Let's Get Lost In Our Imagination

They’re not wild fantasies. He thinks of your body resting beside his, the sway of your presence. Thinks of fingers intertwining, of pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, your whispered words against his neck, the sweet things you might say if you were here with him. He thinks of everything he would try to say to you. He thinks of being heard. Of being known. 

If you were here with him, Hux would never leave.

Armitage yanks himself from the bed with a sigh, and as he makes his way through the chill of his room to the refresher, he recognizes that worry would be rational. He hadn’t told you the truth last night, as he had meant to, but those gray concerns feel small amidst the exciting new geography of reciprocated affection. And what could be a greater confirmation than a kiss?

Most people wouldn’t see it this way. Armitage is well aware that his views on intimacy are rather prudish, but there’s never been anything like this before. You’ve peeled back the armor he’s worn all his life, handled him with such care despite all his sharp edges, the gnawing gaps. If anyone could understand how important this is to him, it would be you.

He climbs into the refresher, lets the spray spatter against his face like a storm, but he still feels the remnants of your skin on his. Hux always found solace in these moments—when the tempo of the water against his body could beat out even the most persistent of thoughts—and somehow, you’re still there.

He wishes that you were here. 

He’s turned up the heat as high as he can handle, but the water feels cold in comparison to the fire that courses under his skin, caused by the nebulous idea of your hands roaming his chest, soft kisses caressing his shoulder blades as your fingers trail lower over his abdomen, and lower. And lower.

His hand shoots forward, turning the heat all the way down, letting the icy rivulets carve away any of those lingering, provocative thoughts.

The baser part of him wants to give in, wants to experience you in the most exquisite illusion his mind is capable of creating. Armitage would like to picture all of it in great detail: the way the flesh of your stomach would dent against the press of his hand, the rapid-fire beat of your heart in his ear, trails of bruises across your chest and down your thighs like swirled paint strokes—his mark on you, his signature. 

Hux rests his forehead against the cool tile, listening to the drip, drip, drip of the water as it falls. There’s really no use in trying to feign that kind of confidence when he’s alone. He may have fooled you last night—initiating that kiss and then letting you do all the work—but you’d see through him soon enough. He draws back the curtain, scrubbing the water off his face with a towel.

As always, his day is ruined the moment he looks in the mirror.

There must have been something in the wine. Or in those little pastries on the silver trays that the servants kept pushing in your direction. It’s completely impossible that you could see him and want him.

Hux searches his reflection for anything redeeming, any part of him you might find handsome—or at least acceptable—but he’s all awkward angles and pale, blotched skin. 

It’s no use. He readies himself as usual and shuts the door behind him, feeling heavier than he had before.

Day is already in the breakfast nook, of course, which gives Armitage no more time to wallow. He pours himself a cup of caff instead, making a clumsy attempt at looking busy. Any conversation from Day would certainly push him over the edge; he’s in too fragile a state already. 

Nothing could be more mortifying than hearing those shameful words bubble up from his chest, that desperate need for validation he craves but would not ask for. Whatever Day managed to offer would be cold comfort, regardless. You are too good for him. Anything beyond that is fantasy.

Hux doesn’t need to look up to know when you’ve entered the room, well-attuned to the indicators of your presence. Armitage keeps his eyes locked on his data pad, and hopes he may disappear—burn up on impact, an insignificant bit of debris passing through your atmosphere. 

“Good morning, dearest, have you been standing there long?”

Day speaks, just now noticing your arrival, and you let out a little laugh before answering him. Hearing your voice is a knife slid between Hux’s ribs. Seeing you there would surely drag him under. 

But his body is reflexive, willing to die for a glimpse at you, eyes flashing to yours.

You’re already looking back, a pained smile on your face that sets his heart alight inside the cavity in his chest and, at the same time, has him sick to his stomach.

So you had your regrets. Of course you would have changed your mind in the hours since he last saw you. It would have been more surprising if you hadn’t come to your senses.

Day ushers you into a seat, forcing a cup of caff and a plate of food your way, waiting on you in a way he hadn’t bothered with Armitage.

“I must say you look absolutely radiant,” Day tells you, resting his chin on his hand, admiring you so freely, so openly. Hux does his best to resist the urge to slap him, palm itching for the feel of it.

Maybe Armitage doesn’t deserve to be the one who basks in your glow, but someone should. And why would he concede such a pleasure to another man when he wants it for himself so, so desperately?

It’s a pretty thought, but not a useful one. It can’t make him meet your eyes, or put all the words he’d like to say to you in any useful order. It couldn’t make you feel anything for him—last night was proof of that. If Armitage's own desires could override your own, he'd know it by now.

So he’ll have to wait out the dangerous luminescence of his heart until the pain—and all the wonderful feelings so similar to it—fade.

Or he’ll die first. That blessed relief could happen any day now.

There’s a pause that tells Hux a question has been asked of him, and he grunts, staring down at the data pad in his hand, hoping to keep his grip on it despite the way his fingers tremble. An anemic silence settles over the table like a fine sprinkling of dust, and Armitage knows he’s the cause. 

He’s thinking of an excuse to leave—to put both of you out of your misery—but Day beats him to it. The other man hops to his feet, running from the table in the same way Hux wishes that he could. 

 “I’ll go check in with Alida and see if she’s done with your uniforms.” The words leave Day’s mouth in a rush, and he punctuates them with a sharp look at Armitage—his dark eyes backlit with some righteous fire. Whatever that means.

Hux reaches out, like he’s trying to catch him, and fails, hand thumping impotently back where it came from.

Oh, fuck. 

Day’s absence must make you as nervous as it does Armitage. He drops his gaze back to the data pad, catching glimpses of your lithe fingers as they pick morosely at the food on your plate.

“How did you sleep, sir?”

The word sir prickles at his senses, like sand against raw skin—said without teasing lilt or soft invitation he had become so accustomed to—and it’s never been so painful for him to pretend that everything is fine, despite how often it has been required of him. I’m sorry, he thinks the words but cannot say them. It will never happen again, I promise, but please, don’t leave me. Not now. Not when I’m already so alone.

But the words he manages in the direction of the table sound dry and impersonal when he says, “I slept well, and you?”

Hux shouldn’t have asked, shouldn’t have invited the opportunity to ponder what your night might have looked like after he’d left your room, but the image is clear, nonetheless: your tense fingers cupped tight to the planes of your cheeks, the glow of the fireplace reflected in your unblinking eyes, brows knotted together, expression strained. How long had sleep evaded you, left you contemplating the mess Armitage had planted you in so firmly with only the soft press of his lips? How long had you stewed in your fear of rejecting him, sick to your stomach at the idea of placating his baser wants?

