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She was an itinerant spy who stuck out like a sore thumb with her misapplied badge of rank and her uncontrollable face-framing curls when Hux first captured her. 


Rose had thought that surely he would put her to death. The blaster on his hip gleamed a hungry gunmetal grey, just waiting to put a bolt in her Rebel head. The memory of his leather-bound hands fondling the pendant around her neck rankled. 


She would have gone proudly. Having already transmitted plenty of classified files and sabotaged a few First Order projects, she would have welcomed the high honor of dying for her cause.


Instead of shoving her down to kneel on the ground and finishing the job he’d started while Finn was still at her side, he'd dragged her handcuffed into an interrogation chamber. He’d gotten that ugly twist in his lip: triumphant, evil, and perfectly, coldly calculating. 


“Smart-fingered little girl with the iron-trap mind, except you're absolutely horrid at blending in, aren't you?”


She'd tried spitting at him, but at the behest of a single stroke on his commwatch, her handcuffs pumped a temporarily paralyzing volt of electricity and put a stop to her plans of physical defiance. 


She half-expected Hux to rape her. Or at least to try, the hound for humiliation that he is; but aside from when she was first grabbed and cuffed, he's never touched her. 


He'd thought of something much more clever than death or assault or torture. 




A very strange sort of working sentence. 


She’s been allotted a single cell and three rationed meals a day. The lights are always on to keep her days blurry and endless while she toils away for the good of the First Order.


“We cannot possibly risk putting you to work on mechanics; luckily, I have much more useful purposes for you,” he'd said, practically crowed , before sitting her in front of endless droning holo-trainers to learn the basics of alien pathology. 


“We seek to learn what biological weapons might be harnessed from among the filth of this galaxy, and you, Tico, I think will do quite marvelously for this glorious purpose.” 


She learned, against her will, how to dissect any number of strange organs. Now that’s all she does. She’s yet to make friends with the other lab techs, some prisoners and some not, but she’s working on them, and on her escape. 


It’s a fate worse than death, in some ways. But she ekes out little defiances wherever she can.  


She dictates notes aloud as she sits in her swivel chair and dissects various alien body parts. With her prisoner's reluctance, she tries not to be fascinated by the workings of various creatures; tries not to think about the lives attached to the limbs and swim bladders and eardrums being worked on by her blue-gloved hands. 


Stripped down to the basics, anatomic pathology really is analogous to her work as a mechanic. 


Bodies are simply organic machines. All she needs to do is figure out the pathway that enables each behavior, or defense mechanism, or biological adaptation, and lie about any findings that might be of actual nefarious use, and this part of her imprisonment is almost enjoyable.


Except for his kriffing unannounced visits. Every other day, checking to see “ what brilliance you've unearthed for us.” 


He likes to draw himself up to his full height whenever he curses her with his presence; as if she’s supposed to be impressed by him.


He’ll run his foul eyes over her body, concealed though she is in her ugly blue jumpsuit. 


“Oh, none yet? How odd. Soon, little rebel, yes? Of course. You wouldn't risk your fleet, would you?” 


When he first found her he'd given her the same ugly expression she recognizes on him now, here deep in the medical research bay, where she usually works surrounded by frigid colleagues and lab droids. 


Not now, though. It's late. She likes to do what she can so as to stay outside of her cell, taking on extra work just for the purpose. 


It’s only her, and him, and his odious height and his greatcoat that smells of gaberwool and sickly cologne. Her worktable, strewn with instruments. The washcloths and her overhead light and shelves lined with plasticine buckets full of gray fluid and various body parts. 


In front of her: a bean-shaped hormonal gland from a cat-like species that originates on the planet Ithus. The atmosphere on Ithus is impenetrable to humans — not on account of its lack of breathability, or its poisonous nature, but rather it's peculiar effect of inducing in most organic creatures the insatiable, unignorable need to fuck. 


Little is known about the anatomical workings of the Ithans or the particulars of their dense atmosphere. Rose was excited to dig into the challenge, but that’s all dampened by Hux’s hideous presence. 


"I've come to inspect your work," he says needlessly. He's always inspecting something, standing ramrod-straight, hands clasped behind his back, a supercilious smirk on his face. 


Her stomach lurches with disgust. 


"You can read my reports, can't you?” 


He likely already has, relaxing back in the dungeon he calls his quarters. Wherever he keeps the coffin that he sleeps in, speakers threading the cries of children from one ear, through his evil koja nut of a brain, and out the other. Walls of surveillance footage transmitted in crackling gray. Greenish holo-screens projecting the image of her trapped in his biolab. 


"Mm, but you're quite dry on the details, Tico. Perhaps I'd like to hear your more — speculative thoughts. Science is nothing without using one's intellect to form imaginative hypotheses, is it not?" 


“The First Order discourages use of one’s imagination,” she cuts back. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. The alien gland glistens under her fine-bladed knife. 


He steps closer, the sound of clean polished boots on the duracrete floor. 


“In our Troopers, yes. In most of our squadrons. But not here. Where we make art of the methods of violence which we are forced — always forced, I’m sure you’ll come to understand — to deploy.” 


“I don’t know where to even begin with that.” 






He takes another couple of clipped steps closer to her. Looming almost directly behind her now, ostensibly peering over her shoulder. Pulling her into his cloud of gaberwool and kriff-knows what else. He doesn’t move his hands from behind his back, but her stomach seizes up with the imagined ghost of a hand on her shoulder — moving up to brush her neck, beneath her ear. 


He bends down close to speak close to her there. 


“I’m not stupid, Tico,” he says, voice soft, disarmingly less tight than she’s ever heard him, all affectations of puff-chested Generaldom dropped for the moment. 


“I can tell that you’re slacking off.” 


The tiny blade in her gloved hand, if her blow is well-placed, might take out his eye. It could sever an artery in his neck, above the line of his high uniform collar, and paint his unblemished skin red. That starship-pale skin is a perfect canvas.


She twitches her eyes to take him in. He hasn’t moved his head. He’s peering down at her hands. 


“Go on, then,” he says, sounding more like himself. “I’d like to observe your work ethic in action.” 


“I can’t, with you over my shoulder like that.” 


