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It tastes like cinnamon, the way it burns upon her tongue. Blood, bright red and oxidized, oozing from the tear on her lip. It’ll bruise in the morning, a big dark violet-blue splotch on swollen red lips. It’ll hurt, she knows it’ll hurt. She widens her mouth, stretches and feels the tug as the split reopens and tingles, stinging like a fiery insect.
Wiping the fresh pinprick of red from her lips, she lets her gaze move lower down her body, to the neat chain lavender and yellow around her neck. It’s almost like a flower garland, painful petals pressed into her pale skin. It has been a long time since she last saw sunlight and it shows in the healing blossoms. Running her fingers along the collar, she can still feel his hands clutching the sides of her neck, fingers tense on her jugular, on her carotid. He had held her steady until her vision popped and unconsciousness flickered at the edges of her brain.
His hands have made tracks all over her, blunt and woozy things. His thumbprints dug into the shallow skin over her ribs, long fingers edging stripes over her hips. And then there were the teeth. Bites littered her back, red and plum and puckered. He’d opened her skin over her shoulder and the cut smarts still, scabs picking and peeling when she over-extends her arm.
Her poor battered wrists, those are the worst of them all. They are sore and wrapped with colors ranging from canary to wisteria, ever-present reminders. They hurt to bend too crookedly, too extensively. She can’t do as much as she used to, not until they heal.
She almost jumps when hands touch her waist, big hands, powerful hands. They smooth around her tired skin to catch her, resting atop the opposite hipbones. His mouth is soft on her neck, a noticeable change from an hour before. He licks up the shell of her ear and she writhes, the cartilage damaged.
“You’re hurting me.”
“When am I not?”
She can’t answer the question.
His lips withdraw and he kisses the top of her head, locking eyes with her in the mirror. His gaze is fierce, unending. A reminder that he owns her.
At least for a little while.
Why don’t you fly, little bird? he’d ask her later, he always asked her that later. Your wings aren’t broken, so fly.
He knows she cannot leave, even if she so wished—and she did not. His savagery was never more than momentary.
His self control leaves much to be desired and his kisses are upon her once again, light across the wounds on her jaw. “I thought you were going to take a shower?”
“I got caught up looking at what you’ve done to me.”
“Do you not like it?”
...Hers is too difficult an answer for such a simple question. Did she like feeling him abuse her skin, draw her blood, bruise her veins? No, she detests it. She aches and throbs from all the pain, her ribs tight in her ill-treated chest. She hates the hurt but...the way he looks at her through it all is why she allows him to continue. He’d stop if she asked, but she never does.
Besides, she likes feeling...marked. In some twisted way, she has grown to appreciate the indentation of his teeth on her skin, the swirly scarlet bruises from his mouth and hands. The blood—she can go without the blood. But after, oh, he treats her like a queen. She belongs to him.
So she swallows down her truth, not knowing how he’ll take the response. “What you do matters not to me.”
He chuckles. “Liar.”
Gentle with her fingers, he takes her by the hand and guides her through the rest of the fresher, starting the water at a lower temperature so as to not agitate her already sensitive skin.
“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” he asks as he lathers soap into her hair. She stands with her injured back to him, her head ducked to her chest.
“Every time you do this to me, yes.”
“One day I’ll do away with Snoke and we can stand outside of the dark together.”
“You say that each time, too.”
“Because I mean it.”
Evenings go like this:
He greets Rey in her quarters (prison). Sometimes he brings food, most times he does not. If he’s late, she wakes to the bed dipping under his weight and his huge arms circling her waist. He whispers things to her when they both pretend she’s asleep; admissions of affection, promises he may or may not keep. If he’s on time, the first thing he does is kiss her. She likes this part best, the sweetness of his lips, the growing want she can taste on his tongue. This is the time he’s the most human.
