#woundplay

You weren’t surprised that Johana was furious when she opened the door to find you, yet again in the arms of your Commander, the both of you drenched with rain and iridescent with blood. 

What did surprise you was how quickly this fury crumbled into a trembling, panicked concern. 

Her attention darted between your wound and his face, and she moved toward you, half-reaching toward your arm, then thinking better of it. “What--what happened?” She glared at her husband. “What are you doing here? Take her to a hospital!”

Kylo pushed past her, wet boots squeaking on the hardwood, and Johana growled, shutting the door and trailing behind him. His grip was tight, fingers pinching your flesh. 

“I’m going to call the ambulance,” she said. “I’m not letting a Handmaid bleed out in our--”

He whirled on her, and you rocked with him, stomach churning with the sudden movement. “Pryde is staging a coup,” he replied. “Until I discover the reach of his influence, there is no safer place than this home.” He paused. “For her. And you.”

Silence lingered for a moment, and Johana’s expression sharpened, lips parting. Her eyes followed the grain of the wall, slow air leaking in her lungs. She glanced at the floor, horror falling like a curtain over her face. 

“Commander,” she said, “I…” She swallowed with a frown. “Commander Pryde stopped by the house this morning. He wanted to speak with you. I…” She stepped toward him, chin quivering. “I told him you’d left and hadn’t informed me where you were going, I shouldn't have said anything, I’m sorry--”

“Enough.” Kylo tensed, a wall of muscle against your frame. “It’s irrelevant now. Once she is stable, I’ll be departing with the Knights.” He adjusted you in his hold. “There’s a bullet in her arm.”

Johana gazed at him, hands wringing together, and sighed. Sucking in a long breath, she stepped forward and studied your wound. Your face flushed in embarrassment, expecting admonishment, or even cruelty from her, but it was as if she’d transformed, taken on another skin. She was calculating, cataloging something as she stared, leaning on her toes, humming in thought. There was no evidence of the woman you feared in the person before you--she’d been replaced by a confident, objective analyst. 

“Well, there’s no arterial damage,” she said, “she would’ve bled out already. The tourniquet isn’t necessary.” She eased closer, mouth screwing in thought. “Might’ve clipped the humerus, too hard to tell.” Eyes narrowing, she pressed her thumb to the perimeter of the wound, and you seethed--Kylo’s fingers bit into you. “It’s not infected yet. I can clean it. Stitch it. Even if we’re going to keep her out of the hospital, she’ll still need antibiotics. And to rest for at least two weeks.” 

“I’ll arrange for it,” he said. “I’ll return when this is resolved. You will be responsible for her.” He shifted close, voice low. “This is an order as your husband. Do you understand?”

Johana nodded, glancing at between the both of you and then to her feet, face pink. “Yes, Commander, I understand.”

“Prepare your supplies.” He turned and strode down the hall.

Kylo carried you through the home into his bedroom, shutting the door and locking it. He eased you to the floor and popped the tourniquet from your arm--you winced at the release of pressure, the new pulse of pain through your nerves. In silence, he crossed to the bathroom, and you heard the squeal of an opening pipe, the gush of a spigot, and blushed. He was running a bath for you.

When he returned, he removed your coat--his coat, technically--and tossed it to the ground, leading you toward the bed with a gentle hand while he gathered the hem of your nightgown and drew it over your frame. It stuck to you like plastic wrapping, leaving damp stains on your skin--and you plopped on the mattress as he guided it over your ribs. He raised your uninjured limb and lifted the rest of the gown over your head, your arm, and then down over your wound. You whimpered as the fabric peeled from your aching flesh, leaving you in your soaked undergarments.

Focused, he took your legs, throwing your socks and shoes to the floor, before looking to your bra, reaching behind you and unhooking it. You were speechless, teeth chattering, pain biting like skeleton claws as you watched your Commander--the man who had just single-handedly slaughtered dozens of soldiers--tend to you like you were the most precious, most delicate creature he’d ever had under his hands. His fingers were firm, soothing you with even the slightest touch, and he met your gaze, sliding his thumbs toward your underwear, warm brandy gleaming in his eyes.

