Work Text:
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name
- A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Tiaan Jerjerrod normally does not have trouble falling asleep. He’ll read the latest engineering holozine with a cup of Tinnelian lavender tea, get settled in his nice pyjamas, and he’ll be right to sleep.
And should that not work, Conan has rather a way of helping him get very sleepy, indeed.
As he turns to lie on his back, he figures that has to be the issue here. Conan and his Steel Talon are in another system, fighting on the frontlines. One does get used to having things just so, and a change in the status quo is jarring. That is all this is. A bit of an adjustment period, a need for things to settle into the new normal, nothing other than that.
Certainly not the drills he had been a part of today.
He clasps his hands firmly together over his chest, as the mere memory of the drills sends a desire to fiddle with the tiny pearl buttons of his pyjama top through him. Ridiculous.
It doesn’t at all help that he knows exactly what Conan would say if he had been here. He’d have teased Tiaan. Conan is never mean-spirited, but he does have a way of unpeeling all of Tiaan’s layers with an ever-sharp accuracy. He would cut through the heart of the issue with familiar ease.
Tiaan had enjoyed the drills.
For all the wrong reasons.
It had been an idea he himself had pushed for. Loathe as he was to admit it, he had felt unsettled since the fiasco of the first Death Star. As much as Conan insisted that Tiaan had not been at fault, he’s found himself unable to let go of the idea that, somehow, somewhere, he had missed something. An almost fatal oversight.
He won’t allow such an oversight ever again. Thus, he has been planning, and reviewing, and planning again.
To have an Army team on permanent standby as part of that plan is only sensible. Should the worst come to worst, they will be able to assist, buying them all valuable time. To allow them to do fully kitted drills to ensure things go smoothly is just as sensible.
To observe those drills and the men very closely while they work their way through the emergency plan, well, he is the Commander in Chief of the Death Star, so he should keep informed on all the goings-on. That, too, is very much a sensible thing.
He swallows thickly as his thoughts turn to the actual drill. He resists the unbecoming urge to squirm at the memories. It won’t do to get all worked up. A calm analysis is what is needed here, and then he can lay these ridiculous thoughts to rest.
Firmus had given him an all too knowing look when he had revealed exactly which Army contingent he’d requested to be in charge of these plans. As his oldest friend, Firmus can read him almost as well as Conan can. Tiaan is reasonably confident that no one else knows of his fascination with the Thundering Herd. Firmus may be his dearest friend, but that look had made him feel far too seen.
His fascination is very much a strictly professional fascination, of course. The Herd is impressive, everyone knows that. They march in and take charge in a way that gets the job done quickly and efficiently. It is rather motivational. Anyone lucky enough to be able to watch would agree on that.
And so Tiaan had done just that. He’d taken a stack of work and had turned his chair to face the large bay window in his office. With General Veers leading the pack, the Herd had combed through all research stations, ensuring no one was left behind. Once they’d reached the main station, Tiaan had fretted so much with one of his printed flimsis that the plans were barely readable anymore.
General Veers had saluted him once they’d reached his office, but Tiaan had barely been able to acknowledge him, too distracted by the sight behind the tall Army man.
The drill was thorough, executed to perfection as he would have expected from General Veers. He hadn’t expected to see one of the troopers carrying a technician over his wide shoulders, though. A standard evacuation hold, of course. Nothing to get so terribly flustered over. Just a part of a drill. Another essential thing to practice, nothing more and nothing less.
Tiaan can no longer stop himself from twisting the fabric of his pyjamas between his fingers at the memory.
The truth is there, undeniable in the private, quiet darkness of his own quarters.
He would have liked to have been carried like that tech. Held in position with one of the trooper’s hands over his shoulders and the other - and here, he has to squeeze his legs together - over his behind. Everyone would have seen him carried out, no doubt….
The heat between his legs becomes near impossible to ignore, but he tries his hardest to resist. His thoughts tumble over one another, each image more muggy and illicit than the one before. He’s shifting in bed even more restlessly than before, suddenly feeling too overheated for his pyjamas, but not daring to take them off. It’d be too easy to lean into all these thoughts, too easy to see to himself like some overheated teenager.
