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The Night Market of Dathomir Collection

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Imagine being at eye-level with Darth Maul’s waist, the cut of his abdominals vanishing into his trousers, on your knees – sore because you’ve been down there so long – watching his shoulders lift lightly with each breath as he considers what he’s going to do with your mouth:

Whether you’ve been good enough to receive his cock.

He plucks your bottom lip open with his thumb, rubbing the salt of sweat from his skin along your teeth, and in one rumbling murmur, he commands you to, “Open.”

You do, because you’re a good little slut, but you’re not good enough to deserve anything other than his index and middle fingers as he slides them against your tongue.

And you, craven, can’t help yourself: you begin to suck.

He watches you, slicking his fingers with your spit, wanting him to see how good you can be – how exuberant to swallow him back so the tips of his fingers almost trigger your gag reflex.

He tastes like sin, and you imagine just how good it will feel when he sinks his fingers into your hair, controlling your head by the roots, sliding the velvet heat of each one of his ridges past your lips, stretching your mouth out to use for his pleasure alone because you’re such a good little whore to this Dark Lord. You’ll take every inch and every drop and you’d never dare beg him to stop.

You groan on his fingers, your fingers clawing your thighs, desperate to touch – to take out his cock.

“Don’t make me tie you up.”

Shuddering a breath, you force your hands to relax, opting instead to wrap your tongue around his index and middle fingers, the rough touch of his callouses as you rub them a decadence. You groan, because you’ve seen how he handles his weapons – the surety, the force of his power, the bottomless focus that hums through him when he fucks you is the same as when he fights: he does so with purpose; with rough precision – an almost violence.

But only if you’re very good.

Only if you don’t come.

There’s no one else he’d let do this, you think. No one else is worthy – but you know: you’ll show him you deserve his cock.

The light in his eyes flashes as you tip back your head, and he pushes into your mouth to the knuckle, his lips parting, eyes half-lidded in appreciation, and in the moment before the tension inside you snaps, you think the Force might be to blame for how hard your cunt spasms on nothing at all before you come, gripping at his wrist, sucking his fingers hard as you rock your hips, grinding on nothing but the promise of his attention as he looks down at your writhing, pathetic body – your desire for him so easily sated.

Filthy. Wanton…

He pulls his fingers from you with a pop, wiping your spit across your cheek.


You breathe through your nose, your thighs slicked with your arousal, and he says, going still in that predatory way of his that unfurls the promise of punishment like a whip:

“I didn’t tell you you could do that.”

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There’s a wet spot on the bedsheet beneath you, roughly the size of a quarter. It’s subtle, and shameful, but no worse than your spread knees for the one that is instructing you.

Savage watches from a chair a few feet away, set strategically before the bed. The lights are dimmed, and a breeze rolls in through the window from the Dreaming River. The damp pebbles your bare flesh, tiny chains draping your skin revealing everything from collarbone to knee.

You shift, uncomfortable at holding the position so long, but you still at the unsmiling look he gives you.

“The only thing that should be moving are your fingers, little one.”

You’d pout if you could, but it’s impossible to purse your lips around the two that you’ve shoved into your own mouth.

The basso of his voice leaves no doubt that you’ve been flagging:

“In and out.”

So you move, your knuckles brushing your own teeth, uncertain at this exercise while you kneel there, dripping for him and fucking your own mouth for his pleasure.

He leans forward, the glow of his gaze interested in the hazy gloaming of your quarters, and with his elbows on his knees, he considers your performance without expression.

Only the Dark Side ebbs in this place, licking up the walls and reaching for your bare legs – so eager to take a taste of your dripping flesh. It’s not his touch, but you wish for it just the same, and thinking of it, your eyes roll back in your head. Your hips move in their own clenching, sopping, tightening rhythm, and for one blissful moment as you grab your breast and squeeze, you can imagine your fingers are Savage’s cock. It’s enough to prompt you to press a third digit between your lips, because the comparison isn’t the same.

“Don’t stop,” Savage murmurs. “Get them wet enough.”

And the thin gold chains wrapping your thighs pulls them slowly further apart, stretching you to the point of discomfort: put on display so that the moisture that drips from your cunt to the bed is a shining dribble of sweetened nectar begging for attention. Just for him.

“Do you know why you’re doing this, my love?” he asks, leaning back. He tips his head, considering your cunt, and then your face. The press of his power holds you in place. You shake your head, spit slicking your chin.

Your cunt gives a pathetic throb as he draws forward, his nostrils flaring as his gaze drags down your body like it has weight, and back up – a caress that wraps your throat, stifling your air.

You gasp, “Savage!” before you’re dragged forward to the bed’s edge.

He rises, and touches you finally: a glancing drag of his thumb down your face – too delicate and out of place for this exercise in restraint.

“I need to be certain you can fit me,” he murmurs.

And at last you understand:

“How many fingers?” you breathe.

He holds your gaze, his heavy hand at the base of your skull as he tips you backward as if having you spread before him, wet and eager but nowhere near ready is reason enough to slide your hand to your cunt.

Savage doesn’t smile, but only palms the bulge of his cock, nodding for you to proceed.

“Start with three.”

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Does Feral feel like this, you wonder? Shivery with anticipation when he looks down on you, naked in his bed, the sheets puddled at your waist? But you're in control here. You've got the upper hand.

That half-smile of his warms you, a warning certainly that you’re edging into territory where you’ve never had the upper hand — he knows it, but he’s willing to play along.

“Alright,” Feral says, his eyes aglow with interest, like this is a competition. “I’m game.”

The sheet clings to his musculature — the thinnest shimmersilk highlighting all that dusky, tattooed skin you’re so familiar with. You’re used to being beneath him — the one retrained, spread out, quivering as he whispers obscenities in your ear while he refuses to give you what you desperately need:

Cock. Fingers. Tongue.

You’re used to him making you beg for it.

But not tonight. Tonight, you’re going to be the one on top — the one calling the shots.

But it’s so damned hard when the fabric falls across his thighs like that, leaving little to the imagination when he shifts and you can see the he’s already semi-erect for you; you — standing there uncertain of what to do with yourself now that he’s agreed to play along.

Feral’s fingers trail down his chest, running traceries over his abdominals, and stopping just shy of his crotch. He knows you’re watching him as he props his head up on his arm, showing off a bicep.

Kark, you’re wet for him already.

“I can be dominant,” you breathe.

He shrugs, indolent. Amused that you’d even considering changing the status quo.

That smile again — a flash of tiny white incisors that’s all predator. In his softest, velvet voice that razes across your skin with challenge, he says, “Alright, love.” And Feral pushes the sheet off of him, stripping it away so that you can take in all of him from toe to tip where he leans against the headboard. Propping up his knee, you shows you what you’re bargaining for:

His gorgeous physique; tight thighs, a hint of his lovely ass. Miles of smooth skin, and between his spread legs — the ridges of his heavy, thick cock. A dribble of precome pearls at the tip, and you — already a little weak for him — have to swallow your spit before you start drooling.

“Use me as you wish.” He winks.

You stand at the foot of the bed, exposed save for your stockings. You thought it would help make you feel the part: the lingerie. The problem is that you couldn’t keep the panties and bra on long enough to really make you seem as imposing as you wanted to feel. Feral gave you the side eye and that cute little leather set was on the floor faster than you could blink.

You’re going to wipe that smirk right off his pretty face.

The bed dips when you kneel on the edge, starting a leisurely crawl that starts at the foot of the bed and leaves you kneeling between his legs.

“You’re cute for a fuck toy,” you breathe.

He grins, biting back a chuckle.

Even he can see your face start to redden when he licks his lips.

“What’s so funny?”

He sobers. Or tries to. “Nothing.” He clears his throat.

When it looks like he’s fighting back grin, you purr with more confidence than you feel, “Fuck toys shouldn’t laugh.”

“Or what?” he goads, like he can’t help it — his fingers drifting up his thigh.

You slap at the inside of his leg where it’s sensitive, open-palmed.

His cock jerks, and immediately you regret it. You want to take it back; the urge to kiss it better stinging.

Fearful, you look up to find Feral’s gaze turning to bronze around the edges — the bright gold gleam of his interest turning molten.

There’s a tremor in your voice. “I didn’t say you could touch yourself.”

“Is that how it’s going to go?”

Oh, you think: oh no.

“Hit me again,” he challenges, and unspoken: “I dare you to see what happens.”

“You said you’d play along.”

When he lifts off the headboard a bare two inches, you feel the tension shifting into something more than a game.

“I did,” he breathes. “But you make me so hard when you do that.”

His nostrils flare as his gaze dips, and it occurs to you that he knows just how wet you are for him.

“It’s my cock,” you say, but he’s lined up into your space — all challenge as he lowers his gaze, watching your nipples pebble to attention when his breath brushes your chest. “You’re not allowed touching yourself until I say so,” you try again.

This is a losing game.

Stars, you might’ve lost before you even began.

A small, amused twist of a smile graces his face. You want to touch him, and without threat of reprimand — you do.

“Lean back,” you tell him, giving him a gentle shove to his chest.

He pushes back into you.

“Feral,” you whine, but he’s smiling as he snatches at the back of your thighs and with a jerk, you’re pulled into his lap as he sinks into the mattress, taking you with him so that your ankles catch on his hips and your knees sink to either side of his ribs.

“You should punish me for that,” he breathes, hands ghosting over your ass. Taking liberties. Making you squirm as the position leaves you precarious and wanting to tumble forward, the hard press of his length slicking through your folds. He squeezes your flesh, groaning at your softness and warmth, and grinds you against his cock so that you gasp at the ripple of each ridge rubbing against your clit.

And now you get it —

This male is a brat.

“Hit me again,” he dares, but the moist heat of his breath in your ear promises swift retribution.

This is it.


His grip tightens, spreading your ass cheeks, fingertips turning biting. So good.

“Don’t care, love. Just give me a little tap.”

You squirm on top of him, grinding wetness down his length. It short-circuits your thought process, your fingers fisting on his chest as his lips find your throat — teeth razing skin. Feral pulls you into him, the tip of his cock butting into your clit as he uses the grip on your skin to rub your juices everywhere he needs it.

You sigh, your control over the situation slipping as he does what he wants.

“Go on,” he goads.

So you smack at his chest. Just once.

“Pathetic,” he smiles. “You’re not even trying to leave a mark.”

Hissing, you try again:

Firmer this time.


His lips brush yours, and you shudder with the promise of more as Feral lifts you over him, readjusting.

“I want you to hit me so hard I have to hold you back.”

He licks at your chin, and licks into your mouth, and all reason is lost.

Were you competing? Who cares. You whimper, and he sinks his fingers into your hair — one hand still palming your ass. He gives it a little warning tap, and you jerk.

“Just like that,” he breathes.

“Don’t want to hurt you.” The words strike true, and that’s how you know: maybe the top isn’t for you.

Feral holds the back of your neck when he kisses you again, parting your lips with his own, delving so deep when he massages his tongue against yours, running traceries over the back of your teeth that you sigh, and let him lift you up enough to sink you sweetly down his cock. He rocks you into place, and full, and warm, and thick, you mewl for more.

“You won’t,” he promises. “I promise.” He grins. “Whatever you do, this pussy makes it better.” He thrusts, and you moan into his smile. “Do it, love. Do it so I can bounce you on my cock.”

He squeezes your ass again, and this time, it hurts.


You know the safeword. That’s not it.

“Tight,” he growls, his mouth clamping around a nipple. The pinch of his teeth against your breast leaves you gasping.

“Feral,” you gasp, his fingers brushing the tight pucker of your hole as you drags you up.

“Make me stop,” he tells you, and when he presses into you — you shove him back.

One clap — sharp across the cheek so that his head turns.

“You’re not in control,” you tell him.

“Am I a bad fuck toy?” He chuckles, his pupils blows wide.

But when you try to reprimand him again, he catches your wrist. Forces it back behind your waist and as you try to fight him, he traps your other hand with an arm across your back.

Breathing hard, he murmurs, “Good girl.”

And you —

You just about lose your shit.

The smile he wears when he laves a line along your throat leaves you pudding, and collected against his chest, arms trapped behind you, he leaves a hot, wet kiss against your chest.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he chuckles. “You get so sloppy when you’re pissed.”

He’s right. When he bucks into you, your pussy makes an obscene squelching noise around his cock.

“Feral, please —“

He groans. “There she is — sweet little thing.”

It occurs to you that he knew all along that this would happen, but you’re not at all disappointed in the results. You’re still on top after all, even gathered to him as Feral settles back with you spread over his chest. He strokes your ass, bouncing you off his hips with a little pop that claps your clit at each downward stroke.

You whimper at the sensation, your face pressed into his throat.

“I love it when you beg,” he whispers. “Even like this — even when you can’t move, stuffed to the brim.”

A little wetness flicks across your ass, and carefully, he presses a finger in to the sound of your whining moan.

“Just like that,” he soothes, starting to move, each stroke of his cock sliding out and up, bunching you closer as your body sags closer to his.

It feels good.

He kisses your cheek, his breathing harsh as each thrust leaves you bouncing on his lap, each break and slap of your hips against his driving you higher, that knot of desire drawing tighter to the point of shaking.

The hold he has on your arms strains your shoulders, that little bite of pain a hymn to how much you want to give yourself to him. Each stroke of his fingers thins your breathing, the feeling one being overfull and cared for perfectly the sort of thing you’d give yourself over to because it’s just so easy with him.

“Gonna come,” you whine.

“Yes, you are,” Feral agrees, a little out of breath. “You know why, love?”

You shudder out a sigh, the first throb of pleasure tipping over the crest. You moan, and it crashes over you as Feral lets go of your hands so he can drive you higher and home into him.

“I’m a better fuck toy than you’d give me credit for,” he groans. And chuckling, “I fuck back.”

Beneath you, his balls clench up, the throb of his pleasure following yours in a hot gush that beats against your cunt.

Crying out, you arch up, but he pins you with his hands as you squeeze out the last ebbs of each other’s pleasure, falling hard into his arms, sweaty and sticky and already dripping cum.

It slips from you when you shift, painting his thighs and yours with the mingled results of your effort. A real mess — the best sort. He grins, and brushes a kiss against your lips.

Cheater. You give him a rueful smile, and that smile becomes a shit-eating grin.

Breathing hard, coming down, Feral pats your ass as his fingers slip from you, cupping your rump. He holds you to him, kissing your hair as each breath lifts you up on his chest.

He smiles into your temple. “So how did you like the top?”

Chapter Text

Feral: At least you make it to your apartment door before he tacks your shoulders against it and lifts you up with your legs around his waist to take a taste of your mouth.

Savage: There’s a dark alley beside the cantina that suffices, but honestly, that’s on you for starting things at the bar. He’d prefer to carry you home but there’s only so much the guy can do when you’ve stuffed your hand beneath his armour.

Maul: Cantina bathroom stall or bust. And that’s if you’re lucky. (If you’re kinda lucky, his hands will find their way beneath your clothes on the dance floor. If you’re EXTRA lucky, he’ll set you on top of the table — pick you up by the backs of your knees and just toss you before he gets going.)

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There are twenty steps leading up to Darth Maul’s throne at New Dathomir. You’ve counted them with your knees because you’ve crawled up there to sit at his feet, at his request: the perfect pet.

That’s why the little trinket in your hands is the perfect gift – more for you than him, but he inspects the little gold charm at the clasp for far too long. So long that your nerves get the better of you and you forget yourself: lifting your gaze to watch the shift of interest in those sunset eyes.

“What’s this?” he asks, running a claw around the collar.

It’s red and black, and you had it made specially so that the twin suns snap apart and lock together.

You’ve tried it on. It’s your size.

In your palm, you hold a tiny, folded gold chain that he might connect to the hoop at the end. This you offer to him with trembling fingers.

“A gesture, my Lord,” you offer. “A symbol.”

The low rumble of his laugh follows him as he sinks back on his throne, rolling the little collar like its become something to taunt you with.

“And you think you deserve to be owned.”

A lump forms in your throat. He’s right. This was too much – too presumptuous on your part. You’re something to be played with, but never showed off: a dirty little secret. Not a prize.

You lower your eyes, shrinking back before the tip of a finger touches your chin.

He seethes darkness, and it shrouds you from the eyes of the other Nightbrothers in the throne room: a little slip of a thing, seated between his legs, mostly naked and shivering at every brush of his black robes.

His voice ripples through you, edged in command: “Lift your head, pet. Look me in the eyes and tell me in no uncertain terms that you bind yourself to me.”

You tremble, your nipples pebbling at the promise of Maul’s velvet dark: punishment woven into pleasures that leave you nuzzling your cheek into his metal knee.

You whisper only one word: “Please.”

He wraps your throat between thumb and forefinger, the strength of that touch a bruising caress.

“I don’t deserve anything.”

He stares, the brush of his influence against your mind leaving you breathing harder for the intrusion; of wanting to avail yourself to him by spreading your legs and letting him in in every way possible.

He appears pleased.

“And so you shall have everything.”

With careful fingers, he slips the collar around your neck, clicking the clasp shut with only the raze of his knuckles down your soft throat to leave your gaze fluttering shut.

The chain spools from your fingertips, and he fastens it too – letting it drape across his thighs as he gives it a tiny, testing tug. Satisfied.

“Perfect,” he decides, pulling you up to your knees. “Now, sit on my knee, just here. Show them all that you’re mine.”

You rise at last, crawling over to him, satisfaction pooling between your thighs as, when he turns you to face the room – you can see for yourself what this means:

Below you, Dathomir’s court stretches, and the heavy hand of its King holds you to him, pulling your body back to his chest as he growls into your ear.

“You may sit on the throne, but you must be willing to do anything to keep it.”

Breath shuddering out in a spill, you agree: “Anything at all, my Lord.”

“Are you ready to prove you deserve this place on my knee?”

The collar is snug at your throat.

“Yes, sir.”

You feel Maul’s smile as his teeth brush your ear. “Then, my pet, pleasure me.”

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Feral: Snuck your panties into his pocket after he brought you off on his hand on your second date. Posh restaurant. Long white linens hiding what he was doing to you beneath the table. Nothing to be done about the sounds you made, but his trophy? You found it on his bedstand when he brought you home a week later.

Savage: Spent a month abstaining from masturbating over you after you moved into the apartment across the street. He had good view into your living room, and you didn’t know he could see you when you came home from work and stripped off your clothes to shower. A month. He made it a month. Give the guy a break. (You did: twice. It was a lot of cum.)

Maul: He decided that you would be his newest obsession from the first time he laid eyes on you. Maybe it was your sweet smile, or the cookies you baked, or maybe it was the fact that he could smell the tremulous desire to be worshipped, debased, debauched, corrupted on you from the very first time you showed up in that demure little dress. Or maybe he just wanted to feel you shudder his name like a promise because of everything he’d do to you if you were good: “Daddy.”

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Savage has quiet expectations. He’s not outlandish, he’s not sensationalist about it: he only sets the bar and expects you to measure up because you know that it pleases him when you do. Maul wants you to behave, but Savage wants you to enjoy your headspace. There is pleasure in this for you both, but that little craven bit of yourself that sometimes toes the line — well, Savage has some quiet contemplations about that too. And he’ll take his time to mete out your correction if you miss your mark.

That’s why you’re on your knees, hands placed atop your thighs, chin down, blindfold on in his office. Waiting. Presented. Naked and utterly silent. If there’s discomfort in the position, you wait it out. The rewards are always worth the effort, so you resolve yourself to finding comfort in unease.

It’s hours before you hear the whir of the lock, the gush of air from the hall falling over your back and buttocks. You’ve positioned yourself to face the leather couch in the corner, and while there is no one in the offices across the street at this hour, you’ve left the desk lamps on so if there were — they would see right in despite the mirrored glass. You can imagine the blink of lights from Coruscant against the night sky. You’ve been pressed up against those windows before, put on display for anyone and everyone to see. Savage isn’t into ostentatious displays — showing you off, making it known that you are his — not his game. But occasionally, on those occasions where you’ve outdone yourself winding him up, he’ll find the nearest available surface to tack you against. In the end, you never really know who’s looking, but Savage will often go beyond the point of worrying about who sees. The windows are solid, besides. Or maybe it’s because he knows you have just the slightest fear of heights.

The fall of his shoes transition from polished concrete to carpet, and while he doesn’t brush your skin — he doesn’t touch you at all — you can feel his consideration as it traces over your skin. Savage likes to look, as much as he likes your anticipation, expecting the first touch. He would savour the moments before offering any sort of satisfaction because he likes seeing you needy and vulnerable; when trying to restrain yourself is such a struggle.

Some part of you understands that this is the result of Maul’s teachings: the constant inculcation that Savage rushes in before thinking, ready to hack and slash his way through every negotiation, turning business meetings into hostage situations — heedless of the casualties. With you, however, his approach is like decanting a fine wine; to be savoured, and to the victors the spoils of patience and hard work.

He passes you, and with the rustle of fabric, you imagine him shrugging off his jacket, rolling his sleeves as he takes his preferred seat in the middle of the couch before you. The creak of leather bows beneath him. His sigh tells you he’s had another long day.

Savage’s rumble is tired, but pleased, “Little one, why are you on your knees?”

You wrestle a small, private smile to yourself. “You mentioned your meeting would run late.” So late, in fact, that there’s no one left in the building. “I hoped you would be pleased to see me.” You are the reward at the end of a long, hard day.

You hear him lean forward, and you can imagine him: elbows on his knees, loosening his tie. If his gaze had weight, you’d know the distance he’s travelled — miles of skin are his for enjoyment, if he likes what he sees. “That depends. Were you patient, pet?”

You struggle not to spread your knees. “Would you like to see?”

There’s a moment’s contemplation as he weighs your meaning; your intentions sincere but perhaps edged with suggestions that he understands. Savage, at least, appreciates some self-direction. It shows initiative, you think — not mindless supplication. “Go on then, little one.” And you can hear the slight smile of amusement in his voice as you place your hands on the floor before you, careful not to move too quickly. You lift your hips, crawling forward, and coming down to your elbows, you place your cheek to the floor — your ass in the air for him.

Silence returns to you as he takes you in. A moment passes, and the couch groans as he stands. There’s a bar car at the corner of the room, and you hear him adding ice to a glass. A splash of something. You slow your breathing — waiting for the moment when he moves again, circling as if you’re a sculpture — a bit of art to be contemplated — and when he stops behind you, you do your best not to quiver at the brush of air over your skin.

“Little one,” he says. “You know better.” And you do — so you part your legs. An inch or two at first, and then more with a sigh — leaving your back in a perfect curved line, the heat and damp of your good behaviour unfurling for him as he drinks you in.

Your arousal must glisten, because even the lightest brush of air across the dew between your legs is electric. Inviting. It’s not so much that you’ve been thinking about him while you wait, but the fact that he can see your flush that he must know you’ve been good: pink lips stained a darker hue, but still untouched. Not too swollen. Not sensitive at all. But ready to start dripping the longer you hold the position for him. How wet will he make you this time, just by looking?

“I see,” Savage says. The glass clinks when he sets it on his desktop. Only the rustle of his trousers brushing your arm as he settles across from you once more offers you any hint at his mood: and at this rate, it might take a while if he’s displeased.

You didn’t ask permission, after all. Not all initiatives are so well-received.

“And what would you like me to do with that?”

The breath you’ve been holding shudders out, your thighs shaking with the sudden closeness of sound. When Savage breathes, damp warmth trails up your spine and brushes over your ass cheeks. Like he’s knelt down to contemplate your supine form more closely.

You know better: “Whatever you please.”

A heavy hand brushes your hair, moving softly to scrub into your scalp where shivers erupt across your skin at how intimate it is.

“I can’t understand you when you speak into the floor.”

There’s a note of warning in it. So much so that you feel yourself drip.

Will it be punishment, then? Or pleasure?

The gap between two exquisite tortures is narrow and precarious, but it’s the waiting that leaves you wanting to beg for either or both.

Just when you think you can’t take it anymore, the rasp of his calloused palm slides to the central spot between your shoulder blades, resting there contemplatively, and then eases carefully down your spine to rest over your ass. Everything clenches up as you anticipate a smack that doesn’t come.

“Stand up, little one,” Savage says, and you, sodden and needy and pathetic because he hadn’t truly touched you yet, manage only a whimper.

Not even a, “Yes, sir.”

You wobble, disoriented by the blindfold, but you manage it. When the scent of Savage filled your mouth — that woodsy, smoky mix underscored by peat and caramel from his drinkl his cologne sweet and lightly spiced on your tongue, you don’t entirely relax. But his nearness and the promise of his heat and hardness leaves you weak.

The drift of his fingertips down your arms leaves your flesh pebbling. It’s the ghost of a caress — teasing and intimate that leaves you pulling in a breath with anticipation.

“I love to see you like this,” he says, and his breath carries a hint of darkness: cool and sweet against your face. That’s how you know how close he is – how he can be so observant to your every reaction as you squeeze your knees together.

Moisture streaks your thighs in anticipation.

“I could scent your desire for me from the boardroom down the hall.” His voice is a purr in your ear. “Did you think it wise to fill my office with your scent?”

He’ll never get rid of it.

Perhaps this was a mistake.

Savage’s lips brush your forehead, his fingertips trickling to your ribs, your sides, inspecting his prize as his thumb rounds the curve of your ass, his palm gentle as he squeezes — but the rumble of his growl ripples through you, making you gasp as your feet leave the floor.

Picking you up like you weigh nothing at all, you feel only the brush of his mouth against yours and the grumble of his impatience when he pushes in:

The thickness of his tongue against yours is a taste that rockets to your core — Savage’s demands compounded in a kiss that bruises your lips and whites out your senses despite his gentle touch, or the careful way he lowers your rump to his desk, pushing apart your legs with the brush of his massive thighs between yours.

You’re a little doll to him.

A small slip of flesh meant to be broken apart and mended as your arousal seeps to his desktop blotter. Circling your throat with his thumb and fingers, he doesn’t do anything other than hold you close, his body hovering over yours, as he takes and takes and takes.

“Are you wet for me?” he asks, pulling back. “Do you need more?”

You can imagine the intensity of that firelight gaze, warming you through. Your face heats, the brush of his knuckles along your inner thigh rising sweet and heavy and leaving your legs flexing with need.

“I’ll ruin your desktop,” you whine.

Savage’s smile is all teeth, grazing flesh. His thumb brushes the edge of your labial lip.

“That’s the point. I want to smell you all over me when I sit through my next dreary holocall.”

You jerk in surprise as he pulls back, and unable to help yourself, you whine as he pushes apart your folds, knuckles first as he wets two fingers with your nectar, sliding them up the length of your slit, and withdraws.

Savage sniffs, and you hear him hum.


You hold your breath and his hand moves from your throat into your hair.

“Spread them wide, little one. I want to make you come.”

Breath hitching, you do as your told as the grip against your scalp turns commanding, arching your throat back. Your lashes brush your blindfold, but you don’t need to see what he’s doing:

Savage knows where to touch you.

He knows what you can take —

But he likes to see for himself how long you’re willing to wait: spread for him, dripping fluids and twitching for the slightest touch, your cunt pink and glistening but not yet abused. He’ll leave you gaping. He’ll leave you slack and too used for anyone else.

That’s why you’re his.

“Good,” he murmurs against your mouth, and without preamble, Savage sinks two fingers into your cunt in one smooth, steady stroke.

You clench, and his grip on your hair turns punishing.

“You’re going to get off on my hand, my sweet thing. And I want you to come —” He curls those two digits, brushing against the soft spot against the front where the pressure is only uncomfortable at first. “Hard,” he breathes into your mouth.

It’s a promise followed by his tongue — smothering your first gasp as he begins to move, the world narrowing to the stretch of your flesh and the demanding slap of the heel of his hand into your clit.

