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i wanna wake up with you all in tangles

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As with all things, the entire situation can be blamed on what Poe refers to as his complete and utter lack of chill, a lack of chill that becomes decidedly more apparent every time he happens to interact with...a certain person. Who shall remain nameless.

Rey, obviously. It’s always Rey.

Ben thinks he has a good reason for it this time. Because this time, not only is it his lack of chill, but it also involves Rey, and also he is soused, in a way he rarely gets, sitting in a booth at a bar in fucking Bushwick, of all the horrible places, surrounded by Rey’s friends, and by the smell of Rey, and by the sound of Rey’s voice, and also by Rey the actual physical corporeal person. She’s sitting next to him the way she’s always sitting next to him at get-togethers like this, like she knows how uncomfortable he still is around her friends and wants to take some of the pressure off of his presence in their little circle. Because she’s sweet like that. And because Ben is not chill and Poe and Finn definitely still hate him, even though he doesn’t actually work for Snoke anymore and is therefore no longer a corporate shill.

Rose, he can admit, is nice enough.

Although maybe it’s actually Rose’s fault, come to think of it. Rose, after all, is the one who brings up hers and Finn’s first date, how romantic it was, how he had picked her up in his car, how he had taken her to a nice sit-down sushi restaurant, how they had exchanged stories, how he had made her laugh so hard she almost choked on her craft beer, and how he had done something nigh unheard of in this day and age and paid for dinner. As she talks, Ben watches Finn’s expression, a mixture of quiet embarrassment, and pride, and happiness, and just—adoration. All mixed up together as he looks at Rose.

And then

And then Ben has to listen while Rey bemoans her own limited interactions with men. Too busy to date through law school, she says, and the guys she did actually meet were too broke to take her anywhere really nice, and usually all of their dates (always referred to as hang-outs, always exceedingly casual) happened in the four familiar walls of her own apartment. Nothing special.

“I feel like I’ve never been on a real date, you know?” she says, her hands gesturing helplessly in the air as she decries the state of modern relationships. “Like the ones in movies, where the restaurant takes reservations and has a tablecloth. And then he can, like, walk me to my door, and give me a chaste peck on the cheek, and then we have sex on the third date, all that bullshit.”

Poe nods his head seriously, and Ben can tell immediately that Poe is way, way drunker than he’s letting on. “I hear you, girl,” he mumbles, borderline incoherent. “Preach.”

“I wish someone would take me on a real date,” she says, petulant in a half-joking way. “Just the once, you know?”

Which is where Ben’s lack of chill comes in, of course. Right on schedule.

He makes some kind of sound then, a scoff of disbelief that sounds like pssh, his voice too loud even to his own ears. Because he has no chill, and he has no clue how it’s possible that men aren’t literally lining up around the block just to have the slimmest chance to take her out. “If you want someone to do all that shit,” he says, with the kind of confidence found only at the bottom of a bottle, “I’ll take you on a date.”

And then!

And then, to his mortification, Rey actually turns to look at him, her eyebrows raised in something that looks like a challenge, and says in a tone that is extremely difficult, in his current state, to identify is being sarcastic or sincere or joking, “Oh my god, totally!”

And just like that, he has a sort of maybe date with Rey.

And is completely fucked.





The problem contains two distinct characteristics:

1. Ben has not actually taken anybody out on a date in probably years, so it’s not like he really knows how to do it the way Rey is hoping.

2. He has no idea whether or not she wants it to be, like, a “real” date or a real date or what.

He can handle if it’s just a joke. Ben is very sure that he’ll be able to handle it. Yes, he’s been basically in love with her since the moment they met, when she called him, among other things, a waste of perfectly good hair, a sad-ass lawyer clown fuck, and a brick-shaped piece of actual human garbage, but, to be perfectly honest, Ben just feels lucky that someone like Rey—someone kind and funny and freckled and smart and so completely fucking gorgeous he wants to die a little every time he looks at her—is willing to talk to him at all.

Do-gooders like her would usually never want anything to do with him. But not Rey. Rey is his friend. If she just wants to go out with him for a laugh, if she doesn’t actually take it as a serious thing, if she just wants to be...just friends, he can live with that.

