Work Text:
“I hoped you would stop by my office,” his voice sounded from behind you, dripping both honey and a hint of betrayal, sending your heart into overdrive so much your ribcage hurt. You couldn’t be sure if you jumped a little upon hearing him, either.
“Y-you di-didn’t send –” you stammered, too dumbfounded to even turn to face him.
“An invitation?” he smirked into the rim of his glass – of course, he had to fix himself a drink immediately after he returned from work. Two ice cubes clinked as he took a sip. What did it mean when he took his whiskey on rocks and not neat as usual? You wracked your brain but couldn’t come up with a satisfactory explanation. “But you don’t need an official invitation to visit your husband.” Now he was too close.
The glass was put by your side as his hands found their way to your waist.
“But I – I haven’t finished the work you left for me,” you reigned your trembling voice with a deep calming breath. “So, there was no reason for me to visit the Engineering Corps offices. With nothing to deliver.”
The truth was that the last time you had visited there, you had seen something that had sent you into such distress you had fled the scene before he could see you. Of course, you had heard the gossip, and you had spent many a night thinking about what had been said. Rationalising. Convincing yourself that it didn’t matter – that Orson Krennic had never been yours in the first place, that your signature at the bottom of the marriage contract had been only a formality, a simple means to your freedom. Why had it had to hurt so much then to see his Deputy Director exiting the office, adjusting the front of his pants? You knew what you had seen: Brierly Ronan, a little dishevelled and fumbling with his hard-on.
The first time you had met the man, though, had been a few months prior. To be more exact, you had met his spotless boots, because Orson had shoved you under his desk when the door chime had announced his arrival. Which had been a sheer luck – just moments before, the man had had his face buried between your tits, begging you to suck his cock. You’d had a half mind to do it while Ronan had been standing on the other side of the desk, droning something about a report, had you not been busy picking up the scattered shirt buttons as discreetly as possible. Except that the Deputy Director had stood on one, and you had not found courage to reveal your presence, holding the torn shirt closed against your chest protectively, not daring to even breathe.
Did you not know what you wanted? Did it leave a sour aftertaste in your mouth? The taste of betrayal? That evening had left you perhaps broken –
Krennic clicked his tongue at your apologetic tone. “Not even to tell me that you applied for a job with Kuat?” he asked softly, delivering a mocking kiss to your temple as his arms wandered further.
“So?” you held your breath as his fingers found the opening of the robe you had thrown on without thinking twice about the choice earlier.
“You could have at least said something, wife. I told you that the portfolio we’ve built together was worthy of at least the consideration of Sienar Fleet Systems representatives. They could use someone of your capacity at their test facility.” When he discovered the black lacy negligee underneath, he stopped for a moment.
“But isn’t their test facility somewhere along the Triellus Trade Route in the Outer Rim?” Did he really want to ship you away? To get rid of you already?
“It is. The planet is cold as ice, riddled with glaciers,” he murmured, his lips finding the sweet spot just beneath your ear, making you stifle a moan.
With a sigh, you granted him more access. “I thought you wanted me closer, Orson, not on some horrible planet in the middle of nowhere.”
He changed his verbal tactics. “I’ve told you a hundred times – I can provide for you; you don’t need to work a minute in your life. Or you could join my project if you wanted to do something. You wouldn’t need to step out of this office if you so wished. Instead, you started with this nonsense,” he muttered against your pulse point while his hands caressed the undersides of your breasts over the silky material. It felt so exquisite, almost like when Isla had been using her brushes on your skin –
“Having a job is not – oh, gods! – nonsense.” Your breath hitched when he pinched one of your nipples unexpectedly, forcing it to bud. Once he twisted it with his thumb, you forgot what else you wanted to say, leaning into him. He smirked at your reaction.
Taking an advantage of it, your wrap dress fell open with only a few expert tugs at the strings closing it, and soon, his eyes landed at the fancy undergarments he did not remember purchasing for you. Neither he recognised the spicy undertones of your perfume lingering on your skin as well as the fabric, taking a whiff of it again. He decided he liked it, though.
