Demon!Tarkin joins the ranks of risen Imperials, and it’s all your fault! Written for the originators of the Demon!Veers AU, and with thanks to all who have added to it. I’ve enjoyed your hc’s, stories and art immensely, and you all have a part in inspiring this fic. It’s also my first ever M/M story, and even though it’s very mild, it’s still a big step for me. I hope you’ll enjoy.
(And to those who’ve so far enjoyed my M/F fics, fear not! I’m not changing focus, more, like, branching out :-))
Summary: Tarkin suffers heart failure after firing the Death Star’s weapon against the Scarif base, but gets an unexpected chance to save his lover. (Part angst, part fluff, 1530 words)
The title is a Bible quote from 1st Cor 15:55, King James Version.
”You may fire when ready.”
Tarkin issued the order in his customary, clipped command voice, distinct consonants carrying far. Used to being listened to, he did not need to raise his voice to be heard, but it stilled pleased him to observe the effect of his words on his subordinates, how they strived to carry out his orders with efficiency. Not in a hurried, sloppy manner, but swiftly, without tarrying.
He forced himself to watch the finger pushing the button, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach. During the moments that followed, he held his breath, as if waiting – hoping – for the laser to malfunction. How ironic wouldn’t that have been, if Krennic’s weapon had refused to turn against its creator, thereby confirming the very failure the man had been accused of?
The sharp flash of light and the massive cloud that rose from the planet surface beneath confirmed success. Cheering broke out in the command central, and an officer approached him, reporting with all due formality what he had already witnessed.
“The rebels have been annihilated, sir.”
Tarkin answered the salute, thanking his harsh training and long years of service for the ability to keep his hand, as well as his voice, steady.
“Very well. We must keep our vigilance; there is no telling where the terrorists will strike next.”
“Of course sir.”
“Good. Dismissed.”
As the officers and technicians resumed their normal duties, the atmosphere in the room coming back from extreme tension to the customary level of alertness, he allowed himself to relax his stance. Extreme fatigue washed over him and he staggered towards a console, gripping it with shaking fingers. What was this sudden weakness?
“Are you well, sir?”
He dismissed the worried voice with a practiced gesture.
“It is nothing. Resume your duties.”
It was nothing. This was not the time and place for personal concerns, and he would not let them rule him. He never had, and this situation wasn’t different from others he had encountered. The decision to fire had been correct; there was no other way to halt the approaching catastrophe. Losing his – former – lover was but an unfortunate side-effect; Krennic was even a doubtful asset to the cause at this stage. In the long run, this outcome was for the best, an elegant move, even. Through death, the director had evaded demotion, escaped a very likely court-martial or a worse fate at the Emperor’s hands, and with time his memory might even acquire an aura of tragic glory. Always one for drama, Krennic would have liked that.
Tarkin would continue to mask his feelings, as always. The sharp pain stabbing at his heart and spreading through his chest would dull eventually, and dissipate the sooner if he could just avoid thinking about what they once had. Those innocent, blue eyes looking up at him with far too much trust. Pouty lips, slightly swollen from rough kissing. Soft hands, ungloved only for him, touching his scarred body more gently than he’d allowed anyone to do in years. The begging, ah, what wouldn’t he give to see Krennic’s on his knees again?
All gone. Irrevocably. He clenched his fist, determined to convince himself that it had been nothing more than a convenient arrangement. Physical attraction, that was all. Relieving a need. And yet, he could not deny how it hurt to remember watching Orson sleeping. The pain in his chest refused to give way, numbness spread through his arms and he staggered again, helplessly sinking to the floor.
*
He screamed with pain as his lungs filled with air, each breath a torture he was unable to stop himself from going through again and again, until he was finally fit to use his senses. His hearing was dimmed, all he could pick up was the sound of odd chanting all around him, and he was surrounded by sickly green smoke. A foul taste of sulphur was in his mouth, and as he lifted his hand to wipe his lips, he became aware of his long, claw-line nails. How long had he been out for them to grow to that extent? His hand appeared somewhat fleshier than he remembered it, and as he examined the rest of his body, he took note of the pronounced musculature that seemed to have been added to his sinewy form. He stood with ease, without any hint of the pain in his joints he had begun to feel with advancing age. He felt young, and strong.
His uniform was in shreds and this public display of nakedness should have displeased him, but he found it natural. The icy chill in his limbs, unpleasant, but also natural, had nothing to do with temperature. He had no need for clothes.
Through the dissipating fog he saw Vader holding that cursed object, the sith holocron he’d hoped never to see again. Forming a circle around them both were his officers, their familiar faces watching him with far more fear than necessary. There was something else in their expressions, too. Awe, and – arousal?
“We could not afford to lose you at this hour, Governor,” Vader’s voice boomed. “The Emperor would not approve.”
“Ah…” His tongue felt alien in his mouth and forming words was much too difficult.
“We will speak later. You answer to me now, demon.”
“W – wah...” Curse this inaptitude! How hard it was to pronounce the words that came over him. What will you have me do, master?
“Get him.”
Him. Soft body, blue eyes. White fabric. Hands. A flicker of warmth came over him, soothing for a moment the persistant, bitter cold in his limbs. Krennic. Yes. The impulse to do his new master’s will caused an unexpected response in his body. Something dark fluttered at the corners of his eyes and he felt his feet lift from the ground. His master’s chuckle made him veer slightly in the air, as if he had stumbled.
“You will find that your present form has some new abilities, but for this, you still need a shuttle. We take mine.”
With his master’s abilities, they were able to locate the unconscious Krennic quickly amongst the rubble of the demolished citadel tower. His visible wounds weren’t lethal and he was breathing, but barely. Crouching, Tarkin gathered him into his arms, cradling him against his chest. Orson looked so weak, so frail. Could he even be healed? Perhaps it would be better if – he looked to his master.
“No. Later, perhaps, if you serve me well and the need arises. For now, the Emperor wants him alive. Human.”
He nodded in understanding, pleased that his… his… love (what a foreign concept) was allowed to keep this form for now. This human frailty was so alluring, so rosy and warm against his body, even through the tattered uniform. Simply imagining what he would feel like without it made his loins ache. He bowed his head, aiming for a gentle kiss but found himself devouring those lips with a frenzied passion that had Krennic moaning with more than lust.
“Stop.” His master’s voice cut sharply through the red haze and he recoiled, watching in horror what he had done. There was blood on his love’s lips.
“You are not allowed to break him,” Vader continued, and he whimpered in reply.
Devastated, he lifted Krennic’s limp body and offered it to his master. What good was this strong body if he had no control, if he could not be trusted?
“No. You must learn. You will stay with him, and you will both remain in the Emperor’s service. Do it well, and you may even earn your freedom, with time. Prove that you are still Wilhuff.”
He nodded, bile rising in his throat as he regarded Krennic’s… Orson’s still face. He placed a gentle kiss on his forehead – this time withdrawing fast before his blood could start thrumming with ravenous desire – and was rewarded with a murmur from the man in his arms.
“You…” it said.
