#even though that ending did make most sense

[randombush3]

the winner takes it all

alexia putellas x reader

summary: an unexpected invitation throws your world off-kilter

words: 6276

content warnings: it's a bit unfaithful

notes: in this universe real madrid is a proper opponent and rival to barcelona, in the sense that funding and history is relatively equal (so it's basically more like the men's rivalry)

idk where this came from tbh

Amb gran alegria, 

Alexia i Olga

T’invitem a celebrar la nostra unió matrimonial. 

10 d’agost de 2025

Gran Hotel Mas d’en Bruno

You haven’t read Catalan in years. You squint at the details. 

You wish you had forgotten it. 

Only Alexia would do this to you, twisting the knife as though it’s a favour, a compliment. Make it seem psychotic for not wanting to go, make it seem like it’s not a big deal. 

The invitation isn’t personalised. You are not special in her eyes. You have been allowed onto the guest list, you have no mark in her life. Surely Olga would have objected if she’d known, if she’d been told. Maybe Alexia doesn’t talk about it. Maybe she has heard your name on match reports and team sheets, announcements for captaincy, interviews with Las 16 who called you traidora then and call you traidora now. 

As if she knew it was coming, your phone begins to light up with messages from Alba. Apologies, perhaps, in her own Alba way. Stuff like ‘are you coming’ and ‘you don’t have to’ and then more buzzing, vibrating the shitstorm into a phone call. 

You don’t speak often. Why would you? But you answer it, listless, really, and unsure what the correct approach to this even is. 

“Hola, traidorita,” she says with a nervous giggle, reclaiming your nickname in Barcelona but reminding you of how you are perceived nevertheless. “I don’t know why you are on the guest list.” 

Alba is like this: straight to the point, unafraid of her sister and unafraid to tell you what she thinks. They are very different, which is why she is the only one who has your current number in her contacts. 

“You told her where I live,” you respond. Your shock makes no room for manners. “Because no one there has my Madrid address, Albi.” 

“No one here has it, yeah. But she asked around. Well, Olga did.” She laughs again. Her nervousness is high-pitched and easily detected. “Told Ale that she has to have her childhood best friend at her wedding.” 

“Childhood best friend?” 

“Estranged childhood best friend?” she tries, and you can hear the smile and the teasing fucking smugness in it. You wonder if anyone else knows you have been invited. Alba because your address was squeezed out of her, sure, but… “And my mother thought it was a good idea too, before you try to murder a woman you have never met.” 

“I’ve met Olga before,” you say without thinking, because that’s far easier to focus on than the idea of Eli getting involved in this completely undesired reunion that is about two centuries too early. “When I was going out with, eh, I don’t remember her name. A model. You know what they’re like. Olga’s the one who works for… thingie.” 

There’s a sigh from the other end. “So many models yet not one name has been retained. Do you even ask them?” 

“We’re not usually doing much talking.” 

“Zorra.”

“Coming from you…” You smirk at the thought of all the little secrets Alba’s had you keep, a tradition that started young and became increasingly frequent when you removed yourself from everyone else’s lives. It’s like a journal, only you judge her. “You’re doing a good job of distracting me until I agree to go.” 

She hesitates, then. You’re not an idiot and you know why she called. Alba is supportive but she has her own agenda most of the time, and no one else knows the exact time you get back from training aside from your fellow teammates. Even then, most are too intimidated to contact you in general, let alone to ask about being invited to Alexia Putellas’ fucking wedding. 

Alba is also very manipulative, a professional puppeteer. And she knows exactly what to say. “It’s been fifteen years. Are you going to let her win?” It’s an infuriating provocation but it hits its target with ease. 

…

The first step of preparing for this wedding takes place in the form of the Euros: you’re going to win it and be happy enough to ignore the impending doom hanging over your off-season plans. Going into the competition with heavy medals round your necks makes cockiness the slippiest of slopes, and it is safe to say that most of your teammates are prepared to cruise through at least the group stages. 

An unexpected injury rips Jenni’s opportunity to play from her grasp (an echo of her ex-girlfriend, you briefly think), and she is flying back to Mexico before the tournament begins. Montse is a captain down – of course only this kind of disaster could happen to her – and before Patri can even open her mouth to volunteer for the role, you are dragged into a leadership meeting.

You’ve worn the armband before, though it seared and burned and blistered until you threw it in Jorge’s face and demanded someone else absorb the hatred it brought. He went ballistic as you’d said it, you remember, his face going red in the soft glow of your hotel room the night before the World Cup final. He’d leaned forwards, fist clenched, knuckles white and wanting to choke the life out of you.

“You have no respect!” he’d roared, voice splitting like thunder against the thin walls of your hotel room. “Not for me, not for your country, not for anything!” His breath was coming out in sharp ragged gasps. He spat. You’d wiped it off your body. “I thought you had scraped all the Catalan out of you, but here it is!” he’d screamed, loud enough to be heard but so comfortable in his power that it did not seem to frighten him. “Selfish and arrogant. You should have made it Seventeen.” 

He’d left in his rage, slamming his door. 

You regretted smiling in pictures with him, shaking his hand, kissing his cheek. You regretted the press conferences and interviews, the shaky defence you had constructed, the words of faith and trust you had professed and tried to believe. It had changed you, just a little bit, that incident. Made you think about who you are, where you come from. Made you remember someone you’d tried to forget. 

But Irene and Alexia, staring at you with both contempt and confusion as you take a seat at the conference table, don’t know any of this. Why would they? To them, this is the traidora. 

“Y/n is going to take Jenni’s place as third captain,” says Montse firmly, if she even knows how to do that. Irene and Alexia share a glance. Their roles have been restored for this competition and they are not prepared for an intruder to take that from them, although Irene will later remind Alexia that it is not your fault Jenni got injured. “I trust you three will come up with a suitable management plan. If you need me, you know where to find me.” 

None of you really do know where she lurks, but she is walking off before you can clarify. 

“We already have a strategy.” And she says it in Catalan, looking falsely apologetic when she is kicked underneath the table. 

“Good job, Alexia,” you tell her, so nauseatingly saccharine that you almost think of the nearest route to a toilet. She’s surprised you’ve granted her a reply though, which is satisfying enough. About to spit out another remark to divide yourselves further, you shift in your chair, stretching out your legs underneath the table. 

It is then that her ring catches your eye.

It’s delicate, shiny. A neatly cut diamond set in platinum with slight details that tell you someone thought about Alexia when they had this made and got it all wrong. Or maybe this is what she likes now. It’s not what you’d have given her.

She sees your eyes fall to her fingers, watching carefully as your gaze heats the metal and makes it almost too hot for her to keep on. You don’t really want her to know that you’ve seen it but you��ve made it bleeding obvious and so the predicament spirals and Irene wants, desperately, to leave you two alone – she knows shouldn’t, she’s aware of the health and safety risk. 

There is something about the way Alexia clenches her jaw, posture stiffening as she allows herself one flicker from your face to the ring, that tells you she is bracing herself for a bullet. She always did have an uncanny ability to read you, however unwanted it was. 

You lean back in your chair, aware of how the bystander is holding her breath, and decide to swallow the words burning on your tongue. You’ve accepted her invitation, and bitter manners are still manners. “Congratulations,” you say, words clipped and brittle, each syllable more venomous than the last. 

The chair makes a screeching sound as you stand. Irene flinches but Alexia does not move. She refuses to watch as you walk out of the room. 

…

Three hours later, Alexia is off the phone with Olga and knocking on Irene’s door with an embarrassed suppression of urgency. Shoulders hunched and lips downturned, the sight is enough for her to be ushered inside with only the quiet flap of Irene’s arms to beckon her forwards. With this part of the training camp being not quite tunnel-vision yet, Irene’s room is littered with toys and toddler stuff. Usually Alexia would be looking at them in quiet excitement. Right now, she is not so sure. 

“Second thoughts?” Irene asks, and Alexia half-jumps backwards in shock, about to furiously shake her head and profess her love for Olga– “I think the plan is good. I don’t think we need to worry about Y/n in the centre, seeing how she’s been playing there this season.” 

It slowly dawns on Alexia that Irene has assumed this is pre-tournament nerves, and that she is being shown such a vulnerable side of her co-captain because, well, who else can be? No one wants to see their commander gulp at the sight of the battlefield. 

“She still favours her left,” Alexia gets out. “She might drift, leaving a big gap for you to cover.” 

“She’s got offers from PSG, Chelsea, and Washington Spirit. It’s in her interest not to drift.” 

“She’s good at drifting.” 

Irene doesn’t respond to that. 

“Since when did you wear your ring to training?” is what she chooses to say instead, asking the question with a healthy fear of getting her head bitten off, taking a small step backwards to put her at a safer distance. 

Alexia doesn’t reply immediately, her fingers grazing the ring as she thinks. The weight of it seems heavier now, almost suffocating in the sterile air of the hotel room, as though this is everything she’s been trying to avoid. Her heart thuds against her ribcage. It feels like everyone is starting to notice. 

“I didn’t think it was an issue.” Her voice is tight, defensive, but with a subtle, betraying crack. She pulls her hand back from the air, letting it fall to her side. “We hardly did much more than pass the ball today so I kept it on.” 

It’s a poor excuse. It comes off for the cameras, not the contact of the game. Irene knows that. But, to her credit, she doesn’t push. She just watches Alexia, eyes narrowed slightly in an unreadable expression. “I just thought you guys were keeping it a bit more… private.” 

Alexia turns her gaze to the floor, staring at the scattered toys and items around the room. The simplicity of it all, the domestic innocence, makes her feel even more tangled. She feels an urge to lie, to say that Olga asked her to, worried that you’d misinterpret its absence, but Olga doesn’t even know she has reason to lose sleep. She hasn’t found the courage to explain. She hasn’t felt the need to. 

And, really, the truth is right here, echoing between them. Irene would have pieced together the story, as many of Alexia’s teammates have, hearing drunken retellings on nights out from whoever has known the two of you the longest that time. Maybe Alba has spoken to her, revealing everything after a round of tequila shots, as she tends to do. There are a few suggestions the older woman could make to her teammate, wounds she could open and then nurse, but she doesn’t and so she waits. 

Until, finally, Alexia admits, “it’s complicated. She has caught me off-guard.” It could mean many things, but it is either your captaincy or the acceptance of her wedding invitation that has done Alexia in. She wonders whether this feeling of dread and uncertainty is the game – or the life waiting for her after she comes back from Switzerland. “Look,” she says abruptly, “I’m not here for advice, Irene.”

“Then why are you in my room?” She doesn’t have an answer for that. Irene sweeps her outside, gently but firmly. “I’m not going to tell you what to do,” she treads lightly, “but when was the last time you had a conversation with her?” 

…

The training pitch in Switzerland is unseasonably hot, the kind of heat that clings to the air and makes tempers run shorter than usual. It’s almost a cure to homesickness but then the team look at each other and are back to hating every minute of this. There’s an undeniable divide. Montse either does not care or has not caught on. 

It’s about your twentieth rondo this session, the ball zipping across the wilting grass as it touches Barça foot to Barça foot, the girls obviously enjoying this. You’re only holding back because too much investment will lead to another injury, and you are getting somewhat tired of being called a traitor. The players surround you with a ruthless efficiency that is starting to fray your nerves, and you make a note to talk to your coach about training, knowing that it will be easy to manipulate her into following something akin to what the girls at Madrid are more accustomed to. 

Alexia is one of your taunters. Of course she is. 

“Just three more interceptions,” she calls out, false strain, false support, false encouragement. 

