inappropriately timed force bond moments (both nsfw and humor approaches)
dream-sharing
emotional bleed/transference (from rey, involving other parties)
inappropriate force bond voyeurism on rey/poe or rey/finn
mid-conversation force bond interruption
The Rise of Skywalker- Cross-galaxy chase of the Resistance
anything related to ben solo, but especially:
snoke confessionals with family or friends of family
returning to the light
smuggler life style
jedi knight ben
resistance-fighter ben
The Rise of Skywalker- Force Ghost communications w/ Rey
anything related to supreme leader kylo ren, but especially:
fall via coup
resistance fighter reconditioning (gen or nsfw)
force ghost visits from anakin/luke/rey/leia/snoke
defeat by the resistance, and subsequent aftermath
The Rise of Skywalker- Mole Discovery w/ Hux
canto bight:
shady weapons deals
picking up prisoners
recruitment
obligatory dinner party
general casino shenanigans
beach party
basically any reason you can think of to use canto bight as a setting piece
A note on romance: I will ship all of the new trilogy characters with Kylo Ren (except Snoke/Family). But I have no interest in exploring domestic-style takes on them. Thank you for understanding.
[With the amount of armored infantry present, the Vengeance often ran cold. The only time it turned out to be trouble was nights like this one, where Kylo Ren could not find the rest he so desperately sought, even after laying in bed for hours. Unsurprising, of course -- as it turned out, he was not a very fitting leader for the First Order.
Since the death of the Supreme Leader and Rey's refusal to join him, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about what he could have done differently. He'd still been able to feel the bond, something that almost felt like a vestigial limb compared to what it had been when it was fresh and new. He'd never had the focus to properly bridge the gap, but Rey --
He's since forgotten what it had felt like, for the bond to fully manifest. Its been months since he's had a real conversation that wasn't him barking an order to a trooper. Their attempts to hunt down the last remaining pocket of the Resistance, his efforts to capture Rey alive and make another attempt to convince her to stand with him -- all thusfar unsuccessful.
By now, he had figured out what she was doing in the mean time. It was impossible that he was finding reminders of his past consistently littered about his ship -- things that didn't exist anymore, people who had forgotten him, and...things they'd shared together in their short time with one another. It'd never been something he'd admit, even privately to himself -- but the sentiment was always there now, in the wake of his realization.
He was starving. He did not think it would be this hard to move on -- and he had tried. Alone, with subordinates. He'd never found that emotional connection again, even if he'd since transcended the physical. Was that her goal?
It would have been a sound strategy -- her extended absence only made him more desperate to have that contact, any sort of contact from her back again, especially in hours like this where he could feel gooseflesh creeping up on his bare back. Perhaps it is that which draws her in from the other end of the galaxy. He is too busy messing with the waistband of his pants with one hand that the sudden increase of weight on the bed behind him does not even register.]
[ The vengeful, punishing thing to do would have been to cut him off completely, to surrender to the anger and hurt she felt following the Battle of Crait and make him suffer like she was. But it was petty, and his suffering would not bring him back to her. The mistake she had made in demanding too much of him too quickly was her own, and she would rather correct it than exacerbate it.
So instead, she held herself back from it. Her emotions ran too high, burned too hot — and so did his. It offered ample breeding ground for reminders, and she learned quickly how to manipulate the connection to provide them. If she listened, she could hear his aching loneliness rattling.
Sometimes, in meditation, she watched from a distance while he tried to smother it — never fully projecting, but reaching for his feelings.
Until tonight.
She can feel him, and as she reaches out to sense the edges of his loneliness, he reaches back, as if seizing upon her and rooting her there. That feels like some kind of victory, as if his will had started to bend under the weight of her warfare. Or maybe it's the Force, telling her that it's time. Either affirms her.
His eyes don't fix on her. He's somewhere else, still, opening his pants. She drinks the sight in with hungry eyes — it has been longer for her than him. Rey had not chased out shallow imitations. She doesn't say anything at first; instead she crawls closer and puts her hand on his back, her chin on his shoulder so she can look over it and watch what he does. ]
[Her voice breaks the steady circle of his thoughts, his hand stroking his length firmly between his legs once --
The touch almost startles him off the bed, the action aborted by his own hand as he ends up gripping himself tighter and swallowing down the sudden bruise he feels settling on his ego and his pride. The exhale he takes is shallow -- the weight of her chin is heavy, and offers warmth where there had previously been none.
Somewhere between the touch and her question, he had squeezed his eyes shut. But they open again slowly, and he is forced to confront that he isn't dreaming. She's there, and she isn't, solid as he suddenly remembers the last time they had gotten this close to each other.]
No one.
[You're nothing.
Its not quite the dagger he wants it to be. He'd said that to her once, but he'd meant it in a way that was supposed to communicate kinship, and thus it rings hollow in any other capacity. There is an urge to reach for her, and a fear that she might not be there if he does.
