He's So Lanky, I Love Him Sm 😩💕

Ughhhh been so busy lately and working like a dog but at least I earned myself some little treats 😩💙

I'll have to fix the blaster on the mini 3D print, unfortunately Cad Bane arrived a little damaged.

Idk if anyone else cares as much as I do but LOOK AT MY BABIES AHHH💕✨

These two are my newest breeding pair, they are commonly known as the Satanic leaf-tailed gecko (Uroplatus Phantasticus).

Name suggestions?? 👀✨

SCREAMING AND CRYING AND THROWING UP OMFGGGGGG LETS GOOOOO

I am freaking the fuck out right now!!!!!!!!

My brainrot for this man is INSATIABLE 😵‍💫

Cad Bane + Hostage Crisis ↳ "I'm in control. I make the rules now!"

Askin' for trouble.

Cad Bane x Fem!Reader

Summary: Stupid, and sloppy. That's what he had called you. That's not to say he's wrong, but challenging Cad Bane is just asking for trouble. He'll teach you a lesson in listening, one way or another.

Warnings: NSFW/18+ for: Blood, injury, distress, roughhousing, physical violence, "brat taming," cursing, PiV sex, alien genitalia, and bloodsoaked kissing.

Word count: 3.2k

Notes: Cad Bane is an asshole, but you already knew that. I know Bane hardly does numbers anymore, but if you like it, please reblog! Otherwise this shit ain't gettin' seen. Happy reading! This one is for @deepbluespace4. ;D

------

Sloppy.

Your trembling fingers rifled through your pack, droplets of your own dark blood cascading from the open wound marring your flesh. The bastard had cut straight through your armorweave, leaving a ten-centimeter-long gash in your side.

You should have seen it coming, there was no doubt he had. You would be the laughingstock of the entire hunting party, though you had no time to worry about such things. Flinging your belongings left and right, you urgently searched for the implement that would save your life, yet it was nowhere to be found.

"Fuck!" You cursed the universe as loose credits spilled onto the dingy tiles of the refresher floor. Your comlink joined them, along with your spare rations. You needed to calm yourself, staunch the flow of crimson pouring from you like wine. Your vision blurred as you teetered before the broken mirror adjacent, hardly able to recognize your own reflection through the uneven streaks of dirt and grime, so wan was the color of your skin.

It was obvious your heart was beating faster to try to compensate for the drop in pressure; you felt the onset of nausea, dizziness, and knew that soon it would be too late. You were becoming weaker by the second, though perhaps you would be able to endure death better than facing your colleagues, yet it seemed fate had other plans.

Footsteps, the jingle of spurs in the hall—it caused your saliva to all but evaporate, your mouth as hot and dry as the atmosphere of Jakku. A shadow crept along the slit in the door; you held your breath. 

All was silent; you prayed it had been your imagination, your subconscious conjuring hallucinations in its fatigued state, though your hopes were dashed as a bright light met your eyes, revealing to you the figure of a man in a wide-brimmed hat.

Stupid, and sloppy. That’s what he had called you.

The door shut closed behind him.

“What the hells do you want?” you hissed, quickly turning back to the task at hand. If you could only ignore him, his hulking presence in that damnable mirror, then maybe the skeeze would leave you be.

The chink of metal and the stretch of leather said otherwise.

“Lookin’ fer dhis?” the Duros asked, his tone laced with undue arrogance. You spun around too quickly and nearly lost your balance. A smirk tugged at the corner of his scarred and weathered lips, Bane’s boot having placed itself on top of something, rolling it along underfoot.

With just enough force, just the right amount of weight being redistributed, the case would crack, destroying that precious thing you sought so desperately—your fucking stimpak.

“Give that to me!” you demanded, rushing forward despite feeling ill, paying no heed to courtesies or your rapid blood loss. Bane placed a finger to the center of your forehead and gave a simple push. It was all it took to send you careening backward, forcing you to plow into the edge of the ceramic sink.

“Tsk, tsk. Where’s dhem manners, hm?”

If looks could kill, surely the Duros would be dead. All you received in return was a grin so nefarious it made what blood you had left boil in your veins.

“Bane … I don’t have time for this,” you seethed, your grip slipping, your unoccupied hand being utilized as a makeshift bandage, yet that stubborn rivulet of red refused to wane.

“No time fer manners?” he asked mockingly. You heard something shift; you looked down to see the sole of his boot pressing just a little bit more firmly.

“Asshole!” you screeched, diving clumsily once more for that item you so sorely needed, more valuable to you than money. This time, you received a kick to your chin as your head whipped back, causing your body to tumble heavily onto bits of broken pourstone.

“Only asshole here’s ye, fer dhat shit ye pulled,” Bane groused, his voice deepening in righteous anger. The Duros was the leader of your entourage; you had been given a chance to work alongside him, a galaxy-renowned bounty hunter, yet you had karked it up like some unadept, some novice not worth their weight in salt.

But it wasn’t your fault! The men you had been pursuing had been too fast! Their skills were matched only by those others on your team. Yet all in your company had claimed their prize—your quarry had been the only one to get away scot-free.

