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PROMPT POST #4

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prompt post two
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+ All comments except fills should be posted anonymously.
+ All prompts should focus on TFA characters. You can't post OT or PT-only prompts.
+ One prompt per comment please.
+ You can request both kink and non-kink content
+ Crossovers, characters from the other media are allowed, but must relate to the 2015 movie in some way.
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+ Use 'Any' when prompting for any pairing at all (eg Kylo/Any or Any/Any)
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+ prompts should not exceed ~250 words.
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+ reposting prompts is currently not allowed.
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Okay OP I started writing this and got A LITTLE CARRIED AWAY so I'm going to post the first two parts for you, just so you know it's being written, and hopefully I'll finish the rest of it soon :D

~

BB8 shrills at him, desperate and concerned, from his cradle on the back of the X-wing. He's upside down, which can’t be any more pleasant for a droid than it is for him. Though, Poe has to admit, it’s probably not worse — BB8 certainly doesn’t have a safety harness digging into what is very likely a broken clavicle, the sharp, insistent pain of a broken rib poking at a lung, and the cool, wet drip of leaking coolant pulsing through the tears of a flight suit.

BB8 doesn’t have a clavicle. Or ribs. Or lungs. Or a fight suit, come to that. Maybe he should — maybe, if Poe gets out of this, he’ll get him one.

He’s not getting out of this, he realizes, with a strange clarity.

Hell of a thing, he finds himself thinking, as his mind drifts and BB8’s titters fade into a soft, familiar song. Always hoped I’d die better than this.

He thinks — he feels — he remembers a cool hand pressed to his forehead, right before the world goes dark.

**

He wakes up to the safely sterile scent of D’Qar's medwing in a great deal of pain which, he’ll admit, is probably better than not waking up at all.

In addition to the chemical burns streaking across torso, and the cracked ribs, his clavicle is — to quote the delightfully unclinical droid who breaks the news to him — functionally pulverized. They’re the kind of injuries that the New Republic Navy dealt with through a quick dip in a bacta tank and a couple of days bed rest. But the Resistance, in the noble tradition of underground movements everywhere, is somewhat strapped for cash and medical supplies. The best the doctors can do for him is patches to heal the burns, which he’s infinitely thankful for, and injections of an experimental drug meant to bring down swelling and accelerated bone growth. The recovery period is about a month, requires a cast and sling, and precludes all but the most minimal movement of the effected area. And Poe Dameron’s a good pilot, the best he knows, certainly, but even he’s not exactly capable of piloting an x-wing with only minimal movement of his right arm and shoulder.

The first week, it doesn’t really matter: he spends most of it drugged out of his mind. Anesthetics are hardly plentiful but are apparently very necessary for the process, and his weak protests to the contrary are dismissed out of hand by everyone he tries to raise them with, from BB8 to the medical droids to Doctor Kalonia, not to mention General Organa, whose strangely pale visage he wakes up to on Day 3, or maybe 4.

By week two, he’s allowed to leave the medical wing, and finds himself wishing for the drugs again, because unfocused delirium has to be better than constant nausea and perpetual tedium. There’s nothing more boring than spending his days roaming the base in search of something to do that only requires his left hand. As it turns out, there’s not much: Black One's going through extensive repairs in a hangar that he’s been preemptively banned from, and the simulators are all full of new recruits. And while most of them still look upon Poe with a certain degree of hero-worship, he’s not bored enough to take advantage of that for the sake a distraction when they’re all still in need of training.

He reads a lot: starts at least five novels and gives up on them and going back to mission reports and his x-wing manual.

He goes to the commissary, then the mess hall.

He drops by the ambulance corps, to thank them for the rescue that’s put him in this particular predicament. His mom’d flown an ambulance ship for a while, he remembers: back before she’d been assigned her A-wing, a few months after enlisting with the Rebellion. Like most things related to her time in the war, Shara hadn’t talked about it. He’d had to find out, years later, from his father. Like it’d been something to be ashamed of, the fact that she’d been saving lives even before she’d been cleared for combat missions.

His squad returns, piecemeal, from a set of missions. He tries not to go crazy listening to Snap and Jess talk about their milk-run trips to the outer-rim, but his cast itches and his stomach hurts and he feels tired, the kind of exhaustion that comes not from doing too much but too little, and of having nothing to look forward to.

