Warnings: !!spoilers!!, some fluff!!, smut, explicit language, unprotected sex, oral (m&f receiving), cum eating, vaginal fingering, face sitting, slight praise kink, mentions of violence/death, (lmk if I missed anything please!!)
a/n: not too proud abt this one but oh well hope you enjoy!!! thank you for your patience!
The funeral is drab, and the weather even worse. The crowd is a swath of black—solemn faces of the mayor’s colleagues and bitter contempt of the public who emerged to pay homage, or to spit on the mayor’s casket. You can’t blame them for that. You’d rather mingle with the crowd than be standing on the smooth steps of the town hall—scrutinized for whatever the public assumes you’ve done wrong.
Your mother is a tipping point—you love her, you really do, but Christ she’s overwhelming. Swarmed by cameras, gaudy public statements and hounded by media is not your cup of tea. Senator Nahdi thrives in it. It’s a good thing your parents all but scrubbed away your existence—different last name, no sight of you on campaigns or honorable mentions—a ghost. If anything, you’re mistaken as her assistant and not as her daughter.
With Hearts Aflame (Batman/Bruce Wayne x fem!reader)
PART ONE PART TWO
Rated: Mature, Explicit 18+
Word Count: 8.4k
Warnings: !!spoilers!!, some fluff!!, smut, sex at the bat tower lmfao, explicit language, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), semi-public fucking, vaginal fingering, ruined orgasms, overstimulation, slight praise kink, mentions of violence/death, (lmk if I missed anything please!!)
a/n: ruh row it’s getting complicated
The current atmosphere of your life, at the moment, can be described as nothing but tumultuous. From your overloaded work load, a masked freak acting like a shitty rendition of Jigsaw, to fucking a vigilante the city calls Batman. Sounds like a shitty sitcom.
At this point, you’re so sleep deprived you’re starting to hallucinate. Not in the I see dead people sorta away…just the, y’know, like when your eyes feel like lead but every so often black dots appear in and out of your vision, but you can’t sleep due to your unlucky situation. You’d never hear the end of it if you fell asleep in the field, face down in a pile of key evidence you need to collect.
And the worst part of it is—you can easily fix it. All that you need to do is give Gordon a call, tell him you’re out and boom. Your sleep schedule is magically fixed—no more late nights and no more undercover work without pay.
Until Ashes Are All You Breathe (Batman/Bruce Wayne x fem!reader)
PART ONE PART THREE
Rated: Mature, Explicit 18+
Word Count: 6.8k
Warnings: !!spoilers!!, smut, sex in the batmobile, explicit language, unprotected sex, handjobs, vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, edging, mentions of violence/someone getting shot, (lmk if I missed anything please!!)
a/n: WELL HERES A SECOND PART BC I CANT CONTROL MYSELF SJKWEJHR also I do not cARE that the bat mobile is too small–I have taken creative liberties so wkjrkjr
The mayor is dead.
You get the call not even an hour after the murder has taken place.
It’s a gruesome scene—not so much as gory, but more along the lines of completely fucked up. Bashed in skull, wrapped in ductape and plastic wrap. This is something beyond the simple, random act of violence or a targeted, passionless hit. This is…personal. And the weirdest thing about it is that, there’s a letter taped to his chest addressed to the Batman.
Hits a little too close to home—no one knows you’re in cahoots with the guy save for Gordon. Your reputation is still fresh and you’re young. Your image can’t be tarnished this early in your career working with vigilante justice, Gordon explained. Gives the station a bad rap—specially if it came to attention that a crime scene tech was passing off evidence to the certain vigilante in question. Not even Gordon nor the haughty position your mother holds as senator could save you from that sort of backlash.
And so, like you’ve always done since you’ve been hired—you keep your head down. You focus on your work, documenting every stray fiber, scuff mark, stain and beyond. Some people, however, do not respect these perimeters you’ve set for yourself.
if you are taking requests i would love to see flag with a really soft reader! it would be so cute 🥰
A/N: Rick Flag x F!Reader. Brief mentions of smut. Fluff. Gore. Me stuck using just random gifs of Joel because I'm running out of SS ones.
These are the nights he fights for.
At least that’s what he tells himself in order to keep going and pull through and one more mission - one more mile - one more bomb to defuse and then I’m home.
“This movie is terrible,” he deadpans as he shoves more popcorn into his mouth.
You twist your body to stare up at him - big eyes reflecting the blue screen - the shrieking face of some cheerleader getting her throat cut.
“It’s October, Rick,” you pinch his waist and he jerks - still stupidly ticklish.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we’re watching shitty horror movies until Halloween.”
He places the popcorn bowl at his side and wraps a firm arm around your hips so he can pull you flush to his chest. You squeak - your ass wriggling against his crotch and - shit - he’s hard (he’d been half-hard since the movie started - since he came home to you three days ago. Constantly ready to fuck you into any surface available). “We could be doing lots of other fun things rather than watch...” he gestures to the screen where a chick is getting stabbed through the forehead. “...this.”
“Babe - we did all those fun things an hour ago and the hour before that and this morning,” you curl deeper into him - your fingers picking at the cotton of his shirt. “I need a break.”
He grumbles, the heat he holds for you is something all-consuming and he knows he can’t get enough. The next mission will come and he will go with the orders drilled into his head and all the while he will dream of you and think of you and hope that he returns one more time. He strokes the back of your neck - squeezing the warm skin. His soft girl - his girl, period.
He remembers the first time he’d met you - little nurse sewing the jagged wound across his bicep. The damp press of your breath and when he’d asked you your name, your eyes had drifted up and shined.
“That’s pretty,” he said - fidgeting under your touch - the sting of the needle.
“I suppose.”
He glanced at you. “It is.”
Your lips quirked - expression relaxing as you returned to the bleeding mess of his arm. He flinched again and quickly apologized. “I’m a bad patient.”
“Not as bad as the others.”
He frowned. “Others?”
“The rest of your squad,” you explained. “Very jumpy - especially the crocodile.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You patched them up?”
“Of course - they were injured.”
“Waller doesn’t usually allow that.”
You blinked at him - distaste wrinkling your nose. “They’re still people.” You dragged your fingertips over the puckered flesh of his wound - the pink and red and nasty tissue. He could smell you - floral and sweet. Girlish. It made him think of sundresses and long grass and he suddenly wanted to see you in one.
They’re still people. It hung between you - that strange truth that Rick thought was only his to carry.
“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed. “They are.”
He tightens his grip on you - yanking you into his lap as the screams from the television echo in your small living room. You’re a kind thing - too kind for someone like him. He worries every day that something will go wrong - that someone will find out about you and take you from him or use you as bait.
Waller had before - with June - with other people Flag had shown a smidge of interest in.
Hell - even the fucking Joker had been infamous for pulling those cards - capturing the loved ones of the people who tried to screw with him. Harley had laid it all out - giving Rick every detail of that piece of shit’s disgusting pattern of thinking.
He’s on crazy-backwards, Flag. Won’t hesitate to hurt yah where he can, you know? He did it to me - a lot - every day - until I liked it and all.
He murmurs your name and you lift your chin to look at him. There’s that bare face - that open and trusting gorgeous face that he would kill for. He sweeps his thumb over your jaw as his lips hover just above yours and he knows that he’d do just about anything for you. He’d like to get out of his line of work - maybe settle down - figure out all his wreckage so he’d have a clean slate.
Take you with him. Far and away from Waller. Maybe - a ranch. Maybe - anywhere else than the slick, tar-dark streets of this city.
“You wanna play, Rick?” you whisper - nails scraping through his hair - tits shoved up against the relaxed thrum of his heartbeat. That’s the other thing - he’s calm with you - his head is on straight. These are the small blessings he asks for and is given. What he thinks about when he presses his temple to his gun and prepares to storm a fire-fight.
“Thought you wanted to finish the movie, darlin,” he teases - touching at the band of your sweats - skating inside to feel where you are warm and wet.
“This movie sucks,” you mumble before you kiss him.
#96 with krennic, perhaps? 👀 or the character of your choice if you’d prefer someone else!
oooOoo this is a good one.
orson krennic x f!reader
tags; smut, nsfw, soft dom vibes
Orson’s fingers dig into the flesh of your hips, his grip guiding you up onto the desk. In a swift, fluid movement, he drags the hem of your skirt to your waist before prying your thighs apart, making enough room for himself.
You pull his head down with the hold of your arms wrapped around his neck, pressing a shambolic kiss to his lips, and he indulges you with an oddly patient slip of his tongue. His fingers loosen to a caress; you feel his skin swirling against yours. You roll your hips into him, pouting.
“You made me wait all day,” you complain, reaching for his belt. “I want you to fuck me now.”
A gleam of outrage flickers across Orson’s face, and he stalls, one of his hands swatting yours away so he can pull his cock out himself, the other squeezing your chin. “Rather insolent,” he says in a warning tone, but he smiles.
“You’re not being fair,” you whine as you work the buttons of your shirt, revealing your chest to tempt him. “You’ve been teasing me all day, and now I want you to -“
Orson thrusts himself inside of you completely, harshly; you draw in a sharp breath. “Do you truly think it a good idea to talk that way to me?” He positions his weight against your so that you’re pinned to the spot, his cock now driving into you so roughly, the desk is rocking against the wall. Your eyes roll back before he alerts you with his hand wrapped around your throat. “If you want to get fucked, you’ll be polite, won’t you, darling?”
“Yes, director,” you manage between whimpers, gripping the desk as you move your hips with his.
He kisses you again, this time with more force, his thumb grazing over your jaw possessively. “Good girl,” he tells you, but you release a cry of disappointment when he withdraws from your heat. “But I’m afraid now you’ll have to beg.”
I don’t understand the concept of hating “like spamming” or “reblog spamming”. As someone with ADHD and hyperfocus, if you go onto my blog and get lost in the sauce enough to practically reblog the last 5 days worth of stuff I reblogged then good on you my dude my friend my bean, please keep it up I’m glad you like it have a cookie fam, you deserve it cause we have the same taste and I feel like my blog is a public library of stuff I find entertaining so enjoy the browse.
“aren’t you tired?” “i’m fine. don’t worry about me.” for the prompt thing? 👀 (i was gonna send this earlier but i got distracted)
(ily thank you)
let's pretend this is from the KILAS universe
It's sort of unfair that you have to do this work for the Empire. When accepting such a long-term mission - one that might surely kill you - you'd had a tendency to overlook that you'd be taking a job. It's also incredibly difficult to resist the temptation to sabotage these reports. You know that, in a very roundabout way, you are. And doing the work on this end makes it all the more believable. You're certain that staying up this late (the little clock in the right hand corner of your screen reads 1:01am), appearing to be so dedicated to military strategy, definitely gives you some spy kudos.
Besides, you can't really sleep, anyway. It's only been three very interesting weeks since you'd managed to seduce Director Krennic. For the first week, you'd been too proud of yourself for cracking his layer of ice to even manage to get him alone and exchange banter, let alone in bed. And all that excitement had been pent up - communication with the Rebellion was almost minimal, save for the little glances you shared with other insiders, so you didn't even have anyone to share the victory with.
A victory for the Rebellion, not you. You remind yourself of that daily, hourly, by the minute.
By the second week, you'd found yourself...eager. Yes, he was talented in bed. Your chemistry was unnervingly spectacular. By day fifteen, you decided, after deliberate thought, that he must be the best you've ever had. The realization made your insides pool in your stomach; you can still visualize pushing your breakfast away on the dining hall table, appetite usurped by mortification.
By the third week in, only four days ago, you found yourself sighing midday, thinking about him. It was bad - very bad.
You want to find him repulsively evil, positively awful.