Your legs tighten on his arm, your arms slapping at him, gripping at his sleeves as those fingers strike true, finding the notch of pleasure that knots your ability to do anything other that gasp and groan, stars spotting the darkness of your blindfold as sensation skirts up the edge of oblivion.

The descent is perilous, and that’s why he holds your hair so tightly. Savage will never let you go — but he will always ensure that you fall.

His fingers are so long that they buck you on his desk, each thrust a test of your endurance, your willingness to hold on as everything inside you clenches, gripping his hand as he fucks you into that edge.

He growls, and the sound moves through you as you lose a little control.

Savage rips his mouth away from yours, and snarls, “Come now.”

And it’s a flood as you cry out, head falling back into the cradle of his hand, the wave of pleasure that falls through you crests, and ebbs into throbs that leave you jerking in his arms.

It’s wet.

And it’s pleased, pressing a chuckled kiss into your heaving chest. You moan as your legs tighten, your unwillingness to let him go only as demanding as your body tightening on his fingers. He slows, and withdraws, nudging you apart once more so he can pull down your blindfold.

Savage practically glows, and in a moment, you see why he’s so amused:

“You’ve made quite a mess little one.”

He kisses your mouth, chaste this time, and eyes fluttering, you drop your gaze to how you’ve spilled over his desk.

Chapter Text

Feral: Breathing hard, mid-fight, pissed off and frustrated and unable to pinpoint why. Him: Two fingers into the waistband of your pants beneath your belt, jerking your body into his. You: Grabbing him by the back of the neck and pulling his mouth down to yours.

Savage: Can’t tell if he wants to break you or just see you put up a fight. Stalking around each other like you’re avoiding an inevitable conclusion. Tense silences. Cutting glances. You: Shoving him back into a chair to bring him down to eye-level so you can give him a piece of your mind. Him: Retaliating by catching you around the waist to toss you over his shoulder. Heavy steps punctuating a different sort of confrontation in the bedroom.

Maul: Not a fight you’re going to win when the Dark Side’s involved, but that’s not the point of teasing him. Him: Force shove and locked limbs under his iron will, trapping your body against a wall as he draws in close. You: Breathing hard. Defiant, always, meeting the blaze of his stare as he takes you in, and bares his teeth in a smile to rival yours. “Dare you.” He licks a line up your throat, and it begins.

Chapter Text

Feral: The Junari Point beach trip where you lost your friends that night in town. Too many spotchka shots at the bar shared with the guy in the shimmersilk floral shirt, unbuttoned to the waist to show off his tattoos. Bright smile; light yellow eyes hinted with spring green; long strong fingers in calloused hands – an open question when set on your thigh; warm, and dry, and welcome to lose yourself in for just one night. The surf on the beach, sun-warmed sand cooled by the dark, blurry stars overhead. A skilled mouth on your neck, leaving bruises that left you shivering despite the heat. A flower tucked behind your ear. It’s a good thing you wore that dress.

Savage: The art museum on Csilla where you found the behemoth of a Zabrak scrutinizing a tiny, hand-carved loth cat. Chin on his hand, lost in contemplation, larger than life but careful of his size amidst so many fragile things. Eyes on your body as you slipped into the room, turning pensive once more, as if you were the creation that required careful thought. An unspoken invitation: exit through the gift shop. His large hands folding your small body around his, tracing every curve and dip as if he could sculpt you to him.

Maul: The business district of Coruscant, the upper echelons. A crime lord’s disguise is all bespoke lines and silk ties, carved to fit muscles like marble and as severe as his professional mien. These are blurred lines: partnerships signed away in sighs and bound wrists; secrets kept behind the closed doors of boardrooms and within soaring skyscrapers where the soundproofing is so good that no one can hear you scream. No one, except him. You live for these negotiations… even if they’re sometimes more like a hostage situation.

Chapter Text

Feral: The sweater he drapes over your shoulders is still warm with his body heat; the weave is loose, and there are holes in the place where his thumbs have punched through the cuffs. It smells like him: mulling spices, apple slices, autumn leaves. His lips are warm while your skin is cool. Your breath mingles in ghostly puffs.

Savage: He sits you on his shoulder to reach the highest branches and the ripest fruit, and he carries the heavy bag one-handed when you’re done. The other hand drifts across the back of your flannel shirt, settling heavy on your hip, warming through your jeans when you climb onto the back of the tractor pull. The hay bale seats are only a discomfort for so long; Savage sits you on his lap, your boots dangling between his knees as you curl into him for the ride home.

Maul: His blazes are the brightest, the biggest, the most ostentatious. Secretly, you think it’s because he just likes to watch it burn, the flames dancing in eyes uncharacteristically bright, but then you see the edges of the blanket in the dark. He’s not one for grand invitations, but the space beside him isn’t reserved for anyone else. You both settle in, leaning back, barely touching save for your shoulders and maybe the edges of your arms. Shallow breathing. Heavy darkness beyond the firelight. Nothing out there to fear: the most dangerous thing out here is beside you, and his fingers are brushing your hand; pulling you close enough to taste the smoke-heat of him in your mouth.

Chapter Text

Feral: The drift of knuckles down a bare spine, barely grazing skin — a shadow that slips between your clothes with a kiss to your shoulder that’s barely more than a breath.

Feral x Reader by Vertropolis


Savage: One large palm carded between your legs, warming the flesh of your thigh as you stand between his knees. The lips that graze the flesh above your bellybutton is not a kiss — it’s an inhalation meant to imagine the way you’ll taste.

Savage x Reader by Vertropolis

Maul: Caught between thumb and forefinger, your chin perched into the hollow of his grip; the press of his teeth are not a bite of passion — the bruise he leaves warns of possession.


Maul x Reader by Vertropolis

Chapter Text

Feral: Likes to lose himself the second-hand shop around the corner – the one that smells like ancient tomes and it piled so high that it’s more of a labyrinth than a store. Easy to get lost. Easier to hide. But you follow those honeyed eyes deeper into the gloom until the stacks of Le Guin and old Tolkien blot out the overheads. Dry, warm fingers snag your wrist, pulling you against the stacks to press your back into those high towers, his thigh sliding between yours, fingertips drifting to your throat as he steals the one thing he wants most: the touch of your lips.

Savage: Will sit on the same squashy couch at the Starbucks for hours with a cold, half-empty espresso and a stack of suspense novels that he consumes with leisurely focus. There should be enough room for two of you on that chair, but you prefer to tuck in snugly between his bulk and the armrest – he’s better than the ornamental fireplace for heat. His hearts become background noise, the slow drift of his heavy hand stroking your side while lulling you into tales of adventure and intrigue that race across Rome and Paris and Barcelona as he reads to you in that low baritone, his lips brushing your temple.

Maul: Watches you through the gaps in the shelves, considering your selection like your preferred choice of reading material classifies you as either predator, or prey. The attention of the man in black leaves you shivery with unease, but becomes quietly considering when he draws you deeper into the dark of his first editions collection. You know you’re lost before he shows you his first edition Byron. His Shelley. His book of poems, allegedly stolen from the grave of Rossetti’s wife at Highgate. It’s raining hard against the windows on that first night when he drapes you across one of those glass cases, opening you carefully to his perusal like you were one of his precious books. Maul’s fingers turn your pages; his mouth tracing words of praise like they were incantations on your skin.

Chapter Text

You can smell the stiff leather and linseed polish he uses on the hardwood. There are shelves, of course – floor to ceiling accessible by a ladder that can be wheeled down the main wall, but the back is his sanctuary:

It’s cordoned off by a heavy velvet curtain, and beyond it is a treasure trove of rare texts kept in climate controlled conditions beneath glass to conserve them. First editions, of course – but also arcane and obscure volumes whose names are no longer remembered. Grimoires often pass into his care from unknown sources, but he’ll decline to tell you where from.

He prefers to read in the still and the quiet back there, seated in one of the armchairs with a glass of something dark and peaty and amber on the side table next to him.

It’s a quiet, contemplative existence spent in solitude – but you should never forget that a man of such discerning tastes favours only the best.

Maul is a collector after all, and while this is true of the books in his possession, he maintains the same refined palette when selecting his lovers.

Will you let him collect you too?

Chapter Text

“You don’t know,” he murmurs, “the power of the Dark Side.”

It’s hard to take Maul seriously when he’s tucked himself into a skin-tight turtleneck, incensed from the mere suggestion that you might even raise your eyebrow at his apparel choices.

It’s black, at least. And it shows off his musculature – every sinew and tendon carefully cut to definition when he flexes, showing off his “power.”

Sith. All drama queens.

Your voice drips with disdain: “Show me again, Master.”

It’s as if a switch is flipped: that word driving him farther into himself like a wave pulling back from the shore. The cold ache of his power is a chasm that sweeps you up to your toes as he pulls the air from the room, and you kick a little bit in protest as your body lifts, toes dragging over durasteel at the beckoning of his raised arm, his fingers a vice to pull you forward to better witness him:

“I see your mind,” he breathes. “You find my wardrobe choice… amusing.”

Teeth bared, eyes blazing as he ignites his lightsaber and crosses his chest with it.

The dull fabric crackles away, singed to leave his flesh steaming but unmarred in the chill.

“Better!” you manage, strangled. “I can see that the Dark Side is…” You glance at his nipples. “Powerful.”

You’re grasping at your throat, consciousness wavering as he considers you further – and you know he’s contemplating your punishment for such insubordination.

“Attend me, apprentice,” he whispers, before you crumple to the floor. “And perhaps you might learn it too.”

You gasp and choke a little, on your knees and knowing that as he strides away, you’re meant to follow: that there’s a learning lesson here that you’ve perhaps forgone when you try to raise yourself to follow, and Maul only directs you to –


Chapter Text

All the time, but each in their own special way.

Feral’s a bit of an exhibitionist: he takes a lot of joy in expressing his pleasure (loudly) and he isn’t familiar with the concept of shame. It doesn’t matter if you’re his special someone or a casual fling, he’s never been shy about PDA, and much in the same way that he carries himself the rest of the time: he’s loud, and brash, and bold, and ready to boast that he’s pulled you. And if Feral’s in love with you? If you’ve claimed him as your mate? You’ll see him at his very best: his lightest and strongest and most confident. Like nothing at all could possibly stand in his way with you at his side. So yeah, he’ll hold your hand. He’ll kiss your shoulder and give you that look with everyone watching. He’ll be half-under your clothes before you’ve even found a spare room, it doesn’t matter who’s watching.

Savage is a bit more subdued, but just because he expresses himself with a bit more seriousness doesn’t mean that he isn’t territorial. He tends to take up the rear, a hand on your shoulder, rather than take the awkward route of trying to go side by side, but that’s fine: his presence is a constant and he’s always a little menacing, which is unfortunate for anyone who looks at you the wrong way, but excellent when it comes to feeling like a treasured companion: albeit a delicate one. He’s gentle with you in public, and will offer you his arm, but his affections often remain a little demure – taking secret, lingering touches that never verge on impropriety… until, of course, he gets you alone.

Maul is both the best and worst of the three when it comes to impropriety, because while his attentions are often for you alone, his training knows that any display might always serve to intimidate. So he’ll put you half-naked on his knee, and collar you up, and tell you to get on your knees in front of a crowd of his minions, or use your body like the weapon that it is when you drape yourself across his chest – but this is all pomp and circumstance. He might treat you like his pet, but he often knows where the true power lies between you: so you’ll find yourself with his hand on the small of your back, his shoulder brushing yours, or his fingers digging into your waist at the exact times you need him to, fastening loose buttons, or tucking away a stray lock of hair. He never lets you stray far, but the message and the warning when it comes to your partnership is clear: you are his and his alone.


Chapter Text

This isn’t ‘ha ha’ funny superstitious but there was one incident when Feral was just getting his dick wet…



Growing up, Savage and Maul cautioned him “not to sleep with human women” because they had “lips in two places and both had teeth.”

One set on their face, good for kissing and other things, and another, between their legs – also good for kissing, but maybe not your dick.

As you might imagine, this put an impressionable young Feral off of fucking anything human for a fair length of time, but curiosity eventually got the better of him before his better senses did, and after a few too many at the cantina one night and talking to a pretty girl who seemed very sweet, he screwed up his courage and went back to her place.

Well things got a little heated, as things are won’t to do when a young hot-blooded Zabrak lavishes enough attention on the soft, wet heat of a nighttime companion, and with her mewling and insistent, his dick was doing the thinking for him.

“I’ll just do what my brothers suggested,” he decided, and opted to go for some light oral exploration to see if the lips between her legs might kiss him back.

Being enthusiastic about it, Feral did his best – providing a thorough examination from her clit to her anus while she begged for more – but when no teeth nipped at him, he realized the ruse.

Two things Feral learned, however, in exchange for this non-existent cautionary life lesson, was that a mouth on the face or a mouth between the legs are not quite the same – only one of the two would paint his chin with its release when he made it smile.

And also: his brothers were karking liars.

Chapter Text

The first time you get a good look at Savage’s body, you take a full step back. “That’s not going to fit,” you think, and he must see the fear in your eyes, because the dour look he gives himself when he looks down to consider his body softens his expression by increments.

When he next looks at you, standing there and wringing your hands, his shoulders sag, and he smiles, and he offers you a heavy hand.

“Come here, little one,” he murmurs. “There’s nothing to fear.”

  • Savage is no stranger to his size or his girth: he’s aware that he’s endowed, and well enough that the sight of that enormous cock might be terrifying to some – enough to beg off of it and opt for a hand job instead. But you? You’re bold. And you want him. And that’s enough encouragement to accept his invitation to sit on his knee and listen as he tells you in low tones exactly what he’s going to do to your pussy to get you ready if you’re willing to try and take him.
  • Savage is likewise no stranger to foreplay, and he knows that a happy pussy should be wet and ready and stretched to accommodate not just the tip but the full eleven inches. He keeps an arsenal of toys and potions to that ends, depending on your preference, but his preferred methods involve his mouth, his fingers, his hands, his glans.
  • He loves a handful, and he loves kneading your flesh so that all of you is tender and heated, and when he starts kissing your neck you know he’s already considered how he’ll approach the situation when he parts your knees so gently that he can clasp your thigh to his stomach so you can’t squirm away.
  • If you’re scared, he has a solution for that too: a reminder of what you’re both about to do: “I want you to drip on my cock while I prepare you, little one,” he tells you as he parts your legs, and if you forgot why you were doing this, he takes the opportunity to remind you by tucking it against your labial lips – closing your legs around his length so that you can remember for yourself what you’ve done to him: the heat and hardness of his cock’s tip jutting from between the vice of your thighs, purpled at the tip and beating with the pulse of his twin hearts. When he grips your hips to drag you against his cock, there’s a moment where you remember clearly what all the fuss is about: in seconds you’re squirming on him as his ridges ripple back and forth against your slit.
  • Savage will murmur praises as he pulls your legs apart, touching you gently with oil-slicked fingers to sooth your swollen lips. There are warming brews and concoctions, and others yet that will relax your muscles and reduce your strain, but magical preparations are a last resort to what he has in store for you as he settles you back against his chest and tells you, showing you two fingers, and then three, what he thinks you can handle before the main event.
  • Of course he always offers, “Would you like to sit on my face instead?” but that’ll just get you wet. He’s got a thick neck, and the extra long length of his horns makes for better handholds, and before you know it, you’re rocking your hips into two thick fingers as he scissors them inside you, stretching you out with careful, confident circles that curl into that spot where the added pressure makes you tighten and buck.
  • Savage is a big boy, and while he’s got you spread out over him, he’ll often take a handful of your breasts to play with – two per palm at once as he works you higher, licking at your throat as if he was getting ready to mark you with his teeth.
  • It’s the collision of sensations that usually puts you over, and this time it’s no different when you come for him – your legs going stiff as he presses the heel of his hand into your clit and you do your best to snap his fingers with the vice of your grip. He’s strong. He can take it. And when you’re looser and a little pliant, he doesn’t give you the chance to rest – he’ll just smear your juices back into you, rubbing over your over-sensitized clit while you ride out the aftershocks with something inside you to grip.
  • The third finger is a little trickier, even though you’re painting his thighs and he has to clamp you to his chest with one strong arm. He folds them together, fucking you slower as your legs dangle helpless on either side of his hips. There’s a moment where he contemplates aloud that he “Wish he had a mirror” to see that precious pussy of yours, but you’re pretty sure that watching him split you with his hands while his cock bobs against your ass might be your actual undoing, so you whimper and moan, and tell him it’s not enough.
  • Before you can start begging, he taps your cunt. One little slap. A warning to behave as he hasn’t told you to beg for it – only to “be good” and “take it like you said you would.”
  • And if you keep it up, that’s when he’ll bring out the toys: they’re graded by size, and he’ll sometimes measure up your resistance to the next level up if he thinks one orgasm has softened you up enough to be played with more than stretched.
  • Savage’s favourite thing to do is to feed you a dildo a little at a time, watching you get it wet before he puts you across his lap: your ass in the air, a cock in your mouth, and that cute little pussy of yours in the perfect position to be prepped by his heavy hands. In this position, you’ve less resistance, but you’re totally exposed to his ministrations – and the option for a little tap on the ass or the backs of your thighs if you don’t do as your told. You can also feel his cock bobbing up to the underside of your breasts if he’s spread his legs – and if this is your first time, it’s a little bit of a tease; feeling him so close when all he’ll offer you is semi-soft latex between your teeth. Three fingers tucked into your pussy. His thumb resting in the cleft of your ass. Not moving. Just waiting for you to squirm like he knows the temptation is too much.
  • The best/worst thing is that he’ll make you wait until you’re dripping down his hand again, and if you’re good, he’ll pop the toy out of your mouth if you’ve left enough drool on it to slip it in. Savage will spread your pussy lips apart one-handed, and watch until you’ve easily taken every inch of it – sliding it back and forth until he’s satisfied. And then he leaves it there, offering the next size up to your waiting mouth. Just remember: don’t push it out, because that will earn you a smack to your backside. (Or maybe that’s half the fun of getting stuffed? Go ahead and try, see if you can sit down properly after he’s done.)
  • When he’s satisfied (or run out of toys) he’ll flip you around once more, cradling you in his lap as he gives your clit a little rub to bring you off one more time, and if by this point you’re not a drooling mess, he’ll stand you up on shaky legs, and have you present that cute little cunt to him, ass out, to make sure it gapes just enough when he spreads your labial lips with his thumbs. If Savage finds you flushed, and swollen, and sweet:

Congratulations! You’re ready to get fucked.

Chapter Text

You: Don’t choose. Lean back into that barrel chest, the thud of twin hearts anchoring your thinning breath the longer you wait, knees spread, claw-tipped hands weighting your knees where you’ve let Savage pin them to the bed.

Maul’s gaze is firelight embers in the gloom of your bedroom, considering you at your most vulnerable. Nude. Aching. Dripping onto the mattress cover. Savage won’t even play with you. You’re on display: a spread. A feast.

The mattress dips when Maul begins the slow crawl to the midpoint where he meets your apex, hunger for things uncertain the only driver when you try to close yourself to that hot breath that blows across your wetness and Savage stops you from shying away. Holds you open. Pins you down while you writhe and squirm, trying to get closer to the dark cadence of Maul’s attention.

No touching. Just one kiss. Just one taste. Savage’s teeth raze your ear, that low chuckle rumbling through you. All anticipation for the touch of Maul’s tongue to your sweet nectar.

You’re pinned by his gaze as he sinks down your body to drink; to taste; to devour as your head rolls back to Savage’s shoulder.

Give in.

Have them both as they’ll have you.

Chapter Text

You’re no longer certain how long Feral can keep this up, but your body succumbs before you can stop thinking of the clock.

At first, your legs stop quivering, and then you sag, and perhaps for a time everything goes a little numb. There’s just enough room for discomfort, straddled over Feral’s lap, your hips canted out to accept the rare and occasional stroke of his cock when he deigns to move inside you — letting the ripples of his ridges stir you into desperate clenching once more. So you cling to him, eyes shut, taking in the warmth of the hand stroking your spine, soothing you whenever you start to shake.

His fingers remain fisted in you hair, keeping you from moving too much. He’s used it to expose your neck, which he continues to tease with his tongue — the skin growing sore under the occasional raze of his teeth.

It’s not a threat to mark you. You’re already his.

The gesture is a kindness: a promise that he’ll eventually let you come undone if you’re good enough; a reminder that you’re here at his pleasure too.

It keeps you wet, besides, but still —

He won’t let you come.

And he’s still hard.

“Just hold on a little longer, you’re doing so well.”

You clutch your elbows tighter around his neck, wanting to ride him properly. The best you can manage with Feral stroking you into submission is to crush your breasts against his chest, and focus on the warmth of your arousal dripping from your cunt to his lap.

“Clench for me, love,” he says into you ear in a hot rush, and while you whimper you agreement, your body obeying as he rocks his hips once more, the pulse of your need for release turns tremulous as you try to not go any farther than that.

He won’t let you watch — though you know if you looked down between your bodies you could peek at the slick, shining root of his cock disappearing inside you once more, brushing against the spot where you need him most but only striking the once so you throb but don’t manage to tip over. Everything inside you stays taut — spiralled up into little knots that leave your toes numb and your palms sweating from the effort.

Your eyes burn, you breath choking off.

“You do that so well,” he praises.

In a small voice, you whisper, “Feral, please.”

But he only palms your ass, kneading your flesh, pulling you apart so your battered cunt sinks down on him another half inch like it makes a karking bit of difference.

“Not yet,” he breathes.

Feral’s lips brush your cheek, his grip on your hair loosening so that you sigh, curling further into his embrace. His fingers work into the tension settled in the back of your neck, loosening your stiff muscles so that you’re both tortured and soothed for it.

You give up. Give in and rest your head. Place a little, helpless kiss on the line of his tattoos at the base of his neck.

He shudders a sigh.

“You feel so good. Don’t you know I love being inside you like this?” And with a smile into you ear, “I don’t want to rush it.”

You sniff, burying into his throat, you lips resting in the little hollow where you can breathe his skin. Feral folds his arms around you, palms splaying across your shoulder blades, warming you through. With one hand resting against the back of your neck, he coos, “Look at you, you’re so good.” He pets you. “So patient.”

Feral rocks his hips, and you hum at the sensation, your breath catching a little.

“Keeping my cock nice and warm this whole time. Just waiting to get fucked.”

You grip him, and he chuckles into your ear.

“Be good and I promise, I’ll rail you so hard.”

You clench. You can’t help it, rocking into him to steal just a little of the rhythm you need as Feral pulls back, catching your mouth before you can moan, “Feral, please.”

He laughs, his voice like rough velvet. “You’re so tight. Every time I say something a little dirty you go —”

“Feral, I’ve been good. Feral, I’ve waited,” you gasp, aching to wrap you legs around his waist, desperate to take him deeper, to grind into him to find the necessary friction to bring yourself off. Each slip of his cock drags you closer to an edge that you can’t reach. Not with him holding you back.

Stars, but the way he touches every part of you while you shiver for more, pliant in his arms, bodies pressed together, nipples at attention, everything aching — you know you’re done for, but Feral likes his plaything to come hard and sharp and wailing, more times than once, spilled across him and weak with desperation while your pussy makes obscene little noises from the overstimulation.

“What do you want, you sweet little thing?”

Your thighs quiver.

Against you mouth, a whisper of a promise: “Tell me.”

A brief smile before he brushes his lips against yours. You can feel his teeth press lightly against your lips when he urges, “Ask nicely.”

The last time you ‘asked nicely’ for his cock, he gave it to you. He just won’t fuck you with it until you beg.

Too addled to be irritated by that fact, you whisper, giving him everything he wants to hear: “Please fuck my pussy, Feral. Please let me ride you. Please let me come on your cock.”

And he only breathes with a smile, “No.”

Chapter Text

There’s a guttering breeze coming from the vent that lifts the hair on the back of your neck, and the instincts that govern your impulse to run leaves you backing from from that shaking, reaching hand that strains for you from the dark.

There aren’t any words, just the luminous gleam of eyes that know a lot of loss; some deep hunger in them that resonates – echoing cold nights spent alone, twisting on a too-small bed when your heats overtook you, not knowing what was ever missing though the loss of it was ever-present.

You miss the control pad to open the door, and you trip over something you dropped so that you stagger into the wall, but the stranger in your room is faster than you and catches your wrist before you fall. Opening your mouth to scream, you gulp a breath, and that’s when his scent spills through you:

Sweat and sorrow and spice. Fighting leathers and the hard, sweet work of the crucible pit burned away by the Dathomir sunset. Impatience, too. And relief. He wears smile lines around a plush mouth. Goldenrod skin burnished with lighter Nightbrother tattoos than his brethren.

His hands are warm as they slide beneath your back; over your arm and shoulder to cup your face in relief as familiarity blooms. There are seconds before the burn begins – you feel the rush of your heat as it swirls up to greet him; this alpha you’ve never met but would know anywhere at all by his touch as your legs tangle and you collapse together to the floor.

There are only two words necessary, delivered in a rasp that’s more gravel than shimmersilk before his mouth crushes to yours:

“It’s you.”

Chapter Text

You did just fine. ☺️

All three boys definitely favour the outdoors -- or in the very least, being close to nature. I suspect it has something to do historically with generations of hunters recalling Old Iridonian customs and measuring their lives by the movement of the stars. Even thinking back on the old religion, they referred to their gods on Dathomir as "celestials."

Sex outdoors only comes natural -- it's an extension of who they were as a people, and maybe where they’re going though they've been displaced. Wherever that instinct comes from, Maul, Savage, and Feral all have their predispositions to particular flavours of "field trip."

Feral: He doesn't like to admit it, but he's the dreamer of the three. There's a spot up the peak that the Nightbrothers used to use for their Rite of Flight (where they often tossed themselves off the cliff-face to catch a chirodactyl to ride down). It's a narrow little ledge that he used to climb to whenever he wanted some time to think, and to gaze at the glittering curtain of the night beyond Dathomir's moons. It's dangerous to make the ascent, and even more precarious to settle into that little outcropping, but when you're seated there out in the open air it feels for a moment that you're actually free and floating. The first time he took you up there, you could barely breathe -- so he did the gentlemanly thing and helped by kissing you. Soon, you'd forgotten about the height and the fall, and beneath his body moving slowly over yours, all you could see were stars.

Savage: Savage experienced something of a revival when he came back to Dathomir after the war. Some part of him recalled what it was like growing up in the Nightbrother village, the hard work of it, trying to carve out sustenance from the land. Nightbrothers are a hard people and they lived hard lives, but there's pleasure in being close to the earth, as Savage will tell you: a simpler living that understands everything on Dathomir is part of the same ecosystem, and often its the strong that persevere. He was a hunter first -- formidable amongst his clan. Strong, and fast, and sure-footed, he's always favoured the chase and capture. What starts as a game with you leads you past the gravethorn grove and far past the river where the rancors roam the swamp wilds. You ran, and he gave chase, and there wasn't a boulder or a tree or a gully that could stand in his way when he decided that he'd take you down. He likes it most when you're willing prey, dirt-streaked and disheveled, and clamped between his enormous body and a tree that shudders and shakes with his thrusts; your legs dangling around his waist helplessly; all of your cries of pleasure swallowed by the canopy.

Maul: Maul's attachments are less sentimental, and governed by the there and then. If "outdoors" means on a balcony on Coruscant, or dangling above the Night City on a narrow balustrade while he grips your hips, or while docked at a foreign port in a narrow alley between cantinas beneath a sickle moon, he's indifferent to the whereabouts when the object of his obsession is pressed up against his skin and breathing hard for him. There's one particular caveat, however, which is that if Feral has his eyes on the sky, and Savage is down to earth, Maul is the fire of a brazier. Now, I'm not sure if we've had this discussion about Dathomir's temples, but there are a few of them. Maul's preferred is a catacomb, deep into the earth where its dark and lit with spirit light and flame, but he's shown you all of them, and he's spread you out on several of the altars like something to be worshipped.

