tfa_kink | PROMPT POST #1

I hope this is something like what you were looking for, since it doesn't continue far enough into the future to work your bonus in there, and I'd love to see other takes on the prompt regardless.

Regarding required warnings, the prompt is about a dubcon/noncon situation that never actually happens.

*

They need a Jedi.

She tells herself that over the long hours in hyperspace, turning it over and over in her mind, and when she recalls the lost fleet and the capital, the necessities of war, all the rest of it seems very simple. Whether it's her or it's Luke, they need a Jedi, and that means she has to do this. It's not a matter of choice.

She lands the Falcon on a rocky stretch of coast, a small outcropping of land surrounded by boundless ocean. Everything here is green and blue and grey, ocean colors, forest colors. The air is salt spray, heavy with water, so different from the dust-laden wind of her home. But as she walks down the Falcon's gangplank and steps onto a beach of black and broken earth, her mind pulls her back to that desperate place and she doesn't try to fight it. This planet may be different, but she knows people, and people don't change.

And the truth is, she always did alright, back there. She learned the rules, how to fight and when to run and who to avoid if you value your skin and your sanity. She knows that no one gets nothing for nothing, and she knows what those with power do to those without. It never used to be her problem, because she was on her own and good at staying that way, but as she climbs the stairs she resigns herself to a different truth. She'll be the apprentice, and that means debt and trade for as long as it takes to learn what she needs to know, and maybe longer. The story says that Sith kill their masters once they're done with them, but she isn't here to become a Sith. She doesn't want to kill a man she doesn't know, except as Han and Chewie's friend, General Organa's brother. She wonders if one day she will. And then the time for thought is over. She makes the last turn up the long and winding stair, and there he is.

She sees him standing with his back to her, watching the sea. He should be unimpressive, draped in a shabby, dun hermit's cloak, but when he turns, his eyes seem to pierce her where she stands. There's a sort of stillness to him, and a power within that stillness, that cuts right through her, opens her up and leaves her vulnerable to everything in her surroundings - the deep green of the land, the waves washing against the rock and the wind singing through the old stone temple. It rushes through her, and she's a part of it, a small node in a vast network, and it's a part of her, each piece inextricable from the whole. She's felt like that before, alone in the desert night and in the forests of Takodana, in the false night of a collapsing world with Finn's limp weight clutched to her chest. And then it fades, and she's only herself again, small and shivering and very human. But not alone. She has a mission, she reminds herself, and it's time to see it through.

She holds out the saber. He takes it - there's a spark of something as their fingers almost meet - and ignites it, watching the beam flicker to life with something unreadable in his clear eyes. He swings it in a smooth figure eight, nothing at all like Ren's frenzy or her own desperation, like it's hardly a weapon in his hands at all.

Then he hands it back, saying, "This isn't mine any longer."

She isn't sure whether or not he means it's hers now, and she doesn't know which she's hoping for. It's a beautiful weapon - in the back of her mind, she can't help but tally up the portions she would get for a thing like that, and coming up short, even with those cheats at the station - but the thing still seems suffused with a burden of history and memory that she isn't sure she wants to accept as her own. But she takes it again, fingers closing over cool metal, and fastens it back at her belt. A choice made, and a deal sealed.

"Master Skywalker," she says, and bows her head in what she's almost surprised to realize is true respect. That's what they called them, the Jedi. Master. But he shakes his head, that unreadable look passing across his features again.

"No need for that," he says. "I'm only Luke."

"I'm Rey," she says. "I'm not the only one who came here to see you."

He's not surprised. Perhaps he sensed them waiting down there by the ship and that impossible ocean
They were all Rebels together once, after all, before the Resistance was even a dream. But he smiles all the same, eyes crinkling at the corners, and tells her to lead the way.

When they get there, Artoo beeps and whirs at him in a dialect of Binary thirty years out of date, scolding him like a runaway child, and Chewbacca wraps him up in a bear hug that looks almost strong enough to crack a man's ribs. It's a lot like - well, a lot like what she used to imagine her own reunion with her family would be, before she finally accepted that it wouldn't happen, and it wouldn't be like this if it ever did. On the cliff side, Luke had been half a myth, Jedi and mystic; down here, he's just a person like she is, and doesn't know yet whether that's a good thing or a bad one.

