[A/N: This broke me out of a writing rut and let me stare at shirtless .gifs of Adam Driver for hours on end, so thank you, dear nonny! I hope this is humiliating enough for you. <3]
Coupe
To General Hux, Kylo Ren is an exercise in excess.
He is excessive to the chain of command of the Finalizer. He is excessive in the raw, barely contained power that he wields so gracelessly. He is even excessive in his physical form—tall, broad, and overwhelming.
In Hux’s eyes, it’s only the last that redeems him. He reflects on this as he straightens up, stepping away from his bed to admire his handiwork.
Against Hux’s black sheets, Ren’s great, naked body seems paler, marmoreal even, interrupted here and there by generous constellations of moles. One day, Hux is going to connect them all, in order to divine what this particular overabundance of Ren’s means.
Even in repose, Ren overreaches, heavy legs sprawled carelessly over the soft topography of Hux’s bed. His arms are pinned above his head, resting against the mattress, wrists bound together by a rather clever freighter’s knot, if Hux may say so himself. Personal adornments are kept to a minimum in the First Order, which means that even General Hux’s bed lacks a headboard. No matter—Hux has tied the rope to the underside of his bed. It’s probably better for Ren’s shoulders, anyway.
It’s by no means the decadent four-poster bed he sometimes fantasizes about having—something he could truss Ren to in positions that would make even his powerful limbs tremble. But it will do for now. They haven’t been at this long. There will be time enough for that later. After Starkiller’s debut.
Hux takes one final look at the appealing visual before him, hands on his bared hips, before getting onto the bed himself. He summits Ren, slotting their hips together. The position brings their soft, stirring cocks into contact. Hux clicks his tongue lazily. Ren strains his neck up at the contact, openly staring down at where they meet, but the restraints keep him from lifting his shoulders.
It’s an illusion of restraint, of course. Ren is strong, both with the Force and without. He could unravel Hux’s careful bindings with a thought. He could buck Hux off of his body with just a twist of his hips. He could leave.
But he won’t. Ren’s obedience was not easily acquired, nor is that obedience even perfect after being so hard-won. But it is not the quality of Ren’s obedience that thrills Hux to his core. Ren’s eager, near-desperate willingness to submit to him despite his superior attributes is.
Hux takes his time in examining the body below him. He feels Ren’s eyes, already glassy in the half-dark of his quarters, tear themselves away from his cock to search his face, but he doesn’t meet his gaze.
The demands of the Dark Side on Ren’s body exempts him from rationing, and his missions for Supreme Leader often leaves his diet at the whims of whatever’s available. He is strong, stronger than any stormtrooper, stronger than anyone Hux has ever met—but without a diet engineered for aesthetics, there is, nonetheless, something soft to his musculature, as if he’s gotten so big that he’s overflowing the lines of his body.
And nowhere is that more evident than his chest. The contrast between their bodies titillates and fascinates Hux. His own pectoral muscles are slight and flat to his chest. As orderly and symmetrical as the rest of his body, if, perhaps, not as defined as they once were. And his nipples are small, circular, and neat, appropriately vestigial for a masculine mammal.
Ren’s are decidedly not, Hux thinks, splaying his hands over Ren’s massive pectorals. Their great curves fit neatly into the palms of his hands as he cups them. Ren’s nipples are unruly, protruding—pinkish, despite his coloring, and nearly oval, as if sloppily rendered. They begin to peak against Hux’s palm just from his touch.
Ren shifts beneath him, straining his head up to see what Hux is looking at. His eyes flicker to Hux’s face, but Hux notices it out of the periphery of his vision. He still doesn’t look at Ren.
“What are you doing?” Ren asks, after a moment, low voice rumbling through his chest, the sensation pleasant against Hux’s balls and stirring erection.
“Are you familiar with the coupe glass, Ren?” Hux asks, knowing full well Ren is not. Ren shifts his head, which might be confirmation or might just be discomfort. Either is satisfactory for Hux. “It’s for sparkling wine—if you like it to flatten before you can finish your glass. Better for cocktails, in my opinion. In any case, legend tells that the original glass was molded off of the breast of the first Empress of the Galidraan system.”
Ren’s cock stirs against the slight curve of Hux’s ass. “Nothing so salacious as that,” Hux chides, nonetheless grinding one slow circle against Ren just to see his eyelids flicker. “Mother’s milk is venerated in Galidraan space as the font of all life. It makes perfect sense to celebrate by sipping sparkling wine from the breast of the Empress.”
Hux trails the blade of his right hand along the drooping curve of Ren’s pectoral. “We could mold quite the coupe off of you, Lord Ren.”
“I don’t have breasts,” Ren says, quickly—but too quickly, his eyes darting away as he bites his lip. No wonder Ren wears the mask, Hux thinks. His face betrays him at every turn.
“Of course not,” Hux soothes, with more than a little sarcasm in his voice. “You couldn’t feed anyone with these. What you’ve got, Ren, is a nice pair of tits.”
