#my dumbass thumb has been hurting so I slowed down on drawing in general

[zu-art]

♥ Brarg Week Day 6 - Medical AU ♥

This is so late but I am determined to fill all prompts this year!!! The scenario is Luciano is an athlete and Tincho is his physiotherapist. Yes it’s wildly inappropriate for Lu to think his doctor is hot, but it’s not like he can help it.

@brargweek

[insomniamamma]

Safe: Ezra x f!reader w/Cee

A/n: What can I say? I'm hormonal and all my shit hurts and if I cannot get snuggles IRL then I will write something super soft and self-indulgent to make myself feel better. Part of the Prickle AU. Set sometime after Sacellum.

Warnings: Oh no! There's only one bed. Soft!Ezra. Language. Cee's best friend on The Pug is non-binary and also named after my little boy's favorite stuffy. Maybe the slightest bit of angst. But mostly super soft.

         "You did this on purpose."         "Right hand to Kevva, I did not. I asked for double occupancy and they must have misunderstood and--"         "You don't have a right hand,"         "Let's go back to the reception desk," says Ezra, "We may be able to negotiate more appropriate accommodations."         "Errgh," you groan. Reception had been a nightmare, three freighters worth of traffic trying to secure berths all at once. It was a lot of people. Too many for your liking. Cee was staying with Kit and their family. Kit and Cee had practically tackled each other right there on the dock, everyone else forgotten, walked away arm in arm.         "We shove off in three cycles," Ezra hollered at her retreating back, and she flapped a dismissive hand at him. You had to smile. For three cycles Cee gets to be a normal teenager hanging out with her best friend without worrying about points and pulls and overhead costs and fuel margins.         "I don't wanna go back down there," you say, "Too many people. I think twice the population of Falnost was waiting in that fucking line." You brush past him and into the suite. The ceilings are low and slightly curved and it feels strange to be under this much grav. The outer rings of Puggart Bench have something close to terra-normal gravity, but after so much time spent on little moons and worldlets, this much G feels weird and you have no desire to trudge back down to reception.         "You sure?" Asks Ezra.         "Yeah," you drop your day bag and press a hand to the mattress. "Look at the size of this thing. It's, like, five crash-couches wide. This seems above our pay grade."         "They're overbooked," says Ezra, "We're paying the same points for the berth we should have gotten. I made sure of it. I can sleep in that recliner if--"         "No."         "No?"         "Kevva, Ez, we're both adults," you say, "I think we can share a bed for a night without exploding."

        Your suite has a real, honest-to-Goddess shower with a generous 15 minute timer. You scrub as fast as you can and then just let the water hit you, let the pressure pound on your tense back muscles until the chime sounds and the water cuts off. You towel off and dress, soft clothes you sleep in, and pad out into the main room. Ezra is reading, face far off and serious, and you just look at him for a minute, illuminated in the warm lamp-light, absorbed in his book, little furrow between his brows and then he looks up, all knowing smirk and dancing eyes, he's caught you staring.         "Your turn, Ez," You say and turn your face away. Kevva. This man. You've been trying to keep things professional, but it's a losing battle. His flirtations make you flush, but he's never tried to push you, never tried to leverage the fact that it's his name on the ship's title, that you signed a contract, that you are junior-most crew. You feel safe with him. And, from your limited experience in the fringe, that is a miracle in itself.

        Ezra sets his book aside and heads for the bathroom. You peel the sheets from the other side of the bed and settle in. There's a media player bolted to the wall, but you just want quiet. You switch off the lamp on your nightstand (we both have lamps, we both have a nightstand, how weird is that?) The sheets feel deliciously cool against your skin. To be clean and sleeping in clean sheets...if Heaven isn't like this Kevva's got some answering to do.         Ezra sings in the shower. You're barely awake and you smile. Ezra can't carry a tune in a bucket, singing fringeling songs and reels, stories of mercs and pirates and ghosts and you drift off to the sound of him, the sound of the water running.

        He sees you soft and loose and asleep. No rail-gun, no body armor, no thrower under your pillow. Your face slack, snoring slightly. You've kicked out of the blankets and lay curled as if chilled.         "Hey Artichoke," he murmurs, pulls the blankets up and tucks them around you, "Let's get you warm, yeah?"

