okay but where is the “woke up in vegas accidentally married” willmack fics?? because the possibilities are endless, and i need them all injected directly into my bloodstream. like, off the cuff i can think of so many narratives please you understand -
like the oh-shit-we-can’t-tell-anyone marriage. they have no idea what to do about it, but they’re also… married?? and divorce sounds complicated?? so they’re just like “uh… wanna keep sleeping together until we figure this out?” and surprise! it evolves into an actual relationship (shocker!). and suddenly they’re unironically dropping “i’ve gotta check with my husband” around the team because they've moved on from the horrors of this is a fake marriage and have gotten their lives togehter and are like Yeah! We're Married!, and everyone assumes it’s a bit because of the fan edits/rpf until the pikachu-face moment when they realize, no mack is being dead serious, actually, when he's like gotta ask my husband because he drove us. (macks not asking will anything because what he wants is to get will home and underneath him. or over him. he's not picky)
or there’s the peak comedy where they find out because will's scheduling mack's dentist appointment post-teeth knock out and he's in the locker room like, “yeah, i'm calling for my husband...he's a hockey player, and his teeth are partially knocked out. yeah, it’s macklin celebrini-smith, um, m-a-c-k-l-i-n c-e-l-e-b-r-i-n-i, hyphen, then smith with an i. um, we're gonna need that appointment, like, tomorrow. i know it's a saturday.” or alternatively is the one taking the call from robyn, and is like, assuring her that mack's fine and that he's being taken care of and will finally is like "robyn, i'm his husband, i can take care of him and no, we dont need you to come down...thank you for offering though."
or or or: the oh-no-there’s-video of their preseason vegas chaos post preseason win, champagne bottles popped, sloppy makeouts on the streets and groping thats filmed in what could be 4k, and suddenly they’re in a “fake” relationship that’s absolutely not fake. paparazzi everywhere (wills like "i didnt sign up for this, i'm not a kardashian, im just a BC comm's major with my BU undecided major husband" to literally anyone who approaches them when off hockey-duty) media screaming about the first gay couple in the league (while will’s also like, “hi, I’m bi, thanks”). PR ships them off on a short “honeymoon” because “it’ll calm the narrative.” press release says something like “william and macklin intended to marry next summer (lie); vegas simply expedited the timeline.” and now will is in milan acting as supportive hockey husband because mack made team canada. also they’re having sex because “well we’re married, and i’m not cheating on you.” and the funniest part? they never seriously consider divorcing. they’re just like yeah, we did this backwards but whatever, we’re in love. no rick, we do not need a lawyer. yes rick, i did buy your son a fancy off-ice ring, isn't it wonderful? mack loves it
or, consider the absolute disaster version: “we got married and had sex, so we can’t annul it… right? like we can’t just lie about that, because we had sex, and only you and i know that, but still annulling it would technically be lying, right, mack? we’d be lying to a judge. that’s a sin. probably. definitely. it can’t be annulled, right? right??” and mack’s just standing there like “i didn’t mean to cheat???” while will’s over here whisper-yelling “i’m not telling anyone you cheated, but also… we’re married?? so now what??”
anyway someone write an accidental vegas marriage fic, even if they're nothing like any of these half-brained musings....preferably something long but i would literally take anything. i’m starving for it
Not because she gets busy, although she does. Not because she forgets, although she tells herself that is part of it. Not even because the conversation runs dry, because it does not. It lingers there in her phone, warm and stupid and oddly easy, which is precisely the problem.
It is intentional.
Just one of those decisions that hardens inside her all at once, almost before she realises she has made it.
Because after the messages, after letting herself relax into something light and unguarded for the first time in a while, the rest comes naturally. The recoil. The inventory. The familiar tightening in her chest.
Of course it occurs to her.
The possibility that the conversation does not stay there.
A screenshot is all it takes. One print. Two. A funny little post on Twitter or one of the other unholy places on the internet. Her name in someone’s mouth. Her bad English dissected. The fact she answered at all. Then the edits. The comments. The fans. The haters. The people who love her and who wait around to feel entitled to her.
It builds quickly in her head because these things always do.
A little private exchange turned into content.
A small, human moment held up under fluorescent light until it looks ridiculous.
It has never happened, not really. Not like that. But only because Alexia has spent years making sure it does not. Careful with her image, her words, her face. Careful with what she gives and how much. People see what she wants them to see. Or enough of it that the difference barely matters.
It is work. It is discipline. It is survival, some days.
So maybe she thinks too much after every little conversation.
Maybe she gets too far inside her own head.
Maybe she has built such a careful system around herself that even a harmless message thread starts to look like a crack in the wall.
Her reasons are her own.
She does not answer again.
And there is, technically, one more message.
So short she almost misses it.
A notification flashes on her screen one afternoon between physio and media. When she taps into the thread later, it is gone. Deleted. Whatever it was, the stranger thought better of it.
Alexia stares at the little note that says the message was unsent and feels something small and unpleasant twist in her stomach.
Then she closes the app.
And waits.
For the screenshot.
For Mapí to send her a link with six laughing emojis and no context.
For Alba to text what is this.
For her own name to drift across her feed attached to one grainy image of the chat and a thousand stupid opinions.
Nothing happens.
One day passes.
Then another.
Then five.
No screenshot on Twitter. No stitched TikTok edit with music under it. No fan account posting look who Alexia is talking to. No Reddit thread. No gossip. No sign anywhere that the stranger has taken that odd little exchange and done what almost everyone does now, which is turn it outward. Package it. Share it. Flatten it into proof of access.
The internet stays quiet.
Alexia, against her will, notices.
She notices it in the same way she notices pain that does not come. Carefully. Suspiciously. Waiting for it anyway.
Still nothing.
It surprises her more than it should.
Because the truth is, if anyone on earth had the right to make a joke out of the whole thing, it would have been this person.
It was humiliating enough. Absurd enough.
There would have been an audience for it.
Look what I did. Look who answered me. Look how insane this was.
Instead there is nothing.
Silence.
Privacy, kept intact.
