#foxmereel
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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)
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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.
#this one got slightly longer than i expected lmao#foxreel#foxmereel#commander fox#mereel skirata#ship snippets#maría writes#cloneshipping
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Criterion — Corr/Mereel, Fox/Mereel
T
Read on ao3
Summary:
Mereel watches the lights from passing speeders, morphing billboards and too-close clubs filter onto skin that’s painfully familiar, yet utterly alien in all the ways he wishes it wasn't.
It’s in the hand that's made of real flesh and blood sliding down his spine—that’s the salt in the self-inflicted wound.
#mereel skirata#corr#commander fox#corrmereel#foxmereel#repcomm#star wars#writing tag#cloneshipping#fic post#wastelands au
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50 for Mereel/Fox? Love the way you characterize Mereel in that pairing.
hi anon! the prompt was putting a hand over the other’s mouth to shut them up. established relationship, 650w, T. set during the war and featuring cody :)
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Fox stops in front of the open door and scowls.
The door was locked, but that means very little. His office isn’t empty. Mereel, wearing his shell and leaning against the desk; Cody, sitting on his chair, the jacket of his dress greys hanging from the back and his hat in Mereel’s hands.
They turn to look at him at the same time, and Cody’s eyes flash. He smiles, tiny and smug, and folds his arms. He has his boots on the edge of the table, and he looks comfortable and knowing and Fox’s very glad he’s well and alive but right now he’d give quite a lot for him to be well and alive and on the other side of the galaxy.
Mereel looks like he always does: he winks at Fox, long fingers playing with the hat, and Fox didn’t know he was back on Triple Zero, and he thought he didn’t like Cody too much—something about Jedi and bootlickers and Sergeant Skirata; Fox stopped paying attention halfway through—but his presence isn’t as much of a shock as it should be.
He slips from the edge of the table, kama swishing around his hips, and Fox steps further into his tiny office and locks the door behind him again: whatever happens here, he doesn’t want any of his men to see it. The last thing Mereel needs is a kriffing public.
Cody’s grin grows, and he sits up on Fox’s chair, dropping his feet to the duracrete noiselessly.
“We’re meeting tonight,” Fox tells him. Cody, Fox, Cody’s captain, Ponds. Some other people whose names Fox can’t remember. What are you doing here?
Cody shrugs: wouldn’t you like to know. “We are,” he agrees easily. He stands up and starts rounding the desk; Mereel throws his hat at him, and Cody grabs it from the air without looking, eyes still on Fox. he stops in front of him and knocks Fox’s pauldron with his knuckles; Fox rolls his eyes and takes off his bucket.
Cody’s smile softens a bit, and when he reaches out for Fox, Fox goes. He rests his forehead against Cody’s for a beat, breathing in Cody’s familiar smell, soaking in his warmth.
“Well, that’s adorable,” Mereel comments. Cody blinks his eyes open and steps away. He glances at Mereel, eyes suddenly flat, and Mereel smirks. Blood in the water, and Mereel about to say something he shouldn’t and won’t regret.
Fox places his hand on his mouth; Mereel stiffens, scowling, and Fox pushes him away, one hand on his face and the other on his plackart. He turns to look at Cody, tilting his head at him, and Cody exhales. He places his hat back on his head and leaves without looking back.
Mereel huffs. Fox cuts his eyes at him and folds his arms.
“Rude,” he says, and Fox—Fox just laughs at him, hoarse and painful.
He crowds Mereel against the door; Mereel scowls down at him, pouting like he does every time something doesn’t go his way, and when Fox licks into his mouth, he sinks his teeth into Fox’s lower lip and pulls, just once and too hard.
Fox leans away.
“Play nice or fuck off,” he reminds Mereel, and Mereel—for a beat, Fox’s sure he’s going to leave, that Fox’s finally pushed him too hard, but then Mereel sighs and lowers his eyes and it’s mostly theatre but he also stays where he is, between Fox and the door, his fingers hooked around Fox’s belt.
Fox sighs, suddenly very tired. He leans forward, and when Mereel doesn’t move away he hides his face in the crook of Mereel’s neck, right under his jaw, breathing in clean sweat and aftershave and the chemical smell of Mereel’s blacks.
One bare hand wraps itself around the back of Fox’s neck, gripping tightly, before scratching at his hair.
“I always play nice,” Mereel lies grumpily. Fox snorts.
#foxreel#foxmereel#mereelfox#cloneshipping#repcomm#touch prompts#commander fox#mereel skirata#maría writes#mereel: kal'buir says that---#fox: [starts thinking about the funny looking tooka he saw the previous night]
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Hi! I just read your Fox/Mereel fic on AO3 and was super intrigued. If you’re interested, maybe ‘Basorexia - the overwhelming desire to kiss’ for the same pairing?
Anyway, enjoy your holiday 😊
hi! thank you!!!
more etablished relationship fic that takes place during the war. 360w, G. mereel's pov and featuring my boy maze.
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Maze likes him because of course he does.