But he doesn’t know what it is she actually wants. And the prospect of taking her on a date, a real date like in the movies, while not knowing one way or the other—

It’s enough to drive him more than a little bit crazy.

Crazy enough to send her a text the morning after he asks her on that non-date that says simply:

Were you serious about that real date thing?

He’s barely set the phone back on his nightstand when it buzzes.

yeah we should totally go!!

Ben furrows his brow, feeling more confused reading her reply than he did before he asked her. Somehow, she manages to convey enthusiasm while giving away absolutely nothing.

His cell buzzes again while he stares at the message.

wanna do saturday at 8?

u have to come to brooklyn tho

bc walking me home is part of a date in The Movies

Ben starts typing a response, stops. Starts, stops. Suddenly realizes she can probably see the three little dots that show he’s seen her text and is agonizing over what to say. Gets really embarrassed and types out quickly, before it gets awkward:

I’ll pick you up at your apartment at 8 on Saturday then. I’ll find a restaurant with waiters and reservations and everything.

Then, thirty seconds later:

rock n roll!!!!! 💃🏻👌🏼

Ben throws his head back into his pillow and groans, no closer to figuring things out than he was fifteen minutes ago.





It’s just that she’s so difficult to read sometimes, he thinks as shaving cream drips slide down his throat. Ben is usually not too bad at reading people—it’s kind of a necessity in his line of work, especially when he was working for Snoke—but Rey was and is a mystery to him.

It’s just all the mixed signals. Ben runs his razor under the tap and wipes down his chin, glaring at his reflection in the mirror.

Like, there was the one time when she insisted they compare hand sizes. Let’s Tarzan and Jane, she said, so bubbly and excited and tipsy at Poe’s Halloween party. She had stared at how his hand dwarfed hers, how his oversized fingers had curled over the tops of hers, her palm all delicate and her wrist so thin and lovely. She had looked up at him, then, like she wanted to jump his bones a little, and Ben had thought for a second that maybe. Maybe.

But nothing happened. She finished her drink and told everyone goodnight in a voice all high and breathless and then she went home alone, as she always did. And Ben went home and jerked off to the thought of her dainty little hand wrapped around his cock. Like a hormone-addled teenager.

And there was, he thinks, that time that she ate a popsicle in front of him. He’s fairly certain he didn’t imagine the way she stared right at him while she swirled her tongue around the melted top of it, or how she licked the excess syrup off her sticky fingers in a manner that bordered on pornographic. That particular incident provided enough fodder for his masturbatory fantasies for weeks.

But again, nothing.

If Ben were a better man—less cowardly and less afraid and less all the other synonyms for chickenshit—he’d have already asked her out by now, and for real, rather than pining in agony because he is too scared to lose her as a friend. Instead, he had to ask her on a date in such a way that now he has absolutely no idea what he should be expecting for the night.

Ben gets dressed slowly, painstakingly making sure that everything is just right: casual but formal but not too formal but not too casual. The perfect tone for a maybe date. It is a difficult balance to strike.

Naturally, he nails it.

When he’s finished getting ready, he checks his phone one last time, just to see if maybe she cancelled, and entirely unsure if he'd feel disappointed or relieved if she did.

His stomach rolls nervously when he sees the message she did send on his home screen, his hand curling into a fist as he reads.

stoked for our DATE haha 🤘🏼😤🆒

make sure u press the buzzer HARD because it is BROKEN

or actually just text me when u get here

do not harass my landlord to fix it please benjamin

So, it’s a joke date then.

Okay. Cool. Good to know.

He’s definitely not sad, or disappointed, or whatever.

He glares at his reflection again, frowning. “Pull it together, Solo,” he mutters under his breath.

He hails a taxi to take him to Brooklyn and tries, unsuccessfully, to manage his hopes for the evening on the way there, while the driver shouts obscenities at pedestrians from his rolled down window, his voice melding together with the sound of unceasing honking from every single vehicle on the road.





“I’ll be down in a minute!” she shouts from her window all the way up on the fourth floor, not ten seconds after his message to let her know he made it. Ben has to crane his head back to look at her, where she’s grinning down at him with a hand lifted to one ear, like she might be putting on her earrings last minute.

