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softest-cinnamon-roll · 5 years ago

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F6 +A3?😊

(not sure this is what you expected, but there you go anyway anon! Notsfw under the cut!)

* * * * *

When Eddie had been told by his father that they were going to be welcoming the King, Queen and Prince from their neighbouring Kingdom, he had been less than pleased about it. He had heard all about the elusive Prince Richard, and how he was not only a womaniser, but he was also very crude when it came to personal matters. His mother seemed to agree with him, not wanting to open their kingdom up to scrutiny and bad publicity, but his father had been adamant that they came to visit. After all, King Wentworth was a long-time friend of his.

The thing was, Eddie had never actually seen Prince Richard in person. All he had to go on was the rumours from the staff as well as what his father had told him about. Richard was the same age as him, a few months older. He sported dark curls on his head and his eyes were a chocolate brown colour. He was also apparently really tall and lanky. Before Eddie had even met the other Prince, he had made up a list of assumptions on how he was the wrong person to be seen spending time with.

It was about five minutes after actually speaking to the Prince in person, that Eddie realised just how wrong he was.

Ever since Eddie was born, his mother was breathing down his neck, stopping him from taking part in activities that were considered normal for a Prince, just in case he was injured. No amount of arguing from his father would budge her on that matter; so as Eddie had grown, he had become accustomed to sneaking out of the palace and seeking refuge in the woods where he could practice climbing, sword fighting and other activities his mother deemed ‘dangerous’.

It was on one of these adventures that Eddie was accidentally introduced to Prince Richard. He was half way up a tree when someone cleared their throat from below and Eddie looked down. At first, he thought he had been caught, but when his eyes landed on someone he had never seen before, he rolled his eyes.

“Can I help you?” Eddie called down, placing his footing so he could swing up and over one of the stronger branches. Now that he was sitting, legs swinging in the air he looked down once more to get a better look at whoever interrupted his alone time. “Who are you?”

The man just smiled up at Eddie, moving forward so he was leaning against the trunk of the tree, “You can call me Richie, you Highness.” Eddie’s jaw dropped a little and his eyes narrowed. It didn’t take long for it to fall into place, that this ‘Richie’ was in fact Prince Richard himself.

“How did you know who I was? You’ve never seen me before,” Eddie questioned, glad he was up high so that Richard couldn’t see the flush appearing on his cheeks. No-one thought to tell him that regardless of all Richard’s flaws, he was actually rather handsome looking.

Richard chuckled, shaking his head, “It doesn’t take a genius. I was told Prince Edward was on the shorter side, blonde hair and baby blue eyes. Not very many people fit that description around here. Oh and you’re also wearing the crest of the royal family, dead giveaway.”

Eddie swung his legs more, tilting his head to the side. Already one of the rumours about the Prince being uneducated had a large red line through it. “Can I ask you something, Prince Richard?” He asked, smirking as Richie blinked in shock that Eddie knew who he was also. “Are you anything like people make you out to be?”

“What do you mean?” Richie asked, running a hand through his curls. “If you’re referring to my countless bedding of women, as well as my party habits and crude language, I have but one answer for you, Your Highness. Never judge a book by its cover.” He started to move around the tree, and Eddie followed him with his eyes, quiet and curious. “You know, I’ve heard rumours about you too, but I think that they are all wrong considering the fact of where you currently are.”

“What have you heard about me?” Eddie asked, slowly moving back to the trunk of the tree and climbing his way down. When he placed his feet on solid ground, Eddie realised just how tall Prince Richard was in comparison to him. “What do they say about me?”

Richie pursed his lips, “They say you’re a mother’s boy, uncultured, too fragile to do any real work. They say you never leave the palace and yet…here you are. Climbing trees.” The prince then took another step forward, crowding Eddie against the tree. “I guess we were both wrong in our assumptions of each other. Shall we start over?”

Eddie nodded his head. “I’m Eddie. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Richie, and believe me, your highness. The pleasure is all mine.”

* * * * *

“Richie, oh fuck, Richie…” Eddie gasped, tugging firmly on Richie’s hair as he was backed up against the wall in the hallway, Richie’s hand down his pants. They were out in the open, where anyone could turn around and spot them, but that wasn’t something that Richie seemed bothered by. “Richie- so-someone could see us,”

Richie pulled away, a grin on his face, “Oh come on, Your Highness, where is your sense of adventure?” he asked, squeezing the base of Eddie’s cock with his hand, making the younger man jump and hold back a moan. “God I want to get under those clothes so badly, Eds. You’re a fucking wet dream.”

Swallowing a gasp, Eddie tugged on Richie’s hair to pull him a little closer, “Then maybe- maybe we should go back to your quarters then.” He watched Richie’s reaction, the way his eyes widened in shock before he smirked and nodded his head, pulling him down the corridor in the direction of his quarters.

Richie and his parents had been in Eddie’s Kingdom for ten weeks now, and in those ten weeks the two of them had done from acquaintances, to friends and now to lovers. The whole thing was giving Eddie whiplash, but he couldn’t care. The way Richie made him feel when they were together overcame any other thought he might have had.

As the door to Richie’s room flew open, the two of them stumbled in, lips locked together in a passionate kiss and hands roaming all over as they tried to get out of their clothes. Richie kicked the door closed with his foot and a moment later Eddie was being pushed up against the wall, Richie’s hands up his shirt. “God, Eds…you’re so beautiful…”

A flush built up on Eddie’s cheeks and he kissed Richie more forcefully, managing to wrangle his shirt up and over his head, tossing it to the ground at their feet. He knew just from the heat of the room and the rushed touches that it wasn’t going to last long, and they didn’t have the supplies they needed to go any further, but it was something. “Touch me, Richie…come on.”

At the sound of his desperate plea, Richie slowed down his movements, caressing over the skin of Eddie’s, now bare, stomach in a teasing manner. “What do you say?” He asked and Eddie groaned, moving his hand to deal with his problem on his own. The hand didn’t get far however, as Richie wrapped his free hand around Eddie’s wrists, pinning his hands above his head. “Keep em there,” he warned.

In a second, Richie’s hands were gone and he was dropping to his knees in front of Eddie, pulling down his pants and taking him into his mouth in one go. Eddie closed his eyes, a whine leaving his lips as he kept his hands were they were above his head. All he could do to urge Richie on was to cant his hips forward into his mouth occasionally, earning him a pinch to the thigh from Richie’s fingers.

“Rich- Rich m’gonna come,” Eddie breathed, feeling that coil in his stomach as Richie bobbed his head faster, gripping Eddie’s hips tight. He looked down, meeting Richie’s eyes as the other Prince nodded once. A few moments later, Eddie was coming hard down Richie’s throat, hands moving into his hair to ground himself. “Fuck- Fuck oh my god.”

With a pop, Richie pulled off and wiped his mouth, grinning up at Richie. “Did I blow your mind, Your Highness?” He asked and Eddie shoved him backwards. “You don’t have to worry about me either, I came in my pants like a fucking teenager.”

