#Yogfic

[illumwriting]

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[llithiumstars]

SURPRISE!

Slay the Princess + Yogscast AU fic: I'll have to cut myself in two.

Xephna focused. Contains major game spoilers. Heed the content warnings. Chapter One: The Wolf (6k)

[lalnawiki]

A clone wakes up briefly while in death's row.

Hi I'm posting this cause of the ysb poll. Please vote for them here!! I hope it's okay!! Heed the warnings!

[a-dork-in-black]

Okay with the disclaimer that I'm a perverted fucking imbecile

Here's a link, don't judge me lmao

[mindfulwrath]

So I’m now rereading TRAF as well, and I’m sure you’ve grown incredibly tired of being asked about something you wrote so long ago, so I apologize, but since I first read it so many years ago a lot more things are clicking for me now. I was wondering, when Lal and Nano have this conversation—“‘Rythian doesn't forget things, you dope.’ ‘See, you say that, but—‘ ‘Nah-ah! I've told you. Don't want to hear about it.’ Lalna deflated slightly.”—is Lalna just… casually, almost gloatingly referencing his abuse of Rythian that got wiped…? Granted, it’s been years since I’ve read, so I apologize if I’m forgetting exactly how things end up (er, begin up? circuitously happen up? tumble around in circles for eons up?), but the smaller details of character in these stories just continue to really intrigue me. Hope it isn’t too bothersome :)

Alas, though your faith in the quality of my writing may have been rewarded, your faith in the quality of my memory will not be!

Genuinely, though, I don't remember most of what I was thinking when writing this (or anything). TRAF was done and out the door before I started keeping notes (or, in fact, planning) for my stories, so whatever I had in mind for any given story arc, plot point, or line of dialogue is unfortunately dust in the wind. It's kind of like enforced "death of the author," if you want to think of it that way.

That said, I think the way you've read that exchange is perfectly consistent with TRAF!Lal as-written!

[sparxwrites]

Ch. 9 - these little words

Art credit for banner. [ao3]

[Strife] We need to talk.

Will lets his thumb hover over the the send button for a full five minutes, worrying at his lip with his teeth. It’s just a text, he tells himself, and a necessary text at that – last time he saw Kirin, he’d practically yelled at the guy, and… he has to admit, he feels a little bad. Even just remembering how lost Kirin had looked makes his stomach twist with shame. The least he can do is offer an apology.

“What’re you doing there?” murmurs Sips from next to him, right in his ear, leaning over like the nosy son-of-a-bitch that he is to stare at Will’s phone screen.

Jumping in surprise, Will fumbles with his phone, nearly dropping it – and manages to hit send in the process. When he’s got a firm grip on it again, he stares at the screen for a long second, at the small bubble of green sitting there with his words in it. He should feel relieved, he supposes. Instead, he just feels a little sick.

“William?” prompts Sips, curiously, one eyebrow raised. He’s never seen Will look anxious like this before. Stressed, overworked, tired, pissed off… but never scared, never this distracted, never nervous and twitching and fidgeting like a spooked rabbit. He’s somewhere between intrigued and, against his better judgement, concerned.

“None of your business,” Will mutters, mutinously, ignoring Sips in favour of worrying at his lip with his teeth – before then jumping again when, ten seconds later, his phone vibrates in his hand. The screen lights up with a new text.

“Aww, no need to be like that, you big babby,” says Sips, in that soft, easy drawl of his. He nudges Will in the ribs with one elbow, thankfully far more gently and far less bonily than Parvis usually does. “We’re friends, right? Buddies. You can trust me.”

“I wouldn’t trust you further than I could throw you.” Will scowls when Sips just laughs quietly – it hadn’t been a joke. “No, seriously.” He pushes his reading glasses a little further up his nose, and resists the urge to squint out of sheer force of habit as he peers down at Kirin’s newest message.

[you need more friends] i think we probably do

Will stares at the text for a long moment, the bottom dropping out of his stomach as a wave of anxiety washes over him, and then hits the lock button. He can’t deal with this right now. He needs to pay attention to… whatever the lecturer’s saying. Resisting the urge to curse, he shoves the phone in his pocket, picks up his pen again, and tries to focus. Whatever Kirin has to say, Will can respond during the break.

By the time the lecturer calls quick break, though, an hour in, Will’s phone has vibrated in his pocket again. There’s another new message from Kirin waiting for him.

[you need more friends] are you on main campus? i need to grab lunch, we could talk there

Hesitating for a long moment, thumbs hovering over the small phone keyboard, Will resists the urge to chew on his already bitten-raw lip. Instead, he raises one hand to his mouth and chews absently on the overlong sleeve of Xephos’ jumper, and then on the corner of one thumbnail once he realises what he’s doing. This jumper isn’t his to ruin, after all.

He should have given it back by now, he knows, but Xephos hadn’t asked for it back, and he really hadn’t been able to face the thought of his usual shirt and waistcoat today. He’d put them on and, instead of protected, he’d felt restricted, like the waistcoat was a laced-tight corset instead. The jumper had been… better, soft and warm and oddly forgiving. He’d put it on and breathed a little easier.

[Strife] Yeah. Okay.

[Strife] I’m in lectures until 1. Meet you at 1.15?

The response is almost immediate – and, despite everything, oddly comforting.

[you need more friends] :)

He stares at the message for a long minute, trying to decode the meaning behind it. An agreement? A way of saying I’m not angry? Had Kirin just been too lazy to type out full words for a response? He’s not sure, but the small smiley face makes some of the wound-tight anxiety in his stomach ease. When he clicks the phone screen locked and slips it back into his pocket, he’s smiling a little.

“Aww, is poor little Strife lonely?” comes a loud, mocking voice from behind him.

Strife grits his teeth.

He knows exactly who it is – Smiffy, the resident punk-wannabe of the class, a first year with wildly out-of-control green hair, a heavy leather jacket, and a nose ring. The carefully cultivated rebellious attitude is somewhat undercut by the fact that Strife knows his twitter handle is @geckomom, and is mostly tweets of him cooing over the tank full of the little creatures he has at home.

“Go away, Smiffy,” he says, stiffly, without looking round, not particularly willing to play the other student’s games today – only to groan quietly when his words are met with a familiar, heckling laugh, and a low ooooh. “And the rest of you, too.” He should have known that wherever Smiffy was, the others would be too.

The Sirs, as they called themselves, were the bane of his existence. A group of three loudmouthed, crude first years who were all bark and no bite, and all the more annoying for it. They swaggered around the place, throwing their weight around as if they owned the entire university.

Strife couldn’t stand them.

Admittedly, Sips seemed to be the only person who could stand them. Most likely because they turned into overenthusiastic, overexcited puppies in his presence, tripping over themselves and squabbling amongst each other in what Strife found a frankly pathetic bid for attention. Strife wasn’t entirely sure why they’d picked Sips of all people to behave for – though, from the unbridled longing he’s caught on not one but all three of their faces a handful of times in Sips’ presence, he could make an educated guess.

Either Sips was very, very oblivious, or he was playing hard to get, and Strife’s honestly not sure which is more likely. Or more funny.

It’s Trott, though, their nominal ‘leader’ – a short, almost scrawny thing with overlong hair scraped up into a stubby ponytail and a mild overbite, covered in seemingly endless freckles just a shade darker than the warm brown of his skin – that speaks up first. 