But he has a kind sort of voice, she decides, as he shows her and the others his home and the old temple, the spring, the garden with its neat, tilled rows of yet more green. He frightens her still, but she can feel none of the wrongness she used to sense from men at the trading outpost sometimes, the hungry ones, the ones whose eyes you hoped to never catch. And Chewie likes him, which tells her more than all the legends attached to his name, because Chewie might do business with cruel men but he doesn't hug them like a brother lost and found. Perhaps it won't be so bad, serving a man like this. He won't be the type to want pain or demand control, only a bit of comfort to ease his loneliness. Nothing she lacks the strength to endure. Her stomach still shrinks at the thought, but if Poe could survive interrogation, if Finn could risk the Order again for her sake, then she can do what she must to become a Jedi.

They eat fresh-caught fish and drink spring water for their evening meal. She suspects some would consider it plain fare, but it's a better meal than she can remember having in all her years as a scavenger. Neither Luke nor Chewie speak, and she doesn't mind. She's used to quiet, and something about this place makes silence seem easy in a way that it never was at home, when there was always waiting and watching to be done.

She sips cool, clean water from an earthenware cup, savoring each drink and knowing there's more for the asking, no need to ration. When she looks up, he's watching her with a peculiar, almost yearning look on his face.

Careful, Rey, she reminds herself. You may need to watch yourself with water after all.

"Where are you from?" he asks, in his kind, careful voice, and she shivers, because this is how it always begins.

"Jakku," she says. A concession, though she has no choice but to offer it.

"Ah," he says. "A desert world, yes? I know something of places like that myself."

"Dry as the Emperor's balls," she agrees. "We know how to survive there."

She isn't sure how he'll react to that, which means it's a bit of a test: how far she can push him, whether he angers quick - though anger is Dark, she recalls, so probably not.

He laughs, as it turns out, unaffected by the profanity, and says, "I imagine you do."

There's an old understanding in his words, one that cuts even deeper than his eyes. He knows the way the universe works too. She'd half wondered if he wouldn't - if she'd find him naive and softhearted like Finn, who always gives and never takes - but this man is a knight who knows the law of the desert, and she tastes dust and fear in the back of her throat.

Mask it, she thinks. Don't let him see it.

It isn't difficult. It used to be once, but she's been doing it for a long time, and it's like nothing now. But Luke looks at her, startled briefly out of equanimity.

"First rule," he says. "No more of that for now. It's dangerous if you don't know what you're doing."

I do know what I'm doing, she wants to say, but she remembers the war and stills her protest.

"Yes, sir," she says, because he still won't let her use the word Master.

"You're afraid of me," he says. "There's no need to be. You have my word I'll do nothing to harm you."

"I know that," she says, and meets his eyes, willing him to believe it. Maybe he does. He lets it drop, at least, and turns back to his fish. She watches him eat, tidy and unhurried, and notes that he does the washing up himself instead of foisting the work on his new apprentice. Not a slob, at least, or an arrogant man, and she tells herself again that it won't be so bad.

After dinner, he shows her where she might sleep, a low-ceilinged room with a cloth pallet in the corner and a solar lantern hanging at the window, just beginning to glow with the light it's been capturing all day. There's no way of knowing whether he's been expecting her or simply always has hospitality ready, even in this forsaken uninhabited outpost. He pauses a moment, then leaves the room and returns with two more thin blankets, which he deposits by the pallet as she stands and fiddles with the hem of her shirt, trying not to bite her lip from nerves. And then he leaves again, and doesn't come back at all.

