Chapter Text
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Armitage Hux was a man well-practiced in the art of control. It was not just how he led, it was how he breathed.
Like all ambitious men clawing their way to command, he had fought for every inch, every ounce of authority, until he’d carved himself a throne at the top of the First Order. Nothing aboard the Finalizer moved without his permission. Every system, every officer, every breath of protocol flowed according to his will. That relentless control was his pride. And his burden. Discipline was not optional; it was oxygen. But over time, that pursuit of order had become something deeper, hungrier.
And Armitage Hux was not a man who knew how to starve.
Maintaining his grip on power was exhausting. Though his rule over the Finalizer remained intact, his ongoing power struggle with Commander Ren gnawed at him, an ever-present thorn veiled in black robes and adolescent rage. Ren’s insubordination had grown bolder with each passing week. He spoke out of turn during briefings, dismissed Hux’s orders with the flick of a gloved hand, and had even dared to strangle one of Hux’s commanding officers in the middle of a council meeting, as if daring someone to stop him.
Hux had reported the behavior, of course. Filed every slight, every comment, every deliberate breach of decorum. The Supreme Leader hadn’t responded. Not once.
And so he endured it, seethed through it. He watched as lower officers glance nervously between them, their loyalties switching in real time, calculating which man they feared more.
On the worst days, buried in a tide of unread reports and unpunished defiance, he imagined seizing Ren by the cowl and slamming him face-first into the command deck. Just once. Just long enough to remind the ship who really held the leash.
A satisfying thought.
But reality offered no such indulgences. Reality demanded restraint. Discipline. Emotional deprivation, for the sake of the Order.
As if his daily workload weren’t already monumental, Hux now found himself burdened by a matter that insulted him far more deeply than another stack of unsigned reports, insubordination from within his own ranks.
Two junior officers -naval crew, barely out of training- had made a spectacle of themselves during peak dining hours, erupting into a near-brawl in the middle of the canteen over what was later revealed to be a personal affair. The fight itself had been brief but loud: trays overturned, chairs skidding, and one unfortunate trooper catching a half-spilled bowl of mystery gruel to the chest.
But the true offense came later. Upon reviewing their communications, it became clear they’d been using The First Order’s internal systems for unauthorized messaging, dozens of them, some explicit enough to make even a medical droid pause.
Hux had read every message. Not for interest. For principle.
There had been no hearing. No appeal. They were stripped of rank and shipped out on the next outbound vessel, nameless and forgotten.
The stain however remained. That his ship, his crew, had become so lax as to allow such filth to fester under his nose? Unacceptable. The very next morning, Hux ordered a full system-wide communications audit. Every message. Every ping. Every unauthorized signal.
He would find every leak.
And he would cauterize them.
By week’s end, the new automated surveillance program had flagged dozens of infractions, some petty, some predictable. Missing inventory reports. Falsified maintenance logs. The usual crop of illicit romances slipping through encrypted messages and late-night terminal access.
Each offense was reviewed. Offenders were disciplined. High-priority cases, those with unusual routing, unauthorized encryption, or repeated violations, were funneled directly to the General’s personal datapad for immediate evaluation.
And that was exactly how you came to land on his desk.
Tensions aboard the Finalizer were high.
With yet another bureaucratic nightmare looming, the General had once again barricaded himself in his office, alone, late, and simmering with irritation. He was triple-checking the navigational charts for the upcoming hyperjump, and as usual, they were wrong. The trajectories were slightly off. Not catastrophic, but enough to flag as suspicious. Whether due to laziness or incompetence, this was precisely why he insisted on overseeing these details himself. He recalculated the entire route manually, adjusting for the damaged engine they’d lost earlier that evening.
Another report. Another delay. Another example of why no one else could be trusted.
With a weary flick of his fingers, he sent the corrected data through for analysis and leaned back, the low hum of the console the only sound in the room.
The blinking alert on the corner of his datapad had been pulsing for the better part of an hour. Non-urgent, but persistent.
He sighed. Finally, he tapped it open.
Unauthorized transmission detected.