And that unsettles Alexia more than it should.
Not because it means anything huge. Only because it is rare.
This stranger, for all the chaos, understood where the line was.
Or maybe did not even have to understand it. Maybe they just had it.
Alexia thinks about that more than she should.
About the fact that someone can seem so disorganised and still be discreet. That someone can be messy without being careless.
Then training goes badly.
Not catastrophic. Nothing explodes. Nobody gets injured. But one of those sessions where everything feels half a second off. Passes just behind the runner. Touch too heavy. Legs stubborn. Head louder than it needs to be. The kind of day where even water tastes annoying.
By the time she gets home she feels scraped thin.
The flat is quiet. Her body is tired in that dense, inward way. She showers, changes, walks barefoot into the kitchen, opens the fridge, closes it again. Stares for a while at nothing.
Her phone is on the counter.
She looks at it.
Looks away.
Then back again.
There is no grand decision in it. No speech. Just a small, selfish want.
She wants to laugh.
That is all.
Not the laugh she gives teammates, or interviewers, or the careful social version of herself.
A real one. Sharp and private. The kind that catches her by surprise.
Her thumb moves before she has fully justified it.
The thread opens exactly where she left it.
No complaints. No needy follow-up messages. No passive-aggressive question marks. Just the old exchange, and the one deleted message, sitting there like a door she closed herself.
Alexia stares at it for a second.
Then types:
@alexiaputellas: you make the soup?
She sends it before she can reconsider.
The reply comes fast enough that she knows the stranger is online.
@jisthejones: jesus christ
Then, almost immediately:
@jisthejones: sorry. hello.
@jisthejones: i thought i’d been put down behind the shed
Alexia snorts. Doesn’t know what shed even means.
But there you are.
Exactly the same voice. Same tumble of embarrassment and jokes arriving in the wrong order.
She leans one hip against the counter and types back with one thumb.
@alexiaputellas: what is shed
The answer is instant.
@jisthejones: just being put on the back burner
Alexia resists the urge to just Google it. Seems like a lot of effort for one stranger, which she does not want to admit to.
Instead:
@alexiaputellas: ?
@jisthejones: forgot me.
That gets a little twist inside her chest. Not sure why. Small, but real.
Then another message arrives almost immediately, like they are already done with it:
@jisthejones: and yes i made the soup eventually
@jisthejones: it became a matter of pride
Alexia types:
@alexiaputellas: tell me onion story
Adds:
@alexiaputellas: please
The typing bubble appears at once.
@jisthejones: right
@jisthejones: so i wanted to make onion soup
@jisthejones: proper onion soup. not sad water with ideas above its station
@jisthejones: and i somehow managed to go to 3 different shops and forget onions in all of them
@jisthejones: which sounds impossible and yet
@jisthejones: by the third shop i was so focused on bread and stock and not buying carrots that looked depressing that i forgot the only thing i actually needed
@jisthejones: then i got home and wanted to launch myself into traffic
Alexia’s mouth twitches.
@alexiaputellas: because one onion
The answer comes back at once.
@jisthejones: because MANY onions actually
@jisthejones: that was the whole issue
Then, before Alexia can reply, a new notification appears.
@jisthejones sent a photo you can view once
Alexia goes still.
Her whole body tightens automatically.
Photo.
From a stranger.
The reflex is old now. Immediate. Unpleasant.
Too many years of opening messages from people who think fame is permission. Too many unsolicited surprises. Too many things she did not ask to see and definitely did not want.
Her thumb hovers over the screen.
For one second she considers not opening it at all.
Then another message comes through before she can decide.
@jisthejones: actually no sorry ignore that
@jisthejones: i’m just some lunatic in your phone
Alexia blinks at the screen.
Then, despite herself, laughs.
The stranger has somehow managed to reject themself on Alexia’s behalf in real time.
A normal picture appears almost immediately after.
@jisthejones: this is less threatening
Alexia opens it.
A hand giving a thumbs-up in front of five onions spread across a kitchen counter.
There are other ingredients scattered around them. Bread. A carton of stock. Butter. Something green in a bag. The photo is dimly lit, clearly taken at night, the sort of kitchen picture sent by someone too tired to care how ugly the lighting is.
And in the bottom corner, near the floor, there are two round eyes staring upward from the dark.
Alexia narrows her eyes.
Then types:
@alexiaputellas: floor has eyes
The reply is immediate.
@jisthejones: oh FUCK
Then:
@jisthejones: wait no
@jisthejones: that’s taco
Another picture arrives.
A dachshund, or something dachshund-adjacent and deeply unfortunate, staring up at the camera with mournful black eyes. Brown, sausage-shaped, visibly overweight. Sitting beside a kitchen cabinet like a man who has lost everything except his appetite.
Alexia actually laughs out loud.
@alexiaputellas: poor dog is close to exploding
The answer takes a little longer this time.
Long enough that Alexia imagines the stranger offended on the dog’s behalf.
Then:
@jisthejones: first of all that’s rude
@jisthejones: second of all yes he is
@jisthejones: but we’re working on it
@jisthejones: i adopted him from a shelter about 5 months ago when i was having a rough time and made a series of terrible but heartfelt choices
@jisthejones: i got drunk and signed up for their most problematic dog
@jisthejones: which in hindsight feels like asking the universe to be funny
@jisthejones: and they gave me taco who is diabetic and kinda looks like a seal
@jisthejones: he’s already lost half a pound though so
@jisthejones: progress
Alexia reads that twice.
Something in her softens.
Not dramatically. Just enough.
There it is again. That same strange mismatch.
Chaos, yes. But not carelessness.
The kind of person who gets drunk, contacts a shelter, and asks for the most difficult dog because something in them cannot stand the idea of the difficult one being left behind.
It is reckless. Generous. A little ridiculous.
Also, Alexia thinks, unexpectedly sweet.
She looks again at the sausage dog and his tragic little face.
Types ‘seal’ on her phone and the corresponding emoji shows up. Actually, the similarity is uncanny.
