FIC (SW): "In the Imperial Navy" (Vader/Piett, PG-13)
Title: In the Imperial Navy
Author: pen_and_umbra
Fandom: Star Wars
Pairing: Vader/Piett
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Crackfic! Implied non-con, toys, bondage, whatnot -- after all, this is Vader. In crackfic.
Disclaimer: Not mine, all George's.
Word count: 1,509 words, complete, one-shot.
Summary: Along with the rest of the crew, Admiral Firmus Piett sometimes speculates on what Darth Vader does with his free time. Little does he know that he's about to find out.
Notes: Dedicated to bronzelionel for originally bunnying this ridiculousness in my head, and rabidfangurl for prompting me to write it. If you don't remember who Piett is, re-watch The Empire Strikes Back or take a refresher course here.
In the Imperial Navy
* * *
You are in command now, Admiral Piett.
The memory of those words still made Firmus Piett feel funny, as if his intestines were trying to re-arrange themselves into spirals and decorative bows. He remembered Vader's deep, thrilling voice and the wheezing panic of the now-recycled Admiral Ozzel, and how the combination of the two sounds had made his c--
Piett shook his head. Best not let his mind wander down the breathplay route, not when he had a bridge to glower at. So he focused on glowering, wandering about the catwalks and stabbing his finger at screens like a proper Imperial Navy officer should. He had almost managed to put all thoughts of pleasant, playful strangulation by black-gloved hands out of his mind when the comm beeped. It was that beep.
Piett turned to the viewscreen. It flickered on to show Vader in all of his dark, brooding glory. "Yes, my lord?"
"Report to my quarters, admiral."
With that, the viewscreen showing Vader went black, and Piett found that the bridge had gone deathly quiet.
"Right," Piett said and willed his voice back to its normal octaves. He yanked his uniform jacket straight and immediately felt better. "Captain Mandel, you have the conn."
* * *
Aboard the Super Star Destroyer -- a stupid name for a line of ships, in Piett's opinion, because the next one had to be called something along the lines of 'Stupendous Star Destroyer' and that would just be silly -- Vader had a whole section's worth of rooms as his. It shouldn't have surprised anyone; the Executor was Lord Vader's flagship and he spent much of his time there, but much speculation went on what exactly Vader did with all his copious free time, cloistered in those undoubtedly luxurious quarters.
Piett had heard Vader liked to build things. He had imagined everything from toy maglev train sets and torture machines to miniature Star Destroyers constructed out of Virblese iced milk-pudding sticks and... well, torture machines. Indeed, torture machines were the perennial number one on the crew's favourite-pastimes-of-Sith-Lords betting list.
That week, Piett's money had also been on the torture machines, so much so that whenever there was a lull in lunchtime conversation, he had pondered on what sort of restraints Vader would use -- black leather, surely -- and what sort of noises he'd like for his captives to make. Then he would catch himself, suppress his burst of self-critical horror, and focus on his meal again.
All these thoughts flitted through Piett's mind as he walked, and though he dared a dawdling detour through the deflector discharge department, he found himself at Vader's doors in no time at all. Even the doors, black and looming, were intimidating.
"Admiral Piett--" he started, coughed, and said, "Admiral Piett to see Lord Vader."
With a hiss, the doors admitted him in, and Piett found himself in a vast room with black walls and a gleaming black floor, scattered with low furniture in shadowed corners. But all that registered later; his attention was wholly on a spherical chamber at the centre. Its two halves, looking like jaws full of jagged teeth, were open and inside in a pool of light sat Vader.
"My lord," Piett said and stood in parade attention, not knowing what else he should do.
With a whine of hydraulics, the top half of the chamber rose higher, and Vader stood. He gestured at a complicated-looking metal chair that had been set in front of the chamber.
"Admiral Piett. Have a seat."
As he sat, Piett gave his chair a speculative look. Perhaps Vader liked to build furniture. That knowledge would net him 640-to-1 odds in the betting pool, which sounded very much like a holiday on Pleasure Planet II would be in the Piett vacation plans.
Before Piett's vacation plans had time to solidify any further, the chair made a whirring sound and suddenly expanded, yanking him to a standing position; something shot around his wrists and ankles and neck, pulling him taut upright and against the now-flat metal.
Breathless from the surprise, Piett glanced down at his wrists. Yep, black leather restraints. At least he'd gotten that right.
