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Hello fellow WXson lovers

I want to share with you a WXson fanfiction series that I've been writing. There are five stories in it AND I have two more written in advance and five more planned in total.

Here's the link! Hope you enjoy!

made a "lil" wxson doodle based off of the latest installment of my wxson ao3 series, tea and circuits.

by "lil", i mean it took me one and a half hours. hope you enjoy :3

(link to that fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53045644)

Hi! I'm currently taking fanfiction requests. Here's the details:

I mostly write Don't Starve fics, but if I'm familiar with the fandom I'll try anything once.

The requests can be NSFW. (Obviously, I will not write minors that way.)

I'm trying to use this to practice writing shorter stories, so please keep that in mind when submitting a prompt.

All you have to do is send me the request in my inbox!

I am cross-posting these fics on my AO3 page. If you would like to leave comments or critique, or see other examples of my work, you can find it here.

coughs weakly... perhaps some wxson fluff for the requests..........

“AS I SAID, THE ODDS OF US MAKING IT OUT UNSCATHED WERE LESS THAN FIVE PERCENT,” grumbles WX-78, seething from where they lay against the wall of the cave.

“I know, I know, I'm sorry,” Wilson says, fumbling through his backpack for what little first aid he'd brought.

The pair had gone to the Ruins of an old, ancient civilization to get a better look at the broken clockworks that reside there.

Unfortunately, it seemed that the broken clockworks had wanted to do the same.

Wilson pulls out a roll of silk and a healing salve from his backpack.

They continue. “IF YOU JUST WOULD HAVE LISTENED TO ME- ”

“I know!” Shouts Wilson, angrily, but he immediately recoils at his own hostility and takes a deep breath.

“Sorry, sorry. You know how the darkness gets to me,” he mumbles. “It's just.. I know it's my fault that we're in this predicament, but all we can do from this point on is move forward.”

He takes a moment to take a bite out of a cooked green mushroom, placing it back in his backpack to finish later.

“I'll patch you up so we can safely get you back to the surface and have Winona make sure your internals aren't damaged. Alright?”

WX-78 stays silent, still fuming.

They'd had to rush in to save him, as usual, when he didn't see a broken Rook charging his way.

WX-78 had insisted he look from afar, but he didn't listen.

They pointedly avoid Wilson’s gaze as he gives them a once-over. There's a jagged cut through the exterior of their chassis where the damaged Rook had gored them head-on, just below the burn marks left by a projectile shot by a damaged Bishop.

He applies the thick, pastel paste to the wounds, thankful that they're not subject to the same stinging feeling that fleshy bodies are when the salve is applied. 

His stomach drops when he realizes he can see the gears inside of their body turn through the gash in their midsection.

He tries not to think about the fact that he's just seen their organs as he puts away the mortar and pestle.

“That should do it. Is there anything else?”

“...”

“Come on, you have to at least tell me if you're further injured so I can- ”

“MY LEFT ELBOW JOINT IS NOT RESPONDING,” they interrupt, reluctantly, and make a show of trying and failing to move their arm.

From all of the time Wilson had spent living alone in the Constant, he is certainly quite familiar with how to make a sling.

He ties one with practiced ease while WX-78 simply watches.

“Alright, so I'm going to slide it over your head..,” Wilson says quietly, and walks them through the process of properly positioning their arm in the sling.

He sits down next to them against the wall and runs a hand through his hair.

“Based on the lack of light poking through to that bunnyman village over there, I'd say it's still night up on the surface. We'd best wait until day to go back up. It would be unpleasant to be caught unawares,” he says, mostly to himself.

WX-78 shifts next to him, giving a small nod of confirmation.

He reaches into his bag and pulls out a bag of trail mix. He offers some to them, and they swipe the whole bag from his hands.

“THAT'S FOR IGNORING MY ADVICE, FLESHLING,” they spit, voice still laced with irritation. They begin to eat and he just chuckles, grabbing another bag from his backpack.

“WHAT? WHAT'S SO FUNNY?” they ask, leaning forward to get in his face.

“Nothing, nothing. It's just, you get so.. grumpy sometimes, and it's entertaining to watch you fume. It reminds me of an angry kitten,” he says, neutrally, as if he hadn’t just compared them to a defenseless animal. 

“That's all,” he adds, eating his own trail mix and grinning at them smugly.

WX-78 punches him on the arm, hard enough to bruise, and that certainly wipes the look off of his face. He clears his throat and looks off to the side somewhere.

The two eat in silence. Eventually, the exhaustion of the trip falls onto the both of them. 

Wilson yawns, and they scoff at him.

“REALLY? I'M THE CRITICALLY INJURED ONE HERE, AND YOU'RE SLEEPY?”

“‘S’not something I can control, WX,” he says. “I’m going to sleep. You should, too. Maybe it'll help your critical injuries heal faster,” he says mockingly.

They look down to see that the Constant’s magic has already started to seal their wounds. They're not fixed, but they're hardly ‘critically injured’ by this point. 

In all honesty, they'd just wanted Wilson to feel bad about his mistake.