Ben extends his arm skyward, giving her a thumbs up, and her smile grows.

During the five minutes he spends waiting for her on the sidewalk, Ben does his level best to convince himself that this dinner—this possible-date situation—will be fine regardless of what it turns out to be. After all, he reassures himself, he and Rey have been friends for almost a year by this point; he’s told her things he’s never told anybody, confided in her more, laughed with her more, argued with her more, made fun of other people with her more, and just plain liked her more than anyone else he’s ever met. Nothing will ever change that, he is determining, which, naturally, is right when Rey comes fluttering out of the front door of her walk-up and throws his entire notion of reality into chaos.

Because if Rey was attractive to an uncomfortable degree previously, the times that he’s seen her in business wear and casual t-shirts and sinfully tight jeans, then she is downright devastating now.

She’s incandescent. Sublime. Every other possible adjective for fucking perfect, in a dark green dress that swishes in a flowy circle just above her knocked knees, and with a little gold chain around her throat that shimmers in the light, and with something shimmering a pretty glittery shine on her eyelids, and with her hair down, loose waves just skimming her tanned shoulders.

Ben nearly chokes on his next lungful of air when he sees her. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice as she waves at him, chipper and bright and touched with an odd, unplaceable third emotion that might be in the ballpark of nervousness. What she has to be nervous for, he has no idea. She could be dressed in a literal trash bag, and he’d probably still weep for the chance to brush his lips against the inside of her ankle. 

God, he needs to get a fucking grip.

“Ben!” She’s slightly out of breath when she calls his name from her stoop. She half-jogs, half-walks down the steps, nearly twists her ankle when she steps wrong on her heels, and stumbles into him when she trips forward. Her hands clasp his shoulders while she steadies herself, her eyes trained on the ground as she shoves her foot back into the heel of her shoe. She huffs out a breath of air when she’s successful, blowing a thick lock of hair from her face, and grins.

Ben is fucked.

“Hi,” she says quietly, like it’s a secret between the two of them.

There is so much he wants to say to her. So much to ask. He could end the torture right now and see if it is or is not a real date, he could tell her how utterly, heart-wrenchingly beautiful she is, he could fucking propose. His hands are on her waist, and he has no idea when that happened.

He says, “They have tablecloths.” Clears his throat. Strokes his thumb into the curve of her side. “I checked.”

When Rey laughs, full and loud and joyful, her nose scrunched up in amusement, Ben smiles, glad that it was the right thing to say.





During their appetizer, she tells him her conspiracy theory about an underground network of New York cabbies, which primarily centers around them sharing startlingly specific insults to hurl from their windows.

“No lie,” she says, digging into her calamari with a level of enthusiasm he finds equal parts terrifying and arousing, “I heard two different taxi drivers call a pedestrian a rat-faced limp-dick fuck last week. The exact same inflection and everything. It was truly unnerving. It can’t be a coincidence. I think they have meetings about this.”

“Or maybe it was the same guy, and he looked a lot like a rat-faced, limp-dick fuck,” Ben counters. He offers her the last of the calamari from his plate, pleased when she stabs through the last few pieces without a word and pushes them onto her own to smother in marinara sauce. I like the squid looking ones, she said when the waiter, a thin man in a neatly pressed suit who nodded politely at Rey’s open excitement over how fancy he was (even the waiters are sophisticated on a grown-up date!), first brought the dish over. She immediately took most of the pieces that were shaped like baby squids, leaving the rings for Ben to eat, and asked, flushing, if he minded.

Ben responded by shoving the rest of the squid-shaped calamari onto her plate.

(So he’s obvious. So what. It’s a thing.)

It is going well, he thinks. Rey seems happy with the choice of restaurant, happy with the conversation, happy with him. She tells him about a case she’s been working on, how she wants to murder the client just about every time he calls her doll in the middle of a meeting. She tell him about her lunch plans with Rose in a few days. She tells him about her recently-married, very vocal neighbors, and how she complains to her landlord about their vigorous lovemaking at least once a week to no avail.

“What I really need to do,” she muses, almost as if Ben weren’t there at all, “is give them a taste of their own medicine.”