Still trembling, you nodded, and he wedged them free, fabric bunching as it rolled down your thighs, and added them to the sopping pile of clothing on the hardwood. Having finished that, he released you and began to strip himself, starting with his boots and coat, still without words as the mountain of garments grew larger. He was stoic, never once sneaking a glimpse of your body until he was nude, too.

Though you’d cum for him four times already, and though your cunt twinged from the recent stretch of his dick, it was impossible not to revere him, like this, skin smoldering in dim light. Kylo Ren’s broad, crushing power and his beauty were seemingly disparate--yet the clean strength of his body only served to accentuate the elegant curve of his nose, the petal-pink of his lips, the soft, wet waves of his hair. He returned the stare, gaze dancing over your figure, but only in quiet, worried praise, as if you were a damaged triumph of art that was his to repair.

Blinking, he broke away, and walked to check your bath. Inside, you heard the splash of water, a knob adjustment, and he appeared again, silent as he scooped you to his chest. The shivering hadn’t stopped, and now that you could see it, you noticed that the bleeding hadn’t fully stopped, either. It wasn’t a river, more of a weep, tiny trickles pushed from your pulsating flesh as it rippled with every beat of your heart. You couldn’t see the bullet in the red mess of meat--and as you crossed the threshold, you wondered how far down it had gone. 

Kylo’s bathroom was wall-to-wall white subway tile, extending to the walk-in shower at the far end, the floor a pattern of black and white ceramic diamonds. The towels, too--whether hung or stowed or folded--were white and black, every accessory a silvered pewter. A ceiling light exposed the steel-grey skies outside, the room illuminated by two incandescent glass sconces above the mirror. The air was hot and thick--water half-filled a large clawfoot tub, and your Commander suspended you above it, lowering you into the bath like you’d splinter from shock. 

Relief was immediate, and you sighed, an imitation of a corpse in his arms. Heat engulfed you, sucking the tension from your skin, the steady stream of the spigot drowning your anxious mind. He released you, let you float, and your head rolled along the tub, a soft, satisfied hum escaping your chest. Steam wafted into your sight, and you breathed it in, hoping to fill your lungs with its comfort while Kylo pulled up a wooden stool. He removed the towel folded on top of it and sat, adjusting until he was at your side.

Your cheeks burned as you watched him gather the towel in his hand and pass it under the spigot, mesmerized by the taut muscles in his arms, his back. It was the third time in 24 hours you’d seen him without clothing, and still you salivated for it, each time an entirely new experience to your mind. Ignorant of your admiration, Kylo wrung the towel of excess water and lathered it with soap before gazing at you, face blank--your lip wibbled, your heart skipped. If it weren’t for the gunshot wound in your arm, you’d try to prod yourself awake.

His free hand cupped the back of your neck, eased you up, while the other started at your shoulders, drawing slow, soapy circles down your mottled neck and clavicle, moving to your uninjured arm, cleansing away the cold film left by the rain. He shifted then, to your chest, sitting you straighter, and washed the mud and splattered soil from your breasts and abdomen, caressing you with the cloth, pushing the fear from your flesh. You trembled in the tenderness of his touch, throat tight with emotion you were too terrified to name.  

Noticing this, Kylo shushed you, placing his lips to your forehead, murmuring something at your hairline that you couldn’t hear. Prickles of affection blazed through your nerves, your blood racing, and he sat back and lifted one of your legs from the tub, scrubbing it clean, passing the towel over the ticklish soles of your feet. You hid a giggle, wriggling from the contact, and he squeezed your ankle, holding you still until the muck was gone. One leg completed, he switched to another, untarnished section, and repeated the action with the other leg, never once breaking his attention from his task.

With both spotless, he switched sections again, and leaned you forward, rubbing soap into your back, strong thumbs pressing along your shoulder blades as he passed them, massaging down the line of your spine. You groaned, shuddering, goosebumps alight in the wake of his touch. He shushed you again, and washed you over with water, easing you back to the tub before spilling the soap clear from the rest of your body. The warmth flooded you, eyes fluttering in delight before settling on him.

