Chapter Text
The setting sun paints pinks, golds, and bloody reds across the River Ixigul and casts long shadows in the west courtyard of Castle Aeternus, where a dozen elite warriors of the Praetorian Guard are getting roaringly drunk.
Rey leans on the balcony railing and scowls down at the carousing off-duty guards and their guests. Barely three weeks ago, every fighter in Exogol spent their evening hours training, sharpening weapons, and preparing to fight to the death against the invading Nabooian army. Now her finest warriors, the same ones tasked with guarding her coronation on the morrow, are making merry with members of the Nabooian delegation and quaffing Nabooian wine by the gobletful.
“Unbelievable,” she mutters.
Far too stealthily for his stature, Kylo Ren emerges from the shadows to lean against the castle wall behind her. “Sith warriors aren’t allowed to enjoy themselves?”
The remark earns him her scowl as well.
“Not so long ago they were plotting how to avenge the scores of their comrades cut down by your sword, and now they’re guzzling the wine you brought like all is forgiven.”
“Don’t you want them to look favorably upon their neighboring monarch?” Kylo’s tone is innocent. Dressed in a simple black tunic, breeches, and leather boots, with sheathed sword at his hip, he might pass for a soldier himself, not the king of Naboo.
Rey hmphs to keep herself from ogling the muscular thighs that flex as Kylo stretches legs stiff from long hours at the negotiation table. She hasn’t seen him undressed in two weeks, and this is their first moment of relative privacy after various royal and diplomatic duties that kept them busy all afternoon.
“Or are you jealous that your coronation gift wasn’t drinkable?”
The six weighty gold bars that were Naboo’s gift to the new empress of Exogol might have been perceived as an insult to a country hoping to establish itself on equal trade footing, had Kylo Ren not explained that they were intended to furnish Empress Rey with a crown and regalia “fit to match the nation’s glorious new dawn.”
Her scowl deepens; Kylo’s full lips curl up at the corners. He raises an amused eyebrow—then grimaces as the movement pulls at the scar that slices across his beautiful face.
Rey winces. The cut is far more healed than it’d been when Kylo departed for Naboo two weeks ago, but the place where she’d slashed him shallowly with a dagger is still clearly visible as a reddened, shiny line. It might not hurt anymore—and if it did, he’d never say—but the stiffness is clearly annoying him. Two words tumble from her lips as she reaches up to cup his scarred cheek: “I’m sorry.”
Although Rey has made many, many apologies in her life—a matter of survival under her grandfather’s rule—this is the first time she’s truly apologized for her own actions and meant it. All the more so because Kylo doesn’t seem to mind that he’ll bear the evidence of her assassination attempt forever.
He shakes his head slightly, eyes softening as he leans into her touch. After a moment, he takes her hand in both of his own, examining the purplish starburst scar that now graces her palm.
Eyes closed as if in prayer, Kylo Ren presses his lips to the spot that marks where she turned her grandfather’s own lightning against him.
“I thought my own heart would stop,” he whispers against her skin.
Rey gives in to temptation—she always does, when it comes to him—and slides her free arm around Kylo’s waist, leaning her head against his chest. He’s only been back in Exogol a few hours, but it seems his intentions have not changed in the two weeks they spent apart. If all goes well tomorrow, they’ll present the plan to unify their countries to each of their councils after Rey’s coronation.
Unfortunately, there are now many more eyes about the castle, including various ambassadors who will report back to their respective heads of state if they draw foolish conclusions about the new empress’s ability to rule in her own right.
But at the moment, she doesn’t care about any of that. Not when their victory was hard-won and the days that followed were long and grueling. Establishing peace, Rey has learned, is just as difficult as waging war, especially when her mind and muscles were only trained for the latter.
“We did it,” she whispers back, listening to Kylo’s steady, pounding heartbeat. “We survived.”
Kylo wraps his arms around her and rests his chin on the top of her head. “We did.”
Rey savors the newly discovered joy of being alive until he adds, “And now we get to sit through endless, interminable council meetings.”
“Ugh.” The empress of Exogol peeks at the lengthening shadows and wriggles out of Kylo Ren’s arms, straightening her red-embroidered breeches and tunic. “I have a final security briefing. You’re not invited.”
Kylo’s chuckle follows her back into the castle, a lingering warmth in the chilly stone corridors.
—
The first thing Rey did after declaring herself empress was to banish her grandfather’s so-called advisors, whose role had involved very little advice-giving and a great deal of eagerly carrying out the emperor’s ruthless commands. One or two had made unflattering comments on the way out, then somehow found themselves in the way of Kylo Ren’s sword.
