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[ladytauria]

"tell me a secret" with jaytim if youre still taking prompts, been enjoying all of the snippets!

um.

so.

this one ran away with me. a little bit.

it's. it feels very messy. but i like the direction i ended up going with it. i think--- i think i might revisit this premise again. but for now, nonny, i hope you like it!

(also, i'm glad you enjoyed my snippets~)

There are few things worse than truth pollen, in Tim’s opinion. Give him fear gas or sex pollen any day of the week. Losing control of his tongue, confessions spilling from his mouth, helpless to do anything to stop it… It makes him shudder just to think about.

However—

He would gladly have taken a blast of truth pollen right to the face, if it meant Jason wouldn’t have.

Jason’s locked himself in an isolation cell, now, while Tim synthesizes an antidote. The general pollen vaccine had done little to help the effects of this strain. Confessions had tumbled from Jason’s lips all the way home, all through the blood draw. Tim tries hard not to think about them, to forget them completely, but they linger in the back of his mind. Whether he wants them to be or not, he knows they’ve been imprinted in the back of his mind, where they’ll be sorted and cataloged, brought out later if ever he needs them.

He never forgets. It’s something of a curse.

As soon as the antidote finishes, Tim sends it to Jason through a panel in the isolation cell. It should take an hour for it to kick in—Tim will be upstairs, whenever Jason is ready.

~

Two hours pass before Jason joins him. Tim sits at the kitchen island, hands around a mug. Steam still wafts up from it; his face warm and damp where it caresses his skin.

“That better not be coffee,” Jason says. He sounds even grumpier than usual—not that Tim can blame him.

He chooses not to comment on his mood, for the moment.

“It’s not,” he says. “It’s tea.” He pauses. “Herbal tea.”

Jason grunts. 

“There’s some for you on the counter.” He gestures.

Jason rounds the counter, finally coming into view. Tim’s shoulders loosen a little at the sight of him; curls and skin damp from a shower, cotton tee sticking to him. Sweatpants ride low on his hips. His socks have little gray cats on them.

“Did your cameras alert you I was coming up?”

Tim ignores the confrontational sneer in his tone. “No.”

For a moment, Jason’s body tenses like he’s going to challenge him on it—turn it into a fight, until one of them storms out or ends up sleeping in the guest room. Then he finds his tea, in a thermal traveling cup. The tension drains from him, then; weariness in the bow of his shoulders. He takes the cup and joins Tim at the island, settling onto the stool next to his.

Their shoulders brush. Tim knows it’s as close to an apology as he’ll get right now. He brushes against him again when he raises his mug to his mouth; a silent forgiveness.

Jason drinks his tea. He hums softly; a quiet, pleased noise.

They drink in silence. Tim wouldn’t describe it as comfortable, but the air isn’t as thick with tension as it could have been. He knew they would have to address it before they went to sleep; knew, for a while at least, that things would be… delicate. He’s not looking forward to walking on tiptoes—but it’s better than the alternative. It’s better than Jason leaving.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Tim murmurs, finally. “I’m not— I won’t ask. We can pretend like you never said anything.”

Jason is quiet for a moment, and then he says, “Thank you.” It’s barely a whisper. Tim isn’t sure he would have heard it, if he hadn’t been listening for it.

He brushes against him again, as he gets up to put his mug in the sink. He smooths his hand over Jason’s back; from one shoulder to the other as he walks by—both touches a silent reassurance.

He puts his mug in the sink and stops by Jason again. This time, he kisses his temple. “I’m going to bed,” he murmurs. “Join me when you’re ready.”

Jason leans into his touch—turning, when Tim pulls away, to catch around the waist and pull him close. He kisses the corner of Tim’s eye. “I love you,” he murmurs.

Tim squeezes his forearm. “I love you too,” he breathes.

They stay like that for a moment—a long moment. And then, finally, Jason lets him go, smearing another kiss against his skin when he does. Tim lingers a moment more, and then he heads off to their bedroom.

It’s maybe ten, fifteen minutes before Jason joins him, curling up in Tim’s arms; letting Tim plaster himself against his back, sighing sweetly when Tim’s chin rests atop his curls. He tangles their fingers together over their stomach.

Tim falls asleep knowing everything is going to be okay.

~

Tim doesn’t just forget about it. He can’t—though he tries. The things Jason said turn over and over in his mind, every time there’s a lull at work, on patrol, in the quiet moments he spends with Jason. He keeps his word. He doesn’t ask about them. He doesn’t even go digging through Batman’s files, or the city’s files—although the temptation sits heavy on his shoulders.

Instead—he ends up thinking, again and again, about secrets.

About Jason’s. About his own. About all the things that sit, buried deep under his tongue, where he would never dare to speak them aloud. But the more he thinks about the more he sees them as cracks—fissures, things not sitting quietly in himself but things keeping them apart.

He finds himself wanting to dig them up. To look at them in the light, offer them to Jason; see if he finds even those parts of him worth loving.

He wants to do the same to Jason. To look at the ugliest parts of him again—this time without the wrongness of pollen coating them—and cradle them in his hands, tuck them in the spaces between his ribs. Soothe the hurts they left behind.

Tim knows Jason won’t let him.

But.

Tim has never needed reciprocation.

~

He starts offering them, impromptu, in their quiet moments.

“Sometimes I feel more like myself in a dress and heels than I do in a suit,” he confesses, while Jason is reading; Tim’s head in his lap while he plays on his switch. “I’ve thought about looking into it—but honestly. Exploring... that on top of everything else just sounds exhausting.” 

Jason pauses, fingers in Tim’s hair, and says, “If you ever want to, I’ll support you. I’ll love you, no matter what you decide.” 

Tim turns and kisses his stomach.

~

A few days later, they’re cooking together. Tim stirs noodles, while Jason chops vegetables. “The first time I dressed up as a woman, I looked so much like my mother I almost couldn’t leave the manor. I don't think I would have, if not for the mission.”

The knife pauses; the sound of chopping stops. “That must have been a lot,” Jason says, tentatively. 

Tim doesn’t have to look over to know Jason is giving him a weird look. He can feel it on the back of his head.

“It was,” he agrees. “Are you sure I salted this enough?”

~

His next confession is delivered when Tim is donning one of his aliases for an undercover job. Jason is sweet enough to do up his zipper for him.

“I created my first alias when I was seven. I mean, I guess it was more playing pretend, but... I dunno. It felt more serious than that, even then. I kept making more as I got older, trying them on... whenever I felt like it. Now it’s something I do as a hobby, to keep my skills sharp, but there was a time when I wanted to be anyone other than Tim Drake.”

Jason meets his eyes in the mirror; gaze unfathomable. “What changed?”

Tim’s lips quirk. “It’s hard to fall in love as anyone but yourself.”

The flush on Jason’s face is vivid red. Tim is helpless to do anything but turn and kiss him.

~

After a fight, Tim calls Jason. It goes straight to voicemail—not unexpected. It still makes his heart clench. He ignores it, instead offering, 

“Jason… I’m sorry, for what I said, earlier. It— It wasn’t true. I meant it when I said I can live with you killing. I don’t—I don’t… The truth is, I don’t disagree with your methods. I’m tempted to join you, sometimes. A lot of times. I’m tempted to go even further, too. I… Sometimes I think the only thing that keeps me from going bad is Dick’s disappointment. Bruce’s, too, but. I don’t care what he thinks as much anymore.

“Some days the temptation is stronger than others, though. And that— It scares me. I cling tighter to the rules in response. I… It’s not an excuse for me to hurt you, though. I’m sorry. I love you. Come home whenever you’re ready.” He’s crying when he finishes, hanging up the phone. Thinks about staying in the basement; distracting himself with cold cases instead of going to bed.

He decides he’s disappointed Jason enough.

Jason comes home that night. Slips into their bed, gathering Tim in his arms. 

“You could never go bad,” he whispers. “You’re too fucking good, Tim.”

Tim shakes his head, burying his face in Jason’s neck. “If I convinced myself it was right, or for a good cause…” He holds him tighter.

