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kylorengarbagedump · 7 years

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Unprofessional Services: Chapter 2

Read on AO3. Part 1 here. Part 3 here.

Summary: Your first meeting with Commander Ren goes just as well as you would have expected. Okay, no, that's a lie. You expected it to go at least three times better than this.

Words: 2500

Warnings: Kind of angsty maybe?

Characters: Kylo Ren x Reader

A/N: Yay! New chapter up! I want to see if I can do a thing where I publish chapters of my fics alternating weeks. One week, Little Bird, the next, Unprofessional Services. We'll see! I'm feeling a lot better, recently, but I am starting a second job, so... YEAH!

Anyway, that's my second chapter! Thanks so much for your feedback on the first one. It made me happy! <3 Love y'all.

You breathed in.

Two minutes until the Commander was to arrive. Dammit--you hadn’t meant to check. Every glance at the chronometer sped the pace of your heart. There’d be no quick closure, as you’d hoped. Hux had made it clear in the message delivered to your datapad that neither you nor Fent would be eligible for departure until the progress of your newest and, now, only client, was determined satisfactory. It was, therefore, important that this first meeting go well.

The chronometer hit 10:00. You stiffened, eyes trained on the door. Any second now, and it would slide open, and you would stand and greet him, hello, Commander, and you would begin your session. Intake questions first, of course--his personnel file was classified, and you’d have to create your own. What would he look like? You knew he had a mask. A lightsaber. A temper. Not much else.

Another minute passed, and then another. The tension in your body released, emptying into the room like heavy heat. Your fingers rapped over the cool, barren surface of your desk, counting the seconds with tiny thumps. The lateness was intentional, you were certain--a display of power, a demonstration of the malleable value of time. Already, you could sketch an image of this man in your mind: older, most likely, given his position and apparent gifts. And with the knowledge of his weapon, the already blatant abuse of his rank--perhaps compensating?

For internal insecurities, of course. Not anything, well, lewd.

Stars, you should have had some caf. He hadn’t even entered the room and you were already curious about his sex life. But then--who wouldn’t be? Being such a high-ranking officer bore mystery enough--it was human curiosity to ponder about the private lives of those in control. Hell, you’d even wondered if the snivelly ginger had ever managed to refrain from pissing off someone long enough to--

The blast door parted with a whirr, and you stymied the urge to scramble to your feet out of embarrassment. You definitely hadn’t just been thinking about his dick. Clearing your throat, you stood--and words were robbed from your throat.

Commander Kylo Ren was tall--frighteningly tall, even while you were standing--and cloaked entirely in black robes, like a hulking assassin. Even underneath the layers, though, you could see the swells of muscle, the broadness of his body, the power contained within his carefully concealed figure. It was alluring--fascinating. More fascinating still was the helmet, the mask of which you’d heard murmured mentions. The design was an imitation of a face, a brief allusion but not full acknowledgment of the living being underneath it. Instead, it was a collection of sharp lines and hard, shiny metal, the eye slot vacant and the mouth muzzled.

There was someone here, the mask said. But that someone is dead.

Blinking, you stretched out your hand, shaking off the impressive aura he’d just inspired in the air. You needed to solidify your position, too.

“Hello, Commander,” you said, just as you’d practiced--but he didn’t stop, not even to look at your hand. Instead, he took the seat across from you, in silence.

Body language was the primary indicator of a client’s mood, disposition, compliance. Crossed arms was a signal of defensiveness. A clenching fist indicated silent irritation. The position of the torso--leaned back in the chair, or bent forward--demonstrated, typically, the client’s willingness to participate. And of course, there was the face, something that you’d think most wouldn’t need assistance interpreting--and yet you’d met those who were oblivious to even a repetitive roll of eyes. Even still, the production of body language was universal. Intrinsic.

Commander Ren’s body language, for example, was very clear. Hunched back, wide feet, leather hands tight over one another, like clamshells. Even with his face obscured by his mask, it stated, with no uncertainty: Get me the fuck out of this room.

