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Pet Project (Chapter 2)

General Grievous x F!Reader

Summary: The General has no one with him on the third moon of Vassek but his bodyguards, his doctor, and his roggwart, Gor, where he resides. You are the victim of loathsome pirates. Your ship crashes in Grievous’ backyard. As you lie injured and immobile, dying, he sees himself reflected in your eyes.

There’s no reason EV-A4-D can’t fix you—not because it’s right, but because he’s selfish. No one needs to know—especially not the count. You become his pet project. What harm could it do, to have a little real company for once?

Warnings: This chapter contains conversations about blood, injury, and surgery. In the future, there will be explicit sexual content, as I am gearing up for smut.

Word count: 2k

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AO3 Link

Masterpost

Grievous did not trust his MagnaGuards for this, carrying you himself, bridal style. Your weight was slight compared to his immeasurable strength, like lifting a child, or a bird—albeit one that was broken and flightless.

He had cut the metal rod sticking out from your belly with an artful swipe of a stolen lightsaber, leaving the exposed shard buried in your guts with the knowledge that you would bleed out should he remove it. Additionally, the debris that had fallen on top of your legs, he had displaced, one of them being mangled below the knee.

The Kaleesh could be careful, his powerful, cybernetic legs carrying him down, up, and across the rocky, unforgiving surface of Vassek 3. He had chosen this place for a reason: no one dared to attempt to infiltrate his lair.

Though he did not speak of it to those bodyguards that surrounded him, he knew your chances of survival were slim. And it was not as if they would care, or that he should care, though he felt a connection to you—however small—knowing what it was like to flirt with death, barely clinging to life by a single thread.

Whether it was kindness or necessity—a stroke of luck or a bid for total control—Grievous was still here, living, breathing—though often with difficulty—a testament to his warrior spirit. And no one—no one—would ever take that away from him.

Not now, not when he was so much more a machine than man, able to repair himself easily, to come back from what would be an early grave for others—improvements, modifications bestowed upon him by Separatist cybernetic experts and Geonosian biotechnicians under the orders of Count Dooku—giving him access to capabilities only dreamt of by those of mere flesh and blood, those who were simply mortal.

Though to most, he was not a thing of dreams but of nightmares—a creature to haunt your memories, his name inspiring fear in the hearts of all who laid their eyes on him. It was what he wanted, what he deserved—and the Jedi would pay; never would their slight against him and his people be forgotten.

Perhaps you would be no different. So long had it been since he had interacted with anyone who was not out to give him orders, who was not out to conquer or destroy him. Besides the inferior, useless battle droids assigned to his command, he was forced to be content caring for Gor or dealing with his nettlesome doctor.

That was where he was currently headed, and regardless of the outcome, he knew you would be forever changed, whether you wished to accept it or not. This time, he was in the pilot’s seat, though he knew nothing about you or where you had come from.

Your clothing was that of a commoner; it was obvious you were not wealthy, nor were you someone from a prominent household—not like the Count of House Serenno, the Head of State of the Confederacy of Independent Systems…

And what would Dooku have to say to this? General Grievous, the Supreme Martial Commander of the Separatist Droid Army, taking in a lowly human woman to his den.

The Kaleesh came to find he did not care. What he did in the privacy of his own residence was none of the count’s business! Barring this internal argument, he had already made his decision. You would live—he would make sure of it, if only out of spite.

“We have arrived,” Grievous said gruffly—not that you could hear him. The three IG-100s strolling to either side of him turned their heads in unison, as if he was addressing them, as if they did not know their current whereabouts already.

“Open the door,” the Kaleesh commanded. The nearest of the MagnaGuards pressed a centrally located block toward the bottom of the monumental structure that stood before them, its movement slow, the gateway parting incrementally until enough space was provided to allow the group to pass.

Grievous was greeted by a sound—his loyal roggwart waiting for him just beyond the entrance of his lair, snorts and growls accompanying the wagging of his forked tail and the waving of all four of his cybernetic limbs.

“Gor! Not now,” his master protested, pushing away the creature’s face from investigating your battered body. The horned beast whined. Though predatory, Gor submitted to one man only—the sentient before him, Grievous, waving a hand toward his nearest guard.

“Go—feed him, play with him,” the general ordered. The IG-100 unit turned without a word, coaxing the fanged monstrosity down the opposite end of the hall.

Grievous stopped to watch, though time was of the essence, and gave the last two MagnaGuards separate instructions: they were to return to their recharge stations and wait to be summoned should a need for them arise.

He took a moment to gaze down at you, asleep—or rather, unconscious—in his arms. You were pretty, like a flower, and just as delicate.

The warlord had spent little time around human women—or those incapable of fending for themselves. Even his beloved Ronderu lij Kummar had been a mighty warrior. All ten of his wives, lost to him back on Kalee, had been formidable and fierce.

Grievous lowered his head, bringing it close to your face. His reptilian eyes studied you as he brushed your nose—more out of curiosity about how it might feel than anything else—his integrated sensors allowing him to do so.

Soft, came his thoughts, wondering if he should do it again. Then, a voice called out to him—the doctor had spied him on the holofeed. His speech was more than abrasive to the ears; it was dry and insipid, his tone conveying immediate disapproval, though it mattered little to Grievous. He did not answer to him.

“Master, what are you doing? Who is that? What is going on? You were gone so long, I thought the MagnaGuards had bested you. I have spare parts waiting, just in case.”

