Actions

Work Header

Minus 1

Work Text:

 

The text (<What’s up, daddy?>) was originally intended for Finn.

Except that her moronic company doesn’t use Slack like normal workplaces, because it’s too mainstream, not edgy enough. For some reason that only their highly unstable boss and his pants-crappingly terrifying executives are privy to, they rely on a hyper-complicated internal messaging software that is next to impossible to figure out. If Rey weren’t forced to manually enter Finn’s ID (2187) every bloody time she wants to chat with him, she wouldn’t have mistakenly texted 2186.

It’s a stupid system. It’s a stupid company. Rey would have quit weeks—months ago, really—if it weren’t for the pay. And the benefits. And the surprisingly humane workload, considering that this is the tech sector. And okay, there’s also the fact that her visa situation makes it next to impossible for her to be unemployed, however briefly.

Yeah, she’s never going to quit. Goddammit.

Though—maybe it’s fine. Maybe 2186 is not a valid ID. Maybe it’s someone who doesn’t even use instant messaging—not all departments do, right? Maybe she thought she sent the text to 2186, but in truth it was actually Finn, and now he’ll answer in the usual way, something ridiculous like, 'Not much, mama,' and—

 

2186:  <Should you be using the internal messaging software for personal matters?>

 

Rey groans and lets her forehead fall onto her desk. Of course it’s a valid ID. With her luck she probably just messaged one of the worst higher ups, like Armitage Hux or Ben Solo’s personal assistant. Of course. Does this technically constitute sexual harassment? It probably does. She didn’t mean to, but—God. Oh God, intentions don’t matter, do they? She will be fired on the spot. And arrested. And forcibly repatriated to the UK, where she will be condemned to a mandatory diet of jellied eel and spotted dick. Fuck her miserable life.

Except that Rey makes herself look up, and there’s another text on her monitor.

 

2186: <Little girl>

 

Wait. What?

 

Rey: <Who are you?>

 

There is next to no delay before the answer comes.

 

2186: <I thought we agreed>

2186: <That I’m your daddy>

 

Oh, God.

 

Rey: <It was a joke.>

Rey: <Just a joke.>

Rey: <Are you in IT?>

Rey: <And btw, I was going to follow up that text with a work related matter.>

 

She wasn’t, not in the least.

The company is huge. Rey’s in IT herself, and so is Finn, but IDs are assigned arbitrarily. A little frantic, she quickly logs onto the company server, but apparently access to the company-wide contact list is above her pay-grade. Maybe she can borrow Poe’s credentials, since he recently got promoted—though he’s only one level above hers, which makes it unlikely that he’ll be able to help.

Shit.

Somewhat gingerly, Rey stands in her cubicle and looks around, feeling like a paranoid maniac as she tries to figure out if 2186 could be one of the colleagues who work on her floor. The whole thing is, of course, absolutely useless, since this is the IT department of a tech company and every single person is currently typing at a laptop. Rey gives up and slumps back in her chair, finding yet another message.

 

2186: <I see.>

Rey: <Do you really?>

Rey: <Because you know, it sounds like you’re saying ‘I see’ but not really believing me.>

Rey: <I wasn’t, like… sexting at work. It was just a manner of greeting.

Rey: <I promise.>

Rey: <Did I… traumatize you?>

Rey: <If so, I am really sorry.>

Rey: <Say something, please. Whoever you are.>

Rey: <Something more than ‘I see’.>

2186: <I see, baby girl.>

 

 

She is still freaking out a bit—a lot—when she heads over to her weekly team meeting, and because the universe hates her, and a moderately poopy day is not enough when she could have the very shittiest in the history of shitty days, she ends up on the same elevator as her boss.

As in: the Big Boss.

