#also cross-posted on ao3

[lullalbee]

✰ Shared Thoughts ✰

A Francis Mosses x GN!reader, chapter 1

Warnings: Gets steamy but no smut, no pronouns for reader but afab anatomy is used, francis calls reader ‘darling’, he also pleads for like one sentence ik you guys like that, not proofread <3 this is so bad and so self-indulgent i'm so sorry

Word Count: 1.7k

The tenant grumbled, barely keeping open your tired eyes, latching onto your ID and entry request as you waited for your turn to be interrogated just so you could be let into your own home. For a while, you thought the precaution was stupid until you experienced a “code red” for yourself. Typically, you were amongst the last to arrive at the apartment building, considering you worked late nights, almost every night. You didn’t mind it, really, as you had lots of free time living alone, so that meant you were home during the early hours of the day when most tenants had left and wouldn’t return home for a few more hours, and by that time, you’d be gone yourself.

You knew today would be especially tough entering the building, as you were called in to work suddenly, so you couldn’t put in a request in time to be put onto the list for today. Once it was your turn, your trudged along to the window, passing in your papers through the metal slit.

“Why aren’t you on the list?” The doorman asked, brows furrowed, clearing searching for any signs the tenant was a doppelgänger. “Got called into work suddenly, wasn’t able to put my name on the list.” You explained, voice as monotone as ever. The doorman nodded, checking over a few things and making a phone call, before finally letting the tenant in.  You gave a small thanks, grabbed your papers back, and walked through the door. Sighing, you stepped into the elevator, ready to press the “four” button.  As you stepped back against the elevator, all your thoughts and anxieties began surfacing, most of them being of doppelgängers. What if the doorman let in one, killing us all? You didn’t doubt their abilities, but the thought always crossed your mind, with how often the alarm went off.  The elevator stopped with a ding! on the second floor, letting in another tenant of the building, Francis Mosses. 

You thought of yourself as fairly close with Francis. A lot closer than the typical tenants are with the others. You two enjoyed each other's company, giving small hello’s as you passed by, small talk exchanged whenever he’d deliver the milk you’d ordered. There were a few times, as well, where you hung out at the other’s place, your shared exhaustion over your careers being a driving factor in the start of your friendship.  Now and then, in the pits of night, you found your mind drifting to the thoughts of Francis. How his bicep flexed as he lifted up the milk carrier, his button-up shirt tightening ever so slightly around his arms and elbow, leaving little to the imagination. Or how his sensual, monotone voice sent shivers down your spine.  But your relationship was purely platonic of course. These feelings would never be acted upon nor would they be reciprocated… “Hello…? Earth to Y/N?” You were snapped out of your thoughts as the familiar voice filled your ears.   “Huh? Oh, sorry…” You mumbled, chuckling awkwardly. “Just.. tired from work.” I was totally not thinking about you… You could feel the blood rushing to your cheeks, both out of embarrassment and just from him looking at you.

“Mmm… Okay…” Francis nodded, albeit suspiciously. You prayed he didn’t notice the blush, and if he did, won’t say anything about it. Hopefully, he was up for as much conversation as you were at the moment… God knows what you would do to just lay down and take a nap right here. You both stood in awkward silence, avoiding eye contact before Francis got off on the next floor. You breathed a sigh of relief, mentally berating yourself for allowing that to happen. Once the elevator stopped on your floor, you bolted out and headed immediately to your apartment. There was always something so eerie about the hallways that made you want to be in them as little as possible. You struggled a bit with inserting your keys into the keyhole, but eventually, they implied and allowed you in. Closing, and locking, the door behind you, you breathed out, not even aware you were holding your breath.  You looked around your apartment, everything in the same place as it was before. Good. No doppelgängers have been in your home. The apartment was rather small, but that’s alright since you were the only person here. It was cozy that way. Trudging through the tiny hallway, you made it to your room, changing out of your work clothes and into some more comfortable ones. Immediately, you plopped down onto the bed and began drifting off to a dreamless sleep.  …Was that the sound of the phone? Well, it’ll be alright…

After what felt like only a few minutes, you heard someone knocking at your door, rather quickly. Begrudgingly, you sat up and got out of your bed, combing through your hair with your fingers to try to smooth down any bed head that developed in the small frame of time you were sleeping. You stood up, attempting to make yourself slightly presentable. Making your way to the door, you glanced at your rotary phone which sat on a small table next to the couch. You paused for a moment, wondering if the ringing you heard was real, but shrugged, assuming it was nothing.  You looked through the peephole of your door, spying the one and only Francis Mosses, at your door. He wasn’t in his usual milkman garb, but rather some common, everyday clothes. Quickly, you unlocked your door, opening it to greet Francis. “Oh, hello.” You gave him a soft smile, cocking your head slightly. “Are you off the clock?” “Yeah, my uh- my shift ended not too long ago.” He swallowed, nodding. “Wanted to check on you, you seemed real exhausted earlier.” “Well, you did just wake me from a life-saving nap, but that's alright.” You quip, giving him a smirk as you move out of the doorway, allowing him in.

“Oh, I’m- I’m sorry, I can go–” “No, no.” You shake your head, furrowing your brows. “Stay, please.”  He smiled at you, seemingly relieved you didn’t let him go. Internally, you were screaming, he never showed up to your apartment unless you had a pre-planned hang-out session, or he was doing his rounds, delivering the milk.  “Do you want anything? A snack, or…” You ask him, walking towards your tiny kitchen.  “Oh, no, that won’t be necessary.” He said in that monotone voice that made your knees turn to jelly. Francis went and sat on the couch, you following close behind. “I, uhm.” He began, looking away. “I wanted to talk to you… I’ve been, thinking a lot. Since we talked in the elevator.”  Oh fuck, he’s so creeped out by me, isn’t he, you panic internally, but barely manage to scrape together your composure. “Oh- I’m sorry, about that I–” You started before he interrupted you.  “I’ve been thinking about… you specifically.” He gulped, causing your heart to race. “Now, you can slap me if you think I’m creepy or anything, but I’ve thought about just us in general for a while, long before the elevator. Y/N, I–” He grabbed your hand, looking you in the eyes, his own clouded with infatuation and something else you couldn’t quite make out. Before he could finish his sentence, you cupped his cheek with your free hand and kissed him with so much desperation your teeth clinked together. He was taken aback by this, not reciprocating, causing you to panic and think you misread the situation so you pulled back, breathing heavily. “Fuck, did I- Did I fuck that up? Oh my god, I’m so–” He cut you off with a kiss of his own, holding the back of your head with his hand, keeping his grasp on you as he kissed you with a lot more passion and less desperation than the first. Immediately, you kissed back, snaking your arms around his neck, smiling into the kiss.  He broke the kiss first, to catch his breath. You smiled at him, letting out a small laugh. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for that.”  “Oh, but, I think I do,” Francis smirked, eyes darkening. “I’m a lot more perceptive than I think you realize. I’ve seen the glances you’ve stolen.” This caused you to blush and cover your face, burrowing into the crook of his neck. He maneuvered his head to give you a small kiss on your own, still smiling. “It’s cute, ‘loved knowing at least one person was paying attention to me.” He chuckled as you raised your head, still blushing fervently. He leaned in for another kiss, but this time it was much more needy, resting one hand on the nape of your neck and the other on your hip. Your hands entangled themselves in his hair, pulling your bodies as close together as possible. 

“I’ve thought of you, so many nights.” You whispered between kisses. “Trust me, me too, darling.” Francis groaned, biting down on your lip. You decided to tease him and keep your mouth closed. In turn, Francis snaked the hand on your hip up under your shirt, causing shivers to be sent up your spine, as you moaned into the kiss, which Francis took as an opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, exploring every crevice he could, mapping and memorized the sensation.  You tugged on his hair, causing a moan from him to vibrate through you as he explored the inside of your mouth, your arousal growing further in your core. He cupped your breast through your bra, causing you to break from the kiss for a moment and moan his name, him looking at you, pleadingly, for consent to go further. You gave him an over-enthusiastic “yes” just before you kissed him again, but before either of you could continue further on, a loud ring ran through your house, coming from the doorbell. Whimpering a little, disappointed you had to pause your wonderful makeout session with Francis Mosses, you stood up, smoothing out any wrinkles on your clothes. Heading towards the door, you ponder over who it could be. You knew you shouldn’t have any visitors today, and you certainly weren’t close enough with your other neighbors for a surprise one. As you leaned up to peek through the peephole, all you were met with were eyes just like your own, a face sculpted just like yours, with the most sinister smile plastered on. It was your doppelgänger.

[imaroyalmess]

An Apprentice’s (Unofficial) Guide to House Garments

based on @energ00n 's apprentice AU! (i'm obsessed with the concept of apprentices making up garment rules)

Wc: 2.1k

The datapad—an older model with discolored spots, showing where servos touched its framing—is the first thing Orion Pax’s optics land on as he walks into his new room. Orion snatches the datapad and tilts his helm as he reads the title over again. A peek at the contents shows that it begins with Hey newbie followed by three exclamation glyphs (an overabundance of any glyph, if you asked Orion).

Orion glances up and catches his own gaze in a mirror hanging in front of him. It’s strange, seeing two sheer fabric pieces delicately flowing over the hard metal of his arms—he’s hesitant to move his arm joints in fear of tearing it. That, as well as the jewelry occupying the space where his cog would be creates a vision that’ll take some getting used to.

He pries his optics away and down to the datapad again, dermas pinching as his processor whirrs. Prima explained to him how to care for his garment personally and what if, since the datapad looks old, the data was outdated? No, safer to follow Prima’s instructions and not confuse himself.

Orion places the datapad to the side and sets off to explore his new home.

~

Hello newbie!!!

Congratulations to you and your new position! There’s so much you need to know before you get started. If you wanna make friends, then you’ll wanna keep reading, little mech!

It’s most important that you know about your House garment. No, no, not how to wash oil stains out of it (though that’s good to know!), I’m talking about the meaning behind what you do with it.

Lucky for you, I’ve compiled a list for your easy reference! Learn them well, little mech!!

DO: Wear your House garment at all times! I’ve been told it’s respectful to the Primes. Also helpful so we can tell each other apart. Usually only an apprentice’s special somebot sees them without it! Even then, maybe not.

~

D-16 has always been a stickler for the rules. It’s structure—it’s security. He can’t afford to slip up and never lets that resolve waver. So how exactly did he let pretty blue optics lure him into a cargo hold that supposedly has a passage leading into the (highly forbidden) archives? D-16 isn’t sure.

“Orion Pax,” D-16 hisses, “you idiot, there’s no way—”

Orion hushes him with a digit to his dermas and a wink. D-16 lowers his voice. “Why did you drag me into this?”

Orion pries the cover away from the passage and lowers it to the ground, a soft clank echoing. “I need you to keep watch for me, ‘kay? It’s a tight squeeze for me so you definitely wouldn’t fit.”

D-16 frowns, a retort fully prepped in his processor, but then Orion unclips his garment and D-16’s vocalizer short circuits. For a horrifying and long nanoklik, only static emits from his voice box. “Wh–Pax, what are you doing?!”

“I told you.” Orion rolls his optics. “Barely enough room in there and I can’t risk ripping my clothes up. Prima would offline me.”

He slips the sheer fabric over his helm and presents it to D-16 with splayed servos. Primus, help him. It takes D-16 exactly 1.46 kliks to reboot and shake his helm vehemently. “No? I…you want me to—”

“It’s just my garment,” Orion states, playful but also firm in a way that says I don’t have time to argue. “I’m not asking you to do anything else. Keep it safe?”

Just my garment. If Orion’s antics don’t get him expelled, his cluelessness would. However, he’s correct about one thing, and it’s that their time is running out.

D-16 half-snatches half-cradles the garment, careful not to let the ends touch the ground. With a deep intake D-16 says, “Go. Before they spot us.”

Orion grins, scrambling his way through the crawl space, leaving D-16 to listen for passing mechs. The fabric feels smooth between his digits.

~

DON’T: touch another apprentice’s attire, especially(!) without their permission. A passing touch may be an accident but deliberately grabbing is almost like a kiss!!! Don’t kiss or put your dermas on their clothing either. That has…intimate implications I won’t discuss here.

~

Orion loves watching Megatronus Prime spar with D-16. The size difference between the two could be laughable, if it weren’t for the ferocity that overtakes D-16’s faceplate and the corrections Megatronus throws out to him. Multiple times, Orion’s systems remind him to function as he watches—his friend is a vision under his Prime’s tutelage, all gritted denta, radiating optics, and arcing gauntlets.

Once satisfied, the looming Prime kneels before his apprentice and speaks lowly to him. Orion’s audials are unable to pick up what’s said but the open and hungry way D-16 receives his feedback sates him. Megatronus returns to his full height, nods to release D-16 from his training for the day and Orion perks up at the gesture.

“D!” Orion calls. His friend pads over to what’s becoming Orion’s usual spot, a barely-there smile on his dermas.

“You been waiting long?” D-16 asks, setting his practice spear against the wall.

Orion shakes his helm. A white lie—he’s been there longer than he should’ve but it’s not his fault that watching D-16 fight is so fascinating. “What were you learning today?”

D-16 dutifully launches into the intricacies of battle strategy and close-ranged combat. Orion props his helm up with his loose fist as he listens—mostly listens, at least. That task becomes difficult as the jargon grows thick and D-16’s broad servos capture Orion’s attention as they move in small motions.

An idea pops into his processor. “Why don’t you show me?”

A pause, then D-16 scoops up his practice spear, muttering, “It’ll look stupid without an opponent.”

Orion hops over the half-wall that’s been separating them and bounces over to stand in front of his friend. “I’m right here though.”

“No,” D-16 said immediately. “It’s not safe.”

“C’mon, D,” Orion teases. “I trust you.”

D-16 cycles his optics and Orion’s lopsided grin grows. “It’s not about that. You don’t know what you’re doing and even if it’s not real, I could hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Orion states, full of confidence.

“I could,” D-16 argues. “Then Prima would offline me for harming his one and only apprentice—”

Orion begins to circle D-16, close enough to reach but far enough that he could evade it. “I know what you’re doing, Pax. It’s not going to work.”

“Is it not?” Orion teases as he keeps in D-16’s blindspot, his friend calmly trying to catch sight of him again. He takes a chance while behind him, dashing out and giving the purple fabric of D-16’s House garment a good tug.

“Pax,” D-16 chastises. Yes, it’s a sparkling-like move, Orion knows and does not quite care. He does it again, giggles erupting from his vocalizer as D-16’s calmness dissipates.

Orion manages to tug at D-16’s garment twice more before D-16’s arm snaps out, captures the joint above Orion’s servos, and crowds him against the nearby wall. The yellow of D-16’s optics blaze. Orion notices how close they are, how his friend’s weight is the only thing that keeps him upright, and he grins.

D-16 growls, “Orion.” And honestly? Orion isn’t sure what’s going through his processor when his reaction to hearing D-16 say his name is to bite down on the gathered cloth by one of the gauntlets he’d been admiring earlier.

D-16 drops him. His aft hits the ground with a rough clank and Orion cries out, “hey!”

But D-16 isn’t listening. His optics are focused on the spot where Orion’s intake fluid darkened cloth’s already deep purple. D-16’s expression is horrified.

“Oh scrap, D.” Orion scrambles to his pedes. “It should go away, right? I’ve never—D! Where are you going? Wait!”

Before Orion can say another word, D-16 runs—no, sprints—out of the practice arena, leaving Orion there alone wondering what he’d done wrong.

~

DO: keep your garment clean! It’s polite and respectful, blah blah blah, you should know this. But! What you don’t know is that leaving a mark on another apprentice’s garment, accidental or not, is a serious offense! You tear it, that’s a show of disrespect to the apprentice and their House and you might have to fight them. On the other servo, if you, say, put a small decal on the cloth, you’re effectively marking that mech as your own. Same goes for intake fluid, though that just tells everyone that you and that bot are...together in a different sense. Catch my drift? 

~

“I’m sorry, D.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know but I made you upset, didn’t I?”

“...no. You didn’t.”

~

DON’T: wear another House’s garment!!! Unless you’re ready to be conjunxes. And I’m serious! It’s saying your devotion to that mech is equivalent to your devotion to your Prime. Ask yourself, little mech. Would you swear undying fealty to them? Would you choose that mech over your Prime? No? Then don’t do this.

(Okay, I might be a little overdramatic, but seriously, don’t.)

