Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/14137305.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Star_Wars_Sequel_Trilogy
  Relationship:
      Ben_Solo_|_Kylo_Ren/Han_Solo, Rey/Ben_Solo_|_Kylo_Ren, Ben_Solo/Original
      Character(s)
  Character:
      Ben_Solo_|_Kylo_Ren, Rey_(Star_Wars), Han_Solo
  Additional Tags:
      Prostitution, Alien_Biology, Alien_Sex, Xenophilia, Oviposition, Father/
      Son_Incest, Half-Sibling_Incest, Pining, Underage_Drinking, Body_Horror,
      Tentacles, bad_dad_han, half_sister_rey, Crossdressing, Dubious_Consent,
      Crying, Sex_Pollen
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-03-29 Words: 5469
****** Medusa ******
by brittlelimbs
Summary
     Ben Solo's found a way of making a buck while Han drags him and his
     half-sister Rey across the galaxy. Things are going okay, until
     suddenly-- they aren't.
Notes
     HEAVY WARNINGS FOR THIS ONE FOLKS. heed the tags. ben's age is up to
     the reader, but please take care yourself if you're iffy on any of
     the tags.
     thank u so much to the people who inspired/enabled me to write this
     fuckin zany story. you know who you are.
     unbeta'd
Ben Solo nudges a shot glass across the bar top with one lazy, painted
fingertip, looking like any decent parent’s nightmare. Earrings glitter and
dangle from both earlobes (did the piercing himself in the ‘fresher of the
Falcon a few months back, pushes cheap jewelry through the holes when he goes
out and keeps his hair down the rest of the time so Han won’t ask), and his
skirt is short and tight and shiny. His sister’s, borrowed indefinitely from
her footlocker, which is chaotic enough that he hopes she just thinks it’s
heaped underneath her coveralls or something. His legs are shaved and crossed
shyly at the knee; the stubble on them’s grown out longer than he’d like but he
hasn’t had a chance to sneak off and shave them for a few days, on account of
being what Dad calls on the lam from Huttese government officials. This is the
first time in too long that he’s stepped away from his deathgrip on the console
and docked them in a town with sleaze that Ben can get constructive with.
He worries the corner of his open mouth with his tongue as he looks at the
glass cathedral of booze bottles above the bar, a bric-a-brac of labels he
can’t recognize, paranoid that he’s smeared some of his lipstick. He runs a
rinkydink operation here: no purse, no cosmetics, just a jacket laid beside his
empty glass and paper currency stuffed into the filmy, stretched-out training
bra thing he picked out of the trash compactor when his sister outgrew it a
year or two ago. It peeks out from beneath his see-through top by a little pink
margin. He’s wearing a pair of her cast off underwear, too, pilled and made
thin with wear. The girl’s undies adds flair, he thinks. At least the guys—the
things—that pick him up seem to make interested sounds when they peel them off
his body.
He likes those sounds. He’s become familiar with them.
Places like these tend to crop up around interplanetary spaceports, especially
the seedy greasy underbelly ones where the Solo family does business. All
repute attached to their name died with Mom; got even worse with Rey, young and
overcompetent in the business of swindling (Han’s cast off spawn from an affair
re-welcomed into the fold once Leia passed, more perfectly his child than Ben
will ever be).
And it dies again with Ben. Round two.
He sighs, lolling his head into one hand in a way that he’s found comes off as
cute and artfully bored, but there’s nobody around to see it. There are fewer
patrons here tonight than he’d like, and they’re mostly keeping to themselves,
nursing drinks at the fringes or sleepily gambling at holo-slot machines.
The droid tending bar sticks a dirty highball glass inside its torso to clean
it. Ben watches, considers calling the night a bust and slinking back to the
dingy hanger of the week, their home while Dad runs this job.
There’s a sweet spot with this, see. The key is to make sure the bar is
disreputable enough to not look too closely at his fake ID, which lists an age
laughably older than he actually looks, but also falls within the criteria of
the strict rules he’s made for himself: If there’re already too many human
whores hanging around, he doesn’t go in. If someone’s hawking death sticks
outside the door, he doesn’t go in. If it looks like a place where Han Solo
would edge a single booted toe over the threshold, he doesn’t go in.
This usually leaves him with a scrappy handful of screaming-neon type
establishments that serve a lot of cheap, synthetic swill and have some sort of
touristy theme, an exoticized knockoff of local culture. There’s no culture to
be found in this bar because it’s been built on a bald hunk of rock; maybe
that’s why it’s dead on what should be peak traffic hours, ostensibly. Hard to
tell in a place with no real night or day, just an endless shuffle of galactic
detritus drifting in and out at all hours on the clock. Ben had picked it
because he could decipher some of the characters on the sign, sort of, and
figured that the garishly pastel projection dancing in the window would be Dad-
repellant enough. He’s been here for half an hour with nothing to show for it
yet, milking the time by steadily buying shots of the absolute cheapest alcohol
they serve: some kind of Corellian brandy that tastes like burnt plastic and is
strong enough to make the inside of Ben’s nose burn when he sniffs it.
He’s had enough to make him a little tottery when he finally slides off his
stool to use the ‘fresher, but definitely not enough to keep him from trying to
find a john. His tolerance has skyrocketed since he started hooking, and wishes
it hadn’t. Would be much cheaper, otherwise.
The door hisses back and he encounters the grimy stalls, worn little placards
indicating the type of fixture inside. Bars like these always having a catch-
all of sorts; however you do your business, you can probably use one. He
diverts to the lone urinal on the rear wall, vaguely marveling at the mishmash
décor. A lot of fuchsia lighting and exposed concrete. Cute. He rolls up his
skirt, pushes his panties to the side, and starts to piss away one uneventful
night’s worth of credits.
There’s a flush and someone comes out of one of the stalls. Ben checks them out
through the mirror: a fish looking thing, vaguely male-humanoid--flat chested,
wearing clothing that marks him as a mercenary, maybe some sort of low-level
bounty hunter. He’s a head taller than Ben, who himself has shot up into
definitely-not-short over the past few months, and he’s intrigued on principle.
A taut pause, and then he knows the feeling’s mutual: a human dressed the way
he is can be seeking only one thing. Much of the information the fish-man needs
to know can be conveyed through the sheer amount of Ben’s pale, exposed thigh.
Ben can feel his gaze prickling on the back of his neck as he shakes himself
off and tucks his dick back up under his skirt. His boots pad silently on the
tile as he walks over to the sink, making sure to bend over at the waist just-
so as he goes to wash his hands, swaying only just a little from the brandy.
He always wears his boots when he hooks just in case he needs to run.
The fish-man whistles out a greeting, gills on his neck fanning outwards in a
yellow bloom. His eyes are double lidded and his body glows with ghostly
bioluminescence.
“Hi,” says Ben.
 
