You awoke to soft breathing by your side. Stretching out, you moaned softly as the silky sheets rubbed against your skin. His bed felt so good; for once, you were warm. But all at once you froze, the memories of the night before flooding back to you. Shame covered your skin in hot pinpricks, tears forming in your eyes. You'd let him own you: liked it, even. In turn, he'd been gentler: stroking your hair, holding you close. It wasn't an image of him that you wanted—you wanted to think of him as nothing but evil and cruel. He was easier to hate that way.
You sat up slowly, not wanting to wake him. He continued breathing softly beside you; he was laying on his back now, eyes closed, peaceful. Your eyes flicked around the room as they watered, searching for his lightsaber. You could turn it on yourself and ignite it quickly; end these feelings, end your confusion.
There. It rested on the nightstand beside him. Pushing yourself up to your knees slowly, you leaned over him, extending your arm to grab hold of it—
Two strong hands grasped your waist and threw you to the ground, hard. The back of your head hit the floor, stars spinning before your eyes. You sputtered, the wind knocked out of you. Gasping for breath, you turned on your side as the figure bent over you. Rough hands seized the hem of his sweater, pulling it gruffly up your body and off you. He tossed it across the room. You shivered, cool air hitting your naked body.
"Being in my bed is a privilege," he sneered. "You don't deserve it."
You continued breathing hard, not daring to look at him. He said nothing, holding his weapon in his hand.
"You—" you coughed. "You assume—wrongly—that I wanted to kill you."
He paused. You took the opportunity, pushing yourself up hard to grab at the lightsaber—
You were immobilized just as quickly, only the tips of your fingers touching the weapon. He sat on the edge of the bed where you now knelt, pushing your frozen arm down to your side. His eyes bored into you, empty, as he ignited his lightsaber over your shoulder. Heat crackled through the air, the unstable beam singing you ever so slightly.
"Is this what you wanted?" he asked quietly, voice hollow.
You could say nothing, only look up at him with pleading eyes—pleading with him to end you. He hesitated for a moment, then turned it off, tossing the weapon aside.
"Too bad," he breathed, a clear hint of resentment in his voice.
He stood, walking out of view; you collapsed to the floor, no longer held in place by the force. You gasped for breath again and started to cry bitterly.
"How long until I die?" you asked.
No answer.
"I can't live like this!" you screamed, voice cracking as you palmed the ground.
"You have to." He replied, voice low and tinged with an uncaring tone. "It's the only choice you have."
"I won't," you breathed hysterically, tears blinding your vision. "I'll kill myself. I'll find a way."
Heavy footsteps approached you. He wore boots now; he had been dressing. A hand closed around your upper arm, and he dragged you—kicking and screaming—to the end of his bed. Chains flew into his outstretched hand from under it, and he cuffed your wrists together quickly. You fumed up at him, pulling against your chains with all your might. But they wouldn't budge, and with a sigh he cuffed your ankles together, too. He stooped level with your face, admiring his work.
"You'll do no such thing," he breathed lightly. And then, to your horror, he planted a soft kiss on your cheek. You glared up at him, packing as much hatred as you could into the look—but he had already straightened up and turned away.
You pulled against your restraints hard, bitter tears streaming down your cheeks. Maybe if you pulled hard enough, you could at least manage to hurt yourself. You shouted obscenities at him, praying to rile him up enough that perhaps he'd do it for you. But no response came; he continued dressing in silence. All at once, you felt like the child he had called you. He made you feel like an unruly toddler throwing a temper tantrum for not getting what she wanted—he, the patient parent waiting for the bad behavior to end.
'Are you quite finished', his words from before echoed in your head.
Your chest rose and fell, heart beating hard in your chest. You cursed it for beating at all, staring at the wall in front of you as though you could burn a hole into it—burn the whole room down, you inside it.
Another heavy footstep, and his helmet bored down into you. "I'll be back later," the mechanical voice said, the robed figure striding to the door. You were grateful for the small blessing; he was easy to despise like this—no brown eyes to contend with, no human voice to wrap around you. Like this, he was evil and inhuman: his presence cold and metal against your soul. Like it should be.
The figure turned just before the door. "Be a good girl," the mechanical voice chastised. Even through the static, his mocking tone was clear.
"I hope you die out there," you spat viciously.
A cold chuckle was the only response you received before the blaster door slammed shut behind him.
Silence fell in the room, and you spent the next hours pulling desperately against your restraints. You willed your wrists to shrink, tried to cram your fingers together and pull a hand out, even briefly considered trying to dislocate something. But it appeared nothing would work, and soon your rage exhausted you. Purple welts covered your wrists and ankles from the hard fighting.
You had had this problem when you first escaped into the jungle: the loneliness. It had been crushing and all-consuming; the abuse you'd suffered had at least grown familiar. Alone, you had to construct a new life for yourself, find ways to pass the time. You quickly learned to pick nuts and berries, and the small animals became your friends. But there were no little animals here to share your thoughts with. There was no chance of getting up and moving. Nothing to do but sit and think. So, naturally, you tried everything not to think. You had counted to the 154th Porg in your head when you drifted to sleep.
"You don't look very dead."
Jerking awake, you found yourself staring up into Kylo Ren's helmet. You rubbed your eyes, scowling up at him.
"Neither do you. How very disappointing." It was one of those things that just slipped out.
