Chapter Text
The tiny amount of sensitive tissue inside of each of your horns was highly reactive to pressure. It was just an evolutionary quirk, but it had persevered because of how many of your species' ancestors had used those touches before and during sex.
It was enough for Grievous to tap at the base of a horn or press on the skin near the pedicle to make you react. Each touch was a disorienting rush of heat to your brain stem, a set of tingles that raced all the way through your nerves to your clit. Your head was small enough compared to his hands—even his halved hands!—that he could reach several horns at once. It made you feel like the directions of the world had been scrambled; Up was down and the rest turned around madly.
Grievous liked overwhelming you. Liked to see you in pain, disoriented. You believed him completely when he told you about the zabrak man he had tortured. Grievous had been fucked over by forces beyond his control a lot in life. It had made him cruel, assuming he hadn't been like that all along. Now he was that force beyond your control, trying to harden you more gently than he had been hardened.
He wanted to see you succeed. He would drag you through Hell to make you a better warrior and because he liked to watch you orgasm until it hurt. And then he would take you past that point.
Those robotic hands sweeping through your hair to touch as many hot spots as possible made you cum. The sore muscles you'd worked so hard to relax clenched and released around the cyborg's ridged cock in quick spasms.
Grievous groaned now, a low, stuttering noise like an ancient engine. Three arms grabbed onto you at once, all in different places while the old mercenary fought to maintain his self-control. Thought emptied from your head and the only sound was his animal growling. It made you feel like a prey animal: Helpless, wounded, exposed, tired.
The cool bone-textured faceplate touched the hot back of your neck. Not very much of the kaleesh body was left, but you hoped that what little remained of his head could enjoy the sensation of your mammalian body heat pouring out just for him. The heat-sensing organs near his eyes must have been overloaded.
"You are ready now," he said. For the first time, Grievous slid out of you nearly halfway. The ridges on his cock rubbed you in a new direction that you wanted time to explore, but he pushed it in again. You didn't have time to rest or recover.
This time, he went all the way inside. Your shrieks were turned into little gusts of breath by your muzzle. You felt the cyborg's fingers near the base of his cock where he held it. Their tips brushed against your labia. More tears came pouring out of your eyes, but the stretching pain ebbed more quickly this time.
"Goood," he said, drawing out the word until it became purr-like. It meant everything to you. Electricity shot up and down your spine. "That's a good girl."
Then he fucked you properly. The kind of fucking that people in the cell got up to in the lower tunnels on celebration nights when everyone had spice. The kind of fucking that only people who knew they could die from Imperial attack any day could have. If several of Grievous' hands hadn't held onto you, it felt like each thrust would have knocked you away from him.
Grievous had started slow, but accelerated. His robotic arms didn't tire like a flesh-and-blood arm did, meaning that he had much more control of the pace. You tried to keep your thighs spread as far as possible, the prosthesis making grotesque wet noises with every hammering thrust.
If you got out of this, you thought, your pelvis was going to be smashed into a million pieces. Right? How could that not have already happened with the sheer force of his thrusts? The way that his cock's ridges kept demanding attention from every single nerve inside of you was going to leave you in a mess, maybe even unconscious.
As if reading your mind, one of his halved-hands grabbed your hair and pulled your head back. "Focus!" he demanded. It was the same way he shouted if you daydreamed during combat drills or sharpshooting practice. "Look into the pain, girl. If you fall unconscious I will wake you with an electrobaton."
You were tough. Tougher than you looked and tougher than you thought you were. You didn't pass out. You stayed in the moment. You twitched and twisted what little you could while the cyborg on top of you panted, roared, and moaned his pleasure onto the back of your neck. The muscles of your legs, arms, and back flexed at odd times and you barely thought about them, but Grievous must have seen and felt the shifting landscape of your orange skin.
You lost track of time. You lost count of orgasms after four of them. What had Grievous' hands had been doing each time? It was impossible to keep a record of in your mind. The three free hands moved often and quickly. Sometimes he was gentle, sometimes grabbing hard enough to bruise. Even gentle touches to non-erogenous places were becoming overwhelming. He touched your horns and your clit in no predictable sequence. It meant you could never brace yourself for what he was going to do. Each time you came, the rush of pleasure in your brain competed with the discomfort between your legs.
At last, Grievous finished with a growl so low that it rattled your bones. For an instant, his eyes shut and his head lolled forward. You feared that he might collapse on top of you, but he recovered his composure. You had been fucked so severely by then that you could barely react to it.
He rolled you onto your side and finally pulled his cock all of the way out of you. Cool air from the room swooped in against your slit. You were so hot from exertion and friction that it felt like ice. Your chest heaved.
You didn't see the prosthesis when he put it away, but you could imagine it shining wetly.
Grievous bent in, his body contorting in his unnatural, insectoid way, and smeared his faceplate between your spread thighs. It only had to be done once for him to collect a glimmering patch of your fluids from just beneath his eyes to the bottom of the mask. There was the faintest streak of red in it—you really would have been more surprised if there hadn't been some blood at this point.
