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He didn’t mean to keep it. It just ended up in his quarters when he hastily changed back into his own uniform aboard the Chimaera, half-folded, draped over the stiff back of the chair that was neatly tucked under the desk that housed his computer array. Thrawn wouldn’t want it back but Eli couldn’t bring himself to throw it in the ship’s trash compactor. And so after the battle with insurgents at Batonn, after his (and then Thrawn’s) confrontation with Nightswan, after the explosions and the carnage and the tactical discussions and the political maneuvers and the closest Eli had come to being shot in several years—after all that, and after he slept for about six hours, Eli was confronted with the reality of the tunic.
It was fortunate, not just for Eli but for Thrawn as well, that Eli hadn’t really had time to process the significance of the tunic when Thrawn handed it to him in the Slipknot. He had been trying to stay calm, stay astute, adrenaline pulsing through him in the lead-up to confrontation. There was no time to consider the uniform-standard thermoregulatory undershirt Thrawn wore that clung to the planes of his torso, stretched taut across his broad shoulders, circling his slim but powerful upper arms. There was no time, either, to consider the tunic that Thrawn gave him: just large enough to make Eli hyperaware of the size difference between them, just warm enough to recall the heat of Thrawn’s body, the ozone and burnt-plastic scent of the fresh blaster hole not quite strong enough to mask the scent of Thrawn’s skin that pervaded the material.
Eli was of course familiar with the way Thrawn smelled, both freshly showered and at the end of several back-to-back shifts on the bridge, the sweetly sharp, almost dark chocolate scent of whatever oils his body produced. Thrawn didn’t seem to sweat the way Eli did; Eli had stopped being embarrassed about their relative production rates of sweat at around week three of their time together at the academy, when, in an exam-induced state of exhaustion, he finally chose sleep over bathing over the course of about 90 of the grossest hours he had ever personally experienced and Thrawn hadn’t reacted in the slightest. He knew Thrawn saw differently than he did, so he had to assume all Thrawn’s senses processed information in a slightly different way, but either Eli’s anxiety sweat was not particularly noticeable to Thrawn or he was too polite to comment on it. (There was also the possibility that he smelled as pleasant to Thrawn as Thrawn did to him, but Eli never let himself venture too far down this road.)
So the tunic’s size, the scent of it, the constant brush of the hems of the sleeves against the backs of his hands where he failed to roll them to fit his smaller body—all of this was quite a lot to handle on top of a subterfuge mission of which the stakes were “Eli convinces a group of arms smugglers his Imperial ass is one of them” or “Eli is unceremoniously shot in the face by said arms smugglers,” as well as the constant effort he expended trying to keep up with Thrawn’s perpetually moving mind. Eli put to use the robust compartmentalization skills he had cultivated during his time with Thrawn, ignored the tunic’s existence completely, and got to work.
But even Eli was occasionally forced to deal with the inconvenient reality of his feelings toward Thrawn, and sometimes, as now, he was forced to do so while wearing only his underwear, his hair still damp from the refresher, plastered over his forehead and dripping slightly down the bare back of his neck. He couldn’t keep the shirt, but he couldn’t get rid of it. He kept glancing at it as he moved about his quarters, pulling on an undershirt, looking at the tunic, running a towel over his hair, looking at it again and again as though it possessed some of whatever alluring magnetism drew him to Thrawn in the first place.
Picking it up again was a trap, but Thrawn always told him that launching a trap was the best way to defeat it, so Eli went toward it and took it in both hands, one last time, feeling the familiar stiffness of the fabric as he brought it to his face and inhaled.
It smelled of burnt plastic and Eli.
Eli threw it in with his laundry.
❧
To Eli’s dismay, the tunic presented nearly as many problems after having been cleaned as it had before. The hole Thrawn had shot through it gaped starkly when Eli held it in front of him, the gunmetal gray wall of his quarters visible through the charred-black edges of the gap in the fabric. It was entirely unsalvageable, not that the Imperial Navy was so hard up for cash that anyone would consider repairing it, not that Thrawn would even wear a uniform of this design any longer. Not as Grand Admiral—the upcoming promotion was an open secret on the ship, and even Eli, practiced as he was at concealing his reactions to gossip about Thrawn, had to smother a smug smile when he heard it repeated. It would have been unthinkable (perhaps still was to some Imperials) for a nonhuman to attain such a rank before Thrawn’s dramatic entrance to the Imperial ranks, but it seemed more unthinkable, to Eli’s view, not to promote him. Who in the entire Empire could have achieved what Thrawn had in such a short amount of time? Who had ever had such a brilliant tactical mind? Who more embodied elegant military efficiency, not just when on the bridge of whatever ship he served upon but in his off time, when meeting with officials, interested not in political machinations nor in rank for its own sake but because he was truly the most brilliant military leader the Imperial Navy had ever seen, and even the most corrupt politicians had to appreciate that. (Also, the white uniform would look splendid against Thrawn’s blue skin and the dark indigo of his hair, the stiff standing collar curving comfortably around the column of his throat, the sleek lines of it setting off, with unmistakable elegance, his broad shoulders and slim waist. He would stand out against the dull backdrop of every room he entered, and in every crowd of people; eyes would be inexorably drawn to him, as he had always deserved.)
