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Jun 25, 2023

☆ Good and Faithful Service - Thrawn x reader ☆

> title ☆ Good and Faithful Service

> summary ☆ Grand Admiral Thrawn gets dosed with a powerful aphrodisiac and then trapped in a room with one of his junior officers. She offers to help him through it

> pairing ☆ Thrawn x reader ☆ word count [5.1k] ☆ warnings ☆ aphrodisiacs; mildly dubious consent; masturbation; blow job; PIV sex; power dynamics & imbalance; fraternization

> posted on ao3 ☆

“Sir,” you try to be discrete about clearing your throat. “Are you sure that’s… safe?”

The Grand Admiral gives you a quelling look and you immediately step back, determinedly not looking anywhere in the direction of your hosts, the rulers of this planet who had offered Grand Admiral Thrawn the drink in the first place.

It seems to be some sort of hospitality ritual, though nothing about the Nevow people is suspicious or threatening. Indeed, everything has gone perfectly to plan so far. The negotiations have been amicably concluded, the Nevow people have reaffirmed their strong loyalty to the Empire, and committed to a 1.5 percent yield increase in yttria mining productivity over three years.

Grand Admiral Thrawn had been very pleased with that. Or, you’re pretty sure he was. After almost a year serving as his aide de camp, he is still as enigmatic and aloof as the day you first reported to his command. Most of the time, you just can’t read him, and you still don’t know if that’s really what he’s like, or his sabacc face is just that good.

It’s been frustrating, to say the least. He is a good boss, you’ve decided, and an outstanding leader. You like serving under him, had even requested the Chimaera as your first duty station after hearing about its accomplishments. You hadn’t expected your assignment as his personal aide. There were rumors aboard the ship that none of his previous aides had lasted longer than three months. Either he had dismissed them, or, if they had connections, they pulled strings to get transferred. You can understand where some of the conflict came from. He has been cold, blunt, and uncompromising. But from the moment he caught you doodling on your flimsi in a meeting, and instead of reprimanding you, he’d nearly smiled, and had given you a quiet compliment in that soft, thoughtful voice… well, perhaps your allegiance is too easy to win. But you are loyal.

You watch him and the Nevow toast, and down their drinks at the same time. Well, whatever was in it, you only have one night left on the planet. Tomorrow, the shuttle will take you back to the Chimaera and you can get a little distance from him. Not that there is much privacy on an Imperial Star Destroyer, even for a mid-grade officer. You share a stateroom with another lieutenant, but this whole trip it’s just been you and the Grand Admiral in suites and generally close quarters, and it is very hard to repress a blossoming crush when you’re at his side every minute of every day and he’s sleeping just in the next room.

He purses his lips. Whatever was in the drink, it looks bracing, and definitely not to his taste. The Nevow Second Undersecretary of Mining and Industry steps forward with an elaborately-wrapped gift.

“And now, Grand Admiral Thrawn, it is our honor to present you with this ewer, fashioned from tempered yttria and embellished with precious sun-stones. This vessel was made in the traditional style of our people, used for our custom of imbibing the galvi root in preparation for the mating ceremony.”

Your gaze flickers to the Grand Admiral for a moment. Mating ceremony? Slightly odd choice for a diplomatic exchange. If he agrees, he gives no indication. He inclines his head to each of the Nevow leaders in rank-order. “I am honored… it is truly an exquisite example of Nevow craftsmanship and artistry.” He accepts it on behalf of the Galactic Empire, holds it solemnly as they pose for holos, and then it is handed off to a porter to be conveyed to the shuttle.

That’s your cue to approach with the gift the Grand Admiral had selected for the exchange. And it was his choice-- you know for a fact that any other commander of his rank and many lower would have foisted the task on a junior officer. He had delighted in it. He had spent hours poring over dealer listings, researching the Nevow, had asked your opinion on several options, as he had started doing more and more. That had been one point of friction, early on. You deferred too much, when he was really asking for your sincere thoughts. Even if you disagreed or questioned him, he did not punish you. Another odd trait of his, and so starkly different from any other senior officers you’d met.

