Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Months Ago

• Rinse away whatever filth and gore is on you, but come to me freshly exercised — I want you limber. Fragrant.
• Arrive unmasked.
• Arrive unarmed and never weaponize the Force against me.
• Upon entry do not initiate contact or alter your position unless told to do so.
• Tell me if it’s too much. Beg me to stop or slow and I’ll oblige.
• You will otherwise speak only in response to questions or commands, addressing me by my title, or as “sir.”
• Punishment will follow if you disobey me, and not the sort you enjoy.

“Are we entirely understood, Ren?”

“Yes, General.”

Minutes Ago

“Strip,” Hux commands, arousal manifesting only through his slightly elevated pulse. He’s profoundly in control, a requirement after decades under subjugation. An upsetting rationale, yes, but you eagerly welcome these moments to relinquish power.

Hux reads from his datapad until you stand bare for him, then he meets your gaze. “You’re here because she refused you.”

“No. The Force is strong with her. The girl could be useful, but she isn’t you.”

Those jade eyes narrow. “Pretty words, Ren.” Then they shine. “Such pretty lips. Such a pretty tongue. So use them.” Hux steps forward. “Kneel.”

You comply. “Yes, sir.”

Now

You know you have permission to proceed once General Hux shifts to parade rest directly before your obeisance on his parlor floor. He’s forgone his uniform by this late hour in favor of a deep blue robe that falls in silken pleats down to his ankles. The modest-yet-luxurious fabric brushes against your arms as you reach to unfasten the sash at Hux’s hip. You know what he wants, and it’s not your specialty despite his astute attention toward your improvement. That makes you nervous. You’re fearless, certainly never nervous, but you are, and it shows while Hux is so damned form-perfect that he may as well be on the bridge.

Stupid fucking fingers. You fumble the knot twice before the robe falls gloriously open and you remember why you do this. One of the reasons, at least: Hux is beautiful. You’d tell him if that didn’t break the rules. Instead you allow yourself the briefest moment to look, to marvel at his flawless skin and bask in the faint cinnamon aroma of the concoction of products he uses to keep it like that.

Without further hesitation you guide the pale, soft cock between your puckered lips, relishing the brief window in which you can do so with ease. You work your tongue into his foreskin before applying the suction he craves, and you feel Hux’s delight. You may as well hear the words, “he has improved,” but then you truly surprise him. You surprise yourself, actually, burying your nose in the downy orange hair of his mons and gently squeezing his testes into an ellipsoid mass before inhaling them into your mouth beside his shaft. Their singular purpose now complete, you place your hands on your thighs where they belong until the general has need of them.

It takes one more lick around the growing curve pressed against your palate and Hux’s composure falters. He moans deeply, caressing your scalp and the nape of your neck as if he forgot the persona he habitually channels. These decreasingly rare apparitions of a different Hux — someone sensitive, even sweet at times — constitute the second reason you participate so freely. They spark your ambition to claim what’s yours. Soon you’ll have your freedom, and so will Hux. You’ll give him everything he needs, but for now, this must be enough. For now you wait and accept another vision, another version of his future which will never come under Snoke’s rule.

Armitage Hux. Quick to smile. Brilliant, but never condescending. A patron and student of both the sciences and the arts. Cooperative. Rakish, but kind. A voracious lover to you and many more. A doting parent to scores of younglings, each child precious to him. He is all the things his father never was. He is all the things his father beat out of him, all the things his father’s cohorts raped from his very soul. 

In the general’s mind, Armitage is just as weak and just as dead as Ben Solo. That’s how he addresses the memories when they re-emerge, and any attempt to provide direct counsel would sentence you to the top of Hux’s increasingly short hitlist. Don’t talk about what happened to him, don’t tell him that he’s not all right; it’s a rule so obvious and intimate that it’s never been voiced, but you know how to help. That’s the third part of why you’re here.

Hux invites you to his rooms to exhaust him until he wants nothing more than rest. He claims he grants you this honor because he trusts nobody else to deny him — an accurate assessment. He also knows you’ve seen his mind and he appreciates your discretion. Even less likely to be uttered aloud is the fact that he likes you nearly as much as he hates you. This amalgam is why he occasionally shares a third of his bed when he deems your performance adequate.

Joy doesn’t seem quite right, but it’s what you feel when Hux sleeps soundly beside you without the chems he works avidly to avoid, the ones forced into him as a boy along with everything else. That’s a start, and you’re proud of him. His achievements inspire and satisfy you, and yet, Hux is a very difficult man. He can almost be too much. Sometimes he pushes you so far that you nearly beg. This is one of those times.

You drool, then you gag. The transformation is complete — the cock thick and leaking pre-cum so far down your throat that you can’t even taste it. Only the Force carries you through this, steeling you, willing your body not to eject Hux along with your half-digested supper. Hux knows what you’re doing. It’s not forbidden, but he doesn’t like it even if the alternatives are far less savory. Accordingly, Hux demonstrates his displeasure by hammering his bony pelvis into your face with enough momentum to leave marks by first shift.

“You,” Hux groans. “You… mmmmm… you disobeyed, Ren.”

You didn’t. You never have. Even still, you massage Hux with your tongue and tighten your split and bleeding lips into a vise for him. As thanks for your efforts he twists his hands into your hair, pulling roughly back until the unnatural angle forces his gaze into yours. Yes, Hux is almost too much. Almost. Your cock is harder than durasteel and plunges painfully into empty air with each of Hux’s thrusts. You ache for the touch to come, the touch only your endurance earns. Hux thrills you more than any person, any triumph, any kill ever has. This is why you’re here. This is the last reason, and likely the first, too. It’s the honest reason.

Thirteen years of Jedi breathwork are reappropriated as your face endures two or three dozen increasingly wet slaps before another spasm of your esophagus sends Hux over the edge. He throws his head back just as he releases yours to shout his ecstasy loudly, gorgeously, accompanied by three staccato spurts into your gullet. His hands find themselves back in your hair as the cum slides easily down to garnish your meal, your ability or need to swallow blocked just as much as your respiration. Then Hux dislodges himself and reaffixes the sash around his robe before slipping away to the adjoining refresher.

Hux doesn’t shut the door. He never does. You sit on your heels, breathing at last as you listen to the long stream of urine and its attendant sigh. The sink runs. It keeps running. His hair. He’s rinsing out the gel. His unapologetic appreciation of your smell on him keeps him from the shower, but that thought only aggravates your current state of unfulfillment. You dismiss it to think of Rey, her words, the way she infiltrated your mind and then escaped you. The way the crew mutters about it behind closed doors where they think you can’t hear them. The way Snoke never hides his disdain, the way his insults and laughter ring in your head for hours afterwards. You’re seething internally by the time Hux walks back into the parlor. So is he. Something is wrong.

The general skirts around you to pour a glass of water in the kitchenette to your side. He watches you while he drinks it slowly, irritation radiating from him. You don’t dare turn your head. What did you do? Was he serious? Did you disobey him? You try to ignore the soreness for his hand, his thighs, anything, and you think: no helmet, sweaty, unmoving. The Force? But you never used it to harm him. Then you must have said something. What was it? Is this a pretense to impose some harsher second course? Is he going to bind you this time? But then…

“You’re here because she refused you.”

That wasn’t a question. That wasn’t a command. Your reply was unbidden.

Hux steps in front of you and you cast your eyes downward. You’re certain he does too. He wants you as much as you do him, but Hux is disciplined, and Hux is jealous. He drains the glass and states, “You’re dismissed. Dress yourself quickly and leave.”

“Yes, sir.” You pick through the pile of black attire deposited at the entryway beneath Hux’s hanging cap and greatcoat. Within three minutes you’ve effectively reassembled yourself into Kylo Ren, well, Kylo Ren if he was known to roam the Finalizer with an uncovered, bruising face and a pronounced erection. You hope the layers hide most of the bulge as you see yourself out. 

The walk to your chambers seems longer than ever before. It provides ample opportunity to review Hux’s rules lest you carelessly break another. There’s even time to append an amendment: don’t talk about that damned scavenger, not even when prompted, when teased. Hux knows what he did. That’s what he’s like. At this very moment he’s almost certainly gloating while he tugs himself into an uneasy torpor.

Next time. You’ll do better next time. He’ll touch you next time. He’ll let you touch him. No Rey. No Luke. No Snoke. Only Hux.

Chapter Text

Sure, Hux is managing a weapon unlike anything the galaxy has ever beheld. Sure, it makes the battlestations of Grandfather’s era look like toys. Sure, Starkiller may as well be Hux’s big-ass baby, but is he really that fucking busy? You think not. This is your punishment: these two weeks without a word from him and now this early morning meeting about the sub-orbital defenses of a plundered and vandalized planet he very well knows you once held sacred.

There’s nothing like an unnecessarily extended, non-relevant, blatantly offensive meeting to get your blood up. You could leave now to invite Captain Phasma to the sparring arena and nobody here would dare comment, except obviously Hux, the presenter. That would be foolish, however, because discounting yourself, Phasma is the closest person Hux has to a friend. She might respect your strength, but she cares nothing for you, or anyone, actually. She’d rat you out faster than lightning despite the fact that you respect her, too — her perseverance, her disposal of Hux’s shit father, and most significantly her brutally accurate insight. Phasma knows about your relationship despite never being told, and you’re not about to provide her with any ammunition for Hux to use against you.

Alternatively you could claim to have an urgent summons with Snoke aboard the Supremacy, some silent communiqué only you can hear. That would fool Hux slightly longer and then you’d similarly suffer. Bad ideas all around considering you’re already in agony, so you sit and wait for the meeting to end.

Hmmm, so if it’s any consolation, Hux does look good up there. He’s opted out of wearing his coat today so you can see more of his sinewy figure than usual. His hair is uncovered and atypically unparted, merely slicked back severely into a blazing sheen that highlights the vibrant meadows of his eyes. There is absolutely no chance that Hux hasn’t tested myriad angles and lighting and styles and chosen this specific set for its glorious impact. The way he leans in and his cheeks fall into shadow just right, he may as well be a carefully blocked actor on some prestigious Coruscanti stage.

“Maneuverability something something TIE whisper,” drones Hux so smoothly, so sexily that you are fleetingly tempted to pay attention.

You know more about the new lines of interceptors than the navy’s dedicated pilots, but Hux doesn’t ask for your advice. That’s fine; you’ve already willingly provided it in writing alongside detailed performance metrics. As such you can hear your own words laced throughout this speech. Hux wants you to. He wants you to know that you’re important to all of this, and yet, he’s in charge. He, after all, was a founding member of the burgeoning First Order when you were still in the cradle, and you’re not technically part of this, are you? No, you’re Snoke’s, but Hux likes to ensure you understand that you’re also his.

Other than forcing your soundless attendance, Hux doesn’t downplay you. You sit nearest to him, closer than the fleet admirals, closer than the gunner captains. Your presence is a passive reminder that failure is not permitted. It would be an honor if this meeting were actually necessary, but nothing new is said here. This is for morale, for intimidation. It takes only a clenching of your fist on the sleek glass table for the best and brightest of the First Order to straighten in their seats and listen to Hux with nearly violent fervor. Beneath your helmet you smile.

For maybe the fifth time during this endless disquisition you think of how much you’d like Hux to dismiss every single one of these men and women, slip that fat cock through his impeccably tailored uniform, and tear into you so hard over the conference table that it cracks and you finally beg him to stop before your entire body is lacerated like your unprepared hole. You are thinking about it because he is thinking about it —  as much as, if not more than the defenses. He doesn’t even try to hide it. Hux’s mind is remarkably guarded for that of a non-sensitive and you therefore only see his waking, sober thoughts this explicitly when he wants you to.

This image, although incredibly clear, also fluctuates constantly. Right now your robe is hitched up and you’re panting, almost crying into the cold glass as your legs go numb after an eternity of dangling useless and sore like the cock trapped beneath you. Sometimes, though, you’re inside of him. He’s on his back, leering at your working abs, being earnestly, but almost comically loud while he writhes into your hips with each thrust and pinches his pink little nipples like the slut he is.

Another scene. A memory. The first time Hux trusted you to take him from behind. The way your hesitation brought no reproach, only a quiet encouragement into his pillow, “I want this.” The way he came within minutes and remained there, facedown on his sticky sheets for the rest of the night. The way he allowed your hands to tangle into his while you continued to crush him for over an hour, pumping slowly and stopping only to reapply lubricant until the ring strangling your genitals was no longer enough to keep your own orgasm at bay. The way he asked his pillow if you were all right. The way you said, “Yes, General,” even though you meant, “I love you.”

“These silencers something something laser cannons.”

Then you hear words, sense them? Hux repeats them in his head until you can make out the complete sentence: I have something for you.

“Something something Commander Ren.”

You’re ejected into reality as a round of applause erupts in your direction. Hux rarely uses your title. He hates the Knights you lead, which is fair; they hate him too, particularly the amount of time he spends with you.

“You’re dismissed,” Hux announces to the gathering and the officers salute in unison before filing out.

It’s now you and General Armitage Hux. Just Hux. You adore his given name. He does not. Too much mockery. Too much past. That’s the first thing you’ll return to him once Snoke is dead: a pretty name for a pretty man.

“Your test data have been invaluable, Kylo.”

Even rarer, that. Your chosen name almost never slips through those sultry lips. You don’t know what this is, but the rules apply whenever the two of you are alone, so you remain silent, ungoaded by this uncharacteristic gratitude.

Hux squints from the head of the table down at you where you still sit. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did I say?”

He must mean during the meeting, the words he only thought. “Sir, you said you have something for me.”

“Good,” says Hux, and pleasure pours from him, although he’s equal parts jealous and impressed. He wishes he were attuned with the Force like you. He conducts research, especially into the Inquisitorius. He keeps these secrets from you, and thinks he keeps them from Snoke. He also possesses relics that should be yours, items of the light and the dark and the gray. He has contingencies even against you, but you would expect no less. Hux is dangerous. He has to be, this brilliant bastard boy who achieved the unthinkable to climb to his rank.

Hux leans again into that stunning light. “What are you doing tomorrow?” 

