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Unwanted in the Panic Room

Summary:

I reach out and touch my reflection, wondering at what point I lost myself. Was it years ago? Alone in bed with my own despicable fantasies? Or was it tonight? The moment I gave the shadowed thoughts my own voice and whispered them in his ear?

“I want you to force me.”

It matters little, either way.

He’s made sure there is none of me left.
___

Rey’s colleague, Ben, never gives her what she asks for in contract negotiations. The night of their company’s annual gala, he finally does, and she realizes how terrible it can be.

Notes:

Oh dear. I just finished reading “Rebecca” and got sucked into the narrator’s can’t-trust-my-own-mind vibe. Pandora keeps playing “Welcome to the Panic Room” by Au/Ra and I suppose this fic is what happened when the two met.

WARNING: This is a dark fic. DARK. Please read the tags. Sexual fantasies are complex and Rey struggles with desires towards her coworker, Ben. Rey asks Ben to act out her consensual non-consent fantasy, and it goes badly. No safe words are established, no limits understood, and Rey doesn’t have a way to tap out.

Disclaimer: I don’t know anything about lawyers, LLCs, contract negotiations, health payer coverages, or fancy parties.

Chapter 1: Prize

Chapter Text

*

In the Panic Room he never gives me what I ask for. Not without exacting a price - not without making me sacrifice something . Which is the point, really, of a room dedicated to the very bitter end of contract negotiations. Only until the strike is due at midnight, until the threat of elective surgical cancellations, until literal thousands of lives losing potential health coverage benefits, do we end up here, staring each other down from opposite ends of a table. 

 

But today I can already tell he’s not going to let me win.

 

Looking at the two of us, one would never guess we make the same amount of money. Of course, Ben isn’t burdened by student loans, nor overdue rent payments with healthy interest to Plutt. No, born into a literal lawyer dynasty LLC, Ben’s starting point was set right behind the finish line, where mine was a mile back. Maybe two. I’m still crawling my way there.

 

His too-large hands twirl some expensive pen between his fingers. I think mine was a handout during the employee benefits fair. Rolling his neck in an impression of boredom, I steal a jealous glance at his perfectly fitted suit and hope he doesn’t see the staples holding the hem of my skirt up in a last stand against gravity. 

 

None of this matters, but as general counsel to my client (neither of the actual impacted parties are ever present - they’re miles away), I feel the need to posture up, at least a little to him

 

“Scavenger.”

 

“Kylo Ren.”

 

His Panic Room name is silly. They’re all silly, but his is some homage to a ruthless war god of a long forgotten religion. Silly, but deadly accurate. 

 

In the two years we’ve sat across from one another I’ve never won against him without him tearing away his share. I cannot negotiate what I want against him - I’m always nipping at pieces. Probably why he named me Scavenger. Hux (Panic Room name Fire Bastard) once suggested they call me Lone as the single non-profit rep, but that one rankled and made me think of the parents I barely knew. I should have taken it then, before Ben gifted me a worse one. 

 

Scavenger, he calls me. His voice is too much for this room. I feel as though there is not enough room left for me when he speaks. His shoulders are too broad. His legs are too long under the table. His hands are too large.

 

Which is why they’re perfect.

 

“29%.” Kylo Ren announces, ignoring my folio of prepared documents. He always does. 

 

“45%.” I tiredly counter. “It will do you no good if you can’t even help us break operating costs. You’ll be giving up covered populations if you underhand us. We’ll go elsewhere.”

 

“30%.”

 

I try not to huff. He mocks me when I huff. “I’m asking you to take this seriously.”

 

“I am. 30%.”

 

“Then there’s no deal.”

 

“Tell me how those calls to patients are going to go tomorrow telling them they can’t get their procedures done at your hospital.” He raises his eyebrows, daring me to consider it. I have.

 

“Your 30% won’t guarantee our cash survival for more than two years.”

 

He twirls the pen again. I try not to watch. Fail.

 

“Perhaps I don’t need you to survive as an organization for more than two years for my bottom line.”

 

My headache breaks through the Excedrin. I suspect he takes more joy at playing harder than decency warrants. Because really, no one should be happy to be in this room. 

 

“42%,” I grit out.

 

“30.1%.” A smile starts to spread, dimpling his cheek.

 

My cheap pen cracks and spills ink on my fingers. God, I’m tired. I’ve been up for days. “Play fucking fair, Ben.”

 

He frowns and looks around him even though we’re utterly alone. “Ben? Who is this Ben?” Dropping his trophy of a pen delicately to the table, he plants his elbows and leans forward, wafting his spicy, masculine scent towards me. He lowers his voice, as if telling a secret. “You won’t get fair here, Scavenger. You’re in the Panic Room.” He grins and squints his eyes, as if thinking. “But I’m feeling generous. 35%. Shall we call it done?”

 

Knowing the figures, it’s barely enough to maintain for five years. I wish one of the profit sectors had wanted me as their counsel. It would have given me so much more power. “Give me 40,” I all but plead.

 

He stands, collecting his pen and dropping it into a lined pocket in his coat. I don’t think my coat even has breast pockets. “Merge with Jakku Medical and get some more negotiating power. No small hospital can stay independent in this market.” Casually, he stands and tucks his hands into his pockets, making for a frustrating, but mouthwatering sight. “35% for you, darling.”

 

“You bloody bastard.”

 

He winks humorlessly which I sneer at. Pouting, he moves to exit, checking that his suit is perfect (it is) in the mirror fixed to the back of the single oak door, beyond which he’ll resume the identity of Ben, also a bloody bastard. “See you at the gala, Rey. I hope we’re able to pick up where we left off last year.”