He pulls his hand back down across himself, tighter and slower this time, enough to cause his breath to catch when the cool air catches the head of his cock exposed.]
[ That means he's still hers. Though she'd never really doubted it, Rey nonetheless took comfort in hearing what ostensibly confirmed it. He'd only be defensive if he had been thinking about her, and even no one was a better answer than someone else. It meant he was avoiding thinking about her.
Maybe that's vanity on her part. This consideration doesn't discourage her interpretation at all.
His fear and uncertainty are loud and clear across the open connection; disuse has caused him to forget how to temper it. An atrophied muscle, but not for her. Rey's hands settle at his waist; they fit against his hip bones as nicely as ever. She lingers there, watching him, simmering in satisfaction to see that her appearance has not prompted him to stopping.
For his boldness, she rewards him by slipping her right hand forward on his next upstroke. Her hand closes into a fist, edging his out.
And she squeezes him while she says, as though inviting pedestrian conversation while she jerks him off, ] You're still looking for me.
[Her hand buts up against his own, and for a moment, he stubbornly keeps it there as if he could force her away -- but he doesn't remember how. Or if he'd ever been capable.
Or if he really wants to.]
I never stopped.
[Is that so surprising? Even without their connection, she was one of the most powerful Force users in the galaxy now. The only one left who could reasonably oppose him at the height of her power. And she was helping build an army to fight him.
That's not what she means -- he gets a sense of it when she squeezes him and forces his hand away. He doesn't quite lean back into her, but her presence is offered the barest acknowledgement when he finally turns his head until his cheek meets her's.
There's a slight urge to recoil, like there is some part of him that knows that he doesn't have to allow this. He could force this spectre away, if he tried hard enough.]
[ His cheek is not warm at first. The climate controls on the First Order ships have always been too chilly for her liking, but with those huge engines, it was the only way to keep them spaceworthy for a realistic length of time. Her cheek might as well be sunlight by contrast.
Still she lets out a satisfied exhale, slow and low like she's trying to keep her composure as he relents to her. It will take more than an inch. The Supremacy taught her that lesson. But it's enough to prompt her to pump her fist at a steady pace, dragging over his skin. In the back of her head, that stimulation prickles at the edge of her awareness, referred through the bond. ]
Didn't you want to?
[ 'Let the past die,' he'd said. And she had. She'd separated herself and done what she needed to do in order to wait. Patiently. For Kylo Ren to die, so Ben Solo could return. Now, she thinks, maybe she has a chance to worm her way in through the cracks to where he lives beneath the burned out shell of the armor he tried to protect himself with. ]
[She finds her rhythm, and his next exhale comes slightly shaky. There is a piece of him that wants to reach back, but a bigger piece still that recognizes that he couldn’t. That he shouldn’t.
As a result, one hand hovers over her’s.]
No. Not you.
[He can admit that much. It isn’t just about attachment (he is in denial, regarding that), but that she was — connected to him. Be would be a fool to ignore the fact that they could have been great, if only she had joined him.
But she made that choice. Had she not understood what he had said? What he wanted for them?]
[ But their visions of the future were different. Still, by the sound of it. He has not come to terms with his own failure, even if the rest of the galaxy can see it plain as day. Rey turns her face to kiss his neck, soft at first, but then her teeth scrape over his skin. ]
I'm still here.
[ It's not too late. She'd told him that once before. The pace of her firm strokes over his length picks up. She wants to draw him out of these dour thoughts and into something more primal. It's hard to miss, though, that he's the one exposed and vulnerable and she's pressed against him in a more complete state of dress. She's here because she wants to be. She has the control. ]
[He starts to reply, but his voice catches in his throat under her teeth as she picks up speed. He huffs outward, tilting his head back to expose more of his neck to her. The sense that she is there without actually being there—
The brush of fabric at his back pulls him out of it briefly. It allows him the opportunity to dissect exactly what is happening, rather than getting lost in what feels like a fever dream. One hand reaches down for her wrist, encapsulating it and forcing her to slow while his other hand gropes for the arm around his waist.
Slowly, he guides her higher, across his scars and stiff muscles. He can sense what she wants from him, but he does not want to give it quite as easily as she encourages it. Eventually, her knuckles come to his lips, and he presses his teeth to them.]
I know.
[But not the way he wants her to be. Not in a way that allows this in hours that are not the dead of night, on the edge of slumber systems apart.]
[ He pulls her away from him, and for a moment, she feels a flicker of loss; she forces it down. Or rather, she accepts it as a possibility she knew might come of this. He might turn her away.
He doesn't, though. Not really. Rather, he guides her up the dips of his abdomen and chest, and her fingers search out the rough abrasions of his scars. They are what make him recognizable to her. She draws a sharp breath when his teeth scrape across her fingers, and for the first time, the strength of her desire would become apparent again.
