s t r i c k e n

His smile falters a bit and he looks over his shoulder at the door to the examination room behind him. Please no one come through, he thinks to himself as he moves a bit closer to Kit. Laying his hand softly on the others arm in a - hopefully - reassuring gesture.

“Hey-” he starts, pausing as he tries to figure out the best way to word what he wants to say. “I’m sure you were uh - great out there. I mean, cause you are well - pretty great - and well…” he trails off a little wincing at his own words. 

He spares another glance behind him at the door and turns back to Kit, quickly leaning down to place a chaste kiss against the spot above his brow now covered by the white bacta patch. 

Not the kisses, but the apologies. Maybe KT-1807 should learn to specify – for his skin is miserably cold, when Vox does heed him. Brow furrows. Lips drawn tight. He’ll look at the other man like he doesn’t understand what to make of the affection he received. They are careful. Always. so. careful not to overstep.

“Stop.” He repeats himself, because he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say to this Rough fingers find their way into golden curls, his grip too tight when he closes around them. It is the stammering, in part, that the trooper can't STAND. Vox's uncertainty evident in the way that he can never seem to find the right words. Praises are hastily offered, when KT-1807 is at his worst, and he is handled with such care -- an animal, where none can know if it might bite. 

another meme i won’t finish ↳ 1/20 male characters: chuck hansen

“I could have sworn I heard something-” he mumbled looking away from Kit, trying to keep the ruse going as long as possible. “Maybe we better-”

His sentence was cut off by Kit’s forceful push against his shoulders, pushing him against the durasteel wall. An exhale pushed out of his lungs by the impact, hands bracing against the wall behind him.

                          (Shit.)

                                         “Shit.”

He watches as the familiar white and black helmet draws closer with every moment. Can hear the uneven breathing within, filtered by the mechanisms inside. He wants to look at him. To see those eyes staring into his. And yet every time he does he’s tortured by it. Knowing that there is no way to bring the kind of pleasure, the kind Kit so readily gives to him, to his own features. Kit indulges him in this. Just like everything else.

He lifts his hands off the wall in the silence of the room, pulling at the latches to the standard issue helmet as it detached from the rest of the armour. Pulling it off easily in a practiced motion, letting it fall to the ground with a light thud. Kit will probably smack him good-naturedly on the arm after they’re done for abusing it so. 

The face in front of him is handsome, almost unfairly so. And as he lifts his right hand to touch the base of Kit’s jaw he tries to quash the instinct to sink down on his knees. To look up at him and see that face for once in the throes of something other than - well - not passion to say the least. Even though he knows that the man in front of him feels the exact opposite.

                                                                                        (Or at least hopes he does.)

He curses the order in moments like this. A sentiment he would never share out loud, not even with Kit. 

The air is blissfully cool against his glistening brow, and Vox's touch too warm. Hours spent kept beneath that gleaming helmet, and now that it's gone Kit feels vulnerable when forced to endure these sensations against his naked skin. But it's too late to retrieve it -- they're beyond that. 

                             Eight minutes to go. 

“Unauthorized removal of a stormtrooper’s helmet is a punishable offense.”

Or is it that he will be punished for allowing its removal? And this assumes that anyone finds out what had happened – there’s too much to worry about, but never enough time for it. Seven minutes and fifty seconds.

Lips, unhindered, find Vox’s. Kissing is new ( even when it isn’t ) and, though Kit is skilled in many aspects, intimacy isn’t one of them. There’s too much tongue. Too many teeth. He kisses as though he’s entering battle – and intends to be the victor. Fingers against the others hips, seeking further down. Bruising where they're clenched against cloth and flesh. Each breath is still too loud. Heart pounding in his throat.

     And then       nausea hits.

@bucketbraiin // my muse will react to your muse

(Still Accepting)

▤ falling asleep on them

He couldn’t remember exactly how he had somehow convinced Arris to lend him her room for moments like this. He wondered idly if he had brought up the fact that she almost never used her own quarters anymore. Like ever.

                  Although he could probably thank General Hux for that.

                                                                                 And by association - this.

He craned his neck up a bit from where it had been on the soft pillow of the bed to peer up at the still form covering his body. Kit’s head tilted just slightly up to face his own. Shallow and even breaths coming from the others mouth. A look of relaxed exhaustion on his features.

He couldn’t help the chuckle that spilled from his mouth as his smile grew wide. Lips pursing together in an attempt to muffle any further sounds. His head hitting the pillow again with a soft whump.

He could still hear Kit telling him he was fine, that he wasn’t tired from his shift. And yet- here they were. The other having fallen asleep on his chest in the middle of - well what he could only assume was - a rather affectionate display at kissing his chest. 

