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al-astakbar · 3 months

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☆ The Gift -- Thrawn x reader ☆

>title ☆ The Gift ☆part 10/?

>summary ☆ As congratulations for his recent promotion to Grand Admiral, Emperor Palpatine gives Thrawn a gift -- a young woman who has been trained as a pleasure companion.

>pairing ☆ Thrawn x reader ☆ word count [2.1k] ☆ warnings for this part ☆ spanking, sex, dirty talk > series warnings ☆ dubious consent; sexual slavery; concubine/ sex slave AU; will add more warnings as more parts are posted

>series navigation ☆ part 1 ☆ part 2 ☆ part 3 ☆ part 4 ☆ part 5 ☆ part 6 ☆ part 7☆ part 8 ☆ part 9 ☆ part 10

>posted on ao3

author note!! To be very clear, in this story reader is a concubine against her will and is gifted to Thrawn, but there is at no point any noncon between Thrawn and reader. Reader is never noncon with anyone, either referenced or explicitly, and there is never any explicit noncon. However, this is a darker take on Thrawn and he doesn't really have many hangups about putting his gift to use...

Cheunh translations at the end***

A pervasive sense of guilt makes the early days of your acquaintance with Thrawn especially dark. You had hoped that perhaps with time and of course, the demands of a Grand Admiral’s schedule, he might lose interest in you.

He doesn’t. He watches you, somehow still aloof, but you catch him in moments when his curiosity burns bright in those red eyes. What exactly he wants from you, you aren’t certain. Sometimes you think he just wants you gone, or at least out of his way. Only his desire for you is clear. And feeling the force of that pure, carnal need… for you. On you. In you…

Your resolve not to enjoy it, and not to let him corrupt your will, are tested constantly.

Every time you get hot, thinking about his hands on you, it’s accompanied by shame. Shame for your physical need to feel his touch and for liking it and wanting more. Shame for this sort of unexpected connection with him, of all people. Someone lower ranking, maybe, that wouldn't have been so bad. Everyone needs a job, and not everyone joins the Empire because they agree with its policies. But Thrawn... he's high enough in the chain of command to know what he's doing, what he's enforcing, the systems he's holding up-- he has to have some idea of how it’s hurting people.

You should not be comfortable with him, partaking in the luxury of a warm, soft bed and good food and leisure time. You should not enjoy arguing with him, and you should not like the way he almost smiles when he tells you that you have the temperament of a gundark.

Worse, you should not daydream about him. You should not think longingly of how it would feel for him to truly, completely possess you. He could have hidden you away somewhere, found a small compartment for you, stashed away like a toy for him to take out and use for his amusement. The thought of it is not as off-putting as you tell yourself it should be. And there is the center of all of it, the silent, deepest sort of shame. Some awful part of you likes-- wants-- to be subject to his whim.

All these conflicting feelings and frustrations make you very bratty. You know you’re testing his patience, just can’t help it. First and second infractions, he frowns at your bad behavior, and if he feels like it, he’ll tie you up and gag you. Ignore you for hours, sometimes. Being messy with your clothes and dishes, leaving your nicely embroidered garments in piles on the floor, going slow getting ready, just being generally contrary… the third time you do something he’s already told you not to do, he bends you over his desk and spanks you. Not playful. No warning. This is the discipline he promised that first night. He manhandles you, ignoring your cries of surprise, and then your tears. He pins you down, one strong arm across your lower back, legs bracketing yours so you can’t kick. Even though the fabric of your robes is quite thin, he always rucks it up. Bare skin to his full uniform. Humiliating. Most of the time he doesn’t bother to take his gloves off.

He presses himself against your hip to keep you in place, and as he does, you can feel his cock getting hard. It’s worse for your self control, knowing that it turns him on too. You can only pray that he doesn’t notice what he’s doing to you. He goes slow, timing and placing each sharp smack exactly as he wants. Never quite in the same spot. Each one sends a new shock of arousal through you, the stinging pain somehow striking directly in your core and setting your nerves alight. He spanks your ass and you feel it in your cunt. You feel empty. You yearn for him, to have his cock fill you, overstretch you, to clench and feel nothing else but his hot, hard shaft.

Your squirming and crying and begging do not sway him to be merciful. His attentions leave your ass hot and red, and he tells you it will help you to better mind him. He watches you keenly the rest of the day, as if he can sense your pulsing, unmet desire. As if daring you to ask him for what you need.

One morning, when he’s done, he does not flip the fabric back down. He leaves you exposed, a teary, quivering mess.

“I’m sorry,” you say, sniffling. You had kept tapping your foot while at the breakfast table with him, and after he had told you to stop, you had done an insolent extra tap. Other times, he has admonished you for leaving your nice robes on the floor in a careless pile. He always picks them up, examining them with interest, and then drops them again, only to order you to clean up after yourself.

