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 –“
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.