No Lube, No Protection, All Night All Day, From The Kitchen Floor To The Toilet Seat, From The Dining

Crimson Peak (2015) dir. Guillermo del Toro

Beautiful Boy Three.

chapter one chapter two

Dark!aemond x strong! reader

Warnings: violence, fingering?afab reader, only description is long dark hair, Starvation. Stockholm syndrome(eventual)cnc,dub con, ptsd flashbacks

“You look better like this," he says, his voice low and raspy.You flinch, swatting his hand away from your face. He runs his hand over your cheek and then suddenly your head is knocked back into another direction, your cheeks swells. Without warning, he grabs a fist full of your hair, your chin rises upwards

You're perched on a chaise lounge, new gown, hair clean and braided, ankle bandaged. Aemond's head is in your lap and a book perched on his chest as he reads to you. Something about a war. You haven't been listening, you're too busy staring at the fire, Aegon's face melting and melting into heavy armour.  

You're starting to view Aemond as two different people, he's teetering over the edge of a coin. The prince regent, angered. Nostrils flared. His hands grip your hair tugging you further down his cock, unbothered whether you breathe or not. He uses you like he uses a weapon, flung about without care but precious. You've learnt to relax your mouth, letting drool pool out the sides. Sometimes when you tear up you feel him pulse within you, pressing the salty tears into your face harshly. Staining your cheeks. He tells you to ‘take it’ , take what, exactly? He only pushes your face further into the sheets. You’re half wept by the heat of his cock and the strangle of breaths that arise from your chest as he pistons inside you. He likes it when you whine. Likes it when you moan. Likes the power he holds over your head in the evening. The way his anger tears through your body like a violent sob. Pulling more and more from you every time. He can take it, he can take what he pleases.

And then he's Aemond, soft Aemond, his hands trail against you tentatively, like an instrument, hands running down you to see you hum, watch you sing. Voice like heaven, throat like sex. Brushing loose hairs, kissing sides of mouths. Thumb swiping over tears. His head nestled in the nape of your neck, pressed against your chest. When he comes he only buries himself further into your body like he's trying to part your bones, like he wants to stay there, entombed in muscle and bone. 

And sometimes he's balanced over the edge, smiling softly at you while he drives into you with such force, your hiccuping between sobs, he traces your jaw with kisses “my filthy girl” his girl, His thing. He plays you for a fool, wrapped up in this gilded cage you can barely remember the war cry in your head. 

Get out

You push his hair back from his face, eyepatch off. The sapphire eye glints at you. He hums in delight. Soft Aemond. His free hand runs against your arm. You feel so malleable beneath him. What was it he had said? Like clay, free to mould you however he wanted too. Pliable. My malleable girl. My sweet girl. How long has it been since you paced seven steps back and forth? Since your fingers traced the cracked brickwork. Since you prayed. You don't remember. Why does your back hurt? You hand shifts reaching out to prod the nape of your neck. 

“Please it hurts” You whimper, you’re bare, pressed to the floor, cheek wet. Diritied on the mudded ground. Something slashes you from behind. Once then thrice. “Please stop!” you shout as you turn around. Hands pressed against your face. 

“Are you alright my sweet girl?”a whisper. You hum in return. You stand near the fire, hand on the mantelpiece. Aemond pulls your body into his, he can see it in your eyes now, this emptiness. A hopelessness he brought about. It reminds him of his sister. “How was your day? Did you read?”

Ah yes, reading. Aemond seems to have a library's supply of books. You haven't found yourself in the reading mood lately, you remember your old copy of ‘The loves of Queen Nymira’ hidden away under floorboards from your brother at Harrenhal, how he would ridiculous you over giddy words. Aemond tends to read history and philosophy, you feel you might go mad under the writings of men. It is all war and great kings' deaths, You dare’nt say it. You nod and smile. “Had a bath”  

“Did you eat?” he knows what you're like, you forget. He thinks you're used to hunger now, but he's noticed your face looking brighter recently, finding you grazing on fruits as you keep watch out the window. You nod, smiling up at him. He continues to hold you, his fingers tracing small circles on your arms. He feels his heart flutter. The room has darkened now, and the glow of the fire encumbers both of you. Painting shadows across the walls. He pours a chalice of wine, sweet and sickly. It makes you feel all giggly inside. You wonder if you’ll ever slip past the gates of the RedKeep again. 

Get out.