You had not expected him to use a sonic detonator at the last possible second; Bane had conveniently told you to, “cover your ears.” Then, you blindly shot into the crowd, taking down some random bystander. Fortunately, you would not be charged by any such entity that passed for law enforcement on this planet. It was a living, breathing, Rogue’s gallery.

In other words, your conscience was clear.

“S’what ye get fer naht listenin’,” Bane sneered, breaking your train of thought. Already you had proven him to be right, having nearly missed his last scathing remark.

Bane bent down, plucking the small syringe up from off the ground, causing a wave of panic to weasel its way in. “Ye want it? Beg fer it,” he snickered, twirling the delicate vial of medicine between his fingers as if it was a blaster to be holstered. You felt yourself turning red with rage, yet what could you do?

Die. You could die.

“Please,” you grated between clenched teeth, digging your fingers into your lap to keep from screaming, to keep from biting down on your own tongue. Hate filled your heart, and Bane could see it, smell it—it only made him worse. It only made him want to continue to provoke you.

“Hm,” he pondered aloud, tapping the edge of the syringe against his thigh as if contemplating something weighty, “don’t think ye meant it—try again.”

You felt inclined to pull your weapon, to shoot him right where he stood, but you were far too intelligent for that—he was too quick for you. He was the best of your kind, no matter that he was the worst in every other way conceivable. Nonetheless, you wouldn’t stand a chance in hell against him. The idea was forfeit from the start.

You inhaled deeply and with purpose; you attempted to placate your frayed nerves. This might be the most difficult thing you would ever have to do, suppressing your very nature; burying that part of you that was so obstinate.

Finally, in your most gentle, even tone, you asked, “please, Bane? Please, help me.”

“Good girl.”

You felt the pause; it hung in the air, like a question that was left unanswered—what did he just say?

Before you could ponder on it further, you were yanked unceremoniously up off the floor by the collar of your vest. You cried out in shock, though now you would cry out for another reason—Bane had jabbed the needle point of your stimpak directly into your gaping wound.

The Duros’ thumb pushed down to inject both bacta and painkillers simultaneously, causing a wave of relief to overtake you as you became putty in his hands. You moaned in near ecstasy, your misery having been mitigated as if the hand of God had touched you, imparting to your addled gray matter sweet, unadulterated bliss.

“Thank you,” you whispered. Bane studied you, keeping you aloft and hanging off the floor. Your toes barely brushed solid ground. So tall was he that, even raised up by his hand, he towered over you, searing red eyes staring into your soul.

The gears of his incisive mind were turning; your scent, this close, was enticing. Your sudden vulnerability ignited a fire within him, poking at his predatory instincts.

And you—you inexplicably thought he smelled so good. That scowling face didn’t seem so scary anymore. He had always been decent toward you; he had not let you bleed dry. He was in charge here, after all. You were a brat, and a tool to be used to accomplish those goals set out for him by his employer, only ever promised a cut of the profits.

“How easy,” he rasped, pinning you to the wall. Whether he meant you offering up your gratitude, or the effort it would take to snuff you out like a candle remained to be seen, the Duros letting go so quickly that you fell like a sack of potatoes, nearly busting your ass on the hard surface below.

You ignored all of this, his poor treatment of your person, pointing out something you would not allow him to overlook—you were still alive. “I knew you wouldn’t let me die.”

With a curious tip of his hat and head, Bane dropped the dispenser, now emptied of its contents. He stared at the red, viscous substance that coated his hand from where he had touched you, as if deciding on his next course of action without a single hint as to what it might be.

“Dhat right?” Blue fingers rose to his mouth, a pink tongue creeping from between parted lips, tasting that which lingered on his scales. He would revel in the tart, pungent flavor; the texture; the feel of your warm, human blood—it called to him, that inborn part of him. The innate desire that drove him to hunt not just for credits, but for food.

You gazed up with heavy-lidded eyes, canting your neck, watching him in both awe and fascination, wholly aware that you were presently level with his groin. He observed you from a height that seemed impossible, two digits disappearing into his open maw as he licked them clean; you felt your cunt clench as you rose to sit up on your knees.

You had no control, pushing your face into black denim, your nose grazing the soft mound of flesh that resided there, just behind the fabric. You felt sleepy, serene, and ineffably aroused. What was that smell? That delightful scent?  

You desired to taste him as he had tasted you.

“Bane,” you breathed, “Cad. Bane.” The hunter flashed his teeth in a predaceous snarl, yet he was silent, entranced by your bold move. You took this as an invitation to keep going, your own teeth pinching closed around the zipper of his trousers, pulling it down, forcing him to abide by your lecherous game.

If you were playing, he was not. Within an instant, Bane had you by the hair. He thrust you backwards. You gasped and he held on. His other hand unfastened the holster at his waist, then worked on his top button until all was revealed—another layer, this one the blackest of blacks.

You took over then, shoving the seam aside; dual cocks slid from between woven folds, pushing into your mouth. You nearly choked in surprise, never having thought about what might exist beneath his skintight pants, not once admitting your attraction to him, even to yourself.

You moaned at the tang of his slick, at the thickness that invaded you down to the deepest recess your throat could offer. You inhaled through your nose as you sucked gingerly, your human lips stretching to accommodate his girths.

Just as soon as it had begun, he pulled free, leaving your mouth open and your eyes wide. He hauled you up, this time by your damaged armor, cerulean digits cinching as he silently commanded you to look him in his stark red eyes.