You bite back a retort, instead standing still as Aitana rolls a ball right past you. You wipe the sweat from your brow, feigning exhaustion, but the pretense is only that in name. Everyone knows you are one of the best defenders, the Barça girls especially, with their insane pride for La Masia. 

“Lazy,” Alexia mutters. 

You don’t respond, focusing instead on the fire in your chest as you forcibly break the circle and march towards Montse. She looks up from her clipboard as you approach. 

“We should split training.” She pauses and then nods. “Attack and defence, at least. And don’t let the press hear this, but, my god, Montse, I do not like how they’re all back.” 

“We’re a stronger team,” she says, but she’s smiling and you are definitely her favourite. Another deep breath and she is calling a water break. 

The girls retreat to the sidelines for ice and hydration, and you reunite with the people you like. Your club teammates prefer you at national camp, because there is something less reclusive about you. It’s as though you’re trying to prove that you get on. 

Olga hands you a water bottle, the contents of which you guzzle down in one go. She begins to comment on the absurdity of Alexia’s mandated rondos (“why do they have to keep reminding themselves how to pass a ball?”) and while you agree, your attention is diverted. Alexia is standing a few meters away with Mariona Caldentey. She’s listening to something the forward is telling her, face focused, finger twisting her ring around in circles. 

That fucking ring. 

You look away before you are caught in such a compromising position, wiping your forehead with your damp training shirt. 

“Oye,” Misa’s voice pulls you back, “are you paying attention?” You’re not even sure when she joined the conversation. Your relationship with the goalkeeper has always been overly complicated. You work very closely, what with you commanding the backline and her… also commanding the backline. But she’s friends with people who must have at least once wished you dead, so it’s hard to tell where you stand. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” you lie, screwing the cap back onto the water bottle and placing it in Olga’s held-out palm. 

“You’re never this spacey. You’ve been off since the meeting,” she presses, her voice gentle but insistent. “If this is about the captaincy–” 

“It’s not,” you snap, harsher than what was meant. Her eyes widen slightly and you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Sorry. It’s not about that. I’m fine.” 

Misa doesn’t look convinced but she nods, letting it drop. Gratitude relaxes your shoulders but the uneasy silence that follows is punishing enough for you to be eager for training to resume. 

Now that the rondos have been left behind until tomorrow, you divide into teams for a scrimmage. The squad is split into four and you throw yourself into the exercise. Every touch, every pass, every run is perfect, and you are unrecognisable from your lackadaisical lull only ten minutes ago. You’re pushing your body and it flicks onto autopilot, driven by muscle memory and determination. 

Your head’s not in it. You can’t outrun her shadow. You can’t think when your teams are against each other. 

The ring must have come off now, and she is getting stuck in. She’s relentless and irritating, evading your teammates’ tackles and drawing you into her. It’s almost transportative: back you go to gardens after school or being barefoot on the beach, forced out of your relaxation and into an endless game of ‘tackle me like you mean it’. She has that same glint in her eye, that same goading gleam. You consider it, but crutches at a wedding is a low blow. 

And so you lay off. Just on her, and only just enough so that she knows you are not trying. You do not care for petty squabbles. You are not willing to go back to those memories, to that time. 

Or at least, that’s the message you hope she gets. 

The games slowly wind down, prompted by Montse’s whistle to signal the end of the session. You stay on the pitch longer than anyone else, taking you time to collect the stray balls scattered across the grass. It’s partly an excuse to delay walking into the locker room, where the tension will be thick (you were not the right choice for third captain in the eyes of your teammates), and partly because you need a moment to breathe. 

The others slowly disperse, peeling off to the showers or collapsing onto benches. Alexia lingers longer than most, wiping away her sweat with her shirt, abs exposed and tensed. She watches you as you move across the pitch, and though her gaze is subtle, you can feel it blazing hotter than the sun lashing down on you. But, despite her staring, she too is eventually coaxed away. You’re unsure whether she is thankful for the interruption. 

When you finally make your way to the changing rooms, most of your teammates are in the showers, and the sound of running water mingled with laughter echoes. You take a seat at the locker you were assigned and let out a slow breath, peeling off sweat-soaked socks with mild disgust. You turn to fling them into your laundry bag, but their flight path is blocked by a blonde who has clearly delayed her own shower to talk to you. 

She’s looking oddly pensive. You don’t like it. 

“We need to talk.” It’s uncomfortable for Alexia to say and it’s worse for you to hear. You’re not sure you’re okay with her decision to become reasonable and mature. It’s quite the compliment to always be the cause for stoic, rational Alexia Putellas going absolutely batshit crazy. 

Driving her up the wall is fun. 

“I’ll send you an invitation. No need to tell me which room is yours.” You give her a smile. And, like you always do, you walk away. 

…

There’s a charge to the air that is choking you by dinner time. The upgrade to captain allowed for your own room, and it is easy to blow off teammates who want to have plans with you with the simple excuse of needing to talk to your agent. You technically do, since you are going to leave Madrid during the transfer window, but you have no intention of dialling his number until he confirms the best and furthest team wants you. 

You’ve spent the evening avoiding the majority of the players, which Montse took advantage of, encouraging you to spend dinner discussing tactics with her and her staff. You feel like the teacher’s pet. You know how angry it is making Alexia.

Collapsing on the bed when you back into your room, you let out a loud groan, sinking into the mattress. Your phone buzzes on the bedside table and for a moment, you think it might be Alba, allowing you no peace and quiet despite her distance. Instead, it’s a message on the team group chat from the strength and conditioning coach about tomorrow’s gym session. A wave of relief washes over you; anything but her. 

Still, as you scroll, you catch yourself lingering on the names in the group chat, your thumb hovering near Alexia’s. Your stomach tightens and the memory of her tone, her expression, pulls at you like a tether. 

She’s not going to drop this. 

It’s no longer a matter of avoidance in the camp. You’ve said you will be present. She must want to ensure you will not make a scene. 

A knock at the door, so quiet you are almost convinced it was imagined, breaks you out of your brooding. Your eyes watch the wood as though it will be splintered in a moment, but when you make no move to get up, a more insistent knock sounds. You sigh as you pull yourself off your bed, dragging your feet towards the door. Opening it, you find Alexia standing there, arms crossed and wearing an expression you can’t quite decipher. It lacks her usual burning hatred. She looks exhausted. 

You struggle to feel any sympathy. 

“What?” you snap. It’s a bit harsher than intended but you don’t let on that that’s the case. 

“Can I come in?” You guess that she didn’t pick up the hint when you gave her no invitation. You do not want to talk. You don’t do that to people much anymore. 

She expects the door to slam in her face – and you consider it – but it’s your hesitation that tells her she can, and so she slowly moves inside, shoulder brushing yours because you refuse to move out of the way. And then she raises a deliberate hand towards the door, pushing it shut. You ignore the ring. 

You lean against the door once it’s shut, arms folded as she wanders further into your room. She looks out of place somewhere so personal to you, standing awkwardly in the centre and trying not to look at the explosion of clothes and books that has been detonated on the floor. 

She reads the titles of a few – classics that look dense and boring. Something hungry inside her dulls a bit, because you have not changed in this respect. 

“You’re quiet for someone who wants to talk,” you prompt, mostly because the silence is unbearable. 

She doesn’t respond immediately. Her arms drop to her sides, fingers twitching as if unsure what to do with themselves. She tries to meet your eyes, but falters when she sees the cold indifference staring back. You’re looking at her like she’s a stranger. It stings more than it should.

“I didn’t invite you to the wedding,” she says finally. “Olga doesn’t know about us.” 

“There’s no ‘us’,” you snap, sharper this time.

Her jaw tightens and for a second, she looks as though she’s been struck. “Don’t lie.” 

“There is no ‘us’,” you repeat, your tone icy now. “That disappeared the minute I–” 

“Left,” comes her interruption, her voice trembling just enough for you to notice. She steps closer, her shadow crossing yours, and her eyes narrow. “Which was your decision, not mine.”

You scoff, a bitter laugh escaping you. “Don’t act like you didn’t have a say in it.” 

“I didn’t!” she fires back, her voice rising. There is something raw beneath it – something fractured. “You didn’t give me one. You walked out, and you shut me out like I was nothing. Like we were nothing.” 

Her words hang in the air and for a moment, you don’t know whether to shoot or turn away. But her gaze pins you in place, fierce and unrelenting, as though daring you to deny it. 

You hold her stare, your throat tightening. “And you didn’t try to stop me.” 

The silence that follows feels deafening. Neither of you moves. Neither of you blinks. You’re both standing on landmines and have nowhere to go. 

Her jaw clenches, her hands balling into fists at her sides. Her voice, though low, crackles with the heat of restrained anger. 

“You didn’t give me a chance to stop you.” And she steps closer, ready to bite. The door presses against your back as you instinctively move away. “You made up your mind before I even knew what was happening.” 

“Don’t pretend you didn’t see it coming.” You shake your head. “I didn’t just wake up one day and decide to leave, Alexia.”

Her expression darkens, something in her eyes flickering dangerously. “That’s not the point. You didn’t just leave the club. You didn’t just leave me. You left everything. Our family. Our life. Do you have any idea what that felt like? Watching you walk away as if none of it mattered?” 

Your chest tightens but you refuse to let her words land. “You don’t get to make me the villain here.” 

“I don’t have to,” she snaps, her voice rising now, accent thickening with her anger. “You were part of my family, part of me. You were at every Christmas, every birthday. My mother adored you. Alba still loves you like you are her own sister! And you just disappeared like none of it meant anything. Like we didn’t mean anything.”

You flinch at the weight of her words but force yourself into steadiness. “I didn’t belong there. It wasn’t mine, it was yours.” 

Her face twists in disbelief, voice trembling as it rises again. “That’s bullshit and you know it! You were my family. My first everything. My first kiss. My first…” She pauses, her voice cracking. You swallow hard – you don’t want the fucking itemised list. “My first time. You think I just gave that to anyone? You think that it was just fun and games?” 

Your stomach churns as she stokes a fire you’ve tried to smother for years. “It wasn’t nothing,” you agree, although it sounds like you are contradicting her in a way that causes her to falter on her drive forwards. “It was everything. That’s why I left. Because I couldn’t be what was needed anymore. Because I knew if I stayed, I’d only–” 

“Only what?” 

You gulp. 

She’s back in your face, voice laced with venom. “Hurt me? Ruin me? Let us all done? Guess what, you did that anyway. Leaving made it easier? Made it hurt less?” 

“I didn’t know what else to do!” you shout, voice splitting. 

“You stay!” It echoes and it bruises your skin. Her eyes are blazing now, tears threatening to spill but held back by sheer force of will. “You stay, because that is what you do when you love someone. When you love a family. You don’t just walk away from them. You fight.” 

You open your mouth to respond, but the words stick in your throat, caught somewhere between guilt and pride. She sees it and it only seems to enrage her further. 

Her voice drops, anger so torrid she has to purposely cool her tone. “You know, I thought that my world was ending then. I thought you’d done your worst. But I was wrong. Because your betrayal wasn’t just personal, it was… political. To not see someone you love except for when they are sitting at the feet of this. Corruption’s pet. Pandering to an organisation you hated, while the rest of us fought for scraps.” 

Heat rises in your chest. How dare she– “I don’t pander to anyone.” 

“Don’t lie to me,” she spits. She’s too close. She’s too inescapable. And her anger is no longer fiery but icy, piercing through your skin. “I’ve seen the way you act around them, bowing your head and playing the loyal soldier while they tear us apart. You think I didn’t notice how he favoured you? Or how Montse magically replaces an irreplaceable member of–” 

“It’s not like that,” you counter, but the words feel hollow even to you.

