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In the Dark, the Force swirled like dust. It was damp in his lungs, the brush against his face the only awareness of its physical manifestation. He could see the patterns tenuously, wondered if his subconscious was creating the twist and twirl of it since his eyes could not grasp it.

And then there was a spark of light, a traitorous flicker. Any other time he would had snuffed it out, retreated into the black, but this flame was red, vicious in its hue and entrancing. For the first time in decades, he drew closer.



This thing, whatever it was- it started with a disagreement.

Vader had been dispatched by the Emperor to check on the progress of the Death Star. "I feel sedition," he had said, voice croaking and wavering, "walking down the halls of our weapon. Quash it."

Vader had bowed his head and walked off in silence towards the bay where his shuttle idled. No more than half an hour had passed between his landing and dismissal. Vader had learned long ago not to question his Emperor's will, simply tilted his head in obedience and flew away at his master's behest.

The Death Star had been moved further into the Outer Rim, in Scarif's orbit. The planet was aquamarine as Vader flew past, the continents green and brown to his eye. When he was caught in the Death Star's tractor beam, he spared a glance to the planet. Something dense hung around it; it might have been the sordid stench of imminent decay that seemed to tang the atmosphere around the Death Star, but something whispered through the Force that destruction would mar the tropical planet.

Word had been sent ahead that Vader would be visiting the Death Star. A party of officers awaited him in the massive hangar, along with a company of Stormtroopers. An unnecessary show of power- for all that they were capable of, Vader far outmatched them. Still, it was considered proper, and Vader made no show of dismissal.

Standing at the head of the ranks was Grand Moff Tarkin, arms clasped behind his back in a show of proper parade rest. He welcomed Vader with a carefully neutral face, lips pressed thin and eyes severe as he observed Vader's approach.

"Lord Vader," he called out. He almost sounded bored, and from any other man, Vader would have considered it insolence. From Tarkin, it was a compliment; the man never groveled or demurred in the face of power, not even for the Emperor. "What a gratifying surprise."

Darth Vader waved his hand at Tarkin's pleasantries. "I've been sent by the Emperor."

"I was notified," Tarkin said with a nod of his head, "You are here to inspect the final details of the Death Star."

A believable lie, and an easy one to maintain. "Yes," Vader intoned, "the Emperor sensed potential delays. He asked me to observe the final processes."

Tarkin cocked a brow and sniffed, the only outward sign of the indignation that roiled in him. "I am glad the Emperor could dispose of you in his moment of clairvoyance." 

Behind his mask, Vader's lips twitched into the ghost of a smirk. He did not need the Force to tell him that Tarkin was thinking of the decades of delays, all the set backs the project suffered over the years. The other officers from the high command gazed at Vader in horror, afraid of what Tarkin's barely contained derision would earn him. Almost all of them had witnessed Vader choke soldiers for a snide remark or failure in the past. 

Vader simply replied, "I will relay your gratitude."

Tarkin smiled at Vader, a cruel, tight lipped thing that showed no ounce of fear, no modicum of regret.

"Very well, Lord Vader, I will give you the tour of the facilities and you may direct me to that which most concerns you-"

From the far entrance, the harsh echo of marching boots interrupted Tarkin. The welcome party looked towards the sound, surprised at the arrival; an indication that this was not something planned or sanctioned. Vader observed as stormtroopers in black armor marched in perfect synchronization. They tailed a man in a white uniform, his cape floating behind like smoke in his wake. His ambition was oily, clinging to the skin and sinking into the fibers of the other officer's uniforms; Vader alone was unaffected, insulated as he was by his armor. 

"Apologies," the man called out as he came closer, sidling beside Tarkin as he if were the man's equal, "I must not have received my summons. Smart of me to double check the itinerary."

"An oversight, I am sure," Tarkin said, voice acrid. His jaw snapped shut, and Vader sensed there was a verbal lashing Tarkin was biting back. Vader had long been familiar with Tarkin's penchant for harsh talk downs, even among his most senior officers. This show of restraint was a surprise.

"No harm done," the man replied smartly. He pivoted on a gleaming boot and looked over to Vader, gaze fascinated instead of fearful. "You must be Darth Vader."

"Lord Vader," Tarkin interrupted, "this is Orson Krennic, Director of the Advanced Weapons Research Division."

"A pleasure to finally meet the Emperor's menace," Krennic said. "Tell me Vader, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"The Emperor fears potential delay of the project's completion," Tarkin snapped.

