Shameful | Congressman!Kylo x Reader

Chapter 39: Fairy Tale

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A/N: So sorry it's taken me so long to update. I've been out of town for my birthday and also still short-circuiting from the Venice photos.

I love you all so much and am totally shocked that we're at 93k reads. What started out as a horny little November 2021 hobby has now transmogrified into an obsession with The Row and photos of Adam Driver clean-shaven and wearing a suit.

Genuinely so grateful to have each and every one of you reading along, and I so look forward to seeing your comments <3

Midterm elections are coming up, so be sure to check your voter registration. Depending on the voting laws in your state, you can update your registration either online or by mail. <3 all states should allow online (or automatic) voter registration but we live in a hellscape so that's not happening!

I hope you like this chapter!! Everybody wish a happy belated to both virgo.villainy and cmykjpg <3 (and to me!!) september girls

TW:

a creative type of fucking ;)

Fluff

Drama :D

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When I think of fairy tales (even the phrase 'fairy tale,' written out all nice in its loopy scripture), I picture knots and tangles of dark green ivy. Then a clearing, crowned by the irregular dips of thorns, revealing a lily-pink pixie with soft, long tendrils of wavy buttercup-yellow hair dotted with posies. And barefoot (always barefoot).

Everything's painted with thin strokes and the promise of a field of bright Renoir-colored flowers and succulent, shiny baked goods stacked in loosely-woven baskets lined with canvas.

Something about fairy tales always evokes that for me – frothy fairy wings, thin taffeta dresses, muslin shorts pulled up to the waist, the smell of moss and petrichor, princes, princesses...

Fairy tales. I'm in one.

Books with gold-plated edges, intentionally serrated and uneven, crisp to the touch from age. There's always a favorite story in there, one you'd revisit upon rediscovering the book in a pile of childhood things, and that's where I am right now. My favorite story.

I didn't think I could fall any deeper for him – for my fairytale prince – but here I am. Overwrought and only a little bit queasy and noisily vibrating with excitement. The kind of giddiness where I can't keep still.

I'm sober, skin prickly and sensitive and wrapped in one of his shirts. Sore between my legs, and wanting – needing – to hear "love." I haven't yet – those words have yet to leave those supple rosette lips – but I've taken note of how he's shown it.

Kylo doesn't sleep without ensuring, subconsciously, that there's at least one part of his body in contact with mine – a hand, a foot, his thigh, half of his torso. That's love in its purest form, isn't it? Must be.

I haven't even opened my eyes yet, but I can envision him, my fairytale prince, suffused with the purple and orange haze of sunrise, waiting quietly for me to kiss on the tiny pink splotches I burned into his chest mere hours ago.

With a sharp inhale through the nose, I turn over and find only a wrinkled, since-cooled dip in the sheets. Where has my fairy tale prince gone?

I choose not to dwell for too long – perhaps he's ventured into the forest to pick me a bouquet (oh my God, grow up). I take this opportunity to slink into the bathroom, making sure to run the tap first. Lest the prince find out that his princess has a functioning urinary tract.