For the WIP ask, how about (a:tla) twenty years, The Stars are Different Here, Wait. Us?, and justice and scars, please?
(a:tla) twenty years
This is the one i told you about, with Dai Li brainwashing, OCs based on Austen characters, and focused on Zuko and Katara's oldest daughter Kanna. The placeholder title is due to it taking place twenty years post-canon.
Excerpt:
From how negatively her mother spoke of Ba Sing Se, and how her father never spoke of it at all, Kanna knew they wouldn't have wanted to revisit their old neighborhood even if they had been able to make the trip.
But Kanna did. The colony where her father had been born had been split into two separate cities after the end of the Hundred Years War, and from the sound of it most of what had been Lan Shi had been demolished to make way for new buildings. There was even less of the village where her mother had grown up, as it had been burned to the ground, its people scattered throughout the Earth Kingdom and further beyond. And while her parents talked sometimes about visiting the Fire Nation or the Northern Water Tribe, between their duties to the estate and the demands of raising five kids, it didn't seem likely they would ever do more than talk about it.
She had grown up surrounded by the Earth Kingdom, raised on it as much as any true Earth Kingdom child, but though there were pieces of her that were unquestionably, unchangeably Earth Kingdom, they could never replace the parts of her that weren't. Her hair and complexion were Water Tribe, and her eyes and chin were Fire Nation. She loved the spicy dishes her father made, and looked for her mother's stories in the constellations of the night sky.
The people of the estate -- Colonel Baome and his wife, their children, her mother and sisters, his staff -- had always been kind to her and her family, but she didn't fit. Not like Shara and her brothers and cousins did. Kanna loved the estate, she really did, but she wanted to know what it felt like to belong somewhere. She didn't think she'd find it in Ba Sing Se, not even if her parents had lived there for years instead of weeks, but who knew.
The Stars are Different Here
This is a branch of the Allwinter 'verse. To steal my earlier description of it, it’s about a boy who, recently resurrected after having been dead for four years, finds himself in a city that has been anomalously cut off from the rest of the world. He embarks on a road trip with some people from that city to reunite with his dad, who lives in a different city that has also been anomalously cut off from the rest of the world, just in an alternate universe, and approximately 30 years in the future.
Excerpt:
“Maybe not. Maybe we’re needed for something else. Maybe we won’t know till we get there,” Greg says, and takes a sip from his glass. She ‘hmms’ in acknowledgement. He looks up at her, eyes sparkling with the genuine, boyish excitement that never fails to charm her. “It’ll be an adventure!”
Sara smiles wryly. “Like everything else since the Storm.” Like the insects, she thinks, and the heat flares and the ghosts. The eclipses and the floods they cause. The storms in summer that rain strange, often dangerous materials. The way that nothing is truly predictable anymore, making every day a series of educated guesses (at best) on how to stay alive.
“Like everything else,” Greg agrees. There’s something blue to his words, and she knows he means Warrick coming back. The colors she’s still getting used to that give warning, or a gentle nudge in the right direction, or a reminder. The voices he hears from a future that’s become more reassuring than it is alarming. The building where the dead come back.
He finds the blue in everything; finds it, even where there’s barely a hint of it, and shows it to her.
Wait. Us?
This is easily the oldest story on the list, seeing as it's been six and a half years since i worked on it! It takes place after Knights of the Old Republic II: canonically, the Jedi Exile takes off into unknown space, leaving the various people she trained as Jedi behind to rebuild the Jedi Order. They're a motley bunch including a Mandalorian bounty hunter, an ex Sith assassin/torturer, a scholar raised in the Jedi Order but left untrained due to a lack of masters, a sheltered Echani warrior who basically left a cult made up mostly of her own family members, an engineer profoundly affected by the recent war (most pointedly, barely contained contempt for the Mandalorians, and PTSD and guilt over his role in ending the war), and the sole survivor of a planetary massacre who until recently had a Force bond with a Sith who was basically a walking black hole. The mental image of these different people, some of whom can barely stand each other, trying to rebuild the Jedi Order of all things is ... a colorful one, to say the least.
Excerpt:
"Confusing you isn't hard, Rand. I'm not here to stop you, but to give your brain a chance to catch up to your ego, or whatever it is that got you out here."
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
Mira rolled her eyes. "Check your belt."
"Wha - ? Oh, come on, Mira - "
Quicker than thought, she stepped forward and detached the silver cylinder affixed to his belt, hidden under his vest and held it up in one hand. "Well, look what we have here."
"Congratulations. You found my lightsaber. Jedi points for you."
She waved it at him. "If you're really so committed to leaving all this behind, what are you still doing with this?"
Atton had a perfectly logical, totally explanatory reason for doing so. He just couldn't think of it at the moment.
justice and scars
Another A:TLA story. While i believe there's a lot of symbolic and narrative significance to Zuko's scar never being healed, considering both the likely long-term effects of it (vision problems, hearing problems, constant pain, etc.) and the traumatic way he got it, i also like stories where it gets healed, undone, or averted. In this story, while at the Western Air Temple, Zuko ends up making a small offering at a shrine of a spirit. Said spirit, having been neglected for a hundred years or so, takes a liking to Zuko on this basis and decides to do something nice for him. That something is ... well, see the excerpt. :-)
Excerpt:
Like an old sour scent, the memory of his son confronting him -- him -- came back to him, sharpening Ozai’s frown. All the satisfaction of shooting lightning at him had been lost when the boy somehow redirected it, blasting it back in Ozai’s face. If he hadn’t been such a weakling, Zuko would have killed him.
It was incredible, really, how many ways the boy could find to disappoint him.
Suddenly he was aware of a presence to his left side, sharp and sizzling. For a split second, he could almost see it on the edge of his vision, something powerfully present and yet not fully there, either. But it was only for a split second, because in the next moment there was something on his face --
Fire.
Ozai screamed as his face was lit aflame. He screamed as the fire burned through his skin into the nerves and down every inch of him. He screamed as the heat consumed everything before it. He screamed as the smell of burning flesh overwhelmed him. He screamed until all he could hear was the sound of his own voice.
----
Thanks for asking!
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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.”
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