Now Rey has a council composed of a handful of the nobles who’d immediately declared their allegiance to her, representatives from the stonemasons’ guild and the miners’ guild, the castle steward, a newly declared minister of agriculture, and the army’s best quartermaster, whom she’d poached to appoint as her minister of finance.
The final member of her council is a keen, austere woman whom Rey distantly remembers as a friend of her parents. After their death, Kleya left Exogol and traveled everywhere from Crait to Coruscant, until word of the emperor’s defeat reached her. Officially, she acts as the council’s scribe—unofficially, she’s also Rey’s spymaster.
Everyone on the council had agreed that Rey ought to be officially crowned as soon as possible, to further discourage any challenges to her reign, but as soon as possible turned out to mean different things to different people. The guild representatives wanted to plop Emperor Palpatine’s wrought-iron monstrosity on her head and call it a day, while the nobles insisted that their neighbors would never take the new empress seriously without being invited to a full day of ceremony and feasting.
Eventually, Rey cut through the bickering and declared that her coronation would be in two weeks’ time. Elegant simplicity befitting a warrior nation would be a perfectly fine—and most importantly, affordable—alternative to a lavish display of non-existent wealth. All the neighboring heads of state would be invited, in language that made it clear no one would be insulted if they couldn’t attend on the short timeline. Yes, including the king of Naboo.
“But—Your Divine Majesty!” The stonemasons’ representative had just arrived, missing Kylo’s departure by a matter of hours. He’d apparently also missed certain key elements of the gossip regarding the new empress’s relationship with Kylo Ren. “He fought against us! He killed your grandfather!”
“Actually, I killed my grandfather,” Rey said flatly. “Does anyone else have any ill-founded objections?”
(There were none.)
Rey frequently recalls Kylo’s wry words about the benefits of a dictatorship and half-wishes she’d followed her grandfather’s example of exercising absolute power at all times. However, the worn book on leadership and government Kylo lent her is very clear on the benefits of majority approval, both to avoid a coup and build a stable long-term governing body. The inscription on the inside cover reads To my heir—and most importantly, my son—Ben, upon the occasion of your tenth name-day.
The thirty-year reign of Queen Leia Organa has been marked by ever-increasing peace and prosperity, so Rey figures the approach taken by the ruler of Alderaan must have merit. Accordingly, she’s trying not to push through anything important without the agreement of at least two-thirds of her council, but it’s slow. She’s tempted to propose that her advisors duel to settle their arguments at least once a day.
At heart, Rey will always be more warrior than diplomat. Which is why, after sitting through a briefing on the latest security threats, she storms through the castle with a pounding heart and clenched fists, trailed by her two most trustworthy (and sober) Praetorian Guards. Hypatia and Karrin had once served her father, and had unexpectedly held off their comrades while Rey and Kylo fought Emperor Palpatine; they’ve proven their loyalty and skill beyond a doubt.
Rey hasn’t bothered to move out of the plain bedchamber she’s always occupied, and the sepulchral energy in the former emperor’s rooms is enough to give anyone nightmares. Accordingly, the very best guest chambers were set aside for the queen of Alderaan, even though she’s arriving the morning of the coronation, and the second-best guest rooms assigned to their honored ally the king of Naboo. The fact that the latter suite happens to be out of earshot of all the other rooms is entirely—well, mostly—coincidental.
She’s pretty sure the Nabooian guard outside Kylo Ren’s rooms isn’t one of the two who saw her with more weapons than clothing, but she’s equally certain that army gossip means it hardly matters. A haughty tilt of her chin isn’t strictly necessary, but it doesn’t hurt to remind herself that she’s the empress here.
“My personal guards will be joining you tonight,” she informs the soldier.
Behind her, Karrin begins to protest until she delivers him a quelling look.
“There are”—Rey forces the words out through gritted teeth—“multiple assassination plots against His Majesty.” She sends a glare at the guard as if Kylo Ren’s lack of self-preservation efforts is personally their fault. “Karrin, remain here. Hypatia, come with me to secure the exterior, then patrol the courtyard outside. For tonight, His Majesty’s safety is your foremost priority.”
“We are sworn to protect the royal family of Exogol,” Hypatia points out in clipped, precise tones. “We would lay down our lives for Your Divine Majesty, but—”
“And I’m telling you to guard Kylo Ren,” Rey snaps, losing her patience after a long day of tedious niceties, coronation dress fittings, diplomatic negotiations, and the looming prospect of an even longer day on the morrow. “With your lives, if necessary! What part of that is so difficult to—”
The door in front of her opens to reveal Kylo, in the same black clothing as before, now sans boots and sword belt. As ever, he moves with lethal grace, casually wrapping one massive hand around the doorframe.
