#Ohwun De Maal | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sinisterexaggerator · 6 months ago

Text

Stars Above! | Cad Bane

Chapter 16

Explicit: Semi-slow burn, gratuitous smut /pwp, canon-typical violence, rough sexual elements, angst, Tatooine Slave Culture.

This chapter: Contains smut involving two tentacle-like Duros dicks. Blowjobs. PiV sex.

Word count: 4.9+

Notes: Hope you like weird, alien genitalia! Also, I headcanon it is Hondo Ohnaka who helped Bane regain his health and had a physician fit him for his metal plate. I am "borrowing" an OC made by @allsystemsblue, though she remains unnamed in this story and is mentioned only in passing. Mizu will be included in Annals of an Outlaw when the time comes!

[ Ao3 ] - [ Masterpost ]

《 Previous chapter ||

The bottle would suffice him, no need for a glass, he’d drink straight from the container held within his hand. Top shelf, dark, and biting on his tongue, the liquor went down, down in deep swallows, urged by smooth suprahyoid muscles. His mattress had been just as good a hiding spot as any, the pungent whiskey housed beneath its firm, yet springy shape—it had been stashed there for ease of access, as it often helped him to achieve a good night’s sleep.

Bane was no stranger to vivid dreams and nightmares. His past was colorful enough that he was prone to restless fits, accompanied by cognitive distortions—all those things he bore throughout the day would plague him when he drifted into REM. His mind only allowed for short, spasmodic bursts; he was on guard by default. In this day and age, there was hardly anyone left to trust except himself.

He had left his bed unmade, messy, and unkempt, though it was luxurious and soft, like that girl he had partaken of. He didn’t like it when the droid came in here, unless absolutely necessary. He feared he might misplace something important, or simply try to reorganize his things in a way that did not please him.

After a double shot, it all came flooding back: a deluge of unwelcomed memories. First Jango, and then Boba, never once able to rid himself of his past transgressions, as if they would haunt him until his dying day—whenever that might be.

But Zulara—she had been there, sometime after his ordeal at Jabba’s Palace, yet that was impossible—he had left her back at Slave Quarter’s Row before answering his summons. She was safe and sound, and far from him. It was as it should be, as he would not have her involved.

And Boba, this was all his fault. He could not remember what had happened after he had followed him out into the dunes. He only knew one thing—Todo had somehow rescued him, just like when young Fett had put a bolt into his head.

The Duros sighed; he understood it hurt to breathe, stepping to the single viewport that overlooked his ship’s right wing. He pressed his forehead to it, the transparisteel cool against his scales. He growled as he realized he would need to clean this too, as he had left a gluey imprint on the glass.

It was sundown. Bane lingered to get a good look at what lay beyond his window, no bigger than twice the size of his own face. He had lost more time than he had thought, people roaming to and fro as they prepared to close up shop, bought dinner, or talked amongst themselves.

He had picked this dock for the fact it was open and quite spacious; there was plenty of room to park his ship, and he had a bird’s eye view of the happenings down below. He had rented it from some other Duros, one he had come to trust, as whenever he visited this dry ball of dust, him and Ohwun De Maal did business.

A sharp ache flared just behind his brow ridge, extending up and beyond to where his scar resided; it was reminiscent of a bolt of lightning splintering, though it was pain instead of light that spiked. He grit his fangs until he thought he might crack them into pieces, for some reason the smiling mug of that damned Weequay overtaking his mind’s eye, as if he had a choice.

It had been Hondo who the droid had commed, anxious to help his master, who appeared to be on the verge of death after that ordeal involving Fett. Bane had more enemies than friends, but Ohnaka had been his droid’s first thought—a poor one, but it had saved his life.

Cad reminisced as he took a swig, the infernal pirate playing more than gracious host. He had answered to his every need, and beckoned his own doctor to patch him up. The tiny woman had been professional, her hands steady and her disposition sour—it was no matter, as she had done her job, and then some; it was unfortunate that Hondo had seen him vulnerable.

