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the taste of betrayal (nolan sorrento x reader)
oneshot - two parts
pairing. nolan sorrento x reader (ready player one movie) – fem!reader
summary. this oneshot in 2 parts takes place during one of the scenes of the film. during the false "hostage-taking" of Nolan Sorrento, the reader finds herself alone with him while her compatriots try to recover the codes allowing to locate Art3mis at the loyalty center. the reader is part of the group of our happy heroes. this oneshot does not follow the scenaristic framework of the film.
rating. mature.
nb. (Y/N) = Your Name
Thank you for reading !
WARNING: lemon, smut, masturbation, soft domination.
PART ONE
"Hey... tell me... how much is he paying you?" he whispers, leaning in a bit close to you as he settles into his leather seat. He looks pretty comfortable, you think.
Nolan Sorrento is a man of power. Like all men of power, he knows only two ways to get out of a perilous situation: blackmail or corruption. Offering money is what comes to mind almost instantly, as if a big paycheck would be enough to erase years of suffering and misery. In Nolan Sorrento's world, this is unfortunately the case.
"I have plenty of money, I can even give you a golden bridge!"
"Shut up!" retorted Daito, the ninja from your clan on the Oasis.
He takes on a bored look, while the IOI CEO lets out a heavy sigh of despair.
"Oh really?" as you whisper in a low voice, you don't believe for a second that those two can hear you.
"But, come on... Aphrodite!" replies Daito with an outraged face.
Aphrodite is the name of your avatar in the OASIS. A Greek goddess, nothing more, nothing less. She is what you secretly aspire to be; a woman honored by men, fulfilled and envied, a powerful, free and sultry woman. In real life, you are just out of school. You've spent so many years on your damn thesis that you've never had any real social contact. You've sacrificed everything to be on top. The life of this goddess of love is mostly part of your fantasies. You are a special beauty, your classmates have always liked you. You were even ranked in the top 5 of the most beautiful girls in your class during your university studies. You just never had time to enjoy the joys of dating, drinking and sleeping around. You've always had only one passion in life: your studies. You've been called a little stuck-up, yes, that's what you are. A little geek completely out of touch with the reality of relationships.
"I was joking," you hastily correct yourself, wishing those words had never left your mouth. Even if you mean it sincerely, it's not a very smart thing to say in front of your friend Daito. Deep in your heart, you are burning with the desire for glory and wealth with the proposals of the powerful Sorrento. You can't hold back an embarrassed laugh that is well appreciated by Daito. Poor boy. He is still a naive teenager. Unfortunately for you, Nolan Sorrento is not. He pays close attention to your words. A small chuckle at the corner of his lips reveals a lot about what he really thinks of you.
"My goodness! I believed it for a split second!"
"Daito!"
A voice can be heard from the other room, Asche's. He sighs in despair.
"They need me... Can you take care of it... ?"
"No problem."
You make a slight gesture with your hand to let him know that you are still in charge of keeping an eye on the despicable Sorrento. Despicable, despicable bastard... But not less terribly sexy. You share a conniving smile with your friend. When your faithful companion, Daito, leaves to find the other members of the group, you find yourself alone confronting Sorrento. Nolan Sorrento. The all-powerful CEO of the IOI. Holy crap. What is he going to tell you to destroy what's remaining of your scruples? It's a secret you've been keeping inside for five long years, ever since the day the infamous Hallyday Easter egg race began on the Oasis. A dirty little secret that could compromise your integrity with those who share your adventure on the augmented reality game. You are madly and irresistibly attracted to this evil jerk. They are incapable of understanding because they are only teenagers. You are much older than them. You are twenty-six years old. You are a woman now. A beautiful woman, full of fire and unfulfilled fantasies. Somewhere you are saving your soul for the one and only, Prince Charming on his white steed. You even imagine that a strong man like Sorrento is the other part of your happiness in this world. You are dying for him to be your soul mate. But how to reach a man like him, and above all, how not to disappoint your extremely high expectations? You thrill like a child with her first Christmas present, but do you realize for a moment that things might not be as you wish? What if Nolan Sorrento doesn't fulfill your expectations? You are in love with a fantasy. You only know him from what you've read in the papers or seen on TV. You don't know his personal situation, his inner demons, his emotional capacities, his tastes, his passions, his night terrors, his ambitions or his angers. Are they compatible with yours? That's why you tried to work for him after you got your PhD in game science. You specialized in character design. Your friends don't know that, and thank God. You think they can't understand this obsession with the big bad IOI businessman. No one knows that he's the reason you studied video games at Harvard University in Massachusetts. You've tried to get into his company three times, but you've never been much of a talker and interviews terrify you to the point of asking your recruiters to stand up. Out of a lack of courage, you chose not to pursue it. You were afraid of literally falling apart in front of him. Your scores on all three pre-interview exams were excellent. This is not surprising for a mind like yours, a graduate of one of the best universities in the country. In fact, you need only one thing to touch your dream with your fingertips: courage.
Nolan Sorrento's soft voice brings you back to reality. He speaks to you, full of the magnetism that has brought him to his current position at the IOI. You look at him in silence, not wanting to disturb the intensity of this moment between the two of you. You study every line, every wrinkle and every salt-and-pepper lock with the greatest attention. He is even more attractive in real life than in front of a TV screen. Your eyes then deviate to the suit that surrounds his torso, which you assume is particularly muscular. There is something magical about this outfit, as incongruous as it is. You think he looks like he's in one of those old science fiction movies, some kind of humanoid in armor. You assume that his sensations are enhanced to the point of no return.
Nolan spontaneously turns to you and can't hold back a slight amused laugh as you stare at him. His lips curl up into a mischievous smile as he finally realizes there is a flaw in the system. This team is far too tightly bound, everyone's aspirations are far too divergent. He remains silent and settles a few more inches into his chair, legs crossed. He understands that you are on the fringe of the group, you proved it to him by appearing interested in his suggestions. He feels that there is a way, even a small one, to get out of this situation. You are his way out.
"Are you listening to me, (Y/N)?"
"I... What did you say?"
"I was telling you that we were finally getting together as right-minded people," so Sorrento repeated, spreading his hands to come and fill the gaps between his fingers.
You try to keep a straight face, but you can read his game perfectly well. He is trying to manipulate you into betraying your friends. They are your friends, don't forget that. He... He is desperately alone.
"Listen to me carefully... I can give you anything your heart desires: stocks in the company, designer dresses or just cash, sweetheart, it's up to you."
"I'm not your sweetheart," you reply sharply.
You bite your lower lip so hard to stop yourself from going back on your words. This is what you've wanted for so many years, but you are aware that he doesn't mean it. It's just another way to infantilize you into thinking you've reached some level of intimacy. You're boiling over inside at the thought of such familiarity, but this is not the time to fall into that kind of fantasy. He's just playing with your nerves, because he's realized that you're particularly sensitive to his charms. Nothing more. Don't be fooled, you are much smarter than that to fall into his trap. "Ok... (Y/N)... I get it, you don't trust me and that's understandable. After all, I tried to trick you. Well... Do you really think your friends will stay loyal to you if I make them the same kind of offer? They are not like you, you seem to be more educated than all of them together. (Y/N). You have all the chances in life, but them... I'm sure one of them will end up thinking of their own interests. They all do it, we all do it, it's human nature. So I'm telling you this because I like you. Think of yourself for once. I can give you absolutely anything you want." "Anything that... I want? ", you whisper in a breath, both taken aback and inevitably drawn in by the CEO's warm words. Nolan Sorrento's words ring pleasantly in your ears. His "I like you" finally gives you a reason to hope for something. You feel yourself weakening slowly in the grip of a deep dilemma with your unacknowledged desires. You want to believe in the sincerity of his words, something that can hang up your fantasy to reality.
"Everything, (Y/N), absolutely everything."
A shiver of pleasure runs down your spine at the soft sound of his voice. More, you want more. The words that escape his mouth flow like honey on his tongue. You want to hear him whisper promises against your ear. You feel your skin about to burst into flames like a forest fire. Promises, beautiful words. He is capable of turning your whole world upside down, with a simple snap of his finger, nothing resists such a powerful man. You are well aware of this weakness, even if you try to fight desperately against this volcano which burns in your belly. A repressed part of your soul desires him even for this reason. "You're lying." "Never in a million years!" he exclaims, backing up even further in his chair. Sorrento seems turned around by this unwarranted accusation. It's as if you've given him the slap of his life. As if the very idea that his word could be questioned was deeply offensive. "Order and I execute," he says, accentuating the smooth tone of his voice.
"As if you have any idea what I might want?"
"Sold! Let me guess. If I win, you give me that gun nicely and everything will be fine. No lawsuits. (Y/N). I promise you that. I'll even give you a nice big paycheck."
Sorrento interprets this silence as a hesitation from which he can gain some advantage. He then leans towards you, taking his spine off the back of his leather chair. "You are a beautiful girl, well...a beautiful woman. You're older than your friends, what's the idea of having such dubious company? You could have a lot better, honey, I have a lot of young friends I can set you up with."
A flash of lightning passes through your eyes as Sorrento seems to be getting it more and more wrong. He just doesn't consider for a moment that you might prefer men of his age. This leaves you significantly offended, which is not lost on Nolan.
"Oh... I went too far. Sorry, let's forget it, we got off on the wrong foot. It is not a man you are looking for. You are beyond such considerations... You prefer women, perhaps?"
"You'll never find," you despair. "And if I win?"
"If you want me to stop chasing you, I will."
"And if I don't want to...?"
