#Write first blog post

[victorwinnersdotcom]

How to Write your First Blog Post with a Bang: The 7 Step Strategy

Regardless of how many years of experience you’ve had as a writer, the pressure that comes with creating a good impression for your first blog post can be quite overwhelming. As someone who’s once been here, I remember how tasking it was. Considering that you want to create a good first impression as much as possible, getting the head start with one’s first blog post can be quite…

[necrotic-nephilim]

as much as I love the common "Tim worships/stalks Jason" trope in TimJay fanfiction because it's Good and making Tim a weird little freak is Fun, I think the underutilized dynamic is where Jason is the one weirdly obsessed with Tim and makes it Tim's problem.

Like, the moment Jason is confronted with the information that a third Robin exists, the first thing he does is cover his wall with pictures of Tim so he can just obsess and torture himself over it. That is the behavior of a man who is Unwell over Tim's existence and I love it.

red hood: lost days #4

And as much as a shitshow as The Titans Tower Incident™ is characterization-wise (though I think it has far more merit in depicting Jason's character than people give it credit for but I digress-) there's something very fun about the fact that even after kicking his ass, Jason respects Tim and is impressed by him.

teen titans (2003) #29

And on top of that, Jason can't seem to stop trying to ask Jason to Tim to work with him in some capacity.

robin (1993) #177

batman: battle for the cowl #2

While Battle for the Cowl is an exceptionally bad comic, especially for its characterization of Jason and the "be my Robin" bit is taken deeply out of context, I do think it's interesting how obsessed Jason is with believing that Tim is extremely competent, only held back by being "brainwashed by Bruce". (hence him leaving Tim for dead later on in the comic.) Jason seeing a darker side of Tim and wanting to bring that out of Tim, wanting to see what Tim could be if he let go of his loyalty to Bruce is so fun to me, tbh.

And in Robin #177, Jason seems genuinely upset Tim doesn't want to work with him. Jason sees such a raw potential in Tim and is obsessed with it, constantly wanting Tim to work for him and see Tim be the type of person Jason is. And despite Tim rejecting him, Jason doesn't shoot to kill Tim. I just cannot get over the fanfic potential of Jason obsessing over Tim, tracking him and seeing what he's capable of and what he could be capable of. Wanting to make Tim see things the way he does. To Tim it's corruption, to Jason it's freedom. Tim trying to 'save' Jason is fun and all, but Jason trying to corrupt Tim? That's even more fun to me. Watching that power struggle between them, Tim unable to get Jason off his heels as Jason gets more and more possessive and bold with each attempt.

And when Jason sees Tim successfully get Gotham back under control after a gang war, he's impressed. He praises Tim, even. And then Tim just. Breaks him out of prison.

robin (1993) #182

The way they're constantly trying to see something in the other that isn't there, hoping the other will come around? That is the most fucked up hate/love dynamic ever. Jason keeps coming back to Tim, keeps trying to find ways to get Tim onto his side. They're always chasing each other. And I think Jason would be the one to confess love first, the one to do anything to make Tim his. And when you consider after all of this, Tim has his Red Robin arc and is at his lowest, getting the closest he ever gets to considering murder? I think it'd be so fun to see Jason take advantage of that and worm his way back into Tim's life and finally push Tim over the edge.

[ember-diaries]

Just decided to draw myself a pfp, because I can

[chimeride]

[myokk]

💘

[secondbeatsongs]

me, staring down one of my WIPs: huh! this guy was really onto something here. hope he gets around to finishing this so I can see how it ends

[cheswirls]

short asl thing based on @where-does-the-heart-lie's modern au :) i started this over a year ago but the beginning is all dialogue and felt more like a script to me i suppose??? which deflated my desire to work on it. anyway i checked it over recently and it's completely fine lmfao, self-confidence restored here we go !

-

"Yo. Aren't you usually in the middle of your shift by now?"

"I've been banned from the hospital."

"Like, for life?"

"No. For the next, uh.. Twenty-two hours."

"That's oddly specific."

"It was twenty-four, but I fell asleep after leaving the building."

"That wouldn't have to do with why they kicked you out, at all?"

"Hmmm. I'm too sleep-deprived, apparently."

"Ah. And, um, you called me because...?"

"I pressed a random number in my call log after waking up. Lucky you, I guess."

"Yeah. Right. Lucky me. And your car keys are...?"

"Confiscated."

"Ah, right, of course."

A beat of silence. Two. Three, then "Look, if you're busy, then–"

"No, no.  You called me, so I'll be there. Give me twenty minutes."

"Alright. Thank–"

"Thank someone else. Also, if you fall asleep in my car, I'm taking it as express permission to drive you around wherever I want."

"Ugh, go die. I don't even know why I bothered."

"LUCKY YOU, I guess," sounds off way too loudly in his ear. "No take backs. See you in ten."

"I thought you said–" Sabo breaks off as the call ends, leaving him staring blankly at his phone's too-dim screen. He squints, turns the brightness all the way up, and still squints as the sunlight proves too strong for the display.

Ace shows up in more than ten but decidedly less than twenty minutes. Sabo doesn't waste much brain power on it, only climbing into the passenger seat and yawning into his palm while his other hand fixes the seatbelt into the buckle. Not a second too soon, too, as Ace roars the engine to life and peels away from the curb at record speed.

Ace fiddles with the radio. He turns the music up, then dial it back down to inaudible. They hit the expressway and he leans over the steering wheel, frowning with his eyes fixed on the road far ahead. Sabo yawns again and this appears to be the limit to his patience. 

"Hey, so, I had a thought after you hung up on me."

Sabo grimaces. "You mean you–"

"Today's Wednesday."

He doesn't elaborate. Sabo is too tired to process. "Yes," he follows, after a second. He glances at the sky out the front window. "What time is it?"

"Oh, uh." Ace fumbles with hand placement so he can lift his watch to his face. "Nine forty."

Sabo takes a couple beats to try and process this, moves his eyes away from the skyline, and sighs as he pulls his phone out. 2:47 is what the display reads, which sounds much more believable.

"How did the minute hand get off?" he mutters to himself, chancing a look at Ace's busted wristwatch. Ace raises a brow, taking his gaze off the road to scrutinize Sabo. "No, it doesn't matter," he mutters to himself once more, sliding his phone away back on his person and out of his hands.

"My point is," Ace continues, like he hasn't just been interrupted by a whole thing. "Your timeout will be done midday Thursday. Did they switch your days off?"

"No." Sabo sighs. "They technically gave me the next thirty-six hours. Technically closer to forty. Something like that. I go back in on Friday. Sometime.” He tries to smile and it turns out very lopsided, from that he can make out in the rearview mirror. “Can you tell I’m tired?”

