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Kylo follows Hux back to their rooms, falling easily into pace with his beloved. Hux’s stride is close enough to his own, and the Knight can easily adapt to it: economical, sure, even and purposeful.
Just like Hux himself.
They do not talk on the way, but that’s fine. Kylo knows they’ll communicate plenty when they’re alone, and the sooner they are, the better.
Once the door shushes open and closed behind them, Kylo drops at once into an obedient, submissive stance. His feet lightly apart, toes pointing away from the centre. His shoulders down and relaxed, all the way to his hands which fall by his sides - open-palmed - towards the middle of the room. His unmasked face lowers, his gaze averted as is only right, and he prepares to stand until he’s summoned further in.
Some days - some days - this is easy. Some days the obedience and the reverence and the order come easy. Some days they don’t, and Hux has to fight him every step of the way. Some days he’s angry with oxygen, and it takes a stern mouth and a sharp hand to break the bubble of anger in him. Some days he just pushes back to see where the edges lie, to know where his world ends, what boundaries keep him hemmed in safe and sound. Some days he doesn’t want anything but cuddles and kisses and lazy lovemaking in the early-morning moments, those moments where the ‘real’ world has yet to kick in.
And some days he just falls into pace, alongside and a little behind.
It’s easier to predict when he won’t than when he will. Won’t is often a bad day. A frustration. A disappointment. An anger and a sadness. Won’t is normally when he feels he doesn’t deserve Hux, and he shoves at him to leave in an attempt to make him stay.
Won’t is not what Kylo likes, but is sometimes what he needs.
Right now, though, he feels… good. He feels happy, safe, secure. There’s no worry in his emotional tapestry, or none that can be seen. He’s in a good mood, and Hux is in a good mood, and the two are probably connected more closely than Kylo realises.
Hux continues through the day room, out towards the private section of their quarters. Kylo does not need his eyes to follow him: the General burns like a small sun of his own. Hot, fierce and dangerous to get too close to, but impossible to ignore the pull like gravity on every nearby body. Kylo might not be heavenly, but he definitely has mass, and every ounce of him craves that brightness. Desires to be immolated in it, to burn up under the white-hot love and touch.
Kylo feels the glow-that-is-Hux sliding deeper into the private sanctum, and he knows - without needing to hear - that Hux is stripping off to shower the day away.
A very small part of him mourns that, feels envy that he can’t be with him. Feels slighted that Hux is hot and wet and naked and not in with him, but that part is too small to ruin his mood.
All in good time. All in good time.
His mental eye travels over Hux’s beautiful form, admiring the pale skin that so complements his own. The flex of honed-thin muscle as it chased the glittering soap, and the way the water would cling to his frame for as long as it could before it cascaded down to wash away around his feet. The way his crown of solar red would darken like blood around his face, and the expression of intense, sure bliss.
Hux loves a good shower, almost as much as Kylo does.
When he paces back in, Kylo’s lowered eyes see bare feet and the pink flash of ankles, first. A swirl of loose, black fabric that he suspects are connected to similarly loose, black pants. He risks a tiny glance up, only to see the slender waistline bitten around by the cord holding the clothing up, a bare stomach and chest, a towel over one shoulder, and a long coil of red, silk rope bound around hand and elbow to carry it.
Oh. Oh.
Kylo loves rope, almost as much as Hux does. Or more. Maybe more. Hard to tell.
“Strip, boy.”
Kylo is barely younger than him, but he likes the word. Hux rarely uses it when he’s upset or angry, and only really when he’s pleased with him. It feels - more so than any title of honour or rank or position - like a praise, then: like something he’s earned.
He strips. With pleasure. The clothes come off, and he folds them neatly and resumes his stance.
The collar stays on.
The collar always stays on, unless Hux gives him permission (or instruction) to remove it. Today is no different.
Hux walks around him, his gaze dragging over the exposed and lightly shivering body. It isn’t cold, but the attention almost is. Kylo knows he is in good shape, and he knows he pleases Hux, and he knows the bruises on his hips and waist have all but faded. The scored-lightly marks of a name across his shoulders (three letters, bold and sure, stronger than an I love you any day) still pink and raised. He flushes with self-aware pride, and his lips curl into a tiny smile as he feels Hux’s nails scratch up across his hip.
“You’ll do,” he says, but that isn’t what he means, and they both know it.
“Yes, Master,” he replies, and glances up. Not to be awkward, not to test a limit, but to express his adoration in his gaze. To reaffirm how happy he is, how safe and loved he feels.
Hux grabs the O-ring in his collar, and Kylo arches closer without hesitation. He’d let Hux pull him so far over he fell flat on his face, really. If that’s what his Master wanted, that’s what he’d get today. His mind is already slipping low-low-low, into that place where everything is different shades of yes. The pleasure of letting go, of trusting someone else so utterly… of being able to know he’s safe, beloved, and cared for…
There’s a moment when he thinks he might get a kiss, and his heart pitters and patters like the first time, but Hux simply slides the central loop of the rope through the ring, feeds through the bundled middle, and chokes the knot tight to the metal. The gesture translates through the collar: an asphyxiating greeting that has his eyes rolling up.
The tiny pressure feels like a hand around his throat, like a promise of more, and Kylo goes back onto his feet when Hux shoves. He sways lightly, watching - as if from above - as Hux knots the double-line fall in front of him. A fist grips the two, then the other circles and tangles a bump of rope, only to continue down until the tails brush against his arched dick.
Hux is often silent when he works. Kylo is used to it, and anyway he can feel the thoughts - more… emotion and intent than words - and they reassure him. He doesn’t push and intrude, and Hux wouldn’t want him to, but there’s an agreed level of surface-thought, when it’s little more than could be gathered from reading someone’s face and voice.