“Yes. I came for you.”
Weakly, Orson’s good arm lifted to his face, gloved hand stroking his cheek gently, then proceeding to his hair. He felt the man’s body stiffen as the hand encountered something unexpected. Yes, he had horns now, but they were really small, elegant even. Could even fit underneath an officer’s cap if necessary.
Blue eyes fluttered open, and he did his best to produce a friendly grin. Orson’s gaze took in his form and suddenly flashed with panic.
“Wilhuff…” he said, shutting his eyes closed. “I need… better take me to medbay now. I’m hallucinating.”
“Yes, my love.” He placed a soothing kiss on his forehead again, relieved to feel Orson relax somewhat.
This time, the impulse to make speed was unquenchable and he lifted from the ground, covering the short distance to the shuttle much faster than he could have on foot. Orson clung to him, the warmth from his hands maddening, but he was determined to not let it fuel his desire before his lover was ready. He must fight, in this form as so many times during his lifetime. Wilhuff Tarkin would never back down from a challenge.
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(Italics from The Last Command by Timothy Zahn)
Thrawn was sitting upright in his chair, his face strangely calm. In the middle of his chest, a dark red stain was spreading across the spotless white of his Grand Admiral’s uniform. Glittering in the centre of the stain was the tip of Rukh’s assassin’s knife.
Thrawn caught his eye; and to Pellaeon’s astonishment, the Grand Admiral smiled. “But,” he whispered, “it was so artistically done.”
The smile faded. The glow in his eyes did likewise … and Thrawn, the last Grand Admiral, was--
Time stood still. Thrawn frowned, the growing pain and weakness which had been dragging his consciousness into the abyss seemed to have-- ceased... He had been ready for death... tired as he was... feeling all 71 of his years alive… Carrying on as he had with little heart but out of duty for his people... Seizing the moment to regroup the remnants of Palpatine's Empire to create the strong nation he preferred to be the ally his people needed against the Far Outsiders.
However, the universe apparently had little desire for that grand plan. The Rebellion had clearly prevailed and the double-edged sword that was the Nohgri's loyalty had finally turned upon him.
His only regret was not knowing how the Empire's treachery had been revealed to them.
"Ch’eo vur..."
That voice... Much loved... Missed... Thrawn could not say how he managed to muster the strength to turn towards it. "Max...
No... He did not even have the strength to hiss with the anger that overtook the pain in his chest. "Demon..."
Thrawn gazed upon the visage of a man achingly familiar though a clear impossibility. This was a face he had not seen in some two, or was it three decades. Brown hair, square jawed, beautiful hazel eyes, smooth youthful skin untouched by age or any blemish… An impossibility.
“Mitth'raw'nuruodo… Ch’eo vur…”
A blink, or was it two? Thrawn couldn’t tell, for somehow this apparition was now kneeling beside his command chair with a hand carding through his hair with a soft touch that was so familiar, but this was wrong… so wrong. For Maximillian Veers—the real Maximillian Veers did not have long, jagged horns of ebony and emerald arching from the sides of his skull. And at this close range, Thrawn could now well see the bluish green lines of dark veins upon the being’s sculpted swell of sinewy muscle.
“I have told you before, Demon… Do NOT use his voice.” He rasped through the pain in his heart which he wasn’t quite sure was only physical. Didn’t Rukh’s blade pierce him through the heart? Why wasn’t he dead yet? Where was Pellaeon—?
Oh… Just beyond this nightmare kneeling before him, Thrawn could see the Captain frozen in his stance of horrified shock. Time—was time so easy for this demon spawn to manipulate?
“Mitth'raw'nuruodo…” The back of a hand stroking over his cheek, brought his attention to this being again. “After all this time, can you still not believe me when I tell you that this *is* *my* voice?”
He was too tired to argue that age old point once more. “Tarkin… Palpatine.. both died… your masters are gone… Why did you remain, Demon?”
“Their deaths only freed me, Ch’eo vur.”
“Stop calling me that! You are not him!” Thrawn could feel flakes of blood drip from his lips even as the pain surged in his chest for his mortal wound.
His vision was for a moment whited out from the agony. And Thrawn flashed back upon that fateful day of soul crushing despair, when he was told that his beloved had died on Hoth. Then the days and weeks of numbness which followed as he tried to—to care about his own existence again. Of the concern showed by his hovering staff, and the quiet reminders from the trusted few to remember that his people were depending on him to cultivate and develop a strong ally in their defence against the Far Outsiders.
A month of quiet depression, Thrawn remembered he had allowed himself to grieve before he was ready to move on, only to be faced by the worst betrayal his so-called concerned superiors had ever inflicted upon him. Tarkin… Palpatine… The abomination they had raised through dark arts in the flesh of his beloved.
A triumphant Demon General of War. An arrogant, uncaring fiend, hungry only for the bright souls of slaughter, be it rebel or civilian. This self-important, conceited monster which presented itself to him upon its first successful mission and insisted—demanded for his promised consort.
Was it chance he was in Lord Vader’s presence that first time the demon came calling? Thrawn never questioned it. The Sith Lord had shielded Thrawn and held the demon back even as it howled and demanded its just reward for returning from the dead and fulfilling its masters’ orders.
From Colonel Yularen’s files, Captain Parck and Commander Niriz had quickly secured the Admonitor which became Thrawn’s Sanctuary from the demon. It had come to him between campaigns to demand… to plead its case… to cry for his trust and understanding…
He could not stand to face it… this abomination that wore his beloved’s face… Thrawn had suspected Lord Vader’s interference in gaining the Emperor’s understanding to at last allow him to flee into the Unknown Region with his fleet.
It had come to him one last time on the edge of the Unknown Region. Tired… defeated… sorrowful… And for a tiny moment, he had seen Max in its still hazel eyes as it promised to let him go, and to not to chase after him.
In his long years of exploration and expansionary work in the Unknown Regions, Thrawn had forgotten about Max… about the protections… That was why the demon could approach him now in the Chimera.
The gentle brushing of a hand on his cheek brought his attention back to the present. The pain was gone. There was only numbness now from his chest downwards.
“Mitth'raw'nuruodo, please?”
“I have no protectors now, demon…” He rasped, feeling more blood flake upon his lips and a trickle begin to drip from the corner of his mouth. “And—no more strength to resist… I cannot fight you.”
“I will not take you without your leave.”
“Really? You tried so many times.”
“When I was still mind addled by demonic influence.” Max’s cheeky smile shone down upon him. “I’ve matured since then. You’ve warned me of that before—about old age?”
“Age—and maturity…” Thrawn could feel his lips lift at the corners. He had been feeling his age lately. At 71, his hair was beginning to be streaked in white. Before he left Parck to return from the Unknown Region to investigate the Empire’s sudden silence, the man had teased him about letting the white show, and finally embracing the ‘title’ of venerable.
“Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Ch'eo—beloved, please. Let me save you.”
He felt moisture upon his face, it made him frown. The blur before him came back into focus to let him look upon a tearful visage. Oh… This… he looked so familiar… These hazel eyes so filled with love but also suffused with a pain he had never ever wanted to see.
