Someone wrote in [community profile] tfa_kink 2015-12-20 02:16 am (UTC)

Finn/Poe sensory input

When he thinks of himself, he doesn't use his new name. When someone calls out to him, Finn, it takes long moments to register, for him to turn and acknowledge. Because he's answering to the fiction of this guy who can be of use to good people instead of simply of use. Because there's always the Order, out there, searching for FN-2187 so they can dispose of him, their embarrassing oversight. And because he doesn't quite believe in it, the name, until he hears it again from the man who gave it to him. Who's off, again, far away and in danger. Whose empty bed he snuck into tonight for the second or third night in a row.

It isn't that he's lonely, though he is, yes, lonely. Be he could as easily have sought out actual company. For a turncoat, he's decent enough at making friends. It's that Poe's and his squadron have been due back for four days now, four days overdue with no word one way or the other, and he thinks he's going a little nuts.

So here he is, lying still and straight as a soldier, fully dressed and over the sheets on Poe's bunk, wearing Poe's jacket, trying to breathe. Deep gulps of air, as if there isn't enough of the stuff. It's been too long, they're been gone too long. Short gasps of air, as if he's back in space and it's venting through a bulkhead. Then slowly, so slowly, Finn turns his head and breathes through his nose against the collar of Poe's jacket.

They've been through a lot, Finn and this jacket, and it fits him now as well as his custom-molded armor ever did, and it smells these days of nothing more than Finn himself and the slate-dry remnant of Jakku. But here, on Poe's bed, against Poe's pillow, it hits him anew, the warm, skin scent of Poe. He'd teased Poe about it once, the smell of his jacket.

"Like hair product and stale cigars," he'd said behind a smile.

"Hah! Stale?" And Poe taught him how to smoke a cigar.

"I don't know if I like this," Finn had admitted.

"Yeah, neither do I, but it's a tradition for victories. So it's supposed to taste like one: a little strange, a little good."

Finn's face is pressed to the collar, to the pillow, and he feels strange, and he feels good. He wants to know if he can be Finn when there's no-one around who made him Finn. He wants to know what to do if Poe never comes back. He wants to know if this is the smell at the nape of Poe's neck where his hair curls wildly and his muscles knot from the weight of his flight helmet.

From fisting his hands at his sides, Finn went to pressing them flat against his thighs. Pressing hard, breathing hard, reaching for the scent of Poe back through the long nights that he'd been out of this bed. There's so little of him left here, but it's enough that body reacts to it with a flush of heat. The heel of his hand finds his fly and presses against his trapped erection. Finn sobs, just a bit, at the sensation.

He whips his head to the other side, searching out more of that scent. Is this what it smells like at the corner of Poe's mouth where his smile lives even at the worst moments? And is this what it smells like at the crook of his hip, the crease of his thigh? Finn unzips himself and takes his warm cock in hand, just squeezing, just breathing.

But he's in Poe Dameron's bed again, and there's nobody here to see, so in a moment he's licked a swipe across his palm and he's rolling it across the head of his cock, spreading a bit of precome, sparking at the feeling of it, breathing shaky and young. He's pumping now quickly, because what if tonight's the night and Poe comes home, he can't be found like this. What if the door opens and there he is, alive and sweating and unzipping his flight suit, smiling first on one side and then the other and then both. Letting Finn press his face against his skin wherever it takes his fancy.

Finn props himself on an elbow and jacks himself fast and a little painful. He loses the scent of the pillow. Desperate, the takes a corner of the jacket's collar between his teeth, just to keep it close. And he tastes it, he doesn't know why he didn't think to do this before, he tastes leather and dust and sweat. The life he was given, the gift.

One hand clenched in the sheets, the other marking a punishing pace, and then quickly, he's juddering, shaking, gasping, his teeth biting marks into the jacket, sure to leave a mark. He's coming, and he misses Poe so much.

Finn falls back, he mops at the mess of his belly with the bottom of his shirt. He lets his softening cock lay outside his pants and feels his pulse beat in it. It's very warm here: on this planet, in this bed, in this moment. He could close his eyes and be cocooned.

But he won't do that, not quite yet. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes. It's been days, and it could happen any minute now. The door might open. Poe could come back and gift Finn with his life, new all over again.

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