It's still there. ]
You'll find your way to me.
[ She brings her other hand to stroke his side, taking the chance to map his skin now that he has granted her that permission to consume him. This is talk of the future, though. Seeds planted. Reminders of what she is giving him. It's best to keep her eye on what's in front of her. ]
Until then, this is long enough for some things, as I recall.
[There is something in his mind, a selfish thought that he doesn't think to squash. As I recall. Had she kept herself all this time?
No, those are the thoughts of a desperate boy, not -- the Supreme Leader. His muscles stiffen under her touch, but there is no denying the way she can easily lead his mind to those seeds to be watered. He knows better. No matter what they'd seen, the Force had fooled them both.
The only way they could ever find one another again was like this. At night, in a haze that was somewhere on the cusp of a dream and reality, where they would wake the next morning and realize there was nothing there.]
You could have stayed, if that was what you wanted.
[Those he'd used as a substitute in the mean time would have appreciated it. But Rey could not see the marks of that surrounding his chambers -- blankets askew, bedside table dotted with one or two apparatuses in addition to his lightsaber and the calligraphy set. Really, it all looks a bit out of place for Kylo Ren's normally neat and structured environment.
He is reminded of the absence of her hand between his legs before long, and moves his own to replace her's. The pace he chooses is slower -- there was no telling when the bond would shutter closed, after so much time apart, but he cannot bring himself to rush this.
A pity then that he's already heavy in his own hand.]
[ That insistence misses the point. She isn't surprised by that, necessarily; some part of her recognized that Ben felt she had abandoned him that day. It was one reason she took such care in reaching for him in small ways that did not disrupt her ability to keep her distance and radio silence. He deserved to know that she had not given up on him.
Instead he thinks she is hot-and-cold. She puffs out a sigh.
She's not going to correct that overnight. And anyway, he's making himself vulnerable to her now anyway; that means there are cracks in the shell still. This thought puts her at peace with the moment. She lets it lie there instead of rising to the debate. They're both keenly aware of how short their time like this might be — how soon the dilated Force might contract again, leaving them cold.
Instead of reply to what he says, she shifts to stretch her thighs around his hips, hugging him more fully from the back. She's no longer perched, hovering — she envelops him as much as her small size is able, and she peers around his shoulder to watch him for a few moments while her hands stroke his sides before — ]
Let me.
[ Her intent is apparent. Not let her take over, but let her take care of him. She still remembers what he needs, and the offer sounds gentle even in the warped in-between space of the bond. It is an offer she has only ever made across that feedback loop. As she says this, her hands settle on his hips. ]
[He feels her weight at his back, the way she tries to eclipse him in spite of her smaller size. Her presence is like a heal coil, against the chill of his flesh and he finds himself seeking her in spite of himself. Somewhere between that and the silence, he swallows and begins to breathe manually.
He's already made himself so vulnerable -- its easy to recognize in that moment, where there is nowhere to go. Nowhere he can go, and nowhere he wants to go. There is only one answer he can offer to her request.
Its not swift, even knowing what little time they might have. It's been some time since he'd seen her face, really felt her there that he'd almost forgotten. Giving over at all...the only thing that makes it possible is that some traitorous part of him still isn't sure if he's dreaming.
He'd wake in the morning and realize that even prophecy could never feel as solid as the bond that encouraged his surrender in that moment. Their minds find each other again, and it is almost as if he's turned to face her without actually doing so. The motion of his hand around his length slowly shuttles to a halt.]
[ His surrender causes something in her chest to clench and release; it's an intangible thing. She could not point to the twitch of muscle or the cant of his head that indicates he has embraced exposing himself to her fully, but she's as sure of it as she is of gravity and her star charts and the smell of engine grease.
Rey presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the center of his spine, soft, and nudges his hand back to its task. She pushes him forward off the edge of the bed and slips off of it with him, stepping aside and holding one palm to his hip, as if to turn him. Her other hand traces down from his shoulder blades to the curve of his ass, squeezing him over his pants.
The bond carries her intent to see him bent over the edge of his bed — her bunk — to watch him bare that fragile part of his soul for her again. She asks for it not with aggression, but with a soft touch and with care. She wants to unravel him, but she wants to carry him through it.
And because she knows, as he knows, that he hasn't just been running after her, but running away from her specter, she knows to ask— ]
Did you let them touch you like this? [ She's not sure what answer to expect, or if either would make her happy. Even if he had, it wouldn't have been with the same degree of trust. He had only ever given that to her. ] Did it help?
[The soft press at his spine does little to reassure him — he knows well enough what he’s done by allowing her this. And yet, so many years under someone else’s command have left him pining for the ease of it, at the expense of personal security. She was not necessarily a safe person to allow that sort of access (not to him, heir apparent to Lord Vader), but she was easily the safest out of anyone else.