"My lord, I'm--"
Still standing in his chamber, Vader took off his glove and rolled his sleeve up. At the sight of the robotic arm, thin and metallic and cold-looking, Piett forgot what he had meant to say. As he watched, mouth dry and his mind inexplicably focused on his disappointment that Vader didn't build chairs, Piett saw Vader twist and detach his forearm, just as easily as he had taken off the glove.
"Tell me. Are torture devices still the number one on the list?"
Piett stared at the stump where Vader's right arm had been. It took him a moment to understand what Vader was talking about. "Uh, yes, my lord."
Vader took something from a hidden compartment in his chamber and then stepped outside, pausing to attach the new appendage to his arm stump.
"Whether that assessment is correct or not depends now entirely on you, Admiral Piett," said Vader and approached, his guttural breaths punctuating his slow words. "The apparatus holding you is indeed a torture device, but that need not be its purpose tonight."
The words registered only peripherally, for Piett was far too busy staring at Vader's new forearm. It had no hand at the end of it and it was black, black and gleaming like Vader's armour, reflecting the patterns of the overhead light and the skull-like grin of Vader's helmet.
It was a--
Swallowing hard, Piett dragged his eyes away from the thing and onto Vader's mask. There was no question of what that new arm was for; its shape screamed of its purpose, and Piett really felt like screaming, too.
"Sir, my lord. I don't think I can fit--"
"Oh, come now," Vader interrupted and ran a black-gloved finger along the gleaming side of his new attachment. In the finger's wake, a row of blunt spikes rose from the previously smooth surface. "I am certain that with proper motivation, you can overcome your limitations."
Piett felt his breath hitch in his chest and he made a feeble tug at his restraints. Vader grabbed a strategic handful of his uniform and came so close that Piett's breath fogged his black cuirass. Piett squirmed.
"I'm-- ah. Sir, I don't--"
"Here, I am in command, Admiral Piett. So why don't you just... relax."
* * *
In the morning, Piett made but two metres out of Vader's rooms before he had to take a break. His knees felt as if he'd had a bit of emergency surgery to replace the joints with Huttese spit pudding and he wanted a death stick, bad.
Leaning against the hallway's no-smoking, no-smiling sign, Piett dug out a packet of death sticks and smiled. He lit one and ignored the scandalised look a passing droid gave him, deciding that the admiral's bars had to be worth something more than two thousand Imperial credits more a month and a marginally more comfortable chair in the officers' mess. More than Vader's undivided attention and his--
Piett choked on smoke and coughed, shuddering while at it. When that fit passed, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The cold, hard wall was pleasantly uncomfortable against his numerous and variably-shaped bruises. It had been quite exceptional a night, exceptional and painful and wond--
"Sir?"
With effort, Piett cracked an eyelid. "Lieutenant Filipas," he said, finding that his voice had a persistent rasp it hadn't had the day before. Must've been all the screaming.
"Are you all right, sir?
"Couldn't be better," replied Piett around his death stick. He didn't really know whether he was being sarcastic or not.
"Ah," said Filipas with a knowing smile. "You had an evening briefing with Lord Vader, sir?"
Piett frowned. Surely Vader hadn't-- but, no. He suddenly remembered Filipas had been Ozzel's aide, too, and the aide of Admiral Whatsit before Ozzel.
"He always--?" Piett said, making a little thrusting motion with his free hand.
"Oh, no, sir. Just with admirals, and Lord Vader is very particular, sir." Filipas sidled closer and lowered his voice. "The rumour has it, the reason he was so quick to, erm, dispose of Admiral Ozzel was that the admiral had let himself go, if you know what I mean, sir." With a meaningful look, Filipas patted his stomach.
Piett jerked his head upright, suddenly wide awake. He made a note to double his daily sit-ups. And squats. Definitely more squats, though the region around -- and especially between -- his gluteus maxima was screaming at the very thought of motion in general.
"Yes. Yes, I think I got it, lieutenant. Thank you. I'll just be..." Piett trailed off, gesturing in the general direction of his quarters with his death stick.
Filipas gave him a sympathetic smile and saluted. "Very good, sir. When you're feeling up for breakfast, I'll have the doughnut cushion ready for you, sir."
* * *
End.
Sorry! Sorry! ...but really, his first name is Firmus. How is one supposed to resist temptation?
ETA: Visited the local Apple Store to fondle the iPod nano. I now know what I'm buying myself for Christmas. While in the store, I accipurposely spent too much money on a newfangled mouse. Sigh. Apple Stores should be made illegal.
