#He is under NO delusion that this is something that Ren is doing lightly

[linearao3]

Two porn prompts, pick whichever you prefer: 1. Kohelet, Han comes home from prison, and he and Leia celebrate. 2. Canon AU Dark Rey and Jedi Ben Solo; a good boy meets a dangerous lady. 3. Okay, this just came to me. Kohelet AU, Ben Solo never becomes estranged from his family, so he’s a very troubled, intense scholar dealing with his attraction to his rival’s activist protege Rey.

Okay, I did technically get another prompt before this one, and I will answer that, and maybe 1. and 3. from this one besides, but I did after all get into this whole “writing fanfic” mess because I wanted to see the idiots with the laser swords kiss so (with a warning for the combination of extremely dubious consent and enthusiastic participation which is presumably unique to fiction):

The way she uses the Force is terrifying.  The Force is with Ben, in the sense that he feels it by him, all the time; he reaches out and the Force is there.  But the Force is with her in an entirely different way; it’s not a tool Lady Ren uses or an ally she calls on but an armor, an exoskeleton, an extension of herself.  It’s her will, he recognizes, her mad determination that bends the weave of the universe around her.

“Even at your age, your uncle would have had me on my knees by now,” she tells him.  And it’s probably true.  He’s not as good as Uncle Luke, not as skilled, or smiling, or serene.  But what do they want from him; he’s — be who and where you are; it doesn’t matter what someone else might have done.  Only you are yourself, in this moment.  And he’s holding his own, against Snoke’s protégée; he’s fought her to a stand-still among the stones of this eerie planet with its blue sun distant in the sky, keeping her occupied as the Resistance evacuates behind him.  She’s fast and light and has the advantage of the treacherously balanced rocks; his size is against him on this ground, and the Force swirls dizzyingly around him; every step seems haunted by the possibility that he has put his foot in the wrong place, his guard in the wrong quarter, his trust in the wrong side. 

But if she has will, he has faith.  He’s seen the power of the Light, and even if he dies here, it will not desert him. 

He lunges low, at her legs.  She leaps up, and slashes down at his extended arm.  They both have to fall back, bracing themselves against boulders.  The wind blows her hair into her face.  The wisps of it seem incongruously soft.

He gets his footing back before she does, and goes on the attack, trying to keep his strokes controlled and efficient  She smiles at him as she dodges and parries.  "You could have me on my knees too, you know,” she says, and pushes an image into his mind, at the same time that she sets the Force twitching under his feet, and he stumbles on the rocks.

He falls, hard, on a small flat patch, his blue blade skipping from his hand and going dead.  She’s going to kill him.  It’s all right.  His parents must be leaving now, the heart of the Resistance with them.  He hears her foot hit the stone above him, and tries to rise from his knees and call his saber, but he knows it has to come, the heat and the pain of the blow, but he’s done what he could, and the Light will not abandon him — there is no death; there is only the Force.  I am one with the Force and —

The heat comes, but only heat, only a little.  She’s stopped her blade centimeters from his neck.  It drones beside his ear.  She pushes the image into his head again, and holds it there, so that he has to take in other things than the obvious (the obscenity, the wicked way she smiles) — he’s not himself, in the picture she shows him.  That’s his nose, his hair, his hand that’s tight on her head, but his clothes, the way he stands — he looks — Dark.  Dangerous.

Ben knows what he is.  He’s strong.  He’s large, and a little awkward.  He’s the servant of the Light.  And above all he is trying.  Trying to his family’s patience.  Trying to be at peace.  He’s not — that.  That man in her mind has no peace.

“Peace is a lie,” she breathes in his ear, over the hot hum of her weapon.  And when the Dark used to whisper to him at night, it had told him that, over and over, but it had seemed to mean something different — that the Light was only a delusion the weak cling to, that the world was harsh and cold, ready to kill him if he didn’t strike first.  When the Dark speaks in her voice, it means something else entirely.  "There is only passion.“

Her gloved hand is small, but it cups his chin perfectly, drawing his face up.  Her grip is warm and her weapon is still at his throat.  "Have you ever been kissed, Jedi?”  She sounds curious.  Excited.  He has pressed his face against someone’s, he thinks, some time, maybe, but whatever she’s about to do to him, no one has ever done it before.  Something terrible is happening to his blood.  He shakes his head, and her thumb rubs his skin, just grazing his lip.

