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thenightmarketofdathomir · 9 days

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Oh Wishmonger, it’s such a honor to see you again!

I’m been thinking a lot about rituals. Spicy rituals too, of course, but rituals of any kind, ancient Sithly thingies and modern Dathomiri ones, and brothers learning forbidden magic on the sly, stealing knowledge and maybe teaching it too!

“I am hunting something, and in turn that same thing is hunting me, the beholder; the hold beyond. I am the line between. I am the teeth of God.”

- Sleep Token

Here you are, my dear.

(Please Note: Another post will follow with the fic's details. It's been submitted as its own entry to Ao3, largely because the total word count ended just under six thousand. While not a dark/taboo per se, I would caution anyone moving forward to pay close attention to the notes and tags as there are some elements that may be triggering.)

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thenightmarketofdathomir · 15 days

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Oh great Wishmonger - I'm curious. What were the bros like when pursuing an intended mate when they were just starting out? Before Savage was magically enhanced? Before Maul's fall on Naboo? Before Feral had his first kiss? Not necessarily a first time in bed - just how did they show interest Before the galaxy cruelly shaped them into their deadliest selves?

I struggled with this one a bit, I'll be honest, anon -- I try to respond to the fantasy often but there are occasions where the headcanon is so strong that it sometimes makes it prohibitive.

Permit me to explain myself, and apologies if this wasn't what you were hoping for:

I think "mate" is a very strong term that imparts significance to a zabrak's chosen partner -- not to serve some biological imperative, because it's free of sex or gender -- but because it implies a connection that's deeper than boyfriend/girlfriend/significant other/partner/wife/husband/in singular or plural. A "mate" is someone to whom their soul is connected. It's forever.

Given what we know of Maul's upbringing under Sidious, even and especially if we considered Wrath as canon, he would not have had that opportunity. His Master's Grand Plan was too deeply inculcated. He had a purpose and he was forged for that mission alone -- and even if he had met his soul's connection in some dingy alley in the depths of an ecumenopolis somewhere, or on a prison satellite, or at an auction where he might've met his enemy for the first time, or top of a reactor shaft where he nearly lost his life... he wouldn't have recognized that flicker between him and another being that sparked recognition, and if he did, he wouldn't know what it meant. The don't call it "the Tragedy of Darth Maul" for nothing.

As for Savage and Feral, selecting a mate wasn't an option for them. They were chosen by Nightsisters as breeding stock, their candidacy determined through brutal Selection to determine the most viable Nightbrother partners. (I don't like the Nightsisters much for various reasons, but this is definitely one of them.) If we assume that Nightbrothers had any agency whatsoever, their relationships were with each other, and those connections were fleeting, given the precedent. I don't think many Nightbrothers had the opportunity to pair off with their hearts' chosen, and if they were among the clans, then the risk of losing them because of the Nightsisters government is practically a given. And I don't want to think about what it means for two people to be torn apart like that. (I mean, yes I do because the side of my work that I don't often share on this blog is driven by angst and I think there's a good story there, but it causes me pain when paired with Feral and Savage in particular, and I will fiercely protect their hearts from anyone who tries to break them.)

"But what if they could?" you're asking. "What if we re-wrote the history completely?"

Fine, then. Have it your way.

Feral would likely do something outlandish, like carving your name into the bare patch of skin over his hearts with diluted hydraatis acid to declare how very serious he is about courting you

Savage would come by your hut every day, morning, noon, and night to escort you everywhere so everyone in the village understands his claim, bringing you little trinkets that he's made for you. It's a task because you know he was keeping one eye on his little brother (doing stupid things with corrosive materials, as previously mentioned.)

Maul will drop the carcass of your enemies on your doorstep to prove his commitment and declare his intentions towards you. The bigger and more deadly they are, the greater his sentiments.

#darth maul #savage opress #feral opress #nightbrother headcanons #darth maul headcanons #savage opress headcanons #feral opress headcanons #darth maul x you #savage opress x you #feral opress x you #feral (star wars)#the night market of dathomir #darth maul x reader #savage opress x reader #feral opress x reader #feral (star wars) x reader

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thenightmarketofdathomir · 17 days

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" I need three full days" had me 👀💦 mountain man take me by the hand! 😂

Oh my gosh and feral, the way you write him with that very natural rizz. I love it so much.

