Chapter Text
Ben storms out of his office well past 10 p.m. on Saturday night, muttering under his breath that he is going to quit, that he is going to burn the building down, that perhaps he is going to burn the entire city of Coruscant to the ground, leaving everything in his path in smoke and ruin. Fuck, that would be satisfying. Snoke’s absolute refusal to allow negotiations with the opposing party is insanity and hubris, a power play that absolutely does not need to happen. It’s not like the firm could lose the case.
In fact… In fact, Ben Solo needs a fucking drink.
He stops just beyond the lobby of the high-rise, hands shoved in his jacket pockets and he glares back at his building, feeling a pulse of loathing for Snoke. And for himself, too, if he’s in the mood for honesty. It didn’t have to be like this.
At any rate, he takes a deep breath, exhaling heavily as he considers his options. He’d originally been headed towards the parking deck where his BMW sat, but if he walks the other way, there are plenty of restaurants and bars.
That’s a better idea, he quickly decides. A little oblivion in the form of scotch on the rocks would be just the thing. He can always take an Uber home. A tumbler of scotch in a quiet bar where he can disappear from reality would be just the thing to make him forget the smug, pompous face of his law firm’s senior partner, and absolutely just the thing to forget how bullheaded he’d been when he’d ignored his mother’s advice and moved to this city to join Snoke’s firm.
Five blocks later, Ben sees a flickering sign for the Resistance Bar, and some people milling about outside, beer bottles in hand, and he decides it’s as likely a spot as any to get a drink. He’s tired of walking already, and the sooner he’s drunk, the sooner he can go the fuck home.
The Resistance Bar is not what he had in mind. The moment Ben steps inside past the ID-check guy, he’s assaulted by noise. The place is a chaotic jumble of bodies wriggling past each other to get to the bar, dancing anywhere there’s floor space, making out on the couches, and on a dais at the end of the room, two young women are moving chairs to make room for… something.
This place is filthy.
This place is crowded.
This place is loud.
Ben hates everything about it, but when he sees the veritable bounty of whiskey options behind the bar, he figures this place will do. He’s here now, and he surrenders to fate.
Ben gets shoved almost immediately.
“Oi! Move it, you fucking fridge. People are trying to walk through,” shouts a bossy British accent, and Ben finds himself suddenly transfixed on a slender brunette with an attitude that far outstrips her size or the size of the tiny denim shorts hugging her ass.
A rather nice ass.
He mutters an apology and wades against the tide of bodies to the bar, using his size to his advantage to push through. People always seem to give him the right of way, either because his scowl suggests he might eat someone’s heart for dinner, or because his sheer size means they should move or be crushed. He doesn’t mind what they think, as long as they get out of his way.
Ben Solo, is indeed, the size of a refrigerator. He towers over nearly everyone, has since middle school, with broad shoulders that suggest he spends a lot of time in the gym. Which, when he’s not drinking to forget, he’s punishing his body.
“Scotch on the rocks,” he shouts over the din, to the young dark-skinned guy behind the counter.
He gets a quick chin lift in acknowledgement, and soon enough, Ben has a glass in his hand. He’s impressed despite himself. There is an improbably crush of humanity around the bar, and the bartender sails from one end of the bar to the other pouring drinks, distributing beers, and taking cash and cards like a damned magician.
After a few sips, the burn of the scotch smooths out, and Ben finds a bit of wall to hold up. He realizes as he drinks, that he’s woefully, terribly, fantastically out of place.
Everyone in here is young. Well, mostly. And certainly younger at heart than he is. And he’s definitely the only person in a suit, let alone business casual or any kind of clothing that might have been in an office cubicle today. Everyone else is in jeans. Or shorts. Or no pants at all? At least half the women in the bar are wearing spandex booty shorts or denim shorts so small they hardly qualify as shorts. And is that guy wearing a Cookie Monster onesie? Oh yeah. Okay.
