kylowritten

[kylowritten]

If the Slipper Fits

Pairings: Kylo Ren x ForceSensitive!Reader

Summary: Nobody wants to be the woman whose foot fits that slipper.

Warnings: fluff, kissing, mentions of sex, nudity, mentions of self harm

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: Wooo😅 I'm so sorry for how long it took for me to get this out. But here it is!! I struggled with writers block for awhile but recently remembered the ultimate cure: reading. I forgot how much a good book can really inspire me. Without further ado...

Part Fourteen

You’re not sure what to expect upon arriving in the Third District. You didn’t exactly leave on great terms with Kylo and, not to mention, you’re completely unaware of what’s happened while you were gone. More than likely you were walking into a hostile situation if anything like Parric in the Sixth District occurred; however, the servant who fetches you is amicable enough, and leads you into a room to get settled.

You half expect Kylo to be there, and so you prepare what to say. Undoubtedly he’ll know how it went. And you’re not sure if you’re disappointed or relieved when the room is notably absent of any sign of your husband.

There’s a knock at the door.

Panic jolts through you. You remember, vaguely, that if it was Kylo, you would’ve felt him approach through your Force bond.

Instead, your company is a regal-looking woman wearing a dress made of deep maroon. She smiles softly, if not somewhat abashed, as if she’s aware that she’s spooked you.

“Hello. I apologize, I’ve been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

“Oh,” you say, laughing nervously. “No need to apologize.”

You don’t want to admit to her, or yourself, that you’re on edge about seeing Kylo.

She offers her hand and you shake it. “My name is Emelia, I’m the lady of the house.”

“Thank you for having us. From what I’ve seen of it, your district is lovely.”

Emelia’s lips twitch. “You’re very kind.”

You twist your head, pinning her with a look of incredulity. “You don’t believe me.”

“I don’t mean to offend,” Emelia quickly says.

She gestures past you. A rounded set of double doors open up to a small, adjoining balcony. Rain falls in sheets across the windows, and you remember the icy prick of it on your skin as you ran after the servant from your ship into the warmth of the grand estate.

Emelia adds, “We aren’t exactly known for our weather.”

“I like the rain,” you truthfully tell her. “I think it’s relaxing.”

“I agree, although I may be biased. We have a wonderful market, though, so I hope the clouds clear long enough for you to visit.”

“I would love that.” You smile.

Emelia clears her throat. “I’m afraid that I didn’t come here to discuss the splendor of our district. I-I have an ulterior motive.” A flash of gold catches your eye, and you realize it comes from the plethora of rings on Emelia’s hands as she wrings them. “May I speak freely, Your Highness?”

Your Highness. You would never get used to that.

“Of course,” you reassure her.

“My wife and I, we have two daughters.” Emelia pauses as if contemplating how to continue. “By the end of the year, they would’ve become the acceptable age to be fitted for the slipper. I…I feared for them terribly. I know that you didn't necessarily have a choice, but I am grateful for you for marrying the king and sparing my daughters of a similar fate. For all of the women in the kingdom. No more will have to die.”

You want to inform her no one actually died, but feel it would defeat the kindness of her statement. Someone else might’ve mistaken her words for callousness, but you understand what she meant — you were a savior, one way or another.

“It needed to end,” you say softly. “If I had to be the one to do it, then so be it.”

Little did she know how truthful you were. It truly was up to you to end the dark reign of the royal family over the kingdom, and of Palpatine’s unrelenting hold on Kylo.

“There you are.”

Kylo’s voice evokes both you and Emelia to turn towards the doorway.

A part of you softens at the sight of him.

Sans helmet and armor, Kylo stands in a simple pair of dark pants and a black sweater. Dressed like this, he looks perfectly aristocratical, reminding you glaringly of his royal upbringing; he hardly embodies the feral, wild man that you know, the one you watched kill a man for disrespecting you.

The complexity of him, the stark juxtaposition of his character, strangely intrigues you.

“Kylo,” you say, more breathless than you meant.

Emelia sheepishly smiles. “I’m sure that you wish to reunite with your wife.”

Kylo addresses her with his intense, unwavering stare but says nothing. After a pregnant pause, Emelia scurries past you and Kylo, making sure to give the latter a significant distance, which isn’t an easy feat considering that he fills the entire doorway. Before she can disappear around the corner, you shout, “Thank you,” then, quieter, knowing you have her attention, “Emelia.”

Emelia glances at you. She nods, then leaves.

With her gone, Kylo’s stare slides to you. “I trust that your trip was pleasant.”

“It was.”

He shifts, leaning hip and elbow against the frame of the door. “What did Lady Emelia want?”

Kylo is obviously shooting for nonchalance, but falls somewhere short of overbearing. It brings the slightest hint of a smile to your mouth. You tell him, “Just to say hello.”

“And everything is well?”

“Everything is well.” You swallow. You’ve forgotten to be afraid of this interaction. The reminder ratchets your nerves. “How are you?”

The door closes behind Kylo. He devours the space between you in two strides, effectively crowding you against the bed. The backs of your knees collide into the bed frame but you don’t concede to sitting, instead persisting on standing so that you’re wedged between his legs.

He towers over you, the proximity of him — his general being — overwhelms you.

“I couldn’t stop myself from thinking of you,” he says thickly, as if inflicted with some terrible curse. He all but spits it out. “I hated it.”

“Sorry,” you mutter to him.

Kylo fiercely says, “Don’t do that again. From now on you go where I tell you.”

“I’ll go where I please,” you fire back, blistering.

“You torment me,” he eventually replies. His tone is pained, all-suffering, the words sharp, cutting across your skin like a blade. His fingers, though, are appalling gentle as he snags a lock of hair, caught in the corner of your lips, and tucks it behind your ear. His brows furrow. “Please. Make it stop.”

You smile wryly. “I’m not sure I know how.”

An expression passes over his handsome features, the semblance of a smile. The very first of its kind.

“Join me, tomorrow.”

You frown. “What?”

“We’re going somewhere.”

“Where?”

“I’ll worry about that.”

You narrow your eyes, playfully suspicious. “What’s going on? Shouldn’t we be…” you wave your hand vaguely, “I don’t know…touring?”

“I think we’ve earned a break.” One of his brows, a thick, dark stroke against his pale skin, raises almost minutely. “Don’t you agree?”

“I suppose you.” The edges of your mouth curl mischievously. “You really missed me.”

He sniffs, “I didn’t miss you. I just think it would be of good conscience to spare our hosts from your insufferable tendencies.”

It takes a moment for you to realize that he’s kidding, that it’s just a sample of his dry humor. You get such seldom glimpses of it. In a singsong voice, you say, “You missed me.”

“How dare you accuse me of such a heinous act.”

You smirk, triumphant. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

A pleasurable ache between your thighs greets you as you wake, blinking sleep from your eyes. You turn, twisted in the sheets; you gave up a long time ago trying to catch Kylo still in bed, although the remnants of him are still there — his lingering warmth, his scent, and the memories of the former night heat your cheeks.

You languish, for a moment, in the comfort of an unhurried morning. Then, you lift your head and sweep your bleary gaze across the room, starting from the door to the balcony — there. Leaning casually, well, as casually as someone who perpetually upholds an essence of power, Kylo stands on the balcony with his back to you.

You swing your legs off the bed and hurry to grab your robe and belt it around your waist.

You’re not sure what overcomes you — perhaps the subtle domesticity of it all — but you pad on bare feet across the room and encircle your arms around him, your cheek nuzzling up against the muscular plane of his back.

“Good morning,” you hum.

His grunted response rumbles through his chest. “I would ask if you slept well,” he says, voice deliciously husky from sleep, “but I already know the answer.”

He can’t see you, but you roll your eyes. “So humble.”

Kylo grunts again. From behind him, you peek to see what he’s looking at. Beyond the balcony, rolling green plains are backdropped by clear skies, and you’re given view of the district that the rain obscured the day before. Awe yawns in you.

“What are the plans today?” You ask. For the first time since you can remember, you feel a worm of excitement working it’s way into your chest.

Kylo twists so that his back is against the railing of the balcony, but still in your arms. “Go get dressed,” he orders.

“You’re really not going to tell me anything?”

“No. Go.”

Kylo delights you as he slaps your ass on your way back into the room, and you cry out in protest. The sound of his chuckle follows you.

“Kylo, where are we?” Blindly, you reach out with your hands.

"We're almost there. Stop fussing."

You scowl. You feel as if your fussing is perfectly reasonable, considering that he's kept you out of the loop all afternoon. You flew to a remote location and then, upon climbing off the ship, he insisted that this be a surprise. So, you've walked for at least the last half mile with Kylo's large hands covering your eyes, stumbling awkwardly in front of him.

"Don't make that face."

"What? What face? You can't even see my face."

"The one where you furrow your brow and scrunch up your nose."

Irritatingly, he's right. You relax your features, forgetting that with his hands over your eyes he can tell the different in your expression. You smile sheepishly as he laughs.

"Are we almost there?" You complain.

"I'm going to walk you in circles if you ask one more time. I have nowhere to be today, I can delay this as long as necessary."

Finally, he stops in his tracks. You're grateful, because your feet have started to ache - it's been an embarrassingly long time since you've walked so far. "Keep your eyes shut," he instructs. The warmth of his proximity disappears, boots crunching the ground as he takes several steps away. "Now open."

Kylo steals your vision first. Unsurprisingly.

You take in your fill of him before your gaze slowly drifts. Behind him, a small lake laps at the sandy shore where he now stands barefoot, the hem of his pants rolled up; it's strangely attractive, and you shove down your sudden desire. The area surrounding the lake is green, grassy, interspersed with patches of flowers and trees.

You breathe out, "Wow. It's beautiful."

"My mother used to take me here," Kylo says, softly, distant — lost in memories that you could only guess about. "If I was well behaved during her diplomatic meetings, we would go swimming."

For half of a moment, you wonder whether or not you should divulge how you met Leia, but you think better of it. "Thank you for bringing me here." He shifts, clearly uncomfortable with the level of vulnerability, so you hurry to add, "I'm relieved it wasn't just to get me out of my clothes."

"Would it have worked?"

You give in to a face-splitting smile. In a swift movement, you pull off your shirt and step out of your shoes. Kylo lets out a soft sound of amusement as you run past him, wriggling out of your pants as you splash into the lake water. Icy cold envelopes you but gradually subsides; the sun warms your face as you float in the water on your back.

"Was that a yes?"

Kylo peels off his clothes and wades into the water, looking everything like some fictional hero. Or villain, perhaps, you think. Either way, he's unafraid of his nudity, and even though you've seen him countless times before, it still makes you sheepish. After all, you're still wearing your bra and panties, leaving you painfully overdressed.

You watch him slip under then re-emerge, slicking his wet hair back. His dark eyes are dancing with an emotion you can't identify.

"Of course it was a yes," you tell him with a laugh. "As you already know, I don't necessarily need a reason to get undressed for you."

"Mm, you're right," he says.

Treading water, he grabs you by the waist and pulls you toward him. His hands are like fire on your skin, scorching a path as they roam from your waist to your thighs, gripping tightly as to hoist your legs around his hips. You squeal in delight and encircle your arms around his neck.

Kylo moves to shallower waters. Droplets of water roll off his broad shoulders. You're fascinated with his lashes — wet, spiky, unfairly long — so you're unprepared for when he leans in and seals a kiss on your mouth. Unlike previous kisses, this one is unhurried, relaxed, secure in a way they haven't been before.

The afternoon passes much quicker than you would've liked, but you see a new side of Kylo that makes it worth it. He's still very much the same, blunt and serious, but the usual tension is missing. He's not a royal figure but a man — in fact, you're almost certain that you catch a glimpse of the child he had been when he insists on showing you how he can swim all of the way to the bottom of the lake.

You're pleasantly tired, burnt, and your fingers have wrinkled far past normalcy when you announce, "I wish it could always be like this."

Kylo lays on the shore, reclined back on his hands and drying off. Mercifully, he's put on pants, or else you wouldn't have been able to hold a conversation with him. His eyes are closed, his breathing steady and calm. "How so?"

"Both of us. Without any expectations," you say. "We aren't fighting. We're not...rulers. We're just people."

As imperceptibly and quick as the breeze rolling over you, Kylo stiffens. "But that's not us."

"It's true in this moment," you protest.

"But that's all this is." Kylo sits up. Waves a hand. "A moment."

You turn to him. By this point, you're half submerged, on your way to getting out of the water when he stops you in your tracks. "Can't you just enjoy the sentiment?"

"No. It's not realistic."

"None of this is realistic," you say, on the verge of hysteria.

It's vague, a blotch on your subconscious, but you suddenly feel the same as when a plate slips out of your hands, the tension before it smashes to the ground into hundreds of pieces.

"I wasn't —"

"Nevermind," you quickly say. You don't want to hear his gruff excuse, the lack of understanding and empathy. "Forget I said anything."

Kylo is alert, more than he was before. His dark eyes watch you closely. "I upset you."

"Yes, Kylo, you did." You huff, mostly out of frustration than disappointment. "But it's okay. I wasn't being realistic. You're right. Tomorrow — in a few hours — we'll go back to barely tolerating each other and being respectable diplomats. This is just a moment, it doesn't mean anything."

You snatch up your clothes and put them on. By the time you're done, your cheeks are still wet with the tears you've failed to scrub away. Kylo stands a few feet from you, expression unreadable.

"That's not what I meant."

"No, it never is."

You just want to go home. But you have no home, no real one, so maybe you just want to go back to the palace. It's unfortunate that you still have two more districts to visit.

"Let me explain." Kylo's voice is a growl, deep in his chest. He grabs your wrist and spins you around so that you're only inches apart. "I've always thought very...linear. And I can't always express what I mean." He shakes his head then, perhaps irritated with himself. "I brought you here today for a reason. I wanted you to see this."

You implore him with your eyes. "But will it mean anything? After this?"

His gaze flickers to your lips. "It will. To me." He swallows, throat bobbing. "I said that because we can't change who we are. But we can still appreciate being together, even when things are...difficult."

"I thought I was insufferable," you say. Secretly, you're touched.

His lips twitch. "You are."

This admission of his thoughts, his feelings, means more to you than any grand romantic gesture. You're afraid, though, that if you push anymore he might throw himself into the lake and drown himself. So you declare that you're hungry, and that you know the perfect place; Kylo is hesitant, but nonetheless accepts.

You have to admit that you have no clue where you're going, but Kylo knows exactly where to go when you mention the market that Emelia talked about the day before. In your head you're not sure what to think — you only had your own district to compare it to. But you're more than pleasantly surprised to find that the Third District market sprawls several miles, cutting through the plains like a colorful serpent. Chatter greets you first, then the savory smell of meats and other things being roasted, sweetened by a stall selling small, sugary cakes.

Kylo insist that you try one. The vendor seems more than apprehensive about selling to the King, but is remarkably thrilled when you take a bite and profess how delicious it is.

The two of you gradually make your way through the plethora of stalls, stopping and chatting with those who look close enough to recognize you (well, mostly you, Kylo stands sullenly behind you); sampling foods and browsing wares — jewelry, scarves, pieces of wood carved into impossible shapes. You're aware that Kylo will buy you whatever you want, so you overly show your admiration for as many vendors as you can. If Kylo catches onto this, he doesn't say, just silently pays the vendor without complaint.

You excitedly dart away from him to investigate a stall boasting beautiful bottles of perfume. Kylo gets lost in the throng of onlookers. You pick up one of the bottles and lift it to your nose, just as a flash of color catches your eye.

Was that...? Curious, you mutter something to the perfume vendor then shuffle a few steps. Your gaze combs the crowd. There — again! Your brows furrow and you start your pursuit. You want to shout but you're afraid that Kylo might hear you. A quick glance over your shoulder tells you that he's still straggling behind, so you forge ahead, elbowing and doing your best to keep up.

The clothed figure slips into an alleyway. You follow after. "Luke!" you shout. "Luke?"

"Did he follow you?" Luke twists toward you, blue eyes searching past you. This is the first time you're seeing him in person, and you find yourself just as awestruck as meeting him through the Force.

"Um, no. No, I don't think so," you say.

Luke nods, abrupt. "We don't have much time. But we needed to meet again."

"Couldn't we have just met like before?"

"No. This requires in-person training," Luke tells you, mouth curling with amusement. He resembles his sister, painfully so, reminding you that he's also related to Kylo, to Ben. Dry humor evidently runs in the family.

"Okay," you say, unsure of what else to.

"I'm going to lower my defenses," Luke says. "And let you try to penetrate my mind. We spoke about the abstract of defeating the darkness, but this is the physical. I have a memory that I want you to try to reach."

"How will I know what it is?"

Luke smiles wryly. "Trust me."

He sweeps a hand, concealing the alley in a temporary bubble. No one from outside can see in, or enter.

"Tell me what you learned last time."

You repeat his lesson, the one from the gardens in the Sixth District. It pains you to recall the memory of seeing you father, even if it was fake, and how it felt to obliterate him. You explain how you'll have to find the emotional bond with Kylo to access his subconscious again.

"Have you tried?" Luke asks.

Sheepishly, you shake your head.

If he's disappointed, Luke masks it. "Tonight. You must try tonight. You don't have much longer."

"I know," you say. "I know." Desperate to redeem yourself in his eyes, you add, "I spoke with my district. They're on board with helping us."

Luke nods. "Good. That's a start." He positions himself closer. "Put your fingers on my temples. Here."

You obey.

"Hopefully this will help your endeavor," he says. "Now, concentrate. Remember last time."

You do. You really do. But nothing happens — other than you standing there with your hands on Luke's temple. You realize that he closed his eyes when they open unexpectedly.

"Are you trying?" The same blunt honesty as the rest of his family, too.

"Yes," you stress. "I'm trying."

"Try harder," he demands, a phrase that's never made any sense to you.

You relent. This time, you close your eyes and focus. You try to imagine yourself opening up Luke's mind, like prying open a shell and examining what's inside. Clearly, he's waiting for this, because it almost feels too easy to do so — you slip into it as easy as slipping into a shoe.

Instantly you're transported not into his subconscious, his safe place, but rather directly into a memory. In the memory, you're an outsider. Luke is there, younger, how he must've been when he saved the kingdom along with Leia; he's surrounded by a group of teenagers, children, really. Your eyes settle on one.

Ben. Not yet Kylo, although you decide he can't be far from the man you know.

He's distinctly on the cusp of manhood. Eighteen or nineteen, a man, but his body still lingering in his adolescence. There's an openness to his face. You're not sure if it's your imagination or not, but you're almost certain that you can see a darkness beneath the earnest expression, like shade encroaching on the sunshine.

"Good work today," Luke tells his students. This must be what Leia meant when she said that he had once been Kylo's teacher. "You deserve the rest of the day off."

The children rise to their feet, already starting to cluster into pairs as they retreat. You think that Kylo is slower to jump up, nobody coming to talk to him. His shoulders (broad even then) tense as Luke calls, "Ben. One moment, please."

With a healthy dose of teenage reluctance, Kylo — Ben? you weren't sure — approaches his uncle. There's a trace of wariness on his face.

"We need to talk about what happened," Luke says. His tone is sterner than before, when he addressed all of the students together.

Ben's eyes flash. "What is there to talk about?"

"What you did was irresponsible and dangerous," Luke snaps. His jaw clenches. It's obvious from just this small interaction that he has less patience for his nephew then the others. Perhaps a higher expectation, you think, but nonetheless unwarranted. Clearly Kylo wants his respect.

"I couldn't let him beat me," Kylo says.

"A humble loser is just as important, if not more, than a proud winner," Luke tells him.

A storm crosses Kylo's face. "I didn't do anything wrong."

"Dark magic is forbidden to be used here," Luke says. "You know that. Others saw what you did, too. They already think I'm giving you special treatment and now —"

Kylo interrupts him with an absurdly uproarious laugh. "Ha!" He says. There's a darkness thrumming just beneath his skin. "You hate me."

Luke's anger buffers. He steps back as if physically assaulted. "Ben, I could never —"

"Don't lie," Kylo snarls. "I see the way you look at me. How everyone looks at me. You're all afraid that I'm going to be like King Vader. Maybe I just should be, since everyone already thinks it! He said that —"

It's Luke's turn to interrupt. "He who?"

Kylo's passionate anger shutters, his mouth snapping shut. "No one."

"Ben —"

The future king turns and storms off. Luke moves as if to go after him, but must think better of it. Instead he watches his nephew's retreating form until he disappears.

