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“You have got to be freaking kidding me!”

I don’t realise I’ve hissed at my laptop screen out loud until Bram shifts on the bed behind me. “Who’s freaking kidding you with what?”

We’re in his room, which is perpetually trying to shame my room by being super-tidy, like, way tidier than any seventeen-year-old’s room has any need or right to be, but that’s Bram for you. My neat freak, rule-compliant, schoolwork-obsessed boyfriend.

My sadistic, secretly evil boyfriend, who is torturing me by being all cluelessly hot in his tank top and jeans and bare feet, lounging on his bed all ravishable while insisting he needs to study.

I mean, to be fair I don’t think he’s genuinely obsessed with schoolwork as such but he does usually get all his assignments in on time and he is being highly unreasonable about cramming for this final while, hello, I’m right here in his room and we could be doing other things.

(Okay, so he did warn me he needed to study and was going to be a colossal bore and I really didn’t need to come over if I had better things to do, but that’s crazy talk. What better things am I gonna have to do besides my boyfriend, har har etc.)

“Uhm, nothing, I’m just on Tumblr looking at my fandom stuff and this girl’s posted this awesome Force Awakens fanart about Poe and Finn, and some asshole is giving her shit for it.” I lean aside slightly so he can see the post, which is Poe and Finn in a gorgeous charcoal sketch making out, and the note, which is depressing in every way.

Bram leans forward to see my screen and makes a face. “Ugh, it’s in all caps.”

“That’s trolls for you.”

“And their grammar is really bad.”

“Their grammar? I feel like maybe you’re missing the point here.”

“No, I know, but…”

UR SICK, THEIR NOT GAY,” I read, for illustrative purposes, in my best capslock voice.

“Does no one teach the difference between they’re and their anymore?” Bram asks, forlornly. “Is that just a lost cause now?”




“Lie, lie, it’s L-I-E, why does no one ever get that right!” Bram moans, knocking his forehead against his chemistry textbook. I really feel like I’ve lost him somewhere, and like he’s not appreciating the hilarity of “DYE FAGGOT” enough.

“I respect your grammatical outrage but I really feel like you’re not appreciating the hilarity of ‘DYE FAGGOT’ enough,” I tell him, because if you can’t tell your significant other exactly what’s going on inside your head, then who can you? “Like, dye them what colour? Teal? Magenta? Mauve? Generic rainbow faggoty evil? We need specifics!”

“Okay, but also, I feel like someone who can’t even spell the names of their supposed OTP does not get a say in this at all.”

“Good point but again, you’re coming at this through the spelling angle, which I assure you isn’t gonna sway anyone on Tumblr. Also, they’re shitting on our good slashy fun and the artist is really upset.”

Bram hoists himself up on his elbows and makes a visibly manful attempt to focus on the evil at hand. “Yeah, no, you’re right. But can’t the artist just block or ignore him?”

“She has done, that was just a screenshot of the troll’s original note. She deleted it, but then the troll did a screenshot of her post and reposted it and tagged her on it and I think she’s really young so she’s gone and engaged the troll instead of just blocking and ignoring them. And the troll’s been blocking her, but she’s got sockpuppets set up to swamp them with more Finn/Poe/Rey stuff to piss them off, and now it’s A Thing so the rest of us have to get involved and make more sockpuppets, because, you know, fuck trolls.”

I tell him this as I type rapidly, telling the artist how much I love her work and how much the troll sucks.

“I was going to study,” Bram mutters behind me. “Not be peripherally involved in Tumblr-based Troll Drama.”

“You don’t have to be involved.”

“I kinda do. No one tells you this when you commit to dating a slasher.”

“Tough luck. Go back to your textbook.” I quickly link the original post, screenshot the troll’s illicit repost and the most scathing response notes, then copy the whole thing to Twitter to direct some more mocking traffic towards the troll and some much-needed love towards the artist.

I don’t register Bram’s movement until there’s warm breath on the back of my neck. “Are you seriously giving this asshole more attention?”

I shiver, squirming under the soft caress of his lips against the top of my spine. “I’m fighting the good fight. Like Poe Dameron.”

A huff of amusement. “Uh huh.”

I seriously cannot type while he’s all… being there. With his mouth against my skin. I am pathetic.

“Simon.” A dark, melty undertone in his voice. “Stop feeding the trolls.”

“I’m… I… no, this is… important.” I make a valiant effort to sling some more insults at the troll, although for all I know I might be calling him an unfair lip distractor. In very bad spelling. “I thought you needed to study.”

