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moonstrider9904 · 19 days

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Lose It

Grand Admiral Thrawn x Female Reader

Summary: As Governor Pryce's assistant, you've had to put up with a lot of things and meet a lot of stuck up imperials with flying colors, but when Grand Admiral Thrawn lands on Lothal, you find yourself stuttering upon your words, flustered, and invited to a gala dinner that'll define your career.

Tags/warnings: SMUT. 18+ adults only. Corporate struggles, Pryce being mean, first meetings, alcohol consumption, making out, PiV sex unprotected, fingering. This is my first time in a long while writing Thrawn, so sorry if any of this is ooc.

Word count: 8042

Playlist: Lose it by Oh Wonder - and its Jerry Folk Remix for the smut 👀

Read on AO3 | One-shot masterlist | Main masterlist |

With your eyes glued to the datapad, you felt as if caf would be the only thing to get you through that morning.

Sunrises on Lothal were beautiful, and yet, you were never able to enjoy them. Your desk on the seventh floor, a place relatively close to the much more humane office destined for your boss, was in a tiny reception room that had no windows; you'd have to walk a good kilometer inside the facility for you to get a glimpse of the outside world. You didn't mind the walking - it was always good for your mind whenever you felt saturated - but lately it seemed as if your boss had the uncanny ability to always demand something new from you whenever you resolved to walk out that door to do anything remotely human. Never being one to be superstitious, when it came to Governor Pryce, you wouldn't give her any more leverage.

You scoffed lightly at yourself. With the boss you had, it was a miracle the cup of caf you were drinking was actually for yourself and not for her. You had a little wager going on in your head to see what else that woman could take from you - so far, she'd already claimed your motivation and a good chunk of your faith in the Empire.

You regretted having Pryce on your thoughts when a notification pushed itself to the corner of your datapad. I'm not available, you thought to yourself, as if that had ever kept you from doing anything that was beneath you before, or worse, getting locked in a task that would absorb all your time and sucked the energy out of you like a leech. There never seemed to be an in between. You scanned the subject and, though you didn't hear alarms being set off in your mind, you did find your interest piqued.

URGENT: Imperial High Command Visit, Subject Classified. All imperial personnel directly reporting to levels SC6 and above must report to direct management for instructions.

And sure enough, you'd have no more peace for the remainder of the morning when you read that. You downed the rest of your caf and mentally braced yourself for what was to come. It wasn't uncommon for you to receive messages like that, but something big usually happened when you did, and you were used to finding out who or what it was about until the very last moments. It looked like it would simply be one of those days, so you grabbed your datapad and left your desk, making your way across the little reception room and into Pryce's office.

One thing you figured you could appreciate about Pryce was that there was never any beating around the bush, and it always made things a lot quicker, even in situations when it felt like you were having a band aid ripped from you. More like a piece of duct tape, but it was quick either way. And when you walked into her office, your back straight and gaze placed directly on your boss, donning what she would deem the desirable posture of an Imperial public servant, Pryce was already standing up from behind her desk with her blue eyes piercing into you.

Only she could make such a beautiful eye color look so menacing.

"You're here not two minutes after my comm was sent," Pryce commented. "I want that efficiency from you every day."

You were that efficient every day, but you weren't about to argue with Pryce about her short-sightedness.

"Put everything you were working with on hold for now," Pryce told you.

You didn't question the importance of the current events, but you never liked it when she told you to cast things aside to make room for her new wishes.

"I need you to send this out as a comm to all staff levels SC5 and below," Pryce handed you a drive, "and then I need you to make sure Congregation Room 2 is set to receive a minimum of seven people, but leave three extra chairs and make sure it's well stocked in refreshments. Put all my comms outside of lines 1 and 2 on standby, redirect comms from lines 4 and 6 towards you, I'm sure those are all things you can handle."

Pryce began walking past you outside of her office, leaving you to follow as you made a mental list of what she was asking.

"Do not answer any questions you're asked by anyone," Pryce continued. "At the most, tell anyone who wants to know to refer to the comm I'm asking you to send out. Now, in that hard drive you'll find the comm, two diagrams, a statement, and a final comm different to the first one which must be sent out only to levels SC6 and above - they are all in the order they're meant to be sent out and the time and date is encrypted in their properties. Stick to them like clockwork, and program anything you need ahead of time. We cannot afford mistakes, I hope I'm clear about that. Once you're done with these duties, find me. I'll need you at my side the whole day."

"Yes, Governor Pryce," you answered with your most professional tone.

Pryce stopped in front of your desk in the reception. "One more thing. Tomorrow night there will be a welcoming gala on the higher levels of the facility. I assume you have something to wear?"

"Ma'am?" You questioned, inevitably puzzled. You were open to many requests from Pryce, and while nearly nothing surprised you anymore, it really sounded like Pryce was inviting you to a fancy event.

"You won't be dancing and fine dining," Pryce sneered. "You'll be assisting me as well as the logistics staff for the event. And, I cannot repeat this with enough emphasis, we cannot afford mistakes. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," you answered again.

Pryce was about to leave the reception and finally give you room to work, but she stopped and looked at you again.

"Ah, and refill the caf pots for the entire floor, we're all going to need it," Pryce spat before finally leaving without so much as a thank you or goodbye.

Would you like me to refill the fat cats' caf pots before or after I send out a highly important, classified comm to the entire facility? It was all you could do not to roll your eyes. You didn't want any cameras catching you in the act.

Luckily, you'd gotten very good at prioritizing. The high commands could wait for their caf, and if they couldn't, they could very well brew it themselves. The first thing on the list was checking the drive Pryce had given you so that you could write out any comms and either send them or program them, so you plugged the drive into your computer. You found that one of the diagrams Pryce had told you about wasn't meant to be sent out, but rather, it was full of instructions for you. And according to those instructions, you'd have time to be a professional performing tasks worthy of her level before fulfilling a caf quest that was very much beneath you.

But the other diagram caught your eye - it was a command structure you'd never seen before. You knew many of the names on it, and when you read the one at the top, began to grasp the magnitude of what was happening at Lothal. It seemed Pryce wouldn't be the top authority on the planet anymore, she'd now be answering to someone who carried a title far more imposing than hers.

The diagram was meant to be sent out with the first comm, so you read the draft, and you didn't know whether you should panic, be excited, or hide from anyone who already recognized you as assistant to the Governor who would want privileged answers. Words like Command Structure Reformation, High Level Staff Transition, and Low-level Cost Reduction caught your eye. You'd heard whispers of new projects and seen the factories that were being built on Lothal from afar, and it seemed you were the one being tasked with telling the facility about that. But you had the hunch something like this would only leave everyone with more questions than answers. No wonder Pryce had warned you about people asking you things, but you doubted it was out of any effort to protect you. She'd essentially just asked you to keep from saying anything that might spill any secrets.

