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The Scavenger knows the sounds that come at night that make her sit straight up in bed. She waits for them.
Only people who feel safe in this place are foolish enough to ignore them. When she’s awake she’s got her staff, she has a hasty escape on her speeder planned, she has her back to the wall and is ready.
When she sleeps, she feels her most vulnerable. Which is why she barely sleeps at all.
Her ears are attuned even to the tiniest little legs scuttling through the sand. In nights on Jakku, those little sounds are the only hint that a venomous bite could be taken out of her sleeping body.
She has to be ready at sounds like these.
There is no one else there to wait up for them. To rescue her. Her eyes flash open with the slightest stirring, already sleepless enough, she lies awake until silence falls once again.
But the weight of her eyelids over her eyes is always light. Ready to spring open. She sleeps with no peace.
Nothing ever happens on Jakku. At least, things happen to creatures that are nothing, so what does it matter what happens on Jakku?
The stranger in a mask walks slowly through the night, his feet not making a sound in the sand underneath them. The heavy tread of his boots are gently cushioned, they even tip and slide, but his trudges with such purpose that the buckling doesn’t make it up to his ankles or knees, just in the flex of the ball of his foot. He feels that he exists in a blanket of protection, in this nothing, where his actions here are justified from their lack of greater impact. He is swaddled in a softness of inconsequence.
No one cares about what happens on this nothing planet of Jakku.
What strange comforts he finds in this. He’s ragged and off-balance enough, after his meeting with the Supreme Leader. As long as this place of little consequence secures him a moment to think.
He was told this abduction would take stealth, and silence. Even for someone so singular and focused he allows himself this strange, meandering journey to her. It’s the dead of night, unless she expects him, which is doubtful, this should be easy.
He’s not particularly skilled at this part of work: his typical First Order invasions make for the conquests certainly learning too late of their capture, but that is typically announced by a fleet of ships and his knights. He walks alone because of the nature of this extraction. Neatness is necessary, and he can certainly take on neatness and discipline without fanfair.
It would have felt wrong to surround the corpse of a planet he felt her heat resting inside. Unfair.
Not the right way to play this game.
Annoyed, she tosses a groan across the room like a dirty garment. At least, just like one if she had the luxury to launder her garments often enough, or own more than what she was wearing, to just toss them aside.
Irritation comes faster and more unsettling than grief, more than anger, more than sadness. It weighs on her, nags at her, more openly than she ever allows those feelings.
If she has to be miserable does she always have to be uncomfortable here?
This growth spurt is the worst one yet. Because it’s not tall, it’s wide; at her hips. Even though she has no such luxury with garments, or even the vulnerability of closing her eyes with herself both unguarded and immodest, these undergarments under her loose trousers having been growing tighter by the day and make her skin twinge with annoyance whenever she tries to sleep. Sand is strapped under the fabric, because it gets everywhere, and the itch at her skin makes her break when it combines with the ache.
Growling, she yanks the trousers down to her ankles, and with much more effort wiggles the pants down her hips and the joined garments are ripped off her legs with a clenched fist.
If she has to be in danger all the time, does she have to be uncomfortable here?
Half asleep, annoyed to the point of seething, her fingers draw circles on the indentations on her hips, like deep, empty river-beds imbedded in her skin that seams of the tight garment left imprints of. Trying to rub them away.
She’d worry about trying to grub up material for new undergarments when the sun came up. She hadn’t started a monthly cycle yet, so there was no high risk of soiling through just trousers until then.
With a sigh, she rests back on the pile of soft things she calls her bunk.
Her legs feel delightfully cool as they stretch out in front of her.
She should pull her trousers back on. The desert air feels good though, luxurious, when it kisses her bare skin. She closes her eyes. In a moment. She’ll be rational and dress herself for the things that come in the night in a moment. For now, she feels delightfully free, and when she has so little, can’t she have this?
She’s living out here, he knows from everything in his preparation and his senses. She’s only yards away. There’s activity. Stirring, but he can feel the faint fluttering of her heart; she’ll be back to sleep shortly.
He senses a brief, excited flutter of her heart, and that makes his steps halt. Has he been detected?
Quickly, he realizes that it’s a different excitement in her chest, not ecstasy but a lingering pleasure, and knows to slow himself down until the pulse through the Force slows to a sleepy drip.
She’s living out there, but other than these things the Force tells him, there’s no sign of life.
Just a downed AT-AT.
He circles it, sweating through his thick clothes, trying to parse where to strike before he takes her.
It all depends on what she’s ready for, and she certainly seems distracted now.
Unbinding her chest is so stupid.
