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foxilayde · 2 years

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Sansana Part 1/2[Poe Dameron x Fem!Reader]

Warnings: 18+ ONLY. Drugs, illegal activity, slavery, non-explicit sex, cursing, denial of feelings.

THIS IS PART ONE, PART TWO WILL BE OUT NEXT WEEK!

Summary: You’re a spice runner with your partner in crime Poe Dameron. The Pkye Syndicate has entrusted you with a special mission and Poe is making things interesting...

Word Count: 5k

A/N: This is a gift to my dear friend Alex @blackberries45 it’s her birthday today, so show her some LOVE. The reader character is going to be called ‘Lex’ for obvious reasons.

Spice. Not ryll, not polstine, and certainly not fucking gliterstim. Sansana Spice to be more accurate. Highly prized, highly expensive, and highly illegal. A useful crime world currency. Crime. Ha! The word has no meaning to you in a galaxy where planets are being vaporized and the war doesn’t seem to have a single thing worth fighting for. The so called republic, who would gladly toss you in a cell for the rest of your life for finding a dusting of Sansana on your flight suit, doesn’t do shit about the slavery and sentient beings abuse that’s been taking place on Kessel for the past 500 standard years. Wonder why that could be. Couldn’t be because the planet-vaporizers and generals of the planet defenders alike are hooked on the stuff. Not hooked, like, medically. Well, sometimes that’s the case. But they’re hooked on the money. Every currency has gotta be backed by something, and credit where credits are due… you can find the Fort Knox of the galaxy on the northern hemisphere of Kessell; with the droids and the slaves with their vibropicks and short life expectancies.

You’ve seen them. The slaves. Droids and mammalians nearly indistinguishable from each other- cloaked in the red dust of the deep mines. Children. Of every species. Probably born into the shit. You can’t care, you can’t afford to, so you turn a blind eye like everyone else in the galaxy, you get your shipment and get the hell out. You fucking hate Kessel and you’re glad to be on the ship leaving the ugly bubbling rock. You’ve heard the southern hemisphere is nicer. Plantations inhabited by the most intolerable people you could imagine. It does turn your stomach to think about it too much, hence the getting the fuck out of dodge, but even if you stopped, even if you quit, it wouldn’t matter. The boring and drilling won’t end on your account and there’d be a new runner to replace you. So it goes. It’s the lifeblood of the galaxy, Sansana. A tidal force. And some folks want to virtue signal and talk down to you just because you’re riding the wave instead of getting dashed on the rocks. Whatever. They can drown if they like, not your problem.

In short, it doesn’t matter what you do. Bakers, gunmen, artists, and thieves. If you’ve got credits in your pocket- then baby you’ve got blood on your hands. So what? You’ve cut out the middle-man. You’re closer to the root, to the seam; you’re a spice runner. Hell, spending most of your life in a tanker ship dodging the Reps is probably a helluva lot safer than building a life on a planet somewhere, waiting for the day Kylo fucking Ren has another tantrum and decides he wants to blow up a planet because his daddy left him or whatever the hell that little fucker’s problem is.

You’re bitter, bitter about Alderaan and the bitterness has manifested itself in this hard exterior that works well as a shield in your line of work. Don’t get close, don’t get attached. Because one day, quick as light-speed, it could all disappear. So you do your thing, you band with whomever the Pyke Syndicate teams you up with, and you make your runs from Kessel to Correlia to Oba Diah to Nevaro. You send your bloody credits to your family, whatever you don’t spend yourself, and you keep your shell strong.

That is until you met Poe.

Poe is the best fucking pilot you’ve ever flown with. Maker, to watch him light-hop, to run and outgun the Reps, it’s like a dance. He’s smooth too, not just his attitude, but for a runner like yourself to see the way his hands have a mind of their own at the control panel, flicking the correct of the 52 switches outside his line of vision while not breaking a sweat despite the fact he’s got three Reps on his tail… maker, it’s something to witness. Familiar with the model of ship or not, he’s got a steady hand at the helm; his competence is like the executive function of the ship itself. He’s incredible.

