16. Chapter 16

Rey takes off the invisibility cloak, beneath which she's still wearing her uniform minus the school tie and black outer robes that she'd left behind at the dormitory. It occurs to her that she and Solo match— him in his charcoal gray suit and white shirt, her in her dark gray skirt and white blouse. His tie is a red so dark it's almost black, like wine, and the expression on his face as he surveys the Room of Hidden Things is nothing short of marveling.

She watches his widened dark eyes roam from one ceiling-high tower of odds and ends to the next, illuminated by a plethora of flickering torches hung on the walls. His lips are parted slightly as he takes in the sight of hundreds of years' worth of lost treasure and forgotten junk, each one a remnant left behind by somebody who had walked the halls of Hogwarts and called it home. Irrevocable proof that the castle had been lived in, that it had served as shelter for generations upon generations of witches and wizards in the United Kingdom.

The wonder softens Ben Solo's features. Makes him look boyish in the dust-flecked, gilded light.

"How old are you?" It's a question that emerges from between Rey's lips almost without her knowing.

He hesitates for several long moments. When he finally replies, his tone verges on combative. "Twenty-eight."

He says it like he thinks it might be a deal-breaker, and perhaps it should be.

But it isn't.

Not to her.

"I actually thought you were older," Rey admits.

"I'm old before my time, certainly," Solo quips, another one of those wry smirks of his tugging at the corner of his mouth for a fleeting heartbeat before he turns solemn once more. "But it's still a difference of ten years, Rey."

She shrugs. She doesn't care. Not really.

In fact, she suspects that she might kind of like it. He's not one of those playground bullies who'd teased her mercilessly in her childhood, and he's not a gangly and overly boisterous teenager now. He's no bumbling schoolboy.

He's a man.

And if she's being completely honest with herself, that's part of what makes her gravitate to him like a moth to a flame.

Solo had relaxed just the tiniest bit at her shrug. He ventures down an aisle of mostly books to one side, contraband items to the other. "How did you find this place?"

"The house-elves told me about it," Rey says, trailing after him. "The room transmutes itself into whatever you want, as long as you concentrate and you try to be as specific as possible. I first happened upon this configuration when I needed somewhere to be alone. Where no one would find me."

He is silent, turning from one towering pile to the next, head tilted back in an effort to assess the full scale of the chamber and its myriad objects.

She smiles. "You're impressed, aren't you, professor?"

"It's interesting," he concedes in an excruciatingly polite tone of voice, disappearing around the corner.

She rolls her eyes even as she quickens her steps in order to catch up. Would it kill him to show normal human emotions for once?

The next aisle that she turns into is one that she hasn't fully explored before. He's nowhere in sight but she can hear him moving about behind a row of assorted knickknacks. "You must have had rooms like these at Ilvermorny as well," she muses, perusing a teapot covered in symbols that she recognizes as the runes for good health, happy home, and— strangely enough— mice.

"I am not aware of a room that possessed the capacity to attune to the needs of its inhabitants," comes Solo's reply, "but there's one that can teleport you to any other room in the world that you desire, as long as that room has a door."

"Sounds like a security breach waiting to happen."

"You couldn't actually leave the room to access the rest of whatever building it was in." He sounds gradually farther away, like he's walking down the aisle beside hers. Rey walks as well, following his voice, keeping pace with him. "And you couldn't take anything or anyone out of it when you went back into the castle."

"Where'd you get off to then, mostly?"

"Home." He sounds vaguely wistful. "I scared the crap out of my dad the first time I used the room to enter his study. He thought I'd run away from school— that, despite being only fourteen, I'd learned how to Apparate. Or, as he calls it, to Abra kadabra. He never remembers the correct terms for a lot of wizarding things."

Rey laughs, utterly charmed by this story. Shyly offering one of her own. "For months after arriving at Hogwarts I thought it was called the Flu Network, as in influenza. It seemed right because I sneezed out the powder the first time, so I never questioned it."

There is a faint huff from behind precariously stacked piles of tarnished goblets and candelabras. She supposes that it could feasibly be a chuckle.

"I didn't know you were Muggleborn," Solo remarks.

"I am."

"Your parents' reactions the day you got your letter must have been priceless."

All of a sudden, Rey is very glad that she and Solo are obscured from each other's line of sight.

She can be a more effective liar when he's not looking at her.

"Priceless, indeed," she says, "but they came around eventually." There's no way she's telling him the truth tonight— or any other night, if she can help it. She's never wanted anyone's pity and she won't be able to stomach his in particular. She changes the subject as quick as a flash. "Are you going home for winter break?"

"No. It's not yet advisable."

