So, after all this turmoil with the leaks I felt really inspired to draw some Reylo… (I know, freaking FINALLY right?)
It really doesn’t matter what happens tomorrow. Over the last 4 years, I’ve only spent a few hours watching the movies anyway. On the other hand, the time I spent reading the amazing fanfictions you guys write, gushing over the incredible art you guys make, going crazy over the metas that pop on my dashboard all the time, drawing each one of these pieces, I can’t even try to count them all. This fandom is beautiful, and it’s not because of Disney, it’s because of you guys ;) Isn’t it all that matters?
Thank you so much for all the support you guys gave me through all these years, I plan on drawing LOTS of Reylo still! (I was in fact really inspired, so I have like, 6 or 7 new sketches, including some NSFW that I’ll try to find somewhere to post).
Hope you guys like it!
P.S.: If anyone’s interested, this piece is on my Society6 and on my Teepublic shops!
The snow swirled down from the night sky in a languid flurry, the flakes fat soft clumps of white that clung to the black wool coat and unruly dark hair of the sullen man walking down the sidewalk. His head was down against the gentle onslaught, the snow landing in his hair only to melt moments after, the soft locks soon heavy with the weight of water. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, clearly balled into fists. He walked past joyful groups and couples deep in love, all unseeing and oblivious. The warm store windows with their brightly and attractively lit Christmas displays did nothing to draw his gaze, fixed as it was on a spot a few feet ahead of his large booted feet. Bells and music, laughter and happy conversations poured from every corner, but he heard nothing.
He hadn’t wanted to come. He really hadn’t, but the doctor had insisted that if ever there was a time to visit, this was it. She might not remember him on another. After the long journey here, which felt like a short one, and the brief trip up the steps of the convalescent home, which felt like the longest journey in his life, he wasn’t sure she remembered on this one. Doctor Penndrel had recommended that he visit during tea every morning for the duration of his stay. It might help her remember who he was if he came during a routine part of her day. He wasn’t sure he could walk up those portentous steps again. A nurse, Miss Connix, had made a suggestion as she showed him out of the doily laden Victorian mansion.
“Bring something that reminds Mrs. Organa of an old hobby. Something she used to enjoy doing,” she had murmured sympathetically as he left.
He had given her a wry brittle smile of gratitude, well practiced and almost a reflex at this point, and murmured his thanks. He’d turned the large brass knob, the glass rattling in the old wooden door frame and the Damask curtain ruffling in the draft as he stepped onto the snow and dead leaf dusted front porch and down those steps. The old dried wood creaked beneath his feet, his steps now heavier and burdened with knowing.
As he shuffled down the icy salt caked sidewalk, he tried to remember. What had his mother enjoyed doing? The young nurse had spoken as if he’d actually seen his mother in the last who knew how many years and knew something as familiar, as personal, as that. A group of girls dressed in too short dresses and too long coats stumbled into him as he stomped, their tittering laughs grating and irritating to his ears. They swished their long bottle blonde hair flirtatiously in his direction, perfect smiles spreading across prettily made up faces, but he grumbled an apology and went on his way as they tried to entice him into following him into a nearby bistro.
“Stuck up bastard,” he heard one mumble as they all flipped their coconut scented locks back over their shoulders and sauntered away to make merry in some overpriced gastropub that served pretentious food and mediocre Moscow Mules, the drink du jour.
He found his mood growing even more dour as he walked. He looked up, finally taking stock of his surroundings. After leaving the elegant abode that served as a high end rest home, he had walked with no goal, no intent and letting the sidewalk guide his steps, hopefully in the direction he’d parked his rental car. He hadn’t even gotten a room at a hotel yet. He had walked through the little town’s “Main Street” district and had entered what the downtown authority had dubbed “The Warehouse District.” Looking around, it seemed to be comprised of more boutique shops and micro breweries. Rather than selling the typical tourist junk and clothes, the stores here seemed higher end, more modern, with an air of aloofness that contrasted sharply with the easy going atmosphere of the watering holes with names like The Workshop (insignia a hammer and sickle) and Right Brain (a brightly colored facade with a board advertising beers with names like Chubby Squirrel and Dead Kettle). Loud eclectic music pounded through the cement walls along with raucous whoops and hollers, and most of the shops were closed at this hour of the night. He recalled having parked in a municipal lot around here somewhere, but everything looked different yet the same in the dark.
The man in black stopped on the well paved sidewalk and was getting his bearings when a group of men and women drunk on high octane IPAs and Bourbon Stouts came stumbling out of one the cement buildings, tumbling into him and knocking him prone into the wet ice glazed gutter.
