Aphelion: Chapter Three

Aphelion: Chapter Three

gif by the wonderful @userpoe 💖

Rating: Explicit 18+ Pairing: General Poe Dameron x Female reader Word count: 8k Warnings: Angst, brief mention of reader having sex with someone else, arguing, hurt feelings, reader attempting to slap Poe, explicit descriptions, vaginal fingering, rough sex, unprotected sex, strong language. Chapter One | Masterlist

“You’re not going to like what I have to tell you.”

Those had been Finn’s words the morning after the party.

You had blinked at him from the doorway, fully dressed from the night before and still somewhat drunk. When he had followed up with the news that Poe was gone, you had been naive to think that you would be able to fix things with him once you caught up with him on the mission: that would be your chance to talk about what had happened, to set things straight and decide where you both stood after how things had unfolded the night before.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

You weren’t going on the mission. Poe had reassigned you back to Nic. Maker, it was ridiculous. The smallest misunderstanding, a drunken kiss, and Poe had run away instead of talking it through. He clearly wanted to put as much physical distance between you as he could, and his answer to that was continuing the mission without you.

If it had stopped there, perhaps you could have accepted it as a rash mistake, an overreaction on his part. If he’d given you the chance, you would have told him that he was blowing this out of proportion and allowing it to snowball. You could have returned things to the careful equilibrium that had taken years to cultivate. But it didn’t stop there. Poe avoided any attempts you made at contacting him: no comms, no holocalls, nothing.

For the first time since your friendship had begun, Poe Dameron was at his furthest point from you; he was at aphelion.

“He’s pretty busy,” was Finn’s excuse. “You know how it is when he gets caught up in things…” but that had been bullshit. You may have been naive enough to think that you could fix things with Poe on the day that he left, but you wouldn’t allow yourself to be stupid enough to buy into Finn’s poor excuse of covering for him.

When Poe did finally return to base, weeks later, everything was different. Wherever you were, Poe wasn’t, unless he absolutely had to be. You no longer grabbed food together when your busy schedules allowed it: there were no stolen moments of being together to simply enjoy each other’s company, no comforting hugs and over-friendly touches and smiles. Nothing.

Poe was all but a ghost in your life: there, but not really. Existing as merely a name and the occasional sighting.

At first, you had tried to ignore the ache that had taken up residence in your chest. It came in waves. Some days, they were calm and serene, allowing you to simply drift along and get on with the tasks at hand, but the nights when you found yourself alone were the worst. The ache rose to a precipitous peak, and the waves of loneliness would hit in quick succession, battering your vessel with an overpowering strength that you had no chance of withstanding.

“Lieutenant?”

You blink, realising that Poe is addressing you, and a lot of eyes around the table are watching you expectantly.

Fuck… You weren’t listening. The meeting had continued without your focus, and now you were completely lost.

You clear your throat and throw a somewhat desperate look at Finn before allowing your eyes to slide back over to Poe. You have absolutely no idea what he wants from you as he watches you, eyebrows raised a little as you flounder, at a loss for what to say.

Poe had called this meeting for an update from all who were involved in the ongoing mission, and it was the longest time you had spent in a room with him for over a month.

The first thing you noticed when Poe walked into this meeting was his hair: it was longer and noticeably harder to control in the humid atmosphere. His stubble had grown into more of a prominent beard with grey patches evident here and there. He had clearly been busy over the weeks of your distancing, unable to maintain the well-presented look he’d been keeping on top of since becoming General, but infuriatingly, it suited him.

You would have told him, had he given you a chance to speak to him.

“Lieutenant, your report,” Poe finally prompts you.

You blink, somewhat flushed at how easily his appearance had derailed your thoughts.

“Right.” You clear your throat and reach for your water to buy yourself more time as you gather your thoughts. Then you begin, “Myself, Commander Harik, and the rest of the task force have been looking into one of the factions connected with the most recent mission led by General Dameron. We have strong reasons to believe they are planning to move in and put a claim on some of the resources left by the First Order.”

With a few taps of a button, the information is projected for all to see as you explain your way through it. Every fact is stored to memory, every blueprint you present, every plan that has been drawn up: it’s all there.

The few times you do catch Poe’s eyes, you notice his look of commendation: even now, after everything, he can’t quite hide the way you impress him with your smooth presentation and knowledge. It’s what makes you so valuable and earns your place at this table.

When you finally finish, Nic gives you a small nod and a smile before he picks up where you left off. He explains what is next on the agenda for your task force, the upcoming mission and the objectives. You try your absolute best to keep your eyes fixed on him while he answers questions—you want to give him the attention he deserves and the support that he may need—but you find yourself glancing at Poe every now and again.