Fox is there when they arrive at the meeting room, standing by the wall, bucket on and arms closed. Kal barely looks at him—a quick, short glance, a nod, and there it is, he’s done—but Maze visibly perks up. He steps closer, takes off his bucket; Fox does as well, and they rattle vambraces, and Fox says something under his breath and Maze snorts, his usually dour face shedding a decade in a blink.
Fox looks good. Clean shaven, hair buzzed, the scar on his throat the loudest thing about him. He glances at Mereel, blinks, tilts his head. Looks away.
It’s what Mereel asked of him and it feels like a kick in the face, so Mereel tries his best to ignore him. He makes Kal laugh twice, annoys Maze into actually scowling, and meanwhile Fox is just there, silent and watchful, dark eyes unreadable.
That could have been him. Mereel could have been the one to greet him, the one Fox took his bucket off for, and Fox is doing exactly what Mereel asked of him but it hurts anyway. So Mereel tucks it all away and by the time the meeting ends he falls into step behind Kal and follows him out of the small conference room, lets his father tug him closer with one strong hand around his elbow, makes the old man laugh one last time.
Mereel sees him to the lifts and then he makes his excuses and loiters in an empty hallway for a few minutes, bucket on, before leaving in the direction of the emergency stairs at the back, of the landing with the broken lock and broken camera and the incinerator chute, and waits there.
Sometimes he is very sure Fox cannot stand him—it’s not as if Mereel makes it hard—but he has never kept him waiting for long. He steps through the door a few minutes later, cherry-red bucket back on, and when he finds Mereel already there he huffs, amused, and his shoulders loosen. Bucket off, and then he’s reaching for Mereel, gloved hands tugging on Mereel’s kama.
#foxreel#foxmereel#commander fox#mereel skirata#cloneshipping#repcomm#maría writes#palabros prompt list
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35 for Fox/Mereel or Fox/Wolffe?? Whichever you prefer, really. ❤️
hi! the prompt was kissing their bruises and scars. 520w, established relationship, implied spicy times (M rating). fox/mereel, messy relationships and lack of communication and mereel's Everything (fox oversteps one of mereel's boundaries knowingly in retaliation to mereel treating him like he's his dirty little secret).
There’s still hair dye in Mereel’s curls. It’s hard to see—too pale, the curls too short—but the light of the storage room is unforgiving, a heavy, white thing that almost has weight and dissects bodies and dirt with the cold disinterest of a surgeon’s scalpel.
It’s pale yellow. Fox runs his fingers through Mereel’s curls, tugs at them, and tries to picture him with pale yellow hair. Pale yellow hair, freckles on his face, his eyes a different colour. Blue; maybe green.
The rough fabric of his gloves makes Mereel shiver. He breathes out, warm and damp, his mouth still on Fox’s hipbone, and then there are teeth there, nibbling almost coyly. His lips are wet. He rubs his cheek on Fox’s skin, stubble making him shiver, and when he smiles Fox can feel it on his belly. There’s a bite mark there, right under his belly button, still tender to the touch. Mereel kisses him there, dry and chaste, and then he’s moving away.
He stands up like he hasn’t spent the main part of the past twenty minutes on his knees. His dick goes back inside his blacks, and then Fox hears the soft clicking noise of his codpiece when the magseal locks.
He won’t look at Fox. Mereel will hunt him down, will corner Fox in a forgotten storage room, will suck Fox’s dick and come to Fox’s gloved hand in his hair, but afterwards he never looks Fox in the eye.
Fox doesn’t move. He leans back against the wall, still half-naked, and watches Mereel, head tilted. When he sees Mereel’s shoulders twitch and stiffen, he doesn’t smile.
It’s sad, and it’s insulting, but it’s also a tiny bit funny. Big bad Null, too proud and embarrassed to look Fox in the eye but not to swallow him down in GAR property in the middle of Fox’s shift.
Fox needs to be on the other side of the Senate Rotunda in thirteen minutes: if he leaves now, he’ll be five minutes early, and that means he’s already late.
He watches Mereel while he wipes his hands clean and pulls on his gloves again, head bent and face blank. His mouth is red and wet, and suddenly—suddenly Fox’s just very tired. He pulls up his blacks, seals them again, and when Mereel turns to look at him, a slight frown on his face, he steps closer and kisses him, off-center and awkward, one hand tangled in his kama.
Mereel sighs. He licks into Fox’s mouth, tries to take control of the kiss, but Fox won’t let him. He moves away, ducks his head: there’s a perfectly round burn scar on Mereel’s neck, right under his jaw, and Fox knows he doesn’t like being touched there, but he’s feeling petty and out of sorts.
The scar’s soft to the touch, almost slick, against Fox’s lips; Mereel shudders, and his hand goes painfully tight where it’s wrapped around Fox’s arm.
Mereel steps away. His lips are pressed tight, and he looks—he’s looking Fox in the eye, and Fox knows he overstepped, and he feels bad, but not as much as he should.
#foxmereel#foxreel#cloneshipping#repcomm#mereel skirata#commander fox#maría writes#not safe for whales#touch prompts
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