        Ezra wakes. Bleared red numbers of the clock saying that this is still the deepest ditch of local night. Ezra is warm and confused. He feels you pressed against him, your chest to his back, an arm hooked around his middle, your legs entwined with his. You've sought him out in your sleep and folded yourself around him, your breath slow and steady against his nape. Ezra's eyes prick with tears. He can't remember the last time he's been held like this. He's had lovers. He has payed for sex on the less reputable Benches of the Great Arm, but for someone to hold him? For someone to touch him without payment, without trying to press some advantage, gain some kind of leverage, without priming him for the inevitable backstab?  He is overwhelmed. He tries to wriggle away from you, but your arm just tightens around him.         "...fixed the transponder," you mutter against his neck, "told you we didn't need...told you..." He pats your arm and relaxes against you.         "Okay, Artichoke, okay, sweetheart. Go back to sleep."

        You wake enfolded, Ezra's good arm wrapped around you. You feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, the slow sussurration of his breath, the snores that catch in his throat and turn to murmurs, the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. You've tucked yourself against him in your sleep. Your hand rests on his sternum. Oh Kevva. What are you doing? You go rigid.         Your first impulse is to wrestle out of his hold, take one of the blankets and install yourself in the recliner that you wouldn't let Ezra take, but part of you wants to stay right here in the combined warmth of your bodies, feeling his breath, his heart, his calloused palm spread against your shoulder. You shift, making the smallest effort to pull yourself away and his arm tightens further, a low, sleepy chuckle reverberates through his chest.         "Hi Ez,"         "Hi." He strokes the pad of his thumb along the exposed curve of your shoulder.         "I'll get up," you say, even as he shifts and cups the back of your head in his palm, tucking you closer.         "You don't have to," he says, voice rough with sleep. This gesture pricks at your heart. Coming up on Falnost has made you hard, guarded, there has been precious little gentleness in your life, pulling rocks out of the parched ground since you were big enough to lift a shovel. Learned to fight and shoot to chase water-thieves from the homestead. He strokes the back of your head like one might pet a skittish cat and your heart squeezes.         "Ezra?" You hate how small your voice sounds, you hate the uncertainty you hear there, "Are we okay?"         "Of course we are," he says, "Why wouldn't we be?"         "I wrapped around you like a Bueller's world python and I did it in my sleep-"         "The wrapping was mutual-"         "You're not mad or uncomfortable or anything?" He laughs again, gentle huff of breath against the crown of your head.         "Mad about waking with you in my arms? The day I'm mad about that you can just shoot me in the head and send me to Kevva because I will surely have lost my ever-loving mind." You smile against his skin and relax some, your hand unfists and you curl your arm around his soft belly, feel his breath hitch.         "Tickles."         "Sorry." You feel yourself drift, skirting the edge of sleep. He is warm and solid and you let yourself relax against him.         “This feels...safe..." you say, so close to sleep that you're not sure if you've said it aloud or if you've just thought it. And you're not sure if you hear his response or dream it, one word. Always.