Your answered “fine” is confirmation enough for the worst of his fears. If misery could kill him, Armitage thought it would have succeeded long ago, but this may just be the final twist of the knife.

And he'll be forced to face it head-on, it seems, as your empty mug hits the table with a thud and the words pour out of your mouth with similar urgency.

“Sir, about last night—”

“—I’m sorry.”

He doesn't want to hear whatever it is you’ll say next, and so his mind supplies the only words he has available, the ones that have lived on the tip of his tongue since your arrival. Armitage is sorry, about more than this. About everything.

But—as deserved as the apology is—it doesn't seem like the response you expected. Confusion furrows your brow, and Hux wishes he didn't find the expression so endearing, wishes that your every movement didn't have him longing for one, final, undeserved kiss.

"Oh, alright. What are you sorry for?"

Fuck. This is much a much worse outcome than the one he had anticipated—where he now has to explain to you what kind of a self-serving wretch he has been. Stealing those morsels of affection in so many quiet moments, practically forcing himself on you the night before because he couldn't handle the pain of your rejection, never offering you the chance to turn him away.

Armitage will offer it now. It will be good if it hurts, he tells himself. Whatever Ren has in store for him will pale in comparison. Hux may even thank him for it.

Coward that he is, though, Armitage cannot meet your eyes, staring instead at the mug of caff in front of him when he finally speaks those shameful words.

"I never wanted to make you . . . uncomfortable."

There's more he should say, but the words won't form, his throat tight, eyes stinging. Weak-willed. Spineless. The familiar verdicts echo through his mind, carried by a voice too gruff to be his own.

Until they're silenced by your reaching hand, your fingers stroking gently over the center of his palm. A breath shudders on its way out of Hux's lungs, eyes locked on this point of contact to make sure he's not imagining things.

“I wasn’t uncomfortable, sir," you tell him, voice soft and sweet and perfect. "I’m not uncomfortable. Not in the slightest.”

Without really meaning to, Armitage succumbs to his memories of the night before—of your reaching hands, the tug of your fingers in his collar, at the back of his neck. Your soft lips and the thrilling trace of your tongue at his mouth, the heat of your breath. He feels faint, almost, certain he had imagined some of the headier aspects of the kiss, that he had wanted you so desperately it had erased your hesitation from his recollection, but no.

“Oh,” he says—rather stupidly—engrossed in the bewitching stroke of your fingers over his palm, “that’s— I’m glad. I had thought …”

But it seems useless to explain that now, hearing your laughter, basking in the radiance of your smile.

It's unfortunate that seeing you like this, being with you like this, has Armitage wanting to live. It's unfortunate, and yet it won't stop him from taking your hand more firmly in his, feeling his heartbeat echo through his fingers, a harsh swallow in his throat.

The abundance of his desire threatens to engulf him, and he knows that no length of time with you would be enough for him. But his time is short, and the end is quickly approaching. Hux tells himself that he has you for today, at least.

In both of the interviews linked above, every mention of Hux is accompanied by a mention of “extreme” or “severe” silhouettes. This is noteworthy because Domhnall Gleeson—and therefore General Hux—has a very narrow build. He’s not particularly physically imposing, despite his height, which means Kaplan made the choice to simulate mass on Hux where there is none, seen most obviously in the breadth of his shoulders. The tailoring details of his uniform (e.g. princess seams, padded shoulders, and belted natural waist) are designed to exaggerate Hux’s shoulder-to-waist ratio by creating an inverted-triangle shape, and his greatcoat adds to the illusion because the tapering of its frankly massive lapels follows the same lines.

[LEFT: Domhnall Gleeson on the red carpet. MIDDLE: General Hux and Kylo Ren on the bridge, TFA. RIGHT: General Hux on the bridge, TLJ.]

This information may originate from our side of the fourth wall, but that doesn’t preclude it having an in-universe explanation. Kaplan states in one of the interviews linked above that Hux’s costume “is unique to him,” which, given its similarity in broad strokes to the costumes of other First Order officers, implies a uniqueness in its tailoring rather than its concept. We can therefore infer that said tailoring—and the illusion it creates—is a choice made by the character. Hux may not be able to do much about his natural slenderness, but he can manipulate others’ perception of it; this is very much in keeping with the canonical material we do have about Hux’s approach to his appearance.

From The Force Awakens Visual Dictionary:

Hux has always believed that appearances are vital for maintaining discipline, and wears a parade uniform designed to broadcast his authority as general.

Precision tailored military uniform evokes Imperial imagery

From The Rise of Skywalker Visual Dictionary:

Hux hates the Knights of Ren; he despises their unkempt appearance and how they tread dirt into the polished halls of First Order capital ships.

Hair coiffed to Hux’s exacting standards

The Star Wars visual dictionaries paint Hux as a character deeply concerned with his image, because he associates appearances with authority and discipline. We see this philosophy in action in The Last Jedi, when Hux is Force-slammed into his own bridge by Snoke via holocall; beyond an initial surprised yelp, he barely reacts to the violence, and the next time we see him in Snoke’s throne room, he’s washed the blood from his face and slicked his hair back within an inch of its life. Hux reacts to a reminder of his own vulnerability by controlling what he can control—and in this case, that means the way he looks.

TEXTUAL

I assume we’re all familiar with the “thin as a slip of paper and just as useless” quote from Brendol in Aftermath: Life Debt. This line is only the tip of the iceberg, as the insults Brendol is willing to voice in front of his superior officers are almost certainly tamer than those he’s willing to hurl in private. Though Grand Admiral Rae Sloane orders the Commandant to stop hurting his son in the following novel, Aftermath: Empire’s End, she has no way to enforce this ban on verbal abuse. (Or physical abuse, if we’re being realistic.) Said abuse is a near-constant reminder of Armitage’s physical “deficiencies”—likely due, at least in part, to chronic malnutrition during the early years of the First Order. Armitage’s resulting insecurities are reinforced through adulthood by the stark physical contrast between himself and Captain Cardinal, the human tank of a stormtrooper whom his father makes no secret of preferring.

We can also pretty reliably identify a character’s insecurities by observing what they envy in other people, and in the case of Armitage Hux, he (begrudgingly) envies both of his rivals—Cardinal and Kylo Ren—their physical prowess.

