#cinematic garbage

[deepfriedjunction]

Such a dumpster fire of a film

[billyparker]

Now that Daredevil: Born Again has premiered with a lot of shock 😳…

Who do you also think will be making a visit to Matt?

We all ready know about Frank and Kamala Khan’s father is stopping by but, in true Marvel Studios fashion… that can’t be it.

*Note: In Fisk’s address to the city, he mentioned a few ��Vigilantes” including Spider-Man…?

Could Peter introduce himself to Matt or wait till S2?

[abbysthighs]

"How bad do I smell?"

[crispofftheblock]

2014 Marvel:

2024 Marvel:

[mercurygray]

Been working on this all week just for something to patter away on. A little more Tudors AU.

It was almost strange, seeing the children playing on the lawn.

Cord knew that she must have done so, once, and other children, too, but it was one thing to see it in your memory and another to see it in life, a pair of golden-haired imps laughing and running too and fro while they played. The thought of children visiting had frightened her, a little, and she hadn't known how they would manage. But John had told her after he'd already made the invitation, and by then it was too late to argue.

She hadn't known what would they be like - John's friends. She'd met some of them at the wedding - if you could use the word 'met' to mean 'saw across the room at dinner, and seen turned out of the house drunk the next morning'. They'd been a wild, riotous lot then, and she wasn't sure she quite had the patience for that again.

But Gale and Marjorie were different - so different, in fact, that Cord found herself wondering how he and John had ever become friends at all.

It was a story she would have to extract from Gale alone - but not this morning. Today he and John were out hunting, and she and Marjorie had taken the children outside to the gardens to play, watching from a pair of chairs that the servants had brought outside. The birds were singing, and Gale's wife was working on piecing a tiny shirt for her next blessed arrival, her belly great and round under her gown. Motherhood sits well on her - I do not think it would sit so well on me.

"It was kind of you to come and visit. I know with two little ones and another coming it must have been difficult."

"We were glad to do it," Marjorie said with a smile. "John is Gale's oldest friend - and Ralph's godfather, too, I think you know."

Cordelia nodded. She'd been a little surprised, when they'd gone out to greet the carriage, and John had magically produced new toys for both Ralph and little Cecily, stooping down to their level to gift them and accepting their wet, sticky kisses with good grace, and listening with pointed attention to Ralph's long and many-sided recapturing of the carriage ride. "He's very good with children. I…I hadn't thought he would be."

"He is a gentle soul, behind his armor," Marjorie observed. "I see that more here than I ever have before. He is changed, here. Your marriage has been good for him, I think."

Good! Good, with an empty marriage bed, and the couch in his closet that he also never sleeps in? Good with courteous greetings over breakfast and not much else? "Has it? He…he is still much a stranger to me." I only met him the day we wed.

Marjorie nodded, serene. "When we first met, he and my husband were young pups of twenty with scarcely blooded swords. They drank much and laughed hard and scarcely knew what fear meant."

Cord thought of the late nights and the steward's remarks about the cellar, the laughter in the hall and the way the maids whispered in the morning. "John is still so."

Marjorie chuckled quietly, her hand resting peacefully on the large swell of her stomach. "Ah, no, but he is changed. And for the better. War taught him to be wise. He is not so foolhardy as he was when we first met - he thinks more, speaks less. Even if it seems he never stops. And he was always a fool for a pair of fine eyes."

"He is that, still, too."

Marjorie glanced at her. "He spoke of none but you at dinner, when he came to visit us. And there were pretty girls aplenty in the hall."

Ralph ran up to tug at his mother's sleeve, his sister tumbling behind him. "Mama, mama, will you not look at the castle we built?"

Marjorie carefully found herself in her chair and laid aside her needlework, rising slowly. "Indeed I will, and Auntie Cordelia will come with me and look too."

Cord felt a twinge at being called 'Auntie' - but John was Uncle, so it followed she was now an Aunt. The castle was a little thing, firewood and fallen limbs dragged around to have a little keep, with an opening for the door, but Marjorie oohed and ahhed as if it were a palace as her son went on and on describing the tower and the eagle on the roof and the stairs and the kitchens.

He was still in the middle of an antic description of the herd of goats in the castle keep when there was a shout from the garden gate - John coming back from the hunt.

Immediately Ralph's attention turned. "Uncle John, Uncle John! Look at my castle!"

John was smiling, pulling off his gloves as he came. Gale must have still been in the stables. "Your castle? But it is on my land! Now that may do at your father's house but it won't do here! I shall have to knock it all down!

"Uncle John!" Ralphie was giggling, knowing full well that his uncle was joking.

"No, no, I can't have it," John said, planting his feet firmly in the grass. "I will attack with full force unless someone rides out to meet me!"

"Get him!" Ralph shouted, and he and his sister ran shrieking for their much taller uncle, wrapping themselves around his legs and hitting him over and over with their small fists until finally he toppled to his knees and laid himself out on the grass like a tragedian in some play.

"Oh, oh, me! I am slain. If only someone could fetch my wife."

"C'mon Auntie Cordelia, you have to come," Ralph said, dragging at her sleeve.

"Come on!" Cecily repeated, giggling with her brother.

"Oh, all right," Cord said, following dutifully along as Ralph dragged her back to where they'd been playing and John lay sprawled on the ground, making the most ridiculous face of pain with one eye half open, like he really was dead. "What must I do?"

"You have to get on your knees and take his hand and say prayers with him," Ralph commanded. "That's what people do when they're dying."

"Oh," Cord said, taken aback by how much a five year old knew about these things, and quickly followed, kneeling next to John while he tried to look appropriately at death's door. Ralph knelt too, and quickly pressed his hands together and screwed his eyes shut and began reciting the Lord's Prayer in rapid fire Paternosterqueesincaelis while his sister mumbled along, her hands aping his, both eyes open so she could take her cues. Reluctantly Cord picked up John's hand where it was resting on his chest, and began reciting along with Ralph, quieter and slower than him. His hand was hardly dead at all, still very much warm and with a beating heart still beneath it. She was so fixed on the play and the prayer that she didn't notice that John's eyes were open now, and he was smiling a little.

"What is all this shouting?" That was Gale.

"Ralphie has just killed Uncle John for storming the castle, and now they have called Auntie Cordelia because he is dying," Marjorie explained, as though all of this were the most normal thing in the world.

"Oh," Gale said, trying hard to keep up. "Is that all?"

"Auntie Cord, you have to help me build the castle again," Ralph said, tugging at her sleeve again, his paternoster clearly over.