“Reconnaissance for Leader Snoke,” you truthfully report, saying nothing of the scavenger or the pilot or the traitor or the droid or any of the other things that upset Hux even more than they do you. 

“You’re disembarking the Finalizer, I assume. When?”

“Yes, sir, at oh-eight hundred.”

“And when should I expect you at my door?”

Praise the Force. “Sir, you can have me from now until I leave for the shuttle bay,” you tempt, catering to his ego and sounding exactly as desperate as you feel. 

“Something tells me your master would not be generous if you failed him on account of exhaustion. Give me a time.”

Obviously you don’t correct Hux that Snoke is in fact the master of everything and everyone. “Oh-five hundred, sir.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Three days, sir, if all goes to plan.”

“Hmm. Then I’ll see you at oh-six-thirty hours, Kylo.”

“Yes, General.” The provided window is concerningly small, but seeing Hux at all is better than the nothing you’ve been enduring. As a reminder of that he leaves first and slowly so you’re forced to watch the tunic flap deliciously over his legs. Sighing, you remain where you are for a few moments longer to collect yourself after this ordeal. 

You’re decent, mostly, but you’re riled to a degree far beyond Phasma’s capability to handle. This calls for your favorite non-Hux hobby: hosting the First Order’s most troublesome guests. The deviants might even welcome your visit considering the poor company IT droids are known to provide. The spies, the dissenters, the hostages — they are all at your mercy and there is nothing quite like their screams when they realize you have none to grant. You’ll get your answers. You’ll take everything from them until all that remains are husks to incinerate into ashes for your collection.

Chapter Text

You’re going to need a new training droid. The latest model lays prone, its holoprojector glitching between the default metallic body and that of Luke Skywalker, the golden boy, the great redeemer. You like to fight him like this, when he was young, when he had more of a chance before he lost his touch. You like to — no. You do not like anything regarding Luke. You prefer to remember the version you’d first met: an uncle thrilled by your mere existence, exuberant in stark contradiction of what his training should have permitted.

With a final crushing kick to the dome of not-Luke you pull a long-sleeved robe over your chest and affix your belt over it. Time is limited enough that you refuse to spend any of it donning your standard layers. You’ll properly situate yourself with your armor and lightsaber when you return here, only a short walk to the hangar from which you’ll depart in one hundred standard minutes.

This simulation space, formatted as a gymnasium instead of an entertainment hub, is part of the Finalizer’s dignitary suite. Snoke assigned these rooms when you joined him because that’s what he claimed you were: a guest of highest honor. He allowed you to believe that just long enough to feel comfortable here, to feel you’d be hunted and haunted anywhere else. The suite remains yours even after Snoke’s turn, after you learned his true nature: that he is wise, but absolutely not your friend. You live in luxury but this is just another one one of your master’s endless and unfounded humiliations — an indication that you are a mere visitor until you prove yourself — but that doesn’t make you appreciate your appointments any less. Your quarters allow you to train privately and they’re close to your ships. There is basically nothing else that you require, but there’s also the incredible view they boast and the fact that they’re probably twice the size of those Hux keeps — facts which would annoy him to no end if he ever visited you. Ninety-eight minutes. Time to go. Time for Hux.

Hux. He has something you? A gift? Hux doesn’t give gifts. Hux is the gift. Whatever he has in store is either sex or pain. It’s usually both when he’s in a good mode like the one he’s clearly been in for a while despite neglecting to share it with you as punishment for your transgression. Ah. You should expect mostly pain this time. Pain because you failed to stop thinking of Rey, which was barely your fault, because Rey is your mission. There are only ninety-six minutes before you leave to find her and the path to the Resistance she’s run off to.

Rey. Stop thinking of her. It’s enough to know that you’re going to find her. You’re going to find her, and you’re going to find the traitor. There’s a feeling, one you know to trust. This is the beginning of her end, the end of the Resistance, but there’s no denying your connection with her. There’s no denying wanting her here, wanting to show her the light of the dark side, to teach her to unleash and wield the anger she traps inside. You cannot help but wonder how powerful you could be together, with or without the tutelage of Snoke. Without. It has to be without. You won’t let him corrupt her. You won’t let him hurt her like he does you for even the simplest mistakes. You can take it, it makes you strong, but it might break the girl. Not Snoke. Definitely not Snoke. Ninety-four minutes. Ninety-four minutes until the beginning of his end, and Luke’s.

That man, that “Jedi” taught you nearly nothing. He abandoned you before he tried to kill you. He withheld his knowledge. He kept you weak. He was cruel to you, but he never beat you. Maybe he should have, maybe that would have strengthened you the way Snoke does. Maybe that would have somehow made Luke more bearable. Maybe that would have been better than the secrecy, the neglect, and the unreciprocated devotion you felt until the night he came to murder you. Whatever. It’s too late for him now. Ninety-two minutes and you’ll be closer to tearing him from his burrow. You’ve thought often of it and you’ve decided that in your generosity you’ll grant him the decency he refused you: the chance to die fighting. Just ninety-two minutes.

Stop thinking about them. This is about Hux. You’re on his floor, on the senior officers’ level. You are here often enough that the residents might assume you keep rooms here. Let them think that, let Hux enjoy his privacy. Not that anyone knows you, but if they did they’d understand how absurd you find this place. The amenities are beyond ostentatious and even Hux doesn’t enjoy them, but where else would he stay? There. Just look at that. Shrubbery? Shrubbery on a Star Destroyer. Down that corridor there’s a park with trees and benches and jogging paths and birds. Birds on a starship. There is no cafeteria, no mess, only restaurants and bars. There are no barracks, only staterooms, and now you’re at Hux’s with a minute to spare. Ninety-one minutes before take-off.

As always the door to the entryway parlor opens automatically when you approach. You consider the bench padded with its pale blue cushions and wonder who might actually sit here. Not Hux. It’s a formality — maybe even a joke. Anyone in their right mind would stand while waiting for an audience with him. In case they forget themselves, the coat and cap that hang here on the silver-plated rack are stark reminders that Hux's influence is second only to that of Supreme Leader Snoke.

At ninety minutes and thirty seconds you stare across the compact rectangular space at a new painting on the wall, a highly detailed, if vague, abstract work with swirls of green, gray, and ochre oils. It looks like a rainy summer day speckled with flowers, but it might be a disemboweled animal for all you know. At ninety minutes and five seconds you breathe. At zero the parlor door opens. Sixty. Sixty minutes with Hux.

”Good morning, Kylo.” Hux stands uniformed before you with a clear mug of dark tea.

You straighten, but not before Hux notices your perusal.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me more. Speak freely.”

Looking closer you appraise, “There aren’t many lines. It’s unusual, but the colors are pleasing, and they suit your décor.” You tilt your head. “General, did you paint this?”

Hux smiles, a separation of his lips that’s more of a grimace. “I did. Funny you can tell. Father couldn’t. I found this in storage on the Absolution after he perished, and I wasn’t sure what to do with it.” Hux sips his tea. Tarine, brewed so strongly that it’s nearly black instead of the standard maroon. The pungent drink is clearly too hot but Hux either doesn’t care or doesn’t notice. “I think he forgot that I gave it to him. He probably mistook it for some eclectic and valuable piece he could pawn for cognac, except he couldn’t, because it was just some trash his kid made.”

“It’s not trash; it’s nice. It’s Arkanis isn’t it? So he could remember home.” You shake your head and quiet the anger you’d rather express with the lightsaber waiting in your quarters. “Brendol didn’t deserve your art. He didn’t deserve you.”

A real smile. “Thank you, Kylo.”

This is officially getting weird, this friendliness. Hux doesn’t say these words to you except as a knee-jerk reaction or in mocking tones. You hope it’s not the stims again. You’d much prefer the other likely cause of these recent high spirits: that Hux has prepared an especially intricate way to use your body. The gift. What is it?

“Come in.”

You do and Hux stalks around you like a vulture with a rather unusual appetite.

“I’ve never seen you wear so little. Are you that eager to show yourself to me?”

Why lie? You concur, “Yes, General.”

Hux stands half a meter directly in front of you. “Go ahead,” he urges, and takes another swig of tea.

You waste no time, dropping your belt to the floor and pulling the robe over your head. Hux is already rapt, the hand holding the mug is resting by his thigh and nearly spilling its steaming contents. You glance at it as you continue with your sweaty exercise trousers and he regains a modicum of composure. He’s… jubilant. Something for you. He can’t wait.

Boots nudged aside. Trousers to join them. You work more slowly on the briefs before Hux can tell you to do so. You reach down into their high, tight band, scooping your testicles from the confining, smoothing pocket before doing the same with your upwardly placed penis. Hux nearly loses himself again when you expose yourself.

“You look well,” Hux imparts from his dwindling jar of cordiality.

Do you? You’ve never liked your appearance, and particularly not your penis. Like the rest of you its size is awkward to manage at best and downright bulbous and oddly-proportioned at worst, but for some reason it works for Hux. You want to believe him when he says these things and you do, if only because he is neither kind nor callous enough for such falsehoods.

Hux closes the short distance and inhales you. “Very nice.” He runs his free hand down your back before circling to meet your eyes. “You’ve worked up quite the sweat, Ren. I hope you haven’t been damaging my ship again. You know what I’ve told you about that, so running perhaps?” He squeezes your bicep. “Or whatever makes your arms like this?”

Are these questions? You’re not certain, so you say nothing. This seems to please Hux who quickly reverts back into his demanding and not-at-all polite baseline. “Use the refresher. Piss and shit if you can, then shower thoroughly. All the caves and valleys, and hurry.”

“Yes, General.”

Unlike Hux you do shut the door, for even his idiosyncrasies have limits and he has no interest in witnessing you coax your bladder and bowels into emptying themselves. What is this even for? This isn’t like him; Hux favors your ripened natural state despite subjecting himself to the douching or enemas he uses to make himself cleaner than a surgical table. Or maybe he doesn’t produce bodily waste. For all you know, he’s a deity that subsists on only tea and regulated rage, and the sounds and odors he emits from this room form part of his disguise. Either way, you simply do as Hux asks.

Shower. The water on this level will run warm for half an hour, but you like the cold. It invigorates you. It acclimatizes you. Hux has left a scrubbing cloth here and you use it, lathering soap into it from the dispenser and scouring yourself fresh. You take special care with your cock, peeling free the head and giving it a solid rinse. Yes, think of it that way. Hux wants you to: cock, not penis. Confuse these aloud and he’ll go back to calling you “Little Jedi” again.

You initiate the drying cycle, a warm jet that bathes you from every direction and vacuums away all debris. All right, this is what he wants. You step out of the fresher, but Hux is gone. His bedroom door is open. He’s in there. Does he want you to join him? No. Just wait.

You look up at the holoprojector that dominates the room. It looms ominously from the unnecessarily high ceiling like an ebon gargoyle, imposing, but festooned with dozens of sparkling little lights like a chandelier. Beneath it are a circular caf table in solid black marble ringed by four seemingly unused armchairs and a matching sofa with a carved silvery frame and plush cushions in a pale, desaturated blue.

Hux often lounges here, sprawled in his midnight robe, pleats draping over his crossed legs, a datapad in one hand and a wine glass or a cigarra in the other. He blends perfectly with these furnishings in his favored palette of white, black, and blue. The themes also carry to the bedroom where he barely sleeps, the dining room you’ve never seen him use, and the office where he trains away your gag reflex while simultaneously writing his reports.

What’s taking so long? A digital chronometer on the wall across the room reads 06:45. That leaves forty-five minutes here before rushing back to don full combat attire and make it to the Night Buzzard. Can this really be it, standing here like a stone? Can you really have rankled Hux that severely? Did you hurt his feelings? The ones he pretends not to have? Should you have used that moment to apologize instead of commenting on his painting? Idiot. Now you’ve missed out on whatever he had for you. Whatever gift. Whatever surprise.

Or not. Finally. Hux is back, and wearing the robe. You can hear the difference, the flow of the silk. You don’t turn your head to watch him; you let him move in front of you. Perhaps you didn’t offend him quite so much, because he has it. He has something for you. In his left hand Hux holds a bottle of lubricant, the kind that doesn’t last long but doesn’t stain his sheets or upholstery. In his right hand is a sizable rectangular box made of a dark lacquered material. Could that be kriin-wood? There’s barely any of that left. How does he have such a thing?

“Come over here,” Hux directs, placing the items on the table and sitting on the sofa.

Hux can’t mean for you to sit with him, so you stand just to the side. He points to the box, to the clasp: a golden triangular symbol, one you thought looked vaguely uterine once you were old enough to see such diagrams. It is kriin-wood — a luxury good even while Alderaan flourished. Nothing else would be worthy of the emblem of House Organa. You realize your mouth hangs open and promptly shut it before shifting your eyes to Hux’s. He smirks.

“You won’t believe how much I bid on this. Now it’s yours, Kylo. So are the contents, in a way, although you’ll need to find something else to store inside.” Hux beckons. “Closer.”

 This position is an entirely unusual request from Hux who has thus only engaged in its mirror. He’s closed most of his mind away, but you’re almost certain he’s not going to perform oral sex. He could, and you suspect part of him might want to, but he won’t do it. It’s one of the few acts he’s avoided, which says nothing of his expertise. Stars know he could suck you off like he was made for nothing else, but that was Armitage, a dead boy who would do anything to make his mouth the more appetizing hole. So what is this? Teasing, of course — a skill in which Hux is happy to demonstrate his expertise even at the cost of dredging up those memories.

“Calm down,” Hux chastises, his voice eerily cool. “It doesn’t work if you’re excited.”

Are you excited? Shit, yes, and easier said than done, especially when his entire attention is focused on you like this. Ashamed, you will your blood to redistribute itself by focusing on the largely bare walls instead of on Hux’s hair which looks so good today back in its usual slightly left-sided part. Nope. Look at the walls. Think of the tea, the warm, tart smell coming from the pot in the kitchenette behind the sliding panels.

“There,” intones Hux, and he opens the case.