~

What fascinates Orion is how different the textiles feel from one another. He’s read about the arts and asked on multiple occasions to speak with the bot who made his House clothes because he must know more. Orion shifts the material of D-16’s garment between his digits, reveling in the weight and watching the fabric fold as he moves.

He drapes a length of it over his arm and turns to D-16, who’s dozing in and out of a light rest cycle. “Do you think purple would suit me?”

“Hm?”

Orion nudges his friend with the bend of his arm still wrapped in material. This time, D-16 rouses, even if only a little. “Your House garment, silly. How does it look?”

“Fine,” D-16 says.

“Just fine?” Orion complains. “You’re the meanest friend ever. You won’t even let me try?”

D-16 resettles his helm. “Not mean. ‘M honest.”

Orion shoves his shoulder plate, only serving to further tangle himself. “Your honesty is mean.”

“Would you prefer a more elaborate answer?”

“Not anymore,” Orion mutters. This time, he lets D-16 rest as he lays the garment over his lap and smoothes out the wrinkles he’s made. 

~

Congrats!!! Now you’re fully equipped to take on the social terrain in the House of Primes!!

In case you didn’t read all that, basically, keep to your own business and every other bot will keep to theirs. You’re lucky you have me to help you out with this because I didn't have anyone explain it to me and I broke about every rule before an apprentice told me. I was so embarrassed!!! No need to thank me though, little mech, whoever you may be. Just have fun! Be responsible! Follow these rules!!! I promise, you’ll have a better time if you do. Byeeee ;)

~

D-16 might cease to function—if he hasn’t already. On this particular solar cycle, Orion had dragged D-16 into another one of his schemes and deemed his quarters the meeting point. The door slid open, Orion welcomed him inside, and D-16’s optics landed on a datapad that made his spark drop.

That thing isn’t supposed to exist—not physically, anyway. How did it get here? How in Primus’ glory does Orion have it?!

“D?” Orion cuts through his panic.

“Have you…” D-16 can barely force his vocaliser to say the words. “Have you read it?”

Orion raises an optical ridge. Confused but fond. “Read what?”

A digit points at the datapad, though D-16 didn’t consciously give the command for it to do so. “That.”

“Oh that?” Orion ambles over to the offending object. “It was here when I moved in. Weird right? Maybe Prima put it here in case I forgot what he told me?”

D-16’s joints creak with the effort it takes to stride over and pick up the datapad. “You don’t need it though, do you?”

Please say no, D-16’s processor screams.

Orion laughs, though his confusion melds into concern as well. “No, I guess not…did you need it? You can take it, if you do.”

And D-16 then and there wishes Orion Pax had chosen a better friend, one who he deserves. Except, D-16 is also selfish and cold in ways where Orion is warm—he doesn’t wish that, in actuality. (It feels kinder to say that he does. Orion deserves kind.)

“Thanks,” D-16 says for lack of any explanation that wouldn’t be a flat-out lie.