She’s playing with fire, she knows. Hux is the closest thing she has to an ally here. He sends her extra rations sometimes, including a discontinued type of Happafruit protein bar that makes her powerfully nostalgic for the very home which he destroyed. The bars were dumped by the cargo load on Hays Minor when she was around eight years old, and sometimes they were all her family had to eat. 


Only he knows her planet of origin, and might have access to the stale bars. 


Only he would turn her imprisonment into both a slightly more comfortable experience than it would have been, while also reminding her of his continual surveillance, and the power that he holds like a lit lightsaber thrumming above her head; her hair singed with it, a hole threatening to melt through her skull into a place he’d gladly wiggle around and make into his home, if he could.  


She’d had an interrogation droid visit her prison cell, too, but her torture didn’t extend much above a Level 3. The IT-2’s Joint Cripplers had clearly been instructed not to cause permanent damage, its nerve drugs only deployed to simulate the pain of second-degree burns for the duration of the day-long questioning. 


It could only have been Hux that cared enough to issue orders to modify the torture protocols, and had the credentials to do it. 


In the end, her interrogation yielded very little that was of use to the First Order, and that, too, went unpunished.


“I promise not to be a bother,” Hux’s voice slithers into her ear. “Please, proceed.” 


The idea flashes into her mind about as quickly as her hand moves to accomplish it. 


She’ll pierce the gland. Just to see if it oozes some deadly fluid, or a gas that might take her out of this situation, him with her. This subspecies’ anatomy is known to have unpredictable defense systems. The deployment of such a venom would be infinitely better than injuring or killing him with her scalpel, directly implicating her with damning evidence. 


She’d rather die here than in the brig. 


Alongside someone else, rather than in front of an audience of bored Lieutenants charged with her execution. 


It’s a noble way to go. A sacrifice for her cause. Vengeance for the billions who looked up into their skies and saw a horrible sun crowding in, death in the form of a blinding red ray swallowing them whole. 


 So she does it. One neat stroke, stabbing into the meat of the little gland. She can feel him flinch as she does it.


“Upon incision,” Rose uses her best bored, even voice, pitched so that the transcription software doesn’t make a mess of her notes. “The gland oozes pinkish slime. Not too viscous —” 


She pauses. Hux hasn’t moved. Instead of her clawing inner rage at his nearness, her usual hatred of anyone who invades her personal bubble, she turns her head to look at him and feels a pull of arousal.


He’s looking sidelong at her, too. He’s dragging in deep breaths, his face pitching towards hers slowly, like he means to bury his nose in her hair.  


Kriff, no. 


She snaps her face forward again.


The pink keeps bleeding all over the wet-pad beneath the gland. 


“Oh, do go on,” Hux slurs, utterly failing at making the command sound stern. 


She starts to speak again.


“The incision was made — anterior to the — to the top lobe of the gland, approximately two centimeters above the vein, and it seems to have —” 


She’s stumbling on her words, heart skipping with joy because the physical effects have begun, and they cannot have avoided Hux. 


If she were of her right mind, after all, she would never take such big, greedy inhales of his scent. She catches the soft but not deeply offensive odor of the spilled glandular fluid, too, taking it in with only a tinge of fear and regret for the life she might have lived.


“And?” He prompts.


“It seems to have a strange — a profound sort of physical effect when inhaled at a proximity of — kriff, I don’t know — twenty-five centimeters, maybe —” 


Her heart rate keeps increasing, the thing a jumping muscle in her chest. She hasn’t felt it work so hard since her cadet days, running laps around a makeshift track ring. 


Panic starts to squirm deep in her belly. 


Is this what dying is like? Is Hux about to keel over, too? 


He’d kriffing better. She feels his lips against her neck, beneath her ear where she’s swept her hair up into a severe work bun, and her arms are too slow and stupid to react quickly enough to beat him away.


Not that she would want to, Rose realizes with dawning horror. Her cunt pulses with need when he makes contact with her skin.


“It seems we’ve discovered whatever substance allows the Ithans to survive their atmosphere,” he murmurs. “What a boon. Perhaps it is unique in all the universe. Perhaps we’ve found ourselves the gateway to the development of an entirely new branch of pharmaceuticals. I’ll put you at the head of it, Tico. That’s quite an honor, you know.” 


He’s so much better at talking than her. Always was.


“No, thank you.” She grits through her teeth, barely managing even that.


“I cannot put together my recommendation if your notes are sloppy, however. Get back to work.” 


“You’re a dirty kriffing tooka," she spits, loud enough for the software to register.


" Delete that," he orders in a similar tone, for the benefit of the transcribing program. He kisses her neck, which makes her whole body shiver with equal amounts of arousal and disgust, and then speaks with a tone turned completely bitter.


“I would at least detail your symptoms, Tico. For posterity, if nothing else.”

“Posterity,” she echoes. "Does that mean we’re dying?”


"You should be so lucky." 


A sick swoop plunges through her overheating body. 


She hears the sound of leather on skin, then the press of two bare, icy fingers against her neck, where her pulse is going mad. 


"How does the subject feel?" He asks, in that clipped booming voice, right in her ear, making sure he’s being recorded by her microphone. He pushes his fingers hard into her skin, a threat, right against her throbbing artery, so she makes sure to speak loudly too. Rose has long since learned how to play along when she's dragged onto each new stage of strange tortures that Hux has concocted. 


"Increased heart rate,” she stumbles out, trying to see through the fog of arousal to take stock of her responses. “Sense of — impending doom — darkness at the edge of vision —” 


She gasps for air, sucking in the essence of him. He's gone back to kissing her neck, and she moans, tilting her head, giving him more access.


“A shortness of breath." 


His lips are cold, like the fingers he's pressing along the opposite side of her neck, but she can feel the heat of his breath. Her whole being quivers. 


"Go on," he rumbles. 


"Seems to influence…” She burns with humiliation, hating that he’s right there, her imprisoner, and that his nearness seems to spur her body’s horrific reaction ever-further. 


“Ah, reckless behavior. Effect is instant… Effect seems to increase with time." 


"Be more specific." 


Rose has dimly become aware that he's rubbing himself from the outside of his pants.


That's such a good idea. 


She snakes a hand down between her legs, and even just brushing the crotch of her jumpsuit feels good, relieving her the tiniest bit. Making it just a fraction easier to breathe. 


