Mauliebers United!

How... Colorful

Last update
2022-01-22 14:48:39

    So, before I lock myself up in Horny Jail, I’m a gal suffering from a condition called

    ✨🍒🍈 TITTIES 🍈🍒✨ (or Ti(DDD)ies, if you will)

    …which got me thinking…how do you think the boys would feel about titty fucking? Or playing with their partner’s tits, in general? (If their partner has breasts, that is. 😅)

    So, before I lock myself up in Horny Jail, I’m a gal suffering from a condition called

    ✨🍒🍈 TITTIES 🍈🍒✨ (or Ti(DDD)ies, if you will)

    …which got me thinking…how do you think the boys would feel about titty fucking? Or playing with their partner’s tits, in general? (If their partner has breasts, that is. 😅)

    *slaps desk* Throw away the key.

    Are we talking about big, beautiful breasts tonight? Am I gonna get this little fucko blog flagged for filth? I'm sure as hell gonna try.

    This is gonna be messy. Let's bonk those baps and smear reader's chin with some Zabrak goo.

    AFAB Fem Reader, she/her pronouns, filthy mcnasty beneath the cut. Just dirty.

    CW: A little degradation. A little D/s. A little hair pulling. A little biting. A little pain play. A lot of lube (oil play.)

    Feral: Is fond of fucking you six ways from Zhellsday, I mean come on. He'll try to shove as much as one breast into his mouth for fun while he fingers you, just to get you arching your head back -- just to get you to expose your throat because that kind of submissive gesture gets him off so hard. He'd devour you if he could. Flip the position, and he likes to squeeze them when the slap slap slap of his hips against your ass sets a rhythm between your pants and pleas and your cheek is pressed up against a wall. He's especially fond of smearing them with your own juices, worrying your nipples between his teeth, then soothing them with his tongue. In the aftermath, he'll wrap his body around you, nestling right up between them because they "make perfect pillows" and since his horns are worn short, it's not so concerning that he likes to spend time so close to your heart.

    Savage: Oh, our big boy. Tells you to play with them first as he wets his cock with lubricating oils. He likes watching you knead your breasts in your hands, seated before him with your legs spread a little so the curl of your scent can float up to him. He likes telling you what to do: push them together, pull on your nipples, lift them up a little so he can pour a little warming solvent on your body so he can watch you rub it in. He loves seeing your skin glisten, and he loves the silky, soft feel of your tits as he rests his cock against them before you can engulf him. He's hard, and he's big, and every ripple of his ridges is like fire when he starts fucking you like this -- the jut of the tip poking out between your breasts as you hold them vicelike on either side of him -- that darkened, shiny knob leaking as he sinks a hand into your hair to pull your head back and he tells you to open your mouth -- as he tells you he wants you to catch every drop when he comes. You're leaving a wet spot on the sheets, and your eyes practically roll back as his hips start to stutter, but so help you: you open wide, and extend your tongue. You never loosen your grip on your tits.

    Maul: You wear his bruises with pride. There are bite marks, too: little ones, and big ones, and tender spots where he's sucked on your flesh too hard to get a breathy reaction or a moan. He's spent hours working you over, trying to find out what does it for you, and if you can come just from him playing with them. He's learned that a little pain -- a small twist, a little pinch, and a little reprimand with a swat to the side of them can bring you back in line if you start squirming. He's especially fond of soothing you afterwards -- caressing them with his fingertips, or massaging them with his tongue to ease a particularly nasty sting. He's training you, too: a fact you're all too familiar with when the pain bleeds into pleasure and he brings you off harder than you've ever come before. You'll still be stolen, and you'll still be tender later -- refusing anti-inflammatories will do that -- but you'll feel his touch every time your nipples brush your clothes. You'll remember the way the tips of his claws pressed into your soft flesh; how he razed circles around your areolas as if making silent threats; how he took your nipples between his teeth as he fucked you slowly into oblivion and all you could see for a time was red and black and pleasure.

    A Darth Maul Punk Rock AU: Headcanons for "The Mixtape"

    Just setting up for another fic.

    - It takes him a minimum of fifteen minutes to lace up his boots every time he puts them on, and since they’re the only ones he’ll wear, you’ve just gotta wait him out.

    - He wears his jeans off his hips under a heavy, studded belt. If he lifts his arms, you’ll get an eyefull of stomach and hipbones and sex lines, and a smug smirk if he catches you staring.

    - He's tattooed from toe to tip, but the only thing he ever says about the marks is that his brother did the work when he was small. When you ask him what they all mean, he only says, "They're so I don't forget where I came from."

    - His leather jacket is patched with black and white screen-printed badges from bands you’ve probably never heard of. He’s been to every show. That jacket is like armour, and not because of the studs screwed into the shoulders and lapels. They’re no worse than his horns, but still you feel a strong sense of being protected when he tosses it over your shoulders too casually on those occasions when you get chilly.

    - The jacket smells like him, and it’s always warmed from his body heat. It’s not a nice scent — he hardly ever takes the thing off — so beneath the clove and musk scent of his skin, there’s cigarette smoke and late nights and that shitty stale dive bar smell that clings to the leather. It’s perfect in how imperfect it is: stitched together and a little roughed up — just like him.