“I don’t think ‘tired�� is an accurate description,” Ace quips. “When did you eat a proper meal last?”

“Uh, yesterday. Maybe.”

“Maybe??”

“A ‘proper meal’ means different things to the two of us,” Sabo huffs. “On my account it was yesterday. I’ve had food since then, of course.”

“Alright, so here’s the plan,” Ace announces before absolutely whipping it around a curve. Sabo is his passenger in the passenger seat and had fully prepared to be so when he got in the vehicle, but he’d been vastly underprepared for this sudden course of action, which is how he ends up halfway out of his seat with his cheek slammed into the cold window. Ace doesn’t quite notice his brother’s terminal velocity until the car is once again on the straight and narrow, and only then it’s because of the audible thunk Sabo’s face makes when it collides with the glass.

“Aw shit. You good bro?”

“Ow,” Sabo mutters. “If I have broken bones I’m suing your ass.”

“Well, if you’re good enough to make jokes, I think you’re better than you’re letting on.” Ace keeps the wheel steady with one knee while he takes both hands away to crack his fingers. When he glances over at Sabo again, he looks even more pathetic – like he’s becoming one with the glass. “Anyway, as I was saying.

“I’m taking your ass home. You’re going straight to sleep and while you crash, I’ll make you something decent to eat and stick it in the fridge for you to heat up later. I’ll even make you two servings to eat two different times, since you clearly can’t be trusted to take care of yourself correctly.”

“Ouch.”

“I want you to conk out for as long as your body allows. We can reset your sleep schedule tomorrow, alright? Put your phone on silent; do not answer any calls. In fact, you know what, just give it to me.

Sabo glances over to see Ace’s hand held out to him, palm up. Fingers wiggling expectantly. His lips pull up into a grimace. “I’m not doing that.”

“Fine.” Ace takes his hand back. “But you will comply with everything else.”

“Wow! It’s so funny, I didn’t realize you turned into my mother overnight! Really tapped into your mom potential, huh? Anything exciting happen in your life that would cause that? I guess I wouldn’t know, since I’ve been a zombie for the past two days.”

“There’s nothing wrong with acting like your older brother, you dipshit, especially if you keep putting yourself through the wringer like this. You go home. You sleep. You wake up and eat. You go back to sleep. Then we do laundry. Does that sound agreeable?”

“That’s negotiable, at the least,” Sabo mumbles. “I will accept good food as a form of bribery.”

“Oh, nice, because I’m flat broke at the moment.”

Sabo makes a mental note of that, and then they’re pulling into the driveway. Ace lets him exit the vehicle by himself and then promptly manhandles him all the way onto the couch where it will be easier to force his body to relax than in a real bed. Ace knows this, so he calls him weird before chucking a loose blanket at his head. Sabo is almost too tired to function at this point, so he lets Ace have the last laugh in favor of finally closing his eyes.

Coming to is a surreal experience, especially since the sun is still out. He must make a noise because Ace is suddenly within view. His limbs are tangled in the blanket and still so heavy that he doesn’t bother moving. “Thought you would be gone,” he half-groans, eyes slipping shut again for a moment.

“I did leave,” Ace confirms. “I had to go pilfer some stuff to make stew with. It’s almost done, so I’ll hang here until then.”

Pilfer. That could mean any number of things. Sabo chooses to believe in the option where Ace is an upstanding citizen, and then remembers Ace saying earlier that he had no money. He frowns and squirms on the cushions enough to where it looks like he’s checking his pockets. “Where’s my wallet, Ace?” he bluffs.

“Somewhere around here,” Ace pipes up. “Your stomach will thank you for your contributions to the Portgas Household’s pantry!”

“Ugh, I got robbed,” he complains. “This sucks. ‘m going back to sleep.” He rolls over so his back is to Ace.

“Yeah, you do you, bro. Stew will still be here later. I’ll see you when you’re back in the world of the living.”

—

Luffy comes in late that night and slams the front door shut as loud as humanly possible. When he appears in the main room, he doesn’t seem to be upset, so Ace writes it off as a Luffyism. Sabo hasn’t stirred at the noise, so it’s all good.

Realizing this, Luffy pads closer to Ace’s side and looks at Sabo’s unmoving body warily. “Why is Sabo passed out like a corpse? Is he sick?”

“No, he’s not sick, he just can’t take care of himself. Which is why we are going to let him sleep for as long as possible.”

Luffy just nods to this, but it’s the uncomprehending Luffy-nod that means he’s just going to end up doing whatever he wants to regardless. Ace sighs, then jerks his head towards the kitchen. “He ate a little earlier, but I want him to eat again when he wakes up. There’s stew in the fridge if you want it – just leave him a little. Got it, Monkey D. Luffy?”

Luffy throws him a salute and then runs off in his socks. “Yippee! Ace made stew!”

“Think of your brother, Luffy, and make good choices!” Ace calls after him. “He’s a pathetic man who needs food to feel better or he’ll end up sleeping through Laundry Day!”

—

Sabo does not sleep through laundry day, but he does sleep for sixteen whole hours, so it’s just around noon when he forces himself up off the couch and into a warm shower.

Ace is around, which is mildly unexpected. But he’s still half-asleep, so everything is at least a little unexpected. He glances up from playing video games with Luffy to see Sabo leaving the steam-filled bathroom with his hair hanging around his shoulders. “You look like a wet cat,” he calls.

“Sabo’s awake!” Luffy cheers. “Ace thought you died at one point.”

Ace elbows Luffy in the gut, making him hunch over. “I did not!”

“He totally checked to see if your heart was still beating!”

“I’m undead, actually,” Sabo says completely seriously.

“Does that mean you don’t need to eat anymore?” Luffy questions. “Because I ate all the stew last night.”

“I saw that coming and made extra.” Ace finger-guns in Sabo’s general direction. “That’s why I bought two sets of ingredients. With your money!”

“With my money,” Sabo echoes, because it’s such a wild statement to have to deal with this early in the day. Well, early for him. “Fuck you.”

“I mean, I can tell Luffy where I hid–”

“Thank you, Ace, for agreeing to share your quarters with both of your brothers so we can all do laundry today on your dime!” Sabo raises his pitch so his voice is mockingly squeaky when he says this. He starts moving down the hall before Ace can start to argue, letting his and Luffy’s voices bleed into the background.

When he comes back out, now dressed, it smells significantly better than before. “I reheated the stew,” Ace announces, gesturing for Sabo to take a seat at the kitchen counter. “Let’s all have lunch before we head out.”

“You have to drink this too,” Luffy tells Sabo, sliding a Gatorade across the counter so it sets in front of him when he finally does take a seat. “Ace’s orders.”