His brow furrowed, and he lifted your wounded arm, coasting across it with a new patch of cloth, skimming the sensitive skin, brushing away the sludge and caked blood, revealing fresh, pink flesh. Your free limbs tweaked, and you grimaced in pain, but kept otherwise still, choosing to fixate on his pursing lips, how meticulous he’d become in his movements. Baffling, how this one man was both the blunt-end of a bludgeon and the precise feather fountain-pen--as deft with his hands as he was deadly. The last of the grime was wiped free, Kylo scrutinized his work, folded the towel over, and wet a clean swatch.

He then cradled your head, weaving through your hair, focus following his fingers while he wiped your storm-smattered face, swiping at your lips, under your lids, the rust smeared on your chin. As he dabbed your nose, he glimpsed you, and your lungs stalled in memory of the first time he’d done this--the first time he’d ever made you feel human, the first time he’d ever made you feel cherished. You gazed at him, your chest thumping with an appreciation so swollen you were afraid it would split through your sternum at a pinprick’s pressure. Kylo blinked, averted his eyes, and with a soft pat of your cheek, he sat back, appraising, his own face still sullied with crusted crimson. 

Words wouldn’t find you. You grabbed for the towel instead, taking it from him and sitting straight. Swallowing your nerves, you preened the loose strands of hair from his face and swept the cloth over his forehead, down his nose--he froze under your touch, his irises clouded with confusion. Hands quaking, you continued, smoothing over his cheekbones, along the line of his jaw, scraping away the remnants of battle. His mouth twitched, his throat knocked, and when you finished, you draped the towel over the tub’s edge. 

Finally meeting his stare, you exhaled, stroked his face with your thumb, tracing the edge of his scar. It was lithe, almost lovely in its length, cresting down his neck and over his collarbone, a rose-gold crack on his alabaster skin. Yet what made it beautiful was its origin, its legacy--the knowledge that he’d earned it in the act of saving you.

His eyes were liquid amber, gilded rims glimmering with a feeling you could only identify as gratitude, a reflection of the recognition you felt in your soul. It was an acknowledgement that in this mire of madness, you were thankful for each other, thankful that through the suffocating strangle of Gilead’s air, you’d discovered breath in the other’s embrace. He glanced at your mouth, and you wet it--something distant and familiar lingered on your tongue. Before you could give it life, Kylo tugged you by the neck and against his lips.

The kiss was tentative, exploratory, his mouth skipping over yours, testing your need, ghosting tingles at your nerves. You whimpered into him, clutching the back of his head, skating nails over his scalp as you returned his ardor, your tongue out slipping to taste him--he tilted his head, capturing you, his own tongue rolling slowly over yours. A quiet groan escaped him, and he pulled you closer, holding your head in both of his enormous hands, one stroking through your hair, the other keeping you still as his mouth grazed you. Your thighs braced together, forcing friction as fire dripped like oil between your legs. 

Kylo guided you back to the tub, chasing you, never increasing his insistence, taking time to brand you in dedication, rather than desire. Humming with pleasure, his tongue slid past your teeth, and the hand in your hair glided down your neck, over your shoulder, gripping it, as if to prove you were alive. You shivered, worked your lips over his like he was to be savored, flesh plumping from the pressure--underneath the running water, the only noises were your and his hidden breath, and the slick sound of your meeting mouths. Passion crept through you now, signaling a need that, despite having been more than sated this morning, was happy to awaken from its slumber.  

You shifted closer, growing needy--the sudden movement speared your arm with agony, and you yelped, breaking the kiss. Kylo nuzzled you with his forehead.

“Do you want relief?” His hand traveled from your shoulder, inching down your chest. “From the pain.”

Tremored, eager air left your lungs. “Yes.” You nodded. “Please.”

He pressed his lips to yours as his hand fell to your breast, groping it absently, thumb petting your pebbling nipple. You squirmed, releasing a moan, and he silenced you with his mouth, kneading your tit, making your stomach tighten with hunger. Giving a nip to your bottom lip, he kissed across your cheek, huffing into your ear while his hand dipped into the water and drifted over the rolls of your belly.

“Be a good girl for me.” Long fingers crawled over your mound, and you nodded, legs parting in welcome. “There we go...”

