Kylo Ren believed in order and ritual, and removed his clothes in the same order, every time: gloves, helmet, cloak, belt. He was then free to draw his tunic over his head, then the fitted, long-sleeved black shirt. Boots, then pants.
Tonight though, he flung his gloves hard into a corner, kicked one boot off while it was still half-laced, undid his belt with one hand as he was tearing off his helmet the other. All those pieces went on the floor in an unceremonious trail behind him on his way to the mat where he sank to his knees in meditation pose, the chilly, recirculated air a welcome respite on his sweating back and chest. Mindless of his posture, he smoothed his shaking hands down his thighs several times and tried to rein in his breathing, shift it to his belly and out of his upper chest where it had been stubbornly stuck during the whole walk to his quarters from the detention block.
He failed miserably, thinking he had it several times over, only to discover he was merely holding hot lungfuls of air as he caught himself breathing shallowly out of his nose into the uppermost reaches of his chest. He scrubbed his open palms slowly on the cloth of his pants, forcing himself to take in the sensation of the cloth sliding beneath them, feeling the warmth radiating from his inner thigh muscles to his hands.
Again he had the sensation of simply drowning from being in her mind; it was inexplicable. Her memories felt like a pool where he could see the light above, but no matter how long he held his breath and swam towards it, he could never break the surface. Never before in years of probing subjects' minds had he encountered this sensation, and he was at a loss to know how to begin to process it. It both excited and frightened him; even the strange feeling he'd gotten in his low belly as they'd verbally sparred was foreign to him. He had wanted to keep needling her endlessly to feel her irritation and fear in return. The thought of her retorts was physically exciting to him.
Stop, he told himself, you know how to do this. Examine and internalize; discard nothing. Leave no stone unturned.
And so he did.
He saw her descend into countless ships, ones not unlike the Finalizer, in search of a new piece of precious scrap that would barely earn her enough portions to keep from feeling such hunger in the night in would rob her of sleep. He felt her frustration at her boss's capricious estimation of her finds, her eventual resignation tinged with an empty resolve to go harder and deeper the next day in search of something more obscure and priceless.
He saw her tiny home in the carcass of an AT-AT walker half-entombed in the shifting sands of Jakku, a ragtag collection of things she'd scavenged from ships and considered too dear to sell, and those she'd bartered for at Niima, some of which she'd gone hungry for. There were old Imperial maps of the galaxy covering a few of the walls, and a small stack of old paper encyclopedias pilfered from some ancient ship's library.
He saw too, as through her own eyes, the day she'd first thought she was dying, bleeding slowly to death with no one to help her or miss her when she was gone. There was a dry, rusty looking stain high on her inner thigh, but her fingers had come away wet with a dark red blood when she'd dared touch herself between her legs. It had lasted several days, one so bad she'd stayed home from scrapping to nestle in her pile of rags, but the hunger and the ache of looking at a strange wall covered in tiny hash marks had driven her back out the next. She began marking the days of the aberration on the opposite wall. After 3 days it had stopped, and she thanked the stars until it happened again some 29-odd hashes later. Three days of overlap in the hashes, then nothing. Then again. By the fourth time, she came to accept that she was not dying, and that it was the new normal. She learned to fashion a different undergarment of rags she didn't care about, which she buried each time in the dunes a few clicks away after the bleeding stopped.
This had been fewer years earlier than a hand's worth of digits.
He swallowed hard and clenched his eyes closed as he followed her through the stalls and alleys of Niima Outpost, felt the hungry, predatory eyes of others on her ripening form and felt her sensing it, but refusing to acknowledge them. Only once she was alone, safe in her cave did she wonder what they wanted with her.
The weight of his realization of her ignorance of her own body bent him forward, moved him to place his forehead on the mat and his forearms on the floor in an effort to steady himself. Of course she wouldn't know, how could she?
He let his sense of self-consciousness go completely as he watched her in the night, replayed how she staved off the feelings that accompanied a confusing, conflicting sense of pride and shame at stares she drew from perfect strangers. When she could no longer sleep from the agitation she felt over it, she knelt and stared out at the stars and the distant planets and absently skimmed her hands over her lips, her neck, down to her neat breasts, feeling how her nipples responded to her touch, first gentle but then harder, pinching herself until it stung. She smoothed her palms down over the planes of her ribs, feeling her skin goose pimpled in the slightly chilly night air as she reached her hipbones where they jutted above the hem of her undergarment. She cautiously dipped two fingers into the waistband and swirled them in the dark thatch of curls that had grown in some years before, delighting in the slightly ticklish but increasingly heated and urgent sensation that was mounting in her groin. It was both uncomfortable and welcome, the urge to touch herself there, where no one else ever had, and she gingerly tested the cleft between her legs and gasped to find it wet with a slippery, warm secretion that her own body had produced. It glistened on her fingers in the moonlight, and he could taste her on his own tongue, salty and heady, when she put her fingers curiously to her mouth.