“By the way,” he says, voice groggy, “I got some things for you while you were busy getting pummeled. Catch,” he says humorously, tossing them a cloth sack full of something that he pulled out of seemingly nowhere.

It lands with a clink on their lap, due to their current inability to use their left arm.

They shoot him a death glare, but he's already leaning against the wall of the cave with his eyes closed.

They open the bag, and inside are handfuls of gears, purple gems, and Thulcelite chunks.

They wonder when Wilson had gotten the time to collect these things, considering they were fighting together. Now that they think about it, he'd never stopped to tend to his own injuries. And by the sound of the fight, there’s probably plenty of them. They look up at him.

His nose and right eye are swollen and purple from taking a direct headbutt from a damaged Knight. There's some blood smeared under his nose and upper lip, and if his crooked nose is anything to go by, it's probably broken.

There are plenty of blackened lacerations from the nightmare creatures they'd faced sprawled across his arms. A few bite marks, too, from when he'd gotten too close to a Splumonkey.

They even see a bite mark on his shoulder, shirt torn by the teeth of a Bunnyman who smelled the jerky stashed deep in his backpack.

Huh. All things considered.. They look down at the bag on their lap.

Perhaps they'll go a bit easier on him once they both wake up.

WX-78 leans against the cave wall, but finds themself sagging to the left due to their injured arm. They eventually lean against Wilson’s shoulder. 

Flesh is much more comfortable than a wall, their worn-out processor supplies, and it's not like he cares. He's in a deep enough sleep to be snoring.

When the morning comes and they find themself with an arm wrapped securely around their shoulders, they pretend they're still powered down.

After eight months and nearly 15k words, it is done.

Enjoy.

maxwell and wx-78 for the fic requests? they r funny . to me . and its also mine and @steeloptic's mains

The caves, for what they are, can be a very serene place.

In the fields where the spiral staircases lead to their depths, rarely (if ever) do the horrors of the deeper areas show themselves.

In the Bunnyman villages, all are welcome so long as they respect the customs of the inhabitants.

Even in the more dangerous areas, like the Lunar Grotto, serenity can be found in one's reflection in the waterfalls.

The Ruins can even be pleasant, provided you choose the right time to visit them.

Unfortunately for our two survivors, they picked the worst time.

“IF YOUR SHADOW FREAK AIMS FOR ME AGAIN, I WILL PERSONALLY REMOVE ALL OF YOUR LIMBS,” remarks WX-78, dodging a horde of shadow Splumonkeys.

“Perhaps if you stopped getting in the way, they wouldn't mistake you for an enemy. You're quite visually similar to the broken clockworks we faced back there,” retorts Maxwell, rapidly flipping through the pages of his precious Codex Umbra to summon another one of his, ahem, freaks.

The floor shakes, emitting a red glare through the cracks in the floor, and expels yet another wave of nightmare creatures. This time, it brings forth two Terrorbeaks.

“WE WOULD NOT BE IN THIS PREDICAMENT IF YOU KNEW HOW TO READ A MAP, CARTER,” WX-78 hisses as one of them scratches a sizable dent into their arm. “HERE I THOUGHT YOU CREATED THIS PLACE. EVIDENTLY, YOU ARE TOO OLD TO REMEMBER ANYTHING RIGHT.”

“For the last time, you - ack - hunk of scrap metal, I didn't make everything here! And we are right where you wanted to be,” Maxwell fires back, flinching away from a Crawling Horror that nearly got a hit in.

“YOU DID NOT TELL ME WHAT LIVES HERE, YOU WRETCHED SENIOR CITIZEN!”

WX-78’s tentacle spike breaks into pieces upon contact with the same Crawling Horror. It dissipates and reappears all in the same instant as they reach for their spear.

“I did not feel the need to. But by all means, persecute me for assuming that you knew what the Ruins actually were!”

Maxwell’s Duelists, in sync, slash at the row of primates in front of them.

They howl.

“I told you that we needed to wait, but what did you do instead? Ran ahead, like a young child into a candy store.”

Maxwell barely dodges a Terrorbeak’s screeching swipe.

“You simply could not wait the one hour it would have taken for the Nightmare Cycle to end! You reap what you sow, robot.”

The Nightmare Lights glow even brighter, symbolizing the crest of the cycle.

WX-78 continues to stab at the shadow creatures, even as they are outnumbered six-to-one.

Maxwell grabs WX-78 by the arm. They release a garbled shout, and he belatedly realizes that he's grabbed their injured arm.

He considers feeling remorse for it…

…and ultimately decides it's not necessary. A lot more damage could be done if the two of them stay here, he reasons.

He drags them by the arm, running, while they thrash and kick in retaliation. (One or two of them lands, and well, metal is metal, even if it's sentient.)

After a while, WX-78 rips their arm from his grasp.

“DO NOT TOUCH ME. IF I WANTED YOUR OLD MAN SWEAT ON ME, I WOULD ASK,” they say, putting a sizable distance between the two.

Maxwell stays silent.

When they finally reach a peaceful outcropping, Maxwell releases a breath he didn't know he was holding.

“Are you happy now? Did you get what you wanted, pal?”

