#afab cis reader

“They could not bring me back the same.”

It wasn’t an explanation you understood, finding him that first time, submerged to the ears so that only the glow of his eyes and the reach of his horns protruded above the brackish water of the swamp. Little webs of sodden lichen and moss clung to him, and with nothing visible save for his expression, all you felt was cold hunger —

A million miles between your kind and his, and not knowing his words were warning, you crouched on the shore, your bare toes sinking into the silt, and you held your human hand to him as if you could beckon the creature closer.

“I can help you,” you told him.

Beneath the surface, his smile was a reflection in razors.

“No, my dear.”

He did not retreat, but sank, sending ripples across muddy water that echoed in the Force, leaving your shirt sticking to the sweat on your back and your hot skin fettered with Dathomir’s humidity; its bog-reek and festering, fecund decomposition stuffed into your nostrils a guarantee that whatever dies here feeds the nexus.

It’s just the way of things: death, decay, and life’s return.

Nothing is wasted.

It makes the planet rich.

When he blinks, the membrane leaves his shining gaze slits of flame, burning and hollow, and achingly alone —

A solitary creature who will not show you his face, though he wears the markings of a Nightbrother, forgotten to the swamps and consumed by solitary contemplation between the splayed roots of trees, and in the recesses where the water and the Force stir together.

He watches you — a being so powerful that he can breathe these waters despite the difficult conditions — but something is missing in that burning stare.

“What dwells here is more monster than man,” he says. “You should go. Do not return.”

“But I can help you —”

Because you felt some relief at finding another living soul who might communicate with words and feelings after so many nights studying the ruins of a civilization hostile to outsiders. Dathomir whispers, but its interest is entirely self-serving:

You think the nexus wanted you to find him.

“No one can help me,” he says, and then he’s gone.

Darkness descends when the swamp closes over his head, and only the slap of water against the trees from the lash of a powerful, spiked tail fin reveals his true nature as he vanishes beneath the surface.

The world falls to quiet, the silence muffled as you realize that all life goes still when in the presence of a powerful predator, and slowly, your heart pounding, you listen to the first trill and glug of life returning.

He’s gone, you think.

But somewhere in the distance, between the drape of moss and vine, you think you can see the bright gleam of his consideration, looking at you from a distance safe enough to realize he’s intrigued.

Foreword —

Etched into the walls of the Red Grotto, stoic beneath the dripping walls and calcified creeper that drape the ancient parts of the cave system beneath the mountain, markings made by nimble Nightbrother fingers tell a story in pictures:

A zabrak descended from the cliffside, a crown of horns on his head, to be bathed in the springs by careful hands of his consorts, reborn and renewed after the hunt.  

The drawings, etched in hydraatis acid, have withstood three millennia of change above, from witches to the Nightsisters to their Brothers’ reclaiming, and yet remain:

This is Dathomir, at its deepest heart.

And like the darkness that gathers here, where the whispers of ancient voices can still be heard when the waters are stirred, some things endure:

The ritual has never changed.

But the King will reign once more.

The Red Grotto, Dathomir —

There’s no one here. 

That’s your first thought after tripping down the last set of spiralling stone stairs and nearly upending the tray of salts and oils and soaps you were tasked to bring into the bathing chambers, expecting his return from the westernmost swamps from a rancor hunt. As if anyone did that anymore. More ritual and pomp, you thought. Something to appease the halls full of guests from the syndicates because some traditions kept the kitchens staffed and everyone else fed, but —

No one expected he’d actually go through with that ancient Dathomiri custom: a rancor hunt to feed a full hall of people but also to demonstrate a Nightbrother’s prowess; his virility.

The thing is… you’ve heard rumours about him:

How he was split in half from the waist down years ago by an adversary in a battle that ended with his supposed death. He came back, didn’t he? Just like he came back to Dathomir after so many years. 

You let out a breath, taking in the dripping walls overtaken by vines and leaves that appear to breathe and shiver in the dim brazier light; the enormous bathing pools of various temperatures fed by the springs, some steaming and murky, others cool and wafting mist. Only the patter of the waterfall on stone on the grottos edges settle your nerves. The sound is unending; a constant rainfall under the phosphor of glowworms clinging to the foliage draping from the ceilings.

