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General Hux attends Lieutenant Sk’ell’s luau under protest. According to Captain Phasma it is a General’s job to attend important social functions. Apparently it fosters team spirit and group cohesion if he can be seen to show an interest, and the fact that the Knights of Ren are on a training mission on a nearby planetoid should have no bearing on his attendance. So he goes to the party to celebrate Sk’ell’s 30th birthday? Engagement? New baby? OK, so maybe he hadn’t actually been listening when he was invited.
He sits through the speeches at the start drinking Blue Mappa and daydreaming about what his Kylo is doing right now, running around with his light sabre out, sweat running down his back, commanding his men, he must look magnificent, and if he was here he would come home afterwards and, and, oh he would smell amazing, musky and manly and oh he would be so full of adrenaline. He would be so, so...
“And now General Hux will say a few words.”
Hux looks up at his crew, they are all watching him, waiting for his speech. Damn! He stands and musters himself, he can do this.
“Thank you. I’m very pleased to see you all here on such an important occasion. I’m sure I speak for the whole crew when I say congratulations Lieutenant Sk’ell, and so with no more ado, let the celebration begin.” There, sufficiently vague to cover all eventualities.
With his proclamation the festivities get underway, trays of food come out and the band begins to play. Hux remains at his table at the head of the room with a bottle of Mappa, attending is one thing but actual fraternisation with the lower ranks is not appealing. He is the general, has to remain professional.
~-~ ~-~
An hour later Hux has moved to the bar, and moved on to the Kawakian rum. The whole crew seem to be having a great time, the music is loud, the dancing is vigorous and the alcohol is flowing freely.
He sits on a stool with his elbows on the bar and head in his hands. The room is starting to sway around him, must speak to engineering about the gravitational controls, he takes another mouthful of his drink and looks across the room to the far corner where that pair who look startlingly like him and Kylo are dancing together in the corner. They are close, the red head virtually engulfed by his large blond boyfriend, just the way Kylo would cover him, surround him, overwhelm him.
The pair are swaying together, connected at the lips and hands, oh dear God where is the blond ones hand, it seems to be, oh, down the back of the smaller ones trousers and right, maybe it is more rocking than swaying and ... Hux swallows a lump in his throat and drains his drink. No-one else seems to have noticed in the dim lighting and press of bodies. The pair seem to be losing track of the rhythm of the music, their movements becoming rather more frenetic and the clutching and pawing and oh, what he wouldn’t give have Kylo here right now. His muscles tense and his uniform feels rather too tight watching the couple, and is it too hot in here? A word with environmental control may be needed too.
He pours another drink and drains it in one. Kriffing hell, they, ah, they seem to be, oh, ooohhh, Hux swigs directly from the bottle unable to remove his eyes from the spectacle before him for long enough to pour, they still and tense and, and he can faintly hear, even over the deafening volume of the music, a moan of pleasure, and just like that they are finished “dancing”. One hand extricated from one behind, two pairs of arms holding gently, two chests heaving and two bodies leaning together, slow, slowly swaying and supporting each others trembling legs.
The red head whispers something into the blonds ear and they take off out of the mess hall, hand in hand and giggling and Hux has never felt more alone. His only friend is the bottle of rum, so another swig it is, but he is betrayed, the bottle is empty. Time to find a new friend, and that bottle of Tarkenian Nightflower over there looks particularly gregarious. He clambers over the bar and retrieves his new comrade, wrests the top off and climbs back to settle on his stool.
A swallow and a hiss at the burn in his throat and the whole room spins, with no Lord Ren to catch him he nearly falls, but he is a General, and Generals generally don’t go falling in their own ships, no, generally Generals behave more General...ly? He gives up on the sentence and instead moves his attention to the stack of napkins on the bar and the lack of man mountains by his side.
A poem, that is what is needed, a poem to convince his love to return to his arms so that they can dance too. A passing crew member is pressed to surrender her pen in the name of love and he begins. It isn’t easy, he sticks his tongue out between his teeth and squints at the paper as it tries its very best to escape its fate, weaving to-and-fro and even managing to make itself go all blurry, damned clever these napkins, an edict will be issued against sentient paperwork, but for now the knife from his boot stabbed through the paper into the bar should hold it, and oh look, nicked the web of his fingers. He smiles, blood will be a far more romantic medium for his poem, words written with his very essence, his soul. A cocktail stick being pressed to service as a makeshift quill and he is set.
“How I miss your lovely hair,
And your arse is beyond compare.
Why did you desert me so?
I wish that you didn’t have to go.
If you would only come back now,
For you I would make a vow,
That we would never part,
Because you hold the key to my heart.”
Smiling proudly he holds his poem aloft and takes a celebratory drink. There is more to write, of the things they will do in their bed, and the fresher, and maybe the corridor, and, on the conference table, but the words in his head have abandoned him now, retreating from him and hiding in the corners where he can’t find them. At least there is plenty more blood to work with, look at that, a helpful pool of it on the table, and even dripping down onto his trousers. Oh dear, not his uniform. Can’t have that. The only thing to do is to remove them, and the pants, might as well, to protect them from the mess. Boots back on, can’t be seen without those. There, just simple, easy to clean skin now. Seems to be some kind of commotion in here, well the rest of them can deal with that, he is DONE with Generalling for the night, he has important work to do. A fresh napkin successfully skewered to the bar and his trusty cocktail stick to dip into the seemingly never ending ink supply and, lets try this again, force those words to do his biding,
“If you let me lick your arse,
With its hair so fine and sparse,
I’ll make you wet,
I’ll make you scream,
Then I’ll fuck you,
Full of my cream.”
He is suddenly feeling very hot again, and the people who keep trying to pull him away from his masterpiece aren’t helping. The only thing to do is remove his jacket, overheating is a dangerous thing after all. Clothes shed, but hat and boots firmly in place he is set to make another attempt at writing the exact words to convey the soft squishy feeling inside that Kylo causes, and the hard, hard, hardness that he induces in other parts of his body. If only he weren’t so tired, and queasy, and, oh, here’s Phasma, she can go sort out the blasted environmental controls, and tell all these people to leave him alone to his art.
“General, let’s get you home.”
“Have to f’nsh my poem.” he protests.
Sighing Phasma insists, “Later, come on, I need to stop that bleeding too.”
She picks him up bridal style and he squawks in protest, clasping his poems tight. As they leave the room Lietenant Sk’ell cheerfully hands him a party favour and thanks him for coming, he isn’t listening though. The favour is a tiny light sabre, look, it even lights up if you press the button, tears prickle his eyes, Kylo is out there with his lighty uppy stick, and here is a tiny lighty uppy stick to remind him, and Kylo would be so much better at this carrying business. You would even think Phasma was trying to bash his legs and head on the doorframes and walls, and her armour is far too cold and shiny and hard against his bare skin. The robes Kylo wears are so much softer and warmer and smell nicer. He presses the button again and decides to sing his poems to the tiny shrine to his lover and he is carried away from the dreadful Kyloless party and towards his slightly less dreadful but still Kyloless quarters.