"It has been —" she looks up, expecting they've been like this for ten minutes now, at the very least. "Two standard minutes since the gland was pierced. Effect may be offset by — by means of physical relief."


"What sort of means of physical relief, 6754-J?” 


It rankles to hear him call her that way, but she prefers it to the way he says Tico, like it’s both an insult and a pet name. She'd much rather he not refer to her at all, and that she were at home on Hays Minor, munching on those terrible protein bars…


Instead she's here, in a cold lab that stinks of formaldehyde and conservator-chilled flesh, and she's touching herself outside of her scratchy jumpsuit, and she's wetter than she's ever been in her life.


"Why are your fingers still on my neck? Counting heartbeats?"


She doesn't want him to remove them. 


Thankfully, he doesn't.


"I ought to hook you up to a monitoring droid," he mutters. The sound of his hand on his pants picks up speed slightly. Gross. “It’s not as if you care about your work. Our work. Perhaps I was wrong about your aptitude for working toward scientific progress…”


His accent has become blurry, muddled. He sounds more attractive than ever. 


"We'd have such lovely data to pore over, Tico, if only you’d try."  


"Fuck your data," she slurs. Her heart cannot possibly handle working this hard for much longer. "'m dying. Don't care 'bout kriffing data." 


"If there were only something we could do about that…" 


She closes her eyes, tension the only thing holding her body together, and keeping her from grabbing his lips with her own. That and the hand she's snaking down into her jumpsuit, unzipping it slowly, slipping behind her standard-issue underthings to sneak between her labia to her impossibly soaked pussy. She finds her clit and rubs it, nearly lifting off her seat in her enthusiasm to meet her own finger. How divine, but clearly and painfully not enough.  


The point of his lips on her neck is the only thing in the world that matters. The only thing that could possibly soothe.


“‘M takin’ you with me,” she mumbles, two fingers deep in her own cunt without preamble, without requiring a quick stretch. “Universe is gonna be so much better off.” 


“Oh, don’t worry about me,” he chirps. He’s stopped stroking himself, thank the gods. “I’m rather enjoying this, and I’ll have a security droid come and find me soon enough — it’s only yourself you’ll sacrifice. And what a waste of a brilliant mind. A pity. No, no, no, don’t stop on my account; by all means, plug that greedy little cunt. It won’t save you, but it’s a lovely show.” 


She exhales shakily, wanting to growl, but he resumes mouthing at her neck, slowly drawing his lips up and down. She can do nothing but pitch towards him, needy. 


When she scissors her fingers inside of herself, her heart responds by slowing. Her vision clears up the slightest bit. 


The solution to this predicament presents itself like a Life Day gift she’s been shaking for weeks, and only now is allowed to unwrap. 


She should be glad to embrace death, should welcome the numbing tingle in her lips and the encroaching darkness. It’s what she wanted. But there’s a voice in her mind, screaming — just let him take you, let him breed you, you need to live, you can’t just get out of this the easy way! Did Paige ever take the easy way out? And wouldn’t Paige want you to have his baby, to keep the Tico line going strong —


She’s clearly going insane. That creature’s fluid is non-compatible with human life. 


Rose has never thought of anybody breeding her in her kriffing life, especially not this creep, but now her brain is clutched by the idea, as if it were her own invention, and her sense of her own imminent death is pushing her closer towards him, seeking him out. 


She removes her fingers from her cunt, and the heart-pounding resumes; the sense of standing at the edge of a very large chasm with only Hux there to pull her back from oblivion.


Rose is going to die if she doesn’t fuck him, that much has become clear. They’ve brought an adaptation to the fuck-or-die atmosphere from Ithus into this histology lab, and he is quite literally her only hope of survival. 




She’s lived through worse.


Rose stands from her chair to kick her jumpsuit and boots off, out of her way. 


“Take off that kriffing uniform,” she rasps, not looking at Hux. She doesn’t want to see him, for fear of jumping his bones before he’s even removed the outer evidence of his allegiance to the First Order. The evidence of what he’s done with his power over her, how he’s put her here and made her desperate enough to stab alien glands and land herself in a situation like this. 


Her breast band comes off, then the soaked panties, left in a mess on the floor. Not wanting to risk losing her pendant somehow, she leaves it on. With valiant effort, she gathers up the bean-shaped gland and its pinkish lymph, tosses it into a container cup and seals it with clumsy twists. She throws it across the lab, hearing it hit the plexiglass hood of some other work station. 


It costs her time that she doesn’t have, the effort leaving her breathing hard, shaking, and finally looking towards him, hungry and terrified. 


Hux has been watching with a smirk on his face and a tent in his pants that she doesn’t want to look at, but can’t tear her eyes from.


“You need to kriffing get naked,” she tries to say, but her tongue feels so thick she can only pronounce a breathy yooooooouuuuu — before she gives up, and focuses what attention she can on stroking her clit while she glares daggers at him. 


“What was that?” 


She shuts her eyes hard. 


You,” she says thickly, unable to breathe beyond a shallow gasping inhalation, but still focusing all of her vitriol in those words. “ Need. To fuck. Me.” 


“Do I?” He’s positively beaming. Watching the life choke out of her must be doing it for him, because he’s still not stroking his cock, not — not doing anything but watching her, his grin growing by the second. She was closer to the spill of the fluid, but he wasn’t much further away. He has to be just as infected as she; and yet. 


Maybe he is some kind of evil droid draped in siliskin and a trim uniform. 


“And here I thought you wanted this. Perhaps we can document your symptoms as they progress. Even if it is a waste of a sharp mind, I’ve never objected to the sacrifice of prisoners in the name of scientific discovery.” 


She makes a humiliating gurgling sound, her lip hitching. Saving her strength for more important things than negotiating with a genocidal warlord, she turns to her workstation, grips the edge of the table, and leans into the microphone. Still staring venom into his cold green eyes, watching the mirth sparkle in them, she slurs out a report. 


“Subject 6754-J is fat’lly ‘nfected at… four minutes past r’lease of fluid.” 


He advances on her, victory scribbled on his harsh features. 


“See? That’s more like it.” 