“Then what is it?” she demands. “What is it that makes you stand there and let them walk all over us? Let them divide us? And don’t you dare say it is for the good of the team. The team hates you for it. We all do. You’ve earned every bit of it, traidora.” 

The word hits you like a whip, lacerating and making you bleed. Your hands curl into fists so tightly your nails dig into your palms, the sting barely enough to contain the fury surging through you. “Don’t you dare call me that!” The sentence tears out of your throat, rough and jagged. You take a step forwards, the air between you crackling with tension, your voice breaking as you spit, “you don’t get to say that to me. Not you.”

“Why not?” she challenges. “It’s what you are. You left, you betrayed everything we stood for, and then you came back just to make things worse. You made your choices.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at her, the anger and heartbreak in her eyes, eviscerating and leaving you hollow. But then, something shifts in the air between you, and you find your voice again, souring from before.

“Is that why you’re here, Alexia? To throw all of this in my face? To let out fifteen years of harboured emotion? Or is it something else?” 

Her brow furrows in confusion. Surprise. And then her expression twists into anger. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

You take a step forward now, and she is forced to retreat. “Do you not want to marry Olga, Alexia? Is that it? Is that why you’re here? Because you think you can come into my room, dredge all of this up, and make me the reason you’re unhappy?” 

Her face pales as she takes a deep breath, hands trembling at her sides. “Don’t,” she warns, firmly enough to signal you need to push.

So you do. 

“You came here because you’re scared.” She shakes her head but it’s rigid and forced. “Because you’re not sure you can go through with it and you want me to give you a reason to back out. Well, I’m not going to do that for you. This isn’t my mess. It’s yours.”

She says nothing and you feel sick. Her chest rises and falls with each gasping breath. She opens her mouth but again, you are left with silence, and the expression in her eyes flickers between defiance, confusion, and vulnerability. For a long moment, it feels like everything that could be said has been. 

The air between you is charged, but neither of you know which way it will go. 

You stare at her watching her waver. And it hits you: she doesn’t know what to do. 

All of this, all the anger and the pain, all the accusations and betrayals, has led her here, to this moment. She thought she had an answer, she thought she would be able to end this, but now? Now, Alexia is lost. There is too much here, too much to lose. And for the first time in a long while, you are feeling the same thing. You are both no longer sure if you want to fight. 

She takes a hesitant step closer and you freeze. But then, just as quickly, her hand moves – not to strike, not to harm, but to touch you. Her fingers brush lightly over the fabric of your sleeve, almost tenderly, before they fall away, and you don’t know if the motion was meant for comfort or something else.

Her breath is ragged, coming in slow, uneven gasps. Her eyes never leave yours. You don’t want them to. 

“I don’t know what to do with all of this,” she murmurs, the rawness in her tone shattering any remaining wall between you. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

How do you respond to that? You want her to leave but the thought is unbearable. You want space but she is not close enough. Something inside you stirs, something you can’t fight; a need to understand her and make her understand you. To make her see how tangled this, how impossible it has always been. 

Before you can form the word, before you can even think, she moves in closer, and there is no longer distance. She doesn’t ask for permission. She doesn’t hesitate. And then, without warning, her lips are on yours. 

It’s soft, tentative at first, as though testing the waters of something neither of you is sure of anymore. But then it shifts. Her body leans into yours, and the kiss deepens, more urgent now, as if this is everything that has not been said and has been at the same time. Your heart races, a million conflicting emotions crashing through you. Anger, betrayal, love – it is all here, you can taste it on her lips. It’s fierce, desperate, and it feels like an endless cycle of need and regret, pulling you both back to something raw, something irretrievable. 

Her hands find your waist, gripping tightly as though anchoring herself to something that could pull her under. You instinctively respond, pulling her closer, drawing in the heat of her touch, the scent of her skin, the pressure of her body against yours. For a fleeting second, everything else fades away. There’s no past, no future, only here and now. 

And then the fog clears. 

You pull back, breathless and worse off. You’ve fucked up again. Alexia is crying. 

“I’m not the person you think I am anymore,” you say, but it’s hard to meet her gaze. “I can’t be that person for you.”

Her eyes search yours desperately for lies, for deceit. She wants it to be wrong. She doesn’t know why. And she replies, “I don’t care what you think you’ve become,” because she doesn’t. It doesn’t matter to her.

You stare at her, heart pounding, and you want to feel like this will be worth it, but nothing comes except cold emptiness. You force yourself to stay upright. “I think the wedding will be good.” She swallows. “You’ll be happy with Olga. I’m sure of it.” 

It’s a death sentence. 

This time, it is Alexia who leaves. 

…

The wedding is beautiful. Blissful sunlight makes the venue seem to glow and it is hard not to be impressed with how they have set this up. 

The model at your side is also beautiful, but you remind yourself it is not a competition. You focus on the whispers of anticipation from the guests, the rustle of the dresses as people pass in merry groups, clinking their glasses and finishing their champagne as they take their seats. Everything looks perfect, plucked from magazines and tasteful brochures. This must be what Alexia wanted. 

Your date is occupying herself in conversation with the man seated next to you, who might be hitting on her, though you don’t care. She slides a hand over your thigh anyway. 

The ceremony begins, although you’re not really concentrating on it. You try to focus, listening as the officiant speaks, but the words have become a dull hum. It’s all so rehearsed, so expected, and it’s boring. You won’t be getting married anytime soon, that’s for sure. 

You know the flow of these things: the vows, the promises, the kiss, and the crowd’s applause. It’s a performance, though it’s not quite a farce. 

And then, it comes. The moment. The one that feels like a trap. 

The officiant pauses, glancing out over the gathering. “Si algú s'hi oposa, que parli ara o calli per sempre.”

For a heartbeat, time slows. The air thickens. Every muscle in your body tenses and the world around you goes still. You catch yourself holding your breath, gaze instinctively shifting to the woman standing at the front of the altar. 

Alexia. 

Her eyes flicker briefly in your direction – just a flicker, but it’s there, unmistakable. It’s her moment of hesitation, well masked but clear as day to you. But before you can make sense of it, she’s looking away, eyes fixed back onto Olga. Her expression hardens, more composed now, and you know that you are not going to break this silence. 

The officiant, oblivious to the storm passing between you both, waits for a beat longer before continuing, his voice echoing in the silence. 

And she’s married. 

You breathe out a sigh of relief. It’s over now. You’ve let her win. 

[seumyo]

tokoyami taking care of you when you’re sick.

“You look like you’re ready to ascend to the afterlife,” Tokoyami said, his voice calm but tinged with concern.

“Maybe I am, Fumi. Maybe this is it for me.”

“You have a mild fever and a sore throat. Hardly fatal.”

“But it feels fatal,” you whined, your voice scratchy. “I’m so weak. I don’t even have the energy to do my nails!” You wiggled your bare fingers in the air for emphasis, looking utterly defeated. “Ugh, they’re naked.”

He tilted his head, his beak twitching in what might have been amusement. You could hardly tell. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m not. I can feel my soul leaving my body, Fumi. I’m… so… cold.”

He rolled his eyes but reached for the extra blanket folded at the end of your bed, draping it over you with a sigh. “There. Better?”

“Thank you. I felt like I needed to tell you about my last will and testament.”

“Your sense of drama is impressive,” Tokoyami replied, his tone dry.

“It’s a gift.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Don’t worry, Fumi. I’ll haunt you lovingly.”

He reached for the tissue box and handed it to you. “You’re not haunting anyone. Blow your nose.”

With a pout, you accepted the tissues and complied. “Ugh, even my sneezes aren’t cute right now,” you muttered, your cheeks flushed not from embarrassment but from your fever.

“Your sneezes are rarely cute,” Tokoyami pointed out.

“Rude,” you sniffled.

Just as you were about to unknowingly fall into a deep slumber, Tokoyami reached for the small tray he’d brought with him, holding a bowl of soup he’d made earlier.

“You need to eat first,” he said. “Eat, then sleep.”

You stared at it like it was the most daunting task in the world. Plus, your exhaustion most likely killed your appetite.

“I don’t think I can lift the spoon.”

He sighed again but didn’t argue. Instead, he carefully picked up the spoon and held it to your lips. “Open.”

You paused. “You’re feeding me?”

“Would you rather starve?”

“No?” So you did as told.

Tokoyami fed you a spoonful of warm soup, a recipe he had to call his mother for, satisfied that you’re complying. “See? Not so hard.”

“Thanks, Fumi. You’re the best nurse ever.”

“I aim to serve,” he replied dryly, though you could tell he was pleased.

Such dramatics.

“Fumi?”

You looked at him with bleary eyes, trying to adjust to the dim light illuminating your room. “Fumi,” you said again just as he finished setting the tray aside.

“Yes?”

“If I don’t make it… promise me you’ll keep my sticker collection safe.”

Tokoyami stared at you, his expression utterly unamused. “You’re going to make it.”

“You’re no fun,” you pouted.

“I’m not ready to take responsibility for your sticker collection. That is a big responsibility, even for me.”

You laughed, though it was a weak and raspy sound. “You’d love it! There’s so much glitter.”

“Glitter is not my aesthetic.”

“Well, maybe it should be.”

“Well, you should rest,” he shook his head, gently adjusting the blanket around you. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

As the hours went on, you grew quieter, your usual energy completely sapped by your cold. Tokoyami stayed by your side, of course, reading quietly while you dozed off just to make sure that there wasn’t anything too concerning with your cold.

He wishes that your sickness would go away sooner because he can’t stand seeing you like this. Though you can always count on him to take care of you, just like in the future vows of, “In sickness, and in health.”

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[charmac]

thoughts on charlie learning how to read?

As to the effect, I think we’ll have to wait to see what really comes of it, considering the very final joke of the episode is he thinks “guest” on the scoreboard says “ghost,” they definitely made a point to make it clear he’s not necessarily literate by any means beyond “enough to graduate kindergarten”

I do like what Justin and Patrick, the EPs for Abbott said about the longevity of that establishment:

In the end, it’s definitely what Sunny and Charlie Day decide to do with this canon. We know the Abbott ep was filmed before any of the episodes for Season 17 of Sunny, so it’s not out of the realm of possibility that they do stick with the idea that Charlie doesn’t struggle as much with reading and writing and maybe has a little kick in him to keep practicing.

Personally on the existence of the storyline now incorporated into Sunny canon, I think they did it in such a fantastic way it’s hard for me to argue anything against or say anything negative. I loved watching it. The thing I love about Abbott is the heart they have in the stories and how real a lot of what they address and tackle in childhood-into-adult development is, and you feel that here, for sure. And we’re watching Abbott, not Sunny, so it’s something removed from the purgatory of the bar.

For those of us that know and love Charlie, I think it’s hard to not feel soft toward this idea that (even if it doesn’t stick or it’s so so basic) there really truly are ways for the Gang to develop and improve on their faults/stubbornness to change, provided it’s treated the right way. And that can only be done (and maybe only continue) in a completely different environment, like Abbott.

The tragedy of Sunny and the Gang is that they’ll never treat each other in that way and therefore can rarely develop. It’s not that they don’t necessarily care, but that their communication methods are so crude and fulled by (often trauma-born) selfishness, they can never give each other the support needed to help improve each other. They make each other miserable in most cases, but they’re also content with that because they almost equally inflict what they take on....