“Gotta get those nutrients back somehow.”

“Aren’t we so considerate, Sabo?”

“Do you even know what ‘considerate’ means?” Sabo asks, lips quirking up into a half-smile. At Luffy’s shrug, it turns into a real smile. “Well, thanks anyway. Both of you.”

“No sweat. And look!” Ace brandishes a five dollar bill for both to see. “I found this baby for us to use on coins! It’s all on me today–”

“Where’s my wallet, Ace?!”

[heretical-cogitations]

Don't know if anyone else has said this but I've been seeing alot of talk about space marines having an enhanced sense of smell and how they can sniff out arousal etc.

BUT imagine if that's just what the armory smells like because everyone in there dressing them is so down bad.

To the point the space marine doesn't  realise what the smell actually is and is stood there wondering why their serf smells like the changing room.

[godsfaultycreations]

Animal Crossing Time

the sillies playing animal crossing

Taco Bell

[yuuchama]

Azul Ashengrotto is the kind of guy to give the prefect a coupon to the Mostro Lounge on their birthday. Good for one free drink or dessert if you spend 20 thaumarks or more. He shows up at Ramshackle Dorm to deliver it in person, as a sign of good faith.

Grim would definitely oppose such a lousy gift. The hench-human has helped Octavinelle countless times. This is clearly a weak attempt at a cash grab, can't he gift anything more?

Fine. Of course. Come to the Lounge and order your food, he'll make the twins wear funny hats and clap and sing Happy Birthday at your table. A special offer, today only.

[aniniwrites]

... So You WERE staring!

Summary: The HOK and Martin are resting for the night at an inn early in their journey to Weynon Priory. Things get awkward when it's time to get ready for bed. ONESHOT A/N: This is more barebones than your average story because I wrote this intending it as a small script for a comic I wanted to draw. However, I thought it had enough substance to be read on its own. HOK referred to with she/her pronouns. Otherwise, there's not much in the way of descriptions, so this is like a glorified x reader.

...

She shakes off the dust that had gathered on her tunic as she gets up from bed.

She yawns and stretches a bit. "Well, we better be off to bed..." she trailed off, eyeing her sleepclothes, then flicking her eyes at Martin on the other side of the room.

The priest tensed under her stare. Nervously, he stood up from his bed to leave.

"Ah... Not to worry, I can wait outside while you change-"

"No! Wait-"

He turned to look at her in surprised amusement. She bit on her thumbnail, her eyebrows furrowed as she considered their situation.

Not looking at him, she continued. "I'd like to not leave you out of my sight if I can help it." Then she locked eyes with him again. "I'm supposed to protect you."

Martin felt momentarily insulted, before the reality of his assassins and their power settled heavily on his chest. He wished he could say he wasn't a damsel in distress, but his situation was unfavorable. And, the thought of someone attacking her while he is out of the room struck him as a possibility as well, just then.

Still, he hadn't been in the same room as a lady undressing in some time. During times he wished not to re-live.

"I wouldn't want to make a lady uncomfortable." He tried insisting politely.

A trembling, tired sigh escaped her. "I promise... It's fine. Anyways, we'll have to get used to this on the road when we may not have the luxury of an inn."

He considered her words and decided going along with her was better than extending her mortification. So long as she changes quickly, they can get through this.

"Just... turn around, okay?" She said. He hummed and complied. "And no peeking."

"Yes, ma'am."

Sitting on the furthest edge of his bed, he looked down at his shoes and tried not to focus on the sound of fabric unfastening, unbuttoning, and softly falling to the ground. Or her groans of relief as she freed herself from her more tightly fitted pieces of armor.

He places a hand over his eyes in frustration, realizing like an idiot that he has done nothing but successfully focus on her state of undress.

The rustling of fabric stops about a minute in, he commends her for her speed. He can hear her making slight noises still, huffing and hmphing at something.

Testing, he turns his head slightly. "All done?"

"Don't look!"

His head springs back around much like a rubber band, tearing his blue eyes away from her direction.

"I'm not!" He responds rather quickly, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Nh-... Good. Don't look until I tell you." She commands through her struggle.

He stays facing the wall, which is slightly lit from the dying candles in the room, and tries not to notice her figure as her shadow slips onto the inn wall. He tries not to notice the way her chest was puffed out and how her hands played at her back. All with the most torturous noises leaving her lips.

Damn it. He should have thought ahead to blow those candles out.

Minutes passed, and still she had not announced she was finished. He took the opportunity to remove his own robe, glad to be free of the garment after days of wear. Yet even when he was finished, nothing came from her.

By the Nine. What is taking her so long!? An eternity, he felt, he had been staring at this wall!

He risked turning his head again, this time silently. He only barely stopped himself from losing his composure and letting an exasperated noise escape him as he beheld his companion in disbelief.

Her back was facing him, and her hands were clumsily and desperately clawing at the claspings of her small clothes. Shaking and grumbling all sorts of curses at the wicked thing.

His eye twitched.

He found it half amusing, half ironic that someone so capable in the battlefield was having such trouble undoing her own underwear.

He suddenly felt heat go to his stomach, and it was as if the spirit of Sanguine weighed down his left shoulder. It smirked at him under the candlelight, telling him to go help her unclasp her bra, he has... apt experience and skill at it, after all.

He shook his head and tried to do the same with the thoughts. He was a priest! Such thoughts had been dormant and buried since he well took his vows!

Still he sat unmoving, watching her shake and rage in vain at her bra for a bit longer. Kicking the floor in desperation from time to time.

But then, he felt a wind caress his right shoulder. Divine and sensitive, logical thoughts came to him. Such as: help her unclasp her underwear - so you can both be through with this rather uncomfortable situation.

...

... What-?

He frowned at her figure, and mostly at himself, and whatever gods were giving him that advice. But he saw himself agreeing with their judgement. This needs to be over.

He gulped as he silently stood from the bed, tiptoeing his way towards her sitting form at the edge of her bed.

His hands inches from her back, he realized he didn't want to scare her.

He cleared his throat, "Excuse me..." He said carefully, reaching out as gently as he could.

She let out a quiet gasp as his hands masterfully undid the clasps of her small clothes before she even had time to turn around.

He pulled his hands away from her, gingerly making sure not to touch the newly exposed skin. She wrapped an arm over her breasts, keeping the bra on top of them for cover.

They stared silently at each other for a few moments, her face and upper body turning many shades of red as she looked at him in his bed trousers, and the tip of his ears unexpectedly matched her red hue.

Suddenly, her eyes narrowed and glinted dangerously at him, and he realized too late his foolish mistake.

"So... You WERE staring!!!"

Her scream resonated and shook the walls of the building. He recoiled in fear - never had he imagined a normal person's lungs were even capable of such loud shouting!

