rogueonekink | ROGUE ONE KINK MEME: ROUND ONE

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RULES TO KEEP IN MIND:

No kink or pairing bashing, YKINMK (your kink is not my kink), if you are uncomfortable with a post for any of these reasons, ignore it.
OT, any off topic discussion should be moved to the discussion post.
No prompt/thread hijacking, if you want something differently done create your own prompt/fill.
Non anon-posting is allowed.
PROMPT-FREEZES, I doubt we will have any major freezes unless activity goes crazy after the film comes out, so I'm not going to go into this yet.

WHAT IS NOT ALLOWED:

There is no current limit on how many prompts you can submit daily, but please remember if you are submitting 10 prompts a day, to try and fill one for someone else.
NO UNDERAGE PROMPTS OR FILLS. I know some kink memes allow this, but I have to follow official US Federal law guidelines on this subject.
CROSSOVERS - Are acceptable, but please remember Rogue One characters have to still be part of the prompt/fill.

RULES FOR PROMPTS:

TITLE, your title should include pairings and characters (if apply) and a quick general idea of what the prompt is about. You might also include warnings on the title.
PROMPT WORD LIMIT, I'm not going to include any word limits on prompts for the time being, but please use common sense. If a prompt is going over 1,000 words try to cut it down.
Again, no thread hijacking, similar prompts are allowed if you are inspired by someone else's prompt but want something done differently. Yet, please note prompts that are just a complete repost of another will be deleted. Thread reposting will be allowed in a separate post later on.
WARNINGS, I'm not going to enforce mandatory warnings (for now), but again, common sense here. If your prompt/fill has a sensitive topic that needs a warning (gore, rape, etc.), include it.
Be courteous, no fighting is a big one. But if someone fills your prompt try to leave at least a "thank you".

RULES FOR FILLS:

Remember to share your fill in the fills post so others can find them.
You can link your fill to outside sources (tumblr, AO3, FF.net, etc.).
Multiple fills are allowed, the more the merrier.
If you are linking to a previous fill or story that might meet the guidelines of someone's prompt it does not count as a fill.
De-anon-ing is fine, just remember to include a link under your fill.

HAVE FUN! <3

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Well, here goes nothing. Tentatively titling this 'Over-correcting the throttle control'

It wasn't supposed to go like this - it's a stealth mission - but of course, that didn't matter when the first klaxon starts going off.

That everything had gone south so quickly is at least a small comfort. There's no suspense, no slow creeping fear of his own imminent failure, no persistent ache in his gut that he'd gotten himself killed - or, worse, everyone else.

Instead, it's like a plunge into an icy river, shocking, breath-stealing, but quick. Perhaps he'll be lucky and die the same way, taking a few storm troopers out with him.

He fires once, and then again, the blaster recoiling in his hand, too sharp. He'd cleaned it, checked every button and switch, but it doesn't like the atmo on this ship, maybe, not enough oxygen or maybe too much, who the fuck knew any more.

K2SO had deemed it mission-ready, and it is, enough to get another shot off, and then another. Storm troopers fall, clattering like dejarik pieces off a board.

He's gotten the data chip, has it tucked into the inner lining of his boot. He has a few fakes tucked other places - one in the secret pocket of his vest, another in a false port on his blaster - hidden enough to make it seem like the real thing to any potential captors, wired to blow when they're keyed into a drive.

He's gotten the chip, and seven shots off. At the end of the hallway, the door descends slowly enough that all he needs is one more shot, one more trigger pull, and then to roll through, down to the safety of the waiting rendezvous ship.

He doesn't get it.

There's an explosion and a sudden sharp silence - the familiar sensation of his ear drums going out - and then darkness.

When he comes to, he's groggy, head still ringing. His stomach objects to his sudden consciousness, and he leans to heave up whatever remains from his last meal to only find that he can't.

Bands hold his arms, a metal bar across his chest, and shackles at each ankle. He's tilted enough that, if he's sick, he won't drown in it, but -

"Unless you want to wear it, swallow it," comes a voice and he can't see who says it, but he steels himself and his sick, eventually, recedes back into his stomach.

