Work Text:
Rumors had been buzzing quietly for a standard week, now, in the Imperial Palace. At first it had been barely a whisper; a servant had died, Admiral Kenobi had lost control somehow, but those who knew the most were silent as the grave, waiting for the inevitable moment when the Emperor called for their deaths. But days passed–three, then four, then five, without a whisper from the Emperor or his right-hand Admiral, and then the curiosity became too much. One Moff talked, then a servant who confirmed his story:
Admiral Kenobi had gone into rut, dosed with some new, rebel experiment, and had claimed the Emperor right on the throne.
The last part was, admittedly, conjecture. The imperial guard in attendance had cleared the throne room before anyone could see the claiming take place. However, with both the Emperor and the Admiral missing for an entire week, the most reasonable explanation was that the Admiral’s bite had caused a mate-heat, and they’d been sequestered in the Emperor’s quarters for the duration.
It had the potential to be quite the scandal, though Grand Moff Tarkin found himself more glad than worried. Better to get it over with now, he thought, get the omega off the throne and leave this blemish on the Empire behind. Although, he was a bit ashamed he didn’t catch it before. There had to be a tell somewhere; omegas were simply unfit for leadership, yet Tarkin had bowed and scraped for years at the Emperor’s feet for years, completely unaware.
No matter. Clearly, the problem had rectified himself. There was still the question of who would take the throne now; Kenobi was a likely choice, though Tarkin worried that he’d tend toward hen-pecked, especially if he managed to successfully breed Skywalker. Perhaps if he played his cards right, Tarkin would be able to argue his own fitness, to the other Moffs. Bring some much needed order to the Empire.
They’d need to put on a strong front, after this debacle.
So when he was summoned, eight days after Admiral Kenobi stormed the throne room, Tarkin knew he’d need to be careful, if he wanted to keep his head. Kenobi was no fool, he likely already knew Tarkin was his biggest competitor for the throne.
As far as he knew, no one else had seen them yet; he hadn’t even heard that they’d emerged from their quarters before he was summoned by CC-2224 to an audience with the Emperor.
Standing outside the throne room doors, Tarkin adjusted his collar, preparing himself for whatever he’d find inside. Likely swearing his loyalty. Hopefully not groveling for his life.
The monolithic doors swung open with an ominous creak, hinges straining. Kenobi really had done a number on them. It was a good reminder of who he was dealing with; a powerful Force user in his own right. Kenobi could kill him in a dozen different ways, all without lifting a finger.
However, Tarkin had a feeling he was placated, for the moment.
Kneeling at the new Emperor’s feet, head resting limply on his thigh, was Skywalker. The Emperor had him dressed–had barely dressed the boy at all, really–with a fine golden collar around his throat, high enough to leave his fresh mating marks on full display, and a thin, translucent spill of purple silk, held low about his hips by glittering golden chains. The boy had new jewelry on him too, hammered gold cuffs around his ankles and wrists, piercings in his ears and nipples. The collar and nipple piercings were connected to a golden leash, which was loosely wrapped around the Emperor’s hand. Every so often he’d tug it, just to watch the boy squirm.
The getup wouldn’t be Tarkin’s first choice, had he been the one to claim the omega. He wouldn’t want to give the boy a big head with all that finery.
That being said, he could concede that there would be expectations, standards, about how the concubine of the Emperor should look. As much as Tarkin would love to see the omega wearing heavy manacles and bright welts from an electrowhip, he could appreciate what Emperor Kenobi was going for.
“I see you’ve received my missive, Grand Moff Tarkin.” The Emperor barely looked at him, much more interested in petting his omega’s curls–was the man already bored? It was likely more posturing, Tarkin guessed, a way to cement his place above Tarkin. Demonstrate that the meeting was barely worth his time.
Tarkin knelt before the throne in perfect form. He would only have one chance to get this right. “Yes, your Excellency.”
“You’re a very prompt man, Tarkin. Orderly. Fastidious. I can appreciate that.”
The omega let out a little gasp then, and Tarkin chanced a quick glance upward. The Emperor was only wearing one glove on his left hand; the other left bare to scratch his nails over Skywalker’s scalp, making the boy shiver. Tarkin forced his eyes back to the floor.
