#Fordo17

[cabezadeperro]

Hi! Movie prompt au suggestion: Akira (1988) + fordo17 >:)

four months late but here it is!!!!

kamino, established relationship, T. low key body horror. 500w.

--

77 returns during the night cycle, his dark eyes  flashing through the small round window in the door before the lock clicks and it swings open. Seventeen sits up on the cot, the IV line tugging at his wrist, and watches as his brother slips into the private room. The red of his fatigues clashes against the bone white of the walls and the floor and the sheets. 77 pauses in front of the bed, his hands resting on the pale metal of the footboard, and looks down at Seventeen for a long beat, head tilted. 

He’s always been hard to read, that infuriating little smile of his obscuring whatever is going on behind his eyes. There’s a new bruise on his jaw, and his hair looks freshly cut, the curls regulation-short, and he smells like the cleansing gel in the shower rooms, and suddenly Seventeen is hit with a wave of terrible, all-encompassing something he doesn’t know how to name. He looks away from his brother and down at his own hands where they rest on the white sheets.

77 hums. He walks around the bed, stepping over wires, and stops at Seventeen’s side, and then there’s a warm palm on Seventeen’s face, and he allows himself to be moved. A part of him wants to jerk his chin and push him off: he’s always been like this, touchy and overbearing and nosy and in everyone’s face but especially Seventeen’s. 

But a part of him—young and scared and small—has missed it. Has missed this. Seventeen’s missed the touch of his brothers’ hands, and especially 77’s.

They shave his head every few days: he’s due for a haircut soon. 77 tilts his chin down and then runs his fingers through the bristly hair on Seventeen’s head, the pads finding the dips and swells of the skull underneath. It feels weirdly intimate. Seventeen shivers. He grips the sheets tighter, torn between leaning in and pushing him away.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he croaks. 77 hums, his hip against the side of the bed. Seventeen closes his eyes.

The buzzing that now seems to live underneath his skin crackles. Seventeen breathes through it, thinking about overturned beds and cold pale bony fingers and the feeling of drowning.

77’s hot hand rests on the back of his neck, right on top of one of the bigger ports. It shakes. The pad of his finger circles around the hot plastic, finding the seam between Seventeen’s skin and everything else. Seventeen shivers again, inhales his brother’s clean skin smell. It cuts through the burnt rubber stink of the room like a vibroknife cuts flesh.

The noise of a door unlocking echoes in from the hallway. 77 slips out of the room on quiet feet with one last look, and not for the first time Seventeen wonders what would happen if he let go of the buzzing and the crackling, if he shed this skin of his and let the world see the bone underneath.

[firewoodwander]

Trick or treat!! Fordo17 with 🐈‍⬛ ?

Trick or treat prompts

Cipquad won’t leave Fordo alone.

He’s in the kitchen reorganising the pantry and she’s howling at him from the top of the fridge, putting herself in his field of view whenever he dares turn away from her. She’s already tried butting her head against his arm so many times he thinks he might bruise; this time when she drops down to the counters she sticks her little needle teeth into his jumper and his skin and bites.

Fordo jolts and swears under his breath.

Putting down food didn’t placate her, her water bowl is full, and she shied away when he tried to pet her head. So now they’re at a stalemate: Cipquad is occupying the counter space he was using and that she definitely shouldn’t be on, and Fordo is… at a disadvantage.

Satisfied now that she has his full attention, Cipquad leaps off the counter and trots to the door. She turns around and meeps at him. Dutifully, Fordo follows.

There used to be plants on Fordo’s living room windowsill. Just small things, leafy stems in palm-sized pots. Unfortunately his cat didn’t appreciate them the same way, and so they’ve been relocated to the floor in the corner of the room to prevent further unprovoked attack, and Cipquad has taken over her guard post on the sill as if it’s her due diligence. Now though, as she leaps up there, Fordo can see what she’s howling about.

There’s another cat on his garden wall. A big thing, bluish-grey and sort of ragged. It sits on the wall and stares right at them, and Fordo thinks he would be pissed about that too if he were a cat.