"Grand Moff, surely the man beneath that mask can speak," Director Krennic replied. 

A shiver went through the officers present, but it was not for fear of Vader. This was a colder, more visceral feeling; where the Force made them afraid in an abstract sort of way, their imaginations running wild with the kinds of torture Vader could unleash, the fear they had for Tarkin was more substantial. They knew what Tarkin was capable of when angered.

Tarkin narrowed his eyes at the Director, his brows drawn in low. The bright lighting of the hangar shown down on his face, the prominence of his features cast in stark relief, sharp and haunting. The Director smiled up at him, his teeth gleaming and lips curled mockingly. A vision came to Vader in that moment, of Director Krennic, mouth covered in blood, dripping from the corners of his lips and down his chin. A dead soldier laid at his feet, neck ripped out and blood flowing in a thick slough to the feet of Tarkin, who smiled with open delight. 

Sedition, the Force whispered, ambition, greed, lust-

"Director," Tarkin said, his accent enunciating every syllable with barely concealed contempt, "Perhaps you have forgotten your place, but I have not."

Krennic smiled at Tarkin, like his anger was a prize hard won. "Of course, Grand Moff, do forgive my impertinence. I've always been a curious man. It's one of my better qualities."

Tarkin seemed to grow tired of their exchange. "Lord Vader, if you care to follow me, I will show you to the core reactors first."

The man waved his hand and the welcome party disassembled, melting from the hangar to resume their previous posts; everyone except Director Krennic.

"You are dismissed, Director," Tarkin said testily. 

"I am actually on my way to the core to receive a report from the technicians," Krennic said, shoulders dipping in a casual shrug entirely unbecoming of an officer. The greasy film of Krennic's words coated Vader's outer vestiges, his casually thrown out lie slimy against the the leather that covered his cybernetics.

"Very well, follow me," Tarkin said. 

The three of them walked together, Tarkin and Vader side by side, with Krennic trailing behind like an amused and misplaced shadow.



Vader kept a close eye on Director Krennic. The man frequently appeared when he was unwanted, to the very evident displeasure of the Grand Moff. He would waltz into meetings unannounced and uninvited, allocate himself a spot around the war table, and make points that were occasionally pertinent but often times just downright inane. 

Something about the whole display was unsettling. Vader had seen his share of bureaucratic infighting; the Jedi had been rife with it, the Old Republic crippled by the constant bickering of senators. The Empire was not immune to such things. The whole upper echelon of leadership was filled with ambitious, hungry men, looking for any opportunity to rise in the ranks. The Emperor preferred it this way, said it kept the Empire propelled forward and advancing by whatever means necessary.

Tarkin, ambitious as he was, served the Empire before himself. He had risen because of his intelligence and cunning, but also because of his single minded dedication to securing the galaxy for the Emperor's use.  Throughout the years, Vader had witnessed Tarkin cull out weakness and treachery with a colder brutality than even the Sith could manage. He had no tolerance for failure, and even less for disrespect.

It was bewildering then, to watch him put up with the Director's behavior. Any other man and he would have been dead on the ground, but Director sat at the war table, preening and smirking beneath Tarkin's hateful gaze. It made Vader wonder if perhaps this is where the Emperor's worries were being born, if Tarkin perhaps was yielding for this man out of some common plot, a conspiracy between the two.

After one particularly sour meeting, Tarkin seemed to have lot his patience.

"Enough!" he had boomed. The whole of the war room flinched; Tarkin never raised his voice. "Director Krennic, follow me!"

Tarkin stood up from the conference table, back straight and unyielding like durasteel, and strode out of the room on purposeful feet. Director Krennic followed after, his face a smear of wicked confidence, but his aura gone yellow in cowardice. Those in attendance in the war room watched the two disappear, the Director's cape trailing behind in a flutter of anxious white, and then disbanded the moment they were out of sight. Better to be out of Tarkin's path than caught in it. 

Vader made his way to the security room, dismissed the men monitoring the feeds with a curt, "Leave." None of them questioned him, inclined as they were not to have their necks wrung. He searched the myriad of feeds, letting the Force guide him to Tarkin's location, until he found a flickering image of the Director and the Grand Moff arguing in an abandoned hall.

The Director looked furious, snarling at Tarkin like a rabid animal, it's disease gone unchecked for far too long. Tarkin stood there, arms at his side, fists curling and uncurling like he wanted to take a swing at Krennic, to bash his skull in and tear out his entrails for all to see. The tension between them was thick, palpable even across the battle station, and Vader watched with fascination as Krennic stepped up and into Tarkin's space, trying to intimidate with whatever words he snarled out.

