xx. musebox

[exhuxperation]

this is actually for donna

Comments

[unresisting]

“Every time you move tomorrow, I want you to be reminded that I’ve been here. Only me. You are mine."

fight off the light tonight

[exhuxperation]

[ Something that goes unsaid in the upper brass is that it's solitary.

In a way, it's strange. To be around so many people and yet have only the barest connections to them. With them. Hux has never been a firm believer in needing anyone else, aside from those who could prove to be useful. If he thinks about it hard enough, perhaps it comes from his training, from his father, from a multitude of places. Maybe it's been there the whole time. But, he knows that this is what has set him apart from the rest, has allowed him to step over others or use them as a kick off point to launch his own career. To follow his own ambitions. Others show loyalty to certain people or places or things.

Hux shows loyalty to the First Order and then himself.

After all, no one else was going to cheer him on towards gaining a throne. They'd all much rather take his place or if desperate enough, slit his throat. It is for this precise reason that he will go out of his way to scrutinize the ranks. Granted, the Stormtroopers are his and Phasma's realm, while Kylo Ren fucks off and does whatever it is he's set on. However, Hux likes to keep notes of the exemplary troopers. Their numbers are never written down but memorized and any time he has an escort anywhere, he keeps at least one close at hand.

This could be called favoritism but he sees it as necessary. Survival of the fittest– something drilled into him from the time he could understand spoken word. Of course this leads him to leaning on certain individuals more than others. Lately, his focus has been pinned, laser honed on TX-701. Hux remembers his name before the wash, of course, but Poe Dameron is no longer. The only thing that remains of the rebel pilot is his body and his skill. Even then, with the regulation of helmets being required in most spaces, no one will really see or recognize him. This works out quite well.

Though there's been a small downside to acquiring the pilot. It seems as though Hux is not the only one with his eye on him. Something that would normally go unnoticed amongst all the troopers on board, but has not escaped his particularly watchful gaze. He's caught Kylo Ren with 701; not inappropriately, naturally. Ren could be obnoxious but Hux doubts he's that much of an idiot. There's just a little more personal attention, which sours his mood. Kylo Ren is not barred from making use of the Stormtrooper ranks, though Hux much prefers any orders to be sent through himself or Phasma.

The two directly in charge, normally. Because of this course, he's stalking off to see Ren, coat laying heavy on his shoulders. It just so happens to be his luck that he finds TX-701 before he reaches the Force user. Clearly, the Universe is in agreement with his wants, as it should be. ]

TX-701, a word, if you will.

I'm so mad this tag is so good....

[unresisting]

[Under his helmet, in his armor, TX-701 is almost indistinguishable from any other stormtrooper. In black he stands out from the shock troops, but among pilots he is different in only the smallest ways. Slightly short, for a trooper. Slightly less broad, although the carefully regulated program of diet and exercise was changing that. Slightly more isolated, because even a singular force like the first order army wasn't beyond favoritism or ostracism.

He was the subject of both. His skills were of particular note, as a pilot and as a gunner he was far and above. He had overcome every obstacle, excelled in every exam. That, perhaps, might have been reason enough for the attention he received from General Hux. It hardly explained the attention from Kylo Ren, however, who had very little time for Stormtroopers and far too much, in most estimates, for him. That, and the fact that he was new, that he had no stories to tell and made no attempt to fraternize made him unpopular with the others. Not aggressively, they weren't suicidal, but there was a certain distance they kept from him. He didn't have a nickname. No one clasped their hands at his back or told him jokes or compared kill counts with him.

If it bothered him, it didn't show. There was no weakness in his back, no hesitation in his stride as he strode down the echoing hall. Alone, again, but no less faultlessly loyal, no less obedient. The voice at his back is familiar- more than, and it's instinct and practice and experience that has his step interrupted, coming to a stop and turning sharp on his heel towards the general, snapping off a perfect salute as he faces him, helmet polished to a shine and back straight. Falling into attention as if he had been waiting for the chance.]

General Hux, sir.

