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lolthsworn-lav · 2 months

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ceremonial proceedings

It was quiet.

Ambient noise had ceased - the droves of drow who had attended the lavish sacrificial ceremony moving swiftly now through the streets of Menzoberranzan, their footsteps unburdened by the thick layers of webbing that coated the silty earth of the Underdark. Lavinia stood in these halls regularly, the rank she had killed bled and prayed for affording her more substantial roles in their city’s grand shows of devotion. Much like every other night she found herself there, she was barefoot, obsidian gaze cast up to the intricate golden braziers that would surge with violet flames to signify the Flesh Carver’s approval, the delicate etchings in the sides and the attention to even the chains that fastened them to the seemingly endless stone pillars that stretched above her. Her ears twitched, barely perceptible, as she took notice of soft boot falls across the room.

“You’re still here.” She did not move her head, even as the presence drew closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth from the other’s skin. “Did you not hope I would be, yathrin?” Minthara had a voice like smoke and charcoal, dark and warm and rough. The hair on the back of her neck stood in response to the words, tongue pressing hard against the backs of her teeth as she considered her next response. There was always a certain lack of control that came with these clandestine meetings, moments in which she would relinquish carefully held reigns to someone other than the Spider Queen, moments of weakness. “I did.” Her response was a huff of air; the approximation of a laugh.

This dance was familiar, the push, the pull, the clawing hands and the kisses with teeth and tongue, and so there was an electric air of impatience, of predators lying in wait, craving the satisfaction of a successful hunt. Lavinia finally turned her head enough to catch the crimson stare over her bared, freckled shoulder. She offered a hum in response, no indication one way or the other, but the flash in her gaze said everything her stubborn, petulant mouth would not. As if moving as one, each of their hands grasped the other’s jaw with a fierceness, though the Baenre’s position was advantageous and she proved it so when she pressed her fingertips against the front of the Lolthite’s esophagus, making her sputter unexpectedly. She almost laughed, breathless as she was, lashes whiter and softer than ash fluttering at her brief flirtation with suffocation, and she did drop her hand.

“Rude.” Lavinia drawled, her fingers closing instead around Minthara’s wrist, pressing her thumb hard where the radius met the carpal bones, grinding against that blemishless wisteria skin as if she could break right through it to her very marrow. The hand on her jaw tightened, thumb mimicking her own actions as it found the hinge between upper and lower mandible. “Do not tempt me.” Her warm breath tickled the shell of her ear and she shuddered, tilting her chin up once more so she could study the profile of the other woman, her strong features and the twist to her mouth that reminded Lavinia of the game they played.

A held breath left her, one she had not realised was trapped somewhere behind her ribcage, and she closed her eyes, letting her world plunge into inky darkness, blinding herself to the searching gaze of every idol of their deity that lined the walls. The paladin was using her grip to steer her forward and she followed the nonverbal instruction without hesitation, feeling a flare of visceral self-loathing at the show of trust she extended to the other drow. They stopped moving and before she opened her eyes, she could visualize exactly where she would find herself. Inches from the altar, still wet with blood, the porous stone as hungry as their Queen - inches from the very spot she had stood and uttered her prayers, promised her fealty, cut another neck to navel. Slowly, she blinked, peering out from beneath the heavy curtain of her lashes to confirm.

“What if I wanted to be your temptress, as you are mine? What if I told you I would spill my blood at your feet, should you only ask?” The words felt especially sticky when she spoke them, viscous and syrupy, threatening to choke her, the voice in the back of her head screaming danger.

Another of those dark chuckles, rolling over her spine like thunder that brought with it razorsharp wind. “I would call you a liar.” “I’m offended. And not.” Lavinia insisted, letting her head roll on her neck until its weight met an armored shoulder. “A liar, that is.” “I’m sure you are.” Minthara’s hand on her jaw relaxed and she instead traced her fingers down the very epicenter of her throat, featherlight touches that followed the curve of clavicles moments later, slipping beneath ceremonial silk to reach the end of the elegant bone. “Offended, that is. You are awfully brazen tonight. Your tongue is loose.” “I am feeling particularly favored,” She purred, cheeks dimpling as she fought back a laugh that caught on her teeth anyway, a half-giggle that she swallowed a little too late. “What no one sees cannot hurt us. I am prized for my cunning, remember?” Carefully, she let her foot slide back against the stone floor, settling one of her legs between the Baenre’s.

“Are you asking me to desecrate not only this altar but you along with it, Daughter of Lolth?” “I did not say desecrate-” “Ah, but you meant it. Did you not? Did you mean instead for me to pray here with you? Or do you mean for me-”

While Minthara spoke, the priestess took her chance, locking her foot around the paladin’s ankle to trip her up, switching their positions and catching her by both wrists. Lavinia walked her back, taking advantage of her momentarily unstable footing to force a curve into her spine until the drowcraft armor nearly kissed the still-glistening blood. She released her right hand to wrap an arm under the arch in the other drow’s back, splaying her fingers out in a half-hold, only still for a second until she was absently tracing the line of her spine. “You let your guard down around me.” Minthara made some noncommittal noise in response and the priestess allowed her to right herself, though the arm secured around her waist remained. She lowered her head, nosing at the neck she had been itching to get her hands around only minutes before, stamping hot, open-mouthed kisses up and up until she could suck a bruise against the bone of her jaw, staking a claim she should not have been. As if reading her thoughts, Minthara’s fingers wound in rebellious white curls and yanked her head back, groaning as Lavinia’s teeth caught her skin, unwilling to part. “I do, because I know you. Don’t act out, lince'sa.” “It was you who spoke of desecration, you who put it in my mind,” And she ducked her head again, nuzzling as her fingers worked the buckles and fasteners of the other’s breastplate and pauldrons, the echo of the heavy armor hitting the floor the only sound in that moment besides their simultaneous breathing; more like gasping, more like praying -- “If you know me so well, you know I am only acquiescing.” Minthara bit back a laugh but Lavinia felt the hitch in her chest and smiled against her shoulder, which was now receiving the attention of her eager mouth. She wanted to taste each inch of her skin as it was revealed to ravenous eyes; she wanted to drag her nails across it until the perfection afforded to the other drow’s noble flesh was no more. “Hm. Playing along for me? You needn’t.” Her hand had never left Lavinia’s hair and she used that same grip to, again, switch their positions, dragging out a surprised gasp as she lay the priestess out against the altar. Her curls sprawled around her head like the most deceptive halo and, slowly, crimson soaked into the snow white locks and still she ran her fingers through them, a surprisingly soft gesture.

