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The Director’s Obsession - Phase 13

Character: Director Orson Krennic x F!ISB Agent

Summary: Director Orson Krennic keeps one ISB agent under his thumb, pulling her from lunches, stealing her sleep, and destroying three dates. The project demands everything. Or maybe his obsession demands more.

Words Count : 5,126

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Phase 1 , Phase 2 , Phase 3 , Phase 4 , Phase 5 , Phase 6 , Phase 7 , Phase 8 , Phase 9 , Phase 10 , Phase 11 , Phase 12 , Phase 13 , -

50 Headcanons of Director Orson Krennic

A/N: Don’t make our Director Krennic angry, or you’ll face the consequences.

The morning light cut through the tall windows of the estate, washing the room in a pale gold.

You stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the front clasp of your uniform with difficulty. Seven months along, and everything from your balance to your breath felt borrowed. Still, you managed to clip the belt just right, even if the jacket didn’t fall as smoothly anymore.

Behind you, Krennic walked in from the bedroom, already halfway into his uniform. He was still adjusting the collar as he glanced at you.

“That’s crooked,” he said dryly.

You sighed. “That’s called maternity.”

He approached, fixing the clasp for you without another word. His touch lingered on your stomach afterward. Firm, steady, like he needed to remind himself you were still there. Still safe.

"What's your schedule today?" you asked as he stepped back and grabbed his cape.

“Convince Palpatine and his walking corpses that the Empire hasn’t cracked in half,” he muttered, clearly unamused. “Same as yesterday. Same as next week.”

You turned toward him as he attached his rank plate. “You’d rather be elbows-deep in reactor schematics.”

“I’d rather be left alone with the TIE Defender's targeting systems,” he said, smoothing his gloves. “Or improving the Chimaera’s weapons array. Thrawn keeps pestering me with polite requests and thinly veiled compliments.” He paused. “Vader’s destroyer is next on my list, but I’m not in the mood to get strangled today.”

That pulled a laugh out of you. Small but genuine.

“I’m always nervous when you go into that chamber,” you admitted.

“Me too,” he said quietly. Then his voice dropped lower as he came to your side again. “But we have to stick to the plan.”

His hand found your belly again, more gently this time. “He won’t grow up under Palpatine,” Krennic said. “I’ll make sure of it.”

You shifted slightly, resting your hand over his. “Let’s make sure we survive first.”

He didn’t argue.

After a moment, he tilted his head, studying you. “What about you? Are they still trembling when you enter ISB headquarters?”

You rolled your eyes. “Some of them just glare.”

“Because of me,” he said flatly. “And the Death Star. Because they think I turned you into a monster.”

You gave him a sharp look. “You think I needed help?”

That made him smirk. But it faded just as quickly. His gaze moved back down to your stomach.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “You need more protection. I could assign four more Death Troopers. A full guard rotation.”

“One is enough.”

“Two.”

“Orson.”

He exhaled. “Fine. One. But if anyone so much as breathes in your direction the wrong way—”

“You’ll what?” you teased. “Send stormtroopers to their doorstep?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

You laughed. It echoed in the quiet space, breaking the tension in the room like glass. That sound was enough. For a moment, it settled something inside him.

Krennic straightened the last piece of his uniform and looked toward the door. “Let’s go rattle the foundations of the Empire.”

You reached for your datapad, arching a brow. “Only if we’re back before dinner.”

He allowed himself a small grin. “Always.”

********

The throne room pulsed with the same quiet menace it always held. Shadows curled between columns like predators at rest, and the Emperor sat above them all, throne raised, face half-cloaked beneath his hood. Below him, the Imperial Ruling Council had gathered, robed in their crimson, steel, and bone-white finery. Mas Amedda stood nearest the throne, his staff gripped like a scepter of judgment.

Krennic stood several steps below the dais, posture composed, gloved hands behind his back. His cape barely stirred as he lifted his chin.

“The weapons division has completed structural reinforcements on all primary Star Destroyers,” he said, voice smooth, clear, unshaken by the air of judgment hanging heavy in the chamber. “Tie Defender retrofits have increased field efficiency by 32 percent. The Chimera’s hull plating has been reinforced with prototype alloy, by request of Grand Admiral Thrawn. And hyperspace interdiction fields are undergoing early-stage acceleration testing.”

There was a silence. Then the Emperor’s voice—low, weathered, dry as parchment—broke through the air.

“Satisfactory.”

It was not praise. But it was enough. Krennic dipped his head slightly, the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Let the others interpret it as they would.

“The second Death Star,” the Emperor rasped, “must proceed.”

“Yes, your majesty.” Krennic answered with a low voice.

“Yet we remain... exposed,” Mas Amedda said, stepping forward, his voice carrying that permanent air of disdain. “The rebels remain active. Audacious. Unruly.”

“There is still the matter of the second Death Star,” came another voice—Councilor Narl Lott, voice nasal, fingers entwined like a nervous rodent. “If we are to secure the Outer Rim, its presence will silence dissent—”

“Darth Vader has taken personal interest in two rebel agents,” another councilor interrupted, tone reverent as he angled his words toward the throne. “Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan. And a boy from the Outer Rim. Luke Skywalker. There are… rumors.”

