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a song for a mockingbird (director orson krennic x reader) ▴ part iii.

fanfiction (7 parts) – A STAR WARS FANFICTION

pairing : dir. orson krennic x reader (fem!reader)

summary. Director Orson Krennic is in love with you. Yes, he is madly in love for the first time in his life, with a person and not with a project. You have quickly become his most consuming obsession. You haunt his days and nights. His body is a burning inferno at the mere mention of your name. Your frightening name. You are a Tarkin. And not just any Tarkin, you are the daughter of Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin.

This story contains some digressions from the storyline of the Star Wars universe. In the original works and legends, Wilhuff and Thalassa had only one child, a boy, but in this story, they had two, including a girl: you.

A fiction inspired by the seven deadly sins. It will have one chapter per sin, so 7 chapters.

rating. mature

warning. smut, public sex, fingering. not for kids.

comments. sorry for this long, SO long absence. irl was... disturbing and inspiration downward. i am back then. i got so much plans for this fiction. i’m also planning to work on a lot of things.

Thank you for reading ! :D

                                                    CHAPTER 3.

GLUTTONY. Gluttony is the disordered desire to eat or drink something one likes without needing to, meaning in the absence of hunger or thirst. According to Epicureanism, gluttony is opposed to the search for happiness because it leads to unnecessary pleasure. Gluttony can be linked to any other form of craving.

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“Slow down you crazy child, You're so ambitious for a juvenile, But then if you're so smart tell me,

Why are you still so afraid? Where's the fire, what's the hurry about? You better cool it off before you burn it out, 

But you know that when the truth is told, That you can get what you want or you can just get old, Slow down you're doing fine,

You can't be everything you want to be before your time, Although it's so romantic on the borderline tonight, 

You got your passion, you got your pride,

But don't you know that only fools are satisfied? Dream on, but don't imagine they'll all come true, When will you realize...”

‘Vienna’ – Billy Joel

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RESTAURANT, CORUSCANT CITY.  ••   YEAR -1 BBY (BEFORE BATTLE OF YAVIN)

                                                              ▲▼

“I must admit I was surprised by your message. It's been a while since we had lunch together.” says a deep, smug voice, a middle-aged man - much older than Orson Krennic, much older than you, but most of all, much wiser than all the men who have surrounded you for years. There is only one. Grand Moff Tarkin.

Moff Tarkin stands elegantly in front of you, cross-legged, in a chair made of a combination of purple velvet and varnished wood. A Renaissance style chair - ancient and distinguished. You have left the choice of meeting place to your beloved father - one of the most luxurious restaurants in the city of Coruscant. You are not unfazed by this, given the many family gatherings you have had since your birth on Phelarion. You listen to his inquiries with a worried expression as you realize what you are about to ask him. Wilhuff Tarkin is right - he is right about everything, as usual. It's been a few months since you had lunch together, but it's been years since you've been in such a... friendly situation.

“Indeed, Father, and I deeply regret it. I must tell you personally. We've been separated for... a few years now.” you admit, uncomfortable with the idea of mentioning the reasons for this distance. Since Garoche's death. You feel like mentioning it, but you don't, because you're afraid of upsetting your venerable father. Garoche is a particularly sensitive subject for every Tarkin still alive in the galaxy. Wilhuff Tarkin is not fooled, however, and seems to understand what you are refusing to tell him. His face darkens for a few seconds, which is far from lost on you. As Tarkin remains silent, you swallow and say : “I need to talk to you about important things.”

Tarkin raises an eyebrow as he puts his spoon back on the cup, but does not open his lips. He just looks at you with a smug look behind his long, dark lashes. Behind this smugness hides a curiosity, which he doesn't express, but which remains deep in his eyes. He puts his two icy orbs on you, which makes you shiver despite yourself. Wilhuff Tarkin may be the powerful man who raised you - but he is still a terrifying man - even to his own family members. “All I ask is that you be open-minded enough.” you say, with some anxiety in your voice.

“I'm listening (Y/N).” Wilhuff Tarkin says as he adds a little sugar to an amber liquid inside an elegant, oval-shaped porcelain cup. “I'm listening to you carefully.”

“It's about Eadu.” you reply in a calm tone, giving him the impression of being serene, which is far from being the truth.

“Eadu?” he wonders. Tarkin can't hide his surprise at the mere mention of this planet, which has been the headquarters of a major Imperial cystography laboratory for years. “Why are you referring to Eadu?” His eyebrows frown almost mechanically, he doesn't seem to like it, he must certainly fear the worst from you. A part of him is regretting having been so careless in his confidences about the imperial projects. You've never shown the slightest sign of interest in them, much to Wilhuff and Thalassa's displeasure. It's not like with Garoche. You were never like... Garoche.

“You mention Eadu so much as a great pride and...” you say, before interrupting yourself by gently biting your lower lip. You search for your words to avoid rushing him. You need to get him to believe you. Your true reasons for your interest in Eadu are far less noble than you are trying to make your beloved father think. Tarkin must continue to ignore your relationship with Orson Krennic. For both your sakes. “...I thought you might want to show me personally this facility.”

Tarkin glares at you from behind his dark lashes. He gives you a slightly aristocratic, smug look, but you never take it personally. Wilhuff Tarkin acts this way with everyone.

“So, you're asking me to take you to Eadu to see our work.” he repeats, detaching each word in a somewhat suspicious tone. You swallow, feeling that you have failed in your task. “Where did you get this sudden interest in our science bases, my dear?”

Your blood freezes, your heartbeat quickens in your ribcage, and soon you experience the painful sensation of the taste of acid coming from your gut, mixed with the metallic taste of blood trickling down your lower lip. You bite it carelessly under the unbearable weight of your racing heart.

“You.” You lie. It's the right thing to do. Bring the attention back to him. Wilhuff Tarkin loves himself. It can only work, it's the best move ever. “I ask to honor you, Father.”

“Mmh.” That sounds convincing. Well, partly, at least. Tarkin shifts his steely gaze from yours to his still-steaming cup of tea. He takes a couple of sips, taking his time before giving you the satisfaction of a weak, concise smile. At that point, you know it's a done deal.