She squirms against the sweaty sheets.
Kriff, it’s so hot.
All of her muscles pulse with growing pains. Her eyes squint shut as the loosening fabric only draws attention to the sweat between that and her skin. Had she really never noticed before how hot these were?
The Scavenger sighs when the wrappings part from her skin.
The first nipple exposed to the darkness tightens into a hard ball. She shouldn’t feel the tremble of shame in the night air: no one can see her.
So, so stupid.
Her tunic and the fabric that covers her modest breasts above it drop to the floor from a lazy hand. Other than her arm wraps, which are too much of a bother to remove, she’s completely naked. She’s never been this lingeringly bare before. She has to wash herself quickly and carefully to prevent attracting any wandering eyes that might be passing through.
It’s one night. Nothing’s ever come for her here. Good or bad. And she hears everything coming from miles away.
With a sigh, she pushes thoughts of anything but how good this feels aside and falls back into a peaceful sleep.
Her squirming ceases: but it made it so much easier to track her.
It’s as if it’s for him that she goes completely still when he knows exactly where he has her.
This is a strange mission, so far from his ship or other officers or even subordinates. Snoke can’t really keep an eye on him when he travels on foot, so far from his control. It makes him feel freer. Not quite First Order or even Sith. Just a man walking to find his mark.
He weaves through the night to where she sleeps, without evening knowing that little race of her blood led him right to her.
He’s surprised to see her bare.
The heat shouldn’t make it a surprise, but how shamelessly she’s stretched out does, like she’s waiting for a lover.
He holds back a dark chuckle, his boots gliding silently over the ground.
She can have one, if she pleases.
He crouches at the foot of her bed. She’s lovely. In a place like this, foolish too, for lying out looking like such a morsel to be devoured.
His eyes flicker to a stranger familiar relic: the fighter helmet beside the bed. He’s seen official portrait of his parent’s comrades clad in them. The image is as singularly recognizable as a five-fingered hand, a glass, a saber.
A shudder at the omen overcomes him, but he knocks it aside with a rough hand. It lands on the sand with only the softest of thuds.
Her brow tenses, like she’s sensing something, but he holds out a hand. The Force does its work to keep her sleeping when he exerts it in a heavy pressure on her chest.
He’s not done with her like this.
The dream is like one she’s always had. She’s on her speeder. It’s another hot day in the desert, the sun beating down on her, but the wind moving over her body crisply makes her shiver. The slight ache is there between her thighs for when she’s been driving for a long time.
But she’s not headed out in her daily search for scrap. And she’s not driving back to Niima Outpost with a defeated slump in her shoulders. She’s not searching. She’s not crawling back.
She’s just flying.
Away from it all.
That ache is worse than usual, it hurts as she flies, but it’s carrying her through the air and it feels so good. Her thighs are jumping and tensing. The speeder is pinching, ripping at the core of her, like it’s driving hot oil into her body between her legs.
Instead of fighting it, her ass settles into the seat, and she punches it anyway.
Accepts the pain.
The pain is a new part of the dream, the slick heat that’s slipping from her, but she knows the dream well enough that this is the day she flies towards something.
The horizon offers purpose.
He can’t breathe for a second when the night air meets his face. His helmet lands heavy in the sand. A fresh bruise stings at his cheek from the change in temperature, reminding him of his master’s orders, when he crouches at the foot of her bunk.
He hangs back, swaths himself in familiar cruelty, for a moment powerful over this pathetic desert being.
Her stupidity astounds him, poor thing, just asking for him to play with her like this. He supposes she’s lucky, and if it’s arrogance that tells him this: then he doesn’t care. He’s at least human. Far from the worst thing on her planet that could find her like this.
That thought he savors. How delighted she must be to find them entwined, his hard, human cock spearing her open instead of something else. He transforms the impossible terror into luck for her to find him making a home inside her. Bipedal. Humanoid. Basic-speaking. Not some burrowing insect, or oversized slug tearing her little warm place open. She shudders against him so her pleasure is clearly taken in their biological rightness for each other.
Her body is so soft and inviting. The Force willed it, for them to be so perfectly matched, for her to be designed to take his cock.
The least likely thing to ever find on her planet is him, which he regards as a great compliment, pleased with both their fortune as he sheds his gloves.
He had a feeling about this: but her feet and calves aren’t soft at all. They’re calloused in his hands, when he places them there to spread her legs, and ghosting up is a sun-bleached layer of hair up to her knees. He keeps himself relatively neatly groomed: he wonder vaguely about the matter of sweat and why she keeps the hair. He doesn’t like the irritation on his chin or jaw. But it’s an interesting, sensory bristle under his cheek, when he drags it up her leg.