Their eyes met and their mouths crashed together soon after, Lavinia barely managing to free her arms and use them to push herself into a sitting position as their tongues battled in some macabre dance, teeth as eager as lips. Blood made their saliva slicker but there was no way to tell who it belonged to. Lavinia was inhaling Minthara’s every exhale, recycling one another’s air in a bid to prolong the need to part. The silk of her robes caught on the stone, miniscule tears as she moved carelessly, nearly crawling into the other’s lap as she settled herself atop the altar, knees on either side of her hips. Nearly light-headed and assuredly oxygen deprived and delirious, the priestess broke their embrace, obsidian stare wild, unencumbered by the boundaries they had to observe under the watchful eye of the rest of the city. Without looking away, she took Minthara’s hand and trailed it down her side, along the slits in ceremonial robes and to the strong muscle of her thigh, the gleaming gold of her prized dagger in sharp contrast against the dusky tones of her complexion. She closed her fingers around the intricately carved handle, squeezing it slightly. “You called me a liar.” Lavinia breathed against her lips, gaze heavy lidded and still searching (always searching). “I did.” Minthara replied in the same fashion. She flexed her hand, weighing the blade, ensuring it sat comfortable in her grasp. “I told you I was not.” She continued. “You did.” There was a strain to both of their voices then, an anticipation, a poison that raged through both of their veins that neither had been successful in leaching from their bodies. She guided the paladin’s hand, the point of the dagger catching on freckled skin as it trailed up, over her hip, the plane of her abdomen, up her sternum until she stopped in the center, her own breath hitching.

“I could kill you.” “I could die from my want of you.” Lavinia retorted, sitting up straighter, the dagger the only thing separating their torsos. She leaned into it, just enough that it broke skin, liquid carmine beading around the gold, trailing in delicate rivulets down the contours of her chest. “I feel like I may, every time you are away.” Minthara cocked a brow, though the edges of her mouth twitched. “Is that so?” She drawled, using her free hand to catch the other’s chin, tilting her head down so their eyes could again meet. “Yes. You know this. I have told you. Your presence agonizes me, but I covet it at the same time. You could cut my heart out, I would let you.” “I am sure Lolth would be pleased to see your blood spilt. Perhaps less so if it is spilled for me.”

“Everything I do is for you,” The blasphemy was hot on her marred lips, it struck a match in both of them, Minthara and Lavinia both sitting straighter, spines steel rods, their eyes burning and unblinking, the blood beneath them growing sticky as it dried in the open air of the temple. Blade still between them, the priestess leaned in further, barely wincing as it sunk deeper into her flesh. “You tainted me. Ruined me the moment I laid eyes on you.” She groaned softly at the surge of pain, feeling Minthara begin to twist the dagger, just slightly, emphasizing each word that dripped from saccharine lips. “Sunk your greedy claws into my marrow-” “Ah, but how can I be greedy for something so freely given?” The Baenre challenged, gaze flashing as she jerked her arm in a quick motion, leaving a shallow cut from the blade’s prior resting place to Lavinia’s navel, cutting through silk as it did flesh, unfaltering. There was a clattering noise to the side of them as Minthara discarded the weapon with no decorum, eager hands finding purchase against the priestess’ hips, holding her still as her teeth assaulted the new wound, bruising the freckled skin with a desperation neither of them should have harbored, let alone encouraged. Her actions earned a startled gasp and a series of desperate, wanting cries, hushed though they may have been. “And on an altar, no less. Arguably, an offering for me.” Lavinia’s hands were dexterous with the removal of her ruined ceremonial garb, casting it aside as quickly as she had her earlier hesitations, their quickly tangling limbs a spectrum of purples, only enhanced by the dim light of the dying braziers. “And such a pretty one, too. How bold, lince’sa, to bleed yourself in Lolth’s temple without her in mind.” Lavinia made a noise of protest as the other drow’s nails caught her wound, tracing it up and down, an unspoken promise, and her tongue followed soon after, rousing a shudder from the depths of the priestess’ being. She felt breathless and no matter how deeply she inhaled, her lungs would not inflate. There was something divine about tasting someone’s blood, their life essence - like being fed something sacred, a special type of idolatry. “Did you pray for forgiveness when you hoped I would stay behind?” Minthara’s words were a near growl and her hips rolled in response, a desperate attempt to continue to lessen the space that still, for whatever reason, existed between their bodies.

The shake of the head Minthara received in response roused a full chuckle, unbitten and unhidden. “Shall I help you?” The priestess knew this was crossing toeing lines (it always was). Still, she took the unspoken cue and untangled her body from the paladin’s, swinging her legs over one side of the altar to kneel instead at its base, waiting for the other drow to adjust her position, settling so that Lavinia was between her thighs. Dark, doll gaze traced the lean, muscular lines of Minthara’s form until they reached her face. Something between rage and desire roared in her and she wanted to bite her mouth until that smirk melted away, to reach into her chest to hold the heart that had her own in such dire straits -- she closed her eyes once more, for just a moment, shuddering under the intensity of their predicament, the consequences they were boldly inviting. Her head tilted back as she felt fingers crawl into her hair, a lilac arachnid that anchored itself to her skull, thumb rubbing rough but reassuring circles against the skin beneath her ear.

There was a silence between them, one that carried with so much that must remain unspoken, that neither of them could say. That they would never be able to say. Worship was a language they could both speak in without speaking at all; without using those forbidden words, without admittances or vulnerabilities that could be snatched, stolen and abused by others.

So, instead, Lavinia pressed searing kisses against Minthara’s thighs and gripped them with bruising strength in silent devotion. Instead, Minthara tangled both of her hands in the priestess’ hair, cradling her like she was some precious thing.

Instead, they fell into one another until the night grew impossibly, bitterly, old.

#cw blood #cw knifeplay #cw woundplay #cw hot drow

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forever-yours-simdate · 5 months

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can I get a lake nsfw and sfw alphabet please?

Lake's SFW alphabet was answered here.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Honestly one a the few times he gets really relaxed. Kinda lays in a blissed out haze that lasts anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours, depends. Afterwards though he goes back to his usual anxious, clingy, guilt-ridden mindset. His s/o would probably have to put him to bed lest he exhausts himself worrying and crying.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Doesn't particularly have a part of his body he likes himself, any part he feels like he likes just depends on what other have complimented him about.