“What do ye want,” he harshly asked, strengthening his hold. You were hypnotized by his cold stare, the brightness of twin suns that gazed back at you from a sea of cobalt blue.

“I—” Your words caught; you could think of nothing else, admiring him down to the smallest detail; down to each of his femoral pores; the faintest trace of a faded scar.

“Say it,” he hissed; you could smell his breath, sweet with a hint of cheroot, a tinge of whiskey.

“You,” you claimed, voice hushed, your breath unsteady in your lungs. Your heart pounded ferociously in your chest, not doing you any favors, yet that feeling of delirium and ecstasy remained.

“Damn right.”

Bane’s cocks coiled around each other like mating serpents, conjoining together to form a single thick, tentacular phallus. Your pants were torn from off your waist, pushed down without care, the Duros pulling you to him as he broached your sex, incrementally sliding up, up, farther and farther into the tight abyss of your wet loins.

Every sound you made for him was like music to the ears, your little mewls of pleasure, your feeble cries of pain—pain that felt so good.

“Cad,” you whimpered as you fell against him; he hoisted you up onto the sink and lifted your thighs with his forearms, dragging you forward, forcing you to entwine yourself around his waif-thin waist.

You wasted no time in enveloping him with your legs, your explorative hands running the course of his slender chest, fingers daring to claw against black thermoguard, to tug at the metallic breathing tubes fixated to his cheeks.

“Again,” he growled into your ear, the sensation of Bane’s sharp cuspids skimming your earlobe nearly driving you over the brink. He pumped his narrow hips, slow at first, picking up speed with every ragged breath. His strokes were long, deep, and exacting, his unbelievably large hands cupping the round of your ass as he massaged your G-spot, pushing forward with only half his might.

He wanted to hear his name, though you were frustrated, pawing at the accursed body glove that housed him, every speck of his blue flesh but his fingertips and the flat of his face denied to you so cruelly.

“Bane,” you murmured, feathering kisses along his throat, his chiseled jawline, until you met his mouth—that’s where he put an end to it.

“Keep talkin,” he instructed, refusing to indulge you, refusing to give you any part of himself that would prove to be too intimate.

You persisted.

“Kiss me.” The curve of your palms clasped either side of a frown. Your lips returned in earnest, pushing into his. Bane pushed back, keen canines grazing your lips and chin, piercing your skin, the bottom tier of your mouth left to bleed as he pulled back.

“Don’t stop,” you implored, trailing your tongue over the red stain that remained, licking your own blood straight off his teeth.

Bane rumbled a fearsome sound, its echoes rising from the pit of his throat, the Duros ramming you once for good measure so that you reflexively gasped, though your embrace only became more snug, more secure. You dug your heels in, having crossed your ankles, your body lifting as you enthusiastically offered yourself up.

“Still angry?” you taunted. You were flirting with death itself; Bane slipped a hand down toward the ache in your side. Your injury would not fully heal without proper medical attention, the hunter pressing two fingers directly into your novel wound.

You yelled out; Bane moved those fingers to your mouth. You gagged, and he rolled his hips as you slapped at his chest, the Duros honking a dry, vicious laugh.  

“Shut you right up,” he pointed out. You were furious again. You bit down. You dared to attempt to maim him, his quickdraw would suffer, you would suffer.

TWHAP.

You received a backhanded slap; you opened your mouth to protest. He withdrew his fingers, though that well placed smack had been rightfully deserved.

“Biiitch,” he sizzed, pinching your cheeks so hard they would most assuredly bruise. His eyes flashed in warning, his quirled cocks pressing rudely against your cervix.

“Fuck off!” You beat him with your fists, though Bane knew just how to tame you, how to break your tenacious spirit, shoving the pink point of his tongue squarely into your pugnacious. irritating trap.

You settled; your hands ceased their futile drumming against his ribs. Bane grabbed a breast, slid that offending hand between your legs, those bitten fingers amid your labia. He caressed your clit; you hummed around his tongue; you squeezed his pricks with the muscles of your pelvic floor, the Duros groaning into your eager, ardent mouth.

It was like something from a fantasy that no one dares to dream, so alien, so different.

And he had spread you apart, the crests of his cocks hitting all the right spots, feeling like the writhing of a snake inside you at the best of times, that ball of heat in your belly intensifying until the point you knew it would explode, causing stars to rupture in your eyes.

The clink of a belt buckle against porcelain, the creak of Nashtah hide, and the high-pitched, girlish cry of a woman echoed off the walls. Out there, somewhere, patrons of a dark and dreary cantina were fated to listen, though most talked over it. The music played louder; the bartender turned a blind eye, for Cad Bane had gone inside.

It was as if your previous desire had been naught but child’s play. Your cunt was soaked. His rhythm was impeccable, the circular motions of his fingers between your legs utterly precise. You crooned for him; he bit down on your bottom lip. You flinched, but were overcome with pleasure. The pain added something beautiful, something you could not quite express.

“Yes,” you breathed. It became your mantra. Bane did not relent; he would not cease, even as a fresh wellspring of blood dribbled down your chin.

A grunt for every pump, a duet, a cacophony of foreign noises. You felt overwhelmed, but all you could think to do or say was: “Oh, Cad.”