“I know,” he says, not unkindly. He smoothes a hand over your abused skin. “You will learn. You’ll learn to ask for what you want..”

What you want… The words catch in your throat, and end as a strangled moan. He caresses you, much too gently. He was not supposed to be like this.

You hear the rustle of shifting fabric, so familiar now, you know what it portends. Then you feel him, blunt and hard at your entrance. You have to stop yourself from pushing your hips back. He exhales in satisfaction as he sinks into you. Inch by inch, nothing forced. He runs his hands up and down your sides, following your curves. Taking his size is still not easy, no matter how slow he goes or how wet you are. You had never followed his first-night edict of making yourself ready for him.

He rocks his hips, deeper still, and the pain of the spanking tips over to a sweet, aching soreness. Release is right there, so close and so tempting. You can’t help clenching around his thick, hard cock and he huffs out a breath when he feels it. “Mar… tta ba csei. K’ir hah csaah, eunh in’a.”

You grab at one of his hands to steady yourself, to remind yourself that it’s him, that no matter how enticing his voice sounds, how rough with need in whatever language he’s speaking, how fucking good his cock feels as he fucks you open-- your pleasure is for yourself and not him. You must cling to that.. But he likes this too. He likes you. He gets hard every time he spanks you, and the reminder of how much that turns him on makes you tighten around him.

He slides his arm under you, lifting you to him easily, your back flush against his chest. He holds your breasts, one and then the other, squeezing firmly, rolling and pinching your nipples until he finds just the right amount of pressure to make you moan. And he does it again, over and over. Pulling your nipples to stiff little points to spark every nerve with brightening, insistent need. The only way you’d ever like them touched, and he figures it out in seconds.

He’s found yet another way to torture you, tease you to madness, while still nominally respecting your wishes. “What was it you said?” His breath is hot on your neck as he pumps into you lazily. “Don’t try to make it nice for you. Is this nice for you…?” He murmurs your name, and you would swear he’s smirking.

He knows it is, damn him, and he stops just as soon as you begin to arch to his touch.

“Thrawn…” You sob in frustration, “--Thrawn, I’m going to--” at the overwhelming, singular need. You’re so close. So close to giving in, so close to asking, but you know that would only be the beginning. If you asked, he would make you beg. All it would take is one touch, maybe not even that.

He does not wait for you. As he gets close, he lowers his mouth to suck bruising kisses onto your neck. Very briefly, you wonder what his crew would think, if they saw their venerated Grand Admiral like this. He starts to lose his rhythm, his hips grinding against your sore ass. His cock is bigger than you should be able to take-- but you are taking it. Taking all of him so good, every sense blazing with desire as he fucks you. He swears under his breath, slipping into that strange harmonic language again.

“Vah cart bat, vim veo ch’itart’asi cart csiz.” You can feel his intensity, his need.He is going to drag you over the edge with him, if not this time, then the next, and once he does, he will truly own you. “Ch’ah-- nnhhh ravri’ihah-- ch’ah ch’epasahn ch’at ran’cah vah racan sesvio’ah ch’eo vuv.”

You moan his name, a plea, a warning— tension in a string pulled too tight and about to snap—-

Thrawn grunts, and cums hard. His fingers dig into your bare skin, almost too hard, his thick length splitting you open as he pushes himself in to the hilt, as deep as he can go. You feel him stiffen, and then the first hot gush of his cum as his cock pulses inside you. He holds you closer, tighter, overfilling you as he likes to do. So much that you think you might feel your belly swelling up until it starts to leak out, down your legs. He keeps fucking his seed into you slowly, even as he is coming down. His breathing is ragged, more so than you’ve heard before.

He looks so different in these moments, when you risk peeking over your shoulder to see him. His lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded, his sleek hair falling in his eyes, a purplish tinge to his cheeks which you suppose must be his species’ version of flushed skin. Imperfection looks good on him.

When he is done, he puts his uniform right and then he tends to you. He has never yet neglected to do this. Even if he has just spanked you, and taken nothing else, he fetches a damp cloth and wipes your face. You try to ignore how nice it feels. How simple, and quiet, and intimate. That he is taking time just for you. He brings a flowery-smelling ointment and rubs it on your bare, welted ass, soothing the skin until again, all you feel is the warm, insistent pull of arousal.

Your imagined version of him would be much easier to hate. This kindness is some manipulation of his, you think, though you can’t quite reason through to why. The only thing he never punishes is back talk. You have a sharp tongue, he tells you once, and he finds it entertaining when you challenge his reasoning.

“You’ll learn,” he repeats. He cleans his cum off your thighs, between your legs. “You know what you want, eunh in’a.”