It's then he realizes he's naked.

They have him restrained with actual restraints, and they're blunt against his skin. Reassuring that he won't cut himself and go septic before help can arrive, but disheartening as well. Restraints made to do their job tend to work. He's stuck here, in the cold efficiency of the Empire, until he can shoot his way out.

His contact is, at least, expecting him, albeit not for two days. When he doesn't make the drop, the rebellion might weigh him important enough to come for. Or perhaps not. At least he'll die without taking more resistance fighters with him.

It's cold, cold enough that they must be artificially cooling the room. Even with all the Empire's deep pockets, the heat shielding on these older freighters is poor. He's still sweating, whether from the shock of whatever they'd done to him or maybe he's drugged. He tries to turn, to see if the lights are haloed or some other indication that of intoxication, but all he gets for his efforts is another wave of nausea.

"Tell you what, buddy - you don't hurl in here, and I'll see if they can turn up the heat." The same voice again.

Cassian inhales, and his throat feels raw. Maybe he'd been sick when he'd been knocked out - or maybe he'd been here long enough to get dehydrated. It was hard to tell time, the ceiling a blank featureless curve, only the edge of some kind of equipment, swoops of wires, too far beyond his range of vision.

"I'm not cold," he manages to say, though he can feel gooseflesh rising up on his arms and legs.

"Sure," says the voice. It's a man's voice, or at least one low enough to read male. No real hint of accent, not the high lilt of an Empire upbringing, or the rumble of some provincial outer system. A flat nothing of an accent - perhaps a fellow spy, trained to give nothing away. Or an imperial interrogator, assuming the role of a fellow prisoner. "They should be bringing in slop some time soon. Or clothes. Something to make us in more of a talking mood."

"You've been captured before," Cassian says. It's not really a question. A first-time offender wouldn't be valuable enough to keep in anything better than a holding cell and a low-value prisoner would have been shot or ejected.

"Yeah," the other man says. "Not my first time. Or yours, I'm guessing."

Cassian doesn't respond.

There's quiet, as much as ships are ever quiet, the whir and hum of various systems. Cassian uses the time to take stock of his situation: he's naked and bound, the data drive missing, though possibly not yet discovered. He's not drugged, or if he is, he won't know until he can stand. He's in a ship likely heading away from his rendezvous and the Rebellion may or may not be coming for him.

And they've left him with another prisoner. Or possibly his interrogator.

Chances are they've searched him while he was out - impossible to know, but he cannot imagine the Empire finding the chips in vest, boot, and gun, and not looking for their match between his teeth and gumline, in the port he'd had installed in his wrist, the scar from which had never quite faded, in other, more personal, places.

Perhaps they'd done it in front of the other prisoner. Perhaps he'd helped.

Regardless, now, Cassian cannot even see the other man, can only hear the low steady rhythm of his breathing, not regular enough to be sleep.

Cassian tries to stay alert, but finds his mind wandering - and this is a rudimentary, if effective, interrogation tactic. Keep your prisoners bored enough and on-edge enough (and tired enough, cold enough, naked enough, his mind supplies) that they talk almost out of habit. Even the tilt of the table he’s strapped to is calculated - low enough so that he can’t take stock of the room, but at enough of an angle that he can’t sleep, either.

It’s an awful lot of show for the Empire; perhaps they’ve over-estimated his value to the Rebellion and are hoping to use him as a bargaining chit. Or perhaps whatever information he’d obtained would unfold to reveal some larger secret. Or perhaps Vader is simply at the other end of the star system and he’s being held until he returns to perform a more thorough interrogation.

Not-OP is loving this and can't wait to see where it's going!

I'm on the edge of my seat already. Great job!

ROGUE ONE KINK MEME: ROUND ONE

FILL: Cassian, torture, possible non/con, 1/?

Re: FILL: Cassian, torture, possible non/con, 2/?

Re: FILL: Cassian, torture, possible non/con, 2/?

Re: FILL: Cassian, torture, possible non/con, 2/?