Oh… “Max? Is it—is it really you? Ch’eo vur?”
“Yes, yes! Please? Will you trust me now? Please, I can only hold this stasis for so long.”
Thrawn felt the teardrops kiss his cheeks as he began to believe.
“Mitth'raw'nuruodo… Ch’eo vur…”
“Max… Ch’eo vur…” Thrawn rasped as he gazed up at his love, his General. “Is this it, then? The end?”
“No, no. Not if I have anything to say about it. But— May I?”
“Max?” It was ever so much harder to think.
“I can—I can heal you—remake you, Ch’eo vur. Will you let me?”
Thrawn gazed up at his tearful General. At the periphery of his vision, he thought he saw cracks.
“Mitth'raw'nuruodo… Thrawn!”
He blinked at his General’s distraught face. What? Was he—? Oh? He was asking—
“Please… Ch’eo vur… Don’t leave me to this existence without you. Please…”
Oh… He—why couldn’t he move his lips? This was important…
“Thrawn!”
“Yes.” His last words and breath, quickly swallowed by the mouth that closed upon his lips.
The demon that was Maximillian Veers pulled the body of his love off the assassin’s blade as the world shattered around them with the restoration of time. Pellaeon and the entire bridge of the Chimera recoiled in alarm and fright at the sudden appearance of this massive creature cradling their deceased Grand Admiral in his arms.
“Do not interrupt me.” The demon’s voice was silky, elegant, and otherworldly, thickened with an echo of harmonized voices beneath its surface.
In a blink, Veers cast the time freeze upon them again and in the same movement called forth his Death trooper minions and one special other to surround him and the body of his love. Tarkin gasped as he stumbled to catch his balance and stared upon the demon that was Maximillian Veers.
“Lead the chant.” Veers pointed a clawed finger at the former Grand Moff.
Tarkin stared from Veers to the Chiss in his arms, whose clothes were quickly vanished to reveal an aged body with its life blood dripping down its spine to pool on the floor.
“Minion!”
The words from long ago came to him immediately as he raised the Sith Holocron in his hand. As confused as he was, Tarkin had a sense that in this moment he had little free will. At the back of his mind, he knew—he knew he had died. The Death Star. How? When? That did not matter now. He was brought back for a purpose.
The chanting swelled with the voices of the Death troopers that surrounded them as the Sith Holocron rose from Tarkin’s hand. The familiar / unfamiliar moment when they had brought Maximillian Veers back so many years ago.
A swirl of black energy emerged from the holocron to sweep over the blood that still dripped from the fatal wound. It seemed to pick up the blood to become a cloud of black and red, eddying around the demon and the Chiss. Veers lifted his head to breathe and suck the cloud into his mouth.
The moment the last wisp of it was inhaled, he bent to close his mouth over Thrawn’s unmoving pale lips. As Tarkin watched, it appeared as if he could see the flow of energy moving from Veer’s mouth to Thrawn’s, down his throat to his chest and radiating from there to the extremities of his body; changing it, remoulding the thin, fragile aged skin, returning bulk to atrophied muscle.
The wound piercing through his back to his chest healed and closed, forming an indigo scar. Serrated ridges of light rose along his spine from neck to tail bone fading to a Burgundy Red. A pair of ridged horns broke through Thrawn’s blue-black hair and grew in a tight circle, looping from temple to cheek.
The chanting ceased. The holocron fell to the floor spent, hitting the floor with a crack in the same moment Thrawn’s body convulsed in its first unholy breath.
Tarkin watched bemused as the time freeze dissipated and the terrified bridge crew stared at the two demons sitting in their midst while the Death Troopers faded away. Thrawn was still heaving deep gulps of air as he was held, still nude in the protective embrace of his love while the General gently brushed velvet from the Chiss’ new twisted horns, revealing onyx black shot through with cracks of shining cerulean.
As their audience watched, the Grand Admiral had brought his breathing under control to look up into the hazel eyes of his General.
“Ch’eo vur.” Words whispered together; otherworldly and thickened with harmonized voices echoing in the silence of the bridge. Their lips meeting in a kiss which told of time too long apart, and the promise of centuries more together.
Despite the chaos of battle outside, Pellaeon found it hard to raise his voice to say anything to interrupt this—reunion. It was difficult for him to even register the fact that their Grand Admiral wasn—hadn’t died!
But still— “Gr —Grand Admiral?”
Both Thrawn and Veers turned to face him, making Pellaeon flinch for the fury that lit the eyes of the Demon General. “I thought I said no interr—"
“Max! We *are* in the middle of a pitch battle.” Thrawn pushed himself out of Veer’s arms to stand in all his nude glory; and truly, this—decades youthened body was stunning.
A quick glance around at the near salivating gaze of the bridge crew told Tarkin that the Chiss could still turn eyes, even with the slight demonic turn in his appearance; much like Veers had. A fact the demon General was clearly not happy with as he noticed and glared around him at the staring eyes of the men and women surrounding them.
Thrawn did not blush when he noticed the attention. Instead, he threw the leering Veers an annoyed look and with a snap of his fingers restored their usual uniforms, making the General pout for the cover up.
“We deal with this first.”
“I waited—”
“So, a few more hours are nothing in comparison.” Grand Admiral Thrawn strode to the back of his command chair and pulled out the assassin’s knife before he took his seat again.
Twirling the blade in his hand, he offered it hilt first to Veers. “Would you take care of this for me, Ch’eo vur? While I see to that?”
“It would be my pleasure.” The Demon General’s hazel eyes glowed with green fury as he seized the knife with one hand.
With his other hand though, Veers grabbed upon one of Thrawn’s horns to pull him closer into a soul devouring kiss. One of Thrawn’s hand had initially curled around the General’s shoulder, with his claws cutting into the fabric of the green uniform. But it soon reluctantly let go to move to the centre of the Veer’s chest to push him away.
“Later, Max. We have a battle to finish first.”
“Do NOT take your time, Mitth'raw'nuruodo.”
“I dislike wasting lives, Max.” Demon Grand Admiral Thrawn turned his gaze upon the screens and around the bridge, the human crew could be heard to inhale sharply or gasp as they felt the touch of a foreign entity upon their mind.
Their Grand Admiral’s voice whispered in their brain. “Come, my people. We have a war to win.”
@;-‘-,-
“Wilhuff?” Tarkin turned to face Veers who had approached him as the bridge crew of the Chimera collectively ignored them. “I will not apologise.”
Tarkin looked at his hands, no longer old and crippled with start of arthritis. “The tables are turned now, Master and Minion. But I have no complaints… And I can’t say I will apologise for bringing you back either.”
“You are mostly human.”
“Mostly?”
“Not changed to the extent that—” Veers casually waved at both himself and Thrawn.
“Do you hear me complaining?” Tarkin thoughtfully felt his face to confirm for himself that the wrinkles were gone.
“No.” Veers grinned at him. “So… care for a bit of hunting?”
