#just a quick little fingerbang yknow

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 18 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 17 here. Part 19 here.

Summary: You're concussed. You didn't really think anyone would care.

Words: 4100

Warnings: Handmaid AU

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: Hello! I did the thing again where I was like, oh, this chapter is not gonna have ANY smut in it. And then I wrote it and, y'know, Kylo Ren just... does things to me, y'all.

Does this count as fluff? It can get fluffier, I know, but like. For the universe, and all that.

Thank you so much for your feedback and encouragement! I love y'all so very much! See you soon. <3

The Audi screeched as it rolled into Kylo Ren’s driveway. The rim was almost certainly scrap by now, the way he’d ripped through the roads. You’d spent the entire ride coiled to the door frame--despite the reality of your destination, it was a relief for the car to finally cease moving. He engaged the emergency brake, turned the keys.

“Out.” 

Ren exited the vehicle, and you followed, stumbling onto the concrete. You still felt dizzy from colliding with the dashboard. As you thought it, a brief reverie--the car, the light, Poe’s head--pop--your vision fizzed, and you crumpled against the car, temples pounding. Pain split your skull, and you groaned, kneading your forehead, trying to ease the shrieking in your ears. For the four-hundredth time since you’d left the Resistance house, you were nauseous.

Except this time, you vomited, heaving nothing but stomach acid onto the window of Ren’s car. 

“Hm.” His presence was murky, like mud in your mind. “You hit your head in the crash.”

You wanted to respond, but couldn’t, mouth somehow made of marbles. Instead, you tried to move, but fumbled--mid-fall, you flailed and grabbed the side mirror for stability. Despite this, your limbs were like rubber, bowing, sending you straight toward the ground. A large, strong hand hooked under your arm, hoisting you to your feet, where you wobbled, unsteady.

“You have a concussion.” He guided you forward, and you retched, trying to push him off. “Come inside.”

“Just… hold on a second.” You weren’t ready to move so fast. The world felt like it was underwater. 

Ren urged you along another step, and you winced, collapsing into him and rolling toward the ground again. In one swift movement, he slipped one arm behind your knees, the other supporting your shoulders. Your head spun--you were in far too much pain to acknowledge the gesture, sight still too blurry to even fully comprehend what was happening. His face, to your muddled memory, was stoic--if there had been emotion behind his decision to carry you, it didn’t show. He regarded you with all of the affection that one might regard a paper bag.

Clutching you to his chest, he opened the doors to his home, his heels loud clacks on the hardwood floor. The halls remained dark as he passed through, a fact you were entirely okay with, as you were certain the introduction of any light would slice your head open with its edge. You allowed your eyes to close, your body rocking with his movement, mind attempting to map your location in the house under the strain. One hard step, another--he’d begun to ascend the stairs, but your map must have been in error. They were the stairs to his bedroom hallway, not yours. 

“Sir, is that you?” Johana’s voice, sharp with worry, pierced your ears. The noise of footsteps. “Where have you--oh.” 

There was a pause. Ren stopped. You dangled in his arms. 

“What are…” She paused, and then tried again, softer. “What’s going on?”

“I’m retrieving my property.”

A creak of hardwood. “You… Why is she… You’re bringing her upstairs, Sir?”

Silent, he started to climb again, the movement making you groan. 

“Wait, please--”

“Move.”

“Can you just explain what--”

“No,” he replied. “Move.”

There was a lull of silence--you had a desire to peep open a lid, glimpse Johana’s face, construct a visual memory of the tension weighing between them. Even through the air, you could feel the anxiety whipping like a corona off her skin, could sense her restraint, a straitjacket shackling her to obsequiousness. 

“You shouldn’t have brought her here, Sir,” she said. “The Eyes could have her slated for re-education.”

“There’s been no order for that.” 

“No order?” she whispered. “Did you… Did you abandon your duty to go after a Handmaid?” 

“That’s irrelevant.” He went to step again, and stalled in response to a wooden creak.

“We should at least dress her in--”

“Johana.” His voice was a cleaver. “Move.”

 “You can’t bring her into our bedroom,” she spat, trembling tone hiding a plea. “I don’t care about the Eyes, or if you left, or any of that. Just. Please. Not. Where we sleep.”

Silence again--and then: “She has a concussion.”

A long, slow breath. A sigh. “Fine.”