From The Rise of Skywalker novelization (emphasis mine):

"He's almost beautiful to watch," mused Allegiant General Pryde, standing tall beside him. The older man had arrogant blue eyes and a high hairline that seemed immune to perspiration, even in a hell-climate like this. "Don't you think?"

Hux refused to gratify that with a response, because true beauty came from discipline, from order. So it was almost against his will that he found himself mesmerized as Ren met a barbarian's charge head-on, cloak flowing, mist swirling around him. The glow of his lightsaber occasionally snagged on his cheek scar, making it appear as though a crack of glowing lava slashed his face. It was like something out of a dream, or maybe a nightmare, as the Supreme Leader plunged his fiery crossguard into his attacker's abdomen, lifted him from the ground, and sent him toppling onto his back.

Hux has very little good to say about Ren in any Star Wars text, but here he’s “mesmerized” “almost against his will” by the sight of Ren using his considerable strength to hurl Sith cultists around like sacks of flour. This is not a scene wherein Ren uses the Force to do battle, so the focus is on his physicality alone. Given that Hux is the creator of the First Order’s various combat training simulations, one has to wonder how many times a younger Armitage might have watched Cardinal use his strength with the same reluctant fascination.

There’s nuance here, of course. Hux’s hyperawareness of his appearance and the physical “weakness” it might betray doesn’t necessarily translate to self-loathing. I think Hux is perceptive enough to understand that his body—tall and slender with unique coloring—is advantageous in other ways; while it may not be the ideal build for a warrior, it has its own elegance and aesthetic appeal.

From The Last Jedi novelization (emphasis mine):

The Finalizer's gleaming black bridge was a model of efficiency, with controllers and monitors briskly exchanging information from the Star Destrover's targeting computers and sensor suites. Hux smiled at the thought of himself as the center of all that activity—a slim, dignified figure in black, uniform perfect, standing at parade rest.

"Have you no regard for patient consent?" he asked, mildly.

"I haven't renewed my license. So, no."

That was the last thing you said to him maybe twenty, thirty minutes ago. The hemostats oversized in your grip, the nylon thread sawing into your middle finger with every sutured knot . You squint under the harsh light to separate his crimson skin from the darker coil of exposed muscle.

Maul watches you. He's always watching you. You feel that he wants to say something before his mouth opens.

"Is this truly necessary? I have recovered from far worse with no medical intervention."

"My degree says otherwise."

Maul hums. "I know my body best and what it can handle. You are wasting your degree on me."

Loop, loop, pull, snip. Sixth stitch. You don't answer him, and he lets the silence sit for exactly as long as it takes you to thread the next pass.

"You drugged me," he says, conversationally. "Against my word."

"It's lidocaine. You can buy it over the counter."

"Mm." Maul tilts his head against the cot. "Curious how a doctor would decide what a body endures without consulting the one who lives in it." He pauses, then says softly, "Was your disregard for my lack of consent for my benefit? Or for yours?"

You tie off another knot and snip the excess. Maul rolls his head back up to the ceiling.

"You are very quiet tonight."

The needle slides in at a forty-five degree angle. "I'm focused."

"You are usually quite talkative when you work," he says. "That is why your silence is noted."

You want to retort— not give him the satisfaction, but you fear what would happen if you met his gaze. Loop, loop, pull, snip. Seventh stitch and you're finally done. The tools clang against the sterile tray when you drop them. You pull a bacta patch out of its wrapping, the acrid stench stinging your eyes. It's wet and sticky when you secure it over Maul's skin.

"I should install a mechnosuture capability on Spybot once I get the chance," Maul muses. "And program him to have proper bedside manner."

"I'm a surgeon, not a nurse."

An abrasion runs across Maul's right pectoral. Medically unremarkable, but needs to be irrigated of grit all the same. You switch out your gloves and prep a syringe, drawing saline until it's filled.

"This may burn a little," you say, still unable to look him in the eye.

He's silent, and gives no indication of pain when you press the plunger. Pink-brown runoff threads down his side. You refill the syringe and repeat the process until the fluid finally runs clear. The room is quiet except for the creak of your gloves as you dab away the excess fluid with gauze.

"You know," Maul says to the ceiling, "if you weren't so weak, neither one of us would be in this position."

You kept your feelings packed beneath layers of suture, saline, and gauze. It's easier to focus on the wound than the man underneath it. But this is what Maul does; burrow his claws into your skin and shred until there's nothing left but the ugly parts of you. He finally gets what he's been digging for.

"Then next time I'll let you rot."

One glove rips with a sharp snap as you yank them off. You don't look at Maul. Forceps and hemostats clatter into the basin— no autoclave, no proper sharps container, just the overflowing trash and disinfectant. The syringe is capped and thrown into the trash along with the gauze and suture packaging. Even with the gloves gone, Maul's dark and tacky blood stains your skin. Your hands won't stop trembling, so you keep moving, rattling drawers and slamming cupboard doors.

"You are angry," Maul says as if he's recalling the weather.

"Astute."

"At me."

"Obviously." You turn on the faucet and spray the tools. The water runs hot and pink down the drain, cooking the proteins in Maul's blood, filling the room with the stench of iron. "I'm not holding you hostage anymore. You can leave."

You close the drain on the other side of the sink and let it fill with water.

"You wish for me to walk after stitching me up?" Maul says. "I did not take you for someone who'd so readily undermine their handiwork, doctor."

"Didn't take you for someone who'd be concerned about ripping their stitches." You find the enzymatic cleaner in one of the cupboards and pretend to read the dilution ratio.

"I am not."

"Then why are you still here?"

"Because you'd be displeased if I left."

You uncap the cleaner without looking up, knuckles white around the bottle. You won't take the bait. "That's presumptuous."

"No. It is obvious."

You don't respond. You're not doing this. He can go jump out the airlock for all you care. The water ripples as you pour the cleaner in.

"Look at me."

You blink away tears threatening to spill. Maul won't get to you. Your fingers brush against an empty counter where you meant to find the scrubbing brush. You frown and look— it's just a few inches from where it normally sits. Just as you reach for it, the brush moves away from you, again. Your jaw clenches, and you bend down to pull another one from underneath the sink.

Maul says your name, sharp and commanding. Your lower lip trembles and you bite down until it hurts. The hemostats jerk away just as you reach for them.

"Look at me." His voice is harsher.

You reach for them again, and suddenly they're floating in the air, along with the forceps. They rise another inch, taunting you.

"You're running out of instruments."

The tools fly across the room with a flick of his wrist, slamming against the wall with a deafening clang that rings in your ears.

