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Bound to You: Prologue

Poe Dameron x F!Reader

WC: 2012

Other Pieces: This is part of a larger miniseries that can be found here.

CW: Arranged marriage trope.

Poe Dameron rose quickly through the ranks of the Resistance. General Leia Organa trusted him, and more to the point, he always got results. Always.

Rare intel into the First Order’s movements? Recruiting missions to convince disgruntled members of the New Republic to join the Resistance? Errands to build relationships with allies in the Outer Rim? Poe did it all with his own unique panache and ineffable charm. Being a handsome bastard with an appealing smile didn’t hurt.

Sometimes, admittedly, his charm failed him and he found himself in…uncomfortable situations.

Like now.

Leia had dispatched him to a planet in the Core, a technological powerhouse that built state-of-the-art spaceships. The goal was to get a deal for new crafts. The problem was that the Resistance had little money (read: no money) and even fewer prospects for more. This planet, however, seemed to prefer the benevolent neglect of the New Republic over the authoritative grip of the First Order, and they had suffered under the Empire, so there was hope that a deal could be made.

Poe’s tricky situation came from two obvious facts. First, the planet was run by a King and his attendant family – a very rich, very powerful man. His wealth lay in his shipbuilding facilities – the technological know-how, the expertise of his engineers, the pride in superb craftmanship that left nothing unattended. His wealth also lay in his vast progeny: he had three wives and, well, countless sons and daughters.

The second fact of Poe’s tricky situation was that this planet, this king, his multitude of children and wives – the entire populace, in fact – was ruled by a very stringent, very precise set of rules. There were rules for everything: how to shake a hand (hand-on-forearm for no more than five seconds), how to sip the strong tea they served (from a lacquered cup, but only after the host sips theirs first), how to open negotiations (after precisely one lap around the King’s pleasure gardens and after saying, three times, that General Organa sends her well-wishes and highest regards). How long to hold eye contact, how to smile, which color shirt to wear to signal certain feelings in certain situations.

Poe would have likely always ended up messing up the negotiations. There was no way for a single person outside of that culture to learn all of their fussy, particular little rules. Of course, Leia had tried to send C-3PO along – the droid had tried to explain all those rules - and Poe had waved her off.

“How hard can it be?” he had said, flashing her a cocky grin.

How hard was it? Well, it happened like a slow-motion explosion. First, Poe had held on a beat too long with the opening handshake. Then he glanced away while the King’s advisor was giving him an exhaustive tour of the King’s sculpture garden.

The worst, though, was when Poe inadvertently insulted the King’s second wife. He wasn’t even sure how it happened – there was a huge dinner, and he used the wrong fork at the wrong time, wore the wrong shirt and looked her in the eye too long, and it devolved into Poe being tersely removed to sparser quarters which, it turned out, was just a prison.

And then, there was a trial (of sorts) which just involved the King’s advisors and astrologers and high priests, who all consulted their histories and star charts and rule books. Poe would have laughed at how ridiculous it all was, except the guards who held him carried top-of-the-line blasters along with wicked-looking scythes, so he wisely kept his laughing to himself and tried to look contrite, though he wasn’t sure where contrite looks ranked with the King.

At last, it was decided (though Poe would never quite be sure if it was due to a historical precedent or some alignment of this system’s dual stars) that Poe would be released and gifted a cruiser, along with a promise of twenty premium gunships.

The cruiser was a wedding gift.

For Poe.

“The laws of our people demand an allyship in blood,” declared one high priest, and Poe’s heart clenched at his implied sacrifice. Then, the priest added, “so you shall marry one of the King’s daughters.”

So the sacrifice wasn’t implied after all. Poe was to be sacrificed on the altar of matrimony. His heart seized up even more, but….a cruiser and twenty gunships? The Resistance desperately needed it, and he could always get a marriage dissolution afterwards.

The slow-motion explosion continued, and if Poe thought he’d at least get to pick his wife (the King had eleven daughters), he was sadly mistaken. Not that it mattered: the women of the royal court (and many of the men) were bound to the strict dress codes of their strange laws. Long hair bound and woven into intricate designs. Long, enameled fingernails. Faces and hands painted in delicate filigrees of designs. Dresses with so many layers that the person’s original shape was lost. It made the Queen of Naboo look like a fishmonger on Quila.

The day of the wedding, Poe found himself sick to his stomach. He’d been given his own clothes back to him, clean and pressed, and his fingers shook as he buttoned his shirt. He raked his fingers through his curls and tried to size himself up in the mirror in his room. He looked wan underneath his tan. Like a man on the way to his own execution.

Him, married. He’d had plenty of casual flings, a few girlfriends, but nothing even veered close to long-term dating or marriage. He was too devoted to the cause of eradicating the First Order from the galaxy, and that’s what he told himself he was doing now: securing those ships, building an alliance for more. He gave himself a nod in the mirror, as if to reassure himself.

