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After spending the better part of twenty-nine years desperately wishing for his Grandfather’s guidance, Ben Solo really, really would have expected to feel some kind of relief at finally receiving any amount of advice from the fabled Force wielder. Instead, when Anakin Skywalker winks into existence beside him one morning in the training room, all sharp eyes and sharper smirk, Ben feels his stomach drop straight to his toes.
“Ben,”
“Grandfather.”
The two Skywalkers stare at one another for a handful of seconds, mental calculations nearly visible in the harsh synthetic light of the standard First Order facility. His Grandfather is admittedly much younger than he had anticipated, looking only a few years shy of Ben himself. His robes are dark, layered and long with a leather tunic that Ben recognizes as an old style of Jedi uniform; it suits him, and is eerily close to the way Ben dresses now. The silence draws on until, unsurprisingly Anakin speaks first, keen eyes snapping up from their inspection of his unignited lightsaber as he quips.
“So,” Ben already knows he won’t like where this is going, “you're in love with the scavenger girl?”
Ben nearly drops his lightsaber in surprise, mouth agape as he stares at the man opposite him (now leaning nonchalantly against the wall as if he hadn’t just asked Ben if he was in love with his Mother’s pet Jedi).
“I,” he stutters, tries to curb the blush already rising to his ears, “no.” It’s been three lunar cycles since Crait: three months of Ben anxiously pacing the Finalizer, hoping for the absence of noise he’s come to associate with their Force bond springing to life, three months spent absolutely pining after Rey of Jakku (not that he’ll ever admit it).
“She’s very handy with a hex wrench,” his Grandfather nods, one hand darting up to push wild curls (the same as those on Ben’s own head) from his face, “good choice.” Ben swears he’s going to kill him again, even takes a step towards the grinning blue apparition, but with a cheeky smirk and a waggle of mechanical fingers his target is gone.
Regrettably, not for very long. The next morning, as Ben shaves in the tiny mirror of his standard issue ‘fresher, Anakin appears again, studying the line of his own jaw in the mirror as if seeing it for the first time.
“Do refresh my memory,” the ghost begins, and Ben stifles a groan as he rinses the blade, “you asked her to rule the galaxy with you,” it takes every ounce of willpower he has to not throw a punch into the glass, “and she said no?”
“Leave me alone,” Ben snarls, fingers impossibly tight around the thin, durasteel handle of his razor (it’s honestly a wonder it hasn’t yet snapped). Anakin laughs, bright and warm in the cool light of the room.
“Now isn’t that a different tune than what you’ve been singing for the last decade and a half!” Ben lunges for him, heedless of shaving cream or the water that flies from his hands, and Anakin vanishes, leaving Ben alone with his thoughts and a half-shaved face.
When the force finally deigns to go taut, snapping his and Rey’s reality into place over one another Ben is standing in the throne room, mercifully alone as he studies a datapad with Hux’s latest proposition for power restructure pulled up. He feels Rey long before he sees her, warm and bright in the back of his head, so different from the void that had been Snoke. Tentatively, Ben takes a second to reach out towards the edges of her Force signature and savor the brush of it against his own (the burn of high noon in the desert, shade that smells like engine coolant and night blooming flowers), imagines the freckles across her cheeks until the anticipation is too much and his eyes snap up.
He instantly wishes he’d just kept them on the fucking datapad.
Rey is standing a few paces from the throne with her side to him, tanned arms above her head and flexing lightly as she works suds through wet hair. She’s stunning, slick with water from a source he cannot see, eyes shut against the shampoo in her hair and by extension, him. The Supreme leader inhales sharply, tears his eyes away from her skin when they begin to wander down (down down down) towards the pert nipple that rises above the ridge of her ribs, teasing him in the half light of his own throne room. Dusty pink skin glows in his mind’s eye like a retina burn that has his cock straining against the front of his pants by the time he whirls around; flustered and burning at the ears. Nearly panting, Ben forces a few long breaths in through his nose and almost finds some semblance of calm before Rey lets out a groan and neatly shatters it all.
“I can’t believe that after almost four months this is when you fucking show up.” Her irritation washes over the bond, hotter than the water that runs down her body, and Ben can’t help but agree, the Force works in mysterious ways.
“I’m sorry,” he finally grits out, brow furrowed as he glares at the obstinate bulge in his pants. Rey snorts, and Ben imagines her eyes rolling as she rinses soap from chestnut hair.
“Like hell you are.” Neither of them quite mention what, exactly, it is that he’s apologizing for (they both know anyways).