“Who you talking to there, Strifey?” he asks, and Strife has to clench his jaw against the urge to snap back that Parvis is the only one allowed to call him that. “You’ve not managed to find someone who actually wants to be friends with you, have you? Because that’d be a bloody Christmas miracle, that would, and it’s only November.”

“Maybe he’s paying them?” chimes in Ross, with a wide grin. He’s got the most unnaturally large amount of beard that Strife’s ever seen on a nineteen-year-old – which is definitely not jealousy speaking, has nothing to do with his own thin, patchy facial hair that refuses to grow into anything useful beyond stubble – and dark, permanently angry eyes. “Ooh, that’s pretty filthy, Strife, paying someone to fu– to be your friend. Pretty dirty. Grimy, even. Disgusting.”

Strife’s hands clench into fists against the desk, and he becomes aware his shoulders are nearly up around his ears where he’s hunched over, curled into the borrowed jumper as if to protect himself. “Fuck off,” he mutters, breaking his usual rule of no swearing on the basis that this is an emergency, and scowls at the low, patronising, threatening chorus of oooooh noises he gets in response.

Something must show on his face, because Sips’ eyes dart between him and the three Sirs, lips pressed together into a thin line.

“Hey, Kermit and company, back off,” he says, mildly, a moment later. His mouth is back to its usual, lazy grin. “Just because you can’t get anyone to touch that weird… thing you call your dick, doesn’t mean you have to shit on everyone else.” 

He grins as the vicious look on Smiffy’s face changes to embarrassed humiliation in the space of a heartbeat, and at the way Strife squirms at his crude words.

“He got you good there, mate,” says Trott, sympathetically, as Smiffy flushes bright red all the way to his roots and slumps down in the lecture chair, like he’s trying to hide inside his oversized leather jacket. With the washed-out green of his hair, his crimson cheeks make him look like a particularly cheap and low-quality Christmas decoration. “Pretty bad burn. Third degree at least. Might need to call an ambulance.”

Ross snickers from Smiffy’s other side, nudging him with his elbow. “Ooo, he’s right though, isn’t he?” he crows quietly. “Might need an ambulance anyways, just for Smiffy’s fucked-up cock. Looks all infected to me. Is it supposed to be that shade of green? Matches your hair.”

“Fuck off, Ross,” snaps Smith. “You weren’t saying that last night when you were fuckin’ slobbering all over it, were you, huh? You little–”

“I’m sorry,” calls the lecturer, voice raised and the annoyance plain in her tone – it’s only then that Sips and the Sirs seem to realise the rest of the lecture theatre has gone silent. Break’s apparently over, and everyone’s noticed but them. “Am I boring you? You’re free to leave if I am.”

The Sirs shuffle awkwardly amongst themselves, staring down at the desks of the lecture theatre and mumbling mutinously in that three-voices-one-sentence way they do that creeps Strife out, looking rebellious but generally ashamed. 

Sips, however, looks nothing of the kind. “Sorry, miss!” he calls back, cheerfully, raising a hand by way of my bad. “The first years nearly shat themselves again.” 

A ripple of snickering and murmuring runs around the lecture theatre at his words, and the lecturer sighs. Smiffy’s cheeks darken even further, and even Ross looks a little flushed. Trott stares determinedly down at his books, jaw clenched.

“If you could try and pay attention, that would be great,” says the lecturer, loud enough to quieten the giggles that Sips’ words set off. “That includes you, Mr. Underscore.” She’s not scowling any more, though – if anything, she just looks resigned – and when Sips bobs his head sheepishly and shrugs in a what can you do? sort of manner, she turns back to the whiteboard with a roll of her eyes.

The rest of the lecture passes in a blur of words and diagrams and explanations, none of which Will processes properly. He thanks whatever gods may or may not be listening that this particular lecturer always uploads the powerpoint to their class page, because he barely even hears what she’s saying, too caught up in worry about his meeting with Kirin. When they’re finally dismissed, his bag is already packed, notepad and pens tidied away and glasses in their case, and he’s the first out the door.

By the time he reaches the main campus café, a couple of minutes’ walk from the building he was in, Kirin is already there. He’s standing just outside the doorway, leaning casually against the wall, polystyrene cup of tea in one hand and half-baguette in the other. When he spots Will, he smiles a little, and waves.

“There’s not really any space inside,” says Kirin, almost apologetically, when Will gets within hearing distance. “I meant to grab us a table, but they were all full by the time I got here. Anyways, it’s hardly private, and it’s incredibly noisy.” He winces just at the thought of it, nose wrinkling and eyes squinting a little.

Will tries very hard not to find the motion faintly endearing, fails, and eyes the wide courtyard in front of the cafe. It’s a small area of grass and trees, undoubtedly intended to be a green space in an overwhelmingly urban campus. Instead, it just manages to look sad, and somewhat dead given the approaching winter.

“We could sit on a bench?” he suggests. It’s cold out, but not that cold, and they’re both dressed warmly. Kirin’s in his sheepskin parka, the zip done up tight under his chin. Will’s in his woollen car jacket, the thick, bright red scarf that was a birthday gift from Parvis wrapped around his neck and face up to almost his ears.

Nodding, Kirin holds out one arm in a sweeping gesture, looking from the courtyard to Will. “Lead on,” he says, trailing easily into step after. 

They pick the first unoccupied bench they come across, tucked close enough to one of the buildings to avoid the wind, a tree to their left sending dead leaves floating down on them occasionally. Settling down on the bench, Will doesn’t fail to notice how carefully Kirin positions himself – distance enough between them that they’re not touching, but close enough it doesn’t look like he’s snubbing Will. 

He’s not sure whether to be annoyed at Kirin’s attempted coddling, or touched by his thoughtfulness, so he settles for picking at the clingfilm around his sandwiches and saying nothing.

Kirin seems far more at ease, opening his half-baguette and taking a bite from the top of it. “So,” he says, when he’s finished swallowing, and had another bite. Judging by the look of relief on his face, it’s the first thing he’s eaten all day. “What… what did you want to say to me? Or would you like me to go first with the talking.” He’s watching Will curiously, intently, and the weight of his gaze is almost enough to make Will shiver.

“I– I wanted to say sorry,” says Will, stiffly, clearing his throat. “For the. The other day. I was–” He swallows, staring down at his hands, clenched around his clingfilmed sandwiches hard enough to press dents into them. “You were just being friendly, and I behaved in an unacceptable manner.”

He doesn’t like apologies, and the words stick in his throat. He manages to force them all out nonetheless.

Kirin listens in silence, and then inclines his head. “Thank you,” he says, softly – almost thoughtfully. “Although, given what I’ve heard from Parvis, your reaction was… understandable.” His face darkens at the memory of whatever conversation he’d had with Parvis, jaw tight and eyes hard. It’s the most angry Will’s ever seen him, and it’s just a little bit terrifying. “What he did was– unkind of him, and very stupid. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” says Will, almost automatically. He peels the clingfilm off his sandwich, for something to do with his hands, but his stomach is so twisted up – despite Kirin’s generous acceptance of his apology, despite the fact he doesn’t seem to be angry – that he can’t find it in him to start eating it.

Humming quietly, Kirin nods, and takes another bite of his baguette. “No, it’s not,” he agrees. “But it was–” He breaks off, sighs quietly. “It’s all ended up as a bit of a mess, honestly, and– although Parvis is entirely responsible for his own actions, I can’t help but feel a little responsible for the circumstances, at least.”

