With each roll of his hips, his dripping cock slaps against Finn’s glistening abs, streaking them with traces of pre-come. Finn stares up at him, mouth open, trying to form words, maybe, or trying to breathe.
Amazed, overwhelmed, gasping for air and staring like he’s never seen something quite like Poe, naked and sweat-soaked and straddling his hips.
Amazed and amazing: lips wet and swollen, from when they’d kissed earlier, eyes hooded but gaze intense, intent, almost palpable as it slides from Poe’s mouth to his neck, down his chest, to his cock. His wide hands are warm, stroking up along Poe’s thighs, his sides, his back. It’s like Finn can’t decide where to touch him, like he wants to get to everything while he still has a chance, but it’s glancing contact, maddening.
Uncertain, maybe, and Poe wants to tell Finn to breathe, wants to make sure he’s all right, that this is working for him, ask if he’d rather try something else. But Poe's panting so hard, he can barely think, much less speak: it’s too good like this, riding Finn’s thick cock, taking him deeper with each thrust; his skin buzzes, riled by the friction of Finn’s hands as they dragging over as much of Poe as he can reach. It’s as if all the air in his lungs, the words on the tip of his tongue, the thoughts of be a better person, Dameron having been replaced, pushed out by aching, full-bodied awareness of Finn: his hands, his scent, his cock, his presence.
He’s not riding the waves of arousal and affection so much as drowning in them. Happily, willingly, recklessly, and Poe should know better than to chase that feeling, than to get lost in it. He should take it slow, if not for his own sake then for Finn, who’s sworn up and down that he’s ready for this, who’s assured Poe that it’s far from his first time, who Poe's careful not to patronize but still so desperate to protect.
Be a better person, Dameron, he thinks to himself, forces himself to think, because he has to—has to—be sure, has to still his hips enough that he can clear his head, has to shut his eyes and bite his lip. Open his eyes.
“Oh…” he inhales, hard; his lungs ache from it. Lets the air out slowly, a warm hiss between his teeth. “Okay down there?” he manages, and Finn nods, quickly. Poe looks him over, as carefully as he can: eyes bright, chest heaving, mouth open, lips wet, as if he’s been—yes, his tongue flickers out, traces over the top, then the bottom lip. Poe watches as he swallows, gulps, really. His Adam’s apple bobs.
“You—“ Finn starts, and Poe hips jolt, unbidden. Finn groans. Shuts his eyes. His fingers press, a little tighter, into Poe’s thighs. “You okay up there?"
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, aiming for the kind of bravado he thinks Finn’s expecting, and leans over, close enough to feel Finn’s warm puffs of breath against his face. “So much better than okay.”
Finn’s eyes flutter open; a small smile, and his lips part, as if he’s about to respond. And in a way, he does: leans up and kisses Poe. His mouth is open, but he’s hesitant, careful, until Poe presses back, ignoring the twinge in his thighs that he feels despite the gloriously painless swirl of endorphins and adrenaline.
At the slightest hint of reciprocation, Finn’s tongue surges into Poe's mouth, laps desperately against Poe’s own, as his hands slid up around Poe’s back and drag him closer. Poe wonders, not for the first time, probably not for the last, what Finn’s previous experiences have been like, even as he runs his hands up Finn’s chest and around his face, so he can hold him still, deepen the kiss, make sure Finn knows, that it’s okay to want, that it’s okay to be wanted.
Finn’s hand stroke urgently across his back, his shoulders, his sides, and he moans into Poe’s mouth. Poe grins back, still kissing him, sucking on his tongue, till Finn gives a quick, squirming thrust. The angle’s terrible, unsatisfying, but Poe leans back into it, encouraging him. Finn groans in frustration, gives another weak thrust, before pulling back enough to murmur, “Like before, I—I liked that, could we—"
“Yeah?” he says, smiling, breathless; Finn darts up to kiss him again and then nods, falling back onto the bed. Poe pulls back, sitting up again, letting his head fall as he settles onto Finn’s cock again, feels it fill him to the brim.
Finn give a low, trembling groan that Poe recognizes, that Poe loves—it means more, faster, please move. And so he does.
And boy does he—his knees dig into the mattress and his back arches, as he speeds up, hips bucking harder than before, harder than they should, slamming the narrow bunk into the thin metallic wall behind it, throwing him substantially off balance; he almost falls over before Finn grabs him around the waist.
Tight, hard enough to bruise, and Poe can’t hold back the gasp as he throws his head back. Finn lets go instantly, and when Poe glances back down at him; Finn’s upset, and hiding it terribly, palms flat on the mattress, gaze anywhere but Poe’s face, body gone strangely still.
