
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7954000.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Star_Wars_Episode_VII:_The_Force_Awakens_(2015)
  Relationship:
      Kylo_Ren/Rey, Hux/Kylo_Ren, Poe_Dameron/Rey, (secondary)
  Character:
      Ben_Solo_|_Kylo_Ren, Rey_(Star_Wars), Leia_Organa, Armitage_Hux, Poe
      Dameron, Finn_(Star_Wars)
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Modern_Setting, Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Cousin
      Incest, yup, Kylo_Ren_and_Rey_Are_Related, meet_me_in_hell, Pining,
      Masturbation, Alternate_Universe_-_High_School, Implied/Referenced_Rape/
      Non-con, Mating_Cycles/In_Heat, First_Time
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-09-04 Completed: 2016-11-09 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 5337
****** Lush ******
by brittlelimbs
Summary
     Ben Solo pops his knot on an overcast April afternoon.
Notes
     debated on posting this for a while, but fuck it. there are worse
     things in the world.
     title inspired by my favorite girl.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
Ben Solo pops his knot on an overcast April afternoon.
 
He'd felt peculiar all day; making it through 7th period Lit without falling
asleep at his desk was already hard enough as is, slumped in the back of the
class with the rest of the fuck-ups. The losers. The sorta-kinda technical-
school stoners, floating in their pungent cloud; his crowd.
He’d been hunched over at the too-small surface of his too-small desk, huffing
, feeling itchy and touchy--more so than usual-- for no explicable reason at
all. A whining in his blood, like his body was rainy season come early,
circulatory system all full-up with cicadas.
The fuck .
He cuffed one wrist with his hand, rubbing, as the teacher waxed poetic about
farmers or some shit, trying to suss out why his skin was laced too tight. The
neck of the girl in front of him bobbed gently. Her hair was blonde and
brittle, scooped up into a high ponytail, and there was acne creeping up from
beneath the collar of her shirt like studded, angry stars.
 
And there was so much motion to it,  read the teacher, millions upon millions
of miles away.  The country seemed, somehow, to be running.
 
The girl wrote something in her notebook. Ben, as if waking, realized he could
smell her shampoo.
 
Strange. He teeth clacked together, trap-tight, and when he swallowed he was
suddenly over-aware of his tongue lolling in his mouth, the acrid tang of his
spit. He shivered in his hoodie, rolling up one sleeve to scratch the tender
skin at the crook of his elbow, pluck the vain. His nails were too long.
His shoes were too small.
His head was too full of fog to track a lesson on a book he hasn't read in a
class he didn't care about, a game of hooky he should've played but hadn't. He
was sick, he thought, wanting to laugh; how often Mom had roused his ass for
school despite the pled excuse of flu or fever, barking him awake as she flew
out the door to her shiny company car. No hand on his forehead needed. She knew
his tells.
On those mornings, the tough ones, where the world seemed over-big to Ben’s
middle school self, Rey would come play nurse. Backpack slung over one
shoulder, shirt buttoned one buttonhole off so her whole frame looked crooked,
offering soft comfort in the fleeting, secret window before her bus came to
take her to the local elementary school.  
Ben always pulled up the covers over his head when he heard her padding down
the hall, only because he knew she’d pull them down again; she’d leap, tiny and
stealthy as a cat, into the little lapped well of the covers beside his body
and peel away his batman duvet. Her kisses were hot, quick, all over his
forehead and cheeks and chin, lips, sometimes, if she missed, and as sweet as
the day is long.
You're gonna be late , he'd say, laughing just a little as she nuzzled her face
into the crook of his neck, laying down against his side like she was made fit
to it.
Rey, serious, always:  I don't wanna walk alone .
He always pushed her off, anyways, and made her.
High school, now, and no time for things so sweet. Sophomore-senior gap,
tenuous and chafing, pressed and rubbing right up against each other as if
making to spark. Sometimes: catch.
 
Everything is too fast. He clips the short way round to the student lot once
the final bell rings, sneakers slapping loud on the shiny linoleum. Head tucked
down, jostling a few shoulders and getting a handful of shouted  hey’s  as he
push-stumbles past, too-big body uncertain and ungainly in every way, save one:
home .
 