On his partner... he likes everything! But if he had to choose something specific he focuses on hands a lot. Hands holding things, hands holding him. Grabbing, strangling, touching him. etc. etc.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Swallows and enjoys it. Also because he doesn't like getting cum in his hair.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

I can think of several things but the first one I think of is : when he was waay younger he stole his mom's "massage wand" and used it so frequently it Broke and he went out of his way to sneak into a neighbor's backyard to throw it away in their trashcan. Silly guy!

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Has actually had all sorts of ex-partners whom he's done all sorts of things with, so he's the most experienced with sex in the cast. (Whether or not these relationships were healthy... is another story.)

Despite generally being pretty bad at reading other people and really... awkward (is one way to put it), he's a people-pleaser so he picks up on what his partner likes (or what they want from him) pretty quickly and tries to accommodate to the best of his abilities.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Love love looooves being held and pinned down or otherwise not being able to leave or run away from his partner. Also likes any position that makes him feel small compared to his partner, like sitting on the floor while they stand or sit on a chair. Basically anything that makes him feel... wanted, skin contact or not.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Really serious, and worries even when silly things happen, although he relaxes a little if his partner reassures him it's just a fun time.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He's naturally pretty hairless, so he doesn't have to actually do much about pubic hair, or body hair in general.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Very verrrrry affectionate. Constantly babbling praises and words of love when he can think. Super super clingy.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Doesn't actually jerk of all that often? Post-nut clarity after masturbating causes him to feel awful so he avoids jerking off unless he's so horny he can't focus, and even then he'd rather hook up with someone than be by himself...

If he didn't have such bad post-nut depression he'd probably jerk off every time he could find time to himself.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

BDSM (esp. sadomasochism), RACK both feel pretty obvious? Knifeplay/woundplay, CNC. Really likes being collared/leashed. Really into... mixing bodily fluids (usually blood, even if he doesn't like the idea of his partner getting hurt. but this also includes other fluids), choking, sliiiiight corruption kink.

Honestly you could get him into anything. He's really suggestible.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Likes doing it in bedroom settings but he's honestly fine anywhere and everywhere (or. his level of anxiety is a few notches lower than his default).

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Mostly anything. Particularly likes markings, particularly ones that are long lasting (or even permanent). Really used to giving so when he's receiving he gets really worked up. Also likes doing things that makes him feel claimed/owned, or things that makes him feel like he's claiming/owning his partner.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Doesn't like roleplay because he's not good at it. It causes him to overthink and kinda finds it... distracting. He's fine with using titles and mild petplay stuff but the more complicated/specific the scene the more he doesn't really feel comfortable doing it.

Also voyeurism/exhibitionism. With past sex friends/fwbs he's okay with it, but with a romantic partner he really doesn't like it and will actually put up a fight about it.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Prefers giving but mostly because he's over-accommodating. When he doesn't feel pressured/expected to do it he enjoys both, with a slight tilt towards receiving.

Good because he's had a lot of practice.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Receiving he prefers fast and rough, giving though he likes both. Tends to get really excited and squirmy, but is also good at drawing things out when he puts his mind to it.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Is okay with them! With how high his sex drive is it's actually pretty nice.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

100% down. Loves the adrenaline rush from risky stuff.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He gets fatigued fairly easily (unhealthy guy!) but his endurance is actually insane, especially when he's horny. Can handle being fucked silly or overstimmed or edged for hours, but needs to rest if he's doing anything that requires him to move.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Owns a bunch of toys and lubes and joke gifts, usually from past escapades. Actually has an acquaintance that has their own sex toy shop so they sometimes give him some stuff for free, to review or due to overstock.

He does use them, usually with a partner. The ones he owns tend to be used on him, he doesn't keep ones that were used a partner after the relationship has ended.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Not a tease at all. If you ask him for something he'll do it immediately. He's too desperate (to feel, or to please) to tease.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

So, so, so noisy and loud, since he relaxes enough to let it all out. Can talk in shaky sentences until he's too blissed out to talk at all, which after that it's just kinda squeals and whines and sharp inhales and sometimes wheezes like he's dying.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Lost his virginity in highschool! It was consensual and with a classmate and was an actually pretty good first experience. One of the few nice things that has happened to him in life!

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Re : as always I don't care. 3.5' soft 6.2' hard

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Highest sex drive out of the guys. Usually feels too ick to do anything about it though, but when he gets attached to a partner he gets very needy.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

If you wear him out he'll fall asleep immediately (or during...), but if it's like. One round he's still worked up and awake.

#keni.ask #anon #oc : lake #nsfwask

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kylorengarbagedump · 4 years

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Little Bird: Chapter 36 (NSFW)

Read one AO3. Part 35 here. Part 37 here.

Summary: Your bullet wound is tended to. Somehow, Gilead makes things like this even more awkward than normal.

Words: 6600

Warnings: woundplay, bloodplay

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: Hiiii! I am so glad to hear people enjoy my self-indulgence, so, here, have some more! Haha. Can't help myself, have loved this shit since I was young. Please forgive me. As usual, I am so grateful for y'all. You truly brighten my day--I feel so lucky to have what I have. I love y'all very much. I try to respond to as many comments as possible. Thank you thank you. TwT <3

You weren’t surprised that Johana was furious when she opened the door to find you, yet again in the arms of your Commander, the both of you drenched with rain and iridescent with blood.

What did surprise you was how quickly this fury crumbled into a trembling, panicked concern.

Her attention darted between your wound and his face, and she moved toward you, half-reaching toward your arm, then thinking better of it. “What--what happened?” She glared at her husband. “What are you doing here? Take her to a hospital!”

Kylo pushed past her, wet boots squeaking on the hardwood, and Johana growled, shutting the door and trailing behind him. His grip was tight, fingers pinching your flesh.

“I’m going to call the ambulance,” she said. “I’m not letting a Handmaid bleed out in our--”

He whirled on her, and you rocked with him, stomach churning with the sudden movement. “Pryde is staging a coup,” he replied. “Until I discover the reach of his influence, there is no safer place than this home.” He paused. “For her. And you.”

Silence lingered for a moment, and Johana’s expression sharpened, lips parting. Her eyes followed the grain of the wall, slow air leaking in her lungs. She glanced at the floor, horror falling like a curtain over her face.