And yet the rapscallion had never mentioned this to anyone. For that he was quite thankful. Bane hated to think he owed him one, though Ohnaka did not seem to think so. At least that’s what could be concluded from the scoundrel’s lack of boasting, Cad often irked by Hondo’s potential to be a decent man—and for no good reason—what had he ever done for him? Why had he stepped up? The hunter refused to ask, harried every time that they crossed paths, though he was awfully good at hiding things.

Bane might threaten him, but he would never turn Ohnaka in, nor would he kill him, despite the thought having crossed his mind numerous times before.

Bane would set the bottle down; he had been out cold for a full rotation. Still, that was not time enough for him to forget just who the cause of all of this was—that lamebrained governess who had laid her claim to Tatooine, despite the slug-like Hutt’s overwhelming chokehold on its denizens. There was no doubt Cad Bane would call her; he had a mind to change the terms of their arrangement, but first he needed to wash and clothe himself.

Ignoring Todo’s bleating in the hall outside, the Duros was used to his mouthy droid complaining about every little thing. Why he put up with it was for him to know, but he knew better than to disturb Bane once he was in his room.

The aching hunter trailed the wall, finding the door to his refresher. His legs were wobbly; what a pathetic sight he must have been, Cad grateful that no one was around to see it.

---

Water, in abundance, could be heard, like rain falling to splatter on some planet that was unlike hers. It echoed, reaching her ears just beyond the door, Zulara’s mismatched eyes gleaming at the absorbing sight before them.

Bane’s room was homey, yet in a state of disarray. It was cozy, but disheveled. She had not known what to expect, though what she saw was somehow fitting, yet she could not help but think this was perhaps too intimate a place for her to be. Her nerves tingled; Zulara forced herself to move. She hadn’t made it this far just to stand there, though her heart thundered feverishly inside her chest.

There was a closet, holding a sparse amount of clothes. He had a hat collection, lined along the wall on metal hooks. His bed looked soft and comfortable, though the sheets, the blankets, were all tangled. He had a plethora of pillows, but there were things scattered amongst them—credits, coins, and gold medallions. They were on the floor, stuffed inside of drawers, some still stored in cases that were open, jutting out from varied crevices and corners.

Zulara had never seen so many pretty things, shiny jewels encrusted with more gold or silver—rare objects that looked like they belonged in a museum. There were little statuettes, baubles, trinkets—ticket stubs, bounty fobs, and books; they were old and made with flimsi; they had gilded spines and were in a language she had never seen. She desired to touch these things, but there was one thing she wanted more—the man himself.

She spied a mirror, and next to it a table with some personal effects; these items were all in order and arranged just so. She stopped to inspect herself, noting that she looked exhausted. How she was feeling was wrought indelibly into her expression, though she was easily distracted, as a single thing of his had caught her eye.

Before her was a small leather pouch; it had once been of a darker coloration, but now it was tawny and rough from years of use. Her thumb traced where it was worn and faded; etched on it were a few scant words. She could not read them, yet held inside were toothpicks.

The girl was tempted—she heard a noise, like the Duros had coughed or groaned—her heart fluttered. Zulara turned, making her way toward the refresher after setting the pouch back down.

She had softened her footsteps, unsure of when to announce her presence. It was clear that Cad Bane had temporarily lowered his defenses, as he had not yet detected her. She could not decide if this was good, or bad. She did not want to cause him any undue stress, yet her heart and brain were not communicating, as it was in her best interest to follow his droid’s advice.

Zulara’s index finger grazed the button to the sliding door; it was silent when she pressed it. The room was warm and steamy, the transparisteel before her partitioning him off from her. It was opaque, leaning toward obscure. The glass was frosted, the Duros nothing but a vague blue outline to her as she steeled her courage. Her hand lifted to knock, but then everything went wrong.

The bypass door had vanished—slipping backward—and so had her resolve. There was a flurry of sudden movements, Zulara discovering herself pinned flat against the refresher wall. Her throat had closed; there was a large hand obstructing her, Bane’s hulking fingers tightening as he cut off her air supply—he was choking her, she realized.