He needs to get home, right now.
 
The wet gravel of the lot crunches under his feet. It takes him three tries to
get the key into the ignition of his junky Toyota, his hands are shaking so
badly. He knows what this is. The beast pacing in his belly is much too hot to
tell himself it's a flu, a bug, fucking  mono --it's not.
He has to pull over twice on the way home for fear of committing vehicular
manslaughter in snail-slow traffic, vision starting to go a little blurred
around the edges, hands reflexively clenching and unclenching on the wheel in
little haywire jerks.
He’s going crazy; when he gets to the hardware store at 5th and Morrison, knee
jiggling in the footwell at the stop sign, sky spitting on his windshield, he
debates the pros and cons of just going rogue, toughing out his rut-- because
that's what this is, blunt as anything-- parked on a gravel drive somewhere
outside of town. Private, almost-perfect. He thinks he still has some Gatorade
bottles in the trunk from one of Rey’s meets; he’d survive.
Dad would bite his head off, maybe, but Ben knows: anything would be better
than going home, going to  her,  like this. He shudders. The old-dread sweat
rolls down the back of his neck; He’s anticipated his rut long enough to feel
sick at the thought.
He nearly takes left-turn salvation until it occurs to him, ludicrously, that
he has nothing to slick himself with. He pulses against the rough denim of his
Levi's, already chafing, already needy.
He takes the right turn home.
 
Rey’s lounging in the living room when he stumbles in. He starts:  right .
Early release today. Shit. She boosts up, tips her head upside down to watch as
he throws the front door closed and toes off his shoes, long, brown hair
spilling down the back of the couch. He has to look away quickly; she’s
afforded him the perfect view of the lush cleavage, peeking out from the
stretched-loose neck of one of his old T-shirts.
On most days, he can deal. But today, this-- too much.
He tosses his backpack aside, trying to see through the haze, center himself on
the  thunk  of textbooks on hardwood. Calculus, Spanish, US history. No APs,
and too few; the sound is not heavy enough and rings dull, ineffectual.
“Hey,” she says, and  oh,  he realizes, dim. He should probably distract  her.
He beats away rapturous visions of her crawling into his arms to nurture and
slake with a shake of his head.
“Hey. Could you, um--” he swallows, already circumnavigating the couch on his
way to his bedroom, trying his best to look like he's not running from her.
“Could you call mom for me? I feel like shit. ”
A mortifying rivulet of sweat rolls down his jaw. He bets he looks like a
maniac, hair mussed, eyes wild, stalking around his cousin as he makes a
beeline for some kind of relief, or escape, or place that doesn't smell like
her completely (creosote and sage).
“Ben?” He hears her sit up. He can read the worry in her voice so easy, well
versed in her dialects. He glances back, Orpheus, breath held, even though she
can probably smell his rut already; damned before he’s begun.
She’s lazy-mussed and full of typical after-school-Rey lassitude. His shirt, an
old Futurama thing with Bender grinning on the chest, junior-high relic,
swallows her right up, tiny shorts barely peeking out from beneath her tucked-
in legs. A doe, folded delicately on exhausted couch cushions as if she’d
alighted there, perfect as anything. He can't meet her eyes, doesn’t want to,
then remembers, too late, as he looks long over those golden legs: everything’s
dangerous. One sock is rucked up higher than the other, mismatched and clumsy
on her slim calf, and the sight of that, only that, hits Ben harder than he
thought possible.
 
Baby girl .
 
Oh, fuck.
 
He doesn't quite  run  the rest of the way to his room, queasy on sea-sick
legs, but it's a close thing.
 