“Commander,” she said, “I…” She swallowed with a frown. “Commander Pryde stopped by the house this morning. He wanted to speak with you. I…” She stepped toward him, chin quivering. “I told him you’d left and hadn’t informed me where you were going, I shouldn't have said anything, I’m sorry--”

“Enough.” Kylo tensed, a wall of muscle against your frame. “It’s irrelevant now. Once she is stable, I’ll be departing with the Knights.” He adjusted you in his hold. “There’s a bullet in her arm.”

Johana gazed at him, hands wringing together, and sighed. Sucking in a long breath, she stepped forward and studied your wound. Your face flushed in embarrassment, expecting admonishment, or even cruelty from her, but it was as if she’d transformed, taken on another skin. She was calculating, cataloging something as she stared, leaning on her toes, humming in thought. There was no evidence of the woman you feared in the person before you--she’d been replaced by a confident, objective analyst.

“Well, there’s no arterial damage,” she said, “she would’ve bled out already. The tourniquet isn’t necessary.” She eased closer, mouth screwing in thought. “Might’ve clipped the humerus, too hard to tell.” Eyes narrowing, she pressed her thumb to the perimeter of the wound, and you seethed--Kylo’s fingers bit into you. “It’s not infected yet. I can clean it. Stitch it. Even if we’re going to keep her out of the hospital, she’ll still need antibiotics. And to rest for at least two weeks.”

“I’ll arrange for it,” he said. “I’ll return when this is resolved. You will be responsible for her.” He shifted close, voice low. “This is an order as your husband. Do you understand?”

Johana nodded, glancing at between the both of you and then to her feet, face pink. “Yes, Commander, I understand.”

“Prepare your supplies.” He turned and strode down the hall.

Kylo carried you through the home into his bedroom, shutting the door and locking it. He eased you to the floor and popped the tourniquet from your arm--you winced at the release of pressure, the new pulse of pain through your nerves. In silence, he crossed to the bathroom, and you heard the squeal of an opening pipe, the gush of a spigot, and blushed. He was running a bath for you.

When he returned, he removed your coat--his coat, technically--and tossed it to the ground, leading you toward the bed with a gentle hand while he gathered the hem of your nightgown and drew it over your frame. It stuck to you like plastic wrapping, leaving damp stains on your skin--and you plopped on the mattress as he guided it over your ribs. He raised your uninjured limb and lifted the rest of the gown over your head, your arm, and then down over your wound. You whimpered as the fabric peeled from your aching flesh, leaving you in your soaked undergarments.

Focused, he took your legs, throwing your socks and shoes to the floor, before looking to your bra, reaching behind you and unhooking it. You were speechless, teeth chattering, pain biting like skeleton claws as you watched your Commander--the man who had just single-handedly slaughtered dozens of soldiers--tend to you like you were the most precious, most delicate creature he’d ever had under his hands. His fingers were firm, soothing you with even the slightest touch, and he met your gaze, sliding his thumbs toward your underwear, warm brandy gleaming in his eyes.

Still trembling, you nodded, and he wedged them free, fabric bunching as it rolled down your thighs, and added them to the sopping pile of clothing on the hardwood. Having finished that, he released you and began to strip himself, starting with his boots and coat, still without words as the mountain of garments grew larger. He was stoic, never once sneaking a glimpse of your body until he was nude, too.

Though you’d cum for him four times already, and though your cunt twinged from the recent stretch of his dick, it was impossible not to revere him, like this, skin smoldering in dim light. Kylo Ren’s broad, crushing power and his beauty were seemingly disparate--yet the clean strength of his body only served to accentuate the elegant curve of his nose, the petal-pink of his lips, the soft, wet waves of his hair. He returned the stare, gaze dancing over your figure, but only in quiet, worried praise, as if you were a damaged triumph of art that was his to repair.

Blinking, he broke away, and walked to check your bath. Inside, you heard the splash of water, a knob adjustment, and he appeared again, silent as he scooped you to his chest. The shivering hadn’t stopped, and now that you could see it, you noticed that the bleeding hadn’t fully stopped, either. It wasn’t a river, more of a weep, tiny trickles pushed from your pulsating flesh as it rippled with every beat of your heart. You couldn’t see the bullet in the red mess of meat--and as you crossed the threshold, you wondered how far down it had gone.

Kylo’s bathroom was wall-to-wall white subway tile, extending to the walk-in shower at the far end, the floor a pattern of black and white ceramic diamonds. The towels, too--whether hung or stowed or folded--were white and black, every accessory a silvered pewter. A ceiling light exposed the steel-grey skies outside, the room illuminated by two incandescent glass sconces above the mirror. The air was hot and thick--water half-filled a large clawfoot tub, and your Commander suspended you above it, lowering you into the bath like you’d splinter from shock.

Relief was immediate, and you sighed, an imitation of a corpse in his arms. Heat engulfed you, sucking the tension from your skin, the steady stream of the spigot drowning your anxious mind. He released you, let you float, and your head rolled along the tub, a soft, satisfied hum escaping your chest. Steam wafted into your sight, and you breathed it in, hoping to fill your lungs with its comfort while Kylo pulled up a wooden stool. He removed the towel folded on top of it and sat, adjusting until he was at your side.

Your cheeks burned as you watched him gather the towel in his hand and pass it under the spigot, mesmerized by the taut muscles in his arms, his back. It was the third time in 24 hours you’d seen him without clothing, and still you salivated for it, each time an entirely new experience to your mind. Ignorant of your admiration, Kylo wrung the towel of excess water and lathered it with soap before gazing at you, face blank--your lip wibbled, your heart skipped. If it weren’t for the gunshot wound in your arm, you’d try to prod yourself awake.

His free hand cupped the back of your neck, eased you up, while the other started at your shoulders, drawing slow, soapy circles down your mottled neck and clavicle, moving to your uninjured arm, cleansing away the cold film left by the rain. He shifted then, to your chest, sitting you straighter, and washed the mud and splattered soil from your breasts and abdomen, caressing you with the cloth, pushing the fear from your flesh. You trembled in the tenderness of his touch, throat tight with emotion you were too terrified to name.

Noticing this, Kylo shushed you, placing his lips to your forehead, murmuring something at your hairline that you couldn’t hear. Prickles of affection blazed through your nerves, your blood racing, and he sat back and lifted one of your legs from the tub, scrubbing it clean, passing the towel over the ticklish soles of your feet. You hid a giggle, wriggling from the contact, and he squeezed your ankle, holding you still until the muck was gone. One leg completed, he switched to another, untarnished section, and repeated the action with the other leg, never once breaking his attention from his task.