“Fuck!” the man swore, speaking aloud for the first time in hours. Pain shot through his tailbone and elbow, and he struggled to his feet only to find himself back on the ground, his hands and feet unable to find purchase on the ice. The group stumbled off to their next destination, oblivious to the injury they had caused the stranger.
He considered just remaining on the ground, not wanting to further his humiliation. The man assumed this wasn’t the first time someone had passed out in this particular gutter. His head did hurt. Then again, he’d freeze to death on a night like this. He heaved a sigh and tried to push himself upright again. He groaned as a sharp pain filled his head, swirling and bright and harsh behind his eyes.
“Excuse me?” said a gentle voice beside him.
The man looked up to see a slight brunette standing beside him, a heavy winter coat clutched around her shoulders. Her hazel eyes were bright with concern, and her freckles danced even in the poor artificial light of the street lamps. Then again, it could be the little pinpricks of light that now danced before the man’s eyes as he tried to rub the pain out of them with his thumb and forefinger making him see things.
“Excuse me?” the brunette said again, this time crouching beside him. Out of arm's reach, he noticed. He wasn’t surprised. Most people liked to keep him at arm’s length. “Do you need some help?”
She spoke slowly, her voice melodious and accented. Her gaze was assessing, concerned. He wondered if she thought he was a bar patron, drunk off his ass.
“I...I fell,” he muttered as he tried to right himself again. He managed to get up into a sitting position, but his head continued to swim in pain. He groaned lowly and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to focus on breathing in and out.
The young woman blinked a few times and looked at him askance, as if she didn’t quite believe him. “I saw what happened,” she chided gently. “That gaggle just bowled you right over.”
He looked over, right into her eyes, and was overcome by her nearness. Warmth radiated from her, even as she kept a respectable distance between them. Her smile was easy, gentle. He blinked in surprise as the pain began to ebb somewhat.
“You’ve got a bit of a cut on your temple, and I’m worried you may have a concussion,” she murmured. “I have a first aid kit in my apartment. May I?” she asked as she held her hands out cautiously near his elbow and forearm.
The man stared at her outstretched hands. People touched him all the time, impartial and cold. Handshakes, back slaps, accidental bumps. Compelled by a tiny voice in the back of his mind, the man obeyed and offered up his arm. The young woman was much stronger than she appeared and hauled him easily to his feet. She slipped one arm around his back to grip the waist of his coat as the other remained firmly at his elbow and steered him swiftly and carefully across the street. The man was silent, dumbstruck by the feeling of her hands on him over his coat and layers. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched with actual care or concern. He didn’t care for touching generally, not usually trusting of the person attached to it.
She stopped outside a nondescript looking apartment door that stood just to the side of one of the more attractive shops. Tactile, it was called, according to the letters stamped out of the forged iron sign above the shop door. Tiny spotlights illuminated a lovely display. A woven basket of unspun, undyed wool sat beside an antique spinning wheel. A honeycomb shaped shelf contraption held a variety of soft looking beautifully colored yarn, labels dangling from delicate string. A porcelain tea set and canisters of local tea sat on a small end table between the shelf and spinning wheel. The young woman opened the door and led the man slowly up the wooden stairs, her eyes watching him carefully for any sign of distress, or possibly for ill intent. He wouldn’t blame her, a stranger to her that he was. She was quite a bit shorter and much more lithe than he was, but he was fairly certain she could beat him in a fight.
He stumbled a bit at the top as they reached the landing where it turned unexpectedly. The woman gripped him more firmly as she fumbled with another key.
“Careful,” she chastised in her lovely voice, the sweet quality shifting easily to stern. The man could hear a soft scratching and snuffling behind the old wood. She helped him to lean against the wide door frame, situating him out of the way as she unlocked two or three locks and turned the old knob. “Wait here while I restrain the dog,” she commanded kindly.
A large black blob struggled to get out of the door and closer to him, low barks and loud chuffing accompanying the sound of clipped claws on wood, but the woman grabbed the thick collar and hauled the beast away. He heard the snap of a door along with a ‘shush’ and a moment later the woman returned and helped him inside.
Her apartment was small, the air stuffy but in that warm winter way that meant it was heated by an ancient radiator. The light was dim, the only illumination coming from a light over the stove in the kitchen and a floor lamp beside a small loveseat. An old faded area rug was well trod, the wood beneath it just as dark as that in the stairway. Perched beside a large bay window overlooking the street was an antique velvet armchair, the upholstery long faded and the nap worn almost through. An old steamer trunk served as a coffee table, the brown leather surprisingly well maintained.