Sweaty palm on cool, slick brass: he can barely turn the knob, already
unbuttoning his fly with one hand by the time he’s through his bedroom door,
anxious for relief. His rut eats at him. Ravenous, head and heart and cock, the
last tenuous holdfasts of control utterly spent. He wouldn't stop, even if she
came in-- especially if she came in---  stop--  he quickly throws the curtains
closed and shucks free of his jeans with a grim efficiency, determined, through
the fever, to ride this out.
He flops onto the duvet, one hand starting to wrangle him free of his boxers,
the other going to his cock when it pops up against his belly, flushed and
filling.
He could cry with how good the hand on his dick feels, too much, too not-
enough. The sudden relief packs a wallop that nearly punches the air from his
heaving chest and leaves him gasping like a fish. In a moment of lurid
curiosity he presses the bunched fabric of his boxers to his nose and mouth,
taking an indulgent inhale. The scent is stronger, spicier, even to his own
nose, his alpha articulating itself beyond a doubt. His cock twitches against
his belly; he wonders how he’d smell to an omega.
How an omega smells to him.
He starts a steady, stroking rhythm. He wants to get the job done quickly. This
dissolves, fast, hand going frantic and mouth gasping open as the base of his
cock starts to prickle; this, too is new. His knot. His alphahood, his gender.
Made to fuck and fill, stick an omega tight and make them come on nothing but
his cock, bear his children.
Everything is riding right on the edge of thrilling and terrifying and Ben’s
getting gone on the feeling so, so fast. He starts to fuck his fist in earnest,
thumbing off a bead of thick precum and bringing it bravely to his lips to
taste himself, grossed-out and fascinated. He groans at the taste before he can
stop himself; bitter and fertile and strong. He’s anxious now, and he chases
his orgasm recklessly, groping out with foggy hands for fantasies to build on.
Safe ones, normal ones. Things that won't bow and break him under the weight of
their guilt. He strokes himself faster, and between the toe-curling waves of
pleasure, he grimaces, trying to think of emptying himself in Hux like this.
Brendol Hux is a thirsty little slut; the kind of omega that Ben feels like he
should be infatuated with in this context. Lithe body, pert ass, plush, cupid’s
bow lips: the works. They’d fooled around a few times this year, a blowjob or
two in the boy’s bathroom during lunch, the ordinary kind of shit he’d
allegedly put out for the half of Order High that had a dick, but nothing more.
Ben’d asked shyly if he could fuck him, next time, leaned back against the tile
wall with jelly legs and colored cheeks, the dark and shameful hope that it
might  be close enough to what he really needed, if he closed his eyes, burning
low in his belly--
Hux’s head had risen from his softening cock with a  pop , eyes too blue as he
looked up at Ben from under his lashes, sneered:
When you have a knot, find me.
 
Ben heard somewhere that he’ll scream on your cock.
 
He fantasizes, briefly, about nailing him in that same dirty bathroom stall,
his hands holding slender hips flush to his own. Thrusting with abandon and the
make-believe intent to claim this whore, this worn-used, filthy  rag  that half
of Order had come inside. Rutting Hux again and again until it took.
Ben’s hand slows on his dick, cringing at the thought. No, the hips in his grip
are much too soft and sweet for something so cruel. He imagines how strong his
fingers would look, denting into the deliciousness of that curvature, thumbs
stroking up the velveteen skin on the small of a slim, golden back.
Somewhere far away, Ben vaguely feels his hand speed up again, molten heat
between his legs burning in his palm, too far gone and falling impossibly
further.
The plunge is scorching.
He’d take her in her bed, he thinks, deliriously. Between her sheets, soft and
nubbly and printed with stupid little frogs, the ones she’s had since she
turned eight. He’d take her in the lake upstate, brisk and shivering, tiny
bikini bottoms pushed aside as she squirmed. He’d take her on a blanket, under
the relentless stars that had watched them grow up close, closer still; didn't
matter, so long as it was somewhere worthy of her perfection.
 
Because that’s what she is. Perfect. Not Hux. An attraction inevitable and
accrued over years of glimpsed, tan belly buttons, tiny slivers of flushed
skin, reaching and stretching and growing more lovely in his eyes with each
year as it passed. Mom and Dad and Uncle Luke there but peripheral entirely,
just extras shouting in the background of the fucked-up film that is his life,
secondary to her, always. Secondary to the girl who slept with her head in his
lap, bit at his heels. Who looks more like him and less like him with every
passing month, sloping lovely into to curves of her own personhood, something
Ben pines to covet.
Rey: blood of his blood.
Cousin.
His knot swells instantly as he comes, magnifying up into the tight tunnel of
his fist. Ben squeezes his eyes shut so tightly he sees stars, the impression
of her printed permanent on the backs of his lids.
He  keeps coming . He realizes that his body is looking for a receptacle, a
womb to fill; some strange, new alpha part of him is frustrated to see so much
of his seed wasted like this on his belly. The same part wants to spread it on
Rey’s skin so that she might smell like him, feed it to her mouth and cunt,
fuck her silly with it. He groans. Another hot rope nicks his chin. He gropes
around, panting, then smothers his dick with a pillow.
 