Dozens of glitter-streaked, sweaty women pack into the bar, around the dais, streaming in and out of the main bar area to an adjoining room, wearing athletic jerseys with numbers on the back. Chainsaw? That’s… that’s not a real name. Not even in Coruscant, where everyone has three names and at least one is either a mashup or something you’d call a pitbull. Marylee and Butch or Ashlynda and Duke.
Ben decides he’s either had too much to drink already, or not enough as he watches the surge of bodies writhing sweatily and rubbing against each other to the eardrum-shaking sounds of Lady Gaga at top volume. Either way, he’s not prepared when a woman with short blonde hair, her figure Amazonian in dimension, takes the microphone.
“Quick announcement! The twerk rodeo begins in 5 minutes! Bring your asses up here if you want to twerk or ride!”
At least half the bar cheers, and the brunette who’d shoved him earlier throws her hands in the air and runs toward the stage, screaming enthusiastically, Price is Right-style.
The fuck?
This calls for a refill, he decides quickly, and he bumps through bodies on his way back to the bar. Oblivion isn’t here yet, and whatever party is happening right now is starting to feel like a fever dream.
The second scotch goes down easier, and as Ben watches a motley group of women crowd the stage, he entirely forgets why he came to this bar in the first place. It might not be what he’d anticipated, this alternate reality is proving at least mildly interesting. Okay, more than. And he’s not sure he’s ever seen an assortment of women like this packed into a bar.
He’s not ogling, per se, more… fascinated by the grouping. All sizes. Tall, short, narrow, wide. Some are tiny, and others look like they could hurl a discus further than an East German woman on steroids at the 1980 Olympics.
The tall blonde hands off the mic to a dark-haired man with eyes that can only be described as soulful, even as they flash with humor, and he waves two more women onstage. One is a tallish, dark-skinned woman who looks powerful but has masses of dark curly hair and a charming gap-toothed smile. The other is the bossy, slim brunette who is already pointing and shouting something at her friends. From his vantage point, lurking by the bar, Ben sees her long, muscular legs, and he is… damn his mouth is dry. He takes another gulp of scotch.
“And so the first rodeo of the season begins!” shouts the man with the microphone.
The crowd whoops excitedly as the blonde amazon and the dark curly-haired woman bend over with their asses pointed at the crowd. Both are wearing black spandex booty shorts, and they wriggle their voluptuous rumps suggestively while the spectators howl and cheer.
With big grins, they move into position, ass to ass, hands braced above their knees, and the brunette from before takes a hand up from the announcer, carefully sitting where the other two women’s rumps meet.
“Who’s got the stopwatch?” he asks, and a tiny black-haired woman holds up her phone, showing it’s ready.
“Alright then! Daisy here has never won a rodeo! Is this her season?” he jeers, and the brunette--Daisy, apparently--flips him off with a smirk and a bright smile that illuminates everyone and everything lucky enough to observe it, including the miserable heart of one Ben Solo.
This sudden flash of light in darkness is beautifully painful, and Ben takes a fortifying sip of scotch.
Ben thinks he’s beginning to understand what’s about to happen when the announcer starts the count.
“On your marks!"
"Get set!"
"TWERK!”
At that last word, the two women beneath Daisy begin shaking and undulating their hips, and Ben chokes on his drink, spluttering.
He hadn’t been prepared. Sometimes singular words make sense, but when paired, they're more than he could have calculated. What the fuck.
Daisy was prepared, at least, more so than he, and after almost getting immediately bucked off their hips, she regains her balance, laughing as she throws her arms over her head, riding them like bucking broncos.
They continue shaking and twerking, but after a few seconds, a particularly violent twerk sends Daisy flying off their backsides with a shriek, and she lands with a heavy thump as she hits the stage. She gets up, grimacing as she rubs her butt, then laughs again. Clearly no harm done, despite the violent sound of impact.