Fordo thinks he’s seen this cat before in town. It’s a memorable thing, and it was sitting on someone else’s wall the last time he walked by. It doesn’t have a collar but it also didn’t seem afraid of much of anything, unbothered by passers by and staring right at Fordo until it turned its back imperiously and strutted off down a nearby alley. And now it’s watching him again, thoroughly unimpressed, as Fordo brings out a dish with a tiny lump of tuna like some sort of peace offering.

He gets all the way to the wall before the cat’s tail twitches. He leaves it on the post by the gate and goes back inside.

An hour later Fordo’s pantry is organised, Cipquad has destroyed another felt mouse in her frustration, and the dish is clean and drying on the draining board.

It becomes a habit. On Fordo’s day off from work the cat shows up on the garden wall, Cipquad loses her shit about it, Fordo leaves a peace offering and doesn’t get any closer. The problem with habits is that they very easily become part of his routine. Fordo only likes routines because they’re predictable, so when he steps outside one morning to find the cat staring up at him from his doorstep, he stands there and stares right back like a dumbfounded plank of wood.

The cat chirps. It stands up with great dignity and saunters over to butt its head against Fordo’s ankles, winding between his feet.

Cipquad howls from the living room window, but the other cat doesn’t seem bothered at all when Fordo reaches down to pet its head. It trots off as soon as it’s had enough, back down the garden path, turning at the gate to look back once before it disappears down the road.

There’s a knock on the door the next morning. It’s notable in that Fordo only rarely ever gets visitors, and usually they message him ahead of time. It’s not the postman either because it’s a Sunday, so Fordo pushes away the deep desire to go back to bed and shuffles up to greet the stranger on his doorstep.

There’s a man. He’s about Fordo’s height, dressed in black and navy, and has a nasty scar extending from his lower lip down his chin. He’s holding a brown paper bag. He clears his throat and holds it out.

“As thanks,” he says.

Fordo has never met this man in his life. They stare at each other; the stranger doesn’t blink.

“For the cat.”

Fordo takes the bag. There’s a box of tea inside. The brand he drinks, but the flavour is one he’s never tried. Under it is a tin of Cipquad’s favourite tuna.

He looks back at the stranger and feels the corner of his lips quirk upwards. The stranger clears his throat again and nods.

“Right,” he says, and turns to leave.

Fordo watches him saunter back down the garden path, out onto the road and away out of sight.

[vanisketches]

2nd mermay 2023

Fordo/Alpha-17

Just being hella self-indulgent here <3

Reblogs > Likes

[elthadriel]

Hello ship bingo!!! Codex or fordo17 :)

Have both!

Codex:

Fordo17:

[mandalorianbrainweasel]

For the ship ask game: Fordo17?

Boys!

Ship It

What made you ship it? Good fic.

What are your favorite things about the ship? Them snipping at each other is true love.

Is there an unpopular opinion you have on your ship? Hm. I mean this lovingly but. They’re boring. They are. So domestic. I love them because they can be so boring.m around each other.

[clonecest-bin-account]

300 followers bingo - Alpha-17/Fordo | Pirates AU

(In which Alpha and Fordo duel)

Dodge. Slash. Kick. Dodge again. Parry. By now Alpha has memorized these steps by heart.

It’s like a dance, whenever he and Fordo duel, with the only exception that they’re fucking pirates, and not pansy noblemen who delight themselves in ballroom dances. No, this is completely different.

Alpha doubts ballroom dances are this fun, though of course he’d rather be caught dead than admitting it, especially in front of the person who causes all these annoying feelings inside him, his rival, Captain Fordo, whose legendary fame is second only to Alpha’s.

An annoying thorn at his side is what he is: every time Alpha gets news of a juicy booty that he could steal, he always finds Fordo there for the same prize, and of course the only way they can settle it is with a fight. Nevermind that this is the most fun Alpha’s had in ages, though you’d never be able to guess just by looking at him.

 Today, however, things are a bit different from the usual: today they’re battling for a ship. Well, it’s mostly because of what’s inside - the crown’s jewels - but since it’s a big ship, it would be useful to seize it and add it to the rest of the fleet.

