You wake with a shriek, a nightmare so heavy your forehead beads with sweat. Your hair sticks to you, palms as clammy as your face. Your throat burns ever so slightly, and you force yourself to drink from the measly tap to the right of you.
How long were you out? The lingering angst from the horrid dream is still prevalent, tension prickling up your arms.
Today you will escape. They have to feed you as some point, and this is when you'll strike. Your eyes flicker to the camera in the corner of the cell, wondering when they plan to interrogate you.
If you can get your hands on a lightsaber, or a blaster, you might have a chance.
Your stare burns into the door for what feels like hours before it is opened, they must have fixed and re fortified it while you were asleep.
Finally, the unmistakable armour of a stormtrooper appears in the small crack. Without a second thought you jump to your feet, disregarding the stabbing headache, crossing the room to where the trooper holds out a plastic meal holder with a single apple and two slices of bread discarded across it. Instead of taking the tray as you act as though you'd wanted, you grip the wrist of the stormtrooper, yanking him toward you and twisting with all the strength you can muster.
He calls out, using his other hand to grab his blaster pistol. Already having anticipated this, you manage to block the blaster, grabbing it and forcing it upwards - the blast shooting above your head instead. Even the small noise is painful for your throbbing scull.
You reach your leg forwards, kicking the trooper backwards with a grunt and onto his back where the blaster scatters to the floor of the hallway. You scramble towards it, finally securing it and pointing it towards him without hesitation while you gasp for breath on the floor, one knee on the ground.
You could have done this ten times better back in training with your full strength, but this will have to do.
Your hands shake as you notice the scuffle has caught the attention of more guards down the hall. Reluctantly, you decide to rush to your unsteady feet and run in the other direction.
Not your brightest moment, but fine.
Neglecting the yells behind you, you turn at the next fork, sliding slightly in your socks and pressing your back up against the wall around the corner. You wish you had some fucking shoes on.
Next, you whip your head to the left, then right, violently checking for signs of more guards.
Shit. To the right a stormtrooper stands, pressing information into some sort of data-pad. Please don't turn around.
You scan the hallway, knowing you have to be quick, the previous stormtroopers steps are getting closer and closer.
That's it, you decide to slip into what you hope is a cupboard beside you. As you shut the door and turn around, you can finally breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of cleaning supplies and switched off droids. You inspect the blaster in your hand in the dark, through the crack of light the door allows. You think this is a SE-44C, but you're unsure. You were never very good at studying the enemy, which is becoming more and more frustrating as you find yourself in these situations, but you've always been great with blasters.
Hopefully this will help you get to an escape pod. Or maybe you could figure out how to fly a ship.
You can feel your pulse beating against your skin as the dreaded troopers steps walk past the door you're pressed against.
You wait.
Heavy footsteps pass again, and once more until you hear them tread further into the distant maze of hallways.
Eventually closing your eyes, you seek out the presence in which you cannot see, finding that you sense the empty hallway as non-threatening. Finally.
You crack the door open, peeking out at the shiny floors. Empty. As you already knew.
You waste no time breaking into a light run, you head right, then left, right again, when you suddenly hear the familiar sound of stormtroopers at the next fork in the corridors. You stumble slightly, waiting anxiously before turning around to run back where you'd just come from.
Instead of the getaway you'd intended, you scamper head first into a large black armoured man blocking your way.
You stumble back in shock. It can't be him.
Your heart leaps to your throat as you stare wide-eyed up at the helmet you had wished never to see again. It is him. Of course. The horrifyingly large stature of a man like him is hard to forget.
Kylo Ren.
You mull over his name while gawking at his silhouette. He considers you, one hand on his lightsaber, the other casually at his side. He's not even moving to grab you, he's that confident you're unskilled. Or perhaps he is just that powerful.
You force yourself to swallow, then breathe, trying to remain calm.
The blaster!
You raise the blaster toward him, stepping backwards in a feeble effort to put distance between you.
Ren's mask appears to judge you, despite no obvious change. The crackling voice begins to break out.