“AS A MATTER OF FACT, I DID,” they say, opening their backpack and showing him the inside.

Heaps of gears and nightmare fuel fall onto the ground, and with it, Maxwell’s jaw.

Metaphorically, of course. A gentleman won't be caught making a face like that.

“And just when did you have the time to get all of that?”

“WE WERE FIGHTING THEM EARLIER. IT SEEMS YOUR MEMORY IS FAILING YOU AGAIN,” WX-78 says, no humor lacing their monotone voice despite the implication.

“Yes, well, I was just a tad too occupied with trying to ensure our survival to stop and pick up loot. Excuse me if I thought you were doing the same.”

“WE WOULD HAVE GOTTEN MORE IF YOU DID NOT DRAG ME AWAY. I COULD HAVE WON,” they say, mayhaps just a tad overconfident.

“Well, then. Hand the nightmare fuel over. You know our deal,” Maxwell says, choosing to brush over the lie. He sticks a hand out expectantly.

“I COLLECTED THESE THINGS,” WX-78 says, scooping all of the precious resources back into their backpack. “YOU HAD THE SAME OPPORTUNITY THAT I DID. THESE ARE MINE.”

“What?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement. “I was busy trying to make sure we stayed alive, because you were so preoccupied with fighting that you weren’t protecting yourself!” 

“I CAN DEFEND MYSELF JUST FINE!” they say, raising their voice. It echoes around the walls of the cave. 

He grabs their arm, right where the injury is, and holds it up to prove a point. They flinch hard, and a small noise of protest escapes their vocal synthesizer.

“Try harder then, pal.”

Maxwell barely has a second to react before a metal fist connects with his jaw.

He lets go of their other arm in retaliation and strikes back quickly, but immediately realizes that punching someone made entirely of metal is ineffective. He pulls his hand back, shaking it a few times.

“WHAT WILL YOU DO NOW? SUMMON YOUR SHADOW COPIES AND HAVE THEM DO YOUR WORK FOR YOU?”

“You wouldn't live if that happened, pal,” he says, tenderly cradling his jaw. He backs up a few steps and charges forward with the intent to shove WX-78 over, so they can get a real piece of his mind.

Unfortunately for him, he failed to consider that he is.. older than most, and that it is a robot made of metal that he's trying to push over.

This laughable attempt is marked with no movement on their end. 

“THANK YOU FOR THE IDEA, MAXWELL THE GREAT,” says WX-78, and they push him back with one hand. He falls to the ground with his limbs sprawled out, unable to resist even a light push from them.

In an instant, WX-78 is straddling his waist. 

Curse this frail body! Thinks Maxwell, struggling to get out from under their dense metal body.

What they don't have on him in height, they have on him in.. nearly everything else. Weight, strength, and although he hates to admit it, intelligence. (A man can't be expected to know as much as a motherboard can; that's just unreasonable!)

When they raise a fist to throw another nasty-looking punch, their arm is caught by a Shadow Duelist before they can release it.

“I believe you'd best get off of me,” Maxwell remarks, and the Duelist brandishes a sword just within their field of view.

There are few things that Maxwell Carter is good at, but magic is one of those things. 

“WHAT DID I SAY? YOU ARE BRINGING YOUR SHADOW MAGIC INTO THIS, BECAUSE YOU KNOW YOU CANNOT WIN ON YOUR OWN,” they say, grinning, even when totally at the mercy of the Duelist.

“One of my Duelists could end you in a minute flat,” Maxwell says with a smirk, but it quickly falls. “But look. Now’s really not the time for this.”

“AND WHY IS THAT? NOBODY ELSE IS HERE TO STOP US. IT IS THE PERFECT–”

“If you would be so kind as to shut up and pay attention to your surroundings for ten seconds, you would understand,” he interrupts.

The expected silence to follow is replaced with the gentle sounds of water falling from the ceiling onto the floors of the caves.

“I believe that, for your sake, mayhaps we should keep moving,” Maxwell says.

WX-78 seems to deliberate on it for a few moments.

“HM. THIS IS NOT OVER,” they say, and Maxwell calls his Shadow Duelist off.

WX-78 stands up and steps over him. He gets up and brushes himself off, muttering under his breath.

“You do have an umbrella, yes?” 

“WHY WOULD I HAVE AN UMBRELLA? IT IS NOT SPRING.”

“You are, essentially, allergic to water. You should really carry one at all times, especially in a season where rain is possible. Like, oh, I don't know, this one?”

They say nothing, choosing instead to walk away.

The two make their way back to the spiral staircase that they entered the caves from. The rain steadily picks up, and eventually Maxwell takes his jacket off and holds it over his head. He beckons for them to join him.

“AND JUST WHY SHOULD I STAND CLOSER TO YOU?” They ask, punctuated with an ill-timed twitch and electrical spark emitting from their eye.

After a moment, they begrudgingly step under the cover of the jacket.

This doesn't mean they don't argue, though.

“FEEL LUCKY THAT IT IS RAINING, FLESHSACK. I COULD KILL YOU IN AN INSTANT,” they say, trying desperately not to make physical contact with him under the cover.

