Bad Samaritan | Kylo Ren

Bambola

Cardo's embrace was concrete, undeterred. Anchoring your back to his brawny chest. The breadth of it swelling into your frame, that was scathed with fatigue, but plagued with harrowing thoughts.

His calloused fingers weave benignly through a tousled strand of your hair, stroking it out of your battered face, that was weathered with swollen-bruises and bandages that veiled nimble gashes you'd acquired from earliers heedless approach at violence— your untainted desire to obliterate.

Usually— this strenuously secretive routine that you and Cardo had established went unspoken; his bed was yours on nights like these, when your dreams were plagued by the detrimental, barbaric memories you'd let reside in the caverns you'd carved to store your imbalanced emotion.

Therefore it startled you when his voice seeped through the artificial chill of his room, rich and languid with exhaustion. "I'm sorry," his tone was rumbled, revving, like ignition fuming in his chest, that vibrated against you.

You gulp, saliva hefty from your previous course of action and lack to quench the dehydration you harbored, "For what?" You ask the polished window, that mirrors your buffed features, reflects the image of his arm compressed around your waist, his face burrowed into your shoulder blade.

Kylo would not approve; but if he wanted to make a refutation, he could make it to your face— instead of roaming freely, abusing the advantages of his illicit freedom. Instead of running, he should come confide in you; he should be the one whisking the nightmares he curated away.

When he only sighs, you swivel around, the bedpost groaning at your abrupt disruption. You wriggle into his broad figure, chest to chest, his heart drumming thunderously against your sternum. His eyes sloop transiently, but his gaze was slick with attentiveness.

"Don't you dare start playing nice with me now." You glower, breaths shallow, trepidation glinting off your gaze. You jab an accusatory finger into his chest. "Please. Don't choose to feel bad for me now."

He wrenches your wrist back, tenderly, easing it between the river of wrinkled sheets that billows in the dearth space separating your bodies. "I've always felt bad for you," his lips quirk by a millimeter, hand pinning your wrist to restrain you from resulting in physical altercation. "Such a pitiful girl," he tuts, smirking.

You glare, and his smirk falters. "I'm sorry for falling in love with you," he confesses sheepishly— stating what you'd already known. His free hand glides up to brush a phantom speckle of blood off of your face. "It wasn't very professional of me." He snickers nervously.

Your pulse skyrockets, emotion threatening to surge through your veins— you suppress them, as you've obtained the habit of doing so, for the sake of your fidelity to Kylo and your oath to the endeavors he nurtured in your care.

Your thumb analyzes the arch of his lips, brushing over them gingerly, absently. You watch them part, noticing the elation of his scaled breaths, his grip easing off of your wrist.

"I'm sorry, too."

Bewilderment smacks him forcefully in the face. "Oh?" He croons, delivering a toothy grin. "You have that capability?"

You grin blithely. "Sorry that I am incredibly sexy, and therefore making you horrible at your job."

He chuckles, and your smile expands. Even though the feelings you possessed for Cardo were limited to platonic, his laugh was a disease. Deadly, contagious in it's strangely innocent essence. It's a sickness you would always welcome, despite the symptoms.