Fucked up, he is. Knot head. He half-prays that she’ll find him, curled around
himself, shivering as he rides out the best orgasm of his entire life and waits
for the next round of his rut to hit.
Ben Solo, grade-A freak, hollowed and dirty and not yet satisfied for missing
that one, heaven- forbidden piece--



Rey’s heat comes that summer, in the drowsy depths of August.
***** I Sent Flowers *****
Chapter Summary
     Rey's first heat.
     Warnings for underage sexual activity and mentions of non-con.
Chapter Notes
     listened to Black Beatles by Rae Sremmurd on repeat while writing
     this l o l
     plz dont crucify me
See the end of the chapter for more notes
They're swimming.
 
Poe and Finn look like seals way out in the lake, heads slick and dark against
the reflective chop that makes Rey squint when she tries too hard to look at
them. She plucks at the tight strap on her pink bikini top and rests her chin
further into the cradle of her sunburnt arms, whisping up the corner of the
magazine in front of her with her breathing. She wants to join them, but can't;
she’s felt a little funny all day, couldn't tell you precisely why.
They’ve been at the lake since morning. It’s the glittering tail end of a wet,
hot summer filled to brimming with boy and girls and other wonderful things,
weeks of trembling uncertainties to be tripped into and savored. Explored,
month on month. June: Rey shivers to think of the sweltering, secret day after
hurdle training when Jess Pava had hiked her little hands up under Rey’s sports
bra and felt in the shady space behind the bleachers. July: Coming home, sugar
from Finn’s papery vanilla cone still sticky on her lips, and accidentally
walking in on Ben fucking a boy in his bedroom. Russet hair, just a glimpse,
covers drawn up over the bed beneath them as if to hide the evidence of their
joining. Ben’s face was flushed and there was hair plastered to his forehead
with effort and Rey felt on fire instantly, hand clapped over her mouth and eye
at the clandestine slot between door and jamb.
 
August, now, and she hasn't stopped burning since.
 
“Hey!”
 
Poe’s voice rings out against the beach and spindly, dry pine trees all banked
around their little cove like protective hands, echoing a bit. Rey’s chin jerks
up and she sees both of them, tiny faced and nearly indistinguishable, watching
her from the water. Poe waves his arm and she waves back.
 
“We have any—left?” he asks. She can’t quite catch what he’s saying; suddenly
the sun is so strong and her heart is pounding in her head, in her throat and
ears.
 
“What?” She can feel her diaphragm pushing into the sand with the force of her
yelling.
 
“Beer!” Finn shouts, starts to make a bottle-tipped-swigging motion with one
hand as he treads water with the other, Budweiserwritten in international sign
language. “We got any left?”
 
Oh.Rey shimmies over on her belly and elbows to pop the lid of the cherry-red
cooler, still a little proud and a little embarrassed that they even brought
some to drink, the six-pack hard-swindled from the shade of the Dameron’s
garage. Her hand plunges in: two cold, glassed bottles still left, couched in
the slurry of ice half-melted ice and lime popsicles. The sudden dip in
temperature is intense, feels good, inviting her to keep her hand inside.
 
She holds up a victorious two fingers instead, icewater rolling down her wrist.
 
They hoot and swim in.
 
Rey passes her friends both their bottles once they’ve slogged ashore, biting
her chapped lips when Poe quirks a smile at her as a sweet-sly thank you. He’s
older, Ben’s year, but grew up two doors down; the Damerons had raised her as
much as anyone, fences hopped and summertimes shared together, her and Poe
somehow always getting along just peachy even as Ben drifted slow and sure away
to other things. Not-good things; Poe becoming her ever-faithful bus stop
guardian, instead, over the years. Her rock to beat against.
 
