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Kylo Ren is a Knight of the First Order, a trusted disciple of Supreme Leader Snoke and a skilled wielder of the Force. He is the son of Alderaanian nobility and the grandson of a Sith Lord. In his full battle regalia he stands at six feet and six inches, towering over his underlings, instantly recognisable. He has crafted his lightsabre with his own hands. In almost every regard he is the model of a First Order commander. All people know this of him.

He’s also a degenerate cocksucker with an almost pathological need to be held down and fucked. Only Hux knows that, though.

If Kylo has any say in it, Hux will continue to be the only person who knows about it.

It’s worse than that, of course. Kylo knows it about himself . It doesn’t matter how he twists and turns and tries to avoid this piece of deeply shameful self-knowledge; he cannot elude it. On his knees or on his back or lying prone with his face pressed into the crisp, clean linen of Hux’s bed, the truth always seems to be staring Kylo right in the face. It winds him, takes his breath clean away.

Worse yet, his training in the Force began with breath and breathing. Control over the breath leads to control over the body; from mastery over the body’s most essential need flow all other forms of physical and mental mastery. During the early years of his training he had been required to hold onto the Force while undergoing pain, exertion, extremes of temperature, vigorous motion, drowning and suffocation. In these tests, he had excelled.

With Hux’s pale, strong hands around his throat, Kylo is as impotent in the Force as the rawest recruit. When it’s Hux stopping his breath, Kylo can’t so much as light a candle. This inconvenient fact has come to symbolise Kylo’s deepest fears about his own flawed power, marred already by his rebellious Alderaanian mother and his wastrel, cowardly father. He is weak, brittle and fragile.

It was Kylo’s weakness that left him open to Hux’s first advances, and it is that same weakness that keeps him crawling back, night after night after night.



In the evenings, installed in his private quarters with his severe jacket and boots off, Hux looks less like a military man and more like an ascetic scholar from days gone by. On this particular evening he’s pale and stern, seated in his reading chair with a book open in one hand and a glass of water on the table beside him. For most people, reading an old-fashioned paper book would look like an affectation. When Hux does it, electronic readers suddenly seem aberrant, tacky and childish, unnecessary pieces of gimmickry. His long fingers turn the pages of his book with delicacy and care. The paper whispers with his touch.

Hux moves with exquisite control and speaks with careful modulation. The smallest concession to comfort or informality seems unbearably louche on him. Tonight Hux has unbuttoned his shirt a little and Kylo is transfixed by the triangle of white skin showing at his throat. Last week, while inspecting a complex and oily piece of machinery, Hux had folded his black shirt sleeves back to mid-forearm. The result was so erotic that Kylo had immediately been struck by the desire to fold at the knees and beg to be allowed to press his lips to the soft, smooth skin of Hux’s inner wrist.

He has not yet asked to do so - he has not been able to find the words, or able to make himself say them - but he will tonight. When Hux allows him to speak.

Kylo is permitted to wait in Hux’s room of an evening, sitting quietly until Hux is ready for him. He folds his long limbs into a hard, upright chair by the door and waits. He wears his robes and mask, despite the fact that Hux keeps his quarters rather warm. In the absence of entertainment, he practices his breathing exercises and he watches Hux as the General reads, or writes orders and memoranda, or reviews reports. Sometimes, Hux decides that he will not entertain himself with Kylo. Once, he spent two hours playing a careful and skilled game of chess with himself, and then dismissed Kylo with a wave of his hand.

Hux closes his book and places it back on the shelf, and then he stands. Kylo tenses all over, his breath catching and his hard-earned calm dissipating instantly. He waits while Hux washes his glass, dries his hands and finally, finally looks at him. With a shaky exhale that he cannot control, Kylo slides from the chair onto his knees. His robes crumple underneath him. His mask filters are suddenly inadequate and he is panting, hot all over.