Then the strong thighs are soft: they have a downier feel.
He bows his head and, bold in the dark and with the spell she’s under, licks a stripe up her abdomen.
So much softer.
She feels hot. Desert sun hot. Sweat prickles her bare skin. The pain has passed, but the chording of her muscles in exertion is still there.
She’s not on the speeder: it’s not as solid underneath her. But she’s flying still. Half-suspecting she’s crashed and was launched from it, waiting for the heavy weight of the ground to come.
It still doesn’t.
Instead she keeps sailing towards her destination.
Not quite sure what it is yet.
He blows a cool stream of air on the pink flesh and she wiggles underneath him with a soft sigh.
His tongue taps a shining, delicious bud of flesh that hardens against his lips. Her stomach surges and she inches towards him as if asking for more.
She didn’t like this at first. Not one bit. He could barely worm a finger inside her.
But he’ll do it right. Snoke isn’t here to tell him what to do, or make him feel foolish. His temper, when invoked, has given him the bad habit of rushing a task. Not that this is a task he’s ever applied himself to before. So he touches the bare cunt in front of him curiously, while he has the chance. His master would quash any chance of him exploring on his own in matters of the force. All of his masters would rather treat him like a child and a fool, to have him only see the Galaxy their way.
Both of them would tell him this was wrong. Luke for her vulnerability. Snoke for his.
He likes her. This can be between himself and her.
This freedom to learn on his own again tugs at the neutrality of his current alliances.
He gives her a few hearty licks from front to back until she’s arching whenever his tongue leaves her, eager, and seeming to be devastated once she’s left.
It takes him awhile to separate long enough to crawl up her body to line himself up to her wet cunt.
Now she likes it. Her pussy squirts the occasional slick around his cock and that’s all he needs to start bottoming out. It took long enough. Now he’s bouncing her across her own bed, owning it, destroying it as the rags that hold it together fall to pieces from their careful binding.
She’s filthy. Her skin is grimy against him. For some reason that irks him. He takes a handful of her ass, estimating the feel of the flesh, and then slaps it, hard.
If she was going to strip for him she could have cleaned herself up a bit first.
She’s taking his cock rather nicely. Almost like he belongs here. Like she was waiting for him to use it.
He feeds it to her, she accepts readily.
“What did we learn tonight?” he croons into her shoulder as he thrusts, “Don’t leave this nice little hole open.”
So many nasty things that could have found her. Things that have too many legs or ridged faces or an ooze that would fill her pussy up and make her belly expand with fertilized eggs in need of a host body. She could be dead by morning if those eggs hatched.
He grunts in delicious horror as he makes his own home in her cunt instead.
She’s very, very lucky he was the one who found her.
She twitches on his cock as he moves it in and out of her. Her whole body tensing up and seizing, whimpering in her sleep.
“Speak up,” he orders, adjusting her on his cock. A gasp chokes out of her but there’s no answer.
He smirks at his own joke.
Touches her clit so she fucks herself on him. Her body doesn’t know the difference.
Moaning like a bitch in heat.
“Unless you want me to cum inside,” he growls in her ear.
Maybe he’s the animal in heat here. He feels overcome. She’s supposed to be contained on his ship by now. And his eyes are fluttering back every time she grunts and clenches on him.
He is ignoring some very clear orders to return as soon as possible.
Her limbs wrap tightly around him in her sleep. Her skin is so warm, his own coloring with an uncharacteristic flush where it touches hers.
Containing a shudder of pleasure when he hits the very depths of her, the muscles of his back flexing to control himself, a softness overtakes him. Perhaps Snoke kept him so distant from this kind of...indulgence because of how emotional, how surprisingly open he feels as he pulls her apart again and again.
Maybe it’s her body. She responds maybe not to the sex, but affection, her limbs curling around him in an embrace that allows him to burrow inside her again and again.
It was foolish to bare himself in foreign landscape, but she felt so nice just under his hand that he felt he needed to properly sample her.
He is haunted by the bravado of his training and is utterly transformed, in that moment, through disobedience, into something his masters never believed he could be. Maybe the failing wasn’t his, as they pretended, but in their inability to create it.
He doesn’t notice the prickle of insect legs crawling up the back of his knee.
“Look at you,” he instead marvels at this little squirming thing underneath him, “you love me already and you don’t even know.”
Something is there.
There’s a heavy weight in her chest because she knows, she knows she slept foolishly vulnerable and of course this happens then.
Her eyes open and she’s face-to-face with the desert scarab scuttling towards her face.