He doesn’t stress you out like Zorii does, cursing up a storm, barking orders at you. Poe is encouraging, Poe gives high fives, Poe claps you on the shoulder and says shit like “nice work”. And being touched isn’t really your thing. Not in any fucking capacity. Crowds freak you out with the possibility of rubbing shoulders with someone, and not just because you’re wary of pickpockets. There’s a thing about proximity that you can’t handle, alright. So far Poe seems to be the only exception to the rule, his touches don’t make you cringe or flinch. They’re tolerable. You don’t like a lot of people. And that is to say, you don’t like people in great quantities and you don’t usually meet someone you can tolerate. It’s not rocket science to figure out why you find yourself in the middle of hyperspace with relative strangers, bouncing from planet to planet, often not stopping long enough to take a full deep breath of the native air.

The sterile recycled oxygen on the ship is the smell of home. Crisp and dry like plastic, resiny like fuel, and of course; aromatic like spice. The shit is so pure and potent that no amount of packaging can contain the pungent fragrance of the drug. You don’t even bother to hide it in the gunnels on long trips because if a Rep boards the ship, there’s not going to be any mystery as to what you’re hauling.

What is a mystery is what the hell Poe Dameron is doing running spice when he so clearly likes people and craves stability. He itches to get on-planet on your off-days, to go to markets and chat with strangers, to try new food, to see live music. He’s warm and kind in a way that no-one in this business is. And he is often convincing enough that you let him drag you by the hand to these frivolous excursions. And every time, every new treat he sticks in your mouth, every live song he twirls your clumsy teetering feet to, you can feel the way he presses on your barriers gently like thumbs on an eggshell, fracturing you beautifully and plucking off one fragment of your exterior at a time. As if there’s something worth seeing in the yolk of you.

And, well. You fucked him.

It was unexpected and hot and quick and in the dark, neither of you even fully undressed.

You— the person who cringes about sitting next to a stranger at a bar, fucked Poe.

You blame it on the chemicals, the adrenaline. You’d nearly been caught by a Rep, dirty orange-suited fuck had you on the ground, pinned, hands behind your back and you nearly blacked out from panic. Poe was wild, shouting at the Rep detaining you to “get the fuck off of her, don’t touch her!” and headbutting the Rep cuffing him, it was all such a blur, but when you came to, Poe was wild eyed, hands hovering over you, holding back from checking your injuries, frantically asking if you were okay. You couldn’t help it. The fucking cortisol or whatever, the fight or flight— it made you jump into his arms. He tentatively held you and rocked you while you cried into his shirt. Reassuring you that it was all okay. The reps were gone, you were safe and “no one’s gunna lay a finger on you on my watch.” So… you crawled into his bunk that night. Fucking chemicals. In total darkness, kissing him with unsure lips, rocking yourself on his willing hardness to your simultaneous release, and climbing shamefully out of his bunk before you gave into the chance to fall asleep in his wide warm arms.

You were so fucking nervous the next day he would say something. And he’d be well within his rights too. You essentially used him. It took all your courage to sit next to him— in the co-pilot chair of the ship, hard to look at him, heart racing, guilty at how vulnerable you’d been the night before. Ashamed of how much of him you laid up bare against in the total darkness. You were sure that he wouldn’t ever take you seriously as a fellow runner after that. Not just the fucking, but the needing to be saved by him from the Reps, and the crying into his shirt.

Poe cleared his throat and started with a tentative, “so about last night—“

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You dismissed him with a curt response, busying yourself with the control panel, rechecking the calibrations. From the corner of your eye you could see him nod once and give a simple, “ok.” And he dropped it. He didn’t assume to get too friendly after that, didn’t intrude on your space beyond the usual tiny touches; fingers grazing over cups of caf, a light touch on your shoulder if he needed to get into the supply closet while you’re crouched over the boxes of spare parts, determining your shopping list for the next supply run.

And it became a bit of a routine. On tough days… and on days that weren’t tough at all- climbing into his bunk in the swirling darkness of hyperspace, grabbing at each other quick and filthy, always leaving before sleep overtook you.