You sent out the first comm immediately and scheduled anything else for the day, including the comm about the gala—that one got you wondering if you'd at least be paid extra, but you had little faith in that. When you were done with that, you locked the computer and removed the drive, and you took your datapad with you as well for whatever came up. You were now headed towards Congregation Room 2 to oversee its preparations, hoping to swiftly fulfill the second part of your instructions for that morning, but as you were leaving the reception room and entering the main hallway, you were abruptly almost bumped into by Pryce herself, who rushed down the hall followed by three Imperial men in high-ranking uniforms. Despite her urgency, she stopped to glare at you.

"Do not tell me you're only just finishing the comms," Pryce snarled. "Hurry up and fill the pots! Are you trying to make the staff furious?"

Without any other acknowledgement towards you, Pryce and the other imperials continued on their way. You felt heat rushing to your cheeks with the words you couldn't say to her, such as how perhaps she forgot what it was like to do routine comm writing or basically any other task the commoner would have to do any day and how long some of those could take ever since she got a high horse and an assistant. But you also knew if you stood there pondering, you'd get yelled at again—the fact that Pryce had chosen to do that in front of others made your blood boil, but as much as you didn't appreciate being humiliated as "that aloof assistant" in front of anyone, you had things to do, lowly as they were.

Another push notification presented itself on your datapad, which you stopped in your tracks to look at.

From: Governor Pryce

On your desk I left a stack of binders for Congregation Room 2. Do not forget them.

You added that little detail to the list of things to keep track of.

With each pot of caf you filled, a tiny part in your brain wondered if anyone would notice if you spat in it. The thought amused you, but you also feared Pryce far too much to try any stunts like that. Something told you she'd notice you sabotaging a pot of caf even if she was on a different planet. You let your fantasies of getting away with mischief get you through that particularly unpleasant part of the morning and finally headed back to your desk for the binders from Pryce and then towards the congregation room, walking so fast you would run if you went any quicker. It was a miracle you didn't drop the binders in the middle of the hallway, and you were happy fate was apparently smiling at you that day to prevent any more embarrassment in front of Imperial high command.

When you arrived, you were pleased to see that the room wasn't a mess. The large table in the center was perfectly clean, with no traces of dust, and the chairs had already been pushed in and straightened out neatly. The room had that corporate smell to it that you both loved and hated, and it was so quiet that it was oddly peaceful. You liked the way the blueish-gray walls were embellished by the large paintings on the walls, one on each of the longer sides of the room. You wished you had more time to admire them both, one of the landscapes of Lotha, and the other one far more abstract with bright shades of orange, magenta, some yellow, and hints of gold on a cream-colored canvas.

You set a binder down on each spot of the table, and then you tested the light dimmers in the room. You then placed a bottle of water next to each binder, and finally, you brewed a pot of caf for the Congregation Room that you hoped would be your last, at least for that day. Still, you admitted you could use another cup of fully loaded black caf yourself.

For a while, the sound of the caf brewing was the only thing to fill your ears. You watched the rich, dark droplets falling into the pot and filling it, letting your mind get some sort of rest. You had the strange feeling that you'd been worked to the bone and yet you hadn't accomplished anything that day... that was a feeling you got very often in your job.

"Strange to see two very opposing art pieces put together in one room," a deep, male voice inundated your senses, rich and luxurious like the caf filling the pot in front of you.

Despite the voice's velvet qualities, you jumped up on the spot, startled, and you turned to face its source.

"I apologize, I did not mean to startle you," he said. He was a tall Chiss man in a white uniform, his profile frame facing you as he faced the painting of the landscape of Lothal's countryside. His posture was regal, with his hands placed behind his back, resting in lightly formed fists. "It would seem a more traditional choice to have paintings that are similar to one another, enough for them to complement but not cause any redundancy."

When he finished speaking, the man looked at you, his deep crimson gaze both gentle and penetrating on you.

"Would you agree?" He asked you.

You didn't have an idea of what to answer, and even if you did, you were stunned. You'd never crossed paths with someone like him before - his aura was intoxicating, and the fact that he had deemed you worthy of addressing spiraled in your mind. Any other imperial would have looked at you over the nose and deemed their time too important to waste on a mere assistant.

"I-I-" You paused to clear your throat, cursing your sudden inability to speak. "I have indeed seen that tendency in other places, just not here. Personally, I like the other painting a lot more."

Your mind began to race as you worried whether you were supposed to salute him or do anything, but it would depend on his rank. You figured standing up straight and not making a further fool out of yourself would suffice, but you looked over at the plaque over his chest just to be sure.

It wasn't a pattern or a rank you recognized. Had that man smitten you that hard?

He gave you the hint of a smile before turning around and looking at the other painting, the abstract piece, and he took his time to admire it. You wondered if perhaps you should offer him a cup of caf, ask him if he was there for the staff meeting, comment more on the painting... you had no clue.

But the silence was suffocating you, and you knew you wanted to hear more of his luscious voice. You looked at the plaque on his chest and took your best guess at his rank judging by the sequence of colors - you didn't get to be assistant to the Governor without memorizing imperial structure level well before.

"Admiral," you stammered minimally, "is there something I can help you with?"

Slowly, his frame turned towards you, his lips again curved ever so slightly. "It is Grand Admiral, actually."

You felt heat rushing to your cheeks - even your best guess based on your experience didn't save you from messing up in front of the greatest force of nature that facility had seen in a while.

"O-oh, I apogolize--er, apologize," you stuttered.

You wanted to scream, so you resorted to just doing it internally. It then dawned on you who this man really was based on his rank alone. The reason your morning had been so hectic was standing right there in front of you, watching you squirm. This was the man Governor Pryce would answer to from now on. Grand Admiral Thrawn. You straightened your back at the realization and bowed your head shortly before looking him in the eyes again, and much to your surprise, he seemed amused with you. Not in the high-and-mighty way, but rather, it was almost as if something about you was endearing.

"You may be at ease," Thrawn said. "I would like to hear your thoughts on this abstract piece. You said you prefer this over the other one."

You breathed in before speaking and hoped your language skills didn't fail you again, and you took just a couple of paces closer to him, allowing yourself to view the painting better.

"Well, I'm no expert," you warned.

"You do not have to be," Thrawn mused. "Appreciation of the arts can be enhanced by knowledge, but the true purpose of art is to produce sensations in the viewer. Any insight you may have to share is valuable."

You looked at the painting again and found it in yourself to relax. "I like the warmth of the colors. And their livelihood, too. It makes me think of freedom, and the gold flecks seem to speak about the beauty of that freedom, as well as the luxury of having it."

"This desire of freedom speaks to you?" He asked you.

You then realized you were talking about lacking freedom to an Imperial Grand Admiral, and you felt your already racing heart quicken.

"I'm grateful for my work and I have no complaints," you corrected despite your many complaints about your boss that morning, easing yourself back into what the painting produced within you. "It's just that... the bright pinks and oranges are hard not to notice in the middle of these gray walls... they can become confining after too many hours in them."

