Drama - Tumblr Posts
god i love reading about stupid drama in ancient greece. like there was an athlete named theagenes who was so good at every kind of athletic contest that when he died, one of his opponents would go to beat the shit out of a statue of him out of spite, but then one day the statue fell on the guy and killed him so the greeks took the statue to court for murder, convicted it, and threw it into the sea
Title: Of Witches & Wolves
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing(s): Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski.
Rating: Mature.
Warning: Contains domestic violence in chapter 2.
Chapter: 3/?
Summary: Adjusting to life after the deaths of the crazed Alpha and Kate Argent, Scott and Stiles have barely gotten back to having normal lives when the monsters start to come out again, and not all of them are supernatural this time. Stiles learns a shocking secret about his mother and her side of the family.
Tell me why did you stole my wife?☹️
#100%sugertalk
EXCUSE ME??? ESHA CHEATED ON ME⁉️⁉️⁉️ she told me she was single I'm sorry 👉🏻👈🏻...
Depois de Você - Capitulo 01 (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/719028793-depois-de-voc%C3%AA-capitulo-01?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=AnyAyAPonnY Continuação de Como Eu Era Antes de Você (https://www.wattpad.com/story/178494355) --* Obra original, completa e revisada para leitura. Não disponível para download ou adaptações. Todos os direitos reservados.
I've been meaning to get to this since all the posts you've (OP) been sharing recently, but I'm finally getting to it now ^-^
Maybe it'll fill the void of having to wait for more Skipping Class but then I have to wait for more of this, ugh
Genres:
Girls' Love
Drama
Slice of Life
Music
i rarely see people talk about this series, so i would like to recommend "IDOL×IDOL STORY!" to those who enjoy yuri and love idols!
this manga follows the story of mimi nagisa, a twenty-two year old former idol.
having grown up loving singing and dancing, mimi pursued her dream of becoming an idol. however, after working as one for a short time, she eventually realized she wasn't cut out for it. abandoning everything, mimi now works as a cashier in a convenience store and secretly attends the lives of her favorite idol in secret.
one day and after a live, mimi decides to get a picture with her oshi. but to her surprise, her favorite idol recognizes mimi as a lead member of an old idol group. mimi runs away, wondering why her favorite, ibuki nanakusa, knew who she was.
mimi ends up bumping into ibuki some time later on her shift. when she reveals to ibuki that she has given up being an idol, ibuki begins to cry and runs away.
that night, mimi has a dream. she recalls that ibuki had been a young fan of hers when she had been active as an idol. does that mean she had been ibuki's oshi at one point? mimi is astonished.
the next day, mimi bumps into ibuki again and they decide to go on a run together. ibuki reveals afterwards that she is leaving her idol group. mimi tries to dissuade her, only for ibuki to say that she isn't quitting being an idol. she wants to attend an audition that will uplift her career as one. she then asks mimi to join her.
mimi is conflicted. can she really become an idol again? she doesn't believe she is talented enough.
she spends some time thinking things over. eventually and after some encouragement from her little sister, mimi leaves to find ibuki and tell her how she feels.
ibuki is quickly located on the street and preparing to sing her final song for a small crowd. mimi joins in and remembers just how happy singing makes her. she then tells a delighted ibuki that she wants to join her in the audition.
together, they are determined to pass the audition and become professional idols. but can they overcome the competition set out before them? mimi must prevail over sixteen other participants in a long elimination-based challenge.
girls will drop out one by one, but also grow closer together. the assortment of personalities and backgrounds are vibrant and exciting.
will mimi and ibuki manage to achieve their dreams and become idols together? read to find out!
"IDOL×IDOL STORY!" is sold on the yuri aisle in manga stores in japan. and given that the mangaka's previous work is "NEW GAME!", i'm confident in saying that this series is not subtext. i am sure there will be a pairing between the main girls that you'll like!
please give "IDOL×IDOL STORY!" a chance! it's super underrated, but such an entertaining and wonderful manga.
Genres / Themes:
Romance
Girls' Love
Drama
School Life
Anemone is in Heat | Anemone wa Netsu wo Obiru – Chapter 18 ◉ Tears
Now that the dust is settled (at least i hope) in the rtvs community abt this. can I be real that the breaking bad roleplay was the funniest thing to ever decide to do and I treasure it as a piece of media because of how bad people freaked out abt it
Hey yall, super sorry for not posting much lately, my tablets broken rn and getting fixed, but thanks to my goat of an aunt, I got a new tablet!! She gifted it to me yesterday it's super fun to draw with. It has a cool magnetic cover thingy and the best part? THE PEN DOESN'T HAVE TO BE CHARGED, ITS ALSO MAGNETIC ALONG WITH THE COVER AND STICKS TO A PEN HOLDER THINGY!! :D That's sm better than sticking the pen inside a weird hole in the side of the phone imo. But anyways enough yapping, here's the first drawing I made in my new tablet:
Inaya Ayad ✨️
Inaya Ayad is a moody college student majoring in acting and literature. She's the older sister of Farida Ayad.
a song for a mockingbird (director orson krennic x reader) ▴ part i.
fanfiction (7 parts) – A STAR WARS FANFICTION
pairing : dir. orson krennic x reader (fem!reader)
summary. Director Orson Krennic is in love with you. Yes, he is madly in love for the first time in his life, with a person and not with a project. You have quickly become his most consuming obsession. You haunt his days and nights. His body is a burning inferno at the mere mention of your name. Your frightening name. You are a Tarkin. And not just any Tarkin, you are the daughter of Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin.
This story contains some digressions from the storyline of the Star Wars universe. In the original works and legends, Wilhuff and Thalassa had only one child, a boy, but in this story, they had two, including a girl: you.
A fiction inspired by the seven deadly sins. It will have one chapter per sin, so 7 chapters.
rating. mature
warning. lemon, smut, semi-public sex.
Thank you for reading ! :D
CHAPTER 1.
ENVY. It symbolizes the sadness felt when someone else possesses something that we desire, as well as the will to get it no matter what the price or the means.
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“Hold your breath and count to ten Feel the Earth move and then Hear my heart burst again For this is the end I've drowned and dreamt this moment So overdue, I owe them Swept away, I'm stolen
Let the sky fall When it crumbles We will stand tall Face it all together
Skyfall is where we start A thousand miles and poles apart Where worlds collide and days are dark You may have my number, you can take my name But you'll never have my heart”
‘Skyfall’ – Adèle
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IMPERIAL BALL, CORUSCANT CITY. •• YEAR -1 BBY (BEFORE BATTLE OF YAVIN)
Once a year, Emperor Palpatine summons his most loyal servants to feast with him in his lair. The Imperial Palace. The best architects and decorators in the Empire are working hard to turn this huge reception hall into a showpiece for the eyes. Every year, the accustomed guests are delighted to be able to taste the refined dishes specially served for the event or to get drunk with the most exotic spirits. The Emperor always takes great care in decorating his impenetrable fortress, his reputation precedes his exaggerated sense of perfectionism. The imperial palace has no equivalent in the galaxy. It shines with richness and hardness, with the hexagonal shapes, straight lines, and sharp angles of its corridors. Far from being a place known for its shimmering colors, gray seems to be the Emperor's favorite color. The walls are soulless and painted in a charcoal gray, which contrasts beautifully with the crimson red of the imperial banners spread across the sides of the walls. Some of these banners even hang on the interior walls of the Imperial Palace in Coruscant City. Most of the decorations and artwork are scattered here and there, soberly and coolly.
You walk into one of the spacious pillared halls, unusually transformed into a ballroom. Works of art and marble statues guide your way until you reach the most ornate of them all. Even though you are a veteran of this very special reception, you can't help but gasp at the charm of the walls draped with imperial banners. A feeling of deep pride comes over you, strengthened by the honor that is specially reserved for you as a member of an ancient and powerful imperial aristocratic family. You are carried away by the beauty and cruelty of the regime to which your family has devoted its life for eighteen years.
After all, you are not just any ordinary person. You are the daughter of a high dignitary of the imperial administration, the one and only high ranking official, Wilhuff Tarkin. Grand Moff of the Galactic Empire. A close friend of Emperor Sheev Palpatine himself. You are the daughter of Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin and Thalassa Tarkin, born Motti. An extremely weighty name to carry. A family heritage that glorifies you and gives you many privileges. You are untouchable. You are highly desired by everyone. People are dying to be in your good graces, as if you carry within you the holy power of life and death over poor unfortunate souls. Being the daughter of Grand Moff Tarkin is not without its consequences, however, as it comes with a price of bloodshed. You had a childhood full filled with your father's devouring ambitions and your mother's ruthlessness. You grew up surrounded by beautiful things, but you were never truly loved, unlike your older brother, Garoche Tarkin. He is the worthy male heir of the noble Tarkin family. He is the one your venerable father holds in the highest esteem. When Garoche died, it was like a stab in the heart. This heartbreaking loss left your family to decline year after year until it became a desert land.
Your stunning face melts into the countless mirrors that adorn the walls of the ballroom. The beauty of the room is far from exceeding the number of mosaics that are covering these gigantic marble walls. Your beautiful eyes are then lost on the crystalline sculptures that portray forms both abstract and inspired by the most beautiful victories of the golden age of the Empire. You feel extremely proud to belong to the side of the victorious, the oppressors, the powerful and the aristocrats. Those who crush and break the spirit of the weakest, of those rebel insects that the imperial officials smash with the back of one of their boots. You share your life with the members of this illustrious and aristocratic family that inspires fear and honor throughout the galaxy. You live in one of the finest apartments in the residential tower of the Imperial capital of Coruscant City, since your father was named Grand Moff, after growing up in Port Tarkin on the planet Phelarion.
Coruscant. A planet that impresses all others with its ability to capture shooting stars and repel those that come so close to it that they are burned. A symbol of modernity and technological progress. It is the epicenter of the core worlds, an impregnable and fortified galactic city. The towering skyscrapers, the hustle and bustle of its crowds, the repulsor vehicles hurtling through the clouds. Coruscant expresses a magnificence that cannot be expressed in such simple words. You must live there, breathe its air corrupted by industrial vapors and walk its crowded streets to understand its beauty. It is the place of wildest rumors, both envied and hated for its affiliation with the reign of evil. Coruscant is the pride of its inhabitants, some of whom feel particularly proud, because they have everything. They are everything. The planet of Coruscant has been the capital of the Galactic Empire for fourteen years. The most slanderous of them point out a metallic aftertaste in their mouths, criticizing its life as a whirlpool that encircles you as if in a stranglehold. The other ones say that it is a fast-paced life that requires adaptation. They all praise the same thing, that when you get swept up in the current of this hyperactive life, a feeling of euphoria comes over you and never leaves you. Coruscant then becomes your beloved home, the one and only, the one that cannot let you down. Coruscant becomes like a part of you. You owe it loyalty and respect. However, behind every beauty comes its opposite. You know that every rose has its thorns, but that beauty cannot exist without its share of ugliness, like the sun rises and sets to give way to the moon and darkness. Coruscant is a cultural melting pot. The deeply rooted beliefs of its citizens are for the most part radically opposed, but these differences are necessary for the survival of the community. Each citizen of Coruscant has his or her own share of light and darkness. Director Orson Krennic is no exception to this rule.
Orson Krennic, the architect of the Death Star. His hands are golden and his genius is matched throughout the galaxy only by his arrogance. He is easily recognized by his white cape and heavy DT-29 blaster strapped to his belt. He is the only high-ranking officer in the Empire to show off his cloak, a secret way to assert his position in the eyes of others. For this son of modest workers, born in the city of Sativran on the planet Lexrul in 51 B.C., to be part of the elite of the Imperial administration is a remarkable achievement. Full of pride and prejudice, Krennic has been the director of the advanced weapons research office for several years. He oversees the construction of the superweapon with great care, reflecting a perfectionism that often turns to obsession. His work means absolutely everything to him. As for the Death Star, it means a lifetime work. His detractors do not sing the praises of his perfectionism or his intellectual rigor, they prefer to blame him for a laxness and a slowdown in the progress of the project. Director Krennic does not care about their gossip, he is convinced that he is acting in the interests of Emperor Palpatine and his glorious Galactic Empire. Orson Krennic is a man who has risen from nothing to the top of the administration. Everything seems to work out for this ambitious, temperamental, self-important character. Everything. Everything? No... Orson Krennic is actually obsessed with a project of a completely different kind than his precious Death Star. She has a name that makes your hair stand on end, a perfectly shaped face with a falsely angelic air, a position in the imperial aristocracy that appeals to both lust and fascination. A young creature, far too young to stand on his own two feet, perhaps even too young for a man like him. Director Krennic, however, is literally obsessed with this noble lady. You. You are all seven deadly sins for Orson Krennic. He doesn't know how to behave in your company, you have quickly become his dirty little secret. You have become his unhealthy, all-consuming obsession that has haunted his days and nights for almost a year. But... you are a Tarkin. You are the forbidden fruit in his eyes. How many times has he lusted for the chance to make you his? He wants you so badly that it shatters his hope of a normal life. You eclipse his precious Death Star, his lifelong project, in a heartbeat. He only has eyes for your beauty, your elegance, your aristocratic accent, your manners and your intelligence. He wants to make love to your body as much as to your bright mind. You are his mockingbird. You keep escaping, unable to stay in place, when he tries to catch the shine of your feathers.
When he sees you coming down the endless steps of the great marble staircase of the imperial palace, Orson Krennic is astonished by your apparition. It seems to him almost as much surrealistic as divine. You are wearing a long, champagne-colored gown, made of the finest silk in the Galaxy. It molds perfectly every part of your body, your curves are as if sublimated in this fabric of great quality. Wilhuff Tarkin does not spare any expense on the beautiful things you wear. You are a representative of the noble Tarkin family, you speak for an entire line of close admirers and supporters of the Emperor's totalitarian regime. Your beauty takes the breath away from most of the imperial officers in the ballroom. They all stare at you, one after the other, while you finish your walk. This dress is incendiary, glowing under the bright lights of the candles and the crystal chandelier hanging from the roof. It is bare at your back, letting the people who stay behind get lost on the glow of your skin. With one hand on the marble ledge of the gigantic staircase, you finally look up at the first face that catches your eye. Orson Krennic. He is true to himself, dressed in a spotless white imperial uniform that matches his incredible cape. You can even see a glint of lust in his beautiful ocean blue eyes as he finishes his cup of bubbly alcohol in one swallow. You can see him holding back a slight coughing fit with trouble. The look in his eyes says a lot about the depth of his intentions towards you. He's not your date for this party, yet you find yourself bemoaning this statement.
By turning away from him, it takes to you both to share a glance almost... conniving. You suddenly felt crossed by the same fantastic thought. You let yourself go for a few seconds to your most unspeakable fantasies, before feeling on you a very familiar look. Wilhuff Tarkin, your father, is with your mother a few meters away. They both urge you to join them, which you do, with grace and dignity. You walk beautifully, sitting on three-inch heels, your walk is smooth and feline. You feel yourself floating above the marble floor of the huge ballroom. As you walk towards them, you catch Director Krennic's furtive gaze on the perfect, naked line of your back. This is far from offending you, it rather delivers ecstatic shivers to your body.
Orson Krennic is a man your father does not carry in his heart. You can expect no blessing from him in such a fantasy. It is heresy, in his own words. What often comes out of his mouth are insulting and condescending words. They are full of hatred and jealousy.The rivalry between them is legendary, and neither Krennic nor Tarkin is able to put this animosity aside. Even for you. What Tarkin doesn't know, however, is that the ambitious director Orson Krennic is mad with desire for his own daughter. How ironic. Krennic has a secret crush on you. He sometimes thinks that no other man deserves your compassion as much as he does. He cherishes the sweet fantasy of shocking his rival. He sometimes sees you as a means to an end to destabilize your father. He thinks Tarkin will go completely mad if he knows that the man he hates most in the world is bedding his beloved daughter. Krennic is aware of this situation and enjoys it like a little child. Besides this strong urge to get back at your father, Krennic's feelings for you are sincere. He envies all those people who gravitate to you like stars in the galaxy. Especially when these young men are near you and hope to gain some of your affection. You are an extremely desirable and desired woman considering your family situation. Tarkin's daughter is the most prized young debutante on Coruscant. You enjoy the privileges of wealth and social comfort, and you have the right to set the rules. You have inherited your father's megalomaniac tendencies and the need to be in everyone's mouth.
You find yourself spying on Director Krennic in lovely company. They are all incredibly attractive in those shimmering silk and satin dresses. He laughs a little too loudly for it to be an innocent discussion. As he brings a sip of his drink to his lips, you spot the thin, playful smile that is gradually taking shape. You curse yourself for wanting so badly to know the taste of that strong alcohol on his mocking lips. He is not a man who shines by his physical beauty, but his charisma has something magnetic and almost animal. That damn cape, yet another ostentatious sign of wealth. You love this outfit as much as you despise it. How can such thoughts cross my mind? you think. You slap yourself gently, your cheeks still burning. Have I lost my mind? you repeat countless times in your head. The idea that your body could desire a man as despicable as Orson Krennic sends a chill down your spine. You roll your eyes, as you try to get your thoughts under control.
You don't know that on the other side of the mirror, Orson Krennic is boiling over just as much as you are, discovering all the courtesans that are raining down on your pretty feet. The Director envies all these people who gravitate around you like stars in the galaxy. Young imperial officers, shapely and of a suitable age unlike his own, all full of future and aspirations. They probably hope to capture Tarkin's daughter in their traps. Tarkin's impetuous and icy daughter. You're just a daughter of in the eyes of these brave young Imperial recruits, most of them from the Imperial Youth. None of these men feel the way Orson Krennic does about you. They don't have his strength of personality or his burning passion for every part of your body.
Orson Krennic is unfortunately not reachable. You know it will never happen between you, it's impossible, the barriers between you can't be broken. Not that easily. It would take a miracle, you think. Unfortunately, it's not up to you, which is not the case with these fiery young officers. When one of them approaches to you for a dance, you are far from resisting the temptation to catch Director Krennic's ocean-blue gaze as he passes you by. You put then your hand on the arm of one of these officers, to move away you from the one who tears your soul. He is young, attractive and well born. He is exactly like you. He too is the son of an imperial officer, born into an ancient family of the aristocracy of the city of Coruscant. Everything is much easier with him. However, this young man is not the infamous Director Orson Krennic. Everything is much more spontaneous with someone you know. That's where you belong, don't try to deny it, it's in the arms of a young nobleman that your father places all his hopes in you.
You let yourself be carried away in the effervescence of this evening. Things are not so complicated with this young man, they are almost natural. The only point that bothers you is that you feel indifference for him, despite his gentleness and his foresight. Everything is far too flat for a proud flower as passionate as you. Fool of you, dear little noble lady. You are getting bored in the arms of your courtesan, and you don’t even try to hide it. As he twirls you among the other couples on the ballroom floor, your eyes seek to capture those of Director Krennic. He is lurking in the shadows, in the middle of a conversation with your venerable father. From a distance, this conversation looks aggressive, Krennic and Tarkin are like a dog and cat fighting over the last piece of meat on the table. From time to time, your pretty face catches a few furtive glances in your direction. He seems to like the smell of danger. He seems to like you even more than anything in the whole Galaxy.
He looks at you compulsively, while in the same company as his worst rival. You love to feel that lustful gaze on every part of your body, you also love the way he caresses the crystal of his sparkling cup. He slowly draws invisible circles with the tip of his thumb as he fantasizes about the curve of your divine breasts. You can't help but believe that he is imagining obscene things about you, shameful and degrading things. You feel those two icy orbs focused on your back, on your buttocks, on your neck and on your mouth. He does more than observe you, he spies meticulously on your every move. So many attentions can only make you blush more.
After a seemingly endless amount of time, Orson Krennic leaves his conversation with Grand Moff Tarkin and two other officers of the Empire. You frown as you discover that his fanciful figure has now disappeared. You seem completely lost for a few seemingly endless minutes. You need him. You scream inwardly to feel those exquisite burns caused by his impure gaze on your skin once again. You reach for it left and right, until a leather-gloved hand comes to rest on your date's shoulder.
"Director Krennic!" he shouts, taking a step back. You observe a particularly funny scene, he seems embarrassed by the fact that Orson Krennic is witnessing your proximity.
"Leave us." orders Krennic, strengthening his grip on the soldier's slender shoulder.
"Fine. Director..." Not a word too far. "Lady Tarkin." he snaps, politely inclining his head in your direction. The young officer apologizes to you, seemingly terrified by the menacing shadow hanging over Director Krennic.
Orson Krennic doesn't even glance at the young soldier as he walks off to find his fellow graduates. "Ah, the Imperial Youth... They definitely think they can do anything, under the guise of enjoying the privilege of being well born, as well as representing the future of the Empire."
You feel his powerful arms wrap around your waist with possessiveness. Oh my... Is he really positioning himself as a courtier in front of all these people? In front of your own father? Something is boiling inside you, the beginnings of a volcano about to erupt. It seems to be devouring you with its big ocean blue eyes, almost like a hungry carnivore in front of a poor frightened doe. You are far from being frightened by the expression on his face, it is not expressionless, it is simply void of any purity. You feel extremely flattered to be the target of so much attention from him. You are pleased to see that he is ready to take all the risks to make you admire him. This night is the night of all dangers.
"Director Krennic," you whisper, not without a flash of pride in the sound of your voice. "My father is watching us with some displeasure." And there is much to be angry about. Wilhuff Tarkin, Grand Moff of the Empire, watches in the distance as Krennic makes lame attempts to get his precious daughter's attention. Yet he remains stoic in the presence of his wife, Thalassa Tarkin. The desire to have Orson Krennic shot has recently become one of his greatest obsessions.
In reaction to your observation, Krennic struggles to stifle an amused chuckle. "Your father has made me mad, my dear little Tarkin," he whispers as he places a hand on one of your hips, taking the time to stroke the silky fabric of your champagne dress. It is a game between you, you do not stop flirting together without putting a word on your relationship. It is dangerous and forbidden, it consumes you both in the unspoken. You feed on the ambiguous nature of your relationship, thinking that it will protect you from slander.
"So, what did you two talks about?" You ask him an innocent question with no hidden motives, and yet Orson Krennic feels his pulse begin to quicken dangerously. He avoids your gaze for a few seconds, before leading your every step onto the dance floor. You dance like any two aristocrats, but one is unfortunately not. You let yourself be seduced by the soft classical music that echoes from the backstage. An orchestra has taken up residency, one of the best in all of Coruscant City. You are whirling around among the other couples that have been gradually forming in the imperial ballroom. "Director?" you hope to shake him out of his torpor.