Once upon a time, when the fairies used to roam happy and carefree among the humans and all the continents were clumped together in one single chunk, First Order was called Resistance, and the company was property of Ben Solo’s mother and her brother; it mainly focused on harmless stuff—mostly data transfer and storage. Then the hostile takeover happened, and with Ben Solo in charge the company… well. They still deal in data transfer technology, except now they do so for shady paramilitary institutions that plan to use it for pursuits that range from the occasional coup d'état to world domination. Why a bloke would want to wrestle the control of a company from his family, Rey has no idea and is not in the position of asking, since she’s blessedly irrelevant in the corporate structure. Still, he can’t possibly be a good guy.   

“Which floor?” he asks.

His voice is deep and rich and precise and—not normal. He should quit his job—he might be good at it from a Wall-Street, revenue growth point of view, but let’s be honest: people with anger management issues who yell at their subordinates and are the peak of haughtiness have no business being CEOs of anything. He should just leave the company and become a professional audiobook reader. Or host a call-in late-night radio show where he gives people sex advice. NPR would probably hire him as a correspondent, too.

“Which floor?” he repeats, startling her out of her vicarious trip through the job market.

“Oh. Um, seventeen. Please.”

He looks at her for a moment that feels like it drags a little too long. Then he nods and presses the floor button, remaining silent for the rest of the ride.

 

 

Rey: <Btw>

Rey: <I still don’t know you are.>

Rey: <And I think you should tell me.>

Rey: <For obvious reasons, such as politeness.>

Rey: <But I wanted you to know that the daddy thing>

Rey: <From my text>

Rey: <Was not meant in a, you know, 70s porn cliche>

Rey: <It’s like… an inside joke. Between my friend and I.>

2186: <Your friend?>

Rey: <Yep. Just a friend. He’s actually married.>

Rey: <To someone else.>

 

And he and his husband have a girlfriend. They’re kinky as fuck, Rey doesn’t add. It seems like she’s dug her own grave deep enough for one day.

 

2186: <I see.>

2186: <So, basically… you hate 70s porn cliches.>

Rey: <I…>

Rey: <Is that all you took away from what I said?>

2186: <So you do not hate 70s porn cliches?>

Rey: <I feel like we’re not communicating properly, here.>

2186: <Okay. You hate 70s porn cliches.>

 

Rey is a little surprised to find herself smiling. He's messing with her. Teasing. It’s not like… there is no way he is actually interested in her porn preferences. Right? She’s certainly reading too much into this—for sure. Even though he did call her ’little girl’ earlier, and…

Something tightens in Rey’s tummy. She truly has no idea who this person is. It could be a woman. It could be Gerry from Accounting, who has two kids and triplets on the way. It could be that guy who wears Scientology t-shirts and always smells like garlic in the elevator. And the opposite is true, too: it could be someone who believes Rey to be that super pretty blond girl from HR who wears glasses and looks like a Victoria’s Secret supermodel with a PhD, instead of… yeah.

Rey herself.

She types her response before she can talk herself out of it. 

 

Rey: <…I didn’t say that.>

 

There is a pause.

 

2186: <Good to know.>

 

 

2186: <Bullshit.>

Rey: <Wait>

Rey: <Hear me out.>

2186: <No>

2186: <We’re done here.>

Rey: <Wait!>

Rey: <I’m not saying that Carrie is better than The Shining.>

Rey: <Just that it’s equally good. But for some reason people seem to always forget that it exists.>

2186: <Because it’s not as good.>

Rey: <Argh.>

Rey: <Whatever. You said The Tommyknockers is a good book.>

2186: <I stand by that.>

Rey: <You were right: we are done here.>

Rey: <For real. I wanna catch up on emails.>

2186: <My condolences.>

 

Rey smiles, wondering if he also spends half of his day answering emails. No way of knowing it, since he won’t tell her where he works, or what his name is, or anything else, really. He won’t tell her if he knows who she is, either. He won’t tell her anything, and so she continues knowing nothing about him, except that he loves the 80s just as much Rey does even though he’s ”too young to remember much of it,” and that he is funny, and sometimes a bit of an asshole—though mostly in an endearing way.

