Get On Your Knees

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/24376333.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: F/M
Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Relationship: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey & Ben Solo
| Kylo Ren
Character: Rey (Star Wars), Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Ben Solo, Knights of Ren
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, Sexism,
nobody is saying these are good boys, Band Fic, Oh yes, the knights of
ren are a metalcore band, did i say rampant sexism?
Stats: Published: 2020-05-31 Chapters: 1/3 Words: 3924

Get On Your Knees

by Onyx_and_Elm

Summary

“It’s just a music video."

Rose looks up from the frying pan she’s fussing over and gives her a full-on mom glare.
“You are being paid to strip down to almost nothing for a song called ‘Get On Your
Knees.’”

Notes

Just because I'm picturing That's The Spirt-era Oli Sykes doesn't mean you have to.

(Yes, it does.)

You think I like the way you watch me?

(Like you’re starving?)
(Like you know me?)
Think I like you when you’re talking?
(Shut your mouth.)
I know you’re thirsty.

- Rey -
She's turned her toothbrush up to its highest setting so the buzz might drown her out, but Rose is
still talking. Just louder.

“…know what that song’s about, don’t you? Rey? Don’t you?”

Spit. Rinse.

“Mm-hm.”

“It’s about blowjobs, okay? It’s another one of those ultra-misogynistic, wet dream catastrophes
meant to break the sound barrier and get angry dudes who don’t speak to their dads to clog their
girlfriends’ throats.” Rose has followed her into the bathroom at this point, watching Rey with
judgmental eyes through the mirror as she spits and gargles.

“Mm-hm,” she hums again, setting about scrubbing her tongue raw.

“Oh, and did I mention that I found out that lead singer guy was on parole up until last month?
What’s his fuck — Kido? Kello?”

“Kylo,” Rey corrects around the brush, accidentally spitting minty foam out onto the faucet.

”Whatever. I think I’ve made my point.” Rose huffs, dropping her tattooed arms at her sides and
giving a massive shrug as she disappears into the hallway. “And if I haven’t, just remember there’s
a line about fucking kneepads in that thing.” Her voice gets further away.

“Mm-hm,” Rey calls after her, swishing water between her cheeks. She’s sure there’s not actually a
line about kneepads.

“And I don’t want to think about why you’re spending so much time brushing your teeth!” A final
shout from somewhere — possibly the kitchen — that has Rey rolling her eyes.

Rose has been at her all morning, even after spending half of last night reaming her out for
”betraying her fellow women.” And Rey is seriously regretting telling her about it in the first
place, but once this thing hits the internet, it’s not like there will be a way to hide it.

And Rose is not someone you keep things from if you don’t feel like getting shish-kabob’d by a
knitting needle.

They’ve been roommates for over three years. Rose is one of those people who somehow manages
to perfectly balance two extremes. One wouldn’t expect an affinity for yoga and a diehard passion
for metalcore to coexist in the same human being, but alas here she is.

Rey stupidly thought Rose might see this gig as a kind of one-up on the patriarchy. Thought she
might congratulate her for taking charge of her sexuality. Owning it. Because Rose grew up
spending her summers burning to a crisp at Warped Tour, too — just like Rey did. She’s by no
means soft and snuggly. She has two fucking full-sleeves, for Christ’s sake, and one of them is of a
guy getting decapitated by a rose stem.

Rose lives for hardcore. She’s the one who always drags Rey into the pit at shows.

And yet there’s something about this job that crosses the line. Go figure.

“It’s just a music video,” Rey mutters later at the breakfast table, mouth full of Fruity Pebbles.

But Rose looks up from the frying pan she’s fussing over and gives her a full-on mom glare. “You
are being paid to strip down to almost nothing for a song called ‘Get On Your Knees.’”

“Paid well,” she corrects, even as her face flushes.

“Rey, that’s not the point.”

She gets up and dumps her bowl in the sink, bumping her hip against Rose’s so she’ll drop the
sassy stance. “It is the point. You know I need the money.”

And she can hear Rose inhale and open her mouth to say something else, but it’s enough of a
hesitation that she takes her chance to get the hell out of there. Before Rose can talk her out of it.

Before she loses her nerve.

Rey is not a model. Not by a long shot.