You don’t see the contents; Hux has angled the fine vessel in a way that you cannot see what’s coming. The first sensation is familiar, though. Hux works deftly, squeezing your genitals to slip a ring over them and press it against your groin before cinching it shut around your sack. Hux slips your hood down its glans, then what you feel next is a mystery. Skin? A sleeve of skin? Hux pulls whatever it is a quarter down your shaft.

“Look at me.”

You do. He’s resolutely cherubic from this vantage. “Yes, sir.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Wrong, sir? Nothing.” You don’t understand and you don’t dare look away to glimpse at what he’s doing to you.

“I told you to relax. You’re not relaxing. You’re usually so compliant, Ren, so what’s wrong?”

Don’t lie to Hux. Never lie to Hux, especially when you’ve been demoted to “Ren.” That’s not your name. It’s a title and a weapon, but it sounds more like “pet” or “plaything” each time Hux utters it. So do you tell him everything? Not quite. Be succinct and don’t say how fine he is; that won’t help anything.

“General, it’s been weeks since you touched me like this, and for a moment I thought we were going to do something… something new.”

Hux doesn’t ask what. He knows what. “We are doing something new,” he encourages, “as soon as you relax. It’s all right. We’ll be working on this, Ren: your control. Now stop wasting my time and get soft.”

Stars, there really isn’t much time, maybe thirty-five minutes. That reminder does it and Hux resumes rolling the skin over the base of your penis with the detached calm of a medical professional. Cock. Is this a prophylactic? You’ve never used them before; you’re exclusive, and Hux enjoys the mess you—

“Aughn.” That’s not a word if your mouth is closed, it’s not speaking out of turn as the skin retracts around your own, compressing your cock towards the ring. It doesn’t stop. “Aughnn!”

Hux looks back up. “Are you trying to say something?”

It does stop. “No, sir,” you report, trying to reconcile with the tender sensation of your diminished size. This is some sort of emasculation, you figure, and a memento of Hux during your journey, this prison to prohibit and punish erections. Hah, maybe he thinks it will defend against Rey’s “wanton advances.” Hux still doesn’t trust you with her. He doesn’t entirely trust anyone or anything. Good. That’s kept him alive.

“Take a deep breath, Ren, and let go.”

You do, and so does Hux, dropping your strange little package and letting it hang.

“Do you want to watch?” Hux asks.

There’s more? “Yes, sir,” you reply, and immediately regret your choice.

First you see what Hux has already done to you. Well, that’s just weird. You were probably bigger than this by the time you learned your penis — cock — had a secondary feature. It would almost seem like someone else’s meager appendage had replaced your own if whatever encases it didn’t match your skin tone perfectly. Or is it translucent? Again, weird, but not as much as the third thing.

From the box Hux extracts a plastic bag containing a coil of slender tubing. You recognize it as soon as he removes it from the packaging. The droids take care of these, the catheters you have installed in your extended-stay guests. You’ve never done it yourself, but Hux, on the other hand, demonstrates an alarming level of surety.

“Another breath.” Hux lubricates the tiny bulb at one end of the tube, and presses it to your urethral opening. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

Those shining jade eyes beg for your approval. You grant it. “Ready, sir.”

It’s not comfortable, but it’s not exactly bad. There’s a pinch when the tube enters you and a slight burning as it inches deeper. The concept might be the same, but there’s no chance that Hux pilfered this from one of the interrogation rooms. This is medical-grade, slim and painless enough for someone far more delicate than you. The purpose of this procedure is almost as perplexing as the gentleness with which Hux applies it. It’s alarming, actually.

“How is that?”

You reply, “It’s fine, sir.”

“Have you ever used one before?”

“No, sir.”

“It’s simple. Aim — and you might need a new angle — then tap the button there beneath the head to open the valve. On your left, yes. Three times open, three times closed.” Hux stands. “Almost done,” he croons before disappearing into the refresher to wash his hands. He returns through the attached bedroom holding his datapad. He types a few things into it before setting it down on the sofa and relocating the box beside it and withdrawing a piece of…? Kriff, now what is this? A scarf? Layers of some sheer emerald cloth with long tassels of small golden beads. Not golden, you suspect. They are gold. Hux ties the glamorous thing around your waist so it barely, just barely, covers your pe— cock. 

“Hand me the lube then get on the table.”

You give Hux the bottle and kneel on the cool marble with your ass up and head down.

“Tempting,” Hux remarks, “but no. Stand and face me.”

Hux leans back into the sofa and unfastens his robe. He uncharacteristically spreads his legs wide, the way he might if he’d just let you ride him. You’d be good at it, you think, but that would be too intimate. You’ll need to work harder for that. Be perfect for him. Do everything he requires and don’t bother anticipating his desires. Let him lead you. Remain calm. Flaccid. This is another test, right? “Control,” he said. Manage your arousal better. Manage your expectations. He leads. You follow. You’ll follow him anywhere, even if—

“You’re a radiant, unspoiled thing fresh from Ryloth,” Hux illustrates, squirting lube into his palm. “Yesterday your village had nothing, but today they have everything… in exchange for your indefinite company as my new whore. You will please me, or you will explain your failure to them after I renegotiate their newfound assets.” Hux begins to stroke himself. “You have the privilege of attending to General Hux of the First Order. Tell me your name, girl.” Hux waits. “You do understand Basic, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. It’s Tala, sir.” Why? Why do you give that to him? Shouldn’t that still be special — the name Leia wanted for you if she’d conceived a daughter? The name she later recommended if you had one yourself? Should you have modulated your voice to match it? Ugh. It’s too late to change it. Ah well, and also, what the…? Is this a game?

“A name almost as lovely as its bearer,” Hux coos, tightening his hand. “Dance for me, Tala. Here.” He taps something on his datapad and the lights above you begin to shimmer over your skin and around the room in soft pastels.

Dance? You don’t dance. You are Kylo Ren. You’re a fighter, an interrogator, a disciple of the dark side. Ben danced. He loved it. He did because his mother did because her father, her “real” father did. It was stately and sweeping and befitting of royalty and conducted in pairs, but that doesn’t matter anymore. You’re not Kylo, let alone Ben; you’re Tala, and this is General Hux. You’re never heard of him or the First Order, but you can tell you mustn’t cross this human. Think. Think of what Tala saw at the harvest festivals. Give your patron what he wants.

Hips. Start there. You rock them slowly to each side, the gauzy fabric shifting across your midsection, the beads clinking musically. Hux does not look impressed. Feet oversized and unfeminine — imagine their nails lacquered, their ankles bedecked by bangles. You shift them as you work your hips, but now what? Should you ask him? Is Tala allowed to? Are her rules different?

“I saw you, Tala, the way you move. You have a certain grace to you, even in the fields, even carrying your grain. That’s when I knew I had to have you,” Hux explains, “and so here you are. I understand this might not be what you expected, I know you thought you’d be toiling away in some kitchen or washroom. I know you think this is beneath you, and of course it is. This is beneath anybody, but did you actually think the wages I offered equated to those of a common laundress? Do you truly think I’ve betrayed you?”

You hang your head and will your cock to behave itself. “I only know that I am grateful for you, General Hux. How may I better please you?”

Unhelpfully Hux says, “Use your entire body. I want you to show me how hungry you are for me. I want you to deserve me. I want you to deserve everything I’ve expended for you.” Hux uses his left hand to gesture at the scarf. “Just look at what you wear. Be worthy of it. Be worthy of keeping, or you’ll find yourself working the mines.”

No erections. No erections. No erections. Don’t look at what Hux is doing. Watch his eyes. Notice where he focuses. Hips again, back and forth, and now, slower. Nice and slow like the drunkards in the offworld cantina where Ben once escaped to unsuccessfully feel normal. Wasn’t one of those women a Twi’lek? What had she done next? You lean forward, thrusting your arms back and rolling your shoulders while you gyrate your hips the way Hux seems to like.

“Good, Tala. More.”

No erections. No erections, No erections. Just dance. Muscles. You slide one hand up your torso and into your hair while the other rubs your rippling abdomen. It doesn’t feel sexy, only ridiculous, but it still unlocks something in Hux. He’s lost his guard, or yielded it. He’s enjoying this. He’s already holding back his climax.

“Toss your head. Let your lekku swing, and play with those great big tits of yours.”

No erections. No erections. No— “Ahh!”

“Keep dancing, Tala.”

How can you dance as your cock tries to escape its confinement? How can you dance when its confinement is now electrified? You must. You’re Tala. You have no cock. You don’t even have hair. You’re playing with your lekku and your breasts and Hux is moaning. “Aahhh!” It’s worse, a sharp crackle. It’s reaching into you, but you must keep standing. Keep swaying. He wants your ass. Spin, drop low, rise a little, use your thighs. Simulate what he’s missing. Up and down and side to side as the beads jangle and shift the cloth to expose everything for your employer, your “benefactor.” No erections, only restraint.

From behind you the breathing comes in heavier. “I knew you were a nasty little slut the moment I saw you.” His pace has increased, fist fapping into his groin, lubricant squelching.

And you’re on your hands and knees. The crackle branches, jolts through you. Snoke, but not Snoke. Not his lightning, not the convulsions, not the searing frost. Not his torture. This is targeted, localized. It’s almost… it's almost good. Except it won’t stop. It won’t stop because you can’t—

“Control yourself, whore.” Shlap. Shlap shlap shlap. “Stop howling and dance for me.” Shlopp. Shalapp. Shlap. “Think of your brothers. Think of your parents back on Ryloth.”

“Fuck!” Fuuuckkkk. Fuck your family. It’s not your fault they’re poor. They sold you, their only daughter, to a stranger so they could live in comfort without you. It’s their fault you’re debasing yourself on this alien freak’s table. “General!” Do you say it? Do you actually say it? You do, and through gritted teeth as the electricity cascades further beyond your threshold. “General, please! Please stop. I beg you.”

The sensations wash once move over you and then you’re left spent and shivering. You flinch when Hux touches you, fearing the renewal of the agony, but your employer couldn’t care less. He pulls your curled body towards him and manipulates it back into the position Kylo offered earlier. He provides no other hints before flipping the scarf over your waist and forcing his slickened cock through unstretched muscles that have only just stopped spasming.

“It hurts!” you cry, because it does. It hurts, and you love it, but Tala does not. “General, you’re hurting me. You’re hurting me!”

Hux grunts, ugly and bestial, digging his fingers into your tired hips as he quickly unloads himself deep inside of you. He dislodges just as roughly and leaves you whimpering only moments before you cry out again. The thing he tries to insert next is smaller than him, but it’s punishingly rigid. You — Tala tries to crawl from him, but Tala has been brutalized, Tala is shuddering and weak and nothing compared to General Hux. She’s pulled back into place and the object, a plug lubricated by Hux’s leaking cum, is fucked experimentally in and out before being fully lodged into her recently virginal hole.

“I suspended the current,” Hux clarifies as if entirely bored and not oozing satisfaction into the Force, “but I highly recommend you get a hold of yourself before it returns. You might find the pain rather more intense the next time.”

Your face is wet. Your face, not just Tala’s. Three days, maybe more. That’s what this means. No release. Only the misery of your trapped, impaled cock and aching ass which you aren’t even allowed to enjoy. You also might have broken the rules, but Hux wanted you to, and you think he still might. Tala is not Kylo Ren; she’s hurt and terrified.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t very good, but please don’t send me back. Please don’t send me to the mines! Please, General. Please.” Ecstasy. Absolutely ecstasy, more than when he came. More than when he finally found something you couldn’t tolerate. Your cock strains when you realize you have never seen Hux having quite so much fun. No shock comes, but it’s still anguishing. No erections, no pain, no pain, no erections. Hux is right to discipline you; this is an absolutely pathetic showing on your part.

“Don’t cry, Tala. You’ll improve, and you did well enough for your first time. Your family eats tonight. Your family thanks you.” An alarm sounds from Hux’s datapad and just like that his mask is back, his wall. “Rest a moment, Ren. I have work to attend to. Then I’ll see if there’s anything else you can do for me.”

“Yes, sir,” and you mean it. You do rest, feeling shabby and downright silly with only Tala’s scarf for cover. The lights have stopped moving, you notice. Everything is almost back to normal, except for the box on the sofa. It’s probably some sort of blasphemy for Hux to have kept such things in there, and he knows it, too. Disgraceful, maybe, but still a fitting gift for the royalty he insists you are.

Hux vanishes into the kitchenette and you take the opportunity to check the chrono which reads 07:13. Twelve minutes until you really should go. Twelve minutes for him to further torment you with his eyes and his robe and his accent he’s been affecting so long that it’s no longer false. Hux returns with another mug of tea.

“Are you thirsty?” Hux inquires as if he’ll offer you any such refreshment.

You are thirsty, but you have little interest in learning to use your new cock any sooner than you must. “No, sir.”

Hux takes a long pull from the beverage which was and remains entirely his before setting it down next to where you lay on your side, calves dangling over the edge of the table. He sits back on the sofa and retrieves his datapad. He snaps, “Keep quiet,” and begins to record. “This is General Hux.”

Don’t listen, don’t focus on his voice. Don’t even think about Hux. Meditate if you can.

“Within mere days we shall put an end to these attacks—”

You were never particularly good at meditation. You’re too anxious, too busy inside.

“—these barriers against righteousness and sanity once and for all.”

It would have helped if you’d had a better teacher to begin with. You did in a way, but he betrayed you, not unlike Hux did Tala. No. No Hux. No Tala. Calm yourself. No Hux.

“Know that even now Commander Kylo Ren prepares to avenge your brothers and sisters who gave their lives on Takodana razing that treacherous hovel back into the swamp from whence it came.”

Wait, what?

“While he prepares to serve justice to the rebel terrorists I call upon each of you to place your trust in him as does Supreme Leader Snoke, as do I. Remember — you, like the commander, are the instruments of change. You are the First Order. General Hux, out.”

You bite your tongue and hold your scream long enough for Hux to end the transmission. He grabs his tea from the table before you thrash into it and presumably just stands there watching you flail and wail. The plug. It’s like another dimension has been added to the universe, one made only to abuse your loins.