“I'll make a note of that. I am pleased, I must confess. I was blaming your lack of involvement in the affairs of the Empire on your mother. However, your choice of Eadu worries me a little.”

“Why should I be concerned?”

“Eadu ... is one of Orson Krennic's favorite installations.” Tarkin admitted, wincing at the mention of his most hated rival's name. “I would like to avoid any form of contact between him and my only daughter.”

“I have no interest in Eadu for Orson Krennic, father, that is...” Lies. “He will not always be there.” You nearly choke on all your lies as you bring your cup to your dry lips.

“Certainly, certainly...” He sighs. “Krennic is still a problem.”

You have no idea how the subject got so out of hand on Orson Krennic, but the damage is done. Wilhuff Tarkin is both irritated and bitter at being forced to recall his dear, sweet rival.

“Father,” you whisper in a firm but gentle voice, after a brief pause. No more silences and cold tempers. Wilhuff Tarkin must finally make his intentions clear about what he wants to do with the director. A fire burns in you like an inferno, the flame of curiosity. An unhealthy curiosity, but you desperately need to understand what is wrong between them, what your father blames Orson Krennic for so badly. “What exactly do you blame him for?”

He seems to be gauging your question with a hint of patronization, judging by his piercing gaze, and proudly raised chin. For a few seconds you even wonder if he intends to give you any satisfaction. Wilhuff seems to growl softly. You sense that he disapproves this bold behavior, as he immediately snaps his tongue against his palate in annoyance. Have you gone too far in your questioning? “Forgive me, this does not concern me. Forget what I have...” you repeat in a sorry tone before he abruptly cuts you off. Wilhuff lifts his hand towards you to shut you up. You try to catch yourself as best you can, because the last thing you want to do is to make your venerable father angry. You don't want to bring his attention to your deeper motives. Wilhuff closes his eyes for a few moments, deep in thought, before reopening them to yours. His gaze is intense, sharp, and seems to have the ability to pierce your soul from within.

“I blame him for some things,” he finally says, taking a sip of his tea between his thin lips. Tarkin acts as if he hasn't come to be annoyed by it, as if it were nothing. You complain about this imperturbable temperament, but nothing can get to Wilhuff Tarkin. No matter what you do or say, Tarkin keeps a cold facial expression.

“Orson Krennic does not come from an officer's upbringing, he is constantly trying to prove himself without really caring about his colleagues. He is confident, arrogant. Krennic is annoying. He tries to distinguish himself in the wrong way, believing that wearing a cape grants him privileges that exist only in his fantasies. If you pay attention, girl, you'll see that he takes a puzzling pleasure in flying it in a spectacular way.” At the same time, Tarkin waves his hand nonchalantly, as if to keep an invisible bug away from him. “Orson Krennic is the kind of person who dresses and behaves in public in a way that screams ‘notice me’. Furthermore, he sees his purpose in destruction, not caring either how he will be remembered, but simply because he is the one who initiates it.” said Tarkin in one breath, coldly and calmly. “Ah. I forget one important detail: he also has a serious drinking and partying problem, which highlights his deep need to be the center of gravity. When he was at Brentaal IV, he had a reputation for late night antics, partying and fighting. Knowing all this, my daughter, do you finally understand that Orson Krennic is not a respectable Imperial officer?”

Under the weight of this accusation, you feel your heart rate accelerate dangerously. Tarkin is right about everything, absolutely everything. Orson Krennic is not the most respectable officer in the Imperial High Command. Orson Krennic is unstable and unpredictable. Orson Krennic spends most of his time yelling at others, claiming that this makes him a ‘leader’. Orson Krennic is not a man that a young woman like you, noble and well educated, should fall in love with. You should not fall in love with a man like Orson Krennic. Under no circumstances. He will only break you. He will destroy you. Only your eyes will weep over the ashes of this destructive, passionate, impossible love. Why not fall in love with a younger imperial officer who is well liked by your family and who will bring you the honors and tenderness you deserve? A young man your own age, not someone more than twice your age. Someone who can express his emotions in ways other than pounding his fist on the table.

“Why all the questions, (Y/N)?” he says, looking at you with his steely eyes. “Do you have something to confess to me about him?” Tarkin points out something else to you. His voice is disapproving as he begins to see the impossible between the two of you. His question sparks a furious urge in you to scream with all your heart that this is the case, but you don't. Instead, you collect your thoughts and ideas. Instead, you gather all your energy to squeeze the power of your feelings.

“No, of course not, Father,” you say, giving your best dramatic performance. You then display a disgusted moue, far from interested by someone so prefabricated. “I've always wondered about that, and I've already talked about it with Mother...”

“You've mentioned Krennic to your mother?” Tarkin interrupts you a second time, seemingly astonished. You see the puzzlement in his eyes, an unreadable gleam. Something unusual, you're not used to getting his attention. Tarkin is still inexpressive, and now he raises his eyebrows.

“I actually had this discussion with her, because I was about to ask you a favor...”

“A favor?” he repeats, his face turning livid. “In what sense?” Tarkin blinks twice, his long fingers tightening around the porcelain cup in his hands. “What does this have to do with Orson Krennic?” The Grand Moff worries that he might understand what you're getting at.

“I would like to play an effective role in the upbringing of our worthy and illustrious family.” you say with conviction, attempting to calm his unfounded fears. Wilhuff Tarkin was stunned by this admission, thinking you were just a perfect doll, useful for forging new alliances with the noble families of the Empire. Despite his best efforts, unlike your brother Garoche, you never showed the slightest interest in the Tarkin family's influence. Wilhuff was always upset by this, but he eventually accepted it. Garoche made up for this obvious disinterest before he was killed on a mission on the planet Atoan.

