#hum in the air and a little kicked up dust.' because like!! rey did that!! they had a little help but they went to the hole in reality and

[toomuchdickfort]

*comes up with a cool ass scene for a character that is in no place to have that scene rn and not developed enough to figure out how that scene would happen*

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 31

Read on AO3. Part 30 here. Part 32 here.

Summary: The time has come to do what you promised for the Resistance. If only it hadn't taken you so long to get here.

Words: 3700

Warnings: feelings kinda

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: I know it's not Friday, but I've been so full of anxiety about this chapter that I just had to get it out!! I'm sorry. I can promise you that next week will absolutely be up on Friday, because I have a feeling it's going to take me all week and maybe more.

I want to say--I really loved the debates/discussion in the comments? I feel so fucking flattered and excited people are having differing opinions on the characters? I love that there's so much conflict evident from the responses? That makes me feel so happy!

I am so truly lucky to have folks like you in my life, I can't say enough how grateful I am how I don't ever take any of it for granted, even if I can't respond to every comment. I love y'all so much, and thank you, please stay safe and healthy. <3

Across the hall, the Knight Templar stood at attention, blank visor of his mask trained on you, as it had been for the past forty-seven and a half minutes. The wooden walls to the Council Chambers loomed to the sky, oak canopies split with skylights, the morning sun cutting stark prisms into the hardwood floors. The only break in the dust-mote silence was the rumble of privileged discussion vibrating through your back.

Given the presence of Kylo Ren, you’d somehow expected to avoid the sting of exclusion. But even the influence of the Lead Commander was not enough to justify the attendance of a woman--and especially a Handmaid--during a Council meeting. Yet, you supposed you were thankful. The near two-week’s worth of blizzard-conditions between you and your Commander had frozen any willingness to play advisor to an arctic relic. Part of you felt confident that if you’d refused, he would’ve let you off the hook, but another part wasn’t willing to see how far you could push your absence of legal rights.

Shuffling, muffled voices rising--and the doors to the Chambers opened, a menagerie of black suits filtering into the hall. You studied your shoes, the arrival of so many power-wielding men binding your ribcage, curling your toes. Even with the Templar on guard, in the swarm of Commanders, your safety dangled by unraveling thread; you could feel their eyes wandering over you like steer wandered the plains--lazy and lingering and gluttonous.

Reluctant relief trickled through you when you caught Kylo’s boots in your periphery, his footsteps scattering their stares, scaring their own feet into the halls. Another person crossed around him.

“It was a little tense in there, wouldn’t you say?”

You recognized this man’s voice--he was the silver-haired one from the party.

“I anticipated discomfort.”

The man laughed. “Oh, well, of course you did, Ren! You’ve always been very ahead of the game, that way.” He stepped closer, inviting confidence--now his voice was a murmur. “Now, I’m not saying this, as you know. But I’ve heard others… express their concerns.”

“Concerns.”

“That Gilead’s roles were created for a reason.”

Kylo spoke flatly--he didn’t care if you heard him. “Roles exist to serve specific purposes, Enric. Should a purpose arise, then it follows that a role is created to serve it.”

“The only problem is…” Enric’s voice was mollifying, as if he were telling Kylo something he didn’t already know. “We don’t create roles. God creates them. He decided your purpose just as He decided hers.” There was a pause. You saw your Commander’s foot shift. “Other Council members--not me, of course--aren’t taking as kindly to your philosophy as I am.”

“My philosophy.”

“What you’ve done with your Handmaid. And continue to do, too. Some of them are… not very happy. They consider it…” He cleared his throat, a patronizing acknowledgement of your presence. “Inappropriate.”

Your face burned. Perhaps two weeks ago, you might have agreed. But since you’d kicked Kylo out of your room, he hadn’t so much as laid a finger on you or shared a word greater than a single syllable. His presence was now accompanied by a heavy vow of paralyzing silence--a recognition that the other existed, but only as living memory. This should have brought relief, should have forced your attachment to him to wilt like an unwatered fern, decaying in the graveyard of one thousand other hopes you’d tied to the space he occupied in your mind.

Instead, it had festered, a viney weed, writhing through your veins, its roots puncturing your heart when it dared to beat in his shadow. It was only in his deliberate absence that you could feel the pain of your reality, like he’d been opium, numbing you to the knowledge of anything but him. You ached for him more now than you ever had--you’d tried to sleep, chest cracked open, a torrent of loneliness emptying into the night--and knew that it was for this very reason that you needed to deny him.

