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thenightmarketofdathomir · 2 months

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O Wishmonger, Herald of Dathomir, you honor us again with your generosity and wisdom. To begin, I beseech thee - how shall our Brothers Three greet their dearly beloved ones after so long a time away? A reunion is long overdue. <3

I couldn't agree more.

Pairings: Feral x Reader (f!), Savage Opress x Reader (f!), Darth Maul x Reader (f!) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Somno (cnc), oral (receiving) size difference, p in v, collaring, D/s, power dynamics, exhibitionism, references to BDSM, marking/possession

Feral: Hugging your pillow, deep in dreams of your lover whom you haven't seen in so many moonsets, you don't feel the shimmersilk sheets slipping from your legs, but you remember that slanted grin and the way his eyes darken when he eases himself between your legs. The dream is so convincing, you can almost feel the heat of his mouth against your slit, easing you open with a kiss and the gentle stretch of your legs to avoid his horns -- and he holds you there, suckling at your clit, his tongue exploring as if to remap the secrets of your body. Too many nights away let the imagination run wild, but even lucid and dreaming, the gravel in his laughter is so convincing you nestle into the fantasy of his body behind yours, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress when he kisses up your spine, the gentle grip on your wrists easy because you're still limp and murmuring his name into the mattress. Your body clenches, empty and wanting, but his murmured, "I missed how wet you get for me," draws out a shiver and a roll of your hips to fit that heavy, hard rod of durasteel sinking into your cunt -- one tender ridge at a time to fill you up. "There you go, love," Feral says, his shallow thrusts easing you from slumber and into his arms, already tightening with the promise of pleasures delivered with the swivel of his hips. "Right back where you belong."

Savage: He's never looked more severe than when he's covered in gore, fresh from his mission with his eyes flashing. It occurs to you he hasn't bothered with his debriefing -- that his ship's been abandoned at the landing paddock and that every stone stair on the way up the Peak is just a mild inconvenience for someone who takes them three at a time on a good day. He looks pissed. He looks determined. And nothing -- and no one -- is getting in his way when his gaze locks on yours. It's a strange feeling, after having missed him so long, that your first inclination is to shrink. "Forgive me," he says when he reaches you, but the words are garbled and the next thing you know, your legs are swinging out from under you. The vein in his neck is throbbing, and outwardly, he looks pissed -- a warning, but not for you while he carries you away, clinging to those broad shoulders, fully aware that had you protested, you might've gone over his shoulder instead. He practically kicks open the doors to your shared quarters, the guard hastening to lock you away. "I need three full days," he explains. "Uninterrupted." He's shaking as he sets you to your feet, his hands uncertain of what to grab first, because there's a violence to his desperation that frightens him. So you step into him. Unfasten his armour. Press yourself into his skin when he groans and collapses into the edge of the bed where he remembers he can touch you without causing damage -- you take his hands. Place them where you want them: your breast, your hip, the swell of your ass, your thigh. He shakes less, but the look he wears is hungry. You remind him with your kisses that he can ease him; that you felt the same.

Maul: Lord Maul never leaves his toys unattended. He brings them with him -- his consort, his Queen marked with a tiny gold chain falling across so much black satin that it looks like a necklace, but you know, even standing behind him, that it's a sign of possession. Absolute authority. Control over the things he fears losing the most -- not his autonomy, but yours, because you chose him, and you chose this expression of your devotion: a little gold half-crescent, the suns doubled upon each other, worn around the neck. His symbol. His brand, like the bruises on your thighs from his powerful fingers, or the raw, wet feeling of his spend between your legs -- the fervour of his desire to drown you in pleasure hidden across your body beneath the long elegant train of your gowns and the expertly tailored bodices. Lord Maul is an overachiever. A perfectionist. A magician whose wonders are woven into stolen moments with your back bent over the balustrades and your legs around his neck. It's dizzying, to know you're so thoroughly claimed -- so desired that he refuses to be parted from you, because the part of you that worships him in return offers in exchange the one thing he most desires: the panted, exhausted whisper of his name from your lips like a prayer to some long forgotten creature, elevated to godliness with the offering of your love, your devotion, your body.