“You’re right.” The touch of his mouth disappears suddenly, and I curse myself for being too efficient at driving him off. Didn’t I want to distract him from his boring textbook? Man, I suck.

“I’ll be right back,” he adds, and before I can turn my head, the door snicks shut. Great job, Spier. Things you are good at in the general realm of boyfriending: Reminding him he’s got better things to do than you, like studying, and also pee breaks. Outstanding.

I sigh, and vent my frustration by laying into the troll some more by tagging them on a shitload of Poe/Finn and Poe/Rey/Finn fanart and fic, on a variety of sockpuppet accounts. I know it’s pointless to engage with this random douchebag but it also feels so good. (I do make sure to be grammatically accurate in my insults.)

The door slams open so suddenly that I jump, but before I can even turn around, there’s Bram pressing up against the back of my chair, hands gripping my upper arms. “Listen carefully,” he pants into my ear. “If you do exactly as I say, I can get you out of here.”

There’s a hard pressure against the side of my face. I turn my head just enough to realise Bram is wearing a bike helmet. A white bike helmet. What the fuck is going on?

“What…?” I ask inanely.

Bram yanks me out of my chair and turns me to face him. Under the bizarre bike helmet, his eyes are dark and intent and he sounds weirdly breathless. “This is a rescue. I’m helping you escape. Can you fly a TIE fighter?” When he pulls the helmet off his head and stares at me like he’s about to pierce me with his eyes, I finally, belatedly get it. I think my mouth opens and closes a couple of times as my brain scrambles to catch up.

“You… with the Resistance?” I blurt, frantically trying to remember the lines. (I did see that movie four times.)

Bram makes a confused face, although for a second his eyes flash in pure mischief. This boy is going to be the death of me. He drops something over my shoulders – something heavy and smooth, smelling faintly of unfamiliar cologne.

A leather jacket. Beige.


“What? No, no , no,” he growls, clutching the helmet under one arm and my hand with the other. “I’m breaking you out. Can you fly a TIE fighter?”

I lean forward, into his face, as I slide my arms into the sleeves of the leather jacket ex machina (seriously, where the fuck did he get that thing?), and say, with all the intensity I can muster, “I can fly anything.

His grin blooms wide and lovely, and although it’s technically what Finn would do, it’s all Bram, soft-eyed and sweet and a little wicked, and it makes me a little melty in the knees, in a way I’m sure Poe wouldn’t get. Right? Poe Dameron doesn’t get weak in the knees. Does he? Fuck, I just don’t know. Finn is hot, but is he as hot as Bram? I Have My Doubts.

He’s still clutching my upper arms, which are now sheathed in beige leather. For some reason the jacket really helps me with getting into character.

“Why are you helping me?” I pant.

Bram stares deeply into my eyes, all soulful and sincere. His eyes are too freaking beautiful. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

I got this now. I’m into this. I’m so into this it’s a little freaky. I got this. Poe and me got this. I grin at him, knowing and more cocky than I could ever be as myself. “You need a pilot.”

Bram bites his lip to swallow his laughter. “I… need a pilot.”

I lean further into him still. His lips are right before my face. It’s possible that this isn’t strictly movie canon, but to be honest, at this point I don’t care. “We’re gonna do this?” I say, and I vaguely remember it was a statement in the film but it comes out as a question.

“Yeah,” he says, breathless and laughing. He drops a quick, fierce kiss on my mouth (yes, we have definitely deviated from canon), and before I know what’s going on, he’s grabbed one of my arms and is dragging me behind him. I swallow my protest as to why we’re leaving this nice, comfortable room with this nice, comfortable bed, because seriously, this is not up to me. It’s up to FN-2187. Finn. Bram. Him who is scrambling my brain, and definitely other regions as well.

He guides me down the stairs, gazing frantically around corners into the kitchen and living room, and then down some more stairs into the basement TV room.

“Are you sure this is…” I start, but he cuts me off, relentlessly in character.

“Okay, stay calm, stay calm.”

“I am calm,” I reply, obligingly.

“I’m talking to myself,” Bram hisses, knocking the door shut behind us with his elbow. I catch a quick glimpse of his mom’s record collection and a mini fridge, but then all of it blurs together when Bram pushes me up against the wall and kisses me urgently, his tongue sliding into my mouth.

“Isn’t this,” I murmur in between kisses, “isn’t this where we ought to be shooting at the Empire and stuff… Oh!” I gasp, as he slides a knee between my thighs.