And maul. The way you write him is so deliciously dark and tempting. ❤️❤️❤️

I just hold my phone and swoon every time I read your work.

Compliments aren't necessary to get more work out of me, but occasionally it can be quite effective. Thanks for this.

A couple of scenarios I've thought about maybe a bit too much:

Three Brothers/Three Dates Pairings: Feral x Reader (gn), Savage Opress x Reader (gn), Maul x Reader (f!) Rating: Mature Warnings: Sexually suggestive/nothing explicit

Feral: Tell him something is forbidden and he'll make it his prerogative to investigate. He's not afraid to show you the former Nightsister Lair (boarded over), the broken altar (definitely off-limits), and the ring of tombs belonging to the former Mothers (decidedly not on the tourist brochure.) Says he'll keep you safe from the dark things that dwell beneath the mountain when he spreads out a romantic picnic, the light from the pools of ichor painting everything grey and green. Glow worms cling to the ceiling in the caves. It's quiet. It's private. It's just you two, alone in a place where only the bravest Nightbrothers bring their paramours for a little light necking. You nestle closer, certain he'll protect you, and you never mention a thing when he threads his fingers through yours -- even if they're sweating a little.

Savage: All about reviving Nightbrother culture in the aftermath of Maul's return. Traditionalist. Book of Shadows Thumper. Set on reclaiming everything that was lost "so that younger generations can learn from what we've endured." Knows every inch of Dathomir from the Dreaming River to the Whispering Caverns, up to the highest peaks where Gorgara once nested. Loves a stroll through places most treacherous -- the highest gorges, the steepest canyons -- mostly because he enjoys the feeling of your body pressed to his, breathless and dizzy from the view as you clutch at him. Savage likes holding your hand and helping you across the stones and broken trees that litter the forests, showing you the parts of his people's history that are still thriving despite all odds. It's part of him -- he says its transformative, and there's something magical in the way his firebright gaze catches the Domir's rays, overlooking it all with his arm around your waist. He sees Dathomir's potential. He believes in it with a fervour, and it's catching, because you can almost see his vision when he points out where he'll build your house someday -- right there in the valley of those mountains -- with his own two hands.

Maul: Has never been one for public displays, but like the shadow he is, the glide of his body around yours from engagement to conversation is a dance that leaves you dizzied with yearning for him -- and there's no question to whom you belong: he's never far, circling you like a binary star as the night's revels turn to enticements beyond the dining and the music and conversation. The syndicate presence on Dathomir offers many diversions, and it's not all work as one would have you believe. Evenings are for revelry as much as they are making new business dealings, enjoying the spoils of your efforts across the galaxy in secrecy. And he is the perfect consort: swathed in black fineries that reveal his Nightbrother markings. Long robes and a trim waist, and you are dressed to match him -- a subconscious effort to claim your place at his side, perhaps, but it's his penumbral presence that really stakes a claim. Those small gestures and possessive touches to your elbow, your shoulder, the small of your back as the night falls over the mountains are the most telling -- leaving you firebright with wanting when the graze of fingertips across your palm turn teasing, his breath on the back of your neck, his murmured promises for later when you'll be alone with him once more. No one dares interrupt your private tete a tetes between flutes of champagne, and yet everyone notices the way his gaze smoulders when he watches you take little sips of that sparkling liquid -- as if he knows intimately the feeling of such a tender press of flesh to something so cold and unyielding.

#if Feral's palms are sweating it's because of you.#get it? see what I did there? yup.#feral opress #feral opress x reader #feral orpess x you #feral (star wars)#feral (star wars) x reader #darth maul #savage opress #darth maul x reader #savage opress x reader #darth maul x you #maul x you #maul x reader

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thenightmarketofdathomir · 18 days

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This is my first time sending an ask. Not exactly a question, but I look forward to every update you do. Your works are so well written that it's like receiving an unexpected gift each time, and for that, I give thanks.