He rushed to cover his eyes and blindly tried to run away as he profusely offered her many nervous apologies. He barely dodged the first three pillows she sent hurdling towards him. But, the fourth pillow hit him on his upper back and sent him falling face first onto his mattress with a grave oomph.

As her yelling settles down, he sighs wearily onto his bed and finds himself thanking the divines for making him the heir of the late Emperor for the first time since he found out the miserable news in this misadventure...

... Because that's probably the only reason he's currently not nursing a slap to the face or some other mortal wound.

[slurp-imagines]

Kamo Noritoshi - Just classmates, just an accident.

Summary: Reader tripped in front of Noritoshi and he accidentally saw up their skirt. It's been hours and it's still on his mind.

A/N: this was written for my OC originally, just removed names. so it's a female reader wearing a skirt. kind of works as a self-insert if you're okay with she/her pronouns.

Tags: NSFW/18+, M/F, masturbation, one-sided feelings / not in relationship, 3rd person narration

Words: 1,279

He feels disgustingly perverted. But he can't stop thinking about it.

They were in the wooded training zone together for a simple class exercise in the early morning. It was hours ago. She's tripped and fallen a little ways ahead of him. And he hadn't tried to look. It was natural to look at unexpected movement happening right in front of him.

She'd stood up and laughed it off with only the faintest hints of warmth in her cheeks, knowing he'd seen and knowing it couldn't be changed.

It was hours ago, though. He had gone through multiple other classes. Eaten lunch. Taken an exam. Went through his after-school training. Completed his school day with all the diligence and care to detail that everyone would expect from him.

Silently putting great effort into staying on task. Into forcing that single, erotically persistent mental image away from his attention.

The way the fabric hugged her butt, framed by the pleats of her skirt. He actually didn't see that much, and that somehow makes it harder to forget. The way his eyes quickly traveled up her thighs and then between them, the sharp pang of guilt before he finally forced his gaze away. He's wrong for looking – she isn't his to look at.

But he wants her to be. So, so badly. As soon as he's alone in his dormitory, the memory creeps back into his attention. This time he lets it stay there. He locks his door and doesn't bother turning on the lights, just undresses and goes straight into his shower room and starts the water.

To his credit, he does reconsider for a moment while his member twitches between his thighs, growing harder. Is it fair to do this? Is it fair to her?

I guess you aren't the worst option, she'd told him. I woulda maybe died if it was one of the first-year guys.

That must mean she wouldn't mind, no…? Yes? She was embarrassed, but she wasn't upset with him. She would have hated it if the first-years had seen, but if it was him– since it was him, she was okay with it. That's what she meant, wasn't it? This wasn't wrong, was it?

After just a moment's hesitation, Noritoshi's hand moves between his legs, grasping his erection. He was already almost full mast, just thinking about her. To think she has this much of an effect over him…

He sighs out, turning to face the wall and leaning his arm against it as he begins slowly stroking himself. Hot water pelts his back as he closes his eyes and focuses on the mental image of her, on all fours on the forest floor, the skirt of her dress haphazardly tossed up over her hips. What would she have looked like if she'd wanted him to stare longer? He thinks of her coy expressions, the beautiful curl of her lips when she wants to get a reaction out of him. Imagining her there, perking her ass up and spreading her legs for him, blushing just like he saw her today, smiling invitingly like she always does…

He moans, a soft hum low in his throat. His hand curls his palm around the tip and twists slightly. Precum quickly coats his fingers, dribbling down the rest of his cock. He gives himself a few full strokes, smearing it over himself, delighting in the smooth glide that results.

What he'd seen of her ass was just as beautiful and enticing as the rest of her. He wishes he could have touched her, the cleft where thigh meets her rear, the valley between her legs. Wishes he could have moved her panties to the side, seen pink folds beneath pink fabric…

He puts his hand back on the head, thrusting into the tunnel of his fingers. Imagining himself on his knees with her in the forest, pushing his cock into the tunnel of her warmth instead. She'd cry out his name. Kamo-kun? Noritoshi? It didn't matter. He just wanted to feel her, warm and wet and squeezing him. Wanted her to take him, to want him.

She would be welcoming but demanding, the same as she's always been. She'd let him fuck her until he couldn't anymore. She'd whine and moan and call out his name from between her glossy, plush lips, she would tell him she needs more, faster, harder, and he would give it to her as soon as she asked. Because no matter how much he pretends, deep down he knows he can't deny her anything. In fact, he wants to give her everything she could ever ask for. He would, if he could.

"Y-Y/N..."

He can't help calling out for her, too, though his voice remains quiet underneath the spray of water. He imagines his hands pushing her skirt further up, until he could grip the bare skin of her waist, pulling her body back onto his cock. Watching her ass bouncing off his hips, his member disappearing into her soft pussy over and over again.

He wishes he could give her this, make her feel this touched and pleasured. Wishes he could make her blush and beg until she came all over him, overcome by the feelings he'd aroused in her. He imagines her collapsing onto the ground after he's finished with her, turning herself over and smiling up at him, breathless and sultry, legs spread wide and fingers spreading herself even wider. His load dripping out of her hole. It's erotic and it's obscene, it's– he needs it, needs her, needs her to want him–

Noritoshi stifles his groan into his arm while his cum paints the wall in front of him with thick, creamy droplets. Hot semen dribbles down his fist while he trembles and fucks his hand in a restrained, twitchy rhythm, slowly winding down from his peak.

Noritoshi breathes in and out of his mouth once he feels he has his voice back under control. A new sense of shame washes over him when he opens his eyes and stares at the mess he'd made of the shower wall. He takes one of the wrappings out of his hair – he was so preoccupied he forgot to even remove them – and uses that to wipe it off. He'd just throw it out afterward, he has plenty to spare. There is just no way he could continue wearing the remnants of what he'd just done.

But at least now that he's gotten it out of his system, he can forget about that image properly. At his age, this was just something he had to take care of sometimes. He wasn't wrong for it.

And she would forgive him even if she knew, anyway… She'd said it herself, that he wasn't the worst option. She had laughed it off before, she would do it again.

This wasn't a bad thing that he'd done. It was just… all of it, an accident.

Tomorrow, he will be normal again. His thoughts clear, attention focused where it's actually meant to be.

He will be normal. And they will just be classmates again.

He turns back into the shower spray, and tries hard to ignore his disappointment.

[charlesemersonwinchesteriii]

One fascinating thing about "You Must Unload" is how thematically relevant it is for all the characters on the show, especially Irving himself. The Terror is a story about progressively giving things up and leaving things behind, what you choose to unload and when. (Boats? Curtain rods? Books? Your only clothing, useless in this cold weather? Your only food, poisoned? Your only companions, sick and dying and unable to walk?) Trying in vain to haul things with you that you cannot carry, both metaphorically and literally.