After all, when you returned home, you’d be meeting with Rey on your walk. And you’d be handing over the switchblade to the Resistance.

“The Eyes are welcome to an investigation,” Kylo replied. “There are no reading materials or writing implements available. Her suggestions will be provided during a once-weekly meeting which my Wife will attend.”

You swallowed. You hoped you’d be free before that happened.

Enric sighed. “But the dress. Dragging her along with your soldiers.” He paused, humming in thought. “To be honest, even I think she gets special attention.”

Kylo’s tone betrayed an inch of irritation. “And even a dog is provided with a reward for its obedience,” he said. “She is in uniform today and before the Council now to provide proof of my intention.”

“Well, I’m sure the Council will begin to understand. You know how difficult it is for these types to tolerate change. The Cambridge Press decided to capitalize a single letter in First John earlier this year and they lost it.” Enric stepped away, and then doubled back with a pause. “As long as you’re not forgetting her true purpose.”

“No,” Kylo replied. “A Ceremony is scheduled for two days from now.”

Your breath shorted. If the Resistance was wrong about the value of your knife, in two nights you’d lie in Johana’s lap, and Kylo Ren would fuck you as if you didn’t exist. The thought made you dizzy, made your stomach churn.

“There you go,” he said. “As long as you’re doing everything you’re supposed to, you’ll be fine. The Eyes might be snooping around your house, but all you need to do is be prudent.” A laugh. “That shouldn’t be a problem for you, though.”

“No.” Kylo couldn’t have sounded more unimpressed if he had tried.

An expectant silence fell between the two men, and Enric coughed to clear the awkwardness. “In a couple weeks, then.”

“Yes.”

With that, he walked off, footsteps echoing from the wooden halls as he left you, your Commander, and the Knight as the only souls outside of the Council Chambers. A soft exhale escaped Kylo’s nose, and he stepped forward--the weight of his gaze was on you, but you refused to meet it.

“Go,” he said. You assumed he was speaking to the Knight, who moved without another word--what was it like being a warrior turned glorified babysitter? “Come.”

You stood, keeping your eyes to the ground while you followed his lead through the vacant, sunlit corridors of City Hall. This end of the building was decidedly older than the front--it creaked with exhaustion as you navigated its floors, as if it, too, had grown tired of the constant political discourse within its walls. Kylo Ren turned into a staircase, descending with the same pace as his stride--you struggled to keep up with him at this rate, unable to stop yourself from admiring when he reached the bottom and turned the corner into the basement hall.

Since the night at the hotel, he’d abandoned his previous attire of suits, ties and white shirts--he now wore black almost entirely, from his dress shirt to his trousers, which more often than not ended up stuffed into knee-high leather boots. He’d also taken to wearing the coat you’d seen during the Salvaging, its tapered cut somehow making his frame even larger, more imposing than it had been before. The coat in particular was a strange choice during the summer--but you knew why he wore it, keeping others uncertain about what it might or might not conceal.

In the basement, the air grew thin and cold, the halls illuminated now only by dim fluorescent lamps. Kylo stopped at a large wooden door, fishing a key from his pocket and popping the lock. He pushed inside, holding it open for you as you followed him in--he released it, and with a pneumatic whine, it slammed behind you. You squeaked, leaping back, swallowed now in darkness.

You heard the click of the lock--then Kylo’s footsteps on concrete as he crossed the room. A ceiling lamp flickered on, revealing what you could only describe as a records room. Shelves lined the walls, floor to ceiling, manila folder files stuffed into them like recycled news. Your lungs stilled looking at them--there were hundreds, thousands of these folders, all labeled with four-digit numbers. Swallowing, you thought of the tattoo at your ankle--1104--and heat rushed your skin.

These were files on Handmaids.

Dread dug into you, head on a swivel as you soaked in the enormity of the identities contained within these piles of paper. Uncountable bodies of women reduced to nothing but a combination of integers in a locked room in the basement of City Hall. Your heart thumped against your sternum. This was not something you were supposed to see.

Kylo meandered along the shelves, searching the tabs, his brow furrowed in focus. You crossed your arms, ignoring the quickening leap of your pulse, thoughts racing. Why had he brought you here? He was supposed to be proving to the Council that your relationship wasn’t inappropriate--and here you were, alone with your Commander in a room almost certainly forbidden to the large majority of Gilead.