The tunic hung in Eli’s quarters for a ship’s day while he wrote and submitted after-action reports, filled out paperwork for himself and for Thrawn, graciously turned down meetings requested by officials who weren’t too important to ignore, graciously accepted meetings requested by officials who were, and finally checked the status of the ship itself: checked the personnel logs, checked the engineering reports, checked the cargo storage and the TIE squadron losses and the ventilation system and the hyperdrive and the sublight engines and the shields, all the parts of the ship that had to function properly for the crew—for Thrawn—to do their best work. The ship’s status was acceptable as long as Thrawn didn’t need to bother himself with its machinations. This was Eli’s concern, one of the many things he did so that Thrawn didn’t have to.
The tunic was still there when Eli finally looked up from his computer array, stretching his arms above his head to release tension from the painful knots in his shoulders, tipping his neck from side to side to feel the vertebrae crack. Eli uploaded to his datapad the most pressing issues he had to address with Thrawn and then, after standing dumbly in front of the tunic for a moment, he gathered it in his arms and went to Thrawn’s quarters. Folded, it was a small bundle, barely noticeable under the datapad he also held in his arms, but Eli was, as before, extremely conscious of it, its weight and the jut of its shoulders, the way the stiff fabric sought to unfold even under Eli’s tight grip.
He paused outside Thrawn’s quarters, uncharacteristically anxious, before steeling his resolve and keying the code. The door slid open with a quiet susurration and the distant thunk of the pneumatic locking mechanism and Eli stepped inside. This was a normal status report that just happened to be occurring consecutive to Eli returning to Thrawn a military artifact borrowed for tactical reasons during a mission for the Imperial Navy. Very normal.
“Commander Vanto,” Thrawn greeted him.
“Sir,” Eli said, like normal. “Urgent after-action items.”
They discussed them as Eli read the list, noting salient details that he would have to include in later paperwork about personnel losses and equipment damage, about resource use and conservation, about the specific wording he would use to describe certain unorthodox tactical maneuvers Thrawn had employed. Although the tunic remained tucked between Eli’s elbow and knee as he leaned slightly over the datapad, intently entering data and taking notes, Eli’s anxiety disappeared, subsumed into the mundanity of the routine and the familiarity with which they spoke to one another after all these years.
“Oh, and one last thing, sir,” Eli said, once he had blanked the screen of his datapad and lowered it to his lap, aware yet again of the bulk of the tunic on his lap. His anxiety returned all in a rush. “The tunic you loaned to me on the Slipknot.”
“Ah,” Thrawn said, his face betraying absolutely nothing. That in itself was a kind of betrayal: Eli recognized the minute flash of surprise over Thrawn’s features, the twitch of his eyebrows and the tightening of his jaw, and that did not occur here. Thrawn had been expecting this.
Well, Eli said to himself, of course Thrawn had been expecting this, Eli had been holding the damn tunic throughout the entire briefing.
Eli placed the datapad on the edge of Thrawn’s desk and offered the tunic, rapidly unfolding from its bundled state, barely held together by Eli’s clenched hands. Thrawn hesitated before reaching across the desk to take it from him. His hands, broader than Eli’s, skin darker blue at the knuckles than across the bone-ridged backs, carefully trimmed nails a delicate violet, had no trouble holding the little bundle together. He placed it carefully before him on the desk. Eli belatedly realized he was staring at Thrawn’s hands and he jerked his gaze, guiltily, up to Thrawn’s face.
“Why did you return this to me, Commander Vanto?” Thrawn asked, his voice carefully neutral.
Eli felt his whole body flush with warmth. “I didn’t—it’s yours,” he said.
He felt Thrawn’s glowing eyes track over his body slowly, his blush-pinked face and his throat when he swallowed, convulsively, his uniform collar suddenly too tight; his tense shoulders and his hands knotted in his lap. Coming here with the tunic had been a colossal error. He needed to make a tactical retreat.
“Sorry,” Eli mumbled, standing, but Thrawn moved in his peripheral vision and he looked up to see him placing his rank plaque on the desk beside the tunic. He paused, one hand braced on the edge of Thrawn’s desk, fingers splayed against the dark metal.
“Eli,” Thrawn said. He sounded different, less confident than hesitant, not as though he were commanding Eli but as though asking for something.
“S—” Eli began. He swallowed past the nervousness that stopped his throat. “Thrawn.”
“Why did you return this to me, Eli?”
“It’s yours,” Eli said again, softly.