And Irving is at the center of all of it. As discussed in this post, after Crozier declares at Carnivale that they will abandon the ships, Irving stops referencing religion, a turning point for his character. And he is the one call "Forward, men!", the final decision to leave everything they've known behind. You must unload!

He is also the one whose reaction we focus on when Crozier tells them that even the food they're carrying with them is killing them. Which makes sense, of course: Irving is the one we have seen keeping careful inventory of these supplies, trying to make them last as long as possible. Revealed to have been a futile effort the entire time. You must unload!

And then finally, he goes on the hunting trip, making the call first to split off into a smaller party, then to go all alone to meet the Netsilik. At last, he gives up his spyglass, the only prized possession he has left, something stated textually in the book and implied in the show to be important to him personally. And at the same time, he gives up the symbols of his imperialist existence: rank, class, national identity, all of it, because these things have, quite literally, no meaning in this situation. He's left with nothing but his Christian name.

And when he goes back to try to bring the rest of the expedition with him to salvation, that's what kills him. You must unload!

[ssuburban-legendss]

please, please, please | m.v

summary: it's race week in hungary and the house of red bull is breaking down 

word count: 3k+

- July 20th, 2024. Hungary. -

There was nothing like a race weekend.

Milliseconds seemed to stretch for lifetimes, and a mere blink could last for an eternity. The hum of blood rushing in one’s ears, the burning, beating heart… it was everything. Every race was just as thrilling as it was terrifying and tense. 

Even now—even after years of living between breaths, you still weren’t used to the singing adrenaline. Maybe you never would be. 

How could one get used to screaming wheels and blinding lights? How could one stand that ache in the chest and tension of the heart? And how could you overcome the worry and fear that consumed your very being every time Max stepped into that car? 

Oh, Max. 

You sat in the garage, staring up at the live feed and cradling a crackling headset over your ears. Around you, various crew members were watching the televisions closely or busying themselves with screens and tools. Everyone else was along the pit wall, crafting magic in real-time. 

Part of you wished that you could listen to their live chatter instead of the F1 TV broadcast, but an even greater part of you knew that such constant and unfiltered coverage would make your head spin. There was already too much happening on television; you didn’t need extra noise.

In some ways, qualifying was worse than the actual race. The desperation for a faster lap, the frustration, and the bubbling tension. Some days, it was just too much. And today, with the rain and the endless media coverage… 

Maybe you needed more coffee.

“Mate, I don’t think we can improve like this.” Max’s voice crackled across your headphones, flooding through your ears and sparking your nerves alight. He sounded… nervous. Or maybe it was tension. You weren’t sure, but neither emotion was appealing.

Even from a distance, you could imagine the furrow between Max’s brow and the slight pout of his lip. His every expression was known to you, but what good would that do now? You felt trapped behind glass, watching him spin circles as his voice echoed in your ears. The only person that could reach him now was GP, and even then…

The past few weeks had been tense. Between the constant media attention and the slow decline in form, cracks were beginning to sprout in the marble pillars of Red Bull’s house. Even Max seemed less sure lately, falling behind on the circuits he once called home. You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to forget the exhaustion in his voice. It was only Q1, yet it felt like you had been here for days.

“What’s your concern?” GP responded, his tone steady and smooth. “The temperatures or the…”

“The rain! The rain!” Max shouted back, instantly turning all nerves into boiling blood and burning rage. The sharpness of his words made you cringe, and a slight nervous nausea began to bloom in your stomach. Oh dear. A million thoughts rushed through your head at once, mixing into a crumbled cloud of anxiety. 

It was hard to pull Max back down once the frustration bubbled over. There was no such thing as “Mad Max”—at least not to you, but the anger was real, and it was hard to take or tame. And it was unending. Rage clouded some people’s judgment, but not Max. If anything, he seemed to find clarity in burning breath and bitter words. The ache and anger could keep him going for hours on end—lap after lap. But it also sent him spiraling downward, lost in his head and a faraway place you couldn’t find. He was unreachable in those moments, and you hated it. 

“Okay, calm down, Max.” GP replied, “Then, if you’re concerned about the rain, we can box. We can come back to the garage, it’s not a problem—“

Another voice cut through the conversation, screaming in your headset and flashing across the live feed, “Perez!”

You refocused your attention on the present and scanned the screens, looking for the F1 News Feed. At last, your eyes landed on the television, and the camera zoomed in hungrily on Checo’s smoking car. 

Red Flag.

One of the workers along the barrier gave a thumbs up. Okay. He was okay. A strangely tense sigh left your throat. 

“One Red Bull driver being calmed down on the radio, the other one—in the part of the track that we were just referencing—finds the barrier. And as a driver under pressure coming into the weekend—“

You turned off your headset and ignored the rest of the broadcast. Checo was fine, and that was all that mattered. You made a mental note to call Carola later and tried to keep your face indifferent and easy. You were certain that cameras were scanning the garage now, looking for some misplaced expression or glance to sensationalize into another disaster or distraction. 

Oh, disaster. 

One Red Bull driver being calmed down on the radio... You heard the commentary echoing in your head over and over. Was everyone thinking the same thing as you? Was everyone worried that Max was slipping into inconsolable anger? He had never been good at hiding his frustration, but now was not the time for such lapses in judgment. You mentally begged for his ease of heart but knew such things were impossible. The stress was beginning to cut into everyone’s skin. 

After a few moments, Max returned to the garage and his car was pulled back into place. Now, all anyone could do was hurry up and wait. 

It was hard being so close to Max and yet so far away. Being in the garage was a blessing, but sometimes it felt like you were forced apart and held at arm's length. Sometimes, the two of you could talk between sessions and during 

breaks, but it was probably best to stay out of everyone’s way with things so tense. 

Before you could search for a distraction, however, one of the engineers waved you over and nodded to Max’s car. A helmet covered the man’s face, and it was hard to focus completely on anything, but the message of his gesture was clear: pep talk time. 

Oh. That bad, huh?

You wove your way through the mess of technology and restless bodies and found yourself beside the still humming car. Endless words drifted around your head, but choosing the right thing to say felt impossible. Things had been tense for weeks, and today felt like the final straw. Control was slipping, and Max was sinking back into the unease of his youth. You could already see the headlines and tweets. You could already see the comments under your posts. You could already hear the commentary. Mad Max. Mad Max. Mad Max.

Taking a deep breath, you stuck your head into the cockpit and flipped up Max’s visor, trying to seem bubbly and calm—yet Max was already glaring. 