Chapter Text

There are several things I love about this, and I would like to give you a little list of thots to think about:

1. We know that Zabrak have minimal sweat glands so it takes a lot of effort to get any of the boys glistening. They work hard, they play hard, but if you really want to bring out the sheen on those hard muscles, it’s advisable to secret a bottle of oil (or lube) into your pocket when they drag you into one of their grappling sessions and, “Oops! I’m so clumsy. I spilled.”

2. You willingly drop a knee every time Savage tries to sweep your legs. He stops, because he’s reluctant to kick you full force in the shoulder, but seeing him bouncing around on one-leg when he doesn’t execute on his follow-through makes the consequences worth it: Eventually he gets fed up and potato-sacks you. Right over the shoulder. Gives up on the session entirely and drags you off to the locker room to put you over his knee.

3. Maul is the most serious out of all three of them and therefore the least likely candidate to respond to being fucked with, but you manage: pretending to black out when he Force chokes you, stripping off your clothes and leaving them scattered around the training mat when he comes after you with his “laser sticky” as a distraction, or snuggling back into him with your ass when he tries to help you “better position your grip.” (Let’s face it, the only grip you really want is the one you’ve got on his cock. He knows it too.)

4. Feral is more of a shit-disturber than you are, but he doesn’t stop himself from slapping you to the mat full-force so he can “kiss it better” mid-spar. He knows you’re not so fragile, so he never really holds back – least of all when it comes to trying to determine where he’s hurt you the most because he puts his mouth absolutely everywhere.

5. The locker time afterward is worth the punishment. There’s a sunken tub that fits all four of you, a whole selection of Dathomiri healing remedies to massage into sore muscles, and three sets of hands ready to ensure that the work you put in is rewarded with some tender relaxation time between brothers.

Chapter Text

When Savage tips his head back against the foot of your bed, offering you that leisurely half-smile, his legs stretched out before him on the floor, you start rethinking the whole thing.

From where you’re standing, you can see the corded muscles in his neck — stretched a little from how he’s settled himself: hands in his lap, ankles crossed, shirt off, pants undone.

“Take a breath,” he offers, half-lidded and ever-patient.

This was his suggestion.

“Maybe you should take your own advice, big guy.”

The gesture he offers with his hands is too insouciant for your liking, a little too “meh” for what you’re about to do to him.

“You’re still not sure.”

Shit, no. You’ve never done this before.

You shake your head.

“Take off your clothes,” he suggests instead. “Then come over here.”

That seems counterintuitive, but sure — you’ll play along. He likes watching you strip, and considering you’re already half undone, you undo your bra hastily and with a little shimmy you get rid of your panties too.

You pretend not to notice the way his gaze darkens, trailing over the length of your legs to your curling toes on the carpet — nor the way his attention lingers on the trimmed thatch of your pubic hair, your lips left bare for this very event.

You should feel sexy. He wants you to feel like a queen — ready to be worshipped. But you’ve never topped anyone, and with him as a willing switch, it’s still a little weird.

“Feel better?”

His thumb cards down the edge of his mouth, and it occurs to you that his tongue looks awfully wet when it darts out to lick his lower lip.

You give him a look that could whither plastic greenery, but Savage doesn’t take the bait. Holding out his hand, he implores you, “Please, little one. I’ve wanted this for so long. Come here.”

His palm, so wide and rough and dry, soothes in a way that your nakedness and the careful graze of his knuckles up your calf does not.

“It would be a pleasure to serve you like this,” he murmurs, and that enormous head lowers, his lips grazing your thigh as his touch becomes searing.

You shiver, heat pooling at that gentle heat.

“What do you want me to do?” you whisper, because some part of you recognizes his strength, and when Savage gets like this, his hot breath blowing across your skin, everything tightens up.

“We’ll start slow,” he says, pulling your legs into his chest as he guides one of your knees to the bed so your cunt is level with his head. “Support yourself on one leg, like this. The other can rest here beside my face.”

He kisses your inner thigh, his eyes on you.

“Take hold of my horns to support yourself.”

You whisper, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He taps your leg. Twice. A gesture you’re familiar with — because it’s your nonverbal safe word when things get too rough.

“I’ll stop,” you promise, if he needs you to.

He sets your thigh beside his face, dragging you closer so that you half-kneel on his shoulder, and casting his gaze up at you, you hold your breath for a shivering moment before Savage extends his tongue.

He doesn’t lick. He only waits for you to sit.

“Ah, kark,” you manage, feeling his grip tighten on the back of your knee.

You know he can scent your desire for him, how bad you want to place yourself on his mouth.

Ride me, Savage’s eyes say. Take your pleasure.

There won’t be any further instruction, so you set aside your fear for just a moment as your fingers curve around the back of his head and you angle yourself just so to slide forward onto the wet heat of his tongue sliding between your folds.

He holds firm. Not licking. Not moving. Patient as you roll your hips experimentally. You remind yourself to breathe.

Steady as ever, you rock yourself into the breath and moist heat of him as he does his best not to groan, wetting your labial libs against his spit as you massage yourself onto him.

A shuddered breath escapes you as you realize you’ve been holding onto him too tightly — that you might be hurting him, with the way your grip on his head has turned punishing in your attempt at self-control —

It’s short-lived, because in the next moment, Savage yanks the leg you’ve been standing on our from under you and brought you to kneel around his head.

He pulls you forward by the hips, sinking down and back, held up by the fleshy cleft of your ass as if your cunt was something he wanted to dine on at his leisure.

The groan that escapes him funnels through you from between your thighs, his tongue darting out to lap into you deeply as gravity beings your body closer to him, the puff and wheeze of his breathing as he buries deeper into possible suffocation. It’s thrilling. It’s terrifying, but you take your seat and when his tongue wriggles a circle around your hole, you gasp and you grind back onto it to better direct him, using the tip of his nose as a pressure point for your clit.

Savage grips your ankles, and this time you feel his growl as the pressure starts to build, and grab onto his horns like he’d suggested — even the one that’s been shorn short.

He stills, and you roll your hips as the flat of his tongue laps upwards and spears into you. It’s slick, and hot, and he doesn’t hold in place, and like the tease it is, you chase down the sensation — grinding into his mouth as if the added pressure is less the tease and more about the way he spreads your ass cheeks to hike you higher onto his face.

Thighs trembling, you bow forwards, one hand hitting the mattress top to lift yourself from the wet sucking sounds he’s making between your legs, the pressure uncentered as he gets sloppy about it.

Savage snarls in protest, and pulls you back down so there’s only the burning in your thighs, the beat of his chin against your perineum, and the lap of his tongue against you as you meet his rhythm at last.

Maybe you cry out, but the sound is lost to the white noise in your head and the punishing grip of his claws digging into your hips as he devours you from below.

You buck with him, moaning, the curl of sensation a vice that pushes you over further as you reach between your legs and grip the back of his head, rutting against the edge of that deep plummet before you feel the pulse of it pulling you over, and the release.

They were wrong – you don’t feel like a queen. You feel like a god.

Coming hard, you slide off his chin as Savage gasps a breath, and yanks you back on top of him for another taste. This time he’s slower, leisurely almost as he takes the time to drink of you at last —

You throb with his kiss, the echoes of the sensation trailing down his chin and chest with a streak of wet as you sag against his body, spent, spread, and boneless against the comfortable, unrelenting heat of him.

“There,” he tells you, brushing away your sweat instead of mopping at himself. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Chapter Text

I’d like to request that pre-bifurcation Maul volunteers for the anatomy lesson on this one… No? Okay. We can talk post. Feel free to clarify with another ask if you’d like some specificity. I’ve had wine… and I’m feeling frisky.

(There are other days where if you were to ask me for a headcanon on where said ridges come from, I could offer a backstory that gets a little dark, but as it stands – my mouth is just watering right now, so let’s have a chat about Zabrak physiology and it’s particular perks.)

The object for consideration on the menu this evening is a fine specimen of Dathomirian Zabrak cock. It differs particularly from its Iridonian variation inasmuch as the ritual tattoos applied in their childhood ornament the body to its ends – or, in this case, the tip.

Along the shaft you’ll find a number of ridges, often numbered in proportion to a Nightbrothers particular endowments. As it stands: the larger the gentlemen, the bigger the cock, the greater the number of protrusions that stiffen with stimulus, and flare when aroused.

They are smooth, they insert neatly, and the drag when they pull out of you is delicious.

For proportionate example:

Feral (6'1"): Four

Maul (5'9"): Three (it’s fine – he has cybernetic augmentations.)

Savage (7'15"): Six

The “ridges” In question are flared protrusions of flesh, dappled with little crenellations along the edges that ripple along the curve of each edge. When the penis is engorged, these ridges offer additional stimulation from their hardness – a ripple effect that, when drawn against, adds a layer of vibration to each thrust when inserted into mouth, anus, or vaginal canal.

They are particularly effective, when angled, at stimulating the clitoris, and should never be neglected for use outside the body when rocking into one’s partner to stimulate oneself.

They offer a lovely feeling on the tongue when working past the frenulum, and add a layer of friction to even the most vanilla blow job.

You will learn that neatness no longer applies: whether it’s your mouths, or between your thighs, when there is lubrication and swiftness involved, the end result is a messy orgasm that often thrills them when they’re working you to a peak that verges on debilitation.

These ridges are not so hard that they don’t bend, and there’s never any lasting damage. At worst, the overstimulation can sometimes lead to sensitivity or a little redness, but a calming potion from the apothecary or a swipe of bacta is often enough to relieve any discomfort from overuse if you’re of a physiology not attuned to a Zabrak lover.

Simply put: they’re built for pleasure, and those little notches are key to effortless orgasm when used properly.

The knot, however, is a trickier thing:

Situated three quarters up the phallus is a subdued ring of flesh that does not inflate until critical arousal is reached. This occurs most often during ruts, or when a Zabrak’s mate reaches their heat and are in need of being stuffed.

Mileage may vary when it comes to knots: the intended use, if you’re not familiar, is to provide a seal with which any ejaculate may not escape the vaginal canal. Your Zabrak lover fills you up, pops a knot, and you can sign off several hours of your time as a result because it’s inadvisable to attempt to extract yourself when forced removal might result in hospitalization (see “Savage” sizing parameters above.)

We suggest relaxing into it, as it will eventually release and recede itself, and the end result will be two perfectly satisfied companions dripping with come.

Chapter Text

Feral: Takes you to the abandoned mall on the outskirts of town. Pulls off the wood slats, tosses his letter jacket over the breaks in the glass doors to ease you through to where it’s dark and the overgrowth from the forest nearby has crept inside: nature reclaiming what was stolen. Holes in the roof. Moonlight falls in beams. He holds your hand, creeping between shards of silver to the fountain where coins remain forgotten against the water stains. His kiss is warm, and wet, snuffling up your neck — fangs press from his lower jaw into your lip. Don’t think about the musk heat of him. Don’t think of how the backs of his hands fur with the change when he steps back through a moonbeam. Hold on tight when he howls. You’re not afraid.

Savage: Leads you off the path with the sound of a snapping twig. You do up your belt, head muzzy with drink. A bonfire in the distance and the tinny sound of your friends, forgotten. The shine of eyes refracting the light of your cellphone should give you pause, but in the next moment: there are only boulders and moss and upended trees, the slash of branches across your palms, and the burning in your lungs as the wet heat of his breath brushes your neck as he hunts you down. Your feet leave the ground. You struggle for balance. Strong arms. Barrel chest. Breathless. Claws rake your hips, shred your jeans — it only hurts if he doesn’t fold you around his waist. It only hurts if he doesn’t worry at your skin in warning, throat bared, shivering as he growls, “You smell perfect,” before he licks up your neck and fills your mouth. You’re not afraid.

Maul: Wears bespoke well. Tailored lines. Rich black. Red tie. Marks you from the boardroom as his own before anyone else can lay claim. You wait too long, puddling beneath that heavy stare as he goes too still, too quiet, too considering as his lips curl when he inhales. You make it to the elevator, ready for him to give chase, but disappointment hits hard as the doors begin to shut. Swallow your nerves. A hand halts progress. You never make it to your floor. He never touches you himself, preferring to watch you with low, commanding instruction as you describe in detail what he scented so keenly. His mouth at your ear. Your hand up your skirt. No sense. No self. No one but him, keeping you upright against the wall. You come twice before he straightens his tie. The elevator dings, and the wolf slips away. Your legs shake. You’re not afraid.

Chapter Text

Feral: The figure appears each evening by the duck pond. Lamplight in hand. Crisp grey top coat and polished shoes. A cravat covering most of his throat. His broad smile. A trim frame. Handsome and untarnished by trying things. A wavering reflection of the low flame on the water distracting from a shape that’s absent. Light eyes in the gloom turned watchful when you approach, the silence so fragile without your chaperone when you whisper hello. He never answers, but the touch of breathless lips to your gloved fingers lingers even after you look up to find yourself alone. The sun descends. His kiss settles into your bones.

Savage: The grave with the sleeping dog across it belongs to the last bare-knuckled prizefighter in London. The sculpture is so real you think for a moment that the hound has only laid down for a nap, petted gently by the figure crouched before it. Large, swollen hands. Thick forearms trimmed with tattoos revealed by rolled-sleeves. Working class. Huge but wearing a small tweed cap between his horns. He appears sad, and the urge to touch his wrist gently and maybe offer him some comfort on this cold evening pushes you forward, the hem of your dress dragging over the path. He rises, and you slow, not understanding why the moonlight shivers on his shoulders. He tips his little hat to you before it registers: the leaves of the hornbeam behind him are visible through his torso.

Maul: Shaken, you leave through the carriageway entrance to the dirt road that curves up to the heath. The woodland looms, holly and yew and snares of reaching ivy threatening to take over the tombs. All is silent. All is watchful. A gentleman in a top hat remains. No company. No carriage to cut dark through the gloom to suggest he’s waiting for somebody. The mist curls, but you’ll make your way home on your own, you think – until, of course, he offers you his arm. That’s when you realize he wears a band on his sleeve; his tailoring sharp and dark for deep mourning. There is only the flicker of his firelight gaze to light your way when he draws you close. Only the glint of sharp teeth in a smile that is not a smile. No pocket watch to tell you the late hour, but – a locket bearing two photographs: two brothers, gone. A whisper on the breeze, the comforts of his embrace. No further troubles. No more tears. “Just a taste.”

Chapter Text

Feral: New school charm. Leaves open-mouthed kisses against your throat while he holds you down by the hair roots. A slow fuck that leaves you needy and begging, clothes half-off, loose and pliant beneath him. It’s a ravishing in the backseat, your heel on the windowsill as he devours every part of you that he can’t fold around him, trying to taste every inch of your skin. Works his way down your arm, trailing kisses to your wrist. A small, sharp pinch that pushes you over. He’s neat about it. You barely even feel him start to feed while you come.

Savage: Classic. Ever the gentleman, he pulled out the armrest between you at the back of the old theatre. Pulled you closer. Half on his lap, previews forgotten as his hand slid from your shoulder and into your shirt to knead your breast. Another beneath the waistband of your pants, spreading you for him while you squirm. Your head tips back as he mouths your neck, making sure that you feel good for every part of this trip as the reel flickers grainy and black and white and classical music plays. Real vampires don’t look like that, you think, grinding against two thick fingers. He licks you first, numbing you to the pinch. It’s warm when he begins to suck directly from the vein – only a little spills, but Savage catches every drop, bringing you off before you start begging for him to do it again. He doesn’t stop.

Maul: Revival. Wraps your legs around his head. Hot breath. Skirt puddled up to your waist as he curls two fingers inside you, pinning you at the stomach so you can’t flinch away when his tongue turns from exploratory to punishing, lapping at the apex of your thighs in the effort to drink you dry before you even come. His hunger isn’t something you’ve experienced before: his touch is demanding, every strike of his fingertips shoving you closer to an edge where oblivion waits. It’s sloppy, his efforts leaving you sopping, crying when you come for him twice – three times over before he relents, and adds a third finger, fucking you slower while he descends to lay kisses against your quivering thighs. Are you spent? Subdued? He tongues a wet line down your leg, sucking over that beating pulse point that thrums for him when he places a sharper kiss there too. He worries open the vein as you break open for him again, the tension inside you a familiar rhythm that obeys only his kiss, his touch, his tongue, and the way he groans, satisfied, at the flood. This one, you think before you feel the familiar pull building once more, might actually kill you. There’s red smeared across his chin when he smiles, your heart pounding, and Maul eases his tongue inside you once more.

Chapter Text

For context, friends: this is what we were discussing the last time.

To loop back to that, the marks that anon is referring to are the ones that come from impact play: from a hand, or a belt, or a crop, or a cane, for example.

I’d like to propose that these, too, demonstrate a certain type of ownership – the consensual kind, regardless of the parameters of the dynamic. Consent is key. (Caveat: The following does not reflect an actual BDSM relationship.)

Just Maul today, because brain go brr at the thought of getting handled by him; getting reprimanded; getting put over his knee so he can spank you while he sees how aroused it makes you, face down, ass up –



So you stepped out of line. Maybe you got a little bratty. Maybe you misbehaved. While the consequences of your actions are often varied (and that’s part of the thrill – not knowing what he’ll do – let’s be honest) the following are the results of your efforts to be noticed, played with, and put in your place.

The bottom line is that Maul made a rule for you that was as tempting to break as it was to inspire his ire: but whatever it was, it’s a little like bait – a glass of water set at the corner of a table before a cat.

And you, with your Cheshire smile, swatted at it.

Maybe while he watched you do it. Maybe he rose from his seat with that lovely, menacing grace to tip up your chin, and grinned down at you like you’d suddenly handed over yourself to his every whim.

“Kitten,” he murmurs, “don’t you recall what happens when you test my patience like that?”

You do, of course, but he’ll remind you with a caress of his knuckles down your spine and along the curve of your ass. A firm squeeze of your flesh, maybe a little tap to watch it jiggle while you flinch, expecting worse. It’s only a minor offence after all, but if you open your mouth now and start giving him sass, you can guarantee the punishment will befit the crime.

“Don’t do that again,” he says, but he’s not talking about the mess on the floor. He’s watching your face to see the expression you make – to see if you’ll climb up onto your tippy toes when he draws back his palm with an obvious threat – wanting to see if you’ll put your ass out like you were asking for a little more sting.

You bat your eyelashes and pant a little bit, but he doesn’t give you what you want, so you opt for the route of escalation as expected and, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Maul.”

Not ‘Daddy.’ Not ’Sir.’

He peers down at your quim, already glistening for him – at your pert little bottom and spine arched out. Begging for it now.

“Needy little slut,” he growls.

He’ll pull your arms behind your back gently but firmly, tucking your elbows together before he places you with your cheek to the wall. There aren’t any hollow threats: his mouth next to your ear as his foot slides your legs apart with his foot is a smile of hot breath. “Put your hands on the wall. Keep your arse out so I can see it when you start to drip.” This isn’t your favourite position – it’s just how he likes to begin:

Seeing you quiver before he starts taking you apart.

“You didn’t use your words,” he breathes. “You should know better.”

And when you peer over your shoulder at him, giving him your best doe-eyed innocent look, you wriggle your bottom just for fun.

“Or did you want me to remind you?”

“Remind me of what?” you breathe.

The first mark is barely a tap. He strikes sharply, open-palmed, against the fleshy part of your ass and your body jerks with the force of it. Since it’s early, you barely break form, your toes curling inward at the delayed spread of heat that prickles across your skin. It stings but only a little, warmed by the grip of his palm as he cups the area with his hand. He gives it a squeeze.

“A little respect, kitten.”

“I don’t understand –”

The second slap lands across your other cheek, and this time hard enough to ripple through the meat of you. A little more force – better balanced out. Warmth blooms and spreads, but you need him to take care of you – divert your thought processes from the little obnoxious sound you make or how hungry you are for his touch. A harder squeeze this time, and he rubs your buttock idly while he leans in.

“My name, my dear, on your tongue – isn’t earned.”

You’re breathing a little harder, because each strike escalates in intensity, the more sensitized your flesh. It takes a lot for you to flinch, because Maul’s trained you well, but many mark he leaves behind is a badge of confidence – seeing how much you can take.

“You’d rather I scream.”

“Oh,” he purrs, leaving the hair on the back of your neck standing at attention, “yes.”

So you clamp your lips shut like it’s a dare, and you stare at him until you’re confident that his harder breathing and darkening gaze has him circling to your other side, his fingers gripping the back of your neck as he lowers you down, your side brushing his legs as he folds you over and holds you in place. Ass out. Legs spread. Back arched.

“Thank you, my dear.”

The litany of blows that follows strike wide across your ass cheeks. Three of them. Then four in sharp succession, until the lock of your knees dip, and the pain creeps towards a stinging ache. With Maul’s hand over your ass, the other sinking into your hair by the root, the pads of his fingers brush the wet slick of your arousal as he rubs your flesh. A little throb, now, as your heartbeat fills the space he’s slapped.

“You’re excited by this,” he remarks. “I’m not surprised at all.”

You bare your teeth, discomfort a constant as you spit out, “I’ll still be able to walk.”

“I should stuff your mouth, the way you talk. Say one thing further that isn’t, 'Yes, Sir’ and see what happens.”

He waits a beat, palming your flesh.

“That’s better.”

You’re about to quip that he ought to hit you harder, but Maul makes the decision for you, leading you by the hair and pushing you onto all fours on the bed.

“Spread your legs. I want to see what I’ve bought before I decide if I ought to play with it.”

You shudder, the skin of your ass chafes with even the slightest brush of air – heated skin prickling with oversensitivity. No bruises yet, but Maul’s fingertips are cooler than your flesh when he kneads his handywork – sliding his thigh between yours to settle you hobbyhorse style over his knee. Your face pushes into the mattress, and you’re breathing harder for it when you know he’s looking at you.

“I don’t want you touching yourself,” he mutters. “This pathetic little dalliance of yours into disobedience stops here.”

Your muffled curse earns a chuckle. He moulds your ass to his hands. There must be pink marks left behind by now –

“Sensitive, dear?”

You don’t respond.

He toys with the edges of your cunt, spreading your lips with his thumbs. You shiver, clenching at the throb and sting colliding with the delicate brush of his thumb down your slit, rubbing you open so gently that for a moment you forget this is supposed to be punishment.

“You get so wet,” he murmurs, and it’s appreciative. “Over so little.”

His thumb dips in, and you groan.

It’s enough –

The next strike falls hard across the tops of your thighs, your cunt. You bleat, and you squirm – the delay between spanks enough you leave you writhing, gripping the covers as pain blooms.

“There’s another way to turn you cooperative.” You can hear his smile as you rut on his leg. Another strike falls, blooming hard across the swell turning your ears muzzy as you try to twist away. Maul grips your hip, holding you in place.

His words are worshipful when he claps your ass again, your cunt protesting its emptiness: “Embrace the pain.”

Once more. And again. You’re up to at least ten, but you’ve stopped counting.

Somewhere just ahead of your conscious grasp, beyond your open-mouthed moans and the little nonsensical things you’ve muttered at him between your whimpers, his thigh hot and hard beneath your hips and torso as he slows –

There’s silence. There’s peace. It transcends, and you moan as the feeling floods your body beneath Maul’s heavy, delicious hands as they knead your swollen flesh.

“Thank you –” you manage.

His fingers are slicked with your arousal as his touch dips inside you at last, and you clench for him.

“Thank you, what?”

Nudging your clit, your body unspools at his ministrations as you fall open further beneath his caresses, turned soothing now as he begins to fuck you with his fingers.

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Good, pet,” he coos, satisfied as you mewl. “Good, kitten.”

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Feral: Feral gets the most frustrated out of the three brothers. He’s got a fine line between wanting to be the kind of mate who holds your respect, but he doesn’t always see that you’re pushing his buttons deliberately. So by the time you’ve gotten a rise out of him, he’s hungry to prove himself – so when you get together, there’s a bit of a dangerous edge to walk with him. He’s all warmth and smiles until the animal comes out. Be careful. It’s always the quiet ones that you least expect, and Feral… he will live up to his namesake.

Savage: Enjoys it when you start pushing his buttons, sniping at him, being a little bitchy. He’s got a laid back approach to things and a high tolerance for your troublemaking, but when the gloves come off? Hoo baby, you’d better be prepared because Savage is low, and slow, and decadent with his approach to ‘correction.’ He will take hours to get you back in line and he will enjoy every whimper, snivel, and plea that comes out of your mouth. He plays the game. He makes you wait. So if suffering for your reward isn’t your thing, you’re barking up the wrong tree.

Maul: Loves indulging in the power dynamic of having you on your knees, running your mouth off while he strategizes what exactly you’re going to need to put you in your place. For him, it’s an art form: this give and take of power and pleasure, elevated to new heights. He’s inventive, and dynamic, and he knows that if he pushes your boundaries hard enough, eventually there’s a point where he will tip you over into uncharted territory where the truly revelatory stuff happens between a Dom and a sub. It’s as much a give and take for him as it is for you, but he wants the authentic article without substitution: there’s no faking it with him. A little fear is always good. So is a little pain. Everything else that leads up to that he considers invitation to play.


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Agreed, Nonny.

Firstly as a forerunner to mating: just staking a claim on someone is going to be a thing with these guys. And we’re not talking about some casual fling: This is the Big Deal. The No Bullshit. The One That Smells Like Home… and I’m not talking about Dathomir(because regardless of what Maul spouted about that place and the Nightsister clans being “family” in Rebels) “home” isn’t always a setting. Sometimes it’s a person. It’s the one they’re most connected to on a mythic and spiritual and molecular level.

There’s a ritual aspect to it that I think the Nightspeople of Dathomir have lost to a certain degree due to the dominant culture shifting towards matrilineal traditions under the Nightsisters, but this is a reclaiming headcanon that works towards bringing back the old ways that remember how they used to do things in Iridonia.

It’s still a bit gross. 🤷🏻‍♀️ BUT LET’S TALK JUICES!


One might formally cement a claim on another in several ways: using possessive demonstration, territorial markings (covering one’s prospective mate with one’s scent, for example, via marking with secretions from the glands/pulse points, enzymes from the mouth via spit/licking), providing bodily and physical defence, maintaining persistent proximity (cohabitating in close confines, bed sharing, becoming a bonded pair for training or fighting, i.e. “Force Mates” from the Paecian: Nagi’tanka Shi’aad [F]/Nagi’tanka Shi’kaa [M]/Nagi-tanka Shi’ian [NB]/etc. to transfer one’s scent), marking the intended with one’s essence (breath, blood, semen/transudate)…


Regarding your ask, it might be something as simple as wrapping their intended in their robe, or folding themselves around them at night to prolong proximity while sleeping. I think it’s less an intentional choice of staking out one’s property as it is instinctual to offer a reminder that “this is my territory” and “you are mine” by touch, or a rub, or a kiss in a strategic place to cover a pulse point.

They’re a territorial species and it makes them touchy-feely. Don’t like PDA? A Dathomirian Zabrak is the wrong choice for you because touch communicates so much for them – touch and scenting and the concept of possession as a whole. Fuck your independence. You are now Clan. You might as well call it pack instincts, because you can shove three of them into a pile and they’ll be perfectly comfortable so long as the familial bonds between them hold fast.

Spit, semen, blood, the rest of that fun stuff all carries essence, and while there’s an element of stronger magic in that, there is also the visceral, territorial component from leaving a scent signature behind.

Sure they can cloak you, and on occasions mask over your fear or arousal with their own scent marks, and camouflaging comes in handy with the hunt… but you’re not wrong at all when it comes to outsiders encroaching on what they consider ‘theirs.’