“10 seconds!” cries the timer from the audience, and Daisy shakes her fists in mock rage at the gods before hopping off the stage with feline grace. Ben finds he can’t take his eyes off her as she grabs a shot of something from a friend and downs it quickly.
He can’t breathe, either. Not at all. He pulls at his tie, trying to loosen it, then takes another sip of scotch. I need to get out of here. Maybe I should try drinking alone, no matter what the experts say.
And while he’s thinking of an escape route, he loses track of her. Until.
“Why the fuck are you in a suit on a Saturday night?” a crisp British voice asks, somewhat rudely, from behind him, and Ben jumps.
She’s standing right here, he thinks. In all her glory. Tight jersey, tiny shorts, neon green Reebok high tops? She’s a far sight different from the women he works with all day in their conservative suits and sensible heels.
He gulps, dragging his eyes from her legs to her lovely face, and every possible retort to her question escapes him. Godddamnit.
“Work.”
Yes. A great answer, Ben. Stellar, really. Sure to impress this woman. Wait. Am I trying to impress her? No no. Better to get out of here fast. Not your crowd, dude. And definitely not your people. Stranger. Strange land. An interloper. He feels a rare bloom of panic.
“Do you work here?” she asks, as if she already knows the answer, crossing her arms over her chest.
“No?”
Ben, at this moment in time, wishes he could disintegrate. Where word. How. This is… I argue shit in court. Come ON, words.
“No, you do not. You, sir, are overdressed. You’re also wearing far too many clothes. Lots of extra pieces. Jacket. Tie. Are those wingtip shoes? Where the fuck did you think you were going when you left… the mortuary? Because I think you look like you’re an undertaker.”
Is that… amusement in her eyes?
Ben’s so baffled he just stares at this rare and wild creature with her glitter eye makeup and winged eyeliner. She looks like a disco feline. Okay. The scotch must really be kicking in, along with the contact high from whatever the people next to him are smoking that's definitely not just, err, herbal.
“I’m a lawyer.”
“And you practice the law on a Saturday night whilst dressed like an undertaker?”
Whilst? Ben bites the inside of his cheek, wishing she’d say that word again in her plummy accent.
“Apparently so,” his voice comes out cool and clipped.
He has no idea what to say to this young woman, with her dimples and her aggressive, smirking glance. So he glares at her instead, figuring that should make her take it down a notch.
“You think it’s fair to bully strangers who’ve had bad days at work?”
She grins at him, and he forgets his own name for a split second.
“Just the ones who stare at me from across a crowded bar. You know there are about fifty women in here who would punch you in the dick if I asked them to, right?”
Ben takes a step back, and Daisy takes a step forward. Holy shit. She’s terrifying. His usual icy lawyer look didn’t do anything to diminish her forceful character.
She grins, and Ben thinks his testicles retract just a millimeter or two.
“W-why?”
“They’re my teammates. Roller derby. Girl gang on skates.”
“Like on TV? From the 70s?”
She sighs and shakes her head, as if she’s woefully disappointed in him. She turns to the bartender and holds up two fingers, and he winks at her, busying himself quickly with pouring two shots of Fireball and setting them in front of her. Daisy winks back at him, hands one of the shot glasses to Ben.
Ben peers down at it, wrinkling his nose at the cinnamon smell almost immediately. It smells like regret.
“What’s your name?” she asks, her expression softening marginally.
“Ben.”
“Drink.”
She throws back her shot, and honestly, fearing her wrath if he doesn’t, Ben gulps his down quickly as well and coughs. “Fuck. I am too old for shit that tastes like that.”
She laughs, setting her empty shot glass down on the counter with authority.
“No one’s too old for Fireball. And now that you’ve told me your name and had a shot with me, we are officially no longer strangers, and I will proceed to bully you as long as I wish.”
Jesus fucking Christ. And Ben jolts with a stark realization. Fuck me, I’m into it. And Ben makes a quick decision. Whatever she throws at him, he’ll take it. He wants to see where it leads.
“I don’t know your name.”
