messy bitch living for obi-wan

Ben was an acquaintance, friendly enough when you bumped into him. Never someone you’d invite out on your own - far too nervous to do so, too afraid of the rejection.

So when he had overheard you - sighing to your roommate about your coworkers wedding, how you’re always going to them by yourself - it had come as a surprise. The way he had leaned against the high top of the table, his easy smile.

“I’ll go with you.”

You had though he was joking. Looking at him with a scoff of a laugh, eyes flicking to your roommate’s.

But he had insisted. Saying he had always enjoyed weddings and why not? They were always better with a friend.

And so, small agreement had been made.

He’d be your date, and you’d be his. Shaking hands on it, so it would be official.

Now - you find you don’t mind weddings, all that much.

You think you might even like them.

———

So far, tonight had been one you’ll remember for a long time. An energy sparking throughout, beginning even before you even arrived.

No traffic on the drive down - one long enough that you had to book hotel rooms. Ending up with connecting ones, just enough time for you to slip into your dress, touch up your hair, before he was knocking on your door, sighing for you to hurry up.

Managing to slide in with the last of the guests, finding a seat together towards the back. The room almost too warm with the tight pack of people, but the ceremony that went on for a little too long was bearable with the way his legs spread in the pew, his thigh tucked against yours.

Letting your mind wander during the sermon - you’d pay attention for the actual vows - thinking about the dance videos he had texted you. Trying to remember the moves, because you were damned if you were going to let anyone else try them out with him.

You don’t tear up the dance floor or anything, but you have fun.

Everything seems to be, with him.

Not noticing you had been drumming out the internal beat against your knee, until he’s grasping your wrist - a sharp, warning exhale of breath from his nose as he side-eyes you.

Remembering how Ben said he liked this part, how he said he could feel the love in the room.

You thought he was full of it, as your own nose wrinkled in response to his silent disapproval. Until his fingers slid down to wrap around yours, holding them tight. Pulling them, entwined, until they rested against his thigh.

Yes, that had been nice.

Now, dinner is clearing up, the dishes whisked away from under your nose - as he charms the older couple that still sits across from you with his tales of being a middle school teacher.

“Yes, thirty-seven. And all angels of course, when they aren’t driving me mad.” Ben says with a mock sigh, leaning back in his chair, “But they aren’t the biggest source of my grief.”

“What could be more stressful than that?” The woman asks, and he smiles.

“Two godchildren learning how to drive. Twins. It’s enough to turn me old and grey.” Fingers stroke at the edge of his beard, tugging on a patch for emphasis.

It makes you smile, as there’s the squeal of a microphone, the best man inviting everyone back out to the dance floor.

You glance at Ben, where he’s dipping his head in goodbye - the mic too loud for them to hear his words from across the table. The legs of his chair scraping against the tile as he pushes back, uncrossing his legs to stand.

“Old and grey, huh?” You tease, as his hand extends. “Think you can keep up tonight?”

He tugs you out of your chair, his other hand on your elbow to steady you, “Funny.”

Out of everything, you still liked this part the best.

When everyone had eaten, tears and joy and laughter bouncing over the walls, soaking into your skin. When the lights die back down, and the music starts, again.

How he’ll pull you out to the dance floor, then.

Bright eyes, his hand warm and strong in yours. Sleeves rolled up, a button on his shirt popped for every hour that has gone by. His jacket slung neatly over his seat where it sat tucked next to yours.

You’ll hunt down his tie before you leave, finding it curled somewhere safe - in the sleeve of your coat, tucked into your purse.

Until then, you treasure this.

When it’s dark and the food and fun are fueling the floor, when the DJ reads the room and picks the perfect songs.

One moment facing him, all smiles as he spins you in his arms. The next, when his hands are on your hips as you move together. His front pressed against your back, the rough exhale of his breath in your ear just audible over the thud of the music.

It does something to you, an ache in your chest and then much lower.

