#kylo.

A couple of village cows on the road near Plockton.

hey, my name is nicholas and i play bass in this band called bad omens and spend my free time tattooing or letting my sister dress me up like guy fieri to ride around in heelys. currently on tour with underoath, stray from the path, and the legends in spiritbox. come catch a show, book a tattoo, or let me meet your dog or something. (pet pics also accepted via dm.)

when there’s nothing to his characterization beyond spitting angrily and being a space fascist, the fact that SUCH a huge fandom exists for him is terrible

the fact that people ship him with kylo and it’s so popular is terrible

She doesn’t like when he does this. He’s done it so many times before. Make a mess of her charity pageants, her esplanade of undeserved hospitality, her white tents and pretty songs hummed to children and old men who’ve outlasted one devil to live to see the other. The First Order’s dark mirror casts a pall on every place he goes.

He follows her like a dog.

His is an itch neither of them understands; he simply cannot stay the course. He berates himself nightly, but he simply cannot stay away.

Her silence, when it ignites, means too much.

So he comes. She cannot be rid of him.

She should be glad of it, now.

“Steady.”

He is as cold as always, as mountainous, as deadly. His hands hold to her waist, a chalice, while hers clamor for the sharp dagger of his inhuman face.

Someone—not his men—put a hole in the dam. A very literal one. Her encampment is more than likely destroyed.

Yet he’s watching her make tallies, count the possibilities behind her eyes.

“You’re no help to anyone if you drown.”

It should disconcert him that he knows her so well, to appeal to her very specific logic. He should be furious.