His eyes drift shut as Hux carefully places the knots around his groin. Most careful here, because too tight or too much pressure and either damage or too intense a pain could ensue. They both want only the good pains, and not the ones that lead to sheepish confessions to medical droids. (Again.)
He parts his legs on the urging, and Hux slides the two ropes up and between his butt-cheeks. It’ll be rough, there, and also means Hux likely doesn’t mean to fuck him. Kylo feels a little wave of sorrow at the thought, but what his Master says, goes. Up and similar fist-distance knots up his spine, and then the ropes part to slide over his shoulders. He feels them trace down his front, then lace through the ropes in front and behind: making the webbing tug tight. The added pressure sits on his sternum, on his ribcage, and he can feel every breath go in-out, in-out. Every muscle becomes a bright spark of sensation, and the base karada is laid.
Hux knots off the rope, and pulls him by the O-ring to the bed. He’s pushed forwards, and he doesn’t even move his hands to catch himself, bouncing on the soft surface. A pillow under his head, hands turning it to one side, and he relaxes utterly. Kylo doesn’t even know where his hands are, but he knows he shouldn’t move them without permission.
The next layer of ropes goes on around his arms, when Hux finds them. He lies them forearm to forearm, behind him, and laces them surely together. Fingers test his for circulation, ask him to wiggle. He wiggles, and gets the seal of approval.
It’s all so near-far, now. Near, because he’s nothing but sensation. Far, because he couldn’t speak up to save his life. He’s gone to the place where Hux has control, and he feels no fear, no trepidation, nothing but serene contentment.
A hand around one ankle, flexing his leg, bending at the knee. Loops of power around, and he’s vaguely aware that it’s stopping his leg from coming back down again. However Hux’s magic web works, he’s utterly immobilised. The hug around his torso keeps him feeling secure, his arms can’t do more than wiggle fingers, and his legs are spread and bent and - hogtie - ? Something. Familiar. Distant.
Fingers in his hair. Whispers in his ear. Touches, between the red silk, following him down into the dark. He sighs, and thinks loudly how happy he is, how grateful. He might have spoken. He might not. It’s confusing, but he doesn’t dwell on it. Instead he feels every distance between them: their connection arcing like lightning seeking ground. He knows how far away he is, how close he is, before each kiss or stroke. Knows, and doesn’t fear he’ll leave.
Hux won’t leave.
Hux loves him.
More words, and then a gentle tease. A single finger, betw– no. Not finger. Not him, but something he’s using. It’s got the sensation of flesh, of person, but it’s not alive. The toy pushes between the two strands, and it is harder deeper in, and then he feels it slip in like a finger would. Like Hux’s finger. It slips in, and then there’s a strange, gushing warmth inside of him.
Fingers don’t come.
It slides in a little further on its own lubrication, then, a hand guiding it into him. It’s still small, but it feels like it’s… hardening. Fullening. Swelling. Exploding. Slowly, slowly exploding, but without the bang. It presses against his walls, caressing them and stretching him by degrees.
Kylo doesn’t know how long it takes. It could be hours, it could be minutes, it could be decades. Time slips out of sense when he’s this far down.
Wider, wider, wider inside. More sloshing, more pulsating heat. It nudges against that spot hidden within, and he whimpers in confusion. It feels good, but how much more can he take? There’s a pressure against him, tugging at his hole from the inside out, and Kylo feels his body struggle to accommodate.
“Shhh,” he’s told. “You can take it. I know you can take it.”
He can, he can, if Hux says he can. A nod, and it’s hard to stay in the peaceful limbo when such stimulus is dragging him back. He fights - wanting to stay down - but the hand on the back of his neck and the whisper in his ear breaks him open, and he’s sure he’s coming, but he can’t be. Not yet. Not yet, even though the shove against his prostate forces wave after wave of pleasure from him.
It doesn’t let up when he’s done. Nope.
Hux would never be so unkind.
The toy keeps pulsing, and Kylo sobs in quiet, blissed-out frustration. He looks up at Hux, struggling to focus on his face.
“Please,” he begs.
Hux’s grip on his jaw is cruel, but kind all the same. It pinches his mouth open, though he’d offer it willingly.
Brutal, sharp snaps of his hips, the angle imperfect for the deepest fuck of his throat, and Kylo tries not to let his eyes water or his mouth dribble. The toy is still working away - making him feel almost bloated - and he needs to know Hux is happy, too. Needs it, because his body is threatening to shut down any minute now. Needs it, and begs with his mind.
Hand in his hair. Pain exquisite, and a sudden, sloppy give as the toy deflates and pulls out, leaving him leaking the fake emissions all over the bed between his thighs. He wants to make a sound, but he’s gagged and choked on the dick sliding over his tongue, and then - oh wonderful moment, then - a click of the world into place as Hux pins his face to his crotch as he comes. And comes. And comes.
Kylo feels the extra dribble over his face when his cock slips out, satisfied. The toy, too, has left him leaking out into the world.
A sadness threatens, the post-coital tristesse looming.
“Master,” he begs.
Hux kisses him, slow and slow and sweet. Tastes himself, licks it deeper. Kylo can do nothing but take, and he takes every last thing Hux offers him.
Kiss. Kiss. A knot here, a tie there. Fingers over his scalp, words that aren’t needed, but the feeling behind them burns into his very core.
I love you so much, he thinks. I would give you anything.
He wonders if Hux can hear that.
He’s sure he knows, even if he can’t.
I love you. I’m yours.