You whirl on him, and he looks…unimpressed? Tired? His expression swims behind your tears. The sink continues to fill. The room smells like iron and the sharp tang of cleaner. Above, the air recycler kicks on with a mechanical rattle.

"There you are," Maul says. "Avoidance does not suit you."

You bare your teeth. "You threw my shit across the room."

"You were ignoring me like a belligerent teenager."

Hot tears spill down your cheeks, and you furiously wipe them away. "You were nearly impaled."

Maul tilts his head. "I survived."

"Yeah, barely." You place the back of your hand over your mouth to hide the tremble of your lips. "I couldn't tell the difference between— between your muscle and skin!"

Maul is quiet for a moment, then says, softer, "So you elect to ignore me."

You laugh mirthlessly. "I hate you, actually." You turn back to the sink to turn the water off. "You are the most irritating person I've ever met."

Behind you, the cot creaks. You spin and shove at Maul's shoulders perhaps a bit harder than what was considered professionally responsible. His skin is warm, muscles solid under your palms. He lets you push him down without resistance, which infuriates you more. Maul watches you with that smug, satisfied tilt to his mouth.

You jam a finger into his chest.

"Sit. Down," you say through gritted teeth.

Maul blinks slowly. "Your commands contradict each other."

You inhale. You want to strangle him. There are words for this— curses at the tip of your tongue that would impress a Hutt. But nothing comes. The anger burned you mute and dumb. The only response you can conjure is to grab Maul's jaw and yank him forward into a kiss.

It's not gentle or sweet. Your lips are dry; his still against yours. He smells faintly of sweat and cassius tea. His lips are thin but lovely, and completely still against yours.

What did you do? What did you just do?

You pull back just enough to break the seal, manage to say the words "I'm—" before his hand locks behind your neck and yanks you down. You brace yourself against the cot with a hand next to Maul's head. He kisses you like he's afraid someone will steal you away— messy, desperate, bumping noses, and clashing teeth.. Neither of you knows what to do with your tongues, but you suck his taste into your mouth anyway.

You part again, breath fanning across his lips.

"I…" your voice comes out wrecked. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't—"

"My patience for your apologies wears thin." His hand tightens on the back of your neck and pulls you down again.

The kiss is slower this time, but still too hard. Your hand on the cot moves to Maul's chest, memorizing the faint ridges of scars hidden beneath ink. His teeth catch your lower lip and the whine that comes out of you is high and pathetic. He swallows it, answering with a groan that goes straight to your clit.

Warmth vibrates between your legs. Before you think better of it, you throw a leg over Maul's waist and settle astride him. The cot creaks under your weight, flimsi sheet ripping beneath your knees. Your core strains to keep from falling off the edges of the mattress. You're painfully careful not to press against his stitches, but stars, the rest of him—

The edge of his belt bites into your soft inner thighs, metal and leather dragging right against your pussy. It's filthy and perfect. Maul's a vision; gaze molten, lips parted and swollen, glistening from spit. His hands find your hips, while you rest yours on either side of his head.

"I'm tired of seeing you hurt."

Maul's eyes flick between yours. "Then you're in the wrong line of business."

Just a few hours ago, Maul clung to the railing as the space station tilted on its axis, sucked into a gravity well from a neighboring planet. You watched helplessly while he was bombarded with crumbled scaffolding, praying to whatever god was listening that Maul wouldn't be impaled.

"I know what line of business I'm in," you lower your face to his. "I just want you to feel something other than pain."

He pulls you forward by your hips. You brace yourself to hold above him, inches away, close enough that your breaths mingle. Confusion crosses Maul's face.

"No," you say. "I need you to tell me if this is something you want."

He huffs, jaw locked so tight that the tattoos on his face seem to shift. You wonder, briefly, if this is the first time someone has asked him what he wants. Maul tries to pull you again, fingers digging into your hips, almost angry. Your arms burn as you resist.

"Words, Maul."

"I have pulled you down twice," he says through gritted teeth. "What further testimony do you require?"

"Words."

"If I recall the night's events correctly, your regard for my consent, doctor, has been flexible."

"I know." You swallow, and watch mild surprise cross Maul's features. "You're right, I did that. That's why I'm asking now."

Something shifts behind his eyes— hunger, uncertainty, maybe even a trace of fear. You feel his nerves through the wavering grip, the way his inhale catches in his chest.

"It would not be…" he pauses, then tries again. "This is not unwelcome."

You tilt your head to the side and wait.

Maul's lip twitches, grip on your hips so tight you're sure it'll leave bruises.

"I am not opposed."

"Maul."

"What would you have of me—" it cracks out of him, harsh, too loud for the space between your bodies. Maul closes his eyes and inhales slowly. You think for one horrified second that you pushed him too far. Then Maul's hand moves from your hip. It rises slowly, pauses in your peripheral vision, before gently grazing your jaw. You lean into the touch, savoring the feeling of his rough and calloused skin against yours. When Maul speaks again, it's without armor, low and sincere.

"I want you."

Your heart jolts in your chest. He feels the same, maybe for as long as you have, and neither of you said a word. Maul, a man whose life is defined by violence wanted something that would not end in a river of blood. Heat gathers on your cheeks. You lean forward and press your foreheads together.

"Me too."

The words barely leave your mouth before Maul surges up just enough to kiss you again. It's still clumsy, too much tongue and desperation, but there's something different in it now— almost reverent. His hand stays at your jaw like he's afraid you'll leave.

You let your weight settle fully on him, careful of the bacta patch. Maul shifts slightly, just enough to push himself higher on the cot. You roll your hips and a broken sound escapes you as the ridges of his belt drag against your clit. Something warm and definitely not part of his belt presses against your thigh. Both of you pause to look at each other— Maul's so close you can count the threads of blood vessels in his golden eyes.

"I have not…" Maul sighs, frustrated. "This is foreign to me."

You huff, not without mirth. "Yeah, me too."

You watch him as you roll your hips. Maul's eyes flutter closed, brow ridges pinched as low whimpers leave his parted lips. How long have you imagined this? Nights spent building fantasies from lingering touches and too long looks, desperate to finally make Maul fall apart. Now you have him, and you left your brain somewhere on that space station.

You rock down again, slower, watching him. Maul's hisses— the friction of your panties dragging against your puffy clit. He guides your hips with effortless strength, eyes heavy and composure failing with each pass of your hips.