That is becoming the most challenging part of this entire mission. Does this sort of thing ever happen to Cassian, you wonder to yourself - you trained under him for some time and while the subject of getting this close on the job arose, he never mentioned feelings. Cassian, clearly, isn't as weak as you are. You're contemplating getting up for another cup of caf; you rub the heels of your palms into your eyes as they sear with pain from looking at the screen, from a lack of sleep. Getting into bed just makes you want Orson, and you don't want to want Orson, but -
"Aren't you tired?"
You jump a bit; you're in a communal space, so the interruption isn't uncalled for, but it's too late. And you definitely aren't expecting Orson to be the one behind your shoulder. He's been away, something about Vader, and you didn't know when to expect him back. You note his almost authoritative look, lips pursed like he's affronted, eyes narrowed.
You release a nervous laugh, swiping your screen away; the room becomes noticeably darker as it dissipates. "I'm fine," you reply, swatting at the air, dismissing the sentiment. "I just have trouble sleeping sometimes, so I thought I'd be productive. Don't worry about me."
Orson chuckles; it's more of a weird hum of acknowledgement, and you feel your body tense with - is it excitement? Anticipation? Giddiness? you think with a concerned cringe - as he sits on the arm of the overstuffed chair you're currently plopped into.
"Trouble sleeping alone?" he goads, leaning into you with a cloaked elbow. He reels back for a moment, studying you, and reaches his hand out, tucking his notched finger and thumb beneath your jaw. He tilts your head one way, and then the other, examining you with scrutiny. His hand fall away when he sighs, your lips parting when he curls his grip around your bicep, patting it with a touch of finality. "That's enough for tonight. We have a briefing at nine."
This is beyond touching, you think, not thrilled about your stupid insides turning to quick-jelly. He isn't moving, he seems content to wait for you to close your mouth and drag yourself from this particularly cushy chair, which could be contributing to your tiredness, now that you're thinking of it, and he steadies you as you find your footing.
"Thank you," you say, finding yourself staring at him before darting your eyes to your boots. You're actually bashful, even after the things he's said to you, the things he's done, that you can't seem to get enough of -
"Sleep is an imperative if we plan to convince the governors to increase weapon research funding," Orson tells you, tugging on the hem of his gloves, "but why don't you follow me." He lets his hands fall at his sides, and fixes you with a stern look, though you swear you notice something soft about his expression, in his eyes. "That way I know you'll rest."
Soon you're nodding, smiling what's likely a very sleepy, stupid smile, and allowing him to usher you from the room with a hand on the small of your back, and you sink a little against it, content.
tags; brace yourselves...degradation, hair pulling, spitting, spanking, smut, hard dom!!!, all consensual obvs
summary; he was an imp, you were a rebel spy, can i make it anymore obvious
a/n; this is absolutely the smuttiest smut i've smutted since the spring of 2020. i guess i needed to get this out of my system with a VILLAIN it really took an imperial bad guy to get me to not be a romantic sap. please enjoy my likely temporary fixation of this jerk. thank you @gooddaykate for not letting me slip into soft!dom territory as i am wont to (or did i) and for tolerating krennic for this long ily
Grasping your arm, his grip punishing, Orson steers you into his room, the door hissing shut behind him.
“What?” you grouse irritably, though his frustration is plain.
You shake out of his hold, rubbing your arm and nursing it dramatically as you deposit yourself on to the edge of his bed. Only eleven hours ago, a large group of Rebel fighters had attacked an Imperial base - one that had been believed to be undetected - and there had to be an obligatory visit to punish someone. The attack had ended badly for the Empire. You couldn’t believe your dumb luck when the Emperor himself hadn’t come- that, likely, would have revealed too much weakness, showing how much it affected his defense. Tarkin had been the messenger, and had not failed to relay Vader’s temper to Krennic. Orson took it stoically, but you, you.
Was Orson a friend? Orson was an Imp, someone you’d been sent to help destroy.
It’s funny how time can humanize almost anyone.
Orson was supposed to be a false colleague, a false friend. He’s become, entirely by accident, someone you'd be very intimate with. But, beyond work, wasn’t it superficial? Even on the surface, to him? He had no idea who you were - the name he called you by wasn’t even your own, but an alias. You cataloged in your memory certain moments that made you question his view of you and your complicated situation, question your entire existence, but at the present, you shoved them away in your mind, into your inner filing cabinet of Things You Ought to Confront but Currently Will Not.
Anyway, apparently you hadn’t been able to resist the opportunity to talk back to Tarkin. Anger rose inside you like bile, listening to him speak to Krennic the way he did. Why had it bothered you so much? Krennic had done a terrific job at looking thoroughly annoyed at you, but you swore you’d detected gratitude.
Maybe you were making it up. Especially considering the way he reacted once Tarkin had reboarded his own craft and sped away. Now, Orson likely hadn’t wanted Tarkin’s admonishment to be spoken of, let alone wanted to be rescued by you. He’s glaring at you, blue eyes searing with a concealed, trembling anger.
You’re the one who should be angry with yourself. You’re beginning to forget why you’re here in the first place.
As one of the Rebellion’s most accomplished Alliance Intelligence officers, you’ve played your role well; other insiders planted you as an Imperial strategist. To Tarkin, your outburst in Orson’s defense only solidified your supposed loyalty to him, to the Empire, albeit outed you as stubborn and a tad insolent. But that hadn’t been your intention, you hadn’t been acting. Shielding Orson had been a complete impulse. You did it because you meant it, and part of you feels ill at the realization. He stands before you, bearing imposing, and you feel the need to soften his features. You look away, almost ashamed of yourself.
Almost.
Sleeping with the enemy for the sake of intel isn’t a foreign concept, nor was it frowned upon. It’s often necessary and effective. Sleeping with Orson Krennic is supposed to serve a greater purpose.
You’d be lying to yourself if you said you hadn’t been dragging this mission out. He had a particular style in bed that suited your needs; it began after what was supposed to have been a relaxing evening after a taxing day of audits. Drinks and stress made you bold and witty banter turned flirtatious, until you dared him to act. You’d been surprised at his reluctance.
“Such a big talker,” you’d tutted, delighted by how flushed he seemed, how slighted he had been by that comment. “Maybe I am too young for you.”
The ship you’d been on had been almost empty save for a crew, and there were hardly any other options for entertainment. And cozying up to the director had been a lofty goal, but you had to try.
Even now, months later, heat coils in your core at the memory of that first time. “Taking colleagues to bed is always a mess,” he had replied coolly. “But you seem to be begging to be fucked.”
I’m in, you remember thinking. “If that’s an invitation…”
In over your head.
“It isn’t, not yet,” he’d corrected arrogantly, discarding his drink on a coaster. The severe look on his face had made your entire body thrum with want. “Beg harder.“
You’d be attempting to deceive yourself in vain to say you didn’t enjoy it; that you didn’t seek his company, or consider his skin in the game with compassion. The Rebellion knows all too well that there are likely hundreds, thousands of individuals within the Empire that are too indoctrinated, too inculcated to truly be evil, though Orson is likely more self-serving than anything; he truly believes what the Empire does it right because it’s all he knows. This is what you tell yourself. This is how you cope with this sudden and unexpected weakness, in the form of a man, who currently paces tensely along the pristine marbled floors, boots clicking in the ringing silence.
“Oh, come on. Tarkin never directs any of the emperor’s complaints at me; I’m the defense strategist! It’s hard to keep quiet when it’s mostly my fault. I don’t understand why he took that out on you -“
“Because I am your superior! And that little display back there, you might as well have sunk to your knees and sucked my cock right on the loading bay!” he cries, nostrils flared, a gloved hand gesturing towards the eastern end of the room.
Your cheeks heated wildly at the image, but Orson hadn’t meant it to be tongue in cheek, judging by his fury. Sometimes, like this very moment, lines blur. You’re so submerged in this mission that you’re beginning to forget who you are. Another note filed for your compartment. “I wasn’t trying to be belittling,” you reply calmly, carefully. “I felt guilty.”
“That’s hardly the issue,” he mutters through a sigh, tone impatiently bored. His cap is still neatly in place, his cape swishing behind him as he continues his stalking of his sleek quarters. Everything is black and white, crisp, gleaming. It’s an amusing contrast to what occurs in his bed, and you fight the nervous urge to smirk. “We do not need to raise suspicions; Tarkin doesn’t need to know I’m fucking my strategist. And, frankly, your opinion means very little to him, nor does mine. The emperor’s indignation is entirely called for, don’t you think?” He spits this last bit out, his rage ticking up again. “That rebel attack was nothing short of an ambush. We were completely unprepared.”
There’s an odd expectancy in his tone, and you inwardly bristle at it. You don’t, however, detect wariness, necessarily. “They’re advancing, it would seem,” you offer matter of factly, forcing disappointment into your voice. “That isn’t too great of a shock. We’ve been aware of the Rebel’s numbers for some time.”
At this, Orson turns on his heels, frowning lazily as he bends to grab you by the throat, delicately but firmly dragging your face closer to his. “And if they are, tension is high; the last thing you ought to be doing is playing riposte with the likes of the Grand Moff,” he reprimands in a steadily raised voice, searching your face with his eyes. They’re very blue, and you hate your rising attraction at this moment. All you can focus on is his kriffing mouth. “You were undermining me, whether you choose to accept that or not.”
You swallow, feeling the cool leather wrapped tightly in place. “That wasn’t my intention.”
“Then what was, my dear?” he asks, feigning curiosity.
“I don’t know -“
“That is obvious! Do I look like I need assistance?”
Yes, you want to say, mostly because you like him a little aggressive, no matter how pitiful the reason behind it. But part of you feels a strange, true empathy for him. Krennic is powerless in an indomitable wheel, threatened to be crunched if he no longer serves a purpose. Loyalty and dedication is nothing within the Empire. Didn’t he see it?
But you’re wise, and his face is nearly close enough to kiss him. “No, you don’t,” you mumble, wetting your lips with your tongue, trying to entice him, though you’re aware he has every intention to fuck you.
Orson leans in enough so that the tip of his nose is flush against yours, and his lips ghost over your mouth. “If you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll keep in check for Tarkin, for me,” he warns. “I am your better; you’ll keep that mouth shut in front of him and the emperor, if you’re ever lucky enough to gain an audience.”
Your blood seizes at that. “I don’t think I’m important enough for the emperor -“
“I will determine that,” he says. “Do I make myself clear?”
You squeeze your thighs together. “Yes, director.”
He hums thoughtfully before pressing a hard kiss to your mouth. You practically sink against it, desperate for more contact, and his tongue slips past your lips for a lingering moment before he pulls away, thoroughly enjoying your little whine of protest.
“Get undressed,” he instructs. “Now.”
As he straightens, you will yourself to slow down, to mask your eagerness as you remove your polished black boots, the stiff Imperial uniform, letting your pants and undergarments pool around your feet. Your skin pebbles as it's exposed to the crisp, recycled air of the starship, but you don’t mind; you unbutton two pesky buttons at your neck before dragging the suffocating blouse away, removing each layer of fabric until you’re completely bare.
Where does the Rebellion end and the Empire begin? Where might an Alliance Intelligence officer and Imperial strategist meet?
Where does Krennic lie, between lover and enemy?
It doesn’t matter; right now, nothing does.
Orson watches you with a collected, even expression, removing his cap, unclipping the hooks of his cape and draping it over a dresser of minimal design. He too removes his stiff, collared coat, sporting only an Imperial issued, long sleeve shirt of a slate black, neatly tucked into his belted trousers. He blinks as he folds his arms over his chest; maybe it’s your training, but you detect the slightly hitched breath, the dilated pupils. These signs were for survival, at first. Now you check if they’re present because you need to know he wants you as badly you do him.
He drops onto his bed, the high quality mattress barely dipping against his weight, and he pats one of his thighs routinely. “Come,” he orders.
