itβs not a lightsaber that she has clutched tightly in both hands, but a pair of blades that glint silver in the light. one she has buried in the shoulder of the arm holding the humming ( painfully, the force screams from it like a wounded thing, it breaks her heart ) red lightsaber, the other she has pressed against the column of his throat. consequences be damned, she wants his heart ripped from his chest.
but itβs not something she can do. not yet.
β call me old fashioned, but sometimes i prefer metal over a lightsaber. do you know why? β the knife in his shoulder twists with a jerk just enough to emphasize her point. sheβs close enough to kiss, sheβs close enough to kill, sheβs close enough to see the vein sheβs pressing her knife into ( which sheβs doing with no small amount of enjoyment, mind you. ) β i donβt want to just hurt you. β her eyes are brown, with flickers of the cosmos swirling within β he brings out the worst in her, the darkest of her. thereβs a sneer and a snarl on her red lips, her anger shaking the walls of her enclosure.
β i want to make you bleed. β
( hello iβm here to be A Menace i hope you donβt mind πππ )
ｑπ¦ΉΒ°β§ βββ the lineage is a tapestry on fire. when he thinks about the skywalker dynasty, it is always in flames. he wonders what she makes of it, what she knows, given her own mysterious familial line. but whenever he prods at her about it, it inflames her irritation. he supposes he has earned the right to her ire, and she to his blood. his chin tips up, as though making space for the edge of the blade against his pale throat. his helmet lies abandoned, cast aside on the ground; she had unfastened it when she had quelled his form, bearing the collection of his features, the mausoleum that is ancestry. dark eyes adjust to the deprivation of the metal. the force-shape of her is blinding, an eclipse at light-speed, which does not reach him until she is upon him. there is something primaeval moving in her force signature. it startles him and intrigues him in equal measure.
β you wound me, lady vasya. β kylo ren deadpans. blood seeps from the tangible wound she has made, staining his cloak, and her hand, but he ignores it in lieu of the intangible insult ββ her attempt to frighten him. the white-hot ache in his shoulder subsides to a dull throb, rendering his arm immobile. he does not care for it. the power in him is not beholden to the weakness of the flesh. the body is only a vessel for the mind, and pain is a stimulant for clarity. he has learnt that lesson, bleeding on the polished floor of the supremacy, before the throne of his master.
β if you mean to make me suffer, youβll have to try harder than that. you're not the first to try teaching me through pain. β gloved hand grasps the sharp blade, the one impelled in his shoulder, and presses it deeper betwixt his own tendons. his body protests. the act pulls her impossibly close. the fabric of his glove rips, skin tearing with it. his groan dissipates in the heated air between their lips, into her mouth, like smoke. β i serve a cruel master. pain is only liturgy. it is the way of the dark... it would seem you are are not above it, after all. β and the edges of his lips curl into a smile, the vestige of an in-born audacity that cannot be cleaved off his tongue even under duress.
his accusation comes as a demand for her inaction to cease. his bleeding hand comes to rest upon her wrist. β stop holding back. β there, beneath her second blade, his pulse thrums as vividly as the serrated energy of the lightsaber in his loose grasp.