He always asks to taste you. He can’t shut up about it. You don’t even like kissing so much but you do it to keep his mouth busy, so he doesn’t get any ideas. Even kissing doesn’t stop his requests, He begs around your lips and into your mouth while you pump him with your hand, “Please, baby. Let me, let me taste you.” You shake your head even though you know he can’t see it in the perfect black of the hull.

You choose instead to line him up with you and sink down onto him in a now-practiced routine. His hands, so gentle and warm on your bare hips, not pressing you an inch further than you’d allow.

Being with Poe like this is like the way he dances with you; to live music on Nevaro- so aware of your body, aware of your comfort level. Only ever asking for permission, and only bowing back easily without it.

And maker is he consistent. Fuck. You’ve never cum so hard with anyone else or even by yourself. Which is… pretty incredible because you’d been absolutely convinced, before Poe, that by yourself was the best you’d ever have… he proves you wrong every time.

“Why do you leave right after? No pressure. Just curious.” He pants after your perfect release, kissing softly below your jaw, knowing that your mind is already out of the bunk.

You didn’t tell him it’s because if you leave before you fall asleep, you can pretend it’s all a dream. You can wake up and be the person you know yourself to be. And, maker, they way he lets you keep up the ruse in the waking hours, never forcing you talk about it or making dirty jokes or wiggling his eyebrows at you; It’s enough to endear you to him enough to keep coming back, night after pitch dark night, crawling to him like a phantom, taking exactly what you need and leaving without a trace.

It doesn’t feel real in hyperspace. Cutting through the fabric of space and time like that, leaping from one end of the galaxy to the other… if a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? If you make love to Poe in a place that neither exists in the fabric of space nor time, did it ever really happen?

You don’t tell him that, you pat his stubbly cheek and crawl back into your chilly bunk. Alone.

He never comes to you, putting the burden of ‘when’ on you always. It’s not exactly a burden though, and every time he feels the dip of the mattress under your knee when you hoist yourself into his bunk he lets out a pleased little “mmmm, baby”.

There’s no foreplay… sometimes you let him kiss your tits if he needs to get hard. But you’re mostly ready and raring and… it’s not passion, it’s not. Its just a release. It can’t be passion, it’s hardly even real.

He’s a good guy, he’s someone you can trust. And that shit is rare out here in the slug fields, the outer rim, and even rarer in your trade. It’s not typical for teams to last as long as yours has. But you can’t seem to shake him. The Pyke’s are pleased with your consistency- you figure that’s why they keep assigning you together and you’re so grateful Zorii isn’t on this run with you because she is… stressful. The only thing you miss about her is her willingness to be the emissary to Kessel when you land for the spice pickup. Because Poe refuses. You’ve never pressed him, never demanded that he should take his fucking turn to pick up the supply. And it’s not like he’s ever told you that he won’t do it. He is just always seemingly busy with internal repairs every time you land on the fucking torture rock. You don’t call him out on it. Because he doesn’t call you out on your proclivities, your needs. He accepts them and you accept his. If this is his line, if he cant step on Kessel, then you’ll do it for him. It’s a small price to pay for the safe feeling you get with him at the control panel… and the safe feeling you pull from him in hyperspace.

The droids have finished loading the supply by the time you buckle in next to Poe. A rusted S1-D6 in a burlap cloth, tapping the side of the ship and giving you a broken and rusted thumbs up from the viewing port. Maker this place is fucking depressing. Your lips form a tight line and you nod at the droid.

Poe’s face is grim as he types in the coordinates for-

“Tattooine?”

Poe doesn’t look at you while he fires up the engines and destabilizes the compressor.

“Yeah. We’re skipping the usual. This batch is going straight to the Daimyo.”

To the Daimyo? Not the Pykes. What the hell?

“And are we the one’s expected to make the trade?”

You’re not used to this, you’re used to dropping the shit to the syndicate’s establishments. You’re suppliers, not fucking drug dealers. Maker. You can’t even fucking speak Huttese!

Poe flips the internal power mode controls to manual and tells you simply, “yes.”

“I’ve never done that before. Made the trade. It’s not my thing.”

Poe sequences the auto-lift and gives you a reassuring smile, “I know. No one’s expecting you to do it. The Pyke’s gave it to me. Just let me do the talking Lex.”

“You speak Huttese?”

