It was encouragement, if anything, and Poe was so lost in the fantasy that he didn't care about anything else, at the moment, other than Finn's hard heat in his hand, the tight friction between his thighs, and the idea that maybe, somewhere, Rey--

"She wouldn't be able to help it - she'd touch herself as I touched you, slick up my fingers and open you up - tease you until you were begging me, and she was begging-- --- Finn--"

He wanted to finish the story. He did. But it was too much, and before he could even get another word out he was moaning helplessly, shuddering as he slammed himself hard against Finn's backside, coating Finn's thighs with mess.