It was a warm, breezy afternoon in Los Angeles, California. Specifically, Hollywood.
JJ Abrams, famous producer and filmmaker, among other things, sat in his office, leaning back in his swivel chair, sat in his office, sipping some red wine and browsing through Twitter.
Specifically, the Star Wars side of Twitter.
"It's beautiful," he sighed, taking a gulp of the red liquid, taking in the chaos with dark eyes. "The fandom is in shambles. All thanks to me." And it was. It really, REALLY was.
He read some tidbits about the latest clusterfuck of the whole fan base, which was his portrayal of Palpatine in the new movie being a clone.
It was pure evil.
It was diabolical.
It was lemon scented.
It was just so stupid, so fucking idiotic, and it got everyone so riled up, the mere sight of it was almost orgasmic to Abrams as he read through his chosen thread, savoring every single word.
He shuddered. This had to be the greatest deed yet. Now not only did this shake things up in the sequel trilogy. No, it didn't even shake things up in the prequel trilogy.
It went as far back as '83, in the final movie of the original trilogy Return of the Jedi. Now, because of him, their puny, beloved little Anakin Skywalker died fighting off ol' Palps in an effort to protect his long lost son, his dying breath sucked out of him as he gazed at his son's face with his own eyes—he did all that just for the grotesque, wrinkly Sith Lord to be brought back as a clone.
All of this, of course, all taking place after he forced the idea of Palpatine putting his sad, wrinkly sith dick into someone in order to make Rey's dad—and not just in the men's heads, but the women's and the children's too.
He disproved it way later after the fact, though, making a failed experimental clone Rey's father instead, but not before that nifty little notion could burn itself into the back of everyone's minds, whether they realized it or not.
He sighed, propping his grimy ass feet up on his desk, setting down his wine, lacing his fingers together behind his head, holding it in place.
"You've really outdone yourself, Abrams. You really have..." he shut his eyes in a state of bliss.
A new, unwelcome presence filled his senses, his brow furrowing in confusion as he slowly opened his eyes.
He nearly fell straight out of his chair, his legs falling off his desk as he startled, his wine glass dropping and breaking on his hard wood floor as he clutched his chest. He stared at it—or to be more accurate, him as his heart began to race.
"Abrams." Ben Solo addressed, his piercing dark eyes boring into the filmmaker's head. He was wearing those same dark, torn up clothes he'd been wearing on that fateful day, during that one fateful scene. The scene that made nearly all of his poor fans cry and the Reylo antis' egos all swell so large they could practically fucking crush them.
JJ could've sworn he stood almost as high as the ceiling. He gulped, beginning to shake against his own will, struggling to get his words, any words at all to come out as his eyes bulged out of his head at the man in front of him.
"Y-y-you're supposed to be—." He stumbled over his words, voice shaking terribly.
"What? Dead? Probably in some ditch somewhere in the edge of the galaxy? Yeah, I thought so too," He deadpanned. If looks could kill, then Abrams would have been absolutely annihilated at least 7 times over. "I suppose this is a lovely surprise for the both of us..."
"What-what do you want?" JJ choked out, shaking like a crack whore in an AA meeting.
"It's a little late for what I want now isn't it?" Ben noted, plucking a small plastic figurine of BB-8 from the man's desk, studying it with an intense yet thoughtful stare as he continued. "You know, you could have at least run to the mall or something. Put some of the budget money into some lipstick, maybe a little bit of eyeshadow..."
JJ eyed him with confusion and horror reflected in his mud-brown eyes.
"...because I like to look pretty before I get good and FUCKED!" He roared abruptly, throwing the figurine at Abram's head, hitting him square in the face. He sprung up from his chair, backing as far as he could into the corner of his office, bracing himself against the drywall.
"P-please! Take whatever you want, just please don't hurt me!" He cried.
Ben raced over to the trembling filmmaker, grabbing him roughly by his shirt, holding the fabric in his fist, tight enough to break bones, Abrams was sure. Just one of his hands seemed like it could wrap around the entirety of Abrams' throat.