The Emperor’s chin lifted slightly. Not a full acknowledgment—merely a breath of consideration.

“The people have begun petitioning for a memorial,” said Councilor Brix. “To honor those lost aboard the Death Star. A civilian movement, but gaining momentum. They want to build a monument.”

“No,” the Emperor said, voice flat with finality. “Grief is weakness. Mourning invites questions. We do not decorate failure.”

The chamber stilled.

Then the Emperor’s gaze fell on Krennic again, the yellow of his eyes almost glowing in the low light.

“Your thoughts, Director.”

“A monument,” Krennic said calmly, “would not be a concession. It would be a signal. That even in our strength, we remember. Loyalty deepens when sacrifice is acknowledged. And morale—true morale—is built on shared belief, not just fear.”

The words hung in the air like a blade, suspended. Palpatine said nothing, but his gaze stayed fixed on Krennic—an appraisal, not a dismissal.

Across the chamber, Mas Amedda let out a theatrical breath and shook his head. He leaned forward, his voice curling with disdain.

“Spoken like a man campaigning for sympathy,” Amedda said. “Or perhaps promotion. Monuments? You’re not a philosopher, Director. You’re a middle manager with a flair for theatrics. The moment we let weapons designers start dictating Imperial values, we may as well put artists in charge of war.”

A few members of the Council exchanged subtle looks. One coughed into his sleeve. Another smirked behind a raised hand.

Krennic didn’t move.

He didn’t let his jaw twitch, didn’t glance at Palpatine, didn’t acknowledge the burn crawling just beneath his collar.

He simply turned toward Amedda, slow and deliberate, as if studying something beneath glass. When he finally spoke, his voice was velvet-smooth—controlled, but dipped in something colder than rage.

“Forgive me, Grand Vizier. I wasn’t aware your contributions to military doctrine were so vast and underappreciated. I must have missed the footnotes in our supply chain audits labeled ‘sarcasm and slander.’ Perhaps next time, I’ll consult your office for tactical insight. Assuming it’s not already booked with ceremonial duties.”

A flicker of amusement danced in Palpatine’s expression, so fleeting it could be imagined.

Amedda’s expression darkened. His throat worked to swallow a retort, but Krennic had already turned his gaze back to the center.

He took one careful step forward.

“My loyalty remains with the Empire,” Krennic said evenly, eyes forward. “But if the people begin to forget what they’ve lost, they will forget why they follow. The second Death Star is a monument to fear. A true monument. One of remembrance. Would serve as its counterbalance. And if we ignore that... we lose something we won’t get back.”

The silence returned, but it carried weight now.

Palpatine’s fingers slowly tapped the edge of his throne. Then stopped. He gave a single nod.

Approval.

Minimal. But visible.

Krennic felt it, and so did the Council.

Amedda's shoulders stiffened, the corner of his mouth curled—not with triumph, but with quiet fury. He didn’t speak again. Not for the rest of the session.

Because Krennic had said what needed saying.

And worse for Amedda—he had been right.

The power in the room had tilted. Not loudly. Not obviously. But it tilted all the same. And Krennic, with practiced elegance, had stayed standing.

*********

The ISB briefing hall was unusually subdued that afternoon. The usual cadence of boots, clipped orders, and holopanel chatter had dulled to a sluggish murmur. You stepped in quietly, the sound of your own footsteps sharper than expected on the durasteel floor.

It wasn’t just fatigue. It was something else. Resentment. You could feel it prickling in the air like static—buried behind stiff uniforms and protocol masks.

A few agents glanced at you, then away just as quickly.

Heert stood by the comm table, datapad in hand, shoulders drawn tighter than usual.

You approached. “Why so quiet?”

He didn’t look up at first. When he did, there was something wary behind his eyes.

“We just received official word,” he said. “The Emperor won’t authorize the memorial for the Death Star casualties. Not even a wall. No names. Nothing.”

The words settled like dust. You didn’t speak. You let the silence stretch just long enough to hear the ache underneath it.

“They weren’t just numbers,” Heert added. “Some of us... lost family. Friends. Entire units.”

A murmur flickered across the room. One of the analysts near the corner desk muttered something under her breath. Something you didn’t catch, but the tone was bitter.

You scanned the room. Some of these officers had served under Tarkin. Others had trained with those who died. A few had come from Alderaan itself—Imperial loyalists once proud to serve, now silently gutted.

And some of them, you realized, were looking at you like it was your fault. Because you were close to Krennic. Because the Death Star bore his fingerprints, no matter how distant.

You straightened your coat. Spoke carefully.

“Do you know why Alderaan was destroyed?”

One of the agents across the room—Kyr, Alderaanian-born—folded his arms. “Because your Director built a planet-killer. And your Emperor let it off the leash.”

You didn’t flinch. “Director Krennic was removed from the project before it was ever fired. It was Tarkin’s command. And Alderaan was his idea of a political statement.”

Kyr's mouth tensed. “And Jedha? Cinderis?”

“Jedha was a rebel hotspot,” you said evenly. “Director Krennic didn’t flatten the city out of spite. Intelligence marked it as a weapons funnel for the Alliance. His strike neutralized the threat in one move. Was it surgical? No. But it ended a war that was bleeding our men dry.”

