“And the body?” Kylo asks in a whisper. In the silence of the General’s quarters, it seems to echo anyway.
“Left on that husk of a planet,” Hux answers, his voice strong and clear and imbued with the confidence that seems as intrinsic to him as his blood. “Most likely crushed as it collapsed.”
Kylo hums. “How gruesome.”
It is dark in the room. Hux hadn’t bothered raising the luminosity when he entered, and Kylo had thought it appropriate. It is a room full of shadows like this.
Kylo has always looked like a shadow, black eyes and black hair, now with dark robes that seem to negate any light the paleness of his skin would bring. Curled up as he is on the General’s lap, the effect is even more striking.
Hux has always looked like he belonged in the shadows, even as his presence and authority made him shine. His red hair, bright as blood, only ever accentuated the dark greatcoat covering a black General’s uniform.
A strong shadow then, solid and steady, like the arm around Kylo’s back.
Ren had grown to appreciate it
“And his face as he died?” he whispers once more.
“Thinking of you, I would imagine,” Hux responds. “Mourning that he would never have had a chance see you again.”
That would have meant removing his mask, Kylo thinks, so that they may speak face to face. He wonders if he would have done that, if Han Solo would have asked.
Yes, for the second one. Probably, for the first. He wouldn’t have know, not until the last second, and even afterwards he would have been standing on a cliff’s edge, unbalanced and blown by the wind until he either fell on solid ground or into the abyss that was the Light.
“And his last words?”
“He asked for his son,” the General answers. He places two fingers under Kylo’s chin, raising the Knight’s head so that he may look in his eyes. “Anything more you wish to know?”
“I wish to know how it would feel if I killed him,” Ren answers, slowly raising his arm to grab Hux’s wrist. He gently pulls it away, removing those fingers from under his chin, never looking away for a moment. “But you took that from me.”
The General’s mouth twitches, the only sign he gives of his displeasure. Killing Han Solo had been the most expedient thing to do, as well as the most tactically sound. There had been little ceremony, Kylo is certain. A blaster to the heart.
Kylo would have aimed for the heart. Kylo would have made it so much more.
His grip around Hux’s wrists tightens.
The General hisses. “I am not here to pander to your requirements. If you felt the need to do it yourself, you should have found him first.”
Did Kylo feel the need? In doesn’t seem to matter. Han Solo is dead. That tether is gone.
Yet he doesn’t feel any stronger. Perhaps even weaker. Perhaps even grief.
He should have killed Solo himself. The father, and the son, and power from their destruction.
“I should have,” he agrees, raising Hux’s hand in front of his face. “I should have made you watch.” He loosens his hold just enough to remove smooth leather gloves. “Made you see how much better my killing would have been.”
Hux’s hands are shockingly white, as if all those years spent hidden under black leather gloves has drained them of any color, like a physical manifestation of all the measures the General has taken so that his hands may be clean of all the dirty work building a new Empire requires.
Yet Hux’s hand had been ungloved when he shot Han Solo. This Kylo knows.
“These hands did not shy away from the deed,” Kylo whispers, lips brushing against the smooth, deceptively delicate skin. “These hands have the blood of my father upon them.”
And he kisses them, more tenderness in that one gesture than in all of his years as a Knight of Ren.
Hux’s other hand comes to caress his hair. Ren closes his eyes, and pictures streaks of red upon black wires.
Then it grips it tightly, yanking his head back. “I have killed many before, Ren.”
“Yet not like this. Not for a long time,” Kylo presses, almost fervently. “Did you feel angry? Did his death make you stronger? Or did you waste it, petty vengeance for your collapsing base?” He bares his teeth. “I would have made it count. I would have made it greater! You… you were unworthy.”
Hux’s eyes flash, and he violently throws Kylo on the bed. His hands reach at his robes, pulling them off, tearing them when they won’t collaborate. “You wouldn’t have gone through with it,” he hisses viciously. “You would have cried, would have gone on your knees and begged for forgiveness.”