Jason is quiet. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” Tim doesn’t even hesitate.

“Then trust that I wouldn’t let you.”

Tim knows Jason has broken his own moral code more than once.

He also knows that Jason is far more careful with the people he loves than he is himself.

It’s a trait they share.

So he nods. “Okay.” 

“And you’ll do the same for me,” he says, softly—almost tentatively.

Tim holds him tighter. “Yes.”

He’s quiet for so long Tim thinks he falls asleep. Then, he offers, quietly, “Sometimes I think I’ll go too far, and— You’ll leave. Or that you’ll wake up one day, and realize I’m not going to change, that… That you can’t handle the killing after all. I don’t… I don’t want to lose you.” He doesn’t say, I thought I was losing you tonight, but Tim hears it anyway.

He kisses Jason’s neck. “You won’t,” he says, confidently. “But— If you ever do, or if it looks like you’re going to— I promise I’ll tell you. Warn you. I won’t just disappear without giving you a chance.”

Jason shudders in his arms. He tucks his face in Tim’s hair—Tim cups the back of his neck in response. “Feels like all you’ve given me a hundred second chances,” he whispers.

Tim nuzzles him. “I’ll give you a hundred more. You’re worth it.”

~

Jason starts making his own confessions, after that.

He lights a candle on the coffee table, filling the air with the scent of sandalwood. Then he stops. Turns his lighter over in his hand—flicks it on, then off again.

“I didn’t stop smoking because of how I died, or the Pit, or Talia, or for my health, or—any of the bullshit reasons I told everyone else. Sheila— Cigarettes remind me of her. The way she just sat there and watched.”

Tim stands, stepping into his space. He winds his arms around Jason’s waist. “You deserved better,” he says, quietly.

“We both did.”

‘We’ means Tim and Jason. It also means Sheila and Jason. Tim doesn’t know if he agrees with the latter—but. Whatever else she was, she was Jason’s mother, and that means something to Jason. So, he says nothing. Just presses a kiss to Jason’s shoulder.

~

After a rough patrol, another argument between Jason and Bruce—one that took both Nightwing and Red Robin to break up—Jason sits in the medbay of Tim’s nest, letting him stitch up his arm.

Tim is almost done, when Jason says, “I’ve given up on Bruce killing the Joker for me. I wish he’d let me do it. More than that—I just. I want him to tell me, to my face, that he missed me. That he loved me. That the loss of me was something painful. That—That he still loves me. I don’t. I don’t want to hear it from someone else. But I know— I know he won’t. The man who would have died with me, and sometimes I think that’s the worst of it all.”

Tim snips the thread, laying the needle down. He kisses the skin just above the wound, and lingers there. “I’m sorry.”

Jason is quiet. Then he turns, pressing his nose into Tim’s hair. He doubts it smells great—he hasn’t had time to hit the showers yet—but Jason doesn’t seem to care. “Me too,” he whispers.

~

Tim gets a box of cologne samples in the mail. He’s going through them, just for fun—handing the ones he likes best to Jason. As he passes over the third, Jason says,

“I don’t remember what Mom’s voice sounded like anymore—but. I found the perfume she loved. It was one of the most expensive things we owned. She only got it out for special occasions, or—or when she was sad, and needed something to help remind her of the good times. I— When I smell it, I can almost hear her again. Singing in the kitchen, or… Reading with me on the couch.”

Tim puts the cologne samples down. He tucks himself against Jason’s side and holds him tight. The vulnerability in Jason’s voice, in his expression… It scares Tim almost as much as it awes him. He just— He wants to protect him, to hold the softest parts of Jason close, where nothing and no one can hurt him again.

It’s an impossible wish, but. That won’t stop him from trying.

“Tell me about her?” he asks softly, laying his cheek over Jason’s heart. The steady beat is calming.

Hesitatingly—haltingly—

Jason does.

~

It keeps going. Back and forth.

“Sometimes I think no one actually wants me around—that people are happier when I’m not there.” 

“I think I left a piece of myself in the grave. It hurts less that it’s missing these days, but. It still hurts.”

“I never felt like I was alive until I became Robin. That’s part of why losing it hurt so much.”

“Sometimes Bruce and Dick will mention things—and I don’t remember them. They sound like happy memories, but, when I go poking around, all I can find are blank spaces. It’s fucking terrifying.”

“In the early days—sometimes Bruce would forget, and call me by your name. I… It feels awful to admit, but. Those nights were my favorite.”

“I hate looking in the mirror. For—for a million fucking reasons, but one of ‘em is how much I look like my dad. Like Willis. He wasn’t a bad man, except when he drank. He just… he drank a lot. I don’t want to be him.”

Secrets traded, back and forth. A lot of them big, some of them small. Always in the quietest moments, in the carefullest tones. Each one met with acceptance, with love.

Tim feels freer than he ever has. Not even swinging between buildings leaves his step so light.

He thinks Jason feels the same; thinks he smiles more, now. Tim has caught him humming in the kitchen more than once—finds himself humming the same tune.

Tim has never needed reciprocation to love someone.

Jason has given it to him anyway.

~

Ivy’s not done with truth pollen—determined to perfect this strain. This time, Tim is on the other side of the city when Jason catches a face full. He doesn’t miss a beat; working with Spoiler to wrangle her back to Arkham. As soon as it’s handled, he beelines back to the Nest.

Tim meets him there.

Jason doesn’t lock himself in an isolation cell, this time. He works with Tim to distill the antidote. Tim isn’t foolish enough to believe that all of the secrets Jason has buried in the recesses of his mind have come to light. He knows his haven’t. He knows, too, that for both of them, there are some which never will. That's okay. Jason has shared enough that the pollen’s compulsion has little to cling to; little to nourish its roots.

So this time—he doesn’t talk as much, this time; only the occasional confession spilling from his lips.

Most of them make Tim blush.

It’s a torturous hour—albeit for entirely different reasons than last time—and it ends not with a shared cup of tea but Tim pinned to the wall in the Nest shower, Jason on his knees, worshiping him until stars burst behind his eyes.

Tim turns the tables on him as soon as he remembers which way is up—and then they stumble upstairs, to bed, curling into one another like two mis-matched halves.

Jason tangles their fingers together. “Tell me a secret,” he whispers, to the darkness of the room.

Tim does.

[grantwilson]

we are discussing our childhood passions on the dash tonight

[lost-in-fandoms]

This is inspired by my own post. Don't even look at me.

It's a long shot, and Daniel is perfectly aware of it as he rides the elevator up to Max's room, but he refuses to think too hard about it, afraid he will reconsider the sanity of it and turn back.

You see, they used to have this...thing, back in the day. It didn't happen often enough to give a name to it, but when Daniel got pole or won a race, Max would find him and get on his knees for him.

It had started in 2016, Max fresh faced and wide eyed, pulling him into the bathroom of the club they were in. Not in Monaco, not even Max was bold enough for that, but in Malaysia. It had been hot and wet, and Daniel had tangled his fingers in Max's sweaty hair, pulling hard enough to make tears spring in his blue eyes, before coming down his throat.

Their thing had always been one way only. Max had been the one getting on his knees, and Daniel had never offered to get him back. It had been a relief, when Max had started winning more than him, he didn't want to owe blowjobs that often. Not that Max would have hold him to that if Daniel didn't want to, but it would have been a matter of pride, and justice, or whatever.

Daniel has spent a lot of time in the last couple of years thinking about it. Not much about the act itself, even if he has gotten off to the memories of Max's mouth more times than he can count, but about the whole concept of it. He had started wondering if it had been Max's first (debatable, kid had been too sure of himself, but again Max always was), if Max had wanted more (probably, he had seen the looks he would get on his face sometimes), why Max had never tried to talk to him about it. Why Daniel, arguably the more mature of the two, hadn't done it. If Max still thought about it too. If he thought about it as much as Daniel did.