But she found she wasn't finished with this yet. "It is very sad, Ralph. I am a widow now. I might like to be alone for a little while." I was a prize of battle once. I do not wish to be again. And she found, when it came to it, that she did not mind the feeling of his hand in hers, the way his chest was rising and falling against it.

"Maybe true love's kiss can bring Uncle John back," Marjorie suggested, only very lightly teasing, and Cord looked down at John, his eyes still shut. Was that a smile tugging at his mouth?

But why shouldn't she? She leaned over, hand still holding his, and pressed her lips to his. He smelled of earth, and sweat, and leather, and his lips opened, just slightly, as she kissed them, his hand tightening on hers. She opened her eyes and found he was awake again. "Hello, wife. Thank you for saving me."

She felt the old prickliness return, the urge to riposte and hit back. "If I did not, I should have to marry again."

"Would that be so bad? I'm sure Ralph would be a kind husband." Somehow the words stung her as he said them. As I am not, perhaps?

What could she say to such a thing? She did not want to give him ground. "But very young." And not capable of such kisses.

[thanos-the-dad-titan]

And a sweet night out at the bar!!!

[linthehero]

you know, you really shouldn’t eat those hotdogs. theyre 8 months past the date. theyll make you see through time.

extremely failed redraw of

[miss--river]

.

[worstloki]

Why not just do the chooee violence meme post now instead of digging up random garbage that no one has seen for three years

I suppose a shovel IS multipurpose

[dustdevilsaremade]

MY EXACT NICHE thank you so much <3333

shoot, uhhh kriff

Sabine and I are vibing right now

original idea from @chaoticdumbassrogue

[billyparker]

Here’s a theory for Marvel Studios’ upcoming film: Thunderbolts* [May 2, 2025]

Theory:

Why does it feel like Matt Murdock is going to show up in the film…? Could he be (a potential witness for Val to buy the Stark Tower against Fisk?) or What If Matt, is the defense lawyer; towards the end of the film, for {The Sentry} vs. Val?

The charges being:

Charge 1- Abuse of power in creating The Sentry; h/o Ross ordered Val to create the new hero but, since Ross is already imprisoned on: The Raft, Val has to be charged.

Charge 2- Destruction of New York City again and Fisk hires Matt to represent the city (if Thunderbolts* is set during or even after S1 of Daredevil: Born Again and Matt & Fisk are on stable grounds)

[lavandulawrites]

Request

Trying to have a romantic date with Mr Reca but he doesn’t stop explaining/complaining about the movie you just saw together.

Little Mister Critique

Mr Reca x reader

I decided to keep this nice and simple as I have a lot of requests I need to finish:) Mr Reca is so fucking underrated it’s absolutely insane. (Let me know if anyone wanna be apart of my taglist).

Masterlist

The restaurants atmosphere was cozy and romantic. Multiple candles were littered around in a fashionable sense. You and your beloved boyfriend was sitting in a both in a private corner on the second floor of the luxurious restaurant. The giant windows looked out over the city. The city lights glittered like the stars in the darl sky. It was truly a breathless sight. The sound of cutlery against porcelain filled sounded like wind chimes.

The men in front of you cut into his lasagna before he brought it to his lips. He chewed with a delighted hum. After swallowing he hummed again “My my, this restaurant truly is delightful, is it not? I think I should make one of the scenes in my new movie take place here…”

You nodded. “Yeah, the food and the atmosphere are truly something” you have the brunette a soft smile. His eyes twinkled like red stars as his lips retuned your smile.

“So what woul-”

“God that movie we just watched was truly a disgrace to the cinematic arts” Reca interrupted you. He shook his head in great disappointment as he recalled the movie.

You raised your brow as you sighed. Here we go again.

“I don’t think it was that bad” you shrugged. “You are overreacting. Now eat your food.”

“Of course it was bad! The cinematography was horrendous, the colours obnoxious, the costumes extremely cheap” he waved his hands in a dramatic manner. “Ugh and don’t even get me started on the acting and script! It should be illegal to produce such garbage. It’s a disgrace to directors and the audience to witness such filth” he scoffed. Reva’s handsome face was twisted in annoyance. “I should have asked for a refund” he muttered under his breath as he took a sip of his red wine.

“Reca” your stern voice broke him out of his theatrics. He swallowed as he glanced down on the plate. He looked like a guilty puppy and you but your tongue as to not laugh out loud.

“You have been complaining about that goddamn movie on the whole way from the cinema and till we got our food. I finally thought you would have gotten it out of your mind when you got your food, but I guess I was wrong” you sighed. “But I do agree with you, it was bad, but don’t let it ruin our date. Okay?” you stroke his hand gently.

His charming smile returned to his lips as he nodded firmly. “You are naturally right, my dear. I shall refrain from talking about that garbage” he lifted his wine glass. Your glasses clicked together. “Let us have a date that even the best romantic films of the cosmos won’t even dream to compare with.”

[witchingwithscissors]

Agathario AU | She found out she was a mom over pancakes and coffee. Part one of three. Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

The pasta wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t a satisfying dinner.

Agatha sat cross-legged on her kitchen floor, an oversized t-shirt hanging off one shoulder, fork in one hand, phone in the other. The bowl balanced precariously on her knee, steam evaporating into thin air. A half-empty glass of rosé sat on the tile next to her.

She twirled a limp ribbon of linguine and tapped play on the new voice memo.

“Okay, critical update: tonight a woman at the bar asked if whiskey was gluten-free. When I said yes, she stared at me for, no lie, a full ten seconds, then said, ‘Cool. You seem like someone who really cares about gut health.’ And then tipped me… a cucumber slice. Just the slice. Zero explanation. Is this flirting? Do I attract chaos?”

Rio’s laughter was low and rough at the edges—warm enough that Agatha felt it in her ribs.

Then, softer she added, “Anyway. Hope your night’s less confusing. Text me if your dinner’s sad. Better yet, send a photo. Your kitchen lighting makes everything look cinematic and I need a new wallpaper for my phone.”

Agatha snorted softly, smiling at her screen. She snapped a photo of the pale pasta, the beige noodles wilting under the kitchen’s gold pendant lamp, looking tragic in dramatic relief.

She typed quickly.

Agatha: Beige and lukewarm. Like me.

Rio responded almost instantly.

Rio: Babe, you’re too hot to eat tragic pasta. Voice note me back or I’ll retaliate with pictures of garbage.

Agatha rolled her eyes. She tucked her hair behind her ear, took a sip of rosé for courage, and tapped record.

“First off, linguine is a mood. Secondly, threats don’t scare me—I’ve dated far worse.”