        "She's late," says Ezra.         "We still got a sixteenth to button up and board,"         "Still," says Ezra, "Yon freighter will leave with our pod wether we're strapped in it or not." You see Cee and Kit, trailed by Kit's parents, weaving through the crowd. Cee is beaming, her blonde hair has a brilliant streak of blue, and Kit has a matching streak in their hair.         "Hey guys!" Cee hugs Ezra and then hugs you.         "How was your shore leave, Little Bird? I like the fancy hair."         "Isn't that cool? We've got matching streaks," says Cee.         "It's semi-permanent," says Kit, "We'll pick a different color next time!" You have to smile. Cee looks revitalized. Three cycles spent with her friend, just doing normal kid things has been good for her.         "Check this out!" says Cee and pushes a laminated drawing towards the two of you. Ezra makes a show of looking carefully.         "I recognize you and Kit," he says, "I am not familiar with these other people, though."         "They're from The Streamer Girl, dumbass," says Cee, "Here's Clo and Reive and Lily and Auri. See? Kit put us right in the story." Ezra gives Kit his best smile.         “You drew this? You are very talented." Kit smiles big.         "Thanks!" says Kit, "I'll put you guys in the next one! Maybe you could be professors at Bowsun Academy or something."         "I look forward to it," says Ezra.         "Time to go, Cee," you say and Cee and Kit exchange one more enthusiastic hug.         "Later fringeling!" Calls Kit.         "Piss off, stationer!" Cee calls back. Ezra curls his fingers around yours and squeezes. Cee tells you all about her three cycles with Kit, the movies they watched, the Real Food they ate. How Kit's little brother wanted a blue streak in his hair too and Kit's parents said no and how mad he got. I wanna be cool like Kit and Cee.         "I told him he's got plenty of time to be cool," says Cee, "And he told me that I don't understand how the world works. He's like, four." Ezra laughs.         "Wise for his years." Says Ezra. And the three of you fall quiet. You find the pod much as you left it, towed to the Polly Jean and clipped in, transferred by the station's tugs. You settle in and do a full systems check. Calling out the checklists and making sure everything is good for transit.         "What are you guys so happy about?" asks Cee.         "Whatever do you mean?" asks Ezra.         "You been all smiles since I hit the dock," says Cee, "Both of you. Did we score a really good job? Did we win the Puggart Bench lottery or something? What aren't you telling me?"         "That," says Ezra, "Is for us to know and you to endlessly speculate about."         "Hmph," says Cee.

Tagging: @oonajaeadira, @grogusmum , @honestly-shite, @writeforfandoms, @ladyvengeancesposts, @the-blind-assassin-12

[writefightandflightclub]

Violent delights (Chapter four)

Summary: First Order!Poe x reader series (ongoing). Chapters 1-3 available here. Taglist open.

Author’s note: Chapter 3 was smutty. Have we all recovered? This is significantly less smutty, but stick around. You have my assurance that things will heat up again in future chapters. Also, if you’ve ever wondered what the Morning After the Night Before with FO!Poe might be like? You’re about to find out. As ever, reblogs appreciated, comments and asks very welcome. I LOVE to hear what you think (what is the point without you?)!

Warnings: (18+ only) restraint / imprisonment (canon-typical), language, sexual references, choking (con and non-con), torture references, drugging references, bondage references. Um, being stepped on (idk). Let me know if I missed any. 

Taglist: @aussiefangirlwolfy @localashe @fictionalcharactersownme @a-somehow-functioning-dumbass @itsamedeemoney (let me know if I missed you or you’d like to be added). @tintinwrites I’m taking the liberty of tagging you - hope that’s ok?

The Commander lures you from your slumber with the soft press of a kiss on your mouth, the seductive skim of his tongue along your bottom lip. His scent ensnares you; that undertone of caustic, First Order soap masked by his potent, rousing musk. Stirring, you hum as -impossibly gentle- he ghosts his lips along your cheek, your jaw, mouths at your pulse point. “Time to go, sweetheart.” he coaxes, his balmy breath trailing to the shell of your ear. And then you can practically hear the shark smile, the glisten of teeth as he whispers: “Hux is waiting for you.” His words are soft-spoken, but with the precision of his threat they become as intrusive as an alarm resounding in your head.

It is quite the wake-up call.

You inhale sharply, instantly alert, but before you can react he yanks your hands, your bound hands, wresting you violently from the bed. He jolts you forwards and your knees collide harshly with the hard floor, your continuing momentum throwing you down on to your elbows. You are immobile for a moment, hissing-in air, until the jarring pain in your joints abates. And then, in an instant, he is looming over you, pressing his polished, heavy-tread boot down on to the side of your face.

It is quite the Morning After.

“G’ morning to you too, darling,” you simmer as your face crushes against the cold, unyielding floor, your ass sticking up into the air.

“Are you going to behave yourself?” he asks, curtly, as his boot pushes down more insistently, forcing your jaw slack, a trail of drool beginning to course down on to the cool tiles. You treat it as a temporary moment of respite, a chance to haul in a deep, centering breath. To observe that he’s redressed you in your sullied Resistance clothes, boots and all. You brace against the stun-cuffs at your wrists, against his foot; testing your restraints, testing him. You find no hint of weakness. “Are you?” he snarls.

