#ship snippets

[scuffe3d]

Feeding the adam-gooner community one sketch at a time…(LMFAO BYE TIKTOK☠️☠️)

[cabezadeperro]

hi there! 💖 for Cody/Fox if you’re vibing with it

unfortunately i am always vibing with cody/fox (also sorry i don't think this was what you asked for ahdghkhghkdhkgh)

post order 66, fox lives au & purge trooper!cody.

💖 rough kiss / hot and heavy / making out

---

“I thought you were dead.”

The shuttle rattles—they’re leaving atmo. Fox shifts his weight and says nothing. Cody scoffs and shakes his head. He’s still wearing most of his shell: the black plates reflect the red emergency lights, and so do his eyes, shining like twin flames in the dark. His hair is the shortest that Fox has ever seen, buzzed close to the skin, and he looks—sharp. Too thin, all his edges out there for the world to see.

His wrists are shackled together, the heavy handcuffs resting on his lap where he’s buckled to one of the jump seats. He seems perfectly unconcerned about his situation, and Fox can’t quite decide if it’s real or just for show. 

“I know,” he finally says. “It was on purpose.”

Cody blinks. Fox wonders: did he grieve? Did Cody grieve for him? The chip allows it—that’s not what it’s for. Grief isn’t useful.

“How?”

Fox shrugs. “Many people died in the last few days of the war,” he points out. 

“But not you,” Cody says. He sounds thoughtful. He’s not looking at Fox but at his own hands. 

The shuttle’s getting ready to jump. It’s an old model, with a boring transponder code. It has a crappy hyperdrive, a tiny fresher and a couple pull-down cots folded over the seats. The hold is full—mostly junk. Trinkets. Fox will find somewhere to sell them after he delivers Cody to the Rebellion.

He doubts he’ll see Cody again. Fox’s not welcome where they are going, and he dislikes spending time among birthers anyway.

Fox looks away. Six hours. These are the last six hours he’ll spend in Cody’s presence, and then he’ll—leave. He’ll leave Cody in his captain’s hands and then he’ll leave forever. 

It’s so strange. A lifetime in each other’s pockets, and then the war, and then this: sharing the relative quiet of a shitty, rattling old shuttle after the end of the world.

“Fox,” Cody says suddenly. Fox blinks and turns to look at him. Cody’s already staring at him: the dim light makes the bruises on his face look deeper, the blood on his chin seem black. “I think I fucking hate you.”

Fox snorts. It hurts, the laughing and the words. He leaves his place to the side, next to the door to the cockpit, and approaches his brother.

“You’re not the only one,” he tells Cody. Cody rolls his eyes, and it makes him look so—young, that for a beat Fox almost forgets himself.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” he replies, and then leans back in his seat, a weird little smile on his face. Half smug smirk, half something else, both off and profoundly familiar.

He looks up at Fox, the lights sliding down his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, legs sprawled. His boot knocks against Fox’s foot, once, twice, then stays.

“You may be the only one,” Fox tells him. 

This is a mistake—Cody’s brilliant and Cody’s ruthless.

Fox leans forward, places his hands on the armrests of Cody’s seat. The shackles clink. They are heavy, cumbersome things. Cody smells of blood and sweat and blaster discharge and melted plastoid. Fox breathes him in: he wants to open his mouth and let it all rest on his tongue, filling his brain.

He still kisses like he used to. Fox feels himself moan into his mouth, Cody biting at his lips and sucking on his tongue, straining against the buckles and the weight of his handcuffs. Fox allows it for long, long seconds—Cody’s breath on his lips and on his chin, the taste of him, the way he sounds.

It takes him longer than Fox expected. He tries to go for Fox’s blaster, Fox steps away, and then it’s back to sleep, Cody’s head lolling against the seat. Fox wipes his wet mouth, still breathing hard, his lips tingling, and puts away the injector. 

His heart is beating hard inside his chest, and he feels—Fox finds he feels worse now. He sits down on the jumpseat next to Cody’s, and when Cody’s head ends up resting on his shoulder he allows it.

I’ll miss you.

