Notes: Written for day one of the Reylo Week over on tumblr (Favourite Canon Scene or Quote / Missing Scene or Headcanon / Favourite Song Lyric or Quote - as always, I picked to focus on everything at once, but mostly the middle prompt this time). I've been fiddling with this idea ever since I read the excerpt quoted above, but I never realised until now that while I wanted to go down the smut route with it, I didn't actually want to write smut but torment Rey instead, so. Here it is. Title taken from Florence and the Machine's What Kind of Man, because it's a wonderful fit and also my background music for the entirety of writing this.
It's a dream she's had countless times before.
Rey's used to it by now; used to the way it makes dread and need shoot up her spine, vague and dangerous. She has no name for any of it and it all comes to her in desperate, hungry flashes of memory and desire rolled into one and all she knows is that she wants. It doesn't seem to matter how much she tries to meditate herself right out of it or how often she drills into her own mind that Jedi aren't supposed to want anything at all. Least of all people. Least of all someone who has continuously tried to uproot that very resolve out of her.
Let it all die, he'd said back then, with fire still raining around them. It's what he whispers in her ear as he looms over her, what his fingertips brand onto her thighs and it's her own mind torturing her, Rey knows; it has nothing to do with the bond or her reluctant bondmate's own – doubtlessly much worse – flights of fancy. The tenderness of it is what gives it away every time. She'd caught glimpses of it, so clearly woven into every inch of him despite his best efforts, and her own dreams are laden with it. In his, it's a flaw to be waved away as soon as possible. When she dreams of their union, it's a moment of blessed peace to counter his need for a bloody triumph, and until now, this has all been her. His presence only starts seeping in when the world around her shifts and catches fire again, the cruelty he gets drunk on, turned towards himself more than anyone else, tainting the gentleness of hers with its violence. We can rule together and bring a new—
No.
The not-quite-vision crumbles. She's almost grateful despite the frustration that follows – if she lets him take control of this particular one, he'll only ruin it. She's both painfully curious and terrified to see what he'd erode her desires into once they're in his court, but it's only ever truly possible if he's asleep too. For now, his consciousness is almost fully dominated by something else entirely. It's easy to lurk in the back of his mind for the time being and, still wrapped up in sleep, sink into what his reality is offering her.
In this dream, she's relentless.
Rey had learnt to differentiate between dreams and visions by now, even if some of the latter choose to visit her in her sleep. Visions bring an air of expectation with them and they're never quite as clear; half-shapeless with uncertainty and a million unmade choices standing between here and what if. They're easily explained, usually, or at least coherent, unlike the disjointed logic of dreams.
Case in point: she's clearly not herself in this one. She can't tell where it's all taking place, but the fury raging inside her is like nothing she's known before and the chaos in her head is a heavy, insatiable beast, gulping down the life of every fallen adversary as the unrecognisable crowd rushes forward yet again. It's supposed to satisfy her too, or so the chaos in question claims, but there's a gaping pit where satisfaction should be, as if it's been bled dry to make space for... for...
The crackling, furious red of the weapon she slashes at her next opponent with becomes the centre of her world as the blood on it fizzles and evaporates. The sight of it isn't enough to satisfy that lifelong hunger, but then again, nothing ever is. It shouldn't surprise her by now –it doesn't surprise him, after all. There's an undercurrent of stubborn resignation to it all, as if he had known that it would change nothing but hasn't managed to find another outlet. Their ideas of what such a release could possibly consist of cross somewhere in the middle like a remnant from her dream before it had been interrupted and all of a sudden, she's not invisible any longer. It's still impossible to get the full picture of where she is and the connection isn't as open as it's always been so far, but he's alert in a way he hadn't been before. There's a moment of hesitation and then Ben's pushing into her mind, broadening her horizons until she can see the edges of the world around him. If she wants to watch, she can. It's more of a warning than an invitation, but she's not about to back down and Rey lets it happen, sinking deeper into the bond as he wipes out yet another person.
This is a dream, nothing more. She's not the one taking lives for an as of yet unknown purpose; she's not the one grappling for control over herself in the only way she can. The way the Force trembles around her (him, them) as his lightsaber cuts its way through his enemies isn't hers either and it's only when he brushes against her to share the sensation that she disappears into his mind completely.