With both spotless, he switched sections again, and leaned you forward, rubbing soap into your back, strong thumbs pressing along your shoulder blades as he passed them, massaging down the line of your spine. You groaned, shuddering, goosebumps alight in the wake of his touch. He shushed you again, and washed you over with water, easing you back to the tub before spilling the soap clear from the rest of your body. The warmth flooded you, eyes fluttering in delight before settling on him.

His brow furrowed, and he lifted your wounded arm, coasting across it with a new patch of cloth, skimming the sensitive skin, brushing away the sludge and caked blood, revealing fresh, pink flesh. Your free limbs tweaked, and you grimaced in pain, but kept otherwise still, choosing to fixate on his pursing lips, how meticulous he’d become in his movements. Baffling, how this one man was both the blunt-end of a bludgeon and the precise feather fountain-pen--as deft with his hands as he was deadly. The last of the grime was wiped free, Kylo scrutinized his work, folded the towel over, and wet a clean swatch.

He then cradled your head, weaving through your hair, focus following his fingers while he wiped your storm-smattered face, swiping at your lips, under your lids, the rust smeared on your chin. As he dabbed your nose, he glimpsed you, and your lungs stalled in memory of the first time he’d done this--the first time he’d ever made you feel human, the first time he’d ever made you feel cherished. You gazed at him, your chest thumping with an appreciation so swollen you were afraid it would split through your sternum at a pinprick’s pressure. Kylo blinked, averted his eyes, and with a soft pat of your cheek, he sat back, appraising, his own face still sullied with crusted crimson.

Words wouldn’t find you. You grabbed for the towel instead, taking it from him and sitting straight. Swallowing your nerves, you preened the loose strands of hair from his face and swept the cloth over his forehead, down his nose--he froze under your touch, his irises clouded with confusion. Hands quaking, you continued, smoothing over his cheekbones, along the line of his jaw, scraping away the remnants of battle. His mouth twitched, his throat knocked, and when you finished, you draped the towel over the tub’s edge.

Finally meeting his stare, you exhaled, stroked his face with your thumb, tracing the edge of his scar. It was lithe, almost lovely in its length, cresting down his neck and over his collarbone, a rose-gold crack on his alabaster skin. Yet what made it beautiful was its origin, its legacy--the knowledge that he’d earned it in the act of saving you.

His eyes were liquid amber, gilded rims glimmering with a feeling you could only identify as gratitude, a reflection of the recognition you felt in your soul. It was an acknowledgement that in this mire of madness, you were thankful for each other, thankful that through the suffocating strangle of Gilead’s air, you’d discovered breath in the other’s embrace. He glanced at your mouth, and you wet it--something distant and familiar lingered on your tongue. Before you could give it life, Kylo tugged you by the neck and against his lips.

The kiss was tentative, exploratory, his mouth skipping over yours, testing your need, ghosting tingles at your nerves. You whimpered into him, clutching the back of his head, skating nails over his scalp as you returned his ardor, your tongue out slipping to taste him--he tilted his head, capturing you, his own tongue rolling slowly over yours. A quiet groan escaped him, and he pulled you closer, holding your head in both of his enormous hands, one stroking through your hair, the other keeping you still as his mouth grazed you. Your thighs braced together, forcing friction as fire dripped like oil between your legs.

Kylo guided you back to the tub, chasing you, never increasing his insistence, taking time to brand you in dedication, rather than desire. Humming with pleasure, his tongue slid past your teeth, and the hand in your hair glided down your neck, over your shoulder, gripping it, as if to prove you were alive. You shivered, worked your lips over his like he was to be savored, flesh plumping from the pressure--underneath the running water, the only noises were your and his hidden breath, and the slick sound of your meeting mouths. Passion crept through you now, signaling a need that, despite having been more than sated this morning, was happy to awaken from its slumber.

You shifted closer, growing needy--the sudden movement speared your arm with agony, and you yelped, breaking the kiss. Kylo nuzzled you with his forehead.

“Do you want relief?” His hand traveled from your shoulder, inching down your chest. “From the pain.”

Tremored, eager air left your lungs. “Yes.” You nodded. “Please.”

He pressed his lips to yours as his hand fell to your breast, groping it absently, thumb petting your pebbling nipple. You squirmed, releasing a moan, and he silenced you with his mouth, kneading your tit, making your stomach tighten with hunger. Giving a nip to your bottom lip, he kissed across your cheek, huffing into your ear while his hand dipped into the water and drifted over the rolls of your belly.

“Be a good girl for me.” Long fingers crawled over your mound, and you nodded, legs parting in welcome. “There we go...”

Two digits trailed up and down your outer folds, teasing them, and you gasped, throwing your good arm around his neck--his breath was slow and quiet at your ear, the baritone resonance of his voice rumbling through you. One finger drew up your slit, glancing over your clit, and you squeaked, core clamoring for more.

“That’s it.” His mouth moved to your cheekbone, following your jaw. “I’m going to make you feel so good.” He licked up your pulse. “You’re gorgeous.”

Gooseflesh erupted over your skin, vision fuzzing with joy. “Even… even like this?” You nodded toward your wound.

“Mm.” Kylo kissed your throat, prying open your folds, probing your layers. “Especially like this.”

His thumb grazed your clit, and you whined, jerking him closer--he growled and taunted your entrance, swirling a single digit in its slick, daring to press in only half a centimeter. Your hips shifted, cunt craving more, but he refused to yield, thumb passing your nub with long, torturous strokes.

“I know men who’ve broken over a bullet.” He wiggled in another half-centimeter, and you clenched. “But you haven’t shed a tear.” More kisses to your throat, suckling at your heartbeat. “My brave little bird."

Heat rushed you in waves--at this rate, he'd have you cumming without even having to go inside of you. "Why should I be afraid?" you whispered. "I have you."

His breath hitched, and he plunged in, curling inside of you--a sigh left you as you throbbed around him, even knowing one finger wouldn't be enough. You adjusted your weight on his neck, bringing him closer, letting your injured arm dangle out of the tub.

"That's right. And you’re being so good for me," he murmured. "Getting so wet. Always ready for me to make you cum..."