“Are you surprised?” He gives you a cocky smile and a wink. Ugh. No. You’e not surprised. He’s good at everything. It’s mildly irritating. Whatever. He’s probably not fluent.

You confirm the all systems command on your side of the pit and the ship rises easily. Leaving Kessel and all its fucking misery, maker you love to watch that planet get smaller and smaller until it’s a pinprick. Until Poe engages hyperspace and you’re in swirling blue. Neither here nor there.

“Is this some kind of promotion for you?” You’re suddenly struck by the idea that Poe might be promoted to something more stable. Maybe running a branch of the syndicate of his own. He could do it. He’d be perfect at it. You can see him now, with a team in a Cantina. Regulars, subjects, a unit to protect him… somewhere warm and bright. With all the teeming life a planet has to offer. You’d heard they’ve been looking for a Head on Nevaroo. And you know how much Poe likes their five-blossom bread and the band that plays at Greef’s most nights. Whatever. People come and people go. You get a new partner every few runs. And that’s the way you like it.

It’s honestly stupid he’s stayed a runner this long. Runner’s get paid flat shit for the most part. The Syndicate expects the runner’s to scrape a little spice off the top, you assume that’s why the pay is so bad. But a dealer… a dealer can set their own cuts. And the better they are at talking, the better cut they can get for themselves.

“A promotion? Don’t know.” Poe shrugs and unbuckles himself, he heads over to the radio transceiver, sits down on the floor beside it, and begins untangling the mess of wires you can only assume was done by an Anzellan with how tiny and convoluted the knots are. “Would be nice though, wouldn’t it? Be a dealer?” Poe smiles up at you and you don’t know how he’s able to make being a dealer sound like the most optimistic thing in the galaxy.

You unbuckle yourself and make your way over to the little stack of wires across from Poe, lowering yourself on crossed legs, you take a bundle of blue into your lap and begin to look for a place to begin. Maker, it’s impossible.

“What’s so great about being a dealer?” You mutter, finding the end of a wire and tugging hard till the threads all bunch up and you sigh in frustration.

“More money, for one. My dad could really use it.” Poe has mentioned Kes before. How badly the war affected everything in the Dameron household made you feel guilty for being so bitter. Poe lost his mother to the war, and his father has been trying to maintain their family aggregate business on Yavin with dwindling supplies and one bum leg. Poe had been there, helping him and then decided it would be more effective to send him money. Kes didn’t need labor, he needed parts. Parts for irrigation and tilling. And parts in this economy, when every scrap of metal is worth it’s weight in spice… well. There aren’t many entry level positions in the slug fields besides runner and miner.

“You’d be a good dealer.” You choose another wire to tug and the bundle seems to get more bunched with every pull you make.

“Careful, Lex. That sounded like a compliment.” He smiles at you and you note the way he untangles. He grabs the whole bundle in both hands and gently pulls from the center, stretching the cloud of string larger and larger, creating open pockets and widening the surface area of the previously balled clump. Loose wires fall out the edges of the mass and he rests it gently in his lap while he feeds the wire through the widened loops. You continue to tug and pull, getting into the tight knots with your fingernails and swearing every time you drop your bundle.

“Well, where are we going after Tatooine, then?” You ask, still concentrating on the bundle.

“Oba Diah.”

You scrunch your eyes closed and shake your head. “How was I kept out of the loop on this?”

“Well, I know how much you love talking to Crodit.”

“Ew.”

“Exactly. Love of your life. I talked to him before we left for Kessel. Orders came from Lom himself.”

“No way.”

“Yeah. They’ve got faith in us, Lex.”

“Faith in you, you mean.”

“Us.” Poe says seriously. “You know how rare it is to find someone as devoted to Keeping It Business as you, Lex?” Poe insists.

You don’t know how to take the compliment coming from him so you just look back to your bundle and pick at a particularly aggressive loop.

“I think it’s you they’re impressed with. Your— people skills.”

“We make one hell of a duo. You have to admit.” He taps your shoe with his. Tiny touches.

You can’t help the smile that burns your cheeks when you try to fight it. He’s right. He’s too generous with his compliments, but he’s right. Its why they team you up. You work well together.