Once they were all cleaned up, the two of them snuggled up on Richie’s bed, holding onto each other close. This was the only time they could do this, when there was no-one watching. There was no possible way that the two of them could be together. After all, they were both the only heirs to their respective Kingdoms. “I think I’m falling in love with you, Richie…” Eddie breathed after a while. “And I’m scared.”

Richie looked into his eyes, moving a hand to cup his cheek, “I’m scared too, because I feel the exact same. I am falling for you too. Don’t worry though, one day, we’ll be able to be together. I promise.”

Eddie just smiled, relishing in the moment, unable to breathe the words that were plaguing his mind.

Don’t make promises you’re unable to keep.

* * * * *

@3tothe1 @anellope @annxmatron @appojoos @are-you-reddie-for-it @atownofeggs @beepbeeprichiellc @bi-bi-richie @billdenbrough @bitchbrak @callmechee @dadbodrichie @derrylosers @disneyfan567 @eddiekaspprak @eds-trashmouth @eduardoandale @girasol-eddie @gloire-celeste @halfway-happy353 @hawkinsbabe @inthebreadbinwrites @itfandomprompts @its-stranger-than-you-think @jem-carstairs-is-perfection @kat-ships-everything @lifesucksheres20bucks @loserslibrary @losers-gotta-stick-together @madi-artist @mars-14 @marsisaplanetyall @moonlightrichie @nancynwheeler @no-she-wasnt-reddie @oldguybones @pattysblum @photoboothreddie @pink-psychic @purplepoisonedgem @queen-sock @ransonelovebot @rebecca-the-queen @reddie-for-anything @reddie-to-cryy @reddieforlove @reddiesetandgo @richietoaster @roobarrtrashmouth @rreddies @s-onora @s-s-georgie @sashadrowned @sedanleystanley @sloppybitchreddie @sparklingrainbowdragon @spirited-marvel @stellarbisexual @studpuffin @takeourpure @that-weird-girls-blog @thegoshdiddlydangdoor @thejadeazalea @thorn-harvester-ven @tinyarmedtrex @tozier-boy @tozierking @toziesque @trashmouthtozierr @twoidiotsinl0ve @ultrapaninibred @vanity190 @violetreddie @virgo-luthie @wilding-throught-thehallways @xandertheundead

#reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #notsfw #prince au

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mateasha · 4 years ago

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rendevous 18.6y

summary: chikage shows up at the front door of MANKAI after disappearing from the face of the Earth for 3 years. itaru is not happy. fandom: a3 pairing: chikage x itaru word count: 4716 tags: original characters for the sake of plot, friends to strangers to lovers, angst, fluff, flashbacks, mentions of death, bad attempts at action, bad attempts at comedy chapter 3: work Itaru is unhappy. There’s a lot of things he could be doing right now, and he did not expect one of things he chose to do is to be outside in a bar today. With a lot of people. The things he does for money and food. People might call him a glutton, but he would say he just knows how to play his cards right, he thinks to himself as he slides his phone out of his pocket to play a mobile version of KniRoun— which is more just tapping on the screen really fast to kill enemies.

The bar is decently big, 13 of them seated around a booth, Sakyo, Izumi, Tsumugi, Tasuku, Azuma, Chikage, Kazunari, Omi, Guy, Citron, Tsuzuru, and Homare. 12 excluding Itaru who isn’t really mentally there. But at least he’s there, with a tiny piece of comfort to get him through this arduous time. Arduous to him at least.

The atmosphere is warm, with a sense of familiarity to it, the yellow lights making everyone look a bit more tan than they actually are. They’ve gone to a different bar this time, one that Chikage recommended (of course) and he won’t lie: this place has good food.

Not that he’s doubting Chikage’s tastes— which he obviously can and will do, with his no taste buds no spice receptor having ass, but he’s doubting Chikage’s tastes, as he watches him sprinkle nanami that he had in his bag all over his side dish. Everyone is slowly sipping on their respective alcohol, Itaru with some fruity drink that he hasn’t touched a bit, as he takes out his phone just to inspect the time.

Everyone is having their tiny bit of banter, especially with Chikage as he talks to them with an almost smile on his face, each of them going around, asking questions about whatever he’s doing. He’s not surprised that the conversations Chikage is conducting are not turning into shouting matches, as he’d expect.

“Chikage! It hasn’t been a long time since I’ve seen you!” Homare shouts, almost alerting the entire bar to whatever their business is.

“Ah, yes. It’s been only a couple days, hm?” Chikage takes a bite of his tataki, savoring the taste a bit before he takes a sip of his weird craft beer that he knows how to pronounce for whatever reason.

“Couple days? Chikage, you’ve been around?” Tsumugi is slowly getting more and more roped into whatever conversation they’re having. Itaru is suddenly intrigued, his ears almost perking up like a cat’s, but not physically.”

“Yeah. I wanted to come around. The graveyard.” He gets a bit somber thinking about it, but still keeps up the slightly cheery demeanor. “It’s nice there.”

“It is.” Izumi chips in.

“We chose it. Without you.” Itaru glares at Chikage from across the table, finally taking a sip of this damn drink that they called the One Night Stand. Lame name, he thinks, as he takes in another sip, feeling the coldness of the strawberry liqueur down his throat.

“Yeah… I know.” Chikage quickly changes the topic to something else, Itaru left behind to think as he slowly takes more of the fruity cocktail into his system. It’s hard to hear them over the sound of everyone else but it’s nice. It feels familiar. Like nothing’s changed. But he knows that things have changed. For some reason, everyone seems happy to see him. Him included— but he’d never say that. Itaru is happy. Sort of.

It’s a dilemma to miss someone so much that you feel your heart ache and twist but also hate them for leaving. It’ll go down in the textbooks maybe, a textbook example of a dilemma, but he hates it, this feeling of having to choose his emotions— when usually they would pick themselves, like most of the time. On one hand, Itaru is glad— maybe even overjoyed that he’s alive, but on the other, he’s angry that he’s alive and didn’t even tell him anything. He just left.

But now is not the time to self loathe, as he gets out of the booth. “I’m going to the bathroom.” He quickly pockets his phone with the game still running into his standard jacket, unsure if Chikage caught it— which he probably did, but he doesn’t expect much from him, at least in the court of actually doing something.

But he can almost feel someone’s eyes burning into his back, specifically Chikage’s. He walks into the bathroom, the smell of booze and maybe just a little bit of piss— but he’s used to it, based on the idea that Itaru has had to deal with bar bathrooms ever since joined the damn workforce. But for some reason, the smell of booze is actually a bit pleasant— exclude the piss smell— with a maturity that exudes unconsciously.

He’s still playing the same game, watching Gawain slice some basic slime, Itaru tapping fiercely just to speed up the process— he has to rank for this event and these battles are a little long. Which is why he didn’t want to come, but he owes it to Izumi, who looked significantly more happy when she saw he was coming along for once, after he had declined the past 3 weeks.

But this train of thought is stopped suddenly as soon as the sound of the bathroom door swings open, with a slight bang on the wall, not nearly loud enough to disturb him, but Itaru gets quiet, raising his feet off the ground.

“Chigasaki.” Chikage has a stern voice now.

Itaru is silent. It’s Chikage. He really doesn’t want to talk to him.

“I know you’re in here.” Shit.