Ben forces a laugh, trying and failing not to picture just how Rey would go about giving her noisy neighbors a taste of their own medicine. He really does try not to imagine the sounds she might make, if he fucked her in her squeaky bed (he’s seen it before, seen her fling herself across it dramatically to get him to watch Mean Girls with her instead of The Departed like he’d suggested, and he knows it squeaks) (they watched Mean Girls, he couldn’t say no).

Then, Rey says, slow and deliberate, “Maybe you could help me.”

He coughs, choking on his bite of ravioli that doesn’t seem to know whether it wants to come back up onto his plate or go down his throat. When he collects himself, he can see her just—watching him. He laughs again, weakly.

“I don’t how what I could help with that you can’t do by yourself ten times better,” he manages eventually.

Rey narrows her eyes as she holds his gaze. “Oh,” she says quietly, thoughtfully, “I’m sure you can help me think of something.”

Ben swallows hard, suddenly extremely grateful for the tablecloth draping over his lap.

He wonders, not for the first time, if Rey is actively trying to torture him.





They split dessert. Or rather, Ben obliges Rey’s insistence that he take two spoonfuls of her overly rich chocolate cake while he drinks an after dinner espresso.

“Won’t that keep you up all night?” she asks in between huge bites of cake. “I don’t know how you drink that stuff.”

Ben grins, shaking his head. He loves the way Rey eats, like she can never get enough of whatever she has in front of her. He loves the way she always gets crumbs in the corners of her mouth. He loves—

“Rey,” he says, clearing his throat, “I hate to tell you this, but most of the adult world drinks this stuff.”

“Coffee is bad,” she says belligerently.

“It’s an acquired taste.”

“What’s the point of acquiring it? It’s an expensive habit. Like heroin.”

He spits some of his drink back into his cup inelegantly, snorting. “I’m not sure if that comparison pans. Besides, it’s good to help you wake up.”

“I can get up just fine, no caffeine necessary,” she says primly.

“Except for the caffeinated soda you drink,” he points out. “That shit rots your teeth.”

She gasps, pressing a hand to her heart. “Are you saying I have gross teeth?”

Ben knows Rey well enough by this point not to fall for her theatrics. “No.”

She frowns, pouting. He resists the urge to smile.

He does that a lot around Rey, he’s noticed. With other people, he has to force the illusion of happiness; with Rey, he finds himself having to give off the impression of indifference more often than not.

It is...a problem.

“You have very nice teeth,” he reassures her.

“Wow,” Rey says, mock-impressed, “aren’t you just the most charming date.”

“I can only hope I meet all your expectations.”

“That,” she says, raising the last spoonful of cake to her soft, pink lips, “still remains to be seen.”

She bites down decisively, and then, apparently not satisfied with that, licks the concave curve of the spoon clean with the flat of her tongue. She looks right at him as he does it, her eyes bright and mischievous.

Ben clenches his hand into a fist on his thigh and calls to the first random busboy passing the table, “Check, please.”





She lets him pay the bill with no resistance.

“Just,” she tells him as they leave the restaurant, “because that is The Thing To Do. Not because I expect a man to pay for my date. Next time, I’m buying.”

Ben ignores the shiver of happiness that rolls through him at the promise of a next time. She could, after all, be referring to the next time they go out for drinks as a group, or the next time she drags him to go see some Jane Austen-esque romantic drama.

Her apartment is walking distance from the restaurant, so she determines that the most Real Date thing to do is for him to walk her. So he does, tugging off his coat and draping it over her shoulders when her arms curl around her torso from the chill.

“And I didn’t even have to ask,” she says with a strange quirk to her mouth. There is a look in her eyes, he thinks, that could drive a man to do any number of crazy things she might ask, if she decided to. Things like: watch Mean Girls or go on a non-date date.

Ben nods solemnly at her. “Are you impressed yet?”

Rey holds her thumb and index finger an inch apart. “Little bit,” she says softly.

By the time they make it to her building, Ben feels an overwhelming combination of excitement, dread, and anxiety over what, exactly, she expects the end of this Real Date to look like. Is he supposed to give her a good Christian side-hug? A chaste peck on the cheek? Put his tongue in her mouth?