Each evening together leaving you feeling like Cinderella, dancing with the Prince. Until the clock is striking midnight, and the magic and music has come to and end, and you’re just you again.

Alone, and pining.

Because this is just a fun, ongoing favor.

It won’t be anything more, even if you wish for it.

———

As the songs swirl around you, you realize how easy it is. How the two of you move, just how much you like dancing with Ben.

Nudging you, leading you effortlessly - not shying away from tugging you flush against him when you drift too far away, or get off-beat. Always watching, making sure you’re having a much fun as he is - the bright shine of his smile when he does a move that makes you laugh.

It’s slow - the way you have mapped out each others bodies in such a gradual, intimate way.

Hands that would hover in the beginning, the ghost of his hand against your shoulder, now grip on. With the comfort comes the familiarity - the thigh that slides between yours when it gets late and the songs turn dirty.

Your hands grasping at his waist, before raising above your head, encouraging his to wander. Spinning you around, a broad hand splaying under your breasts, pressing you back against his chest as the twist of your hips turns into a grind.

When everything seems to narrow down to just the two of you, that brief point of connection as his hips move with yours.

It’s a moment you crave, but for now - it’s still early.

Each song bleeding into the next. The last verse slowing as his fingers press against the curve of your hip - sliding down your thigh to hike it up against his as he dips you. Your hand splayed against the back of his neck, holding on.

Trusting him to pull you back up, his palm resting on the small of your back. Your heels sliding against the floor when he does, a squeak as you lose your balance - but you were never in any danger.

With a low laugh, his hand raising to the space between your shoulders as he tugs you flush against him.

Your fingers still scramble, clutching at the back of his neck, the other splaying across his chest.

His bare chest - your palm accidentally sliding where his shirt has become unbuttoned over the course of the evening, hanging loose and open down to his abdomen.

Steadied, you snatch your hand away, heat in your cheeks as you smile with embarrassment, as you apologize.

Even if you don’t mean it - for slipping, or for touching him.

His hand on your thigh moves, his fingers catching your own. Those pretty blue eyes under thick, lowered lashes watching as he draws it back, pressing your palm against him again.

Your fingers spreading out, against the coarse, auburn hair and hot, sticky skin - just above his thudding heart.

Lately, at the past few weddings, there had been a different kind of dance.

Ones that you didn’t know the steps to, carefully feelings the moves out on your own.

Like now - the lightest press of your palm against his neck, the way his head dips as if he can read your thoughts. The point of his nose brushing your cheek, followed by the lightest scratch of his beard.

The arm still curled around you shifting, raising higher, nudging you just a little bit closer as he sways.

If you just moved your mouth, you think your lips could brush. You feel your hand tremble against him, nerves and hope and longing as your fingers press into skin.

The music fades. The sultry tone shifting into something cheerful, a whoop from a group of men nearby as they recognize the line dance.

And just like that - the magic is broken.

You step back, blinking - your hand still warm as it smoothes down your dress, as his fingers trail after you.

Trying to think of something to say, so he doesn’t realize just how head-over-heels you are. Missing the way his lips stay parted, the way he’d drag you right back if you’d let him.

“Cake?” You manage, finally meeting his gaze, and he smiles.

A hand taking through his hair, pushing the long strands back from his forehead, “Yes, please. Vanilla, unless-”

“-unless they have strawberry.” You interrupt with a smile, “I know.”

Leaving him, the back of your hand pressed against a burning cheek as you make your way to the dessert table.

Waiting in line to grab your two pieces, making chit-chat with friends and faces you recognize. Smiling, when they have what he wants, wanting to watch the way his eyes light up when he sees.

But, he’s not at your table when you return. You frown as you set the plates down, glancing back to where you left him. Scanning the crowd, the messy lines of dancers copying each others moves, until you see it.

See him, his head thrown back as he laughs - a hand braced on his thigh as he tugs the arm of his partner, getting her back on beat. The flash of skin you can see from here as he moves - the peek of his chest that you had just had your hands on.

