Chapter Text
“Ma’am?” You lift your gaze from the datapad and look at the young man who addressed you. Petty officer Thanisson looks nervous, but also proud.
You are a decade older than him, but only one rank above, a combination that often makes you the object of his confidences. You joined the military late, having first pursued a civilian career until an affair with your boss ended badly and you decided to get away as fast and as far as you could. Fortunately, your skills with computers had been enough in demand that you were assigned the lowest officer’s rank after a crash course in the bare necessities. You would never command personnel anyway, making you an ensign was simply the most convenient way to employ you as a specialist and station you where needed.
“Yes, Thanisson? Do you want to tell me something?”
“I found… I found this, ma’am. In the cantina. A book, ma’am.” He holds it up, and you recognize the title immediately, in spite of not having encountered any physical copies of it. “Imperial style” was legendary, its raunchy content high in demand until the Emperor had banned both it and all similar works, supposedly on Lord Vader’s initiative.
“It is… it is indecent,” the doe-eyed young man continues, pink tinting his cheeks.
“Have you read it, Thanisson?” By now, he is blushing to the roots of his hair. It is quite lovely, actually. His enormous eyes look so innocent you can’t help imagining they must be hiding something dark and illicit. If the man just didn’t look so childish.
“Just… just a glance, ma’am,” he hesitates. “It wasn’t obvious what kind of literature it would be. I thought…”
“Yes?”
“I thought it would be a biography of sorts, ma’am. On the imperial officers who set an example for us all. And instead…” His face contorts in a grimace. “It is heretical. I’m sorry, ma’am, I should just have disposed of it.”
“You were right to bring it to me, Thanisson.” You take the book and run your digit slowly, reverently even, over the embossed title. “This is actually propaganda,” you tell the young man, who is now staring at you with intent. “A rare sort conceived by Grand Moff Tarkin in his infinite… wisdom. It was thought at the time that since the troops would read indecent matter anyway, circulating approved stories featuring the high command would satisfy this desire in a way that could be controlled, at the same time as it would inspire hero worship, even if it was a twisted kind of it.” You smile. It would certainly inspire you, even if you can’t quite imagine the present leadership in similar roles. General Hux is very handsome, though.
“Then it would be okay to read it?” Thanisson’s eager voice interrupts your musings and you lift your gaze from the book to look at him. His face shines with hope and you hate crushing it.
“No. It was at the time, but today, it is not something that is encouraged. I will take care of this.”
“Of course, ma’am.” The light in his eyes tones down to his usual level of eagerness, which is more than enough, and he hands over the book.
“Thank you.” You brush your fingers against his hand a little more than necessary, holding his gaze a second too long. “You did well.” He beams.
Thanisson returns to his station and you examine the book in your hands closer. It is indeed rare, partly because of its banned contents, but mostly because of the format. Print on paper. This is a relic. Who on the Finalizer would possess such a thing in the first place, not to mention be careless enough to displace it? At least there isn’t any doubt about what to do with it. General Hux is a book connoisseur and a great admirer of the Grand Moff, and would no doubt appreciate an addition to his collection of memorabilia, if you can only bring yourself to give it to him. Perhaps you can do so in secret, although that would rob you of the chance to see his reaction, as well as any future favours such a gift might render you. But that is a problem for later. Before deciding the book’s fate, you will read it. Already tonight, the stories will add a little adventure to your dull and lonely evenings.
***
Back in the sanctity of your own quarters after the end of the shift, you shower and change from uniform to comfortable loose-fitting pants and tunic. All the time the book lies on the shelf beside your bed, the Grand Moff on the cover staring almost accusingly at you. You will get rid of it, you promise yourself, and him. Just a little research at first, in the name of curiosity, what harm is there in that? Besides, regardless of what you told Thanisson, one should know one’s history.
Thoughts of the Petty Officer pricks your conscience like a needle, but only briefly. You couldn’t have handled this matter differently – by ridding the young man of the notorious book, you had even helped him. It is a lie, and yet it is with a sigh of content you lie down on the bed, head propped up on too thin regulation pillow with your carefully folded coat underneath.
You reach out and take the book, bringing it to your nose. There is none of the new book smell you remember from your childhood, you realize with some disappointment as you thumb through the pages. Yet, you proceed to hold it in front of you, almost reverently, savouring the moment before diving into the new world between its covers.
You were in the control room of the Death Star, alone but for the guards outside. Sleep had evaded you, and you knew that putting in some extra work would be a good solution of that problem. Being well prepared meant the next day would be less stressful, which was particularly important as the time of the project’s completion was near. You prided yourself with your excellent service record. Tonight’s work would once again bear witness of your impeccable efficiency, justifying your well-earned place in the Imperial forces.