He shakes his head like a dog and Rey yelps as lakewater dapples her beach
towel and the backs of her thighs. Finn smacks his shoulder.
 
Poe pops the cap on his bottle with a clink and a hiss, tossing the opener down
on the sand. Rey wants to squirm and marvel at the ease of it: watching him tip
his head back to take a long, generous pull, water beading and running down the
column of his golden throat—that does a hell of a lot to reconcile childhood
friend withcrush. He’s beautiful. She can't deny the heat between her legs as
she watches him turn his back on her, every line of his body screaming new
alpha, legs boxed wide as if confidence flows through him naturally. As if his
cock is too big in his soaking, orange swim trunks to hang otherwise.
Rey’s stomach flips.
He’s gorgeous, but worst or maybe best of all: his long, dark hair. Grown out
enough that he's let it lick around his earlobes, clinging down the back of his
neck with lakewater and plastering his curls slick, flat. Height’s all wrong
and tan’s all wrong and the hip-slung cockiness is something hewould never be,
but the long, dark hair is rightand that's all it takes to push Rey right over
that incisive, tripwire edge.
 
Strong, wide back and jet-dark hair. Pure, wet heat.
 
Ben.
 
Rey is mewling, pressing her face deep into her forearms like the scent of
sunscreen and the red-glow rosiness of her squeezed shut eyelids can somehow
shield her her from her biology. But it can't: she can feel each ginger brush
of her tiny bikini bottoms against the wetness budding there, swimsuit material
excruciatingly shiver-smooth.
 
At once, decisively: Omega. Finn’s lips are moving. She’s Omega. Finn’s lips
are still moving. The noon-sun is too hot, he won't shut up, and it takes her a
few stupefied seconds to realize that he’s talking to her.
 
“— doin’ okay?” He’s got the bottle paused halfway to his lips, goofy-looking.
 
No, says her gut. Her endocrine system screams in agreement, all her hormones
and chemistry, the intricate internal clock ticktickticking for the very first
time with the same forcefulness it must have held within her when she first was
born. Fresh. Rey is vigorously alive, and it hurts to the point of panic. She
can smell Finn, too, in new ways she couldn't before, scented soft and sweet
like her. A sudden reminder of how he presented, last spring.
You’re O, Finn?
He asks again, and she nods anyways, looking anywhere but Poe. If she looks at
Poe she’s not entirely sure what’s going to happen. Best to hunker down, wait
this out somehow—she gulps down a terrified moan, thinking of the two cramped
hours in Finn’s tiny Volkswagen it took to get here and the two it’ll take to
get back. She’s not gonna make it.
 
“Rey?” Poe’s noticed something’s up, of course he has, plush lips paused open
with concern. He’s crept much closer, now, and Rey knows rationally that he
hardly stacks higher than her on the doorjamb of their livingroom but that
doesn’t matter because, in this epiphany, he’s so, so huge in the most
instinctual way possible. He shakes the water from his hair and he
looks—smells, fuck—like fallow soil, or a blank slate. Something half-done and
itching with the very idea of being unfinished. Rey remembers the satisfaction
of stubborn algebra problems she’s worked to completion, or the bliss of
slaking the summer humidity on the sweet slush and pulpy stick of a rocket pop.
Poe starts to reach out for the crook of her knee, looking, for all intents and
purposes, like the most pleasurable equation Rey has ever encountered, and oh,
shit. She’s literallyfucked.
Someone’s clothes are strewn beside her on the sand, and before there’s space
for breath, she’s scrambling into a tanktop and shorts, trying, clumsily, to
get more layers on before this beautiful, powerful alpha catches a lungful of
her desperation.
“Rey,” he says again. She has to wrestle through his subvocals.
“M’ fine, just gotta.”
The shorts chafe her thighs and the tank top has sand in it. It yanks at her
bun as she pulls her head through the neckhole, and she can feel hair fraying
down the back of her neck.
No time for flip-flops, no time for her bag. As Uncle Han used to say: she
needed to be twenty miles gone, yesterday.
 