“Your praise honors me, your Excellency.”
“Yes, I suppose it does…” The Emperor reached out and tugged Tarkin’s face upward with the Force. His eyes were searing gold as he searched the man’s face. “Tell me, Tarkin, do you think you can make a guess as to why I’ve summoned you?”
“The transition, sire? Since Skywalker no longer occupies the throne–”
Emperor Kenobi gave a single booming laugh. “No, he does not. Did this surprise you, Tarkin? Seeing in his true form, here?”
Hearing himself being discussed, the omega curled himself closer to Emperor Kenobi’s leg, turning his reddened face away from the room. “Oh, don’t be like that, darling,” said the Emperor, tugging his curls until his full face was turned towards Tarkin. “That’s no way to greet a Moff, is it?”
“N-no, Master.” The boy made fleeting eye contact with Tarkin, then bowed his head as much as the hand in his hair allowed. “Greetings, Grand Moff Tarkin.”
Tarkin inclined his head back, but said nothing. He’d never heard the boy’s voice so soft and demure before, and the shock had him reeling to gather his thoughts. How in all hells did that omega rule the galaxy for so long? How did the Emperor resist for so long, why didn’t he claim the little whore the moment Skywalker sent him off to the ugliest corners of the galaxy?
He could only assume that the Emperor hadn’t known. That was the only reasonable explanation. Tarkin took a moment to clear his throat, then finally spoke. “I admit I was most shocked at my own inability to discover the ruse, your Excellency. That was my own failing, sire.”
“He’s a clever boy,” the Emperor replied. “It’s not entirely your fault that he hid so well. But now I’ve got him right where he belongs, isn’t that right my sweet?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Where do you belong, Anakin?”
“At your feet, Master.” Then after a tremulous beat, “full of your pups.”
All of Tarkin’s higher thought screeched to a halt. Already? Was it even possible to know this early? Surely there were limits to even the Empire’s technology.
If there was any shock on his face, the Emperor and his concubine ignored it to stare into each others eyes like absolute fools. They would fall soon enough, if this meeting was setting the tone for the Emperor’s rule. All he’d need to do was separate them, and Kenobi would fall into line at once.
“Of course medical scans can’t see it quite yet,” Kenobi explained, still not looking at him, “but my dear Anakin has always been so gifted, in the Force. He gave me the news at once, when he felt them settle inside him.”
Them? As in more than one?
“C-congratulations, your Excellency. This is an auspicious sign for the Empire.”
“Thank you, Tarkin. I’m sure you already know to keep this between us, for now. My rule is young, and we must take care to shore up any cracks in the armor, so to speak.”
“Of course, sire. Consider it forgotten.”
“Good man. Now, about the transition. I do plan to have the coronation broadcast, but there’s a few sectors–”
Skywalker shifted at Obi-Wan’s feet, turning restlessly. For a brief moment, Tarkin thought he saw the boy’s little cock tenting his skirts, but then the view was obscured by his flank.
“Anakin, you know we’ve talked about this.”
“But I’m bored, Master,” the omega whined plaintively. Tarkin could smell it now in the air, needy, bonded omega, musky and sweet-tart, like citrus across his tongue. It really was a wonder the Emperor lasted at all, with Skywalker smelling like that.
The Emperor gave a put-upon sigh. “Very well, my dear. Come up here and warm me while I finish my meeting with Grand Moff Tarkin. You better not say a word again.”
“Yes, thank you, Master!”
Skywalker hurried on his hands and knees, hips swaying temptingly as he settled between the Emperor’s thighs. The Emperor pulled on the boy’s leash, and he fell forward into Kenobi’s lap with a pained squeal. Tarkin could see now, the rear silk panel of the boy’s skirt clinging to his soaked backside, outlining the lips of his cunt in pornographic detail. Tarkin tried to breathe through his mouth to calm himself, but the boy’s scent was strong now. Heady.
Perhaps this was the test Kenobi was looking to give him. See if his control would break with such a fine specimen in front of him.
“You must forgive him, Tarkin, his heat only broke last night. He’s still quite clingy, instinctively trying to please me so I’ll provide for him and our new pups. I’m sure you know the routine.”