Eventually, he grows tired of kissing (she never does) and he begins to strip her light clothes, leaving her bare on the sheets. Some nights he’ll steel himself long enough to kiss slowly up her thighs and sink his tongue hotly into her. She likes this too, but not as much as the kissing. Her screams from this are not like her others. Nights when he has no patience, he rids himself of garments (he’s let her undress him a few times and she wishes he allowed it more), climbs up beside her, and sinks himself down into her core. He hurts her differently like this, it’s a pain he doesn’t know he’s inflicting because she’ll never show him.
Most nights, though, when she lies naked on the bed, he brandishes ribbons and ropes and leather, tying her intricately, hurting her delicately. She doesn’t like the restraints, likes the way he denies her orgasm even less, but she keeps mum and never says a word.
It’s because of his eyes. Those ferocious aureolin eyes. They stare at her with wonder, with awe, with incredible desire. They feast upon her when she’s bound with black silks, her body contorted to his likes. It’s in his eyes, their brightness reminding he isn’t doing this to cause her discomfort—doesn’t know he’s causing her discomfort—because she’s never told him she’s in unenjoyable pain.
She cherishes how love looks in his eyes, how it changes his face. And when she is tied under him, there is nothing but love in his unruly eyes.
That is why she can’t speak, can’t flee. He loves her dark and deeply, and so does she. How can she deny him? What if it made him love her less? Her heart was so entrenched in his ribcage that the thought cracked her frame.
He is always good to her afterwards, always gentle and kind. He smoothed over the new hurts, lauded her body, held her in a way she thought impossible, improbable. He’d fetch her something if she asks, no matter how ridiculous the request. He has brought her food, drink, and blankets in the past. Once, when he tore lines down her sides, she asked for bacta and he coated her wounds, apologizing over and over for the blood. Now, though, she likes the marks. They remind her of his eyes when they get older, when they yellow and tarnish.
“Do you ever think you’ll stop being monstrous?” she asks when they exit the shower.
“No.”
He draws his hand along her waist, tugging her to follow but hitting a fresh bruise, making her wince.
“Oh.” He sucks in a breath, light distress in his eyes. “Is that sore?”
She nods, wrapping a towel around her bruised skin.
His form of apology is another reason she won’t speak. He gives a pout, made more poignant by his full lips. Taking her gently by her untouched forearms, he brings her back to the bed to lull her hurts.
“I’m sorry,” he says, kissing battered skin. “I love you, I’m sorry.”
“Will there come a day when you stop hurting me?”
“Gods, I hope.”
His fingers waltz atop her body, tracing patterns through the pale and red. She lets her eyes close, lets a hum form in her throat as she eases into his touch. It’s incredible, how much he can change in a breath. “Do you think I love you back?”
“Don’t know, I’ve never asked.” His hands slow a moment, changing time to a new dance. His voice is lower when he speaks. “It’s okay if you don’t.”
“Would it change how you feel, if I don’t?”
“No. The two aren’t related.” His lips flutter on her temples, his breathing calm. “I’ll still love you.”
“How much?”
He sighs, exasperated. “Does it matter?”
She shrugs one shoulder. “No. You’ll be a monster anyway. I don’t think monsters can be honest in their love.”
She’s pushing him now, pushing a little too hard. She can hear it in his tone. “I am. As much as I can be. Doesn’t count, though. No one loves monsters.”
He draws away from her, wounded under his skin. This was another way she knew he loved her; he never hurt her outside of his games. Even as she lances barbs into his heart, he can’t bring himself to hiss.
She bites back a whimper as she lays on her injured hip, sneaking an arm around his broad body. He tenses but doesn’t shake her off. “I’m someone who loves a monster.”
“Liar.”
“You are deciding my honesty for me, right now, as I make an effort to soothe your bristled fur?”
“Why prod me if you intend to be civil?”
She exhales softly, drawing stars on his stomach. “Sometimes your words sound false to me, and I find myself prompting you until I’m satisfied in believing you care.”
“Of course I care. Do you think I’d take care of you if I didn’t?” He presses his hand over hers and the pressure on her roughed up wrist brings a cry from her throat. He twists around immediately, kissing her tender skin. “Please just let me heal these, they’re in such an uncomfortable place.”
