This is Kylo Ren chapter. With a little bit of Ben Solo to peak in timidly from behind Kylo's cape, but it's mostly just Kylo. Warning: F words. Kylo is naughty.
Btw, I've noticed how in this and the next chapter their dynamics starts to resemble the dynamics of yet another fanfiction power-couple, i.e. Integra and Alucard. Didn't exactly plan it to turn out like that, but when it did - I grinned. Alucard style. Rey gets to be the unwilling master of the situation, with Kylo having the time of his life. Almost.
Gods, Rey, are you aware what you have just done?
But she doesn't hear him – and even if she does, she'll think it was a dream. She is fast asleep, collapsed into the bed after that strain.
Do you know how subversive the truth sounds to those corrupted, weak-minded fools?
Do you know how much awe-struck are the Chiss, otherwise as cold as stone and practically impossible to impress?
Do you know how beautiful you looked and how difficult you made it for me to compose myself there?
He was even prepared to forgive her the whole Jedi folly. Long time has passed since a Jedi master has held its lecture on Coruscant – he made sure for them to become the matter of past, a useless relic, something that instigates disdain and mockery in the high-bred.
But now he finds himself almost sneering at the sight of his former mistress squeamish and jealous with that little Jedi in her simple tan clothes. Her husband a powerful war-baron: it is wonder they both didn't climb into his bed. The limp husband, seeking benefits for his weapon trade, and her seeking the rise up on the social ladder plus a mindless, crude fuck as a welcoming bonus – spoilt and decadent, the whole lot of them.
He leaves them both wanting mainly because they serve no other purpose than to annoy him. Except for the crude fuck, that is.
Everything about her frustrates him to no end.
The fact that she's so ignorant and so insightful; the fact that she is so pure, and yet so sensual; the fact she has all that raw, untamed power and almost no style and no technique whatsoever; even her little signature is like a child's writing.
No surname, name only; like some kind of a strange animal.
He has that strange small animal in his palm now: but what can he do with it? It is of no use to him, except for…
Yes, the frustration is good. The frustration leads to anger. And anger leads to rage. And rage makes him even more powerful.
He meditates on that rage and it turns to pain. The crossbow wound burns on him again.
He focuses on that pain and invites the Dark Side in.
The whirlwind soars around him and inspects him, looking for a way in.
You abandoned me. How could you abandon me after all that transpired between us?
His mind wanders again to the Throne Room. To the sight of her fighting, to the sight of her being wounded – he twitches, he tries to get to her. He tries to call her name. But she is cunning, and she is so brave. She has all the Jedi wisdom in her and so much more than that. It comes to her naturally.
He could see that wound peaking through the edge of her dress. He hoped so, and his calculation didn't fail him.
He could feel the skin was sore and brittle there. He could see they didn't have enough medical supplies to patch her up properly. And he could see she didn't bemoan this.
Strong little scavenger.
That wound transfixed him completely. He felt that pain acutely; he wanted to make it go away.
And then she left him, lying on the floor, weak and used.
He tensed in his meditation. The Dark Side purred contentedly against his ear.
He'd rip open that wound again with his tongue and his teeth, if needed.
He'll make her scream and squirm underneath him. But this time, he'd win. He won't underestimate her ever again. He'd suck that salt and pain from her wound and close the open rims of it with his mouth. He'd hold her until she's healed.
The vision is so intense that it makes him lose his focus. The Dark Side moans and wanes away from him, like an unsatisfied lover.
But when his own room dawns on him, gray, simple and uncluttered, he finds a pang of regret in him. A tug of compassion – he could never harm her. He'd rather pull his own heart from his chest than harm her.
Unless, of course, she asked him to.