“Come here,” Thrawn said.
Eli looked at the star of his own hand against the matte black surface of Thrawn’s desk; at the unfurling bundle of the damaged tunic; at the careful way the bottom edge of his datapad was lined up with the edge of the desk, perfectly even, its glossy surface like a reflecting pool. The bright blue and red pips of Thrawn’s rank plaque. He went around the side of Thrawn’s desk as though in a dream, resisting the urge to trail his fingertips along the edge of the desk as he circumnavigated it lest he leave fingerprint smudges on the pristine material. Instead he busied his hands with removing his own rank plaque, placing it beside Thrawn’s on the desk.
Then they were facing one another. Eli couldn’t drag his gaze up to Thrawn’s face.
“Tell me, Eli,” Thrawn said, “how did you feel when you wore it?”
“Nervous. About the mission.” Eli prevaricated. He knew it was the wrong answer as soon as he said it, and he winced.
“No,” Thrawn said in a similar tone to the didactic one he used when trying to draw from Eli an answer to a question about strategy.
Eli looked at Thrawn’s knees, spread apart, pulling the fabric of his uniform taut across his thighs.
“Small.”
Thrawn waited.
“It smelled… like you,” Eli finally said, voice weak. “And it was—” his throat clicked as he swallowed “—warm, from your body.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
Eli’s uniform collar felt tight around his throat. “Uvukoli.” It was easier to say in Sy Bisti than in Basic but the hot flush of shame still burned through his whole body. Eli’s heart was beating so hard he imagined Thrawn could hear it.
“I did not expect how strongly it would make me feel,” Thrawn said. “Seeing you in my clothing.” One of Thrawn’s hands was tight on the arm of his chair, knuckles a bloodless sky blue. Then Thrawn’s voice dipped low, the syllables sumptuous in his mouth: “It was also… arousing."
“Oh,” Eli breathed.
“I’d like to see you in it again, Eli.”
Eli raised his eyes, finally, to Thrawn’s face, the near-purple flush that dusted his sharp cheekbones, the tantalizing gap where his lips were barely parted, the intensity of the way he was looking back at Eli.
“Sir?” Eli managed to ask.
“If you… wouldn’t mind.”
Eli’s hands went to the sealing strip of his tunic without his conscious input, unfastening it, peeling the fabric away from his chest to reveal his thin uniform undershirt. He shrugged it off his shoulders, let the stiff material slide down his arms until he shucked it off, loosely folding it in half and draping it over Thrawn’s desk. He stood there in his undershirt, very aware of how sweat had collected under his arms and at the small of his back and of how his peaked nipples were probably visible through the fabric. Eli reached for the tunic as Thrawn did; their hands came perilously close to touching and Eli reflexively snatched his away, feeling ridiculous as soon as he realized what he had done. But Thrawn just handed it to him and he accepted it with both hands, shaking the folds out of the material, the weight of it now familiar in his hands.
Eli had to look away from Thrawn’s face as he put the tunic on. It seemed overly intimate to do so, obscene even, though Eli was not pretending he didn’t know what this was a prelude to. It was as oversized as it had been before, the shoulders loose around his own, sleeves hanging to his knuckles. He flattened it over his chest and sealed the sealing strip, running his hands self-consciously down his torso as though that would make it fit properly. The tips of his fingers stumbled and stuttered against the rough edge of the blaster hole.
Deliberately, Thrawn stood, the rustle of the fabric of his uniform loud in the quiet room. He smelled so good, sweet and heady and familiar, and it was all Eli could do to keep from leaning into the warmth of his body, from pressing his face against the skin of Thrawn’s throat above the stiff military collar and inhaling, mouth open. He clenched his hands into fists at his sides to keep from touching.
Yet Thrawn did no such thing: Thrawn instead reached across the small space that yawned between them to place one hand gingerly on Eli’s chest, fingers splayed over his swiftly beating heart. Eli took an unsteady breath. Thrawn slid his hand up to Eli’s shoulder, closing his fingers around it as though to search out where the oversized uniform ended and Eli’s body began. The soft pressure between his fingertips and the heel of his hand was tantalizing, not enough; Eli wanted to feel him all over, clutching Eli’s desperately hungry body tightly to his own, and he closed his eyes to quell the urge to lean into Thrawn. And Thrawn then slid his hand, still so lightly, over Eli’s collarbone, to the slightly overlarge collar of the uniform. Eli ached for Thrawn’s skin against his own. His breaths were coming quick and shallow, his lips parted.
Thrawn’s fingertips grazed Eli’s pulse point, skin a little cooler than Eli’s own but somehow making Eli even hotter. Eli swallowed an involuntary noise. Thrawn touched the soft lobe of his ear and the hinge of his jaw, thumb sliding over the concave curve of Eli’s cheek. Eli blinked heavy eyelids and turned his face ever so slightly toward Thrawn’s hand. Thrawn settled his palm against Eli’s face, his fingertips skirting Eli’s ear, his thumb against Eli’s cheekbone. Eli’s lips were still parted.