When the belt scrapes your inner thigh again, you pause and sit back on your haunches. You trace down his torso, cataloguing the ridges of scars hidden underneath ink. His skin is thin, rolling underneath your fingers; you have to remind him to drink more water later. Your touch stops just above his belt and Maul's gaze flicks from your hand, then back to you.

"That has to stay," he says, jaw working.

"I know."

In all your years of residency and practice, you've seen many patients more cyborg than flesh. That belt, his control module, is his life line. You've only seen it in rads; the way his torso gnarls into the graft collar, actuators and durasteel fused into the vertebrae of his spine to support his legs. Soft tubing replicating the functions of his missing organs— aorta severed, yet somehow Maul lives.

He maintains his legs in private, either by himself or with Icarus and Scorn. In two years, the closest he's come to acknowledging what Kenobi left of him is a blunt "it functions" at the end of exams. You never pressed. The line of his shoulders when you pressed him about it told you enough about his relationship with his body. You see that tension now.

"We can stop here…" you say softly. "If you don't—"

"Do not patronize me," Maul spits. "Had I not wanted this, you'd be dead."

You lean over him again, placing a gentle kiss on Maul's cheek. It catches him off guard.

"I know. I also know how you love to push yourself," you place a finger over his lips before he can speak. "I'll take your word for it, okay? I trust you."

Maul stares at you, the tension easing in his shoulders by a few degrees. You lean back and adjust yourself to hover over his thighs. Without his tabard and tunic, the button to his pants is just visible underneath the belt. You bite your lip as you unfasten the pants, watching Maul's face as you drag them down. It takes some awkward finagling to untuck the fabric from his knees, but the garment is eventually tossed to the floor, leaving Maul in his black boxers.

The Mandalorians spared no expense, it seems. Metal plating carved into the shapes of his thighs, his lower abdomen a weave of carbon fiber that dipped underneath the hem of his boxers. Underneath, his cock bulges through, the subtle ridges visible through the folds of the fabric.

Just as you run your hands up his thighs, Maul grabs your wrist.

"We are outmatched," he gestures to your shirt. "Off."

You could make him ask properly. The idea of Maul begging has crossed your mind from time to time, but you file it away for another night. Instead, you settle between his thighs, cross your arms, and pull your shirt over your head. Heat rushes to your cheeks as you reach behind you, struggling to unclasp your bra. You toss it across the room like ripping a bandaid off.

The cold room bites at your flushed skin, and Maul's hands make you jump— large and calloused in the pattern of his saber hilt. They trail up your sides with a touch that's not timid, but uncertain, like you're uncharted land. You squirm under his gaze, quietly grateful for the pressure of your heel against your pussy. Anything to alleviate the throb as Maul's fingers trail higher on your ribs, pausing just below the bottoms of your breasts.

"Does all human skin do this?" he asks, fingers ghosting along your goosebumps, causing you to shiver.

"It's um…" you swallow as a thumb brushes the side of your breast. "an autonomic response of hair follicle muscles. Usually due to cold, fear, or some strong emotions…"

"Mm. Fascinating," Maul says sarcastically.

Your little laugh chokes into a whine when he finally, finally, engulfs your breasts, nipples hardening underneath his palms. Maul takes his time, cataloguing all your little whimpers and whines as he massages your breasts.

His voice breaks the trance, low and rough on the edges. "Come here."

Before you can process the words, Maul pulls you forward by the waist until you're hovering over him again. He maintains eye contact as he draws a nipple into his mouth, tongue warm and a little rough against the sensitive bud.

"Maul…" you moan, head dropping forward and right onto the tip of one of his horns. You yelp as it pokes you, and Maul immediately draws his mouth away.

"Be mindful—"

"I forgot they were there," you giggle.

"How could you forget?"

"'Cause you were distracting me…"

Maul, stars above, growls and mouths at your breast again. You sigh and drop your head again, careful of his horns. You start moving again, the girth and ridges of his cock divine against the seam of your pussy. His mouth loses its purchase on your breast as you two lose yourselves in the rhythm. The cot creaks as you rock. Your foreheads meet, and you kiss each other when the angle is right, licking and biting at each other's lips. There's no urgency in it, only indulgence as you learn the curve of your bodies.

Maul's hands eventually leave your waist to grip your ass, hard. He pulls you forward, hips rising to meet yours. You moan into his mouth, letting him have this, have you. Until you grind down harder, off the beat he set, and Maul whines. It sends fire through your veins. You want to bottle that sound, engrave it into your memory. He is yours. You are the only one that could get that sound out of him, the only one that ever will.

You trail sloppy, wet kisses down his jaw to his neck. Maul's hips stutter, and you grab onto his jaw and gently pull it to the side, granting more access to his skin. You nip and lick then fasten your mouth over one spot and suck. Maul hisses, his cock twitching between your thighs.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Giving you a hickey," you mouth at his skin. "'s a bruise."

"…You know that will not be visible."

"Yeah." You drag your lips to a new spot at the junction of his neck and collarbone. "So I can leave more of them."

Maul has no answer for that. He allows you to work at his neck, occasionally meeting your lips for sloppy kisses when you drag your tongue along his jaw. Eventually you kiss your way down over his collarbone, down his sternum, mapping each tattoo and scar with your lips and teeth. You cast a quick glance to the bacta patch as you bypass it, just to make sure nothing has ripped and he isn't bleeding.

The carbon fiber weave of his lower abdomen is smooth and faintly warm under your lips. Maul tenses when you move there, but you kiss him no different, because it doesn't matter to you. What matters is his comfort, and he has yet to tell you to stop.

You sit up just as you reach the hem of his boxers, settling back over his thighs. Maul's muscles strain when you finally cup his cock through the fabric. It's hot and thick under your palm, and his hips twitch as you trace every throbbing ridge with your thumb. Maul's hand suddenly snaps to your wrist and you stop, looking up at him with worry.

"Okay?" you ask quietly.

Maul's chest heaves as he tries to control his breath. "You do not have to…touch it."

You blink. "But I want to."

He inhales and slowly unfurls his fingers from your wrist. Before he pulls away, you lean down and kiss his knuckles and look at him through your lashes. You hook your fingers under the hem of his boxers and pull them down. Maul plants his heels and lifts his hips, hissing as the movement slightly tugs on his stitches.

"Easy," you coo, sliding the boxers off.

"I am indifferent to pain," he says to the ceiling.

"Hmm, but I think you'd be really grumpy if I stopped to fix your sutures if you ripped them."