"Hm," Thrawn hummed. "I always prefer having a view myself. I share your sentiment."

You figured having a Grand Admiral's agreement on an art matter was the biggest compliment you'd get that day.

"Might I ask," you began, "what do you think of it?"

Thrawn side-eyed you, but the attitude with which he did it seemed pleased, as well as intrigued with you. He then looked at the painting again. "This color palette reminds me of a current I've been witnessing in none other but rebellious efforts. There is a certain diversity to it, as well as the clear nature of abstract art mirroring the rebellion itself. Your observations of the contrast of the color with the gray of our facilities and the need for freedom only confirm to me that I was not far off with my own initial interpretation."

You were dazed, and the need to speak more plunged into you like thorns.

"How interesting," you said with an airy voice. "For these sorts of emotions to be manifested to multiple people in a similar way."

"Yes," Thrawn said. "Though current context may have some influence on this... collective perception."

Before the conversation could advance, you heard the sound of Governor Pryce's voice approaching from down the hall, her words quick and frantic, clashing with your and Thrawn's aura like nails scratching smooth stone. Soon enough, Pryce appeared at the door of the room with a large number of Imperials behind her, and though she was relieved to find Thrawn there, you could tell she was displeased at the sight of you standing with him.

"Grand Admiral, please excuse the lack of hospitality," Pryce said as she glared at you.

"Not at all, Governor Pryce, I have been well-received," Thrawn said; you could have sworn you noticed him glance at you as he did.

Regardless of Thrawn trying to ease some of the weight off you, the last thing you wanted was to have Pryce suspect anything less than decent coming from you. But fortunately, you noticed Pryce scanning the room, hopefully noticing everything was set up exactly according to her instruction. And now that she had come to you, it wasn't necessary for you to go out and look for her like she'd told you earlier.

Pryce suppressed a scoff. "Yes, well, it appears this room has been prepared properly for your arrival." She then faced the rest of the Imperials behind her. "Please come in. My assistant will help accommodate you."

You understood the instruction and acknowledged Thrawn one last time before walking over to the doorway and directing multiple people towards their chairs around the table. Before Pryce took her own seat, she approached you and leaned in close to your shoulder - your mind raced with the question of whether she would congratulate or choke you.

"You are not to be left alone with the Grand Admiral again, do you understand?" She whispered, but the aggression of her tone was anything but inconspicuous.

"Yes ma'am," you acknowledged without trying to offer any explanation in return.

"Stay here at the back of the room," Pryce ordered. "Oblige to any request these officers may have. I don't want slip-ups."

"Yes, ma'am," you repeated.

"And this goes without saying, but none of what you are about to hear us discuss leaves this room," Pryce added. "This is of the highest confidentiality."

You nodded. "I understand, ma'am."

You knew Pryce was mad at finding you alone with Thrawn, but if she still kept you at that meeting, you had no reason to fear you'd be unemployed tomorrow. The meeting took hours, all through which you kindly obliged to whatever was needed from you.

And you felt crimson eyes on you all the while.

The morning after, bright and early, you arrived at your office and noticed a surprise on your desk. Pryce was nowhere to be seen, but on top of the stack of folders and datapads waiting for you to check on them, there was a bag over your desk with a delicate parchment on it that had your name written in ink. It looked large enough to hold a gown, and you remembered Pryce had mentioned something about you having an outfit for the welcoming gala you'd attend that night.

Pryce got me a dress? Employer review season must be coming up.

You pushed the jokes aside in your brain and decided to be more appreciative. Besides, it was far more likely Pryce would rather give you what she wanted you to wear before risking letting you make a poor fashion choice, thus surely rendering the welcoming gala a complete, unsaveable failure.

You took the parchment from the bag and noticed the other side of it had more writing on it.

Art deserves to be appreciated.

You felt your heart skip a beat and the oxygen leaving your head. That dress wasn't from Pryce, it was from Thrawn. It made you all the more motivated to unzip the dress bag and look at what was inside, and you felt your breath leaving your body when you saw the exquisite black fabric of the long gown. The outer layer of the dress was primarily lace, with sequins and beads very discreetly forming delicate flower forms every few inches. You knew it was high couture when your fingertips brushed the fabric, the quality evident under your touch—you tried not to think how much it cost.

Were you even supposed to accept a gift like that? You weren’t sure. It might not even fit, and even if it did, maybe you were expected to return it after the gala.

But who were you to refuse a request from a Grand Admiral? It’s not as if Pryce hadn’t told you to oblige to anything those Imperials the day before, and to your knowledge, that included Thrawn.

That day at work didn’t have you running up and down the facility like the day before, constantly required at Pryce’s side, beck, and call, but the workload didn’t stop. Between comms regarding structure changes, further details being given to the public, overseeing preparations for the gala and familiarizing yourself with the guestlist of the event, and the routine work you always did day to day for Pryce, you were hardly able to leave your desk.

But all that made the end of the day much sweeter, and when you were off your shift, you hurried home with the gown in hand. Quickly, you showered, dried your hair and styled it for the night, dolled yourself up with makeup and perfume, and at last, it was time for the dress. You were suddenly nervous about the dress not fitting, but when you tried it on, it slipped on you with ease and hugged your silhouette beautifully. The crop of the dress was perfect for your body type, and it accentuated your curves in all the right places.

Either Thrawn had someone investigate all your measurements to find the perfect fit, or he was able to eye you up and down and determine that for himself. Either way, your heart began to race. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the attention you were getting.

You grabbed a pair of shoes that went well with the dress and added some finishing touches to yourself, and you still had about an hour to spare before the time Pryce had asked you to be at the facility pre-event. You were out your door regardless. You figured, for an event like that, arriving sooner couldn’t hurt if only it meant having a bit more control over it.

As Pryce’s assistant, you’d been to the higher levels of the capitol a few times before for events of the sort, but you’d never seen the place decorated like it was now. The burgundy walls looked even more opulent with the warm golden lighting, and there were several tables laid out around a dance floor, each one decorated with similar burgundy, wine, and gold motifs with extravagant floral centerpieces and delicate glassware for each member that would occupy a spot in them. At the head of the dance floor there was an elongated table whose decoration matched that of the others, with exactly seven seats on it. Your chest fluttered when you glanced at the middle seat. Your day of overseeing preparations for the event had made you all too familiar with who would be occupying that spot.

You still had a job to do. You made sure the logistics team was spot on with last-minute arrangements, verifying there was enough food and wine for everyone who would be there. You went to confirm that every sound, music, and holo-projection worked properly and no one would be embarrassed on behalf of technical difficulties. Because of you, everything was spot-on well before any guests started arriving.

Timely as always, the first one to do so was Pryce. She donned an elegant gown, but as elegant as she looked, she still had that authoritarian air to her, rather than the aura of someone who went to enjoy herself. And she looked around the room not turning up her nose at anything; it seemed she was satisfied with your work for the time being. She walked up to you, and although you’d done a good job, you knew not to expect congratulations from her.