‘You really are a terrible little pervert, Ren,’ says Hux, with a touch of amusement diluting his disdain. Kylo hurriedly nods his agreement. ‘Take that ridiculous mask off. You look like a novelty flight deck ornament.’ Kylo presses his fingers to the hidden catches and removes the mask. The air in the room feels cool on his sweaty face. With a little sigh of pleasure, he lets his eyes slip closed for a moment and tips his face up so that his hood falls back. A lock of his hair is sticking to his forehead. ‘Well?’ Hux demands, as if listening to Kylo beg is the most tedious chore imaginable.

‘Can I,’ begins Kylo, wetting his dry lips with his tongue. It’s distracting, how Hux is standing; feet apart, hands clasped loosely behind his back and gazing down as if Kylo is a piece of equipment to be inspected. ‘A few days ago, you— you rolled up your sleeves, and—’

He has to say it, that’s the rule. Every one of his petty perversions must be spoken out loud before Hux will deign to grant him what he wants. Trying to hide anything just gives Hux an excuse to drag it out of him, question by question, with that look of cold amusement on his face. Kylo squeezes his eyes shut again.

‘You rolled up your sleeves and I wanted, I wanted to kiss your hands. I wanted to, to,’ Kylo is panting, writhing under Hux’s cool gaze. ‘Please,’ he says, with a gulp of breath. His voice sounds too high, too boyish. Hux smiles in that spare way he has and pauses for a beat before he unbuttons his left cuff. He folds his shirt sleeve back three times, smoothing it down, and then he proffers his hand with the palm up. There’s a rustle of cloth on cloth; Hux tucks his right thumb into his waistband and Kylo cannot help but watch how his fingers point casually towards his groin. He stamps down the temptation to bury his face in Hux’s black officer’s pants and inhale Hux’s scent.

Instead, Kylo sits up on his heels and presses a tremulous kiss to the inside of Hux’s left wrist. Hux smells like sage and pepper and warm musk. He does it again. He rubs his cheek against Hux’s forearm, dog-like and adoring. Then he kisses Hux’s palm, cool and dry, and his fingertips, and the firm, round ball of his thumb. He flattens his own hands against the floor to stop himself breaking the rules by reaching out and putting his clumsy, damp hands on Hux’s body. Posed in this way, on hands and knees, he can barely reach Hux’s wrist. Hux doesn’t stretch to help him.

Oh, Kylo’s mouth is watering, and he’s hard, his dick heavy between his thighs. If he touches himself, Hux will throw him out unsatisfied. He has to earn that pleasure. He takes two of Hux’s fingers into his mouth and starts sucking them like a cock, tongue working. Above him, the smallest breath escapes Hux and Kylo moans around his mouthful. Hux presses his long fingers in further so that Kylo struggles not to gag. His throat works. He keeps his teeth well away from Hux’s skin.

Hux shifts his weight and stretches a long leg out. The hard, lean muscle of his thigh presses against Kylo’s chest. He touches his foot to Kylo’s cock and Kylo whimpers and jerks his hips, rubbing off through his robes and through Hux’s sock. It’s hard to concentrate on two things at once. It’s always been a weakness for him and Hux knows it. Kylo can barely breathe like this, rutting on Hux’s foot and suckling on his fingers. He can’t look up, but he knows Hux is watching him, recording every second into his excellent memory to torment Kylo with later. Any neophyte in the Force knows that only the mind can be read, not the soul, and yet Kylo is sure that Hux has stripped him bare down to his very essence, knows him, knows everything about him. The thought of it— Kylo’s belly is hot and tight, his balls aching. He is drooling down his chin. His every exhale is a little whine, desperate and wanting.

His blood rushes in his ears, roars like it does when he opens himself to the Force, and Kylo comes with a long shuddering moan, rubbing through the aftershocks. Hux’s fingers slip from his mouth, trailing over his cheek in a damp line. His cock is wet in his underwear, and Hux removes his foot before Kylo’s spunk can seep through his robes. Kylo pants, head down.

