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.
[ 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. ]
[She gets bolder, and he barely has enough time to anticipate the increase in both pressure and speed. He has to stop jerking himself entirely just to adapt to the sensation, his breath catching on the outward exhale she forces him to take.
His hand is damp the next time he attempts to draw it across his cock, and the realization alone has him shuddering down his spine. He's supposed to be following her lead, but too much obedience to that request would have him finishing far before he wants to. He wants to draw this out, make it last -- there was no telling when the bond would manifest again.
But in the same light, there was no telling when it would disappear. Attempts to draw this out could very well leave him helpless in wanting, which seems an even worse fate.
So he tries again, finding her rhythm and pulling himself closer and closer to the edge. When he catches the way she runs her opposite hand across her thighs out of the corner of his eye, he nearly bites through his lip.]
[ She can feel him starting to teeter towards an ending, and some part of her is hungry for it, wants to hear him bite through it, wants to feel him tremble and thrash and shake apart. The early shudder gives her a taste for it, and her fingertips curl, ready to pull him the rest of the way, but—
Instead she stops abruptly. ]
Not yet. Shhh, not yet.
[ She rubs her hand up over his bare skin, trying to soothe him through the loss of that intrusion. Her other hand reaches for his, to stay his movements before he brings himself over the edge without her. ]
I want to give you more.
[ More like she wants to watch him take more, but that's fundamentally the same thing here. ]
[There's a sound that comes out of him when she abruptly leaves him behind, a resistance that fights the way she tries to stop the movement of his hand. Its a frustrated sound, a hybrid of a whine and a growl. How could she be so cruel so far away?
It takes him a moment to give up fighting her influence, his forehead grinding into the mattress. He only left his room to give commands, so it was easy to call its layout to mind for her. There were a few odds and ends (a caligraphy set, a cold cup of tea, his lightsaber), plus at least one dildo with accompanying lubricant that had clearly been reserved for another task -- for someone else, in the absence of the one now leading him along like a lost dog.
He finally reaches out to communicate, taking his hand off his cock so that he can push himself enough to speak to her]
What if you are cut off?
[He would never be able to manage himself on his own trying to jerk himself off while also being stuck with an inoperative dildo in his ass.]
[ She rubs her hand up along his spine, pressing herself along his back. Now that his hand has given up the effort of tugging himself along, she rests her own hand over his erection, a warm but unmoving promise. She wants to keep him with her, not frustrate him into pulling away. ]
Not if you keep yourself open to me.
[ All this time keeping herself cut off from him had taught her something about how it crept in. She feels quite sure of that. Sure enough to stake his satisfaction and dignity on it, at least; it's worth noting that she is much less engaged for her own part, clothed and in control. ]
[He has noticed, and there is something ugly that curls in his stomach for every moment she seems wholly unaffected by this process. But he knows better — even if her appearance didnt quite betray her, he knew.
He presses his hips a little further into her grip, just enough for a hit of friction to remind him where they were going. Her request was timely — a day later and here would be a chance that he might have given up and disposed of his imitations of the pleasure thougts of her once brought him. And so, he reaches out for the bottle first, calling it to his hand and depositing it next to him. And then the dildo, clearly not designed for this specific task, given its varied size and texture across its body.]
[ Some part of her is surprised by his ready compliance. Oh, the shame is there. He's humiliated by his own eager surrender; it churns in the bond, eating away at it like an acid. But he gives himself over to it anyway. Desperate, maybe; it doesn't take a deep delve into his mind to recognize how unsatisfying his efforts to fulfill these needs elsewhere have been.
But more likely than desperation is a reluctant, begrudging acceptance of how natural this state is for him. Surrendering himself to another's will. She's not so self-loathing as to consider herself remotely akin to Snoke — rather, the fact that she will care for him, treat him tenderly, these are the things that salve the wounds Snoke had left in him.
That's what he wants so badly that it makes him willing to bend with only brief protest.
She reaches out, her touch gentle as she pulls his hair back out of his face to get a better look at him like this. There's something loving in that gesture, affectionate and patient despite the thrumming need that runs through the tether holding them here. ]
Trust me.