“Perform routine checks every fifteen minutes,” she instructed. “Light, sound, refreshments, staff—we need full stock at all times.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you replied.

It was only then that Pryce stopped and looked at you up and down.

“Where did you get a gown like that?” She questioned. “You look like a guest.” “It just happened to be lying around,” you answered. No way were you about to tell her it was a gift from Thrawn.

“Yes, well, good on you for matching the event’s elegance,” Pryce said. “I shall leave you to your duties. I need to receive the guests at the door, but you’ll need to take them to their places.”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear Pryce had just complimented you in some way. Regardless, you obliged to her orders and powered up your datapad to view the seating charts, and soon enough, everyone began to arrive. You were grateful you’d chosen a comfortable pair of shoes for the night, otherwise your feet would have already been killing you from walking up and down the room taking everyone to their places. You were unaware of how much time had gone past, but it seemed like you’d successfully gotten almost everyone to their chairs. The next time you were at the entrance to receive your next guest, you glanced down at your datapad to get a clearer vision of how many seats were still empty.

You then looked up to find crimson eyes staring at you, and you were unable to control the smile that curved your lips. In turn, Thrawn’s gaze traced your entire silhouette, and the intoxicating scent of your perfume didn’t escape him. His faint smile held triumph; he was always pleased when his plans worked out according to his machination.

“May I lead you towards your seat?” You asked him.

He nodded and, to your surprise, Thrawn held out his arm bent at a right angle and offered it to you. You raised your eyebrows and looked at him, puzzled.

“A lady must never cross a ballroom such as this unescorted,” he said to you.

If you hadn’t been working that night, you already would have given out.

You obliged to Thrawn’s offer and linked your arm in his as you led him towards the long table at the top of the dance floor. It was hard to ignore the looks you were getting, and you were privy to the confusion in the eyes of many of the people who were looking your way, no doubt questioning themselves why such a lovely lady at the arm of the Grand Admiral was also clearly an employee. You were certain that if they hadn’t already seen you leading them to their spots with a datapad in your hands, you would have been mistaken for Thrawn’s plus one.

You reached the table and gestured at the middle seat, where Thrawn sat in all his regality. With a final nod of acknowledgement, you smiled at him and made your way back towards the entrance, aware of the fact that you swayed your hips slightly more than usual as you walked away.

Hours wore on. Your management of the event was spotless, and everything was on schedule. The food during dinner was warm, and no one was left waiting obscenely long for a refill of their drink. Speeches were made by the staff, including Pryce and Thrawn himself, talking not only about the supremacy of the Empire but also the great plans they had in mind for Lothal—but you’d already heard enough of that during the meeting the day before.

After dinner and all the formalities, the gathering turned more festive and people took to the dance floor to sway to the elegant string music. From that point on, the night also relaxed for you and the rest of the staff, as everyone was mostly just minding their own business. You stood at the corner of the room watching as everyone danced, and you couldn’t help but search for Thrawn with your gaze. A part of you hoped not to find him dancing with another lucky woman, but you shook the thought away. He wasn’t on the dance floor anyway.

In fact, you couldn’t spot him anywhere.

Your thoughts were interrupted when Pryce rushed to you, seemingly concerned.

“You need to get General Perkins some water, now,” she said.

You nodded and pulled your datapad out. “Getting a waiter on it now—”

“No,” Pryce interrupted. “No, the man is drunk out of his mind. I fear what he’ll do if he’s confronted by a waiter. You at least look the part of a partygoer.”

“O-okay,” you obliged.

“Hurry,” Pryce growled before walking off.

You partly understood the urgency; you didn’t want a drunk imperial on your hands either. You hurried over to the bar and filled two glasses with water and carried both on a tray with your data pad on the other hand. You tried to make your way around the dance floor, but everyone was gathered around the tables at the edges, and from afar, you noticed General Perkins already beginning to swoon in his seat, his eyes threatening to close as he laughed absently.

Yeah, no wonder Pryce had told you to hurry. The dance floor wasn’t as crowded anyway—you figured you had better chances going through it.

You came to regret your decision when, halfway across the dancefloor, another less than graceful Imperial general crashed into you. You managed to keep your balance and not fall, but your datapad was knocked out of your hand and slammed to the floor loudly. The water from both of the glasses splashed all over you, and the glasses shattered on the floor scandalously followed by the clanking of the silver tray after them.

Everyone around you took several steps back, leaving you exposed. The general who’d crashed into you disappeared without acknowledging you, and you were the sole center of embarrassment, feeling as the blood rushed to your face. You wanted to hide, but multiple pairs of eyes pierced into you, judging you, whispering amongst themselves words you didn’t even want to speculate.

Pryce rushed towards you and glanced at the scene before glaring straight into your soul.

“You’re fired,” she spat, and as she left, she gestured at two nearby waiters to clean up the mess.

Your chest heaved up and down as you processed what had just happened, and just as you were about to run away from the scene, you felt your hand being taken and an arm gripping swiftly at your waist. You gasped when Thrawn came into your view in front of you, holding you up despite what had just happened, and you could almost feel everyone’s soul leaving their body. Before Thrawn met your gaze, he looked over at the band and with a single nod instructed them to begin playing. When the music resumed, Thrawn’s gaze finally met yours, and he led you across the dance floor, spinning you and waltzing with you, becoming one with the music.

Your jaw dropped, and your eyes on him were dreamy. “Why are you doing this?”

He smiled at you, purposefully spinning the two of you more elaborately. “Dance, my darling. Dance.”

Exhaling all the tension in your chest, you smiled up at Thrawn and let him dance you away.

Around you, couples began to swarm to the dance floor once more minding the waiters cleaning up the shattered glass. In the second plane, you could hear the drunken general already making a mess, but that wasn’t your problem anymore now that Pryce had fired you. You simply let Thrawn lead the way, and when you weren’t dancing with him, you were at his side with your arm in his, holding a glass of champagne in your free hand that you never would have gotten as an assistant, and you actually found it in yourself to enjoy the evening.

When it was late, Thrawn led you outside to the courtyard. You both stopped and looked each other in the eyes—he towered over you, and you loved that. You smiled softly at him, eyes seemingly sparkling in the dark.

“Thank you for what you did back there,” you said.

Thrawn’s faint smile widened almost imperceptibly. “My pleasure.”

You looked down, blushing. “Thank you for the gown, too.”

Thrawn gave a low chuckle. “You look exquisite in it.”

A thought formed in the back of your mind at what he’d just said, and suddenly you found blood rushing between your legs at the idea of you being outside of the beautiful gown.

“Shall I take you home?” He asked you.

Your heart sank, but just as you were about to accept, you noticed Thrawn moving himself closer to you, his hand moving up to your cheek to gently brush your skin.

“Or perhaps… you would like to accompany me?” Thrawn suggested.

