“You’re a what?” Finn demands, propping himself up on his elbows. The hazy, rumpled, contented expression on his face is gone, replaced by something that looks like outraged constipation. “You’re a prince?”
Poe makes a face. This is always the most awkward part of any relationship conversation. Although to be fair, it’s only the third time he’s actually had to have it, since mostly he’s more of a love ‘em and — not leave ‘em, really, more like love ‘em and have a friendly understanding that this was a fun time and not, you know, a serious relationship with ‘em. And the last two people had also been royalty, so it wasn’t really awkward so much as tedious, because you really ought to make sure you’re not related to the hot crown prince you’re banging before you bang.
Since it’s pretty unlikely Finn is royalty (you’d think with those cheekbones he’d be the recipient of some kind of genetic programming, but apparently it’s sheer random chance), Poe had decided to bang first, answer questions later.
Unfortunately, later is now. Maybe he can get out of this by offering Finn another blowjob. “Actually, technically I’m a king,” which he realizes is the wrong thing to say when Finn makes a gargling noise of protest. “But like, it’s not important! It’s not even a major planetary system—“
“You’re a king of more than one planet?” Finn howls, and (and this is the unacceptable part) tries to get out of bed.
“No, buddy, c’mon,” he says, grabbing at Finn’s shoulders and wrists and whatever parts aren’t out of range yet. He’s still pretty exhausted; in classic Dameron fashion he’d decided to try seducing Finn the night after he’d flown a mission that had involved him flying low-atmo upside-down for about three hours. Sex had been really, really fun, but he kind of can’t feel his legs at this point.
“I just had — relations—“ and Poe can’t help grinning at that because one of the really fun things about Finn is that he is very, very old-fashioned in very, very specific ways. He’ll swear, but he can’t say the word “kiss” without getting frazzled about it. And Poe’s just recently discovered that if he whispers all the things he wants to do to Finn directly into his ear, Finn will actually come with a panicked groan right into his hand, gasping and beautiful and perfect. “With a king, and you know, this is what they warn you against in Stormtrooper training,” and he’s up and grabbing for his pants, which is a goddamn travesty.
“They warn you against having sex with royalty?”
“They warn you against getting involved with the enemy,” Finn hisses, yanking his shirt out from under Poe’s head, where it had been a very nice addition to his standard issue pillow. “Because before you know it, there are no more rules, no more boundaries, and then all of a sudden you’re into—“ he waves at Poe, who does his best to look like something Finn would want to be into. Finn notices, and makes a sound Poe had last heard from Mr. Chewbacca after someone had beaten him at chess. “Look, I like you, and I like…these things—“
“Which things are we talking about?” Poe asks, trying for rogueish charm. His deportment tutor had always said it was important to make commoners feel at ease with humor and wit.
“Just genral things!” Finn shouts; his hostility is marred by the fact that he has to sit back down on the bed in order to get his boots back on (Poe realizes with a sickening lurch that he had sex with someone who kept his socks on the whole time. And he didn’t even notice. Maybe Grandmother was right about how the Resistance was making his standards slip. No, Poe determines as he sits up and wraps his arms around Finn’s waist, his standards are still unimpeachable, he just has a gift for finding the diamonds in the rough). “And don’t try hugging me into submission, either, because this is just all kinds of — so you have, like, subjects? People who call you your highness and stuff?”
“No,” Poe lies, because they call him Your Majesty and he’s learning in this conversation that that kind of distinction doesn’t help him get Finn back into bed. “Look, it’s not a big deal, I just thought, you know, since it was pretty obvious you didn’t know anything about the Dameron family that I should give you a heads up.”
“Oh, my head is up,” Finn snaps, but he isn’t trying to put his boots on any more and when Poe gives an experimental tug, Finn lies back down on the bed with minimal resistance. “So if it’s not a big deal, why’d you want to tell me?”
Poe kisses him to derail the conversation, which works pretty well, because telling Finn that he’d already called his Grandmother to have her ship him the family coronet collection would probably be another awkward conversation, and he wanted at least one more orgasm before taking a long ass nap.
Rey’s reaction, seven months later, is similarly difficult to manage.
“You’re a what?” she squeaks. Her hair is a wild mess and he kept inhaling some of it while they were all asleep last night, but he’s awake now, staring blearily at the two most beautiful twerps in the galaxy.
“You told her?” he askes Finn. “I was gonna tell her.”
“When?” Finn asks, looking deeply unimpressed. “On your wedding day?”
“Our,” Poe says, managing to free one hand from the blanket in order to wave around at all three of them, “Our wedding day. I’m thinking springtime on Ustinan Prime, it’ll be beautiful with the seven moons and—“
“I’m not marrying anybody,” Rey says, firm.