He feels extremely open to suggestions.

Ben pauses at the top of her stoop, about to wish her a pleasant evening and go on his not-so-merry way (chickenshit, his brain hisses accusingly), when Rey beats him to whatever he was going to say by blurting out, “Do you want to come up for a nightcap?”

He blinks and, before he can so much as think the words holy shit it’s all happening or is it really happening is it just a drink does she want me to kiss her what am I doing, he says instantly, “Yes.”

There must have been some embarrassing eagerness in his voice because Rey’s eyes widen considerably. Ben clears his throat, taking a step closer, and repeats a little more calmly, “Yeah, I’d love to come in for a drink.”

She smiles then, one of those megawatt smiles she has, one of those sunshine and joy and everything good in the world smiles that makes him melt, every time, without fail, and then she lets him in.





Rey can make one cocktail. It is, he is unsurprised to learn, a margarita.

Ben asks her multiple times if she needs any help juicing the limes, which Rey refuses each instance. So he waits, somewhat patiently, on the couch where she directed him to sit, where they have, in the past, watched movies and eaten nachos and talked to each other quietly in the middle of bigger get-togethers.

He knows this couch. He knows this apartment, knows the window that struggles to open more than an inch and the eternally spinning ceiling fan and the unframed posters Rey gets through various nefarious means that litter the walls, and yet: Ben feels, sitting there, that he is in completely uncharted territory.

By the time Rey is finished mixing their drinks, he feels ready to explode.

“I didn’t have the right kind of salt,” she is saying amiably, setting the glasses down on two coasters with Dolly Parton’s face on them, “so I just used kosher salt, I hope that’s okay. It'll probably taste terrible, to be perfectly honest. Also I’m not sure that my ratio of triple sec is right, and I think the limes might have gone bad—”

“Is this a date?” he bursts out.

Rey blinks, knitting her eyebrows together. “I mean, yes? I thought that—that this is a date, right?”

He lets out a sound of frustration that might be a groan, tearing one hand through his hair. “No, it’s—I don’t mean a ‘Real Date’ like in ‘The Movies,’ or whatever, I mean: you and me. Are we on a date right now?”

Rey continues to just...stare at him, and Ben feels his entire sense of being collapse like a house of cards. Or like a building being blown up by dynamite.

“Forget it,” he says hurriedly, lowering his eyes back to his drink, to Dolly Parton’s face wavering at him through the full glass, “forget I said anything, please, let’s just—I can go if you’re uncomfortable, and we can just move on and I’ll leave you alone for a while and we’ll just—”

He stops then, all of his language function ceasing when Rey clambers closer to him on the couch and throws a leg over his lap to straddle him. He watches, mute, while she shimmies herself into a comfortable position on his thighs, pressing her chest to his chest, her knees to his hips.

“Oh my god, Ben,” she says, tilting her mouth scant inches from his mouth, and holy shit everything is happening, “you are so, so stupid.”

Then she kisses him, and his entire reality is thrown into chaos for the second time in one night.





Rey is a good kisser. She is good at the act of kissing. She has skills in that arena. Her tongue should be put up for an award, especially when she puts it in his mouth and slides it against his tongue. Also, she should get a medal, he thinks, for the way she presses down on his lap as she kisses him, squirming and grinding down deliciously.

Ben has to pull away after a few minutes of it, light-headed and dizzy with want.

She chases his mouth for a moment, her eyes half-lidded, and if it isn’t the hottest thing he has ever seen in his stupid, idiotic life, he will eat his hat. He doesn’t have any hats, but the point stands.

“So, let me get this straight,” he says, half-panting into her lips, “this is, like, a...romantic date?”

Rey groans, rocking herself more determinedly against his growing hard-on. Ben has to clasp his hands on her hips to get her to stop. “If you do that, I can’t think,” he manages to get out, wincing slightly.

“I believe that is rather the point,” she says, and he is pleased to hear her so breathless, sounding as affected as him. “To answer your question with a question, does this—” She slides her hand down the middle of his torso to curl around his cock, and okay, he has about thirty seconds before he loses it completely and goes entirely feral, he should probably warn her about that— “feel platonic to you?”