You notice that Director Krennic's gaze darkens as your conversation goes on. You are a fine observer, you know that something is tormenting the thoughts of the imperial officer. After a few seconds, Orson Krennic snaps coldly: "Things that do not concern you in any way, Lady Tarkin." Words hurriedly spoken, particularly your family name, but which he almost immediately regrets to have pronounced with so much hate.
He reads a flash of disappointment in the depths of your eyes, which seems to make him particularly uncomfortable. Krennic sighs as he twirls you around with one hand, before pulling you back to his chest.
"Let's talk about something else. I need some fresh air, if you don't mind." he murmurs, curling his lips into a charming smile.
"How about giving me a tour of the Emperor's summer lounge?" you say, thinking you can more effectively interrogate him once Grand Moff Tarkin is out of his sight.
"Good idea. I'll give you a tour of the gardens at the same time. They're prodigiously well-kept this time of year."
Touché. You see that your suggestions were correct. You've managed to cheer him up, although it's still not enough to make him forget the bad thoughts that have been running through his mind about your father.
"I'd love to have you walk me around under the glow of the moon."
Orson Krennic's face almost suddenly lights up. He is already fantasizing about the idea of a moonlit walk through the countless marble galleries of the Imperial Palace. The peculiar fact that this walk would be in your company seems almost unreal to him. "Please," he says, stopping his dance to offer you his forearm. "…all is yours..." the director murmurs. A proposal heavy with meaning, though it has the appearance of false purity.
You take the opportunity of Wilhuff Tarkin's face being turned toward one of his prized lieutenants to escape his surveillance. You hurriedly walk away from all the social bustle. A hand on one of your hips, Orson Krennic is directing your every step. He then leads you to one of the alcoves opening onto a hallway filled with marble statuettes. Although you are far enough away from the ballroom, you still feel the pressure of Krennic's gloved fingers on your lower back. You greatly appreciate this physical closeness between you, not least because it is forbidden to you. It is impossible to deny that you are both deeply attracted by the taste of danger. As your eyes move to the arm he has offered you, you cannot contain a pleasant shiver as you imagine being his. You even feel a sense of power. You find yourself in the arms of the powerful Director Krennic. Orson... You take the time to detail every line and stitch of his flawless white uniform. Your eyes gaze intently at that incredible, immaculate cloak, its flaps rubbing lightly against your lovely legs. When you walk like this, side by side, you look like a respectable couple of members of the imperial high society. What helps a lot in making this observation is the fact that Krennic is a high-ranking officer in the administration.
You take the time to listen to his speeches about the history of the Imperial Palace, including his glorification of the transformations that have taken place in this former Jedi temple, and you can't help but feel a sense of devotion. Orson Krennic knows his topic well, as he has spent many a night nurturing his brilliant intellect. He's not just an architect, the star of his former training. Orson Krennic is much more than an architect or officer of the Empire. He is a man deeply devoted to the culture and beauty of the Imperial regime. He seems to forget no detail, everything is scrupulously studied, nothing is left to chance. Orson Krennic does not seem to believe in coincidence, he is a man with deeply anchored scientific convictions. After all, he was one of the stars of the Republic Futures Program in Brentaal IV, where he particularly made his mark as an engineer and project supervisor.
"Your knowledge of the Empire's architecture fascinates me. Really. Director Krennic, you are a man who leaves no space for mistakes, aren't you?"
"Oh... Let's just say I'm a perfectionist." A slight laugh escapes his lips, he feels a sense of pride run through him. "I would never have reached the position I hold now if I hadn't made a name for myself with my intellectual rigor."
"You also distinguished yourself by your youthful antics."
You give him a discreet little wink, thinking back to the crunchy anecdotes that your father was willing to share. Of course, these anecdotes were not told in order to glorify his actions, but to push him deeper and deeper on the path of incompetence and frivolity. It may be foolish of you, but you would like to learn more about the young student he was in the days of the Republic. You even want to find out more from Orson Krennic himself. You want to share this intimacy with him by sharing his nightlife as a student.
"I was young once, like you, my dear," he says, swallowing painfully. His former smile mysteriously disappeared as if by magic. "We all have a reputation that precedes us. Mine is now irreproachable." He pauses briefly before continuing in a more tempered tone of voice, "I suppose Grand Moff Tarkin is the one I have to thank for this?"
"Don't be upset with my father, other people could have told me about this. Tongues are loosening...in no time at the teahouses of Coruscant City."
"I'm not angry." Yes, you are, you think. You're lying. Of course he's lying. You're actually embarrassed that this sort of thing has come to my ears. You're angry because this defamation comes from Tarkin. He is the one you despise most in the galaxy. You can see his eyes darken at the mere mention of your father's name. You feel his veins boil dangerously. His body has become strangely tense, he has apparently become stoic and distant towards you. You let Director Krennic become entangled in his lies, because you cannot support him. He seems to have a particular resentment towards Grand Moff Tarkin, and this does not leave you indifferent. You want to know the tragic background of this rivalry, but you are well aware that this risks making him angry. A heavy silence settles progressively between you, which leaves you wondering.
"I imagine that you don't intend to brag about having taken me away from my father," you say, laughing softly. You try to get out of this situation with your first spin of denial. You think you can joke with him about Tarkin, but it's actually a big mistake. You still don't know that you're just throwing twigs on an already burning fire. You are still repeating the same things, yet you are aware of your partner's feelings about Wilhuff Tarkin.
Your failed attempts to cheer up the sinister Director Krennic still do not work. You are resigned to the fact that the remaining part of your moonlit walk will be an awkward silence. You are like two strangers trapped by their own demons.
"Director, I..." you begin, wanting to apologize. "Tell me more about the architecture of the Imperial Palace, we stopped at the wrong time. Teach me everything you know."
"I don't feel like discussing that much anymore right now."
"Oh... Of course you don't. I understand perfectly." You can't hide a flash of sadness in the depths of your eyes, however. "We can discuss another of your brilliant projects in this case, anything you like. Why not the one you have in common with the Grand Moff? I understand you're working on a way to extend his hyperspace firing capability. If you ask me, it will be good enough that it can do what it was created to do." In other words, you ask him to share his impressions of the Death Star. You don't realize at the time that you have just triggered something in him. Orson Krennic stops walking almost instantly. He removes his arm from yours, while his eyes slowly darken into a blank expression of emotion. He quickly turns to you, perhaps a little too abruptly, which startles you.
"Because he told you about that too?" he spits spontaneously, with a violent tone that is unlike him. It actually sounds more like him than you think. Krennic is a man with an aggressive nature. You have never witnessed his mood swings, since they have never been directed at you. Yet Orson Krennic is famous for his explosive temperament and triumphant, if somewhat overdramatic, arrivals. This never particularly offended you until he took out his frustration on you.
"This is none of your business, this project is not supposed to be discussed in any way with me! You should never have even heard of it before it was made official in the Emperor's presence!"
His words are hurtful, his fists are madly clenched and his eyes are close to popping out of their sockets in anger. You feel him getting more and more impatient, close to spouting his famous curses. This verbal assault hurts you more than you can imagine.
"How... How could he tell you about this instead of warning our Emperor!" he recalls, shaking his head vigorously. That's it, he is carried away by his impulses. You blush as you go along, not knowing how to dismantle this time bomb.
"I'm sorry, please don't get so angry."
"Of course I'm being angry! How can I not be?"
"I just thought..."
"You thought you could relay my confidences to your beloved father, didn't you? Is that why you've been so... charming with me all evening? Is it to please him?"
You feel as if you have been slapped by the violence of his words. Then, you consider that he went too far in his accusations. You understand well that it is anger which drives his words, but they remain hurtful nevertheless. Your tongue clicks coldly against your mouth, a sign that you are also about to raise your voice.
"I am his daughter, as you say. It is only natural that some things are confided to me, it is a price to pay. You must accept this reality. I am a Tarkin," you reply in a condescending tone.
You stare at each other for a long time without saying a word, as if you were about to jump on each other's necks and kill each other. Lightning flashes in the whites of your eyes, both of you can't stand this inextricable situation between you. You have been torn between attraction and ignorance for far too long.
"I am far from allowing myself to challenge the success of your family. I am somewhat familiar with the Tarkin's military and political achievements," he says, hoping to soften the tension between you. Krennic is hurt, but no less lucid about the disagreements between you. "You've been making consuls, royalty, since your first steps in the galaxy."
"Oh, for pity's sake, Director Krennic! There is no need to confuse you with hypocrisy and false flattery. You despise the Tarkin name to the depths of your flesh. If you could destroy one, you would surely be in heaven by now."
"My compliments on the greatness of your noble family's soul are entirely sincere," he replies acidly. Orson is overwhelmed, he hates being rebuked so much. He can't find an explanation for your apparent animosity, even though he's been particularly charming in meeting you. What he doesn't know is that you're sure he doesn't really care about winning your affection. All he cares about is satisfying the wishes of Grand Moff Tarkin. For some reason, you are saddened by this statement.
"You are incapable of understanding," you say in a chilling voice. You back up these last words with strength and honor. Incapable. Orson Krennic is frowning. He seems to stumble over this word. No one calls Orson Krennic a failure. He is the brilliant architect of the Empire's secret projects. No one dares to even consider talking to him like that. He is Director Krennic, the one who terrorizes the cadets with his imperial attitude. "Your lowly lineage does not allow you to understand the duties of a child born into the old aristocracy."
Orson Krennic, however, remains unmoved by your cruel words. A thought creeps into his mind almost instantly. Did he really hear what she just spat in his face? Is it a dream, or rather a nightmare? Your words echo his past wounds, especially his miserable childhood in Sativran City somewhere on the planet Lexrul. He is very, very, very far from appreciating these words, which sound like a painful complaint to him. To say that Krennic feels at this moment a sympathy for your torments is an understatement. He feels his knuckles tightening inside his leather gloves. It is with clenched fists and crossed arms in his back that he decides to break the silence that has settled between you.
"I may not be able to understand the requirements that a high lineage birth implies, but I understand perfectly your inclinations..." At your stunned look, Krennic steps threatening towards you. He breaks the last inches that are separating your bodies. He's a head taller than you, which makes you step away until your back hits one of the icy walls of the summer lounge. "They're even very understandable, my sweet, how can you resist such a winning man?" he says, smiling wryly. Orson raises one of his gloved hands of a very beautiful black leather towards your face, then encloses it between his fingers at the level of the chin. Krennic then thrusts his two ocean-blue orbs into yours, satisfied that you are being forced to face him.
"What inclinations are you talking about?" you mumble, flabbergasted by this twist of fate. You've been very naughty with him and you're finally getting what you deserve.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about..." he whispers in your ear. You feel the vibrations of his sneer against your neck. Director Krennic's whispering voice in your ear is heavy, his breath on your skin erratic and burning. "Your entire body burns at the slightest touch of my fingers," he snorts, then emphasizes each of his syllables with playfulness.
You instantly close your eyes, trembling at the feel of his white uniform against your breasts. He strokes your chin with his fingertips to illustrate his point. You feel your cheeks flush like never before, you are far familiar with so much physical proximity. He witnesses this heat source radiating on your cheeks, which seems to excite him more. By the stars of the whole galaxy, you sigh. You blink countless times in reaction to this invitation. Everything about him is out of place, both his words and his proximity. He has an unbelievable amount of luck to be alive at this moment. You feel your pulse contracting, your hands clenching and your skin turning into a lovely scarlet color. You think you've heard it all in your young life, but obviously you haven't gotten to the cherry on top yet. What a... jerk. Your throat is getting drier and you can hardly swallow after witnessing such obscenities.
Someone help me, you plead in your head. A plea that gets trapped with all the others in the immensity of the galaxy. No one in the world can hear your prayers. An unsuspecting part of you doesn't want anyone to help you. Even before you do anything, you already feel drunk of him. The feel of his body immobilizing yours, his hands on your face, the way his scent surrounds you, the sound of his drawl, his laughter, his hurried breathing. Every detail of his person only fills your heart more and more with emotions bursting like a storm wave. Even that terribly sarcastic and charming smile is tearing apart what's left of your moral principles. One more word from him and you're on your knees.
"You... You're out of line!" you shout, while threatening to slap him in the face. As your hand rushes like a tornado to his closest cheek, he grabs your wrist with astonishing speed. Strength and authority. You can only bow to such control. As he finally releases your now limp and helpless hand, Orson Krennic decides to pin you against the wall nearest you. He then slams his hand against the cold marble without warning, which makes you jump. You raise your eyes towards this gloved hand which is a few millimetres from your face, before looking back into the immensity of his ocean blue eyes. You drown in the azure of his eyes, you feel yourself slowly suffocating, you painfully take in a breath of air hoping that it will put an end to your agony. "Do…do not come closer to me or my father will hear about it!" you mumble while blushing more than the decency requires it to you.
"Be aware of your desires, you will only take more pleasure in it..." His loud voice turns into a husky whisper as he longs to turn your beliefs upside down. His husky voice fills your mind with a delicate scent of desire. You are thrilled by the authority of his voice, and especially by the strength of his body against yours. You feel extremely vulnerable between this wall and him. You do not see any means of escaping you of this hold which proves more and more oppressive. He takes great pleasure in teasing your nerves, like a big child with a new toy. For the first time in his life, Krennic feels literally aroused by so much innocence. He is burning to discover the limits of your resistance, it even has something terribly intoxicating.
"You're wrong, Director," you lie. Another lie. You are familiar with lies like this. You were raised on hypocrisy and false pretenses. He understands that you are on a slippery slope, one that is likely to take you to his bed.
"You're dying for a man like me to shut you up right now," he says, judging the look on your face under his lashes. He leans dangerously toward your neck, before sliding one of his gloved hands under the silk of your dress to catch your thigh in his palm. He grabs your thigh with firmness, then raises it without asking your permission, to tackle it against his hip. You tremble at this intimate connection as you feel your lower abdomen catch fire from inside. You even feel a rigidity between the folds of his uniform, the desires of Orson Krennic are betrayed by the size of his erection. He comes then close to the hollow of your ear and whispers you some words in a slow agony: "You want it as much as I do, honey..." This is the worst thing that could happen to you. You're forced to reluctantly admit that Orson Krennic is right about everything, including your hidden desires.
"Director..." your whisper drowned out by your sigh.
You are whispering this single qualification as a mark of respect. As he grabs your waist as if it were the apple of his eye, you try to resist his urgent appeals. He suddenly puts his half-open mouth against yours. Under his force of persuasion, you feel that he has just broken the last strengths that it remains to you. You let him break the path with his warm and terribly playful tongue. Far from being motionless, his hands explore the whole of your body, to find your voluptuous and decadent curves. You sigh several times, unable to deny that you strongly enjoy each of his caresses. His expertise leaves you shaky, as if on the edge of a cliff. You feel like you're about to dive headfirst into what seems to be a flood of emotions. You don't know why, but you are no longer able to fight back. You find yourself alone in front of his whims, you resist as best you can the assaults of his mouth, his tongue, his lips, and his hands on your skin. He dominates your relationship, proudly draped in his uniform and immaculate cape. A white knight on his trusty steed. He wants you more than anything and he will get you willingly or by force. You seem to enjoy this closeness to the silky fabric of his suit. You even start to beg him to take possession of you while keeping his uniform impeccable. You beg in your head, luckily for you. This can only drive him literally crazy. Director Krennic is nothing but a damn time bomb at this very moment.
"Good girl." He rewards your performance with a caress on your cheek with one of his phalanges. "Give yourself up..." he whispers in the hollow of your ear as he reaches up to nibble the lobe. I've wanted you for so long, he thinks. You can't say no to me. Not this time, not now. As to illustrate the torment of his thoughts, Krennic tightens his grip on the silk fabric of your dress, he is very close to tearing it under the force of his impulses. Never. "...to me..." he breathes before his word is lost in a loud growl against the skin of your neck. Director Krennic's voice is unbelievably smooth, it even seems to burn every inch of your body with an all-consuming fire. You are mine.
The muscles in your lower abdomen twitch painfully, a sign that you are far from unaffected by Director Krennic's assault. His lips brush the curve of your right cartilage sensually and move to the bony line joining your chin. He caresses the swollen skin of your lower lip in a surprisingly tender gesture. You can't help but be delighted by the tenderness of some of his gestures, which hides deeper feelings than you realize. He lusts after you, he has wanted you for too long to be able to restrain his need for intimacy with you any longer than necessary. The closer his mouth gets to yours, the more you notice that his mind is dispersed in an obscene outpouring of thoughts. Director Krennic's gestures make you literally dependent on him.
"(Y/N)." he whispers halfway between the corner and the cupid's bow of your lips. He whispers your first name, taking care to separate each syllable as slowly as possible. It's the first time you've heard him whisper your name. Far from being offended by it, you seem to take an unhealthy pleasure in this simple mention. You want to hear it again and again. You love to hear it from the mouth of the one who has been setting the burning fire of desire in you. You close your eyes, remembering the sensual way he made your name flow like honey in his mouth. You dream now of feeling his tongue more deeply, so much so that you could cum like this. "Don't resist me anymore." he pleads as he takes possession of that pulpy, deliciously half-open mouth that's just waiting for him.
"Director Krennic." you beg, we do not know really for what reason. You feel overwhelmed by conflicting feelings. You're torn between wanting to push him away and wanting to dive into the blue of his eyes.
"Orson..." you sigh while he is kissing your neck. Your moans and sighs drive him completely crazy. He can't stop laughing when he sees that you weren't too hard to persuade. You feel the vibrations of his laughter against the skin of your neck, which he covers with kisses and light bites. "Call me Orson." An almost unheard whisper echoes your sighs and groans. You find yourself halfway between dream and reality. A sensual torpor finishes all your doubts in the blink of an eye.
As you throw yourself around his neck, the growth hidden between the pleats of his uniform swells dangerously. He likes the fact that you answer his propositions, that you are devouring his mouth with so much desperation. He feels strengthened in his intentions, he is now persuaded that you desire him as much as he desires you. And he is right to think that your whole body vibrates at the simple sound of his voice. You had a few scruples before throwing yourself at the first man you saw, but they've vanished like snow in the sun. It must be said that Orson Krennic is not just any first comer. He's that important imperial officer who always chats with your father with so much anger, he's that detestable pushy guy who tries to make his way in the aristocratic hierarchy of the Empire, despite his poor social origins, he's that man with the ocean blue eyes who undresses you with a simple glance at the curve of your buttocks. Orson Krennic is a fantasy, as much for you as you are for him. You dream of imagining your father's face when he hears what you're doing now. You dream of Orson taking you against him, in the crowd of all those aristocrats of the Empire, and twirling you around until you lose your footing in that huge ball. You even dream of him marrying you and making you his, both officially and unofficially. You love the idea of carrying on his family name, it might annoy your parents, but you love his name so much. Krennic. You want to be his first and last wife. You admire his career path to the highest levels of power. He came from nothing and made it on his own with his mind and skills. You love his calculating look and explosive temperament. You won't be bored in your life with a man like him. Despite the taboos, you fantasize about the possibilities of a lifetime with him. You let him cover your body with his strong arms, while the heavy panels of his cloak wrap around you as they move. He can do whatever he wants with you, his needs are orders.
No sound for miles, the darkness of the night drapes your meeting in a blanket faintly lit by the rays of the moonlight. You surrender to each other in a kiss that blends passion and need. You kiss as if you were looking for a breath of oxygen. As if all your conniving glances, your smiles in half-tone, your touches mean only one thing: the explosion of the senses. You feel the hands of the imperial slipping under the silk of your dress, and you briefly think again of your father. Your lips curve in a smile against those of your cursed lover. The idea excites you strongly, you feel then violent contractions in your lower belly. You kiss him with more fervour, while he pulls up his hands to the two hills which are used as opulent breast to you. His skilled fingers grasp with all the expertise of which they are capable these nipples full of life, whose tips take almost instantaneously a pretty red blood color.
"Orson..." you beg. "Don't stop, please..."
You hear a grunt of excitement from Orson Krennic, as he notices that your nipples are as hard as marble. He is crazy about the idea of being the one and only able to make you so responsive to his caresses and kisses. Very quickly, his lips take the place of his fingers. Here he is, on his knees in front of you. He went up your dress to your collarbones, you hardly hold the fabric above his silver hair, while he sucks hastily the tip of your breasts. Behind the excitement of your first lovemaking, you are surprised by his sensuality. It quickly becomes more and more unbearable, as your intimacy is covered with a translucent liquor, symbol of your desire. You want everything and right away. You catch then his face of your two hands to raise it gently towards you. He stares at you with his big ocean blue eyes, you even notice that his pupils have dilated. His look is much darker than at the beginning of the evening, it is almost magnetic. He carries you away in a whirlwind of shivers and contractions. His desire overwhelms you so deeply that you feel more and more unsteady towards him. You are finally aware of the power of his feelings for you.
You finally feel ready for him. It must be him and nobody else. You want him to be the first man to possess you. "Take me now." Yes, there. Against that icy marble wall, in the corridor of the Emperor's summer salon. You want your first time to be in a situation where anyone is likely to catch your lovemaking.
He instantly looks up at you, stunned by your boldness. A flash of light goes through his beautiful bright eyes, a mixture of excitement and annoyance. His old-fashioned side is hurt, Orson Krennic prefers to do things his way, rather than give in to your desires.
"It's where I want, when I want." he says as he turns back to your mouth, he takes the opportunity to nibble your lower lip until it bleeds. "I wouldn't take any chances here." he insists, unwilling to risk public humiliation. You are his dirty little secret. At your defeated and almost begging face, Krennic stretches his lips into a sly smile. "Unless... you beg me hard enough for me to think about it more seriously." He's playing with you, playing with your nerves. He wants to remind you who's calling the shots between you two, he wants to persuade you to believe in his superiority. "Beg me," he orders slowly. "Beg me good, (Y/N)."
Just as you were finally at the crucial point of your encounter, you hear male voices emanating from the corridor. They make you abruptly stop your exploration of the other's body. You release yourselves, not without regret. Orson Krennic grabs your wrist in one of his hands, to hold you against him, behind one of the many marble pillars of the summer lounge.
"Have you seen Director Krennic?"
"Krennic is a bloody fool to believe for a moment that he can win my favor this way," taunts a voice recognizable among a thousand, that of a middle-aged man. Wilhuff Tarkin. A flash of fear crosses Orson Krennic's eyes at the mere idea of being discovered in such an unfortunate position in your company. He thinks spontaneously about his reputation, but more importantly, his career. Tarkin could destroy everything with the snap of his finger.