“Daisy Chainsaw,” she replies, turning about to show me the back of her jersey. Ah yes. Chainsaw.
“Chainsaw. Is that a local family name, or?”
“Har har har, Mr. Undertaker.”
Daisy’s eyes glint with amusement, and she tilts her head at Ben speculatively.
“It’s my derby name. Most skaters pick one. You ever see a bout?”
“Can’t say that I have. Isn’t it supposed to be violent? You skate in circles and punch each other?”
“We don’t punch each other, but we do beat the shit out of each other in other ways,” she replies.
Daisy turns about and hikes up the back of her denim shorts, showing Ben the entirety of a shapely buttcheek. Which is also purple and blue and black with swirls of green. It looks like NASA satellite pictures he’s seen in magazines of distant galaxies and nebulas. There is a whole universe on her firm ass.
Ben instantly recoils. But then he leans forward, compelled. He's pretty sure the answer to all of the universe's questions are right there on her firm derriere.
“What the fuck happened to your ass?”
“I got knocked down and landed on a someone’s damned wheel. It hurt like a motherfucker, too.”
Ben, two scotches and a shot of Fireball deep, watches as his hand reaches, as if it’s not even attached to the rest of him, to gently graze her badly bruised ass. The gravitational pull is far too strong. And her skin is like silk under his fingertips. A truly celestial body.
At the brush of his fingers on her skin, Daisy whips around and pokes a finger in his chest, eyes wide.
“I didn’t say you could touch my arse!” she gasps. “I was just sharing a perfectly monstrous bruise.”
She’s shaking her head, as if she’s not sure what she wants to do.
“What did I tell you earlier?” she scolds.
Ben wracks his brain desperately and finally supplies, “You have fifty friends who will punch me in the dick?”
“Yes!” She looks at Ben incredulously. “And you risked that to touch my ass? Without permission?”
The bartender comes over, having heard a snippet of the conversation. He looks over Ben with an assessing glance, as if calculating how much effort it would take to throw someone his size out of the bar.
“Problem, Daisybaby?”
She gives Ben a pointed look, as if he should know how to make it up to her, and having no further recourse, Ben holds up two fingers, and the bartender snorts and pours them each another shot of Fireball. Daisy grins as if impressed with him, and Ben grins back almost reflexively. Her smile makes him want to smile.
“You’re smarter than you look, Ben the Undertaker,” she says by way of a compliment, her smile deepening as she leans an elbow on the bar counter, canting towards him.
“Lawyer,” he corrects, giving her a stern look, but she is unfazed.
“Saaaame difference. Now tell me. What’s a nice undertaker like you doing at a roller derby after party?”
Her eyes hold a glint of mischief, and he realizes that this is… flirting… somehow. Before he has a chance to consider that line of thought too deeply, they each grab their shots of Fireball and whip them back. Ben winces at the cinnamon afterburn. It’s gross, but perhaps not as awful as before.
“Work is killing my will to live, so I thought I might get blackout drunk and Uber home.”
She snorts. “Well, that’s fucking grim. Why don’t I change your outlook for you?”
“How do you intend to do that? Short of burning a few buildings to the ground…” Ben shrugs and gives her an ironic look.
Daisy considers his question for a long moment, drumming her fingers on the bar top and pursing her lips. Ben suddenly feels like his fate is being decided. And when she’s made her determination, her smile is blinding.
“Okay, Ben the Dramatic Undertaker, arson is not on the menu tonight. But if you buy me Bojangles, I’ll get in that Uber with you, and we can go wherever you want after that.”
Jesus, that was fast. But he refuses to second guess it. If the galaxy-assed girl wants to spend time with him, he'd be a fucking moron to decline.
Ben Solo has never closed out a bar tab so fast in his entire, fumbling, drunk, fancy pants lawyer life.