You're eager to devour more of this — to know more about Kylo's elusive past — but the memory ends abruptly and you're suddenly brought back to reality, stumbling backwards as you are.

Luke's face is grim. "I should've seen it coming."

"You couldn't have known," you say softly. Sure, watching with what you know now, the signs were all there. But Luke couldn't have seen it. Even with his tendency to be hard on Kylo, he most likely only saw his beloved nephew.

"That was the first day he used dark magic in front of me," Luke tells you. "It's not long after that Palpatine turns him completely." He pauses, then shakes his head. "Anyway, you did good. Great, even. I trust tonight will go well."

"Yeah," you say, distant.

Your immediate instinct is to bring this up with Kylo, but you know that you can't without giving away everything. Your chest tightens.

"I should go. He's looking for you," Luke says.

"When will I see you again?"

"Soon." He smiles, softly. "Soon."

Luke is gone before you know it, and with it the protective bubble. Kylo descends upon you almost immediately, grabbing you by the shoulders and inspecting you. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," you say, although you feel far from it.

However, you've recently excelled in experiencing mental whiplash and then having to act normal, so you hopefully collect yourself in a convincing manner. "I'm sorry, I must've gotten away from you."

"I...I lost connection with you, for a moment. Through our bond." He frowns. "I thought the worst."

"And what would that be?"

Kylo doesn't answer you. His gaze sweeps the alley — once, twice — before landing back on you. "Was someone here?"

"No," you tell him, suddenly nervous. "No one."

"Who were you talking to?"

You insist, "No one, Kylo, I swear. I just got lost."

He doesn't believe you.

But he doesn't press again, so you launch yourself back into the market. The same magic as before is missing, misplaced somewhere between meeting Luke and Kylo finding you; it seems fitting, your perfect day couldn't last forever, anyways. By the time you make it back to the estate, you're tired from putting up a facade after seeing Luke's memory, and knowing that you need to infiltrate Kylo's mind.

After a quick bath, you return to your shared bedroom to find Kylo sitting on the edge of the bed. His elbows are on his knees, and he's staring at his interlaced hands.

You approach him, sidestepping the ridiculous amount of things you bought at the market today, now stacked unceremoniously, and gently easing him back so that you can squeeze between his legs. But it's not close enough, so you crawl onto his lap, desperate suddenly to be as near to him as possible. He's still reticent, but his hands rest on your waist and you know that things are okay.

"Thank you," you tell him. "For today."

He nods. Blinks. "Of course."

You bring your lips to his, lightly. He kisses you back just as gently, but it's not long before he deepens it, coaxing open your mouth so that he can slip his tongue inside. He bites at your bottom lip until the copper taste of blood floods your mouth, and he assuages the pain with a swipe of his expert tongue.

His hips grind against yours, your center so readily available to him in your simple bathrobe.

It's easy to get lost in him — to throw yourself with wild abandon into this impossibly paradoxical man and forget everything but him. But, deep down, you have trouble enjoying this, his hands roaming your freshly washed skin, the trail of his kisses down your throat. You have trouble because you know that you initiated this kiss just to betray him.

His walls are down. He's not on the defense, not when you're like this. It pains you that at least in these moments he trusts you, and you're going to break it.

Through the bond, you can feel the intensity of his desire and his emotions. Just like you hoped, the heightened sensation is easy to connect with, and soon you find yourself transported back into the room from before, the one where Kylo had flogged himself. You flinch at the recollection.

Kylo isn't there, not mentally. He's with you, still kissing you.

You want to do this fast. You don't know what to expect, but you don't want to find out what happens if Kylo catches you.

Dark waves lap beneath the platform, nearly masking your footsteps. At the end of the platform is the flog. Pain spirals through you as you remember how it glistened with blood, his blood. Kylo's. It makes your stomach churn.

You stand a few feet from it, not wanting to get close. There's nothing obviously wrong here, at least not like when your father hugged you.

How were you supposed to do this?

Looking down at the flog, you make the decision to pick it up. It hums with a powerful energy. You turn it this way and that, and then, on a whim, toss it into the water.

A moment later it reappears at your feet.

"Too easy," you mutter.

You're convinced that you must destroy it. Kylo can not hurt himself with it again if it's gone, and it's the only thing that you can tangibly destroy. It has to be why it's pulsating dangerously — this is the dark magic manifesting in his subconscious. You concentrate on the weapon.

In your own subconscious, you attached to the dark magic until it quite literally imploded.

Gripping the flog in both hands, you focus all of your attention onto it. You imagine gathering the dark magic in your hands like a liquidy substance and expunging it. The flog, the dark magic, refuses to part — rallying back against your efforts. Your back molars grit together as you channel your magic into it, summoning every bit of your strength to battle against it.

A white light appears in your vision, power building, a scream beginning softly in your throat and then crescendoing; the flog shatters, pieces of it flying away in dusty remnants.

You collapse to the ground.

The residual shards of dark magic fade from your hands as if washing away ink.

Before your eyes, the room shifts.

It's no longer darkened, a singular space. There's still the pier-type platform, and still the water, but you can faintly make out the shapes of trees in the distance. Of land. The water lightens as you make your way back down the platform, and the success of your effort is nearly enough to make you want to start dancing.

However, your celebration is short lived as your sucked back into the present.

Your lips are swollen, breath raggedly escaping your chest. Kylo pulls away slightly. He's breathing heavy, too, but looking at you as if something catastrophic just occurred.

"What?" You ask, flattening your hands on his chest. "What's wrong?"

Kylo swallows. Fear flutters in his face before disappearing behind a mask of composure. "Nothing. Nothing. I just...I felt..." he trails off without further explanation.

Panic hitches in your throat — did he suspect something?

And, because you've evidently become some master seductress, using sex as a way to carry out your mission, you distract him with another kiss. This time you compact all of your emotions from the day into it: your delight from the lake and the market, your unwavering devotion to him, the sympathy you have for the memory that Luke showed you in the alley.

And he kisses you back just as fiercely.

It breaks your heart, frankly. But you know that in order to save him, you must betray him first.

- - -

@juniperwoodwell

@eternal-mikrokosmos

@judypahtootee

[kylowritten]

•prompt Exchange•

This is a collaboration with @kylowritten and I. We have decided to take one to two prompts a month and write fics for them. If you have any prompts comment down below.

•We do not discuss anything we'd do for our fics, any similarities are purely coincidence, which is really funny on our part.

Here's a list of characters we will write for:

•JW: Kylo ren, Adam Sackler, Phillip Altman, Flip Zimmerman, Matt the radar technician.

•KW: Kylo ren, Phillip Altman, Flip Zimmerman, Matt the radar technician, Commander Mills.

Prompt 1: "Why me?" "Why not you?"

• Phillip Altman X F! Reader

Jw: "Reunion pt.1"

Kw: "Why me?"

Prompt 2: "Don't treat me like a fool" "Then don't act like one."

• Kylo Ren X F! Reader

Coming soon

[kylowritten]

Why Me?

Pairings: Phillip Altman x F!Reader

Summary/Excerpt: "There's a litany of things you never thought you would do, one of them being returning to your home town to attend your high school reunion. Next on the list: falling in love with Phillip Altman."

Warnings: cussing, recreational drug use, talking about sex, making out, partial nudity

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: The title of this should actually be "Why is Adam Driver so Fucking Adorable"

This fic is a part of the prompt exchange with @juniperwoodwell

There's a litany of things you never thought you would do, one of them being returning to your home town to attend your high school reunion.

"It's not a setback," you tell your reflection. "It's just a...readjustment."

The woman in the mirror hardly looks convinced. But you promptly ignore her, grab your purse, and head out the door to meet your Uber. You aren't so desperate as to rectify the failing relationship with your mother by asking her for a place to stay — God, you couldn't even imagine the state of your childhood bedroom — so you rented the cheapest motel room that you could find.

The door swings shut behind you and the sound of your heels on the weed-clotted pavement joins in with the symphony of cicadas. Humidity presses against you like an unwelcome embrace from an elderly relative. Flippantly, you think that you should've packed a travel size hairspray, or deodorant into your purse, but your thoughts have been far away from appearances and personal hygiene.

You had one thing on your mind.

You clarify that the driver is here for you, and climb into the backseat. An old country song floats through the speakers. You're barely out of the Motel 8 parking lot before trepidation fills you — high school wasn't a grand experience (but was it for anyone?). As soon as you flung your cap on the air, you swore you would never come back. So why were you now?

The car abruptly halts at the side of a curb. You look up from your phone, which you've had nervously clasped on your lap, tapping away meaninglessly. The houses that surround you are distinctly suburban, nice, but not overly so, like most of the neighborhoods here.

"What's going on?" You ask. "I need to go to the high school."

The driver meets your gaze in the rearview mirror. "I'm picking up another rider."

"What? No, I didn't want Uber pool."

"Sorry, kid," the driver replies. "I'm the only Uber in town, and everyone is going to the same place."

Great, you think, sinking back in your seat. Not only were you going to have company, but it was going to be some chum from your class. Worst case scenarios run through your head: an ex boyfriend? The mean girl? But a surprising warmth forms in the pit of your stomach when the new rider flings open the door and crouches down to get inside. "Shit, fuck," the rider declares as they hit their head on the car.

Then, rather ungracefully, Philip Altman folds himself into the backseat besides you.

He doesn't realize who you are until he's finished rearranging his long legs and muscular form, barely succeeding in making himself comfortable in the backseat of the car. You're staring at him when he finally glances your way, and a blush dusts your cheek as his eyes light up. "Is that you? In the flesh?"

"I know, I'm surprised too," you say.

"What are you doing here?" He excitedly asks, then shakes his head. "Don't answer that, I know why. I guess I just didn't think that you were the reunion type."

You raise a brow. "And what type would I be?"

"You know," he said, as if you did. He jostles your side in a companionable fashion. When you don't register what he's implying, a look of shock takes over his handsome features. "What? The hot girl? You seriously don't know."

You fix him with an incredulous look. "C'mon, Phillip."

He holds up both of his hands defensively. "I'm being completely honest. I swear on my father's grave, bless his soul," he adds, then tilts his head. "Can you still swear on people's graves?"

"I heard about that," you say, softly. "I'm so sorry."

"Thank you." A look passes over his face, one that you can't quite read, disappearing quickly. "Fortunately, I have coping mechanisms. Adult ones."

He pulls something from his back pocket: a joint.

You glance at the driver, then Phillip. "I haven't..." you trail off, gesturing with your hands, "since high school."

Amusement flickers across his face. "We're going to our high school reunion, don't you want to reunite with something else?"

You order the driver to drop you off a few blocks away from the high school. Phillip grabs your hand and tugs you out of the car, throwing a "thank you" over his shoulder. You're both giggling as you find an alleyway to duck into, an uncontainable smile unfurling on your mouth as Phillip strikes up his lighter. 

He takes a long drag, then hands it to you. You fumble with it. "Do I even remember how to do this?" You ask, to no one in particular. 

Phillip grins at you, smoke streaming steadily from his mouth. "It's like riding a bike," he remarks. "Except the bike is made out of smoke and the road is made out of good times."

He finishes this intelligent analogy right as you bring the joint to your lips and inhale. You snort and then choke on your laughter, and then on the smoke, inducing a coughing fit that is not at all remedied by Philip's own howls of laughter. "Dumbass," you say, swatting his arm. 

You snatch the joint back from him once you're satisfied that your coughing fit is over. The weed hits your lungs, pungent and powerful, and you can feel the tension begin to melt from your body. You tilt your head back and gratuitously blow out the smoke, watching as it rises into the air, twisting and turning. When you look back at Phillip to proffer the joint again, he's already staring at you. It's in this moment that you remember all of the rumors in high school. 

Although you didn't necessarily run in the same circles, you saw each other at the occasional party or school function. The rumor then was that he was an apologetic flirt and playboy, hopping from one eager girl to the next. 

The rumor didn't matter to you in high school, you had your own shit to figure out. 

But now, looking at him, illuminated in the hazy dusk light, there's a tightening in your stomach that high school you had never acted on. 

Smoke breezes past your face as Phillip exhales, drawing you from your trance. His brows pull downwards. "Everything okay, kid?"

"Yeah. Perfect," you tell him. You pause. "Can I tell you the real reason I'm here tonight?"

He feigns offense. "You mean it wasn't to smoke some shitty weed with me in a dark alley like a couple of prepubescent hoodlums?"

This brings a smile to your face, but you ignore him. "Promise you won't laugh." Phillip makes the motion of crossing his heart. Taking another drag and summoning your courage, you tell him, "I never had sex in high school. So I thought that by coming back I could fuck someone from high school and it would kind of, like, settle the score."

"Oh." Philip's lips twitch with barely retrained amusement.

"You said you wouldn't laugh!" You tell him. "It's stupid, I know."

"I don't think it's that stupid," he assures you. "There's some people who genuinely want to relive their high school days and reconnect with their peers." 

He says this as if it ranks only just below murdering a bunch of baby orphans.

"I guess," you say. You feel relieved to have said it out loud, like Phillip was a priest and you were confessing your sins to him. When he changes the topic, reserving his judgement if he had any, it only solidifies your trust in him.

You waste almost half an hour, smoking and swapping stories about your lives since high school. You thought, going into tonight, that you would have to embellish yourself and your achievements, but you didn't feel that need with Phillip. He made you feel safe. Worthy. It was an excellent precursor to the reunion; you no longer felt nervous, and upon realizing that you were going to be unfashionably late, Phillip pinches the top of the joint and shoves it back into his pocket before once again seizing your hand. Another thing to add to the litany of things you never thought you would do: run giggling, hand in hand, with Phillip Altman through the front doors of your high school.

Horribly loud music washes over you as you check in at a table, giving your name to a girl that you don't even remember. Quickly, you scribble down your name on a name tag and slap it on your chest. Phillip snickers as he scribbles something down, sharpie scratching against the material. He proudly slaps it on his chest.

It reads: Phillip Assman.

The girl at the front table makes a face.

You, however, find it absolutely hilarious. 

Philip eventually ushers you away, still cackling, as more last-minute people trickle in through the door. He grabs your shoulders and directs you into the gym where the reunion is actually being held. Streamers with your school colors are taped limply on the walls. Several high-top tables occupy the gym floor, most of them crowded around by former students deep in conversation. There's a bar on one side of the gym, and a DJ booth on the other. 

You open your mouth to ask Phillip if he wants a drink, right as he's flagged down by someone standing around one of the tables. You don't recognize them. He waves and moves as if to join them, but stops and addresses you, "I'll be right back."

You watch him leave, ignoring the small kernel of disappointment inside you. 

Whatever, you think. It's not like you came together. He was just a guy that had the same Uber with you and you shared a joint. Not a big deal. 

Straightening your shoulders, you turn on your heel and march over to the bar.

Alcohol, as it turns out, is a wonderful crutch for social interactions. You drift awkwardly through the gym, catching up with a few people whose friendship have gradually eroded over time, and pretending to be enjoying yourself. Your high helped, clinging to you like a weed-fueled security blanket. But you maintained a vague impression that you made a mistake coming here. 

No one had magically gotten more attractive or interesting in the years since you graduated. There was one guy from your freshman algebra class that you bumped into while waiting in line for the bathroom, a guy who you probably would've totally fucked under different circumstances. But your mind kept wandering, and you ended up making up some half-ass excuse and scurrying away from his blatant attempts at flirting. 

Because, infuriatingly enough, you only had one guy on your mind.

Unhappy with this realization, you quickly do your business and then hightail it for the parking lot. You're embarrassed that you even came, you're embarrassed about why you came, and you're embarrassed that - not unlike a high school girl - you can't stop thinking about the stupidly good-looking guy you interacted with for only a few moments. "Idiot," you mumble to yourself, pushing your shoulder into the door and stepping outside.

The cold sobers you up considerably, and you ditch the red solo cup you'd been carrying for the last hour or so. You needed to just go back to your motel. In the morning, you could forget that this ever happened and erase Phillip Altman from your mind. 

"Hey, where are you going?"

You stop and turn, your heart pumping out a traitorous rhythm as Phillip emerges from the front doors and jogs over to you. Fuck, how did he manage to even look good in the shitty glow from the streetlights? He shoves his hands in his pockets. 

"You're not leaving, are you?" He glances over your head, scanning the lawn as if expecting to discover a reason for your departure, then back to you. "Come out here to puke or something? Those bushes right over there are --"

"No," you interrupt, sharper than you intend. You sigh, and try to soften your voice. "I shouldn't have come here. I-I'm going home. Well, not home, but my motel room."

You're rambling. And you're aware that you're rambling, but it's doing nothing to deter it.

"You can't leave," he says.

You arch a brow. "What? Why not?"

He withdraws the joint from his pocket, which admittedly looks a little more crumpled than the last time you'd seen it. "This joint is legally binding. You have to finish it with me."

"Or?"

He shrugs. "We probably shouldn't find out. You know, just in case." 

"Phillip -"

"We could go back to your room," he says. Recovering, he adds, "If that's okay. Or even that dark alley. It was warm and inviting, not to mention sanitary. We could go back there."

You smother your grin. It's not fair, that you've just reconnected with this man who you knew only in the abstract before, but now have become utterly transfixed by him. He has a magnetism about him that you can't ignore. 

You feel yourself thawing. "What about all of your friends?" You ask, gesturing towards the school. "You can't just leave them."

Phillip makes a face. "Who cares?" He grabs your hand - did he do that a lot? Grabbing hands randomly? - and hauls you to the curb, where he expertly flags down an awaiting Uber driver. "M'lady," he says, as he holds the door to the backseat open for you. 

The drive back to the motel is spent with you discreetly (read: not discreetly) sharing the joint and blowing the smoke out the cracked window. Your Uber driver seems less than impressed with you by the time you tumble out, but Phillip assuages your poor behavior with a generous tip. The heady combination of alcohol and weed, and Philip, fuels you. 

There's no saying who makes the first move -- your mind is swimming with elation from your company. But it happens sometime between the car pulling away from the curb and reaching the room of your motel. Phillip pushes you up against the side of the building, peppering your neck with kisses and whispering dirty things in your ear as you fumble for the key card. He feels so warm and comfortable and secure, and you desperately want to undress him, to explore him with your hands and your mouth and discover what he's like as he unravels. 

The door clicks as your key card finally registers. "Finally," Phillip all but growls. 

You squeak as he lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he nudges the door open with his foot and marches you inside. You're both still giggling like kids between desperate, hungry kisses, his hands reaching under your shirt and your hand disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. 

It's only when you're both left in your underwear that Phillip pauses.

You look up at him. He hovers over where you lay, sprawled out on the bed. He's infuriatingly, devastatingly handsome, even when traces of doubt line his features.

"What's wrong?" You ask. "Is everything okay?"

Philip's mouth opens then shuts, as if deciding on what to say. "Why me?"

"What?"

"Why me?" He repeats, in no way clarifying himself. Phillip quickly elaborates, "You said that you went to the reunion just so that you could fuck someone from high school."

You struggle to find a response. "Why not you?"

"I mean, is this--" he waves his hand as if hoping to magically conjure the words that he's searching for, "--is this just nothing? I mean, I'm fine if you want to just settle some score and use me for my body but I'd like to know so I can charge you afterward."

His tone is nonchalant, light hearted, but there's a vulnerability lurking below. 

You sit up on your elbows. It's difficult to address him like this, when his naked torso is practically staring at you in the face. It would be difficult for anyone to concentrate. But you want to be serious, truthful, because you found something in Phillip tonight that you have never found in anyone else. It was too early to call it love, of course, but there was a deeper connection that you would be foolish to so hastily get rid of. 

"I'm not saying that I wouldn't whore you out," you tell him, "but I can promise that I don't want to do this for some dumb reasoning. I mean, sure, that's why I came here tonight, but I didn't expect to meet you." This admission sounds highly cliche, and it brings a blush to your face. "What I'm trying to say is--"

Phillip interrupts you with a goofy smile. "Say no more."

There's a litany of things you never thought you would do, one of them being returning to your home town to attend your high school reunion. Next on the list: falling in love with Phillip Altman. 

[kylowritten]

Hey I was wondering when part 14 of if the slipper fits will be out? I’m really into it!!

Hopefully soon!! I promise I’m still alive and working on it, these past few weeks have been so busy. Don’t lose faith in me or this story! 😂❤️ This story means so much to me and I appreciate everyone’s support.

[kylowritten]

Work Friends

Pairings: Ben Solo x F!Reader and Matt the Radar Technician x F!Reader

Summary: These are two different one-shots, one for Ben and one for Matt but both falling under the same theme. Let's just say that a slow day at work results in you finding a way to get busy with your coworker.

