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It’s tingling and annoying, the same way baby teeth are as they push through gums. He has to fight the urge to gnaw, to chew away the coating and bring the feeling to the surface. He has a vague suspicion of its origin, of what it entails, but he won’t think the words until they have brewed heavy and dark for weeks. They taste bitter when he finally drinks them in, leaving an acrid flavor in his mouth. But the emotions, oh, they are not so acidic.
It first begins when he sees her—the first time in the forest. It cascades down around him like summer rain, a tempest brewing hot in his lungs. She is a tool then, a means to an end. As he carries her in his arms, though, the feeling starts to change. She is small—the way an animal is small—and vulnerable. He refuses to put her down or hand her off when they depart, cradling her close. He does not want to hurt her later, but he will.
There is too much running around. He chases her when she escapes and she confronts him with a blade, tearing ribbons of red into his skin. Instead of being disgusted or angered, he is awed, in wonder, and fascinated by her. His body stings, but what was one more burn on an already ruined canvas?
It’s not hard to find her the next time, her ship tracked directly to the island. There is another great duel—a twisting of fates—and he takes his rightful place as the creature with more power, seriously injuring the girl. His victory is hollowed and short lived, red running from a line on her leg. She stumbles, he follows. Unconscious in his talons, he retreats, having lost most of his party. But he has her, oh, now he has her.
She’s a fighter. He knew that in the snow, but he’s never been more aware of it before now. She hisses, claws, and fights him through everything. He’s not entertained with her constant abuses and has left her without company for more than a week at a time. He feels like he’s breaking in a stubborn draft animal, unable to train her the way he wants. At first, this sounds like the correct way to feel. She should bow to him, honor him, obey his will. But the more apathetic and calm she becomes, the less he likes it.
“You need to eat.”
She has been starving herself, refusing all foods. He threatened a feeding tube once and that got a minor reaction lasting no more than a week.
“No.”
“I know food was hard to come by where you grew up.”
“I said no.”
“Rey,” he warns.
After much glaring, she takes the offered plate, picking pieces out and leaving most of it behind. He doesn’t sigh, but he relaxes just an inch. She’s a fighter, there’s no way around it.
He is fascinated by her. Soon, being the idiot he is, he gets closer. She is moved from a small uncomfortable room to guest quarters not far from his. Her eyes widen a fraction before they harden. He thinks she’s getting sick of having her Force abilities suppressed, her senses less sharp now that they’ve been cut from a source of energy.
Parts of her catch more of his attention now, things like the curve of her neck, the pinkness of her lips, the way hair spills from its constraints. Physically she was a wonder, more muscled than soft, but with a simple, beautiful face. He had never been one to experience lust like this before, but having her there, trapped with him, made want grow like flowers in his breast.
“Do you know how this works?” he asks her one night. He knows what he wants, but is unsure of how to obtain it without breaking her spirit. He wants her to want it too.
“No.” She is seated in the middle of his bed, eyes bored. Apathy bleeds from her. “I don’t much care either.”
He graces his fingers through her loose hair, frustrated. He doesn’t enjoy seeing her like this, the exuberance lost from her gaze. She is a wilted flower now, in need of water. She lets him kiss her, but there is no excitement in her action, no reflection of his anticipation and longing.
“Do you not want this?”
“I told you already, I do not care one way or the other.”
He, however, wants her to care and leaves to let her think.
Three nights pass before he returns right before sleep, wearing looser clothing of a more relaxed fit. She raises an eyebrow but does little more when he settles onto the mattress beside her.
“Have you come back to torture me further?”
“I haven’t done anything of the sort once.”
“The interrogation—”
“Was an interrogation.”
With a sigh, her shoulders fall. She knows by now, knows that was never an action performed to hurt her. He did very little to actually cause her harm. “What do you want, then?”
Instead of answering with a word, he pushes her down onto her back, moving to settle on top. She rolls her eyes, complying when his lips press to hers.
“You hate this,” he says quietly when he pulls away. There is no joy in her gesture, just duty.
“I feel as though I’m supposed to enjoy it.”
"Is there something you would prefer?”
She shakes her head.
“Then let’s try something else.”