It’s fine. He’s dealing with it.

**

He deals with it for three weeks.

He might’ve dealt with it longer, except that’s when news comes in, of a practice run turned ambush on what they’d thought was an uninhabited system far from First Order territory. Three of the five recruits were killed, Iolo and Kune took serious hits, and Poe, who would have — should have — been with them, was getting the hard cast removed from his arm and shoulder and told he needed another two weeks of light duty and a sling before he could return to active duty.

And now, he’s pacing the Control Room, trying to listen to the debate about balancing the need for off-planet training exercises and the risk of future attacks.

“Commander Dameron?”

He stills: General Organa is staring at him. “Ma’am?"

“Do you have a suggestion?"

“Yes,” he says, firmly. “Put me back on rotation."

There’s a few light titters around him; he ignores that, focuses on the General, who’s giving him a steady but almost gentle look. “I don’t think that’s the best idea right now."

The not-insignificant parts of Poe Dameron that have, through his Yavin IV upbringing and years of Academy training, developed an instinctual respect for a person of General Leia Organa’s experience, scream at him to shut up, to pause, to listen. The rest of him, the parts that are tired, angry, and, more than anything, guilty, win.

“With all due respect, ma’am, I’m the best you’ve got right now—"

“And so humble, too,” she says, dryly.

“Ma’am,” he says, utterly failing at keeping his voice even. “You need me out there. You can’t afford to lose any more pilots, and—"

“You are too important to the Resistance—"

Poe laughs, harshly. “From here? Doing nothing? I’m useless to you right now!” he glances around: the room is full of people, many of whom seem reluctant to meet his eyes. “To all of you.”

“You are not useless, Dameron. You’re healing."

“I am healed!” he says, and makes the colossally stupid decision to rip open his sling and wave his very much not healed arm around for emphasis. It’s agony, of course, but he’s got the training, and more importantly, the adrenaline, to push past that. “I’m fine!"

“Commander Dameron—"

“People are dead,” he says, trying not to think too hard about them, three kids he’d recruited fresh from flight school, talked into abandoning a promising future in the New Republic Navy in favor of low wages and suicide missions. “Because I couldn’t keep my damn ship in the air."

“People are dead, Commander Dameron, because the First Order is brutal, desperate, and sloppy. Putting you out there before you’re fully recovered from your injuries would be just as—"

“I’m recovered!"

“Son—"

“I am not your son,” he snarls, and through the swirling haze of pain, anger, and frustration, hears gasps. General Organa’s face changes, minutely, but Poe’s immediately certain that he might as well have slapped her. The momentary flash of vulnerability in her eyes fades to a cool darkness.

“Ma’am, I didn’t—"

“You’re dismissed, Commander Dameron."

He opens his mouth to protest, and she fixes him with an icy stare that cuts through him like blaster fire. He yanks his right hand up in a breathtakingly painful salute, nods, and exits the room.

**

He slinks back to his quarters and collapses, drapes his weak arm over his chest, and shuts his eyes to the sound of BB8 practically cooing at him.

He lasts about half an hour like that, before the pain gets to be too much, before he starts worrying about having done permanent, irreparable damage to his arm, and drags himself to the medwing; BB8 trails after him, chattering at everyone they pass on the way there, which is great, because it means Poe doesn’t need to.

Doctor Kalonia takes one look at his sloppily fastened sling and hustles him to a cot. “Lie down,” she says, stern, and Poe obeys. “I’m going to give you something for the pain?” she asks, like he has the option of saying no. He knows better: the minute he refuses it becomes an issue, it becomes a psych eval and another couple of weeks on the ground.

A quick jab to his thigh and relief is almost immediate. “Thank you,” he says.

She nods at him. Unfastens his sling, runs a scanner along the length of his arm and shoulder. Purses her lips as she surveys the results.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, as the waves of hazy numbness flood over him.

“For what, Commander Dameron?"

“For—did I—did I fuck up all your hard work?"

The doctor gives him a slight, but genuine, smile: “Not my hard work, Commander."

His own, then. His own efforts to become indispensable to the Resistance, to give all he has to offer to protect the New Republic, freedom, and intergalactic stability. Everything his parents had fought for. All because he’s a grown man who can’t keep himself entertained and out of trouble for five fucking weeks.

What an idiot, he thinks, right before he dozes off.

