Heavy boots crunched the ground beneath you as you walked, screams echoing through your ears as the fire blazed. You could feel its heat as two stormtroopers approached, shoving a family to their knees in front of you. The faceless figures begged for their lives; you raised an arm, slicing through the air and ending them with a quick stroke of red. Everything went black; soon you could smell only the scent of burning flesh permeating the air. Smoke choked your breath from you, and a feeling of dread swelled in your chest. You dropped to your knees, a tall figure rising above you, stealing the last of your breath as you writhed on the ground in pain…
You woke with a start, gasping for breath. You pushed yourself up on your hands as slowly as you could manage, not wanting to wake the still-sleeping man next to you. Panicked thoughts pounded through your head, and you fought to catch your breath.
Those weren't your boots, wasn't your stride length; that wasn't your body writhing on the ground.
It was his.
Terror coursed through your veins; how could you be having such vivid dreams through his eyes? Something wasn't right, something was really wrong…
Brown eyes met yours; he had pushed himself up in bed, woken up by your strong emotions. Shit. You forgot he could sense them.
You gulped the panic down and forced yourself to swallow, catching your breath.
"Bad dream," you muttered stupidly
You did your best to focus on the feelings of confusion and terror, shoving the images you had seen out of your mind: you didn't want him to know you had seen his dreams. He stared for a long moment, seemingly searching your eyes for something. Then he simply nodded and wiped a bead of sweat from his own brow, lying back down in bed.
"Go back to sleep," he ordered, a vague hint of annoyance in his voice. He acted like you had interrupted something—like he was a parent whose sleep had been interrupted by a child's nightmare.
You obeyed quickly, wishing you could sink into the sheets and become invisible. You forced yourself to think vague, vapid thoughts—the kind you might if truly trying to sleep. Slowly, you heard his breathing return to a shallow state behind you, and you breathed a small breath of relief.
You shifted slightly in bed, bringing your knees to your chest. Careful not to rouse your emotions too much, you pondered over what had happened; could you have sensed his thoughts, like he could sense yours? When you had woken up, you were still cuddled up against him—maybe the touch had something to do with it. Maybe he had been reading your mind when he fell asleep, and it had left a door to his own mind open. You didn't know, and as you laid your head down to fall asleep, you hoped you wouldn't have to find out.
When you awoke, it was to gloved hands lifting you out of bed. He had already dressed, standing before you in full garb sans helmet. He set you down on the floor and scowled at your look of protest.
"Little slaves don't belong in their masters' beds," he said as though you should have already known.
Slaves.
You shot him a small look of insubordination. He rose to his full height, looking down at you, slight annoyance etched across his face again.
"Be good," he reprimanded, moving towards the door. "Order food if you want it." He gestured to the datapad that rested on the nightstand. His helmet flew into his outstretched hand; he pulled it on and left, leaving you in silence.
You jumped when the blaster door slammed shut. Dammit. You did want food; going on a hunger strike wasn't going to achieve anything—he'd already proven so. Standing on shaky legs, you were at least grateful he hadn't tied you to his bed again. You walked over to the stand, picking up the pad; your thumb brushed the 'on' switch on its side, and it sprang to life.
It seemed to somehow know you weren't Kylo Ren—the main features remained locked, the food option the only one that wasn't greyed out. You tapped it hesitantly, almost incredulously, and a list of options filled the screen.
Holy. Shit.
You weren't sure you had ever even thought about this many foods, let alone been able to choose from them. Your mouth watered, and excitement bubbled up in your stomach—but just as quickly, it died. Your hand faltered, and you considered setting the pad down: this was all because of him. Because of his wealth. And you knew where that wealth came from—nowhere good.
Your stomach growled in time with your moral dilemma. Cursing it, you brought the pad back to your face again, biting down on a nail. You thumbed through the options, noting that the pad would let you add multiple dishes to your order; you wondered briefly if you could really have whatever you wanted, or if the system would stop you from ordering too many things, or if—
Stop over-thinking.
His voice seemed to cut across your thoughts, and you flinched. Suddenly, you understood; if you weren't allowed multiple dishes, it would've stopped you already. He would've stopped you, just like he set rules and limits for you everywhere else. Your face grew hot, and anger shot through you—you were being forced to live in a pretty little box of his construction; the only freedoms you had were freedoms he allowed.
Another growl of your stomach ended your existential crisis, and you added a few options to your order list. Scrambled eggs. Sausage. Sides of greens and fruit. There were fancier options, too; some of them contained all these things and more—you wondered vaguely if you should get a sausage, cheese, and spinach omelet instead. There were other things, too, some bearing names you didn't even understand. Crepes. Eggs Benedict. Something called 'Hollandaise sauce', which you had the option to add or remove.
Tears crept into your eyes. You were disgusted at being kept like a pet, but you felt even greater disgust that some small part of you felt that you weren't good enough for him.
You bitterly wiped a tear from your face and chose something called a 'full breakfast'—it seemed to contain most of the things you wanted, and it stopped you from crying over fucking breakfast meats.
Setting the pad down, you brought your hands to your face, running them through your hair quickly. You sighed, resolving to simply stop thinking for a moment: perhaps his advice wasn't meant to keep you docile, but sane.
You're giving him too much credit.
You sighed heavily again, and walked to the refresher to wash your face.
Your food was delivered by a droid and a stormtrooper, the latter of which kept a blaster trained on you as you took the food; it appeared Ren had told someone you would be alone.
