There’s a melody that he chases sometimes, the tinkling of keys that rings out high and bright. Like a fairies laughter, or the chime of bells. It’s sweet and slow but quickens, the ivory cool beneath his fingers, the wood resistant as the hammer inside the great beast strikes at strings that are pulled tight and tuned just so.
It’s a sound that he knows, one that feels more than hears because that’s what music has always been to him, a feeling. Like a high that never ends until the crescendo, his fingers pounding against the keys until his hands shake and sweat beads off his forehead. Even still he pushes on, it feels like he’s flying, his body hunched over his piano, pushing into the music until his heartbeat is a memory and all that exists is the deep thrum of the strings.
It screams at him over the bright lights, the screeching sirens and the pain that lances through his body. Still, his hands move, disconnected from the feeling of cold steel and the biting winter cold. Separate from the hammering of feet against the pavement and the muffled drone of voices that he knows that he should listen to. The blips from a radio, the ‘ Sir, can you hear me? ’ and then ‘ Don’t move ’ that hold him in place but he can’t stop. He won’t. It’s there, right there just out of reach, the end of the piece, the one he’s struggled with for so long now.
The notes fit together like breath-work, an in and out, push and pull that seep into his lungs until he is the living embodiment of the music. It gets louder, more fierce, the low notes rumbling- crashing into the delicate ring or something brighter and his chest aches. His hands are bloody, his fingers blunt instruments that strike the keys with no feeling. They tremble and shake rattling against the instrument but the sound is pure and clean.
Lights fade and shift like shadows beyond his vision and still, he plays, shoulders tight as his breathing grows more difficult and there’s a sharp bite in his throat like something’s being forced down it. His lungs inflate, the beeping intensifies drowning out the notes that his body has dedicated itself to. He can’t breathe and yet the music is breathing for him, wild and free, His body a mere concept because all that matters is the music.
Only now he can’t hear it, the sounds he pulls from this beautiful instrument. It’s only a feeling, muted by the stillness. He’s not flying but floating, suspended in time and space, trapped between the sound and the delicate hum. His hands still shake, pieced together by pieces of steel, his fingers stiff, unyielding. He tries to flex them but they’re so stiff and it hurts. Still, he pushes himself, his hands moving along to the melody he can no longer hear, willing the sound to return.
It comes to him through a hollow tunnel and he’s tripping over himself to get to it, tumbling through an amber liquid that tastes like whiskey but burns his skin. He stumbles through an open door and lands on a white marble floor, staring at the skirts of a woman at a piano bench. Her long white dress glowing blue in the moonlight as a little boy sits next to her running through his scales. Scales that turn into Bach and Beethoven and then something different, something fierce and strange and yet far too familiar.
His heartbeat races as sirens blare over a young man at a grand piano playing for a crowd of people. His face is soft, pale in the brilliance of the overhead lights. His hands move like they were made for this— because they were. He was born to play but the beeping and the sirens ring on and on and the keys beneath his fingers are warm and wet and he’s pounding useless fists against the smooth ivory now. His fingers won’t move, splinted and broken but still, the music plays. It plays on and on and on tormenting him with his useless fingers that feel like they’re made of iron.
All he wants is to play and yet he can’t and his work goes unfinished and yet— no. It’s there, the sound of it clear as day. It sings in his chest, vibrating down into the core of his very being, the end, beautiful and serene. Soft and slow it settles, soft and slow the sound kisses his consciousness pulling him from a sleep that is less sleep and more torment because the song will never be finished and he will never play again.
There’s an acrid taste in his mouth, whiskey and cigarettes and something else, something that might have been toothpaste in another lifetime. Minty and dull, trapped beneath the weight of bad decisions and the taste of regret. It settles on his tongue, thick and potent while his eyes take their sweet time adjusting to the light of his damned bedside lamp. The one he clearly forgot to turn off when he’d finished doing— whatever it was he’d been doing last night.
His body aches, mind pounding within his skull as the sound of his dream flutters through his mind. A bitter reminder upon waking of his pathetic half existence and all that he’s lost.
There’s a fog in his mind that refuses to lift and a half-full glass of something amber sitting on the nightstand that he reaches for absently. Whiskey, he realizes as it hits his tongue the moment he finds himself upright again soothing the torrent of pain and hatred that are winding their way around his mind like a cat getting comfortable after being suddenly disturbed.
Still, the music plays, a delicate melody that he knows by heart, lost within the fog as he tries to piece together bits of the night before. He’s naked and his cock feels tacky. It’s that ‘ gotten fucked ’ feeling that he only just remembers which means— fuck.
Pulling back the sheets he stares down at himself, limp and content his cock sits at a jaunty angle, the hair on his belly still slightly damp. There are no condom wrappers on the night-table, nothing on the floor around the bed either. Fuck, could he really have been so stupid?