He shakes his head, gripping her wrist to—he has no idea. He can’t tell if he wants to keep her hand where it is or throw it off and ask her to try that again with her mouth— “That didn’t answer my question,” he grits out.

She actually pauses at that, leaning away from him enough to look at his face. It takes all of his willpower and then some not to beg her to keep doing what he told her to stop doing. “Well, I don’t know,” she says, sounding almost shy. Which is ridiculous, considering the state of her hair (tangled and knotted up beyond belief) and her mouth (bitten red and wet with spit) and her dress (straps falling down, hemline somewhere around her waist). “Do you want it to be romantic?”

They could do this all night: go around in circles asking each other what the other one wants. Ben decides he does not have time for that. Fuck it.

“Yeah, I want it to be romantic.”

Rey grins, and Ben thinks he might actually die, in that moment, from happiness. “Yeah,” she says, pressing her mouth to his, “me too.”

“Great,” Ben breathes out.

Then he slides his hands up her spine and flips her over.

Rey squeaks in surprise when she lands on her back on the sofa, her legs opening automatically to make room for him to settle between her thighs. “We probably shouldn’t—” She gasps when he grinds down into her, catching her by the mouth, and she tries again around his lips, “Probably shouldn’t have sex on the first date, right?”

“Right,” he agrees, skimming his fingers along the inside of her bare thighs. She shivers, and her legs fall open wider. This is good, he thinks, it’s good, she’s so good he wants to cry— “You’re right,” he gets out, “we probably shouldn’t.”

Rey meets his eyes, nodding her head seriously, even while her fingers trip across his shoulders to fumble with his tie. “Yeah, this is—you should go home.”

“I should.” He isn’t sure how his right hand got to her collarbone, really, or why it’s peeling the straps of her dress down her shoulders. Rey’s hands are still preoccupied with his shirt, trembling as she undoes the buttons, and Ben feels around the side of her dress, looking for a zipper, cursing every designer who is responsible for making the damn things near impossible to see. He finds the zipper just under her arm, and he tugs it down, inch by agonizing inch, revealing the soft curve of her bare waist. “Rey?”

She’s finished with his buttons, jerking the shirt off his shoulders, and he helps her as best he can while still trying valiantly to keep his hands on her body as much as possible. She looks up from her task at last, her eyes slightly glazed over. “Yeah?”

“You should probably tell me to leave now.”


Her head is tilted back on the cushion. Her throat is bared. He wants to sink his teeth into it. “Because,” he says, a little shakily, “if I don’t leave, I’m going to want to fuck you. Which isn’t supposed to happen until the third date, according to the movies.”

“Screw the movies,” she breathes, and she surges up to kiss him again.





He isn’t entirely sure how they become divested of the rest of their clothes. It’s a blur of hands, his mouth exploring the ridge of her collarbone as he walks her back to her bedroom with the squeaky mattress, her fingers tugging insistently through his hair.

“How is your hair prettier than mine,” she whines as he spreads her out on her comforter, and fuck if she isn’t the best thing he’s seen laid out like that all week. All year. His whole life, really.

“I don’t wash it with a bar of soap.”

He drops open-mouthed kisses along the length of her torso, nuzzling his nose into the soft, fragrant skin of her stomach.

Rey keeps babbling as he slides further and further down her body, as he licks along the insides of her thighs, as his hands pinch the pretty little buds of her tits. God, he’d like to keep her like this forever, all wide and open and wet. How did he manage to live his life not knowing this is what Rey looks like, undone? How can he possibly go another minute not knowing the taste of her cunt?

“I don’t use soap, you’re being facetious. You’re just so elit—fuck—” He lowers his mouth to her cunt, and her whole body jolts into the arm he has draped across her abdomen, holding her down, “elitist, god, Ben, you’re so—oh god, pretentious, oh my god—”

“You’re so wet,” he mumbles into her skin, slipping a finger inside her with ease, and there must be something in his voice, the vibrations, because she clenches around his finger, letting out a startled cry. Ben smirks, swirling his tongue around her clit and curling his finger deeper inside, trying to gauge her reactions. That earns him another sharp wail, Rey clapping a hand over her mouth. She seems torn between wanting to meet his eyes as he eats her out and wanting to close them to revel in the sensation.