There’s not much Will can say to that, really. He grunts quietly in response, shrugs one shoulder, and finishes opening up his sandwiches. Even the sight of them makes him feel a little sick. 

Kirin, apparently, has no such concerns, given the way he’s steadily devouring his baguette. 

The silence they sit in is far from companionable, and it itches under Will’s skin like the beginnings of a fire. His insides twist tighter and tighter, the anxiety spiralling higher in him, until something gives all at once.

“What do you want from me?” he asks, voice almost angry. For what feels like the hundredth time in the past few days, he can’t breath properly, can’t swallow past the strangling lump in his throat and the churning in his stomach. His sandwich sits in his lap, opened but incredibly unappealing.

When Kirin sighs, quietly, he doesn’t have to look up to guess the expression on the other man’s face. 

But then Kirin shifts next to him, ever so slightly, just enough that their shoulders touch. He remembers, suddenly, the last time they were like this – with Parvis laid across his lap and Kirin’s head resting against his, warm and easy and comfortable.

He wonders how, after that, they ended up here.

“Oh, Will,” murmurs Kirin, quietly – and though his voice is soft, there’s no pity in it, just an achingly endless patience and gentleness. “I don’t want anything from you that you’re not willing to give.”

The world stops turning for a long second.

“Neither does Parvis,” adds Kirin, misinterpreting the stunned silence. “I know he… what he did upset you, and I don’t blame you, it was– rude of him. Very rude. But it was a mistake, even if that doesn’t make it any more okay, and he won’t… Neither of us want to push you like that.”

It’s too close to an actual discussion, too close to properly talking about this – whatever this is. It makes Will’s stomach twist and clench with both anxiety and want. Because he wants this. He does. God does he want this. 

He’s just not sure he can ask for it yet.

“Parvis invited me out clubbing this Friday,” he says instead, slowly, raising his head and daring to meet Kirin’s eyes. They’re wide, a little confused – but a little hopeful, too, a spark of something in them so different from Parvis’ manic glitter but equally bright. “I– he said he invited you, too.”

Inclining his head in tentative agreement, Kirin’s eyes search Will’s face. What he’s trying to find there, Will isn’t sure, but he doesn’t seem satisfied when he says, “Yes, he did. I’m… busy, though, at the moment. I might– might not be able to come.”

Will’s might be oblivious sometimes, but he knows an out when he sees one – and this is Kirin offering him an out. Offering Will an easy way to turn him down, despite the way his face shutters with nervous, anticipatory disappointment. 

It makes Will’s heart clench a little, but it solidifies the roiling nerves in his stomach into fierce determination.

“You should come with us,” he blurts, before he can talk himself out of it again, before he can force himself to ignore the way Kirin’s closeness makes his heart beat faster and his skin prickle. “It… it wouldn’t be the same without you. And Parvis would sulk for the whole evening, if you didn’t.” He adds the last few words as almost an afterthought, a way to try and deflect the attention from himself.

Kirin’s eyes grow wider at that, wider and almost hopeful. “Will…” he breathes, quietly, and this time when he searches Will’s face for something, he looks like he finds it. “Are you sure? This isn’t… I’m not asking Parvis, here. I’m asking you.”

“It wouldn’t be the same without you,” says Will, a little more firmly. His heart feels like a bird trapped inside his ribs, fluttering and too-fast, but the tight coil of his stomach is excitement rather than anxiety. “I would like you to– to come with us.”

When Kirin keeps staring at him like he can’t quite believe it, like Will is some strange, beautiful creature he’s never seen before, Will clears his throat quietly. “It– and, well. Parvis really would sulk for the whole evening,” he says, truthfully – he’s seen it before, Parvis sulking when Will’s said he can’t go out, or when some guy called Martyn on his philosophy course cancels on their plans together. It’s not a pretty sight.

Kirin laughs, a little breathlessly, and pulls his eyes away from Will’s face at last. “That he would,” he agrees, easily, shaking his head a little. “Parvis is… quite something.”

“Mmm.” Will nods, turning his own eyes down to his lap now that the tension is gone. He’s still not sure he feels like eating, but he picks at his sandwich nonetheless, tugging a corner of crust off and pulling at it until it’s little more than crumbs – before jumping when he feels a hand touch his. Kirin’s fingers brush tentatively over his knuckles, warm and calloused, and Will shivers.

He turns his hand over, tentatively, as if he’s watching someone else pull the strings. Kirin’s palm is bigger than his – not quite enough to dwarf his hand, but close – and when Kirin’s fingers lace with his, he can’t help the way he sucks in a sharp breath. “He– he certainly is.”

[spacemanxephos]

“You Stupid Man.” [Xephna]

Title: “You Stupid Man.”

Pairing: Xephos and Lalna [Xephna]

Rating: General

Genre: Fluff and a tiny bit of hurt/comfort

Words: 520

Warnings: Lalna gets hurt just a tad but nothing major.

A/N: Tumblr ate the original ask for this as I was finally answering it but it was nearly a year old anyways- essentially it was asking for Xephos interrupting Lalna while he was working and them being gay. This isn’t exactly what Anon asked for but I hope you like it anyways! *Please don't reblog to kin/rp/introject blogs!* This takes place pre-relationship during Jaffa Factory :] (Crossposted on ao3)

“You stupid man.”

These were the first words Lalna heard as he started to come to. He blinked his eyes open and quickly identified Xephos’ silhouette standing over him. He was laying spread eagle on the ground.

“Hey, Xeph’,” he said with a crooked grin, surprising himself by how slurred his words were. He was quickly becoming aware of the soreness that permeated his whole body. A sharp throbbing was steadily increasing in the back of his head. He could taste a bit of blood in his mouth.

Xephos scoffed, his arms tightly crossed. “‘Hey Xeph.’ Is that all you have to say?”

Lalna tilted his head slightly, squinting unsurely. “Er, yes?”

Xephos huffed again and crouched down next to him. He wrapped an arm beneath Lalna’s and gently guided him into a sitting position against the wall. Lalna grimaced in pain at the movement, a sense of vertigo overtaking him.

“Drink this,” Xephos ordered as the rim of a bottle was suddenly pressed to his lips. He coughed slightly at first but recognizing the familiar taste of a regeneration potion eagerly downed it. Warmth spread throughout his body and the pain in his head faded to a dull throb. He sighed in relief, his mind clearing so he could actually process what was happening in front of him.

Xephos was still grumbling frustratedly to himself. “You idiot. I’m at the Jaffa Factory and I hear an explosion in the distance, thinking to myself, ‘Surely, it couldn’t be Lalna.’ I look out the window and what do I see? Smoke from your lab. Bloody daft.” Xephos babbled angrily.

Oh, right. He remembered now. He’d been messing around with sulfur and must have blown himself up. That certainly would explain the headache.

Lalna smiled sheepishly, feeling himself shrink under Xephos’ sharp glare. “I’m sorry.”

There was a pause as Xephos stared at him for a moment, clearly trying to stay mad. Xephos finally sighed, his angry demeanor melting away. He softened. “It’s alright, friend. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“I’m always okay,” Lalna boasted with the confidence of a man still high on healing magic.

Xephos rolled his eyes. Any sympathy from the spaceman evaporated. “Sure you are. I think that’s enough lab for today.”

“What?” Lalna cried, sitting up straighter. “But I still need to-”

Xephos looked at him sternly. “No more lab. You need to rest.” He worried his lip, adding softly. “Come on, we can watch one of those film-things you like.”