"He's certainly gone to sleep somewhere. I found him particularly inclined to drink tonight."
"No doubt one of the many remnants of a straggling education..."
"You were right, Governor. A high-ranking position in the imperial administration does not erase all traces of its mediocrity."
"I told you so, lieutenant. Our social origins betray us in one way or another, no matter what circle of society we claim to be from today."
"Poor Krennic can now only hope to get a girl of good lineage to wash his name."
"Because you think that a father, worthy of the name and of noble lineage, will agree to give his daughter to a man of inferior condition? Come now, don't be a bigger fool than you are, lieutenant. The aristocracy of the Empire is much more conservative than you think. Marriages are made exclusively among ourselves. Krennic can only hope to find a wife among the common women. Believe me, it will be a miracle considering his age and temperament."
At the taunts of Tarkin and his loyal lieutenant, Director Krennic can no longer control his anger. He feels his fists painfully clench in his black leather gloves. He tries to keep his nerves and pushes you behind one of the balconies leading to the gardens. He takes the opportunity to briefly brush his hair back, before heading towards Tarkin and one of his loyal lieutenants.
"Ah. Director Krennic. We were just talking about you."
"Well, here I am, Governor...is there anything I can do for you?"
The strangely goofy smile on Orson Krennic's face catches Grand Moff Tarkin somewhat off guard. He finds Krennic behaving in a way that clearly does not call for innocence. Wilhuff Tarkin frowns in annoyance.
"There's no need to be so formal, Director. You kidnapped my daughter, where is she?"
"Your daughter..." then repeats Krennic with a falsely concerned look. He seems to think quickly, before giving the most appropriate answer. "She insisted on visiting the Emperor's summer salon. I accompanied her, in all honor, Governor."
"There is no need to confuse yourself with excuses. I am well aware that you don't stand a chance anyway. She's a Tarkin. An heiress of noble lineage. Unions are only made between members of our family, not to remind you of your lowly birthright. I admire your courage. She must have rejected you as she always does. I don't like her manners, but for once, I'm very happy about it, Director."
Krennic tries to keep a straight face but the urge to burst out laughing is far too great. All of Wilhuff Tarkin's insults and rebukes cannot remove that falsely silly look from his face. He relishes in thought the moments he shares with you. The urge to pin the Grand Moff down is also strong, but Krennic is aware of the risks of such recklessness. He cannot let the excesses of his ego get in the way of his career in the Imperial administration. Krennic thus manages to dissimulate his amusement by a first spin of denial. He feels the sneer at the corner of his lips only get bigger.
"You look even more foolish than you normally do, Krennic."
Tarkin looks suspicious but brushes off the possibility of Krennic and his daughter getting closer as quickly as possible. He has shaped you in his likeness, and there is no way you can disappoint him. It is clearly not a chance in his eyes. You are far too beautiful and pure. You are too high class for Orson Krennic. However, Krennic's smile is far too joyful not to find something to worry about.
"Where did you leave her?"
"She went back with one of our latest recruits, an officer, I can't remember his name, you know..."
"No, how should I know? Do you think that the name of each of our young recruits is made known to me? You're wasting my time, again, Director."
Wilhuff Tarkin spat that last word in his face. He had always been ironic about Orson Krennic's title, but this time, the inappropriate attitude of the director annoyed him to no end. Tarkin is clearly angry. He motions to be left alone. Krennic silently watches the Grand Moff walk back to the ballroom with his lieutenant. Not without one last well-placed advice...
"Enjoy this evening, Krennic. We will talk again tomorrow about the progress of your work. The Emperor is not the last to be impatient."
Krennic then sets off to find the place where he left you, but the mockingbird that you are finally escaped him. He came close to capturing your melodious song. Maybe next time. He doesn't know yet that you refuse to leave him your heart.
a song for a mockingbird (director orson krennic x reader) ▴ part ii.
fanfiction (7 parts) – A STAR WARS FANFICTION
pairing : dir. orson krennic x reader (fem!reader)
summary. Director Orson Krennic is in love with you. Yes, he is madly in love for the first time in his life, with a person and not with a project. You have quickly become his most consuming obsession. You haunt his days and nights. His body is a burning inferno at the mere mention of your name. Your frightening name. You are a Tarkin. And not just any Tarkin, you are the daughter of Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin.
This story contains some digressions from the storyline of the Star Wars universe. In the original works and legends, Wilhuff and Thalassa had only one child, a boy, but in this story, they had two, including a girl: you.
A fiction inspired by the seven deadly sins. It will have one chapter per sin, so 7 chapters.
rating. mature
warning. lemon, smut, masturbation, oral sex.
NB. Thank you for your comments and likes! I'm glad you enjoyed the first chapter. I'm working hard to make sure the next ones live up to your expectations. I hope you enjoy this second chapter... :D
It's a little longer than expected, sorry.
Well. I am currently thinking about how to end this fanfiction.
There will certainly be a happy ending (I love them too much not to let it be otherwise!) but ... for whom? For (Y/N) or for Krennic?
For Krennic, the happy ending of his dreams is not necessarily the one for (Y/N). He hates Tarkin more than anything, so his goal is to get him out of his way permanently. Hm...
As for (Y/N)... She is torn between the love of her father and the love of a man. Her happy ending cannot be expected without her father's blessing and respect, cruel as he may be. Tarkin, however, will never give Krennic his blessing. One of them will get his own happy ending, even if it means the worst ending for the other.
I look forward to your suggestions! (a)
Thank you for reading! :D
CHAPTER 2.
GREED. It is the fact of depriving oneself of everything in return for nothing. It means the accumulation of wealth and it is sought only for its own sake. It is a state of mind that consists in not wanting to be separated from it.
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“When the days are cold and the cards all fold,
and the saints we see are all made of gold.
When your dreams all fail,
and the ones we hail…
are the worst of all.
I wanna hide the truth, I wanna shelter you.
But with the beast inside,
there's nowhere we can hide.
No matter what we breed,
we still are made of greed.
This is my kingdom come, when you feel my heat,
look into my eyes, it's where my demons hide.
Don't get too close, it's dark inside.
At the curtain's call, it's the last of all,
when the lights fade out, all the sinners crawl.
So they dug your grave, and the masquerade,
will come calling out at the mess you've made.
Don't wanna let you down,
but I am hell-bound,
though this is all for you.
Your eyes, they shine so bright,
I wanna save that light.
I can't escape this now,
unless you show me how.”
‘Demons’ – Imagine Dragons
----------------------------
ORSON KRENNIC'S APARTMENT, RESIDENTIAL TOWER 500 REPUBLICA - CORUSCANT CITY •• YEAR -1 BBY (BEFORE BATTLE OF YAVIN)
The mockingbird that you are escaped him. Once again. He looked for you in the huge ballroom, but you apparently went back to your apartment and pretended to have a bad headache. Your father, the Grand Moff, believed you without any hesitation. It actually suits his purposes that you are not in the area. He has caught Director Krennic's special interest in you, and he is not at all pleased. You found each other, but you both avoided your responsibilities. You were close to committing an irreparable act that could seal your fate forever. You decided to run away, you were afraid of complications. You were afraid of drowning in the blue of his eyes, and you were right to take your chances. You turned away from his advances, but he lost himself in those of other women during that evening. Overwhelmed by his urges and frustrations, Orson Krennic found no other option but to return to his customary indiscretions. He went out of his way to forget your voice, your flowery perfume in the laughter of other young women more accommodating and friendly. Orson Krennic despises the easy way out, but this time she became his mistress for the night. Everyone saw him leave the party with a woman. You must have heard about it, your father did not hide to show, once again, the depth of his disgust for Orson Krennic's bunny-hot tendencies. He wanted to discredit him in your eyes, and it almost worked. A frivolous, annoying woman clearly made for him, according to his own words.
This woman is young, much too young for him, but after all, whether one has money and social status, does it really matter? Orson Krennic is also not sure he remembers his first name. It starts with an M and probably ends with an A or an E. He didn't really listen when they were introduced, because all he's looking for is not yet the woman of his life, but simply the one who will spend the night in his bed. This girl is beautiful, sophisticated and extraordinarily foxy. She wears an elegant outfit that perfectly molds her curves, certainly with the idea of triggering a wave of excitement in her path. Without further delay, Orson Krennic takes her to his quarters in one of Coruscant City's most beautiful residential towers.
“Come here,” he commands, leaning his hand back to slowly bring his long, leather-gloved fingers inside. With this one gesture, Orson Krennic motions the sumptuous creature to approach him. He is giving her an order. It is not even a suggestion, it is an order. She obeys, because she thinks she can get much more from him. Orson Krennic has a particularly sultry reputation in the Empire. A ladies' man. This reputation has preceded him since his early years as an engineering student on Brentaal IV.
Before she's even a few feet from the leather couch Director Krennic has slumped into, she gets a new request. “Be a good girl and get us something to drink.” He then indicates with a simple nod a luxurious cabinet in a corner of the small living room.
“You have a weakness for strong spirits, is that right, Director?” she says as she grabs two crystal glasses elegantly carved with geometric shapes. She then grabs a bottle that looks like a particularly aged whiskey, and spills some into each of the glasses. She remains contemplative for a few moments, apparently captivated by the amber color of the liquid.
“That is enough. Come over here, now.” Krennic stares at her for a long moment before snickering nervously. Of course, strong liquors are usually the most expensive. Owning a whole cabinet of them is a visible sign of social and wealthy success. So, of course, Orson Krennic likes hard liquor. He likes everything that is close to a rare and expensive thing. It is a way for him to break with his middle-class origins. Today, Krennic is no longer that poor boy deprived of all that life can offer to those in power. He is now making up for years of suffering. “Your name is... Meera, isn't it?”
Meera's cheeks flush as she imagines she is getting special treatment from Krennic. She nods softly as she hands him his drink, not without taking the opportunity to stroke his long fingers as her hand goes by. She thinks she is quite unique in the eyes of Orson Krennic, because he seems to know her first name. Orson Krennic does not care about her first name. It is only to make him look good that he gives her this little pleasure. Tomorrow, Krennic will probably have forgotten his first name, if not his face.
“Yes, my Director...” whispers the sparkling Meera as she breaks the last few inches that separate their bodies. “May I call you... in a more familiar way?”
Krennic moves his head negatively in response to Meera's request. He remains frozen at the thought of another woman other than you screaming his first name at the moment of her orgasm.
“That will be Director Krennic for you,” he replies with a raised eyebrow, the tone of his voice betraying his impatience. “Meera. It is a common name.” he criticizes by slamming his tongue against his palate in a disapproving sign.
A criticism undoubtedly inappropriate that a woman worthy of this name cannot approve. He seems relatively annoyed that his young conquest for the night is not up to your standing. Meera, however, is not known for her dignity or her manners. She is a gold digger, a beautiful woman, an upstart who hopes to marry a man in the upper echelons of the Empire. Orson Krennic has no regard for those women who sell their charms to the highest bidder at society parties. Women like this one, Krennic has met dozens of them in his long career.
“I can be any woman you want me to be tonight. I can be any name you want tonight. I am all yours, Director Krennic.”
He remains silent for a few seconds, analyzing his nightly partner's words without feeling any particular attraction to her. Orson Krennic does not care about this woman at all. The only reason he brought her back to his private quarters was to be consumed by another woman than the one who haunts all his thoughts. A thought crossed his tortured mind almost instantly. He wants to call her by your first name, to bring the fantasy closer to reality by pretending that you are there with him. But he stops himself from cracking at this furious urge to draw a parallel between you and this harlot.
“I expect no less from you...” he retorts condescendingly. Orson Krennic does not doubt it one moment. He rules in his private apartments, no one can refuse him any favor. It is already a great honor for Meera to be in this sacred place. “Show me that you are a good girl.” He ends his glass in one shot.
Meera approaches him gently, she finally throws herself on his mouth and kisses him in surprise for a few seconds. Then, she comes to put a light kiss at the corner of his lips, before starting to go down to the lower abdomen of his partner. She begins to unbutton this extraordinarily well inflated crotch trapped in his uniform pants. Krennic remains surprisingly stoic, although the patience is clearly not one of its qualities. She doesn't let him say anything anyway, the buckle of his pants is already on the ground, and her teeth are imprisoning the fabric of his underwear. She goes down gradually and slowly, until the erection of the officer is finally in the free air. Meera’s hands are lost against his small buttocks, that she presses with firmness, while sliding her tongue along the blood swollen sex by the desire of Orson Krennic. It is only after tortuous minutes that she takes it in full mouth. Her lips are luscious, made to satisfy the most demanding imperial officers in all of Coruscant City. Krennic can't hold back a sexist comment as he discovers how easily this woman surrenders to the first rich man she meets.
His mutinous tongue explores every inch of her skin, enjoying the warmth that radiates from her bulging, purplish veins. Meera relishes every bit of this fleshly embrace, at the very second when her mouth is implacably embraced in his intimacy. The young woman appreciates to feel the Director Krennic in full erection, ready to explode his pleasure in her. This sadly gives her a sense of gratefulness that turns out to be twisted in the mind and heart of Orson Krennic. When he sees her take his manhood in her mouth, the only thing that is occupying his thoughts is not Meera, but you. He thinks of you intensely, while she works to give him unforgettable sensations. Meera's fingers press almost nervously against the imperial officer's buttocks, through the thick fabric of his black uniform pants; a color that contrasts strongly with the immaculate whiteness of his jacket and cape. He keeps her forehead against his pelvis, accentuating her lingual movements with simple hip movements. His hands go through the golden hair of Meera, they embrace her wicks with possessiveness, while she leads him in a state close to the ecstasy. Krennic decides to drive her in and out against his powerful verge with one hand on the back of his head. Grunts and sighs of contentment escape Director Krennic's thin lips. She is obviously good at things sexual, in fact she is extremely good. He enjoys feeling the caresses of her tongue on his sensitive spots, as she ventures onto his scarlet foreskin. He feels on the verge of orgasm, his whole body begging to be delivered. He feels the muscles of his penis to contract little by little, his bluish and purplish veins having even doubled in volume. His brain is in full collapse, as Meera's tongue wraps around his sex, giving him multiple spasms that make his ability to think that much tougher.
“Stop it.” he says without giving her a look. “I'm turned on enough.” He grabs her slender wrist in an effort to extract her mouth from his manhood. It is ready to explode, and it is not how he wishes to finish his evening. Meera puts her beautiful green emerald eyes in the ocean blue of those of the imperial. She quickly realizes that they are about to get fucked.
She is naked and offered, she is under his every whim. He can do whatever he wants with her. Holy God. How good it is. This is exactly how Orson Krennic likes easy sex. No complications, no commitments, just a powerful encounter between two bodies in need of release. Orson Krennic does not bother with conveniences to carry out his small business. He does not even care to undress. No. He remains dressed and only the zipper of his uniform pants is opened to allow this flesh union. He slams his partner with an unsuspected vigor against one of the walls of his living room, the apple-shaped breasts of the young woman collide with the coldness of his bay window. Its nipples harden almost instantaneously under the blow. He grips then this slender size of a hand and the wall of the other, before plunging his virility in this offered intimacy. He fucks this woman, vulgarly speaking. His comings and goings are almost compulsive, deep and fast. He pounds his partner hoping to be able to drown his spirit in this unbridled part of fucks in the air.
He wants more than anything to drown in this woman, until he is unable to think straight or remember your face, your moans or your sweet smell. Krennic hides his torpor, this is not the time to admit his troubles. He thinks he can solve his issues in the same old fashioned way, then with women and drunken parties. But he doesn't know that turning a blind eye to his struggles is the only way to plunge further into madness and denial.
From time to time, he scratches the naked body of the beautiful Meera. He leaves marks, his marks, on some parts of her body. That excites it strongly to mark what it states to belong to him of full right. The signs of his scratches, of his bites, of his sucking, of his kisses are everywhere on her perfect body. Krennic maintains his thighs firmly on both sides of his body, his hands slip sometimes, but he quickly reasserts his catch before her legs fall on the ground. He finally takes off his hand of the wall to catch the beautiful and long blond hair of his partner in the palm of his hand. He applies a sharp pressure, allowing to bring back the head of the young woman behind, then against his neck. He is not a lover illustrating himself by his softness or his patience, no, Orson Krennic is an impetuous and violent lover. He is devoured by his impulses and by this passion which betrays his impatience. He is certainly not when his mind is like now: a time bomb. His thoughts are too scattered, Krennic is powerless to control the waves of regretful emotions that flow into his brain. In his worst moments, the Empire's star architect breaks down to his primal and bestial needs. The woman he takes with so little thoughtfulness is only one of the many symptoms of his emotional distress. She expresses a deep discomfort that he is incapable of identifying without losing his professional ethics.
Meera sweats and breathes of pleasure by feeling the blood flowing towards her intimate parts. He holds her generous breasts with one hand, to bring her pelvis even deeper against his. Her face boils under the sharp assaults of her torturer, while he starts to drive her body until the orgasm. When he finally breaks, Meera is unable to contain her desperately erotic cries. Her body is traversed by vibrations and ecstatic shivers. She shakes unreasonably against his pelvis, she even begs that he never stops. She implores him to continue to violate her until the end of her orgasm. That brutally finishes the last forces of the Director Krennic. He cannot also contain more his orgasm, releasing himself in a fast but not less powerful throw. Krennic then releases his grip, noticing that his nails have sunk deep into the young woman's white flesh. Thin streaks of red blood dotted Meera's bouncing buttocks, as well as her lower back and inner thighs. She is drenched in both her own pleasure and in her partner's desire. Both of them are still wrapped in the vertigo of their enjoyment. In thanks for their wild and passionate lovemaking, Krennic takes the opportunity to place a kiss on her shoulder, before moving away from her. Orson Krennic takes no pleasure in the violence of this flesh-and-blood relationship. It is not as pleasant as it could have been in your arms.
"All the pleasure was for me, Director Krennic." she breathes warmly, undoubtedly she hopes to rise to the top of the power to the arms of a man as powerful as Orson Krennic.
The pleasure was all hers. But which pleasure? An emotionless, expeditious and unbelievably violent act. That's all this woman has inspired in the director of the Empire's advanced weapons bureau. He answered the young woman's compliment with a slight amused laugh betraying a slight embarrassment. Far from being satisfied, Krennic was actually bored to death in her arms. She was just another damsel, beautiful on the outside, but as rotten as an overripe fruit on the inside. There was no pleasure from her, none, because this woman is not you. You are the only one Orson Krennic desires, at this very moment, when he has just made wild love to a real beauty. She is not you. Do you realize how much he's dying for her to be you? Deep down, this Meera is just a way for him to consume himself in the brutality of a highly alcoholic sexual encounter in order to put you out of his mind. He must get you out of every part of his mind at all costs, you're causing him a lot of trouble. You're a distraction, you interfere with his work, you interfere with his professional relationships, you interfere with his ongoing successful career. Yet he can't stop thinking about the last few hours he spent with you at the annual imperial ball. He came so close to owning you, like one of the many acquisitions that decorate his rich apartment in Coruscent City. He came so close to capturing the impossible, something that all well-born men aspire to possess at some point. The mockingbird that you are has escaped him, and Orson Krennic still can't get over it.
After what seems like an endless silence, Orson Krennic's voice finally echoes in the huge living room, it is mechanical and icy. “You are free to leave now.” And this is how he dismissed, certainly not in the sweetest of ways, the beautiful Meera. Faithful to himself, Orson Krennic remained in retreat by buckling the belt of his precious uniform. He even took the opportunity to dust off the sides of his jacket, in a surprisingly maniacal gesture. He likes to be impeccable in all circumstances, including after sexual things. “I don’t need you anymore.”
This burst of monotony which escapes from the tone of his voice does not leave the young woman indifferent. Meera is offended, but she does not show any apparent sign so as not to annoy Director Krennic with her states of mind. She sees very well that he is not the kind of man to comfort a damsel in distress. He doesn't care about others, about women, all he cares about is himself. Meera is aware that this is strictly forbidden to her. She knows exactly what to expect from a man like Orson Krennic. His reputation is known throughout Coruscant City, he's not a man who gets emotionally involved, he's not a man who falls in love at first sight, he's not a man who would give up his heart to another human being. Orson Krennic loves only one thing in life: his perfect career. Orson Krennic is only obsessed with the Death Star, the project of a lifetime. How can you stand next to such a high-tech marvel? Women are only trophies on his arms, delights that soothe his frustrations and lighten what remains of his ethical conscience. No. Orson Krennic does not fall in love with a woman, it is the women who fall in love with him. Never. That has always been the case since he was a teenager. But you... You... You came into his life, like a thunderbolt, and turned all his beliefs upside down. He suffers from not being able to express his feelings, love is nothing but a weakness. You are a nightmare disguised as a beautiful dream in his eyes.
In a way, Orson Krennic is relieved that he didn't take the next step with you. You're a huge risk he's not yet willing to take to satisfy his sexual needs. He often thinks about the consequences that an affair with you could have on his professional life. He considers the idea of consummating the affair, right under the nose of his long-time rival, Wilhuff Tarkin. You are the only weapon that can destroy him. You can ravage his entire life, destroy his advancement in the Empire's hierarchy, shatter his entire plan and take away his ultimate, lifelong project, his precious Death Star. If Wilhuff Tarkin ever decides to destroy his entire life and everything he holds precious, Orson Krennic can certainly never be able to recover. Are you ready to carry this burden on your shoulders? Krennic himself isn't sure he's willing to risk all that for... Why, after all? For one hot night in the gardens of the Imperial Palace? So it's just sex? No. No, and that's what's been devouring his soul little by little for a year. It destroys him because it's not just about sex. He can have all the women he wants with a snap of his fingers. What's consuming him are the feelings he has for you that he's keeping bottled up inside.