The Nevow act suitably impressed and appreciative of the set of greenstone swords. You notice that a couple of their party have grown sharp-eyed, watching you and your commander a little too intently. Was the gift inadequate? Or are they looking for some other reaction…

The Second Undersecretary launches into a longer explanation of the ewer, describing its purpose and the significance of the mating ceremony as a religious rite, meant to be a sacrifice of pleasure to the gods.

Grand Admiral Thrawn seems unusually restless. You’ve been around him long enough to know that he has a stillness to him, that even when the Chimaera is getting rocked by salvos of turbolasers and cannons, and enemy fighters are trying to suicide into the bridge, he will stand there, hands behind his back, a center of calm authority in the eye of the storm. Now he’s shifted on his feet not once, but twice. He pulls at the high, stiff collar of his pristine white uniform, as if it’s too tight. When the Second Undersecretary starts in on some rather lurid detail about the joining, you think you see his jaw clench. To be fair, it has you blushing too, watching him wide-eyed until he gives a sideways glance, one eyebrow raised and then you swallow thickly, cheeks flaming even hotter as you quickly look at anything else.

At last, following some final pleasantries and exclamations about how late it is, your hosts bid you goodnight. An honor guard escorts you to your quarters. You follow dutifully along behind the Grand Admiral, noting that this isn’t the right way to get to the suite they had you staying in.

“Sir?” You ask quietly, trying to mask the trepidation in your voice.

“Yes, Lieutenant.” He doesn’t turn to look at you, but you can tell from his tone-- he realizes, too. Of course.

The honor guard brings you to a different set of rooms, not the ones you’d been staying in, with an explanation about the refresher flooding, and water damage. “All of your belongings have been transferred here. We do apologize.”

The guards see you into the new room, then bow and depart, shutting the door behind them.

You go immediately to inspect your things, making sure none of the locks have been tampered with. “Everything appears to be in order, sir. Nothing’s missing.”

The Grand Admiral does not answer. You turn from where you’re kneeling to find him standing there, with all his impressive height, staring down at you. There is a strange intensity in his glowing red eyes, a hunger. Many of your crewmates find his eyes unnerving-- completely red, with no pupils or iris-- it’s impossible to tell exactly where he’s looking. But right now, there’s no mistaking the weight of his regard on you.

He runs his hand through his hair. Another strange gesture. Then he turns away. You move quickly to get out the mobile workstations and datapads, get them set up. He’ll want quiet, and a chance to catch up on work before tomorrow. He thanks you, and then you settle down to your own work at the smaller desk.

This room is stuffy and too small. It seems designed to force its occupants into close quarters. Several times, you glance up to find the Grand Admiral watching you. Intent. Appraising. It’s the same look he gets when he’s studying a newly-acquired piece for his collection. Very rarely, aboard the Chimaera, you’ve caught him looking at you like that, but he’s never been so brazen about it before. You shift in your seat, feeling your cheeks redden and the first blush of arousal heat your core.

You steadfastly ignore it. Ignore the fact that your commanding officer is looking at you like he wants to take you to bed.

You take a deep breath, and try to focus. Focus on anything else besides how darkly handsome he is. Besides how the low light in the room makes his blue skin more vibrant, and how something catches in your chest at the very thought of being attracted to him. How very not-human he is, and how you want to trace your fingers along the strong cut of his jaw, just to see what kind of reaction you’d get. He’s your superior, you keep reminding yourself.

After a time, Grand Admiral Thrawn stands, and you look up to see him unbuckling his service belt, swiftly followed by unfastening his collar clasp and then the sealing strip of his tunic.

You nearly choke. “S-sir?”

His eyes snap up, as if he’d forgotten you were there. “Dismissed, Lieutenant. Get some rest.”

You can’t obey his order any faster, but when you get to the door to the adjoining room, you find it’s locked. Confused, you try it again. “Sir? I’m sorry, but it seems they forgot to unlock the door to the other room.”

His eyes narrow. “Galvi root.”

You look at him, bewildered.

“Galvi root,” he repeats. “Our hosts did not forget. The windows and the door to the hall will be locked as well.”

You stride over to try them. He’s right, of course, but-- “they didn’t take our blasters.”

He lets his eyes slip shut, takes a deep breath and shakes his head slowly. “The primary rare metal export of this planet, Lieutenant,” he prompts you.

