Work Text:
Ben knows Luke thinks the girl is simple - near 20 cycles in age, with a patchy knowledge of Basic and a blanket incuriousness about the theoretical underpinnings of The Force. But she is remarkably nimble with her hands and feet (and, Ben presses, with her mind).
Ben says this in his carefullest and mildest tone. Luke turns him over with a sharp eye and finds, correctly, nothing amiss (yet). This is how Rey is bequeathed unto Ben, to be his first trainee, out of pity and disinterest.
"It will be easier with her than with the younglings, for you," Luke adds, unfairly. Ben doesn't say as much, but he likes the children. They are sweet, pliable, and eager to please.
But Ben likes Rey too. He thinks of all this, nearly a cycle later, while his right hand holds gentle but firm about her jaw and a fourth finger of his left pries her mouth wider.
Sweet, pliable, and eager to please… and something more.
---
It starts properly, of course. Whatever Luke may think of Ben's (flashes of) temper, his (irregular) night fits, his (occasional) sour disposition, he has only known Ben to be a serious and learned person. Still, some days in, he pulls Ben aside, pleasantly surprised at his patiently firm handling of the girl ("her name is Rey," Ben mutters then and often again, but to Luke she remains The Girl, even much later, when he admires and applauds her smooth and disciplined transitions through The Forms. Ben had guided her through them in the painstaking conventional ways, over and over and then again, in their own unconventional way.)
It is not hard to teach her. Rey never studied any written script, but Ben learns quickly that she's impressively fluent in nearly a dozen tongues. He doesn't bother with Aurebesh; there's nothing in those Jedi texts he can't teach her himself, and better too. Brusquely, he refuses to speak with her in Huttese ("family", he offers, knowing it offers nothing. She tilts her head, owlish, and remains quiet. He knows she learns the whole sordid-heroic tale from another padawan over lunch rations. Ben chalks it up to training; a good Jedi knows immediately when a source dead ends). They settle on chatting in Rodian, his father's old favorite, which fittingly slips like aged whiskey down his throat.
The problem, theoretically, is that she knew no humans before them. The problem, practically speaking, begins the day he tries to explain meditative breath, deep and rattling against the teeth like sea caves filled with whipping cold air. She parses all of the metaphor in small and careful pieces, but doesn't understand. It takes frustrating time before they come together and all at once to the realization that she has never differentiated between "mouth" and "lips".
Immediately and uncharacteristically (at least, of him with her), Ben becomes irritable. He did not want to treat her, to teach her, like a baby, poking at her abdomen and pronouncing an over-bright "belly". Equally frustrated, Rey waves her hands about her face and asks why anyone would need two words for something that does one thing.
"They do a lot of things, Rey. Surely you know," Ben snips. He gestures back, rudely. Then he scans her face and feels tired and too old. She does not know. A better teacher would not have been snide, would not have made the assumption that a girl who made herself scarce, sequestering herself below surface on a desert planet would be familiar with crude things.
He doesn't know if that was the first time he thought of her and of It, of All of It. It wasn't the last time; he persisted in thinking of her until all he knew was her.
(Probably, It had lived in his mind for some time. Ben was never immune to the gentle upturn of Rey's nose and her soft hazy eyes. He didn't interrogate himself on this point; many other things slid rapidly downhill from there.)
That night is the first Rey kneels in his quarters. He sits at the greatest distance he can maintain within the constraints of a constraining space. He doesn't dare ask her to remove a thing, not even the muddied gauze wrapping her digits. Ben tries to be good and isn't at all.
He doesn't raise his voice, but he won't whisper. He instructs her in stages: to peel her lower lip down and bare her sharp bottom teeth; to use her middle and pointer fingers to spread her smile wide and then even wider, and then to fasten her lips around them and suck; to remain as such, with her mouth filled and her lips gaping, for minutes, while he scanned a datapad quietly to himself; to lower her kneel, to rest herself down onto the tough, roughened heel of her boot, to work in firm circles, and of course, to never pause suckling. Of course she obeys, a diligent and bright-eyed student as ever, even as her throat tightens and her mouth waters, spit dripping to the floor with her sweat.
Ben sweats too. Even before she finishes, muffled around her knuckles, he thinks - this isn't enough. Not yet.
---
He's sweating again a few nights later (fewer nights later than he had hoped for, to get to this point). His clothing is as always intact, austerely tight wrapping layers of tawny beige and dark greys. He's taken to wearing a pair of piloting gloves, near-black and nerf-soft, from his former life ("when I was your age", he teases, and when has Ben ever teased?). Rey had bounced on her knees on his cot earlier, eyes sparkling and still dreamy and floaty as always. She asked to try them on herself, to see how floppy and loose they fit over her slender hands. He's wearing them now and they fit her, in her, unyielding and stretching.
She's mostly clothed too, except that she wears nothing from her hips down, not even her boots. He had wanted to touch her feet earlier (why? for no reason except because he could). She's bent at the waist, and her head is turned to the side, nestled against his pillow where he'll smell her, lush and musky and fecund, for hours after. He can see, when he chooses to look, that she's smiling bright and white and brilliantly too-big, eyes mostly shut in a panting bliss.
She'd forgive him for straying away from her face and for not smiling back, he thinks. He's busy watching where the glove (the glove, not his hand) splits her open, wet and glossy like expensive foreign fruits Rey has never encountered. She can't see herself now either. Sometimes he pulls his hands from her, to ponder the impression the glove has left in her, always more open and gaping wider than before.
It was easy, at first, when he was instructing her in her own movements to use good words, the best words with her. It's harder now, to not comment on her pretty tight cunt, her easy slut mouth. How could he not - when dragging his cunt-soaked gloves further back, dipping in gently and carefully first, then not being gentle or careful at all, spreading her ass and digging his fingers his deepest yet (for now) - call it what it was: his hole, all his holes, his whore, his?
Later, he clarified, head turned away, that he meant of course, that they were his gloves. "The gloves that were in you," he flushed. Rey gave him that inscrutable look again; he couldn't ask or think if she would find another padawan again, a new source, less of a dead end.
---
He had asked her once, several weeks later, to please remain naked in his room. Since then, she waits for him patiently nude and just wet enough. Sometimes he touches her, pinching her tight pink nipples tighter between the glove tips until she whines, then moving to desultory motions between her legs, then back to wet her nipples - and sometimes he does not. He brings a light cot to the corner of his space, so she can rest (so he can touch her while she sleeps).
He thinks she understands him now - his discipline and his limits and The Code and most importantly, his role here. But one night he wakes to find himself hard and dripping in her mouth (maybe she did talk to the others, because how does she know to dip her tongue just so under his… but he can't complete the thought because); his mind blanks several times over well before he reaches climax. He says her name only once, tightly, and she takes his hand (ungloved) and holds it above her head. Rey squeezes with him once, twice, then leaves him freely hovering over her. She glides her mouth deeper, her lips soft and teeth barely ajar enough.
He thinks he understands her now - he pulses with The Force, tightening at her throat, feeling himself empty in her, her sweet, eager satisfied smile around him.
"Rey", he pants after, the moment full and pregnant. "I think I-" (He can't say it, not yet. "It's ok," she laughs, nuzzling into his neck, turned away, "I feel it too.")