His hand slides around your waist keeping his grip on you close, you lean into his body, sipping at the wine. It's spiced, different from how you remember. “Is this new?”

“Imported from Dorne” his hand slides higher up your back until he brushes your hair off your shoulder, moments like this that make you never want to leave. Your head leans back and he sticks his nose in the nape of your neck, breathing in the smell of roses, it reminds him of those sugar coated sweets from sunspear, Lokum. He kisses you softly, placing his cup on the small table before throwing himself back into the comfort of your skin. Soft Aemond. Your sweet Aemond. 

You sigh into his touch, finger pads running down your neck, tracing the bones. Your own hand grips his shoulder and you feel yourself fall into his embrace, neck falling, back arching as he pulls your waist into his own. He watches you melt into his arms. Lips brushing against your sweet soft skin. “You taste so sweet” he hums against your skin. Fingers planted against your throat loosely. 

You smile, his lips making his way slowly down your throat, licking and sucking, they find themselves at the hem of your dress, he knees before you, running his hands down your sides planting his face in your stomach. Tucking you tighter into his grip. You stumble slightly, hands smoothing hair away from his face and you unbuckle his eyepatch. You let it fall to the floor. You don't know why he keeps it covered, not really, part of you thinks it beautiful. Your hand reaches out, tracing the line that runs through his brow. Sometimes he flinches away in panic, other times he holds your hand to it. It hurts sometimes, he says. Phantom pain. As if his eye was being slashed through all over again. 

You understand, sometimes your back aches like it's raw. The maester had said the scars were at least a month old when he found them. They bled when you stretched. Milk of the Poppy had only let you succumb to sleep easier. It did nothing for the panic in your head. 

His eye closes and he rises slowly, standing taller before you. His hands reach out and touch you as if you’re made of silk, and he pulls your face in closer, his lip brush against yours  Teasingly, you approach and he only smirks in return, pulling away. He does this until you're whining, smothering you in kisses as quick apologies. gorging himself on your lips. 

“You're always so needy for me” 

Your head nods in tandem with his words, Needy that's what he calls it. Deny it all you want the heat of your arousal pools anyway. You remember those nights you spent with your hands pressed into yourself, cheek still flushed from his touch, It had burnt into you like hot iron had seared your flesh, half expecting it to scar. He's touched you all over now, every inch claimed by touch, lips, eyes. 

You wonder if you have the same impression, if during those nights he had spent at the whore house while you were held in the depths of darkness. That he drank in the skin of another woman and thought of you. That if she had given him the right look he could see you lying underneath him. You wonder if this is what he wanted. The undeniable way you crave his touch even at your worst. A saviour and a captor. How easy is it to save someone from the very thing you had put them in? 

He drinks you in, hurried out of clothes you had pressed to your body in the mirror mere hours ago. Hands under your shift, and then you're both naked, a tangled set of limbs as he hums at the sight of your body. It’s as if he hasn't seen it before, you watch his eye flicker with adoration and then ownership. Emotions plummeting through him like a quick wave of danger. You await from them to be dashed on the ground. Wait for the hardship. Wasn't that what Grand-Uncle had said? Wait for the hardship and let it pass? Did he ever fight for anything? 

You're pulled to bed, lips pressed to yours, Dizzy with spit. Sweet ambrosia. Your body is pulled towards his groin. He's hard, hand stroking down the length of himself, your hand traces at his jaw, sitting up on an elbow. You watch his face as he pushes into you, eye blissed out. It's as if he's found god between your legs, or in your sweat when he's pressed against you, breathing in your scent, A heavenly sight to behold. You feel so full, the pad of his thumb runs along the expanse of your cheek as he finds rhythm. Lips parting, silent moans, strangled breaths. Hair brushed out of your face. Blown pupils. 

“Sweet, sweet thing.”

He’s faster, slapping fills the air and you close your eyes as he hits that sweet spot inside of you, your hands find his shoulders smoothing the skin over as you find yourself closer to relief. The sound of cracking slides through the air, you swallow. Your neck curls in protest, hands gripping at the air, tighter and tighter until you feel something wet. Hand clasping round your wrist. You're back there all over again. Eyes closed tighter, you cry out. The lashing continues. Head thumping against something hard. Someones too close to you, too close to your back. Too close to your skin, sweat, alcohol and damp stone encumbers your body. The scent is heavy in the air. Your eyebrows furrow. Teeth gritting.

