#duros

Perhaps he was wearing an earpiece, or remembering something amusing from the day before—a joke a friend had told him. You were not in the best of moods, tending to take things personally, though you remained attentive of your surroundings, waiting rather impatiently for your “date” to arrive.

You sighed, looking at your chronometer. You shifted your gaze to the holoscreen above the bar. You rolled your eyes, refusing to be sucked into the latest celebrity drama—who cared who was dating whom, or who was wearing what?

“Asshole,” you muttered beneath your breath, cursing the human male you had never actually met before. It was becoming clearer by the second that you had been stood up, and you had gone through all the trouble of making yourself presentable!

“’Scuse me?” came a gruff and surly voice from next to you.

It was that Duros again, though this time he had slightly turned his head in your direction. His hat was tilted at an angle, his sharp red gaze penetrating you down to the core of your being, effectively dismantling any of your rudimentary defensive mechanisms before they could possibly take hold.

He was breathtaking to be quite honest.

“Y-yes?” you stuttered, unsure of where this conversation was going.

“Wha’d ye call me?”

“Call you—? Oh! No, I—”

Why was he staring at you like that? Did you have something on your face? It was as alarming as it was flattering, finding yourself to be mesmerized by the ruby-colored gemstones that served him as eyes, swimming in a sea of the prettiest blue you had ever seen.

“—I didn’t call you anything, I’m just… angry,” you finished, adding a bit too much emphasis.

“And why’s dhat?” the Duros asked, his voice a low, enchanting drawl that was like music to your ears.

You suddenly felt self-conscious, as if you deserved to be jilted by some random stranger you had matched with on the HoloNet.

“It’s… nothing,” you managed. “Nothing important.”

“Don’t seem like nothin’,” the man said, though his tone lacked any real concern. Maybe he pitied you, or maybe he was bored; you doubted he had any real interest in your sob story.

“I was stood up, that’s all. My date never showed.”

“Hmn,” the man began, “a looker like ye? Hard te believe.”

This surprised you. You snapped your head sharply to the left. The Duros was not even looking at you anymore, staring off into the middle distance, his tumbler gripped tightly in one hand—that’s when you noticed.

His fingers were extremely long.

Your eyes roved; you could not help it. You began to appraise him, from the boots on his feet to the hat on his head.

He said nothing as you perused his person, though you made quick work of it so as not to appear so obvious.

He had thrusters on his boots, an oxygen canister along his back, leather holsters on his hips—his pants were skintight, worn, and soiled with dirt. His duster had seen better days, draping to the floor from the back of his stool, with barely an inch of flesh visible except his gaunt cheekbones and half the expanse of those thin fingers, peeking out from cutoff gloves.

What must he be, you wondered? The sheriff of this town? An outlaw?

You watched as he snubbed out a cigarra in a nearby ashtray; you swallowed down your spit. “That’s kind of you to say.”

The tall, handsome Duros snickered. “Ain’t kind. Just tell de truth.”

By the Core… was he flirting with you?

You hesitated; you did not want to ruin this by saying something stupid, but if you stayed quiet for too long, it would be easy to misinterpret as disinterest, and you might lose your chance—it was not every day that good-looking, rugged men waltzed into your life to pay you compliments.

“I suppose he had something better to do than me,” you said, laughing nervously, then immediately regretted it.

Idiot, idiot, you scolded yourself. What an asinine thing to say! Suppose he did not find sexual innuendos funny! Suppose he thought you to be a slut! Any number of things could turn this once-in-a-lifetime moment into a lamentable disaster!

The Duros’ face remained so deadpan that you were unsure of what he might be thinking, holding your breath for any sort of reaction at all. Your hands shook as you took up your risible Fuzzy Tauntaun, forcing the glass against your lips so that you did not shriek in frustration and embarrassment.

Something unexpected happened—the Duros got up from off his stool, its legs scraping across the cantina floor. You were flabbergasted, bearing witness to his full height, your eyes widening as he removed a few credit chips from out of his coat pocket.

He tossed them with the flick of his wrist onto the counter, then began to walk away. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, your cheeks burning, sweltering, as you hunkered down in your seat, bunching your shoulders.