It’s beautiful. Too quiet, almost, because you know the ichor has been restless since he got here. Too serene for its new owner.

Now here you are and here he isn’t.

The ‘him’ in question isn’t so much a man as he is a monster, or so his renown would suggest: the new leader and face of the Dawn who’d set up operations on his homeworld, along with a retinue who’d attend him, and all his little syndicate minions.

You took your occupation and the handsome pay that came with it with the understanding that your service required a combination of discretion, secrecy, and decorum. You’ve never met him. You’ve only heard the stories:

The Son of Dathomir is indifferent to the pleasures of the consorts the Black Sun brought with them, and he has no mind for leisurely decadence like dining or drinking or even bathing in the ceremonial waters below the mountain. 

A King is still a king if only in name, you remind yourself. Even if he is a bloodthirsty monster.

You set down your tray. The bottles tink together, and you scrunch your nose at the luxury. You’re familiar with all of them: mixtures with various potencies to ease aching muscles and render someone euphoric, to cool the skin and to warm it, and a special salve made especially for legs built from durasteel: a mixture to ensure fluidity in the joints and protect it from the humidity. 

You blended it yourself on the twelfth moon, with ingredients fresh from the apothecary in the Night Market. It’s perfect. It’s precious. Picking it up, the ointment coats the inside of the transparisteel, as thick and potent as the night you prepared it. 

A little gift meant for someone half-cybernetic. 

A token. A thank you. Not to curry favour, but…

Dathomir hasn’t been the same since he returned, you think.

In many ways, with so many new faces — laughter in the hallways and revels waking the daylight on so many evenings — it’s better. Different, but alive again.

Sighing, you replace the jar, thinking about wasted ingredients and wasted time. 

Silly tokens.

Silly girl, you think. 

This is stupid — this fear, this nervousness. 

You were assigned a task for which you were prepared to do whatever necessary to appease the man, and were given leave for it, and he’s not here. You’ve hours at your disposal, and glaring up into the cavernous space of the grotto with your hands on your hips, you arrive at a decision as the damp seeps beneath your dress:

The grotto is ancient, and sacred, and private.

No one will disturb you here.

You might as well enjoy it...

Feral: Waited until the end of his debriefing, reclaiming his seat at the table across from you, that glint in his gaze that suggested those extra buttons you'd undone and the bra you'd forgotten hadn't gone unnoticed over the course of the fifteen minutes he was reporting his findings to his brothers. No one failed to miss his hard-on. Maybe leaving your shirt open while he reclaimed his seat beside you was a step too far, because between the cracks he put into his datapad from gripping it too hard and those strong fingers casually pulling your knees apart to rub you, right there in front of everyone, you should have realized that his first idea was a concept instilled in him by his elder brother, Maul. "Did you want everyone watching you?" was all the warning he gave you. This is the problem: everyone always underestimates Feral. That's how you ended up face down on the table, your toes turning inward with your skirt over your hips, on display and dripping with your panties around your ankles — two of those long, strong fingers reminding you with each noisy thrust: revenge is cold, especially when you tease your lover into running hot.

Savage: "An eye for an eye," he reminds you in that rough baritone, amusement turning it melodic. He took the long way back to his apartments. That was how you knew you'd overstepped; that's how you knew you'd gone too far — Savage exercising patience meant the collar went on, the pants came off, and now here you are: bare-bottomed, thighs split over his lap, a datapad on your back with his holodramas on, pussy leaking everywhere as your constant clenching pushes the toy out. He will not let you come. Rather, Savage gently eases the length of that silicone member back in, tapping the base gently whenever you squirm: a light tap tap that's not even a spanking, and not enough to offer more stimulation. Occasionally, when you start to drift off, he strokes your clit -- pushing your legs open with those thick fingers while you clench and he retracts, patiently cupping the globes of your ass as he plays with you... like you played with him. No satisfaction. Just the reminder that rubbing against the front of his trousers while passing him in the hall initiates the sort of reprimand that will leave you messy and just as unfulfilled as you left him. Occasionally, he grips your ass hard enough to bruise, and when you whimper, he checks to see how deeply the dildo fits in: moving it back and forth just enough to bring you closer to release, just to remind you what it means to tease him. And as he murmurs, "Maybe I'll let you come next time, if you're good," you try not to buck and you do your best not to babble, but it's hard, and so is he beneath your tummy. It's torture, you think, but the one thing that's gratifying is knowing you made him feel like this too.

