Chapter Text
You’re a coward. That single fact hits you in your chest as you sit in your new jail cell, bloody and beaten, the only one left alive. Only left alive because you hid, and got caught. Because they realized after massacring your friends they needed someone to interrogate.
Coward. It rings in your head as the stormtroopers bring you up into the interrogation room, strap you into the chair, and leave you alone. Coward. A coward who’s still breathing somehow.
You can’t find the room in yourself for self loathing. There’s only your singular drive, to live, to keep breathing. And as a low level rebel who knows jack shit to give them in this interrogation, your mind is scrambling for something, anything, that could convince them to let you live.
Any thoughts you might have been building, any ideas you’d been grasping for, flee from your head completely as your captor enters the room. Black cloak swishing behind him as the doors click shut. He takes a deep-rasping breath through his mask. And you know you’re screwed.
Stars, why did nobody tell you that the dude who was supposed to be your brutal enemy was exactly your type? Like, you knew that your secret fascination with bad boys in all black would be the end of you some day, but this is a twist of fate, a step too close to utter poetic irony.
Your heart hammers in your chest, not from fear, no, from arousal. Your brain can only think about all the times you’ve willingly put yourself in this position before, strapped to some kind of contraption and waiting for a beating. Your mind begins to numb down into that persona you put on, the one who will do anything if you’re asked.
“Tell me your secrets.” He says, in a deliciously deep voice. It sends a shiver through your core. Oh, every fear you had left your mind.
A wicked smile comes to your face as you reply, “I’m a virgo. I hate the taste of pineapple. And I wish I was wearing less clothing.”
You did not intend that last bit to come out.
He seemed utterly incapable of responding to what you'd just said. He’d probably been met with sass and defiance before, but maybe not that kind?
“Tell me about the rebellion.” He said, after a very long pause.
“Make me.” You found yourself saying back.
Psychic energy slams into you faster than you can react, pushing against every internal boundary you have. Every thought in your head tells you to resist, to push back and keep it at bay. You do.
He grunts with effort as he only increases the wall of force barreling down on your mind.
Why does this feel better than any physical pain you’ve ever felt? The thought comes at you like a freight train. It feels so intimate, so dangerous. Like at any moment your entire self could crumble under this pressure. Your body gets even more aroused at this thought.
The pressure suddenly leaves as he pulls his hand back. You’re both sweating now, breathing heavily.
“You like this?” He asks, voice surprised. It doesn’t sound like he’s confused, only, intrigued.
“On my homeworld, people would pay for this.” You gasp, trying to keep your composure. A tiny, growing, part of you wants to give in to him, give him every little piece of yourself. But the bigger, survival focused part of you, reminds you that you’re nothing if you break, if you give it all up.
The mask looks at you for a long moment, “And did you?”
You laugh a little, “I had–relationships that were mutually pleasurable.” One of your eyebrows raise as that bratty smile comes back to your face, “I’m always looking for replacements.”
“I don’t make deals with prisoners.” He leaves. Just a simple turn on his heel, a swish of the cape, and the door is already sliding shut with a woosh behind him.
You would have begged him to stay, but he was gone before the breath could leave your lungs. You’re still covered in sweat, dirt, and blood, you look fucking wrecked.
You let the stormtroopers make their own guesses as to how your torturing session went. The obvious answer is confirmed as you take one step out of the chair and fall, legs buckling beneath you. They don’t even try to catch you, just grab your arms, snap the manacles on, and drag you back.
Stars. Maybe four words out of his mouth, not a single touch, and your legs are so weak they let you fall. You’re fucked. Really and truly fucked.
—------------
You lay in your cell for a few days, mulling over how your interaction went. They leave you be. Only the tiny droid bringing your food interacts. It’s nothing but blank walls for several, awful days.
But that voice. It makes your mind want to wander. Imagining yourself doing all sorts of things, having things done to you. Pressed up against a steel wall, in that torture chair, on this flat sheet of steel the jail calls a bed. Your mind indulges you quite a bit.
In fact, you think it’s a dream, or some kind of deranged hallucination when the cell doors open, and he stands there. He takes one, two, three steps down into your little cell. His gaze is firmly on you. The door closes behind him.