They haltingly negotiate that the fish-man will fuck him in the ass. Broken
Basic and lewd tight gestures confined by the narrow walls of the stall (which
contains a regular old toilet, anticlimactically), pay half now, half
afterwards simple enough to convey when both parties have a vested interest.
The fish-man grunts and holds up a damp wad of bills. A little below his going
rate, but fine. Better than nothing. “Protection?” Ben barks, sudden and
awkward, bracing one arm against the cool metal of the wall, not sure if it’s
the alcohol or the need to communicate that makes the words go slurry-slow. A
new question, trying to smarten himself up. He tells himself he’d turn away a
john, if they didn’t have it. Deep-space herpes might zap him straight dead on
someone’s dick—Rey would never let him live it down. The fish reaches into his
wallet and pulls out a ring-shaped device, proffering it in the other webbed
hand, and Ben supposes that it’s as good as anything.
He tucks the money into his bra and rolls his barely-there skirt up the small
of his back and pushes his panties down to his knees, legs wide as he can make
them. The fish-man seems to be secreting his own natural lubricant, viscous
clear stuff dripping off his exposed cock and onto Ben’s thighs, and that works
just fine for him. Better when they can do it themselves. His knees are too
unsteady to reach down and get the little sliver packet of synthetic lube out
of his boot, anyways.
Still, the alien’s dick is big—not the largest he’s ever had, but close—and it
takes the both of them a few minutes of fingering the faux-virgin tightness of
his hole to get him ready. The frill of webbing at the base of the fish’s
fingers tickles against his asshole every time he pushes in and scissors out.
Feels weird, but good. It’s enough prep to leave Ben shaking and blushing as he
fumbles the cock towards his asscheek, trying to get this show on the road;
trying, with the last shreds of his pride, to cling to that Han Solo brand of
suave. Acquired not even from watching Dad pick up chicks, but just how he goes
about dealings with people in general. Low, gestural, cool and easy confident
dude with a gun at his hip that he knows how to use. That he makes sure you
know he knows how to use, deadly twitch-trigger fast.
 