“Mhmm… sure,” Bram murmurs, mouthing along my jaw line. “Only, I thought that was just code for… you know… shooting at the Empire,” and he presses his hips into mine until I make a pathetic whining sound. Vaguely, I recognise I ought to tell him that he’s terribly off-costume with his lame bike helmet dropped at our feet while the rest of him is still in his totally non-Stormtrooperish tank top and jeans gear, but also, that means his arms and shoulders are bare and sliding against me and it’s difficult to form a coherent thought while that’s happening.

“Finn,” I say, valiantly trying to stick to the script, even while he’s nibbling on my earlobe. “What are you doing?”

The leather is resting heavy against my shoulders, and part of me really wants it off, but part of me also really likes it, the reassuring weight of it on my shoulders, my nearly bare skin.

“I want you,” Bram murmurs in my ear. His breath is a soft, damp gust against my ear and it makes me so hard it nearly hurts. “I want you so much.”

“Yes,” I whisper against the side of his mouth, in between frantic kisses. “Please.”

I’m not sure what the narrative is at this point, but to be frank, I don’t care. Poe and Finn want to fuck, right? That’s the endgame. Who cares how they get there, and I really feel like we’ve made a valiant effort to be canon-compliant. I’ve got my hand down the front of Bram’s jeans, and he’s hard and a little damp at the tip and I want him so much I could probably come just like this, just jerking him off while I hump his thigh, but…

“Poe,” Bram breathes, and then he’s shoving me a few feet to the left, and there’s the couch, soft, reassuring leather underneath me as Bram pushes me gently face down. I should probably really… take off this jacket? I don’t want to take off this jacket.

Bram’s hands are warm and competent as they undo my fly and slip deftly inside. I make a highly undignified noise and spread my legs at the same moment he pushes my trousers down my thighs, which means there’s not a whole lot of room but I can’t really bring myself to close my legs again. What can I say. Apparently FN-2187 turns me into a total slut.

Bram spreads his other hand against my nape, pressing down upon my back. I’m not entirely sure why the sensation of just his hand on my freaking neck should be so incredible, but it is.

Bram”, I say. I can’t stick to the fantasy, because the pathetic truth is he’s better than any fantasy. Like, if I had to choose between him and Finn, there wouldn’t be any choice at all. Still, there was that helmet. The slick, dizzying feel of the leather jacket against my bare skin. The way he’s pushing me down now, no trace of shyness or uncertainty.

He leans over me. One of his hands is inside my pants, long fingers tracing the outline of my cock, and if I’m not mistaken he’s taken his pants down as well, because he’s pushing against me in a decidedly demanding way, sliding up and down between my buttocks.

“What do you want, Poe?” His breath is hot against my ear. I may not survive this. Is he seriously still trying to be in character?

Well, fine. Two can play that game. I tilt my hips, very deliberately. “You ever fuck anyone, Finn?” I murmur, twisting my head around until I can get at his soft, soft mouth. It opens a little more, maybe in shock. I grin against the generous curve of his lips, and nip his bottom lip. “Have you? Because I imagine there isn’t much of that going on among that… very… rigorous… Stormtrooper… training. I mean. Do you even know how?”

He growls. He honest to god growls, and it turns me on like you wouldn’t believe. “Watch it, Resistance scum,” he snarls, and leans more heavily across me. His fingers suddenly slide from my cock to my balls and then further back, calloused tips circling where I am, as I’ve discovered to my humiliation, excruciatingly sensitive.

“Empire lackey,” I gasp,” and then gasp again, louder, when he nudges a finger inside me. It’s slick with something, and again I have to appreciate Bram’s amazing meticulousness, making sure he’s got lube handy for, you know, those predictable occasions where he needs to bend his leather-clad, cosplaying boyfriend over the side of a couch while pretending he’s a Stormtrooper, fingering my ass and driving me nuts.

He curls his finger and I whimper, hands digging into the arms of the couch. I’m on fire all over. I’m pretty sure I’m ruining this fine leather couch with how hard and wet I am and how much I’m leaking already.

Bram’s fingers keep moving inside me. Yes, there’s two of them now, or maybe more than two; it’s kind of hard to tell when I’m this hot for it, and this desperate to get off.

“Bram, please.” I think he was playing a character but I have, humiliatingly, forgotten his name. “Bram. Please.

“Please what?”

He’s wrapped his left arm around my chest, fingers splaying possessively across my ribcage. I’m not sure what even to focus on, his rough fingertips against my nipples, or his other fingers, pushing inside me, or the slick slide of his cock against me. I just know I want more.

