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Warm Carnelian

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Carnelian. It’s the first thought that takes hold. Carnelian red, Kylo muses in a trance.

 

He sees it in the distance: a scrap of fabric dancing to the wind, whipping in the air and pulled along with each new gale. 

 

Carnelian, he thinks again — it’s a shade he’s fond of; a shade he can’t look away from, rendering him still in the busy Coruscant street much to the annoyance of the surrounding crowd. There’s a warmth that brews under his collar; an itch at the back of his neck when he steps closer, eyeing the flash of red as it twirls under the sun. 

 

A break slows in the weather, chilly breeze suddenly lost. Kylo begins to move, pushing past people as carnelian red descends upon the dusting of fresh-fallen snow.

 

He arrives just as it hits the ground, cheeks hot from rushing. There’s a beading of sweat at his forehead, dampening slicked back hair while he takes in the sight. 

 

The contrast is stunning: red, twisted and tattered among the bright snow and the sleek black of his boots. He can only stare, mind running wild with ideas; cuts of bold silhouettes, all flashing in that same particular shade with accents of black and white. 

 

His heart seems to quicken at the inspiration, hands beginning to shake when reaching for the fabric. 

 

It’s soft in hand and radiates warmth; worn, faded linen, an old favourite now lost to the city. 

 

Kylo holds the scarf like it’s delicate glass, turning it in his fingers with reverent eyes. 

There’s almost a burning sensation that comes with holding it — as if coated in poison, staining calloused hands. The thick coat that shelters him from fierce winter winds begins to feel too hot, the dark cashmere scarf around his own neck suddenly too tight and near-choking. His breath comes in short, his skin fires up while his mouth becomes all-too dry. 

 

He knows this feeling; he hates this feeling. 

 

Kylo’s always strived to take the reins and gain control. He’s asserted dominance in his career, his mind, hell, even his feelings — all decisions his own, influenced by no other than himself. 

 

There’s just one huge problem, instantly recognised as the wind kicks up once more, offering what should be icy relief:

 

The scent of an Alpha. 

 

It’s thick and heady, throwing all senses into overdrive — eyes abandon the fabric to frantically search around him, ears pounding to his unnaturally fast heartbeat. He drowns in their scent; a heavy-weighted pressure pushing down on his lungs as if he’s swam too deep underwater. 

 

It’s suffocating; it’s delightful; it’s torturous. 

 

Above all though, he can’t control it. The Omega in him explodes to the forefront, repeating one word over and over: 

 

Alpha. 

 

He needs his alpha — this alpha and their scarf and, oh—

 

It’s too much. It’s all too much; too heightened. The city seems louder, the people have doubled, but—

 

Alpha. 

 

Kylo begins to heave in deep, noisy breaths attracting the attention of those around him. He stumbles and pushes past them all, breaking out into a run while his own biology turns on him. 

 

The scarf remains fisted in his hand the whole way, knuckles white from the sheer force of his grip.

 

A rational mind tells him to let go, returning it to the wind so it can be carried off far, far away; out of sight, out of mind. 

 

He should let it go. 

 

He doesn’t. 

 

~ O ~

 

“Ren—”

 

“Not now!” Kylo growls, shoving a shocked Armitage Hux aside while he hastily heads for the safety of his office. “And postpone Bazine’s first fitting—”

 

“We can’t—”

 

“I don’t care!” 

 

He slams the door shut behind him and it rocks the whole room, immediately stripping off the coat that’s slowly cooking him alive. Next comes the sweat-soaked button down, landing with a resounding wet thud when he flings it across the room. 

 

The scarf, the carnelian red, is still tight in hand. 

 

Against better judgement—against the small bit of Kylo that isn’t currently being ruled by his designation—his arm rises. 

 

He presses the scarf aggressively to his nose and inhales deeply, sucking in the scent that’s struck him wild. 

 

A loud and choked groan releases in the exhale. 