That's very kind of you. Many creators thrive on the engagement we get. We want to know that we've reached someone with whatever we've made and it's impacted them (the greatest hope, right? Someone "got" it, whatever the "it" was) in some way. It encourages us to keep making things.

So getting notes like yours really do keep me fed.

Thank you for that.

#and i am a starving wretch #the wishmonger says #the night market of dathomir

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thenightmarketofdathomir · 19 days

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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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thenightmarketofdathomir · 19 days

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I woke from a strange dream. It seemed as if an age had passed -- that the dust gathered in the corners could not be swept off, even by those that trespassed. Indeed, I found footsteps crisscrossing the floors of my shop.

Dathomir is a strange place, my love. One never knows what creatures haunt the dark, nor what stumbles from the deepest places where, I fear, we so often abandon ourselves to those desires we dare not speak for fear of recrimination.

But I am lonely, and I wish you would whisper them to me once more.

So stir my soul. Lull me back to slumber once more with pleasant thoughts of brothers three:

One golden, one bronze, and one as red as the crimson dawn.

So... I will set this candle on the table here, and though the wax is low, the flame flickers gently. Maybe in the days to come, someone will kindle a blaze, and me once more.

---

Welcome back to the Night Market of Dathomir

The inbox is open to take requests again, but this time, I'm going to be a bit more selective, and a little more irregular in how they're answered -- maybe they'll be out of order. Maybe I'll answer one a week or five in an hour as the mood strikes me. I'm not sure.

Truth be told, the format serves as a good warmup for me when writing other things, and maybe it's the eclipse, but I feel that old magic bubbling again.

*If this is your first time, we've got a pinned note at the top of the blog that describes its purpose and service, but the short is that we answer prompts sent in as asks about the Opress Brothers, and we usually lean towards spicy stuff with our responses. 18+. No age in your profile means I'll block your butt. Cool? Cool. Wishmonger out and nocty too.

#the wishmonger says #darth maul #darth maul x reader #savage opress x reader #savage opress x you #darth maul x you #maul x reader #maul x you #feral opress x reader #feral opress x you #savage opress #feral opress #feral (star wars)#the opress brothers #the night market of dathomir

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thenightmarketofdathomir · 27 days

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The Offering (Savage Opress x Reader)

Pairing: Savage Opress x Reader (GN) Rating: M (Sexually suggestive) Word Count: 1,200ish Warnings: Food mention, use of the "c" word, mild voyeurism

Summary: A gesture of kindness for a king. A stolen moment. A treat.

He's a collection of paradoxes: the strongest of all the Nightbrothers, the last one to wield the ichor, the only remaining Champion. They called him a monster, and a brute, and all manner of ugly thing that say nothing of the way he cares for his kin — his brothers and his clan. It's only after you've spent months on Dathomir that you hear the reverent whispers about him: he's fiercely loyal, he's the protector of the small, and he'll never back down so long as those he treasures need to be defended.

He doesn't say an awful lot. Being Maul's enforcer is a twenty-four hour job, and there are only a few Savage would entrust to guard him in his stead while he takes his rest. At first you think it's because of one of Maul's diktats, but after watching the way Savage behaves, you soon realize that it's Savage's choice to stay close. Maybe he fears for Maul, or maybe Savage remembers those near-misses, growing up with a reckless, headstrong younger brother.

You deduce several things about him, however: he doesn't like court company, he rarely indulges in spirits, and he doesn't keep a string of lovers.

You don't understand why: you've seen him in Dathomiri fighting leathers. They're revealing: snug pants that cling to heavy thighs, matched vambraces with their clan crests, and nothing more than an oiled chest on the upper half, highlighting their Nightbrother markings. He never shies away from hard work — every grunt of effort when he lifts, and hunts, and trains with the other brothers are a revelation:

Savage wields a single-minded focus. No distractions.

The brothers respect him, but they keep their distance. You're not sure if that's his preference, or if he's just intimidating, but whatever his solitude suggests, it's intriguing. You would offer your company if you didn't think he'd reject your advances, but something suggests he needs more than someone keeping his bed warm.

Who cares for the person who cares for everyone else?

You're not sure. But you hope the position is available.