 

The door shuts, leaving me alone with his scent and my sad reflection staring back at me from the mirror. My cheeks are an incriminating pink. Shuddering, I bury my head into my hands and uncross my legs. 

 

Scavenger , he calls me.

 

Kylo Ren never gives me what I ask for.

____

 

But Ben does. At least at night, in my head, when I’m alone with my thoughts.

 

Google is off limits for what I itch to search for. And not just because my phone and computer are company property. But because my professional career and personal livelihood wouldn’t survive if anyone knew about this .

 

I once asked my one and only ex, Geoff, if he would give action to the thoughts that lived in the darkest part of my mind. Never saying the thing out loud of course, but he’d indulge the request for rougher , harder . Short of misunderstanding that me crying stop didn't mean I actually wanted him to stop, the distance between my bottomless need versus his, and this damned job put an end to it anyway. 

 

He didn’t want me the way I wanted him to want me.

 

I roll over in bed and cram a pillow between my thighs.

 

See you at the gala, Rey .

 

I bury my head into the mattress and remember last year - the way his hand enveloped mine, practically dragging me from my comfortable corner to the ballroom floor as we danced. ( He danced, I flailed.) The way his tux shone magnificently and how imbecilic I felt in my tan wrap gown, underdressed and straight out of graduate school.

 

How was I supposed to know the annual gala was at a literal estate, a la Manderley?

 

This company has too much money. 

 

Anyway . His hand, enormous and warm, as he spun us and guided my confused limbs across the crowded dance floor to the tune of a live tux-clad band. As he whispered in my ear, his deep voice sending electric jolts up my spine.

 

Aren’t you going to congratulate me on winning associate of the year? ” He had asked me.

 

Congratulations, Ben. Your ruthlessness knows no bounds. How does it feel to stand at the podium while the rest of us clap and resent you?

 

He laughed, revealing his throat before sending me into another twirl then caging me back into his arms, closer than before.

 

All’s fair in the Panic Room, Scavenger .”

 

Yes, well - well done, then. ” 

 

I’ll never forget what he had done after, as I went to de-tangle myself from his hold and make for one of those waiters with the trays of champagne. How he gripped my hand harder, nearly painful, and how his other arm snaked around my waist and pulled me flush against his body.

 

Aren’t you going to ask me what I want as my prize?

 

Even a year later the memory turns my insides to liquid. The bed squeaks when I start to move against the pillow. 

 

Aren’t you going to ask me what I want as my prize?

 

Aren’t you going to ask me what I want?

 

In my head, the fantasy Ben I’ve created, he wouldn’t have let me run off as I did. He wouldn’t have released me when my face turned red and I spluttered like a prude. In my head he wouldn’t have let me go as I squirmed.

 

In my head, rewriting last year's gala, the Ben in my shadowed thoughts grips me hard and whispers a single word.

 

You .”

 

And I would say, “ You can’t .”

 

But then he would anyway.

_____

 

I’m three glasses of champagne deep when they announce me as Associate of the Year.

 

Immensely grateful Rose convinced me to get the sophisticated designer gown (even if it is a rental), I bewilderedly float to where Snoke holds the glass-etched award aloft. Conscious that I chose the black long-sleeved, floor length gown with a high neck, I’m keenly aware of the completely open back as I ascend the small stage before the band to accept the award.

 

More than a little lightheaded, I sweep my curled hair aside and smile for the camera, accepting the award to the tune of my colleagues’ applause.

 

Convinced it was issued in error, I look down at the award.

 

ASSOCIATE OF THE YEAR

“SCAVENGER”

1st Annual Non-profit champion

 

Ah. Snoke could at least listed my name. Instead it feels like a consolation prize - cleaning the slate of all the previous winners and their for-profit statuses. I try for my best smile despite the handout. 

 

Finn is the first to clap me on the back - likely leaving a red handprint in his enthusiasm - before stealing away the award and hoisting it for the crowd of some two hundred to see. 

 

Handshakes are issued all around, and I smile and offer ‘thanks’ gamely through it all. They seem to run out as the band strikes up a tune and folks grab partners to show their dancing skills - skills I failed to acquire with my lacking pedigree.

 

I try not to spot him - but Ben stands across the floor, his tux expectedly impeccable, his smile deviant but genuine.

 

I won. Sort of.

 

So I smile back.

 

Later, after I force myself through a couple dances, all with kindly but distracted partners, I make for the comfort of a corner before being intercepted.

 

“Congratulations, Associate of the Year,” Ben says as he takes my hand.

 

This time, I let him sweep me to the floor, and let him hold me too close for what’s likely proper.

 

“It’s a PR scrub for the company. We all know it,” I say, the words a little sore. His hand - his enormous hand - splays against my bare lower back, hot like a brand.

 

“So it’s my award they need to remedy?” 

 

“It would be a start.”

 

“This dress,” he says idly as his fingers trace my spine, “sure inviting for a backstabbing.”

 

My cheeks heat. “I don’t recall my attire ever preventing you from stabbing me in the back before.”

 

Chuckling, he says, “You’re never satisfied, are you?”

 

Before I can stop myself, “No.”

 

Ben’s eyes slide to mine and for a moment neither of us speak. His lip quirks, and he knows

 

Leaning close, he asks, “What would make you satisfied?”

 

My heart thrashes against my ribs. Close as we are, he must feel it. His hand presses me closer, and amongst the finery and the posturing, I have a thought - a most dreadful thought. 