#Darth Maul #Feral Opress #Savage Opress #Darth Maul x Reader #Darth Maul x You #Savage Opress x Reader #Savage Opress x You #Feral Opress x Reader #Feral Opress x You #Darth Maul Smut #Savage Opress Smut #Feral Opress Smut #spicy

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controversial-blorbo-bracket · 8 months

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Controversial Character Tournament Round 2: Kromer from Limbus Company vs Anders from Dragon Age 2

(remember that these characters are fictional and your fellow tumblr users are real. please be normal in the notes, i will not hesitate to block if you harass people)

Propaganda under the cut:

Kromer:

HATE: - "Nasty, scrungly, murders people for having advanced prosthetics, but yet the fandom still loves her, I will never understand that"

Anders:

LOVE: - "So Anders blew up a chantry as a symbol of mage rights. He's wild. Completely feral. I love him so much. He's canonically Bipolar (like me) but it's written in the worst possible way. He is possessed by a demon, technically. He's so unhinged. So many people hate him. He is technically a terrorist. The later game literally changed it so even if you agreed with him, no you didn't" - "hes SOOOOOO." - "He has a controversy page on wikipedia (It is not about that time he blew up a church). He likes cats. He gives poor people free magic healthcare. There is so much discourse about him all the time. His writer hated him. He escaped a cult. He's canon bipolar AND bisexual. He's possessed by a spirit of Justice (who rocks so hard.) He hates the Catholic Church. He lives in a sewer. He's really mean and petty. He was put in solitary for a solid year. He's one of two openly queer (i.e. mentioning it outside player romance) companions (the other being Isabela Dragonage) in his main game. Anders isn't even his birthname, it's a nickname given because he didn't speak for months when he got taken to the Catholic cult prison at 12. He drank long-lasting poison to fight an evil corrupting force because he wanted to not be murdered or have all his emotions lobotomied from him by the Catholic church prison guards (This is almost completely unrelated to the possession.)" - "Anders! He's a medic for those too poor to afford healthcare! He loves cats! He has a cat named Ser Pounce-a-Lot because he's a perfect man. Anders absolutely says ACAB, except in DA2 it's ATAB: All Templars Are Bastards. He's canonically bi! He runs an underground railroad-type deal for mages to escape from abusive institutions! He blew up the in-universe Catholic church for opressing his people (mages)! Some say this makes him a terrorist. I say this makes him a babe ❤️❤️❤️ He is unreasonably mean to Fenris, but imo that's just Bad Writing we can handwave away ok? ok. cool." - "there is a controversy section on his wiki page bc his bisexual ass made the straight male gamers angry by flirting with their characters. ppl in the fandom have also been arguing nonstop for 12 years abt his actions at the end of da2. do u want to go to anders discourse? too bad we're going to anders discourse."

BOTH: - "I really liked Anders in Dragon Age Awakening, I thought he was fun and funny, but he's insufferable in da2 and his fans and apologists are so annoying. He's a terrible person in that game and they have to make stuff up and ignore all the awful stuff he says and does. He's so awful I always kill him at the end of the game because I hate what he became."

#poll #round 2 #kromer #limbus company #kromer lcb #anders #anders da2 #anders dragon age #dragon age #da2 #1 submission #6 submissions

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irenadel · 9 months

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Fear Leads the Way

Darth Maul x Reader Filthy porn ahead, Darth Maul and Savage Opress and Reader, eventual pseudo-threesome, but only sexy cuddles for Savage because he's got The Trauma, eventual robodick but right now we're dealing only with Ken Doll Maul. Therefore: TRIGGER WARNING TALK OF AMPUTATION AND LIMB LOSS. Nothing detailed but you have been warned. Chapter 1 of Force knows how many.