Then types:
@alexiaputellas: seal is right 🦭
@alexiaputellas: sweet you keep him
Three dots.
@jisthejones: yeah well
@jisthejones: i’m annoyingly loyal once i’ve decided something
@jisthejones: terrible trait really
Alexia smiles at that. Small and private.
Annoyingly loyal.
Yes. She can believe that.
The thread goes quiet for a moment. Not awkward. Just breathing.
Then Alexia writes, before she can decide not to. Because calling this person ‘stranger’ inside her mind is getting annoying and also... are they a woman? Man? Alien?
@alexiaputellas: what is your name?
The typing bubble appears almost instantly.
@jisthejones: christ right yes
@jisthejones: jude
@jisthejones: j as in jude. jude jones
A beat:
@jisthejones: pls don’t use my name for fraud.
Alexia looks at the name on the screen.
Jude.
Says it out loud. “Jude.”
Not quite sure she is saying it right. Also very gender-neutral. How annoying. Relents and goes to the translator just to hear the sound of it. Sounds terrible.
But it fits, somehow. Or maybe she is only telling herself that because now she finally has something more solid than @jisthejones and shopping lists.
Another message appears.
@jisthejones: seems only fair now
@jisthejones: i made my account public for a minute if you want to stalk properly
Alexia lets out a quiet laugh through her nose.
The audacity of saying it out loud.
She hesitates for a second.
Because admitting to stalking and looking at photos means interest. And until now she could still pretend this was just a casual anecdote. Something stupid to entertain herself with late at night. A strange little thread. A funny mess in her phone. Nothing serious when you do not know each other beyond words on a screen.
But attaching a face to it...
Her fingers twitch over the screen.
She is not, by nature, a particularly curious person. Not the kind who needs to know everything, who clicks through strangers out of boredom or builds whole lives out of scraps. But she feels it now. The pull of it. The need to put a face to the mess on the other side.
Would not hurt to know, would it.
It is not intimate. It is not a big step.
And it is only fair, with Alexia’s own profile sitting open for the whole world to see.
She taps before she can convince herself otherwise.
She can blame the shitty day. The late hour. The private, stupid looseness of the night.
The profile does not say much.
Just Jude and a line of emojis that mean nothing to Alexia except that one of them is a knife, which feels somehow right. The account is sparse. Ten photos, maybe thirteen. Not enough to build a person from. Enough to start.
Five of them are Taco.
Not even good photos of Taco. Different unflattering angles of the same stout little body, as if Jude has made a personal project out of documenting the dog’s least dignified moments. One of him half under a table. One of him asleep upside down, all belly and limp paws. One where he looks frankly furious to be awake at all.
And one, disastrously, of the dachshund stuffed into a taco costume, the shell straining at the seams around his round body.
Alexia snorts out loud.
Actually out loud, alone in her flat, phone in hand.
“Pobre,” she murmurs to the dog in the photo, though he does not look poor so much as chronically overfed and mildly offended by existence.
The pinned post shows three people standing outside what looks like a pub that has lost the will to live.
The sign hangs crooked over the door. The Wag & The Dog. The building itself has the defeated expression of somewhere that smells permanently of beer, maybe old grease too. There is a little board out front with chalk writing too far away to read, one of the windows has a smear on it, and the whole thing looks too grey even in the photo.
The caption says: sad there’s no dog, here’s these people instead
Alexia’s mouth twitches.
One of the comments underneath, from someone called @hayleysupreme300, reads: carl is the dog woof woof
She studies the picture.
An odd group.
On one side there is a huge man with a beard and arms like logs, wearing an apron and looking deeply bothered by being photographed at all. Carl, probably. On the other side, a smaller man, but not by much, red-faced, broad through the middle, a beanie shoved onto his head as if by force. He looks exactly like everyone’s favorite drunk uncle, the kind of man who would shout at a television over sports.
And in the middle, between them, there is a blonde woman.
Very pretty. In the blunt, obvious way a Barbie is pretty. Big smile. Big chest. Tiny waist. The sort of face that probably gets free drinks from men just because.
Alexia tries not to notice the chest.
Does notice the chest.
Annoying.
She assumes this must be Hayley. Which means these are probably Jude’s work people. Or friends. Or both. Hard to tell from one picture. The kind of accidental found family people collect when life does not go according to plan.
Alexia has purposely avoided looking at the other photos.
Building up the moment, apparently.
She does not know why. It is ridiculous. It is not as if this person on the other side of the messages will turn into someone else because Alexia takes three extra seconds to arrive at their face.
Still, when she taps, there is a small tightening in her stomach.
And then there it is.
Or, at least, she thinks it is.
A football pitch in the background. Night game, judging by the lights. Post-match, probably. There are two girls in the photo, close enough together that the resemblance lands before anything else does.
Sisters.
It has to be.
One of them is in kit. Lighter hair, though not blonde exactly, cheeks flushed from effort or cold, one arm flung around the shoulders of the other. Alexia squints at the badge on the chest.
Durham.
The other girl is in jeans and a football jersey with the same crest under a heavy looking jacket, but no match sweat. Just dark-wash denim hanging low on the hips, a cap shoved over darker hair that looks messy under it, a little wavy at the edges. Sharp face. Sharp grin. Same height as the other one, maybe almost exactly. Similar enough to be sisters. Different enough that Alexia lingers.
She does not know why relief arrives first.
But it does.
A woman after all.
Or a girl. Woman. Whatever.
Something in her unclenches so quietly she almost misses it.
Not because that makes anything simpler. It probably does not. Only because the uncertainty had been irritating. Because she had not liked not knowing. Because the shape of the voice in her head matches this better than she wants to admit.
Her thumb hovers over the screen while she looks.
The grin is what gets her.
Not neat. Not posed. Full, crooked, alive. The face of someone already halfway through a joke. Eyes bright under the shadow of the cap. A little reckless-looking, maybe. Handsome in that deeply unfair way some women are handsome. Not polished pretty. Better than that. More dangerous to look at for too long.
Alexia thinks, absurdly, I hope this is her.
Just a hunch.