Tarkin grinned at him wolfishly. “Will you supply me with decent equipment?”
“The best I can create.” Veers gave him a blaster rifle and a heavy blaster pistol.
“Then let us harvest some souls for you and teach the Noghri that it was unwise for them to betray the Empire.”
--------
Tarkin made an unexpected appearance as I was typing this :3
Tags: sfw; Sexual Assault/Molestation; angst; trauma; Thrawn being badass in spite of the situation, so I suppose it did become a bit humorous; dark!humour though; was supposed to be playful and sexy but turned to trauma and angst, then heavier angst really fast; death!fic;
It was a terrible mistake for Palpatine and Tarkin to summon a demon and craft it into the likeness and being of General Veers. The General was understandably furious when the demon escaped and came very near to committing the unthinkable upon his husband. Unable to banish it and unwilling to give it a Chiss of its own, the Grand Admiral and the General embark upon a gamble…
(Yeah, that happy/crack sounding AU where Veers yells at Tarkin to give Demon!Veers his own Demon!Thrawn didn’t make it past ‘GO’. This angsty thing happened instead.)
“Mitth’raw’nuruodo.”
Thrawn barely gave his husband a glittering look before he turned his attention back to his paperwork. “I thought you said you'd be—” He stole a quick glance at the chronometer, “Gone for another half hour with your Thundering herd?”
“Couldn't I finish off earlier, Ch’eo vur?” Veers glided into the room.
“You must have rushed. You've never left your crew with this much time off your usual practice drills.”
“I have a very enticing incentive waiting in our quarters.” Veers was on the left of Thrawn's chair now with his broad arms encircling his waist while his lips brushed against his neck.
“Max.” Thrawn tried not to arch into his husband's touch and give into the desire to tilt his head to give him better access to his neck. “I'm nearly at the end of this report. I need to finish it.”
“Do you really?” Veers pouted as he brought his face between Thrawn and his datapad.
“Yes, really. I timed it. If you hadn't been in such a hurry to get back, I would have been done with it before you returned. Now give me another 10 minutes, and I'll be ready for you,”
He gave his husband a quick peck on the lips, but the General of course dipped in to steal a longer deeper kiss. However, instead of indulging a little in this playful dance of tongues, Thrawn was taken aback to realise something was very wrong.
Dropping the datapad and stylus to bring his hands between himself and his 'husband', Thrawn tried to free himself from the devouring kiss and the suddenly vice like grip around his body. “Stop!” Thrawn wrenched his lips free to glare at this doppelganger. “Who are You?! What did you do to Max?!”
“Oh, this is unexpected. I thought I was supposed to be an exact replica.” The figure holding him seeming bulked up slightly, and Thrawn gulped as he watched two long, jagged horns of ebony and emerald emerge from the sides of its head.
“What are you?” Thrawn stared at this being which looked so much like his husband but obviously was not. “Why do you look like General Veers? Did you do something to him?”
The demon’s laugh was silky with an otherworldly vibe that echoed with a multitude of harmonized voices in Thrawn's head. “No, Mitth’raw’nuruodo, I have not even met your General. As for doing something to him? Nothing, why? Do you want me to?”
Thrawn was struggling to escape the doppelganger's vice like grip, his eyes widening with the realisation that this being was now nude with a very demanding member pressing against his leg. “Let me go!”
“Are you sure, I can't persuade you otherwise, Ch’eo vur? Your General Veers and I are so very similar.”
“Do NOT call me that! You have no right to it”
“You only realised the difference when we kissed, did you not?” The being easily turned the struggling Chiss around so that it could lay its head beside his face. “With your eyes closed, don't I feel like him?”
“Let me g—” Thrawn's words ended in a strangled cry as familiar warm lips kissed him under his neck and a long tongue snaked out to touch him at a particularly sensitive spot.
“It wouldn't even be cheating, Mitth’raw’nuruodo. I was made in his image. I can do everything your General is capable of... and even more.”
“Get your hands off—” Thrawn's voice was again choked off in a moan as clawed hands lightly scratched over his suddenly bared skin.
Where had his uniform gone? Had he suddenly lost a moment of time for this—demon to have stripped him? His mind was lost in a miasma of fear and lust as the doppelganger touched him in much too familiar ways, drawing responses from him that he couldn't avoid.
“I wouldn't hurt you, Mitth’raw’nuruodo.” Thrawn opened his teary eyes to realise he was now sitting nude upon the lap of this Demon and held tight in its embrace. “My similarity to your General ensures I will not force myself upon you.”
“Then let me GO!” The vice like hold loosened much to Thrawn's surprise.
“Mitth'raw—”
“Get your grubby claws off my husband!” Neither had notice the soft chime that announced the slide of a door opening, nor the entrance of the real Maximillian Veers. “Wilhuff!”
“Demon!” Tarkin hurried in after the furious General Veers. “My apologies, Grand Admiral, General.”
Veers stalked over to them and forcefully took his Chiss from the pouting demon's slack arms. Thrawn practically collapsed into the protective embrace of his husband.
“I was only playing.” The demon looked up worriedly at its furious master. “I wouldn't have harmed him. This body you gave me doesn't have the capability of doing that to its consort.”
Tarkin's glare intensified as he felt more than saw the real Veers tense while Thrawn shivered in his embrace. “The Grand Admiral is husband to General Veers. That does NOT give *you* any claim on him.”
“Why can't I have one of my own, then? It's not fair if I have the same feelings and desires, but can't act on them.”
“We will talk about it later. Now return to your chambers.” Tarkin waved a sith holocron in its face. “You are never to set foot in here again. Nor come within 10 metres of either your template General Veers or his husband Grand Admiral Thrawn.”
The demon pouted at them in disappointment. Before it left though, it swept close enough to Veers and Thrawn to grab one of the Chiss' hands. “I am sorry about the fright I gave you. I presumed too much.” It gave him a fangy leer, “But that is my nature as a demon.
“You know?” It addressed the outraged Veers, “we could have had a lovely three-some if you'd just be willing to share.”
Veers growled and his hand was quickly filled with a blaster pistol, though the demon only laughed as it released Thrawn's hand and skipped away to vanish before Veers could point his pistol at it. Tarkin just pinched the skin above his nose.
“Wilhuff! What in the name—”
“I'm sorry for that.” Tarkin turned to them. “The Emperor was dabbling and your name came up, but no one thought beyond the moment what might happen when we created that demon using the template of one of our greatest and loyal warriors.”
“Well, you're going to keep that hutt spawn away from us!”
Tarkin nodded firmly before turning his eyes to the still silent Chiss. “Grand Admiral? Thrawn?”
“Ch’eo vur?” Veers looked down at his shivering husband whose face had been pressed against his chest since the demon departed.
“It— it wasn't wrong to say it looked and sounded exactly like you. But...” Thrawn finally looked up at his husband. “He tasted of ashes.
“That's when I knew something was wrong.”
“Ch’eo vur...” Veers stroked a gentle hand over his husband's face to brush away the tears. The draping of a warm blanket around them reminded him that Tarkin was still with them and Thrawn was very much vulnerably nude.
