The Jedi Order had views about this, Wolffe knew. He also knew that he wasn’t going to try and press the issue. General Plo was so much…warmer than he’d been expecting. Not that he’d had any reason to think he’d be cold. Everything about the other being had only ever radiated compassion, earnestness, warmth. Perhaps he’d wanted the Kel Dor to be cold to make it easier on himself to pull away. To convince himself not to drag his palms over the firm sides or up across the shoulders or. The alien’s body was surprisingly familiar feeling, despite the flushing heat. There were still differences, and by the stars there were differences, but they were ones that Wolffe wasn’t opposed to. Just yet, at least. He did wish, for a fleeting moment, that Plo Koon didn’t need the antiox mask but he pushed the thought from his mind as soon as it appeared. It was pointless to wish for impossibilities. A quiet, not unkind thought reminded him that not even two hours ago the thought of lying down with the General had also been known as an ‘impossibility’.
For his part, Plo seemed more than content with Wolffe’s inspection of his form. His breathing had only hitched for a single breath when the Commander had slid himself onto the General’s lap before steadying himself again. If Wolffe had been in a space to think about it, he would have been slightly jealous. When Plo’s own hands had come and begun slipping up the length of his thighs, curving around his hips to bring him closer, Wolffe had had to stifle a breathy exhale. As in all things, General Plo seemed more than satisfied with taking his time, running his steady hands over the human, seeming to exist in a state of perfect tranquility while Wolffe felt like he might burst into flames at any second. He took in a deep, steadying breath and felt the alien beneath him match the movement.
Wolffe admired him. Respected him. And at first it had felt acutely wrong to also desire him, knowing what he knew. He knew Plo Koon was a Jedi, which should have served as more than enough of a deterrent for Wolffe. He knew Plo Koon respected and was compassionate towards all of the men under his command, which was a perfect reason for Wolffe to shut out the idea that he was anything special. That he may have meant something to the General. Despite what Plo may have insisted, at the end of the day Wolffe was still just a clone. And just a clone could never hope to hold the attention of someone like.
In any case.
It was wrong to want him. And it was more than wrong to want him to want him back.
The fingerpads roaming his abdomen were in equal measures soft and insistent. As if they were doing their best to map out every line and contour of each muscle in his body. Wolffe did his best to return the favor and felt something change as his own fingers reached and began stroking the skin just at the center of Plo Koon’s abdomen. The flesh there was slightly softer and the skin itself had a different texture than the rest of the alien’s stomach. Commander Wolffe was not overly well versed in xenobiology and while not entirely bizarre, it still caught him slightly off guard to feel some soaking organic thing begin to press up against him where before there had only been a dry, firm, plane of lower body. The hands that had been on his own chest stuttered slightly in accompaniment. Experimentally he stroked his fingers slightly harder on the area, around where a belly button would have been on a human, and felt both the wetness and pressure under him grow.
“Here?” he asked, letting the word hang in the air between them. It seemed almost sacrilegious to speak during this, but Wolffe still felt he needed to ask.
“Yes,” Plo Koon nodded and Wolffe felt a thrum run up his core at the hint of breathlessness in the Jedi’s voice. After a moment of weighing his options, Wolffe shifted his position slightly so that he was seated firmly against the slick bulge--. Bulges. It was probably offensive to drop his head as suddenly as he did to finally look down at what was going on between their legs, but there was probably no one in the galaxy less likely to be offended at his actions in that moment than Plo Koon. They were slender things, narrower at the top than at the base where they were no thicker than two of his own fingers pressed together, slightly darker than the rest of the Kel Dor’s body, glistening with clear fluid. And there were three of them. Not distressingly long, but enough to make Wolffe’s mind start turning.
And then he realized that Plo Koon was returning the attention to his own body. Wolffe resisted the urge to bring a hand down and shield his own anatomy from Plo’s gaze, but it took an unsettlingly great amount of effort not to. Instead his mind wondered, in a very loud voice, if Plo was comparing him to anything besides his own biology. It was a petty and unwelcome thought but it was already taking its coat off.
