#averyimperialvalentines

[handsofthrawn]

[pileofsith]

A Very Imperial Valentines Week - Day 2 - Surprise Inspection

‘He wasn’t even supposed to inspect the fleet until next week’, Admiral Piett remarked sadly. The officer on the receiving end of the Sith Lord’s displeasure was still alive. His mouth was silently gaping, the pale lips shuddering: whether in silent pleading or in a futile attempt to breathe, it would soon make no difference. His fate had been sealed the moment his larynx had been closed off. General Veers had turned his eyes away, more out of decency towards the dying officer than out of any real fear. The general’s report had already been reviewed. He was about as safe as anyone could be under their daily circumstances. This knowledge gave Piett some measure of comfort.

‘The worst thing is not knowing who’s next’, he sighed, feeling small and tired and unremarkable. ‘Myself, in all likeliness. If there’s anything I am, it’s replaceable.’ ‘Not to me, you aren’t’, Veers said firmly, comfortingly placing a hand on Piett. ‘And not to him, I think. He values competent officers.’

The limp figure of their late colleague fell to the floor, sounding for all the world like a mere slab of meat. Piett winced. Even Veers’ iron grip on his shoulder briefly tightened in sympathy. ‘And we’ll have a drink after the inspection, shall we?’ Piett suggested grimly. ‘Something strong and mind-numbing. As usual?’ ‘Oh yes. A celebration of our continued existence’, Veers agreed. ‘How jolly.’

Suggested by camomility and bjomolf; I also recommend hotbunking-vacheads if these two are your jam!

[waltzkatzenblut]

A day late but here’s for day one of @averyimperialvalentines event with the theme of propaganda i I really couldn’t think of anything so I hope this is alright! Kallus and Zeb are one of my ultimate weaknesses so I couldnt resist a quick doodle of them

[opxngravxs-archive]

Chapters: 1/1 Rating: Mature Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandoms: Star Wars Relationship: Orson Krennic/Wilhuff Tarkin Characters: Wilhuff Tarkin, Orson Krennic Additional Tags: Rope Bondage, Rope Suspension, BDSM Language: English Series: Part 3 of the A Den of Foxes series      

Summary: After a late night bet with Director Krennic, the Grand Moff finds himself at the end of his rope and at Orson's mercy.

For Day 5 of A Very Imperial Valentines: "Who’s in Command Here?”

[saltandlimes]

As Far Away From Reality

[Galennic, ~400 words, G, A Very Imperial Valentines Day 4: Outfit Swap. Inspired by @waltzkatzenblut‘s wonderful sketch]

Galen seals up the tunic as far as he can, grimacing at the way it gaps across his chest. The cape is heavy on his shoulders, and he has to wear the belt one setting looser than Orson does. The blaster knocks against his hip as he steps away from the mirror.

The study is empty when he makes his way inside, and he wonders where Orson has gotten to. He settles himself in Orson’s desk chair to wait. The wide trousers bell out enough that sitting isn’t a problem, even if the tunic pulls open even more.

The door opens.

Orson steps inside.

Galen’s breath catches. He hadn’t expected this. Orson has Galen’s singlet on, and it feels… it feels as though Galen himself were wrapped around Orson. As though somehow time has reversed course, changed their fates, and Orson is the scientist, the architect, the planner, and Galen, Galen is some sort of project leader. As though they have fallen into roles that are as natural as breathing, but as far away from reality as can be imagined.

He stands slowly, watching Orson’s face.

“Galen…” Orson’s voice is breathy. He chews on his bottom lip, hand coming up to run trembling fingers over his chin. “Galen, you look…”

Galen growls. He knows what he looks like. A clown in clothing never built for him. Not like Orson, in Galen’s too big uniform, standing there looking young and innocent and exactly like the man Galen fell in love with when they were young.

“Don’t say it, Orson. I look absurd.” Galen could not bear hearing that, not from this Orson’s mouth. Not from the man who is finally just as Galen imagines him every time he closes his eyes.

“I wasn’t going to say that.” Galen goes to scoff, but Orson keeps talking, so fast that he can’t interrupt. “I was going to say that you look like… Galen you look like my dreams.”

Galen’s breath catches. He reaches out a shaking hand and steps forward, cups the side of Orson’s face as Orson continues.