[ His surrender has opened the bond wider, and with it dilated like this, she is afforded a blurry picture of his surroundings. Sharper the closer they are to his body. She takes the bottle, clear and present as if it were here in the rusted out Rebel base with her, and pours generously into her hand. It's cold enough to deliver a shock, and her body heat only warms it a little before she smears it down the pale curve of his ass. ]
[The temperature contrast makes his spine jump, muscles clenching near her hand. His expression betrays his anticipation once she pulls the hair out of his eyes. His stare, originally leveled at the wall, tilts back to look over his shoulder at her. The space around them blurs some, his chambers mixing with the dark rust of the Rebel Base -- he knows he should be focusing more on it, to find where she's hidden away from him...
But he's continuously distracted by the slide of her hand, the weight of his cock hanging between his legs somewhat uselessly now that her hands have left it.
She asks for trust, but she knows better than to expect it unyielding after all these years. Still, so close is there connection now that she'll be able to feel his heart stutter impatiently. It was a necessary delay, of course, but he couldn't help it even now that he's managed to find her eyes again.]
I'd like to.
[But he can't -- not while she's in that base, and he's floating on a Star Destroyer in the Inner Rim.]
In fact, she takes it hard, a visible set in her jaw. She'd hoped — but it doesn't matter. Just because he's not rolling over now doesn't mean he won't. If anything, she won't let it take away that she's seen and felt his longing now, his loneliness. She knows that it's eating away at him, and not in the way that will only make him lash out more.
He'll turn. She just has to give him time, and hope.
Rey makes quick work of slathering lubricant on the toy as well. Its texture makes grooves that are hard to get to, and rather than waste time, she accepts that as good enough. Like so many things, settled for.
And when she presses the tip of it to his entrance, she pushes with a little too great a force. There's no testing. Just certainty that after her slim fingers, he'll be able to stretch for this reasonably quickly. He'll have to settle for the fact that it's a little rough and a little abrupt too. ]
Touch yourself. [ She notes this as a reminder, but her voice is rough.And, truth be told, she's eager. Eager to hear the sounds he makes and watch him curl and buck and — Anticipation shortens her breath. She notices it now, as she shunts the toy in a couple inches, twisting it as if that will help spread the lubricant inside of him. At the very least, its uneven bulk shifts in him in interesting ways. ]
Unless you don't think you'll need to. [ There's some darkness curling on her tongue, apparent in her readiness to remind him how desperate he is for this, how he's begging her to humiliate him. ] What do you think, Ben? Would this be enough for you?
[He only has a moment to brace himself, but no amount of bracing would have prepared him for how Rey drives forward.
The rubberband snaps so heard that the vision itself trembles with clarity. Kylo instinctively tries to hold back his reaction, but there is no ledge for him to grab. His elbows and his shoulders lock with his spine, and then they all abruptly, helpessly crumble. The sound that comes from him starts as a breathy huff, but escalates to a naked cry as he tries and fails to curl in on the warmth in his belly. His shout echoes off the wall of his room for a moment, silenced when his face finds the mattress. For a moment, he simply lays there, upper body contorting some when she twists the toy and trembling hands desperately reaching to grab — something, anything.
Fuck. Fuck.
She pulls and shunts again, and another sound comes out of him — a whine, shorter, weaker, but equally desperate and helpless. He is at her mercy, even the demands she makes of him seem insurmountable. He is already leaking from the failed effort of holding himself back. The dark song she weaves draws a heat in his chest that he nearly loathes — its impossibly attractive, as much as it himiliates and pokes at his resolve. He wants to bite back — she can feel his intent through the Force, but it never vocalizes.
He does as he’s told. He reaches to touch himself, but its not what he wants. He shifts the placement of his knees and heaves into the sheets. The whole thing is a sensory overload — the split of his attention actually slows the tide that threatens to pull him out.]
Again. Please.
[The beg bubbles out of his throat, wet and hungry, drowned in excess saliva that he had not swallowed.]