That's why you elect to catch him when he leasts expects the interruption. You intend it as a kindness — a token of your appreciation for working so diligently alongside Maul during Dathomir's restoration — but Nightbrothers are not used to receiving honour, and none of them enjoy being caught unawares.

You find him drying off in a small patch of sun after bathing in one of Dathomir's natural springs. His clothes are folded into a small pile on the stone beside him, and the way Domir's light falls across the small downturn of his mouth hints at other preoccupations that can't be washed away. Even with his eyes closed, a furrow notches his brow.

When you make your approach, you do so with nimble feet in absolute silence. Not a single snapped twig. Not a breath. You move like a shadow, spilling over the edge to place your offering atop the pile of zeyd cloth and slip away before he notices.

Savage sniffs. You can see the flare of his nostrils when he turns his head as if scenting your presence, a mass of hard, moving muscle lumbering to wakefulness, like a statue coming to life. He turns his head left, and from your hiding spot, you're confronted with the angular chisel of his jaw and the sliver of firelight in the gloom when he slits open his eyes.

His rumble of displeasure is rolling thunder when he sees the thing that's violated his respite:

A tiny, leaf-wrapped sweet from one of the food stalls in the market: a confection of candied brula, its toxins boiled off to leave the sweet and chewy bits that warm the hearts. Perfectly safe. Perfectly delicious.

He sniffs again, but your body tingles as the reserves of your bravery evanesce when he shakes off the sweet to collect his clothing. The wrapper opens as it rolls off, the treat wasted as it falls to the bog.

When Savage rises, naked, you freeze: locked to your hiding spot on your knees beneath the brush as he turns on the spot — giving you a perfect view of every line and every bulge, and if you weren't nervous before, you're nervous now... seeing how his cock hangs heavy between his legs.

Maybe there’s a reason he doesn’t take lovers. Maybe the reason he’s intimidating isn’t just the obvious station and stature and cadence, his family and his position. Maybe that’s part of the curse the Nightsisters left on him when he was changed:

To be so different that none would dare try to love him.

But the reason it scares you is the reason you remain intrigued, heart hammering against your ribs like a bird in a cage —

And when his smouldering gaze picks you out from between the gnarl of trees, you remain rooted, stock-still and terrified that you’ve been seen — the hunter and its prey across from each other, with nothing between them but the promise of a failed escape if you try to run.

“I smell your fear, little one.”

His amusement is self-deprecating, edged with the knowledge that you’re bested before you’ve even begun, but the fact that he stands before you still, alone and unadorned, is the reason you don’t.

He turns away, picking up his clothes, his gaze shuttering. The crown of his horns bows when he lowers his head, withdrawing from that beam of sun that angles through the trees in the effort to catch him. It fails.

His voice is the mountains, the swamp, the rumble of distant storms of the horizon —

“Go now. I won’t tell anyone.”

Your ankles tangle, but you listen to your own self-preservation this time, and this time, you run.

It’s not until you’ve reached a safe distance in the gnarl of the grave thorn groves where the funerary pods rock gently in the breeze that you pause, turning back to see if he’s followed.

He has not, but you see him through a gap between the branches — hesitating in the distance over at the gift you left him. He appears to be staring at it, and when Savage bends to collect the little offering with the tips of his claws, there’s no mistaking the way his frown deepens when he unwraps it. Examining. Checking for poison with a sniff. Surprise registering with a lift of his brow bones.

A glance over his shoulder leaves you hunkering lower, your stomach twisting as he unfolds the little waxy package, lips pursed as he sniffs it, and if your limbs aren’t shaking, your heart slamming against your ribcage, the sweet vanishes between his lips.

The face that rises to the red sky overhead is perplexed, but softening with the sag of those huge shoulders as he relaxes, eyes shutting briefly as the crunch of his teeth echoes through the trees as if he were chewing bones and not a treat, but pleasure is something you’ve never expected to see on those fearsome features.

Your stomach tightens. Your palms sweat. Your breath is shaky, having stolen this little secret:

And you know, all of a sudden, what Savage looks like when he’s surrendered to desire.

#self rb

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thenightmarketofdathomir · 28 days