Tarkin did not; his career in the Republic and now the Empire had left very little room for dalliances. He’d paid for whores on occasion, but he’d never paid the premium for one in heat. It didn’t seem worth it to him, when the whore would be just as desperate either way. But he nodded along, a facsimile of alpha comradery. “Of course, your Excellency. He’s just an omega after all, we can’t fault him for instinct.”
“No, we cannot. But this’ll keep him occupied. He’s really quite sweet like this,” he said conversationally, eyes completely focused on his omega. The Emperor reached down to undo the buckle on his belt, and the omega between his thighs gave a wanton moan. “You’d never expect that he was a virgin, when I first got to him.”
“Truly?” Tarkin’s body itched to crane his head, try to see anything beyond the slight motion of Skywalker’s head, as he sunk down over his alpha’s cock, but he managed to stay stock-still. A test of control indeed.
“Mm, the noises he made, when I had him for the first time,” Kenobi sighed out, losing himself in the pleasure of what had to be a very warm, biddable mouth. “He kept crying, ‘it won’t fit, it won’t fit! Please, Master, have mercy.’ I’ll remember it fondly ‘till my dying day.”
He’d heard the gossip, of course. As an Admiral, Kenobi was, to a certain degree, a man of the people; never retreating to his quarters to shower, preferring to just get it over with in the troops’ shared facilities. Plenty had seen the man naked, in the Empire, and they all claimed the same thing: Kenobi was massive. Not just standard alpha-large, but almost monstrous. A third leg, said some. A weapon, said others.
To think the Emperor sheathed his ‘weapon’ into Skywalker’s virgin cunt? Tarkin had some grudging respect for the man.
“So he’s fully yours, then?”
“Indeed. I bit him twice, just to be entirely sure. My precious padawan, and now, my bride.” The fond look on Kenobi’s face turned Tarkin’s stomach. Disgusting.
“You intend to marry him?” Tarkin managed to keep the shock out of his voice, but only barely. He never understood the purpose of wedding an omega, equalizing the bond between them. It was unnatural, but apparently the Emperor was set on it.
“Of course. I’m a one-omega kind of man myself, and the bond I share with Anakin goes far past a simple mate-bond. We have been entwined in the Force for most of our lives, at this point. Marriage would mostly be a formality, but my darling deserves it, beautiful silk robes, the flowers, the sweets… Though–” he looked down to his lap and gave Skywalker a filthy grin. “You won’t be wearing white now, will you, dearheart?”
Skywalker responded in some way, but with his mouth full as it was, Tarkin couldn’t tell if it was affirmative or not.
“Tradition demands we wed as soon as possible,” Kenobi continued, heedless of Tarkin’s increasing befuddlement, “but I do think he’ll look much more fetching when he starts to show.”
“Yes, your Excellency,” Tarkin stammered, at a complete loss for words. Wasn’t this supposed to be a meeting about the transition of power? This was rapidly turning into some kind of power display, rubbing Tarkin’s nose in it simply because he could. Ire was starting to boil in the pit of Tarkin’s stomach.
“I do apologize, Grand Moff Tarkin, I’ve taken us off track; the honeymoon is such a wonderful period of time. Where were we?”
Neurons fired in a panic, searching frantically for what the Emperor had said, before they embarked on this asinine conversation. “The ah, broadcast logistics for your coronation, sire.”
“Ah! Perfect. Memory like a durasteel trap, that’s a good trait for you, Tarkin. There are a few sectors where communications are down, due to rebel activity in the area. If we want the whole galaxy to witness my coronation, we need to re-establish control on the planets where the broadcast relays are located.”
There were more than a dozen of such planets, scattered in all corners of the galaxy. It would be a nigh impossible task to retake all of them, especially those further in the outer-rim. Why did the backwater denizens of Tatooine or wherever need to see the coronation anyway? It was a vanity project for the benefit of Kenobi’s ego, if you asked him.
“If I may make a suggestion, your Excellency?”
“Go ahead. Your suggestions always interest me, Tarkin. They tend to be so… dry. Granular, even.”