He did that, he thinks, almost drunk on the idea of it. He is the person making her feel this good; he wants to be the only person to make her feel this good.

He sucks on her clit and does something with his tongue that makes her entire body jerk up, her heels digging into the middle of his back, and so he does it again, earning another jump of her hips. He wants to tell her how good she’s doing, how good she tastes, but he doesn’t want to stop this for anything. He keeps working her with his mouth, moving faster, curling his fingers more brutally, and it’s barely a minute before her hands are scrambling over her sheets, groping for something to cling to as she rocks her cunt over his face.

“Keep going,” she begs, “keep, yes—right there, I’m gonna—I’m gonna come, fuck, Ben—”

Her cunt squeezes around his fingers like a vice, and Ben listens to her cries as she falls apart, shakes into pieces into his mouth.

Ben thinks, dizzily, as she tugs on his hair to make him look at her, as she pulls him up to clamber on top of her on the bed, that he can die now, thanks. He’s the happiest he’ll ever be, and he can die now, having just made the girl of his literal dreams come, and he would be perfectly content with that.

“If you aren’t fully penetrating me in the next fifteen seconds,” Rey pants, reaching her slender hand down to guide his cock into the slick wetness of her, and Ben groans, “I think I might start crying.”

“Do I—do I need a—” He is so out of his mind, he literally cannot even conjure up what they’re called, the little square packets for the thing that goes on a penis during vaginal intercourse (how his internal monologue can manage those words but not the one for the...sperm catcher is beyond him).

Luckily, Rey gets his meaning instantly, the way she always does. “Birth control,” she manages, “clean, you?”

He nods, perhaps a little frantic, a little too excited, “Yeah, yeah, clean, I’m gonna—” She’s so wet the head of his cock slips inside her when he barely nudges forward. The feeling is—unbearable. Intense. Better than the best thing he’s ever felt. “God, Rey, you’re so—you feel so good.”

She lets out a whimper when he pushes in deeper, letting the soft, velvet heat of her envelop him. She says please once, then again, and then she keeps saying please and his name, please, Ben, please, please, please.

He pulls out when he’s sunk halfway into her, and she whines, clawing at his back as if to keep him locked inside. “Just need—” He adjusts his position on his knees, his hands spreading her thighs around him (her skin so soft, all of her soft, her body just giving and giving and giving for him), and he tugs her into him, gripping her ass so he can push through again.

The instant he does, it’s clear the angle is better—she cries out once, loud, and he barely has to move at all before he’s sliding inside, filling her and filling her, before he’s completely buried in her hot little cunt.

“Fuck,” he grits out, “fuck.”

“Please,” she whines again, “please, Ben, please—”

He thrusts experimentally, the whole mattress groaning underneath them in protest. “Please what?”

“Please, please, I’ve been waiting so long—”

“For this?” He pulls out, and she nods, screwing her eyes shut as he slams back into her. “How long have you been waiting?”

She gasps, canting her hips to meet his thrusts, and Ben’s eyes almost roll back into his head at the feeling, the tight, wet warmth of her wrapped around him, all the time he spent imagining this exact moment— “Feels like forever—for so long, Ben, I wanted—just fuck me, please.”

“I will,” he promises breathlessly, “now, and again later, and tomorrow morning. I’ll come inside you—” She whimpers, her eyes wide as she watches him, and Ben takes back everything he said about dying happy earlier—there’s no way he could have died happy without doing this. He bends down, lowering his head to lick her tits (how has he not done this already, how has he lived his life not knowing the little squeal she makes when he works her nipples with his mouth until they harden into soft, pretty peaks?), and looks up at her, meeting her eye as he adds, “On one condition.”

She nods, her full bottom lip caught in her teeth, and Ben grins, tilting his head to catch her tongue in his mouth.

He murmurs into her lips, “You need to make a lot of noise.”

And Rey laughs, the most beautiful, joyful thing he’s ever heard, before he snaps his hips against her again and the sound shudders into a loud, drawn-out moan.

“Good job,” he says, his voice incongruously gentle compared to how he fucks her, “that was really good.”