"Stupid girl." The blaster is ripped from your hands before you even have the opportunity to place your finger at the trigger, flying through the air and into the hand that was so recently on his lightsaber. He proceeds to crush the weapon between his fingers like it's nothing to him.
At this very moment is when the stormtroopers after you turn the corner, pointing toward you out of breath, blasters trained in your direction.
They lower their weapons as they notice Kylo Ren, towering over you with the crumpled, stolen blaster. A hard rock of a gulp forces its way down your tightened throat.
"Oh! Commander Ren, forgive me, we were just-" One of them start to explain the situation, looking to the others for help.
"Just... letting this prisoner run around unpunished." He speaks over them, his tone unforgiving, voice booming over the dark hallway. You wish he wasn't cloaked, that he had no helmet to masque his humanity. You wish he was even the slightest bit closer to being vulnerable, just to help you feel less exposed.
You grasp at the nervousness that edges upon you... why did he put so much emphasis on 'unpunished'? How badly are you to be tortured? Will it be torture? You surely don't know enough intel to satisfy them even if you did answer their questions...
"No, Commander, I mean, yes, she-" The trooper stumbles over his words in a way that makes you feel sorry for him, despite the fact he was trying to capture you moments ago.
"Enough." Kylo's presence casts a thick tension into the air, you feel yourself wanting to run into the arms of the stormtroopers you only just slipped away from. "The interrogation will begin early, since she wishes to be so difficult."
"Yes, Commander." They speak, monotone and professional, before returning to their duties.
Oh, they're leaving.
The familiar stomach churn returns. Kylo Ren is going to interrogate you. Kylo Ren. The man who makes you queasy upon arrival. Fuck that, not just upon arrival, you're finding that the sickness festers uncomfortably throughout the entire encounter.
"Come." He demands, turning and striding down the corridor. You follow at his heels, but hesitantly, the irritation at his confidence you will do exactly what he says nagging at you.
But he's right. You're afraid he'll torture you, or kill you, if you don't. You glare at his back. He leads you with complete certainty in your close proximity, and you silence your thoughts and objections. You cannot afford to have him hate you all the more.
As you pass others, they stand to attention. His authority is clear as doors are opened in his arrival, heads nodded toward the floor, a sense of fear for Kylo Ren among the thoughts of many is guided toward you with the Force. And yet, you can't stop your eyes from flickering down to his lightsaber. There's no way you'd be able to take it, right?
After a short while, he stops ever so suddenly - causing you to stumble into the back of him, tripping over your own feet and landing on your ass on the floor, you yelp out from catching yourself with a hand to the dismay of your now twisted wrist.
Fucking asshole, you think, your brow furrowed in response to the added aches and pains on an already beat up body. The urge to kick him, scream, rip his damn cloak off is so enticing, the burn of your wrist heavy and teasing.
"Inside." Gods, does this man speak only in orders? Looking toward the door you are at, you glance over what you can see of the room. A somewhat dark room, with what appears to be a chair in the center.
Not much else is revealed due to the angle at which you must view it through the door, and so instead you look back to Kylo Ren and his large, dark stature. No patience. No sympathy. Your eyes are met with a black sheen of a cold mask, exactly what you had expected.
You cannot contain your scowl, and you can sense he is not happy with you. So be it. You hold your pained wrist to your chest, nursing the ache, bringing your legs to your chest, for some sense of control, or false safety.
"If you want me to go in there of my own accord, you're delusional." You grit your teeth, only having the confidence to speak these words as you stare at the shine of the floor beneath his boots.
"Hm."
You find yourself almost used to the distant masked voice from his helmet, his hum of consideration the last thing you hear before a wave of sleep, induced so suddenly, is brought upon you.
Darkness, and a foggy feeling only able to be described by the heaviness of your head, and familiar discomfort of injury throbbing back to life. You wake in the very chair you refused to walk to, strapped down by the wrists and ankles. To your surprise, you observe the strap on your injured wrist to be tied ever so slightly upwards, toward your forearm as if by design. As if not to cause further strain. Though, of course this couldn't be. It's a coincidence.
Groggily coming further to, you peek at the room through your lashes, of course to find Kylo Ren opposite. You groan, by instinct going to soothe your head with your hand, only to be stopped by your restraints. You drop your head back in defeat, staring into the lines of the ceiling.