For the briefest moment, you catch Poe’s eye before he looks away again without acknowledging you in any way. It’s the first and last time he allows himself to make that mistake.

A couple of hours later, the meeting draws to an end, and some people make their hasty exit while others linger to discuss more details about the upcoming missions. There’s a lot of interest in the one that Nic had been giving details on, but soon enough, even those conversations reach their natural end, and you stand as Nic nods his head towards the door in a silent invitation for you to leave with him.

“I’ll catch you up,” you mouth to him.

Thankfully, he leaves alongside Finn while you slowly collect your things from the table. As the last few people exit, your plan falls into place perfectly: you’re alone with Poe. It shouldn’t make you this nervous to stand with someone you know better than you know yourself most days, but you’re very aware of the way your heartbeat increases at the thought of finally speaking to him.

You wait for the sound of the door to close before you look at him and allow a silence to stretch between you. It’s heavy and uncomfortable, and you momentarily begin to regret this idea.

No, you have to continue.

“Can we talk?” you finally ask as you walk past a couple of seats and stop behind the one that you would usually sit at.

It’s the one nearest to Poe’s, but it had been taken by someone else today. At the time, you had tried to shrug it off, not let it get to you. But it did. Maker, it truly did. This was your seat—it’s where you sat and shared whispered inside jokes with Poe or spoke volumes to each other with a single side-eye glance.

It’s with a heavy sigh that Poe responds, “Now isn’t the time.”

“No?” you question. “When is a good time? Because you’ve been avoiding me for weeks.”

Poe looks exhausted, and the way his eyes close for an extended blink says it all: this is not a conversation he wants to have.

Your stare tells him that this isn’t going away, so he reluctantly continues, “Some other time.”

He stands to leave, but you side-step to block his path before he can move any closer to the door.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you sigh with clear exasperation. “It was one drunken kiss, Poe. This doesn’t… It doesn’t have to–”

“General,” Poe corrects you.

Your eyebrows raise at his interjection before you question him, “Excuse me?”

“I think it’s for the best that we stick to formalities.” Poe’s words come out as some monotone, over-rehearsed bullshit. How many times has he recited that in preparation for this exact conversation?

It still delivers a blow, though. Stick to formalities? That’s not what you do… That’s not who you are. You’re Stitch and Poe, a well-known double act, attached at the hip when on base together, masters at finishing each other’s sentences and speaking each other’s thoughts without even trying.

Fuck formalities.

“Poe…”

“General,” Poe corrects you again.

No words form. Your mouth remains void of any sound as your tongue and brain are momentarily derailed by the realisation of the situation: this time, you are losing him, truly losing him.

With a small shake of your head, you finally break his gaze and frown down at your datapad in your hands. So this is how it feels to fall out of orbit and float in a vast emptiness. You didn’t see this coming. Yet again, you had allowed yourself to be naive in thinking that you could fix things with Poe once you saw him face-to-face. You had good reason for that confidence, though. No matter how bad things got, the two of you had always been able to talk things through.

You try to appeal to that part of him—the Poe who weathered every storm with you, the one who always listened and forgave—by admitting the most painful part of this impossible situation.

“I miss you,” you murmur and look up at him again. “I miss your friendship.”

There’s a sadness on that expressive face of his, but he doesn’t give you anything in return. If he has anything else overly-rehearsed and ready to say, it doesn’t come out. You want to believe that he misses you, too. Part of you is certain he does.

Your words hang heavily over you as you finally step aside.

Poe doesn’t hesitate, not even for a second. As soon as his path is clear, he leaves.

And somehow, it hurts more than the first time he walked away.

------

Sex with Nic is usually a lot of fun: it ticks many boxes—it’s familiar, convenient, and most times, able to satisfy your needs. You enjoy the time you spend with him; truly, you do. Nic is a good guy, and you get along well together. He has come to know the things that you enjoy, mostly.

So why do you find yourself staring up at the ceiling while he finishes off?

With his face tucked into the crook of your neck, his praises are muffled against your warm skin. The words hold no meaning for you: they’re simply acknowledgements of how good your pussy feels for him, how good you take his cock, and how good it is to hear you moaning his name.

They make you feel nothing.

Actually, that’s a lie. You feel the need for him to hurry the fuck up and blow his load already.

“You like that?” he asks while he hitches your leg up a little higher over his hip, attempting to spice things up for you towards the end.

“Mhm,” comes your sound of encouragement, “feels so good.”

It works for him. Your words spur him on, and his hips fall out of their rhythm as he gets closer, but it’s the way you moan his name that tips him over the edge. You’re relieved it’s over but don’t feel good about how you got there—he deserves more than fake moans and distracted thoughts.

Nic whimpers as his hips jerk a few more times, and then finally, he stills.