Finally, you heard a shift, and he pushed past the last few steps and through the hall. Johana, with feather feet, followed. Ren shouldered open a door--to his bedroom, you gathered--the low glow in the room like a blinding flash to your hidden eyes. You grumbled again, squirming in his grip, and after a short walk, he laid you on the bed. The moment your head connected with the pillow, you seethed, rolling over, shielding your face from intruding light.

“How do you know she had a concussion?” 

Ren was crossing, unhooking something. You heard a clatter across the room.

“Why do you have your gun--”

“She was in a car accident,” he said. “She can’t stand.”

“Sir,” Johana sighed, “are you going to at least tell me what happened so I know what to say if the Eyes--”

“It’s none of your concern.” He bit the words off between his teeth. “I will take care of it.”

She grumbled--you felt fingers at your shoulder, rolling you to your back. You whined, burying your head in your hands, but Johana wrenched them down with experienced grace, tacking them to your sides. At the sight of your face, she gasped.

“Is that blood?” When Ren was silent, she said again, “Is that blood on her face?” She released you, and you peeled your lids open, squinting even from the dim yellow ambiance. Johana had spun on Ren, who stood, a gargoyle of indifference. “What the hell did you do?”

“Quiet.” 

“I swear to Christ, if she is pregnant--”

“Enough.”

“--and if you ruined my chances of being a mother, Kylo, I--”

“Johana,” he hissed. “Remember your place.”

She stalled, stepping back, her blue nightgown a plume around her legs. “Yes, sir, Commander.” Scowling, she stomped back over to you, meeting your eyes with a flash of rage. “Sit up.”

Nodding, you pushed up on your palms, wincing as your head throbbed. Nausea washed over you again. The bed swirled under your frame--you sucked in a deep breath through your nostrils, quelling the tsunami of vomit that wanted to burble up and spew all over your Commander’s Wife. Thankfully, once your back was against the pillow, you were able to fully open your lids. Johana’s thumb was on your wrist, checking your pulse, face screwed in concentration. In the corner of the room, Ren was seated, shoulders flared like the wings of a raptor, a gaze just as keen.

Glancing at your eyes, she turned to the nightstand, rummaging through it. “Where’s the flashlight?” she asked. And, after a moment, “Nevermind. Found it.”

She clicked it on, two fingers prying open your lids as she shined the flash directly into your pupils. You whinged, seething, trying to shove her off, but she snatched your wrists and strapped them down with her strength, flicking the light back and forth from your eyes, scrutinizing your response. After a moment, the pain simmered, washed away. 

“Her pupils are normal.” Johana turned the flashlight off, returning it to the nightstand before staring back at you. “What nation do we live in?”

“The… Republic of Gilead?” you replied, raising a brow.

“And what year is it?”

“Nineteen… eighty-five…”

“What role do you serve in this home?” Her tone grew more severe.

You blinked, scanning her, wanting to inch away. “I’m… I’m a Handmaid.”

“And what is your name?”

A shiver crawled up your spine as you remembered the rasp of Kylo Ren’s voice in your ear, the tears at your neck, the weight of his body and the thick stretch of his cock, slamming into you, demanding your submission. Your gaze flickered to his. The depth of it--like a pit that threatened to swallow you--gnawed at your stomach.

“Ofkylo,” you murmured, and met her eyes again.

Johana studied you, a slow breath escaping her, before she turned to Ren, voice flat. “She’s oriented. No dilation.” A slight shrug as she glanced at you from over her shoulder. “She should be fine.” 

Ren shifted, head tilting. “She could still vomit in her sleep. She couldn’t walk.”

She sighed again. “What are you asking me, Sir?”

“She shouldn’t fall asleep.”

Johana threw her hands up, crossing to her dresser. “Well, as far as I’m concerned, she’s fine,” she mumbled. “I was a nurse, not a doctor.”

The admission made your stomach flip. A nurse.

Ren stood, long strides bringing him to the side of the bed. Warmth and terror eked through you in equal measure, body tingling for his touch, brain shriveling at the thought of it. His eyes lingered on your figure, appraising it, before traveling to meet your own. Within his irises, there was a fog--a nameless, formless ache, suffocating in the depth of his denial. You could see it, feel it as it coasted across your skin, scattering like shadow as he stared--and you hated it, hated the flutter it brought to your heart, hated the fire it stoked in your veins. It was that asinine desire to know, even as you had already decided that your knowledge of him was complete. 