+++
As soon as Daisy sinks her teeth into the chicken biscuit, she lets out an unearthly moan of pleasure that sends blood rushing to Ben’s cock, which twitches with innate interest. He shifts uncomfortably next to her on the curb, knowing he’s already irreparably damaged his pants with grease from his own sausage biscuit, which, he’s forced to admit, might be the most incredible thing he’s ever had in his mouth. It’s salty, buttery, and greasy, and the sausage is probably thoroughly questionable in origin, but after four drinks, it’s quite obviously the food of the gods.
This woman is obviously a genius. An aggressive, loud, dragon-tongued genius. With the best ass he’s seen in years. Maybe ever.
“You’ve never had Bojangles, have you?”
“I’m from New York City.”
“And I’m from London. But we live in Coruscant, and there is literally a Bojangles every 50 feet.”
“How did a Londoner get here? Isn’t it kind of out of the way?” Ben muses.
Everyone he knew, including his own mother, acted like he was announcing a terminal illness when he’d accepted a job in Coruscant with Alexander Snoke. He wasn’t sure if it was Snoke or the location people found more questionable.
She takes a long swig of the syrupy sweet tea before answering crisply in a tone that invites no further inquiry, “College. Student Visa.”
“And roller derby?”
“Is the thing I do instead of burning down buildings,” she replies with a grin.
“Fair enough.”
+++
The Uber drops them off in front of his apartment building, and as she looks up at the tony red brick building so typical of Coruscant’s expensive and exclusive historical district, she glances back at Ben with a flicker of curiosity in her eyes, and perhaps a hint of confusion.
“You brought me back to your place?”
“Did I read this situation incorrectly?”
Ben shoves his hands in his pockets, glancing from the young woman to the sidewalk, feeling as if his pulse has stopped entirely. He wants her. Badly. But his experience doesn’t run toward wild young women who apparently live to bust his balls.
“Not in the slightest. I just… I probably would have fucked you at Bojangles,” she quips quickly.
Ben coughs suddenly, seeming unable to swallow his own saliva without bringing himself to the brink of death, and Daisy starts laughing.
“You need this. You’re way too uptight. Come on,” she says before he has a chance to reply, laughing giddily, all delighted dimples. Without further thought, Ben grabs her hand and takes her upstairs.
His apartment is astonishingly spartan given his income and his zip code and the fact he’s lived in it for a little more than three years. He doesn’t spend much time here, after all. He’s either at work or asleep or at the gym or… well, that’s about it, frankly. That’s what he does with his spare time. Sometimes dinner with his coworker Hux, who despite his own sour outlook on life, is the most tolerable person at Snoke’s law firm. An admittedly low bar to hurdle.
Tonight is better than his usual, he thinks. Infinitely better.
Instead of eating take out alone in his living room and watching reruns on TV until he falls asleep, Ben Solo is stripping out of his suit at the foot of his bed while a beautiful woman shimmies out of denim cutoff shorts and a tight top. She’s lean and muscled with small breasts and trim hips, and a round, firm ass that she tells him was sculpted by hours and hours and hours of skating laps. Her sun-bronzed skin is marked by bruises she tells him are from playing roller derby, and she has fading numbers written in Sharpie on her arms from her bout. Ben’s grin turns broader as she kneels coyly on the bed watching him undress.
Her attention is rapt as he tosses aside his tie and unbuttons his shirt.
“Keep going,” she urges when he pauses slightly, and he continues.
When he peels off his undershirt, revealing his broad chest, she smiles and teases him, “I thought so. I thought I felt all that when I ran into you.”
Ben flushes, then tries to recover some of his swagger by flexing, which only makes Daisy laugh and clap her hands over her mouth.
“Oh my god. Please do that again.”
Ben flexes his chest for her again, and she tilts over, flopping onto her back laughing.
“It’s too sexy. More!” she demands, and Ben crawls onto the bed, growling and grabbing her hips and jerking her underneath his body.