Two digits trailed up and down your outer folds, teasing them, and you gasped, throwing your good arm around his neck--his breath was slow and quiet at your ear, the baritone resonance of his voice rumbling through you. One finger drew up your slit, glancing over your clit, and you squeaked, core clamoring for more. 

“That’s it.” His mouth moved to your cheekbone, following your jaw. “I’m going to make you feel so good.” He licked up your pulse. “You’re gorgeous.”

Gooseflesh erupted over your skin, vision fuzzing with joy. “Even… even like this?” You nodded toward your wound.

“Mm.” Kylo kissed your throat, prying open your folds, probing your layers. “Especially like this.”

His thumb grazed your clit, and you whined, jerking him closer--he growled and taunted your entrance, swirling a single digit in its slick, daring to press in only half a centimeter. Your hips shifted, cunt craving more, but he refused to yield, thumb passing your nub with long, torturous strokes.

“I know men who’ve broken over a bullet.” He wiggled in another half-centimeter, and you clenched. “But you haven’t shed a tear.” More kisses to your throat, suckling at your heartbeat. “My brave little bird."

Heat rushed you in waves--at this rate, he'd have you cumming without even having to go inside of you. "Why should I be afraid?" you whispered. "I have you."

His breath hitched, and he plunged in, curling inside of you--a sigh left you as you throbbed around him, even knowing one finger wouldn't be enough. You adjusted your weight on his neck, bringing him closer, letting your injured arm dangle out of the tub.

"That's right. And you’re being so good for me," he murmured. "Getting so wet. Always ready for me to make you cum..."

Kylo slipped out, then pushed back in, then out, and in again, relishing in the tight ridges of your cunt as he stretched you open. You bucked your hips, trying to fuck him in rhythm, water sloshing in the bath--but he dodged you, forcing you to meet his pace, swiping back and forth over your clit in little bolts of bliss while he exhaled in excitement.

"Relax." His mouth moved from your neck to your shoulder, teeth dragging new welts over your clavicle. "I thought you were going to be my good girl." 

You swallowed and stilled. It was hard to control yourself when the rush of pleasure was numbing everything else. "I-I will. I'm sorry." 

"Better." Kylo caught your lips in a brief kiss, rewarding you with a second finger, crooking them both inside of you--you cried out, spasming in delight. "Fuck. How does a cunt this little take me so well, hm?" Another kiss, lingering. "Just thinking about how tight you are makes my cock hard." He smirked against your mouth. "You know I think about it whenever I wake up. And before I go to sleep."

You whinged, lava boiling in your blood--you wanted to melt into the water, liquefy in his hands. "Oh..."

"That's right," he said. "I make myself cum every morning thinking about fucking you. And it's never enough." He was panting, kissing back down your neck, to your chest again. "I could fuck this pussy every night for the rest of my life and it wouldn't be enough…"

“Kylo…”

Your brain swarmed with that distant feeling again, dizzying you, robbing you of language, weakening your joints. You clung to him, a raft in the sea of your lust, choking back your moans as his palm rocked against you, thumb circling your clit, fingers thrusting in and out of your cunt--you let your lids close, let pleasure encompass you, let yourself submerge to his will, trusting him to give you exactly what you needed. His lips scorched your shoulder, singeing a path toward your wound, but you were too rapt to notice, too elated to care. 

When he kissed it, something snapped--perhaps it was the plush of his mouth on the tender tissue, perhaps it was the ecstasy already seizing your sanity, or perhaps it was the delicious slice of pain twisting through it all. Whatever it was, you sobbed, back arching, pussy clamping down on his hand like it would sever him clean, head thrown back in a plea. Kylo stopped, purring with satisfaction, lifting his pretty, stained scarlet lips from your arm. You met his eyes, shaking, too embarrassed to say a word. 

Thankfully, he appeared too engrossed to further humiliate you, kissing the top of your shoulder before falling to your wound again--he rolled his fingers inside of you, rubbing the bundle of nerves in tight, quick strokes, and let his mouth sketch the edge of your injured flesh. You winced, writhed, jaw dropping in an open, continuous pant, and he licked light lines around it, lapping the seeping blood; when you clenched again, he slipped his tongue into the hole.