Lalna’s eyes widened with excitement. “Cretaceous World?”

Xephos shifted uncomfortably. Lalna remembered the last time they had watched that movie, the man had refused to be left home alone for a week fearing the creatures.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather watch-“

“Please?” Lalna dragged out the word, making puppy-dog eyes at the man.

Xephos sighed, looking at the ceiling. “Yes, alright. But only if you promise not to-“

“Deal!” Lalna beamed. “Come on, if we start now we can finish the first trilogy before midnight!” He bolted up, grabbing Xephos’ arm and dragging him towards the exit.

Xephos could only smile and shake his head.

[antimony-medusa]

as a yogfic writer thank u ehehe

Oh absolutely. I am o7ing you in your valiant efforts.

And if there's anything else that I'm missing, feel free to tell me. I'm just one person manually searching the data on Ao3, and I can miss things. I didn't know about slamacow OR mindcrack until someone told me, for example, and now Yogscast needs to be added to that.

[oldpeculier]

The response was a satisfied exhale, a long moment of considered motion, and a slow sinking further into the water, until his dark hair was floating strangely around his face. Honeydew ran his fingers through it, watching the bubbles slip away and disappear.

[larchraven]

quick temperature check here.......

sooooooooo who wants to do a halloween prompt week??

[illumwriting]

Secret Santa for @bruisepristine! How To Entirely Muck Up A Good Thing (A Guide By Lalna Jones)

semi-canon compliant, references Voltz Episodes 16-18, liberties taken with how everything is made/slight order of events content warning for light descriptions of infection, slightly more detailed removal of an arm 4,019 words! Cross posted to AO3 as well <3 Preview: Lalna spends far too long chasing the chicken around. His aim is suffering, and he tries to play it off with laughs as Xephos' voice from the base drifts out sharply at him to "Just aim!" when the relentless barrage of blasts makes the bunker shake despite the lack of environmental damage. Lalna checks behind his shoulder to make sure no one is watching as he switches to his sword to take the blasted thing out. His arm feels heavy, weak, and itchy.

===============================================

Lalna had planned for building the power arm. Tireless trips to the Nether with Honeydew's apprehensive help to gather the materials, leaving Xephos to work on the base and its machines on his own.

They had suffered a series of comedic mishaps recently, especially with the uranium cells. They had been needed after the events that led to the treaty and the rumors floating around of even more weapons stockpiled in their immediate neighbor's base. Lalna had taken the brunt of the deaths and poisoning, with an easy laugh and the brushing off of any more protection besides the rubber of his gloves between him and the radioactive material. Truth be told, the side effects soothed the aches in his bones and left his head clear to think. Not something he would admit to the others.

Spreading the components across his workspace, Lalna makes a low hum of satisfaction. The metal glints without a trace of the recycled dulled parts that had been melted down for it. The core is cradled gently in stasis, rotating slowly with little light blue sparks that skittered across the surface.

He pulls on a fresh set of his gloves, lowers his goggles that help to sharpen his nearsighted vision- officially, on record he didn't need glasses. Snapping the parts together is assisted by the modifications installed on this world, making it as easy as following the blueprint that had come in the manual. He clips an additional ground wire to himself, erring on the side of caution. The core had been expensive to create. There's a soft hiss as he opens the chamber and reaches in to cradle the core in his fingertips and transfers it to the lined compartment. It makes a crackling sound as it arcs out and attaches to the nodes around it before settling into a steady green glow. Lalna takes a wide step backwards from it, his breath holding as he waits out any possible secondary reaction. When none occurs, he exhales and closes the cover, twisting the bolts into the corners with his screwdrivers to hold it in place. He unclips himself and shucks the gloves off onto the table to run his hand along the arm. He can feel a slight warmth coming from it. He trembles only a little with excitement as he hefts the arm off the table and fits it over himself.

He's glad he sized it to the largest on the specifications. It's still snug around his forearm. He flexes and lets the grin spread across his face at how responsive it is. The fingers curl just like his own despite the added width and the strength contained in them is dangerous. He can hear Honeydew and Xephos' voices filtering up through the confines of their base, and he quickly scoots outside to test it.

The brilliant flare makes him glad to still have his goggles lowered, and he takes half-assed aim at a nearby mob and sends it flying. In the wake of the explosion, a small crater in the earth remains, along with the mob, chunked down to almost dead.

Delighted, Lalna doesn't bother with even turning it off as he rushes inside to show Xephos. The spaceman is streaked with grime and sweat, his thick eyebrows knotted together in annoyed worry as Lalna chatters and starts to form a sphere of energy in his palm, ignoring all the delicate machinery that lines the walls.

Lalna only really realizes his mistake as Xephos is shoving him outside with a firm chiding. Lalna corners Honeydew instead, dragging him outside and fiddling with the dials and firing off blast after blast in the dark of night, the glow even more entrancing with nothing to dim it. Lalna barely notices the tired that has seeped into his companion's voices, the resignation in Honeydew's that all the dangerous trips to the Nether had been for a personal toy, the lingering frustration from Xephos that he'd been left alone to handle the frequently unstable components and repetitive crafting processes that were needed to create a power source for the base that wouldn't be rapidly consumed.

No, Lalna only knew a heady delight as he ran back inside on low health, his head spinning with after-images from the flashes of light and the dizziness that tried to warn him to drink or eat something healing. He leaves Honeydew and Xephos without a second thought, retreating to his workbench to fine tune the arm and dodging Honeydew's baffled question of "What're you gonna be able to do with it, now?"

They humor his strings of unhinged laughter and destruction of the land around them, Honeydew even brushing off the floor of his farming hut being broken into bits. They tease him about it, calling him a maniac when he attracts the attention of too many mobs and winds up dead with his items scattered across the ground. They care about him enough that Honeydew lingers outside to watch Lalna's stuff until he gets back.

Days later, they finally get Lalna's focus back again. It had been sparsely gained, to assist with power cabling, but then lost again to the giddy glee and attachment Lalna felt for his newest creation. Xephos and Honeydew had discussed it briefly, while Lalna was well out of earshot and the humming of the fusion reactor was loud enough to obscure their voices. "Didn't even really build it himself." Honeydew grumbles, still sore about being dragged into the heat of the Nether. Xephos sighs. "We didn't really build this either." He slots another part into the reactor, the turbine making a soft click sound to affirm the correct placement, and reaches down to Honeydew to take the next from him. "The shininess of it will wear off, eventually."

Honeydew mumbles it under his breath. "Can't come soon enough."

True to Xephos' words, Lalna had slunk back in like he hadn't been devoting every scrap of time to his power glove. He tries to make up for it by hovering close, insisting on helping with every little thing. Normally his overcompensation wouldn't rub the other two the wrong way, but Lalna's oddly frantic about it, sweat plastering his hair down as he carries the cells and parts from the chest into the reactor room. He's relying on his new arm to lift the additional weight that Honeydew could easily handle unassisted, and Xephos quietly notes the whine that comes from the stressed joints.

The first time of switching the reactor on goes poorly- Lalna distracted by his intermittently firing toy, Honeydew corralling him away from the more fragile sections. It melts down, and Xephos makes a distressed sound as he and Honeydew rush to put out the fires that stem from it and survey the damage. Luck is on their side, and the missed bit of enclosing glass only costs them the neighboring panes.