Warnings (for both): Mature 18+ Only, vaginal sex, riding, nipple play, fingering, stripping, aftercare, a little fluff

Word Count: 3.5k

A/N: This request is for the lovely @judypahtootee! I'm so sorry that it took me so long but I hope you enjoy 😊 Why only write smut for one when I can write smut for both??

Ben

You had met Ben at the dawn of his rebirth. Like a child, he was timid, and not entirely sure of himself; shedding the coat of his past was not as simple as it had been to slip on. He mostly kept his head down, endeavoring to make up for his mistakes with bounty hunting, and the occasional dabble in smuggling. He was his father's son, after all, and it reminded him of his childhood aboard the Millennium Falcon.

You had both been after the same criminal when you laid eyes on him first — he demanded attention, still, despite the look of a wounded animal in his dark eyes. Thick fuck-me hair grazed his broad shoulders, and he carried the gaint of someone used to being in charge, but his voice wavered as he spoke.

"I'm...Ben," he told you.

You squinted at him. "Are you sure about that?"

It wasn't common knowledge that the former Supreme Leader was ridiculously handsome, so you had no prior knowledge of who this Ben was, except that he was after the same bounty as you. And you didn't appreciate competition.

"Not really," the man who called himself Ben replied, punctuating his confession with a hesitant smile.

You found this admission strange — who wasn't sure about their name, but perhaps liars? — but vowed to him that you would bag the criminal first. You did, of course, but with his help.

Since then, an unspoken agreement had been made between the two of you, and on that day a partnership was formed. Ben supplied his ship and expertise with a blaster, and you supplied your years of experience.

The details of his previous life came much later, but by then you had already fallen too deeply in love with him to care much. "My hands aren't exactly clean either," you told him, after a moment of consideration. "You don't exactly get into bounty hunting because you had a magnificent childhood."

You like to ruminate on those memories, especially on days like this — nowhere to be, just drifting through space and waiting for the next bounty to be posted. Feet up on the dash, you swivel back and forth in the co-captain's chair, braiding and unbraiding a lock of hair while Ben mutters over a piece of equipment he has been trying to fix for the umpteenth time.

"Ben?"

His reply, distant and distracted: "Hm?"

"Have you ever thought about me?"

"What do you mean?" He asks, still occupied with the equipment. He's on his knees, fiddling with something beneath the band of the dashboard, and you appreciatively — and not so subtly — admire the curve of his ass as he leans forward.

You stop swiveling, focused on the strand of hair as it unravels from around your finger. "You know," you say. "Sexually."

Several things then happen at once — Ben makes a sound unlike any you've heard before, halfway between a gag and a gasp. In surprise, his head rears up and slams into the dashboard, subsequently eliciting a spray of electricity; when he crawls out from under the dash, he's rubbing the back of his head and blushing profusely.

You smirk.

"What-What did you say?" Ben stammers. He's crouched, resting on his heels now. "Why do you ask? I mean, not saying that I have, but —"

"I was just wondering. We spend a lot of time together, you know." You pause for dramatic effect, and more or less to fool your partner into a false lull of security. "I think about you."

Ben's throat bobs. "You...think about me?"

"Is that so surprising?"

"Well, I just thought...you know, under the circumstances, that you...wouldn't," he finishes lamely.

You rise from the chair and cross the short distance to him. Methodically, you take your time, adding an extra swing to your hips. When Ben tilts his head back to look up at you, he might as well be worshipping at an altar.

"I don't care who...or what...you were before," you tell him softly. You take his face in your hands, your thumb grazing over his cheek. "I only care about you now."

Before you can realize what's happening, Ben grabs your waist and pulls you down towards him, cushioning you as you both fall to the floor. He's on you at once — hands in your hair, over you skin, lips feverishly finding yours. You don't need any time to adjust, you've been dreaming about this moment; it feels natural, your bodies pressed together, his breath joining with yours as you explore each other.

He feels even better than you imagined, when you would lay in your bunk and think of him while touching yourself. Although he's reserved in most areas of his life — perpetually posed to apologize — he's surprisingly confident now, ravaging you with his lips, while giving attention to your neck and collarbones.

You slip your fingers under his shirt. His skin feels warm. Taunt muscles react under your hands as you slide them up his stomach to his chest. Ben moans. It's not long after that you coax him out of his shirt.

There's a long, jagged scar on one side of his body. Slightly breathless, you touch the tip of your finger to the scar and trace it all the way down. Ben watches you carefully as you do.

"My past will always be a part of me," he says softly. "In more ways than one."

You lean back. "I told you, I don't care."

"But you should," he whispers, fiercely.

As you speak, you lower yourself back down on top of him, inflicting as much sincerity into your voice as possible. "I. Don't. Care."

He seizes you then, crashing his lips onto yours.

Beneath your hands you feel him shatter, breaking apart into pieces. His cry is both relief and pain, and you hold him even closer, covering him in kisses and feverish touches. You can't stand it, you want to be near him without the barriers of clothes.

He helps you out of your shirt next, then wiggles his pants down his hips and kicks them away.

Heat pulses through you.

Wild in your passion, you remove your own pants and Ben leaps to touch the new parts of you that are exposed, that he could've only dreamt about before. His hands grab your ass, the backs of your thighs. "Please," you sigh into his mouth. "I need to feel you." His breath hitches, and he whispers, demanding, "Say that again."

"I need to feel you," you tell him. You repeat the phrase, hastily as each time heightens your arousal. "I need to feel you. I need to --"

Ben's fingers dip into the flesh of your hips as he steadies you. He drives his cock up inside you, spearing you with his appreciable size and filling your cunt. You howl at the unexpected pressure. He does nothing to mitigate the pain, too consumed in his passion, and eventually it subsides into a dull ache, toppled by your mounting pleasure. Ben fucks you like it's healing him, like just by being inside you he's found some sort of recompense, and you are more than willing to give it to him. 

As soon as your head clears and you regain some semblance of clarity, you push yourself off his chest, seating his cock even deeper. You moan. Ben removes his hands from your hips and lets you take over, folding both of his muscular arms behind his head as he watches you, memorized as you rise up and sink back down slowly, taking in every inch of him with deliberate patience. Vaguely, you think that you should be uncomfortable -- your knees are digging into the cold metal of the ship's floor -- but everything except Ben has fallen away. 

If you had a choice, you would never stop riding him. You felt powerful, invincible, unraveling this man who had once held the entire galaxy in his palm and now chose to wander it with you instead.

You want to chase away the doubts and the fear that you constantly see in his darkened gaze, to remind him that he had you, and that none of his past or future decisions would ever deter your devotion. You try to funnel this into the rock of your hips, the greedy way that your hands canvas his body and the praise that continuously pours from your lips. Words were never your strong suit but this, but this, you could manage.

He cups your breast as you bounce on his cock, thumbing your hardened nipples and commending the way that you look as you ride him. "So fucking good. So fucking good," he utters over and over again, as if that's all he can think. 

When your knees start to shake, you concede, slipping your body back down to align with his. 

Ben enters you once more. Sweat presses his dark curls to his temple. 

There's a question in his eyes, and you nod. You don't live with somebody in close quarters for as long as you did without knowing the intimate details of their life; Ben knew that you had a birth control implant, but nonetheless wanted your approval. 

Invigorated by this confirmation, Ben thrusts into you. His movements grow more sporadic as he nears his climax, nearly sloppy and animalistic with each snap of his hips. Stars dance in front of your vision as he brings you again to orgasm, as bright and dazzling as if he might as well have lit your entire body aflame. Ben follows shortly after, and you bury your face into the crook of his neck as he fills you with his seed, relishing in the sound of his beating heart.

Silence washes over you and for a second you're afraid that you've made a mistake. 

Then, Ben asks, "Does that answer your original question?"

Matt

Work was boring.

Not to say that it wasn't always - while you enjoyed your position as a radar technician, the work could be tedious and repetitive. But today was especially boring. Most of your supervisors were out on break: apparently there was an astroid storm happening only a few solar systems away and everyone wanted to see it. Everyone, of course, but you and Matt.

The other radar technician had brought his set of Sabaac cards for you to play.

You peer at him from over your cards, watching as his mouth pulls down in a contemplative frown. With everyone off ship, that meant he was the only one on board who wasn't aware of your crush on him. You've made it blatantly obvious since receiving your assignment a few months ago, but your fellow technician was as great as picking up on your hints as he was at playing Sabaac: not at all.

The game wraps up, and you scoop up the cards. "I have an idea," you tell him.

Matt sighs in defeat, and flops back in his chair. You're both bent over the tiny table in the back of the ship. His glasses fall and he uses his index finger to push them back up his nose.

"What's your idea?" He asks.

"We should play a game."

"A game?" A brow, dark against his pale skin, quirks. "Is that not what we were already doing?"

You roll your eyes at him. Stars, for someone so intelligent, he was dense sometimes.

"No," you say, drawing out the word. "A fun game. Ever play strip Sabaac?"

Matt's throat bobs. "Have you?"

You admit, "No, but isn't now as good a time as any?"

"I don't know, isn't it risky?" Matt asks. His gaze darts to the door as if a superior officer might barge in and reprimand you for even mentioning it.

"Everyone is gone, remember?" You rise to your feet. "Here, I'll even give you a head start."

Matt's gaze locks on you as you stand up. Maintaining eye contact, you reach behind your back and unhook your bra. You remove the straps from your shoulders next, and then pluck out the limp piece of clothing from the front of your top and discard it on the ground.

"How-how nice," Matt stammers.

"So are you in?"

Matt shrugs nonchalantly, but you can tell it's taking a tremendous amount of effort not to look at your nipples hardening beneath your shirt. "What are the rules?"

"Simple. Same rules but if you lose, you take off a piece of clothing," you tell him. Trying not to show your triumph, you sit back down. "Ready?"

He looks sheepish. "I guess."

You're not great at Sabaac either, but in your defense there's a lot of chance involved with the game. You were hoping that Matt would end up naked before you did, but an hour passes, and you're terribly underdressed compared to him.

Playing it safe, he's taken off his vest, glasses, both of his shoes, and both of his socks. You, on the other hand, are left standing in just your shirt and panties. The game hits its peak as its Matt's turn to roll the dice — landing on a matching pair the last round, which means you both have to draw new cards and hope for the best.

"Yes!" You cry out, pumping your fists into the air. Your cards equal to a total of zero, while his even out to a negative fifteen. "I won!" A smirk unfurls on your face. "Alright, Matty boy, what'll it be? Pants or shirt?"

Your coworker looks chagrined at this development, although you haven't missed the way his eyes roam appreciatively over your nearly naked body. He grumbles something about an unfair advantage, then reluctantly grabs his shirt by the bottom and pulls it over his head.

"Oh," you say, without your permission.

You knew Matt was muscular — you'd studied him enough to attest to the fact. But you'd never seen him without a uniform on. The muscles in his stomach ripple as he finishes removing the shirt, revealing a toned chest and biceps that you just wanted to sink your teeth into. An uncomfortable (but entirely warranted) pool of heat forms in your stomach and works it's way down between your thighs.

So infatuated with the glorious sight of your shirtless coworker, you try to reach across the table to reshuffle the cards but end up hitting the edge of the table with your hip. The force upends the table, and the cards go flying all across the floor. Matt moves to pick them up but you interrupt him, properly embarrassed by your behavior and subsequent blunder.

However, you forgot that you're dressed only in your panties. They aren't the sexiest pair that you own, but they're lacy, transparent, and leave little to the imagination. It's only when you hear a low-sounding groan from behind you that you remember your state of attire.

A blush rushes to your cheeks. You shoot upwards and whirl around. Matt is standing now, the table and cards forgotten. He's palming the front of his pants, and he's looking at you with an intensity that alights every nerve ending in your body.

You clear your throat. "So —"

Matt clears the space between you in a single stride. His hands cup your face, and when his lips collide with yours, it ignites a passion inside you that threatens to consume you whole. There's no gentleness, no tender brush of the hand, so unlike what you thought your first kiss with Matt might look like — and you love it. You've waited too long for hesitation and second guesses.

In a fluid, effortless motion, Matt wraps one arm around you and lifts you up. He places you down on a shelf-like ledge of equipment and immediately pushes your legs apart so that he may stand between them. His cock presses near your center. You gasp as his fervent lips move from your lips to your neck, and then along your collarbone, nipping and biting and sucking.

He draws you impossibly closer. Your head tilts back in utter ecstasy as his mouth closes over one of your nipples through your shirt, biting it playfully before assuaging the burst of pain with his tongue. All of his actions are hungry, desperate, as if it any moment you might be taken away from him and he will be left wanting.

"You look so fucking good like that," he mumbles into your skin. Your fingers comb through his thick hair, grabbing a handful at his skull and keeping his mouth near your tits. "Teasing me in those little panties of yours."

You hum in reply. You weren't planning for your day to culminate to this, but you were not not planning it to; this morning you chose this underwear with the intent of Matt seeing them.

You liked this side of him — feral, raw — but beneath it the same man that you knew, his actions frenzied and hurried but executed with a great gentleness.

"I've wanted to do this for—so long," he breathes.

"Why haven't you then?" You ask as he eagerly removes your shirt. The question gives him pause, and for a moment you're afraid that you shouldn't have said anything at all.

"I thought that my feelings wouldn't be...returned," he says finally. He sets his hands on the tops of your bare thighs. The heat of them burn you to your core. "And I didn't want to lose you. What we have."

You can't help but smile. "I've only been trying to get with you since the first time we met."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Really?"

"Yes, really," you tell him with a laugh. "Now, please, don't make me wait any longer."

He grins at you, and the sight of it is enough to melt you into a puddle. "Since you asked so nicely," he says.

Matt nudges aside your panties and in a swift movement inserts two fingers inside you, drawing out a moan from you. He curls them, almost experimentally, as if savoring the feeling, gauging your reaction. Needy, and impatient, your hips buck into the seat of his hand, subsequently driving his fingers deeper into your aching cunt. You cry out.

He laughs, but it's more of a chuckle, deep and husky in your ear, clearly incentivized. His pace starts slowly, at first, teasing out waves of bliss. You grip tightly onto the edge of the equipment. You need an anchorage, something to secure you to this world as your ecstasy threatens to steal you away; he pumps his fingers in and out of you now, watching as he unravels you completely.

"Come for me," he commands.

That's all it takes — a burst of pleasure erupts, rolling over your entire body. He removes his fingers, replacing them in his mouth. Matt's eyes meet yours as he sucks them clean.

You wiggle, desperate to have him fill some part of you again. It didn't what or where. You just needed to feel him.

Matt undoes his belt buckle and pushes his pants down around his thighs. Stars, his thighs.

Your attention quickly diverts, however, as his hardened cock springs up against his stomach. Fuck. Before you can reach for it, he grabs you and pulls you so that you're nearly falling off the ledge; if it wasn't for him, for his reliable weight, you probably would've, but he holds fast.

Once again moving your panties to the side, he gives no warning before burying his cock inside you. Pain shreds through you, threatening to cleave you in half. Reflexively, you grab onto his shoulders, hands forming into claws. He thrusts again, this time a modicum gentler, setting a rhythm before returning to his previous intensity. You're slick with want, the sounds of your desire echoing through the office and guiding his cock.

You should've known that Matt would've been a great lover. After studying him in his work, you knew that he was always learning, always watching and taking notes; he wasn't one of those people who thought that they knew everything. It should've been no surprise that he fucked the same way, gauging your reaction and adjusting, subtly changing until you were riddled with pleasure and squirming beneath him. He focused on you, solely concerned with bringing you to climax over and over until you were trembling and weak. 

"Good girl," he praises, practically cooing. The honeyed tone of his voice sends molten lava straight to your core. "I want to come on you."

You nod eagerly. He ruts into you, snapping his hips. You release your grip on his shoulders, where you were sure to have left painful red marks from your nails, and lean back. His eyes shine with need.

A guttural sound escapes Matt's plush lips and his brows twist together, forming an expression of concentration as his pace quickens. It's absurd that anyone could look that good as they orgasm -- and he does, withdrawing and spilling his expense on the curve of your belly, surprisingly warm and pleasant. He hums as he finishes, followed by the hint of a smile.

He finds a cloth used for cleaning messes (mercifully, one not covered in grease and filth) and wipes up his expense, placing a kiss on your stomach once he's satisfied, and then another one on your mouth as he helps you off the ledge.

"Do we have to play again to put the clothes back on?" Matt asks, bending down and retrieving your lacy underwear.

You snatch it from him, giggling. "Where's the fun in that?"

[kylowritten]

Kylo Ren by Ariata

[kylowritten]

Close Quarters

Pairings: Matt the Radar Technician x PlusSize!Reader

Summary: You love working with your childhood best friend, it’s one of the perks of your job. But dynamics shift between you as a tricky assignment forces you into close quarters.

Warnings: slight size insecurities, partial nudity, kissing

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: This request is for @judypahtootee ! I hope you enjoy😊 It’s the first time I’ve written for Matt so let me know what you think, hopefully my interpretation of him is what you’re looking for.

Your POV

"Oh. Um — wow."

"Yeah, I know," you say, self consciously running your hands over your uniform. "This was the last one they had left. Apparently one size fits all does not mean what you think."

Matt stands in the corridor, looking dumbfounded. His glasses adorably slide down his nose, and he pushes them back up, the slightest hint of a blush covering his face. Your stomach ties into a knot. He's probably embarrassed that he has to be seen with me like this, you think. Admittedly, you've been in worse scenarios together, but none of them have involved you in a fluorescent orange uniform clinging to every part of your body.

You quickly inform him, "It's just for the day, though. The new sizes come in tomorrow."

“Oh. Good,” Matt replies, averting his eyes.

A tiny part of you winces. Your socially inept friend since childhood has never been good with words, and you know that he doesn’t mean any harm, but you can’t help but feel wounded. Quickly, you push the thought from your mind — you have a job to do, and you won’t let your insecurities get in the way of that.

“So what are we looking at?” You ask, as the two of you start down the corridor. It takes you twice as many steps to fill Matt’s lengthy ones.

“The radar array is down in the second quadrant,” Matt tells you, all business. “We need to repair the damage and then recalibrate it to ensure that it’s functioning at optimal levels.”

You nod. Nothing out of the ordinary, then.

Especially when the Surpreme Leader, Kylo Ren, had a conniption fit every time something didn’t go his way, and you were called to fix it. The damage looks the same as always — electric wires sprouted from the walls, spitting out sparks, and long, charred marks sliced through equipment like the strokes of a clawed beast. A shiver jolts through you; you never want to be on the wrong end of a lightsaber.

“Hm. Weird.”

You shake your head little. Matt has already walked into the room where the radar array is stationed, and he bends down slightly to inspect a panel on the far wall. You join him, saying, “What’s weird?”

“It’s almost as if the internal mechanisms have malfunctioned,” he mutters.

You start to protest as he slips a gloved hand behind the panel, but it falls on deaf ears as he then completely (and effortlessly) rips the panel from the wall. A shower of sparks washes over you, and you cry out in surprise. When you’re feeling brave enough to open your eyes again — ready to face whatever marring you got — you realize that Matt had used his body to shield you from most of the affects, and now your faces were precariously close.

“Oh,” you breathe, unable to help yourself.

You’ve always liked Matt. You’ve never said it aloud, of course, out of fear of ruining your friendship. He probably wouldn’t return the feelings anyway. The proximity of him initiates a fleet of TIE fighters inside of you, all taking off at once and blasting from your stomach to your chest, where they lodge in your throat and prevent you from saying anything even halfway comprehensible. You stammer.

“Are you okay?” Matt asks. His impossibly dark eyes comb over your form, lingering in the places where your illfitting uniform clings.

You intake a ragged breathe. “Fine,” you tell him. Embarrassed, you turn away from him, unable to meet his intense gaze. You clear your throat. “So what’s wrong with this thing?”

His gaze lingers on you, but you refuse to acknowledge it. After a moment, he turns, and addresses the now-missing panel; there’s a portion of the wall revealed, and behind it, a whole mess of blinking technology.

“We’ll have to fix the internal mechanisms before we can move on, or else it will all be for nothing,” he says. Matt shakes his head in disbelief.

He takes a step towards the floor to ceiling section that’s missing, but almost immediately his broad shoulders get stuck. Matt laughs, albeit nervously, and tries again, this time from the side. He makes it a little bit further this time but inevitably gets wedged between the two walls.

