(Written for the prompt "throne sex".)
Kylo Ren becomes a pleasing and useful fixture of her throne room.
She likes him kneeling at her side when all the small creatures of the galaxy come seeking an audience with her, likes to rest her hand lightly on the cool, black curve of his mask. An easy display of power – look what might I've already brought to heel. What possible chance do you think you could have?
Or else she likes him pacing behind her throne like some half-feral animal, weapon in hand, staring through metal slits at any who come to beg or plead or spit useless venom. She likes to watch as their eyes flick back and forth in silent terror, unsure whether they should be warier of the monster or his master.
And when the room is empty again, when all have either bowed their heads or lost them, he always comes to rest at her feet without needing to be told. Sometimes she likes to keep him there, silent and still at the very edge of her notice.
Sometimes she looks down at the pale strip of skin bared between helm and collar at the bend of his neck and feels a sudden heat twist and rise from low in her body.
"I want to see you," she says then, and he lifts his hands immediately to remove the mask and discard it on the floor beside the throne, stands to strip away all the black layers of fabric over his body, a costume unneeded in front of her. And with his eyes still cast downward, he drops to kneel again at her feet.
Only when she places her fingers under his chin to tip it up and pull him closer does he raise his head, show her that deep, mad love burning fire-hot in his eyes. She always believed such a thing could never come from the dark, that she would only ever find herself worthy of love by sacrificing everything she could possibly give to some grander noble cause.
She was wrong – she has never been loved so fiercely as this.
With affection, she strokes a hand through his hair, smiles at the way his eyes flutter shut at the touch. She lets him come closer and rest his cheek against her thigh, and then, as she feels his desire rise within her, near-indistinguishable from her own, she lifts her robes higher to let him put his mouth on her cunt.
Her head falls back with a sigh and she slides herself forward, spreads her knees to allow him better access, and clenches her hand at the back of his head.
She might stand before he finishes her, drag him up by the hair and put his back against the stone instead so she can straddle him, never seated on her throne but sometimes another piece of it for her to settle herself upon.
But for now she likes him best where he is, at his most pleasing and useful.