The Duros came; the feeling of him filling you triggers your own orgasm. You feed a moan into his fang-filled mouth; you frantically overtake his tongue again. His hand gropes and fondles your breast; his fingers titillate your clit until you spasm, cajoling him to stop.

Then, it’s over. He’s vacated you quicker than you have time to blink. He shakes himself, adjusts his genitalia, zips his fly, and retrieves his blasters from off the floor.

Your mind is a whirlwind of thought, yet you feel so at peace. Your entire world is upended as Bane locks his gargantuan hand around your fragile neck, his thumb long enough to brush across your lips, wiping away more of your red blood.

“Next time, ye take orders as well as ye take dick,” the gunslinger says. He shoves you back; you fall bottom first into the basin of the sink, Bane pulling a hand-rolled cigarra from out the pocket of his coat.

You are bereft of breath as his duster whorls behind him; you watch as he ignites the end, tossing the sparkstick onto the floor. He leaves a plume of smoke in his wake, not bothering to close the door on his way out.

You search your feelings as the eyes of others peruse your half-naked form. This place is a shithole, a dive. You have laid claim to the only refresher for over an hour now. Curiosity demands an answer, yet no one dares to question Bane.

Dog whistles ensue, laughter, someone calls you indecent, another a slut, yet nothing bothers you; nothing can jar you, or make you forget what has just transpired, the salacious act still so fresh in your mind’s eye.

Besides, you have already made up your mind. Nothing could persuade you otherwise. You cannot wait to serve once more at Cad Bane's side.

-----

Masterlist

Cad Bane Masterlist

If you ever feel weird about inserting your OC into Star Wars… Don’t, because literally every character that comes from anywhere other than the original six movies is an OC.

I'm HOWLING 🤣🤣🤣

take 'em both like a champ 🤚

Hehe, I got one for ya

Since everyone’s doin’ em.

Ye ain’t gettin’ shit from me, Valentine.

I’ll steal more dhan yer credits.

Dhese boots are made fer walkin’ … all over yer heart.

Hope yer happy.

As per my last e-mail.

Shriv Suurgav x Fem!Reader

Summary: You're up working late, Shriv's trying to rest, but your ill-timed email has sent him off the rails—couldn't this have waited until morning?!

Warnings: NSFW/18+ for PiV sex, blow jobs, snark and sass. Kissing, dirty humor, etc. etc.

Word count: 4.9k

Notes: Text in italics AND quotations is Shriv's inner thoughts. He self-monologues a lot, imho. This one is for @aloegator-arts in particular, as she requested something for Mr. Suurgav. It's about time, anyway! It's only been ... *checks calendar* over a year?!

Yes, e-mails exist in Star Wars. So does bingo.

Things were never easy. Why should they be? Then things would be too … easy.

Shriv’s mouth expressed all too readily the emotion he was feeling as he marched down the hallway toward your quarters. You had no idea he was on the way. It would be a surprise, just like you had surprised him with your electronic communique at this late hour.

Oh, so you thought he was asleep? Guess again. Shriv sometimes wondered if he’d ever have a proper rest at this rate, what with the Empire always breathing down his—their collective—neck(s). And it didn’t help that people like you were always on his case, it just made his job that much more difficult.  

Why you had carbon copied the general was beyond him. Was he not trustworthy? Did you really think he couldn’t handle it? So what if a member of Danger Squadron had forgotten to sign off on their last intelligence briefing. He’d received it, they all had!

Point being, was it really worth bothering Calrissian? Now you had the caped courtier himself barking up the wrong end of Shriv’s figurative tree. Duro didn’t even have trees!

Well, not anymore.

In other words, he was riding his ass about his least favorite thing—datawork. He hadn’t been sure Lando even knew how to read, what with him always breaking every rule in the Rebellion’s playbook.

But, as it turned out, he did indeed. Something about leaving a “flimsi trail” should plans go awry in the field. Shriv knew all too well how important it was to hold people accountable—Lando just seemed to think he was above “the law,” therefore Shriv figured he should be forgiven for assuming otherwise.

And he was tired of getting blamed for other people’s kark ups! Sure, he was the officer in charge of that particular squad, but they were adults! Grown men and women that shouldn’t need him to hold their hands—not that he would—just to sign off on a couple of forms!

He had spent his entire walk thinking about all the things he was going to say to you, none of them nice, but the second he knocked on your door at 0200 hours, his mind went blank, the Duros grimacing in your face the moment you answered—but at least he had caught you off guard.

Good.

He imagined his mug might even keep you up tonight after he left, if he scowled hard enough, that is—Shriv, not being the prettiest by human standards. You already looked flustered. Hells, some folks were even scared of him, particularly those recruits forced to train under his command. He seemed to have a way with words, or so he was told.

Shriv would argue he just said things like they were. Sugar was for space babies, no reason to coat the truth in the stuff when he felt it would be doing a disservice. If you, or anyone else couldn’t handle the heat, it was just as well that they got out of the galley. But what Shriv wasn’t expecting was for you to open the door in nothing but your skivvies and a T-shirt, you thinking that this must be some kind of emergency for him to be here, lingering outside your humble residence—it was a small room about the same size as anyone else’s aboard the Restoration, though filled with a few of your personal effects.

