a.n. I haven't written fan fiction in many moons but something about complete inappropriateness of Reylo sucked me in like a blackhole. This fic is pure filth so if that's not your thing I would advise you to heed the warnings and get out of here while your innocence is still intact. If you're still here, all aboard the trash boat - we're going down with this ship!
disclaimer. Cross-posted at AO3. I own nothing.
.a galaxy between us.
His head isn't his own anymore. Ever since he strapped her slim body to the interrogation rack and forced his way into her mind – and she into his – he has felt her there, lingering on the edge of his consciousness.
At first, he tries to shrug it off as merely an annoyance: a fly in his ear, a bloodsucking mosquito. But she is impossible to shoe away. He begins to think of her as more like a tick: a tiny, disgusting creature that has burrowed under his skin and is slowly poisoning him.
He knows the Stormtroopers talk about it: about how he lost to a scavenger with scarcely any training, how he had his arse handed to him by a girl. His face burns with humiliation just to think about it, the sting nowhere more profound than in the jagged scar she left across his face. The med-droids offer to graft new skin over the wound but he ardently refuses, smashing the closest one to pieces. He keeps the scar to remind himself of his defeat. To remind himself that it must never, ever happen again.
In quiet moments, he likes to imagine how he'll do it, how he'll finally snuff her light out once and for all. A stab through the heart with the brilliant blue light sabre that is rightfully his would be fitting but torturing her into insanity might be all the more fun. He could cut her to pieces, peel off her skin or lock her away with her nightmares in a tiny windowless cell until she begs for death. But somehow he thinks getting in close, looking her in the eye, and strangling her with his bare hands would be by far the most satisfying. He remembers how small and vulnerable her throat had felt under the crushing weight of the Force. Her rabbit heart had throbbed in her windpipe, eyes wide, cheeks flushed with blood. Oh, how he'd wanted to run his tongue along the thick vein in her neck, rip open her ripe lips with his teeth and taste her life force on his tongue.
He could have ended it there. He should have ended it there.
The thread between them draws tighter with each passing week until it threatens to strangle him. Walking the halls of the ship between meetings, he can hear her laughter in his head, bouncing off the walls and ringing in his ears. In the deepest parts of space, he can feel the sun on his face, the wind in his hair; and smell the moist earth of whatever Force-forsaken planet she is training on. Worst still, he can smell her: her sweat after a hard sparring session, the unscented soap she bathes with, the spicy perfume she dabs on the inside of her wrists and the hollow of her throat, the musky secret scent between her legs.
A galaxy between them and scarcely room to breathe. He feels dizzy.
He redoubles his training, memorising complex poses and sparring for hours, throwing the other Knights around the training ring with such unbridled viciousness that they dare not rechallenge him. It feels good to hurt them, to make them bleed and scream and beg. His rage has long been flame inside of him, but it is now an inferno that threatens to engulf everything it touches.
He has never been good at meditating. During his ill-fated tutelage, his uncle was forever lamenting his inability to sit still, to simply be. How would he ever learn to control the Force if he could not control his own mind and body?
Repositioning himself on his cot, he scrunches his eyes and tries to hone in on the darkness inside of him but his mind is moving too fast, zigzagging from one thought to the next like the hummingbird he'd once seen on a far away blue planet. His skin feels prickly; his left foot won't stop tapping. He feels like he needs to break something, to throw it across the room and hear it shatter.
That's when he hears it. His name – his old name – so quiet that he might have imagined it were it not pitched in the voice he hears so often in his dreams, breathy, panting and wanting.
He picks up the glass of water at his bedside and hurls it at the wall.
He knows she's sleeping because her mind floods into his like a crashing wave, her thoughts and dreams whirling with his and threatening to pull them both under. He feels her anger, her confusion, fear and disgust, but they are over shadowed by desire, vicious and painful and rooted in the depths of her soul. Mouth red and wet, she reaches for him, the hazel of her eyes almost swallowed by black and burning. She's flushed from her cheeks to her chest, and he wants to split open the rags she calls clothes and see how far south the colour goes.
Hux barks something at him, startling him back to reality. He flashes daggers at the General and mutters something about needing to take a shower. Hux might be a pompous arse but he isn't fool enough to question.
The shower is icy cold but his blood is boiling. He can still smell the girl, the filthy desert rat, sickly-sweet and tart like overripe fruit. But he's hungry for it, so hungry. His mouth waters at the thought of nuzzling his nose into her throat, at licking a stripe up the very centre of her.
He presses his head against the frigid, unyielding tiles, trying desperately to think about anything other than the heat in his belly and the painful throbbing in his cock. He isn't weak. He is a Sith. He is stronger than this sickness. Stronger than her.