You knew you could say no, but every fiber of your body wanted to follow him wherever he could take you. Slowly, you nodded, desire already flooding your gaze, and the transition from the courtyard to his private quarters went by in a blur. You felt slightly out of touch when you stood in the opulent living room, unsure of what to do—you’d never done anything of the sort before. The place was absolutely beautiful, though, with a regal blue and silver color palette and a large window overlooking the entire Lothal skyline. The furniture inside was of the highest grade, and there were multiple paintings, crafts, and sculptures decorating the place. Not even in your wildest dreams did you picture yourself standing in a place like that, but regardless, there you were.

Thrawn gestured at the couch in front of an automatic fireplace that ignited when you sat, and he disappeared for a few moments only to return with two glasses of wine. He sat next to you, handing you your glass, setting his cup on the caf table as you took a sip from your cup. That was the best wine you’d ever tasted.

After a few moments in silence, Thrawn took your cup and placed it on the table next to his. His hands went up to cup your face where his fingertips could gently brush the hair growing out of the nape of your neck, and he leaned in to kiss your lips. You sighed into his touch and let him in. your hands brushed up his arms and past his shoulders, and your arms wrapped around his upper back. Part of you expected him to push forward and take you there on that couch, but you felt Thrawn standing and pulling you along with him, pausing his kiss to lead you across the room towards his chamber. The bedroom’s opulent aesthetic matched that of the living room, and when you both entered, you noticed Thrawn pressing a control on the walls that lowered a solid gray curtain over the large window and dimmed the lights.

It was then that your gaze fell on the large bed at the center of the room, causing you to whimper softly in anticipation. You heard Thrawn chuckle softly behind you as he approached you with his fingertips softly tracing up the sides of your arms, landing at your shoulders. He swept your hair away from your neck and you felt his breath fanning over your skin, flooding you with shivers in the best way possible.

“You are gorgeous,” Thrawn whispered before kissing you just below your ear. He trailed his kisses down towards your collarbone, stopping where the fabric of your gown began only to make his way back up. You sighed in pleasure as you relished in every tingling sensation left by his lips, and before long, you felt Thrawn’s fingers beginning to undo the zipper at the side of your gown.

You felt the fabric of your dress becoming loose on your body, and as Thrawn continued to lavish your skin, he carefully slipped the dress down your curves. Your body was now exposed, with the only item of fabric left on you being a delicate pair of panties. You turned around on the spot and faced him, watching as his eyes brushed through every inch of your body with hunger. His hands were now on your waist pulling you closer to him again, and he kissed your lips with a brighter fire than before. Your hands snaked up his chest and landed behind his neck, your fingertips playing with his skin just above the rim of his neckline. Thrawn looked handsome in his white uniform, but you wanted him to be naked too.

You wondered if he could read your mind, because as you continued to kiss, Thrawn undid the buttons of his blazer and he cast it aside, proceeding to remove the shirt that covered his skin. With a light moan, you let your hands roam free towards his trousers and undid the belt, button, and zipper, and soon enough, he’d lost all the clothing on his body. You felt his fingertips curling around your panties, spreading the fabric enough to pull it down and let it fall at your feet. His hands explored your curves before he led you towards the bed, letting you lie on your back and taking his place beside you, his broad frame hovering over you.

He kissed your lips again, and you sank into the mattress below as you felt your body shiver with his touch. Thrawn’s fingertips had found your inner thighs, tracing ever so softly and igniting your senses, prompting you to spread your legs nice and slow as he continued to tease the sensitive skin leading up between your legs. You felt your pulse come alive in your clit, aching for his touch, hoping he wouldn’t keep you waiting for so long. Thrawn had been such a gentleman ever since you’d met… surely he wouldn’t let you down when he’d already been doing so well.

Thrawn’s lips curved into a seductive smile, and finally, he traced a sole fingertip from your entrance and up your cunt, dragging the wetness over your sensitive flesh. You couldn’t help the ecstatic moan that left you, and Thrawn wasted no more time. With precision, he began to rub circles around your clit slowly, letting you feel everything. As your breath deepened, your body started squirming under him, a sight he welcomed with lust. His lips were on yours again, and you kissed him hungrily. Your pants became shorter with every moment that passed, already nearing your release.

But as much as Thrawn wanted you, he wouldn’t be impatient. He would take his time, do it right, the way he approached everything else. His fingers gave your clit a rest, making you whimper in the absence of his touch. Thrawn emerged from your lips and looked into your eyes as he took his fingers down and placed them at your entrance, sliding one slender, long finger inside you and curling it, pressing your sweetest spot. Pleasure instantly flooded your senses, and you felt as if you’d just had a secret revealed to you of the magnitude of the universe itself.

No one had ever made you feel that way.

You grind your hips against his hand, aching for more friction, and Thrawn obliged. The pace with which he fingered you increased just slightly, applying more pressure to set your mind ablaze, and the rest of his hand pressed slightly on your clit, giving you some very welcome sensations on the pearl of nerves. Your tiny whimpers escalated in pitch and in frequency the closer you got, with your hands gripping his hair behind his head, until soon you felt yourself tightening around his finger and your body quivering. Your whimpers became uncontrollable moans, each filled with burning ecstasy. Your head pressed back onto the pillow, and as your body shook, you felt your wetness dripping out between your legs as you rode out your orgasm, never wanting it to stop.

Before you were overstimulated, Thrawn retrieved his hand and pulled you towards him. Now he was lying on his back and you were sitting on the bed, panting to catch your breath. He pulled you closer, prompting you to get on top of him, and you stopped only momentarily to gasp at his erection, long and hard and ready for you. You placed your hands firmly on his muscular chest, steadying yourself, and you opened your legs and shimmied down until you felt his tip at your entrance.

A short moan escaped Thrawn when you slid yourself down on him. You were slow, taking in every moment you could as he stretched you out inside, painful and beautiful all at once. His length was fully inside you, and with a firm grip on your hips, Thrawn thrust up and down, beginning at a slow, luxurious pace. You threw your head back, moaning, then looked down to bask in the sight of his muscular build clenching and relaxing with his movements. You bent over and let your lips kiss whatever spot of Thrawn’s skin was in reach, and the new position gave you a mind-blowing angle for his length to lavish your inner walls, brushing past the spots he’d already left so sensitive from your previous orgasm. Thrawn’s pace quickened, nuzzling your face so that your lips could find his, and locked in a kiss, you continued basking in the bliss.

His hands then firmly grasped your ass and he turned you over on the bed, now on top of you. While Thrawn’s pace had initially been that of a gentleman, slow and at your service, you could tell he’d decided to let go of any bars holding him. His hips hammered into you faster, his teeth baring in a hungry grimace as a single low growl escaped him, and in return, you whimpered delicately as you let him have his way with you. Thrawn was moving faster than you ever could have thought possible for any man, but even that thought would be erased from your mind when you saw white. Your long, ecstatic moans filled the entirety of his quarters when your walls clenched around his girth and your body quaked underneath him, with his name and his rank escaping you loosely before those words became nothing but helpless little whines.