“Good evening, Your Divine Majesty,” he drawls. “What’s all this, then?”
“The empress wishes us to guard your chambers due to rumors of assassins. However, there are also threats on Her Divine Majesty’s life—”
“Tomorrow,” Rey mutters truculently. The one downside to loyal, skilled guards is that they also tend to be outspoken when it comes to opinions on her personal safety, and Hypatia clearly thinks she will find an ally in Kylo Ren. “And I could fight off Duke Maul with both hands tied behind my back.”
“While I have no doubt of that,” Karrin agrees diplomatically, “that does not alter our duty, which is to protect Your Divine Majesty’s person despite her own formidable capabilities.”
“If I may,” Kylo interjects, addressing Rey, “perhaps Your Majesty and I could discuss these security threats together, and for the time being your guards can secure this chamber without gainsaying their sworn duties.” He opens the door wider, standing aside to allow her passage. Dark, half-lidded eyes linger on her lips in an equally clear invitation.
Hypatia, Karrin, and the Nabooian soldier exchange a look that Rey pretends not to see.
“Very well,” she agrees haughtily, stepping over the threshold. To her guards, she adds, “Secure this corridor and the exterior courtyard as I commanded. Remain outside until I am ready to depart.”
Kylo closes the door and turns to her. Limned in silvery moonlight slanting through the windows, he looks formidable and otherworldly.
“I didn’t know you took my protection so seriously.” His tone is mild, and Rey hates that she can’t tell if he’s joking.
“An attack on you is an attack on the empire,” she fumes. “On me.”
The corner of Kylo’s mouth twitches. “You’re the only one allowed to try to kill me in my sleep, is that it?”
Although Rey has learned about the concept of fond teasing, she still isn’t sure how to respond to such a thing. She settles on lifting her chin defiantly. “Yes.”
Turning away to hide any blushes, she busies herself with checking the window latches and scanning the courtyard below.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Kylo’s lips pull up into a smirk, tugging slightly at his scar. “Fierce little Kira,” he hums.
Rey tries to pretend those words, in that tone of voice, don’t turn her insides to molten, liquid heat.
“It’s late,” she announces, brushing past him on her way to the canopied bed that dominates the room. “The empress needs her beauty sleep.”
Behind her, Kylo snorts. “The empress is already dangerously beautiful.”
For the sake of her dignity, Rey is glad her face is turned away from him so he can’t see her eyes widen. Dangerously beautiful might be the best compliment on her appearance she’s ever received.
“Besides,” Kylo continues, “I thought you were here to protect me from assassins.”
Rey makes a show of looking under the bedclothes, then bends to check beneath the bed itself.
“Hmm. No assassins here.”
One of the more pleasant revelations in the days after defeating her grandfather had been discovering what reactions she can elicit by bending over within Kylo’s line of sight, especially while wearing breeches. Sure enough, he curses and crosses the room in two long strides. Strong hands grip her hips and pull her against his growing hardness.
“Look again,” he growls, pushing her upper body against the bed. Rey groans and arches back into him, too distracted to bother even pretending to search the blankets for nonexistent cutthroats.
Kylo yanks her breeches down—then chuckles as he runs his fingertips along the sheathed songsteel dagger strapped to her thigh. “Perhaps I need to search you for weapons, empress.”
“Only the dagger,” Rey gasps, impatient. “Well—and hairpins.”
With welcome efficiency, Kylo unbuckles her dagger and tosses it aside, then strips her of her boots, breeches, and smallclothes.
He groans when his fingers glide through the slick mess between her legs. “Oh, sweetheart, is this all for me?”
“It’s been two fucking weeks,” Rey grumbles. She shoves his hand away when he tries to slide his fingers inside her, groping behind her for the laces of his breeches. “Don’t make me wait.”
“Longest two weeks of my life,” Kylo agrees fervently. As soon as his cock is freed from his breeches, he lines himself up and presses into her—at last, at last.
Rey whines at the stretch, fingers scrabbling on the bedclothes. It would have helped to take his fingers first, but she likes the fight of it, likes the way that Kylo curses and struggles to hold himself back as he works her open with his cock.
Every time is like the first time, but better, and better still. One of Kylo’s calloused hands gripping her hip, the other splayed across her lower belly with a fingertip precisely circling her clit, thighs pinning her against the bed, his cock hot and heavy and thick inside her.
When he finally bottoms out, they both groan with the relief that can only come from being fully joined after too long apart. But Rey has no patience to linger—she arches her back, deepening the angle, and fucks him with short, forceful rolls of her hips.