He holds out an arm that you yank until he’s finally free. You smile as he dusts himself off. It’s no wonder he couldn’t fit — Matt had been practically enormous since he was fifteen. The smile, and your amusement, disappears when you realize that you’ll have to squeeze.

“Oh no,” you say. “No way.”

Matt frowns. “You have to, or else we can’t repair the arrays. You know if we don’t complete this that we could potentially lose our jobs.”

You want to shoot back, “then we can get new ones,” but you’re both aware that the First Order pays ridiculously well compared to any other jobs. Neither of you can afford to lose them. Plus, you genuinely love being a radar technician and getting to work on some of the most advanced ships in the entire galaxy.

“Fine. But how do I know what to do?”

Matt replies, “I’ll tell you while you’re in there, just describe it to me. It should be simple.”

Summoning your courage, you turn sideways and slide into the missing section. You barely fit, but manage to squeeze through, relief crashing into you. The narrow section opens into a room. No smaller than a storage closet, there’s just enough space for you to turn around comfortably in.

Buttons and levers and blinking panels all stare at you.

You hear Matt’s voice, muffled slightly, “Are you okay? Do you need me —”

“I’m fine,” you tell him. You give him a quick description of what you see. “Where do I start?”

“On your left there should be a series of green buttons. Press the first one, then release the lever directly above it, that should open up a small valve behind you.”

You follow his instructions. The lever responds willingly to your touch, and then somewhere from behind you hear the familiar clink of metal hitting metal and the valve opening. Your heart soars triumphantly. “Matt, I did it! I —”

Spinning to locate the valve, there’s a ripping noise and a burst of pain as a previously unseen bolt catches your uniform and pierces your skin. You curse. Not only does it hurt like a bitch, but your uniform is stuck, keeping you from making the full turn to the valve.

Matt calls your name. “Did you adjust the valve?”

“Um, no,” you confess. “Not yet. Hold on.”

You’re desperately clawing at your back. You don’t want Matt to know what’s happened, but you can’t seem to find the bolt that’s snagged you. Your fingers scramble to loosen the piece of uniform that’s stuck, but the material refuses to part from your skin.

“What’s wrong in there?” Matt asks.

“Nothing, nothing!”

It strikes you that the only way to free yourself is to remove your top and disentangle yourself from it and the pesky bolt. You grab the bottom of your tip and lift afterward. It easily rises.

Until you pull it up and over your face.

Dread opens inside you.

The uniform is too tight to remove, and it doesn’t budge no matter how much effort it takes to pull it the remaining way off your head. You slump in defeat. Now not only are you stuck, but your whole stomach and breasts are exposed, arms stuck above your head. Luckily you’re wearing your cutest bra, but it doesn’t necessarily help the situation you’re in.

You can’t see with the material over your eyes. Huffing, you say, “Okay, I lied. There’s a problem.”

“A problem?” Matt echoes. “Are you hurt? Is everything okay?”

“I’m not hurt,” you say. Well, maybe my pride. “But, um, I’m stuck.”

“Stuck? Like on what to do next?”

Your face screws up into an expression of frustrated disbelief. “No. Um, my…my uniform got stuck on a bolt or something in here. I-I thought that just taking off my top might help but it’s so fucking tight that now I’m…stuck.”

A few moments of silence. “Are you…naked?”

“Partially?” You remark. You describe how you’re still wearing pants, thank you very much, and a bra, but your shirt is over your head. You take a deep breath. Now for the part that you wish you didn’t have to say. “I…I need you to come in here and help me.”

“What?”

“I know you can’t fit, but —”

“No, no, if you need my help then I’m coming.”

You hear him try to squeeze through the opening, grunting and cursing as he goes. He draws closer, based on the volume of his grunting and cursing, and you quickly demand, “Close your eyes! I don’t want you to see.”

“Okay. Okay.” Matt’s presence warms the space, and he can barely fit inside it with you.

A heat pools between your legs. He smells incredible, the scent flooding your senses, and his hands falter as he tries to gauge the scene with his eyes closed.

Matt’s POV

Your skin rushes beneath his fingers, soft and sweet smelling. He doesn’t mean to touch your bare stomach but he doesn’t exactly know what’s going on, or where he even is. He keeps bumping his elbows and knees against the walls.

Slowly, Matt cracks open one eye. Then another.

The top of your uniform is indeed wrenched over your head, blocking your vision. Matt’s throat bobs. His eyes hurry to take you all in, greedy, as if at any moment the sight would be taken away from him. The pants of the uniform cling to your hips and thighs, sinfully tight. He hungrily studies the soft curve of your belly, your sides, and — Oh, Stars — the tops of your breast.

The closeness of the space has them so close, basically begging him to put his mouth on them.

Before he forgets what he was sent here to do, Matt unhooks the material from the bolt, then gets to work on your top. There’s no way for him to help without touching you, and each touch drives him wild. He angles his hips so you can’t feel the hardening in his pants.

He brushes over your breasts, the delicious dip of your collar, beneath your arms — and he’s gripped with the urge to touch you everywhere and all at once. Matt clears his throat. No. You’re his friend! And you’re obviously in a vulnerable situation, it’s inappropriate to be thinking this way. Not that he hasn’t before.

Matt finally promots the shirt over your chin, and with just one more tug, you’ll be mostly free.

He stares at your lips, parted in anticipation.

Matt doesn’t kiss you, however, no matter how much he wants to. His gaze lingers there, imagining what they would feel like, and then he closes his eyes and lifts the shirt over your eyes.

Your POV

“Oh, thank Stars,” you breathe. Your eyes pop open. Matt’s remain closed as he tugs the shirt up, and you help him disentangle it from your arms.

Matt’s hulking presence consumes most of the space. You’re pressed together, basically, and at this height you’re given a perfect view of his mouth and his plush lips.

You lean forward, then stop. What were you doing? Matt would never reciprocate your feelings and you can’t kiss him, now matter how delectable his lips looked and how desperately you wanted to feel them on yours. You pull back.

“Thank you,” you tell him.

He nods. “Anytime.”

Matt’s throat bobs, and you’re transfixed by the sight. Stars, why did he have to be so damn beautiful? And why was he so close?

He nervously asks, “Now what?”

“I-I suppose you can open your eyes. I’m not sure how else we’re going to leave.”

“Are you sure?”

“Um, yeah,” you say. In a feeble attempt to cover yourself, your cross your arms over your chest. It only pushes your breasts up further, though — you’ve always been cursed with a big chest — but it’s better than nothing. “Go ahead.”

Matt opens his eyes. There’s no way you miss out on the way he looks you over, like a starving man wanting to consume what’s in front of him.

His mouth parts.

“I know,” you quickly say, filling in the awkward silence. “I’m sorry you have to see me —”

“Sorry?” One of Matt’s brows disappears nearly into his hairline. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about.” His gaze dances away momentarily but darts back as if it can’t stay away. “If anyone needs to apologize, it’s me.”

“What? Why?” He backs out of the space first and you follow, shoving him from behind.

Matt bursts from the paneling and then offers you a hand. You take it, but as he pulls you out, you end up only inches from each other.

Matt takes a deep breath. “Because I…because I looked.”

“Oh. Oh,” you say.

Your cheeks burn from a blush.

“I’m sorry, I just —”

“Well it’s not any different from right now,” you remind him. You’re still overwhelmingly undressed compared to him. Your words prompt him to examine you again, but then he quickly looks away.

“I know but…you were trusting me. And I didn’t listen. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not like you haven’t seen me before,” you tease him. “I just went from the ugly, chubby kid to the ugly, chubby adult and —”

“What?” Matt frowns. “Who said that you were ugly?”

“Well, no one has to spell it out for me,” you reply. Your voice wavers, although you wished that it wouldn’t.

Matt shakes his head. “I don’t know where you got that idea. You’re…you’re beautiful. So beautiful. I’ve always thought that, even as kids,” he adds, and this time it’s his turn to blush.

“Don’t lie,” you say.

“I’m not lying,” he replies.

A serious expression settles on his handsome features. He steps toward you, propelling you back. Your spine collides with the wall, but he keeps getting closer, trapping you. Nearly all sense of control flies out the window as he traces a finger over your cheek, down your throat, and between your breasts. The finger trails over your belly, then hooks into the front of your pants. He jerks his hand back, effectively pulling you into him so that your hips slam into each other.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he mumbles. One hand rests on your back, the other slipping behind your head. “In there, I-I couldn’t help myself. I had to look at you, to devour you. I didn’t know if I would ever get the chance to again.“

Your breath tears from your throat. His mouth is there, just hovering over yours, and his hands hold you dangerously close.

“Well,” you say, with a bravery you didn’t know you had, “what are you going to do about it?”

That’s all the prompting he needs.

Matt shoves you up against the wall again, his hand on your back cushioning the blow. Finally his lips capture yours, but the kiss is anything but delicate — his lips punish yours, rough and demanding, tongue darting out to lick your bottom lip before seeking invitation. Your mouth parts eagerly, and he continues to kiss you with the same determined passion, years and years of suppressed feelings unraveling in moments.

You can’t believe this is happening. Your hands explore him, the familiar terrain of his body now roped with muscle.

Eventually you both withdraw for a breath. “I love you,” he mutters, head still bent near yours.

“I love you,” you reply, grabbing the front of his vest. “I always have. And I always will.”

You’re not sure how long you kiss before it dawns on you that you probably need to finish repairing the damage before a supervisor comes along. Matt removes his shirt to give it to you, and you wear it gratefully. Appreciatively, you watch the muscles in his back as he works, connecting the series of freckles and moles there with your gaze.

When he’s finished replacing the panel, you both set to repairing the damage and then recalibrating the arrays. Matt smirks, and glances at you. “Does this mean that when we work together now that we’ll always be shirtless?”

[kylowritten]

If the Slipper Fits

Pairings: Kylo Ren x ForceSensitive!Reader

Summary: Nobody wants to be the woman whose foot fits that slipper.

Warnings: mentions of death, verbal abuse, fire/burning, hanging

Word Count: 4.6k

A/N: Let me know what you think about this part in the comments!

Part Thirteen

Several things run through your mind, and not necessarily in any particular order:

Kylo had just killed someone. In front of you.

Prince Luke was here, whom no one had seen in ages.

And he chose this opportune moment to teach you how to dismantle the dark magic taking over Kylo's mind — and then you circle back to the first thought in an endless cycle.

"Okay," you stammer out, for lack of a more proper explanation of your feelings. Still crouched on the ground, you rise shakily to your feet. You're not sure in the least what to expect.

Luke regards you carefully. "Are you sure?"

"No," you admit, "but I haven't really been sure about any of this. So what's one more thing?"

"Your first lesson can wait."

You dust your hands off on your dress. "No, it really can't. Let's get on with it then."

Maybe once you completed your mission you would no longer have to suffer through the royal expectations and political drama. You weren't sure what would happen next, you for sure weren't going to live with your stepmother again, but you would be free.

Luke doesn't look convinced by your answer. Finally, after a moment of contemplation, he says, "Take my hand."

You step forward. A furrow forms in your brow.

"But how can I? You're just a —"

He punctuates his previous statement by holding out his hand with a flourish, giving you no choice but to accept. Your hand slips into his, and suddenly your yanked in a whole new direction. The garden of the Sixth District castle fades away and is replaced by a misty landscape, Luke standing only a few feet away.

"Where are we?" You ask.

Luke shrugs. "Neither here nor there." When you look at him strangely, he adds, "Our connection in the Force allows us to places that represent our subconscious. Since you haven't had a lesson yet, yours looks like this." He sweeps out an encompassing hand. "It will change."

Mist rolls past your feet.

A series of questions bombards you. You have trouble finding one to pin down, chasing one recklessly before being blindsided by another. Eventually, you land on: "What now?"

"You've seen Kylo's subconscious before," Luke tells you. "I've been there, once. I'm sure it looks a lot different now."

Vaguely, you remember what Leia told you in the caves, that Luke had been Kylo — Ben's — mentor. Just like before, you want to inquire more about what happened, but sense that you will get as much of an answer out of Luke as you did Leia.

You shake your head. "No, I haven't..." you trail off. The room Kylo was in, when he whipped himself — the one with the platform above the water. "That was his subconscious?"

A knowing smile unfurls on Luke's face. "Your connection in the Force brought you there, which is a good sign. With training, you should be able to reach his subconscious even easier."

"But he didn't see me," you protest. You scramble to find the right words. "I...I became him."

"You what?"

"It's like I was looking through his eyes. Like we became one person," you explain.

"Hm." Luke slowly begins to nod. "That could be used to your advantage too." He sweeps his arm, and the mist clears, and you're left standing in a space that looks like an indefinitely blank room. "First, we'll explore your subconscious, then I'll give you an example of what dark magic looks like, and how you can work to remove it."

"You need to think of what you need most. Your subconscious will know this," Luke says.

This gives you pause. What did you need most?

The blank room starts to take form, the grayness bleeding into a familiar room. You watch as it unravels, along with the feeling of realization in your stomach. It's the parlor of your childhood home, complete with a crackling fire and overly stuffed armchairs. Luke stands and watches as you approach one of the chairs, you fingers grazing over the top.

"My home," you breathe. Tears spring to your eyes.

Something flickers in Luke's eyes. "Often it reflects a safe place. A sanctuary."

You can't believe your eyes as you examine every detail and object, transporting you to a time where you could imagine your father's footsteps coming down the stairs and calling for you.

You turn.

He's standing there. Your father.

He breathes your name, then sweeps you into an embrace. You lean into him and the contact bursts your composure; you break into tears, guttural, awful sobs erupting from you.

"I missed you so much," you strangle out.

He draws you impossibly closer. "I'm so sorry that I wasn't there," he says.

"It's okay, daddy," you murmur, inhaling his scent. His arms wrap around you tighter., squeezing you until your ribs start to ache. "Um, you're kind of squeezing me —"

"Dark magic will ruin your subconscious, taint your memories, take away what you want," Luke tells you, suddenly by your side. "You have to defeat it. You have to win."

An explosion of disappointment and fear shoots through you. This isn't your father. Your father is dead, and now this version of him is trying to kill you. He strangles the air from you, constricting you until you're gasping for breath.

"Daddy —"

"I died because I couldn't be left with you, not without your mother," your father says, in a voice that is not entirely his. You can only focus on the meaning, and how deeply it cuts you. "You didn't mean anything to me."

Your sobs have become hoarse. "No, no, you don't mean that! You're just-you're just a figment of my imagination."

"You have to defeat the dark magic," Luke instructs. "Or else it will consume you like it's consumed Kylo."

You struggle against your father's grasp.

And he continues to mock you, whispering words of hatred and doubt. You summon your strength, doing your best to ignore him, to separate the image before you with the actual being. Finally, something snaps in you. Your magic — the Force — shatters through your body outward, piercing the image of your father, who subsequently disintegrates into dust, blowing away.

You lean your hands on your knees, catching your breath and attempting to burn away the words that he spoke.

Luke's feet enter into your vision. "You did good. Others have not been as strong."

"That was horrible," you say, trembling.

"It's just a taste of what's happened to Kylo and, unfortunately, it's become too strong for him to defeat alone." Luke touches your arm, urging you into a standing position so that he can look you in the eyes. "He needs you. You have to help him break free."

You exhale deeply. "But how?"

"Tell me what his subconscious was like."

You tell him everything you saw: the platform, the churning water, and the flog at the end of the dock. You think you see the slightest of a wince when you mention the flog, but Luke disguises his shock well.

"The platform, the water, is an old memory," Luke says. "I've seen a semblance of it. But it's been corrupted. He thinks that he deserves the punishment, that that's what he needs most. You're going to have to convince him to stop."

"I-I told him to stop but I...I don't have any way of knowing for sure," you say.

Luke frowns. "It has to be in the plane of his subconscious. You'll have to visit again. It won't be as easy with him, but you have to persist."

"How do I even get back there?" You ask.

"From what you said, it sounded like you connected with him because he was feeling an intense emotion. The best way to describe it, is that you'll have to reconnect through the same thread that brought you to it."

You shake your head. "This doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense."

Luke smiles grimly. "Tell me about it." He waves a hand again, and the parlor of your childhood home disappears. "Get there. And then you have to talk to him, help him sort out the dark magic from the memory he has."

"Okay." You don't sound convincing. "But what about Palpatine? Won't he notice?"

"He has to be relatively close to him. You have until the end of the tour, at least." Luke sighs. "I'm afraid of why Palpatine has let you both go. He must have something planned. Go forth. And good luck - may the Force be with you."

With the sensation of being dropped from the sky and slammed rather unceremoniously on the ground, Luke disappears and you're teleported back to the garden in the Sixth District. You rise into a sitting position, using one hand to massage the ache of pain in your temple.

You hear your name called again.

Kylo storms toward you, rounding one of the hedges. "What are you doing?"

"You-you killed someone," you sputtered. You wipe at your cheeks, where there are still tears. Too much has happened all at once, you're not sure how to process it all.

Kylo straightened. "I did."

"You...you can't do that!" You cry out. "It doesn't matter what happens."

"I told you what would happen."

"You said you would cut his hands off." Not that that's any better.

Kylo remarks, "I changed my mind."

You stand up, and gesture dramatically with your hands. "Do you even understand why I'm upset? It's like you don't feel bad."

"I don't."

He moves faster than you can evade. Leather gloves wrap around your wrist, pulling you closer to him despite the fact you're trying to avoid looking at him. "I would do it again."

"I know," you tell him.

Kylo's voice shakes. "No one will disrespect you like that without meeting the end of my blade. You are my wife."

"You don't care for me," you spit at him. The fire gutters inside you. "You only did it because you don't want to share."

Kylo growls, "You're wrong."

"I'm right. No one cares for me. And certainly not you."

Using his brute strength, Kylo shoves you back. You nearly stumble over your feet, but he effortlessly keeps you from falling, both harshly and carefully pressing you against the wall of a vine-covered pergola.

In a fluid motion, he tears the helmet from his head and tosses it to the side. Your breath tears from your throat. Kylo looks painfully beautiful, bathed in moonlight, anger and desperation and a hundred wild emotions dancing across his face. Your heart aches for him.

"I don't know what else I have to do to show you," Kylo says. "I married you. I spared you. I'm giving you my entire kingdom, my life." His voice hitches as his emotions heighten. "I killed for you. And I would do it again in a heartbeat." A pause, undoubtedly as he tries to collect his thoughts. His throat bobs. "Do not say that you aren't cared for."

There's no words for you to say. He's managed to steal them right from your lips. Instead, you concentrate on the bond between you. You send out a current of affection, of understanding. You do your best to compact all of your messy, twisted emotions for Kylo, and push it his way. He recoils slightly, as though you physically struck him, and his eyes search yours, as if looking for lies.

Since you're still rendered speechless (it's quite difficult to form words at all when you're with him, much less when he's looking at you like that), in response you press up on your toes and capture his mouth with yours. His kiss is hesitant, at first, as if he can now taste the lies instead of spot them, and you strive to prove that you're not out to deceive him. Your hands slide up and into his hair. He nearly melts into you, and you realize that it's what queens must feel when their knights swear fealty to them. His kiss is a promise.

Eventually, and to your disappointment, he pulls away.

His thumb traces over the curve of your cheek, your jaw. Kylo smiles.

Then he snatches his helmet from the ground and returns it to his head, before offering you his hand. "I suppose that we have some amends to make."

Turns out, Parric was rather disliked by most of the Sixth District, and his death was more of an inconvenience to the maids than anyone else. It didn't make you feel better, seeing as Kylo shouldn't have killed him in the first place, but it at least reassured you that your celebratory tour hadn't gotten off to a rotten start before it could even begin. That being said, your departure happens much quicker than you expected, and without half as much fanfare.

"You should be thanking me," Kylo says as you both climb into the Finalizer again. "We didn't have to suffer anymore incessant bragging."

"Kylo, you killed a man."

Your husband waves a gloved hand as he commands the ship back into the air. "I did everyone a favor. Everyone should be thanking me, actually."

On the heels of his rather unfavorable performance in the Sixth District, visiting the Fifth District went without a hitch. The conversation was stilted, and clearly the noblesse were eager to rid themselves of your presence. However, it amused and devastated you that mostly everyone you met gave you a wide berth; you would've thought you were diseased. To make matters worse, you could tell that Kylo was clearly pleased by this development.

The plan was to leave for the Fourth District in the morning. Kylo claimed that it would seem less aggressive to arrive early, without the mask of darkness. In all actuality, you were grateful that the Fifth District passed uneventfully, because your stomach had been in knots the entire time.

You were going home.

Home, which was apparently war-torn and mostly ablaze.