This girl with the sharp eyes and the grin that looks one second from trouble. This girl feels like the one she has been texting.
But it could be the sister.
The caption settles it.
charli has the uniform but i’m the better player of the two
Alexia laughs softly through her nose.
So the girl in the cap can only be Jude.
Jude.
She looks back at the face. Says the name once in her head against it now that she can. Jude. It sits better like this. Less abstract. More dangerous.
There are more comments under the post.
One that only says lies from, presumably, Charli.
Another from someone else with a string of crying faces.
Jude has answered one of them with history will vindicate me, which feels exactly right and also not helpful for Alexia’s attempts to remain normal about any of this.
She clicks out. Then back in.
Looks again.
The resemblance with the sister is obvious now. Same bones, mostly. Same mouth, maybe. But where Charli in the photo looks all post-match openness and flushed honesty, Jude looks like the calmer trouble between them. Dry humor. Quick mouth. Shadow of a tattoo on her hand.
Alexia flips to the next photo.
Taco again.
Then another. A bowl of something caramelized and glossy, probably onions, though the caption is just redemption.
Another. A blurry mirror picture in a pub toilet, phone covering most of the face, leather jacket, a sliver of waist visible between jumper and jeans, another tattoo peeking out from under. Not posed enough to be a thirst trap. Too careless for that.
Alexia goes still for a second on that one. Mouth does that thing where it feels a little too dry.
Then scrolls.
A photo of a motorbike parked badly.
A close-up of Taco in a tiny dog raincoat that it’s too short for him, big eyes looking humiliated enough.
A picture of Jude and the blonde from the pub, Hayley probably, making ugly faces at the camera while carrying what looks like a tray of chips. Jude is half hidden by the angle, but the grin is there again. Meaner, in a funny way.
Alexia realizes she is smiling.
Again.
This has become a problem.
Because now there is a face.
A face means a person.
A real one.
Someone with a bad pub, a sister called Charli, a diabetic sausage dog, a ridiculous amount of loyalty, and hands that apparently send thumbs-up photos in front of onions.
Someone handsome.
Annoyingly so.
Alexia locks the phone for a second and sets it on the sofa beside her, as if distance might restore some proportion to the moment.
It does not.
The picture stays in her head anyway. The cap. The eyes. The stupid caption. The low-slung jeans.
She picks the phone back up against her best sense.
This time she goes slower. More practical about it. As if she is collecting information rather than circling. Which is technically true. No aggressively curated life. No influencer angles. No fake-casual luxury. Just fragments. Mess. Family. Grease. Football. Dog.
Jude looks the way the messages sound.
That, more than anything, feels strange.
Usually people fracture a little between the screen and the face. The version online polished or distorted or emptied out. But here the opposite happens. The face clarifies the voice. Sharpens it. Makes all those messages land differently in hindsight.
i’m annoyingly loyal once i’ve decided something
Yes.
She looks like it too.
Alexia goes back to the Durham picture one more time.
Stays there longer than necessary.
A woman.
She had wanted it to be a woman.
Useful information. Irritating information.
Her thumb hovers over the screen.
Should she say something?
No. Absolutely not.
What would she even say?
i checked your profile and you are, in fact, real. also i like your face. congratulations.
Impossible.
Instead she taps back into the thread, where the last message still waits.
@jisthejones: i made my account public for a minute if you want to stalk properly
Alexia looks at it now with fresh suspicion.
As if Jude knew she would.
As if the whole invitation had been given with that grin already in place.
She types. Deletes. Types again.
Then settles on the safest possible version of the truth.
@alexiaputellas: taco costume is very bad
The typing bubble appears so fast it is almost embarrassing. It would be embarrassing on anyone else but Jude keeps showing she is the type of person who doesn’t care the least about being chill.
@jisthejones: that is actually one of his better looks
Alexia laughs again, phone warm in her hand, the face from the photo still alive behind her eyes.
And just like that, the thread feels different.
Closer.
Not because anything huge has changed. Not because this is suddenly serious. It is not. She can still tell herself that. Still call it a distraction. A late-night indulgence.
But attaching a face to it has shifted something all the same.
Words on a screen had been easy to contain.
Jude Jones, in a cap and jeans, grinning beside her sister under stadium lights, is not.
And Alexia, sitting alone in her quiet flat with her bad training day already fading around the edges, knows enough to recognize trouble when it flickers.
Even the small kind.
Especially the small kind.
__________________________
You don’t message first. Never.
You have established this rule for yourself with the kind of grim internal ceremony usually reserved for vows of celibacy. After months of using Alexia Putellas’s DMs as your personal planner, it feels like the least you can do. A show of manners. Restraint. Basic decency.
Not initiating contact.
Even though you want to.
Which is annoying.
Because the truly surreal part is not just that she answered you once, but that she kept answering. Asked about your fucking dog, gorgeous thing he is, besides the point, and saw your very chaotic, not in the slightest professional social media profile. The idea has not landed yet.
It probably never will. It just sort of floats round your head, bumping into other concepts you also struggle with, like time management and owning up to your shit.
Oh well.
She hasn’t texted you this week, anyway.
You try not to feel anything about it.
You do not have the right to feel anything about it. That would be insane. She is Alexia Putellas. She can disappear back into the void whenever she likes. In fact, that would make perfect sense. She is famous, huge, unfairly attractive.
You try not to linger too long on that last part.
Alexia’s face does something unfortunate to your concentration. If you let yourself think about it for too long, your brain goes a bit soft around the edges. And if you get any more stupid than you already are, someone will weigh you, put a tag through your ear and sell you as livestock.
You check Instagram anyway.
Just for checking.
No new messages.
You groan and tip your head sideways, thudding it lightly against the train window.
Across the aisle, a man in a wax jacket lowers his paper and gives you the sort of disapproving look older British men reserve for public emotion.
You ignore him.
Messages would be good.
Messages would make this godforsaken journey pass faster.
Instead you shove your earphones in. Wired, because you got tired of losing one AirPod every other month and being forced to live lopsided as punishment for your own carelessness.