“And Cinderis?” someone else pressed, voice edged with skepticism.

You turned slightly toward them. “How many of you even knew that planet existed before the rumors? Cinderis was a black site. An unauthorized weapons lab funneling data to anti-Imperial cells. Intelligence missed it. Director Krennic didn’t. He struck before it could escalate. Quietly. No headlines.”

The room quieted. They hadn’t expected you to answer directly. You watched their reactions shift. They weren’t convinced. Not all of them. But they were listening.

You stepped forward.

“Let me ask you something,” you said. “Did you know the Emperor offered Director Krennic full authority over the second Death Star project?”

There were murmurs now. Real ones. Heads turned.

“He declined,” you said. “Told Emperor Palpatine himself the project was a mistake. That a second station wouldn’t inspire loyalty. It would deepen fear. Divide us further. He walked away from the most powerful position in the military—because he saw what it did to Aldeeran.”

Kyr hesitated. “You’re saying he defied the Emperor?”

“I’m saying,” you replied, “that Director Krennic knows what happens when we forget the cost of power. And that some of us still remember the ones we lost.”

There was a pause. Then the quietest ripple of agreement—barely a sound, just a shift in posture. A nod. A glance. Heert stood straighter. A junior officer muttered under his breath, “Maybe he should’ve stayed in charge.”

It wasn’t loud. But it was enough.

The room didn’t erupt. No thunderous declaration. Just a change in the current, sharp and irreversible. Like the beginning of a storm.

By the time you turned to leave, the whispers had already started traveling from one corner of the facility to another.

*************

The house was quiet when you stepped out of the steam-filled refresher, towel-wrapped and still brushing drops from your neck. The lights in the hall flickered once—then the front door hissed open.

You paused.

Krennic entered with his usual slow stride, white cloak trailing slightly heavier than usual, like the day had clung to him longer than necessary. His face, always arranged with precision, wore exhaustion in careful lines. But the moment he saw you, still damp from your shower, a different kind of tension passed through him. He crossed the space, cupped your cheek, and pressed a firm kiss to your mouth.

“I didn’t expect you back so early,” he murmured against your lips. “Not that I’m complaining.”

You smirked. “Could say the same.”

“I need ten minutes. That council chamber reeked of desperation.”

He peeled off his gloves, brushing them across your shoulder before disappearing toward the bedroom. You didn’t wait, already making your way to the dining room, knowing his routine by heart. Wine uncorked, plates set. The quiet, reliable rhythm you both had built between the chaos.

By the time he returned. Fresh, shirt crisp, hair damp and slicked back. You were already seated, sipping water from your glass.

Dinner passed in conversation about reports, muted political tensions, and the tightening screws around the Emperor. But it wasn’t until he leaned back in his chair, wine swirling in his glass, that his eyes cut sideways to you with a wry smile.

“I heard you defended me again at the ISB.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Partagaz?”

Krennic gave a slow nod. “He never brings me up unless something notable happens. And apparently, you turned murmurs into myth.”

You shrugged. “They were mourning. You know how raw they’ve been. The Emperor’s refusal to memorialize the Death Star losses hit them harder than you think. They needed someone to believe in.”

“And you gave them me?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

“I gave them someone who doesn’t want another Death Star. That’s not the same.”

He laughed, soft and dangerous. “It’s close enough.”

You lowered your fork, fingertips brushing your stomach unconsciously. A beat later, you felt it—faint, like bubbles shifting under skin. Your breath hitched.

Krennic noticed. His smile faded, replaced with something quieter.

He stood, walked around the table, and knelt beside your chair. His palm pressed against your belly, fingers spread as if trying to feel the pulse of something just beneath. You both waited.

There it was. A kick—sharper this time.

“He’s listening,” Krennic murmured, voice almost reverent. “Already reacting to politics. That’s my son.”

You gave him a look. “Or he’s trying to get away from it.”

He chuckled, then grew thoughtful.

“We just need someone to blame,” he said after a pause.

You set your glass down slowly. “You saved something in mind?”

He only smirked, slow and precise. A quiet glint in his eye. The kind of expression you’d learned meant he already had someone in his sights—someone important.

***********

Nobody ever expected this storm to come.

The stillness of Coruscant’s upper levels cracked like glass under the pressure of a truth too long buried.

At first, it was a whisper—a single holoboard flashing red where Imperial recruitment posters used to hang. Then five more followed, across speeder routes and transit stations, flickering with the same headline in stark, unflinching Aurebesh:

"One Trillion Credits. One Death Star. Zero Answers."

An open letter followed, anonymously distributed and impossible to trace. It spread faster than Imperial censors could blink. Across terminals in military outposts, civilian news kiosks, private comms, and encrypted networks, the same message roared:

“The Empire spent more credits on a single weapon of destruction than on healthcare, education, and infrastructure combined across twelve sectors. Where did it go? Who approved it? And who paid the price?”

Below that, real figures. Line by line. Manufacturing budgets. Construction manifests. Cargo logs from Scarif. Secret transport orders. None of it forged. None of it denied.

The leak was surgical—too perfect to be a rebel attack. This wasn’t chaos. It was calculated exposure.