She hesitated, swallowing. Then added gently: “But your voice is cheating, actually. It keeps making me smile. Stop it.”

She pressed send before embarrassment could swallow her whole.

From down the hall, the baby monitor blinked. Nicky shifted softly, a tiny sigh crackling through static. Agatha froze, listening intently, holding her breath until silence returned. She exhaled slowly, set down the phone, and rubbed her face with her free hand.

It wasn’t that she was hiding Nicky—not exactly. But she hadn’t figured out how to say it yet. Not over texts. Not voice notes. Not this soon. She wanted Rio to like her first—really like her. Enough to stay.

Agatha picked at the pasta, but it had gone cold. Again.

Footsteps padded into the kitchen, quiet on the tile.

Lilia entered, holding her usual peppermint tea, studying Agatha with amused suspicion. “Up late again?”

“Apparently.”

Lilia peered over her mug. “You’re glowing. And I know it’s not from cold leftovers.”

Agatha flushed, just slightly. “Maybe I’m finally eating my vegetables.”

Lilia raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe you finally let yourself download a dating app.”

“Or that.”

Lilia smiled knowingly. “Does she have a name?”

Agatha hesitated, then gave in. “Rio. She’s funny. And really really attractive. And kind of chaotic but with good intentions. I think.”

“Your type exactly,” Lilia chuckled, taking a seat at the table. “Did you tell her about your little man yet?”

Agatha shook her head, guilt pulling lightly at her chest. “It’s too soon.”

“Careful, honey.” Lilia’s voice was soft, gently warning. “The longer you wait, the bigger the secret feels.”

Agatha glanced at the monitor again. “I just want to enjoy this part a little longer,” she admitted quietly. “It’s been a while since I felt like… this.”

“Like what?” Lilia asked gently, sipping her tea.

“Like something good could happen.” Agatha’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Like it might actually work out this time.”

Her phone buzzed again. Another voice note from Rio.

Lilia stood up, squeezing Agatha’s shoulder reassuringly. “Then let yourself have it.”

When Lilia left, Agatha tapped play, phone pressed to her cheek.

Rio’s voice, low and amused, came again.

“I promise I’m not cheating. My voice is just this charming all by itself, beautiful. Also, confession: your pasta pic is now my phone background until you send me a selfie with better lighting.”

There was a pause, the rustle of fabric.

“But seriously, Agatha. Let me take you out for pancakes like we’ve talked about. You, me, syrup, fluffy carbs, a good time. I want to meet the woman I’ve had stuck in my head for the last what, like 6 weeks. Come on, tell me. What can I do to make that happen?”

Agatha’s chest felt warm, lighter somehow. She bit back her smile as she typed back.

Agatha: One condition.

Rio: Anything.

Agatha: Don’t be early.

Rio: I’ll arrive fashionably late just for you.

Agatha put the phone down, listening to her heart thrum softly in her chest, a rhythm she’d almost forgotten. She leaned her head back against the cabinets and closed her eyes.

Maybe it wasn’t foolish to want something this badly. Maybe Rio wasn’t another heartache.

Maybe this could finally be hers.

Her phone buzzed gently against the tile. Agatha opened her eyes, picking it up slowly.

Another voice note. Shorter this time. She hesitated before playing it, aware of how her heart responded just from the notification alone.

She pressed play.

“Tell me something I don’t know about you. I can’t get you out of my mind.”

Agatha smiled into her hand. A warmth crept through her chest, softer, kinder than it had been in years. She tapped record, voice sleepy, unguarded.

“I have a tattoo. I got it at seventeen to prove I wasn’t boring. It’s on my ankle.”

She sent it without second-guessing.

Rio replied almost immediately, voice huskier, amused.

“A tattoo? Ooooh scandalous Miss Harkness. I have a chain of poison ivy tattooed on my ribs. It was supposed to symbolize how beautiful things can hurt. In hindsight, maybe I was being dramatic. Or prophetic. Whatever. Hurt like a bitch. But anyways, I’m sure you’ll see it soon mmmm.”

Agatha smiled, running her thumb across the screen, picturing Rio lying awake somewhere, as unsure as she was. Before she could respond, a second message came through.

“Oh and if it helps, though… I don’t think you’re boring.”

Agatha stared at the phone, heart thumping softly in her throat. She typed carefully:

Agatha: You’re not what I was expecting.

A pause. A breath.

Rio: Same. I thought you’d be make me wait a few more weeks before finally agreeing to go out with me.

Agatha’s chest expanded, hope pushing gently against fear. She typed back.

Agatha: Goodnight, Rio.

A beat passed before the screen lit up again.

Rio: Night, Agatha. Dream of carbs and me. Mwah!

Agatha lay awake, smiling into the dark, not daring to admit what she was already hoping.

It wasn’t that Agatha hadn’t known she liked women. She’d always known—quietly, secretly, hidden somewhere between passing glances and innocent sleepovers that never felt quite innocent. She just hadn’t let herself say it out loud. Not to others, and rarely to herself.

She’d grown up believing love should feel like practicality. It wasn’t until she first kissed a girl—softly, secretly, the summer she was sixteen on a camping trip—that she understood love could feel like something reckless and sweet, like the first bite of ripe fruit after too many days hungry.

Yet she still held tight to the word bisexual, because it sounded safer. It allowed her space. She could chase the sweet ache of a girl’s lips against her own and call it “experimenting.” She could kiss a woman breathless in a car parked under streetlights, palms sweating, hearts racing, and still claim it was just “figuring things out.”

It felt less real that way. Less frightening.

But she’d stopped believing herself somewhere in her mid-twenties. The word bisexual had become a worn-out disguise. It didn’t fit anymore—never truly had. And the day she finally decided to prove herself wrong, to prove that she could still want men, that she wasn’t fully gay, was the night she ended up pregnant with Nicky.

She’d held the pregnancy test in one hand, sitting in the dark of her bathroom floor, and thought: This is what hiding does. It makes everything complicated.

She’d accepted motherhood quietly, with cautious grace. It wasn’t easy, but the moment Nicky had come into her life—small, warm, impossibly beautiful—everything shifted. Her heart had grown in ways she hadn’t anticipated. She loved him more fiercely than she’d ever thought possible.

But since then, she’d closed off the part of her that dreamed about romance. She’d deleted the dating apps, erased the sexy selfies, and let her romantic hopes gather dust. Loving Nicky had felt like enough for a while.

Until loneliness started creeping into the quiet hours, whispering questions she couldn’t answer. Until her nanny had gently nudged her one night, tea mug in hand: “You deserve love too, Agatha. Not just motherhood.”