That night, he dreams of Rey, warm and real when her lips trace the path of his carotid. It’s half formed, in the way dreams sometimes are, how her hands slide down his chest to map scars and moles as they go. Even in his dreams, Ben’s ears go red at the attention, and he cannot bring himself to hold back his moan when her mouth closes over one hipbone to suck a bruise into the pale skin there. Hazel eyes glint up at him, sharp with mischief and before Rey’s calloused little palm can curl around his shaft, Ben is startled awake by a pronounced shift in the Force.
“Good morning, Grandson,” Anakin grins from where he sits cross legged at the foot of his bed, one eyebrow raised as Ben scrambles to hide his obvious erection. “I trust you had good dreams.” Ben groans, flopping back into his pillows just in time to hear his grandfather quip.
“So let’s talk about your piss-poor excuse for an apology yesterday.”
The next time the force connects them, snapping taught like the edge of his grandfather’s lightsaber; it is Ben who’s in a state of undress, shirtless and halfway out of his pants after a particularly brutal training session. His whole body aches, the old injury in his right shoulder re-aggravated after one too many parries executed sloppily and without enough warm up (he’s excited for a hot shower and some bacta). Ben steps out of his pants, folds them neatly at the foot of his bed, and is halfway to the ‘fresher when Rey speaks.
“D’you just never wear any goddamn clothes?” Her voice is breathy, soft in a way he’s only heard once before, and there’s an undeniable thrill of male pride deep in Ben’s chest at the fact. Turning to face her, the second to last Skywalker cannot help his grin when he catches her staring, eyes wide and chest heaving with quick, shallow breaths.
“You’ve seen me more times fully clothed than in any state of undress, Rey.” Ben points out, one hand coming up to absently rub at his sore shoulder, hyperaware of Rey’s eyes traversing the sharp planes of his body. Like what you see? He rumbles across the bond, and flushing, Rey whips her arms up to cross over her chest in response.
“Shut up,” she hisses, wholly lacking in venom.
The Force trembles, clearly about to end the connection, and Ben smirks, shoots her a wink as he turns to head into the ‘fresher.
“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
In the same breath that the Force whisks her away Anakin appears, smirking even more broadly than his grandson when he nearly crows, “well clearly you were glad to see her.” Ben glances down at the half hard length of his cock and swears, flipping the apparition to his left a profane hand gesture as he sets the shower just a touch colder than he’d initially planned.
“Y’know” Anakin grins, completely undeterred by his grandson’s obvious irritation, “you could always just kiss her.” Ben just hurls a bar of standard issue First Order soap through his cackling Grandfather’s head.
Ben doesn’t kiss her the next time they find themselves together, entirely too enthralled by the sight of her working on what he assumes to be some kind of ship above her, slick with sweat and the occasional smudge of engine grease. Rey’s brow is knit in concentration, a hex wrench clenched firmly in between her teeth as she tries to yank some stubborn piece of machinery out of the craft. There’s an edge to her in this moment that whispers wholly of Jakku, of sun so strong it blisters to the bone, and the sound of hot metal settling against cold night air; Ben knows he loves her, realistically probably has since they first connected while she was on Ahch-To, the fact presses heavily against the front of his mind as he watches her work.
She’s the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen, wearing only loose, grease stained work pants and a thin synthetic binding that leaves absolutely nothing to his imagination. Every fiber in his being is telling him do something to announce his presence, kinetic energy whipping at the tips of his fingers. Talk to her, you nerf herder he distinctly hears Anakin wail from beyond the grave as Rey sits up fully to apply more leverage against whatever stubborn piece of Starfighter is vexing her.
“I-” He falters when she grunts with exertion, ears going pink at the unfairly erotic noise. Rey glances up at him startled and wide eyed under the heat of his stare, brows raised nearly to her hairline.
“I’m impressed with your work as a mechanic,” he finally manages. Rey rolls her eyes, Anakin snickers somewhere off to his left, and Ben’s ears go an even brighter shade of red before the Force bends, and he’s once again alone.
He wakes up to Rey in his bed three light cycles later, curled beside him with her head among his pillows, eyes wide and wondrous. It takes Ben approximately five seconds to realize that he is, in fact, not dreaming, and the realization sends him into a tailspin. Rey smiles, lips softly parted while her cheeks dust the lightest shade of pink, and Ben is wrecked.
“You look so tense when you sleep,” she whispers, close enough that her breath fans out across his face, warm and smelling of mint. Ben shrugs his good shoulder (they both know why), and fights the urge to kiss her. She makes perfect sense against the dark weave of his sheets, practically glows in the warm light cast by whatever planet the Finalizer currently orbits, and all Ben wants is to slant his lips against her own. There’s a beat, a moment where the only noise is their mingled breaths, and then Rey reaches across the barely-there distance between them to cup his cheek in one warm hand, lets her eyes flutter shut, and presses her lips to his.