“You look like the man I see when I dream of you, when I let my mind wander to what I want. You’re…” Orson trails off as Galen rubs a finger across his cheekbone. Galen nods.

“Beautiful,” he finishes.

Orson’s lips taste like dreams as well. 

[badsadspacedads]

For Your Eyes Only

Day 3 and 4

Things had been slow since the rebels had established Their illusive secret base. Agent Kallus would have found his job easier with them in hiding if not for the return of Governor Pryce and the arrival of Grand Admiral Thrawn.  In the beginning they had more than kept him on his toes but recently they seemed to need less of his input. He found himself routinely uninvited to certain debriefings and private meetings. He wonders if they suspect his treachery.

He shouldn’t have thought about that directly before delivering his report.  His heart skips as he makes his way to Governor Pryce’s office. He rings the entry chime and is surprised when  a muffled curse echos back. After a long pause Pryce is suddenly at the door her usually neat bangs are misaligned and she’s flushed beneath the collar of… wait… That’s...Oh Kriff. Kallus is simultaneously relieved and terrified anew.  Pryce is in Thawn’s uniform jacket. The oversized thing has obviously just been hastily wrapped around her she holds it closed with one arm. No wonder they have been excluding him.  He doesn’t know what to say.

“Oh, good you made notes, give them here.” Impatient, Pryce snatches the data pad out of his hands as Kallus stares in shock at the Governor’s bare legs. She notices and a snarl crosses her face. 

You are dismissed Agent!” she barks and Kallus swears he hears laughter from within as the door slams shut.

[single-reactor-ignition]

(via https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T7-xzhMmlFo)

For Valentine’s Day - say it with superlasers.

(dear god I can’t even begin to explain this)

[permian-tropos]

Essence

@averyimperialvalentines Day 1: “Your Empire needs you!” aka sexy propaganda i’m a day late but i frittered away so much time with Stress

I'm rather in love with the poster of Rae Sloane that was unveiled for the special edition of Aftermath: Empire’s End. I thought that it was pretty interesting to imagine that poster being canon for the time period of the book it’s representing, too, since with things are the way they are, it wouldn’t be Sloane plastering the galaxy with pictures of herself looking flawless and godlike. Surely someone else would be behind it, someone ever so obsessed with narrative… So, since the first prompt of this event was “sexy propaganda”, I produced this.

When the lights of the council chamber dim to near darkness, she shines brighter, a piercing and violently purifying light. Set against dull grays and reds, the white of her uniform is so blinding that it brings an ache to the inside of his skull. Gallius Rax closes his eyes, and the blurry afterimage floats against his eyelids, shifting colors as it dissipates. He half smiles.

Ferric Obdur, the sycophantic propagandist, unveiled the poster’s design to Rax in private. Ironic how it had been the Grand Admiral who once oversaw the approval process of such posters, but she would be absent for this final work. Because it is indeed final — there will be no need for any of this after the plan is executed.

Strange to admit it now, but there was a touch of apprehension skirting the edges of Rax’s mind when he handed this assignment to Obdur. The man is talented; his imagery striking, forceful, and effective. Artistically, compositionally, it has merit as well.

But what he knows is how to compose a piece that brings together familiar symbols of the Empire. The subject is not the Empire here; it is Rae.

There was always an indescribable quality about her that Rax saw in no other. Something rare, and therefore precious, that needed to be preserved. And then tuned, honed, ripened, intensified. A unique value of power, like the timbre of a newly invented instrument — he could admire that. Perhaps even covet it.

He knows that she saw the same in him. The galaxy is full of disputes over what should be done, what was right, what was true. But even a righteous soul like Rae Sloane, who staunchly believes in dichotomies, is drawn to power. Nothing is intrinsically true or right to the fickle hearts of the galaxy, but an idea imbued with authority becomes both.

Rax did not expect Obdur to create a masterpiece, but at the same time, that had been the implicit demand. Nothing less would suffice. And then this design was presented to him. At first it seemed to be another entry in Obdur’s personal canon, using the same styles and techniques he had relied on in the past. At first, it had seemed disappointing. Yet it demanded attention; Rax could not tear his eyes away. Still cannot.

He sensed her. Indescribably.

Perhaps that quality was finally isolated and realized before his eyes. Extracted like the essential oils of an herb. The calm fortitude of her expression, the level intensity of her gaze. The way her hair falls, the way her chin tilts up, the shape of her shoulders. It is not the same Rae Sloane he had known and worked alongside, but that woman and the woman in the poster could be classified together in an exclusive group, set apart from the rest of existence.

