Bonus Points If You Know Where They At 😏

If Bane was sat infront of your oc, how feral could they become if allowed?

Honestly? Arya would do her best to play it cool and keep those thoughts in check. They are rivaled bounty hunters but that doesn't mean they don't occasionally end up at the same places off duty. Most likely places such as outer rim worlds in a cantina, or maybe even a hunter's hangout.

But, if Bane would allow it, she's one fierce ride~

Actually working on a reference sheet for my Mandalorian Gal💜

Does anyone else get impatient and scatterbrained while drawing or is it just me?? 🤣

AHHHH!!! that pose is fantastic 😍

I used an old art to practice of drawing fog

I swear I'm always forfeiting my money to this goddamn space cowboy....

Sideshow collectables must want me broke or something 😩💕🔥

I'm HOWLING 🤣🤣🤣

take 'em both like a champ 🤚

Askin' for trouble.

Cad Bane x Fem!Reader

Summary: Stupid, and sloppy. That's what he had called you. That's not to say he's wrong, but challenging Cad Bane is just asking for trouble. He'll teach you a lesson in listening, one way or another.

Warnings: NSFW/18+ for: Blood, injury, distress, roughhousing, physical violence, "brat taming," cursing, PiV sex, alien genitalia, and bloodsoaked kissing.

Word count: 3.2k

Notes: Cad Bane is an asshole, but you already knew that. I know Bane hardly does numbers anymore, but if you like it, please reblog! Otherwise this shit ain't gettin' seen. Happy reading! This one is for @deepbluespace4. ;D

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Sloppy.

Your trembling fingers rifled through your pack, droplets of your own dark blood cascading from the open wound marring your flesh. The bastard had cut straight through your armorweave, leaving a ten-centimeter-long gash in your side.

You should have seen it coming, there was no doubt he had. You would be the laughingstock of the entire hunting party, though you had no time to worry about such things. Flinging your belongings left and right, you urgently searched for the implement that would save your life, yet it was nowhere to be found.

"Fuck!" You cursed the universe as loose credits spilled onto the dingy tiles of the refresher floor. Your comlink joined them, along with your spare rations. You needed to calm yourself, staunch the flow of crimson pouring from you like wine. Your vision blurred as you teetered before the broken mirror adjacent, hardly able to recognize your own reflection through the uneven streaks of dirt and grime, so wan was the color of your skin.

It was obvious your heart was beating faster to try to compensate for the drop in pressure; you felt the onset of nausea, dizziness, and knew that soon it would be too late. You were becoming weaker by the second, though perhaps you would be able to endure death better than facing your colleagues, yet it seemed fate had other plans.

Footsteps, the jingle of spurs in the hall—it caused your saliva to all but evaporate, your mouth as hot and dry as the atmosphere of Jakku. A shadow crept along the slit in the door; you held your breath. 

All was silent; you prayed it had been your imagination, your subconscious conjuring hallucinations in its fatigued state, though your hopes were dashed as a bright light met your eyes, revealing to you the figure of a man in a wide-brimmed hat.

Stupid, and sloppy. That’s what he had called you.

The door shut closed behind him.

“What the hells do you want?” you hissed, quickly turning back to the task at hand. If you could only ignore him, his hulking presence in that damnable mirror, then maybe the skeeze would leave you be.

The chink of metal and the stretch of leather said otherwise.

“Lookin’ fer dhis?” the Duros asked, his tone laced with undue arrogance. You spun around too quickly and nearly lost your balance. A smirk tugged at the corner of his scarred and weathered lips, Bane’s boot having placed itself on top of something, rolling it along underfoot.

With just enough force, just the right amount of weight being redistributed, the case would crack, destroying that precious thing you sought so desperately—your fucking stimpak.

“Give that to me!” you demanded, rushing forward despite feeling ill, paying no heed to courtesies or your rapid blood loss. Bane placed a finger to the center of your forehead and gave a simple push. It was all it took to send you careening backward, forcing you to plow into the edge of the ceramic sink.

“Tsk, tsk. Where’s dhem manners, hm?”

If looks could kill, surely the Duros would be dead. All you received in return was a grin so nefarious it made what blood you had left boil in your veins.

“Bane … I don’t have time for this,” you seethed, your grip slipping, your unoccupied hand being utilized as a makeshift bandage, yet that stubborn rivulet of red refused to wane.

“No time fer manners?” he asked mockingly. You heard something shift; you looked down to see the sole of his boot pressing just a little bit more firmly.

“Asshole!” you screeched, diving clumsily once more for that item you so sorely needed, more valuable to you than money. This time, you received a kick to your chin as your head whipped back, causing your body to tumble heavily onto bits of broken pourstone.