The gravel bites into the soft soles of her feet as she stumbles up the draw
and towards the black copse of trees. Blessedly, her body remembers, somewhere
in its confusion, that she’s a runner, conditioned well for sprinting under the
pride of Order High’s black and red; she feels her breath rise with her pace
and her heart jumps to a manageable quickness as she starts to find a stride.
There is no red-rubberized track, her spikes are gone, and the trees greet her
with whip-slash boughs when she meets them, but she goes on. Uncertain plans to
leave or escape, insane ploys to cut free-bird and run, run forever, slip right
into the woods and past them, are skittering across her mind quick as the
shooting stars they watched the night before. The hood of Finn’s car was warm
beneath all three of them as they watched, bundled and content with their view
and their company. It was good. There’s the car now, and she could cry and the
sight: beige and ugly and reliable, parked in the middle of a tiny clearing of
matted-down grass and pine needles.
 
She passes it. She feels insane.
 
The armpits of the tank top—must be Finn’s, big blue surfer on the front—flap
around her heaving ribs as her heart beats silly with every horrific story
she’s ever read or heard, seen on TV. OMEGA RAPE CASE. OMEGA MISSING, PRESUMED
DEAD. The little printed etching in her biology textbook of a feral omega
woman, crouched low over her swollen belly, naked, hewn scraggled and raw by a
life in the Appalachians. They still find them sometimes, says the news.
Pairings that go native. She wonders if they’d find her and Poe.
 
Suddenly, she can see that future, half-hidden and lurking behind the next
thicket as she sprints through it, a thin-armed spectre cupping her belly, full
of child. Poe’s first, or second, maybe; he’ll get you knocked up tonight,
something in her cries giddily, frothing over her speed and her fear, and the
wetness grows between her legs with the truth of it. She shakes her head. This
other Rey smiles at her dreamily, filthy, pregnant, glowingly happy with the
glazed-over look of a broodmare, the raw satisfaction of being knotted till
she’s drunk and near-blind with it. Fucked up.
 
The poster child of the dropout Omgea.
 
There’s a few in every grade, Mr. Plutt always griped, the dumb ones that hit
their heat wrong and end up with a rush-job mate and a rush-job pup, or two,
before graduation—if they even get their diploma. Scandalously young and
hopelessly addicted to their alpha’s knot, pushed past point of all reason,
going belly up despite parental fury and schoolyard bullying, the cries of a
society horrified at the sight of pregnant teenagers in graduation gowns: O-
Fever. She’s heard the alphas in her class whisper about this with reverence.
The sickness of knowing nothing but the pleasure and heaviness of being bred.
Poe would keep her that way, she knows, bred, tied on the fat cock in his swim
trunks that she's only imagined but now aches to fuck, and a bead of slick
rolls down her thigh beneath her shorts before she can stop it.
Disgusting!This is her, unabashed, the suburbs stripped out and the culture
pressed clean, barely sixteen and pining with the hard-coded need to be
yielding and full. The children she’ll have with Poe are beautiful, she knows,
hair curling thick and dark against their golden cheeks, and Rey screams at the
image of them.
 
The not-Rey shushes her. Whispers a truth right into her her horror, her
revulsion, with a sick sweetness: Because they’re not Ben’s.
 
Rey screams again.
 
Her feet stub on something, hard, gouging deep in their soft flesh. She doesn't
know what she wrecked them against but it doesn't matter because she can't
really feel them, anyways. She stumbles. When Poe overtakes her in the next
split-second, the feeling of his broad body around her like something quick and
molten, all she can feel is resigned; he was never far behind her in the first
place. State contender in the 400, and she’ll never outrun this.
They hit the dirt, Poe going first, taking the hit hard on his shoulder. Rey
squeezes her eyes shut and nearly bites through her own tongue as they rattle
around for a moment, but she’s intact: where Rey runs track, Poe plays
linebacker. She is suddenly very, horrifically aware that, knothead or no, he
could snap her in two if he craved it, and the thought makes her ridiculously
wetter where his legs are tangled between hers. He could pin her without even
trying, she marvels.
He grunts.
“Rey—?” His chest is pressed against her shoulder blades and spine, both of
them heaving with exertion, and she can feel the wuff oh his breath against the
intimate inch at the nape of her neck. It feels lovely; before she can think
she’s craning her forehead into the dust, trying to give him access to bite, to
have her, to claim—
The warm weight of Poe is gone. For a moment, Rey is too surprised to roll over
and search for him.
“The fuck, man?” Finn cries, somewhere far away.
Both of their shuffling feet, cut-up and sap-sticky: she looks up, and he’s got
Poe in a hold on his shoulder and bicep, rough, like he’s handling some sort of
wild animal. Poe honest-to-God growls, and for a moment, Rey’s half-sure that
he really will go feral, damn Finn, damn her, until he takes a few staggering
steps backward, lip curling up in disgust. She can see where Poe’s gone stiff-
straight in his shorts, starting to press out at the waistband with the
insistence of his cock. He’s achingly hard for her, and that’s his arousal she
smells, isn’t it? Spicy and strong.
 