Rey pulls off the Solo panache far better than Ben does, but he can do a
passable impression, he thinks, even with a dick up his ass.
 
The first push is hard, a hot needle sinking into him, and Ben rolls his lower
lip into his mouth to quell the whimper. He imagines, blissfully, the scruff of
Dad raising his voice at him, telling him not to be such a fucking wuss. Wuss,
pussy, shithead, whatever. He swallows down the tears building at the corners
of his eyes, bruised and built up by the meanness of the words; so much kinder
than the days of cold indifference.
The fish-man sucks in gummy, agitated breaths above his left ear. The alien
smells vaguely like the bottom of a culvert, wet and pulpy and unpleasant, the
odor of organics slowly decomposing. His hands grip Ben’s hips with absolute
intent, and his cock is deliciously ridged, fucking Ben’s human body into
pleased submission—a happy bonus. They don’t all have the courtesy to do that.
Outside their tiny humid corner, the nightlife creeps on; someone enters the
fresher, uses it, leaves. They don’t stop for a second. The pounding is
merciless, and soon, Ben realizes that he’s going to come. He presses his mouth
to the back of his hand where it’s braced against the stall wall and sucks on a
little fold of his skin to keep from making noise. A trick he taught himself
when Dad made them hide in exhaust vents in the Falcon when deals went
wrong—when the bad guys searched her interior, their heavy gun muzzles sniffing
out each hidey-hole, each tender cranny.
 
To make a noise was to die, Dad told them. Though not in so many words.
 
When he comes, then pulls away, gasping for breath, his hand is rust-cadmium.
When he leaves the ‘fresher minutes later, slipping out after the john, he
leaves bearing many gifts: the cash under his armpit, the load of come filling
his ass, the weakness of his noodle legs. The white mark on the back of his
hand where he bit himself into silence.
 
The joint is inexplicably busier now. Bustling, even, for a port like this. Ben
is thankful for the piecemeal cover of odd, lumpy bodies as he sidles up to the
bar to pay off his tab, the quaver in his step universal to all freshly-fucked
boys (though he doesn’t know this, yet). Plenty of time to make it back home
before Dad gets off his bender in some other suspect watering-hole, he thinks.
A few grizzled looking prospectors around the tap razz him a little, do those
legs go all the way up sweetheart, etc., but he’s in a good enough mood that he
ignores them. He’s counting out his bill on the counter when a little stack of
currency sails smoothly across the bar top and nearly into his lap.
The thing’s made entirely from tentacles. There’s no other way to describe
this: a panoply of pinkness, as seated at the bar as it’s possible for
something with no ass to be, each part of it performing some different task.
One of those tasks is producing money from an unknown source and sliding it
across gap of the empty stool beside Ben.
Ben is suddenly, awfully aware of the glob of cum starting to roll down the
inside of his thigh. He rubs his legs together as subtly as possible to wipe it
clean before the gleam peeks out from under his skirt.
He pushes the money back with a jerk of his chin. Sorry, he mouths over the
ruckus, as if it speaks Basic. He can’t see any eyes on the thing, nor a mouth.
Someone’s elbow gets him in the shoulder, ouch, and there’s a tipsy-laughed
apology.
When he looks back again, the wad of cash has returned, doubled. The mass
writhes expectantly—does it look desperate, or is that just Ben? Then he
freezes. The amount on the table would be enough to buy he and Rey at least a
few star system’s distance from Han. Maybe more.
It must take his pause as encouragement; a few more bills slide over, a stem-
sized tentacle coquettishly poking it closer.
There’s a lot of money on the table, now. The big men are starting to take
notice.
Ben snatches it all and stuffs it in the pocket of his jacket with both hands
greedy-full, head tucked down.
He could run.
A slender phalange shoots out, frog-tongue-dart, wraps tight around his wrist.
He doesn’t.
 