Feral:

Maul's robes are entirely too small for Feral, but he somehow manages to shrug them on: the Crimson Dawn emblem glinting between his pectorals as he struts around your chambers. No pants on either.

The imperious instruction to, "Get your pussy ready for me, my dear," sounds almost like his elder brother in that rasping drawl of his, but there's no mistaking who's cock you're getting when he lets all that black zeyd-cloth fall back.

Maul would kill him for the roleplay, but Feral somehow pulls off the smirk and the sneer and the drawl, gold gaze glinting when you sit back on your heels and spread your legs for him instead.

"Why, Feral? Your cock is nothing like his."

Wrong thing to say, maybe, because the next thing you know, a darkness settles across Feral's features when he twists a hand in your hair. It's rougher than you're used to, but that's why you're playing this game with each other, aren't you? You don't want Feral playing fair.

"You can ask nicely for it and maybe I'll consider giving you the tip to play with."

It's hard rolling your eyes when he's got control of your head. "Maul wouldn't hesitate," you tell him. "He'd teach me a lesson."

He leans in, and the family resemblance is never so startling as in the moment where your thighs slick for him when Feral grins, half-lidded, and murmurs with Maul's words, "Cease the attitude, pet, or I'll fuck it out of you."

Savage:

When it comes to the strong, silent type, some things go unspoken — threats or promises and whatever assurances in between — but you're already done for when you go out of your way to leave the drink he requested on a different table than he expected, you purposefully put on the wrong colour of undies, and made sure that he would catch you with them around your knees, halfway up on his bed and almost squirming on your own fingers.

"You were late again," you tell him between clenched teeth, your clit slippery between your digits and your face on the sheets.

But Savage does this thing where he likes to hold you in place while you act all defiant.

"I didn't tell you to finger yourself. Who gave you permission to play without me?"

You haven't, but you want him to think it, so your slide your slit open, teasing at the edges while he squeezes and spreads your cheeks, lifting you higher so he can see for himself how badly you need him.

"Stop that," he murmurs, but it sounds encouraging.

"You aren't gonna do it for me," you shoot back. So you might as well show some initiative if he's going to leave bruises.

"Maybe you need something to shut that bratty little mouth," he murmurs. You're going to come if he keeps talking like that.

"Maybe you should shut it for me."

He huffs, but he pushes your hands out of the way, his belt buckle already opening with a clink.

"Impatient, impertinent little slut," he murmurs, but you're clenching on nothing when he thumbs you open, pushing your fingers out of the way and squeezing while he spits on your slit.

"An attitude adjustment is what you need." Savage grins. "And maybe some thicker fingers to teach you how to behave better."

"Maybe I just need a little attention, finally."

His growl reverberates through your legs.

"Maybe just a little fuck --"

"Enough."

You sigh, and rolling your hips as best you can you urge him closer to where you need him -- claws razing over the edges of your hole. He grunts when you try to push back.

"You're right." You yawn. "Maybe you're not enough."

Savage rips you down the bed so fast you barely have time to take a breath before he spears you on his cock. It throbs. There's no breath left in your lungs to protest.

He growls, "Cease the attitude, little one, or I'll fuck it out of you."

Maul:

"I fucked Feral first," you tell him. "He was wearing your robes, but he couldn't quite nail the righteous indignance you've got going."

He snarls something from his seat in the chair you've bound him to; all that corded muscle straining against durasteel cuffs, their little latch lights winking red to indicate the hold they have on his limbs. Maul's cock strains against his trousers, pointing accusingly in your direction, his knees planted wide. No choice. You cuffed his ankles too, just to make it interesting.

"It was okay," you tell him, flippant. "Savage was much more receptive to my taunting. Very reactive, that one."

"This was all part of your orchestration."

You tip your head, swaying tantalizingly close to your lover: close enough to see the tendons stand out on his neck, and the finest crinkling of his brow. Burning irises, simmering with promises of revenge that should prove most interesting, track your progress. If he ever gets out of the cuffs, that is. You made sure they were fastened tight.

