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#the zabrak brothers
justalittletomato · 1 year
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Of bones and hunts (Maul and Savage fic)
WELLL LOOK WHO WROTE SOMETHING FOR ONCE....and for once more Maul and Savage focused....and also some nightbrother headcanons also some good old angst and fluff. And some ocs at the end because I cant resist. 
@gran-maul-seizure @patchiefrog @eyecandyeoz @by-the-primes @kimageddon @literatureandqueen @apocalypticwafflekitten @hannagoldworthy @storm89 @stardustbee @spookiifi 
He did not know the customs, he could hardly recall the melody of the songs his brother tried to hum.  Maul’s upbringing was filled with strategies, skills and memorization of the many star system, not the mention the cruelty and torture…but that was the past…though the past never seemed to completely disappear. 
His fingers trace over the sharpened edges of the spear in hand. Crude weaponry his master might have said or not have even given Maul the advantage of a spear. No weapons besides Maul himself…
“Brother, are you listening?”  A deep voice asked. 
Like being pulled from a cold stream, Maul shook slightly. 
“I will take that as a no”,  a small sigh, “It is alright, “ there was an unspoken understanding between the brothers. The past would forever marr Maul’s mind as it would Savage’s. 
“But do try, brother, this task requires our combined efforts.” 
“I can easily take down a rancor on my own brother, I have done so before” Maul remarks, “and with less.” 
Savages nods, he knows.
“But this time you do not need to do so, it is tradition for all nightbrothers to go on the hunt together. You are long overdue for one,” Savage does not remark how overdue. Trying his best not to recall a wiry and scrawny Feral ever so excited for his first hunt. 12 cycles old. It had been a proud moment for Savage helping his little brother…
“I am no nightbrother, that life…”
“Stolen from you and now you are free to choose, do you want to go on the hunt or not?” Savage breaks from his memory. 
The crimson zabrak nods. He does while at the same moment knows this will end terribly. 
—-
Maul as the younger is tasked to lure the beast. A grin on his face as he approaches the beast. Rancors do not get startled, they become angered so much like many of inhabitants of Dathomir. 
It kicks at the ground, the red dirt blowing up. An angered roar from deep in its chest, Maul mocks it with another step too close angering the beast further. 
Savage chides Maul mentally, he knows Maul would have done such a thing. 
The older brother makes him approach with one of the weapons the two had constructed. 
The beat roared again at the onslaught of the attack. Rearing its head and lunging at Maul who tumbled from its grip. 
—-
Savage called to Maul to attack once more. Maul grinned, This was fun! This was exhilarating! 
The beast bucked and howled. 
Maul attacked. 
Savage was able to tie the beast and removed a hand carved knife from his pocket, “ Its tradition, you get to finish the beast off brother.”
There is a form of understanding on the desolate and harsh dathomir, death comes it is a part of life. Maul’s grin fades looking down at the rancor. 
He covers its eyes with his palm and sinks the blade into the beast. It gives one last bellow and silences for good. 
“I have killed things before.”
“A hunt like this is different, no anger, no threat of absolute death…come along I will teach you how to butcher it and dont you dare toss away any bones.” 
Maul furrows his brow. 
“Bone broth, the little nightbrothers always gnawed the little bones while the elders stored the best ones for broth. The marrow is coveted for it.” 
Savage showed Maul how to cut and properly prepare for transport all the while conjuring images in Maul’s mind on how commonplace this once was. This abandoned village once once full of nightbrothers. Maul could sense their lingering memory at every doorway and window. 
“We would have truly been in the Fanged gods favor for brining in such a beast, this one would feed the village for more than a week. The little ones and elders might even get extra helpings.” Savage  points at a small container near on the table where they worked. The wood worn by many years of use. 
“In that pot we would have stored the fat, little nightbrothers would dig thier small hands in for a little more fat. I had to seal ours as Feral always…” 
Maul could picture it, the house they were in was once Savage and Feral’s…there was a warmth here that never seemed to fade until now. A cold that overcame.
“He should have been there with us…on our hunt.” 
Maul could offer no words of comfort, the promise of revenge on the tip of his tongue, but he knew that was not wanted. Savage wanted his brother back…his true brother not Maul. Maul who was stolen before he could toddle and only just returned. Maul was Savage’s brother by blood but the bond between them…
“You two would have been the death of me hunting together, always biting more than you should. Always taking risks and putting your selves in danger. I would have had to scold you both at every turn. I wish you could have known him…”
Maul adds in his mind, “I wish you could be him.” 
— 
Savage taught his brother how to best store and preserve the cuts. Maul somewhat eager about the mention of jerky especially as Savage continually peppered the slices with spices. 
“Unfortunately this one will take some weeks,”
Maul could wait. 
Not a bit was wasted and Savage eagerly picked some bones, “When we return I will show you how to make a broth with these.” 
Maul devoured two bowlfuls. 
It is some time later. Some years and a new galaxy…
Maul returns with a bag of bones and plans to return to where he had hunted. 