“Thank you, sire. While we may be able to retake some of the bases, some of the stations in question are located in high-conflict areas–”
A soft, wet choking noise cut Tarkin off midway. In Kenobi’s lap, the boy’s head bobbed surreptitiously, tiny little motions, while a hand reached back under his skirts to rub at his leaking pussy. The silk was so wet now that Tarkin could see the boy’s individual fingers working inside, moving in time with his head.
“Anakin, what did I just say,” Kenobi scolded. The Emperor sounded absolutely fond, though, perhaps even pleased. He tugged the omega up by his hair, until he came off his alpha’s cock with an obscene pop. Strings of saliva connected his fucked-red lips to the head of Kenobi’s (by the gods, it was massive) cock, like the boy had been slobbering for it.
“But, Master,” the omega croaked, entirely fucked out, “this meeting is taking forever!”
“And it’ll take even longer if I must break to put you over my knee, omega.”
Tarkin hoped that the threat of punishment would keep the boy in line and get this meeting over with, but much to his dismay, it only made the omega squirm harder, rubbing his cheek against Kenobi’s thigh and pressing sloppy kisses up the shaft of his cock.
“Oh, Master please, I need you, hit me, fuck me–ah!”
The Emperor did strike him then, a broad hand across the meat of Skywalker’s ass, once, then twice.
“Was this what you wanted, darling? For Tarkin to see what a slut you are? Can’t wait ten minutes for your alpha’s knot?”
Well, this meeting was over. Tarkin turned to leave, hoping that the two of them wouldn’t notice.
He managed to get halfway to the door when the Emperor–damn him and all his heirs for the rest of time–called out, “Tarkin, wait! I’ve got him settled now, do please continue.”
Perhaps he should consider a career change. All the power in the galaxy wasn’t worth this. And yet, he turned around, eyes carefully averted from the omega now seated on the Emperor’s cock. He wished he could somehow turn his ears away from the slick sounds of his bouncing, or the high, resonant cry when Kenobi pulled him to a stop with the leash, but Tarkin had no such fortune.
“Come now, Tarkin,” the Emperor wheedled. “Surely you’ve had meetings in more exotic locales. If you’re worried about disrespect, I formally invite you to look upon him.”
Tarkin thought longingly to the bottle of prized whiskey sitting on his bedside table. He’d even gone through the trouble of reporting the expense like a good boy, instead of sweeping it under the rug like the rest of his peers did. And now, his simpering loyalty was being repaid, with interest.
He didn’t care what it took, he was going to knock that stupid, whipped alpha off the throne and throw him and Skywalker in the deepest, darkest pit he could find. Surely they’d be just as happy there, with each other for company.
“As I’d been saying,” he gritted out, “broadcast outposts in high-conflict areas may not be worth the cost of engagement. The Empire may be in a better position to simply build new outposts on more secure systems, then have the engineers tweak the signals accordingly.”
“That does sound like a prudent approach. The last thing I want to do is ruffle feathers with unnecessary expenditures when I’ll be opening the coffers for the wedding in a few short months…”
He felt his blood pressure starting to rise, with more talk about their damned wedding. Perhaps he’d choose that as his day to begin his coup–he’d enjoy seeing the looks on their faces when he interrupts their nuptials with a dozen of his most loyal men.
“I would be able to compile a report by tomorrow evening, where best to construct new the new facilities,” offered Tarkin. He’d actually be able to do it much earlier than that, his secretary was a quick hand at these sorts of things, but he was going to spend the rest of the night drinking heavily, just to spite the Emperor. And then he’d buy a whole case of his favorite whiskey, on the Empire’s dime.
“Very good, then. Make it so.”
“Is that all, your Excellency?”
“Oh just housekeeping things, nothing that can’t be left until tomorrow. You’re dismissed, Tarkin.” The Emperor didn’t even wait for Tarkin to leave before he started rolling his hips up, fucking his omega at a leisurely pace. The silk shifted, as Kenobi adjusted his grip on Skywalker’s hips, revealing the obscene stretch of the boy’s cunt around that terrifying cock. It looked borderline painful, but the omega was crying out in pleasure like the whore he was.
Tarkin forced himself to look away, and marched out of the throne room before Kenobi thought to rope him into planning their wedding. When he conquered this damn Empire, he was burning the throne.