Vader had watched Tarkin for years; the man's lithe body gave a false impression of brittleness, like any good hit would shatter him.  Vader knew better, knew that Tarkin could hold his own when his blaster failed him. It came as no surprise to watch the man strike at Krennic, his hands reaching out and whipping the Director around, pushing him face first into the wall. What made him shudder was what followed after. Tarkin spoke at Krennic, his thin lips mere inches away from the young man's ears. The security feed only recorded video, so Vader had no sure way of knowing what Tarkin mouthed at Krennic, his hand twisting and pressing Krennic's wrists into the small of his back. Maybe it was his imagination, or perhaps Tarkin's anger permeated into the Force and through the vents, out into all corners of the Death Star, but Vader thought he could make out the words.

"You dare challenge me?" Tarkin whispered harshly, "You dare question my authority?" Vader could hear the words buzz in his ears, like acid eating away at his flesh. The raw power, which Tarkin usually tended so carefully, chafed against his rotting skin. Krennic muttered something back, bucking in Tarkin's hands, but his words were unimportant. Tarkin pressed him further into the wall, until Krennic's whole body was flush against it, and then pressed his own hips to the back of Krennic;s. It was bewildering, the shallow rutting and drag of Tarkin's hips, until he spoke into Krennic's neck, tongue enunciating each syllable wetly against the Director's pulse, "Do not forget, you are always beneath me."

Something in the Force changed, the viscosity of it becoming gooey, it's flow through Vader thickening. His tongue became coated in it like syrup, and when he swallowed, it slithered down slowly. The heated realization of what this was, a different kind of betrayal, but more insidious than what he previously feared, left Vader prickling with denial. He watched the feeds as Tarkin bit at Krennic's neck, Krennic's keening ringing in Vader' ears as if it was loud enough to pierce through the whole ship, and the Force told him, you know what you must do.

Tarkin backed away and walked down the corridor, leaving the two men watching his departure with heavy breathes.



Vader did not need an override command to open Tarkin’s doors, for the Force willed it for him.

He stalked through the dark outer room that held a set of low sitting chairs and a desk. It was completely blacked out, but he let himself be guided in the dark, his eyes tracking to the door on the far right where a small sliver of light seeped beneath. There were voices on the other side, lowly murmured, and for a moment Vader stopped the steady pulse of his respirator with what little control he had over his failing lungs and dying body, held in stasis by machines- so he could hold his breath as he listened.

The Dark ghosted around him, encouraged him to step across the threshold and see for himself what these two men were truly conspiring. He had no fear in him, because he had transcended it long ago. He waved his hand and the doors slid open, bathing everything in white light. It would have blinded a normal man, but Vader’s mask adjusted to the light quickly.

Of all the configurations he had thought to have found these men, the one before him had not been it.

Krennic’s back was bereft of any scars, a pale expanse of skin white like the sand in moonlight. Vader hated it instantly. He was elegant, Vader supposed, his spine bisecting down the middle and curving into the swell of his ass. He was rolling his hips against the olive green military pants of the man beneath him, and his grey hair which still rebelliously clung to some of his previous blonde glinted in the lighting. This was a man Anakin Skywalker would have found handsome, but Vader loathed him.

He thought for a moment they hadn’t noticed him, but Krennic threw his head back in a low moan, his neck bared for the man below him. Tarkin snaked an arm around his subordinate’s waist, splaying a leather gloved hand possessively over the small of his back as he leaned forward and scored the man’s throat with his teeth. Krennic tilted his head to the side, and Vader was disturbed to note that they were the same depthless blue as Tarkin’s.

“Lord Vader,” Krennic drawled, disrespect oozing off the syllables, coloring his aura a sickly green, “We weren’t expecting you.”

Vader doubted that, but he held firm, his cybernetic feet planted into the ground with no threat of wavering.

“Is there something you needed?” Tarkin spoke against Krennic’s throat, the words reverberating through the man's body and into the air. When it reached Vader, he felt through the Force Tarkin’s desires, his complete need to dominate all that he could beneath his fist. Vader had known this about Tarkin for years, before Vader had become his truest self. He remembered Skywalker tasting the air, trying to catch Tarkin’s elegant syllables on his tongue whenever the two would spar. Not for the first time he regretted that he had no true body in which to touch Tarkin, that the sensations were filtered through the respirator of his mask, scrubbed clean of Tarkin’s scent before it was breathed into his lungs.

