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+ All prompts should focus on TFA characters. You can't post OT or PT-only prompts.
+ One prompt per comment please.
+ You can request both kink and non-kink content
+ Crossovers, characters from the other media are allowed, but must relate to the 2015 movie in some way.
+ All prompt comments should begin with a pairing tag (eg Rey/Finn) or Gen for no pairing.
+ Use 'Any' when prompting for any pairing at all (eg Kylo/Any or Any/Any)
+ Anyone, everyone, no one? Use "Other." (e.g. Poe/Other)
+ Warn for common triggers, please
+ NO PROMPTS FEATURING CHARACTERS UNDER 18 IN SEXUAL SITUATIONS.

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"It's so green here," Rey says, wonderingly, the first morning; the first sunrise. "And the clouds! There's just so much color."

"Just wait until it's really spring," Luke says. "I know patience is tough at your age—" Without looking, he can feel her tense, irritation scratching at the back of her mind. She's spent her whole life waiting. "Or maybe that was just me," he adds, smiling.

He shows her what there is to see; the bulbs beginning to sprout near one wall, the winter weeds growing where he plants vegetables in the spring. All the planets and years that separate him from Tatooine have made their mark; she exclaims over lichens and the grass underfoot, while he sees an island barely stirring out of winter. How old was he, before he'd stayed on one planet long enough to see the seasons cycle? It wasn't until well after the war had ended.

He points out the line of trees down the hill from their huts; leafless, they're gnarled and unlovely, the stubborn and weathered remains of an orchard. The largest growing things the cold and the wind will allow. "I thought trees had leaves," she says.

"They will."

"So this is rain," she says, when the second day after her arrival dawns wet and drizzly.

It's more like mist; he wants to tell her about Dagobah, about the fug of moisture that hung in the air at all times, so you barely knew if it was rising or falling. "From a certain point of view," he says instead.

So for the next three such days, each a bit more damp than the day before, she asks, rather than assume. The fourth day, it really does rain, but she runs through it to his hut, determined not to let herself be fazed by the water falling from the sky. "Now it's rain," he tells her.

"I see the difference now," she says gravely.

Another youth coming out of the desert, learning firsthand about things only seen in holovids or mentioned in stories. It's a point of connection, and he tries to keep it at that, keep his own memories in the background. He doesn't want to let his own history drown out hers, turn her into the listener; he wants to catch whatever bits and pieces she lets fall. Sometimes he can see as much as feel the way she turns a thought over, inspecting it for weak spots before she speaks, but other times, she blurts out her opinions without a moment's hesitation, because she learned early on to assert herself.

She has no complaints about the austere stone hut equipped with cot and basin — "it keeps the wind out," she notes approvingly — or about the lack of running water. She eats the simple meals he has to offer with appreciative relish, and never asks what's being served. When he teaches her to fish, she stares at the spiny, thrashing creature he reels up in astonishment. "I knew they existed, but I couldn't visualize it," she says. "Is that one of the things I've been eating?"

"Indeed it is. I was wondering if you'd ever ask."

"I didn't see the point. If there's any food I'd turn down, I've yet to meet it," she says, and there's a playful sparkle in her eyes that could almost distract him from what that says about her past. "It is nice to know, though."

"I'll teach you more about the plants when it's warm enough for them to grow," he says. They're in the present, and for now it's enough to see the excitement in her eyes when she gets her first nibble, and hear her whoop of triumph when she finally lands a fish.

She's been training with him for three of the planet's lunar cycles — about two standard months — when he disarms her in a spar and pauses to catch his breath. She's doing well at unlearning her old habits in fights; soon he'll dust off the training drone and let her practice with a real saber. "C'mon," she protests, "In a real fight I could keep going after that!"

"Look down at those trees, Rey," he says. If he'd taught her the trick to enhancing her vision, he'd ask her to count the leaves on the branches, but there are none; just the delicate lacework of buds and blossoms forming around the stark branches.

He watches her eyes widen, then squint, then she turns to him. The beginnings of a smile play around her mouth. "There's pink on the branches," she says, in much the same tones as she'd asked him "So is this rain?"

"Remember what I said about spring?" He can't help smiling, and her own smile breaks through the clouds in response. "Go take a closer look."

She doesn't hesitate, just turns and bounds down the slope with all the energy of a child half her age.

He follows, much more slowly. It'd be nice if the energy were as infectious as her smile.

gosh, this was lovely!

Awwww, this is lovely.

Oh, my heart!

This is beautiful and perfect and exactly what Rey needs. Wow.

So sweet! <3

Oh wowwww - this is just beautiful! It just makes me so happy...

<3

OP here, sorry for my lateness, this is so heartachingly wonderful. All of it is so tender and neat, but I loved this exchange--

"I thought trees had leaves," she says.

"They will."

It's so sparse but it says so much. There's a great sense of wonder in this fic and I love it.

Gosh, but this is incredibly lovely. ♥

Wow, this is amazing. <3

This was beautiful!

This is really lovely, anonymous writer!

This is really awesome, nonny!

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PROMPT POST #1 - CLOSED

This post is closed to new prompts!

Green Island

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