“Pain,” she grinds out into the mic, wheezing in. Her face is hot but her guts are cold and he’s so ugly, she knows he is, but in this harsh white lab light and with her mind infected by alien hormones, she can’t help but find him very, very attractive. Face all pretty angles with a nose she’d like to bite at, pale green eyes with pinprick pupils, laser-sights focused directly on her. 


She looks away. He’s easing behind her now, and she doesn’t want to see. 


“No breath. Sexual arousal beyond… anything… eased slightly by touch…” 


“Is it?” 


The soft crack of knees and a leather-clad hand on her ass, resting there gently. Her head hangs low. Her heart wants to crawl out through her throat. She sees that she’s still wearing her blue vinyl gloves, but cannot begin to piece together enough energy to remove them; it’s all she can do not to jump away when she feels him spreading her cheeks apart, and then the warmth of his breath against her.


“General Hhhhh-ux is assisting in data c’llection,” she monotones, with a flash of inspiration: if she can’t escape this situation, the least she can do is scribble him into its recording. Placing him here with her, for all time, deep in the research records. 


A short laugh from behind her, and his tongue strokes over her asshole. 


Of course he’d go straight for that. The kriffer. She’s lucky she likes having her ass eaten as much as her pussy, that she’s sensitive everywhere, especially now, when each bit of contact between them is magnified tenfold. 


She’s able to take a deep breath, the relief of it making her light-headed. On the exhale a long moan is ripped out of her chest, because evil he may be, but he’s also incredibly skilled with that  mouth of his. 


When she shoves herself against his face, he gladly obliges her with more forceful ministrations, prying her open slightly with a pointed, determined tongue. He only pauses licking her to bite at her ass cheek and command, “record your observations, Tico.” 


“Oral stimulation provides marginal relief,” she gasps, words returning to their proper shape. “Of note: the General goes for the ass first." 


He spanks her for that, a single hard thwap. The sensation spreads throughout her body, and she feels death ebb slightly further away. 


“Do that again.” 


“Don’t presume to tell me what to do,” he sneers, lifting from her ass for just a moment; but there he goes, smacking her again, his bare open palm leaving the most delicious sting while he dives back in and sucks on her hole. 


“Other forms of stimulation also prove somewhat effective,” Rose narrates. Another smack, and she bites back a groan. “Whatever the subject finds stimulating normally may cause the effects to abate. General, how are you faring back there?” 


An irritated grunt issues from him, his grip on her thighs tightening, his efforts redoubling, her cunt crying from being ignored. 


He’s yet to undress, but he’s rubbing his clothed erection against her calf: an unmistakable sign that he's as affected as she is. She picks up her foot and traces the stiff shape of him, a cat-like little grin spreading on her face.


“The General prevented his own symptoms from progressing via visual stimulation: watching the light drain out of Subject 6754-J's eyes. He's now engaged with her ass —" 


Another crack against her skin. Yes, thank the gods. He's so mean. She needs it so much. 


A startled laugh chokes out of her, both at the spanking and her thoughts. 


Her lungs are already starting to feel thick and syrupy again. She needs more.  


Hux does too, apparently. 


He rubs his gloved thumb down through the seam of her cunt, smearing her ridiculous wetness, parting her open with thumb and index finger. His bare finger slides inside easily; probes around a bit, and, finding her pliable, is joined by a second finger, then a third. 


His forehead hits her back, resting between her shoulder blades. One or both of them is coated with sweat, and his fingers are pumping in and out of her, his gloved hand gripping her hip. A shiver of disgust runs through her, but it tastes sweet on her tongue. 


"Shall we test if orgasms are a cure?" 


His voice is shaky. She's wracked with glee. 


"I doubt you've ever made a woman come, but we can try." 


It doesn't take him long. A lingering effect of the fumes, surely, and not the way he punches at her g-spot with the intensity of a teenage boy trying to prove something. Nor the bitter whine that he can't tamp down when she mocks him, or the way he pokes his erection against her ass. 


Rose shivers, mewling out high-pitched, shaking hard on his smooth fingers, her orgasm pushing past where usually it would end, building harsher until she realizes, almost as an afterthought, that she's about to squirt. The thought of soaking his sleeve carries her the rest of the way there, kicking, leaning on the exam table and arching her back. All the way through it his gloved hand is patting her hip, as if to comfort her. 


Well, knowing him, it’s more like he thinks of her as something akin to a fine little nerf whose rump he's checking, gauging her firmness, her potential to make a good dinner. 


"Orgasm seems easier to achieve," Rose says into the mic, once she's regained some semblance of consciousness. He's still plugging her cunt, breathing harshly against her back, like he needs to gather himself. 


"Lasts longer — Subject 6754-J doesn't usually squirt on first contact with sexual partners, but it was achieved in —" she squints up at the green digi-clock, picking jumbled numbers out of her mind. "Three minutes. But orgasm does not abate the effects of the fluid, because 6754-J is still experiencing full-body arousal, when usually she would be tired, and want to cuddle —" 


"Describe your physical symptoms," she hears, his words ground out painfully. 


"Symptoms of fluid-induced arousal are similar to typical sexual response, with the notable exception of a feeling of impending doom unless sexual activity occurs, and a remarkable lifting of typical inhibitions around the selection of one's partner.” 


Rolling her eyes, she scoops in deep breaths while she can, enjoying the temporary lightness in her body that the orgasm has lent her. 


If he's suffering from a similar lack of satisfaction, then that's all the better.


"Hardened nipples, elevated blood pressure and heart rate, swelling of the labia and the clitoris — I assume, the General can correct my notes —" 


"No corrections," he practically shouts. Dumb, pathetic thing, he just wants to be heard. She snort-laughs. 


"You alright, General?" She swings her head to try and look at him, but he's hiding his face, presumably because he's started dry-humping her in earnest, rubbing his cock against her ass cheek, somehow still fully clothed, his red hair all disheveled. 


"Experiencing negative side effects?" 


"Orgasm does not abate the symptoms," he answers, loud enough for the mic, as if the separation of their conversations can save his dignity.


"Did you come in your pants?" She faux-gasps. "General. They didn't beat that out of you in evil-little-boy school?" 