You’re dizzy with anticipation, and you’re half-tempted to beg him for a release already. Your center is already throbbing. But you obey, lightly padding over to him; his hold around one of your wrists as he guides you over his lap, rear up, is almost adoring.
Almost.
You inhale through a little gasp as his gloves run along your thigh, spreading them apart; you instinctively arch your back into his touch. You wince, seizing up when he brings a broad palm down against your ass, smacking you firmly. The leather of his gloves stings against your skin, and he continues running them up and down your thighs.
“If you aren’t soaked by the time I’ve finished this,” he says, “there will be a price to pay.”
There won’t be room for punishment with that command. Orson smacks you several times before you lose count, your backside radiating with more heat with each blow. You feel swollen by the time you’ve sunk against him, your whimpers of pain dripping in pleasure muffled into his comforter. Without warning, he grabs you by the hair at the base of your neck, turning your head around to face him, pulling hard.
“You won’t disappoint me, will you?” he asks, pursing his lips into an insincere frown. His tidy grey hair is still neatly parted to one side; you decide that your goal for the evening is to see it fall from place.
“No, director,” you purr. Between your legs is aching for him to touch you.
Still wearing gloves, he prods at your entrance with two leather fingers, nudging your thighs apart, and enters you from behind. His speed is intentional; he’s not giving you much, barely curling his fingers between your walls. Groaning, you edge backwards, chasing depth. Orson tightens his grip on your hair and you let out a strangled sound, sucking in a sharp breath as he tugs harder. “Impatient tonight,” he observes, and he withdraws from your heat, forcefully shoving you from his lap to position you between his legs on your knees, your neck craned awkwardly as he continues to lead you by your hair. He threads his fingers deeper against your scalp, forcing you to look at him. The chilled tile beneath your knees is a shock, and you involuntarily shiver.
“Open your filthy little mouth,” he murmurs darkly, holding the fingers just inside you in front of your lips.
You’re buzzing with want; you want to plead with him to let you touch yourself, but it’s too soon. You part your lips a bit, and with a harsh, critical look, he tilts your head upwards slightly. You let your lips envelope his digits, the taste of leather and arousal filling your mouth as you run your tongue over them, sucking eagerly once you take them down your throat. You can’t help the rock of your hips as you squeeze your legs together, desperate for relief. Locking eyes with Orson’s very blue ones, you’re certain you look as wanton as you feel as you hesitantly place your hands on his knees, balancing yourself as you continue to clean his gloves inch by inch. You feel saliva pool from the corners of your mouth as you moan, your tongue lapping against his fingers before taking them down again. It’s too much; your hands are trembling as you will them to remain in place, the need to reach between his legs overwhelming you. Slowly they inch up his thighs, your fingernails digging into the fabric of his trousers as you moan around his fingers, your chin and mouth damp.
He tugs your hair; the force is enough to bring tears to your eyes, and he pulls the hand in your mouth away. “Greedy slut. I should gag you for that. What are the rules, darling?”
“Hands to myself,” you reply dutifully, and you feel your face crumple in disappointment. “Please, fuck my mouth.”
“And what was I just doing?” he asks incredulously, his eyes widening as he shakes his head.
“With your cock. Please -”
“Say it again, whore.”
“Fuck my mouth with your cock, please.”
“That’s better,” he says, unfastening his belt and opening his trousers with the hand not fisted in your hair. “You can be so good when you’re not being an insufferable little brat.” You watch with a watering mouth as he frees his cock, already very erect, and you lick your lips. He commands your attention with another yank of your hair. “Don’t forget,” he reminds you, “eyes.”
Nodding, your smile glazed over with lust, you dip your mouth between his legs, careful not to break away from his gaze as you part your lips for the tip of his cock, wrapping your tongue around it with a moan. Your blood sings with pride when he releases an almost indistinguishable sigh of contentment. He guides you a bit more gently now, fucking your throat slowly at first, savoring the feeling of your hot mouth taking him nearly to the hilt. Your eyes flutter shut before you force them open again, looking up at him with hooded eyes.
“That was close,” he teases mockingly, and you cry out another moan as one of his hands reaches to your breasts, massaging one roughly. “It’s a wonder you’ve survived this long in the Empire. This sort of work requires a strength you don’t seem to possess. You can do much better than this, can’t you? Disobedient whore.”
As he speaks, he bobs your head up and down vigorously on his cock; you choke on him several times, your eyes watering, before he relieves you, pulling your head back again. Your stare is intent as you take him again, your mouth swollen and puffy. He doesn’t seem to mind as your eyes close, lost in pleasure, and your fingers grip beneath the hem of his shirt, grasping his waist, taking him down your throat again.
Orson’s hips jerk as he hauls your head up. He tsks, looking into his lap. “What a mess you’ve made. This won’t do.” You follow his gaze; his trousers are soaked with saliva, dark spots covering them. “An eye for an eye, right, darling?”
You’re not prepared as he draws back just slightly before spitting in your face, taking perfect aim with the hold on your hair. It coats your skin, your eyelashes blinking against it, and he taps your lips. “Take them off.”
Careful to miss his fingertip, you bite down on the fabric and pull with your teeth, helping him guide his hand out of his gloves. He releases your hair only for a moment before taking it in his other hand, wordlessly instructing you to take off the other. His bare skin is warm and you want to lean into it as he grabs you by the jaw, his grip threatening to bruise. The cool air dries the spit on your face, evidence of your punishment.
“You took that very well,” he remarks, a hint of approval in his tone. You notice his perfect hair, still neatly in place, as he releases yours. “Get on the bed. On your knees.”
Your legs are shaking violently as you rise, the back of your head throbbing in the ghost of his hold. Your thighs are coated in slickness as you crawl onto the bed. You remain on all fours for only moments before he’s behind you, the tip of his cock pushing into your soaked entrance with ease. You groan out as he sinks into you completely, one hand bracing on your hip and the other gathering another fistful of hair. His hips begin a rhythmic pace immediately.
“It’s a wonder you’re so tight, given what a cock-hungry whore you are,” he growls, the hand on your hip tightening to a painful pinch of your skin. “And so wet. Filthy little whore.”
Months ago, you’d dared him to speak to you that way, not believing he had it in him. Orson Krennic was full of surprises.
You arch your back, rolling your head into his grip as a bare hand smacks your ass. He seems to marvel at your hips, holding onto you so tightly it hurt. You know there’d be marks in the morning, and the thought make your core ache, despite being filled by him. His cock thrusts inside you roughly, and you whimper through the delicious pain.
Your clit is throbbing; you were desperate for contact, for friction. “Please,” you whine, “I have to come.”
Orson barks out a gruff laugh, and he stils his movements before slowly edging in and out of you. Leaning over your back, he drags your head back, whispering in your ear. “Already? Weak.”
But he reaches around your hips, his fingers finding the space between your legs, and he presses two against your clit, moving in circles with light pressure. A growl tears its way through your throat, your eyes clamping shut.
“Fuck,” you whimper. “Thank you.”
His mouth lingers by your ear, his cock still agonizingly slow as it stretches you. “The little slut remembers her manners.”
His pace quickens slowly as his fingers works, artful and commanding, and it’s close. You’re very close, you can feel an eruption just below the surface of your skin. You feel your walls start to tighten, your breath caught and held in your chest as you inch back into him, writhing -
He feels it too, clearly. “Not like this.”
You loosen a frustrated, dry sob as he releases you, pulling out, but he gives you little time to complain. He rolls you onto your back, pushing your thighs apart and angling his cock between them, one hand gripped around himself, the other digging into the flesh of your thigh. You wish he wasn’t wearing clothes - that kriffing uniform - you love the occasions where you can feel his skin against yours. Not tonight, not yet. Your cunt is pulsing with the sudden loss, and you wriggle beneath him uselessly, pouting.
“Hands above your head, little slut. You wanted to come?”
“Mmhm,” you simper, face screwed up pleadingly. “Please, director.”
On his knees, between yours, he pushes the tip of his cock against your clit, moving it in a similar pattern his fingers worked. You pull your legs back, moaning loudly.
“Fuck, Orson, please -“
He stills and grabs your chin harshly. He squeezes your cheeks, forcing open your mouth; your teeth catch against the insides of them and it hurts. He spits between your lips. “Call me that again while I fuck you, I dare you.”
You swallow, lost in a haze of lust. “I’m sorry, director.”
He releases you with a shove, and your head falls back against the bed. He reaches above it and pins your wrists down, his weight painful as he continues to work your clit with his cock.
“Filthy whore, you wanted to come. Now, come.”
His permission is instantaneous; he only works for a few more moments before you cry out with your climax, your body convulsing beneath him as you ride your release.
When it becomes too much, too sensitive, you instinctively move to push him away and your thighs make an attempt at closing. He laughs, pressing his cock down more firmly, the pressure almost unbearable as he spreads your legs further open.
“You wanted this, didn’t you, darling? Isn’t this what you begged for?”
Your legs buck in protest, thrashing beneath the weight of him, but he fights you, holding your arms down with even more force. There’s a word you could say if you truly wanted him to stop, and he would. You know this.
However.
“I’m sorry, is it too much? Does my little whore regret being so needy?”
It’s torture, the sensitivity. “It’s too much, I can’t -“
“Oh, you can, and you will,” he swears. “Be a good girl, for once.”
He moves more slowly, and you force your breathing to steady as pleasure returns. You hum out, tears beginning to well in your eyes. He could do this forever, you think, and it would never fail to be any less than stellar, than perfection. Your orgasm is mounting again, and as it crashes into you, he pulls away just long enough to pull you onto all fours again, penetrating you with such force, you gasp.
You’re still contracting around his cock as he fucks you hard; you know he feels it, and you tighten around him even more. More involuntary tears spring to your eyes as he moans roughly, his fingertips digging into your hips as he drives into you.
“You’re going to take it in that mouth of yours, since you can’t seem to keep it shut,” he grates out between breaths.
Bliss. It’s nothing short of bliss as he fucks you so hard it hurts, and you’re limp when he withdraws, dragging your head by the hair until your mouth is forced in front of his cock, and you open it obediently, eagerly.
You close your eyes and hold out your tongue, moaning with relief when his hot seed spills over it, his grip pulling your head back as you drink him down. You lap at him, sucking until he releases you.
He pants heavily, and you watch faintly as a strand of grey hair swings like a blade over his forehead.
You smile.
He disappears for a moment, maybe longer; you might hear the sound of running water, and you notice as your hot skin begins to cool and prick. You revel in the safe feeling a blank mind and a sated body brings. Your eyes drape closed, and you notice how tired you are when you feel Orson’s weight beside you as he joins you back on the bed.
He’s silent as he sits, cradling your head with one hand and tucking the other around your waist. He hoists you a bit, hovering you over the bed until you feel a pillow beneath your neck, which is slightly sore. You notice his uniform is gone; the fabric of his pants are softer now. You lift your gaze to watch him as he reaches for something nearby, his face even more austere than usual. There’s something very sober about him. Nevertheless, you flinch a bit as he brings something to your face before relaxing; a very warm, very plush and wet cloth is brought to your cheeks, and Orson holds it against your skin, gingerly pressing down, dabbing tears and other delights away. His eyes don’t meet yours as he gently wipes the columns of your nose, beneath your eyes, the apples of your cheeks, your lips, very delicately and meticulously.
You want to weep; you cannot recall the last time anyone had been so attentive. You think of your bloody catalogue, the inventory in your mind reeling as it makes its best attempt at saving this moment. Something that feels like burning flares in your chest, and it can be several things: anger, shame, lust, admiration. You think of another word and immediately dismiss it, knowing damn well the inventory didn’t. You’re wondering why he isn’t speaking - Orson hasn’t uttered a single witty remark, a single rebuke, or some flirtatious commentary; he usually seems to enjoy hearing himself talk, your banter. He’s unusually silent and you think of a million things to say, but can’t find the moment to say them before they evaporate. Just as the cloth starts to grow cold, it’s gone, and Orson pulls away and returns with an exceptionally soft blanket, and he wraps you in it. This is your chance to make some snarky comment regarding tucking you in, and you almost smile at what could have been his reply, but you don’t. The something igniting in your chest is too prominent. He rests against your curled frame, studying your features - everywhere, it seems, save for your eyes - until he can no longer avoid them.