“Hi.” You said, making sure to enunciate the word. He couldn’t hear you, but it didn’t matter—you just wanted to see him, and you hoped that was enough. 

Max blinked, his blond eyelashes fluttering against his flushed cheeks. His gaze softened slightly at your words, but the ice in his eyes didn’t melt entirely. Hi. 

A million words flashed through your mind. What now? What could you possibly say now that would change all this? How did you pull Max back from the edge? Thousands of statistics and hundreds of practiced speeches floated through your thoughts, but none seemed good enough. All you could think about was the tension in his voice and the mocking commentary and—

“I love you.” Your heart spoke without permission, pulling forth the only thing that truly mattered. “I love you, okay?”

A slight crease wove between Max’s brow as he watched your mouth—trying to decode your words through the senseless sound. After a delayed second, realization twinkled in his eyes, and he smiled. Instantly, the cold glare faded from his gaze, and he seemed like your Max again, with flushed cheeks and crinkling eyes under the blinding garage lights. I love you, too.

———

Later that night, the waves of uncertainty returned. 

P3. 

The position rattled around in your head and made your heart sting. Last year, this race had been easy. Though qualifying had ended with Lewis on pole, Max had regained the position on Sunday and crafted a lead of thirty-three seconds. That had been his best gap all season. So, how had thirty-three seconds turned into P3? Of course, the position wasn’t terrible, but something was definitely wrong. Everything felt wrong these days. You just hoped that Max would keep his head long enough to correct it. 

You glanced across the table, carefully observing the strain in Max’s expression. His brows were furrowed and tense, hanging low over his eyes and casting deep shadows across his face. Even his gaze seemed cloudy, as the clear blue-green of his eyes appeared dull and distant. An exhausted flush still stained his cheeks, but the red made him look sickly and sad in the fading daylight. 

Seeing him like this was agony. 

The media and the internet could rave about “Mad Max” all they wanted, yet you saw the truth in the dim light of his trailer. The anger and sharp edges masked a trembling lip and bleary eyes.   Your Max was lost somewhere in his head, caught between the kart from years before and the car of today—and it hurt. 

“You did your best.” You said, pushing scraps of dinner around on your plate. “It’s just a hard run, yeah?” Despite yourself, your voice cracked. It had been at least an hour since either of you spoke, and between the emotion and strain, your words shattered in the tense air. 

“It’s a shit run.” Max corrected sharply, pointing his spoon at you, “I don’t think everyone understands that. It’s a fucking shit run.” Though his eyes were set on your face, Max’s gaze seemed miles away, and the bitterness of his words felt directionless. 

Still angry, then. Not your Max, just Mad Max. 

“I wasn’t trying to pick a fight, m’just saying,” You replied, pushing his accusing spoon away with yours, “You just do your best tomorrow. News said there shouldn’t be rain, so that’ll be good.” 

Max huffed, unconvinced and frustrated, “We’ll see.” 

He was fighting with himself again, battling ghosts in his chest and competing against a past that would never truly fade. Yet the sinking spiral and flames of rage wouldn’t do any good. The media was crazy enough right now, and frankly, you felt crazy too. You needed him beside you, and you needed him to be calm. You wanted your Max back. If the car, the team, and the whole thing were going to hell, you just wanted him to make it out. 

You thought about Carola, stuck at home while her husband’s car smoked and sizzled on live TV. You didn’t want to remember how that felt. You didn’t want to recall the trembling hands and shaking breath. You needed Max steady and safe. Mad Max crashed cars and sent your head spinning—your Max needed to be something more.

With a tired sigh, you leaned across the table and kissed his cheek, relishing in the warmth of his skin below your lips. Some of the tension in his expression melted below your touch, “Just be good, please.” You breathed, hoping the warmth of your words against his flushed face would find a place in his heart. “And safe.” 

Max pulled back and smiled a little too brightly—his eyes glittering with mischief, “I’m very good.” 

With a huff, you sat back down and gave him a playful kick under the table, “Yeah, right. You’re yelling at GP, and suddenly everyone on Twitter is going on about Mad—“

“It’s actually X.” Max corrected in a superior tone. 

“Don’t start.” You tried to sound serious, but a teasing smile bloomed on your face, and laughter bubbled from your chest. It was nice to see him relaxed, even just a little. “I’m trying to scold you.”

With a laugh, Max leaned back in his chair and stretched slightly, reaching for something unseeable. The casual motion and the gentle crinkle of his face eased you a little, soothing something in your pounding heart. This is the Max you needed on the track tomorrow—this is the Max you needed in the media pen and in the garage. This is the Max that would live long enough to come home. 

“I’m going to play,” Max said, breaking your spiraling thoughts, “You’ll come?”

You glanced at your watch. It was getting late, but you hadn’t spent extended time together in weeks. You hummed and gave in, “Sure, just for a bit.”

Max beamed, and suddenly, everything was worth it—the extra coffee you’d have to drink tomorrow, the extra time you’d have to spend getting ready. It was all worth five more seconds of peace and grins. Still smiling, Max pressed several disorganized kisses to your face until you were beaming, too. 

———

Max’s gaming room was connected to the main living space, overflowing with electronics and blinking lights. 

You trailed behind Max, swinging your linked hands and flicking on your phone so you could scroll through social media. The qualifying results consumed most of your feed, as did senseless speculation.

“Did you get a look at Checo’s car?” You asked, still looking at your phone and curling into a chair beside the computer. “I’m sure the boys will be up all night on that.” 

Max let go of your linked hands and settled into his seat. From this angle, you were just out of the camera’s vision, but still within Max’s peripheral. Though he hardly spared anything else a glance during streams or gaming sessions, you quickly realized that he didn’t like being alone. Max seemed more at ease even when the two of you simply sat in silence. Besides, you didn’t really like being on camera anyway—the very last thing Red Bull needed right now was extra attention or scrutiny. The common narrative that having a girlfriend only distracted athletes always arrived just in time to bite you in the ass. You didn’t need that right now. Max didn’t need that right now. You were barely hanging on as it was. 

“Might have to start in the pit tomorrow,” Max said, slowly flipping switches and bringing his computer to life. For a moment, it seemed like he might say something else, but he simply shrugged, “Shit weekend.” 

You hummed, scrolling through your phone and trying to change the subject. He had relaxed slightly after dinner, and you didn’t want him falling back into despair and rage, “How long you got until lights out?”

During race weekends, every second was meticulously arranged. Meals were crafted according to specific weight and energy requirements, interviews were slotted between breaths, and curfew was enforced so drivers met perfectly planned out sleep schedules. 

Technically, you weren’t even allowed in here after dark, but you and Max stole seconds whenever possible. 

“Don’t care,” Max replied, shooting you a pleased, dazzling grin. 