A curious request that leaves our CEO particularly confused. It's like exposing a part of your body. This no longer goes unnoticed in the mind of Nolan Sorrento. He seems to read you like an open book, you see him scrupulously analyzing your gestures as well as your mumblings, specifically the slight trembling of your lower lip. A flash of light crosses his face for a moment. As he tenses up against the leather of his massive chair, his lips widen in a disturbing way, causing a mocking sneer to appear at the corner of them. Sorrento gets up from his chair and slowly walks towards you. His step is heavy but determined, and his eyes are focused on you, stripping you of a single glance. "Stay where you are, Sorrento!" your cry is lost in the back of your knotted throat. You nearly choke on your saliva as he breaks through what you consider your security barrier. He enters your territory with no regard for your tortured state of mind. Your poor body trembles, you would like to run away from everything he represents. And yet, you feel helpless to get out of this twist of fate. "Or I..." "Or... ?" he continues, dragging out his words, bringing a dramatic twist to his sentence. "You kill me?" he cuts in with a laugh. An amused, almost mocking laugh full of dirty thoughts. God, you hate that laugh, you find it contemptuously arrogant. This time you guess that he is in a particularly playful mood. He tilts his head slightly to the side, a charming smile on his face that reflects nothing but patronization. "I doubt it..." You swallow painfully as you realize your mistake. He's got it all figured out. What to do... He is coming... He is close by... What should I do? Your legs shake to the point of being unable to move backwards, you feel as if you are in shock. You feel almost cathartic. No one has ever spoken to you like this, something seems to make your body move against all odds. This voice, this breath, this smell.... It is both frightening and seductive. You mentally slap yourself for having that thought in such a place, as he breaks the last few inches between your bodies to reinforce his dominance. You feel surrounded like a prey facing a hungry predator. You bite your lip almost too violently, the blood starts to flow against this red and swollen flesh. Sorrento takes the time to put his index finger on the curve of your lip. He delicately collects a fine drop of your blood, which he then brings to his mouth to taste you. There, it is the drama. Your tremors blind what's left of your sanity at the mere sight of the sensual movement of his finger between his lips, as he licks the last drop of red liquid from the tip of his tongue. A flush of heat invades your being, your lower abdomen contracts painfully, and you even come to secretly wish that he could reserve this pleasure for the most sensitive parts of your female anatomy. As he moves a little further in, your bodies brush against each other through the fabric of your clothes. He manages effortlessly to pin you against the nearest wall, holding your body against his with one hand. With his other hand, Nolan moves his fingers to the outside of your face. A light caress of his fingers on your cheekbones makes you blush. You can't hide your lack of experience in things of a physical nature. He just smiles at you, one of those smiles with that little wrinkle at the corner of your lips that takes you to fantasy land. You let his thumb scrupulously brush one of your cheeks, a sigh escaping almost instantly from your painted lips, under his touch. It is rewarded by a new caress, this time much slower, which ends in the hollow of your neck. You burn... You burn at the thought of his hand descending in slow agony to your chest, and even lower, to the center of your pleasure. He doesn't do it, but you can imagine him doing it with his eyes closed. You feel like you can even stroke your fantasy with your fingertips, it's right in front of you. "I think I guessed it..." he says, taking on a warm, drawling tone with a hint of desperation. You feel as if you can hear a plaintive whimper against your ear. "Give me that gun... And it will be all yours." "No..." you beg him not to pursue this, as you feel this one may go off the rails. You feel overwhelmed by powerful and conflicting emotions. "You lie..." You begin to dryly push her body away, which falls back into the back of his chair. Don't give in to his siren songs, think of everyone who is counting on you. "I promise you I won't, honey, look at me. I never make business promises for nothing." He seems to take offense at your lack of confidence. Sorrento grabs your chin between his long, thick fingers to bring your face even closer to his. "Then why the look?" "I'm just... surprised." "The idea is... so laughable?" "No, no, not at all!" he waves his hands vigorously. "On the contrary, I feel extremely flattered." He pulls you closer to him and says, "I'll let you into a little secret.... You've always been my favorite of all these idiots.... (Y/N)... I secretly hoped that you would somehow decide to work for me." He whispers these words with infinite tenderness in the hollow of your ear, his lips brushing your lobe. You feel his warm breath spreading and radiating to the back of your neck. Shivers run down your spine as his grip on the gun begins to weaken more and more. Sorrento feels it, as he closes his fist on the hand that holds the weapon. She is so pure, so beautiful and so vulnerable, he thinks. She is mine. He witnesses the ecstatic tremors of your body burning with desire for his authority. You openly expose your weaknesses by revealing the afflictions of your poor heart. Nolan Sorrento has been part of your wildest dreams for far too many years. "Say something and everything will be yours, (Y/N). Everything. Everything your heart has desired for so many years..." What a fool. He knew your feelings all along and still played with you. A slight sense of shame taints the beauty of the moment. You close your eyes tightly, wanting to resist the temptation to give him the gun. Everything is an illusion in the Oasis. You even regret that this is only a rescue operation. You yearn to feel the weight of Nolan's body against yours. His real body. In real life. There's nothing better than real life. "I'll be yours." And there you go, your mind racing at the very moment those four little words and ten letters come out of his mouth. Four words and ten letters that have kept you fantasizing for so many nights. These words crush all your scruples like a boot crushes a parasite. And like a robot, you lean towards his ear to confess the inevitable. You tell him everything you had planned to do against him. You throw it all away because a part of you seeks his approval. A part of you wants him more than anything in the world. Nothing can stop the flow of your words. You collapse, moaning in a breath as you feel his hand move against your buttocks and he forces you to sit on his lap. He tries to pull more of you, drawing you against his feverish body. His powerful hands encircle your hips, which are then positioned against his. With a simple movement, your pelvis rubs against his, he seeks this closeness, he is consumed by a burning inferno at the idea of being filled. Your body no longer belongs to you. It desires madly to be his. It proves it to you every second by acting against your will. You feel so overwhelmed that you lose all sense of time. Your hips move against his, in a slow agony, insatiable and possessive. You feel that the center of your desire is now a burning desert land. Your confessions have a surprising effect on him. You are both carried away by the taste of betrayal, it has the effect of a powerful aphrodisiac. "Tell me more... " his voice whispered against your ear is heavy, the breath on your skin is erratic and burning. Then he strokes your chin with his fingertips. "Prove to me your loyalty, (Y/N). " he pleads with you, sensually emphasizing each of his syllables. You slowly close your eyes as you feel chills run down the line of your back. You feel your cheeks flush, far from familiar with this form of closeness. Nolan Sorrento is the first to see the heat radiating from your cheeks, which seems to excite him even more. You wear a small tweed dress, mid-thigh, and underlined by a jacket in real black leather. He takes advantage of his hold on you to run his fingers over the curve of your buttocks under the layers of fabric. From there, his hands brush your skin with envy, while deepening their exploration lower and lower. This waiting is nothing but hell for you, these waves of heat melt your body. Your breath gets lost amidst the encouragement you materialize with squeaks, you still refuse to moan like a poor little thing. "Show me you're a good girl." His fingers first brush the cotton of your underwear, his caresses gentle and unintrusive. You feel that your sighs are as important as his, he wants you to like it above all. He needs your approval, it's the only thing that seems to be holding back the unleashing of his passions. A kind of vulnerability emerges from him, you finally realize what really lies beneath the surface of the ruthless businessman. Your moans are more than enough to bring a smile of satisfaction to his face. He doesn't hold back a slight chuckle, as he deepens his caresses towards what is already soaked with your desire. The suit you're wearing is magical, allowing you to feel his fingers on your privates as if they were really there. Drunk with his caresses, you respond to each one with a thrust of your pelvis, hoping to feel them deeper inside you. You think that it is not enough, the limits of the OASIS are such that they do not allow an enjoyment to the height of the vertigo which feeds your fantasies. But this, Sorrento does not know yet. Nolan starts to press with his fingertips the entrance of your intimacy before attacking the nerve center of your pleasure. He refuses to give in to the urgent need you have to feel his fingers on your skin, he prefers to stimulate your parts through the cotton that covers your intimacy. He wants to play with your nerves even more, without going directly inside, but creating enough sensations to reveal the wild personality inside you. You are dying for him to rip off that thin piece of cloth... You feel your eyes moisten at the same rate as your underwear, so much so that the palm of his hand is soon covered with your shameful moisture. You beg him with your beautiful eyes to tear off the cotton fabric which encloses your intimacy, but he does not give you satisfaction. Nolan plunges his two icy orbs into yours and contemplates the expression on your face, a mixture of euphoria and frustration. You complain that he seems to take great pleasure in giving you half of everything. His eyes darken as he watches you squirm, his fingers keep working inside you, so that after a few minutes your panties are completely soaked. Far from being horrified, this excites him greatly, then an incredible thrust against your body makes you gasp. You imagine him well ridden, and especially in you, going and coming more and more violently. Nolan tears off this underwear of a sharp shot, by taking care not to leave any remains of fabric between him and you. He then brings his hand to his nose and gently inhales your scent, making you even wetter, as you hear him sigh with desire. "Is that what you want then, (Y/N), flesh against flesh...? " he whispers as he quickly works his way down to your bundle of nerves, circling it between his thumb and forefinger with short, measured squeezes. You immediately go into a fit of muffled, discontinuous moans. Your hips agitate frantically against his hand while desiring much more of him. As if he had pressed a magic button, you're off to heaven. "Yes... of course you do..." he says as he nibbles on your earlobe, not stopping what he's doing to you underneath. The end of his sentence ends with a laugh, unfortunately muffled by the sound of your moans. You are intoxicated by his voice, his smell, his warm tongue in your ear and his fingers on your pleasure-soaked intimacy. He then puts firm pressure on that small spot of flesh, now hard and bloody. We can see in the depths of your eyes that your feelings are contradictory. It is necessary to say that all capacity of reasoning is lost in the whirlwind of these dizzy sensations. With your mouth half open, you feel ecstatic. You feel a furious desire to beg him to capture your lips with his, then to penetrate you very slowly of each of his fingers. Your half-closed eyes almost beg him to finish what remains of your ethical conscience. He alternates the caresses on the flesh ready to explode and your intimacy thus offered. Nolan finally decides to leave your clitoris to put a finger in you, then a second one. These comings and goings of his fingers are hasty and impulsive, you then start to lose all reason while shouting his name. He puts his hand against your mouth to muffle your cries. You love the way he touches you, especially the little sucking sounds he makes every time he goes inside you. You're in love with the way he makes love to you with his fingers, you can't help but arch your body under the shaking he gives you. His fingers work between your wet walls, you feel this heat that envelops your interior and makes you understand that he is the only one in the world to make you beg. His movements are now precise and violent, you feel yourself being pounded by two of his fingers, while his thumb continues to move over your clit in infinite slowness. He is much more gentle and tender with your flesh button, well aware that the sensitivity is such that you can't take any abuse from him. You feel the wave of pleasure begin to surge from your hairline to your toes. You feel it distinctly hit you like a first and true orgasm. Your muscles tense painfully and the contractions in your lower abdomen are now rushing, launching you into the best orgasm of your life. You can be surprised by your friends at any time. This only amplifies your pleasure to the point of explosion with one last press of Nolan's thumb on your flesh button and two of his fingers violently hitting your G-spot. He senses you're about to release, so he grabs your chin to force you to look into his eyes as the orgasm runs through your body. Your eyes never leave each other, you feel yourself absorbed in the ocean blue of his pupils dilated with excitement, while yours widen under the waves that ride your body. Nolan Sorrento has eclipsed all your previous orgasms in a snap, as if they never counted. You stagger and sweat on top of him, wondering what it's going to be like outside the OASIS. You want his mouth, but he isn't ready to give it to you yet. You want a kiss from him, his tongue against yours, but he refuses to kiss you. You don't deserve it yet in his eyes. You have to prove yourself. You cling to his lips, desperately, waiting for his commands, ready to satisfy any of his needs. "Keep them from destroying everything I've put so much effort into building." Anger and bitterness mingle in the tone of her husky voice. Nolan Sorrento can't stand failure anymore. Unfortunately for you, that's not enough in his eyes. He wants more loyalty from you, not just secrets, but real action. You know what you have to do, there is no other way to achieve your dream.
"This is an illusion. We're not really here." And now you begin to confess to him the irredeemable. You tell her about Wade and the others' plan. You are falling for his beautiful ocean blue eyes, his sly smile, his warm voice, his musky, vanilla smell, his irresistible accent. Nolan Sorrento is your cryptonite. "We're still in the Oasis."
Sorrento is as studded by your bravery as he is by your loyalty. Your words are full of impact and fragility.
"You are in my flux..."
You answer with a timid nod. He immediately feels a wave of anger come over him, coupled with an urge to smash everything and slaughter those damn kids. They dared to hack his connection to the OASIS. How could he let himself be trapped so easily? Sorrento remains silent for a few minutes before emerging again. Calm, Olympian, dignified. "Thank you."
"I...Mr. Sorrento."
"No." He starts to cut you off with a wave of his hand. He sweeps his gaze around the room, his eyes empty of emotion. "Shut up. Not now. Not here."
"I'm sorry." "We can't go on, (Y/N)." You feel like your heart is breaking into a million pieces. Nolan's words sound like they are tearing you apart. You sense the tears welling up in the corners of your eyes. It's strange to react like this, to feel like you've been left behind when you haven't accomplished anything yet. "I hate this fucking place," he finally says. You can feel the disgust for all of Hallyday and Morrow's work in the depths of his voice. "There's nothing better than reality for a first time."
a song for a mockingbird (director orson krennic x reader) ▴ part ii.
fanfiction (7 parts) – A STAR WARS FANFICTION
pairing : dir. orson krennic x reader (fem!reader)
summary. Director Orson Krennic is in love with you. Yes, he is madly in love for the first time in his life, with a person and not with a project. You have quickly become his most consuming obsession. You haunt his days and nights. His body is a burning inferno at the mere mention of your name. Your frightening name. You are a Tarkin. And not just any Tarkin, you are the daughter of Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin.
This story contains some digressions from the storyline of the Star Wars universe. In the original works and legends, Wilhuff and Thalassa had only one child, a boy, but in this story, they had two, including a girl: you.
A fiction inspired by the seven deadly sins. It will have one chapter per sin, so 7 chapters.
rating. mature
warning. lemon, smut, masturbation, oral sex.
NB. Thank you for your comments and likes! I'm glad you enjoyed the first chapter. I'm working hard to make sure the next ones live up to your expectations. I hope you enjoy this second chapter... :D
It's a little longer than expected, sorry.
Well. I am currently thinking about how to end this fanfiction.
There will certainly be a happy ending (I love them too much not to let it be otherwise!) but ... for whom? For (Y/N) or for Krennic?
For Krennic, the happy ending of his dreams is not necessarily the one for (Y/N). He hates Tarkin more than anything, so his goal is to get him out of his way permanently. Hm...
As for (Y/N)... She is torn between the love of her father and the love of a man. Her happy ending cannot be expected without her father's blessing and respect, cruel as he may be. Tarkin, however, will never give Krennic his blessing. One of them will get his own happy ending, even if it means the worst ending for the other.
I look forward to your suggestions! (a)
Thank you for reading! :D
CHAPTER 2.
GREED. It is the fact of depriving oneself of everything in return for nothing. It means the accumulation of wealth and it is sought only for its own sake. It is a state of mind that consists in not wanting to be separated from it.
-------------------------------
“When the days are cold and the cards all fold,
and the saints we see are all made of gold.
When your dreams all fail,
and the ones we hail…
are the worst of all.
I wanna hide the truth, I wanna shelter you.
But with the beast inside,
there's nowhere we can hide.
No matter what we breed,
we still are made of greed.
This is my kingdom come, when you feel my heat,
look into my eyes, it's where my demons hide.
Don't get too close, it's dark inside.
At the curtain's call, it's the last of all,
when the lights fade out, all the sinners crawl.
