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al-astakbar · 1 year ago

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☆ The Gift -- Thrawn x reader ☆

> title ☆ The Gift ☆part 5/?

> 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 [1.9k] ☆ warnings for this part ☆ brief sexual language > 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

>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...

You are awoken in the dark by a shrill, persistent whistle. Disoriented, you twist in the sheets and fumble for your data pad to check the time— before it registers in your brain where you are. The Chimaera. Grand Admiral Thrawn’s personal quarters. Your data pad isn’t here but where you left it on your night table back on Coruscant. Or, more likely, your room has been cleared out for the next trainee. Your personal effects will have been collected and reissued.

The whistle plays again over the loudspeaker— which you know must not be the correct term for it in the Imperial Navy. You’ll have to refer to it as such in front of Thrawn and see if he gets annoyed enough to correct you. Then, an announcement.

“Now reveille, reveille. All hands heave out and trice up. Reveille.”

Just as you are about to flop back down, the door zips open. Thrawn is there, in silhouette.

You groan in annoyance.

“Good morning.”

“Is that loud speaker gonna be an every morning type of thing?”

You are slightly disappointed by his lack of reaction. “The time now is—“ he checks his chrono “— one minute past zero six. In twenty minutes, you will accompany me to the bridge. You’ll find your additional daily wear robes in the wall locker, and personal hygiene items in the fresher.”

You just sit there, and contemplate flopping back down and pulling the covers over to block out the light.

“I recommend you make a start now,” he says. “Whatever state of dress you are in at 06:21 will be what you wear for the rest of the day. Including on the bridge.” He turns and goes back down the short corridor to his office, leaving the hatch open.

Surely he’s bluffing, you reason. Bringing his pleasure companion to such a place would likely embarrass the crew, and damage his reputation. As much as you’ve heard of Grand Admirals and other Imperial elites flaunting their hedonism, few would take such a risk.

On the other hand, testing him seems foolish.

Mustering great willpower, you swing out of bed, wash and dress, and go to his office. The lights are dim again, and he makes no move to turn them up when he sees you enter.

“Why do I have to come to the bridge?”

“I believe you will find it interesting. Alternatively, you may stay here in my quarters, under guard.”

“Would they also watch me pee?”

His eyes narrow. He very deliberately sets down his datapad and walks over to you. Measured, stalking steps, hands behind his back. He does not look to be in a permissive mood. He comes to stand in front of you, close so that you have to look up to his face, and when he speaks, his voice again has that soft, dangerous quality that had made you want to get on your knees for him.

“I was remiss, last night, in not laying out my expectations for you.”

Last night… you shift on your feet, trying to press your thighs together in a way he won’t notice. There is a dull, sweet ache between your legs, from his size, and the way he had fucked you, hard and thorough. And the low, breathy moan he had given just before he came a second time…

He is much too perceptive, however, and asks if you are sore, or in discomfort.

You scowl at him, not caring that you’re being a brat about everything. “Like you care.”

“But I do,” he says. “You are mine to use as I wish.”

You feel another swell of arousal, against everything you tell yourself, that it’s wrong and obscene and a betrayal. It’s not how you should feel about him, not when he speaks about you like you’re an object for his pleasure. You blush, looking out the viewport and refusing to meet his eyes.

He finally speaks out of the heavy silence.

“My expectations are simple. First, that you will be obedient and respectful. I will not tolerate disruptive behavior.”

You barely— just barely— restrain yourself from interrupting him to ask for a precise definition of disruptive.

“Second, when we are alone, you are not to cover your face.”

You realize the pause he leaves is a prompt for you to obey this rule. You sweep your veil back and pout at him, annoyed more so about being told what to do than the rule itself.

“Of course, you could also do away with it altogether, if you wish.”

“But I— I can’t!” The mere suggestion of it is scandalous, and coming from a Grand Admiral, no less.

He only gives you a dispassionate look, then directs your attention to the dining area where breakfast is laid out. The same two droids that had served dinner are standing by.

Thrawn pulls out your chair for you, and you accept his courtesy with ill grace.

“You could even wear different clothing,” he says, taking his own seat across from you. “The robes are beautiful, but impractical. Especially on a starship.”

You consider this for a moment, then tell him, “I’ve been wearing them for a year and I still trip on them pretty often.”