He must think you to be some kind of dolt! A person of such little value that he thought it fitting to extricate himself from your presence entirely.

He strolled past you without even the slightest acknowledgment, smelling of heaven itself, combined with the richness of his vice—Ambrian cheroot. This further aggrieved you, as what felt like absolute agony bubbled in your guts. You wanted to die, to bury yourself alive, to crawl into a hole and—

—he paused, turning to glance at you from over the peak of his shoulder.

“Ye comin’?”

---

A flurry of tongue and teeth—yours—the Duros humoring you, his own teeth cause for concern at the sheer sharpness of them. Two tapered fangs, others crooked and stained, with a faint smell of alcohol on his breath, but you did not care—he tasted divine, like ambrosia and mild narcotics, like something you could have only dreamed of before this moment—kissing this thin, sinewy, strong, yet somehow delicate man.

And those fingers, those hands—one cupped the back of your head as the other clasped your hip tightly, his pull powerful, the possessive yank of your body toward his enough to make you gasp aloud.

It felt so good to be wanted; you were elated he had not left you behind, having spared enough credits to pay both your tabs and then some. He had stolen you away, guiding you toward a dingy corner, somewhere toward the back of the cantina, the adjoining alley littered with trash and refuse. It wasn’t the most romantic of settings, but you paid that no mind, so intently focused on your new lover that even the squeaks of rodents could not distract you.

What little flesh you could touch was cool, soft, but rough around the edges; there were callouses etched into his palms; there were scars carved into his cheeks and lips. Your nose kept running into the flat plane of his face, but he did not complain, your arms able to wrap wholly around his waif physique.

Your own fingers dug into taut leather, each movement of his skeletal frame causing the material to bend and creak. You desired to be enveloped, to melt into him, so pleasant was the scent emanating from this Duros—one to whom you still had not been properly introduced.

“Who are you?” you breathed between laps of your tongue, between fervent kisses shared, something long, thick, and hard pressing against your crotch.

“What do I call you?” you asked, wishing to moan this man’s name, aligning yourself properly to fit snugly against his length—it was straining to liberate itself from his trousers. You hiked a leg to hook around this beguiling creature’s thigh—he was much too tall for anything else.

The Duros broke free of your mouth, the cusp of a tooth grazing your chin before he grinned something wicked, removing his hand from the back of your head so that he might tip his hat to you like a proper gentleman.

“De name’s Bane—Cad Bane.”

“Cad B—”

He stared at you with those stunning, ruby ecliptic eyes as you had an epiphany, having heard this man’s name before. It was attached to news reports and rumors, hearsay—he was infamous—how could you have not recognized him?

“Problem?”

“No,” you whispered on an out-breath, refastening yourself to him, only this time you were frenzied, clingy.

You fumbled with his buckle; he pushed your hand away. You whimpered, for you had been doing it incorrectly, come to find—Bane remedied that shortly thereafter, the clink of metal signifying he had removed his belt for you, his holsters gradually slipping off and down, landing on the ground at your feet.

“Somethin’ yer wantin’?” he queried, his tone gentle, casual though husky, as if he didn’t hold the key to your present happiness in the palm of his hand, however transitory it might be.

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m sure you can guess,” you provoked playfully, moving to rake your blunt, human teeth against thermoguard, all at once despising the body glove that housed him—those stupid breathing tubes. Worse yet, his insulated cap barred you from getting anywhere near his throat, wishing to suck, bite, and kiss there, too.

The Duros smirked in response, shifting his arm to rearrange the hand groping your hip to instead grope your ass. He gave it a squeeze, holding on firmly to your buttocks as he hoisted your leg up higher, the other hand pushing down the edge of his pants, his blacks, exposing himself just enough for you to get a decent look.

Bane’s cock was engorged with blood and standing erect, green hues mixing with blues of varying shades. Minuscule, raised spines gave it texture along its shaft, the head smooth and bulbous. It was already leaking, though hard to tell, as a clear, viscous substance coated it from bottom to top. It had emerged from a slit in his groin, pushing past soft scales.

You could have stared at it for hours—studied it, sucked it— but Bane was already lifting up your skirt and pushing your panties to the side.