“Five-seven-two-four.”

His long fingers plucked the folder from where it was wedged at the bottom shelf and he rose to his full height--the sight still stole your air. Stone-faced, Kylo flopped open the file, cradling it in the crook of his elbow as he flipped to the first page.

“Five-seven-two-four.” He stepped toward you--an involuntary shiver raced up your spine--and tilted it into your line of sight. “Tera Jackson.”

You blinked, looking between him and the text, inching closer to read. It was the facesheet of a dossier on Tera Jackson: birthdate, hometown, education level, allergies, Biblical violation (affair with a married man). You skimmed the document, confused as to why he’d risked both of your skins just to show you a piece of paper. Then you spotted the bottom of the page, three spaces designated to list Commander assignments. The first and only name: Armitage Hux.

“Ofarmitage,” you breathed, and gaped at Kylo. “Her name was Tera Jackson.”

He said nothing, but pushed the front page from its packet, holding it out to you. Hesitating to grab it, you gazed into his eyes. They were tired and sincere.

This was his way of apologizing. Your heart stuttered, skipped, a suffocated warmth welling in your belly. That he’d thought to do it at all was enough to fracture your resistance, but the fact that he’d done something so forbidden to demonstrate concrete proof of her identity, that he wasn’t fabricating a document to placate you, that it was his own admission that she had been a person, and she had been real--you choked on it, cheeks smothered in flames.

“Commander…” The urge to say his name lingered on your tongue; you reached for the paper--and paused. You couldn’t continue to detour down a pointless road. It would only make the inevitable more painful. You dropped your hand. “I can’t have something like this.”

“Then I’ll keep it.”

“Well.” You bit your lip, averting your gaze. “I… I don’t want it.”

“You do.” His voice was soft. “Her file will be cycled through at the end of the month. Take it.”

Frowning, you glanced between him and the paper. To deny it out of pride would be to deny Tera the chance to be remembered in tangibility--something every Handmaid, every person deserved, regardless of what they’d done to survive. You admitted that part of it was proving to yourself that you deserved it, too.

But you couldn’t take the whole page. Jaw tight, you took it from his hand, creased a line around the section with her name and birthdate and tore it free. You stuffed it into your sleeve, avoiding his eyes as you returned the rest.

Silence hung, cave crystals dripping remnants of stifled need onto your skin, small glittering droplets of iridescent understanding that stained you with shimmering agony. You ached to thank him, to tumble, broken, into his arms, to gaze intohis eyes and see yourself there, found and whole. But under Gilead, you could never have him in the ways he’d had you. And you could never be grateful to the devil for his grace.

Kylo Ren returned the folder to its shelf and stood, snuffing a sigh. “Store it in your room before your walk.”

All you did was nod.

The walk to the building and drive home was spent without words. Only twice did you sneak a glance at Kylo during the ride--the first was when he rolled the edge of the wheel against his large palm, face drawn in focus as he downshifted into a tight turn. The second was when he pulled into the driveway, the muscle under his eye fluttering and brow falling for split seconds, an acknowledgement that here was where you parted ways.

You swallowed, peeking at his hand still rested on the gearshift, then stared at your own, imagining the strength of his grip enveloping you, grounding you to something other than misery. The gentle grumble of the cooling engine died in the air.

Would a true devil place his own power at risk for the benefit of another? Perhaps it just seemed unfair that the only man who had ever made you feel sacred was the same man who’d desecrated you, too.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, and before he could think to respond, you opened the door and escaped into the house.

As you returned to your room, your hands trembled with the impending reality of your decision. A few days after Tera’s death, you’d received a message in the market from Rey and arranged for this meeting. There’d been no earlier time available--which was fine, you imagined that as one of the main women in the movement, her undercover operations were in high demand--and now that the day had arrived, you were floundering with anxiety. Certainly, some of it was the fear that you’d be implicated, too, though the Resistance seemed confident they could protect you from that.

Most of it was that despite your resolution, guilt sat like mercury in your belly, heavy and viscous. Kylo Ren deserved this--he deserved retribution, deserved whatever condemnation his future might hold.

But still you craved, as you might forever, a reality where the only condemnation he would receive was to your bed, where the rays of his future would merge with yours, coalesce in a brilliant spectrum of light, ultraviolet and perpetual. In true reality, those rays crashed ephemeral for jagged, resplendent moments--only to streak alone through the sky, parallel for eternity.