As Thrawn felt himself approaching his release, he lowered himself down on you to kiss your lips. You whimpered into him just as your second orgasm had died down, escalating obscenely quickly into a third one, the sensations peaking when your orgasm blended with his and you felt him release inside you before he relaxed his body on top of you.

After such an endeavor, you had no headspace left for anything but lying there beside him. You heard Thrawn whisper a few words to you, but you couldn’t make sense of any of what he said. The last thing you could register as you curled up on your side was the feeling of a blanket being draped over you and a pair of lips softly pressing a kiss to your forehead, and after that, you were done for the night.

Your sleep was dreamless, and when you woke up the morning after, you didn’t see Thrawn beside you. As you sat up, you felt a beautiful lingering soreness between your legs, and you couldn’t help but giggle to yourself as you remembered the events of the previous night, not just your time alone with Thrawn, but everything that led up to it. The curtain had been lifted from the window, and you saw outside that the sun was well up in the sky, and yet, you didn’t have a worry in the world.

You got out of the bed with the blanket wrapped around your body, and on the nightstand, you noticed a tray with a piece of bread, a glass of juice, and a tiny vase with a single red rose on it. You grinned brightly and felt your cheeks getting hot, and you reached for the little parchment that rested beside the plate of bread, smiling as you read the fine calligraphy.

Have a beautiful day. See you tonight.

You lay on the bed again, smiling with a dreamy sigh and holding the parchment in your hand as you let your mind wonder what you’d do with your newfound time and freedom until the night came and you could see your lover again.

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samspenandsword · 2 years

Text

Welcome to the Faire: Thrawn/Reader (GN)

Summary: Every year, your planet hosts a Faire, a festival where citizens can come enjoy food, fun, merriment, performances, ancient sports, and historical art. As one of the local artisans who hosts a booth at the Faire every year, it is both the most fun and stressful time of the year for you. But one weekend, between the kids with sticky fingers and half-drunk tourists, you encounter someone who seems genuinely enthralled with your work. Pairing: Grand Admiral Thrawn/Reader — gender-neutral reader with no mentions of their appearance other than a costume. Rating: GEN — SFW Warnings: Renaissance festival inspiration, jaded!artist reader vibes, narrative heavy, made up planet and history, use of real-world mythology as inspiration, mild descriptions of war, peril, and war imagery, talks of art and war, first meeting, very light attraction and fluff, the tourism industry deserves its own warning. Word Count: 3.8k

Just a quick note about this piece, I rated it General/SFW, but it does have some talks of war and the violence and realities that come with that (this is Star Wars folks). Please read this piece with that in mind.

Also, my recent trip to the Renaissance Festival and rewatch of Rebels inspired this piece.

You were sweating buckets beneath your costume. You had chosen the wrong day to wear thick, swathing, black fabric. It covered your entire body, wrapping you into a shadow that was meant to resemble a historic assassin costume. A longsword hung from your waist, secured with a large belted scabbard. A dagger was strapped to your opposite thigh, and across your back was slung a custom recurve bow and quiver. A deep black cowl was drawn around your head, so completely that none of your feaures could be observed. You usually enjoyed dressing in costumes every day of the Faire, and you had an impressive collection of costumes ranging from your current assassin garb to a dewy sea spirit to a fierce dragonborn to a poor peasant. You loved dressing in costume. But today was scorching, and your outfit stuck uncomfortably to your sweaty skin as you hunched over one of your displays.

You were a sixth-generation weaponsmith. Your family shop and business had been around for all those generations, but that was common for most businesses on your little Outer Rim planet. Everything from cantinas to inns to farms were family-operated and passed down through the generations. And for all those generations, your family created weapons and art inspired by the ancient ways.

The display you were hunched over cradled a display of daggers, in varying lengths and weights and styles. Single-bladed, double-bladed, etched, engraved, leather-hilted, wood-hilted, sheathed, curved, warbled. Your eyes narrowed at the fingerprints on one of your daggers — a six-inch, double-bladed weapon with etchings of constellations. The metal itself was a dense, black metal forged into a deadly point. The hilt was toned to a bright silver, matching perfectly with the etched stars. The grip was narrow for comfort, and the pommel contained a single black jewel.

You stared at the dagger, not because it was a work of art (it was), but because little fingerprints littered the blade.

You specifically asked guests to only handle the weapons by the hilt, so that you didn’t have to spend so much time polishing your display weapons every night. You also specifically didn’t allow anyone under the age of 18 to handle any weapon, lest something happen. But evidently this did not stop parents from letting their sticky-fingered children put their hands all over sharp, actual weapons.

You sighed beneath your cowl, picking up the dagger in deft hands and weaving towards the back of the booth, where you could clean the blade in hopeful peace.

The Faire was fun. No doubt. In fact, it was genuinely your favorite time of year. Every year, a wealth of people came to your booth to ooh and ahh over your work: fellow artisans, weapons collectors, historians, Faire cast members who bought weapons for their performances, simple admirers. You appreciated everyone who came to your booth with genuine respect and interest. But with every child or parent that didn’t follow your basic safety rules, you were forced to remember that the Faire, as much as you enjoyed it, was also the most stressful time of the year for you.

You were a weaponsmith, and an artist. Your art was weapons. And your weapons were art. You made both practical weapons: weapons made to be used, and weapons that were meant for display more than anything else. Your booth was scattered with any ancient weapon you could think of. Knives, daggers, swords, axes, maces, staves, staffs, bows, arrows, crossbows, even darts. You also sold quivers, belts, scabbards, holsters, and sheathes. One of your employees, a lifelong friend and colleague, was the leatherworker who made the sheathes, belts, holsters, quivers, and scabbards for your weapons. You had two other employees: a fellow weapons and metalsmith, and an apprentice.

The leatherworker and apprentice were both working the booth with you today, and the both of them were chatting with visitors. Your fellow weaponsmith was manning the shop in town today.

The Faire seemed busy. Well, busier than normal. The Faire was always busy. And to be perfectly honest, you had a prime spot on the fairgrounds, neighbored by the archery booth, a hair-braiding stall, and a tea booth. So your stall always saw a lot of foot traffic. But today the fairgrounds seemed truly packed. And between that, the heat, and the numerous people disregarding the basic safety rules of your booth (you saw the leatherworker catch a child’s hand as they went to grab a knife by the blade), today was wearing you thin. You couldn’t wait for the archery tournament. It would give you the chance to step away from the tourists who saw your work as entertainment at some amusement park rather than what it actually was: art.

“Impressive.”

It took a moment for the voice to break through the haze of muscle-memory you were in. Polishing and cleaning weapons was practically second nature to you. But at the sound of the soft compliment, you looked up.

You were not expecting the being your eyes landed on.