Nodding, you sat again, introducing yourself with a smile. Always meet the client at their level. “Well, let’s get started, then.” You opened a new intake document on your datapad. “I do have to ask… are you going to insist on wearing the helmet?”

“Most likely.” The sound leaving the mask was dark and distorted, like the gnashing in the back of a person’s brain, the rumbling underneath their humanity. It made your stomach churn. Made your spine chill. And, oddly: it made your heart flip. “I see no circumstance that would require me to remove it.”

You shrugged. “There might not be. But therapy is a two-way street. It isn’t only my job when we’re in this office.” Grinning, you leaned forward. “It’s as much your job to give as it is mine.”

In your head, this had been a good line. Well, it normally was, to be honest. Most clients relaxed when you stripped away the mystery of expertise. The introduction of collaboration was an important piece of your work--establishing you as equals on the journey to recovery. But this was not recovery. And Kylo Ren was not convinced. He tilted his head, the blank slate of his gaze regarding you with a piercing, unsettling impunity.

Forcing another smile, you glanced at your pad, putting on your warmest, most welcoming Therapist Voice. “I suppose I’ll briefly take care of these intake questions, since our work will be a bit different. I need a little demographic information, first. So…” You prepared for data-entry. “Your age, sir?”

“You’d prefer to waste time on questions rather than the work you’ve been assigned.”

You raised a brow and cracked a half-smile. “If you’d classify me trying to get to know more about you, the person I’ve been asked to work with, a waste, then, yes.”

“I would.” He was statue-solid. “I’m interested only in following the request of the Supreme Leader.”

“That’s fine,” you said, “and I’d love to help you with that. But like I said earlier, this is going to be really difficult if we aren’t building a partnership.”

He huffed. It almost seemed like derision. “A partnership.”

“Well, yes,” you replied. Your palms were sweating. “I can’t begin to accomplish anything if we aren’t working together.”

Kylo Ren leaned back in his chair, hands still clasped. “I see nothing that you can offer me outside of the services Leader Snoke has prescribed.”

This resistance was typical, especially among higher ranking officers--your Commander was no exception. But there was something particularly irritating about the fact that you’d been denied your escape because of this jackass, and now he was acting like he didn’t even want to do the damn thing he was told to do. Yet he invited an important question. How the hell were you supposed to accomplish this, anyway? There weren’t any manuals or trainings or even guidelines on anything remotely resembling “anti-therapy.” Was Snoke expecting you to just… yell at him, or something?

“Let me ask you this, Commander.” You lowered your datapad onto your desk. “What exactly do you want to get out of this?”

It was strange and awkward, staring across the room into a faceless being whose breathing seemed in rhythm with your own, like watching a hologram whose prompter had malfunctioned, or a droid that knew only to imitate what was directly in its line of sight. You hadn’t expected the question to silence him--if anything, you’d been expecting more sarcasm--but then a minute passed, and he still had said nothing.

“Have you thought of something?” Your question failed to prompt a response. But this too, was typical. “Ignoring me won’t get you any closer to your goal.”

“So you assume.”

“Stop deflecting,” you said, sighing. “I can only handle so much deliberate avoidance in one day.”

Kylo Ren shifted--his slight movement thinning the air and tightening your chest. The Force, you feared at first, until you realized you could breathe just fine and the issue was something intangible, hovering just out of your grasp, something you wanted to name but couldn’t even identify. You blinked, trying to will it away, wanting to stare at him with the clear, even eyes of a professional, but your body responded against your will. Through the black barrier of his mask, you felt his stare, focused now, like a beam, burning through walls you hadn’t even known were there, seeking you, finding you, singeing the stray threads that poked like errant hairs from your brain, setting them alight, fuses to the center of your vulnerability--

“Really.” His voice was gravel through gears. “Deliberate avoidance.”

You drew in a breath, long and secretly shaky, through your teeth. And you shrugged. “Oh, yes, Commander.” He could not scare you. He wouldn’t. Even if now, you somehow felt like his prey, you’d do everything you could to make him yours, instead. “You’ve done nothing but deflect and avoid since the moment you walked through this door, honestly.”