Veers quickly moved them to the couch in their living room where he could arrange his husband draped over his body with their legs entangled. Tarkin found another blanket from their hall closet and draped that over them too.
None apparently wanted to break the silence that fell over them. It took a while, but the stress of the situation finally took its toll on Thrawn and he slipped into a fitful sleep while held in the protective embrace of his husband.
“Again, I am sorry for this.”
“Thank you for coming to me as soon as you realised it slipped your leash, but Wilhuff... that— that thing must go.” Veers growled at him softly, trying not to disturb his exhausted husband. “Bad enough you took my— identity to create this monstrosity... By its own claims you will be reducing the Empire's foremost strategist and tactician into nothing more than a sex toy for this monster if we give it what it wants. That's NOT happening.”
“We called up and harnessed a demon, Max... And forced it into your soul form. I don't think anyone believed it would work” Tarkin looked ashamed. “I—don't think we know how to safely banish it without freeing that demon and probably making the situation worse.”
Veers' eyes blazed at the Grand Moff.
“As it currently is, it cannot hurt you, its template, or Thrawn, its believed consort.” Tarkin told him solemnly. “But while I have commanded it to stay away...”
“It may still try to approach us.” Veers looked up at the ceiling in barely controlled anger. Tarkin well knew that if Veers didn't already have his arms full holding his slumbering husband, he'd probably have earned a split lip or a black eye.
“It— it did listen to me.”
The two Imperials looked at the Chiss in surprise. Thrawn pushed himself slightly off Veers' chest to look him in the eye. “I don't deny it gave me a fright, but it was releasing me before you entered.”
“Ch’eo vur...”
Thrawn gave his husband a peck on the lips. “If we must live with it underfoot, it needs to be trained.”
Jealousy, lust, anger and fear all flashed over Veers' face as he stared at his husband. Thrawn gave him a shaky smile. “I— believe— I still need a bit of time to get over this fright, but— I did notice your heart skip a beat when it mentioned a three-some.”
Veers' mouth went completely dry in astonishment. Jealousy and lust wared in his eyes, making his husband raise a speculative eyebrow at him.
Tarkin clearing his throat brought their attention back upon the Grand Moff. “We will *not* command it, Grand Admiral. Please don't think you need to—”
“There's something of an incubus in this demon's make up, isn't there?” Thrawn asked pushing himself fully off his husband now to sit on the sofa with the blankets wrapped around him like a robe.
Tarkin coughed uncomfortably as he glanced at Veers and back at Thrawn. “Unfortunately, the soldiers our Emperor gathered to do the summoning were rather impressionable youths with— a great deal of— respect for your husband.”
Veers barely held down a snort of laughter as his eyes went wide with humour then again turned dark with jealousy.
Thrawn gave Tarkin a smile which made him shiver. “You've given us a rather powerful weapon against this poor being then, Governor. It will desire to please us to be allowed near me. That makes it trainable.”
Veers' mouth dropped open in shock. “Did— did you just *weaponize* my love for you?”
Thrawn leaned back to give his husband an assuring kiss. “Nothing will replace you in my heart, Ch’eo vur. But if we must live with this thing in our lives, it needs to win our trust first.”
Veers frowned at his husband for a moment before his eyes turned wicked. “That's almost cruel.”
Thrawn squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as a shiver ran through him, prompting his husband to immediately sit up behind him and wrap his arms around him in a protective embrace. “I—believe it would be punishment enough for the fright it gave me.”
“If you are sure, Ch’eo vur?” Veers asked him softly.
“No...” Thrawn admitted in a small voice. “But apparently we must live with this thing.”
Veers heaved a big sigh before he turned his attention upon Tarkin. “All right then. So, Wilhuff? You can convey to that— demon, that it needs to court us and earn our trust; *both* of us. And that *will* be difficult after what it had done to my husband.”
“Have *you* ever turned away from a challenge?”
Veers grimaced at the reminder. “Kriff! It is going to eventually succeed, isn't it?”
“Do you doubt yourself?” Thrawn asked him teasingly.
Veers made a face. “It is going to be so strange... I'm not exactly that narcissistic, am I?”
“No, Ch’eo vur.” Thrawn let a hand slide out from under the blankets to caress the face looking over his shoulder. “And that's what will make the next few months or years interesting.”
Veers turned his face to kiss Thrawn's hand and Tarkin took that as his cue to leave.
He chuckled to himself as he imagined the range of emotions that he was quite sure would fly over the demons face to learn he *wasn't* going to be given his own Chiss, but was expected to earn the trust and love of his template and his consort.
After the debacle it caused, that was undoubtedly going to be a monumental task. Suitable punishment indeed.
When Tarkin had thrown the challenge at it, it had at first scoffed and dismissed it. But the thrice damned body and form of Maximillian Veers was another matter. It frustrated the demon. It pained it that it carried an irritating uncomfortable feeling in its black heart to be separated from the Chiss.
It couldn't even pretend and try to sneak into his presence. The Chiss *knew*. That first time was the only time it had ever fooled the Grand Admiral. Never again, it seemed. And the demon couldn't fault him for his caution after what it had done.
Guilt. This was another irritating emotion it had had to deal with after it was trapped in the new body. It wasn't comfortable with these emotions. It was miserable for days as it tried to ignore the pain it carried in its black heart.
Finally admitting defeat, the demon set about its strategies in trying to gain the trust of the pair of mortals. It was a challenge, it realised as it lightly skimmed and reviewed the memories of the companions of these two men, chronicling the careful courtship of Mitth’raw’nuruodo by Maximillian Veers.
If only it hadn't been so stupid to kriff it up so badly with their first encounter... It was going to be a hard, uphill battle... But the demon knew it had patience too.
As the weeks turned into months, and the seeds of trust finally started to bear fruit, it was much to the demon's surprise that this alien desperation it had carried in its heart had turned more into desire and need... Druk... It hadn't realised it was capable of love...
The triumph of success when it came, when it had at last earned their trust and love… It realised then that it had, in truth, lost as much as it has won. To learn to love, it had necessitated it completely embrace the identity of Maximillian Veers, essentially forgetting its life before it was trapped in this body. But— to have the love of the original Maximillian Veers and Mitth’raw’nuruodo. It was worth it.
It had rushed back with all speed. Even as far away as the Emperor had sent it, the demon had felt the distress of its loves and the stab of pain for a loss. But it was far too late.
The demon crept into their bedroom at the height of day to find its surviving love in bed from grief. “Mitth’raw’nuruodo?”
“Max? You've returned.” The Chiss turned listlessly towards him.
“Love? Ch'acah...” It asked hesitantly as it leaned closer on the bed, but not too close. Almost afraid it would find accusations blazing in its love's eyes for its absence and inability to save the only one he called his heart. But Thrawn's hand only reached out to comb his fingers through its hair and rub gently over the base of one of its horns.
