save me, tear me to pieces (star wars | rey~kylo)

[fiachairecht]

save me, tear me to pieces. star wars sequels, rey~kylo. what better way to save kylo ren than to dismember and recreate him in her own image? 770w, rated m. for meritmut.

It takes him nearly an hour to calm his thrashing, by which time the warmth of the rising sun has dried his blood into a thick sort of blanket that's sealed him into Rey's lap like a promise.

"Hush now," she murmurs, leaning down to kiss his bloody mouth. His cries of pain have long since subsided into ragged moans, but even those are eerily loud in the desert's silence. "Hush."

He whimpers into her mouth anyway, his remaining hand scrabbling uselesly at her back. She'd taken his hand first, then his forearm and then all the rest, and she's distantly intrigued that that seems to've meant the hand is the last to be reshaped.

"New," he gasps, when she's pulled back enough that he can speak. "Hurts."

Rey sighs and brushes a lock of hair off his sweat-damp forehead. "Only because you fuss so. I told you it would be over soon."

She had lied, not that he needed to know that. Force-limbs were many things, but quick to grow was not among them. But whether that knowledge would have changed anything for the better, Rey doubts.

She shifts him on her lap, turning him so his face presses into her stomach and his new shoulder is bared to the sky. The regrown limb is still tinged with blue, still too soft when she prods at it. His fussing, his unwillingness to help himself heal — Rey never would have expected him to be so attached to his own body, but he screamed so loudly for his lost pieces Rey had worried they might attract attentions, even this far away from a settlement.

Her knife had been sharp, the whole process infinitely less painful than the first time Leia had helped her create a new finger. And still he had screamed, as if she had betrayed him instead of given him her deepest love.

"Rey," he mumbles as she strokes the new limb. "Barely feel you, Rey."

"You're alright," she says. "You've been so good so far." His new skin is rippling under her hands, a strange, rubbery texture that her fingers nearly skip off of.

His feeling will come back slowly, as the Force adjusts to its new form, as their wills slide into place side-by-side. She wants that for him, almost more than she had wanted it for herself.

Rey's fingers catch on a rough knot of flesh on his new bicep, the scar a perfect replica of her own. She doesn't say a word.

"When?" he asks plaintively, staring up at her with sunlight in his eyes. "When will it stop hurting?"

"This arm?" Rey smiles, and watches his wrist bend unconsciously backwards. "Very soon. Roll over."

He complies, moving with ease from her bloody lap to the stained blanket in front of them, and she rewards him with another kiss. The last dried flakes of blood from his mouth linger on Rey's lips, hum with the hardly-contained energy of the Force when she darts her tongue out to lick them up.

"Now." She picks up her blade once more, passes it through the fire twice and back. She's not sure it matters, but there's a comfort in the ritual, in the crackle of his flesh as she rests the flat of the sterilised blade against his wrist. "This time we can go faster, I think."

She turns her own wrist before he can protest, and the vibranium slices cleanly through his elbow. The first stream of blood catches her cheek, the second and third splash a gleaming crimson across the sand to match the sunrise, obscuring the jutting ridges of his bones.

"Shh, shh," she whispers as he screams once more, surprise and pain mingling in a sound that knifes dangerously close to her heart. "It will be back soon."

Carefully, Rey cuts away the last of strings of muscle and places his forearm on the sand behind her with the other pieces. The sun will do its work eventually, there's no need for him to see.

He's squirming less this time, worn out by the night, but fresh blood still paints them both by the time Rey gets her hand over his wound. Already something is starting to lap over the edges, waiting for its chance.

"Don't worry," Rey says, not sure if he can even hear her over his own cries, his own pain breaking in waves over her shields. "Soon you'll be just like me."

She'll miss his blood, miss the slowly growing pile of limbs if he elects to leave them behind. But even without them soon everything will be fine, forever.