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Veel van wat aanvankelijk alleen in de verbeelding bestaat, wordt werkelijkheid.
― Arthur Japin, Een schitterend gebrek
The Death Star’s executive gym is deserted at this hour in the station’s night, a far cry from the hustle and bustle that Conan normally prefers when he works out. Tiaan calls it preening, and Conan isn’t at all embarrassed to admit he is right as always. He enjoys being watched as he pushes himself. His goal is not to just keep fit; his goal is to make it abundantly clear that Admiral Motti is top dog. Nothing is for show, everything he does come from real, raw strength and years of practice.
His sparring partner of the night, however, much prefers to be unobserved.
Grand Admiral Thrawn treats his workout as he does anything else: with a silent, deadly precision and razor-sharp focus. He observes, and then moves with clear intent and a speed people would not believe a man of his sheer bulk to be capable of.
Over the past few months, Conan has gotten very familiar with exactly how Thrawn can use all that bulk. So familiar, in fact, that he feels out of sorts whenever they have to skip for longer than a few weeks.
Tiaan has taken to commenting on that, too. Not in a jealous way, Conan knows that. And if he wasn’t sure before, the neatly wrapped parcel from Tinnel with a speed-strap in a deep, shimmering black to match Thrawn’s skintone (“you don’t have the eye for it, darling”) left no room for any sort of doubt.
With Thrawn and himself locked together in a hold with neither man giving an inch, their world has narrowed down to just the sensations of their slick, overheated skin pressed together and their muscles straining. As always, Conan forgets about all the stresses of the day.
He knows it’s similar for Thrawn. Though many aspects of the Grand Admiral remain a mystery even after all this time, it’s clear to Conan that Thrawn craves their sparring for much more than just the exercise. What Thrawn craves is the companionship. He clearly enjoys their sparring, but there’s no doubt in Conan’s mind that what they do after is just as important to Thrawn, if not more.
“Want to call it a day and get freshened up?” Conan uses the same phrasing as always. The words are every bit as familiar to him as the way Thrawn always seems to brighten at them. No matter how often they’ve done this part, Thrawn always seems delighted at being asked.
No, not asked. Invited. Invited to be a part of Conan’s life beyond the sparring room.
Conan hadn’t really set out for anything like a friendship when they had started doing this. He’d been interested in learning some non-standard moves from the alien Admiral, but he has found a kinship of some sorts with him. Their after-sparring activity has been born from the unfortunate reality of Thrawn’s situation. As much as Conan doesn’t care what lesser men think of him and the company he keeps, he knows that Thrawn, despite his rank, can’t afford the same.
After yet another flimsy excuse on needing to go back to his ship quickly, Conan realised Thrawn had been slipping away from the Death Star unseen and as hurriedly as possible after every sparring session. Conan would have been very happy to order away anyone else in the showers, but for Thrawn, that’d mean admitting to a weakness.
Instead, Conan had casually invited him to his quarters under the guise of wanting to show him the latest Seswennan wrestling holozine. And just like that, they’d settled in a routine here, too.
It’s never anything major, in Conan’s opinion. All they do is take turns to shower and then they have a drink. They might talk about the latest shockboxing tournament, or they may sit in comfortable silence. But to Thrawn, it is a lifeline. He has gone from sitting on the small sofa in Conan’s quarters with his back ramrod straight and his hands clasped firmly in his lap, to actually nudging Conan’s leg with his.
As they come to the door of Conan’s quarters, Conan pauses them both with a hand on Thrawn’s bicep.
“You remember Tiaan is off tonight, yeah?”
The sides of Thrawn’s eyes crinkle in what Conan has come to learn is amusement of some sort. Conan had informed him ahead of time, of course. It wouldn’t do to spook Thrawn, or for that matter, Tiaan. Still, he likes to make sure.
Thrawn’s response to their relationship had been as Conan had expected. There, too, their tastes align as he’d already been suspecting. However, the first time Thrawn had met Tiaan, it had been in another heated debate about the cost of the Death Star. With his usual lack for political tact, Thrawn had sent tempers in the room flaring.
Tiaan, composed as ever and razor-sharp, had given the alien Admiral an ice cold verbal dressing-down only a Jerjerrod is capable of. Thrawn had worn that same expression of vague amusement, though at the time Conan hadn’t recognised it as such. He’d been offended by it, even, as had Tiaan who had sniffed about alien manners later.
Now that he knows Thrawn better, he realises that even back then, the Admiral had not been amused at Tiaan in the way people like Tagge are amused. No, Thrawn had been genuinely pleased that Tiaan could keep up with him.