You can hardly bear his touch there, so sensitive, still primed and trembling with need. He has a way of distracting you from your shame, of washing it away, at least for a little while. Nothing else matters when you want him, and he knows it.

“What is that word?” You ask, voice small.

He helps you stand, helps you dress.

“What does… eunh in’a mean?” You repeat, the foreign sounds thick and awkward in your mouth.

He does not answer. He runs his fingers over the embroidery after he has settled your robe around your shoulders— he has inspected it closely before, yet it still fascinates him. The colors--his blue skin against the gold fabric-- complement each other.

“You do very fine work,” he says at last.

The thought of telling him has crossed your mind a few times. You’ve even wondered if he already knows. “Did it really take you this long to figure it out?”

“I suspected the day we met. Aboard the shuttle. Your face flushed when I complimented the high quality of the work.” He tilts his head. “You are having the same reaction now. There is no need for embarrassment. As I have said, it is beautifully done.”

“I’m not embarrassed!” You begin hotly. “I’m—!”

He raises his eyebrows at your outburst. “...thank you.” You feel suddenly foolish, and rightly chastised. No one else had ever said so much as a word about it. “I’m… I’m proud of it.” You can’t help the small smile you give him. Long after he has gone up to the bridge, his words keep surfacing in your mind while you are staring out the viewport at the starfield, thinking vaguely about where you could possibly take refuge if you did manage to escape the Chimaera. Nowhere, is the realistic answer, and you are almost ready to accept that. Alone with his art, you hold on to his praise, turning it over and over like a small precious stone.

dirty Cheunh for all you freaks :)

cheunh tranx:

“Mar… tta ba csei. K’ir hah csaah, eunh in’a.” -- yes... more of that. do it again, little one

“Vah cart bat, vim veo ch’itart’asi cart csiz.” -- you are beautiful and your desperation is exquisite.

“Ch’ah-- nnhhh ravri’ihah-- ch’ah ch’epasahn ch’at ran’cah vah racan sesvio’ah ch’eo vuv.” -- i -- nnnhh fuck-- i want to feel you cum around my cock

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#thrawn #grand admiral thrawn #thrawn x reader #thrawn fic #thrawn x f!reader #thrawn/you #thrawn x you #thrawn/reader

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al-astakbar · 2 months

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>title ☆ The Gift ☆part 11/?

>summary ☆ As congratulations for his recent promotion to Grand Admiral, Emperor Palpatine gives Thrawn a gift -- a young woman who has been trained as a pleasure companion.

>pairing ☆ Thrawn x reader ☆ word count [5.5k] ☆ warnings for this part ☆ sex, cunnilingus, forced orgasm, anal fingering > series warnings ☆ dubious consent; sexual slavery; concubine/ sex slave AU; will add more warnings as more parts are posted

>series navigation ☆ part 1 ☆ part 2 ☆ part 3 ☆ part 4 ☆ part 5 ☆ part 6 ☆ part 7☆ part 8 ☆ part 9 ☆ part 10 ☆ part 11

>posted on ao3

The day quickly comes when Thrawn’s allowance for your little crusade ends. Your stubborn denial amounts to torturing yourself, and while he does enjoy the game, will even tease you himself if the mood strikes him, it all gets to be too much.

You’d like to place most of the blame on him. He has not been permissive. You may not leave his quarters unless you are with him, and the few times you have asked, even to simply stretch your legs in the corridor just outside, he has refused. You have no entertainment other than the datapad-- and his company, of course, but that is not a sure thing.

He leaves you alone for hours at a stretch, and sometimes locks you in the sleeping area. From eavesdropping at the hatch, you think it’s because he is holding meetings in the main room that serves as his office and living area. You listen intently, though for what, you’re not really sure. You have no one to tell. No one waiting for you to pass information. The snippets you hear are intriguing enough to keep spying anyway.

There are hushed, tense conversations about adversaries who seem to be more advanced and capable than pirates. They keep evading the Chimaera, and when the Fleet does manage to catch up to them, they always slip away at the last second. The normal tracking sensors and techniques aren’t working. Thrawn’s senior staff sound increasingly frustrated, and though you never hear Thrawn raise his voice, he is tense, too.

You also have no one to talk to except him. Not that he is a poor conversationalist. In fact, it’s the opposite. He is engaging and sharp, eliciting detailed answers about your time on Coruscant, and your life before that. But he always dodges any reciprocal questions about himself, his people. Hell, you still don’t know what species he is or the name of the language he sometimes slips into when he is tired or irritated or overcome with lust. You wonder, sometimes, if he might feel isolated too, being possibly the only one of his kind in an unwelcoming, xenophobic empire.

Between the two of you, bored and frustrated and lonely and horny are not a good combination.

Inevitably, one particular bad day gets worse.

First, you spill caf on his uniform. (It may not have been an accident.) He does not yell. He does not chide.