No, he’d have it shipped off to some desolate planet, then have it destroyed via orbital bombardment.
No, he’d–
“Oh fuck, Master!”
Tarkin sprinted away, into the loving arms of hard liquor.
* * *
Back in the throne room, Anakin giggled, giddy with pleasure and power. The stretch of Obi-Wan’s cock in him felt exquisite, made all the better by the chains on his nipples, pulled torturously taught on every downstroke. Oh how he wished he could be like this every day, all dolled up as Obi-Wan’s plaything. Their little game had gone even better than expected–the look on Tarkin’s face was absolutely priceless.
“You ha-ave to admit, Master,” Anakin said breathlessly, “that was pretty fun.”
“It won’t be so fun if he marches back in here with the rest of imperial command,” Obi-Wan replied gruffly.
“Oh please,” he laughed. “None of the other Moffs would follow him, they think he’s a coward.” The Moffs were too busy scrambling for crumbs of power anyway, the only organizing force in their lives were Anakin’s own orders.
“He’s a dangerous coward, and one who now knows you’re pregnant.”
Anakin’s heart fluttered pleasantly at the reminder. He snuck a hand down to his bare stomach, feeling the tiny, flickering lights in the Force; cells that would soon become their pups. The prospect thrilled him, a family, after all this time.
He grinned down at Obi-Wan. “Shouldn’t you punish me then, Emperor? For your whore’s careless talk?”
Obi-Wan lifted him high then, and threw him over the arm of the throne. Although unlike last time, he’d come prepared with additional cushions, to protect his precious omega, and the tiny sparks of life inside his womb.
“Not whore,” he protested. “Consort. Bride–” Obi-Wan thrust back inside with a groan, “mother of my pups–”
“You should put another one in me, Master,” Anakin gasped.
“Gods, you’re impossible, darling.” He doubled his speed then, hammering his hips against Anakin’s reddened ass. He’d spanked him hard before, half for the spectacle, half to get Anakin to stop begging for it in the bond, and he could imagine how much it stung, to get bent over and fucked hard. Not that, that was a deterrent for someone like Anakin.
“C’mon, Master,” Anakin egged him on. “I bet you could, there’s room for one more pup in there!”
He bit into one of Anakin’s mating marks again, control fraying. It wasn’t even possible, Anakin couldn’t ovulate again now that he was pregnant, but the idea had Obi-Wan’s knot filling with alarming speed. “Is that what you want, darling? Spend the rest of your days with your belly full, a babe on your breast?”
“Please,” Anakin begged, “want your pups, alpha.”
Obi-Wan’s knot was catching now, making Anakin howl every time it stretched him wide. For a brief, wonderful moment, Obi-Wan could envision it taking, giving the twins a triplet for company, three gorgeous little pups with Anakin’s eyes, then his knot caught for good and he came, pulse after pulse of come right against Anakin’s womb. His mind returned to him enough to cup Anakin’s cock and jerk him roughly, but the pressure of his knot against his prostate was more than enough to have Anakin screaming.
“You’ll have them, my love. As many as you’d like,” he murmured against Anakin’s neck. Then he carefully maneuvered them to sitting again, Anakin perched happily on his lap, tugging both their hands over his womb.
“Here, Obi-Wan–” Anakin reached out with the Force, carefully guiding Obi-Wan’s consciousness down, to the blood flowing in his veins, the life force swirling in eddies throughout their bodies. He drew them deeper still, to the space beneath their hands, to the infinitesimally small life taking root inside of him. “Can you feel them now?”
“I can,” Obi-Wan replied, voice soft with wonder. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. There they were, their children, so tiny, so delicate. He almost worried that his hand over them was too much, like he could accidentally crush them, despite the protection of their mother’s womb. “Oh, I shouldn’t’ve bent you over the arm of the throne,” he fretted.
“Shhh, just reach out to them. You can feel that they’re fine. Everything’s all right.”
He followed Anakin’s presence once more. Anakin was right, of course, the twins weren’t injured in the slightest, just growing ever quicker, as cells divided and divided again. “Hello, little ones. I’m your papa. I promise you, I will do everything in my power to keep you safe, and so will your mama.”