The little nightbrothers and sisters eagerly greet him and inspect the bag. Each one taking a bone for themselves and gnawing happily. 
Maul chides the small crimson boy not to take the bigger bones with marrow, 
“I’ll show you how to make broth with these.”  he promises the child. The boy known as Cress smiles eagerly. 
The little group follows him back into the Fortress, Maul eagerly sharing about the hunt and the plans for meals over the coming weeks, but for this cold night? 
“ A broth for us will be plentiful, you will all see how it's made so you too could learn. It's something that should be shared.” The bag of bones in one hand the other hand taking gentle hold of the little Nightbrother beside him. 
“One day you will all go hunting as a group, you must help another and keep another safe...” he gives the small hand a squeeze, “ You will most definitely scold another for the risks but still take great care. You are all brothers after all.”  Little Feral, Ares and Cress grin. 
“And sisters!” Little Eris and Aster protest. 
A nod and chuckle from Maul, “ And sisters...now come along and gather about.” 
The last group of nightsisters and brothers huddle about and listen as Maul begins. 
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necrophatic · 5 months
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Maul Arc but Feral is there
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dathomirdumpsterfire · 4 months
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obiwansucks · 2 months
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I made this a while ago and it feels important to share
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yayoineko · 4 months
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Continued from: https://yayoineko.tumblr.com/post/733142407162544128/sometimes-mauls-horns-reminds-me-of-flower
Maul's horn flowers briefly entrances Gar Saxon.
Savage informs Maul the flowers last 24 hours.
I'm imagining that Zabrak horns only bloom after a certain age. It's rare the species grow old naturally, so the blooms are a seldom occurrence for Dathomirians to witness. Hence, Savage's excitement.
Savage: "You must be much older than I thought, Brother..."
Maybe Maul should hide in his room until then.
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kocicko · 5 months
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WHY DID NOBODY TELL ME THERE ARE 3 OF THEM?!?
Goddamit
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ejfivercommander · 11 months
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Witches and Monsters/Nightsisters Trilogy arc
TCW arc 1/?
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roseaesynstylae · 3 months
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Maul in the bitchiest tone of voice imaginable: It's pronounced SA-VAHGE, you brain-dead imbecile.
Savage: *head in hands, raging migraine, praying a bottle of champagne will miraculously descend from the sky*
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notsomeloncholy · 1 year
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I just think they'd end up besties 💕
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BROTHER VISCUS IS SO MUCH HOTTER IN THE COMICS-
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Nice panel, right? It gets better.
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UGH THAT LOOK IN HIS EYES I NEED HIM
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UGH I LOVE SEEING MEN COVERED IN BLOOD-
That look he's giving as his eyes stare upwards WIONNVIOSME
I'm going to starT CHEWING ON THE WALLS
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ru-draws · 1 year
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Oh man, this has been months in the making. It’s finally done. This song only ever reminds me of the Opress brothers, and I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. (Tw: blood) Comic below~
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Roots
——
Now I sleep and prep the next one because I can’t help myself, apparently. Click for full resolution!
Song: Roots by In This Moment
Lyric video
Original Music Video
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kimageddon · 1 year
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-|- Page header by space-b33 -|- Masterlist -|- Prince of Dathomir Masterlist -|- Sins of the Father Masterlist -|- Art Masterlist -|- Check out my : Ko-fi / AO3 -|- Commissions Open -|- Join my tag list -|-
"Brothers don't let each other wander in the dark alone" - Jolene Perry
I wanted to do something similar to a tarot card and I really liked the two of them like this. I just love them a lot.
I was tempted to draw them in just their skin but I opted for clothes this time. I hope you like it because I really enjoyed this one. I really love their relationship and I think they deserve better.
Close ups below the cut!
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----
The List of Tags: (If your name is crossed out then check your settings! Tumblr is not letting me tag you!) @two-black-leviathans @fallenrepublick @eyecandyeoz @ashotofspotchka @littlepossss @octupus-on-the-moon @justalittletomato @mach-opress @mustluvecho @nahoney22 @leotatombs @eloquentmoon @the-chains-are-the-easy-part @maulslittlemeowmeow @misogirl828 @alwayssnivellus @stardustbee @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @bacarasbabe @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @rain-on-kamino
Wanna be notified when I post my next work? Join my tag list
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queen-rhaenys-opress · 9 months
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A kind comment on one of my AO3 fics made me want to make this as a thank you to all who enjoy my writing. You all make me happy and remind me why I enjoy doing the random things I do. 🧡
We love Feral, even though he’s only there for like, 20 minutes for reallll. We are few but we are legion, damnit.
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dathomirdumpsterfire · 3 months
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Oh Wishmonger, is it too late to ask for some good old predator/prey drabbles? Maybe you’re joking around with the bros. Or maybe you’re going up against them for reasons, but things get hot and heavy 😌
Never too late for primal anything. Though I regret that we failed to meet your suggestion of a "drabble," as this is significantly bigger.