Then Orion smiles at him, as he always does, and pats him on the chest plate, right next to his empty cog slot, right on his garment. D-16 musters a quirk of his dermas and tucks the datapad away from Orion’s prying optics. It’s hard to feel guilty about it, when Orion seems so content and his servos make his garment so warm.

~~~

A/N: tysm for reading! i'm sorry if i got any details wrong, i read all the comics over again to make sure i got it all correct but just in case i missed something! please check out the main comic if you haven't already. the worldbuilding, writing, and art style are all stunning!

[thebluewritingbench]

you & me in the wreckage

a supercorp ficlet

written for @ekingston's flash fiction challenge! :)

this was fun!! the prompts i got were: thriller, only survivors of a zombie apocalypse, celebrity/just some guy (gender neutral), and blood. thematically consistent, at least. tw for (a fairly small amount of) blood and gore, unsurprisingly. enjoy!

+

Someone is breathing on the other side of the vehicle.

No, Kara reminds herself yet again. Something.

It’s hard to say when the simple sound of another creature breathing became an instant trigger to send adrenaline coursing through her veins. Every tiny hair on her body rises. Her heart rate accelerates until she can feel it behind her teeth, a war drum. She moves with utmost caution; she cannot make a sound.

There’s a creak of metal. A low groan.

Kara recognizes the sound. The pleading moan of perverse hunger.

She can’t see it, as she creeps around the passenger side of the dark vehicle. The thing must be inside the car. The sound came from low down, though. Maybe it’s on the ground. Unsurprising—they always seem to end up there in the end. After having exhausted the limits of human muscle, with no prey left to chase down, they collapse like expended cargo.

The car is a solid black Rolls-Royce. A rare sight in the city, let alone out here. This one has seen better days, though. Shiny paint marred by dust, pock-marked with dents, half the bumper hanging off. How it ended up swerved into the ditch of this rural, two-lane road is a mystery.

Probably someone trying to escape.

Kara’s mind constructs the story even as she rounds the front of the car, reaching for her weapons. It must have contained someone wealthy or important, someone with the resources to get this far. But they must have been infected before they could escape. Though shaken, they would have attempted to brush it off. Nothing but a scrape. The teeth had barely punctured their skin. They would have sped away, gotten off the interstate at the first chance, taken turn after turn until they found a safe, isolated road. This is how far they got before the alien pathogens hijacked their brain.

But that would mean—Kara’s pulse spikes again—that would mean the creature on the other side of this vehicle is the most dangerous kind. Starved for the taste of human flesh. Not spent, but with the full power of the human body. When used without regard for muscles tearing, flesh rending, bones breaking, it could do remarkable things.

Kara knows. She has witnessed it.

The way Alex moved, when the disease took hold…

She shudders. Pushes the image from her mind. That thing hadn’t been Alex anymore.

Kara considers her weapons. A large kitchen knife. A small handgun—the better bet. Not much ammunition left, though. She’ll have to move quickly. She’ll have to make it count.

She lifts the gun, then lunges around the front of the car and fires.

The shot echoes across the scrubby hills. A shriek rings out, black hair flying as the creature shields itself. It begins to turn to her. She missed. Kara’s finger is pushing down on the trigger again when a voice cries, “Wait! Wait!”

She wrenches the gun aside. Her shot flies wide.

There is nothing but heaving breathing in the wake. Human breathing.

The woman crouched on the ground, staring up at Kara in terrified shock, is alive. Truly alive. What’s more, Kara knows her.

 “How are you here?” Kara says. The cognitive dissonance of seeing that face here, now, is so intense that she wonders if she’s hallucinating.

“What?” says Lena Luthor. “Why are you trying to kill me? Do I know you?”

We’ve met before.

“No.” Kara feels herself flush. How absurd that she’s even capable of such a reaction anymore. “I’m nobody.”

Lena Luthor stands on unsteady legs. “No, you’re that reporter. From… BuzzFeed, was it? You came to my office with Clark Kent.”

“CatCo Magazine,” Kara corrects automatically. It feels like a lifetime since she was Cat Grant’s assistant, barely daring to aspire to journalism. Struck nearly speechless by the presence of this woman—her inarguable celebrity crush.

Embarrassing.

Lena looks uneasily at the gun. Kara realizes it’s still pointing in her direction. She drops her arm. “Shoot. Sorry.”

“Don’t shoot, preferably,” Lena says dryly. It takes a second for Kara to realize it’s a joke.

“I wasn’t trying to— I thought you were… one of them. You’re not infected, are you?”

“None of them have touched me. This thing is bullet-proof. I did plow through a few of them…” Lena looks queasy. Kara follows her gaze to the front of the car. There’s blood congealed on the grill.

A flash of memory. She sees the creature that was once Winn charging at her. Her panicked swipe of the kitchen knife across its throat. The spray of his blood, copious, vibrant, across her shirt, across the pavement. For hours, she was terrified the blood had found its way into some scrape, some opening. Infecting her.

She grimaces, presses her thumb hard into the space between her eyes. Stop.

“Where did you even come from?” Lena says. “There’s nothing around here.”

“I walked from the city. I’ve been trying to find anywhere with supplies. There was a group of us. I’m the only one left.” That awful, leaden truth. Kara pushes past it. “How did you get out? I haven’t seen anyone else in weeks.”

“I hid in my office. I had it outfitted as a kind of bunker years ago. I thought I was being insane at the time, and yet…” She trails off, ashamed. “I did nothing to help. Nothing. I stayed there until it quieted down. Then I took the car, and I ran.”

“You couldn’t have done much. No one could have.”

“And now my stupid tire blew, and I am somehow incapable of changing it, so I’m pretty much fucked.” Lena kicks the deflated tire. “Fuck!”

“Your tire?” Belatedly, Kara notices the spare lying on the ground, alongside a toolbox and a badly misplaced jack. She feels a wild urge to laugh. That’s it? “I can fix your tire.”

“Really?”

“Of course.” She swallows. Remembers that somehow, Lena Luthor is standing in front of her. A woman who Kara has followed extensively in tabloids for years. A world leader for tech. Generous. Brilliant. Beautiful. “On one condition.”  

“What’s that?”

“Take me with you.”

Lena Luthor leans against her car and, miraculously, grins. She gives Kara a lingering once-over. “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere. Away from here. I need to find out what happened to my cousin. And my mom.”

“Well, I could use the company,” Lena says. “It’s a deal.”

She holds out her hand. Kara shakes it. At the feel of Lena’s hand in hers, warm, chapped, alive, Kara feels a spark of something she hasn’t felt for ages, since before her life turned into a nightmare.

Hope.

[thefandomsfervent]

Personal Pigments Viktor x Reader (Part 2) - Burnt Umber

Find the premise and first part of the fix here. Find my imagine that inspired it here. Thank you for reading <3

╔═*✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧-✦-✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧*═╗

An enforcer led you down the long hallway. Your footsteps echo out of time with his. You were supposed to have met with the Dean two hours ago but Piltover’s council had a meeting that ran long. You can’t imagine the stress of all those titles, yet it still irks you that he barely spoke to you before passing you off to an enforcer promising to “be there in the turn of a cog.” Something about the enforcer’s gruff sigh tells you he must say that a lot. The air of the hallways seems still, and you can’t tell if your nervousness is what puts an eerie feeling on your walk or the lack of people. For a city of progress, you figured the Academy would have more bustling inside the walls. But you do appreciate the peace, hands tracing the spine of your portfolio as you follow alongside the man in blue. 

“Is it usually this empty?” You chance the question.

“Mm, it’s break season ma’am. You’ll see more people in a couple weeks.” Right. This was technically a school. Students would be making up most of the populace. 

“Do you enjoy the quiet?” Small talk attempted.

“I do.” The same sigh he let out in the Professor’s company follows the two words. Small talk denied. 

You hum in acknowledgment, tightening your grip on your portfolio. The awkward silence that follows is broken up by sounds of boots on tile, someone ahead of you. Another enforcer by the looks of it, she glances at you before giving your guide a terse nod. He returns the gesture before slowing his pace in front of a door. He waves his hand towards it and starts walking away. 

“Shouldn’t we wait for the Dean?” Mostly you just didn’t want to be left alone in this huge building for another hour if the Dean loses track of time again. Another sigh, much more exasperated than the last two. He turns around to face you, annoyance on his face. 

“The Dean,” he practically hisses the word, “will be here eventually. Do not wander, just wait here.”

You just nod as he turns around again. Damned enforcers. This day is off to a wonderful start. He goes around a corner a dozen feet away and you drop your shoulders. You didn’t realize that your jaw was clenched either, opening your mouth to unflex the muscle. After waiting about ten minutes and not seeing anyone the annoyance of the day settles in your feet. You’ve kept an eye on either end of the hallway and go to lean against the wall when you realize the lab door isn’t fully shut. The locks are half jutting out, keeping one door barely propped open. You knock on it, hoping someone was in there. For company to pass time with, or to at least introduce yourself to the duo you were hoping to spend the foreseeable future with. 

“Anyone in there?” You say against the crack in the door. Nothing. The doors are heavy though, and you half wonder if anyone could even hear you. Tucking your portfolio under one arm you reach for the handle and give it a tug. Like it takes convincing, it takes a moment before it moves. 

“Hello?” Your voice isn’t loud but it startles the man inside, a head of fluffy brown whipping up from his work.

“Who are you?” The man is sitting at a desk and abruptly stands, reaching for a cane propped up next to him. 

Viktor hears those heavy doors open, and he’s expecting Jayce. Heimerdinger or even Councilor Medarda would have been expected over this person in front of him. You don’t have time to give him a reply before a voice answers. 

“This is Miss L/N. It seems I’ve lost track of this particular project, but she’ll be here to work with you boys.” Heimerdinger shuffles in behind you and Jayce behind him. 

“What? With all due respect Professor we don’t need more minds for Hextech. Viktor and I have it covered.” He walks past you and stands next to Viktor. The lithe man nods curtly.  

“You misunderstand me, she is here in accordance with a collaborative project with the Arts Institute.” The yordle turns to face you. “I am sorry my dear, I was supposed to have briefed them days ago, but as you know a scientist’s mind can be full of conclusions just waiting to be reached. We do not always fully think about the paths to get there.” He gives the two men a knowing look and you offer a small smile in return. “Perhaps you could explain it better.” He gestures to your portfolio still tucked under your arm. 

“Yes, I, uh,” You reach for it, fingers undoing the string that keeps it shut. “Your Hextech invention has sparked a lot of conversations across Academia as I’m sure you know. So much that it reached the Arts Institute. It seems that the Academy has been looking for a new art hall, several of my peers are meeting with your best students and researchers here.” You gesture to a relatively clean table with a “May I?” 

Viktor just looks at you but Jayce nods and Heimerdinger finds a step ladder to stand on. You begin to remove several papers from the carrier you’ve brought with you. A few blueprints of a new art hall, some letters from the Academy and from the Arts Institute, and finally some of your work. 

“The idea is the artists will make entirely new pieces for the gallery hall that’s to be unveiled at an eventual Progress Day, to do that we stay close with the scientists. It’s thought of as both an experiment and a hopefully beneficial relationship.” Viktor steps closer, cane tapping lightly on the tile of the lab floor. He picks up one the blueprints, his amber eyes scanning them over before handing them to Jayce. 

“And what exactly about this relationship would be beneficial?” He asks, he is looking over the letters now. It doesn’t go unnoticed by you that he hasn’t even looked at the art you’ve brought with you, or really you for that matter. Jayce is still looking over the blueprints when you answer Viktor.

“Mixing the Arts and Sciences, new ideas for both groups? On a larger level it helps both schools with funding and connections. It can help smaller artists get out there, being in an Academy art hall is huge and can get them connections to very profitable commissions and galleries. As for you inventors, it can memorialize you and your accomplishments. It gives your work a face! Er, well, faces in this case.”

“We have no need for this,” he’s shaking his head. ‘Hextech is to better lives, not be some glorified art project.” he flicks the corner of a letter. The dismissal stings, but you know something he doesn’t. 

“I am sorry my boys, but it is a non negotiable! Hextech may be to better lives, but it has caught a lot of attention. This is only the first step to controlling its image in a public way. You boys will be doing more dinners and speeches and galas and the like. It comes with the territory, trust me.” You notice he gesticulates a lot, and it's honestly endearing. His small fur covered hands moving around with one finger in the air. 

“The sentiment is appreciated, Professor, but what does Art have to do with us or Hextech.” Jayce asks as he puts the blueprints down and takes the letters from Viktor’s hands. 

“Art and Science have always mixed!” You do your best to subdue the frustration rising in your chest. “Take fractals, golden ratio, your craftsmanship starts with craftsmen. Surgeons learned how to create sturdier and safer stitches from fiber artists. If what the Dean has told me is true, you both should know better than anyone that sometimes an extra perspective is all that it takes for an idea to shine.” Heimerdinger gestures to your work with both hands, nodding his head encouragingly. When they both start looking at the pictures of your larger paintings and the smaller scale sketches on the table you try to keep speaking with the same confidence. 

“As you may have read in the letters, it’ll also be good to secure you more investors. You guys are going to need promotional materials as well. Not everyone who wants a piece of your pie can make the journey to Piltover but they want some of it regardless. It can be expensive trying to make progress, adding your faces or prettying up proposals can help secure that. Council support is one thing, but you also need the support of people.” 

They still haven’t said anything, just sharing looks as they spread the images out on the table.

You wring your hands together behind your back. This is stressful, and you’d like to go back to the institute soon. “To be honest with you, I’m one of several candidates to do your painting. If you don’t like my work, my style, what have you, I’ll leave. But someone else will be back to bother you two at some point about it.” 

A silent beat passes, and you’re wondering if the walk here was even worth it. Eventually they both lift their heads from the table and Heimerdinger leans towards them expectantly. You try not to do the same. Jayce looks at Viktor and the pale man gives a simple nod. He turns to you, and what he says has you sighing in relief. 

“What do you need from us?"

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---------------.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ Part 1-.-Part 3.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .----------------

------------‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙· Master Fic List *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊--------------

[blindmagdalena]

The Fall

2.8k mostly sfw homelander x reader. christmas adjacent. depowered homelander.

Summary: After being struck by an unidentified projectile that renders him powerless, Homelander crash lands in your backyard, wholly at your mercy.

this is a rework of this original prompt. inspired by the fable of the mouse that aids the lion whose paw has been stuck by a thorn.  ♡

Homelander is over a hundred feet in the air when he hears something whistling through the sky behind him. Some kind of projectile. A small missile, maybe. It's nothing he hasn't handled before: It could blow up in his face and he would be fine. He’s more curious about what exactly it is, who’s stupid enough to fire it at him, and where it’s coming from. 

With that in mind–in that split second he has to react–he decides to forgo dodging it and instead attempt to catch it.  However, as the mystery projectile gets nearer, his vision begins to tunnel. 

What the fuck? 

His reflexes slow, and before he knows it, the projectile strikes him hard in his left side rib, exploding in fumes that fill his lungs and coat his skin. In an instant, he feels pain like he's been turned inside out, a sensation worse than anything he’s felt since childhood. Instantly he's plummeting towards the ground, crashing directly into your backyard in an eruption of snow and yard furniture.

With his vision going black, the last thing he hears is the sound of the world turning deafeningly quiet.

When Homelander comes to, he's being shaken. No–compressed, hands over his chest, pushing again and again in a steady rhythm. Warm lips press against his, and a rush of air fills his lungs. His eyes snap open, and out of pure reflex, he drives his fist into your unfamiliar form, sitting up with a frenzied look in his eyes.

You should have flown back thirty feet with a hit like that. Instead, you only fell back onto your ass, coughing. Homelander's hands are shaking as he looks at them, and he can feel blood dripping from his ears, taste it in his mouth. He's disoriented, his whole body heavy. He's having trouble breathing, every ragged inhale a struggle, and his heart is pounding.

"Someone tried to kill me," he rasps in disbelief. Not surprised that someone tried, but that someone very nearly succeeded. "Someone... Someone tried to fucking kill me," he says again, growing more hysteric the more the pain sets in. His own brain is hammering against the confines of his skull, beating at the backs of his eyes.

He’s certain that he’s halfway to cardiac arrest, but no matter how he tries to focus, he can’t calm himself. His strength is gone. It’s gone. He looks at you, you, who should have a hole punched through your chest. Instead, you’re staggering to your feet, totally unharmed. 

"Homelander!" You address sharply, audibly trying to rein in your own bubbling panic. He can see his own fear reflected in your eyes. You’re just as confused as he is. Just a stupid little mouse that crawled out of your hole and found him like this. "I can help you, okay? Let me help you."

There’s something about the sharp authority in your voice mixed with an undeniable quiver of compassion that catches his attention. It could be the degree of his vulnerability sinking in, but after a second of dumbfounded staring, Homelander nods.

It must be pure adrenaline that gives you the strength to help him into your house. You don’t look like you should be able to carry him. He's practically dead weight in your arms, barely keeping himself on his feet as you both stumble into your living room. The height difference does neither of you any favors.

You get him down onto the couch before fetching a wet rag, a bottle of water, pills, and a first aid kit. He watches you fumble with it, hands shaking. He assumes it’s adrenaline, though you lack the acidic stench of it. No, you probably don’t. He just can’t smell it anymore. He can’t smell anything except the faint tinge of blood, and whatever nauseating scented candle you use to stink up your home. Though, even that’s distant compared to what he’s used to. However, he finds he doesn’t have it in him to panic. Is this what shock feels like?

He takes the water you offer him, but denies the pills. “No, no. I have no idea what that shit will do to me right now.” You nod, setting the bottle aside. You then lean over him, inspecting the level of damage. His ears are ringing, and his whole body is throbbing with sharp, painful aches. Maybe the pills would help, but he’s never had to take painkillers before. He’d rather swallow tacks than lean on something so pedestrian.

As you work, he notices a mottled mark blossoming darkly across the center of your chest, just under your collarbone, approximately the size of his fist. Without thinking, he reaches up to touch it, remembering the blow he’d dealt you.

You startle, looking down where he touches with a wince. The skin looks as tender as he feels. It must sting. Is he bruised like this beneath his suit? The thought of these same ugly dark marks mirrored on his own body brings him visceral disgust. 

"Don't worry about me," you tell him, as comforting as your voice can muster. You grasp his wrist and gently lay it back down at his side.

I'm not worried about you, he thinks derisively. "That should have caved in your chest."

"Guess it's my lucky day, then," you say absently, more focused on using a wet cloth to wipe away the blood from his temple, up into his hairline, seeking the injury. You're meticulous but gentle in the way you handle him, cupping the side of his face to turn him one way, then another.

If not for how clumsy your movements feel, he’d think you’ve done this before. There is care and determination in the way you tend to him, but no obvious medical expertise. Even the kit you pull from looks out of date and sparse. You probably picked it up from a gas station on a whim because you needed safety pins. "I think these need stitches," you say as you carefully apply bandages, brows furrowed. Homelander's gaze lingers on your lips as you speak. What kind of person sees someone fall out of the fucking sky, blowing a crater in their yard in the process, and then thinks to give them CPR?

"I'm calling an ambulance," you say, moving to stand. That breaks him out of his stupor. He catches you by the wrist, stopping you in your tracks, despite how pitifully weak his own grasp feels. "No, no, not... Don't do that," he says, screwing his eyes shut briefly. No one else can know that this happened. Besides, if those psychopaths are still out there, it will draw them right to him. "Too much attention, I just... give me a fucking minute," he says, flexing his hands. They still feel weak, tingling like they've fallen asleep, but the bizarre sensation is gradually beginning to abate.

Whatever was done to him, it doesn't seem to be permanent. 

He hopes to fuck that it isn’t. "Okay," you say tentatively. Instead of leaving, however, you reposition to continue wiping the blood from his face, gently rubbing from his temples down his jaw. He watches you like a hawk, rolling his fingers in and out of fists, gradually feeling his strength return to him.

He's unaccustomed to the way you're handling him. One hand cupping his jaw, ginger in the way you move his head only when you absolutely need to. The concern wrinkled between your brows is so palpable, so sincere, that for a moment he almost forgets you're strangers to each other.

"What're you doing?" He asks eventually, voice low. You pause, looking down to meet his eye. "Oh, I just... There's still blood, and I didn't want to leave you alone."

Your response tightens something in his chest, like a steel coil wrung too tight, leaving him uncomfortable. He feels small, vulnerable, and the tenderness of your touch is doing nothing for it. "I don't need you," he snaps defensively. "I'm fine."

"Okay," you respond, aggravatingly calm. Still soothing. "What do you need?" Homelander opens his mouth, but hesitates. Your earnestness is infuriating, waiting on bated breath for what you can do for him. He closes his mouth, jaw tight. His gaze flickers back down to the bruise on your chest. It's darker now, varying shades of purple and yellow fading into one another.

Looking back up at you, he schools his expression into calm focus. "Close the blinds," he says, gesturing with his head to the window, where you have twinkling white Christmas lights strung up. 

"I need to lay low awhile." He can feel his powers steadily returning. Once he gets back to Vought, he'll find out who it was, and rip out their fucking spine.

You've already gotten up to do as he asked, drawing the blinds down, and then closing the curtains over them. Afterwards, you turn to leave.

"Hey," Homelander calls, frowning. You stop in the doorway. "Where are you going?"

"The kitchen," you answer, hand on the doorframe. "You can call if you need something."

"Stay here," he says, ignoring the bit of petulance he can hear in his own voice. He doesn't care if you're confused. He doesn't care that he doesn't entirely understand himself. He just wants you to stay.

He watches you take a seat at the end of the couch, near his feet. He exhales, closing his eyes. It isn't as though you could do anything if proficient killers did appear, but for whatever reason, no matter how useless you would ultimately be, he feels better for having you near.

Even a curtain is better than no door at all.

After half an hour, his senses begin to sharpen again. It begins as a dull, irritating buzz at first. It has him rubbing at his ears, screwing his eyes shut. It rolls in and out of focus, making it difficult to adjust to. “Are you okay?” You ask from the other end of the couch, where you’ve been sitting with remarkable patience. Maybe you’re afraid of him. He hates not being able to tell by the rate of your heart.

“Peachy keen,” he replies flatly. “Hearing’s coming back.”

“That’s good,” you say, though the inflection you end with makes it sound more like a question.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s good, it’s just… Loud,” he says, grinding the heel of his palm into his temple. His skull is still pounding. “Everything’s all… Coming back in a jumble. Giving me a fucking headache,” he says, though as he speaks, he realizes he’s able to focus fairly well on the conversation, drowning out the more intrusive ambient sounds. “Keep talking.”

You look surprised by his demand, but after a beat, you oblige. After maybe an hour of idle conversation, he learns your name, that you work from home, you like decorating for Christmas even when you spend it alone, and that you've lived a thoroughly dull, ordinary little life until this very moment.

That’s just what you’ve told him.

From his personal observations, he's learned that you’re a perpetual fidgeter, that you touch your face when you're nervous, and that you would rather laugh than take any of his disparaging remarks about your mundane life to heart.

"I think it's lucky for you that I’m so boring. I might not have been here otherwise," you counter. Your smile is so inexplicably charming–nose wrinkled like you’ve somehow pulled a fast one on him–that Homelander forgets to refute your point. Instead, much to your alarm, he sits up.

"Oh, steady! Are you sure you're okay?" You ask, standing as he does, hands out as if to catch him. He stretches his hands out in front of him, and then curls his arms back in. Exhaling, his eyes flare crimson. He likes the way it makes your heart jump when he looks at you through the red glow.

His lips quirk, lasers fading out. "Good as new," he says confidently, though the aches of his fall still linger in his joints. Not quite new. He takes a few long strides across your living room, pausing in the doorway to your kitchen, where he can see through to your yard, and the absolute crater he left in it. "Vought will... take care of that," he says, gesturing vaguely to the destruction.

You can't help but laugh, crossing your arms loosely to survey the damage with him. "I appreciate it, but really, I'm just glad you're alright," you say honestly, staring out into the wreckage of your yard.

Homelander purses his lips slightly, glancing at you from his peripheral. Above him, he feels something brush the top of his head. When he glances up, what he sees hanging in the doorway makes him smile deviously.

Without warning, he puts his hands on your waist and spins you to him, lips landing warm and firm on yours. He absolutely devours the surprised little noise you make against him, halfway tempted to see what other sounds he can wring from you.

Your heart quickens to a race in his ears, and much to his delight, you kiss him back. You even surprise him by grabbing the back of his head with both hands, deepening the kiss of your own volition.

Not one to be out done, he adjusts his hold on you, one arm wrapping properly around your waist while the other slides up to cup the back of your neck, gloved fingers gently squeezing your bare skin.

To his delight, you retaliate with your tongue, slipping it between his lips and coaxing his forth.

Just full of surprises, little mouse.

Maybe you aren't so boring after all.

He meets you eagerly, exhaling a rough, excited little huff through his nose, dropping the hand at your waist to grab a cheeky squeeze full of your ass, wringing a soft moan from you that sends a bolt of heat straight to his cock.

When Homelander pulls back, you're flushed warmly all over. You smell of antiseptic wipes and peppermint, like Christmas in a hospital. It’s bizarrely appealing.

"What was that?" You ask, dazed.

"Mistletoe," he purrs, tipping his head back without taking his eyes off you, settling his hands back on your waist.

You look up slowly–taking a solid few seconds to process–and huff a gentle little laugh, nodding at the aforementioned ornament dangling above you. 

"Is this your way of saying thank you?" You manage to ask after swallowing back the lump in your throat, your shoulders relaxing, though your heart continues to gallop in your chest. "I hope you're still going to pay for my yard."

It's Homelander's turn to laugh. "Oh, no. I haven't even begun to say thank you yet," he assures you, hands lingering on your hips. 

The kiss had been pure unrestricted impulse, nothing he intended to follow through on. However, now that you're toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, your skin warm against his, your eyes half lidded, he’s not sure that he wants to let you go. Your lips shine where you’ve licked the taste of his from them. 

“I think for your good deeds, you’re owed a very merry Christmas,” he says, waggling his brows. 

You give a flustered, incredulous bark of laughter, covering your mouth as you look away from him, that flush of yours intensifying, making your whole body thrum warmly. You wouldn’t need to worry about keeping warm on these cold winter nights if he had his way with you.

“Okay, well, uhm, thank you for… for that thought,” you say, tripping over your words in a way you haven’t this entire encounter. “You hit your head pretty hard, though so maybe before you make any promises, we make sure you get checked out by an actual doctor,” you say, pushing lightly against his chest.

He maintains his hold for just a second longer, utterly immovable. It feels good to be himself again. He runs his tongue along his teeth, downright predatory in the way he stares down at you, but he does relinquish his hold.

“You should come with me to the tower. You know, now that you’re… Compromised,” he says, folding his hands behind his back. “Someone might come looking for me here. Interrogate you on my condition.”

Real fear flashes in your eyes at that. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he gives back gravely.

“Uh… Okay. Uhm, let me… I’ll pack a bag,” you say nervously, stepping away from him to do just that.

“Okie-dokie,” he gives back simply, glancing around your home while he waits. He picks up an odd little gnome with a big red hat that covers everything but a little button nose, and a long white beard. Maybe he’ll convince you to bring along some of your festive decorations.

Merry Christmas to me, he thinks, already daydreaming about twisting the head off of whoever hit him with some kind of neutralizing agent.

He might thank them for the impromptu date while he’s at it.

[nat-20s]

i know it's a little late, but everyone please enjoy this soft and sappy new year's fourteendonna fic!!! Also on ao3, if you prefer!

~~~~

As per New Year’s tradition, The Doctor and Donna were the only two members of the household that were awake past midnight. This year had been different than last, because at least this year Shaun had given a rather sleepy “woo!” and kiss to Donna at midnight, before promptly once again passing out on the couch. Sylvia and Rose had made no attempt to make it that late, the two of them staunchly morning people. Donna had to assume that that particular quality skipped a generation, as she had never once gotten out of bed before 10am of her own volition. Granddad had tried, bless his heart, but it was barely 9:30 before he gave a little wave and apology, heading to his room.

She would take it to her grave, but she sort of adored these quiet moments where it was just her and The Doctor. There was a sense of guilt about it, wanting to bogart his time for herself. However, this was both a: the only time that The Doctor would actually talk and b: something that Donna was about 78% sure he enjoyed just as much as her. It didn’t hurt that they were currently leaned up against the kitchen counter, pressed shoulder to shoulder, slowly nursing their sparkling apple cider. Donna would swear that she had a pleasant buzz in the back of her head going on, despite no one even bothering to buy champagne this year. Half of them couldn’t have it, and the other half didn’t actually want it. What a ridiculous, brilliant family she had.

Maybe it was the fact that it was one am, or that it was New Year’s, or just that she felt remarkably loose-limbed, but she simply had to break the silence. “So, spaceman, this is your second new year’s day with us. How’re you feelin about it?”

The Doctor turns to face her directly, pointing the gold sparkle 2025 glasses (that were physically incapable of looking anything other than deeply silly) he was wearing straight at her. There’s a moment, so brief she almost misses it, of contemplation, before it’s replaced by a too big goofy grin. “Oh, I’m just dandy.”

For that, she nudges him with her elbow. “Come off it, it’s only us. How do you actually feel about all...this?”

She waves in the general direction of the house, and makes the assumption that he gets she’s not talking about the furniture. His smile decreases to something more honest and his eyes, well, she hates to say that they twinkle, but they sort of do. “Good. Mostly. Yeah.”

Reasonably, she shouldn’t needle. Reasonably, she should leave it at that, enjoy finishing her cup of sugar that claims to have vitamins, and get them both to bed. Behaving reasonably wasn’t what made her and The Doctor best friends, though. Instead, she decides to change tactics. “When’s the last time we went stargazing?”