[It is both a greeting and an acknowledgement. Eager, for all his response is impersonal and sharp as a blade. He was special. That is what Kylo Ren had told him. If it was true (and it must be) he would prove worthy in the eyes of all those he served.]

w/e don't look at me i have no idea what i'm doing

[exhuxperation]

[ TX-701 stands apart from the rest, though Hux doesn't necessarily find this to be a bad thing. There's not much to be done about the height and the regulation diet will get him up to speed on that platform.

As for the behaviors– he's not blind. He's caught sight of the avoidance, the particular way the other troopers would not make contact. A small part of Hux strains, a tug of empathy amidst cold calculation. It's a weakness, but he's been in a similar place, once, twice, several times. Though he has little doubt TX-701 will overcome (he best do so, if he's to make it here), the emotion pulls at him.

And then it's swiftly buried by a quiet sense of pride. 701 shows loyalty, impeccable down to the salute and the way his boot heels snap together. ]

At ease. [ No use in holding formality when he's going to go off the beaten path here. ] How are you adjusting?

[ Something benign to start, a question he'd ask to any of his troopers. ]

Looks hard

[unresisting]

[He drops out of attention and smoothly into parade rest, hands clasped at his lower back, shoulders back, feet spaced precisely. It is ease only in technicality, but it's a stance he takes to like he takes to the sky. Something practiced, something instinctual.

How was he adjusting? He had been on this ship for fifty two standard days. Before that he had been stationed elsewhere. He was injured in battle, and that explained why it was difficult for him to remember precisely what had happened before he arrived. It also explained the fading bruises he had only just lost. He had required supplemental training as a result of his injury and the time he had lost, which is why the rest of the troopers he had been training with were so much younger than him. In time he would be as he was before the injury. In time.]

Well, thank you sir. I am fortunate to have the honor of serving aboard the finest ship in the fleet.

[The finest ship in the fleet, headed by the two most powerful men in the First Order under the Supreme Leader. A strange, fortunate coincidence.]

kylux | h&c

[fureor]

[ It's all falling to pieces; so much of it quite literally as the world shakes and trembles all around him, roaring in his ears. His defeat at the hands of the scavenger rubs salt in the wound, and there is blood in his mouth, the agony of the crossbow bolt slammed into his side giving him strength as much as it saps him.

She won on multiple handicaps -- she wouldn't have had a chance if he truly meant to kill her, but all of this means nothing in the wake of the chaos and the spectacular failure of all their plans. Starkiller has fallen, disintegrating before their eyes, and a part of him wonders at how heartsick the General must be, that his life's work has fallen before him.

He struggles to stand, pounding on the wound as his jaw sets. Pain, pain is what gives him strength (even as it wanes, sticky blood soaking his robes), and he will not fall. The aching torment of Han Solo's face is pushed away, denied, as is the heartache and agony endured in the shreds of his old self. He killed his father in cold blood, and he wonders if this is what power really feels like (like everything dirty has made its home inside of him and threatens to turn him inside out).

He doesn't care. He must not. It was a test and he passed, and that is all that matters.

Kylo struggles to walk, leaning against a tree as blood continues to spill. He tastes copper in his mouth as he forces himself forward, furious with his weakness. He hears voices and machines, the faraway sounds of people searching for him, calling his name -- the familiar white of the stormtrooper regiment glimpsed among the trees.

He's here, too, the General; the only one man he will allow to find him.

Here, He says in his mind, fighting exhaustion; makes sure to show Hux what he's seeing. They have wounds of their own to nurse, and their men must not see. ]

[exhuxperation]

[ It's all falling to pieces and Hux can feel parts of himself going along with the planet. As the ground heaves underneath their feet, he shudders, stomach doing flips. Anxiety is high, anger even moreso. And underneath of it all, a self disgust. A despairing part of himself wants to stand amidst the chaos, to scream out his failure and let the planet consume him alongside itself.

Generals go down with their ships, typically. Isn't that so?