Happiness. Luke, your lightsaber slicing through his neck. Brendol Hux, no tank, only your fists and your teeth. Rey, supplicant and full of awe. Melancholy. The Falcon, flying from you more times than you could count. Leia, the enemy, the persuasion that’s getting easier to shut out. Grandfather, created and silenced by sacrifice. Torpor. Rocks, rocks and literature. The unending dogfights, the chases, the skirmishes. Hyperspace, the path to an unloving friend. Control. Success.

“Ren? Sit up.”

Shakily you do as Hux requests. You didn’t realize he was so close. What’s he holding? What is it this time? A towel, warm and damp. Hux presses it into your hand.

“Fix your face.”

Is it that bad? Probably. Hux might enjoy the circulation of rumors about him besting you somehow and reducing you to tears, but nobody is that stupid. The Order weeds out that level of foolishness, at least in its officers. There’s a name for what you and Hux do: power play. Yes, it’s quite appropriate. You could crush Hux into pulp with the Force from a sector away. You could disintegrate the devices inside you with a thought. People speculate, but only in hushed tones, so nobody knows your abilities to that extent except for you and Snoke and Luke. You made them rather clear for good old “Unca,” didn’t you?

“That’s better,” Hux soothes, reclaiming his soft, soft towel. “Are you listening?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You may remove the plug if you need to relieve yourself, but replace it immediately afterward. Your reinforcement won’t interfere with your equipment or environment and it should remain secure and relatively harmless even with your particularly active lifestyle until you return to me. I do, however, recommend refraining from overstimulation. Not when I can’t witness it.” Hux pries a finger into the knot he tied in the gorgeous scarf and pulls it from you with finesse. “I’ll hold onto this for Tala.” Hux points to your clothes — Kylo Ren’s clothes. “Well, get to it, then. The rebels await. And don’t forget your present, my prince.”

“Yes, General.”

No further reply. No agony. Two minutes. You dress yourself, tuck the box bearing the sigil of your discarded birthright underneath your arm, and you leave oddly fulfilled with twenty seconds to spare. Of course he’s punctual, your most effective instructor — the enemy, after all, awaits your attention.

Chapter Text

You didn’t expect a formal audience aboard the Supremacy, but you thought Snoke would at least call you to a conference room and discuss this with you face-to-titanic holographic face. You thought finding the Resistance would make up for losing Rey. For some reason you imagined he would be content, that he’d already dispensed his dissatisfaction along with his biting words, his lightning, and the lashes of Force that cut like barbed wire.

No. You’re about to gather your things before disembarking to the Finalizer when you suddenly feel enveloped. Swaddled. Constricted. It’s been years since the sensation made you feel special or meaningful. Now it makes you small. Vicrul waves the nearby Knights back, detecting either Snoke’s presence or the unease it boils within you. He watches through the slivered visor of his grenade-like helmet as you confine yourself in a cramped cargo hold, having no time to reach the space you keep as a shrine and meditation room on the level below. You crouch onto a crate, lowering yourself before Snoke as he booms through your mind.

“You have returned, my apprentice. What news do you bring?”

“I found her, my Master: the girl, Rey. She destroyed the TIE she stole, but she left a trail. The Knights and I obtained several testimonies that placed her in the Sanbra Sector, and the Buzzard’s stealth capabilities allowed us to monitor more closely — there are an unusual number of hyperspace jumps from the Ileenium System. The Resistance Base will be there, on one of only several planets or their moons, but the girl… Master?”

This is the longest he’s listened without interjecting or correcting you in years. The silence is disconcerting. You continue, “Rey is no longer there. She’s found him: Luke. This could be good, our way to him. He’ll fill her head with his nonsense, diminish her potency, make it that much easier for her to see the wisdom you share with me. She belongs to the dark, I’ve felt it in her, but there’s something… I can’t explain it, Master Snoke.”

“You will.”

“Yes, Master.” You lean forward to kneel in earnest. “We were together. I was on the ship, on the Night Buzzard, and she was there with me. It was the Force, but it wasn’t like this. She was with me. I could have touched her, and then she was gone. I’ll find a way to connect again. She’ll tell me what she knows. She’s part of their guerilla. She’ll give me Luke, one man to save the rest of her people, then we’ll end them all.”

“A connection? With the fledgling desert witch? Fascinating, and yet, you are telling me that once again you managed to misplace an untrained child.”

You focus on the stack of crates, surplus weapons and water barely visible in the dark as Snoke shivers through you.

“In some ways you are more like your idol than you could ever know. Vader also had a penchant for losing prisoners and his quarries, his fixations — but very well, boy. Tell me when there is more of this connection. For now, share your findings with General Hux, as you are clearly more than eager to do. It does so please me to see that you have come to realize what I have from the beginning: just how useful he can be, and how… entertaining.”

“Yes, Master.”

The laughter. The horrible laughter echoing, clamoring less and less audibly until it’s barely there, but it is. It’s a butter knife scraping away at the rind around your rage, wheedling closer and closer to bursting the thin membrane between you and annihilation. That’s what Snoke wants, for you to illuminate this cabin with the red glow of your lightsaber and slash through the interlocking vertical weft of the door. He wants you to step through the molten rend, storm through the hangar, and strike terror in those who might harbor doubts by demonstrating only a fraction of his power. You want it, too, so deeply it’s almost a need — but then you think of Hux.

“I wish you would stop breaking things, particularly my things, my staff. Surely there are more constructive outlets for the demon inside of you.”

A demon? Maybe. The same one that drove Grandfather, the one that guided Leia through some of her most precarious gambits, the one that Snoke discovered in you and bottle-fed before you even remember existing.

Unclench your fists. Complete this breath, let it all out. Bring a new one in, slowly. Feel your weapon clipped to your belt. It can wait, and so can you, but not for long.

Vicrul is still there when you press the release panel and step outside the storeroom. The beveled rows across his helmet look more than ever like stacks of hungry molars arranged in an open grin. He knows what you want, so he slaps you hard across the back in solidarity as you launch past him toward the cockpit.

You’d usually ride in your shuttle or fly one of your TIEs now that subtlety isn’t on the menu, but there’s no time for even the briefest transfer to another vessel. The upper walkway with its arena-like view of the lower level’s interrogation center thereby passes in a blur and in the next moment you’re lifting your brother Kuruk from the pilot’s seat by the breast of his ribbed, soundproof coat, your combat helmets clinking together. He grumbles his version of enthusiastic assent even before you tell him, “Take us back out. Find me something that needs to die.”

This is a closet. There’s no point trying to euphemize it. The Night Buzzard was a prison ship and it wasn’t built for comfort. Its six standard occupants reside on the upper level in what were once meager port and starboard cells for those detainees not worth the expense of icing during their transportation to life and death in the slammer. There was never much room for you, but still, it’s home. Chandrila was good when it was good, but — like the Temple — it wasn’t quite right. It’s different here. There is a unity, a belonging you’ve only ever felt in this foul-smelling spacecraft drenched in the lingering remorse of its former passengers.

You set your helmet in the windowside display beside that of a bounty hunter once impersonated by Leia. You keep it here with other items of study, ones that whisper to you and provide insights on their prior owners. Three holocrons rest near it, one as yet unopened, the other two little more than cleverly carved tetrahedral shells after having spilling their contained secrets centuries ago.

Reclining carefully on your own crate-stool you behold the last relic: the kriin-wood chest. You’ve already made the mistake of sitting too abruptly. It was followed by working up the courage to rub your posterior ever so slightly against your makeshift seat to purposely stir the spade-shaped plug wedged inside of your rectum for just a few seconds of precious pleasure. It’s not worth it, you decided on your third attempt, nor is an excess of caf and tasteless distilled water as an excuse to handle your achingly sensitive genitals more frequently.

The Knights, no strangers to peculiar goings-on, found your ruckus more than amusing. During the stakeout Cardo in particular had salty words to share until you challenged him to an unarmed brawl in the interrogation pit that he hadn’t expected to so summarily lose. These men don’t blindly follow. They know your prowess and they respect it, but every once in a while it’s prudent to provide reminders of how easy it would be to kill them, just like you did their former leader, the last Ren.

You’re thinking of something to fill the plush eggshell lining of the chest when the streaking blue aurora beyond the window clears into the star-studded blackness of real space.

Immediately the quiet is interrupted by a barrage of cannon fire. The beams make quick work of disabling the target: a large freighter rippling with despair and dots of terror. Smugglers… no — slavers. You shut the external hatch to your window and send Kuruk one word, a thought simple enough that his limited attunement will still clearly parse it for him: “Perfect.”

You climb up the rear ladder, having no patience for the midship steps. The rest of the Knights further arm themselves as the Buzzard approaches its crippled prey and fastens the docking ring. There Ap’lek slices through the slavers’ security, wielding his lesser-known talent with the same destructive precision he brings to battle with his executioner’s ax. Behind the portal soon to open you can almost visualize the shitty-ass phalanx preparing to meet some ragtag band of pirates, some commonplace opportunists.

Cardo begins the hooting call as Ap’lek goes about his task. It’s tribal, primitive, a celebration of sound more than a battlecry. Even Kuruk, whom you once mistook for mute, has joined in by the time you deflect the first plasma bolt between the wolfish yellow eyes of the fury feline face. 

Zygerrians. Scum, all of them. Grandfather told you this, but you didn’t need him to. The dark side craves sacrifice, the supplication to its might — not coercion. To remove one’s choice to give freely is an affront to the Force, for there is only strength in ruling over the strong. Snoke taught you this. It’s why he does these things, says these things, but there’s no excuse for the trade conducted by this crew firing at you with what may as well be peashooters.

Seconds flash in a humming red blast. That’s all it takes to disarm the vanguard, and you really do mean disarm. Void take them, these vile beings are honorary Skywalkers now. Just look at them clutching their stumps, adding new waves of misery into the great stream. You pierce one of them through the heart, watching the burning hole in his chest spread before you kick him away to bisect what might have been his twin from the crotch up.

You’re already hungry for more, but you always try to leave a morsel of fun for the rest of the Knights. You can be gracious when you wish. This is the way of the Ren. It takes as it needs, as it wants, but it — as all things do — eventually imitates a sort of balance. Still… just fifteen guards? Bruisers and a few specialists?

The remaining crew seems to match that number with its merchants, medics, and the like. Ushar already has one of them in his clutches. “Fffnoooh!” he trills through a mouthful of blood. “Cooook! Just the cook! Spare me. Haffv the credichss. Let me liffv!”

Maybe you will. He’s a beggar, and Ushar likes nothing more. You tell him, “Take him to the Buzzard. Bind him for later,” and he goes with his struggling, bumbling catch. To Ap’lek you say, “Find the rest, the cowards,” and he begins the short hunt as you kick aside the entrails staining the floor and make your way to the cargo lift.

The smell assailing your nose tells you that some of the “sentient goods” have already expired. The rest have been marinating in a miasma of unwashed body odor and the filth emanating from the vicinity of the latrine used by the thirteen or fourteen dozen beings hunched here beneath dimly flickering lights.

None of these captives are bound or chipped. A few of them shy away from you, drawing back into their neighbors. The others await their fate with what might be admirable bravado if it weren’t for the gas. It has a limited effect on you, but for them, having inhaled it in steady doses for days, it’s a potent sedative. You extinguish your blade; it has no thirst for such lifeless blood.

It’s closer to sixteen dozen living beings, all humans except for a few Wookies and Niktos. At first you hadn’t seen the small bundles silent beneath dingy wrappings or how the shapes you made out to be single figures are in fact thin and thoroughly intertwined juveniles. Children.

A line parts as you step through the crowded oblong compartment for a closer look. Two men stare up as you approach where they sit on a flattened, pest-infested mat with two infants and four toddlers between them. You tell them, you tell all of them with very little encouragement from the Force, “The First Order requires your young. Those of you with the strength to do so, bring each human below the age of seven to the lift. They will be raised with purpose. Educated. The rest of you — find which of you can fly. Your masters are dead. Feed yourselves. Use their supplies to tend to your sick and wounded. Use their riches to reclaim or remake your lives.”

You ride up to the main floor where Trudgen is kneeling by the lift platform and prying the sharp incisors from the mouth a fresh kill, one of the cowards, and tossing them onto a bloody hide with a rare calico pattern. He glances at the procession behind you before continuing his task. Kuruk leans against a girder, index finger caressing the trigger of his rifle. Vicrul beside him uses a slaver’s velvet cape to wipe the blood from his vibro-scythe. He asks for the three of them, “More for us below, boss?”

Stepping aside you inspect the haul. Most are unconscious or too young to appreciate the scene surrounding them. These children and their people have been bred and raised like banthas. The Knights of Ren are, if anything, a simple detour from the mundanity they have known.

“They have embraced it: the chaos, the path of Ren. Let them spread the teachings of the crimson blade.” You point. “They gave these to us. Find something to put them in and get them on the ship.”

Just then Cardo turns a corner with a repulsor lift loaded with several bins of assorted gadgets and credits.

“Use that,” you instruct. “We’re leaving in ten minutes. Take anything else you want.”

There is one more thing to look into: someone the Knights didn’t find. They didn’t find her because she wasn’t hiding. You open the door to what must have been the captain’s quarters and there she is, another slave, this one entirely naked and probably the cleanest thing you’ve seen in days.

The girl speaks Basic, but you can barely understand the question she asks through the compounding swampland of intoxication and her heavy accent. The Force clarifies that sad garble for you. What she wants to know is how. How you want her to pleasure you, whether you want her over the bed or on it. You don’t want her at all, this girl on the sinful side of the cusp of adulthood with her track-marked aquamarine skin and clouded sapphire eyes. You wouldn’t want her even if you could have her. Except…

“Close your eyes. Open yourself to me and it won’t hurt.”

The Twi’lek doesn’t understand. She reclines on the captain’s unmade bed and waits for you, legs spread. That’s close enough, actually. You don’t look at the offering as you sit beside the girl and reach for her mind.

“Feel no shame, no fear. Show me what happened.”

