lucymonster (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lucymonster) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
1character2025-08-20 09:57 pm
lucymonster) wrote in 1character2025-08-20 09:57 pm
Entry tags:
Your Once and Future Grave (50 sentences about Kylo Ren)
Character: Kylo Ren
Fandom: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Theme set: Gamma
Rating: M
Warnings: Major character death; sexual content
Ship: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Summary: For Rey. Some things Ben Solo never told you about himself.
Crossposted to AO3
He loved you, Rey, by his own broken definition of the word. He loved you from the moment he first met you until the moment he drew his last breath, loved you with all he had even when all he had was hatred. (He’d want you to know that it was never really you he hated – but you probably figured that out a long time ago.)
The truth is he lived his whole life lying: he was a child who claimed not to begrudge his parents their busy lives, a youth who forswore the dark side with his fingers crossed behind his back, a man who told himself he no longer cared what anyone thought. But dead men don’t lie, and now that he’s beyond the reach of judgement – now that cowardice and pretension can no longer tie his tongue – there are things he’d want you to know about him. Little things, mostly; things that don’t matter, things that maybe never mattered.
His favourite meal was curried rice.
His favourite item in his closet was the ankle-length black surcoat he was wearing when you two first met, but that shot from Chewie’s bowcaster put a hole in it that proved harder to mend than the hole in his own abdomen.
In better days – before Starkiller Base, before the Unknown Regions, before all those frozen places where the bodies of his victims now lie eternally preserved – he used to love the snow.
He had an altar in his quarters aboard the Finalizer where he kept the ashes of those rare few enemies who put up a memorably good fight – and yes, in retrospect that was a bit messed up of him. In retrospect, a lot of the things Ben used to do were a bit messed up. Sorry if you expected this to be the nice kind of eulogy.
He had trouble sleeping – well, go figure. He used to like listening to music to lull his conscience before bed; soft music, sweet music, probably not at all what you’d have guessed. On bad nights he’d drown out the echoes with soaring strings and the uplifting chime of temple bells.
He had some pretty serious allergies – a taste of moof milk once sent him into anaphylaxis – but good luck finding anything about that in his medical records; in the paranoid world of First Order high command, plausibly deniable assassination methods always felt like a more urgent threat than mislabeled yoghurt. For the same reason he always preferred to do his own first aid, to change his own bandages and administer his own medications; or if he was too badly hurt to do it himself, he’d use a med droid and wipe its memory afterwards. That time he touched hands with you through the Force was his first non-combat skin contact in years.
You drove him wild, Rey, and you never even knew it. His fantasies were obscene, visual, vivid: he jerked off every night to the mental image of your wet folds parting around him, welcoming him in. Of your pussy lips kissing the crown of his cock. Of your inner walls squeezing like you wanted to trap him forever inside you. He imagined your taste, your smell, the small pink pearl of your clit gleaming beneath his tongue. He wanted to be rough, to pin you down and fuck you till you broke; he wanted to handle you like glass, and put you up on a high shelf where his rage couldn’t reach you. Part of him wanted to own you. Another part wanted your hands to make a collar around his neck and never let go. But all of him wanted you, wanted you, wanted you so bad that every inch of him ached for what he saw and couldn’t have.
He also wanted to win the war. If you could understand how fierce and constant those two wants were, maybe you’d understand why he hunted you the way he did – and why, at the critical moment, he always seemed to make some stupid error that allowed you to escape.
You’re probably happier not knowing exactly how much time he spent wondering about the state of your virginity.
He spent most of his time aboard warships, but his favourite place to be was in the cockpit of his own TIE, flying so fast that the stars through his viewport resembled a hyperspace blur. His fingers knew every knob and dial and button on that ship. He could operate it without thinking, fly circles around his opponents while enjoying a few rare and precious moments of mental silence.
His second favourite place was the library in Snoke’s quarters where all the ancient texts were kept, but that burnt down when your friends smashed up the Supremacy (no hard feelings, though).