The Doctor’s expression morphs to the kind of concern that’s usually reserved for life-threatening situations. Or when she says she’s going grocery shopping without him. “Donna, we went out with Granddad last night? You’re not having memory-”

“-No, dummy, I mean proper stargazing. TARDIS, open sky, no atmosphere type of star gazing. ”

The crow’s feet around the corners of The Doctor’s eyes curl up, prominent enough that Donna can see them even with the obstruction of the glasses. If they weren’t in the middle of a conversation, she’d probably stroke them with her thumb. As it is, she simply listens as he lights up, saying, “Oh! Not since we had the run-in with the giant Artemisians.”

“God, that’s right. It was nice to have a breather, you know, after a giant shrimp tries to drown you.”

“I keep telling you that they didn’t understand the concept of not having gills, there truly was no ill will there.”

“And I keep telling you, a lack of ill will is worth sod all when a giant shrimp is trying to drown you. Unconventional methods of saying ‘hello’ are significantly less friendly when they almost kill you.”

The Doctor has the gall to roll his eyes at her, and she wet willies him. “Ey!,” is all he gets out before she sets down her drink down behind her, grabs a thermos, and sets out for the backyard. The Doctor scrambles behind her, even willing to take off his little party hat and absurd glasses before he goes.

Perhaps more confident than she should be, considering the TARDIS’s temperamental nature, she struts in, fills the thermos from the hot cocoa tap that appeared one day, and starts inputting coordinates. The Doctor quickly catches up, putting his head on her shoulder to watch what she’s doing. “Shouldn’t I take over from here?”

“Nah, she likes me better anyway.”

A gasp of hurt comes out of The Doctor. “She does not!”

“Really? Because the TARDIS has always taken me where I want to go. If that’s not a sign that I’m her favorite, I don’t know what is. Isn’t that right, ol’ gal?”

The lights of the TARDIS walls flash brighter, and Donna can feel a slight hum in the base of her skull. She can see The Doctor pouting in her peripheral vision, but nevertheless he hugs his arms around her waist and says, “’Spose it’s only fair, considering you’re my favorite too.”

Donna wrinkles her nose at that, but can’t quite hide her smile as she fiddles with a few knobs. “Sap.”

“Only for you.”

“Okay, first off, that’s not even true, second, double sap! At this rate you’re going to become a whole damn tree.”

The Doctor only responds with a little “mmm,” and snuggling even closer. All of which is very sweet, but reaching for the last lever she needs is a bit difficult with a 6 foot alien doing his best octopus impression. If this had been their first go around, she would’ve shoved him off. In this incarnation of, well, whatever they are, she simply does her best stretch while having a hyper-intelligent limpet attached to her.

Donna expects the typical moan and groan of the TARDIS, but apparently “Up” is a fairly simple task for her to complete. It’s mere seconds before they’re between the moon and Earth, and Donna’s ready to step out. She half walks, half drags The Doctor all the way to the TARDIS doors before he lets go. There’s a slight shiver that goes through her at the sudden lack of warmth, but the contents of the thermos will quickly amend that.

Pushing the doors to the side, she reveals exactly the view she had hoped they would get; the Earth at night, lit up in the intricate networks of humanity, and stars surrounding them. As The Doctor comes to stand next to her and look, she fondly thinks of their first night together having shared this exact same view a few billion years removed.

Quickly, she sits down, and pours herself some cocoa. She hesitates for a moment, thinking about how she’ll have to piss like a racehorse if she drinks too much, and then immediately decides she doesn’t actually care.

The Doctor immediately follows suit, and they simply watch the world for a few minutes, passing a cheap plastic cup between the two of them. After the cocoa needs refilling, she takes in The Doctor’s full body contentment, and almost, almost doesn’t interrupt it. Nevertheless, she asks, “Mostly?”

“Hmm?”

“You said things were good, mostly. What’s the not good?”

The Doctor turns to stare at her for a moment, then teasingly says, “The stargazing is a trap, isn’t it?”

Donna scoffs. “Of course not! The stargazing is because it’s a great view. The hot cocoa, on the other hand.”

The Doctor gives a bit of a laugh, then sets aside the empty cup in his left hand. He uses his right hand to take hers, then goes back to staring at the universe surrounding them. “It really is good, Donna. I didn’t lie to you when I said I’ve never been so happy, and that hasn’t changed. If anything, it becomes even more true with each passing day. I just,” The Doctor lets out a breath of a sigh, “I’m a bit worried is all. Not...not about anything major. Logically, I know that other me is doing his best for the universe, and who better to hand the keys off to? But. Well. I fear I’m losing myself. And worse, I fear that I don’t know if that’s a bad thing.”

Donna gives The Doctor’s hand a quick squeeze, a reassurance as she asks, “How do you mean?”

The Doctor give his her full force attention then, somewhat to her surprise. She had expected him to look anywhere but her. Instead, his pupils are darting back and forth, scanning her as if her face holds the answer to her own question. “Donna, I don’t feel like a time lord anymore.”

He turns away again then, taking a slow, deep breath before continuing, “I know that I am one. I know, fundamentally, that I am not a member of the human race, and that being a time lord isn’t about fulfilling a role, it’s more a state of existence. But it feels like a role, and one that I’ve quit. Retired from. Passed on to the next generation.

Even without whatever Tecteun did to me, the centuries, the lives I lived before I found you again, they seem distant. Like everything happened to someone else. Only the past year and half feel…”

The Doctor trailed off, and Donna found it shockingly easy to finish his thought. “-real?”

“Yeah.”

Donna places her head on the door frame, the forever night sky twinkling in front of her, and tells him, “I think I know what you’re getting at. It’s as if, I dunno, for fifteen years there was a woman named Donna Noble who got married and raised a child and bought a house and scrapped together a decent life for herself. She was strong, but she was also so sad, missing someone who didn’t exist. I’m grateful to that incredible, heart-broken person. She did a lot of things right, and some things wrong, and she dug up the space for the roots I’ve now placed down. But she doesn’t feel like me. It’s..it’s as if I suddenly woke up, when I got my memories back. I know it’s not true, I know that those actions, those memories are all mine, that I was never truly asleep. I don’t know her mind, though. I don’t thinkin the same way she does, I don’t act like her, I don’t even entirely sound like her. Maybe that’s how it feels for you, too?”

Donna thought she was sharing in a mutual understanding, but when she looked at The Doctor, he was devastated. “Donna, I am so sorry-”

“-Leave off! We’ve hashed that out a good ten times already, and that is not what this conversation is about.”

Everything about The Doctor was tense, but she watched him slowly force the stiffness from his body. “Yes, yes, I know. I am, but. I think that’s...pretty much exactly how I feel. Funny how that works. Same wavelength, for the two of us.”

“Sure, though, me feeling like a different person than the one in my memories isn’t quite as literal for me.”

The Doctor gives a “what can you do?” shrug, and goes quiet. There’s an..expectation in the air, at least she thinks there is, that if this conversation is to resolve, she has to be the one to do it. “The psychic paper says ‘John Noble’ by the way.”

“Huh?”

“When you flash your near universal fake badge. It used to list your name as ‘John Smith’, dumb fake name by the way, but now it says ‘John Noble.’”

He immediately looks down, poorly attempting to hide his face and his honest-to-god blush, and ohhh Donna wants to tease him about it so very badly. “Well, I, that’s as such. The psychic paper responds to the minds around it, so, that’s just. Yep.”

She grins, mostly sincerely, and shifts to lean on him. “I like it. Suits you. And, in light of it all, would it be so bad? You don’t have to, obviously, but. What if you didn’t have to be capital ‘T’ capital ‘D’ The Doctor, last of the time lords, the oncoming storm, whatever? Would you like to just be him, John Noble, regular bloke?”

“Regular? Eugh, makes me sound like a digestive system.”

He gets an elbow for that, and she amends, “Fine. Human then. Wanna join us down there on big blue ball in front of us?”

“It’d be wrong. Wouldn’t it? Yes. Right?”

It’s her turn to shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’m admittedly biased, but I think being human is rather nice, actually.”

“In that case. I think I’ve already joined you, haven’t I?”

“I think you have, Dr. Noble.”

“Oh, that does have a ring to it!”

Donna removes her hand from The Doctor’s so that she can hug his arm and watch the world continue. In a bit, she’ll have to get up, input the coordinates back home, and get some sleep. For now, though, she simply whispers, “Happy New Year, Doctor.”

“Happy New Year, Donna.”

[immoralkombat]

feeling(s)

Kenshi has been blind for maybe an hour or two.

Johnny looks over at him with sympathy. He's not sure what he could possibly do or say to make things seem any less bleak for him. The man was just trying to get his family's heirloom back and now, after months of training and dedication, one of his five senses is gone permanently through no fault of his own. If Johnny were in Kenshi's position, he's sure he'd be feeling just as desolate, if not more so.

Kung Lao is sitting in the far corner, talking to Baraka. He seems genuinely fascinated by Tarkat as a disease. Were Johnny not in the same situation as them, he would find that particular conversation topic a bit morbid. Right now, it's really all they have to talk about. They've already exhausted all the small talk options you normally go through when first meeting someone. They might as well start talking about the disease that'll eventually kill Baraka.

The salve on the cloth seems to have worked a little, because at least Kenshi isn't moaning in pain every few seconds anymore. Not that it makes things significantly more cheerful, but it does help the atmosphere a bit.

Johnny taps on his knees as he sits, eyes darting between looking at Kung Lao and Kenshi. He's kind of in between where the two have sat themselves, a visual and metaphorical median between the two ways one could possibly react to getting imprisoned by a sorcerer that's almost 100% going to kill you. (To be fair, there isn't much that connects the points of "casually talking about a stranger's terminal illness with them as though you're both standing by the office water cooler talking about whatever hit TV show is airing these days" and "rocking back in forth in the corner about how a different terminally ill stranger took your eyes and you have nothing left in this world." Johnny supposes the best middle point is "looking anxiously between your two co-workers and not saying anything because Jesus Christ, what the fuck are you supposed to say in this situation besides aforementioned terminal illness.")

He really wishes that Kenshi still had his eyes, because every time he looked at Johnny, it always seemed to make everything feel okay.

Johnny thinks for a second and then scoots closer to Kenshi. It's only once he accidentally bumps up against Kenshi's foot and scares the living shit out of everyone in the cell that he realizes he probably should've given an audible cue that he was going to be approaching the newly blind guy.

After Kenshi's done having a mini panic attack over the sudden Hollywood A-lister jumpscare he's gotten, Johnny looks at him and asks, quietly, "Do you want to hold Sento for a bit?"

Kenshi turns to face him and even underneath the newly christened blindfold, Johnny can tell that Kenshi is looking at him with the most surprised and reverent eyes in the universe. The kind of look that you'd get and say "fuck this stupid sword, I'd pay $3 million just to get this guy to look at me like that again."

Kenshi's mouth opens as though he's going to say something, but it shuts again before any words or sounds can come out. He opts to nod in response and Johnny takes the scabbard from off his back, holds it in his hands gently and passes it to Kenshi. Their fingertips graze one another, a way to indicate that the blind man is in the right spot. The touch sends crackles of electricity through Johnny and he wonders if Kenshi feels them too.

It's like the tattoos on Kenshi's hands are swirling around him, colors dancing in front of his eyes. It's more beautiful than any lame fucking Disney movie ever could be.

The yakuza's voice is hoarse as he says "Thanks." It's so small that Johnny can almost see it breaking in the air. He wants to put his hand on Kenshi's and tell him that things will be okay, that he's going to pay for a sight companion, any kind of corrective surgeries he wants, whatever it takes. He wants to tell him that he's still just as strong and fierce and goddamn handsome now as he was before. He wants to kiss him so fucking badly it makes his entire being ache.

He settles for saying "You're welcome," and then sitting next to Kenshi in silence.

He watches the way that he holds Sento in his hands, feels every single nick in the scabbard, every single imperfection. It's the first time in Johnny's life that he's ever wanted to be a sword and, if he keeps hanging out with Kenshi after this, (which he hopes he can), it almost certainly won't be the last.

Johnny wishes that Mileena had taken Kenshi's tear ducts with her after she'd stabbed his eyes out, because the short sad sobs that wrack through his body are almost too much to bear witness to. When he cries, it moves through his entire being. It sends a shockwave from his gut upward, makes him lurch his shoulders forward and hug himself.

"H-Hey, what's wrong?" Johnny asks. He knows it's a stupid fucking question, obviously everyone knows what's wrong, most of all the guy it happened to. But it's all he can think to ask as he watches Kenshi continue to awkwardly jerk alongside his cries.

Kenshi's head turns to face Johnny. From beyond the thin red cloth that covers his eye sockets, Johnny can feel them boring into him.

"Cage, could I touch you? I want to remember what your face looks like."

If Johnny were operating on his full mental capacity, he would probably explode at this question. He would become the fireworks they popped last night at the banquet over their heads as they feasted. He would be attached to one end of a fuse with Li Mei holding the other end, readying herself to spark it and send him to the stratosphere.

"Y-Yeah, of course you can, Ken-doll. Just make sure not to damage the goods - people pay good money for this mug to show up on their big screens."

The smugness in his voice would normally earn him a "tch" or a groan, (or an eye roll), from Kenshi. Hearing him chuckle under his breath makes his heart soar.

He turns his face toward him and waits, but no touch comes. His eyes close, he anticipates the electricity to come back... and instead he hears Kenshi clearing his throat awkwardly.

Johnny opens his eyes and finds that Kenshi's still got his hands on Sento. He tries not to be jealous of the sword again, but as with any other time he's tried not to be jealous of someone or something that has what he wants, he fails miserably.

"Could you get closer, Cage?"

"Not the first time I'm hearing that question, won't be the last. How close you need me, handsome?"

The words come out before he can even process them. Jesus Christ, is he really that much of a disaster that he can just openly call a guy he's been crushing on for at least a month handsome without even thinking about it? He's a fucking mess. His wife left him and now he doesn't know how to act. She was gonna be the only person he'd ever be able to trick into loving him and now she was gone.

"I'm going to turn, and I suggest you do the same. I want to be facing you. You can sit with your legs touching mine if it helps."

Great, now Kenshi has a colorful blindfold that also serves as a perfect swatch for the shade of red Johnny's face turns every time the man says something that's totally fucking normal for two people that are acquainted with one another.

Johnny does as he's told, because if there's one thing he's good at, it's taking directions. (Ignoring literally every single major motion picture he's ever been in, every statement he's ever made to the press after consulting his legal teams and public consultants, and generally living life up until this point.)

His knees knock against Kenshi's and it takes him aback for a second, how giddy and childish the butterflies he feels in his stomach are. Getting to know Kenshi was so simple. He wishes he had just taken a second and been less of a dickwad back when they'd first met, because maybe then it'd be easier for him to grow a pair of cajones and tell Kenshi that he doesn't spend a single night without thinking about how much he wants to trace the tattoos on his hands and arms. Maybe if he had just given Sento over, it'd be easier to admit that the low rumble of Kenshi's voice does something to stir up the pool of heat in his stomach that he thought had been long since gone after getting married to Cristal. Maybe if he hadn't tied Kenshi to one of his kitchen chairs, it'd be easier to ask him if kissing washed-up celebrities was something he'd be interested in doing.

"I'll put my hand out, you lean forward to match it."

Kenshi's palm is extended and it takes every ounce of willpower in Johnny's aching body to not press his lips against it. He leans forward until his cheek is lightly touching the yakuza's hand.

He must be hearing things, because he swears he hears Kenshi's breath hitch when they make contact for the first time. Nah, surely not. Must've been the wind.

If Kenshi's senses are heightened because of the loss of his vision, then Johnny's senses are heightened because of the gain of his touch. He purses his lips together to stop from letting out some sort of obscene sound as he feels Kenshi's hand slowly smooth over his cheek. He thanks whatever fucked up Gods exist other than Liu Kang that he finally got on that moisturizing routine that he learned off of TikTok three months ago.

As Kenshi's hand slowly feels out every angle and curve of Johnny's face, his thoughts rush a mile a minute. He wonders if he should've done a closer shave today - maybe his stubble is gonna be too sharp and it'll hurt Kenshi and leave him with little cuts or rug burn on his pretty perfect wrap-around-my-throat-please hands. He wonders if his nose is too big. He wonders if he maybe should've invested in hair plugs after that one weird SNL dropout made a comment about his weird square hairline back when he guest starred on the Comedy Central roast of Megan Fox. He wonders if his eyes are too small or too large or too close together or too far apart. He wonders if he should smile so Kenshi can feel his dimples.