Realization and dread sink like a weight in your stomach. “Yttria.” Highly resistant to heat and temperature fluctuations. Perfect to repel blaster fire. Every fixture in the room is probably imbued with it, including the locks and door panels and windows.

“Comms?” You ask hopefully.

“Jammed.”

“... Galvi root?”

He gives another one of his piercing stares. “The ritual, Lieutenant.”

Then, it all clicks, and your voice pitches up at the sheer absurdity of the situation. “They dosed you! To get you to- to carry out some ceremony for their religion?”

“For us to carry it out.”

A shock of desire pulses through you, you can feel it in your chest, pounding in your ears. You cross your legs under the desk, pressing your thighs together, seeking friction.

“It has already…” he pauses, uncharacteristically. Almost flustered. “It has already begun to take effect.”

You can’t help it. You have to look. Beneath the shadow of his open tunic, you can just make out a bulge straining the front of his trousers. He catches you, and raises his eyebrow at you. You quickly stare at your lap, face burning, mortified to even be having this conversation with him.

“I will not-- we will wait. When we don’t return to the Chimaera tomorrow morning, searches will be launched immediately. If not before. We’re expected for morning comms check before our shuttle is scheduled to depart, and when we miss that, Commodore Faro will know something has gone wrong.”

“Sir, are you sure it’s… is it safe to ignore it?”

He fixes you with a knowing look, his voice low and soft. “No, Lieutenant. Are you offering an alternative?”

The words catch in your throat. You could rise. Go to him. Make it clear what you’re willing to do. You sit, keeping yourself very still.

Silence settles, thick and heavy and hot. You wish you could change out of your uniform, but that’s out of the question. You wouldn’t even dare undoing the sealing strip and pinning the flap open to the opposite shoulder like some officers do for a more casual, comfortable look. Never mind that it clearly violates Imperial Navy uniform policy.

The Grand Admiral appears to be meditating. Or at least trying. He is sitting perfectly straight, facing the latticework windows. His eyes are closed, his breathing deep and deliberate. But calm eludes him. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple— you’ve never seen him sweat, had wondered if his species just didn’t— his hands, which he has flat on his thighs, clench into fists.

Then one of his hands shifts, grabs and squeezes the bulge that has only grown more prominent. He stifles a pained groan.

You put aside your embarrassment. You have to say something. “Please, sir. I’ve heard of drugs like this. If you do nothing, it will maim you. The Undersecretary even said—“

“I heard him, Lieutenant.” He lets a beat pass, “You have a suggestion?”

You almost don’t. Can’t believe you’re saying this, but you do anyway, in your most professional, Graduate of Royal Imperial voice. “You should try… taking care of it, sir. With your hand, I mean. I’ll face the wall and…”

He stares at you, and for a moment you wonder if you’ve gone too far.

Before he agrees or refuses, you get up and do it, going to the farthest corner of the room, which isn’t very far.

Sound carries all too well in the oppressive, still heat of the small room. You hear, almost feel every one of his movements. He gets up, shrugs out of his tunic. Folds it with much less care than he normally does and tosses it on the desk. His rank plaque and epaulets clatter against the wood. More rumpling of fabric, and he quickly takes himself in hand. He exhales in quiet relief and then— flesh on flesh.

You shut your eyes, trying very hard not to imagine what you would see if you turned around. Your commanding officer, brow furrowed, mouth parted in pleasure as he strokes his cock. And that, too, is a singularly intriguing thought. Is he big? Small? Anywhere near human?

You shift on your feet, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. To be standing here listening to him get himself off is one thing, but if he were to see your body’s reaction to it. To him…

Soon, the rhythmic sounds get faster, louder. Harsher. His breath hitches and you can tell that he’s coming and with that realization you feel your resolve fracture against a powerful shock of need.

You listen to his breathing slow and even out, while struggling to keep yourself steady.

You don’t turn around until he tells you. He is more disheveled than ever, pacing in a corner of the small room in his black undershirt. His normally sleek blue-black hair is messy, stranded with sweat.

You track him, drinking in the sight of his tall, powerful build. Well-muscled arms, shoulders, chest, trim waist. Strong legs, which your mind unhelpfully imagines straddling. The Grand Admiral has always cut an imposing figure, but most people only credit his brilliant mind for tactics and strategy even though he is, at his core, a warrior first above all else.

