The trooper had draped a thin sheet around you when the blaster door shut. Maybe it was a good sign, you prayed; maybe Ren still wanted you for himself. He seemed like the jealous type—like he wouldn't want everyone in the hallways to see you nude. Not if you were his. You breathed a small sigh of relief that you would probably remain alive at least a little longer, though that small sliver of hope did little to comfort you once you were returned to your cell. Cold as impersonal as before, loneliness quickly set in. You were still desperate for comfort; cold, hungry, and dirtier than before. Your vomit had dried in strands of your hair, and between your legs you smelled like maleness—his sweat, precum, and your juices dried on your thighs. You gagged as you sat to relieve yourself on the toilet. He had used you thoroughly; your whole body was tired from resisting him, your cunt and ass especially sore from his girth. Picking yourself up, you hobbled over to the cot and collapsed weakly on it, begging sleep to take you.

He paced the room, a pang of guilt reverberating through him. He did feel sorry for the girl; no one had ever taken care of her. She was capable of being submissive—wanted to be, even. He could feel it in some of the moments they shared, when she had been close. He just had to pry it out of her. Sighing, he stripped off the sweater he'd thrown on: it had worked, she wanted to be hugged close when he was done punishing her. He climbed into bed and turned out the lights with a wave of his hand. His bed smelled like sex. For tonight, it was welcome; the girl smelled crisp and sweet before he wrecked her. He groaned, stretching out on his back. He would have to feed her and let her keep it down soon; she had already gone without nutrients for three days. But he wanted her just a little more desperate for it—a little more desperate for him. She was already close to breaking, and when she did, he would be there to catch her. He would take care of her.

You weaved in and out of sleep, too weak when you woke up to do much of anything. You lay in the scratchy cot, trying to focus on anything other than the cold: anything other than your loneliness. He was doing this on purpose, you knew. It was part of breaking you. He was forcing you to seek him out, to beg him to feed you, to want his company. He wanted you to need him, and you hated that it was working. Hunger pangs rang through your stomach even worse than the last time he had starved you. Forcing you to vomit up the meal had been especially brutal; you struggled to reconcile the face burned into your mind—young and attractive—with the things he did to you with apparent ease. You could hardly believe he was only 29 and already commanded so much power, resorting with such ease to cruelty. And yet despite that, you were sure there was a gentler side: you saw hints of it in the way he would steal glances at you. He acted almost ashamed when he showed you any kind of warmth, but it had been there in a few fleeting moments. You were sure of it; you weren't going to die in this cell. With that thought, you let another bout of heavy sleep claim you.

When you woke, you could feel his presence before you could see him. You were curled up on your right side, facing the cold wall of your cell, clutching the thin blanket you were given in your arms. And yet you could feel that he was there. Your heart drummed in your chest as you rolled over slowly, half convinced you were crazy. But you weren't; your eyes stared into the dark robes of your captor, right where you thought they would be. You didn't raise your gaze to stare into his mask—you barely had the will to live at all. So you did nothing as he stooped down, one large arm scooping under your knees, the other snaking under your arms. He carried you silently out of the cell, pressing you close to him. The surprising warmth of his body was welcome, but you accepted nothing else; you went limp in his arms, willing yourself to become dead weight. It didn't seem to affect him at all—he carried you through the cold halls of the ship as if you weighed nothing, your eyes trained on the metallic ceilings your entire journey. You could feel fleeting stares from troopers and First Order personnel on your naked body as he carried you past, none lingering too long lest they attract attention from Ren. There was no sheet to cover you, now; not when you were with him. He held you possessively—it was abundantly clear to anyone watching that you were his. You wondered if anyone pitied you.

The blaster door parted for him when he arrived at his quarters, without him entering the code; you noted in passing that he must have willed it open with the force. He took a few long strides, crossing the threshold to his bed. He paused, setting you down at the end of it with a surprising gentleness. The blaster door had slammed shut behind you, its code-pad lock teasing you in your periphery. There was no way out.

You had nothing to say to him, so you sat quietly where he left you. He hadn't moved from where he stood in front of you—you could feel his gaze glued to you, even hidden by his mask. Heavy silence hung in the air.

After a few moments, he knelt. The cool metal façade of his helmet stared into your face—you stared back, just as expressionless.

"Tell me what you need." The level mechanical voice spoke, seemingly somehow adding to the chill in the air.

"I don't recognize any obligation to a creature in a mask," you said coolly. It seemed dangerous to speak to him this way, but you were too weak and cold to care.

He paused, and silence hung around you again. But then he lifted his hands to the latches on either side of his head, releasing the latches. He set it down next to you, and placed two gloved hands on your thighs.

"Tell me what you need," he repeated. His angular face was soft as you'd remembered, and this time he looked almost kind. There was a kind of sympathy etched across his features; it seemed genuine. You flinched and looked away from him, small tears of frustration growing in your eyes. You almost wished he had kept the mask on—it was easy to despise him then. It felt indecent to look at him, let alone answer.

