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Kylo Ren Would Give His Own Dad’s Life for a Hug Unfortunately Only His Dad Ever Hugged Him and He’d Killed Him Already

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They take him alive, because Rey has the kind of moral compass that would make Kylo sneer if it wasn’t her. Weak. Pathetic. But from her it's a choice not a failing and it makes him want her more. The things he could have done to her- with her- if he’d only gotten it right. He’s wanted people before, in every iteration of the word, wanted to own them, claim them, serve them, curl around them and protect them, and burn the heart out of them until all they knew was him. Before her the fancy had always passed. A moment out of a thousand others that sparked the flame inside him and set him burning. But they’d say the wrong thing, fall in training, smile at the wrong person and the desire to make them everything would flicker and die. But not her. There was nothing she could do, nothing she could say that would kill the fire now. He was hers, and she would have been his if he’d just gotten it right.

He has time to consider all the things he should have said and done to make her understand while he’s chained in the rebellions dungeons wasting away because she can’t kill him and won’t let anyone else either.

So maybe, maybe he did say the right things because she can’t let him go either.


His cell is 2x6, longer than it is wide, its barren “in case” as if he couldn't wring the life out of any of them with his bare hands give half the chance, and the walls are large white panels. The white is probably symbolic, as if a prison cell is any less of a prison cell just because the walls are white. He wonders if Rey understands the irony, wonders if he could teach her.

She visits every third day like clockwork, eyes fixed on his shock collar except for when they flick down to the anti-force shackles he’s been bound with. He’s trying to break them, trying to overload them with his strength alone. Nothings come of it yet, but he has time, an entire life time so long as the waif of a woman keeps coming back to him.

He watches her uninterrupted while she tells him about the rebuilding of the senate, the debates on which planet to use now that Coruscant is gone, the little fights Finn and Poe keep having. And he dreams about fighting her, fucking her, strangling the life out of her because once she’s dead they’ll kill him too.

“You haven’t been sleeping.” She states, and his eyes slide up the length of her from where they’d strayed below the belt to find she’s frowning.

“They don’t turn the lights off.” He explains, voice thick with misuse but the flush rises in her cheeks all the same at the sound of it. He leans in closer, she’s not too far away, but behind the big black line that shows his reach. She’ll never cross it, he knows, but he dreams. “They’re afraid of what I’ll do if they can’t see me. They should be.”

She straightens at the challenge, meets his eyes dead on, “And what will you do, Ben?”

“I just need a moment.” He says, because he wants her to remember that he is dangerous, that without the restraints, without the collar, he could decimate the entire building. His uncles Jedi Temple had had actual fighters who could almost match him. After that nothing was really a challenge, except her.

She doesn’t flinch even though he can see the weariness in eyes. Like a rabbit ready to face down a wolf even though it knows it should be very afraid.

He’s going to eat her last.


The lights get dimmed that night, and he pulls the undersized blanket they’ve allowed him over his waist, pictures her on her knees draped in his robes and swallowing him to the root, and cums with the echo of the guards laughing down the corridor.


She doesn’t return on the third day and the anticipation that had built in him stings when the lights dim and he’s left wanting. He’s been here for nearly a month and she’s never missed a day.

There’s nothing to throw, nothing to break, he strains against his restrains until they break the skin, blood sliding down his wrists, he looks at the monitor cameras, looks at the door holding him in, and grits his teeth and breaks his thumb. Despite the damage, and the blood, his hand doesn’t slide through the manacles. Helplessness shots through him and he punches the wall, for a brief moment the flare of pain distracts him, and so he does it again and again, until the guards storm into his cage and wrestle him to the ground. He bites one of them, blood in his teeth, before they activate the collar and he screams as the electricity shots through him before he blacks out.


Rey is next to his hospital bed when he wakes. He pretends to be asleep while she runs her fingers along the bandages of his wrists, but it only lasts a few seconds before she withdraws.

“I know you’re awake.” She says quietly, so the other people in the room can’t hear. With the force as strong in her as it is now, she could probably feel the moment he slipped into consciousness so he opens his eyes and looks his fill.

She’s taken her sleeves off, there’s a ring on her thumb he’s never seen before, and her hair is tied back from her face so he can see every detail.

“I thought you were... busy.” He sneers and he’s staring so he sees her confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“You come every third day.”

“It’s only the second day.” She says it like his confused, as if he doesn’t count time by her presence alone. As if he is the one who could get distracted and forget his obligations. He goes to sneer, goes to call her a liar, but she’s not a liar. Never. Eternal optimist. Eternal hope. So he swallows down the impulse and accepts that in a room with no window to the outside world he’s reliant on his jailers to measure the passage of time. It could have been five days, or two, he had no way of knowing, and they’d used that to confuse him.

“My mistake.” He agrees because he doesn’t want to upset her, he’s done that enough to have her here when she should be elsewhere. Being the only Jedi of the Resistance must have its duties, but still he has to ask, “Will you come tomorrow?” and is relieved when she says yes.

The lights don’t turn off at all over the next week and he curls under his blanket, the fluorescent light shining through the thin material, and resolves not to care as long as she shows up. She always shows up.

Until she doesn’t.


He’s been in captivity for over sixty-three days. He knows because she’s come into his cell twenty-one times. Stood there at an informal attention and begged him to change his ways, promised him that she could save him, shouted at him for all his transgressions, until she’d finally settled on recounting her activities throughout the day. He had liked all of interactions, but could admit he preferred to see her fired up like she had been in those first weeks.

But this time he knows more time has passed than three days because he’s learnt to listen to the conversations of the guards down the hall, watch for the sweeps of the camera on the hour, and hear the elevator arrive and leave with meals and change over staff.