Alpha’s crew isn’t in a great state, but he still feels they can make a comeback, especially if he manages to send Fordo down in the water, meaning that his crew would have to come save him and give them plenty of time to secure the ship and sail away.

He’s even got Fordo right where he wants him, dueling on the ship’s edge. Knowing Fordo’s love for theatrics, he knew he wasn’t going to refuse such an occasion, without think about the fact that Alpha’s way more stable on his feet than him, who tends to jump around more often.

It’ll be easy to push him over the edge, he just needs to get an opening.

 Fordo lunges forward, but Alpha parries, pushing him away.

In all this, Fordo is still keeping that smirk that makes Alpha’s blood boil. He can’t say that this isn’t fun, but at least he doesn’t go flaunting it around and exposing himself in such a manner. C’mon, have a little bit of control, though he supposes that’s too much to ask of Fordo.

“What is it old man? Feeling tired already?” Fordo has the guts to say.

Alpha greets his teeth. “Watch it. You’re not that younger than me.”

“It’s still enough,” Fordo retorts, lounging again, but this time Alpha’s prepared for it, so he dodges and, using the opening dear Fordo has just given him, slashes at his chest, sending the other stumbling a few steps away.

It’s not a deep cut, at least not as deep as Alpha would’ve liked. In fact, what he did is mostly clothing damage, but…

 This is so embarrassing. Alpha should be better than this, and yet…

What’s wrong? Oh, nothing really. It’s just that with that slash, he’s exposed Fordo’s chest even more than it already was, and it is… distracting, to say the least.

Alpha really doesn’t mean to stare at it, but at every movement his gaze always goes down, only for him to realize what he’s doing and raising it again. Damned Fordo and his toned body.

At this point, the duel’s fate seems to be decided, but Alpha still hasn’t realized. Even if he did, though, he would still fight tooth and nail to change things, because he refuses to go down so easily.

If only he could keep his eyes up…

 He doesn’t notice that he’s been backed up against nothing until Fordo pushes him, and Alpha loses his footing, falling backwards into the ocean.

When he reemerges, he sputters water, trying to gather his bearings. It’s only once he looks up and sees Fordo leaning over the rail, his damn stupid smirk on his face, that he realized that he fucked up royally.

Then his men begin to get tossed down, and he knows that there’s no coming back from this battle. They’ve lost.

“That’s for the boat! And the booty!” Fordo yells, laughing at Alpha as he waves him goodbye.

  As he watches Fordo and his band of dumbasses sail away, all Alpha can do is fume right where he is. If gazes could kill, a thunder would’ve already stricken the stolen ship, sinking it and the people on it.

Oh well, you win some you lose some, he supposes, though this knowledge does nothing to soothe the sting of defeat.

What really makes him mad is the way he’s lost. He let himself think with his dick rather than with his head, and he hates himself for it.

More than anything, though, he hates Fordo for stealing such a prominent spot in his mind all for himself, and not leaving when Alpha tries to get himself under control.

 There will be no mercy next time they meet.

Fordo needs to pay and Alpha will make sure he does, torn shirt or not!

[maulrexweek]

Link to AO3

[dead-cowboy]

Left Unsaid

Rated T. One-Shot. Star Wars: Alpha-17/Fordo. Words: 5,649. Tags: Post-Jabiim; Established Relationship; Unconventional Relationship; Hurt/Comfort; Sharing a Bed; Nonverbal Communication. Written for lyntergalactic during @swrarepairs ♡

17 goes back to Tipoca after Jabiim. He'd like to sleep for days and not see anyone; unfortunately for him, he's got a surprise guest.

On AO3 🔒

[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]

Hellooooo for the spotify wrapped game can i ask fordo17 with 77, codex with 24 oooor qi'rahsoka with 2? 💕

i chose fordo17! the song was...... ain't no grave by johnny cash 😶

---

The shower room is busy, loud. Fordo’s bunk has a private fresher with a tiny sonic, but it’s broken: he takes off his shell and his blacks and pushes the button once, twice; and then it’s time to armour up again. He sends a repair request and then he makes his way down to the infantry quarters in a daze, and when men he half-recognises nod at him in greeting he nods back unthinkingly.