“Shriv?” you asked, your voice a pretty melody to his lack of ears the way you said his name like that, your lovely eyes darting to and fro both behind and around him, looking for what the matter was while you attempted to catch your breath.

“Huh.”

“Uh—” was all he could think to say, wondering just when, and how, you had gotten so damn beautiful. “I got your e-mail. I wanted to—” The Duros cleared his throat, trying not to let his eyes trail down your waist, hips, legs … “—to, uh. Talk. Talk about—”

Little did he know that the human’s heart in front of him was beating just as fast as his, though he could sense you had an elevated temperature from the way your flesh changed colors. Shriv was now completely unaware of anything else besides your half-naked form before him. It was rather inconvenient when he was supposed to be upset.

You finally realized just what he was staring at, having been so engrossed in your previous ‘activity’ that you failed to notice you had forgotten to throw on pants. You thought surely for anyone to call at this late hour meant the situation was dire, yet here he was—Shriv Suurgav—one of the toughest, most hard-nosed officers of the Rebel Alliance stuttering outside your door.

He was also one of the most handsome.        

Your blood had rushed to your cheeks, warming your skin. It was a well-kept secret you appreciated the Duros species as a whole, and him especially; his datawork was always so thorough and precise.

While others steered clear, you made it a point to travel the path Shriv took on the daily, keeping toward the back of the Restoration’s war room during briefings, recording everything that was said; every decision that was made, shamelessly watching his every move.

Besides, it was your job.

It was those times he left the ship that you were always worried sick. You didn’t want anyone to get hurt, least of all Shriv.

You couldn’t help but eavesdrop on any and all open channels, desperate for a word; to hear his voice; to know that he had come home safe, but never in your wildest dreams did you imagine him searching you out, and over something that seemed so … trivial.

“You wanna … come in?” you asked, reaching out, your arm disappearing just out of Shriv’s periphery.

He was both a little disappointed and relieved when you draped a robe over your shoulders, watching as you folded both sides across your chest as if you had suddenly caught cold.

Did he want to come in? Should he? He supposed it was better than standing awkwardly out in the hall. “Yeah, OK.”

You moved a little to the left; Shriv stepped over your threshold; the door slid shut behind him.

Now that he was here, he felt he shouldn’t be.

“This could have waited until morning.”

“Well, so could her e-mail.”

“Can I get you anything? Caf?” you asked.

“I suppose so,” Shriv replied, not being able to help himself. “Guess you could use a little pick-me-up for all those e-mails you’re liable to send. Busy night and all.”

You arched a brow, turning toward your small kitchenette to gather two mugs from an overhanging cabinet. “Come again?” you queried; you had sent your last correspondence well over an hour ago.

Oh, that did it. Now Shriv remembered just how pissed he had been, how close to sleep he was, that little ding on his comm waking him right back up.

“Don’t play coy with me. You know what you did,” Suurgav said, his tone even and a little dry.

You set the caf cups down and turned around. He had more than piqued your curiosity. And to tell the truth, seeing him standing there, right in the center of your room was igniting your imagination, though you needed little help in that regard. “What’s this about?”

Shriv’s big red eyes traveled quickly from surface to surface; he turned his head to the left and right. You watched in fascination until he spotted that which he was after, the Duros stalking toward your bed.

Your own eyes widened in horror as he snatched up your datapad—the one not assigned to you for work. This was your personal, private datapad. It never left your room, so you always left it unlocked, never once thinking to add a password.

“Thiss. THIS is what—this—is about,” Shriv waved the device loosely in his hand. Then, he did the unthinkable. He opened it. “I was—this—close to falling asleep. And what do I get? A message from none other than little miss flimsi pusher.”

He held up the screen, not paying attention to what was actually brandished across its surface. Just then, a mortifying cacophony of noises rang out in the open: the sounds of moans and kissing, wet squelches, deep growls, and the rustling of sheets. It pervaded every corner of your small abode.

To top it off, Shriv had somehow turned the volume up when he meant to throw it across the room. He’d nearly fumbled it, only catching it—reluctantly—before the source of your ails hit solid ground. You had covered your mouth, completely humiliated, just as Suurgav brought it back up to his face.

“Oh, Zorkas.”

He had found your holo-romance. The one where the Duros was karking the human girl.

Well, not so much a romance as—

“How do I--?!”

Shriv didn’t finish his question, long blue fingers clumsily attempting to adjust the volume but to no avail. Seconds felt like hours. You finally collected yourself enough to rush forward, turning the damn thing off and tossing it far, far away; it landed in a pile of laundry you had forgone folding.

Then, you stared at each other. All was quiet when just a moment ago the girlish shrieks of a woman getting plowed by Duros dick had echoed loudly over every square inch of your apartment. The look Shriv gave you was one of intrigue, confusion, and shock. You did not think you would ever live this down.

“Well, that was interesting.”

Your eyes welled with unbidden tears; you could not control it. You had never felt more embarrassed in your life. Not only had someone found your private collection of pornography, but it had been him—the man you fancied. Before you knew it, you were crying of all things.

Could this night get any worse?! You seriously doubted it.

“Whoa, hey, it’s …” Shriv meant to say ‘all right,’ but he wasn’t entirely sure that it was, or that it ever would be again, not in the professional sense.