His hot breath against your neck suddenly feels too much, and his body is too warm. It’s sticky with humidity, and he’s radiating an unbearable heat as his large frame crowds over you. Nic must feel it too because he quickly apologises and gently pulls out so that he can flop down on the bed beside you to give you both some much needed cooling-down space.

It’s been a couple of days since your last encounter with Poe, and this is where you have found yourself again: in Nic’s bed for what is sure to be the last time before you’re due to leave on the next mission with him.

Rubbing at your clammy face, you draw in a deep breath to pull yourself back into the moment and then turn onto your side to face Nic, but he’s already watching you, eyebrows knitting together in a small frown.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks and gently brushes his thumb across your cheek. Even now, even here in such an intimate moment, the very second that your eyes close, all you can focus on is Poe.

Fuck, you hate it. You hate this.

“Yeah… I—” but your words are cut short by the steady beeping of your comlink from down on the floor. “Shit,” you mutter and glance over your shoulder in an attempt to locate your pants, “I have to get that.”

Nic doesn’t protest. He simply nods and pulls back so that you can scramble out of the bed and begin the search for the small device. It’s a hurried attempt as you throw items of clothing around to try and locate the sound. Finally, your hand closes around it as Nic makes his way into the small refresher to dispose of the condom and get himself cleaned up.

“Go for Lieutenant—”

“Don’t shoot the messenger.” Finn’s voice greets you, and it’s far from his normal, chirpy tone. “You’re being dropped from the task force… I tried to fight him on it. I told him it was a mistake. But he wouldn’t compromise.”

Two things happen in quick succession: first, you feel the cold grasp of disappointment rise slowly until it’s overtaken by a second emotion. Rage. Pure, unfettered rage. It expands with an uncontrollable intensity that drags you up to your feet.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Comes your high-pitched question, and despite your best effort, you hear the way your words tremble with anger. You need no answer—it’s entirely rhetorical, but you hear Finn stumbling to put together a reply on the other end.

“This is an insult,” you snap at Finn, even though he has done nothing wrong. It’s Poe. It’s always fucking Poe, and just the thought of him has your other hand clenching into a tight fist. He had been impressed by your presentation. He had given the mission the green light. So why… Why the fuck was he doing this again?

“I tried, Stitch. I told him—”

“Maybe you should have tried harder!” You’re quick to bite again. You know that you shouldn’t be directing your frustration at Finn, but why couldn’t he overrule Poe? Why couldn’t he do something? You deserved to be on this task force. You had put in more work than almost everyone—and for what? To be dropped again?

You close your eyes and let out a slow breath in an attempt to rein in your anger. This isn’t Finn’s fault. He doesn’t deserve to deal with the fallout from Poe’s poor decision making.

Before this can go any further, you put an end to the conversation, “Whatever he said… I don’t want to hear it.”

You end the connection and tighten your hand around the small device as you close your eyes. You have to keep it together, you have to stay in control of your anger.

Nic knows nothing of the drunken mistake shared with Poe, and even if you did feel the need to tell him, you wouldn't know where to begin. It has become clear that something is amis with your strong friendship: Nic has noticed the hostility and tense atmosphere between you and the General.

In a way, you think he's glad. Nic has never been the biggest supporter of Poe, and he makes it quite clear to anyone who will listen to his reasons.

As if on cue, Nic emerges from the fresher. “Is everything o—”

“No!” you finally snap and spin around to face him. “No, it’s not. Poe’s dropping me from the mission—I’ve done nothing wrong, Nic! I’ve…” You stop yourself as you feel the prickling of tears starting to build. You aren’t going to cry, not here, not in front of Nic and especially not because of Poe-fucking-Dameron.

Without a second thought, you start to snatch up your clothes and pull them on, but what would usually be a simple task now feels so much harder as the fervent fury consumes you.

Nic’s hands rest gently on yours in an attempt to slow you down for a moment. “Hey… Stop. Stop.”

You do. You pause while tucking in your shirt and lift your eyes to look up at him.

“Poe Dameron is an asshole…” Nic trails off when you open your mouth to cut in, always too quick to jump in and defend Poe, but a shake of his head quietens you down again. “Poe Dameron is an asshole, but you need to take some time to calm down and get your thoughts together before you go and see him. I know this is difficult for you, but he’ll respect you more if you go in there calm and collected when telling him why this is unacceptable.”

You scoff, “I don’t need you to tell me how to handle Poe Dameron.”

“You’re right, I don't need to do that and I won’t even try. But… the golden boy needs reminding that he can’t keep doing this without good reason. So stay calm. Tell him straight. And if that fails, I’ll go talk to him myself.”