Even now, halfway to the shoot in the Lyft, she still can’t actually believe she got picked. Her
audition wasn’t even much of one — just a messy five minutes of getting corralled into a tiny,
blue-walled room in front of a table and a camera to turn in a bunch of circles for an unenthused
casting director. She has no portfolio. No headshots. No resume. She is certifiably green. Add to
that, she’d done the whole thing on a whim.

But the casting call was open.

“Seeking attractive, adult female (18-24) for music video.”

Yeah. It had been that vague. Just a strip of unimportant looking text in the Sunday want-ads.

Rey figured it would be good practice, if anything. A way to throw herself back into applying to
each and every job she came across, the way she did before she got the last one bartending at the
Mos Eisley Cantina. The one she just lost.

It was one of those bullshit, fine-print sorts of things — and honestly, their loss. But Rey refuses to
be late on rent. She can’t do that to Rose.

She wouldn’t have gone for this one, though, if it hadn’t been for the super loose requirements. She
doesn’t exactly place herself on the ’attractive’ side of the T-chart. More like right on the line.
Average. But, again — it was an easy chance to take, and if she failed who gave a shit?

Never in a million years did she expect to get a call from a guy named Snoke the next day saying
she booked it. And to think, that’s not even the most insane part.

Because, when an ad says ‘music video,’ the odds are that 95% of the time it’s some overzealous
college weeknight pub band thinking they’ve got the next greatest hit, armed with a shitty
camcorder and a friend who does videography on the side. The shady ‘we can pay you a dollar an
hour,’ kind of stuff.

Rey had been more than ready for that. More than ready to hear this Snoke guy spout out some
ridiculous, unpronounceable band name — the type that could either be a condiment or a medical
condition. That’s the type of band that would think Rey was the stand-out of an audition pool,
right?

Wrong.
And Snoke said it way too casually. A throwaway. Band manager of the Knights of Ren.

She probably let the line sit silent — nothing but metallic phone-breathing — for at least thirty
seconds, and she spent at least fifteen of those seconds trying to convince herself it was a prank
call. Now she counts her lucky fucking stars she had the good sense to wedge her phone between
her ear and shoulder so she could type out a scrambled Google search on Rose’s laptop.

And sure enough, in big official font with a big professional picture of an old guy next to it, the top
search result for ‘manager knights of ren’ churned out the name Thaddeus Snoke.

Which made no sense at all.

Because the Knights of Ren aren’t some trashy garage metal band. Maybe they started out that
way, yeah, but it’s not like she didn’t age through her late teens watching them shoot from opening
acts at Warped Tour Day 3’s to sold out arena shows. Madison Square Garden. Four days in a row.
The Dreadnought Tour.

It’s one of the few anti-mainstream bands most people still know the name of — one of the lucky
few that knew how (or were shown how by deep-pocketed marketing execs) to progress past pure
rebellious noise.

Take it or leave it, the Knights of Ren are a big deal.

And if things didn’t make sense then, sense got completely blown out the window the more Snoke
talked, gravelly voice sort of going in one ear and out the other as Rey stared slack-jawed at her
fridge. The best her frazzled brain could do was break down all the reasons it didn’t make sense
into a semi-cohesive list.

A. No top-tier band would hire a nobody to star in the most-anticipated music video of their career.

B. Metalcore is supposed to be cool and intimidating.

C. Rey is not cool and intimidating.

D. This particular music video is supposed to be sexy.

E. Rey is not sexy.

F. Rey is NOT sexy.

She’s had one or two ex-boyfriends tell her the opposite, in fact. Which probably means she should
be concerned about her confidence level going into this.

But the need for money and the rare tease of being chosen for something — actually wanted —
have pretty much outweighed everything. So what if Rey thinks she’s about as seductive as a lug
wrench? Her opinion isn’t the one that matters.

And considering she had to electronically sign a contract that stated she was comfortable (and
legally eligible) to have parts of her naked body filmed, someone out there thinks she’s got
something.

So fuck it. Rey is going to give the best performance she can give, and she’s going to picture
herself in the body of Angelina Jolie while she does it.

Digging into her pocket, she finds her phone and plugs in her earbuds. Despite Rose’s best efforts,
she’s made a point of waiting until now to listen to the song. Didn’t want to psych herself out and
lose critical sleep the night before.

