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Tarkin fists his hand high up in the thick fabric of that infuriating white cape, bunching and wrinkling the crisp material in his grasp, and shoves Krennic roughly against the cold transparisteel window that makes up his office’s starboard wall. He knocks Krennic’s legs apart with a kick of his boot between his ankles, and holds him there by the fabric at the back of his neck, as if he’s scruffing a particularly disobedient animal.
“I have tolerated your insolence for far too long,” Tarkin hisses into Krennic’s ear, low and quiet and dangerous. “You will not question my command on my battle station, and certainly not in front of my officers. You will not forget, Director Krennic, that I am the one who holds authority here."
Krennic turns his head so that his left cheek is plastered against the window, looking back at Tarkin out of the corner of his eye. Despite the uncomfortable position, his answering smile is still all teeth and full of derision.
"Your battle station?” he spits. “It is MINE, I am the one who built it from the—”
Tarkin shoves him harder up against the window, cutting him off mid-sentence. An uneven gasp, unbidden, escapes from Krennic’s mouth. Tarkin smiles to himself. Barely a little rough handling and the lauded Director is already losing the little facade of control he so ardently likes to parade around.
At some point, every action the other man takes is a pathetic attempt to circumvent Tarkin’s authority (or, more accurately, to draw Tarkin’s attention—something he can’t seem to go long without), and it becomes nothing more than a nuisance that he must address. It falls under Tarkin’s purview, then, to keep up with this—what could be considered regular maintenance—to curb Krennic’s insolence. To keep him neat and quiet (at least as much as a man like him can ever manage to be) underneath his boot. Not that it ever lasts; he always seems to so conveniently forget.
“That is enough,” Tarkin orders, and releases him abruptly. “Remove your trousers, Director. Now.”
With a venomous glare, Krennic scrambles to obey, hands coming down to unbuckle and push his trousers and undergarments down with swiftly practiced ease. He steps out of the dark fabric that pools at his ankles, and Tarkin kicks it to the side without so much as a glance downwards.
“Hands against the glass,” Tarkin commands, and steps away to fetch the oil from one of the many drawers of his desk. When he turns back, he is met with the alluring sight of Krennic, hands and upper chest obediently pressed against the large windowpane, back arched and presenting himself to the Governor. His figure, clad in all white against a backdrop of glimmering stars and dark space, is striking.
The snow-white cape once again drapes smoothly across his back and over his sides, brushing softly against the pristinely cleaned shine of the black floor tiles and obscuring his naked legs. From Tarkin’s perspective, Krennic may as well be fully clothed, for his cape hides his indecency completely.
Tarkin closes the distance between them with two purposeful strides. Sweeping the cape to the side, he bares the pale skin of Krennic’s legs and ass to the dry, recycled air. Goosebumps pebble under his touch as he runs one hand down from hip to thigh, allowing himself a moment to admire the softness of the unmarred flesh. Such a stark difference to Tarkin’s own skin, which is proudly marked with “the scars left by wounds from blasterfire, falls, and the claws of predators”. 1 It is evidence of all those seasons out on the Carrion, of his triumph at the Spike, of his dominance at the Academy, his torture at the Citadel and the might of his military campaigns. It is evidence of Krennic’s weakness, of Krennic’s clear inferiority and station so far below Tarkin’s own it would not even deign one to compare the two.
Tarkin looks down at the shorter man, plastered gracelessly against the cold transparisteel with all traces of his usual infuriating bravado and posturing wiped away. It’s so easy to get Krennic to shut his vile mouth by just applying the slightest amount of true authority and the promise of a good fuck. It’s a shame that only he gets to see the man taken down a peg or two, baring himself shamelessly to Tarkin in his quarters, with how much he mouths off and flaunts the chain of command in his daily work. Tarkin smirks. He can imagine just how desperately the rest of the brass might want to put Krennic in his place.
Without further preamble, Tarkin spreads Krennic open with one hand, and with the other, slowly slides one slick finger in all the way to the hilt.
“You are such a whore, Orson,” Tarkin whispers against the curve of Krennic’s ear, breath curling hot and wicked against the rising gooseflesh of his skin. The sinuous words spoken in Tarkin’s elegant, deadly voice makes molten heat shoot directly down to Krennic’s groin. He clenches involuntarily, groaning as it makes the sensation of Tarkin’s length inside him feel even thicker and harder and hotter. Krennic has always been weak for Tarkin’s voice, and Tarkin always uses that to his advantage.
“No,” Krennic gasps. “No, it’s not—” He cuts himself off before he can sound even more pathetic as the pleasure starts to overwhelm him. Instead, he focuses as much as he can on keeping his mouth shut and preventing any more desperate, high noises from escaping from between his teeth.
Despite his best efforts, he hears Tarkin’s short, cruel laugh from behind his shoulder. Tarkin pulls back and drives in again, hard and brutal and sudden. This time, Krennic can’t stop the squeal that he makes as he’s shoved up higher against the window, cheek crushed almost painfully against the skin-warmed glass.
Tarkin’s amused exhale in response makes embarrassment and shame further heat Krennic’s already flushed face.