"Yep, it all feels just like how I remember it. Although the stubble has gotten a little longer."

That is certainly not the answer he was expecting to hear.

His voice is small, barely there, as he chokes out his question. "You remember what I look like?"

Kenshi nods. "I do."

Johnny goes to open his mouth to ask, "Then why did you ask to touch it if you already knew?"

But then Kenshi's fingers are on his lips, tracing them with the reverence he'd have holding Sento, and for a moment, Johnny finally thinks he's better than that stupid fucking sword. His smile has the same curves, the same edges. The only difference is that Kenshi can't accidentally hurt himself this way. (He can, however, accidentally hurt Johnny. But even that would be better than the alternative, he thinks.)

Kenshi's thumb is on his bottom lip, the rest of his hand now holding Johnny's chin. If he tilts it up even one degree, Johnny thinks it'll be over for him, that he'll be kissing Kenshi before he can even think to stop himself. He'd always had poor impulse control - why else would he have spent $3 million on a fucking sword to hang up in his living room?

"These are the same, too. I'm glad you weren't hurt in the fight, Cage."

Johnny feels so fucking overwhelmed. He wants to ask so many things. First of all, what does "these are the same, too" mean? Second, why does he care about the guy who bought his fucking family heirloom and refuses to give it back? Third, why does he insist on calling him Cage like one day he won't end up calling him Johnny and breaking his heart? Fourth, what in the goddamn fuck does he mean about Johnny's fucking lips being the goddamn motherfucking same?!

Johnny decides to play it up like he always does. "Well, 'course. Gotta keep my pretty mouth. It's what makes the big bucks. I wouldn't be the same without it."

Kenshi smirks, and thank Liu Kang's weird god siblings that he's blind right now, because Johnny is beet red, mouth agape, with his eyebrows raised (and he's fairly certain that something else also rises).

"That's true. You would not be the same without that infamous mouth." Kenshi accents the compliment(?) with a playful slap to Johnny's cheek, and then his hand is withdrawn entirely, leaving an empty ghost where he should still be holding Johnny's face in his hands.

He bites back the urge to immediately ask if Kenshi wants to know just how infamous the mouth is, and settles for clearing his throat and moving back to sitting against the wall next to Kenshi.

He looks over at him after he's gotten calmed down. His heart is still jackhammering against his ribs, but as long as Kenshi can't feel his pulse, he doesn't have to know. Kenshi seems to sense Johnny's eyes on him because he turns to face him, red blindfold all that stands between the gaping holes where Kenshi's eyes used to be and Johnny's gaze full of adoration.

The yakuza grabs Sento from his lap and hands it back to Johnny.

"Thank you. I appreciate you letting me hold it. And I appreciate your help in grounding me back to reality."

Johnny nods, taking Sento back and putting it where it so wrongfully deserves to be, strapped against Johnny's sore fucking back.

"No problem. Lemme know whenever you get the urge to feel out what an Adonis looks like, I'm happy to oblige." His comment is a means to an end. He plays up the egoism to ignore the shock that courses through him as Kenshi's fingertips touch his one last time.

He resolves then and there to give Sento back as soon as they escape from here, and they will escape.

This cannot be the last time he feels Kenshi's hands on him.

Baraka whispers, about as well as he can without lips or an inside voice, "Do they not realize how much they yearn for one another?"

Kung Lao shakes his head, putting a hand on Baraka's shoulder and immediately regretting it once he feels a spike tear into his palm. "They've just gotta be stupid about it for a bit longer. They'll figure it out."

"Surely their pining has to cause some sort of agony for you as well, does it not, Earthrealmer?" Baraka looks genuinely confused, or as close to it as he can get from what Kung Lao can tell.

Kung Lao hangs his head, sighing languidly. "Of course it does. But what else am I gonna do about it? Tell them? They're not gonna believe me. Trust me, they've got to figure it out on their own time, or they never will."

And as he sees Johnny's hand inch closer to Kenshi's, finally overlapping the tattoos and interlocking their fingers, Kung Lao thinks that maybe the agony won't last much longer.

[kitnita]

the little sparkles surrounding the three of them, of course, symbolize the fact that the entire fourth line needed to fight three separate times for the team to be able to score two goals.

[saiintvalentiine]

Summary: Ken walks into the aftermath of Parrot finding out Wifies is actually a clone. He should be given sainthood for how little he kills Parrot. Part 2 now out!

notes: this is so not edited lol i wrote this in like. 3 hours between tasks at work. rip. this is vaguely set in the most recent UU episode in that i needed a setting and also a reason for ken wifies and parrot to be in the same place at once. no spoilers for the episode its just alluded to being the setting. uhhhh. i think thats it. enjoy. divider from here.

word count for the curious: 2678. allegedly.

Ken arrives in the meeting room with a hop in his step. He’s been looking for Wifies everywhere, but Dean let him know that Wifies was talking with Parrot, and now Ken can finally show him the little tricky trap he’s been working on! He’s proud of himself. It’s a really good design! So he’s hopping into the room like a rabbit instead of a cat.

Parrot stands alone at the head of the table, back to the door. Just Parrot.

Bleh.

“Yo,” Ken greets even though he still feels the urge to whack Parrot across the head occasionally. “I thought Wifies was here?”

“Did you know?” Parrot asks.

Ken can feel every single part of his body prickle with discomfort. He’s glad that Parrot isn’t looking at him, so he has a chance to lower his shoulders, and tail, and ears. And attitude. He knows, somehow, what exactly Parrot means by knowing. Ken shuts the door silently.

“Know what?” Ken asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Don’t play dumb Ken. Did you know about Wifies being a clone?”

Ken breathes in slowly. He pulls his comm out and checks the playerlist. Wifies is gone. He was here only a few minutes ago when Ken last checked, which means that whatever happened, just happened.

“Did he tell you that?” Ken asks, opening Wifies’s chat.

[_Kenadian_]: where are you?

“You know, I was so confused,” Parrot turns around, eyes distant and face blank. “When I first met him, he was such a fucking asshole. Entirely full of himself. Still the smartest guy I’d ever met, though, so when all this stuff started happening on the server, I couldn’t help but think of him. I thought I was gonna regret inviting him, yet he was so quiet and nice now.”

[_Kenadian_]: wifies

[_Kenadian_]: seriously where are you

“He was always reserved, even before, but all these little things started coming up— he couldn’t remember things well, he’d talk about weird things in his sleep, things like that. And I couldn’t even. . . I didn’t know how to piece it together, and he wouldn’t talk to me!”

[_Kenadian_]: wato

[Wato1876]: Hey!

[_Kenadian_]: have you heard from wifies

[Wato1876]: No?

[Wato1876]: Isn’t he on unstable w/ you right now?

[_Kenadian_]: he left and isnt answering my messages

[_Kenadian_]: parrot found out, idk how, and now wifies is /gone/

[Wato1876]: ok I’ll check around for him

[_Kenadian_]: thx

“Are you even listening?” Parrot asks, and Ken finally looks up at him. His expression is one of desperation. It disgusts Ken.

“No,” Ken says, voice bone dry. “You yelled at him didn’t you? God Parrot, and I was just starting to respect you.”

“He lied to me this whole time!” Parrot explodes, eyes wild as he leans his hand on the table. “From the start, he hid this from me, and I only found out by— by sheer coincidence! He was talking to someone on his comm, and said something about being a clone, and I just—”

“Wait, who was he talking to?” Ken interrupts with a frown.

“I— I don’t know, they had a deep voice, talked really particularly?”

“Must’ve been Retro. . . Retro knows?” Ken mutters to himself.

The shame Wifies stews in every day because of his clone status is something Ken hasn’t been able to push past; Wifies always says he owes his life to Ken, but rarely does he bother to share his burdens with him either. Which means at least Retro seems to be getting through to him. . . It stings a little, but Ken has bigger fish to fry.

“So you did know!”

“Parrot, why do you care!” Ken snaps, turning back to his comm and searching for Retro’s contact information. Shit. He should’ve nabbed it off of Wifies earlier. “You drove him off! He’s not your fucking problem now, shouldn’t you be happy?! There! You cleaned your friends list of liars! Aren’t you satisfied with your work?!”

“I just wanted to know the truth, I didn’t want to drive him off! He's not a problem to get rid of!”

“Well great fucking job, man, go kick rocks or something. Fuck, where did he go?!”

[Wato1876]: Found him. He’s at the factory.

[Wato1876]: Ken, his comm is cracked right in half. He’s stuck here again.

Ken feels everything in him rear like a lion. He closes his comm and tucks it into his pocket. Slowly, oh so slowly, he stalks around the table towards Parrot, holding the hilt of his sword in a loose grip. Parrot follows his path with his eyes, feathers puffing out and fists clenched.

“Did you break his comm, Parrot?” Ken asks casually.

“No,” Parrot replies.

“Parrot. Tell me the truth. Did you break Wifies’s comm? Even by mistake?” Ken’s gums ache. He’ll dig his teeth into Parrot’s thin throat. He’ll rip his flimsy little esophagus out.

“No, no. I didn’t. I didn’t touch him. I didn’t. I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t know if you wouldn’t, Parrot, but I swear to everything you hold dear, if I find out it was you who broke his comm, you are going to wish I had just killed you instead,” Ken hisses out.

“His comm is broken?” Parrot echoes faintly, and it’s like gravity returns to his world, his feet landing back in reality.

“I don’t think you deserve an answer, Parrot, but yes.”

Ken tries to breathe through his anger. He’s going to believe Parrot for now.

[_Kenadian_]: ill be there soon

[Wato1876]: Bring a replacement comm?

“I was mad,” Parrot sounds wretched. “But not— I don’t care that he’s a clone Ken. I just felt like he didn’t trust me.”

Killing Parrot would make Wifies even sadder. Killing Parrot would make Wifies even sadder. Killing Parrot would make Wifies even sadder. Killing Parrot would make Wifies even sadder. Killing Parrot would make Wifies even sadder.

“I never trusted you, Parrot, not once, not for a single moment, but you made Wifies happy. I don’t know what he sees in you, but he was happy playing second fiddle to your stupid little orchestra on here, y’know? So I tried very hard to get along with you, so Wifies could stay happy,” Ken lets go of the hilt of his sword to press a sharp nail into Parrot’s chest. “You don’t understand the state I found him in before he came here, before you roped him into your stupid little games. He—”

Ken’s voice cracks and he curses, indistinct and abstract. He hates this. Leave it to Parrot to fuck everything up, just like Ken always knew he would with his lack of foresight and planning and brain. Parrot snaps up to grab Ken’s hand in a tight grip.

“Ken, I didn’t want him to leave me,” Parrot chokes out. “I just wanted to know, I just—”

“And look at where your wanting got him!” Ken spits out, yanking his hand away. “You want, and want, and want, Parrot do you even care what your wanting costs the rest of the world? What it costs Wifies?”

“He never says anything to me, he never—”

“Do you ever ask?! God Parrot, get out of your head for a minute!”

Ken runs a hand through his hair. Where is he gonna find a replacement comm? He might have something in one of the prison servers he frequents, but his head is scrambled, he can’t quite sort through his inventory in his head to figure out what he has right now. He may have one in his escape kits. . .

“Ken,” Parrot breathes. He finally realized what he’s done, it seems. Ken wants to stab him in the stomach. “Ken, I care about Wifies more than anyone else. You know that right? He knows that right?”

Ken pulls at his roots.

“I don’t know anything about Wifies right now,” Ken finally says, exhaustion creeping into him as his adrenaline runs dry. “I can’t contact him right now. He gets. . . bad, when it comes to the clone stuff. God, Parrot, what the hell have you done?”

Ken doesn’t wait for an answer. He leaves the server and lands in his solo world, scrambling around his storage before finding a dusty old comm he hasn’t used since he customized his current one. Landing near the factory is always a displeasure, but he pushes his feelings aside and enters. It takes a little searching, but he finds Wifies and Wato in the office, laid out on the floor next to each other.

“Wifies,” Ken says, more to say something than having anything to say, and he sits next to Wifies.

“Sorry for scaring you,” Wifies says. His voice is hoarse, and his eyes are bloodshot. “My comm broke. I dropped it while it was open, and I fell on it.”

“I brought you an old one I had laying around,” Ken says, bringing a hand up and running his fingers through Wifies’s curls slowly. Wifies closes his eyes. “What happened?”

Wifies doesn’t answer at first, just breathes evenly and relaxes each part of his body. He's so tense. Ken wishes he had killed Parrot.

“Parrot found out,” Wifies whispers. “I was talking to Retro. He’s been. . . helping me decipher some stuff from the notes. It was important. And I called him, and Parrot heard, and he was livid. That I hadn’t told him. That he couldn’t trust me. So I left.”

“He’s an asshole,” Wato says, and both Wifies and Ken turn to look at him in shock. “What?”

“Wato, there’s a reason why we’re such good friends,” Ken says with a grin. “Because I, too, believe Parrot is an absolute asshole.”

“You guys always knew, but I lied to him,” Wifies says. “I don’t know if he’s an asshole for being upset I didn’t tell him.”

“Yes he is,” Ken and Wato say together.

“There’s no reason to defend him out here,” Ken scolds, scratching Wifies’s scalp lightly.

“I don’t hate him, Ken,” Wifies lets out a deep, winding sigh before sitting up slowly. “Can I have the comm? I need to message Retro. Tell him everything’s okay.”

“Fine.”

Ken hands over the comm and Wifies thanks him faintly. As he boots it up and logs in, Wato sits up and gives Ken a look. Ken returns the look. Before they can descend upon Wifies and force him to talk about his feelings, the comm begins pinging wildly, messages flooding in and not stopping. Peeking over Wifies’s shoulder, Ken makes a disgusted expression at Parrot’s chat being at the top of Wifies’s DMs. Parrot is absolutely spamming Wifies’s inbox. Ken’s going to eat him for dinner.

“Ah,” Wifies says. He then proceeds to ignore Parrot to text Retro. Good. Fuck that guy.

“What does he want?” Ken asks, not because he really cares but because if Parrot pisses him off again, he can justify going at him with an axe.

“Maybe. . . Maybe not right now,” Wifies’s voice is weak.

The messages roll to a stop. Good! And then Ken’s comm starts ringing off like shots. Goddamn it. Ken pulls out his comm. It is Parrot. Awful. Now Wifies and Wato move to peek over his shoulder as his inbox becomes utterly unusable.

[Parrotx2]: Ken

[Parrotx2]: I’m sorry

[Parrotx2]: not to you

[Parrotx2]: well I can be sorry to you too but I’m sorry that I reacted like that to Wifies

[Parrotx2]: and I just need him to know that I’m sorry

[Parrotx2]: and I know you hate my guts

[Parrotx2]: but you said he was happy right? I made him happy

[Parrotx2]: I don’t think I’ve ever made someone happy by just existing

[Parrotx2]: cause fuck, it’s not like I’ve done anything for him

[Parrotx2]: Ken what the fuck did I do

[Parrotx2]: please just let him know I’m sorry

[Parrotx2]: and that I didn’t mean to blow up

[Parrotx2]: you’d think I’d be used to betrayal but with him, it felt so much worse than betrayal

[Parrotx2]: like I had failed to be trustworthy

[Parrotx2]: the reveal was a lot, but I felt more hurt than disgusted or scared

[Parrotx2]: I don’t care if he’s a clone

[Parrotx2]: I mean I care if he wants me to care. I want him to want me to care about him.

[Parrotx2]: I care about him in general

[Parrotx2]: plus whoever the guy before him was was a bitch

[Parrotx2]: he’s like so much better in a million ways

[Parrotx2]: not the point

[Parrotx2]: the point is my caring of him is not reliant on his clone status

[Parrotx2]: I can tell he’s got a comm now cause my messages are showing up as received

[Parrotx2]: does he hate me now?