"Oh, my dear JJ, would you like to know what I really want?" Ben said, feigning sweetness in his voice. The filmmaker just stared at him with gaping eyes.
His black-gloved fist hit the wall to the right of JJ, just barely missing his head, making the panel shake from its impact.
"You destroyed my trilogy," he rumbled, tearing the man out of his corner by his shirt, lifting him up and off the ground slightly. JJ clawed at his wrists in attempt to loosen his grip slightly, having zero effect on the hulking force in front of him. "So now I'm going to destroy YOU!"
He picked him up and threw him down against his desk, his computer monitor and the wires connected to it all falling off the side of it in a heap.
"Oh god please—PLEASE STOP! I'll give you anything you want!" JJ pleaded, beginning to cry like a little bitch. He reached for his phone, trying to call someone, anyone that could possibly help him.
Ben grabbed it before he did, though, throwing it on the floor and crushing it to pieces with his heavy, black boot.
"Who're you calling?" He shoved JJ off of the desk, leaving him to hit the floor with a thud. "No one. That's who..."
"Now that we've got that settled, here's what we're going to do," the taller man said huskily, beginning to undo his pants. "You're going to take those off. And leave them on the floor."
"B-but I don't—." He was cut off by the sound of a lightsaber, the hot, red beam of it vibrating just inches from his face. The bright red light reflected in the man's tears, now falling freely down his cheeks, falling off of his chin.
"Do it, or so fucking help me God, your head's coming right off..."
Shakily, the filmmaker undid his belt, pulling off his pants, along with his shoes. Ben pointed the Sith saber at him again, it's point right in front of his nose.
"Those too." He commanded, motioning with the saber at his Vader-mask print boxers. JJ did as he said, and young Solo retracted his long, fiery blade.
He picked the filmmaker up by his short dark hair, throwing him down onto his stomach, his chin hitting the hard wood beneath him. Ben set his foot on top of his back, his weight pressing down on his spine.
"Stay there and don't you move, you FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!" He shouted, venom dripping from every word.
Abrams lowered his head closer to the floor, squeezing his eyes shut, unsure of what to expect. Ben was quiet for a longer duration in that time than the entirety of his little "visit", and for a moment, he thought he'd left.
Then he felt it. Something stiff and unyielding, piercing him where he'd least expected it. Suddenly, JJ understood the main point of Ben Solo's afternoon visit. The realization wracked him to the core, a sense of pure dread prickling his skin like needles. He felt like he was going to throw up, the wine from just minutes before not sitting so well now. A scream ripped out of him as he pushed further into him. Without even making an effort to glance down he could tell that the man was drawing blood as he continued with rapid succession.
"That's it. Squeal." Ben pulled the man's head up by his hair again, nearly scalping him with his tight grip as he pounded into him. "SQUEAL LIKE THE FILTHY SWINE YOU ARE!" He yelled, his voice rough against the man's ears.
"PLEASE!" The filmmaker decided to take a new approach. "HELP! PLEASE GOD SOMEBODY HELP ME!" Young Solo slammed his fist into the man's head, making it hit the hard wood floor. Abrams' head reeled from the collision, his vision starting to go dark.
"Nobody's coming for you, JJ," Ben growled as he thrusted harder into him, making him feel as if he was going to split in half from between the legs, upward. "Not George Lucas. Not Rian Johnson. Certainly not your Star Wars fans. Although I guess you could argue that I will be coming for you. Not under the same definition, of course."
JJ began to sob, fading in and out of consciousness as the pain and rapid blood loss began to take its toll.
Next thing he knew, Ben had pulled out of him, kicking him again and again and again, every crack against his defenseless body making him curl even more into himself, a cooling wetness making itself known from below his hips.
"REMEMBER THIS!" Ben shouted, a searing pain jolting through JJ's hand as the man stomped on it as if he were putting out a cigarette. He couldn't even bring himself to scream anymore, wincing hard with pain as the bones in it bent and broke. "And there won't be a next time..."
And like that, he was gone. Lightsaber and all.
JJ Abrams sobbed hard into the empty office, though no one could be bothered to respond to his cries.