And then her mouth crushes his, opens his, and no one has ever done anything like this to him before.  She smells like sweat and tastes like hot metal, like catastrophic atmospheric reentry.  Her black leather glove caresses his throat, and reaches lower, into his robe and under his shirt.  He closes his eyes and tries to call for the Light.  Her fingers find his nipple, and stroke.  She is an emergency, and he is not prepared.

“You stumble because you hold yourself back.  Because you worship control.”  She kisses him again.  "But your heart is violent.  I can feel it.“  He’s sure she can feel it, the way it pounds beneath her hand.  She pinches his nipple, lightly; she hurting him; he’s hurt; he’s hard as stone and mindless with shocking pleasure, twisting so wildly under her hands he almost cuts his own throat on her saber.

She laughs and draws away from him, raising her blade, dragging his collar up, and she’s only been toying with him; now she’ll kill him.  The last of the Skywalkers, and he’s going to die whimpering, cock stiff for the touch of Snoke’s apprentice.  She slashes, hard, and he feels cold air on his stomach; she’s cut his clothes open.

Her black boot lashes out, the heavy heel against his shoulder, throwing him on his back in the dirt.  "Show me your heart, Jedi.”  But it’s not his heart she’s looking at as she stands over him.  Her weapon is deactivated and fastened to her belt in one gesture; without its red blaze she looks more human.  Younger.  But there’s a lurid glow in her gaze as she rakes his bare chest with her eyes and lingers appraisingly on his the point of his humiliation, his loss of self-control.

She puts her boot on him again, not on his shoulder but at his neck, the toe just beneath the bulge in his throat, and presses down.  He fights for air and she laughs.  It reassures him, oddly.  This is the cruelty of the Dark.  He closes his eyes.  There is no death; there is only — 

She takes her foot off him, and watches him gasp.  That look of curiosity — he closes his eyes again.  "Don’t play with your food.“

“How well do you take orders, Jedi?”  Her voice is very close; he can feel her breath on his ear.  "Because I take them very badly.“  Her hand closes over his cock so suddenly and cruelly that he almost howls.  She strokes him roughly; the muscles in his stomach spasm and he almost doubles up, knees to chest, but she slams his shoulders back into the dirt with the Force.  He can’t even call it pleasure, what he’s feeling; it’s just too much.  He gasps, rolling his head.  "Shhh, shhhh,” she soothes him, and slows her hand.  Something soft and strong closes around his thigh.  She’s straddled his bent leg, holding it between her knees.  As her keeps moving, she shifts herself down and back and begins to rub against him.  

“I’ll play with you if I want,” she says, between her teeth.  "Play with you, eat you, drag you back to Master Snoke a come-stained mess with the taste of me on your pretty lips.“  

He tries.  He tries so hard, not to imagine how she might taste (like salt, like blood, like an emergency), not to push his leg up closer against her, not to thrust his cock into her hand.  He tries: there is emotion, but there is peace — but it’s such a pale, dry word, emotion, nothing to do with the burning in his blood, nothing to do with the maddening softness of her hand through his pants, and the closest thing he has to peace is the idea that he could fill her up, fit inside her like a missing piece.  

He’d taken pretty for an insult, but she takes her hand off him to plant both palms beside his head and kiss him with vicious thoroughness.  "Never been kissed,” she mutters against his mouth.  "Never been fucked.“  She slides down his lap, grinds herself directly against his hardness as she kisses him again.  "You’re obscene.”  Distantly, he’s baffled; he’s not the one who had an opportunity to kill an enemy and chose to rut in the dirt instead.  But her mouth closes around his ear, warm and wet, so the thought is very far away.  She sucks and tongues his ear and he writhes underneath the urgent press of her hips, and then she pushes another picture into his mind.

She’s naked, on a high throne, and he half-kneels before her, ominous and angular in black.  He lifts a heavy, black-gloved hand — the way her eyes linger on that hand — and twitches her legs apart with the Force.