**

“Shit,” he says, when he wakes up the next morning—because it is morning, and he’s spent the night in medical, taking up a bed—with his neck aching and his droid snoozing in low power. There’s another doctor at this hour of the day, whose name he doesn’t know, but whose face is familiar. She’s wearing a name tag; he cranes his neck, trying to get a glimpse at it, and sends spasms of discomfort rippling through his neck and shoulder.

“Commander Dameron!” says Dr. (apparently) Alara. “Good to see you awake."

“Good to be awake,” he lies, and sells it, the best he can, with a crooked grin.

Dr. Alara ducks her head, blushing. She fumbles with her data pad for a moment. “How long had it been since you got a good night’s sleep?"

“I don’t know,” he says, honestly. He isn’t even sure what qualifies as a good night’s sleep anymore.

“Right,” says the doctor. “Well, you got a solid ten hours last night. There’s been a couple of people in here, looking for you, but Dr. Kalonia told me to keep them—keep you—well, make sure you got your rest."

If there’s anything he doesn’t need more of, it’s rest, but Poe nods. “Who’s looking for me?"

“Maybe you should get breakfast first."

“Good idea,” he says, smiling. “After that, though. I wanna check in with whoever’s looking for me as soon as possible."

“Well, half your squadron’s come and gone. General Organa’s droid came, some of the—"

“General Organa’s droid?” He stands up, much too quickly. “Did he say anything?"

“Just that you’re to report to the General once you’re feeling up to it."

Great. Well. That’s never, probably. He sighs. “Thanks, Doc,” he says, and gives a lilting whistle to rouse BB8 from artificial slumber.

“Commander Dameron—"

“Breakfast, I got it!” he calls back, turning glancing over his shoulder to wink at her. “Headin’ to the mess right now, I promise."

**

All he gets at the mess is caf and and a protein bar, but it’ll have to be enough. His head’s still light from the painkillers and the ten hours of sleep (he hasn’t gotten ten hours of sleep since he was a kid: sick, home from school, and miserable).

The Control Room is quiet when he gets there: by no means not empty, but nowhere near as full as when he had his tantrum. The General is there, of course: looking at a broad array of the universe, apparently updating the planets currently believed to be under immediate threat from the First Order.

“You sent for me, ma’am?"

“There’s been reports of suspiciously efficient raids on trade ships just beyond the Gordian Reach."

“Oh?” Poe hears himself say, colder than he intends, but he’s got a bad feeling as to where this conversation is going and can’t help himself.

"Wexley’s making a reconnaissance run out there, in hopes of getting a fuller picture of the situation."

“Good for him."

The General turns to look at him, and looks so fundamentally exhausted that Poe feels himself flush with shame. “Given your current…” her pause is masterful, born not from uncertainty but intent to leave him squirming. “Condition,” of unmitigated assholery, she doesn’t say, but clearly means. “He’ll be dropping you off at Yavin IV on the way."

Poe swallows and fixes his gaze on one of the bleeping lights of the display behind her — a transport ship, he assumes, from the size and the speed with which it’s approaching Dermos. “Understood."

The General seems surprised by his acquiescence, and her voice softens. “I know you won’t believe this, Commander,” she says, quietly. “But this isn’t a punishment."

Poe straightens his back. His shoulder aches, which seems appropriate. “Am I dismissed?"

General Organa sighs. “You are, Commander Dameron."

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says. In lieu of a salute, he gives a curt nod, and spins on his heel with precision his Academy instructors would’ve wept at. It’s the best he can do.

**

Snap, like everyone else who’d witnessed his breakdown, has been walking on eggshells around Poe since then.

Poe finds himself resenting it, though in a way it’s easier, means he doesn’t have to make much conversation on the quick jump to the Gordian Reach. Not like he’s got much to say, anyway. Sorry I’ve been such a dick lately, buddy, might be a start, but he’s not quite ready to make it, especially not with Snap throwing him those careful, wary looks, like he’s going to — hah—snap at any minute.

He’s nice enough to let Poe sit in the co-pilot’s seat, though, so Poe smiles as pleasantly as he can, and keeps his mouth shut otherwise. Forces his good hand into his pocket, to keep it from twitching anxiously at the controls he’s desperate to touch, and tries his best not to think about how much he hates riding in ships that he isn’t himself flying.