It was true what they said, that wild animals were more often afraid of you, than you of them.

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 1

It had begun out of wariness. And Maul’s always short temper when his decisions were questioned, especially decisions he wasn’t entirely confident in. If it bothers you so much, he had snapped at his brother, stay and stand guard. That was usually how it went with Maul and Savage. Shut up and stand guard, was the principle through which they both operated most of the time. Savage seldom objected because he did, always, on some level, want to keep an eye on his brother. It eased some ache within him he did not even want to think about.

And for all his snarling and protests, Maul would agree. It was always better when Savage stood guard. Better strategy. More firepower. Safer.

(Less lonely)

You did not seem to share the brothers’ enthusiasm for a rear guard. At least not in this particular situation.

You had said nothing, though. You weren’t in the habit of questioning Lord Maul of the Shadow Collective and Maul, in turn, often ignored the degree to which you were always still a little terrified of him. You’d been snatched off the streets of Nar Shaddaa to work your magic on Lord Maul’s cybernetics. A present meant to court favor. A trifling bauble. A girl too afraid to do much more than her job for a long time. When he didn’t pointedly ignore it, he spent considerable time and effort convincing himself it was just right and proper that you should be afraid of the sith lord who ruled your life.

But it hadn’t been easy in this particular case.

It had been a mistake, a sign of weakness, Maul decided, to let himself grow used to the certainty of your touch. It had begun with the strong, firm hands you had ran over the tender places between where his cybernetics ended and his flesh began. It had gone beyond anything he should have ever allowed when, still cowed and unsure, but in that moment somehow fearless, you had uttered words like prosthetic genital replacement, sensory recovery, advances in brain and limb nerve arrays. He should have beheaded you then and there. Nipped this in the bud and sealed it with your blood.

Instead he had let you talk to him about the nerve endings of his forearms, still very much alive and intact to feel the tips of your fingers ghosting over them. He had let you stutter about flesh grafts and possibilities, illustrating each suggestion with a tentative touch. He had let you take a traitorous hand to the soft, vulnerable skin of his ears, its sheer sensitivity forgotten years after that initial reckless vanity that had made him pierce them.

There had been a shame and wariness in you he had not understood and then that impossible, naked audacity that had brought your questing fingers to his lips, to his chest, to a hard and aching nipple you had ministered to with nails and tongue and teeth. And then you had been impossible to contain. Because the same knowledge that had made your work on his cybernetics invaluable, had let you crumble him apart like clay. He’d let you press the heel of your hand to the back of his neck that day, the skin on his shoulder blades suddenly, uncomfortably alive, eager to be touched because it had never been touched with tenderness, with pleasure instead of pain.

You had tried to flee him that day, having stepped over a boundary that had never existed between coerced attendant and frightening patient. And he’d snatched you back with one awful, terrible gesture of his impossibly strong arm and you had stayed there, precariously hanging off his body. A body that had seemed so fragile a second ago and now stood horrifyingly solid underneath your hands.

Savage had been there too, as always, watching his brother’s back whenever a vulnerable position demanded it. But Maul had been too focused on the warm proximity of your body and the sudden overpowering aroma of your sweat and arousal, to pay attention to his looming baleful figure. You had not. You had watched with increasing wariness as the tendons on his neck had stood out in stress and horror, monstrously thick and powerful like starship cables. His angry glare had narrowed the moment he’d heard his brother’s first pained noise: a low, deep keening against your neck.

And you had feared, not without reason, that Savage could have killed you then and there. Could’ve used the Force to shake the life off you and thrown you against the wall like an abused ragdoll. You’d watched both of the brothers and knew them capable of that and worse… but for Maul’s second pained noise: a ragged, impossible please against your lips. You had not cared for death in that second, forgotten in the heady realization of what your patient needed, of the whole, absurd, delicious horror of it. Your responsibility to him, your fear of and desire for him, his furious brother watching…

Let him watch, you decided recklessly.