“Me neither,” says Finn, “Definitely not you, I don’t care how many crowns you try putting on my head. And besides, you can’t marry two people. And besides that, you’re a prince, so you can’t just go around marrying people like us anyway.”
“Okay, why is this happening right now, to me, here, in this place,” Poe says, because seriously. He and Finn had finally convinced Rey that yes, they did both like her a lot and no, they didn’t at all mind that she had breasts (although Finn still can’t say the word “breasts” which is amazing). And now, after an night of magic and wonder and breasts, he’s been woken up by people yelling at him that they’re not going to marry him. It’s all very rude. He wonders if he can talk to the General and see how she dealt with this when trying to bone Han Solo; he vaguely recalls her complaining that it took forever to convince him because he was afraid princessness was some kind of STD he might pick up.
“What, do people only get married with one other person in the First Order?” Rey asks, sounding interested, and this is definitely going to devolve into another series of Finding Out About Ourselves Through Finding Out About Each Other, which Poe’d been in favor of last night when it had involved finding out just how sensitive Rey’s neck was but to be honest it's considerably less interesting in this iteration. He finds a pillow and puts it over his head, but he can still hear their muffled voices on either side of him, debating wedding ceremonies in the First Order versus birthing contracts on Jakku.
It all gets a little more complicated when Huo and Grandmother arrive about a month afterward, and in all honesty Poe had been hoping to avoid this whole situation.
“I knew there was a reason you kept betting me I couldn’t fly the Millenium Falcon while Finn was going down on me,” Rey hisses, knocking his hands away as he tries to get a brush through her hair. It’s slow going. Apparently she conditioned it with fucking glavia grease when living her desert rat life and as a result it won’t do anything other than her topknot chic without using a comb made out of steel. “You were hoping we’d all crash and die in the explosion, weren’t you?”
“Look, to be fair I was only hoping most of us crashed and died in the explosion,” Poe says, giving up on her hair and running the brush through his own, even though it’s flawless as always. “The survivor could tell a tragic story of doomed love and everything would work out great.” He looks around his room for his anointing gown, which Rey had been using as pajamas lately. He found it balled up at the bottom of the bed. “Rey, how many times do I have to tell you to hang this up—“
“Shut up and hand me that tiara,” she snarls at him, flapping her hand at the dresser where it's perched jauntily on top of his blast helmet. “I can’t believe you’re making us dress up like a pair of — of —“
Just then the door opens and Finn stumbles in, tripping over Poe’s armilla which is draped over his shoulders. He looked good, except for the big oil stain on his pants. “I found the scarfy thing,” he announces, waving the tassles around in his hands. “Are they here yet?”
“In maybe ten minutes,” Poe says, and tosses him the brush. “See what you can do with her highness’s hair.”
“Are they going to call me my highness?” Rey asks, curling her lip.
His subjects are absolutely going to call her that, but Poe has gotten a lot farther in this relationship by avoiding questions than he has by actually answering them, so he says, “Who, Grandmother and Huo? No. They might call you Master Rey, since you’re a Jedi and all.” They will definitely not call her that.
“What about me?” Finn demands. “I’m almost a Jedi.”
“Then I’ll tell them to call you almost-Master,” Poe assures him. “Do you have any extra pants here, or do I have to loan you a pair?”
Finn looks down at his leg and swears.
In the end he has to borrow a pair of Rey’s. Grandmother’s only remark is, “I’m glad to see you’ve found a circumcised young man. So much cleaner, and I hear it improves stamina.” All in all, a fairly benign comment from Grandmother, even though Finn makes a wheezing noise of despair for no reason at all.
After meeting them, Grandmother sends Finn and Rey off and curls her hand around Poe’s arm. “All right, you moron,” she says, “I can see the appeal — two of the youngest Jedi knights in the galaxy, very attractive, probably stupid enough to fall for all of your various and sundry bullshit—“
“Grandmother,” Huo sighs, walking on her other side. Poe mouths “thank you” over Grandmother’s head; Huo gives him the stink-eye and continues, “What she means to say is that these two are completely unacceptable. One of them is a nameless scavenger from some planet I’ve never even heard of, the other one is an honest-to-light-side stormtrooper who apparently bailed you out of trouble once because he liked the look of your ass in your jumpsuit.”
“Hey, my ass looks incredible in that suit,” Poe protests, before remembering that his future happiness and that of his entire kingdom is at stake. “Guys, I know they’re a little rough around the edges—“
“The girl picked her nose when she thought I wasn’t looking,” says Grandmother flatly. “I can only be grateful she didn’t try to eat it.”
“Bottom line is, I’m still king, and I still get to choose,” Poe says, standing firm. “I mean, I’d rather not be deposed or have you two cook up another coup or anything, but I’ve made up my mind, okay?”
They both make lots of adorable threats about raising an army against him and all that jazz, but in the end they agree.
The wedding itself — now that is kind of a disaster.