He ignored your crying as he dressed, releasing your restraints when his helmet was secured. Hooking his arm under your knees, he held you to his chest. This time, you didn't resist; you curled into the warmth, pressing the palm of a hand against him.
Soon you felt stares burning into you—apparently the sight of Kylo Ren bridal carrying a girl down the hallways was rare. The feeling faded as you neared his quarters, blaster door sliding aside for him. He set you down on his bed.
Returning to your side a moment later, he handed you your food.
"We haven't been gone long."
You turned up your nose, laying back in bed. A tear rolled from the corner of your eye down to your ear; you shook your head.
"Not optional," he said, climbing in the other side with his own. "Eat it."
Pushing yourself up with your good hand, you leaned against the headboard. Your head slumped back as you stabbed some pasta with your fork.
He sighed. "You'll like it, some day," he murmured, fingers tracing the skin around the insignia. "You're part of something now. The First Order can offer you safety."
As comforting as he may have thought them, his words did nothing to stop your tears. He raised his thumbs, wiping them away, just as he'd done while you were getting tattooed.
"Shhh," he whispered, pulling your head into his chest. He set his food aside; you could feel his gaze watching as your hands clutched around your own bowl, knuckles going white. His fingers pried them away.
"Tell me about your day," you echoed brokenly.
He sighed heavily, running his fingertips through your hair. "Finish eating," was all he said. waiting for you to obey. You raised your fork to your mouth, a rogue tear slipping down your cheek. When he was satisfied that you were going to eat, he picked up his own meal. You ate in relative silence, the only sound the thrumming of his heart.
He took your bowl when you finished, lifting himself up and striding into the kitchen. "Lay down," he called back to you before rounding the corner. You heard the soft clinking of glasses, followed by running water. You tried to imagine it; the Commander of the First Order doing dishes. It seemed absurd—but then, so did everything. You sighed and slipped down the headboard and pulled the covers up, as though they could protect you.
You opened your eyes slightly when you felt him peering down at you.
"Would you like something sweet?" he asked; your eyes hovered over the glass of wine he held in his hand. You wanted nothing more than to get drunk and pass out; it seemed like a sweet relief.
"Not that," he said, having noticed your gaze. Disappointment flowed through you. Instead, he held out a dish of berries—grappaberries. They were native to Chandrila: a snack from home. His home. You took them, hands dwarfed by his much larger ones as you took the bowl.
"Why can't I have that," you asked quietly, nodding towards his glass. You popped a berry into your mouth, trying to ignore his gesture entirely.
"Because you're a child," he answered almost haughtily before bringing it to his own lips again.
"Only when it suits you."
The color that flashed across his face told you your words had hit their target. He looked away for a moment, swallowing hard.
"I want some," you dared to say; the tattoos had—somehow—emboldened you. They had, inadvertently, proven to you that you weren't as expendable as he liked to imply.
"I don't care what you want," he spat back bitterly. You could tell you'd hit a nerve. You smirked to yourself, choosing another berry with caricature difficulty.
"That's a lie, isn't it? Master," you emphasized with a sickly sweetness.
Dark brown eyes flicked to yours, daring you to say another word. His thumb brushed over your lower lip, dragging it down.
"That mouth," he breathed, visibly struggling to restrain his anger—or maybe it was frustration—"is going to get you into trouble."
You smiled and closed your lips around his thumb before he could pull away; you, too, issued a dare with your eyes. He had opened his mouth to say something—you assumed it wasn't good, given the look on his face—but you raised your arm, palming him through his pants.
You didn't know someone could set a drink down so fast. One hand closed around your right wrist, the other grasping your left forearm to avoid the healing tattoo. His body hovered above yours before long, shoving you down into the mattress.
"Do you want to get pounded out? Is that it?" He seemed to grip you tighter; it wasn't lust so much as anger. He seemed to force your gaze to match him, searching deep for something—it hurt this time, something sharp tearing into your mind. You wriggled in his grasp, though he held you down. "Ah," his voice said a moment later, low and deep and dangerously soft again. "You do."
