#and it’s hard to cool off and nobody’s houses are built for temps above like 21*C

[linearao3]

Porn prompt! Rey and Ben are begrudgingly working together but on the run and need to lie low in an abandoned house for a bit until their exfil. Forced proximity + honest to goodness conversations = banging

It only took me… six fucking months.  You didn’t specify the “it’s too darn hot” theme, but I hope you don’t mind it?  Also I’m not sure this is what you meant by “honest to goodness conversations,” but, uh, they do talk?  Anyway:

“What’s wrong with this planet’s atmosphere?” she gasps, slamming the window down and sliding down beneath the windowsill. “Do they know we’re here?” They’re supposed to be hidden here, waiting for Poe to come and sweep them off their feet. Or up by the scruffs of the necks they’ve been busy endangering. Poe has plenty to say about that these days, though Rey doesn’t think he has as much room to talk as he thinks he does.

“What do you mean?” he asks, but she can see its affecting him too, sweat dripping down his neck though the instrument on the wall shows only 27 Standard.

“It’s choking. Are they poisoning us? What have they done? How long do we have?”

He pauses, blinking. “Nobody did anything. It’s just humid.”

“Humid? This is water?”

“Yes,” he says. “You’ve never been on a humid world before?”

“There was fog on Ach-To.” She sits down. The air feels heavy.

“It’s hot. I thought you’d be used to heat.”

She points indignantly to the temp instrument. “44 is hot.” She sees him flinch at the number. “39, 38 even, if you don’t have water or shade. 27 isn’t hot.” She’s in the shade, hidden beneath the sill in this dark abandoned house, but it doesn’t seem to matter. And according to the recently resigned-or-so-he-claims Supreme Leader (Rey is tempted to rifle through his memories and see if he wasn’t deposed), it’s water that’s to blame. “So what do you do about this?”

“Maybe there’s climate regulation somewhere. But I doubt it. This planet is primitive.”

“So what do we do?”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“In real heat, you look for shade. If you can spare the water, you make yourself sweat. If you can spare the power, you rig a fan. If the sand hasn’t shifted lately, you can dig down to a cooler layer.”

“Fanning might help. Sweating won’t, or not much. I think the whole… problem… is the evaporation point.”

Rey swears. “Fine. Is there a fan unit?”

There is not. They search the whole house, both stories, and when they meet up again, he’s opened all the windows, and a good deal more of his snow-white skin is showing than when she left him. (She knows what snow is, now, how it feels, how fragile it is, not like sand at all, and for a brief moment she dreams that Kylo Ren might be cool and gentle to the touch. But she knows better; she’s felt him at her back, under her hand, fighting together; he’s feverishly hot; touching him would be no help. No help at all.)

He sees her looking. He’s removed his gloves, and his tunic; his arms are still covered, and suspenders hang from his waist, pulling at the high band of his trousers. It’s actually worse than – but what does she mean worse? Worse how. That doesn’t make any sense. She turns away.

“It encourages evaporation,” he says stiffly, and she nods, just as stiffly. That makes sense. They’re shaded here, after all, and so there’s no need to shield bare skin from burns. He’d burn so easily, in the sun, with that skin; he’d flush and the lightest touch of her fingers would make him hiss, but he’d need a salve; she imagines the extravagant quantities of cool gel she’d need to cover all of him, a whole pot, enough to dip her fingers all the way into; she imagines her wet fingers sliding over his back as he shudders –

“What is it?”

“I was just – you wouldn’t fare well on Jakku. Showing skin like that.”

“I know,” he mumbles. “I didn’t. Dress like this.”

She jerks around to face him. “You were on Jakku?”

His eyes are downcast and he swallows hard. “First Order business.”

Of course. Busy being a master of the universe. While she dug for parts in dusty graveyards. She looks down at her arms, carefully wrapped against a blazing star she hasn’t seen in years.

Well. He’s not a dark lord, anymore, is he. Just some human man (strong and hot to the touch), taking instructions from Poe, just like her. And she’s not his subject. She’s his… partner. (Equal in the Force. Mirror-image.) She undoes her belt and strips off her wrap, and then the tunic underneath. She’s not looking at him but he swallows so hard she can hear it.

She sits down on the floor and takes off her boots, then lays down flat. He’s looking at her; she can feel it; he’s standing there looking at her. “Heat rises,” she reminds him. Slowly, he sits down, and then slowly unfolds to lie on the floor. Parallel to her, and not so far away.

There’s nothing to do but wait, is there? They should rest. “Sleep,” she says.  That’s what you do if you don’t have to work. “The beacon will wake us up if Poe shows up earlier than he says he will.”

But she can’t sleep. The air is too heavy. She should feel drowsy, but she only feels restless. Irritable. She rolls on her side and sees that he’s done the same. He’s been watching her not-sleep. His eyes flicker over her, lingering in odd places – not the subtle little valley that shows at the top of her breast band, but her ankle, her shoulder. Her mouth. (Maybe that’s not so odd, she thinks, sneaking a glance at his sulky-soft lips.) She rolls her neck, under his gaze, and blushes when she realizes she’s done it.