You have to bite your tongue at Nic’s use of the nickname a select few members use behind Poe’s back. Leia’s golden boy, that’s how he had always been known between some of them, and as much as you want to defend him, you find yourself not saying anything. Nic is right. You hate that he’s right because you crave nothing more than to storm into Poe’s office and punch him in his pretty fucking face for doing this to you again.

Enough is enough.

With a small nod, you draw in a slow breath and count down in your head as you exhale. A shower and fresh clothes are needed then an apology to Finn and a conversation with General Poe Dameron.

Your evening is shaping up to be quite eventful.

———

In theory, a calm approach would be the most appropriate, but it’s not the one you take when you walk into Poe’s office a couple of hours later.

The hiss of the door is the only sound to break the tense silence as it closes behind you, blocking out any prying eyes while you glare across the room at Poe. Something tells you that this visit doesn’t come as a surprise to him, but you suspect from the way his shoulders rise and fall in a sigh that he was at least hoping he would have until morning before facing this confrontation.

“What the fuck is your problem?” you demand and take a few steps into the office.

The lack of urgency in Poe’s response only serves to anger you further. You feel your blood boil while he sits back in his chair, surveying you as though getting a read on you before he slowly raises one of his eyebrows.

“I don’t recall us having a meeting, Lieute–”

“Cut the bullshit.” Your feet move of their own accord and carry you closer to his desk until you’re standing directly in front of it.

Now you have his attention.

“Excuse me?”

“You have no right to drop me from the task force.” You point at him angrily across the desk. “And you have no right to get Finn to keep delivering your messages because you don’t have the balls to do it yourself. He deserves better.”

You’re seething. The rage that Nic had advised you to keep under control had multiplied in size the second you walked into the office, and it pulses with blistering fury through your veins.

Poe’s lack of bite has your hand balling into a tight fist. You want him to say something, anything. You need him to give you some sort of explanation, but apparently that isn’t going to happen.

The simple ‘mmh’ response is barely audible as Poe leans against his braced elbow and pinches the bridge of his nose. He looks exhausted, exasperated, and that should soften you. It should make you at least try and understand the weight he’s carrying on his shoulders, but it doesn’t.

You’re done with trying to understand Poe Dameron.

“Well?” you prompt him.

Maker, you’re seconds away from dragging him out of that seat and demanding answers.

“As General of this Resistance, I make decisions to benefit the many, not the select few,” Poe finally responds and looks at you. It’s hard to read his unsettled expression, but you see him, the last remaining parts of Poe that you know, lost amongst the troubles of his title.

Still, you hear the words leaving your mouth in anger before you can stop them.

“Bullshit,” you snarl, “as one of the Generals of this Resistance, maybe you should try making decisions that are best suited for the cause and not your own personal feelings.” Your tone is dangerously steady as you deliver the blow, “but that would require you to be a fair leader.”

Poe’s jaw clenches at what you’re implying, and you witness the shift in his persona happen right before your eyes. He becomes colder, more closed off. He loses more of the man you once knew, and he rises from his seat as a General.

The energy he exudes is heavy in defence: it’s a sure sign of the incoming attack, and if it serves as a warning, you choose to ignore it. This is still Poe—although, it takes a lot to remind yourself of that—and you will not be intimidated by him.

“Watch your tone, Lieutenant,” Poe warns.

You can’t help the laugh of disbelief that escapes you before your words. “Or what? You going to ground me, Poe? Not talk to me for another month?”

“I can dismiss you permanently.” Poe points a threatening finger at your chest, going on the attack after being wounded by your words. “You may not have faith in me as a General, but I take my job very seriously, and I will not have you of all people questioning my motives, Lieutenant.”

“Dismiss me?” You slam your hands down against his desk in frustrated desperation. “Are you kidding? For what reason? For demanding that you do your job well? I just need to know why! Can you at least give me that?”

“I don’t owe an explanation to my subordinates over every decision I make.” The words roll out of his mouth with a well-rehearsed edge, and all you can do is blink at him.

Subordinate?

This isn’t Poe. This isn’t the Poe you know. This isn’t your Poe: the soft, kind-hearted man who would never treat you like this. This is an unrecognisable side of General Dameron—some twisted, hardened version of Poe you barely recognize—and there’s no warmth or familiarity between you right now.

Subordinate.

The word strikes with a harsh sting that sears deep into your chest. You know what he’s doing. He’s trying to throw up every barrier and wall he can; he’s trying to force professional distance between you in a way he’s never done before. He’s never needed to do that before. He’s never wanted to.

You try your utmost to push down the pain that lingers at the edge of your emotions. But it’s impossible, and before you can stop yourself, you throw words right back at him that you know will cut just as deep.