Though Sunny isn't all complete misery, as we all know. They do love each other in fucked up ways and (maybe) almost wish they could help each other in certain respects. Mac's support and encouragement of Charlie being able to read is evident in many Sunny episodes, so it really warmed my heart that Charlie was so eager to show Mac how he had learned and could do a more difficult part of the book for him :) In my opinion, they kept it well aligned with Sunny canon. The Gang don't have the tools to teach Charlie to read, but they do all support and even partly enjoy him learning if they don't have to do it themselves.

I think what we see of Charlie in the Sunny episode will be interesting. Since he's the A plot in Abbott, I have to imagine he has a minor role in Sunny, but will certainly be present. If the idea here is that everyone other than Dennis is serving to distract the teachers, and Charlie only learned to read for the week and goes back to his baseline state of illiteracy, I think I would accept that too.

The lasting effect of the plot doesn't matter too much to me. I think instead the idea that, in the right environment, Charlie can learn to read (and even gets some sense of pride and excitement out of being able to read) but Paddy's and the Gang are really what hinder him from being able to do so (despite the Gang not necessarily against the idea, and considering the fact that Charlie contributes to and prefers the environment they've created) reinforces the Sunny that we hold dear.

[caligvlasaqvarivm]

aspect = base personality traits and class = character arc

So the Blood Thing is bonds, pacts, relationships, and interdependence (also literal blood probably, given every aspect seems to be able to deal with its literal counterpart). In contrast to Breath's callous youthful naïvety, Blood players tend to be neurotic and obsessive, shackled by a feeling of responsibility for others, which stems from a well of deep empathy. This sense of responsibility for others is the main trait Kankri and Karkat share, though it manifests in wildly different ways - also a hypercritical nature, and messy romantic feelings.

Though Karkat's personal fixation is on romantic relationships, Blood encompasses ALL relationships - platonic, familial, and even societal. Kankri is, after all, an SJW (if a viciously malignant one using it for his own selfish ends). This kind of makes Blood the Society Aspect. In contrast to Breath's focus on independence, freedom, and choices, Blood players are specialized in teamwork, binding people down, and promises and oaths.

Knights, meanwhile, are one of the most straightforward Classes in terms of powerset, but have one of the most frustrating arcs. Knights struggle with insecurity and façade. They find some aspect of themselves embarrassing or shameful, usually something to do with their Aspect, and seek to cover it up with a façade that deliberately distances them from said Aspect.

For example, Dave is usually the character paying the most attention (Time's attention to detail), but he fronts as a Disaffected Cool Guy Who Doesnt Give A Shit. there's multiple instances where he'll mock someone by going "Aint Nobody Have Time To Read Allat", only to reveal that he has, in fact, read allat. Latula, though it's more subtle, is also deeply insecure about how she comes across to others - Mind and its association with outward behavior - so she puts up a Rad Girl act that Porrim literally calls out as being dumber than Latula actually is. And Karkat, obviously, fucking loves and cherishes all his friends so so much, but pretends like he's a big bad angry leader who feels nothing for them but disdain.

Knights are usually outright given some grand, karmic task, often in the form of prophecy (moreso than other classes). Dave notes constantly that he's been picking up hints that he's destined to defeat LE, whereas Karkat is literally the second coming of troll jesus, said to bring "equality and forgiveness to all bloodlines", something he's confirmed to know about because he rants at Jade at one point about his blood color marking him as good for nothing but execution in the exact method as the signless. This reflects how they're also usually a rallying point for the party - its leader, strategist, or just its beating heart. Knights are the most classical "hero" out of the Classes in this way.

Their problem is never in actually using their Aspect - Aradia says at one point that Dave wields Time like a tool or weapon. Using the Aspect comes fairly easily and naturally to them - on his better days, karkat is constantly offering and providing solid relationship advice, or otherwise getting people to reconcile or form friendships. The problem is that, as they struggle with their own selves and their own insecurities, it's very likely for them to decide to lay their weapon down.

Dave, at the nadir of his arc, not only refuses to time travel, but opines that "LE never directly did anything bad to any of us," despite literally being haunted directly by LE as a child via lil cal - refuting not just his time powers, but his nature as a time player to notice details (it's especially stark when contrasted against the fact that he makes mention multiple times about picking up on the tiny details suggesting he's meant to kill LE). Latula, a failed Knight, has picked up on Aranea's shittier tendencies (outright mentions not liking her and saying their contentious relationship as ancestors "makes sense" as a karma/mind thing), but refuses to do anything about it (and one has to assume, given Mind's associations with karma and justice, that she also picked up on the hideous injustices happening in the rest of the team, and similarly chose not to do anything about them). Karkat's failures are more cumulative, but they are almost all centered around neglecting his team: he leaves Equius with Nepeta, which prevents Nepeta from reaching her full potential; he doesn't intervene in Vriska and Tavros' situationship; he doesn't help Vriska and Terezi make up; he leaves Eridan all alone to stew in his frustration for the entire game; so on and so on and so on. He's so caught up in being the Big Bad Leader, doing the frog breeding job that wasn't his to do (frog breeding requires time paradoxes, and the last frog is in the space player's past, meaning a time player is best suited to help the space player with it), that he fails to notice or deal with the decay rotting his team from within, and by the time he reflects on this and expresses that he could've stepped in on the meteor relationships sooner and prevented his friends from suffering so much, it's already too late for him - half his friends are dead, his romances are in shambles, and Blood is nothing without bonds.

But that also helps to clarify what Karkat looks like when he IS able to deal with his insecurities and IS able to get his shit together. Even while screwing up constantly, he's able to keep his team of 12 working toward the same goal successfully enough that they beat the black king. he's ultimately the one who bridges the gap between the humans and the trolls, and nobody can ever truly hate him because they can all tell how deeply he actually cares about them, which is why everyone listens to him in the first place. Karkat himself will probably never be a particularly good fighter, especially because Blood is about binding (people famously point to how, in the final fight, karkat wins against clover with rope and bondage, not his sickle), but if he can get his shit together, he'll be an incomparable leader.

Not necessarily the one barking commands, but the one who gets people to act in the best interest of the whole, rather than themselves. Knights wield their aspect like a tool or weapon, right? Karkat would be able to wield relationships like a tool or weapon. His entire fighting style should revolve around throwing his allies at the problem, in the ways in which they're best suited. If Karkat can get his SHIT together, it means his whole team has their shit together, everyone working with what, and with whom, they're best suited for completing their tasks. Conversely, Karkat can't really be at his best unless EVERYONE IS THERE - but I think part of his personal plotline is *getting everyone there*. Blood is the force that binds, that ties together, that makes things become more than the sum of their parts. while his active powerset might never be truly impressive (though the image of him summoning shackles and chains to hold enemies down for his team comes to mind), the fact that he'd be able to keep all these idiots in line would be the real miracle karkat alone is capable of pulling. power of friendship baybee

im really craving classpect discussion... please indulge me ... ill classpect your ocs/blorbos (i will not classpect irl people) or talk about powersets... pls

[daizedndconfused]

thievin’

a/n- idk why im up right now but yay first post of 2025 who’s hyped?? ik i’ve been like mia for a bit but i blame my ps5 for that. also back in school!! awesome (can you tell im crying) lmaooo anyway this is defo gonna be like a mini series so get ready okay lots of love everyone hope you keep up your resolutions if you do em<33

characters- cole brookstone x thief fem!reader

type- eh fluff kinda/enemies to lovers type beat you’ll see

warnings- very mild suggestive comments (not proofread)

synopsis- you’re a thief living in the most run down part of ninjago. you’re doing everything you can to make ends meet, but sometimes you gotta bite the bullet and take a gamble. in order to make a little extra cash you’re sent on a mission to steal a very priceless artifact—the most high risk heist you’ve ever been on. you encounter a certain ninja during your outing and you just can’t help yourself to a little bit of fun upon meeting him. will he let you go? will you succeed in recovering the artifact? or will it be your head on the line instead?

word count- 3.1k

Being poor was okay. Obviously, it wasn’t the ideal spot to be in, and sure you’d prefer to have money and not have to worry about whether or not you would be able to feed yourself tomorrow but you can’t have it all, can you?

Everybody thought Ninjago was the most gorgeous city–clearly they’ve never visited your side of town. You personally didn’t think it was an awful place to live, but it definitely isn't what people would expect out of the great ninjago city.

Nevertheless, it was home. Well, home since your parents died and you were left to fend for yourself. Technically, your mother died during childbirth, or shortly after. You didn’t really like to ask your father about it. It seemed insensitive.

The loss of your father was more recently caused by an unsuspected illness you didn’t have the funds to get treated. You lost him seven years ago, and you miss both of them immensely, even if you never knew your mother–she still held a place in your heart, and your blood.

Plus, it wasn’t as if you were completely alone. The loss of your parents and your home only hindered your spirit for a few months. But eventually, you had to grow up. You had only yourself now, and you needed to start getting your shit together.

That’s how you found yourself living in a narrow alley with nothing but a few blankets to separate yourself from the hard concrete, and a tarp above your head held up by hopes and dreams in case it rained. Courtesy of a girl you’d met three years ago–Henley.

You did what you had to to survive, the both of you did, but your version of ‘work’ was a tad more illegal than Henley’s. While your friend chose to work at some manufacturing factory that paid maybe ten cents an hour, you quickly developed the skill of ‘soft hands.’

Just a little something you picked up in the few years before befriending Henley. Plus, living where you did at the time, it was customary for your father to teach you martial arts, and teach he did. He often pushed you to your limits, making sure your senses were always on high alert.

Though now you supposed you were grateful for it. It made it easy to navigate the crowded streets of Uri–the poorer side of Ninjago that most people decided to ignore.

The early morning sun beat down on you, somehow finding its way around the tarp above your head.

Groaning you rolled over, hoping to block out the rays and catch a few more hours of sleep.

“Morning,” Henley yawned from beside you.

You mumbled incoherently back at her.

“I’ve gotta get going, work starts soon,” Henley told you. You heard her scooting closer towards you.

“Why d’you work at that shithole?” You grumbled, still not fully awake. “They barely pay you, Henley.”

You could practically see the expression on her freckled face. She was most likely staring down at you with a torn and somewhat somber expression.

“It’s the only place that would hire me,” she muttered. “You know that.”

Squeezing your eyes tight you then sat up, stretching out your back. Upon opening your eyes you came to find out your assumption was correct.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Which is bullshit by the way. Any web company would be lucky to have you.”

Henley shrugged a shoulder. “Well, beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Then it’s a good thing we haven’t stooped that low,” you reassured her. You left the unspoken yet out of the sentence.

Henley smiled, brushing back her mane of curly red hair. “Okay, now I really need to go. Please, be safe today, and try not to get caught. I really don’t know if I can stomach breaking you out of jail again.”

“In my defense,” you said as she stood to leave. “There may have been some alcohol behind the reason that asshole caught up to me.”

Henley fixed you with a look that said, Good luck, before she looked up and down the already busy streets and made her way to the factory.

You gave yourself a few more minutes before heading out onto the streets. As usual, Uri was already busy at like eight a.m on a weekday. Stall owners were yelling at anyone passing by as if the volume would persuade people to stop and buy a useless trinket they didn’t need.

Still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you wove through people, fluid like a leaf in the wind. It was almost too easy to nick people’s wallets this way. In Uri it was almost impossible to walk anywhere without brushing shoulders with someone. Lucky for you, the jacket you wore held many pockets to store your ‘finds’ on the street.

After palming a few wallets on your way to possibly the best looking building in this part of town, you opened them up to find nothing much. Out of all the wallets you lifted, you got a whopping thirty dollars.