You see everything. She’s spent a year here that feels both like an eon and only a few hours. The captain takes the headdress wrapped around her lekku and cranium before he violates the rest of her. She doesn’t cry again no matter how brutish he is, no matter how many times he lends her to his officers. Before, this girl is funny. She likes to make silly faces until her little sister can’t help but laugh. No, go back, it’s alright. There, no, again, go back.

The holos the Zygerrians make her watch, the explicit acts they make her learn in between the practical lessons. Those aren’t what you’re here for. It’s there. There. They give her clothes only to watch her take them off. They strike her until she makes the motions fluid, enticing with every glace, portraying emotion in as little as a curl of her finger or the minute tilting of her neck. You ask for more and she yields it. The sweeping arc of her leg, the way she spins like a top. It’s tragic. It’s exquisite. It’s Tala.

You pull the bed sheets to the girl’s chest and show your face to her. You wait until she looks up, still confused, but far more lucid as you cup her bare temple. “You are free. Go home to Ryloth. Your sister misses you.”

Ap’lek is waiting curiously outside the room when you open the door. “Find anything worth… Ah.” The sight of you replacing your helmet as you leave the sobbing Twi’lek stuns him; Ap’lek didn’t know your tastes were… What, varied? Adventurous? Seedy. That amuses him, likely because it reminds him of the old Ren and his predilections, ones which might have included the Padawan who became you. This is hardly the first hint that’s why he left Ben Solo with a standing offer to find him.

You told Snoke after finally meeting in person that you’d like to learn from Ren, and he readily permitted it. Those teachings were foundational to who you are now, but Snoke withheld a crucial detail, didn’t he? Your master expected the worst for you. He might have even pushed for it, subtly or directly — you don’t know — yet the fact remains that he would have let anything happen to you. Training the son of the enemy, after all, would not have been worth his efforts if you were too weak to overcome an aging man with comparatively middling capabilities through the Force. It never came to that, though. Perhaps the addition of nine years robbed you of the features or the conquest you’d possessed when you were still the Twi’lek’s age and beholden to Luke, or maybe you are wrong, but either way the old Ren was a treacherous, aimless profligate. A good death indeed.

“Ap’lek, Keep your damned mouth shut.” Excellent. That will guarantee that he does precisely the opposite. This will be a new joke amongst your brothers for some time to come which is just fine because you’d rather see in passing what they imagine you did to that poor girl than what they suspect you do with Hux. They think he’s yours. They think you call upon him at any hour to take your satisfaction from him, a man of great power they only hate because they’d rather have you with them, tearing through any opposition in their way of objects and sites imbued with the Force. Your presence is obviously not required for that, but it does expedite the process. Without you they often reallocate their energy to wrecking general havoc and building an elaborate fantasy world of the abuses you commit against the twinkish technocrat you claimed for your private use.

Do not think about Hux. Don’t think of jade, or fire, or alabaster. Think of the cook. Oh, that man deserves a long, long, life. Move. It’s time to go. It’s getting late. Hux will be expecting you, but don’t think of him. Control yourself. Control. Yourself.

You do, but you don’t. You still think of him. You think of how it started when you crashed together out of hyperspace and into a jungle. Hux didn’t believe it when you honestly said you didn’t protect him, that it was a coincidence and he was a bystander to your own survival by being within range of the shield you used to protect yourself, a skill carved into you by Snoke. For a moment Hux did what no one had before: he thought the best of you.

That’s probably why Hux likewise saved the two of you by disclosing your parentage. It seems that’s all it took to convince the Alderaanian survivor there to call off his hulking animal companions and contact the First Order, breaking the radio silence that had thus spared his lonely life. Hux had apparently known about you for years. Snoke must have spoken of you, stoked a rivalry, if not outright animosity in him long before you met, one that worsened after that event. Oh, yes, Hux’s distaste for the Jedi upstart renewed itself through his expectation to die for what he immediately began to regret speaking of. It was an unproductive dynamic, one you sought to remedy.

Typically you have little to do with the High Council, but weeks later you stood in attendance behind their congregation as Hux performed a private address for Admiral Brooks, solemn words for an esteemed colleague and family friend. You never knew Hux could feel happiness before he spoke to that gathering. Few attending officers had any doubts as to the nature of Brooks’ untimely demise, but they were wise enough to keep their thoughts to themselves.

Hux had been avoiding you, but the ceremony made it impossible not to cross paths. As he was leaving you pulled him aside and asked, “It was him, then? The culprit?”

There was a tightness in Hux’s throat when he replied, “Yes,” and then he left.

Not wholly knowing why, you waited until the end of fourth shift and Hux still hadn’t left the bridge. It took another two hours before he emerged. He glared when he saw you but continued walking by until you called after him, “I had hoped to find you after work.”

That got his attention. Hux turned and scoffed, standing somehow straighter than before. “Well, Ren, there is no such thing as ‘done with work.’ There’s just work, at least if you’re doing it properly.”

Thinking back, your response wasn’t particularly fair, but you hadn’t known the full truth of it. “It’s oh-two hundred and even I require sleep, Hux. So are those the stimshots talking, or is it the spice you snorted?”

Hux narrowed his eyes, unperturbed by your accusation. “Ren, if this is about that old beast-tamer… he was a traitor, all of them were — the Alderaanians.” He further lowered his voice. “But you’re one of us now, and I’m not sorry about what I did. That planet provided extraordinary metrics on blast trajectories and now he can’t tell anyone, just like I won’t. There’s no cause for concern, so was there something more?”

His heart raced harder the longer you stared. Then came the moment, the one at which Hux stopped fearing the pain of death, only the advent of something new. You understand now: that was far more frightening — the realization that he wanted you to ask him for what had only ever been taken.

For a second you saw it, that taking. You heard it — overlapping voices jeering and grunting over unanswered calls for mercy that grew silent over the years. Sharing that must have been an accident, but some part of Hux might have wanted you to feel those memories as a warning of sorts. That it wouldn’t be easy? Fine, you’d thought; you enjoy challenges. That he’s disgusting? Weak? No. No, not him. That you’d be next if you ever hurt him? Good. Like Brooks you’d deserve no less.

“General, it’s not about the old man; I wanted-wondered if I could see you some time? When you’re less busy. Do you play Sabacc?”

Hux bestowed you with a slow smile. It was a pretty one, if terrifying. “Can’t say I do,” he lied. “My father was many things, but he was never a degenerate gambler — unlike some — but if you’d like, we could discuss an alternative form of diversion.” He paused to peer through you beyond your visor, to glean if this was real before suggesting, “Tomorrow evening. My quarters… I assume you know where they are.”

The parade home is a joyous one, if messy. The squelching mélange your seven pairs of boots track onto the Night Buzzard is absolutely obscene. You’ll probably need to have the place scrubbed and fumigated, but it’s all worth it. The Academy doesn’t typically work with bespoke batches of new recruits, but twenty isn’t bad, and more is more.

You’ve ensured the children will sleep through the short journey in their haphazard assortment of open bins. Between them are stacks of energy weapons and refrigerated crates of what Cardo assures you are top-notch steaks and roasts, because apparently Zygerrians’ commitment to quality meat is the only thing equivalent to their disinterest in uplifting their civilization above the need for slaves. 

Detaching from the freighter like a satiated leech you leave behind that sorry site. Maybe those huddled masses will take the ship for themselves. Maybe they’ll find a colony that welcomes them. Just as likely, they’ll fight and kill and waste away as that ship goes derelict or is plundered by a less accommodating group than yours. The girl, though? She’ll get away, you’re certain of it.

“Hragghhaaahaaa!”

The scream from the interrogation chamber ejects you from your thoughts. Ah, the cook. You leave your closet with your belongings now packed for a porter droid to bring them to your rooms on the Finalizer. It’s time for a show. This should be good.

Immediately outside of your closet is a glorious view of the spectacle. You pass Ushar and the captive he’s suspended to take a front-row seat on the steps leading toward a workbench and racks of miscellanea. Above you all but Kuruk leans over the railing to enjoy the spectacle. The pilot listens, though. He likes this, too.

“Nooo! Gnoohooooooo!”

Ushar has opted out of the interrogation rig stored in the recessed compartment beneath the metal grates in favor of the hooks that provide 360-degree access to the target. It’s fascinating to watch him work. He doesn’t have your finesse with either the Force or the tools of the trade, but he gets the job done nearly as quickly if you don’t mind the gore. The main difference, though, is that Ushar rarely has any questions for his guests.

The Zygerrian swings from his shackled feet, his one complete arm probing at the floor with its claw-tipped fingers in an attempt to gain some purchase and slow the momentum from Ushar’s latest blow. You missed it, but it sounded rather like he used his club to shatter a femur. It’s hard to tell through the violet suede trousers. You hint, “A cook needs no such finery.”

Your brother eagerly complies with your unspoken suggestion and you’re right, there it is — the bone jutting against the white fleece of his thigh and nearly piercing through. It’s already surrounded by a hematoma two shades darker than his shredded coverings. The rest of him is kind of adorable, especially the tuxedo pattern of his shorthair coat. You didn’t know they had stubby little tails, or maybe it’s an abnormality. Either way he looks much like an anatomically correct stuffed toy that’s been through heavy wear-and-tear.

“Nooo, no! Anythrrrrng, noo!”

The next swing of the club splinters the victim’s remaining arm and he falls unconscious with another whimper. That’s when Ushar draws his machete. He doesn’t use the vibro-features; all it takes is one deep slice before he sheathes the weapon back across his chest. The wound is nearly bloodless, but even a knick from that downright crusty blade might be the end of the slaver if left untreated. It seems he won’t need to worry about that, though.

All of this could be over if the scum would willingly meet death. He groans awake and resumes his simpering when Ushar reaches his gloved fingers inside and begins to pull. He does it in another language now, but you still hear it for what it is as Ushar starts reeling intestines around his forearm like a sailor winding in his rope.

“Norrghh! My zhipf!” moans the Zygerrian. Another few centimeters are expelled as he coughs feebly “Havvvf my shipf! My codes, my credichss! Bacta! Baaaactaaahhaaaa!”

“Your ship?” Vicrul chides.

“Yessth! Bacta, please! I-I’m Fono Gherda!” he exclaims, as if that name is supposed to have some meaning. It’s his title that matters. “I’m the capfthain! Take it all, just-just-just…”

Cardo laughs and leans in closer to holler, “Would’na minded having a chef around here for a while. Hhmmh! A liar needs no tongue. Cut it out with something clean. Here.” He draws a stiletto from stars know where and tosses it down.

Deftly Ushar catches the thin dagger in his left hand and stoops, dragging more of the entrails out of the increasingly ragged hole. He makes quick work with the tongue before its former owner can utter another word and tosses the impaled pink appendage back up, presumably to be added to one of those cold crates.

You remind yourself to never eat anything that ravenous old tank tries to serve you. Also, you’re definitely electing for a full-scale decontamination. The Knights will be more than happy to camp out at a cantina while the place is brought back to borderline hygiene standards. They certainly have the credits to do so, having already helped themselves to a hefty amount of what the slaver thought he could buy his life with, the life that’s now hemorrhaging from the mouth and funneling down the slight slant toward the drains below.

Ah, well. No long life, but this is a fitting death for a pig, bleeding out and squealing incomprehensibly for release. That comes later, as you’re approaching the Finalizer’s new position in orbit between a swirling planet of gaseous sunset hues and its bright white moon.

It’s a stroke that takes the captain, devouring his mind minutes before his body further succumbs to exsanguination, but first Ushar lets Trudgen take the teeth, presumably for grenade shrapnel or macabre jewelry. They’ll be a fitting touch during his next encounter with this wretched race.

You leave the Knights and their ebon headquarters with little ceremony. They’ll contact you if they find anything interesting, but they’ll probably indeed be drinking and unsettling bargoers for the time being unless you call for them. For now, ugh. For now, a shower.

It takes two showers. First a sonic, using one of the officers’ private restrooms in the hangar. That evaporates most of the outward splatter along with whatever parasites hitched a ride. Next you take time beneath the water in your own refresher.

Your shower is excellent, and it’s not even the best one in your suite. This one is preferable, though. It’s unburdened by ostentatious dimensions and settings, and it attaches both to your bedroom and the main hall to simplify your routine.

When you’re done your pile of soiled clothes by the door has been replaced by your belongings from the Buzzard. And he’s here. Here in your lobby sitting at the table by the floor-to-ceiling transparisteel panel, his face aglow with the light of both the moon and his ever-present datapad.

“The shower’s drying cycle is terrible for your skin. Not that I particularly mind the view, but you might consider a towel the next time you’re clearly not in a hurry.” He resumes typing as he speaks. “You seem surprised to see me. Didn’t you know I was here?”

“No, sir… I’ve been distracted. I was planning to meditate.”

“Is that what you do here,” Hux asks, “in your barren wasteland of a foyer?”

“Yes, but I thought it was a lounge.”

“I’m sure it was back when there were more than two pieces of furniture in here — ones that didn’t look and feel like artifacts from the dawn of man.” Hux alternates his crossed legs. “What are these even made of?”

“The Graveyard.”

“What?”

“I can feel it: their fear before they burned to ash. It grounds me.”

“Alderaan?” Hux reconsiders. “The rubble left by Grand Moff Tarkin… That’s actually rather charming in a sick way, Ren. Anyways, I grew tired of waiting.” Hux drops the pad heavily onto the table. “You took a detour, I notice. Forget something out there with your roving gang of unkempt thugs? Theft? More violence?”

Well… “Yes, sir.”

“Leader Snoke said you had something to share with me? How exactly was a rampage more important than your report?”

“It wasn’t, sir.”

“Excuse me?”

“I was… I needed to do something.”

“Do you think I don’t know how revoltingly rich you are, Ren? You withdrew quite the inheritance before you came here, didn’t you? And that’s not to mention the Supreme Leader’s handouts or your pillaging. Was it the violence, then? Your day-to-day doesn’t seem to be lacking in that domain either. So what was it? What kept you?”