DATA BREACH: holo-feed.novagirls/cstream/7786-5548283404
“Oh kriff! I’m so close!”
Had he been in worse health, the sudden appearance of sixty-two inches of ass, projected in full resolution across the entirety of his office display, might’ve given him a coronary.
A strangled laugh punched out of his chest as he scrambled to mute the breathy, keening moans echoing from his office speakers.
His face burned. A wave of heat rolled through him as he stared, helpless, for one dizzying second. You were touching yourself with practiced ease, fingers gliding through slickness, circling your swollen clit with every roll of your hips.
He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. After a pause to collect what remained of his composure, he reached back for the controls… and unmuted the feed.
At a far less jarring volume, of course.
You were on your hands and knees, positioned like an offering, an image crafted to be admired. The soft sheen along your thighs, the perfect curve of your hips, the way your body moved with each slow, deliberate motion… It was hypnotic.
Hux watched with a devouring gaze, for the purpose of the investigation, of course. No other reason.
He studied every detail with the precision of a man used to inspecting schematics, not bodies. And yet… the way your fingers disappeared between your thighs, the way your back arched with practiced ease.
It made his pulse thunder in his ears.
The red-tinted glow of the holo-feed shimmered in his eyes, painting them unnatural- too wide, too sharp. There was something feral in the way he stared, motionless, devouring every flicker of the broadcast. A familiar tightness coiled in his chest, mirrored by a deeper pull low in his abdomen. He forced himself to breathe through it, to push it down.
He wasn’t here for that.
He was aroused. That much he could not deny. But that feeling came secondary to the fury twisting in his gut. This was a gross breach of protocol. Unauthorized transmissions. Misuse of internal comms. First Order bandwidth, no less, corrupted by filth. And worst of all…
He hadn’t been able to look away.
Your face was hidden, but everything else was unmistakably regulation. The white durasteel walls. The standard-issue cot. The unmistakable geometry of First Order housing. It could’ve been any crew quarters on any ship in the fleet.
He felt his jaw clench. A quick scan of the metadata showed that whoever you were, you weren’t a fool. The signal had been bounced through multiple relays, scrambled across systems, exported to the Nova Girls netfeed through a string of anonymized proxies. It was elegant. Efficient. Untraceable. Which that made him furious. Not just because you’d violated the Order’s communications integrity, though that alone was enough to warrant court-martial, But because you’d done it well. So well, in fact, that it would be almost impossible to find you.
And that was unacceptable.
Theway89 (★ Patron) tipped 75 credits and chatted: How about a couple more of those fingers, sweet girl?
You smiled at the message, a sly curve of your lips dipping just into view.
“So greedy,” you purred, a hand slowly running down the curve of your side. “Didn’t even say please.”
The embedded chat bar fluttered with new messages and flashing tip alerts. Praise. Requests. Demands. All of it rolling past like a digital tide, and you met it head-on, unfazed.
You shifted, your body arching with practiced ease, every motion deliberate but never robotic.
Then, almost casually, you leaned closer to the camera.
And your face came into view.
It wasn’t dramatic. There was no sudden flash, no gasp, no fanfare. Just the confident tilt of your head, the soft gleam of sweat at your temple, the slight curl of your mouth as you read another donation scroll across the screen.
Your eyes, sharp, clever, impossibly alive, flicked upward for a single second.
Hux went completely still.
His heart knocked once, hard, against his ribs.
You weren’t familiar. Not exactly. But you were real. A face. A body. A voice. And you were on his ship.
“I’ve got ten fingers and so little time,” you teased, letting your gaze flicker toward the camera. “Convince me.”
The confidence in your voice was intoxicating, a perfect blend of warmth and challenge. You met every message with dry humor and effortless poise, you didn’t just play along, you wrote the script. The longer he watched, the clearer it became: every movement was intentional. They couldn’t take their eyes off you.
Neither could he.
User65467 chatted:Show us how you play with those pretty tits
User65467(★ Patron) tipped 100 credits and added: i wanna see ur face when i finish
Kybercrawler, Knightsof10inches, and eleven others tipped 20 credits.