He catches you staring, again, but makes no comment on your open admiration of him. To your surprise, he gives it right back, fixing you with an intent, lustful stare that makes you squirm. He wouldn’t, you tell yourself. He won’t take you to bed. But he’s thinking about it. He’s the first to break the spell, turning away as another spasm of pain wracks his body.

He sits again, resting his elbows on his knees, his shoulders hunched, head bowed. He stays like this, you aren’t sure how long. Whatever jamming they’ve got around the room has also affected your chrono. Long enough that you get worried, and he’s rocking slightly, breathing labored.

“Sir?” He doesn’t answer. Concerned, you finally get up and approach him. He’s still breathing, at least. “Sir?” When again he doesn’t respond, you reach out and very lightly touch his arm.

He open-flexes his hand, then clenches it into a fist. “Don’t.”

You yank your hand away. “Sorry… Did it help?”

He shakes his head slowly. “No. I--” his fingers grasp at his thigh, pulling at the now-rumpled wool “-- I think it made it worse.”

You digest this for a moment, and then, “can I help?”

Everything seems to stop, to go still and silent. You feel your heart beating in your ears, you’re staring at a spot on the wall across the room but your eyes won’t focus. You’d really gone too far.

When Grand Admiral Thrawn speaks, his smooth, modulated voice has an edge of amusement to it. “You’re proposing fraternization with your commanding officer, Lieutenant.”

“It’s a practical solution to the problem, sir.”

He draws himself up, holding himself with all of his usual commanding bearing, and the effect is not lost on you. “Tell me precisely what you are offering, Lieutenant. Be explicit.”

You swallow thickly, trying to regain some of your composure. “I-- I’ll…” You look at him helplessly, but get no reprieve. What have you gotten yourself into? “I’ll suck your cock, sir. And if that still doesn’t help with the effects of the drug, you can… you can fuck me.”

He leans back, and you can see the huge bulge in his trousers on full display, his erection straining the fabric. He taps the arm of the chair, a gesture you recognize as him thinking. You’re prepared for rejection, certainly. For the promise of a court martial when you get back to the Chimaera. For how little you, and everyone else really knows about Thrawn, you realize that propositioning him, even with the best intentions, was an extremely foolish idea. You’ve seen him shoot an officer before. Right on the bridge. The question is, have you made an error, or a mistake?

“Very well.” He sits back more, widens his legs.

You gape at him, blinking, before what he said sinks in. Oh. You respond as if it’s any other order he’s given you, anything else he’s entitled to compel you to do as your superior.

You move quickly, with purpose, get in front of him and drop to your knees. “You have permission to remove your tunic, Lieutenant,” he says rather dryly. You do, quickly, grateful to be rid of the itchy, high collar. Then, you look up once more, reaching for his fly with shaking hands; he nods, his red eyes gleaming as you pop open the buttons and pull the fabric aside. He hisses in sharply as the material drags over his erection.

You pull the material down more, and finally, his cock springs free. You can’t help your quiet gasp and the unprofessional holy shit, sir that escapes you. It’s gloriously long and thick and purple and, when you reach for it, you can’t quite get your fingers all the way around. He shifts again, getting his pants down more to expose his balls, large and heavy. Impulsively, you dip your head to lick them-- he tenses-- you suck on one and his hips jerk up.

The reaction sends another thrill of arousal through you. You switch, laving the hot skin, taking in his taste and scent. Part of it is familiar. The same wool and starch that’s standard throughout the Imperial Navy. The part that is all him is intoxicating, something crisp and wintry and wholly alien.

Though he’s trembling, his control over his own body tenuous, he does not hurry you.

He’s gripping the arms of the chair hard, and when you lick the underside of his erection, he exhales a shuddering breath. You do it again, dragging your tongue up that one prominent vein, tasting his pulse, and you wonder how you’ll fit him all in your mouth. How it’ll feel when-- if-- he fucks you.

You press your thighs together. Take him in your mouth, let him push past your lips and feel the huge, thick weight of his cock on your tongue. You grip him at the base, pumping your hand. Start to bob your head slowly and the Grand Admiral gives a strangled moan.