The thing leads him through the crowd towards the back, tentacle since relaxed
into a delicate – intimate—hold that rests gingerly against his pulse. Its size
fluctuates while it cuts between bodies, as if it occupies as much space as it
wants to at any given moment; as if it is water. They pass the ‘fresher, to
Ben’s surprise, which is now flanked by a color guard of whores, and keep going
until they reach some kind of back door. Fear is starting to claw at the top of
Ben’s throat, just a little. A lot of his rules are being broken right now; Dad
would berate him for showing his hand at the table. The credits nestled
uncomfortably against his ribs keeps his feet moving, trump suite in spades.
The alley behind the bar is shared by all the neighboring businesses and smells
like it. Above, it’s a straight-shot out to space in this place, no atmosphere
beyond the biodome, stars spinning dizzily above the port skyline on an
unsteady horizon. There’s other movement: another shadowed couple is embracing
in the dark pocket beneath a burnt-out streetlamp a little ways away. Ben feels
a bit better. The creature releases him and he wipes his sweaty hands on his
legs, feeling the hair there rasp on his palms. Before he can straighten up,
the thing, which he feels weird calling his john, but is, sweeps him against
the alley wall. Its arms feel like writhing tongues, strong enough that they
pound Ben’s breath right from his chest as his back hits the grooved concrete.
For just a moment, its flowery scent overpowers the stench of garbage around
them.
“I—Okay,” Ben gasps, wriggling all over. “Easy.” It seems bigger than before,
shiver-slicked and oranged by the castoff light of the buildings around them.
The light penetrates its skin in a way that gives it a mucus-y halo, the color
of wet flesh.
Its mass encroaches artlessly, one tentacle starting to slide up the inside of
his thigh, and he jumps at the tickle. His hands stay paralyzed awkwardly at
his sides as its touches start to come in warm, moist multitudes—should he
reach back? Embrace it? Run? Everything is confusing, pink and undulating,
thick with a drowsy sweetness that’s filling his olfactory system up quick.
Ben’s eyelashes fan against his cheeks as his eyes close, open again in one
achingly heavy blink. A tentacle, spongy and gentle as a fingertip, wiggles at
the seam of his lips, prompting him to part them. It slides inside. It tastes
sweet, too.
The limb between his legs easily negotiates the flimsy material of his panties,
still soggy and fresh from his previous fucking, and curls around the base of
his cock. Ben gasps.
Another one twists up to join its sibling, starting to nudge insistently at the
slutty looseness of his hole. Plenty wet down there, still, won’t hurt
you.Ben’s chest rises and falls rapidly. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak. Then it
starts touching him in earnest and Ben’s definitely flipped his lid but in a
different way. He thinks he comes the first time as it starts to pump around
his cock, feeling constricted tight and perfect in a way he’s only fantasized
about (Rey, he thinks, unbidden, as orgasm sweeps him off his feet, Rey, Rey,
Rey--). It’s way too much at once, fucking his mouth and his ass and squeezing
at his oversensitive softening cock. The tentacle in his butt feels like it’s
swelled up to the width of his wrist, more than that, but he doesn’t care.
Doesn’t give a shit about the sounds, either, the sick squelches and slurps he
can barely hear over the pounding of hot blood through every inch of his body,
perfumed with that kriffing scent. Gooey-putty-molasses-thick and three times
as sweet. Wet whimpers flood out around the tentacle in his mouth as the huge
limb inside him starts bullying his prostate.
The uncountable pinkness surrounds him, slipping into the arms of his jacket
and coiling around his skinny boy chest with such desperate tightness that Ben
thinks, suddenly, he’s discovered it. This is what love feels like, to a boy
who’s never been truly loved in his life, so far as he can tell.
The tentacle in his ass gives one final, hard thrust as a groan vibrates all
around him, and—
Ben screams, though the sound doesn’t get far. There’s something happening.
Sharp, cramping pain blooms in his gut as he’s filled up far more than he’s
ever been in his life, even from the biggest cocks, the weirdest freaks, the
guy who wanted to piss in Ben’s ass so he let him. He’s filled up far more than
he’s ever supposed to be; can feel his stomach distending as he’s loaded full
of—something, belly swelling more and more with each gelatinous ripple of the
creature, pumping it into him so heat runs down his legs.
Fuck! Ben thrashes wildly, bearing down on the tentacle to squeeze it out out
out as he tries to pummel it. In a moment of inspiration he bites down on the
tentacle in his mouth, which gives sickeningly under his teeth, trickling tangy
blood (maybe) down his throat as he spits it out, swallows. The thing is
screaming too, now, and it darts away from Ben, slipping out of him with a
painfully long slide. Finally free, he looks down, and his stomach lurches:
eggs. Hundreds of them, pearly and white and no bigger than his pinky nail,
dripping from between his legs in thick, wet globules, bourn on a sea of milky
come. He staggers dizzily, not really comprehending, brain solidly refusing to
put two and two together. The creature’s limping into the shadows fast, nursing
its bleeding limb while Ben stands there stock-still.
He can feel the eggs settling down inside his gut as if they belong there,
fresh-laid. He’s been impregnated, he thinks.
Dad’s going to kill him, he thinks.
ThenBen Solo fucking runs.
 