The pounding of footsteps start toward you, beginning to encircle you but stopping directly behind. Your breath hitches as you sense his closeness, you bring your head forward to face the wall in front of you, a shadow cast over you as you feel how close he is. Sense how close he is. His chest must be mere inches from the back of your head. He leans forward, the material of his armour so close it causes the slight static of your hair.
You almost swallow your tongue in fear as the leathered glove of his hand reaches to the side of you, taking your braid in his fingers once more. Electricity seems to bounce from his hand to your neck, the closer it gets the more exposed you feel. Your heart is in your throat.
"A padawan..." He tuts, rolling the braid over in his hand, while you try desperately to ignore the position you're in. Your lungs feel close to bursting. But they don't. You almost wish them to.
"And what of your Master?" He pries, letting go of the braid after a small tug and continuing to stalk you. The only response you allow is a scoff. He must know he cannot manipulate you into talking so easily.
"I will not hesitate to probe your mind," he growls, "and find it myself." He clasps your neck in his hand, and it suddenly becomes extremely difficult to breathe.
His digits holding tight against your skin, straining. Despite the dots of unconsciousness seeping into your vision and the lightheaded feeling that comes along with it, you cannot help but focus on how his hand feels pressing against your neck.
Real fingers. He's a real human person. A strange tingle sits in the pit of your stomach, you try desperately to move your head away from him and escape his grasp.
His next move is slow, he drops you, moving to the storage cupboards and opening them for your viewing. Torture devices, you're sure. But part of you can't help but focus on the strap above your mangled wrist, instead.
He will not probe your mind. It was the first thing you were taught, to withstand a mind probe, for this very event. You can only hope your training has been enough. That it is effective.
"Go fuck yourself." This time, it actually sounds like you mean the words. They snake from your mouth like venom. Poisoning the air between you.
You can instantly feel the impatience radiating from him, a burning fire of intense determination. He steps toward you in one quick stride, gripping the front of your t-shirt into his fist and bringing it toward him with such force your torso is raised from the seat. The bare wound of your recent branding is irritated from the movement of the fabric, raw skin granting new agony. You stifle a small yelp, it comes out as more of a gasp.
"You need to watch that mouth of yours," he warns lowly, the helmet - so dangerously close - shifts its eye line, focused further down than your face now. Then back up. The t-shirt is pulled into his enraged fist, bunching the fabric so that your collarbones and pelvis are exposed to his gaze, your curves apparent in the sudden tightness of the t-shirt. You're naked to his gaze and he's drinking it in... yet instead of hating it, for some reason you cannot ignore the fire between your legs.
The pounding in your chest grows painful, your lips parted as you search the helmet for explanation. Kylo Ren, one of the most powerful known men in the universe is in front of you, holding your life in his hands, holding your body in his hands and shamelessly admiring it. You bite your lower lip, the pain of the cut not relevant, an old habit you cannot kick. The reality of this hits you all at once and tears threaten to prick your eyes.
Kylo grunts, letting you go and you slump back into the chair, trying to shrink back into it further to no avail. He spins to swing a heavy punch into a nearby wall, the wall engulfing his fist as it cracks. You startle at the noise and sudden action, watching wide eyed as he stalks away, the large black cloak disappearing out the door.
Leaving you alone in a torture room you have yet to be tortured in.
It must have been hours of waiting before sleep lulls you away, your eyes growing heavy as your head lolls to the side. You hadn't wanted to fall asleep in here, leaving you vulnerable to any attack, but you need as much strength as you can get.
Your dreams are filled with scenes of an unknown battle, screaming and yelling surrounding you as you crawl through rubble in search of someone. A fight, lightsaber on baton, stormtroopers surrounding you. Closing in. A red beam. A distant figure, dark and looming. A pull of power and magnetic promise.
You wake with a gasp, trying to clutch at imaginary sheets with hands that are stolen from you. Your lip quivers, you bite it in a measly attempt to ignore your anguish. Your twisted wrist sits uncomfortably against the arm, only just above the restraint you're burning holes into with your eyes. The room is still empty.