Your sight went white, you collapsed in the bath, a mix of scream and squeal shredding your throat. The sensation was a knife, carving bliss into your skin, your cunt pulsing with greed as your Commander laved you from the inside. Everything blanked, your only reality consisting of the thumb caressing your stiffened clit, the fingers pumping into your throbbing pussy, the tongue digging absolute pure pleasure-pain into your veins. Your hands furled into fists, teeth cutting your lip while you fought to find yourself in the hurricane that had replaced your brain. 

“Kylo,” you whimpered, as it was the only word you could remember, “Kylo, Kylo…”

“Good girl.” He moaned, lavishing hot, open kisses at the frayed flesh. “So good for me, so perfect--”

“Please.” Your lips buzzed, unsure what you were even asking for. “Please, I--”

Somehow knowing what you needed before you did, Kylo’s bloody mouth met yours, his thumb worming through your wound, and you shrieked into him--he swallowed every cry, painting iron along your tongue, kissing you in anxious fervor. Your orgasm bubbled with volcanic intensity, gravitation at your core, absorbing each spark of nerve and billowing to something so powerful that you were afraid you would shatter if it burst. 

Kylo nudged his digit deeper, pain ricocheting to your cunt, while his other hand flicked your clit fast, stuffed a third thick finger into your pussy, coiling and delving and fucking you wide, and you suffocated in his kiss, winding your tongue around his, gasping, groaning, and he drove into your hole, filling everything inside--you ruptured, ecstasy exploding through you, escaping in euphoric shrieks into his throat, happily consumed by the voracity of his mouth. He led you through it, easing his thumb free, rubbing you through the aftershocks of your climax as you descended, crumpling limp in the water’s warmth, chasing his gentle, lazy lips.

By the time you’d regained control of your faculties, you’d realized he’d pulled out of you and turned off the spigot, leaving you to soak in a bath that had risen past your breasts. And he was still catching his breath--through your daze of disbelief, you saw him stroking his hard, needy cock, pounding it to his own release. Kylo sought your mouth again, but you shifted away, enthralled by the sight of your Commander, cheeks flush, jaw dropped, thrusting into his fist. He huffed with a half smirk, leaning back, allowing you to see the contractions of his stomach, the flexing in his chest.

“You like that?” He pushed the skin to the head, coaxing a drop of precum from the slit, smearing it over his shaft. “Is this making you feel good?”

Your mind was mush. All you could think to do was nod.

“Fuck…” Kylo’s pupils were blown, his chest heaving. “Then you can remember this when I’m gone. Think of me like this.” He rolled his palm around his length, tugging it faster. “Think of me fucking myself because of you.” 

Saliva pooled from your cheeks, your eyes pinned to the muscular slabs of his legs, how they spread and framed his cock, long and thick and beautiful, how his hand wrapped around it with a soft shuffle, how his flesh bounced with the effort. You could see the peaking tide of unadulterated pleasure, his face obscene with it--his head dropped onto his shoulders, his thighs tensed, hand a blur over his dick. 

“Fuck… fuck.” His voice was shredded with bliss. “You want to watch me cum, little girl?” 

“Y-yes…” 

His lids closed, he gasped. “Tell me to cum.”

You almost choked. “Christ. C-cum for me, Kylo--”

Kylo Ren snarled your name, gripping his cock as it twitched and pulsed between his legs, sticky cum shooting in spurts onto his sternum, roping over his abdomen. He groaned, jerking himself into sensitivity, sucking in a deep breath as his hand slowed, head falling forward, the tail of his climax dissipating. When he was finished, he exhaled, paused, and gathered some of his seed onto his fingers. Your throat thickened--and he held you in his stare, sucking them clean.   

No words would come to you. Between the still-crackling cinders of your orgasm and the image of him eating his own cum, you’d temporarily lost your ability to speak. Kylo smirked--he kissed you a final time before tucking a lock of wet hair behind your ear and rising to his feet.