Kylo reported that the Fourth District group of rebels that invaded the castle grounds hadn't advanced any. You hoped that they would draw back after your visit, because you knew without a doubt that otherwise they would find themselves slaughtered. The importance of your mission did not escape you.

"Are you ready?"

You were standing in your room, the one given to you by the noblesse of the Fifth District. Despite its distance from the Sixth District, humidity clung to you. The window had been opened by Kylo earlier in the day, after some grumbling, and it blew a warm breeze across your face.

You sigh. Kylo stands a few feet away, regarding you.

"No," you tell him honestly.

"Nothing will happen," he says. "I'll make sure of it."

You fully turn to him. "Don't make promises that you can't keep."

"I think we both very well know that I keep all of my promises."

"Anything could happen," you say. You're not in the mood for his light-hearted attempts to distract you, although it doesn't lessen your appreciation of them. "I've spent my whole life in the Fourth District, wanting an escape, and now I'm going back. And it's somehow in a worse state than when I left it."

Kylo steps forward. His voice is deep, serious. "Let me do the worrying."

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that."

"Oh?" There's no masking his surprise.

You inhale. "I want to go to my district alone."

A flash of an emotion across his face, too quick for you to identify. "No."

"No?" You flinch back. You expected him to reject, but not so blatantly. "It's my district, Kylo. I know what's best for it. When they see you, they're just going to be reminded of what you've subjected them to in the past. Let me be the hope for the future."

"No. It's too risky. I won't let you."

You lift your chin. "I wasn't asking for your permission."

"Then why bring it up?"

"Because, I wanted you to know that I've already made my mind up." You're engulfed in flames, in self-righteousness. As you breeze past Kylo, you hope that he can feel the warmth. "Anyways, I've already arranged for you to meet with the lord of the Third District a day early. He's eager to show you their culture. I'll join you at the original date after I'm done."

Kylo says your name, but you don't hear the rest of his protest as you flee from the room, shutting the door behind you.

You see the smoke first, trailing through the sky like a scarf of destruction. The fires have mostly been put out. Ashes float and stick in your hair as you depart from the ship. Seeing as you sent Kylo early to the Third District, you took a Fifth District ship, which subsequently made coming here on your own easier. A quick severing.

You're not sure what to expect. The ground is charred, burnt away, as you make your way towards the center of the district. Wrapping your thin jacket tighter around yourself, you compose a smile on your face as the first figures reveal themselves.

They say your name like a question. "Are you alone?"

"It's just me," you tell them.

A moment passes, as if they're trying to determine whether or not to trust you. You continue, "My husband brings his best wishes. But I chose to come alone."

"How do we know this isn't a trap? An ambush?" One of the figures says. As you draw closer and your vision clears, inhibited by the falling ash, you realize that it's an old classmate of yours

"It would be an ambush of one," you joke lamely. They don't laugh. "Our intention is to remedy relations in the kingdom, not destroy them."

"Then you'll let us check you."

You nod your consent. The figures — two men and one woman, one of the men being your classmate — form a triangle around you. The woman designates herself to do the search, patting her hands over your body until she's satisfied that you're clear. She steps back.

"Please," you say. "I want to go home."

The main meeting hall in your district isn't far from where you were, but the distance seems to stretch on forever. There's no going straight there, as it might've been before — now, you have to dodge fallen buildings and trees, rubble, fires still blazing. People peer at you from the shadows. By the time you finally arrive to the meeting hall, it feels as if all of the air has been stolen from your lungs.

Residents of your village are crammed into the pews, at least those still erected. They line the back walls. And for how many people there are, they still give you space as you cross the aisle to the main podium.

"Welcome," a voice says. It's not the Village Leader who greets you, but a man that you vaguely recognize as a neighbor.

Ice shoots down your spine. He watched as you were dragged from your house, and did nothing.

"This is madness," you mutter to him.

"Things have changed since you've been gone."

You grimace. "Clearly."

"These are not the same people that you left," he tells you. "But I can see it in your eyes that neither are you."

"You're right," you say. "I'm much stronger now."

Chatter fills the meeting hall. In an admittedly unfair display of power, you fling out one hand, and the doors to the building slam closed. The chatter immediately ceases, and their attention turns to you. Slowly, you lower your hand.

"I have a lot to say. And you need to listen."

The silence usually would've hindered you, frightened you. But instead it emboldens you to continue, a reminder that despite your upbringing, you are their queen, and hopefully their savior as well.

You try to garner that boldness. "You know my story. But what you don't know is, after the attack on the palace during my wedding ceremony, I was taken back to the rebel base." A few murmurs at this. "I spoke to the former queen, and discussed her plans to reclaim the throne."

Someone shouts, "The royal family needs to die!"

"Watch your mouth," you snap. "A member of the royal family stands amongst you."

You're not sure where your spirit comes from. Perhaps from a life of being ignored.

"While I do not condone all of the actions of the royal family, my family, I must say this: a terrible evil has corrupted the palace. And we will not see justice until it is taken down." You swallow. "I need your help in this endeavor."

Arguments arise, shattering the silence.

"What are you talking about?" Your neighbor — Kline, you think his name is — hisses. "You know that we wish to dismantle the royal family. Why do you speak of aiding them?"

Speaking loud enough for your voice to be heard, you say, "The alternative is an even worse darkness than we've already experienced. Or this—" you hold your arms out to encompass the meeting hall, "— chaos. While I do not wish to return to life as we knew it, I wish to return to an even better one. This lifestyle is not sustainable."

"And we're supposed to trust you?"

You turn, addressing the accuser. "Aren't I the one that you started this whole thing for? Why not join arms with the rebels, and ensure a better world for ourselves and our children? I will personally ensure that the royal family does not hold as much power as before."

"I trust her."

A voice, a familiar one. One of your stepsisters steps from the crowd, looking tired and haggard. Her eyes shine. "We treated her poorly, all of us, when we didn't help her. Especially me. And yet her only desire is to help us in return. Does that not speak to her authenticity?"

A feeling of sadness wells inside you. You blink gratefully at her as the crowd loudly debates the logic of joining you. Your other stepsister, and mother, are nowhere to be found.

"How would we do this? If we did agree," Kline asks, after ordering the villagers to quiet.

You knew this question would be asked, but you weren't entirely sure yourself. "I will have to confer with the former Queen's rebels and devise a plan. They wanted me here first to rally your support." Studying the crowd, you add, "It won't be easy. I fear that it will involve storming the castle. The royal adviser Palpatine must die."

Kline echoes, "Palpatine?"

In as simple of terms as you can manage, you explain how Palpatine has darkened Kylo's mind since his boyhood. You tell the crowd that you will work on defeating this darkness, but to truly implement their vision for a better life they must kill Palpatine and free Kylo of his grasp. "Just, please, tell me that you will agree," you plea. 

"I think we should do it," your stepsister says. There's a murmur of agreements, but an equal amount of skepticism in the crowd.

"She's right," Kline says, speaking up. "We can't continue to live in a state of turmoil."

"But we already told the rebels no!"

You smile grimly. "I'm sure that they will understand if you change your mind."

Arguments break out in the meeting hall. Kline pulls you aside, behind the platform where there's a semblance of privacy. His grip on your arm is firm. "You're serious about this."

Not a question, a statement.

"I've never been more sure of something in my life."

"And you think we have a shot?"

You don't want to lie, but if you don't get their help, then there's no way. Leia said it herself that they would need everyone. "I do," you tell him. "If we're together. I can't speak to what will happen if Palpatine isn't stopped."

Kline studies you for a moment, then nods. "I'll work on convincing everyone. But it might take some time."

"The latest I can give you is by the end of the tour."

"That's only three days!"

"I believe in you." You gently free yourself from his grasp. "Do this for me. For our kingdom. For all of the girls that you didn't help before."

A low blow? Yes. Necessary? Also yes.

You duck back into the crowd. It doesn't take you long to find who you're looking for: your stepsister. She's drifted off by herself, but her eyes find yours, and she meets you halfway in the mass of swarming bodies. Your name is like a prayer on her lips, "I'm so sorry, I --"

"Let's go somewhere quieter. Is our home still standing?"

She grimaces. "Define standing."

You both stand in the street and face the rubble of your house. It's been decimated, practically, all but a few remaining stones and the doorframe to the front door. You ghost your fingers over the claw marks still visible from when you were dragged through it by the Stormtroopers. Who would've guessed what would've happened, and now here you were.

"Tell me everything," you say, voice soft.

Her face contorts slightly, as if recalling a bad memory. "Things went downhill pretty fast after you left. It..it got out that Mom had been hiding us." She interrupts herself with a near sob. "We should've done something, spoken out against her, I can't tell you how sorry I am --"

"Stop." You cut her off. You're not in the mood for forgiveness, not yet. "Keep going."

She gathers herself for a moment, then proceeds. "People came and they tried to burn down the house. They got most of it," she says, nudging some of the burnt rubble. "When we fled, they captured us, telling us that we were the culmination of the kingdom's greed and wealthy privilege, that we had the chance to avoid the suffering that others had. We were given a chance to repent but...I was the only one."

"What happened to your mother and sister?" You ask. You're afraid to hear the answer.

"Killed. Hanged." Tears swam in her eyes. "They wanted to hurt me too, but they thought that I might be able to be used as a barter or something. But then we stopped accepting food shipments and attacking kingdom officers...it's been awful. But hopefully things will change now that they've heard from you. We all thought you were going to die like the other brides."

"Not yet, anyways," you answer.

"What is the prince like? Is he as horrible as everyone says?"

"Worse," you reply. The faintest of a smile plays on your lips. "But also infinitely better."

Your stepsister wipes at her tears, and for the first time since you've known her, she looks at you with something affectionate, familiar. Like real sisters. "You love him."

"I don't love him," you protest, but you divert your gaze. 

Did you love him?  You felt an immense amount of things for Kylo, most of which you couldn't possibly explain to anyone else. Irritation. Anger. Sorrow. Exasperation. Respect. But love? You tested the idea, rolling it around in your mind. 

"You've never been a good liar," your stepsister teases. "It's okay to love."

You tilt your head toward the sky, with its ribbons of grey smoke, and you exhale. "I love him as much as I can, but I suppose that I won't fully be able to love him until he's free. He harbors so much resentment. And pain. I know that I can love again but I need someone who can love me as I love them, and he can't. Not yet. But hopefully someday."

"He's lucky to have you," she whispers. 

"I just hope that I'm doing the right thing. I don't want to end up turning him against me."

Your stepsister gently touches your wrist. "You've always done so much for others, putting yourself first. Promise me that after all of this -- when he's free of the dark magic, and he will be," she adds, "that you'll let him love you. Let someone else take care of you for once."

"I might be able to do that," you tell her. You exchange a glance. 

And then, before you're even aware of what's happening, you both collapse into each other's arms and reward yourself with an embrace that speaks a million more words then you could ever hope to bring to life. You hug your sister for the first time, and for the first time truly believe that you will succeed in your endeavors. 

Part Fourteen

- - -

@juniperwoodwell

@judypahtootee

@eternal-mikrokosmos

[kylowritten]

Requests are open!!

Send me requests you might have. I love any reason to write more Kylo and ADCU🥰 (while also still working on “If the Slipper Fits”)

[kylowritten]

Happy Star Wars Day!!

In honor of May the Fourth, here’s Part Nine of “If the Slipper Fits” from Kylo’s perspective. Enjoy😉

(All of the same warnings from Part Nine)

“On your knees.”

Kylo pushes his chair back from the table, watching as you settle yourself between his legs. He’s had entire kingdoms — entire armies — kneel before him, but none of it can compare to the sight of you at his command. It makes his cock hard, painfully so.

You, perfectly submissive, mouth open slightly. You look at him like he is worthy of worship and sacrifice, of pain and surrender and deserving of the power he holds. His entire life, Kylo has been looked at with contempt and thinly veiled skepticism; since he could remember, people were afraid of his potential, and so he matched himself to their assumptions.

But you…you were free of those expectations, in that moment. Not fear. But admiration.

He snarls, “Don’t make me ask you again.”

Kylo needs your lips on his cock. The desire burns in the pit of his stomach. But instead of giving him what he wants (of course), you grab a napkin and start dabbing the front of his pants. He barely manages to suppress the groan that builds in his throat — you press the napkin against his hardening cock, running over the sensitive parts of his inner thighs. It invokes thoughts of your hands, your fingers, fuck, your mouth.

You go up farther. He shifts uncomfortably. His cock strains against his pants, and he’s not sure how much longer he can handle the pressure.

He grabs a fistful of your hair, close to your scalp, and jerks your head back. You gasp in response, the sound crashing over him. “Enough,” he says. “With your mouth.”

The napkin drifts to the ground.

Kylo holds you in place while he fumbles for his belt, a sense of relief staking him as it falls away, quickly followed by his pants. His cock slaps up against his stomach, greeted by the cool air, and this time he allows the groan to leave his lips.

He can’t take it any longer — Kylo fists himself, grateful for the chance to relive his discomfort. A bead of pre-cum glints in the dim lighting, and he spreads it over his aching head before resuming fisting his shaft. “What are you waiting for?”

You move forward and his anticipation ratchets but instead of giving him what he wants (again, he thinks in frustration) you start to ghost kisses over his thighs. Tongue darting out, you cover the expanse of sensitive skin and over each of his balls, before an expression of determination crosses your features. Kylo’s head tilts back as — finally — you close your lips on his cock.

There’s a moment that he transcends from the Feast Hall, suspended from outside of his own body as you please him. Ever since he first laid eyes on you, he’s dreamt of this moment, of your perfect lips and the warmth of your mouth. You take him expertly further, gliding his cock over your tongue and down your throat.

“There’s no rush, little mouse,” Kylo tells you. With a swift, decisive movement, he tightens his grip on your hair, effectively immobilizing you.

Wine stains your lips, joined by strings of saliva.

You impatiently reach for him, but he growls, and keeps you in place. “Just your mouth,” he orders.

You breathlessly reply, “Yes.”

“Is that any way to address your prince?” Kylo asks you, leaning closer as he holds your hair.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

You continue your steady rhythm, bobbing up and down on his cock like you can’t get enough. Kylo feels a difference, that you’re trying to go slower, and even though he asked for this, it heightens the knot tightening in his stomach. The fluidity of your mouth, the suction of your cheeks and the work of your tongue, he wishes that he could remain at your mercy forever.

Suddenly, he decides that he’s had enough of your games that you’re playing — he is the prince, after all, soon to be king, and he’s never been afraid of taking what he wants.

Kylo slams his cock into your mouth. He snaps his hips again and again, pursuing the passion that only your lips can provide. He will teach you a lesson not to disrespect him, to show him the same devotion that you do while sucking his cock. The familiar red haze that consumes his vision slowly begins to leak into his mind and influencing his movements.

Eyes closed, he says, “You’ll remember this.” His breath nearly tears from his chest as he thrusts into your mouth over and over. Incensed, he adds, “You’ll remember this the next time that you don’t listen. The next time that you open this smart mouth.”

Tension building, Kylo withdraws his cock so that he may pump it himself. He’s familiar with his own pleasure. The wetness from your mouth makes it effortless for his hand to stroke up and down, inciting a streak of expletives to leave his lips as he drowns in waves of ecstasy.

He opens his eyes to once again commit the sight of you to memory. He hisses slightly as he witnesses your hand between your legs.

Sweat runs in rivulets down his temple as his climax approaches. “Did I say you could touch yourself? Do not make me delay my own pleasure in order to teach you another lesson in obedience.”

A beat passes, and then Kylo rears his cock back into your mouth, warmth encompassing him. It’s all that it takes to achieve his orgasm, and he releases into your throat, keeping you still until he’s done and the stars have vanished from his vision, and so that he can watch you swallow his cum. He keeps his eyes locked with yours as his cock softens and only then does he remove it.

Tears run down your cheeks. Your hair is disheveled from where his hand grabbed it, and a mixture of salvia and cum coat your chin. Kylo forces open your mouth and inserts his thumb, pressing down on your tongue as he grabs your chin and inspects you. You look breathtaking — unraveled, ruined, wasted, and despite your look of defeat, there’s that familiar glimmer in your eye. There’s a sharp twinge in his chest, one that Palpatine has taught him to ignore.

Kylo forcefully releases your chin and pushes you away so that he may stand.

He calmly adjusts himself and slides the buckle through his belt. He looks down at you in disgust. You are a distraction. Palpatine was right. And he gave in to you so willing, so easily, as if he hadn’t been working towards total control of his emotions. He’s repulsed at himself and his actions. Kylo’s molars grind together.

“You cannot accuse me of not teaching you again,” he says evenly. He can’t stand to meet your eyes. He’s too afraid of what he will find. “Maybe now you will listen.”

Kylo turns on his heel and storms off.

His hand clenches again and again. Desperately he wishes that he had his lightsaber, and that he could destroy everything in his path for forgetting his training. Fortunately, no one intercepts him as he stalks to his room — he needs time alone.

To reflect.

He’s only just settled on the edge of his bed when there’s a knock. He half-stands, more of a crouch, really, body tense and coiled. “What?”

It’s the servant: Sa’iak.

The boy steps nervously into the room. “I just wanted to check that everything is to your liking,” he says.

Kylo’s gaze sweeps the room. Amusement tickles the back of his mind; yesterday he had ravaged the place with just his fists and the Force. He hadn’t been back since. And before when there had been wood splinters and torn wallpaper, destruction and decimation, now the furniture was replaced and the walls fixed. The urge to destroy, to ruin, clearly was not one that he could easily resist.

“It is,” Kylo replies. “But I am missing one piece.”

“And that is?” Sa’iak asks.

“My wife.”

Just like his room, he had made a mess of you. Both were his source of comfort — his room, a shelter against the outside world, and you, his wife, who gazed upon him in a way that he still had not forgotten. He wanted you here. He did not like to apologize, did not know how. But he would try to remedy the situation just as Sa’iak had remedied the chaos of his room.

“Where-where is she?” The servant boy asks.

Kylo tells him, and explains that he must bring her back. Sa’iak leaves.

He drifts while he waits. His anger, with you and with himself, simmers. He gazes out the ceiling-length window to the dense forest below. Shadows shift in the dying light, and he thinks of the times he spent there as a boy, darting between trees and under brush; back when he went by a different name, a name that still resides within him no matter how much he’s tried to stomp it out.

Kylo feels you before he sees you, the palpable force of your anger and disappointment in him.

Without turning, he says, “I can feel your anger. Do not blame the servant for the grievances you have with me.”

“His name is Sa’iak.”

Kylo knows this already, he just chose not to use it. Names require respect, status, and the boy was not of higher respect or status as him.

“Sit down on the bed,” Kylo orders you.

He hears the bed sink as you obey.

Kylo turns. You’re basked in darkness, so that only the finer details of you are revealed to him. He crosses the room, then takes his turn kneeling before you. His fingers graze your knees, your shins, the curve of your ankle, before finally removing your shoes. He moves to your bodice next, carefully choosing each movement.

You breathe, “What are you doing?”

Kylo doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know what he would say if he did. His jaw flexes as he reserves every inch of his control not to smother your skin with kisses as he drops each strap of your dress. Eventually he gets to the point of stripping you entirely of clothing, and his gaze drops to your exposed body before fixing on your face.

When he offers you his hand, you take it without hesitation.

Kylo guides you to his bathroom.

The sight of the bandage on your side pains him. Even though the lesson, the first one he gave you, was necessary, he did not want you hurt because of him. He gives in to the temptation to kiss you, moving your hair aside and brushing his lips over your shoulders. Still hovering, he gently peels off the bandage and brings you to the tub.

When he entered the bathroom, he used the Force to run the water: warm, but not scorching.

It envelopes you.

Kylo pushes up his sleeves. His knees hit the tiled floor. He wants to touch every part of you, imbued you with his apology. Kylo is careful to wipe your mouth and face, to erase the tracks of your tears and the culmination of his bliss. He runs the washcloth along your limbs. Kylo tries his best to ignore the lingering anger he feels, to focus on you instead.

After the bath he dresses your wound again. You thank him, and so close, he feels that twinge again in his chest.

What are you doing, boy?

Kylo tenses. He’s skilled in covering his emotions.

What do you want, he replies.

Palpatine says, You’re with her again, aren’t you?

It doesn’t matter.

Come to me.

Kylo can’t deny his request.

But he will take his time. “You need to rest,” he tells you softly.

He won’t leave until he’s sure that you’re okay. Kylo scoops you off the tub. He draws your warm, soft body to his chest, the flowery scent of your hair and skin making him lightheaded as he then brings you back into the bedroom.