When he leans into her, his growing erection rubs against her intimately through his boxer shorts. Daisy wriggles slightly, smiling as she traces her fingertips over his face, delicately touching each mole and beauty mark speckling his pale skin. She’s gentle, her eyes warm and observant as she studies every nuance of his angular face, tracing his wide mouth and his nose.
“Before we go any further, I need to know—do undertakers such as yourself have condoms on hand?”
“The corpses don’t care whether we wear them or not,” Ben replies blithely, licking and biting at the smooth, slightly salty skin of her shoulder.
Another amused laugh.
“Ben! Was that a necrophilia joke?”
“Yep,” he murmurs, kissing and nibbling his way across her collar bones as he strokes his thick fingers between her legs, petting her delicate folds, teasing them until Daisy moans and arches.
“Ben, don’t make me fall in love with you,” she gasps out, laughing even as she closes her eyes in pleasure.
“Is that what’ll do the trick? Jokes about fucking corpses? Note to self…” Ben muses out loud, happily crushing her with his body weight as he leans across her to reach for the nightstand where he stores his condoms.
“Oof, you’re heavy, you beast!” she complains underneath him without any malice, moving her inquisitive little fingers to coast over his sides and hips and finally to grab his ass firmly, making complimentary noises.
Ben laughs and sits up off her, shucking off his boxer shorts and stretching his arms over his head and getting in a few good shoulder rotations.
“What are you doing? Getting ready to swim an 800-meter relay?” she snarks, then glances down at his cock, which juts upward proudly, thick and ruddy and already leaking at the tip.
Daisy gulps visibly and draws her knees together defensively. “Um. You’re not just going to, err, dive right in with that, are you? Does that thing come with a warning label? I feel like it should.”
It’s the first time Daisy’s been anything less than confident and teasing, and Ben’s inner neanderthal relishes it. Especially if it’s the size of his package making her turn so red. He grins, pulling a hand through his thick hair, eyes flickering from her face and downward to the apex of her thighs.
Ben shakes his head. “Oh, no. I’m definitely eating you out first.”
“A gentleman, I see,” she muses, leaning back, resting on her elbows before dramatically kicking her legs apart, confident under his gaze.
Her hazel eyes practically glow as she looks at him, and Ben pretends to bow before her courteously before sliding his face between her legs and kissing and nipping at the tender skin of her inner thighs. With each graze of his teeth, Daisy makes little sounds that he’s not sure are laughs or little gasping noises of pleasure. Maybe both.
Ben’s no neophyte, and he feels smug as he settles in more comfortably between Daisy’s sleekly muscled thighs. He’s ready to impress, and he gives her a brief smile as he leans in to swirl his tongue around the sensitive little nub. The first few swirls make Daisy’s hips jerk upward, and when he begins to flick his tongue against it, when not lapping at her core.
“God, you taste good,” he groans, sliding a hand up her body to grasp and squeeze one of her tits.
He dips his tongue into her entrance, tasting her as if she’s the most delicious treat he’s ever had, and in response, Daisy pants and gasps, her hands clutching the bedspread desperately.
She’s not heckling him now, he muses as he shifts, rutting his hard length subtly against his mattress as he licks a long stripe up her wet slit, making her shout. And when Ben sucks on her clit, Daisy’s legs jerk and her body spasms, her tight inner muscles clenching as she shudders violently with her release.
I’m not the only one wound tight, he realizes. Just a few licks and sucks, and she’d come hard and fast.
Her thighs tense and tremble as she gasps through her orgasm, hips bucking. Her eyes are closed, and her mouth hangs open as she tries to catch her breath, throwing an arm over her eyes.
Good.
“Fuck, Ben!”
“That is the general idea,” he replies smugly, chuckling, and she pulls back her arm to flip him off and make a face.
He’s not offended, because he can read the amusement in her sparkling hazel eyes, and he can see satisfaction in the post-orgasm flush of her face.