“Only asshole here’s ye, fer dhat shit ye pulled,” Bane groused, his voice deepening in righteous anger. The Duros was the leader of your entourage; you had been given a chance to work alongside him, a galaxy-renowned bounty hunter, yet you had karked it up like some unadept, some novice not worth their weight in salt.

But it wasn’t your fault! The men you had been pursuing had been too fast! Their skills were matched only by those others on your team. Yet all in your company had claimed their prize—your quarry had been the only one to get away scot-free.

You had not expected him to use a sonic detonator at the last possible second; Bane had conveniently told you to, “cover your ears.” Then, you blindly shot into the crowd, taking down some random bystander. Fortunately, you would not be charged by any such entity that passed for law enforcement on this planet. It was a living, breathing, Rogue’s gallery.

In other words, your conscience was clear.

“S’what ye get fer naht listenin’,” Bane sneered, breaking your train of thought. Already you had proven him to be right, having nearly missed his last scathing remark.

Bane bent down, plucking the small syringe up from off the ground, causing a wave of panic to weasel its way in. “Ye want it? Beg fer it,” he snickered, twirling the delicate vial of medicine between his fingers as if it was a blaster to be holstered. You felt yourself turning red with rage, yet what could you do?

Die. You could die.

“Please,” you grated between clenched teeth, digging your fingers into your lap to keep from screaming, to keep from biting down on your own tongue. Hate filled your heart, and Bane could see it, smell it—it only made him worse. It only made him want to continue to provoke you.

“Hm,” he pondered aloud, tapping the edge of the syringe against his thigh as if contemplating something weighty, “don’t think ye meant it—try again.”

You felt inclined to pull your weapon, to shoot him right where he stood, but you were far too intelligent for that—he was too quick for you. He was the best of your kind, no matter that he was the worst in every other way conceivable. Nonetheless, you wouldn’t stand a chance in hell against him. The idea was forfeit from the start.

You inhaled deeply and with purpose; you attempted to placate your frayed nerves. This might be the most difficult thing you would ever have to do, suppressing your very nature; burying that part of you that was so obstinate.

Finally, in your most gentle, even tone, you asked, “please, Bane? Please, help me.”

“Good girl.”

You felt the pause; it hung in the air, like a question that was left unanswered—what did he just say?

Before you could ponder on it further, you were yanked unceremoniously up off the floor by the collar of your vest. You cried out in shock, though now you would cry out for another reason—Bane had jabbed the needle point of your stimpak directly into your gaping wound.

The Duros’ thumb pushed down to inject both bacta and painkillers simultaneously, causing a wave of relief to overtake you as you became putty in his hands. You moaned in near ecstasy, your misery having been mitigated as if the hand of God had touched you, imparting to your addled gray matter sweet, unadulterated bliss.

“Thank you,” you whispered. Bane studied you, keeping you aloft and hanging off the floor. Your toes barely brushed solid ground. So tall was he that, even raised up by his hand, he towered over you, searing red eyes staring into your soul.

The gears of his incisive mind were turning; your scent, this close, was enticing. Your sudden vulnerability ignited a fire within him, poking at his predatory instincts.

And you—you inexplicably thought he smelled so good. That scowling face didn’t seem so scary anymore. He had always been decent toward you; he had not let you bleed dry. He was in charge here, after all. You were a brat, and a tool to be used to accomplish those goals set out for him by his employer, only ever promised a cut of the profits.

“How easy,” he rasped, pinning you to the wall. Whether he meant you offering up your gratitude, or the effort it would take to snuff you out like a candle remained to be seen, the Duros letting go so quickly that you fell like a sack of potatoes, nearly busting your ass on the hard surface below.

You ignored all of this, his poor treatment of your person, pointing out something you would not allow him to overlook—you were still alive. “I knew you wouldn’t let me die.”

With a curious tip of his hat and head, Bane dropped the dispenser, now emptied of its contents. He stared at the red, viscous substance that coated his hand from where he had touched you, as if deciding on his next course of action without a single hint as to what it might be.

“Dhat right?” Blue fingers rose to his mouth, a pink tongue creeping from between parted lips, tasting that which lingered on his scales. He would revel in the tart, pungent flavor; the texture; the feel of your warm, human blood—it called to him, that inborn part of him. The innate desire that drove him to hunt not just for credits, but for food.

You gazed up with heavy-lidded eyes, canting your neck, watching him in both awe and fascination, wholly aware that you were presently level with his groin. He observed you from a height that seemed impossible, two digits disappearing into his open maw as he licked them clean; you felt your cunt clench as you rose to sit up on your knees.

