Alien Geographies

It’s definitely not any kind of pussy Eli’s ever seen, but it’s sure not a cock, either. Tracing it with his fingertips, he can sort of make out the shape of it at the apex of the Chiss’ thighs —there’s a long narrow slit there that’s trailing slickness, and that twitches under his hand. Whatever that part is, the involuntary motion of it is accompanied by a slight raising of the hips, and those long powerful thighs spreading wider.

When Eli raises his head, Thrawn is biting his lip. By his usual standards it might as well be a full-throated moan.

“Is it all right if I touch this?”

“If you like.” Thrawn’s trying to sound coolly disinterested but there’s a new hitch in his breathing, in the rise and fall of his chest beneath his Academy-issue undershirt.

Eli presses in with his fingertips, and the two sides part enough for him to slip in easily — it’s a tight fit but the muscular passage yields to him in a way that is undeniably but not unpleasantly biological.

It takes all sorts in a galaxy like this one. It isn’t like Eli’s had a whole lot of opportunity before joining up, and even then what he’s encountered in that particular department has mainly been determined by chance and slim pickings. But watching Thrawn come apart just a little is doing something to him.

He starts working his hand in there in earnest, not all at once but alternating thrusts with little circling motions against the cavity walls — the thin lubrication coating his fingers to the knuckle has the unmistakable pleasantly saline smell of sex. The hole isn’t very deep but it’s perfect for fingerfucking, fluttering with responsiveness — Thrawn’s long narrow hand moves to cover his own and for a moment Eli hitches mid-withdrawal, but he guides him back in. Thrawn presses the pads of his fingers to the anterior wall of the shallow pit, and even as it yields to him he can feel muscle flexing around him, greedy as a mouth.

Pressing in that spot he can feel something yield in a gush of slickness. Thrawn’s cheeks and lips are flushed faintly darker; his eyes are glowing slits, and his head is studiously turned away, like he’s making a detailed cultural study of the closed door. Probably lots of things a door can tell you, like whether an institution trusts its trainees to have a functioning lock mechanism or if just anyone could stroll in looking for the communal ‘fresher down the hall or gearing up for another weird hazing—

Eli rubs his thumb over the edge of the slit, and Thrawn gives a little whimper.

“Is this where your dick comes out of?” Eli asks.

“Only when I require it to.”

“And you’re not requiring it now? I’m not—“ (Well, that idiom won’t work.) “I’m not messing with you, am I? I’m not keeping you from getting off?”

Thrawn’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. “No. Keep going.”