He’s Moff Jerjerrod now, and he needs to put a lid on all this. If this is how he spirals whenever Conan isn’t there, well, that needs to be addressed, not his inappropriate fantasies about the Army.
Conan.
Conan would grin at him about this. Conan would see to him, even encourage him to share his thoughts. Conan would….
Almost without realising it, his treacherous hands move of their own accord, making quick work of the little pearl buttons of his pyjama top. Very well, then. Best to get it over with. There is no way he can sleep like this, and he does need his sleep.
Just as quickly, he pulls down his pants and briefs. He means to take himself in hand - not something he generally does, but a quick seeing-to will ease this insomnia and put a stop to the dangerous hyperlane his thoughts are on.
He pauses, biting his lip. He could do this quickly and forget about it, surely. The voice in his mind that sounds like Conan, though, disagrees.
It’s pressure that he needs. He’s never been able to take himself in hand, it’s never had an appeal to him. He has always required something else. There’s a throbbing between his legs at the thought of it and he knows that’s it, it is clear this will not go away.
Well. Needs must. With a quick, almost guilty shift of his hips, he turns over on his belly and stuffs a pillow between his legs. He’s flushing with the depravity of it, dragging himself off like some common cadet over the thought of those Army men…but his prick is achingly hard, drooling against the pillow already.
At the first hesitant drag of his hips, his imagination goes into overdrive.
Veers had told the men to regroup before marching them all off to the showers. Tiaan had stuttered out a ridiculous thank you, General that had him feel hot under the collar with the awkwardness of it. Veers had smiled at him, but it’s all too easy to imagine him saying Tiaan ought to show the Army a proper thank you.
And then, then Veers would guide him along to the showers, as calmly as he steers his troops in battle, with a steady hand splayed, shockingly large, on the small of Tiaan’s back. He would go willingly and eagerly, and his hips hitch helplessly at that thought. He’s made a mess of the pillow already, but he’s beyond caring now, too lost in his fantasy.
His willingness and eagerness to come along would be noticed, of course. They’d know that tidy Moff Jerjerrod has a taste for the Army. There’d be no denying it, not with the way he’d flush and let them undress him with little care for folding his uniform properly.
Not with the way he would shuffle into the shower, very clearly in a state already. He’d sit down on his knees on the tiled floor as steam rises around him, ready to take whatever they want to give him. He’d want all of it, all for himself.
They would all be there, of course. Veers, Lastok, Covell and Punch. Big, burly men, each and every one of them, standing around him, gazing at him with sheer need in their eyes. He’d be so ready to serve them, to show them how thankful he is to the Army.
Tiaan hunkers down and starts rubbing himself against the pillow in earnest as he considers the Herd members.
There’s General Veers, of course, the commanding officer. In his fantasy, Tiaan is only too happy to indulge himself. Veers is the prototypical Army officer. From the moment Tiaan saw him on the recruitment folders, he’s had an interest in the man. Tall, blond and with smile wrinkles around his eyes, those hazel eyes would look at Tiaan with the same calm energy he displays on the battlefield.
Then, the young gunner, Lastok, standing side-by-side with that huge trooper that had carried the technician as if it was nothing to him. The trooper’s callsign is Punch, and Tiaan can only just stop himself from letting out an entirely unbecoming whine when he thinks about Punch’s thick arms and graying hair.
And then there is Major Covell, a more or less permanent fixture at Lieutenant Venka’s side nowadays.
That Venka’s tastes fall just as squarely on the masculine as Tiaan’s is not the scandalous aspect here. A posh Coruscanti boy through and through, raised in a similar schooling as Tiaan, Venka has eye for nothing but men.
No, what makes him rut against the pillow harder is the fact that Covell is a far rougher type of man than the polished Coruscanti elite. For someone like Venka - for someone like Tiaan to seek out that kind of man is absolutely scandalous, worthy of a front-page article in the holozines of the elites.
Covell is as burly as the rest of them, with a shamelessly loud laugh and arms that look as if he could easily lift a taller man like Venka.