“No, you don’t.”

“Just come out. I want to talk.”

One of the worst phrases ever to come out of his mouth, other than “uncute junior.” He walks out a little dejected.

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

He walks away from Chikage, slowly walking to the door with a tinge of tantrum in his steps.

“Wait.”

Itaru continues to walk out before he feels a hand on his wrist pulling him back.

“Wait.” He tightens his grip on Itaru’s arm, forcing him to turn around, their eyes meeting for a bit, Itaru just staring him down as hard as he can which, surprisingly, has a little effect on him.

“What?” Itaru’s voice is cold and steely. “What do you have to say?”

“I’m here to say sorry.” Chikage is completely, wholly serious, his voice echoing in the bar’s bathroom. He pulls Itaru closer, close enough to where he can smell Chikage’s scent, smelling faintly of alcohol, cigarettes, and oddly but not really oddly enough, gunpowder.

“...You… you’re saying sorry.” Itaru doubts Chikage a bit looking into his eyes, for some reason are full of sincerity.

“Yes.” Chikage’s face is telling that he’s still serious, which comes as a bit of a surprise to Itaru.

“...What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re saying sorry to me.”

“And? I’m sorry. Izumi told me about everything.”

“Izumi?”

“Yeah.”

“She told you?”

“No, I asked her.”

“You asked Izumi how I felt before you came to me?” Itaru questions him fiercely, his eyes set alight with a tinted anger.

“I thought you wouldn’t respond.”

“But still? You didn’t even try coming to me first? That’s not fucking right, Chikage.” Itaru can feel a little bit of the alcohol in his brain, his thoughts becoming less coherent as he goes on.

“Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you would be so… distraught over me leaving.” Chikage feels a bit awkward, a first for him— then again, tonight might just be the week of firsts, maybe even month.

“I— you didn’t know? Did that moment mean nothing to you?” He thinks back to the first time Itaru went to pick Chikage up.

“It meant something to me, I just— I thought you might’ve been glad, like—“

“Glad? Listen; I love having a room to myself but glad? Chikage. You— You really do— matter to me. You still do, but right now I can’t fuckin—“ Itaru chokes up, frustrated that he can barely get the words out, trying so hard but everytime he says the next word it comes out wrong. “I’m going.” Itaru is tearing up as he slowly feels a burst of energy, breaking away from Chikage’s grip before bursting through the bathroom doors.

He’s almost running through the bar, passing by his table.

“Itaru?” Izumi sees him, tears almost in his eyes as he runs past, Chikage trailing behind. “...Chikage.” She pinches the bridge of her nose in frustration. “What’d you do?” Izumi is stern with her voice, almost a scolding tone.

“I said sorry.”

“Listen, just give him some time.” Izumi looks at Itaru exit the bar, slowly, almost pitifully. “He needs it.”

—

Itaru is humiliated.

Crying in front of everyone, well, at least almost crying. God, what if one of his coworkers were there?

He’s walking along the sidewalk of Veludo Way, the night street slightly bustling with the sound of footsteps moving past. The odd warmth on Veludo Way’s spring day slowly sets into the environment, making Itaru slightly sweat through his undershirt that’s just the slightest bit restrictive, as he unbuttons his jacket and then a button off the collar of his undershirt. Much better.

Itaru has much to think about— which Itaru is definitely not used to, as the thoughts race through his mind like they’re Olympic runners.

He’s not angry. He thinks he should be though, as he sits down onto a bench, the weird rustling of the banners hanging from building to building making this day feel off. Everything about this day feels off. Especially the fact Chikage was motivated to say sorry— which half the time (when he was here) he would probably say, “I’m sorry that you felt that way.” like he wasn’t at fault. But a genuine, I’m sorry?

He takes off his jacket finally, pulling out his phone. Lots of new notifications that he clears immediately, opening his game up again. The area around the bench is secluded, so he knows he can play here.

He can feel the wind getting his hair into his eyes— god he wishes he was home, but after that whole fiasco, he doubts he can go back. Unless Chikage is doing something. But he really doesn’t want to talk about it with Izumi. As understanding as she is, he isn’t in the mood to deal with whatever advice she has to give.

He opens up, Lancelot posing on his home screen saying something about Gawain. How fitting. He immediately turns off the phone after thinking about it a little bit. He can’t even try to escape this. He gets up again, taking a longer walk to an even less busy street. He’s gone really far, he thinks, as he looks at his surroundings, a little bit unfamiliar— as far as six years in the same place can be familiar.

Something is different, he thinks, Itaru settling into the chair and getting comfortable, basking in the sunset’s light that casts shadows long, the silhouettes of people stretching across the sidewalk. It’s not that he’s worried about how everyone else perceives them, they see each other every single day (on a non ranking week). Nothing’s changed. They’re all still close knit— even more close knit than how they were before.

Nothing’s changed.

Everyone talks like they used to, everyone is still friends, even Chikage with everyone else. And there is literally no evidence that Chikage hates him, and he completely understands why he had to go. There’s no evidence that he’s less than glad to see him again after three years.

So why is he so stressed, he thinks to himself, screaming his lungs out internally in anger. He fusses with his phone, turning it over and over again, playing with the home button and the speaker, feeling the engravings on his hand, stroking it fast then slow to pass the time.

“...Chigasaki.” Chikage pulls up to the bench in the troupe’s car.

“...Chikage.” He looks like a child that ran away after his iPad got taken away. Chikage hasn’t really changed either. Maybe more well mannered. Maybe more well meaning than he was the first time around. His skills are still the same, as Chikage parks on the side, and comes out the car, wearing his signature outfit that doesn’t look like it wore down at all in the past three years.

“Why are you here?”

“Can you just… wait this time. Come into the car. I’ll drive you back.”

“How do I know you aren’t kidnapping me?”

“Why would I need to kidnap you?”

“...To force me to accept your apology?”

“Even I know that’s not how it works.”

“Trying to make a joke here.”

“Not a very good one.” They both chuckle a bit.

Nothing’s changed.

“I’m sorry.” Chikage pauses. “Again. Let me try this again— okay?” He looks to Itaru for approval, almost looking more timid than he used to.

“...you were never unable to.” He mumbles under his breath, almost feeling bad for the green haired man sitting next to him, until his asshole smirk pops up again, his slight irritation, and urge to hurt Chikage in more ways than one increasing.

“Can we move into the car? I… I can gather my thoughts better there.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

They both get up from the bench, the sun already down, the feeling like time passed by so fast, as Itaru checks his phone for the time. It’s 7:48 pm, Itaru says to himself, as he gets into the car.

“So…?”

“So.”

“Go on…”

Chikage starts the ignition, pulling out of the parallel park, taking his time this time.

“How’d you come find me?”

“A spy never tells his secrets.”

“Mmm.” Itaru can’t help but be irritated, Chikage backtracking.

“Sorry. I put a tracker on your phone a while back.”

“Dude, what?”

“Kidding. Or am I?” He laughs at Itaru’s kid-like face, pouting like there’s no tomorrow.

“I just needed to talk to you. I don’t want to let this opportunity go.”

“You had a lot of opportunities.”

“I’m aware.”

“A lot.”

