DEFIANT • kylo ren (18+)

33 - The Force.

"Which, of all the colours, is your favourite?"

He breathes a sigh of air out of his nose.

"Why are you asking me this?" It makes you want to scream when he answers a question with another question.

"Because," you're beginning to get shy about your reasoning. He doesn't care to know you in this way. This normal, domestic way. He tolerates you because you give him sex occasionally.

You look away from the cold expression on his face.

You're such a fool.

A twisted pain chokes you a little, because you can't help but feeling that loss again. Losing more hope that you aren't an object to him. You have been grabbing at the ends of a disappearing notion of a decent man who may not exist anymore.

Reminders that you are lying to yourself, trapped, and broken, hide in conversations like these. The ones where you beg for human decency. You're about to excuse yourself to go cry in the bathroom, but:

"White."

You inspect his features, swallowing any emerging upset from your spiralling thoughts of negativity. He simply stares at the black ceiling, and you're forced to think about how he surrounds himself with the opposite of white.

"Oh." You falter. "Why?"

"There is not a reason for everything." Kylo's voice makes you want to believe everything he says. It's too smooth and political. He frowns deeper suddenly, spotting something on your face, and stops to brush some hair from it.

"Yes there is," you breathe, stuck, because his fingertips are touching your face.

"Mm," He pinches your chin, lightly, and your eyes are locked into his. Those dark iris' threaten so much yet say so little. You're stuck. You couldn't move if you wanted to.

"You're so noncommittal." You manage to say.

"You talk too much."

Your skin is buzzing like fire. How can you be angry yet comfortable at the same time? He lets go of your chin and returns his stare to the roof. You relax into his arm.

"Everything here is black." You're trying to stay calm, if anything because of how warm his skin is against yours. His bare chest. Your head nestled in the crook of his shoulder like you were made to fit there and only there.

He's so quiet. You can't hear him breathing, even. The small giveaway that he is would be the slight rise and fall of his large chest. You're both looking at the dark ceiling, leaning together, with that utterly possessive arm wrapped around you. His long fingers caress the skin of your upper arm.

"I like red, too." He surprises you by adding.

"Blood red?" You ask, half joking.

"Snow is white." He replies, flatly.

You ponder this. "And what is it about the snow that you like?"

A beat.

"The way that you look at it." His words are deliberate. Stubborn, almost. Practiced and eloquent, but maintaining an air of spontaneity.

"The way..." The confusion must be obvious on your face. But he wouldn't know, as neither of you look at the other.

You don't say anything. You can sense the warm energy in the Force thinning and dissipating. He's pulling away.