“The Emperor suspects a plot between you two,” Vader said. It was a half-truth; The Emperor suspected everyone beneath his command was poised to destroy him. Vader was not going to admit that for weeks he had been following Tarkin and Krennic, observing their subtle touches through the fabric of the Force. He had watched through the security feeds Tarkin back Krennic against a wall and speak lowly against his lips, the way Krennic trembled and snarled in his grasp.

"A plot,“ Krennic chuckled, running his bare hand along the sharp line of Tarkin’s jaw. "Tell me, does this look like a conspiracy to you?”

Vader did not answer. He watched Tarkin's tongue dart and lick against Krennic's throat. It was bizarre, to see the Grand Moff in such a position, to be indulging. Vader had never seen such a thing from Tarkin, whose life was regimented down to the minute. He did everything with purpose, lived life like each task was a battle to be perfectly executed. To see Tarkin's sleeve's rolled up, his hands squeezing Krennic's flesh just for the pleasure of it- it shook at Vader. Perhaps the Emperor had good reason to suspect Tarkin; there was more to the man than either of the Sith had thought they had known.

"Worse alliances have been formed in simpler ways," Vader said. 

Tarkin's arm braced Krennic as he leaned him back further, letting his mouth wander down Krennic's chest. Vader realized that Tarkin was putting Krennic on display, showing off how easily the man bent himself. Krennic may have been an obstinate force in the face of Tarkin's military command, but naked with the older man's mouth lazily lapping at his nipple, he became pliant and yielding.

Something was stirring in Vader at the sight, something he had not felt in years, surely not since he had become a servant of the Sith. Even whilst Tarkin tongued and bit at the nub between, his eyes never strayed from Vader.  He was pinned in place, as if somehow Tarkin had found a way to command the Force and wield it for his own purposes.

"Lord Vader," he murmured, and Krennic moaned after Tarkin punctuated the title with a cruel suck of his lips, "I would never make such an alliance with Orson. He's far too eager to give up at the promise of a good fuck."

"Kriff, Wil," Krennic groaned, writhing in Tarkin's lap like the truth of his weakness was pleasurable. The open display disgusted Vader, and without any forethought, he clenched his fist and cut off Krennic's moans. Krennic's eyes bulged wide, his nails digging into the front of Tarkin's uniform, and for the first time, horror crossed his reddening face.

"Insolent," Vader spat out. 

Tarkin watched in fascination as Krennic suffocated in his lap. He had witnessed many times before Vader do this in meetings, as punishment for failure, and in those moments Tarkin had merely looked irritated at the display. Right then, he watched Krennic's struggle as if it were an erotic show.

"I think that's enough, Lord Vader," Tarkin lazily spoke just as Krennic was about to pass out. Vader released his fist, and Krennic fell forward into Tarkin's embrace, heaving and coughing. 

"Fucking monster," Krennic snarled when he finally caught his breath. 

Tarkin swatted at his ass, the slap of his leather clad hand sharp in the small quarters. Krennic bucked at the pain, his moan broken from the choking. 

"Now, now, boy, Vader is not as patient a man as I. He so rarely tolerates insult."

Krennic whimpered, whether in fear or arousal, Vader could not tell. He chanced a glance back at Vader, his face cautiously defiant.

That should have been his cue to depart, to leave these two men to their depravity, but Tarkin was smirking at him. Under Tarkin's gaze he felt stripped down, reduced, as if Tarkin was no longer looking at Darth Vader but the ghost of Anakin beneath all the armor and machinery; like Vader was somehow that desperate, confused young man, lovesick for a woman across the galaxy and lonesome in the middle of a war. 

"You are in need of guidance," Tarkin said, and it took Vader a moment to realize he was speaking to Krennic, not himself. "You are rather undisciplined for a man in your position. Perhaps Lord Vader could instill in you a proper sense of obedience."

Vader knew what Tarkin was asking of him, could see it without the Force. 

Sedition, it warned him, greed, lust, power, betrayal. 

"I believe your example could correct his bad behavior," Tarkin said, his words heavy with suggestion, silencing the hissed warnings from the dark. 

Vader extended his hand and let the Force flow out from the robotic tips of his fingers. It seeped into Krennic's body, and Vader felt himself take control of strained muscle, felt the hot pulse of blood and arousal, the vitality of life, the hard grip of Tarkin's fingers on Krennic's hips. He felt the hedonistic flush on Krennic's skin, how he loved being astride Tarkin, his legs spread wide over pressed dress pants. Even with Vader's influence setting in, stringing the director taut and squeezing his windpipe enough to make breathing a challenge, Krennic felt no shame.