He remembers the way she moved in the wintry forest. How she ducked and weaved and parried his blows like a Jedi, like an equal, despite her relative inexperience. He remembers wanting to break her bones and crumple them into dust, wanting to melt her face with his sabre and burn out her eyes. But more than that he remembers her face when she knocked him down: her breath coming loud and misty, those damn eyes burning bright as her light sabre. Only the ground doesn't open up between them this time. She holds the sabre unflinchingly to his neck.
She steps closer to him, holding the light sabre steady she moves to straddle him, her knees crunching in the snow. He swallows audibly, his breathing intensifying. Impossibly, he can feel the blazing heat of her through his robes.
"Stay there," she orders, her eyes never leaving his.
She flicks off the light sabre and suddenly it's just her. He could throw her off. Force, he should throw her off a cliff and then off another just to be safe. But he doesn't. And in spite of everything, he does as she says.
He hasn't been touched like this in years. Since he crossed to the dark side, human contact is fleeting and rare. He can't remember the last time someone shook his hand.
Her touch is like a brand leaving trails of fire over the ridges of his cheekbones and the angle his jaw. He flinches when she traces the edge of her thumb over the scar she gave him, fresh in this memory, this dream, this space between imagination and reality. Her fingers twist in his hair, and suddenly his face is very close to hers.
The 'fresher is full of steam. He can't recall turning the water from cold to hot. His cock is in his hand, his fist tight around the shaft. Somewhere far, far away, he can feel her coming to life, her fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her sleeping pants.
He can't tell who moved first but suddenly his mouth is on hers, and hers is on his, and they're licking into each other, clawing and biting, and it's not enough. It will never be enough. He can taste blood, metallic and warm, and doesn't know if it's his or hers or both. He wants to devour her, to take her inside himself and erase the crippling emptiness that has haunted them both for years. He knows the darkest corners of her soul and she knows his. He thought he'd given his heart to the dark side but when she forced into his mind, she stole the last piece.
Un-fucking-acceptable.
He flips them suddenly, and he relishes in the crack of her skull hitting the snow. In this new position, he has her arms pinned above her head and a thigh jammed tight between her legs. She can't move more than a few inches now and she knows it. Her eyes widen and she spits the most offensive curse word she knows at him, her face scrunching into a scowl that looks all the more ferocious with the blood leaking from her bottom lip down her chin, stark against the white backdrop. The bond is still sizzling between them. To him she looks like a wild animal, and he doesn't know whether to kill her or -
"I should rip out your throat," he hisses, squeezing her wrists tight enough to bruise. His face is so close to hers he can make out her every freckle and count her frost-covered eyelashes. She's going cross-eyed just looking at him, and her blood is like chocolate in his mouth. "But if you were gone, I would never…"
He trails off. Her breath is catching in her chest and he knows she can scarcely breathe or think for how close he is. He realises then that no one has ever been this close to her: she has been asking and imagining things she does not even begin to understand. Suddenly she is just a girl. And beneath the mask of her fury, she is equal parts ravenous and afraid.
"This isn't real," she says firmly, but whether she is speaking to herself or to him is unclear. He can feel her pulse thrumming in her wrists and the heat she's giving off might just melt the snow. "You can't hurt me here."
"No," he admits. "But I can ruin you."
He devours her mouth, kissing her hard and deep until she's writhing beneath him, red in the face and gasping for breath. Just as he thinks she might pass out, he moves down her throat and sucks a dark bloom at the junction of her neck and shoulder. She hisses through her teeth, bucking up at him, but he holds her wrists tight and laves the mark with his tongue. The skin here tastes like the spices he knows from his dreams.
Releasing her wrists, he rips the front of her tunic down the middle in his haste to bare skin. Her breasts are small but her nipples, pale pink and pebbled with cold, feel good in the palm of his hand. She gasps when he rolls one under the pad of his thumb, her hands automatically flying up to grip his biceps through his robe. He realises she's not pushing him away, and if anything is pulling him closer.
"I've seen what's in your heart," he murmurs in her ear, rolling his hips against hers and grinding his erection into her crease of thigh. She keens and moves with him, clumsy in her inexperience but desperate and raw. He's so close to where she wants him but he pointedly ignores her need. "You lay awake at night trying not to think of this, trying to pretend you don't want it, don't crave it, but when you fall asleep its all you see."
He draws back and looks at her, really looks at her, wanting to see her reaction as he slides his hand down her slight curves, over her jutting hipbone, to the apex of her thighs. Even through her breeches, he can feel her sopping wet and scorching. She meets his gaze through slitted, glazed eyes and nearly convulses when his fingers start to move. "I hate you," she moans.
He smirks at that, circling her clit with his thumb and pressing a long, slender finger to her entrance through the cloth, a manoeuvre that has her grinding shamelessly against his hand. "I know," he says, stroking strands of sweat-slicked hair from her wrecked face in a façade of tenderness. "That's the darkness in you. What kind of good girl would writhe like a whore under the touch of someone she despises? Your filthy cunt is drenched at the mere suggestion of my cock. You're no better than a bitch in heat."