His body protests the sudden change in positions, the bottoms of his feet tingling as they collide with the floor. On coltish legs, he stands and takes stock of his bedroom. There are clothes everywhere, scattered across the floor like a tornado had ripped through while he slept. Only it’s not just his slacks and boxer briefs he finds but a pretty silver slip of clothing, a dress he realizes with a pair of high heels and purple panties that he wishes he could remember.
Where was he last night? He’d met his mother for drinks at the Alderaan and that had been— Ben groans. A nightmare is what that had been. Another plea to reconsider joining her as a teacher at her illustrious music school. He would rather eat glass than lower himself to that. To sitting like some exotic animal, a creature to be pitied because he just can’t play the way he use to. No, no he won’t teach. He’ll drink and he’ll fuck and he’ll live the rest of his life out like the broken shell of a man that he has been reduced to, but he will not teach.
Stumbling over to the bathroom, he catches his reflection in the mirror. Too pale, too tall, too broad, his body covered in scars. Tiny lines carved into his skin dotted like tracks. Places where the staples held flesh together so he could heal. Like a man built from other’s parts, a modern-day Frankenstein and instead of being grateful for the second chance he’s been given he’s wasting it on booze and whores and those lovely white pills his doctor prescribed him. The ones for the pain that mixes so nicely with the ones he’s been given for his anxiety and depression.
Digging through his medicine cabinet he picks through a series of bottles turning them around so he can read off their labels. There’s alcohol in his system still and certain things aren’t wise to mix while others—
Fuck it, it doesn’t matter he needs to get back to sleep and his conscious mind is playing tricks on him. He’s still hearing the music, taunting him with the one thing in the world that he’ll never have again. Why can’t his mind just leave it alone?
After fiddling with a series of bottles he stares at the contents of his palm, a blue pill and two white. Something to take the edge off this mind-numbing oblivion. Something to shut his brain off, something to steal him away from the conscious world for a few blissful hours of empty-minded bliss, only something is nagging at him. A thought that half forms like something he should know. The music slows, soft and easy and— where is the girl? The one he brought home, the one who belongs to the shimmery silver dress that sits on his floor like a pool of mercury.
They usually stay in his bed, waiting for him to wake up so he can pay them and send them on their way only this one is missing. There are signs of her everywhere. Bobby pins on the marble countertop of his bathroom sink. Lipstick kisses against his neck and small hickeys left all over his skin.
More attentive than those he usually finds. The ones who let him fuck them and pass out. This treasure seems to have had her fun too, something that causes Ben’s balls to tighten and his cock to stir.
Setting the pills down on the top shelf of his medicine cabinet Ben turns to go off in search of this curious creature. His mind is still sluggish as he tries to pull up even an image of her. Firm pretty little tits that bounced in his face as she rode him. He remembers that much. Round strong thighs and long beautiful fingers. The hands of an artist, strong and yet delicate and— the music.
Ben’s heart thuds mercilessly in his chest, his music, his song. The one he’d been writing, the one he’d given up on, the one he thought was playing in his mind, taunting him on an endless loop.
Agitated legs carry him down the dark hallway, passed room after room that sits untouched, filled with pieces of a life he once lived. Passed a kitchen stocked with more alcohol than food and through a living room that hasn’t seen guests in longer than Ben can recall he finds her. There, in the small study, the one made up of shelves upon shelves of books. The home of his favorite chair with the large ornate windows that overlooks the lawn and the pond and the forest beyond. She’s sitting on a piano bench, hunched over the great black beast in no more than his white button-down.
Her, the girl with the fingers and the tits and the mouth, fuck, how could he forget that mouth? Wide and sweet and full of wicked intent. He’d watched her on her knees, lips parted in waiting as he slid his cock in. She’d been so eager, so good, so greedy for him as he’d fucked her mouth and she’d swallowed him down readily. Now that mouth is open, lips parted, eyes closed as she spills herself over the piano instead of his fingers, his mouth, his dick.
She looks tiny in his white shirt, her thighs spread just so, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows but no less beautiful than she had been sitting astride him. She hasn’t heard him approach, doesn’t seem to even register that she’s not alone in the world let alone the room. Lost to the sound, the deep thrum and the lilting cry as the hammers strike and the cords sing out in the dark. Her body moves with the music, shoulders working into the rhythm as her fingers dance across the ivory. It’s mesmerizing to watch, the sound building, creeping along his spine, settling in his balls making him want .