"I learned it from the best." You shrug. Coy.

He's not happy. Maul hates being tricked, especially since you offered to immobilize him before you sank down on his cock "just for fun"; before you decided that you would share these interesting little tidbits from your time spent with his brothers. And now you're teasing him.

"Clearly," he manages through a rictus grin, "you have not learned everything."

You feel the whip of power wrapping your waist, your toes dragging your naked form across the cold floor to plant you before him, limbs locked, before the cuffs even hit the ground.

He rubs his wrists, peering up at you as you strain against his invisible grip. He leans back in his chair, admiring the struggle you put up, even though it's futile to resist him when he has his mind set on your education, and your correction.

"I hope I get an A for effort this time," you tell him, breathy.

"Still talking." He uses his hands to push apart your knees, settling them to either side of his hips.

"You haven't given me a reason to shut --"

Your breath huffs out of you, the heavy, room-temperature feeling of his silicone-coated cybernetics pulsing to life inside you as he eases you down his cock. Maul's claws sink into your hips, and the look he levels on you manages to be imperious even though you're hovering above him.

"Clench," he murmurs. "And we will see what manner of effort you can express once you've come enough times to remember your place."

"I think it's above you," you manage, breathy.

His grip turns punishing, so you give him a trembly squeeze that tightens and stiffens him beneath you.

"Good. Again."

You huff a breathy little laugh.

"Is that all it takes to satisfy you, my Lord?"

Maul purrs. "No, my dear, but if I could find no better way to encourage you to cease the attitude, then there would be no other recourse."

He thumbs your clit. Hard. You clench your teeth. You squeeze his cock, panting from the effort. He'll watch you bring yourself to orgasm without moving a muscle. He'll wear that smirk the entire time you try to fuck yourself on his cock but only manage a pulse of pleasure.

It's better than nothing. But he knows you want more.

He leans in, his hot breath against your ear searing:

"I thought it best to fuck it out of you. Slowly. Lazily. And with such restraint that you plead with me to teach you the proper etiquette when it comes to begging for release."

You shudder a laugh. "I'm not there yet, Maul."

He hooks his fingers beneath your thighs, dragging you up his length so that you can feel the bob and pulse of his control, his arms and the Force holding you in place so that all you know is what it means to be so unfulfilled that when you try to rock against him, all you manage is a swirl of his flared tip teasing your slit.

It's wonderful. It's awful.

The hand on the back of your neck stills, waiting for your heart rate to slow. "Let's clean you up," is code for what comes next:

He gives you an anti-inflammatory potion for any swelling or pain, cleans off any wounds or scrapes, and salves over any spots that might have been worked raw.

He makes sure you drink enough water. Two cups at least.

There's a bath drawn that's big enough for two, and he carries you to it to clean off any remnants of your playtime. He sinks in with you, settled between his legs in the deep part and tucked against his chest. He bathes you with a soft sponge, and fragrant soaps, careful of any sore spots on your body.

He touches you continuously, quiet if you prefer it, but murmuring praise of a job well done: he tells you about what he saw during your scene -- the little things: your resistance, your yielding, your body shuddering, how well you behaved. So much praise. You were so good. So ready. You took it so well. He calls you every pet name, and others too: words from old languages that you know mean Goddess or Queen.

When your muscles have relaxed and you're warm and safe, he lifts you with him, wrapping you in clean, softly woven towels and drying you carefully.

He's prepared something to eat, and watches to make sure you clean your plate: fresh things suitable diet that you like, and a few treats he knows you crave.

There's clean clothing for you if you'd like it, and the bed's been prepared with fresh sheets, and if you want him to stay with you, there's space enough for two.

Usually, you do, and you tug him after you so that you can curl up in his arms with a little plate on your laps, offering him a little snack from your fingertips if he needs it.

Before he gets that far-off look in his gaze, you snuggle together, confessing in whispers what you liked about your scene: how he made you feel, how hard you came, how you'd love to try something again. Small appreciations, but they go a long way to bringing you closer, and making him feel like he's done a good job.