“What” sounds quite a lot like “who” when he says it like that, but you can’t tell him, not all of it. You can’t tell Hux what Snoke said — how he made light of this, how he would have let anything happen to Hux, just like you, and did. He could have made it stop. He could have prevented it, but no, Snoke crafted Hux into a superior servant by sacrificing Armitage. You’ve always felt Hux’s animosity lurking beneath his adulation, but it’s not just Snoke’s throne he’s vying for. Deep inside Hux must also crave justice.

“Sir, I’m sorry.” You don’t know what else to say. You can’t leave again. There’s nothing to tear through. There’s just Hux, and you’re scaring him.

Hux stands, expression slackening as he slowly comes to you. He looks down, then up. “What’s wrong with you?” He looks long behind you. “Are you injured?”

“No, sir.”

Hux plucks at his collar, glancing once more at your augmented nudity. He shakes his head. “I’ll see you in the morning. Come to my office.” He retreats to grab his datapad and the greatcoat he folded over your chair. “Okay?”

That’s a question, so you answer it, “No, General.”

Hux, consternated, ceases pulling his arms through the coat. “Speak.”

“I’m glad to see you, I am, it’s just that he… He was uncompromising.”

“Did he bring you to the Supremacy?”

You’re too easy to read, or Hux is too damned good. He’s seen the bruises, the new scars. There’s not always time for them to heal by the time Hux summons you. It’s training. You told Hux as much because it is, even when it doesn’t seem like it, but it’s not the same. “It’s not like that. It was the demon: he wanted more. He demanded to be fed, so I gave him vengeance, General, and yes, a bit of repossession.” You can turn this. You can fix this. “I have something for you.”

Like that the interest is renewed, but the conversation, the worry has not been forgotten. Hux does not forget. He’s curious, though. Still halfway into his coat, he raises both his brows and simply lets the garment fall in a half-folded heap, finding nowhere to put it. “What is it?”

“Younglings. Twenty of them.”

Hux makes a joke, but you’d never know by looking at his beautiful moonlit face. “Isn’t it a bit early to be thinking of kids?”

It’s still a question, so you state the obvious, “For the stormtrooper and pilot corps, sir. They’re being processed now. I thought you might like a gift.”

Hux smiles with all his teeth like a tooka cat about to pounce. He takes both of your hands and suddenly you’re aware again of just how naked you are. “Kylo,” he sighs. “It’s nearly ready — the weapon. Tell me: did you find them? The Resistance? The traitor?”

You squeeze those soft hands through their gloves. “They’re in the Ileenium System.”

The roaring blaze. The creamy alabaster. Then, “It’s nearly ready, and you’ve given me its second target. Let’s celebrate when it’s done, just you and me.” The toasted cinnamon. The glimmering jade. Then, “Kylo Ren, you’re a miracle.”

You remain standing, holding onto Hux’s hands. You meet his eyes, gritting your teeth and greeting the pain like an old friend. That amuses Hux, then it impresses and astonishes him. You lose track of time, track of Hux. There’s only the electricity, the exhilarating realm of agony. There is no controlling this, only endurance. Endurance earns touch. 

“Tell me,” Hux implores, his silken voice wavering in between the dimensions. “One thing, Kylo. Ask for one thing, and it’s yours.”

There’s no thinking, there’s only being, and the words come out, and now it’s gone. Everything is gone: the pain, the demon, your chance. You wasted it. You wasted your wish. You said the wrong words.

Hux’s voice calls, “Can you walk?” and there’s something different about his cadence, that’s all you can tell. The Force provides no clues. Your body has just been energetically reminded of how tired it is. You’ve barely slept these last few days, have you? Too much work. It’s been the same for Hux. It’s always the same for him.

After consideration you reply, “I can, sir.”

“Good. Go back to the shower. Use the seat. And warm water. That will make it easier.”

Why does his voice sound like that? It doesn’t matter. You just do as he says, trying not to look as he briskly sheds the rest of his uniform in case he hasn’t fully deactivated the devices.

The elevated seating wedge in the far corner of the shower appears with the press of a button you can’t recall ever using. You slump onto it, breathing in the steam and watching the water stream through your toes. A wasted chance. You asked him to make it stop, didn’t you? He’s coming in here to liberate you from his contraptions here where the heat will loosen your skin and muscles.

You watch Hux’s legs as they enter the shower. They hold too much tension, like he’s been walking for days. Pacing, maybe, but far more than his usual bridge routine. Or it’s anxiety… but Hux is too proud to let something like that show. What’s happening? Did you disappoint him? Does he want to end this? Does he think you won’t let him? That you’ll betray him after all?

“Did you think I didn’t notice?”

Not understanding you look at Hux as he bends over you, the rain-like overhead faucet dampening his hair into a dark auburn. You see his pale lashes flutter, protecting his stern eyes from the downpour as he pushes your thighs farther apart.

“In addition to wasting my time,” Hux chastises, “you disregarded my recommendation and attempted multiple masturbatory acts while you were away.”

The disciplinarianism Hux embodies extends seamlessly into the way he manages you, so at first you presume it’s retribution — the fiery heat within your scrotum. Hux knows you can take far more than other men might, that your circulation and cardiovascular health overall defy human expectations and are more than up to par with his ministrations. It’s painful, yes — the way Hux massages the sensation back into your numb testes before releasing them from the confining ring, but it’s not a corrective measure. It’s… soothing in a way, or it is until the strange sensations resolve into one: a prickling, throbbing, pang.

“You’re lucky I’m in the mood for you, otherwise I’d have half a mind to leave you as you are for some time longer.”

And then there’s the touch: one hand on your shoulder, the other sliding the sleeve-thing from your expanding length. It stings — the water on sensitive skin made more tender by its ordeal, the tubing adjusting to your latent size followed by that of your arousal as the hand lingers.

Hux lifts the hair away from your left ear and leans farther in. “Have you always been like this?”

“Like what?”

Hux tightens his grip on your shaft and tugs slowly with a brutally tight fist. “Did you ever want this, Kylo? Before your pathetic proposition?”

It hurts. You feel so full — the sensations normally centered in your glans extending through your entire cock and beyond. You hiss, “No, sir.”

“Never?” Hux squeezes until your mouth falls open into a shameless groan.

The words spill out, “It’s only ever been you.”

“Not him?”

There’s no point asking who. “It’s not like that.”

“How is it not?”

Beneath the question Hux’s mind hosts an unexpectedly raucous diatribe. “At the very least Snoke beats and tortures you. You — a masochist. How is it not like that? Which is it? Do you give yourself to him, or does he take advantage of you? You whom he’s always watched? You whom he’s always planned to make his own? What does he do after he dismisses me and tells you to stay?”

Hux lets go of your cock and lifts your chin. “Look at me,” he commands, colder than a dead star but without a gram of malice. “How is it not like that?”

These mercurial mood swings are nothing new, but this line of inquiry… This is what’s been bothering him? “General, Master Snoke says I’m nearly ready — that my training is almost complete. It’s not what I expected, but that’s all it is.”

Reasserting his former grip, Hux asks, “And what would you call this?”

Different? An agreement? An informed choice? Not a cage? Not a trick? No, each of those would on be cause for more concern, more of that strange medley of jealousy and horror. “Sir,” you say, “being with you is wonderful.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise y—”

Hux grants your wish, the one you thought you wasted. They taste like wine, his lips — dark, red, and pleasantly astringent — but that’s all you get: just one taste… and a vision.

From the repaired control room of Hangar Six Hux instructs a technician to increase the vent cycles before the Night Buzzard lands. He’s leaving to intercept you for debriefing over a late dinner when the vehicle takes off again. Dinner?

Hux tells another tech to send your pilot new coordinates for the Finalizer before he heads to the bridge. He reviews schematics for devices you cannot fathom and data that just look like numbers. He’s distracted, so he goes to his quarters. The ship arrives by the moon on his way there. The other officers take note of the view. Hux pretends not to. If asked he’ll say he’s planning a mining operation to extract rare ore and gases. He is, but that doesn’t change the fact that he wants to take you somewhere nice to eat.

The food is already waiting beneath silver domes set beside napkins, cutlery, and crystal glasses for the pitcher of water and the bottle of wine. Hux waits at his dining table and stares out of the porthole-style window until the food goes cold and the wine goes warm. He checks his datapad for news of your arrival. There is none. He considers calling the Supremacy to see if you’re there, but he decides he doesn’t want to know the answer.

The wine is half-gone by the time Hux notices he opened the bottle. He prefers spirits. This drastically inferior potency barely hits him. He still thinks of lessening the effect by diluting it with the water, but he doesn’t do it.

Hux leaves again, wondering if you’ll return with new bruises, wondering if he should believe you about their source. He was going back to the bridge, but he stops. He returns to his room to finish the bottle. Then he goes to yours, finding it unlocked for him, as it’s been for months.

It’s bigger than he expected, even though he’s well-aware of the schematics of his flagship. Hux laughs at that, collects himself, and sits to take in the unbridled splendor beyond your viewport. He doesn’t see your piled clothing until the droid arrives to make the exchange. You’re back. You’re somewhere in here. Showering, maybe, or exercising, or honing your magic. Exploring your rooms seems dangerous, so Hux waits, growing angrier, but also more excited. The worry sets back in when he hears a door open down the hall.

Hux takes his datapad out, looking at whatever random thing he’s pressed in his haste to appear unaffected by your tardiness or your physical form. The worry deepens when he realizes you didn’t discern his presence. Each thing you say, every attempt to bypass his suspicion only heightens it. The dwindling reserve of alcohol in his bloodstream helps a bit, but it’s not enough. He can’t play along anymore.

The shock provides an opportunity he hadn’t expected: an easy way out of this… for you. He’s afraid that he doesn’t go far enough, that you prefer Snoke’s harsher measures, the ones he’s never administered because they might remind him of Brendol and his words and his belt. He’s afraid that Snoke gives you no choice. He’s afraid you’re living through what he’s had a quarter-century to cope with. Twenty-five years? But he’s only… Oh, Hux.

But you don’t end this. Instead you ask, “Will you kiss me?” The combination of your gift and your request nearly undo him. He has to know the truth, now more than ever. He waits until the excruciating union of his chastity devices exceed your former limits before he asks more directly about Snoke. He thinks the distress will lower your defenses, your reservation. It does, so he believes you when you tell him the truth again. He likes your answer, and he likes that kiss. The relief nearly comes out in tears that he hopes you don’t notice through the running water.

“Kylo?” Hux asks, apparently not for the first time.

You’re awake. You’re alive again. You look up. “Sir?”

“You are in desperate need of both practice and a shave.” Hux props himself against the shower wall, hovering back over you. “Don’t your thugs have razorblades by the barrelful?”

“Might be some in the shrapnel bins, General, but I thought you’d prefer me without a necrotizing infection.”

Hux runs a thumb over the bristle at your jaw. “Wax then? That might be better with hair as dark as yours against this skin tone. Do you have wax on that ship?” 

“Does tallow count?”

“Tallow?”

“Trudgen — the one with the cleaver — collects the fat from his visitors once they’ve overstayed their welcome. He renders it for his candles.”

“Are you serious?”

“He says they smell like their last thoughts. You wouldn’t care for the aroma.”

“That’s… that’s… Perhaps the stubble isn’t so bad, but I expect it to be gone the next time I have to look at you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hux drops his hand to your gradually softening cock, immediately remedying your error. You glance at it and the tube’s ballooned end protruding slightly from the tip. Hux is careful not to agitate it as he works your shaft, gently this time, sliding the foreskin tantalizingly over the glans.

“Kylo.”

You return your attention to those jade eyes, gripping the edge of the seat as they draw closer.

“Kylo,” Hux says, voice deep, his lips already meeting yours once more, brushing them until they open for him. He scolds over the steady patter of water, “You need practice.”

You try to prove him wrong. You’ve seen people do this in their minds, in unlit corners, and in the videos you thought might teach you what was missing from your biology lessons after Hux made an offer more appealing than card games. Yet, none of it prepares you for Hux’s tongue, the way it penetrates your mouth to find yours, licking and enticing until it awkwardly joins the dance.

Hux’s hold over you is so delicate but entirely unrelenting. It can’t be more a few heavy heartbeats before he has you writhing. He withdraws just in time to avoid knocking heads, just in time for you both to watch your cum gush voluminously around the tube before it washes away. 

“I didn’t know Jedi could blush, Kylo,” Hux croons, milking out another spurt and using the same hand to streak a short-lived smear of secretions up your chest before it tilts your shying gaze toward his smug countenance. “Well, that’s certainly a record.” He turns the water off. “Now hold still.”

Again, you suspect. Hux wants you to come again. He often depletes you of every microliter of semen until it feels like he might actually be killing you, but no — it’s not that glorious near-death he’s after; it’s just three taps.

“Ohh!” you shout, and try fruitlessly to stop the flow as the final course of your orgasm begins releasing the bladder you hadn’t realized was full onto Hux’s groin. 

“Don’t you dare stop.”

So you watch the pale fluid run down Hux’s taut abdomen and flaccid cock. How does he even do that? How does he stay like that?

“You like it, don’t you?” Hux solicits, reasserting his dominating posture over you. “You like your hot piss streaking down my legs, don’t you?”

Sullying this clean, clean man? “Yes, sir.”

“You like it, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good boy. Give it all to me.”

You strain to comply until a final spurt splashes against Hux, dripping yellow beads from his lovely orange pubic hair. You want to run your fingers through it, to take him in your mouth, to apologize for being late, to ask if he’s still hungry, if he’s all right. He’s not all right; he’s scared. He’s always scared.

“Get up.” Hux gives you his arm as if you couldn’t levitate even if you managed to take a tumble on the textured, non-slip floors lining the entire refresher.

Accepting the offer you stand and relax your body before he has to tell you to. The catheter exits more easily than it entered. There’s a stirring inside your gut as Hux finds the exact amount of leverage to tease the nodule from its place at the orifice of your bladder. Then it slips free, lubricated by remnants of frothy cum. You’re half-hard again by the time it’s out.

“Another record,” Hux quips. “Turn around. One more.”

The general takes hold of the base of his plug and begins to pull at an excruciatingly slow pace. You haven’t had to remove it yet because nutrient paste is the perfect diet when you’d rather die than sit on the vacc tube on the Buzzard. The plug barely moves.