“How do you come back from that? I’d most likely have jumped out the air lock if I was in her shoes. Not that she’s wearing any.”

The fact Suurgav didn’t complete his sentence only made you cry harder. You wished to flee, to leave the room, but you had nowhere else to go—this was your quarters.

“Well, it isn’t that bad—I mean, I’d probably feel embarrassed, but it’s not the end of the—”

You turned your back on him; his words were not helping any.

“Ah, geez.” Shriv stepped forward and rested one of his hands atop your shoulder. “It could be worse, right? At least I’m the only one here and it wasn’t in the middle of a meeting or something … I won’t tell anyone,” he added.

This was the first time he had ever touched you. Sure, maybe you’d brushed arms in one of the narrow hallways, skirting past one another on the way to your respective destinations, but this was meant to be for the sake of comfort. Despite everything, you did not take it for granted. In fact, looking back, you would realize you took advantage.

You turned around; Shriv stepped back to give you space. You didn’t want space; you wanted to be closer.

You took a chance; you laid your head against his chest, your body mildly quaking with the release of every teardrop onto your soft cheeks. The Duros hesitated; you felt him stiffen. You nearly pulled away for fear of backlash, but instead he lifted both his arms and hugged you to himself, his embrace so careful it caused your heart to flit.

Rather than saying something reassuring, he felt he had to comment, bringing attention to the fact you had a type.

“Soooo …. A Duros, huh?”

Shriv wondered why he felt so comfortable embracing you; he had hardly ever spoken to you. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact you’d started it, or that maybe, just maybe, you might like him.

“Yeah, right. A girl like this? You’d only be so lucky.”

Shriv felt your shoulders harden; he felt the pounding of your heart. He heard the pathetic whimper you gave in response; you were shaking like a leaf. “I never meant for you to see that,” you whispered. “For anyone to see that. But especially not you.”

“Why ‘especially not me?’”

You cringed. You had just given yourself away.

Slowly, you lifted your head to peer up at him. He seemed entirely oblivious, though within the next few seconds he must have had some kind of epiphany, because his eyes lit up like a kid’s on Life Day. “You—you don’t mean to say—”

Kark it all—

—you kissed him, pushing up off of your bare feet to smash your lips against his. Shriv made a sound of surprise, or maybe it was protest. Whatever it may be, it caused you to second guess. You quickly withdrew, feeling worse off than before.

“I’m sorry,” you pleaded, backing into the counter of your kitchenette. Your own fingers lightly touched your lips, savoring the sensation that remained, notwithstanding the fact you had just thrown yourself at him. “It’s just that I like you,” you blurted out.

Stupid, stupid.

“Well, well, well, you were right, Shriv. Then again, you always are.”

“I mean, she pretty much laid it out for you with the whole Duros-porn thing.”

“You like me, or you like Duros?” Shriv questioned matter of fact. He watched as your bottom lip quivered, as if he had hurt your feelings.

“Good going, jerk. You should probably take what you can get.”

“Hey, it’s a valid question!”

“Both,” you meekly replied, knowing what it looked like.

“Hmm,” Shriv rumbled, taking a laggard step forward toward you.  He pinned you in, reflective ruby eyes scanning your breasts up toward your face now that your robe had fallen open. “And just what is it that you like about me?”

You swallowed down your spit, feeling what those cadets must feel—intimidation—under his steady gaze. You wavered; you tried to peel your eyes away from his, but he took up your chin, pinching it lightly between his thumb and fore, causing a burning heat to spread in the seat of your belly.

“You’re—you’re funny; s-smart; witty.”

“Uh huh, go on,” Shriv prompted, leaning closer. So close that you could smell him. His scent reminded you of something earthy, or a like fresh rain back home. There was a hint of something else as well—was that Saffron? Musk? Akigalawood?

You decided to get personal.

“You’re underutilized. Lando hardly ever listens to you, but you have so many good ideas and things to say. You’re thorough, precise, and never compromise your principles for anyone, not even your superiors.”

“I—well—”

“You carry yourself with dignity, even in the face of danger. Your heart is made of gold, and your eyes are carved from gemstones.”

“You—you think so?”

You walked him back this time, levering yourself with the aid of your palms. Shriv stood up straighter, his grip faltering as you took the lead.

“You’re kind, selfless, courageous, sexy—”

“—I mean, I don’t know about all—”

“—and I wish that I could fuck you,” you whispered, grasping the side of his face that bore a scar. You peppered kisses along the corner of his mouth; they were slow and soft.

Shriv held his breath; something in him stirred.

Was he really all those things? And just why couldn’t he be? Maybe he was. You had said so, after all.

And it made him feel things, funny things, things he wasn’t sure he ought to feel. But you staring at him like that, kissing him like that—

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t on my bingo card,” the Duros quipped, “but it’d be rude to say no.” It wasn’t every day a gorgeous woman, and a human at that, desired to take him to bed. To turn you down would be asinine. Besides, why should Calrissian always be the one to score?

“I mean, originally I came here to yell at you, but now I’m not even really that angry anymo—”

Your arms encapsulated his neck; your lips engulfed his. Shriv remained calm, talking it all in stride. And he was proud of himself for that; he’d never felt this desired in all his days. It was a nice change of pace, he just hoped he could live up to that pedestal you’d put him on.