And oh how that want is ever so evident, hanging half-hard between his legs as she flows with the sound. It fills the room, angry and sad crashing into something brilliant and wild, building and building like an orgasm ready to break. Her chest heaves, dark lashes damp as they sit against painted cheeks, her make up more of a suggestion now, lips still faintly red, the dark eyeliner which had been expertly drawn on now smudged and smokey around her eyes. Eyes that he struggles to recall the color of. Eyes he needs to see, desperate to feel them watching as he slides his cock into her pretty little pussy. He can recall how wide they’d gotten when he’d first breached her opening, the sweet hum on her lips as he slid a little deeper filling her up so well. A cunt that was made for him and now here she is playing his piano like she was born for it.
He wants to see those strong little fingers wrapped around his length, jerking him off not pounding on those godforsaken keys. Who does she think she is anyway? How dare she slip into his most private of areas and take what’s left of his pride?
This is what he’s paying for, some bitch who doesn’t know her place?
Only she’s not some bitch, is she? No, she’s not his usual trophy but something else entirely. She’s passion and grace and beautiful all rolled into one neat little package. A package that he’s been gifted, a package he’s determined to unwrap again and again because she chose him not for his wallet but because she had liked the way he smiled. He can remember that much, the way she’d laughed when he had told her that corny joke. The sound of her joy pulling from his lips the rarest of grins.
He’s not sure when the music stops only that she’s staring at him standing there in the moonlight. His left foot sits at an awkward angle, the scar on his hip pulling it away from the anatomical midline. Her eyes trail along the scar that curves from his knee up close to his groin and then to the erection he unabashedly wears.
Her soft, “Hi,” is almost lost as he exhales sharply and takes a step into the room closing some of the space between them. When he’s closer she will see the damage done, the way his body doesn’t quite fit but she’s kissed every inch of it and even now he can feel the soft tingle left by her touch.
The longer he remains upright the more clear his mind becomes, the more it hurts. How perfect she was, how perfect she is even now as she shifts on the bench until her knee is hitched against the oak surface and her posture is open to him. The white button-down hides what he’s desperate to view. The areas of her body he finds himself in need of reacquainting himself with. Pretty little nipples that sit hard and sharp against the soft cotton. A delicious wet cunt that’s full of him even now because no, they didn’t use a condom and yes, he did come inside. He’d come inside her after she begged for it and who was he to deny her such trivial things?
“I didn’t wake you did I?” She asks oh so sweetly, this girl whose body he can remember with a name that has lost itself in the fog of his memory. It sounds like a song, of that he’s sure but it’s hard to think of anything at all with the way she’s looking at him now.
Ben’s voice is dry, catching in his throat as he tries to offer her some peace of mind, “N-No,” he can taste the whiskey as he swallows and forces a smile, “Don’t usually sleep well.”
She makes a sound as though she understands, this pretty young thing with the hands of an angel, “Me either,” those fucking lips, drawn in a coy smile she cocks her head to the side and asks, “You play?”
Play? Play what? He’ll play any game she wants so long as they do it without their clothes on. Will she sit on his cock while they do?
But no, she’s not talking about games, she’s talking about something else entirely. Heat flares along Ben’s neck as agitation coils tight in his belly. She means the piano, because why else would one own such a beautiful thing if not to play, “Not anymore,” he bites out harshly, not missing the way she recoils slightly as though struck by his tone, “I- fuck. No, sorry, no I don’t play anymore, I haven’t in a long time.”
“Such a shame,” she seems to muse, turning away from him, why is she turning away?
Facing the instrument once more she allows her fingers to brush over the keys, soft and slow, like she’s coaxing the music from the tired old beast, not just playing it, “It’s beautiful.”
“What were you playing?” He’s not sure why he asks because he knows, he knows the piece because he wrote the damn thing. Unfinished work that alludes him even now. Sounds pieced together that only half make sense, an idea of an idea that his mother convinced him was ready for the world. His finest failure. A mockery of his talent because what the world hears and what he feels will never coincide. An enigma, a conscious thought stopped before fruition because only he can see the way it sits in the realm of non-existence.
“Ren,” she hums, “Have you heard of him?”
Ben wants to laugh but he chooses instead to sit on the piano bench next to her. To crowd her with his presence while she plays, living vicariously through her passion, “I have,” he says softly, reaching out so his fingers touch the glowing white, the only thing paler than the white of his flesh.
When he presses down the cord hums deep and loud like it's yawning awake, interrupting the easy flow of her fingers. His hands are stiff and still poised over the keys, a wild animal ready to pounce so it startles him when her hands cover his own. The delicate press of her fingertips urging him to play, begging him to show her something beautiful.
He can’t— but he is. His hips shifting closer, his skin clinging to the oak bench as he leans into the sound, the easy hum that he knows as well as breathing. His fingers move, slow, steady, unpracticed and yet almost too familiar. The sound raining down around them like stars falling from the night sky as her fingers coax the music from his bruised and battered hands. It’s like flying and falling all at once, held aloft by the care in her touch, “You know his work,” the young woman offers softly, her touch trailing over Ben’s wrists, up along his arms and then back down again like a metronome, pulling him in time.