Your Commander walked to the sink and grabbed a towel, wiping away the remaining blood and cum and debris. In the valley of post-climactic rapture, watching him--this man, your savior and enslaver--you yearned for that moment in the cemetery, before you’d been shot. The moment when it seemed as if he’d considered you--a moment you felt him echo when he’d said every night for the rest of my life. You sank into the bath, that nagging, terrifying feeling welling within you again. You shoved it down, knowing that to name it while still wading in uncertainty would damn you to despair.

“Um. What you said earlier. Is that something you’d want?” you asked. “To… have me? Every night? For...” The rest of the words wouldn’t leave, stuck like impossible barbs on your tongue.

He said nothing, taking a swig of water from the sink and swishing it in his mouth before spitting it into the basin in a pink spray.

“I think we could do it.” You were being careful--but you were less afraid of his words than your own. “We could have that.”

Still silent, he took a fresh towel and rustled it through his hair, whipping excess water from the curls.

“I know you believe in destiny,” you said. “But what if you have two?” He stilled--you continued. “What if… I saw another path. Where you--where we were free?” 

Kylo Ren glanced over his shoulder, considering you. There was not a single hint of emotion in his expression. Your chest tightened.

“It would make me happy,” you murmured. “What about you?”

His gaze fell, wandering the tile, the walls, until it led him to the mirror. He stared into himself, like a stranger to his own reflection, jaw steeling. Rain rattled the skylight, thunder crashing through the clouds, a rumbling of the past--he remained there for a moment, inspecting his face, searching for something, wallowing in recollection. His back crested, muscles hardened, and he tore away, eye twitching as he looked back to you.

“There are greater issues to rectify,” he said, and left the room.

Wilting, you slid deeper into the water, keeping your arm tossed over the edge. It wasn’t that you had expected him to drop it all and agree, like a hero from some romance--yes, darling, let’s steal away at midnight--but you had hoped for some concession, some inkling of hope that he wanted to sustain what was unsustainable. Yet, in the back of your mind, you both understood there was only one way he could do that. And it would involve abandoning everything he’d ever known. 

The question you weren’t willing to answer was how you’d balance your willingness to wait with reality. Running was not an option, now--not as long as your Commander had both the will and the governmental power to find and keep you. No matter his compromises, the existence of Gilead meant his inherent rejection of your agency, his unwillingness to let you go, despite it being your only wish. 

And every second wasted translated to years of lives hanging in turmoil. The next time you met with the Resistance, you knew you’d do whatever they asked to help them cripple Gilead. One way or the other, they would bring you your freedom. You just hoped that by the time they were ready, a time that could be days or weeks or years, he’d be coming with you. 

Some might think you were asking too much--for him to relinquish his power, destroy as much as he could in the process, escape with you into anonymity--but the Kylo Ren you knew was capable of anything. You’d ask for all of it, or ultimately accept none.

 Of course, you’d need to heal from this damn gunshot, first.

Kylo returned, dressed and dry, adjusting the cuffs on his coat. “Two Knights will remain in my absence. Johana will care for your wound and get you to rest.”

“Oh,” you said, starting to stand, “okay--”

“Don’t move.” 

Confused, you stopped, splashing into the tub. Johana couldn’t see you naked, and especially not while you were covered in his hickeys and bite marks. “But--”

“A precaution,” he said. “To protect your temperature.” 

“But...” You folded your free arm over your chest. Your options were paltry few, and inviting in a strange, possibly deceptive doctor, one without any personal investment in your well-being, seemed even less appealing. “Okay.”

“You will be safe.” He scanned your body in the bath. “Be good, little bird.”

A jumble of words waited on your tongue: Be safe, be careful, I’ll miss you, I…

Instead, you only nodded. “I will.”

He met your gaze a final time in silent regard, and turned to leave. You listened to the sound of his boots cross the floor, wondering how the water had made it into your eyes. Blinking, you wiped your cheeks. You weren’t sure how long you laid there after your Commander had left--only that when you heard the creak of the bedroom door, steam had fled the air, and your breathing had evened out. 

When Johana entered the bathroom, she brought a tote with her, avoiding you entirely as she plopped it next to the sink and washed her hands. Finished that, she pushed her sleeves to her elbows and grabbed a pair of gloves from the bag, pulling them on before fishing through it again. Chewing her cheek, she procured a needle, a pair of tweezers and scissors, a few square packets, dental floss, a roll of gauze, two tiny white tubes, and a small plastic bottle of clear liquid. She laid them out on a towel, picked it up, turned to you--and nearly flung all of it across the room.