“Let’s not forget that you were once a subordinate, too. That is, until Leia saw something in you that you didn’t even see yourself. She thought you could be a great leader like she was. But Leia led with grace and compassion—she nurtured people, she made people feel valid and respected, she didn’t let her feelings get in the way of her decisions… Can you say the same about yourself?”

It kills you to bring Leia into this, but it’s the final weapon you have in your arsenal to fight against Poe’s attack. And you need him to see how unfair he’s being. This isn’t him.

Poe is uncomfortably silent. It’s clear that your words wound him. Fuck. You suddenly feel a sense of regret for comparing him to Leia. You know that’s a sore spot for him. It makes you no better than all the others who constantly throw their differences in his face.

With a heavy sigh, you straighten, and it’s only then that you register the tingling in your palms from the contact they made with the top of his desk.

As much as you want to stare him down, you find yourself lowering your eyes while you collect your thoughts. Poe had hurt you, and in retaliation, you had gone straight for the raw, exposed nerve. You had used his fears and insecurities against him. It had delivered the intended shock of pain to Poe’s system but at what cost?

This isn’t how you behave towards each other—it never has been: even through the breakdown of a relationship that had never been anything official, you had both remained close and handled things like adults.

Is this simply the natural progression of two people drifting away from each other?

You shake your head and steel yourself before you look at Poe again.

“You’re making decisions based on your emotions and that’s not fair, Poe.” You try a different approach, an appeal without yelling.

“You’re wrong,” he begins and steps out from behind the desk.

Every part of you is screaming that you’re not—that you know Poe inside and out—but the smallest tendril of doubt is tickling at the back of your mind. The man standing before you doesn’t feel like Poe anymore. The Poe you know wouldn’t throw something as trite as rank in your face or refuse to admit such a glaring, emotional mistake. What if you don’t know him as well as you think? What if, after all, he has changed?

No, you have to push the doubt aside.

This is Poe playing his defence card. It has to be.

He’s stubborn—always has been. He’s just digging his heels in. He’ll come around, see reason.

“Am I?” you question. “Because from where I’m standing, it sure looks a lot like you didn’t want me on that mission with Nic after you found out about us, but in pulling me from it to work with you instead, we ended up in a drunken situation that crossed all the lines you drew for us.”

“That’s not—”

But you cut him off.

“Instead of talking it through like adults, you ran away from the problem and made it even worse by reassigning me back to Nic. Now you’re trying to drop me again… And for what? Because you don’t want to risk working with me again? Or is it that you don’t want me spending weeks on a mission with Nic?”

“Those are some bold assumptions,” Poe begins and takes a couple of steps closer to you, “and you’re wrong.”

“And you’re jealous,” you snap back without thinking.

You didn’t want to go there, but it’s the truth of it. If you’re going to work through this, even the ugliest, most painful things need to be on the table, and the reality is that your enduring feelings—both yours and Poe’s—are at the root of all of this.

“Jealous?” Poe’s tone goes lethal—low and threatening—and you know this is going to be bad. “...of Nic?” He takes another decisive step in your direction, his eyes hard and cold. “That would imply that he has something worth being jealous of… and he has nothing that I want.”

You open your mouth to retort, but you can’t string words together fast enough beneath Poe’s piercing stare. You’re trying not to let his words get under your skin, but it’s too late. They’re already digging in deep.

This isn’t right. You had felt that connection with Poe again… Hadn’t you? It had been there. Maker, it had always fucking been there—you weren’t making this up. The touches, the jokes, the way he always chose to sit with you or stand beside you when there were whole rooms full of people to entertain him… That wasn’t all in your head. It couldn’t be. You had felt it in the way he had held you and danced with you, the way he had kissed you.

“I know you care,” you quickly bounce back, trying to stand your ground. “Let’s save us both the back and forth here and admit it. You’re scared that someone else could come along and replace you, so you’re doing everything you can to keep me around.”

You keep expecting him to relent, to soften. You’re waiting for your Poe to make a reappearance and actually try to listen.

Instead, the General doubles down.

“It seems absurd that I have to spell this out for you, but just because we have a history, doesn’t mean I factor you into every decision I make, Lieutenant.” Poe’s words are cold in their delivery, and they momentarily stun you into another silence.

He steps closer, and finally, he’s within your personal space. Unlike most times Poe enters it, this time feels all wrong. Everything is different and off balance.

Poe is no longer the gravitational pull: in fact, he’s the exact opposite as he glares at you with no warmth or familiarity. The only thing you see in those eyes is rejection. He’s repelling you—he’s trying to send you away, to cast you as far from him as he possibly can, and you think that kills him just as much as it does you.

You hope it does.

In one final effort to reach him, you fix him with a determined look and use what little resolve you have left. “Admit it. You still think about me as much as I think about you, and that’s the reason we’re in this mess.”