“Bend over and push while I pull.”

You brace your palms against the wall, and with an unwanted wail of relief you give birth to the thing onto the shower floor like one of the inattentive fools from the attention-grabbers that pop up during your surreptitious HoloNet research. Hux doesn’t comment on your outburst. He’s busy looking inside of you, isn’t he? Well, that’s only fair.

Hux asks your asshole, “Do you want to try something?”

You speak on its behalf, “Yes. Yes, General.”

Within reason, Hux has license to do anything he likes with you in private, so he must want something stranger than usual. Is he going to have you without his gel? Despite his fantasies he’s never done that. The closest he got was using too little of it. Hux tore you badly, but you were too green to know what was wrong, and furthermore far too lost in the act to tell him. He noticed the results only after he was done with you. They upset him, so that’s not what he wants here.

Or is it? Hux maneuvers his soft penis… is it a cock if it isn’t hard? Whatever it is he feeds the tip into your pliant, postpartum passage. Oh, you should have known. Just like that you’ve graduated to—

“Piss freak.”

They called you a freak on Chandrila when your powers stopped being cute and became unpredictable. On Ossus — at the Temple — they never said that word, but they thought it whenever you did things they could not. It was worse there; they were supposed to be like you, but still none of them understood. Maybe Hux doesn’t either, but he has begun to accept you. Well… he accepts that the talented should stand out, that you belong to that category, that you don’t have to be normal, that—

“You’re a piss freak, Kylo.”

You’ve never heard Hux urinate quietly. This is no exception, but now you match his volume. The jettison fills you with such pressure that it squelches free and gushes warmly down your replenishing sack and its reinvigorated partner that’s already leaking a new batch of cum. It’s extraordinary, and you demonstrate your appreciation with a breathy hum of assent that’s impossible to keep at bay. You’re-you’re—

“My piss freak.” Hux pushes farther, the cascade offering more leeway for his modest hose to reach into your stretched canal.

Collapsing against your forearms you roar what may actually be a string of Shyriiwook curses.

“Feral piss freak,” Hux moans, slamming your ass in quick jolts that would be vicious if he were erect. As is, he barely enters you, but the idea of Hux punishing you with his cock instead of its absence nonetheless brings you once more to the door of that perfect death.

It begins in your head, your scalp, and travels down your spine one vertebra at a time like a loading indicator. You want to warn Hux, but you can’t; these are fractions of a second that only feel like forever. Anyways, Hux doesn’t need your cue; he has the sense to let go before you can drag him down with you as you stumble back onto the seat and into a shuddering climax.

With feigned disinterest Hux observes your torment, already deciding how to increase it as he collects the trifecta he must have designed for you. “I’d have expected more, Kylo, with big, swinging balls like those.” He dips his index finger into the thin line you ejected onto yourself and circles it around your navel. “Is this really all you have for me?”

Your body speaks for you, dribbling a few more dots of cum onto your belly and letting loose the last trickle of the wine Hux shared with you after all.

There’s a void in you, like you’ve fought some battle in which you didn’t know you were a contestant until you lost. You lean your head against the wall and shut your eyes with a defeated sigh, but Hux immediately rouses you from your respite with the return of the water.

“Ridiculous.” Hux shakes his head hard enough to splash you like a hound drying its fur. “Ridiculous. How is it that you have the grandest rooms aboard my ship, yet you bathe like a new recruit?”

Your soap. He doesn’t like it. You apologize, “I’m sorry I was late. I should have come to you.”

Hux glowers. “Kylo, are you aware—”

“I’m sorry.”

“—there are better offerings in the commissaries?” Hux lets the all-purpose surfactant drift through his fingers.

“I’m sorry.”

“Kylo.”

“I’m sorry about dinner.”

“I suppose it’s better than nothing. Come on, stand up. Clean yourself.”

“It was Chandrilan, wasn’t it? Or Alderaanian. I ruined it.”

“Kylo?”

A question. “General Hux.”

“Don’t you want me to fuck you?”

“Please, sir. Yes.”

“Then shut up and behave yourself.”

So you do it. You hold your hand under the automated cylindrical dispenser and lather the perfectly fine soap into your privates. Hux watches with detached approved and lets the water merely flow over him. He decides when you’re done with another press of the control panel, then he looks beyond the shower in dismay.

“Do you have towels?”

“They’re in storage… with the furniture. I’m s—”

“It’s fine,” Hux declares, and moves to activate the dryer, another feature you’ve never used in here.

You demonstrate your method with more showmanship than you’d typically muster. It’s trivial — drawing the surface moisture from your bodies into your palm until it forms a spiraling sphere which cascades into the drain like a river from a cliff.

Hux, realizing he was wrong and refusing to be impressed by parlor tricks only says, “I suppose there’s no point in asking if you have lotion?”

“No, sir.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Hux exclaims, stepping out of the shower, “please tell me you have a bed, like an actual bed with a mattress and pillows, not some sort of sensory deprivation capsule?”

“I have a bed, General.” You have both.

“Well, good. Show it to me.”

You point to the closed door.

“That’s the room for the retinue, Kylo, the servants or the aides. Is there something wrong with the master bedroom?”

“Primary bedroom,” Leia once corrected Ben, for she refused to hear her son speak an antiquated phrase with such distasteful undertones. Ben agreed, always glad to learn, always glad to be with her in any way, not even knowing what she had: that her father had been born into slavery. He only discovered shortly before your premiere, your unveiling six years ago. Leia’s a liar, and she’s a hypocrite; she sent Ben away, sent him to call her own brother “Master.” By then he was begging to go, but you would have thought that one of the galaxy’s most famous politicians would have argued with his juvenile choice and persuaded him to stay. She didn’t even try. 

Leia made no case for Ben because she never needed him — a byproduct of Han's carelessness. By all accounts Ben’s birth was a welcome one, but not so welcome that Leia didn’t spend the first hours of her labor in congress instead of assuring her baby was safe. It was important. It was the end of the Empire, but still, how can it be that her own child was the only person Leia never fought for?

You follow Hux out of the shower, drying your feet on the mat beyond the faucet’s range. “Sir, it’s the reliquary — the other room.”

“Of course it is.” Hux opens the door, activating the dim lights which illuminate a bedroom that’s still bigger than his, considering it formerly housed four bunks and furnishings for as many people during their off-hours. Now the room mirrors Hux’s own: one large mattress on a standard steel frame flanked by two night stands all facing a wide closet.

“Lube?” asks Hux.

“On the left. Top drawer.”

Hux opens it and finds the dual occupants: the thick gel and the thin in the same brand he uses. He likes this, that he doesn’t have to retrieve the bottle he brought from his discarded jodhpurs. You invested in a padded protector beneath your sheets like Hux has in case of any spillages, expected or otherwise, but this is Hux, and this is your room — he’d be more than happy to completely trash it. He accordingly takes the thicker lubricant, the more robust one that stains. It’s always better with that one. Longer. Rougher.

“Is that where you keep them?”

“What, sir?” You look at the closet he indicates.

“Your frayed robes. Your singed, mysterious shawls?”

“Ah. Yes, sir.”

“Such an unflattering wardrobe… You’d look stunning in the uniform, you know. You have a woman’s hips, but those shoulders and that tree-trunk neck, well… tree-trunk everything make up for your nearly complete lack of a waist. Your figure is so incredibly weird and delicious — did you know that, Piss Freak?” It’s a name now. Something about his diction has capitalized that epithet.

You look at your feet. “Weird, sir. Yes.”

“But you shouldn’t hide any of it. You shouldn’t hide your gait. You’re bow-legged, a little pigeon-toed, you — our greatest warrior. They made horrible fun of you as a kid, didn’t they? Your fame, your height, your complexion, those ears you grew all that luscious hair to cover, then your hair, too. You’re still angry about all of that bullshit. Your demon feeds off of it: your secrecy, your solitude. It’s all a terrible shame.”

Hux, brushes your hand with his as he sidles to the far wall to deactivate the metallic blinds covering the large square viewport. He stands there for a long time, thinking invisible thoughts, so you look at the moon and how it emblazons his hair which falls naturally in a perfect balance of body and gloss. Then there’s a surge, a cracking, a sharpness. It’s the memories. It’s Armitage.

“Yes, you should have come to me, but tonight is a good night, Kylo,” the dead boy informs the glowing satellite. “Tonight you are forgiven your many unorthodoxies, your many trespasses. I know what it’s like to not be wanted, only used. I know what he’s like, and I know what I’m like. All I ask is that you keep your promise. Tell me if you ever want out of this. Tell me if you ever need help.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hux shuts the window. “Turn off the lights and get in bed.”

In bed? Not on the bed? In is for sleeping. He’s staying here. Tonight is a good night.

You turn the down warm black covers to expose the white nanofiber sheets on the left side of the bed — the one he favors in his own room — and get into the right. There’s a remote for the lights in your dresser, but it’s simpler to will a minute draft toward the switch between the hall and fresher doors.

Hux and the bottle join you in the darkness. “Come closer. Lie on your side.”

The general groans, tracing your apparently womanish feature before giving it a hard shove foreboding his intentions. His pale form appears vaguely over you as he pushes you onto your back. “Did you change your mind? You’ll need to turn the lights back on if you’d like a pearl necklace for your god-tier tits.”

“What, sir? No… I don’t understand.”

“Other side, Little Jedi. Has it really been so long that you’ve forgotten where you keep your hole?”

Feeling more like an idiot than ever before, and opting out poking the krayt dragon, you reply in the negatory, “No, sir,” and give Hux your ass which he curtly douses with lubricant.

“That’s better,” Hux agrees.

The reintroduction of your bodies is gradual at first. Hux leisurely rubs his cock between your buttocks — ugh, your crack — until it takes all of your willpower not to edge yourself closer to him, to force him inside of you with just the right timing and angle. You’ve closed up since the plug came out, so you ask your muscles to stop, to ignore your anticipation and welcome Hux back home.

“Just rest, Piss Padawan,” Hux instructs with an audible smile that slowly infects you. “Move your pillow beneath your head. Relax your arms. Bend your knees.” His warm breath steams against your shoulder blade while he waits. “Like this,” Hux whispers, adjusting your legs and the curve of your back with his right hand while the left strokes the hair he once hated for its unruly nature. He retires that arm beneath your pillow before beginning as soon as your positions complete an unobstructed path for his entire length.

“Oh!” After that your mouth remains open, letting out inarticulate huffs while Hux eases you apart, reminding your body of his dreadful size. He pushes the sheets off of himself so you can hear the slaps generated by his rapidly escalating pace.

You’re helpless in Hux’s grasp as he slides his arm around your middle and cups your cockhead with his palm. His embrace is a stasis field holding you in place as he hammers into your ass that still tingles from the electric shock. The rhythm remains unaltered for an absurd amount of immeasurable bliss-time, demonstrating a stamina that belies Hux’s thin frame. His musculature barely shows, but it’s there, and he’s been working up to this, strengthening himself to obliterate you just so. You can’t say the same. You’re nothing. Long before he’d give out you’re already succumbing to the mind-blowing stretch, the surging volcano of woe that erupts into a utopic crescendo.

The cursing, the name-calling — you are too lost to hear it, but you feel him choose to join you in this. He twitches, throbs inside of you, then he slows to languid thrusts, careful not to dislodge his shrinking cock. He’s not going to permit that until he leaves you to compose his missives or record his morale messages in the morning. He’ll take you again in the night if he feels the need to do so regardless of whether you’re awake, but for now you’re just seizing, leaking into Hux’s hand, and then you’re going away.

You are drifting, floating from yourself, still being rocked into oblivion with one lingering question that seems so unimportant compared to the lullaby of Hux’s narrow man-hips. It’s so far off, that question, and so… utterly… negligible…

second target

the first

the first

what is

the

first

target

Chapter Text

“Punishment will follow if you disobey me, and not the sort you enjoy — are we entirely understood, Ren?”

“Yes, General.”

“Good.” Hux stops typing and spins away from his desk, his dark robe bound loosely to display a pale sliver of chest and navel. “Tell me, what do you like?”

You look down at him, his cheeks, his eyes, the manicure formerly concealed by gloves now splayed artfully across the armrests of his tall swivel chair. You look at his body, at his commanding posture, at his chest, at his navel. “Everything, sir.” The words feel lewd. You feel lewd. This surprises Hux, too. He furrows his brow as if awaiting your reconsideration toward a more reasonable response. Seven seconds later you realize your appraisal delights him, but he expected a list of your own preferences, your boundaries.

You tell the heat to stop rising to your face. You tell yourself you are Kylo Ren, that you’re a warrior, a killer, a servant of the dark side training to one day be its master, yet none of these things seem true as you stand in the doorframe of Hux’s private office. No going back. No rescinding. “Everything,” you repeat, because with Hux you’re something different, something unformed, and you’re unsure of how to say, “I don’t know.”

Hux understands this, to a degree. He thinks the Jedi were celibate, unencumbered by carnal urges, nevermind that your existence is dependent on two contrary examples of the supposed rule in as many consecutive generations preceding you. Then again, Ben Solo was celibate. What choice did he have? He was a freak one moment, withering beneath scrutiny, and the next he was a scion fawned over for his family’s feats. Rinse. Repeat. There was no in-between, no room for intimacy that wouldn’t have created either a scandal or a spectacle, but now there’s Hux and you’re glad Ben denied his desires. Ben never… you have never wanted anyone quite like this. You’ve never wanted everything until now. You’ve never trusted someone to show it to you, but somewhere deep down, isn’t this all you’ve ever wanted? A bold teacher whose lessons address your shortcomings but never attacks them? A teacher who might you finally might deserve your devotion? One who might return it?

