrapping your body in the towel. As you emerge, you notice that Mando is sitting up directly across from the door, watching you through the black slit in the helmet. He clears his throat, making you jump after being surrounded by silence and babbling for so long.

“The quarry…”

“I already dealt with her,” you take a few steps toward him, stopping at the way his helmet flicks up at your answer.

“I didn’t want you to see her.” He shifts, his body flinching at the movement but he doesn’t make a sound.

You cross the rest of the way over to him, suddenly aware that your hair is dripping down your back and the towel around you is dampening in suggestive areas since you didn’t dry off. You shiver, but not from the cold. “It’s okay,” emboldened by the events of the past 24 hours, you set a hand on his shoulder, his helmet coming up to look at you, and you kneel next to him. “We’re heading to Geonosis for the next bounty, but it will take a few days. You can rest.”

He nods slightly, raising a hand to you, but then quickly drops it back to his side, his thumb rubbing at his new scar. You can’t help but look at the birthmark on his shoulder, trying to think of ways it might just be a coincidence. He sees you looking, and with a jolt you realize that when he was taking care of you in the days before, he probably saw yours. Flushed, you hurry to your feet, “I-I have to get d-dressed.”

You spin away from him, but he’s too quick. Before you can even reach for your bag, he’s on his feet and standing behind you, his warm hands putting slight pressure on one hip and your arm that’s holding the towel in place. Maker, you forgot how quick he is. You can feel him breathing heavy as his chest lightly brushes your shoulder blades, and the modulator does little at hiding it. Your breath hitches in your throat, your chest tightening as he moves his hand down your arm until it’s resting over your hand. Entwining your fingers with his, he loosens the towel, letting it slide down between your bodies and onto the floor.

His helmet lowers down to your shoulder and you feel him tense behind you as he breathes in and slowly trails his fingers up your hip and over your ribs. They come to rest right underneath your breast, where the crescent shaped mark is. Trying to focus all your attention on the cold metal of his helmet proves futile and you feel feverish as you try to make yourself breathe.

“D-did you see,” he starts, pausing to take a shuddering breath, “something that you would like to ask me about?”

Scared of what will happen if you admit you saw his birthmark, you shake your head, frozen in what you think might also be excitement. He releases your hand and moves to drag his fingertips up your spine, “N-no.” Your answer comes out as a puff of air but you’re positive he heard you. Just as you think he’s going to put his hands somewhere else, anywhere else, he pulls away from.

“You should sleep,” is all he says as he turns to hastily go to the refresher, slamming the door shut behind him.

Suddenly and achingly aware of how naked you actually are, you turn away from the wall and stare down at yourself, water droplets rolling down over your breasts and tummy. A sigh tears from your throat after holding your breath. You quickly get dressed and look around to see if there’s anything else you can straighten up before he’s done, the tightness in your core waiting for what’s next. His armor is hanging in its cabinet, as clean as you could get it while watching the child. The blood was washed up immediately after jumping into hyperspace. Your eyes land on the pile of blankets and look around to see if there’s a better spot. There’s a medium sized space towards the back of the hull that stays dim, even with the lights on, so you drag the blankets over and try to make it as comfortable as possible, not really knowing what to expect.

You check on the kid before going up to the cockpit to double check the navigation and autopilot controls. Down below, you hear the shower turn off. You rush back down the ladder, almost slipping as you try to get in under the blanket, your heart pounding at the idea he might not like if you disobeyed him. This is silly, you think to yourself, when have you ever taken orders from someone, much less a man, unless you had to in order to survive? The thought makes you shudder, pushing unwanted memories out of your head once more. Truth be told, the blankets actually provide you some warmth in the cold hull. You also didn’t actually realize how tired you were until you laid down.

Mando exits the refresher, a towel wrapped around his waist… that deep V leading down to… you watch as he opens a cabinet and then disappears again. Your eyes are half shut when he emerges in black pants and shirtless, “When’s the last time you slept?” His bare feet make soft thumps as he pads over to the blankets, a slight stiffness to his body that signals he might still be hurting a bit.

“Dunno… The night before you left?” You murmur it into your arm as you turn onto your side, sinking into the exhaustion. Part of you wants to sit up and hold him, if he’ll let you. Instead he smoothly drops down on his knees in front of you, reaching out one hand to swiftly pull back the blanket before sliding in next to you. It takes you by enough surprise to actually open your eyes and look at him.

The helmet looks back at you, but you swear you can feel his eyes boring into you. You feel warm again, remembering the feeling that left you when you were presented with a chance to sleep. The modulator cracks, “That's been over a day and a half by the looks of it.” You must look confused because he goes on, “You gave me a half dose of Bacta which knocked me out for… 16 hours? I’m guessing Kuiil put you to work the day I left.” You nod up at him, watching as he shifts against the metal wall behind him. His muscles jump a little.

“Are you still in pain?”

He doesn’t bother answering, just turns the helmet away and moves his arm enough for you to see the multiple bruises still yellowing the skin on his side. The scar on his other side, above his waistband, is still swollen and red, but it doesn’t look infected. You wish you could check the one on his thigh, but don’t know how well he would take it if you asked. The Bacta did what it could, but you realize it might not have been a strong enough dose.

“Mando,” you say it softly, curious if he’ll even entertain the idea of questions, “where are you from?”

He sighs, but it doesn’t come through the modulator, you only see his chest move with it. “Not Mandalore.”

You stare at him, expecting more of an explanation, but he doesn’t give it. “Then how’d you become a Mandalorian?”

“I was rescued and trained as a foundling. They don’t do it often.” The helmet pointedly looks down at you, “Where are you from?”

“Nevarro,” you say it stronger than you would have expected, but he hears the tremor in your voice and suddenly moves closer, wrapping an arm underneath you and pulling you into him. His fingers rub absent circles on your hip where his hand rests. You must fall asleep like that, up against his warm side, your arm wrapped over his abdomen, being careful not to put pressure on anywhere sensitive.

Hours later, after he knows you’re asleep and the child hasn’t stirred, he removes his helmet to gently kiss the top of your head before pulling it back over his face and falling asleep.

#the mandolarian #the mandolorian x reader #din djarin reader insert #din djarin #reader x din Djarin

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