His hand resumes its task at that same lazy pace, enough to keep him interested but not enough to advance too far. If she wanted to take care of him, then he would know what to do by the nature of the bond. Higher thought was not required for the task. He feels her intent through the Force, the grip on his ass as she beckons him to the edge of the bend, and turns him around.
Coaxing him to bend takes a moment longer, but eventually it happens, the waistband of his pants inching further doward thanks to friction alone. Perhaps unsurprisingly, even in spite of his resistence, bending is a natural position for him. His shoulders find the mattress, and his long legs force him to take a knee. one cheek pillowed against clean sheets.
Did you let them touch you like this? He squeezes his eyes shut to force down the vocalization that threatens to bubble from him, but the intent communicates cleanly. No. No one had been allowed to touch him more than absolutely necessary. He had not been able to allow more — it didn’t help. All it did was remind him of her absence, while failing to provide an adequate substitute. He tries to quell it, even now, to erase some of the fury and shame he feels for needing her to find relief from her absence.]
[ As he kneels, she reaches out to pull his pants the rest of the way down — or at least to the middle of his thighs. She doesn't need more than that. The movement happens slowly, dragging more than yanking, and when it's done, her hands roam his exposed skin as though laying claim.
It's a selfish comfort she finds in the awareness, full as if it were her own, that he had held himself back while chasing out some replacement to the company and understanding she provided him. Despite every outward evidence to the contrary, he is still hers.
Her palm claps against his backside, the slapping sound caught in the void between star systems. It's not sharp enough to sting, though she's well aware how he wishes it would. He feeds on pain and hurt and loneliness. She denies him these in the same breath that she draws his attention to the void they create, the way they leave him dissatisfied.
She leans around him — it's not easy. He's lanky, but she extends her hand and she's able to reach his jaw. The movement presses her against the slope of his back, and reminds him that he's the only one bared here. Two fingers trace the curve of his lips, pressing for entrance. ]
[The slap startles him, but there is nothing to pull from it -- no pain, no satisfying echo, just a sensation that leaves him reaching and squirming for more. And suddenly, in that same void, she's pressed against his spine, a glide of cloth rather than any real weight to satisfy the presence he feels himself pining for.
Further, he shoves it away, even as her hand glides up his throat and to his jaw.
There's no resistance -- he'd agreed to this, to give himself over to her command of the bond and to their shared consciousness in hopes that it would chase away some of the spectres he felt hanging over him whenever he layed his head to rest. His lips part to allow the entry of her fingers.
Its a strange sensation, the pressure on his tongue that is there without really being there. He closes his teeth and meets resistance against what should be her skin -- its light pressure, nothing to inhibit her progress and more of an effort to participate beyond bending his knees and bowing his head.
It'd been so long since he'd done either of those things, after all.]
[ So much of what he does is merely relenting to her, submitting but not rejoicing in what she has brought him, that when he finally scrapes his teeth against her fingers as she presses them into his mouth, she draws in a sharp breath, satisfied.
Ah. There you are.
She presses a kiss to his back and, for his efforts, keeps the probing of his mouth gentle. Gentle, but not stagnant. Her fingers probe back and forth across his lips, a familiar mimed gesture to make him anticipate what he's wetting them for.
She asks the question as she pulls her fingers out, dripping with his saliva. It clings between her fingers as she spreads them apart. It's been a while, but— she remembers, even if his body doesn't. She grips him with one hand to spread him, then presses one of her dampened fingers against his entrance. ]
[He realizes before too long what Rey is looking to pull from him, and his hand gliding across his length comes to a brief halt when she presses her fingers to him. On contact, his muscles instinctively tighten and he exhales his anticipation outward. It takes some effort to force himself to relax, shoulders once again sinking into the bed beneath him.
One hand moves to his mouth briefly, to trace the path Rey had left behind, to erase the strange sensation that her figers should still be there. They retreat before long, when he hears her question.]
Tell me what you want.
[Would he follow her lead? He has a sense that she’s doing this on purpose, to call forth the reminder of how much he regrets that they’ve been driven so far apart by the war — but its hard to resist when every bit of contact feels as solid as if she’d been sharing his bed all evening.
And he would be lying if he didn’t admit some pleasure in watching Rey take charge, even if he’d never give her that power by saying it out loud.]
[ There's a deceptive sweetness in how she says it. Like these words are somehow meant to soothe him, bring him the relaxation he seeks through effort. It's a simple task, after all. She'll do the bulk of the legwork in this. It is, after all, not about her. It's about showing him what he has forsaken in favor of the cold comfort of his station; what he could have in place of it.
Even relaxation comes by force to Kylo Ren, as though even this he cannot do without gritting his teeth and wrestling some animal instinct into submission. She waits. Rey has always been patient. Only when she can sense he's ready does she press her first finger into him. The resistance doesn't dissuade her because she knows well enough to take her time, and it is full seconds before her middle finger is buried in him to the knuckle. ]
Match my movements.