The noise in the shower rooms is nothing compared to the noise in his head. An awful, buzzing noise, it fills his skull, scrapes thought and feeling off his brain. Fordo showers, throws the dirty thermals in a chute, changes into clean ones. He armours back up and then he goes to the mess and eats something—later, he won’t remember what it was—, and after that he takes the turbolift to the bridge for a meeting. 

He’s a perfect machine: he keeps himself alive and he does his job, and he does it all with that awful noise in his head. He listens and he talks; he plans and makes suggestions and pays attention to what is being said to him, and meanwhile his brain screeches static at him, because Jabiim has fallen and Seventeen is dead.

Fordo finishes his shift and returns to his bunk. The sonic has been fixed: he changes into PT clothes, goes for a run, takes another shower, and then he goes to bed, and six hours later his alarm wakes him up and he does it all over again. Showers, mess, bridge, gym. Like a bolt in the barrel of a blaster.

On day 7, the noise stops. And on day 8, Seventeen comes back to life.

[cabezadeperro]

Hi! Can I suggest number 9 from the prompt list ("listening to the other’s heartbeat") with fordo17? :3c

hello friend!!!

war time fordo17 :) G, ~630w

---

Fordo steps closer to the edge of the landing pad and looks down. Skylanes, speeders, blinking lights: murky darkness swimming up from the depths, drowning out the lights. 

The tips of his boots aren’t quite parallel to the edge. Fordo shifts and resettles, lining the white toes with the crumbling lip of weathered tarmac. His kama hits the back of his legs, moving with the wind, and Fordo feels himself totter, the tread of the soles of his boots slipping on the wetness of the ground.

He leans into it, breathes it in, fills his chest with the Everything of it all: so high up, the wind stinks of pollution, and it’s so cold it’s sharp. He feels lightheaded, his lungs struggling with the light air and the wind and the height.

Fordo puts his bucket back on and reluctantly steps back from the void. The landing pad’s busy at his back. Dozens of men poke and prod at larties and shuttles and starfighters: his is but one more. He is but one of them—same face, same armour, same fate. 

The men he shared the shuttle with are nowhere to be seen: Fordo presses his lips together and starts walking across the wide expanse, his brothers moving all around him with the ease of practice. The barracks loom on the other side of the landing pad, transparisteel and permacrete shining golden in the dying sun, and Fordo’s dread is well-worn and numbing at once, and he just keeps on walking, his boots moving easily over the tarmac and the wind tug-tugging at his kama.

Two years and change into the war and his body still remembers. The cold of the cryochamber, the cold of the droids’ manipulators, the cold of the dark. Cold, within and without, and dreamless sleep, and then back to the light and to war and to freedom. It’s been two years since the last time he woke up to the harsh white of the med center’s lumas, his own heartbeat loud and frantic in his ears, but Fordo’s body still remembers, hasn’t quite caught up with his mind yet.

The barracks are half-empty, as they always are, and the air within the tidy little room Seventeen shares with Doubles and Fist when he’s on-world smells of caf and blaster oil, the three cots perfectly made. 

Fordo closes and locks the door at his back. He sheds his armour, throws his dirty undersuit in the laundry chute, and then lies on the bed, face down and naked as the day he was decanted and reeking of old sweat and the sour, rubbery smell of the suit.

He wants a shower. He closes his eyes and allows his tired limbs to sink into the thin mattress.

The door beeps. Fordo scowls, opening his eyes and turning his head on the pillow to peer at the entrance over his shoulder. 

Seventeen looks as he always does: he’s wearing his armour, brace wrapped around his right leg and bucket on, and he pauses on the threshold. He tilts his head; Fordo hides his smile behind his own shoulder, and shifts his legs on the bed, messing up the sheets.