The last time they had done this it had been Monza, in 2021. Max had shoved in his motorhome, flushed and furious, and had sucked Daniel off with such a passionate drive it had felt like maybe he was trying to get Daniel's soul too. Or like maybe he was trying to suck Daniel's P1 out of him through his dick. It had been one of the best blowjobs of his life, had left him dazed and panting on the couch while Max had bit out a congratulations and stormed out again, his shoulders just marginally less stiff.

And now Daniel is in front of Max's door, with a P5 that feels like a P1, feeling like he's going to be taking a step right out of a plane.

He hears shuffling when he finally knocks, and it's only when he hears Max open the door that the uncertainty hits him in full force. He has not thought this through at all. Or well, he has, just not further than this. How do you ask someone "hey it's been almost three years but I would like to cash in a blowjob"??

Max looks...soft. He has a pair of sweats on, one of his white tshirts, hair freshly washed and unstyled. The blank expression and small polite smile he's sporting when he opens the door, as if he was expecting to have to send someone away, immediately morph into a blinding smile when he spots Daniel. It's always been so easy, at least for Daniel, to make Max smile like that.

"Daniel!" he says, eyes crinkling, moving to the side to let Daniel in without having to be asked.

"Hello, Max."

His room is fairly tidy, his luggage open in a corner with a few team shirts spilling out just as it had always been, but the blankets on the bed are all askew, a comfy little nest around Max's open laptop.

"Am I interrupting something?" Daniel asks, motioning towards it. He never knows when Max is working, watching something, or playing with his friends, but he hopes it's nothing important. If it's something important and Max sends him away, Daniel knows he will never find the guts to do this ever again.

"No," Max starts, then turns, smiling more, "well, yes. I was watching Lando's onboards. But they are not important now."

It hits him unexpectedly hard, the casual acknowledgement that Daniel's presence is more important than whatever Max was already planning for his evening. It's nothing new, but it's been a while since Daniel has felt it, the way Max loves him so simply. Since he has felt deserving of it.

Something must show on his face, because Max's smile turns soft as he sits down on the couch near the window, patting the space next to him for Daniel to join him.

"Why are you here?" From anyone else, it would sound rude, but Daniel has been used to Max's bluntness since day one, misses it sometimes these days, now that he's a little more careful with it, so he knows Max only means exactly what he's asking.

Daniel also knows this could be the moment to bring it up, his request, but it feels wrong to just barge in on Max's evening, get an orgasm and leave. Back then he would have done it, but they're both different people now.

"I wanted to see you, Maxy," he says, aiming for joke and hitting fond instead. It's not a lie, but the way Max goes all pink and pleased feels too dangerous for his heart, so Daniel redirects. "P2, yeah?"

It's enough to set Max off, talking about corners and turns and steering and this car. Not my car, Daniel notes. He's not surprised by the difference, but he wonders if Max means to make it so obvious, how he feels about this year's car. Or maybe Daniel is just really versed in Max-speak.

He also notices the tension around his eyes a couple of times, when Max mentions the team, and if it was another night he maybe would have asked; it never took much for Max to tell Daniel things, especially when he was unhappy about something. But today he got P5, and something about the blush growing on Max's cheeks as he gets more and more animated, making his eyes looks even more blue, firmly sets him back on jumping off the plane and send it plans.

He waits for Max to slow down a little, then nudges his calf with his foot, enjoying the way Max immediately reacts by jabbing a finger into Daniel's side, tension disappearing from his face.

"P5 is not P2, but it's still pretty good, right?"

Max's smile is his best one yet, all bright and proud as he nods, reaching for Daniel again to squeeze his shoulder.

"Of course, you have been very good today, Daniel! I am glad you are again feeling the car right."

Always so sweet and earnest. If he hadn't already teared up a little before press, face hidden in Blake's shoulder, Daniel would have probably done it now. As it is, he just smiles back, lets Max talk through his lap, quietly pleased by the knowledge that Max had obviously watched his onboard already, before Lando's. Maybe, if he dares to hope it, even before George's.

It's probably that, feeling like he's still important to Max, what gives him the confidence to throw things into motion.

"Feels like a P1, mate."

For a split second, he doesn't know what to expect. Will Max understand what he means? Maybe Max has not been thinking about their past times together, maybe saying P1 will mean nothing to him, maybe he will just go on another rant on how different P1 is of course from P5. Or maybe he will understand Daniel, and he will just slide off the couch and onto his knees, and Daniel won't have to say anything else.

Max, obviously, because he's Max, does neither thing.

His expression changes, something focused and pinched, as he tilts his head a little and stares at Daniel, lips slightly pursed.

"You want to feel like P1?" he asks. To someone else it would sound like a perfectly normal question, but Daniel knows that Max has understood, because somehow Max always gets him, even now. He also knows that he will not get out of this without talking about it at least a little. They're both different people, he has to remind himself. He's not the only one who's changed.

He nods, because he's not one to go back on his steps when he's already decided to send it, but he doesn't say anything else.

Max still looks deep in thought.

"We..." he starts, then immediately changes trajectory, "I can. If that is what you want."

As if Daniel might have walked all the way over without wanting this, without wanting Max. He nods again, watches as Max shifts a little, eyes flicking down to Daniel's lap, then to his own hands. His ears are red.

"Why now?" he blurts out, fingers twisting together. "You have of course got P5 before, but you have never come to me."

For a second, Daniel feels breathless with the knowledge that this whole time, Max would have been willing. This whole time, he could have asked and Max would have said yes, even after all these years, even after his championships, even after 2022.

"It didn't feel the same," he answers, before adding in a whisper, a belated confession, "I missed you."

He sees the way Max's shoulders jolt, his head snapping up again, eyes wide and surprised. Daniel doesn't get it, they have said it before, but he doesn't get time to dwell on it before Max is smiling again, grabbing a pillow and gracelessly following it on the floor.

Suddenly, just from seeing Max on his knees, Daniel is half hard. No wanking memory could hold a light to the real thing, to Max, broad and solid and real.

He lets Max get his hands on his legs, spreading them gently and shuffling forward, fingers sliding up to his thighs. It's hard to swallow now, the air in the room suddenly heavy with anticipation.

"I have missed you," Max rasps, kneading at Daniel's legs, not even reaching for his waistband yet. "I have missed doing this for you."

Daniel closes his eyes, lets his head fall back, but he regrets it immediately when he realizes it means not looking at Max anymore. Max, who's now looking up at him, pupils blown and lips red. For a moment, Daniel wishes things were different, wishes this thing was one where they kissed too, where he got to drag Max in his lap and get to touch him, feel all the way he's different now.

"Up," is all Max says, breaking his dangerous train of thought, and Daniel just obeys, lifting his hips and letting Max take down his pants, leaving them pooled at his ankles.

He's sure he's imagining the sigh Max lets out, the way his fingers are trembling a little when they reach just barely inside his underwear, grazing the top of his thigh.

And then Max leans forward and licks over one of Daniel's tattoos.

The sound Daniel lets out is a mix of a yelp and a moan. He can feel the little shit smiling against his skin, right before he does it again, adding a bite at the end, followed by an apology kiss, and this too is different from how they used to do it, quick and dirty, straight to the prize. Daniel is not going to complain.

Max takes his time, kissing and licking his way up his tattoos, until his nose hits the side of Daniel's clothed dick, now well on its way to fully hard.

"Hello," Max whispers, like a nerd, flashing a cheeky smile up at Daniel, who's tempted to swat at him until Max opens his mouth and wraps his lips around the head of his cock, underwear and all.

Daniel barely has time to squeak out a curse, hips bucking up in surprise, before Max steps back, smile gone. When he looks up again, he looks so intensely hungry Daniel struggles to swallow, and for his next revelation of the day, he understands that the gangly and overenthusiastic teenager who had drooled all over his dick in a club in Malaysia must have gained quite a lot of experience since then.

He refuses to analyze how that makes him feel, at least for now.

Max doesn't waste any more time, luckily, since Daniel is now hot and straining, making quick work of Daniel's boxers and of putting his mouth on him. For a second, with Max's lips around his tip, Daniel gets thrown back in time, and maybe things are not so different after all. Then Max takes a breath and sinks all the way down.