It was so easy to kiss Thrawn’s palm, gently at first, just a brush of Eli’s lips against the soft fleshy mound of the heel of his hand. Eli stopped breathing and Thrawn did, too, the moment stretched taut between them. They barely touched, only Thrawn’s fingertips to Eli’s cheek and jaw and Eli’s lips, slightly parted, to his palm, yet the touch encompassed the whole galaxy to Eli, the Core and the Wilds, the bright lights and eternal bustle of Coruscant and the jagged mountain peaks and dense forests of Lysatra alike, everywhere he had ever been and anywhere he would ever go.
Eli pressed forward, finally, rising on his toes and tipping forward so his body collided with Thrawn’s. Thrawn’s fingers threaded into his hair so naturally it was a wonder to Eli that they had never done this before, that Thrawn’s hand could have been the perfect size to cradle the back of Eli’s head this whole time and they never knew. Thrawn was broad and so steady where Eli felt brittle, ready to shake apart against him; Thrawn’s other arm curled around Eli’s back, bunching the excess material of the tunic against Eli’s waist, and Eli clutched at his shoulders in turn. With his chin tipped up Eli’s eyes tracked over Thrawn’s face, so close to his own, simultaneously more and so much less mysterious than he usually was to Eli. Thrawn’s eyes were half-lidded, his plush violet lips parted so that Eli could imagine the secret inside of his mouth, the curl of his tongue and the gleam of teeth. He had thick, short eyelashes, the same dark indigo as his hair but shining purple with the gleam from his red eyes. This close, the intoxicating scent of Thrawn’s body was all but overwhelming.
It was Thrawn who finally closed the gap between them, pressing his lips to Eli’s, tightening his hand at the back of Eli’s head to hold him close. Eli’s mouth opened immediately, which would have been embarrassing had Thrawn not immediately taken advantage of it, tongue tracing the plump curve of Eli’s lower lip and then delving shallowly into Eli’s mouth. Thrawn kissed him with the same singleminded focus with which he carried out military operations: he sought out Eli’s weak spots and exploited them ruthlessly, how Eli’s voice caught on a moan when Thrawn’s tongue brushed against his, how Eli’s bow-taut body seemed to melt against Thrawn’s the tighter Thrawn held him. Eli already felt wild for him, dangerously desperate, as though Thrawn could have told him to do anything at all and he would have complied just to feel the pressure of Thrawn’s hand at the small of his back and Thrawn’s long slim fingers tangled in his hair.
When they broke apart Eli immediately tipped his face toward Thrawn’s again, earning an almost imperceptible huff of breath against his mouth: Thrawn’s expression of amusement, he recognized, but Thrawn brushed their lips together again, softly, before Eli could even react. The gesture was unutterably tender, even as counterpoint to the hot, proprietorial way Thrawn clutched Eli to his body, as though Thrawn could pour everything into this one moment, his domineering possessiveness and his careful loyalty alike, with Eli, helpless, caught at the center of it all. With his hand tight at the back of Eli’s head Thrawn held him in place, their mouths a breath apart, Eli’s eyes tracking wildly over Thrawn’s glowing eyes and darkly flushed face.
“Please,” Eli breathed. Thrawn’s hands tightened on Eli; Eli belatedly realized Thrawn was suppressing a shiver. The knowledge that Thrawn was as undone as he was spurred Eli to slide his hand down Thrawn’s shoulder, curling his fingers under the placket of Thrawn’s uniform tunic to unfasten the sealing strips, working it open down the length of Thrawn’s thrawn’s. Eli slid his hands inside Thrawn’s tunic once it was unfastened, spreading his palms over Thrawn’s chest, feeling the planes of his pectorals and the curves of his ribs, the dip of his slim waist. His undershirt was soft under Eli’s hands and warm with the heat of Thrawn’s body; Eli scrabbled at it until it tugged free of Thrawn’s trousers and he wriggled his hands underneath so that he could touch Thrawn’s skin with his own.
Thrawn tugged at the placket of Eli’s tunic—his tunic—in turn, stripping it efficiently from Eli’s body and allowing it to fall to the floor the way Eli hadn’t. Of course; it was his own, he could afford to be careless with it, to use it the way he wanted to. And Eli wanted, with a ferocity that astonished him, to likewise be Thrawn’s, used the way Thrawn wanted to use him.
The high collar of Thrawn’s uniform hung open to reveal the soft, vulnerable skin at the base of his throat, the dip of the hollow at the junction of his collarbones and the lines his tendons drew beneath his skin when he tipped his head slightly to the side to look at Eli. Eli wanted to touch, so he did, sliding his fingertips under Thrawn’s collar, his whole hand curling to conform to the curve of Thrawn’s neck. Under his palm he felt Thrawn’s quick pulse and the twitch of the muscles in his throat when he moved, swallowed. Eli drew them together and they kissed again, Eli now holding Thrawn as tightly as Thrawn held him, giving as good as he got, exploring the inside of Thrawn’s mouth with his tongue: the mobile muscle of his tongue, the soft inside of his lower lip, the hard line of his teeth.
