Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9058483.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Star_Wars_Episode_VII:_The_Force_Awakens_(2015)
  Relationship:
      Rey/Ben_Solo_|_Kylo_Ren
  Character:
      Ben_Solo_|_Kylo_Ren, Rey_(Star_Wars), Armitage_Hux, Lando_Calrissian
  Additional Tags:
      Parent/Child_Incest, Lactation_Kink, Breastfeeding, Possessive_Behavior,
      Jealousy, Underage_Sex, Kissing, Hand_Jobs, Car_Sex, Pet_Names, Mommy
      Kink
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-12-26 Words: 2782
****** Milktooth ******
by brittlelimbs
Summary
     Ben’s stomach growls so loudly, so angrily, in 6th period biology
     that Mr. Calrissian actually goes ahead and calls him out on it.
     Or: Ben Solo has a very, very special relationship with his young,
     single mother, Rey.
Notes
     aight folks. this is it. rock bottom. before you read, remember to
     mind the tags (i don't there's even a /tag/ on AO3 for mommy kink,
     but here it is); this is an AU in which rey is ben's straight up,
     biological mother-- i'd reckon she had him when she was about 14 or
     so, so that puts her at like, 30 for this. you've been warned.
     that being said:
     merry christmas, you filthy animals
See the end of the work for more notes
Ben’s stomach growls so loudly, so angrily, in 6th period biology that Mr.
Calrissian actually goes ahead and calls him out on it.
The whole classroom goes quiet, like Ben’s shouted or something, gone all
Columbine-wannabe, even, bolted up at his too-small laminated desk and screamed
like a lunatic in the middle of class. That weird Solo kid: you’d think he’d
shot somebody, right there in front of the damn Punnett Squares, big ‘B’s’ and
little ‘b’s’, the whole of genetics laid linear between gridlines and gritty
overhead projector slides. Blue-eyed babies. Red-haired babies. Ben hazards a
look to his left, and Hux has a pale hand clamped delicately over his mouth, as
if trying to stifle a laugh. Prick. To his right: Pava, eyes wide.
“Ben?” Mr. Calrissian—call me Lando—is peering up from over his glasses,
textbook propped open in one hand, felt-tipped marker poised in the other.
Shit. Ben is frozen stiff-solid until, slowly, like a curtain unfurling, Mr.
Calrissian cracks a smile; Lando’s always been the chill adult in everyone’s
book, effortlessly cool, even for a teacher. Don’t worry, man, I see you.
“Whoever you’ve got in there—“ Lando says, teeth white and perfect, “--sounds
like they have some thoughts on my lecture. “
Ben blushes hot and twists in his seat as his stomach gives a little gurgle;
there are twenty sets of eyes on him and not one of them friendly. He tucks his
hair behind one ear, tries to make himself smaller. Suddenly, he’s aware of how
broad this jacket makes his shoulders look and jams his hands under his thighs
to make his bigness just a little less obvious.
“Sorry,” he mutters, and he means it. Lando laughs and it sounds like a spell
being broken. Soon they’re skip-jumping right back on track with the nuances of
alleles like he’d never been interrupted in the first place.
Ben’s nausea lingers. He’s swimming in a miasma of hunger and embarrassment,
repenting not eating more than a banana and a bagel for lunch, so stupid, when
he realizes that Hux is talking to him, whispering out the sly corner of his
mouth.
“What?” Ben asks, dazed. Annoyed.
“I said, do they feed you,” Hux hisses again. “Do your parents give you
anything to eat.” The cunt is facing forwards at prim, honor-roll attention,
pretending to listen to Lando go on and on, and Ben’s face colors so quick that
he can feel the heat in his cheeks.
“Don’t act like you know me,” Ben spits, hunkering down into the hasty scrawl
of his class notes. Hux laughs under his breath and it sounds mean.
Ben suffers, starving.