“Look at you, Orson,” he says. “A little pleasure and you’re all mindless and desperate and obedient. Imagine if Conan would see you like this, or Firmus. Or Gilad." He sneers. “Do you think you would still be able to hold on to the last measly specks of respect you thought they had for you, if they had any at all to begin with?”
“Fuck you,” Krennic growls, struggling fruitlessly under the pressure of Tarkin’s weight on his back where he’s pinned to the wall and spread open deep by the other man. “Fuck you, fuck you, Governor, fucking start moving already—”
“‘So much venom from such a lovely mouth,’” 2 Tarkin drawls. But he promptly returns to a fast, even rhythm, pushing so deep that Krennic can feel the weight of his balls against his perineum and then pulling back out far enough that he squirms each time at the tug of Tarkin’s cockhead stretching against his rim from the inside. It’s a rhythm that Krennic knows that Tarkin uses purposefully to drive him absolutely out of his mind, and it isn’t long before Krennic feels the hot pleasure and desperation in his abdomen grow and grow and grow until he’s almost tipping over the edge.
“Go on, then,” Tarkin snarls, breath coming in neat, quick pants against the nape of Krennic’s neck. “Come on my cock if you’re so desperate for it.” The vulgarity of his words, in combination with what he does next, is what sends Krennic over the edge.
Tarkin aims two more thrusts precisely, brutally, cruelly against Krennic’s sweet spot. Krennic shudders and whimpers, an uncontrollable wail tearing out of his throat, hands turning into claws and grabbing at nothing, body clenching down vice-tight as his cock jumps and twitches and paints his spend all over the pristine windowpane.
Tarkin fucks him through each spurt and twitch of his orgasm, timing it precisely so that he’s pushing deep in with each involuntary, almost painful spasm of Krennic’s muscles around him. Tarkin doesn’t relent until the very last, weak pulse of cum drips out of Krennic’s cock and he sags forwards, legs crumpling underneath him. It’s only Tarkin’s firm arm around his waist that keeps him from slipping down against the glass. He’s shaking and panting in Tarkin’s embrace, body utterly beyond his own control.
Three more thrusts is all it takes for Tarkin’s silent, pleasured release, spilling into the now relaxed grip of Krennic’s body. Krennic gives another intense, full-body shudder at the sensation, fingers again coming up to press against the glass for a quick second until Tarkin pulls right out and lets him go.
Krennic slides gracelessly to the floor, cape crumpling and creasing under his thighs and his ass. Inelegant, he manages to think to himself, feeling the gabarwool slowly dampen with cum and lubricant where it touches his soiled skin, but is unable to move a muscle to rectify his indecorum.
In the edge of his periphery, the severe tips of Tarkin’s black boots click evenly across the polished tiles. When the Governor makes it across the entire length of the room, he pours himself two fingers of a Tevraki whiskey from his bar shelf and takes a generous sip. “Clean up your mess,” he orders, gesturing with his glass at the cum that streaks the office’s transparisteel wall, a dirty contrast against the field of stars beyond. When Krennic moves his arm heavily to grasp at a corner of his already sullied cape, Tarkin tsks sharply. “With your tongue.”
Later, when they are both worn out and sated in bed, they lie naked with Tarkin’s taller frame curled around Krennic’s from behind and one arm thrown lazily over his waist.
“The project is mine,” Krennic says softly, aimlessly staring out of the viewport with tired eyes. He can still see the smudges from their earlier activities left over on the transparisteel—they’d have to get a droid to clean that up when they were both on their next shift. “What I said on the bridge was true; this is my achievement. It is my years of work and ambition, my design and my pinnacle as an architect. It is my struggle with the Empire’s bureaucracy, fighting for funds and having to compete with that vile animal; Thrawn of all people. It is my efforts that got Erso back on the project. And now it is finally complete. It can do so much more than just Jedha City. It is a planet-killer; it should be my greatest achievement.” He huffs out a defeated sigh.
“And so it is,” Tarkin murmurs. Krennic can feel the gentle brush of Tarkin’s lips and the warm puff of his breath against the back of his neck. “Yet you must know that it was the Emperor’s order that the Death Star come under my command. This is yours, Orson, but you understand as well as I that I cannot argue with what the Emperor decrees, lest I, too, meet my end to Vader’s fist as countless others have before me.”
Krennic snorts. “Vader likes you,” he says. “I doubt he would harm you. You knew him before the fall of the Republic, did you not?”
“I did,” Tarkin responds. “And it is true, that Vader would not harm me of his own volition. But he is simply the Emperor’s dog. He has no mind of his own and I know as well as he that the Emperor would crush him if he were to disobey. I knew him before the fall, but the Jedi rendered the Emperor’s golden protege into the abomination that is Vader. Everything the Emperor saw in him is naught. He is as trapped under the Emperor’s fist as the rest of us.”
Krennic sighs. There is little room for sentimentality or attachment within the high ranks of the Galactic Empire, but nevertheless he settles his hand over Tarkin’s own, where it splays possessively over Krennic’s bare stomach, before he closes his eyes and lets sleep take him.