In your room, you stowed the slip of paper with Tera’s name and birthdate between the tiny crevice in your dresser where wood joined wood. In that same drawer under your spare undergarments was the switchblade, in the space you’d placed it over three weeks ago. Kylo had never come for it or sought its return. You supposed he considered it yours. Swallowing the wad of betrayal in your throat, you grabbed the knife and stuffed it up your sleeve.

After adjusting your boots and wings, you skipped down the steps and headed toward the kitchen to grab your shopping bag. When you crossed the threshold, you were met with Johana, tending to the little garden she kept above the sink. She spun at the sound of your feet, her blue eyes glowing against the stark cobalt of her dress, and she regarded you in silence, as she had for the past two weeks. You knew she was no idiot--she must have known you and the Commander were no longer speaking, but it had done nothing to thaw the frost between you this time.

“Just coming to get my bag, ” you muttered, stepping past her and toward the pantry.

“Did you--” She paused, lips tight over her teeth. “There’s an addition. To what we need today.”

You cleared your throat, forcing a smile in an attempt to be congenial. “Oh. Um. Well… I sure hope it’s not butter.”

She raised a brow. “Butter?”

“Yeah...” Your cheeks blazed with embarrassment. Why had you expected her to remember that? “I just. Forgot it. One time…”

“Ah.” Johana scanned you, releasing a sigh through her nose. “I’m sure whatever I said at that time was only half-warranted.” Her cheeks went pink, and she glanced at the wall. “Not that it matters.”

Her awkwardness was making your heart race. “Um. Yeah.” You chewed your lip. “So… the addition…”

She blinked. “Oh. Right.” Shaking her head, she stood on the tips of her toes, opening the cabinet above the stove. “I noticed we’re out of vegetable oil. Emma forgot to dictate it. So. Vegetable oil.”

“Right.” You nodded. “I’ll get it.”

“Good.” Johana considered you again, gaze traveling from your feet to your eyes, then breaking away. “Anyway.” She shifted, returning to the sink. “I suppose I’ll see you for the Ceremony in a couple nights.”

Another wave of nausea washed over you. You hoped she wouldn’t. “Yep. I… I guess so.”

“I know you might not...” She paused, and shrugged a shoulder, pruning a leaf from one of her herbs. “It’s what God wants. It’s nothing personal.”

You swallowed. “I know, Ms. Johana.”

If you remained on this subject any longer, you absolutely would throw up. Johana glanced over her shoulder, meeting your eyes--almost pitying. You bowed your head, ears hot, striding toward the front door.

“Wait--”

Johana grabbed your arm--her eyes widened, and she froze, face screwed in confusion as she squeezed you. Terror crashed through your spine. You both stood there, paralyzed, each now keenly aware of her accidental discovery of the blade inside of your sleeve. Throat closing, you didn’t dare to breathe, instead forcing your gaze from where her hand clutched you to meet her eyes.

“What is that.” Her nails pinched your forearm as she jerked you forward, surprising strength in her little body. “What is that--”

You wrenched back as she tried to dig into your dress, flailing as you tossed her off. Exhaling, you stepped away, holding your hands up in submission as she gazed at you in horror.

“Hold on!” you said. “Hold on. I’ll…” You had no other option. “I’ll show you.”

With two fingers, you slipped into your sleeve and revealed the knife, rotating it like a showpiece in a museum. Her jaw tightened, brow drawn low.

“Why do you have a switchblade?”

Your chin trembled. “For protection.”

“Protection. Sure.” She snorted, holding out her palm. “You’re not killing anyone in this house. Hand it over.”

Shaking your head, you took a step back. “No.”

Her face scrunched in anger, and she swatted for it. “Give it--”

“No!” You shielded it with your palms, raising it above your head. “I--I can’t!”

She huffed in dismissal, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean you can’t?”

Your fingers quaked, the weapon wobbling in your grip. “It’s…” You weren’t sure of what you were about to say. But you couldn’t think of a single lie that she would believe. “We staged the coup. The Commander and I. This is the one of the only things that… that proves it.”

Johana blinked, drew her hand back as she gazed at you, thoughts loud behind her eyes. Her lips parted in disbelief. “You’re working with the Resistance.”

“Yes.” You swallowed your fear. “I am.”

Breath rattled in her chest, and she stared. “You’re turning him in.”

“I am.”