 

Rey: <I’m logging off.>

Rey: <Because you’re a Tommyknockers fanboy.>

Rey: <But mostly because I gotta do work.>

2186: <Glad to hear you’re being Daddy’s good little girl.>

Rey: <Yep. That’s me.>

2186: <Is it?>

 

Her hands hover above the keyboard for a minute. He probably means it as a joke. For sure. There is no way he actually knows that she has a thing for… Yeah, no way he knows. He’d think she’s crazy.

Still, Rey can’t help herself.

 

Rey: <Yes.>

2186: <Very good.>

 

Five minutes later, she’s still squirming in her chair.

 

 

She leaves her desk when he has yet to answer her last string of texts, but Rey tells herself that it’s alright. Since she is supposed to be doing work after all, and for some obscure reason Poe has asked her to sit in a meeting with the Big Boss and part of the admin team. She doesn’t have time to wonder about whether 2186 agrees with her admittedly controversial assessment that Poison is, at heart, the missing link between glam rock and heavy metal. He probably won’t, since he seems to have an unhealthy thing for Judas Priest, anyway.

Rey grabs a peanut butter oatmeal cookie from the tray at the center of the table and then just leans back, tuning out Poe’s update and singing the lyrics of What I Like About You in her head. Until:

“Miss Sanders?”

Someone is talking to her. Someone who happens to Ben Solo. He just said her name—ohmygodwhydoesheknowmynamethiscompanyhasthousandsofemployeeswhatdidIdo—in that voice of his, the same from the elevator, and now everyone in the room is looking at her in silence and shit. Was she singing out loud?

“Uh—yes?”

“Do you agree with Mr. Dameron?"

"On, ehm... what?"

"That network security should be improved?”

Oh. Oh, she does, actually. Network security here is complete and utter shite. She could think of about twenty different ways to improve it. Already has, actually.

“I… Yes. It’s an accurate assessment, I would say.”

“And how could we do that?

“Do what?”

A couple of people in the room giggle.

“Improve network security,” Solo repeats, surprisingly untroubled by Rey’s slowness.

“Um… I think we’re pretty good at securing powered-down switches and at getting rid of SQL injection. But my impression is that we’re lagging on practices for terminating the access credentials of ex-employees, and we should study our IDS more in depth, and we could always encrypt—”

Solo stands from his seat before she’s even done talking, and immediately five of his underlings do the same.

“Please, put together a presentation on this. Pull a couple of people from your team if you need them.” He’s out of the room before she can ask him—a presentation on what, precisely, and why her, and is there even a deadline for this?

She walks back to her cubicle in the throes of a mild panic attack—is this an elaborate prank? Is she going to get fired? Is the presentation a ruse to get her alone, kidnap her, harvest her organs and then sell them on the black market? Her mind is spinning—and then she reads her new message.

 

2186: <Good girls don’t listen to Poison.>

 

At least he makes her laugh.

 

 

Rey: <How long have you been here, anyway?>

2186: <Since 5:30 AM>

 

Holy shit. Should she start coming in earlier?

 

Rey: <No—with First Order. Were you here when Leia and Luke were running the company? Pre takeover?>

 

Back in those days, Resistance might not have been on any of Silicon Valley’s top ten hottest or stuff like that, but at least Rey hadn’t felt like she was selling her soul on a daily basis.

His answer comes after a pause.

 

2186: <No.>

Rey: <Well. You missed out.>

2186: <How so?>

2186: <Was ‘Daddy’ an acceptable way to greet your colleagues?>

 

Rey laughs loud enough that Kaydel checks on her curiously from above the plastic panel that separates their cubicles. “It’s nothing—Just cat videos.” Kaydel is, blessedly, a dog person, and disappears at once.

 

Rey: <There were way more free treats. And on the third Friday of the month they brought in a keg of beer. And Taco Tuesday was a thing, too.>

Rey: <It was truly the best of times.>

 

A couple of weeks later, entire fridges full of stuff spring up in the break rooms on each floor, and the monthly keg is brought back, too—except that it’s now a bi-weekly keg. Rey swears to herself that it doesn’t even matter if Ben Solo steals one of her kidneys with the pretense of caring about cybersecurity: she is never, ever going to quit.