The same instincts that make them fiercely protective and skilled warriors are just as likely to prompt them to defend what they’ve laid claim to if pressed.

But let’s be honest: Maul, Savage, and Feral are first and foremost likely to dispatch the threat once they know you’re safe. The rest is all mouths and hands and teeth and clothes tugged off while they remind you that you were theirs’ to begin with. Feral will put you in his clothes when he’s done and smother you with his body. Savage… well, Savage likes making a mess. And Maul? Maul’s methods tend towards things that are on the rough side but we can chalk that up to him being passionate.

For any outside stragglers witnessing the event: it’s recommended that you do not get in their way.

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Feral doesn’t make eye contact at first. He stalks into your shared quarters, stripping off his tunic, unfastening his belt, and while you can see a few smears leftover from his exacted vengeance, he’s quick to hide the evidence as he strips and pulls you to him. No words exchanged. Just that dark look in light eyes turned molten, a little pinched like he’s in pain as he climbs over you, tipping your face to him as he straddles your lap, trying to drag you back or push you away at the same time he starts tearing at your clothes, mouthing at your throat, your face in his hands as you feel the heat of his tongue lapping at your pulse points to take the edge off the scent that offends him. You manage exactly one sound: a weak little mewl of protest because at this point, he’s not taking explanations. He can’t see. He can’t think straight. It’s your top in shreds and your pants on the floor and your back pressed into the mattress as he licks over your breasts and pulls your legs apart to yank you back into his lap; to slide you down onto his cock as he drapes his weight over you to better cover your skin. He’s growling as he fucks you hard into the covers, his nails scraping over the skin of your thighs as he grips you to him, telling you over and over again like it’s an incantation, “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

Savage doesn’t hide it. You see exactly what happens to that guy at the bar who put a hand on your arm, and horrified and frozen, you’re still standing there when Savage comes back to pick you up. Literally. Over his shoulder. It takes a second for you to start putting up a fight, squirming at the heavy hand on your ass that holds you in place. You don’t even make it back to your ship – just to the alley out back where your sleeve tears and he throws away that offending bit of odor-coated wool. He snuffles your arm, licking at the inside your elbow when he pulls a face that tells you not all is well. You should be scared – not of him, but of what he can do. How little he cares about where you are, only that the things that leaves him incensed are off of you. “Never again,” are his last sensible words before buttons pop and he’s pushed you back to a wall. He palms his cock, and frantic now, you help him out of his trousers – you want to remind him how much he means to you before things get worse, but it’s so hard when his tongue fills your mouth, and his fingers smear his precome across your chest like it was a brand, and he wraps your legs around his waist as those heavy hands turn needy and he rubs over you everywhere while he fucks you into the wall. “Still smell him,” he growls, getting closer to that threatening edge. Incensed, he pulls out of you and pushes you back, pumping across your stomach, your legs, your hands as you stand there shaking, taking it all. Not a drop touches your mouth, and you haven’t come yet – but as clarity returns, Savage seems to realize better what’s come over him. He’s a little more centred when you take his fingers, still smeared with his come, and suck them into your mouth. He’s better still when the fugue lifts, and hungry now not just to claim, but just to watch you bat your eyes up at him as you take your taste, he eases the other hand into you – pushing a little of his come inside you like it was a reminder of who you belong to, rubbed into your skin until he brings you off like it was an apology, and then again later, quieter – softly when he’s hard again and you’re soft for him and you’re both drenched in each other’s desire.

Maul: The fact that you almost didn’t tell him exacerbates things, because you know when Maul vanishes for an hour, and returns with that look on his face that he wore all-black for a reason. You wait him out, perched on the edge of your seat, watching him shuck off his robes like he’s entered a prizefighting ring and you’re the opponent he needs to face off with next. His jaw works, a muscle ticking, and with that particular, quiet sort of menace he’s just so good at leveraging, he holds out a hand for you to come to him. “Your honesty is appreciated.” Level. More controlled than you expected, but then again, he’s holding back as he turns you, looking for obvious marks, and finding none, he draws you into the heat of him so you can smell for yourself the lingering bite of copper that clings to his skin. You shut your eyes, and you recognize that with your mate, it goes two ways: you can scent the aberration on him too. Into your ear, his lethal purr raises the hair on the back of your neck. “Like the last time, let’s take care of this.” He doesn’t put your hands on you, only following you into the fresher where he peels away your clothes and presses you forward under the hot water. He’s hardly breathing the entire time he washes your hair, trying to put away the reminder that even as his hands trace your curves and ease apart your legs and touch your clit to warm you, he’s still holding it together before he pushes forward into you, pinning you to him. Maul’s hands tighten, his forehead on the back of your neck and the pulse of him inside you a sharp ache. “That’s better,” he manages, and out of respect for your connection, you bear your throat – an invitation and absolute submission to your mate to claim you again with his teeth. Maul’s growl is something you feel the entire way through your body when he begins fucking you in earnest, your hands pinned to the wall over your head as if creaming down his legs is a reminder of where you belong: wrapped in his arms while he rubs you senseless, his teeth on your neck leaving you on the edge of pain, the smallest trickle of your promise to him pink and running between your breasts as he mouths your sensitive skin, and cups your flesh, and draws you back into the place where your essences mingle like fading secrets battered away by the rough slap of your body against his.


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Feral: He kept it low-key until you got up on your knees. Edge of the bed. Practically daring him to get off his chair and do something about it. Three strides; hands to the backs of your knees; legs ripped out from under you; your back hitting the bed; one hand to your chest to hold you down as he crawls over you to settle your differences.

Savage: Looked down his nose the whole time while you ran your mouth. Three foot height difference. His simmering calm. You – getting louder until he decided it was time to shut you up. Yanked up by the belt loops; your ass jiggling when it hits the countertop; one hand to the back of your neck; a gasp smothered under a growl of warning; the thickness of his tongue.

Maul: You’ve lost before it even starts, but still, you run. Everything else is a mind game: numb limbs, searing lungs, the sweat on your face. He just likes the chase. He likes seeing you think you’ve won. It’s dark when you find yourself backing up down another alley, breathing hard, your back connecting with a broad chest. Low laughter in your ear as claws settle on your heaving shoulders, digging in, holding you in place. “There you are.”

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Feral: Invited you on a sunset stroll through the Swamp of Sacrifice. Lovely evening… until Feral unknowingly plucked a ripe mushling bloom that was giving off spores. It took three days for the side effects to wear off before you could thank him properly. You’re still laughing about it – at least you are now that you can both walk straight.

Savage: Took you to a tuk'ata cafe on Moraband to “pet the puppies” and share lattes. The big one named “Fluffy” nearly took off Savage’s other arm. He adopted it on the spot. You walk him together each evening. Savage calls him your “furless fur baby.”

Maul: A holocron-building and wine workshop? Just kidding. It was a double-fail assassination attempt where you lost the mark and ended up at the business end of his lightsaber for interfering. You could say Maul took you dancing, because your fancy evasive footwork and his attempt at decapitation was about as invigorating as how you spent the rest of the night later when he took you back to his ship. You didn’t leave him your number. Doesn’t matter. He’ll find you eventually.

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- You learned how he prefers wrapping his arms from the knuckles halfway to his shoulder: where he prefers to fold and knot the banding, and where he tucks the pieces in so they don’t come loose when he’s training, or fighting. This study you learned through observation, which surprised him the first time you knelt and took the banding from his fingers, setting about the work of it while he watched you in silence. It was perfect. You’ve become so adept at the job, that he waits for you to prepare him — like the wrapping of his arms is part of a readying ritual that only the two of you share.

- You learned how to care for his horns from Savage, and regrettably, that was after Skywalker took a swipe to his head. The damage is lasting, and no salve can fix it, but while Savage often neglects himself, his care for his brothers runs deeper: he taught you the preparation methods for the unguents, and where to press to relive tension around the bases, and which file should be used to smooth the edges of their wear. You took to treating Maul at each third lunation: a scalp massage, a little shaping, some precious oils to soothe him. He accepted your care begrudgingly, at first, but it was also the first time you made him purr.

- The first time you knelt for him, he was making adjustments to his legs. A bolt loose, a rusted screw — nothing particularly challenging, save for the adjustments made to his gait, and the pressure on his waist when the connections against his flesh became too great. He thought you had other sordid things in mind, and you remember clearly the way he smirked before you took up the wrench and tapped him on the knee. He sobered then, and showed you the various parts of himself that needed tightening, and oil, and verification that fluid wasn’t backing up in the joints of his knees. He taught you to tighten, and to drain, and to screw the pieces of himself that were hard to reach. Afterward, still a little stunned that you were so attentive to his needs, he proceeded to give your parts a thorough investigation too — sat up on one of his knees while he held you in place.

- The cane was a prestige from the start, but despite Maul’s “philosophy of pain” and the litany of his Sith training, there are times where it’s obvious that he’s funnelling feelings to better divert himself than dealing with the obvious side-effects of being bisected and fused to metal legs. You don’t often see it, and there isn’t an awful lot you can do when it creates discomfort to even touch him, but occasionally, in the little hours when he lets you, you walk with him, and let him remember that even being half a man is more than most can offer, and Maul is always quadruple that much if that. It’s never been a hindrance, and it’s never been a regret, but he lets it fuel him, and he never lets himself forget. There is a little spot between his lower vertebrae, however, that if you press into it with your thumbs just right, he’ll groan and rock his head back, murmuring little appreciative obscenities that you’ve taken pressure off the nerve.

- You owe it to Feral’s studies into Sith Alchemy, gleaned from a number of stolen texts from who-knows-where, that let you manipulate the ichor on Dathomir. It was meant to be a gesture: a little something to show Maul that you cared, but the amulet you forged ended up perhaps a little more potent than anticipated. At first he wasn’t sure what to make of it, but he humoured you, and tried it on. He wears it all the time now — one part vow, one part talisman — hung around his neck with his sigil. When asked, he won’t disclose exactly the particulars of what it does, and most would just assume it’s an ostentatious bit of jewelry, but you both know when he touches his fingers to it, it’s time to depart your company and hasten to the bedroom. He’s shown his gratitude several times over by putting it to use with you; what was once taken from him is now Maul’s once more, and yours too, if you’ve been good.

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- You learn that it’s easiest to have Savage sit to negotiate his armour. He’s too big otherwise to fasten his pauldrons, and he gets grumpy having to do it himself. He’s learned from you that it’s best to cultivate patience when you’re dressing him because it’s your preference to get it right the first time. No loose pieces and nothing too tight. He watched your every move the first time you squired to him, adjusting himself this way and that to give you better access to his various fastenings, and when he returned later from fighting and slumped back into the same chair, too tired to do it himself, you unfastened everything and took it all off him inch by inch because it wasn’t a bother. He looked like he needed someone to care enough to help him, so you did.

- The first time you offered him bloodroot tea, he looked at you strangely, but took the tiny cup in his large fingers, unaware that it was intended as a distraction. He sipped at it gingerly though it was too hot while you did the thing he’d been avoiding: pinning him under your knees while you half-climbed him to take a better look at his injured horns. He burned his mouth, but you got your way: seeing the damage up close and finally, mercifully applying some salve to the places where you knew it caused him pains. The bloodroot did its work and lulled him into complacency while you rubbed the rough edges of his horns back to smoothness, and made sure that no nerves had been injured. He drifted eventually, but it’s entirely not his fault that when he settled back with you cradled in his arms, the position was too comfortable to wriggle free from. There’s an old clan adage on Dathomir: sometimes resting together is the best remedy.

- On the bad days when his arm hurts him, you sometimes help him remove the prosthetic so he can better work on it. You hand him the tools as he requests them in that low baritone of his, studying the pieces as he services them. Regrettably, no matter how hard you try, the mechanisms always seem to be a little bit beyond your abilities to repair, but he likes that you ask questions, and he sometimes shows you where to place your smaller fingers if he needs the extra support to hold a mechanism in place to be adjusted. For someone unaccustomed to team work, for doing so much himself, it’s a luxury to have someone attentive giving him the support. You’re much better doing other things with your hands, you tell him, one time. And when he gives you that interested look, you show him:

- There is a collection of potions and lotions and tonics and unguents you keep by the sunken bathtub in your suite. The waters run from a underground spring below Gorgara Peak, and are a known curative for aching muscles and sore skin. You use it often yourself, but Savage takes a little persuading. You strip him down, and eventually, he sinks in. The groan he lets loose is almost worth it when the waters start working on him, but it’s another thing altogether when you join him. His attention clings to your naked body as you work the oils into his shoulders, his chest, his back – kneading hard muscles until he eventually grips your hips as if to slow your progress, but instead sits you on the edge of the tub to return the favour. His oil-slicked fingers are as hard and hot as the rest of him, but the real prize – the real treat – is how the length of him bobs above the water when he stands upright. With two hands wrapped around him, his fingers curled into you to the knuckle, you learn to take care of each other.

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Feral: Please advise.

Savage: He’s literally too big to try anything with. You might be strong, but you barely hover over him even when he’s on his knees. Just try calling him your “little bitch boy” and see what happens. Savage isn’t usually prone to laughter, but that low-rolling chuckle of his is just like thunder, and when his eyes start flashing, you should probably exercise a little more caution instead of persisting because untethered, you will end up over his knee. If you’ve never had your ass slapped by a three hundred pound Zabrak, you do not know what you’re in for, because Savage hits whole-handed over a bare ass and he will tap your cunt while he’s at it. Hell, he’ll make you count until you’re bleating out his name as an apology with every strike.

Maul: There’s one way this is going to work, and that’s if you tie him up with something stronger than durasteel. Maybe tuck the toe of your high heeled shoe against his crotch. You will absolutely piss him off if you try that – and if that’s your end goal? Great. Granted, Maul is a trained saboteur and unless you immobilize him completely, those cuffs won’t hold him – but they will hold you and your dainty little wrists while he puts you on your knees, legs spread, pants tugged down halfway. He’s accustomed to pain, but maybe you… not so much. The sort of punishment he’s looking for is executed with two fingers and a thumb, bringing you right up against the edge of release and backing off while you whimper. Over and over again.

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Feral: Learns to bake the thing because it’s just another form of alchemy and it turns out he likes sampling as much as he likes seeing that blissed-out look on your face when he knows you’ve been uncomfortable all day and unhappy about it. He brings them to you warm, fresh out of the food synthesizer and fragrant, and he waits until you’ve tried them before he settles in, putting your feet up in his lap and rubbing your ankles while you munch.

Savage: Needs to be restrained from slaughtering the baker when he can’t find the exact cookie you want. Visits three others, jumps to hyperspace, misses the turn off from the hyperlanes, and doubles-back to that little place on Empress Teta that makes those little twisty spiced things you like. The ones covered in icing sugar? Panics the whole way back, knowing he got the wrong thing, but presents them to you like it’s a sacrificial offering. You see how stressed out it makes him, and you thank him anyway. You share them with him, and he agrees, they’re good but not great. It’s three a.m. when he sneaks out of the house again, determined. You didn’t even ask, but the man is on a mission now, and he’s not going to stop until he gets it right.

Maul: Sends his minions to four different bakeries because he wants to be 100% certain that you’ve gotten exactly what you want, and insurance in case it’s wrong. And then some: other varieties that he deems interesting and unusual enough to slake your evil agenda when you’re crying and complaining that you’re the size of a rathtar with the temper to match. He’ll even brush the crumbs from your face before he kisses your lips, happy that you’re at least somewhat contented. For now. (His minions are on standby. Just in case.)


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Feral has an affinity for edging, that’s for sure, and he’s very particular about how he handles you: he’d prefer it if you left a wet spot on his trousers while you’re bent over his knee and he plays with you, occasionally cooing that you’re such a filthy little thing for making a mess. He’s the least into impact play out of the three of them, but he’s happy to tease the shit out of you – tucking two fingers inside you for hours while you squirm, holding your hands behind your back while you cry and beg.

Savage has absolutely no qualms about slapping your ass, your thighs, your legs, your cunt, your tits – just for fun. He’ll squeeze you and knead you and leave you quivering and swollen and twisting on his lap the longer he keeps it up, but the best thing – the best thing – is that he knows that when he’s left a mark big enough, he’ll put his entire hand over your puffed flesh and massage it out while you try to stop yourself from twitching. And he’ll let that run until you’re a drooling, sloppy mess – perfectly pliant and blissed out and occasionally mumbling how badly you want him. He’ll oblige you eventually, but his hands are a reward for a job well done. He’ll let you come.

Maul will force you to come. Maul will make you count while you beg him to stop, your face pressed into the couch, held down by the nape of your neck, your legs spread just enough to accommodate his attentions while he alternates between rubbing your clit, squeezing it, using the right amount of pressure to push you over, and stretching you out with his hands and eventually, his mouth. He will use a belt. He will use his hands. He will use anything hard and flat (except for that datapad that he broke.) Spanking is a correction meant to bring you back into line if you try to squirm out from under his attentions; if you try to twist away. The oversensitivity is temporary but the turning you into a fucktoy is forever. Nah, I’m just kidding – it’s just for the session.


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Feral isn't predisposed to accessories. He's the outlier, because his preferred contact with you is usually skin, and his preferred means of correction tends towards (heh) sexual torture. Nice guy, right? Feral. Sweet baby uwu. Will edge you for eight hours and still deny you, only giving you the occasional ass slap to keep you awake. Likes to direct you in other ways: holding you by the roots of your hair, a hand around your throat, growling, worrying your skin, murmuring filth into your ear the entire time, you know -- what constitutes "vanilla" dominance play with these three.

Savage likes the cute shit because it's such a tease. The little heart-shaped crop and the ticker, the delicate little chain he'll loop around your wrists, your ankles, your stomach -- the stuff that tinkles. If he's toying with you, he prefers either two extremes: a sting or something so debilitating that it can only be cured by the width of his hand rubbing your flesh and a few well-timed orgasms.

Maul has a fucking arsenal. It's like a hope chest. I know we like occasionally being reminded that he's extra, but his collection is really something else. Might as well open a sex dungeon. To your ask, anon, "It depends what mood he's in," but he's partial to floggers, paddles, belts (you have one with his name on it and an un-ironic little heart scribbled in red next to it), and whips, but he's inventive and he will use what's on hand if necessary. And if nothing's available, it's skin on skin and hard enough to leave an imprint, every time. Daddy doesn't play.

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Feral is still learning, himself, and while he has a sense of what he wants and what he likes, there's still a lot of uncharted territory that he'd like to explore with you. Above all, he wants to ensure that you're cared for and happy and that your needs are met, so for him, "training" is an ongoing discussion that you both participate in together as you both learn to meet each other's needs. With Feral, the experimentation is often half the fun, and when the conversation turns to application, he's more than attentive: he's a little obsessive about your scenes. He loves explaining in detail what he means when he gets an idea, and having him run through the litany of things he's going to do to you leaves you puddling and pliant for him more often than not. 100% on his debrief too: he loves learning what works, and coming up with ideas for your next session together. Still, he manages to surprise you.

Savage is a little more hands-on, with a very practical preference for teaching you how to play. He's a big guy who wants to ensure you're safe even though you claim you can "handle it". In this case, it's actually for your own safety. His methods of explanation are actually quite soothing, and he'll clarify his expectations for what he wants when it comes to your behaviour, and what the consequences are if you step out of line. When you seem unsure, he's more than patient when it comes to examining your concerns before helping you learn what to do: how to position yourself, how wide you need to open, where you need to put your hands, and what you should call him when you're in session. The fun part, however, is when he makes suggestions based on his preferences: that skimpy little Nightsister outfit he enjoys you wearing when you tidy the house, how he likes his caf made... and of course, learning how to break those rules he sets for you in new and creative ways. Savage is very clear about his punishments, so you know what to expect. You're currently working through the list.

Maul's repertoire is the most diverse out of the brothers, and accordingly, his range of interests when it comes to his submissive can get a little extreme. Maul is also extremely selective in choosing his partners, possibly because while you're in service to him, he is in service to you too and both your temperaments and chemistry is important -- regardless the strictures of the relationship, and even if you're nervous. He gauges you. He sizes you up the first time you broach the subject. And he puts a plan into motion regarding how he intends to break you so he can put you back together for his liking because even in those first discussions, he can intuit what you need. Something in your eyes, perhaps. Maul never calls it "training", though certainly learning how to be a better submissive to him involves a lot of education so you flat out don't get hurt... not in any way that's permanent. This is a discipline. A practice. And he exudes absolute mastery over his craft and your body. You will only ever be as good at this as he is, and he's the best, so you know you're in good hands -- but the road to get there can sometimes be difficult and filled with challenges, so always remember -- bound up as you are both in ropes and burgeoning feelings -- to communicate openly with him.

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There's a lengthening pause as Savage settles back into his chair, regarding you at first with confusion as the creases around his mouth deepen to a frown.

"What did you call me?"

Tentative now, the momentary regret that you've somehow overstepped churns in your belly. It just slipped out. You meant it to be affectionate -- a term of endearment so he might know that you respect him; that you would kneel for him if he'd only bid it... that you would serve him, if it was his wish.

You lick your lips.

You duck your head.

"I --" you hesitate. Standing between his legs as you are, you're dwarfed by both his size and his presence: a little slip of a thing so easily broken.

"I'm sorry, Sir," you try again.

He says nothing.

"Master?" Your gaze flicks up, and darts away.

Savage leans forward, crooking a finger beneath your chin.

"Look at me, little one."

When your lip quivers a little, his thumb presses to it to still your shaking.

"I am not your father," he says, and there's an amusement to it. "And I am not your Master."

"I know, my Lord. It's an honorific."

You really need to learn to shut up.

When he comes closer still, the gleam of his gaze in the dim becomes your whole world. It's almost hypnotic.

"A title?" he hedges.

You nod, still uncertain. He's toying with you, you know now. He knows exactly what you mean.

His breath ghosts over your forehead when he leans close, murmuring into your ear as he draws you to his lap; hands sinking to your curves as he squeezes your hips -- your ass -- pulling you upward to sit on the meatiest part of his thigh, tucking you into his side.

"Interesting," he rumbles, and you feel the sound of his amusement trundle through your core. "Does that make you my good little girl?"

You shiver. The heavy hardness of him beneath you as your toes dangle off the floor leaves you with a swirl of vertigo, especially as his palm settles over your knee, sliding upwards, and down again. Teasing.

You shiver. "Only if you want me to be."

"'Daddy'," he corrects you with a little squeeze.

You breathe, sighing into it in agreement, "Only if you want me to be, Daddy."

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“Ah, kark.” His thready laughter falls around you as you stagger backwards with him into the little alcove, deft fingers unfastening his trousers — halfway around his hips already.

Hands in your hair.

Your mouth watering.

His choked gasp, half-laughing. You glimpse up to see him press the heels of his hands into his eyes, wrestling up his shirt as you breathe in the musk heat of him.

“Please,” you say, but it’s muffled by his groan as his grip tightens on your hair. Thumb brushing your cheek, stroking to your chin. So appreciative. The pain of self-restraint because you will never make it back to his quarters in time to do what you want to do.

There’s delayed recognition:

He looks around.

“Here?” he croaks.

Anyone might see you; secreted away in this alcove, clinging to his hips.

You don’t care.

Your lips hover over the tip. Stick out your tongue and you can catch a drop of that pearled eagerness.

“I want to know how you taste,” you breathe. Feral’s cock twitches. “Please.”

He’s nodding. He’s nodding. Breathing thready. Eyes bronzed to dark.

You know he can scent your arousal too.

You open your mouth, loving how the muscles in his stomach stiffen as you slide out your tongue, groaning at the first taste. Tease.

“Ah, kark,” he says again, slowly directing you with a firm grip, lowering your mouth onto his body gently so you can close your lips. Puff a breath. Feel him stretch you out.

Feral groans as you start sucking his cock, “Touch yourself for me.”



“Not like this, little one.”

You mewl, but he’s got you by the elbow and dragging you up. Pops you onto your feet before you can even protest.

The room spins as he lifts you — that heavy, lumbering sway of Savage’s care spreading you over the bed. You slap at his shoulder, words beyond you — so thirsty for it.

Even now you can watch the pendulous swing of his cock between his legs.

It was a good idea. A generous one, you think, but you’re so addled by the fact that he won’t let you taste it that you’re still whimpering when he slips two fingers between your lips. They’re thick.

“You can keep complaining,” he murmurs, and the rumble of it ripples through your core as he presses you backward, hovering over you. “But you’ll have to do it around my hand. Prove to me that you can take it.”

You sputter and moan, but you suck on him, gripping at his arm and pulling him closer to better enjoy the salty sweet taste of his fingers against your tongue as he settles over your body — a delicious weight that eases you deeper into the mattress.

“I don’t need to hear you gag to know you’re satisfied,” he murmurs, turning your head this way and that, tipping your head back so that when he starts to move, your eyes flutter shut. “Relax your throat and take it.”

Your thighs squeeze around one of his, grinding yourself into his hip while he starts to fuck your mouth so gently that you sigh.

“That’s good, little one.”

He’s already hard against your hip, but he takes both your wrists into one of his, holding you down while he slides against your tongue: back and forth. Filling you up.

You lock your ankles together, and he presses down so you have something to rut onto. Even like this, he can make you come.

“That’s right,” Savage murmurs. “Let me use you.”



The vrmmm of his lightsaber crackling beside your throat would be warning, but you’re still grinning. If this is you losing, the results are better than the knowledge in his gaze that you’ve forfeited the duel. Another crappy karking training session.

He bares his teeth. The blade shuts off, and then the only thing left holding you in place is that burning look in his eyes and his heaving shoulders.

“Why are you smiling? You’ve lost.”

Six feet of distance between you, so you slide to your hands out before you, and start crawling towards him to settle at his feet, knees spread around his legs.

“Have I, really?”

From here, it appears you’re both winning.

You lift a shoulder in an indolent half-shrug.

“Then to the victor the spoils,” you tell him, pushing just a little hint of what you’re thinking in the Force to him: a beat of impressions that let him see that your intentions are not so pure.

Maul growls, and while you’re not yet certain if he’s displeased with this performance, you obey when he tells you to, “Open your mouth.”

You do. You even stick out your tongue, hands creeping greedily up his legs to tug at the fastenings on his pants before he swats them away.

“Impatient, aren’t we?”

His smile promises that the lesson isn’t over yet.

You sigh, dropping your hands to your lap and do as your told as he considers you kneeling for him.

Gripping your chin, it looks for a moment like he might spit on your tongue.

You’d deserve it for toying with him; for squandering your training time.

He acknowledges this with his silence. His displeasure at your little display.


His thumb speared between your lips, reaching back and deeper into your mouth to open your throat for him holds you in place. Tears burn your eyes. Warmth floods between your legs.

He holds your gaze.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, his grip sliding to your chin. The rustle of fabric is practically tender.

You’re still watching him, nearly drooling for those three ridges as he sets it against your cheek, and as your eyes flutter shut you can’t repress a moan.

“Look at me.” His softness is deadly. “Is this what you wanted?”

You gurgle a sound of eager agreement, knowing you’re not allowed to shut your mouth once it starts.

“Tell me.”

You gulp a breath. “May I have your cock, Lord Maul?”

He leans forward just an inch, knuckles razing your cheek as he grips your chin, and places the tip against your lips.

“Slowly,” he agrees, holding you in place as he presses in. “This time,” he murmurs, hips moving as you grip at the floor, letting him do as he wishes, “I suggest that yielding to me is, in fact, the best recourse, apprentice.”

You’re inclined to agree.

Chapter Text

Feral: Certain peril. Spires over Coruscant. No breath. Burning legs. Six level drop. "Run with me," he breathes into your ear, and over the rushing wind and screaming speeders you catch the flash of his grin. They're going to catch you. They're coming. They're here. "Don't look back." He catches your fingers. A rough kiss to your knuckles. "Trust me." You lattice your hands together, nodding. Can't breathe. You leap together.