"Food." Your voice broke at the end of the syllable, and you cleared your throat. "A shower. Clothes." Your brows furrowed, and you almost shook your head at yourself—you doubted he would allow you any. "I'm cold," you added in explanation. Shame bubbled up within you, stating your needs like this, asking him to meet them. You felt like a child.

"You are a child," he murmured.

Your eyes flicked back to him in alarm. "Get out of my head," you hissed, nostrils flaring. "You have no right."

"I have every right," he corrected gently, voice soft. One gloved thumb stroked your thigh gently for a moment before he rose to his full height again. He bent slightly, wrapping an arm around your waist. "Let's shower," he said in the same soft tone, pulling you up with him and guiding you into the refresher.

He leaned into the shower, running water to a temperature he liked, gesturing you in. He shut the shower door behind you, and you backed into the water—hot, but not scalding. It felt perfect on your dry skin. You ran your fingers through your hair; you could see his figure undressing outside. He would be joining you in a moment. You closed your eyes as you washed your own vomit out of your hair, pretending you were alone, that you could flit away or become invisible. You heard the faint sound of the door latching shut, and you jumped; he was standing before you already. Your arms crossed in front of your chest, covering yourself in a protective stance.

A sad smile crossed his lips. "Don't do that," he murmured, wrapping his fingers around your wrists. Again his touch felt gentle, coaxing you into lowering your arms. You stiffened and looked away; he peered down at you.

"Are we going to have a nice shower together, or not? It's up to you." He bent slightly so he was at your eye level, though you were looking away. "I'm not going to do anything," he murmured reassuringly. Your eyes met his, searching for any indication that it was a lie.

You didn't find any. He appeared to be telling the truth; he wasn't going to force sex here. You forced yourself to swallow, letting your shoulders relax a little.

"That's a good girl," he purred, reaching out and grasping a bottle from the ledge behind you. He squeezed a credit sized amount of the substance into his palm, rubbed his hands together, then reached and gently ran his fingers through your hair. You flinched, taking a small step backwards into the water.

It didn't stop him from massaging your scalp with the tips of his fingers, nor from working shampoo into the length of your hair with his hands.

"I don't want you washing me," you blurted out, panicking. He stilled.

"You don't have to be afraid of me," he murmured in that same warm tone; his voice seemed to wrap around you, comforting and genuine.

"Could have fooled me," you breathed. He almost seemed to wince at the comment. But the look faded just as quickly from his face, which still seemed to regard you with an odd tenderness.

His hands continued running through your hair, washing out the shampoo, working a conditioner in.

"I'd like it if you'd thank me for the shower," he said suddenly, his voice containing a hint of emotion. It wasn't anger or even so much possessiveness—he sounded almost lonely somehow. Your eyes searched his face in alarm.

"Is that an order, or a request?" He didn't deserve the sarcasm—not this time—but you brought it anyway. It flew out of your mouth before you could stop it, and you justified it with your bitterness from the day before.

"A request," he murmured, watching your face just as intently. You were sure it betrayed a look of surprise. You clenched your jaw, fighting the desire to look away from him. He wrapped an arm around your waist, closing the distance between you and guiding your head to rest on his chest. It felt too intimate.

You stood stiffly, pressed against him as he swept your hair onto one shoulder and rubbed your back gently. Again you forced yourself to swallow, and looked up into his eyes.

"Thank you," you murmured, barely a whisper above the water. But he heard you. A small smile played at his lips. His eyes dropped to the soap resting on the lower ledge, and as he reached for it, your mind added a word to your thanks. "—Kylo."

His eyes instantly flicked to yours. Shit. You had no idea why your mind had thought his name, and judging by his reaction, he had heard it too. He paused for a moment, then resumed washing you.

"I don't police thoughts as much as you may think. We don't fully control them." he said, now rubbing soapy circles into your back. "But I don't want to hear that leave your pretty little mouth. Understand?"

Your cheeks felt suddenly hot. You nodded quickly.

Do I have no privacy? You knew he could hear you—what was the point of speaking? He paused again for a moment, seemingly gathering his own thoughts. You wished you could hear his, too.

"Your thoughts are loud to me, and clear. It's harder than you think for me to filter them out. Yours, I mean." He paused again, his hand going slack against you. "It's part of why I chose you…" his voice trailed off when you flinched, remembering how he had ordered the death of the other women. He said nothing as you leaned against his chest again so you wouldn't have to look at him. His hand reached up to hold the back of your head. "We have a connection," he murmured, almost more to himself than to you.

You choked on the words, tears forming in your eyes. A hard sob wracked your body, and he pulled away from you quickly, peering down in concern. Tears spilled down your cheeks. "Why are you crying?" he asked, sounding truly surprised as he rubbed them away with his thumbs.

Words tumbled from your mouth—he was going to hear them either way, whether you kept them as thoughts or said them aloud. "I'm so confused," you sobbed, gasping for breath as you cried harder. "You're confusing me. You're an amazing manipulator," you spat bitterly. "I don't know what to think," you gestured blindly, tears clouding your vision. "I—I'm. I'm scared," you whispered, bearing your soul to him. You felt stupid, which only added to your tears of frustration.