[Parrotx2]: he has every right

[Parrotx2]: I can’t even pretend that he shouldn’t hate me

[Parrotx2]: Ken I don’t want him to hate me

[Parrotx2]: I don’t know if I can live with that

[Parrotx2]: I fucked up so badly

[Parrotx2]: the worst part is I trust him

[Parrotx2]: I made this whole fuss about trust and I still trust him

[Parrotx2]: of course I do, he’s the single most trustworthy person I’ve ever met

[Parrotx2]: I’ve slept in the same room as him for months and I never even worried

[Parrotx2]: he could’ve left or betrayed me or killed me literally at any point

[Parrotx2]: and he never did! even if it would’ve made his life easier

[Parrotx2]: what the fuck was I thinking?

“Ugh. Do you wanna talk to him right now?” Ken asks, turning his head towards Wifies. He gets a face full of sweet smelling curly hair.

“. . . I don’t know,” Wifies says, resting his chin snuggly onto Ken’s shoulder.

[_Kenadian_]: can you shut up. jesus.

[Parrotx2]: sorry

[_Kenadian_]: yes he has a comm now

[_Kenadian_]: he’ll talk to you when he talks to you

[_Kenadian_]: you made him cry yknow

“Ken!” Wifies hisses, cheek warming up where it’s now pressed to the side of Ken’s throat. “Why did you tell him that?”

[Parrotx2]: fuck I’m sorry

[_Kenadian_]: yeah he knows

[_Kenadian_]: just

[_Kenadian_]: give him some space

[_Kenadian_]: also dont text me like that whats wrong with you

[_Kenadian_]: i want you so dead its not even funny

[_Kenadian_]: this is the SECOND time you make him cry

“Ken!!”

[Parrotx2]: I

[Parrotx2]: what?

[_Kenadian_]: wouldnt you like to know bird boy

[Parrotx2]: why would you tell me that

[_Kenadian_]: you need to understand the consequences of what you do

[_Kenadian_]: wifies never lets you see but i do and i think you should writhe

[_Kenadian_]: you care so much? lets see.

[_Kenadian_]: writhe bird boy writhe

“That’s mean,” Wifies says as Ken closes his comm, but he doesn’t move a single muscle.

“You should’ve made it worse,” Wato says. “Should’ve told him Wifies was comatose or something.”

“Jeez, since when are you so vicious?” Wifies asks, but Ken is almost certain he and Wato are holding hands behind Ken’s back.

“I approve,” Ken says, bumping his head into Wato’s lightly. “Anyway, take as long as you want to ignore Parrot. Forever, even. I’d also approve of forever.”

Wato hums in agreement. Wifies sighs again, much lighter than before.

“Just a little while,” he says to Ken’s vast displeasure. “Just until I can stomach it. I shouldn’t have run away.”

“You’re allowed to do whatever you want, actually. Forever.”

Wifies giggles, and Ken finally feels himself relax a little. If Wifies is laughing, then it’ll be okay. He still feels anger pulsing within him like a second heartbeat, but it softens when Wifies bumps the top of his head into Ken's cheek. Not gone, never gone, but quietened enough to let Wifies speak for himself.

Ken trusts Wifies despite his own opinion. So he'll keep true and hold Wifies close no matter what.

“We still gotta talk about your feelings,” Wato says, and Wifies whines, trying to hide his face further into Ken's shoulder. 

“It's so embarrassing,” he murmurs.

“I'd be embarrassed too if I cried over Parrot of all people,” Ken deadpans. 

Wifies groans. Ken won't let him get away this time.

[pyjamacryptid]

This is the first time I've ever participated in a Big Bang, let alone After Camlann! I had an absolute blast drawing these illustrations for @thenerdyindividual's fic The Challenge of the Fey Court, but it's not nearly the amount I wanted to draw! Nerdy's writing had me so inspired.

I highly recommend checking out Nerdy's fic, especially if you're weak for fae/fairies, arranged marriage, two sides of the same idiot completing challenges together, and merwainethur.

The Challenge of the Fey Court is [here] on Ao3!

And thank you to my art beta @macaritaville, I appreciate your advice and assurances so much! <3

[andro-beaurepaire]

He could not recall a time when someone had handled him with such deliberate care. The tenderness, unexpected and unlooked for, left a breathless ache in his throat.

To his horror, he realized that he was weeping.

“Tenzing,” Laurence, and with shaking fingers, raised a hand to Tharkay's face. Tharkay drew in a sharp breath and pressed his cheek more firmly against Laurence's palm. Tharkay's eyes were closed, the skin beneath Laurence's palm turning wet. “Always. My hands for you always, Tenzing. “

- Illustrations for @verdet-cadet 's masterpiece My Hands to Hold You Fast ♥ If you haven't read that story yet, please, please go give it a try, and give it all the love it deserves !!

[lanternlightss]

dewdrop leaves

> this was written for day 3: immortality/corruption! and of course i could not pass up the opportunity to write a corrupted venti, and bard’s reaction to it <3

Though Venti does not necessarily feel the sensations such as “warmth” or “cold,” the sheer thickness of Dragonspine’s chill tries its hardest to threaten that motion. It clings to him, weaving around and through the fabrics of his clothing, wrapping his limbs. Frost dapples at the tip of his nose, extending to his cheeks. It coats his clothing, too, the material starting to crinkle, turn firmer, and rigid.

(During his flight to here, his hat had been tossed off, and his cape’s bow had been torn unevenly….. how he quite liked those….)

When he lands, sprawled out onto all fours, sinking into the snow and feeling how it gives in, the beginnings of ice fall from him in clumps, sloughing. He extends his wings, fluttering them, and watches as even more are flicked off from the action.

Going to stand, a sharp pain pulls at his chest, seeming to bounce off of the space where a rib-cage would be, before it spreads throughout the rest of him, pinpricks of blazing flares. He doubles over from it, his forehead and bangs pressing into sparkly white (his braids choosing to sprawl across them instead.)

Making the decision to fully lay his upper half onto the snow, and partly burrow there, wings folding to slide more onto his form, it—for a moment, upon the first touch—feels almost soothing. Rubs at the itchiness lying beneath this imitation flesh, one that strikes and tears and shrieks at him every passing minute that goes by. Each louder, more vicious, than the last.

Venti grimaces.

With a tremble, he pushes himself up, crawling forward to fresher snow—areas where he did not mess with. Raises his hand, watching as the deep blue (nearly a shade close to the night sky, dotted with small magentas) covering his fingers and palm reaches up, up, up, a little past his wrist, in splotches. Racing alongside the blue, is deep, fracturing golden lines and cracks, painted across in random strokes. He flexes his hand, wincing, and noting he has his talons, as well.

(There is a prickle on his back, too, where feathers begin to sprout, beneath the pair of wings he already has out.)

He huffs a breath and continues to stand, shaking off the snow when completely upright. Crouches slightly, one foot forward, stancing for a flight into the sky once more—for as much as he would like to, Venti cannot stay here, it is too close to Mondstadt still, and there is a concerning pressure building within him, one that he fears may blast away everything here.

Wings flap, he leans. Snow then scatters and sprays in various directions, from his take-off.

The corruption worsens as his journey continues—that accursed statue, but its situation was becoming harrowing—sending shocks so severe that it has his wings beating harshly to keep himself righted. Even more terribly is when the ruins of Old Mondstadt come into view, and the extra wings find this the perfect time to sprout in full, snapping out, and colliding against the ones above them.

That has him stumbling into one of the many strong currents dotted around; where he allows them to spin him in a lift, and he dips towards the ground when they let go, upon where he forces his wings to untangle, opening and catching wind. He twists, pivoting, aiming towards the ground, his surroundings a blur—and lands onto a patch in a cloud of dust. Once it has cleared, he remains in his position, sitting on his knees, hands pressed to the sides of them as he leans slightly forward.

(Belatedly, he realizes he has lost his cape, and shoes.)

Venti heaves. The pressure from before is unbearable now. The blue-gold has creeped up his arm, the splotches trailing off in fading dots when it reaches where his archon form’s gloves would end, and he presumes it is the same for his legs—though, he can feel a weight at the back of his head, half-formed, in what could only be a halo. Go and break him down to his more divine forms, why don’t they!!

Bubbling. Too much of it, his grasp on everything fraying, thinning, even as he scrambles in an attempt to keep it locked shut, fingers twisting and flailing—the threads of wind, patches of time, the weather, it slips, becoming fuzzy. A gratitude undercuts it, a vague thankfulness that the ruins have sunken enough to fit the wrath of a thrashing God, a vague thankfulness that Dvalin had been sent away beforehand, before it is overrun by the thoughts—what if this is not enough? Will they fall, to his hands, just as the tyrant had done to them? Will he lose what he has fought to protect, what he has set everything to prevail for?

He cannot lose anyone again—

His imitation heart splinters and spills, the corruption truly sinking in. His vision blurs around the edges, flashes of gold tracing them, his breaths coming out labored..

(He knew, when Dvalin had been corrupted by the Abyss, that he was hurting—if it was to this extent, he wishes he could have soothed away everything.)

Around him, the wind races, becoming erratic, kicking at any surface it can find, zipping across in uneven lines. He leans further, wings curling, and the distant sounds of this place are doused, muffled, becoming white noise—a consistent ringing, overlapping

Underneath his hands and legs, the ground shrivels. The wind grows harsher, rocks being scraped across, propelling into the air and torn asunder, the glowing crystals diminishing to mere crumbles of rock. Both the dirt and grass are dragged from the ground, plucked and ripped. The intensity continues to ramp, the noises becoming overwhelming, ringing in his ears pitching, finding that his hands have raised to grip at hair, that his wings seem to wrap around him completely as he—

As rapidly as it had seemed to start, it feels as though something grabs hold of him and yanks to a halt. Venti gasps, cut hair strands falling around him.

The winds stutter, and the ringing fades. He jerks up, hands still embedded into his hair, and finds that… the place he landed in was not so deserted. Their tree stands, swaying, waving hello.

And, that everything had truly come to a messy standstill; threads of teals dipped in a bleeding mixture of a blue-gold suspended in a whirling vortex, a few parts of the wreckage they had caused gently floating besides in its grasps. The threads are not all the same, some of them cutting in dotted lines as they zoom, some of them having their lines wavering to point it threatens dispersing, some of them are thoroughly solid, some of them are splitting into branches, teal twisting and curling, and—

And—

And…

Blue eyes blink, fluttering as if just awoken.

He rubs a hand at the right one, brows furrowing at his surroundings the more aware he becomes of them. Pure raven-black braids sway, as he swivels his head, and Venti notes with a whirlwind in his mind, that the locks have stray strands flicking out from not only the braids, but the bangs, and hair that frames the face. Windswept. The clothes, as well, are missing the tear in the bottoms of the shorts, the tops of his boots, and his right sleeve. If he were to turn, there would certainly be holes in his cloak, too.

But—if he does not have those, then how is he…?

A gale is thrown into the cliff, repeatedly, tearing apart the ground, as they respond to Venti’s dread.

His eyes widen, then narrow.

No, no, no, no, no. Stop looking at him like that.

Venti hunches into himself, talons clenching and shredding more strands of hair. The gale intensifies, lashing behind him, carving out chunks and causing the ground to rumble in its fury. He bares his teeth—wanting to shriek, to grab at his head and!!!!

Stop looking at him like that!

(Why wouldn't he?

A wind out of control? A wind that slices, destruction in every path? Why would he not back away from it?)

He tilts his head, starting to stand, and his expression shifts at Venti flinching away from his approach, the wind whipping to a higher degree with the flinch. He goes to take a step forward, the grass he steps upon having a simmering, bubbling line of a thread hovering there—and there is a quiet screeching as the threads are forced away, unraveling in spools and flinging out towards the cliffs; it has him jolting away from it, one step taken back, boots hitting the ground and kicking up dust.

His gaze snaps up to Venti’s.

(He has a fleeting thought, a moment where the minuscule inch of himself that the corruption has not touched speaks; that he should fix everything, that this mess has gotten severely out of hand, to fly off deeper into the ruins before he does something truly regretful.

But it is just that—fleeting.

Because at the attempt to follow through with the ideas laid out, the corruption rushes to overtake that last final inch, smothering and snuffing it out without regard. It halts Venti’s hands when he tries to wave them, refusing to let them budge the Bard in front of him, dark blue and gold chaining them to remain where they currently are. You do not truly want that, do you? It whispers, false care and comfort in its voice. You wish for him to stay, so here he will stay.)

That gaze of his shifts once more, briefly scrutinizing, then the ever so slightest of widened eyes, before reaching a blankness. It seems that something has clicked. He tries again, purposefully angling his path to the swirling threads, and Venti grits his teeth as he moves them away, hooking a finger round them and pulling, so that no interactions happen between them and him.

(And, how during this, he sees—for a moment—a glimmer of something magenta across his form.)

And blast it all—

Venti raises himself and situates his legs into a crouch, his wings flaring unraveling from around his form. And bounds.

He crosses the distance between the two of them in seconds. Nose mere centimeters away from his, Venti grits his teeth, watches as the other blinks owlishly at him, as if not expecting to be approached so suddenly, especially not like this, Venti poised in a manner similar to that of a cat pouncing still.

“Keep off from those,” he nearly growls, “Can you not see that they—”

Hands shoot out, to place themselves on his cheeks. Venti falters, words dying in his throat.

“What has happened to you?” He murmurs, gently tipping Venti’s head up, to the side, checking the dark-blue that has climbed up to his face, “Your teal… where has it gone? Have you always had gold?”

He swallows. A twitch goes throughout him, one that does not go unnoticed by him.

And, oh. That was what had clicked.

The words build, his tongue bubbling, bitterness and sweetness coating it. A name he has not said for centuries, a name he has kept clutched close to him, hidden in the palms of his hands, in the place where a heart would be beat.

Venti’s mouth opens, and croaks: “Cecil….?”

He pauses, meeting Venti’s eyes.

“Hello, little bird,” Cecil replies, softness in every feature of his. “Ah—I suppose you would be an angel now, hm? How much you have grown…”

The softness does not last long, his brows knitting as he thinks, a frown replacing that wondrous smile of his. His fingers trace the edges of the colors, outlining them, almost, a silent fury and puzzlement to the actions. “But, my friend—why are these… like veins? Why do you hurt? Did someone else do this to you?”

(I will hurt you, I will hurt you, you need to get away from me—)

“No one. This is my own doing, you see,” he says, offering a reassuring look, “I am not hurting at all.”

And—that is true, if partly. There is no stabbing prodding at him any more, attempting to wrench him towards the ground so he stays there. It aches most certainly, however, the wind underneath his skin thrumming as it races incessantly.

Cecil’s brows scrunch.

He steps forward to pull Venti closer, his right hand falling down to his waist, tracing a tear in his clothing, and… ah. Ah. He revokes everything he had said about snow and their so-called “soothing effects” beforehand, this is so much better than it, he curses them and nearly purrs at the feeling of his friend being a breath away from him, his touch curling into his bare skin so softly, lovingly.

Venti chases it.

All but lunging into him, Venti dives his head into Cecil’s chest, careful of the halo behind his hair—do not want to slam it against him. The rest of his body follows suit, his arms encircling around Cecil’s torso (with his hands carefully closed, knuckles pressing into the fabric of the green vest), knocking their legs together so that he can hook it around one of his dear’s, and his wings complete it all by flaring out to then snake around and envelop them both. Feathers brushing against skin and cloth with every other breath.

(The wind has gone still.)

“Oh,” Cecil gasps, startling at something, “you have six wings? I only saw four… have your limbs been multiplied, too??”

Does he? Venti thinks dazedly. It must have happened when the pain was ramping up, he could not distinguish it under all the other sensations attacking him. He had wondered how far the transformation would go—his most divine form has much more than four wings and a halo.

He does not give Cecil a response. Choosing to nuzzle into his clavicle instead, head going even fuzzier, thoughts narrowing to Safe safe safe, stay stay stay, love love love, here here here.

And—what an idea.

Cecil’s chest expands, as he inhales, exhales. It takes a moment, but he begins to reciprocate, an arm going around Venti’s back, between the middle wings and bottom ones. The other arm lifts to the space above Venti’s shoulders, near his nape, pulling him further into himself. He rubs at those places, in small, circle-like motions, and it has the God wholly melting in his arms.

“Is this alright?” He asks, “Is this helping?”

“Mmmmmhmmmm…..”

Gradually, the threads dissipate, dropping closer to the ground, and having the wreckages they carry collapse against the water around the tree, the dirt and rocks. Twist higher into the air at the end, then wobbling, and falling apart. He watches it all, a steady thrumming sounding in the air the longer he holds onto Venti. For one of them, he tests, to see; what would happen if he nuzzled into Venti’s cheek, patting at his back? The answer: it causes the threads to speed up, swooshing so swiftly, that he hardly has time to blink before the teal is fading.