Ben suddenly realizes that he could get used to this. The heckling. The laughter. The playful aggression. If he’s not careful, he realizes, he could want more. But that’s a thought to be pushed aside. This is just a a… it’s a whatever it is. Happenstance. He’s not in Coruscant for long, anyway, if he can help it. Three years has been long enough.
When he crawls up over her and reaches for the foil-wrapped condom he’d previously tossed on the mattress, he looks down at the flushed woman beneath him, he peers into her face with a smile.
“Still good?”
“Wishing I were dead so you could fuck my corpse?” she asks, still breathing hard from her orgasm.
“It’ll be nice to try a warm body for once, I think. Just for a point of comparison,” Ben replies blandly, ripping open the condom wrapper.
He sits back on his heels and eases the condom onto his cock, rolling it down smoothly and giving her a heated look. Daisy nods, and Ben settles his hips between her thighs, and she shifts, pulling her knees higher, opening herself to him.
Ben absently considers that it’s been a month or two at least since the last date he brought home. He hadn’t called her after. She hadn’t called him, either. Doesn’t matter, he thinks, and he busies himself with kissing Daisy’s elegant throat, biting a little bruise into it that makes her gasp and squeeze his ass, digging in her fingernails.
Ben groans and kisses up her jawline, then leans in to touch his lips to hers, but she shifts so he misses.
“Just fuck me,” she whispers and kisses along his jaw before biting his earlobe sharply.
“Mmf,” he groans, groping at her hips and sliding a hand between her thighs, finding her warm and wet. He kisses the tip of each rosy-tipped breast and continues stroking until a finger catches at her entrance, and he slides it inside, watching her face with fascination as she registers the sensation and writhes slightly against his hand.
“Stop teasing me,” she mutters, smacking his ass sharply, and Ben nips the underside of her breast in gentle retaliation.
She's a bit bossy and demanding. He doesn't mind.
“Fine then.”
Ben removes his hand and readjusts until his hips press against hers, and he rests on his elbows looking down at her face, at her glittery feline eye makeup, and after slicking his cock against her core, he pushes his thick cock into her slowly.
It’s a stretch. She’s tight, and he can feel her struggling to take him, judging by the little movements of her hips and the way she shifts her thighs around his hips. Ben can feel her shiver, and she makes a subtle whimpering noise as if she’s surprised, but after a moment, she takes a deep breath and relaxes.
“I thought you could handle this,” he whispers in her ear, and for that, she sinks her fingernails into the meat of his ass, making him groan.
“Sod off, you wanker,” she grumbles, gasping slightly as he hilts himself inside her, her eyes fluttering closed as she rolls her hips under him. “It’s just been a while.”
Ben finds that hard to believe. She’s beautiful and wild and had no problem demanding his attention tonight. He doubts anyone could resist her. She must hear his thoughts, because she opens her eyes and gives him a coy look as she hitches her legs around his hips, still adjusting.
“Since I’ve been with a man.”
He blinks in dull confusion and she rolls her eyes at him. Oh. Oh.
“So… women?”
“What do they teach you fancy lads in law school?” she wonders aloud, looking at him in utter astonishment.
He can see she has no idea how anyone his age can be so thick. She's obviously not considering that his blood flow is in a southerly direction, rather than towards his brain. Well.
“Mortuary school,” he jokingly corrects, and she snorts.
“You ever going to have sex with me? Or are you just into cockwarming?”
Right. Well. Ben touches his lips to her cheek and he flexes his hips slightly, making her groan.
“You do feel pretty good. I think I like my cock right where it is.”
“Pretty good?”
“Mmm. Pretty okay, I guess.”
Daisy looks outraged as Ben pulls out of her with deliberate slowness and then thrusts back in almost roughly, causing her to gasp, her mouth dropping open.
“Oh!”
“Good?”
“Well, you’ll have to do it more than once.”
Ben doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh, kiss her, cry, or throw her out of his bed. Well, he does know what he wants. He wants to fuck the hell out of this woman. He wants to watch her fall apart, to come on his cock, and to make her flush pink all over and gasp with pleasure. He wants. And he wants. And he wants.