“It's a blessing in disguise,” he murmurs to himself, as he stands in front of one of the impressive bay windows of his apartment. He holds his glass of strong alcohol and raises it a few times to his lips. He savors the intensity of the ingredients that have macerated for a long time to make this alcohol so exceptional. Exceptionally expensive, unaffordable for the average person, but not for Director Krennic. Director Krennic can afford anything. He can have it all. Absolutely anything. Lots of things that are of no use to him, but which satisfy an urgent and impulsive need. He can buy a lot of things, except what really matters in his cold heart. Your love is something he unfortunately cannot afford. It's a blessing in disguise, he repeats to himself, hoping to convince himself that he made the right decision. It's the wisest decision he's made in his life. But then why does it leave a sadly bitter taste in his mouth? Krennic finishes his glass in one go, before putting it back on the piece of furniture on his right, with a loud noise. He then ties his hands behind his back and observes the panorama that his apartment offers him of the hyper-center of Coruscant City. He's had an apartment in the prestigious '500 Republica' residential tower for a few years. To think that you have been only a few floors away from each other for so many years... This revelation grips his heart painfully, Orson feels helpless. He is deeply troubled by what seems like a puzzling reaction for a man like him, who strives to maintain a safe distance between his emotions and others. Emotions and feelings are only barriers to his rise to the upper reaches of power. You have no place in his thoughts, and even less in his heart.
Orson Krennic stands in front of his bay window for a good twenty minutes, losing himself in his own reflections before returning to what matters most in his life. His work. He decides to put away his bottle of alcohol for the evening, and to go back to work on his last drawings. The days will necessarily go by faster if he keeps busy, that's what everyone always says. So the days go by, one, then two, then finally seven. Seven days. Yet nothing has moved an eyelash in the tormented thoughts of our renowned architect. Seven fucking days. He kept thinking about you, wondering why you abandoned him before the evening was over. He tried to ignore you for the first three days, but the temptation was too strong for him, so he sent you a message via your datapad. You didn't bother to reply to his message, nor to the second and even less to the third one that followed. Do you realize that Orson Krennic is not so easily ignored? No one in the world would ever behave that way to him. No one who values life as the apple of his eye, anyway.
It's particularly late today when Orson Krennic walks through the door of his apartment after a tiring day. He is inclined to check his messages on his own datapad, or even his comlink, naively hoping that you have left him a holographic recording. Krennic quickly brushes this possibility out of his mind; he feels he knows you well enough by now to say that you don't mess around with messages either. You've made your intentions clear to him over the past seven days. You don't want to hear about him again, especially not about what almost happened between you. What Orson Krennic doesn't know is that you think about him as much as he thinks about you. You're just trying to fight the urge to return his messages. You desperately want to see him and touch him in the flesh. You find yourself bound hand and foot in a dysfunctional, highly toxic, obsessive relationship.
Orson Krennic's azure eyes are lost in the vastness of the starry sky, from which some imperial ships are still speeding by, despite the late hour of the night. His eyes are almost empty of all emotion, cold and calculating. He scans the comings and goings of these ships aimlessly. He probably expects to find the courage not to blame himself for having taken such a dramatic choice. A move that necessarily takes him away from you, but which is important under the circumstances.
After all, you haven't heard from him for seven long days. Do you realize how frustrated you are making him feel? In that case, if the decision is made and all is well in the best of worlds... Why this dramatic look?
▲▼ ------------------- TARKIN ROYAL SUITE, 500 REPUBLICA RESIDENTIAL TOWER – CORUSCANT CITY -----------------------
ONE WEEK AFTER THE IMPERIAL BALL.
It can be said that the apartments of the imperial couple aspires to a degree of sobriety, despite the richness and variety of the furniture and ornaments. The rooms of the royal suite are spacious, painted with neutral colors, such as beige or various shades of chocolate. A touch of crimson red on the curtains brings a touch of nobleness to the interior decoration. The furniture is made of varnished solid wood and carved by the best artists in the planet. The draperies, curtains and sheets are mostly hand woven in noble and satin materials, like wild silk or a beautiful shiny satin. As for the trinkets, they are mainly related to the origins of the Tarkin family. They are relics of the culture of their people, there are statues, vases, mirrors, unique decorative objects and even lamps with floral prints. The paintings that beautifully decorate some of the walls portray scenes of epic galactic battles and ancient cultural legends. All are unique and expansive pieces, though there is a noticeable lack of showiness.
One work stands out from all the others, however, a gigantic painting of the Tarkin family, sitting above an artificial fireplace in the main living room. Thalassa, Wilhuff, the now deceased Garoche and... you are shown with your best smiles. All four of you stand with dignity, all looking like respectable people. Faithful and loyal servants of the Empire. What a joke. It just looks like a charade to you, you have never really been as close as in this painting on the wall. It portrays something unrealistic in your eyes, it shows a united, conventional and loving family. You criticize the painting for giving the illusion of a family unity that has long since broken down. You complain that the loving family depicted in the picture is only a reflection of pretenses and one-sided love. Wilhuff has no love for your mother, even though the painting shows them apparently devoted to each other. He prefers to burden himself with a romantic relationship with a young female officer in the Imperial Navy. The only thing that is true about this painting is the love that Wilhuff and Thalassa have for their son Garoche. Sadly gone, they have since felt a huge emptiness in their hearts. A hole that you are struggling to fill, despite all your best efforts. You are now the hope of your parents, the one who will make them proud and less miserable for having lost Garoche. You are like the last wheel of the carriage, you fix the broken pots, you are their emergency door. You carry an immeasurable weight on your frail shoulders, so failure is obviously not an option.
The Tarkins' apartment is royal in name only. It is sober and elegant, far from being like Director Orson Krennic's. Despite the wild rumors circulating in the tea rooms of Coruscant City, the Tarkin family is a modestly illustrious family. None of its members need to show off their power in such an ostentatious manner. None of them really have anything to prove to those around them. They all bow to the superiority of the Tarkin family. The mere mention of this illustrious family name sends electric shocks and cold sweat down the spines of their rivals. Yours also calls for great respect and pride. (Y/N) Tarkin or Lady Tarkin. You are the jewel of the Tarkin family. Your father's hopes were pinned on you after the tragic death of your beloved brother, Garoche. You're staying in one of the best suites in the 500 Republica residential tower, located on the upper floors. It's been a few years since Grand Moff Tarkin and his close family moved into Coruscant City. You experience the hustle and excitement of a bustling, working hypercenter on a daily basis. You love the bustling nature of Coruscant City, a change from the peaceful countryside you were raised in on the planet Phelarion. You often long to fly away from your parents, to have your own adventures and pursue your wildest dreams.
They love you, of course, but sometimes you still have doubts about the power of their feelings for you. You never communicate the true depth of your feelings within the Tarkin family. You understand each other, but you don't love each other like a traditional family. Your egos always override your emotions, leaving a gaping hole in your hearts. You are now used to this coldness, it doesn't traumatize you as much as it did during your childhood. You love each other, but you are not allowed to say it. Like a taboo or a dirty little secret, you must remain dignified in all circumstances, and especially discreet about your own feelings. You've always lived in the dark, it doesn't even shock you now. This is how the Tarkins are made, with white marble and the coldest snow. It's hard, very hard, to grow up with so few love and warmth. This icy education, typical of the great aristocratic families, is nevertheless the only thing you know. It is your only reference and your model for a fulfilling family life.
You have pleaded for months to have your own apartments, somewhere in the huge residential tower of Coruscant City, or in another of its prestigious mansions. However, this was not without counting on the possessiveness of Thalassa Tarkin, your mother, who is also known for her intransigence. She has always insisted to your father to keep your request a distant fantasy. Yet you want more than anything else to finally stand on your own two feet, to live your life far from your parents' recommendations. The life of a Tarkin is far from being a pleasant one. It is full of challenges, morals, social behavior, prohibitions and taboos. It does not leave any space for the blossoming of a flower as passionate as you are. It does not give you the opportunity to choose the man of your life. Wilhuff Tarkin has always been particularly harsh on this issue. You are a Tarkin, and in so doing, you are a sort of extension of his own person and reputation. You are the glory and achievement of Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin. You cannot disappoint him in any way, let alone fall in love with a man of lower status than yourself. A man like Orson Krennic is not an option in your venerable father's eyes. Not only is Orson Krennic an imperial officer who was not born into the aristocracy, he is also Wilhuff Tarkin's sworn enemy. Are you willing to bring dishonor to the Tarkin name, and especially to the Grand Moff himself, for such a frivolous man? He has a reputation for sleeping with all the hotties in the Empire, for getting the stares and flirty winks in his wake. You don't know if he is worthy of your attention, if this isn't just a way for him to get to your father. You are certainly only a sordid weapon in the eyes of the powerful architect. You're just a puppet in his expert hands, gloved in beautiful black leather. That's why you refuse to fall in love with him. You will never give your heart to a man as pushy and seductive as Orson Krennic. Not in a lifetime. Not even in a million years.
So why do you have that sad smile on your face when you see your latest messages on your datapad? You find yourself lying on the huge canopy bed that you use as your haven, while your parents are out. Wilhuff and Thalassa Tarkin have gone to a private party with the Emperor and other supportive couples. They offered to let you join their festivities, which you kindly declined, saying you needed to rest. In reality, you're just scared of Emperor Sheev Palpatine. You hate all the socializing and endless dinners with him. Yet he is a close friend of your father's, and the two of them have served in the same places and risen together in Coruscant City politics.
Wilhuff Tarkin is even one of the few people Emperor Palpatine trusts. He has blindly followed the dogmas of the Imperial regime since its establishment, without discussing or criticizing the Emperor's orders. Your father likes to praise his own achievements, as a true visionary and tactician. He climbed the political and military ladder on his home planet of Eriadu, and then surrounded himself with important connections in Palpatine's inner circle as a senator, as well as in the business world. Wilhuff Tarkin is a man of rare cruelty who leaves no opportunity for human error. You even fear him at times, despite the filial bonds that unite you for better or for worse. You struggle to understand his complex psychology, so struck by his coldness and his high standards. You didn't really know him as a child, it was mainly the governesses working for your mother who took care of your education, although your mother occasionally cared for you. You grew up within the cold walls of the family manor on Phelarion, your mother's planet. Wilhuff, your venerable father, spent most of his time serving the Emperor's purposes, first as Moff of the Seswenna sector and then as Grand Moff, all the while working to make your brother the Navy's greatest asset, before his tragic death less than a year after the advent of the Galactic Empire in 19BC. For you, Wilhuff Tarkin remains a distant relative. The coldness of your relationship is the perfect example of the lovelessness you suffered during your childhood. You are far from resentful of him, you are desperate for your father's love. You think that one day you will exchange the same tender look that a father and daughter in a traditional family do. It's nice to dream, isn't it?
Lying on your bed, you are dressed in a silk nightie, paired with a long robe made of the same material. The color is a beautiful crimson red, like that used on the imperial banners on the walls of the Imperial Palace and the tapestries in your parents' apartment in Coruscant City. A blood red, evoking the consuming fire of passion and abandonment. A color that is more like you than you can imagine yet. You don't even realize that the flames of passion are desperately burning inside you at the mere mention of a man. An imperial officer whom your father despises to the depths of his soul.
You scan the latest news on the datapad given to you by your father. A sad smile graces your pink lips, exactly the same as the one you had when you discovered his first message. The first of a very long list. With your fingertips, you continue to scroll through the messages in your inbox, unable to convince the most rational part of you. You get lost again and again in his last lines, which ask for a response from you. Orson Krennic is courteous in each of his messages, calling for a meeting somewhere in Coruscant City. In one of them, he even offers to take you on a tour of one of his research stations. You can't help but get a chuckle on your lips as you think about joining Krennic at his place of work. You understand that behind this proposal, there are some disguised words of apology. He is certainly annoyed with himself for having lost his temper last time, and this is a way for him to show you his daily life. He wants to share things with you, but does he do it especially for you? You want to believe, even for a moment, that these proposals are special and that he is not making them for any other woman but you.
You spend long minutes re-reading his words without ever getting tired of them. As you are about to close your datapad before falling asleep, a notification suddenly attracts your attention. A message from Director Krennic has just appeared before your astonished eyes. Is it fate or a combination of fortuitous circumstances?
“Lady Tarkin. I regret that I did not meet you at the Emperor's private reception this evening. Your father reported to me that you were unwell. I can understand many things, Lady Tarkin, though they are unpleasant for me to read. Please take care of yourself. Respectfully, Director Orson Krennic.”
His message pierces your soul from both sides, it is no longer acceptable to leave such an upsetting message unanswered by you. You decide to give in to the temptation to play a seductive epistolary game with him. What harm can there be in answering a simple note?
“Director Krennic. You ask me to call you by your first name, but you continue referring to me by my title? Be careful not to choke on your ambitions. I've had my mind on things this evening. Cordial greetings, (Y/N) Tarkin.”
His reply was not long in coming. A few minutes later, a new notification catches your eyes still awake.
“Lady Tarkin. I am truly disappointed to read this. We were particularly surprised not to find you there. If I am the reason for your discomfort, you should know that I only made a brief appearance. My respects, Director Orson Krennic.”
As your conversations progress, the words of courtesy are disappearing to give way to increasingly short and instantaneous messages. You communicate about everything and nothing, the weather, the geopolitical situation of the galaxy, Orson's work... Although he takes great care in venturing on this sensitive subject.
“You're still not sleeping.”
Your lips stretch into an amused smile, as you realize that he, too, can't get to sleep because of your intense conversation.
“How could I? You've been exhausting me for a good hour already.”
However, something disturbs you in the message you just wrote to him. You are regretting that you hit the send button so quickly.
“Am I holding you up that much? You do surprise me, (Y/N). I thought you had more endurance.”
You may be young, but you're far from stupid. You understand his insinuations better than anyone. Somehow this makes you blush intensely. You are particularly excited about the idea of 'flirting' with Director Krennic through computers. There is something dangerous and reassuring about your correspondence. You're not in front of each other, the messages are coming by the second, there's no risk in revealing parts of your intimate thoughts. There's no risk at all, right?
“We missed you tonight.” Wrong. He missed you tonight.
“I'm not avoiding you, if that's what you mean.”
“Why didn't you join us, then?”
“I'm not comfortable in his presence.”
By 'his presence' you imply, of course, the Emperor's. You are grateful for Director Krennic's thoughtfulness for not attacking you on this admission. After all, he must not feel particularly good in his company either. Emperor Sheev Palpatine is not a man who is easily made comfortable.
“Doesn't a Tarkin have to be at every social gathering?”
You can't help but smile as you read what he just sent you.
“What about you then?”
“These endless parties bore me. It is a considerable waste of time on my work. I am an extremely busy man, you know.”
“That's what my father tells me too.”
“What does he say?”
“I don't think you need to know.”
“So that's it?”
You narrow your eyes at his last message. He takes a few minutes of thought before elaborating on his point.
“You ran away because of him.”
“Because you think you know me?”
“Indeed, far better than you know yourself, Lady Tarkin.”
“What would have happened anyway?”
“Do you really want to know?”
Your fingers are impatient, tapping on the holographic keyboard of your datapad, seeking to feed your curiosity like a hungry woman. That's what you are, you are hungry and thirsty for him. You hesitate a few moments before sending your answer. You realize that your conversation has just crossed a more intimate stage. You're not sure how it's going to go.
“You already know.”
He's playing with you, what a creep. This game is extremely kinky and he expects you to beg him to tell you dirty things. But you want to, right? More than anything. You feel the desire rumbling in the hollow of your spine, as well as between the folds of your nightgown. You're not wearing any underwear, so you feel a moisture slowly covering your crotch. You feel a thicker and thicker aroma particle forming at the level of your intimacy.
“It’s a yes or a no? Please, elaborate on your point, Lady Tarkin.”
Your fingers are trembling on the holographic keyboard of your datapad, as the urge to answer him yes grows stronger and stronger in your mind. Curiosity and a taste for danger make these conversations even more exciting than they already are. You are hoping that it is impossible to hack into your personal conversations.
You put the datapad back on the pillow at your side, wanting to keep yourself from diving into a discussion that is too dangerous for both you and him. You take the opportunity to pour yourself a glass of wine, before returning to your private quarters with a crystal glass and a bottle. You think that this night will be very, very, very long and full of twists and turns. You're definitely going to need some alcohol.
“Have sweet dreams.”
You frown as you find a new notification after five minutes. He seems to be ending your conversation and you are suspecting that he thinks you are asleep.
“I can only make it about you.”
“Oh. I was sure you had finally fallen asleep,” he replies almost instantly. “What about your dreams?”
“Those are not things to ask a lady.”
“You're very bold to play these little games with me. You started this one, you must finish it. If it is only a lack of experience, I can easily fix it.”
“In what sense?"
"In any sense you wish.”
A flush of warmth then fills your entire body. You are burning with the desire to explore what he is capable of performing on you.
“Would you like a taste?”
“What you're implying is inappropriate, Director.”
For a few minutes, no messages are delivered to your inbox. You sigh desperately, thinking that he himself has dozed off, in the middle of your virtual interactions.
“You think your own behavior has the highest morality?”
He's offended, and you sense it, even if it's just a message. He's certainly pissed off, and rightfully so. You play with him since the beginning of the night, you are exchanging messages more and more suggestive. You let him dream a shape of intimacy in your company to better break all his hopes. Orson Krennic is a man who is not used to being told no, and even less to being frustrated with such impunity.
You firmly tighten your wine glass between your fingers, waiting feverishly for a message from him. You are still surprised at how quickly you have become addicted to your correspondence. You wonder what he is doing at this very moment, and if he is indeed alone at this late hour of the night. Maybe he is with someone, considering the time he seems to take to answer you. This idea provokes strange reactions in you. A destructive feeling takes possession of you, sweeping away all your reasonable thoughts like a blast. Don't pretend to ignore it. A hint of jealousy takes over your thoughts, plunging you even deeper into the confusion of your feelings. Jealousy is the worst of all plagues, it leads to letting the irrational take control of a mind as brilliant and wise as yours.
Then finally, there you see a new notification on your instant chat feed. You jump up on one of your silk ears, clutching your datapad like the apple of your eye. You scan the last few lines of your conversation with your trembling fingers. A new message. From him. His last message.
You take a sip of your drink to give yourself enough strength to read his words. What you see a few seconds later nearly makes you spit out the entire glass.
“I suppose you were less... reluctant in the midst of your father. You need him to confess your burning desire to me? In front of him perhaps? Would you find that arousing?”
By all the stars in the galaxy. He didn't say that. No, no, no. Don't tell me he went that far. You blink countless times as you reread his message. You can't believe what you're reading for the tenth time. The shock is so great that you suddenly close your software to disconnect. What an idiot, you think as you put your datapad under the nearest pillow. You put your glass back on the bedside table, exhausted, and lie down on the side of the canopy bed. Orson Krennic's words echo over and over in your head. You are angry, but do you even know why? He has spoken some truths, that's what makes you so angry. You can't help but be aroused by this funny game. And that's what's even more sordid. Finally, you are deeply shocked by his provocations, particularly by the fact that you are unable to fight him. You went to great lengths with him during the annual reception given by the Emperor. You even asked him to go further with you, you burned with desire for his uniform. Orson Krennic. Come on, you're dying for him to take you to the moon.
“Orson...”
A whisper leaves your mouth, and before you realize it, your hands have already found their way under the silk of your little scarlet nightie. You then think back to the moments shared together, during the famous Emperor's reception, seven days ago. Blinding flashes enslave your tired and excited mind, snatches of burning memories of unfulfilled desires. With your eyes closed, lying on your back between your beautiful sheets, you try to visualize the body and face of Director Krennic above you. You are intoxicated by his voice, his smell, his warm tongue in your ear, his fingers on the tip of your breasts, your belly button, then your intimacy soaked with your pleasure. Your hands are in fact his hands. You seek, trembling, the way towards the center of your pleasure. You know your body perfectly well, so it's no surprise to you to explore your intimate lips. They are wet with a translucent mixture, symbol of a repressed excitation. You exercise then a firm pressure on this spot of nerves, now hard and filled with blood. Any reflexion capacity is lost in the whirlwind of these dizzy sensations that your own intimate stimulation gets to you. Half-opened mouth, you are crossed by more and more ecstatic shivers. You feel a furious desire to be filled. You are dying for Orson Krennic to come and take possession of your lips and your body, but he is not there.
You hardly fight back a moan, before you begin to ravish your body with one finger, then two, and finally three. You are alternating caresses on the exposed flesh of your nerve button and that of your intimacy. The comings and goings of your fingers are hasty and impulsive, causing you to quickly lose all reason as you cry out his name. Orson. You picture your lovemaking, which you imagine to be passionate and rushed. You fantasize about him touching you and loving you with his fingers. You imagine that it matches yours perfectly. You suddenly arch your body under the jolts of your touch, as your fingers work their way between your wet walls. You feel soon an intense rise of heat to wrap your interior, you are more and more close to release. Your head is full of obscene pictures. Your movements are now more expeditious, while your thumb continues to work on your clitoris more frantically. You feel yourself getting closer and closer to orgasm, and you want it more and more as the seconds go by. Your clitoris is full of blood and ready to literally implode under your precise stimulation, you even feel embarked in these breathtaking sensations. You desire more than anything to ride your orgasm, you are so close and yet so far. While writhing against your sheets, your fluid-soaked fingers continue to caress your parts, until the pain becomes so unbearable that you must stop everything.
Your lips whisper the same name, then scream it over and over. Orson, Orson, Orson… You are about to cum with your own hands when someone starts pounding on your apartment door. You frown, annoyed that someone is interrupting you at the most crucial moment of the evening. You get up hastily and try to tie the belt of your gown around your nightie as best you can to hide the wetness of your body. As you walk through the door to the spacious living room, the sound of the door getting louder and louder. You grind your teeth while wondering what is the reason for this impatience. I'm coming, I'm coming, you protest inwardly.
By closing your hand on the handle of the door, you take a deep breath of air to encourage you to cross the step. You even take the opportunity to check your reflection in the mirror of the large living room, making sure that everything is in place.
“Dir... Director?” you babble as you open the door on Director Krennic. He is holding the corner of the wall with one hand, the other in the air with a closed fist, ready to pound on it for the third time. He stares at you with round eyes, obviously disturbed by your almost hypnotic appearance. Everything about you is perfect, right up to your slightly untidy night clothes and your messy locks.
This vision is so enchanting that it makes him momentarily lose the gift of speech. He feels his heart miss a beat, so much he is subjugated by your natural beauty. You are wearing only a simple nightie with an extremely thin robe, the fabric is so thin that Krennic is able to see the secrets of every detail of your female anatomy. He also spots on your skin a strange glow, what he assumes to be a fine sweat particle. He also notices that the strands of your hair mysteriously stick to your temples. Where is this sweat coming from? What have you been doing all this time? His thoughts even brush over the idea of you doing something inappropriate while thinking about him. Krennic feels his body tense up almost instantly at this realization. With a brief movement, he pulls one of the flaps of his heavy white cloak down to his thigh, to hide the size of his crotch.