You had no control, pushing your face into black denim, your nose grazing the soft mound of flesh that resided there, just behind the fabric. You felt sleepy, serene, and ineffably aroused. What was that smell? That delightful scent?  

You desired to taste him as he had tasted you.

“Bane,” you breathed, “Cad. Bane.” The hunter flashed his teeth in a predaceous snarl, yet he was silent, entranced by your bold move. You took this as an invitation to keep going, your own teeth pinching closed around the zipper of his trousers, pulling it down, forcing him to abide by your lecherous game.

If you were playing, he was not. Within an instant, Bane had you by the hair. He thrust you backwards. You gasped and he held on. His other hand unfastened the holster at his waist, then worked on his top button until all was revealed—another layer, this one the blackest of blacks.

You took over then, shoving the seam aside; dual cocks slid from between woven folds, pushing into your mouth. You nearly choked in surprise, never having thought about what might exist beneath his skintight pants, not once admitting your attraction to him, even to yourself.

You moaned at the tang of his slick, at the thickness that invaded you down to the deepest recess your throat could offer. You inhaled through your nose as you sucked gingerly, your human lips stretching to accommodate his girths.

Just as soon as it had begun, he pulled free, leaving your mouth open and your eyes wide. He hauled you up, this time by your damaged armor, cerulean digits cinching as he silently commanded you to look him in his stark red eyes.

“What do ye want,” he harshly asked, strengthening his hold. You were hypnotized by his cold stare, the brightness of twin suns that gazed back at you from a sea of cobalt blue.

“I—” Your words caught; you could think of nothing else, admiring him down to the smallest detail; down to each of his femoral pores; the faintest trace of a faded scar.

“Say it,” he hissed; you could smell his breath, sweet with a hint of cheroot, a tinge of whiskey.

“You,” you claimed, voice hushed, your breath unsteady in your lungs. Your heart pounded ferociously in your chest, not doing you any favors, yet that feeling of delirium and ecstasy remained.

“Damn right.”

Bane’s cocks coiled around each other like mating serpents, conjoining together to form a single thick, tentacular phallus. Your pants were torn from off your waist, pushed down without care, the Duros pulling you to him as he broached your sex, incrementally sliding up, up, farther and farther into the tight abyss of your wet loins.

Every sound you made for him was like music to the ears, your little mewls of pleasure, your feeble cries of pain—pain that felt so good.

“Cad,” you whimpered as you fell against him; he hoisted you up onto the sink and lifted your thighs with his forearms, dragging you forward, forcing you to entwine yourself around his waif-thin waist.

You wasted no time in enveloping him with your legs, your explorative hands running the course of his slender chest, fingers daring to claw against black thermoguard, to tug at the metallic breathing tubes fixated to his cheeks.

“Again,” he growled into your ear, the sensation of Bane’s sharp cuspids skimming your earlobe nearly driving you over the brink. He pumped his narrow hips, slow at first, picking up speed with every ragged breath. His strokes were long, deep, and exacting, his unbelievably large hands cupping the round of your ass as he massaged your G-spot, pushing forward with only half his might.

He wanted to hear his name, though you were frustrated, pawing at the accursed body glove that housed him, every speck of his blue flesh but his fingertips and the flat of his face denied to you so cruelly.

“Bane,” you murmured, feathering kisses along his throat, his chiseled jawline, until you met his mouth—that’s where he put an end to it.

“Keep talkin,” he instructed, refusing to indulge you, refusing to give you any part of himself that would prove to be too intimate.

You persisted.

“Kiss me.” The curve of your palms clasped either side of a frown. Your lips returned in earnest, pushing into his. Bane pushed back, keen canines grazing your lips and chin, piercing your skin, the bottom tier of your mouth left to bleed as he pulled back.

“Don’t stop,” you implored, trailing your tongue over the red stain that remained, licking your own blood straight off his teeth.

Bane rumbled a fearsome sound, its echoes rising from the pit of his throat, the Duros ramming you once for good measure so that you reflexively gasped, though your embrace only became more snug, more secure. You dug your heels in, having crossed your ankles, your body lifting as you enthusiastically offered yourself up.

“Still angry?” you taunted. You were flirting with death itself; Bane slipped a hand down toward the ache in your side. Your injury would not fully heal without proper medical attention, the hunter pressing two fingers directly into your novel wound.

You yelled out; Bane moved those fingers to your mouth. You gagged, and he rolled his hips as you slapped at his chest, the Duros honking a dry, vicious laugh.  

“Shut you right up,” he pointed out. You were furious again. You bit down. You dared to attempt to maim him, his quickdraw would suffer, you would suffer.