The next morning, after a long night, Xephos drags them down to the room again to show off the corrections. Lalna sheepishly passes over a smaller model of his glove to Honeydew for digging the tunnel Xephos needs. Honeydew grouses at first, but eventually mutters to himself as it cleaves through the rock easily that he can see the appeal in it.

The reactor is rebuilt, and only with a small mishap that Lalna is not privy to, only hears the shouting between Xephos and Honeydew and sees the aftermath of shattered glass and fusion cores as he takes himself outside for fresh air. He catches sight of a chicken, and with a deep inhale, he sets his sights to it. Easy dinner.

Lalna spends far too long chasing the chicken around. His aim is suffering, and he tries to play it off with laughs as Xephos' voice from the base drifts out sharply at him to "Just /aim/!" when the relentless barrage of blasts makes the bunker shake despite the lack of environmental damage. Lalna checks behind his shoulder to make sure no one is watching as he switches to his sword to take the blasted thing out. His arm feels heavy, weak, and itchy.

He has to wait until night and soft breaths of his companions to steal away to his workbench. He detaches the power arm and hisses at the unexpected stab of pain that comes as he pulls it off. In the lack of clear light, he can see that his skin is peeling, welted… and darker. He steadies himself against the table and clicks the lamp on.

It's awful. The green has snaked in unnatural patterns into veins and muscle, tinting his arm up to the elbow. The light catching on the lines creates a glowing effect that mocks him, and the pink wristband he'd made to help the arm stay in place stands out sharply. Lalna prods with his gloved hand, and furrows his brow. He can't feel the sensation anywhere along his forearm or hand. He wonders how long it's been like this. Days, probably, with how he pushed off any sort of warning signs on a typical day when he'd worked himself into exhaustion.

A shudder passes through him as he thinks it through. The radiation and chemicals, crawling past the barrier of his gloves, into the sweat and his pores, and then festering inside the glove. Intensified by the constant warmth of the power glove's core- a perfect petri dish to form an infection without him noticing. Everything he tried to avoid.

He considers his options. The easiest solution would be to send himself through respawn without the glove. He'd avoided death since the first night he'd worn the glove, so without it on, his body should reset itself. He resolutely pushes his stool back and stands, shedding his items into the nearby chest. There were plenty of mobs outside, and he makes sure that the ire of the skeletons ends him swiftly. His bed catches him, and he holds back the sharp wheeze that always afflicted him when the rush of life came back. He can't see well enough, doesn't want to look here, not even touch the arm. He'd left his lamp on, and immediately he understands that this problem is going to take more than that to correct. His arm hasn't improved at all.

Lalna sinks down onto the stool. Runs his good hand through his hair and furiously whispers to himself. Sure, he could crawl to the others on the world to ask for help, but battle lines had been drawn that made it impossible. No reason to involve Xephos or Honeydew either- they would only fret over him and suggest the route of talking to Ridge.

The lamp bounces as Lalna slams his fist against the table and then furtively glances to make sure it hadn't woken anyone up. "Fuck." he whispers, and hits the table again with more restraint. "Fuck."

He can't put the glove back on. Even thinking about it makes him nauseous. He tests how well he might be able to pass it off with a regular glove over it, but on their own, his fingers struggle to even grip a pencil with the strength needed to write. The peeling skin sticks to his glove as he removes it, and he nearly pukes then and there. His chest feels tight, and there's nowhere safe to escape to. He's trapped, in this little box that is his workspace, between his dying flesh and his worst fears. The gears whirr in his mind, scraping against each other roughly and then clattering out of track. He has the best and worst idea all at once, and only thoughts after that are the how.

Even weakened, two hands are better than one. He stumbles in a haze through their base, supporting himself against the wall as he rifles frantically through the chests for the supplies he needs. His inventory barely holds it all, and he has a few close calls as dropped chest lids and metal scraping against metal almost wake Xephos up.

He sorts it into neat piles back at his workspace, and glances at the clock. 4 scant hours until sunrise and Honeydew's internal alarm clock going off to get up and make breakfast.

First, the smaller arm he'd made for Honeydew. Requisitioned, and only smelling slightly like him. Lalna purges the thing with alcohol and works additional wiring into it, along with one of the control panels and some padding meant for his power suit's helmet. He tries to blend the changes into it but without an underlying blueprint, it looks chunked together and not nearly as smooth and seamless. A leather strap to go over his shoulder is added, to help support the weight and keep it flush.

Second, the matter of his arm. He tears into the fabric of an old rag, and ties it off just above where the infection seems to end at his elbow. He replays every show he'd watched where someone's arm had been removed, and is grateful that he can't feel anything there right now. He slots a bit of leather between his teeth, lowers his goggles, and flips on the handheld laser they'd used to cut sheets of metal.

Nothing could make this better. The smell hits first, acrid. Then the sound- bubbling and searing. Then the pain. He makes it past his epidermis and then everything explodes in white light behind his eyeballs, a harsh pounding that screams at him to stop. The laser clatters from his hand onto the table, automatically switching off, and Lalna sobs into the leather and tastes blood where his teeth had caught the corner of his tongue. He fumbles the laser back into his hand, shakily thumbs it back on. He feels like he's floating just behind himself, guiding the beam to cut into himself. It shatters everything inside of him, disgust and horror twisting into some sort of fascination as he's split open and apart. The very last of his nerves send shocks up his arm and into his brain- if they weren't so rotted, his arm would be twitching and spasming wildly. The intense heat of the cauterization is a blissful relief and reminds him of the heat of the radiation that had rotted him from the inside out while making him feel on top of the world.

The thud of his arm hitting the table and oozing out greenish-reddish-turned brown fluid from the not quite closed spots is what finally tips him over the edge. He throws up into the trashcan until he's dry heaving, clutching the stump of his arm with firm pressure until the rags come away sharp red instead of brackish. He feels faint, but he forces himself through it- making sure that the small wounds on the stump- it has to be the stump, he cannot think of it as his- are closing and not where the new arm will attach. They aren't. He wrenches the arm on, and has to stab an additional hole in the repurposed belt to cinch it properly close. He is drenched in sweat, his face streaked with tears as he sniffles back a runny nose. The glove on his right is ripped off by the cuff using his teeth and joins the mess in the trash. He holds his breath as he flicks the small switch on the underside of the arm and thinks move. The fingers seize into a closed fist. He whimpers, stares despondently and begs the machine with barely moving lips to work. He's coming down from the high of it all and everything hurts. He could pass out then and there, but he has to clean up, and haul himself back into bed. The arm twitches. He focuses again. "C'mon, you." He whispers, stroking his remaining fingers over the warmed metal.

It works. The fingers uncurl, then curl again, and the arm lifts off the table. It's enough. Lalna fumbles his way through cleaning up, and manages to not puke again when he has to deposit the remains of everything in their lava pit. Some strange part of him, the delirium, probably, says "Goodbye, arm!" as he watches it be consumed. The pink wristband is in his pocket, along with a mental note that the neon green and pink had looked good together. With that, he staggers back to his bed and passes out.

They let him sleep. He'd smelled of alcohol and vomit, and they assume that he'd had a few too many late night drinks. Not the first time, but odd, since they'd not found any bottles anywhere. He wakes up in late afternoon, groggy. It's not until he splashes his face with water and feels the slight delay of his left arm's movements and then metal that he realizes that it had not been some sort of nightmare. The day rolls by easily, with Xephos only insisting that Lalna drink more water and Honeydew making him a strong cup of tea that is bitter, but soothes the headache that was biting into the back of his skull.