Ren shook his head slightly back and forth, feeling the mat under his forehead at his hairline, and forced himself to straighten back up into a kneeling position. His breathing control was quickly edging from shallow to none whatsoever. The memory was so detailed, so clear to him, it was like he was there watching her in person, hidden in the shadows. It excited him to watch her. It had always excited him to watch, period.
Her hand slid back down her flat stomach and now she dragged her undergarments down around her thighs, further testing between her legs with her first two fingers, cautiously tracing back and forth in her folds, redistributing some of the wetness back to what felt like the center of the steadily insistent warmth that was blossoming in the triangle at her uppermost thighs.
He was having trouble restraining himself at this point, difficulty staying passive at the memory and fighting the urge to insert himself into the narrative, move it from her memory to his fantasies. Her innocence was astounding, beguiling, and he used it to fan the dangerous thoughts he was beginning to entertain about being the one to teach her everything she didn't know she was missing.
Just then his comm link beeped softly from across the room and he grunted in annoyance at the interruption. He could feel the cloth of his pants acutely over his erection as he walked across the room to check it.
GHux: Well?
GHux: Do u have the map.
GHux: Troopers had no report for me.
Ulgh, the kriffing map, no, he didn't have it yet. He adjusted his trousers slightly as he returned to the mat, falling to his knees so quickly that they stung where they connected with the floor. The map was in her head, somewhere, but there were far more interesting things at the moment.
Back at her memory, after a couple hesitant strokes of her grubby index finger around the swollen, sensitive head of her sex, she dared to feel gently beneath herself, closer to the place she bled from regularly now, and inhaled sharply to discover that she could slide her finger into her body. It seemed like it were something that should hurt, but instead, oh, no, the sensation of it was a heady mix of emotions and physical pleasure she had never felt before. Her other hand went to her breast, and she rubbed firmly in circles, pinching her nipple between her thumb and forefinger, gently, then hard enough to make her eyes tear slightly. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was getting ragged now, working her finger in and out of herself, first one, then-ow-two, but it felt so much better after just a couple more strokes and now she had the notion that yet another might feel even better. The want in her was building to a dangerous peak of some sort, where she felt so full, but like she could never be full enough to satisfy her.
Her desire for a more that she couldn't even fully conceive of finally pitched her forward onto one hand, onto all fours and he was nearly undone by this. She crouched, placing her damp cheek against the chilly metal hull of her home, and thought of the animals she'd seen together in the desert. The great beasts would circle one another warily until one inevitably mounted the other from behind, their grunts and roars frightening in their ferocity, until it subsided some time later. Her hips strained up and back, her hand working feverishly now against her pubis, trying desperately to satisfy both the urge to fill herself up with something and to stroke the center of her want more directly. His own breath was short and quick now, wishing he had been there to be her counterpart. He would've obliged her in every way, used his fingers and tongue and teeth on her, in her. She pictured no partner for herself, but instinct drove her to taste the skin of the upper arm that supported her, suck hard at it as she finally gave up trying to penetrate herself and dedicatedly worked her pruned fingertips against her swollen sex until she finally broke.
Ren blushed hot now, his blood coloring his cheeks and he bit his lower lip hard as he watched her come, riding waves of pleasure like she had never known, nothing approaching that which she felt from eating more portions than was strictly required, or smiling at Old Traz, or finding the most precious bit in the dusty sands of a ship's belly, or from anything. He was floored by how long it seemed to last, thick crests of need satisfied, how she continued to rub in lazy semi-circles over the spot to force the sensation to continue, to deepen. It was so unlike his own pleasure, he was a tad jealous.
He knew there was no going back now, no sense in staving off the inevitable. He rose from his crouch and entered his 'fresher, silently thanking whatever powers for a countless time that he had the luxury of private accommodations and that he was not an ascetic Jedi. The shower was nearly scalding hot but the black industrial tile was cold against his lower back as he bent over in the narrow stall, bracing one hand against the opposite wall as he pleasured himself. It was was a matter of a few short minutes until he came, picturing himself behind her, filling her up with his cock, feeling her buck her hips against him and cry his name, begging him for more.
He stood in the shower a good 15 minutes after the water had drained away the evidence of his activities before emerging and drying himself with a chamois. Good, now that that was out of the way, he could concentrate on his objective.