You could hear the embers of his blade crackling; every time he smashed the pillar of light into the wall, bright sparks lit up the room. Heat radiated from the damage, a piece of sheet metal sliding down and off the wall. You could see where one of the panels deformed under the heat, bending and misshapen. It was just as broken as you were; a small part of you wished he would turn the blade on you.
He sliced the wall a few more times before he started heaving from the exertion. Just as suddenly as he had ignited it, the beam of red light disappeared. You heard him zip his pants again, clicking the saber to his side. He stood still for a few more moments, back to you. Then he strode across the room, picking up the remaining items of his clothing from the floor. You watched him pull one over his head, then the other; watching him dress to leave. Even as the scent of burning metal irritated your nose, a pang of loneliness hit your stomach. He was leaving.
You didn't need to be told to get out of bed. He clicked his helmet into place as your feet touched the cool ground. A shiver ran down your body; you wrapped your arms around yourself, standing awkwardly by the side of the bed. He looked at you, and you looked at him, and you realized something: you didn't know him. You didn't know the man in the visor, in those robes. Just because you'd tasted his cum or spit or could name a meal he liked—that didn't mean anything. That wasn't a connection; anyone could have that. Really knowing someone was something else. It was a completely different thing.
You followed the heavy footsteps with your eyes as they moved across the floor and exited his quarters.
Relief flooded through you when he left. It felt like the time you'd injured yourself on the factory floor and got pumped with pain meds; it burned going into your veins and you could almost feel it traveling through you.
You shivered again, awareness seeping back into your brain. You gulped once, glancing back at the damage he'd done to the wall. Another panel hung by a thread, dangling on a diagonal from its rightful spot. That's what he's going to do to you. Break you and leave you hanging on by a thread.
Sighing, your eyes flicked to the mirror. Your feet carried you to it slowly; you raised a hand to your face, the girl in the mirror doing the same. There were purple splotches on your neck, a light bite mark visible above your collar bone. You traced your fingers over it; she did, too. The girl's hair was tussled, face flushed and slightly red on one side from where he'd slapped her.
He was right: you looked like a whore.
It was too much; you turned away, refusing to cry again. You closed your eyes and sighed heavily, trying to focus enough to clear your mind. No relief came until a bold idea hit you. You turned and walked around the divider wall into the kitchen area. Heart pumping in your chest, you glanced around frenetically. Where did he keep it? You'd seen him come in here to pour a glass before.
Ah. There.
Your eyes found the bottles of liquor, stacked neatly on a small countertop rack in the corner. Your body seemed to go on autopilot, nearing the rack slowly. You knew you weren't allowed; but did you care? One hand reached out slowly, fingers wrapping around the neck of a bottle. You paused for a moment, forcing yourself to swallow.
You aren't allowed. You aren't allowed. Stop.
You narrowed your eyes at the obedient voices and pulled the bottle out decisively. The label seemed to glare up at you, somehow sensing you were unworthy. It looked expensive. Quality. Good.
Your hands scrambled to open drawers, racing against time to find a bottle opener before you talked yourself out of this. Finally, on your fifth try, you found it. The silver glimmer of the device seemed to call to you, tempting you to commit a sin. You snatched it up, driving it into the cork without a second thought. A few quick twists and it was loose enough to pull out of the bottleneck—pop.
The distinct smell of alcohol hit you, fruity notes filling the air. You pressed your nose closer to the bottle and sniffed curiously. Back in the city, ales were king; wine was for the rich. But then, he was the rich, wasn't he? You sneered as you picked the bottle up, carrying it into the main area with you.
The cool air hit your naked frame again; you grit your teeth. You didn't want to put the sweater back on—it smelled like him now. You smelled like him, his sweat drying on your skin. If you spread your legs, you were sure you would smell maleness; you gagged once, shoving the thought out of your head. Snatching up the sweater, you pulled it on—only until you took a shower, you assured yourself.
Your knees swayed beneath you once as you took a swig of the alcohol; there wasn't time enough for it to have taken effect, but just the act made you feel unstable. Bad; rebellious. You lowered yourself to sit at the end of the bed, much like you used to when he'd tied you there. You grimaced, ashamed of your contradictions—willing to defy him to drink, but too uncomfortable climbing into bed without permission.
You took another bitter swig of wine, trying to silence your conflict. A familiar wall stared back at you, every bolt where you'd left it before. It felt nice, something familiar. You only wished it didn't have to be in this place; it bothered you that anything here felt comforting. You started counting the bolts again, raising the bottle to your lips. You chugged, forcing the liquid down your throat, desperate to quiet the shame and fear and uncertainty—everything.
The seventeenth rivet stared back at you as you slowly lowered the bottle, coming up for air. It was still half full, but you could feel its affects already; you had barely touched alcohol before and you were much smaller than him. Kylo, your mind supplied, breaking another rule. You'd already had double what you'd seen him have with a meal.
Good. You took another drink.