[ She kisses his back again before she begins to pull her finger back, an agonizingly slow drag as though they had all the time in the world. As if she were not actively risking being cut off in the middle here.
Or, perhaps, as if she knows only one of them will be left hanging in the middle, unsatisfied and empty, if something were to snap. ]
[Even knowing what was coming, even knowing the familiar press of her lips at his spine, he still tenses slightly when she slides her finger inside. Its is short lived discomfort — this is one of those few things he has trouble keeping quiet for. A needy and soft exhale escapes his lips when she manages to push down to her knuckle. The sensation is different when she isn’t there, but not so different that he would trade her touch across the stars for someone else’s right next to him.
As instructed, his hand follows the movement of her finger, just as slowly — the first stroke causes one of his own knuckles to lock impatiently, but this isn’t something to be rushed (even knowing that he might be left squirming and unsatisfied if they took too long.]
More.
[She had to miss this as much as he did, right? She wouldn’t drag this out unnecessarily and risk the absence of an end. His hand moves from his mouth to tangle in the bedsheet, an effort to brace himself.]
[ She says, although in the first place, the hungry sounds he makes have her picking up the pace a little. Her finger is slight enough as to not stretch him much, allowing her to pick up the tempo easily without fear of hurting him for lack of practice.
But the want to hear him beg for it is stronger than the want to hear those sounds of wanting get louder, as she knows they will once she adds another finger. This is true even despite the way his satisfaction seeps across the bond, stirring warmth between her own thighs. ]
[He just barely remembers to follow her lead, increasing the rate at which he jerks himself off. The arch in his back dips some as she picks up speed, and this time he smothers the sound admist the gathered blankets. He pulls them closer and forces himself to hold his breath long enough to pick uis head up sk that she can hear his reply, delayed and strangled as it is.]
Please.
[She’s the only person who’d ever been able to get him to beg like that, even if it was a small quantity. When he manages to get it it, he squeezes himself a little harder just to draw it out — the reminder that he is baring himself to her, even after all this time. Maybe she would come back, if he some how made a better showing.]
[ Hearing how he aches for her relays the feeling more keenly. For a moment she pulls her finger out entirely, straightening her back. It's a long enough moment for the cold and the loss to close in between them, but then something wet drips down his backside.
Her fingers move her spit around against his entrance, using it so she can slide both in at once. Not as slowly, this time. Bolder. She's getting impatient too. Otherwise unoccupied, her other hand reaches between her thighs and rubs over the seam of her pants as though trying to alleviate a mere itch.
She doesn't have words for this; only rasped breath answers him, louder when echoed in the void between them. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nsfw image; happy international women's day
carries this AU into the light
Since the death of the Supreme Leader and Rey's refusal to join him, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about what he could have done differently. He'd still been able to feel the bond, something that almost felt like a vestigial limb compared to what it had been when it was fresh and new. He'd never had the focus to properly bridge the gap, but Rey --
He's since forgotten what it had felt like, for the bond to fully manifest. Its been months since he's had a real conversation that wasn't him barking an order to a trooper. Their attempts to hunt down the last remaining pocket of the Resistance, his efforts to capture Rey alive and make another attempt to convince her to stand with him -- all thusfar unsuccessful.
By now, he had figured out what she was doing in the mean time. It was impossible that he was finding reminders of his past consistently littered about his ship -- things that didn't exist anymore, people who had forgotten him, and...things they'd shared together in their short time with one another. It'd never been something he'd admit, even privately to himself -- but the sentiment was always there now, in the wake of his realization.
He was starving. He did not think it would be this hard to move on -- and he had tried. Alone, with subordinates. He'd never found that emotional connection again, even if he'd since transcended the physical. Was that her goal?
It would have been a sound strategy -- her extended absence only made him more desperate to have that contact, any sort of contact from her back again, especially in hours like this where he could feel gooseflesh creeping up on his bare back. Perhaps it is that which draws her in from the other end of the galaxy. He is too busy messing with the waistband of his pants with one hand that the sudden increase of weight on the bed behind him does not even register.]
no subject
So instead, she held herself back from it. Her emotions ran too high, burned too hot — and so did his. It offered ample breeding ground for reminders, and she learned quickly how to manipulate the connection to provide them. If she listened, she could hear his aching loneliness rattling.
Sometimes, in meditation, she watched from a distance while he tried to smother it — never fully projecting, but reaching for his feelings.
Until tonight.
She can feel him, and as she reaches out to sense the edges of his loneliness, he reaches back, as if seizing upon her and rooting her there. That feels like some kind of victory, as if his will had started to bend under the weight of her warfare. Or maybe it's the Force, telling her that it's time. Either affirms her.
