photophobic | [IC CONTACT]

Whatever it is Kylo's looking for in this, Ronan prays that he finds it. There's something worth destroying him for, and if Kylo comes out of this with nothing else, let him at least have what he so desperately needed.

Until then, Ronan has to suffer with his failure. He should have served with more devotion. He should have loved more faithfully. He should have learned by now. And the worst thing about it is that he knows Kylo won't forgive him. This isn't his penance, what's playing out here. He doesn't come out on the other side of this with absolution. If Kylo hates him like this now, Kylo will hate him forever.

Ronan lays his head down, giving up. The sheets are cold with his tears. He's shaking so bad that it's a miracle Kylo doesn't lose hold of him completely. The kiss to his nape feels like a goodbye. Blindly, Ronan reaches back, and his fingers barely manage to brush Kylo's thigh. It's okay. Ronan still loves the worst of him. And while it doesn't make a difference to a man who doesn't believe in forgiveness, Ronan's sorry for failing him.

This isn't where he'll find what he needs. Not like this. Not in desecrating his sanctuary. Kylo's rough, violent thrusts are little more than the consequence of momentum, now, aimless, useless things. He's thrashing blindly in the dark. And when he feels Ronan reach for him, his breathing breaks in a sharp, choked stop. He gathers himself for one last, futile attempt to make this work, whatever it is he chose to do instead of everything better— but he can't. He can't.

He slumps, heavy on Ronan's back, saturated with all the misery he's caused and gained nothing from, all the evidence of his monstrosity spelled out in Ronan's tears, his trembling, his faithful desire to be comfort for him, even now.

Kylo doesn't believe in forgiveness. Mostly, because if he did, it would be another grace he was built without capacity for, another respite he could never earn.

He doesn't deserve Ronan's fingers tangled in his own, but he can't stop himself taking them all the same.

This is it, Ronan's sure. Kylo can't squeeze the very last use out of him. What's left for him here, if Ronan can't serve the only purpose he was meant for?

He's been in this position before, with Adam, and he'd wondered back then why he couldn't be like his mother. She had lived for no one but Niall Lynch, with indefatigable patience and perfect love, and she inspired it in return. No matter how far he went or how long he was gone, Ronan's father had returned to her with an adoration that never seemed to fade. Niall had never uttered a word of disapproval about his wife, let alone punished her.

What would she have done, if he had?

Ronan's shivering awfully, enough that it's difficult to weave his fingers between Kylo's. He does it anyway, and squeezes so that Kylo doesn't let go.

"I don't want to hurt you," Kylo pushes past his lips, the confession ragged and, he's sure, meaningless, offered in blatant contradiction to his actions. He presses his face to Ronan's back, floundering in the space between what he's done and what he wishes he had done instead.

"I don't-- I don't want to hurt you any more."

Ronan isn't wholly sure that's true. As someone who wants to hurt people often, he hasn't found that the desire fades so quickly. Then again, Ronan isn't the one who stops himself in those circumstances. There's always someone else who steps in to drag him away from his bad decisions.

Probably, if Kylo wanted to keep hurting him, he would be doing just that.

Ronan starts. Stops. Waits until he's sure he can keep his weeping out of his voice. Then he asks, "Why?"

He doesn't know. He's not even certain why he ever wanted to hurt Ronan, any more. If he did, or whether the hurting simply spilled out.

"I want you to want to be with me," he says, his voice thick with bitter misery. "Not fear it."

"I'm not afraid of being with you."

Ronan's fear is, in fact, the very opposite. Which is the reason he's still clinging so tightly to Kylo's hand. Once Kylo decides to go, Ronan won't beg him to stay. He'll hold on for as long as he can, though, before that happens.

"This is the only place I ever wanna be. With you. Wherever you go."

He takes a hitched breath. Every word is bringing him closer to the point where Kylo tells him he's not excused, that he ruined it, that there's no going back. "I'm sorry I made you stop believing it," he continues, trepidatious. "I'm sorry you don't feel it anymore."

