23 for the numbers post, spiritassassin 😏😏😏😏😏

erebones:

23. sated

Baze can’t seem to get a good grip. The air feels wet and heavy in his lungs, puffing hotly against the back of Chirrut’s neck, and his fingers slip against the sweaty stretch of Chirrut’s flanks as he struggles to hang on. He lurches forward like a great lumbering bear, and groans when he slips out of him. Again. 

Chirrut giggles hysterically. “Sorry, sorry! I just didn’t think–I didn’t–”

He wriggles like a fish, one of those pale, blind ones that swim in the depth of the kyber pools that Baze once dared him to catch–he’d been soaking wet when they finally pulled him out, laughing and half-drowned, with no fish in sight. But he’d been cold then, clammy like a dead thing, and now he’s hot and flushed and Baze can’t hold on. 

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