You feel frozen in place as you watch, a jolt of something sharp and scorching hot arcing through you. Burning up in a new kind of way when she clutches at his shoulders, as the rhythm of the dance turns in them in a new direction.

Facing you - where his eyes meet yours in the crowd. Where he can see how your lips press together, the blinking of your eyes as you process.

You know you’re holding him back.

He’s a good dancer. You can see the looks, the way people watch him. Sometimes they made you feel like you did now, but sometimes you felt… guilty.

Worried that he felt a noble obligation to indulge you, worried that your agreement meant he wasn’t bringing a real date like he’d prefer.

Sometimes you can smile and push those thoughts down. Ignoring them, as you’ve learned to do so well.

But tonight, it feels like too big of a burden to bear.

The grin slipping from his face as he watches you abandon the desserts on the nearest table - the forks clattering against the plastic plates as they drop.

As you turn on your heel, setting off for just about anywhere else.

Eyes focusing on the wide set of double-doors in the back, the hallway leading to the bathrooms.

He’s catching up with you - the touch of his fingers against your arm, sliding down until they wrap around your wrist. Its electric, in spite of everything, your stomach still flipping from the contact.

You turn, and Ben is looking at you curiously, and that feels like another betrayal. A confirmation that he doesn’t see you that way, and your throat is feeling tight as you shake your head, tugging away from his grasp.

“What’s going on?” He persists, a crease deepening between his brows, a tilt to his head.

You’re still in the middle of the room, lost in the islands of tables and skewed chairs. Not about to get into here, so instead you’re tugging him now - fingers catching the rolled edge of a sleeve as you steer him towards one of the carved out alcoves set along the walls.

“You can’t tell me it’s nothing, I’ve never seen you abandon a dessert like that.” He’s smiling, lacing his concern with jokes to ease you.

It almost works, the familiarity, the closeness, but then you’re looking at him and remembering - your eyes darting away.

“Nothing is wrong. I just wasn’t-,” You stumble, before taking a breath - finding your words, “You looked busy.”

They come out a little firmer, a little more pointed that you were expecting. He looks at you, eyebrows raised.

Your words, expression, too transparent because he gets it, and there’s a short bark of laughter as you turn to leave. As he’s stepping closer, and you find yourself tucked further into the nook.

“Sweetheart.” The nickname would normally make you melt, but you’re too busy trying to be brave, “Honestly, It was a line dance. I would’ve taught your grandmother how to do it.”

His exasperated look turns thoughtful, “You know, I think I actually did? Last summer, at your cousin’s-”

You shake your head, annoyed and enamored and hurt, your hands spreading wide, “It’s fine. It’s not a big deal. It could be nice, you know?”

Ben’s smile fades, as your back presses against the the wall, your eyes darting away as you clarify, “For you to dance with someone you actually want to be with.”

There’s a beat of silence. Stretching out, agonizing.

And then he laughs again, and it embarrasses you further - his fingers coming to catch your chin and tilt it upwards as he steps closer.

“Is that what you think, darling?” He breathes, as his words draw your eyes back. Meeting his heavy-lidded gaze, as his head dips level with yours.

“That I haven’t wanted this?”

He presses against you then, eyes still on yours as his hips roll. Guiding your hands up to lock around his neck as his forehead bumps against yours, a low sigh when you start to sway with him.

To dance, with him - again.

Tucked away in this little corner, just the two of you. And when your fingers wrap into his hair and tug - he groans. Unable to help himself as his head dips.

As his lips finally press against yours.

A hand cupping your jaw, warm and strong as his body follows, pulling you to him. Your own moan soft in your throat as it feels like weeks, months, years, of want is released, pushing yourself onto tip-toe in an attempt to get closer.

Your body seeming to move on instinct, rolling against his, until the soft fabric of your dress is crushing against his chest. A hand gripping your hip as your body shifts against his, until he’s gasping into your mouth.