In secret, a single finger drew a soft line down your calf, and you shuddered. “She will stay here tonight.”

Balking, Johana whirled to face her husband. “What--” She cleared her throat. “Um, excuse me, Sir?”

It was a surprise to you, too--you stared at him, brow furrowed, but his expression was inscrutable, like he’d put on a mask.

“She could choke. Fall into a coma. She requires observation.”

“I’ve already told you that I think she’s fine.”

You nodded, sitting up. Anything to get you out of pissing off Johana. “I actually feel totally fine--”

Ren held up a finger, silencing you, his attention still on his Wife. “You don’t know that to be true.”

Her jaw stiffened. She crossed her arms. “You’re not putting out your Wife so you can watch over a Handmaid,” she said. “That’s… the impropriety--”

“At what point did I order you to leave?” 

She blinked, jaw dropping. A choked laugh broke from her throat, her head shaking. “You… You expect me to share our bed with a Handmaid?” she asked. “Have you--I mean…” She drew in a steadying breath. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sir.”

You nodded, swinging your feet toward the floor, ignoring the rush of pain when you moved. “You know, I don’t really want to stay here, either--”

Ren caught your legs as you tried to kick them off the bed, suspending them in air. “No.” He tossed you back as if you were made of cotton, looked to Johana. “You may sleep here or in any of the other bedrooms in this home. It’s immaterial to me.”

Johana stood, staring, her mouth parted, hand falling over her heart. You could almost see it--the silent disintegration of her reality, like a building crumbling in on its own framework, shattered pieces pulverized into rings of dust. Her eyes glossed, cheeks reddened, and she cleared her throat again, swallowing. A sickened smile flashed over her face; she blinked it away.

“If that’s how you feel, Sir, then please, feel free to share our bed with your little whore. You know where to find me, if you need me.” She threw open the closet, grabbing a robe and tugging it on. “But I know you won’t.” With a flourish, she left, slamming the door behind her.

Guilt sank like venom into your bones, twisted your intestines. You glared at Ren. “You’re cruel.”

He cocked a brow, unbuttoning the cuffs on his shirt. “She should be concerned with your survival, given the possibility of pregnancy.” He glanced at your face and paused. After a moment, he turned, heading into the bathroom.

“She loves you, you know,” you called after him. 

No response. You sighed, sinking onto the bed, head plopping back onto the pillow, gazing into the gauzy lavender canopy, tracing its network of soft wrinkles with your eyes. It was true that your head felt like a cantaloupe that someone had smashed with a mallet, and it was also true that the thought of walking currently made bile bubble in your esophagus--but despite all of this, the thought of staying in Kylo Ren’s room with him all night made your chest tight. 

The memory of Poe’s head bursting with cherry blood was a circular film in your mind, reeling on repeat, as if someone was rewinding the tape and pressing play over and over and over. The fact that Ren had murdered him without a breath brought a chill to your toes, to your stomach. The fact that even after that, you’d begged in unfortunate honesty for his cock froze you entirely. Poe’s new adage--There are no saints in Gilead--did little to assuage your shame. Just because sainthood was unachievable didn’t mean you were supposed to drown in sin. 

Who could be considered more reprehensible--the devil? Or the one who had witnessed him shed his humanity, spring forward as a full-formed monstrosity--and still chose to kneel at his feet? At least one was by nature. You weren’t sure what your problem was.

Ren entered the room again, a white towel draped over his hand. You eyed him with suspicion as he approached--Was this all a plan to kill you?--but before you could sputter a protest, he sat at the side of the bed and wedged his hand under your head, cradling it with ease. 

Silent, he guided the warm, damp cloth over your face, tracing it across your forehead, gentle along your hairline. You felt the crust of blood and sweat on your skin drifting clean, the heat of the towel soothing the thumping of your temples. Air failed to enter your lungs, a tremor of something only identifiable as affection tunnelling through you. In his gaze, you saw no evidence of the man who had pinned you to the pavement, pistol to your chin--he was open, a wound without a bandage. 

“I don’t understand why you killed him,” you said, the words leaving before you’d had a chance to think them.

Ren blinked, soft, dark lashes shielding his eyes. “I don’t understand why you left.” The towel caressed your jaw, his long fingers tilting your head as if you were made of porcelain. 

You snuffed a laugh. “Are you… serious?”

For the first time in minutes, he leveled you with his stare. “Yes.”