Kylo gently lays you down on the bed. His bed.

You wriggle under the covers, and ask, “Are you going to rest, too?”

Kylo swallows. He wants to lay besides you more than he has ever wanted anything. But it would be dangerous. He cannot refuse Palpatine. Fighting the urge to slide under the covers and align your body with his, he says, “No. I have a matter that needs addressing.”

“You’re risking everything — all of your progress — for her,” Palpatine snarls. They’re in the throne room.

Kylo has one knee on the ground. “I’m not.”

“You are!” Palpatine is enraged. “I felt you and your feelings for her. I told you that you couldn’t care for this girl, if you were to find a wife.”

A muscle jumps beneath his eye. “I don’t.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m sorry, Master,” Kylo says, sipping his gaze to the ground. Anxiety skates across his skin, grabs his heart and squeezes.

Palpatine says, hauntily, “You know what you must do now.” His footsteps draw closer. “I thought that we were done with this. But when you disobey me, you must be punished.”

Kylo nods.

He has the scars on his back, from before.

And now he would add more.

But they were worth it, for you.

- - -

@juniperwoodwell

@judypahtootee

@eternal-mikrokosmos

[kylowritten]

If the Slipper Fits

Pairings: Kylo Ren x ForceSensitive!Reader

Summary: Nobody wants to be the woman whose foot fits that slipper.

Warnings: 18+ only; Kylo is somewhat dominating, they finally have sex, female on top, slight sexual harassment (verbal and physical), death

Word Count: 4.5k

A/N: After an eternity, I’ve finally written the next part! I apologize about the wait, my life has been hectic and Kylo has had to kind of sit on the back burner. But don’t you worry: all this time has given me the chance to hammer out the details of the rest of this story. And I’m so excited😈

Part Twelve

Arrangements are made for your absence. Palpatine volunteers, so graciously, to oversee Kylo's duties until he returns, with the promise to message him if anything goes awry. You wonder whether or not this had all been his plan. There's no use in bringing it up to Kylo, though, seeing as he would dismiss the speculation; you've barely seen head or tail of your husband since your confrontation in the strategy room.

It incites a ball of dread in your stomach, thinking about all of the time you're going to be spending with him. Would it be awkward? Would he ignore you the whole time? You weren't even sure how well you would be received by the districts. It didn't escape you that people would see right through your plan for what it really was: a publicity stunt.

"Do I really need this many dresses?"

Lyssa is helping you pack. You leave tomorrow. On your bed and scattered across your room are various dresses of various styles. She finishes smoothening out the tulle skirt of a golden dress, then says, "If anything, you need more but I'm being reasonable."

"This is reasonable?"

"You're visiting six districts," Lyssa explains. "And I suspect there will be dinners and other inescapable social gatherings."

You count on your fingers. "Couldn't I just wear like...two dresses?"

"Two dresses?" Lyssa repeats. The horror in her voice and on her face suggests that you might've well told her to cut her own arm off and eat it. "You are a queen now."

You groan.

"Hello, Your Majesty," Lyssa says.

You pry your hands from your face. Kylo stands in the doorway of your room, swathed in armor and black fabric. In his deep, mechanical voice, he says, "This isn't necessary."

"What's not necessary, sir?" Lyssa asks. She starts to wring her hands.

He sweeps a gloved hand, encompassing the room in its entirety. "This. I've already selected everything that she will wear. You're dismissed."

You try to catch Lyssa's eye but she scurries out of the room. You plant your hands on your hips.

"That wasn't necessary. You can't ignore me for, like, half a month and then be rude to my friend," you tell him.

"I didn't want to waste her time."

"You could've told her nicely," you say. You frown. "And what do you mean you've already selected everything? Lyssa was trying to help."

"I picked out what you're going to wear."

If you had been drinking, you likely would've spit it out. But since you were not, you kind of just make a sound like you were trying to blow bubbles with your mouth. "What?"

"You're surprised," he says. His words curl with amusement.

"Yes, I'm surprised!"

"You doubt me."

"Well, we haven't exactly been friendly," you point out.

Kylo takes a few steps forward. His presence is physically demanding, somehow larger and more powerful than the space he occupies. "I've studied your body. I happen to think that I know it quite well."

A blush burns your cheeks. "That doesn't mean — I would like a choice."

"It's one less you have to make."

"I don't mind making it," you protest. "I'm not just some doll for you to dress up."

The tone in his voice has you imagining one of his thick brows disappearing into his hairline. "And you were quite content with Lyssa choosing them for you? It appeared to me that you were unhappy with the process. I thought to ease your...pain," he says, landing on the word.

You feel a crack, a fissure form in your heart and in your anger. But you were stubborn, and you weren't going to let it go so easily. Traitorously, your voice is much softer than before.

"I would at least like to have the illusion of choice," you say. "Or to see the dresses."

Kylo replied, "It's a surprise."

"Should I be afraid?"

"Are you, afraid?"

You stare into the visor of his helmet, lined with chrome. "No," you say. "I'm not."

The plan is to arrive in the Sixth District by nightfall, attend a dinner with the Lord, then spend the next day touring the district. Nervous doesn’t cover it. Unlike Kylo, who had grown up in royalty, you didn't know the proper etiquette or social expectations; while your father grew up relatively wealthy, he hadn't hired you a tutor or governess.

"You'll do fine," Lyssa says, patting your hands.

You smile briefly. "I wish you could come with me."

"I do too," the handmaiden says. "But the prince was very clear that this trip be private."

You felt very small standing in the hangar of the First Order palace. The walls were chrome and black transparasteel, stretching far over your head and hundreds of yards away. Dozens of ships lined the hangar as well as rows of white-clad Stormtroopers, filing in and out of service in an intricate system unknown to you.

Tilting your head back, you regard the massive ship before you. "Is this what we're flying?"

"We'll be taking my ship."

Kylo strides into the room, cowl whirling behind him. You blink at him. "Your ship?"

The prince breezes past you. You follow his form a few rows over, to a ship with large, wicked-looking wings tucked close to the main body. While the body of the ship is small, circular, the wings protrude into the open space above your heads, taller than other ships. Your throat dries.

"The Finalizer," Lyssa whispers to you.

Kylo has already commanded the ship's platform to extend, which hits the tiled floor with a sharp ting. He boards the ship without another word.

"How is there any room for us in there?" You whisper-ask Lyssa.

She smiles, somewhat knowingly, with a touch of chagrin. "I told you, private." A sheepish expression crosses her face. "I hear that the prince is quite a talented pilot."

"Oh great," you answer. Just another thing he succeedes in.

"You probably should get going. You're going to do wonderful," she includes. You hug her goodbye, then approach the entry ramp to the Finalizer. There's a niggling sensation at the back of your mind to look over your shoulder, but you straighten your shoulders instead and ignore it.

Footsteps echo off the ramp. You enter the ship and trepidation fills you — you're not sure what you expect, judging by the outside of the Finalizer. The inside is the size of a supply closet. And, occupying it fully with his massive shoulders, is Kylo Ren. He sits in the only seat, legs spread, an air about him as if inviting you to say something about it.

You sniff and defiantly raise your chin. There's not much space to cross to get to him, perhaps half a step. Settling on the closest leg, you perch on his lap. Immediately one of his large hands snags you around the waist and pulls you in, so that your weight is fully on him.

His hand on your waist doesn't move.

"Ready?" He asks.

Breathlessly, you say, "Ready."

You don't want to reveal your surprise at the situation. Again, you're playing another game that he's unfairly thrust you in.

Using the hand not possessivly holding your waist, he punches a few buttons on the ship's dashboard and moves the gear shift. A loud roaring sound fills the cabin of the ship and, with the high-pitched, mechanical whine that you've grown associated with First Order ships, it rockets out of the hangar. The powerful force presses you even closer into Kylo so that his chest is flush with your back.

"You'll get used to it," he says.

Your cheeks burn. You don't think you would ever get used to the strength of the ships, or the feel of Kylo's body close to yours. Your entire body is on edge, a thousand exposed wires, frayed and bursting with electricity.

"We're starting in the Sixth District?" You ask, after a substantial amount of time passes. You pose the question mostly as a way to distract yourself from Kylo.

Kylo makes a low sound of confirmation. "Yes."

"And...what can I expect?"

"Since we're arriving late, we're to meet the Lord at his estate. He's throwing a feast in our honor, supposedly."

Your mouth dries. "How nice."

"Nervous?"

"No."

"Then why are you squirming so?" Kylo asks, his voice thickening.

You freeze. You hadn’t noticed what you were doing, but now that he brought attention to it, you realized that it had elicited a rather...large...response from him. His cock is hard. At first you're embarrassed by this, but then twistedly triumphant. You wiggle your ass a little bit more.

"What do you mean?" You ask innocently.

Kylo growls. His hand on your waist holds tighter. "Don't play with me."

"I'm not."

You prompt him with more questions about the Sixth District and the dinner, interspersing them with more accidental brushes of your ass, both of you ignoring the lengthening of his cock with each one. He thought he was being clever, taking you on his ship with an obvious lack of space, but you could be just as cunning.

He's in the middle of explaining something when he curses under his breath, and slams down on one of the buttons. He grabs you and, somehow in the tiny space, maneuvers you so that you're facing him and straddling his lap.

Your hands fall on his shoulders, for no where else to go. "What are you doing?"

"Autopilot."

Kylo touches his mask so that the visor detaches, then removes it altogether. His hair, thick and dark like night, frames his face. Eyes, equally dark and imbued with passion, trail over your face. His anger, his unbridled intensity, invokes a primal response in you that you otherwise would've been embarrassed by, if not for the fact that you were looking at him just as hungrily.

Your lips crash together. For the first time, you think, but the thought is quickly drowned out by the frenzy of his gloved hands. He skates them over your back, the curve of your ass. You gasp into his mouth as he brings one hand up to cup your breast, brushing a thumb over your nipple. As if there's a tether, you feel a jolt of pleasure between your legs, in your cunt, a heady connection that he strokes again and again.

Finally he tears your bodice aside, capturing the same nipple with his mouth. He bites down, hard. You yelp in surprise, the sound smothered in your throat as he then assuages the burst of pain by greedily sucking it between his plush lips.

You tilt your head back in ecstasy. He teases and massages your nipples with his tongue and mouth, then repeats the process with the other.

It takes a moment for you to collect your thoughts and launch into a counter response. You fumble for his belt, which is much trickier in the contained space. Kylo growls impatiently, then rips it off himself. Eager to help, you slide his pants down — over his hips, his ass, the thick muscle of his thighs. It reminds you of the time at the dinner table; the way his cock springs forth, liberated, except this time you know that it's going not in your mouth but your pussy.

"Fuck," you say.

Kylo grabs fistfuls of your dress, lifting your skirts around your thighs and nudging your thin panties to the side. "Grab onto me," he instructs, deep in his throat.

You obey, but only one hand reaches his shoulder to brace yourself before he bucks his hips and completely sheathes his cock inside you. You cry out in shock, and in pleasure, but have only a moment to ruminate before he ruts inside you again and again with unrestrained fervor.

Each thrusts feels as if he's about to cleave you in two, sending a splitting sensation through your entire body. He holds you close and allows no time for you to recover.

"Oh, Kylo," you gasp. You feel your first orgasm begin to peak, the tightening in your thighs. Your head swims.

In a surprising move, his grip on control slackens, and he allows you to take over. Without skipping a beat, you snap your hips against his, riding out your own orgasm. Bliss washes over you. An explosion of stars erupts in front of your eyes and you sink down onto him as your orgasm subsides, like the tide from the shore.

"Good, little mouse," Kylo hums in approval. His strokes arrive slower, more deliberate.

You take the opportunity to stretch your legs, rising up and down in quick, short intervals, so that the head of his cock slides in and out between your folds, slick with desire. He groans in response to the pace that you've set — it doesn't last long. He grabs your hips once more.

There's no room for you to move now. He holds you firmly in place, resuming his claim on control. You squirm and wiggle as he fucks you with vigorous intensity, darkness clouding over his face, the expression of someone locked in battle. And that's what it feels like — a war, your bodies the weapons — ravaging against one another as if there could only be one to leave unscathed by it all.

His lips press against your skin, your breast, following the curve of your collar bone down as far as he could along your sternum. A trail of fire, blazing throughout you and igniting your heart.

He coaxes pleasure from you effortlessly, over and over, until, finally, his throat bobs and he spills his seed inside you. Kylo holds you close as he finishes. You feel ruined, wasted. Fatigue clings to your bones as Kylo unseats himself from you and removes himself far enough away to pull on his pants. You've barely managed to gather your wits before he snaps the helmet in place.

"Get ready," he says, as cool and indifferent as ever. You don't exactly expect him to wax poetry, but any kind of acknowledgment would've been nice.

You huff. "For what?"

"We're here."

The sound of steam releasing slices through the cabin of the ship: the door. Kylo untangles himself from you as you panic, hurrying to fix your hair and clothes. You curse as you hear him greeting someone. With a quick glance in the reflective surface of one of the interior panels, you resign to your slightly haggard appearance and then join your husband.

A myriad of thoughts bombard you; first, that the Sixth District stretched far beyond your imagination, with great, swaying trees and the scent of brine wrapping around you; second, you were sorely unprepared for your arrival. An entire entourage welcomed you as you — admittedly, quite wobbly — made your way down the ramp to Kylo's side.

"And this must be the blushing bride!" A man, the one you imagined Kylo had been talking to, beams at you from his rather astute observation.

You arrange your own smile. "It's a pleasure."

"Ah, you're quite fortunate," the man tells Kylo, elbowing him playfully. You would not suspect that he would be one to tolerate such behavior but his posture remains unaffected, although there's no telling how he might've reacted behind his mask. "Pardon my manners, my name is Lord Trion. I am so honored that you have chosen my district to visit first on your campaign."

When Kylo doesn't reply, you realize that he must be waiting for you. "Ah, um, thank you for having us," you tell the man.

Lord Trion grins. If he noticed your blunder, he doesn't act like it; perhaps, one of the benefits you can reap from your new martial status. Having Kylo by your side was quite like having an overly possessive animal as a companion, one prone to striking out at the least predictable moment.

"Come, come. I must give you a tour before the dinner begins. It will be spectacular, to honor the happy couple," Lord Trion announces.

He whisks you both away, although giving Kylo a considerable amount of distance. The entourage follows after, who you assume is an assembly of noblesse and other notable Sixth District representatives. They chatter excitedly behind you, their whispered exchanges drowned out by the gradually increasing sound of waves.

The lord rambles on about the successes and statistics of his district, though you cease paying attention. The Finalizer landed on a strip of sandy pavement surrounded by lush greenery, which unfolds into dunes and glimpses of blue water as you follow the path. Seagulls swoop overhead. You would've enjoyed the moment — if not for the trail of Kylo's expense dribbling from your thighs down your legs.

There was no way for anyone to witness it, but it still made you vaguely uncomfortable.

I told you not to play with me.

You glance sideways at Kylo, who, beneath the protection of the mask, appears deeply enthralled with Lord Trion's boastful monologue.

You could've helped me clean up, at least, you mentally shoot back.

We had no time. I wouldn't want to be rude to our generous hosts, Kylo replies. His voice assumes a lilting tone you're not familiar with. Besides, I couldn't wait one more minute to hear about the benefits of Trion's leadership.

You pause. Was that...a joke? Was Kylo making a joke, and not cruelly at your expense?

You giggle. Trion breaks from his speech to look at you quizzically, and you quickly smother it with a weak cough. You got me in trouble.

You tend to do that quite well yourself, Kylo remarks.

The rest of the way to Lord Trion's castle, Kylo and you swap mockeries about the Sixth District and Trion's less than subtle attempt at appealing to the king to be welcomed on his Court. It's not until you've breached the castle doors that you realize you've never felt so relaxed with Kylo, so calm, dwelling in a companionship you hadn't before. You didn't want to admit it, but it was nice — pleasant, existing without inhibitions.

Behave, Kylo tells you, after you project to him your best imitation of Trion, including the distractive nature of his bushy moustache.

You respond with a secretive smile.

Trion leads you through the castle. It boasts plenty of flamboyant decorations and artwork, a great handful dealing with the ocean or marine life. Finally you end your journey in the Feast Hall, where there's another group of admirers for you to meet and be introduced to.

Kylo hangs back silently, not needing an introduction. You asquiesce to the greetings and hand shakes, until you reach the very last noblesse. A man who Trion calls Parric, with a young-looking face and reddish, receding hair. He eagerly clasps your hand in his.

"No one told me how beautiful the new queen was," Parric all but purrs. He brings your hand to his lips and kisses each knuckle in a display of unnecessary worship.

Like a storm on the horizon, you feel Kylo draw closer.

"Your district is lovely," you tell Parric, prizing your hand from him. Although sheltered in your own district, you're more than aware of the type of men not to trust, and Parric fell directly under that category.

Parric replies, "Even lovelier now that you're here, Your Highness."

Thankfully, you don't have time to answer before Lord Trion is hauling you over to the massive dinner table, where two specially crafted chairs sit — one at the head, and to the right — for you and Kylo. You sit, somewhat reluctantly. A prickle of unease ghosts across your skin as Parric deigns to sit besides you.

Trion engages in Kylo in a (rather one-sided) conversation about the exports of the district. You hold fast to your silverware, as if it might protect you from unwanted interaction. Of course, though, the first course is just drinks, which offers little to no distraction. At least if you were eating you could use the excuse of not wanting to be rude.

Parric clears his throat. "You must be tired from your long trip."

A memory of Kylo rutting into you flashes through your mind. "Very," you say, knowing that Kylo is more than likely listening in.

"Tell me about your new life as queen."

You vaguely give him an explanation, skipping over the parts of rebellion, arguments, and various sexual encounters.

"Hm, how fascinating," Parric replies, although you've left out all of the good parts. "Well, we are so grateful that the prince has found a wife. And such a beautiful one at that."

The dinner proceeds with several poor flirting attempts from Parric. You shovel food into your mouth to keep from responding, though it's hardly necessary; your new best friend seems to quite enjoy hearing himself talk. You barely even get a chance to speak to Kylo. He only brushes his fingers across your knee and thigh on occasion, with the effect of blazing fire across your skin. Near the end of dinner, you eventually grab his hand, and he does nothing to pull away.

You smile at this, but evidently it gives the wrong impression to Parric, who had just asked you to dance. A swell of music rises.

Accept it, Kylo says. But if he gets handsy again he will no longer have hands.

"Sure," you tell Parric.

Guiding you to the dance floor, you realize fairly quickly that you have no idea how to dance. At least, whichever one they’re doing now. You open your mouth to tell Parric but he sweeps you into his arms and onto the dance floor; evidently, he doesn’t mind you mashing his toes.

He takes the lead, imparting no effort to actually teach you the dance. Parric strings you along like a kite blowing in the breeze, tethered on a string but always somewhat lacking behind.

“I should sit back down, I bet my husband is looking for me —” you try.

Parric shuts down your excuse. “Nonsense. He is fine! Look. Our Lord is rather engaging.”

You do look, despite yourself. Kylo lounges in the specially crafted chair, somehow managing to look both dominant and uncaring. While not obviously facing you, you can feel him prickle at your subconscious, the spider-like touch of his awareness. “Hm,” is all you say.

Is he making you uncomfortable?

No, you insist. He’s just…persistent.

I would like to persistently hurt him.

The idea alarms you. As much as you wish you were anywhere else, you know that Kylo wouldn’t hesitate to do just that. Subsequently, you nudge Parric to the other side of the room.

“I should show you the shore at night,” Parric tells you. “It’s quite breathtaking.”

“Sounds like it,” you say.

Parric spins you into a dip, his hands moving dangerously low. “Why don’t we? I hear that a quick skinny dip into the ocean at dusk is just marvelous —”

He might as well have summoned Kylo with his words. The prince arrives within seconds, preceded by a falter in music and the natural flow of the dancing. Undoubtedly he stalked across the room in the slightly murderous way he tended to. Parric’s eyes flutter in shock and he nearly drops you.

“Your Highness —”

“Step away from my wife.”

Parric takes an, admittedly comedic, large step away from you. Kylo’s presence has ceased most of the festivities. Everyone has stopped to stare.

“Do you always propose scantily-clad activities to your guests?” Kylo growls. “To your queen, nonetheless.”

“No — no, sir.” Parric shakes his head.

You watch as Kylo fills the space between him and the other man. He leans in close, the faceplate of his helmet just inches from Parric. Parric nods enthusiastically to whatever Kylo is saying, and even offers him a shaky smile as Kylo draws away. He claps a hand on Kylo’s shoulder.