He keeps stepping towards you. Slowly. Intently. All the time in the world. His hand reaches out, taking a lock of your messy hair in his hand. He twisted it a little with his thumb, rolling it in his hand. “I know you’ve been thinking of me.”
No point in lying, “I have. Not much else to do.”
“Then let me give you something to think about.” He pushes you down, flat on the bed. His arms on either side as he leans over you, pinning your legs down with his. “Do you like this?”
Your voice comes out a whimper, “Yes.”
“And you want me?” He asks, voice prying. You feel him pushing into your head.
You’re honest, “Yes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m not a sir. It’s a bit too formal, don’t you think?” Fuck, why did you have to snark at the worst possibly moments?
His hand takes your chin roughly. He looks at you for a long moment, “Why?”
“It just is.” You tell him. Honestly, you asked yourself that a lot when you were younger. But the answer didn’t matter. Some people just were.
He gets off of you, and it takes you a moment to find the willpower to sit back up. He’s pacing then, taking quick precise steps around the cell.
“You intrigue me.” He says it like he hates that it does.
“I confuse you.”
His fist slams into the wall, making a thud that shocks you. He lets out a long breath, “Yes.”
“You like hurting people.” You say, “You like when they’re afraid of you, cowering in fear.”
Another long, shaky breath. He doesn’t say anything, only nods.
“You don’t have to run from who you are. I like the things you like, just, in reverse. It’s simple.”
“It’s pitiful.”
You stand, taking a step closer, “I like being hurt. I like it when I have bruises and marks the day after. I like it when people make me beg, when I’m at their mercy. I like what I like. Most of the people I’ve done that sort of stuff with are happy when I’m happy. You’re only a little different.”
“And those arrangements make you happy?”
“Yes.” There’s so much you want to say, want to explain and share. But your life is balancing on knife point and you have no clue if you’ll be breathing a cycle from now. Now is not the time for delicate conversations.
He just leaves again, no words, only the sound of his breathing as the door opens and closes. And you’re left feeling utterly lost.
—-
Another day passes of you squirming in your cell. Maybe he’ll just let you rot here, let you be forgotten. Maybe they’ll throw your body into space.
A million terrible ways to die. But still you come back to him. He wants control, complete and utter yielding to his will. He pushed you so that you would yield. He pushed you down to feel in control, when he so obviously felt lost. Some kind of broken man. And you wanted him to fucking rail you. What had your life become?
Two months ago, you were selling shoes in a small town. One month ago, you joined the rebellion, becoming part of some tiny cell that ran raids against First Order weapons shipments in a jungle on a planet whose name you didn’t even know. Less than a week ago, you went out on a big mission where everything went wrong.
The weapon’s transport was different this time. Bigger, scarier. And you’d discovered a new route that was supposed to be “secret” or something. You knew nothing about it. You were here because you’d made a promise to yourself. You wouldn’t let your best friend die alone. Not when they’d spent years coming to you with dreams of being a hero, of joining the rebellion and flying X-wings. Even in a sweaty, bug infested jungle, they’d been convinced they were doing good. A smile on their face as they pressed the trigger.
When you ambushed the transport, it felt different. You were more nervous than you’d been before. Something was off. But you waited in position, weapon at the ready.
And then a shell hit your position.
All you remember was the dirt flying in the air around you, a ringing sound in your ears, your friend lying dead on the ground. You dropped your gun and ran.
The stormtrooper scouts found you after, crouched in the hollow trunk of a tree, curled up like a child.
One pulled out their gun and aimed it at you, “Found one, do we have kill orders?”
“Nah, the captain wanted us to round up survivors for interrogation. The General’s coming.”
The gun was holstered, and they pulled out a pair of cuffs instead, “Dank farrik, the armor’s always impossible to clean.”
“You know the inspections.”
The stormtrooper scoffed as they clicked the cuffs into place, your body too terrified to run or scream, to try to fight. Coward.
You were mute as they hauled you onto the back of the speeder bike, taking you to the transport. Other prisoners were there, all of them looked worse than you did. People you had shared meals with. Barely conscious, missing limbs or covered in blood. Nobody looked at you.
The memory brought you back to right where you were, a jail cell on General Kylo Ren’s personal destroyer.