He is definitely cross with you.

He orders you to fetch his spare uniform-- coat and trousers-- from where they hang in the wall locker in the bedroom, next to your clothes. Be quick about it.

You aren’t. You dawdle bringing it back and then stand, rather contrite and determinedly staring at your feet, while he strips and re-dresses. When he is in his fresh uniform, you start for the hatch-- already late getting up to the bridge for the familiar routine of morning muster. He stops you, his voice icy. “Where are you going?”

You freeze on the spot. “Up? To the bridge? I think I know the way by myself now.”

Thrawn very deliberately brings his hands behind his back. The same expression from Mirri or Solis or anyone else would have you rolling your eyes. With Thrawn, though, your breath catches, your pulse picks up. Whatever you said was not the right answer.

His gaze sweeps down to the floor. “Clean up your mess.” Dismissive and cold. And when you get down, rag in hand, he has another correction. “On your hands and knees.” Just as you are about to get up, he taps his boot.There are few drops of caf on the high-shine leather. Not with the rag, he says.

Kneeling, you look up at him incredulously. “If you really think I’m going to--” You can’t even say it. Lick his boots?

His eyes narrow, and you suddenly feel like all the air has been stolen from the room. He does not have to speak. His silence is warning enough. You lower yourself deeper still and clean his boots with your tongue, humiliation burning hot through your body.

Second, Assistant Director Ronan is in a mood. You can’t tell if it’s a good mood or a bad mood, or even if the Assistant Director differentiates between the two. Every time you see him and Thrawn in the same place, Ronan will have a problem, typically self-inflicted or entirely made up, which he then makes Thrawn’s problem. His main purpose seems to be to publicly question the Grand Admiral. He disputes everything from battle plans to personnel assignments to the very position of the ship--

“The sun is in my eyes!”

Indeed, the navigator has turned the Chimaera so that a small amount of direct light from the solar system the Seventh Fleet detachment is currently orbiting is streaming in the starboard viewport. At the Assistant Director’s outburst, multiple officers pull their covers further down over their eyes. He has a habit of zeroing in on any crew members who scowl at him too obviously.

He rounds on one and begins pestering the young woman, who gamely tries to explain to him the purpose of the maneuver but is much too technical about it. Ronan does not care about the difficulties of reorienting with cold gas thrusters, nor the hours it would take to reestablish the target vectoring matrix. He also chastises her for not standing to address him, a superior, and when she does, he finds fault with the state of her uniform.

“Wrinkles! Is this what they teach at the Academy now? Did you just roll out of bed into your greens or was the laundry droid out of service?”

The young officer is being more patient than you think you could ever be, and apologizes, while telling him that she has been on shift for eleven hours.

She gets more and more flustered, and the Assistant Director’s voice more shrill, until finally it attracts the attention of Thrawn and a few senior staff.

“We are on this bearing so that the ship’s long-range sensors can get a better reading for the target we are pursuing.” Thrawn explains, his tone just as calm and professional as always.

The Assistant Director snorts, as if this is a likely story. “And what about your bridge officers who parade around looking like this? Is this an Imperial Star Destroyer or a Nal Hutta bazaar?”

You think you see Thrawn’s jaw tic. Never a good sign. Losing control is not something he does.

“This is insubordination!” Commodore Faro snaps. “And if the light is such a concern, Colonel, you might be more comfortable in a part of the ship where there are no viewports.”

Thrawn raises a silent hand, and she immediately stops. “If there are concerns with my crew, Assistant Director, please bring them to my attention directly.” He looks over at the young officer. “Lieutenant Chiro, I have need of your workstation at the moment, you stand relieved.” She comes to attention and leaves without another look at Ronan.

“That’s it?! You aren’t-- she disrespected a superior! She needs to be reprimanded!” Ronan’s face is ruddy, his eyes wild, and he looks very close to stomping his feet like a toddler. “I demand--!”

“Assistant Director Ronan!” Thrawn’s voice cuts across Ronan’s. The surrounding crew who had been studiously pretending to work now look around at the scene. You’re willing to bet most of them have never seen their Admiral’s patience tested in such a way. “You are causing a disturbance which is interfering with the proper running of my ship. You will be silent, or I will have you removed from the bridge.”

Ronan opens his mouth, but Thrawn speaks again, a deadly calm edge to his voice. “Commodore Faro’s point is well taken, I hope. There are no viewports in the brig.”

Third: the vase. It is a long, tense day on the bridge, with little apparent progress in the mission. Thrawn walks more quickly than usual, and you nearly have to jog to keep up with him.

When you get back to his quarters, he ignores you. That, in itself, is typical. But for some reason it irritates you to no end. You want him to say something. To simply look at you. To turn that imposing, searing gaze on you and order you to serve him.