Fox leans his cheek on Cody’s shaved head, his growing hair soft against his skin, and closes his eyes.

[novelconcepts]

💕 taivan in a game / after an injury

💕 kissing somewhere other than lips

If Van Palmer had a dollar for every injury sustained in goal, she wouldn't need a scholarship to get out of this shithole town. Injuries are part and parcel, she'll tell anyone who asks. Injuries are even fun.

It's true--in the aftermath. After the body has healed, and all she has left is a bruise or a scar, and a story. The fun part is in reliving the narrative, not the pain.

The pain sucks pretty bad, all things considered.

She leans back against the wall, an ice pack held to her eye. Every so often, she has to remind herself to move it; the thing about catching a ball with your face is it tends to black both eyes. And bust up your nose. And fatten your lip.

"You're a fucking mess," Taissa says. "No more than ten minutes on that eye, remember."

"This ain't my first rodeo," Van says, though it's the worst injury she's sustained in quite some time. Getting bonked on the noggin is nothing. Stopping a corner kick with the bulk of her face is...worse.

She moves the pack dutifully to her right eye, resetting her internal clock. Ten minutes, and then her nose can have a turn. It's a great game of pin-the-ice-on-the-goalie, aiming, as always, to dodge frostbite.

"At least we won," says Tai. Van gives her a bleary grin.

"I'd have told people we won either way. It being true just makes this hardcore, instead of humiliating."

"It can be both," Tai says. She, too, is sitting against the wall. The rest of the team has long hit the showers, making loud noises about a post-game trip to Muriel's. Tai has every right to join them. She doesn't have a probable concussion.

"Hardcore," Van repeats. She lowers the ice, gingerly grazing her top lip with one finger. Yup. That'll make talking stupid for a few days. At least she didn't lose any fucking teeth. "Chicks dig hardcore."

"Do they," says Tai flatly, though her smile betrays her amusement. She's always like this when Van pokes her. Doesn't want to admit a goddamn thing, but no one would smile like that if Van were wrong.

"I'm told," she says thickly, "chicks dig goalies in particular. Since we are--"

"Concussed?"

"Awesome." Van dabs at her nose. No longer bleeding. That's nice. "Come on, you have to admit it was cool. Look at me, I'm a walking war hero."

Taissa does look at her. For the first time, she turns her shoulders off the wall and just: looks. Her eyes are inscrutable. She's still smiling, but it's faint, almost distracted.

"What?" Van asks suspiciously. "I know I look like a train hit me, but it was a cool train. I--hey, what are you doing?"

"Shh," Tai says, sounding more confident than she looks. She looks deeply terrified, one hand braced against Van's cheek. Terrified, and like she's made a decision she can't take back, and: hey. Here she comes, right into Van's personal bubble, her lips grazing just beneath Van's left eye.

Van closes on instinct, and receives a second kiss for her trouble, this time on the lid. Taissa shifts her angle, her mouth lingering lightly beneath Van's right eye next. Then the right lid. Then, bewilderingly, the tip of Van's nose.

"Not broken," Tai says softly. Van's eyes are still closed. She's a little afraid to pry them open, afraid the blurred image of Taissa Turner will vanish into hallucinatory smoke.

"Not broken," she breathes. "Just a little busted."

"Worth it?" Tai asks. Her hand falls away. Van's skin tingles where she's been kissed--both eyes, both cheeks, her nose. Her mouth is dry. She's grateful and miserable at the same time, that Tai hasn't kissed her there too.

"Yeah," she says. "Yeah. Super worth it."

Taissa hefts the ice pack and presses it firmly against Van's mouth. "Good. You're still a fucking mess."

Van grins.

[cabezadeperro]

helloooo 💜 codex

hellooooo!!!

💜 surprise kiss / impulsive kiss (+first kiss shhh)

---

Rex shifts his weight, and the sweaty skin of his back where his tank top ran up unsticks off the plastic with a too-loud, slightly ridiculous noise. At his side, Cody snorts and turns to look at him without moving from his sprawl on the floor. They’re almost close enough to touch, if not quite: if Rex twisted his right ankle that tiny bit, if he stretched his fingertips—but he doesn’t. Rex blinks and looks away, back at the ceiling.