For mere moments it’s easy to forget, the accident, the trauma, the doctor’s hollow voice as he explained to Ben’s mother that Ben is lucky to be alive. The look on her face when he finally opened his eyes, his hands held in place by metal wires, left broken for him to bear witness. His career, his passion, his reason for breathing gone in an instant.
His fingers press harder, the ache in his joints a violent reminder of why he doesn’t do this anymore but still, he pushes and pushes, the muscles through his shoulders pulled taut. Her touch is feather-light, searching, a question asked, the answer lost as his index finger locks and he curses loudly, the melody lost to the harsh chime of large hands banging down against the keys. Too much at once, jarring, deafening in its finality.
Her fingers traipse over the jagged scar on the back of his right wrist, an apology of the flesh, begging for forgiveness, for understanding. “You play beautifully,” she offers him softly, his fingers stuck against the keys, frozen in time.
“Not anymore,” he almost slurs, his tongue too thick in his mouth. He needs a drink, or maybe the pills he left in the bathroom. Both perhaps to ensure complete and total surrender to the unconscious but he cannot bring himself to move. She holds him in place like a butterfly pinned beneath glass, spread out and on display. He hasn't played for anyone since getting out of rehab. His fingers remember but they can’t keep up, they trip and stumble over notes he once knew and it pains him to think that he used to be great. Something worth remembering, someone worth studying. Someone worthy of her mention.
Selfishly he wants to hear more, more of her playing him. She played his body like an instrument and now her fingers are all over the one damned thing that he owns that he cares for more than anything else. Were she anyone else, he would demand that she leave, kick her out for daring to touch what is his but something in his stomach is settled and warm with her there. It purrs quietly as her fingers move, sliding against his, pressing his to the keys again, harder this time. He wonders if she can feel the plates in his hand, the pieces of metal that hold his metacarpals together, “Go slow,” she coaxes, sliding off the bench and positioning herself so that she’s seated on his lap. His shirt has crawled up over her backside, the round smooth curves of her arse pressed gently back against him. He can’t help the way he stiffens, his cock desperate for attention, his body curled around hers, chin tucked on her shoulder. “Is this ok?”
Ben feels himself nod, lost in the feel of her. She’s teetering on the edge of the bench but pressed back so tight against him he’s sure she won’t fall. Like their bodies are magnetized, her back stuck to his front as her touch whispers along his nerves, “Good,” she hums, resting her cheek against his, swaying as they play, like his fingers are an instrument for her to use. Like beautiful things can be created so long as they create them together.
When his tempo speeds her pressure on his fingers increases, a soft chuckle escaping through her nose as she shushes him. Like she's admonishing a child, “Soft and slow,” she almost sings, “It’s not a race, let it lead you.” It isn’t easy to relinquish control, to let her lead but she does it so beautifully. A soft hum of approval making his cheeks heat up like a schoolboy with a crush.
It’s been over a decade since someone has played the role of teacher. Many too intimidated to think they could dare teach him anything. It’s strange and yet comforting, going back to basics, slipping into scales, then ‘ row-row-row your boat ’. It makes him laugh, a deep chuckle that he hasn’t heard in years and it makes her smile. He can see the way her lips twitch up at the corners, her eyes fluttering closed as simple children’s songs become a mash-up of Beethoven and Chopin and Bach and then something different altogether. It’s him but it’s her, something he wrote back when he was still just a student. His first piece, something sad, something raw, the build-up of emotion that he recognizes well. Loneliness, but played through her hands something that might almost resemble hope. He closes his eyes and follows the subtle pressure or her touch, where she leads, he will follow until it’s her playing him and his lips on her neck. Without thought there is no pain, no rush to keep up and he’s watching his song, his beautiful sad little thing turn into something warm and bright.
His hands slip away and she lets them, taking over on the keys as his move to her body. Along thighs, that quiver, carefully holding her up, to a sex-soaked core that begs to be explored. She sucks in a breath when one hand slips between her legs, his fingers pressing delicately until she’s spread, petal-soft lips open, heat radiating off her cunt. He takes his time, allowing one hand to slip beneath the pristine fabric of the shirt she wears until one large hand cups her breast and he’s playing her with the finesse of a master. Like his years of practice have trained him for this.
Her fingers speed up, the music lilting and bright as she reaches out, arms spread wide, hands chasing after something that sits just out of reach. He knows this feeling, he’s lived in this world between worlds where the conscious mind and the creative meet. Where one gives themselves to something greater, something wild.
“That’s right,” he hums against her skin, “let go, let it all go,” tweaking her nipple he listens to the shift in her breathing. The way her fingers fumble with the melody but catch themselves with a passionate cry as his fingers slip inside, two because she can take it. She’s warm and wet and sinfully perfect, back arching against the movement of his hand, pressing her backside hard against his cock as she plays. Each shift of her hips, each forward motion of her shoulders forcing his fingers inside until she’s practically fucking herself on them. All he has to do is hold her, the music will do all the work.