In an attempt to distract himself, and hopefully draw the Jedi’s gaze away, Wolffe rubbed his knuckles firmly down the plane of Plo’s abdomen and felt them writhing against him in response and it. Well. It certainly wasn’t a bad feeling. One of them had slid along the space just under his sack, the other two had curled wetly along the divide of his ass. He realized, perhaps a second later than he should have, that one of Plo’s hands had begun dancing over his own stomach. The fingertips pressed in slightly, just under his naval and. Out of all the new things he was prepared to handle, Jedi Master General Plo Koon being caught off guard was not something he’d been expecting.
“Not here?” Plo sounded completely composed, as always, but his hands had paused and Wolffe could almost feel the hesitation in the touch. Ah. Right. Of course it would seem strange that his body wouldn’t also react like that; just as bizarre as it had been to the Commander that Plo’s body would. Wolffe felt heat rising in his face. He cleared his throat and the sound was painfully loud in his own ears.
“Just,” he faltered, fighting off the urge to die from embarrassment. “Just a bit lower,” he grumbled and Plo’s hesitation seemed to evaporate, his fingers obligingly trailing lower and pressing in on the flesh just at the base of Wolffe’s dick. And then they moved further. Plo Koon spoke just as a low sigh left Wolffe’s chest.
“Like this, then?” Coming from anyone else it would have been a teasing, cruel thing to say. But Plo made it sound so…genuinely curious. Plo’s hand wrapped fully around him and slid and Wolffe moaned quietly. Without fully thinking about it, his hips rolled forward into the touch. The hand on him paused for only a fraction of a second before apparently concluding that it had been a good movement and continuing its ministrations, drawing him into hardness. After a moment more Wolffe realized that he’d stopped touching Plo and began moving his hands again down that center plane. The curls and twitches coming from the General’s anatomy seemed to be automatic and uncontrollable, sliding and slipping warmly against Wolffe’s flesh without any rhyme or reason. Even as they massaged him, Wolffe could feel them growing cooler and drier in the air.
Which couldn’t have been comfortable, could it? Wolffe’s sparse knowledge of biology started knocking very loudly on the door to his mind. Oxygen was toxic to the Kel Dor; they couldn’t breathe it and it would make them go blind and. And this couldn’t be safe. It couldn’t be. Apparently his distress showed; either in his face or the way his shoulders rose or how.
“I’m fine,” Plo said suddenly, and his other hand was running over Wolffe’s shoulder in a tender, comforting gesture. “Although I do appreciate the concern,” he continued as if he were guessing Wolffe’s thoughts and this time he spoke in a patient, soft tone and it made Wolffe’s chest feel warm.
“You’re sure?” Wolffe pressed anxiously. The thought that this act might, even in the smallest, slightest way, damage the other man had his stomach rolling. As he asked, he felt the slender alien muscles pressing up against him slide around themselves slightly. They were definitely colder than they had been a moment ago and foreign biology or not, cold was rarely desirable. He waited for the other man to respond and saw the faint way his forehead creased and then smoothed itself. Doesn’t like lying, does he? Wolffe thought bluntly before he could stop himself. He really doesn’t, Wolffe’s thoughts continued, dragging his mind somewhere secret. He says what he means, even when he’s only talking about the value of the lives of a couple of credit-a-dozen clones. He means it when he. Wolffe stopped that slightly overwhelming train of thought by rocking back onto the organs. They twitched and shuddered under his weight.
“Yes,” Plo said softly and Wolffe realized why; the smooth appendages were sliding over his flesh with more purpose, curling into as much of his heat as they could find. The sensation of it was new and strange and. Really, really wonderful. The wet, curling heat of them reminded the Commander of tongues, lapping at the tender spots of his inner thighs. Wolffe made a noise in the back of his throat and tried to resist the urge to rock his pelvis fully back. He brought one of his hands away from Plo and, trying all at once to avoid eye contact and make it seem like he wasn’t avoiding eye contact, spat against his fingers.