He reaches one hand out and swipes your jawline with a thumb, his austerity becoming curious, maybe even confused. And then, he kisses you.
The two of you kiss, often. Despite your dynamic in bed, there has been affection; playful, lustful. His kisses are usually powerful, claiming, conquering. This is something else, something you hardly recognize.
While there’s nothing gentle about this kiss, it’s very soft; his lips are filled with blood and press against you with something, something something - isn’t there a word in the kriffing inventory of Things to Heartily Ignore for this? Tender, you think. Searching, almost as if there must be a better way to consume himself in you, and this is how he’s finding it. And sad; there’s something melancholy about it. You whimper, despite yourself, as his hand cups your cheek, deepening the kiss as his tongue parts your lips. You reach out, threading your fingers into his hair, and there’s no backlash; he hums appreciatively, his kiss insatiable.
Your beautifully-empty head is now swimming with so many things as he reluctantly pulls away, gathering the washcloths, busying himself. Everything is very slow and something inside of you wants to say wait, come back, as he gets up, heading for the threshold of the room, but this is his bed. He’s coming back.
Who are you? In what world would you ever yearn for him?
You recognize his scent with the blanket wrapped around you when a sound pierces the silence, and your heart stops. That’s an expression, you think, because your heart is beating very, very fast, but it feels like it’s turned to stone.
The sound is Orson’s voice wrapped around the syllables that make up your name; your name. Not the name of some Imperial strategist. “I know who you are,” he whispers.
tags; smut, ANGST, a lot of it, i am sorry, this is not the end, however, but probably not the end of angst
a/n; thank you @gooddaykate for being my emotional soundboard and happy new year to all <3
read part i and ii here
The small window beyond the foot of your bed - a double, just big enough for more than one body - gave almost nothing away. Darkness raged beyond it, as it nearly always did, but you deduced it was not yet daybreak. All of these rooms on base were the same; white walls, white plastoid trim, white sheets. Sanitary, nondescript, lifeless. You peered blearily at the clock instead; the red digits read one hundred and forty three hours.
You wanted him again, badly, and he must have read it somewhere in your bearing. He moved so that he was wrapped between your legs, hands pitched and holding his weight beside your head before reaching between you. You groaned with an aching want as he pushed the tip of himself into your entrance.
“Tell me,” he said, dipping his head down to kiss you soundly. “If you had not found that flaw in the design, would you be here now, with me?”
Your smile was broad, and you dragged the tips of your fingers over the planes of his back. “No.”
For the first time, he smiled back with his teeth; they flashed in the darkness. “Good,” he said, pressing into you completely.
He confessed that you were the first woman he’d been with since Lyra. It explained the immense rush of the first time. After that, he’d been agonizingly slow, savoring every moment, every inch between you. He was an expert lover; perhaps it was his age, perhaps it was the circumstance.
His face had been buried in the crook of your neck, his lips and tongue worshiping you there as he slid in and out of you. “It’s taking a great deal of restraint not to mark you here,” he’d confessed, just as you had felt the urge to beg him to. Of course, that would have been too dangerous. Sleep found the both of you again, but it did not last.
Galen laid beside you, his long arm draped over your hips. Now he stirred, pushing himself until he was in a seated position, your crisp sheets now wrinkled around his waist. The clock just beyond him read four hundred and forty two hours. You watched with a contracting heart as he rested his elbows on his knees, hanging his head in his hands, his hair spilling out of it’s usually-neat place.
A thought struck you, and your heart nearly stopped. “Security footage,” you whispered, internally groaning.
Galen outstretched one of his hands without seeing; it grasped for part of you to hold onto until he fumbled for your shoulder. “This was timed rather serendipitously,” he replied groggily, his voice rough with sleep. “If you recall a memo from last week, this entire floor is having new equipment installed; it’s temporarily disabled. I think, had that not been the case, it would have been the only thing that would have stopped me from following you here last night.”
You blanched, grateful he was still rubbing his eyes with the hand not running up and down your arm. “Oh,” was all you managed to say in return.
Galen inhaled deeply, and you knew he was waiting to speak. “This was unprofessional of me.”
Another blow - the temporary bliss you’d found earlier had dissipated completely. As Galen withdrew his hand from your arm, you covered your bare skin with the blanket. “I’m sorry if you’re having regrets,” you replied, concealing every drop of bitterness inside you.
He turned his upper body towards you, hands now folded between his legs. His body was beautiful; you had been too preoccupied last night to marvel at him. He was lean and muscular, and defined lines in his arms flexed as he shifted. “You have granted me a privilege,” he said ruefully, “I, however, am your superior here. It was wrong of me to take advantage of that.”
You shot up, pressing the thin sheet to your chest. “I think we’re past professionalism. We’re past formalities and Imperial ranking, don’t you think?” A war began inside of you; his concern was touching, yes. But you felt as if you’d transcended roles within the workplace. “But I won’t keep you if you don’t think it’s appropriate.”
“Perhaps you’re right, but I hope you understand my meaning. I am not trying to take advantage of you or our situation.”
“I would hope not,” you shot back, now not disguising your feelings of rejection once again. You chuckled darkly, forcing yourself to be rational. He’s right, you told yourself. If this were any ordinary situation. But it isn’t. “I appreciate that,” you corrected softly. “I realize this adds an additional layer of risk to our already precarious situation.”
“Not precarious,” Galen whispered, blazing eyes now fixed on you in the adjusted darkness. “Lethal.’’
“I know,” you said. “There was a raid. They killed my parents. We were just traders,” you shrugged. “My mother made tunics and pouches out of leather. They didn’t do anything wrong. And I would sacrifice anything to stop the Empire for that.”
“You can’t mean that,” he murmured.
“I do. They took everything from me.”
Galen was quiet for a long while after that, and once he slid further back onto the bed, leaning against the wall, you thought he may have fallen asleep. “Lyra and Jyn were not ill,” he eventually murmured. “Lyra refused to return to the project with me, she was armed when where we had been living was discovered.” He exhaled, a laborious gesture.
If she was armed, then there would have been almost immediate retaliation. ”Both of them?” you whispered, something like panic creeping into your tone. “Your daughter?”
“We made arrangements for Jyn; they never found her. I like to believe she is still alive. I have to.”
“So, Lyra was killed?” You felt almost numb with fear, repulsion. You wanted to touch him, to embrace him, but it felt like imposing on something private, sacred. Your blood thrummed with shock. “I’m so sorry, Galen. They killed her?”
“Anyone else might wonder with disgust how I managed to return after such an atrocity. They need me; I designed this myself many years ago. There are few people who could have built this without my help. They would have found someone if I’d fought back, but then -”
“But then, it would have been completed perfectly. Only you could ensure a flaw.”
His head snapped towards you, something like pride overcoming him. “Precisely,” he breathed. “And then Krennic brought me someone capable and gifted that he suspected. You cannot imagine the hope I felt, that he was correct.”
You remembered that detail from the previous night. “I had a feeling something was wrong,” you mumbled. “I knew he didn’t like me. Though, I thought he was just trying to get rid of me.”
“You realize how vigilant we must be. You realize what is at stake.”
Something like a painful, burning stone sunk into your belly. “Our lives.”
“And I value yours, and this is exactly what I feared,” he whispered sharply. “I cannot allow affection to blindly lead you to your death; I have put you in an incredibly dangerous situation already, allowing those plans to be approved. I have been very foolish. Please forgive me.”
You took your time finding the right words, letting the severity of Galen’s story ruminate. “I cannot be compliant in this forever. I’ve never seen a way out, I’ve been drifting along. It’s been very lonely.” Your eyes swam with tears now, his figure becoming slightly blurred, and your voice was thick with emotion. “I could have amended the plans myself, and you know it. I think you were waiting to see if I would, I know you’d been checking my work as diligently as I was checking yours.” When he didn’t reply, you knew you were right. “But I want it to fail. Trust me when I say, I will do whatever it takes to make that happen, and be as careful as possible.”
Galen smiled feebly. “It seems all you’ve discovered of me are flaws and weaknesses.”
“I disagree. Completely. It takes incredible strength to endure all of this, to see it out to the end. And besides,” you examined your hands; you fought the urge to bring them to your face, for you could smell your coupling on them faintly. “Everything we’ve done here is wrong. Can’t we have something that’s good?”
His smile was still there, and he watched you intently for a moment before crawling towards you, until his body caged yours. Hair hung like a sickle moon over his forehead, framing the temples of his face. “I hope you understand that my concern is out of complete admiration and care for you. Not a lack of desire. I do not comply with coercion of this sort. Our ranking does contribute to that, I am afraid. To feel this sort of comradery; to ask for passion alongside it feels indulgent. I admit, it terrifies me. I do not think I could continue this without deep guilt. Following you last night was selfish.”
Affection, closeness, these things lacked in the Empire. Neither your life nor Galen’s left room for love. He was completely right - you shut your eyes tight, discreetly wiping the tears that spilled from them as a result. Shame burned inside you for kissing him at all during such a sober conversation. What had come over you? A complete dearth of intimacy, you realized. In any other circumstance, perhaps you could try to be happy, to be normal. But Galen would not want to lose someone twice.
“I’m sorry I initiated this,” you breathed, shaking your head. You refused to look at him, though you could feel his eyes on you. “You’re right. It’s too dangerous.”
Galen’s warm hands engulfed yours, and he brought them to his lips, kissing them. “This is difficult for me.”
You nodded, still avoiding his gaze. He released you reluctantly, and you watched from your peripheral as he dressed. “I understand,” you replied mechanically.
Once he was dressed, his uniform not as pressed and neat as usual, he sighed deeply, and bent to kiss your cheek. “Take the day to rest,” he said. “Please.”
You nodded again, smiling weakly. “Goodbye,” you warbled.
A muscle feathered in his jaw, and he turned abruptly, the door hissing open for him before he disappeared behind it.
You waited until his footsteps retreated from the hall before releasing a quiet sob.
tags; more imperial business, but with a hint of treason :), smut!!, touch starved smut, yearning, typical yearning
a/n; here is the second installment already. i am writing the third! enjoy :)
read part one here
Nearly two weeks has passed since Tarkin’s visit, and each day you diligently checked the prestigious and cosseted work of Dr. Galen Erso - recipient of both the Ashgad and the Roche Foundation Prizes - and found the same glaring flaw, still a blemish on his otherwise pristine weapon of mass destruction. Though maintaining a benignly professional demeanor, he had begun to avoid your eyes, to make sure to wrap up his plans at the end of each day and retire, and you were certain you knew the reason why.
Galen Erso was an accomplished man and had not produced a single mistake in his blueprints. Galen Erso hardly made errors; this you were learning quickly. His flaw was meant to be there, and you were desperate to learn why.
You wouldn’t push Dr. Erso away, you had to draw him in.
⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰
After a bland dinner, you retreated to your quarters to wash the day away. As you let the shower heat up, the room began to billow with steam and you reached for the light switch, shutting them off. The open door allowed in enough illumination from your room to see, but you drew open the curtains to the window before stepping into the water. You’d become one with Eadu.
The absence of light outside made you drowsy, but you knew you wouldn’t sleep. Instead of losing an attempt, you dried quickly and stepped into a clean uniform, one you’d likely be wearing for the next day. Snatching your datapad, you intentionally let your cap remain on your dresser as you slid past the doorway, making for the Engineering wing.