Title: No Quarter Pairing: Opress Brothers x Reader (🥪) Rating: Explicit Word Count: 5,924 Summary: Tickle the rancor's teeth and you're sure to get bitten. Warnings: Predator/prey chase, primal kink, CNC, knife play, bondage, entrapment, some violence typical of primal play, some blood typical of primal play, creampie, anal play, spitroasting, throat fucking, gang bang, over sensitization, forced orgasm, implied aftercare, mating marks
Splashed up to mid-thigh in swamp-reek, mud-smeared, gloves caked with something unidentifiable from the gravethorns, you throw yourself into the bog at full-force. Forget the sanctity of your weapon — you brought a blaster to a knife fight. Stupid girl.
The shock of tepid, brackish water doesn’t slow you, though the pull of the silted bottom does. You gasp, falling forward, but like everything else involving tonight’s challenge, it’s not your first mistake: this is just one more reason why you shouldn’t make foolhardy boasts in front of the Opress brothers:
That you were faster than any bounty.
That you were stealthier. 
That you were better at escaping them than they were at catching you.
Blame the spicewine at dinner for forgetting so easily that teasing the rancor only makes him hungrier, and that Zabrak don’t suffer the challenges of their prey lightly.
Two trained Nightbrothers, and one former Sith Lord knew better: this is a lesson in humility. Yours? Absent. You reap what you sow, and that involves your pulse in your ears, and the too-certain surety that you’re not alone out here?
Well.
Best keep running, then.
Your boots stick. Your lungs burn. Your limbs tire. 
Running for hours in aimless circles will do that to you, and only the promise of what’s to come slows you up. 
And worse? You can see the citadel in the distance — an end destination that’s still too far away to save you when all that’s left is your shredded ego and soaking clothes, the harsh Dathomiri landscape only part of the problem: 
There are three apex predators on your heels, and what they’ll do when they catch you is only part of what gets your heart racing.
You’re making too much noise. 
Startled, you shriek as your ankle catches and you pitch forward, face-first into the water. It rattles the nightghasts. Several take to the sky as you hit, the water stinging, burbling over your head for just a second. You gasp, wrenched up to your knees and dripping, crawling in your haste to get away from the eyes that watch you from along the edges of the treeline:
Three pairs of them: bright in the gloom. 
There’s laughter too. 
They scatter, and when they do: darkness falls, turning the flanking gravethorn groves impenetrable, save for the understanding that every ragged breath you manage to steal is a guttering metronome that speaks to the failures of overconfidence and your pathetic, tiring  human body.
“I can still hear you!” you shout, because in spite of it all, it takes nerve to call them out.
They don’t want you to tire.
They don’t want you worn and pliant and desperate.
But if you ruin yourself in the effort to escape them, if you stop fighting the urge to give in for just one second —
You’ve lost.
Maul promised as much.
And if they catch you before you reach the citadel steps, far off through the swamp on the other side of the trees, you only have the assurance that what they’ll do to your body will leave you helpless; destroyed utterly. No mercy offered. Not good for anything else. A plaything, promised to three siblings who’ll take what they want and lock you up in one of the citadel chambers.
Such was the weight of the wager: ownership.
Silence descends as you haul yourself upward, marching forward towards the nearest outcropping of rocks: sheltered beneath the sprawling network of branches that blot out the red sky and its sun.
You breach the shore. You drag yourself up. Listening intently for some indicator as to which direction they’ve gone: 
Three against one.
One step forward, legs shaking, you duck under the trees, uncertain of your steps across mossy rocks and boulders, each footfall leaving impressions.
Not good. 
Not good at all.
“The water wasn’t a bad idea, exactly.”
The whisper falls from overhead, wrapping you in its velvet-rough embrace: soft enough to raise the hair on the back of your neck when Feral speaks again:
“It should have covered your tracks. It ought to have concealed your scent.”
You turn, seeking out his figure, turning on the spot as you stagger deeper into the gravethorns, haunted by the bulbous pods dangling in the distance. He’s nowhere. You can’t see him.
“The problem is that we would know you anywhere… when you’re that wet.” 
You shiver, the sound right beside your ear, ripping you around as if he’s only just behind you; as if he’s playing with his dinner. 
Staggering backward, you still can’t see him: the youngest of them, the most skilled hunter because Feral spent the most time on Dathomir.
Your heel catches, and the world overturns: your legs snapping out in front of you as you soar upwards, lifted, leaves and branches falling away from a net. Your legs poke through the harder you struggle, dangling not six feet off the ground in a trap meant for a larger creature.
Overhead, perched on a limb, Feral studies you: his golden gaze slitted. Shrewd. Patient as ever — as if he expected nothing more from the clumsy human who thought she might best him. 
“Do you know how I know that?” he asks you as he rises from his crouch: bare to the waist and perfectly balanced in supple boots. When he steps off, falling the distance and landing so softly on nimble feet, he approaches with leisurely interest, keeping your spread-eagled struggle at eye-level. 
A hint of a smile lingers: like he’s known the whole time how he’d best you, but he’s been saving those confessions for a demonstration… the smug bastard.
