A Song For A Mockingbird (director Orson Krennic X Reader) Part I.

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 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)

                                                              ▲▼

“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.

                                                              ▲▼

New Year, New Gifs Challenge Day 21: Favorite Quote

All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. - Gandalf

fanfiction directory

FANFICTION & ONESHOT IDEAS •• TUMBLR / AO3 « « « «  « « « « « « « « « « « « « « « «

ONGOING AND COMING SOON.

« « « « « « « « « « « « « « « «

•     STAR WARS UNIVERSE ♔

( 1 ) « a song for a mockingbird » fanfiction ❘ Orson Krennic x Reader (Female) ▴ ongoing ❘❘ (( part 1 ⋄ part 2 ⋄ part 3 ⋄ part 4 ⋄ part 5 ⋄ part 6 ⋄ part 7 )) ( 2 ) « my favourite slave » fanfiction ❘ Orson Krennic x Wilhuff Tarkin ▴ coming soon ( 3 ) « kiss me like the world is ending » oneshot - anon request ❘ Orson Krennic x Reader (Female) ▴ coming soon ( 4 ) « dancing with the devil » fanfiction ❘ Orson Krennic x Reader (Female) ▴ coming soon

 •     READY PLAYER ONE (MOVIE & BOOKS) ♔

( 1 ) « the taste of betrayal » two-part oneshot ❘ Nolan Sorrento x Reader (Female) ▴ ongoing ❘❘ (( part 1 ⋄ part 2 )) ( 2 ) « blurred lines » fanfiction ❘ Nolan Sorrento x OC Female ▴ ongoing ❘❘ (( part 1 ⋄ ... )) ( 3 ) « white little liars » fanfiction ❘ Nolan Sorrento x Reader (Female) ▴ coming soon

•     LOTR & ROP UNIVERSE ♔

( 1 ) « dirty little games » fanfiction or oneshot ❘ Sauron (Halbrand) x Galadriel ▴ coming soon

•     ROBIN HOOD (2018 MOVIE) ♔

( 1 ) « red scars on dead bodies » fanfiction ❘ Sheriff of Nottingham x Reader (Female) ▴ coming soon

When will your next chapter of mockingbird be published? I’m so addicted to reading that first chapter! It’s beautiful!

Hey! Thank you so much for your comment ! I'm so glad you liked the first chapter. I'll post the next one soon. Probably today! I hope you'll like it. It will be a little longer than expected, haha :p Have a nice day!

OMFG ! I’m totally IN LOVE with!

Elizabeth Taylor wearing an Edith Head designed dress in A Place in the Sun, 1951.

The dress had six layers of white net over a pale mint green taffeta , studded with single velvet violets, and a bodice covered in white velvet violets with green centers. It caused a sensation among prom-going young ladies that year. Manufacturers recognized the fact and had copies of the gowns ready for purchase in stores at the time of the film’s release.