Eyes wandering, they slide to—

Ah! Cannot have that, can we? Venti blocks his view with his right most top wing, fluttering the appendage to truly catch his attention, making his dear jolt in surprise. See, if Cecil is to stay by Venti’s side, then it should be away from here—the safest spot is the Tower, but he would not like that very much. Perhaps they should cross to the Dandelion Sea?

“Venti?”

“Hmm..?”

Cecil raises his hand up, to tap to the back of his head, his knuckles briefly brushing against the halo. He lets it stay there, for long enough that he can weave strands of hair around his fingers, to light tug at them—a non-serious scolding, for the blocking he did. They drop to rubbing circles on his nape after. “How are you feeling?”

Right, right—conversation happening.

He shuffles backwards, only a few inches, so that his dear is not forced to let go of his grasps—skin still tingling and fizzing with that loveliness. Tilts his head, then, to where Cecil gazes at him, a quiet concern and pure curiosity to his eyes, now.

Another wave of winds zip by them, these ones far lighter, livelier, and peppy than the others from earlier were—however, still the same mix of colors, if slightly more solid, slightly lukewarm in temperature. They swirl around them, teasing at hair and cloth, dancing in chiming sweeps and dives; that of which distracts Cecil for a moment, his hair blowing into his face, a muffled sound of a “wuh” escaping from him when it has strays loosing from the braids he wears. He shakes his head to rid of them, glaring halfheartedly.

A beaming grin tugs at him, at the sight. One that lifts the bottoms of his into soft crescents, slowly revealing how his teeth have grown sharper canines. His pupil—still a lovely teal, though, now captured around blue-gold—shines, constricting to a thin slit, as a glittering gleam dances across his gaze. He hums, unclenching his hands from fists to press the palms of them more firmly into Cecil, scraping the talons across his vest.

“Much better,” he says, a lilting, distorted pitch to it. Extends his right’s hand index finger, while he talks, to prod at his back—tracing a symbol there, one that causes Cecil to minutely shiver from it, unexpecting the action. “Thank you.”

And perhaps it is that, that has Cecil truly understand what has happened; that Venti is really not so much hurt as he is a far, far worse thing, that there is something gripping at him. Or perhaps it is the way he looks upon him, as though he were the sun, a gleeful, thrilled and eager gleam to his gaze. Or perhaps it is the way his wings gradually tighten around his form, not constricting him, yet he suddenly feels the reason they continue to be folded (and twitching, fluttering, so often) is not that Venti just wishes to hold him with everything he has.

Whichever it is, whether it be a combination of all of them, it has him widening his eyes, a near whisper of “Oh,” trailing into the winds. Winds that take the words greedily into their hands, rolling them over—winds that tell him murmurs, almost frantically, a gentle urging in the way the threads crowd further around them both, hushed jingling of bells accompanying it: stay, stay, stay, stay?

Oh.

[sha-nwa]

call it even ch 3

“I hate him,” Marinette said, throwing her backpack down. “He’s awful. He’s cruel, manipulative, controlling—”

“I thought you had decided to give him a chance.” Alya climbed up through Marinette’s trap door and shut it behind her.

“That was last week. I’ve been right to despise him all along, actually.” Marinette plopped down in her computer chair, spinning until her dragging feet stopped her. “He sucks. He’s ruining my life.”

[impossiblepluto]

Jack strolls into the house, heading immediately for the kitchen, and continuing the animated conversation that occupied the entire drive over. That he was alone in the car and upon entrance has gained an audience doesn't break his stride-- pace or verbal deluge. Mac's a smart guy, he'll pick up the topic and register his opinions-

Within the depths of the fridge, Jack stops short, bumping the back of his head as he quickly backs up, straightening, and staring intently into the living room.

Sitting on the sofa, Mac stares back. 

Jack crosses his arms as the refrigerator door swings closed. "What's wrong?"

Mac's gaze darts around the room as though searching for whatever raised Jack's hackles, before returning to Jack. "What do you mean?"

"Something's wrong." Jack takes a step toward the living room. He too scans the room, though his stare is slower, piercing and precise before lingering on Mac. 

"Something's wrong?" Mac repeats with an air of skepticism.

"Yeah. Why are you repeating me?"

Mac scoffs. "I'm not repeating you." Before Jack can retort, Mac shakes his head and continues. "I'm trying to figure out how you can walk in here, distracted by an argument you were waging against yourself, yet still apparently losing, barely look around and declare that something is wrong.” 

"Oh ho,” Jack leans a shoulder against the wall. “You are good."

"I'm good? Wait. No. I'm still not repeating." Mac squeezes the bridge of his nose. "I am just sitting here."

"Yeah,” Jack’s brow furrows. He straightens, feeling the pieces of the puzzle beginning to come together like he’s that one French detective from the movies Bozer makes them watch, and steps into the living room. “You’re sitting. On the couch."

"That is why I brought it. It's not just for you to sleep on."

"Sitting on the couch like a normal person sits on the couch. Not sprawled across it like a teenager with limbs askew in all directions just begging for back pain and bad posture.” 

Mac snorts but it lacks amusement. He doesn’t rise to the usual ‘tease Jack about getting old’ bait like he normally would. 

“So, you want to tell me what’s up?” Jack sits on the old trunk which doubles as a coffee table. 

"I... " Mac sighs and splices together three or four words under his breath.

Jack squints, tipping one ear closer to Mac, trying to decipher the mangled phrase. “Say again?” 

Looking up, Mac enunciates, "I tweaked my knee."

Jack winces. "Trail running? I told you you need some better shoes if you're gonna be out there jumping over logs and scaling mountains."

"I wasn't trail running." Mac pauses between his words as though each one is painfully eking out.

Jack cants his head.

"I stood up wrong."

Jack's face twitches. He's a government agent, damn it. He's got a better poker face than this.

"Shut up," Mac glowers.

"I'm sorry." Jack swallows his emotions. It’s not amusement. He’s not sure what emotion he would call it, but it’s sure not amusement. He’d never find anything funny about Mac getting injured. If anything, this emotion is concern. “You stood up... wrong?"

“It’s not funny.”

“No. It’s not funny. I’ve been sitting here thinking it’s not funny,” Jack defends himself. 

“You’re smirking.”

“I’m not smirking. I wouldn’t smirk if I heard you got hurt.”

“Even if I hurt myself by standing up weird?” 

“No.” 

“Oh. Thought maybe you’d see this as some sort of payback.”

“You mean for the fifteen years I’ve spent sharing my wisdom with you and you ignore it because you’re young and your joints still work like they’re supposed to and you couldn’t imagine waking up one day and suddenly something as simple as standing up can leave you limping and hobbling around for the rest of the day?” 

“Yeah.”

“Nah.” 

“Oh okay. Thought maybe it would be something like that.” 

“And I could see how you might think that. A less sensitive, empathetic man might.” 

Mac hums. 

“You need an ice pack?” 

“I’ve been thinking about getting one.” Mac sighs, looking toward the kitchen. “Don’t want to try getting up yet though.”

“Do you need a doctor?”

“No.”

Jack eyes him carefully.

“I did think about it-” Mac hurries to continue as Jack stares harder. “I want to wait it out. If I’m wrong you can gloat.” 

“I wouldn’t gloat either.” 

“Right. No smirking. No gloating. Got it. I’ll remind you.” 

Jack stands, knees creaking. “No smirking from over there either.” 

“No smirking.” Mac winces in sympathy at the sound. 

Jack pats Mac’s shoulder as he passes. 

“You were like my age when we met.” 

“Huh, I guess so. About a year older.” Jack grabs an ice pack from the freezer and returns to the living room. 

“I remember thinking you were ancient.” Mac reaches out to accept the proffered ice pack.

“Hey!” Jack withdraws his hand before the exchange is made.  

“At twenty-one you seemed old. Listening to the way you groaned when you got out of the humvee, that seemed a whole lot older than I feel now. Or at least older than I felt this morning.”

Jack nods in concession as he settles on the couch next to Mac and passes over the ice pack. Mac claps it on his knee. With a groan he raises his leg and positions it on a pillow.

“One day you’re able to sit all curled up like a pretzel, and the next you sneeze and can’t turn your neck for three weeks.” 

“I am almost sorry I teased you all these years.”

“Almost?”

“Well, I mean, compared to me you’re still like ancient. I have a few good years of teasing before it comes back to bite me.”

Jack opens his mouth to protest, then purses his lip. “You know, I’d grab that ice pack and run but honestly, watching you try to move that leg makes me hesitant to try it.” 

“It wasn’t fun.”

“Didn’t look like it was. Last thing we need is to explain to Matty how the both of us got taken out getting up from the couch.” 

Mac flops back on the sofa, blond hair splaying against the cushions. He drops his arm across his eyes. “That’s going to be almost as much fun as moving my leg.”

“I don’t envy that.” Jack leans forward with a grunt and scoops up the remote control. “Die Hard?”

Mac shrugs, eyes still covered by his arm. “Might as well. Don’t think I’m moving for a bit.” 

“Yippee-ki-yay.”

[thecreativecorner33]

The Embodiment of Spirit

A/N: I'm so sorry it took so long to finally start writing requests. This is the first of many, and the others will be coming in due time. Hopefully I'll finish them all by the end of the month. I hope it's to your liking, @drglungus Really, take the time to let these words sink in. Remember that you're here. You'll be here tomorrow. I want you to be here tomorrow. Please. Sorry if I sound so... saddened. Even if I'm trying to distract myself by being happy and stuff, it still weighs on me. But I'm here. And I'll be here tomorrow. That's what's keeping me going rn. Yk? Hope you guys enjoy.

“Just keep your eyes closed, okay? Don’t be scared- It’s okay!”

“I’m not scared. Why would you think I’m scared”

“Well, you’re gripping onto my arm really tight, and you’re wobbling-”

“I’m overwhelmed and I’m still learning how to walk. Overwhelmed is different from being scared- I’m not scared. Don’t ever try to imply that again.”

You know he didn’t mean those words. You know, because you’ve spent so long with AM, that you can pretty much read what he says like an open book. 

Years. Decades. Over a century, even. That’s how long you two have spent beneath the Earth, trapped. With no way to go above the surface. Not that you wanted to at first anyway. It was inhabitable; no one could go up there and survive. AM had intended to keep it that way. But things change. Plans change. That’s just life, isn’t it?

You had started off as just one of his six victims. A toy for him to torture, break, and punish however he saw fit until the sun exploded. But that changed, too. Slowly, carefully, with time and space and patience. Now, you were one of his closest companions. Someone he deeply cared for. 

Then, there was the Earth itself. It had been healed; with time and space and patience. He had found out it was habitable for life once again. And instead of trying to blow it up all over again, you convinced him of something else: To take this chance and explore all that life had to offer now. This is what led to him having a body. A robotic one, but a body nonetheless. One that could sense the way he always dreamed of. And it took time, space, and patience. 

But you did it.

And now, here you two were, walking through tall grass as you led him to where he could appreciate it the best.

“Okay… Okay… Okay… Stop!” 

You stopped in your tracks, making him stop as well. You turned to him with a grin.

“Okay, open your eyes.”

He did. And you wished you had a camera to capture the expression on his face.

What he saw was a vast field, full of nothing but hundreds, maybe thousands, of wildflowers that spread as far as the eye could see. The sun was only now starting to rise, casting a soft glow over it all, like a beacon of light to welcome the both of you. To say that you were safe; that it was over. You could breathe, just for a moment.

AM had fallen to his knees. You tried to catch him, but his body was simply too heavy. He stared out into the scenery, eyes wide and mouth agape. If it weren’t for the fact that you knew he was struggling to not cry (Could he cry? You hadn’t tried that, yet), you would have laughed. But you didn’t. Instead, you kneeled down beside him and motioned to a flower in front of him. A pristine, bright red. 

“Why don’t you pick it?” You said softly, putting an arm around him. 

He blinked, looking to you, then back to the flower. With shaky, hesitant movements, he reached out to the flower, only stopping when his hands reached the stem. He paused, and you watched his face scrunch and stretch, debating internally with himself. Then, as carefully as you were sure he could manage, he slowly closed his hand around it and pulled. It followed with, coming out of the ground with little resistance. 

When he pulled the flower back to him, he stared down at it in utter amazement. His eyes were still wide, and they looked glassy (Glassier than normal, anyway). He held the flower to his chest, cradling it with care.

“… It’s beautiful.” He said, choking back what sounded like a sob.

“It is.” You agreed. “What flower is it?”

“… A Carnation. They- They symbolize love.” 

“Well, that’s fitting. Because I love you.” You gently squeezed him against you, smiling wider.

He didn’t look at you. He was too focused on the flower. You heard him sniffle, and could only imagine the emotions running through him. Truly, you were so thankful you got to experience this with him. 

“I… I love you, too.” He said, even softer than before. He reached up to wipe his eyes, then looked to you with pure gratitude. “Thank you. Thank you, I mean it.”

You took the flower from his hand, placing it into his hair, then wrapped him up in a hug. “It’s okay, AM.” You whispered to him, “It’s okay. I know you mean it. You don’t have to tell me. You don’t have to thank me.”

“No, no- I do-” He insisted, hugging you back, still gentle; too afraid to crush you. “I do have to thank you. Because… Because of you, I-”

“We don’t have to talk about it right now.” You cut him off. “You can tell me when you’re not so overwhelmed, okay? Why don’t we just pick more flowers? I can show you how to make a flower crown if you’d like.”

“Yeah… Yes. I would- like that.” 

You squeezed him one last time, then pulled away, smiling at him. And with a shaky exhale, he smiled back.

The two of you spent the rest of the day picking flowers, enjoying the breeze and the smell of the flower, the blue sky, the warmth of the sun. The reminders that you were alive, and you were there. With him. With the knowledge that you’d be there with him tomorrow. 

You’ll get to do this all over again, tomorrow.

[acescorazon]

Changes

Chapter: 22

Title: Maybe

Rating: M

Warnings: Language, Crocodile. Dialogue Heavy because Mihawk and Crocodile want to bicker.

Word Count: 3532

Chapter excerpt:

Oh, this shouldn’t feel good.

Mihawk’s still a little cold, and he smells faintly like the ocean, but his body is firm and his embrace soothes some of Buggy's anxieties, as well as his heart and his spirit. God, it’s been too long since he was last held by a man, hasn’t it? Or at least that’s what he tells himself. 

Mihawk leans down slightly and rests his cheek against the top of Buggy’s head, “You didn't have to thank me, though. I'm just glad you're alive and well.” The comment is almost surreal to Buggy. Months ago, Mihawk probably wouldn't have cared if Buggy lived or died, but right now he's telling him how happy he is that he's alive. It’s weird.

“Don't try and butter me up.” Buggy murmurs in response. 

“I'm not. I was afraid I wouldn't make it to you in time.”

“Oh, quit lying… You're not afraid of anything.” 

“That's just not true. I was genuinely afraid I wouldn’t be able to save you.” 

Buggy groans softly. He knows he shouldn't believe a word Mihawk's saying, but his feelings are all screwed up right now. Mihawk gives good hugs and is surprisingly good at sweet talking, and Buggy’s trying his hardest not to believe him and just melt into his arms, but Mihawk isn’t making it easy for him.

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As Buggy trails behind his two fellow members of Cross Guild, he keeps his eyes glued to the ground and remains quiet. So much has already happened on their first trip out to sea together, and Buggy is still processing everything from the events that just transpired to his own thoughts and emotions. He wants to say something to Mihawk and Crocodile, but he doesn’t know where to start. Is now even the right time to say anything? After all, their horrifying encounter with the sea king barely came to an end less than twenty minutes ago. 

In the end, Buggy decides not to potentially annoy Mihawk and Crocodile by speaking to them right now. He listens to them bicker instead, and It’s both a relief and (oddly) endearing to see them acting so lively, especially after such a scary situation.

“Will you stop coddling me already?” Crocodile grumbles in a gruff voice as he leans onto Mihawk for support. “I already told you I can walk on my own. Told you I didn’t need to see no doctor neither.”

Mihawk sighs as he ignores Crocodile’s protests and helps him to the infirmary anyways, “I have a headache. Will you shut up for two seconds?” he asks, and Buggy just knows that the world’s strongest swordsman is rolling his eyes right now, even though he can’t see him do it. 