Feral’s gaze descends, past your heaving chest, down to your writhing, struggling hips — seated in a web of thick cords, knees spread and vulnerable. The trap is so large that it swallows you, pressing in with its rough fibres and too-large knotting so that the bonds rub and chafe and press in uncomfortably. 
He eyes your crotch, a small smirk curving his mouth at the corners.
“You’re dripping.”
Somehow, you don’t think he means the bath you took in the swamp. 
“Yeah?” You lean forward, face pressed into the bars of your prison, tits mashed into the cords, the weave prohibiting movement. “Who was sniffing at my crotch to start with?” 
His grin fits his namesake as he leans in. 
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 
A vibroblade sputters to life in his grip, pulled from a hip sheathe and bright in the gloom. You suck in a little breath, not sure yet if he means to threaten or free you yet.
“Beg me for it,” you bite back.
“I won’t be the one begging for anything,” Feral promises. “Of that I’ve never been more certain.”
The crackle of his knife sings along your inner thigh. You stop moving, breathing hard. Watching.
“W-what are you doing?”
He doesn’t cut the cords, but rather, a sizzle, and the heat of the weapon sings through you — slivering the weave of your trousers so quickly you barely realize what’s happening. 
“Don’t move, love,” he warns you, the tips of his fingers touching yours where you grip the cording. It’s your only reassurance, but you barely notice:
You’re not on the same side anymore. 
He is not your friend. Not with that hungry gleam in his gaze. 
You’re barely even breathing when he stands back to admire the slit he’s created, straight through your cottons. A skilled hunter can also skin and trim their prey, you think, and Feral is good with a blade. Too good, maybe.
“See?” Feral says, but you barely hear him over the roar in your ears, your body practically pulsing.
It can’t be over so soon, you think: dazed as his fingertips hover just shy of your panties — admiring the little sodden, transparent mark of your lie.
“You like this,” he tells you.
His thumb brushes the plush flesh of your mons, leaving you clenching on nothing, your cunt flooding as his knife makes quick work of your trousers as he slits open the leg fully, and then the other.
You whimper.
Feral leans in — so close now you can taste the heat of him. “Don’t you?”
There’s no way out of this, you think, but you know what he wants of you — it’s that particular something that appeals to their dominant natures: the allure of power; of victory, of besting someone into submission.
Feral smiles at you through the bars of your prison, the plush mouth of his close enough to kiss — to breathe the air that whispers across your cheeks and collar, as if considering how he intends to devour you.
But here’s the thing:
You’re going to put up more of a struggle.
You’re going to claw at his pretty face.
It’s expected.
It’s invited.
This is the game.
He’s not at all surprised when you lunge at him. 
There’s only the bright glitter of his laughter and your snarling, thrashing, tearing at him — 
The ripple of crimson overhead whips by so fast you miss it as the cords sever, sliced through beneath the branch to dump you in a heap to the forest floor, kicking off the weight of rope and leaves. You pitch backwards, scrabbling to freedom as the lightsaber extinguishes, secure once more in Savage’s palm from having thrown it, and summoned it back to his palm with a snap.
He’s freed you, but for no good purpose: you can feel it.
The Force thrums. The swamp burbles. Your trousers are in tatters. But two Zabrak look down on your heaving, crumpled figure.
“You walked right into this, little one.” The rumble of amusement is hard to miss, but if Savage wants to mock you, he can do it from a distance.
“That’s a you problem,” you breathe, getting to your feet. “You think you’ve won.”
“You did free her, brother,” Feral agrees, and his nonchalance grates.
It’s Savage who drops forward, falling with a thud that shakes the soft floor with the fall of his heavy boots. He rises, the tips of his horns raking the low-hanging branches, the gleam of his gaze in the gloom burning forever — like the thought of you sprawled at his feet is something that’s consumed him.
“We taught you better.”
You press your knees together, everything winding tighter at the purposeful way he looks at you: like he’ll pull you apart. 
There’s only the one path out. They’ve corralled you.
“Please —“ you whimper, knowing that it means little, but praying to gods that never belonged to you has little effect.
“I do wish you would beg,“ Savage murmurs, and the crush of foliage is deliberate: two steps as his shadowy figure rises even higher over you. “Beg me to stop when I pin you down and pry you open: spread-legged and open-mouthed and yielding.”
The image strikes low and hard, and without breath enough to whimper, you know what he wants.
“Try it, Savage. See what happens,” you manage.
Feral chuckles, the sound rolling up your spine. “I like that she’s got some fight left in her.”
“Fuck you,” you spit.
You feel the raze of claws slivering upwards, plucking your clothes away from your skin as the heat and hardness and scent of Savage envelopes you —
The promise of teeth on the back of your neck and your face in the mud such a visceral, hungry surety that you shiver.
“Not yet,” he murmurs. 
But you feel the change in his breathing.
Savage cuts a sharp grin.
“I will fuck you into submission, little one — your wrists held over your head and your cunt stretched around me while I bruise your hips, but you will give me what I crave first.”