"Won't you touch me?" Tarkin murmured. He trailed a hand alongside Krennic's jaw, his thin fingers scorching where they touched. The question was not for Krennic.

"Yes," Vader breathed. He willed Krennic to move his arms, to shift forward into Tarkin's embrace, until their foreheads were pressed together. Something like repulsion screamed in the back of Krennic's mind at the tenderness, but this wasn't for him; Krennic was just an unwanted party, a necessary instrument.

"Sweet thing," Tarkin cooed.

The praise made Vader shiver, and Krennic's body shook with both his own pleasure and Krennic's disgust. I didn't come here to be coddled, Krennic screamed at Vader in his mind, like some sort of blushing maid. I came here to be fucked.

Tarkin smiled, like he could see the inner conflict taking place within Krennic's body. Be quiet, Vader boomed, his words harsh and bursting into a headache, this is what he wants.

He doesn't want this, Krennic said, fiercely sure, Tarkin is not a gentle man.

Tarkin ran a hand through Krennic's hair, staring into his eyes mockingly, in a show of softness. "I remember you when you were young," Tarkin murmured. 

"Do you?" Vader asked, the hiss of his respirator present in every word. Krennic burned with curiosity, even as Vader shifted his body to blossom open under Tarkin's soothing hand.

"I do," Tarkin said. "You were so fierce and angry, so unlike the Jedi."

Tarkin leaned in to kiss at Krennic's jaw, his wet lips torturous with every light press. When Krennic moaned, it was Vader's own desperation at Tarkin's touch breathed out into the air.

"So war battered and hard, but I knew the moment I got you in my bed, naked like you are, that you'd open up for me," Tarkin murmured. 

Vader did not reply; there was no point in admitting the truth, that Anakin Skywalker would have fallen into Tarkin's bed if the man had tried. To even think it was treachery.

Tarkin finally grabbed the back of Krennic's head, hands fisting in the soft grey and gold, and kissed him. Tarkin's tongue was hotter than anything Vader had felt, silken, undulating expertly against Vader's clumsy attempts. In this life, he had never kissed anyone, could barely remember how to move in delicate synchronization with another person. 

Let me help, Krennic pleaded at Vader, desperate to make it good, to remind Tarkin of whose body this actually was.

No, Vader said, punctuating it with a quick close of Krennic's throat. It made his eyelids shutter and pulse quicken, and when Vader released his hold, he gasped into Tarkin's mouth. 

"So desperate for it," Tarkin murmured in a mocking voice. "If only I'd known sooner, the things I could have done to you."

Tarkin gathered Krennic up in his arms and stood up from the chair with no sign of difficulty. It was a heady picture, Krennic bound up in Tarkin's arm like a caricature of a bride. Tarkin stood there for a moment, staring Vader in the face, eyes narrowed and smile too sharp to be kind.

"I'm going to take you now," he said simply, and then walked towards the bed.

Tarkin laid Krennic out carefully on the bed, cradling his head until it touched the soft sheets. He stepped back to look over the younger man's body, and every place is gaze touched was unbearable. Krennic wanted to thrash and roll over, present his ass to Tarkin and beg to be fucked. Vader kept his wrists pinned down and gazed up into Tarkin's eyes warily.

"Skittish, are we?" Tarkin asked. He ran one of his long fingers down Krennic's thigh, over his bumpy knees. "Not to worry. I'll take care of you."

Tarkin hooked his hands beneath Krennic's calves and hoisted them up. "Hold on," he ordered, and Vader reached out, gripped the soft place behind the knees with Krennic's hands. Krennic was thrumming with anticipation, his discontent of being taken gently melting away as Tarkin spread Krennic's legs apart, revealing his strained erection and wet hole. 

"So eager," Tarkin murmured in approval. The flush that broke across the younger man's body was both Vader and Krennic, the two of them shamed and excited by the display. Tarkin dragged his hands down the back of Krennic's thighs, spread his ass apart to get a better look. "You came ready for me."

Vader held back the scoff Krennic wished to make. That asshole knew I came here ready.

"But I wonder, sweet thing," Tarkin said, turning his attention up. "The Jedi kept you so celibate, so untouched.  I've wondered what kind of pleasure you ever managed for yourself."