Finally, his icy demeanour shifts. For the briefest moment, you’re relieved—you think he’s coming around. Then, his lips pull to the side in a smile, and it’s not warm. It’s bitter.

“You seem awfully sure about my feelings when you can’t even decide what man you want.”

Everything happens so quickly, you barely register it.

Something snaps inside of you at the blow from Poe’s words—at the detached, almost flippant way he spat that acid insult—and your reaction is instant.

You swing for a slap, feeling so fucking hurt and enraged. It’s wrong—you know it’s wrong—and thankfully, Poe’s reflexes are second to none. His hand shoots up to catch your wrist firmly, preventing you from making contact as you both stare at each other in disbelief.

In those few seconds of shocked silence that follow, you watch as Poe fully registers the impact of his words. He realises how much he’s hurt you—that he can’t take back what he’s said—and regret melts his hostile expression into something more familiar.

There’s the Poe that you know: the wide-eyed panic, the realisation of how irrevocably he’s fucked up. His cold front shatters right in front of you, but it’s too late. You’ve heard enough, and you’re not going to subject yourself to more.

“Go fuck yourself.” The words barely make it out in a trembled whisper as you glare at him through your building tears.

Poe doesn’t let go of your wrist. He continues to hold it in mid-air as though he’s too afraid to move, as though letting go of your wrist is letting go of you completely. As if this is the last part of you that he has left to hold onto.

“Stitch… I…” Poe tries desperately to find the words, but you don’t want to hear them. With a firm shake of your head, you twist free from his grasp and step away from him.

It’s a hard battle to fight back your tears. You will not give him a show of seeing how much he has hurt you—you’re tougher than this. You are.

Until he takes a step closer to minimise the gap.

Poe wants to apologise—you see it written all over his face. His expression is suddenly one of deep regret for a plan that has gone horribly wrong. You can tell he was trying to create space, give himself room to breathe, trying to figure out how to navigate his feelings and a position of power…not shove you completely out of his orbit.

Too late.

He bumbles in panic, “I didn’t mean—I… Those—those things I said—”

The anger that was serving as your driving force seems to evaporate, leaving nothing but hurt. The numbing ache that radiates from the pain isn’t enough to keep propelling you forward in this fight.

“Do you think this was ever a choice for me?” Your voice betrays you, trembling with overwhelming emotions. “It was always you, but being with you was a choice you took away from us, Poe.”

“I’m so sor–”

“Do I mean anything to you at all anymore?” You’re quick to cut him short. His stuttered apology means nothing. No words that come out of his mouth can fix what has already been said—or the fact that he was so desperate to push you away that he had no qualms about being that fucking brutal. He even didn’t try to explain his complicated position; he just went right for your throat.

Apparently, you don’t know him anymore.

Poe doesn’t say anything at all. He simply stands there, at a loss for how to answer your question. You see his frustrations—they’re evident in the way he runs a hand roughly through his hair and then sighs with heavy exasperation—but still, he gives no reply.

Unbelievable.

Even now, he still can’t tell you how he feels. It’s so painfully frustrating.

Without another word, you finally turn to leave. It goes against everything you feel for him to turn your back on him and walk away, but you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep him this close without ever truly having him: it’s not good for either of you to have this attachment that will never be anything more than a painful yearning for something that once was.

“Wait… Stitch, wait—” Poe calls after you in desperation. A few more steps, that’s all you need to take and you’ll be back at the door.

“Stitch,” he tries again, “please…”

And when you refuse to stop, he grasps your hand and tugs you back around to face him.

What the hell did he want from you? Did Poe want you to stay despite pushing you away? Was this some sort of test to see how much of his shit you could take? Maker, you were exhausted with it, with him.

“I don’t want to hear it,” you grit. “You’re—you’re a fucking asshole.”

“I know,” Poe murmurs as he frowns and allows his eyes to drop down to your lips. They linger there in an all too familiar way.

No… No way. He’s a hurtful, withholding asshole. The things he said were unforgivable.

But still, you find yourself unable to move. Opposing sides of your common sense scream at you to listen, to go, to stay, to pull away from him, to kiss him.

And then he’s on you.

You grasp his jacket to drag him closer as his lips crash into yours with frantic fervency. It’s heavy and needy: his growl is met with your small whimper, and with a couple of faltering steps backwards, you’re against the door.

This is different from anything you’ve ever felt before. You have experienced needing Poe, being reunited after long missions, hungry to feel each other again after so long—but this is different. This is fierce, impetuous desire. This is Poe’s way of showing you what he can’t say, what he won’t allow himself to say; he wants this.

He wants you.

Maker, it infuriates you.