Savage: Krayiss 2: Crumbling ruins, siphoning into the planet's core. Structural instabilities. Lost artifacts. Red eyes in the gloom of an old temple, watching you. "Go," he urges you forward, your treasure bouncing in the scroll across your back. Saber crackling. No time. No escape. Unseen enemies. "Come with me," you plead, but Savage only shoves you forward towards the exit, taking up the rear. The platform crumbles. Your scream. A broken ledge. No footholds. Fingers sliding. A hand closing around your wrist. "Hold onto me." You clutch him back. Lifted, feet dangling, as the platform collapses. You don't let go.

Maul: Cantonica. Crowded rooms. Opulence. Free-flowing booze. You hateit here. Your train drags behind you; a heavy gown like a weighted chain. I'll find you, he said. Months ago. Heart aches and forgetting. Sip your drink: a sparkling jewel with no chance of escape from their gilded cage. A swath of shadow; a shimmer of shade. A breath grazing the back of your neck. "The trouble it takes," he murmurs, "was well worth it." Saboteur. Masquerade. Cut from the night -- a fine partner for escape. A black and red palm with rough skin, upturned. Heart beats. Handsome disguises. Wandering eyes. This invitation is long-standing. Hold your breath. Take his hand.

Chapter Text

The little gold chain that tumbles between your breasts is a featherweight compared to his presence. Maul twines it around his fingers, running his thumb across its length as he lids his gaze and watches to see what you’ll do.

Maul’s pleasure is your pleasure, but given license to attend him, you’re not sure what to offer him other than entertainment.

He watches you, that perfect, chiselled smile curling his lip in the corner: inviting disaster if you put one toe out of line.

“What do you crave, my Lord?”

That’s the correct answer, you realize: you leave your will to him and the hand that crooks into the notch between your hip and your thigh spreads a sure, permeating heat into your flesh as he uses it to draw up closer into his chest. He drapes your body across him, your breathing thready as that hands slides over your ribs, touching the gauzy fabric of your dress that barely covers your breasts. His fingertips follow the plummeting v that descends past your belly button, and you draw your knees closer together at his inspection. Gloved fingers come to rest on your thigh – the inside of your knee – and it pulls your legs apart. The drapery falls between your thighs, your legs exposed, and your little, weeping cunt throbs for more.

“A display of power, perhaps, my dear,” he suggests, his lips caressing your ear, leaving your nipples pebbling, the flesh puckering at the ripple of his influence.

His touch is wonderful, exploring.

“Do you recall what we practiced, pet?”

The chain gives a little tug of command at your throat, and you lift your gaze to his, head rolling over his shoulder.

You can yield to him so it won’t hurt – so you might share in the moment, together.

But –

Your lashes flutter open, your gaze cast around the room. There are Nightbrothers here, and you understand what he’ll do with everyone watching you, writhing on his knee, mostly uncovered.

Your heart beats a little faster for the promise in that sunset gaze. You must trust him.

“Yes, my Lord.”

He leans in, his attention lingering on your mouth: a mouth that you would use on him to kiss his throat, his chest, his stomach – worshipful and plush and pliant. He wants none of that.

Your collar gives a little tug, and you demur.

“It would please me if you let me in.”

His fingers dip between your thighs, rough edges and soft rancors leather. You spread for him, breathing harder, your hearts pounding. Behind your shoulder blades, you feel the thudding of his heartbeats too.

The drag of a fingertip through your folds leaves your lips falling open, a soft moan escaping you as your eyes flutter shut:

Darth Maul’s perfect little whore.

“Does that feel decadent, my Lady? To know that all eyes here are turned to your body, under my command?”

You spread yourself further, inviting him deeper.

“I want you inside me, Lord Maul,” you breathe.

His grin his a warning. You feel the pulse of it behind your eyes as he draws your chin around to face him, slicking his fingers with your arousal as he presses inside you, thumb tucked against your clit. You lose your breath, but you remain still to accept his ministrations.

“Look at me, my dear.”

Doing your best to take it and not grind against him, the pulse of his influence throbs like the heartbeat between your legs. It’s delicious. You’re clawing at your dress, trying to wrestle free of the loose frabic so he can better see you – no longer concerned who might be watching so long as Maul appreciates the view.

“Let me in so I can feel you,” he says, and at last, you meet his gaze as he pushes past the defences of your mind.

He thrusts inside. He can feel you.

Your mouth falls open as your vision whites out; his presence in the Force pulling you apart. You shout, the rippling growl of his pleasure tearing through your mind as your body tightens on him, and he begins to fuck you with his fingers, your knees crawling up his legs as your body arches beneath his influence.

“That’s my perfect pet,” he breathes into your ear, a little ragged with your shared pleasure.

You’ll come for him like this. His thrusts are sure and sweet and rough, bridging the divide between your shared sensations as he fucks you, indulging in your cresting pleasure so that he can enjoy your orgasm for himself too.

“Show everyone that pretty little cunt for me.”

He angles himself differently, and heat rockets through your body, shoving you towards a precipice that leaves you dangling for the collar biting into your skin. He’s wrapped the chain around his fist.

“Do as I say.” It’s nearly a snarl, and you cry out, choked and clawing at him as his presence in the Force overturns your pleasure. “Come for me, little one. Let me feel it too.”

He curls his fingers, and for a second you hang suspended – the overfull pressure too much – and then you’re plummeting. Maul’s echoing moan redoubles inside your head, a guttural groan in your ear matching your shout of pleasure as you cry out for him. It breaks, heat gushing from between your legs. You do as your told. You come for him on those lovely, strong fingers. You ebb.

He’s breathing hard, rasping against your ear as the fingers in your mind recede in a caress.

“Good pet,” he murmurs, enjoying the aftershocks. The tension at your throat loosens and the little chain tinkles prettily. And you, boneless and spent, roll your face up to him. Give him a little, sated smile as your eyelids flutter.

He slips from between your legs, considering the mess you’ve made on his knee, and chuckles.

“You’ve gotten so much better,” he praises you, the brush of his lips at your temple all the reward you need.

“Did it feel good for you, my Lord?”

His chuckle rumbles through your body as he pulls you closer, still breathing hard. “Without question, you darling little thing.”

Chapter Text

I have been chewing on this ask for days, anon. You sent me down a research rabbit hole (a good thing), partially because I was interested to see where LF might’ve drawn inspiration from the real world for both Iridonian Zabrak tattooing rituals, as well as Dathomirian Zabrak. I didn’t find an exact point of origin, but tribal marks go as far back as the Bronze Age in multiple cultures and hold a lot of significance for the societies which they come from: some record the history of their lineage and family, and some even tell the story of their spouses.

RE: Nightbrothers/Zabrak tattooing: Nightbrother tattoos are different aesthetically and culturally from those worn by Iridonian Zabrak, so both societies’ tattooing practices appear to have different significance.

Unfortunately the boys wear Nightbrother tattoos, which appears to be something specific to the Zabrak under the command of the Nightsisters of Dathomir, so it’s unlikely that they’d mark their mate with something similar. There’s conflicting info about why Nightbrothers wear them, but the two big reasons I’ve run into are:

1) A rite of passage marking them as adults and warriors
2) A rite of ownership marking them as kin to the Nightsisters that references the Fanged God and the sacred connection of communing with him (i.e. the effects of communing with the Fanged God resulted in burst blood vessels on their faces, and the Nightbrothers were, “marked as their kin and our warriors by tattooing on their chests and faces.” Book of Sith, p. 108, a.k.a. Legends)


The question that’s been eating at me is one that deals with marks made to signify a mating bond between two individuals: on a post-Nightsister-dominated Dathomir, would the remaining Nightbrother clans welcome a mate who was not Zabrak as one of their own (because to be mated to one is to be taken in by the whole clan.) Would they shirk the idea of ownership, having been owned themselves for so many generations? Or is there some other ancient magic on Dathomir that might forge two souls together when they wear matching marks on their skin to signify their bond?

I think we’re talking some clandestine, ancient stuff here, personally: those marks worn on a place only seen by their lover, tapped into their skin one painstaking dot at a time to set an ink infused with the herbs and roots of a homeworld they’ve struggled to reclaim. The ink is an old recipe too: masticated mushling and ichor and blood bound together and dyed with a colour so rare and so precious that it can only be processed from a flower harvested from so high up one of Dathomir’s mountain ranges that it’s life-threatening to pluck the bloom – and it must be harvest at a specific time under the full moons. What the tattoo’s content is should be significant to the bonded pair: maybe it’s just a gesture or a character, or maybe it’s symbolic of a moment they’ve shared, or maybe it’s a sigil. Whatever it is, it’s secret and sacred to them alone – and it only that it’s laid into the skin by one’s mate, who will dress the wound afterward and care to see it heals properly.

The important thing to remember about these tattoos is that they carry the same weight as the mating bond itself: this is a magically binding contract. It’s forever.

Chapter Text

It’s not a Night Market tonight and I’m trying to catch up with asks so it’s all good, nonny.

Honestly, if I had an Opress bro for every bad day I had this week alone I’d… have three Opress Bros, but at least they’re extra warm and cuddly… and accommodating if you need to fuck the pain away.

(Y'all watch S3 of Sex Education? Catch that Peaches track sung by the glee club? Yuuuup.)

Feral: Feral’s the first to tell you not to medicate with alcohol, but he’ll plonk two bottles of red wine down on the table as An Option. There’s also a couple of bars of chocolate. A stack of holovid movies. And a little leather bound book he stole from Maul’s collection. An actual book. With flimsy for pages. Not a datapad. Priceless. Who knows where Maul got it, and if Feral stole it – you know he’s working on your behalf. You drag him, and one bottle (no glasses; that’s too much work), and the book to bed and let him nest you into a fort made from an excess of pillows and blankets. He sets up a little lantern and drags you up onto his chest, between his legs, where you let him bracket you in with his arms and his thighs and you smush your face into his pectorals and toss your arms around his waist, while the rumble of his gravelly voice lulls you into the fuzzy comfort of being read to. You pass the bottle back and forth, stealing little sips, letting yourselves get warmer as he reads. You let your mind drift, letting him help you out of your top at first when you get too warm, and eventually your pants too. You stay snuggled; his chin on the top of your head, letting the drift of his fingers up and down your spine take your mind off things, and when your thoughts turn to the heat and hardness of him beneath you – the way his breath hitches when your fingers creep up the inside of his thigh, thoughts of your day forgotten, he’ll eventually close the book. Set it aside to leave his fingers better occupied with the waistband of your underthings, and the easy caress of his fingers mapping over the places where you’re tense and knotted. You’re not sad at all by the time his mouth slants over yours, pulling you into his lap, your panties pulled to the side as he does the work of making you forget everything that went wrong that day in two solid thrusts – three if your good when he rolls you over, cradling your body beneath his as you whimper and cry for an entirely different reason.

Savage: Takes one look at you with your slumped shoulders and haggard appearance, and stops what he was doing. Preparing dinner. It smells good, but you’re in no mood to enjoy the meal. Your stomach’s got that hollow feeling you sometimes get when everything’s gone wrong. “We just need to get your appetite back,” he assures you. He offers you the cleaver he was using, then pulls the entire knife block from where it sat on the counter. He takes your hand in his, giving you a little kiss on the crown of your head as you brandish the enormous knife, and urges you to follow him out the door and around the corner to the empty alley beside his chambers where he puts down the knife block beside you, and heads down the way to put a little X on the wall at the very end. He points at it, and tells you, “Picture the person who put you in this state, here.” When he rejoins you, arms folded over his barrel chest, you’re nervous. He gestures to the blade. “Throw it.” Oh no, you think. This isn’t what you had in mind at all. A nice bath, maybe? Or having him wash your hair? But Savage’s got that look on his face where he knows what’s best, and the tight feeling in your chest prickles. You frown, hefting the thing. “No one’s here. No one’s going to get hurt,” he promises, and you know that the frustration sitting on you could burn out in one of two ways: you could cry, or you could rage. So you throw the cleaver. You don’t hit the mark – not by a long shot – but the blade smacks the wall with a satisfying clang that gets your pulse thrumming. So you go through the whole knife block, one at a time, until they start sticking into the wall – point first. By the end, you’re heaving breath, teeth bared, pulse drumming in your ears. Sweaty too. Borderline feral. “Feel better?” Savage asks you, but he’s smiling when you demand before you jump him, “I want dessert first.”

Maul: Maul surprises you: at first, he just stares. Can’t make heads or tales of why your face is leaking all of a sudden as you explain to him the many reasons why you can’t formulate a full sentence between your heaving, hiccuping breaths and the salt water dripping off your chin. He just lets you rip. Listening to every choppy accusation flung at a situation that can’t answer for itself, and the people involved. When you’re done, he takes you by the hips, pulling you back to stand between his legs where he looks up at you from the couch. He kisses your hands, and asks you dead serious, “Would you like me to kill them now, or later?” You think about it, searching him. You know he’ll do it too – you only need to say ‘please’ and it’s as good as done. Your eyes are puffy and your vision is still a little bleary, but the stroke of his thumbs over your palms is soothing. Eventually you sniff, and shake your head. “Then what shall we do to improve your mood instead?” You slump. You don’t feel like doing much. Maybe sleeping. He suggests, rising to cast his heavy shadow over you, fingertips trailing as he hums into your ear, “Delicate little kitten. Daddy has just the thing.” You shiver, and nod, knowing that Maul will take care of you – a reminder that comes with the feeling of his hands on your body, mapping your vulnerable parts – first above your clothes, and then beneath them before he collects you to him, carrying you to bed to set you gently against the pillows. You’re still sniffing as he caresses you, running his fingers along the undersides of your thighs, over your waist, and up your ribs. “You just need to stop thinking,” he promises, touching his lips to yours so sweetly that you forget his ministrations are leaving you open and pliant for him, warming your skin to his touch as his lips leave your mouth to trail from your jaw to your ear, and down your throat to the softer inlets that warm with his attention. He never uses his hands, but he chuckles darkly when your fingers thread through his horns, your breath thinning when he laps at your breasts, mouthing the nipples and kissing the undersides when you pebble for him. His murmurs of encouragement are a balm – the mirror reflection to all his hardness when he makes demands. Maul’s other side lavishes you in his care; reminding you that you’re his when his hot breath brushes your folds and you bloom under the attention: quivering, and wet, and so distracted that you’re arching before he even sinks his tongue into you like he could drink you down. For a little while, his mouth is everything. He nips, and sucks, and cajoles your body until your legs are shaking, your cries hoarse and rasping as he takes his time – drawing out your pleasure with every lick until you can’t remember your name, much less the problems of the day. He kisses you leisurely when he decides it’s over and you’re spent, nuzzling into your body, murmuring praises for a job well done. He cleans you up carefully, and with a warm washcloth for your face, you lean into his touch as he draws you into his embrace, soothed at last. Spent enough to sleep. At ease.

Chapter Text

Savage’s rumble of discontentment as you thread your fingers though his reverberates through your bones. He follows you down the corridor, tugging irritably at his tunic.

“Just take it off. You won’t need it.”

Toying with him again – tossing that little, winning smile at him like this is an invitation and not a pay off.

“Winners shouldn’t need clothing either.”

You lift a shoulder in a half-shrug, already stripping. The weight of his gaze lowers, and when the heat of his attention touches your skin, you pull off your top instead of letting him see you shiver.

“Dejarik was your idea.” Who knew Savage was the betting kind? Not you, oh no – the odds favoured him if he’d chosen sabbaac, but Savage finds cards uncomfortable. They’re too small in his fingers.

You’re small in his fingers, too: but tonight you’re playing him.

You flash a grin. “Pants too.”

Winner rules, was the wager: just you and him, however you want him, with twelve hours on the clock and the doors of his quarters locked.

“You were wet for me the moment I lost,” he murmurs, and this time, his grumpy attitude reveals itself for what it truly is. He’s looking forward to whatever you demand of him without threat of reprimand or recrimination. You could make him crawl. You could make him beg to nuzzle your crotch. Rub your feet. Worship your ass.

Savage has considered all of these things, and the look in his eyes shows it: it leaves you dripping as he stalks forward, towering over you like his size is a threat.

“Sore loser,” you purr, wriggling from your trousers and stepping out of your boots. “Why don’t you come closer.”

You trail the pads of your fingers down the hard ridges of his abdominal muscles, watching his flesh jump. Such a delicate touch has such a profound effect on him that you feel his purr as it vibrates through your hand.

When Savage steps into you, he’s breathing harder; the thick outline of his cock straining against his trousers.

“Do you need some help?”

You flick your gaze up to his, and find him breathing harder.

His answer is to notch his thumbs into his waistband, pushing them off himself roughly so that when his cock springs free, the tip brushes against your belly. Everything inside you constricts at the sight of his weeping tip.

“I’m well,” he murmurs, not at all convincing the way his voice strangles. “What do you wish of me?”

You can’t tell if he hates it, or if he’ll punish you for this later, but you swallow because your mouth has started watering and you squeeze your legs together just the same.

He doesn’t soften, exactly, but that self-satisfied look you’re so familiar with when Savage knows he’s got you curves his mouth up at the corners. He lowers, dipping down, as if the torment of his lips so near yours might tempt you into handing your power over to him.

You’re hoarse when you lead him backwards a pace, brushing up against the wall at your back, “Brace me. Put your hands on the wall beside me –” you manage. “On either side of my head.”

You want him to lock you in.

“Shall I –” he begins, doing as you asked, though the heat of his body is assaulting: an impenetrable barrier that makes you feel small and fragile, and leaves you quivering.

He hums as if sensing what you need of him, and the reverberation of that low noise pools deep in your belly, sliding deliciously between your thighs as if the rumble of his interest could bring you off alone. If he knew it might, Savage would try.

“What are we doing, little one?”

It’s not concern, but interest at this bold showing as you direct him, turning in the little space he’s left you to place both your palms to the wall – to press your hips backwards so that his cock brushes over your lower back.

You hitch your hips upward in invitation. This is not a suggestion.

“I want you to ease me with your cock.” And to hell with it if your voice shudders. “Not your hands.”

Savage falls silent, growing still as he leans in, his jaw brushing yours, wanting to know for sure what you’re asking for.

You grit your teeth. “I want it rough.”

One large palm comes off the wall and touches down on your tummy, sliding across your belly so that he wraps you into his easily, his mouth coming to rest by your ear.

“I want –” you try again, your confidence flagging as his thighs brush the backs of your legs, the enormity of him creating a complex jigsaw to fit the pieces into. “To lift me up, press my face into this wall with your hand, bow my back, hold me down if I thrash.”

The rumble of his command ripples through you, pebbling your nipples as his thumb brushes the underside of your breast, the obscene noise your pussy makes as you shift, forcing you to shut your eyes. “I want you to split me. Drag me down your cock. Ruin my pussy.” You hitch a breath. “Fuck me hard, Savage. I want you to fuck me so hard that I can’t walk. I’ll need to crawl.”

His chuckle is low, and dark, and not at all soothing as that palm slides up to tweak your nipple, then squeeze your breast. It hurts, but not enough. “Is that all?”

You shudder a breath.

“I would stretch you with my fingers first,” he murmurs, and when he draws back to card a gentle, probing touch between your legs, you clench, and beg, “But you lost the bet.”

You feel his shrug. It’s indolent. It should be warning enough.

“You’ve thought about this,” he says, coating his fingers with the dew of your arousal, pushing in with two so firmly that you gasp, your back arching. He slips out, then adds a third. “You’ve thought about this for a very, very long time.”

Your fist strikes the wall as he flares them open, earning a groan before the sound of him leaving you drags a hoarse cry from your throat and you nearly collapse from the absence of his touch.

“Get on your toes.” You obey, because he’ll give you exactly what you asked for – and more, if you’re nice.

He grips your ass, spreading you apart, pushing your face into the wall so that you catch yourself on your elbows. The flared tip of Savage’s cock rubs over your entrance, dipping in just a little so that when you crane back, you can see him watching how he lines himself up with your slick, shivering hole.

“Your wish, my Lady, is my command,” he says, and hauls you onto him in one staunch, uncompromising stroke that whites out your vision – his grip on your ass shifting to your hips while you cream down his legs. Savage’s grunt precedes his exhale, and he gathers you up to his chest, the top of your head his chin rest as he walks you forward on skittering, uncertain feet. It aches, and you think, semi-delirious, that if he brushes your clit the wrong way being this stuffed, you will come.

“Again,” he grunts, and thrusts in, seating himself closer but not all the way. Your head falls back. It doesn’t even reach his shoulder. Your eyes roll. He palms your pussy, squeezes the meat of your mons like the delicious little punishment it is, taking all your sensitive nerves between two fingers and pressing down.

You stop breathing. This wasn’t part of the deal. You slap at the wall, helpless and thrashing and utterly beneath his will.

From very far away, you realize your body is thrumming – that someone is screaming, and it’s you. Incoherences. Nonsense. Your clit suddenly his plaything as your feet leave the floor and he seats your further down his length.

The thick protrusion three-quarters of the way up his cock is a barrier that won’t relent, and gravity won’t do the work of pulling you over it when it pulses as it does.

You are keening his name, panting, babbling and stupid and so desperate to come suddenly that when he rubs you, you nearly break.

“Is that what you wanted, little one?” he growls.

It takes nothing to send you over. You’re so full and so tight that the barest brush of his fingers halts your breathing as the oblivion that chases your pleasure threatens to drag you down. You go limp in his arms, pulsing as Savage’s knot puffs and stretches you out.

Crying, you choke out, “Yes! Yes!” as his hand sinks into your hair, turning your face to his.

His lidded gaze swims before you. Savage is smiling, satisfied that he’s gained the upper hand once more as he drops his hips and uses gravity to pop you off him with a thrust, and then two.

“Prove it,” he rumbles. “Come on my cock again.”

There’s no place else for you to go, so you do.

Chapter Text

You’ve seen demonstrations of Maul’s influence before. You’ve seen him lick into the minds of his adversaries, buckling their resistance and folding them into scraps of their former selves. You’ve seen him crumple starships in the grip of his mind, fingers clawed, turning tons of durasteel into crumpled tin cans mid-air.

You’re familiar with the screaming that follows. This time, you’re making all the noise: heaving, panting, whimpering too.

Feral, bored, follows the crash of the cantina door into the alley after you make your hasty escape. The siding of the building opposite where the collision occurred wears a dent, the door folded to the ground in a heap. Your insides twist, your panties damp with your arousal from their teasing – efforts that have left you breathless, heaving, pupils dilated with a heady cocktail of fear and nerves and bruised skin from their grips.

You can still feel Feral’s fingers in your hair; Savage’s claws scraping up the skin of your belly beneath the hem of your shirt, his breath hot against your throat. The button of your trousers undone, pinned between them as Feral used his thigh like something you could ride while you creamed in your panties at Savage’s prompting. Right there in front of everyone.

In front of him.

You’re in trouble now, aren’t you?

“Hey, cocktease,” Feral calls after you. He’s grinning.

Feral glances over his shoulder, then back at you with that peculiar half-light in his smile – the one that knows you’ve done something to cross a line, and he’s waiting for the show. “He’s coming.”

It’s not a warning. But you’re running anyway. Stumbling, really, tripping over your own feet in your haste to put some distance between you and them.

“Savage isn’t too impressed either!” he calls after you, but you pretend not to hear him. He’s at least partially to blame for this: he had to go and lick his fingers because he wanted a taste of you first.

Sith brothers, you’ve learned, are the most competitive.

Especially when it comes to you.

So what else can you do, feeling the creeping chill of the dark side hollow out into the alley? You’re their prey. So, you run.

Feral’s laughter trails you, and your betraying body is clumsy with your over-eagerness, the mind-addling assault of their particular sort of care that begins with a nip of teeth and a rough squeeze here and here, that degenerates into the sort of frenzy that leaves marks and often stings. It’s overwhelming, at times. And it’s so good you can hardly breathe.

Legs pumping, you take a corner at full-speed, and not seeing where you’re going and sending you careening at full-tilt into a wall of muscle that yields not at all and cares even less for the way your little body crumples, legs tangling.

“There you are,” Savage purrs, and the rumble of warning spills through you as you think to struggle as one of his arms wraps the whole of your ribs. You sag into the heat of his touch. “I thought you wanted to have some fun.”

That was the plan, but he sniffs at your neck and you shiver, fingers clawing into his armour, dragging yourself up before you can lose yourself in the easy way he handles you. He’ll fold you over and put your face into the wall if he wants to. He’ll tear off your bottoms in one strong tug. Have you right there. All alone. He’s done it before.

“No,” you whimper. You’re making it too easy for him.

His hand strokes down your spine, cupping your ass and squeezing you open like your flesh is something to be kneaded into the figure he wants. Savage murmurs, thumb grazing your breast and pulling out a sharp inhalation. Your world spins.

“She wanted to run.” Feral again, sidling up the alley like it’s taken him no effort at all to catch up. Still smiling. Predatory. Savage turns you by the hip to face him, tugging open the buttons of your top as he doesn’t quite let go.

Cool air touches your skin, and Feral’s gaze drops – turning appreciative at the swath of skin on display for him. You shiver.

“I wanted you to chase me,” you breathe, but whatever noise you make manages to be as uncertain that you’re doing the right thing by trying to escape their attention.

Feral licks his lower lip into his mouth, razing his teeth against it, and Savage only pulls you back against his chest, fondling you so sweetly that your eyes shutter. His thumbs pinch your nipples against his forefingers, and when he squeezes, the warmth of a blush roils through you.

“It’s always so easy to give in, isn’t it?” Feral murmurs, and then you feel the shiver of his mouth across your cheek, you want to –

You want them so bad it hurts, even as Savage tugs your trousers open.

“We could take you right here, you know,” he promises, his fingers trailing down the jerking flesh beneath your belly button. Lower.

But Maul would know.

Your fingers grip into the cloth at his hip; your other works into Feral’s shirt. He hisses at the scrape of your nails, and Savage – Savage chuckles darkly when you whimper. The heavy hardness of his cock against your lower back alerts you to how interested he is in seeing you surrender now. Here.

“We could take turns,” Feral whispers against your lips.

“Or we could fuck every hole at once,” Savage murmurs into your ear. You buck against him, grinding your ass into his lap while Feral slips a hand down the front of your trousers. He sighs, pushing one finger through your quivering heat, caressing your clit so gently that you cry out for more in the same breath as you tell them, “That’s not fair!”

It’s two against one. You’ll never be able to tear yourself away.

“For that, brother, you’ll need a third party.”

The alley darkens, cold creeping in at the careful meter of Maul’s discontentment: his control is remarkable, his jealousy simmering in a slither of influence that shuttles up your legs and wraps your body.

The brothers fall away from you, and it’s only Maul’s hold on your form through the press of the Force on your limbs that keeps you aloft – lifted to your toes and dragging backwards as he pushes you back into the wall with a little thump!

You moan as he lets you sag, held up by invisible bonds that connect you to him.

Slitting your eyes, you bare your teeth in a grin. “Are you volunteering?”

The brush of darkness threatens as he rises before you, assessing your state semi-undress; pants undone, shirt askew, breast partially exposed. He sniffs, his lip curling like he can scent your arousal too.

“Half-fucked and still putting up a fuss, I see.”

Gloved fingers grip your chin, wrenching your face around to look at him directly.

“Addled and needy.” He leans in, and everything inside you tightens. “Didn’t even wait for me.”

Feral chuckles. “Just warming her up for you, brother,” he says from your left, tipped against the wall by the shoulder. Watching the proceedings.

The brush of Maul’s invisible touch slides between your breasts, trembling over your belly button and lower, slipping beneath your clothes and inside you as if he can press deeper than either of his brothers without even touching you. Your head falls back, your mouth dropping open at the invisible fingers that press your legs apart, curling against the place inside you that belongs to him – adding pressure. Unrelenting, concentrated, throbbing pleasure. It deepens, and stretches, and licks through you so that even your ass clenches at the coaxing intrusion.