 

 

Rey: <I don’t—I’m not sure how to put this.>

2186: <You might want to start with ‘Daddy.’>

 

Rey smiles.

 

Rey: <Oh, stop it.>

Rey: <Okay, so.>

Rey: <When I was in middle school, I had a huge crush on this guy. Mark Lerner. Anyway. I actually asked him if he wanted to, you know, hang out. And he said no.>

Rey: <Which was heartbreaking>

Rey: <And then, a million years later I learned that he was into me all along, but he thought it wouldn’t work between us because I was taller than him>

Rey: <(Which, btw: it totally wouldn’t have worked out, but for completely different reasons)>

Rey: <And he ended up dating this girl Vanessa from two grades below, only because she was shorter>

Rey: <Or maybe he loved her all along. They do have two kids, now—I have no idea. But you see the point of what I’m saying.>

 

There is a pause, a pause that stretches just enough for Rey to fully realizes the extent of her blathering, and the implication that he might even remotely be interested in her, and—all of a sudden, she is sure that she has driven him away forever. Shit.

Then:

 

2186: <I don’t think I’m shorter than you.>

 

Rey feels relief—not because of his height, which she cares nothing about, but that he hasn’t logged after her verbal diarrhea.

 

Rey: <Okay>

Rey: <But just so you know>

Rey: <You seem like a great guy, and I… wouldn’t care. How you look. I really don’t.>

Rey: <Anyway. I’m going home. Which is good, but also sad, because I’ll miss talking to you this weekend. So… yeah.>

Rey: <I’ll be thinking of you while I finish the Cheetos that I stole from the break room and re-watch Predator.>

2186: <4155096995>

Rey: <What is that?>

2186: <My cell number>

 

Rey’s heart skips a beat.

 

 

Rey: <If you think about it.>

Rey: <Predator is a misnomer.>

4155096995: <Why?>

Rey: <Because he’s not hunting for survival.>

Rey: <Just for fun.>

Rey: <He’s basically a sport hunter.>

4155096995: <Mm. True.>

4155096995: <Sport Hunter would have been a terrible title though>

Rey: <Good point.>

Rey: <Wait>

Rey: <Stop the movie so we don’t unsync>

Rey: <I wanna take off my bra>

 

Rey maneuvers herself out of her bra and throws it on the armrest, grabbing a blanket and settling more comfortably on the couch. When her phone is in her hand again, she finds an unread text.

 

4155096995: <As in… you are naked, now?>

Rey: <No—just more comfortable>

4155096995: <Ah>

Rey: <It’s a thing women do at home. Taking off their bra at night.>

 

Rey entertains the thought of mentioning that she has very little cleavage to speak of, and that she could happily live her entire life without a bra—just in case he’s getting expectations—but then tosses the idea. Still, he clearly didn’t lie when he said that he was a dude. Or that he wasn’t married.

 

4155096995: <So… What are you wearing?>

Rey: <Lol>

Rey: <Good one, but this is more like a 90s porn cliche, I think>

4155096995: <No.>

Rey: <Oh. 80s? Were there cell phones in the 80s?>

4155096995: <No, I meant… I am actually interested. In what you are wearing.>

4155096995: <If you want to tell me>

 

Rey almost drops her phone into her lap. Did he—? Is it—? It seems like he’s asking if she… But maybe he’s just curious about what she’s wearing. Maybe his dream is to be a fashion stylist. Maybe clothes are a big passion of his, and—

 

4155096995: <Forget about it. Let’s finish watching the movie.>

 

Or maybe they’re not. Maybe he doesn’t give a damn about clothes, and he’s trying to ask her if she…

 

Rey: <No!>

Rey: <I… No.>

Rey: <Maybe I want to tell you.>

 

Suddenly there is a lump in her throat, and Rey finds that she can’t quite swallow. There is a glass of fresh water on the coffee table not a foot from her, but she can’t bring herself to reach for it. Her nerve endings have mass-migrated to the fingertips of the hand that is currently clutching her phone. She cannot imagine letting go of it—ever.