“Mmh.” Tarkin seems thoughtful. “Continue, please.” He sets the porcelain cup half-filled with an amber-colored liquid on a circular receptacle made of the same material. “I am listening carefully, (Y/N).” Grand Moff Tarkin responds by raising his hand slightly toward you. With his palm facing upward, Tarkin gently curls his fingers, one after the other, into his hand. With this gesture, he invites you to share all your thoughts with him without fear of judgment. It's something you don't know yet, because Tarkin's thoughts are foggy, but you've finally gotten his attention. All of his attention. He wants to know more about you, secretly hoping to expand his reputation through you, just as he did with Garoche. Maybe you'll be more useful to him than he thinks. You have a pretty face and a full head. You can easily serve his interests and attract the confidences of his rivals. One name comes to mind, Orson Krennic. What he wouldn't give to bring down his eternal rival. What he wouldn't sacrifice to finally have all the rights. However, he prefers not to mention the sordidness of his thoughts for now, hoping instead that his intuitions are right, and that the effort comes from within.

“My choice of Eadu is not entirely disinterested, I confess, father.”

“I knew it.” Of course he knew that. He's the Grand Moff. He knows everything.

You pause for a moment, then cheerfully continue, “I can see for myself what's going on there and report back to you on the actual progress...”

“What about Krennic?” he says after a short silence, gently touching the edges of his lips with that incredible soft cotton towel. Tarkin is not losing his mind. Tarkin is waiting for you to elaborate on all your thoughts, also concerning Orson Krennic. Wasn't it you who spoke of your desire to see him spread the name of Tarkin? You gave him only half the information, leaving him in suspense. Tarkin's ears hissed as your lover's name escaped from your painted lips.

“I...”

As you carefully prepare a lie, you almost naturally cut yourself off, noticing a more than familiar shadow in the back of the hall. Right before your eyes. There it is.

In the blink of an eye, it seems as if the entire world collapses beneath your feet. Recognizable footsteps rise in the small dining room of one of Coruscant City's finest restaurants. You can recognize this step among thousands of others. For a moment, the fruity smell of your morning brew becomes overwhelming, flooding your brain, until nausea and dizziness violently assail you. Orson Krennic. Orson Krennic's steps. His perfectly polished black boots are walking through the restaurant with a conquering rhythm. When you look up from your cup of tea, you see the uniformed figure of Director Krennic. A luxurious white uniform, typical of the agents of the Empire's Department of Internal Security, to which he belongs. There he is. He stands upright like a soldier, his chin raised in scorn, his ocean-blue gaze scanning all sides of the room like the radar of one of those imperial droids. As you stare at him, you notice the expression on his face is dignified, even amused. Krennic is happy to be showing up in this restaurant, while you are sitting with your father. Is this really a coincidence, or did he know you would both be there at noon? His white cape floats between his legs as he walks almost too unnaturally to be a common human. Orson Krennic. He is perfection incarnate. His elegance erases any scruples you may have had after that savage night in your parents' bedroom. Tremors shake your body – you are helpless against this overwhelming wave of emotions. You feel complications progressively taking shape in front of you, but you can't stop them from reaching you. What is he doing there? An immense black hole comes to take possession of your mind, reducing to nothing any capacity of reflection, while your thoughts are scrambled by the intensity of your feelings. You feel torn between excitement and fear at the idea that Wilhuff Tarkin might understand what is happening between you two. As you are led to talk about Orson Krennic, he magically appears. Cruel coincidence.

Ironic, isn't it? Krennic greets you from the sidelines, before turning his attention to one of the waiters.

You watch him silently, hoping he will stay away from your table. After a few seconds, he brings his gaze back to yours – both of you then stare at each other from a safe distance.

“(Y/N)?” your father hisses, catching the desperate feeling that sparkles in the back of your eyes. Wilhuff Tarkin faces you – and turns his back to the restaurant entrance – unable to see the cloaked figure of Director Krennic. For now, at least.

His bluish gaze has locked onto yours. Krennic has this fabulous talent of reading you like an open book, exposing you with his beautiful icy eyes. You feel yourself blushing strongly, hypersensitive in front of these attention marks far from having any hidden motives. You are torn between passion and reason. One of the oldest dilemmas in the world.

Krennic finally approaches you with greetings, encircled by two death troopers. His special escort causes your father to grunt. You can easily see Wilhuff Tarkin's dark eyes begin to roll slowly toward the roof – he is annoyed by Orson Krennic's ostentatious ways. Everyone then looks on in surprise at Krennic and his men. Wilhuff Tarkin is tired of the spectacular and exaggerated arrivals of the director of the Empire's Advanced Weapons Bureau. His upbringing is such that he does not speak of it or show any sign to anyone, but you are well aware of your father's facial expressions, knowing him better than anyone, and you know that his veins are boiling with a dull, icy anger.

“Governor, what a surprise to find you here... I had no idea Coruscant was such a small city!” snaps Krennic, filled with irony, while he is faking sympathy to perfection.

“Not small enough, if you want my opinion, Director.” he retorted curtly, not even looking up at his troublesome colleague. It must be said that the mere sound of his voice gave him a furious desire to get up and throw the porcelain cup in his face. It is a dragging voice, and its accent from the outer colonies horrifies the Grand Moff to no end. No matter how hard Krennic tries to hide it, some words are hard to spare. And it's worse when he gets angry, he loses all composure and accentuates his syllables unreasonably.

You discreetly roll your eyes at your father's cynicism. It's not like he's capable of making any effort, the Tarkin-Krennic rivalry is as legendary as it is deep-seated.

“I apologize to you to have interrupted this gathering, but I have some business to attend to. Governor,” he greeted, then anchored his two bright ocean-blue orbs in yours. “Milady.” Although he was on his way out and apparently in a hurry, Kennic did not forget to bow his head in your direction to show his deepest respect. A natural cordiality for someone of your rank, however, which let your heart burn like a great blazing fire.

“What a fool...” mumbles Tarkin once Krennic has moved far enough away to not hear his slanderous growls.

“With all my respect father, you are clearly overstating the situation.”

Words come out of your mouth at the very moment that Wilhuff Tarkin's dark eyes come to return their attention to you. Quickly enough you realize that you have made your first slip of the tongue – maybe it was just a weakness slip. Tarkin looks surprised by your boldness, but he is not necessarily unhappy about it. He has always blamed his wife, Thalassa, for the fearlessness and lack of self-initiative that so defines your noble education.