Only he can't. No, won't. This is a bitter pill to swallow, especially on the heels of such enormous triumph. The galaxy was one step closer to perfect order. To solutions. To an end of war, struggle, poverty. What the New Republic had left in its wake with its extravagance and inaction. Giving up now, when the fight was half won, it would be weakness. So as Snoke gives his order to find Kylo Ren, Hux lets the numbing sensation of shock wash over him, expression eerily placid. He's near by the wayward Force user, his tracking device indicating distance in closer and closer increments.

A particularly violent shiver of the earth ripples through and he clutches to a nearby tree, steadying only long enough to get his legs underneath him again. Glancing up, he sees him. The Jedi Killer– for once, Hux is relieved to see him. He stands out stark against the white and grey of the forest, dripping blood and cutting an intimidating silhouette even through his injured state. Hurrying, he snaps out orders to nearby troopers over his comm; target acquired, prepare ship for immediate take off and for gods sake alert medical on board the Finalizer.

Long strides take him to Kylo Ren's side, where he immediately offers a shoulder to lean on. ]

Let's go, just up here. Stay with us or the shock will set in too deeply.

[fureor]

[ I'm fine, he wants to snap, pride bruised when he sees Hux come to him, a familiar shape amidst the brittle chaos. But the words are trapped in his throat, and when he tries to stand on his own, he finally stumbles, his arm looping around the General's solid shoulders.

He growls to himself, a sound of frustration and disgust, and perhaps it's Hux's overwhelming emotion that bleeds into him as well. He fights to focus on the sound of his voice, leaning against him. It stings, being this weak; but there is nothing to be done for it right now, when all his strength is channeled into staying upright.

Hux is the only one welcome within the perimeters of his personal space, an unconscious force-field keeping out the others who dare to stray too close.

It doesn't take long before they make their way to the Finalizer, the barrier faltering to allow the medical team close; but Kylo doesn't let go of Hux, not willingly. There are too many broken pieces, too much to hold on to, and the General is the one stable thing in the storm that circles him.

The doctor murmurs quiet instructions, setting off to Kylo's private quarters, flanked by the medical team -- he refuses to let them close, a wolf wounded and likely to lash out, subconsciously seeking comfort from the presence of the one man he allows closer than others. He's cut off too much today, and all that's left is --

-- he doesn't know what this is. Not anymore. Stay with us, Hux says, and he does. He must. ]

[exhuxperation]

[ Pride is something he can understand. His own is in tatters at the current moment, but he’s swallowing it in the process of staying alive. Of making sure that Kylo Ren does as well. Returning to Snoke empty-handed would easier, but it would damn his career. Moreover, he does not do failure well or easily.

Neither of them do, really. The other man is growling low, a rough sound that would normally have people turning in fear. Hux has grown used to his temper. Moreover, there’s more at stake here than how the other man currently feels about his situation. Eventually, he feels the deeper press of weight on his shoulders as Ren leans on him more heavily. It’s not a long way to the ship and once boarded, he gives command to pull up the docking door and leave. The last thing any of them would want is to get stuck in the gravitational pull of an imploding planet. As it was, they were risking it by still being planet-side as it shuddered in its death throes.

Everything lurches when the ship takes off and he busies himself with trying to stem some of the bleeding on Ren’s side. In places, it’s difficult, since the Force-user seems reluctant to let go. Perhaps, he thinks, it’s about stability. Keeping himself upright.

Time is fast and slow all at once. The crew onboard the Finalizer greets them, medical standing by as ordered. A faint note of pride sings somewhere in his mind– they’re doing so well in the middle of a crisis. That thought is pushed away to focus on the ruckus that Ren is kicking up, refusing to have attention paid to him by the medical staff. Hux feels his anger welling up. Why now? Why is he intent on acting like a child? It must be the shock. The pressure has finally made him snap. Cool headed as always, the doctor takes it in stride, doling out his own set of orders. With no other choice left, considering he's locked in the steely grip of Kylo Ren himself, he follows the medical team to a more personal room in medbay.