Life in the First Order made Ben good at keeping secrets; if he lived another ten lifetimes, and in every one of those lifetimes he pledged total and complete honesty, he still might not make it through his backlog of untold truths. For instance, he never told you (and in fairness, never got the chance to tell you) that when he followed you to Exegol, he already knew one way or another he’d reached the end of his story; that no version of the story was going to end with him still alive.
Damn, that place was grim. Its atmosphere was an electric blaze, so charged that the antique TIE he was stuck flying by that point barely made it through to planetfall. The earth was strewn with ancient bones that turned to powder underfoot as he sprinted for the entrance. There were no stairways in that old Sith fortress, so he jumped down the damn elevator shaft to reach you (and it was a long way down, and it hurt, but never mind). And at the end of it all there was your grandfather, dangling like a hanged man from those weird mechanisms that kept him alive – and there you were, standing fearless against him, like you didn’t even need the help. For a moment, as he lay at the bottom of that pit on a jagged bed of brick rubble and his own broken ribs, Ben thought he’d already done his part, that he could pass into the Force knowing you’d be fine.
Then he felt you die.
So he clawed his way back up that hellish cliff, lungs screaming, bones cracking, fingernails torn and bleeding as they scrabbled at hard rock – and he felt none of it, felt nothing at all except a desperate need to reach the top and find what he refused to accept was your dead body. Your face looked so wrong, Rey: like a photo or a painting, not the vibrant, luminous you he’d been in love with since the moment he first tortured you. And maybe if he’d ever taken the trouble to learn that healing technique properly then the effort of bringing you back wouldn’t have killed him, but it doesn’t matter now.
What matters is that you’re alive: that your wounds will scab, that your scars will fade, that you’ll live and laugh and heal and forget and maybe someday fall in love with someone who isn’t fundamentally broken. Ben would want you to know that his death is the opposite of a tragedy; that by accepting the life he sacrificed for you, you finally set him free. He’d want you to know that he was pretty much worn out anyway; that living was hard; that being dead’s not so bad, especially not when it means he gets to watch over you.
He’d want you to know that even if you can’t see or hear him – even if he hasn’t really got the whole Force ghost thing locked down yet, even if he never figures out how to contact you from beyond the grave – for as long as you’re still drawing breath, he’d want you to know that he’s right here watching over you.
Fandom: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Theme set: Gamma
Rating: M
Warnings: Major character death; sexual content
Ship: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Summary: For Rey. Some things Ben Solo never told you about himself.
Crossposted to AO3
He loved you, Rey, by his own broken definition of the word. He loved you from the moment he first met you until the moment he drew his last breath, loved you with all he had even when all he had was hatred. (He’d want you to know that it was never really you he hated – but you probably figured that out a long time ago.)
The truth is he lived his whole life lying: he was a child who claimed not to begrudge his parents their busy lives, a youth who forswore the dark side with his fingers crossed behind his back, a man who told himself he no longer cared what anyone thought. But dead men don’t lie, and now that he’s beyond the reach of judgement – now that cowardice and pretension can no longer tie his tongue – there are things he’d want you to know about him. Little things, mostly; things that don’t matter, things that maybe never mattered.
His favourite meal was curried rice.
His favourite item in his closet was the ankle-length black surcoat he was wearing when you two first met, but that shot from Chewie’s bowcaster put a hole in it that proved harder to mend than the hole in his own abdomen.
In better days – before Starkiller Base, before the Unknown Regions, before all those frozen places where the bodies of his victims now lie eternally preserved – he used to love the snow.
He had an altar in his quarters aboard the Finalizer where he kept the ashes of those rare few enemies who put up a memorably good fight – and yes, in retrospect that was a bit messed up of him. In retrospect, a lot of the things Ben used to do were a bit messed up. Sorry if you expected this to be the nice kind of eulogy.
He had trouble sleeping – well, go figure. He used to like listening to music to lull his conscience before bed; soft music, sweet music, probably not at all what you’d have guessed. On bad nights he’d drown out the echoes with soaring strings and the uplifting chime of temple bells.