Within hours, entire divisions of stormtroopers refused additional training drills, mumbling under their breath about being “expendable.” Navy captains submitted encrypted inquiries. Civilians rioted outside regional headquarters. On more than one outpost, Imperial banners were pulled down and burned.

No broadcast could calm them. No apology was issued.

By nightfall, the headlines had changed:

“Who built the Death Star?”

“Why did Alderaan die?”

“What else are they hiding?”

In the upper levels of the Citadel Tower, silence reigned within the Emperor’s private audience chamber—until his voice, low and venomous, slithered into the dark like a blade drawn from its sheath.

“So… it begins.”

You stood before him, flanked by Director Partagaz on your right. Neither of you dared interrupt. The red-robed guards didn’t move. Not even the flicker of a glance.

Palpatine leaned forward in his throne, his face shadowed beneath the folds of his hood, but his eyes burned. “They smell blood. The masses. The officers. Even… the Ruling Council.” His voice curled with contempt.

“They are frightened,” Partagaz said evenly. “It will pass.”

Palpatine hissed, “Frightened men become dangerous. They must be reminded who holds power.”

You stepped forward, just enough for the guards to take notice. “Then give them someone to blame.”

There was silence. Then Partagaz glanced at you sidelong. You could feel the weight of his approval, veiled though it was.

Palpatine’s gaze didn’t waver. “You suggest one of my own Council?”

“Either the Council, or the Vizier,” you said. “Both were responsible for approving Death Star budget extensions. Both signed off on the contingency funds. Let the ISB investigate. Give the people a name that is not yours.”

His gaze narrowed, calculating. The silence stretched until the hum of the chamber grew loud in your ears.

He finally said, “Choose one.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Grand Vizier Mas Amedda.”

Partagaz exhaled like a man confirming something he already knew.

He gave the faintest nod. “Then make it so.”

He turned his head, slowly, toward Partagaz. “Conduct the audit. Unleash the hounds. And make sure... the trail leads exactly where we want it.”

You inclined your head and turned to leave, Partagaz beside you.

As the doors hissed shut behind you, he said nothing at first. Then, once far enough from the throne room, he spoke under his breath.

“Cold.”

“Effective,” you replied.

Neither of you smiled.

And beneath your calm surface, you were already calculating your next move. Mas Amedda was a snake—but snakes bled too. You just needed to cut deep enough.

Behind you, the Empire churned. The anger of the masses no longer a whisper, but a tide. And now it had a target.

The middle manager may have been forgotten.

But the Grand Vizier was about to become the Empire’s perfect scapegoat.

***********

The hangar was soaked in cold sheets of rain, the sky above roaring with thunder that didn’t quite drown out the sharp click of stormtrooper boots against durasteel. The docking bay was nearly empty. Save for the massive diplomatic cruiser waiting for launch, its ramp still lowered.

Mas Amedda sprinted through the downpour, his heavy robes plastered to his hulking frame, the sigils of the Grand Vizier clinging to him like dead weight. He wasn't used to running. He wasn't used to fear.

This isn’t how it works, he thought wildly. I give the orders. I survive. They fall, not me.

For decades, he'd orchestrated silence, buried dissent, and pulled strings beneath Palpatine’s shadow. He was the architect of containment. The gatekeeper. The predator.

Not the prey.

The cruiser loomed, salvation within reach. Then—movement.

Blasters cocked in unison. A beam of light cut through the rain, revealing the black armor of death troopers forming a line across the ramp. One stepped aside.

“Leaving so soon, Grand Vizier?”

Director Orson Krennic stood beneath the storm in his pristine white uniform, untouched by the rain thanks to a black cloak now fluttering at his shoulders. The storm backlit him like a phantom.

Mas Amedda stopped dead in his tracks.

“You,” he gasped. “It was you.”

Krennic smiled, slowly, the corners of his mouth curling in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He stepped forward, boots splashing in shallow puddles as the thunder rolled again overhead.

“This middle manager,” Krennic said, his voice velvet and venom, “got you cornered.”

Amedda’s breathing grew erratic. “This... this is because of the Council. Because I mocked you, isn’t it?”

Krennic gave a short, amused laugh. “Oh, Mas. If I assassinated every man who mocked me, the Senate wouldn’t have lasted a week.”

He took another step closer, eyes gleaming. “But I’ll admit... that one was a personal favorite. You should’ve written it down. Made it your epitaph: Killed by the middle manager.”

Amedda’s jaw clenched, his montrals trembling from rage or panic—it was hard to tell. “You won because of that strategist you keep in your bed,” he spat. “That woman—she’s the mind behind this.”

Krennic didn’t flinch. In fact, his eyes softened slightly. Almost fond.

“I did win because of her,” he said, calm as stone. “And because of our son. That’s why I won’t let men like you govern his future. You're a relic. A whisper of a dying era clinging to old powers, blind to the tide.”

“You think Palpatine will protect you?” Amedda barked, trying to rally authority, fear giving way to fury. “He’ll burn you next.”

Krennic tilted his head, amused. “Maybe. But not tonight.” He stepped closer, his voice soft but laced with steel. “I’ve destroyed two planets. Getting you? That was easy.”