Lalna keeps care of this arm better. The firing capabilities had been reduced to allow for the connection to him, but he's steadily learning that with the direct attachment, he can treat it more like his actual hand. The glove had been an extension, sometimes unwieldly and too large. As the surreal feeling fades, it is replaced by his usual giddy curiosity. He tinkers with the arm, ironing out little problems like the random spasms that would cause him to snap or crush whatever he was holding.

Just when it's become second nature to him, Honeydew notices. Lalna isn't sure how long Honeydew had noticed for, with his sharp eye for things out of place when it came to his companions, but he'd been polite enough to at least wait until Lalna no longer looked like death warmed over. "So." Honeydew starts, as they're both alone in the resources room and Xephos is below them, tending to his reactor. Honeydew's tone is simply conversational, and he nods at Lalna's arm. "where's the rest of ya?"

Lalna freezes. He swallows hard and turns slightly to catch Honeydew in the corner of his eye. Honeydew's face is neutral as can be. "I… It's… Erm…" Lalna stammers, so Honeydew keeps talking.

"Cause' unless you suddenly shrunk your arm down, and my power thing-a-ma-jiggy turns back up… well." Honeydew straightens from the chest, and leans against it to pin Lalna down with his direct attention.

Lalna doesn't know what to do. He should tell the whole truth, but he loathes being scolded by Honeydew more than Xephos. Of course, Honeydew could give him sympathy instead, which always left Lalna even more unsure and stiffly awkward.

*"You don't gotta say anything. Just roll your sleeve up."

That he can do. Lalna folds the loose arm of his lab coat up, to the point above his elbow that he had been avoiding raising it to, even though it was where he preferred it to be. The skin around the connection is still slightly reddened as it adjusts to the daily wear, but there's no trace of the infection.

"Huh." is all Honeydew says, before he hollars down the hole to Xephos. "Lalna cut his bloody arm off!!"

"WHAT?" Xephos yells back, and there's the sounds of annoyance as Xephos puts down whatever he's working on and climbs the stairs up. "Lalna cut what?" He repeats when he's just around the corner and stepping through the gap between the trophy room and where they are.

"Arm." Lalna supplies weakly. He's standing with his arms limp by his sides, gaze flicking nervously between the two of them as a laugh forms in the back of his throat.

"Goddamnit." Xephos puts out a hand to steady himself on the same chest Honeydew is leaning on, looking about as ill as Lalna had felt that night. "For fun… or?"

"Erm. Infection."

"Uh-huh." That's Honeydew, eyebrows raised in judgement. "Any particular reason you didn't wanna share that with us before lopping the thing off?"

"Yeah." Xephos echoes the sentiment, staring at Lalna like he's a madman. It's worse than when they call him a maniac.

"….. I needed to fix it. I did fix it." Lalna gets defensive, moves his hand up in front of him to flex the metal fingers. "See?"

Xephos blinks. "Your. Arm. Is. Gone."

"Yeah, and? This is way better." Lalna giggles, mostly unintentionally. He wants this topic to be over. They have things to build! People to bomb!

Honeydew opens his mouth to say something far less kind than he should, and only Xephos' light touch to his back stops him. "Whatever." is what comes out instead, but still just as irritated. The rest of the thought remains unsaid as Honeydew turns and pushes past Xephos to retreat to his tunnel. The stomp of his feet on the stairs makes Xephos sigh.

"Lalna. You have to tell us things like this, before…. before you take drastic measures. We could have-"

"gone to Ridge!" Lalna's tone lilts mocking as he interrupts and glares at Xephos. "Don't wanna. Besides, I fixed it."

Xephos turns and leaves without another word. Still, Lalna can hear his voice as he descends, soft frustrated words. "Not the point."

The tension hangs in the air between them all for a while. Lalna is more than fine to pretend it never happened, while Xephos and Honeydew talk it out between themselves and come up empty-handed on what to even do about it, except to let Lalna continue with whatever this was.

It's Honeydew, again, who extends an olive branch. Lalna is getting frustrated with his arm, one of the panels he hadn't been able to bolt down flush catching on "every blasted thing around me!!" Lalna is red-faced and yelling, looking like he might either throw something or break into tears. Likely both.

"I can fix that, y'know." Honeydew says calmly from across the room, back to Lalna. Lalna punches the wall. Honeydew repeats himself, louder.

"What?"

"I said, I can fix that. The panel." He waves the spanner in his hand in the air in a friendly manner, and feels Lalna approach him cautiously and step to his side.

"You would?" There's relief and hope in Lalna's voice, and he almost chatters on about all the other things that could use fixing, but Honeydew stops that before he starts.

"If you say sorry."

Lalna pouts. "For what?"

"For- blimey, Lalna, you cut your arm off overnight and didn't even think to wake me up!"

"You would have stopped me!"

"Maybe!!! Maybe I woulda made sure it fit you better! You dunno, cause' you /didn't/ say anything!"

Lalna considers it. It takes him a minute, and the fingers on his metal hand flex unconsciously as his mind works on other things. "I… I guess I coulda." He finally admits, then plunks the arm down on the table in front of Honeydew, and draws out the ask with his typical whine. "Please, can you fix it?"

Honeydew grunts, and set down the spanner to run his hands over the metal. "Sure. But you have to tell me exactly what happened."

Lalna does.

Xephos comes up partway through, and joins them, dragging over a chair and then promptly excusing himself again as Lalna begins to go into far more detail than needed about the removal. Lalna blusters out that he's… "sorry, I guess-" when Xephos returns again, and that earns him a pat on the shoulder and the insistence that he take the arm off to let Xephos look at the remains of his arm.

Despite the lingering frustrations between them- the half-finished projects, the things that had led to this, Lalna finally feels like he can breathe easier with his companions voices taking up the space around him. Even if they were chiding him. Even if they were telling him that he was a moron for doing this. He feels safe.

He still thinks the arm is cool, though. Eventually he'll get Xephos and Honeydew to agree. Eventually.

[llithiumstars]

Cornerstone REDUX - Chapter One (A Cornerstone)

(Yes the art is not actually of this chapter but you're lucky I've drawn anything <3)

Summary: 5 Years. Let's do this again. Rewrite of my 2019 Cornerstone fic. The original will remain up for posterity, and for those who might prefer the old version.

Brought into a new world, the Cornerstone Nine must work together to prove the demigod Lying wrong. Lightning strikes, mob invasions, and a mutual enemy threatens their sky island home, but the group must persist. If not for themselves, then out of spite.

Less ship focused than the original.

[lalnawiki]

phone doodles based off my fic, which you can read here!

edit: I guess this technically counts as Beginning for the first yogtober prompt so!! here ya go!

[diredevilrulz]

The Body in Electrical - Chapter 1

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27440047/chapters/67079779

Everything kicked off on the Skeld with a body in electrical... A Yogscast Among Us fic Each lovely lineup of our crew was done by Cyandias on Tumblr! Please check him out!

Tags: Murder, Canon-Typical Violence, Mild Gore, Swearing, Betrayal, Manipulation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Based on their minecraft personas, Not RPF, now with art!