 

I could tell him. 

 

He breaks into a full grin in my extended silence, as if he’s the one who’s won an award. Shivers crawl up my back into his hand, anticipation and desire clashing so intensely I almost feel sick. The sensation - the one I dream of when alone - of being wanted feels so desperately close.

 

Perhaps - perhaps he does want me? I have so little experience in being wanted, of mere flirting that I fear I’m reading this whole encounter entirely wrong.

 

Then, his lips are at my ear.

 

“Tell me what you want as your prize, Rey.”

 

Not ‘Scavenger’. Rey.

 

A thrill darts through me, and the intoxicated rational part of my brain blares every alarm. Colleague. Professional event. Career. Mayday. Mayday.

 

But the shadowed part of my mind is there, right at the forefront, hands extended full and grasping. 

 

I pull back enough to look at the darkness shadowing his eyes, and my legs tremble. Swallowing, I squint and tilt my head. Seduction has never been my game, but I hope he understands.

 

By the way he appears to raise his brows as if in question, patient and waiting, I can tell he won’t let me get away with mere hints. He never lets me get away with anything.

 

“Not… can we… somewhere else?” I mumble at his collar. 

 

He nods, a victorious fire in his eyes, and grasping my hand pulls me neatly away. Fear of discovery pales in comparison to the way my stomach rocks and swoops. By the slight thinning on the dance floor, I sense folks are turning in for the night, shuffling off to their overnight rooms (we’re not allowed anywhere near a vehicle after the gala) to sleep off the jubilation.

 

As I’m led through a hallway, up a flight of stairs and into another wing, it strikes me then how well Ben seems to know his way around this place. I’m not exactly sure how much older he is, but I’ve had one year to familiarize myself with Maybe-Manderley while he seems as though he grew up here.

 

Perhaps he did.

 

After several minutes of walking, I notice the silence. I cannot hear the band from here, nor the laughing and shouting of our colleagues. Shivering at the stillness, Ben leads me through a door at the end of a hallway, closing it behind and wrapping us in silence.

 

It’s so dark. I can only hear my harsh breaths and realize for the first time how raw my feet feel in my heels. 

 

From the corner of the room, a warm yellow light flicks on, illuminating the desk of what appears to be a private library or office, and there, cast in shadow, the man who haunts me like a reoccurring nightmare. Moving from the light, he circles the desk to stand in front of it, leaning backwards and planting his hands on either side of him. He must know the picture he cuts from where he stands some two meters away. Dark. Beguiling.

 

“There’s a great deal more privacy up here,” he says.

 

I swallow. “Yes.”

 

Neither of us move. If I unlock my knees they’ll knock. Can he hear my heart thunder the way I can?

 

“Rey.”

 

I can’t swallow this time. “Yes?”

 

“Your prize.”

 

“Y-yes.”

 

He sighs as if inpatient, but the mischievous gleam in his eye tells me he’s just being playful. A finger tap-tap-taps along the oak underside of the desk.

 

“You have to tell me.” He says.

 

I’m silent.

 

“You have to tell me what you want.”

 

It’s an almost insurmountable ask. My feet, tired and throbbing, stay as though glued to the floor. My shoulders heave and my heart pounds as though I’ve run some great distance and my mouth is utterly dry. Despite being almost completely covered, I’ve never felt so exposed.

 

And Ben, just leaning there, confident and unbothered by my crisis, waits as if he has all the time in the world.

 

My first step heralds the second, another and another until I’m right beside him, close enough to rest my chin to his chest. The scent of him is overwhelming this close.

 

The klaxon’s alarms of my mind blare, but I’m quite lost when it comes to him. My every instinct is shut down, yielding to the part of me I’ve only ever acknowledged when alone.

 

The alarms quiet, for just a moment. A single moment for me to whisper, despite the empty wing and the empty rooms.

 

“I-I want you to force me.”

 

From my peripheral, I see his head incline towards me just a fraction, as if in question.

 

“I want you to rape me.”

 

He does not move, does not react to the word. All is still while I wait in absolute silence. Where I thought I might feel a weight being lifted to say the dreaded thing aloud, I feel now only anticipation, heavier than the secret.

 

Anxiousness slithering up my back, I turn my chin just a touch, to see if I can gauge his reaction.

 

I wish fervently I hadn’t. 

 

Ben’s cheek is dimpled, pinched in a way with his pursed lips that betray how strongly he’s trying to contain his laughter. Stumbling back a step, I watch his shoulders buckle as he gives himself over to it, loud and mocking in the stillness of the room.

 

A realization crashes into my chest. I’ve made the most colossal of miscalculations. I’d let myself believe in my fantasized version of this man, mistaking him for this real one.

 

Ben laughs for a solid half minute, even pulling free a handkerchief to dab his eye dry. “Hell,” he says, righting himself to stare me in the eye, “most just ask to be spanked.”

 

Shame. Thick enough to choke on. Sour enough to rankle and turn my insides to prickling awareness. 

 

My error. It was a fatal one. I had forgotten his voice - how deep and magnetic both in and outside of the Panic Room. His eyes, haunting yet inviting. And his face, odd but far more handsome than mine. Ben does not need to pretend, to fantasize as I have about being desired.

 

He lives to be wanted.

 

I live to want. To scavenge.

 

I wonder if that is why he laughs at me. Because he’s clearly the winner here.

 

Feeling almost sick, I turn and flee towards the door, grasping the handle and flinging it a fraction open before his hand slams it closed above my head. Grabbing my shoulder, he pivots me until my bare back is up against it.

