Poe's mission took him away for the night and next day, long enough for Finn to peruse his choice of recreational light reading. With searing curiosity and the Stormtrooper's ingrained discipline, he read every slim book twice, pausing only to take stock of Poe's scrawls in the margin. Not scholarly notes, these - Poe was of the !!! and phwoar school - but a clear if dotted map of his tastes in all things erotica.
Like Poe bravery, Poe's taste was stolidly one-track. He liked his tropes medium rare: cheered the frisky bedfellows (Two in a Starfighter) over the hunky dungeon overlord and his bashful charge (Whose Captive); rooted for a monogamous agenda (Clone Antics); banned scum, slave, runt, bunkslut and drink up my blue milk, baby from dirty talk while giving a pass to Fuck the holy stars out of me (Burning The Sky with Baer). Poe liked sultry flesh and loyal hearts, life-affirming journeys ending in comrades meeting, chest to chest and mouth to mouth, while the Force Itself blessed their union an eruptive release that must have jolted every planet out of orbit.
Dawn came, and Finn thought he was getting the idea.
"You found my stash?" Poe popped his head in at the door. "Good for you, pal!"
Finn, who was expecting at least one of them to feel self-conscious, found himself answering, "Yeah, they're, uh, quite the pep-up talk."
"There's a new batch flown in on Monday, I'll bag some for you," came next, opening a new vista on General Organa's tactics in keeping the troops' morale up and coming. Or taking the Resistance ethos of in and out cooperation to a whole new level, who knew. Then Poe sat on the edge of the bed and asked about Finn, until Finn asked about Poe, and any news of Rey and her mission, and the conversation flowed on, warm and easy, until a small rotund nurse beeped Poe firmly out of the room.
"Oh, right," Poe said, leaning down to stroke BB-8's head. "Diary duty. And reporting duty. Yeah. I'll make myself scarce, then."
"I'd swap you," Finn said, bucking at his enforced rest time. Somehow, his foray into Poe's stash had dulled his interest for self-introspection. He coughed, lay back on the mattress which had once born a Poe-shaped indent, pushing his cheek into the pillow. BB-8 uttered a stern triolet.
"Day Three," Finn said resignedly. "Hey, Diary..."
But his thoughts were flying off at unruly tangents. Poe on mission. Who had been his co-pilot today? Poe was good at co-tasking. Comrading. Poe was worth any hero in any batch of tales, and if Finn had his say, he could tell those writers a thing or two about what it felt being a hero at his side, with fate blowing hot and cold on their story.
"Hey, Diary. So I was thinking back..."
He stopped, cringed. Using the first person still felt raw to him after what felt like a lifetime of emotional neutering. He wasn't an innocent. He wasn't a virgin. Sex had been check-listed into his programming, along with food and sleep schedules: quick, efficient interludes with the superior officer timing their climax from the watchroom, then back into the shell which was their body proper. "Like an egg," Poe had joked at one point, except it was just that: his wants and needs still unhatched, still in need of a language that was born with Finn and now struggled for growth.
Unless...
Unless the story could be pitched this way, coloured up that much, and it still told Finn, only differently. Obliquely. Like his fib to Rey that he was one of the Resistance, which had been a fib, only true, sort of. Making him more than he was, until he was more.
Finn opened his eyes to a soft, concerned chirp.
"Mate," he said. "Scratch that and start over. You ready?"
The chirp grew eager.
"Good. Chapter One. Cor Peladan was not the tallest or burliest courrier on the Dekado system, but his driving skills were unmatched, and his hair, curling casually away from his face..."
FILL - Hyperdrive My Heart (2/?)
Like Poe bravery, Poe's taste was stolidly one-track. He liked his tropes medium rare: cheered the frisky bedfellows (Two in a Starfighter) over the hunky dungeon overlord and his bashful charge (Whose Captive); rooted for a monogamous agenda (Clone Antics); banned scum, slave, runt, bunkslut and drink up my blue milk, baby from dirty talk while giving a pass to Fuck the holy stars out of me (Burning The Sky with Baer). Poe liked sultry flesh and loyal hearts, life-affirming journeys ending in comrades meeting, chest to chest and mouth to mouth, while the Force Itself blessed their union an eruptive release that must have jolted every planet out of orbit.
Dawn came, and Finn thought he was getting the idea.
"You found my stash?" Poe popped his head in at the door. "Good for you, pal!"
Finn, who was expecting at least one of them to feel self-conscious, found himself answering, "Yeah, they're, uh, quite the pep-up talk."
"There's a new batch flown in on Monday, I'll bag some for you," came next, opening a new vista on General Organa's tactics in keeping the troops' morale up and coming. Or taking the Resistance ethos of in and out cooperation to a whole new level, who knew. Then Poe sat on the edge of the bed and asked about Finn, until Finn asked about Poe, and any news of Rey and her mission, and the conversation flowed on, warm and easy, until a small rotund nurse beeped Poe firmly out of the room.
"Oh, right," Poe said, leaning down to stroke BB-8's head. "Diary duty. And reporting duty. Yeah. I'll make myself scarce, then."
"I'd swap you," Finn said, bucking at his enforced rest time. Somehow, his foray into Poe's stash had dulled his interest for self-introspection. He coughed, lay back on the mattress which had once born a Poe-shaped indent, pushing his cheek into the pillow. BB-8 uttered a stern triolet.
"Day Three," Finn said resignedly. "Hey, Diary..."
But his thoughts were flying off at unruly tangents. Poe on mission. Who had been his co-pilot today? Poe was good at co-tasking. Comrading. Poe was worth any hero in any batch of tales, and if Finn had his say, he could tell those writers a thing or two about what it felt being a hero at his side, with fate blowing hot and cold on their story.
"Hey, Diary. So I was thinking back..."
He stopped, cringed. Using the first person still felt raw to him after what felt like a lifetime of emotional neutering. He wasn't an innocent. He wasn't a virgin. Sex had been check-listed into his programming, along with food and sleep schedules: quick, efficient interludes with the superior officer timing their climax from the watchroom, then back into the shell which was their body proper. "Like an egg," Poe had joked at one point, except it was just that: his wants and needs still unhatched, still in need of a language that was born with Finn and now struggled for growth.
Unless...
Unless the story could be pitched this way, coloured up that much, and it still told Finn, only differently. Obliquely. Like his fib to Rey that he was one of the Resistance, which had been a fib, only true, sort of. Making him more than he was, until he was more.
Finn opened his eyes to a soft, concerned chirp.
"Mate," he said. "Scratch that and start over. You ready?"
The chirp grew eager.
"Good. Chapter One. Cor Peladan was not the tallest or burliest courrier on the Dekado system, but his driving skills were unmatched, and his hair, curling casually away from his face..."