It was Lilia who finally convinced her to try dating again—armed with a glass of wine, sharp commentary, and the quiet smugness of someone who’d been right about everything so far. One night after Nicky was asleep, they sat curled up on the couch while Agatha picked photos that said “professional, but I look great on your couch in the morning.” Her bio ended up reading: “I work in medicine, which means I’m busy—but I make excellent pancakes, own my espresso machine, and fall for women who know how to text back and kiss slow.” Lilia, cackling, called it “dangerously appealing,” then expanded her radius and lowered her age filter while Agatha pretended not to notice.

Lilia had squeezed her shoulder and said softly, “Don’t let fear stop you this time. Promise me.”

She’d matched with Rio a few weeks later.

At first, Agatha had thought Rio would be another quiet ghost. Another match that faded into silence. But Rio had stayed. Texted daily. Sent voice notes that made her blush like a teenager. Made her heart feel messy and alive.

She didn’t feel like a ghost at all. She felt like possibility.

And now, weeks later, lying in bed after their conversation about tattoos and late-night pasta, Agatha felt a quiet flutter of hope beneath her ribs.

Her phone buzzed once more on her nightstand. A simple text.

Rio: I can’t sleep. Thinking about breakfast and meeting the woman of my dreams. Do you like your pancakes fluffy or dense? This is important.

Agatha smiled into her pillow, typed back:

Agatha: Dense. More syrup-absorbent. Strategically better.

A pause, then another message buzzed through.

Rio: I knew it. You’re such a romantic.

Agatha felt heat rise in her cheeks. Rio wasn’t wrong. She was a romantic, deep down—someone who wanted flowers without reason, slow kisses in the kitchen, and candle-lit dinners. Someone who kept hoping for love, despite evidence that it might not last.

She typed slowly, fingers tentative but heart honest.

Agatha: I am actually. Just a little rusty.

Rio: I don’t mind the taste of copper.

Agatha stared at the screen. Her heart hammered quietly in the silence. She knew she should sleep, but her fingers typed anyway, brave and vulnerable in the dark.

Agatha: Don’t make promises you won’t keep.

The reply was swift, sincere.

Rio: I don’t.

Agatha exhaled slowly. Somewhere down the hall, Nicky stirred softly, a reminder of how fragile and precious everything she loved had become.

Later the next day, her phone buzzed softly during lunch, pulling Agatha’s attention from the half-eaten salad at her desk. The clinic had been relentless today, and she’d barely had a moment to breathe between calls and paperwork. Seeing Rio’s name on her screen now felt like a cool breeze through an open window.

Rio: Hey. Quick opinion needed: daisies—cute or cliché?

Agatha felt herself smiling immediately, fingers moving instinctively.

Agatha: Cute. Classic. My favorite Duck. Why?

A brief pause, then the gentle ping of an incoming photo. Her heart quickened as she opened it—a picture of Rio’s hand holding a single white daisy between two fingers, the petals bright and slightly blurred, her delicate wrist and sleeve visible just at the edge. It made Agatha’s chest feel warm and unsteady.

Another text followed immediately.

Rio: Saw it on my walk home. Made me think of you.

Agatha’s breath caught, her pulse rising faster than she wanted it to. Rio was smooth, yet somehow sincere, charming without effort. Agatha typed a response before nerves could halt her fingers.

Agatha: Careful. I might get ideas about you liking me.

The reply was swift and bold.

Rio: Then I’m doing something right.

Agatha bit her lower lip, fighting the heat in her cheeks. She took a steadying breath, suddenly feeling brave in the quiet comfort of her office.

Agatha: Prove you actually picked it. Bring it tomorrow.

But instead of a reply, her phone buzzed differently—a FaceTime request lighting up the screen. Her heart stammered. She glanced nervously at her reflection on the darkened computer monitor, quickly smoothing her hair, silently grateful she’d bothered with mascara this morning.

She tapped accept.

Rio’s face she’s seen only in photos until now, appeared instantly, a gentle smile playing at her lips. Her dark hair was loosely pulled back, eyes warm and bright with playful mischief. Sunlight slanted across her face, highlighting the curve of her cheekbone.

“Hey,” Rio said softly, voice clearer, warmer through the speaker. “Just proving I have it.”

She held up the daisy, twirling it lightly between two fingers.

Agatha’s lips parted slightly, words momentarily forgotten. Rio was beautiful—not just cute, not just charming—genuinely, strikingly beautiful. It was startling in its clarity.

“You didn’t have to FaceTime,” Agatha finally said, quiet laughter threading through her voice. “I trusted you.”

Rio tilted her head, eyes gentle, teasing. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse to see you and couldn’t wait for our breakfast date.”

Agatha’s cheeks flushed deeply. “You could’ve just said that.”

“Yeah, but,” Rio admitted softly, smiling gently into the camera, “I wanted to see your face when I did.”

Agatha ducked her gaze briefly, smiling down at her hands. “Well, now you have me blushing at work. Thanks for that.”

“Mission accomplished.” Rio laughed softly, then her voice quieted, growing tender. “Are we still good for pancakes tomorrow?”

Agatha nodded gently, heart swelling with warmth and hope. “We’re very good.”

Rio’s eyes softened even more. “Good,” she said quietly. “Because I’m really looking forward to it.”

“Me too,” Agatha admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

They lingered silently for a beat, the moment hanging warmly between them, the daisy still held softly in Rio’s hand.

“See you tomorrow, then?” Rio finally prompted, a slight uncertainty behind her eyes.

Agatha smiled softly, heart open, aching with cautious joy. “Tomorrow.”

The call ended, leaving Agatha staring at her own reflection in the empty screen, face flushed, pulse racing. She pressed her fingers lightly to her lips, still tingling with words left unsaid.

She thought briefly of texting again—but no. Tomorrow was enough.

Rio stood in front of the mirror, trying on her third outfit of the morning and silently cursing herself. It was just breakfast. Just another first date. She’d done this a hundred times, hadn’t she? Dates weren’t new.

But this one felt different.

She pulled off the blouse she’d just put on, annoyed that the neckline wasn’t quite right. Normally, she wouldn’t care—normally, she’d pick something clean and comfortable and hope the charm of her jokes would outweigh any outfit mishaps. But today felt like it mattered, and that scared her a little.

She tugged on a soft, cream-colored sweater instead, carefully rolling the sleeves to reveal her wrists. Simple, pretty, no trying-too-hard vibes. She paused, eyeing the small tattoo of poison ivy that curved delicately along her ribcage—a reminder that beautiful things were always a little dangerous.