“And neither one of us is scraping spice.”

Poe goes uncharacteristically silent.

“Right?” You question, letting your hands fall into your lap. The only sound is the buzzing of the fluorescents above you and the swirling hum of hyperspace.

Poe gives you a mischievous grin and shrugs his shoulders.

“Poe! You haven’t been scraping have you?” Fuck. That would be an unmitigated disater. God if the Pykes ever find out, you’re going to get more than canned.

“Not yet!”

“What do you mean, not yet?”

“Little Lex, do you know why we are going straight to the Daimyo?”

“Yeah, you just said- because Crodit-“

“Did you not get a good whiff of the shipment? Get a look at the color?”

“No. Not really” You busy yourself with the wire, unwilling to say you’ve never inspected it AT Kessel before, always waiting for after you boarded. Because you’re a fucking runner. If there’s something dodgy with the product, or there’s not enough, that shit is between Kessel and Lom… but, well fuck, if you had known you’d be dealing you would have taken a closer look.

“Fuck? Really?” Poe drops his half done bundle, (maker he’s so fast at that) and gets to his feet, slamming his hand to the port door and disappearing suddenly. You don’t have time to get anxious about the state of the product before he’s back and leaning on the far wall of the cockpit with a hand over his chest.

“Dammit, Lex. You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I-? Get up.” He snaps his fingers at you and holds out a hand for you to take. You toss your wire bundle to the side, barely a dent in progress, you take his warm hand and he hoists you up, still holding your hand- he leads you to the loading trunk. One of the cases is cracked open and you can smell the fucking thing from the other side of the hull.

“Shit that is strong!” You remark, the odor overtaking you. It’s a good smell. A great smell. You’re used to the permeation of spice but this smells different. Stronger. Better. And when you get closer you note the redness is unlike any Spice you’d seen before.

“Gorgeous, right?” Poe smiles and nods his head at the cracked case, “Go on, take a look. I know you didn’t do it at Kessel.”

You roll your eyes. If he’s going to give you shit for Kessel, he can pick up the next shipment himself.

You kneel down over the trunk and rub your finger instinctively over the deep blood red of the dust. The spice. It looks like extrait or something. Unreal.

“You know what that is?”

You shake your head, mesmerized by the color, the smell, the texture of it as you glide your fingertips over the fine, powdery surface. Regular spice is more of a dull orange and has a note of dust in the scent. But not this. It’s pure, whatever it is.

“Sansana.”

Your eyes widen, “All of it?” You indicate to all of the cases and Poe nods his head with a huge smile.

“All of it. And we,” he kneels down next to you and shakes your shoulder, “get to keep the dealer’s cut… if we talk it up with the Daimyo.”

Holy shit. A dealer’s cut on Sansana. Your family is going to be set for a while. Kes is going to be set too. Why you’re thinking about a man with a bum leg you’ve never met, who lives on a planet you’ve never been to, you’re not sure. … You might even be able to take a fucking vacation. To where, you don’t know, or really care.

Finally, that magic mouth of Dameron’s is going to do you some good. If he can get you 60%, maker, you’ll be happy as a clam on Mon Cala.

“I wanna try it though,” says Poe.

“What?! Try Sansana? Are you nuts?”

“What? When else am I going to get this opportunity? I gotta be able to assure the Daimyo he’s getting a quality product… plus Crodit kind of, well, it’s part of our deal. He said he couldn’t get me the dealer gig without dosing on Sansana. I gotta do it in front of the Daimyo too. As a cultural show of good faith.”

A cultural show of good faith?

“Crodit’s using you as a test-porg?!”

“Lex, it isn’t like that. I’m a big boy, I know what I signed up for.”

“So, let me get this straight… You’re going to the Daimyo, then you’re going to snort up Sansana, and then negotiate a deal? That sounds like a kriffing bad idea if you ask me.”

“No, Lex. WE are going to the Daimyo, I will negotiate, and THEN I will snort up Sansana…. In celebration of making a good deal.”

“I- Okay then. If that’s what Crodit says, if that’s what you say, I’m staying out of it. In fact, this is a much better idea than what I thought you were doing— scraping. Maker, that would have meant both of our heads.”