“Look at me” 

You shake your head, your eyes only shut tighter. Body sweating, you feel beads of blood rolling down your back. You’re turned. Back pressed into the dirt, eyes shut. Someone closes around you, your legs kick upwards but they are flung to the side and with no warning something enters you. You wail at the intrusion. White hot heat enters you. Your hand swings out in a fist.

“Stop!” you breath out dryly, heavy wails following you. Eyes opening, white hair brushing over you. Mouth opened in a dry scream. Your hand hits his shoulder again. “Please, please stop.” You hyperventilate, heavy laboured breaths, hand against your chest as Aemond comes to a stop, you don't look at him as tears well in your eyes.

“Look at me, please look at me” he grabs at your face, but you dig your head into the nape of his neck and breathe him in as he closes in on you. Sandalwood, books and dragonfire. You're okay. You're fine. You're in Aemond’s bed, in his arms. You soften. “I just want to know who hurt you.” he whispers.

You sigh, jaw moving from side to side.“It's just all fuzzy”, you slump, you can feel the weight of your tongue in your mouth, your head dives into the pillow. He pulls out from you and rolls onto your side. Hand reaching for your face, you turn to look at him. 

“I’d kill for you, you know that?” 

You nod, chewing on your lips, eyes fluttering shut as they try to keep the tears at bay. He pulls you closer to him, your head rests on his chest. You play with his hair, looking up at him, he smirks under you, you know he wants more. His thumb plays with your lip. Smearing spit all over it, You're on the fence with this. Make him mad or make yourself crazy. You decide on the latter. What another push forward to the top?

‘You're involved with the wrong prince miss’

Your body turns facing the bookcase, you take his hand and push it against your chest as an invitation. You feel his lips on your shoulder immediately and then he pushes back into you from behind, your hand rests on his hip. You whimper. He’s softer this time, hips rocking slower and more calculated. You try not to cry, but your face wettens anyway. “Fuck, my sweet girl” he pulls at your chin to kiss you. Eyes running over the wetness of face. You fake a moan as his hand dips down to your wetness. He swallows it between his teeth and smiles at you. Lips curling up. Kissing at your cheeks. “Why are you crying?” he grunts. Hand stroking at your slick pearl.

“Too good aem”,you whine against his hand, cheeks flushed. Your hand digs into his hip as he hits all the tight spots inside of you, turning your brain to mush. “So good,” you repeat, your head turns, back arching, your hands take his own, running them down the valley of your breasts, you let him grope, fingers digging into your flesh. You stare at the bookcase and imagine it setting on fire. He tucks his head into your neck when he comes, he's gonna break his nose one day. You're so sure of it. 

“So good, so good fo’me”, he wipes you with a clothe and then tucks his face right into your chest, falling asleep, hes curled up like a child. You thank the seven he wasn't angry. You thank the seven you get to see the sun. You thank the seven for…

Get out now

The words whisper in your head, but you fall asleep , hair around you like a halo. What's one more day? The glass hasn't even cracked yet.

Aemonds back turns, he reaches out hand grabbing for your own to pull towards his body, Comfort that's what he was begging for, his hands thumbles around on the sheets, emptiness. His eye opens and he turns in the darkness of the room, rain beating down on the stained windows. The white sheets lay crumbled where you had slept, your shift gone from the floor. Where he had seen it land after your night together. 

His eye searching the darkness of the room, for a figure in the night. Thunder cracks and more rain sprays against the window.lightning striking outside, the room lights up quickly. Empty. You hadn't? Had you? He was so sure you wouldn't run from him, he pulls himself from the sheets, dressing quickly. He hesitates at the eyepatch,but  he shoves it over his empty eye socket. He looks at his sheath, dagger gone. His heart thumps. Have you done something stupid? Has he fucked you up that bad? He heads out of  his chambers, the knight is gone.

 The castle is big. But you barely know your way around anyway, he's not expecting you to have gone far, the sheets were still warm when you left. There's only two options, the gardens or the throne room, both of which you have frequented many times. He makes haste, walking quickly down corridors and the flight of stairs, nodding to guards who have stood by their posts. He looks down the corridor, the throne room door wide open. He steps in slowly, eyes locking onto your form. You hum to yourself. Head rolling slightly back and forth.