Author: pen_and_umbra
Fandom: Star Wars
Pairing: Vader/Piett
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Crackfic! Implied non-con, toys, bondage, whatnot -- after all, this is Vader. In crackfic.
Disclaimer: Not mine, all George's.
Word count: 1,509 words, complete, one-shot.
Summary: Along with the rest of the crew, Admiral Firmus Piett sometimes speculates on what Darth Vader does with his free time. Little does he know that he's about to find out.
Notes: Dedicated to bronzelionel for originally bunnying this ridiculousness in my head, and rabidfangurl for prompting me to write it. If you don't remember who Piett is, re-watch The Empire Strikes Back or take a refresher course here.
In the Imperial Navy
* * *
You are in command now, Admiral Piett.
The memory of those words still made Firmus Piett feel funny, as if his intestines were trying to re-arrange themselves into spirals and decorative bows. He remembered Vader's deep, thrilling voice and the wheezing panic of the now-recycled Admiral Ozzel, and how the combination of the two sounds had made his c--
Piett shook his head. Best not let his mind wander down the breathplay route, not when he had a bridge to glower at. So he focused on glowering, wandering about the catwalks and stabbing his finger at screens like a proper Imperial Navy officer should. He had almost managed to put all thoughts of pleasant, playful strangulation by black-gloved hands out of his mind when the comm beeped. It was that beep.
Piett turned to the viewscreen. It flickered on to show Vader in all of his dark, brooding glory. "Yes, my lord?"
"Report to my quarters, admiral."
With that, the viewscreen showing Vader went black, and Piett found that the bridge had gone deathly quiet.
"Right," Piett said and willed his voice back to its normal octaves. He yanked his uniform jacket straight and immediately felt better. "Captain Mandel, you have the conn."
* * *
Aboard the Super Star Destroyer -- a stupid name for a line of ships, in Piett's opinion, because the next one had to be called something along the lines of 'Stupendous Star Destroyer' and that would just be silly -- Vader had a whole section's worth of rooms as his. It shouldn't have surprised anyone; the Executor was Lord Vader's flagship and he spent much of his time there, but much speculation went on what exactly Vader did with all his copious free time, cloistered in those undoubtedly luxurious quarters.
Piett had heard Vader liked to build things. He had imagined everything from toy maglev train sets and torture machines to miniature Star Destroyers constructed out of Virblese iced milk-pudding sticks and... well, torture machines. Indeed, torture machines were the perennial number one on the crew's favourite-pastimes-of-Sith-Lords betting list.
That week, Piett's money had also been on the torture machines, so much so that whenever there was a lull in lunchtime conversation, he had pondered on what sort of restraints Vader would use -- black leather, surely -- and what sort of noises he'd like for his captives to make. Then he would catch himself, suppress his burst of self-critical horror, and focus on his meal again.
All these thoughts flitted through Piett's mind as he walked, and though he dared a dawdling detour through the deflector discharge department, he found himself at Vader's doors in no time at all. Even the doors, black and looming, were intimidating.
"Admiral Piett--" he started, coughed, and said, "Admiral Piett to see Lord Vader."
With a hiss, the doors admitted him in, and Piett found himself in a vast room with black walls and a gleaming black floor, scattered with low furniture in shadowed corners. But all that registered later; his attention was wholly on a spherical chamber at the centre. Its two halves, looking like jaws full of jagged teeth, were open and inside in a pool of light sat Vader.
"My lord," Piett said and stood in parade attention, not knowing what else he should do.
With a whine of hydraulics, the top half of the chamber rose higher, and Vader stood. He gestured at a complicated-looking metal chair that had been set in front of the chamber.
"Admiral Piett. Have a seat."
As he sat, Piett gave his chair a speculative look. Perhaps Vader liked to build furniture. That knowledge would net him 640-to-1 odds in the betting pool, which sounded very much like a holiday on Pleasure Planet II would be in the Piett vacation plans.
Before Piett's vacation plans had time to solidify any further, the chair made a whirring sound and suddenly expanded, yanking him to a standing position; something shot around his wrists and ankles and neck, pulling him taut upright and against the now-flat metal.
Breathless from the surprise, Piett glanced down at his wrists. Yep, black leather restraints. At least he'd gotten that right.