It’s far enough into the night cycle they will really regret it come morning. The work out rooms have been empty for hours now, the wide expanse echoing with the noise of their breathing, with the hum and groan of the Venator’s engines. Rex breathes in, opens his mouth, exhales without saying anything. He should go to bed—he doesn’t want to. His cot in the cramped room he shares with Appo and the others doesn’t sound nearly as tempting as staying where he is, on his back on the harsh, unforgiving floors of the gym, sharing a crackling kind of silence with Cody. 

If he just—reached out. One hand, five fingers, his palm, Cody’s arm. His bare shoulder or the thin fabric of his tank top, his heart beating strong and steady in his chest. Rex clears his throat and doesn’t turn to look at Cody when he listens to him shifting: his ears feel hot. 

I should go to bed.

The words weigh down his tongue: Rex can feel them rolling up his throat, sticking on his palate, sticking to his teeth. I should go to bed: so should you.

But Rex says nothing, and neither does Cody, and isn’t that something. It’s so late it’s almost early, and Rex has two campaigns worth of a sleep debt, and here he is, wanting to reach out and touch, knowing himself wanted in turn.

Cody exhales. Rex blinks again, turns to look at him: the mat is cold and clammy under his cheek. Cody’s frowning, staring at the ceiling. He looks like shit, too thin, patchy stubble on his jaw and his curls too long, dark circles under his eyes. Rex wants him so badly it makes him feel self-conscious, so he looks away, ears so hot they seem to burn, and closes his eyes.

“I sh—”

A whisper of sweaty skin on rubbery mats and then: Cody’s smell, the weight of his attention, his mouth.

send me a prompt!!! (no more purple hearts tho lmao)

[cabezadeperro]

🤎 for Kix/Jesse (if you are still playing)

hi!!!!

established situationship, T, alcohol mention. canon compliant (sorry)

🤎 multiple kisses / kisses all over / kiss after kiss

---

“You have him?” 

“I have him.”

Kix crouches in front of Jesse, trying his best to not touch the disgusting floor of the alley. He didn’t have as much to drink as Jesse, but he’s had more than enough, and keeping his balance is harder than it should. 

He looks over his shoulder: Rex’s attempting to duck from under Jesse’s arm, but Jesse won’t let him go, his hand wrapped like a vice around Rex’s bicep. Rex is flushed and sweaty, his eyes bright, and when Jesse tugs him closer he rolls his eyes and allows it. Jesse smacks a kiss on his cheek, loud and wet and kind of gross, and Rex snorts. He smiles, big and wide and bright, and Kix feels something clench within his chest—it’s been a while since the last time he saw Rex smile like that.

He looks away, and when Jesse stumbles, Kix’s there to stop him from falling. He wraps his hands around his thighs, his fingers slipping slightly in the sleek fabric of Jesse’s dress greys, and then he stands up. Jesse’s arms wrap around his neck, and he rubs his unshaved jaw against Kix’s smooth one like a tooka. 

Kix starts the long, slow walk towards the barracks; Rex stays behind, cigarette already between his lips, his hands cupping the flame of his lighter. He paid for everyone’s drinks—Kix’s pretty sure the general gave him the money: Skywalker has known Jesse for a long, long time, almost as long as Kix and Jesse have known each other. Jesse’s chest is warm against Kix’s back, and Jesse’s lips are on his jaw, on his cheek, not quite kissing the skin.

“Are y’gonna stay tonight?” Jesse asks suddenly. Kix pauses in front of the turbolift, steps inside when the doors slide open. Jesse is heavy, but Kix’s carried heavier for longer, and—it’s fine.

“D’you want me to?”

Jesse sighs. They are alone in the lift—it’s so late it’s early, and anyway, lately most civvies avoid the area. Too many clones on leave, and too many shock troopers on duty.

“I always want you to stay,” Jesse says under his breath, his lips moving against Kix’s skin. He blinks away from his reflection, breaking his own gaze. 

