"The Lady Hux is unwell, she won't see anyone".
This wasn't what the General Hux hoped to hear upon his homecoming, but he wasn't surprised either. It had been communicated to him that his wife had been under shock after watching, along with much of the galaxy, of his exploits. She had paled, and left the room to dry heave and retch on her own. In her own way, she had reacted just as strongly as he had, for he was drunk on power and adrenaline since then. Hard too. He had expected it, but not so intensely. Several times tempted to release the tensions, he decided that he deserved a planet leave, if only because it was much too undignified to waste seed. Demanding to go home - to his wife - was embarrassing too, and he prayed that no one understood what exactly he wanted from her. But, after all, he if he had to deal with her emotions and presence and otherness, he might as well be able to use and possess her at will. Not that he usually put it so boldly and crudely even to himself.
He simply stared at the middle aged servant, stared her down into compliance, into nothingness. The woman would always swear that she was able to see Starkiller, firing, in her master's eyes as she stepped aside and he ascended the sophisticated stairs.
Hux didn't bother knocking on his wife's door. No one else would have entered so, and she knew immediately who was there. She was in bed, and half sat in surprise as she spotted him. She instinctively covered herself with a luxurious, soft sheet and the glimpse at her cleavage in that nightgown was enough to send electricity down his spine, straight to his loins. He normally wasn't that type of man. He would hardly have looked. But today…
She didn't know what to say. He could see that she had been crying, probably stopping as she dozed off. She bowed to him, granted – only her head, but it was not something he could remember her doing, once she had stopped with her youthful curtseys. She was afraid, he realized. This went straight to his groin too. He felt like the most powerful man in the galaxy: one who could choose between life and death. He was.
"My lady wife… Is that a way to greet your husband?". His tone wasn't punishing. It didn't need to be.
She licked her lips, wet with tears, and the gesture made him tent even more in his impeccable uniform. He resented that. Was he that dependent, that weak ? Or could he simply not do without an outlet after the Hosnian destruction ? He could cope for months, in normal circumstances, coped for years on end before being married - some of his men envied his control, others, he knew, mocked him for being uptight and cold. Somehow, getting married had awoken a side of himself he didn't suspect. What he imagined as disgusting and disturbing also proved to be highly enjoyable. Soon he got used to the marital bed and found himself impatient to experience it again. His wife's enjoyment… He could take it or leave it. In both cases he liked asserting his power. Which was why he didn't mind her crying, but was upset that she didn't react.
"I will not allow disobedience in my own home". His eyes were hard. "Compose yourself".
She finally pushed off the covers and he inhaled shakily, was she offering herself as an apology? This would usually not work, and only make him more on edge, but this time… No, she simply stood.
"General, Sir", she offered, her voice still rough from crying, sounding not that different from the times she came hard under him. Perhaps why he didn't scold her, even though he highly disliked such displays of emotion. It was unsettling and he didn't know how to react except in anger or disdain.
"These people meant nothing. You didn't know them, you didn't support their cause, your life is unchanged and it's too late now". He tried hard though conscious that she wouldn't be comforted by this, much like he wouldn't understand her. He bit the inside of his lip. No, he wouldn't allow this inane one way discussion to spoil his pleasure. At victory, or to come.
He sighed. "Right". He took a step toward her, slowly, stalking a prey or trying not to frighten her. She suddenly noticed he wasn't wearing his greatcoat. She imagined he threw it at, or more like, on, a servant. But he wouldn't damage his property, everything had to look perfect even when it wasn't. She took a step back but he advanced again and caught her arms. She tensed even though he wasn't hurting her. He nuzzled against her temple, before his lips grazed there. He wished he could bring himself to kiss her. It made her more pliant and receptive. But there was something vulnerable to how it made him feel and today was all about power. For an instant she couldn't help closing her eyes, her breathing hitching. He was so close, so warm. He was probably the coldest being in her world, but she had reacted to him from the first time he touched her on. Because of that, maybe, she opened her eyes as if in panic and pulled back, struggling against his grip. It turned iron but he smiled almost as if he had been more than expecting it, hoping for it.
"Shhhhhh. Just let me". She wondered if he had used the same wording as during their wedding night on purpose. She was suddenly a young girl again. He crushed her against his stronger frame and she resisted an urge to hide her face in his jacket. Let his strength engulf you, let his power devour you, she urged herself. She sighed. She wondered if this was what the Hosnian dwellers had thought, too, accepting their fate. The nausea was back.
"No one can tell me no now", he mused, oblivious, angling his hips so she would feel his need. She gasped at it, so hard it burned against her skin, and at the memory of what exactly had happened. This was why he differed from his usual controlled, cold self. The idea hurt, and frightened her. She grew up in an Imperial family, and war had been in the culture, but he was taking this to another level.