You make a reluctant noise of compliance, the mention of Hux still causing blood to pulse rhythmically in your ears like a muted siren.

“Good. Get up.” he orders, unpinning you, and you clamber to your feet, scouring the commander’s face for any whisper of feeling; any hint at all of internal conflict which might indicate he would think twice before handing you over. You draw a blank. The siren in your head does not relent.

“I’m getting the hint that you don’t want me to stay for breakfast, Dameron. How about you call me a TIE and I’ll be on my way?”

That fucking crescent smile. A bat of his eyes. “Come on, rebel. What did you expect?”

He’s right. Surely you knew it would come to this? And yet you still srutinize his overcast, sunless eyes as if he might be your lighthouse. As if he might guide you through the rolling sea of panic. As if his eyes -alight with that gunmetal glint- could call you home across unforgiving seas. But his expression meets you and it’s bleak; detached. He’s not your light. Once again he’s the dark side of the storm that will spell your desolation. Your stomach flips as if you are being subsumed by a crashing wave.

He’s in control. You submitted. You remember submitting vividly. Your core clenches around that memory.

“You didn’t think I would keep you safe much longer, did you?” he questions. 

“Safe?” you scoff.

“Have I hurt you?” he asks pithily, managing to sound affronted.

Where do you begin? Drugged, slapped, fucked, cut. “You know you-”

He interrupts, rephrasing his question, eyes fervid. “Have I hurt you in ways you didn’t like?”

No. No, you admit. Not yet.

But the General will.

Somewhere through the haze of panic, the trauma of being torn so harshly from sleep, the memories of the night before which cavort in and out of your head, your self-preservation instincts finally begin to kick-in. You cling to this newfound lifeline, cycling through your options, systematically.

Seduce, bargain, blackmail, beg, fight. And he must sense that you land on “fight” as your body coils itself like a snake preparing to strike.

He raises a finger.

“Ah-ah.” he warns, imperiously. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Don’t you want to find out where Hux is keeping Barret? Aren’t you burning to know?”

A final option. Comply.

Bile rises up in your throat. Barret. You avert your eyes from the commander as your face burns in an admission of guilt. You haven’t thought about Barret once. You were too preoccupied getting the fuck of your life from the First Order commander who drugged him. Who drugged you. Your breath seethes in and out of you, but -in truth- you’re only angry at yourself. 

“He might be a little worse for wear,” Dameron continues, unmoved, “you know, from the torture... but he’s alive, for now. And I hear he’s really worried about you.” His tone is purposely flippant, his wolf eyes hooded, goading.

You feel sick. Ashamed. But you jut your chin at him, as defiant as possible in the face of resignation. “Take me to Hux. I’m not going to beg.”

The commander leers fiendishly, knowingly, knives hidden in his smile. “You only beg for my cock then? Not for your friends’ lives?” 

There’s nothing but truth in his razor-sharp words, and he can see that they cut you. You could muster something in retort, you could attempt to fight or rage, but it would be futile; it wouldn’t change how much of a monster you apparently are, would it? Maybe pain, a slow end, is as much as you deserve.

“Don’t get me wrong, sweetheart,” he sings, his buoyant tone contrary to everything you are feeling. “I’m all for the begging. I like my needy little toy.” The pad of his thumb rises to your lips, brushing each in turn. Predictably, even this wretched morsel of touch evokes a dark desire in you. How is he so capable of overriding all your better instincts? Flooding you with it. 

Yes, you could say something, try and retort, but instead you just look at him, dragging your eyes over his lips, his hair, his uniform, his body, his crotch. Until his nostrils flare. Until he begins to squirm under your intense study. Until -you imagine- the blood pulses to his length. You swear, somehow, that you can almost feel the throb of lust in his body.

And then, you give him a tight-lipped, knowing smile. A self-satisfied quirk of your eyebrow. “I’m the needy one?”