His eyes don't fix on her. He's somewhere else, still, opening his pants. She drinks the sight in with hungry eyes — it has been longer for her than him. Rey had not chased out shallow imitations. She doesn't say anything at first; instead she crawls closer and puts her hand on his back, her chin on his shoulder so she can look over it and watch what he does. ]
Thinking of someone?
no subject
The touch almost startles him off the bed, the action aborted by his own hand as he ends up gripping himself tighter and swallowing down the sudden bruise he feels settling on his ego and his pride. The exhale he takes is shallow -- the weight of her chin is heavy, and offers warmth where there had previously been none.
Somewhere between the touch and her question, he had squeezed his eyes shut. But they open again slowly, and he is forced to confront that he isn't dreaming. She's there, and she isn't, solid as he suddenly remembers the last time they had gotten this close to each other.]
No one.
[You're nothing.
Its not quite the dagger he wants it to be. He'd said that to her once, but he'd meant it in a way that was supposed to communicate kinship, and thus it rings hollow in any other capacity. There is an urge to reach for her, and a fear that she might not be there if he does.
He pulls his hand back down across himself, tighter and slower this time, enough to cause his breath to catch when the cool air catches the head of his cock exposed.]
no subject
[ That means he's still hers. Though she'd never really doubted it, Rey nonetheless took comfort in hearing what ostensibly confirmed it. He'd only be defensive if he had been thinking about her, and even no one was a better answer than someone else. It meant he was avoiding thinking about her.
Maybe that's vanity on her part. This consideration doesn't discourage her interpretation at all.
His fear and uncertainty are loud and clear across the open connection; disuse has caused him to forget how to temper it. An atrophied muscle, but not for her. Rey's hands settle at his waist; they fit against his hip bones as nicely as ever. She lingers there, watching him, simmering in satisfaction to see that her appearance has not prompted him to stopping.
For his boldness, she rewards him by slipping her right hand forward on his next upstroke. Her hand closes into a fist, edging his out.
And she squeezes him while she says, as though inviting pedestrian conversation while she jerks him off, ] You're still looking for me.
no subject
Or if he really wants to.]
I never stopped.
[Is that so surprising? Even without their connection, she was one of the most powerful Force users in the galaxy now. The only one left who could reasonably oppose him at the height of her power. And she was helping build an army to fight him.
That's not what she means -- he gets a sense of it when she squeezes him and forces his hand away. He doesn't quite lean back into her, but her presence is offered the barest acknowledgement when he finally turns his head until his cheek meets her's.
There's a slight urge to recoil, like there is some part of him that knows that he doesn't have to allow this. He could force this spectre away, if he tried hard enough.]
Did you think I would give up?
no subject
Still she lets out a satisfied exhale, slow and low like she's trying to keep her composure as he relents to her. It will take more than an inch. The Supremacy taught her that lesson. But it's enough to prompt her to pump her fist at a steady pace, dragging over his skin. In the back of her head, that stimulation prickles at the edge of her awareness, referred through the bond. ]
Didn't you want to?
[ 'Let the past die,' he'd said. And she had. She'd separated herself and done what she needed to do in order to wait. Patiently. For Kylo Ren to die, so Ben Solo could return. Now, she thinks, maybe she has a chance to worm her way in through the cracks to where he lives beneath the burned out shell of the armor he tried to protect himself with. ]
no subject
As a result, one hand hovers over her’s.]
No. Not you.
[He can admit that much. It isn’t just about attachment (he is in denial, regarding that), but that she was — connected to him. Be would be a fool to ignore the fact that they could have been great, if only she had joined him.
But she made that choice. Had she not understood what he had said? What he wanted for them?]
You were supposed to be the future.
no subject
[ But their visions of the future were different. Still, by the sound of it. He has not come to terms with his own failure, even if the rest of the galaxy can see it plain as day. Rey turns her face to kiss his neck, soft at first, but then her teeth scrape over his skin. ]
I'm still here.
[ It's not too late. She'd told him that once before. The pace of her firm strokes over his length picks up. She wants to draw him out of these dour thoughts and into something more primal. It's hard to miss, though, that he's the one exposed and vulnerable and she's pressed against him in a more complete state of dress. She's here because she wants to be. She has the control. ]
no subject
The brush of fabric at his back pulls him out of it briefly. It allows him the opportunity to dissect exactly what is happening, rather than getting lost in what feels like a fever dream. One hand reaches down for her wrist, encapsulating it and forcing her to slow while his other hand gropes for the arm around his waist.
Slowly, he guides her higher, across his scars and stiff muscles. He can sense what she wants from him, but he does not want to give it quite as easily as she encourages it. Eventually, her knuckles come to his lips, and he presses his teeth to them.]
I know.
[But not the way he wants her to be. Not in a way that allows this in hours that are not the dead of night, on the edge of slumber systems apart.]