Of course not. He's here because he has to lay low for a while— he'd told her so. Rey inwardly curses herself for her tactlessness but, as is always the case, the words barrel out of her before she can stop them. "Do you miss America?"

"I miss my family," Solo carefully replies. She hears his footsteps drifting ahead, quick and light like he's taking long strides, and she runs to catch up, turning the corner as soon as she reaches the end of the aisle and suddenly he is there, looming over her beside a mountain of Fanged Frisbees and Grow-Your-Own-Warts kits, his dark eyes shining in the torchlight.

"However," he continues, all husky and low, "I do believe that Britain might be growing on me."

And he kisses her. And the world stops.

She rises almost to the tips of her toes, looping her arms around his neck. His hands roam down her back with a greedy, all-encompassing kind of hunger, one hand slipping under her skirt to squeeze the bare cheeks of her ass. She moans into his mouth and he deepens the kiss in response, his movements growing more frantic, his free arm clamping around her waist to hold her closer to him as his palm curves down her ass so that the tips of his fingers press flat against the contours of her sex.

Oh, how she squirms at that touch. She's thought about this ever since she left his classroom on wobbly legs twelve hours ago.

"Fuck me, Rey, how are you already so wet?" Solo demands as he starts kissing her neck. As he starts feeling her up in earnest. He sounds absolutely bowled over and half-mad with want.

There can be no room for embarrassment on her part when she knows she's the one making him sound like that.

"I— I've been wet all day," Rey gasps out as he dips a finger inside her. She clutches at his broad shoulders to avoid collapsing to the floor, sparks of pleasure dancing behind her eyes. "I even touched myself in a supply closet. After Potions class. Got off thinking about you—"

"Shit." He trembles against her. It's not unlike an oak tree withstanding a mighty gale. Another finger surges forward to play with her clit and she arches into him with a soft cry. "I can't believe you," he mutters darkly against the soft skin of her neck. "Goddamn minx."

"Only for you, sir."

Merlin, the things she says when she's with him.

With a growl, Solo slips his finger out of her and backs her up against the nearest stone pillar. He goes for her buttons, coming this close to ripping them away as he nibbles at the column of her throat.

"No hickeys," she has the presence of mind to tell him. They're bound to be hard to hide, considering that she always wears her hair up.

"I'll leave them on your tits," he promises. "And your thighs."

How is she not bursting into flames right this instant? Before she can figure that out, he's making good on his word, sucking a bruise into the exposed swell of her left breast, right above the cup of what is thankfully the plain white bra devoid of any silly patterns that she'd elected to wear today.

It's difficult to shrug out of her unfastened blouse when all she wants to do is revel in the ministrations of his wicked mouth, but she manages. It drops to the floor at their feet and is soon followed by the suit jacket that she helps him take off. She's a slave to instinct now, they both are, she's wrestling his tie off of him and he's undoing the clasps of her bra as he covers her chest in wisteria-colored marks in the shape of his teeth. How like an animal she sounds when he takes her nipple between his lips, when he wedges a muscular thigh between her much smaller ones.

"Professor—" She rubs herself over the woolen fabric of his trousers. It's a new sensation, it is rough and electric, it winnows her voice into the most hushed and strangled of whispers— "oh, God—"

"I still think about the night you came like this." His words are broken against her skin. "Drove me crazy, how you came just like that— drives me crazy still, how you're always so ready and so wet under that short little skirt—"

He sucks on her nipple hard enough that she utters a hoarse shout, and then he—

— doesn't stop, and she's twisting her fingers into his hair and her hips are bucking off of the pillar until she finds the spot, just the right spot, just the right angle, to rub against and grind down on and—

— and in hindsight, the orgasm shouldn't have taken her by surprise. That night in the Forbidden Forest had proven her capable of this kind of hair-trigger release, and despite that furtive interlude in the supply closet where she'd taken matters into her own hands, the whole day had been spent in a state of constant, low-grade arousal. Of course she'd already been on the edge.

But still her eyes widen. Still her lips part as shallow ripples of pleasure course through her system and she gushes all over his trousers, and he's straightening up with a groan and kissing her hard on the mouth, his hands slipping between their bodies to fondle her bare breasts.

"You're so good at coming," he rasps, thumbing at her nipples. "So good at everything, really..."

The praise makes her throb. She can no longer stay on her feet, everything inside her is all dizziness and warmth and a languid, post-climax sort of yearning that's gradually ratcheting up in intensity with each caress that he bestows.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rey catches sight of a familiar lumpy couch, shoved in between a coffee table missing one leg and a wardrobe with its door loose on its hinges. She knows from having sat there before that nothing's wrong with the couch— it's even steered clear of the dust and grime of ages with some kind of warding enchantment. Its only flaw is that it is supremely horrid, a violet-and-green tartan monstrosity.

