Beloved Sandworm Of The Desert

Request Rules (Requests are open):

1. I won’t write about anything related to self harm or romantic age gaps involving a minor. I try as often as possible to work with the requests that I receive, but occasionally I will refuse or modify a request if I feel like I am not capable of writing it properly. Please know that this is not a critique of those requests, it is about me understanding my limits and capabilities as a writer.

2. I write for fun in my free-time, please don’t demand updates.

3. If you’d like to request a continuation of a oneshot that I have written, I would appreciate it if you could give me something to work with, like a specific situation or event you would like to see. I am willing to continue most of my stories, it just might take a little longer while I plot the next steps in the story.

Characters I Write For:

Stranger Things

Eddie Munson

Steve Harrington

Robin Buckley

Jim Hopper

Star Wars Light Side (Sequel Trilogy):

Finn

Poe Dameron

Rey

Rose Tico

Star Wars Dark Side (Sequel Trilogy):

Kylo Ren

Armitage Hux

Captain Phasma

The Mandalorian:

Din Djarin

Daniel Brühl Characters:

Laszlo Kreizler (The Alienist)

Adam Driver Characters:

Clyde Logan (Logan Lucky)

Marvel Characters:

Baron Helmut Zemo (TFAWS)

Sam Wilson (TFAWS)

Triple Frontier

Ben Miller

Will Miller

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.