[ He sounds like an animal in pain. Only the bond assures her that it's not pain, and that the way he squirms and writhes is a product of primal desire, not desperation to escape. The sound makes her body clench and release, a warmth spilling in her panties.
The way that he wants to bite back and grapple with her strikes Rey's mind, pouring off of him, telling her that she has to be the one in control. So she won't relieve that ache with him here; she'll wait until he's gone and she's alone in her bunk. (And when she does, tears will come because he's still far away from her, and the next day she will go on as if none of this had happened and hold him at bay again. Edging him to desperation for the contact and understanding only she can offer him.)
He suppresses that fighting instinct to beg instead. She brings up her other hand to stroke his hip, smoothing back over the slope of his pale cheek when he does. Good.
Her other hand works the toy, drawing it back before easing it in deeper. It goes more smoothly this time, but only to a point. She gets the length in smoothly to the point where the base widens, and he's not stretched enough for that. Its progress slows. She takes it painstakingly, soothing him through it by rubbing her hand over his ass. ]
You're doing so good.
[ She praises him softly and kisses the bow of his lower back, leaning just barely over him. It's a wonder, the way he opens up for her, the way he humbles himself — but they both need this release. She marvels over him, something warm and genuine in her eyes despite the way almost brutal way she digs into him. ]
[He struggles to relax. Between the hypnotic motion of his own hand stroking his cock and the way Rey slowly pushes the toy to its hilt, there is hardly any room for him to breathe. It hurts, but it hurts in a way that coaxes him to beg for more. His breathes are large and heavy, taken between attempts to relax all of his weight onto his shoulders now shoved onto the mattress, rather than the knees that feel raw from so many years of kneeling.
He feels her hand smooth over him, the way she kisses at his lower back, and that heat in his chest turns to an icy ache. He wants her closer than that, knowing that she will be gone from him again soon, and they will be forced to return to reality.]
Rey.
[He says her name like he's been keeping it a secret, buried deep for moments like this when he is alone and can marvel at the treasure he's found, and can't bare to share because something will remind him that--its all imagined. The bond, the fluid sticking to his fingers, the sensation of pressure in his ass -- all of that was real.
But this fantasy that they would keep finding each other, that she would come back to him and see the right of things...he knew better. This was the only way he could have her, and the only way she could bring herself to entertain his loneliness.
He wants to take the rest of what she's trying to give him, so he once again slows the shuttling of his hand. He's already too close; his shoulders continue to spasm, the warmth in his stomach threatening to spill at any moment.]
[ She unearths her name from him and she realizes it's what she's been waiting for. That strained, sloppy prayer. She seethes out her exhale against his skin, savoring this moment. It will be gone soon, and she will be back to waiting.
Distantly, in the back of her mind, she registers the way his hand slows. It's a full body awareness, the way they trade back and forth when the bond has dilated like this. She doesn't need to look or feel the twitch of muscle in his back helping his arm to move slower. She just knows. ]
Yes. [ She encourages him, suddenly hungry for it. She starts a steady rhythm, settling on pushing it in only as far as he could take it and pumping rather than trying to urge him to take more. ] I want to hear you.
[ That begging, the way he cried and groaned and strained — from the effort of holding himself back, of taking her in. It's a facsimile, this toy. Just like this moment. Of something that could have been, but wasn't. She bites down on tears that try to come early. She strangles it, and her voice is slightly hoarse when she says— ]
[He starts to comply, but he feels the feeling slipping away from memory. The words elude him. Subconsciously, his hand starts to move faster, and he further collapses into the steady rhythm of her hands, the way she digs for--
His breath comes out heavy again. There is a wave that is coming, and he pushes it down again at the same time she pushes in. It causes the inhale to stutter when he takes it, a desperate sound accompanying it.]
No--it--
[The declaration comes out first, a vocalized refusal to let himself be taken by the end, and an attempt to comply to her demand at the same time: Tell me how it feels. He inhales again to try and reset, but she's still driving herself into him with hunger now. It bleeds, and he's too aroused by it to comprehend anything but their pleasure mixing across the bond.
He tries to force himself off his shoulders, to show he still has some control of himself. He fails.]