She tries to shove him off at that but he pins her wrist next to her head once again, pausing the maddening circles of his thumb only briefly to slip beneath the waistband of her breeches. With no barrier to his touch, he takes her higher and higher, his finger breaching her entrance, testing and stretching and dipping deeper each time, curling up to find that place inside her that has her bearing down on him and taking sharp, panting breaths. He feels the muscles in her abdomen and thighs coiling tighter and tighter, and feels the thread between them stretching to breaking point. Just as he thinks it might snap, he withdraws his fingers. A choked groan escapes her.
Near frantic with need, he opens his robe and tugs down his pants just enough to free his erection. The sight of it, hard, red and leaking, has her tensing but he holds her fast, his big hands nearly spanning the breadth of her thighs as he pulls her legs further apart and lifts her hips to meet his. The first touch of her heat and slickness to his cock is maddening: the pleasure so fierce, so utterly overwhelming, that he has to hold himself steady and breathe through his nose to keep from spilling over her thighs.
"Look at me," he says once he has gathered himself, punctuating the command with a long, slow grind that has the tip of his cock nudging against her clit. "Look into my eyes and know that it's me who gets you this way."
"Please," she says, voice ragged and nearly crying. "I need…"
She trails off but the images in her head speak louder than words. Through the bond, he sees her lying awake at night, writhing and dripping with sweat, her hand jammed tight between her legs, fingers moving furiously, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. He feels her climbing, straining for her peak, but she just can't get there. Night after night, she tries but the story inevitably ends the same: her rolling over exhausted and begging for sleep, her cunt raw, aching and utterly unfulfilled.
He can't wait any longer. If he can't kill her, he must make her his.
"This changes nothing," he says, pushing inside her with one sharp thrust of his hips.
He is unprepared for the feel of her, blazing hot and so incredibly tight like a satin vice around his cock. She cries out but he silences her with a bruising kiss, her nails biting into the flesh of his shoulder blades as if he's the only thing that is keeping her from falling into an endless abyss. He pulls out and thrusts all the way back in, losing himself in her and setting a ruthless pace that might just tear her apart. Through the bond, he can feel he is hurting her. The knowledge arouses him but he knows her body would not have survived the harsh deserts of Jakku were not for an innate ability to transform hardship and pain into strength. Right on cue, he feels the first sparks of pleasure kindling within her, starting in her abdomen and slowly radiating outwards. She begins to move with him, clumsy at first, but soon she is meeting him thrust for thrust, her body somehow opening itself further to accommodate his unrelenting need. He feels his balls tightening, his cock thickening, his every muscle priming for an explosive climax. He grips her leg to better angle his thrusts when suddenly, impossibly, he finds himself on his back.
The Force, he realises, trying to get his bearings, but she's crowded over him with one hand wrapped around his throat, pressing hard enough to constrict his airways.
"I might be a bitch in heat," she says, rubbing her wet cunt over his now painful cock, "but you're a total bastard. You think you can take what you want from me, but you're wrong. This relationship goes only one way: my way."
She sheathes his cock within her once more, still holding fast to his neck, and he feels his face turning red, his breath coming in thin, rapid wheezes. He tries to throw her off, to regain some semblance of control in this situation, but she's strong, much too strong, and it's all he can do to try and keep up with her as she rides him, bouncing hard on his cock and grinning with bloody teeth and malice like he's little more than a pony bred for her entertainment. He tries to will away his erection, thinking about cold water, about his mother, about Lord Snoke naked, but he's powerless against the blinding of pleasure of her, hotter and tighter than ever around his cock, her skin shinning bright like the sun, like the Light he's tried so damn hard to snuff out, and since when has he been so weak, so pathetic?
She brings her fingers to her clit, moving them in tight circles, hard and fast. She clenches tighter, and he can't breathe, can't think. His eyes are bulging, the veins in his neck in harsh relief; his vision is spotting, whiting out around the edges, and he thinks he might pass out, might explode, and all he knows is that he can't hold off, can't hold back –
She shatters over him, her cunt pulsing, her fingers squeezing so tight that his own orgasm nearly blinds him, physically hurts him, and its as if she wrenched it out of him, this girl, this desert rat. Rey. In the real world, it seems to go on for forever: sticky ropes of cum splashing the tiles and dripping over his hand, spiralling down the shower drain. His legs almost give way and he has to rest his head against the wall to hold himself upright. In his head, he can hear her laughing, laughing at him, and he feels so angry, so furious, that he slams a fist against the wall, shattering the tiles and creating a large fissure that stretches all the way to the roof.
"You… You're afraid," she says, and he can almost picture her self-satisfied as she echoes her own words back to him, as she dips her slick fingers into her mouth and sucks. "That you will never be as strong as me."
a.n. Thanks for reading. If you liked the story or have some constructive criticism to share, please leave a review. Until next time!