"What the...shit!" Daniel swears, scrambling for something to hold onto and finding Max's shoulders, as his brain goes completely blank, fuzzy with static and pleasure.

Yes, Max has definitely gotten more experience, because what the fuck is this. He's still enthusiastic, moaning and drooling around Daniel, tongue swirling as if his dick is some sort of delicacy, but the technique is different now. It's like he graduated in cock sucking or something, like he's trying to prove he's not only a racing champion, but a sex champion, or maybe like he's trying to kill Daniel. Or all three together.

Daniel knows he's being loud, moans and swears tumbling from his lips without hope of being restrained, but it seems to only spur Max on, as he fucking deepthroats him again with no sign of gagging. What the fuck.

"Max, Maxy, babe," Daniel tugs at Max's hair, struggling to string enough words together to let him know that, embarrassingly, he's already close, but all that does is make Max moan, the vibration of it feeling like sparks up Daniel's back.

Luckily, Max seems to still get the message though, because he lets up a little, gently suckling at Daniel's tip, pressing a kiss to it before pulling back completely to look up at Daniel.

He's like a vision, cheeks red and eyes bright, mouth spit slicked and a bit swollen, hair falling on his forehead, and Daniel's desire to kiss him comes back in full force. Again, almost as if he was reading it on Daniel's face, Max stops that particular train of though.

"Can I swallow?" Max asks, voice rough, as if it is a totally normal question and not a way to make Daniel feel like he's going to die on the spot.

"Do you want to?" Somehow, Daniel's voice is worse than Max's, all breathy and fucked up, and he can see Max being pleased about it. Menace.

"I always want to."

Max always used to, even back then, but Daniel had never questioned if it was because he thought that was how it was supposed to be or because he wanted to. Having the answer now is devastating. He groans, letting his head fall back and nodding weakly, hoping Max will just have mercy on him and finally kill him, but it doesn't seem good enough for the other, who reaches up to grab Daniel's chin, gently but firmly pulling his head back down.

"Yes?"

Daniel is acutely aware he had never explicitly asked for consent before, and neither had Max.

Things are different now.

"Yes."

It doesn't take long after that, Max throwing himself back into it like a man starved, and Daniel falling apart under him, unable to control his hands, his hips or the volume of his voice. He swears Max moans when Daniel finally comes down his throat, shaking and twitching as Max sucks him through it. He's still dazed and out of it while Max helps him back into his clothes, fondly patting his dick before tucking it in, and he can only watch as Max hauls himself to his feet again, wincing slightly, and dropping back on the couch next to Daniel.

"Good?" Max asks, because he's a nerd and a little shit.

Daniel limply hits him with his eyes still closed, feeling himself smile in response to Max's laugh.

This is different too, he distantly thinks. Usually it was Max coming to him, and he would always leave immediately after, never hanging out for Daniel's comedown. Now, when he finally opens his eyes, Max is curled up next to him, still looking flushed and happy. Still obviously hard.

Things are different now, Daniel reminds himself, checking with himself for a second as he reaches forward to tap on Max's knee.

"Want help with that?"

[pillow-talk-and-sleepy-cuddles]

i feel bad for disappearing for like 2 weeks... so have a tidbit of what i've been working on! not related to any of my aus, just a cute lil one shot

He waited for Grian to nod before moving closer to him, pressing his stomach up against Grian's side and snaking his hand between his legs, idly circling Grian's dick with his fingers. Grian moaned at the touch, bucking his hips up into his hand, searching for more pressure on his dick, searching for his orgasm. He turned his head towards Scar and hid his face in his neck, moaning into the skin there. Scar couldn't say that he didn't enjoy pleasuring his partner or feeling his breathy moans on his neck, and he was more than happy to press down harder on his dick and let him buck into him but... well it was a bit dry. He couldn't imagine that it felt too good for Grian, rubbing his sensitive dick against his hand dry. He looked over his shoulder, eyeing the drawer where he kept the lube and quickly discarded the idea of grabbing it - it was too far, and he really didn't want to leave Grian without something to frot against again; at least not until he finished. Scar's next idea was to wet his fingers with spit but that had the same problem as the idea where he grabbed the lube, where he would be leaving Grian to his own devices, and he didn't want to do that. So instead he acted on his next idea, dipping his fingers lower and gathering some of Grian's slick onto his fingers.

[galadae]

the sunlit spark

rating: T pairing: calantha lenn/hien rijin words: 4.1k summary: hien and calantha find themselves with time to spare, and calantha wants a rematch. notes: first kiss fic redux! occurs after 4.4 quest the will of the moon. this is technically a rewrite of the old "impulsive" prompt but it's over twice as long as the first version and the vibe is better/more accurate for them. ao3 link

Hien takes a deep breath of cool fresh air as his shoes crunch in the short grass. The breeze carries the scent of sheep and cook fires, earth and stone. The sun drifts towards the horizon, bathing the steppe in golden light. Towering clouds drift like tall ships on the sea of endless blue above. He stops to study them as he makes his way up the familiar path to the hilltop above Reunion. 

“It’s a small repair. The mender's apprentice said it should take an hour.” Calantha’s voice sounds from behind him. He turns to see her pocketing her coin purse. With a few long strides she joins him, slowing to match his pace. “I suppose we have some time to ourselves.” 

“That is fine by me." He flashes her a smile. “We may as well enjoy a bit of quiet after the excitement of the day.”

“You’re right about that,” she says. She stretches her arms above her head. “It’s been awhile since I’ve fought a single opponent as fierce as Sadu. I’ll still be feeling it tomorrow.” 

“As will I.” With a chuckle he rubs his left arm, working out the faint soreness.The wound from Daidukul was sealed without a scar. Y’shtola had been quick and thorough. 

Calantha’s eyes dart to his arm, and away. “How are you holding up? I know Y’shtola healed you, but–why did you come with me? You’d be better off resting.” 

“And have it be known that the Khagan strode about the steppe without a care after her fearsome battle, but I was laid up in bed for the day?” Hien chuckles. “But in truth, I am fine. The sun will soon set, and I would admire the view in this place once more. After all, it may be awhile before we return here.” 

He tries not to stare at the way her hair catches the sunlight, a halo of gold around the back of her head. This was not the view he had anticipated, but he certainly doesn’t mind.

“It is a good view,” she says, oblivious to his thoughts. She laughs, light and clear, as she casts her gaze towards the clouds. “Every time we return here, I think of when we first met. I didn’t know what to make of you, perched on the top of the cliff.” 

He scoffs. “Perched ? As I recall it, I was deep in thought.” 

“If you say so,” she says. “All I remember was by the end of the day, I’d lost both a hunting contest and a duel to someone I’d barely met. It was not a pleasant time for me. I was almost determined to dislike you.”

“Ah yes.” Hien smirks. “Your secret. The mighty Warrior of Light, and her mighty fear of–”

“Don’t you dare,” Calantha snaps. “I still want a rematch. Yes, the mighty Warrior of Light, giving both victory and her saddest secret to a total stranger. The embarrassment haunts me to this day.” She sighs and shakes her head. “Or perhaps you'll do me a favor and forget about it. Surely you have enough on your mind already without another small insignificant fact about me.” 

Insignificant or no, the thought sprung to his mind often. When he moved wood for the fire from a shady spot against the wall, and spotted a snail leaving its trail across the stone behind. While he walked along the river, and found familiar spiral shells among the stones. When he watched her help build the growing number of small gardens around the Doman Enclave. He wondered how she managed when she was sure to see many snails with that kind of work. It was never important, when he did think of it. But he couldn’t forget this tiny, trivial piece of her, stuck in his mind for good, even if he wished to. Such was the way with friends, was it not?

“It was a fair bargain that you agreed to, my friend. And I find it hard to believe that your secret is, as you call it, your saddest. It simply amuses me too much to be forgotten." He grins, trying not to laugh again at the grimace on her face.

