Rey can read his mind, or at least she can sometimes. He has some great defenses built, probably due to Ren's presence. Still she never found anything that should or would worry her as a woman there. As a rebel, as an enemy, she knows he is ruthless - his interrogations prove the same. But there has been no disturbing thought, no up and down, no why not… And this, at least, had been a relief.

Rey is used to men. On Jakku already, especially when drunk. Even in the Resistance, some seemed to have difficulties taking no for an answer. They weren't violent, it was more about heavy handed seduction and insisting. Still they - Poe - would tell her of how evil this General Hux was and over days, weeks, months of captivity, he had never attempted anything. She had been more uncomfortable around some of her friends on that topic.

Maybe she wouldn't have expected brutal force from him - not his style? - but who could have been surprised at bribe or blackmail? She had feared it and almost expected it. There would have been thousands occasions. A hand trailing, just a little bit, when she was cold. A deal when she couldn't just take it anymore. A tear wiped off, caressing her cheek, her lip… But no. It is good though, because she isn't sure what she would do now.

She wondered, at first in disgust and fear, how that would feel, how he would look. She still wonders differently. She still shivers but not in the same way. It is good she is the force sensitive one though he is nothing if not a reader of minds. Her gaze follows his form sometimes, and he must think she is scared she is - of him - of herself… He bends toward her as he tries to get her to talk an umpteenth time. He smells good, some perfume or cologne or however they call it. She isn't used to men wearing that, hardly women… His eye lashes are much too long, lighter than gold, and his mouth is a womanly pink, too sensual for a First Order officer in her mind. His eyes she knows to avoid because she would drown there, drown and die and then…

She almost hopes he will act on whatever this is, because then she will know whether she can betray her own people, and if what she has dreamed of his real. If she is lucky, she will find it in herself to push him away, slap his perfect skin, bite his rosy lips until they bleed crimson… She will not be the one reaching out to his perfect hair - how does it stay that way? - or put her small hand on his knee, expecting… She shudders, disgusted with herself. You hate him, remember.

She is only hurting herself, he says, as she refuses to talk still. She is used to this. His voice, her silence, the way she watches him and he doesn't, the way sometimes, occasionally, too often still, she can't help and she allows herself to gorge on the view, to enjoy his gem like eyes. She is so very cold a man's lips, a man's arms, could only help. His skin would be softer than hers, so much paler, but already he's leaving the room. There is no way he would want her, ignorant and skinny and ugly and very much the style he would reject even if she was the last woman in the galaxy. The idea used to be a comfort but now she is balling her fists, hating him for all the wrong reasons. Not a glance toward her even as she breathes fast, her breasts swaying under the wave, a genocidal gentleman. For the first time she thinks this may be torture, too. Not for the first time she thinks talking may free her of all this.

My General, she mouthes in the dark. Her nails leave red crescents in her tawny skin. You hate him, remember? It's a question now. He doesn't see her like a woman. He doesn't see her. In the dark she cannot even see herself. She is only hurting herself like this, he said. If only he knew how right he is and how right it feels.