Maybe you massage his hands for him, or soothe him if he's tense in places by offering him a similar, gentle treatment -- some healing oils you thought to have brought in if his palms are raw, or his muscles tense.

i. Feral

—

“It’s vaguely oppressive,” Feral says, which is about as much precaution as you’ll get. He hesitates a second, hand on the worn brass knob of the second bedroom on the third floor set into the only stretch of wall that isn’t showing the wounds of their restoration work. “Mother gave us specific instructions in her will about this room in particular — we weren’t to disturb it. Supposed to be left as-is.” He glances at you. “A condition of the inheritance.”

“So of course it’s the first thing you went and mucked about in,” you tell him.

Feral gives you a winning smile.

You know how they all felt about Talzin, in the end. 

“She always did like to meddle; very domineering woman — couldn’t leave us well enough alone. Never satisfied with our life’s choices,” he says, gesturing. “This is just a bit of —“ 

“Retaliatory post-mortem payback,” you surmise. “Colour me unsurprised.”

The door is white, and the ghost of an old plaque belonging to its previous owner has left a corona of dirt. 

“What’s she going to do?” Feral asks. “Reach beyond the grave to impart one further lesson to her darling children?” 

He scoffs, and falls to stillness — seeing your hesitation. 

“Are you sure about this? Because we can sleep in the parlour —”

“Not with the rancor in there.”

His shoulders hunch, and showing a flash of teeth, Feral drops a palm to your shoulder, giving you an indulgent look that leaves you a little heated. 

“I can guarantee that at least that thing is less creepy than what’s in here. Besides, it’s not a rancor anymore. It’s just a head.”

It’s the only private room in the whole four-floor Victorian. While Maul or Savage might not care so much about sleeping with their asses out between walls torn down and doors off their hinges, this is the only private time you and Feral are gonna get this weekend. So kark the parlour. 

“Taxidermed animals are pretty high up there on the creepy spectrum.” You gesture vaguely at your face. “Something about the eyes. It’s like they’re watching you.”

Feral doesn’t have eyebrows, but there’s a slightly manic glimmer about him when he flashes his teeth, draping an arm around your shoulders. “Don’t worry, love.” He pulls you in, brushing his lips over your temple, sticking you with a firm smooch, and dropping to breathe into your ear — heavy with suggestion: “I’ll protect you.”

You poke him in the side for good measure, but he holds you close enough for you to huff the light oakmoss scent of him through his shirt: a little cream and a little cardamom beneath laundry detergent; mischief passed off as some innocent youngest brother bantha pudu.

He pulls back, and makes you promise: “No take backs.”

But your yeah yeah is forgotten as he crowds in after you when he opens the door. You’re already in the room before the overhead light crackles and pops to life, but by then it’s too late: he’s shutting the door after him, locking you into this time capsule that makes no logical sense when set against the rest of the house.

“Whatthekark,” you breathe, but your fate is sealed when he squeezes your hip, pulling you with him into the centre of a powder pink and lace-fluffed horror show.

ii. Savage

—

There’s a dangling chandelier in the centre of the ceiling, placed equidistant from the twin bed with the brass curlicues ornamenting the head and the foot, the child’s vanity with its little mirror and bench, and the overstuffed toy box. 

The chandelier tinkles, sending sparkles of refracted light around the shelves that line the room, little rainbow colours trapped between posters and photographs clipped out of Tiger Beat and Seventeen magazine. 

“Feral came in here?” He doesn’t sound convinced.

You’re still staring. And the room stares back with hundreds of eyes: glass and beaded and plastic, all colours and shapes, and some are buttons. 

You hover in the threshold, considering how Savage’s bulk swallows up so much space that he hulks over a bit, looking decidedly uncomfortable, and now you’re unsure. 

 “I thought he did, but it’s not like you can hide two people in that closet.” 

There are ruffles on the valance. Ruffles on the bedskirt. Ruffles lining the window curtains.

“Your mother had some really… interesting decorative tastes.”

Savage’s frown deepens. “Talzin always wanted a daughter,” he mutters. “We disappointed her in more ways than one.” 

You recognize some of people featured on the walls — far younger versions of older actors, and some bands you’ve never heard of — but you’re shaking your head, even as Savage’s horns tangle in the fixture. 

He winces, hunching into himself, but the damage is done. Ensnared, he stares at you, bent necked and resigned to exasperation. It’s almost sweet. You do not giggle. Instead, you drag the bench out from the vanity, hauling yourself up to eye-level with him to try and work the beaded pearls out of his horns from the dangly bits.