Hux runs his left hand through Kylo’s hair, wiping his hand dry. Kylo chooses to treat it like a caress. He pushes himself up onto his heels with shaking arms.

‘Don’t you want…?’ he begins, because Hux didn’t get off tonight. Sometimes he doesn’t. Of course, he’s allowed to touch himself whenever he likes. If Kylo doesn’t come at Hux’s behest, he isn’t permitted to come at all. Hux shouldn’t know if Kylo goes back to his quarters and frantically jerks himself, face buried in his pillow and spit-wet fingers in his ass, and yet he does , he knows every time.

‘I have significantly more self-control than you,’ Hux tells him, rolling his shirt sleeve back down and buttoning it with a deft twist of his fingers. Kylo watches and files the image away.

‘I could,’ Kylo offers daringly, flicking his eyes down to Hux’s crotch. ‘I could suck you off, if you wanted.’

‘Disgusting boy,’ says Hux, and he pinches Kylo’s wet chin between his hard fingers and, bending at the waist, kisses him.

‘Oh,’ Kylo moans into Hux’s warm mouth. Hux’s tongue is skilful, playing easily over Kylo’s. Sometimes Kylo imagines Hux laying him down in his bed and gently kissing him for hours. He has never told Hux. He trembles, cranes his neck up for more, but Hux pulls away.

‘Run along,’ Hux tells him, not unkindly, nodding towards the door. ‘I have work to do.’ Kylo scrambles to his unsteady feet, grabs his mask and flees.



Although Kylo’s height and his broad shoulders are helpful - imposing draped in robes, an asset when fighting - it is to his advantage to stay covered and aloof, hiding the details of his mortal body. Phasma, he notes, adopts the same strategy, her statuesque figure perpetually enveloped in her silver armour. She mirrors the slick, polished look of her stormtroopers, but elevated above their anonymity. Not fully human; symbol, rather than woman. Similarly, Kylo presents himself as an avatar of the Force, set above and apart from humanity.

By contrast, Hux makes it his business to know what his men do, and he demonstrates that knowledge by the occasional, tactical application of muscle and sweat. When a machine breaks, he crouches to see inside and point out the offending part. If a crane is unavailable and his troops, grumbling and reluctant, must move a piece of equipment, he removes his pristine leather gloves and his wide, stiff belt, and grabs a rope to help pull. Locked away in a dark vault of his mind, past the casual probings of Snoke, Kylo has a whole stack of memories of Hux in these situations. There are several dedicated solely to the play of his muscles in his back. A whole reel on the way he sets his jaw before he gets down to work. A lifetime of recollections of his hands, competent and precise, strong and very white against his glossy black uniform.

What a cosmic joke. He, Kylo Ren, Force-trained in the arts of concentration and willpower, notably unmoved by the temptations of the flesh, able to withstand physical extremes that would cripple other men. Held in hopeless thrall to three inches of bare skin, neatly parted red-gold hair and a sardonic half-smile.



‘You can do better than this, Ren,’ Hux tells him calmly. His voice is far too steady and controlled. At this particular moment, Hux’s cock is so far down Kylo’s throat that Kylo is dizzy with it, can think of nothing but the taste, the smell of Hux’s skin. His soap, his sweat. Earlier Kylo had begged for this, please, I want to suck you, please, I want my mouth on you, let me do it Hux, please let me please please , running his words together. Hux had smiled like a shark and told him to stay on his knees and strip, and had unzipped his own pants as Kylo had awkwardly fought his way out of his robes. ‘Come to me,’ Hux had ordered with a flick of an index finger. Kylo had crawled across the floor, his knees scraping on the hard floor. Ungainly and exposed, abased. He hadn’t much cared; Hux’s perfect cock, the sliver of belly, the red-gold curls of his pubic hair had demanded all of his attention.

It still does. That’s not enough for Hux, though. He always knows when Kylo isn’t giving it everything.