“Do you think I'm wrong about him, child?”

“I think you should simply give him a chance to make himself agreeable to you and show you what he is capable of doing.”

“I see that your mother has done a poor job in bringing you up, she has failed to teach you a precious value, my dearest (Y/N). Your sensitivity will lose you, if not today, one day soon. In this world, either you are strong, or you are weak,” he said, moving his pale lips briefly, before taking another sip from his cup of tea. Again, the same haunting speech, which you know perfectly well after all these years spent under the control of the cold and terrifying Wilhuff Tarkin. “Poor thing.” he sighs with a false esteem for Thalassa’s work, his wife, on your poor education.

Tarkin brings you down to earth several times. He is astonished that you find any interest in him. In Orson Krennic’s. He hardly tries to crush what is between you with a look of disgust. He's not a fool, he sees it, he feels it. Orson Krennic is attracted to you, and it leaves him confused - he is torn between anger and interest. Why is that? In a way, Orson Krennic's impulses of his own heart can serve his darkest purposes.

“But...” As your thoughts spill over to Orson Krennic's flowing and flawless cape several feet away, it's Wilhuff Tarkin's suave voice that catches your attention. That “but” is unnaturally soft, so you can't help but feel the twist coming. “Well, seeing as you're so insistent that I give him a chance... So be it, I agree to give in to my daughter's whims for once.” It was as if a dagger had been stabbed into your heart. Barely opening your lips, expecting to ask him to clarify something, you observe your father snapping his fingers to summon one of his faithful lieutenants - who was standing at a table away from you. “Lieutenant, bring me Director Krennic.”

“Father...” you’re mumbling in pain.

“Hurry, boy.” he adds harshly.

It's too late. He's gone to join Krennic at the bar to murmur a few words in his ear. From the corner of the restaurant room, unfortunately, you cannot hear fragments of their conversation, but you can clearly read something in the expression on Orson's face... unexpected. Krennic is surprised, perhaps even frightened, by something the young lieutenant is whispering to him.

As the director comes up to you, his chin proudly lifted and his gaze locked in yours, he announces himself in a drawling, slightly cocksure voice. “You wished to see me, Governor?” breathes Krennic as he comes forward with a confident step, along with a death trooper who follows him like the shadow of his own fucking white cloak.

“Indeed, Director Krennic.” Tarkin's voice disrupts his contemplation of your magnificent person. Your gazes remain locked together for a few seconds, before Krennic turns it away so as not to awaken the Grand Moff's suspicions.

“My daughter insists on you joining us, Director.”

“It wasn't exactly phrased that way...” You try to justify yourself as you feel the Director's annoyed look burning on your bloody cheeks. Full red. Red as blood with shame. You’re nothing more than a poor little animal right now. Hunted until blood turns to molten lava and runs through your veins, paralyzed as hell by its frozen words. You immediately turn your attention away from the two high officers who are watching you with their piercing blues eyes.

“Of course, just please, (Y/N), don't be shy. You said you wanted to invite the director at our table,” Tarkin insists with barely disguised pleasure. In his eyes shines a glint of cruel amusement, much more familiar. “Sit down, Director.” It is an order. “Come here. (Y/N), please, let him sit in closer.” Krennic complies despite himself, taking a seat on your right, facing Tarkin’s one. “She's being modest with her expectations. I am more than willing to satisfy her curiosity... That’s what a good father must do, isn’t it ? She obviously blushes of joy and her eyes sparkles with excitement at the mere thought of you joining us.” Tarkin shamelessly comments, while he’s hailing a waiter to bring a third set of cutlery for Krennic. “My beloved daughter, Director, used to think that can bluff the old man in front of her, nevertheless, your scientific achievements especially catch her eyes, as mine, for a long time.” You just want to die right now. Now, really, really, really now. Please, God may help you.

Tarkin is pressing you hard in front of Krennic because he knows you made fun of him. He wants you to pay for it. What a fucking, sordid punishment. So, you keep quiet, to avoid aggravating your already delicate situation. What must be Orson Krennic’s thoughts on this shit ?

“My achievements?” gasps Director Krennic, raising his eyebrows in astonishment at the Grand Moff's false kindness. He’s terrified. Did he know ? Does the Grand Moff’s already know everything about the both of you ? “I…”

“Yes, Director.” Tarkin interrupts playfully. “Your achievements.”

There is a silence between the three of you. A particularly awkward silence. It is Wilhuff Tarkin who has put you in this state of stress.

“Well, director?” Tarkin raises gently, clinking the back of his silver spoon on the porcelain rim of his floral-patterned cup. “Please, talk to me. You, who are so eloquent. Why don't you tell about your accomplishments in person?”

Wilhuff Tarkin's insinuations lead you to believe that he knows something, no matter how questionable. How could he know? No... Tarkin is merely suspicious. Tarkin knows that Krennic is attracted to you, as you are to him. He has smelled the air around you and felt that deeply sexual electrical tension between you. He probably realized the depth of your arousal just by observing you devouring the imperial's authoritative, white-draped figure with your hungry eyes. When Orson Krennic walked in, a gentle heat began to emerge from your body. A very strong sexual heat, mixed with the smell of your arousal. Right between your thighs. A shameful wet feeling, smearing your black lace underwear. That significant smell, you smelled it. You made the choice to ignore it. You are in the middle of a public scene. You can't act like an overexcited teenager at her very first prom. Orson Krennic has you on edge. He's the only man capable of making you feel insecure in front of your own father. Like right now. He's next to you, sitting nonchalantly in the chair, legs crossed.  

When the waiter returns to you with a porcelain cup and a plate, he doesn't even say a word of thanks. He completely avoids the waiter's arrival. Embarrassed, the young man finally leaves after mumbling a few words of apology to you, believing he has offended the director. This is not the case, the director is simply a snobby man. Orson Krennic turns you on. Orson Krennic's behavior turns you on. You love it when he shows a snobbish authority, when he despises the people around him, when he has a conquering walk, when he twirls his long white cloak with elegance, when he whispers a few words in a seductive voice, when he gives you that charming smirk. That signature smile: arrogant and naughty at the same time. You realize now that the pleasant feeling in your stomach is growing, as you look at Krennic and Tarkin challenging each other under your eyes. You love to see them challenge each other. For you. No matter how hard you squeeze your thighs, the heat rushes through you like lava from an erupting volcano. The moisture keeps building, traveling from the lace fabric to stick to the inside of your trembling thighs, while the air around you become more electrified.