Several things then happen at once.

You don’t hear the sound of the lightsaber igniting, you barely see Kylo withdraw it at all. In the tiniest flicker of movement, he’s drawn the lightsaber from his side, cross-guard placed firmly in his fist. The lightsaber plunges almost silently into Parric’s chest, up and into his heart, protruding from the low angle that Kylo is holding the weapon at. A beat passes where it’s not yet obvious what’s even happened.

Then Kylo snaps the fiery blade of the lightsaber off, and Parric slumps to the floor.

You stare in horror as he crumbles at your feet, eyes staring straight ahead, a fizzling hole in his chest. The crowd of dancers gasp and retreat back before erupting into chaos — people are screaming and running away, although despite the upheaval of panic, you only see Kylo.

He’s looking at you. He shouldn’t have touched what’s mine.

“You shouldn’t have killed him,” you say, a sob building in your throat. “He didn’t deserve that.”

I warned you.

You sputter. “This is my fault?”

“I’m not saying that,” Kylo snaps back.

You’re preparing a response when Trion pushes through the crowd and sees Parric on the ground at your feet. His face immediately pales.

“Oh, dear,” he breathes. Worriedly, he glances from you to Kylo. “Your Highness, whatever transpired, I offer my humblest of condolences, I don’t know —”

You can’t stand to hear the rest.

Tears blur your vision as you spin on your heel and run away. People swarm in a frenzy, all pushing and elbowing to get out of the ballroom as if Kylo might launch into a full-out attack. You’re jostled from side to side until, finally, you’re spat out into an isolated corridor. Skirts balled in your fists, you sprint down the corridor until you reach the end. You wrench open the door and find yourself outside.

It’s a garden of the same tall, swaying trees and other hot-weathered plants. Sand scatters under your feet. Your shoulders heave from the effort of running, of the scene you had just watched unfold. Finding a darkened corner in the garden, you flatten yourself against the wall and then sink to the ground.

Disbelief clouds your mind.

How could Kylo do that? Perhaps you felt the whip-like change of behavior especially startling after having just a pleasant interaction with him; almost like you had forgotten who you were. This was Kylo. That was what he did.

“You’re not wrong for being afraid of my nephew,” a voice mumbles. “His temper and disposition for violence can frighten even the strongest of minds.”

A figure stands before you, glimmering like Kylo did when he appeared to you in a Force vision.

It was an older man, adorn in sweeping brown robes. A hood framed his face in shadows but you could just barely make out the hint of his mouth and greying beard.

“Luke,” you say, realization dawning on you.

He smiles, if not in a resigned manner. “I apologize about my timing. But this might actually work perfectly.”

You ask skeptically, “What work perfectly?”

“For training, of course,” the Force-user says. “My sister sent me, did she not? To teach you to unravel the dark magic imprisoning Ben’s mind. This may very well be the perfect time for our first lesson.”

- - -

@juniperwoodwell

@judypahtootee

@eternal-mikrokosmos

[kylowritten]

If the Slipper Fits

Pairings: Kylo Ren x ForceSensitive!Reader

Summary: Nobody wants to be the woman whose foot fits that slipper.

Word Count: 2.4K

Warnings: mentions of self harm

A/N: Let me know what you think about this part in the comments! Some lovely angst and forced proximity to follow next time👀

Part Eleven

You find the royal advisor tucked away near the back of the palace, where you presume is a room intended for battle strategy. There's a model of the kingdom in the center of the floor on a platform. Palpatine stands at the head of it, along with several other noblesse you don't recognize. Their heads snap up as you storm into the room.

"Get out."

No one moves.

Palpatine chuckles, somewhat awkwardly. "Your Highness, what an unexpected surprise. How can we —?"

"Get out," you repeat. Your hands are clenched into fists at your sides. When there's still no movement, your voice adopts a hardened edge. "I demand you to get out. Now."

The noblesse scurry around the table and stream past you, giving you a wide berth. You slam the door shut as the last one flees from your glare. Palpatine is staring steadily at you, still rooted in place behind the table. You recognize the hint of uncertainty in his eyes, of fear.

"What is this about?" He asks. "You didn't have to yell at them. We were in the middle of an important meeting."

You fill the space between you, stomping to the edge of the table and then laying your hands flat on the surface. The model of the kingdom flickers at the disturbance. "I know what you're doing to Kylo."

"And," he raises a brow, "what is that?"

"I saw him, in that weird room. I saw him —" your voice chokes slightly, your confidence wavering. "I saw him," you finish. "I know that it was your doing. You said yourself that you sent him away."

Palpatine studies you before answering. "I don't know what you're talking about. What the prince does on his own time is hardly my business."

"He was...he was...harming himself."

"People do many things for their own strange reasons, who am I to condemn them for it?" Palpatine asks, waving a hand. "Is that all that you came here for?"

Your molars grind together. "It is, and I won't leave until you admit your influence."

"Then you might be here for awhile, Your Highness."

Palpatine moves as if to leave, and you step in the line of his path. Your voice reaches a pitch of hysteria that you desperately wish you could've controlled: "Why are you doing this to him?"

"Why do you care?" Palpatine sneers, his entire demeanor changing.

"I—"

Why did you care?

Someone says your name, and like a puppet whose string has been pulled taunt, you whirl around to face the owner of the voice. Kylo. He stands in the doorway. There's no way you can decipher the emotionless look on his face, the way his dark gaze bounces from you to Palpatine and back. "Did I interrupt?" He asks.

"No, she was just leaving —"

"Close the door," you command Kylo, speaking over Palpatine.

Your husband obeys without question, which both surprises and pleases you. From your side, Palpatine grumbles. You shoot him a look, then take a few steps towards Kylo, hoping to appeal to him. "You can't let him hurt you."

The faintest twitch of a muscle beneath Kylo's eye. "I don't understand."

"I saw you, just now, where you were." You swallow. "I saw you hurt yourself and—and I know that he has something to do with it."

"Please tell her that she's being ridiculous," Palpatine says.

Kylo's gaze skates over the both of you again, perhaps in an effort to decide who to side with.

"I don't know what you mean," he finally replies.

Palpatine makes a celebratory sound similar to a snake hissing, or perhaps an engine. "See, I told you. Now if you would excuse me."

You hope Palpatine can feel your eyes burning into his back as you watch his retreating form. Angrily, you address Kylo, "What the fuck was that? You defended him?"

"You don't know what you're doing," he bites back. His entire body seems to shudder with barely suppressed emotion.

You jab your index finger into his chest. "He's behind this, I know it." You feel your anger slip away, slowly, giving into sadness the way the face of a cliff might break and slip into the sea. "You don't need to do that, Kylo. It doesn't matter what you've done."

"You wouldn't understand," he growls.

"You're right," you snap. "I don't."

In a burst of action, Kylo seizes your wrist then grabs you by the waist, turning and flattening you against the wall. He towers over you, the enormity of his size eclipsing everything in your vision but him.

He snarls, his dark eyes bearing down on you, intense, smoldering with anger. "He was right."

"Who?" You breathe.

"You are a distraction," he replies absently. He shakes his head, nearly imperceptible. Kylo looks as if he's torn between kissing you or killing you — you're not sure which one terrifies you more. "If I am to rule, I can't allow myself to fall victim to your...ploys. I married you because I needed to solidify our bond and strengthen my power. Nothing else."

While you weren't at all under the impression that he married you for true love, you feel this isn't the time to mention it.

"I'm not trying to...to deceive you," you say.

Kylo's throat bobs as he swallows. "No. But I am allowing myself to divert from what's important."

You can't stop yourself — you reach up and lay your hand on his cheek. He bristles like you might as well have struck him. "Hurting yourself isn't the answer, Kylo."

"It's a reminder," he says back, low and haunted. "A punishment for my behavior. It helps me focus."

You shake your head. "It's not right —"

"He knows what's best for me."

It goes without saying who he is.

"Does he? He knows what's best for you, but he lets you hurt yourself? How can you say that?"

"Pain is the best teacher," Kylo says.

"Do you really believe that?" You ask. Something in your chest feels as if it's shattering.

Kylo drops your wrist. His hand ghosts over your side where the stonebadger attacked you. "I do." He pauses, then explains, "You never would've been motivated to use the Force without this. Without the pain. It fuels us."

"Fuels you, maybe." You shove him away, if only to create space. "I can't believe you."

"Tell me I'm wrong."

It was disheartening, really, how absurdly confident Kylo was. You wanted to shout at him, or hug him, or maybe go back in time and stop Palpatine before he could dig his talons into the young Ben Solo.

"You're wrong," you spit. "And you knew I used the Force and you didn't say anything? I tried to reach out for you."

"Clearly I was occupied with other matters."

You growl in irritation. Half of you wants to tear out your hair while the other wants to grab Kylo by the shoulders and shake him. Forcing yourself to take a breath, you relax your shoulders. When you speak, it takes every modicum of patience in your body to be calm.

"Where even were you? I've never seen anything like it."

"I would hope not." Kylo stands a few feet away. It infuriates you how uneffected he is by things that cause you turmoil. "It was...in my mind, I suppose. A mental state."

You frown. Then would he have scars?

"Yes, it has lasting physical effects," he says. You forget that he can selectively hear your thoughts. "It's a place of reconciliation. Somewhere for me to go and be alone."

"But I was there," you whisper.

Kylo has the nerve to appear slightly aggrieved by this. "Yes. It seems that the bond grants you access."

"I was you," you say. You're not sure why you're telling him this. Maybe because he's the only one who would understand. "It's like I was seeing what you saw."

"I suppose it's not unexpected. You were calling for me. It must've somehow manifested you into being there with me."

You practically beg, "Please don't do it again."

"You can't demand that of me."

"I'm not," you nearly whimper, "I'm asking."

Kylo stays silent. He opens the door and stands besides it, signaling that he's done with your conversation, no doubt. Luckily, you've never been that great on picking up social cues.

"I'm being serious. Not again." You rack your brain for some reasoning, a negotiation. "If you do it again, I'll stop using the Force. I'll stop training."

"That'll only harm you."

Emboldened by your tactic, you push forward, gaining enthusiasm. "If I'm not adept in the Force, or even using it, then I'm no good to you in our bond. Useless, basically. You can't expect to have heightened power if I don't have any."

"I can make you," he replies.

"I think you underestimate my aptitude for stubbornness.”

He eyes you. "You are exceptionally stubborn."

"See?"

"Fine. I won't." Your spirit lift in triumph, then promptly plummet at his next words, "If that's your wish, then I don’t need you distracting me. I want you out of my sight."

The next few weeks pass in a blur of long days spent by yourself, exploring the palace and the surrounding grounds. You slept and read, and dabbled when you could in the Force, but mostly you stayed out of Kylo’s way.

It was exceedingly difficult considering that he had blocked himself from you, and you couldn’t exactly anticipate his whereabouts. Unless you heard the sound of his boots preceding him, you were forced to either scurry away like a frightened mouse (fitting, perhaps) or duck into doorways to avoid detection. Sometimes, you suspected he was doing it on purpose, and just because you couldn’t sense him didn’t mean that he couldn’t sense you.

And…you were bored. There had never before been a time in your life when you weren’t doing something. The servants wouldn’t allow you to help with anything — prepping meals, cleaning, even making your own bed, though you persisted. Eventually, you gave up.

Normally you wouldn’t be glad to have Captain Phasma track you down, but you almost wanted to cry in relief when she did.

She calls out for you while you’re on your way back from breakfast. She breezes through the hallway like a predator hunting it’s prey, and yet it doesn’t unnerve you. You’re mostly just excited to have someone to talk to.

“Captain?” You ask.

“We need to talk.”

“Okay.” The enthusiasm in your voice causes Phasma’s brows to furrow. You cough, “I mean, yeah, okay.”

Phasma stalks away. You follow her into one of the many unoccupied rooms in the palace. You’re not sure what their purpose is, besides maybe being a glorified storage closet. This room hosts vases full of rolled canvas and what appears to be abandoned Stormtrooper armor.

“I suppose you remember the conversation we had at your wedding ceremony,” she says.

You nod.

Without waiting for you to elaborate, she continues with the efficiency that only a Captain of the kingdom’s army could possess. “I’m afraid the situation is getting worse. We have reason to believe that a group of fourth district rebels have snuck into our territory.”

“Why?”

“In order to free you,” Phasma guesses. She lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know what they think they’re doing, coming up to the palace.”

You frown. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Well, they believe that you’re a prisoner here.”

Your weight shifts from foot to foot. You’re not a prisoner, exactly, but it’s not like you could just go wherever you wanted. “Weird.”

“Indeed.” Phasma shoots you a pointed look. “I wanted to send an ambush patrol but the prince has other ideas.”

“Kylo?”

“He thought it would be best to leave the group alone, they won’t make it far. And for you two to represent a united front. It’s not unheard of for royalty to tour the kingdom after marriage: show a good face to the people, and all that.” She waves her hand as if politics bore her. “He explicitly wanted me to tell you that you’re to leave in two days time. And that you need to be convincing, play the part. If not, I fear that your district will only continue to unravel.”

“And if they unravel, then that could lead to rebellions elsewhere,” you hazard.

Phasma’s eyes flicker. “Yes. We hope to prevent something like that.”

You accept, and Phasma whirls out of the room faster than you can ask anything else. For the first time in a while, you’re grateful to be alone.

First, Kylo married you in a bid to strengthen his own power, and now he wants to parade you around the districts like some sort of prize? He hadn’t even spoken to you in two weeks. How were you supposed to go on a tour of the whole kingdom with him?

You’re tempted to find him and confront him about this ridiculous plan, but then you remember the lash of the flog against his scarred back. You promised that you wouldn’t distract him if he stopped. You had no way of knowing if he was holding up his side of the bargain, but something in your heart told you that he was. Perhaps you thought too highly of him.

Its amusing that you think of me at all.

“Kylo,” you breathe.

I expect that Phasma has talked to you by now.

You’d be right. You pause. Where are you?

I’ve been busy getting ready for our tour, Little Mouse, he replies. His voice curls at the end, as if he’s pleased with this development.

You echo your previous thoughts. You haven’t even looked at me in two weeks and now you want to spend all of our time together?

Want is a strong word, he says, it’s more a necessity than anything, to quell the uprising in your district and anywhere else entertaining the idea.

Mentally you prepare to respond, but just like that — he’s gone again. You grumble to yourself.

On the way back to your room (you requested another, since it would be awfully hard not to distract your husband in his own bedroom) you mull over Kylo’s decision. More than likely he sought to calm his kingdom, roiling with unease.

But you could also use this.

It would be a perfect time to spend copious amounts of time with Kylo, to work your way into his mind. Or, at least, figure out how to do that. You hadn’t forgotten your promise to Leia to save her son.

Fine, you would follow along, but you would operate on your own agenda. Just like so many times before, you would act as if you were being tossed around like a leaf in the wind, but in reality, you were more like a bird of prey; hovering high above, surveying the terrain below, and waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

Part Twelve

- - -

@juniperwoodwell

@eternal-mikrokosmos

@judypahtootee

[kylowritten]

Hot minute with this, but what I love about the gifs like this is that you can see the details of his costume. Sure, its like the only thing he wears a throughout the trilogy, but its just how it looks that intrigues me.

Now I’m not entirely an expert on fashion, but to me, his outfit just looks so medieval, almost knight like. Now it could just possibly be just because the environment or simply space fashion, but a callback to the days where the potential to be a Jedi Knight trained by Luke is definitely something that comes to mind. As most knights, honorable as they are, they are fighting for a cause, for someone higher up that they are loyal to. Now we do know that Kylo Ren is fighting for his own agenda, and is using the First Order to do just that however he wants to.

And even though that his outfit does not change throughout the sequels, it sure is a nice thought.

Or maybe its just practical and he keeps like, seven other identical outfits in his closet for all seven days of the week.

[kylowritten]

star wars is so fucking stupid, I love it

[kylowritten]

If the Slipper Fits

Pairings: Kylo Ren x ForceSensitive!Reader

Summary: Nobody wants to be the woman whose foot fits that slipper.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: DO NOT READ if self harm is something that is or can be triggering for you. Message me, and I can fill you in with what happens in this chapter without including it. Self harm, self flagellation.

A/N: Woo, Part Ten!! I’ll be honest, this story took a dark(er) turn that I wasn’t expecting. Sometimes I write with a vague idea in mind and it completely turns into something else. I wanted to show Kylo’s conflict, and his devotion to a certain you-know-who. (Not Voldemort, of course, but another unsightly villain)

Part Ten

In your lap, beneath the table, you clasp your hands to keep them from trembling. Whether from surprise or anger, you're not sure — this is the man that had control over Kylo, whose ancient magic you were somehow supposed to reverse. He stares back at you evenly, apparently not at all aware of your discomfort.

This was the man? He had an avuncular face, lined with age, and sharp brown eyes. You weren't sure if it was your own preconceived perception of him, but you had a hard time reconciling this man with the one you had been waiting with weary anticipation to meet.

"It's...nice to finally meet you," you tell him.

"Likewise." Palpatine's smile resembles a grimace. "The prince has certainly been taken with you. I never thought he would find a bride worth keeping."

You didn't appreciate being talked about like a stray brought in from the street. Although, perhaps that's all you were to him.

"Well, he just hadn't had the pleasure of meeting me yet," you reply.

"Kylo has always been, for the lack of a better word — obsessed — with finding his equal. If rumor is to believed, though, you don't even know how to use the Force."

The truth slices through you. It's hardly a surprise, you know very well that you don't know how to control it, but you still try to not let it show that he wounded you.

Your chin lifts defiantly. "You said that you had something you wanted to talk to me about?"

His eyes glimmer. Clearly, you've done a poorer job convincing him then you thought. "I do. It's about Kylo." If he's waiting for an invitation to continue, you don't give him one. He forges ahead regardless. "I've entertained his quest to find a bride all this time. But now he's distracted. He has a kingdom to run."

"And I'm the distraction?"

"Aren't you perceptive."

You promptly ignore him. "I would hardly agree with you. I don't think I've been a distraction to him, if anything, I'm an inconvenience."

"The prince has a talent for disguising his feelings, the few he has. He was distraught when you escaped, ravaging half of the castle in his rage. I couldn't get him to do anything. It's not fit for a prince to be so wound up in — what did you call yourself? An inconvenience."

Kylo was upset about you leaving?

You store that information away for later. You could dissect it when you weren't faced with this nerfherder.

"I was under the impression that you were rather interested in ruling yourself," you say.

"My interests are with the prince," he replies. Any facade of niceness vanishes from his face like an extinguished flame. You're not sure it was a good idea to be so blunt with him, but you weren't going to pretend that you weren't knowledgeable about his true intentions.

"You might be the Royal Adviser of the prince, but you are nothing to me." You plant your palms on the table and stand up, kicking back your chair. "Stay away from Kylo."

The Palpatine hardly looks impressed by your performance. "You defend him, but he only needs you because he thinks that you'll make him more powerful."

"Yeah, a lie that you told him."

"I may have twisted some words for my own benefits, but there's still truth in them. A dyad in the Force is very powerful indeed." Palpatine stands too, rising to his feet with careful indifference. "But not powerful enough to save him."

"But not powerful enough for you to save him," you mock later in the day. You've found yourself outside of the palace walls once again, albeit on purpose this time. Your conversation with Palpatine has replayed in your head over and over, to the point that you're unable to focus on much else.

Apparently, the only time you can get an ounce of peace is actually leaving the palace. Otherwise you're bombarded by servants, by tailors, and by countless others. Overall, you wish you would've handled the conversation differently, navigated it with more diplomatic prowess. Palpatine seemed to see right through you — how had he already guessed your mission?

It could've been that he was just lucky. You weren't sure you believe in coincidences, though.

He had poked fun at you, for your lack of Force ability. More than anyone else berating you for the same thing, this annoyed you. So, here you were, once more on the outside of the palace, tilting your head back so that your vision could fully encompass its black, monolithic walls.

Kylo said before that you needed to focus, to reach out with your magic. You were afraid, you think, before. He had been watching you and you were fresh from the rebels base, the wound in your side still bandaged.

Your fingers brush over it now. After last night, it was nothing more than a faint pink scar.

Without the transition of your wound, from angry to nearly nonexistent, you don't know if you would've believed it happened at all: the interaction in the kitchen, the way Kylo's large and scarred hands drew the washcloth over your body, his mouth pressed together.