 

4155096995: <Do you?>

Rey: <Maybe I do.>

Rey: <Maybe I just don’t know how to.>

Rey: <Because I’ve never done anything like this.>

 

There is a long pause, in which three dots dance at the bottom of the screen—in which Rey tries and fail to imagine what he’s doing, what he’s thinking, what he’s expecting. It’s next to impossible without knowing who he is, what he looks like, where he lives. Is he getting hard? Because Rey certainly feels wet. Sopping.

 

4155096995: <I can teach you.>

4155096995: <I can teach you how to be a good girl.>

4155096995: <Would you like that?>

 

Rey nods. And nods again, even more enthusiastically. And then she realizes that he cannot possibly see her.

 

Rey: <Yes. Yes, please.>

4155096995: <Please, what?>

 

Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.

 

Rey: <Please, daddy.>

4155096995: <There’s a good girl.>

 

 

Rey usually brings herself off with quick, gentle strokes that apply an increasingly direct pressure on her clit. She would have tonight, too, but he told her not to. Instead, he had her keep her panties on, and only let her touch herself through the soggy wet cotton.

It feels like it’s someone else’s fingers, doesn’t it? he asked. It’s like I’m the one who’s making you come? Right, baby girl?

You are, she wanted to say, but couldn’t. One hand is holding her phone, the other is—yeah. No typing for her tonight. You really are.

 

4155096995: <If I were there>

4155096995: <I would love to kiss your cunt>

4155096995: <I would lick you for hours every day. The way a good girl like you deserves.>

4155096995: <And then I’d fuck my hard cock inside you>

4155096995: <Unless you’re too tight and too swollen>

4155096995: <Then I’d just have you suck the come out of me>

4155096995: <To watch how pretty you are as you swallow it>

 

Rey arches her back, and comes with a whimper that he’ll never hear.

 

 

She is still blushing on Monday morning, when she gets off the subway. When she orders a latte with her go-to fake name (Mary) so that the barista won’t butcher its spelling, when she makes her way to her cubicle, when she pulls up the cybersecurity presentation that she would have probably worked on a bit over the weekend, if she hadn’t spent most of it on the phone doing… yeah.

The things that are currently making her blush.

He still won’t tell her who he is—ridiculous—so Rey makes her way through the hallways gazing around surreptitiously and wondering if he is on this floor at this very moment, making copies or answering a phone call; maybe he’s having a horrendous morning, maybe he’s running late, maybe he was roped into giving a presentation he never wanted to give, too, and that’s why today he hasn’t texted her yet. 

“...so, the encryption algorithm we’re using is already high quality, but we should supplement it with at least two more. I don’t think modernizing the IPSec would be too time consuming.”

Really, it doesn’t even faze her, that Hux is basically sleeping through Rey’s talk—while managing to sit perfectly straight in his chair, he has got to have a broom shoved up his arse—or that Phasma is clearly bored out her mind, or that Solo keeps glancing away every time his eyes meet Rey’s. Normally, just the idea of talking for fifteen minutes in front of her bosses would have her hyperventilating, but today she can’t bring herself to care. Rey is happy. Rey got laid (well, sort of).  And if he likes her—and he said he does—who cares if Ben Solo finds all of her ideas stupid or even yells at her?

Rey smiles, and clicks through to her summary slide. “In conclusion, network encryption and termination of access credentials of former employees are our main weaknesses at the moment—but we could easily improve on both counts.”

She put a small picture of Sarah Connors saying ‘You’re terminated’ (sans the ‘Fucker’) at the bottom of the slide. Probably not her most appropriate idea, considering her audience, but hey. Life is sad and dreary as it is.

Poe, the only person who has been nodding encouragingly throughout her talk, laughs and sits back in his chair. “This was great, Rey, thank you. Um, is that—is that the chick from RoboCop?”

Rey turns to him, horrified. “It’s Terminator!”