You make an insensible sound.

“I could have done this in the cantina,” Maul murmurs. “I could have made you come from across the room while you writhed and screamed and threw yourself on top of my poor, unsuspecting brothers, begging for them to touch you. A spectacle. Our little whore.”

With your mouth hanging open, your eyes rolling back, you can’t find he words.

“Did you fuck her ass too, brother?” Maul asks. “Did you spill down her throat?”

Savage watches you, hungrily.

“No,” he says, his knuckles grazing your cheek, possessive. “But I would like to.”

“Feral?” Maul asks.

He jerks his chin, watching you twitching, on the verge of coming undone. “I’d have her sit on my tongue.”

You tighten further, the press of invisible fingers unrelenting. They slip over your clit and between your pussy lips, pressing you apart, driving deeper into a throbbing rhythm.

Maul pulls your hand off the wall, brushing his lips over your knuckles as you start to jerk and twitch.

“She’s going to come, Maul,” Feral warns.

“I expect her to,” he murmurs, considering. “I want her to learn what it means to wait patiently for what she’s given rather than just begging for it.”

You couldn’t beg if you wanted to. You don’t have the words, save for the one as the feeling begins to crest and you tighten on nothing, empty and shivering.

“Do you know why I’m doing this?” he breathes, and the soft sound of his voice is deadly when he moves in close.

Maul presses your hand to his crotch; the hard ache of a cock you haven’t given any attention to a rock against your palm.

The brothers’ laughter is a distant thing as you buck, hips stuttering as you start to come apart silently, stretched apart and aching to be filled by them.

Soundless, your mouth opens, and you manage a single word before you almost break for him, but he pulls back –

You don’t believe it at first. He’s stopped. It hurts. It hurts.

You’re throbbing but you don’t come.


Maul leans in, seething. “You did this to me,” he snarls. “You made me watch.”

He pulls away. You’re sweating. Breathing hard. Your face is wet from crying, eyes fluttering shut, your body taut though it hasn’t learned it’s lesson.

Maul smiles, and tips his head, watching you indulgently as the pressure abates.

“How is this better?” you moan. But you already know the answer: it curls around the nub of your desire for him, tightening like the punishment it is as Maul begins again.

His low, throaty chuckle raises the hair on the back of your neck. “You’ll find I don’t mind observing,” he murmurs, “so long as I’m in control.”

Chapter Text

There are so many things I want to discuss about blood magic and ritual and warrior traditions among Zabrak; how they’re carnivorous, and how they wouldn’t bat an eyelash at a bit of gore; how the Nightsisters are so steeped in ancient rituals involving blood in particular as a means of magical communication, communion, and transfer — there’s just so much.

But your blood?

Your blood does something to them.

Granted, you might be feeling poorly — maybe you have cramps, maybe you’re bloated and sensitive, maybe you feel so unhappy with your current situation that you don’t even want to think about having sex, but Zabrak are intuitive and their sense of smell will alert them to what’s coming days before you’re on the floor and feeling weepy for no reason.

They come prepared. Maybe it’s the nesting instinct, or perhaps they just know it’s time to start taking care of their mate in the way that she needs, but your quarters somehow magically fill with little things that give you pleasure: a nice bottle of spice wine, maybe some of your favourite sweets, or those little flowers you like that only grow on the South side of the Peak. You’ll find the sheets are cleaned and the pillows fluffed, there are warming, sweet-smelling oils and herbal sachets near the bathtub, and a selection of remedies to take care of your discomfort.

They’ll get out of your hair if you need them to, but at one word, you’ll have a cuddle partner who runs extra hot and is more than serviceable as a heating pad to wrap around your tummy or tuck between your legs until the ache subsides. They’re all very well contained, happy to care for a partner that needs them, but if you wriggle your hips, or mumble a single word about how you’re horny, all bets are off.

Feral turns hungry. He gets this look in his eyes as he pulls off your panties, and there’s a moment where you’re still processing before he’s halfway down your body, laying open-mouthed kisses into your skin between murmured promises of how good you smell to him: like summer fruit and honey wine and warming spices — the rest of it is lost when his tongue touches you. It’s shocking how little preamble there is, but he’s groaning and the reverberations from your clit to your clenching pussy frizzle your brain. You can’t process the fact that Feral’s first recourse is to go down on you, and if you’re embarrassed by it at all, it becomes clear momentarily that he’s trying to suck your soul out through your clit before he spends an age soothing it. It should be about you (it is, really) but he loses himself a little in the hormones and your scent and your body, and you’ve come three times already before he looks up at you, dazed and smiling for just a second, before he dips down again and keeps going.

Savage is all solutions: dumping half a bottle of oil over his cock with only the barest tremble in his hands as he tries to contain himself. He half pulls off your clothes, dragging you down the bed to push some of the medicine into your body before you realize there’s a cooling tingle to it, and instantly, your cramps are soothed by his fingers. The sound he makes when you mewl for him as he spreads you open is throatier than you’ve ever heard: one part desperate, one part growl, all encompassing as he sinks into you so easily that your eyes roll back as he gathers you up to him. He’s already fucking you slowly as he eases his tongue into your mouth, murmuring his contentment at your sigh while he delivers the medicine he meant to where you need it most. Your cunt tingles at first — a spreading, shivery wonder that turns warmer with each of his strokes. He’s chuckling and possessive by the time you forget you were uncomfortable at all, happy to rock the bed into creaking when you realize how hard he’s about to make you come. He does, but he’s still hard when you finish, so he just keeps going.

Maul knows when it starts halfway across Dathomir. Or at least it feels like it. All he processes is that something is wrong and he needs to be there for you immediately, which results in a broken door that he doesn’t bother replacing before he hauls you off the couch in your ridiculous little blanket, dead silent but determined as he checks you over first for injury, and then, sniffing, undressing the rest of you with more care than he’s possibly ever managed before. If you protest, he doesn’t hear it, he only touches two fingers to your flesh to better understand what’s happening. When hits gaze flicks up again, fingers bloody, it’s like a fugue’s come over him: his pupils have blown out to black, and he’s shaking a little. “You’re not a vampire,” you tell him, but for a second all you can think of his the mating frenzy. It’s just like that. One second, Maul is there, and the next he’s gone: something else stands in his place, breathing hard. “What do you need, I’ll do whatever you ask of me.” He’s never been like that, and frankly, you’re not sure if you can direct him — not when he corrals you up against a wall and huffs a breath over your throat, pressing a single, shaking kiss to your cheek. “My Lady.” You soften, and you wrap your arms around him, and tell him, “You did enough by coming.” There’s a moment’s beat before his lips graze your ear, “Would it please you better if you were coming instead?” And you shudder, and you nod, and something eases in him as he wraps you protectively in arms accustomed to causing harm instead. He’s softer with you than he’s ever been that night: firm, still, but slow and penetrating — and careful when he gathers your wrists in his as each thrust strikes you deeply. He touches your body while he brings you off over and over, pulling you on top of him to take your pleasure, gathered against his chest while he murmurs sweet nothings about how tight you are, how pretty, how glowing and sweet and warm and wet.

Chapter Text

So tonight we’re choosing violence. I see.

Feral: Breaks the guy’s fingers on the spot, one at a time, right there at the bar as you watch while maintaining a pleasant conversational tone with you, outlining what ‘consent’ means and why it’s important. He then goes on to offer his insight, giving the stranger a colourful example (by description, he’s a gentleman after all) of what he’s going to do to you later after you tell him, “Yes, Feral, please touch me there.”

Savage: Puts them in a bin outside the cantina and seals the lid with his lightsaber. Doesn’t kick it, but it looks like he’s considering it when you find him later, asking where your new “friend” had gotten off to. You’ve never seen Savage look so impish. It’s cute. Also a little scary.

Maul: You find him at the bar, brooding. There are no further questions and you try not too look too hard at the smear on the floor beside him. He takes you home, locks the doors, pulls off your clothes, and when he touches you, it’s gentle. Careful almost. Until he’s satisfied and you’re shivering, and the only thing he’s willing to contemplate is which particular weapon he might train you with that might do the job in case he’s not there. He reconsiders almost immediately. You’ll never need a weapon so long as you have him.

Chapter Text

Maul: Respect

Savage: Kinship

Feral: Time

Chapter Text

Feral: The literal worst out of three of them. Headstrong and stubborn, he’s the first to say “he can handle it himself” until you find him woozy and ashen and swaying on his chair. He’s easier handled when he’s half out-cold anyway. If all he needs is a bacta patch, you can slap one on him and he’ll feel like he’s still the big tough guy he thinks he is, but anything worse? Get Savage to dump him in the tank. Feral can’t fight his brother’s sheer size.

Savage: Ten thousand babies. He doesn’t complain much, and it doesn’t matter how much ichor he’s got flowing through his veins, but he’s perfectly capable of feeling pain. He’ll say nothing at all about his aches, but he gets this look on his face when you’re patching him up that looks like he wants to break things. Partly, you think it’s because he got hurt at all. When the adrenaline wears off, he suffers like the rest of us, but at least he’ll grin and bear the care. He thinks your little fingers are far less clumsy than his anyway when it comes to these things.

Maul: Nope. Not at first. Not for months. He doesn’t trust droids. He’s too self-sufficient for anyone else’s help. He’s already reset the joint. He’s suffered worse pain. Pick an excuse, he’s used it. You’ve seen him almost bleed out and keep fighting before too; it’s not that he’s a sucker for punishment, it’s just that the pain is clarifying. He’d rather win the bout or make it out alive or deal with it later because it’s not life-threatening (it usually is.) All it takes is one time when he blacks out. One time to sit by his side. One time to patch him up when he’s incapable of stopping you. He checks over everything the instant you leave the room, not willing to trust at first, but begrudging you the acknowledgement eventually that you somehow managed to make it better. The first time you gave one of his bruises a kiss, however — that took a lot more explaining.

Chapter Text

Feral: You can actually see the light dimming in his eyes as he puts two and two together, while he’s shaking their hand. He’s unflinchingly polite, but you can see the gears starting to turn as he falls to calculation and assessment: sizing himself up against them like they’re something he needs to measure himself to. You take his hand when they leave finally, press your lips into his shoulder, and look up into his darkening gaze: it’s as if a cloud is passing across the sun. He squeezes your fingers, and you have to get up on your tippy toes to whisper, “If I could do it again, I’d do it just the same way. You were always endgame.”

Savage: Scares the absolute living shit out of them just by standing there. A little horrified, you realize as they make hasty excuses to get away from the pair of you, that Savage hasn’t even said a thing. Not a word of greeting or menace has passed his lips, but he keeps staring, until eventually, you see the tiny, satisfied smirk curve the corner of his mouth.

Maul: Doesn’t give a fig. Doesn’t even size them up. Like they could ever be competition. He just lets his hand hover lightly over your lower back, continuing the conversation, not at all phased as he has your attention, and your body, and your heart, and everything else at his command anyway. So you lean into him, admiring his smooth-talking and low murmured charm, never at once considering where Maul’s machinations might lead. (Hint: Your high school sweetheart is never seen again, but you don’t know the better.)

Chapter Text

Feral: Finds the half inch of exposed skin between the waistband of your pants and your top when it rides up. Grazes a long line across your flesh with a fingertip when nobody’s looking: one long, careful stroke turned debilitating as you stand there, struggling to breathe while heat pools between your legs. He’s smirks back at you just the once as he sidles off. No one knows the better.

Savage: He sat beside you, arms folded, stoic as ever while you squirmed in your chair. Like being next to him was giveaway enough when you stopped breathing, face heated, ramrod straight. His leg pressed against yours beneath the table: the hard line of muscle an attempt at stilling your jittering, and when that didn’t work, he pushed your chair forwards a little to better hide your lap: one heavy hand between your legs, pinning you in place with the press of his fingertips. Savage’s gaze never left the briefing.

Maul: Proximity turns the air electric: the brush of his clothes, the heat of his body. Impatient little breaths and darkened gazes. Maul is a master of discretion, but there’s something about getting under your clothes when everyone is in the room beside yours that makes it impossible to say no. Legs around his waist. Back into the wall. Teeth and tongues and tangled fingers; his hand across your mouth; trying not to make a sound when he breathes into your ear, “Come for me.”

Chapter Text

Oooh gosh.

*wrings hands*

Anon, you walked into something here. I’m not at a place far along enough in my drafts to disclose what exactly (because if I say too much too soon I tend to shut out the muse), but I can say it involves shibari suspension.

*chews knuckles*

There’s definitely some of that story’s flavour in here, though it’s more erotica than hardcore, I’m afraid. Hope that’s alright.

Feral isn’t sure what to make of the belt at first. It’d fit him if he wore it, but that’s not the intended purpose. Reluctant, he reiterates the last discussion you had about leaving welts that needed bacta to fix and how he had other suggestions pertaining to your ass, but you explain what you mean by it, and then you show him: kneeling on his bed, seated on your own heels, you clasp your hands behind you, tucking your elbows in tight so that they might be strapped together. “Please,” you say sweetly, looking at him over your shoulder. It takes a moment, but his gaze pins you; that small, mischievous smile of his reappearing. He’s obliging, if careful, and the first wrapping you slide out of with two tugs and a twist. The tension in the room deepens, and when Feral makes the correction, he binds you a little more tightly so that you feel it in your shoulders and across your chest. It takes four wraps of rancor leather from the top of your elbows to halfway down your forearms before you’re immobilized, your chest heaving at the firm handling as he slides the buckle into place. In the descending quiet, you can hear the raze of his fingertips travelling from leather to your skin, so you roll your head back onto your shoulders, and slide open your knees, watching him darken. The bed dips, and Feral joins you.

Savage comes home so late that it’s dark out already, the little light on the electromag cuffs blinking red reminding you they’re activated and you’ve forgotten the code. It’s not cute. You’re actually a little cold, sitting there spread and naked with only the lights of the Night City painting you in its red hues. Should’ve brought a blanket, but that would have ruined the effect. Also, your hip is starting to cramp. Savage stands in the doorway a moment, wearing that little frown on his face that might mean surprise or might suggest he’s confused, but he arches an eyebrow at you in all your glory and by the time the door slides shut, he’s wrestling back… something. Not a smile, exactly. Amusement, possibly. “How did you manage this?” he asks you, and truly, getting yourself into each shackle was practically a magic trick, so you give him a coy look and try to ignore how the skin over your breasts are pebbling with the chill. “Carefully?” You might’ve lost the mood, but as he starts dropping his armour one piece at a time, you perk up a little. His slitted gaze when he considers you again warms you through. “That’s a lovely looking pussy,” he murmurs. “It’s still glistening.” You swallow thickly, and when he kneels between your legs, you admit, “I was thinking of you the whole time.” Mostly. Between your regrets for the dark and the absent heating. “Should I call maintenance for you?” he asks, touching the durasteel around one of your ankles, contemplative. You gulp. It’s audible. “They won’t show up til morning.” Savage flashes teeth, crawling over you so that you tremble in the moments before he touches you, the cables attached to your restraints clinking when you pull on them. You realize what that look in his eyes means: he’s hungry, and you’re vulnerable. He brackets you in, your breathing turned thready as he murmurs, lowering, “What ever will we do until then to better occupy you?”

Maul: There’s a roll of jute twine on the bed beside you, the lingering marks on your calf where you’d practiced your frog tie still sensitive. You trail your fingers over the skin to find ridges where you’d made a series of perfect knots, binding your shin to your thigh. But it’s the Somerville Bowline single dangling off your wrist that occupies Maul’s attention when he walks in on you, his steps slowing as you swallow audibly. Caught practicing. You’re not a rigger. You’re just… entranced by the feeling. “Explain this,” he murmurs, lifting the cord and rubbing the end between his fingers. “I just –” His attention settles on you, and it sears with heat. When his fingers spread carefully over your knee, he feels for himself the extent of what you’ve been doing – and sliding his palm down the column of your skin to your hip, you shut your mouth, and you shiver. If you find yourself unable to put into words that you’re chasing something that sits outside of your grasp: something elusive that unhooks the things inside you that stay spindled and tight and painful. He understands when you look away. This is embarrassing. The confession shimmers on the periphery of what you’re willing to give him; it feels too vulnerable. It’s too much. Maul tugs the knot, lifting your arm by the cord. You hang, and something inside you stills; goes silent. You suck in a breath, but it’s not because you’re in pain. You feel… less heavy. He turns your wrist, and razing the back of your hand with his nails, his gaze flicks to your face. “No numbness?” he asks. “No tingling?” Your heart starts beating harder. You shake your head. That little purse of his lips should be telling. He’s not mad… he’s… something else. “This is beautiful work,” he murmurs. “Did you know this tie is well-suited for chest harnesses?” You did. You’ve been studying him; the way he understands tension placed on the body, and how it might be lifted. “It’s a good introduction for suspension,” he says, his eyes burning. He takes your fingers in his, letting them ease across his palm with a touch so light you might as well have wings. A moth, drawn. Shivering. You remember to breathe. And Maul? He’s the flame.

Chapter Text

Do you remember what it was like when you were first so hot for each other that you kept holding off on the moment to make it last because you knew taking that next step would change the game?

That was a point of no return – once you opened the door you wouldn’t be able to close it, so you lingered in the before where you could ostensibly claim that six hours of making out was still somehow innocent.

He’d put on a holovid that you’d both immediately forget about the instant he’d drape an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into the warm, hard heat of his side – fingers resting on your collarbone like an invitation for you to tug down his wrist and close those long fingers around your breast, urging him to squeeze you until it hurt.

So you spent hours crammed into the three and a quarter foot across bunk of his, pressed together with your clothes twisted, his thumb notched into the hollow at the base of your skull and his fingers in your hair while he spent ages learning the flavour of your sighs against his tongue, one thigh notched into the apex of your legs where, if you forgot yourself, you could get a little friction from his hip when he’d rock into you gently. Maybe you’d grind a little when he sighed, working bruises in the soft spot of your throat with his kisses like he could mark you by sucking your skin. (He did. Repeatedly.)

Feral memorized the shape of your soft places over your clothes, urged by the sort of daring desperation that made it okay to explore over your breastband, and maybe under your top, but never farther than that unless you counted that time he left a wet spot on your shirt from sucking your nipple through the fabric.

Or how, when you got more comfortable, you could feel the length and hardness of him through his trousers, your legs around his waist and your arms limp and loose around his shoulders while he lowered his weight onto you, half-dry fucking you while you moaned into his mouth around his kisses. And Feral, laughing into those sloppy confessions, returned echoing groans and the promise that, “This was all he ever wanted.”

He got you off with two fingers and the seam of your fly, bucking into his hand when the comforting heat of his palm just sitting there wasn’t enough so you begged him to rub you a little. And you remember the way his eyes darkened from gold to rich bronze, and the way he caught his breath when you traced the length of his cock with your fingertips – tight against his pants and straining; how he ground up into the pressure of your palm, head tipped back as you returned the favour.

Whoever was on laundry duty back then must have hated you two, but you’ve got those memories even now – remembered in the quiet promises of being bound up together and naked as hyperspace streaks by outside the windows.

He’s still warm and hard and tender, with his arm around your waist and your bare ass in his lap, and you know that he’s thinking about all those times before it was okay to just lie there in the aftermath because it was the beginning and you didn’t know how to stop yourselves from wanting everything… but trying so hard to be good.

Feral’s mouth leaves traces of ghostly words on your skin, but the meaning hasn’t changed – maybe it’s only purer. Less constrained.

There are a lot of ways to say it, but you still shiver when he smiles against your skin because regardless how the dynamic changes when the clothes come off, it still holds true:

I love you.

Chapter Text

Have you been to the Night City of Dathomir at first snow? There are so few white-capped peaks on the otherwise temperate world, that many forget that the mountain range now occupied by Gorgara Peak was once hewn by the ancients and revered for its extremes: it’s carved straight through the cliffside, rising austere above the catacombs below where all who dwell here might look up and remember the time before when the world suffered under Talzin…

Before Maul. Before the dawn rose crimson over the Peak.

When the temperature drops, and the chill creeps in, the lanterns gutter and the pools of ichor in the Maw freeze over, winter arrives at first with the subtle tint of silver: a little frost on the transparisteel windows, and the whisper of quiet conversations beneath the covers.

When the snow falls for the first time, it’s hardly more than a flurry, and it only dots the shoulders of the statuary flanking the palace doors from where they face the Twins:

Those stone sisters stare into the lightening night with black eyes, their smiles as enigmatic as their stylized palms, raised to the heavens as if they might catch the first flakes as they fall.

Something beckons you to turn on the spot where you stand, the evening sky as bruised and bloodied as the day. Lights dot the cliff faces surrounding you; and in the dim, those lamps became the glow of eyes in the dark, as gold and gleaming as your lovers’: two pairs of them in the suite you’ve left behind, waiting for you to join them.

The mountains surrounding you are dotted with those lights, a constellation set in stone: tombs and hollows and cave huts, filled to brimming with those souls who occupy them — a kingdom under the watch of he who rules from the palatial fortress at your back. Here, the dead and the living dwell side by side, spirits and martyrs, children and consorts. The wind that rises to twine through your legs is cold, and it feels so unlike the first days on this world that you forget yourself in your thin nightgown, shivering in the chill as you watch for that winking star that Savage told you about:

A pinprick of light that can guide lovers home to warm arms and furred pelts spread over soft beds.

His voice carries over the distance between you, raising a different sort of awareness of the chill as you shiver and your nipples pebble, and when your thighs brush shimmersilk, goosebumps lift on your skin. Waiting so long, your toes curl on the stone.

“Have you found it yet, little one?”

You peek over your shoulder, hugging yourself as if your little human body is better capable of handling the chill. Savage leans against the headboard, a bare arm draped over his knee, the other leg spread out before him with only the smallest corner of the sheet covering his lap. Inviting.

“Well, she hasn’t found her way back to bed yet,” offers Feral from his side, a fresh bottle of mulled spice wine being poured into four glasses. It’s steaming, and its fragrance beckons you a step. “So I’d say that’s a ‘no’ on that front.”

You lick your lips.

“Thirsty?” Feral winks.

You’re parched.

But maybe because he’s wearing about as much as Savage, and the spot between them would be warmer even than a seat by the fire.

But it’s his voice that spills around you, as dark and soft as the first settling, silencing layer of glittering white on the balconies and terraces of the Peak:

“She’s cold, brothers.” Maul’s breath warms the back of your neck, the brush of his lips against your skin leaving you a different sort of shivery. His fingertips glide up your arms to your shoulders, and hook under to tug the flimsy straps of your nightgown off.

The braziers gutter, and darkness threatens, and as everything in the nighttime world quiets in anticipation, you’re smiling as Maul slips your dressing from your body.

You tip back your head to lean against the hot hardness of his chest, finding only the curl of his mouth at your cheek as he whispers, gathering you into his arms to carry you back to bed:

“Let’s warm her up.”

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Feral: Holds two fingers against your tongue to shut you up while he knocks you into the wall while his thrusts keep you suspended. Drool down your chin. Eyes rolling back. Legs hitched around his hips but falling fast as you start to lose it for him. The abbreviated noises you make follow in time with the slap of skin against duracrete, his body an anchor, you a plaything. Relentless and smiling into your ear, as in a hot rush of breath, he tells you to, “Come for me.”

Blackout: Everything’s fine.

Savage: Keeps one large hand on your hip while you bury your face into his neck, clawing at his chest, your thighs squeezing around his knee as you ride his leg. Blankets shifting over your naked back. The amused rumble of his laughter as you try so desperately to get yourself off while he lies perfectly still. Your tongue goes numb when you finally come, legs shaking, sweat smearing his side.

Brain cottoning: Everything’s fine.

Maul: Pushes your face into the mattress and holds you there, the tips of his claws leaving little marks in the sides of your throat like a reminder for later that you asked for this. You begged while he told you that you were needy and desperate and pathetic. He keeps his thumb tucked into the cleft of your ass while he fucks you with his fingers, bringing you off for the third time while your drool stains the pillow.

Body spent: Everything’s fine.

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Feral: You find him staring into the gloamingspell one more time: Dathomir spread out before him in gnarls of forest and red mist. He’s got that look in his eye – the far off one that burns with the sunset, dreaming of distant lands. His arm wraps your shoulders, pulling you into his chest, your head a chin rest as he huffs a smile into your hair. With three fingertips, you press a kiss to the marks that drop from his lips to his chin; dragging away his frown with a feathertouch.

Savage: Since he ascended, it’s rare that you find him unarmored: he keeps himself clothed to the throat so often that you sometimes forget the bunch and shift of muscles hidden by noble Nightbrother markings. Your fingers trail the sword inked down his spine, following those ridges – they made him a weapon. It’s rare to see the big guy shiver, but somehow, you manage it. You press a palm to the hilt between his shoulder blades, and for the first time in forever, Savage smiles when you touch him.

Maul: Knots his hands behind his back when he’s thinking. On those occasions where you’ve draped yourself over his throne to watch him pacing, his murmurings a hush to lull you as he works, and plans, and contemplates – brooding, head down, burning out on consequences that haven’t yet become possibilities. Maybe he’ll find you sleeping – half sprawled and upside down off his chair when he’d finished. And maybe he’ll settle you closer on his lap where you have access to the v of flesh across his chest. Warm skin, black on red: heavy hearts inverted; a fool on his journey, and Maul, the hanging man. It’s only when time is suspended like this do you understand why he wears this pattern on his skin: you feel them beating, unrelenting, in defiance of everything he’s ever suffered. He unfolds, and presses his hand to yours, holding it there.

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Four fingers of skordu might’ve warmed you to the challenge, but it was definitely Savage doing that thing where those heavy fingers of his worked down the fastenings of his vambraces, dropping armour like a shedded skin, that solidified your bravery:

A new experience for a king, you think, at the end of a long, hard day.

He’s left his shirt open to mid-waist while you watch him liberate each inch of flesh, unhooking closures and loosening everything that makes him appear the part of a warrior. There’s a frown on his face that you’d like to rub away, but perhaps there’s a better way…

This is vulnerability at its best: that he’d show you every line and every scar, and every hard part of the puzzle he so often kept scattered beneath that hard facade. By the time he sinks back into his chair at the table, shirt off and knees spread, your palms are leaving smears of condensation on the ironwood.

“That’s not everything.”

He looks up, and like a solar flare, you feel the rush of being on top for a change: giving orders, making demands. But if that burning gaze holds a warning or an invitation, you have the wherewithal enough to consider that he finds you amusing:

Perched up on your knees and eager, elbows on the table and nursing the last dregs of your drink, eyes half-lidded.

The rumble of his voice trundles through your last inhibitions: “Divesting me of every garment isn’t in the sabacc rules, little one.”

You jut your chin at the cards scattered between you – his losing hand, telling him, “Don’t talk back. Take off your pants.”

Between you, a pause lengthens, growing thicker with every moment that passes as something shivers at the corner of his mouth: a frown, maybe, or something else.

You swallow hard, and those heavy, strong hands pull back the clasp on his belt with a click that echoes straight through to your core. The glide of rancor leather as he pulls the strap free is a warning: a last chance, and while you’re aware that he might put you over his knee for being such an insubordinate little brat later, you’re salivating as you set down your glass.

Savage’s gaze falls to your mouth as you lick your lips, and only the slightest tilt of his head as his expression turns inquiring gets you out of your seat. Between his legs, standing before him, the tips of his horns are still taller than your eye-level. He’s big, and broad, and unsmiling as you place a palm over his hearts, breaking character for just one moment to whisper, “Please, I’ve wanted this for so long.”