You laughed with surprise, but the muzzle suppressed its noise. You hoped that he at least saw the mirth in your eyes, but his attention went to the mask. Finally, after what seemed like it had to have been hours, he loosened the muzzle and peeled it from your skin.
You coughed and breathed hard. The room air tasted different now, colder and dustier without the filter. Your lips were covered with drool and the muzzle would need a thorough cleaning (a chore which would likely fall to you). Grievous watched you wipe your face on the skins under you—tears, snot, spit and all. Had you really cried that much? You burst into another round of coughs while he began to untie you.
"If you can learn to control your noises," he said. "I won't need to muzzle you."
You hadn't had the time to think about anyone else, but now that you put your mind to the matter, you understood. The way you'd been shrieking would have attracted other zabraks. Even though they'd handed you off to Grievous a few years back, they likely thought he was nonsexual and would have been scandalized to find you crying and cumming your brains out with the much older alien cyborg playing with your horns.
"Okay," you croaked.
He was even faster removing the ropes than he had been tying them. As soon as your arms were free, you tried to sit up, but it was a disaster. Your muscles moved like sludge after straining to escape their binding for so long. Had you been fighting against them the entire time? You must have been, for they now felt like they had been tenderized with hammers for hours. Even bending your elbows was a challenge.
Your legs were the same way. You couldn't even unfold them without using your arms to help. You lay back down, savoring the substantial leftover pain. There was a sweetness to it, like an extreme version of the mild soreness after a long and satisfying hike through the canyons. Grievous rolled you onto your back and looked you over, holding himself above you on six limbs. You felt like a puddle, hardly even a person anymore, but lifted enough of an arm to touch his faceplate above his eyes, where his mask's red lines were.
His pupils were so wide that his eyes almost seemed to belong to a different beast entirely. When your arm grew tired and fell back to the bedding, he took a turn in touching the tattoo-lines on your forehead. It was the first time he had acknowledged them. But then he crawled off of your bed and returned to a crouching position at your side. His eyes were nearly shut, pupils blown all the way to circles. They were the largest you had ever seen them.
"Are you okay?" You asked in a whisper.
He gave a sandpapery laugh. "You ask me. Ha! Now this is why I do not tire of you zabraks. This is a good planet."
Strength had returned to your legs enough that you were able to stretch. Your spine and both of your hips popped. You made points with your toes like a dancer. It was the finest stretch of your life with every single bone and muscle making some complaint to signal their attendance. You had never been more present in your own body.
When you didn't say anything, Grievous seemed to consider the possibility that you were serious. You eventually pointed at him. "Your pupils," you said. You spread your fingers wide in imitation of an explosion.
"Ahh," he said. Low and slow. "This is natural. I am having sensations for the first time in many years, certain chemicals of the brain change the eyes..." One hand made a gesture to say, and so on and so on.
You put it together. You had to stop and cough again. "Was that your first time using that...?"
You gestured at the pocket in his cloak to which the cable from his skull led.
"I consider it undignified," he said, meaning that he did not want to talk about it.
That seemed snobbish at best, but arguing with Grievous would have been stupid. There was no reason to ruin his orgasm by telling him he was being ableist against himself. He would have hated that. You shrugged. "Does it feel good?"
"It does," he confirmed. He must have wanted to change the conversation without telling you directly, because he plucked your little mirror from the wall and handed it to you.
You took it—it seemed so heavy to your tired arms and you felt like you moved in slow motion!—and looked at yourself. Your hand wobbled so the reflection was unsteady, but you saw what he wanted you to see. A red line had been indented into your skin where the muzzle's seal had been. It ran continuously under your eyes, across the bridge of your nose, down the sides of your cheeks and under your chin.
"I should get a tattoo over this line," you said, and dropped the mirror at your side. There were other marks on your body too—places where his halved-hands had grabbed you—but none of them were on your face and all would be possible to hide with long sleeves and pants.
Grievous barked a laugh loud enough to excite an old war injury, and he was left coughing and wheezing for half a minute. At some point around the time you were born, some part of his chest plating had damaged a lung. It wasn't a big deal anymore most of the time, but dramatic changes in humidity or air pressure sometimes made it act up. During a first rain one year, you'd seen him nearly incapacitated by high humidity and an explosion of mildew. He would be fine now.
He removed the cables from his skull and tucked them away, then began to wind the discarded ropes into loops. He made one with his left arms and one with his right arms.
You enjoyed a companionable silence. It was much better than quiet nights where you slept alone and he sat somewhere in the tunnels. Far better than the suffocating absence of conversation when the two of you were hidden in the desert and waiting with rifles to shoot at Imperial convoys.
With almost every heartbeat, your body reminded you of some gnawing pain. Each was a badge of pride.
"Why did you...?" You gestured at your face as if wiping something across it vertically. "With your mask."