“I suppose it’s not,” Orson shrugged, his hold on you tightening, pressing you to him more.
But the current arrangement suits you better; you bit your lip to refrain from saying it out loud – it was enough that he had practically caught you like this –
The true reason behind you not showing up at his work was neither the lack of progress on the latest batch of files you were supposed to review for him, nor the lingering sense of betrayal you feared in case of running into the Deputy Director Brierly Ronan again, but the fact that your latest session with one Isla Modo had gotten a very different turn… again.
And judging by his paw finding its way under the flimsy lace, your husband was about to –
“Somebody is excited here,” he hummed appreciatively, swirling his finger around the wetness he found between your legs, seeping through fabric barely covering it. “Thinking of me that much, my little desperate thing, hmm?”
There was no other way than to play along.
You felt his cock stir in his pants against your rump. Catching his other hand, sprawled over your covered tit possessively, your fingers slotted in between his as you rocked your hips against his awakening interest. “Uh-huh,” you purred, cursing yourself silently for behaving like a loth-cat in heat – aside from Krennic fucking you ten ways into Taungsday this week, you had already peaked twice in hands of the painter earlier.
The evidence of that had left a sticky mess on your inner thighs you forgot to clean properly.
His hand continued tracing your slit, mouth occupied by the column of your neck, his lips tasting your pulse point.
In the last moment of clarity, you were able to hide a scandoc with handwritten notes under a pile of others, almost overturning his discarded drink in the haste of your action. You did not need Orson to know about the one specific design and your subsequent plans of adjusting it – he didn’t have to discover that you had already found your way on the market.
The files were pushed aside soon enough.
“Your delicious smell is driving me mad with want,” he murmured against your skin, nibbling on your earlobe which made you buck against him harder. His low growl at that didn’t leave your head cool, either. “I had a half mind to carry this to the bedroom,” he chuckled darkly then, caressing your thigh that the negligee rode up under his paw, the intricate pattern of your underwear peeking from underneath, “but you are so responsive; I need to have you now.”
“Here?” your breathy voice quavered – as did your flesh.
Instead of an answer, he turned you to face him, claiming your lips in a hot kiss impatiently. You could only collapse against the edge of your work desk and let him nudge your feet apart. His body covered you, making you feel how hard he was already – a frustration with Galen Erso transformed into a raw, heady need to own you. He had been careful enough to not let a single hint of his recent shortcomings slip in your presence. His young and naïve wife did certainly not need to know about the web of lies he had been fabricating around the Erso family.
“Orson…” you keened into his mouth while he nipped at your lips harshly. His hand had found your shoulder on its own accord, pushing your scanty clothes off it already, as if brushing off the shock of pain from the bite.
For once, he didn’t have to come up with a new excuse why they had not found his daughter yet, although it had been a part of his deal with the scientist upon his messed-up extraction from Lah’mu. Which had been his own failure: he had lied to Krennic about his wife’s demise. Well, until it had become a reality on his command which had ended the existence of Lyra Erso for good. Galen had insisted on taking her body with them, further negotiating that Orson should find their daughter. At least he had returned to work afterwards, realising that there had been nothing else left for the broken man.
Krennic had pretended to care about their child. He pretended to launch a search and rescue operation for the crystallographer’s sake and continued the charade for as long as it would keep the surviving Erso focused on his work.
The reality, though, had been more complicated.
Galen sometimes forgot to ask about her in the past, but not for a week straight –
Which was a relief in itself.
Pushing the drenched crotch of your panties aside, his finger circled your clit impatiently, making you gasp into his open mouth. He liked to be a little rough with you, but today, the roughness felt like his own choice, not a consequence of the constant workload he carried. And he needed more, pawing at your thighs, spreading them open wider.
You barely managed to hold onto the edge of the desk, the ground slipping under your feet from his insistence. When he removed his hand from your pussy for a moment, the lace of your undies dug into your clit he just abused, the panties not returned to their right position. It was uncomfortable, and you began fidgeting. He probably interpreted it as a need for more, rutting his hidden dick against you, making you feel the length that tented the front of his jodhpurs.