“Three outfit changes?” Alice leaned in the doorway of the apartment they shared, eyebrows raised in amusement. “You’re going soft, Ri-Ri.”

“Shut up.” Rio smiled despite herself. “It’s breakfast. It’s low stakes.”

“Uh-huh.” Alice crossed her arms. “Is that why you’re sweating?”

Rio sighed, brushing her hair back and staring into the mirror. “She’s different.”

Alice softened. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Rio met her friend’s gaze through the mirror, vulnerability flickering briefly across her face. “I can’t explain it. She’s funny, smart. Unexpected.”

Alice grinned. “Cute?”

“Very.”

“Cute enough to panic-change outfits three times?”

Rio laughed softly, nerves fluttering again. “Apparently.”

“Sounds serious,” Alice teased gently, nudging Rio’s shoulder.

Rio paused, hands stilled at the collar of her sweater. “It’s just a date.”

Alice smiled and gave her a light shove toward the door. “Go get your brunch on. And don’t screw this one up.”

Rio flashed a half-smile as she grabbed her bag. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

The diner was crowded, warm with the smell of coffee and syrup. Rio slid into a booth near the back, the daisy—slightly wilted but charming—resting on the table, her knee bouncing nervously beneath it. Her eyes scanned the entrance.

When Agatha walked in, Rio’s breath caught unexpectedly.

She wore a soft cardigan, dark jeans, simple jewelry, hair falling loosely around her shoulders. Nothing showy, nothing elaborate. But Rio couldn’t look away. Agatha searched the diner, eyes hopeful and vulnerable, until their gazes finally met.

Rio’s pulse jumped as Agatha approached, feeling strangely exposed and thrilled at the same time.

“Hey,” Agatha greeted softly, her smile cautious, tender.

“Hi.” Rio smiled back, more bashful than she’d ever admit, sliding the daisy forward. “Proof, as requested.”

Agatha took the flower, fingertips gentle on the petals. “You weren’t joking.”

“Never about flowers.” Rio grinned gently, watching Agatha’s face carefully. She felt her heart twist unexpectedly in her chest. “Especially not cute ones.”

Agatha blushed softly, tucking the daisy carefully into her purse. “Good to know.”

They ordered coffee and thin buttermilk pancakes, the conversation easy and warm—banter over topping choices, playful teasing about their busy schedules. But beneath every joke and smile, Rio felt herself becoming quietly aware of Agatha’s subtle warmth, the kindness in her laugh, the soft care in her movements.

Something shifted in Rio’s chest, something deeper than simple attraction.

Then Agatha’s smile faltered slightly. Her voice softened, a delicate hesitation blooming around her words.

“Rio, before this goes further,” she started carefully, eyes searching Rio’s face, “there’s something you need to know.”

Rio stilled, sensing the shift, heart quickening suddenly. “Okay.”

“I have a son,” Agatha admitted quietly, eyes steady but gentle. “He’s one.”

Rio’s mouth opened slightly in surprise. Her heart hammered in her chest. A kid—a son. She’d never seen this coming, hadn’t expected something like that. Yet somehow, looking at Agatha’s guarded expression, it didn’t scare her as much as she thought it might.

She took a breath, smiling slowly, carefully. “Does he like pancakes?”

Agatha exhaled audibly, relief visibly washing through her. She smiled back, warm and grateful, nodding gently. “He does.”

Rio relaxed slightly, heart still pounding, thoughts still tangled—but her smile genuine. “Then he already has good taste.”

Agatha laughed softly, quietly beautiful in her relief, eyes softening. Rio felt the weight of the moment still lingering beneath the surface, something important shifting between them, but she let it settle quietly, for now.

They talked more, softer now, realer, about work, small dreams, favorite movies, and songs that made them cry. It felt easy, almost natural. When breakfast ended and they stood outside, Rio walked Agatha back to her car, sensing how close she stood, how carefully Agatha lingered, the gentle way she looked up at her from beneath dark lashes.

Rio reached out instinctively, lightly catching Agatha’s wrist. Her pulse hammered quietly beneath her fingertips, matching her own. Agatha leaned forward just slightly, silently asking for a kiss she hadn’t yet voiced. Rio obliged easily, gently pinning Agatha against the warmth of her expensive car, lips meeting softly, a little breathless.

When they parted, Agatha’s eyes were bright, cheeks flushed.

“Smooth,” Agatha whispered, voice soft and playful.

Rio smiled gently, heart still racing. “I try.”

Agatha slid into the driver’s seat, rolling down her window, eyes luminous. “Thank you.”

“For breakfast?” Rio asked, confused.

“And wanting to kiss me.” Agatha answered quietly, eyes holding Rio’s gaze softly, vulnerably.

Rio swallowed gently, chest tightening with feelings she couldn’t yet name. She nodded quietly, voice sincere. “I want to kiss you after our next date too, if that’s alright.”

Agatha’s expression softened further, almost aching. “I’d really like that.”

Agatha’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel, heart still thrumming erratically as she drove home from the diner. She caught her reflection briefly in the rearview mirror—cheeks flushed, eyes bright, lips still warm and tingling from Rio’s kiss.

She touched a finger gently to her lower lip, disbelief mixing with cautious joy.

Rio had stayed. Not just stayed—she’d leaned in, unafraid, and kissed her right there in broad daylight. Not a hurried peck or shy brush of lips, but a lingering, confident kiss that felt like a promise.

Agatha smiled softly, letting the memory settle warmly into her chest.

She’d imagined the moment she’d finally tell Rio about Nicky so many times—each scenario usually ending in disappointment, quiet rejection, or polite distance. She’d prepared herself carefully for every reaction except the one Rio had actually given: calm acceptance, gentle curiosity, playful sincerity.

Does he like pancakes? she’d asked, her eyes lit with genuine warmth, humor brightening the shadows of fear in Agatha’s heart.

Her stomach fluttered again at the memory. For the first time in years, Agatha allowed herself the dangerous luxury of hope.

As she pulled into the driveway, she saw Lilia standing at the front porch, holding Nicky gently against her hip, waiting with expectant eyes.

“How did it go?” Lilia asked softly, reading the brightness in Agatha’s expression instantly. Nicky reached his small arms toward Agatha, babbling softly as she took him into her embrace.

Agatha smiled gently, pressing a kiss to Nicky’s forehead. “Better than I expected. Way better.”

Lilia’s smile widened knowingly. “Oh, I see.”

“She didn’t run,” Agatha murmured softly, almost more to herself than Lilia. “I told her about Nicky, and she wants to keep seeing me.”