He acts like you don’t exist. Just a little toy on the shelf, another little trinket in his collection.

He is studying a new piece of art. One you haven’t seen him look at before. When he’s had time to acquire it, you have no idea.

Resigned, you toss the data pad aside carelessly. It bounces off the cushion and onto the floor. You wait to see if Thrawn notices. He barely looks up, so you leave the data pad where it is. You stand and begin your now-regular circuit of his gallery, starting by the large painting hung right by the hatch. Next to it, there is a white and gold filigree mask displayed on a pedestal. You always stay longest at the series of tapestries, fascinated by the intricate, expert work and wondering who was skilled enough to make such a thing and why they had parted with it.

You haven’t yet asked Thrawn how he came by any of these pieces. Nor why. He seems to be such a practically-minded person who would have no need for art. It should be frivolous to him.

Last, a vase of a striking, asymmetrical design. It looks like it shouldn’t be able to balance on its own, and is decorated in swirling, iridescent colors that remind you of the time you had stood under the Obe’iri Starfall, a spectacular natural display of lights and meteor showers visible on the planet once every three years. You should mention that to him, you think. There is an Imperial garrison there, he might have even visited.

You reach out and touch it, watching the glaze shift and reform under your finger. It must be sensitive to pressure or heat, you can’t quite tell which. Press a little too hard and--

The vase teeters on its pedestal.

You look over at Thrawn guiltily, hoping maybe this would be the one thing he wouldn’t take notice of, only to find yourself fixed with a pair of glowing red eyes. Which narrow at you.

He puts down his data pad. “Enough.” He does not have to shout to be commanding, though you hear the tension in his voice. “Come here.”

You are already bracing for a thorough and harsh spanking. Standing by his chair, you begin to take off your robes, as he always has you do, but he stops you.

“There will be no need for that.” He taps the arm of his chair thoughtfully. Lets the silence brew for a moment. Allows it to settle around you so that you go still.

“Do you wish to be sent away?”

It feels like a threat, though you don’t think he meant it like one. The very idea of being dismissed from his presence, even just locked in the bedroom, makes your stomach drop. “No!”

“I see. Then tell me, what is your aim, with this behavior.”

“I… I don’t know.”

“You do.” His voice has gone very quiet. There is a dangerous edge to it. “Tell me.” He has no need for explicit threats or ultimatums. Letting you imagine the consequences of displeasing him is much more compelling.

You meet his eyes for a moment, and feel your heart start to race. You can’t think when he’s looking at you like that, can hardly breathe. Every half-formed thought flies away before you can make sense of it. You want him-- you hate him--are starting to crave his touch— want to tell him to go fuck himself, fuck the Empire-- want to go back to fixing radios but you can’t, ever. They would smell the shame and guilt on you like smoke.

He frowns. No answer is still a wrong answer.

Absurdly, you worry you’ve disappointed him.

“I wanted…” he makes you furious. The effect he’s had on you from the very moment you first met is maddening. He could have his hand at your neck and you would open wider for him, press yourself closer. Beg him for more. You feel tears prick in your eyes, another embarrassing lack of control while he is so calm. “I wanted you to pay attention to me!” The words punch out of you, somehow offering no relief. You await his word.

He regards you for another moment, seemingly unmoved by your admission. He lets a few more beats of silence tick by, watches you struggle to hold yourself still under the imposing weight of his regard. Finally:

“Lift your robe and show me your cunt. I want to see how wet you are.”

A hot rush of blood roars behind your ears, shock and arousal in equal measure at hearing those crass words in his cool, modulated voice. Face burning, you do as he says. You are more than ready to obey. You sit up on the desk, move your legs wider when he tells you, and hesitate only a beat when he instructs you-- use your fingers, spread the lips, hold yourself open for me--

He observes you dispassionately. Takes his time unbuckling his belt, unfastening his collar, shrugging out of his uniform coat. He folds it carefully and drapes it over the back of his chair.

He makes you stay like that, exposed, as his gaze sweeps over you, and he slaps the inside of your thigh when your knees start to fall together.

It is strange to see him in anything less than full uniform. The simple black sleeveless undershirt suits him just as well, emphasizing his tall, well-muscled frame. His shoulders are broad, his arms and chest toned, his waist trim.

He reaches out— it feels almost like slow motion— and very lightly brushes your labia. Petting oh-so-softly, as if he has been waiting for his chance to do this. You watch his blue fingers there against your skin. Blue. Impossible to imagine they belong to anybody else. He trails them up through your folds, feels how you are slick and shaking and lush.

It is so easy to yield under his touch. Every fiber of your being wants this— needs it. His cheeks are tinged purple, his eyes bright. His breath comes out in little puffs, visible in the chilled air of his quarters.