He isn’t sure if Thrawn likes Tiaan as much as the alien likes Conan himself, but he is sure Thrawn is fascinated and respects their relationship, which is good enough for him.
“Oh, you’re back early!” Tiaan’s voice comes with just a hint of a tremor at the very end of the sentence.
Conan can see why.
Standing side by side with Grand Admiral Thrawn in the doorway of their quarters, clad in nothing but their speed-straps and still covered in sweat, Conan knows they make a sight that will haunt Tiaan.
Exactly as he had planned, of course.
As much as everything about Tiaan breathes Core, Conan knows that once the initial irritation about Thrawn’s opinions about the Death Star had worn off, Tiaan had started to form a fascination of his own.
It’s not hard to figure out where that comes from, either.
It is not just the fact that Thrawn is taller than even Conan and Tiaan. Nor is it the fact he is shockingly broad. It’s not even the even spread of silky-looking hair dusting the heft of his chest and moving down in a thicker line down the generous swell of his belly. These are all things that are attractive to Tiaan, sure, but they are not what makes his keen green eyes drink in the sight of the both of them.
It’s the streaks of grey in Thrawn’s hair and the wrinkles around his eyes that very clearly mark him as an older man. Add to it the way Thrawn carries himself and the presence he brings to a room, and it is clear to Conan why Tiaan is so fascinated, even if it is perhaps not clear to himself.
Not yet, anyway. But once it becomes clear, Conan will be right there to support him in whichever way Tiaan wants.
And Conan will also be right there for Thrawn, for that matter. As the alien Admiral slowly moves into the room, someone who doesn’t know him as well as Conan does may think he is uncomfortable.
Conan knows better.
Thrawn’s affection for him is crystal clear. There’s far too much clutching going on for their sparring to be the sort of regular spar between two men looking to blow off some steam. If that wasn’t clear enough, the way Thrawn eagerly leans in when Conan talks seals the deal. There’s a spring in Thrawn's step when they go to the gym and a glimmer in those alien but now so very familiar eyes whenever Thrawn spots him. Conan would almost call him playful, but mostly playful in the way a very large loth cat is playful with its prey before devouring it.
Lately, Thrawn has taken to quietly observing Tiaan. Tiaan finds it unnerving, but Conan has come to realise Thrawn isn’t trying to intimidate him, not really. He seems unsure how to approach Tiaan, but too intrigued by him to be pushed away. Conan sees it right now in the way Thrawn moves: slow, yes, but with clear intent and purpose. He walks past Tiaan close enough that their arms brush, bare blue flesh against the drab olive of Tiaan’s tunic.
Tiaan swallows, and Conan sees his quick little glance at Thrawn’s backside when the alien walks into the fresher. He waits.
“Good match?” Tiaan offers, with his usual baritone gone slightly too high-pitched to be casual.
Conan will happily give him all the time he needs to figure this out, and so he keeps his answer just as casual. “Excellent, as always.”
Tiaan is unable to stop himself from wringing his hands, a telltale sign of the subject he wants to discuss. Conan would never push him on anything, and this is no exception. Tiaan will have to find some way to be at peace with what he wants, and then Conan will very happily go along with it.
“I gather it was rather hot in the gym,” Tiaan continues, clearly determined to get it out in the open before Thrawn is done with his shower.
Conan is absolutely ready for that. He leans against his desk with one leg crossed over the other, his pose deliberately lax but tailor-made to drive Tiaan crazy. As always, Tiaan’s eyes move downward for a quick glance, before he snaps his gaze back up.
There’s a quick flash of tongue as Tiaan wets his bottom lip, and then he speaks on. “Well, with how awfully sweaty you both are, one does wonder if there’s perhaps some sort of malfunction in the temperature controls.”
Conan lets out a bark of a laugh. “And you really dislike it when I get all sweaty, don’t you baby?”
Tiaan sniffs and makes to speak up again, but they’re interrupted by the sound of the fresher door opening.
Thrawn stands in the doorway in full uniform with his hair back in its usual tidy, slicked-back state. His red eyes move through the room before coming to rest on the both of them. There’s a flash of something there, gone too quickly for Conan to make out fully. The flash of very sharp incisor as Thrawn smirks is clear, though.
“It appears the laundry chute in your fresher is not working, Conan Antonio,” the alien rumbles in his deep bass-baritone. “Where might I leave this?”
The spark in Thrawn’s eyes is back as he lifts his used speed-strap. They all know the chute is very much not malfunctioning, and there’s a sudden sense of anticipation in the air. Something is about to shift, but Conan can’t yet tell where it’ll shift to. The gears have been put in motion, the engine is running, but the destination is unknown.