 

Startled, I whine and push at his chest for just a moment before he grabs my wrists in one hand and pins me close.

 

Every feeling within me pauses, wondering, waiting, curious. For a moment I see his eyes darken, and my mouth parts, thinking perhaps… perhaps this is something he’ll give me? Unwilling to think how easily swayed I am, I almost instantly fall into that dark place where I’ll dance with this depraved, hopeful idea.

 

It’s short lived.

 

From this close he watches my eyes blur, my neck fall to the side in offering, my body soften against his, and his face cracks, revealing his amusement and me, an idiot, once more.

 

“My goodness. So you are serious, then.”

 

Well, ‘fool me twice’ and all that.

 

Embarrassment surges hot and wild within me. I’ve never felt so wretched and I want to wound him as he did me. Tugging my wrist free, I rear back with every attempt to slap that mocking smile from his face. Unsurprisingly, he catches my forearm with one of those enormous hands.

 

Tsking, he looks disappointed. “Don’t make a show of it. Be quieter, quicker.”

 

He slaps me. Not too hard, but enough to sting and shock. 

 

“Like so,” he says, smug.

 

My gasp is damning, not entirely of dismay. Grinning, he presents his gorgeous cheek to me, inviting me to try to slap him again.

 

It shouldn’t have taken me so long to realize, but that cheek and that mocking grin help me understand a solitary awful truth about myself. The single appeal was the thought of being so wanted, so desired, that someone would commit what I asked of Ben. With force, the act makes me as the victim anonymous - blameless for the depravity that took root in my mind.

 

Instead, he’s just laughing at me. 

 

I don’t slap that perfect cheek. Maneuvering myself away from the door, I instead shoulder him aside and turn, opening it to permit myself through. It’s a large estate, but I’ll find my way down to my overnight room, and I won’t wipe my growing tears away until I get there. 

 

From some paces back, I hear the library door open and close again. Heavy footsteps follow me on the luxurious carpet, but after a minute I realize he’s trailing purposefully behind me.

 

Curiously tugs and I turn a fraction to watch him pull his bow tie free.

 

“You should run,” he says. “Make it feel more real .” He winks.

 

Whirling back, I continue on my way, instincts telling me hurry.

 

“I won’t run from you,” I snap.

 

“No?”

 

After another wing, one I’m nearly positive we traveled down, I chance another glance. My heart stutters to see him shrugging off his coat and tossing it to a chaise lounge tucked under a darkened window.

 

Quite near a full panic, I urge myself onward, questioning the direction I took and look back again.

 

He’s rolling up his shirtsleeves.

 

A cry nearly escapes me. I look back again.

 

He’s palming the front of his trousers.

 

My heart thunders in raw fear, now. I promised I wouldn’t run, but every nerve screams for me to do just that.

 

With a moment to act, I dash into an adjoining room, a darkened dining hall by the looks of it before I take off in a sprint. He lets me get a hopeful distance away before catching me. An arm wraps around my waist as a foot stomps on the hem of my dress, tearing the bottom third free with an awful, echoing rip.

 

Screeching, I tumble to the floor - narrowly missing the dining table - and cry out when he lands on top of me. Pushing uselessly at his chest, he slaps me again.

 

My head snaps and bounces off the floor. 

 

It’s almost elegant, in a way. Ben has deprived me of the appeal of being wanted, and has instead turned my request into something of a mirror of myself. He won’t let me escape my shame - indeed he seems to want to magnify it enough that I cannot forget that I was the one who asked for this. 

 

I can’t hear anything over the sudden ringing in my ears. Rearing up, he slaps me again, harder this time - and I blink with shock.

 

He’s rent me in two. My mind fractures.

 

Fight back , I hear my own voice plead.

 

I don’t want to be slapped again .

 

You won’t want the alternative.

 

It hurts.

 

It’s going to hurt far worse.

 

Waring parts of myself in agreement, I yield completely to my fear. With all my might, I cry and lurch upwards, battering against his shoulders in a mighty attempt to be free.

 

His next slap fractures the two parts of me into a thousand irreparable pieces.

 

Stunned, I cannot prevent him flipping up the ruined hem of my dress to my hips.

 

“These are nice.”

 

My eyes flash open then squeeze shut. Hours ago I had chosen the lacy underwear for him . Worse than a smoking gun. That, and the damp evidence of my anticipation from earlier this evening.

 

These are nice.

 

But he doesn’t say it like I imagined. He says the words as if a coworker had shown off a new set of flatware at a team dinner.

 

These are nice.

 

Fifty percent off on Black Friday.

 

No kidding?

 

Hooking a thumb under the fabric, his finger drags through me. Ben smiles at what he discovers and my tears leak free.

 

Could I swallow the words back? Could the universe put me back in bed, alone, where I was meant to stay?

 

I want you to force me.

 

Whispered in his ear, repeated and clarified for his benefit. He won’t let me turn over and just yield the way I want. He’ll ensure I’m fully aware that I’m the one who asked for this terror.

 

Perhaps it is then - in that moment of realization - the fantasy word becomes a living truth. 

 

This isn’t what I wanted. 

 

He tears the “nice” fabric away from my thighs, and - dodging my flailing, battering fists - hikes his shirt out of his trousers and undoes them in a blink. Blunt flesh nudges and seeks the valley of mine. A broad thumb chases tears across my cheeks and I open my eyes to see that pitying smile. His eyes aren’t dark and passionate like the Ben in my head. They’re clinical, aware, and the very same as Kylo’s in the Panic Room.

 

“Your prize,” he announces.