“I think you turned out alright,” you tell him. “You even look cute in her old apron.”

It was pink and it had frills, and barely cinched around his waist, but Savage had worn it diligently while flipping pancakes that morning at the tiny gas stove in the ancient kitchen.

He mutters, “Mother would be thrilled. It’s a small mercy she isn’t watching over us all, still.”

A large hand steadies you over the hip, fingers notching into your belt loops and back pocket: large enough to wrap around most of your thigh on a good day, and heavy enough to leave a lasting mark; soul-exit-body-style if he thinks you’ve earned a good spank.

You lift a shoulder in a shrug. “I thought you liked showing me off?”

His frown deepens. 

You suppress a snicker: “Maybe not in front of dear old mom.”

“The dead of Dathomir are often quite persuasive, especially its witches.” He purses his lips. “We are fortunate she left no unfinished business; no further imparted wisdom for our… predilections.”

You arch an eyebrow, your fingers working out the last knots. 

Savage squeezes, and you warm to the attention — the dip of his gaze to your legs as it spindles lower. 

“Oh,” you say, smiling. “Your lifestyle choices.”

The door clicks shut behind you with a muted snap of the lock, and you don’t think anything of it. 

Savage’s gaze sharpens, going still the longer you dither.

“How much longer, little one?”

“Just hold still.”

His gaze slides away and beyond you, and your tiny fingers do what his could not: unknotting the shimmery bits of jewelled plastic that have tangled through his horns like gaudy Life Day ornaments from the 80s. 

His rumble of displeasure swirls low in your belly, rough with menace that you’re accustomed to. “Why are you smiling?” 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I can’t get it all out,” you tell him. “But you do look adorable.”

If Savage’s grip tightens on your hip any more, you’d grit your teeth. The big guy knows you like it rough, but sometimes the foreplay gets started a little early.

“Handsome?” you try again.

“Please hurry,” he says. “The dolls are watching me.”

Setting your hands on his shoulders, you peer around the room, unconcerned by the collection of stuffed animals and antique dolls: shelves upon shelves worth, they pour up the walls all the way to the ceiling, piled in tiered stacks up the tiny bed, ruffles and rumples and pretty porcelain faces all serene and indifferent to the two intruders in their midst. 

“They’re just toys, Savage.” 

“They outnumber us,” he murmurs, and if there’s something ominous in it, you’re distracted as he picks you up and deposits you on the floor gently, warm hands lingering on your body. When you take his hands in yours, you smile up at him, pressing into his stomach and giving him a coy look that usually endears you to him.

Savage’s mouth takes a downturn at the corners.

“You are not seducing me here.”

You wink. “It’s private, at least.”

“It’s creepy.” He leans down, considering, and withdraws before he can give in, eyes narrowed. 

You smile, indulgent, and entirely too smart for your own good.

“There’s a bathroom with a locking door on the second floor?” you offer, tentative, but your fingers are wandering — creeping down to cup the bulge in his shorts, semi-erect already and pressing against khaki. 

He stiffens, a low rumble of interest building in him at your touch.

“But it’s a whole two floors away, and —” You pluck at your top, revealing the hint of a fleshy swell that you know he can’t resist. “There’s a bed right here.”

Savage sniffs, his expression darkening as he leans in. When he growls, it’s a sensation that begins in his belly, rumbling through the points of connection between your bodies, but the effect is somewhat lessened by the tinkle of his chandelier-made-tiara. He practically huffs, rolling his eyes upward, and then back to you as those large hands descend to cup your bottom, dragging you up to the tips of your toes so that you’re pressed against him, your ass a kneadable, tender thing begging for reprimand.

“Impatient, again,” he murmurs. “Or teasing, you insatiable creature. Indifferent to where and when I fuck you. Shameless, utterly.”

Savage squeezes, and you suck in a fluttery breath, pressing your hands to his chest. 

“Never knew you were so sensitive,” you manage, trying to regulate your breathing as that rumble of his discontentment becomes a challenge. “Or such a tipyip.”

He stills in that expectant, assessing way you so love when you’ve put exactly one toe out of line.