“You know, I think I’m starting to look forward to tomorrow’s announcement,” Anakin remarked.
“Ah yes, more torment for poor Lord Tarkin,” Obi-Wan sighed, resigned. “At least I won’t have to pretend to be the Emperor anymore. I’m sorry darling, but your job is nauseating.”
Anakin giggled. “Mm, you do an excellent job, though. Strong, just oozing authority…”
“–and wrapped around my omega’s little finger, apparently.”
“As all good alphas are! But seriously, I’ve been hiding for so long, paranoid about power and politics and control, I put my entire life on pause for an imagined form of security. The dangers were still there, but I could look away from them, in exchange for my–our–happiness. Now, we’ll have a family.”
Obi-Wan nodded and pressed a kiss to Anakin’s shoulder. “And come what may, I know we can protect our pups.”
“See? You are the perfect alpha, Obi-Wan. Loving, kind, virile…”
“I can’t keep you barefoot and pregnant forever, Anakin. You have an empire to run.”
* * *
The following afternoon, Grand Moff Tarkin hurried to the throne room with his reports, hangover nipping at his heels. He’d woken up cotton-mouthed and apocalyptically late, and had to tell his secretary to drop everything and generate the needed data for his broadcast plan. She did admirably, for the time she’d been given, a raise would be in order soon. When he was Emperor, he’d be conflicted between letting the poor woman retire early (she would obviously be instrumental in any plan to overthrow Kenobi) and keeping her on as his right hand.
He was so preoccupied with last minute checks that he nearly walked into the throne room doors. Usually when one was expected by the Emperor, the guards knew to open the doors at once, but the troopers on either side of the hall just stared ahead impassively.
Tarkin cleared his throat.
“Yes, Lord Tarkin?”
“My appointment with the Emperor is only five minutes away. Do you want to be the one to explain my tardiness to his Excellency?”
The trooper glanced down at the readout on his bracer. “I’m sorry my Lord, but it looks like you’re not on the docket for today. Perhaps your calendar program had an error?”
“That’s simply not possible, my calendar is maintained impeccably–”
The doors opened, and a younger, much more junior official passed through, nodding his head at the troopers. “Good day, Lord Dina,” said the troopers in unison.
“You’re telling me that Dina’s on the docket for today but not me? Dina’s not even a Moff!”
“We just follow the schedule, my Lord.”
“Just follow–” he huffed, face burning red. “I demand you let me see the Emperor at once, that’s an order!”
The two troopers looked at each other, silently communicating in that eerie way of theirs. Finally, one of them shrugged, and the throne room doors swung open.
“This will appear on your performance reviews, have no doubt,” Tarkin hissed at them, as he stalked inside.
The throne room seemed to be set up for a press conference that afternoon, neat rows of chairs filled with sundry officials and higher ups from the state press. Among all the black uniforms, those invited from outside the Empire stand out easily, emissaries from far off planets, someone who looked concerningly like a rebel spy. None of this had made its way to Tarkin, and panic and rage mixed in his stomach. How could he have missed this? How could anyone let him miss this?
Sure, he’d been drunk, but he hadn’t been that drunk. Surely someone could’ve let him know.
He quickly looked down at his datapad and scanned through the recent messages–there it was, late last night: URGENT – PRESS ANNOUNCEMENT TOMORROW 1500 HOURS.
Tarkin’s heart sank. Perhaps that’s what his secretary was trying to warn him about this morning, while he ignored her in favor of this new broadcast project.
A loud clap silenced the idle chatter in the room, and Tarkin looked upon the throne. But Kenobi wasn’t seated there; Skywalker was, again, draped in the same black robes he always wore.
What? Where was Kenobi? What had happened to yesterday? Tarkin tried to come up with some kind of reasonable explanation, but his mind was dulled with shock. He-he must be giving Skywalker the grace to step down voluntarily, that must be it. Trying to make himself look magnanimous, a clever political move.
“All rise for Galactic Emperor Anakin Skywalker,” said the trooper at the foot of the throne. All the imperial officials knew the routine at this point; only the rebel did not stand and bow, though strangely nothing came of it. Perhaps the troopers were no longer fully enforcing Skywalker’s rule.