And where was he now? You hadn't thought to ask Palpatine. You supposed that, despite being his wife, it wasn't really any of your business. He hadn't asked you where you went, after all, when you practically ran from the altar.

Although, could you hardly be at fault for leaving a wedding that you didn't want?

You push this aside. You had other, more important matters at hand.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, a guttural warning from the storm clouds gathering beyond the forest. Resolved, you turn back towards the wall.

You're not far from where you had been before. The secret panel that Lyssa showed you shimmers slightly, and you're irritated that you hadn't noticed it on your own. Perhaps that was the trick to it — invisible to enemies but not to the trained eye.

Focus. Reach out with your magic.

You remember Kylo's voice. You hadn't heard him since your first time here. Wherever he was, he did not care to reach out.

And you, intent on finally using your magic, did not want to, in case he chose to gloat.

"Okay," you breathe, "I got this."

You close your eyes and, in an effort to center yourself, inhale deeply. You smell the coming rain, the charge of electricity from the storm. You smell pine needles and grass and, faintly, the shampoo that Kylo had massaged into your hair. You think of him. Raising your hand, you try to replicate his movements, and —

Nothing.

Your arm drops.

Reach out with your magic.

Okay, magic, you think. You imagine it as a seed planted deep within you. Without proper care, it could never grow.

You coax it out, convince it to emerge from the depths; a sprout, then a vine, twisting through your bones and entangling with your soul. There's an apology on your lips. It's terribly sad that it's been there this whole time with nothing to cultivate it, that you've had this ability and all of these years done nothing to incite it.

This time as you raise your hand, you feel the magic pulsing, feel it rising from inside like the tide rising to meet the shore. It crashes over you.

Silently, you command the walls to open.

And they do — right before your eyes.

The palace walls swing open, revealing one of the many grassy courtyards that surround the inner rooms. You lower your arm in shock.

"I-I did it." A smile breaks out on your face. Suddenly your body seems too small to contain all of your excitement and you wiggle, something like a dance but much less coordinated. "I did it! I did it! I did it! Take that —"

Somehow without your knowing, a group of Stormtroopers has disgorged from the palace. In the middle of your celebratory dance, you spin around, and let out a small scream as you find them staring.

Immediately you snap into a straight position.

"Troopers," you greet them.

They linger for a moment, then continue on their way. It's not until their forms retreat that a grin creeps back onto your face. You don't even care that they caught you in a decisively embarrassing moment. You did it!

Kylo, you think, Kylo I used the Force.

There's no reply, which you find odd, but not entirely concerning. You've never reached out to him before. Still, the connection between you two feels like a very long hallway, at which the end is a locked door.

Suddenly a sharp blast of pain explodes in your mind. You collapse to your knees, clasping both hands over your head in an effort to stop it.

You blink and when you open your eyes, you're no longer in the forest. You're crouched in a dark room. You've never seen it before, but somehow you know it's not in the palace, or even your kingdom. You rise to your feet — only, it's not your body that you're inhabiting.

And you're not in control. You can't look down to examine yourself. It's almost as if you're just a passenger.

You, or whoever you are, stands and you're given a wider view of the room. You were wrong in your assumption — it's not just a room. The paneling on the floor forms almost a dock of sorts, dark, churning water on either sides of it. Several platforms branch out from the one that you're now striding down. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the surface of the water.

Kylo. You're Kylo.

Where is he? What is he doing?

You feel strangely invasive. You try to make it known to him that you're there, but you fail. You don't want to be here. Even though you're immersed inside his mind, you can't decipher his intentions, and it only makes you that much more apprehensive. Kylo's emotions are obscured from you but you sense a grim determination in him. 

Kylo reaches the end of the platform, which stretches out into a T-shape. It's dark, and you can barely make out what's laying before you. 

There's movement, and you realize that Kylo is shedding his armor and his shirt. His reflection shimmers in the water, a pale torso against the rest of the dark room. Kylo sinks to his knees again, and reaches for whatever is in front of him. It's a flog. The handle is wrapped in fabric, from which the whip of the instrument originates and separates into several different whips. 

You realize too late what he's about to do. "Kylo, no!" You shout, but he can't hear you.

His cry reverberates throughout the room. 

Pain rockets through you. Kylo is adamant about the torture, however, swinging the flog back and forth over his shoulder with steely concentration. He winces, but is now silent. Horror fills you as he continues to flagellate himself until blood nearly pours onto the floor, staining the heads of the whip. His shoulders heave in an effort to keep himself upright.

You don't understand. Why was he doing this? 

His thoughts flicker back and forth like fish in a pond, impossible to catch. But he's not being forced, or held against his will. It's almost as if he...wants this. To punish himself.

Vaguely, you remember Palpatine saying that you had distracted him. 

Was he behind all of this?

Your horror morphs into anger, so hot and fierce that you're afraid that it will burn you from the inside out. 

Then, you separate from Kylo, so that you are looking at him instead of from looking through his eyes. His eyes are shut, lashes dark smudges against his cheeks. His face wavers with pain, but it's not physical, but mental anguish. He kneels like that, head bowed, his fist held to his chest like a knight about to be honored, before standing again and gathering his things. He walks back down the platform, bare-chested, and you're given a view of his back.

It's horribly scarred from previous flagellate, raised pink scarring that's now been reopened. Horrible slashes crisscross his back, skin peeled and flayed open, crimson with blood. 

You're brought back to your own body.

You stare at your hands, imagining how it felt as Kylo harmed himself. The pain feels like a ghost, lingering - not your own, yet somehow shared. An intense sadness overcomes you. What would he have to feel for himself to do that?

The glimpse into his mind has tarnished your earlier excitement about the Force.

Pushing past the palace walls, you storm into the palace itself, ablaze. How dare Palpatine mock you and accuse you when he not only invaded Kylo's mind but gave him the motivation to do such a thing. You hadn't exactly planned out what you were going to do once you found him, or how it would play out in the overall scheme of your mission. But that didn't matter.

You were going to confront him. You wanted answers.

Part Eleven

---

@eternal-mikrokosmos

@juniperwoodwell

@judypahtootee

[kylowritten]

Make sure to check out @juniperwoodwell and her new upcoming fic! I’ve read the first part, and I can’t wait to read the rest

Dedication

Kylo Ren x F!Reader

As a Captain in the First Order, Y/N has never been one to bring attention to herself unless it was commanding her squadron. What happens when a personal hobby make's her prey to one of the most feared men in the universe?

This is slightly an AU, the only things I have changed is that there is no dyad with Rey and Kylo, the timeline is a bit more stretched out between TLJ and TROS, and the ending is completely different...maybe.

I'd really like to thank @kylowritten for all the help she's been giving me, she's a fantastic writer. You should check out her Masterlist!

[kylowritten]

If the Slipper Fits

Pairings: Kylo Ren x ForceSensitive!Reader

Summary: Nobody wants to be the woman whose foot fits that slipper.

Warnings: MATURE, 18+; dubious consent, oral sex (male receiving), hair pulling, no aftercare but yet kind of aftercare

Word Count: 2.9k

A/N: Please accept my apology about updating Part Eight late in the form of this smut😂 Also, I’ve been laughing to myself about posting this Easter weekend. But if God didn’t want me to write filthy fanfiction then why make Kylo so damn fine??

Part Nine

“On your knees.”

Kylo pushes his chair back from the table, giving you ample room to kneel before him. You obey. His tone hardly suggests any other option. The stone floor bites into your skin through the thin material of your dress.

It’s been awhile since you’ve prayed — the districts all had different beliefs and you never found any worth pursuing. Perhaps, you think, it’s because they had been honoring heroes and gods and now you knelt before the devil himself and realized that you would worship him as long as he allowed you to, if only to surrender yourself to him and gaze upon his divinity.

He gazes at you like he knows this, like you are the disciple that he has been waiting for.

“Don’t make me ask you again.”

You know what he wants. But, instead, you snatch a cloth napkin from the table and begin dabbing at the front of his pants. You start at the inside of his muscular thighs, purposefully lingering. He shifts in his chair as you work your way up. As you press the cloth, you feel his cock grow hard beneath you, straining against the fabric of his pants.

A gasp tears from your throat as he suddenly grabs a fistful of hair near your scalp and yanks you back. “Enough,” he growls. “With your mouth.”

You drop the napkin. Still ensnared in his grip, pain prickles across your scalp. He holds you in place while he fumbles for the buckle on his belt, capturing your rapt attention as he finally works it free. The sound of the belt falling open echoes through the feast hall.

The breath catches in your lungs.

His cock springs forward, liberated from his pants, and slaps against his stomach. A groan forms in his chest as the cool air greets him, and in the dim lighting, he resembles every painting and sculpture you’ve seen of fallen heroes, of angels, of devils. He is your religion.

And you are more than willing to receive your sacrament.

He pushes his pants down his hips and thighs so that they pool at his feet. His cock curves upward, threaded by veins that you ache to trace with your tongue. He uses his opposite hand to spread the bead of pre-cum along the smooth surface of his head, and then uses his large hand to fist the base of his cock.

A deep, greedy hunger opens in your stomach.

“What are you waiting for?” He asks.

While transfixed by your arousal, you manage to keep a clear mind. There’s still a part of you that wants to rebel, to ignore his commands.

You put your lips to the expanse of his thigh now exposed to you. The sweet, heady taste of wine dances across your tongue, eliciting a primal response from you — the combination of his skin and the wine are almost too much. Your head swims with delight.

You swipe your tongue along his thigh under the pretense of lapping up the spilled wine, your lips sticky and swollen, then move to his next thigh. Kylo strokes himself lazily while he watches. He hums in approval as you ghost over his balls, taking each into your mouth briefly before settling between his legs. Why delay the main course while sampling on appetizers?

Your mouth closes over his cock. Keeping only his head in your mouth, you lick along the underside of it and swirl your tongue around it’s impressive girth. You’re eager to take him fully but first you must enjoy every moment.

Kylo’s head falls back, dark hair like raven wings falling to the sides and revealing the column of his throat, which bobs as you slowly accept more of him.

It strikes you as unfair that you can’t press your mouth against his throat, his jaw, the hollow beneath his ear — you want to touch him everywhere at once. But you’re afraid that if you disobey him that he will remove himself and you’re desperate to take whatever you can get.

His cock disappears as you guide it down your throat, gagging slightly as your mouth reaches his base. You hollow your cheeks and apply pressure. He moans, and the guttural response from him elicits a fiery heat in you, and you copy the same motion again, faster. More fervently.

“There’s no rush, little mouse,” he breathes. His hand tightens around the fistful of your hair again, hindering you momentarily.

You blink up at him, mouth slick and coated with a mixture of spit and maroon colored wine.

Impatient, you reach out with your hands to take him again and he jerks your head. “Just your mouth,” he orders.

“Yes,” you reply, breathless.

You cry out once more as he yanks your hair. Pain explodes across your scalp. “Is that the way for you to address your prince?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” you amend.

When he does not pull your hair again, you take this as a sign to resume your worship, and you put your lips to him. Up and down, up and down. You obey him, however reluctant you are, and linger with each stroke. His cock slides so nicely in and out of your mouth. The back of your throat begins to ache but you ignore it, the way that you suppose a drowning man would gulp water, uncaring of the discomfort, desperate to quench the thirst. Again and again you pleasure him.

Instead of signaling you to quicken your pace, he forces you down on his cock. A strangled noise leaves you as he begins to control the frequency of your strokes, until he is effectively using you as just a mouth. Just a mouth to enable him. Tears spring to your eyes.

“You’ll remember this,” he pants. A look of deranged passion has possessed him, tainted with anger and resentment. “You’ll remember this the next time that you don’t listen. The next time that you open this smart mouth.”

You choke out a reply.

You’ve never been used so forcefully before, any consideration for your enjoyment vanishing so quickly. Perhaps you were a fool for believing that his punishments would lack substance, that you held any power. You were just a lowly follower, after all — a rat. And what were the opinions of rats in the company of the devil?

It disturbs you that the nature of his behavior has done nothing to dampen the heat between your own thighs.

Suddenly and without care, he pulls his cock from your throat. An incensed expression crosses his face, still achingly beautiful in its fit of rage. His stroke is much faster now, his hand sliding with ease from the wetness of your mouth. Drool rolls down your chin but you don’t dare reach for it. You couldn’t anyway, enraptured by the sight of Kylo pumping his engorged cock. A stream of whispered expletives drop from his lips and, despite the aching in your throat, in your chest — in your mind — you press your fingers to your swollen clit through your dress.

Kylo’s lips curl with effort as he nears his climax, body trembling. “Did I say you could touch yourself?” He asks. “Do not make me delay my own pleasure in order to teach you another lesson in obedience.”

You moan in protest. The pressure, the arousal you feel is almost unbearable.

Without giving you time to concede, he shoves his cock back into your mouth, making you sputter and gasp. His body coils with tension. Weeping, you cry out with him as he finally reaches his orgasm and his cum hits the back of your throat, warm and rich and salty. You gag but he keeps your head in place as he comes so you have no choice but to swallow his expense.

Kylo stills. He keeps his cock in your mouth until it begins to soften, maintaining eye contact, and only then does he remove it. He replaces it with his thumb, however, pressing down on your tongue as he grabs your chin and forces you to look up at him. He inspects you.

He has throughly ruined you, and you can only imagine what he sees — your hair, escaped from its delicate styling, drool and cum coating your mouth and chin. Tears rolling down your face.

He releases your chin forcefully, pushing you aside.

You slump down. Legs trembling, your own hand flutters to your mouth. With tired, half-lidded eyes, you watch as he stands and adjusts himself, his pants starkly contrasted against his pale skin.

Ashamed, your gaze falls to the ground.

“You cannot excuse me againof not teaching you,” he says evenly. “Maybe now you will listen.”

His footsteps ring out as he turns from you and leaves. You’re not sure that you will ever be able to drink wine again.

An undecided amount of time passes while you sit, defeated, on the floor. A small part of you hopes that Kylo has returned when you hear more footsteps, but you realize — with unearned disappointment — that it is just a servant. It’s the man who served you the food from before, and he struggles to look you in the eye.

“Your Highness,” he says. “The prince has asked that I fetch you. He requests your presence.”

Your Highness. You realize then that by marrying Kylo you have also gained such a title. Garnering as much dignity as possible, you meet the gaze of the servant. “Then he shall retrieve me himself.”

How dare he think that he could dispose of you so carelessly and then you would run to him.

The servant shifts his weight. “He asked me, Your Highness. I am not in the position to deny him.”

“No, I don’t suppose anyone is,” you mutter. You bring yourself to your feet. “If you must, then bring me to my husband.”

Strangely enough, the servant, who goes by the name Sa’iak, brings you to the room that Lyssa had only hours before. Your brows knit in confusion.

“I thought you were bringing me to Kylo’s room.”

Sa’iak gestures towards the door. “I did.”

Your stomach twists. Lyssa brought you to Kylo’s room? It made sense, somewhat, that she would bring you to your husband’s room. It strikes you as strange now, though, that you had inhabited Kylo’s bedroom without knowing, without his knowledge. Recovering quickly, you thank Sa’iak then push your way through the door.

On the far side is a floor to ceiling window overlooking the forest. Kylo stands before it, hands at his side, back to you, his silhouette backlit by the last remnants of sunlight. You don’t say anything, just let the door click shut behind you.

“I can feel your anger,” he says without turning. “Do not blame the servant for the grievances you have with me.”

You clench your jaw. “His name is Sa’iak.”

Kylo’s flicker of annoyance resonates in you through your bond but he dismisses it.

“Sit down on the bed.”

You hesitate, then, thinking better of it, you cross the room and perch at the edge of the bed. You had slept in that bed, the same one that Kylo did every night. You shiver.

Kylo faces you then finally. He approaches the bed and to your surprise, sinks to the floor. His fingers are calloused. He gently removes your shoes and sets them to the side. You hold your body stiffly as he begins to undress you, slowly.

Carefully.

You whisper, “What are you doing?”

Kylo doesn’t respond, just continues his silent work. He slides the straps of your dress down your arms. You don’t find any point in asking again, so you lift your arms when he indicates, and step out of the dress. He takes you by the hand and you step, naked, away from the bed and towards the bathroom.

You’re too tired to argue. Unlike the bedroom, the bathroom is small and personal, white, with marble counters and an immaculate-looking tub near the center.

Kylo moves behind you. You can’t see him, but his presence overwhelms you to the point that you have to fight for every breath. He gently nudges your hair to the side, lips brushing over your shoulder as his hands move to your side and to the bandage still there.

He peels off the bandage and discards it. You protest, but he guides you into the tub and you slip down. Surprisingly, the water doesn’t bother your wound. In fact, it feels wonderful, enveloping your body and surrounding you in warmth.

Kylo rolls his sleeves to his elbows. He crouches besides the bath with a towel and wets it. His movements are slow and deliberate as he begins to wash your body. He takes care to wipe your face, around your mouth — he’s so close to you, and you try to implore him with your eyes but he pointedly avoids your gaze.

Is he trying to apologize? There’s no remorse that you can sense, but rather a soft determination.

You wonder if his actions will ever make sense.

Once he’s satisfied, he guides you to sit on the side of the tub. He leaves your sight for a moment then returns with a canister. You recognize it — it’s a disinfectant spray, one that only the wealthy can afford. He makes a show of popping off the cap, as if to give you a chance to realize what he’s doing.

You hiss as the disinfectant spray hits your side.

“Almost done,” Kylo says.

The wound feels cold, and is cool to the touch. Kylo replaces the bandage with a much smaller one, constructed from fabric that quickens the healing process. His fingers ghost over it.

“Thank you,” you softly say.

His dark eyes meet yours. There’s an unspoken emotion there, churning, like the depths of the ocean. His mouth twitches.

“You need to rest,” he replies.

You let your body go limp as one of his arms goes around your back and the other scoops you from under your knees. He lifts you effortlessly. You’ve never cared to be picked up but this time it’s not panic-inducing. He moves smoothly, confidently, as if he’s not even carrying any added weight at all. He lays you down on the bed.

You crawl beneath the covers, the plush comforter sliding over your bare skin.

“Are you going to rest, too?” You ask. You’re not thinking clearly. Already, you feel yourself drifting. Although you’re now warm and clean and, surprisingly, pampered, you can’t forget what happened in the feast hall. But you’re too tired to sort out those feelings now.

It’s dark in the room now. Kylo’s face is obscured in shadows as he lingers beside the bed. “No,” he says. “I have a matter that needs addressing.”

At one point in the night you think that Kylo might’ve joined you in the bed. He’s not there in the morning, however, and if he ever was you don’t remember him touching you. The opposite side of the bed is made nicely, unbothered. You sit up, holding the comforter to your chest.

You venture, “Kylo?”

No response.

Laying on the armchair across from the bed is an outfit — dark pants and a long, plum-colored tunic. Did Kylo pick this out for you? Eager to get dressed before someone sees you, you tiptoe to the armchair and slip on the clothes. They’re comfortable, much more so then the dresses that you usually are expected to wear.

After experiencing the confusing tunnels in the cave, the layout of the palace feels simple. You don’t know where Kylo is and, frankly, you’re not sure if you want to see him. The back of your throat aches with each swallow, your knees chapped from the prolonged time on the ground. And yet, as you creep into the feast hall looking for breakfast, you can’t help but look immediately where you had been and feel a rush of pleasure wash over you.

“Your Highness!” Lyssa bustles out of the kitchen, holding a tray. She motions for you to sit down. “My apologies, breakfast was already served but the prince ordered us to let you sleep. I saved this for you.”

“Oh, thank you,” you say, watching as she unloads a plate brimming with food. You do your best to appear nonchalant. “Where is Kylo?”

“He’s not here.”

Your body tenses. You whip around, a strange sensation settling over you.

A man enters the feast hall with his hands clasped behind his back. His face is lined with wrinkles and you catch a glimpse of grey hair beneath his cap. He strides into the feast hall, and Lyssa immediately scurries away.

You get the sense that this man is not someone you want to be alone with.

“Where is he?” You ask again, tone hardened.

The man sniffs, “I’ve sent him away.” He rounds the table and takes a seat across from you. “I was rather hoping to get a word with you.”

“And you are?”

A wicked, sickly smile crosses his face. “I am your husband — and now your — Royal Advisor. My name is Sheev Palpatine.”

(Bonus A/N: At one point in “Friends”, Rachel tries her hand at writing smut. I can’t remember the exact line but she starts off with something like “liberating himself from his pants” and now I include it in all of my smut scenes😂)

Part Ten

Kylo’s POV

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@juniperwoodwell

@eternal-mikrokosmos

@judypahtootee