"Don't--" he bites off, desperate not to hear any more apologies, all of them humming with guilt on the wrong frequency— but his fingers only tighten their hold on Ronan's, his chest shuddering. His voice drops, low. "He made you feel so good, Ronan. I felt it. You know I did. He gave you only good things. Only pleasure.
And this. This is what I gave you. Why would you choose pain?"

Ronan doesn't understand the question.

"He didn't... He didn't give me anything."

And Kylo knows that. Ronan knows that he does. He's had firsthand experience with it, the difference between Ronan as a dream and Ronan as a boy. When Ronan's a dream, he's everything his dreamer wants him to be. Which means it's something he's giving. Kylo could do the very same thing with him right now, turn him into a dream of absolute ecstasy.

But Kylo made it clear from the very beginning that the Ronan he wanted was the Ronan who's with him now: brittle and broken, sharp-edged and fragile. He's in pain at all times, and yes, Kylo was violent with him, but the darkness doesn't suddenly clear without Kylo in the picture. Even if Murphy were the sun (and he isn't, not in any way), Ronan has a gloom all his own that can only be cleared when he's prevented from being himself.

"What I'm choosing is you."

When Ronan has a choice at all, it's Kylo he wants. Doesn't he know that?

"I chose you already. I chose you forever."

He's quiet and still for a long moment. Just the pounding pulse of his heart, the tight grip of his hand, all the places their bodies are pressed together. The sheen of sweat cooling on Ronan's skin, the dampness of his pillow.

"You have me," he says, pressing the truth of it to Ronan's spine. His lips are soft, but his kiss is unyielding, firm as a seal. His eyes close. "You have... all of me."

And that's the fear, really. He doesn't have anything more, anything better to give. He has nothing left to offer, should Ronan find him wanting. He kisses Ronan's back again, again, hoping somehow he can restore Ronan's faith. He didn't mean to wound it. He didn't.

"Do you understand? You have everything, and I need—" he cuts himself off, sucking in a shuddering breath. "I won't be a mistake. I won't."

Ronan can't figure out where Kylo's going with this. He's certainly not apologizing. He's not even, to Ronan's mind, implying an apology. And Ronan knows damn well that his own apology means nothing to Kylo, so it's not forgiveness, either.

What's most important, though, is that Kylo's speaking in the present tense. These sins aren't so vile that he can't bear to put his mouth on Ronan's skin.

Turning his head, Ronan looks over his shoulder and slides his miserable gaze to Kylo's eyes. He utters weakly, "You can't be a mistake. A mistake is something you do, not something you are."

It took Ronan a while to learn the difference, too.

"Hurt me if you think I deserve hurting. If you don't, then... don't."

Ronan's confusion is hardly surprising— Kylo doesn't know where he's going or what he's doing, only that he wants to change direction.

Admittedly, he might have found even that realisation impossible not that long ago. So many of Kylo's mistakes have been an unwillingness to let go, an inability to see alternatives, a commitment to the chosen path no matter how far from his original goal it begins to twist. But here, slowly, in increments of barely perceptible progress, he's been trying something new.

And sometimes, usually after a painfully confusing struggle, he tumbles forwards several paces at a time.

"You don't," he says. It's a simple thing, at first. But it isn't enough. His gaze drops away, then draws up again as deliberate focus despite the heat of shame. "You don't deserve to be hurt, Ronan. You never did."

Ronan isn't sure he agrees with that assessment, but he knows Kylo isn't telling a lie.

"Okay. Now you know better."

And just like that, a mistake becomes a lesson.

He wishes he could sort his own feelings so easily. Though they've often been rough with each other - sometimes, even, with more brutal results - there's always been a spirit of playfulness to it. He's never felt Kylo hate him before. And he can't seem to get the hatred out of him. The ache inside keeps reminding him.

Ronan lays his head back down. After a moment or two of tortured silence, he says, "Don't leave me like this. I want you to finish."