Zulara whimpered, as she could not speak. She kicked her feet, the hunter having lifted her some few centimeters off the floor. She gasped for air, then Bane loosed his hold; his bold red eyes were full of something. It wasn’t anger so much as remorse, but alongside that was an inkling of horror.

Bane did not speak to her as she inhaled deeply; she stared at him as her chest heaved and she tried to adjust her breathing—she would stiffen once again—the Duros’ fingers traced her windpipe, Zulara’s eyes agog as she dare not move.

For that single moment, he had looked terrified—afraid he’d hurt her—but now his gaze had hardened. His lip pulled back to reveal pink gums; he bared his fangs. “Must nahtta heard when Ah told ye te go home.”

So, she hadn’t been a dream after all, he thought.

Zulara reflected on his words, that thing he’d whispered. Bane retreated back into the shower, the half-Twi rubbing her neck where it was sore, acknowledging that even in his weakened state he had tried to get rid of her.

For most, that would have been enough, but not Zulara, not like before. She knew he liked her. Though closed off to her and the rest of the galaxy at large, Bane was multifaceted, like an Ojomian onion with a myriad of layers, though just how many was unknown.

She appraised his body before he could shut her out; he had bruises over every inch of his lapis-colored scales. They were green like nephrite, just like his blood; it was still present on her top, though long since dried. Her eyes watered, though she would not cry for him—she had already done that. He was alive; he would be all right.

Then, an idea came to her, a bad one, but one she would entertain, her judgment poor and heart full of something akin to affection for him. Zulara tugged off her boots, followed by her simple garments; her shirt, her skin-tight, light-weight pants, leaving her just as naked as the Duros who kept his silence. His place was once more behind the single sliding door that barred him from having to look at her.

Did he expect her to leave? To exit his ship and not return? The girl was getting gutsier, taking a deep breath before she once more pressed the switch to give her access to where Bane quietly resided; his eyes ballooned into two elliptic ovals—he studied her—drinking in her buxom breasts and her admirable shape.

Zulara would do the same; her gaze traversed the lean muscles of his legs and thighs, taut and thin, with an abdomen that was refined though flat. His hips were streamlined, sleek, and well-nigh graceful; his ribs mildly protruded, Bane’s pectorals well-defined though they lacked mamilla as they were not present—Duros physiology was different in that regard, the girl inferred, not having seen him fully nude before.

The contours of his clavicles might as well have been hewn from marble, Bane all scales and sinews, his cheeks chiseled, and his jawline sculpted like some rugged work of art—she had seen his face already, yet she found him so oddly beautiful.

She knew to stare would be disrespectful—Zulara tried her best not to ogle him as he was injured, though she was highly inquisitive. Her eyes dropped to below his waistline—Bane’s genitals were covertly covered and nestled inside himself, unlike prior—he was bare but for a three-inch slit. She longed to hold him.

“It ain’t just yer eyes dhat don’t werk, it’s yer ears,” the Duros jeered.

Zulara would cursorily recover; she blatantly ignored him, feeling that what came out as bitterness was a mechanism used to defend himself, Bane’s acerbic tone not bothering her one bit—to others it might as well be acid.

Zulara’s face betrayed her, her worry for him, his dark contusions setting her brow to furrow inward in a show of pity with a total absence of tranquility. She felt disquieted to see him entirely disrobed—he had so many scars, so many scrapes and scratches—the claw marks of the rancor had raked him across one shoulder; it extended to the middle of his sternum. Would it scar too, she wondered? The thought displeased her to no end.

He seemed surprised to see her be so brave, not predicting this course of action, but the one thing he did not do was outright protest. Bane’s lack of a rebuke, to her, was an open invitation, Zulara taking one step up to join him. The halfling would tilt her head, letting the water flow down over her in rivulets, raven strands being tossed just over her shoulder’s edge; she had given him a look that thawed his heart, yet he refused to be enamored by her.