To his credit — when he's pissed, he moves quickly. Rose isn't complaining. He whips his fingers out of her cunt, grabs her head and pushes her down on the work table so hard that her skull hits it with a loud thud. The sound echoes around the empty lab. Her ears ring, the sound bouncing around, leaving no room to think about what's happening, what's about to happen: the sound of his belt clinking, his muttering to himself, something about her exceptionally thick skull. 


It's less easy to ignore him when he's buried to the hilt inside of her, his intrusion one mean, biting stroke. 


She can't help the little shriek that escapes her, a sound of pain and pleasure, both of the feelings immense beyond reason. His fingers clamp into her hips, pulling her roughly back onto him when he withdraws a little, and oh no, she thinks, past the haze of chemically-induced sex. Oh, kriff, he might actually be good at this. 


“Did they teach you how to take cock like a whingeing house cat back on your pathetic little Rebel base?” He simpers, all venom and pettiness. 


“Dunno ‘bout you, but we don’t fuck cats on our base,” she manages, her body flooded with ecstasy at getting what it desperately needed. He uses his hold on her head to knock it against the table and her mouth opens, teeth bared in anger, but all she can manage is a Haysian curse. 


Asu,” she hisses up at him, piling all of her hate into it


As if he’d care that she’s calling him a dog. 


As if Hux would ever bother learning the language of a planet he’d destroyed. 


It doesn’t matter, anyway. Her stomping on his boot, his smacking her ass, it’s all window dressing. What really matters is the sex, and that — that’s too good for any of the extraneous fighting to matter much. 


With her head still ringing, it's beyond her capacity to judge if his cock is particularly big or not, but he’s thick, and he's just what she needs. A piece that was missing for far longer than however long it's been since she pierced that awful little gland. 


Her fingers scramble uselessly against the table for purchase, and with the vinyl gloves on, they find none. He’s fucking her too hard for that, rough snapping thrusts, like he can drain all of his anger at her out into her cunt. He can’t, because gods know that a man who blights worlds has too many problems to fuck them away, but fine, let him try. It’s beyond her to beg him to stop when he feels so perfect inside of her. 


Nobody’s ever had the guts to treat her this harshly. She’s never fallen into bed with someone so callous, who would take his pleasure without caring much for her comfort or her enjoyment. But Hux. He makes her want to tear her hair out. Makes her regret that she was ever born, that one day she might fall onto his cock at the behest of a foreign hormone, an idiopathic urge to save her skin by singular, repulsive means, and that, worst of all — she would like it. 


One hand holds her hip, angling her up, opening her tight channel. The other’s threaded in her hair, keeping her head down on the table. Her cheek is crushed against it, and her tits; everything soft and vulnerable about her locked up tight against the cold metal surface. There’s a modicum of relief in the stimulation of her nipples, though she wishes she could shove them in his mouth. Let him bite them. He has such nice, straight teeth. Only the best orthodontic droids in the First Order, she’s heard. 


His body is arched awkwardly over hers, his pale skin yet to be freed from his wetted and ugly uniform jacket. She’ll have to get it off of him, but the reminder that she stained it is rather nice. 


Before she shuts her eyes to enjoy the way he’s pounding her, Rose spies the stain of the pinkish fluid on the wet-pad that the gland had rested on. 


This won’t be over for a while yet, then. 




She’s survived worse.




The floor of the lab is duracrete, hard and merciless. 


So is he, it seems: made of inorganic stuff, unyielding, and vicious on her knees. 


He’s long since barked an order into her comm-watch, so they’ve been left undisturbed, the lab locks turned. 


In her addled mind Rose thinks it might be nice to let somebody else in. 


They would see her in all of her brutalized glory: the bite-bruises all over her tits, her neck. How they’re nothing compared to the prints of her teeth she’s left on Hux, his chest and ribs and the pretty column of his neck: perfect imprints of her imperfect little bones, his freckled skin all red and swollen. 


She’d show off how much come is dripping out of her. How she’s slick with it, thin white ropes dribbling out when she’s shoved down before him, on her knees. 


It’d be lovely to be admired for her ability to take him, to match his violent affection with her own unyielding intensity. She can make him come, again and again and again, despite his will, and all of his bitching about their mismatch of rank, of class, of breeding and creed — and how dirty he finds her, how repulsive this business is. A squeeze of her pussy and he's seething putty in her hands, biting back groans and muttering to himself about how she shouldn't feel so good, it should be outlawed to be this good and not belong to me, to not lounge in my bed all day, waiting for my cock. 


Less desirable would be any witnesses to the way he makes her come. Sometimes it’s as easy as a circle traced around her clit, and a soft whine, an internal clench around him as he mutters that’s right, give it to me . Just as often, he reduces her to a wreck of a woman, shrieking angrily and crying into her hands because he’s just so fucking mean , and she can’t get enough, even when she digs her nails into her own forehead, or pounds her fists on the table. Any of the multiple tables he’s taken her on. 


(“Side effects of the infection seem to play havoc on emotional states,” Rose had narrated, trying to ignore the way he slowed perfectly to let her talk, and how his languid strokes had made her toes curl and her whole body tighten. “Subject 6754-J is experiencing mood swings — somewhat aligned with the rate of sexual activity — fuck, right there, fuckfuckfuck — a-and only marginal relief with — gods, please — with orgasm —”) 


She can do plenty of admiring on her own, anyway. He’s gripping himself at the base, staring down with that imperious lilt, his hair a gorgeous mess, orange stubble already appearing on his cheeks.


Rose knows what he wants. 


She takes his cock, rock-hard and reddened and sensitive from all the friction, into the gentle cradle of her mouth. He’s been fucking into her come-filled cunt for so long that she can’t really tell who she’s sucking off of him, only that it’s all salt and human-tasting, and she’s still so deeply under the spell of the Ithan hormones ( yes, it’s only the hormones, it’s only that, she would never fuck him for hours otherwise, never, never—) that she doesn’t care. 


She just needs it. 


It’s a blind, base need. Nothing more. 


“Come now, scum-rag,” he’s saying, holding her by the sides of her head. “Clean your mess.” 


She’s so small in his giant hands. There are moments when some kind of softness between them glimmers through, and this is one of them: he could ram his cock down her throat, but he’s coaxing and slow with it. Lets her take her time. 