**

They reach Yavin IV just as night begins to fall: Poe watches the shade of the thick canopy of tree tops change from vibrant green to dull black as Yavin sets ahead of them.

The grey-brown stone of the ancient towers peak from the trees, gleaming under the light from the gas giant. Poe feels a swift, strange punch to the gut at the sight. He hasn’t lived here in years, went straight from Academy barracks to a solitary apartment on Mirrin Prime to the cramped quarters on D’Qar. Hadn’t been born there, even. But something about this place always gets to him — the thick air, the lush jungle. The sounds of animals and insects; even some of the plants rustle on their own, a background, soft susurration that’d been terrifying, as a kid, but now it’s just…

Snap sets the ship down in a clearing a couple hundred feet from the ranch. Poe wills himself out of his memories, out of his head, and back to reality. He can see the lights of the ranch in the distance.

“Home sweet home?” Snap says, and Poe huffs a laugh.

“I guess.” He stands up, grabs his bag, and calls for BB8, who rolls after him, quieter than usual. Almost as if he's caught Poe's mood, and he kind of hates himself for that, for transmitting his childish melancholy to a usually impossibly chipper droid.

Snap follows him, a couple of steps behind. Poe’s strangely grateful for it, and even more at the fact that he seems to know better than to ofter to take Poe’s bag.

A tall, solid figure emerges from the ranch, and lopes up to them; BB8 lets out a happy little squeal and rushes away, greeting Kes Dameron by spinning gleefully around his ankles till he crouches down, putting him roughly at eye level with the droid. His laughter fills the distance between him and Poe.

“Hey, little buddy,” he hears his father say, watches him make a real show of listening to BB8’s bleeps. Kes has never quite been able to get the hang of binary, but you’d never know it, watching him with BB8.

Eventually, Kes straightens from his crouch. “Hey, kid,” he calls out, waving.

Poe holds his head up high, trying his best not to feel like a child who got sent home from school for fighting. “Hey, dad."

Kes looks at him for a moment, mouth twitching, before throwing his gaze back at Snap, like a challenge.

“That you back there, Temmin Wexley?"

Poe doesn’t need to glance back to know that Snap’s saluting. “Sergeant Dameron. Sir.”

“At ease, son,” Kes says, finally letting a smile peak through. He walks up to Poe, resting a hand on his uninjured shoulder and giving him a squeeze; Poe nods in response, letting his gaze drop. Kes tsks lightly at him, but returns his attention to Snap. “You got time to join us for dinner, Captain?"

“‘Fraid not, sir. Recon mission."

“Next time you’re in the system, then?"

“That’d be—that’d be great, sir."

“Good man,” Kes says, nodding. “Take care of yourself out there."

“Will do, sir,” Snap says. A moment’s hesitation, and then: “Poe?"

Poe half-turns, just enough to be able to glance over his shoulder and give him a friendly wave. “See you soon, buddy. Thanks for the ride."

Snap swallows his momentary surprise and grins back in something like relief. “Any time, man,” he says. “Have fun."

Poe forces a smile and nods again, which does nothing great for the incipient headache. Snap seems satisfied, though, and heads back to his ship. Poe turns away, gazing at the house while he listens to the engines start up.

“How you doin’, kid?”

He glances over at his dad. “Great."

Kes laughs, obviously unconvinced, as he reaches down to grab Poe’s bag.

“I can—"

“Yeah, yeah,” Kes says, slinging it over his shoulder, which settles it.

“Thanks, dad."

Kes smiles at him, small and fond, and throws a careful arm over Poe’s shoulders, guides him back to the ranch with BB8 bringing up the rear. “You hungry?"

He’s not. Hasn’t been for weeks, really. Not about to say it, though.

“For your cooking?” Poe says, with a smirk. "Always."

Kes snorts. “Oh, all right, smart guy,” he says, pushing him forward and into the house. “Go get washed up, we’ll see how much of my terrible food you can choke down."

Poe opens his mouth to respond but, can’t: his breath catches as he looks around.

It’s the same as it’s always been, the house: orange walls around him, blue in the living room to his right, green in the kitchen, which he can catch a glimpse of from here. The holo frames in the foyer track his life: squirming out of his mother’s lap when he’s about four; grinning widely on the first day of school, with his curls neatly combed; a rotating series shots of him, standing next to the tree out front, charting their mutual growth over the years. A large image on the dark wooden table in front of him: his graduation ceremony at the Academy, having his wings pinned on by his father, while both of them try not to cry.