He doesn’t know what force guides him, but he grabs her wrists and pulls them over her head, pinning them with one massive hand as he looks down at her, his breathing turning ragged as he looks over her beautiful, flushed face. Her eyes alight as she gives him a dimpled grin as radiant as the hot Coruscant sunshine.
No need to say more. Perhaps he’ll just show her.
Ben growls rakishly and tucks a hand under her firm, round ass, pulling her hips tighter against his as he begins to thrust into her with smooth, steady strokes. She pulses around him, her breaths and pants higher and higher as he fucks her into the mattress. He slides his hand out from under her to touch her muscular thighs that flex with every movement, amazed and enamored of their strength.
She cries out at one point as his thrusts become rougher, her mouth falling open as if she’s seeing stars, her whole body shaking with release, and Ben releases her wrists. Her arms immediately find their way around his back, fingers pressing into the well-defined muscles of his shoulders.
“Oh my god, Ben,” she moans, burying her face in the curve of his neck as he pumps away.
“You’re incredible, Daisy,” he moans.
Ben throws his head back as he feels the coil of tension in him tighten then tighten again, the movements of his hips stuttering then jerking as he feels himself climax, coming as hard and as violently and almost as shockingly blissfully as the first time he got laid at fifteen in his parents’ pool house by his best friend’s hot older sister. Except this is better. This is with the impossibly sexy Daisy Chainsaw, who, for some reason, wanted to fuck him.
He thrusts through his orgasm, reveling in how her tight cunt clenches and flutters around his cock, and finally, eventually, he sags into her, breathing harder than he did after his last gym session. Far harder.
Ben’s not sure how long they lay there like that, sweating and panting, but he eventually manages to pull himself out of her and retreat to the bathroom to discreetly dispose of the condom. When he returns to bed, he brings Daisy a glass of water, and she grins at him, her expression relaxed, sated, even.
“Is this you bringing tribute? Are you trying to secure my good graces so I’ll fuck you again?” she asks him cheekily.
“Are you capable of doing anything besides busting my balls?”
She considers it for a second, takes a sip of water, then considers it a moment longer.
“’fraid not, Ben. Tell me, though. Did it work?”
“Did what work?”
“Did I change your outlook?”
Ben snorts and collapses back into bed next to her, realizing he’s still entirely naked, his dick flopping heavily against his thigh. Usually, he at least slides back into boxers after sex, but Daisy hasn’t bothered putting any clothes back on, and she seems unconcerned about her nudity. She shouldn’t be concerned, Ben thinks. Her body is perfect. She has the sculpted body of a warrior.
“I feel much less inclined to burn Coruscant to the ground.”
“That’s an improvement.”
+++
“Did you win?” he murmurs hours later into the back of her neck, in the dark bedroom, sweaty bodies wrapped around each other under slightly damp sheets.
They'd fucked again, and she'd slid under the covers with him as if she belonged there, glowing and as relaxed as a well-fed cat. He kisses her neck gently.
“What?”
“Did you and your dick-punching teammates win the game? Bout. Whatever.”
She snorts and snuggles into him closer, wriggling her firm, peachy ass into his crotch.
“Obviously.”
Ben makes a noise as if he should have figured.
“What was the score?”
She shrugs.
“Don’t know. But you are talking to the MVP.”
He snorts.
“Obviously.”
+++
When Ben wakes up in the morning, he can still smell her. Sweat and fireball and Bojangles and soap. There’s a streak of glitter on the pillow next to his from the eye makeup she’d been wearing.
But no Daisy.
Ben calls out for her, and when he receives no response, he slips out of bed and walks into his living room.
But no Daisy.
He meanders to the open kitchen, and judging from the crumbs and the mug on the counter, he can see she made herself toast and jam and a cup of tea before letting herself out.
He groans and sinks down on the brown leather couch in his living room.
He doesn’t even know her real name.