    - He plays three chords and complains every time his mic gives off static. Of course he’s in a band. No, he’ll never sell out. He’s seen what money does to music. He knows how alluring the prospect of selling his soul is for power: Ask him about the time he almost signed to Dark Side Records, and he’ll shut down — gets this darksome look in his eye whenever someone mentions that manager he worked with… Sid? You think that’s what the guy’s name was. Maul doesn’t like talking about it, but you know those music industry types are fickle, and you know Sid eventually moved on to the next big thing. Some kid named Skywalker, last you heard…

    - The person he becomes at a show is not someone you ever want to tangle with. Every hurt, every failure, every bit of rage needs to go somewhere and he either brings it to the stage, or he lets it out in the pit. He’s like a gladiator in there: relentless, vicious, fuelled entirely by hatred for a system that he understands but can never topple -- an evil empire, set on keeping him down. You think he might've been different when he was younger, but the Maul you met that night on the street corner outside the bar with his bloody knuckles and bleeding lip shot you a grin that was all predatory satisfaction -- that wasn't what caught your attention, though: whatever roiling, burning, consumptive thing inside him that lit hit eyes like that? That was how you knew he was different; someone to fear and admire... someone you couldn't help find yourself drawn to.

    - He's most protective of his brothers, as they're all he has left of his family. Sure, he's got a few friends -- the guys in the band and the others who hang around the ramshackle, rundown Opress house... but he's fiercest about Savage and Feral, and living practically on top of each other like they do, they've got their own rhythms. They mostly make rent, too, and there's always beer in the fridge and a stereo that crackles when the volume gets turned up too loud and no one much cares about the cracks in the walls. They get by. They look after their own.

    - He hates his job almost to the point where that you worry he might go full guerrilla on the breakfast buffet if he has to wake up one more morning at five a.m. to work the griddle. It pays the bills. It's honest, knuckle-down work, even if it's not glamorous and even if he'll come home smelling like cooking grease... even if he wears the stains on his undershirts like they're a badge of pride. He's got burns on his hands from it, but not the scars... those, you think, have come from someplace else he doesn't like to talk about.

    - The rivalry between him and Kenobi is a thing of legend. Some say the point of origin was a battle of the bands type deal, and that they were there to see it happen: Kenobi shoved Maul off the stage when Maul got in his face when The Jedi Knight's set ran too long, and Maul struck the safety rail on the way down. All you know is that it cost him much more than the use of his legs for a summer, and that the price of the surgery to fix him up landed him with medical debt and a lifetime shackled to the griddle at Dex's Diner.

    - He sleeps with his mattress directly on the floor, no box spring, cinderblock for a bedside table. He keeps paperbacks around. Maybe too many of them. He's a reader, and you suspect the newspapers he's used like curtains have been thoroughly read too. There's an amp in the corner. It's a spartan room, which he says is fine: he doesn't care about stuff. He doesn't need possessions. Maul's got other preoccupations, and when you sit on the floor with him and he picks up his guitar to play for you, you can understand why... he fills his life with things that are more important to him: his music.

    - You'll never hear it from him, directly -- maybe it's Feral or the girl Feral's not-dating, home from school for the summer, who tells you quietly about the cassette tape they found in Feral's car that once belonged him. It's got ten songs on it, from ten different bands, and you have to listen to it to really, truly understand why it is that after all this time, Maul hasn't kissed you yet. There were moments; hell, there were opportunities where the tension got so thick that you thought that maybe... but never. He's never even touched you. Not like that. But then you listened to the tape for the first time, sitting with your knees up under your chin in the Opress brothers' living room, you realized that you'd been going about it all wrong:

    - Maul has only ever needed someone to understand him: someone who operates on the same beats per minute, who can decipher his nervous habits under the tinny of a high hat and the rattle of a snare drum; someone who can hear the beat of his hearts in everything he does -- every ache, and every longing, and every pain offered up on a melody that you've been listening to the whole time you've shared his company but never really heard...

    But Maul's like a song you're never really able to get out of your head once you've heard it the first time, so you just keep hitting rewind whenever you think you're getting to the end. You can never get enough of him either.

    A/N: … *heavy breathing*… my mind is mush, and it’s all maul’s fault, therefore i have rights to kill him. 😤

    (this all spawned from the scene we got of him in solo btdubs lmao)

    hope you enjoy! 💗

    Sugar daddy Darth Maul headcanons 😳🙈

  • Probably the last person you would ever expect to dip into the whole “sugar daddy” business/lifestyle, but hey, Maul’s living lavish, strapped with cash, and likes to fuck, so who’s blaming him?
  • At first, he has multiple sugar babies, men and women and all of the above that he’s met at cantinas, clubs, the like. He likes taking on people who speak to him, often having a character trait/s that make them unique and desirable in his eye. Call it having a bit of a collector’s complex, but Maul finds beauty and rarity in things that are exquisite. That’s where you come in…
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    This amazing piece of awesomeness was commissioned from the incredible @space-b33!!


    I am in love with the colour, the contrast and the GLOWY. The details are incredible and I adore it. The hair, the face, the outfits, the amulet and the tatoos... I am DECEASED with love for this piece.

    Anyone not already aware, this is a commission of my character from A Prince of Dathomir and holy moly it looks incredible. Please throw love at space-b33 because they are just brilliant. I nearly cried when I saw this the first time.