So Kylo tries harder. He breathes through his nose in tiny, short huffs and swallows around Hux’s cock. His nose is pressed against Hux’s belly, his hands clasped sweatily together behind his own back. A roll of his tongue and Hux makes a deep, pleased sound in his throat, as if he’s stepping into a warm bath at the end of a long day. Kylo does it again and gags. He tastes salt.

Hux moves his hand to the back of Kylo’s head and holds him there so he gasps and swallows, unable to breath, to move. His head swims. Kylo feels his body sagging, slackening, and dark spots dance in his vision. He chokes and his cock jerks, a little twinge of pleasure sparking in his stomach.

‘It’s my understanding,’ says Hux as if from far away, ‘that you’re trained for this sort of thing.’ He releases Kylo’s head and lets him pull off, gasping and drooling, mouth slack. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘T-trained to suck cock?’ Kylo asks, confused, reality all hazy and his cock throbbing insistently. Hux slaps him, a sharp crack across his cheekbone that burns hot. It makes Kylo moan. It makes his cock leak a little fluid and Kylo bites his lip, breathes, tries to calm himself so that he doesn’t come before Hux.

‘Trained to control yourself,’ Hux says with exaggerated patience, patience that Kylo knows he does not deserve. ‘To maintain your focus in difficult situations.’

‘Yes,’ says Kylo, understanding.

Hux raises his eyebrows. ‘Then perhaps you could explain to me how you’re so fucking useless tonight?’ Hux almost never swears, and never in public. He says it’s indicative of lax discipline. Kylo has compromised Hux’s ironclad discipline. Kylo almost comes; almost. He’s so close that the lightest touch would tip him over the edge. Hux grabs Kylo’s throat in a punishing grip and Kylo keens. Hux is very close now, standing over him with his cock touching Kylo’s parted lips. Slowly, Hux presses into Kylo’s mouth again, over his tongue and back, back down his throat. He does not move his hand from Kylo’s neck, or ease its pressure.

Kylo shakes and shakes, and tries to breathe, and endures. He holds on to consciousness by a thread. If Snoke himself appeared now and commanded him to reach out with his mind and touch the Force, he could not obey. Above him, Hux groans, and slides his cockhead over Kylo’s tongue. When he comes, it is sharp and musky and it fills Kylo’s mouth and trickles over his bottom lip. Kylo swallows, thirsty for it; swallows it all and licks his lips, and laps at the head of Hux’s cock and pants, and wants more, and he makes a raw sound when he looks up and sees Hux a touch flushed and then he comes on the floor, where he belongs. His climax doubles him over with pleasure and he moans out Hux’s name as soon as he has the breath to speak. He crumples to the floor, hands and forehead coming down in an accidental genuflection.

‘Clean that up,’ Hux tells him, and presses his booted foot to the back of Kylo’s neck. It is quite clear how he intends Kylo to clean his floor. Kylo pants like a dog, tongue out, and complies. ‘Good boy,’ Hux says. ‘Good boy.’



‘The Supreme Leader has commanded that the work be finished on time,’ says Kylo through his mask. ‘He requires it, and so it will be done.’ Phasma and Hux look at him with infuriating calmness. Kylo’s hand plays at the hilt of his lightsabre. He feels like a caged animal, caught between duty and power and loyalty and anger and Hux. ‘It will be done!’ He knows that he would sound shrill without his mask's voice modulation.

Everyone in the control room is staring at him. Under his mask, Kylo’s face feels like fire. He cannot control himself. He wants to rip through the monitors, smash it all, scream bloody murder. Hux looks amused.

‘Lord Ren,’ he says, the title a mockery on his lips, ‘might I suggest you compose yourself outside? Perhaps some breathing exercises would be beneficial.’ Beneath his robes, Kylo’s cock stirs. Duty and power, loyalty and anger and Hux. He takes a deep breath and he obeys.