“Jesus Christ.” Her face contorted in a mix of disgust and dismay--she went to say something else, but shrugged it off, heading to the stool and sitting down. 

You blushed, taking a quick inventory of your chest. Yes, it definitely looked like an animal had savaged your upper-torso--and, in a way, that’d been exactly what happened. Settling on silence, you stared at your feet. There were no words you could think to say that would ease the awkwardness of her acknowledging the evidence of her husband’s illegal affair. 

Johana sighed, took one of the tubes, squeezed its contents onto a gloved finger and rubbed it over your wound. You squeaked in pain, watching as it worked into a lather before she took the bottle of liquid and squirted it over your skin (water, to your relief). Stone faced, she patted it down with gauze before grabbing the needle and one of the packets--an alcohol wipe, you now realized. You frowned.

“Wait,” you said. “Aren’t you going to… um. Remove the bullet.”

She snorted. “Not unless you’re interested in bleeding out in the bathtub.” Tearing the packet open, she plucked the wipe free. “Digging around could further traumatize the wound,” she said. “It’s safer to leave embedded projectiles where they are.”

“Oh.”

Her brow furrowed as she sanitized the needle. “Yes, oh.” Contrition flashed over her face. “Not that you had any reason to know that.”

Regret puddled in your heart--not for what you’d done, but that you’d both been placed in this hell at all. At least you’d had a distraction in the form of the Commander. Johana had been floundering alone for, maybe, the past three entire years. You knew she was miserable, knew that you’d seen a moment’s hesitation before she’d stolen the switchblade. Even if that object was long-gone, if you could soften her, even a little, maybe she’d hear you out. Maybe freedom was a possibility for all of you in the home--the Marthas included.

“I’m sorry,” you said, nodding toward your chest. “I wasn’t expecting--”

“Don’t really care.” She wound out a string of floss from its container. “The faster you get pregnant, the better.” 

“Is that why you won’t report me? Or the Commander?” you asked. “You just want me to get pregnant?”

“Yes.” Narrowing her focus, she held up the needle in one hand and the floss in the other before glimpsing you. “And no.” She paused. “It’s not like you’re the worst Handmaid I’ve had.” 

A reluctant grin pulled at your lips. “The dinner party?” 

“Ha!” It wasn’t a true laugh--more like a squawk. “The only other person who has ever talked to Commander Hux like that is my husband.” Pride twinkled in her eye. “But seeing his reaction to you was even better.”

You chuckled. “Was he always such a bastard?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “Always.” Her mouth opened to speak, but she said nothing.

Silence descended over the bathroom; thunder rumbled under the shower of rain. Johana looked between the floss and your wound.

“Anyway, the Commander’s preoccupation with you won’t be a problem once you give birth.” She tossed it and unfurled a longer strand. “And I know you can’t help yourself anyway.”

“Ms. Johana, please.” You sighed. “Do you really care about him?” you asked. “I mean. Even after…” Invoking her dead husband’s name seemed tacky. So you didn’t.

She rolled her eyes. “What does it matter?”

You shrugged your good shoulder. “I just…” Quiet, you sought out her gaze. “You really loved him.”

“I did,” she said. “So what? He’s dead now.”

“How did you meet him?”  

Johana didn’t respond, focused on threading the needle, taking one, two, three attempts before the floss passed through the eye. Blowing frustrated air through her nose, she wiped tweezers down before using it to pinch the needle. Turning to your arm, she went to poke you--and paused.

“Church.” Her voice was soft. “I met him in church.”

Using two fingers, she compressed the sides of the wound together--you flinched--and pierced the bottom, pulling the strand of floss through. It was a tiny nip, hardly comparable to the pain of the wound itself. You shook the discomfort away.

“What was he like? Ah--”

“Stop squirming.” Johana exhaled, looping the floss and making another stitch. “Very traditional,” she said. “Very organized.” A tiny smirk eked over her lips. “Very bossy.”

You raised a brow. “Oh?”