Only moments ago, Poe was ready to put everything into pushing you away. Your determination returns with a new-found strength: it’s not only fueled by your anger and frustration, but your love for him, too. You’re determined to remind him, to prove to him, that he needs you just as much as you need him.

Poe’s hands momentarily release you to work with your own to drag his jacket from his shoulders and down his arms. All the while, his mouth remains on yours, kissing you, devouring you, aching to taste and explore with a familiar intimacy that could never be forgotten.

This isn’t what you’re supposed to be doing—you should have left, walked out when you had the chance and stood your ground. There’s no alcohol to blame this time, only heightened emotions and a fear of losing each other completely.

Poe’s hands return to your body, firm and commanding. They know exactly what they want and waste very little time in taking it. His fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, making quick work of pulling it up and over your head. By the time Poe comes into view again, your lips are parted, kiss swollen and hungry for more.

Not even a second later, you capture each other again: Poe’s hand grasps the underside of your jaw to angle your head upwards while your own tangles in his thick hair. This time, it’s your tongue that licks into his mouth first and that, combined with the firm hold you have on those curls, earns you a moan that is muffled between lips and tongues.

When your other hand drops to begin work on his belt, Poe pulls you with him as he moves towards the desk.

Any remaining clothes are tugged at and unfastened across the few feet of Poe’s office, and by the time the back of your thighs bump against the edge of the desk, you’re hastily working your pants down over your thighs between kisses.

“On the desk,” Poe urges.

You easily hoist yourself onto the edge of it, legs spread and hands pushing Poe’s unfastened pants down over his thighs while his own shove things out of the way behind you. Something clatters and rolls onto the floor, but neither of you look to see the damage as your lips crash together again for a bruising kiss.

There’s a thud of one of your untied boots sliding off your foot; you’re sure there’s a witty remark waiting to surface from Poe’s mouth, but it doesn’t come. Much like you, he’s far too distracted, and you easily kick the other boot off while your hand fists into his hair again.

This isn’t going to fix a single thing, and you know it, but that doesn’t stop you. You still catch his lower lip between your teeth in the way you know that he likes: it has the desired effect when you earn yourself another quiet moan from him as it slides free.

There’s the briefest moment of clarity when Poe pulls back to look at you, hair dishevelled and lips parted. For the first time in weeks, you’re back on the same page with an unspoken understanding: this isn’t supposed to be happening—you’re both fully aware of that—but neither of you are willing to stop it.

You need this. You both do.

Poe pulls your pants off the rest of the way, finally freeing your legs to allow for his hands to roughly shove them open. It fuels a burning desire inside of you. Heat licks up your spine and spreads rapidly through your whole body as you watch him with lustful eyes.

Maker, you ache for him. The ravenous need ignites an intense tingling through your muscles. It brings with it the overwhelming urge to grab Poe and demand that he take you right here, right now, as hard as he possibly can.

You don’t have to wait much longer.

The sight you witness is one that makes your pussy clench around nothing. Poe lifts his fingers to lick them, coating them in a slick line before he reaches down with both hands: one to pull your panties aside, the other to slip his fingers through your folds and smear the warmth around your clit.

Fuck. It’s divine.

All you can do is clasp a hand tightly over your mouth to muffle your moan as you close your eyes tightly, unable to look at the way Poe’s sear into yours.

Poe shushes you quietly while he teases you expertly, as though staying quiet is even an option right now. His fingers work the area around your clit before offering teasing strokes to the bundle of nerves that have your hips pushing dangerously close to the edge of the desk. It’s a needy attempt to angle them so that you can feel him exactly where you want him.

And he’s more than happy to comply.

This isn’t some intimate moment of reconnecting with each other again after so long—it’s something completely different. It's a raw, instinctual need, and Poe wastes little time in working you open with his fingers before he’s pulling them out to replace them with his cock.

You grasp onto him tightly, legs wrapping around the back of his thighs and one arm around his shoulders to drag his body to follow yours while he presses you back on the desk. The old, familiar stretch of him is a welcome one, and when he buries himself deep inside the wet heat of your cunt, you feel him twitch with the building urgency to ruin you.

Poe’s lips seek out yours again when his hips begin to move, muffling the moan of pleasurable relief that you let slip. His thrusts are slow at first, giving you a moment to adjust to him before he starts fucking you harde. Maker, he hasn’t even removed your panties in the heat of the moment: they’re simply pulled aside to allow him access.

It’s rough and hard and unrestrained as you part from Poe’s mouth and drop back completely onto the desk. You have no idea what is beneath your arm, sticking uncomfortably into the back of your ribs and quite frankly, you don’t care because the pleasure outweighs everything else.

“Oh, fuck!” You gasp loudly when Poe pulls one of your legs up into a better position so that he can get that little bit deeper.