All that opulence and elaborate court gesturing, and the guards led him not to a large ballroom or hall, as Poe expected. Instead, he found himself in a small antechamber with only a few people present: an advisor, a high priest and priestess.

And a young woman. Poe’s intended.

You stood placidly a bit apart from the others, and though you weren’t as elaborately done up as others Poe had seen at court, you were still hidden under layers of paint and brocaded cloth. Your hands were folded in front of yourself and that probably meant something in your culture, but you kept your eyes carefully fixed on the floor in front of you.

“Is this it?” Poe asked, incredulous. He couldn’t quite believe that a wedding would have less pomp than the palace’s afternoon ceremony for tea and biscuits. He glanced over at you, and you seemed to cringe at his words.

“She is the third daughter of the third wife,” the advisor said dismissively. “The occasion of her marriage does not warrant more than this.”

So that was the other side of the equation, Poe realized. A cruiser and some gun-ships to offload an unwanted daughter. He tried to look at you a closer, but you seemed to sense his gaze and shrank even more from it.

The occasion of your marriage amounted to a few muttered words by both the high priest and priestess, and then first you and then Poe signed an official looking document on thick, heavy paper. The advisor folded it carefully, then tied it with a white ribbon, then handed it to Poe.

That was it.

No exchanged vows or promises of love. No rings placed on fingers or hands bounds together while prayed over. Not even any eye contact – every time Poe glanced over at you, your eyes were focused elsewhere.

And afterwards? There was no celebration. Not even a goodbye from your parents or any of your multitude of siblings – you and Poe were both ushered away from the palace and onto the promised cruiser. The craft that Poe had arrived on was safely stowed on said cruiser, along with your dowry (some jewelry, some personal effects, and enough gowns to outfit the entire fleet of pilots in the Resistance).

After you were cleared to take off, Poe did just that. He marveled at how well the ship handled, and he practically twitched in anticipation for those gun-ships. Leia would be so happy. If Poe returned with a wife in tow, well…that was the price to pay. He could take care of that situation later.

He set the coordinates for D’Qar and felt the ship ease into hyperspace so smoothly he almost missed the streaks of lights that flew past. He was only two days away from being home. No, not just he anymore. You and he.

Poe stood up from his pilot’s seat and stretched. He felt the weight of the past few days slide off of his shoulders, and he felt like he could sleep until the ship exited hyperspace. But there was a new weight laying on him, and he left the cockpit now to go face it.

You were still sitting in the galley, exactly where he had left you to take off. You gifted him with the barest glance before you returned your eyes to the floor.

You were, like everyone else in your court, off-putting. A human with no shape under the leagues of fabric encasing you. A person with a face so painted that there was no room for expression. And, possibly, a person who didn’t talk.

“I’m Poe,” he said slowly and loudly, and he kicked himself internally at how the bark of his voice echoed off the shiny new walls of the space craft.

He swore he saw the corner of your painted lips twitch – a smile maybe? – but your face resumed its placid surface before you murmured quietly that yes, you knew his name. Of course - he had signed it beside yours on the marriage contract.

“Do you have a name?” he asked, a little gentler. “Or are you just numbered off by birth order?”

That did bring a smile to your face, and you lifted your eyes to meet his gaze for a brief second before returning to watch the space on the floor between you and him. You told him your name in your quiet voice. “Or you could call me number eight, if you prefer,” you added with a hint of a smile in your words.

The eighth child. Third daughter of a third wife. Poe had no idea what you really looked like, and more to the point, what you liked. What you didn’t like. What you’d think of D’Qar and its rough-and-tumble, scrappy quarters. What you’d think of the people in the Resistance. How much you’d stick out in your elaborate gear, how the hems of your sharply pleated skirt would be muddied within seconds of walking through the forest.

Poe could have sat beside you and tried to get to know you. There was some time, after all, and you likely hadn’t asked for marriage any more than he had. But he was keen to get ahold of Leia and report his success, and he wanted to discuss his next mission, which they had already talked about beforehand – finding her brother, Luke Skywalker. Apparently there was someone on Jakku who had a map, and that mission pushed every other thought out of his mind until Poe quite forgot about you.

So when you landed on D’Qar, Poe sprinted ahead of you to find BB-8 and Leia, leaving you behind to fend for yourself.

As you descended the craft, you watched the retreating back of your erstwhile husband. Poe Dameron left you behind. Other women of your court might throw a pretty tantrum or pout winsomely, but you were the third daughter of the third wife. You didn’t rage or pout. You were used to being left behind and forgotten.

So you did what you did best: you squared your shoulders, steeled your spine, and prepared yourself for a new life in this strange world.

As Poe Dameron’s wife.

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