PROMPT POST #4

[themodawakens]

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+ One prompt per comment please.
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Comments

FILL: Poe riding Kylo Ren's cock, "Refuge" 1/2

[(Anonymous)]

[A/N: Well, this is superlong. What a delightful prompt, nonny! Have a second fill.]

Refuge

Poe could go back to base right now. His mission is complete. Mon Mothma’s illegitimate daughter is safely on her way to Coruscant. Even the First Order blockade around this sleepy planet has been lifted. There’s nothing keeping him in the Western Reaches. If he left now, he could be back two days ahead of schedule—Mariana had turned out to be handier with a blaster than she initially let on. He might even be able to surprise General Organa.

But he can’t bring himself to go home, because home right now is medbay, the agonizing hours of just watching Finn breathe. It’s been a month since Starkiller Base, and Finn is still in a coma. The medidroids say not to worry. They say that this is uncommon but not unusual, that Finn is healing, and that Finn will come back to them when it’s time. But droid philosophy doesn’t comfort him. It only makes him feel more helpless. And when he looks at Finn, looks at his slowly healing back, he feels, illogically but painfully, responsible.

So instead of going home, Poe is sitting in what passes for a tavern in the village where Mariana thought she’d been safe. He’s drinking what tastes like watered down engine oil in an alcove, almost hidden out of sight behind the scarves draped across the alcove’s archway.

There’s a bit of a local crowd—there’s music, the owner’s eldest daughter accompanying her own voice on guitar—but here and there, there are patrons whose dress and haunted expressions mark them as not from around here.

Poe recognizes them immediately as Hosnian refugees.

Despite the total annihilation wrecked on the Hosnian system, the First Order didn’t manage to kill everyone. Anyone who was off-world was spared, albeit without a world to come home to. (“Like Alderaan,” General Organa had said, and whatever pain she felt when she thought of her home world had obviously turned to flint long ago. Poe’s heart had ached for her.) The tattered remnants of the New Republic is trying to organize—every day seems to bring more New Republican survivors reaching out to General Organa, begging for forgiveness and help now that what she had always predicted would happen had come to pass.

She’s a better person than he is for not taking them to task for their blindness.

As Poe takes another sip of his drink, he suddenly feels eyes on him. He glances through the crowd to find a man leaning against the bar, staring steadily at him with dark eyes. He’s tall, pale, dark-haired, and handsome, although his features are a little overshadowed by the nasty scar crossing the right side of his face.

Poe smiles at him.

The stranger blinks, disconcerted, but takes Poe’s interest seems to take this as a cue. He straightens up—way up, Poe notes approvingly—and moves across the tavern to Poe’s little alcove to tower over him.

“You’re Poe Dameron, aren’t you?” he asks. His voice is low and powerful, his gaze steady and intense. Poe grins up at him.

“You’ve heard of me.”

“The Poe Dameron that destroyed Starkiller Base?” The man’s tone doesn’t change.

Poe laughs. “With my squadron and a lot of help, but—yeah. I’m that Poe Dameron.”

The stranger swallows, and his eyes drop to the table. For a moment, Poe figures that he hasn’t thought past his opening move, but then he asks, “Can I buy you drink?”

“You look like you could use it more than me.”

The man’s face flickers in confusion, for a moment, so Poe makes himself clear. “C’mon. Sit down,” he pats the seat beside him on the bench.

The man ducks, his head brushing the scarves, and arranges himself and his long limbs on the very edge of the bench. “You can sit closer, I’m not gonna bite. Unless you ask real nice.” The stranger gives a small smile as he scoots closer to Poe, and, as Poe suspected, he’s cute when he does that. “What’s your name, traveller?”

“Owen.”

“Are you with them, Owen?” The refugees scattered in the crowd look like individual family groups—a quartet of grim-faced sisters, two women with their son—but they could be all together.

Owen glances down. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Poe nods. “I can imagine. Looks like they did a number on you.” He gestures to the scar on Owen’s face. It must be new, judging from both how pink the healed tissue is and how Owen’s hand flies to his face, as if he’d forgotten it was there.