Struggling for what you know will fail, you wiggle your left hand against the tie, hoping you can squeeze it through. The restraint rubs friction against your wound, the previous cuts from older ties searing with pain under your attempt. You let a small cry out, dropping your head back and whispering curses at the ceiling.
Your stomach growls, hunger and impatience curdling stomach acid deep within you. What are you to do in this situation?
You close your eyes to let yourself search the one thing you know to be on your side. The Force will guide you.
Your limbs relax against the hard seat, your back is straight, your fingers limp. Energy surges through you, through the chair, the floor, the walls, the ship. You're relaxing against your current state of fear. All is well with the Force. Calm. Serene. No danger in sight.
You stay like this for a half hour, bathing in the meditation of your mind. Until, a prick of another feeling. Frustration. Not here, distant... the other side of the ship even.
Kylo Ren. His chambers? You feel the Force within the walls, the emotions of the feared Commander, the air. His irritation scratches away at you, a blinding pain in your head, similar to what was felt before he appeared in your cell.
Your jaw clenches as you grind your teeth together, body rigid. You push past the pain with a small whimper, dragging through to his mind, the walls are thick and impenetrable. You can't. You have to try, though.
Only the surface emotion crashing toward you like a tidal wave, before a small glint of another. Hidden, stored like treasure. Attraction. You're not mistaken, it's there. And it's for you.
A sudden suffocating fog of anger clouds your search, choking any chance of looking further, a sense of danger impending.
He's coming.
But it doesn't matter, it's too late. His anger won't scare you from knowing the truth. He's attracted to you. Something about you has settled in his mind, unwilling to be shaken.
A dooming drop of your heart, you can feel his rage closer.
The man behind the mask could be anyone, yet you can't help how intrigued you are. The way the Force helps you seek out his mind, the way he can't seem to keep you from it, the way he reads your thoughts like a book lay out in front of him.
It scares you deep to your core, but excites a small part of you that knows you're keeping him on his toes. Testing him. Seeing how far it is you can push him. And now you know you have this minuscule, almost irrelevant attraction you can hold to him.
Impending danger, roaring anger, outside.
He's here.
The door slams open and shuts behind him without a touch of his hand. His figure stands hunched, hands clenched into fists. Your mouth parts at the sight, eyes widening as your heartbeat quickens. Fuck. You had forgotten how much worse it feels when he's actually in front of you. The blackness of his cloaks and lack of emotion in his solid mask. The height and stature of his person. Your stomach churns and twists with your chest tightening. Anxiety crawls up your spine, begging your thoughts to be blank.
"Padawan." He spits your title like its dirt as he strides toward you, you gulp a bubble of air trying to sink further into the chair, but then his gloved hand grips the back of your head taking a handful of hair.
"Rebel scum. How dare you?" He snarls. He yanks your head back, daggers of pain shooting through your scalp as he tugs against the hair, exposing your neck to him. Your hairband snaps with the force of it, hair now fallen in loose waves around your head. Your breathing is hitched, shallow and uncontrollable as you attempt to hold in any whimper from the agony he is inflicting. The sheen of the mask is closer to your face now, he is looming over you, your eyes seem wider than ever.
"Stupid, insolent girl." He scoffs, the disguised voice so eerie your skin turns to goosebumps.
"You seem to think I will not hesitate to harm you? To kill you?" He yanks on your hair at the last sentence, pulling your face toward his. A small, panicked noise escapes you as he forces your face upwards. The black void of his mask knows no mercy. You say nothing, eyes wide with terror.
With his other hand he takes your jaw, clamping it.
"You have been intruding on my mind," he squeezes, your face tiny in the size of his grip, "ever since you got here." Your jaw pangs, the ache almost unbearable.
"It might be easier to just dispose of you." The disgusted tone behind his words spark defiance within you.
"So do it." You push out, challenging him, the words spilling from your lips with venom.
You think back to him ordering you to watch your language and you seethe in your place. His fingers loosen, but before you can relax, leather brushes over your mouth.
His thumb rests on your bottom lip, pulling on it ever so slightly, watching you.