So they dug your grave, and the masquerade,
will come calling out at the mess you've made.
Don't wanna let you down,
but I am hell-bound,
though this is all for you.
Your eyes, they shine so bright,
I wanna save that light.
I can't escape this now,
unless you show me how.”
‘Demons’ – Imagine Dragons
----------------------------
ORSON KRENNIC'S APARTMENT, RESIDENTIAL TOWER 500 REPUBLICA - CORUSCANT CITY •• YEAR -1 BBY (BEFORE BATTLE OF YAVIN)
The mockingbird that you are escaped him. Once again. He looked for you in the huge ballroom, but you apparently went back to your apartment and pretended to have a bad headache. Your father, the Grand Moff, believed you without any hesitation. It actually suits his purposes that you are not in the area. He has caught Director Krennic's special interest in you, and he is not at all pleased. You found each other, but you both avoided your responsibilities. You were close to committing an irreparable act that could seal your fate forever. You decided to run away, you were afraid of complications. You were afraid of drowning in the blue of his eyes, and you were right to take your chances. You turned away from his advances, but he lost himself in those of other women during that evening. Overwhelmed by his urges and frustrations, Orson Krennic found no other option but to return to his customary indiscretions. He went out of his way to forget your voice, your flowery perfume in the laughter of other young women more accommodating and friendly. Orson Krennic despises the easy way out, but this time she became his mistress for the night. Everyone saw him leave the party with a woman. You must have heard about it, your father did not hide to show, once again, the depth of his disgust for Orson Krennic's bunny-hot tendencies. He wanted to discredit him in your eyes, and it almost worked. A frivolous, annoying woman clearly made for him, according to his own words.
This woman is young, much too young for him, but after all, whether one has money and social status, does it really matter? Orson Krennic is also not sure he remembers his first name. It starts with an M and probably ends with an A or an E. He didn't really listen when they were introduced, because all he's looking for is not yet the woman of his life, but simply the one who will spend the night in his bed. This girl is beautiful, sophisticated and extraordinarily foxy. She wears an elegant outfit that perfectly molds her curves, certainly with the idea of triggering a wave of excitement in her path. Without further delay, Orson Krennic takes her to his quarters in one of Coruscant City's most beautiful residential towers.
“Come here,” he commands, leaning his hand back to slowly bring his long, leather-gloved fingers inside. With this one gesture, Orson Krennic motions the sumptuous creature to approach him. He is giving her an order. It is not even a suggestion, it is an order. She obeys, because she thinks she can get much more from him. Orson Krennic has a particularly sultry reputation in the Empire. A ladies' man. This reputation has preceded him since his early years as an engineering student on Brentaal IV.
Before she's even a few feet from the leather couch Director Krennic has slumped into, she gets a new request. “Be a good girl and get us something to drink.” He then indicates with a simple nod a luxurious cabinet in a corner of the small living room.
“You have a weakness for strong spirits, is that right, Director?” she says as she grabs two crystal glasses elegantly carved with geometric shapes. She then grabs a bottle that looks like a particularly aged whiskey, and spills some into each of the glasses. She remains contemplative for a few moments, apparently captivated by the amber color of the liquid.
“That is enough. Come over here, now.” Krennic stares at her for a long moment before snickering nervously. Of course, strong liquors are usually the most expensive. Owning a whole cabinet of them is a visible sign of social and wealthy success. So, of course, Orson Krennic likes hard liquor. He likes everything that is close to a rare and expensive thing. It is a way for him to break with his middle-class origins. Today, Krennic is no longer that poor boy deprived of all that life can offer to those in power. He is now making up for years of suffering. “Your name is... Meera, isn't it?”
Meera's cheeks flush as she imagines she is getting special treatment from Krennic. She nods softly as she hands him his drink, not without taking the opportunity to stroke his long fingers as her hand goes by. She thinks she is quite unique in the eyes of Orson Krennic, because he seems to know her first name. Orson Krennic does not care about her first name. It is only to make him look good that he gives her this little pleasure. Tomorrow, Krennic will probably have forgotten his first name, if not his face.
“Yes, my Director...” whispers the sparkling Meera as she breaks the last few inches that separate their bodies. “May I call you... in a more familiar way?”
Krennic moves his head negatively in response to Meera's request. He remains frozen at the thought of another woman other than you screaming his first name at the moment of her orgasm.
“That will be Director Krennic for you,” he replies with a raised eyebrow, the tone of his voice betraying his impatience. “Meera. It is a common name.” he criticizes by slamming his tongue against his palate in a disapproving sign.
A criticism undoubtedly inappropriate that a woman worthy of this name cannot approve. He seems relatively annoyed that his young conquest for the night is not up to your standing. Meera, however, is not known for her dignity or her manners. She is a gold digger, a beautiful woman, an upstart who hopes to marry a man in the upper echelons of the Empire. Orson Krennic has no regard for those women who sell their charms to the highest bidder at society parties. Women like this one, Krennic has met dozens of them in his long career.
“I can be any woman you want me to be tonight. I can be any name you want tonight. I am all yours, Director Krennic.”
He remains silent for a few seconds, analyzing his nightly partner's words without feeling any particular attraction to her. Orson Krennic does not care about this woman at all. The only reason he brought her back to his private quarters was to be consumed by another woman than the one who haunts all his thoughts. A thought crossed his tortured mind almost instantly. He wants to call her by your first name, to bring the fantasy closer to reality by pretending that you are there with him. But he stops himself from cracking at this furious urge to draw a parallel between you and this harlot.
“I expect no less from you...” he retorts condescendingly. Orson Krennic does not doubt it one moment. He rules in his private apartments, no one can refuse him any favor. It is already a great honor for Meera to be in this sacred place. “Show me that you are a good girl.” He ends his glass in one shot.
Meera approaches him gently, she finally throws herself on his mouth and kisses him in surprise for a few seconds. Then, she comes to put a light kiss at the corner of his lips, before starting to go down to the lower abdomen of his partner. She begins to unbutton this extraordinarily well inflated crotch trapped in his uniform pants. Krennic remains surprisingly stoic, although the patience is clearly not one of its qualities. She doesn't let him say anything anyway, the buckle of his pants is already on the ground, and her teeth are imprisoning the fabric of his underwear. She goes down gradually and slowly, until the erection of the officer is finally in the free air. Meera’s hands are lost against his small buttocks, that she presses with firmness, while sliding her tongue along the blood swollen sex by the desire of Orson Krennic. It is only after tortuous minutes that she takes it in full mouth. Her lips are luscious, made to satisfy the most demanding imperial officers in all of Coruscant City. Krennic can't hold back a sexist comment as he discovers how easily this woman surrenders to the first rich man she meets.
His mutinous tongue explores every inch of her skin, enjoying the warmth that radiates from her bulging, purplish veins. Meera relishes every bit of this fleshly embrace, at the very second when her mouth is implacably embraced in his intimacy. The young woman appreciates to feel the Director Krennic in full erection, ready to explode his pleasure in her. This sadly gives her a sense of gratefulness that turns out to be twisted in the mind and heart of Orson Krennic. When he sees her take his manhood in her mouth, the only thing that is occupying his thoughts is not Meera, but you. He thinks of you intensely, while she works to give him unforgettable sensations. Meera's fingers press almost nervously against the imperial officer's buttocks, through the thick fabric of his black uniform pants; a color that contrasts strongly with the immaculate whiteness of his jacket and cape. He keeps her forehead against his pelvis, accentuating her lingual movements with simple hip movements. His hands go through the golden hair of Meera, they embrace her wicks with possessiveness, while she leads him in a state close to the ecstasy. Krennic decides to drive her in and out against his powerful verge with one hand on the back of his head. Grunts and sighs of contentment escape Director Krennic's thin lips. She is obviously good at things sexual, in fact she is extremely good. He enjoys feeling the caresses of her tongue on his sensitive spots, as she ventures onto his scarlet foreskin. He feels on the verge of orgasm, his whole body begging to be delivered. He feels the muscles of his penis to contract little by little, his bluish and purplish veins having even doubled in volume. His brain is in full collapse, as Meera's tongue wraps around his sex, giving him multiple spasms that make his ability to think that much tougher.
“Stop it.” he says without giving her a look. “I'm turned on enough.” He grabs her slender wrist in an effort to extract her mouth from his manhood. It is ready to explode, and it is not how he wishes to finish his evening. Meera puts her beautiful green emerald eyes in the ocean blue of those of the imperial. She quickly realizes that they are about to get fucked.
She is naked and offered, she is under his every whim. He can do whatever he wants with her. Holy God. How good it is. This is exactly how Orson Krennic likes easy sex. No complications, no commitments, just a powerful encounter between two bodies in need of release. Orson Krennic does not bother with conveniences to carry out his small business. He does not even care to undress. No. He remains dressed and only the zipper of his uniform pants is opened to allow this flesh union. He slams his partner with an unsuspected vigor against one of the walls of his living room, the apple-shaped breasts of the young woman collide with the coldness of his bay window. Its nipples harden almost instantaneously under the blow. He grips then this slender size of a hand and the wall of the other, before plunging his virility in this offered intimacy. He fucks this woman, vulgarly speaking. His comings and goings are almost compulsive, deep and fast. He pounds his partner hoping to be able to drown his spirit in this unbridled part of fucks in the air.
He wants more than anything to drown in this woman, until he is unable to think straight or remember your face, your moans or your sweet smell. Krennic hides his torpor, this is not the time to admit his troubles. He thinks he can solve his issues in the same old fashioned way, then with women and drunken parties. But he doesn't know that turning a blind eye to his struggles is the only way to plunge further into madness and denial.
From time to time, he scratches the naked body of the beautiful Meera. He leaves marks, his marks, on some parts of her body. That excites it strongly to mark what it states to belong to him of full right. The signs of his scratches, of his bites, of his sucking, of his kisses are everywhere on her perfect body. Krennic maintains his thighs firmly on both sides of his body, his hands slip sometimes, but he quickly reasserts his catch before her legs fall on the ground. He finally takes off his hand of the wall to catch the beautiful and long blond hair of his partner in the palm of his hand. He applies a sharp pressure, allowing to bring back the head of the young woman behind, then against his neck. He is not a lover illustrating himself by his softness or his patience, no, Orson Krennic is an impetuous and violent lover. He is devoured by his impulses and by this passion which betrays his impatience. He is certainly not when his mind is like now: a time bomb. His thoughts are too scattered, Krennic is powerless to control the waves of regretful emotions that flow into his brain. In his worst moments, the Empire's star architect breaks down to his primal and bestial needs. The woman he takes with so little thoughtfulness is only one of the many symptoms of his emotional distress. She expresses a deep discomfort that he is incapable of identifying without losing his professional ethics.
Meera sweats and breathes of pleasure by feeling the blood flowing towards her intimate parts. He holds her generous breasts with one hand, to bring her pelvis even deeper against his. Her face boils under the sharp assaults of her torturer, while he starts to drive her body until the orgasm. When he finally breaks, Meera is unable to contain her desperately erotic cries. Her body is traversed by vibrations and ecstatic shivers. She shakes unreasonably against his pelvis, she even begs that he never stops. She implores him to continue to violate her until the end of her orgasm. That brutally finishes the last forces of the Director Krennic. He cannot also contain more his orgasm, releasing himself in a fast but not less powerful throw. Krennic then releases his grip, noticing that his nails have sunk deep into the young woman's white flesh. Thin streaks of red blood dotted Meera's bouncing buttocks, as well as her lower back and inner thighs. She is drenched in both her own pleasure and in her partner's desire. Both of them are still wrapped in the vertigo of their enjoyment. In thanks for their wild and passionate lovemaking, Krennic takes the opportunity to place a kiss on her shoulder, before moving away from her. Orson Krennic takes no pleasure in the violence of this flesh-and-blood relationship. It is not as pleasant as it could have been in your arms.
"All the pleasure was for me, Director Krennic." she breathes warmly, undoubtedly she hopes to rise to the top of the power to the arms of a man as powerful as Orson Krennic.
The pleasure was all hers. But which pleasure? An emotionless, expeditious and unbelievably violent act. That's all this woman has inspired in the director of the Empire's advanced weapons bureau. He answered the young woman's compliment with a slight amused laugh betraying a slight embarrassment. Far from being satisfied, Krennic was actually bored to death in her arms. She was just another damsel, beautiful on the outside, but as rotten as an overripe fruit on the inside. There was no pleasure from her, none, because this woman is not you. You are the only one Orson Krennic desires, at this very moment, when he has just made wild love to a real beauty. She is not you. Do you realize how much he's dying for her to be you? Deep down, this Meera is just a way for him to consume himself in the brutality of a highly alcoholic sexual encounter in order to put you out of his mind. He must get you out of every part of his mind at all costs, you're causing him a lot of trouble. You're a distraction, you interfere with his work, you interfere with his professional relationships, you interfere with his ongoing successful career. Yet he can't stop thinking about the last few hours he spent with you at the annual imperial ball. He came so close to owning you, like one of the many acquisitions that decorate his rich apartment in Coruscent City. He came so close to capturing the impossible, something that all well-born men aspire to possess at some point. The mockingbird that you are has escaped him, and Orson Krennic still can't get over it.