And anyhow, she’s a big girl. She has a good idea of what to expect. The song’s called ’Get On
Your Knees’ — it’s not like she was hoping for a romantic ballad. But okay. Okay. The lyrics make
her stomach drop a little. Make her heart race.

The song already has 600,000 saves on Spotify, and it was just released two days ago; Rey tries not
to convert that to potential video views in her head. The album artwork for the single is along the
lines of what she’d been anticipating. An extreme close-up of the bottom half of a woman’s face,
her mouth open and her tongue out, with the thick, muscular hand of a guy draped over it, parting
her lips for her.

Rey wonders why they didn’t just use that girl for the video. She’s already sure she’s got the better
jawline — the prettier tongue, if that’s even a thing. Guys have probably made it a thing, right?
Either way, it’s a bad road for her thoughts to go down. She pauses the song halfway through the
first chorus, shredding guitars and slamming beats grinding to a halt.

The Lyft app says she’s only a block away.

Rey figures that’s enough time to Google the band for the first time, too — and that? Now, that’s a
mistake.

Rey doesn’t expect a woman to be the first face she sees.

The shoot location is a warehouse, sort of run down — probably intentionally so. The entrance is
up a rickety fire escape, and halfway to it she’s wondering if she’s about to be murdered.

But after one and a half knocks on rusty steel, the door creaks open to reveal the tallest woman
Rey’s ever seen. She’s got an austere sort of face beneath her white-blond pixie cut, but she can’t
be older than 35, dressed in a formfitting platinum pantsuit that’s somewhat comforting in its
extravagance.

“Rey Kanata?” she snaps, and Rey feels her shoulders involuntarily jerk to attention.

“...Yes?” It shouldn’t be a question.

“Good. Another thirty seconds and you’d be late.” The woman checks a watch that looks
expensive, then steps aside swiftly. The sharp scent of her perfume gusts up with the movement,
and Rey doesn’t dare hesitate.

Once inside, her eyes have to adjust to the dim lighting. She jumps a little when the door slams
behind her.

“I’m Gwen Phasma,” says the woman matter-of-factly as she steps past Rey and starts to lead her
down a partitioned off set of stairs. “I manage the band and I’ll be running the show tod—”

Rey speaks without meaning to, following blindly. “I thought the manager’s name was Snoke.”

The Phasma woman doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes, that’s what he thinks and that’s what the world
thinks. But let’s face it, if he did these boys would be another garden variety pop line-up and
they’d have already done a swan dive off the charts.” She glances back over her broad, shiny
shoulder, sizing Rey up as they reach the ground floor. “I keep their image on the edge. Edgy sells.
Edgy keeps things interesting.”

Five more feet and Rey’s being led into a small, temporary room made out of draped sheets.

“This will be your green room between takes.” Phasma starts to gesture about with long arms.
“Water’s there. Restroom through there. We’re hoping for a clean shoot, 8 to 6, but there will be a
30 minute lunch break squeezed in at some point. How do you feel about blood?”

Rey jerks to a halt in the circle she’d been turning, eyes flashing wide. “...Excuse me?”

“Blood,” Phasma repeats casually, and when Rey’s shocked gaze finds her again she’s got a
clipboard in hand. “Are you squeamish?”

“I don’t understa—“

Phasma scoffs and rolls her eyes, like any two-year-old should understand what she’s getting at.
“We’re using fake blood for the shoot. Pretty legitimate looking stuff. I need to make sure you
don’t pass out on my set.”

“Oh.” Right. Of course. “No, I should be fine.”

“Should?”

“Will,” she corrects, nodding. “I’ll be fine.”

“Good. Any allergies? Particularly to corn syrup, cherries or standard massage oils? It’s a
possibility some of the fake blood will get in your mouth.”

Rey tries valiantly not to wince. “No, just penicillin.”

“None of that here.” Phasma scribbles loudly on the form, crossing off and circling things. She
seems far too efficient — too high end to work in the post-hardcore scene. “I have a copy of your
contract here, but legally I have to ask again: do you consent to being filmed topless?”