He begins again, but slowly this time, slowly for the first time. Lips to her forehead, he peppers kisses down to her cheeks and across her jaw. Lust is his main motivator, to feel her body thrum under his, but something about being sweet to her, good to her, makes his insides burn pleasantly. Reaching her mouth again, he pulls her so they lie facing each other, his hands not straying from her face. Slowly, slowly, with no amount of rush, she begins to open like a flower to the moon. When he is satisfied—when she follows after him when he breaks away—he nudges her onto her back and finds a treasure in her neck.
He presses red flowers to her throat, trying to make her heart blossom along with her skin. He’s been so gentle this far; he’s been so controlled. He wants to taste her, feel her, be inside her, buried so deep in her body, in her ribcage, down in the chambers of her ruby red heart. But he waits, listening to her little gasps, the small moans she begrudges as he plucks them from her as though she were a harp. Sweet and soft, breathy but hallowed. Soon, perhaps when he’s more careful, the moans will be words. The same tender words rattling down his callous bones.
Stopping at the fabric of her shirt, he moves to lie beside her. Her hair smells sweet and her skin is smooth under his fingertips. He’s never been this smooth, or this soft. But she is, and he wraps himself closer.
Her voice is small when she speaks. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“What did you do to me?”
“I kissed you.”
“It wasn’t like before at all. You must have done something.”
“You’re the only one who changed.”
“That’s not true.” She turns to him, squinting in the pale lighting. “Your eyes are turning yellow, Kylo.”
“Perhaps they are.”
He sleeps beside her now, a constant fixture in her bed. He had made to leave the first night and she caught his wrist, pulling him back. You’re warm, she had said, and I ache for the heat. Who was he to deny her? Who was he to argue, especially when he wanted this himself? Curled close to her, he feels an ache leave his chest, something that had been missing for years prior. He wants her to want his skin the same way she craves his warmth.
“What changed?” he asks one morning. He has only ever once before stayed through to the morning, always opting to leave her before she wakes. But she’s soft—oh, she’s soft—and he wants to linger a few more minutes before he rises and starts his day.
“In what way?” Her eyes are closed but there’s a small smile on her lips and it warms his monster heart.
“You’re accepting of this now. Why?”
“Loneliness, maybe. Appreciation for how gentle you tend to be.”
“I’m not gentle.”
“You don’t force things on me.”
“Has that…happened?”
One eye opens and she nods. “More than once.”
He makes a strangled-sort of noise and kisses the bridge of her nose. “Whose blood am I spilling for you?”
“Don’t,” she says quietly, but her mind betrays her. He sees a place, a face, a name. Several faces, fewer names. He can feel blood rising in angry surges. Who dare hurt her?
His feet hit the floor almost immediately.
“Kylo—”
He doesn’t hear her over the sound of his rage.
It takes longer than he wants it to, dressing, preparing. With the crew unaware of his face, he navigates smoothly to his quarters, cloaking himself quickly before he gets to the point where words are no longer words in his mouth. He can’t leave this post—Snoke had ordered him to remain, to oversee preparations for an uprising unlike any before—but he has Knights yet. Only three after the slaughter on Ahch-To, but it’s the stronger ones who remain. His detailing is sharp, brief, and laced with cruel malice in his affected voice. His men nod and depart.
He feels as though he sits on his hands until the confirmation of the deeds come back, severed heads in holovids. He would have loved to hear their screams, known the pain they suffered was greater than what they had done to her. He hopes their rest in death is uneasy, more vicious than the corporeal punishments they endured.
The taste of iron in his mouth, he returns to her at the close of the day, removing his mask only once he’s at her bedroom door.
Her face is twisted into a look of fear and she shrinks backwards as he approaches. He doesn’t understand.
“You’re safe,” he says smoothly, a question in his eyes.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“They deserved worse for the crimes they committed against you. Aren’t you pleased?”
“No.” She curls up on herself, her back almost to the wall on the far side of the bed. “They didn’t kill me—this isn’t a fair retribution.”
He stops his approach, eyes softening. He didn’t know how hard he was breathing. “You’re frightened of me.”
“Monsters have always scared me, starting at a young age. I learned they wear many faces, ones like those men, ones like yours.”
“But I would never touch you—”
“Not all monsters are the same.”
His shoulders fall and he nods.
“Your eyes are so yellow, Kylo.”
“We knew the light wouldn’t last in me.”
He sits down heavy on the bed. She inches closer but stays feet away.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“I don’t know.”