    It had been several weeks since two different signals reached the Skeld, one reaching the main terminal in an alert and the other secretly reaching three separate people upon the ship as an order to act. Things have been tense of course since Captain Xephos relayed the caution sent to the ship by Mira HQ, but so far nothing has been out of the ordinary. The crew has split up into pairs to be safer as they do their tasks around the aging ship to keep it running smoothly. It was about then that the warning systems went off, indicating a reactor meltdown. The groups scrambled to the rear of the ship to override the issue with both Honeydew and Nano slamming their hands onto the panels one right after the other. With the system stable, the emergency meeting alert went off which led everyone back to the cafeteria to see the Captain standing there with a worried but stern look.

    "Alright, if the ship is going to malfunction that badly, there is no telling when or if the oxygen system will go out... So from now everyone will be required to wear their standard issued suits. We'll be addressing others by color since the visors make it harder to see faces." Xephos' voice slightly echoed through the large room as he looked at the 9 other passengers. Most of them had fear in their eyes while others had suspicion.

    "Is... Is this the work of the Imposters??" Sjin said a bit weakly, fear obvious in his facial features as is clung to his semi-stonefaced partner, Sips.

    "I don't know, but it would seem so. Please keep an eye on your partner and others around you. Remember colors and who went where. If you do happen to, heavens forbid... find someone..." he paused, glancing over the group again, "On your suits is an emergency button that you can only use if you find a body. After the alarm, we'll reconvene here and discuss what happened." Xephos gave a heavy sigh and dismissed everyone, watching as they left towards their quarters to get dressed. He turned towards Honeydew and his features softened, gently interrupting Honey's nervous fidgeting by grabbing his hand and walking with the smaller man to suit up.

    The Captain must have forgotten about the small name badges that the suits had, but it made sense to just use colors when watching out for yourself. Pink was the first to skip out of the quarters, semi dragging Purple along who was a bit less enthusiastic about getting back to his tasks. Next was Black who was similarly dragging Lime, but was much more forceful.

    "Will, c'mooooon! I wanna get my electrical tasks out of the way..." Black whined, completely ignoring Lime's protests. White and Red watched the two, snickering to themselves before walking off. White made a point to mention how much shorter Red was even with the suit and was promptly punched in the gut. He doubled over with a groan as Red continued, laughing fully.

    "Nice one, Nano!" Orange cheered, still clinging to Cyan as if nothing changed. Those two were barely seen apart thanks to Orange's affection for the other man, despite Cyan's stone cold response. Last to exit was Brown and Blue since they were the last ones to the room. The Captain still held himself high, knowing that the others looked to him to stay calm and collected. He paused to see if White was alright and helped the man stand and catch up to his feisty buddy. Blue watched as his crew separated and gave a slight sigh before following Brown towards his tasks.

    Things were going smoothly for several hours before the lights flickered out across the ship. Each suit had a little light on it that didn't show too much, but made it easier to not bump into things. Red and White were the closest to electric, having just been in the lower engine room. White was tailing, making sure to hold Red's hand tightly as she led the way to the room. She reached the fuse box and flipped the proper switches, glad to have the lights coming back to life. Red turned around to leave, but ran face first into White's chest. She looked up at him and was about to ask, but she could hear his rapid breathing and from this close, she could see his wide eyes staring at the pathway to the back of the electric room. Nano slowly turned around and saw a splatter of red on the wall with a trail leading behind the console. Her steps were heavy as she moved to look around the corner and what she saw would scar even a battle-hardened vet. The entire back room was splattered with viscera and blood with the only solid piece of body left being a pair of black suited legs. Red screamed as loud as she was able to and slammed her hand on the button on her suit, ringing the body alarm across the ship.

[mindfulwrath]

I know we lost Powered ages ago at this point but have you now deleted all of your yogfic including TRAF? Idk what the purpose of me asking is, I guess I just hope I’m somehow using ao3 wrong lolol. hope you’re well <3

TRAF is still up.

I did recently set my AO3 to be viewable only by people who have an AO3 account, so that may have been why certain stories seemed to disappear. It's changed back now.

[sparxwrites]

Ch. 8 - my dearest friend

Art credit for banner. [ao3]

It’s nearly midnight when the door to Will’s room opens.

He’s not asleep, not even anything close – but he’s in bed with the lights off, staring at the wall with his back to the door, and he hopes that’s enough to convince anyone being nosy that he’s at least attempting to sleep. In reality, though, he’s given up hope of that happening any time before the sun comes up. Tomorrow is, he suspects, going to be a day of exhaustion and significant caffeine overconsumption.

Light spills into the room from the open doorway, dull and yellowy. Will still narrows his eyes against the sudden brightness. He doesn’t move, though. It’s probably Xephos, fussing as usual. If he makes a convincing enough show of being asleep he’ll be left alone.

When the door doesn’t close after a slow count to fifteen in his head, he sighs, pressing his eyes shut against the light. There’s a faint ache behind his eyes that centres on the bridge of his nose. “I’m fine, Xephos,” he says, reluctantly, voice rough with tiredness. “Seriously. I just need to sleep.”

“I’m not Xephos,” says Parvis, very softly.

Will freezes.

The light vanishes as the door clicks shut and, a moment later, the mattress dips a little behind him, springs squeaking and frame creaking. He stays perfectly still, even as Parvis climbs into the bed, and tucks himself tentatively against the curve of Will’s back.

Will says nothing, and Parvis doesn’t either – just presses himself close until Will can feel Parvis’ heart beating against the line of his spine. The warmth that always radiates off Parvis like a furnace seeps through his clothing, down to his bones, and Will has to fight the urge to shiver at the realisation of just how cold the rest of him is without that heat.

For a long moment, neither of them speak.

“...I’m sorry,” murmurs Parvis, the quiet words still too loud with how close his lips are to Will’s ear. “I didn’t–”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t mean it,” says Will and, although his voice is kept, there’s an edge of exhausted anger to it. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

Parvis pauses, exhales, and Will can feel the warmth of it through his sleep shirt. “I shouldn’t have said it,” says Parvis eventually, pushing his forehead against the nape of Will’s neck. “I shouldn’t, and I shouldn’t have kissed you without asking first, and I shouldn’t– I shouldn’t have been a dick.”

Will snorts, quietly, unable to help himself. “You’re always a dick. Especially when you’re drunk.”

“That’s not an excuse.” There’s something unreadable in Parvis’ voice, but it’s tight and determined and final. “That’s never an excuse. So, just–” He grits his teeth, pushes his forehead harder against Will’s skin, and Will realises with a start that Parvis is trembling. “…Look, I’m. I’m trying to apologise here, and you’re making it even more awkward than it already is, so just– just shut up, and accept my apology, okay?”

Will stays silent.

He feels Parvis exhale, a slow shuddering rush of breath, and nuzzle his face against the wing of Will’s shoulder blade. “Will,” he says, quietly, voice a whine that Will would describe as borderline desperate if it were coming from anyone else. It’s the most honest Will’s ever heard him, raw and pleading and almost scared. “Will, please.”

“You weren’t wrong, though,” says Will, and the words feel like they’re being wrenched out him, raw and bloody and painful. “You weren’t– what you said, it wasn’t. Wasn’t untrue.”

Parvis hums, quietly, and nuzzles him again – against the back of Will’s neck, this time. Parvis’ nose is cold, and Will’s neck is sensitive, and he can’t help the way he shivers at the touch. “…It could be,” murmurs Parvis, eventually, voice soft and just a little uncertain. “If you wanted it to be.”

