hewwo ⫷ °⧭° ⫸ here i am ⫷ °⧭° ⫸
suggestion one because iyam....predictabo..... foxteen+flirting under fire 👁️👄👁️
if that does not spark joy, maulrex (and cody)+romantic wingman
hewwo!!!! fox/seventeen, 400w
The crates rattle every time blastershot hits them. Fox shifts his grip around the butt of his blaster and cuts a glance at Seventeen. He’s doing something fiddly and unnecessarily complicated to something that looks like the unholy spawn of a thermal det and an EMP charge, face screwed up in concentration.
They caught up with them when they were almost back to their ship. Fox saw the leader—young, probably female, Twi’lek, her teeth filed into sharp, fearsome points—loitering around the door of one of the cantinas, and managed to convince Seventeen to take another path back to the spaceport.
They almost made it, too.
“That’s one of the dumbest ideas you’ve ever had,” he tells Seventeen, his voice low under the sound of hte blaster bolts hitting the flimsy durasteel of the crate, and the ceiling over them, and also all around the walls and the floor and—well. At least, at this rate, they’ll run out of ammo. “And I’ve been sleeping with you for the past decade.”
Seventeen snickers. He always comes alive in situations like this one: his dark eyes lit up, and his usually dour mouth ticks up in a half-smile. He’s methodical and careful while he finishes his fancy little IED, like they’re already back on their ship and not in the middle of a firefight.
Fox keeps one eye on him, another on the aforementioned firefight, and doesn’t know whether he wants to sigh or to kiss him.
“Your lack of faith wounds me deeply, cyar’ika,” Seventeen says distractedly. He finishes what he was doing and then throws the whole thing without looking.
His fingers hook around Fox’s wrist, and then they’re running, blaster bolts flashing all around them, and Fox’s heart is in his mouth.
The explosion lifts them off their feet. Fox gasps, trips, falls on his knees; the duracrete burns the skin off his elbows, and he swears, loud and hoarse.
At his side, also on his knees, Seventeen is laughing—he’s snickering to himself, blood on his face and on his hair and so very proud of himself.
Fox doesn’t know what the kriff his face is doing, but he’s very sure it’s doing a thing.
“You karking lunatic,” he tells Seventeen, and then he curls his free hand around his neck and crawls on his lap and kisses his smiling mouth, blood and dust and fucking stupid ideas and all.