His hand raised up to thread through the relatively short hair of the man on top of him, closing his eyes as he hummed to himself. Hand continuing it’s ministrations and brushing ever so slightly over Kit’s ear.

While this wasn’t at all what he - or even Kit - had had in mind when they had made their way into the vacant room he couldn’t argue about the turn of events. It was nice. Really nice even.

He’d probably regret this later when Arris barged into the room, but he couldn’t help it as his eyes became heavier. Kit’s warmth atop his body and the steady breathing lulling him into relaxation. His weight for too comforting.

‘Maybe just - ten minutes. Just a quick nap.’ He thought to himself as he let himself drift away.

                                                                  Well whatever ‘it’ was.

Because ‘it’ was definitely different. After all, most of the time they spent with each other - which unfortunately wasn’t much at all - was usually spent talking. Small bouts of what he would probably have to define as ‘cuddling’ and a stolen kiss here or there making up for the rest of their interactions.

Anything else was just impossible, though definitely not for lack of trying on both their parts. And even so he couldn’t help but feel elated no matter what they did together.

And as Kit - because that was the only name he could ever associate with the Stormtrooper - turned and walked away he easily fell in stride behind him. A stupid grin pulling at the sides of his mouth.

 And, of course, hadn't expected it to be any different, but it helps. He can tell himself that he is fulfilling a purpose, investigating these noises, and it is not that he has abandoned his designated duties. All other blame may fall to Vox, if they are caught. ( could he bring himself to lay it? ) The door seals shut with a hiss. Blaster is set aside, never beyond reach, but out of the way so that he is free to reach out.

 His touch is that of a soldier; awkward fumbling unfit to be considered intimacy. Too rough -- he handles Vox as he would a weapon, bruising when that fingers close around his shoulders. Equipment rattles on impact when he shoves the medic up against the wall. Breath too loud. Always too loud. Each exhale is amplified through the mask's filter until they deafen him.

But he isn't thinking of Vox. KT-1807 -- Kit. Here he's just Kit, because there's no one else who would call him any different. Kit's head swims with scenarios. Tactical positions. Formations. Brain struggling to recall any scrap of training that will keep that horrible sickness at bay. If he won't think of what's to come, then nothing bad can happen. That's not how it works but it's what he's decided must be true -- he's never told Vox. Doesn't want to disappoint. Knows that it will, if he found out that Kit thinks of everything BUT when they're together.

They're too close now, and it's he that moves closer still.

damn --          DAMN IT ! !

He longs to curse out loud. Swear and shout and do-...something. Something aggressive. Frustration has no way out. Wanting to touch. Be touched. Digits fit to the curve of the other's jaw, pressed hard to flesh in silent desperation -- ten minutes ( nine minutes and twelve seconds ) doesn't leave time to be anything EXCEPT desperate. Enemies falling on the battlefield, Kit pictures them instead, so that he doesn't have to look at the soft slope of eager lips. They're waiting. Expectant. Vox is a different sort of enemy to be slain -- his death, a little death, repeated as often as they dare. Found in what sparse moments can be had.

Yet, he's afraid. He won't move to unlatch the one thing that protects him from this vulnerability that he's conditioned to view with disdain. Weakness is unacceptable -- is this a weakness? Kit can't be sure. If only he could just ask. To be certain.

“Well-” he started, attempting to sound a bit more upbeat. Trying to hide the slight (who was he kidding - extreme) disappointment. “Wouldn’t want you to face the wrath of Captain Phasma, you know?”  

For all his bugging he didn't want Kit - well KT-1807 if any of his superiors were around - to get in trouble. Or  himself. He really was his own worst enemy in that regard.

“I’ll just-” he paused gesturing behind him. 

KT-1807 is clear in his intentions, though he can’t just SAY  what he would like. He expects Vox to catch on ( and maybe he's putting too much stock in those that he shouldn't ) and when he doesn't, 1807 is left to take control -- a disturbing notion. One he won't think about for too long.

The contact is brief, when fingers reaches to grasp at the other's elbow.

                                   It's all he can stand.

"Medic." There's a tremor. Nerves? Anticipation? It doesn't  matter. Vox will only ever hear that even, monotonous drone. 

               "Follow me."

“Well- I mean I could definitely do that.” he gestured vaguely behind him. A couple of maintenance crew members talking amongst themselves down the hall about 15 meters away.

“But you know- why waste their time, Right? We can go check it out. I mean-” he gestured again to the Utility closet next to them. 

And there is something intriguing about imaginary noises; what they may entail between him and this troublesome medic. The thrill of disobedience is beyond KT-1807. It's something else. Eyes follow first his indication towards the crew and then to the door that is, indeed, very much right here.