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, trying to fight a scarlet blush, “Alright.”

His manager would certainly have something to say about that, but you let it go. There was no point in arguing. It had been a long day for both of you, and this was how Max relaxed—video games and vitriol. 

The following two hours passed by in a blink. Max played and chatted with his friends while you relished in the happiness of his cheers and the joy in his laughter. He seemed most himself in these moments—late at night, away from the garage and speaking nonsense with his friends. He loved racing, you knew he loved racing, but in soft seconds like this, you wished he would just retire. You would give anything to sit with him all day long, intertwining your legs under the table and smiling while he laughed. You would give anything just to kill time with him. 

Eventually, though, your yawns and bleary eyes won out over your heart. You needed sleep. He needed sleep. Ugh, if only you could sleep here. How much was that fine again? 

Unwilling to find out, you sent Max a text: Camera Off. 

After a slight delay, a chime sounded through the room, and Max glanced sideways at his phone. Without hesitation, he mumbled a quick dismissal and switched off his camera and microphone. 

“What?” He blinked at you, hanging on your every word. For a second, he seemed tense—still half on the track. 

“I gotta go,” You said, standing. “Getting late.” You reached for Max’s face and brushed a light touch along his cheek, trying to memorize the curves of his features to hold you off until tomorrow. Oh, how you wished the ease in his eyes would last forever. 

“Going to bed?” He asked, leaning into your touch immediately and staring up at you with electric blue-green eyes. He wanted you to stay. 

You laughed lightly, gently combing a hand through his hair and twisting blond strands around your fingertips, “I was gonna call Carola but m’tired. I should be sleeping. You too. Long day tomorrow.”

Max rolled his eyes, though the gesture had no malice behind it, just playful exhaustion. He leaned forward and rested his chin on your stomach with a childish sigh and slight pout, “Whatever.”

His easy closeness made your neck flush with warmth, and suddenly, that imaginary fine didn’t seem so steep. All reason and reality melted away as your eyes scanned the sunspots on his face and traced the twinkling in his eyes. 

Then you remembered the yelling, Checo’s crash, reporters, endless speculation, and… You needed to stay focused. 

Summer break was coming up fast. You could wait until summer break. All the light and laughter in the world could wait a few more days. 

“I’ll see you later,” You said, running your fingertips across his features, “Go to bed soon, okay? Please.”

“Okay,” Max said brightly—definitely lying. He quickly kissed the inside of your wrist as you traced an invisible line down his nose, “Night.”

There was no such thing as “Mad Max”—at least not to you, at least not right now. 

“Night.”

[nyabr0]

ooo stobin blurb that i wrote at like 2 am

idk how to title this but i wanna post it so here

---

Steve’s lying to her. Robin knows it.

He lies every time she asks if he’s alright; lies right through his teeth because the great Steve Harrington has never relied on anyone for anything, and he’s not about to start now.

Steve’s lying, and Robin sees it. She sees it every time she enters the room and Steve straightens up a little more. She sees it in the way he has to focus a little harder on the road while he’s driving, or when he’s working a little too hard to formulate a string of words. She sees the darkening bags under his eyes, the way he’s dead on his feet no matter where they go or what time of day it is, the way he’s thinned out a little too much and in the sluggish sort of way he’s started to move.

Gone is that slightly too obnoxious kid with all the bravado and charm of a late night talk show host. In his place? Someone Robin doesn’t quite recognise.

Yes, Steve is lying, and Robin’s had enough.

She confronts him where she knows he’s not expecting it; his bedroom. It’s rare she actually comes into the house. Something about his parents flipping out if they find out he’s had anyone over.

But she knows where to catch him, and where it’ll be private. Hopefully it’ll help him keep his guard down.

The first thing she notices is the mess.

It’s messy

Messier than the room of a freshly twenty two year old should be. Messier than she knows Steve to be.

She doesn’t fail to notice the way Steve tenses and straightens up when she knocks on the wall beside the door. She watches the brunette jump, tired eyes darting to the doorway.

“What are you-?”

Robin doesn’t bother allowing him to respond as she slumps against the frame. “You really should lock your front door. That’s how things get stolen.”

It’s an attempt at a joke; a tease that she hopes with prompt Steve to lighten up a little. Instead, he only cracks a half smile and reaches up to rub the back of his neck, blunt nails dragging over the skin hard enough that Robin can see thin red lines forming under them.

“Right,” he breathes, “I guess I forgot…”

The sentence sort of trails off and Robin bites back a grimace. That’s not like her Steve. He was always so sure of himself - it was part of the reason she hated him. Part of the reason she admired him.

She pushes on. Keeps the conversation light, but doesn’t lose track of her goal.

“Up for something to eat?” she watches as Steve unfolds and begins to refold the same shirt he’s been working on since before she entered the room. There’s a large pile of laundry on the bed, but it appears to have hardly been touched.

Steve takes a minute too long to respond. Meanwhile, Robin notes the cautious way Steve moves. Almost scared to move too fast.

“Uh…no. No, I’m not really that hungry.”

Again, Robin bites her tongue. ‘Keep it cool, Buckley.’

“You sure? We can even go to that Italian place you like. I know how you love to bitch about the pesto, or the pasta, or the pasta and the pesto.”

Steve shakes his head. He turns his back to her, apparently having decided that this shirt had been folded enough and finally moving on to another.

“I’m fine.”

Robin sucks in a short, grounding breath and closes her eyes briefly. She then steps fully into the room, reaching to grab Steve’s arm so she can turn him around.

“Steve, c’mon, I know something’s-“

She can’t finish her sentence. As soon as her fingers graze Steve’s bicep, he’s whipping around, eyes suddenly wild like he’s a caged animal.

He doesn’t move with anger, but with fear. He’s not startled, or upset, or even fed up with Robin. He’s terrified.

Robin then finds herself wondering when the last time Steve has let her touch him was. When the last time Steve has let anybody touch him was.

She can’t wonder long, though, because almost immediately after the jerking movement, Steve’s stumbling. The whole thing only lasts a second or two, but time slows.

Robin watches the consciousness leave his face, hears the weak grunt and notices the attempt to catch himself before he’s collapsing.

Steve hits the ground, Robin moves to kneel beside him, and suddenly she’s back in that room. Not Steve’s bedroom, but the cold, echoing cell beneath Starcourt. The blueish hue is painted into the fabric of her mind, the sirens from months ago making her ears ring all over again.

She remembers the crack Steve’s skull made on the stone floor and finds herself checking his wrist for a pulse the way she had done back in July; can almost feel the Russian grunts looming above her.