"I'm not going to leave you," Kylo murmurs, seizing onto Ronan's words as they break through the silence left in the wake of his stunted and deformed understanding of apology. I'm not going to leave you. Like this, or at all. He's inside Ronan. They're inside each other. And, he thinks, it should be clear by now— for better or worse, this is what he is. He'd destroy Ronan before he'd leave him.

Maybe that's what Ronan needs to understand. Maybe that one, dark constancy he has to offer would be more safety and security than any number of strained attempts at kindness. Kylo shifts, drawing himself up, deeper, leaning in to Ronan's ear.

"You're mine," he reminds him, almost more threat than promise. His hips roll, slow. Fresh heat shudders up his spine as the words sink into him, too. Does Ronan know what it means, to belong to him? To be his prize? "You're mine. And I'm never letting you go. Never. No matter what you do. Who you turn to. You belong to me. Pain or pleasure. And I am never giving you up."

Ronan's breath hitches as Kylo pushes deeper, though it's exactly what he wants - this enduring evidence of Kylo's desire. That Kylo still wants to claim him. That he always will. A shock of relief runs through him even as his shoulders tense.

"I'll never belong to anyone else," he confirms in a sigh, with a minute tilt of his head to brush his cheek against Kylo's. As he's sworn before, he's not afraid of his beloved master. The promise of eternal captivity may sound like a threat when it leaves Kylo's lips, but all Ronan hears is an oath. He wants Kylo to keep him. He, too, would rather be destroyed by Kylo than discarded by him.

Bracing himself against the mattress, Ronan forces himself to relax despite the sharp sting of Kylo's thrusting. It's his honor to be the instrument of Kylo's pleasure, as long as that's truly what he's being used for.

There's the satisfaction he was looking for. He finds it in the way Ronan submits so much more than simply willingly— proving with every breath not just that he knows he is owned, but that he wants to be. Needs to be. Here is the pleasure only he can give him.

"Who else could possess you as I do," Kylo murmurs, allowing Ronan to nuzzle softly against him in the sweet, aching space between one surging thrust and the next. How distant and foolish his earlier misjudgment feels, now. "Who else could satisfy—"

He cuts off with a low groan, surging deep, drinking in the relief threading through Ronan's pain. His teeth sink into Ronan's shoulder as his arms coil around his body. His possession. His treasure. His chosen one.

Ronan slips one arm over Kylo's, holding on as Kylo traps him. With that embrace locking him in, there's little for Ronan to do but take every thrust Kylo gives him. It still hurts like hell, and every surge has Ronan shuddering and gasping, his eyes bright with fresh tears.

Still, there's nowhere he'd rather be. This is an exquisite torture.

"No one," Ronan moans in answer to the unfinished question. "My only master. No one could possibly..." The next few words are lost to whispers and hissing as pleasure sneaks through the pain, shocking him at his core.

Kylo gasps sharply as the reflected shock translates through Ronan's senses to reach his own, his hold tightening. He has him now.

"No-one," Kylo agrees raggedly, chasing that thrill of pleasure with another snap of his hips. Another. On, and on, relentless in the pursuit. He wants Ronan writhing with it. Trembling. "You could be a hundred dreams. A thousand. All of them nothing but soft, sweet mouths. But this is what you'd want. This. Is what you need. With me. Say it."

"Fuck," Ronan gasps. "Fuck..." Not in answer to Kylo's order, but in answer to the assault. Every snap is a lightning strike. He starts to curl in on himself, to retreat from the raw power that's setting his spine on fire. Kylo's arms are there to stop him, forcing Ronan to remain stretched flat beneath him.

He gathers up his strength to choke out, "This is what I need." And it is. Nothing - man or dream - has ever given him anything close to the pleasure that Kylo inflicts on him every single day. It would be impossible.

Because no one else possesses him. No one else can take command of every nerve, control every inch of his body, drive him to pure ecstasy and share in the pleasure. When Kylo takes him, they become a single being caught in a cycle of pursuit and release, Kylo racing to fulfill Ronan's need because Ronan's need is also Kylo's.