They feed him cold food, old food, food they’ve spat in and laughed about amongst themselves. He eats it all, needs the energy, needs to be ready to kill them all. They just laugh harder at him. He exercises late at night when they’re conversations become murmurs rather than raucous jibes. Fucks his fist to thoughts of her and waits until it’s morning to repeat it all again.

But there’s a routine, even if they don’t know it. It’s sloppy and he’d have had Phasma cut their heads off for being so useless. But that’s not how Rebellions work, not if his mother was to be believed. The important thing is that he knows she’s due, and then he knows she hasn’t come, and then he knows at least four days pass and she’s still not before him.

She might be dead.

She might have forgotten him.

Decided he isn’t worth her time.

She might have found a lover, gotten lost in the tryst of another man when she belongs to him. He’ll kill whoever it is. He won’t pretend he’ll be the first when she finally bends to him. He’s seen her beginnings, there’s no need to pretend they were anything but what they are. But he won’t stand to be replaced now that they’re fates have been immutably twined together. He’ll eviscerate anything that takes her eyes from him.


They come for him on the twelfth day.

He fights with teeth and fists until they turn the collar on, burn the flesh of his throat until the shocks knock him out, and he wakes hanging chained up in a different room. This one's more his style, there’s blood and piss on the floor, it smells of sweat and rot, and the torturers tools are laid out where he can see every last one.

His toes scape against the floor, his head rolls back and pulses with the aftershocks of the electrocution.

There’s a big man, taller than him but thick and wide standing in front of him who was clearly waiting for him to wake. “Guess whose off world for a while?” The man asks in a thick accent that Kylo recognises but can’t place. Not that it matters.

The answer it clearly Rey. Rey is off world. And of course she’s been shielding him until now. Precious girl thinking she could ever stop this. It was always going to a happen. A war is a war after all. No matter what side you’re on, the morals are always a veneer that shatters when the right people stop looking.

Kylo braces himself for all the good that will do, and his new best friend gets to work.


He doesn’t have a single point of reference for time until she comes back. Gerd’ik has a flare for appearing and disappearing at unpredictable intervals. He made torture a fine art, and Kylo tells him every and anything he ever asks because he’s got nothing everyone doesn’t already know. He swears to things that never happened. There are things that happened that he agrees never happened, because that’s what he has to do. None of it stops anything for long. Just gets him rough fingers carding through his hair, little praises, and sometimes a reprieve.

When she sees him she’s horrified, tears on her face as she uses the force to crush the chains holding him in place, but he’s too tired to be anything but happy to see her face again. Not because she’ll save him forever, but because she’s alive, she’s remembered him and that’s all he wants.


He spends two weeks in medical. The collar never comes off, neither do the cuffs, but he can see out the big windows at the forest planet beyond. He can see life, even if he can’t feel it through the force anymore. The lights are dim and friendly, and they turn on and off as routinely as the nurses and droids who come and go.

Rey doesn’t leave his side, like she knows they’d never have taken him there if she’d been around still. She’s right, of course, they’ve probably laid out an excuse, a series of misunderstandings, or told her whatever they wanted so she couldn’t blame them directly. It doesn’t matter, it will happen again. It will keep happening until one of them is dead. There’s no escaping this destiny now.

She brushes against his healing scars when he’s almost asleep, apologies without words, and he curls his fingers around her wrist and draws it up to his chest to feel her soft hands splayed across his chest, and when she doesn’t protest, he wonders what else he could do, and with an eye on the one droid still monitoring the room, he changes the hands direction, sliding it down under the sheet towards his cock.

Her eyes go wide and check the room for onlookers, but she doesn’t tug away, doesn’t even try. He’s the one in manacles, but she does exactly what he wants and her small hand closes around him, weighs his girth and then pulls.

He groans loudly and the droid moves.

“His fine.” Rey snaps, and there’s iron in her voice, the kind that no-one fights if they know what’s good for them. She could smash it to pieces, push it hard enough with the force that it shattered against the wall. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t. “Leave.” She orders instead, and the droid looks put upon, but sets its chart down and leaves the room. She pulls at him while she watches the door close, then with her right hand she hurls a bed pan at the door panel with the force, sparks flare and the door shorts out and he’s tugging the rest of her body up and over his.

She kicks the sheet away impatiently, minds the wound in his shoulder, and straddles his hips. Her clothes are all in the way, and he won’t let her hand go, bracing her against his chest. So she has to use her right one to wiggle them down her hips. He expects her to hesitate but she pulls him completely free of his robes, holds him still and drops right down, sliding him straight into her core.

He grunts, uses his free hand to grab her hip and holds on as she takes control. She young and fit, bouncing on his lap, fevered and desperate and he feels vicious and powerful in a way he hasn’t in so very long. He lets her hand go, gets both hands on her hips and makes it harder and faster. He wants to roll her over, get her under him and slam into her until her hips hurt and there are tears sliding down her face, but this is good, so good, and it’s a prison hospital, someone’s going to come soon. They’d be fools not to.

So he fucks up into her and she squeezes around him and milks every last drop of sensation out of him. Doesn’t even care that he can’t see those perfect breasts, just takes and takes everything he deserves, and when he comes it’s messy and pours into her unstopped and he thinks about what that means, wonders if she knows and distracts her with a thick thumb on her clit as he rubs her rough to get her over the edge. She tightens around him with her orgasm and he clamps her down tight against his hips, feels the shape of her flush against him and knows he’s never going to kill her. He’ll do anything, absolutely anything to keep her like this, with him, for him.

But she pulls off him, pulls her pants up, and flushed red makes him decent as well. He lays back and lets her do all the work, can’t wait until she goes away again and they drag him down to their dungeons to take their revenge. Because the results are worth it.