“You said that.”

“Now what do you have to say now?”

“Well, as if you haven’t heard it enough— but I’m sorry. Really.” Chikage takes a deep breath, as he nears closer to the dorms. “We need to patch whatever we have up and since it’s quite out of character for me to take initiative in these intrapersonal relationship fixers, I need you to know that I am aware of my mistake, I really should have just come to you. I just didn’t… assess the situation correctly.”

“Wow.” Itaru is stupefied, just sitting in the car chair.

Now the feelings are really rushing in.

“What?”

“I…” Itaru is just sitting there, unsure of what to say, but Itaru’s sudden interjection stops the conversation right then and there. “...okay. Thanks. I forgive you.”

“Is that it?”

“What?”

“Were you expecting… more work?”

“I’m new to this type of stuff, Itaru— at least doing it in a genuine way.”

“I know.”

“Well… I’m glad you forgive me.”

That definitely shuts them up, setting in a familiar aura of familial awkwardness that Itaru can’t wait to get out of, as they pull into the driveway. Izumi is waiting at the entrance, reading some book about dealing with children— like she has to still, but it doesn’t hurt. He slowly gets out at the same time as Chikage.

“...So?” Izumi looks at Chikage and Itaru inquisitively, almost confused as to what happened— as neither of their faces display great discomfort but also not happiness. Which is what she wanted— but hey, Rome wasn’t built in one day. After a momentary silence, Izumi whips her head around to look at Itaru.

“Don’t run off like that again.” She punches the side of his arm, and walks inside.

Chikage and Itaru quickly shuffle back to their room, Chikage already packing up all his stuff for another trip out.

“Where are you going?”

“Can’t tell you.”

“I figured as much. See you.”

“See you.” Chikage quickly rushes out of the room, leaving Itaru in his messy room, as he gets up from his chair to flop all over the even messier couch, as he moves around some tissues and cans down the floor, laying up and looking at the ceiling, where there’s literally nothing there. Perfect for him. To be alone with one’s thoughts.

Itaru feels bad. He doesn’t know why he feels bad, but he definitely feels bad about something, as he stares up into the whiteness of the ceiling that feels almost engulfing and suffocating for some reason, as he sits up to walk over to his computer to turn it on, taking a seat in his gamer chair, slouching so heavily- even more heavily than usually. He’s tired.

And the first step to becoming “untired” is to address the elephant in the room. Chikage is here and he still, even after all that shit that just went down, does not know how to cope with it. Like he said, Chikage didn’t leave because he resented MANKAI. So why does he feel so bad? He needed time to grieve and time to deal with the stack of bullshit he needed to deal with after his death. It’s fine.

But as cliche as it is, it’s not fine. Itaru is trying so hard to distract himself, but you can only lose yourself in a game so much. He needs to perceive the reality of him being here.

He straightens up in his chair slowly and groans a bit before laying his fingers and hand on the keyboard before determining that he’s too tired to game for once, which he’s surprised by and can barely push through as he gets up, leaving his computer on as he goes up the ladder to fall asleep.

He doesn’t even need to try.

—

Itaru already is dreading the idea of going to work now that Chikage is here, the thought not even crossing his mind during the weekend-- which makes complete sense, being that for the past three days he’s been thinking of Chikage. Which says a lot about him, really.

But now he’s been cursed with Chikage hovering over him as they both sit in the car to work, the silence almost deafening, except for the Idolmaster song quietly in the background— which doesn’t surprise Chikage because of his prior experience with Itaru. But when Chikage looks at him, Itaru has a regained focus while he hums along to the song.

Which definitely matters, because for the first time in a while, Chikage is sweating nervously, on the same level as Itaru trying to force down his feelings vomit back into his stomach, but less visible, as he breaks the silence that’s harder than permafrost with his humming— when as a matter of fact— he didn’t really need to do that, when not even god could save this car ride that keeps dragging on and on.

Chikage doesn’t say anything as they pull into the parking lot of the office building quickly, trying to get in without anyone seeing them— which is practically impossible as they rush in, Chikage hearing whispers of “why are Chigasaki and Utsuki-senpai together?” and “why’d they come into work together?” with the occasional coo, which isn’t very helpful to Itaru’s reddening face as he drags Chikage by the hand to round the hall. Itaru stops to catch a little more breath before starting.

“This is so fucking humilating.”

“Does it matter?”

“...Yeah? I have an image to keep up here, and I can’t lose out on that.”

“Listen, we came together once. I’m sure this won’t happen again.”

“What about the like… 8 weeks till closing night?

“I’ll be fine. I can figure something out.” Chikage goes on his phone.

“God, can we just go. I’ll see you after work.”

“Yeah.”

They walk down the hall, opening the door to the office, and go to their separate cubicles.

—

It’s break, and Itaru is nowhere to be seen, as usual, but Chikage is in the lunchroom poking slowly at his food, which is just an onigiri, which isn’t the most filling thing but he’s subsisted on worse before. He picks it up and takes a bite, looking up at the lunchroom, which is one of multiple in the building, one of the smaller ones, so he’s not around many people at all. But the same sterilized environment starts to get him, falling into the same daily pace, almost making him forget the fact that he had to come to work with Itaru this morning.

Itaru really made a bigger deal than it was, he thinks, remembering his little pouting face as he walked away, his face obviously showing that he was stomping away in his head. Or at least wanted to stomp away, but that isn’t the most appropriate thing to be doing in a workplace setting. His thoughts are interrupted by a voice coming out from the door frame, as he turns his head towards the open door, seeing his coworker in it.

“Utsuki-senpai!”

He looks around for a bit before registering the fact that there’s someone trying to talk to him, which he wasn’t really expecting while he’s in here, as literally no one comes in here except for him, unless someone really needs to talk to him. “Ah, Yui-san. Hi.” He plasters a small smile onto his face like he’s switching on a light.

“So… You were seen coming in with Chigasaki-san, I’ve heard.” She pulls out a chair and sits down next to Chikage, putting down her lunch on the table, and opening up the tupperware.

Chikage sighs, struggling to keep that smile taped on with the shitty tape that can’t even stick to walls. “Yeah.” He pauses after a bit of silence, the room stale with slight fear that he’s mad. He’s definitely not mad, that’s what he knows, but he’s definitely tired of hearing the same shit over and over again, since he got here. “What about him?” He’s obviously coming off a little angry that she’s asking about it, which he’s trying so hard not to do— but to no avail.

“Ah… sorry if I made you mad, the workplace has just been a bit curious… we’ve never really seen you interact with him— that’s all!” She tries to reciprocate Chikage’s fake smile with a smile of his own, overbearing— but Chikage can appreciate the effort. “It’s just that he’s a pretty popular actor… Do you know him?” She’s obviously interested in Itaru.

Chikage doesn’t know what to say— whether to say no, they just happened to meet (which doesn’t make sense) or to say yes. And tell them everything. He decides on a half truth. “Ah, I didn’t know he was an actor!” He quietly adds a “still” at the end, so they can’t call him out if they knew his past. “My car broke down, so I just needed a ride here. I recognized Chigasaki-san as I’ve seen him around. He’s quite the popular one.”