He pulled away, sitting back on his heels where he straddled your legs. "Because it would make me easier to hate," he growled, reading verbatim from your mind.
You shivered—the look on his face told you you'd just earned your second punishment of the day. You'd dared to speak his secret out loud, provoked him because you knew you could. There would be a price.
"You think you're in control here?" he breathed; you shook your head furiously, but you knew it was too late.
His fingers popped the two remaining berries into his mouth, glaring down at you. A confusing expression met your eyes—there was definite rage in his, but something else, too; a kind of fire. A dangerous one.
"You think I care about you?" he asked, low and dangerous as before.
You stared, open-mouthed in panic, unsure how to answer him—but before you could, his mouth sealed over yours. He hooked an elbow behind your head, preventing you from pulling away, as he slipped his other hand between your legs. Three large fingers rubbed your clit—much more aggressive than you would've liked—as his tongue explored your mouth, exchanging his spit for yours.
That uncomfortable feeling of intimacy returned, stronger than ever, and now undeniable. You squirmed beneath him; it felt like a sick make-out session.
He pulled away slightly, face hovering a few inches from yours. A string of saliva connected you.
"You think I care about you?" he repeated, lips returning to yours a second later. It was a kiss—but it was hard and urgent, a fight for dominance. He was winning.
His fingers rubbed hard circles into your clit, making you moan into his mouth. He angled his hand differently a moment later, the pad of his thumb pushing into your clit as his fingers swirled around your entrance.
"Beg," he ordered, drawing back slightly.
You opened your mouth to form a 'please' but he denied you the chance, lips pressing hard onto yours.
'Pluhhh' was the only plea you managed to make, unable to form proper words with his tongue dominating yours. He ignored the sounds escaping your lips, fingers trailing back up to your clit; he rubbed hard again, making you press your hips against him.
The tug of war continued this way as the minutes ticked by. When he broke the seal of his mouth on yours, he barely let you breathe before resuming. You started to feel light-headed, started to stop resisting his hand, which was slick with your juices now. Thick fingers rubbed between your folds, teasing the entrance of your pussy, though he never dipped one in.
A small bead of sweat rolled down your forehead, clit burning for him. You ached to be filled; he continued to deny you, drowning out your pleas and protests.
When a thumb clamped down on the artery in your neck and squeezed, he bent to whisper in your ear. "Do you want to cum?" he asked, brushing his lips against you.
You nodded desperately—submissively, even—and he smiled. He pulled both hands away, drawing up to lean over you. The hand that had been rubbing your clit smacked your cunt—hard.
You jumped, and he crawled up your body. "Too bad," he murmured, unzipping his pants.
His hard cock sprang forward, precum dripping from his foreskin. He pulled it back and began stroking himself a moment later, the head of his cock red and angry from the lack of attention. Breathy groans came from overhead, his eyes boring into yours.
You opened your mouth and strained to edge closer to him before a warm hand gripped your forehead, pushing you back into the pillows.
"Close your shit, that's not what this is," he panted, fist pumping his cock methodically. "You don't deserve to taste my cock."
You recoiled; he might as well have slapped your face. You stared back into his eyes until you felt something hot hit your cheek; squeezing your eyes shut, you heard him grunting overhead as his cum landed on your face in strips.
He got up after a moment, closing the door to the refresher. You laid there silently, staring at the ceiling; you could cry, but there was no point—you had played with fire and gotten burned.
His figure emerged after a few moments, warm washcloth in hand. He wiped his cum off and tossed it aside. Then he chugged the rest of his wine, eyes refusing to leave yours, and climbed into bed.
"Don't pick fights with me, little girl," a still-distinctly-threatening voice said. "You won't win."
He let tension hang in the air for a few more moments before lying down himself.
"I'll wake you up when your bandage needs to be changed," he said simply, lights turning themselves off—probably thanks to one of his telepathic commands. Psycho.
As silence fell, you couldn't help but roll on your side to look at him.
"Aren't you going to tell me the answer?" you asked quietly.
His jaw tensed, and he seemed to shrug. He shook his head.
"I don't need to."