Ben responds instantly, snaking an arm out to pull Rey into his chest, smiles roguishly in to the kiss when her delight sings across the bond. Her fingers card through dark hair, short nails occasionally biting into his scalp as she strokes unruly curls back. When they part for air her eyes are bright, wild in a way he’s never seen them before, and Ben thinks he could die happily right here in his bed.
“We need,” he rumbles, dragging a palm down the length of her spine, “to do that again.” And so they do.
Anakin appears to him later that day, smiling and proud in only the way a man whose plan has gone off perfectly could be. “You’re going to kiss her first next time, right?” Ben just rolls his eyes, continues to work on the hilt of his saber, and hopes his hair covers just how pink his ears have become.
As it happens, he does kiss her the next time, a sweet brushing of lips that rapidly turns into something wholly different as the two most powerful force users in the galaxy realize just how much they’d been starved of touch up until now. Rey pants his name hotly, fisting the loose fabric of his shirt in tiny fists, and he nearly growls with the snap of lust across the bond. Backing her up until her shoulders bump against the cool durasteel paneling of the training room, Ben locks the door with a wave of his hand and hoists her up to rest between the wall and his hips.
Rey wastes no time in wrapping her legs around his waist, and Ben responds with a low hum of contentment, hands already working to unfasten the complicated layering of her tunic. It’s slow going though, and Rey’s impatience is a nearly palpable thing as she rocks her hips into his own, head tilted back and lips wetly parted. He ends up tearing the fabric, a soft sound in the otherwise silent room, and sets his lips about memorizing the soft peaks of her breasts, reveling in every soft sound of approval to escape her lips. Calloused fingers tangle in his hair, hauling Ben up to demand kisses against her lips when Rey grows impatient with even his thorough explanation of her chest.
“Ben,” she begs, “please, touch me.”
He nearly drops her in his eagerness to comply.
“You’ve had sex before, right?” Anakin checks the next morning as Ben sips on his caf. The bitter beverage comes flying out of the Supreme Leader’s mouth, spraying the better half of his table with a blend of liquid and spit. Ben stares at the completely serious spirit across from him and stutters a hasty
“I- ah- busy training.” Not entirely a lie, he tries to comfort himself.
“So, no.” the Force ghost (correctly) deduces, eyes bright with mischief. “I trust you’ve watched a few holos?” Ben gives a bright red nod, sets his coffee down as a precaution. “Good, so you’re not going in totally blind”.
Ben’s never wanted to die more in his life.
This time it’s Rey who interrupts him in the shower, face splitting into a bright grin as she leans against a wall he cannot see, eyes roving greedily. Ben takes his time with washing his chest, lingers longer than is absolutely necessary before glancing over his shoulder to give her a grin of his own.
“Care to join me?” The force of her delight that sings across the bond sends him reeling.
Rey wastes no time in throwing her clothes aside before leaping into the shower with him, blushing and thrilled when he drops to his knees to press full lips against her stomach. Her skin smells like engine coolant and sweat, a mixture Ben hadn’t ever paused to consider as particularly erotic until just now. Above him, Rey sighs and threads her fingers into his hair, melting when he gently tugs one of her legs up and over his shoulder.
She lets his name tumble from her mouth in a moan when Ben closes his lips around her clit, setting a steady rhythm with his tongue as he gently pushes one finger into her. More she begs, rocking against his face, and Ben wonders if this is what heaven is.
As it turns out, heaven is when she sinks down onto the length of his cock a few minutes later, palms braced against his chest and legs spread wide as she slowly (slowly) lifts her hips to settle back over him again. Ben groans, bucks upwards when she nips a bruise into his throat, and curls one arm around her waist as he begins to set their pace.
The next morning, Anakin walks empty halls to the flight deck with him, blue robes sweeping the polished glass floor beneath them.
“You’re using protection, right?” Ben rolls his eyes, swipes to the next file on his datapad.
“Grandfather, we aren’t even in the same sector of the galaxy, I’m not about to get her pregnant via a force bond.” Anakin actually snorts, brows lost entirely under the wild fringe of his hair as he stares at Ben disbelievingly.
“You do understand how I was conceived, don’t you?” Ben goes to the med bay for a sterilization shot later that day.
“Listen ben,” Anakin begins gently one morning as he stands beside his grandson while he shaves. “I know you don’t want to hear this, and especially not from me,” Ben’s eyes dart to meet his in the mirror, suspicious (and rightfully so), “but you can’t just thumb at her like the ignition switch on your lightsaber” His grandson’s hand jumps, lays a nick into the right hand side of his jaw.
“I-“ Anakin cuts him off, one hand waving impatiently,
“it’s an art, you fucking bantha.”
Ben splutters, and Anakin gives him a wry smirk before winking out of existence.