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He’s at the head of the table, half-listening to a daily briefing when he feels it. 


Or, rather, feels the absence of it.


Wrong. Wrong. Something is wrong. 


His chest feels half empty, like he’s been ripped in two and left to die. The piece of light that he loathes, clings to, relies on, is gone.


The helmet hides his grimace, but the thud of his fist against the table cannot be ignored.


“Out,” he snarls, voice distorted so thoroughly they could not possibly sense the anguish in his tone. “Now.”


They scramble to comply, and all he can think about is her. 




The scavenger.


He can’t feel her anymore.


He wants to rip the ship to shreds, to find the person responsible for taking her away from him—


Except she never belonged to him. Not really. 


But he is the only one worthy of taking her life, and the thought that someone got to her first is enough to send a fresh wave of pain through his body as he flees to his quarters.


He has to know what’s happened, and no one on this wretched hunk of metal hurling through space has made an attempt to inform him. Was it an inside job? An attempt to pull wool over his eyes? To eliminate the only real threat to their Supreme Leader?


The nerve of them, to think they could take away his opportunity to best her. 


That’s what he wants, isn’t it? To best her?


Desperation clings to him like a second skin, even as he sheds his layers, somehow sweating and icy cold, trying to work through what could’ve possibly happened to take her from him. 


And then, it comes to him, the only way to determine her fate, to discover who is responsible for the single cruelest stroke of his existence. 


He will blame it on delirium, later, should his own consciousness come back to haunt him. He will leave no trace of this call in their logs; anyone who is unfortunate enough to stumble upon his records will find themselves in an early grave.


He has to know.


He dials a code he swore he would forget but never did, and he waits. 


And waits.




He resolutely ignores the wave of emotions that crash against him at the sound of her voice. 


“What happened to her?”


He hears the sharp gasp on the other end, one of recognition, fear, something else he cannot name. But he must know.




“Don’t call me that,” he snarls, angry. Feeble. Weak. “Tell me what happened.”


A sigh, staticky and shaky. “She was poisoned.”


His heart breaks, if half a heart has any ability to break at all.




“Ben, please—”


“I won’t tell you again!” Why does his voice sound choked? Wet?


Oh. He’d forgotten crying. 


“She was on a mission off-world. Some merchant with something to prove.”


“Where? Tell me!” It’s hard to recognize his own voice through the gut-wrenching sobs. 


There’s a pause, and he’s never felt such a deep fear as this, the possibility that he will never know—




He’s plugging the coordinates into his personal ship system before he has time to think, nothing but a single-minded determination for revenge fueling him. He’s at half strength, but absolutely nothing will stop him from this, the only mission that’s ever mattered.




She cuts herself off, this time. “Are you going?”


This call is dangerous; he’s sure she’s trying to trace his location, despite his preventative measures. He’s let this go on too long already.


“Goodbye, Mother.”


“But Ben, she—”


He cuts her off, silence permeating, deafening. 


He redresses, something casual, helmet left behind. 


He will blend in, find the presumptuous monster, and rid the galaxy of the one who dares to threaten his balance.


As soon as he dries his cheeks.




He flies like his father: adept, risky moves. But what is risk against revenge?


His focus is narrowed, a single goal, and it must be fueling him as he slowly feels his strength return.


Darkness must be fueled by rage. How else would this be happening?


Nothing matters except wringing the life from the one who just stole half of his.


He touches down, waves of the Force emanating from his very being, warding off questions and attention.


He makes his way to the market, hulking form towering over nearly every being. He scans, nary a clue what he’s looking for.


Then, he feels something. Close to familiar, but impossible. 




And suddenly, his mission changes. Light carries him down the street, stops him in front of an inn. Guides him through the doors. Signals a room, a single room at the end of a dusty hallway, and there’s no way this can be real, except that it is. 


The lock is no match for him, and when he opens the door, an impossibility greets him.




He watches her scramble against the sheets of her tiny bed, reaching for her lightsaber across the room.


It doesn’t come.


“What?” She snarls. “Here to kick me while I’m down?”


His mouth gapes.


“How on Coruscant did you even find me?”


She was dead. She is dead. Is he dreaming?




“Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, at a loss for words. How charming.” Her tone is biting, covering what he suspects may be fear. 


He’d almost forgotten that she should fear him. 


She’s wearing nothing but her breast band and underwear. How did he only just notice?


“I thought you were dead.”


She sits up at that, bare feet brushing dirty ground, hand twitching like she’s still trying to summon her saber.


“What made you think that?”


“I couldn’t,” and he will not cry again, not over this, over her, over the sheer relief that he may still one day get to perish by her hand, “I couldn’t feel you.”


“Feel me?”


Somehow he manages to close the door behind him, to approach her, cautious, tentative, when all he wants to do is crush his body against hers to confirm that it’s not an illusion, to truly, actually, physically feel her, when the Force is as close as he’s gotten since she refused his hand. 


“You just...disappeared.”


“And that wasn’t cause for celebration?”