Beneath him Plo Koon shifted but Wolffe stopped him with his other hand, pressing against that spot. Spasming in the General’s muscles pressing under him was the response. The Kel Dor made a pleasured sound but made no move to stop the pressure. Slowly, trying not to think too much on the fact that Plo’s unseen eyes were pinned to him, Wolffe slipped a spit-slicked finger into himself. Even the mindless appendages seemed to pause and wait until he began to stretch against the tight ring of muscles. Plo Koon seemed to remember where his own hand was and began rubbing along the length of Wolffe’s cock slowly.
“Oh,” Wolffe closed his eyes against the sensation, hoping the General wouldn’t take his gasping the wrong way, and pushed his finger in deeper, waiting a moment before pressing in a second digit. He was panting slightly, rocking back as best he could against his own hand while desperately trying not to pull too far away from the heat wrapped around his dick and the damp, firm slide of the General’s. Well. The General’s.
A vague part of him realized, guiltily, that again he’d stopped stroking at Plo’s belly, simply having rested his other palm flat on the spot. Which the Jedi didn’t seem to have a problem with. He was shifting slightly and had pulled himself up to rest on his free elbow. If Wolffe concentrated he imagined he could hear slight huffing from the General. Still squirming in their attempts to find somewhere warm, one of the slick organs slid against Wolffe’s knuckles and.
Concentrating, still debating on whether or not to go forward, Wolffe kept his movements slow and as steady as he could make them. He opened his eyes and yes. Plo Koon’s head was still locked onto him, watching his every motion. The Commander slid out of his own body, just slightly, and blindly touched the flexing muscle beneath him. Plo Koon caught on very quickly; his free hand came and rested lightly against Wolffe’s buttock, kneading the flesh slightly in his palm.
Whatever fluid was coating the Jedi’s lower appendages made the entrance shockingly easy. Plo Koon made a sound, low and lovely in his core, and the organ within Wolffe slid on its own accord, curling happily in the newfound body heat.
Wolffe’s mind had been right to compare the muscles to tongues earlier, the spasming and sliding was firm and strong but incredibly yielding. But they were so much longer than tongues. Plo Koon was making a noise in his chest that made the muscles in Wolffe’s lower body clench. Apparently a bulletin had gone out, as a second appendage began to slide against his entrance. The Commander relaxed as best he could and again, it took distressingly little effort for the muscle to push its way in alongside the first. Wolffe gasped out loudly as the second one twitched its way deeper into his body, the stretch being more than drowned out by the undulating pressure against his prostate as it did so. The third, left out in the relative cold, slid and pressed up harder than he’d been prepared for against his perineum and Wolffe bit down on his lower lip to keep from whimpering. It felt beyond wonderful. The nerves in his lower body were sparking manically, desperate to keep up with the onslaught of new and bizarre sensations assaulting them.
He squinted down and saw that Plo, as ever, seemed calm and cool and collected, if a little out of breath. Wolffe didn’t know how to feel about that; it was incredibly embarrassing to think that he may have been the only one enjoying their arrangement. At least until the grip on his backside tightened ever so slightly and the third and final muscle pressed its way in. Wolffe felt the Jedi pause as best he could, allowing the man above to adjust to the new stretch and perfect, awful fullness.
With his heartbeat thundering in his ears, Wolffe felt Plo’s hand began to pull, motivating the Commander to rise slightly, before Plo tugged his hips back down. Wolffe obediently made to follow the motion only to inhale sharply when the General thrust up, meeting him halfway. Inside him the foreign organs twitched and curled outwards unpredictably and pressed against his prostate and it was almost too much, too suddenly.
“Ah! Fuck, General,” he groaned out, and without waiting for a response or further prodding began bouncing his hips against the alien’s beneath him. One hand was groping his ass, claws obviously working to not dig into the muscle; the other was back to sliding loosely and hesitantly over his cock and the expressionless, masked face was staring up him and Wolffe knew his own face was folding in on itself in pleasure. “Oh,” he tacked on uselessly. He felt exposed and open and. Tight and burning and trembling and. Wonderful. Wolffe wished that he could see the Jedi’s face; catch some fleeting hint that Plo Koon was loving this as much as he was. He hoped he was. Out of all the times in his life thus far Wolffe had never wanted the approval of another living creature as badly as he wanted it in that moment.