“I can go back to sleeping in my own bed.” The sliver of heart that remains in his chest hisses at the words. He’s taken careful measures to be able to be this close to her, and now he’s sacrificing his achievement. Oh, she’s always so warm, so lovely to hold, that he doesn’t want to let go, not fully. But he means his words—he will not turn into that sort of monster near her.
“I don’t like being left alone on this ship.”
“But you don’t like monsters either.”
“I feel…conflicted.” She tucks her knees up near her chin. “You’ve been good to me.”
“Because I…” The words perish in his lungs.
“You what?”
No, he can’t say them. He turns his head to her instead, beckons her close. She moves slowly, settling when she is close enough to touch. He leans down, giving her enough time to back away before he kisses her. It’s soft and gentle, filled with everything he could say if he weren’t so dark. But he wanted to be this dark, and he also wanted her. It was a compromise he would have to make.
She rests her head on his shoulder when they part, pushing her face into his neck to feather her lips over his skin. “You feel like two different people, one who stands outside this room and one who lies beside me at night.”
“There’s only one of me.”
"I want there to be two, so I don’t confuse you for the monster.”
“I am the monster, Rey. You accept my poisoned kisses, you let me touch you with my blood-stained hands.”
“I’m compartmentalizing.” She yawns. “And I’m tired.”
She lets him up, stares mesmerized as he undresses. His robes leave little room for layering and he is left only in undergarments when the process is finished. He turns to her, slightly flushed (as she’s never seen him so vulnerable before) and watches as sorrow leaks into her eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re…so damaged.”
She reaches a hand out to him, which he takes and kisses before meeting her soft lips. “I’ve healed just fine.”
Rey shakes her head, running her fingers over the scar from the bowcaster, a large welt of red skin. He can barely feel her touch, the nerves all but lost. “You look like a gruesome painting.”
He snakes away from her, self-conscious, uncomfortable. Scars were weaknesses, places his body had been breached. If he couldn’t protect his own skin, how was he to protect hers?
“No, Kylo,” she says with a shake of her head. “Let me have this so I can’t forget.”
“Forget what?”
“That monster doesn’t mean the end.”
He goes slowly back, letting her hands filter over his old wounds. She looks at him pleadingly as she rises onto her knees and presses butterfly kisses to the red burn she put on his face. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly, “I’m so sorry.”
"What you did doesn’t change how I feel.”
“And your tenderness doesn't mean I’m not afraid.” She stops, fingers tracing over his chest.
He can feel his atrophied heart crack at her words. No, no, he didn’t want her to fear him. She was supposed to grow to love him, the way he…he…does her. Gently, selflessly, for her more than for him. He would keep her safe. He would protect her from himself.
He stills her hands, placing his own on her waist before lying her down. She could soothe his scars later, but right now, he has to show her he is not a monster for her, or to her, though he will not change who he is for the sake of her affection. He would…love her like this, as hard and as fast as he could.
His kisses start on her neck, slow and careful. She lets him into her ribcage, lets him make a home between the valves of her heart. He gets too excited by her acceptance, begins to pull at her sleep clothes with his free hand. She makes a noise of distress and he bolts up.
“Not yet?” he asks quietly.
“I’m not sure.”
“I promise, the sensation of skin upon skin is one of the best feelings.”
She relents, lets him pull the clothes from her body until she is as undressed as he. When he lies back down, presses his chest to hers, she makes a small noises of contentment, pulling her hands through his hair. He decides he loves that feeling just as much.
“Did you…” she asks when his fingers ghost her breasts, “did you want more from me tonight?”
“I only wish to sleep beside you, unless you want more from me.”
“I’m not ready.”
“Then perhaps we should get some rest.” His lips graze her forehead. “I’m sure you must be tired as well.”
She nestles close to his chest when he pulls the sheets around them, her breath warm on the scarred skin of his neck. “I don’t know what to make of you.”
“Why is that?”
“You’re a monster until you aren’t, and you’re not a lover until you are.”
“Can’t I be both at the same time?”
“That’s what scares me.”
He kisses the top of her head, smoothing his fingers down her back. “My fangs are only there to protect you.”
“I know.” She kisses his throat and he can feel something begin to bloom inside her, something he’s grown very familiar with. “Oh, I know.”