“Of course it does,” she groans.

He steps closer. “But perhaps you suffer less now that I'm no longer a total stranger. Unless you're still determined to dislike me.”

She huffs, blowing a tuft of hair from her face. “Depends on how well you keep my secret.” 

“Never fear.” He claps a hand to her shoulder. "It will remain safe with me, even till the day I die. May the Kami bring misfortune on my head if it does not.” 

She raises an eyebrow and laughs. “Excessive, but I’m glad to hear it. Perhaps we can stay friends, after all.” A slow smile spreads across her cheeks, tinged with mischief. She drapes her arm around his shoulders. As she bends to whisper in his ear, her voice drips with equal sweetness and mockery.

“And seeing as we’re great friends, now, perhaps I can call you Shu–”

“There is certainly no need for that.” He gives her a playful shove with his elbow before she can finish.

“Why ever not?” she says. Her lips purse into a fake pout. It’s his turn to roll his eyes, and her laugh rings out across the hillside at the mixture of amusement and annoyance on his face. He watches as she pushes past him, further up the hill. 

He folds his arms. “I would enjoy a rematch, but if you keep on like this, I'll need another secret from you." 

She turns to face him, her mouth set in a cheeky grin to match his own. “You won’t get one out of me this time.”

Something flickers in her gaze that sets a spark alight in his chest. Perhaps it’s the sun on her face, or the way her eyes shine with mirth, or the breeze catching in her hair. He can’t help but laugh along with her, unable to tear his eyes away, until they crest the hill a moment later.

The steppe is lit in gold and pink from Reunion below, to the Dawn Throne, to the mountains on the horizon. Calantha stops near the edge, staring across the overlook. 

“Here’s your view,” she says, spreading her arms apart. She takes a deep breath. Her arms fall to her sides as her gaze drifts across the steppe. 

Hien steps up beside her. He follows her line of sight, the beauty of the familiar vista washing over him again, until he finds his eyes drifting towards her. She shields her eyes from the sun with long graceful fingers. He stares at her profile, the tip of her nose, her lips–She looks over, eyebrow raised in question. “What?” 

He swallows and looks around the hilltop, scolding himself for letting his mind wander so. He clears his throat. “This place strikes me as a fine field for a rematch. I believe you just said you’d like one?”

Calantha turns to face him. “I did, didn’t I? I'm all for it.” She studies his face for a moment, glancing over his sore arm again. “Unless you’re too tired from before.”

His limbs are sore, and he could use rest. But he doesn’t want to concern her. Or for that matter, miss any fun. 

“I’m no more weary than you,” he says. He stands up straight and rests his arm on his sword with a confident smile. “And we have time to spare. Do you truly wish to challenge me now? Or shall we wait until you have your armor from the mender?” 

“I shouldn’t need it. It’s not like you intend to kill me. At least, I hope not.” Calantha shrugs, and gives him another smile. “I’m sure I can beat you without it.”

“That may be,” he says. “I myself will relish the look on your face when I win yet again.”  

She bursts out laughing. “We’ll see about that.” 

“I’m ready if you are.” Hien locks his eyes on hers. “Shall we?” 

He draws his sword. Calantha nods and readies her lance. They both step back, keeping close eyes on each other.

They circle the hilltop in silence. The breeze blows past them, rustling their hair and clothes. Voices drift up from below them, scattered syllables and laughs from the market stalls, the calls of animals. Birds pass by overhead. Hien considers his position. If he can get her where the sun is in her eyes–

Calantha brushes hair from her forehead. “What are you waiting for?” she says. “Afraid to make the first move?” 

Hien studies her stance. He can't let her taunt him now. He steps into the sun’s path and Calantha follows him, still circling. She squints in the sunlight and glares at him. 

“So that's how it is,” she says. Lowering her head, she darts forward, lunging with her lance. He lets the blow glance off his blade. He's got to move closer, inside her range. She'll drive him back if he's not careful.

Calantha follows the motions of her lunge past him and spins, letting the shaft of her lance swoop towards his head. He ducks the blow with a laugh. “Come now, you can do better than that.” 

She thrusts the blade towards him, forcing him to leap out of the way. 

“And so can you,” she growls. “What’s the fun if you're only going to jump away? Put in some effort, will you?” 

“As you wish, Khagan.” He laughs and dashes towards her. She raises her lance to block his blows, one by one. If he can disarm her, somehow– He rushes forward again.

She vaults back with a laugh. 

“Who's jumping away now?” he says, voice tinged with annoyance. 

“It's only fair,” she teases, leaning on her lance. “I could make you chase me.” 

He shakes his head. “And why would I do that? You're the one who wanted this battle. I can wait. If I'm to win, I would save my strength.” 

“I have to do everything myself,” Calantha mutters. Before he can respond she springs toward him. 

Her blows come one after the other, a whirling kick as she spins around her lance, a spinning blade deflected with his own. A poor attempt to catch his leg with her lance which he hops out of place to avoid. A swift strike towards his waist. Her onslaught is relentless. He barely beats her back. He's determined to disarm her, but the opportunities are few. He begins to wonder how long he can withstand her attacks without an opening. Even after her long battle with Sadu, she's fierce and quick on her feet. Does she not know fatigue?

Then she strikes, too high, just past his head. Now's his chance. Hien barrels into her, low and fast. She grunts as his shoulder hits her stomach. He wraps his sword arm around her waist, and grabs the lance with his other hand, yanking it away from her. With an indignant huff she wrests it back, gripping it in both hands on either side of him. She pulls the lance haft in, trapping him against her. “Nice try,” she sneers. 

He laughs. “You assume I'm finished trying.” He tries to duck out from under it, but she locks him in, holding him closer. 

“I think you are,” Calantha says. 

He glares up at her. There is a way out, he's sure, but her face is so close, her eyes bright with the sunlight, and he can't seem to think clearly pressed against her. He struggles for a moment, heart hammering. 

“What cheap tactic is this, my friend?” he says. 

“One that keeps you from winning.” She looks down at him with a taunting smile.

He laughs. “You’ll have to try harder, then.” In a desperate effort to escape he does the first thing that comes to mind. 

In one motion he grabs her waist and hurls himself backwards. She yelps as she falls forward with him. Her lance drops and Hien breaks free of her. The ground strikes his back as he lands –unfortunate, but if he's quick, he can salvage this. 

Calantha catches herself on her knees, lance in the grass. She plants her foot to rise just as he sits up with his arm raised, ready to place his katana at her throat–

The sun is in his eyes. He misjudges the angle of his blade, almost thrown from his hand in the fall. Calantha knocks the weapon from his grasp. With her lance in both hands, she pushes him down, laying the haft under his chin. 

“Yield,” she says, with a breathless smile still on her lips. He can feel her knee on his waist. 

He scowls at her and pushes back against the lance. She scoffs and leans over him, straddling his legs. He’s pinned beneath her. Perhaps he can still get out of this. Panting, he looks over at his blade. It lies just out of reach. 

Calantha pushes the lance closer, tilting his head up further. “Well? Do you yield or not?”

Hien sighs and collapses back against the grass. The metal inlay of her lance haft against his neck is pleasantly cool. He nods, too breathless to say anything else.

Calantha’s chest rises and falls rapidly as she catches her breath. “See, no armor needed,” she says, looking down at him with a satisfied smile. The wind blows her hair away from her face, revealing her flushed cheeks and a thin sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead. She withdraws her lance and drops it on the ground beside her. A heady sense of admiration fills him, and he knows his heart is pounding from more than the exertion of their fight. The latent spark burns brighter. Too bright, threatening to bloom into something more. He feels both wary and excited at the prospect.  

Hien stares at her in a daze as his breath returns to him. “Well fought,” he says. “A quicker match than our first, to be sure.” He struggles to sit up on his elbows, trying not to think about her weight on him.

Calantha glances down, realizing she’s still on top of him. Her eyes widen and she scrambles to stand. “Are you alright?” She looks down. Her face is neutral, but she can’t quite hide the blush that’s crept to her ears. 