Jesse’s very drunk. Kix knows he means it: that’s irrelevant. If Jesse were sober, he wouldn’t say it out loud. Kix clears his throat.

“You have a very early morning tomorrow,” Kix replies. And you’re very drunk. “Sure you want me to keep you up?”

Jesse says nothing, and after a while. The lift stops: Kix tugs Jesse higher over his hips and starts making his way towards the barracks. He can see them at the end of the street, huge and dark against Coruscant’s night sky. 

He’s beginning to think that Jesse’s fallen asleep when he shifts. “That’s not what I meant,” he grumbles. “And you know it.”

Kix presses his lips together. He nods at the boring troopers standing guard and steps inside. He blinks and makes a face when the lights come on, the sensors ticking as he walks towards the place where the 501st is billeted.

Jesse exhales. He starts shifting, trying to get off Kix’s back: Kix ignores him, ignores it, and doesn’t stop until they’re at Jesse’s cot. The long, dark room is quiet, mostly empty: most of the battalion is out in the city, making the best out of their leave. Kix unceremoniously dumps Jesse on top of his mattress, and then he kneels on the ground and starts unlacing Jesse’s boots. Jesse allows it, but Kix can feel the heat of his glare on the crown of his head.

After a beat, Kix sighs. He finishes tugging off Jesse’s boots and glances up at him: Jesse’s scowling, but he’s not actually angry.

“I’m sorry,” Kix says. He looks away, down at his own feet. He moves to sit down on the edge of Jesse’s cot, his thigh against Jesse’s hip. “I just—”

He trails off: he doesn’t even know how to explain it to himself.

“I know,” Jesse says. Kix blinks and glances up at him: Jesse’s shrugging out of his jacket, turning and shifting on the bed so that his head lies on the pillow. He’s looking at Kix with sad, liquid eyes: he’s already half-asleep.

Kix makes him drink some water, and then watches him until Jesse makes his sulking way through a stale civilian protein bar Kix finds in his locker.

And then it’s time to leave, to find his own bed, to sneak into someone else’s, and it wouldn’t be the first time but Kix finds he’s just not in the mood. It didn’t quite sink until that moment: Jesse really is leaving. Not forever, he’ll just be away for a few months, and then he’ll return, but he’s the only one left. Fives dead, Hardcase dead. Echo dead as well. Rex—well. Rex is Rex. 

“It’s only ARC training,” Jesse grumbles. He’s closed his eyes, and he’s lying on his side, his hands under his cheek like a child. There are chalky crumbs on his lips and on the pillow. “Don’t look so tragic.”

Kix huffs.

“Move over,” he says. Jesse blinks his eyes open.

Kix can feel Jesse’s gaze on him while he undresses, leaving his rumpled greys where they fall. He slides under the thin sheets, and then Jesse’s wrapping arms and legs around him, tucking his head under his chin. Kix sighs, tries and fails to breathe through the pressure on his breastbone, through the tightness in his throat, and falls asleep to Jesse’s lips on his throat.

[cabezadeperro]

Kissing ask: Fox/Mereel 💜

hi anon!

established non-relationship, takes place during the war. unstoppable force (mereel thinking himself a femme fatale) vs unmovable object (fox's customer service persona)

---

Fox’s right hip is on fire. He shifts his weight and breathes through it. Amedda keeps talking at him, his lethorns vibrating with ire. He’s a small, prideful man, and he doesn’t like feeling scared: in the past year, Fox has learned to weather Mas Amedda’s rants, to mostly tune them out. They’re mostly harmless, and they make him feel better, and he’s a nasty piece of work—the happier he feels, the easier it is to deal with him. 

The man’s office is a mess of rubble and destroyed furniture. They carted out his aide’s corpse before Amedda arrived—she was alone when the clever little explosive device hidden in the flowers of the vase was deployed. Parts of her are still stuck to the carpet, to the wallpaper behind Fox.

Fox shifts his weight again. It was bad luck—a bad fall from a balcony. He nods, makes a vaguely agreeable noise when Amedda stops talking, and that’s more than enough—the man resumes talking, his words blurring together.

