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Baze is in one of the dojos after last bells, working on his forms. Master Allar is disappointed in him, Baze knows. He isn’t as good at hand-to-hand combat as he should be, as his size and speed would indicate.

Baze doesn’t like hand-to-hand very much. It’s too close, too immediate. He prefers a good blaster, one step removed from the fray. But he’s no quitter, which is why he’s slipped down to the empty dojo after everyone else has gone to bed.

Step, block, dodge, parry. Baze is working up a sweat as he ducks and weaves, and he’s so focused on placing each foot exactly right that he doesn’t realize he’s not alone until he hears a derisive snort from the doorway.

He whirls, out of breath, to see Chirrut leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest.

Baze isn’t sure what he thinks of Chirrut, most of the time. Chirrut is irrepressible, sharp and clever and finding delight in needling Baze, it seems.

Usually, Baze doesn’t rise to the bait. Taking advantage, he reminds himself. Unfair. But Chirrut keeps pushing, teasing, finding the chinks in Baze’s armor with unerring accuracy until Baze has to grit his teeth so he doesn’t lash back. It’s bad enough during classes and at meals, but it’s nearly unbearable when they’re working on their chi sao, the martial art forms meant to center and balance the fighter, teach them to ground themselves.

“What do you want?” Baze says, wiping his face with his sleeve.

Chirrut raises a mocking brow. “I came to practice, but you’re using my favorite room.”

“There are three others,” Baze snaps. “They’re all the same, why do you need this one?”

Chirrut waves a hand. “The air—it’s cleaner in here.” He sniffs pointedly. “At least it usually is.”

Baze can feel a flush crawling up his throat. “It’s all yours and I wish you joy of it.”

But Chirrut catches his arm as Baze tries to brush past him, and Baze freezes. Chirrut’s hand is warm where it rests on Baze’s forearm, long, slender fingers gripping the fabric as Chirrut tilts his head.

“Why are you leaving?”

Baze twitches his sleeve out of Chirrut’s grasp. “So you can practice.” He tries again to go but again finds Chirrut’s arm blocking his way. Baze growls, deep in his chest, but Chirrut just smiles.

Baze hates Chirrut’s smile. It makes his stomach turn over, the way Chirrut’s eyes crinkle, his white teeth flashing and his cheekbones becoming even more prominent. Baze wants to snap, jerk away, stalk out and not look back, but Chirrut has moved so he’s directly in Baze’s path. If Baze wants out, he’ll have to push Chirrut out of the way.

“So angry,” Chirrut murmurs. “It’s like the heat rising off the sand outside the city, when the sun is high. It flows off you in waves.”

“What do you want?” Baze asks, realizing too late how dangerous that question is. But Chirrut only arches a brow again, in that infuriating way of his.

“To spar with you,” he says simply.

Baze can’t stop the caustic laugh at that, but Chirrut doesn’t respond. He just waits, and Baze sobers.

“You’re serious.”

Chirrut is wearing the usual acolyte robes, sand-colored, form-fitting to the waist and flowing to mid-calf, with loose pants in the same fabric underneath. It’s the same thing Baze is wearing, so he doesn’t understand why his mouth goes dry when he looks at Chirrut, why his skin prickles with heat and he forgets how to make words.

Chirrut doesn’t wait for an answer. He stalks to the center of the dojo, in the middle of the bamboo mat, and spreads his feet, dropping to a crouch. He brings his hands up and beckons.

Baze throttles back his anger with an effort. “I don’t want to spar with you.”

“You won’t hurt me,” Chirrut assures him. He cocks his head. “Are you afraid I’ll hurt you?”

Baze snarls and charges. He intends to plant his shoulder in Chirrut’s ribs, shove him backward, pin him to the wall and put some bruises on that distractingly satin skin, but Chirrut moves, blurring sideways so that Baze misses completely.

He stumbles to a stop and turns. Chirrut is waiting, feet spread.

“Are you a dune cow on a rampage or a Guardian of the Whills?” he taunts.

Baze takes a deep breath and releases his anger on the exhale, slow and steady, letting it drain from him. Chirrut hums, something approving in the sound, and beckons again.

This time, Baze doesn’t rush him. He crosses the mat and mirrors Chirrut’s stance, bringing his hands up as he bends his knees.