You grumbled to yourself, eyes flicking to the bear he'd given you. You wondered—drunkenly—what he was playing at. Gentle one moment, rough the next. Caring, then brutal. You're doing a pretty shit job of piecing it together.
And then there were the bits and pieces he'd shared about his life: the injury, an old hobby, and something else. What had he said about the droid? You strained to remember, swallowing another sip. He'd forced you to tell him what you knew about galactic history—and he'd gotten especially angry at the end of your spiel. But what had you said? You thrummed your fingers on the hard floor besides you.
Mhm, right. Luke Skywalker and Leia Organa. The names came to you slowly through the thick haze of your drunkenness.
"Why?" you asked out loud to no one. Why had he been so upset? You'd seen rage in his eyes at the mention of Luke, and something different when you'd mentioned Leia. Anger, maybe, but there was something more. Something deeper, rawer. He'd almost looked pained in the moment.
But why? His emotions seemed disproportionate for a mere politician—even if they had been directed at most hated Senator. Organa was far from it.
Your lip twitched; a distant voice in your mind was screaming something at you—something you'd forgotten. Something relevant. A missing piece of the puzzle. But the fog of the alcohol made it impossible for you to fully form the thought. Frustration coursed through you; you'd meant to dull your thoughts, but this was important. You could feel it. Anger built within you, growing fiery and hot within your ribcage. You trained your eyes on the little sculpture you used to glare at when bored, tied to his bed. Fucking idiot you seethed. You're going to get punished and miss out on whatever your subconscious was trying to tell you. Goddammit, this was just like yo—
You froze. You would've sworn you just saw the sculpture move an inch across the table.
Queasiness hit you a moment later. Shit.
You shoved yourself up and ran to the refresher, kneeling at the toilet just in time. You shoved your hair back in vain, vomiting the contents of your stomach into the bowl. Cursing yourself, you rested your tired head on the seat, gagging up more alcohol until dry heaves were all you were left with. You managed to sit up after a few moments; you wiped a tear from your cheek and poured the rest of the bottle into the bowl. Then you reached up and hit the handle, wishing you could flush yourself away, too.
Fuck. You always make things worse.
You pushed yourself up on shaky knees, clutching the counter for support. Your reflection stared back at you; even more disheveled, still suggesting sex. Wincing, you touched the largest purple bruise. At least the outline of his teeth was fading.
Your eyes flicked down, refusing to look at yourself any longer. Turning, you reached hesitantly into the shower, turning one of the knobs. Water sprayed out of the showerhead above you, warm and inviting. You grabbed the bar of the door tight, stepping into the shower with one leg, then the other. You stood still for a few moments, making sure you weren't going to fall; then you slid the door shut behind you.
The water wasn't quite hot enough, but you didn't want to turn to adjust it—you felt too unstable on your feet. Instead, you stood still, letting the water hit you. It felt cleansing in more ways than one, washing away the grime and your mistakes. You ran your hands down to your breasts, palming at the dried spit that remained there until it rubbed off. Closing your eyes, you sniffled once and spread your legs; you tried not to think about him as you washed away his sweat—his precum. Resentment grew within you, both directed at him and yourself: you washed away the remnants of your own arousal, too.
You'd already betrayed yourself. You knew it.
His words echoed in your head. Poor girl.
When he held you, you'd been so quick to accept it—you'd believe any narrative he fed you in bed, because you wanted to. You wanted to enjoy it. You were desperate for company, for companionship, and now he was enough.
You growled low in your throat at the thought, scrubbing your skin roughly without noticing. The patch grew red and sore; you looked down, wincing once before moving on. You palmed some shampoo and conditioner through your hair, grateful at least to be clean again.
As the water poured over your body, you wondered vaguely when he would be back. There wasn't a clock in his quarters; there was no way of telling time. You usually judged it by his schedule—it was morning when he rolled out of bed, got dressed, and left. Evening when he came back to eat with you, or otherwise make your life harder than it needed to be. You scowled. But today, his schedule had been different; you weren't sure what time it was now, or how long he'd be gone, or what he was doing. What is he doing?
You shoved the thought out of your mind with brutal force. It doesn't matter! He doesn't matter.
He. Doesn't. Matter.
You stepped out of the shower when you were done, reaching for the soft, fluffy towel that hung on an adjacent rack. You wrapped it around your body eagerly, reveling in how it stuck to your curves. It caressed you just right—not rough or possessive. If you closed your eyes and imagined hard enough, you were sure you could imagine this was the touch of someone you liked.
Your cheeks glowed red when you finished the thought; you felt foolish. The same foolish girl stared back at you.
Young and naïve. You don't know anything about me.
You huffed, sobering up now—vomiting had, at least, helped with that. You walked out of the refresher and into the main quarters. You had to get rid of this bottle before he came ba—
Your feet froze in place then, the rest of you catching up a second later. You stumbled a little, fighting to retain your composure. The man rose from the couch, tall and threatening. He had his mask on, but you didn't need to see his face; you knew where his eyes were looking.
Your fingers closed tighter around the empty bottle.