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.]
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momijizukamori
no subject
Date: 2016-03-19 10:35 am (UTC)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.]