A memory of claws raking over the front of your panties lingers, your soft spots sodden; your stomach jumping. 
Everything trembles.
He could have you right here. He could spread you over him while he pushes your mouth onto his brother’s cock, directing you to suck like your life depends on it, making sure you don’t spill a drop, but Savage isn’t done yet.
Your mouth is dry, but you ask him, “What’s missing?”
“Get up.”
The command in his voice is lower than the promise of rain after thunder: Savage is a marcheon of Maul’s growing kingdom and his right hand, through and through, and whatever traditions linger from his early years on Dathomir, they are not forgotten:
His fingernails are gritty from dirt, his chest broad and smeared with red soil, but there’s strength in the way that he tenses: all that power bunched down into muscles that are as hard as the heavy length between his legs, visible beneath his trousers and beginning to strain.
“Do as I say, little one.” There’s amusement in his warning, like you’re being stubborn at the prospect of crawling before royalty. 
“Why?” you ask, petulant and wanting to provoke a reaction from the stoic prince, but you already know the answer.
“I want to taste your fear like I can taste your cunt when I put my lips to your skin.”
It furls in your belly, twisting into tension that smears your inner thighs and kicks your heartbeat into a gallop: fear edging into your peripheral vision, darkening the world around you so for a moment, all that sits between you are a few, shivering breaths as Savage falls to perfect stillness.
All of Dathomir is quiet, but not as quiet as Savage’s whisper:
“I want you to run.”
Further to the original point: Dathomir is an inhospitable wretch of a world — overgrown, unchecked, and intent on cutting you down as your stumbling, ragged run pitches you into the veiled mists that creep between the gravethorns as the dead leer from their burial pods. You bark your shins, the branches slash at your bare legs and sensitive palms, and everything endeavours to bring you to your knees. 
They even gave you a head start — 
But there’s hardly a point to that when the dark opens its toothy maw and insists on drawing blood.
Small cuts and slivers leave you smeared and dotting a trail, but if you let the pain drive you forward you find yourself less addled by the prospect of being hurt. There’s clarity in it: a little wisdom imparted on you by Maul once upon a time.
A little pain whets you so that you hear every glug of the Dreaming river, every snapped branch, and every footfall that broils up the ripe scent of decay as you tear through the miasma that wisps from little inlets, making the shadows breathe.
Fear smothers.
But pain? Pain offers clarity: heightened sensitivity, better spatial awareness, the too-reality of the world around you lifting you above the adrenaline that jams your senses. 
Pity this trajectory has given them a leisurely path to follow —
You notice as much when you stagger to a full stop, your lungs burning as you sag into a tree. Knees uncertain and muscles spent, you leave a smear — dark against black bark. It’s not noticeable to the naked eye, but to a predator’s nose it’s a marker painting your location in neon.
“Spent already, love?”
Feral’s laughter rings, spiralling downwards into your resting place, and exhausted, you whimper. He’s not even breathing hard. You never even heard him.
You can practically feel his lips against your ear when he whispers, “Are your legs shaking yet? Because I think we can do better.”
You shove forward, limbs coltish and uncertain after tearing through the wood.
“Climbing might’ve been easier,” Savage agrees from up ahead where the shadows shift. “There’s refuge in the trees; caves in the mountains too to hide in, if you don’t mind the bane back lairs.”
They’re practically on top of you, their voices echoing as you stagger forwards, making pathetic little noises the betray your exhaustion: whimpers and nonsensical pleas without form. 
You double-backward, cutting a line sideways to the stream where the silted depths burble up marshy gasses and your feet sink and stick. 
And as you look behind you, wanting to see for yourself how close they are, you stagger at the wink of gold eyes shining too brightly: two pairs of them haunting your footsteps.
Your ankle catches, but your gasp is a half-hearted thing, the trees that have been reaching for you scraping past every sensitive piece as you strike hard enough to leave you winded.
The ground thumps with that particular, hollow resonance that leaves you crumpled and breathing hard, the urge to cry threatening. Your clothes are shredded, your body is bruised, but you make claws of your fists into the mulch and rake furrows as a frustrated howl builds in your throat.
Forehead to Dathomir’s soil, you bellow.
You scream.
You howl like an animal —
Summoning the last of your will to snarl and spit and wail your throat raw. 
When you rip around, the path is empty. The trees are dark. Stars absent. Not even a nightghast dares venture nearer to you, a wounded creature ready to tear off the fingers of anyone who dare approaches. 
The gravethorn grove slumbers, silent.
Only the creak of branches in a dead wind lingers, but it’s no comfort. You pull yourself to your knees with scraped palms, and you look up.
There’s no one.
No one at all.
They’ve left you, you think — and why that’s so much worse, you don’t realize at first though it creeps towards you with a certainty: all is not as it seems. 
It feels…
Cold.
“Get up, love.” Feral again, but there’s an edge to him now. 
You don’t dare dismiss it, because you realize now why they’ve been toying with you this whole time: they’ve been waiting for him to join in the fun. 