Mas Amedda had always looked down on him. A glorified project manager, he’d called him. A man with blueprints instead of vision. But the Vizier had never understood power—not real power. Not the kind built with ambition, blood, and precision.

He still remembered the sting of it, Mas Amedda lowering his rank the moment Galen Erso disappeared.

He stepped back.

“Grand Vizier Mas Amedda,” he said with crisp finality, “you were given a chance to cooperate. You refused. That, by Imperial order, is treason.”

“You can’t—”

“Aim.”

The death troopers raised their weapons in perfect sync, targeting the center of Amedda’s chest.

“No. Wait!”

Krennic’s voice did not rise. It did not crack. It sliced.

“Fire.”

Blaster fire rang out, flashing crimson through the downpour. Mas Amedda staggered as the first bolt struck, then another. He fell to his knees, then collapsed entirely, limbs twitching before going still.

The rain didn’t stop. It soaked into the robes of a dead man whose name had once brought dread in palace halls.

Krennic stood there, unmoving, the smoke from the blaster fire curling in the wet air. His expression was unreadable. Not triumph. Not regret. Something colder.

Mas Amedda was wrong to think the Emperor protected Krennic. Because as Krennic stood over Amedda’s lifeless body, he whispered, eyes cold and steady—

"The Emperor is next."

***********

Flashback - Few days ago

The kind of silence that settles only after the last piece of restraint has been buried beneath something colder. The kind of silence where truth doesn't slip — it cuts.

Dinner had gone cold. Neither of you noticed.

You stared across the table, jaw tight, eyes sharp. “Did I hear it wrong?”

Krennic didn’t look up right away. He took his time with the wineglass in his hand, studying the swirl as if the answer might appear there.

“No,” he said. “Mas Amedda mocked me. In the Emperor’s presence.”

There was no heat in his voice. Just precision. Which was worse.

You leaned back, slow, trying not to clench your fists. “And Palpatine said nothing.”

The rage was crawling under your skin now. Mas Amedda had called him a middle manager. A middle manager. As if Krennic hadn’t designed the Empire’s deadliest weapon. As if he hadn’t rewritten the rules of war. He had reshaped the galaxy while Mas Amedda sat in council chambers, collecting titles and whispering poison into old men's ears.

“He didn’t have to.”

A pause followed. You hated those pauses — Krennic never hesitated unless he was already five steps ahead.

“So you want to start with the Vizier?” you asked, voice steady.

He finally met your eyes. “I want to end with the Emperor.”

Your stomach knotted — not from the baby, but from the weight of what he meant. He didn’t say it to shock you. He said it because it was true. Because it was time.

“But we start with someone the Empire won’t miss,” he added, setting the glass down with a quiet, deliberate touch.

He laid it out like a campaign. Not loud, not theatrical. Just methodical. A collapse engineered one inch at a time.

“His aides first,” he said. “Then him.”

You folded your arms, keeping your voice even. “We can’t win that kind of war. Not with weapons.”

“We don’t need weapons,” he said. “We have decay.”

“Bureaucracy,” you said.

He gave a slight nod. “It’s already rotting. All we need to do is pull the thread.”

You tilted your head. “What if we did use a direct strike?”

He didn’t blink. “There’s only one person who could pull it off.”

“Vader.”

“Exactly. And I plan to save him for the finale.”

Your gaze stayed on him. He wasn’t the man who once begged the galaxy to notice his work, to validate his worth through steel and fire. He was quieter now. Sharper. And far more dangerous.

“The Emperor still obsesses over the Death Star,” he said. “It gnaws at him.”

You held his gaze. “You and him have that in common.”

He paused.

“Not anymore,” he said quietly. “I have you. I have our son. That weapon was built for an empire I no longer believe in.”

Your fingers brushed the edge of your plate. “Orson.”

He looked up at the sound of it — not startled, not softened, but focused. Like you’d called him back from somewhere far colder.

“Don’t lie to me,” you said. “You’ve blackmailed senators. Officers. I know your hands aren’t clean.”

There was no denial. Only stillness.

“Loyalty doesn’t exist here,” he said. “Only leverage.”

“Then tell me,” you said. “Tell me about them. The senators. You’ve spent more time with them than I have.”

He leaned back, one hand resting on the arm of the chair. “Most of them don’t care who rules. They wear the Emperor’s face like a mask. But inside? Hollow. They serve no one. Not even themselves.”

You exhaled, quiet. “The Death Star was brutal. Direct. It gave the illusion of clarity.”

“And it silenced the galaxy,” he said.

“But it’s obsolete,” you added, tone dry. “Weapon ships aren’t sexy anymore.”

He raised an eyebrow, just slightly. “Oh really?”

“That depends,” you said, letting the words linger. “What is?”

He studied you for a moment, then leaned forward, voice low. “You. Still you.”

You didn’t smile. You kissed him — not for comfort, not for manipulation. Just because the world was unraveling, and for one stolen moment, he was the only constant.

His hand curled lightly around your wrist, thumb brushing the inside of it like he needed proof you were still here.

You pulled back, breathing him in.

“We need something new,” you said. “Something to break the Death Star narrative.”

“You’ve thought of something.”