In response to the influx of requests, you shifted onto your back, stretching out across the crisp white sheets like some beautiful, fucked-out goddess.
You looked smug.
Hair tossed over one shoulder. Lips parted, entire body laid bare for anyone with a netlink and enough credits to watch.
Your eyes flashed toward the camera. Your breath hitched, short and shallow, as you resumed your careful, practiced touch, this time from a new angle.
The chat blurred with increasingly explicit demands, each one sending another shiver of heat down his spine, straight to his cock
And yet, through the haze of arousal, something sharper cut through.
That expression, wide-eyed, breathless, lips parted just so… familiar. Too familiar.
His body reacted on instinct, but his mind was already moving, tearing through every stored image and personnel file he could recall.
That look.
He’d seen it across a console. In a corridor.
Somewhere on this damned ship.
Your fingers dipped back into the tight, velvety heat of your cunt, clearing every other thought from his mind.
With your free hand, you cupped your breast, dragging short manicured nails across your skin until your nipple tightened into a stiff, aching peak.
You didn’t speak.
You didn’t need to.
You waited, poised, for further instructions, letting the audience believe they were in control of your pleasure.
He groaned, taking one sharp breath to steady himself.
Then he undid his belt.
His slacks dropped just enough to free the straining length of himself to the chill of the office air. A few slow strokes, measured, restrained.
But the restraint didn’t last.
The ideas of how he could punish you, kneeling in front of him, spread across his desk, tied to his bed, made his hand tighten, his pace turning brutal.
You wanted to be seen? Fine.
He could have you in his office. Wrists bound and raw. Could keep you there until you begged and thanked him for it.
Or maybe he’d drag you out in front of the entire crew. Let them watch you tremble under the weight of your own exhibitionism.
Give you the audience you so clearly craved.
Whatever the method…
There would be consequences.
Theway89 (★ Patron) tipped 200 credits and chatted: Good girls beg to come. Aren’t you going to behave for your master?
Hux choked off a moan, just in time to hear your voice, breathy and trembling.
“C-can I finish for you, Sir?”
You looked up at the camera with a soft smile, sweet, submissive, before it curled into something sharper. Feline.
“Thank you, Master,” you purred, eyes gleaming as a fresh stack of credits dropped into your tip jar.
You spread your legs even wider, pressing your knees flat against the mattress.
He could hardly breathe. His fist moved faster now, frantic, wet sounds filling the room alongside your soft, desperate gasps echoing from the speakers.
“Just for you, Sir. I’ll be such a good girl.”
Another influx of encouragement had your back arching off the mat in a dramatic sweep. It was a bit showy for his taste, but it looked real, the way your hips writhed, rolled, a strangled whimper slipping past your lips.
He narrowed his focus, letting his gaze sweep over every inch of you, the rise and fall of your chest, the curve of your hips, the soft, full swell of your ass. His eyes caught on a small healed burn along the curve of your otherwise unmarked collar.
His breathing quickened. His pulse pounded.
You were beautiful. And every second brought him closer to the edge.
“Fucking degenerates…” he muttered.
He’d like to say he put a stop to it.
It would have been the proper thing to do.
The logical thing.
He knew that.
He should have shut down the feed. Filed the breach. Traced the signal. Found you and hurled you out into the cold vacuum of space without a second thought.
But even as that thought passed through his mind, his body betrayed him, every nerve alive with want, every instinct coiled with heat.
He couldn’t reconcile it.
The protocol.
The punishment.
The need.
And in that moment, it became painfully clear,
He was not nearly that strong.
Instead, he came hard into his fist, spilling in a wet, humiliating mess across the stomach of his uniform.
He shut off the entire desktop system with a single motion, the room plunging into sudden silence.
Shame settled over him like smoke, acrid, choking.
As his arousal dwindled, rage bloomed in its place. Not only had you violated First Order protocol, you’d dragged him, General Hux, into a moment of weakness.
He had compromised his control.
His discipline.
His integrity.
And the worst part was
He couldn’t wait to find you…
And do it all over again.
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