And just like that, the shadows part:
Fifty yards away and closing in.
A moving slip of darkness — a true hunter; the heir apparent of Dathomir.
Forty five.
Forty.
Your heart slams against your ribcage, your vision tunnelling to a fixed point that’s growing closer the longer you wait. Determined. Head down. Arms pumping. Chest bare. Eyes like firelight.
The last bit of your conscious mind shuts off, and all that’s left is small, shrill voice of transcendent panic that screams through your veins: run!
Scuttling backwards, you twist and scrabble to your knees, no longer feeling the rocks and sticks and slithering things beneath your feet as you pelt head-long into Dathomir’s dark. No sense of direction. No regard for the fallen trunks in your way. You shear through them, no longer feeling your legs; your weaknesses a thing of history. Terror drives you. Maul is a killer, and you — you are the hunted. You are prey. 
You leap. You soar for freedom as the ground rushes by beneath you —
Pinwheeling.
Lesser creature.
Straining for freedom —
Collision.
The strike catches you in the midsection: a rough connecting blow that shoves the air from your lungs and rakes down your ribs with claws meant for tearing. They shred through your shirt. 
Your legs tangle, the impact of the fall buffered by a shoulder that is not yours. He hits first, wrapped around you so that you bounce and tumble, but the arms that have cradled you take the brunt of it in a roll. The world upends, spinning hard and fast so that the dirt and grime of the descent puts you down face-first into that rich loam, gasping and tasting earth. Hard hands on your body drag you backwards, your ass connecting sharply with a slap against hips that you feel in your cunt. 
Scrabbling, you claw into the dirt and pick up handfuls of debris, fingers sliding off vines and roots as Maul releases your hips. 
You try to twist away, but it doesn’t work —
Air touches your skin before you even realize he’s torn it all open, leaving you exposed to tooth and claw, the fist in your hair wrenching your head backward and exposing your throat.
No words.
Only sound.
Only your ragged panting, throat clicking open and shut, the night around you singing in your blood.
Only the heat and pressure of little uncomfortable twigs and stones digging into your knees. Only the scent of musk and blood. Only him, bending you to his will as he makes his claim.
The growl against your ear is a promise of retribution against a mate that doesn’t behave, but you claw at the arm that crosses you. You roar as he shoves your knees apart, loud enough to drown out the snarl and snap of his teeth against your earlobe: his breath is a wet heat.
Digging your nails into his arm, you claw at him. It does nothing at all.
“Mine,” Maul breathes. 
Your panties tear with a pathetic, elastic pop that snaps at your waist. The aftershock stings, but its a distant discomfort. You forget all those little pains in a heartbeat. 
There’s no warning: just the hardness and stretch of him sheathing into you to the hilt. Your body bucks, frozen at the shock of the intrusion, and unable to draw a breath, you’re overwhelmed at the feeling of his cock; his teeth.
Maul thrusts once like its a warning, but you’ve no wind to even keen at the surprise crunch of muscle and skin beneath his mouth. It hurts for just a second — the surprise and shock of being marked without warning leaving you fumbling, clawing at the dirt when he tosses you forward to your elbows and snaps his hips. 
His ridges ripple, making wet sounds as your body struggles to adjust.  
There’s no time. It’s too much. 
There’s no way you can fight when he angles just slightly, hitting that spot that bursts stars behind your eyes. Claw-tipped fingers dig into the back of your neck, and Maul snarls just the once like he commands you, striking at it over and over without mercy until your body snaps around him: “Come.”
Relentless.
Everything shudders to wakefulness, the moment shimmering before the drop trembles — and you hover at the precipice of desperation, clenching hard on him as he delivers you to oblivion and keeps rutting so that each slap of his hips shoves you over that edge and out of yourself.
You can’t even breathe. 
Darkness threatens. Stars burst in your vision.
This is heaven. This is abandon.
He doesn’t stop.
Each thrust of his cock pummels you deeper into the dirt, screaming, over and over:
“Maul, Maul, Maul.”
You’ve found your voice at last: it’s hoarse and reality turns ragged at the edges, leaving everything tunnelling down to the feeling of being claimed by him — as if there was ever any uncertainty to whom you belonged.
He grunts, giving your hips a squeeze, and then your ass as he unsheathes, leaving you cold and slicked and pulsing on nothing. Maul paints the backs of your legs with his release, breathing harder, his laughter a certain, dark thing.
Maul utters in a hoarse murmur, more growl than a summons, “Savage.” 
And you know in that moment they’re only getting started.
Fingers take the place of his cock, easing into you two at a time, a thumb weighted against the pucker of your ass. Maul rubs himself to stay hard as the world blurs and you feel the first inklings of your bruised and tender places.
He moves before you, lifting you to your hands and knees with two fingers under your chin, a thumb to your lower lip, spearing between your teeth to open your mouth for him.