You’d kissed Maul then, after a furtive whisper on the erogenous quality of mouths and he had responded so immediately, so hungrily that you had forgotten about anything else. You had kissed him and he’d almost made you come solely with his mouth on yours, just through his single-focused, aggressive pursuit of the taste of your pleasure, thick in your mouth, gums and tongue.

Savage had not killed you that day, but he had insisted on talking to his brother afterwards. He, so often conciliatory and willing to let things go, had argued with a Maul still half swimming in the hitherto undiscovered waters of sexual desire, that there were things he needed to learn. It had almost been a fight like the one they’d had about zabrak horns and oil and overbathing. Maul being so used to dry, flakey skin and the certainty that if it had been important, Darth Sidious would have informed him, had refused to change his grooming habits for months.

This time Savage insisted.

“It’s just the pheromones,” he’d said to his brother. “Get rid of her.”

There were things said between them about the Nightsisters, about Nightbrothers that disappeared, with a grin instead of a grimace, things that sounded to Maul like superstitious bantha shit. You were not a Nightsister and he was a sith lord. He was in danger of nothing except perhaps getting distracted from his goals. He’d conceded that to Savage and had managed to keep away from you for a whole month, via sheer ornery pride.

It was your apology that got his attention that second time. He had stubbornly relegated you to background noise since the first incident. Haughtily ignored your anxious looks the way he had ignored every distraction Sidious had ever sent his way, pleased that it worked to mollify Savage as much as it had ever worked with his master. The dull ache of your work on his cybernetics was as easily dismissed as your stony silence while he talked to the other leaders of the Shadow Collective. When you had spoken up before he had cowed you into silence and, furious and tight-lipped, you had not repeated your mistake often.

“My lord,” you had said, choking on the honorific in a way you had not before you’d know the taste of Maul’s tongue. “This will hurt.”

He had clenched his teeth at your intrusion, attempted to overlook its impertinence and then been caught entirely unawares by your firm determination to be acknowledged.

“I’m sorry,” you had said, looking to meet his eyes, venom gone from your look and replaced with the half-fearful, half-softened gaze that had haunted his few moments of peace ever since you’d touched each other that day. You had worked unobtrusively before, as quick and thorough as you could and here you were, trying to get a go-ahead he had never required of you before. “Brace yourself.”

It was tiresome. It was unnecessary. He had known it was coming and had dismissed it, any recalibration of his cybernetics’ digestive aid always created a feedback loop not unlike quick but unrelenting bursts of abdominal cramps. He would have done it himself with help from Savage, but his brother was away, dealing with an upstart Hutt rebellion and he’d had no time to spare for shutting down individual systems so he could bear the agony while working on the whole thing. It was easier to channel that pain towards cowing unruly underlings. Intimidation did not require the razor sharp focus of mechanical work.

Except now. Now he was uncomfortably aware of the careful, slow quality of your work, of your hands where he couldn’t feel them. The cramps lasted a second and then you proceeded. Now, he was annoyingly, half-attentive at all times of what you were doing, figuring out what you were turning off and bypassing at every turn to make sure to keep the pain at a minimum while working… wondering when you would actually touch him.

It was maddening, a karking waste of time.

He’d hissed at you to get on with it, nevermind the cramps, but still been unable to regain focus on the strategy at hand. He’d been forced to dismiss everyone with a snarl, and stared you down, afraid again, unsure again, but still holding his gaze.

Get to work, he’d meant to snap at you.

Stop staring at me, would have worked as well.

Instead, he’d let the small, childish voice inside him, always wary, always ready to fear the worse, but still indomitably willing to risk punishment for the taste of something sweet, request what he hadn’t even known he wanted a moment ago.

“Touch my back.”

Again.

No, not a request, a desperate wail that came out like an order growled through gritted teeth.

