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Little Hours Away

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“Feral?”

His name hangs on the still air of your quarters, muffled by the buffer of his mountain of old Sith texts on the table and the unmade bedding. Two tea cups. His calligraphy set, mid-painting. Your breast band hanging off the back of a chair. 

Sometimes it feels a little like you’re chasing a ghost — the air still and warm as if he was only just here and you missed him by moments. Busy days. Harried schedules. Long nights and too early mornings spent twined together in stolen moments. 

Your entire body is ticking, thoughts cobbled together after the crush of a day spent thinking about your night together and the hours in between, and though you let out a shaky breath, you’re disappointed that he’s not back yet: a mission for Maul maybe, or training with Savage. All you know for certain is that he’s not here and the knot of tension between your legs is entirely your fault for thinking too long about the lines around his mouth when he smiles; the hollow of his collar that you so often put your mouth to when he gathers you onto his lap; and the feel of those long, lovely fingers kneading your skin through your clothes as if his very touch leaves you plaint and yielding to him.

You know it does. He’s very good. 

Stars, but those fingers —

You let out a shuddery breath. It could be hours before he returns, and in the half-cast afternoon light, your brain shuts off at the prospect of having to wait any longer to relieve some of the tension. In a daze, you went through your day, those phantom sensations of your lovemaking like a brand on your skin, your clothes too tight and rubbing in all the right places to remind you of where he’d been; your panties too wet. Everything uncomfortable, all day long, because you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he folded himself around you in the night, half-hard and insatiable, your wrists bound up in the sheets, playing your body to his own rhythm and melody to make his own special music. All stars damned night long.

You catch yourself leaning against a countertop, your hand drifting between your legs at the thought.

“Fine,” you tell the empty room, a little breathless. “I’ll just handle the problem myself.”

You crawl over unmade sheets, tossing yourself beneath soft-spun fabric as you peel away your leggings and shrug out of your top. You grope at your own chest, but your little hands don’t compare to the heaviness of his palm when he pushes your breast up; nor the way he squeezes when he wraps his fingers around you. You try, but it’s a losing battle — it’s just not the same, though you pull your nipple and tug and give it a little pinch to make it twist. His methods are better: he’ll put his teeth on your breast like it’s a threat while he pushes your legs apart to kneel between them; stroking you to awareness through your clothes. Knuckles grazing. Thumbs rubbing. Cupping the entirety of your sex in his palm like he likes laying claim to that part of you — waiting for you to writhe against him because you crave so much more of his touch. You want him inside you.

You kick your way under the sheets, arching into the trembly, uncertain brush of your own fingers against your sex. You’re so wet and over-sensitized that the dew of your arousal keeps you from your own flesh, and your fingertips keep sliding off your own clit. 

“This is ridiculous,” you breathe to the empty room.

Groaning, you slick two fingers through your folds, and you recall the gentle, demanding glide of Feral’s tongue — the way he likes to taste you when you’re so overwrought that words fail and all you can do is squeeze your thighs together around his head. You miss the pinch of his horns, filed carefully so they don’t hurt, but still add a level of warning when he fucks you with his mouth and he stops holding you back by your thighs while you rut against him, trying to chase down your release.

Last night, he did something different: the memory of his mouth, hot against your sex, licking a path to places uncharted leaves you clenching hard. It was just a little kiss, you think — the smallest, experimental sweep of his tongue against the pucker of your flesh before dragging back up. It knocked the breath out of you; left you seizing and on the verge of collapse as he sank two fingers into your cunt and brought you off by sucking your whole hood into his mouth. 

Your clit was his plaything, and your ass —

He made you throb. 

He awakened something.

And it’s all you’ve been thinking about.

You moan, your pathetic little fingers too small for the task of stretching yourself out, and while you buck and grind against yourself, trying to reach the little knot of discomfort where it’s starting to hurt — as if that’s a button you can push like he does, over and over again, to bring yourself off, your hips twist up, rustling the sheets.

A small, guttural sound reaches you from the doorway: half-groaned, Feral’s chuckle falls around you like the soft breath of snowfall. You sink back, eyes squeezed shut, your knees falling apart. 

“Love, what are you doing in here?” he murmurs, appreciative. “I could scent you halfway down the hall.”

Your murmured plea is equally as desperate, but he approaches the bed before you can pull out. Even your pussy give a half-hearted throb, knowing you’re caught, and relieved, a little, that he’s amused by your attempt to take care of yourself.