The woman helped him to a high backed bar chair, which, thankfully, did not swivel. The man gripped the arms tightly as he hoisted himself up, leaning over the counter on his elbow. The woman poured him a glass of water from a filter pitcher on the counter and flicked on the tiny lights over the bar. The man was glad they were purposefully dim. She disappeared down a short dark hallway, and he could hear the sound of rummaging. She returned quickly with a few hand towels and what looked like an entire ER nurse’s cart worth of supplies packed neatly into an old Caboodle. She set everything on the bar by his elbow and hopped up into another chair facing him. She pulled a pen light from somewhere in the depths of the case and began assessing him with focused eyes.
The man began to fidget, not having been under such intense scrutiny, since, well, he couldn’t even remember. He flinched when she pressed her fingertips to the skin around the cut on his temple, gently probing with one hand while the other held the light. So warm. Soft. Gentle.
“I’m sorry. Did that hurt?” she murmured, looking into his eyes through her lashes.
The man’s throat was dry. He coughed to clear it. “N-no. Not at all,” he croaked.
“Mmm good. This shouldn’t need stitches.” She began pawing through the case again, pulling out a few packets of antiseptic wipes and a couple of tiny butterfly bandages.
“This might sting a little,” she warned kindly as she daubed at the cut gingerly. The man winced at the burn of the alcohol, but it was over as soon as it began. A flash of tongue appeared between the woman’s lips as she bit down, focused on getting the placement of the bandages right. Suddenly, that’s all the man could see.
Too soon, she leaned back in her chair and gathered up the wrappers and dirty wipes. “I’m Rey, by the way. Rey Johnson. I want you to focus on the light for me please.”
She shined the light right in each of his eyes, gauging how his pupils dilated. She pulled it back, watching his gaze carefully. “Now follow, please.” The light went right and then left, up then down. Then suddenly it was close. The man recoiled instinctively, but he kept his gaze on the light.
“Very good.” She put the light away, and the man had to blink back the purple spots. “Do you have a wallet?”
“What?”
“A wallet. I want to quiz you. Then we’re done, I promise.”
The man didn’t want to be done, but he handed over his wallet anyway. She flipped the soft black leather open to look at his ID, her fingers trailing along the fine stitched edge. He was suddenly very jealous of his wallet.
“Name?” she queried.
“Benjamin C. Solo,” he replied. He watched the ripple of a swallow chase down her throat as a flush of pink danced along her collarbone.
“Date of birth?” Her voice was a touch shakier, he couldn’t help but notice.
“May 4, 1985.”
She closed his wallet and handed it back to him. “I think you’re all good.”
Ben tucked his wallet back into the pocket of his jeans. “Thanks. Are you a nurse or something?”
A strange look crossed Rey’s features. A grimace she was trying to hide, but Ben caught it.
“I was,” she whispered as she rubbed her arm, her gaze somewhere far away. “I own the shop downstairs now. I like it much better,” she hastened to add, trying to get her voice back to a happier tone. “Not that I didn’t like being a nurse! It’s just, something happened, and I couldn’t do it anymore. Sorry, I’m babbling.” She petered off, probably worried she’d put him off with her hurried explanation. Ben found himself wanting to hear the whole story, about this and anything else she wanted to tell him.
“No, that’s okay. Umm, shit happens, you know. I get it. I do. I did one thing, I didn’t like it, and now I do something else too.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m an environmental lawyer now.”
Rey leaned forward, her arms draped over her knees, her eyes brighter. “Really? What’s that like?”
Ben shrugged. “Rewarding. Feels better than what I used to do.”
“And what was that?”
“Corporate law.”
Rey scrunched up her face in mock disgust, and Ben almost had to laugh. Five minutes with this woman and he found himself feeling warmer and more at ease than he felt in forever. He didn’t want to leave. He fiddled with his water glass, wondering if it would be rude to take off his coat. And his shoes. And if he could crash on her tiny couch.
“Would you like some tea?” Rey half-asked, half-shouted as she jumped out of her chair.
Ben jumped up too, startled. “Yes!” He cleared his throat, trying to temper his excitement. “I mean, yeah, that sounds great. Thanks, Rey.”
Rey was nodding nervously as she poured water in the kettle and set it to heat.
Quick update on a couple of fics, specifically my two A/B/O fics “Stacks of Pretty Paper” and “In the Land of Gods and Monsters”
Firstly, I do plan on finishing them. That said, I took them off AO3, as I do not have a timeline in place. I feel absolutely terrible and awful about that, I really really do. However, as the author, I don’t/didn’t like how both of them were shaping up, and A/B/O is a hard trope for me the more I read/understand it.
So, once I write myself out of some corners or rework some bits entirely, the fics will be back up.
Thank you all so much for your kind words and support!
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