Lilia squeezed her shoulder gently. “You deserve that kind of patience, Agatha.”

“It’s early,” Agatha protested, cheeks warm, but unable to deny the tiny flare of hope in her chest. “Let’s not call it anything yet.”

“Call it what you want,” Lilia shrugged gently. “But your face isn’t lying.”

Agatha laughed softly, ducking her head. “You’re too observant.”

“It’s my job,” Lilia said warmly. “Besides, I’m cheering for you. It’s nice seeing you happy.”

Agatha held Nicky closer, inhaling the comforting scent of his shampoo, feeling grounded by the gentle weight of her son in her arms. She wondered briefly how Rio would react when the reality set in fully—when diner dates and daisies gave way to tantrums, bath times, and sleepless nights.

Would Rio still choose this?

Would she still choose them?

“You’re thinking too much,” Lilia said gently, watching her face carefully. “Just enjoy it.”

Agatha sighed softly. “I’m trying.”

But she knew the truth of her life wasn’t simple—there was complexity in loving her, responsibility beyond flirtatious texts and sweet syrupy kisses. Rio had accepted the idea of Nicky easily enough, but the reality was different. Reality meant commitment and mess.

Agatha quietly prayed Rio was ready for that.

Later, sitting on the couch with Nicky asleep beside her, she heard her phone buzz. Her heart jumped slightly, nerves sparking softly through her veins. Rio’s name lit up the screen.

Rio: Hey. Just wanted you to know I had a great time. Better than great. Actually kind of perfect.

Agatha’s breath caught, chest warm with emotion.

Agatha: Me too. I was worried for nothing.

A pause. Agatha bit her lip, hoping she hadn’t overshared. Then Rio’s response arrived, tender, honest.

Rio: You didn’t need to worry. I don’t scare easily.

Agatha hesitated, then typed slowly, heart in her throat.

Agatha: Even with a kid?

Another pause, longer this time. Agatha held her breath, anxiety stirring faintly in her chest.

Finally her phone buzzed.

Rio: Especially with him. I like that you’re a package deal.

Agatha exhaled softly, tension easing slowly from her chest, replaced by quiet relief and gentle wonder. Rio was surprising her at every turn, shattering expectations she hadn’t even fully realized she’d held. She leaned her head back against the couch, eyes drifting closed, phone pressed gently to her chest. She smiled softly, chest tight with a feeling too tender to fully name.

Maybe this time, love might actually chose her.

The house was silent now, and Agatha found herself alone with memories that had grown heavy over time. Nicky slept softly, peaceful and safe, unaware of the complexities surrounding him. Agatha sat curled up in the dim living room, wrapped in a knitted blanket, eyes drifting toward the empty couch opposite her.

She remembered those months when the couch had felt unbearably empty—when loneliness had pressed against her like a physical weight, impossible to shake.

She’d never forget sitting alone on the bathroom floor, holding a pregnancy test at 2am, heart hammering in disbelief. She’d known in that moment how thoroughly she’d gotten herself trapped. The positive sign stared back, firm and unyielding, the starkest evidence yet that trying to fit into a life that wasn’t hers came with real consequences.

At first, she’d quietly panicked, terrified by the thought of motherhood, of doing it alone—but somewhere in those first sleepless nights, clarity arrived: she couldn’t hide anymore. She wouldn’t pretend anymore. The word she’d denied for years whispered softly in the silence of those early mornings, undeniable at last: lesbian.

She tried dating again around her fifth month of pregnancy, desperate not just for companionship but connection—someone who might understand her, someone who wouldn’t run from the weight of her reality. She remembered meeting women in quiet cafes, hands folded protectively over her belly, heart quietly pleading: please don’t be scared of this.

But each woman she met seemed wary, uncertain, overwhelmed. Agatha remembered clearly the polite smiles, the subtle distance, the gentle rejections masked as concern:

“I’m just not ready for something like this.”

“You’re wonderful, but it’s too much commitment for me.”

It hurt every single time—each gentle excuse another reminder of the harsh reality she lived in. She was pregnant, single, queer, and alone. By the seventh month, she’d given up completely.

And then Nicky arrived.

He arrived soft and perfect, a tiny miracle she never anticipated. She fell in love with him instantly, fiercely, in a way she hadn’t known was possible. His tiny fingers wrapped around hers, and her loneliness felt manageable for the first time. But even as her world expanded around him, she quietly understood that love for a child—no matter how powerful—couldn’t erase the ache for adult connection, for someone to hold her hand through it.

She’d accepted that maybe this was her world now: being a mother first and herself second.

But then Rio arrived—unexpectedly funny, charmingly sincere, warm in a way Agatha had long stopped believing anyone could be. Rio had kissed her against the car door, had smiled at her in the sunlight of a crowded diner, had made her believe, at least for a moment, that there was still a chance for her heart to have more than one kind of love.

Agatha’s chest tightened gently at the thought, warmth spilling softly through her. Maybe Rio could fit into their world, into her carefully guarded life. Maybe Rio wouldn’t flinch at diapers and tantrums and early mornings. Maybe this was exactly what she’d been waiting for, without even realizing it.

She closed her eyes, heart gently aching, hopeful and fragile.

She whispered quietly to the empty room, a prayer more than anything else: “Please let this be real. Please let her stay.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Agatha allowed herself to believe she might finally be heard.

Part Two

[gaykarstaagforever]

OF COURSE Gaiman worked under "implied consent." He's Neil Gaiman and he's rich, so every woman automatically wants him inside her and to call him Master!

And no doubt he sincerely believes this, along with "well if she really didn't want it, she would have done some mystical cinematic thing I can't define to make it clear to me she doesn't want it, even though I also would take any of that as part of rough play, because I'm an idiot who thinks BDSM means degrading women without establishing rules first."

Because that's like lawyer stuff. You can't get hard if there are rules! It isn't flirty or romantic! Like sexual assault and infidelity are, apparently.

Again, I have no doubt he seriously believes all of this. Because he lives in a world built by people who also believe this and they've made sure it works out for them this way. Because a rich and famous man can't do SA - SA is when POOR NOBODIES do it. Because every woman wants guys like Neil Gaiman to do it! That's the rule! Don't they understand this? What's wrong with them??

This is how he, and billions of other men AND women, think. And to them, feminism means never having to say you're sorry, apparently.

My parents raised me from an early age to understand that when someone says no to anything, you back off, because to do otherwise is disrespectful. You can get mad and frustrated and curse them out later, in private. But that's YOUR problem.