He keeps looking. “Did you really roll around in the dirt?” he asks. “To keep cool?”

“What?”

His finger traces a line in the grain of the floor. (As best it can; the grain is fine, and his fingers are thick.) “You said you’d dig down to a cool layer.”

“In the sand,” she says. “If it’s burning through your shoes, you dig down to where it’s cooler.”

“Oh,” he says. “Only your feet.”

Is he… disappointed? “What were you imagining? That I buried myself up to the neck? I’d never get out again.”

“Some animals wallow,” he says, sounding a bit defensive.

“You mean like a sand bath? Sure, but that’s to get clean, not cool.  You scour, you don’t roll around.  And I’m not an animal.”

“We’re all animals.”

“We are not,” she says sternly. “Animals can’t govern themselves. We can.”

“Maybe you can.” He rolls away from her. She can tell just by the shape of his shoulders that he’s clenching his fists.

“Oh, you mean, unlike all those other sentients who need the guiding hand of a supreme leader?”

“Snoke couldn’t govern a single ship,” he grits. “And neither could I. Neither can Hux, not by himself. People aren’t governable. They’re manipulable.”

Now her teeth are clenched too. “Maybe they are. But they can resist it. And – ”

“Maybe you can,” he says again, and the tension in his shoulders is pulled so tight his back arches and the pain radiates out from him in the Force like a sonic shock. The pain carries his meaning to her, and drags at her heart, even before she hears him mumble it out. “I never could. I’m weak. I always have been.”

“No,” she protests. “No, you’re not. I know you’re strong; I’ve felt it in you.”

He spits the bitter fragment of a laugh. “You. It’s easier for you than for anyone.”

“What are you talking about?” Being strong? He should know, better than anyone, how hard she fights, how she struggles and weeps – she thought he did know –

“At least Master Snoke, Master Luke – they told me I had to work for it. You make it seem like I could just have it. Like I could just reach out and – have.” She sees him lift a straining arm, clutching for nothing. (There’s so much effort in him, so much struggle, but the muscles in his pale shoulder move with such simple grace.)

“Have what?”

He rolls over again. He’s closer, now. If he reached out again she would be in his grasp. The sun is setting; the damp-warm room is falling into shadow. She can feel sweat dripping between her breasts. She can feel his eyes on her face.

“Have what?” she whispers again.

He breathes out. Does she feel it? Is he that close? Or is it just a brief stirring of the hot and sticky air between them? “A way out,” he says at last. “You can lead me around so easily, because you always make it seem like… all I have to do is ask.”

He laughs again, longer, and so much sadder; he closes his eyes but she can see the tears lining his lashes. For a moment Rey could cry herself, for the despair that howls in him. A feeling like the first time she climbed a dune, and felt herself slide down and backwards with each step, while the wind built and shifted the peak above her.

But she has learned to walk on sand. A light, trudging step. A patient step.

“Maybe not. Maybe that’s not all. But have you tried?” she asks gently. “Have you tried asking?”

His eyes fly open. “Asking?” His voice cracks. “Have I tried asking?” She sees it, suddenly, in his dazed eyes, full of pain and rage – his outstretched hand, his palm sweating in his glove, his lips trembling as he made himself say it. Please.

Quick, like she’s bringing her staff down on a pole-snake’s head, she seizes his hand. The same hand. Bare now. (Still sweating.)  "I asked you too,“ she snarls, clutching his heavy paw to her like its her haul, her prize, “I asked you, I begged you, but you were so set. You say you want a way out? I told you I’d help you, I was ready to take you away, bring you out, but you were asking me to stay there. But fine. Fine! You asked once and I said no, so now you’ll never ask anybody anything ever again, is that it?”

She tugs on his hand again, angrily, like it will convince him of something. If he wanted, he could be immovable as stone, but he jolts with her motion. His skin is hot, like she knew it would be, his palm hotter, almost slippery with sweat, and little flashes of thought are jumping from him to her like sparks, like a current (her hand, pushing cool sand up and down her bare legs, tracing the curve of her calf and the hollow of her knee; the shifting line of her bare bent neck; the glimmer of a drop of sweat as it moves between her breasts) but she pushes past them, leaning in, staring fiercely up into his face. “Fine. Will you come with me, Ben? Join me; be on my side? I have no bloody idea if it’s easy or hard. But will you come with me and try?”

If she were standing, she might have stamped her foot, some distraction from the hot tears gathering in her eyes. Instead, she yanks fiercely on his hand, pulling with her whole body, so that she rolls onto her back and he follows. His body lands heavily on hers, and the images in his head change and strengthen and become more than images: he can feel the grit of sand over her soft skin; he can feel the hard muscle in her neck and shoulder, the fit of his thumb into the hollow of her collarbone; he can taste the drop of sweat, and he would lick it from her skin or suck it as a dark drop from the linen strip he envies and resents.

He’s smotheringly hot, worse than this deadly atmosphere, and he crushes all the breath out of her.  But that flood of thoughts, and the frantic whimpering noise he makes when she’s under him, make her head drop back, and make her whimper in return, even before his nose presses into the hair behind her ear; even before his mouth is on her neck, every word a kiss or a bite, “Rey; I’ll do anything; Rey.”