You're glowing under the moonlight, white shift billowing in the air, dark hair dancing across your back. You begin your ascent up the steps slowly, bare feet dancing across the iron steps. He sees the dagger in your hand behind your back but remains confused. You clench it in your grip, When you finally get to the throne. His eyebrows furrow. You don't sit, instead your hand reaches out, appearing to stroke something. He hears a soft whisper, head bobbing down for a second, you pull your arm away. Head tilting to the side. And suddenly the hand with the dagger flings out, Hilt level with your neck. You hand snaps, arm making a cutting motion.Aemond walks up to you slowly, Footsteps clicking on the castle floor. But you remain staring at the throne. Then he hears it, thick sobs as you sway, He feels himself crack under the noise. You stifle a scream, hair brushing against your shoulder.

Your eyes are empty as your head turns, looking past him, dropping the dagger onto the floor in your outstretched hand, you scrunch up into a ball on the steps, weeping into your hands, “Im so sorry, Im sorry Aemond” 

“Sorry for what” he hushes, he climbs the steps cautiously. Hands reaching out to grab at your arms, they are cut all over, as if someone had put up a struggle. What have you done? Your fingers flex. 

“I killed him, I killed him” you whimper against your palms, rocking back and forth. He tries to pull you away but you are relentless in your efforts, keeping your limbs closer to your body, like you've nailed them into yourself.

“Killed who?” he questions, his hands brush against your soft hair.

You sniff, head snapping back, you look him in the eye,“Aemond” you smile, eyes softening. Your hands run down your hair and you stand. Stepping down the forged steps, hands brushing your shift. You begin to walk back to his champers as if nothing had happened. He picks his dagger up avoiding the swords that shoot out of the ground. Watching you, as it was merely all a dream. He follows you back, moving in calculated steps. Eyes staring straight ahead even in his efforts to get your attention. 

Then you slip back into bed, eyes closing as they pull the covers back up to your neck. You hum. There's a beat as you shift under the covers, hand smoothing. Searching. He watches your eyes snap open and your hand digs round for something under the covers, you sit up and look at him.

 “Why are you dressed?” you clench your teeth. Looking down at yourself, you notice the shift, and then the marks all over your arms, you panic. Hands clutching at your body, Chest rising. You look at Aemond, his dagger in his hand. “What have you done?” you lip trembles. Aemond approaches, you flinch back. 

“Please Aemond, I'm sorry, I haven't done anything, I swear’ you hiss at him as he approaches. Head shaking, He drops the knife quickly and it clangs against the floor. Hand reaching out to your leg. He watches your hands come up to cover your face, blood running down your arms. You cry against them, “I don't wanna go back”, it almost breaks his heart. 

“Shh, it's okay” He smooths his hands over your legs, and then he stands heading for the door to call for something, he keeps his distance as he waits.

Aemond’s bed for research purposes

ASKS/REQUESTS WELCOME

drunk too much bubble tea and now i have a stomach ache :(

no saltburn ones though, im sorry but im over.

rhaenicent but it's The Phantom of the Opera

Late night visits part two. Censored version

You’re so cool , Nicole dollaganger.

can’t stop thinking about this :( wish ben solo was real

nervous neighbor ⟶ ben solo

description ⌙ you're back at home from university, living with your parents for the summer because it's cheaper than trying to pay for an apartment while on a student's salary. but after you meet the new neighbor's son, ben solo, you're not so sure it's worth it.

pairing ⌙ neighbor!ben solo x f!reader

warnings ⌙ inebriated reader & ben, they're smoking weed and being petty together, mean!ben because when do i not make him a bit mean, ben jokingly attempts to solicit reader, reader has a blatant sort of fascination with ben, ben has severe blatant yearning for reader, reader is described to need a belt to wear ben's pants (don't question me it comes up), some high kisses (they're so fun oops), somewhat getting caught, tiny little bitty cliffhanger, ben's personality is totally based off this brent faiyaz song lmao

word count ⌙ 3.5k

— request (frl especially for ben/kylo) | masterlist

i love the idea of neighbor!ben so ofc i had to put my thoughts into a little fic! if anyone is interested... i wouldn't be mad at making this a series. i love neighbor!ben!

the sun is low in the sky, casting a warm and appreciated golden glow on the world around you. you revel in the sanctity of the suburban environment as you step outside your front door. the rays burn into your exposed shoulders, spaghetti straps lightly digging into the skin.