Just as you had hoped, Dr. Erso sat behind a transparent scene, his face heavy as he seemed to hold himself up on the dash.
“Dr. Esro,” you said gently, tiptoeing into the room as the door slid shut behind you. “I was hoping to get some work done, if that’s alright.”
He was disarmed as he spoke your name, caught off-guard. “I could leave you to focus -”
“Please, Dr. Erso. Don’t leave on my account. We’re a team,” you said quietly.
“I’d enjoy the company.” Nodding stiffly, he smiled, but you could feel his tension.
“I don’t believe we’ve spoken directly since Tarkin visited.”
He seemed to deflate at that, his head dipping. “I appreciate your...support. There is much work to be done; occasionally, those in charge forget it can be time-consuming.”
The question burned inside of you, your body hummed with galvanized curiosity, and you were certain that Dr. Erso would find an excuse to dismiss himself if you pressed the matter.
“Oh, I’m quite aware,” you said instead. “The Empire waits for no one.” You did little to disguise the acid in your tone.
“No,” he whispered darkly. “It does not.”
“Although, it waited for you, didn’t it?” you needled gently, thinking of Dr. Eros’s illustrious position. “You were able to care for your late wife? I’m sorry if that’s too personal -”
“If you’re curious about Lyra, then please, call me Galen.” He cleared his throat and gestured for you to join him behind the dash as you both took your seats. “I took it upon myself to leave; I was granted no permission.”
“She was fortunate to have you,” you comforted. “I can’t imagine losing someone that way, and your daughter. Being ill. I’m sorry -”
“Never mind their illnesses,” Galen cut in sharply, “Lyra was reluctant to return to the project. The Empire would not wait any longer. Nor did they wait for you to reach a consenting age to indoctrinate you after your liberation from that backwater moon in the Outer Rim, did they?”
Silence rang in the great room, Galen mouth twisting with poorly-hidden fury as his tongue parted his lips. You were grateful he kept the room dark, the only source of light blinking on the projected holoscreen. The weight of Galen’s words felt like a boulder tied to your waist as they shoved you into an imaginary ocean, dragging you into the brumal depth.
“I’ve read your file; you were four years old when you were enrolled in the Imperial Academy. Normally, children that young are sent there when both parents are dead. You can imagine the cause of death for most.” He sighed bitterly, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t mean to be invasive. I only mean to bring to light a likeness we share.”
“No,” you said faintly, “that’s public information for someone of your rank. It’s fine. I don’t remember much.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, seeming to calm himself, and his hand reached over the table to sheath yours, giving it a chaste tap. “I hope you recognize the imperative here; we have a duty, and there are consequences to evading them.”
It was as if he’d doused icy water over you. His eyes were beseeching, almost desperate. This is a warning. “Don’t be; it’s easier this way,” you replied, almost casually, brushing off the heaviness of the Empire. “You remember, I’m sure. I hardly remember my family.”
When you hand twitched beneath his in a movement meant to offer him comfort in return, he withdrew his from yours abruptly. “I remember everything,” he whispered. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Laboriously he rose from his seat, leaving you in the darkness, leaving countless questions unanswered.
⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰
Eadu laid beneath a near-constant plume of darkness, threatening to spread a pall of timelessness within you, weren’t it for your strict regime. A clock beside your bed and another strapped to your wrist meant you could never lose it entirely, but often you gazed beyond the gleaming white walls of the Base, illuminated by the sterile, artificial lights, wishing you could submerge yourself in the tenebrosity of your new home. Surely it would pair well with your recent mindset.
“We’ve lost you, it appears.”
The velvety clink of a teacup against a saucer broke your reverie; Luca, one of your fellow engineers on Doctor Erso’s team, set his own twin cup down besides yours as he pulled the chair away from the luncheon table, joining you. The dining room was busy this time of day, with pilots and mechanics, engineers, and scientists alike taking well-deserved breaks from their work.
“And you’ve found me,” you said congenially, offering a genuine smile as Luca brought his cup to his lips. “Sorry, I was distracted.”
“Not distracted, engrossed,” Luca offered excitedly, eyes wide as his slacken mouth twisted with delight. His wispy, grey hair curled over his head wildly without the anchor of his Imperial cap. Luca was old enough to be your father, and you enjoyed his company immensely. Galen Erso seemed to have a knack for collecting company that seemed to break the mold of the Empire; too wholesome to be dedicating their life to what they did. You were undecided as to whether or not it made them even more sinister. “Enjoy the attention to detail while it lasts, lass. You’re young enough that you’ll walk the halls of the finished product,” he gushed. “Not a guarantee for these old bones.”
His seamed face creased with kindness as he beamed at you from over his teacup. Perhaps he truly doesn’t realize, you thought idly as your fingers softly gripped the warm porcelain. He is fully and completely indoctrinated, believing that the Empire has the galaxy’s best interest in mind. You closed your eyes as you took a sip of the watery caf, suppressing early memories. Warm hands, mountains in the distance. Ships in the night, men yelling. You shook the scenes and sounds from your mind before Luca could notice you slip away again.
“Hush, Luca,” you reproached sweetly, dipping your head. “You’re not old. And thank you for the caf.”
“You looked like you needed a wake-up, if you don’t mind me saying so,” he shrugged, tilting his cup back all the way to drain it. “Are you having trouble adjusting to the dark? It took me nearly half a year. Had an itch to step into pyjamas every twenty minutes.”
“That’s what I was thinking about when you joined me,” you confessed, your head turning back to watch the rain pour outside; it could have been midnight, for all you could deduce based on what you could see. The ticking hand on your wrist read one o'clock in the afternoon, however. “It’s sort of beautiful, you know.”
“Beautiful?” Luca barked, his hearty laughter contained into his empty teacup. “Rather dreary, if you ask me. Don’t you see the bright side of things.”
“I think I’m reaching, truth be told,” you grimaced, going slack in your chair. “I just miss being outside.”
“No ones stopping you,” Luca chortled, gingerly placing the cup back into its threaded seat in the saucer. “Though the entire Base might think you mad for it.”
“Luca! Was hoping to see a friendly face.”
A lean, dark-haired man with wide brown eyes - holding his own steaming takeaway cup in one hand and a Jogan fruit tart from the miniature mess cafeteria in the other - pulled out a seat across the table from Luca with the tip of his boot, placing his items down as he offered you a nod of his head. Pilot goggles hugged his throat like a necklace.
“Bodhi,” Luca sang, a pleased grin breaking over him. “Still here, eh? Or already gone and back again?”
“Just arrived,” he sighed, tucking into his tart as he peeled away the soft paper that concealed it. “Have to wait for this storm to pass so I can fly out.”
Luca scoffed, toying with the rim of his empty cup. “Afraid you’re rather stuck here, then. Bodhi, meet a friend of mine. Perhaps you two know each other; our newest engineer’s only just joined us from Jehdu.” Luca featured towards you, offering the cargo pilot your name.
The young man named Bodhi chafed his hands together to brush away crumbs before offering you one of them, his handshake muted and brief.
“Heard Galen was getting a new recruit,” Bodhi said, and something about his air piqued you as he seemed to frown slightly before returning to his makeshift lunch, avoiding eye contact. “You’re not from Jehdu, though, are you?”
“No,” you said evasively; it was your turn to shy away from a topic. Not wanting to appear rude, you steered the conversation back towards work. “You know Dr. Erso?”
Bodhi, clutching his tart between his fingers, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Uh, distantly,” he muttered. “He’s helpful with engine glitches.”
“Who doesn’t know Galen? Brilliant man, a good man,” Luca said firmly. Thank the Maker for Luca; he possessed enough lighthearted friendliness to drag you and the man called Bodhi through lunch.
You hummed in agreement, tilting your head. “Dr. Erso truly doesn’t mind being called by his first name?” you asked in another surprised tone. “So unorthodox.”
“I, uh - he’s Dr. Erso to me, when he’s in front of me,” Bodhi began nervously. “Which isn’t often, of course.”
“Oh, Galen’s too modest for formalities after enough time, though perhaps he doesn’t mind respect from one of us around here,” Luca cut in, giving you a wink. “But I’m sure you could call him a Lurdo and he’d still stand there, polite as ever, telling you ‘good work’. He likes you, lass.”
This seemed to interest Bodhi; his head snapped up, and he brought his caf to his lips to make an attempt at obscuring himself as he watched you and Luca carefully. Pretending you didn’t notice, you rolled your eyes in Luca’s direction.
“I’m very grateful the Doctor is pleased with my work,” you said frankly, your lips pursing as you poorly-hid the swell of pride blooming in your chest at Luca’s likely exaggerated observation. A couple of weeks ago, you would have agreed, Luca’s words only a reinforcement. Now, you thought of the doctor’s more recent prevaricate behavior. “Though he may change the door codes if I don’t find something better to do than work. I think he’s sick of sharing his space with me for more than twelve hours a day.”
“Nonsense!” Luca effused. “Galen is a man of solitude, but I highly suspect it’s entirely based on preference. He hasn’t had an easy go, that’s for sure. No, I think the like-minded company does him good, lass. Don’t you worry about that.”
The three of you shared a few more genial exchanges before Bodhi finished the last of his tart, crumpling the wax paper in his hand as he began to shuffle out of his seat awkwardly.
“It was good to see you, Luca; it feels as if you’re never in the common spaces,” Bodhi shook Luca’s left hand with both of his own, a display of true affection, you thought. He merely turned his body slightly towards you, dipping his head in your direction before departing. “Nice to meet you. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”
Smiling half-heartedly, you managed a weak wave. “Likewise,” you said.
Once the pilot was out of earshot, Luca seemed to read your energy as you stiffened tensely beside him, swirling your almost empty teacup.
“Bodhi Rook’s a good lad,” he murmured, patting your hand with his liver-spotted one. “Just a tad bit overwrought at times, I suppose. I’d never sleep if I had to steer one of those ships around.”
“Is that all he does?” you asked faintly, watching the man’s figure fade into a little dot as he disappeared down the blindingly white hall. “He’s a pilot?”
“That’s Bodhi,” he confirmed. “And like I said, you both hold something in common; Galen.”
-
Chasing sleep was onerous that night, worse than usual. You listened to the howls of the wind from within your quarters, their laments loud enough to penetrate the thick walls that kept them out. They were persistent.
If you slept, it felt impartial; you woke not knowing if you had been dreaming or lost in thought before your alarm chimed. You dressed in the mineral grey-blue hue seeping in through the window as rain pelted against it.
As you ambled down the corridor towards the office, your ears perked when you heard muted, hushed voices speaking quickly. Slowing to a creep, you walked closer around the corner as you recognized the voice.
Galen and the man called Bodhi stood huddled together in the midst of a heated discussion. When they became aware of your presence they broke apart, Bodhi looking particularly harassed.
“Ah,” Galen said lightly, your name rolling off his tongue. “Good morning. I was just helping our young pilot here with some technical issues. If you’ll excuse us, I’ll return once I’ve escorted him to the hangar.”
With a nervous smile, Bodhi shouldered past you as Galen followed.
⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰
Dr. Erso’s avoidance burned in your veins the more persistent he became with it. The engineering wing was the largest on Base; on the third-highest floor, windows wrapped around three-quarters of the room like a crescent moon, revealing the usual cloudburst beyond them.
The great room never felt so colossal with Galen Erso on the other end of it.
Perhaps it was the sudden time spent attempting to catch his eye, but you found an accompanying sensation coursing through you as you observed him. He hasn’t had an easy go, Luca had said, and now you knew to what extent. Your eyes traveled over the room until they landed on your friend, and he gave you a warm grin from behind the glow of his holopad before you returned it. Like magnets, your gaze was once again dragged to the Doctor, who poured over his digital notes, his cheekbones sharpening his features in the corner of the room.
“Have you got a minute?”