“Orson.” he corrects as he stands in your doorway. He seems to cringe at the way you call him. His eyebrows are furrowed in displeasure. You don't know what he wants from you, this late at night, but you don't think even he has a clue. “Didn't we already take care of that issue?” You realize he is clearly referring to the intimate moments shared during the Emperor's Ball. No, you're not dreaming, he's attacking what's left of your moral principles.
“Director Krennic” you reply, proudly raising your little chin to him.
You refuse to let him tear your soul apart again. You won't give him the satisfaction of falling into his arms. Not this time. You're strong now. You know how to say no. You stick to your guns, he's not a man for you.
“Someone obviously forgot to memorize his protocol in front of an heiress of the great nobility of the Empire.” you point out arrogantly.
You take care to correct his disappointing manners by confronting him, once again, with the social differences that exist between you. Unfortunately, this does not bring you the expected reaction since he only laughs softly. Softly and warmly. His voice is husky, his accent is well marked, his laugh is mocking but sexy at the same time.
“Someone was less reluctant a few days ago...” he remarks with a soft chuckle. You see a slight smile appear on the corner of his delicately pink lips, which you dream of kissing. An amused and mocking smile at the same time. His signature smile. Oh, by all the stars in the galaxy. That smile... That smile will be your downfall. As for his gaze, his eyes shine with a familiar glint, you've already had the pleasure of meeting it at the imperial ball. A glint of envy and possession. Oh yes, Orson Krennic dreams of possessing you completely.
To make everything worse, you notice that your own body is about to betray you in the cruelest way. Your cheeks are turning red like it's not permissible. You feel a sudden contraction at the level of your lower abdomen by thinking again of what it happened at the imperial ball. Desire is already burning inside you, flowing through your veins and is also the cause of that wetness between your legs. You are already lost anyway, he is already aware of the effect his body has on you. Everything else, all these words, all these insinuations, are just sordid foreplay for Orson Krennic. He only takes a sick pleasure in testing your limits to better embrace you in his perversion.
“We have already agreed that this was an error of judgment on my part, Director. We had both abused on the pleasures of alcohol, we got entangled in a situation that does not intend to happen again.”
You sigh at the end of your tirade, proud that you were able to clarify things with him. It takes a lot of courage to hold back your own desires, but you've managed to pull off this miracle. Maybe he'll finally leave you alone. It's obviously a load of crap, but you made your choice not to disgrace your father's name.
Yes, yes, yes... What a bunch of lies. Orson Krennic looks at you with a small, satisfied smile at the corner of his lips. His eyes brighten almost naturally as he realizes the torment of your feelings.
“Have you finished?” he replies, raising an eyebrow in disapproval. He begins to stroke the fabric of his uniform at his hips, not far from his prized DT-29 heavy blaster. Even when not on duty, Orson Krennic keeps his signature weapon. He's chasing invisible dust, a way of showing his complete and utter disinterest in everything you've just told him. You even wonder if he really did listen to you, or if he just preferred to lose his attention on the line between your breasts.
You press another word from you forcefully as you lock your eyes in his, “Never.”
“Well, well, well. Very well in fact.” Bullshit, he wants to answer you. However, Orson Krennic remains strangely silent, like the calm before the storm. He doesn't even bother to take you back, it's useless, since he is well aware of your lies. “Do you know how much good your lovely speech makes me feel?”
You half-open your lips, ready to throw another moralizing speech at him, but you find yourself trapped in the intensity of his gaze. He puts a finger on your fleshy lips and draws the line of Cupid's bow very slowly to shut you up.
“Tell me, honey, how many hours did you practice in front of your mirror before you were able to come up with a glowing statement for me?” he says ironically. “It sounds almost...desperately attractive.”
Long minutes pass without either of you uttering a single word. You stare at each other for a long time, your eyes confronting the ocean blue of his, while thoughts far from innocent flow into your respective minds. In Orson Krennic's dreams, he sees himself grabbing your waist to pin you against the nearest wall, before kissing you with all the passion you deserve. In yours, you slowly pull down the thin strap that holds your silk garment, to reveal your aroused and completely naked body.
“What... are you doing here?” you finally ask after a short pause. You try to take a relatively casual tone, but your discomfort is clearly perceptible thanks to the slight tremble in the sound of your voice. You draw the last of your forces to throw his finger away from your mouth with a sharp movement.
“You weren't answering me anymore, my dear little Tarkin, so naturally I was worried about you,” he confesses, carefully observing every detail of your barely covered skin. His eyes even allow themselves to scan the curved shape of each of your nipples, which are pointing feverishly against the silk fabric of your nightie. It's impossible to miss those two slight spikes that are hiding an inner sexual tension you haven't been able to release yet.
“Well... I thank you for your caring. It's all right, I had just... dozed off during our conversation.”
You can't really see it, but your cheeks turn a lovely scarlet color to the point of matching your nightwear. Your lies are making you even more beautiful than you already are under normal circumstances.
“Drowsy, mh...” he repeats, falsely convinced. He doesn't believe for a second the bullshit that comes out of your mouth. Your lies even seem to amuse him more than anything else. “Of course you were...” And I'm going to be made Grand Moff instead of your father. He laughs in thought. He sniffs the air for a few seconds to check his suspicions. He can feel the heat of your desire, which makes him even more excited.
Orson Krennic places one hand against the edge of your apartment door, while the other one sits on one of his hips. This position makes you sigh inwardly, and then you are dying for him to grab you and take you in every sexual position possible. You want to rip the buttons off his perfect uniform, to wrap yourself completely naked in his immaculate cape, and to feel him come and go in you to the throbbing rhythm of the ocean waves. As you become aware of the outrageous nature of your thoughts, you feel yourself blushing even more than you already do. He notices almost immediately the change in color on the skin of your cheeks. A sly sneer begins to appear at the corner of his lips as he decides to build up the tension between you. It's palpable in the air, carrying you both away.
“Would you dare to doubt my good faith, Director Krennic?” you snort more coldly than you mean to.
Director Krennic doesn't seem to mind. He looks you up and down, a head taller than you, before taking a step towards you.
“It is true that a young woman of such good condition cannot lie to a respectable member of the high imperial administration. Shush. There is no need to answer me. I already know your inclinations in this matter.”
With a movement of his hand, Orson Krennic makes you understand that it is useless to try to dispute his words. So much authority and firmness at the same time make your blood run cold.
“It doesn't seem to me that I invited you in.”
Your eyes flash with anger, but he doesn't care.
“I take the right to do so,” he retorts, finally entering the living room, deliberately brushing against you as he goes. He then takes great care to examine the decoration of your parents' apartment with a critical sense. “Charming suite. I see that good old Tarkin is not as flashy as I thought. Sober and elegant. Everyday pleasant, comfortable, it lacks a bit of craziness though. Flat and empty of emotion. It sounds exactly like Wilhuff Tarkin.” You see him spinning around twice to get the full view, and this reaction infuriates you to no end. You hate the fact that he's here, spying on every detail of your private life, leering at the family trinkets or the color of the walls. He walks around your living room as well as his own. You can see him taking a few knick-knacks in his leather-gloved hands to analyze them from every angle. “The Grand Moff has an exquisite taste for works of art,” he says, looking like he's having the time of his life. Sometimes he comes to check the dust, letting his gloved finger rub the surface of the cabinet for a long time. You sigh at his dramatic and manic tendencies. Krennic delicately pulls out one of the works of art meticulously lined up on the cabinet and turns to you. A winning look on his face as he shows you his discovery. A small bronze statuette, covered with gold leaf here and there. “I prefer my own suite. I'll show it to you sometime. You'll love the masterpiece.” In other words... his own room. “You see, I personally designed and supervised the decoration of my private quarters.” Of course, as a renowned architect, things can't be otherwise.
“Good old Tarkin...” you repeat, stunned. You carelessly shake your head from right to left, before repeating your threats. “When my father sees you, here, he...”
“Is your father here, among us, at this very moment?” Krennic quickly puts an end to your sentence, he takes care to loosen each of his syllables to bring more emphasis to his words. He then pretends to look left and right with a dramatic air, obviously self-satisfied with his theatrical performance.
“No... He's out.” you whisper, looking down at the door left wide open behind you. “You know it perfectly well, since you met him tonight, and that's the only reason why you think you can get away with entering my private apartments!” You let yourself be overwhelmed by your impulses, Krennic goes further and further over the line. You cannot stifle a sigh of exasperation in reaction to his provocations.
“Your apartments.... They didn't look so private to me last time, my little Tarkin.” he scoffs, proud of his sexual allusions.
He wants more than just an angry tone or a rise in your voice at home, he wants to see you on fire for him. Director Krennic is such a jerk. You can't stand the sadistic game he plays with you anymore.
“That's enough! Put that back, now.” you snap, snatching one of your father's trinkets from his gloved hands. You then put the precious porcelain vase back on top of the commode, before flipping around in your fury. “You... You're out of place. Again. I've had enough of your ways!” You turn furiously in one quick motion that slightly twirls the strands of your hair back. The scent of your delicate perfume of flowers and spices suddenly fills the air, which does not escape Orson Krennic. He smells your perfume, mixed to your smell with a satisfied look on his face. He doesn't seem to pay attention to your little demonstrations of power. He knows perfectly well that only one word from him is enough for you to melt like snow in the sun under the heat of his voice. Then you put your hand on the door handle. “Leave my apartment, now. Now.” you order, your beautiful eyes plunged in his.
He puts a few seconds to understand this turnaround, obviously surprised by a reaction that he considers completely disproportionate, that said.
“You already dismissed me, Lady Tarkin? Ah, my poor heart bleeds, my dear!” Krennic gives the look of being offended, but it's just an act. He stands in the middle of the living room, one hand on his chest as if to illustrate his words. He doesn't intend to move one inch in the direction of the door. Not now, and certainly not after all that you've been exchanging on your respective datapads. An outrage deserves punishment, right? He then pauses dramatically, his ocean blue eyes shining with excitement and amusement. He seems to take great pleasure in playing with your nerves. “I was hoping for a voice answer from you.”
Krennic keeps up the provocations because he is well aware that they work perfectly on the little Tarkin that you are. You are aware that the cruelty of his words is matched only by the strength of his own sadistic amusement. A sneer appears at the corner of his thin lips as he decides to break the inches that separate you. This boldness has something to surprise you, but you let him approach you without pushing away his advances. It is useless to deny the strong sexual attraction which radiates from you.
“You can go back in your apartments... I... answer you as soon as possible...” you murmur weakly by feeling the weight of his body against yours. A tension settles gradually in your lower abdomen. You waits for the final cut to fall. You can imagine lustful scenarios in your head, projecting your most shameful fantasies. You wait for him to come and take you by the waist, the neck, the hair, who cares in the end, all you want is for him to take you. It's hot, terribly hot in this room. Like a burning hell.
You feel him approaching you slowly, his body soon immobilizes yours, his arms are a few inches away from your burning hips, his teasing lips curl up in a charming smile. He behaves like a hunter in front of an extremely rare bird, a mockingbird. He will continue to make you sing, and you will sing, but this time it will be for him and no one else.
“Do you... perhaps need a little help?” he whispers, tilting his head a few millimeters from yours. Your lips are nearly brushing shyly against each other in rhythm with your words. His breath is hot, it spreads ecstatic shivers along your neck, up to the hollow of your breasts which discover themselves as you go along. You do not immediately realize that one of your straps is slipping carelessly towards the edge of your shoulder. “Your robe is burning with eagerness...”
His eyes are gradually lowering to that half-bare chest. He admires the fleshy form of this nipple bursting with life, the rounded and generous curve of your breast, the arching of your chest. Your breast is now exposed to the open air, to all eyes, but especially to his. He does nothing, absolutely nothing, to cover you properly. Instead, he fantasizes about grabbing it in the palm of his hand to make you cry out for mercy.
“Do something about it instead of wallowing in indecency,” you reply in an accusatory tone. It's something he doesn't expect to hear from you, but it seems to amuse him.
“Do you really want to discuss morality with me?” he scolds. “Because in this game, you are losing badly, sweetheart. You claim great moral principles, a family heritage and an ideal of purity, you stand as the fervent defender of the nobility of heart and soul, but you have shown me that you are anything but a devout. Be careful not to choke on your sanctimonious sermons, my dear. So many lies coming out of such a pretty mouth are not without consequences”
You take on a deeply outraged facial expression, but that falsely ingenuous look doesn't work with him. Orson Krennic reads you like an open book. He is well aware that you are trying to play a game with him. You're lucky, he's in a playful mood on this promising evening.
“Look at you, you're half-offered to the first person who comes along,” he points out, pointing to his near-nakedness with a simple wave of his hand. “You want my help? Very well. I grant it to you. Beg me.” he says with a striking monotony. A shiver runs down your spine as you discover how far Orson Krennic can go. “Go ahead. No, no. Don't say a word. Pleasure is all mine. I know you'll thank me later.” You watch as his eyes darken as his pupils dilate with excitement. “I am waiting, dear Tarkin one.”
Krennic becomes more insistent, while moving his face very slowly so that his lips keep marrying yours, but not giving in to the temptation to plunge his tongue into your mouth. He only stirs up the desire between you, he wants to awaken the charnel urges that slumber in you. He wants to confront you with the intensity of your own desires by taking you back to the intimate time you shared during the Emperor's reception.
“Why would I beg you?” you gasp, confused for a few seconds. You don't understand his thinking. It's a damn warning, but you don't see it yet.
He brings his hand close to your half-uncovered chest, with a simple movement, Krennic pushes your nightie aside. He takes the opportunity to grasp in the palm of his glove that perfectly shaped apple that represents your breast.
“Director...” your whisper is lost in a first moan, when the sensation of his hand on your breast gives you delicious shivers. “...Krennic.”
“Beg me.” he orders.
Beg him, but for what? To stop everything or to continue his sweet torture? Your thoughts are racing, contradicting each other with each caress and the touch of the roughness of his leather glove against your fragile, warm skin. You want to tell him no, to dismiss his caresses, his body, all of him, but it's already a burning inferno between your thighs.
“Director, stop!” you implore before feeling a firmer pinch on your breast. You realize he's perfectly serious about asking you to beg him. He doesn't want to hear your protests or reproaches. “P... Please.” A grunt escapes your lips, weak and plaintive, it's somewhere between a whimper and a protest. It's not what he wants to hear from you.
“Beg again.” he repeats.
His grip closes relentlessly on your left nipple. He grabs the tip of your breast between his index finger and thumb, strongly, to make you tense with pain. You are amazed at what a simple pressure on the most sensitive part of your breast is doing to your body. When he presses further on your nipple, you gasp, not only with pain, but with pleasure. For a few seconds, he enjoys torturing your breasts with short, firm squeezes and then with circular strokes. He leaves you no break, your moans are like a melodious song to his ears. The tip of your breasts is already full of blood and ready to explode. Your nipples are as hard as marble, to the point of hurting. Krennic doesn't take gloves with you, he likes to see you all twisted up against his uniform, stripped of your precious dignity. He appreciates your ability to resist, but he knows it can't last much longer.
“I did it already!” you protest, closing your eyes, unable to bear his calculating gaze on you. He shows no mercy with your body, after all, it is still not enough in his eyes.
With the tip of his thumb, Orson Krennic makes gentle strokes on your nipple. He loves the spongy feel of that little piece of flesh, he can even feel the slight cracks that run through it, like ridges with nerves. He sees that the painful hardness expresses your excitement in the most beautiful way. With his other hand, he slides the second silk strap of your nightie off to expose your entire breast. He remains strangely silent for a few seconds, just long enough to enjoy the sight of your breasts. They are beautiful and perfectly symmetrical. Well swollen, like two beautiful apples ready to be greedily crunched. Krennic then proceeds to take each breast in the palm of his gloved hands, encouraged in his boldness by the burning of your body. The moans that escape from your lips are very responsive to his requests. He furiously palps the tender flesh of your breasts, like to evaluate their density, before pressing them at the rhythm of a slow agony. From right to left, from top to bottom, he does not leave out any direction in his torment. Your heart rate accelerates dangerously, your muscles weaken and your skin blazes like a forest fire. Soon you feel yourself on the verge of fainting.
“Beg harder,” he orders, taking advantage of your weakness. When he abandons your breasts to attack without any mercy the bottom of them, you know then that he has just pressed a magic button. All your morals disappear with a snap of the finger, and you're begging. Not to stop his sweet torture, far from it. You're begging for him to never stop touching you.
“Tell me... are you begging for me to release you?”
An ambiguous question, as it leaves no chance for any hesitation. He cannot ignore your moans and sighs of pleasure. He's playing with you again, what he wants is to hear you confess your pleasure. He wants you to comfort him in his behavior, even if it costs you your honor.
“So?” he gets very impatient.
You beg once more, while leaning your forehead against his neck. Orson Krennic is completely intoxicated by your moans and sighs burning against his skin. He himself can't hide his massive erection any longer. It distorts the folds of his uniform pants, it even makes him grunt from time to time in pain. Orson Krennic is exhilarated by your arousal, the smell of your skin mixed with your delicate perfume, as well as the smell of your hair. He loves more than anything this headstrong smell, it is yours, the one that feeds all his obsessions day and night.
Looking down at Director Krennic's hands, you can't help but find something fascinating about them. They are large and strong, gloved with beautiful black leather. He knows exactly how to use them, and more importantly, where to use them. You are divided by conflicting emotions, a part of you is repulsed by your reactions, while the other is desperately in need of him. A simple touch from him and there you are, shivering and begging. You obey his orders, reluctantly, you implore his pity. Except that he has none, he expects some things from you. Things you refuse to give him. Words you refuse to say out loud. You are not one of his conquests, you are far from being a simple number in the intimate life of Director Orson Krennic. You are more than that, which is what you want to prove to him by stubbornly refusing him. You can't have compassion for easy girls.
"It is not appropriate, Director..." you sigh while arching yourself more against his hand. Your body no longer obeys you, your pleas for reason go hopelessly unanswered. "You're out of line..." You struggle to say these few words, they get lost between your moans. Krennic feels your body starting to weaken under the expertise of his fingers. He then slides a hand to your back to protect you from collapsing.
"Beg me to stop, then," he says, not even trying to hide his sadistic amusement. The carnivorous smile that graces his lips speaks loudly about his true intentions.
"You know very well that it is impossible."
Unaware of what is escaping from your mouth, you half-confess to him that you like what he does to you far too much to really want him to leave you alone. You refuse to let him stop his caresses, they are whispering in you much too deep and sensual vibrations. He has built up a tension in you that desperately needs to be relieved. You want more than his hands, you find yourself wanting his lips and teeth to replace them. Unfortunately, he doesn't do that until you clearly verbalize your needs.
"Tell me why, dear?"
His husky, smooth voice is now a whisper in the hollow of your ear. You hear him in a distant way, as the gestures of his fingers pressing the end of your breasts become unbearable. You do not manage to hear his words distinctly any more, the pleasure which he lavishes to you is from now on the only thing which intoxicates your spirit. You are dreaming about him kissing your nipples full of life, abusing them with his raspy tongue, the tips of his white teeth hitting their tender flesh until they leave lasting scars on your skin.
"You... you know me far too well." This answer seems to call out something powerful in him. You notice that an unreadable expression takes over his face. A strange glint shines in the depths of his ocean blue eyes. A glint that you haven't had the pleasure of discovering in him until now.
You are sharing a conniving glance, and for a few seconds, it is then as if the whole galaxy has stopped spinning. A lustful flash crosses your eyes, desperately hooked on each other's gaze. Orson Krennic is the first to crack under the pressure. He grabs you with his powerful arms, lifting your body to settle you against him, your legs spread on either side of his hips. You reinforce your support by joining your legs at the bottom of his back, in order to not collapse on the ground. He then grips firmly your naked thighs under the fabric of your night dress to strengthen his hold. His hands cherish your soft and perfect skin, while his lips are furiously moving against yours. You are finally both there. He's taken a huge step in lifting you up into his arms to bring you back against him. Your now bare breasts are caressing the thick fabric of his white uniform, your nipples are touching his icy badge. You gasp at the pleasurable and unexpected friction, but that's not what's stirring your body at this moment. It's his hands that follow the curve of your bouncing buttocks, they slipped under your clothes when he lifted you. They are brushing almost naturally the line of your intimacy which is left to the expertise of his fingers, since no underwear obstructs his exploration. He then discovers your moist intimacy of your desire. He collects some of your fluids between his gloved fingers, proud to be the one responsible for it. A moan escapes from your parted lips, as Krennic growls in frustration against your mouth as he realizes you broke your kiss.
Orson Krennic seems to know the configuration of your apartment inside and out, as he makes his way to one of the rooms in the royal suite. You strongly enjoy him carrying you like a princess in the arms of a knight in armor and white cloak.
“No, wait, this is the room of...” you mutter, interrupting your kiss for a few seconds. Krennic blinks several times as he realizes what you're implying. You don't know that you've just given him a brilliant idea. His eyes widen slightly as his thinking skills reach their peak.
He captures your lips a second time in a kiss even more fiery than the first in response to your warning. You don't understand, at first, what's wrong with him. You feel as if you've told him he's been promoted to Grand Moff in place of the current one. There is no doubt about his lustful and perverse intentions. He seems to have understood very well what you are trying to tell him, but he does not care. Whether it's your own room or your parents' room, all he cares about now is enjoying your fluids between the satin sheets of a huge canopy bed. The fact that it is Wilhuff Tarkin's bed is somehow the cherry on top.
“From your father, yes, I am well aware of that, my little Tarkin,” he finally says, pulling away from your mouth with regret, in order to resolve your insecurities. “Give me this one moment of victory.”
No... Honestly, are you really going to do it on your parents’ bed? On the bed of Wilhuff Tarkin, his nemesis? It's a wicked thought, then you feel like you're just a toy in Director Krennic's skilled fingers.
With a blow from one of his leather boots, Krennic pushed open the door to the Tarkin's conjugal room. It was exactly like the entire royal suite, sober and elegant, without frills. The complete opposite of Director Krennic's private quarters, which you don't know yet. He ruthlessly breaks into this holy place for the sole purpose of defiling it. The idea of making you shout his first name in the sacred temple of his rival is not only terribly exciting, but also diabolical. Krennic is a particularly devious man. It's a memory that will stay with him forever, a memory he can even freely relish in his worst moments. His own daughter, you, finally his. Here. At home. He gets a hard-on from just putting the pieces of the puzzle together.