Maul doesn't respond because you got his boxers off, and he's very pointedly not looking at you. While you, on the other hand, marvel at the sight of him. His cock is thicker than you felt, like a human's mostly, except for the lines of ridges that ran along the underside. The synth-skin was the same shade of ruby red skin, even engorged with faux veins that threaded along his shaft. The skin stretched to the seams of his inner thighs, cut off by the edges of plating that made up his legs.

"You're beautiful…"

Maul looks at you skeptically. "Most would disagree with you. I am meant to frighten."

"Not me," you replied. "You should know that by now."

Whatever retort Maul planned died on his tongue when you traced your thumb along the underside of his cock. With no precum, the synth-skin is dry. You'll have to remedy that later. He grits his teeth, hands curled at his sides.

You look at him through your eyelashes. "I want you to show me how to make you feel good."

"I don't know," Maul says a little too quickly. Then, through gritted teeth, "I only ever…relieved myself when I couldn't ignore it."

"Maul…"

"Do not," he snaps, and props himself on his elbows. "My body is a tool. I've had no need for indulging in hedonistic habits."

"Mmm…yet here you are."

Maul has no retort for you, and you relish in the fact that you've rendered this man speechless.

"If you're immune to pain and unfamiliar with pleasure…" you spit into your hand. "Then this should feel really good, Maul."

You stroke him slowly from base to tip. A broken moan tears out of him, hips jerking into your fist.

"Tell me," you keep your pace slow, partly because you're unsure, mostly to watch Maul squirm. "Tell me what feels good."

He does, not gracefully, but it comes out of him in fragments. Lower, tighter, there, twist your hand on the head, don't stop. A man, who'd once been stripped of all dignity, narrating his own pleasure. You give it all to him the instant that he asks. Your panties damp and ruined watching Maul release control and fall apart all from your hand. Your clit ached, desperate for friction, and you almost reached between your legs just for some pressure.

Maul's head drops back, a hand finding your thigh, just to hold onto something. He's very noisy, you discover. His cock is perfect and pretty, but without lube or precum, your spit from before begins to dry. You can't have that.

You lick a slow, wet stripe up the underside. The synth-skin is almost tasteless, but the wrecked sound he makes more than makes up for it. He stares down at you, lips parted, lids heavy, and covered in hickeys that no one can see but you know are there. This was all you wanted; the man that you've loved for years just to feel good.

You take him into your mouth. It's clumsy, you have to open your jaw wider to avoid your teeth, but Maul doesn't seem to care either way. You flatten your tongue against his shaft, covering what you couldn't take with your hands. Maul's hand tightens in your hair with a gasp.

You feel the exact moment pleasure fractures into panic— his breath turning sharp and shallow. You lift your head.

"Maul?"

His eyes screw shut, head shaking, like he's at war with himself. You release him completely and crawl back up his waist, careful not to accidentally rub his cock with your knee.

"Hey," you gently cup his face. "It's okay. Talk to me."

Maul opens his eyes when his breathing evens out; he looks uncertain, frightened.

"I have only known pain…" he says. You watch him struggle to come up with the words. "This…I do not know what to do with this." Maul looks at you. "You undo me. I do not— I have no—"

He shakes his head again, then a second later pulls you down into a fierce kiss. It's desperate, like if he pressed hard enough, slotted his lips against yours quick enough, that your souls would merge into one. Maul's touch slides down your back until they find the waistband of your pants and pull. It's graceless, urgent, and he rambles against your lips like he's unraveling.

"You have tortured me long enough, you will let me—" He growls against your mouth, fingers fumbling with the buttons before he rips them open. "Let me have you. You've torn me apart for an hour, it is your turn. Sit up, take these off."

You almost let him, but you know Maul. He treated every scar as proof of prowess, every inch of himself as something to be measured by whether it could kill. He's not reaching for you out of appetite. He's fleeing into you because giving is where he can hide. Giving means he's in control.

You catch his wrists, gently, and make Maul look at you.

"Are you back? Okay?"

His jaw tightens, his lower lip twitching, then something gives, and he answers honestly. "Yes."

"Okay."

You let his wrists go, and he doesn't hesitate pulling your pants down. You let him, because if retreating to your body is where he needs to go, then you let him. The pants come off along with your underwear, and you are suddenly, painfully aware that you're bare above him. He drinks you in like a starved predator.

"Come here," he says.

"But your ribs—"

"Are intact. Do not make me repeat myself."

"I—"

Maul's voice drops, rough and certain. "Come. Here." A gentle tug of the Force pulls you forward until your knees bracket his head.

"You think me so weak," both his thumbs rest on the seams of your inner thighs, "that you would crush me?"

"That's not—" your face burns. "I have a medical degree, Maul. I don't want your—"

"Then trust it," Maul says, flatly. "Let me see you."

It's your turn for your composure to dissolve. His thumbs stroke down your outer folds, then gently part you. You're dripping, arousal sticky on your inner thighs. No one has seen you like this, and your hands fly up to cover your face.

"No." Maul, damn him, sounds amused. "It is your turn. You will not hide from me."

"It's different," you whine and hate yourself for it.

"It's identical." His eyes flick back to your pussy. "You are very wet."

"Maul."

"I am merely making an observation."

His thumb drags through your inner folds. You're so swollen and sensitive that the lightest touch forces you to brace yourself against the wall. Maul does it again, and now you can hear how slick you are.

"What feels good?" His exhale warms your cunt, fingertip teasing your tight entrance. "Here?" He traces back up to rub your clit with slow, deliberate pressure. "Or here?"

Your hips jerk, the pleasure both relief and agony simultaneously. "I—shit."

Maul circles your clit again then removes his thumb. You whine and nearly crumble towards the wall in frustration.

"Words, doctor." His voice is low, commanding, and goes straight to your clit. You worry your lower lip between your teeth, thighs already trembling around his head.

"There…on my clit," you manage. "If— if you pull the hood back, it's more sensitive."

"Mm. Noted."

Maul touches you like he fights: with precision and no mercy. He discovers the flat of his thumb makes your gasp and quiver. He learns that your clit likes the heavy, unhurried circles. He's a fast study, this man, he always has been. And you're melting on top of him, crying out into the medbay, one hand splayed against the wall, the other curled uselessly on your thigh.

Then Maul moves his hand, palm up, his index finger presses against your entrance, pushing into the first knuckle.

"No one has ever…" you swallow. "I haven't even used toys. I—I barely use my fingers.."

He pauses for a moment, then chuckles, and stars, you hate him. You love him, and you hate him. He works his finger to the second knuckle— and it glides in easy. Like you're sucking him in.