Var, a woman on your team only a few years younger than you, leaned over the table, her bare elbows flush against the cool surface.
“Of course,” you said, frustrated that Dr. Erso’s presence was still so distracting. “Any trouble?”
“You’ve read section C-20 through E-90, right? Luca’s been bragging about it,” she asked, smirking with admiration.
Hah, you scoffed to yourself privately, oh, you’ve read it; you’ve only been obsessing over it for weeks. The blood quickly drained from your face; had Var discovered Galen’s mistake? Her relaxed expression said otherwise, but you swore you noticed Galen from beyond Var’s shoulder freeze when she spoke, and your heart pumped harder.
“I have,” you replied, your voice unnaturally high. “Is there -“
“Maker, no one wants to proof it,” she droned out, collapsing in the chair. “This report needs signing from a certified engineer, and I’m still in training, so I can’t do it anyway. Dr. Erso’s already signed, of course, but I don’t want to ask Luca or Rhue to waste their next two evenings staying up all night rereading it. We were all nearly ready to draw straws before you arrived. If you wouldn’t mind?”
“No,” you sputtered, holding out your hands as she handed you the data pad and stylus for signature. “It’s all right if it’s me? I didn’t join in until so recently, perhaps we should ask the doctor if I have the authority -“
“You certainly do, you’re a leading engineer!” she said brightly, turning to smile at Dr. Erso. He was listening; he smiled tightly back at Var, whose dark curls gleamed in the light as her head spun back around to face you. “Now we can send it in for installation. All this hard work,” she whispered with awe, her eyes traveling up to the ceiling as if she was marveling at the stars. “Finally paying off. So, if you just want to initial in the box and sign on the line, I’ll send it in to the Director.”
You paused stupidly, your mouth slightly agape. “It’s nearly ready for installation?”
“This section, yes,” she said curiously, eyebrows knitting together. “Piece by piece!”
“Piece by piece,” you nearly mouthed back, absentmindedly scribbling your approval. You were acutely aware of the faraway look on your face as you handed it back to her before bounding from the room, likely headed straight for the transmission bay.
You’d just approved half of the fault in the Empire’s most beloved project, and there was no turning back now.
Galen Erso was not looking in your direction when you peered back up at him again, but his bearing was stiff, breath shallow, and it reminded you of your lunch with Luca and Bodhi from the day before.
As he stood before the windows, a storm raging outside, the hoods of his eyes lifted.
Hazel and warm in the sea of the bare and functional cold of the room; he did not look away but let his eyes hook into you, luring you in and tugging you forward. You nearly lurched in your seat.
A delicate ping sounded; dinner was being served, and immediately the room began to break up.
Air. You desperately needed to be outside, to take in something other than the recycled, climate-controlled atmosphere currently drowning you. Waiting for the room to empty, you almost leapt from your chair as you made your way for the exit.
You walked down the stone steps into the rain and the sensation hit you, knocking the breath from your lungs as your uniform already clung to you with dampness, the rain matting your hair to your head. If only you could keep going, if only you didn’t have to turn back to a life wasted on destruction, void of meaningful -
Your name cut through the sound of the storm; Galen had followed you outside.
“Please,” he said, “come back inside. We need to talk.”
Nodding, you watched as droplets fell down his mouth, and he waited until you stood by his side before turning towards the base. He led you a different way, through abandoned stairwells away from the Stormtroopers, from the crowded mess hall. He stopped walking as he led you into an unlit conference room, and the two of you stood, uniforms soaked and shivering slightly from the cold.
“You didn’t amend the flaw,” you quavered, and he flinched slightly at your words. “We’ve both signed the approved blueprints; there is nothing more to be done -”
“I’ve never been a bargaining man,” Dr. Erso began. “But if I could persuade you to keep this between us -“
“You’re bargaining?” you said shrilly, eyes still wide with astonishment. “Do you believe I would turn you in? To Krennic?”
“Or Tarkin,” Dr. Erso shrugged, “I know he favors you, and for good reason.”
“Tarkin is a monster,” you rumbled, the words erupting from your chest quietly but with a clear tremor. “I do not want to turn anyone in.”
“And yet I’ve endangered you,” Dr. Erso stated, raising his chin. “I’ve made you an unwilling accomplice -“
“Not unwilling,” you cut in. “I’ve been snooping.”
“And why, if not to find something incriminating,” Dr. Erso countered.
“Because I want to help,” you said quickly. “I want to help. Please.”
The two of you shared a long moment of silence, the tension swallowing you until you were suspended and floating, riding the tempest at sea rather than drowning in it. You watched Galen’s chest rise like the tide with a deep sigh.
“I don’t believe it would be safe if you helped,” he finally said, and your heart sank as his face barely fell, brows furrowed.
“I understand your reluctance to invite an outsider in,” you began, and you felt yourself walking closer to him as he watched you curiously. “I know how important this is to you -“
“I believe you’ve misunderstood me,” he interrupted, and it was his feet that bridged the gap between you. You froze, waiting for him. “I don’t believe it would be safe for you.”
His words were low, and they knocked the breath from your belly. After a shaky inhale, you swallowed. “Don’t worry about me.”
“It is, I’m afraid, too late for that,” he said roughly.
Your mouth fell open slightly, your lips and mouth dry as his face flashed from mild shock to a look of almost defiant resignation.
“The Empire took everything from me, Galen; I’ve already signed my name, I’ve already helped -“
Air left your lungs sharply as Galen gripped your forearms in his hands, his lips taut in a severe line as he pulled your face closer to his. “You know why you’ve been brought to Eadu? Don’t you?"
“So that Tarkin has the bragging rights of having every kyber crystal scientist - ”
”Krennic suspects you,” he whispered harshly, shaking you a bit to force his once evasive eyes on yours. “He asked me to keep an eye on you because he trusts me. After everything, the fool still thinks my allegiance is with him because I made him believe it.”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes by means of avoiding his, which were so intense you thought you might faint. “Oh, that’s rich; the irony -“
“Is beyond them!” he roared. Nostrils flaring, he scanned your face with a hardened, pleading look. “I’ve convinced them. I have made myself indispensable all the while. You must guard your heart to them,” he said more softly.
Your hands gripped him back, the dampness of his robes clinging to his arms. You suddenly realized how close you’d grown in the vastness of the room; in your haste, in his, you were nearly in an embrace by now. Every nerve inside of you stood on its edge, and you watched as the thin line of his mouth went more slack, his eyes flicking between yours and your lips.
“And what of my heart when I am with you, Galen?”
His brows knitted even closer together, and your question seemed to bring him a moment of clarity.
“Guard nothing from me,” he said hoarsely. “We must trust one another.”
“Nothing?” you echoed, and all reason escaped you as you reached a hand up to cup his cheek. You were almost surprised that, instead of giving you an incredulous look, Galen’s face sunk into your palm, turning into it. When your thumb began to trace closer to his lips, you realized you were holding your breath; he leaned against you more deeply until he grasped your hand and gathered it in both of his, bringing them back down between you.
“This is not safe,” he warned, but his mouth betrayed him as his tongue parted his lips.
Still you leaned into him, pressing your lips carefully to his. He stood, frozen like stone, his lips unmoving. Mortified, you pulled back.
“I’m so sorry,” you murmured. You shook his hands away and retreated from the great room, stealing yourself back to your quarters beneath the stinging lights of the corridor.
Necessity for stealth meant little to you as you ran not only from Galen’s rejection but your own shame; if only you could shut every last light off on Base and sink into the darkness. Tears stung the corners of your eyes and hot coal burned in your throat, and you held back your sobs until you were once again behind the sliding door of your quarters. You sank to your knees just long enough to release the fire from your lungs; rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms, you stood on shaky legs. Squinting beneath the cruel lights, you hated them. Your head spun round until your vision spotted a small, metal chair; you crossed the room in two bounds and you dragged it to the center, standing on it and reaching up towards the light bulbs. Recessed and searing, you barred your teeth through the pain against your fingertips as you unscrewed one by one, discarding them on your neatly-made bed until only three remained. Panting, you carefully bent at the knees and came down from your makeshift ladder, feeling rectified in your more subdued space. As you sat into the chair, feeling far less amplified, the glass lightbulbs clinking together on the bed, you began to pry off your wet boots, your socks. You reached for the hem of your shirt, still clinging to your abdomen, and pulled it off your head, your hair matted to your head from rain. Once you sat in nothing but your bra and leggings, you sagged into the metal, trying not to think of Galen’s still lips when three small raps came at your door.
“Come in,” you said in an unnaturally high voice, not possessing the ability to look as a master code was punched in, the hiss of the plastoid that separated you from Galen filling your ears until it was replaced by his footsteps.
You rose, and before you had a moment to remember you were half-dressed, hair still a mess from the storm outside, Galen stood before you for a blinking second before his hands gingerly framed either side of your face, pulling you towards him, his lips slowly enveloping yours, softly, so gently that you whimpered against him as he only briefly pulled back, his very tired eyes searching yours as the bridge of his nose grazed yours. When he pitched to engulf your lips with his again, he opened them wider, fully absorbing himself in your kiss as your shaking fingers grasped his arms.
Nothing so reposeful, so arcadian had ever been given to you, and fresh tears pricked your eyes as you wondered how Galen Erso was still capable of such tenderness as his lips pressed against yours.
He allowed your fingertips to tug at his shirt, pull the veil of the Empire away as you fumbled with his buttons, his chest angled towards you as he ripped it off of himself. Everything but the two of you seemed to melt away as you both stepped out of your clothes, his very careful fingers sneaking beneath your bra as he dragged it over you. As you stumbled back until you felt your bed behind your legs, you sat as he fell at your knees, the lightbulbs rolling towards your weight as you let them cascade to the floor, clattering as they dropped. You fell back and let Galen cage his body with yours as he worshipped you with his mouth, letting his lips drag over your jawline and neck. You ground your hips against him, wrapping your legs around him as you desperately sought friction.
“It has been a very long time,” he confessed gruffly, squaring his jaw. He was hot and heavy against you.
It’s okay,” you whispered cajolingly, “please.”
Surely he would have wanted to do so much more, but impatience drove his hips as he angled himself between your legs; you were already slick with enough want that he slipped inside of you with ease. Always the shining exemplar of caution, even as tightly wound as he was, you watched his throat bob as breath shuddered from his lips, frowning with timidity like a crescent moon hanging above you in the newfound darkness as he plunged into you to the hilt. Your eyes fluttered shut, allowing yourself to soak in the galvanizing, lush pleasure he filled you with. Elbows mounted on either side of your head, he continued his languid adoration of your mouth, tongue slipping past your lips as he moved his length through your walls, his breath growing more ragged as your fingers raked over the planes of his shoulder blades. His head dipped into your neck as his pace quickened, and you arched your back to allow him more depth. Cursing under his breath, you grabbed his face and pulled him into a kiss as he came, stalling against you with a few firm pumps.
When he withdrew from your heat, your legs trembling violently from the loss, he only broke away from your kiss to trail his swollen lips down your chest, suckling your breasts as he took handfuls of your hips before lowering himself to your stomach, your thighs. You released a dry sob when his tongue swiped up your slit, his broad lips encasing your clit as your hands flew to his head, anchoring yourself to the source of your pleasure. His hands enclosed around your hips as he flattened his tongue, drawing circles over your bundle of nerves before dragging back down to your core, lapping at both your arousal, his nose buried into you. When his tongue swirled to your clit once more, his unhurried fingers plunged into you delicately, surely aware that you were already raw. Curling them inside of you, beckoning a climax, your fingers wove into his honeyed hair, streaked with grey as you clutched at him, jackknifing off the bed as you collapsed in on yourself.