The slash of his smile leaves you simultaneously shivering and heated by his attention as he rolls you against his thigh, folded around him as if his knee wasn’t adding the exact right sort of pressure in the exact right place to break you into a thousand bitty pieces at his prompting. 

Folding over you, his hand brushes your breast on its journey to your throat, cupping you just beneath the chin in a hold not meant to choke, though he could snuff the blood flow to your brain to leave you pliant and quivering. A good Top knows what they’re doing, and Savage is no slouch.

“Brat,” he murmurs, mouth brushing yours, his hot breath on your face. “I should put you over my knee.”

Your eyes flutter shut, tasting the very air he breathes, fingers curled into his teeshirt, the pressure between your thighs absolutely maddening when he offers just a bit of friction. 

“Promises, promises,” you manage. “You could make your point in other ways,” you suggest innocently. “Maybe even change up your thinking.”

Savage bares his teeth; the warning fades into a slash of a smile.

“Do tell me.”

“You already have a toy of your own,” you tell him, breathy. Savage stills, his nostrils flaring as your meaning registers. 

“Don’t you want to play with me?”

He ‘hmphs,’ amused, and leans in to lick at your mouth, withdrawing before you can kiss him back, satisfied to see your nipples peaked and pebbled beneath your shirt. There’s a wet spot on his knee. Your skirt is practically hiked up to your waist. But you’re not asking how that happened. 

The jewels between his horns tinkle again, and Savage shuts his eyes briefly in exasperation.

You have to bite back a giggle.

“Go now, before I chase you down,” he orders, but you’re already at the door. 

The handle slides and clacks back into place. Old house. Old fixtures. Not the first time this has happened — just yesterday, Feral’s attempts with the kitchen pantry got it stuck so thoroughly that Maul had to kick it in.

When you try again and it doesn’t open, you know for certain:

“We’re locked in.”

iii. Maul

—

Two hits: Maul’s heel to the door, and the door crunching into plaster as it strikes the wall. The muffled whumps and muted squeaks of toys hitting the carpet don’t immediately register, because he’s breathing for you, thumb and forefinger notched into the waistband of your jeans, popping open the topmost button; the other hand wrapped around the back of your neck, holding you in place as he takes a taste of your mouth. 

It’s a hungry kiss, built on breath and secret smiles, a brush of lips and trailing fingertips when you got too close and he just watched with that darkening interest that caged you in before you ducked out. 

He chased you up two flights of stairs. 

But rather than crumple on the landing, half-kneeling and partways dishevelled, you collapsed into the nearest bedroom without really checking which direction you were headed.

Now here you are as Maul does to your mouth with his tongue what he’ll do to your cunt as his impatience wins out, silencing you with that indulgent, lidded gaze — like he knows what you like better than you know yourself when his hand tucks between your thighs. 

The sound you make is little better than a half choked gasp of pleasure at the contact: knuckles brushing over the front of your undies as he jerks down your fly, tugging you into him with the sort of insistence that leaves you fumbling and needy — not sure where to put your hands, but wanting to touch him like he’s touching you.

He murmurs against your mouth, “Push them off your hips for me.”

“The door —“ 

He growls, fingers pressing in, not bothering to move your panties aside but finding your clit through the gusset and rubbing it. The added bit of friction from the cotton isn’t too much. You’re too wet. Maul’s mouth finds your throat, and his teeth close around your pulse point, worrying the skin in warning. Your ankles roll out, and rising to the tips of your toes, you sway with the almost-feeling of getting fucked with those deft, strong fingers tracing your slit but never pushing in. 

Head rolling back, you find his face — the carved lines of his jaw —

That smug twist of his mouth.

“Please —“

A rumble of a command, “Do as you’re told.”

But it’s so karking hard when he touches you like this; two fingers rubbing you through your clothes, intent on destroying what little control you’ve maintained. You shouldn’t even bother with underthings, he only wrecks them when he gets in a mood, and apparently after two coats of eggshell and a little splatter on your face from trying to paint the ceiling reminds him of what he might’ve done to you if you were alone. 

The door screes on its hinges, shutting untouched, and there’s an element of foreboding to the fact that he’s so gentle with it when he nearly just tore it off the wall.

“Did you do that?” you ask him...