You’d let out a breath you hadn’t meant to hold and Maul was inundated by the overpowering stench of your desire, his mouth watering at the thought. Immediately, it conjured phantom sensations, reminding Maul of his own, of the furtive times of his apprenticeship when he’d been terrified and young and burning so badly he’d risked touching himself just to keep desire at bay. Savage had said something about manhood and Nightsister rituals and Maul being lucky to have forgotten what prickling, overwhelming, unquenchable need felt like before he’d met a woman who could use it against him. To have had that safely amputated with his legs and all the rest, stolen from him, put away where he couldn’t reach it.

Maul didn’t feel lucky. He didn’t feel safe or as serenely removed from his own furious, adolescent loneliness as he had before. He felt adrift like he had then, desperate, ready to force you to touch him if you would not do it willingly. But when you capitulated it didn’t feel like that either.

It was worse.

He’d let out a shameful, agonized cry, nearly a sob, because your hands on his back were gentle, were careful, were good. No one ever touched him there, in the center of his back, a place he seldom reached for, which seldom required maintenance or thought. And now it was alive under your hands, sweet stars, under your lips which had immediately, no hesitation, sought out his burning skin and he could almost remember what it had been like to climax, unexpectedly, horrifically and absolutely unprepared for it, when he had been young and angry and unaware of what he had. Except he had been alone then and you were here now, your lips pressed to the place where his shoulder blades met, your hands holding his throat so tenderly it hurt, your own panting frantic because you wanted him and he knew it, just like Savage had said (warned) he would. And he had no control of it, just wanting and wanting and hunger, and surely, surely that was enough, that was sithly, because it did taste like the Dark Side, tacky and thick and slow like burnt molasses, when he turned on you and pinned you down so he could rut in between your legs, grinding a sensationless codpiece against the juncture of your thighs, so deeply frustrated the Force crushed the door of the meeting room to echo him.

You held him against it, did not let him lose the thread of this impossible, horrible desire, as you struggled out of your work jumpsuit, wrapped your legs and arms around him and whispered soft, filthy encouragement in his ear.

“Please oh, please, please, please,” you’d said so quietly he felt it more than heard it, your warm, humid breath making him shudder. He hadn’t known how much he would need your eager, ready submission. How good it would feel to hear you acquiesce, hear you surrender, hear you beg. “I can’t,” you’d stuttered, as much at a loss as he. “I’m so wet for you, please, talk to me, I’m so close, talk to me and make me come.”

That he could feel, not against the gaping absence where his genitals had been once, but desperately snaking a hand between your bodies, your wetness soaking through the leather of his gloves, nostrils suddenly flooded with the stinging, musky aroma of your sopping sex. He would have dived between your legs, would have devoured the source of his distraction, gotten rid of this shameful weakness and run you throw with his lightsaber for good measure, but you held him and all he could do was obey your sweet, keening moans, as gone as he, your own nipples fervently pressing against his chest, your mouth warm and soft against the tender skin behind his ear, your nails scratching that terrible, wonderful spot at the center of his back. And he was rutting against you again, grinding and almost feeling it, whispering his own fervent filth, because it helped coalesce the stabs of want, just like you said it would, diffused as they were all over the remains of his body. It helped to tell you he was your lord and master and have you desperately agree. It helped to hold you down as he was pumping his codpiece against your wet, eager core, to squeeze your throat and tell you, nothing explicit because he knew so little of it, but what he wanted of you, what he felt you were doing to him, return it a thousandfold because you deserved it, for teaching him to want this, to need it, to cling to it like he had clinged to life and breath when he was a child and Sidious was killing him slowly.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he’d growled at your throat, a promise of payback, a threat. And you were coming and he was hearing you come and he could almost feel it himself, dizzy and bright painful white like combat meditation. He didn’t know if it had been like that before Lotho Minor, before Naboo, before Kenobi, but it was like this now and he was swimming in the white, hot-searing nothingness of it, of your moans, of your smell and your wetness and you were his, his, his, like his lightsaber, like his destiny, like Savage and it was a freefall, as terrifying a freefall as any possession had ever been for Maul, something to cherish always becoming something you could lose.