Zulara did the unthinkable once again; she touched him without his permission—yet hadn’t he done the same to her many times before?

Mauve digits freely roamed the length of Bane’s cool neck, tracing its long column to find the thrum beneath his pulse point. It was for her own peace of mind, detecting that it was strong and hardy, perhaps the hunter’s heartbeat having minutely accelerated.

Zulara nuzzled him the best she could, just below the atrium of his right hearing organ; he had no auricles, only a small pinna-like protrusion, her warm breath licking cobalt flesh with her increasing closeness. “Let me stay,” she begged, the girl’s earnest marked by the imploring lilt of her sweet voice.

Cad Bane might as well be speechless, the girl’s breasts pressed flush up against him; she had whispered beguilingly, her plea alluring, if only for the way it had been administered. He was trying and failing to be upset; he would not reprimand her, yet she would also not receive his full encouragement.

Zulara did not need it, lithe fingers of the opposing hand rising to cup the back of his bare head. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him on his battered lips, the girl unable to help herself; she was inextricably drawn to him.

The man enjoyed this, though he would not return her kiss, instead surveying her with the intensity of a punctilious avian. An Edgehawk would come to mind, native to her home on Lothal, and just as deadly a predator as he could be, preying on small things.

Zulara began to shy away, variable hues of gold and blue skirting past his face down toward his throat and chest. Her hands found their own path, the tips of mammalian fingers warm and tender; he barely felt it as she traced one of his many fresh abrasions—the girl was as gentle as could be.

“I hate it,” she whispered to him—her touch—the stripe she feathered down past his stomach—it caused him to seize her wrist. Zulara gasped as he had startled her, the girl’s meager confidence shattering like Chandrilan glass that had been mishandled. She had no words, fearing what might befall her next.

Cad Bane kept his grip cinched around her arm, rough and weathered fingers tucking a few strands of her hair away behind her ear. Zulara would peer upward, the Duros guiding her to fully look at him by a tilt of her trembling chin.

He kissed her on his terms, soft, slow, and with a method that caused the girl to moan. He had barely touched her, but she was already beginning to come undone, as if he could put the blame on her.

Bane’s tongue joined in, wet and rosy pink; Zulara readily accepted it, hers hot and lush inside his mouth. He was careful of his cuspids—he did not wish to hurt her—the fangs that filled his maw were not entirely for show, as they could rend flesh from bone should he choose to do so. Zulara had learned of that firsthand during the time they had spent together, yet she had only suffered bite marks, the evidence clearly present by welts that blossomed. It was possible the hunter felt a mote compunctious, only due to one or two being a mite too deep.

The girl’s desperation was palpable, Bane feeding into it as it fed his ego. At the same time, his core enlivened; Bane’s body was self-lubricating, yet he did not feel that feeling that demanded he act on it. It was strange; sex was meant for one thing in his book: a way to get his rocks off, a way to clear his head before the next hunt began. And yet, this was different. This girl was different; she did not try to woo him, she simply did. He found this fact disturbing, knowing one day it might ruin him.

Bane could feel the rise and fall of her full bosom against his ribs. The ache was there, but it did not matter; he found himself absorbed by her enticing narrative.

The one where he was not all bad, but worthy of attention; the one where she was concerned for him. He allowed himself to be engrossed by the notion he was not such an awful man; it was too self-indulgent combined with the cocoon of her warm flesh; Zulara was hugging him again even as they kissed—he seized her throat once more, albeit gently.

Zulara would not flinch; Bane retreated from her lips to flash his teeth. The girl’s eyes would lock on his, bewildered, though transfixed. Then, she felt it: the Duros’ cocks had slipped outside himself. He was toying with her, the spongy tip of one tentacular-like appendage having grazed her clit. It had inched its way between her folds; the girl would gasp, pleasure radiating from the place where he had touched her.

Bane’s depthless eyes narrowed; his fingers slightly tightened. Zulara would reach for his mouth again with hers; Bane held her steady, finding she now appeared alarmed.

