Boy - Adam Driver Kylo Ren Fanfic

Look, Kid

It's a balmy night in Brooklyn. There's a show someone said was gonna be cool. Some experimental theater thing in what might as well be the last abandoned warehouse in Williamsburg. 

We get there and the scene is already too cool. Girls with short hair and side fades and perfectly applied red lipstick. They must be using lip liner and I hate them for it, for being in the club of women who know what femininity is and how to pull it off. I sneak out for a cigarette, through a dark entrance to an alleyway out back. 

I see him, back leaning against the wall, one foot propped against the brick, his quad muscles bulging in tight pants. His head is leaned back, eyes closed, hair in his face, smoke swirling around his head. The light above him casts a sort of golden spotlight, even if he's standing next to trashcans and stray pallets. He's big, at least 6'3" and even from here, five feet away in jeans and a t-shirt, you can tell he is all pecs, thighs, forearms. He breathes loudly, as if he's meditating via nicotine.  

I bite my lip and pull out a clove cigarette, trying to be quiet, let him do his own thing. I flick a match and he turns my way. 

"Hey kid."

"Hey."

"You still in highschool with that clove?"

"Nah, old habits just die hard. I like the way they make your lips taste, you know?"

I bite my lower lip, savoring the smokey sweet flavor.

"That and they remind me of this bartender I used to fuck. I'd stay till 3 am when he was closing up, sit outside on the steps smoking cloves and he'd join me for a break or two. Later, at his place, he'd let me pick from this whole wall of records in his bedroom," I pause, thinking about how he'd compliment my black velvet cigarette pants as I took them off, standing in just a sailor-striped leotard, exposed before a 14 foot wall of vinyl and him staring at me.

"The choice was always overwhelming and I always felt like I wasn't making the right choice, that we could be having cooler sex if I'd just gone more obscure. But, then I would and for the next 40 minutes all I could think was, 'Sonic Youth is super hard to fuck to, you know?' In the morning he'd choose and the record would always be perfect."

"You're a weird one, kid."

"Ha, yeah. But it's mostly about the taste. Let's be honest, they're the candy of cigarettes. They make your lips taste like candy."

I look up once and notice he's gliding towards me, like a sleek jaguar dressed in black. Now he's so close I can breathe him in, my left hip against his right. His expansive chest is eye-level, smelling like Old Spice and some wild mixture of pheromones that God, the chemist, made just to drive me wild. He leans down, pulls my wrist and the clove to his mouth, the cigarette trembling in my weakening grip. His hand takes up half my forearm.

His cheek brushes past mine as he inhales. I can feel his chest move and I have never been more aware of what it means for someone to be alive, breathing in air, next to you. He exhales and there's smoke all around us and suddenly he turns and his lips are on mine, hard at first, then soft. The clove has fallen from my open hand and it's soon under his shoe, hissing as he puts it out and puts his lips back on mine. I run my tongue along his lips; they're full and soft and they taste like goldschlager and smoked barbeque. He pauses, lets me do my thing and then makes an animalistic noise and pushes me back against the wall, driving his tongue into my mouth and down my neck.

His skin is hot to the touch and there's anger or power or desire, or some combination of all of the above, running through him. He lifts me, one knee between my legs, his chest pressed against mine. My chest goes wild at the friction, and as soon as I think it, one hand gropes me wildly while another keeps us steady on the wall over my head. He's a ravenous ogre, basically Lennie from Of Mice and Men, and I'm his kitten plaything and he's close to loving me too much. I bite his lip and run one hand up his smooth giant chest. His tits are bigger than mine. I can feel every outline of his abs. We moan into eachother, his mouth on my neck.

"I've got a show I gotta do," he whispers."Write your number on the wall in the bathroom and I'll find you. I owe you a clove."

And he's gone.

***

Author's note: I caught up on Girls this weekend. After watching the recent Adam/Mimi Rose Howard episiode, I decided it was finally time I make good on my promise to write my own Driver fanfic. Even his apartment was a turn on (c'mon, that bed?). I'm desperate for more Driver fantasies, which have to be better written than mine. Note: fanfic is way harder than I thought. But if you're game, post links to your Adam Driver fanfic in the comments or tag it #adamdrivercontest. I want to feature my favorite in After Dark, a little side project I'm helping out with.

xox - Z