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The dreams started coming to her when she arrived on Ahch-To.
Simple dreams at first. A faceless man, tall and broad, that would hold her while she rambled aimlessly on that events of the day. Someone to listen to, someone who she could tell anything to, that didn’t have a face and a physical presence in her waking hours.
The faceless man would never say anything. He would hold her, bring her against his body, sigh, breathe against her neck, but not once comment on her telling’s. Maybe that’s what her mind believes is what she needs – someone to listen who isn’t afraid. Not afraid of her stories, of her abilities, of her.
No, the faceless man isn’t afraid. Her holds her tighter when she tells him something daring, as if afraid as if her story lead to something bad. Her grip would relax when her story ended well, or tighten with excitement if what she did was spectacular. Yes, someone to listen.
He says something one night, when she falls into that dream. Greets her with a sigh, arms wrapping around her. “My desert flower.” She knows her face heats, red spreading across her cheeks. She tries to hide the blush in his shoulder, will it away before her faceless man can see. But he pulls her away from him, looks at her, before squeezing her tight against him once more. She wonders what he thinks, wishing she knew what he looked like.
But it’s a dream. One she has concocted out of loneliness and desperation for someone unafraid of her. It doesn’t matter, his face, so she never has given him one. It’s disturbing in a way, so empty and blurred. Calming in a strange way that she hopes to understand later. For now, she enjoys the body that comforts her.
She tries one night to give him a face. She turns in his arms, faces the blankness of his face. She wonders idly if he would be confused by her movements. She focuses hard on the emptiness, thinks of anyone that can come to mind. Nothing changes. His face is still blank, empty, and emotionless.
The dreams change after that, mold into something that she isn’t quite sure why her body thought she needed.
He still holds her tight, squeezes her on particularly suspenseful parts of her story retellings, relaxes when she is alright, but it is almost as if he brushes lips against her neck. His breath is hot against her neck, something she is used to, but something soft and wet will follow.
The next time she turns in his arms to imagine a face, the blur has dimmed. She almost can make out the shape of his nose, the curve of his lips, the set of his brows. They are vaguely familiar in a way she refuses to acknowledge. It isn’t important after all.
He speaks to her more often but only says the same thing. “My desert flowers.” Whether it be in soft sighs, small chuckles under his breathe, quite gasps; it is always the same. She doesn’t blush at it anymore. Instead, she always hopes he’ll say it; wishes for it more than anything else when she dreams.
His hands travel more now, up and down her body, exploring. Soft, gentle caresses and she doesn’t mind. She wonders if he would comment on her weight, wonder if he knows how thin she was before, how she was starved. She’s healthy now, proud to let someone touch her in an intimate way.
She finds herself wanting. She knows it is against Jedi code, knows as Luke drilled it into her head. But she finds herself wanting. She yearns for his touch, for his voice against her neck, breath against her skin. She does what she hasn’t before, she touches him back.
She turns in his arms, skims her hands down his arms not as gently as he does. She’s unused to the intimacy, isn’t sure how she should even begin. She slows, runs her fingertips down his arms, hopes that this is better than her initial touch. He’s quiet, breathe caught in his throat, and she wonders if she’s done something wrong. She’d stop but she finds she doesn’t want to.
He stops her when her fingertips move down her chest. He grasps her hands in his, dwarfs them with how large his hands are. Slowly, he moves her hands to his lips before kissing each finger. His lips are warm and soft and she wishes more than anything that he would kiss her elsewhere.
His whisper is so quiet, she almost doesn’t here him.
“Soon, my desert flower.”
The dreams end. She doesn’t know why. She doesn’t know why she feels loss, an undeniable sadness. She wakes and sleeps, wakes and sleeps, wakes and sleeps, and hopes that her faceless man will return. He never does.
Kylo Ren appears on Ahch-To. The appearance and attack blindside her and Luke. They separate before they can agree on a plan, Luke to fight the forces Kylo Ren came with and Rey to fight Kylo Ren himself. She is more than ready.
The Force pulls her to him, shows her the way to where he is. He stands silently on the cliffs edge, staring out into the water. He seems so calm here, listening to the lapping of the waves.
When she ignites her saber, he turns around. He is mask less; a large scar slices his face into two. A small sense of pride wells in her at the scar, wonders what she can mark on him this time.
“Kylo Ren.” She hisses, voice filled with poison. He does not greet her back. He moves towards her, slowly and steady steps. His eyes are filled with a sense of wonder, as they always are when he meets her.
“Ignite your saber.” She orders, takes a step back. He makes no move to the saber on his waist and continues moving towards her. She matches his steps, keeps moving backwards so he does not gain ground on her. “I said, ignite your saber.” She shouts, hopes her voice does not shake.
“No.” His voice is calm above the waves, steady. The confusion that he causes is enough for him to move faster than she couldn’t expected. He crashes his body against hers, cages her in. She struggles against him, tries to break his hold.
He kisses her. Lips moving against hers gently, soft and slow. She wonders if all kisses feel like this, like worship and reverence. His gloved hand rub slowly down her arms before pulling her even tighter to him. Sparks ignite behind her eyelids when his tongue gently pushes against his bottom lip, wishing to meet with her own.
He pulls away slowly, reluctantly. His thumbs rub circles into her upper arms, soothingly. She can see how badly he wants to kiss her once more, how open and raw his expression is. He sighs contently, brings her against him in an embrace.
“My desert flower.”