You were unaware there were two; he did not seem inclined to tell you, the other tucked away somewhere, somehow, in those close-fitting pants. Bane would see how well you took one before introducing another if he bothered, content for now to take amusement in your palpable desire for him.

“Always nice te hear it out loud,” he returned, your loins aching, the fat head of his cock brushing against your cunt in an effort to tease you before he would attempt to broach your insides.

“You,” you hastily admitted. “You, you, you—it’s as if, if—”

“Mhm…”

Your words caught in your throat; his eyes were much too beautiful; his gaze was much too heady. He was himself intoxicating, no matter you had indulged in a drink or two.

“—as if I’ve never wanted anyone before now,” you whispered. “As if you are the only man I could possibly ever want again.”

Bane smiled a small, shit-eating smile. He just had that effect on women. “Ye don’t say…” he languidly spoke into your ear—you found yourself to be thoroughly drenched from anticipation alone.

“Don’t make me wait, don’t make me—” you began to plead, the Duros’ fiery eyes crinkling at their azure corners; he reveled in hearing you beg.

But tonight he would be a gentleman, he thought, finding your pleas to be a little too enticing, a little too perfect—he slowly, painstakingly, sheathed himself inside you.

The feeling of the him stretching you open was flawless, his smooth, domed tip sliding in so gradually you almost wished he would go faster. But it was worth it, the thickness of his girth combined with the alien composition of his prick like nothing you had ever experienced before.

Each bump lining his shaft massaged every bit of plush flesh that they encountered. You had no idea of their purpose in relation to human anatomy, and assumed they had none, but it did not matter—it felt incredible.

Every inch, each minute motion of his hips had you sucking in air through your teeth, your chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. Your front incisors bore down on the skin of your bottom lip, so pleasurable was the sensations happening between your legs.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Bane asked, his tone lacking variety, though you felt he meant it as a genuine question toward your well-being.

You nearly laughed, though you contained it; nothing he was doing could be further from wrong than this—you had never felt better.

“Not at all,” you softly exhaled, “just wasn’t expecting—it feels—”

Bane pulled you a little closer, pulled your leg a little tighter. His hat hovered above your head, casting you both in shadow. A streetlight blinked sporadically somewhere off to your left. You were losing coherent thought, lost in the feeling of his cock expanding your walls.

The Duros leaned in. “Hm?”

“—Like—like—I’ve never even had sex before. Like—I never want to have sex with anyone else ever again,” you whispered, Bane angling his head, though you missed the peculiar look he gave you—you had briefly closed your eyes.

“Haven’t done nothin’ yet,” Bane replied, holding you there aloft, your ass sitting in the center of his broad palm.

You cracked one eye open. He was staring you down. You lifted your other eyelid and stared at him right back. “You hav—?”

The question could not fully leave your lips before you felt his narrow hips roll, succinct and slow, the little nodules inside you seeming to enlarge, seeming to nestle in as they rolled back and forth, in and out, against the anterior of your sex.

The head of his cock knocked softly, consistently, against your erogenous zone without so much as a single direction on how to find it. There were no “right there’s, or “keep going’s,” from you—you were already at a loss for words, only one thing coming to mind: his name.

“Bane,” you moaned, pushing off the ground, hopping up to feel him catch you, both your legs now able to wind around his slutty little waist like your life depended on it. This gave him more leverage and you knew it, perhaps in more ways than one—you might come to regret all of this someday, though you highly doubted it.

You moved to cradle his cheeks in the bowl of your cupped hands, thumbs gently massaging the indigo flesh of his face as your mouth covered his own, not caring one iota for his fangs, not caring if you bled, not caring if you left with cuts and bruises—only that you never forget the way he tasted, the way he smelled.

“Feels nice, lil’ lady?” he asked, as if he did not already know the answer, as if there was anything else for you to say besides, “yes, yes!”, as if you had not already told him once already. But he had said he liked to hear it, hadn’t he?

“The best I’ve had, the best I will ever have,” you praised, lifting your hips, moving yourself in tandem with the hunter’s thrusts so as to glide over his member, partially carrying your own weight.

Something in him shifted, your continuous adulation tickling a part of his brain that made Cad Bane want to live up to your hype.

