Recently, Poe has found himself having to frequently swallow back his desire, pinch at the bridge of his nose, and offer weak smiles whenever he is in their presence.
Rey’s insistence that all food is finger food is the start of it: he watches as her mouth wraps around each digit in turn, sucking it clean of every last morsel. Her eyelids press together and the corners of her lips flick upwards with every few bites -- each time, no matter the meal, no matter the flavours, her face glows as she savours it. Poe notices the way her fingers tug at the corner of her mouth as she wipes it clean, notices the scrape of her teeth, the dart of her tongue, has to avert his gaze and gulp his own meal down quickly.
Finn is no better -- he asks Poe nervously, fingers fidgeting and eyes downcast, where he ought to sleep now that he’s recovered. I just thought, well, we’re friends, right? It’d be nice to bunk with a friend and Rey probably wants her privacy and, well, you might want privacy too, I -- and Poe, foolishly, had shushed him by clamping his hand to his shoulder, by saying Of course, Buddy, giddy and flushed and unaware that he was sinking deeper by the second.
He hadn’t bargained for the bare skin of Finn’s abdomen, on show every time he hikes up his standard issue jumper and pulls it off before bed. Poe’s eyes trace along the taut muscles surging under Finn’s skin as he moves, half naked now, across their shared room, imagines his hands palming along the ridges of his chest, consider the weight of Finn’s thighs in his lap, the rake of Finn’s fingers through his hair.
Fuck, he thinks to himself in the dark of the night, the glint from the window barely illuminating the sleeping figure in the opposite bed.
It isn’t in his nature to be like this -- despite the whispered rumours, there is nothing inherently sexual about Poe Dameron. His voice is honeyed and low, he takes pleasure in learning the exact spot to kiss that will make his lover melt under him, flirts with his whole body, and yet has never considered sex outside the realms of some form of romantic attachment, and has never felt his palms gather sweat or his heart pulse against his ribs quite so much as in the presence of Finn and Rey.
The mathematics are simple, really: a dry spell counted in months, a sudden surge of free time in the lull of momentary peace, and two bright young things, craving platonic touches, taking delight in the nuances of friendship and closeness.
The reality is a hot, sticky delirium -- a bitten lip during every second conversation, a voyeuristic guilt settling into his chest every time he catches himself staring.
Naturally, they are oblivious. Naturally, that makes it worse. His interest in them spans far beyond his giddy lust, of course: he delights in their fascination with the most mundane details of life on base, feels his heart swell each time the word friend is passed between them, takes immense care of them and around them -- cautious that they are not from this world, that they are both impressively strong and incredibly fragile and that he has no right to pry into the experiences that have forged them into the people he’s grown to care for.
If anything, his desire is the only ruinous part of it all; it is something he wishes he could shut off, something destined to remain unreciprocated, destined to ruin the purity of it all.
Poe, you’ll come and see me this evening, won’t you? she asks, voice alight with hope.
Rey trains daily, often in a secluded area of the base’s facilities, occasionally in the depths of the forestry, rarely -- but sometimes -- in the view of the other resistance fighters.
From what Poe has gathered of Luke Skywalker, his approach to Jedi training is a little less restrictive than tradition. He believes in the sanctity of it all, yet was raised a generation apart from the days of the temple and the council, has seen what the rigidity of Jedi practices had forced his father into, forced Kylo into, and was not prepared to let Rey suffer under an outdated and claustrophobic legacy. For that reason, he permits the infrequent but popular public training sessions, allowing the whole of the resistance to revel in her talent.
And so Poe watches, Finn at his side. The fizz and slash of the lightsabers is hypnotic, jarringly loud, and nothing special in comparison to the breathless fluidity of her movements, feet locked in a dance, arms twisting impossibly fast to match her father’s movements.
They pause to allow her to remove her top layer of clothing, revealing sun browned arms and a slight hint of hipbone. After that, Poe’s concentration on the duel is scattered, his thoughts of techniques and tactics interrupted by the image of his lips on the jut of her hip.
It’s almost the worst incident of the day -- almost.
But then, later, when she’s gushing about her exploits at mess (Did you it see when I blocked him from behind? I wasn’t even looking!) she pauses to take a scoop of pudding onto her finger and gestures to Finn -- here, try this -- and he mirrors her finger food technique, sucking on her outstretched hand, lapping up the dessert.
Poe half chokes on his food, spits out a hasty apology and makes a sharp exit, leaving them wide-eyed and confused.
Their exchange is what finally tips him over the edge.
He reaches down to his cock in the shower that evening, letting the water sputter over his upper back, exhaling in pleasure as his hand moves up and down his shaft, feeling release in each stroke.
Amongst the heat and wetness and his own hardness under the callouses of his palms it’s almost enough to imagine Finn’s mouth there, gently pumping, taking time to kiss at his head and lick up the his length, leaving hungry little saliva strings in his wake.
Poe thinks of Rey’s hands in Finn’s hair, reaching down to caress at his scalp, to coax him onto Poe’s body -- her small breasts pillowed against his chest as she holds to his body for stability, nipples grazing his ribcage, mouth on his, her sloppy kisses there punctuated only by the soft bites he leans down to place at the nape of her neck, enjoying the faint blush of pink forming.
In Poe’s mind, Finn increases his pace, hesitantly at first -- he hasn’t done this before -- but a little more confidently as Poe smiles down at him reassuringly. Rey’s fingertips stroke the line of Finn’s jaw, work their way through his scalp, provide a constant, grounding reminder of his safety with them. Poe would offer her the same: refuse to leave any permanent marks, instead trailing teasing movements along the expanse of her stomach, rolling her nipple gently between his lips, letting his hand dance between the tops of her thighs, placing light strokes at the tender spot where her legs and pelvis meet. He pauses to moan against her breast as the hotness of Finn’s mouth swells in his belly, an aching tension mounting there.
Poe’s hand slips deeper towards Rey, his fingertips eliciting soft, low gasps from her as he skims circles around her clit, gradually increasing the pressure. Her body slides up the shower wall, hand still loosely connected to Finn, him now grounding her, and her hair, loose and slick and dark from the water, is splayed in wild, curling patterns. Rey’s eyes flick open, meet Poe’s gaze, and lock there, staring intently into his dilated pupils as he slips a finger inside of her.
Finn reaches to interlock his hand with Rey, palms flat against each other and fingers twisted, and places his other hand on Poe’s hip, tracing thumb strokes along the lines leading to his crotch -- and fuck, fuck -- the thought of Finn’s mouth on his cock and his hand there and -- fuck.
Poe comes into his own hand, knees bucking, palm flat against the shower wall.