❝takes one to know one ❞
• [Modern AU] •
After a calamitous tragedy cleaves the Solo family in two, a mother transforms into the enemy of her own son.
Splitting from The Resistance, the powerful empire his parents constructed, Kylo Ren has reaped a...
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**THIS STORY IS CURRENTLY UNDER CONSTRUCTION. IT WILL BE UPDATED REGULARLY AS ITS REVISED.**
• • •
Your disposition was callous. It was a deadly, but efficient way to carry yourself and your morals— or immorally speaking— your cruel standards.
Your fingers skimmed along the rim of your martini. Saturated by the watery mildew that surfaced there. Eyes raking in your dignified, lavish surroundings.
Where balding, opulent men clad in urbane suits curtsied and bowed for the women garbed in luxurious jewels and floor-length dresses. Where clusters of the polished and primped conversed in a sophisticated, neat manor. Chatting about the amounts of zeroes that edged the money accumulating in their bank accounts.
The scarlet soles of your Louboutin's bounce softly upon the footrest of your barstool. It was a pacifying tick you had obtained just in these past couple hours. Although your occupation harbored immense, detrimental things, you were constantly high on adrenaline: and it made the apprehensions of what you do for a living less disarming.
You broadcasted your beauty by flashing amorous smiles to the bartender. Batting your eyelashes, making the men gush and nearly cream themselves. It was appeasing to know that your beauty was lethal enough to spin prowling men off their tracks.
You've always been indulged with compliments that described your ethereal descollage as poisonous. The curves and sways of your body a fatal acid, that melted those victim of your beauty into liquid.
Your leader and commuting best-friend, Poe Dameron, used you as a tactic to lure his most prized targets and quarry. He rendered you the ordeals and personas of your subjects, leaving the fate of the victim you acquired up to you. You were the curator of your casualties fate, and you were accommodating to this lifestyle. Learning to embrace the thrill of the hunt.
Despite the remorse that kindled and twinged in your gut, on occasion.
Tonight was not one of those occasions. Tonight's subject left no room for grief nor remorse: only vengeance. The quantity of money you would inherit for terminating tonight's kill was your motivator. The sum would amount to a colossal pit of bottomless praise, money, and respect amongst your not-so-trivial peers that worked under the reign of the Resistance.
You flashed the bartender a subtle, coy grin. Your teeth glistening like pearls through your crimson-painted lips. Your eyes were locked on his sensually, as you hiked up the hem of your velvety black dress, that clung onto all of your sacred areas with the grip of a vice. You caressed the lace garner cladding your thigh. Fingers dancing along the crevices of the leather holster that was twined with it. Tracing the slick, glacial aluminum of your Glock 19.