Then, it happens so quickly, his thumb passes your lips, pressing down on your tongue as it enters your mouth with a violent force. He clamps your chin with the remaining fingers, sliding his thumb further along your tongue until you gag on the leather. He pulls on your face, the grip he has on the underside of your chin and tongue yanking you toward him.
"Know your fucking place." He growls, pressing harder, further back on your tongue. A wave of hate flushes over you before you make one of the stupidest decisions of your life.
You bite down on the thumb invading your mouth, no hesitation, no holding back.
He pulls it from your mouth with barely a shadow of a flinch - grabbing your face like before with no sympathy for your pain. A hard, strong grip, squishing your cheeks again, so violently a harsh pinch erupts under his touch. Your own spit coats your cheek under his thumb. You cannot help the noise of strain that leaves you as you attempt to deal with his violence. Your eyes brim with tears from the tightness of his grip, on both your hair and jaw.
"You think I won't hurt you? Because you're a pretty little bitch?" He gnarls, the distortion of his voice causing dread to spread through you. Your heart races, a twinge of fear mixed with the urge to rip his mask off. You're scared to your core, and his overpowering control is evoking unwelcome feelings, having to press your thighs together and ignore your feelings of unwelcome lust. Where the fuck did that come from?
"I'm not afraid of you." Lie.
Ren loosens his grip on your jaw.
You think he's going to leave you alone, but instead he takes your chin and holds it. He moves your face up to be inspected.
Why does he keep doing this?
His fingers leave your hair, the throbbing of your scalp finally slowing almost to a stop. He moves away from you, walking, slowly. You watch him, carefully, waiting for his next move.
He turns, observing you from a distance, leaning against the wall. As if to gloat that he knows you are scared of him. So casual, knowing he needn't do anything and you'll still cower. Your eyes flutter over his arms, his wide shoulders, almost admiring the strength and power that radiates from him.
Your brow furrows, angry with yourself for all the things you've allowed yourself to think. You can't stand the waiting, Kylo Ren's breathing filling the room with sound, an electric air between you.
"I'm certainly not going to tell you anything." You finally push words from your throat, glaring the Commander's harsh shaped helmet down. "So just kill me. Let's get this over with."
Silence.
Is he really going to ignore you?
You open your mouth - to say what? You aren't entirely sure.
He speaks first.
"You are useful as of yet, padawan." His gaze is unmoving, staring you down. You are captured within it, prisoner to his cloaked eyes. That wicked metal mask.
You flick your line of vision to the storage you know holds fearful devices. It's getting more and more difficult to forget the pain you're in as the tenderness of the branding pangs, and you can't avoid the aching of your joints and soreness of your wrists and ankles.
Still, you refuse to help him.
"So you've said." He grunts, unmoving. Your nostrils flare ever so slightly, bothered at his ability to pry into your private thoughts.
"Get out of my head." You speak flat, not wanting to allow him any access to your emotions. You look to your left at the door in a scowl, deciding it to be more interesting - or at least not as unsettling - as his threatening figure.
"Control your thoughts." He offers in what's almost a growl, a small insight into his mind. He really finds it so disturbing to have your thoughts in his head? Your pained thoughts from the discomfort he causes?
"The difference is that I'm not trying to do it, asshole." You blurt out to the room, irritation burning at the nape of your neck. A crawling prickle of fear reminds you of who you're speaking to, but you're so impatient, so uncomfortable, you feel like he deserves to be yelled at.
You're sure no one has ever spoken this way to him.
"Watch yourself." A low warning from under the mask, "You'd be correct in assuming that." The weighty footsteps start slowly toward you, but you're still studying the door. You don't care that he's not used to insubordination. You're not used to being held hostage.
You bite your lip, he's getting closer, a warning almost. You snap at the sound of his boots. You hate that sound. "If you think you've scared me enough to bend to your fucking will, you're mistaken."
And just like that, your restraints fly open, an invisible force prying you from the chair and flinging you across the room.
The air is knocked out of you when you smack against the wall, knocking your head and crumpling to the ground beneath like a sack of flour.