But not for long.
no subject
He doesn't, though. Not really. Rather, he guides her up the dips of his abdomen and chest, and her fingers search out the rough abrasions of his scars. They are what make him recognizable to her. She draws a sharp breath when his teeth scrape across her fingers, and for the first time, the strength of her desire would become apparent again.
It's still there. ]
You'll find your way to me.
[ She brings her other hand to stroke his side, taking the chance to map his skin now that he has granted her that permission to consume him. This is talk of the future, though. Seeds planted. Reminders of what she is giving him. It's best to keep her eye on what's in front of her. ]
Until then, this is long enough for some things, as I recall.
no subject
No, those are the thoughts of a desperate boy, not -- the Supreme Leader. His muscles stiffen under her touch, but there is no denying the way she can easily lead his mind to those seeds to be watered. He knows better. No matter what they'd seen, the Force had fooled them both.
The only way they could ever find one another again was like this. At night, in a haze that was somewhere on the cusp of a dream and reality, where they would wake the next morning and realize there was nothing there.]
You could have stayed, if that was what you wanted.
[Those he'd used as a substitute in the mean time would have appreciated it. But Rey could not see the marks of that surrounding his chambers -- blankets askew, bedside table dotted with one or two apparatuses in addition to his lightsaber and the calligraphy set. Really, it all looks a bit out of place for Kylo Ren's normally neat and structured environment.
He is reminded of the absence of her hand between his legs before long, and moves his own to replace her's. The pace he chooses is slower -- there was no telling when the bond would shutter closed, after so much time apart, but he cannot bring himself to rush this.
A pity then that he's already heavy in his own hand.]
no subject
Instead he thinks she is hot-and-cold. She puffs out a sigh.
She's not going to correct that overnight. And anyway, he's making himself vulnerable to her now anyway; that means there are cracks in the shell still. This thought puts her at peace with the moment. She lets it lie there instead of rising to the debate. They're both keenly aware of how short their time like this might be — how soon the dilated Force might contract again, leaving them cold.
Instead of reply to what he says, she shifts to stretch her thighs around his hips, hugging him more fully from the back. She's no longer perched, hovering — she envelops him as much as her small size is able, and she peers around his shoulder to watch him for a few moments while her hands stroke his sides before — ]
Let me.
[ Her intent is apparent. Not let her take over, but let her take care of him. She still remembers what he needs, and the offer sounds gentle even in the warped in-between space of the bond. It is an offer she has only ever made across that feedback loop. As she says this, her hands settle on his hips. ]
no subject
He's already made himself so vulnerable -- its easy to recognize in that moment, where there is nowhere to go. Nowhere he can go, and nowhere he wants to go. There is only one answer he can offer to her request.
Its not swift, even knowing what little time they might have. It's been some time since he'd seen her face, really felt her there that he'd almost forgotten. Giving over at all...the only thing that makes it possible is that some traitorous part of him still isn't sure if he's dreaming.
He'd wake in the morning and realize that even prophecy could never feel as solid as the bond that encouraged his surrender in that moment. Their minds find each other again, and it is almost as if he's turned to face her without actually doing so. The motion of his hand around his length slowly shuttles to a halt.]
no subject
Rey presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the center of his spine, soft, and nudges his hand back to its task. She pushes him forward off the edge of the bed and slips off of it with him, stepping aside and holding one palm to his hip, as if to turn him. Her other hand traces down from his shoulder blades to the curve of his ass, squeezing him over his pants.
The bond carries her intent to see him bent over the edge of his bed — her bunk — to watch him bare that fragile part of his soul for her again. She asks for it not with aggression, but with a soft touch and with care. She wants to unravel him, but she wants to carry him through it.
And because she knows, as he knows, that he hasn't just been running after her, but running away from her specter, she knows to ask— ]
Did you let them touch you like this? [ She's not sure what answer to expect, or if either would make her happy. Even if he had, it wouldn't have been with the same degree of trust. He had only ever given that to her. ] Did it help?
no subject
His hand resumes its task at that same lazy pace, enough to keep him interested but not enough to advance too far. If she wanted to take care of him, then he would know what to do by the nature of the bond. Higher thought was not required for the task. He feels her intent through the Force, the grip on his ass as she beckons him to the edge of the bend, and turns him around.
Coaxing him to bend takes a moment longer, but eventually it happens, the waistband of his pants inching further doward thanks to friction alone. Perhaps unsurprisingly, even in spite of his resistence, bending is a natural position for him. His shoulders find the mattress, and his long legs force him to take a knee. one cheek pillowed against clean sheets.
Did you let them touch you like this? He squeezes his eyes shut to force down the vocalization that threatens to bubble from him, but the intent communicates cleanly. No. No one had been allowed to touch him more than absolutely necessary. He had not been able to allow more — it didn’t help. All it did was remind him of her absence, while failing to provide an adequate substitute. He tries to quell it, even now, to erase some of the fury and shame he feels for needing her to find relief from her absence.]
no subject
It's a selfish comfort she finds in the awareness, full as if it were her own, that he had held himself back while chasing out some replacement to the company and understanding she provided him. Despite every outward evidence to the contrary, he is still hers.