The Duros pushed you back against the wall, adjusting all of your weight into his arms. His pelvis rocked forward, his strokes deepening, lengthening, and quickening in pace. You moaned your lust, clinging to his shoulders, your tongue searching out his mouth again so that you might kiss him.

It was all you wanted to do—all you could do—worried someone might catch you, worried you might become too loud. Your moans of ecstasy died in his mouth, on his lips, swallowed whole only to be repeated, again and again.

“Might just hafta make ye mine,” Bane growled, putting a temporary halt to your affection. “Shame on dhat fella fer leavin’ ye all te me, hm?”

You laughed, throwing your head back. It was short-lived; you threw your arms around his neck and gently moved to suck his bottom lip before responding.

“It was fate—I’d never change a thing,” you promised between heaving breaths, Bane repositioning himself to bear the brunt of your hips and ass on the crux of one lean forearm. You wondered at the reason until you felt the cool touch of his fingers, the Duros having slipped between your thighs.

“Oh, shit—” you hissed, your eyes rolling, Bane’s palm curling so that he might slant one spindly extremity at an ideal angle.

You gasped as the plush pad of his index finger situated itself against the external source of your pleasure, its soft tip rolling in methodical, dilatory, swirling circles, your own slick aiding him in a calculated massage.

“Slow and steady wins de race,” he remarked, his voice so deep, so rasping—so sexy.

“Keep me, let me be your prize—let me, let me—” you entreated, your pleas hitching in your throat.

It was too much—your muscles tightened around his cock, flexing, seeking to keep him forever tucked away inside you.

You wanted to cum, you wanted to shout your adoration to the rooftops, but you also wished for this to never end—parting would be such sweet sorrow, though you would have nothing to look forward to, nothing for tomorrow—Cad Bane would surely leave you here to disappear, never to be seen again.

“No, no, no,” you chanted, you orgasm reaching its apex, the contraction of your muscles joined by the throb of your clit, the overeager nub twitching beneath his fingers.

“No?” Bane hissed, pressing harder into you, his prick near to bursting, the hunter doing everything in his power to hold himself back.

“Don’t stop, don’t let it end, don’t leave, don’t—”

“Yer makin’ it difficult—ain’t gonna last, girl. Gonna—unless ye—”

You tugged him in, squishing him between your thighs and ankles, legs still folded behind his back. You kissed what little you could access; you bit his lip again; you shoved your breasts against him.

“Do it. I want it,” you commanded, as if you had the authority to give him orders.

You felt his cock pulsate, you felt each small protuberance inside you, each raised rib as the build-up reached the head of his dick. You moaned, then giggled, then squeezed your thighs. You made sure to hold Bane steady as the rush of his gelid seed glazed your insides, one pump after another.

This time, the Duros was the one breathing heavily, despite the device that jutted from his back, his cheeks—you placed both hands around either side and tugged, bringing his mouth to yours once more.

He did not resist, though he could have. He could have snapped your neck, broken your back, shot you in the head, yet he had done nothing but treat you kindly, though he said he was not kind—nothing but shown you a good time.

Upon your release—and he waited, mind you—he carefully set you back down on the ground. You fumbled with your panties, smoothed your dress flat, then gazed at him with a genuine smile.

Bane had hidden his face as he tucked himself away, his thoughts, feelings, expression masked by the brim of his wide hat. He bent low to retrieve his holsters, refastening them about his hips, then stood back up to his full stature to observe you quietly.

“That was—I—”

A man called your name. You looked back toward the mouth of the alley, toward the direction you had come from. Your date had finally shown himself, obviously surprised to have spotted you lingering somewhere under the shimmering light of a streetlamp, shrouded by a being who looked almost otherworldly, his eyes two burning red coals, his face awash in a dusky glow.

“Sorry I’m late.”

You heard Bane snort behind your back—so he had been laughing at you, this time at your choice in men instead of your choice of beverage.

“Gimmie yer digits, and Ah’ll get ridda dhis asshole; maybe come visit next time Ah’m in town,” the Duros calmly offered.

You turned back around, your eyes lit up like a kid’s on Life Day—you would get to see him again after all.