Without interrupting the languorous kiss he's giving you, his hands slide further and further down your body, making sure you're still wrapped around him. The feelings he brings to your body make you roll your eyes with pleasure. You are enjoying the shivers that run through your body so much that you almost tumble backwards without Krennic's support. You feel the vibrations of his laughter against the flesh of your neck, which he is nibbling, before you are caught in his strong arms and violently thrown onto the canopy bed. He undertakes to undo the silk belt which is imprisoning your nightgown, and gets rid of it by throwing it in a corner of the dark room. Then came the turn of your nightie, which he made slide down along your voluptuous body, while caressing your soft skin with his fingers.
“Orson!” you cry out before he joins you in crushing his body against yours. His strong, skilled hands trap your wrists above your head, your fingers caressing the silky fabric of your parents' sheets. Your body arches against his wanting a more sexual rubbing. You desire more than anything to intoxicate yourself with his body, the smell of his aftershave and his cologne.
“It's better this way, isn't it?” he chuckles as he feels you squirm under the weight of his body. “How badly do you want me?” his whispering voice against your ear gets heavier.
He is still waiting for more pleas from you, but mostly a confession. He wants to hear that you want him, here and now.
“I beg you...” you beg, giving him exactly what he wants to encourage him to continue his exploring of your body. “I want you more than my reason.”
You don't lie to him, you want him more than your damn principles, more than your upbringing, more than your own father. This is what you are yearning for at this very moment. When it's just the two of you, that's exactly how you feel. You're tired of him tearing apart your soul and your heart, you're just a wasteland in his gifted hands.
“I have to start somewhere...” he whispers as his hands move against your intimacy, searching for the most sensitive points of your voluptuous anatomy.
Krennic quickly finds the way to your button made up of flesh and nerves, that he then encircles between his thumb and his index, by carrying out skilful pressures. This instantly sends you into a crisis of muffled, discontinuous moans. You try to hide your discomfort by grabbing a pillow to position it against your mouth. What he immediately pulls back to you, not accepting any obstacle between him and your crimson face. He refuses to allow you to escape him, even if it means hiding your face or the expression of your eyes. Krennic looks into yours, trying to catch every spark of joy or surprise in your gaze. You are his ingenue and he wants to capture your innocence. You can't hide behind anything, you are finally naked and offered to him. You are his. Krennic doesn't want you to spoil the pleasure of reading your pleasure in your eyes or in the expression of your half-opened mouth. He wants you to come because of him and for him. He wants to make sure he's the only man in the galaxy who can make you come this much. As your hips shake frantically against his hand, Orson grabs your wrists for the second time, to pin you against him.
“You are mine tonight, my dear,” he says in a husky voice, accentuating his last word sensually. “You won’t be able to escape, but that's not what you want... is it?”
“No...” you confess. Running away, what a strange idea.
You slowly close your eyes, savoring the chills that run down the line of your back. Krennic takes opportunity of his hold on you to run his fingers over the curve of your buttocks, while holding your wrists above your head with one hand. He then caresses your skin, drawing arabesques and geometric shapes around your belly button, all the way down to your pubic area. The touch of his fingers on your skin makes you feel a violent discharge. You can't wait any longer, you beg him with your beautiful eyes to continue what he started in your intimacy, instead of playing so cruelly with your nerves. He refuses to give in to the urgent need you have to feel his fingers against your private area, preferring to stimulate what's around, like your lower abdomen, your pubic area or the inside of your thighs, before he gets down to it.
“I don't know if you're deserving of being taken tonight,” he murmurs, vaguely pensive. “Have you been a good girl to me?”
This waiting is just a slow agony for you, you can't stand those hot waves that make your body bend to his spoiled child's whims. You feel your breath getting lost in the middle of your moans and squeaks. He then considers you ready for a well-earned treatment. His fingers follow the fine line of your intimate lips, before spreading them apart to introduce his index and middle fingers into your vagina. Your inner lips are shapely, pink and slightly swollen with excitement. He likes very much what he sees, your body excites strongly his, it is up to his most decadent fantasies. He strokes your wet walls, looking for the most ecstatic points for you, while watching each of your reactions with sadism. His caresses are gentle and not very intrusive now. He enjoys your sighs, appreciating to see you also fulfilled by his gestures. This strengthens his macho thoughts, there is only him, who is likely to make you as hot as a little kitten in heat.
Your moans are more than enough to make him smile with satisfaction. He laughs softly, proud to find you in a state of pure abandon. Krennic decides to reward your docility with deeper, much deeper strokes, towards what turns out to be your G-spot. His movements are straightforward, accurate and quick. He doesn't feel any remorse at the idea of deflowering you with his fingers. He suspects that you've already explored this place yourself, as a few hours ago. Your pelvis arches more and more against his palm, enjoying the way he makes love to you with his fingers. He seems to know the best places to make you lose your mind. It's not enough for you though, you're dreaming of mind-blowing dizziness, the real, overwhelming orgasm. You hurry to wriggle under him to make him understand to accelerate his rhythm until you have reached your longed-for deliverance. You are drunk of his caresses and you respond to each one of them by a move of your pelvis.
“Orson...” you implore, when he interrupts his strokes in your vagina to move to your pleasure point. You grunt in displeasure as he still finds a way to tweak your nerves at the crucial moment. A wave of heat shoots through your entire body, causing you to cry out in grace. Emotions are far too strong to allow you to put several words together in a sentence. He is well aware of this, because he is highly amused by it.
“Yes, my sweet? What's the matter with you? Speak up, come on. Explain yourself.” he mocks by finding that your cheeks are violently burning under his fingers on your bundle of nerves. “We're less chatty now, aren't we? Where are your so beautiful principles and sermons about morality and purity?” he laughs warmly against your ear. You like to feel the vibrations of his laughter on your skin, they go down to the back of your neck and end with shivers down your spine. He's having a great time with your state of ecstasy. Although your eyes are half closed, you can see a mocking smile on the corner of his thin lips, a glint of pure lust mixed with wickedness sparkling in his ocean blue eyes. “You and I know now that this is all nonsense. Your impure eyes are begging me to take you, and not in the noblest of ways...”
Director Krennic's words make you tense up, despite all the good it does your body, you wish to fight back. You try to release your wrists, the pressure is more and more unbearable. You only hurt yourself more, Krennic refuses to release his hold on you. He even strengthens his grip, which makes you wince with pain.
“No, no, no. Stay still. It's not happening, honey. I'm running the show.”
Orson Krennic giggles as he kisses you, his lips perfectly matching yours, while his hands continue their exploration. This kiss is powerful, passionate and full of life. He muffles your cries at the same time as he expertly presses his thumb against clitoris. He plays with you hoping to show the wild personality inside you. You're dying for him to rip away what's left of your scruples, but it's not on the cards yet. You feel your eyes moisten at the same rhythm as your intimacy, so much so that the palm of his hand is quickly enveloped in your shameful wetness. Krennic puts his two ocean-blue orbs into yours, contemplating your facial expression, where he discovers a mixture of euphoria and frustration. You complain that he seems to enjoy giving you half of everything.
His eyes darken in desire as he feels you squirm under his imperial officer's uniform, which he has refused to remove, in order to maintain an apparent posture of dominance over you. You are naked, but he is not. It's a way to strengthen his hold on you, and after all, he has understood that you love his uniform more than anything.
He has always noticed your furtive glances at his perfectly polished leather boots, his silver belt, his immaculate white uniform or his impressive cape. He knows you're obsessing over what makes him an officer of the Empire's high administration, what gives him a title and a social position that can arouse both your admiration and your devotion. He knows that you need a man of high rank by your side, considering your education in one of the most valued imperial aristocratic families. Krennic is not a blue-blooded man, unfortunately, and this is something that weighs heavily on him, considering the social background of all his colleagues. He often feels lonely, thinking that children of modest workers are not sufficiently well represented in the Empire. He can't make a name for himself that has been around for generations, nobility being what he sorely lacks. So he tries to show you that although his pedigree, he is still brighter and more ambitious than most of imperialists of noble blood. Orson Krennic wants you to feel admiration for him. It is something he is obsessed with, apart from not being part of your family circle, Krennic aspires to climb one by one through the ranks of power. And for that, Orson Krennic is willing to make any sacrifice.
You feel Krennic's excitement as you see the large bulge inside his uniform pants. It makes you gasp, you picture him surprisingly well mounted, but most of all, going in and out of you violently. Krennic brings his hand to his nose to gently inhale the scent of your desire, which makes you even more sweaty than you already are, when you hear him sigh with desire. His movements are now precise and violent inside you, you feel yourself being pounded by two of his fingers, while his thumb continues to work slowly on your clit.
After a few minutes, Krennic releases your aching wrists and stops his caresses. You watch him with big eyes, completely confused and saddened that he could let go of the tensions of your body so easily. His smile nevertheless attracts your curiosity, you think that an unholy idea crosses his wicked mind. And you were right to think so, because he begins to kiss your upper body, while going down to your pubic area.
You quickly realize what he's about to do, and the thought of it makes you blush. You don't know what might happen below the belt. You don't know if the sensations will be the same or if they will be increased tenfold. You are very afraid of this sensory overload. Krennic strokes your belly button and lower abdomen with his lips, leaving a wet trace on his path. When he starts kissing your intimate, fleshy, fluid-soaked lips, it's as if a magic button has been pressed. Your hands grab the satin sheets of the four-poster bed to embrace them frenetically. Your muscles tense up under Orson Krennic's lingual caresses, you crave more until you are dizzy.
Sensations are unique, sensual and sweet. You love to feel his tongue running through your intimacy and playing with the entrance to your vagina, pretending to penetrate you once or twice, before moving up to the nerve center of your pleasure. He aspires your clitoris with his lips, sucking that little spot made of blood and nerves, while caressing its perfect curve with his tongue. These sensations run through you with violent jolts and spasms that make you arch your back. While he does all these good things to you, his hands hold your thighs with firmness, his nails sinking into your flesh.
“Orson, please, harder.” you beg as the orgasm is now two more strokes away from his tongue. “I don't want... you to stop.” You even feel close to crying with happiness, so many sensations fill you beyond all your fantasies. You grab Orson's face between your hands, savoring the warmth that comes from his cheeks. Your fingers work their way up to his silky silver hair, which you begin to pull into a tight embrace. “Make me… Make me yours…”
You feel that your clitoris is now twice its normal size, the blood having flowed extremely fast in it. In fact, a simple lingual caress now gives you the sensation of a powerful electric shock in all your intimacy. You want more than anything to be overwhelmed by the next shock, the one that will lead you to a perfect orgasm. It must be said that he does it wonderfully well. He knows how to take you to paradise with just a few strokes of his tongue. He takes almost meticulous care to ride the wave of pleasure inside you, savoring the slight spasms of your body as he teases the bulging curve of your clit with the tip of his tongue. It's raspy and incredibly hard, making the friction between it and your nerve-filled button extraordinary powerful. Those strokes come and go more and more quickly as you rub vigorously against his mouth. Krennic switches between circular and horizontal strokes, to see what thrills you most before settling on a steady rhythm to bring you to climax. You arch brutally to make him understand your need for deliverance. A move which carries you in a whirlwind of burning and throbbing sensations. It seems then as if all tensions built up these last minutes have just exploded in your face. You can't help but scream your pleasure, having never been smacked by such a powerful release until now. What Orson Krennic is doing to your body is so good. It's something magical, with an aftertaste of coming back to me. After your orgasm, Krennic immediately moves up to your face.
“Good girl.” he whispers against your chin, before capturing your lips to share your own fluids with you. “You’ve come for me.”
You're drunk on his kisses so badly that you immediately ask for more. You cling to his lips desperately wanting him to make you feel the power of these vertigoes again. You are like intoxicated by his kissings, it takes you away into madness. This is something you have never been able to experience with anyone before. Orson Krennic is a damn good lover. He kisses in a way that matches yours perfectly. You think about spending the rest of your days hanging on his thin and pensive lips. His kisses are thrilling, full of power and possessiveness. You love the alcoholic aftertaste that ends each one, it gives a little sweet taste to his lips. You can't bring yourself to disobey his orders. Just as you refuse to break off your lingual interactions, as if that would make him not want to take the next step with you. You cruelly need his body pressed thus against yours, his pelvis marrying wonderfully yours, his burning and insatiable desire in you. You whisper his name, Orson, again and again. Nothing seems to break the magic of your meeting. He leaves scars on your skin, they are bright red and you can see the marks of his teeth on the slight bumps they have made. You don't care if your body is bruised by his mouth or by his hands, all you want more than anything at this moment is to melt into him. You want him to ravage your entire body and leave you shaking, begging and desperately obsessed with his every move. You want him to take you, and not in a gentle way. You want your connection as strong as your feelings: tumultuous and challenging.
But... he still won't take you. You don't understand what he's waiting for, what seems to be holding back the surge of his passions in you.
He likes to provoke you, because he loves to feel those ecstatic shivers on your skin when he kisses you. He also does it because he loves your warmth, your wetness and the red color of your face. As for you, you can't get enough of purring with pleasure as he tries to pull you out of your skin. How hot, you are. Your whole body is a fiery desert, moist and trembling for him. You feel like a drug addict, yearning for his skin, his mouth, his tongue. You almost feel like you're in the middle of a fever, as the tremors of your recent orgasm still run through your entire body. These shivers are mixed with the dizzying rise of heat which leaves you breathless. You touch your thigh skin out of curiosity, and find that it is soaked with your sweat.
“Sweet dreams, dear little Tarkin,” he whispers before nibbling your earlobe. Warm breath from his husky voice creeps insidiously down the back of your neck, sending an ecstatic shiver down your spine. “I know you'll come back to me.” Orson Krennic has personally made sure of that.
He reluctantly pulls away from your burning body. He takes a moment to readjust his haircut and the folds of his uniform from the large mirror hanging on the wall above the bed. Obviously, the idea of taking possession of your body on the satin sheets of his rival is more than tempting, but a good intuition advises him to leave before he comes back from his evening.You want to scratch him, slap him and hurt him to leave you in such a state of arousal. His smirk is the only thing that fills your memory as he leaves you lying on the Grand Moff Tarkin's canopied bed.
You glance at the bedside table, puzzled by the fact that something about it has particularly disturbed him. Krennic looked at the datapad for a long time before pulling himself away from you. You quickly realize as you glance at the built-in clock that your parents are about to return any minute. After all, hadn't he written on your datapad that he just wanted to give you a taste?
“Oh my…” you whisper, speechless for once in your life.
a song for a mockingbird (director orson krennic x reader) ▴ part iii.
fanfiction (7 parts) – A STAR WARS FANFICTION
pairing : dir. orson krennic x reader (fem!reader)
summary. Director Orson Krennic is in love with you. Yes, he is madly in love for the first time in his life, with a person and not with a project. You have quickly become his most consuming obsession. You haunt his days and nights. His body is a burning inferno at the mere mention of your name. Your frightening name. You are a Tarkin. And not just any Tarkin, you are the daughter of Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin.
This story contains some digressions from the storyline of the Star Wars universe. In the original works and legends, Wilhuff and Thalassa had only one child, a boy, but in this story, they had two, including a girl: you.
A fiction inspired by the seven deadly sins. It will have one chapter per sin, so 7 chapters.
rating. mature
warning. smut, public sex, fingering. not for kids.
comments. sorry for this long, SO long absence. irl was... disturbing and inspiration downward. i am back then. i got so much plans for this fiction. i’m also planning to work on a lot of things.
Thank you for reading ! :D
CHAPTER 3.
GLUTTONY. Gluttony is the disordered desire to eat or drink something one likes without needing to, meaning in the absence of hunger or thirst. According to Epicureanism, gluttony is opposed to the search for happiness because it leads to unnecessary pleasure. Gluttony can be linked to any other form of craving.
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“Slow down you crazy child, You're so ambitious for a juvenile, But then if you're so smart tell me,
Why are you still so afraid? Where's the fire, what's the hurry about? You better cool it off before you burn it out,
But you know that when the truth is told, That you can get what you want or you can just get old, Slow down you're doing fine,
You can't be everything you want to be before your time, Although it's so romantic on the borderline tonight,
You got your passion, you got your pride,
But don't you know that only fools are satisfied? Dream on, but don't imagine they'll all come true, When will you realize...”
‘Vienna’ – Billy Joel
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RESTAURANT, CORUSCANT CITY. •• YEAR -1 BBY (BEFORE BATTLE OF YAVIN)
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“I must admit I was surprised by your message. It's been a while since we had lunch together.” says a deep, smug voice, a middle-aged man - much older than Orson Krennic, much older than you, but most of all, much wiser than all the men who have surrounded you for years. There is only one. Grand Moff Tarkin.
Moff Tarkin stands elegantly in front of you, cross-legged, in a chair made of a combination of purple velvet and varnished wood. A Renaissance style chair - ancient and distinguished. You have left the choice of meeting place to your beloved father - one of the most luxurious restaurants in the city of Coruscant. You are not unfazed by this, given the many family gatherings you have had since your birth on Phelarion. You listen to his inquiries with a worried expression as you realize what you are about to ask him. Wilhuff Tarkin is right - he is right about everything, as usual. It's been a few months since you had lunch together, but it's been years since you've been in such a... friendly situation.
“Indeed, Father, and I deeply regret it. I must tell you personally. We've been separated for... a few years now.” you admit, uncomfortable with the idea of mentioning the reasons for this distance. Since Garoche's death. You feel like mentioning it, but you don't, because you're afraid of upsetting your venerable father. Garoche is a particularly sensitive subject for every Tarkin still alive in the galaxy. Wilhuff Tarkin is not fooled, however, and seems to understand what you are refusing to tell him. His face darkens for a few seconds, which is far from lost on you. As Tarkin remains silent, you swallow and say : “I need to talk to you about important things.”
Tarkin raises an eyebrow as he puts his spoon back on the cup, but does not open his lips. He just looks at you with a smug look behind his long, dark lashes. Behind this smugness hides a curiosity, which he doesn't express, but which remains deep in his eyes. He puts his two icy orbs on you, which makes you shiver despite yourself. Wilhuff Tarkin may be the powerful man who raised you - but he is still a terrifying man - even to his own family members. “All I ask is that you be open-minded enough.” you say, with some anxiety in your voice.
“I'm listening (Y/N).” Wilhuff Tarkin says as he adds a little sugar to an amber liquid inside an elegant, oval-shaped porcelain cup. “I'm listening to you carefully.”
“It's about Eadu.” you reply in a calm tone, giving him the impression of being serene, which is far from being the truth.
“Eadu?” he wonders. Tarkin can't hide his surprise at the mere mention of this planet, which has been the headquarters of a major Imperial cystography laboratory for years. “Why are you referring to Eadu?” His eyebrows frown almost mechanically, he doesn't seem to like it, he must certainly fear the worst from you. A part of him is regretting having been so careless in his confidences about the imperial projects. You've never shown the slightest sign of interest in them, much to Wilhuff and Thalassa's displeasure. It's not like with Garoche. You were never like... Garoche.
“You mention Eadu so much as a great pride and...” you say, before interrupting yourself by gently biting your lower lip. You search for your words to avoid rushing him. You need to get him to believe you. Your true reasons for your interest in Eadu are far less noble than you are trying to make your beloved father think. Tarkin must continue to ignore your relationship with Orson Krennic. For both your sakes. “...I thought you might want to show me personally this facility.”
Tarkin glares at you from behind his dark lashes. He gives you a slightly aristocratic, smug look, but you never take it personally. Wilhuff Tarkin acts this way with everyone.
“So, you're asking me to take you to Eadu to see our work.” he repeats, detaching each word in a somewhat suspicious tone. You swallow, feeling that you have failed in your task. “Where did you get this sudden interest in our science bases, my dear?”
Your blood freezes, your heartbeat quickens in your ribcage, and soon you experience the painful sensation of the taste of acid coming from your gut, mixed with the metallic taste of blood trickling down your lower lip. You bite it carelessly under the unbearable weight of your racing heart.
“You.” You lie. It's the right thing to do. Bring the attention back to him. Wilhuff Tarkin loves himself. It can only work, it's the best move ever. “I ask to honor you, Father.”
“Mmh.” That sounds convincing. Well, partly, at least. Tarkin shifts his steely gaze from yours to his still-steaming cup of tea. He takes a couple of sips, taking his time before giving you the satisfaction of a weak, concise smile. At that point, you know it's a done deal.
“I'll make a note of that. I am pleased, I must confess. I was blaming your lack of involvement in the affairs of the Empire on your mother. However, your choice of Eadu worries me a little.”
“Why should I be concerned?”
“Eadu ... is one of Orson Krennic's favorite installations.” Tarkin admitted, wincing at the mention of his most hated rival's name. “I would like to avoid any form of contact between him and my only daughter.”
“I have no interest in Eadu for Orson Krennic, father, that is...” Lies. “He will not always be there.” You nearly choke on all your lies as you bring your cup to your dry lips.
“Certainly, certainly...” He sighs. “Krennic is still a problem.”
You have no idea how the subject got so out of hand on Orson Krennic, but the damage is done. Wilhuff Tarkin is both irritated and bitter at being forced to recall his dear, sweet rival.
“Father,” you whisper in a firm but gentle voice, after a brief pause. No more silences and cold tempers. Wilhuff Tarkin must finally make his intentions clear about what he wants to do with the director. A fire burns in you like an inferno, the flame of curiosity. An unhealthy curiosity, but you desperately need to understand what is wrong between them, what your father blames Orson Krennic for so badly. “What exactly do you blame him for?”
He seems to be gauging your question with a hint of patronization, judging by his piercing gaze, and proudly raised chin. For a few seconds you even wonder if he intends to give you any satisfaction. Wilhuff seems to growl softly. You sense that he disapproves this bold behavior, as he immediately snaps his tongue against his palate in annoyance. Have you gone too far in your questioning? “Forgive me, this does not concern me. Forget what I have...” you repeat in a sorry tone before he abruptly cuts you off. Wilhuff lifts his hand towards you to shut you up. You try to catch yourself as best you can, because the last thing you want to do is to make your venerable father angry. You don't want to bring his attention to your deeper motives. Wilhuff closes his eyes for a few moments, deep in thought, before reopening them to yours. His gaze is intense, sharp, and seems to have the ability to pierce your soul from within.
“I blame him for some things,” he finally says, taking a sip of his tea between his thin lips. Tarkin acts as if he hasn't come to be annoyed by it, as if it were nothing. You complain about this imperturbable temperament, but nothing can get to Wilhuff Tarkin. No matter what you do or say, Tarkin keeps a cold facial expression.