“I’ve got a proposition for you though, Lex.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, I want you to do it with me.”

“Do what?”

“Sansana.”

“In front of the Daimyo?”

“No, not in front of anybody but me. Back on the ship. In Hyperdrive. Nice and safe on our way to Oba Diah.”

“I’m not just going to do Sansana because you asked me to, Dameron.”

Poe inhales as if he’s about to say something and then pauses and nods. “That’s fair.”

“I’d consider doing it for credits.”

“Straightforward. I like that about you, Lex.”

You tip your forehead to him.

“What if we make it interesting? A bet.” He offers.

“I’m listening.”

“If I can get us an 80% dealer cut with the Daimyo… then you have to do Sansana with me.”

80 percent? That’s a no-fucking brainer. You could take a month long break on a fucking deserted island, soaking up sun and surf without a care in the galaxy. All for one hit of the most coveted Spice in the fucking galaxy. Duh. “Deal!”

“Wait wait wait, not so fast, little Lex.”

You prop your hands on your hips, “Of course there’s a catch.”

“You have to do Sansana with me, and… you have to let me eat you out.”

He’s never talked about it before, never brought it up. Only ever when you’re both naked in the dark with the only thing illuminating you being the swirling blue of space-travel. Never like this though: staring at each other face-on with the fluorescents overhead. He must see the way you gulp.

“We can do it in the dark if you want. I’ll even close the port-shade so there’s no light at all… I just want to taste you.”

You gulp again and stare at his mouth then. Would it really be so bad to… let him…. Lick you? I mean, maker he’s obviously hard up for it, including it on his end of the bargain. Everything about it is win-win-win all around as far as you’re concerned.

Maker, just looking at him is making your kriffing head spin. What are the terms of the bet exactly? If he gets more than 80 percent: you get money, a possible vacation, a dose of sansana, and Poe’s face between your legs; and thats all if HE wins the bet.

If you win, and he doesn’t get over 80% you get… a regular dealer cut and life as usual, plus soberly babysitting a spiced-out Poe on your way to Oba Diah. God it seems like an easy yes, so why the fuck is it so hard to say it?

Poe, noting your continued silence puts a hand on your shoulder.

“Lex, you don’t have to. I’m going to try to get us that 80% cut no matter what. I just thought I’d…”

“Spice things up?” You offer with a smile.

Poe laughs. “Yes. So, what’s the verdict?”

You purse your lips and nod. “I’m in.”

“Attagirl!”

“But only one hit!”

“Hey, I won’t force you! You do as much— or as little as you want.”

Poe scoops a small palmful into a leather pouch and sets it on the shelf next to the cracked case.

“You sure they won’t notice a scrape?”

“This much?” Poe holds up the pouch with laughter in his eyes. “Honey, a calibrator droid wouldn’t know this much was missing.”

“Just trying not to die, Dameron, that’s all.”

“I respect that, Lex. I really do.”

Poe closes and secures the cracked case and offers his hand to you, helping you up. Both of your palms are dusted in enough red to land you in Rep prison for life and when you rise up on your feet your face is nearly close enough to kiss him. He lets go of your hand, slowly dragging the red grit between your fingers and he turns to step back into the cockpit. His palm leaves a print on the white keypad and the earthy-red tone of the smudge doesn’t match the ship at all. It's glaringly natural among the sterility. You find a spare rag to wipe it clean. Maker what have you signed up for?

END

~~~

only tagging those who interacted with my asking post because Poe being a spice runner is a very sensitive topic.

@paper-n-ashes @ozarkthedog @samsspade @itsmypersonalagenda @lovers-liability @littlemousedroid @tasmdd @d1rtysna1l @takenbyheartstrings @ophelialoveshandsomemen @silkzomi @spider-starry @cottagebunny9 @rosie-jane @enichole445 @maskjunkie @pri00r @randomcuboidshape @mstgsmy @strxwberrymoonstar @mysweetandsaucy @obiwanshusband @lily-lilli @lemongingerart @3-14123 @stormkobra-5 @laters-gators

#Poe Dameron x reader #Poe Dameron x you #Star Wars fan fiction #Oscar Isaac

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