There was a word in Sy Bisti that Eli knew, ukulengezala. He hadn’t really understood its linguistic purpose; there were other words, fusa and its derivatives, ukufusa and isifusa, and even the lewder, more overtly sexual khenakile, that also meant love, desire, longing, lust. There was no Basic translation for ukulengezala. It was a word more used in poetry than in everyday language; Eli only knew it because of a satirical song about a pair of lovers trying to one-up each other with verbose declarations of love. In the song, it was the punchline: no one really felt ukulengezala. It encompassed more than romantic love or sexual desire. The closest way Eli had been able to understand it was as “everything love,” wanting every part of a person, everything they have to give you, and giving them everything of yours in return.
Eli thought that maybe he understood ukulengezala now. It was like how “Take me to bed” conveyed only part of what Eli meant when he said it: he meant “Take me to bed,” but he also meant: “Take me,” and: “You already have me.”
Thrawn directed him, backwards, through the doorway that led to his sleeping quarters, hands still roving over Eli’s body, rucking his undershirt up his sides, tracing the line of his hip through the thick material of his uniform trousers. With a sinuous motion Thrawn shed his uniform jacket, the material falling with a soft, definitive hush to the floor. That in itself, for someone so meticulous and respectful as Thrawn, was a hint of his distracted desperation: Eli had never seen him allow any piece of his uniform to touch the floor. When Eli stripped off his undershirt Thrawn ducked his head to mouth at the joint of Eli’s shoulder and neck. Eli tipped his chin to the side to allow him access, threading his hands into Thrawn’s thick, soft hair to hold him there while Eli arched against his body. Thrawn nipped at his skin, gently, then harder, and Eli gasped and writhed in response.
It wasn’t as though Eli had never seen Thrawn shirtless, but there was a difference between sneaking a covert glimpse of the broad, sleekly muscled expanse of Thrawn’s back when they had roomed together at the Academy and the intent with which Thrawn’s skin was bared when he peeled off his undershirt, tousling his hair so that a soft dark lock of it fell across his forehead; the difference, too, laid in the way Thrawn looked at Eli while he did it, fully aware of the effect he had on him, reading the want telegraphed in every desperate line of Eli’s hungry body.
They shed the rest of their clothes: one of Eli’s glossy boots tipped to the side in his haste to get it off and he left it there on the floor, hands already unfastening his trousers, the stiff excess material of the thighs bunching around his hands as he slid them off, revealing his uniform standard underwear, his bare thighs, his bony knees, the curves of his calves. When Eli looked up Thrawn, too, was as unclothed as Eli, and Eli took in the cut of his hipbones, his slim but powerful thighs, mesmerized by the vast expanse of Thrawn’s cerulean skin, how it darkened to indigo at his knees and shaded to paler blue over his slim ankles and the bony bridge of each foot.
Thrawn pressed Eli back onto the bed and knelt over him, one broad hand splayed over Eli’s heaving chest. Eli touched him everywhere he could reach, his muscular arms and wide, bony shoulders, the planes of his chest, the curve of his ribcage and his flat stomach. Thrawn seemed so much bigger than Eli like this, looming over him, holding him down, but with his dark hair in disarray and his flushed-purple lips slightly parted he looked soft, almost vulnerable.
It made Eli want to kiss him, so he did, craning his neck until Thrawn leaned down to meet him. The kiss was immediately wet and dirty, drawing them closer to one another until Eli felt the sweet slide of Thrawn’s smooth, cool skin against his own, chest and stomach, their thighs interlocking so Eli could grind his hips against Thrawn’s. Eli was already hard, and he could feel a corresponding hardness when Thrawn’s hips rolled against his. Eli’s body found its own rhythm against Thrawn’s, rocking steadily, pleasure sparking through him where they touched and where they didn’t, as though Thrawn were able to touch all parts of him at once.
“Eli,” Thrawn murmured against Eli’s mouth. His name had never sounded so tender and when Thrawn spoke Eli felt the reverberation of Thrawn’s chest against his own, as though it was not just with his mouth that Thrawn was calling Eli his own.
“Thrawn,” Eli responded, trying to infuse at least some of his own feeling into the word, and Thrawn’s hand went to Eli’s hip and tightened against the ridge of bone there. Eli hitched his thigh higher against Thrawn’s, grinding their cocks together harder, his back arching with the effort. “Can you,” he started. “Can you please.”