Her face fell into a scowl. “Well. How--how could you?” She fumbled for the words, like they stung her tongue. “He’s… He isn’t... the most kind man, perhaps, or the most Godly--”

You rolled your eyes. “He’s not Godly at all.”

“But he still deserves respect.”

“Respect? For what?”

“For being your Commander.”

You threw your hands into the air, exasperated. “Why are you defending him?” you exclaimed, stepping closer. “You deserve more than this! More than how he treats you!” As you spoke, you weren’t sure who in the room those words were actually meant for. “Help me bring him down. Work with me. We don’t have to live like this.” A pause, voice falling to a murmur, and your hand fell to your side. “We can be free.”

Johana paused, as if she had never considered the possibility, and stepped back, gaze falling. For long, motionless moments, she stared at the blade gripped in your loose fist, the fire in her pupils guttering to cold, empty desperation. A slow breath escaped her nose, her throat knocking as she swallowed. Another breath, and tears glossed her eyes--she blinked them away, pinning her lips together.

“I…”

She shivered, looking at you. For a flicker, you saw her--the woman who existed, wholived before you, before Kylo Ren, before Gilead--treading deadly water, gasping for respite. Johana’s focus drifted over your dress, then wandered to hers. Like a match, fury flashed her face, and in a swift snake movement, she snatched the blade from your hand.

“--will never betray Gilead.”

You squealed, grabbing for it, but she darted underneath you, skittering toward the hall, popping the blade free and thrusting it toward you. Her face was tight with bitter rage.

“I don’t care what happened with him. You’ve only known him for a few months,” she hissed. “I’ve been married to him for three years.” Her hand was shaking, her voice cracking like plaster. “You have no idea what I’ve endured. And I’ll be damned if you screw it up for me.”

“Johana,” you pleaded, “wait--”

“Don’t force my hand,” she said, jabbing the air. “If you even breathe another word about some Resistance nonsense, I’ll have you taken by the Eyes. I don’t care what the Commander says.” She glanced over you one final time and pushed the blade back, shoving it in her pocket before turning to leave. “And remember the vegetable oil.”

You stood, empty-handed, listening to her footsteps disappear down the hall, mind a miasma. There’d be no escape from this, now, not from this house, not from that man, not from the hovering humiliation of the Ceremony in two nights. She’d taken your only lifeline to freedom. And you somehow doubted that another one might appear.

[that-wimpy-cowboy-doll]

Damerey - Fernando (Prompt 2) (I'm on a Damerey kick rn)

Define ‘Home’

for the charming and delightful @dresupi hope you enjoy, dear

Rey had every right to be exhausted.  From the journey from Ahch-To to Ren, to fending off the Praetorian Guard, to feeling Luke’s presence dissipate, to Force-lifting hundreds of boulders from the Crait cave entrance, to being crammed into a tiny hunk of lovable space junk with the shabby remnants of the Resistance, it was almost second-nature to be drained.

And being reunited with Finn, Leia, BB-8 - it was wonderful.  It almost felt like coming home.  Almost.

While her mind was ready to sleep for days in a row, her body was nearly humming.  With electricity or with Force, she was unsure.  Whatever it was, it drew her to the cockpit to relieve Chewie for at least the next few hours.

At least, that was what she had hoped for.

A few hours turned into six hours, and she still couldn’t put herself to sleep.  And then six hours turned into landing on some remote planet in the Outer Rim that Leia knew had some Rebellion allies - whether they’d be pleased to host a ragtag band of Resistance survivors was still up in the air.  Rey suggested they dock the Falcon on a small mountain summit not too far from civilization for the night.

And this was how she found herself sitting on the side of the mountain once again, gazing into the stars in hopes that her destiny was written somewhere up there.  No Luke.  No lightsaber.  No caretakers for her to disturb.  Just her and the stars and the silence.

When she closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, she could feel the galaxies swirling above her.  The energy of worlds, of souls, of the smallest insects and the largest beasts cavorting about in madness both random and preset.  And each creature, each blade of grass, and each grain of sand were as much a part of everything as she was.  It was hard to feel small anymore now that she was aware that the universe needed her just as much as it had needed Luke.  Han.  Leia.

“You alright out here?”

She let out a breath she’d forgotten she was holding.  A wave of life rippled behind her, cautious.  She faced Poe Dameron with a subdued smile.

“Define ‘alright.’”