“Orson Krennic does not come from an officer's upbringing, he is constantly trying to prove himself without really caring about his colleagues. He is confident, arrogant. Krennic is annoying. He tries to distinguish himself in the wrong way, believing that wearing a cape grants him privileges that exist only in his fantasies. If you pay attention, girl, you'll see that he takes a puzzling pleasure in flying it in a spectacular way.” At the same time, Tarkin waves his hand nonchalantly, as if to keep an invisible bug away from him. “Orson Krennic is the kind of person who dresses and behaves in public in a way that screams ‘notice me’. Furthermore, he sees his purpose in destruction, not caring either how he will be remembered, but simply because he is the one who initiates it.” said Tarkin in one breath, coldly and calmly. “Ah. I forget one important detail: he also has a serious drinking and partying problem, which highlights his deep need to be the center of gravity. When he was at Brentaal IV, he had a reputation for late night antics, partying and fighting. Knowing all this, my daughter, do you finally understand that Orson Krennic is not a respectable Imperial officer?”
Under the weight of this accusation, you feel your heart rate accelerate dangerously. Tarkin is right about everything, absolutely everything. Orson Krennic is not the most respectable officer in the Imperial High Command. Orson Krennic is unstable and unpredictable. Orson Krennic spends most of his time yelling at others, claiming that this makes him a ‘leader’. Orson Krennic is not a man that a young woman like you, noble and well educated, should fall in love with. You should not fall in love with a man like Orson Krennic. Under no circumstances. He will only break you. He will destroy you. Only your eyes will weep over the ashes of this destructive, passionate, impossible love. Why not fall in love with a younger imperial officer who is well liked by your family and who will bring you the honors and tenderness you deserve? A young man your own age, not someone more than twice your age. Someone who can express his emotions in ways other than pounding his fist on the table.
“Why all the questions, (Y/N)?” he says, looking at you with his steely eyes. “Do you have something to confess to me about him?” Tarkin points out something else to you. His voice is disapproving as he begins to see the impossible between the two of you. His question sparks a furious urge in you to scream with all your heart that this is the case, but you don't. Instead, you collect your thoughts and ideas. Instead, you gather all your energy to squeeze the power of your feelings.
“No, of course not, Father,” you say, giving your best dramatic performance. You then display a disgusted moue, far from interested by someone so prefabricated. “I've always wondered about that, and I've already talked about it with Mother...”
“You've mentioned Krennic to your mother?” Tarkin interrupts you a second time, seemingly astonished. You see the puzzlement in his eyes, an unreadable gleam. Something unusual, you're not used to getting his attention. Tarkin is still inexpressive, and now he raises his eyebrows.
“I actually had this discussion with her, because I was about to ask you a favor...”
“A favor?” he repeats, his face turning livid. “In what sense?” Tarkin blinks twice, his long fingers tightening around the porcelain cup in his hands. “What does this have to do with Orson Krennic?” The Grand Moff worries that he might understand what you're getting at.
“I would like to play an effective role in the upbringing of our worthy and illustrious family.” you say with conviction, attempting to calm his unfounded fears. Wilhuff Tarkin was stunned by this admission, thinking you were just a perfect doll, useful for forging new alliances with the noble families of the Empire. Despite his best efforts, unlike your brother Garoche, you never showed the slightest interest in the Tarkin family's influence. Wilhuff was always upset by this, but he eventually accepted it. Garoche made up for this obvious disinterest before he was killed on a mission on the planet Atoan.
“Mmh.” Tarkin seems thoughtful. “Continue, please.” He sets the porcelain cup half-filled with an amber-colored liquid on a circular receptacle made of the same material. “I am listening carefully, (Y/N).” Grand Moff Tarkin responds by raising his hand slightly toward you. With his palm facing upward, Tarkin gently curls his fingers, one after the other, into his hand. With this gesture, he invites you to share all your thoughts with him without fear of judgment. It's something you don't know yet, because Tarkin's thoughts are foggy, but you've finally gotten his attention. All of his attention. He wants to know more about you, secretly hoping to expand his reputation through you, just as he did with Garoche. Maybe you'll be more useful to him than he thinks. You have a pretty face and a full head. You can easily serve his interests and attract the confidences of his rivals. One name comes to mind, Orson Krennic. What he wouldn't give to bring down his eternal rival. What he wouldn't sacrifice to finally have all the rights. However, he prefers not to mention the sordidness of his thoughts for now, hoping instead that his intuitions are right, and that the effort comes from within.
“My choice of Eadu is not entirely disinterested, I confess, father.”
“I knew it.” Of course he knew that. He's the Grand Moff. He knows everything.
You pause for a moment, then cheerfully continue, “I can see for myself what's going on there and report back to you on the actual progress...”
“What about Krennic?” he says after a short silence, gently touching the edges of his lips with that incredible soft cotton towel. Tarkin is not losing his mind. Tarkin is waiting for you to elaborate on all your thoughts, also concerning Orson Krennic. Wasn't it you who spoke of your desire to see him spread the name of Tarkin? You gave him only half the information, leaving him in suspense. Tarkin's ears hissed as your lover's name escaped from your painted lips.
“I...”
As you carefully prepare a lie, you almost naturally cut yourself off, noticing a more than familiar shadow in the back of the hall. Right before your eyes. There it is.
In the blink of an eye, it seems as if the entire world collapses beneath your feet. Recognizable footsteps rise in the small dining room of one of Coruscant City's finest restaurants. You can recognize this step among thousands of others. For a moment, the fruity smell of your morning brew becomes overwhelming, flooding your brain, until nausea and dizziness violently assail you. Orson Krennic. Orson Krennic's steps. His perfectly polished black boots are walking through the restaurant with a conquering rhythm. When you look up from your cup of tea, you see the uniformed figure of Director Krennic. A luxurious white uniform, typical of the agents of the Empire's Department of Internal Security, to which he belongs. There he is. He stands upright like a soldier, his chin raised in scorn, his ocean-blue gaze scanning all sides of the room like the radar of one of those imperial droids. As you stare at him, you notice the expression on his face is dignified, even amused. Krennic is happy to be showing up in this restaurant, while you are sitting with your father. Is this really a coincidence, or did he know you would both be there at noon? His white cape floats between his legs as he walks almost too unnaturally to be a common human. Orson Krennic. He is perfection incarnate. His elegance erases any scruples you may have had after that savage night in your parents' bedroom. Tremors shake your body – you are helpless against this overwhelming wave of emotions. You feel complications progressively taking shape in front of you, but you can't stop them from reaching you. What is he doing there? An immense black hole comes to take possession of your mind, reducing to nothing any capacity of reflection, while your thoughts are scrambled by the intensity of your feelings. You feel torn between excitement and fear at the idea that Wilhuff Tarkin might understand what is happening between you two. As you are led to talk about Orson Krennic, he magically appears. Cruel coincidence.
Ironic, isn't it? Krennic greets you from the sidelines, before turning his attention to one of the waiters.
You watch him silently, hoping he will stay away from your table. After a few seconds, he brings his gaze back to yours – both of you then stare at each other from a safe distance.
“(Y/N)?” your father hisses, catching the desperate feeling that sparkles in the back of your eyes. Wilhuff Tarkin faces you – and turns his back to the restaurant entrance – unable to see the cloaked figure of Director Krennic. For now, at least.
His bluish gaze has locked onto yours. Krennic has this fabulous talent of reading you like an open book, exposing you with his beautiful icy eyes. You feel yourself blushing strongly, hypersensitive in front of these attention marks far from having any hidden motives. You are torn between passion and reason. One of the oldest dilemmas in the world.
Krennic finally approaches you with greetings, encircled by two death troopers. His special escort causes your father to grunt. You can easily see Wilhuff Tarkin's dark eyes begin to roll slowly toward the roof – he is annoyed by Orson Krennic's ostentatious ways. Everyone then looks on in surprise at Krennic and his men. Wilhuff Tarkin is tired of the spectacular and exaggerated arrivals of the director of the Empire's Advanced Weapons Bureau. His upbringing is such that he does not speak of it or show any sign to anyone, but you are well aware of your father's facial expressions, knowing him better than anyone, and you know that his veins are boiling with a dull, icy anger.
“Governor, what a surprise to find you here... I had no idea Coruscant was such a small city!” snaps Krennic, filled with irony, while he is faking sympathy to perfection.
“Not small enough, if you want my opinion, Director.” he retorted curtly, not even looking up at his troublesome colleague. It must be said that the mere sound of his voice gave him a furious desire to get up and throw the porcelain cup in his face. It is a dragging voice, and its accent from the outer colonies horrifies the Grand Moff to no end. No matter how hard Krennic tries to hide it, some words are hard to spare. And it's worse when he gets angry, he loses all composure and accentuates his syllables unreasonably.
You discreetly roll your eyes at your father's cynicism. It's not like he's capable of making any effort, the Tarkin-Krennic rivalry is as legendary as it is deep-seated.
“I apologize to you to have interrupted this gathering, but I have some business to attend to. Governor,” he greeted, then anchored his two bright ocean-blue orbs in yours. “Milady.” Although he was on his way out and apparently in a hurry, Kennic did not forget to bow his head in your direction to show his deepest respect. A natural cordiality for someone of your rank, however, which let your heart burn like a great blazing fire.
“What a fool...” mumbles Tarkin once Krennic has moved far enough away to not hear his slanderous growls.
“With all my respect father, you are clearly overstating the situation.”
Words come out of your mouth at the very moment that Wilhuff Tarkin's dark eyes come to return their attention to you. Quickly enough you realize that you have made your first slip of the tongue – maybe it was just a weakness slip. Tarkin looks surprised by your boldness, but he is not necessarily unhappy about it. He has always blamed his wife, Thalassa, for the fearlessness and lack of self-initiative that so defines your noble education.
“Do you think I'm wrong about him, child?”
“I think you should simply give him a chance to make himself agreeable to you and show you what he is capable of doing.”
“I see that your mother has done a poor job in bringing you up, she has failed to teach you a precious value, my dearest (Y/N). Your sensitivity will lose you, if not today, one day soon. In this world, either you are strong, or you are weak,” he said, moving his pale lips briefly, before taking another sip from his cup of tea. Again, the same haunting speech, which you know perfectly well after all these years spent under the control of the cold and terrifying Wilhuff Tarkin. “Poor thing.” he sighs with a false esteem for Thalassa’s work, his wife, on your poor education.
Tarkin brings you down to earth several times. He is astonished that you find any interest in him. In Orson Krennic’s. He hardly tries to crush what is between you with a look of disgust. He's not a fool, he sees it, he feels it. Orson Krennic is attracted to you, and it leaves him confused - he is torn between anger and interest. Why is that? In a way, Orson Krennic's impulses of his own heart can serve his darkest purposes.
“But...” As your thoughts spill over to Orson Krennic's flowing and flawless cape several feet away, it's Wilhuff Tarkin's suave voice that catches your attention. That “but” is unnaturally soft, so you can't help but feel the twist coming. “Well, seeing as you're so insistent that I give him a chance... So be it, I agree to give in to my daughter's whims for once.” It was as if a dagger had been stabbed into your heart. Barely opening your lips, expecting to ask him to clarify something, you observe your father snapping his fingers to summon one of his faithful lieutenants - who was standing at a table away from you. “Lieutenant, bring me Director Krennic.”
“Father...” you’re mumbling in pain.
“Hurry, boy.” he adds harshly.
It's too late. He's gone to join Krennic at the bar to murmur a few words in his ear. From the corner of the restaurant room, unfortunately, you cannot hear fragments of their conversation, but you can clearly read something in the expression on Orson's face... unexpected. Krennic is surprised, perhaps even frightened, by something the young lieutenant is whispering to him.
As the director comes up to you, his chin proudly lifted and his gaze locked in yours, he announces himself in a drawling, slightly cocksure voice. “You wished to see me, Governor?” breathes Krennic as he comes forward with a confident step, along with a death trooper who follows him like the shadow of his own fucking white cloak.
“Indeed, Director Krennic.” Tarkin's voice disrupts his contemplation of your magnificent person. Your gazes remain locked together for a few seconds, before Krennic turns it away so as not to awaken the Grand Moff's suspicions.
“My daughter insists on you joining us, Director.”
“It wasn't exactly phrased that way...” You try to justify yourself as you feel the Director's annoyed look burning on your bloody cheeks. Full red. Red as blood with shame. You’re nothing more than a poor little animal right now. Hunted until blood turns to molten lava and runs through your veins, paralyzed as hell by its frozen words. You immediately turn your attention away from the two high officers who are watching you with their piercing blues eyes.
“Of course, just please, (Y/N), don't be shy. You said you wanted to invite the director at our table,” Tarkin insists with barely disguised pleasure. In his eyes shines a glint of cruel amusement, much more familiar. “Sit down, Director.” It is an order. “Come here. (Y/N), please, let him sit in closer.” Krennic complies despite himself, taking a seat on your right, facing Tarkin’s one. “She's being modest with her expectations. I am more than willing to satisfy her curiosity... That’s what a good father must do, isn’t it ? She obviously blushes of joy and her eyes sparkles with excitement at the mere thought of you joining us.” Tarkin shamelessly comments, while he’s hailing a waiter to bring a third set of cutlery for Krennic. “My beloved daughter, Director, used to think that can bluff the old man in front of her, nevertheless, your scientific achievements especially catch her eyes, as mine, for a long time.” You just want to die right now. Now, really, really, really now. Please, God may help you.
Tarkin is pressing you hard in front of Krennic because he knows you made fun of him. He wants you to pay for it. What a fucking, sordid punishment. So, you keep quiet, to avoid aggravating your already delicate situation. What must be Orson Krennic’s thoughts on this shit ?
“My achievements?” gasps Director Krennic, raising his eyebrows in astonishment at the Grand Moff's false kindness. He’s terrified. Did he know ? Does the Grand Moff’s already know everything about the both of you ? “I…”
“Yes, Director.” Tarkin interrupts playfully. “Your achievements.”
There is a silence between the three of you. A particularly awkward silence. It is Wilhuff Tarkin who has put you in this state of stress.
“Well, director?” Tarkin raises gently, clinking the back of his silver spoon on the porcelain rim of his floral-patterned cup. “Please, talk to me. You, who are so eloquent. Why don't you tell about your accomplishments in person?”
Wilhuff Tarkin's insinuations lead you to believe that he knows something, no matter how questionable. How could he know? No... Tarkin is merely suspicious. Tarkin knows that Krennic is attracted to you, as you are to him. He has smelled the air around you and felt that deeply sexual electrical tension between you. He probably realized the depth of your arousal just by observing you devouring the imperial's authoritative, white-draped figure with your hungry eyes. When Orson Krennic walked in, a gentle heat began to emerge from your body. A very strong sexual heat, mixed with the smell of your arousal. Right between your thighs. A shameful wet feeling, smearing your black lace underwear. That significant smell, you smelled it. You made the choice to ignore it. You are in the middle of a public scene. You can't act like an overexcited teenager at her very first prom. Orson Krennic has you on edge. He's the only man capable of making you feel insecure in front of your own father. Like right now. He's next to you, sitting nonchalantly in the chair, legs crossed.
When the waiter returns to you with a porcelain cup and a plate, he doesn't even say a word of thanks. He completely avoids the waiter's arrival. Embarrassed, the young man finally leaves after mumbling a few words of apology to you, believing he has offended the director. This is not the case, the director is simply a snobby man. Orson Krennic turns you on. Orson Krennic's behavior turns you on. You love it when he shows a snobbish authority, when he despises the people around him, when he has a conquering walk, when he twirls his long white cloak with elegance, when he whispers a few words in a seductive voice, when he gives you that charming smirk. That signature smile: arrogant and naughty at the same time. You realize now that the pleasant feeling in your stomach is growing, as you look at Krennic and Tarkin challenging each other under your eyes. You love to see them challenge each other. For you. No matter how hard you squeeze your thighs, the heat rushes through you like lava from an erupting volcano. The moisture keeps building, traveling from the lace fabric to stick to the inside of your trembling thighs, while the air around you become more electrified.
“I can finally imagine what my daughter enjoys so much about you. Your blind confidence in your skills and in other people's opinions of you is remarkable.” A false compliment. A compliment disguised as a terrible insult. Wilhuff Tarkin moistens his lips with the amber liquor of his spiced tea, while Orson Krennic mentally storms off.
“That confidence, Governor, got me where I am today. I wouldn't part with it for anything in the world. I assume that this is a deep disappointment to you.”
“There are many things that disappoint me...” replies Tarkin with a drawl, walking his gaze to Krennic's left. He reveals his first cards with this well-placed understatement, clearly directed at you.
Tarkin's voice momentarily snaps you out of your wild thoughts. He speaks to Krennic, looking at you with his steely eyes, with the intention of reading your soul. To pierce all your secrets. Wilhuff Tarkin discovers the director's effect on you while talking with him. No one can ignore the delicate pink color of your filled cheeks. Nor can anyone ignore the delicate warmth that covers your forehead. Damp and wet. You are moist and soaking wet.
Tarkin's attitude hurts you, but you've been quiet since Orson sat down next to you. Krennic's furtive gaze does not miss him. He quietly lays his palm under the table against your knee, giving you the bravery to stand strong. You can face anything together. It feels good. It magnifies the pleasure you feel inside. It increases... the wetness between your thighs. Orson Krennic sniffs softly, a little loudly, as the smell of sex fills the air around you. A sneer on the corner of his lips, he pretends nothing, while congratulating himself for putting you in such an exciting state of nervousness.
“I can now finally see what my daughter enjoys so much about you. Your blind confidence in your abilities and in other people's opinions of you is remarkable.” An insult disguised as a compliment. Wilhuff Tarkin moistens his lips in the amber liquor of his spiced tea, while Orson Krennic gets mentally pissed.
“That confidence, Governor, has put me in the position I occupy today. I would not part with it for anything in the world. I suppose that disappoints you deeply.”
“There are many things that disappoint me...” replies Tarkin with a drawl, walking his gaze to Krennic's left. He reveals his first cards with this well-placed insinuation, clearly directed at you.
Tarkin's voice momentarily snaps you out of your wild thoughts. He is talking to Krennic, looking at you with his steely eyes, determined to read your soul. To find out all your secrets. Wilhuff Tarkin discovers the effect he has on you while talking to the director. No one can ignore the delicate pink color of your full cheeks. Nor can anyone ignore the fine particle of warmth that covers your forehead. Steamy and soaking wet. You are wet and damp.
Tarkin's attitude hurts you, but you've been quiet since Orson moved in next to you. Krennic's furtive gaze does not miss it. He discreetly lays his palm under the table against your knee, giving you the courage and support you need to endure. You can face anything together. It feels good. It magnifies the pleasure you feel inside. It increases... the wetness between your thighs. Orson Krennic sniffs softly, a little loudly, as the smell of sex fills the air around you. A grin at the corner of the lips, he does not pretend anything, while congratulating himself to put you in a state of such hot tension.
After a few minutes, he finally changes his position.
The hand of Director Krennic loosens from your thigh, moving in a sensual caress towards the inside, which is far from leaving you indifferent. He moves slowly over your flesh exposed to his view, and to him alone. Orson Krennic finishes to spread out the fluid sides of your dress made of lace and of satin, ivory color and covered with a golden tulle voile. Your skin feels so feverish, now, that this mere contact produces the effect of a burning and painful tingling in the bottom of your stomach. Your belly contracts gradually, by chaotic jolts. You feel that your insides are writhing with a rather familiar pain, those of the aching pulsations of your clit. You figure out what he's going to do to you, in front of everyone. Without anyone knowing. Your flesh spot begins to throb in a thrilling way, like the heart of a hunted animal, paralyzed by the cruelty of its hunter. In response to this unexpected intrusion, you move your palms on each of your thighs, spreading his fingers then tightening them around your quivering flesh. You try gently to push back his leather-gloved fingers. Krennic freezes under the table as he confronts your father with a remarkable coolness. He states his latest progress on the Emperor's top secret project with a confident tone, clearly wanting to dominate his exchanges with him. He doesn't like the way Tarkin seems to want to claim ownership of the project. He speaks in a low, authoritative voice. That voice literally drives him crazy. Meanwhile, Krennic's hand is moving again. You bite your lip, as you thought it would have stopped him from exploring. You realize that Krennic is very pleased with this game. Touching you beneath the table and rubbing his vicious fingers all over your beautiful pure white dress, right under your father's nose, puts him in a state of monumental arousal. Which you can see, with a glance at his crotch which is hidden in his raven black uniform pants. Seeing him like this makes you swallow violently. You are witnessing his massive erection under the restaurant table. For a second, you want to be as bold as him and unbuckle his belt to put your hand inside his uniform, but you don't. Not in front of your father. Not in front of your father. You fight it. You settle into your seat, wanting him to stop exploring. You cross your legs at least three times, but Krennic keeps putting his hand against your left thigh, gradually deviating it inward. Even though you discreetly pull your dress back into place, he persists in wanting to lift it up and work his way down to your lacy panties. So fine and delicate. For a moment you regret having worn such transparent underwear. A simple touch of the tip of his thumb under the leather of his glove and your intimacy reacts quickly. You feel your clitoris slowly but surely start to swell inside your underwear. Krennic grunts at the same time in response to a sharp remark from Tarkin.
“Governor, no offense... you hold me in esteem far below the accomplishments I have already achieved for the Empire.” Krennic says through his gritted teeth. His jaw is clenched with anger at being so publicly belittled. In front of you.
“I wish I had another one, but it's been twenty years since you made a reputation for yourself by being sloppy… This project is riding on its last legs, director.”
“It's not, it's been on track for a few years...” justifies Krennic, sounding outraged. He struggles to keep his composure, the urge to overturn the table with an elbow furiously itches.
“Since Galen Erso's return as head of your scientific team, do you mean.”
Orson freezes. As his hand closes over your privates a little too roughly, you sense his fright. You struggle to stifle a squeak. He’s making you pay for your father's insolence.