After what seems like an endless silence, Orson Krennic's voice finally echoes in the huge living room, it is mechanical and icy. “You are free to leave now.” And this is how he dismissed, certainly not in the sweetest of ways, the beautiful Meera. Faithful to himself, Orson Krennic remained in retreat by buckling the belt of his precious uniform. He even took the opportunity to dust off the sides of his jacket, in a surprisingly maniacal gesture. He likes to be impeccable in all circumstances, including after sexual things. “I don’t need you anymore.”
This burst of monotony which escapes from the tone of his voice does not leave the young woman indifferent. Meera is offended, but she does not show any apparent sign so as not to annoy Director Krennic with her states of mind. She sees very well that he is not the kind of man to comfort a damsel in distress. He doesn't care about others, about women, all he cares about is himself. Meera is aware that this is strictly forbidden to her. She knows exactly what to expect from a man like Orson Krennic. His reputation is known throughout Coruscant City, he's not a man who gets emotionally involved, he's not a man who falls in love at first sight, he's not a man who would give up his heart to another human being. Orson Krennic loves only one thing in life: his perfect career. Orson Krennic is only obsessed with the Death Star, the project of a lifetime. How can you stand next to such a high-tech marvel? Women are only trophies on his arms, delights that soothe his frustrations and lighten what remains of his ethical conscience. No. Orson Krennic does not fall in love with a woman, it is the women who fall in love with him. Never. That has always been the case since he was a teenager. But you... You... You came into his life, like a thunderbolt, and turned all his beliefs upside down. He suffers from not being able to express his feelings, love is nothing but a weakness. You are a nightmare disguised as a beautiful dream in his eyes.
In a way, Orson Krennic is relieved that he didn't take the next step with you. You're a huge risk he's not yet willing to take to satisfy his sexual needs. He often thinks about the consequences that an affair with you could have on his professional life. He considers the idea of consummating the affair, right under the nose of his long-time rival, Wilhuff Tarkin. You are the only weapon that can destroy him. You can ravage his entire life, destroy his advancement in the Empire's hierarchy, shatter his entire plan and take away his ultimate, lifelong project, his precious Death Star. If Wilhuff Tarkin ever decides to destroy his entire life and everything he holds precious, Orson Krennic can certainly never be able to recover. Are you ready to carry this burden on your shoulders? Krennic himself isn't sure he's willing to risk all that for... Why, after all? For one hot night in the gardens of the Imperial Palace? So it's just sex? No. No, and that's what's been devouring his soul little by little for a year. It destroys him because it's not just about sex. He can have all the women he wants with a snap of his fingers. What's consuming him are the feelings he has for you that he's keeping bottled up inside.
“It's a blessing in disguise,” he murmurs to himself, as he stands in front of one of the impressive bay windows of his apartment. He holds his glass of strong alcohol and raises it a few times to his lips. He savors the intensity of the ingredients that have macerated for a long time to make this alcohol so exceptional. Exceptionally expensive, unaffordable for the average person, but not for Director Krennic. Director Krennic can afford anything. He can have it all. Absolutely anything. Lots of things that are of no use to him, but which satisfy an urgent and impulsive need. He can buy a lot of things, except what really matters in his cold heart. Your love is something he unfortunately cannot afford. It's a blessing in disguise, he repeats to himself, hoping to convince himself that he made the right decision. It's the wisest decision he's made in his life. But then why does it leave a sadly bitter taste in his mouth? Krennic finishes his glass in one go, before putting it back on the piece of furniture on his right, with a loud noise. He then ties his hands behind his back and observes the panorama that his apartment offers him of the hyper-center of Coruscant City. He's had an apartment in the prestigious '500 Republica' residential tower for a few years. To think that you have been only a few floors away from each other for so many years... This revelation grips his heart painfully, Orson feels helpless. He is deeply troubled by what seems like a puzzling reaction for a man like him, who strives to maintain a safe distance between his emotions and others. Emotions and feelings are only barriers to his rise to the upper reaches of power. You have no place in his thoughts, and even less in his heart.
Orson Krennic stands in front of his bay window for a good twenty minutes, losing himself in his own reflections before returning to what matters most in his life. His work. He decides to put away his bottle of alcohol for the evening, and to go back to work on his last drawings. The days will necessarily go by faster if he keeps busy, that's what everyone always says. So the days go by, one, then two, then finally seven. Seven days. Yet nothing has moved an eyelash in the tormented thoughts of our renowned architect. Seven fucking days. He kept thinking about you, wondering why you abandoned him before the evening was over. He tried to ignore you for the first three days, but the temptation was too strong for him, so he sent you a message via your datapad. You didn't bother to reply to his message, nor to the second and even less to the third one that followed. Do you realize that Orson Krennic is not so easily ignored? No one in the world would ever behave that way to him. No one who values life as the apple of his eye, anyway.
It's particularly late today when Orson Krennic walks through the door of his apartment after a tiring day. He is inclined to check his messages on his own datapad, or even his comlink, naively hoping that you have left him a holographic recording. Krennic quickly brushes this possibility out of his mind; he feels he knows you well enough by now to say that you don't mess around with messages either. You've made your intentions clear to him over the past seven days. You don't want to hear about him again, especially not about what almost happened between you. What Orson Krennic doesn't know is that you think about him as much as he thinks about you. You're just trying to fight the urge to return his messages. You desperately want to see him and touch him in the flesh. You find yourself bound hand and foot in a dysfunctional, highly toxic, obsessive relationship.
Orson Krennic's azure eyes are lost in the vastness of the starry sky, from which some imperial ships are still speeding by, despite the late hour of the night. His eyes are almost empty of all emotion, cold and calculating. He scans the comings and goings of these ships aimlessly. He probably expects to find the courage not to blame himself for having taken such a dramatic choice. A move that necessarily takes him away from you, but which is important under the circumstances.
After all, you haven't heard from him for seven long days. Do you realize how frustrated you are making him feel? In that case, if the decision is made and all is well in the best of worlds... Why this dramatic look?
▲▼ ------------------- TARKIN ROYAL SUITE, 500 REPUBLICA RESIDENTIAL TOWER – CORUSCANT CITY -----------------------
ONE WEEK AFTER THE IMPERIAL BALL.
It can be said that the apartments of the imperial couple aspires to a degree of sobriety, despite the richness and variety of the furniture and ornaments. The rooms of the royal suite are spacious, painted with neutral colors, such as beige or various shades of chocolate. A touch of crimson red on the curtains brings a touch of nobleness to the interior decoration. The furniture is made of varnished solid wood and carved by the best artists in the planet. The draperies, curtains and sheets are mostly hand woven in noble and satin materials, like wild silk or a beautiful shiny satin. As for the trinkets, they are mainly related to the origins of the Tarkin family. They are relics of the culture of their people, there are statues, vases, mirrors, unique decorative objects and even lamps with floral prints. The paintings that beautifully decorate some of the walls portray scenes of epic galactic battles and ancient cultural legends. All are unique and expansive pieces, though there is a noticeable lack of showiness.
One work stands out from all the others, however, a gigantic painting of the Tarkin family, sitting above an artificial fireplace in the main living room. Thalassa, Wilhuff, the now deceased Garoche and... you are shown with your best smiles. All four of you stand with dignity, all looking like respectable people. Faithful and loyal servants of the Empire. What a joke. It just looks like a charade to you, you have never really been as close as in this painting on the wall. It portrays something unrealistic in your eyes, it shows a united, conventional and loving family. You criticize the painting for giving the illusion of a family unity that has long since broken down. You complain that the loving family depicted in the picture is only a reflection of pretenses and one-sided love. Wilhuff has no love for your mother, even though the painting shows them apparently devoted to each other. He prefers to burden himself with a romantic relationship with a young female officer in the Imperial Navy. The only thing that is true about this painting is the love that Wilhuff and Thalassa have for their son Garoche. Sadly gone, they have since felt a huge emptiness in their hearts. A hole that you are struggling to fill, despite all your best efforts. You are now the hope of your parents, the one who will make them proud and less miserable for having lost Garoche. You are like the last wheel of the carriage, you fix the broken pots, you are their emergency door. You carry an immeasurable weight on your frail shoulders, so failure is obviously not an option.
The Tarkins' apartment is royal in name only. It is sober and elegant, far from being like Director Orson Krennic's. Despite the wild rumors circulating in the tea rooms of Coruscant City, the Tarkin family is a modestly illustrious family. None of its members need to show off their power in such an ostentatious manner. None of them really have anything to prove to those around them. They all bow to the superiority of the Tarkin family. The mere mention of this illustrious family name sends electric shocks and cold sweat down the spines of their rivals. Yours also calls for great respect and pride. (Y/N) Tarkin or Lady Tarkin. You are the jewel of the Tarkin family. Your father's hopes were pinned on you after the tragic death of your beloved brother, Garoche. You're staying in one of the best suites in the 500 Republica residential tower, located on the upper floors. It's been a few years since Grand Moff Tarkin and his close family moved into Coruscant City. You experience the hustle and excitement of a bustling, working hypercenter on a daily basis. You love the bustling nature of Coruscant City, a change from the peaceful countryside you were raised in on the planet Phelarion. You often long to fly away from your parents, to have your own adventures and pursue your wildest dreams.
They love you, of course, but sometimes you still have doubts about the power of their feelings for you. You never communicate the true depth of your feelings within the Tarkin family. You understand each other, but you don't love each other like a traditional family. Your egos always override your emotions, leaving a gaping hole in your hearts. You are now used to this coldness, it doesn't traumatize you as much as it did during your childhood. You love each other, but you are not allowed to say it. Like a taboo or a dirty little secret, you must remain dignified in all circumstances, and especially discreet about your own feelings. You've always lived in the dark, it doesn't even shock you now. This is how the Tarkins are made, with white marble and the coldest snow. It's hard, very hard, to grow up with so few love and warmth. This icy education, typical of the great aristocratic families, is nevertheless the only thing you know. It is your only reference and your model for a fulfilling family life.
You have pleaded for months to have your own apartments, somewhere in the huge residential tower of Coruscant City, or in another of its prestigious mansions. However, this was not without counting on the possessiveness of Thalassa Tarkin, your mother, who is also known for her intransigence. She has always insisted to your father to keep your request a distant fantasy. Yet you want more than anything else to finally stand on your own two feet, to live your life far from your parents' recommendations. The life of a Tarkin is far from being a pleasant one. It is full of challenges, morals, social behavior, prohibitions and taboos. It does not leave any space for the blossoming of a flower as passionate as you are. It does not give you the opportunity to choose the man of your life. Wilhuff Tarkin has always been particularly harsh on this issue. You are a Tarkin, and in so doing, you are a sort of extension of his own person and reputation. You are the glory and achievement of Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin. You cannot disappoint him in any way, let alone fall in love with a man of lower status than yourself. A man like Orson Krennic is not an option in your venerable father's eyes. Not only is Orson Krennic an imperial officer who was not born into the aristocracy, he is also Wilhuff Tarkin's sworn enemy. Are you willing to bring dishonor to the Tarkin name, and especially to the Grand Moff himself, for such a frivolous man? He has a reputation for sleeping with all the hotties in the Empire, for getting the stares and flirty winks in his wake. You don't know if he is worthy of your attention, if this isn't just a way for him to get to your father. You are certainly only a sordid weapon in the eyes of the powerful architect. You're just a puppet in his expert hands, gloved in beautiful black leather. That's why you refuse to fall in love with him. You will never give your heart to a man as pushy and seductive as Orson Krennic. Not in a lifetime. Not even in a million years.
So why do you have that sad smile on your face when you see your latest messages on your datapad? You find yourself lying on the huge canopy bed that you use as your haven, while your parents are out. Wilhuff and Thalassa Tarkin have gone to a private party with the Emperor and other supportive couples. They offered to let you join their festivities, which you kindly declined, saying you needed to rest. In reality, you're just scared of Emperor Sheev Palpatine. You hate all the socializing and endless dinners with him. Yet he is a close friend of your father's, and the two of them have served in the same places and risen together in Coruscant City politics.