Hien gives a breathless laugh. “I will be fine, I assure you.” He takes her offered hand and begins dusting himself off. “Any bruises I’ve gotten will join my fine collection from earlier today.”

They retrieve their weapons and settle on a rocky outcrop a few yalms from the edge of the overlook. She sits so close that her leg presses against his. He finds he doesn’t mind.

He speaks to cover the way his heart still flutters. “Are you pleased with your victory?”

Her smile grows wider. “I feel vindicated. Thank you.”

“Of course," he says. “I would offer to spar with you more often, but judging by how this match has gone, I must limit the number of crushing defeats I suffer in one week.”

She chuckles. “Surely it wouldn’t be that bad.” The wind picks up again, rustling through the low grass. “I should try with a katana. I don't think I can match your skill just yet.”

“I'm sure you'll beat me nine times out of ten.” 

“I doubt it. I need practice.” She shifts, pulling one leg under her. “I admit I’ve only trained with a lance and greatsword in the past months. That, and Alphinaud is trying to teach me to summon–Oh,” She looks over his head. “Your hair.”

“My hair?���

“One of the ties is coming undone. And there's grass caught–May I?”

Hien reaches his hand up to check. One of the cords is indeed loose. He wouldn’t have noticed. “If you wish, but there’s really no need–” 

“It’s fine,” she says. She leans closer, arms reaching up on either side of his head. 

She plucks the grass away and combs a few longer strands back into place with her fingers. The way she reaches around him leaves little to look at but her lips and the graceful curve of her neck. He finds it hard not to let his eyes drift down to the pendant she wears, just above her breasts, to the way her shirt wraps across her chest. The memory of her weight on his hips is still fresh in his mind. Heat rises to his cheeks as he pushes the thought away.

He’s sure none would blame him for admiring her looks. But she’s his friend and ally. He’s not sure how he should see her. He can’t deny he’s admired her since after the Naadam, but it’s more than that. Whether it’s her resolve and determination, or and the easy way she jokes with him, or her care for those she holds dear, even if she’s sometimes loath to admit it – he finds himself drawn to her. Her presence heartens him. In the time she’s spent helping him begin to rebuild, he’s found himself thinking how much he’d like her to help finish the task. He knows it will take years. And as unlikely as it might be, he hopes she’ll join him in as many of those years as she can spare. At first that desire stemmed from profound gratitude for her aid in the past months, and her part in liberating Doma. Without a doubt they’d be further from their goals without her. But perhaps it’s more. He can feel that spark again, buried in his chest. Her voice brings him back from his musing. 

“Hold still, I've almost—” She pulls everything in place. “There. It should stay now.” Calantha sits back, but her hand lingers on his shoulder. She smiles, and her eyes have a strange softness to them. One he’s seen in the rare moments he’s caught her stealing glances. He pretended not to notice, of course, in case he misjudged them. Her gaze drops to his lips. He stares, unable to look away from the light catching her hair and her eyes, gold in the violet. 

He never dared to think they’d become so close that he could feel the whisper of her breath against his cheek. He has thought of it, when he let his mind wander, but those were idle, foolish daydreams. Nothing more. 

And yet she hasn’t moved away. Her face is ilms from his, and Hien’s heartbeat quickens again. He reaches a tentative hand up to brush his knuckles across the pale freckles on her cheek. She closes her eyes and lets her head rest against his hand. 

He stares at the way her eyelashes fall against her cheek. The draw to her is undeniable now. Hien rests his forehead against her temple. The gentle sound of her breath, the smell of her hair, her hand on his arm. He can think of nothing else. 

“The sunset,” she says. The phrase is quiet, and she tilts her head to look across the horizon. Her eyes open, heavy lidded in the bright light. “Didn't you want to see it?” 

“I did,” he murmurs. Despite its beauty the sunset is not where his attention lies. His heart hammers in his chest. 

“Calantha-” he starts, but whatever he meant to say has flown from his mind, now full only of her.

She smiles, a small, delicate curve of her lips. “Yes?”

He finds himself uncharacteristically speechless. Instead he ghosts his thumb across her lower lip. Her breath catches, but she doesn't pull away. 

Hien brings his lips to hers. 

It’s short and light. Barely a kiss. He’s afraid to overstay. In a rush Calantha cups the back of his neck. She draws him close, kissing him once, twice, and a third time, each one a little longer and deeper than the last. Her lips are soft, the kisses somehow tender and eager at once. He wonders if she had hoped for this. Hien reaches his hands around her waist. He keeps a gentle grip on her sash, half to steady himself, half to pull her in. Her warmth and the faintly sweet herbal scent of her hair surround him, both familiar but never this close, not until now. He thinks he could melt into her. The spark he felt earlier is so bright it threatens to set his whole heart aflame. 

With a final brush of their lips she breaks away, her breath fast and hot on his cheek. His head spins. He rests his forehead against her neck, fingers still clutched in her sash. 

“Shit.” Calantha ducks her head with a shaky laugh, like pulling herself from a dream. "I should see about my armor," she says, looking away. “I’m sure Y’shtola is wondering what’s taking us so long. We still need to discuss…”

She trails off with a quick breath, not looking at him. His hands are still on her waist. 

“We should go,” she says, sliding from the rock. 

The abrupt motion shakes him from his reverie. He nods. “Let us return, then,” he replies, with as much nonchalance as he can muster.  

The sun sinks below the mountains, and the evening air brings a swift chill with the wind. They say little on the way back to Mol Iloh. Calantha hardly looks at him. Hien spends the short trip half in a dream, and half considering their awkward silence. Had he misjudged her? The creeping dread that he’s made a rift between them begins to nag at him. He curses his poor judgment. He hopes he hasn’t offended her. 

Evening turns to night. They eat and talk with the rest of the Mol, comfortably conversing with all except each other. Everyone seems to share a calm, easy air.  It fails to match the growing apprehension in Hien’s mind. He tells himself there’s nothing to be done about it, but it does little to ease his thoughts. He has to fix this, somehow. Her friendship means more to him than a foolish kiss.

As the fire burns low, he sees Calantha stand and bids the others goodnight. 

He excuses himself and strides after her. She doesn’t seem to hear him approach. “Calantha!” he calls. She turns, between two yurts. Her eyes are wide, but with what emotion, he can’t say. He can see her breath quicken. 

He steps towards her, stopping a few fulms away. “Calantha. About earlier. The kiss. If you don’t–that is–” he stops as the words catch in his throat. He grits his teeth and starts again. “I am sorry. The fault was mine.” 

She sighs and glances away. “No more yours than mine. Don’t worry about it.” A small smile creeps onto her face, but fades when she looks up at him again. 

He stares. The words could be politeness, or tentative acceptance. He's not sure which she means. He can offer nothing in return but a confused half frown as he waits for her to say more.  

She shuffles her feet. “I’ll bid you goodnight, then,” she says.

“Wait.” Hien steps toward her, looking up into her eyes. If he’s made a rift between them, he can't end the night without taking steps to mend it. “We are even in victories, you and I. If you wish for another match you have only to ask.” He grins at her. “Even if you defeat me every time.”

She ducks her head with a soft laugh. “I’d like that,” she says. “Perhaps next time I won't use my lance. I've got to give you some chance of winning.” 

The small taunt brings a flicker of normality back between them. He grins. “We shall see who truly is the better, lance or no.” 

“I look forward to it.” Her tone is soft, but still sweet. It lifts the weight from his chest. She turns away. “Goodnight, Hien.” 

He stands for a moment, watching as she disappears between the yurts, not moving until long after she’s disappeared from view. The sound of his name in her mouth strikes him differently this time. Hien wants to capture the syllables, like flower petals in the palm of his hand, and hold them close to his heart.  He can’t know how much will change between them. He prays he hasn't ruined anything they can't fix together. But he does know the tiny spark in his chest is now a bright flame for her. He can no longer ignore it. 