Charlie is playing today. Home match. Eleven in the morning, which is not a kick-off time so much as a hate crime.
So you woke up while it was still basically night, dumped Taco with Mrs Hargreaves upstairs, who called him “my little diabetic prince” and complained you never let her keep him for more than one night, and legged it to the station half-awake and under-caffeinated.
Mrs Hargreaves is approximately a hundred and talks at the volume of a church bell, but she adores Taco with a kind of aggressive tenderness that makes you feel oddly safe leaving him there. He likes her too. Probably because she slips him medically irresponsible amounts of treats.
You always make the trip when you can if it is a home game.
Contrary to everything that ever comes out of your mouth, you are embarrassingly proud of your sister.
Not in the normal way. In the stupid way. The way that has built itself into your bones after years of doing this with your dad, all the way back to academy days when women’s football still felt like a thing people said “maybe one day” about while acting like they meant “probably not.”
But Graham came. You came. Your mother came too. Every time you could.
And now it is a habit too old to break.
The train crawls north.
Grey sky. Grey fields. Grey little stations where three people stand on the platform like they have been placed there. You drink station coffee so bad it tastes faintly of metal and despair and check your phone one more time.
Still nothing.
Fine.
Durham are playing Sheffield United.
A nil-nil written all over it, probably. Charlie loves a nil-nil in the same deranged way defenders do. Clean sheet, no public humiliation, everyone goes home morally superior.
By the time you get to Maiden Castle, your hands are frozen and your mood has flattened into something survivable.
And there is Dad, exactly where he always is, near the railings with his coat zipped right up and his shoulders set against the wind, doing his best impression of the human statue he likes to pretend he is. Truth is, he is all mush inside.
Your dad had wanted two boys once, one for football and one for the garage. Not a secret. Your mother, bless her, liked to remind him of his “bad luck” constantly. Teasing tone, the way they always did with each other. Real-life enemies-to-lovers. Said she did it on purpose, heard he wanted boys and put out girls.
He took it in stride, unflappable man that he is. Put you and your sister in football anyway, waited to see which one showed more talent and then put the effort behind that. That was you, actually, funny enough. Talented, but with a distinct aversion to rules and tactical positioning.
Charlie was the opposite. Older, focused, too serious in the way only English children can be, thrived. A worker, through and through. Your dad let you play for shits and giggles for a while before things got professional. Impossible to separate you from Charlie anyway at the time.
Then, when it was time to take it seriously, you got thrown inside the garage and told to grab something to fix up. Learned to swear and dismantle half an engine before you were old enough to drink.
Didn’t need two boys after all.
Graham Jones looks like someone who belongs around spanners. Tall, broad through the shoulders, hands permanently marked by grease that no amount of scrubbing ever quite gets rid of, face weathered into practical lines. Hair mostly grey now, always buzzcut season for him because vanity is for other people. His expression, at rest, always slightly suspicious, as if the world is trying something on.
“You look knackered,” he says by way of hello.
“You look old.”
“Cheeky cow.”
You grin and lean in for the quick, awkward shoulder-clash version of affection your family prefers to actual softness. Your mother was the touchy one. Your dad tries, bless him.
The ground feels like it always does. Familiar in the marrow.
You know everyone here. Or near enough. Parents you have watched age in the stands. Younger siblings who used to be little terrors now taller than you and pretending not to remember. Volunteers. Stewards. The woman on the tea stand. Cousin Eggy, somehow not your cousin at all but still universally called Cousin Eggy, turning up with a small pack of teenage boys who scream for ninety minutes like they are being paid by the decibel.
“Jude!” one of Charlie’s teammates shouts from near the tunnel.
You lift a hand.
Another one jogs past and points at you. “Whatcha cooking today, hm? It’s been a minute.”
Charlie jogs right behind her. Light hair in a ponytail always tight, pale skin that suffers under the sun, freckles that make her look younger. She shoulder-checks her teammate, football’s love language.
“Sod off, I want the leftovers this time,” Charlie complains to her teammate’s laughter. “You lot eat too much.”
She turns to the stands, waves off to you both.
“Next time!” you shout back, to half the team’s cheers and Charlie’s roll of eyes.
You cook for them, sometimes when you come over for home games. One or two teammates are considered lucky enough to get on the full meal plan. Charlie grumbles and complains, but you know she is proud that her friends like your food.
You haven’t done it in a while. You should get round to doing it again soon.
Graham sighs without surprise. Used to girls prancing round his house in cleats, making a mess of everything, sometimes sneaking off to your room in the middle of the night to your mother’s cackling laughter and his genuine trauma.
Charlie, years ago and with genuine feeling, had forbidden you from getting off with any more of her teammates after one particularly disastrous stretch in which you kissed two midfielders and a goalkeeper across one spring and forced her to live through the consequences.
The team never lets it go.
By the time warm-ups start, you have been handed two separate cups of tea, one stale biscuit, and three pieces of information you did not ask for about someone’s bowels not working.
This is how football works at this level. Community by overexposure.
Charlie spots you and Graham from the pitch and points. You point back. Graham lifts one hand in the exact same way he has since she was thirteen and all elbows.
The game is exactly what you expected.
Tight. Scrappy. Cold. Sheffield United press well enough. Durham stay compact. Charlie is very good, which you already knew. Vocal, mean in the right moments, times her tackles beautifully. There is one clearance in the second half that has Graham muttering, with deep approval, “That’s class, that,” under his breath like he is evaluating a piece of machinery.
No goals.
Of course.
Nil-nil.
Outsiders would call it boring. Idiots. You know what you are watching. So does Graham. So does Charlie, who comes off looking sweaty and grimly satisfied, the expression of a defender who has done her bit and would now like recognition and maybe tea.
You post a story before the crowd clears.
A stretch of pitch under the pale daylight. Charlie in the distance with the back line. The score tucked into the corner.
charli at work. everyone say thank you to a centre-back
You stare at it for a second before posting.
And yes, fine, there is a reason.
Maybe Alexia will see it.