the fragrant scent of freshly cut grass hangs heavy in the air, leaving an earthy flavor in your mouth. you pull at the hem of your shorts, feeling the soft fabric brush against your exposed thighs as you make your way to the black mailbox straight ahead.

you flip through bills and junk mail, all in your parent's name for a minute before you hear the unmistakable rev of a car engine approaching. the engine seems to purr the closer it gets, and you're all too familiar with the sound. you feel glued to your spot as it approaches.

soon enough, ben solo's sleek aston martin swerves into his driveway, coming to a stop just a few feet away from his closed garage door. you watch as he gets out of the car, his dark hair falling messily over his forehead, and meets your gaze with his severe brown eyes.

there’s something about the way he looks at you that causes your heart to race. the sensation is unwanted or, at least, you tell yourself it is.

he looks like he always does; clad in dress pants and a pristine button-up, face etched with subtle haughtiness, and pink lips curved into a deliciously heretical grin. the previous sanctity you felt dissipates as his stare beats down on you, hotter and more all-consuming than the sun above.

"neighbor." he anoints, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "how much allowance are mommy and daddy giving you for checking their mail?"

"very funny," you retort, eyes rolling, "maybe they're drawing from the same funds your parents did when they bought you that ridiculous car."

you liked playing this game with ben. where he attempts to seem as if he's got something over you, some unspoken win. as if you're not both twenty-somethings still living with your parents.

he does have an actual retirement plan type job though, so, perhaps, he has you beat in some areas.

he works full-time, a fact you learned after dinner with your parents and his. brought up by your parents so they could dote on him— effectively buttering up han and leia further. the ass-kissing earned the family privileges to their in-ground pool though.

he's pretty prestigious, unfortunately. ben organa-solo, the youngest associate at his legal firm. he apparently had over forty offers of employment before he ever even looked at the bar exam.

he's doing well, sure— but the sheer fact that he still lives with his parents is enough to quell your nuanced jealousy. somewhat.

"my db-nine can never be called ridiculous. do you know the specs on this car?" he taunts, opting to lean against his aforementioned car.

you begin to turn away from him, not willing to go into a conversation regarding his stupidly expensive automobile. you can feel your ears warming as you try to ignore him, but ben is relentless, as usual, "you know, you really should relax a little, i'm only joking, kid.."

"excuse me?" you snap, fronting him again and crossing your arms defensively, "i am plenty relaxed, solo. thank you very much."

in truth, you haven't been relaxed or even casual since the organa-solo's moved in eight months ago. wealthy and recently retired, leia and han are amusing, charming, and almost constantly travelling.

the pair managed to befriend your parents the second they moved in. bringing over a plate of brownies, the duo easily meshed with your parents, making for countless dinners, conversations, and visits between the two homes.

the opposite can be said for ben and you. when you finally met him, a few weeks after his parents moved in, it was because he was yelling at your dog for 'purposely' pissing on one of his tires. since then, you haven't exactly seen eye to eye.

"mhm, of course," he drawls sarcastically, "that's why you're always so wound up,” he’s smirking now, "you ever thought about smoking a joint or something? might help you chill out."

"really?" you scoff, raising an eyebrow, "that's your solution? drugs?" you choose to ignore his quip about you being tightly wound. as if he's not— you've seen him after work, he always looks tense, shoulders tight. at the recollection of his job title makes you almost comment on his choice of illegal activity, but you stop yourself.

maybe this was his vice after hours of listening to legal jargon?

"i'm just offering a suggestion. i've got pot and an empty house." his voice is biting, holding his hands up defensively, "take it or leave it, kid."

your mind is wrought with confusion over his words. in the few months you’ve known him, you would have never thought he’d be suggesting what he is.

ben solo, who drives an aston martin, only wears button-ups or suits, and is always willing to make you look or feel idiotic, is trying to convince you to smoke pot with him.

you worry for a brief second if you’re deluded.

you would have never suspected the famed judiciary to unwind in such a way.

no, your first guess would have been whiskey, or maybe something a bit more scandalized and indecent. you try to shake that idea out of your head.

"fine," you blurt it out before you can stop yourself, surprising both you and the arrogant figure in front of you.

"seriously?" ben questions, his eyes widening in apprehension. "you're actually going to do it?"

"yeah, solo," you shrug, drawing out the first word, trying to sound more resolved than you feel, "nothing i haven’t done before."

