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Insufferable .
The word comes unbidden to mind; it is, in fact, the first word that always comes to mind when he lays eyes on the redhaired General. How perfectly he presents himself, every button polished to a shine, his boots impeccably cleaned, spotless. Uniform pressed, all creases fastidiously removed. No copper strand of hair out of place. No speck of lint on the dark cloth of his overcoat. No imperfections to speak of.
Insufferable.
The word comes again, and it is, he feels, only more accurate for the repetition. Some words begin to lose meaning if overused, but this -- no, this one falls more snugly into place. How smug he looks; but no...He does not look smug. His lips are pressed into a thin line, and he is surveying the command deck with cold, impassive eyes. He looks as he always does. Rather, he feels smug. It colors his thoughts in a way that Kylo cannot ignore, hovering at the very top, because there is a secret being kept.
Several secrets, as a matter of fact; like the bruise delicately tucked beneath the collar of the General’s pristine uniform, hidden from view, just beginning to purple, blooming like a morning glory against the pale of his skin. Kylo had placed it there himself, with all the care of a gardener, tending it, nursing it, and how pretty the results have proven to be! It may be hidden from the both of them, but they’re both aware of it. The slight twitch of Hux’s lips when he goes to turn his head and feels the ache of it only confirms that.
But that bruise is not what has the top layer of Hux’s thoughts colored with a possessive sort amusement. Though, that possessiveness is something Hux feels towards him is amusing in its own right; how could someone own what he is? He is a hurricane. He is a wildfire, surging out of control. He cannot always even control himself ; how could the General hope to do so?
...and yet.
And yet , Kylo bends for him in the night, like a thin tree caught in typhoon winds. He is contained, doused , until he burns only as embers, hot enough to warm, but not to burn the tending hands that stroke along the pale of his thighs, trace the long line of his waist;; fingers with no fear of being singed slide along the curved line of his trembling spine. In fact, Kylo feels as if some sort of righteous indignation should rise in him at being so tamed by a man whose middle name was control -- but he does not.
Rather, there is...an odd sort of comfort in it. In front of the troops, they argue and snap, their methods clash, and sparks fly when they do, threatening to send the whole operation up in a brilliant blaze. But when the doors of his quarters close behind them, and the cameras are left outside, then -- then there is no question as to whose orders are being followed.
Rarely does that amiability, that unquestioning set of rules extend outside of their bedroom, and that is where today’s secret comes into play. It shifts beneath his clothes as he moves, and he wonders, at times, if anyone can hear the difference in the slide of conflicting cloths against one another, or if it’s his own sensitivity and awareness that make it seem so loud. The mask he wears makes the color that rises to his cheeks a moot point, and in this moment, he is grateful for that; his face has always shown too much, too emotional, too revealing. He is more naked without his mask, he feels, than without the entirety of the rest of his wardrobe.
The General has seen him without it; Kylo has felt the heat of his mouth tracing along the curve of his jaw, felt the press of his lips, has been kissed by him with a fervor that is rivaled only by the passion he displays in his work.
Insufferable.
Kylo can feel the General’s eyes upon him, and that alone would not draw frustration; but always, those pale eyes seem as if they can see straight through him, could strip the layers he wears to keep the world out away, and see the pale, doe-eyed boy beneath. It is infuriating.
What is more infuriating is the fact that he can still feel warmth settled into his cheeks, burning, and his gloved hands tighten on the railing overlooking the work station he is currently surveying. This is new, just a test of what they are comfortable with; it is pushing boundaries, mixing professional interests with personal one, but he had agreed, and he has no intention of taking it back, of slipping off to his room and admitting defeat.
Oh, but how Hux stares . He wants to snap at him, wants to tell him to keep his eyes to their men, but, he finds, even as he opens his mouth to comment, he does not want that.
What he wants is for Hux to cross to him, to slide his fingers along the ropes they both know are situated against his skin; black, because it contrasts so beautifully against the pale of him, wound in artistic knots around his limbs, his chest, even so far up as his throat, carefully hidden. When he moves a certain way, he can feel them tug, can feel them shift in a way that threatens to make him shudder.
It is a claim made as clearly as the bruise at Hux’s throat, a secret between the two of them that keeps the majority of the sharp words they might share at bay; a leash that the General could tug with a look , one that tightened his throat and coiled something in his stomach.
Insufferable.
Kylo wants to punch him. Kylo wants to kiss him. Kylo wants to shove him against the wall and wind his fingers around his throat.
More than that, Kylo wants Hux to pull him close, and slide his fingers over the ropes he had so expertly tied this morning, and tell him how good he looks in them.
It’s that last thought that slips into the General’s head with a slight push from Kylo, and that causes a slight twitch at the corners of his mouth that could almost pass as a smile.