Neither of you are locked in this tryst alone. Both dragged down by it. Perhaps... perhaps you shouldn’t castigate him for this. Perhaps he simply stirred the beast which had been in you all along. That’s it. You could hardly blame him for tipping you into darkness -could you- if you had already come so close to the edge by your own volition?

A long breath seethes out of him, and he wrings those damn leather gloves. His eyes darken. “Get to the refresher, now, scum.” he says coolly, no doubt reasserting his authority. You side-eye him, huff a breath out. It’s not as though you could forget that you’re presently at his mercy. If he has any.

So, you oblige. You let him lean you up against the counter, hands positioning your hips. You let him spread your thighs astride him so he can nestle there. Your bound hands pinned uselessly between your warm bodies. You let his hand still your head as he washes your face with a damp cloth, his jaw set. You let him gently fix your hair. You feel awash with unease. Despite this closeness his touch feels... ceremonial. Like he’s preparing you for a ritual slaughter; preening you as a pretty prize for the General. You suppose he enjoys the power play of being the one to get you ready. After all, why would he allow you even a scrap of control? He decided when you woke, how you woke. He’s decided everything which has happened since. It’s meant to be destablising, you understand. Well, it’s working. You feel a distinct lack of stablity.

You grimace as, next, he coats a toothbrush with paste and holds it out to your lips. You look at him questioningly, mildly humiliated. And then he’s saying “open”, voice laced with honey, looking right at you from beneath his lashes, his eyes like tractor beams. You despise yourself for the fact it turns you on as he controls your jaw with his hand in order to work the toothbrush over your pearly teeth. Seriously? Even this? He commands you “spit”. He says something about if you had more time he would make you open your pretty mouth and have you swallow instead.

Then, he caresses you with a single, gloved finger. He runs it deliberately along your jaw, his touch like a fuse line running along your skin, possessing the power to combust you. And with him here, between your thighs like this, all you can think about is last night. Him writhing on you, hot and animal. You remember how you opened eagerly for him and welcomed him in, his length gliding into you thick and urgent. All you can think about is how you want him again. You become lost in your body, in the echo of his brutal thrusts.

“Oh. One more thing.” his teeth flash white as he takes his aftershave in one hand, clasping your bound limbs in the other. He spritzes his scent on to each of your pulse points in turn. So that you smell like him. Then, his hand travels up your neck, and he squeezes. Lightly. Ardently. His thumb traverses circles on the fading bite marks he trailled down to your collarbone. He hums in satisfaction as you mewl for him, unconsciously offering your throat to him like dazed prey. He swallows thickly, settling his firm gaze on you. He shakes you, to be sure you listen. “When he touches you like this, don’t forget who you belong to.”

You avert your eyes from him, from your captor. Your lover. The gesture, his words, trailing a slow, liquid heat all the way down to your core.

“So needy, sweetling,” he confirms, with relish, slapping you lightly on the cheek with his open palm.

Seduce, bargain, blackmail, seduce, beg, fight, comply, seduce. You cycle through your options again.

He removes himself from the junction of your thighs, seemingly unaffected. It leaves you lacking. He turns, somehow composed, and sweeps towards the main room, where you intuitively know you’re expected to follow. “Ready to meet the General?” he throws casually back to you.

A final option. Panic.

You stall there momentarily, still reeling from him, from everything. But as you gather yourself you notice the shaving blade, glinting on the counter; your true lighthouse in the storm.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” you respond, surreptitiously pocketing the blade and catching-up to him.

He gives you a sly once-over. “Not afraid to meet Hux?”

You shrug, almost light-heartedly, but your words drip with vitriol. “From one First Order dick to another.”

You are shocked as his face splits into a fleeting, perfect smile. It lingers in his eyes even as he clips a chain to your stun cuffs, so that he might easily lead you. Then he gives it a tug -his eyes finally lit, dancing- as if he’s thinking about how else he might make use of you all bound like this. “You know, if you weren’t scum I feel like we could be good together, baby.”

Absurd, isn’t it? He’s about to march you off toward probable death. But suddenly you’re smiling back. “Maybe if you gave up the Order.” you look him up and down, eyes roving aprovingly over his tamed curls, across those pressed lapels at the expanse of his chest, down to those polished, unforgiving boots.