Rey clears her throat, sort of instinctively crossing her arms over her chest. The contract hadn’t
gone into the specifics, but honestly she expected worse. “Just topless?”

Phasma’s eyes flit up to her then, and maybe Rey’s imagining it but she thinks she sees their
sharpness soften just the slightest bit. “Just tits, kid. I wouldn’t stand for anything else. YouTube’s
pissed off enough as it is.”

Slowly, Rey makes herself drop her arms. At first she was definitely intimidated, but she’s
realizing there’s something comforting about having a no-bullshit person on the set. Someone
who’s all business, all professional.

And yeah, maybe it’s nice to know there will be another woman present for the impending
debauchery.

“Yeah,” she rasps, clearing her throat again. “I consent.”

“Good.” Phasma holds out a hand, eyes still on the form. “Photo I.D.” And when Rey hands it
over, she jolts her chin off to the side. “Go check in with Connix over there, she’s doing HMU and
wardrobe — if you can call it that.”

Rey hadn’t even noticed the other woman enter the makeshift tent. She has a softer, more youthful
face, framed by an interesting series of braids. She’s tiny — about three-quarters the size of Rey,
and her smile should be comforting too.

But Rey is too distracted by the scraps of fabric she’s got laid out in her arms. Has a sinking
suspicion that these are her wardrobe. Phasma’s quiet snort from behind just confirms it.

“Yeah, I know. Try not to panic.” The stylist shifts her arms, adjusting the fabric, a knowing grin
spreading across her face. “I’ve got you, babe. I can get pretty clever when they ask to see a lot of
skin.” She starts to lay out the pieces on the table next to her. “You’re not gonna feel like your ass
is hanging out. Promise.” And it’s her little wink that finally gets Rey to crack a smile.

“Thank you.” Is that a stupid thing to thank someone for?

The stylist offers her hand. “Kaydel.”

“Rey.”

“Cute,” tisks Phasma. “But let’s get things moving, shall we? I don’t want a repeat of the Star
Destroyer shoot, and if we aren’t halfway done by lunch, Cardo will start using his shirt as a
sweatband again and Trudgen won’t be able to stand up.”

Okay, her ass is not hanging out, per se — but it’s definitely on the premises, and there is way
more air on her skin than she’s used to feeling.

Rey breathes in as quietly as she can through her mouth as she stares at herself in the mirror —
watches Kaydel secure a few final pins.

She’s suddenly inordinately concerned about freckles, of all things. She’s always had a lot of them,
and while it’s never necessarily been a problem, she’s never been quite as aware of it as she is
now.

Her wardrobe consists of two separate strips of beige muslin, only a hair lighter than her skin, that
are wrapped around like gauze bandages. Her breasts are bound in a complicated ‘X’ shape that
travels up over her shoulders, and Kaydel has somehow managed to both flatten and accentuate
them at the same time. Her ribs and navel have been left bare (freckles abundant) and the second
piece starts a little lower than Rey had been hoping for. It’s really just bandages in the form of
booty shorts, the unforgiving fabric plastered to her hipbones like tape.

There’s a leather strap dangling from her waist like a sorry excuse for a belt, and Kaydel has
wrapped more of that muslin up from her wrists to mid-bicep.

“Mummified-chic,” Rey mumbles under her breath by accident, and Kaydel laughs.

“You look hot, babe.”

She’s not sure she’d go that far. The freckles are one thing — but she’s also got bird bones packed
under the sort of manual-labor muscle she didn’t think most guys found attractive.

If anything’s her saving grace, it’s Kaydel’s makeup. She’s rimmed Rey’s eyes in a thicker black
than she’d ever dare to attempt on her own, dusting the inner corners with gold, and whatever lip
gloss she used makes Rey’s lips look bee-stung. Plumper than she thought possible.

Which is for the best, she thinks, if the focus is going to be on her mouth.
“They’re doing test shots, first,” Kaydel says. “So no body oil or blood yet. But once that starts,
you let me know if you feel any slippage.”

Rey makes a conscious effort not to bite her lip and smear the gloss. “Isn’t that sort of the point?”

“Not before it’s time.” Phasma is back in the tent. Rey can see her excessively long legs in the
corner of the mirror. “Let’s go. Introductions are going to be quick.”