Wilhuff Tarkin is even one of the few people Emperor Palpatine trusts. He has blindly followed the dogmas of the Imperial regime since its establishment, without discussing or criticizing the Emperor's orders. Your father likes to praise his own achievements, as a true visionary and tactician. He climbed the political and military ladder on his home planet of Eriadu, and then surrounded himself with important connections in Palpatine's inner circle as a senator, as well as in the business world. Wilhuff Tarkin is a man of rare cruelty who leaves no opportunity for human error. You even fear him at times, despite the filial bonds that unite you for better or for worse. You struggle to understand his complex psychology, so struck by his coldness and his high standards. You didn't really know him as a child, it was mainly the governesses working for your mother who took care of your education, although your mother occasionally cared for you. You grew up within the cold walls of the family manor on Phelarion, your mother's planet. Wilhuff, your venerable father, spent most of his time serving the Emperor's purposes, first as Moff of the Seswenna sector and then as Grand Moff, all the while working to make your brother the Navy's greatest asset, before his tragic death less than a year after the advent of the Galactic Empire in 19BC. For you, Wilhuff Tarkin remains a distant relative. The coldness of your relationship is the perfect example of the lovelessness you suffered during your childhood. You are far from resentful of him, you are desperate for your father's love. You think that one day you will exchange the same tender look that a father and daughter in a traditional family do. It's nice to dream, isn't it?
Lying on your bed, you are dressed in a silk nightie, paired with a long robe made of the same material. The color is a beautiful crimson red, like that used on the imperial banners on the walls of the Imperial Palace and the tapestries in your parents' apartment in Coruscant City. A blood red, evoking the consuming fire of passion and abandonment. A color that is more like you than you can imagine yet. You don't even realize that the flames of passion are desperately burning inside you at the mere mention of a man. An imperial officer whom your father despises to the depths of his soul.
You scan the latest news on the datapad given to you by your father. A sad smile graces your pink lips, exactly the same as the one you had when you discovered his first message. The first of a very long list. With your fingertips, you continue to scroll through the messages in your inbox, unable to convince the most rational part of you. You get lost again and again in his last lines, which ask for a response from you. Orson Krennic is courteous in each of his messages, calling for a meeting somewhere in Coruscant City. In one of them, he even offers to take you on a tour of one of his research stations. You can't help but get a chuckle on your lips as you think about joining Krennic at his place of work. You understand that behind this proposal, there are some disguised words of apology. He is certainly annoyed with himself for having lost his temper last time, and this is a way for him to show you his daily life. He wants to share things with you, but does he do it especially for you? You want to believe, even for a moment, that these proposals are special and that he is not making them for any other woman but you.
You spend long minutes re-reading his words without ever getting tired of them. As you are about to close your datapad before falling asleep, a notification suddenly attracts your attention. A message from Director Krennic has just appeared before your astonished eyes. Is it fate or a combination of fortuitous circumstances?
“Lady Tarkin. I regret that I did not meet you at the Emperor's private reception this evening. Your father reported to me that you were unwell. I can understand many things, Lady Tarkin, though they are unpleasant for me to read. Please take care of yourself. Respectfully, Director Orson Krennic.”
His message pierces your soul from both sides, it is no longer acceptable to leave such an upsetting message unanswered by you. You decide to give in to the temptation to play a seductive epistolary game with him. What harm can there be in answering a simple note?
“Director Krennic. You ask me to call you by your first name, but you continue referring to me by my title? Be careful not to choke on your ambitions. I've had my mind on things this evening. Cordial greetings, (Y/N) Tarkin.”
His reply was not long in coming. A few minutes later, a new notification catches your eyes still awake.
“Lady Tarkin. I am truly disappointed to read this. We were particularly surprised not to find you there. If I am the reason for your discomfort, you should know that I only made a brief appearance. My respects, Director Orson Krennic.”
As your conversations progress, the words of courtesy are disappearing to give way to increasingly short and instantaneous messages. You communicate about everything and nothing, the weather, the geopolitical situation of the galaxy, Orson's work... Although he takes great care in venturing on this sensitive subject.
“You're still not sleeping.”
Your lips stretch into an amused smile, as you realize that he, too, can't get to sleep because of your intense conversation.
“How could I? You've been exhausting me for a good hour already.”
However, something disturbs you in the message you just wrote to him. You are regretting that you hit the send button so quickly.
“Am I holding you up that much? You do surprise me, (Y/N). I thought you had more endurance.”
You may be young, but you're far from stupid. You understand his insinuations better than anyone. Somehow this makes you blush intensely. You are particularly excited about the idea of 'flirting' with Director Krennic through computers. There is something dangerous and reassuring about your correspondence. You're not in front of each other, the messages are coming by the second, there's no risk in revealing parts of your intimate thoughts. There's no risk at all, right?
“We missed you tonight.” Wrong. He missed you tonight.
“I'm not avoiding you, if that's what you mean.”
“Why didn't you join us, then?”
“I'm not comfortable in his presence.”
By 'his presence' you imply, of course, the Emperor's. You are grateful for Director Krennic's thoughtfulness for not attacking you on this admission. After all, he must not feel particularly good in his company either. Emperor Sheev Palpatine is not a man who is easily made comfortable.
“Doesn't a Tarkin have to be at every social gathering?”
You can't help but smile as you read what he just sent you.
“What about you then?”
“These endless parties bore me. It is a considerable waste of time on my work. I am an extremely busy man, you know.”
“That's what my father tells me too.”
“What does he say?”
“I don't think you need to know.”
“So that's it?”
You narrow your eyes at his last message. He takes a few minutes of thought before elaborating on his point.
“You ran away because of him.”
“Because you think you know me?”
“Indeed, far better than you know yourself, Lady Tarkin.”
“What would have happened anyway?”
“Do you really want to know?”
Your fingers are impatient, tapping on the holographic keyboard of your datapad, seeking to feed your curiosity like a hungry woman. That's what you are, you are hungry and thirsty for him. You hesitate a few moments before sending your answer. You realize that your conversation has just crossed a more intimate stage. You're not sure how it's going to go.
“You already know.”
He's playing with you, what a creep. This game is extremely kinky and he expects you to beg him to tell you dirty things. But you want to, right? More than anything. You feel the desire rumbling in the hollow of your spine, as well as between the folds of your nightgown. You're not wearing any underwear, so you feel a moisture slowly covering your crotch. You feel a thicker and thicker aroma particle forming at the level of your intimacy.
“It’s a yes or a no? Please, elaborate on your point, Lady Tarkin.”
Your fingers are trembling on the holographic keyboard of your datapad, as the urge to answer him yes grows stronger and stronger in your mind. Curiosity and a taste for danger make these conversations even more exciting than they already are. You are hoping that it is impossible to hack into your personal conversations.
You put the datapad back on the pillow at your side, wanting to keep yourself from diving into a discussion that is too dangerous for both you and him. You take the opportunity to pour yourself a glass of wine, before returning to your private quarters with a crystal glass and a bottle. You think that this night will be very, very, very long and full of twists and turns. You're definitely going to need some alcohol.
“Have sweet dreams.”
You frown as you find a new notification after five minutes. He seems to be ending your conversation and you are suspecting that he thinks you are asleep.
“I can only make it about you.”
“Oh. I was sure you had finally fallen asleep,” he replies almost instantly. “What about your dreams?”
“Those are not things to ask a lady.”
“You're very bold to play these little games with me. You started this one, you must finish it. If it is only a lack of experience, I can easily fix it.”
“In what sense?"
"In any sense you wish.”
A flush of warmth then fills your entire body. You are burning with the desire to explore what he is capable of performing on you.
“Would you like a taste?”
“What you're implying is inappropriate, Director.”
For a few minutes, no messages are delivered to your inbox. You sigh desperately, thinking that he himself has dozed off, in the middle of your virtual interactions.
“You think your own behavior has the highest morality?”
He's offended, and you sense it, even if it's just a message. He's certainly pissed off, and rightfully so. You play with him since the beginning of the night, you are exchanging messages more and more suggestive. You let him dream a shape of intimacy in your company to better break all his hopes. Orson Krennic is a man who is not used to being told no, and even less to being frustrated with such impunity.
You firmly tighten your wine glass between your fingers, waiting feverishly for a message from him. You are still surprised at how quickly you have become addicted to your correspondence. You wonder what he is doing at this very moment, and if he is indeed alone at this late hour of the night. Maybe he is with someone, considering the time he seems to take to answer you. This idea provokes strange reactions in you. A destructive feeling takes possession of you, sweeping away all your reasonable thoughts like a blast. Don't pretend to ignore it. A hint of jealousy takes over your thoughts, plunging you even deeper into the confusion of your feelings. Jealousy is the worst of all plagues, it leads to letting the irrational take control of a mind as brilliant and wise as yours.
Then finally, there you see a new notification on your instant chat feed. You jump up on one of your silk ears, clutching your datapad like the apple of your eye. You scan the last few lines of your conversation with your trembling fingers. A new message. From him. His last message.
You take a sip of your drink to give yourself enough strength to read his words. What you see a few seconds later nearly makes you spit out the entire glass.
“I suppose you were less... reluctant in the midst of your father. You need him to confess your burning desire to me? In front of him perhaps? Would you find that arousing?”
By all the stars in the galaxy. He didn't say that. No, no, no. Don't tell me he went that far. You blink countless times as you reread his message. You can't believe what you're reading for the tenth time. The shock is so great that you suddenly close your software to disconnect. What an idiot, you think as you put your datapad under the nearest pillow. You put your glass back on the bedside table, exhausted, and lie down on the side of the canopy bed. Orson Krennic's words echo over and over in your head. You are angry, but do you even know why? He has spoken some truths, that's what makes you so angry. You can't help but be aroused by this funny game. And that's what's even more sordid. Finally, you are deeply shocked by his provocations, particularly by the fact that you are unable to fight him. You went to great lengths with him during the annual reception given by the Emperor. You even asked him to go further with you, you burned with desire for his uniform. Orson Krennic. Come on, you're dying for him to take you to the moon.
“Orson...”
A whisper leaves your mouth, and before you realize it, your hands have already found their way under the silk of your little scarlet nightie. You then think back to the moments shared together, during the famous Emperor's reception, seven days ago. Blinding flashes enslave your tired and excited mind, snatches of burning memories of unfulfilled desires. With your eyes closed, lying on your back between your beautiful sheets, you try to visualize the body and face of Director Krennic above you. You are intoxicated by his voice, his smell, his warm tongue in your ear, his fingers on the tip of your breasts, your belly button, then your intimacy soaked with your pleasure. Your hands are in fact his hands. You seek, trembling, the way towards the center of your pleasure. You know your body perfectly well, so it's no surprise to you to explore your intimate lips. They are wet with a translucent mixture, symbol of a repressed excitation. You exercise then a firm pressure on this spot of nerves, now hard and filled with blood. Any reflexion capacity is lost in the whirlwind of these dizzy sensations that your own intimate stimulation gets to you. Half-opened mouth, you are crossed by more and more ecstatic shivers. You feel a furious desire to be filled. You are dying for Orson Krennic to come and take possession of your lips and your body, but he is not there.
You hardly fight back a moan, before you begin to ravish your body with one finger, then two, and finally three. You are alternating caresses on the exposed flesh of your nerve button and that of your intimacy. The comings and goings of your fingers are hasty and impulsive, causing you to quickly lose all reason as you cry out his name. Orson. You picture your lovemaking, which you imagine to be passionate and rushed. You fantasize about him touching you and loving you with his fingers. You imagine that it matches yours perfectly. You suddenly arch your body under the jolts of your touch, as your fingers work their way between your wet walls. You feel soon an intense rise of heat to wrap your interior, you are more and more close to release. Your head is full of obscene pictures. Your movements are now more expeditious, while your thumb continues to work on your clitoris more frantically. You feel yourself getting closer and closer to orgasm, and you want it more and more as the seconds go by. Your clitoris is full of blood and ready to literally implode under your precise stimulation, you even feel embarked in these breathtaking sensations. You desire more than anything to ride your orgasm, you are so close and yet so far. While writhing against your sheets, your fluid-soaked fingers continue to caress your parts, until the pain becomes so unbearable that you must stop everything.
Your lips whisper the same name, then scream it over and over. Orson, Orson, Orson… You are about to cum with your own hands when someone starts pounding on your apartment door. You frown, annoyed that someone is interrupting you at the most crucial moment of the evening. You get up hastily and try to tie the belt of your gown around your nightie as best you can to hide the wetness of your body. As you walk through the door to the spacious living room, the sound of the door getting louder and louder. You grind your teeth while wondering what is the reason for this impatience. I'm coming, I'm coming, you protest inwardly.
By closing your hand on the handle of the door, you take a deep breath of air to encourage you to cross the step. You even take the opportunity to check your reflection in the mirror of the large living room, making sure that everything is in place.