“I’m going to make you cum, eunh in’a.” His voice is dark, rough with desire. It sends an equal thrill of need down your spine.

You do not think you could resist him this time, even if you wanted to. But you shake your head, clinging to that last shred of self-control.

“We will have a discussion later about what you deserve, but tonight, you will cum. On my tongue or my cock, it doesn’t matter which, but I will taste you...” Your protests are weak. He ignores them. One finger in you to the knuckle, curled to hit that perfect spot, he already has you tight and fluttering around him. His thumb makes little circles on your clit. “I will drink down your pleasure and you will cum.”

Release is right there, bearing down on you. You need only to duck your head beneath the wave.

He pushes you to lie back, shoves your robe up over your breasts-- he pauses just a second and takes in the picture he’s made of you: exposed and wanton and desperate—

and lowers his mouth to taste you. As promised.

It’s immediate, and too much. Your breath catches in your chest as he licks slowly, letting your sweetness gather on his tongue.

“Thrawn…” you whimper, your hips bucking in spite of yourself. “Please-- please don’t make me…” He hitches your leg over his shoulder, uses his free arm to hold you in place. A silent warning. There is no escape. No doubt that the pleasure you receive tonight will be by his hand.

He kisses your clit, his mouth impossibly soft and hot, making obscene, wet sounds as he devours your taste. How such a controlled, exacting man could make such a mess, you don’t know. But he seems not to care at all. His tongue wide and flat, his lips all over you, lapping at every inch of your needy quim.

The first time he makes you cum it is much too quick. Your body is over-primed for it. Tuned to every touch— his hand spanning your waist, his sleek hair brushing the insides of your thighs. You can feel yourself start to unravel. The tight, twisting knot of tension and denial coming undone as he luxuriates in you. In his inevitable victory.

To seal it, he pushes a second finger into you, and ever-so-lightly sucks on your clit.

Your climax slams into you. Washes you away. Any resistance left— gone. Shattered. You surrender to the pleasure, bent to his will. You hear yourself distantly, moaning his name. He is relentless. Turns you into a trembling, helpless mess until all the pent-up need and anxiety has receded and you are just…empty.

He hums in satisfaction, still licking gently as you draw deep, shuddering breaths. You feel tears leaking out the corners of your eyes.

He notices, but doesn’t comment. His mouth and chin are shiny with your wetness and his own saliva. He doesn’t bother to wipe it off. Only sucks clean the fingers he had in you and licks his lips. That is all the respite he allows.

Swiftly—eagerly— he stands. Your eyes focus immediately on the large bulge in his trousers. He frees his erection with deft, efficient movements.

For some reason the sight of it— his large, elegant hands, blue skin against crisp white, his heavy, hard cock— sears in your memory. It will come to you when you close your eyes at night. When you watch him give orders on the bridge. When he is seated across from you at a meal, or pacing in his quarters, studying pieces in his art collection.

You watch, unable to look away as he comes between your legs. It’s a morbid curiosity. You want to see what it looks like as his cock splits you open. Right in front of you it looks bigger, somehow, enormous and truly alien. Too big to have ever fit inside you, but you know it has, and that knowledge sends a dark thrill of arousal through you.

He holds one of your legs under the knee, folding it back to your shoulder, opening you to him as he enters you. The head slips in your wetness, pushes out, his enormous length lying heavy up your belly. He tries again. Steady. You hold yourself still, rapt.

“Still so tight,” he murmurs, almost to himself. He does not slide in easily.

You whine at the sting of it. He rocks his hips, each shallow thrust penetrating deeper.

He leans over you, supporting himself on his other arm. His head is bowed, his breath ragged. You can see his muscles tensed, corded with the effort of holding himself back. He could make this hurt, if he cared to. Could just take what he wanted, could break you in a way that couldn’t be put back together.

He doesn’t. He is slow, measured. He seems to understand that you are oversensitized. When you squirm at a too-light touch, he adjusts. Grips your leg firmer. Pushes in relentlessly, making you feel every inch of his thick cock, as he always does, until you can’t take anymore.

Fully speared on his length, you can hardly move. You hold your arms in front of you, crossed over your naked chest. Facing him feels too intimate, especially when he starts rolling his hips leisurely, and his desire matches your own. Desire which you, again, steadfastly try to ignore.

You have never been quite this close to him. You can see fine lines under his eyes-- age and perhaps stress. There are a few streaks of grey-white hair at his temples that you somehow hadn’t noticed before. The smell of wool and starch, and less familiar, his natural scent, something crisp and wintry from someplace distant and unknown.

You close your eyes to all of it-- to him-- but he immediately orders you to open them again. He pulls your arms away from your chest. “I want you here…” -- your name in his stern voice sends another shock of arousal straight to your core-- “Not off in your own fantasy.”

“Yes, Thrawn.” You respond without really thinking.