“Education,” you said. “Real systems. Opportunity.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Not strong enough.”

“What would be?”

“Agriculture,” he said. “Food security. Infrastructure. Instead of feeding fear, we feed survival.”

You nodded. “We take credits meant for destruction... and use them to fill stomachs.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Then, “We don’t sell hope.”

“No,” you agreed. “We offer stability. Direction. Not grand promises. Just something worth staying for.”

You reached across the table, placing your hand on his.

“We help them find who they are,” you said. “Give the youth identity. Purpose.”

His fingers tightened around yours.

“You’re not thinking like an operative anymore,” he said.

“I’m thinking like a mother.”

A pause.

“And I’m thinking like a father,” he answered.

The words landed heavier than you expected.

“I don’t want our son growing up in this Empire,” you said, quieter now.

“He won’t,” Krennic said. “Not if we dismantle it before he learns its language.”

Silence settled again, different this time. Not cold. Not tense.

“Then we start with corruption,” you said.

He didn’t blink. “Blame it on Mas Amedda. And the Council.”

“That’s our first step.”

He stood from his seat and walked to your side, cupping your jaw with one hand. You leaned into him, forehead resting against his chest, letting yourself breathe again.

“We do this right,” you whispered. “No more wreckage. No more ghosts.”

Krennic’s voice was soft in your ear. “Only a future.”

**********

A few days after Mas Amedda's death, the Imperial Council had grown quieter. Too quiet. Meetings were shorter, the usual backroom whispers dulled to a low hum. No one dared to take up the space Mas once filled. No one wanted to be next.

You were still reviewing reports in the study when Thrawn’s signal came through.

Krennic answered, his posture sharpening as the hologram flickered to life. Thrawn’s expression was unreadable as always, but there was a faint trace of something new — approval.

“You’ve moved faster than I expected,” Thrawn said. “Efficient. Precise.”

Krennic gave a short nod, the bare minimum. You said nothing, waiting for the catch.

“But don’t mistake momentum for control,” Thrawn added. “Be careful. Don’t move too fast.”

And with that, the signal cut off.

Krennic exhaled through his nose and rolled his eyes as he stepped back from the console. “He always has to get the last word.”

You chuckled under your breath. “You know he’s right.”

He turned toward you, one brow raised, mouth curling with that familiar smirk. “Then the real work begins.”

You leaned against the desk, arms folded. “Who’s next?”

He stepped closer, close enough to brush his knuckles against yours, but didn’t take your hand. “Didn’t you hear what Thrawn said?” His smirk deepened. “Baby steps, my darling.”

The way he said it made you blush, and he saw it. He always did.

“Besides,” he added, already turning toward the hallway, “I still need to finish the crib.”

You blinked. “The crib is done. You don’t need to add anything else.”

He paused at the doorway, looking over his shoulder. “Just in case.”

And then he disappeared down the hall, steps soft but certain. You stayed where you were, letting the silence settle for a moment before your hand moved instinctively to your belly. The baby kicked — once, then twice — as if answering him.

You smiled.

“Seems like someone’s excited to see it,” you whispered.

The house was quiet now, the political chaos of the past week tucked away behind locked doors and encrypted lines. But here, in this moment, there was only you, your son, and a man who had burned a hole through the Empire for the future you were building together.

It wasn’t over. But it had begun.

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starsofcloud · 5 days ago

Text

Cool for the Summer 8

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power dynamics, cheating, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: After finishing your degree, you return home only to find things aren’t as you left them.

Characters: Bucky Barnes

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

“Honey,” your mom calls from the first foor.

Your heart flips again. You get up and fix your panties. You put your shorts back on and wince as the seam brushes against the wet cotton. You cringe. You should change before...

“Hey, you ready for your date?” She’s coming up the stairs. Shoot.

You take a breath and hurry to the door. You feel like if she comes in your room, she’ll know. You brace yourself as you open the door. You could just break into pieces. You betrayed her and you’re going to lie straight to her face.

As you come out, she’s at the top of the stairs. You try to smile. It doesn’t bloom as Bucky comes up behind her.

“Bucky said you found a dress. Can I see it?”

“Oh, I just... I just put it away.” You utter.

He steps up next to her and puts his arm across her shoulders. “You’re going to wanna get the full picture, Lauren. We’ll see it tonight once she’s all dolled up, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess...” you mother hums in disappointment. “You know me, I just can’t wait.”

“Trust me, I know,” he purrs.

He squeezes her shoulders as she looks at him. He leans in and kisses her. Your stomach churns. After what he just did... You want to vomit.

“Um, I have to... er... find some stuff for tonight,” you back up into your door.

“Sure, honey,” your mom turns to Bucky and pets his chest. “Oh, it’s so exciting.”

Bucky smirks at her as she brushes by him and heads back downstairs. His eyes flick up to you and he licks his lips. His cheek dimples.

“Hey, Laur, I’ll make you that coffee,” he calls down before he follows her, visibly adjusting his waistband.

You shake your head and back pedal through your bedroom door. You shut it and nearly fall over. You spin around and search the room. It’s not yours. None of it. He changed everything. He tainted it all.