Once there, it's a clinical dressing down. Stripped bare, a concoction of medicines (this for pain, for numbing, for sedation). Through it all, he keeps his lips pressed thin, a reassuring presence nearby as he oversees. The amount of blood is distressing and he feels like he'll be sick, but exhaustion keeps him from it.

Hours pass and finally, finally, a tenuous stability is found. Hux is slumped in a close chair, shoulders bending inwards, back curving under the aching tiredness that runs through him. ]

[fureor]

[ Kylo Ren loses track of time, steeped in the whirlwind of his own thoughts, fighting not to descend into shock as he's attended to, taking in the occasional bursts of pain as they work to patch him up. The copper tang of blood is thick in the air, and he only moves when they try to erase the scar left by Rey's lightsaber. Even through his sedation he is lucid, aware of Hux's hovering presence, unwilling to admit that the man plays at least a small part in keeping him somewhat amenable.

He thinks of all that's unfolded, the test he's passed (so how come it feels like he's failed?), the struggle between the light and darkness, on everything that he draws on to fortify himself. He has a destiny to rise towards, to finish the work his grandfather began and ultimately failed. He is a product of that failure, he knows. But he will not make the same mistake twice.

Kylo refuses painkillers, agreeable only to the sedation. Pain, he knows, is nothing to be feared; and in sedation-lined agony there is a certain clarity of thought, of focus. He sees Han Solo's face, and perhaps the ultimate death of who he used to be before he was Kylo Ren. He remembers the howl of anguish from the wookie, and had done nothing to stop the bolt from tearing him another new hole (perhaps he had thought he deserved it).

Hours pass, and when the doctor finally leaves them both, he turns his head to study Hux. The General looks smaller now when he's hunched over, less imposing in his weariness and their shared failure. Kylo is acutely aware of the fact that he didn't have to be in here with him, that most of Hux's command had not been on the ground, in the thick of battle, but always above; planning and executing. He can practically taste the distress coming from the man, no matter how he excels at hiding it.

Still, there is nothing to be done for it now, save to regroup and try again -- no empire is without its setbacks. He finally speaks, mouth dry. ]

Come here.

make me a martyr for || kylo ren, hux

[exhuxperation]

[ There are bruises on his waist. They're beginning to fade, already a few days old. At first, he'd been careful how he got up or bent or leaned, not enjoying the wince that came from the healing spots. He could've gone to medical, but that would be admitting they bothered him and revealing that he had them in the first place. So, he deals with them as he does everything else– straight backed and unforgiving.

Except something had taken a turn in the last day or so. The marks were healed over enough not to be so painful, but just this side of mild. In his quarters, he's fallen into a bad habit of pressing his fingers against them, relishing at the sting. It makes his muscles jump, reactively attempting to clench down on the pain point. Hux only pushes harder until he's gasping, pointedly not thinking about who left them there in the first place.

(He thinks about Kylo Ren every time).

Right now he's doing exactly this, shirt half unbuttoned as he sits sprawled in a chair in his room. He's been thinking, cyclically, for at least an hour now, adding pressure and then taking it away. Soon he won't have the bruises at all and somehow, that's disappointing. Kylo Ren had given them to him so easily and he'd hated it. Hated how they remained behind, fingerprints that wouldn't be defined in a DNA test. Only he would know and it still chafes.

Most of all, he hates how much he wants it again, new points on his waist or his hips or wherever Ren decided to leave them. ]

[narcissithstic]

[He knows.

How simple a thing it is, when the universe is little more than a layered mass of transparent film in the eyes of a Force-user, to page through conscious thought-- intentionally or otherwise. In this case, it's both: the first echo had been an accident, he'd simply meant to pinpoint the General's location for an updated reconnaissance report that had never made it to his hands, but curiosity perpetuated it over the hours that followed. Turned it into a cyclical, obsessed habit.

Self-indulgence at its finest.

And when cognitive repetition turned to contact-- the roll of Hux's slender, pale fingers over damaged flesh-- Ren's initial estimation was that it was a medical response. Bruises, after all, could be healed to near-nonexistence with massage designed to spread out pooled blood, a fact that had been vital to understand when it came to torturing anarchists and dissenters. Ones that might have held use beyond immediate information. This, however, is not the same.

