Kylo Ren was a monster.
The notorious title he'd adopted after his conquest in Italy, Padrone Della Morte, was rightfully, but nefariously, earned.
They hadn't called him the Master of Death for nothing.
His life was royally, extraordinarily fucked. And the bemoaning demons festering, seething through his being, sung at the notion.
He wasn't always like this— brooding and incompatible to the amiability that weaved through his bloodline like an unyielding ribbon of fate— the fate of his mother. He wasn't always so avoidant of the kindness and benign warmth of his DNA.
He was not benevolent like Leia Organa, despite the potent genetics they shared. He was cold, callous, and razor-scaled like the whip of a wyvern— has been, ever since the accident.
The accident that cleaved his life into insalvageable shambles. The accident that had destroyed him. The accident that had plagued him with a harrowing darkness that rotted him to the very core, splintering his youthful, joyful juvenility and completely shattering his world.
He was just a kid, impacted gravely by a devastating, remarkable tragedy.
Who he was tonight is who he has been for the past seven years. The haunted shell of an Organa-Solo— taking form of a merciless, vengeful ghost that treaded this earth with phantom strides that marked the terrain with promise of ruination and retribution.
He squints, peering off the solitary balcony of this ravishing hotel room. Thinking. A jarring, freezing wind billows through the disarray of his scattered black locks. Snow melts as it gently graces his skin.
His nostrils flare, long digits curled over the slick railing. Smoke wisps from the shriveling cigarette dangling from his fingers. He stares at the smoke contemplatively, not deeming to take it into his mouth.
He can't help but hate himself for what he's done by exposing you to his brothers; in divulging you the opportunity to sift through his work.
His life was balancing on a fine line. One that you now walked, whether he, or you, liked it or not. You were apart of his life now.
The snow glistens and twinkles, cascading down and down, unbothered by the breeze.
It could've been beautiful. Had he not remembered in vivid mortification how the snow felt, caressing his nape as he loomed over the gory carcass of his father. His screams of pure despair and damnation reverberating through the cold alleyway, as he tried to shake the life back into his father, his tears rinsing the mars of blood and ash off of his face.
He takes a lengthy drawl of his cigarette.
Just as his thoughts drift back to you.
You.
A cunning, sharp-tongued Beauty.
He loathes you. With every fiber of his being, he despises you.
But he hates himself infeasibly more for being too weak to strike you down.
He should. He has to. Now that you've been tossed into the mix, there is no formal escape but that of death.
He wishes someone, anyone, would relieve him of that burden. Kill you, cleanly and painlessly, so he didn't have to.
Satan, give him strength, and he just may do it himself. Slice through your throat and ingest the scent of your blood, that he'd once tasted on his lips, that seemed to still linger in the crevices of his teeth, even now.
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Dangerous Affection | Kylo Ren
Fanfiction❝takes one to know one ❞ • [Modern AU] • After a calamitous tragedy cleaves the Solo family in two, a mother transforms into the enemy of her own son. Splitting from The Resistance, the powerful empire his parents constructed, Kylo Ren has reaped a...
