it's cool to be sweet

This rickety transport ship is going to be the death of me, you decide. General Hux has brought you and a small retinue of guards to a backwater planet in the Outer Rim in search of new candidates for the Stormtrooper program, and this Empire remnant was the best that could be found to take you to a village outside the capital. You close your eyes and try to think about anything other than the rough skies and whining metal all around you. This sort of mission isn’t your forte, but the General has become increasingly insistent that you accompany him on planetary excursions and, your present anxiety aside, you’re glad to be with him.

Currently the only things keeping you steady are the white-knuckle grip of your hands on the seat and General Hux’s arms anchoring you firmly in his… lap. That had been another issue with this deathtrap – not enough seats. Hux had realized the miscalculation first and indicated with a glance that you should share his seat, which conspicuously had room for only one occupant. Now the two of you are at the back of the ship, out of view of the pilot or guards. 

A wave of turbulence nearly jolts you into the air, and you hold back an undignified yelp and tighten your death-grip even more. 

“(Y/n),” Hux whispers, breath warm against your ear, “relax.” 

“Y-yes, sir,” you murmur, closing your eyes and trying to think of something, anything to distract you. An idea bursts into your mind, a deeply stupid idea that you know you would never entertain if it weren’t for the fear and adrenaline surging through you…

Well, if I might die on this ship anyway… 

You shift your hips subtly at first, the back and forth movement so minute that Hux could mistake it for more turbulence. A deeper, furtive grind of your hips into his groin causes him to freeze and his fingers press harder into your skin. You pause and hold your breath, waiting for an objection or for the General to fling you into the back of the seat in front of you.

Instead, he rests his head on top of yours and whispers, “Go on, then.”

You smile, heart racing from something much sweeter than dread, now. Another dip of your body against his, then another. You can feel his breath on the back of your neck, slightly heavy and hitching each time your hips move against him.

You continue this way for a few glorious minutes. You want to remember the feel of his body beneath you and every sound he makes. The way he practically whimpers your name. His hands on your thighs, and his noticeable arousal beneath you, drive away any lingering fear about the flight and every little bump and shudder of the ship is now welcome. 

It feels like as soon as you’ve started, the ship begins to descend for its landing. Hux growls in frustration, his grip on your thighs tightening to stop your movements. “We’ll finish this later,” he hisses as the transport settles on the ground without incident. You both stand, straighten yourselves up as best you can, and Hux strides forward to leave the ship. It occurs to you that he is probably grateful for the billowing greatcoat that covers the front of him.

As you exit, the pilot says, “I apologize, General. I’m sure by the time you leave I can find a more suitable ship to take you back to the city –”

During your time in the service of General Armitage Hux, you have become a master of knowing what he needs. The minutest change in posture or the faintest twitch of an eye is all the instruction you require. On this particular day, it’s his fists clenching and unclenching as he paces the bridge after a particularly brutal dressing-down from the Supreme Leader in front of the crew that tells you he’ll need you tonight. After the rest of the agonizing day ends and Hux leaves the bridge, you quietly follow.

He stalks down corridor after corridor, his long, furious strides causing you to rush behind. He knows you’re there, but doesn’t speak or look back. “Sir, are you all right?” you ask, still shuffling to catch up when Hux stops in front of an empty, out of the way conference room and punches in a code, making the door slide open. You both walk into the darkness of the empty room, the door whooshing shut again behind you.

Hux walks to the nearest table and finally lets go of his composure, slamming a palm down and groaning in frustration. For a moment his shoulders hitch up and down and you wonder if he might actually cry, but soon he heaves a resigned sigh and the movement stops. It’s rare for him to be this upset. You approach tentatively and he turns to face you.

“General,” your eyes have adjusted to the dim light and you can make out his desolate, defeated expression. “You’re perfect,” you say, reaching a hand up to touch his face. Although you and Hux have been in this strange half-relationship for a while now, intimate touches like this are a rarity, and one that he sometimes shrinks away from. You don’t know yet what’s made him so averse to touch, but today he accepts it, resting his face against your palm. 

“The Supreme Leader doesn’t understand,” you say, holding eye contact. “You’re what the galaxy needs. Without your leadership, none of this could last.” You mean every word. He looks unconvinced but takes your smaller hand in his and places a kiss against your wrist, as if to say thank you.

This sends a delicious shiver down your spine and you slide your hand down his neck to rest on his chest, over his heart. “Let me help you,” you say before standing on your toes to plant a brief, gentle kiss on his lips. His expression softens and you move back down, and then to your knees. You start to undo his belt, looking up at him in silent inquiry, to which he nods, holding his breath.

Opening his pants, you take his already half-hard cock in your hands. You stroke it once, twice, and are rewarded with a soft, encouraging gasp from above. With that you lean forward and take him into your mouth, deliberately slow, wetting every inch with your tongue before moving further down the length.

You savor the taste and heat of him in your mouth. This is one of your favorite things to do, and you’ve gotten very good at it. Feeling him come undone under your touch is intoxicating, and you reach a hand between your own legs to touch yourself through the fabric of your uniform as you pleasure him.

“(Y/n),” he pants, “(Y/n),” again and again as you slide your tongue along the underside or swirl it around the tip, over and over again.

The two of you continue like that, panting and moaning softly as the tension builds. His hand rests firmly on top of your head, fingers entangled in your hair. You’ve always loved his hands and think of them often, alone at night – his large, gloved palms moving down your smaller body and long fingers stroking, pressing, sliding deep inside…

You moan around him as you come with a shudder, sending him over the edge with you. You grip his thighs as you both ride out your orgasms and his considerable load fills your mouth and slides down your throat.