Chance

Expendable

TW: Gore, violence. General ickyness.

Neither you nor Kylo had addressed what happened in the training room. Almost like it never happened.

For a moment, you really did think it never happened. A fever dream of sorts. But no, it had most definitely happened.

Kylo hadn't said anything with words, but his actions seemed to be telling something. His gaze on you was lingering longer than usual. He'd been paying extra attention to your form while training. And not your sparring form.

There had been several occasions where you'd totally screwed up in a practice session with one of his knights, while Kylo watched intently the whole time.

But he'd said nothing. No correction, no reprimand. Almost as though he was focusing on you more than your technique.

You wondered why he hadn't said anything further. Wondered if he ever would. And you wondered why you cared.

After all, he had kidnapped you, forced you into an apprenticeship you never wanted, and coerced you into joining the First Order. Kylo Ren was the last person in this galaxy you should be thinking about having sex with.

So why did you care?

Well, he was good looking. Extremely good looking. Muscular, toned, a facial structure that seemed to naturally draw you in. A low voice that sent chills up your spine. Power, control. Command.

You shouldn't care. You shouldn't think about it either. You should just leave the deranged man to his deranged thoughts about you naked in his bed.

Wonder what he looks like in his bed....

No. Absolutely not.

How fucking insane is that? To think about him that way? To not be absolutely abhorred by what had happened?

He was a psycho that had plucked you from your life and turned you into his pet project and then revealed graphic images of the sexual things he wanted to do to you. Didn't exactly scream romantic. Or even sane.

So why did the thoughts of his bare chest hovering above you sneak into your head at night, taunting you until your hand began to sneak below the waistband of your shorts? Why did the thought of him pounding into you with his hand wrapped around your throat make your stomach clench in excitement rather than churn in disgust?

And why the hell were you thinking about it again with him right next to you?

The tension was thick as you walked at his side, the rhythmic sound of his boots hitting your ears hard. Each footstep sounding heavier than the last.

You weren't sure if the frustrated, stifled energy was coming from you, or from him. Maybe both.

"Why do you walk like that?"

"Like what?"

"You...strut."

He snuck a glance at you. "So the way I walk bothers you?"

"You as a whole just bothers me," you muttered. "Your dramatic strut is just a contributing factor."

"I could walk with you on a leash if you prefer."