"No one?" His voice is low, almost a growl, and you feel it against your thigh. "You are a surgeon for the underworld. Shot as many people as you have saved, and no one?"

"Maul—"

He smiles against your thigh, wicked and possessive. "I find that extraordinarily satisfying."

Heat floods your face and between your legs. "You're insufferable—"

"I am honored," he corrects with faux hurt, then all the amusement bleeds out of him. His finger is still inside you. "Tell me if you wish to stop."

"Okay." You exhale and adjust yourself so he has better access, one knee stretched out so your legs form an "L" shape. "Don't stop."

Maul's finger works into you. His finger is thick, rough from years of gripping a lightsaber, and reaches deeper than you could ever achieve.

"Stars, Maul," you babble. "It's— right there. Yes."

"I am a wonderful student," he says, not smug but certain, and it makes you laugh.

Maul curls his finger and finds something spongy inside you that makes your hips jolt. Pressure builds deep inside you, and you let him know how good that feels. Half-finished words leave on broken sighs, good and please, and his name.

"Maul, you're—" you gasp as his palm rubs your swollen clit. "You're perfect. You're so fucking perfect."

Breath punches out of him against you. He pulls his finger out of you and yanks you down onto his mouth with zero warning. There's no finesse, just the sudden, scalding heat of his tongue dragging across the seam of your cunt. You try to lift off his mouth, overwhelmed and oversensitive, but Maul hooks his arms around the back of your thighs like durasteel chains. The thick bands of muscle in his forearms flex as he pulls you back down, forcing your cunt against his mouth. He sucks your folds between his lips, groaning into the sensitive flesh.

"M-Maul," you mewl, "I— I can't—I—"

Your thighs clamp around his head, horns pricking the soft flesh of your thighs, but you don't care. Maul slows, licking broad strokes over your clit. The sound is filthy— the slick of your pussy and his spit, your whines, and Maul's satisfied groans as you twitch and come apart on his tongue.

He grabs your ass, guiding your hips into a slow roll on his face. He flattens his tongue, and he forces your hips far enough that your clit catches against his nose with every movement. You're saying things; you don't know what, but some of it makes Maul chuckle, and even earns a slap on your ass.

Pleasure coils so viciously tight that you feel it in your toes. Your rapid pants leave you dizzy, forcing you to lean against the wall for support. The noises you make sound foreign to your ears, desperate, wrecked, and completely mindless.

Maul locks you in place again, his tongue now working circles around your clit. Your thighs tremble, you can't decide to either hold onto the wall or thread your fingers between his horns. Maul growls like he's angry, and the vibration, the heat, how wound up you've been for the past hour crashes together all at once.

Your orgasm rips through you so violently your back bows and you nearly collapse over his face. Wave after brutal wave hits you while he keeps licking, greedy and merciless, until you're shaking and tapping desperately at his arm.

Maul lets you ease back just enough to remove the pressure. His chin and mouth shine with your slick, eyes black with hunger and something almost reverent. He drags one last slow lick up your slit just to hear you squeak and try to squirm away.

"I would like to do that again."

You smile and shake your head, still catching your breath. "Give me a second. I don't have two hearts like you do."

Maul's fingers idly trace your thighs. "I have noticed no shortage of stamina complaints from you tonight."

"Keep it up and I'll leave you like this." You don't mean it and Maul knows that. You lift off him on unsteady arms and slide down until you're settled over his hips. His cock rests heavy against his thigh, flushed dark, ridges visibly more swollen than they were before. For a second you just stare, heart hammering in your chest. His bravado from earlier frays the longer you look, replaced with something wanting, almost desperate.

You lean back and gently trace your fingers over his cock, savoring the way he tenses underneath you.

"I want this," you say. "But only if you do too…"

Maul swallows thickly, hips twitching underneath your hand. For a brief second, the flicker of the same panic from your mouth earlier flashes across his face. It leaves him just as quickly, and he looks up at you, conveying such sincerity it almost shocks you.

"I do."

His hold settles loosely on your waist, watching you with fixed intensity. You wet your lips and spread your legs wider, moving his cock so you can slide it through your dripping cunt. Each ridge is heaven against your engorged clit, both of your moans mixing together as you slather his shaft with slick.

Your gaze meets his as you line up his cock with your entrance and sink down. The stretch from his blunt head burns as it eases inside of you. You hiss through your teeth, and Maul's nails dig crescents into the soft skin of your waist.

"Easy," he growls. "Do not— do not rush it."

"I know how this works—" you mutter, cheeks burning. "My body will adjust."

"Then you should be patient." Your gazes lock. "Breathe."

You bite your lip as you ease down another inch, stuffed too full already, even though Maul wasn't fully inside you yet. He holds perfectly still while you work his cock inside you, lower lip caught between his teeth. Your head lolls to the side, brows pinched as Maul's pelvis finally presses flush against yours.

One fist curls against his hip, the other gripping onto his hand. Your cunt twitches around him as you try to relax your muscles, Maul's head tipping back against the cot.

"You are…" his voice cracks. "You are exquisite…I have never known want like this."

You lean forward to press your foreheads together, whimpering as his cock shifts inside you. For a long moment you just lay there, breathing each other in. You lower your mouth to meet his, tongues brushing as your lips slotted together. Then you start to move, more grinding than bouncing, a slow careful roll of your hips. It's awkward at first as you try to find your rhythm, but it gradually becomes good and you're entranced from how deep his cock is inside you.

Maul's eyes glaze over, his lips parted, soft and wrecked noises leaving him with every breath, completely undone by you. The man forged into a weapon, only a servant to the dark side, whining because of you. Because of your soft, tight pussy clenching around his cock.

Pleasure surges through you as your puffy clit rubs the ridges at the base. His name leaves your lips like a prayer as you pick up the pace, sitting back up and placing your hands on his chest to brace yourself.

"Maul," you mewl. "'s so big. You feel so good."

He answers by yanking you back down, engulfing you in his arms, panting against your temple. One hand grips your ass, assisting you as you rock your hips together. It's so good until your thighs begin to burn, your muscles trembling with each movement. You try to fight through it, but inevitably slow and tremble in Maul's arms.

He notices immediately, grip on your ass tightening to steady you. "Tired?" he teases, but looks at you softly, almost fond.

"Yeah…this is harder than it looks," you grin, forehead dropping to his shoulder, idly kissing the skin there.

Maul presses a kiss to your temple, and something in your chest tightens. "Then allow me."