You start to protest, but he says, “Shh, don’t stop.” 

Those gilded eyes fall to half-lidded in the gloom of the bedroom. Feral licks his bottom lip, sizing you up as his hands fall to your knees. He tugs at the sheet — a gentle suggestion. 

“Can I watch?” 

“It’s not working,” you whisper. “I needed you here.”

He smiles. “I’m here now.”

Feral sinks to the carpet before you, and the glide of fabric slipping off your skin is as light as the touch of his lips to your calf when he unsheathes you, drinking in the spread of your legs and how you’ve tucked your fingers into yourself to the knuckle.

He darkens, breathing in, and his thumbs slide up around your ankles in a caress that leaves you shivering at his appraisal.

“But you’re so wet.” He kisses your knee this time. “And you smell so karking good.”

The bed dips as he climbs up between your legs, his thumbs gliding down the sensitive skin of your inner thighs as you writhe, letting him spread you.

“Fuck yourself for me a little more, love. This is such a nice surprise.”

Good girls do as their told, and you move — slowly at first — letting the curl of your anticipation build as he drinks your body in: the roll of your hips and the brush of his knees against the back of your legs, his touch turned soothing as he watches you thrust your fingers into yourself.

“That’s so nice,” he says, kissing your knee. “I love seeing you stretch for me.”

“Feral,” you breathe, your eyes falling shut. 

Fingertips stroke up your legs to your tummy — your breasts, giving you a little tweak. Groaning, you arch into him, the sounds of your arousal turning obscene as Feral takes the opportunity to get closer. 

He hovers over you, drinking in every little bit for your dishevelment. “What were you thinking of to get you this wet?” 

Shuddering a breath, you puff a little laugh of surprise. 

“Don’t stop,” he says, and settles back, pulling his shirt over his head to reveal the carve of his muscles, the faint cling of sweat and spice and the musk-heat of him. He takes your leg and sets it on his shoulder, pulling you closer to his lap so the press of his cock through the fabric of his pants becomes and anchor for what you’re doing:

The shape you’ve been imagining.

The thickness. The length. You groan, tightening, and he chuckles. 

“Were you thinking of my cock?” he asks. “What I’d do with it when I found you like this?”

You notch your thumb against your clit, and when the angle doesn’t work, frustrated, you add a second hand. He takes your wrist, preventing further friction, and sets it against his chest to lend a helping hand of his own:

Two fingers beneath your palm, rubbing a slow, careful circle. Feral’s thumb brushes the back of your hand as you work yourself to tightening for him; a small, gentle caress. 

“Yes,” you breathe, “and —“

Breathing ceases, and you buck before he backs off. You groan, the feeling receding. 

“And?” he presses.

Shuddering a breath, you confess:

“How you touched me last night.” And in a smaller voice, “And where.”

He stills to slowing, the brush of his thumb lowering carefully as he pulls your leg to the side. Eye fluttering open, you can see the shift in him as he looks at your body like it was a feast and he’s been starving. 

“Here?” he asks, and the lightest touch against the pucker of your ass leaves you clenching. “Did you like that?”

You don’t answer at first because you can’t. Everything ounce of resistance you possess pulls taut to breaking at that delicate brush of interest.

“I think you did.” His eyes glitter in the dark. “Did you clench for me just then, when I touched it?”

You don’t have words. You only have the vicelike grip around your fingers and the raw heat of him blanketing your body, turning you molten with his attention: like Feral’s found treasure just sitting there, his for the taking. 

He rubs it a little. Just a tease to see your reaction.

The sound you make is a shudder. “Yes.”

A flash of teeth in the gloom. “I’ll tell you what.” He kisses your knee again, drawing your fingers from you with a wet sound of satisfaction that leaves you throbbing. “I’ll make sure to play with it again while I fuck you later. Would you like that?”

You manage a nod, your stomach muscles shaking.

“That’s good because I’m greedy, love,” he breathes, licking the tip of your index finger before he inhales your scent. “I want every part of you, in every way.” The next stroke of his tongue is accompanied by a groan, his other hand unfastening the clasp on his trousers as he shifts and moans around your fingers as he sucks them into his mouth.

Feral’s eyes flutter shut, and you stop breathing at the brush of his cock against your folds. You lose all sense as he sinks into you, seating himself to the hilt while your hips jerk, trying to ride him in an impossible position, and Feral sucks the taste of you from your own fingers making messy, hungry noises. 

His lips pop off your hand, and he sighs, “Thank you for sharing. You’re karking delicious.” 