“Ch'acah, I have no accusations for you.” Thrawn told it softly. It knew its surprise must have shown on its face with the man's sad smile. It had always astonished it how easily this man could read it. Veers had laughed at it once, telling it that it was much more expressive than the original.
“We've always know each other’s schedules. We knew you were off on the Emperor's business.” A light tug on its horn told the demon that the Chiss was inviting it to join him in bed.
It carefully slipped under the covers to gently pull its love into its arms, growing its stature just slightly so that it could hold the Chiss in a full encompassing embrace. It and Veers had learned over the years that whenever Mitth’raw’nuruodo was feeling particularly vulnerable and needy, he liked to be held. And the Demon found it liked growing oversized to hold both of them in its huge arms too. It pained it to realise it didn't need to grow quite that large anymore.
“Such is fate, that he would be taken from us.”
“Did you take revenge?”
“Of course. As soon as my flagship could make it here, I pulled back all our ground forces and began orbital bombardment upon the rebel camps. I did not accept surrender.”
“You left nothing for me?” It pouted in mock upset at its love.
“It's still too hot for me to send down my ground troops for a last sweep. You could do that, if you want?” Thrawn looked up at it, but quickly turned away again. And the demon knew it was because it shared the same face with Veers, and it was currently too painful for its love to look at it now.
“Do you want me to leave you?” In its black heart, it wished that the answer would be 'no'.
“I— don't want you to leave me too.” Thrawn said against its chest, his body shivering for a moment. “But I— I think I also need a bit of time alone. Will you take care of the Rebels for me, then come back?”
“I will take care of the Rebel scum for you, Ch'acah. Then I will be back, and I will never again leave your side.”
Thrawn's arms reflexively tightened over its torso. “The Emperor won't be pleased.”
“He can hang.” It growled back. “It was because of that petty mission that I wasn't here to—” It did not continue. There was no need.
When Thrawn's arms began to withdraw, it took that as the suggestion to depart. The Chiss still would not look at it as he settled back into bed to pretend sleep again as it went to the door.
The air was alive with recently departed souls when it landed planet side. The demon would take its time to gather and feast upon these lost souls as it howled its grief in the firestorm that would be left in its wake. All too aware that far above in his flagship, its surviving loved one was crying alone in their bed unable to take comfort from it that looked exactly like their lost love.
The confrontation with the Emperor was a firestorm, one which unfortunately for the Emperor shattered the binding that had been cast upon the demon, freeing it from its obligations.
Strangely enough, it realised it didn't want to shrug off the borrowed flesh. It was content to continue bound in the morals and flesh of Maximillian Veers, and tied to the Chiss by his love. And so, it returned to Mitth’raw’nuruodo's side, and the Emperor sent them both to the Unknown Regions to get the demon as far away from the core worlds as he could have them.
It took many months, but Mitth’raw’nuruodo eventually could look upon the demon again without flinching away from its visage. And eventually too, they could make love again without faltering to grief.
And as the demon had promised, it never left Mitth’raw’nuruodo's side, protecting him from all harm. Even the treachery of an assassin's blade was no match for it, as Rukh the Noghri was to discover when that Hutt spawn tried to turn the tide of the Battle of Bilbringi with his cowardly attack.
Under its protection, Mitth’raw’nuruodo was to live a charmed life as he waded into battle again and again to ensure the safety of his race and his adopted people against the Far Outsiders.
Unfortunately, there was one enemy that the demon had no defence for. Neither could he persuade his love to take up his offer to avoid the ultimate fate all mortals faced.
“Ch'acah... I cannot...”
“Mitth’raw’nuruodo... Ch'acah... you would leave me too.”
A thin hand, weak with age reached for his face. The Demon took it gently to kiss it and let its tears fall upon and moisturise the dry, greyish blue skin.
“Max... Ch'acah... You have limited yourself for far too long.” His love told it gently. “You once gave me a promise, and now with my passing you can be free at last.”
“But—”
“Tarkin forced you into this form and flesh, and you adapted well.” Thrawn told him softly. “You fought it at first, almost—almost forced yourself upon me in defiance of the spells that bound you...”
“I— how— you— you knew all this?”
“You recall being told that you are very expressive?” Thrawn smiled at him. “I knew— even in my grief for my husband's recent loss, I could see that the binding Tarkin and the Emperor cast on you was broken. You could have shrugged out of the skin of Maximillian Veers then, but you choose to stay with me.”
“Ch'acah.”
“Ch'acah... Know that I loved you too… and be free to live your own life when I am gone.” His love tugged on his hand to encourage him to lean closer. “Now give me a last kiss, and we'll say good bye, my love. Ch'eo ch'acah.”
And so, it did. A sweet press of lips against lips. And the demon drew back to look upon its love's brilliant smile before his bright red eyes seemed to fade and grew cloudy. Becoming unfocused…
“Oh... it's suddenly so bright, Ch'acah...” The demon took his love’s hand in its again as it listened to the soft rasp of his voice speaking its final words.
“What— Thrass? Brother...? Oh... Ch’eo vur...” The smile faded... The glow in his eyes did as well... And the Chiss... the demon's love was gone.
It tried. As its love had suggested, the demon shrugged off the borrowed flesh and tried to remember its life before it was caught in that ill-fated trap so long ago. How could it have realised it had imprisoned itself in a far more insidious trap with its long association with a pair of mortals.
It couldn't seem to escape. In every human, it saw the laughing visage of Maximillian Veers; in every flash of blue sky or of a blazing red sun, it thought of Mitth’raw’nuruodo. How ever far it wandered, the memories would trigger and remind it of its loneliness and lost loves.
But fate was ever an evil trickster and the demon was to one day curse and thank it for its fickleness.
It had been wandering aimlessly down a street when a sudden impact from the side unexpectedly toppled it to the ground. “What the—”
It stopped mid-snarl as it stared into a pair of familiar bright red eyes framed by a blue face. A boy. A Chiss boy.
“I'm sorry, mister.” Said a voice from somewhere else close to the ground. Another boy, the one who barrelled into him. A slightly taller, brown haired human lad with hazel eyes.
“We're sorry. We weren't watching where we were going.” The Chiss boy helped the other to stand first before the two took an arm each to try and pull it to its feet too.
“It's— it's okay. No harm, see?” The demon brushed off its clothes to look upon the two boys smiling in relief up at it.
“Mac! Tron! Where are you kids?” Just a head of them, a Chiss man waved back at them. “Come on, don't stray too far from the group. Sorry, Sir!”
“Sorry again, mister.” The little brown-haired kid told it shyly.
“But we gotta go. Coming, Russ!” The little Chiss boy nodded at it then grabbed his friend's hand to drag him off to join the man and the many more children surrounding him and a few other adults.
The Demon waved numbly as it stared after them. Maximillian Veers... Mitth’raw’nuruodo... It would recognise the two souls anywhere...
It made itself vanish before it started laughing like a mad man in the middle of the street. It should not have been surprised it that these two souls would find their way back together again when reincarnated.