BB8 bumps against the back of his calves; he drops his gaze, suddenly aware of the fact that he’s standing in the middle of the hallway, staring at nothing. His father’s beside him, asking if he’s all right.

“I’m fine,” he says, because he has to be.

His dad chuckles, drops Poe's bag to the ground, and comes up around him. “C’mere, kid."

“Dad—"

“I know, I know, you’re fine. For your old man, okay?” he says, slinging an arm around Poe’s good shoulder and pulling him close. Poe doesn’t fight it, lets himself be dragged into a firm, all-enveloping hug. Presses his forehead against his father’s shoulder, wraps his good arm around his waist, and takes a breath. “Missed you, kid,” says Kes, stroking the back of his head. Poe’s struck by a half-forgotten memory, of Kes picking him up and carrying home from a day at the fair, of stroking his hair in the same way.

“Missed you too,” Poe mumbles, and blinks, a little desperately, trying to chase the watery sting out of his eyes.

**

+100000

And yet...

In an ironic turn Grand Empress Supreme Leader and general enjoyer of flash laser light weapons is dethroned and declawed by a lone Mouse Droid. Who never actually signed up for this detail.

THIS THIS THIS

YES! +1

*dead* That last line was just heartbreaking. I love this - it's completely believeable, sad as that is.

I LOVE all the love Mitaka is getting lately, btw <3

HUX/MITAKA/KYLO IS SO MY JAM RN

this prompt is gold

FLAWLESS

NGL I would click ALL of these <3

Shamelessly borrowed from the prompt above.

Ben and Poe did almost everything except mating when they were younger.

Kylo and Hux has an okay and loving(???) relationship. As good and healthy arrangement with an omega and alpha. Although Hux is way too happy to have a powerful Omega bonded to him. He does love to gloat and show off.

So Poe gets captured and Hux just can't help himself. This man touched his Omega! Forget the fact that they haven't met before.

Much to Kylo's discomfort, Hux umasks and undress him infront of then restrained poe. He wordlessly touch and brings Kylo to the edge, until finally telling him to ride a clearly turned on Poe.

Kylo's really hesitant because he can't deny lingering feelings for Poe.

Poe ends up knotting a whimpering Kylo while Hux plays with his hair telling him he's a good boy.

+Hux knots him right after Poe

diff anon: *brings the marshmallows*

Wait... If there's several different descendants of Mitaka........oooh he's been getting BIZAY! Nice to hear someone(or several someones) have appreciated him.
I loved your work, it is hilarious, yet has quite a lot of truth in it.

I never knew I needed this 💕

Kylo and Hux are both interested in Mitaka, but they're reluctant to bring him to their bed. He seems so timid and unassuming, sweet even. Not the type of person who could stomach sleeping with men who do the kinds of things Kylo and Hux do every day.

Then something happens and Kylo and Hux find themselves with a hostage near the other officers. Maybe somebody turned traitor, an assassin, or a Resistance infiltrator who stumbled into the wrong place. Sweet looking Mitaka is nearby, so the hostage appeals to him for mercy.

Mitaka proceeds to pull out a blaster and shoot them square in the forehead without so much as flinching. Then goes back to work as if nothing happened at all, like he does this every week. Turns out Mitaka really was assigned to the Finalizer for a reason and isn't nearly as harmless as he looks. Kylo and Hux are absolutely floored.

All bets are off after that.

AHHHHH!!!! This is so good!

Oh my godddddd I need this!

They're penpals. They might be ideologically opposed, but there's a certain universality to their high-stress roles and demanding bosses. They share work horror stories, tips on Being Assertive, carefully-vetted gossip (got to make sure not to slip any secrets!) and reminders when Leia and Ben have birthdays/anniversaries coming up and are likely to be in a mood.

Hux has never had any compunction about using his looks to his advantage.

He knows he's a competent officer but it takes a bit more than talent to get ahead in the First Order. And Hux will do anything to get to the top.