He pinched your cheeks together with one hand, stooping down to your eye level. His robes swung about his feet.
"Don't forget who's in charge here, little whore" the hollow vocoded voice warned.
You said nothing, staring as boldly as you could manage in the spot you knew his eyes would be. He held your jaw for a moment more, then straightened up again and stepped away.
You heard a soft hissing noise, followed by the clunk of heavy metal. He had taken off his helmet.
"Are you hungry?" His natural voice rung out somewhere to your right, soft and warm. If you hadn't watched him take his helmet off before, you would have sworn this was an entirely different person. You said nothing, closing your eyes instead. You wouldn't beg for food; he liked it when you begged—got off on it, even. He's a murderer. He doesn't deserve anything.
"Are you?" he prompted again, less patience in his voice now. The familiar ridges of his gloved hand stroked the side of your face; you turned it away quickly in disgust. He sighed, the sound of a few datapad selections following. He seemed to finish whatever he was doing—ordering food, you presumed—and kicked his boots off.
Silence fell again, and you let it hang heavy in the air. Perhaps if you ignored him—
"Do you need the refresher?" his words ended your train of thought.
He stood before you, fully clothed but for his boots and cowl. It was still an intimidating sight. Embarrassment crept across your features; you looked away again, shaking your head.
He moved closer, stepping directly in front of you; fingers hooked under your chin, drawing your gaze to his.
"Don't lie to me," he murmured dangerously. "I won't ask again."
A tear played at the inner corner of your eye, and you gave a short nod.
"I want to hear you," he breathed, fingers playing at the edge of your restraints.
"Please don't make me beg you for the refresher," you whispered brokenly, a small plea in your voice.
He sighed, drawing up to his full height.
"You'll beg for everything in time." This deep voice sounded so confident, so sure. It wasn't a request, or even an order. He was just telling you.
Despair sank into you for a fleeting second, but then the restraints opened and dropped away. He hooked his arms under yours, grasping around your waist with one. Carrying you into the refresher, he set you down lightly in front of the toilet. Then, to your horror, he stayed where he was.
"Do I have no privacy?" you asked hotly, face flushing again in embarrassment.
"None," he murmured softly, a mocking edge in his voice. He leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching you.
"You're disgusting," you breathed, sitting down on the toilet and glaring at the wall across from him.
The tear that had been blurring your vision slid down your cheek as you swallowed your pride. You could feel his gaze steady on you as you used the toilet in front of him—at least he was staring at your face, you thought to yourself. He helped you up when you were done, legs wobbly and sore from being pressed to your chest all day. You washed your hands, adjusting the water to be warmer, savoring the small bit of control over something.
"Where's my thanks?" his voice spoke, low and threatening.
You made a scoffing noise in your throat. "Get bent."
The irony stung when a moment later he grasped between your shoulders, forcing your upper half down to grasp the wastebasket on the floor. His glove dropped to the floor next to you.
"What did you say to me?" he growled, palming your ass with his bare hand.
You pressed your lips together, refusing to answer.
He brought a hard smack down on your ass, the fleshy noise echoing through the tiled room. You yelped, and you heard a low noise behind you—a groan, perhaps.
"What. Did. You. Say. To. Me?" he repeated, voice calm but measured, shoving emphasis into each word. You forced yourself to swallow, closing your eyes for the next blow.
It came quickly when it became apparent you still refused to answer.
One hand gathered up your hair, and he twisted it once, pulling your head back slightly. You felt his breath against your ear, hand caressing your ass threateningly.
"Answer me, right now, or I swear to you I will leave your ass redder than you thought possible." His breathing slightly labored, and you didn't doubt him. This excited him; he would be happy to do it.
You gulped. "I told you to 'get bent'," you breathed hesitantly.
He waited, pulling harder at your hair.
"Sir," you added quickly. He relaxed his grip a tiny bit, hand rubbing over your ass and squeezing each cheek.
"Do you think it's acceptable to speak to me that way?" He slapped each cheek lightly as he spoke—a threat of something greater to come, should you not cooperate.
"No," you breathed, barely a whisper.
He slapped your ass harshly again.
"You know better by now. No, what?" his voice was in your ear, hungry and demanding.
"No, Master. It's not acceptable to speak to you that way," you whimpered as he forced your back into an arch, hand still caressing your ass dangerously.
He paused for a moment, then released your hair, letting you stand. You had made it mostly across the threshold when he stopped you, pressing you up against the door frame. He flipped you around to face him.
"One more thing," he said breathily, eyes meeting yours. Amusement danced on his features—and there was something else. A hungry look. "Is your fucking pussy wet for me right now?"
You glared at him, nostrils flaring, your frustration boiling up in you. You looked away, boring a hole in the wall with your eyes.
"Tell me," he whispered in your ear, nipping it gently. You jumped slightly, and shivered, but he held you in place, hands caressing down your sides to your hips. He waited a second longer, then dipped a hand between your legs. A thick finger slid between your folds as he cupped you, brushing against your clit and moving to tease your entrance.
"Ah," he whispered to you, voice velvet and seductive. "It is."
You closed your eyes in shame as he played with you, fingers forcing a radiating pleasure through your body.
"You're a submissive little girl," he breathed heavily into your ear. "Lucky for you, I'm going to give you everything you want."
His touch forced a moan from you, and you knew he was smiling.
Bastard.