He hears her let out a long, needy whine at his voice, feels her cunt clutch wetly around his cock. He feels, faintly, that he should probably slow down before he truly embarrasses himself by coming way too fast. He feels on the edge of it already, like it’ll only take one hard shove for him to topple over.

He wants—he needs to make her come again. He’s a selfish man, that’s what everyone always told him. Competitive, possessive. He wants to ruin her for anybody else.

“Did you like that?” He pistons into her again to punctuate each word, every syllable, shoving her further up the bed with each thrust. Her hands grasp blindly at his shoulders, tugging hard enough on his hair that it borders on painful. “Me calling you good?”

She whimpers, and his world tilts on its axis. This is too much, he thinks, she’s just too much. How could anyone survive this?

Ben reaches, rolling one of her nipples between his thumb and forefinger, and she lets out a strangled cry.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, “so good for me.” Looking down, he can see the way she stretches around, opens for him, her sweet, slick entrance welcoming him inside, over and over again. He might go crazy. He might lose his mind. “Look at you,” he says, and the sound is a groan, reverent and quiet, as he drags his hand across her stomach, then down, down further, to where she’s wrapped around his cock. His thumb nudges at her clit, and Rey bucks against his hand, keening loud enough he knows her asshole neighbors will be able to hear it. To know exactly what he’s doing to her. “Look at this.”

“Please—I want—”

“Say it,” he begs. She’s so drenched, dripping down onto the bed, making a mess, that his fingers can barely connect with her clit. He presses harder, rubbing tight, rhythmic circles. “Tell me—”

“I’m gonna—Ben, just a little more, please, just—”

He works her until his hand aches, until she spasms, her whole body tensing as she pulsates around him, lets out a strangled cry that he knows will stick in his mind for ages. He fucks her through it, and the feeling is overwhelming, the way her sweet little body clenches and relaxes, as if she’s trying to hold him as deep as she can. It’s only another moment before he can’t hold back any longer, and he follows after her, his fingers digging harshly, bruising, into the soft flesh of her hips as he thrusts faster and harder into her warm, wet channel.

Ben comes inside her, groaning his release, filling her up with all he has as her arms slacken around his neck, and the thing he decides immediately after is no, he won’t be able to die happy unless he can do that again, and again, and again for the rest of his ridiculous fucking life.

He is a selfish man, after all.





The feeling of her little fingers tripping over the ridge of his profile is what wakes him. Ben blinks blearily, registering three facts in rapid succession: 1. he is not in his apartment, 2. Rey is next to him, and 3. they are both naked.

He feels a grin stretching across his face as Rey taps the tip of his nose. Ridiculous, how often she makes him do that. He should probably get a hold of himself.

“You have a fantastic nose,” she tells him seriously. She reaches her thumb down the side of his face to trace the shell of his ear, smiling when he shivers at the touch. “Your ears are a marvel.”

His voice is hoarse, raw from disuse and lack of sleep and sex. “I am seriously concerned about your taste if you think that.”

She glares at him, seeming slightly peeved. “I have great taste. Don’t be mean to my new boyfriend.”

Impossibly, his smile grows. Ben tries and fails to keep the overt happiness out of his voice when he murmurs, “Oh, do you have a boyfriend now?”

She is hardly fazed. “Mhm. And I’d appreciate if you were nice to him, he’s rather sensitive.”

He frowns. “I’m not sensitive,” he mutters, and she laughs.

It makes him melt. It is...definitely too early to tell her he loves her. He will keep that information tucked away for now, he thinks.

Rey yawns, stretching her arms above her head. It's probably the cutest thing Ben has ever seen.

“I’m gonna hop in the shower,” she says, matter-of-fact, and rolls off the bed.

Ben lays back, letting himself take in everything about her naked body as she flounces to the bathroom. He looks at the ceiling for a long moment, trying to see if he can get the smile off his face. He can only manage it for a second at a time.

Rey only has enough patience to wait thirty seconds before she hollers through the closed door, “Are you coming in or what, Solo?”

Ben gets out of the bed so fast he thinks it might qualify as a record of some kind.

(So he’s in love. So what. It’s a thing.)