 
--Hobbles. He makes it back by sheer strength of stubborn will and a few lucky
breaks, slipping between the crowded backside of this junker and that cruise
ship like vermin. He’s gotten good over the years at folding his big frame
small enough to fit in these sorts of fetid shadows. Each step sends a shooting
hot pain up his core and he hisses between his teeth as he grips his jacket
tight around himself. He can barely see through the fog, everything still weird
and sweet-smelling, his cock trying doggedly to chafe itself hard against his
sodden skirt. His body still pines to fuck, be fucked, and it’s sickening; some
sort of poison running thick in his blood from the creature’s honeyed touch.
The clutch in his belly feels like it’s squirming of its own sentient volition,
which is horrifying.
 
He punches the access code to the Falcon’s stowaway hatch, gaze part-cocked
over his shoulder to keep watch out of instinct. Maybe Rey’s home, maybe she’s
not. The ladder descends and he nearly shrieks with the pain of climbing the
rungs but bites the inside of his cheek and swallows it down. He struggles to
see into the ship’s dark interior as his head pokes through the hatch; the idea
of her witnessing him like this makes his brain white out.
But the coast is clear, so far as he can tell. Dad still gone, Chewie keeping
to himself or tinkering with some part of the ship’s elderly infrastructure, as
usual. Thank fuck. He’s in too much pain to keep his steps quiet, staggering
down the hallway that sheltered his childhood, feet tangled and knees squeezed
inwards like he’s ten years younger than he is and has to take a piss.
He passes the empty doorframe of the room he shares with his sister. Rey’s
posted up in his bunk (the lower one) datapad on her crooked leg as she pores
over it, dirty feet on his pillow, and Ben damns every nameable god. She’s
likely looking over text to decode for Dad’s next tip to plentiful business,
the light of it staining her face ghostly blue in the low-level darkness of a
slumbering ship. She doesn’t even look up as he blusters through, stumbles into
the ‘fresher and locks it behind him in a flash.
The ship’s head is just about wide enough for Ben to extend his elbows out from
his side by two inches each, and that’s it. It usually feels homey, smelling of
their family, the Solo musk, the whiff of dank from the narrow shower cubicle
that hosts a veritable culture of colorful alien mold species. Now it just
feels claustrophobic, like the walls are pushing in and the stuff inside him is
pushing out and it’s leaving so little room for Ben to exist between--
He cups the swollen mound of his belly through his clothes, which might as well
scream SLUT to space, and swallows a sob. He squats down on the tile and
pushes, the way he’s heard things give birth, coaxing downward contractions
between his legs, human biology scrambling to reconcile itself with alien
objects. His asshole winks open and closed on chilly air. Nothing. The eggs
aren’t coming out. He probes with a scandalized finger or two, everything still
wet, and can feel their porous slickness, but finds no purchase. Whore loose;
still no room to wiggle or pry, frustratingly sealed. He groans deeply and
sinks down onto his knees, then curls onto his side, still aroused and fucked
full and teenage-miserable.
There’s still lipstick on his hands and mascara on his lashes, and he wipes at
them as he patiently awaits his death. It all stings.
 