The raze of his nails up your thigh is nice, but the drinks have warmed you and left you thirsty for something more, so when Savage’s hand glides around the back of your leg, rising upwards to cup the flesh of your ass and give you a squeeze that you feel straight through your cunt, you bite your lip.

He nods, eyes lidded, and unfastens his pants for you. “All the way off?”

Practically drooling, you only manage a nod, you attention rapt as some other emotion threatens: shivering at the corners of his mouth as he raises his hips, and pushes his trousers off so that they sink to the floor. He kicks them off his ankles, and yet again, you’re struck by how huge and hard he is when he bobs free –

The weight of that enormous, pendulous presence pointing at you proudly, as if his cock is capable of pointing out that you are his only.

You sink to your knees, breathing hard, elbows draped over his thighs as he flexes his hips and his interest pearls for you at the tip. Flared ridges: five of them, not counting the head. It’s smooth, and shiny, and there’s a thick cord of nerves that would perfectly fit your tongue if you tipped it into your mouth.

“You know it won’t fit.”

But you can practically taste it, and the sound you make is a half-garbled, wet choke of laughter.

Savage’s thumb brushes your cheek, drawing your attention back to his half-lidded gaze and the stretch of thick, corded muscles that stack up his abdominals, his pectorals, the sweep of deep collarbones and his fat nipples.

“What do you say, little one?” he asks.

You must have whimpered.


His thumb brushes your lower lip, spearing into your mouth to press down against the tip of your tongue, opening you to him as he holds your chin in place.

He tips his head, and everything inside you spirals more tightly together as he murmurs, “Have you been practicing?”

You don’t have the gall to nod, but you curl your tongue around the flat of his thumb as he slides the digit deeper into your mouth as if to see what it takes for you to gag on it. Grip tightening on his legs, you squeeze your knees together, feeling the slick heat of your arousal wetting the soft skin of your thighs.

The tip brushes against you, leaving a little smear of wet over your chest that cools. Nails digging in, you stop yourself from reaching for it, but the longer he teases, the worse your control gets, and Savage knows it.

He presses on the back of your tongue, and you relax your throat to the sharp inhalation of his breath as his hips flex and you ahhh, tipping your head back as if inviting more. Two fingers. Three if he wants you like that.

Savage retracts, leaving spit decorating your chin as you blink up at him, leaning in to haul you up to his mouth as he replaces his fingers with his tongue and fills you in a sweep that drags you half into his lap, those huge fingers sinking into your hair to better control how he slants his lips against yours, opening your mouth to his whims as he takes a taste of what awaits his cock:

Soft, wet, warm, pliant heat.

He pulls back, licking at your upper lip, the growl of his satisfaction with you rolling through your belly as you spread your knees for him, easing upward to let him direct you by the roots of your hair to where he wants your mouth.

A flash of bright, straight white teeth snags your attention, but the amusement is fleeting when Savage flicks his hips and his cock brushes your cheek: the flare of those ridges are hard already, stiff enough to catch against your teeth if you’re not careful.

You’re more than careful. You’re ready to make him groan.

“Show me what you’ve learned,” he murmurs, his touch loosening, fingers brushing your jaw as you hold his gaze, suck in a breath through your nose, and slide out your tongue to wrap the tender tip of your favourite thing.

The musk and heat of him fills your nose, and he groans as your mouth slips over his head, lips closing just shy of the first ridge. Your jaw stretches just enough to swallow back and tongue at the stretched flesh of frenulum where he likes to be soothed.

Savage groans, and you puff another breath through your nose, and pushing forward, you bob a little, getting used to the stretch, puffing spit to get him wet as you close a fist around his length and give him a squeeze that would hurt anyone else.

He jerks.

“That’s it,” he says, but the sound is strangled as you pull off of him, and you spit on it, breathing hard, lips parted, and he chuckles at your arrogance.

At this angle, it’s awkward, but you manage: cupping his balls in one of your palms and giving him a sharp little tug that pulls him half off his chair.

The table jerks as his arm comes down, but you fist your palm around his length and slurp his head back into your throat with a gulp that pushes him farther into your mouth with a snarl and a moan you’ve never heard from him before.

It rockets to your core, and future you thinks about all those times he paid your forward in full for this very moment: Savage choking your name over your bent neck as you stroke him with long, swift strokes over three ridges, throat open, moaning so he feels the vibration and your strong, hard, unmovable warrior goes stiff as he spasms against your tongue, pumping his hips once, twice with a stuttering cadence –

And Savage comes.

A hot, salty sweet spurt at first that blooms into a spill: painting your chin and chest when it becomes too much for you to catch it, tongue out and mouth open, smiling as he groans. He grips the base of his cock, squeezing out the last of it, and when you open your eyes, you find him with one hand on the table, the other cupping the back of your head with uncommon tenderness.

He’s still breathing hard for his trouble as he murmurs, making you squirm, “That looks good on you, pretty little thing.”

But it’s only when you stick your tongue out, licking the mess off your lips with a smack of pleasure that he forgets himself, and the facade drops entirely –

He gives you what you wanted most as you grin, and you giggle at him:

Savage smiles.

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Feral: Partial to sleeping wrapped-around you, so you’re not unaccustomed to wake up to the brush of his cock between your legs, against the inside of your thigh, rubbing through your arousal as he murmurs into your neck half-dreaming, squeezing the parts of you he can reach. You often think that he’s dreaming of fucking you when he gets like this, and he snuffles awake fully hard and completely delighted that you’re wet for him. The best thing about it is that cocksure laughter of his when he realizes you’re mostly asleep but ready to go, and sinking inside you is as easy as it is pleasure: you can hear that laugh while you’re surfacing, semi-lucid, mumbling his name into the pillows as he angles his hips and draws you to full consciousness with a few long, delicious strokes of his hips.

Savage: You’re still asleep and dreaming of… waterfalls… when you wake up to the sensation of wet between your legs. A torrent. So much slick, cool-to-the-touch liquid that you rouse, confused, and thinking the worst possible has happened, it takes you a moment to realize Savage has dumped an entire bottle of lube through the cleft of your ass, soaking you and the sheets. You spread automatically, twisting and confused at the sensation, and still tender from your earlier lovemaking, you find him stroking himself to stiffness. You catch your breath long enough for him to pull you to him by the hips, spreading your flesh as easily as he sets the head of his cock to your pussy lips. He doesn’t speak, he just groans, and pulls you onto him like a little sopping plaything – loose from slumber and blubbering, throbbing to life against the hard heat of his body. It takes less than a minute, his heavy fingers slippery against your clit, and you’re coming. And coming. And coming as he starts moving your hips for you, working you farther down his length, all thoughts of slumber forgotten.

Maul: You’re aware he rarely sleeps. He “rests”. He occasionally meditates, or broods, or thinks. But mostly if he shares your company in the little hours after exhausting you, he loses himself to contemplation of your body, and sometimes, its worship. On those occasions where you’re already spent and drifting, but he decides you’re not yet finished, he’s partial to rolling you onto your back, your legs falling apart, soothing your sore parts with his tongue. The first time you found him tucked between your legs, he told you he was cleaning up the mess while he held your legs apart, slipping his tongue along your labial lips while you worried for a moment he’d continue teasing your clit. That poor little abused nub of yours couldn’t possibly take anymore, but he’d invested himself in the effort of trying to reach every part of you with his tongue instead – memorizing every fold and every flavour. Licking you open became a leisurely affair, taking all night with you as you drifted in and out of pleasant dreams and he indulged in kissing you back to an aroused state. True: it’s become one of his favourite things – trying to wake you by bringing you off in your sleep, befuddled and moaning, weak as a kitten while you come for him.

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The boys have never expressed a preference for your appearance, because the attraction runs deeper than your looks, Reader. They think you’re beautiful regardless, and let’s face it – if one of these guys wants to control you, they’ll collar you. They’ll tie you up. They’ll tug you around by something else binding you up – by the wrists, by the throat, by the waist if they need to.

Whether you have hair or not (because maybe you have alopecia, or maybe you’re fighting cancer, or maybe you have lekku instead and they’ve taken the time to learn your lek signs and how to handle those sensitive appendages), you’re gorgeous regardless, and they are very inventive.

I’d give them lots of credit (because there’s always aftercare and they’re so good at it.)

And especially when it comes to knowing what you need –

And maybe that means a special pillow case. And maybe that means a jar of Advil for those particularly rough days working towards beauty. And maybe it means they’ve learned from the Nightsisters how to braid every sort of texture. (I’m personally really partial to the idea of sitting between Feral’s or Savage’s legs and letting their fingers work through my tresses – maybe with some precious oils, or maybe putting in a braid or several, or maybe sharing the beads they use to ornament their horns. Just saying.)

I think Savage might be the reluctant one when it comes to a shaved head – old reminders of dealing with a former lover and mistress, you understand. Give him time, and talk to him. I’m sure he’ll come around to the idea.

And Maul? Maul is not an intuitive fella, but he observes, and internalizes, and learns very well, and if he’s toyed with you at all, and he’s learned how you like to play, and he will totally pick up on how to care for you when he puts you in the tub at the end of your session, taking your head in his hands, and maybe combing through your hair with his fingers, learning where to press and massage the places that need soothing most.

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There are scars that are visible and scars that are unseen, some worn on the skin and some worn on the hearts. All scars have a story, but some tellings become fictions the more times they’re told – maybe the storyteller does this to diffuse the pain, those old hurts as raw as the time they were made, regardless how thick the skin becomes over them.

Feral: Doesn’t have many, for which is is at least a little ashamed, but there’s one in particular that he keeps hidden. It wasn’t dangerous for him to get it, and it wasn’t a near-miss, but he keeps a thin red band wrapped around his left bicep that you’ve always wondered about. He’s never taken it off, and you thought for the longest time that it was a reminder of something bygone – some lost love, or maybe a reminder of a bout he’d won, or maybe, because of the colour, it was given to him by his mum before she left him with the Nightbrothers. What you never realized was that it his a small, thin scar – that it was never about the band itself, but what it hid that had significance: the ghost of a cicatrix, the first he’d won that he’d hidden and saved as a reminder that flesh could be fragile, and not always protected by those willing to fight for him. He wrapped that red band around your wrist when he bound your heart to his, like it was a promise that he’d protect you, sealed with a kiss on a strip of skin where his tattoos were slightly darker, having never seen the sun.

Savage: His chest and back are a map of hard-earned lessons; a collection of victories and near-misses which he’ll recount over a glass of skordu and bloodroot as the Nightbrothers so often do fireside on Dathomir. They’re storytellers, all of them, and their conquests and defeats make legends out of ordinary kings. They tell of their battles over and over, so many times that you sometimes forget who was who in the lineage, but it doesn’t matter. In that low rumbling tone, he points out where he fell out of a tree, or where Brother Viscus cracked him with an electrostaff, or the time his little brother bested him at hand to hand with a very large rock (he’s proud of that one, and proud of Feral too, though he refuses to acknowledge it out loud.) But when you coyly ask him to show you more – the scar so near his femoral artery that nearly killed him, or the one over his belly that nearly split him – the tone of the conversation grows quieter as you lean in, using your fingers to trace those histories until his stomach muscles leap, and the hard heat of him under your hands turns to intrigue. Savage never really stops talking, until you find the courage to taste a little raised mark on his wrist, and he shivers, letting you memorize them at first with your lips, and eventually, the tip of your tongue.

Maul doesn’t have many. He’s been healed over so many times by so many droids because of his training under Sidious that you’ll hardly find a mark, save for the one that runs the circuit of his midsection. Cauterized skin is the ugliest thing, but he is not embarrassed by it, even if he keeps it covered – the reminder that it’s there drives him, and so does the pain. He’ll never let you touch it, and he frequently takes your hands, placing light kisses over your knuckles if you try. Worse, you think, is the understanding that the things that have been done to him leave marks that have never quite healed over. You can see it in the way his eyes burn, so sometimes, when he shuts his eyes, you place a kiss on each lid.

Chapter Text

How is this a terrible thought, anon? These three are apex predators with extraordinary senses of smell, sight, and as a general baseline, Zabrak are agile, athletic, and they enjoy the chase. Yeah yeah, Dominant all the way.

P.S. Nightbrother training and at least two are Sith. At least one Force sensitive.

You’re fine. You’re fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine.

Until someone puts you into a wall face first and starts hiking up your skirt because he thought you were cute in that coy little sundress while you were giving him the eye.

Or did you ignore his hand signs too? Oh, you’re so screwed.


Feral: Corrals you up against the bar, indifferent to the jostling crowd that would rather get a drink than witness that smooth promise of retribution when he folds your thighs around his his to lock you into place and lifts up the back of your skirt, pushing aside your panties. “Two Bloodsours please, and make them neat,” he tells the bartender droid, watching your face as he sinks inside you with two fingers to the knuckle, wiping the smile right off your pretty face, replacing it with an ‘o’ of surprise.

Savage: Scatters the crowd as you’re swaying for him on the dance floor – a little slip of a thing whose sleeves keep falling off. He only stands there for a minute, unsure, but he’s the most receptive of the three when you place those large hands of his on your hips. It’s almost sweet. And he lets you nuzzle up to him, pressing your breasts into his mid-waist in invitation while he moves along with you stiffly. He has to bend over when he’s finally fed up, cupping the back of your head before he carts you off, toes dragging, and murmuring, “I’m glad you’ve had your fun, but I prefer this dance of yours with clothes off.”

Maul: Doesn’t even care that you’re in the middle of the dance floor. He doesn’t touch you at all, but his presence is a weight that slides beneath your skirt and between your legs like the deceptive, invisible caress that it is as he leans into your ear and asks you, “Would you like me to fuck you right here as a reminder of what’s proper, my dear?”

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I wish I headcannoned the puppy pile. It’s one of those perennial favourites that comes up in fanon canons, but the reality is that I’ve written “Savage snores like a shaak with a deviated septum” in at least two fics and I’ve internalized it.

To be the filling in that Zabrak cookie would be wonderful except for that.

Feral’s a cuddler. Prefers to sleep naked. Will sleep anywhere, on anything, and can drop off easily. Has a possessive streak and will treat you like his own personal teddybear. Runs warm. No need for blankets, but sometimes tosses a sheet over your legs in the attempt to be modest. Likes to be touching some part of you at all times, but sticks his leg off the side to keep cool. The Big Spoon™.

Savage is not allowed to sleep on his back. End of story. Please refer to the snoring. (Accordingly, Savage is a back sleeper. You’re currently experimenting with potions: they’ve got a sleeping draught that will knock you out but leaves you groggy. He’s embarrassed by the fact that there doesn’t seem to be a solution – not even those little nose strips, though they are hilarious. But he’s also extremely cute when you poke him in the middle of the night and he snorts awake and confused, so you can forgive him.)

Maul: You bought him flannel pyjamas from L.L. Bean to fix the perpetually cold metal legs “issue”. He wears them to bed dutifully, though he rarely sleeps, and will often just lie there beside you, being good, silent company. He chose the red and black buffalo check, and the matching slippers. You’ve bought him the matching house robe for Life Day this year and you know he’s going to love stalking around the house in it, tits out and arresting as usual, but at least the whole outfit matches. The Little Spoon™.

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Feral: Is the master of hot spring baths, warming poultices, analgesic massage oils, and basically if he can forage it – he can make it into a tonic, tincture, syrup, or salve – and he has some darned good ones for soothing aching muscles, stressed joints, and twinging nerves, let me tell you. He is most eager to offer a soothing massage, a pillow to prop your knees up, and will often drag out every holodrama on the datapad to keep you entertained and comfy while you recover from another bout. He’ll also be the first to tell you that a little light activity goes a long way, and he’ll walk with you for as long as you can manage it, your hand in his the whole way.

Savage: Has had many years of Nightbrother bouts and the injuries to match, having had a number of them deal to himself, and he’s usually the first to offer a “good stretch” for a stiff ache – sometimes lifting you up and letting your feet dangle to offer a bit of relief from the pressure on your spine. This guy? He can go forever, regardless of how poorly you feel, because out of the three of them he’s guaranteed to carry you around on the particularly bad days when it hurts to walk. It doesn’t matter if you’re big or small, it’s nothing to him to pick you up in his arms to offer a little relief.

Maul: Is the most familiar with this sort of discomfort, and his empathy is through the roof. True, he did tell you that one time that, “Pain is clarifying,” and that you should, “Channel it to better harness your anger,” but he also did that frowny thing when he realized you weren’t as adept to channelling Dark Side energy as he is. He also showed you where his preferred pressure points were to relieve aches and stress, and to stop that awful numb tingling to your legs and neck when it gets to be too much. He demonstrated on himself at first, but he was more than willing to use his hands on your body until you felt better.

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Feral: Last at the bar after everyone departs. His smile never quite fades around the edges even as you’re wiping down the bar top, but his gaze warms, and eventually your face does too when you realize you’re alone and he’d rather keep watching you than depart. Your apartment’s too far, and he has a particular way of cupping your face when he kisses you that curls your toes in your boots. You lock the front door, fumbling at his belt as he tastes you in such a way that leaves no doubt what he’d do to your body with that mouth. His pants made it past his hips and his hands clutch your thighs around his waist, but Feral smothers the sounds you make while you cry out his name. The front door shudders with each impact.

Savage: Bounces the last drunk asshole even though you didn’t ask him to. Later you learn his ulterior motive was only to make sure you got home safe. He walks you right to your door, and as you fumble your keys, you offer him tea. It’s such a small thing, knowing he doesn’t drink – about as big as the fact that he shows up on your late shifts at the bar just the same. It’s the least you can do, because surely a kindness deserves a kindness in turn – what you don’t expect is how nice it is to see him taking up half your couch at three a.m. with a tiny cup of bloodroot tea boiled strong in one palm. The little cup is hardly only a sip, but he enjoys it, and Savage’s hum of pleasure rolls straight through to your core when you sit next to him. The other hand is heavy and warm when you take it in yours, and nicer still when you curl closer to him and fit it between your knees. You’re still not sure what happens to the cup and saucer, but you’re sure there’s some magic in how quickly he disposes it in favour of focusing on the way your body climbs on top of his, holding you gently in those big fists instead.

Maul: He’s on his fourth Old Fashioned before you work up the nerve to slide across the bench closer to him, and even then, that quiet unease stirs the air around him as if the raw power of that body beneath the loosened tie and fitted trousers leaves nothing to the imagination. A curl of orange and a dash of bitters, that smoky, sweet taste of him in the half-lidded dim. The way his hand curls around your ass cheek is possessive, promising pain to anyone else who might interrupt you in your dim little booth towards the back with all the wainscoting and supple leather. It’s three a.m. before you realize you’ve been lost in the conversation – those idle, interested touches and the low murmur of his ardent attention. Asking if you should get out of there is out of the question, because when his lips part with detached amusement, you realize he’s cleared the place with a gesture. “It’s my bar,” he murmurs against your lips in a promising susurration, but by then you’re lost: seated up on the table, legs spread before him as he pushes your skirt up to your hips, the tips of his horns razing your throat as he takes a mouthful of your breast through your shirt.


Chapter Text

‘Fun’ is probably relative.

Feral: Most inclined to tell ghost stories fireside the way they used to do in the old times. Has an affinity for low lights and spooky tales, a cosy blanket and good, attentive company who he knows would prefer to stay by his side later after the gifts have been unwrapped and echoes of his stories creep from the shadows in the corners.

Savage: Cooks the rancor roast to perfection, sets plates for the family’s ancestors, and submits himself voluntarily to have his horns decorated when Maul refuses to cut down the Life Day tree. He declines to wear the little red rubber nose, but it otherwise a good sport about the ornaments.

Maul: Detaches his robotic penis and wraps it nicely in a gift box with a large, floppy bow that sparkles a little when the light catches it just so. You regret to inform him that this constitutes “regifting” as it already belongs to you anyway.

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If you’re familiar with the way the boys wear their marks and how they respond to having the stories attached to them remembered, then you know that there’s a certain reverence in Dathomiri culture when it comes to the failures, triumphs, morals, and lessons that are bound to them. Nightbrothers are all about their rites of passage – there’s a ritualistic element to their tattoos, and there are meaningful memories attached to their scars – and I think they’d say the same of yours.

In fact, I suspect they’d want to know where they came from – were the marks on your tummy from a surgery, or maybe a childbirth, on your thighs from a growth spurt, the ones on your arm from when you thought you weren’t strong enough to carry on? And what’s wonderful is that if you bared yourself to them like that, and shown them everything regardless of how vulnerable you felt doing that, it brought you closer together. You’re still standing there after all, with all those little nicks and chips and victories over adversity (over nature and time too) on display – what better display of strength that you can show them that in spite of it all, you remain?

I’m inclined to believe that, given the way they like to talk about their own scars, they would appreciate every detail of your journey mapped on your skin, and there’s a reverence to it too, because you’re still standing there before them.

You’re brave. For all of it, even the telling. What better quality are these three looking for in a partner, or in a mate?

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The Pleasure House: Feral took the initiative (i.e. Savage’s dare): spend a night in the shared apartments nestled in the heart of the Peak to better understand the way some of the brothers made their scrip. Dressed as a consort, draped with little chains and jangling jewels, barefoot and stripped to the waist, he spent the evening among the comforts and concubines, mostly talking, but enjoying the company that passed through too – sharing smiles and feeding the patrons fruit, a little conversation, like an art form, in the company of so much beauty: warm and lamplit and lovely, that is, until he saw you: staring, daring, and out of place – paying visit to the Pleasure House like it was your first time there, and awkward and alluring, perhaps he enjoyed the part he played a little too thoroughly as he bid you join him in his private rooms.

The Grand Bazaar: You thought he was a walking tree – standing so tall above the crowd his horns nearly caught and tangled in the draped awnings that crisscrossed the labyrinth of alleys and avenues, lanterns jangling as he brushed them aside when he passed. Handsome, you thought – in the most imposing sort of way. And uncommon. You followed, of course, intrigued until you were lost – turned around so thoroughly that the thought of being found out might’ve been horrifying were it not for the fact that the big guy ducked into the apothecary besides the leather workshop. You stopped, because you couldn’t tell if the spice monger was the same one you’d passed only minutes ago, the crowd and the clatter and the bustle impossible and alluring, and spinning on the spot, you lost yourself until your shoulders bumped into a midsection that was more like a tree trunk. But you tipped your head up to that controlled amusement, masked over by a frown when he rumbled, “Are you lost, little one?”

The Maw: So named for the fact that it’s entry is so much like a gaping mouth yawning black, rocks like teeth, with a path more like a lolling tongue – descend and turn left, and you’ll find yourself in the catacomb beneath the Peak. Turn right, and around a corner, you’ll find a warm, dark tavern carved directly from the stone. There is often only two occupants in the little place – a droid bartending, and a Zabrak drinking his weight in a little inlet in the corner. He’s unlikely company, but in his own brooding, off-putting sort of way, can regale you with stories of the time when he was once ‘destined to be someone great.’ He complains that he’s only a Prince now – promised to his mother’s former throne – but you’ve never asked which one, thinking it’s only the ramblings of a drunk Zabrak, down on his luck, and you accept his nighttime company when the droid eventually puts you both out on the street. Perhaps you think differently the next morning when you wake in the royal apartments atop the Peak, the naked Dathomiri prince beside you snoring into your neck, and the Twins’ rise turning everything in the palatial suite pink and rosy… except for your hangover.

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In practical terms, I think it helps to recognize what makes them tick: what they like, what they’re lacking, what can be nurtured, what makes them feel good. Especially on the tough days when they might need a little extra TLC, or maybe a bit of a personal touch if they’re not quite in the mood.

Feral: Loves knowing that he’s the one to turn you on. It’s possible that he spent so much of his life being overlooked, or living in the shadow of his brothers’ successes, that being honoured for who he is genuinely and wholeheartedly is often the thing that warms him. I wouldn’t say he’s sensitive, but he’s definitely got an awareness. But he likes hearing it, almost as much as he likes the delivery – so telling him in explicit terms that you’ve been thinking about him often gets his attention. Stroke his ego like you stroke his cock, and mean every word of it because he will lose his fucking mind. And if you’ve been touching yourself? And he can smell your nectar on your fingers? All bets are off. He’ll make it a game to prove himself better than anything you could possible do to yourself when left to your own devices.

Feral’s Tells: Gets very alpha-hole, very fast. That slice of him that claws at the inside of his skull to get out and take over shows up in the way he moves and the way he stands and the way he looks at you – like he’s the big bad wolf and you’re just a snack. He’s a reasonably well-metered guy the rest of the time, but give him an ounce and he’ll take everything you’ve got and then some. So possessive. Don’t tell him it’s cute. He’ll do his utmost to prove otherwise once he’s gotten going. (Or maybe do? ;) )


Savage: He’s so accustomed to being the caretaker of everyone that he knows something is up the instant you do something like cook for him. It’s such a small gesture – a little service, a little affection – doubly so if you wear that cute little outfit he likes, the one that’s just an apron? Less is more with Savage unless it comes to food, because he knows what you’re putting on the menu for dessert and he will eat you with relish if it comes down to it. Do menial chores naked, or sit on his knee and rub the tension out of his shoulders, or learn how to care for his body and his mechanics. Savage is most responsive when you make him feel like the King he is, both for the care involved, and the effort you put in. He is most enthusiastic about rewarding you for your efforts too.

Savage’s Tells: The plates never make it to the sink, but they make it to the floor? Shattered? You think everything’s fine and the next second you’re swaying from over his shoulder and your ass is in the air. Best thing I can recommend is that you watch his nostrils, because they flare a little when he’s interested and trying to scent you to see if you’re hot for him too.


Maul: Outwitting him. Outsmarting him. Besting him at his own game. He’s so admiring of your brain that there are times where you could be sitting around with your junk out for hours while reciting conflicting political maneuvers and providing better solutions that you’d be on his desktop getting railed before he even realized he didn’t need to strip you of your trousers. Set up a game that requires him to test his skill rather than chance, and set a bet to remove an article of clothing every time he makes a losing gambit. Alternately, overthrow a government in his honour. Or take over a system and rename it after him. You wouldn’t make it out of the bedroom for a week. Alternately: take a naked seat on the throne of his enemies and invite him to join you. He’ll know you mean business.

Maul’s Tells: The most obvious is that there’s a click and a mechanical whirring southward of his waist. Alternately, he’ll sometimes give you a sly side-eye that spills down your body and returns at a leisurely pace. He’ll sometimes place a palm on your lower back possessively, or murmur in your ear, but by that point he’s doing it just to see if he can ruffle you. Never play along. Always be sincere. He likes the effect of seeing you disarmed properly almost as much as he loves seeing you debased.

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Maul: The hiss of his saber dragging after him in the snow. Red and white. Steam and blood. The night is brighter this evening, even absent the moon over the peak, but he ascends the summit to look down on his world below — worn at year’s end, but not broken yet. In the clearing, he finds you waiting. Cold as starshine. Smiling. “Welcome home, my King,” you tell him, spreading your wings as the weary warrior falls into your embrace. A lifetime of defeats etches the furrows around his mouth, but he does not frown for you when you touch his face. Maul smiles, eyes dimming to embers. “Rest now,” you tell him. “Wake in spring.” When he sighs, his breath becomes crystalline in the chill, and then there is only still and silence over the peak. Dathomir dreams.

Savage: In the gravethorns, in the deepest part of night, a nightmare stirs: raising his great crown skyward as if he can sense for himself the way the wheel turns. Starfall overhead: the sky ablaze as if the heavens themselves can feel the change in the land stirring though the world slumbers. A wink in the distance — little more than a glimmer of light between tall trees, the shadows parting as though whatever might be promised with the dawn can raise him too. “My brother is dead,” he tells you, but your kiss is only a brush of feathers against so many wounds. “Your brother lives,” you whisper. “But you must wake him.” Savage stares, and perhaps some part of him remembers what must slumber, will always return. “Rise, my King,” you bid him — a whisper of dripping leaves and melting things. He shakes off vines and leaves, and unshackled, begins a slow march eastward.