You hate yourself a little for even thinking like that, but it is there anyway, this quiet little hope tucked into the act. You post it and shove the phone in your pocket before you can spiral into anything too undignified.
Charlie comes over at full speed and shoulder-checks you lightly on arrival.
“Boring match,” you say.
“Uncultured,” she says.
“Nil-nil, Charli.”
“Clean sheet,” she shoots back.
“Still boring.”
She grins. Graham squeezes the back of her neck once, proud as anything and pretending not to be.
Lunch is at home.
You texted Graham the list in the middle of the week. Funny not to have sent it to Alexia’s DMs first. New habits and all that. He likes being useful when you cook, and it gives him something else to do on the weekend.
He always goes oddly quiet and brisk about it, like the shopping itself matters.
It does, really.
He used to do the same for your mum. She would make a list, he would get it all, come back acting like a man who had completed an important sidequest, while she unpacked everything with the air of a queen reviewing tribute.
The house smells like itself. Warm radiators. Washing powder. The ghost of oil and old wood. Home, in all the unfair ways.
You cook because that is the tradition. Or what it used to be.
Graham and Charlie going off to U14 away games and you and Mum staying behind, putting together lunch or dinner for them. You liked those moments when it was just the two of you. Felt special.
You got it from her, cooking, that is.
Today you make something French.
Roast chicken with mustard and herbs. Green beans. Potatoes done in butter until they go golden at the edges. A salad because you are feeding an athlete and an elderly man who does not eat well.
Charlie sits on the counter stealing bits as you go, still in half her tracksuit, shin pads dumped by the door. Graham pretends not to hover and then hovers anyway, pleased with himself for remembering the right mustard and the shallots and the good chicken.
“Got everything,” he says, for the third time.
“I noticed.”
“Even the tarragon.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Woman at the shop said I’d picked well.”
You look over your shoulder and catch the tiny, proud set of his mouth.
“Did she.”
“She did.”
Charlie snorts. “He’s been dining out on that for twenty minutes.”
“Can’t blame him,” you say, and Graham tries very hard not to look pleased by that too.
The food is good.
Charlie eats like someone fresh off ninety minutes of trying to clear crosses with her head. Graham goes suspiciously quiet after the first few bites, which is what happens when something affects him emotionally and he refuses to discuss it.
There is your mum in it, faintly. Not in a way that ruins the meal. Just there. In the mustard. In the heat of the oven. In Graham buying what was on the list and being absurdly proud of himself for it.
The grief is not loud. It rarely is now.
Just the small domestic kind. She is in the empty seat at the table and in the way nobody sings in low, soft French anymore.
It makes you feel funny, coming back here. Always.
But Charlie is happy, which matters.
She points at the chicken with her fork. “That’s fit.”
“Poetry.”
“I’m serious. Better than fit.”
“Careful,” you say. “I’ll start charging.”
“You should.”
Graham clears his throat and says, very seriously, “You could.”
You laugh dryly at that, sidestep the thorny subject of your terrible employment of choice, and reach for your phone while they start arguing about whether Charlie was fouled in the seventy-third minute. Spoiler alert: she wasn’t.
Mostly habit. Mostly because you are weak.
Instagram opens.
Story views.
A list of familiar names. Teammates. People from school. Liv. Hayley. Someone called @eggyuncut for reasons you absolutely do not want explained.
And there.
@alexiaputellas replied to your story
You stop still.
Then open it.
@alexiaputellas: charli is sister?
Your face goes hot.
You read it once. Then again. Then once more just to be sure your phone has not developed the ability to hallucinate.
Alexia Putellas, who has so far existed in your life like a beautiful administrative miracle, has replied to your story from a football ground in Durham.
“What?” Charlie says immediately, because of course she notices. “Why have you gone weird?”
“Not weird.”
“You’ve gone weird.”
Graham glances up from his plate. “Bad news?”
“No.”
“Good news?”
“No.”
“That sounds like good news,” Charlie says, narrowing her eyes.
You turn the phone face down on the table like that will somehow make your own body less obvious.
“Mind your business.”
“Oh, absolutely not.”
She reaches out for it, you push her hand away with a slap, and Graham grumbles, “Charli, stop,” before you go full bickering and end up rolling on the floor like you were back at being twelve and fifteen respectively.
You stick your tongue out for good measure and pick your phone back up, typing under the table, shoulders hunching of their own accord.
@jisthejones: yes
@jisthejones: tragically
The typing bubble appears quickly enough to make something stupid lift inside your chest.
@alexiaputellas: she play for durham?
You smile before you can stop yourself.
@jisthejones: she does
@jisthejones: centre-back, breaker of shins and all that
There is a pause.
Then:
@alexiaputellas: defender, i can see
You huff a laugh.
@jisthejones: what does that mean
@jisthejones: you can tell by her face?
A longer pause this time. Like Alexia is reading it twice, deciding how much to say.
Then:
@alexiaputellas: by story
@alexiaputellas: back line, also, yeah defender has face. also, shoulder. defender’s shoulders
@alexiaputellas: tie is good defender game
That gets you.
A quick, helpless grin down at the screen.
Across the table, Charlie notices immediately. Of course she does. She narrows her eyes in your direction, but says nothing yet, just watches with the deep suspicion of an older sister who has seen you become fond of terrible ideas before.
You type back.
@jisthejones: she’ll be thrilled someone respected a nil nil
@jisthejones: most people just think it means nobody had any ideas
The answer comes easily.
@alexiaputellas: defenders have ideas
@alexiaputellas: just not fun for other people
You laugh through your nose.
That one feels very her somehow. Dry. A little mean. Correct.
@jisthejones: home ones when i can
@jisthejones: me and my dad have been coming forever
Alexia’s reply takes a little longer.
@alexiaputellas: nice
@alexiaputellas: football should be family thing
Small. Simple. Not much.
Still, it lands.
Because it sounds like she means it.
Like there’s something underneath. Like she understand it, being family that is.
You glance up from the phone. Charlie is still watching you. Not in a teasing way now. More curious than anything. Graham has gone back to his plate with the fixed concentration he usually reserves for car parts.