He had some pretty serious allergies – a taste of moof milk once sent him into anaphylaxis – but good luck finding anything about that in his medical records; in the paranoid world of First Order high command, plausibly deniable assassination methods always felt like a more urgent threat than mislabeled yoghurt. For the same reason he always preferred to do his own first aid, to change his own bandages and administer his own medications; or if he was too badly hurt to do it himself, he’d use a med droid and wipe its memory afterwards. That time he touched hands with you through the Force was his first non-combat skin contact in years.
You drove him wild, Rey, and you never even knew it. His fantasies were obscene, visual, vivid: he jerked off every night to the mental image of your wet folds parting around him, welcoming him in. Of your pussy lips kissing the crown of his cock. Of your inner walls squeezing like you wanted to trap him forever inside you. He imagined your taste, your smell, the small pink pearl of your clit gleaming beneath his tongue. He wanted to be rough, to pin you down and fuck you till you broke; he wanted to handle you like glass, and put you up on a high shelf where his rage couldn’t reach you. Part of him wanted to own you. Another part wanted your hands to make a collar around his neck and never let go. But all of him wanted you, wanted you, wanted you so bad that every inch of him ached for what he saw and couldn’t have.
He also wanted to win the war. If you could understand how fierce and constant those two wants were, maybe you’d understand why he hunted you the way he did – and why, at the critical moment, he always seemed to make some stupid error that allowed you to escape.
You’re probably happier not knowing exactly how much time he spent wondering about the state of your virginity.
He spent most of his time aboard warships, but his favourite place to be was in the cockpit of his own TIE, flying so fast that the stars through his viewport resembled a hyperspace blur. His fingers knew every knob and dial and button on that ship. He could operate it without thinking, fly circles around his opponents while enjoying a few rare and precious moments of mental silence.
His second favourite place was the library in Snoke’s quarters where all the ancient texts were kept, but that burnt down when your friends smashed up the Supremacy (no hard feelings, though).
Life in the First Order made Ben good at keeping secrets; if he lived another ten lifetimes, and in every one of those lifetimes he pledged total and complete honesty, he still might not make it through his backlog of untold truths. For instance, he never told you (and in fairness, never got the chance to tell you) that when he followed you to Exegol, he already knew one way or another he’d reached the end of his story; that no version of the story was going to end with him still alive.
Damn, that place was grim. Its atmosphere was an electric blaze, so charged that the antique TIE he was stuck flying by that point barely made it through to planetfall. The earth was strewn with ancient bones that turned to powder underfoot as he sprinted for the entrance. There were no stairways in that old Sith fortress, so he jumped down the damn elevator shaft to reach you (and it was a long way down, and it hurt, but never mind). And at the end of it all there was your grandfather, dangling like a hanged man from those weird mechanisms that kept him alive – and there you were, standing fearless against him, like you didn’t even need the help. For a moment, as he lay at the bottom of that pit on a jagged bed of brick rubble and his own broken ribs, Ben thought he’d already done his part, that he could pass into the Force knowing you’d be fine.
Then he felt you die.
So he clawed his way back up that hellish cliff, lungs screaming, bones cracking, fingernails torn and bleeding as they scrabbled at hard rock – and he felt none of it, felt nothing at all except a desperate need to reach the top and find what he refused to accept was your dead body. Your face looked so wrong, Rey: like a photo or a painting, not the vibrant, luminous you he’d been in love with since the moment he first tortured you. And maybe if he’d ever taken the trouble to learn that healing technique properly then the effort of bringing you back wouldn’t have killed him, but it doesn’t matter now.
What matters is that you’re alive: that your wounds will scab, that your scars will fade, that you’ll live and laugh and heal and forget and maybe someday fall in love with someone who isn’t fundamentally broken. Ben would want you to know that his death is the opposite of a tragedy; that by accepting the life he sacrificed for you, you finally set him free. He’d want you to know that he was pretty much worn out anyway; that living was hard; that being dead’s not so bad, especially not when it means he gets to watch over you.
He’d want you to know that even if you can’t see or hear him – even if he hasn’t really got the whole Force ghost thing locked down yet, even if he never figures out how to contact you from beyond the grave – for as long as you’re still drawing breath, he’d want you to know that he’s right here watching over you.