“There will be no forgiveness for me now,” breathes out, exhilarated. Enraged. Despairing. “Not from him. Not from anyone.” His breath hitches as he pants are torn to shreds. “I let him die.”
“You have killed many more by your own hands. Yet he matters no?”
“No,” Kylo moans when he feels hands sliding down his back. The touch burns like ice and he leans into it. “He meant nothing at all.”
There is such blood on those hands. Rebels. The Hosnian System. Han Solo. So much blood, dripping from those pale clean hands, and Kylo can feel it smearing his skin wherever they go, and there is power to be drawn from it, echoes of the anger the dead carry with them, seeping into his skin and crushing the weak wisps of Light that die like vermin. Invisible blood covering him, and it is a taint he never wants to wash clean.
Han Solo had always been pathetically removed from the Force. There shall be no ghostly manifestation of him. Nothing left of him for Kylo.
Phantom blood on ghostly white hands will have to do.
Hux pushes him away, and he falls onto his back, naked body against dark sheets. Hux looms over him, still fully clothed, black uniform forming a dark shadow. It is a room of shadows.
They will devour him.
Hux leans forward, eyes bright, the rest of him dark, and in the blend of darkness he looks so grand, so powerful and all consuming, he reminds Kylo of his master, and he moans.
“He looked like you,” Hux whispers almost harshly, the hand in Ren’s hair tightening its grip almost painfully. “As he died, he looked like you.”
Kylo breathes out, something like a laugh, something like a sob, he looks at Hux with something like devotion, something like loathing, and when his hand reaches out to Hux’s cheek, he doesn’t know if he intends to claw or caress. “He looked like Ben Solo,” he corrects breathlessly. “And Ben Solo is now as dead as him.”
When they kiss, it is gentle tongues and biting teeth. Kylo tastes blood in his mouth.
So I saw this prompt, snapped, and wrote a thing. There was supposed to be some hurt/comfort, but it ended up being this instead. Hope you still like it, OP.
[FILL] Hux/Kylo- alternate events- Hux kills Han
“And the body?” Kylo asks in a whisper. In the silence of the General’s quarters, it seems to echo anyway.
“Left on that husk of a planet,” Hux answers, his voice strong and clear and imbued with the confidence that seems as intrinsic to him as his blood. “Most likely crushed as it collapsed.”
Kylo hums. “How gruesome.”
It is dark in the room. Hux hadn’t bothered raising the luminosity when he entered, and Kylo had thought it appropriate. It is a room full of shadows like this.
Kylo has always looked like a shadow, black eyes and black hair, now with dark robes that seem to negate any light the paleness of his skin would bring. Curled up as he is on the General’s lap, the effect is even more striking.
Hux has always looked like he belonged in the shadows, even as his presence and authority made him shine. His red hair, bright as blood, only ever accentuated the dark greatcoat covering a black General’s uniform.
A strong shadow then, solid and steady, like the arm around Kylo’s back.
Ren had grown to appreciate it
“And his face as he died?” he whispers once more.
“Thinking of you, I would imagine,” Hux responds. “Mourning that he would never have had a chance see you again.”
That would have meant removing his mask, Kylo thinks, so that they may speak face to face. He wonders if he would have done that, if Han Solo would have asked.
Yes, for the second one. Probably, for the first. He wouldn’t have know, not until the last second, and even afterwards he would have been standing on a cliff’s edge, unbalanced and blown by the wind until he either fell on solid ground or into the abyss that was the Light.
“And his last words?”
“He asked for his son,” the General answers. He places two fingers under Kylo’s chin, raising the Knight’s head so that he may look in his eyes. “Anything more you wish to know?”
“I wish to know how it would feel if I killed him,” Ren answers, slowly raising his arm to grab Hux’s wrist. He gently pulls it away, removing those fingers from under his chin, never looking away for a moment. “But you took that from me.”
The General’s mouth twitches, the only sign he gives of his displeasure. Killing Han Solo had been the most expedient thing to do, as well as the most tactically sound. There had been little ceremony, Kylo is certain. A blaster to the heart.