"okay, cheech," he mutters, grinning wickedly, "let me smoke you out."

you follow him into his house, heart pounding in your chest. you're familiar with the layout— almost identical to your own home, only nicer. everything is nicer.

the air inside is cool and smells faintly of lavender, mixed with something decadent you can’t quite place. glancing around the space, you take it all in. it feels different now that you're alone with ben. less homey and more belly of the beast.

there are windows everywhere, letting in an abundance of natural light despite the evident tint. the furniture is modern and obviously hand-picked though comfortable and no doubt, expensive.

you try to make yourself cozy on the couch, tucking your legs underneath you. ben disappears for a moment and returns with a tray, a red grinder, a lighter, and a baggie of green herbs.

your hands go clammy as you watch him grind it down. you try to wipe them on your pants, hoping he doesn’t notice.

he doesn’t seem to, instead beginning to roll a joint, packing the herb down with his thumb. his movements, precise and hypnotic. he's defiling all previous conclusions you had of him. he’s sure, magnetic, and undeniably confusing.

“ready?” he asks, holding the rolled paper out to you. you nod, and he lights up the twisted end, inhaling deeply before passing it over to you.

you place the joint to your lips, feeling the warmth of the light spark grazing your fingers. the earthy plant kindles with a soft crackle, and you inhale deeply. smoke fills your lungs, coiling inside you.

the cloudy smoke immediately hits your entire sinus system, choking you on its descent down.

you cough and ben laughs, “shit, take it slow, kid.” he huffs, before handing you a tepid water bottle, no question he figured you'd wind up coughing a lung.

you drink gratefully, feeling the water cleanse your burning throat. you look at ben, who’s watching you intently.

your eyes are watery and slightly hazy, but ben has never look better. eyes red and low, posture easy with one arm behind his head, and faint pink flush.

“what?” you ask, self-conscious. the room seems to swirl around as ben sits beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body.

"nothing, neighbor," his stare is mocking, "do you feel relaxed yet?" he asks with a smirk.

you give him a meager thumbs-up, suddenly lightheaded and giggly. your thoughts are wondering to ben's pretty lips, but your mouth remains whetted and silent. adorning thoughts remaining within your capricious mind.

the tension in your body melts away, and you lean back against the couch cushions, letting out a deep sigh. ben's hand brushes against yours to steal the joint away, and you feel the heat of his touch all the way to your toes. it's as if the world has narrowed down to just the two of you, and nothing else exists.

“are you cold?” he asks, taking a drag, dress shirt sleeves rolled up, leaving his arms on full display.

you look at him, bewildered for a second, and he continues with an eye roll, “you’re shivering.”

looking down at your body, you note that you indeed are. either from the weed or the proximity you have to your novel neighbor.

with a gentle breath, you reply, “i guess.”

he holds the joint with his lips as he stands to look down at you, “c’mon i’ve got blankets in my room.”

you look up at him, unsure of what to say, but find yourself bobbing in agreement. you follow him upstairs, the both of you languid in reaching the destination. when you do finally get to his room, you note the array of muted jewel tones and dim light, different than the rest of the house.

ben keeps his blinds partially closed and curtains that mostly fall in front of them. his bed is huge, pristine white sheets and an inviting navy bedspread.

you watch as he pulls out a thick woolen blanket from his closet and spreads it over your shoulders. you feel the weight of it settle over you, cocooning you in warmth.

"better?" he asks, voice low.

you nod again, feeling the hazy ardor of the drug swimming through your body. everything feels fuzzy, and for the first time you don't feel so out of place with ben.

he takes a seat beside you on his all too comfortable bed, the aroma of his pomelo-scented cologne filling your senses. you discern it's probably dangerous in some way to be alone with ben like this, but you can't seem to bring yourself to care or reason why.

you let yourself peer into his large and expansive open closet. clothes, mostly suits and dress shirts, hang neatly on identical black hangars. he's tidy. the fact feels unmistakable, and you think you should already know just by the way he carries himself.

ben's voice interrupts your absent mind, "anything you like?"

you look back at him, leaning up against the headboard of his bed, joint billowing smoke from its rested position in his fingers. he looks less severe like this, less perfect, more mortal.

you're certain the drug has taken effect now because when you move to get closer to him, it feels as if you're floating.

you take the joint from him, stealing another hit before replying, "you just have a lot of suits. i wonder if you own anything besides them. i've never seen you in anything but."