“Fuck, yes,” Kylo growls. “Take what you need—take me—take all of me.”
If a calm embrace listening to Kylo’s heartbeat is the best way to savor the joy of being alive, this is reveling in life, exalting the glory of existence, worshiping the miracle of human sensation and emotion through a communion of humid sweat and slick arousal. The sound of their hips slamming together is a hymn, their gasps and moans the melody.
Rey stuffs the corner of a decorative pillow in her mouth to muffle her loudest cries until Kylo yanks it away and replaces it with his fingers.
“You need to bite down on something, sweetheart? Use me, not some flimsy pillow that can’t handle your teeth.”
Rey takes him at his word—she bites down on the fingers he’s stuffed in her mouth, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make Kylo curse and shove her knees apart so he can stuff himself even deeper inside her. He takes over, bringing his weight to bear and fucking her until she’s drooling around his fingers and tears are leaking from her eyes from how good it is.
Before Kylo, she hadn’t known that she could cry because of something good. Now she does—and it’s not even that this is too good, because there’s no downside to the pleasure rippling through her, the exquisite tension threatening to snap. It’s just purely, incredibly good.
“Is this what you needed?” Kylo bends over to murmur in her ear without ceasing his thrusts. “Is this what you were thinking about while our councilors were quibbling about matching wardrobes?”
“Y—yes,” Rey gasps, barely able to form words while she’s teetering on the crest of climax. “Were—were you?”
“Was I thinking about making the empress come all over this very nice guest bed she gave me—? Oh, there you go, sweetheart, fuck—”
Rey sobs around Kylo’s fingers as she comes, tightening around him in long, clenching waves of ecstasy. He slows his thrusts, working her through it and murmuring exultant praise against her sweaty skin.
When she’s sprawled boneless—if not quite sated yet—beneath him, he slides his fingers out of her mouth. “On your back, or on top?”
“Back,” Rey mumbles. “Too tired to move.”
Despite her words, she rolls over when Kylo withdraws and rearranges herself in the center of the bed, the sheets here still blessedly cool. He kneels between her legs, hard cock jutting from his unlaced breeches and nudging impatiently against her thighs, but he pauses to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, giving her hairpins a respectfully wary distance.
“Too tired to move, hmm? Does the empress need her beauty sleep after all?”
Rey finds plenty of energy to scowl at the king of Naboo, sliding her hips against his cock. “The empress isn’t done getting fucked into the mattress.”
Kylo’s grin is deservedly smug. “As Her Divine Majesty commands.”
The pace he sets is less frantic than before, but the intensity with which he fucks her is, as ever, undiminished. It only takes a handful of steady, deep thrusts until the tension returns, winding tighter and hotter than before—this time, Rey muffles her moans with her own palm.
Kylo shoves her shirt up above her breasts and tries to do the same with her breastband, cursing when the fabric won’t stay put.
“Remind me to get all your clothes off next time,” he mutters. “I need to put my mouth on these pretty tits and see them bounce while I fuck you.”
There’s something about Kylo’s deep, husky voice that transforms coarse language into a velvet caress, sending a long shiver of pleasure down Rey’s spine.
“Need to get your clothes off,” she counters, yanking at his tunic. But when he pauses to pull it over his head one-handed, she can’t help but whine, “Don’t stop—”
“So demanding.” Kylo’s fond tone adds butterflies to the heat in her lower belly. He lifts her legs over his shoulders and turns his head sideways to kiss her ankle. The sweet gesture punctuates a deep, powerful thrust that—oh, fuck, yes—sends starlight blazing through her veins, shoving her unerringly toward another explosive climax.
Rey might cry out, or shout, or moan Kylo’s name, but she no longer cares about stifling the noise she’s making, not when this degree of pleasure is too much to be contained within her mortal body. Not when every moan makes Kylo’s eyes flare with satisfaction, makes his control unravel further.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he croons, leaning over her until she’s folded nearly in half and his cock strikes a spot that makes her see entire galaxies. “I’m going to fuck you hard enough that you’ll still feel me when you sit on your throne tomorrow.”
“Oh—how dare you—”
Rey comes with a wail, digging her nails into Kylo’s shoulder blades. She writhes beneath him until he grips her thighs with firm hands, pinning her knees to her chest. True to his word, he slams into her over and over; the sound of their hips colliding creates a percussive rhythm beneath Rey’s moans.
“Give me one more,” he gasps out. “Been thinking about this all week, fucking my own hand and wishing it was you.”
Swept up in relentless waves of pleasure, Rey can’t muster the words to tell Kylo that she’s done the same.