Her palm claps against his backside, the slapping sound caught in the void between star systems. It's not sharp enough to sting, though she's well aware how he wishes it would. He feeds on pain and hurt and loneliness. She denies him these in the same breath that she draws his attention to the void they create, the way they leave him dissatisfied.
She leans around him — it's not easy. He's lanky, but she extends her hand and she's able to reach his jaw. The movement presses her against the slope of his back, and reminds him that he's the only one bared here. Two fingers trace the curve of his lips, pressing for entrance. ]
no subject
Further, he shoves it away, even as her hand glides up his throat and to his jaw.
There's no resistance -- he'd agreed to this, to give himself over to her command of the bond and to their shared consciousness in hopes that it would chase away some of the spectres he felt hanging over him whenever he layed his head to rest. His lips part to allow the entry of her fingers.
Its a strange sensation, the pressure on his tongue that is there without really being there. He closes his teeth and meets resistance against what should be her skin -- its light pressure, nothing to inhibit her progress and more of an effort to participate beyond bending his knees and bowing his head.
It'd been so long since he'd done either of those things, after all.]
no subject
Ah. There you are.
She presses a kiss to his back and, for his efforts, keeps the probing of his mouth gentle. Gentle, but not stagnant. Her fingers probe back and forth across his lips, a familiar mimed gesture to make him anticipate what he's wetting them for.
She asks the question as she pulls her fingers out, dripping with his saliva. It clings between her fingers as she spreads them apart. It's been a while, but— she remembers, even if his body doesn't. She grips him with one hand to spread him, then presses one of her dampened fingers against his entrance. ]
Will you follow my lead?
no subject
One hand moves to his mouth briefly, to trace the path Rey had left behind, to erase the strange sensation that her figers should still be there. They retreat before long, when he hears her question.]
Tell me what you want.
[Would he follow her lead? He has a sense that she’s doing this on purpose, to call forth the reminder of how much he regrets that they’ve been driven so far apart by the war — but its hard to resist when every bit of contact feels as solid as if she’d been sharing his bed all evening.
And he would be lying if he didn’t admit some pleasure in watching Rey take charge, even if he’d never give her that power by saying it out loud.]
no subject
[ There's a deceptive sweetness in how she says it. Like these words are somehow meant to soothe him, bring him the relaxation he seeks through effort. It's a simple task, after all. She'll do the bulk of the legwork in this. It is, after all, not about her. It's about showing him what he has forsaken in favor of the cold comfort of his station; what he could have in place of it.
Even relaxation comes by force to Kylo Ren, as though even this he cannot do without gritting his teeth and wrestling some animal instinct into submission. She waits. Rey has always been patient. Only when she can sense he's ready does she press her first finger into him. The resistance doesn't dissuade her because she knows well enough to take her time, and it is full seconds before her middle finger is buried in him to the knuckle. ]
Match my movements.
[ She kisses his back again before she begins to pull her finger back, an agonizingly slow drag as though they had all the time in the world. As if she were not actively risking being cut off in the middle here.
Or, perhaps, as if she knows only one of them will be left hanging in the middle, unsatisfied and empty, if something were to snap. ]
no subject
As instructed, his hand follows the movement of her finger, just as slowly — the first stroke causes one of his own knuckles to lock impatiently, but this isn’t something to be rushed (even knowing that he might be left squirming and unsatisfied if they took too long.]
More.
[She had to miss this as much as he did, right? She wouldn’t drag this out unnecessarily and risk the absence of an end. His hand moves from his mouth to tangle in the bedsheet, an effort to brace himself.]
no subject
[ She says, although in the first place, the hungry sounds he makes have her picking up the pace a little. Her finger is slight enough as to not stretch him much, allowing her to pick up the tempo easily without fear of hurting him for lack of practice.
But the want to hear him beg for it is stronger than the want to hear those sounds of wanting get louder, as she knows they will once she adds another finger. This is true even despite the way his satisfaction seeps across the bond, stirring warmth between her own thighs. ]
no subject
Please.
[She’s the only person who’d ever been able to get him to beg like that, even if it was a small quantity. When he manages to get it it, he squeezes himself a little harder just to draw it out — the reminder that he is baring himself to her, even after all this time. Maybe she would come back, if he some how made a better showing.]
no subject
Her fingers move her spit around against his entrance, using it so she can slide both in at once. Not as slowly, this time. Bolder. She's getting impatient too. Otherwise unoccupied, her other hand reaches between her thighs and rubs over the seam of her pants as though trying to alleviate a mere itch.
She doesn't have words for this; only rasped breath answers him, louder when echoed in the void between them. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)