Rocking his hips into you, your head falls back, and you moan.

Everything you’d been missing all day glistens with the sheen of your arousal as Feral rolls his hips, and half in his lap, you watch the slip of each of his ridges rippling in and out of you, coated in the sheen of your arousal as the head pops out and he rubs it into your clit. He puts it back in, and you reach for him, trying to pull yourself up his chest while he chuckles and kisses your throat.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he breathes, wrapping his arms around your torso. “I’m just getting it wet.”

 He pulls out of you too fast, the friction leaving you throbbing as he folds you over onto your knees. It’s a quick tangle of limbs that he undoes with a practiced flick and spread of his legs, and drawn back against his chest, Feral’s kisses against your throat turn into a warning for you to be still as he slides you down his cock once more.

You clench. You moan. And the feel of him seated against your ass again leaves you trembling for more. Another thrust and his balls bob against your thighs, and squeezing your legs, Feral nestles you down, holding you to him where it’s warm and you’re left breathing hard, tightening around the length of his cock as he covers your clit with his fingers. 

Smiling into your ear, his breath is a hot rush that leaves you shivering. “There, love. Isn’t that better?” 

You nod, trying to catch the back of his head as each thrust turns exploratory.

He cups your breasts, and then your nipples. Loving the pinch of his thumbs and forefingers, and you roll back onto his chest while he takes over the work of sending you to oblivion. 

“It’s so good,” you manage, but he only kisses your cheek and instructs you, “Don’t come yet.”

“Ah, kark —“ you manage, tightening as the stroke of his cock angles closer to where you need him to rub. Your legs flex, toes curling as you start to bow with the tension — and Feral folds you forward, still thrusting as he drapes over you, tucking you to him with your cunt as a handhold so he can better control your position. 

“You’ve never come with a finger in your ass, have you?”

You shudder a breath. Shake your head. Just the thought of it leaves you clenching on him, everything strung too tightly to an edge he won’t let you reach. Hands twisted into the sheets, you hold on a little longer, your spine arching as he starts rolling his hips.

Feral’s smile against your ear is a hot rush that leaves goosebumps down your side. 

“Did you try to finger yourself, when you were thinking of me, before?”

You’re going to lose it, you think. Wide eyed, a little scared, you shake your head.

“Did you touch it at all? Tell me, love.” 

“No, Feral, I - I didn’t get that far —“

He pecks your nose, and you realize your face is heating. “Good,” he grins, adjusting your position to lay kisses from the base of your neck down your spine, stroking your sides as he slows, giving you one more thrust to remind you how it feels. “I want to take care of you, if you want me to.”

You do. Oh, stars — you do.

“You’re going to feel very full,” he whispers. “But when I bring you off, you’ll come extra hard. Everything tightens up so it’ll feel like the strongest orgasm of your life.”

He strokes your side, squeezing your ass as if testing it; giving it a little tap to watch you jiggle. He chuckles, and strokes you, and squeezes, helping you ride his cock while the weight of his thumb settles into the cleft of your ass: a reminder of what he plans to do with you later.

Feral leans forward, and the brush of his chest over your back prompts you to arch into him — all that hard smoothness a comfort for your smaller body to spoon up into his.

He holds you closer, and asks you softly, “Would you like that?”

You nod, brushing your lips against his, inviting him to kiss you again. He grins, and licks into your mouth. Half twisted around as you are, it’s still delicious to feel him inside you in two places: your mouth and your cunt. The added stimulation rocks you back into his lap. 

“We’ll go slow,” he promises. “But there’s one thing I need you to do for me, okay?”

You draw back, letting him hold you up. 

“Anything,” you say.

He rolls your clit in an unending loop, so steady that your eyes nearly flutter shut before he can present to you his fingers. Touching your lower lip, he nudges it down, tracing your teeth with the tip. Shocked, you gasp a little, the movement rocking you higher onto his lap.

You’re so wet for him he nearly slips out, but Feral adjusts you, and though the hardness of him dips and resets, you clench him better to hold his cock in place. Feral smiles, and kisses your cheek, and gently, carefully spears into your mouth to set two digits onto your tongue.

Your shuddering gasp earns a smile. The salt-sweet taste of his fingers is familiar and still surprising, and while two is not enough to stretch your mouth, it’s enough to earn his tightening grip on your body when you close your lips around his fingertips. 

The little sound he makes low in his throat does something to your insides, and emboldened, wanting Feral to fill you up — you wrap your tongue around them, and you suck. 