The cadence of the fingers inside you don’t change, but they thicken as another finger is added -- a heavy hand caressing the curve of your ass and squeezing it hard enough that you whimper; that your knees buckle as you try to shy away from a firm grip. 
“That’s good,” Savage says. “She’s still throbbing.”
Maul’s thumb prevents you from speaking, pressing it deep into your throat and holding it there a moment. The little clicking sound of protest as you reign in your gag reflex is nothing shy of miraculous. 
“Keep her coming,” Maul murmurs, watching you with that predatory interest. “Until she learns her lesson. It does not seem fit to leave one who is so boastful wanting.”
And it’s in that moment you realize that while you might be sated, his brothers are not. 
“We’re all going to fuck you, darling; one after the other until it’s seated in your memory; until there’s no question of ownership — that when someone asks you, ‘to whom do you belong?’ you’ll never hesitate to answer.”
The press of Savage’s cock stretching you elicits shuddered moan, and he pops in two ridges before you gasp at the intrusion. You throb beneath the grip, his clawed fingers digging into your hips — as much an adjustment for him as it is for your body. 
“You’re going to take every inch,” Maul tells you. That you close your lips around his thumb  and suck is an involuntary response to the surprise push of Savage’s girth. It burns a little, and you moan into Maul’s palm, eyes fluttering shut. “And Feral is going to teach that mouth a lesson.”
Your own spit streaks your cheek when he withdraws, gripping your jaw and holding your mouth open, like he’s considering what you’ll look like stuffed from both ends.
“Every part of you — your cunt, your arse, your mouth, your fingers — every bit of you belongs to Dathomir,” he tells you. “Do you understand?”
Savage grunts behind you.
He thrusts, impatient.
You arch, and Maul’s grip loosens enough to let you take his brother in one shuddering push. 
Breathing hard, you can feel the pulse of Savage’s heartbeat through his cock. He’s buried so deep that the brush of his heavy balls touches the tops of your thighs. Why that makes you wetter — knowing he’s hilted so deeply that you can feel the brush and sway of them — you can’t think about.
“Gonna come again,” you manage, and if there are tears streaking your cheeks, you don’t yet know if it’s because you’re relieved or because once won’t be enough for him. 
Savage wraps a hand around your hip, placing two firm fingers to your clit, circling it hard enough that you buck up into him. His chest provided a buffer against your back, the hard heat of every muscle a comfort under any other situation, and you can’t help but whimper as one large palm spreads over your chest — and handful for long fingers.
“Good,” he murmurs into your ear, that low rumble of thunder so self-satisfied that you shiver. “I want you to. Spread over my lap like this so I can feel that little pussy flutter.”
You clench on him, and he chuckles.
“When I’m done with you, you won’t be able to walk later. We’ll have to carry you to the pools beneath the citadel, and we’ll bathe you and treat your little injuries, and when you’re warm and comfortable, we’ll do it all again: one after another, making sure each one of your tight little holes can take every inch of us.”
You blubber something incoherent, pawing at him but too addled by the promise and too stuffed to protest, but you manage with your waning capacity to withstand the pleasure:
“Promises, promises. How about you prove it.”
Savage nips your ear, his mouth pressed to your neck just beneath it so each huffed breath leaves your restraint in slivers. His hand circles your throat — not squeezing, but in a show of dominance.
“Try and fight me, then,” he challenges. “We’d love to see it.”
You grin, eyes slitted, but Savage doesn’t see the what Maul sees: a prey creature caught beneath the hips and hands of a larger predator, but not intimidated — only ready to fight for freedom.
To Savage’s credit, he actually snarls when you sink your teeth into his forearm.
He jerks, and thrusts in shock, hard enough to almost buck you off, but you sink your nails into his arm and you hold on — clamping down hard enough to draw blood.
Feral’s laughter rings around the clearing, and in a show of self-satisfied defiance, you gasp open when Savage rips your hands off him — both your wrists snapped to the dirt above your head while he slams into you from behind. 
“She bit him,” Feral chortles.
You make a note to take a piece of him too if he’s going to gloat about it.
Later, though —
Your body trembles, each strike of Savage’s hips jostling you forwards into a place where your cries become soundless, your insides shuddering like he’s attempting to rearrange your pieces.
You’re coming.
One surprised bleat of pleasure doused by another, stronger and guttering, but Savage doesn’t cease, he only maneuvers you to better see you stretch for him — slipping out to check how you strain and gape before pushing back in. 
“Brother.” It’s an invitation, you’re just not certain for whom anymore. 
The ground falls away as Savage lifts you, repositioning your body so that you’re forced to your tippy toes, tethered by your hips and the enormous cock inside you. He returns to your clit, rubbing with a vicious sort of precision which leaves you writhing and a little disoriented — too addled to protest and too small to do anything but take it when Savage lifts your body by the hips and resettles you around him. 
You scrabble a moment, your contact with the ground uncertain. 
“Surrender to it,” Maul tells you. 
“Let me use you little one,” Savage says, triumphant, “I’ll make sure you come again.”