You look back down.
And because the question about Charlie is there now, warm in your hand, and because some instinct in you says not to stay on football too long, not with Alexia, not when football probably already eats enough of her life, you pull the conversation sideways.
@jisthejones: i cooked after though so everyone recovered 👩🍳
The reply comes quicker this time.
@alexiaputellas: what you make?
You smile before you can stop it.
@jisthejones: roast chicken with mustard and tarragon
@jisthejones: potatoes in enough butter to become health issue
@jisthejones: green beans so we can all pretend it’s balanced
Alexia is quiet for a moment.
Then:
@alexiaputellas: i have to google. tarragon why?You snort, amused.@jisthejones: swear it works, gives that nice smell and a little anise taste you know
Pause. Then:
@alexiaputellas: different choice, estrago with chicken
@jisthejones: estragon is very french i guess
@alexiaputellas: you know catalan? i he estat patint en anglès?
@jisthejones: nonono
i know french , je parle français. it’s a close cousin i guess
@alexiaputellas: oh, ok.
Thank your mother for beating French into you as a child. Useful skill, girls are usually impressed. Some of your teachers in culinary school too.
You think that’s the end of it. Disappearance for one more week. But then the typing bubble appears and your heart beats a little.
@alexiaputellas: so you cook a lot?
You read that twice.
There is something in it. Not just politeness. Curiosity, maybe. A little careful, but real.
@jisthejones: depends who’s asking
@jisthejones: but if it’s someone hungry, yes
That gets no answer for a few seconds.
Then:
@alexiaputellas: sarcastic
You grin.
@jisthejones: observant
This time the typing bubble appears almost at once, disappears, then comes back.
@alexiaputellas: i mean work
@alexiaputellas: this is your job?
That sobers you a little. It should be your job. You won’t tell her that though, she already thinks you are pitiful enough as it is.
@jisthejones: yeah
@jisthejones: sort of
@jisthejones: kitchen work mostly
@jisthejones: glamorous life, minor burns, sharp knives, emotional damage
There is a pause.
Then:
@alexiaputellas: chef 👩🍳
You let out a tiny laugh and shake your head to yourself.
@jisthejones: absolutely not
@jisthejones: that is a whole title
@jisthejones: i’m more like
@jisthejones: goblin with knives
Alexia answers after a long beat, but before you can sand the joke down into something safer.
@alexiaputellas: goblin is ugly fairy. i google. you still chef
You stare at that one a second too long.
Charlie clears her throat very quietly from across the table.
You look up.
She has not moved. Has not smiled. Just tipped her head a little, reading your face with that infuriating sibling accuracy. When she speaks, it is soft enough that Graham does not bother looking up.
“That’s nice,” she says.
You blink. “What is.”
She flicks her eyes toward the phone. “You’ve got a friend.”
You make a face at her on instinct. “Don’t be weird.”
“I’m not being weird.”
“Yes you are.”
Charlie shrugs, but there is something fond in it. Protective, too. Not nosy. Just... relieved in a way that makes you want to throw something at her.
You look back down before she can say anything else.
The thread is still open.
Waiting.
@jisthejones: i cook because i like it
A pause.
Then:
@alexiaputellas: i like cook too
@alexiaputellas: when i have time
There is something almost shy in that. Not the wording, exactly. The offering of it.
You soften without meaning to.
@jisthejones: what do you make when you’re not being a professional athlete
@jisthejones: and if you say chicken rice broccoli i’ll lose respect instantly
The typing bubble appears. Stops. Comes back.
@alexiaputellas: rude
@alexiaputellas: no
@alexiaputellas: pa amb tomàquet
@alexiaputellas: tortilla
@alexiaputellas: fish sometimes
@alexiaputellas: things my mum make
@alexiaputellas: catalan food is better
You smile into your glass.
@jisthejones: than english food?
@jisthejones: not exactly a hard fight
That gets a quicker reply.
@alexiaputellas: yes
@alexiaputellas: english food is bad. weather is worse.
You snort.
@jisthejones: well that’s true
@jisthejones: but i’m half french so i do need to say the french got there first
Take that.
@alexiaputellas: french always say this
@jisthejones: because unfortunately we’re right
Another pause.
Then:
@alexiaputellas: catalan better
You laugh again, quieter this time.
@jisthejones: careful
@jisthejones: this is how wars start
@jisthejones: but fine
@jisthejones: i haven’t tried catalan food
@jisthejones: but i agree english food is still shit though
That one gets the first visible softness from her side.
@alexiaputellas: okay this is fair
Charlie gets up to carry plates to the sink and nudges your shoulder as she passes. No comment this time. Just a little bump. A silent, smug good for you.
You hate how much that makes you feel.
Later, when lunch has dissolved into washing up and half-listened conversation and Graham pretending not to hover near the kitchen doorway, you end up with your coat half on, checking train times with a kind of dull Sunday resentment.
Two and a half hours back.
You hate the return journey even more than the way up. The body knows home is over by then. Starts shutting down out of spite.
You look at the thread.
At her last message.
At the fact that Alexia Putellas called you chef twice and has strong feelings about Catalan food.
Before you can decide whether this is undignified, you type:
@jisthejones: i’ve got the 2 and a half hour train back in a bit
@jisthejones: if i fall asleep i’ll wake up in scotland
There is a pause after that. Short, but enough for doubt to get a foot in the door.
Too much? Maybe too much.
Then the typing bubble appears.
@alexiaputellas: this happens?
You smile.
@jisthejones: not yet
@jisthejones: but i live in fear
That gets:
@alexiaputellas: reasonable
You hover for a second.
Then, because the thought has already happened and because something about this thread has started to feel less like an accident and more like a place you can lean for a minute, you go a little further.
@jisthejones: anyway
@jisthejones: if you’re bored later feel free to keep me conscious
The reply does not come instantly.
Not long enough to sting. Just long enough to remind you that she thinks before she gives.
Then:
@alexiaputellas: okay
@alexiaputellas: i can talk
Small. Steady.