See that was the issue with living in a poor neighborhood–everyone you stole from was also poor. Not a great match unfortunately.

Sighing, you made your way towards the tallest building in Uri. It also just happened to be where you’d pick up a way to make some extra cash on the days that were really slow. Just from waking up this morning you knew today would be one of them.

The only issue is, the jobs you’re given are risky, and so you try not to do them as often.

The guards posted outside of the doors let you through without any issues. At this point you’d been coming here sporadically for about five and a half years. You were the best and most reliable thief Malina had.

A few doors, some hallways, and an elevator later, you stood in front of the woman herself.

Malina stared at you with a victorious glint in her eyes, her head resting on her intertwined fingers. “And here I thought you broke up with me.”

“Ah, you know me,” you shrugged, shoving your hands into the pockets of your jacket. “Always comin’ back.”

“Now that I can always rely on.” Malina leaned back in her big leather chair, one long leg crossed over the other.

Malina was the only successful business owner in this Uri. Shockingly, she got most of her wealth from illegal schemes and black market dealings. Which is why she needed you.

Malian didn’t waste any time in throwing down a file on top of her spotless desk.

“It’s all in there,” she waved a gloved hand, her diamond bracelet twinkling in the light of her office.

You reached for the file and flipped it open to survey its contents. Your eyes widened as you continued further and further down the papers clipped together. This job was impossible.

Usually, nothing is impossible for you. However, in the past Malina only ever had you stealing jewels from old guys on their deathbed, or artwork from museums, and sometimes some random priceless artifact guarded in an equally random warehouse.

Apparently this time she really wanted to put you to the test.

“This is a joke,” you said, flipping the file shut.

“How so?” Malina asked, dark brows furrowed in innocence.

“Look, you give me work, and I’ve always appreciated that,” you told her honestly. “But stealing from the Royal Family is my one way ticket to a lifetime in prison.”

Malina pouted at you. “And here I thought my star employee never got caught.”

You scoffed out a laugh, tongue in your cheek as you looked up to the heavens for patience.

When she didn’t back down you finally spoke. “What else you got for me?”

“Unfortunately,” Malina said, though her tone didn’t suggest she found it anywhere near unfortunate, “that’s it.”

“Bullshit,” you challenged.

Malina raised her hands. “I’m serious! Work’s been booming lately.”

Crossing your arms, you rolled your eyes. The two of you stood unspeaking, staring at each other as you weighed your options.

On the plus side, if you did this job successfully, you and Henley might be able to afford an actual apartment. A shitty one, but it was better than the alley. Plus, you might also be able to afford the first few months of rent before you get a real job and force Henley to quit hers at the factory.

Closing your eyes you reluctantly agreed. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Malina’s grin widened into an eerie expression, her pearly white teeth shone almost as bright as the diamonds around her wrist. “I knew you would. Clothes are in their usual place.”

You nodded and spun on your heel, hightailing it out of Malina’s office. Thankfully, ever since you all but pledged your loyalty to her, she’d provide you with some living essentials occasionally. Things like showers, a hairbrush, basic needs like that.

But when she sent you out on a mission, she made sure you were set up for success, and the rest was on you. Opening the wooden wardrobe at the end of the hall, you were greeted with the familiar sight of the dark clothing you typically wore on outings such as these.

You picked the uniform off the hanger and quickly found the nearest room to change in. Even though you wouldn’t be leaving until nightfall, you still would rather put it on now as it helped you even in Uri. With the hood and mask covering the bottom half of your face, the only thing you could really make out was your hair and eyes.

You spent most of the day on the roof tops, going over the blueprints of the palace Malina provided for you, along with the guard rotations. Pacing along the edge of an old rundown building, you slowly came up with a plan. Though, the object you had been assigned to steal was a bit odd. You expected jewels, or even the crown, but instead you were sent after a golden hourglass, with equally golden sand inside.

You didn’t know the properties or importance of the object, but to be honest, you didn’t really care. You just wanted to get the job done and over with so you could return home and finally place a roof over your head after seven years of sleeping under the open sky.

As soon as the sun set beyond the city, you set out. Of course, you left Henley a note explaining you might not be back tonight–and that you might not be back at all–but you assured her not to worry.

It took a while to get to the good part of town, but a few subway trains later, you finally made it. And what a difference it was.

Instead of yelling and aggressive haggling, there was light chatter, laughter, and the buzz of technology reverberating around you. Not to mention the colors. Almost every sign in Ninjago was neon, and sometimes you couldn’t help but get a little sidetracked looking at all the beautiful things you’d never get to experience yourself.

Eventually, you found yourself by the palace. Fishing out the timetable of the guard rotations, you determined that the east side of the castle would be the most unprotected in about two minutes–meaning you had to be quick.

Quick you were. You managed to get to the east side and scale the wall in a minute and thirty. Tiptoeing around the outer wall, you made sure to keep your eyes on the guards below. So far, none of them noticed you.

Finally, you landed on the tiled roof. By memorization, the hourglass would be located in a mostly open room on the top floor. Carefully maneuvering around the roof, making sure to not make too much noise, you managed to unlock the window and pull it open.

Thankfully, it didn’t make much noise. Letting out an internal sigh of relief, you quickly tied a rope on one of the support pillars of the palace and threw it over the side of the window. Directly below the window was an obnoxiously large potted plant that would do well to hide you from view.

You briefly wondered if you’d be able to climb back up with rope one handed, but instead you figured you could bring a cord to secure the hourglass onto your belt loop.

As usual, you landed on the red wood floors without a sound. As much as you wished to stick around and admire the impressive castle you’d only ever seen in newspapers, you had a job to do.

Heart hammering, you peeked around the plant to find two guards–both with their back towards you.

It feels almost too easy, you thought as you crept towards the hourglass displayed on a pedestal.

Once you got close enough, you took a few moments to inspect the pedestal. There was a very possible chance of the hourglass being placed upon a weighted pressure plate that would set off the emergency alarms if removed, but after looking at it, the stone surface looked entirely even. There most likely wasn’t any extra security around this artifact, but in the off chance there was, you’d have to be ready to run.

Calming your mind, you swiped it quickly, preferring to take it and bolt in case the alarms went off.

You got three strides in before your luck ran out. All around you alarms had started blaring, alerting every guard on the premises. However, by that point you had already tied the glass around your waist and were ascending the rope.

You could vaguely make out the alarmed voices of the guards chasing after you, and as soon as you heaved yourself onto the roof, you sliced the rope with the knife in your boot. Two thuds and pained grunts were all you heard before you bolted.

Guards were climbing up at every point, but what they had in size and brute strength, you had in speed and agility. Being quick on your feet was like second nature–and you really should send a letter to the Royal Family to invest in some guards. These ones weren’t all that good at their job.

You hoped over them in groups, and it felt like you knew the palace layout better than they did. You knew exactly where to step and when to step, that by the time you landed on the other side of the walls, you knew you had one.

You grinned and laughed triumphantly as you jumped across the rooftops. The guards got further and further away and you blame the adrenaline in your veins for what happened next.

Suddenly, something tangled itself around your ankles, sending you tumbling to the concrete of an apartment complex.

“Son of a–” you winced, cradling the wrist you had landed on at an awkward angle.

Sitting up quickly, you reached for the rope wrapped around your ankles when a boot beat you to it.

“I don’t think that belongs to you,” the stranger spoke.

Looking up slowly, you mentally cursed yourself at the figure standing above you.

The Earth Ninja.

Why the hell were they at the palace? Why did they care about some petty robbery, wasn’t there some maniac trying to destroy the world that they should be busy with at the moment?

“What? The outfit? It doesn’t–borrowed from a friend.” You leaned back on your palms, looking up at the Earth Ninja’s strikingly gorgeous face.

He wasn’t wearing his mask tonight, leaving all his features on display–brown eyes that you guessed were a gorgeous shade of hazel in the light, shaggy but well kept hair as dark as the sky above, and a build that could rival the strength of an ox.

Cocking your head, you pushed your hood back and mask down, letting him see your roaming eyes and approving smirk.

“I need that.” He pointed to the golden hourglass at your hip. Apparently he didn’t find your jokes very funny.

“No, I need it,” you countered. “How else am I supposed to keep track of the time? I don’t have a watch.”

You shoved your hands up, rotating your wrists spastically to emphasize your point.

The Earth Ninja leaned down, but you didn’t back down. “Just hand over the glass, and I’ll tell them you dropped it trying to flee.”

You too leaned towards him, the both of you so close your noses were almost touching. In the ninja’s favor, his expression didn’t falter.

“I told you, I need it.”

“And I gave you an ultimatum,” the ninja returned, his eyes hardening. “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

“Aw, but where’s the fun in that?” You smirked with a wink.

You saw his facade crack slightly as he twitched back every so slightly. That was all the hesitation you needed.

As the two of you went back and forth, you had been discreetly severing the rope binding your legs, and you quickly wrapped them around his waist, flipping him over onto his back. The Earth Ninja landed with a harsh exhale. You leaped off of him quickly before he could counter your surprise attack.

He was a ninja, and you knew there was no way you’d be able to beat him at hand to hand combat, but you could avoid him. Your thought was proven when he was back on his feet and into a fighting stance a split second after you created distance between you and him.

The Earth Ninja raised a curious brow at you over his raised fists. “Who are you?”

“Funny I was about to ask the same thing,” you laughed. “But, I think I’ve got something that could help me out with that–Cole L. Brookstone–what’s the L for? Oh well, six-foot five inches, black hair, two hundred and ten pounds–” you broke off looking him up and down. “Well you certainly don’t look over two hundred.”

Cole’s eyes widened as he lunged for you, and the wallet in your hand. You jumped back from him easily and continued to read off his driver's license.

“Hazel eyes, nineteen years old–oh cute we’re the same age–”

“Give it back!” He demanded, reaching for you again, only for you to slide under his legs and appear behind him.

“Born on October 25th–” another attempt to grab you had you using the rope previously used on you against him, binding his wrists, and legs making him fall on his ass.

You then hopped onto the roof of the entrance hallway of the building, and sat on the edge, legs swinging in front of you.

You continued to flip through his wallet, “Restaurant receipt–you know you don’t have to keep those. Lifetime subway pass, oh you lucky bastard. Gift card you’ve probably had for three years, credit card–very shiny, one fifty in cash and–” you paused upon seeing the last item in his standard leather wallet.

Sliding your eyes down to the boy your age, you raised a brow at him, almost laughing at his red face you could see even in the dark.

“Why do you have a condom in your wallet?” You giggled.

Cole momentarily stopped struggling against the rope and had the decency to look away, embarrassed.

“Emergencies,” he grumbled, glaring up at you.

“Ah, right,” you sucked air through your teeth before tossing it back down on his lap.

Flexing his arms, he snapped the ropes like they were ribbons and did the same with the ones binding his legs.

“So, it seems we're at an impasse,” you sighed.

“No,” he stood, “we’re not.”

“Au contraire, you’ll never catch me. You had your shot, and you blew it.” You pointed at him accusingly. “I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that I’m very slippery. And I assure you–you chase, and I’ll run, and I can keep running for a damn long time.”

It would become a game of cat and mouse you knew would go on forever.

“Surely you don’t expect me to just let you walk away with a priceless artifact from the Royal Family.” Cole crossed his arms.

“Exactly–impasse.”

The stubborn boy shook his head, black waves flopping. “No, I–”

Before he could finish his sentence, the dart was already buried into his arm.