“Dir... Director?” you babble as you open the door on Director Krennic. He is holding the corner of the wall with one hand, the other in the air with a closed fist, ready to pound on it for the third time. He stares at you with round eyes, obviously disturbed by your almost hypnotic appearance. Everything about you is perfect, right up to your slightly untidy night clothes and your messy locks.
This vision is so enchanting that it makes him momentarily lose the gift of speech. He feels his heart miss a beat, so much he is subjugated by your natural beauty. You are wearing only a simple nightie with an extremely thin robe, the fabric is so thin that Krennic is able to see the secrets of every detail of your female anatomy. He also spots on your skin a strange glow, what he assumes to be a fine sweat particle. He also notices that the strands of your hair mysteriously stick to your temples. Where is this sweat coming from? What have you been doing all this time? His thoughts even brush over the idea of you doing something inappropriate while thinking about him. Krennic feels his body tense up almost instantly at this realization. With a brief movement, he pulls one of the flaps of his heavy white cloak down to his thigh, to hide the size of his crotch.
“Orson.” he corrects as he stands in your doorway. He seems to cringe at the way you call him. His eyebrows are furrowed in displeasure. You don't know what he wants from you, this late at night, but you don't think even he has a clue. “Didn't we already take care of that issue?” You realize he is clearly referring to the intimate moments shared during the Emperor's Ball. No, you're not dreaming, he's attacking what's left of your moral principles.
“Director Krennic” you reply, proudly raising your little chin to him.
You refuse to let him tear your soul apart again. You won't give him the satisfaction of falling into his arms. Not this time. You're strong now. You know how to say no. You stick to your guns, he's not a man for you.
“Someone obviously forgot to memorize his protocol in front of an heiress of the great nobility of the Empire.” you point out arrogantly.
You take care to correct his disappointing manners by confronting him, once again, with the social differences that exist between you. Unfortunately, this does not bring you the expected reaction since he only laughs softly. Softly and warmly. His voice is husky, his accent is well marked, his laugh is mocking but sexy at the same time.
“Someone was less reluctant a few days ago...” he remarks with a soft chuckle. You see a slight smile appear on the corner of his delicately pink lips, which you dream of kissing. An amused and mocking smile at the same time. His signature smile. Oh, by all the stars in the galaxy. That smile... That smile will be your downfall. As for his gaze, his eyes shine with a familiar glint, you've already had the pleasure of meeting it at the imperial ball. A glint of envy and possession. Oh yes, Orson Krennic dreams of possessing you completely.
To make everything worse, you notice that your own body is about to betray you in the cruelest way. Your cheeks are turning red like it's not permissible. You feel a sudden contraction at the level of your lower abdomen by thinking again of what it happened at the imperial ball. Desire is already burning inside you, flowing through your veins and is also the cause of that wetness between your legs. You are already lost anyway, he is already aware of the effect his body has on you. Everything else, all these words, all these insinuations, are just sordid foreplay for Orson Krennic. He only takes a sick pleasure in testing your limits to better embrace you in his perversion.
“We have already agreed that this was an error of judgment on my part, Director. We had both abused on the pleasures of alcohol, we got entangled in a situation that does not intend to happen again.”
You sigh at the end of your tirade, proud that you were able to clarify things with him. It takes a lot of courage to hold back your own desires, but you've managed to pull off this miracle. Maybe he'll finally leave you alone. It's obviously a load of crap, but you made your choice not to disgrace your father's name.
Yes, yes, yes... What a bunch of lies. Orson Krennic looks at you with a small, satisfied smile at the corner of his lips. His eyes brighten almost naturally as he realizes the torment of your feelings.
“Have you finished?” he replies, raising an eyebrow in disapproval. He begins to stroke the fabric of his uniform at his hips, not far from his prized DT-29 heavy blaster. Even when not on duty, Orson Krennic keeps his signature weapon. He's chasing invisible dust, a way of showing his complete and utter disinterest in everything you've just told him. You even wonder if he really did listen to you, or if he just preferred to lose his attention on the line between your breasts.
You press another word from you forcefully as you lock your eyes in his, “Never.”
“Well, well, well. Very well in fact.” Bullshit, he wants to answer you. However, Orson Krennic remains strangely silent, like the calm before the storm. He doesn't even bother to take you back, it's useless, since he is well aware of your lies. “Do you know how much good your lovely speech makes me feel?”
You half-open your lips, ready to throw another moralizing speech at him, but you find yourself trapped in the intensity of his gaze. He puts a finger on your fleshy lips and draws the line of Cupid's bow very slowly to shut you up.
“Tell me, honey, how many hours did you practice in front of your mirror before you were able to come up with a glowing statement for me?” he says ironically. “It sounds almost...desperately attractive.”
Long minutes pass without either of you uttering a single word. You stare at each other for a long time, your eyes confronting the ocean blue of his, while thoughts far from innocent flow into your respective minds. In Orson Krennic's dreams, he sees himself grabbing your waist to pin you against the nearest wall, before kissing you with all the passion you deserve. In yours, you slowly pull down the thin strap that holds your silk garment, to reveal your aroused and completely naked body.
“What... are you doing here?” you finally ask after a short pause. You try to take a relatively casual tone, but your discomfort is clearly perceptible thanks to the slight tremble in the sound of your voice. You draw the last of your forces to throw his finger away from your mouth with a sharp movement.
“You weren't answering me anymore, my dear little Tarkin, so naturally I was worried about you,” he confesses, carefully observing every detail of your barely covered skin. His eyes even allow themselves to scan the curved shape of each of your nipples, which are pointing feverishly against the silk fabric of your nightie. It's impossible to miss those two slight spikes that are hiding an inner sexual tension you haven't been able to release yet.
“Well... I thank you for your caring. It's all right, I had just... dozed off during our conversation.”
You can't really see it, but your cheeks turn a lovely scarlet color to the point of matching your nightwear. Your lies are making you even more beautiful than you already are under normal circumstances.
“Drowsy, mh...” he repeats, falsely convinced. He doesn't believe for a second the bullshit that comes out of your mouth. Your lies even seem to amuse him more than anything else. “Of course you were...” And I'm going to be made Grand Moff instead of your father. He laughs in thought. He sniffs the air for a few seconds to check his suspicions. He can feel the heat of your desire, which makes him even more excited.
Orson Krennic places one hand against the edge of your apartment door, while the other one sits on one of his hips. This position makes you sigh inwardly, and then you are dying for him to grab you and take you in every sexual position possible. You want to rip the buttons off his perfect uniform, to wrap yourself completely naked in his immaculate cape, and to feel him come and go in you to the throbbing rhythm of the ocean waves. As you become aware of the outrageous nature of your thoughts, you feel yourself blushing even more than you already do. He notices almost immediately the change in color on the skin of your cheeks. A sly sneer begins to appear at the corner of his lips as he decides to build up the tension between you. It's palpable in the air, carrying you both away.
“Would you dare to doubt my good faith, Director Krennic?” you snort more coldly than you mean to.
Director Krennic doesn't seem to mind. He looks you up and down, a head taller than you, before taking a step towards you.
“It is true that a young woman of such good condition cannot lie to a respectable member of the high imperial administration. Shush. There is no need to answer me. I already know your inclinations in this matter.”
With a movement of his hand, Orson Krennic makes you understand that it is useless to try to dispute his words. So much authority and firmness at the same time make your blood run cold.
“It doesn't seem to me that I invited you in.”
Your eyes flash with anger, but he doesn't care.
“I take the right to do so,” he retorts, finally entering the living room, deliberately brushing against you as he goes. He then takes great care to examine the decoration of your parents' apartment with a critical sense. “Charming suite. I see that good old Tarkin is not as flashy as I thought. Sober and elegant. Everyday pleasant, comfortable, it lacks a bit of craziness though. Flat and empty of emotion. It sounds exactly like Wilhuff Tarkin.” You see him spinning around twice to get the full view, and this reaction infuriates you to no end. You hate the fact that he's here, spying on every detail of your private life, leering at the family trinkets or the color of the walls. He walks around your living room as well as his own. You can see him taking a few knick-knacks in his leather-gloved hands to analyze them from every angle. “The Grand Moff has an exquisite taste for works of art,” he says, looking like he's having the time of his life. Sometimes he comes to check the dust, letting his gloved finger rub the surface of the cabinet for a long time. You sigh at his dramatic and manic tendencies. Krennic delicately pulls out one of the works of art meticulously lined up on the cabinet and turns to you. A winning look on his face as he shows you his discovery. A small bronze statuette, covered with gold leaf here and there. “I prefer my own suite. I'll show it to you sometime. You'll love the masterpiece.” In other words... his own room. “You see, I personally designed and supervised the decoration of my private quarters.” Of course, as a renowned architect, things can't be otherwise.
“Good old Tarkin...” you repeat, stunned. You carelessly shake your head from right to left, before repeating your threats. “When my father sees you, here, he...”
“Is your father here, among us, at this very moment?” Krennic quickly puts an end to your sentence, he takes care to loosen each of his syllables to bring more emphasis to his words. He then pretends to look left and right with a dramatic air, obviously self-satisfied with his theatrical performance.
“No... He's out.” you whisper, looking down at the door left wide open behind you. “You know it perfectly well, since you met him tonight, and that's the only reason why you think you can get away with entering my private apartments!” You let yourself be overwhelmed by your impulses, Krennic goes further and further over the line. You cannot stifle a sigh of exasperation in reaction to his provocations.
“Your apartments.... They didn't look so private to me last time, my little Tarkin.” he scoffs, proud of his sexual allusions.
He wants more than just an angry tone or a rise in your voice at home, he wants to see you on fire for him. Director Krennic is such a jerk. You can't stand the sadistic game he plays with you anymore.
“That's enough! Put that back, now.” you snap, snatching one of your father's trinkets from his gloved hands. You then put the precious porcelain vase back on top of the commode, before flipping around in your fury. “You... You're out of place. Again. I've had enough of your ways!” You turn furiously in one quick motion that slightly twirls the strands of your hair back. The scent of your delicate perfume of flowers and spices suddenly fills the air, which does not escape Orson Krennic. He smells your perfume, mixed to your smell with a satisfied look on his face. He doesn't seem to pay attention to your little demonstrations of power. He knows perfectly well that only one word from him is enough for you to melt like snow in the sun under the heat of his voice. Then you put your hand on the door handle. “Leave my apartment, now. Now.” you order, your beautiful eyes plunged in his.
He puts a few seconds to understand this turnaround, obviously surprised by a reaction that he considers completely disproportionate, that said.
“You already dismissed me, Lady Tarkin? Ah, my poor heart bleeds, my dear!” Krennic gives the look of being offended, but it's just an act. He stands in the middle of the living room, one hand on his chest as if to illustrate his words. He doesn't intend to move one inch in the direction of the door. Not now, and certainly not after all that you've been exchanging on your respective datapads. An outrage deserves punishment, right? He then pauses dramatically, his ocean blue eyes shining with excitement and amusement. He seems to take great pleasure in playing with your nerves. “I was hoping for a voice answer from you.”
Krennic keeps up the provocations because he is well aware that they work perfectly on the little Tarkin that you are. You are aware that the cruelty of his words is matched only by the strength of his own sadistic amusement. A sneer appears at the corner of his thin lips as he decides to break the inches that separate you. This boldness has something to surprise you, but you let him approach you without pushing away his advances. It is useless to deny the strong sexual attraction which radiates from you.
“You can go back in your apartments... I... answer you as soon as possible...” you murmur weakly by feeling the weight of his body against yours. A tension settles gradually in your lower abdomen. You waits for the final cut to fall. You can imagine lustful scenarios in your head, projecting your most shameful fantasies. You wait for him to come and take you by the waist, the neck, the hair, who cares in the end, all you want is for him to take you. It's hot, terribly hot in this room. Like a burning hell.
You feel him approaching you slowly, his body soon immobilizes yours, his arms are a few inches away from your burning hips, his teasing lips curl up in a charming smile. He behaves like a hunter in front of an extremely rare bird, a mockingbird. He will continue to make you sing, and you will sing, but this time it will be for him and no one else.
“Do you... perhaps need a little help?” he whispers, tilting his head a few millimeters from yours. Your lips are nearly brushing shyly against each other in rhythm with your words. His breath is hot, it spreads ecstatic shivers along your neck, up to the hollow of your breasts which discover themselves as you go along. You do not immediately realize that one of your straps is slipping carelessly towards the edge of your shoulder. “Your robe is burning with eagerness...”
His eyes are gradually lowering to that half-bare chest. He admires the fleshy form of this nipple bursting with life, the rounded and generous curve of your breast, the arching of your chest. Your breast is now exposed to the open air, to all eyes, but especially to his. He does nothing, absolutely nothing, to cover you properly. Instead, he fantasizes about grabbing it in the palm of his hand to make you cry out for mercy.