“Not me,” he gasps.  "That’s not me.“

She takes his face in her hands.  "But it could be,” she says.  "Ben, you could be — we could — fuck, Ben — “

She reaches down to undo his pants, and he should be alarmed, but instead his foremost thought is, she knows my name.  Of course she does; he’s not Uncle Luke, but of course Lady Ren, Snoke’s apprentice, would know his name.  But it pulls at something in him, and even as her fingers pull his straining, weeping cock out of his pants, he lifts his hand to her cheek.

She jerks away, and rises off him slightly.  She yanks off her gloves, digs her fingers into the seam of her trousers, and tears.  Her bare hand on his naked cock is another shock, but it’s dulled by what he knows is coming: she’s so wet he feels her dripping down him even before she sinks down and he chokes on nothing.  Her head lolls backwards and the sound she makes, aching and wounded, deep in her throat, makes his back arch and his hips pump.

“Yes,” she sighs.  "Show me.“  She circles her hips.  "You have no control.  You don’t need control.  You’re better than control.”

Another picture.  He has her against the wall, his hands pinning hers, his cock thrusting cruelly and fast.   Violent.  And she’s moaning, mewling, welcoming it.

“We’d never take orders again, Ben.”  She leans forward.  Her breasts are hidden behind the heavy padding of her clothes, but her shoulders press them towards his mouth anyway.  Like she can’t help it, like she wants to offer herself to him.  "You’re so strong,“ she sighs, and her hands run over his arms.  "So strong.  But you’d be stronger in the Dark.”

He reaches for her face again.  It’s such a fine face, sharp and cleanly lined, and her cheeks are pink and her mouth is rosy and her hair is soft and he wants to touch her.  But she jerks her head away again.

“The Light is a lie,” she says.  "Come with me, Ben.  Let me show you.“

But the Light is not a lie.  It’s the brief frustration of his desire that sharpens his mind.  Ben has seen the power of the Light, has felt it come to save him when he thought dark dreams would eat him alive.  And so he pushes a picture into her mind.

She jerks back, but he puts his hands on her hips and pulls her against him.  "You’re afraid,” he says.  "Don’t be afraid.“

“I’m not,” she snarls, and rides him harder, as if that would prove it.  And it feels so good, how tightly she squeezes him as she drags herself up and down his length; he lets it feel good, focuses on the pure pleasure of it, the beauty of her body, even obscured by clothing meant for war.  He smiles up at her, and she falters.  He encourages her with his hands, helping her keep the pace.  He shows her the picture again.

“You are.”  It’s hard to talk, but he keeps his voice low and warm.  "But you shouldn’t be.“

Her body curves with his, but it’s only his motion that’s keeping them going, now.  Her eyes are closed, and tears are glimmering in her lashes.

“The Light is not a lie.”  She knows his name, and he knows hers.  "Rey.  The Light is waiting for you.“

One more time, he shows her the picture: her head against his chest.  Her eyes closed, lips parted.  His arm around her, embracing and gentle.  His hand moving softly in her hair.  The kiss he drops on her sleeping head.

The tears run down her cheeks.  "No one — no one — waits for — ”

His voice is full of strain; she’s tighter and tighter on him, and her hips are jerking, and he wants so badly to give her everything and watch her take it.  "I do.  I will.  Rey.“ 

She spasms, twisting and sobbing, and he brings his hands up to her waist, pulling her down against his chest, and then runs his hands down, stroking and squeezing her gorgeous ass.  The feel of it in his palms, luxuriously soft and stunningly strong, makes his cock twitch, and he braces his feet and thrusts hard up into her, pouring hot spurts of come into her body in time with her cries.

He feels like his orgasm will never end, but when it does he doesn’t let her go.  She pushes with her hands, and then with the Force, but he holds her.

"Just a minute,” he tells her softly.  "Just a minute.  Just until you stop crying.“  Because her tears are shaking her; if she tried to stand she would fall.  He strokes her back, through the quilting of her jacket.  "You don’t have to leave.” Sleep filters into his voice as he feels her sobs slow.  "You don’t have to stay.  Either way, I’ll wait for you.“

By the time her tears dry, they’re both asleep, alone together in the dust as the far away blue sun begins to set.