Starkiller Base is silent aside from chattering systems, meandering droids and the distant vibration of patrolling footsteps. TX-701 is absent, having been requested for a necessary precision strike against the Resistance's scattered forces, and Kylo Ren thinks him lucky: with Snoke preparing for his ascension-- the final promise of a thousand worlds swearing allegiance to the First Order-- and with Starkiller itself primed and waiting for its first show of force against the Republic, there is little for any of them to actually do in the interim. Even Phasma's iron-clad visage seems...impatient. Restless. Chomping at the bit for a battle that lies beyond her reach at the moment.

And all of it he feels, keenly, as he strides through polished corridors on a predetermined path. Absent in his own head - thoughts focused only on the memory of heat and contact that draws him in like a moth to flame. Like breathing, with how unaware of the fact that he is until he's there, paused and silent just beyond the closed doorway leading to the General's personal quarters. It would be stupid to intrude. Unwanted, perhaps (though in the past that's hardly stopped either of them) and the middle point between succumbing to the pull of sensation that isn't his to own and maintaining some semblance of control is halting. Weighs on his shoulders like some extension of the conflict that's always raged between his ribs. A dagger pinned against his spine. What he wants, and what he should want, and being smart enough to know the difference--

Were he in his own quarters, he would succumb in a single heartbeat. Indulge himself where no one might know of it, mind pinned to those roaming fingers and the heave of Hux's chest beneath thin, half-rumpled clothing. Let his own fingers find the same markers, reclined and panting, as he's done too many times before on memory alone. But here, now, there's no excuse for it: he stands in the middle of a walkway traveled so frequently the troops might as well have painted it white with the scuffing of their boots (maintenance droids and the eagerness of young cadets keep it in check, though that only adds to the accessibility of the location itself) and surveillance alone is a promise that short of stalking through half of the base itself, Ren will find no privacy or peace in avoiding the path ahead.

His fingers hover over the controls, still for a single breath before bearing down and prompting the retraction of those sliding doors, accessible only via overridden authorization. Stepping inside, through the sectioned foyer that follows, is surprisingly easy compared to all the hesitation that preceded it; he slips-- willfully silent-- through unguarded space, until his gloved fingers rest paralleled across the soft, vulnerable pulsepoint of Hux's throat.]

[exhuxperation]

[ He attempts to deny himself much more than this. Some days are more successful than others, though frustratingly, he feels no gladness when he wins over his impulses. There's something wrong about the scenario; first being that he shouldn't be thinking about Kylo Ren while he's in his room. Not when he has anything other than anger to give the other man, as it had been in the past. That's shifted, slowly, like a change of course.

Now his thoughts of Ren are tinged, sullied. Anger still exists as a layer, but it's not primary. Instead, there's a warmth that blooms in his stomach, a rush of his pulse that he hates. Hux considers himself a person who knows exactly what he wants, but this wasn't something he'd ever considered before.

Today sees his fingers hovering over the rest of the clasps on his jacket, tempted to pull them apart. To shrug both layers off and leave his skin bared. He's still considering this when the door swishes open, though he's too startled to do much else other than sit up straighter in his chair. As Ren stalks in, he opens his mouth to tell him to get out, but no sound comes forth. The words die in his throat and his thoughts as soon as the other man's hand presses along his neck. Leaning back some, he turns his glower up to Ren, mouth pulled down at the corners. ]

There had better be a good reason for this.

[narcissithstic]

Should I tell you the same?

[Hux's fingers, after all, still linger over the hemline of his coat, telling to anyone that might know better. More than that to Kylo Ren.

No signs of expression through the solid contours of his mask, no hint of compassion or desire aside from the way gloved fingers stay too near soft skin despite Hux's attempt to gain distance. Childish, their habitual conflict, the barriers they maintain.]