The kiss deepening and you’re clinging to him as he traps you between his body and the wall. Soft against him and sweet on his tongue when he’s brushing against your lips and you’re opening for him.

Pulling away, letting your hands wander from his hair, to his strong shoulders, to his chest again. His own mouth hot as he kisses your jaw, feeling the moan in your throat as his lips move to just under your ear.

He always said he could feel the love in the room. You wonder if he can feel you - the sharp ache of desire and pent up longing.

You think maybe - he just might - from the way he groans against your neck, lips pressing against a spot where your pulse thuds.

A hand is resting against the small of your back, and now it pushes - angling your hips until they’re flush with him. Where you can feel the press of something hard, as his mouth hovers just next to your ear.

“That I haven’t wanted you?” He rasps, making you shiver, “That I haven’t been yours, only yours, this entire time?”

It making you moan, the ache between your thighs deepening, a clenching in your abdomen. The admission making you feel reckless, making you want even more.

“Can we get out of here?” You ask him, breathless - and you can hear his sharp exhale, the scrape of his beard against your cheek.

“Yes, darling.” He says against your mouth, pressing a quick kiss before he steps back from the wall - bringing you with him, “Your room or mine?”

Your eyes are shining as you move with him, smiling as you shake your head, “I don’t care. Anywhere. As long as it’s with you.”

His hand finding yours, bringing your knuckles up to us mouth, pressing his lips against the first two.

“I think I can manage that, darling.”

Feeling infinitely lighter, your own laugh bubbling up, as he tugs you toward the exit.

———

Your stomach is full of butterflies as he lays you down on the bed - his room, though it doesn’t really matter.

He follows, his weight pressing into you, mouth finding yours again as his fingers pluck at the layers of your dress, making room for himself between your thighs.

Soft, gasping breaths as you cling to him, a hand pressed against the back of his neck as you inhale a breath before tugging him back down again.

Those nerves twisting into something much more pleasurable as he finds the slit in your dress, fingers tracing along skin to hook a hand under your knee - draw your thigh around his hip.

Realizing with a start that it doesn’t feel that far from before, the same sort of fluttering when he dipped you. From excitement - the thrill of it. Knowing you could trust him, and he had shown you he could.

You could trust him here, too.

Let him lead, like you always did.

His hips drop, grinding himself against you - the thick length of his in his trousers pressing in the against your inner thigh as you groan into his mouth.

Tugging on the strands of hair again, parting your lips so his tongue can stroke yours, just as your own hips roll up to meet his.

It’s not long before your make-out turns sloppy, the scratch of his beard against your neck as his teeth just press against the hollow under your ear.

An ache that blooms into pleasure as his teeth pinch, lip suck. The swipe of his tongue afterwards, leaving a pretty mark for later.

All while you tear at those last two buttons that hold together his white, wrinkled dress shirt - greedily mapping the warm, freckled skin beneath with eager fingers.

“I’ve thought about this,” His breath is warm against your throat, a soft sigh as he searches blindly for the closure of your dress.“Endlessly. Hoping every time that we might end the night together.”

“Me too.” You echo the relief in his voice, helping him with the zipper, his body only lifting for the few moment it takes for you to rid the fabric from your body.

The ache of want thuds between your thighs, his leg sliding back into place as you tug him back down on top of you. Your sigh then - feeling the strong muscles press against you, as his nose brushes your cheek, his lips pressing against your jaw.

Fingers that trace from your shoulder, to a breast. A gentle squeeze, marveling in the way you feel in his hand. The brush of a thumb against against a taut nipple before it ghosts further down.

The welcome weight of him shifting as he lifts himself off you, just enough for his fingers to slide and press against your center. Feeling where the fabric dampens for him, his breath warm against your skin as his mouth opens in a groans.

“So wet, darling.” He says it like it’s a gift, something special just for him. And tonight - it is.

Your hips rock on their own, until he’s pressing, circling his fingers. Smearing your arousal against the soft silk, your own fingers biting into the muscles of his biceps.