Kylo slipped out, then pushed back in, then out, and in again, relishing in the tight ridges of your cunt as he stretched you open. You bucked your hips, trying to fuck him in rhythm, water sloshing in the bath--but he dodged you, forcing you to meet his pace, swiping back and forth over your clit in little bolts of bliss while he exhaled in excitement.

"Relax." His mouth moved from your neck to your shoulder, teeth dragging new welts over your clavicle. "I thought you were going to be my good girl."

You swallowed and stilled. It was hard to control yourself when the rush of pleasure was numbing everything else. "I-I will. I'm sorry."

"Better." Kylo caught your lips in a brief kiss, rewarding you with a second finger, crooking them both inside of you--you cried out, spasming in delight. "Fuck. How does a cunt this little take me so well, hm?" Another kiss, lingering. "Just thinking about how tight you are makes my cock hard." He smirked against your mouth. "You know I think about it whenever I wake up. And before I go to sleep."

You whinged, lava boiling in your blood--you wanted to melt into the water, liquefy in his hands. "Oh..."

"That's right," he said. "I make myself cum every morning thinking about fucking you. And it's never enough." He was panting, kissing back down your neck, to your chest again. "I could fuck this pussy every night for the rest of my life and it wouldn't be enough…"

“Kylo…”

Your brain swarmed with that distant feeling again, dizzying you, robbing you of language, weakening your joints. You clung to him, a raft in the sea of your lust, choking back your moans as his palm rocked against you, thumb circling your clit, fingers thrusting in and out of your cunt--you let your lids close, let pleasure encompass you, let yourself submerge to his will, trusting him to give you exactly what you needed. His lips scorched your shoulder, singeing a path toward your wound, but you were too rapt to notice, too elated to care.

When he kissed it, something snapped--perhaps it was the plush of his mouth on the tender tissue, perhaps it was the ecstasy already seizing your sanity, or perhaps it was the delicious slice of pain twisting through it all. Whatever it was, you sobbed, back arching, pussy clamping down on his hand like it would sever him clean, head thrown back in a plea. Kylo stopped, purring with satisfaction, lifting his pretty, stained scarlet lips from your arm. You met his eyes, shaking, too embarrassed to say a word.

Thankfully, he appeared too engrossed to further humiliate you, kissing the top of your shoulder before falling to your wound again--he rolled his fingers inside of you, rubbing the bundle of nerves in tight, quick strokes, and let his mouth sketch the edge of your injured flesh. You winced, writhed, jaw dropping in an open, continuous pant, and he licked light lines around it, lapping the seeping blood; when you clenched again, he slipped his tongue into the hole.

Your sight went white, you collapsed in the bath, a mix of scream and squeal shredding your throat. The sensation was a knife, carving bliss into your skin, your cunt pulsing with greed as your Commander laved you from the inside. Everything blanked, your only reality consisting of the thumb caressing your stiffened clit, the fingers pumping into your throbbing pussy, the tongue digging absolute pure pleasure-pain into your veins. Your hands furled into fists, teeth cutting your lip while you fought to find yourself in the hurricane that had replaced your brain.

“Kylo,” you whimpered, as it was the only word you could remember, “Kylo, Kylo…”

“Good girl.” He moaned, lavishing hot, open kisses at the frayed flesh. “So good for me, so perfect--”

“Please.” Your lips buzzed, unsure what you were even asking for. “Please, I--”

Somehow knowing what you needed before you did, Kylo’s bloody mouth met yours, his thumb worming through your wound, and you shrieked into him--he swallowed every cry, painting iron along your tongue, kissing you in anxious fervor. Your orgasm bubbled with volcanic intensity, gravitation at your core, absorbing each spark of nerve and billowing to something so powerful that you were afraid you would shatter if it burst.

Kylo nudged his digit deeper, pain ricocheting to your cunt, while his other hand flicked your clit fast, stuffed a third thick finger into your pussy, coiling and delving and fucking you wide, and you suffocated in his kiss, winding your tongue around his, gasping, groaning, and he drove into your hole, filling everything inside--you ruptured, ecstasy exploding through you, escaping in euphoric shrieks into his throat, happily consumed by the voracity of his mouth. He led you through it, easing his thumb free, rubbing you through the aftershocks of your climax as you descended, crumpling limp in the water’s warmth, chasing his gentle, lazy lips.

By the time you’d regained control of your faculties, you’d realized he’d pulled out of you and turned off the spigot, leaving you to soak in a bath that had risen past your breasts. And he was still catching his breath--through your daze of disbelief, you saw him stroking his hard, needy cock, pounding it to his own release. Kylo sought your mouth again, but you shifted away, enthralled by the sight of your Commander, cheeks flush, jaw dropped, thrusting into his fist. He huffed with a half smirk, leaning back, allowing you to see the contractions of his stomach, the flexing in his chest.

“You like that?” He pushed the skin to the head, coaxing a drop of precum from the slit, smearing it over his shaft. “Is this making you feel good?”

Your mind was mush. All you could think to do was nod.

“Fuck…” Kylo’s pupils were blown, his chest heaving. “Then you can remember this when I’m gone. Think of me like this.” He rolled his palm around his length, tugging it faster. “Think of me fucking myself because of you.”

Saliva pooled from your cheeks, your eyes pinned to the muscular slabs of his legs, how they spread and framed his cock, long and thick and beautiful, how his hand wrapped around it with a soft shuffle, how his flesh bounced with the effort. You could see the peaking tide of unadulterated pleasure, his face obscene with it--his head dropped onto his shoulders, his thighs tensed, hand a blur over his dick.

“Fuck… fuck.” His voice was shredded with bliss. “You want to watch me cum, little girl?”

“Y-yes…”

His lids closed, he gasped. “Tell me to cum.”

You almost choked. “Christ. C-cum for me, Kylo--”

Kylo Ren snarled your name, gripping his cock as it twitched and pulsed between his legs, sticky cum shooting in spurts onto his sternum, roping over his abdomen. He groaned, jerking himself into sensitivity, sucking in a deep breath as his hand slowed, head falling forward, the tail of his climax dissipating. When he was finished, he exhaled, paused, and gathered some of his seed onto his fingers. Your throat thickened--and he held you in his stare, sucking them clean.

No words would come to you. Between the still-crackling cinders of your orgasm and the image of him eating his own cum, you’d temporarily lost your ability to speak. Kylo smirked--he kissed you a final time before tucking a lock of wet hair behind your ear and rising to his feet.