There’s always this half a second of hesitation: Seventeen wavers, his want warring against what he thinks he needs. Fordo has learned to wait him out. He closes his eyes again, rubbing his cheek against the rough surface of the pillow, and listens to the click-clack of the buckles of Seventeen’s shell, to the unsnapping of his brace. 

He lies on Fordo, warm and very heavy, elbows and knees knocking, and then he stays there, face tucked in the space between Fordo’s neck and shoulder, eyelashes brushing Fordo’s skin. He breathes, in and out, and Fordo wraps his hand around his wrist and breathes with him.

[firewoodwander]

hello! Can I suggest 17 with 1777 or 9 with codex?

Mistletoe prompts

17. Set-up

Seventeen is taking inventory when he notices Fordo is in the room. Fourteen charge packs, six tibanna cartridges, five flashbangs and nine dets, all laid out on the canvas at his feet. There’s still half a bag to go through.

“You get that map?” he asks, not really expecting anything other than an affirmative—Fordo would be sulking if that was the case, and urban undercities are something of a specialty for him.

“All on here,” is the quiet reply. The chair in the corner by the door protests loudly when Fordo drops into it. Seventeen twists to look over his shoulder, catches his eye and then looks down at the datapad held loosely between his fingers.

Light glints off the glass when it moves. The overheads in this hotel room are shit, mostly broken, so they’ve kept on the only working lamps instead. They get the occasional flicker from the one on the nightstand (claimed immediately by Fordo; Seventeen’s is, predictably, also not working), but it’s enough.

“You really gonna make me come to you?”

The argument is pointless. All of theirs are, but Seventeen keeps a principle to complain about everything Fordo does anyway. It feels right. Fordo doesn’t so much complain as just completely overrule, and even the ending of the war hasn’t curbed that particularly irritating personality trait.

Seventeen’s knees crack sharply when he gets up off the floor.

They won’t even need to see us coming, Fordo had said, once. Because he’s a bastard.

The room is small enough that Seventeen crosses it in three strides, left knee still revolting. He ignores the shadow of Fordo smirking at him just as he ignores the way he always clings at night: his head on Seventeen’s shoulder or back or chest and his hair in Seventeen’s fucking mouth.

He takes the datapad. Switches it on.

LOOK UP.

Seventeen can feel the strength of his desire to punch Fordo in his smug mouth wailing against what little patience he has left in his body. Unfortunately, his desire is a frequent visitor. Unfortunately, his patience is so very used to holding strong he’s not sure it knows how to break.

“Fett’s fucking shiny boots,” he mutters, but does as instructed. “I hate you so much. What the fuck is that and where did you get it.”

He knows Fordo knows that he knows what it is. Once more: the principle of the thing.

“It’s Life Day,” Fordo says in that quiet, strong way he has. “You died once. Make the most of it.”

Seventeen rolls saliva around on his tongue and swallows it, thick and bitter with the tang of tibanna.

“You’re trying to tell me something,” he decides.

The ratty, half-dilapidated armchair cries out again when Fordo levers himself out of it to stand toe to toe with Seventeen. He has a dozen scars across his face, the jagged, faded one on his upper lip a near-perfect complement to the one cutting down Seventeen’s chin. He has the same eyes, the same jaw, the same nose broken in different places.

They both know the only reason either of them is here now is because they don’t know how to live any differently. But Fordo had to try, once.

Seventeen doesn’t flinch away from the hands that gather his face, doesn’t fight being drawn closer. Doesn’t try to argue when Fordo kisses him—just goes with it, feels it, doesn’t try to think about it.

“You needed the nudge,” Fordo murmurs, so Seventeen shoves him back into his shitty broken chair and kisses him at the same time.

[firewoodwander]

Hello! Can I suggest 4 or 33, with either fordo17 or codex? 😘

Hey cowboy, you’re a genius truly <3

4. An accidental brush of lips followed by a pause and going back for another, on purpose.

33. An unexpected kiss that shocks the one receiving it.

Kiss prompts

“Oh, forget it.”