“Hah, yeah. He’s very handsome… even I can see that. Never got the chance to talk to him though.” Chikage already knows why, and rolls his eyes in “it was expected from you, but I’m still disappointed.” He adds a side remark. “Are you two sure you have nothing going on?”

Chikage almost wants to facepalm and walk out, but he needs to retain the caring senpai act for a while, so he sucks it up, and stifles his anger to squeeze out at least a tiny neutral remark. “Yeah. We only came to work together like… once. I don’t know why you’re so interested in this.”

“He is handsome… and he’s nice to boot.”

Are you kidding me? “You sound like you have a crush on him.” She immediately blushes when Chikage even mentions the idea that she has a crush on him.

“Well, can you blame me?”

Chikage wants to roll his eyes so bad, but rolling his eyes in his mind will just have to do as he tries to formulate his sentence, “Really?” Chikage speaks with disbelief in his voice, like he forgot that no one really is aware of his gamer side. She’s completely unaware of his second side. “I mean, he is handsome. But have you ever even… talked to him? Not doubting his social skills or his personality, but I’m just wondering. You need to know what you’re getting into.

“Well…” She thinks to herself, obviously like she hadn’t talked to him a while. Which is probably right. “I’ve talked to him like… once…? Maybe twice, but that was just in a meeting.”

“Well, how can you have a crush on him?”

“He’s so nice! I don’t think there’s a way to dislike him. Seriously.” Yui-san looks as if she’s literally swooning, like she’s leaning back in her chair so far back she might fall.

“Mhmmmm…”

“Well, you’re a downer.” She goes back into her food as Chikage finishes up his onigiri.

“Suit yourself. I’m heading back to my desk.”

“I’ll see you later. Oh, I forgot what I came to tell you! The boss wants to talk to you. Something about a trip?”

“I’ll be sure to head over.”

Trip? He walks quickly out of the break room to escape the awkward atmosphere that he created himself, which is extremely unlike him to do, when he’s usually a bit charismatic in the workplace. His boss doesn’t really intimidate him, as he walks through the hall to head into the office, bumping into Itaru in front of the door.

“... Are you going in?” Itaru looks at him with a neutral face, but he can see the anxiety setting in behind it, as he still keeps up his refreshing businessman facade in front of Chikage, which is a bit irritating, but it’s okay.

“Depends on what you think.” Chikage gives him a shit-eating smirk, a wild difference from the shit-eating grin that Chikage would usually give him.

“Do I really need to say?” He seems a bit tired, huffing a bit from his nose in slight frustration.

They’re both silent for a bit before they start walking, entering the room together. The room is a bit more colorful than most of the office, with the same fish tank still there, and the shelves filled with photos of places he’s been and the occasional family photo.

“Ah! Utsuki-san, Chigasaki-san. Sit down. I’ve been looking for you two.” The last words strike some sort of fear into Itaru’s heart, almost to the same level of “we need to talk”. “Have you two met?”

“Yes, we have.” Itaru speaks up. “We don’t really… talk much however.”

“Ishii-buchou, what did you need from both of us?” Chikage saves Itaru the energy that he would use if he were to speak to him, which he’s obviously thankful for.

“So, my daughter Kaede is having her birthday soon, and I have a trip to go on with a foreign investor, so you can imagine the dilemma I’m having.” He says it in such a condescending way it hurts a little.

“Oh, happy early birthday to your daughter! So what do you want us two to do?” Chikage is still speaking, taking the lead.

“I’m going to need you two to take a trip on my behalf. You two are our most important and reputable workers here, and I think you two would be a good pair.” He smiles fakely from behind the desk. “Could you two please do this?”

Itaru’s eyes widen open. Can this day get much worse? He wants to scream but he’s still in the office. Chikage still looks fine though, he notices, still keeping up the responsible front up, looking directly at Ishii, while Itaru looks at him with fish eyes, like he’s been asked to move the entire office building.

Chikage speaks up first. “Definitely. I would love this opportunity.” He side eyes Itaru to respond.

“Ah, yes, sure.” Shit.

“Great! You guys will be going by the end of this week! You two can go now. I’ll send you more information over email.”

Fuck. chapter 1 / chapter 2 / chapter 3 / chapter 4 / chapter 5 / chapter 6

#a3 #a3!#a3! chikage #a3! itaru #a3! chikaita #ckit #chikage utsuki #itaru chigasaki #a3 fanfiction #a3! fanfic

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whirlybirbs · 6 years ago

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» PRE-FLIGHT CHECK, FOUR.

summary: the metal bikini is the icing on the cake for cadet!reader & poe dameron. these two continue to have a bad luck streak. cadet!reader runs into an old friend, poe is jealous. 4/?. companion piece to risks. word count: 4.5k! it’s a long one! a/n: i put this story up on ao3 so you can read there if you’d like! click here!

Poe Dameron has always been an optimist.

Genuinely, he’s a good guy -- smart and quick-witted with a good head in his shoulders. In the worst of moments, he’s always able to look forward and keep his chin up. Must be a genetic thing; his mother was always the same way. Shara, a spearhead in the Rebellion and his own life, had an affinity for spinning the world on her finger -- the sun was always shining if you looked through the clouds.

He’s well-aware it’s infuriating -- I mean, the amount of times he wanted to quit as a kid? To throw in the helmet after a failed time run? To land for good after stalling again and again? Shara was always there on the back porch, ready with a kiss and a smile and a few words of encouragement. The optimism radiated off of her and Poe swore he’d be like her one day.

Kes Dameron? Not so much the optimist. The sergeant was frequently cleaning up the ‘can do’ attitude of his wife -- not that he minded. He loved her to the farthest moon and back forever. Kes would do anything for his wife. After all, the retired-Pathfinder was a fighter.

You remind Poe a lot of his dad.

Hot-headed, short-fuse. Your moral compass is strong but your fighting spirit is stronger.

If you’d known this week long mission would have you wading through metaphorical bantha-shit, you probably would have just had Leia ground and transfer you. After all, Poe had stripped your flight privileges twice before the assignment of this mission (once per command and once per landing gear murder); it was hell, but being grounded meant you wouldn’t be wading through said metaphorical bantha-shit.

Nor be in a metal bikini on in Mos Shuuta, Tatooine, chained to a Hutt Cartel crime-lord and watching as he slobs down some vaguely human-shaped meat leg.

Metal bikinis, for all intents and purposes, are just plain offensive.

I mean, there’s no functionality -- not to mention, no support -- and as you’re forced to your knees and hit the dusty floor of the Mos Shuuta cantina, you’re pretty positive the gathering crowd of onlookers behind you can see the entirety of your backside. You’re aware that’s kind of the point, but you still scowl and wince at the delicate jingling of the body jewelry across your chest.

Too breezy.

Poe’s pretty optimistic, usually. You know, in recent hours that optimism has really been worn down. Sans BB-8 and burdened with his Lieutenant in chains, Poe’s not really sure if this plan is going to work. The New Republic Navy taught you both to be resourceful and yeah, sure, sometimes getting out alive meant following through on a plan that was less than ideal, but no one ever told you this would be your legacy: being paraded for sale in front of your flight-commander.

