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If I was born as a blackthorn tree
I'd wanna be felled by you
Held by you
Fuel the pyre of your enemies
- Hozier NFWMB
If he were in any more of a clear headspace, Firmus Piett would feel utterly annoyed with himself. It’s not like him to have a crush, and it’s certainly not like him to allow that crush to go to his head. He would blame it on the alcohol, but one, he has a very high tolerance, and two, the sort of fancy Coruscanti get together he was at only serves the synthetic stuff. Too many Moff fights, Tiaan has told him.
No, Piett has only himself to blame for this.
And yet he can’t stop thinking about him. The only alien in the Imperial Navy.
Thrawn.
He’d met the Grand Admiral just this night at another of those awful Coruscant gatherings that he could no longer skip, not as the Captain of the Executor. His Lordship hates them just as much, but unlike Piett, Vader isn’t part of the Navy and can come and go as he pleases.
He’d made do, with a drink in his hand and using his ability to sneak away unnoticed. He’d ended up in a quiet room full of odd-looking sculptures. A small museum, perhaps. He didn’t really care for the art, as long as it was quiet. Alone time is a rare thing when serving on a Star Destroyer, and Piett has always valued the quiet.
But he hadn’t been alone here. Two fiery red dots had made their way to him in the semi dark, revealing the Empire’s only alien Grand Admiral. Despite his considerable bulk, he’d moved quietly, with precise, measured steps. From the get-go, Piett had felt that a lot of the stories he’d heard about Thrawn were true. Stories about his uncanny ability to read his enemies with a mere glance at their art. Stories about how very unnervingly quiet he could be, never outwardly moved no matter how intense the battle.
All of these stories had failed to mention one rather important detail that had Piett stammer like some fresh-faced cadet.
It is obvious to anyone observing him for even a handful of seconds that Thrawn is big. Huge, even. Next to Piett, he’d been towering. Beastly, Tiaan had sniffed, and Piett had politely declined to point out Tiaan, too had been rather flushed. Thrawn is sized just right, Piett feels.
Which is part of the problem, here.
From the moment he got to his room for the night, his mind has been pushing increasingly inappropriate images on him. They all have one very big, very blue common theme in a decidedly un-Imperial setting.
Piett may not be as blatant about it as Tiaan with all his little holozines, but he does have a taste for a particular kind of man. Every ingredient comes together in the Grand Admiral. From the streaks of gray in his hair, to the way his epaulets had looked comically small on his huge shoulders, all the way down to the well-polished and very clearly big boots.
No doubt he’s big all over, Piett’s mind supplies, not at all helpfully, and he scoffs at it. What he needs is to take a cold shower, and put this ridiculous crush to rest. He’s Captain of the flagship of the Imperial Navy, not a grass green cadet, and he should act like it.
He really tries, truly. The suite he’s been assigned has a very fancy, spacious shower, with a small bench built in to the wall. He decides a shower is what’s needed. It’s very nice to sit there under the hot water. Captains get more water rations, but it still feels decadent, even wasteful to use the shower too long. Here, though, he can indulge.
His mind wanders again. Thrawn had shaken his hand, and Piett had felt his throat go dry at seeing his own, far more slight hand disappear in Thrawn’s. They’d both observed uniform protocol, and so they’d both had their gloves on, but Piett could have sworn he felt the warmth of Thrawn’s skin through the synthleather.
He may not be big all over. Piett has seen enough of the galaxy to not assume anything. For all he knows, Thrawn may have an entirely different configuration.
That isn’t off-putting to him though, not in the slightest. His thoughts tumble on, and Piett just can’t make himself turn the shower to cold. He shifts on the bench. Perhaps if he takes care of himself now, he can put this to rest. It’s not as if he’s likely to meet Thrawn again; after all, the Grand Admiral spends most of his time at the edges of known space. If he can just clear his mind, he’ll be fine.
Quickly, almost guiltily, he reaches down between his legs where his interest in Thrawn has been present in a most distracting way all night. His hand closes around his cock with practised ease, and he hisses at the first contact.
Thrawn’s hand would engulf his entire prick, and that has his hips hitch into his light strokes already.
His cock would disappear in that hand. Thrawn might even comment on it, with a rumbling bass-baritone.
And Thrawn would be so much stronger, too. Piett bites his lip as he squeezes himself tighter. He likes a slightly rough stroke, and Thrawn would provide that, no doubt. With tight squeezes of that massive hand in the upward motion of his strokes.
Piett’s other hand moves down as well as he considers a large, shockingly blue hand cupping his bollocks.
No, not cupping. Thrawn wouldn’t cup.
Thrawn would grab and squeeze. Not hard enough to be painful, but hard enough to serve as a reminder of his strength. Piett can’t stop a hastily cut off moan from escaping at that thought.
Yes, Thrawn would be strong. Strong enough to grab him and overpower him with laughable ease. Those otherworldly eyes would observe him as Thrawn holds him down, savouring his victory. And Piett would submit, very willingly, and very eagerly, belly down. Ripe for the taking.
Not that he’d have a choice, not with Thrawn’s massive bulk covering him. Smothering him, pushing him into the mattress, that sizeable belly a firm weight on his back. At that, he speeds up his strokes. He leans his head against the wall behind him and lets out a heartfelt groan.
Thrawn would see to him like that, with his prick entirely engulfed in his huge hand, in a mercilessly strong grip. He’d have no choice but to lie there and take whatever Thrawn is willing to give him.
The tidy little Axxilan officer, submitting to the ferocious, massive alien. Submitting so very eagerly, letting himself be overpowered without even putting up a fight. It’s unbecoming of an officer, he thinks.
His hand is a blur on his prick now.
An image of a large blue hand pushing down on his neck and forcing his face into the pillow as he’s thoroughly fucked by the alien has him come so hard and so unexpectedly, he sees stars.
When he comes to, the evidence of his lack of self-control is dripping from the tiles.
Much more worrying than that is the interested little twitch his spent prick gives when he considers what that’d look like splattered all over cerulean skin.
He’s in trouble.