You ate in silence, trying not to enjoy the food too much. You were hungry, though; he had been feeding you, but only off his own plate. It had been days since you'd had a proper meal, and you suspected this was probably intentional. You were already less feisty, more accepting of your place here.
For a long time after you had finished, you stared at the plate. You hated to admit it was good—that you had liked something he had allowed you. You pushed the last remnants of the food with your fork, wondering vaguely why he'd allowed you silverware this time—even a knife, albeit a dull one. You were annoyed he seemed to deem you no longer a threat to yourself; but even as you anger rose within you at the thought, you didn't raise either utensil to hurt yourself.
No; more than anything, you were annoyed that he was right.
When you finally pushed yourself up from the table, you swept up your dishes and took them to the sink; you didn't want to earn a punishment for leaving a mess. In fact, you didn't want to earn any punishments—you wondered if you could earn rewards instead. Maybe if you went out of your way to be good, you could bargain for clothes.
The corner of your mouth twitched as you thought, fingers brushing the dusty counters. You had nothing to do; it wouldn't kill you to do something that would please you both, would it? The rational part of your mind screamed at you as you ran the dish towel once over the counter. A light smattering of dust and dirt stuck to it, and you sighed; it was unlikely he had ever used this kitchen, but maybe you could. Maybe, if you were good, he'd let you have hobbies, a life of your own tucked away in his rooms.
So now you want to be a housewife.
You shoved the too-logical voice out of your head, humming to yourself and setting to work cleaning the counters. You'd had to do this in the brothel, too; it was an escape for you then, just as it was now. Making things clean made you feel happier—just being in a nicer environment brought you a strange sense of relief. You explored his quarters with curiosity, flitting carefully through a stack of papers next to a chair, reading the labels of the soaps and shampoos. Little reminders that he, too, was human littered the room; in a strange way, they made you feel better. As the hours passed, you almost started to miss him.
You made his bed, careful not to climb onto it—WHY ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO HIM—and hopped into the shower. You felt almost happy as the hot water hit you, palming shampoo and conditioner through your hair slowly, taking your time. Stretching out, you washed every inch of your body, finally feeling clean for the first time in a while. Towels waited on their hangers for you, and you wrapped a too-large one around your body after a vain attempt at drying your hair.
Strolling out into the main living area, you were running your fingers through your hair to straighten it when you heard it—the blaster door code being punched in. Something in your stomach twisted, and suddenly your body felt heavy. You sank to your knees where you were in front of his bed, your own disapproving voice growing louder in your mind.
You felt his eyes on you as soon as he entered; heavy footsteps barely slowing as he walked past.
"Quite the change in attitude," a cold, mechanical voice said. You flinched; his natural voice was deep, but far warmer—more human. His masked voice sounded nothing similar; you shivered, suddenly feeling naked and stupid. A sigh of relief escaped your lips at the noise of the latches coming undone. Then the same heavy footsteps walked into view, and two gloved fingers lifted your chin.
Your eyes met soft brown ones, and your heart skipped a beat. You always expected something different; someone meaner looking, someone with a cruel expression. But instead, you were met only with the face of a young man—a face you probably would've flirted with in the city.
"Relax," he commanded. For some reason, you listened, sinking a little lower onto your heels. "Eyes on me."
One gloved hand dipped to the front of your chest, where it pulled the towel off you. You shivered at the cold, feeling his eyes on the front of your body now. His lips seemed to go slack for a moment before he swallowed, eyes returning to yours.
"Open your knees," he murmured. His voice was softer now: it was a command, but a gentle one, like he was helping you. Your vision swam a little and you obeyed, spreading your knees apart. Cool air hit your pussy, and you shivered again.
He forced himself to swallow, setting his jaw, doing his best to ignore the soft pink lips peeking out from between her legs.
"Hands behind your back," his voice came again, and you found yourself moving to do as he said. "Grasp your left wrist with your right hand."
You did, and he stared at you for a long moment. A hungry expression flitted across his face, and there was something else there, too—something more tender. Admiration, maybe.
It was gone a moment later, and he seemed to straighten his back.
"You can greet me like that," was all he said before turning and walking away.
A wave of disappointment rolled over you; you blinked, shoving it back resentfully.
"Come here," his voice came to you a moment later. He had seated himself at the table, datapad in hand. He was patting a thigh.
You rose quickly before he could demand something truly terrifying—like you crawl to him—and knelt back down where he indicated, between his legs. You rested your head on his inner thigh where his hand had been, and you were rewarded with a soft sigh from above you.
"I have reading to do," he murmured, a now-ungloved hand petting your hair. "You should rest."
You blinked a few times, trying to get comfortable with what was objectively a humiliating position. But, somehow—worst of all—it managed to feel almost caring to you, the way he had you nestled between his legs while he worked. Even if you were on your knees, it felt like there was a silent understanding between you; maybe even a kind of mutual trust.
A shiver interrupted your train of thought, and you saw the datapad move aside in your periphery.
You blinked up at him once before making your plea.
"I'm cold," you stated, trying to keep the whine out of your voice.
He paused for a moment. Then he leaned forward, undoing the clasp of his cowl, and swept it and its cape around the chair to drape around you. He fastened it around your neck instead, and went back to reading.
You shivered again—this time from the gesture—pulling the thick fabric around you. It smelled like him, a bitter voice in your head objecting as you almost nuzzled the fabric. You aren't supposed to like this.
But you did, and soon your eyelids fell heavy, lulling you to sleep.