“Son?” His father isn’t pounding on the door hysterically, or even just plain
knocking, because he knows he doesn’t have to. Ben gives a self-pitying sniff,
blinks the tears out of his eyes, emerging reticently into the terrible world.
An unknowable amount of time has passed. He can faintly hear Rey’s voice from
next door, muffled, something that just-so amount of cajoling and cruel. The
eggs twist sickeningly in his gut.
“Open the door,” Dad says, with the exact amount of deadly calm carried by
those who have broken down plenty of doors in their lifetime. He’s done it to
save Ben, once or twice, dark shape bright doorway, well-loved memories that
have since been replayed to incoherence; he’d do it to damn Ben just as quick.
Ben theatrically reaches one gangly arm up from the floor to flip the lock,
wincing all the while. The door hisses back. He tucks his chin petulantly down
so he doesn’t have to look at Dad, just a quick flash of his boots, and
suddenly he’s all of six years old again. Fevered, squirming on the ‘fresher
floor, head woozy and stomach hurting savagely with things far out of his
control.
“What’s wrong with you?” Dad asks. He could mean this any number of ways. Ben
hears the creak of his leather boots and rustle of his pants as he crouches
down, a solid, warm presence blotting out the watery light overhead. Everything
smells like strong alcohol and engine oil, which is to say: home.
“I…” Ben croaks, words dying in his throat. He can feel his erection where it’s
trapped between his legs underneath the skirt, traitorously throbbing, and he
wonders, the way many young people do wonder, if it’s possible to literally die
of embarrassment. Ben doesn’t even need to lift his shirt to explain; the
bulged outline of his belly against his gauzy top where it peeks out of his
jacket makes him look like a teen pregnancy posterchild. Han checks anyways,
moving one huge palm up Ben’s side so the fabric shuffs away and exposes him.
His belly pushes over the top of the skirt in a pale, revolting mound under
Dad’s tan hand.
“Damn,” Dad says. Whistles the awed disgust hard through his teeth.
Ben feels like this is all a terrible nightmare which he hopes to soon wake up
from. “It was an accident. I just went out for a drink, and… and—“
“Some bastard did you dirty, huh?” Dad sits back on his haunches. “Sit up.” Ben
does with a slow, gurgling moan, looking up in time to see Rey fill the doorway
behind Dad.
“Hah! What the fuck,” she chirps, shouldering casually into doorframe, like
she’s getting nice and comfy to watch an entertaining holo program. Her hair
has frayed out from her bun and she’s wearing one of Han’s old shirts. Ben
would do anything in his power to take her somewhere she could only be his.
“What’s in there?” she asks.
“I’m not sure,” Ben whispers, drawing his legs closer to his chest, clutch
shifting painfully with the movement. “Won’t come out.” His voice is so tiny.
Han’s hand suddenly shoots out and grabs one slender ankle, prying his body
open with a jerk, and the touch is so arousing that Ben nearly moans. The grip
is cool to the touch; Ben realizes distantly that he’s burning up. The other
hand reaches ominously forwards and dips into his pocket, returns with one bill
hanging limp and filthy from two pinched fingers.
Han Solo can identify valuables under clothes from a six foot standing distance
and fleece you in half the time it’d take to close the space; he’s likely known
since he’d first laid eyes on the whole sorry scene.
 
The money dangles between this index and middle fingers, inches from Ben’s
face. The paper-cloth is emblazoned with some diplomat’s wrinkled visage and
it’ll be worth half its value once transferred to digital credits.
 
“Oh, shit,” says Rey.
 
“How much,” Dad says, low. “Show me.”
 
The money spills to the ground in a pathetic, papery carpet as Ben turns out
the contents of his pockets. Then he reaches into the stupid, girly little band
of fabric at his chest and forks over the rest of it, damp with sweat from his
armpit. He puts the overflowing handful in Dad’s waiting hand, feeling exactly
like when he stole Dad’s boot-knife on a dare what feels like decades ago.
Ben’s mind goes all fuzzy at the weird, abstract comfort of it, of Dad laying
down the law.
 