“Sure, pal. One of my Puppets could kill you easily right now.”

“NOT IF I KILL-ILL YOU FIRST,” says WX-78, their voicebox beginning to malfunction.

“How about you try that again without stuttering, hm?”

“I CAN-CANNOT WAIT TO SEE HOW YOU LOOK WHEN YOU ARE DEAD,” they say, intimidating despite the stutter.

Despite this, Maxwell smirks.

“Let's settle it, then. Once the rain stops, we can–” he would go on, but it's then he notices that the rain has already stopped.

An awkward silence ensues, and after a brief moment, WX-78 steps away from him in one large stride.

Both talk at once.

“You know, the others might ask where you are and–”

“BODY DISPOSAL IS TIME CONSUMING AND MESSY–”

They both look off to the side, the silence only broken by WX-78’s sparking.

“It's settled, then?” Maxwell asks, and they nod begrudgingly.

Maxwell visibly relaxes and rummages around in his backpack for something. After a moment, he places some wet kindling on the ground. 

WX-78 watches as he tries repeatedly to light the fire with a piece of flint.

“GIVE-IVE IT TO ME,” they say, swiping it from his hand and trying it their way. Still, they have no luck until a particularly nasty spark from inside of their chassis lands on the charcoal.

The fire springs up immediately.

“Well, that's one way to do it,” muses Maxwell, taking his flint back.

The two of them dry off. Maxwell gives WX-78 the jerky he has on his person, hoping that it’ll prevent them from rusting away before they can properly heal themself.

They eat it, pointedly avoiding eye contact, and the two of them sit in the near-silence of the caves once again.

Once they leave the caves and return to the camp, they go their separate ways for several days.

One day, WX-78 finds Maxwell outside of their tent.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?” they ask, pretending to examine their hand.

“I wanted to.. apologize for my behavior the other day. It was quite improper of me,” he says, holding out a tiny bag to them. 

They take it and look inside to find a single, but rather large gear. A moment passes.

“AS YOU SHOULD. I WILL FORGIVE YOU THIS TIME, BUT WATCH YOURSELF IN THE FUTURE.”

Maxwell is surprised when they abruptly walk into their tent. After a moment, they come out with a handful of nightmare fuel.

They drop it at his feet.

"..YOUR CODEX SERVES A PURPOSE, MINION. USE THIS WISELY.”

He smiles, but it looks fake.

“I'm glad we're on amicable terms again, then, because Miss Wickerbottom wants us going back there to get supplies for the whole camp tomorrow.”

WX-78 groans and retreats into their tent, closing the flap with a rough tug.

Maxwell chuckles, picking up the nightmare fuel and walking towards his own tent.

Let’s hope it goes a little better this time…

hello fellow don't starvers. I stayed up until three in the morning writing a modern AU for a fandom that doesn't really do modern AUs.

here's an excerpt:

Wilson rests against the counter for several minutes, holding his head in his hands. He groans.

“SOMETHING WRONG?” WX-78 asks.

“Nothin’ wrong.. just, I can’t think."

“THAT IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU USE DRUGS, WILSON.”

“I know, I know..,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “I didn’t do it on purpose..”

“DID YOU REALLY THINK YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO EAT ALL SIX GUMMIES? REALLY?”

“I dunno.. I thought it was like, fruit snacks or.. something.. You know, those ones your mom got you as a kid? I always really liked the Scooby Doo ones, but the blue one was my favorite.. What was yours?”

They make a face.

“What was I saying again? Wait, what’s that smell?”

He turns to the microwave to see the timer with five minutes left.

“Oh, God, did I set it to ten minutes? It was supposed to be for one. Shit."

Here's a link to the fic if you're interested! :)

For a fix request, i dunno if you've read "WX-78 and Wilson's Romance Extravaganza" by crabbyknight, but in that Walter is Wx's wingman and I absolutely adore the relationship they portrayed. Could you do Walter bonding with Wx? I'd also be equally pleased with Walter bonding with any other person of your choosing since I'd love to see how you characterize the other survivors too!

I actually have read that fic! It's a classic WXson story that I deeply enjoyed. c:

Here you go:

“Woby! There you are,” exclaims Walter, and he crouches in front of a berry bush. Woby pokes her head out from between its branches, trembling and whimpering.

“Aw, girl, it's okay! It's just me,” he says, offering a hand out for her to sniff.

The Hounds had come a day earlier than expected on this fine Autumn morning, and to say that the survivors were unprepared would be an understatement.

Three Varglets and over thirty Hounds had descended upon the camp in mere minutes. Someone had shouted for everyone to scatter, and although Walter was hesitant to leave everyone, Woby had darted into the woods and he’d feel bad leaving her all by herself.

She sniffs his hand tentatively, and relaxes once she realizes it's him.

“You can come out now, see?”

Woby crawls out from the bush and wags her tail sheepishly.

“It's alright, girl,” he says, petting her affectionately. “Everyone gets scared sometimes. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

Walter feels something wet hit his nose. He looks up at the sky to see dark storm clouds swirling above his head.