Oh--Rey--
[He can't do it. He can't answer her. All he can do is say her name, and beg, and breathe for it. His breath comes faster now, and his whole body lurches backward, and then forward into the mattress. There are tears in his eyes from how hard he comes (and with it, a wail of desire), spilling into his hand and the tangle of sheets powerfully. So much of his skin is reddened by the act, and his wheezing comes so deep that his voice begins to crack.
And slowly, his muscles turn to liquid, skin prickling with overstimulation.]
[ This is better, she thinks. This convulsing incoherence. The flush of his pale skin, the choked aborted sounds of his pleasure as he tries to follow her command. If he had been able to get the words out, they wouldn't have been as beautiful as this.
She works him through his climax, slowing her movements until his pleas have cried off and his body slumps with the fatigue of his ending. Then she pulls the toy free and lets it tumble uselessly to the floor. It has no place here anymore, between them.
Only then does Rey crawl up over him and cradle her body against his again, matching the curve of his spine, wrapping around him and burying her face against his shoulder blade. She doesn't say anything more — she just holds him. Her body aches and chafes, seeking friction, but it's a distant thing now; despite it, she is sated. Just breathing him in. ]
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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?
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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.]
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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. ]
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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.]
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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?
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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.]
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[ 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. ]
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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.]
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[ 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. ]
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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.]
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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. ]
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His hand is damp the next time he attempts to draw it across his cock, and the realization alone has him shuddering down his spine. He's supposed to be following her lead, but too much obedience to that request would have him finishing far before he wants to. He wants to draw this out, make it last -- there was no telling when the bond would manifest again.
But in the same light, there was no telling when it would disappear. Attempts to draw this out could very well leave him helpless in wanting, which seems an even worse fate.
So he tries again, finding her rhythm and pulling himself closer and closer to the edge. When he catches the way she runs her opposite hand across her thighs out of the corner of his eye, he nearly bites through his lip.]
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Instead she stops abruptly. ]
Not yet. Shhh, not yet.
[ She rubs her hand up over his bare skin, trying to soothe him through the loss of that intrusion. Her other hand reaches for his, to stay his movements before he brings himself over the edge without her. ]
I want to give you more.
[ More like she wants to watch him take more, but that's fundamentally the same thing here. ]
Do you have anything handy?
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It takes him a moment to give up fighting her influence, his forehead grinding into the mattress. He only left his room to give commands, so it was easy to call its layout to mind for her. There were a few odds and ends (a caligraphy set, a cold cup of tea, his lightsaber), plus at least one dildo with accompanying lubricant that had clearly been reserved for another task -- for someone else, in the absence of the one now leading him along like a lost dog.
He finally reaches out to communicate, taking his hand off his cock so that he can push himself enough to speak to her]
What if you are cut off?
[He would never be able to manage himself on his own trying to jerk himself off while also being stuck with an inoperative dildo in his ass.]
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[ She rubs her hand up along his spine, pressing herself along his back. Now that his hand has given up the effort of tugging himself along, she rests her own hand over his erection, a warm but unmoving promise. She wants to keep him with her, not frustrate him into pulling away. ]
Not if you keep yourself open to me.
[ All this time keeping herself cut off from him had taught her something about how it crept in. She feels quite sure of that. Sure enough to stake his satisfaction and dignity on it, at least; it's worth noting that she is much less engaged for her own part, clothed and in control. ]
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He presses his hips a little further into her grip, just enough for a hit of friction to remind him where they were going. Her request was timely — a day later and here would be a chance that he might have given up and disposed of his imitations of the pleasure thougts of her once brought him. And so, he reaches out for the bottle first, calling it to his hand and depositing it next to him. And then the dildo, clearly not designed for this specific task, given its varied size and texture across its body.]
I will try.
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But more likely than desperation is a reluctant, begrudging acceptance of how natural this state is for him. Surrendering himself to another's will. She's not so self-loathing as to consider herself remotely akin to Snoke — rather, the fact that she will care for him, treat him tenderly, these are the things that salve the wounds Snoke had left in him.