The first night, he doesn't summon her, and he says nothing of it on the first morning after her arrival. He's an early riser - before dawn, to watch the sun - and it seems he likes to cook, which means she doesn't have to do it herself. There are chores after breakfast, and meditation, and then more chores. In the afternoon, he asks her of the galaxy's affairs, but what he thinks of them, it's impossible to say. He teaches her stretches and breathing exercises, and tells her of the Force, its nature, but he teaches her nothing of how to use it. The second night, and the second day, progress much like the first: long hours of work and training until the sweat runs down her back, interspersed with good yet simple meals and pure water, then a night of waiting up too late for nothing at all before she finally settles into sleep.

On the third night, she makes a decision. Waiting any longer is pointless. Better to get this over with and do it now, while her resolve is strong, before she lets herself believe something stupid and childish and ends up hurt when he proves her wrong. And this way, at least, it will be like she chose it.

She waits until Artoo powers down for the night and she can hear Chewie snoring, though she isn't sure why, except that Wookiees and droids seem to see some things differently than humans, and she doesn't want to upset them. And then she pads through the drafty stone halls as quiet as she can manage, which is very quiet indeed, until she finds the place where her new Master sleeps.

It's a room as plain as hers, almost empty but for a few chests and shelves along the walls, no light but the moon through the open window. She sheds her cloak inside the door, and then the rest of her clothing, folds it all neatly and sets it aside on the floor. When she stands again, she's bare and shivering, unprotected from the elements and everything else. It's cold here. That's all it is. But she pulls herself together, because that's another rule - fear is wise, but never show it. Give them no more than you must.

She can do this. She can. She will.

Only a few steps barefoot across the darkened room, and then she's standing above the sleeping shape of him, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair falls unevenly across his face and leaves him looking almost harmless in his rest. No more dithering, then. She takes a deep breath, then slides into bed beside him. She doesn't know how to do this, but she's sure it won't matter, and some men like that anyways, knowing they've been the first. She leans over to kiss him, runs her hand down the side of his face in what she hopes might work as a teasing caress, and feels him sigh and relax beneath her as his mouth opens to hers. He's a beacon of warmth in the cold night, the cloth of his sleeping clothes thin and rough against her skin, and his beard is soft and scratchy and not entirely unpleasant. None of this is entirely unpleasant, and she thinks that if he's gentle - and she's sure he will be - she might manage not to hate it.

She feels his hands close over her bare shoulders, flesh and metal, but instead of bringing her closer he just pushes her gently back and looks up at her, blinking sleep from his eyes. He says her name like he doesn't understand where she came from, and then before she can blink he's pushing her away, as far as he can manage without shoving her onto the floor. He sits up on his side of the bed, fully alert now, with every bit of his formidable attention turned in her direction. She feels a bit of the Force in the distance he puts between them, a wall she couldn't push back through if she wanted to.

"What are you doing?" he asks, with the first hint of sharpness she's heard from him since she landed.

"My debt," she says. "I'm here to pay you. I don't have any thing else of value."

Except the droid, who belongs to himself, and the ship, but you're not getting that. Not even you, Master Luke.

"To pay...." he says, slow dawning comprehension in his eyes, and then anger - yes, that's anger, Dark or no - flickering across his face like lightning, there and then gone.

"Yes sir," she says. "I know how things work." But she's not sure she does any longer. She's made a mistake. That much is obvious. Perhaps he has no interest in women, or it was presumptuous to wake him instead of waiting until she was bidden. Or perhaps, now that she's raised the subject of payment, he'll remember that he has a right to collect. But he shakes his head, and the Force wall doesn't diminish.

"And I'm a fool," he says, sounding tired. "Rey. That isn't how things work here."

He gets out of bed, leaving her the sheets to cover herself, and though he's regained his balance, she can't help wincing at the way he'd recoiled.

"Dress and meet me by the firepit when you're ready," he says. We will talk there."

With that, he leaves the room without a backward glance, and leaves her to her own thoughts and fears. She takes her time with dressing to give herself time to think, pulling on her clothing again piece by piece in the low light of her room - trousers, tunic, outer robe. He's angry. He's sure to stay angry, and she'll have ruined her chance to learn, but at least, she thinks, doing up the lacing on her boots, she'll be able to face it with dignity.