Cole startled, looking down at the tiny metal needle sticking out of his right bicep. He gave you an unimpressed look before reaching with his other hand to pluck it from his body. However, his hand was halfway there when it went limp by his side.

Cole’s brown eyes went wide as his legs too started to wobble, and shortly after the rest of his body gave away.

He once again landed on the ground with a dull thud.

Smiling slightly you gracefully jumped down from your perch and made your way over to him to retrieve your dart.

“What the hell is that?” He asked through gritted teeth.

“Just a numbing sedative,” you responded, pocketing it. “Don’t worry it’ll wear off in like an hour.”

“An hour? Hell no, help me up.”

“Hmm, tempting,” you deadpanned, but you did prop his back up against the wall of the roof in a sitting position.

Cole glared at you, and you smirked back.

“I enjoyed our little game of cat and mouse my friend,” you patted his cheek before standing to full height. “But I’m afraid I must be going. Places to be, money to be made–you know how it is.”

“Hey! Wait!” Cole called to your retreating back.

But you didn’t. Instead you leapt down to the adjacent roof and all but skipped back to Uri, happy that you weren’t caught, but you weren’t entirely mad about meeting the Earth Ninja either. Secretly, you hoped he'd track you down–where round two of your game would take place.

[horrorknife]

i keep seeing people unsure of how to interpret polle and the polle-anya relationship and it’s really pretty simple!

polle is the face to pony express. he’s a capitalistic figure—jimmy makes the comment about being “sexually excited at the sight of cartoon horses” because a) it’s technically workplace harassment and foreshadowing of him raping anya, b) it’s something he says because he knows the psych evals never get looked at, and c) polle’s face is mocking him at literally every corner on the tulpar. it’s pretty clear that working for pony express in any position is a shit job.

anya and the fetus are represented by a pony or by polle/polle amalgams. this has less to do with the widespread idea that jimmy doesn’t see anya as a person and more to do with the fact that he’s hiding behind his guilt and shame because it’s something he can’t make up an excuse for, as well as the fact that the entire situation is born of capitalism. the baby itself is a product of capitalism. if jimmy were not aboard the tulpar and curly hadn’t broken the news about them being fired so early, the assault and pregnancy could have been avoided.

jimmy wholly blames the rape on the loss of his job—anya is the only time in his hallucinations that a character is not represented with their own face. he feels EXTREMELY guilty about daisuke, and this is apparent when jim starts hallucinating the tombstones and the flowers and even daisuke himself. he’s open with himself about this because he believes daisuke’s death can be pinned on swansea instead of himself (even though he is the one truly responsible for it). with anya, jimmy can’t redirect blame. so it’s easier to overwrite her face and presence as the thing he thinks he can blame All Of This On. and to a point, that’s true—capitalism is the antagonist of mouthwashing—but not to the point jimmy wants to believe. he has to take responsibility for the things he did, trapped like a wild animal or no, and he can’t do it even up to the end.

anya is markedly NOT represented by polle in his birthday party hallucination—she’s cheering him on and calling him “our captain”. it’s clear that he valued her (and everyone else’s!) opinion of him and he’s so ashamed to have skewed that. it’s also him living his dream of having what curly has. the reason they’re all kind to him in that scene is because he really does, in the moment, think that what he’s doing/about to do is right.

it also makes sense that he’d break the polle statue; it’s motion activated and it talks, and it’s basically like having a big, speaking, motion activated statue of ronald mcdonald in the mcdonald’s break room. polle is inescapable, he’s everywhere, and jimmy fucking hates what he stands for. he blames everything on everyone else, but most of all, he’s content to put every ounce of blame onto pony express. (this also impacts the way he treats anya—pony express is cutting corners by hiring an unqualified nurse. i don’t agree w how he talks to her, obviously, but i can understand the frustration of not wanting to be treated by someone with no actual certification.) it’s why mouthwashing is so good, it’s why jimmy’s character is so good. mouthwashing is a game about how capitalism affects your humanity!!!! how you can be driven to do crazy things in crazy situations!!!

[max1461]

biden trump pretrump posttrump democracts republicans elite university cancel culture twitter yimby nimby affirmative action rent control. we didnt start the fire leftist rightists liberals grey tribe what about this? what about... oh right. ais and other tech things will come along and make everything not matter. we should do vague technocratic liberalism for two decades and then ai will turn us all into immortal simulated minds or maybe replace all labor. it's probably not important to update social structures in light of that sea change we should keep doing like technocratic market liberalism even though the very concept of like man's place in the world is about to be. yeah that makes sense did you know that affirmative action is going to undo the industrial revolution? because diversity hires won't know how to operate the machines yeah. yeah the fall of the west is coming and china is going to put all american males in those sperm machines from the porn video but we should pretty much do centrist technocratic liberalism until then. and make a really big army to kill china when they show up wait I just thought of something. I forgot what it was but the world isn't very stable it's about to change drastically according to my thing that I believe in. yeah that usually doesn't happen I know but this time my thing that I am all worried about is gonna come and get us soon but instead of preparing for that I think we should sort of do centrist technocratic liberalism kind of as if the world was gonna keep chugging along for another few centuries kind of as if everything is business as normal wait not to make the point too on the nose but I think that's cognitive dissonance. I think if you really thought trump was hitler 3 you probably would act different than you're acting I think probably if you thought uh, whatever, I think. Well I don't know what's in your head but I don't think you.

Right so look at all of it right. Not just in a caricatured way but really look at all of it. It's just been going along, right? I mean it's just been chugging along. I'm glad I don't live in 1500s france but I probably would have been fine. I mean maybe I would have got depressed because I believe in too strict a religion but I'm depressed right now. Maybe I would have died sooner but I'm gonna die anyway, I've only got 80 years anyway. What if I lived in the soviet union? I like freedom of speech but on the other hand who cares. I would have got a job and been fine. Sucks that I can't voice my opinions and shit but on the other hand whatever.

You'll be fucking fine everybody's been fine forever. You'll be fucking fine. You uh, you treat everything as business as usual because at some level. Shit is just how it is you know. I mean there's the monty python caricature of the middle ages where they all ate dirty and shit but in the real middle ages they woke up did some hard work on the farm had sex with each other died of dysentery you're gonna die of some nasty shit that will be viewed as barbaric in the future too. "Yeah but that's a bad thing!!!" too bad it's your fate. The lot of every human ever you everybody before and everybody after is to figure out how to live in a world that kind of is not going to be nice to you. And your big world ending thing is not gonna happen it's just gonna be, wake up pay taxes get sick maybe find love like it's been for everyone forever that's all there is to it. Political regimes and technological systems come and go but eating and fucking and dying and hopefully making friends is forever. There's no point in thinking about the grand story of humanity unless you're an academic it doesn't mean anything or do anything. This post is very not fully endorsed but on the other hand I think this is the corrective most people here need. Don't worry about this shit just try to make some friends and not die too bad, that's all any of us will ever have.

[wolfsong-the-bloody-beast]

@ghost-type-eevee

I can't believe somebody's actually asking for more of my rambling. That's so nice of you to say, though! Have a picture of Alistair with a lamppost I made in the DAO Toolset years ago, just because.

(Except, I don't think there are metal lampposts in Origins, so this one had to do, haha.)

As for Alistair and the Wardens, he definitely also thinks they're the good guys. Though with him, I think his beliefs come from a different dimension than Blackwall's and Wynne's.

Alistair is very young in Origins. He's 20 at best. Most importantly, though, the game gets extensively into how lonely his whole childhood was. How because he was a bastard child, he was given away to Arl Eamon as a little boy. How that was the only family he truly had back then, yet he wasn't even allowed to build a proper connection with him, because Eamon's wife didn't want him around. She was too worried he might make her look bad, and that was more important than the little boy's wellbeing. The old fool Eamon caved and gave him away. Yet again, he was abandoned. But even before that, he spent his time lonely, with Eamon's dogs for company. So, he ended up in the Chantry, undergoing training to be a templar, effectively trapped in an organization that he didn't like (And which he saw for what it was! How scary is that?), training for a job he didn't want to do. Awful place for a child. Even more awful when you know you might have to spend your whole life there. And you'd think he'd find friends there - surely there must have been other kids around his age? But coming from Arl Eamon, the other kids thought he was putting on airs, he said, so he was alone yet again. He grew up like this. Saying that it must have been absolutely miserable, probably doesn't even begin to cover it, I think.

And then... Duncan came and got him out. Impossible to imagine what that must have been like. Alistair makes it clear he genuinely believes that Duncan saved him, that he did it out of the goodness of his heart. Not only that, but Duncan also became his father figure. Among the other Wardens, he found friends, brothers. Finally, probably for the first time in his life, he had a social circle, he had company, friends. Duncan is the closest thing he'd ever had to a father. Finally, he wasn't alone.

And, in the end, what's more worthwhile than killing monsters, anyway? It sure beats decapitating terrified young mages.

But you know all that! However, I'm saying all this because... I think his opinions of the Wardens are heavily influenced by that. Especially that. The Wardens are the good guys, because that's how he's experienced them. The Wardens are friends and family. The Wardens make good things happen.

In comparison with Blackwall, though, Alistair is an actual Warden. He lives the reality of it. He saw Duncan kill Jory during the Joining ritual. He watched as the new recruits drank what's basically poison with a high chance of killing them. I don't think his ideas of the Wardens are as knightly as Blackwall's, but he still does have a high opinion of them. He would probably agree with Wynne, anyway. In part, I suppose, also simply because Alistair himself is a goody-two-shoes. And with him and the Warden being the only surviving Grey Wardens in Ferelden, who's going to be there to argue proper methods anyway?

Funnily enough, if you have Alistair as the Warden for Inquisition, it is his strong moral compass and common sense, his refusal to follow the principle that the Blight must be defeated by any means necessary, that helps put an end to Corypheus' plans and save whatever is left of the order at Adamant. He was the only one who protested agaist the Wardens making rather dubious allies, to say the least, to the point that the order started hunting him. Which led the Inquisitor to join forces with him, in the end. (Of course, the order also ends up hunting Stroud and Loghain, but I haven't had them in my game yet, so I can't speak for them.)

And yet! Despite all that, he still defends the Wardens in all the arguments they have with Hawke. He just wants the Wardens to be the good guys so much. And all things considered, I guess I can't blame him.

I'm kind of obsessed with Blackwall's idealized ideas about the Wardens. He was once picked up by a Warden and lulled by the promise of atoning for his crimes and turning his life around, only for that opportunity to slip away when the Warden not only saved him, but sacrificed his own life to do it. This whole experience makes our Blackwall become a Warden in heart, if not in blood, but with his own ideas of what a Grey Warden should be - noble, brave, inspiring, heroic, self-sacrificial. Everything he now wants to embody. He knows well that he's not there, but he wants nothing more than to start from scratch and be that.

In his beliefs, he reminds me a bit of Wynne in Origins who tells the Warden at some point that the Grey Wardens are supposed to be more than killing machines and weapons against the blight.

“There’s more to being a Grey Warden than killing darkspawn and saving the world from the Blight. Ultimately, being a Grey Warden is about serving others, about serving all people, whether elves or dwarves or men. As a Grey Warden, you are a guardian of men. And you guard them because their continued existence is more important than you are.”

However, we know that's not exactly how it works. That's what they want the Wardens to be. The light against darkness. The shield against monsters.