 
Mama is always punctual. Sometimes Ben worries about her picking him up from
school when she’s already got so much on her plate. Being a nurse practitioner
at the local clinic doesn’t leave her near enough time in the day to spend with
her son, and he hates the dark circles she gets under her eyes some days, too
bruised for something so pretty. But they make it work. Schedules stretched and
breaks worked in, always shaving off hours in between to spend time together.
Ben can hardly stand it, still; straight up couldn’t when he was little. He
remembers crying his way through day care, then preschool, then first grade,
because time away from Mama was time spent sad. He gets it, now, that she needs
to work. That every minute he gets with her is precious.
He gets that little thrill in his stomach when he sees their silver car parked
at the curb outside the football field, their usual spot. It flips again when
he sees that she’s singing along to the radio inside, head bobbing and lips
murmuring the lyrics to some pop song Ben’s too far away to hear, ponytail
pressing against the headrest as she tips her head back to belt the chorus.
What Mama lacks in skill she makes up for with enthusiasm; it’s one of Ben’s
favorite things about her. She works so hard.
Ben gets closer, and Mama waves when she notices him, reaching across to pop
the little plastic nub of the lock and turn the radio down as he loads himself
in. He’s instantly welcomed by her closeness, her scent like warmth, the
compact, upholstered homeyness of their car. He can read the toughness of her
shift on the frayed look around her eyes, the wisps of hair falling out of her
ponytail and licking at the corner of her mouth. Makes Ben’s heart hurt. A
quick look around, coast cleared, and he leans in for a half-guilty little
hello-kiss. Mama hiccups in surprise, but she tastes and sounds pleased, like
their amber-colored fall.
He lingers even though he shouldn’t, hazarding a look down: Fuck—she’s wearing
one of his favorite tank tops, the simple, too-oft washed one that’s near
translucent with age and makes her chest look full and soft; Ben has fantasies
of her so swollen that she’s flirting at its low neckline, or spilling out of
it, even, just too much to hold. Yeah, this top is Ben’s favorite—it’s gracious
for feeding. He tongues the back of his teeth, swallows, tries to keep himself
from drooling in earnest as he buckles himself in. He’s so hungry.
“How was school, baby?” Mama asks, looking over as she keys the ignition, music
skipping for a second as the car wakes from idle into drive. Her arm draws in
as she reaches across to peel them out, pressing her breasts together so
perfect, and Ben makes no pretense at staring anywhere but the delicious vee of
her cleavage.
He has to swallow again before he can speak, and the feeling is probably less
mortifying than it should be, but he’s so hungry he’s aching and the car feels
too hot from sitting in the sun so long.
“Alright. Boring,” he says. He can feel his cock going stiff against his denim
inseam.
“Boring?”
“Yup.”
“Aw, Ben.” Mama reaches down and puts a tiny golden hand on his knee. Ben takes
it in his own immediately, giving her room to rub circles on the back of her
hand with her thumb. Air starts to feel a little more breathable. Mama means so
much comfort, too, even as she makes him hurt and pine for things he probably
shouldn’t. Ben’s grasp of right and wrong is only nebulous, at best.
Suburbs cruise by in streaky clumps of gold, orange, the brilliant burning of
oak trees as they turn in autumn, boring neutrals of picket fences and siding.
The stupid fucking town he and his Mama ache to leave but never will, because
there’s no choice but to do it together. College a hazy and far-off thing, one
day, maybe, but for now-- Ben’s stomach roars again and Mama looks up.
He sheepishly turns away to the window. “’M hungry,” he mumbles. His breath
clouds on the glass, obscuring Fifth Street as it slides away. At once he feels
her hand leave his and Ben quakes, for a moment, until he realizes it’s only to
hit the turn signal.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Mom—“
“Baby. When you’re hungry, you tell me.” Her profile is hard, brow drawn down.
Ben’s heart thrills.
“It’s not—“
“I’m your mother. It’s my job.”
The tires scrape and crackle as she pulls them into park along the side of the
road, nestled close to some shady divot between houses. A creek runs here,
maybe.