In a metal bikini.

Poe’s hung up on the bikini, too.

“So,” he starts, clearing his throat as bidders begin to circle up, “Teemo...”

Teemo the Hutt -- a large, olive colored Hutt and cousin of the Jabba the Hutt -- is reclined before you in a nest of plush, lavish pillows. The marcan herbs burning in his hookah stings sweetly in your throat as the Hutt pulls and exhales a cloud of the intoxicant your way. He then chomps on the meat-leg, groaning while he chews thoughtfully. At the puff of hookah and bad meat breath, your lip curls in a snarl. Teemo, unsatisfied with the display of attitude, unceremoniously yanks at the chained collar around your neck.

In Huttese, he grovels out a slow: “<She is fiesty>.”

It’s directed at Poe, who’s really going to get it for this plan -- he can tell by the look on your face. He’ll be lucky if he survives getting you both off planetside. (If the plan even works, that is.) You’ll probably smother him in his sleep.

Absentmindedly, he wonders how the Cartel didn’t learn a lesson from Leia, a self-made Hutt-slayer. Chains, really? A little antiquated, don’t you think?

You grit your teeth, settling back on your knees as Poe steps forward from Teemo’s side; his hands are raised, face masked in something mockingly-suave. He’s a good actor, but his usual charm is fading pretty fast; blame the buyers moving to sniff, literally sniff, his Lieutenant. He’s trying to play the roll as slave-dealer, trying to trade you for a ship and then, later that night, bust you out of your chains so you can both slip away.

“Hey, buddy,” Poe snaps at a cantina dweller who gets a bit too close. He cocks a hip, pointing, “You touch her, you’re buying her.”

You’re convinced he gets off on this -- y’know, rescuing the damsel in distress. Typical Dameron. You turn, stealing a deadly glare in the direct of the male Twi’lek leering. He quickly backs off. Poe turns back to Teemo.

“She’s punchy,” Poe shifts from boot to boot, “It’s all part of the package, pal.”

The metal-bikini-slave-trade situation is the icing on top of the last 16 hours.

First, you and Poe were rudely awakened by a low-ranking Kanjiklub lieutenant with an unfortunate name and his ragtag team of even lower-ranking gang members boarding your ship. You’ve never been so thankful to Kanjiklub. After all, it’s not Bala-Tik -- he was the last person you wanted to see right now.

(Safe to say you two hadn’t gotten off on the right foot, despite the smuggler’s insistence on a movie and dinner.)

Poe’s first instinct, of course, was to fight -- but you’re aware of the gang’s reputation and you’re not about to make the situation worse; no doubt you’ve got a bounty on your head, even it if is from a rival gang who is notoriously well-known for collecting said bounties. Credits are credits, even if the bounty was placed by Bala-tik himself. So, in a rare moment, you weren’t the one trying to punch your way out of things. In fact, you were dragging Poe by the collar down to the lower part of the engine room.

With some luck, and a good hiding spot, you thought you could maybe get out of this unscathed. They might think it’s a dead ship - or abandoned. And you probably could have. That is if Poe would have shut up and hid.

“They have a small ship, that means small crew --”

“It’s Kanjiklub,” you seethed, drawing his face close as you round the corner. Your finger jabbed his chest, “Do you want to get us killed?”

Poe’s brows furrowed. “How do you know it’s --”

There was a loud clang overhead signalling they’ve docked. And as much as Poe wanted to figure out how the pit you know it’s the Kanjiklub (you’d seen their callsign scrawled under the hull when they’d pulled the Allanar N3 light freighter into their EM field -- not to mention you’d met up with plenty of these medium sized freighters before), he’s distracted when the sound of boots meets his ears. Both you and Poe flinched then, spurred to hurry and pull at the grates.

“Poe, will you lift --”

“I am lifting --”

The crawl space was small, maybe too small, but you gestured for Poe to go first. Above you on the catwalk, BB-8 and A3-C8 rolled back and forth, whirring hurriedly down at you and Poe. That was your cue.

They’re coming!

“C’mon, go,” you whispered harshly, nudging Poe’s shoulder and quickly following him into the crawl space, “I can hear them --”

“I’m going -- ow, ow, ow,” Poe was cursing as you land in his lap, “God, kid, the knee --”

“I’m trying, this isn’t exactly roomy,” you sneered, “And I’m not a kid --”

Aforementioned low-ranking Kanjiklub lieutenant and crew did a good enough job dragging you both from the hull after you’d been caught mid-whisper-argument; BB-8 and A3-C8 were hauled away, whirring and beeping as they’d yanked up the flooring under the engine room to find you in Poe’s lap, his hand slapped over your mouth. Proximity ignored, you’re hauled up and slapped into stasis cuffs.

“Seriously?” you snarked, “C’mon, bite me, stasis cuffs? Who are you, Guavians?”

On that note, you were promptly clocked with the back end of a laser-sight bolt action blaster and wake up on the floor of the bridge of Jax Dag’s bridge.

Jax Dag, Poe thinks, is a pretty unfortunate name. The kid was young -- no doubt trying to make a name for himself. Too bad the name is just... bad. It sounds wrong. Kinda like a swear. Poe doesn’t really feel comfortable sounding it out in his head. Jaaax Daaaaag. Definitely a swear.

Your own bleary eyes caught his own then, and Poe felt himself deflate a bit. You weren��t dead. On any other day, he probably would have made an off-hand comment about how much of a shame that was. But, right now? He’d never been happier to see your half-concussed scowl. He would asked how you’re feeling if, well... If Jax Dag wasn’t already leering at you. In hindsight, Poe’s starting to realize a trend. He can’t stand that.

“Nice of you to join us,” Jax chirped at you and Poe felt a flare of anger in his chest. Jax’s fingers dug into your chin, “Sleep well?”

“Get your hands off of her,” Poe growled, eyes set in a seriousness you’re not used to seeing. He’s not really sure where that came from. Did he get hit in the head? Your own look says the same thing. Shutting up. Shutting up now.

Jax ignored the comment. Instead, he pointed to the ship in the loading bay. The vomit colored Allanar N3 sat, dim and freshly abandoned. From your spot on the floor, you tested the stasis cuffs. Still there. Your head still hurt -- and Jax’s face isn’t the nicest thing to wake up to. Poor kid. Bad name, bad looks and as you come to find out, a terrible sense of bartering.

Somehow, after an hour of eyelash batting and lip chewing, you’d convinced the kid to drop you and Poe on the nearest planet in trade of the ship, all the credit on either of you, and --

“The droids.”

“No,” Poe scowled, trying to cut the games, “No way. The droids don’t leave our side.”

“Then no deal,” Jax Dagger battled back, “And I call Bala-Tik up, turn you in, and then I take the droids.”

You nearly fall over yourself at the mention of the rival syndicate’s Leader and Poe noticed. “Take the droids.”

He turned, then, and looked at you like you’d had eight tentacles and a pit for a mouth. Turn you in?

BB-8 howls in protest. BeeOOOoop?

“The droids,” you said, “Are worth you dropping us in the closest town when we land.”