Your Commander walked to the sink and grabbed a towel, wiping away the remaining blood and cum and debris. In the valley of post-climactic rapture, watching him--this man, your savior and enslaver--you yearned for that moment in the cemetery, before you’d been shot. The moment when it seemed as if he’d considered you--a moment you felt him echo when he’d said every night for the rest of my life. You sank into the bath, that nagging, terrifying feeling welling within you again. You shoved it down, knowing that to name it while still wading in uncertainty would damn you to despair.

“Um. What you said earlier. Is that something you’d want?” you asked. “To… have me? Every night? For...” The rest of the words wouldn’t leave, stuck like impossible barbs on your tongue.

He said nothing, taking a swig of water from the sink and swishing it in his mouth before spitting it into the basin in a pink spray.

“I think we could do it.” You were being careful--but you were less afraid of his words than your own. “We could have that.”

Still silent, he took a fresh towel and rustled it through his hair, whipping excess water from the curls.

“I know you believe in destiny,” you said. “But what if you have two?” He stilled--you continued. “What if… I saw another path. Where you--where we were free?”

Kylo Ren glanced over his shoulder, considering you. There was not a single hint of emotion in his expression. Your chest tightened.

“It would make me happy,” you murmured. “What about you?”

His gaze fell, wandering the tile, the walls, until it led him to the mirror. He stared into himself, like a stranger to his own reflection, jaw steeling. Rain rattled the skylight, thunder crashing through the clouds, a rumbling of the past--he remained there for a moment, inspecting his face, searching for something, wallowing in recollection. His back crested, muscles hardened, and he tore away, eye twitching as he looked back to you.

“There are greater issues to rectify,” he said, and left the room.

Wilting, you slid deeper into the water, keeping your arm tossed over the edge. It wasn’t that you had expected him to drop it all and agree, like a hero from some romance--yes, darling, let’s steal away at midnight--but you had hoped for some concession, some inkling of hope that he wanted to sustain what was unsustainable. Yet, in the back of your mind, you both understood there was only one way he could do that. And it would involve abandoning everything he’d ever known.

The question you weren’t willing to answer was how you’d balance your willingness to wait with reality. Running was not an option, now--not as long as your Commander had both the will and the governmental power to find and keep you. No matter his compromises, the existence of Gilead meant his inherent rejection of your agency, his unwillingness to let you go, despite it being your only wish.

And every second wasted translated to years of lives hanging in turmoil. The next time you met with the Resistance, you knew you’d do whatever they asked to help them cripple Gilead. One way or the other, they would bring you your freedom. You just hoped that by the time they were ready, a time that could be days or weeks or years, he’d be coming with you.

Some might think you were asking too much--for him to relinquish his power, destroy as much as he could in the process, escape with you into anonymity--but the Kylo Ren you knew was capable of anything. You’d ask for all of it, or ultimately accept none.

Of course, you’d need to heal from this damn gunshot, first.

Kylo returned, dressed and dry, adjusting the cuffs on his coat. “Two Knights will remain in my absence. Johana will care for your wound and get you to rest.”

“Oh,” you said, starting to stand, “okay--”

“Don’t move.”

Confused, you stopped, splashing into the tub. Johana couldn’t see you naked, and especially not while you were covered in his hickeys and bite marks. “But--”

“A precaution,” he said. “To protect your temperature.”

“But...” You folded your free arm over your chest. Your options were paltry few, and inviting in a strange, possibly deceptive doctor, one without any personal investment in your well-being, seemed even less appealing. “Okay.”

“You will be safe.” He scanned your body in the bath. “Be good, little bird.”

A jumble of words waited on your tongue: Be safe, be careful, I’ll miss you, I…

Instead, you only nodded. “I will.”

He met your gaze a final time in silent regard, and turned to leave. You listened to the sound of his boots cross the floor, wondering how the water had made it into your eyes. Blinking, you wiped your cheeks. You weren’t sure how long you laid there after your Commander had left--only that when you heard the creak of the bedroom door, steam had fled the air, and your breathing had evened out.

When Johana entered the bathroom, she brought a tote with her, avoiding you entirely as she plopped it next to the sink and washed her hands. Finished that, she pushed her sleeves to her elbows and grabbed a pair of gloves from the bag, pulling them on before fishing through it again. Chewing her cheek, she procured a needle, a pair of tweezers and scissors, a few square packets, dental floss, a roll of gauze, two tiny white tubes, and a small plastic bottle of clear liquid. She laid them out on a towel, picked it up, turned to you--and nearly flung all of it across the room.

“Jesus Christ.” Her face contorted in a mix of disgust and dismay--she went to say something else, but shrugged it off, heading to the stool and sitting down.

You blushed, taking a quick inventory of your chest. Yes, it definitely looked like an animal had savaged your upper-torso--and, in a way, that’d been exactly what happened. Settling on silence, you stared at your feet. There were no words you could think to say that would ease the awkwardness of her acknowledging the evidence of her husband’s illegal affair.

Johana sighed, took one of the tubes, squeezed its contents onto a gloved finger and rubbed it over your wound. You squeaked in pain, watching as it worked into a lather before she took the bottle of liquid and squirted it over your skin (water, to your relief). Stone faced, she patted it down with gauze before grabbing the needle and one of the packets--an alcohol wipe, you now realized. You frowned.

“Wait,” you said. “Aren’t you going to… um. Remove the bullet.”

She snorted. “Not unless you’re interested in bleeding out in the bathtub.” Tearing the packet open, she plucked the wipe free. “Digging around could further traumatize the wound,” she said. “It’s safer to leave embedded projectiles where they are.”

“Oh.”

Her brow furrowed as she sanitized the needle. “Yes, oh.” Contrition flashed over her face. “Not that you had any reason to know that.”

Regret puddled in your heart--not for what you’d done, but that you’d both been placed in this hell at all. At least you’d had a distraction in the form of the Commander. Johana had been floundering alone for, maybe, the past three entire years. You knew she was miserable, knew that you’d seen a moment’s hesitation before she’d stolen the switchblade. Even if that object was long-gone, if you could soften her, even a little, maybe she’d hear you out. Maybe freedom was a possibility for all of you in the home--the Marthas included.

“I’m sorry,” you said, nodding toward your chest. “I wasn’t expecting--”

“Don’t really care.” She wound out a string of floss from its container. “The faster you get pregnant, the better.”

“Is that why you won’t report me? Or the Commander?” you asked. “You just want me to get pregnant?”