And... It found itself somehow cleansed and a lightness returned to its dark heart. It felt little pull or desire to chase after these two souls again. It had already enjoyed the privilege to be allowed in their obit for one human lifetime. As Mitth’raw’nuruodo had urged of it years, or was it decades ago, it had its own life to live.
Still, it also knew it was going to look in on these two from time to time. Hopefully, this cycle would not see any of their lives cut short.
Urgh! I will never be able to do a happy sexy Demon!Veers fic. The angst monster grabbed hold and wouldn't let go again. *sigh* and now back to the WIPs that I was supposed to be working on...
The Imperial summoning circle with dear @eustacefrog at the helm has requested the rise of demon!Krennic. I did my best to oblige. 1717 words.
Content Warnings: post-Rogue One, mentions of death; unhealthy power dynamics; boot fetish; torture; poison; character death; possession; incorrect usage of holocrons; Tarkin/Krennic; Galen/Krennic
The telltale tap of leather jackboots on durasteel centered his attention. Orson Krennic steeled his jaw and raised his chin.
The lock clicked and in stepped a pair of his own death troopers. Strolling behind them, his arms tucked behind him like an old schoolmaster, was Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin. The troopers moved to flank his sides and Tarkin came to parade rest right in front of him.
He sat motionless. A cold barrel prodded his shoulder. He kept his eyes fixed on those boots. The worn leather had known the kiss of countless worlds. He’d watched the blood of men and beast alike soak into the leather. He’d licked his own cum from the rough surface. His wrists were raw under the binders. His shoulders ached from being locked into position behind him for so long.
He spat at those boots. His troopers reacted instantly, not even allowing him the satisfaction to see his fluids once again marring Tarkin’s beloved footwear. The butt of an E-11 came down across the back of his head, sending him crashing to the floor.
He’d felt the heat of the superlaser scorch the air above him.
Galen Erso had sabotaged the project.
He lifted his head to stare at the crumpled body of it. Galen and Lyra’s child. The creature that had escaped him so long ago. The harpy that had sealed his fate.
“Galen…” he croaked, his voice weak and broken. A pair of arms threaded under his shoulders and he was blinded by white-hot pain as the stormtroopers hauled him to his feet.
He woke with a start. Durasteel flooring flowed past him. His custom Ar’tranio leather boots scraping the breaks between floor panels he had designed, which allowed for the changing external pressure caused by the Death Star’s Class-IIV Mark 3 hyperdrive. His lips pulled tight in a congratulatory grimace.
“Awake now?” Tarkin’s voice was cold, his customary politeness clipped and impatient.
“I’m awake,” he looked up, the corners of his mouth lifted in that boyish smile Tarkin loved so much. “Wilhuff.” The name fell from his lips in a breathy sigh. He could see the line of the old fox’s cock through the thick folds of his uniform.
Tarkin’s hand came down across his cheek in a swift and brutal traverse. The force of the blow knocked him sideways, wrenching the shoulder that damned idiot had blown open in his pathetic attempt at heroism.
His scream rang in his ears. His shoulder was a white-hot blaze of agony. His fingers brushed limply against his jodhpurs, clutching reflexively at thin air.
“You talk too much.” Tarkin’s curt dismissal went straight to his cock. A door slid aside into the bulkhead and Tarkin disappeared into the dark hallway. He was dragged in after, unresisting.
The room was full of an assemblage of petty officers. Faceless uniform stuffing that he could have never been bothered to notice. The men were standing in a loose circle. Tarkin casually strolled through their line in his measured officer’s walk. He found himself dragged after and, quite predictably, thrown to the floor. Tarkin hauled him up by his chin until he was kneeling before the man.
This time, he spat blood.
“Oh Orson,” Tarkin breathed, dropping smoothly to one knee. It was then that he became aware of a low murmur. The brainless group of petty officers had closed ranks around them and they were…chanting?
Tarkin jerked his head back to center. That wizened face loomed in front of him like a death’s head.
“Lucky for you, Erso showed his hand too early. We fixed the drift he had coded into the targeting system. I must say, it was very cleverly hidden. Still, I would be a fool to think Erso planted a failure that deep into the mainframe all by himself. Why, the metadata even recorded an officer’s access code.” Tarkin paused to fix him with one of his tight-lipped smiles. “But not your code, of course.”
“Then why are you dragging me through the bowels my battle station?” He snarled, his temper long past its breaking point.
“Because you’re an uncultured whelp who must needs to be reminded of whom he serves.” Tarkin gave him a hard shove. He flailed desperately against the ship’s artificial gravity for an instant before crashing to the floor in a crumpled heap.
His boots were ripped off. Hands unbuckled his belt. An ugly laugh bubbled up in his throat as his pants and briefs were tugged free.
“You’re going to fuck me while your men stand around and watch?” His voice cracked. Black gloved hands hauled him back to his knees. His own men. He turned his rage on Tarkin’s smugly smiling face.
“Are you so insecure in your masculinity that you’re jealous of Galen’s corpse?” A bitter chuckle bubbled up in his throat as he fought against the iron-clad hold of his men.
Tarkin kneeled down and brushed his cheek tenderly. Against his better judgement, he leaned into the touch.
“That’s better.” Tarkin leaned in, pressing warm lips against his own. A whimper escaped his throat and he licked Tarkin’s lips hungrily.
Then the old fox dug a thumb into his shattered shoulder.
He jerked back, inhaling sharply. There were any one of a hundred curses on his lips as he blinked through the red haze of seething hatred. Tarkin was dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief. He drew in a shuddering breath.
“You think I helped Galen?” He rasped, throat suddenly tight. He watched as Tarkin removed the stopper from a glass vial and downed its contents. The man gave an exaggerated sigh of delight and handed the vial off to one of his officers.
“In fact, Orson. Whether you helped him or not is none of my concern. I am in charge of this battle station now, meaning you have lost your purpose.” Tarkin dropped to one knee again, a slight smile playing on his lips. “But I have graciously convinced the Emperor that you have more to offer his Empire.”
Tarkin opened his hand, producing a small glowing pyramid. “A Sith Holocron. The Jedi and Sith have used these for centuries to record their knowledge and pass it on to those who are deemed worthy.” He watched as Tarkin took the device in both hands and gave it a cruel twist. There was a loud click from inside the device.“Pathetic superstitions of a dead religion.”
His chest seized. He gasped for breath though there was little enough air making it into his swollen throat.
“Relax, Orson.” Those bony, gnarled hands reached out to pet his own greying hair. “The poison works fast.”
He jerked in his restraints, fighting to relax his throat. The device in Tarkin’s hand began to glow as the low chanting around them increased in volume. A sickly green smoke rose from the cursed thing and he watched in horror as Tarkin breathed deeply, inhaling the smoke into his lungs.
Tarkin’s eyelids fluttered and he watched in muted horror as thin veins of green rose in Tarkin’s face and neck. Tarkin’s lips pulled back, face twisting into something inhuman as he leaned in. Cracked, cold lips pressed against his own.