“How… do you not understand?” you said. “This is hell. You’ve created hell for me.” You bit your lip, choosing your words carefully. “You’ve created hell for all of us.”

He considered you, motionless. “You’re not happy here.”

Snorting, you wondered how many times you’d have to say it for him to actually listen. “Commander--are you?”

Ren paused, holding the towel to your cheek, his gaze fixated on yours. Those full, pink lips twitched with something nameless, the mellow lights casting a mahogany shimmer over the dark waves of his hair. You laid there, locked with him, trading a feeling too dangerous to articulate in the absence of your breathing. Heat dripped into your face--too much heat for the towel to be responsible. He focused on your mouth, rubbed it clean, and offered another blink, almost meandering in its speed.

“Smuggling a Handmaid is punishable by death,” he said. “For Guardians, public execution.” He scrubbed at your chin, swooping along the perimeter of your face.

You grimaced. “So you killed him out of the kindness of your heart?”

“No.” The towel glided under your eyes. “I killed him because he took you.” He dabbed at your neck, your pulse a drum underneath his fingertips. “But his death was inevitable--by me or otherwise.” Leaning back, he examined you, seeking out any other stains. Apparently satisfied, he lowered your head to the mattress and stood, returning to the bathroom.

You sighed, embers crackling in the ash of your flesh. You’d asked to understand--and now you had. For some reason, it didn’t make you feel any less guilty. In fact, it only made you feel worse as you imagined Finn and Rey finding out the mission had gone haywire, that Poe had met his inevitability. All because of you. All your fault. More tears welled, and you shook them away. You were tired of crying. 

After a moment, Ren exited the bathroom carrying clothing. His shirt was untucked, a pair of black drawstring trousers hanging at his waist. Your eyes stuck to him like flypaper, gawking while he crossed the room, his fingers popping open his shirt buttons, revealing inch by inch his thick, powerful torso. A wad of saliva lodged in your throat, breath stuck behind it. He tossed his clothes in a wicker basket, shucking his shirt into it, muscles in his back rippling as he rolled his shoulders. You devoured him, a wolf starved for his vulnerability. 

He turned, approaching you in silence--it was impossible not to notice every movement of his body, how it tensed with his footsteps, how the veins in his hands rooted in his arms, how the breadth of his chest appeared so, so deliciously solid. The light almost disguised the white scars spread across his skin, phantoms of the revolution still haunting his flesh. A wave of fire crashed over you at the realization. He was dangerous--a weapon of a man. And he had just tenderly cleaned your face.

You finally remembered to breathe and swallow when he hovered over you. Was he going to try and fuck you in the throes of a concussion?

“Uh, excuse me, sir.” You tried in vain to tear yourself from his beauty.

“Sit up.” 

Despite his order, his hands were at your back and shoulder, pulling you forward. Ren turned you, sliding in behind you, his legs framing yours, your back flush to his chest. He curled an arm around your waist, tugging you tight to his body, his heat enveloping you. In silence, he gathered your hair, folded it over your shoulder, smoothing the strays over your scalp. Having finished that, he lifted the Bible from his nightstand and flipped it open, his head nestling next to yours as he began to read. You fought for breath, mind whirling from either the concussion or from stupor. How was this the same man who, only hours ago, had his gun shoved in your cunt?

You wanted to feel disgust, horror--you were his possession, after all. But his touch was too gentle to signify ownership. It was the touch of a human, a touch you’d only known men to give to women they cherished--a touch you hadn’t known in years.

“What… are you doing, Commander?” It was the only question that could crawl its way out. 

“Observing you.” Velvet rolled from his mouth to your ear. “Until you can walk, it’s not safe for you to sleep.”

“But Johana…”

“Johana would risk your safety to spite me,” he said. “I want you alive.”

You almost laughed. “Is that why you shot into the car that you knew I was in?”

A pause, and his chest fell in a sigh. “You were never my target.” 

“You could’ve missed, Commander.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “And I don’t.” The darkness in his tone sent ice through your spine. Another pause. “Use my name.”

You blushed, choking on your own spit. “I’m sorry?”

“When we’re alone,” he murmured. “Use my name.”

The motive of his observation clarified in your mind. Ren had wanted Johana, and you, and his own self to believe his intentions were practical. So far, he’d managed to fool only himself--and maybe not even then. He dipped his face to the slope of your neck, drawing in a long, deep breath through his nostrils. Goosebumps swelled across you--in an automatic reaction, you melted against him, your head resting on his shoulder.