“I can finally imagine what my daughter enjoys so much about you. Your blind confidence in your skills and in other people's opinions of you is remarkable.” A false compliment. A compliment disguised as a terrible insult. Wilhuff Tarkin moistens his lips with the amber liquor of his spiced tea, while Orson Krennic mentally storms off.

“That confidence, Governor, got me where I am today. I wouldn't part with it for anything in the world. I assume that this is a deep disappointment to you.”

“There are many things that disappoint me...” replies Tarkin with a drawl, walking his gaze to Krennic's left. He reveals his first cards with this well-placed understatement, clearly directed at you.

Tarkin's voice momentarily snaps you out of your wild thoughts. He speaks to Krennic, looking at you with his steely eyes, with the intention of reading your soul. To pierce all your secrets. Wilhuff Tarkin discovers the director's effect on you while talking with him. No one can ignore the delicate pink color of your filled cheeks. Nor can anyone ignore the delicate warmth that covers your forehead. Damp and wet. You are moist and soaking wet.

Tarkin's attitude hurts you, but you've been quiet since Orson sat down next to you. Krennic's furtive gaze does not miss him. He quietly lays his palm under the table against your knee, giving you the bravery to stand strong. You can face anything together. It feels good. It magnifies the pleasure you feel inside. It increases... the wetness between your thighs. Orson Krennic sniffs softly, a little loudly, as the smell of sex fills the air around you. A sneer on the corner of his lips, he pretends nothing, while congratulating himself for putting you in such an exciting state of nervousness.

“I can now finally see what my daughter enjoys so much about you. Your blind confidence in your abilities and in other people's opinions of you is remarkable.” An insult disguised as a compliment. Wilhuff Tarkin moistens his lips in the amber liquor of his spiced tea, while Orson Krennic gets mentally pissed.

“That confidence, Governor, has put me in the position I occupy today. I would not part with it for anything in the world. I suppose that disappoints you deeply.”

“There are many things that disappoint me...” replies Tarkin with a drawl, walking his gaze to Krennic's left. He reveals his first cards with this well-placed insinuation, clearly directed at you.

Tarkin's voice momentarily snaps you out of your wild thoughts. He is talking to Krennic, looking at you with his steely eyes, determined to read your soul. To find out all your secrets. Wilhuff Tarkin discovers the effect he has on you while talking to the director. No one can ignore the delicate pink color of your full cheeks. Nor can anyone ignore the fine particle of warmth that covers your forehead. Steamy and soaking wet. You are wet and damp.

Tarkin's attitude hurts you, but you've been quiet since Orson moved in next to you. Krennic's furtive gaze does not miss it. He discreetly lays his palm under the table against your knee, giving you the courage and support you need to endure. You can face anything together. It feels good. It magnifies the pleasure you feel inside. It increases... the wetness between your thighs. Orson Krennic sniffs softly, a little loudly, as the smell of sex fills the air around you. A grin at the corner of the lips, he does not pretend anything, while congratulating himself to put you in a state of such hot tension.

After a few minutes, he finally changes his position.

The hand of Director Krennic loosens from your thigh, moving in a sensual caress towards the inside, which is far from leaving you indifferent. He moves slowly over your flesh exposed to his view, and to him alone. Orson Krennic finishes to spread out the fluid sides of your dress made of lace and of satin, ivory color and covered with a golden tulle voile. Your skin feels so feverish, now, that this mere contact produces the effect of a burning and painful tingling in the bottom of your stomach. Your belly contracts gradually, by chaotic jolts. You feel that your insides are writhing with a rather familiar pain, those of the aching pulsations of your clit. You figure out what he's going to do to you, in front of everyone. Without anyone knowing. Your flesh spot begins to throb in a thrilling way, like the heart of a hunted animal, paralyzed by the cruelty of its hunter. In response to this unexpected intrusion, you move your palms on each of your thighs, spreading his fingers then tightening them around your quivering flesh. You try gently to push back his leather-gloved fingers. Krennic freezes under the table as he confronts your father with a remarkable coolness. He states his latest progress on the Emperor's top secret project with a confident tone, clearly wanting to dominate his exchanges with him. He doesn't like the way Tarkin seems to want to claim ownership of the project. He speaks in a low, authoritative voice. That voice literally drives him crazy. Meanwhile, Krennic's hand is moving again. You bite your lip, as you thought it would have stopped him from exploring. You realize that Krennic is very pleased with this game. Touching you beneath the table and rubbing his vicious fingers all over your beautiful pure white dress, right under your father's nose, puts him in a state of monumental arousal. Which you can see, with a glance at his crotch which is hidden in his raven black uniform pants. Seeing him like this makes you swallow violently. You are witnessing his massive erection under the restaurant table. For a second, you want to be as bold as him and unbuckle his belt to put your hand inside his uniform, but you don't. Not in front of your father. Not in front of your father. You fight it. You settle into your seat, wanting him to stop exploring. You cross your legs at least three times, but Krennic keeps putting his hand against your left thigh, gradually deviating it inward. Even though you discreetly pull your dress back into place, he persists in wanting to lift it up and work his way down to your lacy panties. So fine and delicate. For a moment you regret having worn such transparent underwear. A simple touch of the tip of his thumb under the leather of his glove and your intimacy reacts quickly. You feel your clitoris slowly but surely start to swell inside your underwear. Krennic grunts at the same time in response to a sharp remark from Tarkin.

“Governor, no offense... you hold me in esteem far below the accomplishments I have already achieved for the Empire.” Krennic says through his gritted teeth. His jaw is clenched with anger at being so publicly belittled. In front of you.

“I wish I had another one, but it's been twenty years since you made a reputation for yourself by being sloppy… This project is riding on its last legs, director.”