Obdur put something else into the design, something which the untrained eye could never hope to detect. Fear; his own. Fear of her? Intriguing.

A high pitched tone from behind informs Rax that someone is requesting entry — with the press of a button hidden beneath the table, he admits them. Rising halfway from his chair, he sees the white armor and single orange pauldron of a stormtrooper commander.

“The ground forces have been fully deployed on the planet, sir,” the man states crisply, passing him a datapad. “Reconnaissance of the area is complete.”

“Very good,” Rax murmurs, seating himself once more and turning his attention to the screen in his hands. The battle to come must be orchestrated to perfection. There will be a battle; it will begin with the sudden appearance of the New Republic fleet, seeking the advantage of a surprise attack. The Empire’s retaliation will be swift but desperate. And then, the landscape of Jakku will be reshaped.

Before him are maps: topographical, littered with symbols for towns and roving tribes. The native inhabitants have not been cleared out, despite the suggestions of General Borrum. The man could not imagine a strategic use for them, but of course he does not know the purpose of this battle yet. Rax flicks his eyes over the images, overlaying them with the map he has held in his mind for decades. He fits them together — that which is seen on Jakku, and that which is unseen.

For now, everything is in order. “Dismissed,” Rax tells the trooper, waving him away.

Cold, concentrated pressure meets the back of his neck.

“Don’t move… sir.”

Not the trooper’s voice. But a familiar one.

Rax does not move.

“You will remain seated. You will not turn or make any sudden motions. You may speak.” There is a hoarse edge to the voice, and it speaks lowly, not a whisper, but not a barking command. It sounds weary, but it is a dangerous and deceptive weariness. The faintest lilt communicates more threat than a clipped snarl might. Rax feels a wisp of breath skim the same short hairs that the chill of the blaster barrel set on end, and then a hand places the grimacing white helmet to his left on the table. “Understand?”

Slowly, Rax sets the datapad on the table beside the helmet and folds his hands in his lap. He wets his lips to speak — after all, he was given that option. “You are early.”

“You were expecting me?” The blaster adjusts slightly against the nape of his neck, aiming up towards his brain stem.

“Of course.” He shifts his gaze to the periphery of his vision, daring to minutely tilt his chin. The dim edges of a figure behind him, the trooper armor—

“Look. Ahead.” A hand moves in from behind and forcibly adjusts his chin. That, not the press of the blaster or the tone of the voice, sends a wave of crawling uncertainty through him, as he fixes his eyes on the static glowing holoposter.

A two-dimensional Rae Sloane gazes off to the left, arms crossed, proud and distant and professional, as the hand shifts to his shoulder. It is pushing down, pinning him to his seat, and it does not leave. 

“That was your last warning.” And then the voice moves closer to his ear, dropping in volume, each word spoken with flat deliberateness. “You know I am not bluffing.”

That, he knows.

“You deserve… commendation,” he eventually says. “For infiltrating the ship without my knowledge. The stormtrooper’s voice — a recording, perhaps? Most ingenious.”

“Don’t be coy. This was not my success.” The words become thorny, stinging. “This was your failure.”

Rax presses his lips together and swallows. He should not be shaken here. Should not be goaded into anger. He stares at the woman on the wall, but she refuses to return his gaze; she only looks ahead.

“I will have my success soon enough.”

“Oh?”

“You might think I am here to bargain. But I assure you. I will defeat you.”

“But not like this,” Rax says. He inhales slowly, as if he can detect a person’s thoughts by the scent that lingers in the air. “You are very used to eliminating threats, and you have done so with a… shall we say… moral prerogative? And yet, if you killed me here, it would be… dissatisfying.”

“It would be supremely satisfying,” the voice growls, and once again there is uncertainty. Rax searches the Sloane of the picture, searches his memories of her. He always has known, from a logical perspective, that she despised him and considered killing him. She had every reason for this. But he cannot recall a time when she sounded so far removed from… what, exactly? He remembers that once called her an elevated mind. There is nothing left of that.

Once again, he has been staring so long at her profile that the afterimage follows him in the low light when his eyes move away. But this time it feels as if it could permanently brand itself in his retinas. “Then what part of keeping me alive could satisfy you more?”