Luke is where he said he would be, crouched over a low-burning blaze and brewing some concoction from boiling water and steeped leaves on a little campsite stove. It smells good but strange, like the dried-up herbal concoctions that failed smugglers and pilots back home used to buy from the apothecary and burn for lack of a better high.

"Is that a drug?" she asks, half in interest and half in trepidation.

"A very mild one," he says. "A stimulant. I find it helps to clear the mind."

He hands her a cup. She breathes in fragrant steam, but doesn't drink, too wary to ingest something with chemical properties she doesn't know. He sits across from her, clasps his hands around his own mug, and says, "You understand already that this is not a game."

"I do," she says.

"If you are to be my apprentice, you will work. You will pull weeds and gut fish and dig for peat moss, and you will stack rocks in piles until your eyes cross from the effort. I will ask you to listen and learn and be patient, and that last, I suspect, will be most difficult at all." He sighs, and she sees his shoulders slump for a moment, before he straightens them again. "I can't promise no harm will come to you. What I have to teach isn't safe. But I promise you, I will never ask for what you offered in payment tonight, and when you leave here - whenever you choose to leave here - you will not be in my debt."

"Sir," she says, and then, after a moment, "Luke."

"Do you believe me?"

"It doesn't matter what I believe," she says. "The universe is what it is."

"It matters," he says, "but there's no forcing it, either."

He takes a sip of his drink, watching her over the rim of the mug with those clear, calm eyes of his. Just when the silence is starting to fray her patience, he speaks.

"I was raised on Tattooine. Not the same as Jakku, but not so different either. But I've grown thoughtless in my exile, it seems, and unaccustomed to guests."

"The water," she says - a riddle answered, and a better answer than she'd ever hoped for.

"You saw me watching you. I saw myself from long ago."

She nods, understanding a little more of what he'd been thinking then, and what he's thinking now. Understanding a little more of him, maybe, and to her own surprise, that thought calms her more than all his promises - two desert children surrounded by ocean, and she's suddenly sure that legend or not, he's still a little in awe of it.

"You do have good water here," she says, feeling her voice waver. To her shame, she can feel tears starting, and a hiccuping sob building in her throat. She doesn't want to cry here. She isn't a crier. But she's made a fool of herself in front of a hero, proven herself some ignorant scavenger, and worked herself into a panic for nothing at that. But he was the same once, he'd just said, or not so different, and maybe he understands why.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"No apologies," he says. "What wrong has been done has not been done to me."

He rises from his place by the fire and walks around behind her, but she can't bring herself to watch him or anything else but the steam curling from her mug, rising up into the darkness. She hears him cross the floor, away from her and back, and when he returns he settles a heavy cloak on her shoulders.

"You must be cold," he says. "I was, when I first came here."

"Yes," she says, staring down at her hands. "I'm cold."

"I can pour you some hot water. No need to drink that if you don't want it."

If you don't trust it, she translates. If you don't trust me. And with that thought, she realizes that she does. She hadn't before, but - things are different now. She remembers how warm he had been and wonders if she misses it, now that she knows he never meant to take anything from her and never will. Maybe. It's hard to tell what she wants and what she misses, when she's been wanting things and missing things all her life.

She shakes her head once, and brings the mug she's holding to her lips, sips the contents slowly. The drink is bitter, but she decides, after another taste, that it isn't bad at all.

Luke settles down across from her, sitting cross-legged on the ground and watching the fire steadily - not angry now, never angry at her, and for the first time since she set foot on this rock, she searches her own mind and can't feel a trace of fear or resignation. He doesn't speak for a long time, and doesn't ask her to speak either, and that's just fine with her. He's a quiet man, but she thinks she might like that about him. It's comforting. The universe is what it is, his silence seems to tell her, but that doesn't mean it's only what she believed.

Still, the Force is balance, he'd told her, and every silence demands something to fill it - a song, or a cry of protest, or a story. And after he drains his cup and fills it again, Luke Skywalker lifts his eyes from the flames, smiles at her across the distance he'd put between them, and says, "Let me tell you about Han Solo."

She listens, and it feels like home.

omgomgomg this is amazing!!! I really like the way you write Rey.

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