“I’m fine.”
He looks about to argue but instead closes his eyes, head heavy on the pillows. “One day I’ll learn to hold you delicately.”
The evening to follow does not go the way she understands them to. This evening is different, strange, and she’s unsure how to proceed, or if she likes it. She watches him walk in stiffly, a look of partial concern on his face. He hands her a black silk ribbon, biting his lips. Heat rises, prickles like goosebumps.
“What’s this for?”
“It’s your turn to...you can, if you want.” He goes down on his knees before her. “I want to know what it’s like to be in your position. To trust you fully.”
Her eyes widen a fraction. Trust. Yes, trust, that was the key to her locked voice. If he could trust her with his vulnerability, surely she could trust him with her truth.
She sinks to the floor in front of him, runs her hands through his downy black hair. “I get control?”
“Fully.”
The words scare her a little, remind her what sort of power could potentially lie in her hands. She could throttle him, strangle him, leave him for dead. She could be free.
She ties him up tightly, the same way he ties her, with his arms up above his head. He lets her separate his feet and anchor them apart, his eyes watching her movements with curiosity. Her fingers trace down his broad chest and she knows her gaze holds the same starving need his does when he has her like this. His though...his has changed. He looks sedated, comfortable, and...deeply affectionate. He trusts her.
Now, she can make her mark.
She tears him to pieces, ripping him open with her teeth upon his throat, yanking moans and heated cries from his lungs. She never makes these sounds under him, never sounds so pleased to be his plaything. Her fingernails scratch down his sensitive belly and his back arches, breath quick and short. She makes sure to suck bruises over his ribs, to kiss away the dollops of blood as they speckle his scratched skin.
Touching his cock lightly makes him moan, pumping it tightly causes his restrained legs to shake.
She is baffled. Aroused, overjoyed, but baffled. “Do you like this?”
“Desperately.”
She bites his lip, bites it hard enough to bruise. It feels like payback, but it also feels...giving. Like she is able to pour out her monstrous feelings for the monster underneath her in an appropriate way.
“Good.” Power sinks deep into her veins, rushing and gushing around the cavity of her ribs. She watches how his eyes shift to meet hers, the terror and anticipation clear. She’s won her upper hand. She fishes the key from its hiding place, frees her pent-up fears. “Because I hate being where you are now. I like the marks, I hate the act.”
He nods, lust clouding his vision. “Punish me for it.”
The massive new creature in her chest roars, howls its approval. She pushes bruises into his body, carves purple petals over his hips with her thumbs. She continues her plunder, her ravishing act, until he looks broken, his face flushed, his breathing hard. Satisfied, she unties him, lets him free, and smooths her hands over his thighs, taking him into her mouth to finish the job.
She raises her head after she swallows him down, catching sight of the mosaic she created on his skin. Panting now, his chest is raw and his neck looks like a battlefield, teeth and suck marks coating it in a ring. Climbing up his abdomen, she puts kisses on all his hurts, now worried that—in her frenzy—she caused him serious harm.
“I love you,” she confesses, kissing his cheeks. “Do you need anything?”
His voice is hoarse, brittle. “The kisses feel nice. Maybe you could stroke my hair?”
He leans into the hand she draws through his locks and closes his eyes. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes. “Does this make a monster now?”
He chuckles low, the sound never leaving his chest. “No, Rey, this does not make you a monster.”
“But I enjoyed it.”
“I asked you to do it. I wanted it.”
“I never did.”
One of his hands finds her free one and he holds it tightly, bringing it to his lips. “I never asked you, and that’s why I’m the monster.”
She kisses his temples, his nose, brings her arm to rub his abused back. “But you know better now. Won’t hurt me again.”
He nuzzles into her, a great curled beast taking refuge in her tenderness. “I’ll try, but I can’t make any promises if you don’t speak up.”
“I will. I trust you.”