Mama unbuckles her seatbelt, and it hisses across her body. “Come here, baby,”
she breathes, crossing her arms and grabbing the hem of that loved-thin tank
top, shimmying it over her head just like that, right there in the silty
daylight filling up their little car. Ben is petrified. All that golden skin.
Anyone could see. He probably knows kids that live in this neighborhood, sits
next to them in Algebra, even, but then she’s letting the top slide from her
wrists and into the footwell and he doesn’t care—he’s already reaching around
her ribcage with both arms, skinny things, but stronger by the day, to slip the
little hook-in-eyes of her beige bra undone one by one.
Her breasts: the most gorgeous things that Ben has ever seen in sixteen years,
bar nothing, round and pert and perfect. His face heats to think of all the
fucking pervs who must covet them. Brushing past her in the laundromat,
spotting her in the produce aisle at the supermarket, slobbering and dreaming
about slipping their cock between those tits to rut until they come all over
her sweet chin, the gracefulness of her cheekbones.His tits, that have been his
since he was born, been his harbor, his comfort, his sustenance. The idea of
someone else spilled all over Mama’s face makes Ben’s stomach roil in
encouragement; she needs to give him this. This thing, that is his, and his
alone.
“Here,” she says, cupping herself and folding closer across the console, as if
offering him a pair of sunglasses, a stick of gum for a long road trip; they’ve
done this in the car before, but never so openly. Her face is folded with
concerted effort. She looks tired, but proud.
“Oh, Mommy—thank you,” he whispers, because he can feel the neighbors
eavesdropping. He leans in to feast, anyways.
He kneads the pale, plush mound of her breast a little to help the first sweet
mouthful along, hot, wet licks just so to make her nipple stiff and aching to
be sucked; he’s got the methodology of tiring his Mama out this way down to a
science. Her hand comes down in his dark hair as he purses his lips and starts
to suckle, grasping a little at his nape. In history class, during their
Ancient Greek unit, Mrs. Mothma said something about Ichor, once, a thing that
Gods drink—he thinks it might taste something like this. Sweet-honey, and
cream, and a distinctive taste he cannot name, save for with hers: Mama. Mama’s
taste.
It only takes a few more heady draws until he’s rutting against his own pantleg
in the sinful denim vee where his legs are all awkwardly tangled together,
trying to find enough space. He groans, and Mama’s hand leaves his hair,
brushing down his chest. Ben jumps when he feels her hand on the hardness of
him, warm through his jeans.
“Puppy! You’re all pent up,” she says. He can hear the sadness coloring her
voice. Long day at school, longer day without her, poor baby, poor boy. “Let me
make you feel good. ”
Ben nearly swoons into her chest; she’s trying to unbutton his jeans with one
hand, clumsily messing around with the brass rivet, and then Ben can’t take it
one more secon. His mouth makes a soft, slick pop as it leaves her and he
barely has to glance over his flushed cheeks to jam both hands down to his
button, fly, thumb open, unzip. Her hand is hot and tiny and aimless in his as
he takes it and slips beneath the elastic of his waistband, and she grasps the
stiffness of him immediately, competent. Ben whuffs a sigh of relief; sometimes
Mama needs a little guidance.
She’s leaking everywhere now without the pressure of his mouth, her milk, her
ichor, pushing out in little pale rivulets that shine slick on the swell of her
breast and down her ribcage the in the afternoon light. Ben runs his tongue
behind his teeth, licks back drool, lets himself savor this second with glazed
over eyes.
This is when she’s most beautiful, he thinks. Truly: Ben Solo is the luckiest
guy in the world. Mama loves him more than anyone, just as he loves her, and
this is true. He wonders, snide, thumbing away a taste of her milk, sucking the
sweetness thoughtfully from his fingertip, if Hux has this. If he could ever
have this, a love so complete it makes Ben’s stomach ache and head pound.
“Take a picture, baby,” Mama huffs, shaking her head self-consciously, hooking
a hand in his hair again. “It’ll last longer.”