[rottingworship]

I'm super duper excited to say!! The next chapter of Beg and Bargain should be coming out tonight (if all things go well)! I have to finish it up when I get home and then do a little editing to it.

Then I can focus on some requests again! Before buckling down for chapter 7 lol

[seoulmatez]

omg i just came up with the best way to end this last chapter of little miss city girl

[aetherose]

Layla's Transcendence

Punishing: Gray Raven Chapter 12 spoilers

Pain.

Unending, searing pain that overwhelmed her sensors, but for fear of suffering M.I.N.D. deviation and falling to the Virus sooner, she did not dare turn off her pain receptors.

Is this what all Corrupted go through in the process of losing themselves to the Virus? Or was it her persistence to live what made it all the worse for her? Or perhaps, this was just the result of her wounds.

It wasn't the first time she'd experienced infection from the Punishing Virus. As a human, it was the reason she had been dying, and had to be taken by Babylonia to become a Construct to save her life. Yet, that felt tame in comparison to now.

Likely because she was becoming Corrupted, and she knew it. That's why she had fled to the edge of Kowloong now. She was afraid of the possibility of becoming a Corrupted, but she was even more terrified of hurting her friends. Liv, Lee, the Commandant...Lucia, if she still lives.

(No, she has to survive. She has to. She will. Right...?)

How ridiculous is that? She wants to protect her friends from herself, but she doesn't dare step near any of the other squads to beg them to end her life. Because she's scared of death. But becoming a Corrupted is a worse fate than death, isn't it?

Yet, here she was, inching her way forward through sheer will to survive, even knowing her time was limited.

It's so stupid. She's always been stupid, though. She's a foolish girl who's killed, maimed, stolen, and more to survive, in spite of knowing how little right she really has.

And now because she's afraid of death, she is trying to fight off Corruption rather than ask for a quicker, much better end to her misery that'd guarantee she'd hurt no one.

Death is a fate she deserves, she knows it, yet she runs from it. Perhaps becoming a Corrupted is a more fitting end, all things considered, however.

It doesn't matter now. She's so far from the main scene of the ongoing fight in Kowloong she doubts there's a soul around now to end her even if she wanted it. And she's not sure she has enough time left to inch her way back to find someone.

Her fate is sealed, but she still persists.

She keeps limping forward. It's a wonder she can even walk, frankly, even if just barely in her current state. Her legs suffered the most when she found herself assaulted by Corrupted. Clawing all over her, leaving her now with faint electric sparks occasionally flickering from the now-visible machinery beneath the synthetic skin due to her wounds.

But her whole body is a wreck, not just her legs. Crimson vital fluid covers her all over, leaking from her wounds and seeping into her clothes, and she leaves a faint trail of vital fluid in her wake. Her sword was missing half its blade now, but she still clung to it for dear life. She knows if anything attacked her right now, she'd likely stand no chance, and yet here she was, gripping onto it.

It was the sword she'd been using for years now. A sword she'd taken so many lives with. Corrupted, humans, Mechanoids, and Constructs alike. None were spared, all were executed by Babylonia's orders, or were felled for her own survival.

The utter guilt she'd felt for it had threatened to drown her on numerous occasions. And in her dying state, it slithered back from where it always lingered in the back of her mind to the forefront.

Guilt. They say that's the emotion one must have if one wishes to redeem themself for their sins. But with how many sins she carries with her every second of every hour of every day of her now eternal life as a Construct, can you say she is redeemable?

Every life was an individual. No matter how many times she says she's sorry and no matter why she took that life, she still took it. It doesn't matter if she had to for survival, or under orders, or for war, or whatever else. She took so many lives, and ruined many others.

She is not the only one who suffers in this world. So many others suffer like her. She's seen it with her own eyes so many times. She is just another soul crushed under the ever-turning wheel that continues beyond her to crush thousands more as the apocalypse rages on.

('Isn't it detestable? The way that humans brought this onto themselves, and continue to hurt their own kind because of it?')

Layla freezes as she hears that voice in her M.I.N.D. She at first looks around her, to try to find a person nearby who spoke, but she knows, in truth, there is no one at all nearby on the edge of this ancient, deserted city.

Is she hearing things now? Is this also what Corrupted go through?

('No, only a handful even get to hear this voice.') It states simply, seemingly a little amused at her confusion. ('Your will to persist is admirable, you see. But you cling to things as pointless as compassion. You find a way to feel sympathy for so many around you, and then beat yourself up about what you have to do to live.')

'Because they've suffered just like I have. Because they don't deserve what I do to them. I'm...an awful person.' She answers within her M.I.N.D. to the voice, and it seems to click its tongue.

('Oh, how very cute. But you know deep down they don't deserve it. Humans aren't beings to sympathize with. They're the ones who put you into this position in the first place out of their own senseless hatred. Don't you remember your mother?')

Layla's mother...she remembers her very well. Complicated emotions fill Layla as she finds herself leaning against a nearby wall, as memories filled her M.I.N.D.

('Don't you remember how much you tried to earn her love? The way she always looked at you, a small child, with contempt every time? All because of reasons you couldn't, and still don't fully understand. And not even just her, but your whole family looked at you the same way.')

She remembers it like it was yesterday. Each day before she was 11 years old, she would always go up to her mother and try to talk to her through pen and paper, ever since she learned to write. Each time, her mother would only briefly glance at it, before telling her to leave her alone. Sometimes she hit her if Layla persisted further.

Layla's relatives only humored her presence to ask her to do things for them, before shooing her away. Or worse, they too looked at her with hatred and refused to let her near them.

Even her younger cousins avoided her because of their parents' warnings. She held onto hope for so long, in spite of how painful it was. How lonely it was.

But in the end, she soon snapped, and burned her estate and family to the ground when she was 11, out of a childish wish for the pain to just end.

('Do you regret it?') The voice asked as the memory came to mind, and she hesitates to answer. The voice speaks before she can think of any response.

('Don't regret it. They deserved it, Layla. They deserved it. Humans are all the same. All because they thought you a defective child, they never gave you love or kindness, and used you for their own ends. You should hate them.') Yet why doesn't she? Why doesn't she fully hate them?

...That's right. Because some part of her still wonders if there's something truly that twisted and ugly in her, that made them not love her. Maybe she was defective in a way she couldn't understand.

('You aren't. No, perhaps the defective ones are in fact humans themselves. Think about it. Look back on all your memories after that fire you caused. How many times have you had to suck up to those with power to live? How many other times have you begged for food or shelter and been denied? How many times have you had to fight off those who tried to steal your supplies? How many times have you been used and been betrayed by those who did accept your request for help?')

Layla grits her teeth at the voice's words. 'But I was just as bad.'

('They were the ones who hurt you first.')

'But that doesn't make me any better.'

('You just wanted to survive.')

'So did they.'

('But how can you be sure they were truly people just as hurt by the world as you are? And even then...why should you care? Humans only worsen this world. They are a pestilence. They hurt you. They've hurt each other. All for power, or even pettiness, spite...and you know they treat Constructs even worse. Former humans who became machines to help save the world, treated as nothing more than tools...like yourself. And even they are not all pure-hearted, for they came from humans, even if they are now machines.') Layla goes silent, and the voice merely continues on.

('You could change this world, if only you accept the truth, and discard that compassion of yours. You could make a world that would accept you, you who they used, betrayed, and threw out like trash. Embrace your hatred, and turn it into the strength to destroy and remake this world.')

For a moment, for just a small moment, Layla thinks about it. Oh, wouldn't it be wonderful, to embrace her anger and hate, to destroy and remake this world that hurt her so badly? To make a world that'd accept her, a better world for everyone, without the lying, hypocritical humans that only hurt this world worse within it?

It'd be so easy to let go. It'd be so, so easy, to take that step and let herself fall into the depths of enmity. Some part of her wants to. The hurt, resentful child that burned down her home and family in her perhaps would accept it. That child remains in her heart, and now wants her to accept this voice's offer.

But then, more memories comes to her M.I.N.D.