The muscles in his thighs were trembling but he couldn’t stop himself from rutting down. And then Plo Koon shifted gears and began thrusting up forcefully into the firm body above him. Wolffe’s eyes began to slightly cross. With each new thrust into his body the General’s organs spasmed and twisted and flicked frantically and it was destroying him. He was quickly back to biting his lower lip, trying to ground himself. A trembling noise eked out from his nose crudely.
“Are you alright, Commander?” and Plo’s voice was still gentle and plain, as though he weren’t driving Wolffe’s sanity over the edge of a cliff with each writhing slide. An earnest question probably meant to ensure that this wasn’t overwhelming for the other man. While the Commander knew something was required of him, he couldn’t fathom what it was. Mostly because it was entirely too overwhelming at the moment. There was a gentle, reticent hand stroking him and several things were rubbing and curling and thrusting deep inside of him and. Wolffe took a guess and shook his head blearily through a mist of pleasure, while also making low, soft noises of affirmation; covering all his options. Anything to ensure that the Jedi wouldn’t stop.
Plo Koon didn’t stop, but he did begin to slow his thrusts, stilling the hand that had been running over Wolffe’s dick; the shifting, sliding organs trapped inside of Wolffe’s body missed the memo and continued writhing and gliding, pulling shaking, desperate noises from the Commander’s throat. The General’s free hand was back to trailing fire, roaming gently over the expanse of Wolffe’s chest, his shoulders, his neck; his palm came to cradle the Commander’s jaw. The hand on his backside was keeping Wolffe’s pelvis pinned to the man beneath him, who was thrusting so terribly slowly and shallowly. Each draw back had Plo twisting against his walls as the trio of organs were pressed together, each languid thrust back in sent them unfurling outwards and pressing as deeply and firmly as they could. Smearing heavy and firm and slick over his prostate. Arcs of electrical pleasure shot up and down his spine and thrummed in his core, in a tight, burning coil.
“Plo,” Wolffe breathed out the Jedi’s name softly. He turned his head just slightly to the side and caught the Kel Dor’s thumb in his mouth. He rolled the digit with his tongue and felt the other three fingers twitch against his cheek. Plo made a noise in his throat. The Commander did his best to run his hands over Plo’s body, hoping he was doing well enough to give back at least some of the sensations overtaking his mind. His ministrations were met with silence and Wolffe did his best to not let that sting. His own free hand had come and was stroking himself in time as best he could with the thrusts that were threatening to undue him. At some point the two bodies had begun moving in sync with another, rising and falling together in a single, organic motion. It was intimate and searing and Wolffe felt his eyelids threatening to slip closed so he could focus on the pleasure of it all. “Plo,” he repeated when the Jedi drew his thumb away, slipping his palm to gently hold his cheek. “F-faster,”
He didn’t have to ask twice. The General’s hand fell and anchored itself to Wolffe’s other hip and the Commander’s vision went slightly hazy as the Jedi began to hammer into him. The palm not preoccupied with stroking himself fell firmly onto Plo Koon’s abdomen in a desperate bid to steady himself and the General moaned loudly. Rapid and sharp and unrelenting and the muscles in Wolffe’s lower body were tensing and. Oh. Oh maker, he was so close. Wolffe’s hips were rocking hard with each thrust, meeting the other body blow for blow. Plo’s hands clamped down suddenly, stilling all movement from either man. Wolffe was halfway through a desperate gasp when he felt liquid heat spill deep inside and the General’s head fall back in a silent inhale.
His hand increased its pace and then a few more sharp twists from the organs inside him and it was difficult to focus; his fingers were shaking, fumbling along his length and. Wolffe threw his head back as he came, teeth clamping down on his lower lip to keep from groaning out. The noise instead emerged high and tremulous, his chest curving inwards as his hips jutted forward into his hand. He spilled over his knuckles and nearly onto Plo’s stomach. Wolffe had enough presence of mind to try and catch as much of it possible.