It's better than nothing.

Rey calls Solo's attention, nodding towards the couch. He scoops her up into his arms, carrying her as one would a bride— although the whimsical illusion is ruined by the fact that she's topless and he kisses her with so much tongue as he stumbles forward, not stopping for breath until he deposits her gently onto the cushions.

Right as she wonders how on earth they're going to fit, there is an almighty creaking noise as the couch grows to twice its original length and width.

Solo blinks, looking intrigued. "Do you think the couch has an automatic expansion charm built in, or is it part of the room's magic, giving us what we require?"

"I don't care right now," Rey says impatiently, lying back on the couch. Spreading her thighs without him having to ask. "Just come here."

"So bossy," he hums, kneeling between her legs. He sounds almost fond of her.

Their gazes lock as he works on the buttons of his crisp white shirt. The way his fingers fumble with such an ordinary task is the only indication that he's echoing some of the nervousness that she feels. And she doesn't notice when his shirt drops to the floor— doesn't notice anything else in the room, because her universe narrows down to him and him alone.

More specifically, to the sight of his naked torso.

Rey had always known that Solo would be massive. His blazers and coats and suit jackets and dress shirts had done nothing to hide that.

But she hadn't been prepared for just how much of his chest there is. The wide and pale and finely formed expanse of it, flecked with a light dusting of moles and freckles here and there. She hadn't been prepared for the sheer broadness of his shoulders when they weren't hidden from view. Or for the exquisite definition of his arms. Or for the chiseled musculature of his abdomen. Or for how all of this tapers into a trim waist and lean hips and sturdy thighs and long, long legs.

Rey's breath hitches in her throat as she stares up at him. Golden torchlight splinters through the messy waves of his dark hair. His eyes in this shadow-stained atmosphere are very nearly black— black and burning down upon her like they're a fiery night sky and she's falling into their depths.

He looks like an avenging angel, his body carved from marble.

He is almost thrice her size.

"We can stop at any time," he says quietly.

She shakes her head, mouth dry. "I don't want to stop."

Solo unbuckles his belt in the same clumsy, trembling manner with which he'd unbuttoned his shirt. She can see his erection straining against the confines of his trousers. I did that, she thinks, her mind a whirl. I made him that hard.

He doesn't remove his trousers yet, though. Instead, those great big fingers of his hook into the waistband of her skirt, rolling it down. She lifts her hips off of the cushions in order to assist, and soon her skirt has fallen to the wayside along with her shoes and her inhibitions and his eyes are devouring the sight of her laid bare before him, save for—

"Do you mind keeping your knee socks on?" Solo asks. The half-smile that he cracks is entrancing— mischievous, yet with a trace of bashfulness. "It's just— it looks really hot, Rey."

Rey's socks are old and school-issued. A lighter gray than her skirt, each one emblazoned at the cuff with a knitted crest of Gryffindor House— a golden lion roaring on a field of scarlet. After years of wear and tear and so many washes, the crests have frayed at the edges and there are visible stitches where Rey's had to sew up the holes whenever she got tired of recasting her mending charms. She knows for a fact that these tattered socks of hers are the farthest thing from sexy, and yet—

— and yet it's so easy to believe Professor Solo when he's looking at her like she's the only girl to ever exist.

So she nods, and his smile widens, and she thinks that she would do anything, would say yes to anything, as long as he keeps smiling at her like that.

He unzips his trousers and then takes them off, along with his briefs. She can't suppress a shuddery intake of breath upon seeing him naked for the first time— he is just so powerfully built, his thighs like tree trunks, his skin as smooth and as pale as ivory. It's very nearly frightening how strong he looks, but in the same vein it's the sheer breadth of him that incites in her a kind of desire that she thinks must have also been felt by those who wanted to be conquerors. Those who crossed oceans and scaled mountains just so they would know that they were capable of it.

Her gaze flickers to his cock, springing up from a thatch of wiry dark hair— immaculately groomed, of course, just like the rest of him. And perhaps it's her imagination playing tricks on her but his erection somehow looks bigger than she remembers.

She wants to taste him. Wants to run her tongue all over that silky-looking skin.

But before she can get around to doing so— to asking him if she can— he bows his head, sealing his mouth over a sensitive spot on the inside of her thigh.

That's right, she remembers as she gasps and writhes, he'd promised to leave hickeys there. To mark her up. His teeth dig into her pliant flesh, the delightfully sharp sensation followed by the more drawn out pleasure of him sucking gently, then soothing the sting with a swirl of his velvety tongue before he moves on to a new spot and begins again.