“It's not, it's been on track for a few years...” justifies Krennic, sounding outraged. He struggles to keep his composure, the urge to overturn the table with an elbow furiously itches.

“Since Galen Erso's return as head of your scientific team, do you mean.”

Orson freezes. As his hand closes over your privates a little too roughly, you sense his fright. You struggle to stifle a squeak. He’s making you pay for your father's insolence.

There is a pause in the conversation among the three of you. Tarkin's face is victorious. Krennic finally speaks again, in a dangerous voice. So low that it is threatening, and at the same time his fingers are even bolder against your soaked underwear. His index finger grazes the thin slit of your intimacy through your lacy panties, and he notes pleasantly the shameful moisture that covers it. Krennic perseveres by pressing. With short squeezes, he lures your wetness. Orson is now staining your underwear even more than it already is, and you just want to beg him to stop all this right now, or to take you violently to the table of the best restaurant on Coruscant. The leather of his glove picks up all your moisture, so he can use it as a lubricant, to penetrate you in one stroke. He first pushes his forefinger between your well-spread intimate folds under this repetitive stimulation for about ten minutes. He pushes into you with your underwear, which prevents him from going all the way deep inside you, but it's more than enough to make you gasp. Your mouth bleeds from biting your lip or the inside of your cheek, eager to make this far too spontaneous reaction go away to be quickly hidden. Every inch of your body desires Orson Krennic, even if he doesn't have to, even if the circumstances now don't allow him to give in in any way.

So, the more Krennic talks to your father and seems completely oblivious to the mess he's making under the table, the more you feel like you're choking. Blood rushes to your intimate area, especially to the core of your clit. Well swollen, as hard as a rose thorn. The small peak is ready to be stroked and pushed to orgasm under the expert fingers of Director Krennic. It rises gently against the lace fabric of your underwear like a hard arrow. Krennic can feel this mountain rising under the leather. Occasionally, as he pushes his index finger longer or harder into your vagina, the rest of his fingers curled in the palm of his hand stroking you. He notices your hardness. Your tiny erection. Your aching clitoris. But he doesn't linger on it for the moment and thank God. You couldn't help but squirm in your chair. His gestures are already making your body a slave to your lowest desires, your most primal urges. You congratulate yourself for having managed to keep a mask of impassibility in public. Drinking a few sips of your tea, you hope to stifle your sighs by drowning in the amber liquid.

The worst is yet to come.

Tarkin and Krennic are now discussing the complex details and mathematical terms of the super laser's development.

Meanwhile, Krennic brings his thumb up, continuing to penetrate you with large, firm strokes of his index finger. He pushes the lace deep into your body. Tarkin doesn't notice the sordid game going on between you under the table. His gaze often falls on you, two icy orbs. Those eyes stare hard at you, as if reading you and advising you not to whimper or blush. It is always at this moment that Krennic pushes a finger in deeper. He wants a reaction from you. Miraculously, you manage to resist. The only thing your father can read in you is the flush on your cheeks and the sweat beading on your temples. Two things that are more than enough to confirm his initial suspicions about Director Krennic's effect on you. Tarkin doesn't know how far Krennic's lustfulness can go. Nor does Tarkin know that you are already... close. Lucky for you both.

Finally, he removes his sticky finger of your intimate fluids from your panties and slides it down to your nerve button, that blood-soaked blossom of flesh. And that's it. Krennic is tired of pumping your vagina. He's going to target the core of your pleasure. A long shiver runs down your spine and dies in the hollow of your back. What you realize is that the task of hiding what's going on under the table is going to be more intense than expected. Orson savors the spongy sensation of your clit. He doesn't touch it with his fingertips, but you can feel him enjoying the hardness of your little organ. He has fun taking it between two of his fingers, at first, and running it along its length. He squeezes the clitoris to make sure it's big, which makes you spasm. The painful throbbing sensation starts all over again. Your clitoris is in pain. Literally. You feel it pulsating. You feel it contracting, twitching under the uneven pressure of Krennic's fingers. You want to rip it off, take off your panties and tell him to take off his gloves. To tell him to be honest. To run his tongue along your intimate lips, to caress the walls of your vagina and suck your nerve bud to pain. You don't. You can't engage in such lovemaking in public. So, you just sigh at length, a little too lasciviously to be completely innocent. Tarkin looks up at you for a few seconds, thinking you are laughing at what he has just explained to Krennic. Under the intensity of that steely gaze, you arch your back further and lower your head to the depths of your teacup. You would like to disappear at once.

While you beg him inwardly to stop, or to start caressing him in a circular way, to better relieve you, rather than pressing him with so little force, he finally grants your wishes. Krennic has been torturing you for a few minutes, not stroking you enough to bring you to orgasm, but brushing and squeezing your organ enough that you feel a painful, throbbing tension that rushes you for relief.

He finally changes his approach. Krennic mercilessly closes his thumb and index finger. He presses on them until they take your breath away. These pressures are irregular, as he sometimes alternates with a short pause, before restarting with the same precision. When he stops, his finger crashes against your nerve core. You feel ecstatic pulsations and a kind of impatience at the idea that he comes to rub it. More than a desire, it is now a physiological need. With skilful circular movements, he makes you touch heaven in front of your own father. Up and down. Endlessly. Up and down. Slowly, then strongly. It starts with a simple touch and turns into a caress. His movements are repetitive because he sees how it works wonderfully on you. You squirm painfully in your chair, squeezing your thighs against his hand, praying that he will pull it out before anyone notices.

The pleasure increases, but not enough. There's a distance between you. Your panty fabric. You want him to take it off.

It's the last obstacle between you and your orgasm. “Governor?” a voice bellows, your father's lieutenant. He approaches Wilhuff Tarkin's back before whispering a few words in his ear. As you finish your cup of tea to hide the look on your face or the sound of your voice distorted by the pleasure rumbling inside you, you realize that Tarkin seems annoyed by his lieutenant's words. He claps his tongue against his pallet as a gesture of disapproval, before slowly standing up, firmly pressing his palms against the white tablecloth.