But I'm a poor nobody. I guess garbage like me, and all the women he violated, just don't understand the rules.

...Fuck this guy.

[raichukfm]

I played Undertale recently. My favorite character is Chara. No, I didn't kill anybody. I am going to go on about them, now.

Spoilers for Undertale, all the routes. "It came out nearly a decade ago!" Yeah and I first played it last week and was happily surprised by the sheer amount of things I hadn't been spoiled on, so. Have a courtesy warning! Also courtesy warning: Too many fucking words. I'm sorry.

As a preface: Undertale really genuinely touched me. I bring this up as a preface because I think it's important to why it is exactly I feel how I feel, and that is important to how I perceived Chara.

And it having such an impact honestly surprised me; Undertale seemed cute and fun but silly and something I had felt… prepared for? Like, inadvertently, from hearing about it and its characters for so long. And for some parts early on, I was, at least in part. I liked Sans and Papyrus from the start, but in the way that I liked a gimmick, and it took time for the enjoyment to get more and more… not genuine, it already was, but I can't find the word I'm looking for. I guess it struck me with less artificiality? It started actually getting to me. This was happening throughout the whole length of things, like, I really genuinely liked Toriel basically from the start, but the farther in I got the more it was happening. Actually, looking back, the intro cinematic really hit for me in a way that should have clued me in that this game was going to get me.

Because I really connected with Chara as the character I was playing as, to an extent that honestly really surprised me? It felt emotionally resonant. Admittedly, naming Chara the way that I did probably did a fair amount of lifting there; I used a nickname of mine that isn't used that often. I think that hit more than it would have if I had used one of my first names, since it was distant enough to easily have differentiation while also close enough to feel so immediately personal. Chara is someone where most things with them are up to interpretation, but I just had a specific interpretation readily and naturally come to me.

Of course, I knew the Chara and Frisk distinction beforehand, and that informed my interpretation pretty heavily; but I hadn't really heard much of anything about Chara other than the Genocide Route stuff, prior. I mostly saw them treated as like some pure evil nasty may-as-well-have-been-demon. I hadn't been reading like narraChara theories or anything (amazing name, 10/10 whoever coined it). I just landed there naturally. When Undertale was giving the early hints that Chara had actually come before the human you played as, like in the garbage dump, it only amplified those feelings.

My read was that I as the player I was, largely, controlling Frisk's actions, but seeing Chara's thoughts. Every time I saw or heard memories, they were Chara's. But I don't think Chara was in control of the body or anything. I think Chara was there tagging along as an observer, at first not sure what exactly was happening or understanding why; but linked to Frisk's SOUL and so having Frisk's feelings resonate through them. So, they decided to help. They not only lent their lingering Determination but also just tried to help Frisk stay determined in the normal sense. But that was what they were doing: Not acting, but watching Frisk's actions and feeling their feelings.

And in my playthrough, Frisk was a dogged pacifist who was very reluctant to even slightly hurt anyone and very willing to put themselves into terrible danger because of that. And I think seeing that, feeling the feelings behind it resonating with them, made Chara a better person. A profoundly better person. Just in itself, the way it would anyone, but… Here's an example of the best of humanity, that same humanity they despised. Here's someone willing to refuse violence even if it puts them at risk of dying, even actually dying once before they discovered they could LOAD even after death, if they remained determined. Someone who again and again and again takes attacks and doesn't fight back unless it's absolutely necessary, who sees a whole people that have time and time again just tried to callously kill them and keeps choosing to help them. To trust them, and reach out to them, again and again and again, and who each time is proven right. Even when there's nothing to reach out to but dead human children whose SOULs had been absorbed for power by an entity whose power was represented in their SAVE by the highest numbers expressible there.

I think seeing all of that really challenged Chara's worldview in general and view of humanity in particular. I think they understood that they had been wrong, and done wrong.

And then Frisk goes back one more time to set things right and save everyone. Chara is there experiencing what Frisk is feeling as they go through that lab, as they learn about Determination... when they find those videotapes and learn about how Chara died intentionally, hoping to wreak violence on humanity and then break the Barrier. And Chara learns that Flowey was their adoptive brother, all along. Sees with what must be horror what has become of sweet little Asriel, knowing that this only happened because of then. Understanding what Asriel chose in the end, why he chose it, and now seeing what trying to make up for that 'mistake' had done to him. And Chara sees Frisk try so hard to save him, even after everything he's done, just because he's another person. And Chara does everything they can to help Frisk, together mustering enough Determination to deny death itself, as many times as needed, until Frisk does it. Reaches out to Asriel and helps him to get over what happened enough to stop fighting, to start to heal, to give up on godhood... To use a moment of unity to bring down the Barrier without needing to hurt anyone else.

And Chara watched their brother realize that Frisk isn't them, and that that is good. That Frisk is a better person, and one whom Asriel wishes he could have had in his life before, as he admits to himself that Chara wasn't a good person. And Chara lets go. They let Frisk and everyone else go to their happy ending, while they stay behind.

And then Asriel and Chara have one last moment, in the game. Chara comes back and Asriel, even once again lacking a SOUL, cares enough about everyone else to ask Chara to let them be happy, to not tear them away from everything. But Asriel doesn't trust Chara, and so asks that if they are going to rip them out of their happy ending… do it to him too. Don't make him sit through everything repeating. Don't make him become deadened all over again by seeing everything play out over and over and over again in countless variations. And then he imagines that this exchange has happened again and again and again and Chara must be tired of hearing it. Because that is what Chara would do, isn't it?

But Chara doesn't say anything. Maybe they can't, maybe they just choose not to. Instead, they let their brother say goodbye to them. And then they choose to let go. Chara couldn't be the one to save Asriel; it had to be Frisk. Once Frisk has... What waits for them and their brother… I don't know. But I hope they can be happy. I hope they got their closure. And, maybe vainly, I hope they can find some way to have each other again, but healthily this time. But that's for them, not for me. Maybe one or both choose to let go entirely and fade away, return to the death that had once taken them. All I've got is hopes for the future of these people that aren't even real.

Immersion is a powerful thing, huh?

...

So, about the Genocide Route. There's a lot of characterization for Chara there, and some for Asriel too. I know people tend to read the Genocide Route as Chara taking Frisk over and unleashing their preexisting violent impulses, but I really don't think that's right. I don't think that route shows what Chara was like before much at all. I think the Genocide Route is what happens when Chara finds themselves brought back from the pall of death, given some sort of second chance, and all they can do in it is watch Frisk murder everyone they encounter. When they see their mother get murdered in cold blood, and can feel how little Frisk cared about her while doing it. When all they can feel when it happens is that sick sense of pleasure at an accomplishment. When they're forced to find some kind of meaning in that, some reason for why they were brought back and made to be complicit in this, some purpose to this existence.