He can feel her hum, the moan soft in contrast to her frenzied pace. She’s pulling the sound from somewhere deep inside her, a place deeper than memory. He knows, he can feel it, the subtle way she clings to the sound, not prepared to let go quite yet, not prepared to give him what he’s asking for, “Keep going,” he urges, her stomach contracting against his arm as he kisses the soft skin beneath her ear, curling his tongue around her earlobe, his breath hot against her cheek, “Beautiful,” his chest rumbles and her insides are twitching.
His name is a breath on her lips, like something out of a dream as he flexes his wrist, his thumb sliding against her clit. Her hips jump, the keys struck hard, her arms trembling lightly as she says it again, “Ben,” high and bright and soft, like she's asking him a question, begging him for answers.
The only he has to offer her however are the punishing kind as he sucks the blood to the surface of her skin and redoubles his efforts, “Such a pretty little thing,” he murmurs against her flesh, “God I need to be inside you,”
“Please,” is her only answer, her hips shifting against his until she’s leaning forward and his weeping erection leaking pre-cum all over her ass.
“Will you play while I fuck you?”
He thinks she might nod but it’s hard to tell because her hands have stopped moving, the chime of the cord echoing in the early morning haze, “No,” he demands, his hands pressing hers back against the keys, “You stop playing and I’ll stop fucking you.”
He hates himself just a little for how much he loves her little whine, her fingers fluttering between E and G back and forth, back and forth until he’s notched at her entrance and she’s sinking back against him, “That’s it,” he mutters, leaning back to watch his cock disappear into her body, her round arse bouncing as he gives it a tap.
Her sigh is loud, the whimper that follows barreling into a groan as he flexes his hips and pushes himself deeper, “Play for me, show me how your fingers dance.”
Her E to G rhythm picks up, spilling over into a barrage of C’s and A’s and F’s as her fingers take to the keys with the grace of a dancer. He lets her sit, lets her build and roll with the music until the vibrations hum through his gut and he can feel it the way she does. The soaring sensation that accompanies the great high.
All he needs to do is flex his hips a little, to grind up into her, push himself a little deeper and he can hear it in the music. She’s picking up the pace, rocking, sighing, crying out as her fingers crash against the keys, “You’re amazing, can you feel it?”
She sighs, leaning back to find him, pressing her shoulders into his chest while his fingers pry open the buttons on the white shirt that she wears, “Touch me,” she cries out softly, her “please,” uttered with such reverence he finds it impossible to deny her such a simple thing.
A hand on her belly, slipping down between thighs she’s managed to clamp together, bracing herself against him so she can ride and play all at the same time. He slips between her legs and rolls his finger against her clit, the effect is like magic. A shudder that starts from the inside and works its way out. The clenching of her inner walls that draws a moan from Ben’s throat, loud and desperate as she comes, a small tremor of something that he plans to build off of. Her hands move, fingers tripping over notes that sound like something he once might have recognized but his focus is on her now. Just her, not the piano she plays or the way her hands move but the sweet noises she makes as a hand climbs up the column of her throat forcing her head back against his shoulder, “That won’t do,” he tells her evenly, “that’s not how the song ends,” the song, his song, the one that she had been playing so beautifully until now, “I want to hear you sing.”
“I can’t sing,” she gasps out, bouncing on his dick now, hands braced against the fallboard.
“Oh but you can,” a gentle tap on her hip urges her up, turning her around until she’s notched between his legs staring down at her like an angel. Her disappointment evident from the pout of her lip, “Don’t worry,” his hand on the back of her neck he pulls her down for a kiss, one that he savours, lapping at her mouth with his tongue as he hums against her lips, “We aren’t done, I’m not done with you yet,” honestly he has to wonder if he ever will be.
If he could just keep her here like this always, wet and ready for him. Her hands on the keys, her cunt wrapped around his cock keeping it safe until he’s ready to fuck her properly. Would she agree to stay? To play for him always, his own private pianist building off of the things that he’s created.
“Never heard it played like that,” he says, mouthing at her breast as he tugs her down onto his lap once more. She settles in, straddled across his waist, her knees pressed against the hard surface of the piano bench.
“That song,” he murmurs, pressing kisses along her sternum up, up, up until he’s nuzzling against her jaw, tugging her hips down to meet his. She’s wet from her release and so pliant that he sinks in like a hot knife through butter. His hands provide the only support she needs while her thighs flex and her cunt swallows him whole. It’s bliss, the way she works against him, making space for him to fit until there’s no space inside that isn’t consumed by him, “I’ve heard it played so many times but never— nghhh” her fingers card through his hair giving a sharp tug, pulling his head back so that he’s looking directly at her, “Never like that,” he finally says, voice soft, in awe because she’s gazing into his eyes as she fucks herself against him. She’s watching his face, hazel eyes searching until she seems to find what she’s looking for.