“Only you.” The answer comes breathy, needy. Reaching with one hand to catch the waistband, pushing them down to your thighs.

“Mmm. Impatient, are we?” He coos, pleased, and you make a low sound in your throat - drawn out and sharp.

As if you haven’t waited ages. Days and weeks and months.

“Please.” You beg, and mercifully - he listens.

Lips pressing open-mouthed against your neck before they seal against the skin again. Fingers that cup you, feeling the heat, before one teases at your slit. Sliding easily over your slick folds, before the tip of a finger presses into you.

It’s bliss, after the wait. Your head tilts back with a groan, baring more of your neck for him to mark. His hips rolling against yours in time with the way he fucks you with his finger. A steady pump, a curl. His panting breath growing just as loud as yours in the quiet hotel room.

“Ben.” You groan, and he treasures the way it sounds on your lips, the way they part for him while he’s buried in you.

It’s affects him, his name on your lips - his fingers still moving as he shifts, easing himself down the bed. Until he’s level with your hips, nudging your thighs apart with a shoulder.

Touching you like he did on your first wedding date together. Fingers that began with the barest ghost, tease - now firm and sure. Finding what you like, what makes your hands curl into fists as his mouth lowers.

The peek of his tongue as it presses against you, warm and soft against your clit. You’re choking on your breath as he hums, the sound turning into a low, needy groan as he tastes you.

Eyes fluttering shut for a moment before they’re fixing on you, ensnaring. As he encourages you to move, pressing yourself against his tongue, his mouth. Watching you, like he does when you dance.

With eyes had only ever been on yours.

It’s too much - his attention, his touch - after all the waiting. Overwhelming you with the steady plunge of his fingers and the pointed flick of his tongue - it’s not long at all before you’re crying out, his hand pinning down one of your thighs as they threaten to close around him.

As he feels your release, how you gush for him. Tongue dipping down to taste you, fingers withdrawing to press and circle against your clit. Relishing in the sound of your moan, the sound drawn out in the darkened room, one he’s thought often about hearing.

It’s as lovely as he imagined, a tightness in his trousers that borders on uncomfortable, now.

You tremble against him, rocking into the press of his fingers and swipe of his tongue, as the last waves of pleasure wash over you, leaving you breathless, eyes half-lidded.

Loose-limbed now, fingers uncurling from where your nails bit into your palms, leaving little marks. Lazily pushing yourself up as you reach for him, your hand searching clumsily for his belt as his mouth meets yours.

It’s a heady feeling, tasting yourself on Ben as his tongue sweeps against your lip. Feeling him, your palm pressing against the front of his trousers, before you’re working open his belt.

Shoving the fabric down with you, and then off - leaving his cock to hang heavy between his thighs, swollen and thick. A smiling flash of teeth as he catches you looking, your own mental confirmation that every inch of him is pretty.

His skin velvet-soft when you reach out, fingertips sliding along his shaft. As he hovers over you, lowering you down to the mattress once more, as you open eagerly for him.

Kneeling between your thighs as his fingers press against your center, coming back slick. Wrapping his hand around his cock, a rough, low sigh as his fist jerks.

You’re imagining what it would be like to taste him, to hold him in your mouth, against your tongue. Seeing if the the sounds he’d make would be as beautiful as his voice, his laugh.

He brings you back with a touch, his palm cupping your face, drawing your gaze to his soft, blue eyes, “Do you still want this, darling?”

The this sliding hot and hard against your center, a low moan that comes from your chest as your thighs nudge wider, as your body arches into his. Close enough that your chin can lift, that your mouth can press against his in the seconds after your answer.

“God, yes.”

There’s a groan in his throat as his hips shift forward, as he finally sinks into you - where you’re soaked from his mouth and your release. The stretch pleasurable as he eases in with a slow thrust, burying himself in your heat.

“Oh, darling. I should have made you jealous ages ago,” He sighs, as you clutch as his shoulders, as he fills you, “You feel incredible.”