“Did you order her to kill me?”

Puzzle pieces slot into place. He is surprised by how even her tone is. “I see,” he murmurs.

“… ’I see’ is not an answer,” the woman behind him snaps contemptuously. A flash of intuition tells Rax that her finger has tightened on the trigger.

“The answer is no.”



“You are a liar,” Rae says.

“I am a liar. But that was not a lie.” He waits. There is no evidence he can provide to sway her, and he is sure that the longer he speaks, the more suspicious she will become.

Eventually, she shifts — he can hear the armor plates clacking together faintly. Her hand remains on his shoulder, and he feels heat from it, as if the blood within her is literally at a boil. But her voice? Once more, it is painstakingly level. “I would have preferred otherwise. I cannot fault her for following orders.”

“A—” He doesn’t make it beyond the first syllable of a name before the burning fingers holding him in place clench tighter. “She had faith in the cause.”

Rax expects an eruption of rage. The blaster digs deeper into the back of his neck. Yet there is only the pregnant silence. And then she says, and he can hear aching in her words, “A fool, then. And I could not afford to waste my time with foolishness.”

He doesn’t have to be told what happened. Adea Rite is dead. Perhaps the girl was a fool, as Sloane suggests. She wanted to attain greatness, and for those that fail, there is ignominy. But the same awaits those who attempt nothing. He knows, too, that Sloane was the one who killed her. For all the loathing Sloane must be feeling for him, there must be some portion allotted for herself.

“It was my plan,” he declares, as the corner of his upper lip lifts into a sneer. “Do not doubt that I convinced her of everything. She was indeed foolish—”

“No,” she snarls, horror tinting the rasp of her breath. The blaster slams into the back of his head, knocking him forward, and then she has a fistful of his hair in one hand and is grinding his cheek into the surface of the table. “You will not make this easy for me. You will never make such a mangled, misguided attempt at pity again.”

Rax’s breath stutters as he tries to follow her logic. Pity? He does not pity her. Just as she said, there was no time to waste on foolishness, and there was nothing more foolish than pity. His hands hover beside his head, signaling surrender.

And he waits. The blaster has shifted to his temple, and he can feel the tip shaking.  

When it steadies, when the force pushing his face into the marbled durasteel has lessened, he carefully asks, “Are there any other questions you wanted answers for?”

She releases him entirely, and he peels his skin from the smooth tabletop. Cupping the side of his face, Rax rubs his thumb over the cheekbone. It might be starting to bruise. His hand shifts to cover his mouth, and he sits back in his chair, almost casual with how he lets his spine slouch. He braces his chin up with a fist, elbow resting on the arm of the chair. “Well?” he asks.

“No. I have what I came for.”

Rax sits up straight. That isn’t right; she wouldn’t go to such lengths to ask a single question. “Surely you have more to say.” His eyebrows knit together, the corners of his mouth turning down stormily. But he takes a second to recover, ironing away the stabs of displeasure intruding into his thoughts. “All those months, you held your tongue, burying your contempt, your rage. This could be your only chance to speak your… true feelings.” The challenge rolls off his tongue smoothly, as if an energy bolt was not warming itself up in the core of her blaster for a liaison with his brain matter.

“Ask that woman in the picture. I’m sure she will tell you whatever you want to hear, and only so much.”

Rax lifts his eyes to the holoposter once more. His teeth clamp together; as before, the image is unyielding. He thought it had contained a touch of that distilled essence, but now, with the voice behind him, with hands that took petty vengeance on his body for previous trespasses, he no longer knows what it is that makes her so special.

She is here, she is not here. There are two of her. Neither of them are Rae.

The threat of a burst-open skull seems trivial, all of a sudden. He curls his fists tight, fingernails digging through the fabric of his gloves into his palms. “… Let me see you.”

“No.” She almost sounds darkly amused. “You have her. You can keep her.”

He can hear her stepping back. “Leaving so soon?” She did not come here simply for conversation. If he’s wrong about that that, he knows nothing in all the galaxy.

“Don’t worry,” he hears her say, and her voice has that rough, grim edge that he’d heard at the very beginning. Scornful despair. “This isn’t over.”

But why not? Why wasn’t it over the moment she had a clear line of sight and a weapon? She’s discovered things down on the surface, surely. They would have brought her to questions only he could answer, and yet she steps away.

