[ ( 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. ]
i'm a grower not a shower I LIED OH MY G DO
[ ( 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. ]