“Let me guess. You want me to keep the uniform.”

He bites his lip, teeth snagging on the plump flesh, and you wonder if you might jump him then and there. Instead, you share an evanescent moment of affinity, an intimation of your weakness for one another. A moment where you both perhaps wonder, what if? What if? 

Then, he wrests you from the room, marching you down the long, sparse corridor of the First Order ship. He leads you along by the chain and you follow almost gladly in his wake, the wake of his storm. As you follow, you are positively enthralled by his raven curls, his measured, majestic stride in motion. You recall the first time you saw him stalk down that street, dark and devastating, weaving almost gleefully through the choas and bloodshed. Arresting. Formidable. For some inexplicable reason the memory warms you, perverse as that is. Look at how far you’ve come.

As he leads you, you hardly register the contemptuous looks of the others you pass, as they realise precisely who and what you are. What you do notice is the way the crowd part for him, the reverant fear and respect he inspires. And that makes you glow with the most peculiar pride. He -this powerful man- had craved you, caved for you, taken you, said you belong to him. Not only that, but he had welcomed your imperfect darkness, tasted it, caressed it, drank from it. It disturbs you to think you have never felt more seen.

It already feels too soon, when your journey is complete. If only you had more time. You arrive at a metal door, and the commander swiftly dismisses the Stormtroopers standing guard. They turn on their heels and when the corridor is clear and quiet, he stands outside with you for a moment, toe-to-toe, his hands tugging yours taut towards him. If an onlooker didn’t know better, they might say you were exchanging vows, the scene practically matrimonial.

He stares deeply, uncomfortably into your eyes. “So about last night, sweetling.” he starts.

No, you’re not letting him do that. Not now. “No,” you protest firmly.

The commander looks at you curiously. Amused. “Oh, so you do have some limits, after all?”

“Take the cuffs off me.” Your request is plain, his compliance improbable, but you can’t help blurt it out as you face the reality of meeting the General. The General you know wants you dead. Or worse.

“Honey...” He leans in close to you, excrutiatingly close, diverting his lips to the shell of your ear. “I’ll take the cuffs off you when you’ve been good.” He lingers there, reaching one hand down into your pocket, reclaiming his shaving blade. “And you’ve been very, very bad.” You practically whimper, from his proximity, from the rasp of his hot breath on your cheek, from the fact you are now all alone without any lifeline at all. He leans back from you slightly, rocking his weight on to his heels and smoothly concealing the blade in his own breast pocket. You wish you could wipe that maddening smirk off his face. 

“Hey, come on.” he says soothingly, reaching out to stroke your cheek. For the first time, probably long overdue, you flinch away from his touch. “Listen. Whatever happens next, just go with it. It might even be fun.” He gives you a surreal wink, the briefest flash of white teeth. Then, he presses a sudden, crushing, closed-lips kiss on to your mouth, just before the door slides open. It is almost as if he has wed you in the archway of a First Order corridor, claimed your allegience. But you remember with clarity that he’s made you no promises. No vows.

You turn, to see an open, bare, and expansive room, Hux stood in the centre, facing away from you. Arms clasped behind his back.

You are spiralling, into an abyss. Into a place that’s hopeless, and the only thing you find to cling on to is this thrum in your veins, this oscillating darkness. You let it embrace you. Baptise you. Calm you. A deep, centering force. It allows you to draw just enough power to smooth your face, dull your panic. To stand taller as if a taut rope is coiled like a corset at your stomach. You submit -you’re getting so good at that- and you feel the darkness bind you and hitch you up in its beatific bondage.

Bolstered, you suddenly you have the nerve to venture into the space, your voice surprisingly loud, impassive, even before Hux has turned to you.

You want to be majestic. Fearless. Ruthless. Like him. You will be.

“How long have you been standing like that for effect, Hugs? Ten minutes, twenty minutes? Did you try out a few different poses?”