“Well,” Owen says, giving Poe that same small smile, “you should see the other guy.”

They laugh, and Poe likes that sound in Owen’s throat. (Owen’s very nice throat.) He probably hasn’t had much to laugh about in the last month. Neither has Poe.

So Poe makes it his mission to make Owen laugh with a vengeance. He tells him stories about daring rescues and a few less-than-spectacular missions, for modesty’s sake. Playing the hotshot pilot is a bit of a posture for Poe, but it’s familiar, almost comfortingly so. If Poe is trying to make Owen forget about what happened to his home world, then he’s also trying to forget about the bedside vigil that waits for him at home.

“And then the Hutt says, this isn’t what I ordered!” Poe slams his hand down on the table, grinning. Owen laughs his low, dark chuckle, and it feels like a victory. Owen smiles his strained smile at Poe. He’s beautiful like that, Poe thinks. Poe reaches out, casually, and brushes his fingertips against the back of Owen’s hand where it rests on the table, stroking his long fingers.

Owen’s eyes flicker to their hands, and then back up to Poe’s eyes. His face is suddenly serious, almost searing in its intensity. It’s the result he’d hoped for, but he still yelps a little in surprise when Owen lunges forward to kiss him. Owen kisses like a freighter—sloppy and overwhelming, with intent. Poe opens his mouth to admit Owen’s tongue, almost startled to feel heat starting to pool in his belly already. Has it been that long?

When Owen pulls back, he looks… scared. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he confesses, ducking his head.

Poe tilts Owen’s head back up with his index finger, gazing steadily into his eyes. Owen doesn’t make a noise, but his lips tremble at the touch. It’s not just that he wants this, Poe realizes, it’s that he needs this, needs something to think about besides the end of his world.

Poe can’t help Finn right now, but he can help Owen.

And himself in the process, if he’s being totally honest.

Poe cups Owen’s face—the left side, not the right side with its scar—and kisses him, more gently than Owen kissed him, licking his lips apart. Owen makes a little noise at that and pulls at Poe’s waist with his big hands. Poe feels the sudden overwhelming urge to crawl into Owen’s lap, mount that tall, broad body.

The alcove, despite its scrim of scarves, suddenly feels too public.

“Owen,” Poe asks, voice low, “do you want to go somewhere more private?”

“Yes,” Owen groans against his mouth.


Somewhere more private turns out to be the room Owen is renting for the night, on the second floor of the tavern. It’s not much, but there’s a bed and a door that locks.

Not that he sees much of it before Owen pins him against the door by his shoulders, fists his hands in Poe’s new jacket, and starts kissing him like he’s trying to suck all the air out of Poe’s lungs. It takes Poe a minute to realize his toes aren’t touching the floor. Owen is strong—he could probably pick Poe up, fuck him against the wall without breaking a sweat. Poe groans into Owen’s mouth at the idea.

When Owen breaks away just to breathe, Poe finds himself panting as Owen sets him down gently. He grins up at Owen. “What, I don’t rate the full tour?” he cracks.

Owen bites his lip and the corner of his mouth quirks. He takes a few staggering steps backwards, staring at him. He sits down on the end of the bed. It groans under his weight.

He’s looking at Poe like he wants to memorize him. The attention is intoxicating. Poe takes a few steps forward and shucks off his jacket. He tosses it to the floor as he steps between Owen’s knees.

Owen tilts his head to look up at him, and it’s a nice angle. Poe reaches out, tracing the unscarred side of Owen’s face before cupping the back of his head, threading his fingers through his long hair. “Hey,” he says.

Owen makes a soft noise that might be a “hey” back and swallows, his gorgeous neck contracting. His big hands settle on Poe’s hips, thumbing the hem of Poe’s shirt. Poe smiles.

“You’re right, I am a little overdressed,” he says, and tugs his shirt off by the back of the collar. Owen blinks furiously and rakes his gaze over Poe’s chest. Poe pulls his hand back to tip Owen’s chin up, pressing his thumb into that plush lower lip. “And so are you.”