Boy - Adam Driver Kylo Ren Fanfic

Inside Star Destroyer

He leads me by the hand up the stairs, but I'd follow him anywhere.

Inside his loft, the main room is all hardwood floors and rusted metal tools and weird taxidermy and bleached animal skulls and house plants everywhere. It's like walking in to someone's subconscious. His is half artist, half caveman, the parts that can't be tamed. But it's got a weird 70s vibe: mirrors and recessed lighting and faux fireplaces and sexy surfaces you know were once dusted with coke and quaaludes.

He leads me into the kitchen, pours us two shots of something from a big green glass bottle that says Becherovka.

"It's Czech. Herbal. But it tastes almost like cinnamon. Nazdravi," he toasts as we clink, locking eyes.

"This tastes like Christmas," I say, "but hotter." It burns but in a good way. He kisses me hard, savouring the taste on my lips. I bite his lip as he pulls away.

"Come. Let's change. We're wet from the snow."

His bedroom is small, mostly bed. A desk faces the windows and it's strewn with art supplies: small paper buildings, intricately drawn and constructed into shapes. A turn table and sound system line the wall on the right, stacked in the wooden built in shelves. It's playing Tame Impala. It's music made for making out. He's shy, pulling clothes from a small dresser, smelling them to make sure they're clean enough for me. He doesn't realize how much I love the campfire tobacco smoke that surrounds him.

"You can change in the bathroom?"

As I walk the hall, I turn to catch him grab his damp sweater and pull it over his shoulders. For a second his cinnamon roll of a body is exposed, illuminated in his bedroom's warm light.

Old sepia-toned circus photos line the bathroom walls. Elephant men and naked tattooed women, their skin covered from chest to thigh, like an old bathing suit romper. I take too long, staring.

"You have any?"

"Circus experience?" I ask. 

"No, tattoos." He pulls his new warm sweater off from the back, as his tshirt rises with it, exposing his creamy cinnamon bun skin. He pulls the white tshirt back down and I can see four black geometric tattoos on his smooth forearms. One looks like an abstract key, another a giant black-lined crystal, another disappears under his shirt sleeve. They manage to make his skin look even whiter, like they were drawn on onionskin paper, the ultimate contrast between light and dark. You want to touch them, trace your fingers along their delicate lines. Suddenly, I find my fingers running over them, pausing to wrap my hand around his biceps, up his shoulders. I can't breathe. I can't blink. I feel his muscles tense beneath me, like an animal unaccustomed to human touch.

"You should get some," he eyes scan my body. "Come over to the dark side with me."

"Ironically, I read in Harper's that the chance that a woman under 35 has a tattoo is 1/2. For men, it's only 1/4. But  I wouldn't know how - what to get, or where."

"Ah, you need a teacher. I'll show you the ways of the dark side."

"But first, it's popcorn time," and he grabs my hand for the kitchen.