Always so shy. Too pretty and sweet for her own good. On the other hand, Ben
feels absurdly smug, confident, victorious, even; he’s smiling as he rises to
meet her challenge, overwhelms her again with his too-big hands and presses her
back against the car seat so he can take his god-given mouthful. He bites Mama,
getting the flow running lustily again, and she squeaks, but gets the message,
starts to take long pulls at his cock. Ben moans with abandon, eyes rolling
back behind his thin, trembling eyelids: Mama knows exactly what gets him off.
Designed it, even, because, Baby, it’s my job. Been taking care of Ben since he
knew what pleasure was, no looking back.
There’s the distant growl of a car. They huddle and still, but don’t stop,
can’t; Ben is burning alive. He takes huge, wide laps across the pink nub of
her nipple, just to make her shiver, then nuzzles deeper than ever, coaxing her
wetter, sweeter, softer. An old Toyota telescopes huge into their side mirror
and then past it, away, chugging along on a deadbeat engine, but neither of
them see it. Her hand keeps pumping, twisting, her rough palm so familiar that
it’s as if it was his own. His preferences, learned and conditioned to painful-
lovely perfection.
She gives him a few more brisk pulls, and he feels his orgasm coiling in his
belly like a snake.
“Momma,” he grunts “Gonna come.”
Mama noses into his dark, curly hair. “Don’t worry, baby, you can make a mess.
We’ll clean it up,” she whispers. “I’ll take care of you.”
And that’s enough. He comes in thick, white stripes onto her hand the cotton of
his t-shirt, the corner of his jacket, lips parting from her to clench and
gnash with a face screwed up all tight with the intensity of his orgasm. His
satiation.
Once he’s empty, the car quiet save for their loud breathing, he slumps back
into his seat, dizzy with the relief of release and the lack of the console
digging into his side. Mama wipes her hand on his lap. Her breast is blushed
crimson, red buds of bruises peppered around her swollen nipple. Christ, it’s
lewd; Ben knows these bruises will go dark and tender in a matter of hours.
“Sorry,” he mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He can still
taste her. Mama just smiles, squeezing his knee, before holding up the grungy-
grossness of her cum-slick hand into light, as if showing it off.
They laugh together at that hand, his spunk, quiet and breathless. Mama is
golden, he thinks. Fuck all the rest. Then the world comes crashing back in:
more cars, birds in the sycamore trees above, somebody’s lawnmower going a few
houses down in some sad last attempt to manicure their yard before the snows
come and lay down heavy on everything like a blanket. The world is there, one
pane of laminated safety glass away, and Ben’s heart sinks.
He shrugs out of his jacket, graceless but quick, and wordlessly offers it to
his Mama, who takes it. She hisses as it falls across her shoulders and down,
rasping painfully against her tender chest; the sound is nearly enough to make
Ben feel guilty and doggedly aroused again, all at once. The evidence of his
mouth, bitten right into her. His. She pulls the tab up, and zzip. Covered now,
overkill, completely drowned by the boxy frame of the leather beast with a
ruched neck that comes all the way under her chin; she has to roll the cuffs
twice before she can twist the key in the ignition and get hands working on the
wheel. Even at sixteen, he’s so much bigger than his mother, it’s sick, it’s
ridiculous and wrong.
Ben thinks this is only more proof to his cause: one day, he’ll take care of
her. They’re on the road again, heading towards home. Mama leads them to the
slow-stop of a red light, humming some pop song, off-tune, bobbing to a beat
that Ben cannot hear, but loves on reflex. He takes her hand. The dirty one.
“I love you, Mommy,” he whispers, kissing the bitter taste of himself from her
palm, so disgusting compared to her sweetness. He could survive on this
forever, he thinks, sustain himself on nothing else. She says nothing, but
smiles, curls a finger into the corner of his mouth; he sucks it clean.
Ben smiles back around it, sated. Fed.
End Notes
     find me @ floatin-on-bespin or @second-salemite (fantastic beasts) on
     tumblr if you want to chat about this or, you know, ask what's wrong
     with me
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!