[ Weight rounds out the sharp edges of bone, returns the luminosity and warmth to her skin where it had once been wan and sallow. But there is no strength in it — a purposeful strategy, she believes at first, but it gives him too much credit. Surely Kylo Ren has not considered that binding her, granting limited movement, would turn her feeble from disuse of each muscle group.
Even relieving herself is often a feat of exertion. Another badge of humiliation to add to the list for how he has forced her to rely on him in that way, waiting for him to return and untie her like a pet, just so she can feel human for short-lived moments.
And through it all, she knows he is too much of a coward to truly look at her. To acknowledge her. To him, she is just a fixture in a room, easily forgotten. Rey makes no move to strike a conversation even on the days he does lower himself to speak to her, gone voluntarily mute, and there are no guards he seems to trust near her that would give her any outlet.
That's okay, Rey decides. She is too used to the loss of human contact, to being alone, to break under those conditions — but she cannot say she does not begrudge him for his avoidance, either. Resentment festers, swinging uncomfortably between rage and numb acceptance of his behavior, feeling like she has been abandoned once again; it is precisely why she does not leap to greet him, to even face him, when he finally speaks more than a single grunt or syllable to her now.
The silence endures so long that it gives the impression she doesn't intend to speak at all, but there is no concealing the way she mentally flinches in the bond. Time has passed, but she remembers all too clearly the last time she had been bare beneath him. He has forgotten, she thinks, or has merely leveraged her grief over it as a means of getting her into what he wants. ]
I like my clothes.
[ She offers that, finally, small and faraway like a regressive child — and she might be, returning to old habits, scratching marks with bloodied, dulling nails into the refresher's walls when she gets free for long enough. Maybe he has a point; she has not changed from her own, has not stripped for the spray of the 'fresher. She must stink by now, but she has long since stopped caring. It isn't her stench, after all, that has him intent on avoiding her.
On her side on his bed as she has been for hours, tucked away from him, Rey bores a hole into the wall with her stare. ]
They're mine.
[ Something, in all of this, that still feels like her own. She has no particular attachment beyond them other than recognizing it's among the few possessions that have followed her here. ]
no subject
Even relieving herself is often a feat of exertion. Another badge of humiliation to add to the list for how he has forced her to rely on him in that way, waiting for him to return and untie her like a pet, just so she can feel human for short-lived moments.
And through it all, she knows he is too much of a coward to truly look at her. To acknowledge her. To him, she is just a fixture in a room, easily forgotten. Rey makes no move to strike a conversation even on the days he does lower himself to speak to her, gone voluntarily mute, and there are no guards he seems to trust near her that would give her any outlet.
That's okay, Rey decides. She is too used to the loss of human contact, to being alone, to break under those conditions — but she cannot say she does not begrudge him for his avoidance, either. Resentment festers, swinging uncomfortably between rage and numb acceptance of his behavior, feeling like she has been abandoned once again; it is precisely why she does not leap to greet him, to even face him, when he finally speaks more than a single grunt or syllable to her now.
The silence endures so long that it gives the impression she doesn't intend to speak at all, but there is no concealing the way she mentally flinches in the bond. Time has passed, but she remembers all too clearly the last time she had been bare beneath him. He has forgotten, she thinks, or has merely leveraged her grief over it as a means of getting her into what he wants. ]
I like my clothes.
[ She offers that, finally, small and faraway like a regressive child — and she might be, returning to old habits, scratching marks with bloodied, dulling nails into the refresher's walls when she gets free for long enough. Maybe he has a point; she has not changed from her own, has not stripped for the spray of the 'fresher. She must stink by now, but she has long since stopped caring. It isn't her stench, after all, that has him intent on avoiding her.
On her side on his bed as she has been for hours, tucked away from him, Rey bores a hole into the wall with her stare. ]
They're mine.
[ Something, in all of this, that still feels like her own. She has no particular attachment beyond them other than recognizing it's among the few possessions that have followed her here. ]