+100 Kylo finds out when some of the top brass visit the ship
+1000 Machiavellian Hux still has a ridiculous number of Senior Officers convienced they're in love
+10000 The general consensus among the FO High Command is that Hux has the brain of a tactical genius and mouth of a Correlian whore

The Master is renowned for creating the most responsive and eager sex slaves in the Galaxy. He could take the most difficult, vicious, and feisty of slaves and turn them in wanton sluts, begging to be fucked.

His methods are simple really: Keep the slave constantly drugged with the most powerful aphrodisiac their species can handle then have them fucked, both by sentient beings and machines/droids designed just for this purpose until all they know and want and crave is to be filled and fucked senseless.

Then the proper training can begin - teaching them how to present themselves, how to suck and lick and please their masters, how to enjoy their punishments and crave pain as much as pleasure. For the right price, he can even train into them a keyword that will make them come just from saying it.

The rest of the business is just cosmetic - piercings usually but they are popular, both for how they look and the practical applications but branding and tattoos are an option for the master that plans to keep their slave for a long time.

Now, the newest slave to be brought to the Master is non-other than ~~former~~ General Hux and oooh, how the Master is looking forward to the challenge of breaking him.

+ Hux can be rescued afterward if Anon wishes but I want the fic’s focus to be on Hux’s ‘training’.
+ Open to Gen or Kylux (Especially Dark!Kylo who keeps Hux a slave)

Hux dies from something and the last thought in his head was how everything started to go wrong with FN-2187. He dies fuming and with FN-2187 on the mind.

The next thing he knows, he's in a strange room...on the Resistance base. No one can see him except our little Finn. Ghost shenanigans ensue.

+ People think Finn is going crazy, everyone is reasonably concerned
++ Sexually frustrated Poe because Finn can't screw him with Hux watching
+++ Hux won't stop being Hux for one minute and demands Finn's constant attention to compensate for his lack of power

Finn and Rey might not be in the same place, with Finn on D'Qar and Rey on Ahch-To, but every night they come together in Finn's dreams.

I will take "rtyi" recs too!

As if depraved Emperor Caligula Hux wouldn't be 10000% into watching the entire court illicitly ride his steed. He'd probably put on a fake stable master costume (a fake moustache, nothing else) and literally pimp his ride. Then he'd throw off his disguise, "catch" them in the act and punish them mercilessly, sexily, insanely.

"Step right up, step right up, come slake your treasonous lusts upon the Imperial steed! The Emperor will never know!"

*winks, moustache falls off*

"Safe, fun, anonymous! Discretion guaranteed!"

*hot pokers and recording equipment falls out of the bag he's poorly hiding behind his back*

broken and brought low Hux is my favourite Hux. and oh boy do i need that bonus with kylo keeping him as his desperate and obedient sex slave. seconded so fucking hard.

Oh god, this is so good, so sad. So real. That argument and the feelings/ truths that pour off every line was so well done. Poor Ben. Great fill.

*bangs fist on table* This is the kind of a/b/o shit I approve of!

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Page 156 of 235

PROMPT POST #4

This post is closed to new prompts!

FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (1/?)

FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (2/?)

Re: Gen - How to become Supreme Leader without really trying

Re: [Fill] Even Swords Need their Sheaths

Re: Poe/Finn - Jealousy is an ugly color.

Re: [Fill] Even Swords Need their Sheaths

Re: Hux gets the wrong idea

Re: Kylux - Old Men sex and Peace Negotiations

no subject

Ben/Poe, Hux/Kylo - a/b/o

Re: M/F/M First Order Sandwich

Re: FILL: HIST 364: The Rise and Fall of the First Order [1/1]

Re: Poe/Finn- Raising Ben

Kylo/Hux/Mitaka - Mitaka the Merciless

Re: FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (2/?)

Re: Gen, Emperor Caligula Hux

Kaydel Ko Connix + Mitaka

Hux/Many, possible Kylux: Hux slept his way to the top

Others/Hux - Sexual Slavery, Training, Rape, Body Mod, Broken!Hux

Hux & Finn, backround Finn/Poe - dead Hux haunts Finn

Finn/Rey, dreamsex

Re: Gen, Emperor Caligula Hux

Re: Others/Hux - Sexual Slavery, Training, Rape, Body Mod, Broken!Hux

Re: MINIFILL x2 - Ben was kind of a creepy kid

Re: Omega!Kylo/Alpha!Any, rape, Kylo uses omega pheromones to rape the alpha