The droids move in, pouring drinks-- juice, water, caf-- though you wish you could ask for tea. When you reach for some jam, somehow your veil falls down over your shoulder, making you accidentally dip your sleeve in the caf creamer. You swear quietly, trying to sponge the light blue liquid out of the fabric.

“Why do you think I’ve set this rule?” He asks.

It takes you a moment— another one of his non- rhetorical questions, and a confusing non-sequitur until you recall the earlier thread of conversation. A quirk of his mind, perhaps, that you’ll have to get used to. “Assassins!” You blurt out, almost knocking your toast to the floor.

Looking pleased, or perhaps amused, he sits back in his chair with a nod and goes back to whatever he was doing on his datapad. One of the serving droids pours him a cup of caf without him gesturing for it, though he doesn’t touch it.

Between bites, and not caring that you’re interrupting his work, you ask why, if he’s so concerned about attempts on his life, he has you staying in his quarters, sleeping in his bed, taking meals with him.

“What if I’m the assassin?” You challenge.

“Are you?”

“No,” you say petulantly.

“I have explained and believe you understand the consequences of such an action. Have I overestimated your mental faculties?”

“No.”

“Do you intend to kill me?”

You frown at him. “I could be past reasoning.” Might try, you leave unsaid.

“And how would that benefit you, in the long run? What do you envision as the outcome?” He makes it sound more like an invitation for a thought exercise than a threat.

So you pause to consider. “Well, if I made it past intent, and actually tried, I’d probably have to surprise you. If I failed, and you could tie it to me, I’d probably get the rest of my life breaking scrap in the Aamiqh Deeps if I’m lucky. Or you’d just vent me out the closest airlock.”

“An efficient solution,” he says, and you look at him sharply, wondering if you mistook that dry tone for sarcasm. “How would you attempt it?”

“Attempt it after this conversation, or before?”

The corners of his mouth twitch, a small smile, and you feel absurdly pleased at that reaction. “Let us keep things simple for now. Before.”

You wrack your brain for what little you’ve been able to observe about him so far. It hasn’t even been a full day. Any habits that could be exploited, parts of his daily routine you could slip into unnoticed. You have yet to see him eat, drink, or sleep, and at this point, no matter how near-human he looks, have no reason to assume he actually needs rest or sustenance the way you do. Sex, then?

You begin speaking all this aloud, and he nods or comments at particular lines of reasoning. “It would be best if I could wait longer, make more observations.” Part of you can’t quite believe you’re saying all this to him-- and in the back of your mind, you realize it’s probably foolish, and could be taken as evidence of intent to harm him, but he already holds all the power anyway. “But if I couldn’t, or found out that none of the obvious things would work--”

“Those being?”

“Poison in your food or drink. Or get you while you’re sleeping. I couldn’t even be sure that what works on humans would work on you. I guess maybe I could--” you stop yourself, feeling silly for playing along with all this, but he urges you to continue.

“Go on.” He sounds entertained and intrigued.

You take a bite of your food, which has gone cold. “Med bay. Could be a way to access your records. I don’t even know what species you are. And there would be medications in there, if I did figure out something that would work.”

“And if not?”

You tilt your head, gazing out at the serene, beautiful starscape. If you had thought there was even a chance that he would allow you to have embroidery supplies-- well, there would be no way he’d let you possess needles after this conversation. “There must be someone on the ship who doesn’t like you. Maybe even someone relatively high up?” You look back at him, taking in the striking sight of him: his gleaming red eyes, keen and alert and fixed on you, and his sharply handsome features and dark hair, his perfect uniform and heavy rank plaque that seem made to fit him and only him. You hesitate on your next thought. It would be hurtful. “Someone who doesn’t like that you’re…”

“Non-human,” Thrawn says.

You nod, not willing to cross the line and ask him why he serves an Empire that, by law and creed, considers him inferior. “I think it would be easy to take advantage of. People who think like that can be… single-minded. They wouldn’t like that you’re more successful than them.”

“Perhaps,” he allows.

“That could also solve the issue of getting off the ship, after I… you know.” You shift uncomfortably. It’s a strange thing. You had always thought, the whole year on Coruscant, that upon meeting whoever you ended up with, you’d want them dead.

Thrawn is not what you expected.