Skirata hovers just beyond what’s left of the door. He’s leaning against a wall, bucket on, the light blue of his armour out of place in the deep red of the Senate’s everything. He shouldn’t be there—Fox is reasonably sure he is very much not allowed in this area of the building. 

He probably wants to poke at something he shouldn’t have access to; Fox sighs. 

One headache at the time.

Amedda keeps him there for another ten minutes. Fox leaves the room, Mereel falling into step behind him like it’s nothing, like it’s expected and perfectly natural.

Fox sighs again and clicks on the helmet’s internal comms. 

“You are not supposed to be here,” he tells Mereel. “What do you want.”

In a way, dealing with Mereel is more or less like dealing with one of the high end senators: he’s unpredictable and he’s dangerous and he likes shiny things, and he’s not as smart or as charming as he thinks he is.

“Maybe I’m here just to see you,” Mereel replies. Fox snorts. He steps into the first fresher he sees, and isn’t that shocked when Mereel follows him right in. 

The place is empty, as predicted—the whole floor was evacuated after the explosion—but neither of them take off their buckets. Fox tilts his head at Mereel and folds his arms.

“What’s up with your leg? You’re limping,” Mereel continues. Fox blinks.

“I’m not limping,” he tells him. He made sure. He exhales. “Bad fall. What—?”

“Yes, yes. I know.”

They have an—agreement. Of sorts. Sometimes Fox lets him have a tiny bit of something, and Mereel always pays in kind. It works, more or less: Fox knows better than to expect Mereel to be fair, or honest, or truthful. It’s a dangerous game, but it’s one Fox has learned to play well. 

Mereel wants to have a look at the device. Fox dangles ten minutes in the evidence locker—not alone, never alone—over him until Mereel gives in: he has a disturbingly deep knowledge of Coruscant street gangs, and he hates to share it.

Fox can’t quite understand why Mereel keeps coming to him. He knows it’s partly out of boredom, partly curiosity: for a man who changes faces with disturbing ease, Mereel is not as hard to understand as he thinks he is. He likes poking at things to see what they do, he likes attention, he likes getting a reaction, and Fox knows very well how to play hard to get.

He half expects Mereel to push him into one of the empty stalls. It wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last: it has become a sort of habit. Less than legal dealings in the shadow of the Senate Rotunda, and then Mereel’s hand or his mouth around Fox’s dick in a storage cupboard somewhere. It’s both sordidly transactional and very—comfortable. With Mereel, Fox always knows what to expect.

Not that night. Mereel tilts his head—another comm incoming—and then clicks his tongue. He sighs, and then he’s approaching Fox, buckets bumping with a clattering, overly loud noise.

“Need to go. Get that leg looked at,” he says, and then he steps away. Seconds later the door swings closed after him, and Fox listens to his footsteps disappear down the corridor in the direction of the lifts. Fox checks his belt—he didn’t take anything, didn’t leave any funny little surprises—and then takes off his own helmet.

His own reflection stares at him from the visor. Fox scoffs and puts it on again. Kriffing Mandos.

[cabezadeperro]

Hi hi! Can I suggest 💕 with fordo17? :3c

💕 kissing somewhere other than lips

the teenage years tm (feat. jango)

---

“Dismissed.”

Fett’s voice booms within the wide room. Seventeen moves with his brothers, falling in line after Maze towards the exits. 

Seven-Seven is a few rows to his right: his group and Seventeen are on different schedules. They are going to the range, and Seventeen’s is going first to the showers and then to the flash learning pods. Seventeen wants to turn and follow him with his eyes, but he doesn’t—he clenches his jaw and when they pass by Fett—standing with his feet hip-apart, hands linked at his back, unarmoured and unarmed—he follows his brothers’ example and salutes him.

He keeps his head down the rest of the day: he showers and changes into clean fatigues, he sits in his pod finishes the assigned modules, and then follows the group to the mess. He keeps his head down and he does as he’s told and he tries his best to not to look too hard at the trainers, at Fett himself when he joins them at the range later that evening. He knows himself invisible, but a part of him can’t help but fear they’ll look at him and know. And Seventeen has not been able to find anything in the regs about hating your instructors, but he’s beginning to understand that that doesn’t matter.