“Steve!” she shouts. Her own voice doesn’t feel real. It’s distant and cloudy. “Jesus, Steve, don’t-“

Her eyes are filling with tears, her heart is racing a million miles a minute, she can feel her breathing reaching that panicked shake that she’d thought she’d never feel again and-

He’s groaning. Beneath her, Steve’s groaning, and then she’s back in his bedroom. The shag carpet reminds her that she’s safe. Steve’s safe. They are safe.

Finally, time is normal again, and Robin is pulling her friend up and into her arms with a shaking gasp. She grips onto him, balling her fists in the fabric of the sweater she’s pretty sure he hasn’t taken off in at least a week. She’s got half a mind to reprimand him for it, but then she feels Steve’s arms around her, clinging to her just as intensely as she is to him.

The fear fades completely and finally she can hear normally again.

“I’m sorry.” he’s whispering. Almost pleading. “I’m sorry, Robs, I don’t- I didn’t-“

She shushes him. She doesn’t need apologies or explanations. They can work this out, as long as he just tells her the truth. She tells him as much, he nods, and they sit.

Steve’s not going to lie anymore. Robin knows it.

[goldensunset]

hi there i wrote a short little thing about my keykid dalia and brain to cope with khml being cancelled

for those who don’t know dalia (full lore post here) the basic gist is that this is a version of the khux player who essentially was already aware of how the entire story was going to happen in advance. like she watched every scene of her own life long before it happened (because i watched khux in its entirety before even creating her. you see i like getting meta with it) and she quietly accepted her fate

but now she’s in a new life and confused about everything (because they never released khml! so we have no idea how it’s supposed to play out!) and uh oh the unwritten unforeseen future is terrifying! OH and also. unlike canon player2 she remembers her past life. or you could imagine it like after she gets her memories back idk

anyway. this is a conversation i imagine between her and brain on the balcony one night. written only as dialogue bc it was supposed to be a comic script and i don’t know how to actually write anything other than dialogue so forgive the weird format as i try to get back into this art form! i'm formatting it with mobile in mind btw

anyway i hope all 5 dalia enjoyers appreciate this bc as i said this is my way of coping with both khux’s ending and khml’s cancellation

.

I’m not sure how to feel.

About what?

About anything. This new world, this new life… I have no idea what I should be doing…

Does anybody, really?

… Brain… Do you remember what I told you once, in my past life… how I had foreseen the fate of our world long in advance?

I recall.

It’s just… For as long as I’ve ever known, from my earliest memories, I knew where fate would carry me and everyone I would ever meet. I watched it all happen in my childhood dreams, like a movie.  

…

I never understood where this knowledge came from, but I accepted it. I followed what fate had set for me, because I couldn’t see anything else. It was easier that way… But now… Since I woke up on that beach, I haven’t been able to see a thing. For the first time, I have no idea what the future holds for me.

...You’re a new heart. It makes sense you wouldn’t have the exact same experiences and abilities as last time.

But I have the same memories. I feel the same. Like I only went to sleep for a while… What I’m trying to say is… I’m worried. Maybe the reason I can’t see any future here for me- for us- is because there is none.

…

You yourself said- you had heard from the founders- that the Book of Prophecies had nothing to say about this era.

That’s true, but… A lack of anything written in advance doesn’t mean nothing exists. The World clearly has a future after this. Time will keep flowing, one way or another. The city will thrive and transform.

But what about us?

What about us?

What are we supposed to do, here and now, to ensure that future comes to pass? What if we mess up? Or what if… we aren’t meant to be a part of it at all… What if we…

Disappear? Have some more faith in us than that!

How can I have faith in anything I can’t see for myself? Without any knowledge of my future… I feel lost.

…You know what I think we’re supposed to do here and now, Dalia?

…What?

Simply, live our lives. Follow our hearts.

What?!

What else are we supposed to do?

But-

You find it terrifying to tread into unknown territory, to live without a script. Me? I find it liberating.

…Of course you’d say that. You never really cared what the Book had to say either, did you?

Not really. Where’s the fun in that?

You think flying in the face of fate is fun?

Life is supposed to be fun, Dalia. Even if it doesn’t always go our way. …We’re here and alive because existence is a good thing in and of itself. We might as well make it our own.

…

We couldn’t save the day last time, as hard as we tried. What we see here in this city is all there is now… Whether that was truly the design of fate or free will- ours or someone else's- has yet to be seen.

But the Masters said-

I know. But I’ve been thinking, and... I believe they were wrong.

Brain!

If they want to get mad about that, they can come back from wherever they disappeared to and strike me down right here.

Haha!

See what I mean?

What?

You laughed. Life can be fun when you live off-script.

…Whatever you say, Brain.

Exactly!

That's not what I- Oh, you... ... Maybe… Maybe I have to convince myself fate is real so that… I don’t have to live with the reality that I didn’t try to fight it.

Dalia, you can’t blame yourself for everything. Future sight or not, you’ve only ever been a single, human person.

…

Besides, you saved the day. You sacrificed yourself to seal away Darkness.

…But did I do it because I wanted to, or because I thought I ought to…?

Does it matter? Those sound pretty similar to me.

…I guess you're right there. I’m just so unsure of myself now. Whether I deserve anything I have now. Friends, gratitude, a second life….

... Well, as for me…I’m glad you’re here in this world, Dalia. ...It was terrifying for me to be so alone. When I woke up, I never would have dreamed I’d ever see anyone I knew again.

…I’m glad too, Brain. I’m sorry I never got to know you better before now.  I was so focused on my own imminent death… I never really made the most of my life. Had I known we’d end up in the same future…

Don’t worry about a thing. It just means we get to be friends now.

Heh… That’s true.

We have to stick together, you know. We’re all that remains of our past.

… … …Well… Us and that good-looking guy in the center of the fountain.

And his entire crazy extended family tree.

Haha! Oop-…You think the founders are going to come after us for disrespecting his legacy?

Let them come. We’re his friends! We’re better qualified to talk about him than anyone here, as far as I’m concerned.

You know what? You’re right! The Ephemer I knew wouldn’t be so stuffy.

He’d probably tell his great-great-great-whatever grandkids to knock it off!

He’d encourage us to ignore our missions and do who knows what. All in pursuit of a greater good!

In fact, he’d be out there doing silly stuff in front of his own statue.

Right! …And… He… He’d want us to live our own lives. He’d want us to…

…Take advantage of every moment we have. And take care of our friends…

… Dalia… It’s up to us now to carve our own destiny.

Yeah…

I don’t know what this world has in store… but if we stick together, we can make it a better place. Whether we’re “supposed” to or not.

…Thanks, Brain. It’s hard for me to wrap my head around the idea of all this… Free will is terrifying. But… I think you’re right. If nobody will write our future for us… That just means we have to write it ourselves.

fin