Chirrut strikes and Baze barely evades it. Chirrut follows with a feint to Baze’s ribs and a blow that rocks his head back.

Baze staggers a pace away, tasting copper on his tongue.

“You’re too tense,” Chirrut says. “You have to relax. Form two.”

Baze positions himself and Chirrut counts aloud as they work through the form, hands and forearms striking and blocking, parry and counterstrike.

Chirrut is fast and fluid, moving too quickly for Baze to track with his eyes, but somehow, Baze knows where he’s going before he gets there. At first, he’s only able to block the blows that Chirrut hurls, but after a few minutes, something slots into place and he lands a blow with his elbow to Chirrut’s midsection.

Chirrut grunts, knocked off his rhythm, and Baze hesitates. But Chirrut laughs and throws himself forward. Baze is driven backward, dodging and blocking, but there’s been a shift in their dynamic, like the chock holding the dam in place has been removed, and he not only stops most of Chirrut’s punches but manages to land some of his own.

Baze stumbles off the edge of the mat and Chirrut takes advantage of his distraction. He lands on Baze’s shoulders, his weight toppling him. Baze hits the floor with a thud, the wind driven from him by the force of their fall.

Chirrut ends up on Baze’s chest, grinning triumphantly. He is solid, heavier than Baze expected, and Baze’s stomach turns over again. He wants to push Chirrut away, he wants to pull him closer, he wants—

He rolls so that Chirrut’s the one on his back and Baze is above him, pinning him down.

Finally,” Chirrut says, and he’s laughing, relaxed and unconcerned, and Baze is suddenly determined to shake his composure, make him show something other than the light, amused mask he wears every day.

He catches Chirrut’s wrists and pins them to the mat, above his head, and Chirrut freezes and makes a desperate, helpless noise as Baze bends and presses their mouths together.

It’s hot and wet and filthy, lips and teeth and tongues, and Baze drinks the moans from Chirrut’s throat, pulling noises out of him until Chirrut is trembling in his hands.

“Please,” Chirrut manages when Baze finally breaks away to nose down Chirrut’s lovely throat, bared for him. “Please, Baze, I need—”

Baze feels drunk, lightheaded with having Chirrut spread out beneath him, begging for him, and he presses his face to Chirrut’s throat and takes a deep breath.

Chirrut smells like clean sweat and incense and jasmine, and Baze can feel how hard his heart is hammering by the pulse beating under Baze’s lips.

Baze kisses the skin there, then lifts his head. Chirrut’s eyes are wide, naked desperation written all over his face, body still trembling with need between Baze’s thighs.

It takes a minute for Baze to get his voice under control so he can speak, and even when he does, it’s harsh and gravelly.

“My room is closer.”

Chirrut’s eyes widen even more but he’s already nodding. Baze lets go of his wrists and rolls to his feet. He straightens his robes, flinching as he brushes his erection and lust skitters through him.

Chirrut rises, and Baze is gratified to see he’s in the same situation, the front of his pants tented and a damp patch forming.

Baze steps forward, closing the distance between them, and Chirrut tilts his head up so that Baze can claim his mouth again.

It starts slow and sweet, but Chirrut tangles his hands in Baze’s hair, gripping the short strands as he whimpers, and the kiss quickly turns filthy again, until Chirrut is clinging to Baze to keep himself upright and Baze’s head is spinning.

“Your room,” Chirrut husks. “Before I push you back down right here and ride you till you scream.”

Baze nearly chokes on his tongue and grabs Chirrut’s hand to drag him laughing from the room. They dash through the halls, down a flight of stairs and along another corridor to Baze’s room, where Baze fumbles the door open and they stumble inside.

Chirrut takes a deep breath and hums. “Smells like you.”

“I hope that’s a good thing,” Baze says as he closes the door and turns to see Chirrut, standing in the middle of the small space, head at an angle as he pivots slowly.

Something flutters in Baze’s chest, and he takes an unsteady breath as Chirrut stops, facing him, and beckons.

Two strides and Baze is there, Chirrut a long line of heat pressed against him, and Baze stoops and lifts him so Chirrut can lock his legs around Baze’s waist.