Although it's not entirely wrong, either, I suppose, all things considered. The more darkspawn they obliterate and push back, the more people are protected from them. Of course, sacrificing their lives to fight literal monsters, which means those same monsters don't eat everybody's kids, ultimately is heroic, and it's something that must have been born out of the need to protect the world and its inhabitants (from the Blight). But to have idealized opinions of the Wardens to this degree, you have to ignore all the other shady stuff and the mentality we, as players, also know the Wardens for. The fact that the Wardens are primarily weapons to slay darkspawn, prevent and end Blights, by any means necessary. The last part is important. After all, they are the Grey Wardens, not the White Wardens. They recruit from all walks of life and are famous for taking in criminals. Not to redeem themselves and get a second chance at life, but because they usually have nowhere to go and nothing left to lose. It's not a coincidence that each of the Origins gets chosen by Duncan, not only because he sees them as capable, but also because they are in a situation they can't escape from. Either they join the Wardens, or they're done for.

We know the Wardens from a few games now, but does the public in the setting even know? Does the average person have any idea how far the Wardens are willing to go? Besides grand stories of slaying monsters in the dark and preventing the end of the world? Probably not. The order is very secretive. And it explains a lot. The Wardens end up sounding almost romantic, when being a Warden is anything but. Is it ignorance talking out of these characters? Perhaps.

It once again shows us this aspect of Dragon Age where you can't take everything a character says as a fact, because the setting is full of people who have no idea what they're talking about, but who are absolutely convinced that they do.

And yet, I can't help but also like Wynne's and Blackwall's romantic ideas about what the Wardens are or should be, almost knights in shining armour and all that. They're fairy tales, but they're beautiful fairy tales. And I can't fault the characters for wanting to believe it or even live it. Especially in case of Blackwall, who sees it as a way to make up for the crimes he committed, somewhat. In the end, this might actually be a bigger draw to join the Wardens than, "Got nowhere to go? Come suffer horribly and probably die gruesomely with us!" It all sounds great on paper, though. I can't fault Davrin for trying to find purpose in life by becoming a monster hunter, either.

And maybe a little bit of idealism doesn't hurt. Not only it's good motivation, but in the end, doing things by "any means necessary" doesn't always pay off, either. It led the Wardens into all kinds of trouble, like getting tricked into employing dangerous forms of blood magic and demon summoning, basically into doing their enemy's work for them. In their determination to win at any cost, they helped trigger a cataclysmic event. Maybe having some principles isn't so bad after all.

In the end, I can appreciate that we get to see the clash of the old and new blood in Veilguard, where there's hope for the order to transform into an organization that's less secretive, less exclusive, and hopefully less prone to letting corruption spread through its ranks and make other devastating mistakes. Duncan once said that letting people join the Wardens isn't an "act of charity", and I like how Evka and Antoine go, "Yeah, you know what? Fuck that." And that likely inspires more loyalty. I imagine Blackwall would like that.

[littledeathlittleghost]

My big Natemare headcanon EXPLAINED

(Real Not Fake!)

Okay so I have been talking a Lot about Mare recently but I haven’t really explained what exactly I think his backstory and motives are? So this is just gonna be a big post of me explaining my headcanon because I NEED to get it out of my head.

———

So for starters, I believe Natemare is actually Nate from FNAF the Musical. It makes sense to me; his relationship with Matt— or Henry— being the prime example.

Natemare is the product of Nate getting extreme anxiety and paranoia after the whole Freddy’s thing. Henry had put him through so much. He saw someone’s face get eaten off, watched a guy die, almost died multiple times, got chased down and threatened by the Evil Dirtbag With A Chainsaw™️, and that’s only the stuff we KNOW ABOUT. I’m sure going through something like that would be absolutely horrifying, even though he did handle it really well in the actual series.

After Henry got jailed and threatened to come find and kill Nate, even though he looked super chill about it I’m sure some anxiety would creep over into his mind. In the musical he was shown to be really easily scared or creeped out by things even though he keeps a cool head.

My headcanon is that Nate started absolutely falling apart after a while as Henry’s sentence got closer and closer to ending (of which wasn’t very long in the first place, a few years at most). People who don’t realize they’re this paranoid and this much of a danger to themselves don’t really think about getting help, on top of the fact that Nate’s character seems like the kind of guy to not worry about his own problems as much as everyone else’s. This would eventually lead into a deteriorating mental state caused by this paranoia of something like Freddy’s happening again at the hands of the same man.

This is also what I believe to be the origins of his “tear marks.” I like to think they’re actually scars, caused by scratching of the face and neck or pulling at the eyes, which are both signs of extreme anxiety (that I personally suffer from, just not as seriously). Them being so prominent are probably just them covered up with purple makeup because LOOK at him. He wears so much eyeshadow. Look.

So after years of Nate slowly devolving like this, Henry’s sentence would either be over or he’d get out on good behavior (because he’s a manipulative dickbag). Obviously his first thought would be to go kill Nate and most likely steal his identity, but Nate wouldn’t let that happen. He’d think that it would be better to capture Henry before he could do anything and TORTURE him, just as he used to torture Nate by making him work at that (literal) hellscape of a restaurant and getting him caught in that whole situation. Also hence the whole FNAF themed kidnapping-set.

But he became exactly what Henry was/is, a lunatic hellbent on sadism to make himself feel better.

That’s my whole HC for Natemare :P I hope it’s cool and fun and I’m cool and fun. Thanks for reading 🔥

[always-a-joyful-note]

Shoutout to ORV for letting the fictional and real world merge and keeping it that way and taking it a step further by reuiniting all the characters regardless of what worldline or reality they come from. Yes, your sacrifices matter and they change things and the people you came to love in either reality are so important enough to die for yet partings are a part of life BUT the webnovel really said that while they matter, your sacrifice doesn't have to end with death. You CAN be brought back. Maybe you don't "deserve" to live but maybe you're loved enough that it doesn't matter. And maybe you can be part of two worlds, one that you loved already and another that you came to see still had good in it

[ganondoodle]

kind of expected that the ability breakdown wouldnt get that much traction (especially on twitter bc if it doesnt do well in the first few hours it might as well be dead) but what i didnt need to wake up to was looking at my twitter notifications and thinking there was a long comment on it at first but then i read it and it turned out to be some guy having dug up one of my old totk tweets where i talked about how zelda was treated-

and if a quote retweet with a thread attached already starts with "this entitled brat didnt understand that zelda was being a history nerd by being in the past and getting to experience it herself" with two screenshots attached of the end of totk with zelda staring at the cam all uwu (which has ??? to do with their point??) i dont even want to know what else was in that thread

if thats how the majority of the fandom is then im even less surprised that nintendy doesnt even have to try to write anything good :I

ah yes, i am a game nerd, and by putting me in a game where i stand around doing puppy dog eyes while being shoved around by NPCs is me being a game nerd OBVIOSULY

[free-fart-avenue]

But they also know who he is.

At the end they hear about how he's from "another dimention" and want to know more, what if he meets with Sans briefly and asks if they should share Everything, Most things, or just make things up, then Papyrus and/or Frisk come over and remind them the hell they (almost entirely Geno) went through to just learn the lession that

They can depend on and tell their friends things. They don't have to lie about who Geno is because that would For Sure lead to more isolation.

Maybe Papyrus and Frisk don't even need to be there. Geno and Sans are both very smart and know that their friends, with being so strong already and now having a happy ending, could handle knowing that Geno was Sans. They both talk and figure that, nah, lying and hiding things is how they got here. How Geno got here, existed in the first place.

It could go either way, and would be up to whoever makes this into an actual thing if they do.

The others would have issues though. But maybe Geno's voice is more hoarse? Can you imagine how much he might have cried over.. everything? Watching his family and friends die, not being able to do anything, but he could probably deal with that, he knew something like that would happen long ago. But with how much he tried to convince himself just to be abandoned when his only hope of ending the pain gets taken from him again and again and Again.

Torriel would know Sans and Geno apart the best, Geno sounds sadder, but he puts more effort into talking then Sans does. Geno's voice is more tense.

Once the others all learn about and accept the fact that Sans and Geno were the same person, they can help show Geno how he is an individual, and one who lost all he cared about, just to get it replaced with copies.

Undyne keeps looking at him, he is quieter and he thinks maybe she is trying to see how they are the same, or how they're different, but then one day she approaches and tells him her thoughts.

She couldn't imagine losing all her friends, she'd make sure that'd never happen. But right in front of her, Sans did let that happen, but got everything back by going through hell. She probably doesn't think it was all bad that Geno went through the hell he did because that was what it took for her best friend's brother to actually open up to those around him.

I can keep going with just Undyne's pov, but this is about Geno.

With him trying harder to be open to his friends, he can confide his guilt and shame into them, he can tell them how he feels and what he thinks and they can help.

He probably would spend time with his aquentences more, but if he is able to grieve the loss of his world, his family and friends, and even his own identity, all with the support of his friends and brothers, then it could be a healthy change, one because he is a different person from Sans, and he can have different.

Maybe he gets closer to them first and they help him work through his pain, that seems more likely.

They all have a lot to work through, and I can keep going, but this is getting long and I'm getting tired, so I'll make less sense and say dumb stuff.

do you think geno post-aftertale gets guilty for "replacing" his papyrus with the current one (and by extension everyone else). like yeah there's A papyrus here and he's his brother along with sans but he's still wearing the scarf of his papyrus.

the papyrus he failed to protect.

and like sure since the timeline reset technically the current papyrus IS his papyrus but both geno and sans being here could probably mess with him.

he knows he's here because of determination but maybe sometimes he can't help but look at the scarf he's wearing and papyrus and feel an immense sense of guilt

that's not to mention how everyone will think of him as a stranger. can you imagine they're all hanging out and then undyne tells geno something that sans did. but he already knows that because he did that but that's weird to say. "oh yeah i remember that i did that." they dont know that, you're not their sans.

does toriel sometimes get unsettled by how sans and geno's voice sounds the exact same. how often would she mistake the two at first when they're talking out of sight. how often do they get mistaken in general? and when they do get mistaken do people always assume it's sans and never geno?

like yeah aftertale had a happy ending but there's still so much to explore after it. how does geno adjust to being in the real world again (and on the surface at that). how does geno deal with his identity. does he keep his name? does he explain who exactly he is to the others or does he let that go unspoken? does he sometimes look at sans and get jealous he didn't have to go through everything that he did to get this happy ending and then feel bad for getting jealous?

i think it would be nice for geno to hang out with people that are less familiar with sans but still people he knows, like asgore, mettaton, napstablook, etc. there'd be less of that "i know sans well but you're almost like a stranger". it's simpler with acquaintances because they simply don't know either of them well enough. so geno doesn't have to be worried about being compared all the time, consciously or not

[ayrennaranaaldmeri]

man the dev notes w/ the stormshore tabernacle convo. whatever they're there for it's kind of remarkable how so much of the notes there for her are just textbook abuser stuff.

[wonder-worker]

During [the spring and summer of 1141], a number of contemporary narrative sources agreed that Matilda’s sudden and unexpected success went straight to her head. Matilda’s most renowned modern biographer has suggested that “conduct acceptable in a powerful king . . . was not acceptable in a ‘Lady of the English’. This line of reasoning can be taken quite a bit further. It is clear that contemporaries expected Matilda to emulate the behavior of those women who had previously held the rank of regina, and act like a queen consort while performing the office of king. Most queens consort, however, did not have to consolidate recognition of their position as Matilda was constrained to do. Nearly all the chroniclers who had marveled at her assumption of power turned on her immediately. Not surprisingly, the Gesta Stephani took the greatest exception:

She at once put on an extremely arrogant demeanor instead of the modest gait and bearing proper to the gentle sex, began to walk and speak and do all things more stiffly and more haughtily than she had been wont.