You go to the vanity and sit. You squeak as your shocked by the sensitivity in your pelvis. You’re all swollen and still wet. You put your elbows on the table and cradle your head. You can’t cry or you won’t be able to stop.

💙

When you’re certain your mom and Bucky are distracted, you shower. You can’t wash away the horror or self-hatred, but you try. You get out and sneak back down the hall. You take your time in your room. Not out of any real anticipation; only reluctance.

Your anxiety is a cluster of contradictions. You want to get out of the house, get away from Bucky, from own mistakes; yet, you’re not entirely sold on going out with a stranger. He might be closer to your age but who’s to say he’s any better than Bucky.

This is why you avoid boys. Or men. Whatever. They always confused you. You never really caught their attention and now that you have, you want to just go back to being invisible.

You stare into the makeup case. It’s got soft walls and a zipper. Inside are all the pencils, glosses, and palettes your mom gifted you through the years. None of them open. Brushes too. Mascara.

You sift through it, trying to solve the riddle. No, you don’t need the shimmery pigments or the deep reds. Just simple.

A knock at the door makes you jump. The makeup case falls off your lap. You hiss and stand up, kneeling down to gather it all up.

“Honey?” Your mom calls through.

You cough. You can’t speak. The door handle turns. Too late.

“Hey, it’s uh.... getting close,” she peeks inside. “I was checking in. Thought maybe... maybe I could help you get ready.”

You shove a handful into the case and nod. “Okay. I was just...”

“Oh, sweetie, you don’t need much,” she crosses the room and takes the case from you. “You’re so young and pretty.” She puts it on the vanity table. “Come on. Sit.”

You get up and sit on the stool. She searches through the case.

“Did you moisturize at all?” She asks. You nod. “Good.” She holds up a tube. “You don’t need full cover.” She tosses the tube. “Hmm, some eyeliner. Oh, do you want shadow?”

You shake your head. “Just liner. I don’t want too much.”

“Alright, sweetie,” he takes out several pencils and rolls them between her fingers. “Black is classic. Oh this one has glitter.”

“That sounds pretty,” you say weakly.

She directs you to close your eyes and tilt your head back. She pulls your lid taut and gently begins plying the soft tip. You don’t move.

“You’re nervous,” she says.

“Yes,” you answer. It’s not a lie. Your nerves are rotting your guts.

“Don’t be. Peter is so nice. He’s going to love you. Oh, you’ll have so much fun.” She preens. “Open.” You flick your lashes up and look at her. She steps back and considers you. “You have the prettiest eyes.”

Your throat locks up. You want badly to cry. Not just for what happened. You want to cry to your mom and tell her how scared you are. You can’t. It would only hurt her.

“A tint of blush stick. Nothing dramatic,” she caps the liner.

“Sure,” you wisp.

You twiddle your thumbs and watch her sort through the makeup. All you can do is let it all happen. The makeup, the date, Bucky. None of it is your choice.

💙

“Oh sweetie,” your mother gasps as you come down the stairs, carrying the clunky platform heels. “You look... you look like a woman!”

She puts her hands together over her chest. Bucky stands beside her. His eyes cling to you as the corner of his mouth curves.

“Doesn’t she?” You mother nudges him.

His voice rumbles through his chest before he speaks. “Sure does. All grown up.”

“Wow,” your mom fans herself. “My little girl.”

She reaches for you as you get to the bottom. She touches the scalloped edges of lace along your shoulders.

“So sophisticated,” she praises.

“Thanks, er.... thanks.” That’s all you can muster.

You sway awkwardly then sidle past her. She moves so you have to go between her and Bucky. You fell his warmth swathe over you. You sit on the bench to get the shoes on.

“I know you are going to have so much fun!” Your mother claps. “And me and Bucky will too.”

“Uh huh,” Bucky hums. “Kid free. Can’t complain.”

You nod. Each breath is like shards of glass. You focus on the small task of buckle the slender strap around your ankle.

There’s a flash of headlights then a car door shutting. Ugh. You sit up in dread. You can’t move. You listen to the steps come up the front stairs.

Bucky opens the door before they can knock. He moves his hand to grip the edge of the door higher up. He leans on it as he pulls it back.

“You must be Peter.” He offers his other hand.

“Hi, sir,” the younger man answers and reaches through to shake Bucky’s hand. You can’t see any more than his arm. “I think I’m here for your daughter.”

“Ha, not my daughter,” Bucky chuckles, “come on in.”

He nearly yanks the young man over the threshold. As he lets him go and turns, he sends you a sharp look. It’s a warning. Remember what he said; give nothing.

You stand up.

“Peter,” your mother chimes. “You’re right on time.”

“Early. Made sure of it,” Peter says. His eyes skim over to you. His cheeks redden. “You must be...”

You say your name first. “Yeah, uh...”

“Nice to meet you,” he says as he tugs at his tie. The dark paisley compliments the purplish grey shirt beneath. His dark slacks are tailored well. “So uh... ready to go?”

“You two, get out of here,” Bucky chortles. “I’m sure you don’t need to stick around with the old folk.”

“Uh, yeah,” you murmur. “Sure.”

“Great,” Peter stands back. “Come on. I got us a reservation.”

“Alright uh...” you look around. “Bye, mom.”