That's what he wants so badly that it makes him willing to bend with only brief protest.
She reaches out, her touch gentle as she pulls his hair back out of his face to get a better look at him like this. There's something loving in that gesture, affectionate and patient despite the thrumming need that runs through the tether holding them here. ]
Trust me.
[ His surrender has opened the bond wider, and with it dilated like this, she is afforded a blurry picture of his surroundings. Sharper the closer they are to his body. She takes the bottle, clear and present as if it were here in the rusted out Rebel base with her, and pours generously into her hand. It's cold enough to deliver a shock, and her body heat only warms it a little before she smears it down the pale curve of his ass. ]
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But he's continuously distracted by the slide of her hand, the weight of his cock hanging between his legs somewhat uselessly now that her hands have left it.
She asks for trust, but she knows better than to expect it unyielding after all these years. Still, so close is there connection now that she'll be able to feel his heart stutter impatiently. It was a necessary delay, of course, but he couldn't help it even now that he's managed to find her eyes again.]
I'd like to.
[But he can't -- not while she's in that base, and he's floating on a Star Destroyer in the Inner Rim.]
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In fact, she takes it hard, a visible set in her jaw. She'd hoped — but it doesn't matter. Just because he's not rolling over now doesn't mean he won't. If anything, she won't let it take away that she's seen and felt his longing now, his loneliness. She knows that it's eating away at him, and not in the way that will only make him lash out more.
He'll turn. She just has to give him time, and hope.
Rey makes quick work of slathering lubricant on the toy as well. Its texture makes grooves that are hard to get to, and rather than waste time, she accepts that as good enough. Like so many things, settled for.
And when she presses the tip of it to his entrance, she pushes with a little too great a force. There's no testing. Just certainty that after her slim fingers, he'll be able to stretch for this reasonably quickly. He'll have to settle for the fact that it's a little rough and a little abrupt too. ]
Touch yourself. [ She notes this as a reminder, but her voice is rough.And, truth be told, she's eager. Eager to hear the sounds he makes and watch him curl and buck and — Anticipation shortens her breath. She notices it now, as she shunts the toy in a couple inches, twisting it as if that will help spread the lubricant inside of him. At the very least, its uneven bulk shifts in him in interesting ways. ]
Unless you don't think you'll need to. [ There's some darkness curling on her tongue, apparent in her readiness to remind him how desperate he is for this, how he's begging her to humiliate him. ] What do you think, Ben? Would this be enough for you?
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The rubberband snaps so heard that the vision itself trembles with clarity. Kylo instinctively tries to hold back his reaction, but there is no ledge for him to grab. His elbows and his shoulders lock with his spine, and then they all abruptly, helpessly crumble. The sound that comes from him starts as a breathy huff, but escalates to a naked cry as he tries and fails to curl in on the warmth in his belly. His shout echoes off the wall of his room for a moment, silenced when his face finds the mattress. For a moment, he simply lays there, upper body contorting some when she twists the toy and trembling hands desperately reaching to grab — something, anything.
Fuck. Fuck.
She pulls and shunts again, and another sound comes out of him — a whine, shorter, weaker, but equally desperate and helpless. He is at her mercy, even the demands she makes of him seem insurmountable. He is already leaking from the failed effort of holding himself back. The dark song she weaves draws a heat in his chest that he nearly loathes — its impossibly attractive, as much as it himiliates and pokes at his resolve. He wants to bite back — she can feel his intent through the Force, but it never vocalizes.
He does as he’s told. He reaches to touch himself, but its not what he wants. He shifts the placement of his knees and heaves into the sheets. The whole thing is a sensory overload — the split of his attention actually slows the tide that threatens to pull him out.]
Again. Please.
[The beg bubbles out of his throat, wet and hungry, drowned in excess saliva that he had not swallowed.]
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The way that he wants to bite back and grapple with her strikes Rey's mind, pouring off of him, telling her that she has to be the one in control. So she won't relieve that ache with him here; she'll wait until he's gone and she's alone in her bunk. (And when she does, tears will come because he's still far away from her, and the next day she will go on as if none of this had happened and hold him at bay again. Edging him to desperation for the contact and understanding only she can offer him.)