“Can’t sleep?”  She shook her head and watched him trudge up the small hill to her rock.  He shifted easily into a spot beside her, close enough that she could feel the fabric of his flysuit brushing against her arm.  “Yeah.  Y’know, every firefight I see or I go through, I always feel like I’d gotten over the sound of a blaster.  Then the next one pops up, and…I’m jumpin’.”

She observed him.  Followed the heavy line of his dark eyes up to the sky.  Like he was searching for something.  Finally, he pointed at a small patch of stars glowing at the far reach of the galaxy.

“Yavin 4.  That’s, uh, that’s me.  Home, I guess.”  His hand wandered to his throat and grasped a small silver ring he’d strung onto a necklace.  “You know, outside all this.”  His eyes found her again, and the mystified expression he wore melted away, replaced by something like embarrassment.  “Sorry.  I could leave you alone, if you want.”

“It’s alright.”  A stray wind ruffled the weak grass that lay before them.  It was a rare moment, for Rey to feel peace, and rarer to share it with someone who’d hardly known peace either.  “I’ve spent enough time alone.”

A lull fell between them, but she could feel the energy bursting off Poe.  He was preparing something in his head, like it had to be sculpted carefully before being presented to her.  Without really thinking about it, Rey felt herself tug him gently through the Force.  The words came spilling out as soon as her energy touched him.

“I never properly thanked you for taking care of my droid.”

She smiled.  Did he mean to keep talking, just to fill the space between them?  That could have been it, but there was a tension, too.  A pull that lingered just beyond the surface.

“You talk about BB-8 like he’s your pet.”  It took a moment, but Poe began to laugh, and Rey wasn’t sure she’d heard anything quite like it in all her years.  Nobody laughed much on Jakku.

“Not my pet.  More like…a partner.  Or a sidekick.”

“He must be good for you.  When you feel alone.”  Poe paused again.  Rey didn’t want to push the boundaries too far, didn’t want to invade the space of him that was his only, but reaching through the energy between them, she could nearly feel him pushing back.

“He is.”  She felt the question there bubbling to the top, but never quite breaking.  So they sat in silence a little while longer, gazing at the night sky and sometimes watching the lights flickering in the village below.  Somewhere above them, the First Order was clambering back to its feet.  Finding its weapons, collecting itself among the dust.  Somewhere above them, Kylo Ren was tightening his fist, ready to strike without mercy.

Rey forced herself to dull her senses, in fear of feeling too much.

“Is he like home for you?”

“What?”

“BB-8.”  She picked up a rock and began to brush the dirt off with her thumb.  “Is he like home for you?”

It took him another moment.  “Sort of.  Close as I can get, I s’pose.  Yavin felt like home, after all the…getting shuttled around while my parents fought in the Rebellion was over.”  Without trying, Rey felt the image of a small tree blossom into her mind.  “Now I feel like I’ve changed too much.”

“I know how that is.”  She bowed her head, diverting her gaze to one of the huts below them, its chimney spouting intermittent puffs of smoke.  “Changing too much.  Jakku was never home, but I can’t even imagine setting foot there now.”  Somewhere in the distance, a great animal was lowing, and Rey allowed herself to feel the pleasant evening air rush through its fur.  “And now that I can feel it all…the Force, all around me…it’s like home doesn’t even matter.  Even though it feels like it’s around the corner.”

His eyes had fixed on her, and he was curious now.  She didn’t have to feel it to know.

“Does it feel close?”  She’d never noticed how soft his voice was.  Like he’d break the air if he weren’t careful.  “Home?”

“I think so.”  She remembered his flysuit touching her arm, and now she could smell him - engine grease that wasn’t particularly unappealing; an aftershave that he’d likely thrown on without much thought; and something else, something like the bonfires she’d set for herself on the cold nights in the desert.  He was closer now, the light from the stars trickling through his eyelashes, his eyes half-shut as he looked at her, reverent and silent.

His lips were just as chapped as hers, but warmer, more inviting when they closed the gap.  It was his thumb trailing down the side of her jaw, his gentle touch at her shoulder.  Poe, Poe Dameron was kissing her, not because he felt sorry for her or because he wanted to take her to bed, but because tonight, under all these stars and locked on this rock among the galaxies around them, she felt like home to him.

And even with the First Order trilling above them with their blasters and their laser cannons, even with the shreds of Resistance lying in humble numbers behind them, Rey could feel home in him, too.

Thanks so much for reading!  I hope you enjoyed it, and if you’d like an ABBA prompt of your own, let me know :)