Little Bird (Kylo Ren x Reader AU)

Make Me Your Last

"You're beautiful..."

Hands. Firm. Strong. Pulling at your hips, your thighs, your breasts, bruising you, soothing you. A mouth. Wet. Desperate. A frenzy of kisses down your neck, your clavicle, to your sternum, above the terrified thumping of your heart. Your blood is red, his lips are red, the sheets are red, the air is red. You inhale a plea and exhale a prayer. There are two figures, but only one writhes and whines and gasps, only one works like an instrument tuned to the key of your body. Sweat. Flesh. Breath. You want to remember this. You need to remember--to remember--

"Tell me what you want..."

Sweat stained your nape, your red-gloved hands wringing together as you waited. The dream was far from an anomaly--but it was equally as far from being wanted. The last thing you needed on the day you were to meet your first Commander was a set of wet panties. There would be no Ceremony, tonight (thankfully), but you were nervous that there'd be an inspection, instead, or something. Maybe one of the Marthas would examine you, check you like a race horse--healthy hocks, clear eyes, shiny hair, clean mouth... and cleaner morals.

The door swung open--and your lips pinched together. Rather than the lifeless green dress of a Martha, you were greeted with the swishing jewel-blue skirt of a Wife. His Wife. You swallowed, sweat seeping into the white base of your wimple. This was not what you were told would happen.

"Are you going to stand there, or are you going to come in?" Her voice was gravelly. Demanding.

You nodded, stepping over the stone threshold onto the polished wood of the foyer. His Wife said nothing, turning sharp on her heel and marching down a hall. The sound of shoes on ceramic ricocheted through the empty air, an alarm. You tilted your head to the sides, eyes darting to the walls to discern your new surroundings. The decorations were modest, wide windows streaming light onto white painted walls lined with the occasional artistic tribute to the Old Testament. Your Commander's Wife swept around a corner, and as you glanced up, you caught her peek over her shoulder, ensuring your obedience.

Before you turned, you heard another voice in the corridor, breathy and soft. "Oh! I'm on my way, ma'am, don't--" Your presence halted her, and you blushed. A Martha. "You--you got her, Ms. Johana?"

"Yes," replied his Wife. Johana. "And why shouldn't I? He's my husband."

You stood at the corner of the room, an elephant in a red dress. The Martha, with little else to say, stepped aside, and you resumed your pursuit of Johana, who charged through the dining hall and around another corner, stopping bluntly at the mouth of a staircase. She whipped her head around, scrutinizing you, her nose wrinkling.

"Not talkative," she said. "I like you better than the last one already." When you didn't respond, she sniffed, gathered her skirts, and tromped up the steps.

Planes of shadow concealed the staircase, growing somehow darker the higher you ascended, the only evidence of freedom a few thin rays of light, casting across the empty hall and illuminating the floating flecks of dust in the air. The wood at your feet was dark, struck through with lines of age and wear. As you reached the top, the hall stretched out as a tunnel in front of you, rooms branching off on both sides. You shifted, and the floor creaked, squeaking under you like you'd woken it from sleep.

Johana turned, nodding toward the end of the hall. "You stay there. During hours when the Commander is home, you are not to leave that room unless asked. Is that understood?"

You nodded.

"No," she said. "Is that understood?"

"Y-yes, ma'am," you replied. You were surprised at how small your voice sounded under the arch of the ceiling.