It's this, in the end – the sudden, uninvited spike of excitement at the thought – that wakes her for good.
Rey grapples at the sheet beneath her, sitting up in bed and clutching the covers to her chest. Her skin feels clammy and heated and her heart flutters against her ribcage like a trapped bird, but it's fine. It's not hers. It's intrusive and sudden and intense, like every other emotion that he seems capable of, but unlike his anger, it's also exhilarating. The anger is still there, of course, underneath it all, just enough of it to fuel him, but there's a deep-rooted rush of wild abandon overwhelming everything else, bright and mad and unrestrained.
Rey had only felt it once before, back in the throne room of the Supremacy when they'd joined forces for the first and final time. It's unlikely that whatever this is is a remnant from that day – while he's fond of holding onto his emotions, replaying the cause for them again and again so that he can push the dark side into submission, it's pain and rage that do that for him, usually, not pleasure. It's a ridiculous thing to be aware of, a pattern burnt into the back of her mind by the Force whether she'd like it there or not, but it's enough to make her wonder. It's not something she can stop, really. While she'd seen the insides of other people's minds before – both her Masters more than anyone else, but the rest of the Resistance too, down to the ones who aren't sensitive enough to have an inkling that she'd invaded their privacy in any way – none of it had ended up quite like this. It must be the way he works with the Force, she supposes, and how inviting it tends to be. It wraps around her, sleek and careful and innocuous, pulling her in before she'd even started thinking to resist.
There's no way she's giving into it tonight; not even if it'd been strong enough to startle her out of her sleep. She doesn't want to know, Rey decides with a resolution she doesn't feel at all. Ben Solo is not her responsibility. He'd made that clear in the most painful way possible after the very same fight that had brought them together. His various neuroses are not her concern. She shudders to think what could possibly bring this sort of enthusiasm with itself and it stings a little that she can't see it firsthand this time, but that's not her fault either. It's disruptive and improper and far too personal and—
—and she's not felt anything like it in a year.
The way of the Jedi requires serenity and peace; unrelenting focus and endless patience. For a while, Rey had thought that the constant influx of dedicated dark side practices, no matter how subdued the connection is on a normal day, had been at the heart of her troubles with her own training, but a suspicion had started sneaking in recently, tightening its traitorous hold around her mind even when she'd done her best to shove it away – despite his many transgressions, it's not Ben's presence that disrupts her. It's not the will of the Force or an active sabotage on his part; it's just that she's neither serene nor particularly peaceful. Chances are, she never had been. And now, this – even if it's his, even if she has no source to connect it to – is better than anything she'd desperately tried to focus on for months on end. It makes her feel just as alive as he currently does; a live, burning burst of energy racing towards a precipice that she knows she won't be able to come back from. It's invigorating, enough to bring a gasp out of her, enough to make her body wound in on itself, enough to make her—
Rey's breath leaves her in a rush.
This has nothing to do with her. It couldn't possibly. For once, though the connection between them is slowly prying itself open even further, he's not paying attention. That part is unfamiliar – with Ben's devastating focus on the mechanics of just about every part of the way the Force connects them, she'd been used to his uninvited attempts at discussion at this point. The stark contrast that this difference presents is nearly offensive, all things considered.
Emboldened, Rey pushes further. He must be more distracted than ever before if he's letting his experiences leak into her body, but she'll be damned if she lets it slide. She refuses to let his whims control her schedule and if the whims in question spark up in the middle of the night, then the least she can do is see them through. Perhaps it'll all be easier to handle, then. It's not the Jedi way, but Rey's long since stopped trying to rely on it anyway – if she'd followed its guidelines, she would have told General Organa about this connection months ago and would have then tried to sever it in any way possible. It's risking their collective safety, letting the Supreme Leader of the First Order peek into her mind whenever he likes and it's even riskier with how unexplored and uncontrolled it is, but Rey hangs onto it with a desperation that manages to astonish even her. It's only fair, she thinks, if for once she's the one to initiate contact first and keep pushing it even though he doesn't want her there. She's not entirely sure how honest he is about his irritation, either – under the thrill of victory, there's a deep-seated reluctance to let her see, but it comes from the man she'd asked him to be; the one he's trying to bury as deep as he can. If discomfort is the way to bring him to the surface again, Rey doesn't mind.