 

No . “Ben-” I plead.

 

It ends in a wail, because he’s pushing in and I would have never been ready. Realizing now there was more (there’s always more) he could take from me, he pushes and pushes and pushes and I was wrong to think the fractured pieces of me were the smallest bits he could break me into. It’s an eternity before he’s fully seated, and even then he doesn’t wait for me before he starts moving.

 

He makes it hurt. Then, even worse, he makes it not hurt - ripping unwilling pleasure from my body with his fingers before making it hurt again. 

 

Please .” I beg, weak and overcome. 

 

“No.”

 

There might be an entire world outside of us, but I cannot fathom it beyond this torture. Tangled on the floor, I try to bury my head into my shoulder and block everything out, but his fingers find that place again and demand my attention back - forcing me to be present in the minutes that pass. It would be too cruel of him now to force me off that cliff, but his fingers search as if he’s determined I’ll commit the final betrayal with him. A nagging sensation flares until it catches my attention and I blink, stupidly. 

 

“Don’t - not-not inside…” I plead.

 

“As if I could in this pathetic body.”

 

It is laughable, later. That I asked for something inherently - by literal definition, even - unwanted, and ended up not wanting it. What a perfect, disastrous circle. I feel as if a simpleton, and he, the knowing teacher, waiting patiently until I discover my folly. 

 

I’ve protested so long - years of my own convincing - thinking I know what I want. Convincing my own mind and body of it in those dark hours alone with only myself.

 

Perhaps that is the root in the problem of fantasies. Perhaps that is the issue of wanting. We cannot know until it is upon us - until we’ve asked for it and we hold it - the malformed and limp thing in our once eager and grasping fingers with a sort of quiet that only disappointment can conjure.

 

This is not what I wanted.

 

But it is what you asked for. To the word.

 

It is, yes.

 

It is.

 

And because of that, because of the thing I ask of him, I cannot accuse him of cruelty - even if the deed he does is cruel.

 

Groaning, he finishes - contrary to what he claimed - and plants a firm, mocking chaste kiss on my forehead. Then, efficiently, he stands and leaves me on the floor before stepping out of the room and back into the hallway where I fled from him. 

 

Filled with both relief and horror at the sensation of him leaving my body and the exit of his release between my thighs, I’m still for a minute, breathing and only breathing. The firm plant of his lips on my forehead lingers longer than his slaps. It may even hurt the worst of all. Before giving over to shock and caving in on myself, I silently move to my hands and knees, crawling towards the dining table, grasping for a knife before ridding myself of the ruined hem of my gown. Every effort leaves me panting. 

 

Gripping the knife in my shaking hand, some part of me I’ve never known eyes the tendons beneath the mottled colors blooming on my wrist, thinking, wondering.

 

Unwanted. Unwanted. 

 

A sob tears through me, buckling me in two, and a flicker of movement from my periphery catches my eye. Turning, I  regard myself in an antique floor-to-ceiling mirror.

 

Despite the horror, the depravity I’ve just lived, I don't look all too different. Reds and pinks spread like a watercolor on my checks, jaw, and wrists. 

 

Dropping the knife, I reach out and touch my reflection, wondering at what point I lost myself. Was it years ago? Alone in bed with my own despicable fantasies? Or was it tonight? The moment I gave the shadowed thoughts my own voice and whispered them in his ear?

 

I want you to force me.

 

It matters little, either way.

 

He’s made sure there is none of me left.

 

I grip the edges of the mirror until my whitened knuckles spasm. How deceptively lovely, the thoughts I conjured. How wanted I was in this fantasy. But in the end I suppose my existence was not one borne to be wanted. Not by my parents, not by lovers, and certainly not by him. How utterly devastating, the seductive idea of being wanted. How inevitable, the realization that it was never meant for me.

 

I rest my head - the one place he kissed - against the mirror and watch it fog for a single breath. Then, with the shell of myself remaining, I throw my head into the glass.

 

It’s such a clear sound - glass fracturing. Pure, almost, in the way I can’t be anymore. Blood surges in my already ringing ears, pain blooming at my brow to rival the pain he wrought on my body, on my heart, and on my pride. 

 

I throw myself forward again. Again. Blood trickles into my eyes. 

 

Good - I think - I don’t have to see her anymore . The unwanted one. I smile and tilt my head back. Perhaps I can go back to before - those quiet moments alone by myself. I can imagine myself wanted again, desirable - not this sad little existence. 

 

As if the me from before wasn’t pathetic. As if there wasn’t something wrong with me - wanting those things. There’s something still luxuriously wrong with me now, to still want it. The before. At least then I could dream. 

 

In my dreams I am wanted. Even in the worst way possible. I am wanted.

 

And it is enough. 

 

Rearing back to strike again, I practically roar when a pair of hands grasp my arms and haul me back into his chest. Hands flying, I lash out, catching my nails on any available surface to inflict pain so I can return to the glass.

 

“Stop. Rey, stop .” Ben sounds terrified.

 

You don’t understand. I have to get rid of her if I want to go back to before. I have to do this.

 

Flailing, I manage to smash the back of my head into his jaw. His grip tightens and he mutters a curse.

 

Stars dance from the multiple head blows.  Unable to help it - I start laughing. Breathless and feeling a touch mad, I taunt him.

 

“One day,” I wheeze, “one day I’ll have to discover how to wound you without hurting myself.”