He plants his heels and thrusts into you slow and deep, careful not to jostle his stitches. Each smooth stroke drags his ridges along your walls, pulling a broken moan from your throat. He picks up more heat, each snap of his hips eliciting a wet slap of skin in the quiet medbay. The angle hits unexplored spots in you, and you grip onto Maul's shoulders for dear life, nails digging into his skin. Unfortunately, your hamstrings still scream at you.

"Maul, wait," you try and shift your legs, but the muscles seize tighter. "Ah, my hamstrings are really sore. It's getting uncomfortable…"

He stills inside of you, breathing out, the huff of almost-laughter against your hair. "Humans are so fragile."

"Shut up," you whine, nuzzling his neck. "It's not my fault we start falling apart at thirty."

"Hm. Truly a pity."

You laugh, trembling and impaled on his cock. Maul's lips curl into a smile against your scalp. Then, his arms lock around you, voice dropping.

"Hold onto me."

"What—"

Maul sits up with you in his lap and pulls out with a slick and obscene sound that makes you both groan. In one fluid motion, he stands, keeping you anchored with his hands under your ass. He hisses when the movement tugs on his stitches, but he ignores your protests. The room tilts, and Maul sets you back down on the bed, grabbing your knees and dragging you forward until your ass is at the very edge of the mattress.

"Maul, your stitches—"

"A problem for later." He stands between your legs, lifting your hips with one hand and guiding himself back in with the other.

"There," he exhales when he's fully seated inside you. "That's better."

The new angle is devastating, cock head right against that sensitive spot inside you. Maul fucks you slow and deep, your breasts bouncing with each thrust. He's panting, nearly incoherent from the sensation of your cunt hugging his cock. You close your eyes, head dropping to the side.

"No," Maul says suddenly, voice a rasp. "Look at me."

You obediently turn your head back to him. He's beautiful, his gaze wide and unguarded as it stare into yours. He mumbles your name, and you respond by hooking your ankles around his waist and tugging Maul forward. He hooks his arms under your knees, and folds you until there's no space between your sweaty, slick bodies. His thrusts turn shallow, every movement dragging your puffy clit against his pelvis.

"Fuck me—" you whine, cupping Maul's face. "Please. You're so good, so good to me."

Something in him cracks open at your words. He shudders, ridges of his cock swelling inside you. His rhythm falters, jaw slack, voice climbing to a broken pitch he swallowed down an hour ago. You brace for Maul to go rigid, and disassociate from his body, but he stays, and presses your foreheads together.

"That's it," you whisper, cupping his face. "Stay with me. It's okay, come for me."

Maul's thrusts grow erratic. He buries his face in your neck while you cling to him, nails clawing down his back. Maul comes with a cry of your name, a broken, choked sound. His hips stutter, cock pulsing inside you as his entire body trembles. You don't feel him spill inside you, which is okay, less clean up and no need for condoms.

"Oh, Maul," you mouth at his temple. "You did so good."

His breath fans against your neck, but he doesn't slow. Maul plants one knee on the bed and thrusts into you again, thumb reaching between your bodies to find your clit.

"Oh shit," you jolt. "You don't have to—"

"You will finish," Maul says, voice raspy and ruined. "I want you to come on me. Let me feel it."

He hisses, thrusts sloppy, cock twitching as he overstimulates himself. It's filthy, desperate, your voice climbing higher as he works your clit in circles. The pleasure coils tight, and you squirm on the bed, babbling nonsense as your body draws up.

"That's it," Maul snarls, possessive and greedy. "There she is. Let go."

You shatter, the orgasm racing through you in devastating waves. Your cunt squeezes his cock, and Maul groans like it hurts, but works you through every pulse of it anyway. Your hips twist away when it becomes too much. Maul finally stills, hand leaving your pussy to brace next to your head.

Neither of you moves for a long time. The air is thick and humid with the smell of sex. Your breaths mingle together, Maul still buried inside you and slowly going soft.

You reach up and thread your fingers through his horns, stroking the base with your thumb. Maul groans softly, eyes fluttering shut. Eventually he shifts and carefully slips out of you, lowering himself next to you on the cot.

You turn to your side and check his bacta patch for any blood. Maul watches you with a raised brow, something between exasperation and wonder on his face.

"No blood," you sigh, voice hoarse. "Any pain?"

Maul scoffs but not without mirth. "You can't help yourself, can you?"

"Nope," you smile. His hand comes up to cover yours, thumb idly rolling over your knuckles.

The quiet settles back in. You're exhausted and sticky, arousal going cool between your thighs.

"I'm sorry for earlier…" you mumble. "I froze when that scaffolding fell. You got hurt because of me and you were right. I was weak."

Maul is quiet for a long moment. Then his hand rests on your cheek, forcing you to look at him.

"You froze because it matters to you that I live. That itself is not weakness. And I am not that easy to kill." His thumb brushes over your cheek. "Besides, your outburst led us to a desirable outcome, did it not?"

You laugh softly, and turn into the touch, placing a kiss on his palm.

E - Extra info (any other fetishes? feet? leather? role playing? blood? fantasies that they might want to experience not on this list?)

hux is reeeeeeeaaaaaaally into clothed and semi-clothed sex (not just because of body-image issues although that obviously plays a role)

there's something about your desperation for each other, how unwilling you are to wait the time it would take for him to deal with all the fasteners and layers he wears, pulling him in for a bruising kiss by the collar of his greatcoat, slotting your body between his legs until the pressure on the bulge in his trousers makes him gasp into your open mouth.

not taking the gloves off is more of a conscious choice, though 😏 he just loves the way the leather shines when he pulls his fingers, slick with spit, from between your flushed and swollen lips

I - Impact play (here’s where talking about things like spanking, paddles, canes, floggers and the like.) 

my opinion on this one changes with my mood, but in general (lol) i think he's pretty resistant to hitting you if there's any kind of feelings there beyond the sexual.

armitage already knows plenty about causing pain, but he's been starved for tenderness since he could name the feeling. mayyyybe you could convince him of spanking if you asked really nicely, and on your knees 😉 but he does kind of need to see you beg for it before he can be convinced

Z - Zones (what are their erogenous zones? what spots on their body should be touched, bitten, kissed, when someone wants to get them in the mood?)

the thing about the first order is that i think they're really weird about physical contact between officers, and so casual touch is not something that happens very often, and would happen even less to hux in his position of power. this man is so starved for physical contact that even the brush of your hand over the sleeve of his greatcoat is going to have him flushing pink and breathing so shallow he almost wonders if he should go to the medbay every time he thinks about it (and he thinks about it a lot).