“Shriv,” you muttered, just wanting to say his name, just wanting to taste him, slipping your warm, human tongue inside his fang-filled mouth.

“Careful, those are—”

You moaned directly into the kiss, pushing deeper, grinding yourself against his uniform.

“—sharp,” Shriv mentally noted. It was all he could do. His thoughts were becoming clouded, he felt his own core temperature rising, feeding off your body heat. He was beginning to “wake up,” to truly comprehend just what he had gotten himself into, and you were hyperaware of everything apparently, because the moment he felt a twinge below the belt, your hand had found what caused it, making the Duros flinch under the weight of your palm.

“Careful with those, too,” Shriv remarked, though he admired your enthusiasm. It was obvious he had set something in motion because you pulled back just enough to stare directly at him—or through him—some kind of unreadable expression having overtaken your face.

If he weren’t already so turned on, he may have felt self-conscious, Shriv blinking a bit too rapidly. “Well, I-I-I mean, I won’t break …”

You dropped to your knees; Shriv’s eyes widened. You wasted no time in unbuttoning his trousers, desperate to see ‘things’ for yourself. You were so excited you could hardly contain your glee, nudging, kissing, biting the bulge that resided just beneath his boxers.

Boxers.

For some reason, you thought other species might wear different types of underwear.

“Are you sure you wanna—”

Shriv gasped as you slurped down one half of his hemi, it quickly devolving to a moan.

“Yep, ssssshe’s sure.”

It was like you already knew what to do; he wondered how many Duros you had been with before him, or if you just watched too much porn for your own good.

“That’s …”

“Karabast.”

Your tongue whorled around the slick, malleable column of one cock, while the other was caressed by your gentle, human fingers. Your cheeks hollowed as you danced around him, your sucking drawn-out and rhythmic, the pliant, wet muscle of your mouth treating fellatio the same way you had that passionate kiss.

Shriv didn’t know how long he was going to last, feeling so many sensations, all of them good—better than good. He felt like he needed to sit down, or his knees might buckle, struggling not to cum too soon so he didn’t just outright shame himself; it had been a minute since he had the time to even jerk himself off, he was so busy.

“You’re a marksman, Shriv. You’ve remained still for hours on end, waiting for a target that might not ever show—you can stay standing long enough to get your dick sucked.”

“S-sweetheart, you’re a little too good at thiss—I’m gonna—if you don’t ssslow down,” the Duros warned.

You felt something akin to cuteness aggression welling up inside you. Your nails clawed into his bare thighs. His lisp only made you suck him harder, faster, the sounds of his adorable moans reaching all the way down to your cunt; you were soaking wet.

“Whoa-kay, you’re not gonna—"

Shriv came despite himself, his second cock’s tip tightening around your fingers. It was prehensile, the movement reflexive; you were overjoyed to engorge yourself, swallowing every drop he had to give—it was sour, but a little sweet, and reminded you of candy.

You only allowed his prick to retreat from your mouth once he was spent.

Shriv ambled backward, though he managed to find the edge of your bed. You crawled forward on your hands and knees as the poor dear panted, watching with slight apprehension as you came closer.

“What are you …”

You latched onto his boots with both hands and took them off, one by one. Next, his socks were gone. You couldn’t help it and kissed his toes, all the way up to his ankles.

Shriv made a face, though nothing seemed to bother you.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He hated the idea of subjecting you to what he presumed were his stinky feet.

You only grinned, tugging his pants the rest of the way down, and off. You pressed your palms against his knees as you pushed up; Shriv watched you, still in recovery mode as he tried to predict what you’d do next.

“A lady of her word, are you?” Shriv breathed; your fingers tugged at his jacket, prying at the stop of his zipper. You pulled it down incrementally; Shriv smirked, realizing he was about to wind up completely naked, and he was OK with that.

“You next,” he said.

You were up and off him; you obeyed without question, removing your robe, your ratty T-shirt, to reveal your breasts in their full glory.

Shriv had nothing to say to that; he found he could no longer move his mouth, nor was his brain cooperating to help him form words of any kind, especially ones that were coherent.

“Uh—mm … heh,” he managed.

“Boobs. Wish we had those.”

“Well, not me personally. Duros.”

“Bet she wishes she had two … you know.”

“One’s just fine.”

Your panties were next; you shimmied them down your thighs, knees, shins, then kicked them off. You were a sight to behold and Suurgav was drinking you in like that cup of caf you’d offered.

Then again, he hadn’t actually had any. Things had gotten a little … offtrack since then, not that he was complaining any, and he did that a lot.

Shriv tested the waters; he wanted to see how much you might divulge to him. “You’re … really something. Beautiful. But I bet you hear that a lot,” he prompted. “Maybe from … other Duros,” he snuck in.

“Not at all smooth.”

Your mischievous grin softened into a smile. You shook your head then climbed on top of him. Shriv leaned backward and gazed up into your glimmering eyes with his of jasper, his horizontal pupils adjusting to the shadow your body cast.

The rebel pilot was unsure he would get anything more out of you, but he thought he’d just have to be content with that. To have you here, now, should be enough, though he dumbly seemed to form attachments way too soon, whether he would ever admit to it or not.