Galen crawled up your slacken figure, like an effulgent being emerging from the crepuscular tempest. His scabrous chin, rough with stubble and soaked with an amatory dew, dragged over your cheeks as he burrowed against you. The tip of his nose brushed over the column of yours as he laid his forehead against your temple.
“You’re a brilliant young woman,” he said roughly, sharp breath still pulling into his lungs. “This is selfish of me. Do not let me be your ruin.”
You smiled serenely, still lost in the tranquility Galen brought with him when he stormed into your quarters. “You could never be, doctor,” you said through a sigh. "The Empire will be, if I let it."
He said nothing in return, only adjusting himself by rolling onto his side next to you as he dragged you into him.
tags; a lot of imperial stuff, i love galen, smut, longing, clandestine love affair, rogue one-related canon
a/n; this is an old story i abandoned for a while but really want to complete. galen deserved better </3
read part two here
The air was fresh with the cold as it billowed, whipping Galen’s hair; just how Lyra preferred it.
“The heat is stifling,” she often complained. “The cold makes me feel alive.”
Despite the weather, Lyra was lifeless in Galen’s arms.
“I’m terribly sorry, Galen,” Krennic sounded from behind him, placing a gloved hand on his shoulder. It made the back of Galen’s head prick with pins and needles. “That was entirely unnecessary, really. How preventable.”
This sort of mock-sympathy from his old colleague felt like he was being goaded with the hope he might kill; almost as if Orson Krennic retrieved Galen not on the Emperor’s orders but because he was too much of a coward to follow through with the devastation he was bestowing upon the galaxy alone. As if he either needed his old friend’s permission, his approval, to destroy entire worlds, or expected him to kill him instead, to free him of his burden.
His wife was gone. Galen would pretend that Jyn was dead; scattered amongst the stars that she came from. Yet he knew she was there, and she would survive.
That would be his secret, however. One of many he would keep from the Empire.
“We’ll make sure of a proper burial,” Krennic said, a little more impatience bleeding into his tone. “Up we go, Galen. Time is of the essence.”
Galen gave his wife a final embrace before gently placing her back down in the tall grass, rose to his knees, and refused to look back at her. She, the braver of the two of them, would surely not have left him alone on the rich earth of Lah’mu.
He and Orson walked two abreast back towards the ship, Galen just a footstep behind his old friend.
“She would be proud of you, I think,” Orson mused, pursing his lips and feigning a contemplative expression. “Following through with a commitment. Women tend to appreciate that sort of thing.”
“Enough,” was all Galen could manage to grit out, fearing that if Orson needled him any more, Galen would become violent.
“Of course,” Orson said thickly. “Now, let’s get you freshened up.”
Twelve Years Later
The journey from Jedha was uneventful, though the ship’s sleek and sterile atmosphere made you feel as if you were in a medical facility. Your body responded accordingly with an ache in your head and chest. Nerves , you suspected rationally.
Director Krennic had ordered you to join Galen Erso on Eadu to aid in the completion of the new space station, pulling you from your work from helping oversee the extraction of kyber crystals. You doubted you’d be any true help to Galen Eros, but the reposition was likely due to the growing impatience of the Emperor.
Darth Vader had a temper, and you were certain every move Krennic made was executed with hopes to subdue it. This was purely a move of strategy; to appear as if progress was being made.
Eadu differed so greatly from Jedha; even from the ship you could make out the rocky edges of the mountains, the clouds swelling with wind and rain. Fitting, you thought. The heart of the storm.
Stormtroopers, not Krennic himself, led you through the dimly-lit corridors of the main facility. You walked so briskly with your entourage, you felt it looked like you knew where you were going.
You did not. Not in the slightest.
There was a door at the end of the hall, and a man stepped into it, fists at his sides hanging like weights; his austere posture felt labored, even from a distance.
As you grew closer, you noticed he was quite tall. Honeyed blonde hair hid beneath the Imperial cap on his head, and his broad lips barely curled into a welcoming smile as you approached. He was handsome, despite who he was.
“Good evening, miss. I am Galen Erso,” he nodded, with a voice much softer than you might have anticipated. “I hope your journey was uneventful.”
“It was, thank you.” Sticking out your hand, you offered it to him, introducing yourself. “It’s a pleasure to join your team of engineers, Dr. Erso.”
“The pleasure is mine, I assure you,” he replied mechanically, though not coldly, giving your hand a firm shake. “Show her to her quarters,” he instructed the troopers, grimacing slightly as he addressed them. “We shall begin in the morning.” He looked at you once more, offering the closest to a true smile he’d displayed since your arrival. “Good evening.”
Closing his introduction the same way he opened it, he nodded before disappearing on the other side of the door.
-
You sat at the great desk within the Base on Eadu, the sun barely rising through the grey veil of storm clouds beyond the generous amount of window on the north side of the room.
Aside from the occasionally harsh artificial lighting, the Imperial structures were kept rather dark. The conference room was completely empty, and a melancholy wave of calm washed over you in the silence.
“You’re punctual.”
Galen Erso’s voice rang softly, like a deep bell, behind you. Swerving your head around, you greeted him with a polite smile.
“Good morning, Doctor. I didn’t know what time we met -“
He waved off your unsure stammering with a shake of his head.
“I’d prefer to begin early and break early,” he explained, walking through the threshold of the doorway and dragging a chair out before joining you at the conference table. “So, tell me,” he said wearily, adjusting in his seat, “assuming you’ve had time to study my reports; what are you hoping to add to this - “ he paused for a moment, and something akin to poorly-disguised frustration washed over his face before he could shake it off - “great project? Your research on the elements of kyber crystals has been an insightful addition to the information available.”
Dr. Galen Erso, proclaimer of the Kuat Systems Engineering Medal, sat beside you - not across - and was asking you what you wanted to contribute to his work.
You opened your mouth to respond before you had the words; he folded his hands in front of him, his uniform stiff at his elbows and creasing. Words never came, instead your mouth closed, and you furrowed your brow.
“Better yet, what are you hoping to contribute to the Empire’s legacy?”
Lie, you said to yourself desperately.
What you had been hoping for for years was that the Empire would be defeated while you were still a child; the Rebellion wouldn’t shoot you dead while liberating whatever occupied planet you were on if you were young. You were stalling, and Dr. Erso’s eyebrows began to lift expectantly.
“I am simply doing what I was raised to do, Doctor,” you said plainly. “I’m an engineer. It’s an honor to work beside you.”
Galen Erso narrowed his eyes into clever slits as he considered you for a moment, slightly bent over the hands neatly threaded in front of him.
“Very well,” he finally said, inhaling sharply. “I’ll have someone bring us some caf, and then we may begin.”
Despite a clinical cadence, Dr. Erso’s smile was warm.
“Thank you,” you replied.
Dr. Galen Erso worked with a very quiet determination.
It was uncommon for someone of his rank and prestige to be so present, overseeing the tedious work of their projects without scrutiny or creating a sense of unease amongst their inferiors. Dr. Erso was patient and kind but reticent, creating enough space to encourage you and the others room to breathe while offering support. It was not a method of leadership you’d grown accustomed to seeing within the Empire.
And yet, despite Dr. Erso’s impressive resume, his awards in his field, something was incorrect.
Not wanting to disrupt anyone while working with the team, you spent your first day rather isolated, pouring over notes until you noticed a miniscule but fatal miscalculation with part of the new design. It was a flaw so minor within the plan that you had to double, triple check your work to notice it, and perhaps you were wrong, but the structural readouts you’d managed to gain access to seemed to relay the same mistake each time you went over it.
You remained in the office, waiting for the last of the team to retire until you were alone with Dr. Erso. You mulled over the choice in your mind; what if he became prideful and angry that you noticed something so fatal and he hadn’t? Part of you wondered if you should overlook it - leave the flaw, let there be a way to stop it. No, you quickly admonished yourself. If you were caught...
Dr. Erso looked up from his work and cocked his head, leaving you staring at him anxiously.
“Is something the matter?” he inquired, his face entirely impassive.
“Ah,” you began, drawing in a shaky breath as you clutched your datapad. “I noticed something -” you turned the screen over in your grip, and he pushed himself from the table to walk over towards you. When his palms rested on the desk, splayed out beside you, you glanced at them, suddenly very apparent of him being so close. “Um, and I may be entirely wrong, and I in no way wish to question your expertise on my first day here - “
“Enough flattery,” he teased lightly, his lip curling into a good-natured smirk, “I can accept critique from a colleague just fine. Continue.”
“I was going over the structural readout; I know it’s a rather tedious document, but it’s fascinating - I think there may be a flaw within one of the plans for a reactor module,” you said in an unsure voice, gingerly handing him the device, which he took with a much more confident grip.
“Very good eye,” he said after only a moment or two of his rather glazed eyes scanning over the document. “I’ll amend this myself. Thank you,” he added, “you’re dismissed.”
Your heart clenched in your chest with nerves; too worried to embarrass yourself or him further, you nodded before accepting the datapad he was handing back to you.
“Thank you,” you replied.
⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰
The new woman, only on Eadu for a few weeks, smiled at Galen, and he returned it before he had a moment to plot a response. His was small but genuine, he could feel that, and it concerned him.
She was a bit younger than Lyra was when she was killed, likely. She reminded him of who she was before they escaped to Lah’mu; trepedatious, calculated, perhaps even fearful. He suspected why, but did not want to allow himself to believe, to allow his hopes to elevate. Orson was paranoid, and Galen was curious. Only seven hours on the project and she had sifted through enough work to discover the intentional flaw.
She and the other engineers were being excused for the evening when Orson strolled in, hands and Stormtroopers at his back and lining against the wall behind them.
Galen nodded at his team as each of them walked past and through the door, feeling his nerves stand on edge as he turned to face Orson.
“Director,” he breathed. “How might I be of service to you?”
Krennic swiveled his neck and shot his entourage a look; without a word, the six of them marched outside, the door hissing in their wake.
“They admire you,” he noted idly, his steely eyes scanning over the now empty meeting table.
Galen chuckled softly, an almost melancholy feeling washing over him. “You sound disappointed,” he replied, shifting his weight to another foot as he stood beside Orson. “We should hope they do; they work for me.”
“Merely making an observation, Galen. That’s all.”
“Is that why you’ve paid Eadu an unannounced visit?” Galen asked, careful to keep his tone in check. “To make observations?”
“Can’t a man visit an old friend?” Krennic said. He sighed deeply and walked over towards the table, gripping a chair with his hands. “I’m here for the progress report, Galen. I’m not sneaking up on you.”
“I know,” Galen huffed, and he pulled a chair out and fell into it as he deflated, tilting his chin up to watch Krennic purse his lips. “Everything you asked for has been transmitted to your database -“
“How is the kyber engineer transitioning?” Orson cut in, a curious look etching over his stern features. “You remember what I asked of you.”
Of course he did. Galen had been instructed to observe the woman; despite her shining reputation, Krennic had begun to find her temperament suspicious. As work progressed, she became withdrawn and unusually austere; Orson words.
“I do,” Galen answered, nodding slowly. “She is dutiful and talented. I don’t see why reserve or perhaps even diffidence might make anyone wary of her. She has been of service to the Empire her entire life, from what I understand.”
“Seniority does not measure loyalty. I asked you , of all people, to keep a watchful eye on her and her work,” Orson grated out, the black leather of his gloves digging into the chair, creating a creaking noise. “Because you are well aware of the consequences of stepping out of line. Despite this, your work progresses. I believe you are dedicated to seeing this project come to fruition, and you would be keen on someone close making similar mistakes.”
Galen’s blood boiled beneath his skin, and yet he managed another light laugh. “To pair two unsavory masterminds; some might question your motives, Orson.”
“Perhaps to the less cunning,” Krennic shot back, smiling coyly. “I find it more efficient to keep an eye on Eadu and Eadu alone.”
“That is productive. Keep the fire contained rather than let it spread,” Galen said sardonically.