The trauma to your head lingers like a fowl smell, feeling as if you have someone's nails digging into the notches of your brain. A soft groan finds its way from your lips, trying to push yourself from the floor but your arms wobble beneath you.
On the second try, you sit up, Kylo Ren is looming over you. You can't help but look up into his helmet, a small peek from this angle and you think you can glimpse skin. He's really a man under there. It doesn't seem like he could be, the machine that he is. Huge, dangerous and devoid of sympathy.
"Did I not just order you to watch how you speak to me?" His dominating tone makes you freeze. Your eyes widen, looking up at him from the floor like this, the way he carries himself erupts a heat from within. Fuck. How can you think like this? You feel sick with yourself. He's the enemy. He's masked. He's the commander of the First Order, this is awful. This is awful, but he stands there radiating sex and power and you can't stop yourself from eyeing where you know there is a mans torso, or hands, or...
You nod, pushing your thoughts aside, discarding them completely. You can't have him hearing you. A blush rises in your cheeks. He probably already has.
"Kneel." The Commander beckons you with two of his fingers.
Out of pure fear, though perhaps something else, you obey. Everything hurts, you don't want him to hurt you again. You can't bring yourself to look at him anymore, so you drop your eyes to the floor as you shift your weight to your knees. You clamp your hands together on your lap, trying to ignore their trembles.
He takes his hand to your chin, moving it so that your eyes are forced to meet his helmets glare. The leather of his glove grazes your lip once more, teasing your mouth. Overcome with sudden desire, you part your lips ever so slightly, breathing heavier than usual. He takes this as allowance for his thumb to pass over your lips, to press your tongue, for the second time.
The taste of dry leather crowds your senses as you hang off of his hand, your mouth parted for the Commander of the First Order. His thumb almost entirely in your mouth, your lips now pouted around him. What the fuck are you doing?
A hum of approval, so low you almost miss it, spurs you on. The sound is music to your ears, a low hum skipping under the voice distorter, a hint of the man you are craving so suddenly. He pushes further into your mouth, a soft gag erupting in your throat only makes him harsher. You suck on the thumb, compliant, willing. No time to curse yourself out, no time to care.
"Good girl." His husky voice is more crowded than usual, your eyes dropping to his growing bulge as he eases the thumb from your mouth. Good girl? Fuck. Fuck. Your mouth hangs open only slightly, his fingers still lingering under your chin. Holding the tilt of your head ransom. What the fuck. Oh God. What are you doing?
Your thoughts nag at you as worry creases your brow, "I-"
A knock at the door, followed by a stormtrooper entering. The air hangs with lust, a forbidden and dangerous tension. Surprisingly, Commander Ren's helmet remains focused on you as you eye the stormtrooper who you're internally pleading to save you.
"Sir, General Hux requests your presence urgently." He speaks, monotone. If he can tell what you were just doing, it doesn't show.
"Leave." He responds, his fingers still under your chin, he pulls your head to face him instead of the door. His eyes had never left your face.
The stormtrooper leaves. Ren stays.
While he lingers, the Force swells to tell you he is attempting to invade your thoughts, your mind, further than the surface. One of your natural talents is protecting your mind from probing, having excelled in your training of that particular area.
The pounding, ear-splitting headache of his mind exploration pushes you back, you stumble back and away from his fingers with a palm on your forehead, closing off your secrets from the man that you kneeled for only moments ago. The thought fills you with guilt.
You gasp at the rush of pain, pushing yourself fully back into the corner of the room. His stance is still, he continues, your headache splitting your brain in two.
You whimper, working harder to withstand the pain than ever before, doing well to keep the walls of your mind protected and steady. The toll it's taking is dreadful, you find yourself cradling your head in your hands. "Get out!" Your begging is muffled due to your face being pressed into your knees. You mutter as you continue to cradle yourself, trying not to cry.
He gives in, you gasp in relief of the pain, he turns away leaving you to sit in your self-pity. Turned to self-loathing. You cannot believe you've betrayed your friends and protectors like this. You allow yourself to slump onto your side on the floor.
Maybe lulling yourself to sleep and attempting to escape your problems will help, for now.