And so, here you are. In a metal bikini. In a musty cantina, chained to Teemo the Hutt who smells like hookah and meat and sweat. Poe saunters in front of you, boots dirtied from the Tatooine sand and you wonder why the hell you hadn’t proposed to make him the slave -- half the cantina was looking at him like he was an entire meal. You’re not sure why the leering is making you so mad, I mean, c’mon. He probably smells like the wrong end of a tauntaun right now.

But still, it’s infuriating how good he looks -- shirt matted with sweat, sand caked along his jacket. His curls are stuck to his forehead, and despite how sweaty he is thanks to the Mos Shuuta heat, he’s still looking like a verified poster-boy. The dark line of five o’clock shadow lining his jaw is more dirt than anything. You’re irritated he looks dashing and even more, that you’re even thinking this way.

Maybe you hit your head.

(The landing had been rough. When Jax Dag said he’d “drop you off” he’d been being literal.)

All the while, Poe doesn’t feel like he looks good. He can feel the prick of a sunburn along his nose and the grit of sand in his pants and -- Pit, he smells. He knows he smells. He can feel the sweat running down his back just standing here in the stale air of the cantina. You, at least, had been given a shower and new outfit before you’d been paraded in front the cantina like a piece of prized steak. Not that he was a fan of that. At all. And he’s a little irritated he feels so keen on throwing you his jacket so you can cover up.

He definitely hit his head.

“You look like you’re interested, Teemo.”

Poe’s voice is even-tempered, hands on his hips as he stands in-front of you.

“<Can she dance?>”

You don’t speak Huttese; you’d instead opted to learn Mando’a in the academy. When Teemo wriggles and leans to look at you around Poe, you try to hide your evident confusion. It had sounded like a question. When Poe turns on a heel, hands still on his hips and his face is warped into something tied between fear and apology, your stomach sinks. You have a bad feeling about this.

“Of course she can dance.”

Oh, you could kill him.

There’s that can-do attitude of his -- and here you are, cleaning up the mess of aforementioned attitude. With a single wave of Teemo’s greasy meat-leg, the band strikes a tune that is so not something you’d ever dance to on a night out. From your spot on the ground, your face is set with such a heavy sense of mortification, Poe has to mouth a very short: “I’m so sorry”.

The singer in the far corner chirps a cat-call of encouragement your way. T’Snooza and the Blur-tones reads their drum-set. T’Snooza, you’re assuming, gives a loud bellow, music striking a crescendo. You thought jatz died during the last Galactic War. The music genre is just... unfortunate.

You’re yanked to your feet then, eyes a bit wild -- the braid on your head swings as you snarl and try to gain your balance.

“I can’t dance.”

“That’s -- c’mon,” it’s Poe, eyes wild, “Don’t be shy, kid. Show ‘em what you can do --”

You’re about to say screw it, about to try and get into some sort of groove when suddenly:

“Shut off tha’ kriffin’ music!”

Every head in the room swivels, albeit Teemo’s turns a bit slower, to land on the man in the entrance of the cantina -- he’s tall, swathed by four red outfitted men. Poe knows the crest on their chest nearly immediately.

Guavian Death Gang.

You’ve never been happier to see Bala-tik in your life.

Oh, you could kiss him.

“We’d like tae make a purchase.”

Suddenly, the excited BOOOWEEEEEEPs of A3-C8 and BB-8 roll through the doorway in tow. The GDG make quick work on crowd control, the high-ranking gang members clearing the way for Bala as he crosses the opening before Teemo and snorts.

“Gold isn’t really yer’ color, is it?”

Bala-tik, a bit like a metal bikini, is a man built on impracticalities -- if he sees something and he wants it, he usually gets it. As leader of one of the most notorious black-market affiliated gangs, he’s got access and a lot of it. Just not to people like you; he’d love to say the pretty New Republic Navy pilot with affinities for T-68 X-Wing mods was his, but he can’t. And that? That infuriates him.

And the eyeing that’s going on right now? Yeah, that’s infuriating Poe.

“Sorry, catch me up,” Poe chirps, “Do you two know each other?”

“An’ this must be yer new Commander --”

Poe is getting sized up. He know what this is. The pilot immediately squares his shoulders and his jaw, dark eyes narrowing on the man in front of him. Bala-tik is about the same height as him, if not a bit younger, with a haircut that leaves a lot to be desired. Poe would do something about the way Bala is looking at him if weren’t for the four armored pirates circling him.

“Teemo,” Bala-tik raises his voice, eyes not breaking from Poe once, “How much for ‘er?”

A burp. And then:

“<800 credits>.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Poe starts, turning to raise his hands at the Hutt, “We’re a package deal.”

At that, half the cantina jumps into a roar, fists raised with credits clutched tightly. The uproar, as unexpected as it is, is enough to catch Bala-tik off guard. You move then, hand pressing gently against the armored chest of the Guavian Death Gang leader. His eyes jump to you, softening a bit at the gesture. Very quickly, years of unreciprocated feelings fly to the surface and Poe is awed by the way you play him. Another one lost to the wrath of the metal bikini.

“Bala, please,” you urge, “Just get us out of here.”

There’s a moment’s pause. You can see the sway in his eyes -- in all the years you’d known the black-market arms dealer, you’d always been good at reading him. He’s an open book if you know the language. Raising your face, you sport your best enamored look. Thank god for the holovids of Mandalorian soap-operas you and L’ulo had been binging.

“You saved my droid?” it’s sultry.

Poe’s whole face scrunches up. And then he sees your hand.

Bala-tik’s jaw is slack, voice uneven. You lean a bit closer.

Poe watches as your fingers land on the holster along Bala-tik’s hip.

“Couldn’t a’ had th’ Kanjiklub recyclin’ ‘im.”

“Oh?” you bite your lip, “I guess I should say thank you, then, huh?”

You temptress. Poe’s impressed. You’ve got the gang-leader around your finger. And currently, the poor sap’s eyes are closed and chin jutting as he leans in for a kiss.

In a flash, Bala-tik’s rifle is tossed into Poe’s hands.

In a flash, the cantina descends into outright chaos.

Instead of a kiss, the crime-lord gets a right-hook; he drops to the ground and you follow, ducking and clearing a way for Poe to take down the two guards to his right. The yank of a chain brings you to your knees and you snarl.

“<No, no, little girl.>”

That boils something in your blood.

You move fast, distracting the other two armored-thugs as you bound up the Hutt’s platform and tug your chain in tow. The cantina has now succumb to the chaos and is scattering into a massive brawl, drinkers going for the expensive armor and gadgets on the GDG thugs while Teemo bellows out orders for his own guards.

You choke those orders right off.

Poe’s distracted, slack-jawed and trying to make fast work of the Gamorrean guards as you pull a royal Leia and put an end to Teemo the Hutt with his own chain. There’s something to be said about it, something awfully poetic about you snuffing out an in-famous slave dealer with his own device for control. With one short war-cry, you finish the deed as the Hutt’s tongue lashes out; a few short moments later, he stills and you huff. Your hair is wild, back slick with sweat as you stumble from the platform and claw at the collar around your neck.

“Hold this.”

You gratefully take the blaster.