“You want it as much as I do, you little slut?” he panted against your jaw, his breath fanning over your cheek. “You need my cock to stretch your deliciously tight hole again? Thinking about it the whole day, hmm?” More of those foreign spice undertones of your perfume invaded his sense of smell, wafting off your warm skin. His teeth dug into your flesh, enough to leave an imprint over your collarbone.
Head thrown back, your pained moan at the sharp sensation reverberated through him, going straight to his groin. He soothed the spot with his tongue before he hoisted you up with a grunt, tugging at the silk more so your breasts spilled out. You could only brace yourself on your arms still trapped within the robe’s sleeves when he attacked your nipples again, sucking one in while pinching the other until you were sobbing with pleasure. He enjoyed your knees squeezing his hips with every jolt of it running down to your core.
A tear of fabric followed. The panties were suddenly gone, prompting you to look down between your bodies – to see his hand covering your bare mound.
And then delve further.
“Such a needy cunt you have. Sometimes I wonder if I can even keep up with your demands, wife,” he growled, his finger easing into you, slippery with your juices. The embarrassing wet kiss your pussy was giving him every time he retreated made you blush violently. “If you came to me earlier, I could’ve taken care of you sooner, luv,” he whispered, his pupils blown so much you couldn’t see the blue framing them.
It felt very different to when Isla had fucked you earlier that day – slowly and carefully – with a thick handle of her favourite brush. The inanimate object had felt rigid inside, even though the painter had manipulated it skilfully, pressing it against your front wall with her slender fingers accompanying it, slipping along the lacquered wood.
Oh, but when she had guided the feather-soft bristles over your clit –
You bit onto your lower lip so the artist’s name would remain concealed from Orson, struggling to bear the intensity of his gaze.
He was quickly losing interest in preparing you thoroughly. Changing his mind, he took your hand instead and placed it over his hard-on – a signal that you shouldn’t remain passive. He even granted you a little space so you could straighten up and undo the front of his pants. And hissed when your warm palm finally closed around his cock. You thumbed at the tip, moist from the amount of precum that was leaking from it and spread it along the shaft. When it was free from its confines, jutting upwards proudly, he pushed your hands away with some impatience.
Your bottom slid closer to the edge of the desk as he repositioned you, and your hands flew to his shoulders in fear of toppling over.
Instructing you to hike your legs higher, he fisted himself, guiding his fat cockhead along your pussy, parting your drenched labia further. It caught at your entrance a few times, always slipping out.
Until the moment it didn’t.
You forgot to breathe when he stretched you open.
“How dare you,” his voice sounded strained over the gritted teeth, “strangle my cock like this, Y/N. You’re so kriffing – tight. Shavit –” He continued pushing forward insistently, however, parting your walls further. His other hand dug into your flesh as if he could pull you closer. Impale you quicker. Even though he had to stop a few times, shallow ruts keeping you open when he tried to maintain his composure.
Once Orson bottomed out, you allowed yourself a few cautious gulps of air. You were so full down there, and his lips at the crook of your neck made your skin tingle. It was nowhere near Isla’s sensory play, though. Your husband didn’t intend to focus on you today, seeking his own relief instead.
His mutters of how well you were taking his cock sounded muffled. And shallow.
He didn’t grant you enough time to accommodate his girth.
To allow himself a better view, he soon pushed on your shoulder, making you lie down and towering above you, braced on his forearms you grabbed onto, saying that he was going to fuck you hard – something you accepted immediately when his first full thrust jostled your body. And then another, his withdrawal barely leaving the tip inside.
His eyes were glued to his cock, coated in your wetness, eagerly disappearing between your rosy folds. “Such a beautiful cunt, wife. Begging to be fucked. Begging to be filled. Already salivating at the idea – so much it’s dripping down my nuts,” he chuckled. “I’m gonna fuck – ah! – fuck you full of my seed you’ll feel me there for days.”