Rax makes a decision. He cannot meet her boldness with excessive caution. “Why prolong this, then?” he says sharply, and rises from his chair.

The blaster fires as he turns, the beam piercing the air next to his ear. The emitter on the holoposter bursts in a violent spray of sparks, and the room descends into darkness as the proud, still, silent Sloane from the poster vanishes from sight.

Rax isn’t sure what he intends to do in this darkness. Physically, Sloane could best him, whether armed or not. But he lunges into the space she had occupied, grasping where he knows she must now be, where he can feel her presence.

The space is empty; he stumbles, plants his feet. His eyes begin adjusting quickly, but he should not need his sight to sense her. He has miscalculated somehow, but she must still be in the room. The door hasn’t opened. She is here, and yet—

A spot on the back of his neck throbs, and he claps a hand to it. It is pain, and yet it is peculiarly numb, like an electric shock.

“Rae,” he hisses. “What have you…?”

That constant pressure from the blaster barrel. He cannot say for sure but it is a solid theory — if she had somehow slipped an injector needle in beside the barrel, the flesh might have been numb enough not to notice.

With a cautious step backwards, Rax places his free hand on the back of the chair, bracing himself. “I see,” he manages, drawing himself up and stiffening his shoulders. “Was there a reward for keeping me alive? Have you thrown in your lot with the New Republic? Or perhaps you have… some other purpose for me?” He’s still scouring the room for any hint of a figure, but there’s nothing, nobody.

The pulse of dizziness washes over him a second time, and he has to duck his head down for fear of losing consciousness. “Wait—” he croaks.

Rax opens his eyes. He is seated alone at the head of the table in the conference chambers of the Shadow Council, the lights only half-dimmed. Before him is the implacable, serene, indescribably perfect image of Grand Admiral Sloane. The flat hologram is softly glowing. The emitter is undamaged. The wall is pristine, and the table surface clear.

Stripping away his black leather gloves, the man opens his palms, eyeing the dark symbol adorning one, and then tracing his gaze with perverse fascination up his pale fingers, watching them minutely shake.

[averyimperialvalentines]

It's day 3: undercover/fake/secret relationship

Prompt of the day is:

Undercover/fake/secret relationship

Note: You do not have to do the same pairing every day! Fics, Art, mood boards, play lists, text posts, cosplay and any other form of creativity is acceptable! Please tag with #averyimperialvalentines, the prompt day number, the ship or character(s) names, and any appropriate warnings.

Any questions?: should be directed to @averyimperialvalentines

[handsofthrawn]

blue bonus:

Thrawn realizes who stole his clothes.

[pileofsith]

A Very Imperial Valentines Week - Day 4 - Uniform Swap

Maketh Tua and Pau’an Inquisitor

I’m finishing up all the prompts even though I’m rather belated! :D I picked these two for this theme because I thought they have the most different uniforms - I’m actually pleasantly surprised with how they translated into each other’s outfits. There’s surely a nice little AU story in here somewhere, but I’m afraid I’m too tired to even imagine a Force-sensitive Tua today. Her usual temper definitely dictates a Dark Side preference, though.

EDIT: Characters were suggested by duaedesigns!                    

[waltzkatzenblut]

Just throwing this out here but I had the biggest gayest crush on Zahn trilogy era Thrawn back in the day, not that I don't like his rebels design, and I couldn't think of anything for today's theme of "who's in command" for @averyimperialvalentines so I wrote a Valentine's card to myself of his old school design while not writing that essay from three days ago. If I have time I'll probably do a real one with this prompt with more likely than not galennic because I'm #predictable but again hope this is alright! 👍

[festeringsilence]

Part 3 of Operation: Galactic Gambit - The Spoils of War (on AO3)

Submission for the @averyimperialvalentines event organised by @badsadspacedads and @saltandlimes. It’s too early for the event, but we already had this in the making, so why not.

Writer: @white-rainbowff

Artist: @festeringsilence

Tags: Thrawn x Veers (primary), Tarkin x Krennic (secondary), distorted timeline (Empire wins), gossip, praise kink, hand jobs, grinding, plenty of alcohol, relationship progression, 2 drunk emotionally stunted people talk about feelings, nsfw.