Orson cracked an impressed smile. “So dramatic,” he chuckled. “You are too hard on yourself, Galen. I have the utmost faith in your loyalty.”
“As you should,” Galen replied, his chest swelling with private tenacity. “As you should.”
“And not a word of my doubts to Tarkin,” Orson added, “he doesn’t need to be ruffled.”
-
Eadu was much different than life on Jedha.
You thought you’d miss the bustling city with all it’s smells and sounds; there, you felt like you could easily blend in amongst all of the living beings present. On the base of Eadu, aside from the howling rains beyond the windows, it was unnervingly quiet, a rippling calm threatening to burst at any moment. It unsettled you, and you dedicated most of your waking hours to work without the outdoors to occupy you. You worked with unwavering precision, leaving no doubt in the rest of Galen’s team that you were nothing but capable and reliable.
In the weeks since your first day, daily you checked the document, expecting to see the correction made to the flaw, and each time you checked, you found the same thing: it remained. Dr. Galen Erso hadn’t fixed the error that leave the weapon with an undetectable fault, and you could not figure out why.
Tonight, the rain was relentless and dark outside, and you barely noticed the door swooshing open; instead, you felt a presence as you swiped the readout away, pulling up your work.
“The formulas you use are unorthodox,” Dr. Erso commented after slowly walking around the table until he was over your shoulder, standing at a respectable distance. “And yet you’ve shortened your work, arriving at a solution much quicker.”
A shiver ran over you at the doctor's words, but you managed to casually shrug. “Is that all right? If you’d prefer consistency - “
“Nonsense,” he assured you, taking the seat beside yours. There was something undeniably calming about Galen Erso, and it bothered you deeply. Regardless of his manners and benignity, he was still a driving force of the most dangerous weapon the Empire had yet to produce. “Refusal to change halts progress.”
You mustn't forget that, you reminded yourself as his eyes softened. Who he is and what he’s building.
“Well, I think another hour here and I ought to reach a good ending point for the night,” you began, but he closed his eyes, shaking his head.
“Forgive me, but I must execute my authority and insist you finish. You’ve been here before the suns rose today.”
“I really don’t mind -”
“I insist,” he said, and something in his tone, though not unkind, demanded you did not argue further. “If I may, I’d like to look this over. It’s nothing to worry about, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t.”
He’d know you were looking for the correction; there was no time to close the document now. Giving him a tight-lipped smile, you nodded.
“Of course,” you replied quietly.
As you began to rise from your chair, Dr. Erso placed a pacific hand over yours, still resting on the desk.
“I value your...thoroughness,” Dr. Erso monotoned, his set expression allowing for little interpretation. “I’m glad you’ve joined us.”
The structural readouts of the blueprints flashed in your mind again, and you smiled sheepishly. “As am I.”
When his hand moved away, electricity burned all the way up your arm, and you shook it as you turned away from him, his face falling sullenly as his attention directed at your work.
Dr. Erso was a well-known man throughout the Empire; you knew of his wife’s illness, her passing as he took sabbatical to care for her as she died. That had been over a decade in the past, but, after suffering such a loss, returning to the raincloud of Eadu, Galen Erso likely had little else to do besides work until his job was complete.
Even criminals of war experience loss, you thought as he nodded a polite dismissal. Even a dangerous mind like Galen Erso.
You indulged in a sleeping aid that night, certain that organic rest would not come naturally. When you alarm chirped only a few hours later, you blearily dragged yourself from your stiff bedsheets, determined to spend some time in solitude to continue going over the readout with the error.
When you arrived in the office, Dr Erso was slumped over in the same chair, his chin pressed into his chest. He was clearly in a deep slumber, having fallen asleep working.
Part of you wondered how someone who looked so forlorn could be capable of creating such a furious weapon as you crept towards him, unsure if you should wake him, or slide your datapad from the table and turn back around.
You jumped when his eyes blinked open, a well-contained look of surprise etching over him.
“I’m so sorry I’ve disturbed you,” you whispered. “I didn’t know -”
“It’s all right,” he replied groggily, groaning slightly as he straightened. “I’m not setting an example for my team, it appears.”
An unwelcome and sudden wave of compassion washed over you, and instead of pushing it away, you leaned into it. “Now you are the one who ought to rest.”
“Your reputation is veracious,” he said, and he stood up heavily. “Initiative and brilliant work. Keep doing what you’re doing.”
He didn’t wait for a reply, instead, pulling down the hem of his shirt before taking your advice and making his way for the exit.
“Dr, Erso,” you called apprehensively, and he turned to face you again. You wanted to ask about the readout and his failure to fix it; you were beginning to obsess. Deciding against it, you waved your hand. “Never mind. Goodnight.”
“And good morning,” he said, and you were certain something like relief washed over him before leaving the room.
⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰
Despite the luxury the Empire provided its most esteemed pledges, your quarters always felt a bit cold.
If it weren’t for the promise of warm caf, it would have been harder to drag yourself out of bed on your off day, but Grand Moff Tarkin would be visiting. You were acutely aware that Krennic didn’t like you, but Tarkin had once complimented a scientific paper you’d written on the harvesting techniques of kyber crystals that maintained their quality. You had an invasive thought as you readied yourself; you wanted Galen Erso to succeed during the Imperial audit today.
Hours later, you, the engineering team, and Dr. Erso spent a nerve wrecking hour painstakingly walking the sunken-faced man through your progress.
One by one the engineers were dismissed until Tarkin got to you, and he grinned, holding his hand in front of him.
“A pleasure to see you again,” he said, remembering your surname. “What an asset you’ve acquired,” Tarkin smirked, his unpleasant expression fixing on Dr. Erso. Turning to face you again, he drew himself up to his full height, looking down his nose at you. “And how are you finding the plans thus far? Anything our genius doctor’s missed?”
You could plainly tell it was in jest, but your face nearly fell as you thought of the irony, the design flaw in the forefront of your mind. Catching yourself, you beamed at the pallid Tarkin.
“Not a single thing,” you said evenly, turning your admiring smile towards the doctor, whose lips were slightly parted as you watched his throat bob, swallowing. “It’s flawless.”
I think my favorite jokes are the ones that weren’t even all that funny until I was an adult, and now they’re fucking hilarious. I’m not even talking about the dirty jokes. I’m talking about in Finding Nemo where the sharks are having fucking AA for fish eating. Remember that shit? “I am a nice shark, not a mindless eating machine. If I am to change this image, I must first change myself.” Who ever thought of that? That was brilliant. Or what about that time in Shrek 2 where Shrek and Donkey infiltrate the castle pretending to be union workers? Little me didn’t give a shit about unions but big me is remembering Shrek going “It’s okay buddy, we’re from the union” and the desk worker secretively “we don’t even have dental,” and Shrek just shakes his head and looks at Donkey like he can’t believe this shit and goes, “They don’t even have dental.” What the fuck. I’m dying of laughter. Who comes up with this shit.
summary: You didn’t know it could be like this, so thorough and careful and leaving you utterly ruined. You didn’t know words could hold such gentle weight, such power over you until all you wanted was to hear him speak. You didn’t know you could want it all so bad. It was like you knew nothing at all before him.
words: 2.5k
warning: 18+, piv, self doubt, feelings™
an: i don’t know what this is lol. is it repetitive? probably! does it make sense? i don’t know! all i know is i have been feeling so shitty and overwhelmed and inadequate these past few days and this particular scenario has been gnawing at me and i couldn’t rest until i got some part of it out there. this is very self-indulgent. this is the mood i’m in. i’m probably gonna go ghost for a day or two and hope my lizard brain changes course soon ldkdkd i luv u all i promise i’m not ignoring u i’m just #overwhelmed
ao3 link!
“You always take what I give you.” His voice is that perfect mix of soft and rough, grumbling from deep in his chest and enveloping you in its low timbre; you want to drown in it, drown in him, until there’s nothing left of you that’s distinguishable from his big hands, his sure grip on your body, the thick muscle of this man that hovers over you, such power and strength emanating from every pore, every fiber of his being. You want to be reduced to nothingness under him, squeezed into a pinprick of light like a distant star, burning out, dying millions of lightyears away.
You want him to consume you, all of you, until you cease to exist.
Characters: Marcus Pike - Goons. Hired goons. - Reader
Warnings: None. Nothing terrible happens. No one gets hurt.
Authors notes: I can't explain where this came from. It arrived, whole and complete, like vision from a slightly amused god.
Length: 702 words
“She’s sooo pretty,” Marcus sighs, his eyes unfocused and his head lolling on his shoulders. “Sh’smells so good all the time, too.”
The FBI agent lets loose a little laugh, his head rolling back, “She’s supposed to be the one here but—” He dropped his voice to a rough, dramatically conspiratorial whisper, “I made ‘em sen’ meee instead!”
The three goons standing around aren’t sure what to do. They’ve done what they were asked and it’s not their fault none of this is going according to plan. That plan being: Kidnap the FBI agent that turned up to buy the stolen painting, restrain them in a secure location, administer truth serum, and get the name of the informant that tipped off the feds.
Instead they’ve been treated to 25 minutes of this guy rambling on like a fool in love, because it turns out he’s just a fool in love who used whatever pull he had at his job to get sent on a dangerous undercover job in place of the person who actually had the information they were told to get.
Marcus, currently tied to a chair, sits up with wide eyes and addresses them again, “S’not very fenim— femim— feminist, I know, but what would you do? Huh?” Marcus narrowed his eyes and looked at all three in turn, “You wanna s’port her— ‘n’ she’s good and deserves recon— regocnition!”
The largest of the three, who had a mom who went on women’s rights marches, an aunt who ran a queer bookstore, an uncle who was a professor of philosophy specializing in feminist theory, and a girlfriend who was a social worker for abused women nodded in agreement, “I know man, you wanna support ‘em in being fully-realized people without the baggage of sexism, but it’s hard to let go of the patriarchal instinct to protect. You need to examine the source of those instincts and learn to communicate with her about your fears, openly and honestly.”
The bruiser to his right raised an eyebrow, “I mean, sure that’s true. But how do you know if you’re genuinely concerned about safety or just perpetuating sexist notions about women being ‘the weaker sex’? I never know how to talk to Carrie about this stuff and I’m always afraid it’ll come out wrong.”
The third goon sighed, “You have to remember that solid communication is a two way street. Using “I” statements is a good start. ‘I think this is dangerous. I am worried about you doing x and here’s why.’ and then really, really listen to what she says about that. Trust her to know herself and her abilities. Support her, be there for her, and don’t try to ‘fix’ everything. That’s not your job. Your job is to work on you and your goals.”
“‘Zactly! Man, I messed up. She’s gonna be soooo mad. I really fucked it this time,” Marcus mumbled into his chest.
“No way, man,” the big one comforted. “You sound like a nice enough guy. It came from a place of caring. Just acknowledge the fault and verbalize the steps you’ll take to make amends and correct the behaviour in the future. If she’s chill and into you, too, it’ll work itself out, you’ll—”
Just then there was a loud bang and a bright flash, stunning the occupants of the room. Windows and door burst inward as an FBI tac team raided the house, taking them all down in an instant.
When the ringing in their ears stopped and they could see again their first sight is you striding in and heading straight for their captive, untying him gently and checking his pupils and pulse as you call for a paramedic.
“I can’t even be mad at you, Marc. You’re an idiot, yes, but you’re a cute idiot with a good heart. Those other idiots gave you good advice, so take it. When you’re feeling better I’ll play the tape from the bug I planted on you when I found out what you were up to. If you still feel the same you can take me out to dinner.”
The last thing Marcus hears is the sound of three kidnappers congratulating him on his second chance...
oh my god this is so cute and so funny and it plays into one of my favorite tropes: hero dumps problems onto villain and villain has surprisingly deep and helpful advice
izzy806
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