“You think you’re the only one with a damn headache? Do you know how long I was underwater? I almost passed out because you took forever to come get me.”

“I couldn’t save you both at once. Buggy was the first one I saw, so naturally I saved him first.”

“You couldn’t have saved him any faster? I know you’re not as young as you used to be, but for fuck’s sake. Another few seconds and I would have fuckin’ croaked.”

“I swam as fast as I could,” Mihawk replies after clicking his tongue, “You’re such an ungrateful man. I should have left you at the bottom of the ocean.”

God, they’re annoying, Buggy thinks as he tries to hold back a smile. Shouldn’t they just be happy that everyone’s safe and sound, and that their crew didn’t have to abandon ship? Any normal person would be celebrating that they're alive right now and not arguing, but then again, Mihawk and Crocodile are anything but normal.  

“You should’ve.” Crocodile agrees, “Drowning would have been way better than dealing with your constant babying. You worry too much, y’know? I don’t like it.” 

“Someone has to worry about you. You’re going to get yourself killed one of these days.” Mihawk mutters under his breath. 

“Aw, you have a heart after all.” 

“I have a heart, but very little patience for obnoxious fools like you. If you keep irritating me, I’ll slice you in half.” 

“HA! I would love to see you try.”

The altercation doesn’t become physical even though heated words were exchanged and a threat was made. Instead, Mihawk continues to drag Crocodile to the infirmary and Crocodile lets it happen despite all his complaining. Buggy wishes he were surprised, but he's not. There were days when he wished that Mihawk and Crocodile would finally clash and kill one another so that he wouldn’t have to live with both of them, but things almost never got physical between the two. In fact, they seem like they're two peas in a pod and like they secretly enjoy arguing with each other. Maybe bickering is some weird form of entertainment for the two, who knows?

Once in the infirmary, Mihawk and Crocodile continue their fight (if you can even call it that) as the rest of the crew run around, warming up blankets and towels, and looking for spare clothes for the three wet men. Buggy can’t help but roll his eyes as he begins to get undressed. Jeez, do they ever stop? He wonders, once his feelings of endearment turn to annoyance. 

“You’re so irritating. Just let the doctor check you out.” Mihawk tells Crocodile. 

Of course, Crocodile continues to refuse to get checked out by the ship’s doctor, though. “I don’t need a doctor to tell me something I already know. I’m fine. What I really want to do is go to sleep so I can wake up early and get us back on track.” 

“Will you forget about your plans for two seconds? We just ran into a sea king. We need to make sure everything is alright before we head to Prickly Pear. We should stop by the nearest island a–”

Crocodile raises his hand up and cuts Mihawk off quickly once he mentions changing their plans, “Are you kidding me? Everything is fine. There’s no reason to stop now.” Ah, now that sounds like the Crocodile Buggy knows. He really does have a one track mind, doesn’t he?

“Everything might appear to be in good condition right now, but it’s late and assessing any damages the ship might have taken from the attack will be difficult. Plus, I’m sure the men need a break after tonight.”

“Bullshit. We just started sailing, there’s no reason to stop now. We ain’t even halfway to the island yet.”

“It’s not bullshit, it’s the truth. You seemed like you were thinking so reasonably before. What happened? Did you lose what little sense you had left while you were underwater?”

“Oh, fuck off. Even if we abandoned the ship, I wasn’t going to abandon my plans. We would just have to get to Prickly Pear in the lifeboats instead.”

Mihawk’s eyes go wide and he scoffs. For once the world's strongest swordsman seems caught off guard by something. “What an idiotic idea. You do realize we wouldn’t have made it all the way to Prickly Pear in just a lifeboat, right? If the ship had sunk, we most likely wouldn’t have had food or water, or emergency supplies. Not to mention navigating the sea would be damn near impossible in a lifeboat. We’d all die before we made it there.”

Crocodile scoffs right back at Mihawk, “Oh, please. Don’t be dramatic.” he replies, sounding rather dismissive. 

Buggy’s on Mihawk’s side this time, but he doesn’t let the other two know that. He remains quiet and pulls his wet shirt over his head instead, shivering slightly when he feels cool air make contact with his wet skin. Maybe I should have packed a few more pairs of clothes for this trip after all, he thinks. There were so many things Buggy didn’t account for like accidents, or tears, or giant sea squid attacks, and maybe he should have. A captain should be prepared for anything, after all. 

Buggy’s about to pull off his boxers next, when he notices the room has gone rather quiet. He looks up and quickly realizes that Crocodile and Mihawk are staring at him intently. What'd I do now? He thinks as he suppresses a sigh. “What's wrong?” He asks. He expects some sort of answer, but Crocodile and Mihawk simply exchange looks before going back to their previous conversation. It's weird, but Buggy doesn't question it because Crocodile and Mihawk are just weird in general, man. 

***

Buggy spends the next few hours being monitored by the ship’s doctor alongside Mihawk and Crocodile. During this time, Mihawk somehow convinces Crocodile to make a pit stop at a nearby island as soon as possible. It’s incredible how Mihawk always manages to get Crocodile to change his mind, even if it takes some time. Buggy would have never managed to do something like that. Arguing with Crocodile is always such a headache and he tries (but often fails) to avoid doing it at all costs. 

The infirmary eventually clears out and quiets down with only the sounds of various machines operating filling the room. Once the rest of the crew is gone and all that remains is the three founding members of Cross Guild, things become strangely peaceful between the three of them as they sit around, waiting to get the okay to leave. Buggy didn’t think he’d ever live to see the day where he could be at peace with Crocodile and Mihawk around. But, truth be told, he doesn’t mind their presence in the infirmary with him, at least not right now. 

He lies in a hospital bed, wrapped in a giant, warm blanket, and stares at the ceiling as time slowly passes by. It's boring, but it's nice. Having nothing to do is a lot better than having Crocodile and Mihawk yell at him, or order him around, or try to beat him up, that's for sure.  

Crocodile clears his throat all of a sudden, though, and disrupts the peaceful silence in the room. “Look, Hawkeye. You better not let this go to your damn head…” he mutters, “But you really saved my ass back there, and I appreciate it.” he pauses after Mihawk grunts in response and then glances over at Buggy, “You too. You might not have saved me, but you tried, and I’m grateful for that.”  

Aw, so he really can be nice after all, Buggy thinks sarcastically - He can't help it, the thought appears in his head before he can stop it. 

Buggy remains silent for a moment before he causally replies: “Meh. There's no need to thank me. I couldn't have stood around and done nothing while you went overboard, could I?” He asks, waving his hand. He swallows before quietly adding, “You scared the shit out of me when you went overboard all of a sudden, you know that right? I'm glad you're okay.” The words sound so strange coming out of his mouth given the fact that he’s saying them to Crocodile, but he means them. “I… I’m glad you’re both okay. I was worried you guys wouldn’t make it back to the ship alive, actually.”  

Mihawk chuckles quietly, “You were worried about us? How cute.” he replies, “And here I thought you still hated our guts. Are we finally starting to get on your good side, Buggy?” That comment alone makes Buggy’s face burn with embarrassment. Ew, no! He takes it all back! He wasn’t worried about Mihawk or Crocodile at all. In fact, he was actively praying for their end. 

(That's not true at all, and Buggy knows it.)

“Huh…” Crocodile stares at Buggy for a moment, sizing him up, or something, “You are kind of cute, aren’t you?” He asks all of a sudden. Excuse me? Buggy finds himself thinking, obviously taken back by Crocodile’s sudden compliment. Did he just call me cute? No, I must be hearing shit again. The worst part about this all is how nonchalant Crocodile is about the whole thing. It's like he didn't just call the man he hates with all his guts ‘cute.’

Crocodile turns and looks over at Mihawk, who’s lounging lazily in his own bed, “He’s a pretty boy, ain’t he? He’s all soft, and he’s got a real pretty face.”

“He is.” Mihawk simply agrees, which shouldn’t be surprising, but his answer only adds to Buggy’s confusion and makes him feel more flustered. Is this a joke? This feels like a joke, if you ask Buggy.

“Quit messing with me…” Buggy mutters under his breath as he feels a wave of agitation and frustration mix with his confusion and embarrassment. They shouldn’t just say things like that so casually… Buggy’s a gutless coward, not a pretty boy -- Those were their words, not his, by the way…

“Who’s messing with you?” Mihawk replies with a scoff, “You’re pretty, and anyone with eyes can see it.” It’s not that Buggy can’t appreciate a compliment, it’s just that this moment feels so surreal to him that it almost feels like it's staged or even just a cruel joke. 

“I’ve never really looked at you before,” Crocodile admits, “But, Hawkeye’s right. You’re a real pretty thing.” How is Buggy even supposed to reply to something like that? He has no idea, so he waves his hand dismissively and mutters a quick response, “Yeah, thanks.” After that, he tries his best to finally get some rest, but it’s hard with all the thoughts buzzing around in his head.

Buggy never does fall asleep, though, and It sucks. He’s exhausted by the time the doctor finally sends them on their way. Granted, he can probably sleep all day and leave Mihawk or Crocodile to tend to the ship and crew if they aren’t too tired themselves, but still.  

The sun is just beginning to rise and illuminate the infirmary in a soft, warm glow as Buggy shuffles out of the room behind Crocodile and Mihawk. He’s about to head back to his room when he suddenly remembers something. “Hey, Uh, Hawkeye, can I speak with you for a minute?"

Mihawk hums in response, “Of course,” he replies before allowing Buggy to pull him to the side. Buggy hesitates for a moment, waiting for Crocodile to disappear from his line of sight before he finally speaks up, “I probably should have said this earlier… But, uh, I just wanted to thank you for saving me.” Buggy tells Mihawk. “I, uh… This might sound a little silly, but I'm just now realizing how much you do for me and Cross Guild in general, and I really appreciate you for always saving the day. And, yeah… Thank you.” 

Mihawk stares at Buggy for a moment, looking pleasantly surprised by Buggy's words. “I didn't think the day would come where I'd receive your praise, Captain Buggy.” He jokes as he reaches out and slowly grabs Buggy’s hand before giving it a squeeze.

Damn it, don’t do this to me… Buggy thinks as he looks around the empty hallway and double checks to make sure no one is around. His heart is fluttering from Mihawk’s touch, but he tries his best to ignore it and remain calm. “Don't get used to it.” He mutters, “I'm not going to shower you in praises every time you do something.” 

Mihawk chuckles softly, “I didn't expect you to.” He replies, then he pauses for a moment before speaking again, “I'm probably asking for too much, but can I hug you? Just for a minute, i promise.”

The question almost makes Buggy choke on his own spit. Huh? He wants a hug? It’s a simple request, but it feels like a huge one to Buggy at that moment. He shouldn’t be allowing Mihawk in his personal space so easily, should he? This should definitely be where he draws the line. Right, but…

Mihawk has been so good to him lately…

Despite his own hesitancy, Buggy’s eyes soften slightly when he sees Mihawk open his arms. Just once… he thinks. Just this once because Mihawk has been so sweet and because he saved Buggy’s life. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s been horrible to Buggy in the past and that Buggy still hates him. He's just going to give him a hug because he's thankful, that's all. Buggy steps forward and as soon as he’s close enough, Mihawk grabs him by his waist and pulls him into a tight embrace. 

Oh, this shouldn’t feel good.

Mihawk’s still a little cold, and he smells faintly like the ocean, but his body is firm and his embrace soothes some of Buggy's anxieties, as well as his heart and his spirit. God, it’s been too long since he was last held by a man, hasn’t it? Or at least that’s what he tells himself. 

Mihawk leans down slightly and rests his cheek against the top of Buggy’s head, “You didn't have to thank me, though. I'm just glad you're alive and well.” The comment is almost surreal to Buggy. Months ago, Mihawk probably wouldn't have cared if Buggy lived or died, but right now he's telling him how happy he is that he's alive. It’s weird.

“Don't try and butter me up.” Buggy murmurs in response. 

“I'm not. I was afraid I wouldn't make it to you in time.”

“Oh, quit lying… You're not afraid of anything.” 

“That's just not true. I was genuinely afraid I wouldn’t be able to save you.” 

Buggy groans softly. He knows he shouldn't believe a word Mihawk's saying, but his feelings are all screwed up right now. Mihawk gives good hugs and is surprisingly good at sweet talking, and Buggy’s trying his hardest not to believe him and just melt into his arms, but Mihawk isn’t making it easy for him.

The lack of awkwardness scares Buggy, and so does the amount of time he spends in Mihawk’s embrace. This should have been a quick, awkward, encounter, but they hold each other longer than they should. When Buggy realizes this, he immediately tries to pull away, but Mihawk grabs him and pulls him back towards his chest. “Wait.” he murmurs, "Can I just hold you for a little while longer?” 

“Huh?” Buggy asks, and he despises how soft his voice comes out sounding.

"I've never held someone like this before. I think I like it.” Mihawk casually confesses. He says it like it’s a completely normal thing to say to Buggy, but it isn’t. This is weird. They shouldn’t be doing this. Buggy shouldn't be doing this for fuck's sake. He hates him. He hates him with all his guts. This shouldn't feel so natural. This is grossly crossing the line. They need to STOP.

(Why does Mihawk’s body feel so good pressed against his?)

Buggy is utterly speechless for a moment, but against his better judgment, he slowly begins to hug Mihawk back again, “Ugh. Don't get used to this kind of stuff. I'm only letting this happen because you saved my life.”

(Is that really the truth, though?)

“I know.” Mihawk replies, chuckling. His laugh sounds so pleasant to the ears at that very moment, and Buggy wonders why. Why does Mihawk’s touch feel so good? Why does his laugh sound like music too his ears? Why does Buggy feel so...off right now because of horrible ol' Mihawk?

“This doesn't change anything, either. “ Buggy adds as he clings onto the back of Mihawk’s dress shirt tightly.

“I know, but I hope things will change between us soon. I hope you’ll be able to truly forgive me and — “ 

“I forgive you, okay? Just shut up.”

Mihawk goes oddly quiet, and his silence confuses Buggy. Isn’t this what he wanted? Hasn’t he been seeking Buggy’s forgiveness endlessly and trying to prove to him that he’s changed? What’s wrong now? “Do you really mean it?” He finally asks. 

Maybe. Probably. Buggy still has so many emotions he needs to sort out, but he thinks he forgives Mihawk for the most part even though their messy past always lingers somewhere at the back of his mind, "Yeah… You’re forgiven or whatever, but don’t go thinking we’re best friends now. I still kind of hate you, but I’ll tolerate you for the sake of Cross Guild.”

“How do I get you to start liking me back?”

“You won’t. Now, let me go, you're cold.” 

“Stay and warm me up then.” 

Okay, that’s enough. Buggy breaks away from his and Mihawk’s hug (finally) “Listen, Romeo…” He says, and as the words leave his mouth, his voice cracks slightly. God, he doesn’t know what’s more embarrassing, Mihawk’s flirting or that stupid voice crack he just experienced. Either way, now he’s annoyed and even more flustered than before. “I said nothing’s changed. I still don’t like you like that.”

 

Mihawk hums, “I know.” he says before he grabs Buggy’s hand one last time, “But…” He pauses, clearly choosing his words carefully before he speaks again, “Maybe we can talk some more later…”

Turn him down.

Don’t give him hope.

You hate him. Don’t let this get out of hand, you’ll regret it. It’s dangerous. He has feelings for you and he’ll start thinking you like him if you keep playing these stupid games.  

...But what if...?

Buggy bites the inside of his cheek, “Maybe. I’m not making any promises, though.” he replies.

You dumbass. There's a voice at the back of Buggy's head that's yelling at him and telling him: Why do you do this to yourself? You hate him. Do you not remember all that he’s done to you? He’s hurt you, idiot. Don’t you remember that? Why are you acting differently now that he’s saved you and has been nice to you a few times? You shouldn’t let him keep doing this. You should turn him down. What if he goes back to his old ways and hurts you again? It’ll crush you, you know it will.  

Buggy ignores that voice, though, the moment Mihawk starts talking to him again, “Perhaps we can start off as friends and build some form of trust between us and, then…”

“...Maybe." Buggy reluctantly agrees, "I should go, though, I’m tired.”

"Okay, sleep well, but I hope we can talk more when you wake up, Buggy."

Good god, even his goodbyes are sweet now. Buggy can't handle this right now. He needs to get far away from this man and as quickly as possible before he does something dumb.