There is a pause in the conversation among the three of you. Tarkin's face is victorious. Krennic finally speaks again, in a dangerous voice. So low that it is threatening, and at the same time his fingers are even bolder against your soaked underwear. His index finger grazes the thin slit of your intimacy through your lacy panties, and he notes pleasantly the shameful moisture that covers it. Krennic perseveres by pressing. With short squeezes, he lures your wetness. Orson is now staining your underwear even more than it already is, and you just want to beg him to stop all this right now, or to take you violently to the table of the best restaurant on Coruscant. The leather of his glove picks up all your moisture, so he can use it as a lubricant, to penetrate you in one stroke. He first pushes his forefinger between your well-spread intimate folds under this repetitive stimulation for about ten minutes. He pushes into you with your underwear, which prevents him from going all the way deep inside you, but it's more than enough to make you gasp. Your mouth bleeds from biting your lip or the inside of your cheek, eager to make this far too spontaneous reaction go away to be quickly hidden. Every inch of your body desires Orson Krennic, even if he doesn't have to, even if the circumstances now don't allow him to give in in any way.
So, the more Krennic talks to your father and seems completely oblivious to the mess he's making under the table, the more you feel like you're choking. Blood rushes to your intimate area, especially to the core of your clit. Well swollen, as hard as a rose thorn. The small peak is ready to be stroked and pushed to orgasm under the expert fingers of Director Krennic. It rises gently against the lace fabric of your underwear like a hard arrow. Krennic can feel this mountain rising under the leather. Occasionally, as he pushes his index finger longer or harder into your vagina, the rest of his fingers curled in the palm of his hand stroking you. He notices your hardness. Your tiny erection. Your aching clitoris. But he doesn't linger on it for the moment and thank God. You couldn't help but squirm in your chair. His gestures are already making your body a slave to your lowest desires, your most primal urges. You congratulate yourself for having managed to keep a mask of impassibility in public. Drinking a few sips of your tea, you hope to stifle your sighs by drowning in the amber liquid.
The worst is yet to come.
Tarkin and Krennic are now discussing the complex details and mathematical terms of the super laser's development.
Meanwhile, Krennic brings his thumb up, continuing to penetrate you with large, firm strokes of his index finger. He pushes the lace deep into your body. Tarkin doesn't notice the sordid game going on between you under the table. His gaze often falls on you, two icy orbs. Those eyes stare hard at you, as if reading you and advising you not to whimper or blush. It is always at this moment that Krennic pushes a finger in deeper. He wants a reaction from you. Miraculously, you manage to resist. The only thing your father can read in you is the flush on your cheeks and the sweat beading on your temples. Two things that are more than enough to confirm his initial suspicions about Director Krennic's effect on you. Tarkin doesn't know how far Krennic's lustfulness can go. Nor does Tarkin know that you are already... close. Lucky for you both.
Finally, he removes his sticky finger of your intimate fluids from your panties and slides it down to your nerve button, that blood-soaked blossom of flesh. And that's it. Krennic is tired of pumping your vagina. He's going to target the core of your pleasure. A long shiver runs down your spine and dies in the hollow of your back. What you realize is that the task of hiding what's going on under the table is going to be more intense than expected. Orson savors the spongy sensation of your clit. He doesn't touch it with his fingertips, but you can feel him enjoying the hardness of your little organ. He has fun taking it between two of his fingers, at first, and running it along its length. He squeezes the clitoris to make sure it's big, which makes you spasm. The painful throbbing sensation starts all over again. Your clitoris is in pain. Literally. You feel it pulsating. You feel it contracting, twitching under the uneven pressure of Krennic's fingers. You want to rip it off, take off your panties and tell him to take off his gloves. To tell him to be honest. To run his tongue along your intimate lips, to caress the walls of your vagina and suck your nerve bud to pain. You don't. You can't engage in such lovemaking in public. So, you just sigh at length, a little too lasciviously to be completely innocent. Tarkin looks up at you for a few seconds, thinking you are laughing at what he has just explained to Krennic. Under the intensity of that steely gaze, you arch your back further and lower your head to the depths of your teacup. You would like to disappear at once.
While you beg him inwardly to stop, or to start caressing him in a circular way, to better relieve you, rather than pressing him with so little force, he finally grants your wishes. Krennic has been torturing you for a few minutes, not stroking you enough to bring you to orgasm, but brushing and squeezing your organ enough that you feel a painful, throbbing tension that rushes you for relief.
He finally changes his approach. Krennic mercilessly closes his thumb and index finger. He presses on them until they take your breath away. These pressures are irregular, as he sometimes alternates with a short pause, before restarting with the same precision. When he stops, his finger crashes against your nerve core. You feel ecstatic pulsations and a kind of impatience at the idea that he comes to rub it. More than a desire, it is now a physiological need. With skilful circular movements, he makes you touch heaven in front of your own father. Up and down. Endlessly. Up and down. Slowly, then strongly. It starts with a simple touch and turns into a caress. His movements are repetitive because he sees how it works wonderfully on you. You squirm painfully in your chair, squeezing your thighs against his hand, praying that he will pull it out before anyone notices.
The pleasure increases, but not enough. There's a distance between you. Your panty fabric. You want him to take it off.
It's the last obstacle between you and your orgasm. “Governor?” a voice bellows, your father's lieutenant. He approaches Wilhuff Tarkin's back before whispering a few words in his ear. As you finish your cup of tea to hide the look on your face or the sound of your voice distorted by the pleasure rumbling inside you, you realize that Tarkin seems annoyed by his lieutenant's words. He claps his tongue against his pallet as a gesture of disapproval, before slowly standing up, firmly pressing his palms against the white tablecloth.
“Please excuse me for a moment. I have some business to attend to.” That call sounds the death knell. Now you know that once Tarkin is gone, nothing will stop Orson from going through with his taunt. Tarkin has been the only shield. Your protection.
Nothing will stop him now. “What a filthy little girl you are... you're asking for more, you're mooning over me in front of your own father... do you mind if I do naughty things to you in front of daddy? Because it turns me on a lot.” Krennic whispers as he brings his face close to yours for a while, whispering those words in your ear. He doesn't kiss you, doesn't bite your lobe, doesn't devour your neck. He brushes up against you, which is even worse. He grazes your cartilage with the tip of his lips, while deliberately blowing his hot breath into your ear to awaken a hoard of shivers down your neck.
He loves to see your hair standing on end for him. “That's not true...”, you moan lasciviously, while you try to push his hand away as much as you can. It’s fucking vain. Krennic is much stronger than you.
He pushes your wrist to impose his presence. “You want me to make you scream in his face, don't you?” breathes Krennic in a provocative tone.
Out of the corner of his eye, the director watches your father, who has gone out through the main doors with his lieutenant to settle an emergency hologram communication. “Stop what you’re doing to me immediately. This is not right, Director...”
Krennic insists even more in response. “I told you to call me Orson,” he growls, angrily.
“Naughty girl.” He stops stroking for a few seconds, and a sigh of relief escapes your lips at the thought that he has finally regained his senses. Instead, he pushes aside the fabric of the lace underwear. With just a few fingers, Orson reaches into the naked flesh covered in viscous fluids. A moan comes from your mouth. It's just... divine.
You've been waiting fifteen minutes for this sensual caress from him. A smile on his lips, Krennic then whispers in a caressing voice, “You want to know how many of my fingers are enough to fill you up ?” Indecent. Vulgar. Exciting. You are sweating.
You close your eyes. Then, without waiting, he comes to slip his fingers in the orifice of your vagina, between your hot walls. He introduces one of his gloved fingers, slowly but surely, to prepare you to receive him. “Let's see... One... two... three... Tell me which way you want me to finger you. Deep? On the top?” A second finger, then a third came to add to his deeper and harder thrusting. Krennic has big hands, beautiful masculine hands. Powerful and venous. His long, thick fingers are enough to fill any orifice, even more with his black gloves. He expects to squeeze moans from his poor victim. “You want more, don't you? Me fingering you deep and long... Me fucking you until the death of you.” That's what he intends to do, any minute now. But before that, he wants to hear you beg for his sex.
Krennic's narcissism is unsurpassed.
He fucks you, there is no other word. His gestures are strong, controlled, and insidious. Three fingers come and go, penetrating you to the guard, to the pain. He fucks you quickly, amused by the slight sucking noises that come out every time he moves away from your intimacy, only to come back in. He almost feels like he's fucking a river. You are twisting against his hand, in a state of confusion. Your locks stick to your temples and forehead. No matter how much you fight him off, he'll have the upper hand. He will always have it.
You find yourself wanting to end it. “Tell me how badly you want me in, sweetheart...” whispers Krennic. He wants you to beg him to finish you off, before he gets your father back. You're not going to run for him, are you? Then you realize that Krennic will never stop. You must come now... You must not let your father see this performance. You will not be able to hold back.
Not even in front of him. “Make me... Orson, please... Now...” you beg desperately against his cheek. Your breathes intermingle, at the indecent proximity of your faces, as well as your hands. Slowly, you wrap your fingers around his to encourage him to turn to the soft, sensitive little corner you enjoy so deeply. The one that makes you explode in no time. Your hips discreetly wiggle against your chair, to deepen Orson's caresses. He perseveres, smiling with a silly little smile. His fingers get into a faster, more precise rhythm, while his thumb returns to caress your clit. With strokes of pressure, his glove against the spongy texture of your nerve-filled organ. A few more strokes and it's over. A few more and... you'll cum. You'll cum in this restaurant. Orson tortures you, deliberately slowing the pace. You are pleading with your big eyes, a gleam of pure desperation shining in them. Soon, soon, you'll cum... A few more strokes on that spongy, blood-swollen and extremely sensitive clitoris.
A few more thrusts on that sensitive area deep inside your vagina, which Krennic fills with his curved fingers.
Once again... You feel the wave, it insidiously takes hold of your body, making you bend your back. You feel those tingles which symbolize the tension that rumbles through you. Like a thread that you pull until it finally bursts. All your muscles tense up, your pelvis arches, your belly presses against the edge of the tablecloth. Your breasts peak out in sumptuous mounds through your dress. Krennic doesn't touch them, so as not to be caught in such a delicate position with you, but the fact of contemplating them beneath the lace of your dress makes him even more hard. One hand against your mouth, you try to hide your soft squeaks and groans as the pleasure comes out to drive you crazy. You are biting your hand under the burning, sadistic gaze of Orson Krennic. He wants to see you lose all control. More and more your intimacy is rubbed, provoking your orgasm. Under the table, it's a real fire.
You’re observing the people around you in the restaurant, all those couples or small groups laughing while having an aperitif or having lunch together carefree. Just then, Tarkin's silhouette finally appears in the background of the hall. Crap. Tarkin returns, apparently in a bad mood. Krennic abruptly stops stroking you. Pulling his fingers away from you, leaving you angry and frustrated. Burning like a dry desert. On the verge of an orgasm that unfortunately couldn't take possession of your body.
You rage, then tighten your robe tightly in the hollow of your fists. “Forgive me. I had an urgent communication.” murmurs the Grand Moff, apparently indifferent to what is happening between you now, as he wisely takes his seat again with a cold expression.
“Good timing, Governor.” Krennic says, while he’s wiping his glove on a corner of the tablecloth. “I was just telling your daughter that I had to leave. I've abused enough of your generosity.” He jokes mockingly about your little intimate and very pleasant encounter, as he stands up.
With a light gesture, Krennic throws back the flaps of his white cloak. You observe him getting up, and, above all, moving away from you with flashes of light in his eyes. How can he leave you in this state?
Close to cumming with a mere caress...
Krennic knows you'll want more. You'll come back to him to finish you off. And finally, you will be his for good. He will fuck you against the nearest piece of furniture. He will bring you to your knees. You will forget all loyalty to Tarkin to embrace his.
As Krennic leaves, your father turns his attention back to your face, still confused by what has just happened. A victorious smile spreads across his face, like a carnivore about to feast. Tarkin feels he has exposed enough of Krennic's flaws to convince you to follow his philosophy. As you part your lips to say something, Tarkin raises his hand and cuts you off in anticipation.
“As for what you were telling me about a few minutes ago...” Tarkin gives off a magnetic aura that sweeps you along in its trail. “It is agreed.”
“Father, forget what I told you...” you mumble, believing you heard a negative answer, before changing your mind. Excitement is such that a heartbeat or two misses, causing you to gasp in surprise. “Do you seriously mean what you just said?”
“Of course, I do.” he replies as naturally as possible. “I even think it's an excellent thing to study precisely what we are achieving for the glorious Empire.” Tarkin finishes his beverage, before placing it gently back on the table. “You will accompany me, initially, to the Death Star. Then we'll see what you learn there.”
Tarkin offers you a very strange alternative, and at first you don't realize how perverse his intentions are.
“Really?” A smile settles on your rosy lips. You finally feel like you're on the same page. Better than that, you feel that he trusts you.
You do not ignore what the Death Star is. Once you're in the inner circle of the most powerful, you're sure to have access to valuable information. You are far from being the exception. You often have a front row seat to Wilhuff Tarkin's fantastic designs. You listen wisely to what he's trying to teach you, his unstoppable philosophy, the project of a lifetime. You cannot disappoint him, so you must let yourself be shaped in his image. His doctrine is also yours.
“But... the Director...”
“Any problem with Krennic?”
“No, none.” you lie shamelessly. “It seemed to me that you did not want me to be brought into contact with him.”
“Good.” Tarkin seems satisfied. “You two will talk, it's good for your learning, whatever I think of his pushy personality, he's someone with a knowledgeable background.”
“What should I do?”
“You'll have to simply endure the director's presence in my absence.”
“He will be aboard the Star?” This seems to surprise you half to death – you're actually very good at feigning surprise. Orson has already told you about it, but Tarkin is not supposed to know about it.
“For two weeks only.” Tarkin's gaze hardens almost instantly. You see his features tighten, which seems to make you strangely happy. It's amazing what a simple eyebrow frown can do to you. You feel like a winner. “I didn't quite understand the reason – Krennic is always so messy in his explanations... He must go somewhere else in a few days.”
“He's doing great things for the Empire,” you say in an arrogant tone, while you’re wanting to challenge him.
You can't help but stand up for him in the face of your father's injustice. He judges it with amusement - the corner of his lips curves into a smug little sneer.
Tarkin lowers his two cold orbs to the contents of a carafe, of pure water, before returning his penetrating gaze to yours. You expect a sigh, but it doesn't come. Instead, he looks at you with an inquisitive look. His fingers reach for his silver spoon, and he gently places it next to a porcelain plate. All Tarkins are maniacs. “That's not good enough,” he says in a voice as cold as a winter breeze.
He pauses briefly, letting you slowly relax in your seat. “You're looking more like your mother every day, (Y/N).” Is that a compliment or an insult – you're unfortunately not sure about that. Part of you wants to believe it's a sign of affection on his part. Wilhuff Tarkin brings up your mother's blind fanaticism – the one she feels for him. You apparently feel the same for Orson Krennic.
“Has Director Krennic done something wrong?”
“Krennic is always doing something wrong.”
“The Director has always been perfectly respectful in my presence.”
“Of course, Krennic is quite a charming man when you get to know him,” he teases.
Something inside you burns as you think back to the moments you shared – you and him. Intimate moments that stay in your memory.
“Your relationship is far from being an equal one. Don't forget to remind him that you are my observer, and as such, you have authority over him. Obviously, you are here to learn. I would hope that you would bring back some things that are... unnatural.”
“I thought I was here to learn.”
“Sure, you'll learn things from him, but you'll teach me things too.”
You finally understand his apparent gentleness, especially the ease with which he agrees to send you to Krennic. For a split second you thought he really cared about you. He’s hoping to take advantage of Krennic's weakness to get you to share his confidences with him. You didn't think he would make you, his spy. That puts you in a complicated position.
One important fact you don't know yet is that Orson Krennic is unaware of your upcoming arrival, not to mention its purpose. You naively think he'll be happy about it. You don't know that he wants everything from you, except to see you dragged into his battle station on the blessing of his worst enemy.
▲▼
Love letters.
I'm just going back from the performance and can say it was truly healing, truly what I needed. Because I'm in my solitude all the time, don't have an intimate conversation with anyone. But this play was exactly like the most sincere intimate conversation. Heart to heart.
With love,
Lisa
Quick introduction:
My name is Angel🤍
Imagine: Drama Beats
Hello, something that I write is never meant to be structured. I prefer to see beauty in the chaos. Below you will find eight short bits of text related to four different universes including mine. It is supposed to be drama, and it was in a dead of night based on Pinterest prompts. For that person who reads it - thank you and enjoy ;)
Mikey: I ... I'm here!! Everything will be good!! You will be fine!! His hands shook as blood seeped through the fingers. He was ready to carry you to the hospital in his arms, but he was told to clamp the wound and press as hard as possible, otherwise, the ambulance would not be in time. Manjiro was frightened by your gaze, frightened by a melancholy smile and a pale face. And yet he was not ready to let you go as easily as Badji, as Emma... * * * There have been days when Sunshine did not "shine" as clearly as the celestial body after which his family was named. On such days he was sad, did not know where to put himself, and, in general, he felt unwanted in this life. It was unbearable to sit in the office. Usually, he could be found on the roof of the office, with a can of energy drink and buried in the phone. Making an attempt to talk to him, you get a chance to find out the reason for the melancholy of one of the special department's geniuses. Leo: Sometimes it seems to me that... There is a huge gulf between me and others... That I cannot reach anyone and... I remain on my little island... Miles away from everyone... A weightless touch on the palm brings a timid smile to the guy's face... * * * All attempts to make Brecker talk and learn more about him always had one and only answer. Kaz: My mind is a dark place. You don't want to be there ... For all the drama that he seemed to bring to these words, they best reflected the sad truth. Kaz had seen too many things to break and drive insane any normal person. And these made him a "Monster from the Barrel", someone who is able to take on any business, knows all the most sophisticated tortures, and will not spare the traitors. Eternally lonely and submerged darkness, he will never frighten those close to him with it... * * * Bone fracture in several places, sprain, and ligament rupture - the consequences of an unsuccessful fall during the mission. Gojo's nerves were at their limit, but he continued to follow the instructions of Shoko, who quickly fixed the injured limbs and at the same time checked you for internal injuries. Shoko: Don't let her pass out! Your head rested on the guy's lap and he caught your face in large palms, trying to look into the eyes, which seemed to be filled with lead. Satoru: I understand that you are in pain, but you have to stay awake!! Please... * * * The spell gradually sucked out your vitality, and the seal was supposed to divide the soul into several objects. Yet Sukuna could not believe what was happening, wanted to believe that the curse he cherishes could still be saved. Eclipse: Thank you... For being so faithful... And enduring my whims... His hands trembled as she turned slightly to snuggle against him, the moments between the flashes of her eyelashes grew longer. Sukuna: No... Don't close your eyes... Please... Don't close your eyes!!! * * * There were rare visitors to a small hideaway, lost among the huge shelves of the Archive. It was required to know the right path and the approximate time at which the hostess of a cozy paradise spent time there. This privilege was enjoyed by an overwhelmingly small number of people, among whom there were two Key Keepers of the Energy Department. The most frequent guest was Eldran, who needed emotional recovery after visiting some worlds. This time, she was lying on a small mound of rugs and pillows, her knees pressed to her chest, eyes wandering somewhere in the direction of a small shelf with books that Indaco had brought here. Ita: You know, sometimes I want to be numb and not feel anything...
* * * The God of Death was never distinguished by excessive emotionality, but when this happened, all his inner fears immediately became evident. This time you became the closest person to the epicenter of the storm and, instead of leaving, you tried to get him to talk and find out why he was so worked up. Hanma: Oh please don't do this! Don't act like you give a fuck! Having kicked heartily an empty can lying nearby, the guy emitted a sound that seemed more like an animal roar. He hated when emotions got out of control and did not want to believe that this time you saw him like that. You: Maybe because I'm worried about you!? Because I care about you!? He answered with laughter, after which Shuji turned to you with an almost insane smile on his lips, while his eyes concealed longing and hopelessness. Hanma: You don't have to give a fuck about that!! I don't give a fuck, you don't give a fuck, no one fucking cares!! Just get out already!! Run while you can!! * * * You sat on a park bench talking about anything that felt more like a friendly psychotherapy session. Rindo was spinning from a half-empty can of beer, that he held in his hands and felt that his soul was gradually becoming lighter. He didn't have many people with whom he could talk and at the same time put his thoughts in order. After adjusting his glasses, Haitani turned his head at you and smiled. Rindou: You could spend time with Ran right now, but you have to listen to me... He was instantly pushed in the shoulder, forcing his eyebrows to raise. Your light laugh made him smile. You: What kind of nonsense are you saying right now? You are my friend, it is important to me!
Some Ideas/Requests I had for Coriolanus snow! (Any one can make these because I’m not good at writing plus I’d prefer someone else…hehe) also all female reader!!
1. Coriolanus snow x fem reader: During the hunger games you and Lucy come across careers and during the amidst of fighting trying to fight them off the reader sacrifice herself to save Lucy, not only leaving behind her best friend (Lucy) but also leaving behind her love (Coriolanus)
2. Jealous Coriolanus x fem reader: where the reader and Coriolanus used to have a fling but they ended it. (You can decide the reason) and the reader ends up with one of finnick odairs ancestors and Coriolanus gets jealous (and if you do smut you can make it into smut.
3. Peacekeeper Coriolanus snow x fem reader: The night Lucy performs the reader also performs and is just as good with the guitar and has a very captivating singing voice. Which makes Coriolanus awestruck/starts falling for her.
4. Jealous Coriolanus Snow x fem reader: the reader and Coriolanus are good friends for a while and maybe he’s had feelings/has been slightly pinning after her, both of them are mentors and the reader gets a very nice hot guy as her tribute and they become attracted to each other and coryo gets jealous
5. Coriolanus snow x reader: the reader was a tribute not that long before the 10th hunger games but during her games she had unknowingly did something that the capital did not approve of and she gets reaped back into the games but she doesn’t get a mentor because of the capital/peacekeepers doing the dirty work themselves they decided to put her back into the games and instead of snow falling for Lucy gray (his tribute) he falls for the reader. And during the games Lucy asks the reader what happened to her and she tells Lucy that after the games they had killed her family and sold her (like what happened to finnick & Johanna! If not comfortable y’all can leave that part out or come up with something else)
6. Coriolanus snow x fem reader: it’s when the attacks happen the reader gets hit and becomes unconscious but instead of snow looking for her (his gf?) he more worried about Lucy gray and he doesn’t realize that the reader is their next to him in the wing until after he knows Lucy is okay. Maybe the reader is in a very bad condition and had to undergo a surgery.
7. Coriolanus Snow x fem reader: where she’s in the games and she sings safe and sound by Taylor Swift to her fellow tribute, while their dying (like how katniss did with rue) and snow is just in awe and can’t take his eyes off the screen. (Maybe you were part of the capital and was thrown into the games because of your family?¿)
(I have more but all that I can think of rn!)