“Yes.” Narrowing her focus, she held up the needle in one hand and the floss in the other before glimpsing you. “And no.” She paused. “It’s not like you’re the worst Handmaid I’ve had.”

A reluctant grin pulled at your lips. “The dinner party?”

“Ha!” It wasn’t a true laugh--more like a squawk. “The only other person who has ever talked to Commander Hux like that is my husband.” Pride twinkled in her eye. “But seeing his reaction to you was even better.”

You chuckled. “Was he always such a bastard?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “Always.” Her mouth opened to speak, but she said nothing.

Silence descended over the bathroom; thunder rumbled under the shower of rain. Johana looked between the floss and your wound.

“Anyway, the Commander’s preoccupation with you won’t be a problem once you give birth.” She tossed it and unfurled a longer strand. “And I know you can’t help yourself anyway.”

“Ms. Johana, please.” You sighed. “Do you really care about him?” you asked. “I mean. Even after…” Invoking her dead husband’s name seemed tacky. So you didn’t.

She rolled her eyes. “What does it matter?”

You shrugged your good shoulder. “I just…” Quiet, you sought out her gaze. “You really loved him.”

“I did,” she said. “So what? He’s dead now.”

“How did you meet him?”

Johana didn’t respond, focused on threading the needle, taking one, two, three attempts before the floss passed through the eye. Blowing frustrated air through her nose, she wiped tweezers down before using it to pinch the needle. Turning to your arm, she went to poke you--and paused.

“Church.” Her voice was soft. “I met him in church.”

Using two fingers, she compressed the sides of the wound together--you flinched--and pierced the bottom, pulling the strand of floss through. It was a tiny nip, hardly comparable to the pain of the wound itself. You shook the discomfort away.

“What was he like? Ah--”

“Stop squirming.” Johana exhaled, looping the floss and making another stitch. “Very traditional,” she said. “Very organized.” A tiny smirk eked over her lips. “Very bossy.”

You raised a brow. “Oh?”

She fought the urge to smile. “Oh, he was funny about it,” she said. “He liked things to be a certain way. He was always teasing me for fussing until it was perfect.” For a moment, she looked content, sapphire glittering in her irises, face glowing as she slipped the needle through again. “He had high expectations. I could always meet them.”

“Oh.” Kylo Ren, you imagined, was a devastatingly unfair change of pace. “It must be hard. The Commander seems so different.”

Like fog, the facade of peace faded, revealing the vacant, tired bags beneath her eyes. “He is.” She jabbed you, perhaps a little harder than intended--you winced. “But...”

You frowned. “But?”

Johana’s hands froze, and she swallowed, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

She said nothing more, face drawn in focus as she made another stitch, and another. You watched, almost in awe of her nimble fingers; you knew for certain it’d been over three years since she would have last done this, and probably longer than that. If you hadn’t known her in the context of being your Commander’s Wife, you never would have guessed it.

“Being a nurse was probably tough.”

A short, tight laugh caught in her throat. “Dealing with bureaucratic red tape and doctors all day? Yeah. I don’t miss it.” Her tone softened, and she shrugged. “But I was good at it.”

“I can tell.”

“I’d hope so. I was top of my...” She sighed, rolling her eyes again. “Whatever.” With the tweezers, she wreathed the floss in on itself, made a knot, and tied it off. “I don’t have the luxury of surgical thread.” A snip as she cut the loose ends with the scissors. “This will pop if you’re not careful.”

You nodded. “I understand.”

Exhaling, she took the second white tube and collected a clear gel from its tip, spackling it over your sutures like paste. Satisfied, she then grabbed the gauze, binding your arm in several rotations before cinching it tight. For a moment, she stared at it, and then peeled off her gloves and rolled up the towel with all of her supplies. She brought it to her tote and stuffed it inside before marching out of the room, leaving the bag on the sink.

Beyond the door, you heard her shuffling in the bedroom, and you let loose a long, disappointed sigh. She’d been a tougher nut to crack than you anticipated. It wasn’t as if you were queen of mind games, but you’d at least expected her to be intrigued by the chance to open up to anybody other than her pillow. But perhaps you couldn’t blame her for not trusting you when you kept showing up to her home with increasingly bizarre injuries.

Johana entered the bathroom again, a heavy, black robe in her arms. “I don’t have one that will fit you.” She flopped it open, held it out. “He’s never worn it, anyway.”

You stared. “Oh.”

“Don’t just oh,” she said. “Come on.”

With a wobble, you eased yourself to your feet, steadying with the wall as you stepped out of the tub and into the robe, allowing her to bundle you in it. Johana guided you with a hand on your back to Kylo Ren’s bed and observed while you climbed on.

Offering a restrained grin, you said, “I know you don’t like me. And that I keep getting hurt. But thank you.”

“It was an order. I follow them.” Her gaze traveled your figure, and she sighed, grabbing one of the pillows and fluffing it. “Look. I don’t--I don’t dislike you.” She wedged it behind your back. “I just don’t get why he keeps doing all of this. I don’t know what he sees in you.”

You frowned, face hot. For once, you actually felt insulted. “Maybe it’s because I see something in him,” you replied, bending so she could fluff another. “Something that you might not care to see, anyway.”

She balked, shoving it under your shoulders. “What are you talking about? We’ve been married for three years.”

“And you’ve never stopped loving Moden that entire time.”

Johana paused and looked at you, propped upright along the headboard. You sat there, smothered in your robe, supported by cushions, constricted in a full-body cast of cotton. Her gaze drifted to the floor, and she raised her brow in thought, folding her arms over her chest. There it was--the gap in her shell.

“Maybe it’s all for the same reason,” you said. “The fact that you still love him. The fact that the Commander seems attached to me. The fact that I keep getting caught up in... everything.” You held your breath, and let it go. “Maybe it’s all because this entire thing is just… bullshit.”

She blinked. Then glanced up. “You might be right.” Her fingers burrowed into her arms. “But Moden expected me to get remarried if he passed. And he expected me to carry on what he couldn’t.” She swallowed, jaw tensing. “I don’t intend to disappoint him.”

With that, she spun, flouncing into the bathroom to grab her tote, and crossed to the bedroom door. She met your eyes in silence before staring at the hardwood. A weight, laden with deferred, unrealized, and deadened dreams, suspended between you. Shaking her head, Johana opened the door, slipped into the hall, and shut it behind her.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren #kylo trash #little bird #fanfiction problems #handmaid au #woundplay #bloodplay

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