“Please excuse me for a moment. I have some business to attend to.” That call sounds the death knell. Now you know that once Tarkin is gone, nothing will stop Orson from going through with his taunt. Tarkin has been the only shield. Your protection.

Nothing will stop him now. “What a filthy little girl you are... you're asking for more, you're mooning over me in front of your own father... do you mind if I do naughty things to you in front of daddy? Because it turns me on a lot.” Krennic whispers as he brings his face close to yours for a while, whispering those words in your ear. He doesn't kiss you, doesn't bite your lobe, doesn't devour your neck. He brushes up against you, which is even worse. He grazes your cartilage with the tip of his lips, while deliberately blowing his hot breath into your ear to awaken a hoard of shivers down your neck.

He loves to see your hair standing on end for him. “That's not true...”, you moan lasciviously, while you try to push his hand away as much as you can. It’s fucking vain. Krennic is much stronger than you.

He pushes your wrist to impose his presence. “You want me to make you scream in his face, don't you?” breathes Krennic in a provocative tone.

Out of the corner of his eye, the director watches your father, who has gone out through the main doors with his lieutenant to settle an emergency hologram communication. “Stop what you’re doing to me immediately. This is not right, Director...”

Krennic insists even more in response. “I told you to call me Orson,” he growls, angrily.

“Naughty girl.” He stops stroking for a few seconds, and a sigh of relief escapes your lips at the thought that he has finally regained his senses. Instead, he pushes aside the fabric of the lace underwear. With just a few fingers, Orson reaches into the naked flesh covered in viscous fluids. A moan comes from your mouth. It's just... divine.

You've been waiting fifteen minutes for this sensual caress from him. A smile on his lips, Krennic then whispers in a caressing voice, “You want to know how many of my fingers are enough to fill you up ?” Indecent. Vulgar. Exciting. You are sweating.

You close your eyes. Then, without waiting, he comes to slip his fingers in the orifice of your vagina, between your hot walls. He introduces one of his gloved fingers, slowly but surely, to prepare you to receive him. “Let's see... One... two... three... Tell me which way you want me to finger you. Deep? On the top?” A second finger, then a third came to add to his deeper and harder thrusting. Krennic has big hands, beautiful masculine hands. Powerful and venous. His long, thick fingers are enough to fill any orifice, even more with his black gloves. He expects to squeeze moans from his poor victim. “You want more, don't you? Me fingering you deep and long... Me fucking you until the death of you.” That's what he intends to do, any minute now. But before that, he wants to hear you beg for his sex.

Krennic's narcissism is unsurpassed.

He fucks you, there is no other word. His gestures are strong, controlled, and insidious. Three fingers come and go, penetrating you to the guard, to the pain. He fucks you quickly, amused by the slight sucking noises that come out every time he moves away from your intimacy, only to come back in. He almost feels like he's fucking a river. You are twisting against his hand, in a state of confusion. Your locks stick to your temples and forehead. No matter how much you fight him off, he'll have the upper hand. He will always have it.

You find yourself wanting to end it. “Tell me how badly you want me in, sweetheart...” whispers Krennic. He wants you to beg him to finish you off, before he gets your father back. You're not going to run for him, are you? Then you realize that Krennic will never stop. You must come now... You must not let your father see this performance. You will not be able to hold back.

Not even in front of him. “Make me... Orson, please... Now...” you beg desperately against his cheek. Your breathes intermingle, at the indecent proximity of your faces, as well as your hands. Slowly, you wrap your fingers around his to encourage him to turn to the soft, sensitive little corner you enjoy so deeply. The one that makes you explode in no time. Your hips discreetly wiggle against your chair, to deepen Orson's caresses. He perseveres, smiling with a silly little smile. His fingers get into a faster, more precise rhythm, while his thumb returns to caress your clit. With strokes of pressure, his glove against the spongy texture of your nerve-filled organ. A few more strokes and it's over. A few more and... you'll cum. You'll cum in this restaurant. Orson tortures you, deliberately slowing the pace. You are pleading with your big eyes, a gleam of pure desperation shining in them. Soon, soon, you'll cum... A few more strokes on that spongy, blood-swollen and extremely sensitive clitoris.

A few more thrusts on that sensitive area deep inside your vagina, which Krennic fills with his curved fingers.

Once again... You feel the wave, it insidiously takes hold of your body, making you bend your back. You feel those tingles which symbolize the tension that rumbles through you. Like a thread that you pull until it finally bursts. All your muscles tense up, your pelvis arches, your belly presses against the edge of the tablecloth. Your breasts peak out in sumptuous mounds through your dress. Krennic doesn't touch them, so as not to be caught in such a delicate position with you, but the fact of contemplating them beneath the lace of your dress makes him even more hard. One hand against your mouth, you try to hide your soft squeaks and groans as the pleasure comes out to drive you crazy. You are biting your hand under the burning, sadistic gaze of Orson Krennic. He wants to see you lose all control. More and more your intimacy is rubbed, provoking your orgasm. Under the table, it's a real fire.

You’re observing the people around you in the restaurant, all those couples or small groups laughing while having an aperitif or having lunch together carefree. Just then, Tarkin's silhouette finally appears in the background of the hall. Crap. Tarkin returns, apparently in a bad mood. Krennic abruptly stops stroking you. Pulling his fingers away from you, leaving you angry and frustrated. Burning like a dry desert.  On the verge of an orgasm that unfortunately couldn't take possession of your body.

You rage, then tighten your robe tightly in the hollow of your fists. “Forgive me. I had an urgent communication.” murmurs the Grand Moff, apparently indifferent to what is happening between you now, as he wisely takes his seat again with a cold expression.

“Good timing, Governor.” Krennic says, while he’s wiping his glove on a corner of the tablecloth. “I was just telling your daughter that I had to leave. I've abused enough of your generosity.” He jokes mockingly about your little intimate and very pleasant encounter, as he stands up.

With a light gesture, Krennic throws back the flaps of his white cloak. You observe him getting up, and, above all, moving away from you with flashes of light in his eyes. How can he leave you in this state?