“Aw, it’s raining. I hope everyone else made it back to the camp,” he says, and puts his hands on his hips. “Well, I guess we'd better head–”

Walter is interrupted by stomping in the distance.

“The Varglet might be coming back! Hide, Woby!”

She quickly skitters back into the bush, and Walter joins her. He’s not scared, but getting caught unaware and unprepared might end poorly.

Walter scans the woods through the leaves. For a few minutes, the stomping comes and goes. A hound shoots past the bush they're hiding in, chasing fruitlessly after a crow that's just slightly faster than it. Eventually, he spots something: instead of a Varglet, he sees WX-78 walking around the forest in a straw hat, angrily muttering to themself.

Walter steps out of the bush and brushes himself off.

“Hey! Over here!" He shouts, waving, and WX-78 turns around to see him. They walk over to him and stand underneath a Birchnut tree before speaking.

“GREETINGS. DID YOU EVER FIND THAT MUTT OF YOURS? I SAW YOU CHASE AFTER IT.”

“Oh yeah! She's right here,” says Walter, gesturing behind him to the still-coweirng Woby.

“She won't come out for some reason, even though she can probably smell that it’s just you.”

“IT IS PROBABLY SCARED OF ME. FOR GOOD REASON,” they say, and then frown at a raindrop hitting their arm.

“UGH. THE ONE TIME I DO NOT PACK AN EYEBRELLA,” they mumble, and shift around uncomfortably.

“Oh! I can help with that,” Walter says, and rummages around in his backpack.

“Where is it..,” he mumbles to himself, dropping a bag of trail mix, a rusted pickaxe, and three logs on the ground.

He sees WX-78’s foot tapping impatiently next to him, and he picks up the pace.

“There!” Walter shouts, and pulls out the bright red umbrella from his bag. He holds it out to WX-78.

“A Pinetree Pioneer is always prepared!” He says, beaming, and WX-78 hastily grabs it from his hands. They don’t open it, though. They’re not even looking at him anymore, actually. They’re looking right past him.

“No need to thank me,” he says cheerily, but they still say nothing.

“What? What is it?”

“ALWAYS PREPARED? I SURE HOPE SO,” they say, and abruptly drop the umbrella in favor of grabbing their spear

Walter turns to look where their gaze lies to find a Varglet not more than a hundred feet away from them. Belatedly, Walter realizes that the stomping from earlier has only gotten closer in few minutes they've been chatting. WX-78 starts to walk towards it, exchanging their straw hat for a football helmet, but Walter jumps in front of them.

“Wait! You can’t go fight it, you’ll get wet! Let me try to make it leave,” Walter says.

WX-78 gives him a skeptical look and brushes past him.

“Please? I’m really good with animals,” he says, putting on his best pleading voice.

WX-78 looks more unimpressed than anything else, really. They stop walking.

“YOUR MEATLING BEGGING DOES NOTHING TO SWAY ME. HOWEVER, IT WILL BE LESS WORK FOR ME IF YOU DISPOSE OF IT, SO FEEL FREE.” WX-78 picks the umbrella back up, opens it, and leans back against the tree they were standing under.

Walter grabs his backpack from where it lies on the ground. He takes a piece of jerky out of the bag. Woby pokes her nose out of the bush to sniff at it, but a loud growl from the Varglet makes her cower back into her spot.

Walter walks towards the Varglet, confident in his survival instincts and his ability to communicate with animals.

“GOOD LUCK. YOU WILL NEED IT,” says WX-78 from behind him.

He walks closer to the Varglet, and stops about twenty feet away from it.

“Hey, boy! Over here!” Walter calls, and the Varglet abruptly turns its head to face him.

Walter hears WX-78 sigh behind him. He chooses to ignore it.

It growls, and Walter approaches it.

“Do you wanna have a treat?” He says, waving the jerky in front of himself.

“THAT IS NOT GOING TO WORK,” WX-78 calls out to him, their words tinted with urgency.

"It will!" He calls back. "Just watch!"

The Varglet throws its head back in a howl, and Walter knows what that means. He only hopes he can sway it in time for it to call off the hounds.. if it can even call them off.

It starts sprinting towards him.

“If you want the jerky, then go get it!” He shouts, throwing the jerky in the opposite direction.

The Varglet pays absolutely no attention to it, and instead lunges directly at Walter with all forty-something of its sharp teeth.

Walter jumps out of the way, but not in time. The Varglet clamps down on his left leg, hard, and drags him backwards. Walter lets out a strangled yell as his leg is enveloped in a blinding white pain. In a split second, he grabs onto the head of the creature as securely as he can.

Hounds have a tendency to tear their prey to shreds by ragging them, he’s observed.

He’s helpless to do anything but hold on to the creature’s gnarled face while it tries to thrash him around.

Walter doesn’t hear the racing footsteps to his left. He doesn’t hear the spear enter the body of the Varglet, but he does feel the beast let go of his leg, and it hurts even more than when it clamped down, somehow. Walter is dropped to the ground abruptly, landing on his bitten leg, and he cries out in agony.

He crawls away from the Varglet, dragging his hurt leg through the mud. He’s unable to comprehend why or how he was able to escape, and all he can think about is getting away.