"is this one of your long-winded jokes?" he briefly closes his eyes, but you can see them roll through his lids, "because if so, i'll kick you out. i won't hesitate to send you back to your house, neighbor."

snorting, you take yet another hit of the joint, "i did see something i liked, actually." you confess, your drugged mind deciding to be just a bit genuine.

he hums, "really? i've never seen you in a suit, or anything formal."

the sentence sounds stupid coming out of ben's mouth, but you chalk it up to his tipsy state, "maybe you will. one day."

your reply sounds equally as dumb, but you feel good, and you're actually having a conversation with ben. one that doesn't involve him undermining you or snickering at what you're saying.

"really? wanna try mine on? for practice." ben is smirking, eyes narrow, searing, and bloodshot.

you give him a ditzy look, joint still dangling from your fingers, "whatever, solo."

ben lets out a genuine giggle at that, and in your inebriated state, you smile at the sound. his dimples are on full display as he leans further into his cushioned headboard, eyes glazed and focused purely at you, "i'll pay, if you do."

his face is gentle, almost winsome, but the words that tumble out of his mouth sound murky— riddled with a slight hint of hunger. for what exactly? you're not sure.

your lips contort into a frown before you reply, "you'll pay me to put on your clothes? god, ben how much did you smoke?"

you mean for your words to come off as a joke, easy and light. instead, it comes out as timid and shy. you'd normally feel a tinge of embarrassment but either the drug or ben's starved stare makes the would-be feeling detach from your mind.

"enough." he shrugs, answering your rhetorical question, "i've got five hundred in my wallet right now," he pauses, leaning over to you and grabbing the joint, fingers brushing against yours, "and i want a show."

your mind seems to blank for a second, leaving you to blink your dry, red eyes in front of him. when the small wave of shock subdues, you reply, "i don't know how to give you a show."

ben shakes his head slightly, his eyes still set on yours, “yeah you do. swear it's not hard, kid.”

“says you,” you giggle, “but i’ll try on your clothes. for the money.”

he breathes in, contented, “for the money.”

without much more thought, you rise from his plush bed and make way for the closet. it's big enough to be another room, a stark contrast from your own closet, and it smells of his citrusy cologne merged with the lavender scent throughout the home. you find it comforting.

you look back over your shoulder, ben's watching you intently from his seated position, "what should i start with, solo?"

he hums before replying, "your pick, neighbor. what's mine is yours."

you can't help the dorky smile that graces your lips at his sentiment, even though you know he's being flippant. you hastily turn away from him, hiding your weak-willed reaction.

taking a deep breath, you begin to rummage through his wardrobe. your fingers brush against the luxurious fabric of his suits before settling on a satin black button-up that looks silky smooth to the touch.

you grab it and turn around to face ben, who's now standing and walking towards you, his eyes fixed on the shirt in your hand.

"that's a good choice," he says, his voice low and husky, "you'll look better in it than i do."

you roll your eyes at his comment but can't help the warmth that shoots through your body at his words. you quickly slip it over your cropped tank, eager to see it on.

as you're buttoning it up, you feel his swarthy eyes on you, watching your every move. you can't help but feel giddy with his ardent gaze and your own euphoric state of mind.

as you finish up the last button, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the ornate mirror hung upon one of the closet walls. you look decadent in his pompous shirt.

the feeling of contentment that washes over you is startling.

it's a beautiful cut of fabric, but it's the way it represents the achieved man behind you that has you stalling. you notice ben's breath hitch as he takes in the sight of you.

"i was right. it looks much better on you." he says, his voice rough.

you grin at him, feeling a newfound confidence wash over you, "is that right, solo?" you question, your demeanor one of leisure.

without warning, ben steps forward, right hand coming to rest on your shoulder as he leans down to you, "here," he says, his breath hot against your ear, "you missed the first button."

his fingers dance at your chest, fastening the skipped button. you fight a smile at the act, keening at his rash action. high ben is certainly less sardonic than sober ben, finding a nice middle ground at graceful teasing.

"you pick the pants, and grab a belt so that they'll fit." you smile.

he hums, pulling away and trifling through his clothes. his nimble fingers card through various pairs of slacks, settling on a matching black pair.

he turns on his heels, facing you. he raises his brows, a silent request for you to take the pants. when you do, his hands begin to fumble with his belt.

your eyebrows scrunch in confusion, "what are you doing?"