Your laugh turns into a sharp inhale of breath when he find himself pressed deep, your thighs clamping against his hips unconsciously.

“Fuck,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut with your gasp, opening again just in time to see him smile.

Fingers cup the back of his neck, like before. His lips on yours, sharing the same breath as he eases out, before snapping back in. A gasp that begins in your throat and ends in his as he does it again, the ridges of his cock stroking inside you so perfectly.

Holding himself above you, so he can watch your face, before you’re both watching the way his cock disappears into you. You’re already feeling the coiling in your belly, the sated ache returning - fueled by receiving the thing you’ve been wanting for so long.

Him.

Because tonight, he is yours. All yours. You can see it now, how he looks at you with half-lidded eyes. The scrape of teeth against his lip before they’re parting, panting when he feels you clench around him.

As he lowers himself, the heavy thrust of his hips turning into a rough grind, his chest pressed to yours. Your face buried in his neck, arms wrapped tightly around another until you’re not sure where he ends, and you begin.

The tip of his cock nudging against a spot that steals your breath, until you’re clutching at him, your hips rolling in time with his.

“Will you give me another, love?” He coos in your ear, a kiss pressed to the skin just beneath, “Can you come for me again?”

You’re nodding, eyes closed tight as you focus on the narrowed point of pleasure, swiftly building, “Yes. Ben, please-”

“Show me then, darling. Let me feel you.”

Everything winding up tight, as he shift just a bit. Fitting a hand between you, fingers curling over your mound to press at your clit, as your mouth searches for his.

Moving together, like you have been, all this time. The circle of his fingers and grind of his cock have your head tilting back, his name on your lips, then, “Oh my god, I’m so close-”

His breath short and harsh as you tremble, then come undone for him. Your cunt pulsing around him, as you moan - your cheek pressed against the coarse stubble of his beard.

Ben’s moan echoing yours, as if he can feel the tight throb in your core, the way your vision goes soft and hazy. His own release on the cusp of yours, his thrusts going sloppy, rutting into your heat.

“Oh sweetheart, I’m going to come.” He rasps, voice tight with a sharp inhale of breath, “Will you take me?”

Still coming down from your own high, your heart pounding in your ears as you gasp out your agreement, “Yes, I want all of you.”

There’s a shudder of breath, a blinking, widening of his eyes. His fingers press into your flesh, hitching your thigh around his hip as groans, thrusts going quick and shallow. The sound from his throat drawing out long and low as his cock throbs, his release spilling inside you.

It’s prettier than you’ve imagined. His sounds, the pinch of his brow, his parted lips as he comes. Chest flexing with the effort, your fingers pressing flat against it again as he hovers over you, now spent.

The dance ends with his forehead brushing yours, before finding your mouth with his. Sighs and smiling and wandering fingers, leisurely mapping over skin.

Making up for all the lost time.

Later - his voice is a rumble beneath your ear, as your head rests on his chest. The sound soothing, as fingers brush the back of your head, down the column of your neck, then your bare shoulder.

“I received an invitation, last week. The RSVP isn’t due yet, but the wedding is in March.”

Your head tilts, chin scraping over the skin before you rest it on a bent arm, “Sounds good. I don’t have anything for March yet.”

His lips twitch, a soft smile, “Well, I wanted to ask if you’d go with me.”

A crease forms between your brow, an eye closing so you can see him better in the dim light, “You don’t have to ask, you know I’d come.”

The smile deepens, a dimple forming just below the little mark on his cheek that you long to press your lips against.

“I want to ask you, darling.” Ben tells you, the hand curling around, thumb brushing against your cheek, “Come with me. Not as part of our agreement.”

A pause, before he clarifies, “As my date.”

It makes your stomach flip, your teeth sinking into your lower lip, “Yeah?”

He nods, and then you’re bracing against him, pushing up. Your mouth pressing to his, stealing a kiss before you answer.

“Then, yes. Always, yes.”

[dilfcember masterlist]