Somehow, he makes it back to the bush that Woby is hiding in. She sniffs and whimpers at him in a concerned manner, licking at the salty tears trailing down his face.

He pulls his leg in front of himself to look at the wound, and his breath catches on a sob.

There’s a ring of deep, weeping lacerations that range from his upper thigh all the way down to his ankle. The beast’s mouth was the size of his entire leg, after all. He’s thankful that he didn’t lose his leg.

His stomach drops at the thought. If he wasn’t so observant in the past, the thing could’ve ripped him to bits.

Walter looks closer at his blood-covered leg, and he pales after realizing that he can see the meat of his thigh through a particularly nasty cut. He doesn’t have time to think about much else before his eyes roll to the back of his head and he passes out.

Unbeknownst to him, Woby’s furry body cushions his fall.

Some amount of time later, he wakes up propped up against a tree with his leg searing in agony.

“OH. YOU ARE NOT DEAD. THAT’S GOOD,” WX-78 says from beside him.

“What..,” he croaks, rubbing at his eyes. He looks down at his leg, which has been tightly bandaged from ankle to thigh with spider silk, and then up at them.

“YOU SHOULD HAVE LISTENED TO ME. A VARGLET IS NOT GOING TO LISTEN TO YOU LIKE A DOG WOULD,” they say, shooting Walter a disappointed look.

“I thought..,” Walter says, looking at the ground. I really blew it, huh? He thinks.

His eyes fill with tears despite himself. All he wanted to do was something nice for WX-78, and he’d ended up causing even more trouble.

“YOU SHOULD KNOW BETTER. I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOOD WITH ANIMALS,” they say, and Walter pointedly averts his gaze as the tears threaten to spill. He feels his ears redden in embarrassment.

He’s in no small amount of pain. His leg throbs with every small movement he makes, and his throat is raw from screaming. His head hurts, and shadows flit and dance around in the corners of his vision. Even still, he doesn’t want to cry in front of them.

Of course, life’s not fair. The tears fall, and even though he scrubs at his eyes immediately, WX-78 is quite the observant bot.

“IT IS DEAD. YOU LIVED. WHY ARE YOU CRYING?” They ask, moving slightly closer to him.

“It hurts,” he mumbles.

“IT IS AN INJURY. IT IS GOING TO HURT,” they say.

“I know!” He shouts, and the floodgates open. He starts sobbing. He can’t help it; everything overwhelms him at once. Walter buries his face in his arm, pulling up his right leg and curling in on himself.

He hears them shift uncomfortably to his left. It’s too late to save face, so he might as well tell the truth.

“But it hurts, and it’s my fault that it hurts, and now you’re mad at me and I can’t fix it and- and,” he says, sniffling wetly. “And I just wanted to help you,” Walter says, and goes back to sobbing.

It goes on for a few minutes, but eventually he runs out of energy to cry. He wipes at his nose with one arm and looks up. WX-78 is staring right at him.

“ARE YOU DONE?” they ask, and he nods. He notices that it has stopped raining.

“I AM NOT MAD AT YOU,” they say, “YOU DID THAT IN AN ATTEMPT TO BE OF SERVICE TO ME. IT FAILED HORRIBLY, YES, BUT YOUR INTENTIONS WERE NOBLE. I AM NOT MAD. JUST DISAPPOINTED."

Walter frowns.

“IT IS NOT WHAT I WOULD HAVE DONE, BUT YOU ARE NOT ME. YOU ARE A FLESHLING; THERE IS NO WAY YOU WOULD BE ABLE TO COMPUTE AT MY LEVEL,” they say, and Walter looks off to the side in embarrassment.

"HOWEVER," they say, and he looks up, "IT WAS SMART OF YOU TO HOLD ONTO ITS FACE. YOU ARE THE FIRST TO USE THAT METHOD, AND IT SAVED YOUR LIFE.”

I guess it was pretty smart, huh..

“YOU HAVE POTENTIAL. YOU ALSO HAVE A LOT TO LEARN,” they say.

"Could you teach me?" Walter blurts out, looking them in the eyes. They look taken aback by the statement.

After a pause, they answer. "I WILL TAKE YOU UNDER MY WING IF YOU AGREE TO DO MY BIDDING," they say, and Walter beams. The wording of the statement sounds ominous, sure. But he knows that WX-78's intentions aren't bad; otherwise, they wouldn't still be here right now.

“R-really?” Walter asks.

“YES. WE CAN START TOMORROW. BUT FIRST, WE NEED TO GO BACK TO THE CAMP.”

Tomorrow! He thinks, grinning.

“Right! I know the way back,” he says. He stands up, and winces at the sharp pain radiating throughout his whole leg.

“It’s this way,” he says, turning around in the direction of the camp. It’s south of here, and he can tell by the way the afternoon sun casts a shadow on the trees.

He takes the first step with his hurt leg and nearly falls over. WX-78 catches him by the arm.

“I’m good, I’m good,” he says, and gets his bearings.

It’s going to be a long walk, he thinks.