 

Ben says nothing as he continues to haul me away. I thrash until he grabs me about my jaw, preventing me from head butting him again, but it forces my blood-hindered gaze to the spider’s web fracture in the mirror. The thousand versions of me staring back are all disappointing. Unwanted . Instead of surrendering to my own self-pity, I lash out again. But as I once desired, he exceeds my strength and my mind, at every turn. I want to rebel for hours - to show him how I might’ve fought. How I might’ve been valiant and noble (brave even) where my mind was a corrupt minefield. 

 

But the fight is too much, the energy expended exceeding my resources so I slump into him as he pulls what must be his retrieved coat around my shoulders. 

 

I want to scream at Ben - Kylo Ren, one and the same - don’t you dare offer me comfort. Not after that. Never after that. 

 

He does anyway.

 

Because I cannot win without him taking his share.

Chapter 2: Confabulation

Notes:

A/N: In my defense, I’ve got a pretty good excuse! For the last 4 months I’ve been working (nearly every day) helping my county’s vaccination program, and it’s awfully hard to leave such a hopeful and healing environment to get into a moody enough mood to write well… this. You read the last chapter you know what I mean, am I right?

Your comments made me dance and smile! I’m still figuring out how to respond and say thank you (I’m a longtime reader on this site vs writer). Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your feedback!

*AHEM* If you’re here at chapter two I hope you know what’s up but just in case: Please read tags because - Mayday. Darkness ahead. Author’s note in chapter one sums up why *dark* and *upsetting*. It’s explored in greater depth here and can be triggering.

And so…

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Last Year

 

My yawn seems to irritate him. He’s twirling one of his expensive pens at lightning speed and despite the late hour his eyes betray a sort of energized alertness. The victory smirk already graces his face.

 

Filtering through my folio, I tiredly sift through the jargon to find the signature page with all my thoughts oriented towards sleep.

 

“By all means, move at your own pace, Scavenger.”

 

Stifling a yawn, I pull the page free. His large hand moves with surprising speed to dash it from my hand. I’m considering laying my forehead on the conference table when he slams the sheet to the table, making me jump.

 

“This isn’t what I asked for,” he growls.

 

Despite my galloping heart from his outburst, I feel my eyes sink to half-mast. O-dark hours on a Saturday evening - morning? - make for poor attention. “It’s not. But it’s the only agreement my clients will come to.” I point his way. “You’re the one who overlooked their unwillingness to contract with that medical group’s vendor.” I plant my chin on my palm. “Maybe if you actually read through my folio-”

 

He scoffs angrily. “That blasted folio was thicker than-”

 

“-you would have known that.”

 

In a move that makes the table shudder, Kylo Ren plants his suit-adorned elbows to the table and cards his hands through his hair.

 

I blink. Is he… losing it?

 

Part of me wants to smile. The bastard. He underestimated me.

 

In flash he sits up, leveling a truly startling grin my way. “Give me two hours.”

 

Dragging my watch upward, I squint to read the time. “No. Your deadline is past anyway.” I wave to the paper in front of him. “That’s the best compromise and you know it.”

 

His grin turns dark. “Is that a no?”

 

Reaching into my fraying purse, I retrieve a plastic pen and toss it across the table towards him. When it lands on the page he eyes it with a sneer. For a long time he doesn’t move. His gaze lifts and I see his eyes, still calculating. Still looking for a way to win.

 

I sigh. “There’s no way out, Kylo.”

 

“Let me fucking think , Scavenger.”

 

I cross my arms and pillow my forehead into my elbows. “You lost, you brute. Sign the bloody thing and let us be done.”

 

I might’ve actually fallen asleep right there because the next thing I know is I can smell him. Opening my eyes and lifting my head, I freeze. He’s standing behind me, the sheet out in front of us, his arms on either side of me as he grips my cheap pen in his enormous fingers, scratching his signature out harshly enough to tear the paper.

 

“Well done,” he whispers from above me. I try not to shiver as he thrusts the pen at me. “How did you do it?”

 

Within the cage of his arms, I reach out and scratch mine beside his. “I knew the rules.”

 

Close as we are, I can feel him reverberate with anger. I’m breathless, and not in the way I should be. 

 

Signed, I pull the paper towards me and tuck it into my folio. He withdraws from the table but then I feel my chair turning to face him. 

 

He looks terrible when he’s lost. Gorgeous and terrifying, but terrible. His eyes are an ocean of loss. The god of wrath felled by the scrappy non-profit rep. I can’t help it, I let my grin take over. 




Today

 

I wince as Holdo dabs me with antiseptic. 

 

“Head wounds bleed so damned much,” she mutters, squinting at the cuts at my brow. The overall lighting in my overnight room is poor, muted honeyed and wooden colors that accentuate the deep reds and emerald pieces. “It’s not that bad. Well, it’s not good , but nothing more than a few small lacerations. Fracture your orbital and then you’re in trouble.” 

 

“Thanks,” I groan, gripping the bedsheets beneath me.

 

“And thank goodness you don’t need stitches.” She burps and waves a hand with a wince. “Ugh that burns. Those Old Fashioned drinks are too damn good. Did you get to try one?”

 

I hiss and across the room a chair groans. “Just champagne.” Then I add, “Too much champagne. Hence the - ” I wave towards my brow. “And the- ” I wave towards the corner.

 

“Yes,” Holdo says, drawing the word out. “Any other injuries?”

 

“No.”

 

“Thank goodness,” she packs up her small first-aid kit. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m in need of a gallon of water.” Her hand is on the doorway before she whirls back, “And never fear. There’s no consequence for fraternization on gala night.” She winks at me and nods at Ben. “Thank goodness, right?”

 

She leaves.