All the bare white skin is on her, there to touch, but she knows what she wants most, and she seizes his long black hair and drags his hectic mouth to hers.  He stammers against her lips for a moment before he falls into her, kissing her with single-minded intensity.  She tries to move one hand to his shoulder, but he seizes both her wrists and pins them; he won’t be distracted from her mouth.  He caresses it with his, scrapes and nips her with his teeth, breathes her in, drinks her up.  “Anything,” he says again, low and aching, moving her lips with his.

She kisses him back, doing everything he does to her to him, but harder, ‘til he moans.  And he can pin her arms, but her legs are free, and she presses her bare foot along the back of his thigh, tracing out the shape of him.  When her bent leg squeezes the muscles of his ass he chokes and gasps for breath; she doesn’t know if it’s the feeling or if he’s picking the image out of her mind, the thought of how he’d move if he were fucking her.  His fingers are tight on her arms, and his hips jerk, once, before he falls back a little, retreating down her body.

He lets her arms go but he puts one outspread hand across her neck and collarbone, the heel of his hand resting against her breastbone.  With the other he rips away her breast band.  It drags at her, biting into her flesh before it tears; he just stares, fixated, until the linen rips.  He licks his lips, panting, and then he jerks his eyes up to her face, stricken.  He swallows hard, drawing back his hands as if she burns him, and the cold wave of his fear makes her shiver in the sweltering room.

She grabs for his hair and drags his head down, arching her back in case the way she manhandles his head doesn’t make it clear what she wants.  When his tongue touches her, stroking up to the point of her nipple, she gasps, and his fear draws back, lost in a wave of his intense satisfaction.

He licks, and sucks, and bites at the undersides; he bites the nipple, too, and she jerks her knee into his side.  "That hurts,“ she growls, and he grunts, but doesn’t pause.  It’s hot and wet in the room; his mouth is hot and wet on her skin; she knows she’s hot and wet between her legs, and she knows he’s thinking of it.  Before it had choked her; she’d thought she was dying, poisoned.  Now she luxuriates in it.  The air is full of the smell of him, sweat and leather and burning power cells.

She digs his hands into his hair again, dragging it against the grain so that it spills over her bare skin, tickling and rasping under her fingers.  "You’re going to fuck me, aren’t you?” she says sternly.  "You’re going to fuck me very nice and hard, and then you’re going to come with me and be with me.  Aren’t you, Ben?“

He makes a furious noise against her skin, a snarl that buzzes through her and makes her squeeze her legs tight around his waist.  He claws at the waistband of her pants, grunting, "Nice and hard.  Harder than you’ve ever had it.”  She lifts her hips and he yanks her pants and underwear down together, barely getting them past her knees before he’s struggling with his own pants, staring down at her.  His cock comes free, thick and red, the tip already smeared wet.  His lips are wet and shining, and she wants them on her cunt, reaches out to push him down, but he’s already muscling his knees between hers, spreading her thighs with bruisingly desperate hands.

“Anything,” he groans, as he presses into her and she cries out.  "Nice and hard and anything.  Rey.“  His voice is so deep, and he’s so deep inside her.  She moans, and he thrusts again.  "Rey.”  He braces himself on one forearm, the fist clenched beside her ear; with his other hand, he tremblingly lifts her leg to wrap around him, to feel his bare skin against hers, to feel his muscles work as he throws himself into fucking her.  Her head rocks back, little noises pouring from between clenched teeth as he works his cock into her, just like she asked.

They’re both soaked with sweat, their bodies moving slick and sultry.  "That’s good,“ she mumbles.  "Ah, ah – that’s good.  That’s so good.”  She can feel how it thrills him, feel it in the Force and in the way he moves, straining and savoring.  She rolls her hips, pressing him where she wants him, and urges him on with her heels.  He’s panting, wild-eyed, spitting obscene syllables; he drops his head, and she can feel how good it feels, to drag his cock out of her clenching cunt and drive it back in.  She sees the tense line of muscle in his shoulder, braced above her; she stares at it, and there’s answering tension in her.  She claws at his back, clings to him with her knees, wringing what she wants from him, convulsing when she gets it.  He shudders and sobs when he feels her feel it, but he fucks her through it.  (Anything, anything; he always expected to work for it, and never thought the work would be so sweetly difficult.)

Her head lolls, and he’s still working, still straining, fighting with his own pleasure.  She opens her mouth and licks his neck, hot and hard.  His hips stammer.  She sinks her teeth into his shoulder and he shouts and slams her flat beneath him, jerking still more warmth and wetness into her.

He lies heavily on her.  She can hear him swallow, feel the faint, exhausted tick of his mind, listing towards anxiety.  He’s ready to have failed, ready to panic.  She strokes her hand through his hair and he steadies.  His thoughts sink down to a low flame of sensuous impression.  Hot, he is thinking, hot and wet and sweet and good.

Rey breathes deeply, inhaling the humid air that feels like it might drown her, and hopes Poe takes his time.