Your eyes flick up. You’d been steadily not looking, some ridiculous thought about giving him that little bit of privacy, even as you suck him. His gaze is there to meet yours, hooded and glowing and imperious. You hold it, keep moving with the head of his cock sliding over your tongue, feeling utterly filthy. Devoted. Loyal.

You force yourself to take more of his length, deeper, until your mouth is stretched uncomfortably full, until the plush head nudges the back of your throat. You brace your hand on his thigh, which is tense, the hard muscle flexing under your touch. For a moment you worry it’s too forward, too intimate, but he bucks up and groans your name. Not your surname. Not Lieutenant. Your given name.

You choke, spluttering as he starts to thrust up into your mouth. He says it again, so close to breaking, his usual effortless control over himself and everything around him threatening to crumble. Eyes wide and watering, you look up at him, greedily drinking in his expression as he surges up, fucking your warm, willing mouth, allowing you to serve him in this way.

He loses some internal battle with himself, relents, his hand going to the back of your head, tangling in your hair so he can make full use of you, his balls pressing against your chin. His neck is corded, his chest rising and falling with rapid, jagged breaths. You breathe through your nose, jaw aching, face shiny and slick with drool. Refuse to look away, refuse to close your eyes to him. He seems entranced with the sight of you between his legs, lips stretched wide around his shaft, swallowing his cock.

It doesn’t take him long to come, and he gives you little warning. Only a strained groan and a terse “swallow as much as you can, Lieutenant” and then his movements jerk and stall and he’s coming down your throat. His smell and taste overwhelm your senses, familiarly salty but with something else cool and crisp, and you remember, again, you don’t even know what species he is. You obediently do as he says before you can’t swallow anymore; he overfills your mouth, spurting more and more cum, so much you sputter and choke and pull back, a string of the viscous spend stretching from your lips to his cock. You’ve made a mess, or rather, he has, but you will be the one to clean it up.

Dazed, you lean in, licking his still-hard shaft as he continues to twitch and pulse. You’d swallowed as much as you could, but it had leaked out, dripping down your chin, and on him, already drying sticky and clear on his pants. Some on his polished black jackboots, even.

“Sorry, sir,” you murmur, sitting back on your heels.

Thrawn-- Admiral Thrawn, you remind yourself-- offers no praise or reassurance.

His eyes seem to glow brighter, unnervingly fixed on you, on the debauched mess he’s made of you. Your hair, your cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, his cum all over your mouth and chin. He reaches for your face, swipes some off your chin and offers his thumb to your lips. You suck without thinking and, to your ultimate humiliation, let out a desperate, muffled whimper.

When he withdraws you take a deep, shaky breath, eyes bleary, core throbbing with unmet need. He seems to have recovered his self-control, at least for now, though his cock is still achingly hard. He stands, grabbing it, as if it’s too painful not to touch.

“Did it… help? … sir?” You amend quickly, almost forgetting the honorific.

His jaw works, and he pumps his erection slowly, right there in front of you. You watch his hand, entranced as he slick-slides up and down his shaft. “Undress.”

You nod, unable to reply as proper military bearing dictates. Your hands shake, fumbling with your pants. He does it for you. Sits you on the bed and pulls your boots off one by one. Then undoes your trousers, pulls them off with your standard-issue skivvies. All efficiency, no lingering touches. He pushes your undershirt up over your breasts.

Conflict screams in your mind. That this is wrong, against regulations, that it’s the Grand Admiral and you won’t be able to look at him after this but… Your duty is to him. Your duty is to serve.

You are bare before him. He doesn’t bother shucking his own boots and trousers, but simply crawls over you, and kisses you deeply. You whimper in surprise, and allow his tongue to sweep into your mouth, for him to lay this claim on you as well.

You spread your legs wider for his rutting hips, driven by your need, a drunken, weightless feeling. Your empty cunt clenches in anticipation, he finds the angle where his erection slides over your clit, swallows down your moans and keeps doing it.

The head of his cock catches your hole-- he slips, you’re tight and so so wet. He breaks the kiss with a growl. Tries again, deliberate and slow, positioning himself and pushing in mercilessly.