"My lord, I'm--"
Still standing in his chamber, Vader took off his glove and rolled his sleeve up. At the sight of the robotic arm, thin and metallic and cold-looking, Piett forgot what he had meant to say. As he watched, mouth dry and his mind inexplicably focused on his disappointment that Vader didn't build chairs, Piett saw Vader twist and detach his forearm, just as easily as he had taken off the glove.
"Tell me. Are torture devices still the number one on the list?"
Piett stared at the stump where Vader's right arm had been. It took him a moment to understand what Vader was talking about. "Uh, yes, my lord."
Vader took something from a hidden compartment in his chamber and then stepped outside, pausing to attach the new appendage to his arm stump.
"Whether that assessment is correct or not depends now entirely on you, Admiral Piett," said Vader and approached, his guttural breaths punctuating his slow words. "The apparatus holding you is indeed a torture device, but that need not be its purpose tonight."
The words registered only peripherally, for Piett was far too busy staring at Vader's new forearm. It had no hand at the end of it and it was black, black and gleaming like Vader's armour, reflecting the patterns of the overhead light and the skull-like grin of Vader's helmet.
It was a--
Swallowing hard, Piett dragged his eyes away from the thing and onto Vader's mask. There was no question of what that new arm was for; its shape screamed of its purpose, and Piett really felt like screaming, too.
"Sir, my lord. I don't think I can fit--"
"Oh, come now," Vader interrupted and ran a black-gloved finger along the gleaming side of his new attachment. In the finger's wake, a row of blunt spikes rose from the previously smooth surface. "I am certain that with proper motivation, you can overcome your limitations."
Piett felt his breath hitch in his chest and he made a feeble tug at his restraints. Vader grabbed a strategic handful of his uniform and came so close that Piett's breath fogged his black cuirass. Piett squirmed.
"I'm-- ah. Sir, I don't--"
"Here, I am in command, Admiral Piett. So why don't you just... relax."
* * *
In the morning, Piett made but two metres out of Vader's rooms before he had to take a break. His knees felt as if he'd had a bit of emergency surgery to replace the joints with Huttese spit pudding and he wanted a death stick, bad.
Leaning against the hallway's no-smoking, no-smiling sign, Piett dug out a packet of death sticks and smiled. He lit one and ignored the scandalised look a passing droid gave him, deciding that the admiral's bars had to be worth something more than two thousand Imperial credits more a month and a marginally more comfortable chair in the officers' mess. More than Vader's undivided attention and his--
Piett choked on smoke and coughed, shuddering while at it. When that fit passed, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The cold, hard wall was pleasantly uncomfortable against his numerous and variably-shaped bruises. It had been quite exceptional a night, exceptional and painful and wond--
"Sir?"
With effort, Piett cracked an eyelid. "Lieutenant Filipas," he said, finding that his voice had a persistent rasp it hadn't had the day before. Must've been all the screaming.
"Are you all right, sir?
"Couldn't be better," replied Piett around his death stick. He didn't really know whether he was being sarcastic or not.
"Ah," said Filipas with a knowing smile. "You had an evening briefing with Lord Vader, sir?"
Piett frowned. Surely Vader hadn't-- but, no. He suddenly remembered Filipas had been Ozzel's aide, too, and the aide of Admiral Whatsit before Ozzel.
"He always--?" Piett said, making a little thrusting motion with his free hand.
"Oh, no, sir. Just with admirals, and Lord Vader is very particular, sir." Filipas sidled closer and lowered his voice. "The rumour has it, the reason he was so quick to, erm, dispose of Admiral Ozzel was that the admiral had let himself go, if you know what I mean, sir." With a meaningful look, Filipas patted his stomach.
Piett jerked his head upright, suddenly wide awake. He made a note to double his daily sit-ups. And squats. Definitely more squats, though the region around -- and especially between -- his gluteus maxima was screaming at the very thought of motion in general.
"Yes. Yes, I think I got it, lieutenant. Thank you. I'll just be..." Piett trailed off, gesturing in the general direction of his quarters with his death stick.
Filipas gave him a sympathetic smile and saluted. "Very good, sir. When you're feeling up for breakfast, I'll have the doughnut cushion ready for you, sir."
* * *
End.
Sorry! Sorry! ...but really, his first name is Firmus. How is one supposed to resist temptation?
ETA: Visited the local Apple Store to fondle the iPod nano. I now know what I'm buying myself for Christmas. While in the store, I accipurposely spent too much money on a newfangled mouse. Sigh. Apple Stores should be made illegal.