“Like what?” She demands and he can’t help but answer.
His hands ache as they hold her, moving with her, helping her, holding her up only to pull her down as his hips snap and she’s gasping and laughing, a soft song on her lips, “Passion,” he grunts, “So much nhmmm mmmmuhg,” biting his lip he steals a quick kiss, their noses bumping as their bodies move, awkwardly pressed together, “Fuck you feel so good.”
“It’s meant to be played that way,” she tells him, “it’s like fu— uucking,” he loves the way her voice pitches higher, ending in a whimper that seems to last forever.
But he needs her to explain, he almost demands it, “I’ve never heard anyone compare Kylo Ren’s music to fucking before,” He’s been compared to a great many things but never sex.
“Not all of it,” she almost laughs, “Some, I guess,” heeding his pull she rocks quickly in his lap grinding against his until his balls are wet and she’s trickling down over his highs like she’s sprung a leak, “Good sex is— nnnghh, fuck Ben, yes,” she cries, “is never the same.”
She’s not wrong, but he needs her to continue, sliding one hand between their bodies the toy with her clit he marvels at the way she squeezes him tightly, “Fuck— fuck keep doing that and I’ll come.”
He can feel it too, the tremor of her release as it creeps up, stilling his finger so she pouts, “Not yet,” he tells her, nosing against her neck as she whines and moves, chasing the pressure, the rhythm only to fall short, “Keep talking, I like it.”
His beautiful girl laughs, breathy and short, linking her hands behind his head as they continue to bounce, “It starts off slow.”
“Sad,” he offers, feeling her clench around him, an intentional move that earns her a swat on the ass, “play nice.”
“You wouldn’t let me come,” she chirps, bending in to lick his nose playfully, “and no, not sad, at least maybe—“. Dropping her hips he feels his cock head brush against something unyielding, something that makes her gasp and smile, “nggghhhh Ben, fuck. Your dick—“.
“What about my dick?”
“It’s—,” edging his finger along the hood of her clit he watches the way her lip trembles, stuck on the thought, “It’s— big.”
Not the first time he’s heard it but a tiny voice in the back of his head hopes that she might be the last that he hears say it, “Is it now?”
She nods, slumping against him, trapping his hand and his fingers that move at what he hopes is a maddeningly slow pace. A soft, barely-there pressure that eeks her closer and closer to what he hopes to be her ruin, because she has ruined him and he’s never been happier.
“How is it like fucking—“ he wants to say her name but he can’t quite remember it. Brandy? Delilah? There’s a song, a jingle that goes along with it he’s sure. He remembers it faintly because he sang it to her after his third whiskey, fifth since meeting his mother but he’s built up a tolerance over the past year.
“Let me come and I’ll tell you,” she teases.
“Tell me and I’ll let you come,” he counters nipping at her neck while her finger curls around loose strands of hair that fall around the nape of his neck. His mother said he needed a haircut so of course, he’s determined to never cut it again, “It was written by a sixteen-year-old.”
“Exactly,” she exhales a puff of air ghosting across his skin, “You were a sixteen-year-old boy once, are you telling me you didn’t think about sex?”
He didn’t when he wrote it, at least he didn’t think that he was, now this pretty girl with her nimble fingers is shaking the foundation of everything he has built up. Everything he has known about himself, “Yes but I wasn’t having it,” he was an awkward and gawky teenager, too long, built kind of funny— honestly not much different from now, only now he has packed on muscle and grown into his nose and hands and feet. His ears are still a bit too big but his shaggy hair hides those god awful monstrosities.
“Late bloomer?” she teases shrieking as he lifts her up, thighs shaking with the strain as he positions her on her back against the floor. Reaching for one of the decorative pillows his mother insists he keeps around he props her head up and hitches her knees on his hips before resuming a languid pace. He fucks into her lazily, bracing on one elbow, their chests tight together, her nipples dragging across his skin.
“Does it matter?” he grunts, not wishing to get into the fact that he hadn’t lost his virginity until the ripe age of twenty-three. Late bloomer indeed.
“As long as you weren’t one when you picked me up tonight.”
Leaning in he sucks harshly on her nipple, pulling off with a wet pop that earns him a playful slap and a high pitched giggle, “No, definitely not,” she chimes happily, “You fuck like you play.”
He hopes it’s a compliment, trying not to sound bitter when he says, “I don’t really play anymore.”
“But you fuck,” she seems to counter, pushing her hips up to meet him as he moves. Soft and slow, like the build-up to a song, pushing into him, grinding against him as though testing out the angle, working until— a gasp— she’s found it.