The Chiss man was tall, imposing, striking. His blue hair was slicked back, and though he wore civilian clothing, it was clear from the way his red eyes roved the weapons on display, and the rigid line of his back, and the tall set of his shoulders, and the simple way he clasped his hands behind his back, that he was military. You couldn’t imagine what he was doing on your planet, but it was not your place to ask.

“Thank you.”

The Chiss man’s eyes did not leave the walls of your booth, but he continued to speak to you. “It is clear these weapons have been masterfully created. With care and passion. I take it you are the artisan.”

It wasn’t a question, and his gaze finally fell on you. Despite the layers you wore, you felt stripped bare under those crimson eyes. You knew, realistically, that he couldn’t truly see your features, and yet all the same you felt as if he could, as if he could see everything. And with the way his eyes traced the outlines of your costume, and bored into your cowl as if he could see you, he could only be analyzing you as much as he just analyzed your art.

“I am. One of them, anyway.”

“Hmm.” He turned back into the booth, his attention shifting to the one display in your booth that was inside a glass case. The case contained your most precious, expensive, exhaustive, special, personal favorite creations. A pair of matching daggers with etchings inspired by the legends of the Jedi and Sith of Old. A scroll, painstakingly aged and inked and colored with an ancient, bearded tree inspired by one of your favorite childhood stories and legends. A large crystal, cut and sculpted and smoothed into the model of a dancer. A bow carved with the forests of your home. And the centerpiece: a sword.

A longsword not dissimilar from the one at your hip. You’d spent over a year forging, etching, and toning the blade. Etched across its broad, impressive length of wickedly sharp and deadly bladed metal was a story everyone from your homeworld was familiar with, but would mean nothing to an offworlder.

So you were genuinely surprised when the geam of the Chiss’ eyes shifted from analyzing, to admiring.

He was admiring your creation. Openly. So much so that his entire stance and being slackened with it.

“Who is the figure there on the blade?”

You hesitated to answer. Not because you didn’t believe his interest, it was quite obvious, but because you were further surprised by his genuine curiosity.

“What their name was has now been forgotten. We call them Solaris.” Your eyes unconsciously drifted upwards, as if you could see straight through the wooden roof of your booth, past the clouds and daylight, and into the depths of your galaxy, where the light of a long-dead star no longer shone. Legend told that the star shone brighter than any other, and that your ancestors used its light to guide them and navigate across the planet.

“Solaris was an artist. But when a clan of ancient warriors came to our home, intent on pillaging our planet, stealing our culture, massacring our people, we were called upon to fight back. Our people had not seen war in centuries. We were artists, farmers, musicians, bakers. But some of us had not forgotten the ancient ways to fight and defend our home. Solaris’ father was our general. His spouse, our leader. Their three eldest, our commanders. Solaris was the youngest. Too young. And they lost their entire family overnight in a battle we call The Coming of Revelation. The beginning of the end. That battle started it all.”

Your gaze fell to your beloved longsword. There, at the base of the blade, just at the start of the guard, showed a fire. And within the flames stood five figures, and a sixth, just outside the flames’ reach, their hand extended, reaching for their family. Deadened, blackened etched trees hid figures with dripping swords, and figures in humble garb fleeing.

The flames receded. What was left resembled a graveyard, the skeletons of forests and spirits of people laid to rest there. A single figure stood amongst the waste.

“Solaris knew it was up to them to lead what remained of our people. But they were faced with a difficult decision.”

The Chiss man hummed. “To hide and survive, but give up their home. Or to wage war, and risk complete ruin.”

His eyes continued to admire the blade, traversing its scenes with painstaking care. He noted everything. Every detail. And knew that creating this masterpiece had taken every skill and trick this artisan possessed.

There was nothing more exquisite than an artist who put their heart, soul, and skills into every piece they created. It was the mark of a true artist. So the Chiss found his focus returning to the artist, allowing himself to become enraptured in the story and passion of their masterpiece.

“Solaris did both. Rather than risk rash action, they took their people into the mountains, where they hid and survived. For ten years, they recovered, planned their attack. Solaris stepped up in every way. They trained in combat. They used their skills as an artist to study the enemy and their ways. They used their practical artisan skills to improve their armor, mining the ore in the mountains for metal. Our people learned how to hunt. Learned how to track. Learned to scavenge, to spy, to strategize, to infiltrate, to wage war.

The next portion of the blade showed a range of caves. Glittering veins lined their length, intersected by figures now garbed in armor and leathers. Amongst the hunters, amongst the children, amongst the women, the elders, soldiers, the miners, stood a single figure, marked by a single star on their chest. The etchings continued to hold detail so minor and small most would miss it; like the slump of the figure’s shoulders when they were alone, and the strong tilt of their chin when surrounded by others. The varying lengths of their hair from year to year, the shift from simple clothes to thick leathers and chained armor, even a gleam to shadowed, baggy eyes. Most would miss all this, but the Chiss caught it all. And continued to admire both the art and the artist.

“And after ten years of pain, of forcing themselves to be strong for their people, of having our people depend on them, Solaris took the war to the invaders. Ten more years of war waged. War so brutal and bloody it decimated all but our people’s spirit and memory.”

The brutality and bloodiness of the ancient war was next depicted on the blade. Scenes most could not imagine, let alone stomach seeing. Seeing those scenes etched upon a blade gleaming with a honed double-edge planted stones in the stomach of any who cared to look.

So rarely was a piece so emotionally evocative in the all-encompassing way this one was. The Chiss’ enrapture grew. And his stance took him closer to the artist and their masterpiece, leaning ever closer to the objects of his growing admiration.

“The final night came to pass, and by the end of the Battle of the Morning Star, the invaders were no more.”

The Chiss man’s analyzing, gleaming eyes finally shifted to something else. They narrowed, falling to you, and his lips pursed lightly.

“And what happened during this battle?”

You felt a smile touch your lips, though he could not see it. Still, the tilt of your head conveyed to him both a pride in your work and an openness to him.

“You tell me.” Your head tilted towards the sword, and his own lips tilted. An invitation. One he readily accepted.

The figure of Solaris was not front and center. They did not stand before their army, but among them. Not crowned, or furred, or heralded. But in the same armors and weapons and leathers as their people. A sword in their hand, a dagger on their thigh, a bow on their back. Mountains against a sky, a single star shining bright, mirrored on their chest. Their people numbered far less than the army shadowed by still-barren trees. But the strength in their hearts and stances far outweighed the numbers of the broken army before them, with exhausted features, broken armor, and stained weapons.

What could’ve been the beginning of a bloody, civilization-ending battle was rife with tension. Even etched, still and lifeless. The Chiss man leaned forward to observe it all, a tension in him he imagined lived in everyone present that fateful night.

You had called it the Battle of the Morning Star. A battle.

But Solaris had drawn no weapons. Instead, they stood, amongst their people, with their arm outstretched, their hand open. Extended toward their enemy.