Wait, how does Hux know what he likes? You try to stop the question from forming, but you can’t. Time slows, permitting you to ponder the uncomfortable mystery, allowing the Force to take you. You see him — his reflection, rather — in a full-length mirror. He’s frowning at a nude body that you barely recognize. It’s younger, in late adolescence and layered with faint, splotchy discolorations from neck to ankles. The arms are the worst, speckled with pink and purple dots that might masquerade as a rash if they didn’t exclusively overlay the blue veins visible through skin that should be an interrupted white. You remember the phrase “quarter-century” and deduce that the last of those marks were left there eight or nine years prior. Well, most of them; one of the dots is angrier than the others. It’s fresh. He scratched at it, swore it would be the last, that he doesn’t need the sedatives anymore, that he’s not in pain, that it’s been so long since anyone came to his room that he must, at last, be safe.

No, all of these are fresh wounds. They’re reopened every time he dresses, every time he bathes, every time he remembers. It doesn’t matter if the assailants have stayed away for years, or if most of them have been eradicated — Hux cannot forget their touch. He can’t forget the sounds, the odors, the names they called him, not like this, so he adds another secret to his overflowing collection: an advanced surgical droid. While Hux knows little of what he likes, he knows exactly what he does not, and that begins with these scars.

One of Hux’s greatest fears is that someone will see what you do through the mirror, that there will be an accident and somehow that loose-lipped fuck will let slip what they witnessed. Sure, the skin mottled from repetitive bruising could be passed off as a recent byproduct of training or the accident itself, but what of the arms? It’s simple: the sniveling, scrawny, worthless, nepotistic, junkie bastard weasel will be sanctioned and lose everything he’s built to a cabal of the pedophiles he hasn’t found the opportunity to destroy.

Not a chance. That will not be the end of his story, so Hux has his arms fixed first. He didn’t know about the veins, how many times they collapsed and rebuilt themselves into less-efficient tributaries. The revascularization — lack of which the droid insists might have reduced his remaining lifespan to ten years, fewer with the continual abuse of controlled substances — is nerve-wracking, but not especially painful. Not like the harvest, the grafts.

Hux screams when the droid drills into his marrow and when it cuts away strips of his flesh. The anesthesia is not enough, not for him, not anymore, but he endures as his surgeon scrapes away the old and stitches on the new, the healed. It takes two years, one slice at a time so he’s never out of commission, except for when he falls. Well, when he jumps at a calculated angle over an unguarded ledge. He breaks both of his legs and that gives him enough leave to finally take care of the other problem, the one he’d been avoiding despite its comparative simplicity.

There’s a term for this set of operations, at least when it’s cosmetic. This is cosmetic in a way, the external site is pinker, perter, and free of skin tags, but inside the scarring is shaved away and electrical pulses retrain Hux’s rectal walls to properly retain and void, at last eliminating the discomfort of elimination and the need for panty liners to contain trickles of liquid feces where he once used menstrual pads to contain the heavier flow of blood, semen, and entire stools his muscles were too loose to reliably contain. “Anal rejuvenation.” It sounds wrong, like a bad joke, really, one pointed at his heart. Not “rejuvenated.” Not “made young again.” Hux has been revitalized. Maybe just vitalized. Before he was Armitage, and Armitage was never really alive.

Hux cries when it’s over, when he looks in the mirror and sees the body he always should have had. He decides he wants to use it. He wants someone to see it, maybe even touch it. A man. He likes women — women have always been more daring, more caring, more fascinating to him with their breasts and their resilient, self-lubricating holes, but it needs to be a man. A man won’t spawn any secret bastards to be ridiculed for Hux’s own negligence.

A man. Yes. Find a man, one that isn’t terrible, not like all the others. Have him look, maybe touch. These feelings are new and strange and terrifying. How can Hux possibly want something so intrinsically linked to his waking nightmares? What if he’s wrong? What if he tries, but he can’t do it? What if he tries and the man hurts him? Doesn’t it always hurt? And what about the other side? What if Hux hurts the man? Hux likes to hurt people, but ones who deserve it, not crying, screaming children, but what if he does? What if Hux learns he’s exactly the same as Brooks and all the others? He can’t be. He won’t be. No. No. 

To prove it, the young general dives headfirst into the seedy world of pornography. He finds the very worst entries, ones that sharpen his hatred of the sprawling bureaucracies incapable of protecting their most vulnerable citizens. So he’s not the same. Good. Hux watches, reads, listens to the rest. Most of it — performative drivel — irritates or bores him. Except some, though… Some is intriguing, containing acts that remind him of before but if they had all been a game. Hux wants to try that, reforging pain into fun. If he can’t forget, he can remake, and maybe somewhere along the way his fear and his hatred and his dependencies will heal just like his skin. Then he remembers there is nobody he wants to play with. Not the officers who obey to the letter, at least to his face. Definitely not the soldiers, predominantly juveniles and literally designed to do just that. Prostitutes? No, too many of them have been trafficked, even the clean ones, and too many of them are spies.

All this effort and there’s no one at all, not until you appear — you, the exceptionally violent, exceptionally telepathic heir of the enemies who destroyed the galaxy’s peace and Hux’s already dismal childhood. That makes you the worst possible option, but you’re also the only one, which simultaneously makes you the best. For ages nothing happens until one early morning when you dare to ask for Hux’s company.

“Get down.”

You blink away the vision. Get down? You would have sensed danger if you needed to duck. Hux points at the floor. “Take all that off and get down there. “Push-ups will do for now.”

Push-ups? Ah. To sweat. Perspiration is the only thing missing from his requirements. All of this is odd to you, his requests, but he must have been considering them for years. Oh, and the answer to your question is: he doesn’t know what he likes, not exactly, but he has a brilliant mind brimming full of filthy ideas he’d like to try. Tonight, this first night, he selects voyeurism and humiliation. They remain two of his favorites, and you don’t mind although that makes no sense. You’ve striven to avoid these things, but it’s different with Hux. With him, you really do want everything.

You strip quickly and completely while your new teacher watches in judgment. He doesn’t tell you to go slow, not this time. He just wants to see you undressed as soon as possible even though he makes no comment when he does. You get on the floor like he said and face his bare feet while you pump your body up and down in a manner you sense Hux considers a fine portent for the future of your evenings together. This won’t be enough to work up a sweat, not unless you take maybe fifteen minutes, but you choose not to show off, not to perform acrobatics, and instead to simply tell yourself to increase your temperature. In accordance your glands perspire and after two minutes of watching you toil below him, Hux tells you, “Sit up on your heels and show me how you masturbate.” His teeth flash. “Go ahead, little Jedi. Do it like you did in your little Jedi hut.”

You kneel two meters away trying to remember the technique you used to help clear your mind before meditation. Back then orgasm was your only focal point — now there is Hux. Will he be offended if you look at him? Will he be offended if you don’t? Well, he never said you couldn’t, so you look him in his beautiful eyes and take your half-hard cock in your left thumb and forefinger, imagining as you do that they to belong to the general. He flinches slightly, then resettles in his seat. Your pace is fast, your grip slack as your foreskin slips back and forth until your erection is nearly parallel to your torso. Instinctively your fingers tighten around your glans. Your breath quickens. Your right hand massages, then tugs your scrotum. You’re about to—

“Stop.”

You drop your hands to your knees and look aside; another moment of leering at Hux could pull you over the edge. The next words are genuinely inquisitively intoned.

“Why did you stop?”

“General,” you begin before you forget to use his title in this hazy tightness of unfulfillment, “you told me to.”

“And why did you obey?”

Perhaps this question was meant to be more difficult than it seems, or maybe you provide the wrong response: “You wanted me to.”

No, that’s right, because Hux tells you, “Finish what you began.”

Slowly you return your attention to the slim body in the long robe and matching drawstring trousers. This isn’t what you expected. Where are the cognac and whiskey you’ve practiced drinking? Where is the calming instrumental music you’ve practiced commenting on? Where is the bashful walk to the bed or the gradual entangling upon the sofa? You spent so much time scrubbing your now-sweaty form for Hux. You fingered yourself until it stopped hurting as much thinking by now Hux would be inside of you making you grateful for that tip from the HoloNet. You thought, just maybe, he even wanted you on top, wanted you behind him. No, you could swear he did, so what is this?

This is good. Well, it’s good enough. You like the way Hux watches you with almost scientific fascination, gaze shifting between your face, arms, chest, and genitals. He looks relaxed, certainly not aroused, but that’s a disguise, like the mask he wears over his waning fear of you. His hands — they’ve tightened on those armrests. His jaw, though, has loosened. His nostrils flare as he breathes in your sweat, your pre-ejaculate. He does want you, and you want him. You want to see the rest of Hux. You want to prove he’s safe with you. You want his hands, his lips. You want the bed. You want the sofa. You want everything.

It sneaks up on you, the climax. You were too lost in your own head to notice it lurking there. It hunches your back, sends a tremor through your limbs and a strained grunt from deep within your guts as semen arcs onto the floor in four jets of decreasing range and volume. It was never like this in your little Jedi hut where you barely made a sound or released any of your relief into the Force. Luke was there waiting to chastise you, Voe waiting to taunt you, and Tai waiting to empathize so thoroughly that he might have embarrassed you worse than any of the others. Snoke was watching you, of course, but he was always there. He was a friend, one you could show anything to. You thought nothing of the intimacy of it then, like a toddler sharing his bath with daddy.

“Kylo. How… beastly—” Hux appraises, using his feet to roll his chair just beyond the range of your mess. That cuts short your residual moan. You stare at your hands. Kylo. He’s never called you that, not just Kylo, but you can no longer meet his eyes. You feel ridiculous. “—yet, impressive. How long were you saving that load for me?”

Another question you’re unsure of how to answer. It’s been different in your suites aboard the Supremacy and the Finalizer. Here there is no Luke to hide from. More importantly there is no Voe with her beautiful bronze skin and curious silver hair and competitive nature or Tai whose cerulean eyes and flawless kindness first made you question both whether celibacy was right for you and if perhaps you preferred males. There is, however, Snoke. He is still here, watching even now as you prostrate yourself for his second-favorite toy. Hiding things from Master is an exercise in futility, you’ve always known this, but it’s different now. He already knows where you are, what you’re planning to do. Where once you might have thought nothing of broadcasting these acts, some part of you — a part you hate, a part that still loves Snoke — craves the additional audience for your sexual reemergence. More like a debut, actually, and you want Snoke to feel your delight, to enjoy this with you, but that doesn’t matter. This is about Hux, and don’t you have a question to answer? “It’s been waiting for you, sir, since I left the hut to seek true wisdom.”

Hux smiles around the words, “Well, get to it, Kylo. Clean up after yourself.”

You stand and immediately feel the dismay before it’s paired with matching words. “What do you think you’re doing?”

You squint at the tissues in the lacquered gray box on the wide black desk. “General?”

“Don’t you dare let that cum go to waste. Get back on your knees. You don’t need tissues.”

You get down, but you still don’t understand what to do with the cloudy streaks on the black floor.

Hux sighs. “Like a tooka, little Jedi.“

Your body obeys before you have the chance to reconsider and begins to lap the semen into your mouth. Hux leaves his chair and steps around you to watch this spectacle from every angle before settling behind you. “Ass up,” he directs, so you deepen your incline while you continue with the floor. Is he going to join you? Is he going to forgo the bed? The sofa? No. He merely watches until you finish the job. Then he asks, “Do you like this?”

He certainly does. He likes the way you look without your clothes. He likes you on his floor, the way your penis rocks between your legs. Nobody has ever looked at you the way he does: so deeply pleased. You don’t care about the cum nearly as much as that. It tastes like the faint cleaning agent on the polished floor itself, if slightly saltier and more astringent. Void knows why Hux likes your body, but you’re exciting him.

“You got every drop, Kylo. You must be hungry — would you like some more?”

“Please, sir.”

“Are you claustrophobic? I suppose you wouldn’t have done well in your hut if so. Or my TIEs, for that matter.”

“No, I’m not, sir.”

“Good to hear.” Hux squeezes your glutes before returning to your field of view. He points beneath his desk. “Go.“

You crawl to the designation, barely fitting without hitting your head. From there you stare as the trousers drop with nothing beneath but him. He’s gorgeous, but you thought he’d be bigger. You’re not sure if you could’ve handled that, but you would have liked to try, you think, as Hux rolls into place at the desk and locks the wheels of his chair with his toes. “Get to it, then,” he orders, typing at his computer and sounding submerged from your vantage. “Oh, and be sure to use your tongue. You’re descended from a line of skilled orators, Kylo. It should come naturally to you.”

The bed beside you is empty except for the warm, wet gift Hux left on your thighs incubating beneath the sheets he must have pulled over you. You hope he enjoyed himself and that the three or four hours he spent here are enough to carry him through the day. You’re certainly rested. The comfortable position Hux chose leaves only your ass sore, if brutally so. It’s a mystery how you slept through the additional helping — helpings? — he served himself. Was it the vision?

The vision… that was new, glimpsed only in a dream, not those months ago. And was it real? It certainly felt like it. Hux was still touching you then, maybe fucking you, and his guard was down. Perhaps he thought it mattered less if you were unconscious. Or, like before, he wanted you to know what this means to him even if he refuses to speak the words. Either way, you can’t remember sleeping that deeply since the night at the Temple when you barely woke in time to defend yourself.

Soft lighting activates as you sit up. When you pull yourself to your feet— “Mmh!” Immediately gravity ushers the rest of the Hux’s cum out of the cavity he held open on his cock for all those hours. You try not to think of the green glow of Luke’s saber or the dream, the vision, the little boy wearing women’s pads. Instead you glance at the bed, and the riotous display of stains left behind like one of Hux’s abstract paintings. Your apartment’s janitor takes great pride in her duties. She’ll find some weird mechanical satisfaction in her work today, you’re sure.

Reluctantly you wash away the second installation of Hux’s art, the one he left in and on you. You’d much rather preserve it for the day, but that would be an unnecessary distraction from Snoke’s tasks. Heightening its urgency is another familiar, empty ache besides the one provided by Hux. He’s restationed the Destroyer over Starkiller. Ilum.

“Second target.”

No. No second target. Only one. One, if you do your job. You need to find the girl, the key to all of this. She'll unlock the path to Luke. She can stop Leia’s madness. This will be over in a week, but only with one target: the Resistance base. One swift, controlled blast, a sensible, precise show of force. Just one. You cannot allow Hux to repeat Tarkin’s mistake.