The world brightened for a second as Tarkin forced the tainted air into his lungs. The smell of smoke burned his nose and his mouth tasted like ash. His nerves were buzzing even as his chest heaved from lack of air. Tarkin pulled away and he slumped forward in the troopers grip as a black void slowly closed in around him.
He’d never asked where they took Galen’s body.
He had his life’s work to oversee. He couldn’t have been bothered by the mortal shell that had barely contained Galen’s brilliance. The Rebellion had come to take Galen, and so he had done his duty to the Empire and eliminated Galen rather than allow him to fall to enemy hands. What happened to the body he’d run his hands over countless times was no longer his concern.
A pilot. One AWOL pilot had brought the galaxy down around him. Such an insignificant distraction had created the opening for Tarkin to seize the battle station out from under him. His anger roiled, filling his chest and spreading down his limbs.
His eyes snapped open and he gave voice to the formless, white-hot rage within him. The roar that came forth made his throat ache but the sound brought with it a queer sense of satisfaction. He roared again and the sound filled the chamber, doubling and echoing with unnatural harmony.
Every muscle, every nerve, every cell of his body pulsed with agonizing pain. He was lying on his side, bound on a cold durasteel floor. He writhed, testing bonds now at his elbows and ankles.
“Really, Orson. Must you make a scene?” The veneer of Core world polish scraped at his ears and his head whipped towards the voice.
“Release me!” He snarled, unsurprised to find Tarkin settling down beside him. The man reached out a hand and he snapped at it.
He should have been ready for the backhand across his already bruised cheek.
“Now listen here, boy. You are my creature to command as I see fit. You will obey me.” Tarkin’s breath stank of sulphur. With a resigned chuff, he nodded his acquiescence.
“Good boy.” Tarkin’s smug sense of self-satisfaction rolled off him in waves as he reached out again. Those withered fingers combed through his hair, and he found himself pressing into the touch.
Tarkin’s movements shifted and he jerked with a gasp as long fingers curled around something attached to his skull. Tarkin’s fingers rubbed along the ridged protuberance, helping shed the bloody velvet that clung to the twisted horns rising up from his nest of grey-brown hair.
He moaned as his exposed cock twitched against the cold floor. Tarkin’s low chuckle only added a delicious layer of shame to the arousal and confusion that swirled inside him. He filled his lungs with recycled air, enjoying the way it cooled the fire pulsing through his veins.
“Oh yes. I think you’ll prove very useful to the Empire in this new form,” Tarkin murmured in his ear as he pressed a chaste kiss to the base of one of his horns. “Very useful, indeed.”
My hand slipped. Another ficlet for the Demon!Veers AU. 771 words:
“Bring my consort,” the demon hissed.
When Tarkin had dared question it, the demon merely laughed in his face.
“Are you so blind to your men?” It mocked. “This mortal form you stole was hardly discreet! Bring ch’eo vur, the Chiss.”
Tarkin had ordered it. It had been a simple matter to locate the Grand Admiral aboard the Chimaera. A command to join the Grand Moff aboard his own flagship had merited swift response. Now, the Empire’s prized military strategist stood before him at parade rest, dressed in a crisp white uniform.
Wilhuff Tarkin, distinguished hunter of Eriadu, felt ill.
“Thank you for your haste, Grand Admiral,” he’d said, leading the Chiss down a cordoned-off corridor. “We have acquired a new weapon for use in the fight against the Rebellion. I wish for your expertise in assessing its tactical strengths.”
“Of course, Governor.” Thrawn’s voice was strained, although he tried to hide his discomfort.
The lights had been dimmed to half power, casting long shadows as they moved forward. Upon reaching the prescribed door, Tarkin pulled out a black metal code cylinder and inserted it into the data port. He gave the device a firm twist and waited until the lock clicked.
The door slid aside, and a layer of fog crawled across the floor. Tarkin hissed between his teeth. “Idiots,” he thought. He risked a glance at Thrawn and saw the Grand Admiral’s glowing eyes had gone wide.
Lounging before them was the finest weapon of the Empire. Muscles rippled. A thick cock stood erect between his legs. Maximilian Veers fixed them both with a lustful grin.
“Mitth’raw’nuruodo,” the demon purred, eyes fixed on the Grand Admiral. The demon lazily waved his clawed hand and Thrawn was jerked forward by invisible bonds. Thrawn collapsed at the demon’s feet, shock and fear radiating from him in waves. The demon snapped his fingers and an assembly of black-clad Imperial officers appeared. They assembled in a loose semi-circle, cutting off Tarkin’s view.
“Max!” The name was a strangled cry as the officers roughly hauled Thrawn to his feet. The Grand Admiral was quickly stripped of his uniform and deposited in the demon’s lap. The officers began a low chant as the demon gathered Thrawn’s pale blue form against his body.
“Ros’chah…” the demon purred. He gripped Thrawn’s chin and kissed him deeply.
Thrawn’s ragged scream was swallowed up. His body arched violently as the demon’s dark power flowed into him. Dark purple veins rose under that pale blue skin, crawling along hard muscle. One of the officers lifted a slim knife and slid it soundlessly into Thrawn’s back.
The knife’s glittering tip appeared in the center of Thrawn’s chest. Blood welled up around the wound and began to drip down that smooth, pale blue skin. Thrawn jerked and drew a ragged breath.
“Ch’eo vur…” Thrawn gasped out. The demon that had once been Maximilian Veers grinned widely.
“It’s fine, my love. This pain will be over soon.” Veers cupped Thrawn’s cheek and stroked the discolored skin gently.
The glow in the Grand Admiral’s eyes faded. Veers pressed their lips together and swallowed Thrawn’s dying breath.
Seconds crawled by. The ceaseless chanting swirled around the tragic figures sprawled under the massive krayt dragon skull. Veers wrapped long fingers around the hilt resting flush against Thrawn’s skin, and pulled.
The knife came free, deeply stained. A trickle of blood followed, creating an artistic stain down the Grand Admiral’s back. Veers raised the knife to his mouth, and an inhumanly long tongue appeared to lick the blade clean.
Thrawn gave a labored gasp and his eyes blazed. The wound through his chest healed rapidly, forming an indigo scar. Thrawn twisted in Veers’s lap, and ridges rose along his spine, stained with his life’s blood. A pair of ridged horns broke through Thrawn’s blue-black hair and grew in a tight circle, looping from temple to cheek.
The chanting ceased. The officers broke ranks. Veers lifted Thrawn’s hips and shot Tarkin an impish grin. With a deeply satisfied groan, Veers thrust his thick cock into Thrawn’s body.
The Grand Admiral’s clawed hands curled against Veers’s chest. A soft whimper rose from his throat.
“T’schel,” Thrawn hissed, his own cock hard and weeping. Veers grinned wider and gently brushed velvet from Thrawn’s twisted horns, revealing onyx black shot through with cracks of shining cerulean.
Tarkin smiled to himself, his own trousers straining to contain his erection as he watched the demon General claim his Grand Admiral. This was better than a fleet, better than the Death Star. With these new weapons under his control, the Empire would be truly unstoppable.
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