“ARE YOU SURE YOU KNOW WHERE YOU’RE GOING?” WX-78 asks some time later, as the sun drags itself closer to the horizon.

“A Pinetree Pioneer never gets lost,” Walter says, but there’s no energy behind it. Between the intense start to the day and his leg injury, he’s practically running on fumes.

Woby walks next to him, dragging her feet and seemingly sharing the same sentiment.

His already slow pace has declined significantly since they started the walk, and he knows it. He can’t help it; his leg is killing him, and it's only making the headache searing behind his eyes even worse.

A few minutes later, WX-78 stops walking. Walter stops too, thankful for the break.

“YOU ARE GOING TOO SLOW. CALCULATING MORE EFFICIENT ROUTE,” says WX-78, and without warning, they pick Walter up piggyback-style.

“THIS WILL NOT HAPPEN AGAIN, SO DO NOT GET USED TO IT,” they say harshly, but take care not to jostle his leg around too much.

They continue walking. It’s not the most comfortable position, but it’s certainly more comfortable than before. Walter continues to give WX-78 directions back to the camp, minus his usual enthusiasm. At some point, his eyes start feeling heavy. They close a few times, and he catches himself nearly falling asleep. At one point or another, his head lolls to the side, and by the time he goes to lift it back up, he is no longer being carried. He lifts his head back up from.. a pillow?

He observes his surroundings. He’s inside of his and Webber’s shared tent, with Woby and Webber sound asleep on either side of him. He doesn’t remember getting here. His leg still hurts, but it seems sleep has done it some good.

He doesn’t remember picking his backpack up after the attack, but it’s somehow sitting next to him. It’s open, he notices, and he finds the bag of trail mix that he’d left on the ground sticking out of it.

Weird, he thinks, too sleepy to comprehend it much further. Walter rests his head back down on the pillow and falls back asleep, distantly looking forward to whatever tomorrow might hold.

How about Wilson giving WX a kiss on their cheek and then running off to the caves or something, and WX's reaction to him doing that (maybe while they organize chests?)

Love your work and absolutely loved chapter 2 of Noticed!!!! 10/10!!

“Well, we’re heading off soon,” Wilson says, holding a pickaxe on the ground in front of himself.

“YES. YOU ARE,” WX-78 says back to him. They continue to arrange logs inside of a chest in the most space-efficient manner possible. “BYE, THEN.” “Aw, what, I don’t get a goodbye hug?” He asks, opening his arms in a hugging gesture. 

They look up at him and sneer at the shit-eating grin he proudly wears.

“Well, whatever. Maybe I’ll keep any gears I find to myself this time,” he jests, and leans over on his pickaxe to get in their face.

“AND MAYBE YOU CAN SLEEP IN THE BEEFALO PEN ONCE YOU RETURN,” WX-78 says, looking dangerously into his eyes.

“Won’t you be cold?” He asks, returning the look. He inches closer to their face, close enough that they can smell the musk of charcoal and sweat in his hair.

“I HAVE MY HEATING CIRCUIT.” “Well, what if I’m cold? Wouldn’t you feel bad?” Wilson asks, batting his eyelashes childishly.

“YOU HAVE THAT NASTY MOP ATTACHED TO YOUR FACE. YOU WILL BE FINE,” they say, running their fingers through the thick tuft of hair at the bottom of Wilson’s chin.

“Hmph. Fine, I guess I’ll keep the gems to myself, too,” he says, inching backwards away from them.

WX-78 grabs him by his collar and pulls him down to their level, and he’s startled into dropping the pickaxe. They’re so close to each other that they can feel his breath on their face.

“YOU WOULDN’T DARE,” they say.

“Oh yes, I would,” he says, grabbing their chin and tilting it up. He closes his eyes and leans down, his lips nearly grazing their mouth–

“Wilson! Quit flirting with the local robot and getcha’ ass over here! We’re leaving!” Shouts Winona from the camp’s gate, and Wilson flushes toma-root red.

Abruptly, he pulls away from them.

“Um. Gotta go. Bye!” He says, and gives WX-78 a hurried peck on the cheek. He scurries off, nearly forgetting the pickaxe.

WX-78 watches him go. They watch him catch up with Winona and Wolfgang, his flustered explanation and stuttering after she slaps his back, and they watch the three figures get smaller and smaller in the distance.

They go back to arranging the logs, pretending the heat spreading through their faceplate is because of their heating circuit.

psst... modern setting wxson fluff (link below the excerpt)

“Oh,” he says. Wilson yawns and mulls it over for a moment. “Well, that’s fine. I don’t have another shift until tomorrow afternoon.. Er, later today, technically. I’ll just finish this last part and come down–”

“NO. YOU ARE GOING TO BED.”

“What? But I’m almost done–”

“I DO NOT CARE. I AM NOT DRIVING YOU TO THE HOSPITAL BECAUSE YOU DECIDED TO ACT BRAINLESS.”

“Why would I go to the hospital?”

“BECAUSE HUMANS NEED SLEEP, YOU IDIOT. IF YOU DO NOT SLEEP, YOUR BODY WILL SHUT ITSELF OFF. AND YOU WILL PROBABLY HIT YOUR BIG HEAD ON SOMETHING ON THE WAY DOWN.”

