It breaks out of him, then— a choked, miserable sound, something like a sob might be, if Kylo finally permitted himself to cry. If he didn't smother it immediately, crushing his mouth to the warm, perfect replica of the junction between Ronan's neck and shoulder, hiding his face there.
It's ours, or I don't want it.
He remembers both times he'd said those words: his clumsy attempts to tell Ronan that he needed to be a choice, a decision, something Ronan wanted.
But he isn't wanted. It isn't desire that has Ronan unfurling himself in offering— not Ronan's desire, anyway. It's obedience. Fearful obedience, woven into this thing Kylo's made with his useless, desperate longing.
And he's so horribly, brokenly desperate that he can't stop.
Kylo drags himself down the perfectly remembered shape of Ronan's body— a starving, wretched monster reduced to his basest, ugliest parts. He's nothing better than the hunger of grasping hands and fierce, bruising kisses as he claws at this punishment he's made for himself: the only relief he's ever found distorted into torment.
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It's ours, or I don't want it.
He remembers both times he'd said those words: his clumsy attempts to tell Ronan that he needed to be a choice, a decision, something Ronan wanted.
But he isn't wanted. It isn't desire that has Ronan unfurling himself in offering— not Ronan's desire, anyway. It's obedience. Fearful obedience, woven into this thing Kylo's made with his useless, desperate longing.
And he's so horribly, brokenly desperate that he can't stop.
Kylo drags himself down the perfectly remembered shape of Ronan's body— a starving, wretched monster reduced to his basest, ugliest parts. He's nothing better than the hunger of grasping hands and fierce, bruising kisses as he claws at this punishment he's made for himself: the only relief he's ever found distorted into torment.