The Chiss actually felt his expression slacken. He knew you saw the realization in him, your head tilted in a clear display of both pride and amusement.

“Our people were once warriors. But they were also artists. Musicians. Farmers. Bakers. No one knows exactly what passed that night. What Solaris said, or did. But as the morning star, the sun, rose the next morning, the war was ended with a peace that allowed us, all of us, to become so once more.”

And at the very tip of the bladed masterpiece, in the center of an eight-point, shining star, was a single figure, in humble clothing, their arms laid to rest.

“Where once there were two peoples now there is one. That war is history. Our history. But Solaris is legend. Any true proof of their existence is long gone, but their story lives in us nonetheless. And their spirit, whether it has endured since the war, or was born of legend, lives in us all.”

You looked at the military man before you. You met his eyes. He held your gaze, even though he saw no eyes beyond the shadow of your cowl.

“There is a lesson in Solaris’ warfare. From artist, to warrior and leader, to artist again. And I think Solaris may have understood, more than anyone, just how much art and war can exist together. They aren’t opposites or opposers. They’re compliments. And there is much to be learned from each.”

The Chiss had not asked why you made art of weapons, or weapons of art. But he was the first being you’d encountered that you felt compelled to tell.

Six generations now your family had done this. But it was more than a legacy to you. And for some reason you couldn’t quite fathom or pinpoint, you wanted, needed this being to understand that.

And he did. He very much did.

“Is this piece for sale?”

His voice was smooth. And truly, he seemed more soft-spoken than you’d expected of a military man. It sent pleasant tingles across your skin, until his words caught up with you.

Yes, the Solaris Sword was for sale. For a price no one would ever pay. You’d done that not because that’s what it was worth (though that was also a reason), but because you had been scared of the idea of parting ways with your piece someday. Maybe because you were surrounded by people who grew with the legend of Solaris, who had become numb to the majesty of their story.

You had always feared your Solaris Sword would end in the hands of someone who didn’t fully appreciate the sheer work, passion, and heart you’d put into the piece.

But you no longer felt that fear. Because you had seen the rapture in this being, and knew that art was to be shared.

“It is.”

“I would prefer to broker the sale in a more... private setting. Might we meet when the Faire closes for the evening?”

The Chiss, for the first time since your encounter, adopted what seemed to be his usual stance: shoulders back, head held high, hands clasped at his back. You knew your current encounter was ending.

“Come to my shop this evening. We can finalize the sale there, and if you wish, can see pieces not on display here at the Faire.”

Crimson eyes lit up with interest. But he gave a simple nod.

“Very well.”

______________

It was dark by the time you got everything settled and packed from the Faire. The archery tournament had come and go swiftly, the red of the center of your targets keeping your thoughts on the intensity of your Chiss visitor’s scarlet eyes rather than the tournament. Eyes that saw everything. Eyes that missed nothing.

Least of all your art.

And funnily enough, he’d seemed to see you, just as much.

Your assassin costume had long been shucked, and a good use of the sonic had cleaned you of the day’s sweat and grime. You stood now in your closed shop in regular clothes, comfortable and casual. You were an artist. Your art made the impression, not you. You sat at the counter, your art pad sitting before you. You tried to occupy yourself by scrolling through design drafts, trying to shove down your nerves.

What if he didn’t show? What if he’d changed his mind?

Fears that plagued every artist under any sun.

But as you flipped to another design, a gentle knock sounded on your shop door.

The Chiss man was now donning an Imperial officer’s uniform. And between that and your own casual clothing, it was like you both were seeing the real versions of each other now. Him, an officer with an art appreciation that lended itself to his brilliance in warfare. You, a sixth-generation civilian artist who could fight with the weapons they made, but had never seen battle.

Those intense eyes took you in, drinking in every feature that had previously been hidden like you were the art piece. And though his expression never shifted from a neutral, relaxed state, his eyes shone with something you dared to name approval. Perhaps because you were not afraid to show who you truly were.

And this being appreciated being able to truly see both the artist and their art.

The Solaris Sword rested in its usual stand, encased in glass that displayed its story, and crossed with a scabbard that’s simplicity betrayed the beauty of the sword itself.

“It is truly exquisite.”

You would never get used to compliments on you work. Especially the ones spoken by those who truly meant it.

But this being did not seem to be one for flowery gratitude. And to be honest, neither were you. So you simply said,

“Thank you.”

“How did you become an artist?”

“It’s in my blood.” You briefly told him of the founder of your shop, your great-great-great grandmother who apprenticed to the elderly, widowed and childless weaponsmith. She learned all he had to teach, and with it opened this shop. She passed on what she knew to her children, and to their children, and the next, and the next.

And now it was yours. You gladly maintained the shop. But to you, and to all your ancestors, it was about your art.

“I am prepared to offer you —”

You choked at the amount. It was twice what you had priced the piece at. He stared at you with thinly-veiled amusement.

“I would be a fool to decline,” you worked out. “But are you sure?”

“I pay what art is worth.”

His voice and tone was almost flippant, but his crimson eyes were fervent.

It only increased as you shifted in your bashfulness.

The deal was struck. After you processed his credits and packed the sword, scabbard, and display for transport, you couldn’t help pausing. This sword had been a labor of love for you, and your heart was filled with melancholy as you held it in your hands for the final time.

“You will miss it.”

An observation, not a question.

“Yes. An artist, no matter how prolific or famous or new, always has a part of them that is loath to part with their creations. I am no different. But I know this piece will be in the hands of someone who genuinely admires and cares for it. And that is all I can wish for.”

You met his eyes, unable to help admiring the man: the perfect curve of his back, the broadness of his shoulders, the sharpness of his jaw, cheekbones, and brow. He could be a work of art himself.

“Art is to be shared,” you said, quietly enough it was almost said to yourself. “Never hoarded, or hidden, or ignored. Art is universal. And I am glad to share mine.”

His lips quirked just the slightest bit, your smile, and passion, reciprocated. And he might have said something in response, but his gaze was then caught by your pad, still shining with the design you’d flipped to just before his arrival.

“A chimaera,” he said, nearly gasped. You plucked your art pad from the counter, a smile continuing to touch your lips.

“A creature of myth,” you said.

“Not one easily defeated.”

“No,” you agreed. “Only with the help of a creature of the sky, and a mighty weapon, did a hero of old defeat the chimaera. Or so the myths say.”

The Chiss man was quiet for a long moment, his expression contemplating.

“Do you take commissions?”

“I am an artist. I make my living on commissions.”

His lips quirked at the quip. “As much as I would love to stay and see each masterpiece you have ever created, I have little time remaining this evening. But I would like to commission a piece using a chimaera design. A sizable piece.”

“How sizable?”

His eyes crinkled with a sly, secret humor. “Sizable.”

You couldn’t help a huff of a chuckle. “Very well. Might I have the privilege of knowing the name of my newest client?”

His lips quirked again, in a more full, real smile than he’d granted you before.

“Thrawn.”

______________

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