“Do you know,” Chirrut whispers, cupping Baze’s up-tilted face in his hands, so close his sweet breath feathers hot over Baze’s cheek, “do you know how long I’ve wanted you?”

Baze manages to shake his head and Chirrut smiles, bending even closer, until their lips are nearly touching.

“Take me to bed, Baze Malbus.”

The bed is thankfully only two more steps away, against the stone wall, and Baze topples Chirrut onto the thin mattress, swarming up his body to cover it with his own.

Chirrut arches against him with a gasp and Baze braces an elbow on either side of his head as he leans in to kiss him.

He can’t get enough of this, the sweet-salt taste of Chirrut’s mouth, the way he goes loose and pliant with Baze’s touch and whines his need against Baze’s lips. Baze is heavy and aching with desire as Chirrut rolls his hips so their erections rub together, and he breaks the kiss to swear in a choked voice.

“Do you have anything?” Chirrut asks.

Baze leans over and pulls out the little tube of slick that hasn’t been used since he met Chirrut, all those months ago. He rolls off the bed to take his clothes off as Chirrut fumbles with his pants, pushing them down and over his feet.

Baze turns back and is struck dumb at the sight Chirrut makes, naked on his bed, utterly unselfconscious as he thumbs the head of his cock, legs splayed.

Chirrut beckons and Baze jolts, recalled to himself, and scrambles back on the bed to kneel between Chirrut’s thighs.

“Touch me,” Chirrut says, and who is Baze to disobey?

He spreads his hands flat on Chirrut’s perfect abdomen, tracing the ridges of muscle with his fingers as Chirrut closes his eyes, a smile on his face. He follows his fingers with his mouth, kissing his way up Chirrut’s stomach to his breastbone, tawny skin warm under Baze’s lips as he memorizes every inch of Chirrut’s body.

“Want you inside me,” Chirrut manages after a few minutes, when Baze shows no signs of stopping his explorations.

Baze freezes at that and lifts his head. Chirrut squirms impatiently, hooking a heel around Baze’s hip and pulling him closer.

“Come on, then,” he says, and there’s a challenge in his voice.

Baze groans and sits up. He coats a finger in the slick and touches Chirrut’s flexing entrance, watching raptly as it slides inside up to the knuckle.

Chirrut’s breathing quickens, but he’s utterly still, allowing Baze to set his own pace.

It’s not long before Baze adds a finger, and Chirrut’s spine arches as he grasps at the bedding.

“Yes, yes, right there, more—”

Baze can hardly bear it, the sight of Chirrut so wanton and free, driven to distraction by Baze’s touch. He has to be inside him, or die of wanting him.

He pulls his fingers out and replaces them with his cock in one swift thrust, filling Chirrut to the brim and making him cry out, heels scrabbling against the mattress.

Baze doesn’t move for a long minute, silk and scouring heat sheathing him, as Chirrut pants in shallow, rapid breaths, his back arched off the bed so only his shoulders are touching it.

Please,” Chirrut finally says, and Baze moves.

He keeps his thrusts shallow and controlled at first, rocking in gradually and drawing out even more slowly, until sweat sheens Chirrut’s chest and he’s heaving for air, strung tight.

Baze speeds up then, slamming home faster and faster, bending forward to catch Chirrut’s mouth with his own as his hips work and Chirrut sobs broken words against his lips, so far gone he’s babbling in his native tongue, a language Baze doesn’t speak.

Baze can feel the orgasm building at the base of his spine, the pressure growing, but he holds it back and reaches between them to grasp Chirrut’s cock.

Chirrut comes on a shattered cry at the first touch, spilling wet and slick all over Baze’s hand, tight, shivery heat around Baze’s cock as Baze lets go, emptying deep in Chirrut’s core as ecstasy overwhelms him until he collapses in a sweaty, shaking, drained heap on Chirrut’s chest.

They lie silently for several blissful minutes, Baze’s face buried in the crook of Chirrut’s neck and Chirrut slowly combing his fingers through Baze’s hair.

He closes his hand and tugs on a lock. “You should grow this out,” he murmurs. “You’d look great with long hair.”

Baze huffs an exhausted laugh against Chirrut’s skin. “Already trying to change me?”

Chirrut kisses the top of his head. “Never.”

 

He moves in with Baze the next week.