Seventeen sighs through gritted teeth. Not a single one of their squad would ever call Seven-seven chatty, no matter how he chose to talk. But he seems to be particularly recalcitrant right now, just when Seventeen needs—

Wants. Wants him not to be.

His fists loosen in Fordo’s jacket. Civvies. Disgusting. Leaving their armour behind was a wrench that nearly crossed the line. Blending into an Empire that’s out for their heads is just the salt in the wound.

Fordo’s own hands in Seventeen’s shirt don’t shift an inch. He follows Seventeen’s gaze with his whole head, chasing his attention, as if he’s not the one being a tight-lipped bastard right now.

So cryptic. So mightier-than-thou. Whatever he’s keeping to himself has been hanging around since before they were first deployed, and it’s finally grated Seventeen down to the bone.

“The hunters,” he segues, defeated. He has a feeling he’s not going to win today, either. There’s no point in pushing duracrete walls with his bare hands. “Nar Shadda, was it? Hutt Space.” He laughs mirthlessly. “Of course they’d makes us chase them there.”

Seventeen picks his head up to face Fordo again, but Fordo doesn’t move this time. Seventeen’s mouth catches his jaw, skates up his cheek, then back when he jerks in surprise. Fordo watches him. Breath hot, damp. Eyes glittering under low, cyber-blue light.

Seventeen’s lower lip had been there, at his mouth. Just past the corner of his lips.

Fordo isn’t being cryptic now. His expression is totally open. Wary, and waiting, but openly. Seventeen can barely trust that he’s reading him right, but—

Nausea vaults in his throat when Seventeen tilts his head again, purposefully, and suddenly everything stops.

Their ship is floating in orbit, atmo turning below them, scanners whirring and beeping like clockwork at the console, sublight engines turning over below their feet and above their heads.

Fordo’s back hits the bulkhead with a slam and his hands are around Seventeen’s neck, Seventeen’s mouth on his and insistent—pressing—desperately he pushes back. Their breathing runs harsh, the both of them, loud and hissing through noses and in gasps between their lips when they part with wet noises. Fordo doesn’t let him go anywhere and Seventeen isn’t sure he would if he could. It’s Fordo’s mouth again and again and again and again, teeth in his lip and on his tongue, lashes curling over cheeks and screwed up brows and cramping, clutching fingers.

Seventeen closes his eyes. Words lodge themselves in his throat; he swallows them down, kisses Seven-seven like a lifeline, and doesn’t speak.

[firewoodwander]

hi there! May I suggest fordo17 with 11 for the surprise prompt fic?

11. "Never seen you look at me like that before."

Somewhere, nearby, there is a leaking pipe. Seventeen knows this because he can hear the slow, steady drip - drip - drip behind the walls and above the ceiling. It’s a constant thing, forced precipitation under pressure; not dissimilar to the way Fordo clicks his stylus against the rim of his pad just a handful of paces across the room.

“What,” Seventeen grunts. The stylus clicks against the plas, and somewhere, up and behind and up again, the pipe continues to leak. It’s annoying.

Outside this apartment there is a sun that’s setting. It washes this planet’s lithosphere and everything living on it in a bright, burnt sunflower kind of tone. It slips in through the slats on the blinds and Seventeen shifts so that it’s out of his eyes, but he only really succeeds in displacing it to another, equally awkward angle on his face.

He’s too lazy to get up and either move his seat or close the blind. And Fordo, helpfully, continues to sit in front of the blasted window and tap away. Backlit in bronze.

“If I didn’t know you were incapable of stringing a single coherent sentence together, I would accuse you of thinking.”

The tapping halts - poignant - the dripping continues: explain.

Seventeen flexes one ankle just to hear the bones click. “I’ve never seen you look at me like that before.”

It’s something of a lie and he knows it, but only understands how after the words have already left his mouth. He has seen this look, but, inexplicably, this time it’s different. It’s, it has, there’s a, a weight to it. A weight. Meaning, probably.

The tapping resumes, but at a third-speed. Now Fordo’s noises are incongruent with the rhythm of the water noises, and each dissonant beat is setting Seventeen more and more on edge.