 

The Ben I thought looked lost that late night a year ago in the Panic Room has nothing on the man seated across the room. His face, a mask of devastation and fear, regards me with wide blood-shot eyes. A dark shadow sits low on his jaw, likely where I head-butted him. His knuckles are flushed white where they grip the arms of the chair.

 

I pull the fluffy robe closer across my chest, the one I put on to conceal my torn gown from Holdo.

 

“You shouldn’t have called for her,” I whisper.

 

His brow crinkles. “You were bleeding. Badly.”

 

I reach up to the bandage at my brow and wince. “She said it wasn’t that bad.”

 

“Rey-”

 

“Don’t.”

 

We sit in silence. He’s shaking, his breaths coming labored. I’m trying to search myself for some emotion I can latch onto. Fear? Bewilderedly I don’t feel that. Rage? I dig deep to find it and come up short. Am I empty? Am I empty of the thing that was there before this night?

 

“Rey, I’m so s-”

 

Don’t .”

 

He flinches and my fingers claw at the bedsheets. He flinches? He?

 

I gather myself, and sigh. “You need to go.”

 

“Only if you promise not to throw your head into another sheet of glass.”

 

I level a dry look his way. “How heartening you seek to protect me now .”

 

He winces and nods. “That was… I’ve never not set boundaries before play before. I - I messed up.” His eyes search mine and must come up short too. “Rey - ”

 

My hand rises between us and he stops. He’s never let me interrupt him before, not in or outside the Panic Room. But I can’t keep hearing my name on his lips. I can’t.

 

“Kylo - ”

 

He frowns at his Panic Room name. “We’re not playing anymore, Rey.”

 

“I assure you, whatever game you think - ”

 

“Game? Yes I suppose I made light of it.” He tugs his fingers through his hair, making it stick up at wild angles. “For fuck’s sake. We’re fucking contract attorneys.” He buries his face in his hands. “I can’t believe we didn’t discuss the hard and soft limits.” His eyes widen. “Or even safe words. Fuck .” 

 

Are we talking about the same thing? “I want to be left alone now.”

 

His face emerges from his hands, frowning. “Alone?”

 

I nod, not meaning it. I know how I am with her - the me I am when I’m alone. I don’t want to be with her. But I don’t want to be alone with him, either.

 

At least I don’t think so. I search the emptiness inside me and once more come up short. 

 

His elbows meet his knees, his tux still revoltingly impeccable, despite the - despite the -

 

I swallow and well with tears.

 

His brows pinch and I think he… cares? My heart twists when he says, “Rey, you can’t be left alone right now.”

 

Using the robe I dash my tears away. “Oh yes I can.”

 

I’ve never seen him so confused. “That’s your aftercare? To be left alone after play?” He sounds incredulous. “So you can hurl yourself headfirst into the nearest harm?”

 

I squint at him. Perhaps I concussed myself? None of his words, usually so carefully and considerately chosen make any sense.

 

He swallows and scoots towards the very edge of the chair. “Please. I know I messed up. Limits weren’t established beforehand and whatever they might’ve been I clearly passed them. But please, Rey.” He licks his lips. “What happened? Why did you hurt yourself?”

 

He looks so earnest. My confusion ratchets higher and a flicker of panic sets in.

 

“You,” I clear my throat. “You gave me what I asked for.” In the emptiness inside of me, panic grows. “My prize.”

 

He shakes his head. “No. Well, yes. But it’s no excuse. Fuck’s sake.” I think he wants to reach for me.

 

I can’t reconcile the versions of this man I thought I knew. Kylo Ren in the Panic Room, the Ben of my fantasies and the one I met upstairs in that dining room. His eyes grow wide to see my confusion and panic surge and he leaves the chair, approaching and sinking to his knees beside the bed. 

 

“Forgive me, Rey. I would have never played with you if I thought… if I had known…” his gaze snags on the bandages at my brow.

 

I try to throw as much malice into my voice as I can but instead I sound pitiful. “But you love playing with me.” I think of every moment, every smile and trick thrown my way in the Panic Room. I try to sneer but it lives for only a heartbeat. “Don’t you?”

 

From where he kneels on the floor, he leans back as if to assess me. I don’t need him to tell me to know what he sees. A pitiful woman. Dressed up for a world she doesn’t belong in a room with a man who showed her just how desirable she truly is. Worthy of derision but not passion. Worthy of mockery but not the fires of desire. Wet and shivering for his touch despite it all.

 

Unwanted.

 

His eyes, wide and sunken from tears search my face. Maybe he thinks I’m concussed too. “Rey - ” I flinch. “Darling, we’ve never played together before tonight.”

 

Darling . It’s the greatest insult, yet. As if I were precious to him. What a bloody tragedy. 

 

I surge from where I lay on the bed, sitting up, wincing at my body’s protestations. This time it’s my turn to tug at my hair and I seethe at him where he kneels beside the bed on the floor, startled. 

 

“I don’t know what that means , Ben!” I rip pins from my hair and sob when they tug on my scalp. “You play with me every damn day!” I tear the robe from my body when the heat gets to be too much. I laugh when I see the gown beneath, once lovely, now ruined by him. “You’re always playing with me! I can’t even leave you at work. You come home with me most nights, did you know that?” I laugh and it’s a torn sound.

 

Color leeches from Ben’s face and I think he’s turned to stone. He swallows and slowly rises onto his knees, and speaks words so gently I didn’t know him capable. “Forgive me. I think we’re misunderstanding one another. Maybe you’re used to using another word besides ‘play’.” 

 

Panic crawls up my throat and I can see it starting to grip him too.