He gives a low sound, almost a growl. “Touch yourself. Show me how you like it. I want to feel it when you make yourself cum.”

“B-but… I haven’t since… I don’t.”

He doesn’t stop moving. You’re close again, already. It’s an effort to defy him, and not slip a hand down your body to rub at your clit.

“If you’d like to test yourself again, perhaps we can make it a month. Or three. Do you think you could last that long?” He sounds casual, though you have no doubt he would follow through on the implied threat. The idea of it amuses him, to have you aching and desperate. “The very first time I fucked you, you could hardly restrain yourself.” He arches over you, his mouth close to yours, his hips rolling lazily.

So full. So full of his cock and it feels exquisite.

All this time you’ve denied yourself, and now the lingering effects of it make you dangerously suggestible. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t force the issue sooner--

He dips his head, kissing your collarbone. It feels too close to making love, you wish he wouldn’t--

Perhaps he meant for things to go this way.

He expected your disobedience and refusal, and let you take yourself to the point of desperation. Only now can you see how expertly he’s manipulated you.

You find yourself arching to his mouth, wanting him to lick your breasts, to bite, to bruise. His fingers dig into your thigh, marks you’ll find tomorrow.

His hand moves down your body. His fingers slip on the slick flesh where his body meets yours. You can feel how huge he is, your pussy stretched around him, the intrusion of his cock making room where there is none.

He has already taken from you once, and it was not enough.

“Please… please…”

He keeps going with his thumb on your clit, stringing you along to another orgasm. Fucking you slowly. Fucking into all the spots he knows make your breath hitch, make you keen his name. Everything about you, all at his leisure.

He watches, expression intent, calculating. “You’re doing so well, ” He muses softly. “You may not have learned yet, but your body has.” His voice like silk, praising you in the most obscene terms. He strokes your hair off your face, sweat-damp. “You’re shaking, little one.“

The endearment drives you higher. You run your hands over your body, grab your breasts, roughly pinch and squeeze your nipples, rolling them to stiff little buds. Your skin is burning, all over, superheated with arousal.

“You felt… sweet… that first time. Scared, yet pliant. As you do now. It was for the best, I think, that you were separated from the rebellion. They didn’t come looking for you. They didn’t need you. And now, you have a true purpose.”

Your breath catches, need and tension spiraling tighter and tighter. You want him to say it, and you’re terrified that when he does, you’ll agree.

You try to spread wider, like that’s all you were ever made for, taking his cock, pleasing him.

“That is what you want to hear, isn’t it. That’s what you are, a little thing for me to play with. You like it. You like the thought of offering yourself up for me to fuck whenever I want. Happy to simply be… of use.”

Thrawn’s expression darkens, pure, stark lust written on his angular features as he feels you start to tip over the edge. His glowing red gaze transfixes you, and as pleasure rises up to engulf you, filling your senses, drowning you, all you can manage is “yes”.

And there it is.

Shame and desire and heat all coil inward for a heart-stopping moment— and then burst, an explosion of white hot pleasure from your core, up your spine, down your limbs. It makes you clench around him, hard— he moans a curse, his grip on your leg tightening, makes his shaft feel even bigger. He fucks you through it, his strokes deep and measured, holding himself back just barely.

You cling to him, grabbing at his arms and shoulders to anchor yourself. Whimpering and panting softly as it courses through you, swelling and subsiding. Gradually, you come down from it. Come back to yourself. Everything feels heavy, tired. The thread of it is still a dull pulse, aching between your legs.

You are much too sensitive now, and his cock feels much too big. You try to push him away, which earns you another smack on the thigh.

Be still. Don’t struggle, don’t argue. “I have no more patience for your bratting today,” he says, his normally cool voice strained with lust, his accent stronger than you’ve ever heard it before. “Be good. I’ve given you what you needed, since you refused to take care of yourself.” He picks up his pace, driving into you steady and deep.

You whine in protest, squirming at the intense overstimulation. And when you look down your body you can see where his cock fits inside you, making your stomach bulge with each merciless thrust. Thrawn’s gaze slides down from your face to your hand, when you reach down to flatten your palm against your stomach. You gasp quietly, feeling him like that, and the sight of it seems to flip a switch for him.

He gathers you in his arms, holding you to him so he can stroke into you fully. There is a wildness, now, to him, under the barest veneer of civility and control. You cling to his shoulders, feeling so little in his embrace, like a doll.

You’re taking all of him, easily. Your climaxes have left you slick and yielding and open, and the Grand Admiral claims his due, pounding into you, absolutely owning one of your holes… A feverish thought comes to you, that you’d like him to fuck you in all of them, like he has talked about before.

The low ache of arousal blooms again, though it is too sharp, too much of a sensation for your mind to process. Your nerves are buzzing, bright with overstimulation, it all makes his cock feel thicker, harder, hotter. This is for him. Despite your discomfort, you want to be good for him.

