DEFIANT • kylo ren (18+)

33 - The Force.

You wake up the next morning with more regrets than memories.

Despite the sore neck and head you have to show for it, the only activity of the night that has settled in the long-term storage of your mind is the caress of Kylo's fingers and the heat of three Knight's gazes.

You don't even remember how you made it back to Kylo's quarters.

Someone must have carried you here. You're wearing one of his undershirts, but it is far too big, and you're sure you didn't put it on yourself.

The agony of your aches and embarrassment is soothed by the comfort of his bed, a cloud of softness. You're on the side by the window, and the light of the snow is blinding - but you cannot bring yourself to care.

The vast forest stretches for miles. You sit up to look closer. The snow free falls with calming randomness. You envy the snowflakes that settle so happily amongst the rest. Your gaze drops to the valley below. The height at which you fell, which feels so long ago now, shocks you when you firmly acknowledge it. Surviving that...

Mind interrupted by the heavy hand that is now groping at your waist, you turn to see Kylo next to you. Hair messy, long limbs, he's awake and his hands are already on you.

"I'm not going anywhere," you say softly, hoping this will make him stop touching you. Wherever he touches you, warmth and tingles spread without a care for your feelings on the matter. You'd rather not dissect that.

He tugs you in closer, despite your claim, turning onto his back as he does. Your eyes trace the lines and scars across his muscled front, and note every mole and freckle.

You wonder how inappropriate it would be to draw lines between them with your fingers. When you envision him grabbing your wrist as a precaution, your daydream is crushed.

Kylo leans against the headboard, and the tense look on his face makes your stomach do a flip. To an outsider he may seem angry. His pinched brows and deep scowl used to scare you, but you don't focus on those things so much anymore.

"What?" He snaps. You are trying not to laugh. His hair has never looked so messy. You feel oddly special to be the only person who gets to see him this way.

Uninvited, and ugly, a twinge of jealously flares as you wonder if another woman has been in your place before.

"Come closer. What is it?" He refers to how you're sat somewhat facing the window - instead of him. His groggy morning voice sounds like a soothing hum.

"You're clingy." You quip, instead of saying: I love the weather here. Every piece of intimacy and truth you give him feels like handing him hints to an unspoken game that you feel you're already losing.

He hooks his arm around you fully, and pulls you in, where you settle down with your head on his shoulder. There's no use fighting him. His thumb rubs over your skin and you can't bring yourself to look at him. His face stirs up feelings of upset you're not quite ready to deal with. Your stomach is a swirling mess of anxiety this morning, and you cannot tell which impending issue is the cause of it.

The books that stack the wall in front of you keep you visually happy. Looking over the old, vintage spines of varied browns and burgundy reds, the mahogany bookcase, the titles you can only read few of, feels grounding and real. Far from the strange dream of Knights and Jedi and Sith you've been stuck in.

"What is your favourite colour?" You say, out of the blue, your small words filling the crisp morning air. There has to be a window open somewhere. It's like you can smell the snow.

"Excuse me?" He turns to look at you, those narrowed eyes increasingly judgemental, and it only makes you want to crack his head open and inspect all the more.