“Fucking… be quiet,” he groans as his fingers grip at your thigh with a firmness that you know will leave bruises in their wake. Despite his best effort to keep you in place on the desk, each powerful thrust threatens to force you further up until you grasp the edge to prevent yourself from moving.

It’s equally the best and worst move you could have made. Now there’s no give—there’s no bounce each time Poe’s thighs slap against yours in their hard, repetitive motion. You cling with a vice-like grip as every inch of his thick cock fills you, stretching you open more and more for him until he adjusts your thigh up against his bicep and strikes with just the right angle.

White hot bliss overtakes your body as you writhe beneath him, desperate for him to simultaneously repeat the action and avoid it because you have no control over the way you moan your pleasure. At this point, he doesn’t attempt to quieten you down. It’s hopeless, and you both know it, but you slap a hand over your mouth to smother your sounds as he does it again, and again, and again.

Nothing could ever come close to the way Poe knows your body and how he could use that knowledge to wreck you in the best possible way.

With your hands no longer holding yourself in place, each hard thrust shoves you further up the desk, and with a muffled groan from Poe, he grasps the band of your bra between your breasts, tugging it down to expose more of your body to him while also holding you in place.

There’s no rest from the relentless thrusts: you expel a breath in a heavy, hot burst against your hand as the pleasure builds rapidly. Poe’s calloused thumb hastily moves to apply pressure to your clit again, and that has your back arching from the desk, forcing him just that little bit deeper.

“Fuck!” you cry out against your palm while your other hand shoots down to grasp his forearm, desperately clinging onto him as he keeps on delivering. It’s the best sex you’ve had in a long time, and you fucking hate him for it; you hate him for still knowing your body so well.

You know that there are going to be angry marks left behind from the way your nails grip him, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to care about anything else. The pleasure is too much. It’s all too much, and with no warning at all, your body finally succumbs to the climax he had been pushing you towards.

Your muscles clench tightly around him, clamping down unapologetically as your body trembles beneath him. Stars, it’s bliss. It’s everything you had needed hours before from Nic: the frustration and tension simply melts away, becoming nothing but a momentary forgotten memory.

There’s a surprised moan from Poe at the way your pussy tightens around him, and he makes quick work of pulling out just in time. With a badly aimed release, you feel his warmth land across your thigh and the fabric of your panties.

Neither of you move as your breathing begins to calm, and as the euphoric high fades, you’re left with the stark reality of what has just happened. Reluctantly, you meet his eyes, and you see the same painful recognition dawning there too.

It’s too much.

The painful weight returns to your chest, serving as a harsh reminder that this hasn’t repaired anything. You’ve both inflicted too much irreversible damage.

No amount of sex can pave over the glaring cracks in your relationship, and somehow, it leaves you feeling more detached from Poe than ever before.

You have to move. You have to leave. Too many lines have been crossed, and you need to get the hell out of there before anything more can be said or done.

You swear that Poe somehow reads your mind because he lets go of you and finally steps back from the desk.

Your eyes don’t follow him—you can’t bring yourself to look at him as you sit up on the desk and grimace at the feeling of your damp panties sliding back into place. Fuck, you have to take them off. They have to go. You have to go.

You make quick work of pulling them off and balling up the fabric to wipe up the mess Poe left on your thigh. And without saying anything, you throw them on his desk so that you can begin snatching up your clothes and pulling them back on as quickly as possible.

“Stitch…” Poe finally breaks the silence while you tuck your shirt into your pants and keep your back to him. Whatever he has to say, you don’t want to hear it. Coming to his office was a mistake. The things that had been said… The sex… It was all a mistake, and you are finding it harder and harder to keep your composure with each passing second.

“Stitch?” He tries again in a soft tone that appeals straight to your heart. No, damn it. No.

You shove your feet into your boots, thankful for their loose fit and open laces: it makes the process so much quicker than having to stoop down to lace them up again.

Only then do you finally look at him, and you have to fight against everything you know and feel for him as you watch him stand there, dishevelled, looking lost and unsure. You want to hold him. You want to slap him. You want to yell at him for letting things go as far as they had. Maker, you want to apologise to him. You want to wait until he gives you the apology you deserve.

You want to leave.

A hopeful look crosses his face as you open your mouth and speak: “Thank you for the clarification, General.”

The hope fades almost as quickly as it arrives when you refer to him by his title, but he doesn’t say anything. His soft expression hardens into something gelid, and this time, he doesn’t attempt to stop you from leaving.

You can’t stay here. You have to go. You have to leave.

And five hours later, after an apology to Finn, you’re packed and off-world: as far away from Poe Dameron as you can physically get.

Your thoughts, on the other hand, are very much still stuck on the desk in his office.