Her breath hitches, hands roving over the scars that mar his flesh, tracing the lines cut into his skin. He usually hates it, the attention, the focus on his flaws but her hands move with such care that it doesn’t make his skin crawl, like she’s playing him like she plays the keys. Her fingers sliding along his nipple before pinching at it lightly, “Fuck me like you play, Ben.”
This time when she says it he thinks he might understand. Kissing her roughly, their teeth clacking as he pushes in and stills. He won’t last long and he thinks that might be ok, she’ll forgive him that if he makes her come first.
It’s with careful consideration that he slowly starts to pull out, savouring the warm drag of her cunt before he slams his hips into hers. Her cry is a thing of beauty, back arched in that sweet edge of pleasure blessed pain, her hands clawing at the back of his arms. “Yes,” she calls, earning her another hard thrust that she rewards by contracting her inner muscles, clenching around him as he tries to pull out again, stopped by her heels locked behind his ass pulling him back, closing the space.
He bottoms out, his balls slapping against the cheeks of her ass wet and lewd. Pulling out a few inches he shoves back in, taking up all the space that she gifts him, grinding his pubic bone down against hers. He must catch her clit, he hopes he does at least because she’s gasping and moaning, chanting out, “ right there, ” and “ Again ,” while her hand slips down, and she's strumming at her clit while he fucks her. Part of him wants to swat her hand away but she’s begging him, ‘ harder ’ and ‘ faster ’ and he knows he can’t do both. His hands ache against the hardwood as he holds himself up. The angle, or maybe the weight of his own body too much to sustain for much longer. It doesn’t matter though because he can feel the way her insides flutter, the beginning of an end that they both are racing towards.
Catching her looking down he follows her gaze only to become entranced by the way her pussy lips stretch to accommodate his size. His shaft glistening and slick as it disappears inside her, reemerging coated in her arousal, like her body was made for him, “Fuck,” he groans, his wrists a dull throb compared to the ache in his balls. His need for release builds, his pace frantic chasing after a high that is just there, so close he can taste it.
She peaks first, her body snapped rigidly, a cry on her lips like a crescendo, loud and wild and free ripped from her throat with a laugh as her insides squeeze and she rides the high. Her legs tremble as they cling to his hips and he’s there, right there crashing through with a groan. Back arched, his hips snap, his balls nestled against her ass as he comes and comes— hard. His cock throbs inside her, her hips still moving, milking him dry.
They move with the careless grace of two teenagers, banging together erratic and clumsy until he can’t bring himself to move anymore and his hands are screaming at him.
He stays inside for a moment longer than strictly necessary, flexing his hips, stirring up the mess he's just made of her cunt before collapsing on his side, pulling her into his arms the way lovers might.
His breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling as they both gasp for air, “I haven’t come that hard in—“ the young beauty laughs, swallowing mouthfuls of oxygen steadily before airily adding, “A long time.”
“Yes, thank you,” she purrs, nuzzling in close, cocooning herself in the shelter of his arms. It’s almost domestic the way she curls into him, like it’s something they do, a thing between them after fucking on or against any surface they can.
Behind her back he flexes his fingers, squeezing tight against swollen knuckles that scream at him. He pushed it too far, the playing was one thing but the fucking— “What’s my name?” he hears her hum, catching him off guard.
He tries to recall the song and fails miserably, hiding his embarrassment by kissing her forehead. Clearly, he takes too long because she laughs, a finger stroking idly against the dip between his pecs, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, you were pretty drunk—“ like she's chastising a child she noses at his jawline, “It’s Rey.”
“A drop of golden sun,” Ben hears himself add making her laugh, a sound he finds he wants to record, tucking it away so he can listen to it on rainy days. Her laugh and the way she plays, so full of passion and life.
“You said that last night,” a kiss here, a nip there, like she’s not finished her exploration, embarking on a quiet quest of discovery, “You sang it, in fact.”
“I’m sure I did,” he muses, “I’ve been told I’m quite the Casanova,” they both know it’s a lie, he’s been called everything but.
Her hand, ever searching strokes down along his arms, fingers winding around his so she can press delicate kisses against his knuckles. Her lips are warm and sweet, grazing his scars with the beauty of her mouth as though the magic of her touch might somehow take what’s damaged and make it whole again, “Is this why you don’t play?” He hears Rey ask, her voice like sunlight edging away the darkness, “Did you play for long?”
“My whole life.”
“And it was taken, just like that.” It almost sounds as though she understands and maybe in some way she might, or maybe she just pities him. The beast with the broken hands who used to play so beautifully. Not that she would ever know the truth of it. The concert halls filled, collaborations with people who put his name on their tracks. Bands and artists who asked for him by name. Classical with a modern flare.