You wind the long strap of your purse around your elbow as you clunk towards the door.

“Bye, sweetie.” Your mother sings.

“Yeah, bye, sweetie,” Bucky drawls.

“Bye,” you mutter without looking back.

You step outside and the air is like ice on your roiling skin. Peter bids goodbye behind you. “I’ll have her home by midnight.”

He shuts the door and you exhale. You stand at the edge of the porch, hugging your purse. You feel so stupid. He’s probably only doing this to be nice.

“You don’t have to--”

You begin.

“Those shoes aren’t going to work,” Peter interjects.

You look at him, stunned. “Huh?”

“Yeah, definitely not.” He looks at your feet. “I got my gym shoes in the trunk. You can borrow them. Might be a bit big for you.”

“What do you mean?” You frown.

He grins. “You ever been go-karting?” He asks.

You tilt your head then shake it. “No.”

“Perfect,” he offers his arms. “Let’s get going.”

💙

You’re almost relieved at the change of plans. You weren’t exactly looking forward to sitting in a fancy restaurant, cosplaying as an adult who knows anything about dating. Or anything at all.

Peter pulls up to the track, twenty minutes past town limits, and shifts into park. You look over at him as he clicks free the seat belt. He smiles back through the shadows.

“Excited?” He asks.

You nod. “Kind of.”

“Look, I know. It’s awkward as hell. Blind dates are made for cringe.” He chuckles. “So let’s just have fun.” He pulls his door handle. “See if you can keep up.”

He gets out and hurries around to your side. He opens the door for you. You thank him. He tells you to stay.

You sit sideways in the seat as he hurries around to the trunk. He gives you a fresh pair of gym socks and the borrowed shoes. You tie them extra tight as he takes off his tie. You peer up at him.

“Thanks,” he says. “For coming. I know it must be strange.” He helps you out of the car by your hand. “Your mom set you up alot?”

He swings the door shut. You shake your head.

“Nope,” you turn to walk with him towards the track. “First time.”

“And that guy... your step-dad?"

“Mom’s boyfriend,” you gulp. “He’s... I just met him.”

“Yikes,” he hisses. “That must be agony. My aunt dated this guy once and I walked in on him with no pants on. Not one of my fondest memories.”

“Ew.” You recoil. He laughs.

“Sorry, trauma dumping already,” he laughs. “Well, he seems like a real hard ass. I don’t envy you.”

“Yeah... he’s... scary.” You seal your lips as the last word slips out.

“Well, forget about him,” he pats your shoulder. “We’re here for fun.” He stops at the booth at the front of the place with the prices laid out over the windows. “I win, I buy you a cheeseburger. You win, I buy you a double cheeseburger.”

You take a moment before you giggle. He’s nice. He’s funny. And you don’t feel like you’re suffocating.

“And fries,” you insist.

“Full combo with a milkshake,” he proclaims as he steps up to the window to pay.

💙

You grip the wheel tight. You don’t drive. You never have. The closest you got was one of the red and yellow fisher price toy cars when you were about five years old. That’s more of a Flinstones type deal.

You press your foot down as the go-kart thrums and zips around. You feel powerful. In control.

You steer around the curve smoothly, veering around an aggressive driver behind you. They pass you, nearly knocking your front.

You squeeze as the helmet dampens the noise of the motors. You search for Peter. He’s in the one with the red and blue banner. You lost him a lap ago.

Thunk! The force nearly spins you out. You twist the wheel one way then the other to correct yourself. The driver in the cart with the white banner hollers something as they pass. Your adrenaline spikes as you get yourself going again.

You get back up to speed. It’s fun but your fellow drivers are a bit careless. You try to stay on the outside. It puts you behind everyone else but that’s okay. Then another jarring impact sends your head forward and your helmet cracks off the top of the steering wheel. You careen out and bounce of the wall.

You take your feet off the pedals and let the cart roll to a stop as you cling to the wheel. When you’re still, you’re facing backwards. You’re breathless but okay.

A worker waves a flag as they emerge from behind the wall. They approach as you stay as you are. Another cart pulls over and stops behind you. A red and blue banner hangs from the top bar.

“Stay in there,” the worker barks at both of you. “Stay where you are.”

He comes over and bends to look into the cart. You smile sheepishly but he can’t see through the helmet. Just your eyes.

“You okay?” He yells over the ripping motors.

You give a thumbs up, your hand visibly shaking.

“Woah, woah, you need to get that guy off the track,” Peter hollers as he appears.

“Sir, I told you to stay in the cart. It’s dangerous out here--”

“He did it on purpose. I saw it.” Peter argues.

“Sir, get back in your cart,” the worker barks.

“You need to get him out--”

“You. You’re out. Ejected.” The worker snaps. “Both of you.” He turns and waves his flag, flicking it three times in a signal.

Peter bends to see into the cart and shrugs, “I'm sorry.”

“It’s okay!” You yell back. You laugh and shake your head. “I never been kicked out of anywhere.” You roll your shoulders. “It’s fun. I feel dangerous.”

He laughs. “I didn’t take you for a rebel.”

“Sir,” the work jabs his shoulder as three others appear at the edge of the track. “Let’s go.”

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starsofcloud · 5 days ago

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