This time, you’re sure of it: he growls.

“Get them soaking for me,” he whispers, thrusting into you a little harder, placing pressure on your clit, and the noise you make is mostly vowels, like you could form words when he starts to fuck your mouth.  

You’re going to come before he even makes good on his promises, you realize; that heady flutter in your insides becoming a low throb. With the knuckles of his fingers brushing your lips, fingertips pressing down on your tongue, he watches every stroke as you drool a little and open up further. 

“That’s good,” he breathes while you whimper and squirm at the unrelenting pressure of this thumb between your legs. He licks at your chin, and replaces his fingers with his tongue once more, tasting your mouth as if it was the thing he was missing all the while he was driving you higher. Licking into you, Feral eases you forward, still taking open-mouthed tastes of your tongue. 

He kisses your cheek, your temple, and breathes into your ear, “Ready, love?” 

You reach for the back of his head, nodding your agreement, stroking his horns. “Fuck me, please.”

You feel his smile against your cheek as he gives you one last peck. “Slow,” he promises. “Don’t push back. Let me control it, okay?”

You whimper, because what more can you do when your legs are shaking and the butterflies in your belly are about to escape. 

When Feral rises over you, he starts with the lightest brush — a little rub for you to get used to the pressure of his fingers as he adds a little spit to the mix, stroking it in while his thrusts turn careful and slow. You feel every ridge as he rolls his hips, soothing you into relaxing for him. 

“Such a nice ass,” he murmurs, smearing your own juices over everything that he’s trying to loosen. He pushes forward a little, just breaching the barrier a little with his fingertip. He slows, and retracts, and you realize you’re making noises. Begging. He kisses your shoulder, and eases forward as he stills. It burns a little, and the little pat of wetness that strikes your ass leaves you bucking as he helps his finger in. Slowly. Carefully, he pushes into you as you still, and sigh, and arch at the feeling of being overly full.

“That’s good, love. Look at you — you took it like a pro.” He strokes out carefully, and back in, and every molecule inside you vibrates a little higher. “Do you like that?”

You manage a whimper. Everything is so fraught all of a sudden; you’re so close to the edge that you cry out one word as he rocks his hips upward and hits the spot inside you that whites out your senses.

“Feral!”

Shaking, you keen at the first few thrusts as he fucks you harder, his hand cupped over your ass as the combined sensations drive you up and over and you lose all sense. 

It’s not a release. It’s fucking transcendent. An explosion. Mouth hanging open. Not breathing. Not making any sound at all save for the slap of his balls against your ass as feeling rips through your muscles and it registers that when you so start babbling, you’re begging him to fuck your ass.

He’s laughing. You’re coming a second time, and Feral is all too obliging because that finger is stroking you into a third orgasm that is going to level you off.

You’re going to black out, you think. You can’t feel your tongue. It’s numb.

He touches your clit and the choked noise you make is a half-garbled curse as you lurch and he catches you, the pair of you collapsing into the mattress as he grips at the sheets by your head and groans your name loud beneath the collision of your bodies despite the padding of your flesh against his hips. 

Grinding into you, he shudders, and jerks, and the warm rush of his come is a flood that turns everything slick — inside you, but against the insides of your thighs too. On the sheets. The mattress. Him.

Breathing hard, Feral puffs a breath, and you mewl his name once more. He smiles, panting now, and catches the corner of your mouth in a kiss. 

“You’re so fucking good,” he laughs, and it shakes through your torso. Dazed, you blink your eyes open as he slips from between your legs. “So fucking —“ The next kiss is sloppy, and appreciative, and warm as you whimper into his mouth. 

Spent.

Slowing, he keeps kissing you, and Feral catches your hands.

“Can you get up?” he murmurs against your lips. “Want to see what we did.”

The heat of the request isn’t so far away from you that you don’t understand, even as Feral shifts your body, and helps you raise your hips so that you’re kneeling. Spine arched.

He groans, fingers shivering up the back of your thigh, squeezing your pussy a little to admire the mess.

“That’s something,” he murmurs, and presses a kiss to the cleft where your ass meets your leg. 

You can feel yourself seeping his cum — just a little, still warm from your cunt. 

“What are you doing?” You smile into your arm, watching him, watching you -- a little dewy with sweat and so, so satisfied at the portrait he’s painted.

“Remembering this for later.” He grins, and it’s wolfish. “So I know what I get to come home to when I’ve got to leave you for a few hours again.”