“Hey,” he says, softly. “Hey."
Finn’s eyes dart up to him, then away. Poe’s still achingly hard, dripping onto Finn’s stomach, and he can feel Finn’s cock throbbing inside of him. But that doesn’t matter, not if Finn’s—
“I’m okay,” Finn says, not sounding it at all. Poe wants to push and doesn’t, wants to come but doesn’t. Wants to ask but knows Finn hates it, and can’t blame him.
He reaches down to grasp Finn’s wrists and pull his hands back; squeezes, and Finn seems to get the picture. His thumbs pressed into Poe’s hipbones, fingers digging into the small of Poe’s back.
“Yeah,” Poe groans. “Like that."
And a grin breaks over Finn’s features, wavering at first, but steadying as Poe picks up the pace again.
“Can I—“ he murmurs, after a moment, so low that Poe almost doesn’t hear him over the sound of his own breathing, the beat of his own heart.
“Anywhere,” Poe gasps, unsure of the question he’s answering as his hips sway, arrhythmic and impatient and almost beyond his own control, but determined to cover his bases. “Anything.”
Finn slides a palm over Poe’s stomach, leaving it there for a moment as the rapid rise and fall of Poe’s hips accelerates. Then he eases it up Poe’s chest, carefully, seemingly noticing every desperate tremble and impatient twitch, until his fingers trace over Poe’s neck and his hand cups Poe’s cheek. Poe leans into the touch, shutting his eyes for a moment, forcing his hips to still. Finn makes a low, choked sound.
“You’re beautiful,” Finn says, quietly stunned.
“You’re perfect,” Poe answers, automatically, entirely aware of how much of a line it seems, just as unable to say anything else, because it’s true. Finn fits him, fills all of his empty spaces, blinks up at Poe like he can’t quite believe he’s real while being too good to be true himself.
Poe smiles at him again. Kisses his wrist, and Finn comes, clutching at Poe’s hip, arching off the bed, burying himself so deeply in Poe’s body that Poe knows he’s going to feel it for a week. He almost comes at the thought, but leans over instead, body still thrumming with need.
Licks a long, wet strip up the center of Finn’s throat, feeling the jump of Finn’s Adam’s apple under his tongue as he ruts impatiently at Finn’s still-quivering stomach. Feels the powerful, rapid jolt of Finn’s pulse against his lips as he kisses the side of Finn’s neck, as Finn’s arms wrap around him again. One hand curves around Poe’s hip and the other slips into Poe’s hair, fingers carding through the sweat-soaked curls.
“Finn,” he murmurs, cock sliding wetly between their bodies, through the mess of sweat and pre-come streaking their stomachs. Finn’s fingers twist, gentle but firm, in his hair, before dragging Poe’s head up and bringing their mouths together. It’s artless but effective, and when Poe comes, so hard that his vision blurs, so hard that his knees and elbows buckle, sending him toppling onto Finn’s chest, Finn just grins into his mouth and then sucks, strangely, charmingly, at Poe's bottom lip.
They pant against each other for a while, kissing, or trying to; it’s hard to tell how long, when they’re like this, when Finn’s mouth and hands and body are so close and so warm, so at ease, so unerring in their search for his own. But once Finn slips out of him completely, Poe knows it’s time to put some of his hard-won experience to use, and at least make an effort to clean up the mess between them, before it becomes a problem.
An effort that is easily thwarted by Finn’s arm around his waist, pulling him closer the second he tries to rise, holding him still. Poe lifts his head, just enough to see that Finn’s eyes are closed, that his face is slack, like he’s more than halfway to sleep already.
“Finn,” he says, holding back a smile, because he knows Finn’ll hear it if he doesn't. “Buddy. C’mon. We’re gonna get stuck together."
Finn laughs; low and sleepy, and Poe feels his heart stutter, momentarily weightless. “Sayin’ that like it’s a bad thing."
And that’s the thing about Finn: he’ll say things like that sometimes, things that'll utterly destroy Poe’s plans of being the voice of reason and reduce him to a fumbling teenaged boy running on nothing but hope and hormones. He hasn’t been that boy for more than a decade, closer to two. But chances are, Finn was never that boy at all.
So maybe it’s okay, for now; he'll wait, till Finn falls asleep, before retrieving a wet cloth and settling them into the narrow bunk in a way that’ll allow at least one of them to have a decent night’s sleep. He eases back onto Finn’s chest.
“There you go,” Finn says, drowsily patting the back of Poe’s head. “Now I’ve got ya."
Poe smiles into the curve of Finn’s throat, and relaxes.
“Yeah,” he says, because it’s true. ”Got me good there, buddy.”