You seem preoccupied, General. I wanted to be sure you weren't too compromised to carry out your duties.

messes around w the timeline, lmk if this is ok.

[snaphiss]

[Mara Jade is twenty. The second Death Star will burst into flame in two years, but she doesn't know that, no one does. All she knows is that the Emperor has sent her on an important mission, and she'll die before failing him. She walks through the halls of the Imperial Palace, and tries to find Captain Armitage Hux.]

[He's a rising star in the ranks, about her age, with his own ship to command in the fleet. There are rumors that he's just riding his father's coattails, but Mara's seen the records, and she doubts that seriously. He's obviously talented with command, and his men seem to respect him.]

[No, the problem is his father. Some of the numbers in his accounts don't match up, and signs point to some sort of corruption within the ranks. The Emperor never tolerates embezzling, and it could be tempting for a man who thinks he's secure, cloistered away at the Imperial Academy.]

[Mara has reviewed her leads, and she thinks a good place to start the survey is his son. If they're not close, that could tell her something important. If they are, it could tell her even more. So she had one of her contacts set the young captain up on a blind date with a young actress from Corellia, and dresses to impress.]

[They meet at one of the many fashionable dining venues for people their age in Coruscant. Mara wonders if Captain Hux has been there before. She has, but only once, four years ago, and alone. She rarely goes to the same place, and never with company. Too likely to be recognized. Too dangerous.]

[The table is conveniently in a corner and Mara's back is to the wall. The entire restaurant is shining glass and elegant silver, all the better to see an attacker coming. Yet her persona is calm and collected, showing none of this suspicion and anxiety. Arami Lunara, the alias she selected for this mission, is too calm and collected for that. She waves politely when she sees Hux approach.] Oh, Captain! I hope you don't mind me getting here earlier. A bad habit from the theatre.

that time when bad decisions happen

[wille]

have u seen ur cape anywher?

Did u mean: probably always

[exhuxperation]

The one I wore to Saffit's political event? It should be in my closet; why?

dis true

[wille]

yeah um about that

i kinda borrowed it

im screaming

[exhuxperation]

"Kinda"?

Where is it now?

i'm a grower not a shower I LIED OH MY G DO

[unsea]

[ ( There are bruises on Hux's neck: dark, terrible things set in place by wicked bites from an equally wicked man. )

The first time, he catches the General unaware. He finds him following leads in a crisp, deceptively criminal venue where everybody looks the other way and the chairs are delicate things, made of wrought galladium metals in spiraling filigree and tawny, earthy tones. It's into one of these chairs that the Darkling crowds him, while the General is in the middle of a vigorous interrogation, spreading his fingers along the nape of his neck while he sinks his teeth into the man's throat. The act earns Hux the undivided attention of his conversational partner and her partner, who has been nibbling away uselessly at her earlobe for the past forty minutes.

( You were too tidy, the Darkling explains later, coiled up like a dark serpent in one of the chairs in his quarters. She thought you were the law. )

The second time, he not only forewarns Hux of his intentions, he televises them. An elegant, single-minded play for his attention, as he bites into a new spot.

( I wanted to, he declares, indolent and shameless, when asked. )

There are other moments: a bite taken here, teeth sunk in there. Once, he catches Hux while he's doing his best to pour himself a cup of mid-morning coffee, taking hold of his wrists, teeth at the nape of his neck long before he whispers to him: How long are you going to put up with this? A dare, a challenge, an invitation all in one wicked query, a laugh in his throat, a knife hidden in his smile. The Darkling slips away, without waiting to hear the General's response. There are a number of moments: once, high on Hux's wrist as he met his eye - once, stolen low on his collarbone - once, just before one of the other Hosts turned their attentions onto the two of them. Conspiring? Why no, not exactly.

And then, there's this moment. One that speaks of great patience and time measured out thoughtfully. A cornering, as the Darkling slips soundlessly into Hux's room, the door latching softly at his back. ]

This, [ He is wicked, a creature of composure and of chaos. A redesigning of his own being to best challenge and consume. ] Is the last.