And then, with all the earlier nerves gone, Tiaan takes charge and steers everything the way he wants it to.
“Oh, I will take care of that.” With a few strides of his long legs, Tiaan crosses over to Thrawn. Before the Grand Admiral can even say anything back, Tiaan plucks the speed-strap out of his hand. “Thank you, Grand Admiral, I will have that chute seen to.”
Thrawn is definitely grinning now. He’s slowly looking Tiaan up and down, making no attempts to be subtle about it.
“I have no doubts you will see to it, Rear Admiral,” Thrawn practically purrs. Tiaan flushes, but he holds Thrawn’s gaze. There’s another pleased rumble from Thrawn, and then he moves around Tiaan. On his way out, he pauses beside Conan, close enough that their hands brush.
“I shall take my leave, Conan Antonio. I will speak with you later.” It’s not a question, not even an invite, but a command. It’d raise Conan’s hackles immediately had it been anyone else, but with Thrawn, he recognises the intention. He wants to know where they stand after this.
“Of course, buddy,” he responds, and Thrawn’s fingers curl around his for a very brief moment before the alien Admiral leaves with a final glance at Tiaan.
For a moment, all is silent.
“Ti?”
Conan’s question seems to shake Tiaan out of his musings. With the strap still clutched in his ungloved hand, he turns to face Conan. Conan feels his jaw slacken at how Tiaan looks. He had expected some sort of embarrassment, maybe even a flush and more hand wringing.
Instead, Tiaan looks absolutely wrecked already. His pupils have nearly swallowed all the green of his eyes, and his knuckles have gone white with how tightly he’s clutching Thrawn’s speed-strap in his hand.
Conan swallows, some of his earlier cocky confidence lost in the unexpected sight of Tiaan’s eagerness. Tiaan notices, of course, and gives a pleased little smile. He peers at Conan through his eyelashes, effortlessly coquettish in the way only a Jerjerrod can manage. It never fails to drag him forward like a dog on a lead, ready to do whatever he is asked.
“Skip the shower, darling, I would so hate to be kept waiting.”
Conan is walking towards Tiaan before he can consciously register doing so. In a flash, he pulls Tiaan’s face towards his with a hand on his neck. He crushes their mouths together, wasting no time to claim his mouth with broad strokes of his tongue. Tiaan’s mouth goes slack under his and he pushes the both of them together more tightly.
One of Tiaan’s hands comes up to stroke through his close-cropped curls, and the other….
The other is still clutching Thrawn’s speed-strap.
With some reluctance on both their ends, Conan disconnects them. He rests his forehead against Tiaan’s and whispers the request right against his kiss-swollen lips.
“Take the speed-strap with you, sweetheart.”
Tiaan moans, and Conan knows that final bit of hesitation, that fear to be too depraved, has gone. What remains is a need so strong, it has Tiaan boiling over. Conan feels it in the way Tiaan’s hips move restlessly against his, seeking friction of their own accord.
He’s in a similar state, and he knows that tonight, there will be no drawn-out assault, no slow build-up to the finale. There will only be the conclusion to something that has been brewing for too long, come to a boil, spilling over the pot.
He gets Tiaan stripped and face down on the bed on his elbows and knees with little regard for the uniform. For once, Tiaan doesn’t complain when he flings uniform pieces away until only one piece of clothing remains, still firmly clutched in Tiaan’s hand.
Conan sits back behind Tiaan for a moment to admire the view. This position is a favourite with the both of them. From the moment a much younger Tiaan had stammered out the confession about having a love for using a pillow to help see himself off, Conan had known he was made to take cock like this. The position leaves Tiaan entirely exposed and then entirely covered, and Conan always delights in feeling him arch his back to take more.
Conan looks downward, between Tiaan’s legs. His prick is slick and undoubtedly aching to be touched. It’s the prettiest prick in the galaxy, curved towards his belly and flushed a gorgeous dark pink. In this position, between Tiaan’s quivering thighs, he gets a perfect view of his plush balls, another favourite to hold in his hands and gently squeeze. He prefers a stronger hand himself, a tug rather than a caress. In this, too, their differences compliment each other, coming together as a full picture.
He can’t resist kissing down Tiaan’s spine. There’s a hastily cut-off breathless little laugh as he presses a kiss on each lean, spacer-pale cheek. He longs to bury his face between those modest mounds of flesh to get a taste of him, but that’s not for tonight.
“Take a good sniff, baby,” he encourages as he works in one lubed finger. Tiaan lets out a sound that’s almost a sob at that and Conan brings up his free hand to rub his lower back, grounding him.