TWHAP.

You received a backhanded slap; you opened your mouth to protest. He withdrew his fingers, though that well placed smack had been rightfully deserved.

“Biiitch,” he sizzed, pinching your cheeks so hard they would most assuredly bruise. His eyes flashed in warning, his quirled cocks pressing rudely against your cervix.

“Fuck off!” You beat him with your fists, though Bane knew just how to tame you, how to break your tenacious spirit, shoving the pink point of his tongue squarely into your pugnacious. irritating trap.

You settled; your hands ceased their futile drumming against his ribs. Bane grabbed a breast, slid that offending hand between your legs, those bitten fingers amid your labia. He caressed your clit; you hummed around his tongue; you squeezed his pricks with the muscles of your pelvic floor, the Duros groaning into your eager, ardent mouth.

It was like something from a fantasy that no one dares to dream, so alien, so different.

And he had spread you apart, the crests of his cocks hitting all the right spots, feeling like the writhing of a snake inside you at the best of times, that ball of heat in your belly intensifying until the point you knew it would explode, causing stars to rupture in your eyes.

The clink of a belt buckle against porcelain, the creak of Nashtah hide, and the high-pitched, girlish cry of a woman echoed off the walls. Out there, somewhere, patrons of a dark and dreary cantina were fated to listen, though most talked over it. The music played louder; the bartender turned a blind eye, for Cad Bane had gone inside.

It was as if your previous desire had been naught but child’s play. Your cunt was soaked. His rhythm was impeccable, the circular motions of his fingers between your legs utterly precise. You crooned for him; he bit down on your bottom lip. You flinched, but were overcome with pleasure. The pain added something beautiful, something you could not quite express.

“Yes,” you breathed. It became your mantra. Bane did not relent; he would not cease, even as a fresh wellspring of blood dribbled down your chin.

A grunt for every pump, a duet, a cacophony of foreign noises. You felt overwhelmed, but all you could think to do or say was: “Oh, Cad.”

The Duros came; the feeling of him filling you triggers your own orgasm. You feed a moan into his fang-filled mouth; you frantically overtake his tongue again. His hand gropes and fondles your breast; his fingers titillate your clit until you spasm, cajoling him to stop.

Then, it’s over. He’s vacated you quicker than you have time to blink. He shakes himself, adjusts his genitalia, zips his fly, and retrieves his blasters from off the floor.

Your mind is a whirlwind of thought, yet you feel so at peace. Your entire world is upended as Bane locks his gargantuan hand around your fragile neck, his thumb long enough to brush across your lips, wiping away more of your red blood.

“Next time, ye take orders as well as ye take dick,” the gunslinger says. He shoves you back; you fall bottom first into the basin of the sink, Bane pulling a hand-rolled cigarra from out the pocket of his coat.

You are bereft of breath as his duster whorls behind him; you watch as he ignites the end, tossing the sparkstick onto the floor. He leaves a plume of smoke in his wake, not bothering to close the door on his way out.

You search your feelings as the eyes of others peruse your half-naked form. This place is a shithole, a dive. You have laid claim to the only refresher for over an hour now. Curiosity demands an answer, yet no one dares to question Bane.

Dog whistles ensue, laughter, someone calls you indecent, another a slut, yet nothing bothers you; nothing can jar you, or make you forget what has just transpired, the salacious act still so fresh in your mind’s eye.

Besides, you have already made up your mind. Nothing could persuade you otherwise. You cannot wait to serve once more at Cad Bane's side.

-----

Masterlist

Cad Bane Masterlist

I wasn't kidding when I said I was feral for Bane 😏

Just some OC x Canon trash wip lmao

Welcome to the Mothership ✌🏻👽

Hello there! I'm Aloe, a digital artist who loves drawing OCs and Fanart. I'm a big fan of Sci-fi and Horror so you'll probably see a lot of that here. Feel free to message me anytime, I love making new friends!

Commission: Open!

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I’m learnin’ to draw the lanky blue weirdo, got any tips?

Tons and tons and tons of references from every angle possible. I often use screenshots from the clone wars episodes that Cad Bane is featured in. I've made a google drive where I store all my reference materials.

The sideshow sixth scale Cad Bane figure (Kinda pricey but worth it) is articulate and absolutely amazing for posing and referencing.

However, as an artist, my brain is trained to identify shapes and how to utilize that as a tool. (Years of practice helps too) I'll do my best to simplify my explanation.. bear with me, I've never made a guide before 😅

I hope this helps!

Tips

Hitting a joint with my favorite bounty hunter would fix me rn😩💕

(Rough sketch work in between commissions lmao)