[ The question is implicit in his words, the language of his stance: this time, Hux chooses where he sets his teeth. ]

good lordt

[exhuxperation]

[ There are bruises ringing his neck, an adornment he wears tucked under high collars.

Some have faded but others are fresh– the former would be renewed again soon, he calculates. After all, Darkling may be unpredictable in some things but with this, Hux feels like he's started to get a grasp on his behavior. The marks he's tolerated, even when they've diverted away from the thin skin so close to his pulse.

Before, he's had them on his wrists, on his collarbone (it started sharp and red, the imprint of teeth so clear). There's still one next to the first bone in his back, where his shoulders align.

Many times Darkling has left them during inappropriate moments. In interrogations, at breakfast, while everyone else was turned away, while he's been working on reports and collecting information. It seems the other man is as tireless as he is stubborn and greedy, bent on getting what he wants.

He can't say he hasn't enjoyed the slide of skin, the warmth of palms on his waist.

Still, he wonders when it will inevitably end. Neither of them are good people, possibly even less good for each other. Their relationship could be described as a game of strategy, analytical with the occasional flurry of action. Eventually, he thinks, Darkling will grow bored.

Right now isn't "eventually" though, not when he hears a soft click nearby, door latching in place. Hux doesn't budge from where he's laying on his bed, on top of the covers and propped up against the headboard. His coffee has gone lukewarm on the stand next to him. The datapad in his hand tilts away only slightly, indicating he's listening. ]

Odd choice of words. Is it really the end of your oral fixation?

[unsea]

[ Perhaps it was the General's taste in high-collared jackets, finely-layered clothes and far too many buttons for one man to wear without ostensibly howling at his fellow host to do something about it. To the Darkling, it had all but been a challenge - one he had accepted, tested and met. To say that he "toys" with Hux is to strip the General of all his intellect, his awareness. He holds no false belief that Hux is aware of what is going on between the two of them, that it is a game, set up by one and matched by the other - something to pass the time, something far more enjoyable than chess, than fencing with their words and their logic.

Anything that involves even a brief moment's pleasure is far more enjoyable than verbally backhanding one another. ]

Oh, never.

[ He has the audacity to sound offended by the notion, that his mouth might never seek out someone's wrist, the length of their throat. That his teeth might not itch to bite a little harder, a little deeper - violence wound in his core, despite the gentility of his manner. He steps away from the door, approaching the bed. Shameless, as he ever is, as he braces a knee along the mattress and leverages himself onto the bed alongside Hux. A hip tucked against the other man's, there's no hesitation about closing the distance between them. No dancing around what he wants. ]

Show me.

[ Not "let me see", not "will you". An effortless demand to see the bruises he'd left behind, as he loosely gathers one of Hux's wrists into his hand and brings it to his mouth, pressing his lips over his pulse - teeth scoring his skin, but not biting down. No, not yet. ]

[exhuxperation]

[ He realized early on that his propensity for high collared shirts and complicated closures on spurred Darkling on further. There was an unspoken challenge. A whisper of come look if you can. Of course, by the time he got around to wearing lower cut shirts, Darkling had already developed a taste for his skin.

So frankly, that experiment had been moot.

Still, they both got something out of this. Hux had never been one to dally or bother with indulgence of the flesh before. As General he hadn't had the time nor the patience. Here– he has the time and the patience is a growing factor. ]

Mm, I thought not.

[ Darkling crowds his space immediately, hand circling his wrist, mouthing at the flicker of his pulse. Familiar with this game, he sets the datapad aside on the nightstand. No more work would get done, no matter how much he resisted Darkling's advances. Besides, he could use the distraction.

Tugging his hand out of Darkling's grip, he acquiesces to the demand, unbuttoning his dark shirt and letting gravity slide it off his torso. The air in his apartment is chillier without the layer of fabric and he shivers from both that and anticipation. All the bruises are there on display, including the ones that remain hidden no matter what top he wears. One is fading around a peaked nipple, its twin still more fresh and dark. ]

Well?

[talkfirst]

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[outopos]

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