Tarkin dropped to his knees, and the gasp that came out was unmistakably Vader's, scratchy and resonate from the respirator. Krennic's mind momentarily whited out, his shock silencing him completely in the way Vader could not seem to manage. Tarkin's mouth ghosted over Krennic's cock, his breath coming out steady, the heat of it enough to make Vader shiver.

He's never done this before, Krennic said in panic and anger, told me I'm not worthy of it, that Grand Moff Tarkin gets on his knees for no one-

"Such power," Tarkin mused, "and untouched potential."

Tarkin took Krennic in hand and wrapped his lips around the head of the man's cock, lapping up the precome that had been steadily leaking all through this encounter. It was amazing, the feel of Tarkin's mouth, the heady knowledge that Tarkin thought Vader worthy enough of this intimacy. Vader shook in his suit, his cybernetics swaying, frazzled and confused by Vader's intent. They could not tell if he wished to reach out and move, or stay grounded. As Tarkin's mouth slid further down Krennic's shaft, he gasped out, lost in the sensation of being so consumed. For a moment, he was not Darth Vader, the Force, the dark and light, they did not matter; in this moment he was Anakin Skywalker, reaching out his hands and bunching them in Tarkin's hair.

In that moment where Vader lost himself, his control over Krennic's body slipped. Krennic's tongue loosened and reconnected to himself, and mindlessly, the man groaned out, "Oh, fuck, Wil."

Tarkin abruptly pulled off Krennic's cock, his face venomous and angry. "Boy, will you ever learn your place?"

The anger on Tarkin's face was enough to make Vader retreat. He was still in Krennic's body, felt the hard slap of Tarkin's hand against his face, the furious way Tarkin flipped Krennic on his belly, spread his legs and ass wide, but he was no longer in control. All Vader could do was stand there at the mercy of Tarkin's rage.

"You couldn't keep quiet, could you?" Tarkin snarled as he unzipped his pants. "Even here, where you are mine to do with as I see fit, you cannot completely submit."

"Fuck you, Wil," Krennic snarled out, looking over his shoulder defiantly. 

Tarkin shoved two fingers into Krennic, carelessly stretching him. The pain made Vader wince from across the room, but Krennic groaned, satisfied that he was finally getting what he came for; a firm hand, a harsh fuck, Tarkin's anger and attention solely focused in on Krennic. Tarkin added a third finger, and when he was satisfied, he pulled them out and wiped his lube slicked fingers on Krennic's lower back. He lined up his cock, and with no preamble or word, entered Krennic in a single, slow thrust.

It was painful, and Vader sucked in a shuddering breath at the feel of it, the invasiveness. He had never experienced something so claiming. Even when he fell to his knees at Palpatine's feet so long ago, submitted himself to the Dark and the Sith, he had not been so completely claimed.

Tarkin wasted no time idling in the heat of Krennic's body; he immediately withdrew and thrust back in, knocking the breath of Krennic and Vader. Krennic scrabbled at the bed, looking for purchase, for a way to thrust himself back on Tarkin and gain some control, but Tarkin was too brutal, kept him off balance with every thrust.

"Insolent," Tarkin spat out, punctuating the word with a hard slap of Krennic's ass. "That's what Lord Vader called you. I think he was right."

Krennic sobbed into his arms, and the pain began to shift into pleasure. It was different from when Tarkin has sucked him, this feeling growing from within with each bump of Tarkin's cock against his prostate. It was like a supernova, a rapidly building explosion, so bright and devastating, but Vader could not drag his eyes away, could not withdraw himself from Krennic's body before it crested and burst out. When Krennic's orgasm broke, it rocked the both of them, Krennic crying desperately as Tarkin fucked him. 

Vader left Krennic's body, withdrew completely, unable to endure the afterglow, the affection and satisfaction that shone out of Krennic. He stumbled back as Tarkin came with a quiet grunt, seating himself fully as he pulsed in Krennic's body. He was fully in his body again; he could feel the constant pain, the constriction of his suit, an uncomfortable wetness that told him he had ejaculated. He had not been aware of his erection, so caught up in Krennic's body as he was, but the evidence of what had happened was tacky on his cock, slimy and treacherous on truncated limbs.

What have I done? Vader asked himself, the horror of the situation donning.

Sedition, the Force screamed, greed, lust, power.

Vader could sense Tarkin about to turn, to ask Vader if he was satisfied by the state of thing, to see his officers were not conspiring against the Emperor, but Vader fled on quick feet, out of the light of that shameful place and back into the safety of the dark.