You squeeze your thighs together, trying very much not to think about how he had looked at you last night, how it had felt with his singular, searing focus on you, how he had sounded when he’d felt you almost lose control.

He regards you intently, letting you squirm, before he finally answers. “A clever thought. Yes, there are certainly those who resent being under my command.”

“Were you trying to get me to convince myself that trying anything is a bad idea?”

“No.” His expression softens just a little, so briefly you might have imagined it. “I simply wished to hear you reason through a problem.”

He lets you be, then, no further incisive, testing questions. He returns to his datapad, and you sip idly at your caf, watching distant ships and stars through the viewport.

Exactly at 06:21, he stands and indicates for you to come with him— finished with breakfast or not.

“Keep up,” he says mildly, when he sees you dawdling. “Or you will find yourself on a leash.”

☆ link to part 6 ☆

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#thrawn #grand admiral thrawn #thrawn x reader #thrawn fic #thrawn x you #thrawn fanfiction #thrawn x y/n #star wars #thrawn fanfic

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threshergm · 8 months ago

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Eulogy

A little scene from my upcoming John and Talia slow-burn titled Missing Pieces. Wanted to see what the tumblr community thought of it first before I really committed to a serious writing schedule and started hammering out word count. @lpmurphy @authortobenamedlater @mrtobenamedlater @fabulaprima @silverpelt3600

@t65flyer @ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask @sarnakhwritesthings @makowrites @morganas-pendragons

@ageless-aislynn @pelgraine @inafieldofdaisies @helix-studios117 @littleneonlily

2327 hours, April 5th, 2552 (military calendar) UNSC Halcyon-class light cruiser Pillar of Autumn Slipspace transit on randomized vector per Cole Protocol Leaving the Branta system, bound for Reach

"Have you seen Corporal Perez?"

Even in just his techsuit, the Master Chief seemed to fill the corridor. Which is probably why the crewman apprentice he was addressing was trying to disappear into the bulkhead. Even with Cortana gone for six months now, he could practically hear her hum, "Social graces, Chief," and took a step back.

The E2 - name tape obscured by the apron he still wore upon emerging from the galleys - gaped and pointed down the corridor, muttering, "On the right," indicating a sliding steel door opposite the entrance to the forward enlisted mess.

Chief nodded once, gruffed a perfunctory, "Thank you," and stalked down the corridor. The Pillar of Autumn, functioning on military standard timekeeping now that they were underway, was in night mode. The chrono above the enlisted mess hatchway glowed a red 2327 hours, and the main lights overhead were off, leaving the only light in the corridor as one lonely lamp over the door labeled FREEZER A-19.

Chief snaked his hand into the recessed handle and yanked the door aside on its track, and stepped inside. He found a single light on inside as well; illuminating shelves and racks of frozen foods, three black body bags on the floor, and next to them, wrapped in a gray Navy-issue blanket, dark hair cascading off her shoulders, sat Corporal Perez.

Master Chief took two firm steps forward, stopping a stride from where the young Marine sat, legs tucked under herself. He stopped and settled into parade rest.

"Corporal Perez, why are you not at your post? Our shift began over a half-hour ago."

She didn't budge, save for breaths that came shallow and a little jaggedly, as if she'd been crying.

"Corporal Perez?"

Silence hung in the artificially frigid air, and Chief began to wonder if he should walk to the wall intercom and summon a medical corpsman. He glanced around, as if missing something, then returned his gaze to the small woman on the floor before him.

"Rand had a thing for me," she croaked out suddenly. So she had been crying. She didn't turn, didn’t move, except to reach a hand out from her woolen cocoon to stroke the bodybag nearest her.

"He always used to sit next to me in the chow hall on drill weekends, but he never knew what to talk about. 'Are you enjoying your chicken, Corporal?'" She laughed weakly, "'Rand, it's just fucking chicken. The same chicken we had last month and every month before that.'"

Her accent thickened alongside the sorrow in her voice. "We picked him up on Midvale back in '49, after the Red United Front bombed that dam. Pulled him off the roof of his family's ranch house with his two sisters. His sisters settled on Culloden, but he stayed. He was one of our full-timers; the Colonel found a job for him as the armorer's assistant. He lived on-base and sent all his pay to his sisters so they could buy land and start again."

She took in a shuddering breath, shoulders trembling underneath her blanket. "He said he saw something in the fog. Country boy, you know? Grew up hunting and I… I should have believed him."