She’s angry. She should be.


But all he can manage to feel is relief.


“What happened, Rey?” His voice trembles. He can’t control it. She defies any and all control he’s managed to build up in her absence, torn to ruin the moment he laid eyes on her again, thinking all hope was lost.


“Why do you care?”


She knows why he cares. They both do.


Every moment of connection they’ve ignored for months, every glance from across the galaxy, every shared moment, feeling, existence has come to this.


“Tell me,” he begs.


He would only beg for her.


“I drank something I shouldn’t have. Apparently, certain plants can dampen your Force signature. Who would’ve thought?” She chuckles at that, but it sounds forced, like an admonishment of her own foolishness.


His next thought is so loud in his mind, he knows she’s heard it, even with her abilities only just returning. 


I’m glad you’re alive


She sucks in a gasp.




He cuts her off with a hand at her cheek, scarcely realizing he’s come to sit beside her on the bed until now, and his response feels as natural as breathing.


“Don’t call me that.”


She shudders beneath his touch, and he’s barely able to hold himself back, and then—




—he no longer can.


When their lips meet, it’s as if every question he’s ever had has been answered. The answer was here, solid and clear, just waiting for him to discover it.


When she opens her mouth to welcome his tongue, he wonders how he was blind to it for so long.


Her signature is still damp, weakened, but her body sings beneath his hands and she is warm and alive and that’s enough. 


“Ben,” she sighs against his lips, his throat, his chest as she pushes him beneath her on the bed so she can land more kisses on the flesh she bares with eager hands.


He never wants to be called anything else.


He can’t rely on their connection to tell him what she’s feeling, if she likes the way his hips are bucking into the clothed mound between her legs, but her whimpers and sighs and dampness that seeps through fabric are indication enough. 


“Ben, please, can I—”


“Yes, yes cyar’ika. Anything. Please.” The endearment falls from his lips as easily as breathing, and he wants anything she deems him worthy to receive.


Apparently he is worthy of her breasts bared to his gaze, to the feel of them in his palms, in his mouth, to the warm wetness of her cunt enveloping his length at a torturously slow pace. He resists every urge to buck his hips, unwilling to shatter this delicate moment, this gift he has been given.


He doesn’t deserve it, but the moment their hips are flush, his cock nestled entirely inside of her, he decides he is going to earn it. 


It’s simple: she’s the only thing that matters.


He lets her set the pace atop his lap, lets her use his body for her pleasure because what else does he exist for, except to please her? His cock is hers, and his hands that caress her cheeks and breasts and ass are hers, and the thumb he guides to her clit is hers, and when she clenches around him in ecstasy, letting him spill deep within her, his orgasm is hers too. 


She collapses against his chest, spent, sated, and he lets himself press a kiss to her forehead, to inhale the scent of her hair that cascades down her shoulders in the softest waves. He strokes her back. He soaks in every second, memorizes it, clings to it.


He doesn’t know what happens now, but he does know that if she summoned her saber right now, in this moment, he would die happy. 


But she doesn’t reach for anything but him. 


She turns her head, perching her chin on her chest.




His name is a question now, and he doesn’t like it as much as when it was a word of ecstasy.


He quirks an eyebrow in invitation, not trusting his voice.


“What now?”


“Whatever you want, cyar’ika. Anything. I meant it.”


She pauses, doubt clouding her features.


“You’ll come back with me?”




“And help us defeat the First Order?”




“And,” she looks away, shy despite what they’ve shared, “you’ll be with me again?”


At this, he flips them over, pressing her into the bed, still delicately held inside the warmth of her cunt, refusing to let go.


“I will be with you as many times as you’ll have me, Rey.”


He kisses her, in case it’s the last time.


It’s not the last time. 


They kiss as they dress, and after she clips her saber to her belt.


They kiss as she opens the door to her ship, his left behind for ruin or scrap or who the hell cares, because she kisses him as he settles next to her in the cockpit, and again after she sets the navigation. 


They kiss as the ship takes them toward base on autopilot, and they try to kiss when Ben reaches his hand between her thighs, but it’s hard to kiss when she’s crying out in ecstasy at the second of infinite orgasms he plans to give to her.


She kisses him again, encouraging, when they touch down on base, holds his hand as they exit the ship to drawn blasters.


He looks at her, pushes through their rapidly healing bond.


Even if it ends here, it would be worth it


It’s her turn to shed a tear, but she collects herself in order to command the crowd.


“Ben has defected from the First Order. He will give us anything we need to defeat them.”


She forgets to mention the destruction has already begun, stolen codes and mission plans broadcasted already on their way back to base.


There’s hardly a thing left to do, now, and it becomes clear who they have to thank.


But he doesn’t care about the thanks. He has everything he needs, held in his palm.


Then, he sees her, hidden in the crowd.


He has tears left to spill after all.




He is twice her size, but her arms wrapped around him still make him feel small.


“I knew you’d come home, Ben.”


And there, in the embrace of his mother and his everything, he is complete.


He will never know emptiness again.