 

“Fuck,” He wheezes, fumbling forward to collapse into his desk chair. It’s a feeling akin to that moment before one faints — hot and itchy, head empty and clouded with black shapes spotting at his vision. 

 

His whole body is tight and burning, asking for any sort of relief. There’s only one way to seek it out and it starts with the hard cock straining against his slacks. 

 

It’s embarrassing, really: the shame that comes with cancelling an important session with one of Coruscant’s hottest models over a scrap of fabric; the sheer mortification Kylo feels after pulling out his dick and spitting into the palm that doesn’t hold the scarf. 

 

None of it compares to the loud, guttural moan that follows after gripping the base of his cock. It echoes in the room, undoubtedly falling on the ears of those outside. The fact that Hux probably  heard everything should be enough to spur him off, but it isn’t. Instead, Kylo can only beg a person who isn’t present. 

 

“Please,” He whimpers, uncharacteristically soft. “Please, please, please —” His hand begins to move, sliding slowly up his shaft; thumb spreading the pre-cum that beads at his throbbing head for extra lubrication. 

 

It’s almost too dry and not nearly tight enough — ideally, he’d have a warm, deep cunt to suck him in to the base and keep him there until his balls empty — but Kylo’s only got himself; he’s only ever had himself. 

 

So his hand begins to twist and pull, up and down, up and down, pace increasing with each tug. Loud, ragged breaths escape his chest and rough grunts fall from his throat. 

 

He’s close to crying. 

 

“Please.” He begs, because it’s unbearable. No matter how fast his hand moves, no matter the increased friction or the buck of hips or the scented scarf that tightens his balls with each new inhale — nothing can quell the fire that burns inside. 

 

Still, the build up is there and release, though undoubtedly to be brief, is in reach . So he doubles his efforts and the volume of his voice becomes louder. 

 

Kylo swipes at his desk, desperate to sweep the new designs away from the fire zone. He only manages to slap at his phone, beginning to play an old voice message that he can never bring himself to delete. 

 

“Good morning, Mr. Ren,” 

 

A sweet but deep feminine lilt charms, overlaying the slap of skin and drawing forth a broken groan because, god her voice; her sweet, sharp voice. 

 

“Rey Niima calling for the thousandth time. Since you seem intent on not picking up, I’ll leave a final message:” 

 

“Please.” He whimpers. 

 

“Your father’s sixtieth birthday is coming up — he’s not asking for a lot, just a phone call.” 

 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He really doesn’t want to think about his father in this already humiliating moment, but there’s something so domineering about her voice that he can’t bring himself to stop or turn it off. Kylo can only close his eyes and let it play on while fucking desperately into his hand.

 

“Believe it or not, he cares about you. I understand that you’re a busy man, but I think a phone call could be scheduled in on the weekend.” 

 

She’s so harsh and demanding, the words sing in his veins. He chokes on a sob, dreaming of her voice calling him Omgea; ordering him on his knees, easing his heat away with her cunt, her ass, her mouth all of it!

 

“Some people don’t have the privilege of having parents. You do and he’s not getting any younger — do something before you come to regret it for the rest of your life.” 

 

He huffs, balls straining at each frantic pump up his thick length, sniffing the scarf one last time. 

 

“Please, just...” her voice is so soft; so mellow; so desperate. It mirrors his own pleading. “I’ll do anything to arrange it.” 

 

It’s the last phrase that does the job; sending him over the edge, hot ropes of cum spilling onto his bare chest, over carefully-designed ideas for his 2020 show in Paris fashion week and his desk.

 

He cums hard and fast, sobbing out from the sweet morsel of relief that comes over him. 

 

It ends all too soon with no Alpha to care for him; a minute later, he's hot and feverish, ready to do it all over. 

 

And so he replays the message: again and again and again. 

 

~ O ~

 

Hours later when his designs are all utterly useless and the scarf has been reduced to nothing else but a cum rag, now mixed with his own scent and the mysterious Alpha that sent him into a frenzy, Kylo finally gives in. 

 

“I’ll do anything to arrange it.” 

 

He dials her number and returns her call.