And they find it. They find it in their idea of numerical invincibility, and they cling to it. And they are abraded down until all that's left of them is their worst impulses stripped of context, magnified, and then redefined under the light of this 'purpose'… and that sick sense of accomplishment. More and more, Chara wears down to this thing that only cares about power and violence, and more and more Chara loses their sense of distinction from Frisk, sees these actions as their own; or maybe they become more and more able to exert control of the actions as they redefine themselves to be better at wielding power. Either way, Chara murders their father. Chara murders their brother. Then Chara destroys humanity, not even out of hatred, but simply for the sake of power. They destroy all the monsters they missed, too. Only power matters; the gaining of it, and also the exercise of it for its own sake. The only thing they don't destroy is Frisk, their reliable partner, the one who showed them their purpose. The one they are perversely grateful to, but will betray the moment it suits them, now that they have the power to do so.

I've heard a lot about how this is criticism of RPG players, and I can see that but more and more I don't think that the purpose of this is to moralize, or at least that that's not the only purpose. Because this shows Chara become their worst self, this epitome of power in a husk of a person. Someone who wasn't a great person from the start falls to horrific depths. And then they can't climb back out. You can't help them out. Chara defines themselves as Numbers Go Up because after all this trauma from the first moment that their plan went awry and Asriel held back their powers, and they both died a second time… All they have refuge in is that belief in invincibility. Chara believes you can escape suffering if you become the strongest thing in the world. And so Chara does just that. And it's all they can hold onto, because it's the only thing holding them together.

But really they're just another lost soul who you no longer have the power to save or comfort or bring positive emotions to, someone tricking themselves into thinking they're an unfeeling demon beyond sentimentality just to feel like they have some control, so they can delight in exercising power over others without guilt or regret.

Frisk can give them their SOUL and Chara doesn't change, doesn't really feel anything more, no matter what Frisk shows them. Because they've closed their heart to those feelings. You can't take this back. You can't save them. They're the only person you can't save. Sometimes, when you hurt people you make them worse and you can't be the one to help them after that. And you can't cheat. Whatever you do… Chara remembers it. You can't just take it back, can't do it over. You can only look on in horror at what Chara has become and accept or deny your fault in it.

In the Pacifist Route… I think Chara feels something like that when learning that Flowey was Asriel all along, and knowing it was their fault.

It's easy to blame what Asriel became on the lack of his SOUL. But I really believe that's not what it was. Maybe that does dull feelings, but you don't need a SOUL to love, to care. We see that, with Asriel-as-Flowey asking Chara to leave the others to their happy ending. We can see it in how Chara, at their worst, gets a SOUL and gets no better. How Chara, with a SOUL, does not understand the sentimentality still held by the player who has already given up theirs. Flowey didn't become a monster because of the lack of his SOUL. He was a traumatized little kid who couldn't get his life back, couldn't get his sibling back, but had the power to evade consequences and abused it to try and cope until it further wore down his ability to care. So he retreated to seeing things as less than real to cope with it all, resorted to cruelty and vindictiveness just to feel something.

Where Asriel as Flowey makes a performative show of his petty cruelty and vindictiveness, Chara dresses it up with dispassion and a veneer of objective judgement. But, deep down? They're the same. If you don't let yourself feel anything you can't be hurt.

The Genocide Route isn't some creepypasta about a demon taking over an innocent. Nothing so convenient as that. Because the point is that you choose to do it. You do it, and you choose it every step of the way, and only at the very very end does it become too late to turn back. So it fits it better, I think, if it's not about Chara corrupting Frisk... But about you corrupting Chara. Whether that you is Frisk, or you the player, you make someone who was a bad person to start with so much worse.

Asriel was pressured and manipulated by Chara and became a worse person for it, and then retreated to the toxic ideology of "kill or be killed" to cope with that and further trauma, as well as denying his own emotionality in an attempt to make himself invincible. And in the Genocide Route, Chara does the exact same fucking thing. A different toxic ideology, that the only thing that matters is acquiring power, a different mask to deny their emotions which is impassive rather than irreverent, but so similar. Beat for beat. Even down to the fact that Asriel still idolized the person who hurt him, considered them special, the only person worth caring about: Chara wants you to come with them to conquer and destroy new worlds, considers you the perfect partner, doesn't kill you even when you try to resist them, even keeps remaking the world for you when you ask despite already getting your SOUL the first time. You showed them the truth of their existence, after all, even without meaning to. Just as Chara showed Asriel that this world is kill or be killed, even without meaning to.

So… Knowing that all of this could happen…

It adds a lot, I think, to the Pacifist Ending. To Chara getting better, growing as a person and helping everyone, learning they were wrong about the world and humanity, and letting power go. Letting Frisk go. Letting everyone go. Hearing out Asriel's grievances with what they did and accepting them. Just being happy that Asriel could be saved along with everyone else, before the end, despite the negative impact they had had on him and how coming back as a flower no one recognized as him fucked him up even worse.

I just like those two poor siblings, and can't help but be sympathetic to somebody young making a nasty plan with good intentions but without a real appreciation for what they were doing. I am so glad that such a tragic and awful thing got better the way it did, amidst everyone else getting their happy ending. And I think Chara just gets me so much because they become so much better than they were to begin with, and because I felt I was there with them. Immersion is a powerful thing. But maybe even more than that... It's that Frisk doesn't save Chara. Frisk can't save Chara. Frisk can just give Chara the chance they needed to save themselves.

[anamericangirl]

Honestly i don't care either way who they get to play Aslan because, really, I think the remake is going to be garbage regardless. I can count on one hand the number of "live action remakes" in the past five years actually turned out good, and most if not all of those were from video games -- and even then the video game cinematic remakes have their own pile of flops *coughcoughMinecraft*

Oh it will be bad either way most likely. None of these remakes are ever any good. And like i was kind of interested in the series at first because the very old original movies were no good, they never finished making all of them so I was low key looking forward to someone making the entire series even though knowing who was making it I was planning on being disappointed.

But if they make Aslan female I 100% will not even give it a chance. It’s intentionally disrespectful and offensive to take someone so important to Christianity in a piece of Christian media and warp it to fit modern day values because you don’t think it’s progressive enough.

Like honestly they could have gender swapped any other character and I wouldn’t have loved it but it wouldn’t be as bad. They picked Aslan on purpose.

It’s like they’re trying to alienate the biggest fan base.