Rey is used to strangers. To getting to know new people.

This is, uh…different.

Because she is practically naked, standing in a warehouse that’s been dressed to look like
something between a seedy motel and a Roman bathhouse, and this is the band she used to see
posters of pinned up in the bedrooms of foster siblings.

They’re both everything and nothing she expects.

Cardo and Vicrul are introduced to her first, at the refreshment table. Cardo seems too focused on
miniature frosted donuts to really notice or care, bald tattooed head glistening in the studio lights
they’ve set up in the warehouse. But Vicrul doesn’t try to hide the way his gaze slides languidly up
and down Rey’s body as he sucks his lip ring into his mouth. It makes the hair stand up on the
back of her neck.

Phasma seems to sense it, because she herds her swiftly over towards a stack of beat up amplifiers
where the one named Ushar (she’s pretty sure these are stage names) is busy fixing a string on his
paint-splattered bass. And Phasma must trust him more than the others, because she strides off to
deal with an audio feedback problem and leaves Rey to deal with the rest of the introductions on
her own.

Ushar has the good grace not to stare at her like a car accident — gives her a gruff nod, pushing
stringy blue hair behind one gauged ear. But then the one she recognizes as Trudgen — the
drummer — staggers up behind him, beer sloshing out of a solo cup, mohawk looking lethal, and
says, “This Rental-Tits?”

Rey’s spine stiffens, and she hates that she instinctively crosses her arms over her chest again.
Feels like she has to make up for it by squaring her chin, looking him dead in the bloodshot eyes,
and saying, “You got it,” with a sugar-sweet smile.

Trudgen blinks at her vacantly for half a second before a crumpled beer can hits him in the back of
the head.

“Good on you, dove. Should’ve nailed him in the fucking balls.”

Rey thinks this guy is the lead guitarist. He’s got a Northern England accent, and as the only blond
he sticks out. He introduces himself as “Ap’lek,” (now she’s positive these are stage names),
surveying her casually as he asks, “What part are you from, then?”

It doesn’t take her long to catch his meaning.

“London.”

“Woof.” Ap’lek mocks taking a step back. His giddy, boyish smile is disarming though, and so far
Rey can easily say he’s the only one she might like. Which — one out of five is far from the best
ratio. But there should be two—

“Don’t expect to properly meet Kuruk. Fucker’s always either writing or asleep. Sometimes both.
And he is dead scared of women.”

“Fuck off!” calls a gruff voice from somewhere behind a wall.

“See?” Ap’lek snickers. “The mere mention of ‘em and—“

“—said fuck off!”

“Mention of who?” asks a new voice, so low and close behind Rey’s shoulder she can’t help but
jump.

“Women,” says Ap’lek as Rey turns around, hardly aware she’s still sort of clutching her chest.
She stops being aware of a lot of things at that point.

Because if six out of seven are accounted for, then that only leaves Kylo.

Kylo, the frontman. Lead singer. Band symbol. The one who bathed in real, human blood once on
stage. The one Rose said just got off parole.

The one in the middle of all the posters.

Rey has seen those posters. She's Googled them. But now she’s not so sure she ever really looked.

And now it’s him looking at her. All six-foot-something-ridiculous inches of him, towering over
her like a dark medieval turret.

The tattoo sleeves, the pierced brow, the shaggy black hair and the torn, bleach-stained t-shirt —
those all fit. They’re what she expected.

But soft brown eyes in the middle of it all? Like gentle earth surrounded by barbed wire? No, she
was not expecting that. Not that, and not the cutting edge of his jaw.

A classically handsome face — the type they used to carve statues of — on what’s supposed to be
a death trap.

Rey firmly believes only one thing can be done in the presence of a face like that, and she’s doing
it. She’s not even ashamed of doing it.

She’s just staring.

For what it’s worth, he is too. Staring her up and down — but in an entirely different way than the
one called Vicrul had. It’s inquisitive. Curious. And her skin suddenly feels tight and hot and she’s
wishing more than anything Kaydel had given her some sort of robe. And he smells a little bit like
cedar and little like gasoline, and he has no business looking at her that way, and he —

He doesn’t introduce himself. Just blinks languidly with feathery black lashes and says, “I didn’t
think you’d look so innocent.”

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