He is breathing hard, jagged, and the slap of flesh on flesh fills the chill, sterile air of his office. Behind him, you see out the viewport, a field of stars and black space.

His comm chimes once, and again a minute later. He ignores it. The third time, he answers it, crisp and professional, not missing a beat as he continues his driving thrusts. “Yes, Captain. What is it?”

To your ultimate humiliation, you start to clench and flutter around him, the beginnings of another climax, and you can’t keep your little whimpers and gasps quiet.

Thrawn eyes you, desire written plainly on his face even as he gives clipped orders over the comm. When he shuts the link he throws the comm aside, it drops off the edge of his desk with a clatter. He pays it no mind. He adjusts, putting both of your knees bent to your shoulders, pinning you open under his hard-muscled weight, fucking you as hard as he wants.

You tremble around him, the position and the onslaught of sensation making you so, so tight you nearly push him out. The intensity of it all hangs in a precarious balance, tipping to pain, to pleasure, to pain. Too much. He adjusts again, grinding deeper, hitting that perfect spot inside you, makes you cry out, unbearably tight and sensitive.

He cums before you get there, his eyes slip shut, his mouth parting with an almost-silent moan. His whole body goes rigid in a strong, aching surge of release. He grasps and re-grasps your legs, movement stuttering as his cock flexes and twitches and fills you with his cum, spilling all of his stress and irritation until he’s gasping, almost vulnerable in his pleasure. And then he’s slowing again, pumping into you, languid and sated as his breathing evens out.

You stay very still. This feels different. New. For all the Grand Admiral keeps from you, he allowed you to see this. To see him. You wonder if it was a lapse. Perhaps a mistake, carried away in the moment.

Your thighs are sticky with his cum, flushed pink in a way that draws his eye. He lets his cock slide out of you, slick and heavy, still hard, and shiny with your arousal. Empty, you clench around nothing. It pushes some of his cum out, and that too seems to fascinate him. All the marks he’s left on you, evidence of his enjoyment and what he’s claimed.

He scoops some of his spend with his fingers, pushes it back inside your cunt. You watch him do it, watch his face. Hold his gaze as he does it again, but the second time puts his fingers at your asshole, tracing gently, letting you feel the touch as he runs the tips of his fingers lightly over your sensitive hole.

“Thrawn—“ you nearly choke on his name, not sure if you mean it as a warning or a plea.

He works one in, wet and sticky, penetrating the tight ring of muscle, then a second finger, moving it slowly. He doesn’t try to open them or widen you. Just massages, pumping in and out leisurely.

“You like it when I fuck you here,” he says softly, quietly curious at the very idea of it. There is no threat in it. No accusation or aggression. “Though… it will take time to get you ready for more than my fingers.”

You can only moan in response. He presses his thumb to your clit, rubs tender little circles that have you panting, trying to rut his hand. He lets you, plunging his fingers deeper, to the knuckles. No one except him has ever touched you here. Even in your own private explorations you had never been brave enough beyond the tip of one finger. It had felt good, those few times. Forbidden, but intriguing.

The push and pull of it is exquisite, your hole gripping the invading fingers so tightly he can’t go any faster. He feels it too, comments on it. Says it will feel even better with his cock stretching you open there. He always seems so sure of what he tells you. It isn’t an idle boast or promise.

He lowers his mouth to lay kisses up your breastbone and then your breasts. With his free hand he smooths over your skin, your waist, your ribs. Catches your nipple to pluck and roll roughly between his fingers, the only way you can stand to be touched there.

He takes you apart like this, uprooting any last remnant of your resistance, making you forget your doubt and self-loathing until he has you writhing and crying and begging him over and over--

“Gods please, Thrawn, please, please, I’m going to--”

Release tears through you. A terrible, searing pleasure that has you wanton and shameless, arching to his mouth and spasming around his fingers. He fucks them into your ass, hard and deep, his thumb keeping up just the right pressure on your clit. The waves of your climax roll through you, stronger than your will, stronger than anything. All you can do is hold on to him, ride his hand as you vaguely register his cock, still hot and hard, pressed against your thigh. He encourages your moans, seems to like them, seems to like how well you take what he deigns to give you, and for a moment you imagine spending the rest of your life this way, used and fucked as the mood strikes him and there’s a new rush of heat between your legs at the very thought.

He soothes you as you come down from it, takes his hand away when he’s satisfied you’ve had enough. He’s made a mess of you, again, this time a shivering ruin, fucked out and exhausted. Your face is blotchy, streaked with tears. You take shaky breaths. All the tension that had accumulated has been burnt away. You feel clear. Purified. And you only had to submit yourself to Thrawn to get here.

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