Beady eyes glint in the darkness as they crawl out of a nest of black hair. She sees her own eyes in the reflection of them. A lacquered blackness against his stark pale skin.
With an angry flick of her hand, the small but deadly insect is torn head from thorax, though the pincers have been known to strike on reflex even without a head.
Her fingers brush it carefully aside.
Without touching it.
Off the bare shoulder of the man lying frozen between her thighs.
All at once, the awareness fills her of her surroundings outside of the most immediate venomous threat, and her body curls up on a seize of panic. The pressure of his hand on her belly and the pressure of him reaching inside her makes her choke on a cry.
“Don’t be afraid,” he’s got hands pushing her down, and the ache as he moves…
He picks up the dead scarab and holds it carefully in his free palm above her face. Something twinges deep within.
...he’s really inside her, taking whatever he wants.
With a triumphant grunt, he tosses the no-longer-threatening creature away and bows over her.
“You saved me,” he whispers against her neck. “You had the power to kill me as much as it did.”
The insect was primed to bite into his flesh, not hers. And she did. Her first instinct was to rescue her assailant.
She should be mortified at the wasted chance, but instead her head falls back on the mattress as he begins to roll his hips in earnest.
His question is throaty and scared:
“Why?”
This stranger is masked from her view. Black hair covers his face as he moves over her. Resumes. Her body shudders around the intrusion. He seems to try and prompt the same attack from her, to be torn apart, like she did to the last thing that threatened them.
She doesn’t. She lies there. Stares at him.
His shoulders are pale and broad, scattered with freckles.
“I don’t know,” she admits, ashamed, and a deep groan escapes from the depths of her chest because it feels so terrible and so good.
There’s no sound other than his groans and the bed creaking for a few moments. Her lips are swollen from kisses he’s taken, her tongue dry as the desert outside her home.
He speaks without having to look at her: the accuracy of it all overpowers her lost instinct to protest.
“You’ve been waiting to be found.”
She always was a fighter unless she was trapped.
Her head falls back against the pillow, hair unbound around herself. She was always so tightly contained.
He was right. She wasn’t fighting. Not now, not even when she was beating away attackers with her staff. She was holding the line, maintaining, waiting; even when it took scratching and clawing and every ounce of her wits to keep herself safely doing so. Fighting would be cobbling together the first way off of Jakku and tracking them down.
She remembers her little head tilted up to the sky as their ship vanished. She has always blocked out the memory afterwards, when it was gone from sight and her neck ached from searching. The pebbled spot in the sand, the reek of liquor, from a spilled flask of a sip taken as the trade-off occurred. Her jerky protests knocking the vessel aside. Cursing.
“Yes,” she answers weakly, her core tightening hungrily around his impaling cock.
It feels sick to be held when he talks to her about this. After all these nights alone.
Her thighs move to cradle around his hips. He no longer needs to force them open. He doesn’t seem to savor the surrender, not really, he just lifts his hands from her knees and grounds them on the mattress, focusing on the roll of his hips over control of her body.
She whimpers. Her bare breasts gently rock up against his chest with every thrust. Her nipples are painfully hard. He’s a little clumsy, but a large hand comes to cup around her shuddering ribcage.
“Now I have found you.”
A thumb snakes up to tease her breast, all the while the eaves of bone over her left lung constrict over and over again with each terrified breath under his touch.
Right now she waits, like she’s always done, for it just to be over. Because when it’s over, it can go back to like it never really happened.
What do I do when he stops?
He goes still.
Doesn’t move.
They listen to him breathe as she holds her breath. His chest expands downward to brush hers. Hers is still, accepting the slow, swelling caress of his.
I won’t stop.
“My family,” she whispers on a dry tongue. It falls out of her at the impossibility that not only he could tell what she was thinking, but she could tell what he was as well.
It’s meant to be a protest: but it’s the weakest one yet. She can’t fight an assault so gentle.
His face, illuminated by the muted moonlight, bows over hers. She looks in his dark eyes, fragile yet perceptive, and shudders to see him so human above her.
There’s a sickening mark across the side of his face, purple and red, fresh. Painful looking. She had not been awake for his kisses, but she feels a strange pulse to press her mouth to them.
From his bruised lips, he draws himself closer to her like she can rescue both of them from this. His control is gone; his life in exchange for the mercy and protection she showed him.
“I’m your family.”
Wasn’t she the one who wanted this so desperately? Why does he look so cracked open and needy, her attacker, curled over her body and practically whimpering the statement?
He’s not to last long from the pleasure of this: but he is no match to withstand her when she bears down and screams into the night when those fervent words make her cum.