There's a hint of awareness there, now, as Kylo Ren swiftly cuts through a man's neck and steps over the body to get to his next target. It sends a shudder through her body, as if she'd been the one to strike, and she finally understands what she'd felt back at the start, her body burning at the thought as if he'd infected her, even if it makes her freeze at the same time.
Death. Thanks to him, she knows the feel of it well; has seen it stain her fingertips in every waking moment for as long as he keeps breathing. It feels like triumph and madness and control; feels like him, most of all.
She should leave, Rey thinks. She should know better than to encourage him, no matter how distant she tries to be. She should not let whatever it is that he's trying to do spread on to her, should try to tune it out before it undoes all of the hard work she'd done towards being the best Jedi she can be given her limited knowledge, should do so many things apart from just watching it happen, but she's so tired. It must be easy, letting yourself rage and scream and burn; freeing in a way the ancient direction she'd been given directly discourage. She'd assume so, anyway, and digs deeper when Ben doesn't deign her with a response.
He doesn't feel free. The darkness that reigns over him, directing his every movement, is both fuel and a prison. He's in so deep as it is; sinks even further into its whirlwind to prove a point she's desperately trying to lead him away from. It's still intoxicating; exciting in a way she hadn't seen coming. Invigorating like the fight in the throne room had been. It's enough to make another wave of heat flood her and it's heavy and unwelcome and terrifying, almost as if the only reason the sensation exists at all is because he's forgotten how to feel pleasure without squeezing it out of pain first. His own or someone else's, it doesn't seem to matter, as long as the sting is there to keep him firmly chained to the dark side. She'd tried telling him that this isn't the only way before, but he hadn't seemed particularly convinced. If anything, he's even less so now that he had lost her too, on top of everything else.
It's futile to try again now, but the thought flickers through the bond and immediately bounces back. Ben seems far too immersed to pay any real attention to her, but he still takes the time to argue on the back of their collective mind. Prove it.
Her own interest, unexpected as it is, must be intriguing enough for him to react. It's another thing for her list of things she shouldn't be doing – don't give him the satisfaction. Every bit of contact is encouragement for his tireless conviction that the two of them are meant to lead the galaxy together into a brighter future, especially if it brings out this kind of viciousness, but she can't help it – it's a warped reaction of the adrenaline racing through Ben's veins and what it makes her, no matter how much she's been trying to deny it ever since he'd woken her up, is wet. Uncomfortably so. It's disgusting and undignified (embarrassing, really, though she won't give in and think it loud enough for him to hear), almost as if the bond between them is misinterpreting the stimulation he's feeling and twisting it into arousal because she's not capable of understanding the same sick thrill that he's exploiting to make himself stronger, but in any case, it's there, as undeniable as it's terrible.
It's all Ben, Rey repeats again, for their mutual benefit. She's capable of separating bloodlust from love. She doesn't need to prove how much she cares just by killing again and again, leaving corpses in her wake instead of making a change. It's all him; him and his obstinacy and she doesn't want it. What she'd asked for, back when he'd first offered her a galaxy on a plate, had been far less complicated. For a few precious seconds, she had been so sure that he'd understood, right before he'd picked up the mantle of both the Supreme Leader and Kylo Ren once again. Since then, it had been nothing but silence, and now this— it's too much. It's a sort of deprivation that Rey knows all too well, like going without food or drink for long enough that it feels like she's never going to taste anything again, only to flood her senses with as much of both as she can. It'll only hurt later, when her body remembers that it's not accustomed to such care, but for the time being, it's the sweetest bliss she's ever felt.
She hates it. Hates him, perhaps, for doing this to himself – to them both. Hates him enough for the feel of it to stretch out between them, heavy and dark and thick as molasses, and this time, when the bond between them tugs on her heartstrings yet again, Rey sinks right in.