He turns, his face already scrunched-up in distaste as if he’s sucked on bitter fruit. He’s already so unlike Dameron, you realise. In fact, you’re not sure how he dare call himself superior to your sweet, forbidden fruit, at all. Out of the corner of your eye, you even catch Dameron looking at him with disdain.

Nevertheless, Hux stalks towards you as if he owns the room. In your periphery, you see the commander circle to the side of you; to get a better view of the proceedings, you suppose. Hux attempts to tower over you, looks down his nose at you. This close, he smells astringent. Still that caustic, First Order soap, but without any of the warming, tantalizing musk. He cycles through all the classic intimidation tatics. But it’s not working, you realise. You’re not scared of him. You see through him. He’s lost. Desperate too; to prove himself.

As soon as the General sucks in a breath to speak you get in there first. “I’m ready to roll my eyes, so let me know as soon as you’ve finally landed on a comeback.” you snark.

He exhales slowly, already looking mildly perturbed.

“This is one of the problems with the Resistance.” he says to no-one in particular, beginning to circle you, his hands clasped behind his back. His beady eyes fix on you from beneath the brim of his hat.

“Oh, Hugs. The circling. Do they teach this in villain school? It’s making me dizzy.”

Hux only smiles thinly, tiredly. “Commander Dameron, perhaps you’d like to formally introduce our guest to her stun cuffs?” Hux’s eyes tic towards the commander, who -you think- finds himself having to quickly scrub all trace of amusement from his face. 

He meets your eyes, just for an instant. “Clicker’s broken, General.”

“What do you mean the clicker’s broken?” Hux spits, voice already trembling with rage. Whether his rage is for you, or for Dameron, you’re not quite sure.

“Clicker’s broken. Very unfortunate.” He purses his full lips, his handsome face pinched into business mode.

Hux seethes, his hand flailing out towards your throat. You eyeball Dameron as he chokes you, and you swear you see his tongue flick out over his lips. But Hux’s grip is crushing, actually suffocating. The tightness in your chest becomes like fire. You begin to see spots.

“With respect, General,” Dameron interjects, “you might want to skip ahead to the next part?”

Hux sneers, as if he doesn’t very much appreciate the commander telling him what to do. Still, he drops you, and you collapse to your knees, coughing and heaving the air back into your lungs, spluttering on the floor at the General’s feet, as if prostrating yourself for forgiveness. Oh, now you are pissed off. You don’t kneel for this man. This whiny, cruel, snivelling wretch. How dare he touch you. As your anger intensifies, you feel that dark force vibrating under your skin once again. You summon more of it. Gather it deep inside until you think you can even hear the drone of it in your blood, in the marrow of your bones.

Hux is not the most powerful one in the room. Not by far. Hux should be afraid of you.

You recover, implausibly quickly. You stand. You bring yourself face-to-face with the General. You brace yourself for whatever he is about to subject you to next, at Dameron’s behest. But there’s no way you could see what Hux says next coming.

“Whilst it is more than apparent that you have some residual... insolence to be drilled out of you,“ he starts to address you, uncomfortably, “be assured we can take care of that. We can teach you the proper way to behave, if you’re willing to learn, to be disciplined. All the same, it is my pleasure to welcome you to the First Order, Commander.”

What in the.... All you can do is look on. As if you are floating above your own body.

“Commander Dameron tells me we have a new recruit. That you were swift to betray your band of rebels,” Hux continues. “So, tell me. Are you ready to fall to your knees and renounce the Resistance?”

You had imagined the most fantastical tortures and mindfucks that the commander might concoct for you, but, well-played Dameron; you certainly didn’t see that coming.

It looks very much like you need a new list of options.

“So,” the general prods, “will you pledge your allegience?”

Before you answer, you bite your lips to stifle a laugh of disbelief. But really, it’s quite simple. You know exactly what to do.

You turn towards the commander.

“Dameron, honey?”

He looks at you, his eyes practically glowing, and then in unison you both tilt your heads towards Hux, enjoying his obvious confusion as his eyes flit between you. 

Hux gulps.

You can no longer hold back your own resplendent shark smile as you hold you hand out to your commander. “Give me the blade, darling?”

Maybe this would be fun, after all.

Violent, yes; but delightful.