He suppresses that fighting instinct to beg instead. She brings up her other hand to stroke his hip, smoothing back over the slope of his pale cheek when he does. Good.
Her other hand works the toy, drawing it back before easing it in deeper. It goes more smoothly this time, but only to a point. She gets the length in smoothly to the point where the base widens, and he's not stretched enough for that. Its progress slows. She takes it painstakingly, soothing him through it by rubbing her hand over his ass. ]
You're doing so good.
[ She praises him softly and kisses the bow of his lower back, leaning just barely over him. It's a wonder, the way he opens up for her, the way he humbles himself — but they both need this release. She marvels over him, something warm and genuine in her eyes despite the way almost brutal way she digs into him. ]
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He feels her hand smooth over him, the way she kisses at his lower back, and that heat in his chest turns to an icy ache. He wants her closer than that, knowing that she will be gone from him again soon, and they will be forced to return to reality.]
Rey.
[He says her name like he's been keeping it a secret, buried deep for moments like this when he is alone and can marvel at the treasure he's found, and can't bare to share because something will remind him that--its all imagined. The bond, the fluid sticking to his fingers, the sensation of pressure in his ass -- all of that was real.
But this fantasy that they would keep finding each other, that she would come back to him and see the right of things...he knew better. This was the only way he could have her, and the only way she could bring herself to entertain his loneliness.
He wants to take the rest of what she's trying to give him, so he once again slows the shuttling of his hand. He's already too close; his shoulders continue to spasm, the warmth in his stomach threatening to spill at any moment.]
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Distantly, in the back of her mind, she registers the way his hand slows. It's a full body awareness, the way they trade back and forth when the bond has dilated like this. She doesn't need to look or feel the twitch of muscle in his back helping his arm to move slower. She just knows. ]
Yes. [ She encourages him, suddenly hungry for it. She starts a steady rhythm, settling on pushing it in only as far as he could take it and pumping rather than trying to urge him to take more. ] I want to hear you.
[ That begging, the way he cried and groaned and strained — from the effort of holding himself back, of taking her in. It's a facsimile, this toy. Just like this moment. Of something that could have been, but wasn't. She bites down on tears that try to come early. She strangles it, and her voice is slightly hoarse when she says— ]
Tell me how it feels, Ben.
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[He starts to comply, but he feels the feeling slipping away from memory. The words elude him. Subconsciously, his hand starts to move faster, and he further collapses into the steady rhythm of her hands, the way she digs for--
His breath comes out heavy again. There is a wave that is coming, and he pushes it down again at the same time she pushes in. It causes the inhale to stutter when he takes it, a desperate sound accompanying it.]
No--it--
[The declaration comes out first, a vocalized refusal to let himself be taken by the end, and an attempt to comply to her demand at the same time: Tell me how it feels. He inhales again to try and reset, but she's still driving herself into him with hunger now. It bleeds, and he's too aroused by it to comprehend anything but their pleasure mixing across the bond.
He tries to force himself off his shoulders, to show he still has some control of himself. He fails.]
Oh--Rey--
[He can't do it. He can't answer her. All he can do is say her name, and beg, and breathe for it. His breath comes faster now, and his whole body lurches backward, and then forward into the mattress. There are tears in his eyes from how hard he comes (and with it, a wail of desire), spilling into his hand and the tangle of sheets powerfully. So much of his skin is reddened by the act, and his wheezing comes so deep that his voice begins to crack.
And slowly, his muscles turn to liquid, skin prickling with overstimulation.]
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She works him through his climax, slowing her movements until his pleas have cried off and his body slumps with the fatigue of his ending. Then she pulls the toy free and lets it tumble uselessly to the floor. It has no place here anymore, between them.
Only then does Rey crawl up over him and cradle her body against his again, matching the curve of his spine, wrapping around him and burying her face against his shoulder blade. She doesn't say anything more — she just holds him. Her body aches and chafes, seeking friction, but it's a distant thing now; despite it, she is sated. Just breathing him in. ]
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