Feral: The Twins’ first rise is little more than a shy blush draping over warmed sheets: a white blanket that warms like dew over slumbering green. The third and last to wake freshest opens a honeyed gaze over a world still filled with promise. Dawn over the slopes of Gorgara Peak is a trickle, an inkling of everything that might yet be. In the receding shadows, the watchful gaze of his eldest brother pulls at him, and Feral waves hello. “He misses you,” you tell him, and you watch his throat bob with acknowledgement even though he smiles. “I know, but I’ll see him soon,” he says, turning away before the dark can take Savage away to a place where he might guard those that slumber. “Was Maul successful this year?” he asks you. “Will he rest well for his troubles?” You lace your fingers through Feral’s, helping him stand — coltish and squinting as the suns’ rise returns, bathing his kingdom in new light. “Let’s find out,” you tell him, and Feral’s smile is brighter even than the dawn as he follows you into the year that awaits him. 

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Feral: The way the tops of your knees brush his thighs when you’re lying beside each other, face to face over rumpled sheets: his hand on your hip, your face turned up to his chin. A small, familiar kiss for the tip of your nose. His cheeky smirk when his grip pulls you closer and those little hollows between you become a brush and shudder of skin, and his mouth dips lower, exploratory but never tentative.

Savage: The way you can fall asleep to the low rumble and purr of his breathing, your face pressed to his chest and the drape of his arm warmer than any blanket. The span of his fingers over your chest is a heavy comfort, tipped with sharp claws that have never once caused you harm – so you trace those rough edges carefully as if memorizing them while you think he’s not paying attention: Powerful. Dangerous. Eyes slit open in the low-light glow brightly, though he never manages to smother his smile in time before you catch him watching you.

Maul: He’s most sensitive an inch above the line where his midsection connects to durasteel. There were nights in the beginning where you couldn’t sleep beside him; too preoccupied by the blip and wink of the sensors indicating the connective health of his lower limbs – automatic error checking and cleansing cycles making the whole bed hum. It was a wonder that he ever slept, you used to think… until you learned just how little rest he really ever stole. Those small hours were always filled with dreams of revenge and blood, mutterings and half-formed threats made against unseen assailants. Your fingertips were only ever careful – too tender almost for the gentle touches that trail over that band of flesh that leave him stirring to change restless dreams to something pleasurable, precious and tender, and only acknowledged in the trace of his fingers over your knuckles to slow your ministrations. Preserve the feeling. His deepened breathing in the dark is as close to peace as you can ever offer him.

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Second-guessing with Savage never works. So if you had a moment’s doubt about why he’s here, your mumbled protests about ‘not needing him’ don’t exactly go unheeded.

You wanted a big guy who made you feel safe, whose physical presence was comforting, who had experience with the Nightsisters and their moon time — so when he bundled you in the blanket you’d dragged with you from the bed, picking you up from the door where you met him with two brief strides, you only whimper something feeble and useless as he tucks you under his chin to cart you over to the big chair in your quarters.

His low assurances vibrate through your entire body, still achey and tight in places that you don’t have an immediate solution for, but he does as he sits you on his lap and he sinks into the chair:

“You called. I came.”

“This is all really unnecessary, I could just call the med droid —“

Savage’s exhale is so drawn out and exasperated, you don’t realize he’s chuckling a little as he settles you into the notch of couch between his legs. You fit comfortably, the meat of his thighs bracketing your hips, and with a little squeeze, you follow his silent urge to lean back into him.

One huge, heavy hand slides across your lower abdomen. “Is this where it hurts?”

You pull a face, trying to crane around to give him a petulant look, but the cradle of his chest and arms is solid, and smells of woodsmoke and the spicy, heady musk of him. It’s… nice. He’s warm. Better than a heating pad, that’s for sure.

“Tell me, little one. Because I will always have a more practical solution to a stimstick and narcotics.”

You pull a face, but he pecks your cheek, encouraging. He hovers there, and your gaze drops to his mouth, and below to the hard line of his jaw that you’ve thought about kissing so many times.

He stills, settling with a little lift of his hips that you feel through your back as the heat of his stare slides down your front, your nightclothes in his hand bunching a little. The cadence of your conversation sinks like a plumb, turning darker and more contemplative when the realization that he’s looking at you like a meal instead of a chore surfaces in that slow, spreading smile of his.

When Savage murmurs, its a rumble you feel through your chest to your core:

“Tell me and we’ll make this little pussy feel better.”

You draw in a small, shuddering breath, gripping the blanket to your chest. Your knees squeeze, and that’s what shadows his gaze, those firelight eyes bronzed with the recognition of your arousal:

“I can scent everything, you know,” he tells you.

Your discomfort. Your frustration. Your conflict.

You gulp a breath. “I know.”

“Did you also know,” he murmurs, nuzzling your ear and pulling the blanket from your hands, folding it down to your thighs and pushing it off to the floor with a muted whump. “— That I prefer seeing your body as it responds to my care.”

Goosebumps erupt over your thighs as his palms graze over your flesh, thumbs dipping between your squeezing knees to spread you for him.

“Savage —“ It’s less a warning, and more a plaintive mewl.

But he hmms. “I am unafraid of a little blood, little one. And besides —“

He shifts, and you feel how hard he is, pressing against your backside. Arching forwards, he chuckles as you fold with him, supple in his arms as his claws raze the flimsy cotton of your panties. You opted for comfort and not cute, and the choice has made you self-conscious.

“When you are aroused enough, there’s hardly any at all. Just —“ A fingertip rubs lightly over the gusset, tightening everything inside you so that you throb, sniffling a little gasp. “— Your lovely nectar, painting your thighs for me.”

His fingers graze over your sleeping attire: the waistband of your panties and the uncomfortable knot of your cramping insides.

One large hand soothes up your thigh, and when Savage drapes himself around you, protective, you squirm a little.

“Just ask the question,” he murmurs, and when his mouth brushes from your ear to your neck, your legs shudder, trying to squeeze around his hand — to draw him in as if the pads of his fingertips hold the secret to your comfort.

It’s… nice. This is nice of him. In the middle of the night, to show up with just a comm call between rooms when you weren’t sure what else to do with yourself when the dull throb became harsher. And worse, he knows how frustrated you get, knowing either a little masturbation might relieve the pressure, but he’s issued specificcommands not to touch yourself in his absence.

“Savage, it hurts. Could you please –“

“Please what?”

When his fingers graze the edge of your breast, you moan from the near-contact. His hands are so big, you only feel the fingertips, but if he wanted to — he could reach full across your chest and squeeze both at once, leaving you twitching for him. A different sort of pain serving a different sort of distraction.

“Could you please make it feel better?” you plead, hasty and irritable, and impatient all at once. It aches, but not so bad that you can feel your heartbeat between your legs. Not yet.

Savage nudges your cheek, dropping a hand lower to cup your sex with the warmth of his palm, and you suck in a little breath, still nervous about this whole thing.

Your stomach muscles quiver, embarrassed and needy at once.

“Here?” he asks.

“Yes,” you manage, and your insides quiver, but he doesn’t press other than to slide a little lower, making sure you fit his hand, the soft press of digits into your natural shape tracing contours, rubbing deeper through the cloth of your panties. You shudder a breath, and with a careful stroke, he traces your clit. He hums, and the noise rolls right to the point of contact where it throbs to life with a different sort of tension.

“Spread a little for me. There.” He squeezes, but the touch is heavy, and warm, and careful enough that you bloom for him when he pulls your legs farther apart, his mouth finding the softest spot on your throat for a careful kiss.

“Did you do what I told you before I arrived?” he murmurs, and his voice is drowsy sweetness — rumbling through your body as he carefully snaps the elastic gusset of your panties with two sharp tugs, like he’s too impatient about the way you’re squirming for him to take your underthings off. This is quicker, and he’s efficient.

Warmth puddles between your legs, and breathing harder, you try not to look down — try not to think about it.

Savage wraps a hand beneath your chin, his fingers gently wrapping your throat, making you look up at him.

“Are you empty for me?” he asks, forcing you to hold his gaze.

You whimper something incoherent.

“Yes.” It’s almost petulant. You did as you were instructed. That’s why you’re so nervous — not wanting to make more of a mess of your quarters than necessary, or ruin your clothes —

Too late for that now:

Savage has shredded them.

And then it finally occurs to you as he bares his teeth in a grin:

You’ve joked about it before, but Zabrak are predators. Carnivorous… predators.

He lets go of your throat, his hand falling to your shoulder.

“Look down,” he murmurs. “Tell me what you see.”

Breathing hard a moment further, you watch the gleam of his gaze as it grows brighter by increments, drifting down your front as he plucks apart the straps of your top, pulling them down so that you’re exposed for him.

“Me?” You swallow hard. “Naked?”

Savage’s enormous hand cups the swell of your mons, giving it a little squeeze as he spreads you for him between two fingers and you gasp.

“My shy little plaything,” he growls. “My little pussy, needing a good fuck to get her mind of her bodily discomforts. Do you know how I know that?”

His heartbeats are anvils against your shoulder blades, beating hard.


“Put your hand where mine is now,” he says, “and find out.”

Staring, you’re trying to process what he’s telling you, but the next thing you realize, he’s taken your wrist, guiding you down to the slip and spill of your pussy lips, so wet you can’t even feel your clit as you brush past it.

With your hand wrapped into his large palm, it takes one of his fingers to guide two of yours into yourself, but the sensation is enough to feel the stretch for just a moment before he slips from you, holding your hand in place, and while he caresses your knuckles, urging you to rub, into your ear, he breathes, “I could scent your anticipation through the durasteel walls.”

You start to pull out, too flustered to play along, but he stops your movement, rubbing through your knuckles to ease deeper inside yourself.

“I could scent your need.”

You shudder, wanting to protest — that’s too much. It leaves you self-conscious. But when Savage smiles he’s all teeth.

“Not your pussy, although —“ He inhales. “It’s delectable, even now. So ripe and sweet.” He growls into your throat, and your skin pebbles. “Lush as anything.” Dragging the moisture slipping from between your knuckles, he murmurs his appreciation. “Decadent.”

When his tongue touches your throat, you buck, and he covers your hand, pressing your fingers so that you’re forced to curl into yourself on instinct. Arching, your mouth falling open at the soft pressure, Savage urges you to stroke into yourself, helping you move as the wet sound of your arousal fills the air. The soft rumble of his appreciation is little more than a purr that tumbles through your body, the heat of his palms mapping your curves as you arch for him, willing him to squeeze you in the places that will bring you a different sort of ache: the kind of pain you yearn for.

“Your pheromones are —“ he begins, and stilling, you can feel exactly what he thinks about your body against your backside; how your hormones have been making you miserable. “They are maddening,” he breathes.

Turning your head, his mouth hovering so close to yours, you fuck yourself for him as he watches you writhe, toes curling up on the carpet, your knees starting to shake.


He stares, enraptured.

“Give them to me,” he murmurs.

If there’s an edge of command in it, you wouldn’t know: pressed up the edge of breaking, you’re panting — dizzy with it as you offer him your hand. It’s slicked to the knuckles and glistening and still, he sucks them into his mouth so that the roughness of his tongue wrapping your fingers shoots straight to your core and you moan along with him as Savage’s eyes flutter shut and he takes a taste of you for himself.

When he lifts you onto his lap, you gasp at the contact, but the stretch is bliss as he pulls you open further, one knee pulled up to his chin as he strokes down your slit with his thumb, guiding you back into yourself.


And you tighten, because your little hands are nothing compared to his impatience and the ease with which your body responds when he finds the right cadence to soothe your cramping muscles, massaging you with your own fingers, and then his: First, in small circles that leave you jerking and wet and clutching his arm, and then with the ease of handling your body so that he has to pin you across the chest with one broad forearm, keeping you suspended and guttering on the edge of release. You leave smears when you grip at the back of his neck, the heel of his hand a barrier that you rut into the harder each trust becomes.

“You’ll come on my fingers for me, little one. I want to know what you taste like after you gush.”

Two fingers are hardly the size of his cock, but neither does his member have the dexterity of those two digits as he strokes you to crying out for him:

Mumblings, at first.

Then begging, as your eyes blur over.

Inconsistent, incoherent pleas as your legs jerk with the force of each strike against the soft give of your plush centre and when you break for him and your legs stiffen and shudder, twitching as your release pools and you find yourself lifted in the breathless crush of it —

Somewhere, between Savage’s murmured words of praise as your body tries to crush his fingers in the vice of your cunt, and the ebbing relief he strokes out of you — slowing to indulge you with it — you forget all about your hurts.

He kisses your cheek, leaving you breathing hard, but better, and when he slips his fingers from your body to taste your release, he’s practically purring.

You can feel it through your heaving torso.

“Better than a stimstick and narcotics,” you agree, breathy and boneless, into his neck.


He doesn’t sound like he entirely believes you, but Savage hoists you up to sit on his knee, giving you a once over that suggests he’s not wholly satisfied with the treatment, you realize why:

He’s unfastening his belt.

“Was that enough to cure you of what ails you?” he asks, tipping his head.

Your thighs are painted with your efforts, but the part of your body that clenches in feeble awareness of his heavy length as he shifts you has other ideas.

“Maybe —“ you start, your tongue thick in your mouth.

Savage touches your forehead, and you catch a whiff of his previous efforts lingering on his fingers. He’s right: it is a heady scent. Strong enough to darken his gaze once more. His knuckles graze your cheek.

“I am unsure that you’re well at all, little one,” he tells you, and there’s a glint of mischief that wakens you further to his playing doctor. He’s smiling as he pulls his cock from his pants, semi-erect and leaking from the tip already. “Perhaps we should take your temperature just to be sure.”

At this rate, you’re not sure you ever want to feel better again, but you’re smiling as those heavy hands offer the sort of care you’ll beg for just the same.

When he catches your lip with his mouth, drawing you into his chest, you think to yourself:

You might as well decommission the meddroid completely.

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Feral: A crowded transport between Core worlds. Hoods up. Pressed together. He’s got one hand on the sway bar because there’s nowhere else to hold on as the skiff breaks atmo and shudders over Koros Major and you list sideways and reach – grab the first thing that falls under your hand: his belt. That smile again (the one that senses more than just the air gone electric between you or the tension in your scent) as he pulls you up before you can fall. Those long fingers splayed over your lower back. Your breath slowing as the space between you folds together. He’s still wearing that half smile as his eyes lid, touching his lips to yours like your sigh is an answer to some long-standing question and you… you breathe him in.

Savage: You hear him destroying the guard droid outside the medbay before the door dents inward. It’ll only half-slide open forever afterwards, but he ducks through to find you diminished but smiling up at him, propped up on pillows, the sterile scent of bacta keeping you company – bandage-wrapped but on the mend. For a second, he just stands there, rage melting into concern, and then shame as he sinks to his knees beside your gurney and the floor quakes with the impact. It still hurts to talk, so you thread your fingers through his horns. Touch his cheek. Draw your thumb down his frown lines. He won’t do it himself, so you lean over, and while you aim for his cheek his surprise tips his face up and that featherlight brush of your mouth against his parted lips echoes through you on his inhalation. He stills, and then only the warmth of his hands gathering your small frame dissolves the shivery anticipation with the warmth of his relief.

Maul: Your chin’s wet and your eyes are watering, throat raw with the bittersweet aftertaste of his pleasure, but his fingers are still gripping you by the roots of your hair as you kneel there, breathing hard, blinking up at him while he watches you compose yourself.

It takes a certain skill to keep your teeth out of the way of his cock ridges, your throat open for him as he pumps himself into your mouth. You never gag. You take it so well, and while you’re breathing hard with bleary eyes and still able to taste his satisfaction with your performance on your lips, Maul crouches – putting himself on your level, unwilling to loosen the hold on your hair so he can look into your eyes to see for himself how cock dumb he’s made you.

There’s a little puddle between your knees, your arousal slicking your thighs, but you didn’t miss a drop. You hope he knows.

“Did you come for me, pet?”

His gaze drops to your mouth, watching you pant a little, still trying to catch your breath. Your lips are swollen, your jaw a little sore. He leans in, considering you up close, as if there’s more to this little exchange than just letting him use you.

You lift your gaze. You don’t want to disappoint him. He didn’t give you permission.

“Do not lie to me,” he growls. Because he will know. He always knows.

“Yes, my Lord,” you breathe.

There it is: the slightest widening of his eyes, quickly concealed as he turns smug once more, scenting for himself the mess you’ve made on the floor – just from sucking his cock. You haven’t even touched yourself.


When it happens, you can’t conceal your gasp of surprise as he presses his mouth to yours, pushing into you with the same, unrelenting demand that he’s afforded your body when you’re in he is service. You moan at the sweep of his tongue, warmth spreading from that singular point of contact – from the knowledge that he can taste himself on your tongue and he doesn’t karking care. He’d rather devour you.

Maul’s grip loosens, and he tastes you, tongue sliding hot and heavy against yours as you forget to be good and you paw at him, forgetting to yield as his grip on you loosens, and he lets you fall into him, mewling and supple in that hard embrace that lifts you onto his lap.

“That’s a good pet,” he purrs, but those are the last words of praise he’ll offer. He kisses your mouth again, and you whimper open for him once more.

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There’s no such thing as a “birthday” amongst the Nightbrothers of Dathomir. The birth of a child is rarely celebrated unless the child in question is a girl, and even then it’s not a matter of the child’s entering into the world that’s cause for celebration — it’s the strengthening of the clan with one more powerful soul that often gets honoured.

Deathdays? Sure. Everyone celebrates the life that was: the greatest warriors are revered and their stories are retold several times over, often with increasing volume as the night grows darker, the bonfire bigger, and the drinks sloshier.

Nightbrothers are all about Deathdays. So it’s perfectly understandable when your birthday comes up, the boys have no idea where to begin with human traditions of celebrating another year of your life. Fortunately, they pick things up pretty quickly.

You are lucky if no one picks you up by the heels and tries to gently bonk your head into the floor (apparently it’s a Devaronian custom? Also Irish. Maybe you’ll get another kind of bonking, IDK…)

Feral: Misunderstands the “cake tradition”. That’s okay, considering that Zabrak are carnivorous – you don’t want him sampling the monstrosity he’s baked you because the gluten and sugar will probably put him in a coma. It’s not overly ornamented, but it’s a particular shade of blood red, and the icing (you’re pretty sure) might have rancor blood in it – but it’s the thought that counts. He sugared a bunch of berries that might possibly be poisonous, and while the whole confection is pretty, you thank him with a kiss to the cheek and persuade him to take a picture of the thing to post it to the holonet instead of eating it. The cake goes into the trash compactor, and he seats you on the table instead: legs spread and surprised as he starts unfastening your trousers. Feral tells you he prefers pie instead.

Savage: Gives you a brand new, shiny sickle electroblade, then thinks better of it, and needs to clarify his intent: gift-giving is often associated with Zabrak mating traditions, and while he assures you (awkwardly) that he would 200% mate and breed you into the floor if you were receptive to the idea, he still put a large, floppy, polka dot bow on the handle. Electroblades are notoriously hard to wrap, and the weapon is entirely too unwieldy for you anyway – but you accept it graciously, and in the process of thanking him, you tell him you’d be glad to accept his other offer as well, just to see him turn a violent shade of orange. You were never one for tangible gifts anyway, but a big, blushing Zab who recognizes he’s being teased? The end result will only get you tossed over his shoulder, blade forgotten, the floor swinging beneath you as he carts you off to the bedroom; saying something about making good on the ‘breeding’ part of things.

Maul: You think he forgets entirely, at first. Granted, given the way Maul grew up, it’s not entirely surprising – and there are things to be done, empires to overthrow, revenge to be had, etc. That’s why the understated dinner he sets out for you on his cliffside suite doesn’t make any sense, at first – nor the foods prepared that he had to have imported, because surely the ingredients for tiingilar are impossible to come by on Dathomir. You realize the lengths he’s gone to as he tucks you in – that he called in favours from some old friends on Mandalore to have something special made for “a special occasion.” And only later, when you’re sated and you hear whispers from a connecting room do you realize that the night’s not over and that you were never meant to spend it alone and without friends. It’ll be hours before the celebration ends – hours given to raucous laughter, and singing, and talking. His brothers are fond of sharing stories of your misadventures; your great feats; your heroic saves – no matter how small – and they spend the night with you sharing all the little moments of your latest year in great detail. It’s a little death, you come to realize: in celebrating the way the wheel turns for you, everything you’ve learned and everything you’ve gained is one more rotation behind you, but when the suns start rising over Dathomir in the early hours, and Maul at your side, one hand on the small of your back and with a kiss to your temple, you know there are many more celebrations to come with him at your side.

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Reader’s got a few weeks of recovery ahead of them, and they picked the right set of people to help them out when it’s most needed: the Opress brothers are no strangers to taking care of each other and those that they care for – likely the result of living so closely with the other Nightbrothers for so many years.

Maul’s the exception, of course: he grew up alone and while he had medical droids to help him heal, he did get to be pretty self-sufficient in dressings his wounds, setting bones, sticking himself with stimsticks, and administering bacta.

Your bandages? Your drainage? You’re covered.

The best thing about this is that there’s always someone around to help you reach for that jar that’s just a little too high up, or lift a box that’s a bit too heavy for you to deal with right now.

All those practical post-op things you wouldn’t necessarily need help with normally can be a chore, and to top it off, you’re hurting (prolonged periods of recovery kinda suck – prolonged pain kinda sucks – even if the end goal is something that will make you you) so they never really leave you alone. They’re present. They’re available. They keep you laughing when you start to worry, and hold your hand if you need it, and watch holodramas with you until you fall asleep.

And yeah, Savage is snoring in the chair in the corner when you wake up. And your head is tipped onto Maul’s shoulder (because he won’t let you lie flat you sleep – or roll over, forget that). And Feral is probably passed out on your feet – but they’re there when you wake up every morning, and they’re there when you fall asleep every night.

And they’ll keep showing up for you until you feel better and the bandages can come off.

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Feral: The first time it happens, he waits it out beside you, ready to gather you into his arms when you can move again. Night terrors aren’t uncommon in the Nightbrother village – they’ve lived through and seen a lot, after all. When it happens again, he waits it out, but promises you that there are no ghasts haunting your dreams – only echoes of things that can’t actually do you harm. Not even on Dathomir, which, let’s face it – has plenty of creepy crap to really work a person over. Before it happens a third time, Feral prepares a bedtime tea for you: a combination of flowers and roots native to Dathomir that dispel night terrors and dispense the paralytic fit that can often be so awful. It’s not a cureall. It does not produce dreamless sleep. But it does soothe the soul, and with it, the dreams are never as bad.

Savage: Is so steeped in the lore of Old Iridonia and he’s got so much of Dathomir’s ichor in him, he’ll tell you that the departed are trying to speak to you through your dreams, and that even though they might be scary, there’s wisdom to be had in them once confronted. Heed the messages. Learn from them. There’s nothing to fear save for fear itself, and whatever knowledge you glean from those terrors, they will make you stronger in knowing yourself better.

Maul: Will put one hand on your chest to keep you from thrashing and hurting yourself. He can’t fight the intangible for you, but he knows enough that when you’re struggling in sleep, the battle you fight can only be won by you. He knows you’re strong. He knows you’ll eventually wake, and while dreams sometimes cling like cobwebs, they’re not real. They can be defeated. So when he leans in and asks you after you’ve gasped back into consciousness, sweat-streaked and bright-eyed and shaky, “How did you win this time?” you might confess that you weren’t able to run, or maybe you just fell forever, or maybe you struggled in vain against some unseen assailant. And he always asks the same question of them: “Were they worse than me?” And the answer is always no, because even your worst dreams would flee from your daytime protector when he smiles like that.

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I wouldn’t call this consistent, but thanks anon. 😂

Feral: Stands at the end of a long corridor littered with bodies – none of which are at fault, mind – electrostaff in hand, shoulders heaving. He’s framed in the doorway, gold gaze gone wild, teeth bared. Sweet kid, right? Little baby uwu woobie pie? *scoffs* Where do you think he gets his name from? Threaten what’s his with mortal injury and find out.

Savage: There is a door. There is a wall. There is a hole in said wall. It’s Savage-sized. Durasteel isn’t that durable when it comes to Force users, especially one with a temper. As a baseline, Savage isn’t the best at controlling his instincts to protect, and if there’s an obstacle in the way of getting to you, it won’t be there for long.

Maul: Unlike his brothers, Maul has the sense to reach out with the Force first: take assessment, look at the situation objectively. His calm is deceptive, however, because all that fear and rage he’s got pent up at the prospect that you’ve been hurt puts him in a compromising situation: that’s a lot of power with nowhere to go. It’s a good thing he’s got a hold on himself when he finds you, because if you were hurt, no one around you would be so lucky. Maul doesn’t like it when his things are compromised, nor when they are abused, and when he finds you (fine and well and a little embarrassed about the whole thing) you know there will be ramifications, too: “I’ll need to keep you on a leash, pet, so you don’t get into trouble like this again.” But hey, that’s not the worst thing that could happen, right?


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Feral: Is fond of fucking you six ways from Zhellsday, I mean come on. He’ll try to shove as much as one breast into his mouth for fun while he fingers you, just to get you arching your head back – just to get you to expose your throat because that kind of submissive gesture gets him off so hard. He’d devour you if he could. Flip the position, and he likes to squeeze them when the slap slap slap of his hips against your ass sets a rhythm between your pants and pleas and your cheek is pressed up against a wall. He’s especially fond of smearing them with your own juices, worrying your nipples between his teeth, then soothing them with his tongue. In the aftermath, he’ll wrap his body around you, nestling right up between them because they “make perfect pillows” and since his horns are worn short, it’s not so concerning that he likes to spend time so close to your heart.

Savage: Oh, our big boy. Tells you to play with them first as he wets his cock with lubricating oils. He likes watching you knead your breasts in your hands, seated before him with your legs spread a little so the curl of your scent can float up to him. He likes telling you what to do: push them together, pull on your nipples, lift them up a little so he can pour a little warming solvent on your body so he can watch you rub it in. He loves seeing your skin glisten, and he loves the silky, soft feel of your tits as he rests his cock against them before you can engulf him. He’s hard, and he’s big, and every ripple of his ridges is like fire when he starts fucking you like this – the jut of the tip poking out between your breasts as you hold them vicelike on either side of him – that darkened, shiny knob leaking as he sinks a hand into your hair to pull your head back and he tells you to open your mouth – as he tells you he wants you to catch every drop when he comes. You’re leaving a wet spot on the sheets, and your eyes practically roll back as his hips start to stutter, but so help you: you open wide, and extend your tongue. You never loosen your grip on your tits.

Maul: You wear his bruises with pride. There are bite marks, too: little ones, and big ones, and tender spots where he’s sucked on your flesh too hard to get a breathy reaction or a moan. He’s spent hours working you over, trying to find out what does it for you, and if you can come just from him playing with them. He’s learned that a little pain – a small twist, a little pinch, and a little reprimand with a swat to the side of them can bring you back in line if you start squirming. He’s especially fond of soothing you afterwards – caressing them with his fingertips, or massaging them with his tongue to ease a particularly nasty sting. He’s training you, too: a fact you’re all too familiar with when the pain bleeds into pleasure and he brings you off harder than you’ve ever come before. You’ll still be stolen, and you’ll still be tender later – refusing anti-inflammatories will do that – but you’ll feel his touch every time your nipples brush your clothes. You’ll remember the way the tips of his claws pressed into your soft flesh; how he razed circles around your areolas as if making silent threats; how he took your nipples between his teeth as he fucked you slowly into oblivion and all you could see for a time was red and black and pleasure.