To Eli’s dismay Thrawn stilled, drawing back far enough for Eli to focus on his half-lidded red eyes and the purple flush that colored his cheeks and his kiss-swollen lips. Eli leaned up toward him uselessly; Thrawn held him back with a hand placed delicately against his collarbone. Eli thought, wildly, of Thrawn’s fingers around his throat.
“What do you want, Eli?” Thrawn asked, soft and low and intimate.
“I want—can you fuck me. Please, sir,” Eli said without thinking.
Thrawn growled, a low reverberation that echoed through both of their bodies as he caught Eli’s mouth with his own again, harshly, taking everything Eli would give him. He took Eli’s kiss-plumped lower lip between his teeth and tugged and Eli whined, burying his hands in Thrawn’s soft hair, holding them together.
“I have,” Thrawn said, “only theoretical knowledge of your species’ anatomical—”
“Fuck,” Eli breathed.
“Yes,” Thrawn continued, looking amused even with his mussed hair and lust-glazed expression. Eli kissed him again, just for that, for the academic way Thrawn approached this as everything, for the familiar, minute curl of the edge of his lip.
(Eli had, of course, done his share of wondering about the more intimate aspects of Chiss anatomy; he had never been able to bring himself to broach the topic with Thrawn, for Thrawn was too practiced at reading people—at reading Eli—for Eli to convincingly uphold any pretense of scientific curiosity. Now, at the tipping point, Eli found himself not particularly concerned with the details aside from his profound desire to make Thrawn come. If that was something Chiss did. More thrillingly, Thrawn’s “theoretical knowledge” hinted at an almost unspeakably erotic pastime: Thrawn reading up on human sexual practices, perhaps even watching pornographic holos, thinking of doing this to Eli. Imagining holding Eli down the way he now did, imagining touching Eli’s mouth, his chest, his cock.)
“I don’t even have that with you, but,” Eli’s sounded rough to his own ears, “I trust you.” He swallowed; Thrawn’s eyes tracked the motion of his throat. “Sir.”
It was clear Thrawn liked hearing the title as much as Eli liked saying it; Thrawn shifted his grip on Eli’s hip to his ass and slotted their hips closer together, rutting his hard cock into the tender joint of Eli’s hip and thigh. The insistent length of it felt huge beside Eli’s own. Eli wanted it, wanted him, with a reckless wildness that surprised even himself. Thrawn’s fingertips dug into the meat of his ass and Eli wanted them curling inside him.
When they drew apart to remove their underwear, Thrawn standing beside the bed as though to give Eli space Eli was uninterested in taking, Eli’s eyes were fixed on Thrawn, as Thrawn’s were on Eli. Thrawn’s close-fitting black uniform briefs slid over his slim hips, then lower, catching on the jut of his cock before revealing it: long and thick, curving slightly up from the juncture of his thighs, dark blue at the base flushed to purple at the tip, gleaming with moisture. Instead of a dark thatch of pubic hair like Eli had Thrawn’s cock jutted up from soft indigo folds; Eli found himself wondering if it retracted inside when not aroused, if he could coax Thrawn to hardness with his hands and mouth, whether the folds were sensitive enough for Eli to dip his tongue into to draw a shudder from Thrawn’s body. Eli belatedly jerked his gaze from Thrawn’s cock to his face. Even by Thrawn’s reserved standards he was looking at Eli with unmistakable heat.
“Can I,” Eli asked, stupidly, kneeling at the edge of the bed, reaching for Thrawn’s hip, the crease of his thigh, drawing him toward him. Thrawn went willingly, gently resting a hand at the side of Eli’s head, fingertips sinking into Eli’s mussed hair.
Eli took the head of his cock into his mouth, soft lips, wet tongue, tasting the heady bittersweetness of Thrawn’s precome. Already it was dripping with moisture, slicking the hand Eli curled around the base as he took it further into his mouth, hoping it was similar enough to the human equivalent that the pressure of Eli’s tongue and suction of his cheeks as he swallowed would be pleasurable; by the way Thrawn tensed, deliberately holding back some near-involuntary response, it was close enough. Eli did it again, easing back, feeling the wetness slick his lower lip and drip down his chin as he fluttered his tongue around the smooth head and then took it deeper into his mouth, pressing his tongue to the underside. It was difficult to control his breath; he found himself swallowing convulsively, near choking, and Thrawn’s hand tightened in his hair. His hand was slick, smearing wetness against the soft labia-like folds at the base of Thrawn’s cock and the warm, delicate skin at the junction of his hip and thigh.
“Eli.” Thrawn’s voice was rawer than Eli had perhaps ever heard it, and when Eli drew back he saw Thrawn was panting, face and chest flushed dark. Eli swallowed. His mouth felt swollen and wet.
“Sir,” Eli said.