“Kylo…”

“Yes, little bird?” he whispered over your skin.

You sighed. “I hate you…”

He nuzzled his nose along your pulse. “You hate me?” he asked. “You are me.”

“What?” You frowned.

“You want to resist…” A hand rested on your hip, bunching fabric as it curled to a fist. “There’s something here that makes us both betray what we believe in.”

You shook your head. “No,” you said, “because what I believe is right, and what you believe is wrong.”

“Inconsequential.” His lips skated your heartbeat, and you caught a sigh in your chest. “When we both believe we’re right.”

You squirmed, feeling his growing desire at your backside. A pang of lust knocked between your legs, and you gripped his thighs, feeling them harden under your palms. “I know I’m right.”

“Of course.” He tossed the Bible to the side, mouth pressing soft, lingering kisses to your exposed throat. “And I know you’re getting wet for me, right now.”

A shudder rattled you, and you chewed a whine before it escaped. “Kylo…”

Kylo Ren growled, undoing the button and zipper of your jeans and slipping his hand into the open flap. You whimpered, your head throbbing with the surge of delight hitting your nerves--he shushed you, his thick fingers gliding across your mound. 

“I want to make you cum again,” he purred, kissing your jaw. “I want to hear you say my name as you clench around my fingers.”

Longing roared inside of you, searing your insides. “My head hurts,” you replied, even while your cunt pulsed with need.

“I’ll be gentle, little bird.” His other hand threaded through your hair, nudging your face toward his, and he captured your lips in a hot, tender kiss. “Now be good for me.”

Ren slid a digit across your already stiff clit, his chest rolling with excited breath as he teased it with a quick swirl. You gasped, legs spreading wider, your nails biting his thighs, and he huffed, tracing quick, tight circles around it, the pad of his finger supplying shocks of friction. Pleasure flooded you, muscles collapsing as you succumbed to it--Ren kissed you again, holding you there, tongue delving into your mouth while he rubbed your swollen nub faster. Two more fingers coated themselves in your slick and pushed inside you.

You moaned into him, and he jerked you harder to his body, tongue massaging yours while his plush lips worked over your mouth. His hand continued to cup your head as he kissed you, as if to meld you with his frame, as if to brand you in his memory, and his fingers pumped into you, one digit flicking and circling your clit. Air was passed in hot gusts between your nostrils, your bodies grinding together in a futile attempt to fuse. He was deft--your climax approaching fast, his hands pulling it from you faster than they had your dignity.

“That’s it, little bird,” he groaned against you. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

Nodding, you fussed, trying to meet his lips again, missing the heavy comfort of his kiss. Your walls clenched his fingers, the beat of bliss thrumming to your head, every new thump of your heart cracking your skull. A sob of pain was silenced by another peak of pleasure over your flesh, your pussy squeezing him faster, yanked to the edge by the stretch of his digits plunging into you, his finger battering your nub.

“Let me hear you.”

“Kylo,” you breathed, gripping his thighs as if they’d anchor you to sanity, “oh, fuck, Kylo…”

“That’s right,” he muttered, “that’s right…”

You splintered, ecstasy burning through you, and as you came, Ren’s lips crashed into yours, swallowing your desperate wails of pleasure, his body solid while your limbs twitched. He was a rock, a sanctuary where you could come undone, finger rubbing until you squealed with discomfort, continuing to kiss you, softer, gentler, until the last tatters of your climax dissipated from your skin.

Wilting into him, your lids fluttered shut, lungs heaving while your heart searched for its rhythm. Ren kissed you again, then pulled his hand from your cunt and popped his fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean with a quiet moan. Once finished, he zipped up your jeans, re-buttoned them, and propped you up, positioning you flat along his chest once more. His length still throbbed at your back--but if he noticed, he said nothing. 

You sighed, ignoring the echo of pain at the perimeter of your skull, waiting for the oxytocin to leave your blood. “I hate you, Kylo.”

He stroked your hair, flipping it over your shoulder for the second time. “I know.” He returned to his Bible, thumbing it open to 1 Corinthians, and you spied a verse circled in pretty black ink.

Flee from sexual immorality. All other sins a person commits are outside the body, but whoever sins sexually, sins against their own body. 

The rest of the night, he was silent, nudging you only when you would drift toward sleep, vigilant until the sun crested into the sky.