Several years ago, when Layla was still in training after becoming a Construct, she'd already become an outcast amongst Babylonia. She struggled to speak in spite of now having a functioning voice module (even now she struggles, and prefers sign language and handwriting). She was the weird mute girl; an easy target for harassment.

Other Construct trainees would take advantage of the fact she struggled to talk back and ganged up, saying cruel words, one day, escalated to become physical, because no one was looking, and she couldn't cry out for help.

Layla had cowered in the corner and braced herself for what was about to come, but instead, heard the sounds of her tormentors themselves crying out in pain. And before she knew it, they were all on the ground, groaning and moaning in agony.

A woman with red eyes and black hair stood over them, gaze piercing as the Constructs looked up at her. They soon fled, and the woman reached out her hand and helped Layla up, confirmed she was alright, and then simply walked off.

It was the first time anyone had bothered to help Layla, without asking anything in return. Let alone, Layla quickly realized the one who helped her was Lucia, the Captain of Gray Raven, an elite squad highly admired by many. Why would someone like that help Layla and then ask for nothing in return? Layla went up to ask her later, and all she had to say on the matter was simply...

"What would I need from you?"

It left Layla dumbfounded. Lucia even knew her name beforehand, and before either of them knew it, they ended up becoming fast friends. Best friends, in fact. And for Layla, Lucia was her very first friend. Layla would later be assigned to Purifying Force, and became one of Nikola's personal practical attack dogs, but despite her displeasure at her position, how she resented Babylonia, she found Lucia made it all so much more bearable.

And then Gray Raven was wiped out, and Lucia Recalled, sustaining memory loss in the process. And for a time, Layla was bereaved. Because she knew the Lucia in front of her...wasn't just Lucia with memory loss.

No, she had a feeling...she was a whole other Lucia in the first place. Not like she could confirm anything; Babylonia made it difficult even for Purifying Force to get their hands on such classified files.

Regardless, Layla still mourned the Lucia she lost, whether it was a whole other one, or the old self of the current one. But then she was moved to the new Gray Raven, and found herself growing close to Lucia again.

And then this battle in Kowloong began, and it turned out Layla was right, and that...Alpha of the Ascendants was the original Lucia. But how? Why would she become this? She was so...different now, and she hated the other Lucia so much too, for being a clone.

But...she was still Lucia, too.

Both of them were. Both of them were kind to her. And in Babylonia, thanks to them, she started to open herself more to others. She made several friends. She can't simply ignore the good people she's met. She resents this world, and a level of misanthropy still exists in her.

But she cannot simply accept this voice's proposal, that asked her to embrace a hatred of all humans, of this whole world, and tear it all down to remake it anew, when this world wasn't black and white in such a way. There was bad...a lot of bad...but then, there was also...so much good.

Like Lucia. Like Alpha. Like Liv. Like Lee. Like Commandant.

She found her knees were about to give out as she came to this conclusion, and the pain she'd started growing able to ignore seemed to suddenly increase now, but she still persisted, as she responded to the voice in her M.I.N.D.

'...I will have to reject your offer. This world...is a flawed place, yes. But...I can't just ignore how many good people I've met here.'

The voice seemed slightly taken aback by her answer...and then started to become hostile. ('If you don't accept my offer, you will cease to be yourself, and become a Corrupted.')

'...But if I accept your offer, I will have to tear asunder this whole world. You...just want to make me a puppet of destruction. You just want to use me...like all the others, don't you?'

('No, I'm offering you the chance to make a world where no one is used again. I'm offering you power. To save your life.')

'...I know manipulation when I hear it. I can't believe I almost accepted your offer...'

('You'll regret this choice as you lose all sense of who you are and become a mindless monster.')

'...I'd rather that than to become a real monster. Real monsters aren't the mindless ones...it's the ones who have minds and still do what they do with no remorse, no restraint, without necessity...'

The voice doesn't respond. Layla is alone within her own M.I.N.D. again. She finds her knees at last give out, and she collapses onto the ground, broken sword falling from her hand as warnings fill her ears.

The Punishing Virus Corruption she's suffering is at critical levels. Soon, she won't be herself anymore. It's a practical miracle she's survived this long through sheer force of will.

Countless thoughts race through her mind. Some part of her does regret rejecting the voice's offer. But at the same time, another part of her doesn't.

Maybe it's arrogance leading her to think she has even a chance of success at this, but she won't just give up and accept her fate. No...she can't die here. Lucia...Alpha...she wants to reunite with them both. She wants to make sure Lucia is alright. And she wants to understand why Alpha became this way.

Layla begins to crawl forward without any thought. Where is she going? She's not sure. No, she's not really trying to reach any destination. Even as her body screams at her in pain, she does this anyways, as an act of defiance against her fate.

She won't turn into a Corrupted. She will survive. She crawls, and crawls, and crawls. She doesn't make it very far with each little push forward. But she keeps crawling.

Warning sounds blare even more at the immensity of the Viral Corruption she's facing, but she pays it no mind. She simply keeps crawling.

She won't die.

She won't become a Corrupted.

She'll see Lucia again.

She'll see Alpha again.

She'll see Liv again.

She'll see Lee again.

She'll see the Commandant again.

She'll live.

By god, she'll live.

And everything goes dark.

"...Layla?"

A familiar voice calls out.

"...Lu...cia?"

No...was that Lucia? Or was it...

She doesn't get the time to finish that thought.

Her body completely shuts down.

Later, in Babylonia...

"We can't find any trace of her. I'm sorry. At this point, it's safe to assume...she's probably dead." Celica hands the sword with a half broken blade to Lucia, the rest of Gray Raven behind her with grieved expressions, all whilst marking down on a casualty report...

'Layla Ceridwen - MIA, assumed KIA in the Battle of Kowloong.'

Afterward, in the Ascendants' base...

"...by all accounts, she shouldn't be alive. But she still lives, by the skin of her teeth...she isn't connected to the Ascension Network either...but she's still..."

A soft voice fills her ears, though it's hard to hear. But she makes out those words, in spite of how awful she feels. She can't move, at first. But after a few moments, she slowly can sit up, prompting the soft voice to gasp.

"...Sis, come and see. She's awake at last."

When she opens her eyes, she sees a dreamlike girl, who appeared just like a dazzling white light...

And a woman in red beside her, rugged and enigmatic looking.

"...Alpha?"

[flowercrowngods]

i have reasons to believe that who did this to you part 3 is bringing me my words back. will collect more evidence and keep you apprised.

[aropride]

im not like. a big blogger right. at what point am i a big blogger. or like medium size. is it the point when i get nerfed for a couple days and i see someone say like "oh no he deactivated he had some bad takes but he was cool" in the tags of one of my posts when i come back. is it when i get reposted on instagram all the time. is it when peiple get anons "warning" them i support mspec gays.....

[rubberduckyrye]

I keep thinking about how writing 3k words every day for me might actually be feasible

Write 1k after each meal

1k three times a day

I chew through words so fast so I only need about 30 minutes to write 1k?

It's not hard.... I could easily do it!!!

And that's without my meds--I was told my meds are safe to take but I did feel a racing heart issue so I want to switch to a lower dose or a more mild medicine tbh.

Still!

I'm trying to plan this out. Ehe.

[questionable-doctor]

guess which part was my favorite to render challenge (impossible)

[hannie-dul-set]

only have 2-ish scenes left for the ricky fic 😭😭😭.

[bright-and-burning]

these stats are BONKERS???

[the-travelling-witch]

thank you for the valentine’s day gift!! <3

does that mean i have to prepare sth for white day?

[bobtheacorn]

I saw @sroloc--elbisivni ‘s last two lines Tag Game so I’m using it as an excuse to post this bc I got back up out of bed to jot it down last night

"You haven't been this unfriendly since your girlfriend married someone else," Gunichi says.

Usagi tries very hard not to scowl about this observation.

Rules: in a new post, show the last line(s) you wrote and tag as many people as there are words. I do Not have the capacity to tag anyone just let it be Post Bits of Your WIPs Saturday 💜