The cash goes directly into Dad’s pockets, and then there’s a tense silence.
Ben hiccups. “S-sorry,” he tries. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
 
Han ignores him, just pulls the other leg down and shuffles up so Ben’s trapped
beneath his bulk. The belly rises and falls with Ben’s breath between his
narrow hips. “Knocked you up good, huh,” Dad says gruffly, eying Ben’s glassy,
hazed eyes and the bulge of his erection through the skirt. “Made you sick,
too.” Or maybe you were just always that way,Ben supplies wordlessly, because
it’s true. With brisk efficiency Dad strips the skirt down, shirt up, and even
Ben’s mortification at the hardon that springs loose from his underwear isn’t
enough to make him fight this. He squeezes his eyes shut, waits for the knee-
jerk ew! from his sister, or even a grouchy hey those panties are mine, but
hears nothing.
“Get outta here, Rey,” Dad grunts.
“I wanna watch, ” she murmurs.
“Suit yourself.”
 
Then there’s the cool of Dad’s dry palm at the feverish skin beneath his cock
and ohmygodohmygodthat’s Dad’s huge, blunt finger crooking inside him. A squeal
tears from Ben’s throat as the finger quickly finds the root of the problem, as
it were. Everything’s still wet with the load of cum and whateverthefuck the
tentacle left as evidence of its passage through Ben’s body.
“Woah,” Han says. “Eggs.”
Ben’s pretty sure his eyes have rolled back in his head, the finger scraping
his swollen prostate, scooping out a space in the absolute bedrock of his
person. Another finger slips itself inside. His cock is harder than it’s ever
been in his life and weeping copiously. Dad brushes a hand casually over it as
he gropes for the incriminating belly, working with both hands, now, and Ben’s
going to split from his skin—if it’s from the just-barely-there satiation of
his body’s thirst or the fact that this is more attention than his father has
given him, ever, he can’t think clear enough to say.
“Please, Daddy,” he sobs. The fingers scissor out, making the way wider and
looser.
“Push,” Dad instructs, like some fucked-up midwife delivering an eldritch
horror on their bathroom floor, and Ben bears down. Something starts to move,
rolling lazily across his most secret part, catching at his rim-- all at once,
it squirts into the floor with a stark, wet exclamation. Ben comes. When
everything hazes back into consciousness, a few sad, leftover drops of jizz
squeezed onto his distended stomach, he feels the shocky jerks of
overstimulation; Dad’s got one, now he’s coaxing the rest.
Ben manages to raise his head enough to see the pearl of the egg—hisegg--
- where it’s settled on the tile, rolled so it’s resting against Dad’s bent
knee.
Another egg comes, making his poor cock twitch uselessly as he gives his Dad
another practically dry orgasm. He looks up: Rey’s gaze is fixated between his
legs. Her face is unreadable.
Rey and Han look unerringly like each other, he thinks, not for the first time;
twinned in their fixation, squinting narrowly in precisely that same way, as if
staring into the sun (Flyboy, Mom used to call him. That’s what that gaze
means).
They both look like him, too. If only tangentially.
Another egg is coming, but at an excruciating pace and with too much labor. Too
slow. Dad shifts his tactic, his grip, placing his palm over the bulge
completely. His freaky huge hand could span the whole width of his son’s
stomach, if he wanted it to, but his touch is hovering and light. The fingers
inside him stop moving, and the light flickers, and they hover in the intimate,
grotesque moment of it all for just a heartbeat.
“Please,” Ben begs, tears streaming down his face with abandon, not knowing
what he’s asking for, nor caring.
 
Han presses down.
 
Ben screams.
 
 
 
 
 
Weeks from now, when the eggs are long gone, and his stomach has shriveled back
into boy-nothing, and he has died and been resurrected by his shame many times
over, Dad will come to his door. They’re half a universe away from that
asteroid and the shady, shitty spaceport, sunk into its side like a rotten
molar, on the run from someone swift and angry; Ben rattling, Dad grave and
solemn, danger just licking at their heels and credits dwindling faster than
the deficits can be counted, dipping into the emergency reserve and scraping
bottom, Rey’s face narrow with hunger--
 
They’ll stop at a outpost. Some hole-in-the-wall, out of the way place.
 
Weeks from now, Dad will come to Ben’s door, skirt in hand.
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