FILL: Kylux, big tits humiliation (1/2)
Coupe
To General Hux, Kylo Ren is an exercise in excess.
He is excessive to the chain of command of the Finalizer. He is excessive in the raw, barely contained power that he wields so gracelessly. He is even excessive in his physical form—tall, broad, and overwhelming.
In Hux’s eyes, it’s only the last that redeems him. He reflects on this as he straightens up, stepping away from his bed to admire his handiwork.
Against Hux’s black sheets, Ren’s great, naked body seems paler, marmoreal even, interrupted here and there by generous constellations of moles. One day, Hux is going to connect them all, in order to divine what this particular overabundance of Ren’s means.
Even in repose, Ren overreaches, heavy legs sprawled carelessly over the soft topography of Hux’s bed. His arms are pinned above his head, resting against the mattress, wrists bound together by a rather clever freighter’s knot, if Hux may say so himself. Personal adornments are kept to a minimum in the First Order, which means that even General Hux’s bed lacks a headboard. No matter—Hux has tied the rope to the underside of his bed. It’s probably better for Ren’s shoulders, anyway.
It’s by no means the decadent four-poster bed he sometimes fantasizes about having—something he could truss Ren to in positions that would make even his powerful limbs tremble. But it will do for now. They haven’t been at this long. There will be time enough for that later. After Starkiller’s debut.
Hux takes one final look at the appealing visual before him, hands on his bared hips, before getting onto the bed himself. He summits Ren, slotting their hips together. The position brings their soft, stirring cocks into contact. Hux clicks his tongue lazily. Ren strains his neck up at the contact, openly staring down at where they meet, but the restraints keep him from lifting his shoulders.
It’s an illusion of restraint, of course. Ren is strong, both with the Force and without. He could unravel Hux’s careful bindings with a thought. He could buck Hux off of his body with just a twist of his hips. He could leave.
But he won’t. Ren’s obedience was not easily acquired, nor is that obedience even perfect after being so hard-won. But it is not the quality of Ren’s obedience that thrills Hux to his core. Ren’s eager, near-desperate willingness to submit to him despite his superior attributes is.
Hux takes his time in examining the body below him. He feels Ren’s eyes, already glassy in the half-dark of his quarters, tear themselves away from his cock to search his face, but he doesn’t meet his gaze.
The demands of the Dark Side on Ren’s body exempts him from rationing, and his missions for Supreme Leader often leaves his diet at the whims of whatever’s available. He is strong, stronger than any stormtrooper, stronger than anyone Hux has ever met—but without a diet engineered for aesthetics, there is, nonetheless, something soft to his musculature, as if he’s gotten so big that he’s overflowing the lines of his body.
And nowhere is that more evident than his chest. The contrast between their bodies titillates and fascinates Hux. His own pectoral muscles are slight and flat to his chest. As orderly and symmetrical as the rest of his body, if, perhaps, not as defined as they once were. And his nipples are small, circular, and neat, appropriately vestigial for a masculine mammal.
Ren’s are decidedly not, Hux thinks, splaying his hands over Ren’s massive pectorals. Their great curves fit neatly into the palms of his hands as he cups them. Ren’s nipples are unruly, protruding—pinkish, despite his coloring, and nearly oval, as if sloppily rendered. They begin to peak against Hux’s palm just from his touch.
Ren shifts beneath him, straining his head up to see what Hux is looking at. His eyes flicker to Hux’s face, but Hux notices it out of the periphery of his vision. He still doesn’t look at Ren.
“What are you doing?” Ren asks, after a moment, low voice rumbling through his chest, the sensation pleasant against Hux’s balls and stirring erection.
“Are you familiar with the coupe glass, Ren?” Hux asks, knowing full well Ren is not. Ren shifts his head, which might be confirmation or might just be discomfort. Either is satisfactory for Hux. “It’s for sparkling wine—if you like it to flatten before you can finish your glass. Better for cocktails, in my opinion. In any case, legend tells that the original glass was molded off of the breast of the first Empress of the Galidraan system.”
Ren’s cock stirs against the slight curve of Hux’s ass. “Nothing so salacious as that,” Hux chides, nonetheless grinding one slow circle against Ren just to see his eyelids flicker. “Mother’s milk is venerated in Galidraan space as the font of all life. It makes perfect sense to celebrate by sipping sparkling wine from the breast of the Empress.”
Hux trails the blade of his right hand along the drooping curve of Ren’s pectoral. “We could mold quite the coupe off of you, Lord Ren.”
“I don’t have breasts,” Ren says, quickly—but too quickly, his eyes darting away as he bites his lip. No wonder Ren wears the mask, Hux thinks. His face betrays him at every turn.
“Of course not,” Hux soothes, with more than a little sarcasm in his voice. “You couldn’t feed anyone with these. What you’ve got, Ren, is a nice pair of tits.”