Dangerous Affection | Kylo Ren

𝐈𝐈𝐈 Let's Make a Deal

It's been a week since your last "visit" with Kylo Ren. New bar, no new gigs, just a night dated for raunchy, untamed fun.

The strobe lights were an array of coruscating colors, that ricocheted off of the walls. Illuminating the exotically humid space. The music was loud enough to rattle the carcass of the bar, thumping and bopping.

You stumbled in your heels with a breathy giggle, entangled in a moshpit, chugging another shot. You've had a handful, cutting lose for the evening, trying to bask in the rare night-off you had acquired.

Sweat greased your forehead, as swaying bodies clustered the dance floor, squishing and cramming into you. You grunt, hiccuping, staggering through the lively crowd, agilely shoving past people. On the hunt for your friend, Nora, whom chose to accompany you on your night out.

You found her cozying up with a burley, older men, internally cheering her on, as she flatters him and nestled up in his lap. Flashing him the classic nymphet eyes. You settle for leaving her to tend to her scandalous ordeals, and dispersing from the crowd instead. You had a copious amount of drinks, and the intoxication was starting to catch up with you.

Being tipsy had its advantages— it made it easier to burrow the complications of your appending duties down deep, and just blissfully indulge in this one time opportunity at unbothered fun. Between the ecstasy drugs you and Nora conveyed and the alcohol, you were gone. Floating around in your personal bubble of unorthodox partying.

You've been engrossed with the Kylo Ren assignment for weeks now, and Poe wasn't making it any simpler with his constant nagging and lurking.

You managed to creep away from the crowd and situate yourself against a wall. Your blurry vision consumed the sight of carefree partiers, as you fisted your hair into a makeshift ponytail, to ease the beads of sweat accumulating on the nape of your neck.

You fan out your sweaty face, the lack of hydration and the robust amounts of dancing you did clashing together. Your cheeks were flushed crimson, your throat was dry and parched, nausea churned in your stomach, and a migraine nipped at the walls of your brain.

After recollecting yourself for a moment, you wearily shove yourself off of the wall, stumbling, your ankles rolling and threatening to buckle. You brace the wall for stability before regaining your footing, wobbling through the bar, eyes squinted to accommodate the colorful strobe lights that flicker exuberantly. Your search for water to quench your thirst was only beginning. This would be a long trip across the bar.

Your murky, discombobulated gaze drifted to a tall figure looming in the crowd. You froze, staggering to a halt, blinking.

It was Kylo fucking Ren.

He was sauntering through the crowd, forcefully shoulder-checking and nudging through, towering over the vigorous dancers. He stuck out like a sore thumb, brawny and opulent, reeking of abhorrence and stealth. His immorality bled off of him like poisonous radiation, deadly enough to knock somebody out.

His eyes were strictly casted to you, narrowed and earnest, jaw clenching stoically.

Your breath hitches, eyes wide and befuddled, as you reluctantly peel away and start to maneuver away from him. He glowers, barring his teeth, aggressively plowing through the drunken people with little-to-no concern on whom he harms with his cumbersome strides.

You thought you escaped him by blending into the crowd. The warm, calloused hand that snatched your shoulder said otherwise.

You gulp— your throat thicker than molasses, as you swivel around leisurely to face Kylo Ren, and all of his suave, earthy charm.