He pressed you close, letting you cry pathetically in his arms. He ran his fingers through your hair and patted your head. "Shhh," he murmured, planting a kiss on the top of your head. "You don't have to be confused. See, this is the thing about submitting: there's nothing you can do wrong. None of the decisions lie with you, so there's nothing you can do wrong." He stroked up your arm with one hand, the other dipping under your chin to bring your eyes to his. "Give me the responsibility," he said softly, "and you don't have to be confused."

"Stop," you sputtered, one hand pushing against his chest. "Stop it. You're fucking with my head."

Is it working? The snarky comment you had made to him last night rang out in your mind. You gasped, glaring up at him accusingly.

"Did you just. Did you just say something in my head?"

"Maybe it was you," he purred ambiguously.

You pushed against his chest. "Stop fucking with my head!" you screamed at him, tears streaking down your cheeks again. You backed away into the wall, but he closed the gap between you again, water reaching him for the first time. He brushed his hair out of his face as the stream cascaded down his body.

"Shhh shhh shhh," he comforted, embracing you. "Come now, relax. Let's finish our shower."

"Don't say 'our'," you spat. "I'm not doing anything willingly."

He smiled. "Of course you aren't," he patronized, as though you were lying to yourself. "You're my slave."

You jerked out of his grasp. You breathed heavily up at him, unable to tell if he was mocking or serious. His face betrayed no answer; you had a sinking feeling it was both.

"You're sick," you hissed.

"That's not very nice," he murmured disapprovingly, rubbing soap down your legs now. He washed it away, and his hands began to spread your thighs.

"Don't," you choked. "I thought you said you weren't going to—"

"I'm not," he cut across you, not moving his hands. "Just washing you."

"Don't," you breathed. "I don't want you to. Not there."

He paused for a moment, then pulled away, an unreadable expression on his face. "Fine," he said simply. It was his turn to cross his arms, and he leaned against the side of the shower. "You do it, then."

"You're sick," you repeated, embarrassment washing over your features.

"Nothing I haven't already seen." He waited. "Don't be ashamed of your body," he breathed in that same seductive tone he had used at the beginning of the shower.

You glared at him as you washed yourself, at least grateful that his eyes never left yours to wander.

"There you go," he murmured when you were done. "My turn," he said simply as he lifted you and stepped into the stream of water himself. He pressed two bottles into your hands and waited expectantly.

"You're joking," you breathed. "You're mental. I'm not touching you."

"Fair is fair," he said, raising an eyebrow and gesturing at the bottles.

"Don't talk to me about fairness!"

Your voice rang out, reverberating through the refresher, sounding much louder than intended. He waited patiently; you were shocked he hadn't slapped you by now.

"Are you quite finished?" he asked coolly.

Again you felt like a child—a child getting scolded by a parent for throwing a tantrum.

You are a child, your mind repeated his words from earlier. You set your jaw, swallowing down the bile that rose in your throat.

He sighed. "I'd like to have dinner eventually. So, a small trade: you reciprocate like a good girl, and I'll let you wear something warm while we eat."

Your nostrils flared. "You're cruel."

"Trading something you want for something I want is 'cruel'?" He raised an eyebrow. "I can think of crueler things."

"I don't doubt it," you said under your breath, squeezing shampoo into your palm. He smirked and came closer.

"Good girl," he said patronizingly.

"Shut up," you groaned, hands reaching up to lather his hair. He pressed two fingers against your lips.

He made a low sound in his throat. "Open your mouth."

You tensed immediately, the memories of last night shooting back to you.

"I won't go that deep," he said, sensing your panic. "But you don't get to talk to me that way."

He sounded so calm and self-assured. It wasn't worth fighting. You opened your mouth as you worked the shampoo out of his hair, and he slipped his fingers into your mouth. It was hard to focus on washing him as he played with your tongue, rubbing his fingers back and forth on it as you sucked them obediently. You could see his cock rising in your periphery as you finished with his hair.

He seemed to sense you were unsure about what to do now. He grasped your hands, dragging them down to his chest; you made small soapy circles like he had done on your back, and he moaned in approval. He dropped his other hand to his cock, shoving his fingers a bit deeper in your mouth when you started to object.

He stroked himself firmly, eyes glued to your mouth, his eyelashes fluttering a little as you washed his chest off. Obscene noises came from below, the wet sound of him beating himself off echoing through the shower.

"Where do you want me to cum?" he breathed heavily, fisting his cock hard.

"Not on me!"

"Pick or I will," he growled.

"Uhh, stomach," you sputtered, and he stepped closer, his cock already level with your stomach due to his height. He continued breathing heavily as he pumped his cock a few more times, fingers working gruffly in and out of your mouth. Grunting his release, he came a smattering of strips across your stomach.

Forcing his fingers out of your mouth with your tongue, you pressed into the water and washed his cum off you before he could stop you.

"'I'm not going to do anything'," you repeated hollowly.

"Did I penetrate you? No. I could have." He grunted at you. He was losing his patience. "And you need to remember your manners. You haven't been addressing me properly, for one."

You looked down: playtime was clearly over.