She's on her knees. She's not sure when this happened. The thatch of needles
and loam beneath her forearms is dusty and fragment as she pushes herself up,
up, and down, down, until the curve of her spine feels just right to alleviate
the deep, warm throb of her need.
 
“Rey? What the fuckare you doing!” Finn sounds like he's losing his mind, and
Rey’s entirely certain she is, too, ‘cause she's not quite sure what she’s
doing, either; her body is forming itself of its own accord, reacting, as if
electrified, to the sight scent of an aroused alpha that's nearly close enough
to touch.
She’s presenting, thinks some distanced part of her. It doesn't matter,
anymore, that it's Poe. That she's known this boy since he was five, watched
him learn to tie his shoes, then watched as he taught her how to tie her own in
turn. The boy who walked her to school with his snacks in her pockets so she
wouldn't get hungry before lunch. Who was there in every fucking place Ben
wasn't—And here she is. Tucked down coquettishly with her ass in the air,
making her virgin cunt look as appealing as possible so he’ll decide it’s the
only thing he’ll want to bury himself in for the rest of his life.
You want to be his,says the smart part, blithely observant.
You must be his,says the fevered part, dizzy and blood-hot.
No, thinks another part, that dark part, that sin. Not his to have.
“Poe,” she croaks traitorously, head hanging low between her shoulders as she
turns to find him again. She feels another pulse of warm slick well up, spill.
“Poe.”
 
Finn’s got him pinned shakily up again a pine, now, trembling against each
other, both of their eyes looking nowhere but her. Poe’s absolutely slack-jawed
at the sight. He groans, whiskey-low, and Finn has to jar him once, again, hard
enough that Rey can hear his teeth clack together.
This seems to help: Poe looks down and his eyes go wide as dinner plates, as if
noticing his own hard-on for the first time, like a baby as it becomes aware
that it can use its own hands.
 
“No,” he moans, rolling his head back and forth against the bark in abject
misery. “No, no no. She's like my little sister, dude, I swear—oh, Christ, this
is so fucked up.”
 
Something inside her that’s deep-held and brittle snaps, then, and the tears
rise, sourceless, salty and confusing. Her wetness is still trembling against
empty air; this alphadoesn’t want her. She’s ugly, or fucked up, unable to bear
children, maybe. The fever makes it hard to tell. She mewls into the dirt and
boxes her knees wider and she pops her hips up in a way that feels appealing
and natural. Surely, any alpha would know, now. Surely, somebody (Ben—yes—no—!)
will come and take her.
 
There is no way to articulate this terror. She thinks she might be crying, or
neatly falling apart, soft flesh falling from bone. Her body is doing its best,
pumping out slick and hormones and sorryscent for all it's worth, but it isn't
enough, it's stupid, it's useless—
 
Rey, Poe cries out. His voice is a wreck, hoarse with all the confusion of
their mutinous bodies, hovering too-close to tumbling over into this thing,
nothing but Finn and the dirt as a boundary them. The hate this. They need
this.
 
Rey.
 
Rey turns open her heart and looks at the guts of it. They're fevered and
tired, aching for something too wrong to articulate.
She looks inside and finds heartbreak, that that she has nothing to say.
 
Chapter End Notes
     to be continued!
     come find me @ floatin-on-bespin.tumblr.com !
End Notes
     find me @ floatin-on-bespin.tumblr.com
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