“Stick it in me,” I demand, so hoarse I wouldn’t recognise my own voice. “Just… please… fuck me.”

God bless sadistic, neat freak, rule-compliant boyfriends who’ve got condoms handy at all times. He’s super-smooth about it, too, I barely notice a pause before he’s poised against my entrance, sleek and hot and thick. I make a doubtlessly embarrassing noise, then a more embarrassing noise when he finally pushes in, slow but steady. I dig my fingers more deeply into the couch, bracing. It’s not painful, exactly, and I do want him, but he’s not small. For a moment, my head swims with the sensation, caught between flight and surrender. Then I moan, low in my throat, and push out, and then he’s just there, inside me, and it’s seriously the most incredible thing I’ve ever felt. Full, and hot, and hard, and really, I just need him to really, properly fuck me now.

“Simon?” His voice is cracked against my ear, like he can’t form normal words, and honestly that’s kind of gratifying, because otherwise I’d have to think I was the only hopeless sap in this scenario. “Are you… is this…?”

“For fuck’s sake, Bram, will you please just freaking move,” I grate out, arching my back. There’s a huff of shaky laughter against my nape, but then he’s actually, finally moving, one arm still around my chest, the other hand on my hip as he withdraws halfway, then pushes back in. I gasp. It’s ridiculous how little control I have over my reactions, but I’ve discovered that when he does this – when I can feel him sliding in and out of me, shifting to hit my prostate when he can, his balls slapping warm and heavy against me on every thrust – I absolutely cannot control what my mouth does about it. I suspect some of these noises could be categorised as shouting. I don’t care.

“Simon.” To my relief, his voice isn’t much better, all raspy and breathy and desperate like that. “God, you’re… you feel incredible, I can’t, I’m gonna… oh god, oh fuck…”

He jerks and twitches against my back with a sobby intake of breath, but even as he does, his hand slides down from my chest, fingers curling around my dick, and it may not be super-coordinated, but to be honest at this point it doesn’t need to be. I make a keening noise, teeth digging into my lower lip, and between his pumping fingers and the puffs of desperate breath against my back and the twitching, throbbing sensation of feeling him come inside me, it doesn’t take much. I cry out, spilling all over his hand, and feel vaguely grateful for the sleek, impartial softness of the couch welcoming us as we slump, bonelessly, down onto it.

It takes me a while to come back to the surface. I’m sticky and noodley, and hazily, post-coitally giddy.

“That was roleplay. You roleplayed with me. You were all… masterful, and urgent, and Finn-like.”

“Nnnnghhrrrmmm. Shut up,” Bram mumbles from the depths of the couch, which is our friend and supportive enabler. I cackle.

“I should send that Tumblr troll a thank-you note.”

“Don’t. You’ll make their brain explode.”

“Well, exactly.”

“Simon. Don’t.” He groans and stretches down the length of the couch, pulling me against him so I end up on top. I grin.

“Okay, fine. Anyway, I changed my mind about Halloween. We should do Poe and Finn instead. Since we already have this extremely handy jacket.”

“It’s my dad’s. He forgot it when he came to visit. You are genuinely disturbed.”

“Hey, you’re the one who brought it into it. We’d need a Rey, though, to be honest. You know, for equal opportunities.” I sit up suddenly. “Oh my god, I could ask Abby. She’d totally do it. That would be awesome! We’d be the hottest!”

“Simon.” Bram is squinting at me suspiciously through post-orgasmic haze. “Are you trying to tell me something here?”

“What?” I run my brain back through what we just talked about, then nearly choke when I realise what he’s asking. “Dude, no!” I drop back on top of him, grabbing his wrists to pin them down on either side of his head. “No!” I repeat, kissing him forcefully to emphasise my point. “I don’t need a girl in this pairing. I would like to keep this pairing strictly gay, boringly monogamous and disgustingly fluffy. But totally apart from that… I mean, there are things I owe the fandom.” I grin. “And they really do work best as a threesome.”

“Okay.” Bram wriggles his legs out from under me and hooks them behind my knees, trapping me neatly against him. “Just making sure that it’s strictly fandom-related.”

I nod, and kiss him again. “Calculated fanservice only, I promise.”

“Well, good. Speaking of…” He wriggles underneath me, arching, and I can’t help my breath hitching in my throat as I feel him swelling against me.

“Bram Greenfeld, you are going to be the death of me.”

But honestly, there’s worse ways to go.