“No,” you whispered, your warm breath tickling his hearing organ; Shriv felt a shiver rake down his spine. “No one else has told me that in ages.”

“Oh, good.” Shriv thought that over. “I mean, not good that you haven’t heard it, because it’s true, but good that I’m the only one telling you.” Shriv thought it over a little more. “Not that I have to be the only one telling you or anything. You’re a grown woman who can make her own—”

Your smile stretched wider before your lips found his again. He was nervous, and it made you giddy to know you had that effect on him. It was as if all your dreams were coming true, thanks to a well-timed e-mail.

“—Fuck me,” you interrupted.

Shriv went quiet then. A moment passed before he spoke again. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered back.

It was as if he turned into a different Duros, the breadth of his palm cupping your face as he drew you in close to kiss. You leant over him, eager to return it, your breasts brushing against cool scales, causing your nipples to perk.

Shriv pinched one for good measure; you mildly gasped. He took the opportunity to slip his tongue inside your open mouth, just as his secondary cock slithered up, up, pushing past the boundary of your sex to sequester itself deep inside the walls of your cunt.

“Shit, shit,” you intoned, your belly expanding and contracting rapidly as Shriv settled into you. It felt so fucking good; he spread you sooo fucking wide, so much so, that you belted out a sound of pleasure like that of the girl on your holo-romance.

“Are you all right? Or does it really feel that good,” Shriv asked, an iota of smugness lacing his tone.

You nodded, though it was up to him to figure out what you meant by that, yet you held your breath, urging your body to become accustomed to his girth, the shape of his phallus, the range of motion he could subject you to, your belly tightening once more as he curled his cock inside you, pressing against what he knew to be a very sensitive place.

Your breath caught in your lungs; your chest froze mid-inhalation. You came instantly, coating his dick in your warm excess.

Suddenly Shriv didn’t feel so bad for doing the same thing earlier, a twisted little smile upturning the corner of his mouth. “Is it always thiss easy?” he asked.

You shook your head in the negative; Shriv hummed a little “hmm.” He clamped onto your waist with his broad hands, thinking he could see his own protuberance inside you as he coiled once more against your G-spot.

“Fuck—” you muttered, falling forward onto your hands. Shriv wasted no time in lifting his hips, beginning to use the powerful muscles of his thighs to force you to ride him as your fingers dug into the arches of his shoulder blades.

“That’s what you wanted, right? To kark me?” Shriv asked playfully, nuzzling the flat of his face against the side of your ear. Everything, all of it, was too perfect, so you wept. Shriv felt a drop of something moist and warm pelt his cheek.

He stopped. “Hey, hey—does it hurt?” he asked, concerned.

You shook your head again. “Don’t stop,” you begged.

Shriv, somewhat uneasily, abided by your order, though the crease of his brow remained fixed—that was until you orgasmed a second time.

“Shriv … I’ve fantasized about this so many times,” you admitted, though you did not confess of your own volition—it was the fault of your emotions, of your brain, overwhelmed by sensation, by smell.

Shriv reached up and pushed a loose strand of your hair away from your face, though the motion of his hips never ceased; it was slow and resolute, his other hand gliding down your hip to sneak its way between your thighs.

“A good fantasy, right?” he asked, as if he didn’t already know the answer, the tips of his lengthy index and middle fingers brushing against the top of your clit before they slid down to massage it; he worked the little nub with as much precision as he did his datawork.

“Like heaven,” you murmured, finding yourself, once more taking control of your body to undulate your hips in line with his. Shriv’s face softened; he closed his eyes. He was focused on a feeling, chasing his own high as he continued to trace a pattern over your delicate nerve-endings, your cunt clenching around the width of his cock.

“Just like that,” you coaxed, riding him as gingerly as his touch was thoughtful, Shriv closing his mouth entirely, not having a single smartassed comment left in his arsenal, only a tight-lipped admonition.

“Thiss is dangerous,” he cautioned. “I know something about danger,” he affirmed, though his mind was elsewhere, drifting, drifting …

“Don’t cum inside, don’t cum inside, don’t cum inside,”

“Come inside me,”

“Fierfek.”

You felt a cool rush, the frisson of something filling you, the sudden surge of Shriv’s ejaculate coating your insides as you had willed it to. You rode him to completion, the Duros gripping you tightly, clasping you to himself like some cherished object, the feeling of his heart thumping against his ribs echoing through you, matching pace with your own.

Once finished, you slowly rose, the sticky, wet sheen drifting down your legs to leave marks on your sheets. You collapsed on top of him; Suurgav would allow you to remain, ever so subtly pulling you in more closely.

“This is not how I expected my night to go,” Shriv chortled wryly. “I expected the exact opposite, in fact.” The Duros tilted his head so as to look down at your prone form. “Maybe you won’t try to sass me anymore, hm?”

You gave an involuntary yawn. “As long as you do what you’re supposed to do.”

“And what, pray tell, is that?” Shriv asked a little too snidely.

You couldn’t help but to smile as you started to nod off; it was hard not to feel safe and protected in his big, strong arms.

“As per my last e-mail…” you said, giving him a taste of his own medicine.

Mood after the Tales of the Underworld trailer!!!