With the hand that curled around the back of Eli’s head, Thrawn pulled Eli up into a kiss, leaning to meet him halfway, catching Eli’s chin in his other hand to hold Eli’s head in place. He delved his tongue roughly into Eli’s mouth. The kiss didn’t end but merely changed form as Thrawn coaxed Eli back onto the bed, crawling over him to pin him with those strong limbs. Their bodies slotted together as before, skin to skin, the wetness from Thrawn’s cock easing the slide of their bodies as they rutted together. They fit together so naturally, Thrawn’s broad shoulders perfectly dwarfing Eli’s own, Eli’s hips slotting against Thrawn’s as they moved, thighs interlaced, Thrawn’s cock nestling so sweetly beside Eli’s own.
Thrawn’s wide hand curled around Eli’s cock, jerking the length a few times teasingly before venturing lower, those nimble fingers cupping his balls, then stroking over his perineum. Eli squirmed, hitching his thigh higher along Thrawn’s side, giving Thrawn more access as he teased the entrance to Eli’s hole with his sure fingertips. Thrawn pushed inside him easily, splayed fingers pressed against the meat of Eli’s ass. Eli breathed a soft moan and arched against Thrawn as much as he could, caught between the bed and the insistent weight of Thrawn above him, Thrawn’s mouth on Eli’s, his finger curling inside him. Thrawn’s cock continued to slick the space between their bodies with fluid that slid over the sensitive skin of Eli’s balls; it slicked Thrawn’s fingers, too, easing the slide when Thrawn pressed a second inside of him. Thrawn fucked him with his fingers steadily, working him open. It was already nearly overwhelming, Thrawn’s fingers inside him, the slick length of his cock against Eli’s, the hot friction of their bodies. When Thrawn turned his wrist so that his slightly bent fingers grazed Eli’s prostate, Eli moaned, raking his nails across Thrawn’s back.
“Stop, stop, I’m gonna come,” Eli said, already sounding wrecked.
“What makes you think that is not my intention?” Thrawn asked, doing it again.
“Thrawn.” There was a desperation in Eli’s voice he barely recognized. He slid a hand up Thrawn’s back to the nape of his neck, catching hold of Thrawn’s thick, soft hair and tugging his head back far enough that they could look at one another. Eli’s face felt flushed, hot and damp with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead and temples, his mouth bruised and swollen; Thrawn looked dazed, eyes half-lidded, his dark lips gleaming with saliva or sweat from Eli’s skin. Eli found himself momentarily distracted when Thrawn rolled their hips together again, the press of their bodies around Eli’s cock sending sparks of pleasure up his spine. “I want—I want you inside me. When I do.”
“That is acceptable.” Thrawn’s previous composure was markedly strained.
Thrawn removed his fingers from Eli’s body and leaned back from Eli a little, exposing his broad, purple-flushed chest and the shine of wetness on his lower belly and cock. He ran a hand up Eli’s thigh, drawing Eli’s leg further up his side, and Eli’s heel slid into place at the small of Thrawn’s back. Thrawn’s cock was already slick and wet, hot from where it was pressed alongside Eli’s, the head smooth when it bumped against Eli’s perineum as he aligned them. Thrawn said nothing as he entered Eli, his luminous red eyes focused not on the place where their bodies joined but on Eli’s face, Eli’s open mouth and the flutter of his pulse under the skin of his throat. Thrawn’s cock was thick, wider than his fingers had been, and the press of it inside Eli seemed to go on and on, hot and huge, filling Eli completely.
When Thrawn leaned over Eli, bracing himself with one hand on the mattress beside Eli’s head, his cock shifted inside him, drawing a sharp gasp from Eli’s throat. Thrawn paused, concern flashing across his features, but Eli grabbed wildly at Thrawn’s wrist beside his head and pressed his heel to the small of Thrawn’s back, urging him onward. They settled against one another, Eli’s body accommodating Thrawn’s, his stretched-wide hole and the vee of his spread legs. Eli felt splayed open and full. Then Thrawn started fucking him in earnest, sliding out of him inch by inch just to press back in with a perfect, controlled thrust, so close to Eli’s prostate Eli actually whined, fingers tightening on Thrawn’s wrist. Thrawn leaned more closely over him, usually cool skin hot from the exertion, from contact with Eli’s feverishly flushed chest and stomach. It was difficult to tell where the slickness from Thrawn’s cock ended and Eli’s sweat began; the space between them, groin and thighs and stomach, the insides of Eli’s thighs, was wet, moisture collecting in the creases of skin at the joints of Eli’s legs and sliding down his hips. When their skin came together or separated it was with a lewd wet sound that accentuated the base animalness of their bodies and the inescapably primal nature of sex. Eli gave himself over to the slow rhythm with which Thrawn fucked him, closing his eyes, feeling only pleasure, the warmth and power of Thrawn’s body. Wreathing them were the bittersweet chocolate scent of Thrawn, his skin and the slick lubrication that pooled between their bodies, and the thick mammalian scent of Eli, salt sweat and precome.