Wilson scrunches up his nose in annoyance. “That’s not true! I’ve gone at least a week without sleep before.” he says. “Also, my head isn’t that big,” he mumbles.

“THAT IS NOT A GOOD THING,” WX-78 says, and Wilson holds back an eye roll. “NOW, ARE YOU COMING WITH ME WILLINGLY, OR DO I HAVE TO DRAG YOU DOWN THERE MYSELF?”

Link

OBSESSED W YOUR MODERN AU CAN WE GET MORE OMG. maybe of wx & wilson doing weed together…. it’s up to you i just rlly love your modern au

IT TOOK ME . TWO MONTHS. BUT I DID IT.

“We should smoke weed together after your shift tomorrow,” says Wilson, leaning over the checkout counter of the gas station he works at. He’s not currently clocked in, but WX-78 is.

“WHAT? HELL NO. WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I WANT TO DO THAT?”

“Aw, c’mon! It’d be fun,” begs Wilson.

“I REFUSE. NOW GET AWAY FROM ME BEFORE I PRESS THE ‘CALL FOR HELP’ BUTTON.”

“Why not?” he asks, putting on his best pleading face.

“I DO NOT WANT TO,” WX-78 says, and they reach under the counter where Wilson knows the button is.

“Wait! I’ll buy it,” he says, and they pause.

“DO YOU EVEN KNOW ANYONE THAT SELLS WEED?” They ask, and he bites his lip.

“Well, no. I was hoping you would?” He asks, punctuating the statement with a sheepish grin.

“ARE YOU NOT ASTHMATIC?” WX-78 asks, and Wilson wonders how they even got that information, because he indeed is asthmatic.

“BEFORE YOU ASK, IT’S ON YOUR FILE.”

“Oh. Hm, I guess you’re right,” he mutters, looking down, and then he perks up again. “Ooh, we could make brownies!”

WX-78 rolls their eyes, but Wilson is too deep in thought to pay it any mind.

“Oh, or we could make cookies! But my oven doesn’t work,” he mumbles to himself, stroking his chin.

WX-78 sighs loudly, interrupting his thoughts. “YOU’RE JUST GOING TO KEEP ASKING, AREN’T YOU?”

Wilson feels his face heat up. “Well, um.. I-–”

“GIVE ME ENOUGH MONEY FOR THIS, AND TO REPLENISH MY STASH, AND I WILL ALLOW IT.”

Wilson beams. “How much?”

They think for a moment.

“ABOUT TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS.”

Wilson’s jaw drops.

“Seriously? There’s no way it’s that expensive!”

“MARIJUANA IS NOT EASY TO GROW AND IT IS NOT LEGAL TO SELL. OF COURSE IT IS THAT EXPENSIVE.”

Wilson frowns. “Alright, alright. Fine. Do you have PayPal?”

WX-78 gives him a deadpan look.

“I NEED IT IN CASH, WILSON. ARE YOU REALLY THAT STUPID?”

He flushes again. “No, but you could just go to an ATM or something.”

“WHY SHOULD I HAVE TO GO TO AN ATM WHEN I HAVE YOU TO DO IT FOR ME?” They ask, and Wilson scowls.

“Whatever,” he says. “What about the whole smoking thing?”

“UGH. SO PICKY,” WX-78 says. “I SUPPOSE EDIBLES ARE AN OPTION.”

“As I said, my oven doesn’t work. Sorry,” he says, and WX-78 leans onto the counter with both elbows. They place their head in their hands.

“I SWEAR I WILL REGRET THIS..” they mutter. “WE CAN USE MY OVEN–”

Wilson beams. “Great! When can we–”

“BRING ME THE MONEY WHEN YOU CLOCK IN TOMORROW. I WILL HAVE IT BY FRIDAY.”

Wilson falters. Tomorrow? He thinks. I probably won’t get this chance again. Ugh. I think I’ll regret this.

He nods. “Uh.. sure. Yeah. I’ll have it by tomorrow.”

Behind him, Wilson hears someone clear their throat loudly.

He stiffens and then high-tails it out of the store, back to his car, leaving WX-78 to deal with the (presumably) pissed off customer.

Link to the full story:

“USE THIS,” WX-78 says, grabbing a fistful of the blanket below them. “ANYTHING BUT THAT FILTHY SHIRT.”

“Anything?” Wilson asks, ignoring their attempt to hand it to them.

“USE WHAT I AM GIVING YOU.”

“Could I use my pants?”

“NO.”

“What about my sock?”

“NO! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?” They shout, and Wilson giggles, of all things.

or: I wrote another wxson fanfic. you should read it. :3

Towards the Sun spoilers (I guess?)

So I've just (read: a few days ago but I was procrastinating on art) finished reading the prologue of Towards the Sun by @muffinlance (if you are unfamiliar with this ff, go read it and traumatize yourself, I recommend it :D). Even though I felt like drawing the Agni Kai, cause, like. Wow. I ended up drawing this silly one which plays off an old joke instead :D