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Coming for Dinner

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It was one of those rare evenings when the entire crew gathered in the galley to eat dinner—a real dinner that didn’t come in a box or vacuum-sealed in cellofoil—and sit squashed beside each other in the booth, rambling over one another while stretching across the cluttered, steamy table for second helpings.

Ezra was entirely too warm pressed against Kanan’s right side, however, and there was a telling silence in their bond that made Kanan wonder what dastardly idea his Padawan was hatching now.

Kanan wasn’t fast enough to seize the flirty, mischievous hand that lighted on his thigh and followed his holster strap inward, coming to rest on his already half-wakened erection.

Ezra, grinning surreptitiously and somehow managing to eat and carry on a normal conversation in the greatest display of multitasking and self-control Kanan had ever witnessed, proceeded to torture his Master for the next fifteen minutes, kneading his crotch until his trousers bulged and his face was stained dark pink—partly with anger, partly from the exertion of trying to pretend he wasn’t aroused by Ezra’s clever hand.

After dinner he soundly punished Ezra for his prank, pinning him facedown on the bunk in his cabin, gripping his shoulders hard enough to bruise, and fucking the cocky little brat so brutally that when they were finished, Ezra’s nipples and penis were rubbed a raw, hot red-pink.

Kanan tended to these sore, tender parts as a peace offering—he felt much more amenable after shooting his wad inside his squirming, beautiful Padawan—and sent the boy to bed with a kiss on his sweaty forehead and a dopey, love-drunk smirk on his face.