“I can’t —“ you start, but he strokes you down his cock once more, and it feels so good that you’re not sure. It feels like you’re falling forward, and it’s everything to claw for purchase against whoever’s closest as Savage rolls his hips. The ground swirls below you, the sudden vertigo too much. You whimper. Everything shudders. 
“Brother,” Feral says. “Bring her here.”
You gasp as Savage lowers you, letting you descend almost to your knees, trying to crawl forward but slowed by the steady rhythm of his hips as he rolls his cock inside you. Touching everything. Working you open. 
Savage pulls out again, and you cry out when he spits, thumbing your ass as if its the last bit of innocence you have left and he wants to own it.
“Look at me, love,” Feral says.
Savage pushes in, and you’re so full for a second your eyes roll back and your mouth falls open.
“Kark,” Savage grunts. “Squeeze my cock.”
You don’t know how close he is. You don’t know if he’ll ever stop.
“I can’t —“ 
Everything’s raw. This is a losing battle. 
“You can,” Feral promises. 
That half-sly grin Feral wears is so sure of everything when he cups your face; when he pushes back your hair and brushes out some of the debris with his fingers.
He leans in, nipping at your lower lip so tenderly you moan for him. It’s a breathy sound as Savage continues, rocking you against his hips, his knees keeping your legs pinned. You take every inch, eyes tearing from the heavy slap of his balls against your clit. 
It’s good, even when he pulls out to tap your cunt — slapping it a little while he works your ass into submission. 
“Oh stars —“
You could touch them, you’re so close to that fathomless dark.
“Focus on me,” Feral murmurs, on his knees and dipping in to taste you. He sucks your upper lip into his mouth, leaving you straining for his shoulders to hold onto as he smiles into the kiss. 
Savage grunts, pulling you back onto him like its a competition for your attention. And even fucking you with one finger, he’s still winding you higher. 
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Feral asks, and he’s right: his tongue in your mouth leaves you with the lightest trace of smoke and sweet, filling you in a way that’s more tender than the moment affords.
“We’re just going to fill you up; make you forget everything but the feeling. Make sure you never want for anything.” 
Savage growls something, his restrained thrusts growing a little more forceful.
“We’ll take care of everything, just as long as you remember —“ Feral kisses your cheek; the corner of your mouth as Savage’s movements turn sharper. “You belong to us.”
Savage grunts. “Now, brother.”
He rises, your chin in the cup of Feral’s hand an invitation. 
“Open,” he murmurs, the fastenings of his trousers loosened to free his length.
You blink up at him, your lips already parted as Feral’s cockhead brushes your lips. 
Eyes darkened, amusement glitters. Maul watches, hungry still.
“Don’t go soft on me, Opress,” you manage, staring up at him. 
“I promise,” Feral whispers, “you’ll love this.”
There’s no preamble when he slides in so deep in a single thrust that you choke. He chuckles, stroking your face.
“I’m going to fuck that bitchy little mouth, now,” like he’s been waiting for this moment since you first started running your lips after dinner — a what’s for and comeuppance for every bratty thing you spat at him. Feral pauses to get a better grip on your hair. 
“And you’re doing to swallow it.”
You gurgle around him, the salt and musk sweetness of his skin delicious as Feral starts moving against your tongue. His breathing clicks, and you loosen a little as his cockhead brushes the back of your throat, and again, pushing deeper. 
Feral groans, and for a second he holds you against him, your nose against his pubis, and you just drool on him and down your chin.
“That’s good.”
“Hold her, brother,” Savage murmurs, and then they’re both fucking you in tandem.
It takes less than thirty seconds, the pulsing heat of Savage spilling inside you as hot as the cum that paints your ass when he pulls out, his thumb with it. You buck on him when he gives you his fingers, curling inside you so you have something to come on when Feral spurts down your throat, rasping a harsh command to, “Swallow,” that your addled brain obeys, tonguing the underside as if you can drain every drop from him.
You’re still coming on Savage’s fingers, the ache of it mingled with exhaustion; throat raw and voice rasping as Feral withdraws only to tip your face backwards. 
There are teeth on your shoulder: Savage’s, worrying a little mark into your skin that hurts less than Maul’s bite, and Feral’s fingers soothe the edges of your breasts as he tastes his own spend in your kiss.
“Mark her, brother,” Savage tells him. 
And you hiss as you’re handled, pulled into strong arms as Feral licks at the juncture between thigh and hip, putting a nip into you too like a final punctuation mark on your evening.
The forest falls quiet as everyone exchanges glances, smiles between them, and you too — limp in Savage’s arms and grinning.
“How was that, darling?” Maul asks from his vantage point against a nearby tree, his arms folded, gaze smouldering. 
You kick your legs a little, glancing down at yourself: covered in their marks and their juices, and giggling. Sated and ready to be bathed, cradled between them for a good rest after they tend to your bruises.
Your body is a ruin, you couldn’t possibly come again, but oh — you grin — it was worth it.
“Next time,” you suggest, winking, “maybe I do the chasing.”
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dreamy-lion · 9 months
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