"It is a custom from Kalee. The idea is perhaps the other people will smell it," he said. "Subconsciously or consciously, it matters not. I want them to scent you on me and say to themselves, 'why do I not have a loyal girl who will do as I ask?' Then, we can hope, they will remember to never turn away a recruit."
You smiled. "You wear masks during sex?"
"Warriors do, at times. Complicated."
Your voice was so strained and raspy that you nearly sounded like a smaller, higher-pitched Grievous. You would have preferred not to speak at all, but you had a question and wanted to ask it while he was in the best possible mood. "Was the person you knelt for a warrior?"
His pupils warned you off the topic by thinning and his eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he grunted in the affirmative. "She was. Ronderu lij Kummar. She was descended from the gods."
Quite a claim, you thought. Did he mean that literally? You'd probably never find out. You were lucky he'd told you that much, based on the way he reacted to the question.
His eyes shut. If he had been flesh and blood, would he have lain with you at your side? You hoped so. Even if just to steal your mammal warmth.
You got back on your feet again after six hours of sleep, limping back to the main tunnel with complaining leg muscles. Before leaving your room, you'd given your naked body a once-over with the mirror. You had purple bruises from the ropes and purple hand prints littering your shoulders and arms, hips and ass. You'd been most afraid to look between your legs, and had found your vulva red and puffy, desperately sore. You didn't bother to wear any kind of underwear.
You took one of the rubber ends off of your practice zhaboka so you could use it as a walking stick.
Your bones were fine, but there was definitely damage to your insides and every moment was a reminder. You had no idea how to address that, but there had been very little blood. You would heal.
The sandstorm had subsided and Grievous perched at the edge of the open tunnel hole. His hunched-but-alert posture was amusingly evocative of some of the canyon-gliding wildlife in the area. One of the listening instruments that served as his ears twitched and adjusted its angle as you limped close.
"If we win the war," you began. "Or if we lose irreparably somehow but survive. Will you leave Iridonia?"
He nodded. "I make war, I do not clean up after it."
"Will you let me come with you?" you asked.
After a longer pause and a side-eye that indicated that he resented being asked, he nodded. "I will."
That was better job security than you could imagine you'd find if you stayed on war-torn Iridonia. If your planet made it through the war, it would take decades to rebuild the infrastructure alone. At one time you would have loved to be a builder of some kind, but you didn't think you could do it anymore. Whatever Iridonia became when it wasn't being crushed under Imperial heel, it would be alien to you.
You tried to develop an understanding of Kaleesh violence-with-respect late that evening. Maybe because he knew you were asking out of genuine curiosity, Grievous did his best to explain. It didn't translate well into the anthropocentric norms of the galaxy.
Execution by a recognized authority was violence-with-respect because it respected the community who might be better off if someone was executed. You did not argue politics and morality, you just wanted to know how it worked on Kalee. War was almost always violence-with-disrespect unless it was an organized non-lethal event where multiple tribes settled disputes with blunt weapons.
"Oh, kind of like sports," you said. Grievous grunted to indicate that you weren't wrong. He stood and lectured while you sat on a crate.
Sex, he said, was usually violence-with-respect. You asked if all kaleesh had such rough sex. Not all, he explained, but the word for sex and the word for violence shared a root word related to the interaction of bodies. A lot of sex was violence and a lot of violence was sex... For example, taking a new wife without conferring with one's current wives was violence-with-disrespect. It was alright to have sex with other warriors, though.
It was getting hard to make sense of this without having grown up in the culture.
Grievous grabbed one of your forehead horns and tugged it to pull your head forward until your forehead almost touched his body. "Ah!" you cried. New, feverish heat burned between your legs.
"For other zabraks this would be violence-with-disrespect," he said. That was most certainly correct. It was hard to think of anything more disrespectful than grabbing a stranger's horns and doing so was a fast way to earn an ass-kicking. "But not for me with you, is it?"
Being dragged into the feeling of arousal when your body still ached produced a novel kind of pain, the sexual equivalent of having to exercise the same muscles multiple days in a row. Your body pleaded with you to ease off! You needed time to rest and heal! It came with a sense of betrayal: No matter how badly you wanted to recover, your body would let Grievous decide when you ought to be horny. He knew it.
You trusted him not to break you, but you thought that he might let you get very, very close to breaking before he backed off.
When he let go, you were wet all over again. Arousal as a defense mechanism against injury. If you were wet enough, maybe sex couldn't hurt you as badly? But you just wanted to rest.
Grievous smiled with his eyes at your grimace. "Go sleep," he said.
Rarely was this order given, so you obeyed. With the zhaboka-turned-spear you got up slowly, complete with little moans of pain that made Grievous angle his head to listen.
"Just so you know, you're always welcome in my room," you said. "Even if you sleep standing and I sleep lying down and no one says anything."
He bobbed his head once and let you go. You picked up the mirror you had dropped on the bed and used a very fine needle to add a new tattoo line to your face.