“Hm.” The mask, its human impression mocking you, tilted. “Do tell.”

“You want me to tell you?” you asked. You hadn’t expected that. But he asked for it. “Sure. First, you were late. That’s like, avoidance technique number one.” You held out your hand, counting his offenses on your fingers. “Second, your demeanor when you entered was--well, less than excited. Clear sign that you are trying to reject anything that might come from me, especially anything trying to pry into your personal business. Third, any questions I asked you were immediately ignored or responded to with impersonal sarcasm. Actually, maybe the sarcasm could be its own point.”

You were up to four, now, and slowly released your fifth finger, returning his laser-stare. Or, at least, that was your hope. “Last of all, we come to your helmet. I asked if you would insist on wearing it. You, out of fear for me seeing your face and, perhaps, your vulnerability, said yes.” Raising your eyebrows, you glanced between your hand and his mask. “All that in less than ten minutes.”

He shifted again, pausing. “You think yourself an expert.”

With a smile, you replied, “Yes, Commander. I most certainly do.” Leaning back in your chair, you folded your hands over your lap. “Now. How do you think this should work?”

“This.”

“Yes,” you said. “Our working together.”

You could almost taste the delight on his tongue as he spoke. “Why would you ask me? Aren’t you the expert?”

Had he been any other client, you might’ve laughed, given your canned response, if I am, you’re still the expert on your own life, and rephrased the question. But your cheeks were hot. And you felt him staring again. Ridiculing you. Barring you from the only chance you’d have to get off of this stupid ship and maybe, finally do something fucking right for fucking once in your fucking life--

“You know, I imagine there’s a reason you don’t want to talk.” The words were coming out before you could plug them. “A reason why you wear all those clothes and the helmet and everything. You probably have trouble opening up to others. Hell, you probably can’t! I wonder why, really. Is there something you’re afraid I’ll find, Commander? You don’t want to look weak?”

A pause. “You’re irritating.”

“And you have emotional regulation issues. Oh, and you use intimidation as replacement for inspiring true respect in others--”

“Enough.” He stood, looming over your desk in a single stride. “Attempting to get inside of my head is the last thing you should be doing.” He pushed your datapad to the side and pounced, planting his palms on your desk, his mask inches from your face. “I assure you--it’s a game I’ll win.”

Was your chin trembling? You hoped it wasn’t trembling. “That’s too bad, Commander,” you replied, ignoring the quaver in your voice and the goosebumps on your neck. Your breath grew a cloudy film on his muzzle. “It’s what I do best.”

“Provide me with what I need, officer.” He pulled back. His fists were balled. “Because I can ensure that you never leave this ship.”

Before you could reply, he was gone, through your door a black wisp. When it shut behind him, you thought you might breathe, gather your things, and head back to your quarters to check on Fent. But your muscles were frozen, your eyes locked, staring into a nothingness that was swallowing the edges of your sight. He knew you wanted to leave. How did he know? Did it matter? Did he know about Fent, too? Would he hurt him?

That wasn’t how this was supposed to have gone. How would you get anything done with Kylo Ren acting like this was a service you could provide without his cooperation? You weren’t even sure what the hell you were supposed to be doing, anyway--it should’ve been figured out between the both of you. Instead, you’d fucked up again. Again.

Tears stung your eyes, your mind racing with ribbons of thought--fuck-up you fucked up again you ruined it you’re stuck here Fent will never get better he’s sick because of you he fucking hates you why are you even here--

Face cracking, you slammed your fist onto the unforgiving surface of your desk, and whimpered when the dull ripples of pain echoed up your wrist. Another slam, and the resonance sharpened, waves rattling the bones in your hand. Growling, you hit the desk a final time, tears slipping over your cheeks as you pinned your lips together, trapping the shuddering whine that fought its way through your throat.

No. You wouldn’t let this defeat you. You’d figure this out. Even if you had to stay up through the sleep cycle, work through meals. You were getting off of this ship.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren #kylo trash #unprofessional services #fanfiction problems #my definition of a slow burn

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