Close to cumming with a mere caress...

Krennic knows you'll want more. You'll come back to him to finish you off. And finally, you will be his for good. He will fuck you against the nearest piece of furniture. He will bring you to your knees. You will forget all loyalty to Tarkin to embrace his.

As Krennic leaves, your father turns his attention back to your face, still confused by what has just happened. A victorious smile spreads across his face, like a carnivore about to feast. Tarkin feels he has exposed enough of Krennic's flaws to convince you to follow his philosophy. As you part your lips to say something, Tarkin raises his hand and cuts you off in anticipation.

“As for what you were telling me about a few minutes ago...” Tarkin gives off a magnetic aura that sweeps you along in its trail. “It is agreed.”

“Father, forget what I told you...” you mumble, believing you heard a negative answer, before changing your mind. Excitement is such that a heartbeat or two misses, causing you to gasp in surprise. “Do you seriously mean what you just said?”

“Of course, I do.” he replies as naturally as possible. “I even think it's an excellent thing to study precisely what we are achieving for the glorious Empire.” Tarkin finishes his beverage, before placing it gently back on the table. “You will accompany me, initially, to the Death Star. Then we'll see what you learn there.”

Tarkin offers you a very strange alternative, and at first you don't realize how perverse his intentions are.

“Really?” A smile settles on your rosy lips. You finally feel like you're on the same page. Better than that, you feel that he trusts you.

You do not ignore what the Death Star is. Once you're in the inner circle of the most powerful, you're sure to have access to valuable information. You are far from being the exception. You often have a front row seat to Wilhuff Tarkin's fantastic designs. You listen wisely to what he's trying to teach you, his unstoppable philosophy, the project of a lifetime. You cannot disappoint him, so you must let yourself be shaped in his image. His doctrine is also yours.

“But... the Director...”

“Any problem with Krennic?”

“No, none.” you lie shamelessly. “It seemed to me that you did not want me to be brought into contact with him.”

“Good.” Tarkin seems satisfied. “You two will talk, it's good for your learning, whatever I think of his pushy personality, he's someone with a knowledgeable background.”

“What should I do?”

“You'll have to simply endure the director's presence in my absence.”

“He will be aboard the Star?” This seems to surprise you half to death – you're actually very good at feigning surprise. Orson has already told you about it, but Tarkin is not supposed to know about it.

“For two weeks only.” Tarkin's gaze hardens almost instantly. You see his features tighten, which seems to make you strangely happy. It's amazing what a simple eyebrow frown can do to you. You feel like a winner. “I didn't quite understand the reason – Krennic is always so messy in his explanations... He must go somewhere else in a few days.”

“He's doing great things for the Empire,” you say in an arrogant tone, while you’re wanting to challenge him.

You can't help but stand up for him in the face of your father's injustice. He judges it with amusement - the corner of his lips curves into a smug little sneer.

Tarkin lowers his two cold orbs to the contents of a carafe, of pure water, before returning his penetrating gaze to yours. You expect a sigh, but it doesn't come. Instead, he looks at you with an inquisitive look. His fingers reach for his silver spoon, and he gently places it next to a porcelain plate. All Tarkins are maniacs. “That's not good enough,” he says in a voice as cold as a winter breeze.

He pauses briefly, letting you slowly relax in your seat. “You're looking more like your mother every day, (Y/N).” Is that a compliment or an insult – you're unfortunately not sure about that. Part of you wants to believe it's a sign of affection on his part. Wilhuff Tarkin brings up your mother's blind fanaticism – the one she feels for him. You apparently feel the same for Orson Krennic.

“Has Director Krennic done something wrong?”

“Krennic is always doing something wrong.”

“The Director has always been perfectly respectful in my presence.”

“Of course, Krennic is quite a charming man when you get to know him,” he teases.

Something inside you burns as you think back to the moments you shared – you and him. Intimate moments that stay in your memory.

“Your relationship is far from being an equal one. Don't forget to remind him that you are my observer, and as such, you have authority over him. Obviously, you are here to learn. I would hope that you would bring back some things that are... unnatural.”

“I thought I was here to learn.”

“Sure, you'll learn things from him, but you'll teach me things too.”

You finally understand his apparent gentleness, especially the ease with which he agrees to send you to Krennic. For a split second you thought he really cared about you. He’s hoping to take advantage of Krennic's weakness to get you to share his confidences with him. You didn't think he would make you, his spy. That puts you in a complicated position.

One important fact you don't know yet is that Orson Krennic is unaware of your upcoming arrival, not to mention its purpose. You naively think he'll be happy about it. You don't know that he wants everything from you, except to see you dragged into his battle station on the blessing of his worst enemy.

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SOS! I'm trying to fin a fanfic I read a while ago where Jyn Erso is captured not knowing she's pregnant and ends up having Cassian Andor's baby in prison (secretly) and then when he rescues her, he's surprised to find a child with her... I think it was on AO3 or Fanfiction.net. Does anyone else remember this fic?

I would really like the ending of Rogue One to be such that all the heroes survived at the end and they just all gathered together and watched from the window with popcorn as Luke blew up the death star

I’ve been rewatching Rogue One reliably every night recently, and in the final battle, the tide seems to turn in the Empire’s favor after they scramble their fighters, which begs the question. Why is it not standard naval doctrine in Star Wars to gun for destroying hangars to establish fighter supremacy. Like, I don’t think I’ve seen that, and it would be effective as shit. They did it in WWII to great effect. The rebels had the drop, then allowed the empire to scramble hundreds of fighters to oppose them. Just, why?

“Hate the Dutch? I don’t hate the Dutch, I love the Dutch. That’s why I hold them to a higher standard”

I’ve been rewatching Rogue One reliably every night recently, and in the final battle, the tide seems to turn in the Empire’s favor after they scramble their fighters, which begs the question. Why is it not standard naval doctrine in Star Wars to gun for destroying hangars to establish fighter supremacy. Like, I don’t think I’ve seen that, and it would be effective as shit. They did it in WWII to great effect. The rebels had the drop, then allowed the empire to scramble hundreds of fighters to oppose them. Just, why?