“Do something about it instead of wallowing in indecency,” you reply in an accusatory tone. It's something he doesn't expect to hear from you, but it seems to amuse him.
“Do you really want to discuss morality with me?” he scolds. “Because in this game, you are losing badly, sweetheart. You claim great moral principles, a family heritage and an ideal of purity, you stand as the fervent defender of the nobility of heart and soul, but you have shown me that you are anything but a devout. Be careful not to choke on your sanctimonious sermons, my dear. So many lies coming out of such a pretty mouth are not without consequences”
You take on a deeply outraged facial expression, but that falsely ingenuous look doesn't work with him. Orson Krennic reads you like an open book. He is well aware that you are trying to play a game with him. You're lucky, he's in a playful mood on this promising evening.
“Look at you, you're half-offered to the first person who comes along,” he points out, pointing to his near-nakedness with a simple wave of his hand. “You want my help? Very well. I grant it to you. Beg me.” he says with a striking monotony. A shiver runs down your spine as you discover how far Orson Krennic can go. “Go ahead. No, no. Don't say a word. Pleasure is all mine. I know you'll thank me later.” You watch as his eyes darken as his pupils dilate with excitement. “I am waiting, dear Tarkin one.”
Krennic becomes more insistent, while moving his face very slowly so that his lips keep marrying yours, but not giving in to the temptation to plunge his tongue into your mouth. He only stirs up the desire between you, he wants to awaken the charnel urges that slumber in you. He wants to confront you with the intensity of your own desires by taking you back to the intimate time you shared during the Emperor's reception.
“Why would I beg you?” you gasp, confused for a few seconds. You don't understand his thinking. It's a damn warning, but you don't see it yet.
He brings his hand close to your half-uncovered chest, with a simple movement, Krennic pushes your nightie aside. He takes the opportunity to grasp in the palm of his glove that perfectly shaped apple that represents your breast.
“Director...” your whisper is lost in a first moan, when the sensation of his hand on your breast gives you delicious shivers. “...Krennic.”
“Beg me.” he orders.
Beg him, but for what? To stop everything or to continue his sweet torture? Your thoughts are racing, contradicting each other with each caress and the touch of the roughness of his leather glove against your fragile, warm skin. You want to tell him no, to dismiss his caresses, his body, all of him, but it's already a burning inferno between your thighs.
“Director, stop!” you implore before feeling a firmer pinch on your breast. You realize he's perfectly serious about asking you to beg him. He doesn't want to hear your protests or reproaches. “P... Please.” A grunt escapes your lips, weak and plaintive, it's somewhere between a whimper and a protest. It's not what he wants to hear from you.
“Beg again.” he repeats.
His grip closes relentlessly on your left nipple. He grabs the tip of your breast between his index finger and thumb, strongly, to make you tense with pain. You are amazed at what a simple pressure on the most sensitive part of your breast is doing to your body. When he presses further on your nipple, you gasp, not only with pain, but with pleasure. For a few seconds, he enjoys torturing your breasts with short, firm squeezes and then with circular strokes. He leaves you no break, your moans are like a melodious song to his ears. The tip of your breasts is already full of blood and ready to explode. Your nipples are as hard as marble, to the point of hurting. Krennic doesn't take gloves with you, he likes to see you all twisted up against his uniform, stripped of your precious dignity. He appreciates your ability to resist, but he knows it can't last much longer.
“I did it already!” you protest, closing your eyes, unable to bear his calculating gaze on you. He shows no mercy with your body, after all, it is still not enough in his eyes.
With the tip of his thumb, Orson Krennic makes gentle strokes on your nipple. He loves the spongy feel of that little piece of flesh, he can even feel the slight cracks that run through it, like ridges with nerves. He sees that the painful hardness expresses your excitement in the most beautiful way. With his other hand, he slides the second silk strap of your nightie off to expose your entire breast. He remains strangely silent for a few seconds, just long enough to enjoy the sight of your breasts. They are beautiful and perfectly symmetrical. Well swollen, like two beautiful apples ready to be greedily crunched. Krennic then proceeds to take each breast in the palm of his gloved hands, encouraged in his boldness by the burning of your body. The moans that escape from your lips are very responsive to his requests. He furiously palps the tender flesh of your breasts, like to evaluate their density, before pressing them at the rhythm of a slow agony. From right to left, from top to bottom, he does not leave out any direction in his torment. Your heart rate accelerates dangerously, your muscles weaken and your skin blazes like a forest fire. Soon you feel yourself on the verge of fainting.
“Beg harder,” he orders, taking advantage of your weakness. When he abandons your breasts to attack without any mercy the bottom of them, you know then that he has just pressed a magic button. All your morals disappear with a snap of the finger, and you're begging. Not to stop his sweet torture, far from it. You're begging for him to never stop touching you.
“Tell me... are you begging for me to release you?”
An ambiguous question, as it leaves no chance for any hesitation. He cannot ignore your moans and sighs of pleasure. He's playing with you again, what he wants is to hear you confess your pleasure. He wants you to comfort him in his behavior, even if it costs you your honor.
“So?” he gets very impatient.
You beg once more, while leaning your forehead against his neck. Orson Krennic is completely intoxicated by your moans and sighs burning against his skin. He himself can't hide his massive erection any longer. It distorts the folds of his uniform pants, it even makes him grunt from time to time in pain. Orson Krennic is exhilarated by your arousal, the smell of your skin mixed with your delicate perfume, as well as the smell of your hair. He loves more than anything this headstrong smell, it is yours, the one that feeds all his obsessions day and night.
Looking down at Director Krennic's hands, you can't help but find something fascinating about them. They are large and strong, gloved with beautiful black leather. He knows exactly how to use them, and more importantly, where to use them. You are divided by conflicting emotions, a part of you is repulsed by your reactions, while the other is desperately in need of him. A simple touch from him and there you are, shivering and begging. You obey his orders, reluctantly, you implore his pity. Except that he has none, he expects some things from you. Things you refuse to give him. Words you refuse to say out loud. You are not one of his conquests, you are far from being a simple number in the intimate life of Director Orson Krennic. You are more than that, which is what you want to prove to him by stubbornly refusing him. You can't have compassion for easy girls.
"It is not appropriate, Director..." you sigh while arching yourself more against his hand. Your body no longer obeys you, your pleas for reason go hopelessly unanswered. "You're out of line..." You struggle to say these few words, they get lost between your moans. Krennic feels your body starting to weaken under the expertise of his fingers. He then slides a hand to your back to protect you from collapsing.
"Beg me to stop, then," he says, not even trying to hide his sadistic amusement. The carnivorous smile that graces his lips speaks loudly about his true intentions.
"You know very well that it is impossible."
Unaware of what is escaping from your mouth, you half-confess to him that you like what he does to you far too much to really want him to leave you alone. You refuse to let him stop his caresses, they are whispering in you much too deep and sensual vibrations. He has built up a tension in you that desperately needs to be relieved. You want more than his hands, you find yourself wanting his lips and teeth to replace them. Unfortunately, he doesn't do that until you clearly verbalize your needs.
"Tell me why, dear?"
His husky, smooth voice is now a whisper in the hollow of your ear. You hear him in a distant way, as the gestures of his fingers pressing the end of your breasts become unbearable. You do not manage to hear his words distinctly any more, the pleasure which he lavishes to you is from now on the only thing which intoxicates your spirit. You are dreaming about him kissing your nipples full of life, abusing them with his raspy tongue, the tips of his white teeth hitting their tender flesh until they leave lasting scars on your skin.
"You... you know me far too well." This answer seems to call out something powerful in him. You notice that an unreadable expression takes over his face. A strange glint shines in the depths of his ocean blue eyes. A glint that you haven't had the pleasure of discovering in him until now.
You are sharing a conniving glance, and for a few seconds, it is then as if the whole galaxy has stopped spinning. A lustful flash crosses your eyes, desperately hooked on each other's gaze. Orson Krennic is the first to crack under the pressure. He grabs you with his powerful arms, lifting your body to settle you against him, your legs spread on either side of his hips. You reinforce your support by joining your legs at the bottom of his back, in order to not collapse on the ground. He then grips firmly your naked thighs under the fabric of your night dress to strengthen his hold. His hands cherish your soft and perfect skin, while his lips are furiously moving against yours. You are finally both there. He's taken a huge step in lifting you up into his arms to bring you back against him. Your now bare breasts are caressing the thick fabric of his white uniform, your nipples are touching his icy badge. You gasp at the pleasurable and unexpected friction, but that's not what's stirring your body at this moment. It's his hands that follow the curve of your bouncing buttocks, they slipped under your clothes when he lifted you. They are brushing almost naturally the line of your intimacy which is left to the expertise of his fingers, since no underwear obstructs his exploration. He then discovers your moist intimacy of your desire. He collects some of your fluids between his gloved fingers, proud to be the one responsible for it. A moan escapes from your parted lips, as Krennic growls in frustration against your mouth as he realizes you broke your kiss.
Orson Krennic seems to know the configuration of your apartment inside and out, as he makes his way to one of the rooms in the royal suite. You strongly enjoy him carrying you like a princess in the arms of a knight in armor and white cloak.
“No, wait, this is the room of...” you mutter, interrupting your kiss for a few seconds. Krennic blinks several times as he realizes what you're implying. You don't know that you've just given him a brilliant idea. His eyes widen slightly as his thinking skills reach their peak.
He captures your lips a second time in a kiss even more fiery than the first in response to your warning. You don't understand, at first, what's wrong with him. You feel as if you've told him he's been promoted to Grand Moff in place of the current one. There is no doubt about his lustful and perverse intentions. He seems to have understood very well what you are trying to tell him, but he does not care. Whether it's your own room or your parents' room, all he cares about now is enjoying your fluids between the satin sheets of a huge canopy bed. The fact that it is Wilhuff Tarkin's bed is somehow the cherry on top.
“From your father, yes, I am well aware of that, my little Tarkin,” he finally says, pulling away from your mouth with regret, in order to resolve your insecurities. “Give me this one moment of victory.”
No... Honestly, are you really going to do it on your parents’ bed? On the bed of Wilhuff Tarkin, his nemesis? It's a wicked thought, then you feel like you're just a toy in Director Krennic's skilled fingers.
With a blow from one of his leather boots, Krennic pushed open the door to the Tarkin's conjugal room. It was exactly like the entire royal suite, sober and elegant, without frills. The complete opposite of Director Krennic's private quarters, which you don't know yet. He ruthlessly breaks into this holy place for the sole purpose of defiling it. The idea of making you shout his first name in the sacred temple of his rival is not only terribly exciting, but also diabolical. Krennic is a particularly devious man. It's a memory that will stay with him forever, a memory he can even freely relish in his worst moments. His own daughter, you, finally his. Here. At home. He gets a hard-on from just putting the pieces of the puzzle together.
Without interrupting the languorous kiss he's giving you, his hands slide further and further down your body, making sure you're still wrapped around him. The feelings he brings to your body make you roll your eyes with pleasure. You are enjoying the shivers that run through your body so much that you almost tumble backwards without Krennic's support. You feel the vibrations of his laughter against the flesh of your neck, which he is nibbling, before you are caught in his strong arms and violently thrown onto the canopy bed. He undertakes to undo the silk belt which is imprisoning your nightgown, and gets rid of it by throwing it in a corner of the dark room. Then came the turn of your nightie, which he made slide down along your voluptuous body, while caressing your soft skin with his fingers.
“Orson!” you cry out before he joins you in crushing his body against yours. His strong, skilled hands trap your wrists above your head, your fingers caressing the silky fabric of your parents' sheets. Your body arches against his wanting a more sexual rubbing. You desire more than anything to intoxicate yourself with his body, the smell of his aftershave and his cologne.
“It's better this way, isn't it?” he chuckles as he feels you squirm under the weight of his body. “How badly do you want me?” his whispering voice against your ear gets heavier.
He is still waiting for more pleas from you, but mostly a confession. He wants to hear that you want him, here and now.
“I beg you...” you beg, giving him exactly what he wants to encourage him to continue his exploring of your body. “I want you more than my reason.”
You don't lie to him, you want him more than your damn principles, more than your upbringing, more than your own father. This is what you are yearning for at this very moment. When it's just the two of you, that's exactly how you feel. You're tired of him tearing apart your soul and your heart, you're just a wasteland in his gifted hands.
“I have to start somewhere...” he whispers as his hands move against your intimacy, searching for the most sensitive points of your voluptuous anatomy.
