Chapter Text
He didn’t plan this.
That’s important to tell himself, and to tell her. (When she wakes up, of course.)
This was absolutely not the plan.
Her nipple is hard against his palm, but the rest of her (pert, little, so sweet) breast is soft and warm in his hand. She’s snoring, her body curled into his, the round of her ass pressed against his soft cock, wiry hair above still wet from her… simply exquisite pussy.
Ben Solo doesn’t use that word.
Ben Solo doesn’t do any of this.
And yet–
The baseboard heater clicks as it warms up the room, and Rey shifts in her sleep, and he can’t help it, god - how could he help any of it - he pulls her closer, tighter against his body, golden and tight and smooth against him.
He liked her instantly. The way she sat at the table at Rose’s birthday party a year back. She sat like a yoga instructor - straight back, long neck, hair piled on top of her head. But when he came back from the bathroom he noticed that she’d tucked a foot under her butt on the chair, little bare toes peeking out from underneath her dress. He found himself watching her, the way her laugh filled the room from the depths of her lungs, between perfect white teeth. Everyone joined her. Her joy was contagious. She was radiant and happy and funny and smart and…
He just liked her. She was a great young lady. A good friend for Rose and his son. Deserving of free patio furniture last summer, when Rose suggested it. That’s it.
That was all.
And then Rey kissed him, and he liked her more.
(He could be crass, he could say it was when he sat in her kitchen, the dark points of her nipples visible through her tissue paper-thin shirt, the top of her thigh curving into ass before it disappeared into her tiny shorts. He could say it was then, when his mind kept feeding the fantasies of tasting her and filling her and seeing what kind of sounds he could wring from her body. The way she smelled alone…)
But a man is a man, and Rey was a woman who took what she wanted without knowing the thoughts in his head. She kissed him. She did that. Made the move.
(He wished she hadn’t changed her clothes. He knows now, from experience, that he would’ve liked the way her nipples rubbed against his chest when she kissed him. But to be fair, he knew it then, too.)
He fled after. And regretted it every day.
You old coward, he’d say to himself. She was right there. She was absolute joy and eagerness and you just fucked it all up.
Is it called a rebound if you’d never even been with the person you were trying to get over? Whatever it was, that was the role that Phasma played. His dear friend, newly divorced and lonely, agreed to be his date to the big holiday party that Rose insisted upon throwing every year. She had been so excited, all dolled up, waiting for his hands to find her curves and his words to warm her heart, and they were having a good time - they were - and then he saw Rey.
(Yes, he’d hoped she’d be there.)
(Yes, he hated himself when she was. Because she was three inches taller in the little shoes strapped to her feet. Her dress was three inches shorter than he could bear.)
He should’ve just let her go home. She’d dismissed him, walked away – it was done. Phasma was waiting. He was a good man. He saw Rey slip out the door with her coat. He was a good man, he was a good man, he was a good man, he was a good man, just needed to apologize one more time. She was clearly annoyed or hurt, he needed to apologize for that. He was a good man.
And then, her eye roll, her words in puffs in the freezing air — “Yes, Mr. Solo?”
Ben snapped.
He remembers kissing her. He remembers her throat in his hands, his thumbs on her bony little chin. He remembers climbing into the car with her. He remembers hoisting her into his lap while they kissed in the back like teenagers. He remembers crashing through her front door, following her to the back door while she let out her dog, and then falling on her in the hallway. Like a dog himself.
He remembers it all, in theory, like a hazy dream that happened to someone else. Ben Solo does not do this shit.
But he doesn’t think he’s been ever more of himself than he was when he looked down at her on the hardwood floor, her lips gasping, her face lit by only the porch light through the front door’s tiny window. And he flipped up that goddamned skirt to reveal her thighs, hips, tensing stomach, and a scrap of lace between her legs that was wet and smelled like heaven. Carefully pushed her thighs apart and settled himself there, like it belonged to him.
That’s when time slowed down, finally.
“Rey.” He whispered her name before he bent his head to her, nuzzling the crease of her skin, the split of wet. Breathed her in and tasted her as her back bowed against the floor.
“Oh god,” she groaned into the air, knees falling open wider. “More.”
He shushed her. “Patience.”
“Fuck patience, Ben. I want you.”
“And I” lick “have thought about this” suck “for months.” lick “So you will let me do what I want to do to you and this fucking—-”
Her pussy was puffy with her arousal. Slippery and hot and clenching against his tongue as he sunk it inside her. When her writhing became too much, he dropped his arm over her hips to keep her still. Tiny thing, can’t get away from him now.
He made her come three times.
Once, in bliss. The second in agony. The third in resignation, as though she was struck with realization then that she had perhaps bitten off more than she could chew. That Ben was a man, and now that he was taking what he wanted, he was going to take her with him. Over and over and over.
But when he carried her to her bed, when he thought her boneless body would roll to accommodate him, in the sweet sleepy haze she was in, prepped and ready for lovemaking and cuddles and sleep, he was surprised.
Or was he surprised? Maybe surprised wasn’t the right word. Because Ben should've known better. From a girl who fixed her house, who rolled her eyes, who kissed him in the afternoon sun.
Instead she rose to her knees and reached for him. Instead she undressed him with searing kisses and confident hands. Instead she pushed him down and climbed astride.
Men are visual creatures. They imagine and fantasize like it's breathing. Ben could admit, he had thought of this moment. He had been thinking about this moment. He knew exactly what she would look like, golden and taut above him. He knew what he’d say, he knew how she’d glow.
“You are magnificent,” he said, his palm coasting up her torso, his hand as big as her ribcage.
But what he didn’t expect was the moment he entered her. She raised her hips, her hand holding his cock steady (her hand on his cock her hand on his cock) and sunk down. The muscles tight and wet, and her face…. (god, her face)
That is where Ben’s imagination had failed him.
She looked at him like he was everything she’d ever needed. Her face open like the sun, lips parted in wonder, eyes glazed with pleasure. The shift of her hips, the weight of her body, the jump of the muscles in her throat as she swallowed. Rapture.
It turns out, Ben wasn’t a good man.
Maybe he never had been.
But he was now. He is for her.
The end.