Kylo would have aimed for the heart. Kylo would have made it so much more.
His grip around Hux’s wrists tightens.
The General hisses. “I am not here to pander to your requirements. If you felt the need to do it yourself, you should have found him first.”
Did Kylo feel the need? In doesn’t seem to matter. Han Solo is dead. That tether is gone.
Yet he doesn’t feel any stronger. Perhaps even weaker. Perhaps even grief.
He should have killed Solo himself. The father, and the son, and power from their destruction.
“I should have,” he agrees, raising Hux’s hand in front of his face. “I should have made you watch.” He loosens his hold just enough to remove smooth leather gloves. “Made you see how much better my killing would have been.”
Hux’s hands are shockingly white, as if all those years spent hidden under black leather gloves has drained them of any color, like a physical manifestation of all the measures the General has taken so that his hands may be clean of all the dirty work building a new Empire requires.
Yet Hux’s hand had been ungloved when he shot Han Solo. This Kylo knows.
“These hands did not shy away from the deed,” Kylo whispers, lips brushing against the smooth, deceptively delicate skin. “These hands have the blood of my father upon them.”
And he kisses them, more tenderness in that one gesture than in all of his years as a Knight of Ren.
Hux’s other hand comes to caress his hair. Ren closes his eyes, and pictures streaks of red upon black wires.
Then it grips it tightly, yanking his head back. “I have killed many before, Ren.”
“Yet not like this. Not for a long time,” Kylo presses, almost fervently. “Did you feel angry? Did his death make you stronger? Or did you waste it, petty vengeance for your collapsing base?” He bares his teeth. “I would have made it count. I would have made it greater! You… you were unworthy.”
Hux’s eyes flash, and he violently throws Kylo on the bed. His hands reach at his robes, pulling them off, tearing them when they won’t collaborate. “You wouldn’t have gone through with it,” he hisses viciously. “You would have cried, would have gone on your knees and begged for forgiveness.”
“There will be no forgiveness for me now,” breathes out, exhilarated. Enraged. Despairing. “Not from him. Not from anyone.” His breath hitches as he pants are torn to shreds. “I let him die.”
“You have killed many more by your own hands. Yet he matters no?”
“No,” Kylo moans when he feels hands sliding down his back. The touch burns like ice and he leans into it. “He meant nothing at all.”
There is such blood on those hands. Rebels. The Hosnian System. Han Solo. So much blood, dripping from those pale clean hands, and Kylo can feel it smearing his skin wherever they go, and there is power to be drawn from it, echoes of the anger the dead carry with them, seeping into his skin and crushing the weak wisps of Light that die like vermin. Invisible blood covering him, and it is a taint he never wants to wash clean.
Han Solo had always been pathetically removed from the Force. There shall be no ghostly manifestation of him. Nothing left of him for Kylo.
Phantom blood on ghostly white hands will have to do.
Hux pushes him away, and he falls onto his back, naked body against dark sheets. Hux looms over him, still fully clothed, black uniform forming a dark shadow. It is a room of shadows.
They will devour him.
Hux leans forward, eyes bright, the rest of him dark, and in the blend of darkness he looks so grand, so powerful and all consuming, he reminds Kylo of his master, and he moans.
“He looked like you,” Hux whispers almost harshly, the hand in Ren’s hair tightening its grip almost painfully. “As he died, he looked like you.”
Kylo breathes out, something like a laugh, something like a sob, he looks at Hux with something like devotion, something like loathing, and when his hand reaches out to Hux’s cheek, he doesn’t know if he intends to claw or caress. “He looked like Ben Solo,” he corrects breathlessly. “And Ben Solo is now as dead as him.”
When they kiss, it is gentle tongues and biting teeth. Kylo tastes blood in his mouth.
So I saw this prompt, snapped, and wrote a thing. There was supposed to be some hurt/comfort, but it ended up being this instead. Hope you still like it, OP.