You had to let go if his forearm as he decided to hold onto your thigh for a minute before his fingers splayed over your lower belly, pressing down on the bulge of his shaft ploughing your pussy. “Oh, Maker,” you moaned breathlessly, closing your eyes to focus on the sensation.
Sometimes, his cockhead brushed against the entrance of your womb like a promise.
You felt him take your free hand. His lips closed around your fingers, trapping them in the moist heat of his mouth. That made you look at him – to obey a silent command for your attention.
“If you want to cum, you’ll have to touch yourself, sweetling,” he grinned deviously, guiding your hand to your crotch. “Like this.” He moved your fingers against your swollen clit, watching your mouth fall open soundlessly at the jolt of electricity traversing your nerves. Feeling your inner muscles twitching. He hummed approvingly, resuming a slower, more thorough pace with his thrusts. “Can’t wait to watch it seep out of your thoroughly fucked hole. I’ll push every drop of it back inside.”
Every other word was punctuated by a snap of his hips against yours.
Moaning his name only spurred him on.
Until he noticed that the rhythm of you drawing circles around your bud faltered. His fingers wrapped around your wrist in warning, something dangerous glinting in his eyes. “Or perhaps you’d prefer me doing it, hmm? Or licking that used cunt of yours clean afterwards?” His tone grew noticeably rougher.
Giving him a weak nod made him cackle.
He bent over you, caging your body effectively. “But what if I don’t want to, Y/N? Not today,” he whispered haughtily.
Your brows furrowed in confusion.
“Suit yourself, wife. I’m going to use you for my pleasure. If you want to deny yourself, your loss. Don’t complain later, I warned you.” Orson’s posture straightened again, and you lost contact with his other forearm, too. His grip on your hips was strong, and he easily made you meet his movements that sped up. He listened to your moans morphing into cries, fucking you hard and fast, skin slapping skin. His cock throbbed inside you, the vein on its underside pulsing in tandem with his increased heartbeat.
Something tumbled to the floor, sheets of flimsi scattering.
Neither your uncooperative whim nor the noise stopped him – in fact, the latter was drowned in his grunting. He was racing towards the finish line, feeling his balls draw tighter.
You registered the warmth of his seed painting your womb. His cock twitching, delivering yet another spurt. Too much. It would drip onto his trousers the moment he would start growing limp. His chest rising and falling rapidly as he was catching his breath. A few strands of his hair drenched in droplets of sweat plastered to his forehead. His uniform askew, not as immaculate as his polished self would allow.
And above it all – the void in your loins. The lack of satisfaction you had apparently inflicted on yourself.
He smirked at your expression. “Perhaps my cock was wasted on you today. But maybe it’s better that way. We don’t want you too cockdrunk, slut, do we?” he caressed your cheek before grabbing your chin to prevent you from turning away.
The cruelty of his words ignited a different fire within you – one blazing in your eyes.
“You can be mad only at yourself, luv. Quitter, aren’t you? Try harder next time.” You wanted to push him away, but he could read you like a book – letting go of your chin with a bark of laughter, he pulled out, using your robe to clean his softening dick. “It’s a B minus, sweetheart. But at least, you tried,” he jabbed, tucking himself away at last.
You remained on the desk, seething. “Are you going to grade my performance from now on?”
“Perhaps if you followed my wishes, wife. But you had to rebel, so, suffer the consequences,” Krennic shrugged, finishing adjusting his pants.
Realising that none of his promises would come true now, you pulled your legs together, standing up. “Fine. If you must know, it’s a C for you, husband. Lazy, weren’t you?”
That made him freeze for a split second. And realise that you were nothing like Galen – if anything, you would be harder to keep under control. However, for now, he felt relaxed. There was no reason to fight with you. In the end, he laughed your remark off. “As I said: try harder next time,” he repeated, grabbing the empty glass and leaving you in the mess –
Except that he lingered in the doorway before disappearing in the hallway.
You didn’t bother facing him, though.
“I’ll keep track of your grades,” he chuckled.