It comes out louder and more indignant that she’d planned, and it takes her a moment to realize that’s because she didn’t speak alone. At the head of the table, Ben Solo is sporting an identically affronted expression, staring at Poe with—well, with the contempt he deserves, since he just mixed up RoboCop and Terminator. Another 80s movies fan, clearly. There seems to be an epidemic of sorts out here, recently. Where have all these people been her whole life, when everyone was calling Rey a nerd, she has no idea, but—

Oh.

Oh.

Rey’s eyes meet Solo’s, and—It can’t be. It has to be a coincidence, because he is nice and kind and funny, and Ben Solo is not. Ben Solo is the type of person who doesn’t even know that people like Rey exist, and he probably brushes his teeth in the shower, and she once heard a rumor that he doesn’t like puppies, and no. No. Except that he’s looking at her strangely now, like he’s realized that he inadvertently revealed something, a twinge of worry and guilt in his eyes, and—

Two seconds go by, three, and then Solo averts his gaze from hers. A confirmation, if she ever needed one.

Oh, shit.

 

 

She’s halfway through drafting her resignation letter when she gets the email. From him.

It’s not a text to her phone, nor a message through the company software. A simple Come see me in my office at your earliest convenience, sent from Ben-Solo@FirstOrder.org to Sanders, Rey (Staff, IT).

No way I’m going, she thinks, shutting down her email app with the most aggressive mouse click her index finger can manage.

“And if I’m going, it’s only to tell him that he’s the worst person on the face of the bloody planet and to murder him in his stupid office,” she mutters to herself like a lunatic as she makes her way to the top floor.

“I’m here to see Mr. Solo,” she basically shouts at his PA, who just smiles back with the polite expression of someone who’s dead inside.

“He’s been waiting for you. You can go right in.”

The view from the wall-sized windows in his office is so beautiful, it makes Rey want to stab him with her nail file even more. Not to mention the fact that he is giving her his colossal, giant back and gazing outside pensively, like this is a scene from goddamn Fifty Shades of Grey, and God.

God. Fuck her miserable, miserable life.

He is a bastard, and she thought she had a huge crush on him, and he’s probably going to be a super-dick about everything that happened between them, and Rey is going to have to ask around and find someone who can help her make a voodoo doll of him, and then spend a few hours cutting it into pieces with an axe that she’ll forge out of the fires of her fury.

Except that when he turns around there is an anxious expression on his face, and his first words to her end up being something that... is not exactly uber-villain worthy.

“Are you mad?” He sounds worried. He sounds… not like a dick, not at all. It throws her off.

Yes. Yes. Yes, of course she’s mad. So mad that she’s not even going to dignify the question with an answer.

“You knew, right?”

“Knew what?”

“That I was… me.”

He nods. An hour ago, when he took a seat in front of her in that conference room, Rey had known (albeit in an oddly detached way) that he was an attractive man. Still, she would have rather sat through a three-hour documentary on cane toads than engage in anything even remotely resembling flirting with him.

Then again: one hour ago she’d had no idea that they’d already kind-of-sort-of had sex.

“All along?”

He nods again. “I have access to… everything. Of course.” He says it in a weirdly apologetic voice, almost like he's sorry that this is his company. 

“Was it—were you checking on me? Is this some kind of… test? An elaborate prank? An Undercover Boss thing? Because let me tell you, I

No! No, not at all. It was… It was not…” He shrugs, looking tired and worried, and then walks away from the window and closer to Rey. He really is big. Definitely not shorter than she is. Ha. “It was not premeditated.”

“So you—you lied to me. You kept on messaging me it even though you knew who I was—”

“Because.”

“What?”

Because I knew who you were.”

The way he's staring at her is earnest and bare, and—Rey is still mad, very mad. It's possible, though, that her anger gets just a little thinner. Mostly diluted with lots of confusion.

“You mean... From before?”

He shuts his eyes tight and nods, like he can’t bear to admit it. Rey—she truly has no clue what's going on, now.