“Dhis is what ye came fer, innit,” Cad Bane seethed, his cocks not hard but soft and cool, slick, and resembling the limbs of a cephalopod. It was the result of his subdued arousal; He packed prehensile tendrils instead of pricks as hard as bone. They only solidified when he was notably stimulated, and for now he wasn’t.

He would take care to thank her should she give him the right answer.

“I came for you,” the girl breathed out, tears welling in her two-toned eyes. She was distraught; Zulara could not fathom why he would presume to think that, though her mind began to overanalyze and search her feelings. She knew the truth; it was her worst fear coming to fruition: the idea she was just some cheap lay, another slave who would do anything for freedom. A girl who wanted to seduce him. A whore, for lack of a better word—perhaps he did not trust her or her words.

Zulara covered his hand with hers, grasping at his fingers. She plucked them free, like ripping off a necklace in a throe of passion, this set of actions a paroxysm on her part. Bane stared at her, though he relinquished his mindful hold, until he realized she meant to take her leave of him.

One arm scooped her back, extending to curl around her tapered waist. Zulara would set about to struggle, but even so, she was heedful of his wounds, his cuts and bruises—the rancor’s claw marks. Her tepid hands only pushed at his sore arms, but that was nothing compared to everything else that hurt, or the many other near fatal injuries he had endured throughout his lifetime.

“I’m not what you think I am,” Zulara pleaded, her words having a double meaning, though it was lost on him. “I only wished to help,” she would argue quietly, though her body settled, the girl’s head tipping forward so she could rest her nose against the Duros; he felt her balmy flesh make contact with his rostrum.

“Dhen what are ye,” came Cad’s raspy-voiced reply; he let her stay right where she was, though compelled to know her answer. He knew nothing of her, just that they had shared her bed; that she was Kayson’s slave; that Hondo vied for her affections, yet here she was in the refresher with him, naked.

“Just a girl—I’m no one special,” she lamented, “but one who hurts seeing you like this,” she added, one of her kindly hands moving to cradle his strong jaw where it met his chin. “I can’t force you to believe me,” she said, defeated.

Cad Bane was moved, though he would never easily admit it. He soaked her up, her honest sentiments and her unmatched beauty. He returned the gesture, the pad of his long thumb rubbing a small circle into the round of her soft cheek.

“Dhat’ll do,” he stated gruffly, his tone bordering nonchalance, yet it was a front; he would not make her aware of the effect she had on him.

The silence was filled with the sudden onset of Zulara’s disjointed moans, Bane had introduced one of his cock’s inside her. The motion had been smooth and fluid, his member pliant and able to inter itself snugly. It did not need an easy introduction, as Zulara’s plush insides would expand to accept his supple girth, Bane slick with his own secretions; he knew just where to target her.

His length would pulse inside her, like the writhing of a worm, languid, and patient with her. To Zulara it felt like the lapping of a tongue, impossibly large, and buried deep within her. She was a liquid, her legs desiring to fail her. Though Bane was not at his full strength, he kept her standing, taking the brunt of her slack weight.

“Easy,” he muttered low; the girl would search out his mouth again. In doing so, he was fed her gasps, Bane absorbing them like sustenance to fuel himself.

Zulara could not speak as Bane’s second cock licked her clit, its swirling tip fondling her with peculiar purpose. The girl’s brain filled with sporadic images—nothing clicked—she heard Bane rattle out a fricative hiss. She was coaxed by an open palm; Bane drew her toward his throat, reedy fingers entangling themselves in her black locks.

The Duros held her there, his oil sacs emitting an aroma that would only entice her more; they were fine slits beneath his ribs, and she had not noticed them before. They were camouflaged, blending in with the rest of his blue scales; he had nearly inked himself because of that damned rancor, their main function not one of pleasure but of defense.

“Breathe, hm?” he emphasized, his voice taking on a harsher shade. The girl obeyed, though it was difficult. She regained her footing, yet still needed his support.