Seven-Seven’s group is already in the bunkroom when Seventeen’s finishes for the day. Seven-Seven’s pod is closed, the lock engaged—Seventeen pauses in front of the sleek, curved exterior and chews the inside of his cheek. Meanwhile, his brothers talk and joke all around him, their voices familiar and comforting.

He clears his throat and knocks twice on the pod. 

“Hey,” he says. 

Nothing.

Seventeen scowls. “Hey,” he repeats, this time louder. He hits the pod with the fleshy part of his hand. “Hey.” 

Of course he’s sulking. Seventeen folds his arms: he knows Seven-Seven’s just waiting him out, and a part of Seventeen kind of wants to leave him to his tantrum, but that’d be losing, so. So.

So he waits. And then he waits some more. 

Finally, the pod unlocks. Seventeen exhales, annoyed, and pulls it open all the way. He toes off his boots and then crawls into it, fits himself to Seven-Seven’s back the best he can. They’re eight now, and that means that they are getting too big for this. 

Seven-Seven smells of cleanser and clean skin. Seventeen tucks his face against the back of his neck, throws an arm over his belly and his right leg over his hip, and lets Seven-Seven close and lock the pod again. 

For a while they just breathe in silence. Seventeen can still hear the voices of his brothers, but they’re muted, far away: this is the closest they’ll ever get to being alone, and it occurs to him that he’s fine with it. He rests his lips on Seven-Seven’s sweaty neck and focuses on his smell, on the beat of Seven-Seven’s heart under his palm.

“They’re not gonna decommission you just because it turns out your voice’s fucked,” Seventeen tells the dark. He feels the way Seven-Seven stiffens up in his arms, but he keeps talking. “Prime’s an asshole but he hates waste.”

He made Seven-Seven talk. He knew about the voice thing—he must have known, he always knows everything—and he still made him talk.

Seven-Seven sighs. He taps twice on the back of Seventeen’s hand, and then keeps his fingers there. 

They’re getting so good at dadita.

“What?”

Shut up.

Seventeen rolls his eyes, and does.

[cabezadeperro]

Hello! 💕 for Echo/Fox?

:>

💕 kissing somewhere other than lips

---

Echo opens his eyes to a dark, quiet room, what’s left of his dream melting away into the shadows like ice in the midday sun. The air is cool and still, and he sighs into his pillow, closing his eyes again. His hips aren’t too happy with him, what’s left of the joint throbbing with a kind of well-worn pain, like the dull edge of an old knife. 

There’s a hand tucked under his shirt, palm against his belly. Fox is awake.

Echo licks his lips and clears his throat. “Did I wake you up?”

Fox hums: that’s a yes. Echo sighs again, annoyed with himself, and opens his mouth, an apology already rolling off his tongue, but Fox’s quicker.

“You were talking in your sleep,” Fox says, his lips moving against the skin of the back of Echo’s neck. The mattress shifts, and then he’s rolling away: Echo shivers in the sudden cold and turns to look at him.

It’s late. A sliver of orange light slithers through a crack in the curtains, and slowly Echo starts being able to make bits and pieces of Fox’s silhouette: his bare shoulders and the curve of his spine when he bends down to pick up his shirt, the slope of his nose, his eyes, reflecting the light.

“Where are you going?”

Fox doesn’t reply. He finishes getting dressed, and then sits on the edge of the bed to put on his boots. He’s close enough to touch: Echo would just need to—reach out across the bed, across a sea of slowly cooling sheets.

He turns the other way while Fox makes his way to the door, trying to find a better position for his hips. He suspects he won’t be able to fall asleep again that night: something awful and knowing and familiar is uncurling within his chest.

He thinks he dreamed of Kamino. Water and light; wind and thunder. 

In the dark, Fox sighs. He brushes a clumsy kiss on Echo’s temple, right over the scar, his lips dry. The door clicks, light painting red the inside of Echo’s eyelids, and then it clicks again, and the room goes dark.