Calculations and schedules filled the screen as your fast fingers flew over the panels. Your focus was entirely on your console, and only when you saw a reflection flicker in the smooth surface you noticed that someone was standing behind you. You froze, suddenly filled with dread, in spite of knowing that nobody without clearance could have passed the death troopers in the corridor. Slowly you turned your head, and jumped with surprise when you saw who it was. Grand Moff Tarkin.
“Sorry, sir. If you wish to be alone, I will take my leave immediately, sir.”
“No. Proceed.”
His careful pronunciation and trademark rolled ‘r’ stirred something inside of you. You were thrilled with the stern man’s attention. You continued typing and in the reflection of the glass you could see that his face was still, looking at the screen.
His presence filled you with a sense of awe, immense respect, a measure of fear… and longing for his approval. Never before had you been under his scrutiny like this, but you felt somehow that his interest was benevolent. You doubled your efforts, determined not to be found lacking.
After a while, you noticed that Tarkin was standing even closer. His breath came in little puffs against your neck, the intimacy of it nearly indecent. Your backside must almost be touching his front. It was unnerving at first, but he seemed content to watch you work in silence, and eventually you began to relax. You could do this, you were a professional. Then you felt a slight pressure from behind, and you arched into him instinctively, pushing back before you realized what you were doing. Your breath hitched and you quickly corrected your position, continuing to type, but that didn’t change what you had felt. Him. Hard.
He pressed against you again, and this time you pushed back, holding your breath. No words of reprehension followed; instead you felt dry lips against your neck and strong hands holding your hips steady as he ground against you. You let out a wordless gasp, staring with determination at the screen.
Hands snuck towards your front now, under your shirt. You felt how he cupped your breasts, squeezing them gently at first, then pinching your nipples until you had to squeeze your eyes shut not to cry out. Then his hands were suddenly on your rear again, caressing you, pulling up your uniform skirt.
You were impossibly wet already. His long, slender fingers glided with ease on top of your soaked regulation underwear, all along your slit. You parted your legs, leaning forward, still typing, although with considerable difficulty. Swift fingers pulled your panties to the side and pushed into you, again and again. You pressed against him, helpless and needy, wordlessly begging for more.
Tarkin was merciful. A belt opened, there was a rustling of clothes and then you felt him at your entrance. You braced yourself against the console, standing on tiptoes. Feeling him entering you was bliss… and agony. He moved slowly at first, then stilled as if he wanted you to really feel the fullness of him deep inside of you. Both of you breathed deeply, in unison, and then he began to thrust, snapping his hips. He fucked you efficiently, in quick, measured strokes as you whimpered uncontrollably.
“Now, brief me,” he said suddenly, in an impossibly even voice, as if this was how he conducted his work daily. The thought sent a fresh gush of wetness between your thighs.
“Sir, I…” You needed to pull yourself together, and fast. You willed your mind to concentrate on the screen, and not not not on how incredibly turned on you were by being used by the Grand Moff.
You drew a deep breath and somehow managed to make your voice not come out in a wanton moan, but some likeness of professionalism. “These are the resource calculations for next month, sir,” you managed. “As you see from this graph here, spending is within… the… the… ah…anti…ci…pa…ted… range.” You had to stop, it was just too much with how he was absolutely pounding you. You opened your mouth in a wordless gasp, holding your breath, feeling the tightening inside until you exploded with a shameless moan that made you go silent as soon as you realized it.
That was when you heard it. Tarkin’s groan. The sound was low, dry, very matter-of-fact. Business successfully conducted. Nothing more. Taking what was his right, a fair payment for his loyalty and many years of service to the Empire.
To you, this vocalisation was the sound of approval you had been longing for. You turned and watched shyly as he straightened his clothes, delighted with the slight colour on his cheeks. Having fastened the last button, he caught your gaze with his piercing blue eyes.
“Your work is commendable, officer.”
Having uttered these words, the Grand Moff turned on his heel. Pride swelled in your chest as you watched him leave. You felt grateful and honoured to have been chosen to serve the great man and your heart confirmed that you were where you wanted to be for the rest of your days, serving the Empire to the best of your ability.
You suddenly realize that you are holding the book with just one hand, the other having sneaked down between your legs to rub at your clit. Closing your eyes, you put the book aside and your other hand goes underneath your panties. You imagine the fingers exploring your wetness are not yours, but Tarkin’s long and slender ones. Your last coherent thought before you fall asleep is a fantasy of servicing the austere Grand Moff on your knees, pleasing him with your mouth while he cruelly ignores your efforts. The old propaganda clearly still has its merits.