“Bane,” she uttered his name, but he would not go any faster; he would not let that persuade him. Cad was dutiful in his undulations, having already found that special place that made females forget themselves. He would prod it gently, coiling against the underside of her anterior.

It was too much, the syncopated rhythm of both his cocks. While one felt like it was eating her, the other viciously teased her, Zulara’s piteous moans and whimpers like music to his ears; he pressed her head against himself.

The girl relaxed into an orgasm, her warm heat clenching, Bane letting Zulara ride him until its completion, though he had not been in it for himself; he would withdraw as soon as she came down.

Bane would unhand her, freeing her of a rare embrace, the Twi falling gradually down onto both her shaky knees. Bane watched as she descended, not of her own volition; her legs simply would not allow her to keep standing anymore. Her hands trailed his stomach, his thighs and calves, until they dropped and rested in her lap as she breathed deeply, appearing to be starved of oxygen.

Zulara would cant her head, gazing up from the few square inches of space her body now occupied. Met face to face with Bane’s foreign genitalia, she would extend her tongue to taste the tip of one.

She could smell herself, and discern the flavor, yet not overpowering the Duros’ own brand. The sheen of sticky that coated both his cocks was both sweet and sour, and not by any means unpleasant.

Bane shuddered, finding his place along the wall; the girl did not stop there, his reaction the catalyst for what she would do next.

Zulara guided him inside, her mouth hot and textured like choice velvet. The girl found it easy to intake nearly the whole of him as he was not rigid, yet this introduction to the tight confines of her throat would not come without its consequences, should he not be able to keep himself in check.

She moaned, the hum vibrating against him from within her gullet; his belly quivered, Zulara allowing him deep passage—for a girl who had never done anything quite like this, she was adept, or effortlessly able to adapt.

Her lips would pucker as she sucked, Bane’s cock glossy, all the while thickening though frictionless, like candy made sleek from the constant roiling of one’s tongue across its surface. His other member mobilized itself, caressing Zulara’s cheek with its ability to touch and molest, like the curving of a finger as it followed a path down toward her chin.

In reality, it might seem monstrous, a thing that was hideous or atrocious to those not of his species, but Zulara was not disconcerted, nor was she intimidated. Bane’s anatomy did not so much frighten her as it was intriguing, assuming all males throughout the galaxy had their own way of being that she wasn’t privy to—the women too—enjoying what she could of him.

Zulara picked up the pace deliberately, one hand rising for its underside to palm Bane’s second phallus. She would run her fingers along the length of it—she was unbelievably delicate with him—it might have tickled had it not felt so delicious.

Bane could feel the telltale signs, the ones where his scales bristled, and his cock was on the verge of hardening; he was nearing the point of no return, forcing the girl to stop her suction; it was regrettable, but he knew himself. Though he would recuperate, currently his energy was depleted; he was tired, he desired to do nothing but relax, yet he had a call to make to that damn governess, and the hunter wished to hold onto his anger as it would serve him.

To allow himself release, to cum inside her pretty mouth—Bane knew nothing else would matter after that.

The Duros would withdraw his hips, pushing his buttocks to the wall of the now cold shower. This whole scenario had been a waste of water, but he would quickly forgive himself as Zulara was coerced to give up on her task. His cock had slid from out her throat, retreating back through her open mouth, the other slithering across her fingers joining its companion. The girl was frowning, her eyes two sorrowful, sparkling gemstones of varied chromaticity; she gazed at him like he had hurt her feelings.

“Did I do something wrong?” the halfling asked, her voice soft and peppered with notes of worry. Bane only stared at her as he allowed his breathing to even out; he swiped her bottom lip with the pad of a harsh thumb, dragging it slowly downward, exposing her bottom row of teeth and gums.

“Gotta comm te make,” he offered by way of an explanation. With that, he opened the bypass door, stepping past Zulara to touch down upon the refresher’s floor. Bane would leave her there to take care of herself, knowing that he could find her easily when he was ready— besides, Todo would keep an eye out.

15 notes · View notes