"i want you to wear this one. just let me play dress up with you, doll." his black locks are falling into his eyes.

you huff out a weak chuckle, focused on his action and new endearment. when the belts slides away from him, you notice the way his slacks droop slightly.

with a curt and nervous smile, you slide up the dark pants, fitting his belt around your hips afterward.

you study yourself in the mirror, opting to tuck the shirt into the pants messily— an attempt to somewhat display your waist.

ben comes up behind you, hands resting on your shoulders, humming into the top of your head, "i quite like you this way. ever thought about getting an office job for me?"

you give him a sarcastic pout, "for you?"

he smiles, canines showing, "yeah, doll, just for me."

you're dizzy at his words, "yeah, then who'd watch my parent's house all day? it's a full-time job being a stay-at-home daughter, you know."

ben groans a bit at your words, "that makes you sound like a little brat, you know." he drawls out the last two words, mocking.

you smirk, facing him now, lips becoming level with his when he leans down to stare into your eyes, "my mom calls me a brat sometimes. she says i'm never going to find someone acting like one," you pause for a beat, "d'you agree, ben?"

at the emphasis of his first name he sighs and lets his hands fall to your waist, "i agree that you're a fuckin' brat," he cranes his head closer, breath brushing against your lips, "but i don't think i mind very much."

your eyes flutter against your better judgment, and ben takes an evident note of the fact. his hands tighten at your waist, fingers digging in possessively. you feel a beat of caution before it flies away from your resolution. you press forward just as he does the same, lips meeting in a slow, heady, absolutely exalting kiss.

ben's fingers dig into you, timidly pulling you further into him. you crumble at his touch, hands fisting into his hair as he deepens the kiss further. he tastes of sweet honey and sunlight that fills you with warmth and affection.

you're both weakly fighting for more— an incessant craving for each other that quickly overtakes your common sense. the looming man continues to cast an unbreakable spell with each aching kiss as his gentle hands caress every inch of exposed skin on your body.

you let his hands fumble with the buttons of the borrowed shirt, slowly slipping it away from you. it brushes past your shoulders, and ben breaks the hungry kisses to trail sloppy ones on your exposed neck.

you're lost in the feeling of him— all-consuming. neither one of you willing to be pulled back to reality— but eventually you both have to break away from one another with heavy breaths and flushed cheeks. ben looks down at you with an amused grin on his face before planting a chaste kiss on the top of your head.

you hum and he mutters against you, "you like that? hm?"

"duh," you steal a glance up, "feels s'nice." there's a stupid grin stuck to your face.

"you taste so good, doll," he places a teasing kiss at the dip at the bottom of your neck, "and your lips are so fucking soft."

you give him a questioning look, lips upturned, "really? sounds wild coming from the same man that just called me a brat."

he hums darkly, "you being a brat," he places another kiss to your exposed neck, "just makes this little game of ours more interesting," one of his hands lifts your chin, pulling you closer, "c'mere, kid."

his lips are back on yours, less languid and with much more fervor. you feel so full in his arms. divinely entangled in the coveted luxury of ben organa-solo.

suddenly, you hear commotion from downstairs, drugged mind abruptly anxious.

"what's that?" your voice is barely above a whisper.

ben growls, "fuck— i'm sorry doll, i think my parents are home." you catch the faint flush on his cheeks.

you bite your lip, concerned, "but... i'm high. and wearing your clothes."

ben is about to say something else when the deep baritone of han solo's voice booms from behind his closed bedroom door, "come on out, son. the neighbor's are over for dinner. their daughter should be here soon," han's voice drops a bit, "and try to ease up on the flirting this time, okay?"

you stifle an uninhibited giggle, earning a glare from ben.

"yeah, sure. just let me get out of my work clothes," he peers down at you, eyes wicked, "don't want them to think it's all i own."

your eyes widen at his subtle dig, and he seems to revel in your amusement.

han grumbles something back before leaving. your breathing is erratic for a good few seconds. ben's hands remain on you, gentle grin on his lips.

"you heard the man. dinner." his voice is low, and you fight the urge to pull him into another kiss. the thought of more than kissing weighing heavily on your stoned mind.

your reply knocks the smile off of his face, "how are you going to explain the fact i'm already with you and high off my ass?"

he groans, head falling into the crook of your neck, "shit."

god damn

YES he traumatised everyone tonight. but he served cunt while doing it.