A thousand angry protests to his name-calling bubble up, but none of them make it out. Her mouth is too full of him, her tongue swiping his heavy length, swirling the hot head of his cock. There are tears in her eyes. She’s almost choking on him. He’s plugging her throat, and she also doesn’t care what he calls her, except in an almost scholarly sense: what can he possibly come up with next? 


Never mind that her cunt throbs with need in time to the bobbing of her head, and gets worse when he spits vitriol at her. She drags him along the wet velvet of her inner cheek, and says nothing. Only takes it.


When he comes in her mouth a minute later, she spits it so close to his foot that he has to step away, and stumbles a little. Awkward giant, when he’s not striding on the bridge of his warship. She likes that. It took a truly heroic effort not to swallow him down. 


“Rabid little cunt,” he sighs. “If you wouldn’t be so rude, this could be enjoyable for us both, you know.” 


“Being forced to fuck you for hours is my idea of hell, actually, but thanks for the advice.” 


She catches a look at his face, and a swell of victory warms her heart to see the black eye she gave him. 


(His hand clutched to his face, her fist stinging, and his dry, droll voice as he leaned into the mic: "Subject does not appreciate comments about her dead parents."


It's already purpling nicely. Too bad that bacta will erase it before his next shift. It sort of suits him, and she loves to look at it.


She catches a flicker of something, of genuine emotion, passing over his face at her comment. Is it regret? A thing akin to hurt? 


Whatever it is, it falls away quickly, his usual mask of pompous, disconnected annoyance settling back in place. 


"How are your knees?" 




He rolls his eyes, waving his hand, the gesture saying you know what I mean. 


His asking is surprising enough. That she has a choice at all in positioning is new. He must be getting tired, though she's still going strong, muscles alive with a strung-out energy that reminds her of going into battle high on too many stims. 


She glances at his cock and is pleased to see he’s not softened yet. He’s not monstrously huge, she’s seen bigger in holoporn, but to her small body he feels suitably enormous. 


He’s hard as durasteel, and all for her. 


(Only for her.) 


She’s ready. Eager.


"I want to lie down," she says, and does so, spreading her legs and watching as he drops to fit himself between them. 


"This floor is filthy. I should give you a demerit." 


"I'm already ten demerits in," she purrs, "what's one more?” 


"Make you clean it with your tongue.” 


“Mopping isn't even my job." 


“Or your toothbrush." 


"Ah," her head rocks back as he enters her, and all's right with the world again. "But then I wouldn't be good to kiss, would I?" 


It's less kissing, what they've been doing, than it is trying to suck each other's souls out of their bodies. 


Close enough, though. She tugs his head down towards her, and he obliges, open-mouthed, tasting their mixed fluids on her tongue. 


His face smells like cunt. She never knew a man could go down on her so long, and so enthusiastically.


When he's this near to her, she can see the bloom of blood in the white of his punched eye. Sea green and scarlet and shades of purple all around, like she dipped her fingers in paint and made him her own.  


"Watch you while you brush your teeth with it," he growls, bucking into her. "Every night."


"You wouldn't kiss a Rebel rat who also tastes like floor polish. You're too refined."


“I won’t be kissing you, after this.” 


It’s fun to poke at the beast, horrific though the thought of attempting this while not under the influence may be. 


“No? But if you didn’t fuck your prisoner, you’d get absolutely zero pussy. And I like kissing, soooo…”  


He rewards her with a punishing pace, as if he’s trying to bury the head of his cock in her cervix. Not quite hitting it, but trying to; only getting her sweet spot in the process. 


"What did I say in regards to talking about me?"


Rose bats her eyelashes. "Don't do it?" 


"Yet here you are. Talking." 


"Don't be silly, you love hearing about yourself." 


She gets another nip on the neck for that, and rolls her hips up with the delirious pleasure of it.


"How long do you think this is going to affect us?" She asks, after releasing his lower lip from between her teeth. It's swollen after all the sucking. "When does it end?" 


"Had you not researched similar structures before performing the dissection?" 


She shakes her head. "I try not to be too good at my job." 


"Well, if you weren't such a simpleton —" 


He squawks unattractively as she yanks his ear, hard. She knows better than to try socking his jaw again; he might actually make good on his threats to paralyze her with one of his torture-droid's sophisticated drugs.


" — if you weren't acting like such a simpleton, you would know that such structures typically serve the organism for purposes of — well —” he drags a thumb down the line of her cheek, his gaze lidded and far-off. “Breeding.” 


“Don’t say it like that,” she sneers, wishing he would do exactly that. “It’s clearly for breeding, that’s what fucking is for. Do you mean —” 


“I assume it affects us until we either collapse from pure exhaustion — which has yet to be reached, and which I assume will only be reached upon total malfunction of all bodily processes…” 


His face twinges with pain, and hers does too, when he pulls out to reposition himself, depriving her of the thing giving her life. He lays by her side, on his hip rather than the knees she suspects are bothering him; he pulls her thigh up, and she scoots up flush against his body. Rose rests her head on the surprisingly lithe muscle of his arm as he slides back inside. The cramping in her belly subsides temporarily with his entrance, a sigh of relief echoing through them both. 


He resumes his speech, fucking her slowly, with deep, lazy thrusts. 


“I assume it’ll be over after a few cycles of detox, which we would presumably not survive, as our life support systems are unfamiliar with the effects of this particular toxin… or when you’re — err, bred.” 


She cranes her neck to stare at him in mute horror, searching his face for any sign of mockery, but no; he seems as displeased with the idea as she is. Except for when his eyes flick down to take in the sight of her tits bouncing. Then he seems less displeased. 


“You mean — what, we either die, or we dig out our contraceptive chips? And — make a baby?” 


“That would be the hypothesis, yes. The Order is perpetually in need of more soldiers. Do you need assistance with your orgasm?” 


“I’m not thinking about kriffing coming, Hux!” 


“Well, I am. And you’re close, I can feel you.” 


She snarls, yanking his hand over to grab at her tits. His fingers do the rest of the work, pinching her nipples until she’s crying out, half-angry and half-satisfied. Her mind latches onto the pleasure of feeling his come filling her for a few blissful moments; it’s a temporary escape, just her and his cock and the sight of her cunt overflowing with seed.


Then, she remembers. 