“As in, you… knew that I existed?” Did you like me? She almost wants to ask, but it seems like too much. Way too big a leap of logic. There is no way he had noticed her, not like that.

He huffs out a silent laugh. “You have no idea. It’s like—when I looked up the contact list and saw that it was you who sent the text…” He wipes a hand down his face. “Things like this—people like you, they don’t want anything to do with people like me. Usually.”

It's as if, all of a sudden, an odd shift occurs between the two of them. He is still her boss, still a douchebag who kept his identity hidden for weeks, still has a huge amount of power over her—except that Rey feels like she is the one holding a huge chunk of that power, now.

It really doesn’t matter. She should stay mad at him, since he has lied to her—well, he hasn’t technically lied to her, but omission counts, thank you very much. She is mad. But this, all of this—it's oddly intoxicating, and maybe not as bad as Rey initially thought, and Ben... He does looks like he’s struggling with all of it.

So.

Rey smiles, just a tiny bit. “You mean, girls who work for you don’t randomly slide into your DMs and call you daddy?”

Ben exhales a laugh. “Yeah. That. At least, not girls that I…” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. If I had told you who I was it would have become complicated, and with you not knowing it was all so…” He looks around, searching for the word. “Simple.”

It really was. Wonderfully, deliciously simple. And other things, too.

“Are you going to fire me?

“What? No. Not at all. I think you’re brilliant and the best at your job and appallingly underutilized and—” He pauses for a moment. Takes one deep breath, and then exhales. “Amazing.”

Rey feels her legs move her forward, right into him, without having told them to. Something weird is happening to her. Neuroscientists will surely write papers about her motor system, one day.

“Amazing?”

 "I..." He swallows. "Yeah." 

Rey nods once, firmly. Making her decision. “Well. Thank you.” Her right hand is brushing his left. Initially little more than an accidental touch, but then his fingers extend towards hers, and the contact gains a bit of purpose. It gives Rey a boost of courage. “Daddy.”

Crazy. She’s said it, and this is crazy. Even for her. Even for Ben, based on how his eyes widen. “You don’t have to—”

“But what if I wanted to?”

“God, Rey. If you did…” His Adam’s apple bobs. “If you did, you’d be such a good girl.”

 

 

The glass is cold under the palms of her hands, but behind her Ben is hotter than sunlight—and up close, the view from the window is even better.

Indecisive, she thinks he might be. He wanted to fuck her from behind, but doesn’t seem to be able to stop kissing her. He insisted on taking off all her clothes, but then left her panties on and just shoved them to the side before pushing inside. He keeps pulling his huge cock out—but only halfway; then he jams it in again, pressing against all of Rey’s spots, like he can’t stand not being inside her, but he also needs the friction.

“Is this—?”

“Don’t stop. Please.”

There is a place he’s discovered inside her—it’s too good to bear. It has her arching her back, nipples pressing against the icy glass, and begging him for something, though she doesn’t quite know what. Maybe she’s babbling. Maybe she tells him Please, please, daddy, and implores him to come in her, and sinks her teeth in the fleshy part of his hand when he hugs her tighter to himself. Maybe the pressure makes her stupid—sends her out of her mind until she comes so many times that her cries get looser and looser.

“God. You’re such a good little girl,” he says into the shell of her ear. He sounds incredulous from it—from the pleasure of doing this. With her. Its humbling, being wanted so much. “With such a good, tight cunt. Aren’t you?”

Rey—she had no idea. She nods drowsily, and bites back a moan as his fingers slide to her clit.

 

 

She bites into her lower lip. And then taps her fingers over the hard surface of her desk. And then takes a deep breath, and forces herself to just go ahead and do it.

 

Rey: <Btw>

Rey: <I know it’s been months by now>

Rey: <And I should have gotten around to this way sooner>

Rey: <But I’ve been meaning to tell you:>

Rey: <That you’re pretty amazing, too.>

 

There. Done. She’s said it, and now—

 

2187:  <Rey?>

2187:  <What are you talking about.>

2187:  <Are you having a stroke?>