“Can’t believe how good you feel—”
She moans her agreement.
“How perfectly you take me—”
She will never, ever tell him how perfect his cock feels inside her—
“How fucking lucky I am to have you in my bed.”
His unceasing, powerful thrusts catapult her into another climax before she can come down from the previous one, driving her to a fierce, nearly unbearable level of ecstasy.
“Fuck yes, that’s it. So gorgeous, love—”
Kylo empties himself into her with a roar, grinding their hips together until their sharp bliss melts into pulses of bone-deep relief.
Sweaty, sticky, heavy, he obeys when she tugs his face to hers and finally presses their lips together.
Kissing Kylo loosens a knot in her chest Rey hadn’t known was there. It feels like coming home—it feels like she knows what home means for the first time, and it’s not cold, drafty, imposing Castle Aeternus.
Too soon, they part for breath, panting. “I missed you,” she blurts out. It’s not weakness, she reminds herself. Not with Kylo.
“Me too, sweetheart.” Kylo rolls them over so he can hold her properly, then brushes his lips over hers again—and again—and again.
Hands sliding into his soft, thick hair, Rey sweeps her thumbs across Kylo’s cheekbones. Warmth fizzes under her palms, hot enough to startle them both.
“Wha—”
Pulling back, her gaze immediately falls to Kylo’s scar: no longer a reddened groove, but a thin silvery line stretching from forehead to jawline, weeks of healing condensed into a single breath.
Kylo reaches up to touch his cheek, fingers sliding over the scar in amazement. “Is it—?”
“Healed,” Rey whispers. “Completely. I thought—” She frowns. “You didn’t drain my life energy, did you?”
Kylo blinks, confused. “Does fucking you into exhaustion count?”
Rey snorts at that. “I’m hardly exhausted.” (Well, maybe she is, but not from the fucking. And she knows she’ll sleep well in Kylo’s arms, even if she has to sneak through her own damn castle to return to her rooms before dawn.)
This time, Kylo doesn’t wince when he raises a skeptical eyebrow.
“I thought the Divine Force could only be used to heal by stealing someone else’s energy,” Rey mutters. “That’s what Lightsiders do—isn’t it?” She’s beginning to suspect this is another area of her education that will need some revision.
“I’ve never seen Force healing,” Kylo admits. “My … knight-master was far more fond of utilizing pain.” His voice is clipped as he refers to the deceased King Snoke.
“Through strength I gain power,” Rey quotes, although she’s no longer sure that pain and strength are equivalent.
“Yes.” Kylo’s arms tighten around her. “But I’d think any healing through the Divine Force would be because you wanted it. And I’d never take anything you didn’t want to give.”
“I know,” she murmurs. And she does. Kylo wants things from her—or rather, he seems to want her—but he doesn’t expect her time, her body, or her allegiance.
“So … thank you, sweetheart.” He presses his lips to her temple.
Rey tucks her head under his chin and sighs. “I don’t even understand the Divine Force anymore. What if I’m a terrible ruler?”
“You’ve done more for your people in three weeks than the last hundred years of an endlessly conquering and re-fragmenting empire,” Kylo says bluntly. “But you’ll make mistakes, and then you’ll get better. We both will.”
“Together?” Rey hates how tremulous her voice sounds.
“Together,” Kylo promises. Then, dryly, “Besides, our predecessors set the standards for decent governance really low.”
“In the ground,” Rey agrees, equally dry. “Where they are now.”
“Good riddance,” Kylo mutters.
They hold each other in silence for long, peaceful heartbeats. Rey can feel sticky wetness between her legs, which she doesn’t terribly mind, but she doesn’t want to sleep in a wet spot.
“I should clean up,” she mumbles, sliding out of Kylo’s hold and glancing around for a washbasin.
“Oh, no.” In a flash, he has her pinned against the bed again, hands sliding down to tug her thighs apart and make room for his broad shoulders. “I’ll clean you up, Your Divine Majesty.”
Oh.
Rey’s mind is wiped blissfully free of worries as Kylo sets to his task with diligence, licking their combined release from her thighs and cunt.
Then he seals his plush lips around her clit and fucks her with one, two, three fingers—until she’s sobbing his name and her come is dripping down his wrist and making a mess of his newly healed face.
She makes him sleep in the wet spot.
—
When Rey lifts her new crown—as golden as the sunrise—and places it upon her own head, her eyes meet Kylo’s where he sits in the front row of spectators. Pride shines from behind his solemn expression.
Rey can feel the echo of him between her thighs, and his strong arms holding her, and his deep voice in her ear.
Together, she promises silently. A new dawn, a new country, a new life worth living. Together.