#darth maul x reader #star wars #darth maul smut #TW: Limb Loss Talk #TW: Amputation #savage x reader if you squint eventually #kendoll darth maul for the time being #eventual robodick #my writing #iresmut #fear leads the way

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that-angry-noldo · 6 months

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for @actual-bill-potts - happy birthday beloved <3 you're an amazing friend and i'm glad to know you. please accept this offering of finrod having some extremely awful time (as frankie said, "it wouldn't truly be an oswinry birthday celebration if we didn't give her some finrod torture")

i hope you enjoy!!

cw: rape, torture

The only thing Finrod wishes for is the release of death—but his spirit can only beat his wings at the cage of his own body like a wild bird trapped and scared, unable to flee and forced to stay, aware of every wicked thing Gorthaur subjects him too.

Finrod lies where Sauron left him, exhausted, dirty, filthy. Tears run down his cheeks and stain his face, and he tries to shut his mind, wishes desperately for his vision to go black. The room is dusty, the bed is old. Gorthaur is nowhere to be seen, though Finrod still feels his burning touch, still remembers the scorching heat of his spirit and lips.

He tries to forget.

Minutes pass by. Hours, maybe. The room is hot, and Finrod can no longer tell the warmth of the air from Sauron's opressing presence, can no longer separate the weariness of his own mind from Sauron's burning gaze. He tries. Of course, he does, there's too much at stake, too much that will be lost shall he give up—but giving up sounds so enticing he almost sobs.

Gorthaur is there, of course. Watching, looking, waiting for him to break. Finrod wants to hide away, to run. Gorthaur's thoughts brush at the edges of his mind, whispering, promising.

Wolf's teeth. Someone's scream—so many of them are gone Finrod cannot remember whose scream it is exactly, and he is not sure if that's guilt or relief or both that make him cry at the lack of memory—and only a few hours, only a few hours before the wolf comes once again.

Finrod knows his defences still hold, and he keeps them up despite Gorthaur's best efforts. For a second, he believes his tormentor will leave, will get angry, will lose control and throw him back into the cell to await his demise.

But no. Gorthaur does not retreat; the whisper only intensifies, before Finrod realises, again, that the heat around him is not heat but a Maia. He tries to pull away. It is useless.

It is touch that comes first. Touch at his calves and thighs, touch at his abdomen and waist. He counts, in between the sobs, in the brief moments when the whispers become less intense. There are too many hands. Too many fingertips. Gorthaur's face seems to hover just above his own, but Finrod never catches more than a glimpse; Gorthaur's eyes stare right into his soul, but where they should be, Finrod sees nothing at all.

Finrod cries. Gorthaur kisses his tears, and they hiss on the scorching heat. Finrod's skin bristles. He tries to scream, but no sound leaves his mouth.

His lips burn next. At that, Finrod does scream, but the sound comes muffled. Too many hands, too many hands pin him down, keep his wrists pressed to the bed, press at his throat, choke him, burn him away. His lips are still aflame. The flame is still inside him, on his tongue, within his mouth, but he cannot scream. Cannot breathe. Cannot-

He cries, and his tears are unbearably hot on his face.

The whispers around his mind offer an exit; offer an escape. Just show where to go. Just show where to look. Finrod cannot escape, because he is trapped, because the hands are keeping him down and the flame is burning him alive. Finrod can escape, if only he does what he is told, if only he wishes hard enough for the fire to stop.

You should have wished harder, the whispers mock him as he sobs. Clearly, you want this too much.

Finrod does not. Finrod wishes-

It does not matter as he is torn apart, does not matter as he becomes pure, white, burning flame. He screams. Of course, he does; and this time, Sauron lets him scream all he wants, as he burns him to ash again, and again, and again.

#finrod #sauron #tw rape #tw torture #silm fic

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