But other more sympathetic chroniclers also joined this chorus of disapproval: Henry of Huntington described her as “elated with insufferable pride” while the Worcester chronicler noted her “hard heart” as she strove to consolidate her position. Had she been a man, Matilda’s decidedly authoritarian style might have passed for a regal show of strength. Indeed, Matilda probably felt that if she was to hold on to her newly acquired status, she needed to behave like a king. Thus, Matilda’s forward movement from recognition of her status to the execution of her office was fraught with gendered difficulties concerning how a woman ought to conduct herself.

...As she anticipated her crowning, Matilda strove to consolidate her dynastic claims and establish her authority. It seems reasonable to suppose that Matilda looked to her father and her first husband for examples of successful kingship as she did for representational purposes. Both Emperor Henry V and King Henry I were suspicious, uncompromising, relentless, and ruthless in the pursuit of their aims. Probably both would have advised Matilda to follow their example. This was exactly what St. Bernard told Queen Melisende of Jerusalem following the death of her husband: “show the man in the woman; order all things . . . so that those who see you will judge your works to be those of a king rather than a queen.” Much of Matilda’s behavior during the spring and summer of 1141 can be explained as the emulation of male gendered kingship. But kings had the built-in advantage of female consorts to soften the more hardboiled aspects of their rule; Matilda had played that very role herself for her first husband. Nevertheless, in 1141, Matilda eschewed the feminine aspects of queenship completely, in effect negating what could have been useful symbolism to bolster the construction of her authority. But for Matilda to be perceived as a soft, forgiving, and gentle woman at the one moment she needed to consolidate her position at the top of a male dominant political society would not have been practical.

But by constructing herself as a female feudal lord, and emulating male gendered kingship, Matilda annoyed contemporary observers. The chroniclers’ hostility may have been due to the fact that Matilda was claiming kingly sovereignty for herself alone, and not in association with either her husband or her eldest son. The Gesta Stephani described Matilda as not only arrogant, but also spurning the advice of her chief advisors, the earl of Gloucester, her uncle King David of Scotland, and the “kingmaker” himself, the Bishop of Winchester. The Gesta implied that if Matilda had behaved as a deferential woman, and heeded the counsel of her male advisors, she could have devised a means to permanently depose Stephen, and be crowned and anointed in his place. The Gesta placed Matilda’s ultimate failure at her own door, blaming it on her arrogant reliance on her inferior, womanly intellect and emotions.

Matilda’s hard-line stance, acceptable in a male king, bothered the authors of the Worcester chronicle and the Gesta, suggesting that contemporaries were confused by what they wanted the “Lady of the English” to do, indicating that, as a woman and a domina, she should behave gently like a queen rather than forcefully like a king. Combined, all the chroniclers, with the exception of Malmesbury, suggested that Matilda should have used the intercessory powers of queenship to set Stephen free, moderated the harsher aspects of her father’s rule, and excused the Londoners from financial support. Although a more diplomatic approach might have helped, freeing Stephen at that moment in time would have realistically served no practical purpose in establishing Matilda’s authority. And, in denying Eustace his inheritance, Matilda was only imitating the efforts of her father, Henry I, who also dealt harshly with challengers to his throne. Henry I kept his elder brother Robert Curthose in prison until he died, and prevented his nephew, William Clito, Curthose’s heir, from gaining any aspect of the Anglo-Norman inheritance. Matilda wished to convince her contemporaries that she was quite capable of being a king, but their reactions betrayed hostility toward her as a woman presuming to establish kingly authority.

-Charles Beem, "Empress Matilda and Female Lordship", The Lioness Roared: The Problems of Female Rule in English History"

[thedrotter]

Re:Kinder Fun Facts of the day☺️!!! Have you ever wondered who talks the most from the main cast in Re:Kinder?? Well, I did😊. Today I'll be answering this question with some graphs and as a bonus telling you what words each character uses the most! I will warn you, this will be a bit long and I don't know how to be less verbose so, yeah!!!

First, I've made some basic rules as to what I counted regarding how much the characters speak. Not all lines really count as speaking, after all.

Any of the incoherent screaming lines don't count. There's a lot of screaming since the characters die a lot (as expected for a horror RPG game), but I don't really count that as speaking unless they're saying proper words. In that same vein, I didn't really count any of the panting or sniffing and such that are conveyed through words. Again, I don't really see that as a character actively speaking their thoughts!

If I cannot tell who a line belongs to, I will not give it to anyone. This happens for certain lines, so I felt this rule was important.

I won't be counting repetitions of the same line if it's on a variation of the same scene. This may sound a bit strange, but when a character dies, the game goes on to the same next scene it would regardless (unless the scene that follows it is an ending), with variations and new lines here and there to account for the dead character, but a lot will be reused and placed in the exact same beats it normally would have been in originally. So, this rule is here for that. Oh, and also the scenes with bits of Yuuichi's backstory that appear in Shunsuke's head won't be counted twice, because some appear twice line by line.

Of course, the "..." lines won't count. I am so sorry Aya!!!!😞

Now that the ground rules have been set, there's just one thing I want to mention. Though I will count all the total lines for Takumi and Yuuichi like any other character, I just want to mention that first I will have two separate counts for them! Takumi | Takumiel and Yuuichi | Yuuichi's Heart respectively.

Takumiel is separate because I was curious about how much Takumi spoke as an archangel compared to when he was alive. Yuuichi's Heart is because he speaks so much he feels notable enough to be given his own division, even if he and Yuuichi at the end of the day are one person

(I count the silly mind telepathy where Shunsuke is being directly spoken to [and being told things normal Yuu would avoid saying at that point] and the comical theater as Yuuichi's Heart. I clarify in case one assumes he only starts being counted the moment he's directly labelled as Yuuichi's Heart. Any line that can't be distinguished between Yuuichi's Heart and Yuuichi will be given to Yuuichi by default.)

With nothing else to be clarified let's get to the numbers!!!😊😊

First, the line counts with Takumiel and Yuuichi's Heart counted individually!! Here are the rankings:

Shunsuke (With a lead of 535 lines over second place!!)

Yuuichi

Rei

Yuuichi's Heart

Hiroto

Ryou

Sayaka

Aya

Takumi

Takumiel

You may be thinking— woah, does Shunsuke really speak that much?! You could say that, for a good chunk of those lines are from how he describes interactable points around the map and his inner thoughts, so they aren't all exactly said out loud. The benefit of being the protagonist, I suppose ww

Funny enough, Yuuichi's Heart has almost as many lines as Yuuichi does for not having that much time in the game, being on the higher end between the characters that don't get the benefit of being a protagonist (lol)!

Admittedly I had expected for Rei and Hiroto to have a more similar amount of lines given their nearly equal amount of presence, but for what it is Rei surpassed Hiroto by 51 lines! I also had expected for Takumiel to speak a little bit more than Takumi but turns out the opposite is true.

While the lack of lines of Takumi and Takumiel are to be expected due to their short time on the game, what stands out is Aya not even reaching triple digits between her other peers who are in there for most of the game. This is because a good chunk of Aya's lines in game are silence!^^" And thus weren't counted. If ellipses were a word, she surely would have reached triple digits, but unfortunately they're not.

Now the line count with combined sums of Takumi | Takumiel and Yuuichi | Yuuichi's Heart!!!

In here, the ranking isn't affected, with Yuuichi remaining second place and Takumi being last place. But the disparity of everyone's numbers compared to Takumi's feels a bit more clear to see when Takumiel isn't individually counted.

With Yuuichi's line counts combined, Shunsuke remains 318 lines ahead of him, but it also means Yuuichi has a 59% the amount of Shunsuke's lines; and impressive feat for someone who doesn't get the benefit of being the point of view for everything you press... Although he does also have an upper hand over everyone by essentially being the plot of this game ww

But maybe line counts do not suffice to tell how much a character speaks. Yes, Shunsuke has a bunch of lines from everything he interacts with, but is it really reliable to say he speaks all that much in all those lines? A good chunk of those could easily have 3 words each! So with this in mind, let's do a word count.

Even in a word count, Shunsuke has the lead, having a lead of 2,247 words over second place. But we'll see about that when we combine Yuuichi's numbers. Anyway, here's the ranking!

Shunsuke

Yuuichi's Heart

Yuuichi

Rei

Hiroto

Ryou

Sayaka

Aya

Takumi

Takumiel

This time, Yuuichi's Heart is the one at second place!!! It's pretty funny that he speaks more than his physical counterpart ww. I genuinely didnt think he'd out yap himself that way when I chose to count for him individually 😭!!! He has a lead of 63 words over himself, but a lead nonetheless.

In here, Rei and Hiroto are more even than in the line counts, with the difference seeming more minimal when put into words. But it also showcases that despite Rei having more lines than Yuuichi's Heart in the line count, those only get to have a bit over half of the amount of words he talks (To be fair he does get to infodump a lot in his section of the game).

And here's the combined word count!!! Suddenly Shunsuke's lead is only by a mere 55 words! So Yuuichi speaks about as much as he does with 318 less lines.

I must admit that I genuinely did not expect it to be that close. When I chose to count the lines for when you interact with things for Shunsuke, I thought he was granted to speak an absurd amount more than anyone else. But turns out that Yuuichi speaks about the same amount out loud when most of Shunsuke's are his own thoughts ww. But it does make sense! He is still the plot of this game.

So, after all those charts, here's the average/middle point of lines and words for characters to have, because why not, it's fun.

Average Line Count (YH and Takumiel counted individually): 197 lines

Average Line Count (When combined): 247 lines

Average Word Count (YH and Takumiel counted individually): 1,333 words

Average Word Count (When combined): 1,666 words

So there it is. That's how much the characters in Re:Kinder speak!

But wait!!! I am not done. I will share with you an additional fun fact... Did you ever want to know what word each of these characters said the most?! This one will be quicker, I do promise.

When it came to counting these words I did not count stop words, that being common words that are used all the time by everyone in English. "I, you, me, the, to, a, my, your, yes, no"... Words like that! Otherwise everyone would have one of those as their most said word and it'd be rather boring to look at. With that said, here are the words these characters say the most!

Shunsuke: Yuuichi - said 40 times! (this genuinely confused me so much im sorry he uses interjections so much I had expected it to be something like "huh" or "um" but no i dont know how this passed by me as i was rounding up all the lines he says or proofreading or writing all of those lines WHAT?!?! its been two days and it still takes me out)

Ryou: Shunsuke - Said 14 times

Sayaka: Murderer - Said 7 times (All in one sentence!)

Takumi | Takumiel (counted in one for how little he speaks.): Takumiel - Said 3 times (That name is so important, he said it thrice.)

Aya: Sorry - Said 5 times

Rei: Hell, gonna, look, Yuuchi - said 8 times (Most of the repeated words she says are stop words for she doesn't tend to speak about the same things repeatedly.)

Hiroto: Shunsuke - Said 17 times

Yuuichi (separate from YH): Problem - Said 17 times

Yuuichi's Heart: Mama - Said 24 times

Yuuichi (Overall): Mama - Said 31 times

So that is finally it. That is the fun fact of today.😊😊 Use this to woe your friends at parties!!!

I am aware Mami speaks about enough to be counted in, but this is pretty time consuming to do and I'm not sure anyone is invested on her enough to count her in. But if there's enough curiosity regarding that, I'll try counting her in. But for now this suffices.☺️ Thanks for reading!

[yellllowstar]

slowly I'm recovering the beauty of discovery

(creature by half•alive)

(textless + timelapse below cut)