Energised by his irritation Seventeen rises and takes the two steps forward that he needs to reach for that stylus and slam it down to the table beneath his palm, trapping it. The abrupt and contained explosion of movement, predictably, hasn’t made Fordo so much as bat a lash. But he does stare up at Seventeen (and now without the glare Seventeen can see his face, can see the detail of the weighty expression, of the little creases beneath his eyes and the upturn to his left eyebrow that always marked him out as Seventy-seven—)

Fordo’s fingertips bump Seventeen’s hand on the table. Their fingers overlap. Seventeen does not release the stylus.

“I hate you,” Seventeen says.

Fordo blinks at him like he knows something Seventeen doesn’t, and then—Smiles. Tiny, subtly, in the corner of his mouth and in his eyes. And Seventeen thinks maybe he actually does.

Somewhere, no matter where Seventeen goes to escape it, the pipe is leaking.

(He kisses him.)

[firewoodwander]

Could you give some songs for Fordo/Alpha-17, please? :3

One hundred million percent I will!! (idk why I don’t have an actual playlist for them)

Roseblue - Former Vandal

Sex and Question Marks - The Wombats

Is Everybody Going Crazy? - Nothing But Thieves

[elthadriel]

Hellooo for the ask meme, can i go with option 001 fordo17 or option 002 with maul?

Fordo17 - 001 | send me a ship and I will tell you:

when I started shipping it if I did: Oh this is 100% your fault. You know what you did. The slightly longer version is my friends were writing compelling stuff and I was helpless to resist.

my thoughts: I just think they're neat.

What makes me happy about them: I think Fordo is very good at forcing Seventeen to take himself less seriously and Seventeen is great entertainment.

What makes me sad about them: Look, I don't think this can end well. Seventeen is loyal to a fault and with O66 looming I don't think they have many good options.

things done in fanfic that annoys me: I have things for both of them independently that annoy me, but it's not like there's an overabundance of content for them. I don't like the alpha class clones being huge and jacked which comes up with Seventeen a fair amount.

things I look for in fanfic: It's existence primarily. Ideally being written by someone I know who has the same characterisation as me.

Who I’d be comfortable them ending up with, if not each other: There's a Fordo/Rex fic that bounces around in my head still. I don't really ship these two all that much in general though. Fox/Seventeen? Though I think that ends in tragedy too 😂

My happily ever after for them: 😅 I don't know if I have one. I think they're a little trapped by their own convictions. Maybe Fordo can suplex Seventeen and drag him away from the Republic/Empire.

who is the big spoon/little spoon: Fordo is the instigator, but that spooning, flopping on top of, sitting staring like :) until Seventeen spoons him.

what is their favorite non-sexual activity: Fordo's favourite is poking Seventeen until he reacts and then sitting back and studying the results. Seventeen's is Fordo not doing that (but also Fordo doing that).

Maul - 002 | Give me a character & I will tell you:

How I feel about this character:

All the people I ship romantically with this character: Obi-Wan, Cody, Rex, and Fordo.

My non-romantic OTP for this character: Savage

My unpopular opinion about this character: I don't know if I'm in maul fandom spaces enough to know what is and isn't popular. I don't know if this counts, but I don't think that Savage and Maul were brothers the first time I watched the show. I thought they were using the term brother in a looser sense. As in, they considered themselves brothers, but not by blood. I only realised it was meant to literally related when I joined fandom. I still don't really like that, it always felt very convenient (and contributed to the impression that the GFFA is made up of like 50 people max), so I just kind of ignore it.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: I think he should come back to life and be killed again actually. You replace that nonsense "somehow Palpatine has returned" line with "somehow Maul has returned" and be like, that adds up actually (though I did really enjoy his death scene).

my OTP: Obi-Wan 😑

my cross over ship: I don't think I have one

a headcanon fact: If someone explained to him the existence of gay people it would fix like 20% of whatever is going on there. But seriously, I think he has huge trouble with emotional identification and just conflates a lot of strong emotions as rage or hatred because that's pretty much his baseline.