But he’d lost more than that in that godforsaken accident. He’d gotten out the shell of a man while his father remained pinned beneath the wreckage. Dead on impact or so they said but Ben can still hear the screams. Sometimes in the dead of night, when the booze and the pills aren’t enough to end the suffering they’re there. They flutter through the haze wrapping around his heart, suffocating him in the inevitable reality that his father is just- gone.
“I can’t imagine not being able to play,” she muses, fingers knotting together with his, “Piano has gotten me through so much.”
“Have you been playing long?”
“Since I was fourteen,” she says softly, “Does that hurt?”
Peeking down, he watches her rub one of her fingers over the scar that stretches down the back of his hand, across his wrist. It’s where the bulk of the hardware sits, where pins and plates hold his hand together, “No.”
“I can feel—“
“It’s a screw. It’s gross, I’m sorry.” He tries in vain to steal his hand back but she clutches it to her chest, peppering his arm, his neck and then finally his face with kisses.
“No, stop,” she pleads, her lips stilling at the corner of his mouth, “does it hurt?”
A nod is all he can muster, afraid to look into her eyes, afraid of the pity he’s bound to find there.
“Was it a car accident?”
Another nod, the words dead in his mouth, like sour whiskey and bad choices. A bitter reminder of how they both differ. Her future and career are bright while his is over.
“Where did you hear that song? The one by Ren, that you played earlier?”
Rey hums softly, her hair spread out like a halo on the small pillow while Ben uses his biceps to prop up his head, “My mentor, she has a bunch of his old work. I don’t think I was meant to find it but— well it’s beautiful.”
“Tragic,” Ben tries to counter but Rey shakes her head.
“No, I don’t think so, I think he was lonely.”
Her laugh is soft, understanding and sad, “Yes, a teenage boy at the core, but he understood something very early on.”
“What might that be?” He asks out of curiosity, but his ego begs for a stroking too.
“That good things take time— work. He builds a story, weaves these sounds together, coaxing music out of nothing and it builds and builds and while some pianists end on the ferocity of it all he eases back, he celebrates the triumph. His high peaks but then flutters soft, the release easy, sweet— When I play his work it feels like flying.”
Never in all his life has Ben ever felt more seen than he does in this instance.
“I think my mentor knows him personally, she talks about him sometimes, fondly—“
“Leia,” Ben says without thought, startled by the way Rey jerks back against his embrace.
She eyes him warily, “Yes—“ pushing to sit up, putting too much space between them now. His chest is still warm where her body once was and he needs her back. He needs her close, the smell of her skin—salty and sweet, the way her lips press evermore kisses against the broken and tattered parts of him. The way she treats him like he’s worth something.
“My mother,” he pushes, “Leia Organa is my mother, Rey come back—“
At first, she doesn’t move, her body still— rigid. He can see the light flickering, like sparks igniting in the dark. One engulfs another and another until she’s staring wide-eyed, afraid and yet— something else entirely, “You’re Kylo Ren aren't you.”
“Don’t—“ she barks, “Just tell me the truth, are you— are you him?”
For half a second he’s tempted to lie. To tell her she’s being silly, to blow it all off and maybe find his way back between her legs. She’d make such pretty noises against his mouth, her knees clamped on either side of his ears as he drank her down and made her forget all about Kylo fucking Ren and his godforsaken music, but then where would they be?
No, if this is to become anything beyond the pelvic joining of two bodies it needs to start with the truth. A heavy sigh finds him upright, his knee bent awkwardly, cock limp and hanging helplessly over a pair of spent testicles, “Does it matter?”, because it shouldn’t and if it does then maybe this whole thing is pointless after all, “I’m Ben Solo, did I go by Kylo Ren? Yes, do I go by Kylo Ren now? No.”
Arm draped over this knee, he extends his hand palm up, an offering he’s afraid that she’ll simply ignore, “A year ago, I was in an accident. A year ago, I stopped playing and started drinking and last night I met you. I’ve never lied to you, I’ve never led you on—“
“I never said—“ she interrupts shifting closer, “I just feel like an idiot comparing something you wrote to fucking.”
Ben hears himself laugh, a quiet sound that makes Rey smile, “I kind of liked that, honestly. I don’t want you to be something you’re not just because— just—“ this is spiralling quickly, “Can I make you breakfast?”
“Food, can we start there, you can tell me about how my sixteen-year-old self was a horny little fuck and we can eat bacon and have coffee— just—“
“That’s not what a one-night stand is Ben.”
“I don’t want this to be a one night stand just— can we start slow?”
“Soft and slow,” he hears her say before her lips become a pressure against his mouth and he’s falling back against the aged hardwood with an unceremonious ‘ whump ’. And, maybe he can do this, this thing they call life because it’s just like a song, full of highs and lows, wild and tumbling, broken into a sequence of notes that build into something beautiful.