The next few minutes are the most agonizing of Rey's life. Solo leaves a trail of bruises along her inner thighs to match the ones he'd strewn all over her breasts, but his mouth never once wanders to where she needs him. After a while, she tries to buck her hips in wordless request, but he flattens one huge palm across her stomach, pushing her back down. Commanding her to be still.

"Patience, Miss Niima."

They're going to have to sanitize the couch afterwards, with how much she's dripping all over it. Practically soaking the upholstery through. "Professor Solo," she whines, "please just..."

She leaves the sentence unfinished, hoping he'll catch her drift.

"Hmm?" he queries, nibbling at her thigh.

And then she remembers that he likes it when she asks for what she wants.

"Please lick my pussy, sir." The words are hushed. Frighteningly frail. Saying them out loud feels like the sweetest kind of surrender.

He rewards her with the lightest stroke of two of his fingers along her front walls.

She closes her eyes. "I want you to use your mouth on me," she continues hoarsely. As if in response, those same fingers slide up and onto her tiny bundle of nerves, assuaging its need for touch with feather-soft caresses. "Want to come on your tongue again," she moans, encouraged, throwing her head back. "Please, sir, I've been thinking about you all day, I've been so hot for it— please eat me out, professor, I—" He buries his head between her thighs without warning, his tongue flicking at her clit— "oh," Rey cries out, eyes flying wide open as the world swims before her vision.

As Solo laps at her, her fingers tangle in his hair. Her ankles cross at his back, the sock-clad soles of her feet pushing into hard muscle. She thrusts against his mouth, and his tongue dances and teases and glides and—

— and she is coming.

For the fourth time that day.

It's not very often that Rey thinks her life is amazing.

But, in this moment, it is.

When Solo lifts his head from her cunt, Rey smiles up at him. A soft, languid kind of smile. She's utterly dazed in the afterglow.

He blinks, looking mystified. Looking like he's never seen her before.

"What is it?" she prompts when her head has cleared enough for her to speak.

"You, ah—" He clears his throat. "You have a nice smile."

Her heart skips a beat. "So do you."

A flush of pink creeps onto his cheekbones. He wraps a hand around the base of his shaft, pumping in long, slow strokes as he gazes down at her. The sight of him touching himself, with his pupils dilated with arousal and his lips and jaw smeared wet with her release, makes Rey feel bold. Invincible.

"Are you going to fuck me now?" she blurts out.

"If you still want me to," he rumbles.

Her eyes hold his, and she nods. Nervousness and excitement fluttering in the pit of her stomach in equal measure.

Solo's free hand darts out to the side. It's not long before his blackthorn wand flies into his palm from where his suit jacket lies crumpled on the floor.

It's an awesome, carefully controlled display of wandless magic, and Rey's eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. "Okay, you have got to teach me how to do that."

"We will discuss wandless magic in class early next year." Solo's lips twitch. "I'm sure you'll blow us all away, as per usual."

She can't help but preen at the compliment. It's not something she can savor for very long, however, because he's soon running the tip of the blackthorn wand over her bare abdomen.

"Before anything else, I need to cast a contraceptive charm," he explains. "Is that all right?"

She nearly giggles at how... formal he sounds. Considering that they're both nude and he's kneeling between her legs, his cock already dribbling a bead of precome. She knows about such charms, and there are potions, too; two terms ago, a very poker-faced Madame Kalonia had given the talk to the fifth years— it had been an ordeal for all parties involved.

Rey quickly sobers up once she realizes that the thought of contraception hadn't even crossed her mind the whole day.

She feels a rush of gratitude— gratitude that Solo is responsible, and caring in his own way.

"It's not going to hurt," he says, mistaking the cause of her hesitation.

"I know." She settles back, allowing her body to relax as she stares up at the cavernous ceiling. "Go on, then."

The blackthorn wood is smooth and faintly vibrating with magic as it skates over her abdomen, guided by the deft, steady motions of Solo's wrist. It is rune-like, the pattern that he traces on her skin. It is all warmth and static, the sensation that blossoms inside her and is echoed in her core.

When he's done, Solo sets the wand down on the floor, atop Rey's discarded skirt. He then crawls up her body, pressing his lips to hers in a kiss that is deep and searching and oddly gentle. He covers her as completely as she imagined he would. In all his broadness, he is the roof of her world.

He props himself up on one elbow, conscientiously keeping his weight off of her, reaching downwards with his free hand so he can... adjust or whatever, she doesn't really have a clear reference that she can picture out. She does experience a flicker of hesitation then, but his fingers are curled at her temple and she is safe and small beneath him, and she's wanted this from the moment she first laid eyes on him in the Great Hall.

Life has never seen fit to give her the things she wants.

Until now.

"Ready?" Solo asks, gravel-voiced and, oh, so patient, in a way that he never is with anyone else.

"Yes, sir," Rey breathes.