Wait–Skywalker? The Emperor always used his sith title before. Strange, but Tarkin just shuffled the information into the same ‘transfer of power’ folder as the rest. He was exhausted, hangover squeezing his head into a vise; whatever little formalities Kenobi and Skywalker wanted to observe were fine.
“Imperial citizens, visitors,” the ‘Emperor’ greeted the crowd. “As I am sure many of you know, there has recently been some upheaval in the Imperial Palace. A week ago, Admiral Kenobi encountered a novel chemical compound, and returned to the palace in an altered state of mind. And then both Admiral Kenobi and I were sequestered away for a week, which was fertile ground for many rumors, some false, some accurate. I have come before you today to give the people of the Empire the truth, as is their right.”
Murmurs spread throughout the room, but the Emperor didn’t bother to order for silence. He simply continued, unbothered.
“Admiral Kenobi and I were in isolation for my heat.”
An uproar then, almost deafening, with the way the throne room echoed. The trooper at the throne looked quickly to the Emperor, who only gave a calm wave and a shake of his head. A show of omega docility, if Tarkin ever saw one.
Eventually the room quieted down, as the onlookers ran out of steam, and their curiosity returned.
“While the events leading up to our mating were quite sudden, our relationship is not. I had been keeping my status as an omega hidden, for the stability of the Empire, but I have recently come to terms with the fact that this is both incorrect–factually, and wrong–morally speaking. The Empire is stronger than ever, yet we hide behind paper thin notions of dominance and ‘natural order.’ I have guided our Empire into a new era of prosperity as an omega, but did not extend the same gifts to my kin. No more. All are equals, within the Empire.”
This time when the crowd started up again, the trooper stomped his foot before things got out of control.
“I will take questions at this time.”
“Emperor Skwalker–”
“–will this mean new discrimination protections in the workplace?”
“–is it true that the substance Admiral Kenobi encountered was a rut inducer?”
“–how do you intend to rule the Empire while in heat? Won’t your hormones make you unbalanced–”
“You are a false ruler, Skywalker!” Tarkin bellowed at the top of his lungs, fury singing in every molecule of his body. How dare he pretend he’s fit to rule? How dare Kenobi let his omega lead him along like this? How could any alpha be content to rule in the shadows while their capricious little bedwarmer pretended to be Emperor?
“Grand Moff Tarkin, whatever do you mean?” Skywalker cocked his head, perplexed. But Tarkin knew it was a ruse, he could see that spark in the omega’s eyes.
“I won’t stand for this farce any longer, the Empire deserves to know the truth! Admiral Kenobi is the true Emperor!”
The look of confusion on Skywalker’s face soured. “You should mind your words, Lord Tarkin. While I intend to make the Empire a freer place, insubordination is still a crime.”
“I can’t be insubordinate to a whore!”
The crowd gasped. The trooper at the throne, the very same one who’d summoned Tarkin to his meeting yesterday, moved to intercept him as Tarkin marched toward the ‘Emperor.’
“I saw them,” he declared to the crowd. “Your precious ‘Emperor,’ kneeling at the feet of his alpha–a concubine, in his rightful place!”
“That’s enough, Lord Tarkin,” said the trooper.
“He said they were going to get married!”
Skywalker waved the trooper away and descended the throne, cloak billowing behind him. He had the audacity to look concerned, as if his dirty little secret hadn’t just been aired out in front of the entire galaxy. “Tarkin, are you well?” He asked the question softly, though not soft enough for the front row to not overhear. “We met yesterday to discuss broadcast plans for the wedding, yes…”
“Don’t you dare condescend to me, omega!”
The omega frowned and wrinkled his nose. “Lord Tarkin, have you been drinking?”
Skywalker turned to the trooper and murmured something into his ear. The trooper nodded resolutely.
“We won’t speak of this again, Lord Tarkin, you have my word. Please go get some rest,” the gentle hand on his shoulder scalded him, and Tarkin staggered back.
“I have done no such thing! This is an outrage! Don’t you dare touch me!”
The trooper crowded him down the central aisle, trying to placate him with gentling platitudes. “Come now, Lord Tarkin, wouldn’t you like a nice glass of water? I’m sure you’ve had a long day, sir.”