Work Text:
In retrospect-
Finn likes to sit back and watch Poe fly. Nothing fancy, nothing grand, just his butt parked on asphalt, sometimes on a blanket, sometimes on a chair, while Poe soars overhead in an X-Wing, doing one of the things he does best. Occasionally, Poe will put on a show for him, will do barrel rolls and Immelman turns and Reverse Half Cuban Eights - all the little tricks in his bag, and Finn will holler and whoop and show his appreciation (and his pride, because damn if he isn't proud, damn if his chest doesn't swell up at least a little bit to think that this amazing person is his in the way that people can choose to belong to each other).
But most of the time, though, Poe doesn't do anything special, he simply flies. Except for when he's with Finn (Finn knows this because Poe told him to his face), that's when Poe feels the most alive. Flight gear on, controls in his hands, the open sky - or the vastness of space - at his beck, he feels like he can do anything, like he's both so small and so huge at once, like he is exactly where he is meant to be, where he was always meant to be.
At first, Finn envied him that. Before his life changed, before he met Poe and Rey and joined the Resistance, he had no idea where he'd belonged. The First Order tried to make him a proper stormtrooper through years of conditioning, but no amount of strictly regimented training could make him fire his blaster at civilians, no protocol in existence could switch off the part of him that wanted to help a comrade. Talented or not, a fundamental part of him was broken, and he was always kept apart, on the outside looking in. Even when he broke free of the Order, his natural instinct was to run as fast and as far away as he possibly could rather than risk any entanglements that would lead him back, despite the tenuous bonds he'd begun to form with the people he now calls family.
(Fear is a funny thing. It makes you behave irrationally. It makes you stupid. It makes you brave.)
To know, right from the start, this is it, this is exactly my place in the world, well. Finn imagines that's a novelty. That's something you take for granted. Poe doesn't, though, Poe never has - when you see how much Poe loves flying, when you see his rituals before he boards a craft and after he disembarks, almost like little prayers, you can tell he doesn't.
But Finn doesn't envy him so much any more these days. He doesn't have to. All he has to do is sit back and watch Poe fly through the skies, because he's starting to figure out exactly where he belongs.
-
"With me, baby," Poe says, one hand on the small of Finn's back, pressing him close. "You belong with me."
"Yes, yes - "
He's so deep inside Finn that it's almost uncomfortable, but Finn doesn't mind at all. They should do this more often; they don't do it often enough. He squirms in Poe's lap, cants his hips back, and they both groan for the sensation of it, Poe a little louder than Finn - Poe has always been a little louder than Finn, a little more animated. Not that Finn enjoys it any less than Poe does, it's just, out of the two of them, Finn is on the reserved side. Somewhat. Compared to Poe, whose steady stream of obscenity-laced innuendo is making Finn laugh, as usual.
"You sound like a depraved - ah - trash compactor."
"Feed me, feed me, feed me," Poe says in his ear, before biting down on the lobe, nibbling at it, and Finn briefly considers dying. He moans instead, cards his fingers through Poe's hair, where they snag, tug, and he is rewarded when the hand on his cock tightens its grip, when the pace increases, becomes erratic. Finn's breath stutters.
"Stars - Poe, you - ah - "
Poe gives him an innocent sort of look that can only mean trouble, and a lot of it. The angle changes suddenly, Poe's cock hitting Finn's prostate, and he can't keep himself from shouting, can't keep himself from clawing at Poe's head, his back, his arms, anywhere he can get hold of while Poe smirks at him like he's just won some sort of lottery that had already been stacked in his favor. Cheeky bastard.
"Fuck - !"
Poe sucks his lower lip between his teeth because he knows it drives Finn crazy, then drags him in for a sloppy kiss. "I love it when you cuss," he says against his mouth. "Makes me wanna fuck you so hard you can't walk for a week."
Then what the hell is this? Finn thinks, even as he throws his head back and howls, 'reserved' be damned. It's different when Poe takes the lead, it's different when Poe is the one who says these things and does these things and makes his entire body feel like it's going to fly apart at the seams. It's just different and so, so good and he comes, hot and hard, all over Poe's hand. And because he is the way he is, because seeing Finn lose it is always enough to get him off, Poe finishes soon after, his face buried in the crook of Finn's neck.
They sag against each other, spent, sated, and in love.
"Trashy," Finn murmurs.
Poe slaps his come-smeared hand good-naturedly over Finn's face.
He deserved that.
Probably.
-
Finn is starting to figure out there he belongs. It took a while. It was a damn hard lesson to learn. He's got a huge scar on his back to prove it. But there's not a single thing he'd change on the journey here, not a single person he'd give back, not a single member of his ragtag family he'd trade.
This is what he learned:
Home is where you decide it is, and for Finn, home is a strip of asphalt, watching Poe fly.