hiraeth [hɨraɪ̯θ]: a homesickness for a home you cannot return to, or that never was.
Rey prefers to watch.
Sometimes, Finn will reach out to her, his fingers brushing her wrist and his eyes questioning - offering - but Poe will wink at her and take Finn's hand and suck two of his fingers into his mouth, slow and wet and soft, and Finn will make a noise and be distracted and she can keep watching: separate-but-not-separate.
She doesn't like to participate in the act of, what is it called? she wonders. Love-making, she supposes. She questioned, at the beginning, whether or not she was broken in some way or if she was feral or unsocialized because she couldn't feel the things that they felt. She tried to rewire herself, tried so hard to talk herself and touch herself into being like them, but she couldn't.
It's not that she doesn't like to be touched: sometimes she can feel the weight of all the years she never felt the warmth of someone else wrapping their arms around her, never feeling the anchoring weight of a hand on her shoulder, touching her face, holding her hand, and she feels like she might cry out in desperation.
She knows she likes to kiss, too, which she also knows is a fact that makes Finn feel clumsy and unsure of himself - why one thing but not the other thing? He needs constant guidance from her, for her to tell him her exact wants and needs so that he doesn't do the wrong thing. He feels safe with orders, and she doesn't mind. (She loves him for it, really, because just as he can't change, she can't either.)
Poe understands, though, that not everything she needs can be asked for. He knows when to wrap an arm around her and pull her to his chest, when to press his cheek to hers and let her feel the warmth of his breath on her ear as he whispers to her. When to place a kiss on the corner of her mouth, the base of her throat, the tip of her nose: each a discrete and uniquely important gesture.
And it's not not-liking sex, really, and not complete disinterest, either: watching them move together makes her feel a certain need grow deep in her chest and an ache form, like a lump, in her tightening throat and she wants very much to be near them, the heat of their bodies reaching out to her - she wants to hear the hitches in their breath and the surprised moans as fingers curl up, brushing the right spot deep inside, or as teeth nip sensitive flesh behind the ear.
Finn has never had a real bed before, and neither has she. They're both used to steel and bolts and thin, military-grade mattresses (his, issued and hers, scavenged) and Poe's bed is wider and thicker and softer than anything they've ever felt, the frame made from solid wood from Yavin 4. ("It's an anchor to home. I just dismantle it and lug it around every time I have to set up base somewhere else," he'd told them, laughing, and she had met Finn's eyes and recognized the same pinch of longing in him, too. The pain of nostalgia for something you've never even had.)
It's wide enough that she can lay, draped on her side, the whole half of it hers as they rut against each other beside her.
She props her head up on her hand and bites her lip as Finn makes a face: halfway pain and halfway pleasure and he catches her looking at him and laughs, leaning up so she can press a kiss to his forehead. Poe runs a gentle hand down her back and rests his palm, steadying and warm, at the base of her spine, nuzzling against her temple. His breath is warm on her cheek and she can feel him rocking, his spine arched and his hips smoothly rolling, back and forth. Finn's hitched breaths match his tempo.
She can't help but avert her eyes, right at what she knows is the important part, when their speeds pick up and their moans turn into something more like grunts: her gaze feels wrong, somehow, like she is intruding in a moment she has no part in. But Finn reaches out, again, undiscouraged and touches her jaw and her gaze shifts from the ceiling to his face and he is smiling at her.
She wonders how these things are decided: who puts what where, who controls the pace, how the position is agreed upon. Is it all negotiated beforehand and she's just not privy to it? Does Poe get to be on top and be the one thrusting and giving instructions because he's a pilot, the best pilot, and pilots like to be in control? Or maybe Finn's in control, because if his face flashes with discomfort or his voice betrays his nervousness Poe will always immediately stop, gently sliding himself out and giving Finn space, all soft-voiced and careful. She watches, each time they all tangle together in Poe's bed (their bed?), and she wonders.
She lays her head down and wiggles closer to them, nuzzling into the dip between Finn's jaw and shoulder. His eyes are still trained on Poe, above them, but he presses his cheek to her forehead. She can feel the heat of his body running all the way down her own and, after a few moments, the way his muscles clench, suddenly and all at once, before releasing with a shuddering sigh and Poe whispers down at him, "Hey, now, good boy," before he makes his own noise, low and desperate, and his pace falters: halting, shaky, urgent.
She shuts her eyes and wonders if she can hear both their heartbeats, beating deafeningly loud, or if it's just her own pulse pounding in her ears, and when she opens them again they're both looking at her, eyes soft and waiting.
"That was nice," she says, smiling.
"You're nice," Finn says, wrapping an arm around her. Poe nods, sliding from between his legs and, carefully, dropping to her other side. He reaches a hand up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Real nice, the both of you," Poe agrees.
They wrap around each other, all three of them tangled and panting and reaching out to touch exposed skin: Poe's fingers stroking at the inside of her arm, her nose brushing against Finn's throat, Finn's arm draped across her waist and his hand settled on Poe's sweat-glistened hip. Even though she prefers to watch, eyes wide and mouth half open and her heart beating like a drum in her chest, she always feels like she's somehow at the centre of things.