The young woman didn't want to be his way of celebrating billions of victims, civilians, nor did she want to be taken by a man who would be thinking of those. He sensed the shift and the unusual rebellion. He had no patience for that and snarled, not bearing to touch her for a moment.
He all but threw her on the bed then. "Lie down. Stay there", he breathed. He didn't need to yell. Certainly not after what he knew she had witnessed on the holo.
He fiddled under his tunic, where she didn't want to look and approached, climbing onto the bed. She didn't dare close her eyes and kept them firmly on his face.
He took her at once and she was completely dry, so dry that it almost hurt him. Not that he cared. It was fitting in a way. They both groaned at the sensation, not entirely unwelcome. He had been fully hard from start and hardly pretended to talk to her before the act, or ease her into it. The reason he needed her so much was probably the same why she tried to avoid it. She was almost certain.
"No", she whispered, "Please". A tacked on polite word wouldn't mollify him, so she reached up to push him away. His eyes focused, his gaze hard, and he gave her a sharp, strong stroke that made her gasp in surprise, discomfort and yes, pleasure. There was no harsh word or blow, just a smug smile that suited her husband so well. His lord father had warned him, taking him aside before his wedding night, that his wife may beg and/or cry for a while, possibly longer. His own mother, he claimed, had never stopped, and this didn't prevent him from being brought into this world. So yes he could tolerate this, especially when her tone was so obviously laced with trouble. His jade eyes shone in pure triumph, and she felt how it fueled up his thrusts. She remembered what she had thought on meeting him - she was lucky, he was young and handsome. A gentleman in appearance and demeanour, not an uncouth warrior. Yet many of those would have recoiled from… what he had done. Either because he thought she would fight it again, or as a consequence for protesting, he took hold of her wrists, pinning her down as much as he could.
"I hate you", she hissed, marital decorum toppled down at last, and she struggled against him just because she had to prove it, show off that she wasn't enjoying. She had been slapped for much less than that, but nothing came. He would enjoy this development. He groaned as she told him she hated him again. He didn't crush the resistance immediately, letting her tire herself. To her own shame she was growing wet, finally, and stilled down as if it would spare her the humiliating peak of pleasure. The General slowed down, teasing her, his hand now abandoning her wrists and angling her beautiful face so she would stare into his eyes. She silently pleaded for him to finish quick, or at least to not push her over the edge. He did neither. He resumed thorough, almost violent thrusts when she was close and used the last leg of his self control not to come before she convulsed around him. She looked enraptured, almost in pain, and he thought of Starkiller, letting go at last. The battlefield, the marital bed were obligations a man of stature had to tackle. He didn't have to find pleasure in it, and it might have been more dignified to treat them as necessary evils, distractions from more lofty purposes. Yet he assumed that as long as he did his duty, it didn't really matter what went through his mind to help himself efficiently, or if it was actually pleasant.
He stood up as soon as he could trust his legs, turning around to tuck himself in out of her view. It was unsettling enough to relinquish some control in front - inside of - another human, he could spare himself the indignity of not being fully dressed as soon as possible. He sighed and headed for the mirror, trying to arrange the damage to his appearance. He faced her when he felt himself again. She was on the bed, crying anew. Her bare thighs, bunched up nightgown and cleavage didn't do much for him just now. It reassured him that he was back to his normal state, though his gaze caught on her wrists, beginning to bruise, and the contrast was beautiful on her milky skin.
"We are having a celebration tonight, for our Victory. You are expected with appropriate attire and a smile. I also expect you to give me a son by nine months time. Surely this cannot be too difficult for a general's wife?". His olden times, sophisticated accent had been one of the things she liked about him. It was familiar, hence reassuring. This time though, it only made the statement more ominous. What if it didn't happen? What if she birthed a girl? What if she always linked this child to a genocide - she knew he would? What if her husband wanted to mould the child into a younger version of himself? That one actually wasn't a question. She could read it in his eyes, now roaming over her stomach convincing himself the ancient seed of his family was taking root already. He had become Death. He had bought a life through all this destruction. A heir, conceived in such circumstances, would surely be exceptional, leeching off the power of Starkiller. A leader of men, an Emperor. It would make up for his own birth, a small year following a horrible defeat, and his father never allowing himself or his son to forget about that. He had imagined the scene much more often than he would confess to, his father coming home in one of his cold, raging crises, taking it out on his mother because it was just easier. She probably reacted similarly to his wife, except he highly doubted that she found a guilty pleasure in it. Maybe his father didn't either. This would be a child of celebration and might, not one of fury and humiliation. He smiled catching a glimpse of her wrists again, surely revisiting that crucial moment on the bridge when billions of citizens had been his. Maybe one day, this would be the case again. Couldn't you only leave an imprint on what was yours?
"This is such an auspicious day. By the way, my lady wife, do wear long sleeves in front of our esteemed guests. Everything will be perfect".