Or a taller man like Tiaan.
He’s helpless to stop himself from making a sound this time. It’s not a whine, it’s not, but it is high-pitched, filthy and needy.
Covell would step forward and grin, confident and cocky in the same way Conan is. He’d coo, something ridiculous no doubt, something about Tiaan being such a good Navy boy. It has no right to send a shiver down his spine.
Tiaan knows he would be clumsy with Covell, but ever so eager. He’s not used to that specific configuration, but he knows it’d be so slick, and he could get his mouth on him and breathe in that heady, masculine musk. His senses would be entirely overrun with it, his chin would be covered, proof of his clumsiness, and yet he’d lap up more, desperate to do well.
Covell would help him, no doubt, with a strong hand on the back of Tiaan’s head, pushing his nose into the source of his slick, grunting out a yes and a right there - and at that, Tiaan’s hips stutter and he has to bite down on his own fingers to stop himself from moaning out loud again.
He’d tongue at Covell’s prick, different than what he’s used to, but familiar in the way it twitches in his mouth with every swipe of his tongue.
There’s a large wet spot on the pillow now, no doubt he has soaked through the cover already. It provides just enough lubrication to allow him to keep toeing the line between slightly too rough and just right. Exactly as he likes it.
There’s a telltale tightness in his bollocks already, but he can no longer slow down. He’s not even concerned anymore that he looks depraved, so consumed by his fantasy that he can only allow it to run its course.
Covell’s prick would swell even more in his mouth, signalling his imminent release. Tiaan would allow himself to moan when the pressure on the back of his head would increase. He’d lap at Covell’s prick, flicking it to and fro, until Covell would come with a grunted curse and a wave of wetness Tiaan wouldn’t be quick enough to get all licked up.
The Army men would love to see him all flushed with his curls in disarray. Covell would tug on them slightly. He’d be covered in Covell’s slick when he finally pulls back, all over his chin, smeared around his mouth, leaving no mistake on what exactly it is he had done. The taste of Covell would be heavy on his tongue, and he’d lick his lips to get more of it.
He’d be praised for it, too. Told exactly what a good Navy boy he is for using his mouth so well.
He buries his face in the crook of his arm as he ruts even harder. The thought of Covell running a slightly rough, calloused thumb over his cheek and calling him a good boy spurs him on. Finally freed from the very last hints of shame, his thoughts take on a turn that’d have him squirm with the lewdness of it had he been in any state of mind to do so.
As it stands, the thought of Veers, Lastok and Punch moving closer with each of them working their own pricks only has him drag himself against the pillow more firmly. He won’t last. It’ll be over embarrassingly fast, but that’s okay, all that matters is sitting in front of the Army men and giving them what they want.
Giving them what he, too, so desperately wants.
The four men would talk about how very desperate Tiaan seems to be for it, in voices gone rough and pitched deep with arousal.
“Please,” he whispers the words against his own skin just as his fantasy self whispers them too.
The men would give him what he wants, no doubt.
His thoughts grow more chaotic as he nears his climax, turning more to flashes of sensation, to things he doesn’t ever dare vocalise tumbling over one another in a kaleidoscope of lust.
He’d want to take each of them in his mouth, one by one, to drink down all they can give him. It’d make his jaw ache like nothing else can, and he would not waste a single drop.
They’d aim for him as their strokes speed up and he groans as he rubs against his pillow as hard as he can.
They’d make sure to add to the mess on his face, painting his cheeks, his chest, even his hair with their spend. Between the three of them, he’d be well and thoroughly covered in it, and he’d still want more. It’d be dribbling off of him in a slow drip, pearly-white drops on his spacer-pale skin. A work of art, marked for all to see.
He would thank them for it, all breathless gratitude and devotion.
It’s the thought of General Veers grabbing his chin and making him look up with a grunted good boy that has him cry out, muffled in the crook of his arm, as he thoroughly ruins the pillow in a wet gush.
Once he has caught his breath, Tiaan thinks it may be early enough on the Steel Talon to make a quick holocall. Some things are best shared when they are fresh, after all.