She seemed to shrink in on herself for a moment, hunching against some wordless pain, until a low keening wail escaped, “He was only 19!” She shook her head, and Chief saw hot tears fly, while she bit her lip and fought to get her emotions under control. After a moment, with a grunt of pain, her hand shifted from one body bag to the next.

"Zara Bennett. She was our linguist. I loved her accent. She was from London, and she was the first person from Earth that I'd ever met. Her dad manages a titanium mine out in Tengeri back home on Reach. They're loaded, but you'd never guess it from Zara, we used to go thrift-shopping together. Her parents have a penthouse in downtown New Alexandria, and she could have gone to university back on Earth, easily. But she enlisted. Said she wanted to protect her new home."

She patted the body bag fondly, black plastic crinkling in the silence, and her hand extended a little further.

"Milo Alvarez. He used to bag groceries down the street from my grandparent's place. He was an atheist, and we always used to argue and… oh, God!" Her voice broke. "I don't know where he is right now…"

She bowed her head, leaning into the body bag, as if shielding it like Chief had shielded her from the glassing beam on that mountainside, sobs hitching her shoulders, "H-he didn't know you, Father, but take him home… take him home."

She lapsed into Spanish, a language Chief didn't know, and he fervently wished Cortana was there to translate. His brow furrowed; the lack of knowledge a gap in his preparation, the gap in his understanding suddenly a splinter in his mind. Without thinking, he took a step forward, closing the distance between the miserable scene before him, and kneeled beside Perez.

“You speak well for them.” He spoke in low tones; he wasn’t sure why. It simply felt right to do so. Perez stopped, turned upwards to face him, dark eyes reddened and slender face puffy in the dim light of the freezer. “God, I h-hope so. They’re m-my friends.” Tears still flowed freely down her cheeks, and her voice was hoarse. Umber eyes - the color of rich soil Chief had seen on a dozen worlds - held his gaze steadily in the dark, despite the pain swimming in them. “What were you saying, just now? In Spanish?” Chief cocked his head in question. Perez smiled weakly, eyes unfocused for a moment. “Yes, Spanish. I’m from Santiago Circle. I grew up speaking it at home,” she took another breath, steadier this time, “I-I’m Catholic. It was our Prayer for the Dead.” Her eyes met his own in the dark, and she held his gaze for a long moment. Chief wasn’t sure why, but he needed more. The name of a prayer wasn’t enough. He needed to understand this young woman sitting in a pool of her grief beside three corpses. “Tell me what you said,” he rumbled gently. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an order. He just needed to know. Perez kept his gaze for another long moment, then began to slowly recite, in English. In your hands, O Lord,

We humbly entrust our brothers and sisters.

In this life you embraced them with your tender love;

Deliver them now from every evil

And bid them eternal rest.

The old order has passed away:

Welcome them into paradise,

Where there will be no sorrow, no weeping or pain,

But fullness of peace and joy

With your Son and the Holy Spirit

Forever and ever.Amen.

The freezer-turned-mortuary fell silent as her recitation ended, and her eyes remained locked with his. “Thank you, Corporal.” The Master Chief rose suddenly, took three steps back, and turned to face her, once more at parade rest, his expression unreadable.

“Corporal Perez, I am not rated in cryotube maintenance or repair. You are. There are 1,042 cryotubes in our area of responsibility and all need to be monitored and, if necessary, serviced without compromising function or the occupant inside. I need you to --”

“I can’t leave them,” Perez croaked, voice thickening once more. Her eyes were pleading, her head shaking slowly. Chief’s augmented heart ached to see it, but he couldn’t say why.

“Corporal Perez,” Chief started slowly, not sure how to proceed. “You’re no good to anyone watching over three bodies. What made them your friends is gone. There are 1,042 men, women, and children packed into an identical number of cryotubes, all constructed by the lowest bidder, housed in compartments that were never designed to support them. They need us. They need you.”

The Chief stepped back into the hatchway, turning to look at Perez out of one eye, half his face painted into shadow by the dark of the corridor outside.

“The living need you, Corporal.”

#halo #halo tv show #john 117 #master chief #pablo schreiber #silver timeline #talia perez #halo season 2 #halo fanfic #halo tv series #halo the series

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