Krennic quickly finds the way to your button made up of flesh and nerves, that he then encircles between his thumb and his index, by carrying out skilful pressures. This instantly sends you into a crisis of muffled, discontinuous moans. You try to hide your discomfort by grabbing a pillow to position it against your mouth. What he immediately pulls back to you, not accepting any obstacle between him and your crimson face. He refuses to allow you to escape him, even if it means hiding your face or the expression of your eyes. Krennic looks into yours, trying to catch every spark of joy or surprise in your gaze. You are his ingenue and he wants to capture your innocence. You can't hide behind anything, you are finally naked and offered to him. You are his. Krennic doesn't want you to spoil the pleasure of reading your pleasure in your eyes or in the expression of your half-opened mouth. He wants you to come because of him and for him. He wants to make sure he's the only man in the galaxy who can make you come this much. As your hips shake frantically against his hand, Orson grabs your wrists for the second time, to pin you against him.
“You are mine tonight, my dear,” he says in a husky voice, accentuating his last word sensually. “You won’t be able to escape, but that's not what you want... is it?”
“No...” you confess. Running away, what a strange idea.
You slowly close your eyes, savoring the chills that run down the line of your back. Krennic takes opportunity of his hold on you to run his fingers over the curve of your buttocks, while holding your wrists above your head with one hand. He then caresses your skin, drawing arabesques and geometric shapes around your belly button, all the way down to your pubic area. The touch of his fingers on your skin makes you feel a violent discharge. You can't wait any longer, you beg him with your beautiful eyes to continue what he started in your intimacy, instead of playing so cruelly with your nerves. He refuses to give in to the urgent need you have to feel his fingers against your private area, preferring to stimulate what's around, like your lower abdomen, your pubic area or the inside of your thighs, before he gets down to it.
“I don't know if you're deserving of being taken tonight,” he murmurs, vaguely pensive. “Have you been a good girl to me?”
This waiting is just a slow agony for you, you can't stand those hot waves that make your body bend to his spoiled child's whims. You feel your breath getting lost in the middle of your moans and squeaks. He then considers you ready for a well-earned treatment. His fingers follow the fine line of your intimate lips, before spreading them apart to introduce his index and middle fingers into your vagina. Your inner lips are shapely, pink and slightly swollen with excitement. He likes very much what he sees, your body excites strongly his, it is up to his most decadent fantasies. He strokes your wet walls, looking for the most ecstatic points for you, while watching each of your reactions with sadism. His caresses are gentle and not very intrusive now. He enjoys your sighs, appreciating to see you also fulfilled by his gestures. This strengthens his macho thoughts, there is only him, who is likely to make you as hot as a little kitten in heat.
Your moans are more than enough to make him smile with satisfaction. He laughs softly, proud to find you in a state of pure abandon. Krennic decides to reward your docility with deeper, much deeper strokes, towards what turns out to be your G-spot. His movements are straightforward, accurate and quick. He doesn't feel any remorse at the idea of deflowering you with his fingers. He suspects that you've already explored this place yourself, as a few hours ago. Your pelvis arches more and more against his palm, enjoying the way he makes love to you with his fingers. He seems to know the best places to make you lose your mind. It's not enough for you though, you're dreaming of mind-blowing dizziness, the real, overwhelming orgasm. You hurry to wriggle under him to make him understand to accelerate his rhythm until you have reached your longed-for deliverance. You are drunk of his caresses and you respond to each one of them by a move of your pelvis.
“Orson...” you implore, when he interrupts his strokes in your vagina to move to your pleasure point. You grunt in displeasure as he still finds a way to tweak your nerves at the crucial moment. A wave of heat shoots through your entire body, causing you to cry out in grace. Emotions are far too strong to allow you to put several words together in a sentence. He is well aware of this, because he is highly amused by it.
“Yes, my sweet? What's the matter with you? Speak up, come on. Explain yourself.” he mocks by finding that your cheeks are violently burning under his fingers on your bundle of nerves. “We're less chatty now, aren't we? Where are your so beautiful principles and sermons about morality and purity?” he laughs warmly against your ear. You like to feel the vibrations of his laughter on your skin, they go down to the back of your neck and end with shivers down your spine. He's having a great time with your state of ecstasy. Although your eyes are half closed, you can see a mocking smile on the corner of his thin lips, a glint of pure lust mixed with wickedness sparkling in his ocean blue eyes. “You and I know now that this is all nonsense. Your impure eyes are begging me to take you, and not in the noblest of ways...”
Director Krennic's words make you tense up, despite all the good it does your body, you wish to fight back. You try to release your wrists, the pressure is more and more unbearable. You only hurt yourself more, Krennic refuses to release his hold on you. He even strengthens his grip, which makes you wince with pain.
“No, no, no. Stay still. It's not happening, honey. I'm running the show.”
Orson Krennic giggles as he kisses you, his lips perfectly matching yours, while his hands continue their exploration. This kiss is powerful, passionate and full of life. He muffles your cries at the same time as he expertly presses his thumb against clitoris. He plays with you hoping to show the wild personality inside you. You're dying for him to rip away what's left of your scruples, but it's not on the cards yet. You feel your eyes moisten at the same rhythm as your intimacy, so much so that the palm of his hand is quickly enveloped in your shameful wetness. Krennic puts his two ocean-blue orbs into yours, contemplating your facial expression, where he discovers a mixture of euphoria and frustration. You complain that he seems to enjoy giving you half of everything.
His eyes darken in desire as he feels you squirm under his imperial officer's uniform, which he has refused to remove, in order to maintain an apparent posture of dominance over you. You are naked, but he is not. It's a way to strengthen his hold on you, and after all, he has understood that you love his uniform more than anything.
He has always noticed your furtive glances at his perfectly polished leather boots, his silver belt, his immaculate white uniform or his impressive cape. He knows you're obsessing over what makes him an officer of the Empire's high administration, what gives him a title and a social position that can arouse both your admiration and your devotion. He knows that you need a man of high rank by your side, considering your education in one of the most valued imperial aristocratic families. Krennic is not a blue-blooded man, unfortunately, and this is something that weighs heavily on him, considering the social background of all his colleagues. He often feels lonely, thinking that children of modest workers are not sufficiently well represented in the Empire. He can't make a name for himself that has been around for generations, nobility being what he sorely lacks. So he tries to show you that although his pedigree, he is still brighter and more ambitious than most of imperialists of noble blood. Orson Krennic wants you to feel admiration for him. It is something he is obsessed with, apart from not being part of your family circle, Krennic aspires to climb one by one through the ranks of power. And for that, Orson Krennic is willing to make any sacrifice.
You feel Krennic's excitement as you see the large bulge inside his uniform pants. It makes you gasp, you picture him surprisingly well mounted, but most of all, going in and out of you violently. Krennic brings his hand to his nose to gently inhale the scent of your desire, which makes you even more sweaty than you already are, when you hear him sigh with desire. His movements are now precise and violent inside you, you feel yourself being pounded by two of his fingers, while his thumb continues to work slowly on your clit.
After a few minutes, Krennic releases your aching wrists and stops his caresses. You watch him with big eyes, completely confused and saddened that he could let go of the tensions of your body so easily. His smile nevertheless attracts your curiosity, you think that an unholy idea crosses his wicked mind. And you were right to think so, because he begins to kiss your upper body, while going down to your pubic area.
You quickly realize what he's about to do, and the thought of it makes you blush. You don't know what might happen below the belt. You don't know if the sensations will be the same or if they will be increased tenfold. You are very afraid of this sensory overload. Krennic strokes your belly button and lower abdomen with his lips, leaving a wet trace on his path. When he starts kissing your intimate, fleshy, fluid-soaked lips, it's as if a magic button has been pressed. Your hands grab the satin sheets of the four-poster bed to embrace them frenetically. Your muscles tense up under Orson Krennic's lingual caresses, you crave more until you are dizzy.
Sensations are unique, sensual and sweet. You love to feel his tongue running through your intimacy and playing with the entrance to your vagina, pretending to penetrate you once or twice, before moving up to the nerve center of your pleasure. He aspires your clitoris with his lips, sucking that little spot made of blood and nerves, while caressing its perfect curve with his tongue. These sensations run through you with violent jolts and spasms that make you arch your back. While he does all these good things to you, his hands hold your thighs with firmness, his nails sinking into your flesh.
“Orson, please, harder.” you beg as the orgasm is now two more strokes away from his tongue. “I don't want... you to stop.” You even feel close to crying with happiness, so many sensations fill you beyond all your fantasies. You grab Orson's face between your hands, savoring the warmth that comes from his cheeks. Your fingers work their way up to his silky silver hair, which you begin to pull into a tight embrace. “Make me… Make me yours…”
You feel that your clitoris is now twice its normal size, the blood having flowed extremely fast in it. In fact, a simple lingual caress now gives you the sensation of a powerful electric shock in all your intimacy. You want more than anything to be overwhelmed by the next shock, the one that will lead you to a perfect orgasm. It must be said that he does it wonderfully well. He knows how to take you to paradise with just a few strokes of his tongue. He takes almost meticulous care to ride the wave of pleasure inside you, savoring the slight spasms of your body as he teases the bulging curve of your clit with the tip of his tongue. It's raspy and incredibly hard, making the friction between it and your nerve-filled button extraordinary powerful. Those strokes come and go more and more quickly as you rub vigorously against his mouth. Krennic switches between circular and horizontal strokes, to see what thrills you most before settling on a steady rhythm to bring you to climax. You arch brutally to make him understand your need for deliverance. A move which carries you in a whirlwind of burning and throbbing sensations. It seems then as if all tensions built up these last minutes have just exploded in your face. You can't help but scream your pleasure, having never been smacked by such a powerful release until now. What Orson Krennic is doing to your body is so good. It's something magical, with an aftertaste of coming back to me. After your orgasm, Krennic immediately moves up to your face.
“Good girl.” he whispers against your chin, before capturing your lips to share your own fluids with you. “You’ve come for me.”
You're drunk on his kisses so badly that you immediately ask for more. You cling to his lips desperately wanting him to make you feel the power of these vertigoes again. You are like intoxicated by his kissings, it takes you away into madness. This is something you have never been able to experience with anyone before. Orson Krennic is a damn good lover. He kisses in a way that matches yours perfectly. You think about spending the rest of your days hanging on his thin and pensive lips. His kisses are thrilling, full of power and possessiveness. You love the alcoholic aftertaste that ends each one, it gives a little sweet taste to his lips. You can't bring yourself to disobey his orders. Just as you refuse to break off your lingual interactions, as if that would make him not want to take the next step with you. You cruelly need his body pressed thus against yours, his pelvis marrying wonderfully yours, his burning and insatiable desire in you. You whisper his name, Orson, again and again. Nothing seems to break the magic of your meeting. He leaves scars on your skin, they are bright red and you can see the marks of his teeth on the slight bumps they have made. You don't care if your body is bruised by his mouth or by his hands, all you want more than anything at this moment is to melt into him. You want him to ravage your entire body and leave you shaking, begging and desperately obsessed with his every move. You want him to take you, and not in a gentle way. You want your connection as strong as your feelings: tumultuous and challenging.
But... he still won't take you. You don't understand what he's waiting for, what seems to be holding back the surge of his passions in you.
He likes to provoke you, because he loves to feel those ecstatic shivers on your skin when he kisses you. He also does it because he loves your warmth, your wetness and the red color of your face. As for you, you can't get enough of purring with pleasure as he tries to pull you out of your skin. How hot, you are. Your whole body is a fiery desert, moist and trembling for him. You feel like a drug addict, yearning for his skin, his mouth, his tongue. You almost feel like you're in the middle of a fever, as the tremors of your recent orgasm still run through your entire body. These shivers are mixed with the dizzying rise of heat which leaves you breathless. You touch your thigh skin out of curiosity, and find that it is soaked with your sweat.
“Sweet dreams, dear little Tarkin,” he whispers before nibbling your earlobe. Warm breath from his husky voice creeps insidiously down the back of your neck, sending an ecstatic shiver down your spine. “I know you'll come back to me.” Orson Krennic has personally made sure of that.
He reluctantly pulls away from your burning body. He takes a moment to readjust his haircut and the folds of his uniform from the large mirror hanging on the wall above the bed. Obviously, the idea of taking possession of your body on the satin sheets of his rival is more than tempting, but a good intuition advises him to leave before he comes back from his evening.You want to scratch him, slap him and hurt him to leave you in such a state of arousal. His smirk is the only thing that fills your memory as he leaves you lying on the Grand Moff Tarkin's canopied bed.
You glance at the bedside table, puzzled by the fact that something about it has particularly disturbed him. Krennic looked at the datapad for a long time before pulling himself away from you. You quickly realize as you glance at the built-in clock that your parents are about to return any minute. After all, hadn't he written on your datapad that he just wanted to give you a taste?
“Oh my…” you whisper, speechless for once in your life.
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