To be the subject of Thrawn’s full attention was intense under any circumstances; for the entirety of Thrawn’s resolute attention and brilliant mind to be focused on the sole goal of finding out what Eli enjoyed, on determining how to wringing from Eli the desperate involuntary noises of pleasure, was nearly overwhelming. Thrawn was as relentless in bed with Eli as he was on the bridge of the Chimaera, braced over him, red eyes luminous in the shadowed space between them as they tracked over Eli’s body. When he brushed a thumb over Eli’s nipple Eli moaned so he did it again, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger until it was swollen and sensitive. He was caught beneath Thrawn, the weight of his body, the ruthless machinations of his mind, until the onslaught of sensation overwhelmed him. It was easy for Eli to fall, already teetering at the brink from the dedicated, thorough way Thrawn had worked him over, hands and mouth, the sweet, sharp taste of Thrawn on his tongue. Eli shifted his hips, rolling against Thrawn so that Thrawn’s cock hit his prostate with each thrust, and shuddered so hard Thrawn placed a hand on his chest to hold him down. Like that, cock untouched, Eli came, possessed by his own pleasure, shaking apart under the steady press of Thrawn all around him.
Thrawn had stopped moving while Eli came, still with one hand splayed against Eli’s chest, Eli’s thighs tight around his waist, hips still. Eli was still sensitive with the aftershocks of orgasm, little seisms that rolled through him when Thrawn’s cock nudged his prostate. Every nerve seemed alight, aware of the heat of Thrawn’s skin against his own and the slickness of Eli’s come, the fucked-out way his body laid limp under Thrawn’s.
“Keep going,” Eli rasped. When Thrawn shifted inside him Eli winced, oversensitive and shocky, and when Thrawn looped his arms under Eli’s knees and pressed them up toward his shoulders, nearly folding Eli in half, a few tears slipped down Eli’s cheeks.
“Eli,” Thrawn said, pausing again in his movements.
“No no no, it’s fine.” Eli reached up and buried his hand in Thrawn’s soft hair, tugging him down into a kiss. He nudged at Thrawn’s back, then gasped against his mouth as Thrawn started moving inside him again. Eli couldn’t stop himself from loosing a slew of moans and whimpers, quiet little animal noises that filled the close space between them. He clutched at Thrawn’s hair, keeping Thrawn close enough that even when the kiss ended they breathed one another’s air, lips brushing intimately with every movement. Another tear slid down Eli’s cheek; Thrawn gently brushed the pad of his thumb over Eli’s cheekbone, then cradled Eli’s face in his hand so Eli could feel the soft curves of his palm and the tender points of his fingertips where they rested against Eli’s temple and ear. It had only been a short while ago that Eli had stood before Thrawn and pressed his mouth to this same palm. Eli’s intermittent tears collected in the little gaps between the creases in Thrawn’s palm and the smooth slope of Eli’s cheek, smearing hot against his skin.
The steady rhythm with which Thrawn had been fucking Eli became erratic, thrusts harder and more frantic, and when Thrawn came it was with a stuttering roll of his hips and a nearly inaudible groan against Eli’s mouth. Eli trembled and gasped under him, clutching weakly at his muscular shoulders, as Thrawn’s cock pulsed inside him.
Thrawn pulled out of Eli gingerly, careful with Eli’s shivery, oversensitive body, letting Eli’s legs down slowly before rolling just far enough to the side to collapse mostly not on top of Eli. He kept one arm slung over Eli’s torso and tucked his face into Eli’s shoulder. Eli buried his face in Thrawn’s hair and let his breathing even out. It was a pleasant surprise to find that Thrawn was a post-sex cuddler; in the fantasies Eli was, now, much more willing to confront than he had been previously, there was a clinical detachment to their interactions that Eli was glad to leave in the realm of imagination. They were quiet together for what felt like a long time. Eli felt the rise and fall of Thrawn’s chest against his own with each breath Thrawn took.
“Did you really research how humans have sex?” Eli asked.
He felt Thrawn smile against his shoulder. “It was only prudent, when integrating into human society, to—”
Eli abruptly rolled to the side, crashing his body against Thrawn’s, laughing, and Thrawn’s arms threaded around him so familiarly that Eli was, once again, stunned that they had never done this before. That they could fit together so well yet had wasted all these years keeping a careful distance between them. With their arms around one another’s bodies and Eli’s knee tucked between Thrawn’s they held one another. When Thrawn kissed him he kissed back eagerly, not with the heat they had shared earlier but with a tenderness that seemed, somehow, more intimate than the sex had been.
Ukulengezala, Eli thought, and he wondered whether Thrawn would recognize the word if he spoke it in the warm close space between them. He wondered, too, if there was a Cheunh equivalent for the term, wondered about the Chiss words that encompassed love and lust, yearning and belonging. He would learn them. Basic didn’t seem to be enough any longer.