Poe slides to your side behind the platform, fingers working nimbly at the collar there -- you can feel his breath on the back of your neck. When the metal collar finally falls from your neck, you exhale. You try and catch your breath. Your hands hit Poe’s chest.

“We need to go,” your eyes hit the far door which frames more GDG thugs pouring through it, “Now.”

“Couldn’t agree more, Punchy,” he chirps, snagging your hand and standing fast, “Bee-bee, Ace! Find us a ride, will you?!”

“Yeah, alright,” you chirp, yanking your hand back, “Nice try -- I can handle myself, Dameron --”

Blaster fire rockets over your shoulder and you shriek, no protesting in the slightest when Poe grabs you again, manhandling you in front of him and out the back door. His hands linger on your waist, pressing you forward and into the hot sun of the Mos Shuuta -- quickly, the two of you chase after the two astro-droids peeling around the cantina to the makeshift airfield behind of it. The selection on ships is slim, but the YT-2400 that the two droids break into will do, even if it is older than both you and Poe and smells like soured Kaadu milk.

Dropping the blaster at the door, you break from Poe.

“You fly, I’ll shoot!”

The engine starts with a cough and a sputter. The gunner turret is stiff, but as you swing wide and train on the crew of Guavian’s approaching, you can’t complain about the kick. You give an excited shout and lay down cover, fingers moving to charge the front canons -- you swing again, body jewelry jingling as the freighter rattles up and Poe begins the take-off sequence. But it’s slow.

You can see the GDG loading into their ships.

Bad news.

“Any day now, Poe --”

“Gimme a second,” he hollers, “Tryin’ my best up here!”

You throw yourself from the turret, bounding up into the cockpit and hands hitting the back of Poe’s chair as the hyper-drive stutters.

“Come on, beautiful,” Poe mutters, “Come on.”

Another flick of the drive. EEENNNHHH-CHU-CHUNK.

Your eyes dart across the dash -- you spare him one single, annoyed look before punching the landing lock.

And with that, you and Poe and your droids slip away from Mos Shuuta and the GDG in a flash of blue.

In hyperspace, you both melt into silence, your back hitting the seat of the co-pilot’s chair with a soft jingle. The metal of the ships floor is cold on your bare feet. Poe turns slowly, dark eyes watching you --

“Told you the plan would work.”

Poe Dameron has always been an optimist.

“Next time,” you grit out, “You get to wear the metal bikini.”

Poe chews the inside of his lip. You can see the flicker of something on his face and you’re still watching him as he turns to punch in the coordinates for Voss. Crossing your arms, you can’t control the amusement in your tone.

“Oh,” you chirp, “Ooooh, no, go ahead, Dameron -- chalk it up, laugh it up -- go ahead. I get it, yeah, really funny -- she can dance --”

“I mean,” Poe jabs, “I knew you couldn’t -- I had to try --”

“I can dance just fine, thank you --”

“Oh? Is that how you and Bala-tik know one another? Dancing...?”

You snap your mouth shut, brows raising. Poe blinks over his shoulder at you. He knows instantly his tone has betrayed him -- the way he said it showed his cards and the weird sense of jealousy that flares in his chest at the mere mention of the crime-lord’s name. You turn, standing and moving to place your hands on your hips. Your tone is accusatory.

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous --”

He’s trying not to stare at the soft dips of your hips.

“I can’t believe it, you’re jealous.”

Poe snarls. “I am not jealous.”

“No? No, then what’s the problem --?”

“What’s the -- really? -- he’s the leader of an underground gang, that’s the problem --”

“Oh, that’s the problem.”

“Yeah.”

“Not the eyes -- not the near-kiss --”

“I don’t -- no, that’s not --!” Poe throws his hands, finger darting into your face as he stands and moves to step around you. His eyes get caught on the low dip of the bikini and he’s fast to blink and recoil, “You are... infuriating, you know that? I saved our skins and here you are --”

“You saved our skins?” you jeer, arms crossed as you follow the fly-boy through the halls of the freighter. He stops at the back generator, eyes checking the readings there. You can’t believe him. He’s trying to do a pre-check mid-flight, “You’re kidding -- can you, for one second, can you just admit you’re not always the hero, Dameron?”

“Oh, right, you’re the hero -- the one in bed with Bala-tik --”

Your tone is sharp as you corner Poe, your own finger in his face. Your braid swings and your body chain catches the light.

“I am not in bed with that scum.”

“Reeaaaally?” Poe’s tone is cold. His brows raise in faux-impressment.

“Really,” you seeth, “I am over that part of my life --”

“Sure didn’t look like it, Punchy --”

“What the kriff does that mean?!”

“I saw the way he looked at you,” Poe supplies, standing and moving to the opposite side of the room. The other generator’s readings distract his gaze from you, still traipsing around in the slave-outfit. You follow, face set in anger, “He clearly wasn’t over it - ... Are you going to change?”

“He’s delusional. He mistook buyer-loyalty for romance,” you bite, ignoring the changing comment, “It was never a thing, it will never be a thing.”

“Buyer-loyalty, huh?” Poe tries to feign his interest -- he’s listening intently, hell-bent on trying to convince you otherwise. Your outfit jingles as you follow him down into the engine room. The venom is heavy in his voice.

“You’re not stupid, Poe,” the laugh you supply drags his eyes from the generator and to your face, “You can’t seriously believe the mods on my X-Wing are NRN-flight-compliant?”

“Wait...”

A pause. You blink at him expectantly. Poe’s interest in the engine is abandoned.

“...You bought mods from the GDG?”

“Of course,” you laugh, like it’s already been said, “What, you seriously think -- ... oh my god. Did you... think I built them myself?”

Poe’s face falls.

“You did, you thought I --,” you cover your mouth, “Installed, yea, but those things are -- you’re kidding. I told Snap about them. I thought...”

“Well,” Poe throws his hands, “Snap didn’t share that info!”

You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my god, what... what did you think I was going to say when I said ‘buyer-loyalty’? Spice?”

“I don’t know!” he nearly shrieks, eyes darting down on impulse, “I don’t -- you’re just... Could you change?!”

“What, is the bikini distracting?”

“Honestly, yes --!”

The meaning behind that statement hits you both and where anger was, awkwardness flies in.

“Well, I don’t have anything else to wear, Dameron,” you chirp, face suddenly hot with embarrassment. You’re suddenly very aware of his gaze and feel yourself shrinking a bit. You pull yourself away from the argument, arms crossed tightly over your chest now as a way of covering yourself.

Poe heaves a sigh, moving quickly to dig through the cargo bins on the far wall -- inside, he finds a tunic, light cotton pants and a pair of boots that are one size too big for you. Shoving the bundle your way, Poe’s face is screwed up tight like he tasted something bitter. You avoid his gaze and he avoids yours.

“Here.”

“... Thanks.”

You pull the sheer fabric close to your behind as you ascend the stairs, trying to cover yourself up a bit. Still too breezy. Poe tries not to stare.

When you’re out of earshot, BB-8 gives an amused whir from up above on the catwalk.

Not jealous, my processor chip.

“Shut up, Bee-bee.”

#punchy #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron imagine #poe dameron x you #poe x reader #star wars imagine #YAAAAHOOOOOO

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