“Supreme Leader,” Hux gritted out. “Is this absolutely – “
“Necessary? Of course it is,” Ren said silkily, reclining on his blasted throne and spreading out his beastly legs, and it was nonsense, offensive nonsense, and Hux ought not to stand for it. “You want to be Grand Marshal, don’t you?”
Oh, and Hux did, and Ren knew he did, knew he wanted it more than anything. Wanted it enough for this.
“If you’re going to hold a rank,” Ren was saying, slowly and patiently, as if Hux were a simpleton, “If you’re going to hold the rank, you have to wear the uniform.”
Hux’s cheeks burned, and the worst of it was – the anticipation. The ‘uniform’ was a mockery, a tawdry, objectifying joke, and as soon as Hux had put it on his quarters he had been thinking of Ren’s eyes on it, on him, all over, just like this. Of the Supreme Leader’s approval. Ren knew it, of course. He had known it when he designed the damned thing. He knew it now as he looked down at Hux from the dais, looked right through him, inside him, at all the dreadful things the uniform was making him feel. Hux had barely known there were this many forms of humiliation to bear.
“Well then, Grand Marshal,” Ren said, his eyes glittering, and Hux bit his lip, hard. Ren spun a finger in the air. “Give us a twirl.”
Hux did as he was ordered, turning on the spot, in the chill air of the throne room, giddy with excitement and shame.
“Stop,” Ren said, and he must have put the Force into it because Hux jolted to a halt as if he’d come up against a solid wall. He had his back to Ren, but it was as if he could feel his gaze crawl over him. “Lift the cape for me,” Ren said his voice grown softer, rougher, and Hux did, stars help him, he did, Grand Marshal of the First Order and yet he uncovered himself on command, raised his cloak all the way to his hips, his hands shaking where they gripped the fabric. Ren gasped.
Hux’s cheeks burned.
TechieHux 