It’s too much, his girth splitting you as he works to open you around his thick shaft. You pant, whining with the effort. “Thrawn--”

Too familiar by far, but he huffs gently, almost a smile. He rolls his hips, licks his thumb and presses it to your clit. You gasp, looking down to watch where your bodies are connected. You are close already, each new flush of pleasure opening you more to him, letting you take him deeper, harder, faster.

He pins you down with his well-muscled weight, makes you take all of his massive cock, his heavy balls slapping against your ass. The tight little circles on your clit drive your need higher, tighter, sharpening to a singular point and then you’re coming with a quiet, desperate little sound, waves of pleasure radiating from your core as you clench and flutter around him. Thrawn follows a second later, hitching your legs up, pressing your knees to your shoulders. He buries himself deep in your pussy, grinding relentlessly as he pumps his cum into you. Fills you up, more than you can take, just as he had your mouth. This, too, you can feel leaking out, sticky on your thighs.

He sighs and pulls out. Sated for now, barely. You lie there, breathless, turning your head to follow him as he goes to get a cup of water. He brings one to you before drinking himself. A small gesture. Senior officers always eat last after crew and junior officers.

He lets you rest for a time before taking you again, and after another respite, a third time, chasing his release over and over. By the fourth, you are too fucked out and exhausted to hold yourself up. He arranges you as he pleases, face down and prone on the bed. You cant your hips up for him and he climbs over you, sinking into you easily with an obscene, wet sound. He kicks your legs wider, lets his thrusts take him deeper until he’s driving into you with long, full strokes and all you can do is submit.

You wonder how long it has been for him. How long since he’s had a partner, or permitted himself this kind of indulgence. You can sense him giving in to some darker, wilder part of his nature. The instinct to possess, and mark, and dominate. You’ve seen hints of it before, very briefly. His sometimes brutal pragmatism. His cold calculus that would always find the most advantageous solution, even at the cost of lives. If he wanted to, he could just collect art. Instead he chose rank. He chose power.

Any shred of his self control is long gone. His movements are rough, he’s given over to a feverish lust. He pounds into you as if your body belongs to him, as if you’re nothing but a hole, something warm and wet for him to fuck. Still, the pleasure rises in you again, all of it has made you unbearably sensitive.

You moan into the sheets, helpless and wanton, giving yourself over to him and letting him use your body. He holds you down when you cry out, stretching you to your limit. You don’t struggle. Just take his cock as he reams you, as another climax starts to overtake you, harsh and hot and raw. Thrawn growls when he feels you. Accepts your good and faithful service and pushes into you deep deep deep and stills there so you feel his hot spurts of cum fill you up and overflow.

He pulls out with a slick sound. Empty again, you twitch and spasm, pushing some of his cum out, making it drip down your used, swollen cunt. You can feel his gaze lingering there. He likes what he’s done, likes the sight of it. For a moment, you imagine yourself not as his aide, not as a junior officer under his command but as a piece on display in his collection. Something prized and fascinating. Another time he might lay you out and touch you for hours, curious as to how long he could stimulate and tease you before you break.

Eventually, you drift quietly to sleep, and awaken under the covers. The light in the room has changed. Morning. The Grand Admiral is fully dressed, seated in an armchair with a steaming cup of caf and his datapad.

“We are free to go,” he says without looking up from his reading. You hear the unspoken command and get up immediately and get dressed, gathering your tunic and trousers and boots from where they’re scattered around the room. Again, he does not bother to look up.

Once on the shuttle, you aren’t sure how to act normal. He speaks to you as he always has, with quiet, direct instructions. You do your best but all you can think of is him telling you to swallow as much as you can. You look down at your uniform and find a dried blot of his cum on your pants. Shit. You try to scratch it off.

“Lieutenant.” The Grand Admiral’s voice cuts into your thoughts rather sharply.

“Yes, sir.” You sit up, properly chastised. It’s not like you to be inattentive, and he gives you a stern look before continuing.

“The galvi root. It has great potential as a bioweapon, of sorts, but will need further study. I obtained a sample before we left.”

You nod, dutifully noting all of this down.

“I’ll need you to test it, Lieutenant.”

“But I… it… alone?” Is all you can manage.

“No. Set aside twelve hours or so in my schedule.” His voice goes cool and soft. Full of promise. “Not to worry, Lieutenant. I will be there to see you through it.”

☆ link to part 2

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