Her infected brain cheers breed me! Breed me! So she’s inclined to believe what he theorizes is probably true. 


This is the worst day of her life. 


It’s also the best sex she’s ever had. And will ever have. 


Mama did always say that balance was the trick with life. Happiness for sadness; horror beyond comprehension for pleasure beyond all knowledge.   


“So, what, we fuck until I’m — ugh, until I’m pregnant? And then I just, have your evil baby? Raise it? Watch it kill little skittermice before it moves on to planets? I choose death, then. Pfassk that.” 


“Oh, come off it,” he mutters, his head resting against hers, his cock stilled inside of her while she slicks back up in preparation for the next round. “If you're unwilling to carry it to term, fine. The First Order possesses the universe’s most advanced abortifacients. We’ll nip it in the bud before you even test positive. Science advances ever-onward, and I’ll even reduce your time in solitary confinement when you decide to make trouble again."


She gapes at him, which he takes as a sort of permission slip to keep going, to keep punching at her psyche while she's down. 


"With such convenient drugs at my disposal, we could even conduct another test with this vile hormone. Again and again…” 


She grabs his hand off of her breast and brings it up to her mouth, chomping down to get him to shut up. 


“Vile bitch,” he yelps, and she snarls right back at him. “I was only giving you ideas. I thought we were brainstorming.”  


Just the thought of what he’s proposing makes her sick, for so many reasons. But she can see the logic in it. And what other option do they have? 



“They must miss you on the bridge,” she says, watching him rub the topical numbing cream on his arm. The contraceptive chip jumps beneath his skin when she reaches out to palpate it. 


“Maybe you’d better get back out there and just die, with your dick hard in your stupid jodhpurs. Coming all over yourself.” 


“I’ve made suitable arrangements for my absence,” he sniffs. 


He's sitting across from her, and her feet are in his lap, one idly stroking his cock, the other made into his stress ball: he keeps rubbing his thumb hard over her arch.


Despite the hours of rabid fucking, the heaviness in her lungs and the wobbliness of her vision returns immediately if they're not touching each other. 


His eyes widen when he sees her with the scalpel in her hands, but she is the one who has more anatomical knowledge, technically speaking. Rose sits up straight, yanking herself out of his grip and planting her feet down on top of his. She presses her toes against his finely carved metatarsals; the only form of reassurance she's willing to give him. 


“It’s more than you deserve, that sort of death, isn’t it?” 


She glances around, second thoughts edging in. Vivisection isn’t exactly in her rota of skills. 


“You sure we can’t just call a med-droid?” 


“I’m not opening that door for anything less than a torture model,” he grits out. “And don’t get any ideas with that blade, little terror.” 


“I’m not, I’m not. If I were going to, I would have already.” She flicks the spot where he applied the cream. “How’s that feel?” 


“Let’s just get it over with.” 


He doesn’t look when she carefully makes the incision. Nor as she digs around, trying to pop the chip out like the holo-vid showed her. Because he’s had it in for a couple of years, the muscle fibers have grown around it, and it’s slow-going.


She breathes hard, not having anticipated the rush of watching him bleed for her. He's very still, staring insistently at a rack of reagents and tissue marking dyes.


Only when the chip lands on the table does his white-faced gaze fall back down on her hands. 


Rose is feeling pretty confident with the cauterizer, and incredibly high on her first successful amateur surgery on a living being. 


Maybe she ought to have wiped the blood off her fingers before she picked the next tool up, though. 


“You alright, champ?” She asks, just before Hux hits the table with a heavy-body bang. 




"The General is unexpectedly squeamish when enduring a simple contraceptive removal procedure, but, unfortunately, he is not without his own intellectual merit. We are attempting a last ditch, life-saving procedure. It appears that the effects of the hormone do not abate with time, or with sexual activity. Symptoms are just the same, with similar severity. Working theory is that the hormone induces a state similar to that found on humans under the atmosphere on Ithus, and that the aim of said reaction is procreation. 


“Our hypothesis: if we conceive a, uh — if we conceive, then the effects will wear off. This is a desperate measure. We must advance our knowledge to prevent similar such situations in the future. I — the Subject really hopes that it will work." 




The procedure goes much quicker and easier when it's Rose operating on herself. The numbing cream takes care of the pain, and her curiosity does the rest.


Turns out, she's not bad at this. She could do without the smell of burning flesh when she stamps the cauterizer over her small wound, though. 


She stares down at the two little chips on the table, wondering if this last-ditch effort will even work. Putting out of her mind the idea of purposely getting pregnant. 


It's all so vile that her mind refuses to wrap around it, and she'll gladly lean into that mode of self-protection. 


Instead, she thinks — maybe she should put the contraceptive chips in a jar. Save them. A souvenir from the worst thing that's ever happened to her.


Her pendant seems to burn her bare skin. Her nipples ache.


She wishes he would wake up already, because it's getting hard to breathe. 


Do what you have to do to make it out of here, Rosie. 



She plops the bloodied chips in a small vacutainer, and slips it into the pocket of his discarded jodhpurs.



It's difficult waking him. So much so that she wonders briefly if he's dead, and checks his pulse, which is thumping hard. A rabbit's beat, to match her own. 


She could let him die here. Use his comm-watch to open the locks of the lab and — and then what? Grab and fuck the first prisoner she meets? The first guard? Hux is her clean ticket out of here, with his high rank and his apparent regard for her, which even outside of this hormonal plague was almost painfully obvious.


Machinations whirr in her mind, beneath the cloud of must fuck must fuck must fuck.


When he doesn't wake at the sound of her snapping fingers, she twists his nipple, and that does the trick. He blinks in confusion, until a light of recognition comes into his face when he sees her. He threads a clumsy arm around her waist and pulls her onto his lap before he even checks the scar she left on his arm. 


"What if this doesn't work?" Rose asks, grinding down on his cock, rubbing her clit against his pelvis, relishing the way he feels inside of her.


"I'm, like, probably not even at that part of my cycle. We might die here. Will probably die here."


"But what a way to go," he drawls, hands on her ass, and Rose yelps indignantly to keep from laughing, because she refuses to find anything he says funny. 


"I'm serious, Hux." 


His face drops into stoicism, but it's offset by the way he's playing with her nipple, chasing it with his lips. His glance up is lit with strange intensity.