“Fool!” Grievious grunted, “as if they could defeat me.” He paused, looking up toward a nearby camera, knowing the droid was watching from his place in the medbay. “It is a woman,” he said matter-of-factly. “I need you to repair her.”

“Re-repair?” EV-A4-D asked apprehensively. “Master, she is human. Humans are not—”

"You can and will fix her,” the general growled, beginning his trek toward the back of his lair, passing room after room filled with Kaleesh history, weapons, armor, and his most prized possessions—his trophies, earned in the heat of battle.

“You can’t be serious—you are serious,” A4-D complained. “Fine, I’ll see what I can do,” he stated blandly, leaving behind the surveillance equipment and his bird’s-eye view to retreat to his workstation, where he began making preparations for Grievous’ and your arrival.

What a bizarre request, he thought.

Though the general’s footsteps were loud, reverberating throughout the halls, you did not stir. The Kaleesh watched your chest rise and fall, though your breathing was shallow.

He made a sound of reproach and adjusted you in his arms. Then, his right shoulder dislocated itself so his cybernetic limb could split apart into two—he needed the extra hand to activate the secret door that granted him admittance into his control room, the most inaccessible part of his home, protected from intruders should anyone ever attempt to ambush him.

“Master, I hope you know this is highly irregular.”

Grievous made a sound of irritation, pushing past A4-D with your body held gingerly aloft. He was so tall that the doctor only came up to his midsection, yet A4-D behaved as if he were impervious to the general’s wrath.

“You will do as I say,” he concluded, moving you toward a surgical table.

“No, not yet—she will need the bacta tank before I am ready,” the droid interrupted. Grievous’ head swiveled toward him as he glared, but he nonetheless took his advice, carrying you to the tank that stood just off to his left.

“And don’t bother removing her clothes. It’s more to mitigate pain than anything else. We don’t want her wounds closing over the object.”

Grievous hesitated at the thought, coughing loudly before he continued his upward climb.

“Count Dooku commed while you were away,” A4-D informed him dourly. “I expect he wishes to hear from you as soon as possible.”

“The count can wait,” Grievous returned, not in any hurry to answer his beck and call.

A4-D inspected you, even as Grievous ascended the final stair of the tank’s entry platform. He knew this much, at least—how to connect a being to a rebreather, understanding that even if your lungs were damaged, you would still need oxygen.

“She is in bad shape, Master, I am not sure that I will be able to help her,” the droid said glumly.

“What did I tell you?!” Grievous bit back nastily, “you can and you will!”

A4-D was silent for a moment, his microprocessors calculating outcomes and trajectories, components needed, tools required for operating on human flesh—it was so… tender compared to that of what he was used to—even Kaleesh hide was tougher and more resilient.

“Internal bleeding, tissue damage, perforated organs... She will require a laparotomy, not to mention her right leg will most likely need to be amputated and replaced. And we’re going to have to remove that rod impaling her—sooner rather than later.”

Grievous did not speak, but stared, listening intently to the doctor’s assessment.

“I will need scalpels, forceps, scissors, retractors, and suction equipment. In addition, repli-limb prosthetic organs for her stomach, intestines, and quite possibly her liver.”

Grievous turned his eyes back toward you, using the support mechanism himself—a rather rudimentary pulley system that allowed your body to be lowered in through the tank’s top hatch.

“Then get them,” the Kaleesh answered harshly, watching as you were now fully submerged in bacta, A4-D shaking his head as he turned to putter off.

“It will cost you a small fortune, but whatever you say, Master.”

A low rumble began to unfurl deep in Grievous’ chest cavity, the general tempted to scold A4-D for being bold enough to challenge his decision, though the droid was saved from further insults by the chime of his communications console coming from the room next door.

“That would be Dooku,” he heard the doctor say before he disappeared around the corner, Grievous not in the least bit amused.

Despite this, Grievous stomped his way forward, closing the door to the surgical chambers behind him. He hacked a cough, then took a seat, finding himself face to face with the wavering, faint blue outline of none other than the Count of House Serenno himself.

“Greetings, my lord,” the general said, knowing when to pay the count his due respects. After all, he did not wish to come off as suspicious—acting as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening, deciding to keep quiet about the last hour’s activities.

“General, I have new orders. You are to capture Outpost 716. It is a well-defended command center used by the Republic. With it out of the way, our enemy’s supply chain will be broken, giving us the upperhand.”

“I understand,” came the droid general’s terse reply.

“You will leave immediately.”

Grievous felt the need to protest but withheld. “As you wish, my lord.”

Dooku’s image faded away into nothingness as the call ended, the Kaleesh venturing back toward the medbay. A4-D was walking hurriedly between cabinets, withdrawing various tools and implements, a datapad held in the opposing hand.

“The order has been placed—rush shipping, of course. I’m using the same supplier that manufactured your gut-sack—BioTech Industries. We could cover her modifications with synthflesh, but we can put a hold on that for now. The most important thing is that she makes it through the night.”

“See that she does,” Grievous snapped, turning from his faithful doctor to make good on his promise to the count.

“Master, are you leaving?”

“I will return shortly. Do not fail me, Doctor.”

“One question,” A4-D interjected. “What’s so special about this human? Where did she come from?”

“Her ship crashed. I found her like this.”

That was all the droid needed in the way of an explanation; he finally understood.

“I’ll do my best,” came his reply. “But no promises.”