“Don’t say you’re not ready, Galen. Look at you.”

Said with all the tenderness Orson can muster and still Erso flinches — but it’s true, he’s already hard and dripping, with the shining pre-ejaculate running wet at the flushed head of his cock. Krennic circles the urethral slit with his thumb, marveling at the slickness of it, and Galen makes a thin sound of pain.

Erso says, “Please, don’t.”

“Then what’s stopping you? Or do you want me to admire you first?”

Kneeling before him on the bed, Orson has ample opportunity to scrutinize. Galen’s body is eager, even if Galen himself displays a token reluctance — but Erso has always been stubborn, and the only way to bring him around to one’s own point of view is wait for that prodigious mind of his to do half the persuading for you. It seems his body too has its singular qualities.

It must have been the case even back on Brentaal, but in those days Orson had a substantially smaller frame of reference for the sheer galactic variety of genitalia — and Galen had been a virgin then, who’d withdraw blushing from one of their sessions of heavy petting with ruined briefs darkened with pre-come before Orson even had the chance to touch him there. He’d just seemed quick off the mark in those days, endearingly so, but this is something different. Something obscene about it, like lubricant spooling on skin.

Slick-handed, Krennic settles back and begins to work his own cock lazily. What he wants is for Erso to fuck him, to be ridden hard until he’s bruised and breathless — he wants to come away filthy, full of his spunk and overflowing. Full of him, and wet—

Galen watches him. “You don’t want — anything?”

Krennic shuts his eyes. “That’s right. Come here.”