With the Imperial Gala underway, Grand Admiral Thrawn is surrounded by his esteemed colleagues and doting subordinates. It is, however, difficult to concentrate on the revelries when a rambunctious crew of imperial army men are raising a ruckus across the ballroom. In the center of the chaos is Thrawn's new beau, General Maximilian Veers. By the evening's end, Thrawn will have the general to himself and perhaps teach him a thing or two about discretion.

[opxngravxs-archive]

For Day 3 of @averyimperialvalentines

Privilege: A Tarkrennic Fanfic

The room was still dark as his eyes flickered open. From that side of the bed a familiar dresser greeted him as well as the faint outline of the two silver handles on the closet doors. Orson nuzzled sleepily against the plush pillow, still hazy consciousness vaguely aware of the soft sheets and mattress underneath him. A privilege.

On the very few occasions that Orson was able to beg convince Wilhuff to let him stay the night after one of their (increasingly frequent) evenings together, he was usually relegated to sleeping on the couch, limbs splayed about, clothes (what little was on him) in a terrible state of disarray.

He had promised with a wide, impish grin that he would keep to his designated side of the bed, beaming up at the governor from his position on his knees, a handful of his hair tightly in the other man’s grasp as he reminded him once more about how much of a privilege all of this was… and what would happen if he ever even thought of breathing a single word about this.

The Grand Moff’s bedroom had such a different feeling about it in the quiet, dark hours of early morning – a calm, cold comfort. Krennic was nearly fully awake now as he continued to take stock of what was discernible in his field of view and the feeling of the blanket around him and the pillow under his head. He scooted back a tiny bit in order to make himself more comfortable, but found his efforts halted by his back hitting against something solid. He twisted his neck to look behind him to find Tarkin curled up on his side, back flush against his.  

It was odd seeing the other man like this. Sometimes it was difficult to believe that Tarkin wasn’t just some sort of cold, unfeeling machine under that chilly façade. Orson rolled over as gently as possible as to not disturb his slumber. Wilhuff’s ever-stern face was calm, relaxed, serene. The harsh lines of his visage seemed softer now. More human. Orson could not help the sleepy smile that was tugging at the corners of his lips.  

Settling back down again, he carefully (and affectionately) wrapped his arms around the other. He placed a soft kiss on the back of Wilhuff’s neck before closing his eyes once more.

[saltandlimes]

Copper Flame and Flowers in Sunlight

[For everyone who has wanted Natasi Daala/Wilhuff Tarkin, I give you this strange melding of new and old canon.]

[~1K, T, A Very Imperial Valentines Day 5: Who’s in command here?]

Wilhuff is sitting at his desk when the door to his quarters slides open. He looks up, lips pursed and a comment about disturbing one’s superiors about to echo out. It dies, though, when he sees who steps inside.

“Natasi,” He stands. “I did not expect to see you here so soon.”

Her hair is copper flame, pouring over her shoulder in a river of burnished metal that stands out against the drab of her uniform. Her eyes sparkle as the door slides shut behind her.

“Have you ever expected me, Wilhuff?” He shrugs slightly, going to the sideboard and pulling out a decanter and two crystal glasses. Perhaps not. He didn’t on Carida, all those years ago, didn’t think he would find a young woman who had been set aside, neglected by those who though her nothing more than a pretty face and a sharp tongue. She is so much more than that, and sometimes, awake at the dead of night, alone, he cannot help but smile with pride. Pride that he saw that before anyone else could.

Or perhaps pride that she allowed him to see.

With Natasi, he is never sure. He hands her a glass of Corellian whiskey and gestures to one of the hard chairs across from his desk.

“I’m just finishing up some work. It won’t be long.” Her eyes flash, but she settles herself into the chair. There are long silent minutes as his fingers fly across the consoles in front of him. Natasi says nothing. Her eyes only follow him, and even without looking up, he can feel their weight. Finally, finally he closes the endless reports. The rest can wait until morning. The rest can wait until he has found his center again, until he has thrown aside the clothes of responsibility and the cloak of civilization and for a moment been nothing more than a man. He clears his throat.

“You sent for me, Wilhuff. You sent for me even though you told me that the secrecy of my position was of the utmost importance.” Natasi’s gaze is lazy, slow smile and quick flick of her fingers the only sign she knows he is peeling off the facade that he wears so often.

“I need you here now.” It’s a frightening statement, the idea that events are spiraling so fast that he cannot do this alone any longer.