“It’s all right Ti, I know you want to, I wanna see you do it.”
There’s another whimper, and then Tiaan brings up the hand with the speed-strap. He stops moving just before pressing it against his face.
“Go on, smell it,” Conan says, as he crooks the two fingers buried in Tiaan with expert precision.
“I’ve smelled - oh, Conan - I’ve smelled him on you, and I wanted to….” Tiaan’s voice trails off as Conan adds a third finger. He finally allows himself to do what he has been wanting to do from the moment Thrawn came out of the shower. Conan brings his arm around Tiaan’s belly to help hold him up, because at the first deep breath in, his body goes slack.
“What did you want to do, honey?” Conan crooks his fingers again, adding enough pressure to make Tiaan squirm. His moan comes out muffled, with the lower half of his face buried in the speed-strap. Conan aches with the need to take him, but he forces himself to hold off. He’s desperate to hear Tiaan admit to it.
“Please, Conan,” Tiaan says, turning his head ever so slightly so he can glare at Conan over his shoulder.
“Did you want him to join us, is that it?” Conan asks as he increases the pressure on Tiaan’s prostate. There’s another cut-off moan and Tiaan shifts his hips restlessly. The wet tip of his prick brushes against Conan’s wrist where he still has his arm around Tiaan’s belly, matting the hair down with his pre.
“Or did you want to touch him, Ti?” Another whimper, another shift of hips and then Tiaan breaks.
“Wanted him to touch me,” he croaks out, before burying his flaming face in the speed strap again.
It’s more than Conan can stand. The slick hand he runs over his own cock shakes, and he moves to grab Tiaan by the hips instead. He wastes no further time and lets out a deep groan as he slides home, burying himself to the hilt in one long stroke. The force of it pushes Tiaan’s face against the bed and further into the strap. Judging by the drawn-out moan, it’s most appreciated.
“I think he wants to touch you too,” Conan says, as he settles into a rhythm of deep, hard thrusts. “How about that, Ti, the both of us, fresh out of the gym, catching you.”
Tiaan lifts his head, breathing hard. There’s a hint of moisture on his chin and cheeks and Conan realises it’s Thrawn’s sweat. “I’d let you,” Tiaan croaks. “I’d let you both.”
Conan grips Tiaan’s hips even tighter, with an almost bruising strength that he knows Tiaan will feel tomorrow. “You’d rub your pretty face raw with how hairy his chest is, baby.”
Tiaan braces himself on his elbows as Conan’s thrusts turn more erratic. Conan moves one hand to grasp Tiaan’s prick. He runs his index finger over the leaking head, catching the copious fluid there. He swirls his finger, rubbing over the frenulum, before gently pushing in just under the foreskin. He keeps it there, adding continuous pressure that has Tiaan breathe out an endless litany of please and more.
“I’m sure he’d love for you to touch his cock, too,” Conan adds, with a voice gone rough. There’s a gush of fluid, more pre leaking out of Tiaan, and Conan finally takes him in hand.
“He’s got a thick cock on him, Ti,” Conan whispers, delighting in the feel of the lean body underneath him shuddering. Tiaan moans, and Conan lightly squeezes on the upward motion of his strokes.
“How about you stick your nose against the real thing next time, baby, I’ll get him nice and worked up for you.” He gives a particularly strong thrust of his hips at that, just as taken by the image of Tiaan’s face pressed against the fat heft of Thrawn’s sex as Tiaan himself is. His curls would be in disarray, and one huge blue hand would easily cover his whole head, pushing him closer.
Tiaan whimpers and spills in a gush of wet heat all over Conan’s hand. He bites down on the strap to avoid crying out and at that image, Conan can no longer hold back. He hunkers down and ruts, burying his face against Tiaan’s neck, tasting the fresh, masculine tang of his sweat.
“Wanna get you between us, Ti, gods….” He breathes the words against Tiaan’s dewy skin, with curls tickling his nose.
“I could take you both,” Tiaan pants, sounding dreamy and far away and thoroughly fucked out. It’s the mental image of that combined with Tiaan being so wrecked that sends Conan over the edge. He’s vaguely aware he’s grunting out all sorts of loving nonsense as he spills inside Tiaan in what feels like an endless orgasm.
Once his world comes into focus again, he realises Tiaan’s arms and legs have finally given out, putting them both flat on the bed. He presses a gentle kiss just below Tiaan’s ear, and keeps his lips pressed against his skin there. He’d be quite satisfied to lie here for a while, but then Tiaan speaks up, still in that same throaty voice.
“I think you should comm him to plan the next date.”
He’s going to lack sleep in the immediate future, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.