 

“Scene?” He asks.

 

I think I’m shivering.

 

“Practice?” He whispers, sounding desperate.

 

I shake my head and hold myself around the abdomen.

 

“Session.”

 

His last word is breathed and when I don’t answer he surges from his knees and stumbles backwards into the wall, his eyes wide with panic, before he drops to his knees and crawls back towards the bed, his hands grasping for my ankles.

 

“Oh Rey, oh darling, no.” His hands wrap like binds around my feet and he buries his forehead into my shins. “No, no, no, no…” I feel tears on my skin. “Rey, what have I - oh no, no… I didn’t mean - I would never mean…” His shoulders shake, sobs ripping through his body and I think it's the panic that has me rooted in place. 

 

There’s a term that comes up a lot at work. Confabulation . It’s a sort of memory error. Everyone does it. It’s tough legally, because someone who confabulates - telling something that is unconsciously distorted in their memory - isn’t technically lying. The levels can range from something small, like mishearing something, to something utterly impossible. But the issue is they’re all based on real memories. And they’re the person’s truth.

 

Ben forced me.

 

I asked him to. 

 

There’s almost an entire world in between those two facts.

 

Nights spent with my pillow between my legs, imaging myself wanted, despising myself for the despicable desires of my mind, twist and dance in my memory. Closed and unresearched fantasies - because who else would fantasize about being forced? - surge at these unfamiliar words Ben speaks.

 

I try to speak the thing that broke me. But for long minutes I cannot, which is just as well since Ben seems to be having his own crisis as his stubble grazes my legs in his tears.

 

“You didn’t…” I whisper, but he cuts me off. 

 

“I did,” he sobs. “I did and I’m so sorry.” His hands around my ankles are fierce, desperate in his panic. “Oh Rey, I did.” He groans. “ Fuck .”

 

He misunderstands me.

 

“You didn’t rape me the way I wanted.”

 

He goes utterly still and I hear the words for the first time. Just like everything else, they’re utterly absurd and I can’t help it. I start laughing. I laugh so hard I cry. At one point I think Ben calls my name and I think I’m lifted into his arms and settled into his lap while I cry the irrationality of this - of me - out. An indeterminable amount of time later and I realize I’m straddling Ben’s lap in the chair from earlier, grasping his shoulders as my tears run out in the cradle of his neck and shoulder. One of his large hands runs soothing lines down my back, while the other grips me tight around my waist.

 

His words are deadly quiet and calm. I think he’s angry, but in my state I instinctively know he’s not angry at me. He’s already over the panic hill and into the inevitable stillness of after. 

 

“There’s a concept in the erotic community called consensual non-consent. It’s - ” he shifts in the chair. “It’s what I mistakenly thought we were doing.”

 

Voice lodged with dried tears, I ask, “Is that what play is?”

 

He rests his cheek on the top of my head and sighs. This new Ben, the patient dangerous one simmers with something dark. Maybe idiotically, I don’t feel the danger - though perhaps I should. Instead I feel as if I’m cocooned in the wings of a great and terrible beast, a threat to all but me. And doesn’t that just make me the ultimate idiot?

 

“Sometimes,” he answers.

 

Into the early hours of the morning I learn of an entire world, one I thought existed solely in the shadows of my own mind. Ben knows this world - intimately - and speaks of it plainly as if educating a client of all the needed intricacies in negotiations. He’s patient with my questions, thoughtful and considerate at my ignorance, and doesn’t shy away when I tell him of my nights alone - thinking of him

 

After my quiet confession he groans and stands, carrying me to the bed and tucks me beneath the lush comforter. For a long time neither of us speak. He offers me water and once more wraps his jacket around my shoulders when my adrenaline runs out and I start to shiver despite the bedding.

 

“You’re going to reimburse me for the damaged dress,” I tell him. 

 

He doesn’t smile. “Of course.” With his hands in his pockets, he shifts his weight onto his heels, and he’s entirely too large for the movement. “It is well within your right to report me to-”

 

“No.”

 

He raises an incredulous brow. “It is also well within your right - should you not want us to meet in the Panic Room-”

 

“Ben.”

 

His eyes linger on the bandage at my brow. 

 

“Ben.”

 

It’s nearly a minute before his eyes lower to meet mine. Emotion softens his words. “I’m sorry, darling.”

 

“Me too.”

 

His face scrunches in frustration. “Why the fuck-

 

“I’ll educate myself on playing.”

 

He pinches his brow in what looks like a growing headache. “It wasn’t your fault you weren’t educated that I… did what I did to you.”

 

Despite my pounding heart, I level what I hope is a calm gaze at him. We must both look like hell.

 

“I didn’t know the rules this time,” I whisper. His eyes narrow in question. “I’ll know them next year.”

 

Ben’s knees crash to the ground and his face buries into my knees through the comforter, his veined hands gripping my thighs desperately. 

 

“No, Rey. You can’t say that. Not after what I’ve done,” he mumbles into the sheets.

 

“But I still want you. I still want you to want me.”

 

His grip is fierce. “I’ve never not wanted you,” he tells my knees.

 

I gasp. The sound is in itself a confession and Ben growls into my thighs.

 

Outside a car horn blares, signaling the night turned morning.

 

Ben lurches and stands. We stare at each other for a long while before he moves towards the door. He pauses with his hand on the handle.

 

“Rey, I-”

 

It will be the last time he underestimates me.

 

“I’ll see you in the Panic Room,” I say.

 

He does leave me, then.

Notes:

Yes, I added another chapter. Last one, promise!

Thank you for reading!