“Why now, and not some time before?” She raises the glass to her lips, and as always, he is captured, kept.

“Orson Krennic.” It’s a biting spit of a name. If men are nothing but beasts, then Orson Krennic is the lowest of the low, prey that somehow fancies itself the greatest hunter of the pack. Natasi cocks her head to one side.

“The engineer?”

“The director of the Death Star project.” She lets out a long, slow exhale.

“What could ever have possessed the Emperor…”

“Amedda,” Wilhuff cuts her off. Even here, they must not think the words that hang in the air, chopped from the end of Natasi’s sentence. Not here, in his innermost sanctuary. Not anywhere except perhaps the wide open wilds of his home, where he can never bring Natasi.

“Of course.” She stands, comes around his desk to lean against it, tall as she looks down at him. “Why does he bother you so?”

“Incompetence is never appealing.” Wilhuff wants to reach out, place a hand at her hip, but he takes a long swallow of his drink instead.

“Is he truly so incapable?” Natasi asks, moving still closer. “Or are you still angry that the project is not directly yours?” He can smell the heat of her skin now, the clean washed scent of her uniform. Her words, though, make his stomach twist.

“There would have been none of these delays if I’d been given command, you know that, Natasi. There would have been none of this pandering to the every whim of the scientists, of Galen Erso. Look at the Tarkin Initiative, look at the Maw. That is what we can achieve-” He cuts off, swallowing his words. Natasi has swung one leg over his thighs, settled herself into his lap.

“Jealousy fits you, Wilhuff. Envy too.”

Her lips are sweet against his, the taste of whiskey mingling with something stronger, like flowers in the sunlight. He sets his glass on the desk without looking, wraps his hands around her narrow waist and presses forward. She is a solid weight against his legs, and he pulls her closer. Then he licks at the seam of her lips.

When they part, her tongue presses into his mouth, insistent. Her fingers come to rest on Wilhuff’s shoulders, then one traces a line across his cheekbone. Her hand slides to the back of his neck, tipping his face upwards. Then she’s pulling lightly at the wiry hair there. Wilhuff groans. He slips his hands underneath her ass, makes to stand.

“Oh no, Wilhuff,” Natasi pulls away to smirk at him. “You called me out here to help you. You called me away from my fleet, from my place in the world. I’m in command now, of you at least.” She leans forward, bites at the soft skin behind his ear.

“I have always been.” Her whisper is soft in his ear, but Tarkin shivers all the same. It is true. She has always been, ever since Carida. She may always be. But there are worse ways to throw off the cloak of the civilized officer and become a beast than to drown in the burning flame and grasping intellect that is Natasi Daala. 

[badsadspacedads]

Open Book

Thrawn had never gotten back to her with the revisions to their new plans. Had they need that much work? She had hoped to make a useful contribution, not create more work for the Grand Admiral.

Curiosity finally outweighs her desire to make Thrawn come to her first. Ship’s location sensors have him as still in his office even though it’s far past a reasonable hour.  When the chime on his door goes unanswered Arhinda hesitates,only for an instant, before entering.

She can hardly see through the mass of holograms, all artwork. There are flimsi prints scattered across the floor in groups that she doesn’t understand. Here and there a few scraps of delicate colored paper dance out of the way of her footfalls as she crossed the room.

Thrawn is asleep. His head cradled on a large open book that is either the source or the destination of all the detritus covering his desk and the floor. Small drawings and notes in a stranges script  cover the margins and weave in between pictures, knowledge blurring back into abstraction. She peers over the book and Thrawn’s relaxed face as if reading a map.

This is an intrusion. She thinks, pulling back before clasping her hands behind her back and loudly clearing her throat. Thrawn jerks awake. Now that he’s sitting up Arhinda notices his uniform jacket is half undone, she follows the line of his neck up to where his cheek is flushed from being pressed against the book, a wisp of stray hair falls onto his forehead.

“Grand Admiral,” she teases “you’ve made a mess.”

Thrawn, bleary eyed, still seems to be collecting the rest of himself from wherever he was in his sleep

“Well, at least it is a beautiful mess.” he replies, moving to collect some of his things.

Arhinda chooses to mishear. “You are.”

He stares up at her face with unchecked curiosity, trying to read everything hidden there.

(Oh yeah, by the way everyone I head canon that Thrawn scrapbooks. You’re welcome to fight me but only if it is artistically done.)