"I'd call for a fertility stim before I let you die, Tico. But presumably, the hormone heightens your receptiveness." 


"You were just about to watch me bite it, and now it's 'I won't let you die'?" 


"That was before I knew how lovely your little pussy is," he says, as if it's normal to save people or not based on the tightness of their cunts. To illustrate his point, he lifts her up and drops her back onto him, over and over, and fuck if it isn't perfect. She'd be lying to herself ( just like him, and she's nothing like him ) if she said she wasn't thinking about trying him out when she's not infected.


"We have many differences to overcome, but I am patient enough to withstand the transition." 


"Transition to what?" 


"Mm," he hums, lips twisting into that awful, calculating smirk. "Well, if you conceive, and we survive this, I could take you as my mistress."


"Did you hit your head when you passed out? You’re talking kriffing nonsense."


He waves a hand, obviously embarking on some insane path of thought where she can't follow. 


"Rebel scum you may be now, but we all must start somewhere. Perhaps I've been crude, and a bit cruel to you, but that will mend. There are infinite benefits I could offer you. Protection, and fine meals, and boots that aren't Rebel claptrap." 


Her temper flares. Her hands find his neck. When he feels them there, his smirk widens, dark pleasure in his face.


"Absolutely not, Hux." 


"You could live in absolute comfort with me, and our child. No more prison walls." 


"Don't talk about that," she growls, hands closing tight on his throat. "This is bad enough without you mocking me. And I’m — I’m not keeping it. I couldn’t do that to an innocent kid." 


"But I should like an heir," he wheezes, staring her down. “Not for a soldier, but a leader.” 


She really can't tell if he's kidding anymore. 


Rose rolls her hips on his unflagging cock, gripping his neck for leverage. She's closer to orgasm than she thought. The struggling breaths he sucks in and out spur her on.


"Stop it. I’m serious." 


"A benevolent ruler," he pronounces, and she squeezes harder. Feels her cunt twinge with the beginnings of a powerful climax. 


His voice is a gasping hiss, skin reddening, but aside from that his comportment is ever-perfect. 


"Someone bred to lead a b-better universe."


Something about the sight and the sound of him, spitting evil but at her mercy, does it for her. Rose comes hard, gushing again, loosening her hold on his neck. He gulps in air, but loses none of the intense significance of his gaze. 


"You're such a piece of shit. Making light of this horrible situation." 


She should hop off of his cock before he can come too, should leave him here — (should, should, should). 


She doesn't. Can't. Couldn't dream of it. As much as he needs her right now, for his physical satisfaction as much as his pea-brained plan to sire the universe’s most morally confused baby, she needs him even more. 


"I'm not lying, only being strategic. Thinking ahead. Not that you've heard of such a concept." 


He's playing idly with her nipple, pretending to be casual, but Rose knows better than that. He's about to drop the absolute worst part of whatever plan he's concocting. 


She holds off on slapping him, waiting for the quiet bomb to fall while she forms a plan of her own.


"Perhaps you could influence me, in some small way," he says, with a one-shouldered shrug, not bothering to look up at her. 


"The mother of my child would hold much sway with me." 


She narrows her eyes. Thinking rapidly, calculating the merits of her plan, which isn't even a plan, and the merits of which aren't much at all.


If I'm out of the brig and I have access to credits, and a belly that makes people sympathetic, and I manipulate this idiot, that means — that means access to an escape pod, and classified info to bring back, and a baby to steal away from him, a family to call my own, and leverage, and power —


"What are you even saying?" 


There's a weight in his gaze that she hadn't expected. A quiet seriousness to his words. 


He's telling her something, but she can't figure out what. She's much less adept in the art of subtlety than he is. But one thing about Hux, if she's learned anything at all: he's always full of surprises.


"I spoke plainly enough, I think," he says, not taking his eyes off of her. She refuses to try and understand him. 


She kisses him silent instead. 



She's exhausted. Her hips are bruised from being slammed against the tables she bends over. She hates staring at the strange organs floating in greyish fluid while she takes the best cock of her entire life. 


It might have been days since she first pierced that gland. Rose has no idea. Nothing means anything anymore. They've eaten all the snacks in the break room fridge and gotten bored with their mean little post-coital talks. She's started cuddling up against him without speaking, and he wraps his arms around her, equally — blessedly — quiet. The urge to fuck is like a painful cramp, always, but the dynamic between them is getting easier. 


A strange sort of understanding has unfolded, without Rose actually understanding anything at all. 


"Effects of the hormone have abated," he's narrating into the microphone. She's on the ground, looking up at his ass. Dreaming of a warm bed and a hot shower and the opportunity to start unraveling her fledgling plan. 


Of unraveling him, without the obstruction of that artificial mental cloud.


"Humans cannot test positive for pregnancy before a period of at least two weeks post-conception, but the sudden and near-total ease of symptoms is a positive sign that our hypothesis was correct." 


When he finishes with the notes, clicking off the transcriber, he ambles over and sticks a hand out. Rose stares critically at it, unwilling to trust him. He rolls his eyes. 


“I’m not trying to kill you, Tico,” he says. “My previous offer still stands. You may also return to your cell, if that is what you prefer.” 


She eyes him warily, but allows him to help her back up. 


She has no idea what he'll do next. What their dynamic is about to be, now that she's ( temporarily, absolutely temporarily ) decided to accept his offer of protection — her best chance at leaving the prison, and eventually escaping the First Order altogether. The only way she can help those stuck in the brig, the foot soldiers and the brainwashed officers. 


She, Rose Tico, little mechanic skittermouse turned lab tech, might end the war. 


She could be the one responsible for making the universe safe. A place where the baby that may or may not actually exist can grow up to be good.  


Hux has her pinned with an analytical, but not entirely unkind gaze. As if he, too, has no idea what to do with her. 


She stares at the red petal in the white of his left eye, the one that's ringed with yellow and black and lilac. 


It's a single blot; a mistake in the drawing of his perfect eye. A scarlet cluster of busted cells. She imagines it spreading, bleeding out, getting bigger by the day, until he can’t hide it. The thought makes her strangely happy, filling all the hollowed-out space in her with sick joy at the reminder that she can still mark him. That he’s only mortal, after all.