Will freezes. He knows what he thinks Parvis means – knows what he half-hopes Parvis means. But that seems– insane. Too much to hope for. Too much to even consider.

“What do you want, Parvis?” he asks, and tries to pretend he’s only asking why Parvis has snuck into his bed in the middle of the night.

There’s a moment’s silence, Parvis’ breathing quiet against his back, head still pressed between Will’s shoulder blades. “...Come with me,” he says, eventually, words muffled by Strife’s sleep-shirt. “Me and Kirin are going out on Friday, there’s some nightclub he knows – come with us. Let me–” He cuts himself off, sighing, and slips an arm around Will’s waist to tug him closer. “Let us–”

“What do you want, Parvis?” repeats Will, louder this time, voice thick with frustration.

Parvis falls silent at the words, thinking. “I.” He pauses, swallows, tightens the arm draped over Will’s ribs. He shifts, awkward, bordering on nervous, against Will’s back. The entire mattress shifts with him, dipping, ancient springs wavering. “I don’t think I can tell you right now,” he says, quietly. “I don’t think you want me to tell you, either. You’ll just get scared, like you did before.”

Will’s breath hitches, the air catching in his chest. “Parvis…”

The arm around him tightens, ever so slightly, and Parvis pushes his face a little more firmly against the line of Will’s spine. “Strifey,” he murmurs. There’s something about the note of fond teasing in his voice that makes Will’s stomach clench. “Glad we still know each other’s names.”

Will snorts, quietly, ribs jumping beneath the casual, easy drape of Parvis’ arm. And it is easy, so easy, so natural – they’ve been doing this for months now, ever since a drunk, cheerful Parvis made himself at home in Strife’s bed during freshers week and refused to leave, draped over Strife like a human-sized, too-heavy blanket.

He can’t quite believe he’s never noticed how easy it was before.

For a long moment, there’s silence, just the quiet noise of breathing between them. Strife can feel the warmth of Parvis’ exhale on the back of his neck and, if he focuses on it, the tickle of it sends shivers down his spine. Swallowing hard, he closes his eyes. “What– what you want,” he says, voice rough. “Does… does Kirin want–? Is that– is that what this is?”

He knows Parvis. Knows the strange coolness of his skin even during the summer, the easy sprawl of his limbs, the white flash of teeth and the dance of his eyes when he grins. Parvis is– not safe, never safe, but familiar. A known quantity. Kirin is… something else.

Even as he thinks it, though, he remembers the soft curl of Kirin’s smile, the warm brilliance of his laugh. The faint scratch of his beard when he’d rested his head on Strife’s shoulder that night, one hand curled around a beer bottle and an arm draped over Parvis’ shoulders. He remembers how much the broad solidity of Kirin’s chest had felt an awful lot like safety, that first night where they’d all piled into the bed.

He remembers how much the three of them, tangled up together like that, had felt like coming home.

At that, Parvis smiles, lips a wide press against the back of Will’s neck. He huffs out something that sounds remarkably like a laugh. “Oh, Will,” he says, his thumb shifting against the curve of Will’s ribs, brushing over the sleep shirt he’s wearing until the fabric drags at his skin with a faint, static burst of sensation. “Come with me, on Friday. With us.”

Will turns his face into the pillow to buy himself a moment’s thinking time – which would work better if his brain hadn’t turned to water, thoughts trickling out through his fingers like sand. He wants this. He doesn’t think this is possible. He doesn’t know if he cares whether it’s impossible. He–

“You know,” says Parvis, with a poorly-stifled yawn, “I can actually hear your brain whirring.” His voice has gone soft, sleepy, in that way it only does when it’s past midnight and he’s minutes away from falling asleep in Will’s bed. “C’mon, Will. Strifey. Come out with us.”

“Yes,” blurts Will – because if he doesn’t say it then, right then, he never will. “Yes. Fine. I’ll come.”

“…You will?” says Parvis. His voice is as soft as Will’s ever known it to be, nakedly surprised and vulnerable with it.

“Don’t make me say it twice,” Will mutters into the pillow.

“Okay,” says Parvis, easily, and yawns widely. It’s right in Will’s ear, overly loud and endearingly annoying. His jaw scrapes Will’s shoulder, rough with stubble, as his mouth opens wide. “I won’t.”

Will swallows, hard, and then blurts, “I’m still angry with you, you know.” It comes out like a confession, some admittance of sin, that he’s not able to forgive and forget on the strength of Parvis’ apology. He feels, for some ungodly reason, almost bad about it. Feels a bit like he should apologise.

“I know,” mutters Parvis, sulkily. He sounds, for once, more annoyed with himself than with Will.

“You know? That’s… that’s it?” There’s got to be some kind of trick, here, some trap that Will is just waiting to fall into.

Parvis shrugs, an awkward motion given he’s lying down on his side. The movement shifts the cheap, shitty student bed beneath them, creaking on its cheap, ancient legs. “I fucked up,” he says, sourly, like the words are covered in thorns and being dragged out of him as a string of brambles. His voice, though, is still soft, still gentle. “I did a dumb-dumb, Will – and you’d better take a picture, because I am never going to say that again, because the great Parvy-Parv never does anything dumb. Except… this time, I did, so. Y’know. Blegh.”

“…You can’t take a picture of words, Parvis,” is the only thing Will can think to say to that. He feels a bit like he’s been struck by lightning.

“Oh. Yeah. Well–” Parvis hesitates. “Whatever. Shut up. I’m trying, okay?”

The two of them lie there, in silence, for– a while. Will doesn’t know how long. What he does know is Parvis pressed lanky and still against his back, Parvis’ slow breath hot against his neck, Parvis’ thumb on his ribs. It’s all he can think about – the warmth of it, the points where they connect. He’s not sure how he never noticed it before. Not sure why, now, it’s all he can think about.

“Are you staying here tonight?” he asks, eventually, moving his face from the pillow and reaching a hand up to press the heel of his palm against one eye socket. It eases the ache behind his eyes, a little, the pressure buying respite from the continuous throbbing inside his skull that’s been building all day. God, does he need to sleep.

Parvis freezes against him, suddenly carved from stone, other the slow and steady thrum of his heart against Will’s back. “...Am I allowed to?” he asks, tentatively, all the teasing gone from his voice. It is replaced, instead, by something oddly vulnerable and small.

Surprised, Will has to think for a second – has to process that he has a choice here. That Parvis is giving him an out. It’s so weirdly considerate for something coming out of Parvis’ mouth that it takes a good moment or two for the words to make sense. “…Yeah,” he says eventually, voice heavy with resignation – tired as he is, he doesn’t have the willpower to deny Parvis anything. He never does. “Yeah, sure. Why not.”

The arm around his waist tightens a little further, briefly, squeezing some of the air out of Will’s lungs before Parvis releases him. “Thanks,” he mumbles, quietly, one leg nudging forward to tangle with Will’s, cold feet pressing against Will’s calves. The words are a puff of breath against the back of Will’s neck that makes him shiver. “You’re the best, Will.”

Something in the warmth and intimacy of it makes Will’s stomach twist, clenching tight in a way entirely different from the wrenching nausea Parvis’ words last night had caused. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters back, swallowing through the sudden tightness of his throat. “Now be quiet. I need to sleep. I’ve got–”

“–lectures tomorrow,” finishes Parv for him, quietly, and when he smiles against the back of Will’s neck Will can feel the warm drag of lips against skin. “I know. You always do.”