"Ruin me," he begs, shivering violently. His spine curves. His legs splay. He wants Kylo as deep as he can possibly take him. He would have Kylo climb into his skin, if he could. "I want everything you have for me."

The sweet and the terrible.

There's no escape. Kylo locks Ronan in against himself as he drives into him, crushing any attempt to twist away from the overload— because that isn't really what Ronan wants, only what his trembling body believes it has to do to survive. Kylo will subdue the instinct for him.

They will meet the raw, electric shock of each powerful, slamming thrust together. Kylo holds Ronan under as if he means to drown him, seizes him by every nerve and fibre as he pours himself into becoming not Ronan's undeserved punishment, but his hard-earned reward. He can endure this. He can suffer it— Kylo knows he can, no matter how violently his body shakes for mercy.

"Mine," Kylo hisses, the building pressure of all this bright, blinding pleasure aching to burst forth sparking under his skin. He can feel the devastation rushing towards them. This is an ecstasy they can only face together. This is being his. And it's only for the two of them— what they become, together.

The tighter Kylo holds him, the harder Ronan writhes and struggles. No, he doesn't want to escape, but his body hasn't figured that out. He's screaming again, a sharp cry bursting out of him every time Kylo rocks into him, only there's a different quality to it now, each shout dragging out into a low moan. He sounds like he's being murdered. He sounds like he's enjoying it.

He loses all coherent thought in the rush of sensory input. He's being fucked right out of his mind. His fingers claw wildly at Kylo's arms, and it's hard to tell which one of them is more savage: Kylo in his ravishment or Ronan in his attempt to combat it. Whenever his body jerks against his will, the friction between them only increases. He squeezes and shakes, twists and shudders.

Something finally breaks and Ronan ignites. All at once, the fire inside him rushes outward. His screams die and he gasps voicelessly, quaking and grinding into the thrust that pushes him over. The sheets soak through with his seed, bursts of wet heat filling the narrow space between the bed and his body, crushed beneath Kylo's weight.

Kylo's rough, torn-edged gasps blend into the growing urgency of Ronan's thickly delirious cries as he pushes and pushes and pushes, ruthless and indefatigable. More. More is all he gives in response to Ronan's desperate, shuddering pleas. More is all Ronan will earn for every scrabbling, futile attempt to break free he can't help but make, the building weight of the promised release they're surging towards pressing in on all sides and crushing them together.

Kylo drags them to the summit, but it's Ronan who pulls them over the edge. His body seizes tight around him, trembling, searing, Kylo's coiled grasp tightens as leverage to drive every last fraction of himself deep, deeper, buried— and the break bursts through the both of them in wildfire.

He shatters apart, gasping, bleeding into Ronan's senses as he shudders and spills in wild, violent pulses, spending himself utterly in the claiming heat of Ronan's body. He's filled. He's so full of him, saturated to the core as they fold and collapse together, heaving with exertion in the aftermath.

The euphoria of his own climax carries Ronan through those final moments of brutality. Kylo's seed warms him in throbbing bursts, deep at the center of him, and Ronan voices wordless praise as he exhales. He's so grateful. In spite of everything that came before, it's a holy act to receive Kylo, and he never forgets to be thankful for it.

They sink onto the bed as one. Ronan hugs Kylo's arms against his chest, in case he had any notions of escape (though he probably didn't) and basks in the inundation. Kylo is over him and inside him and around him. Ronan would always have him this way, if he could.

It's not long before the buzz and the adrenaline fade enough for the agony to creep back into his senses. Kylo's conquest has absolutely destroyed Ronan. He's good for nothing now but laying here in Kylo's embrace. Probably, he should fade away rather than attempt to extract his maimed body from spear that's driven through him. Eventually, that's what he'll do. For now, though, he'll endure the ache and keep Kylo cradled inside him for as long as possible. He'd rather be a ruined boy in Kylo's arms than a pleasant and aimless dream.

[IC CONTACT]

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