As he began to come down from his high Wolffe slowly recognized that Plo’s palms were running tenderly over his arms, his sides, steadying him. Because. Oh. He was shaking just a bit, wasn't he? Pulling him gently closer until finally Wolffe allowed himself to be tugged into laying flush against the Jedi’s chest. The movement drew the General out of his body in a limply twitching mass. Although he couldn’t bring himself to look, Wolffe could vaguely feel the shifting in Plo’s lower body as his appendages resettled themselves.
After a moment he smeared his palm on the sheets next to them, sneering slightly as he did so. The sneer disappeared in a flash because strong, thick skinned arms were wrapping around him and fingers were kneading into the muscles of his back and. It was kind of the General. Something ugly reared its head in the back of Wolffe’s mind.
“I’m sorry about not,” he began, pausing to catch his breath as he was still panting lightly, and immediately regretted speaking. Something in him urged him forward. After all, he’d been fucked practically into a speechless mess and Plo Koon seemed hardly fazed at all. “What I mean is I wasn’t exactly, ah,” he faltered and tried his best to recover, “at my best,” Wolffe finished lamely and set about the long and arduous task of slinging profanity at himself. The silence that followed drew on a great deal longer than he’d been hoping. And then General Plo lifted his hand and Wolffe realized that he was using the force to pull a blanket up and over the both of them. He couldn’t bring himself to look up at the General’s face, not that it would make much difference if he could.
“I should be the one to apologize, in that case,” Plo said finally and caught Wolffe so far off guard the Commander found himself pulling up and away. His progress was stopped by the cage of Plo’s arms. “That I gave you any impression that this evening was anything but,” he paused and Wolffe felt warm fingers tracing down his spine. “Incredibly special to me,” it was barely above a whisper, all softness and honesty. Wolffe cleared his throat sharply.
“I meant,” shit, “I just mean that I didn’t…I could’ve been better, is all,” face burning, he fell silent because what else could he say? If someone was going to go against the Jedi code and sleep with some random clone, who wasn’t even the same species, the least the clone could do was make it worthwhile. He hadn’t even managed that. This time Plo did not respond, instead letting his hands map out Wolffe’s back in the quiet. Eventually the rise and fall of the steady breathing beneath him, the softness of the blanket on his back and the easy, slow touches on his back, forced Wolffe into relaxing.
“What a surprising thing to say, Commander,” and his voice was even and conversational, if still soft. Then his tone downshifted. “Here I was thinking that this evening would be something we would both treasure,” again, it wasn’t a jibe. He truly did think that. Wolffe couldn’t stop himself from snorting, even though he hated himself as he did so.
“Why would you bother to treasure this?” and it was all bitterness and venom and an awful, reedy thing that Wolffe couldn’t bring himself to name. “You could easily recreate it with any clone you could care to think of, it’s not as though I’m unique,” and the Commander felt the sharp intake of breath and then the slow, measured exhale. When the General spoke next his words, truly whispered and softer than mist, cut deeply.
“Please, don’t say such things,” and he sounded so sincerely hurt and Wolffe was immediately awash with regret and the arms circling Wolffe tightened into a firm embrace; without first consulting his brain, Wolffe found his arms wrapping around the General and returning the hold. “You…you mean a great deal to me, Commander,” the arms lessened their pressure. “Despite what you may still believe, you’re irreplaceable to me,” he added on and it sounded like an afterthought, as though the Jedi were speaking more to himself than to Wolffe, saying something private out loud. Plo shifted and Wolffe reluctantly allowed himself to be manipulated onto his side. Plo Koon embraced him from behind, one strong arm coming and settling firmly in the dip of Wolffe’s waist, palm pressing flat against the center of his chest. Just over his heart. A plume of warmth was erupting from the area and it made Wolffe’s chest feel tight. He brought a hand up to clasp at it and covered Plo’s hand with his own. Behind him Plo had begun humming lightly and the vibrations running from the Jedi’s chest onto his back made his eyelids heavy. Something, he wasn’t sure if it was the Force or not, filled him and Wolffe in that moment with Plo curled around him, felt wanted—needed, even—and safe and perfect and.
“I think I will treasure this evening General,” he said weakly, in the way people do when they don’t actually want anyone to hear them speaking. The hand on his chest pulled him back ever so slightly.
“Good,” Plo replied simply. “I’m glad to hear it,”