She fought the urge to smile. “Oh, he was funny about it,” she said. “He liked things to be a certain way. He was always teasing me for fussing until it was perfect.” For a moment, she looked content, sapphire glittering in her irises, face glowing as she slipped the needle through again. “He had high expectations. I could always meet them.”

“Oh.” Kylo Ren, you imagined, was a devastatingly unfair change of pace. “It must be hard. The Commander seems so different.”

Like fog, the facade of peace faded, revealing the vacant, tired bags beneath her eyes. “He is.” She jabbed you, perhaps a little harder than intended--you winced. “But...”

You frowned. “But?”

Johana’s hands froze, and she swallowed, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

She said nothing more, face drawn in focus as she made another stitch, and another. You watched, almost in awe of her nimble fingers; you knew for certain it’d been over three years since she would have last done this, and probably longer than that. If you hadn’t known her in the context of being your Commander’s Wife, you never would have guessed it.

“Being a nurse was probably tough.” 

A short, tight laugh caught in her throat. “Dealing with bureaucratic red tape and doctors all day? Yeah. I don’t miss it.” Her tone softened, and she shrugged. “But I was good at it.”

“I can tell.”

“I’d hope so. I was top of my...” She sighed, rolling her eyes again. “Whatever.” With the tweezers, she wreathed the floss in on itself, made a knot, and tied it off. “I don’t have the luxury of surgical thread.” A snip as she cut the loose ends with the scissors. “This will pop if you’re not careful.”

You nodded. “I understand.”

Exhaling, she took the second white tube and collected a clear gel from its tip, spackling it over your sutures like paste. Satisfied, she then grabbed the gauze, binding your arm in several rotations before cinching it tight. For a moment, she stared at it, and then peeled off her gloves and rolled up the towel with all of her supplies. She brought it to her tote and stuffed it inside before marching out of the room, leaving the bag on the sink.

Beyond the door, you heard her shuffling in the bedroom, and you let loose a long, disappointed sigh. She’d been a tougher nut to crack than you anticipated. It wasn’t as if you were queen of mind games, but you’d at least expected her to be intrigued by the chance to open up to anybody other than her pillow. But perhaps you couldn’t blame her for not trusting you when you kept showing up to her home with increasingly bizarre injuries. 

Johana entered the bathroom again, a heavy, black robe in her arms. “I don’t have one that will fit you.” She flopped it open, held it out. “He’s never worn it, anyway.”

You stared. “Oh.”

“Don’t just oh,” she said. “Come on.”

With a wobble, you eased yourself to your feet, steadying with the wall as you stepped out of the tub and into the robe, allowing her to bundle you in it. Johana guided you with a hand on your back to Kylo Ren’s bed and observed while you climbed on. 

Offering a restrained grin, you said, “I know you don’t like me. And that I keep getting hurt. But thank you.” 

“It was an order. I follow them.” Her gaze traveled your figure, and she sighed, grabbing one of the pillows and fluffing it. “Look. I don’t--I don’t dislike you.” She wedged it behind your back. “I just don’t get why he keeps doing all of this. I don’t know what he sees in you.”

You frowned, face hot. For once, you actually felt insulted. “Maybe it’s because I see something in him,” you replied, bending so she could fluff another. “Something that you might not care to see, anyway.”

She balked, shoving it under your shoulders. “What are you talking about? We’ve been married for three years.”

“And you’ve never stopped loving Moden that entire time.”

Johana paused and looked at you, propped upright along the headboard. You sat there, smothered in your robe, supported by cushions, constricted in a full-body cast of cotton. Her gaze drifted to the floor, and she raised her brow in thought, folding her arms over her chest. There it was--the gap in her shell.

“Maybe it’s all for the same reason,” you said. “The fact that you still love him. The fact that the Commander seems attached to me. The fact that I keep getting caught up in... everything.” You held your breath, and let it go. “Maybe it’s all because this entire thing is just… bullshit.”

She blinked. Then glanced up. “You might be right.” Her fingers burrowed into her arms. “But Moden expected me to get remarried if he passed. And he expected me to carry on what he couldn’t.” She swallowed, jaw tensing. “I don’t intend to disappoint him.”