Dangerous Affection | Kylo Ren

𝐈𝐕 She's No Angel

Not only were you wounded from his appalling, salacious effects— you were scarred mentally, internally bashing your every depraved movement for allowing the nefarious man to seduce you.

The pale moonlight illuminated the grimy, vacant streets. Reflecting off of silver poles, and any other remotely shiny surface. You stomp along scuffed up sidewalks, embracing your own arms to harbor some warmth. Even though your own personal bear-hug did a less than substantial job at easing the shudders that racked your goosepimpled body.

Your teeth clatter, the nighttime's eerie lack of bustle unnerving you. Everything was closed, apart from the neon-flashing nightclubs that reverberated their robust music around the empty streets. Dim, yellow-gleaming streetlights tainted the roads.

You were lost, scattered in the abyss of plazas and shops. Too drunk to reckon how exactly you had meandered so out of reach from the bar. Too drunk to burden yourself with the trepidation of being completely clueless and disoriented. Unease bubbles in your gut, fizzing, gyrating.

It was like the sixth-sense. You could discern... a shift, in the aroma, in a way. Like you were teetering into the embrace of something purely heinous and inescapable with each heedful stride. Like a stranger was lurking in the shadows, urged to prowl and lurch an attack.

You skid to an apprehensive halt. Surveying your surroundings, trying to fabricate where you've managed to wander to, and whom the instigator of the pit burrowing in your stomach was. Searching for a potential predator. Only to be met with the howl of the cold wind, and the chafe of litter cascading across the cement.

You cautiously regain your footing, your strides less confident and more haphazard. You occasionally wobbled and drifted to the side, steadying yourself by clawing at lampposts, peering at the ground as it wisped by in colorless-spurts of littered concrete.

You waltzed over the rigid cracks winding through the cement, and to your amusement, it was as if you were playing hopscotch. Leaping over the scars upon the sidewalk.

Absurdly, this reminds you of the rhyme; step on a crack, break your mothers back. An uncomfortable shudder wracks your body.

Your mother was murdered ten years ago, grotesquely, alongside your father. It was not unsurprising somebody wanted them both dead; they were Organa's revered, prized assassins, notorious both within and outside the criminal world for their inhumane exploits.

They were cleanly, deliberately infiltrated by a man they trusted during a seemingly simple assignment in Rome, where they were both shot mercilessly and without pause in the back.

The sweltering heat that muggy summer day when you were called to the coroners at twelve haunts you to this day; felt in hot, ghoulish spurts on your skin, even when you're cold. The visions of the dormant black body bags situated side by side on the long, shiny metal table. There's an everlasting ache in you put there by the ache you endured at twelve years old.

You've spent the last ten years devoting yourself to vengeance; to becoming the personal villain of whomever took them from you.

A crinkle of crumpled litter resounds from the gloomy, dewy alleyway just adjacent to you. Your ears perk at the abrupt crunch, posture straightening, features alert. There was silence.

Then— a pair of burley arms engulf your waist and belligerently haul you backwards. You shriek, thrashing, as these arms yank and swindle you as if you're a motionless rag-doll, lurching you harshly.

"Let me go!" You roar, a guttural scream shredding through your scorching throat, as the strong arms forcefully pine your arms to your sides and navigate you down the unlit alleyway.

You pound your fists into his firm build, writhing, screaming and kicking. He lugs you sharply across the mildewed, wet asphalt, murky droplets of water slapping the filthy black tarmac. Grunting in your ear, squeezing you with a restricting embrace.

Your trembling fingers ghost the hem of your skirt, slithering up, brushing the leather of your holster. You continue to fight the mans deadly grasp with your alcohol-hindered strength, kicking, breaths labored, body jerking. Your fingers graze the hilt of your trusty dagger, and you pant in relief.

Leather fingertips dig into your flesh. You slowly feign submission, faintly succumbing to his grip, squirming. You relax your muscles and tighten your grip on the daggers hilt.

Static emits from a transmitter. "Vicrul!" A baritone, modulated voice bellows.

The mans grip loosens, as he fumbles for the device, offering you an unlikely advantage.

"Vic." The blotchy voice echoes, paired with static and ear-piercing squelches.

You seethe, peeling your dagger from your holster with a slick clang where the blade chafed leather, lunging your head and clamping your teeth down on his forearm.

He hisses, recoiling, releasing you with a strained breath of anger. A hint of coppery blood adds a twain to your tastebuds, as you whirl around defensively.

Your body gyrates and buzzes from head to toe with adrenaline, your pulse skyrocketing, as your eyes lock in on those of tonight's enemy. A serpentine green stares back at you with malice. The transmitter plunges from the pocket of his leather jacket and collides with the damp asphalt, the red light flickering defeatedly, as it sulks in a puddle of muddied water.

Your eyes fall to the beeping transmitter, before flashing back over to him.

You growl and lunge an attack.

You slice straight through his abdomen, a hoarse grunt of agony crawling up his throat, as he thuds into the grimy ground. Blood gushes from the long, rigid wound, painting his jacket, pooling around him as he hiccups on his own hitching breath.

"V-Vic-rul?" The transmitter splutters, sparks igniting from the device, "Come in, Vic! Do you have her?" The muffled voice shouts.

Your eyebrows furrow, as you peer down at the device, scrutinizing it from a distance. Your face falls as realization dawns on you, as you register that voice. "You've got to be fucking kidding me!"

Without reluctance, you slam the point of your heel into the sputtering device, stomping on it repeatedly. Until it's just an unsalvageable ball of static and eroded metal.

Ren's man, Vicrul, blubbers and wheezes, aimlessly trying to stop the flow of blood that seeps from his abdomen.

"Anything you need to tell me before I gut you in this alleyway?" You snarl, brandishing the knife.

He gurgles, eyebrows pinching together in affliction. "Fuck... you t-truly are ins-sane." He sputters, whimpering deeply, growling curses through barred teeth.

You grant him with a forceful kick, plowing your foot up, drilling your shoe straight through his chin. He groans, saliva spewing from his mouth, head wracking to the side.

His throat bobs, chin quivers, breaths wither. The wind was knocked out of him. He was emanating blood, and large quantities of it, by the second. You kneel before his squirming, bloodied body. Observing as he chokes on the air he eagerly rakes in. Head lulling on his burley shoulder.

You cup his chin, fingers gingerly pinching his jaw, as he flinches at your soft touch upon his face. Your eyes flicker between his, that glow dully with the amount of vitality emerging from his body. A devious smile tugs at your lips, as you level in and supply his forehead with a genial little kiss.

Hoping that Ren finds his lifeless body with the print of your scarlet lipstick matted to his forehead.

You softly caress the apple of his pale cheek, his breath hitching, pupils dilating. Blood continues to drift around his heaving body.

"Y-you can't just l-leave me like this!" He refutes, babbling, whining. His words slurring together.

The last thing you hear as you saunter crookedly away from the alleyway was the mans unparalleled cries of anguish.

And you were content with your work.