You look down at the screen and smile before you can help it.
Two and a half hours suddenly feels less offensive.
__________________________
You get back to your damp little flat so late it stops being funny.
In the morning, you’ll have to wake up at another ungodly hour to make up for ditching the Sunday shift, which is already a bastard of a shift, just so you could go make more mediocre football memories with your family.
You don’t regret it.
Not really.
Not after learning the hard way that these things are not permanent. Sundays. Home games. Charlie muddy and smug. Lunch at the house. The same old route there and back.
You don’t take it for granted anymore.
You decide to pick Taco up in the morning. It’s too late to be knocking on anyone’s door now, and it’s not like Mrs Hargreaves would hear you over her own snoring anyway. The woman sleeps like heavy machinery.
Also, the train ride was not a complete write-off after all.
Alexia spent nearly an hour with you in that thread.
Just talking.
About nothing. About everything. Easy. Suspiciously easy. Like you’d done it a hundred times before instead of never. Like she wasn’t Alexia Putellas and you weren’t sat on a train to London trying not to miss your stop.
You came away with a full paella recipe.
She came away with a decent working knowledge of English football rivalries and why some clubs deserve contempt on principle.
Fair trade.
You don’t know what it means, that it is so easy to talk to her.
That this untouchable woman in another country makes time for it at all.
You don’t know what to do with that.
You just know it happened.
And you know, against every bright flashing warning sign in your body telling you not to get attached, not to be stupid, not to start building a shrine out of crumbs, that you want it to keep happening.
Mr. Lancer’s English class at Casper High is studying The Odyssey, and thanks to the internet—and a recent rise in interest from things like Epic: The Musical—he’s able to make the unit more engaging than in previous years. The students are actually curious and learning.
During class, Danny raises his hand and asks a thoughtful question: “What happened to the men who died when Poseidon destroyed those ships? Did they ever get to see their families again, like in the afterlife or something?”
Dash scoffs. “Why do you care, Fenton? It’s just a myth. Those guys probably weren’t even real. And dude—they’re dead. They probably already saw their families in the afterlife or whatever.”
Mr. Lancer chimes in, taking the opportunity to explain how the ancient Greeks viewed death. “According to Greek belief, it was essential to have a coin placed under your tongue—or at least on your body—so you could pay Charon, the ferryman, to cross into the afterlife. Without a proper funeral, the soul was thought to wander forever, never able to rest.”
Paulina, who's a fan of Epic: The Musical, adds, “Wait, isn’t there something about needing to wait a few hundred years before their souls could actually move on? I think I read somewhere that it’s like... 100 or 300 years?”
Mr. Lancer nods.“There are some interpretations that suggest it takes hundreds of years before certain souls can truly find rest. Some say 300 years, others 600. It varies. I’ll need to research more before giving you a definite answer next class.”
Class ends, and Danny leaves with the lesson still lingering in his mind. Between ghost fights and hanging out with Sam and Tucker, he finds himself reflecting on The Odyssey and its fallen sailors. Sam, a big mythology fan, carries a copy of The Odyssey with her—not a first edition, obviously, but close enough for someone who loves the source material. Danny starts flipping through it, reading the names of the crew, wanting to know more.
Tucker notices. “Dude, just because we helped Pandora and returned her box doesn’t mean you should go poking around with Poseidon.”
Danny shakes his head. “Nah, I’m not messing with Poseidon. Technically, the souls of those sailors belong to the House of Hades. I’m just... nudging the clock forward a bit.”
Sam frowns. “Danny, they’re fine. They’ve been dead for thousands of years. The Odyssey was written ages ago. They’ve probably moved on already.”
Danny shrugs. “Yeah... you’re right. Just... curiosity, I guess.”
Secret Side Quest
Over the next few weeks, Danny secretly performs rites and gives proper funerals to the souls of those who died on their way back to Ithaca—not the suitors who fought over Penelope, but the sailors who truly longed for home. He ensures their spirits are finally able to pass on and reunite with their loved ones in the afterlife.
By February, he’s finished. Quietly, the job is done.
Valentine’s Day: The Surprise Visit
It’s Valentine’s Day, the beginning of a new semester—Danny’s sophomore or junior year—and homeroom is just getting started. The air is full of candy hearts and half-baked love confessions. All seems normal... Until a portal opens. Suddenly, Aphrodite, Goddess of Love, steps into the room—dressed appropriately for visiting a high school, of course. She’s followed by Hera, Goddess of Marriage, and Athena, Goddess of Wisdom and Strategy. Then comes Hades, Lord of the Underworld, and Persephone, Queen of the Dead.
Everyone is freaking out. Mr. Lancer isn’t even in the room yet.
Aphrodite steps forward. “Is there a Daniel James Fenton here?”
Danny raises his hand cautiously. “Yeah? What did my parents do this time? Are we throwing hands? Or do you need help with something?”
Hera shakes her head. “No, child. We’re here to thank you.”
The room goes silent.
Aphrodite beams. “You helped the souls of the fallen men from The Odyssey—those who died trying to return home. You brought them peace. You reunited lovers. That’s one of the most romantic things anyone has ever done.”
Hera adds, “Many of those men were husbands and fathers. Because of you, they finally saw their wives and children again. Families that were broken are whole again.”
Athena speaks next. “Your strategy was clever. I was impressed.”
Hades, arms crossed, smirks. “I didn’t know what you were doing at first. When you first entered my realm, I almost stepped in. But you turned out all right, kid.”He leans in, speaking in ghost-speak,
“Don’t worry about your half-dead status. I’m not coming for the rest of your soul. If that fruit loop Vlad acts up again, I’ve got your back.”
Persephone nods beside him, also in ghost-speak. “You have my blessing too. And yes, you can play with Cerberus—just bring Cujo for a playdate.”
Danny, understanding the ghost-speak, nods and smiles. “Thanks.”
The rest of the class is confused—only Danny understood what Hades and Persephone said. Then Aphrodite claps her hands.“Before we go, I have a special Valentine’s gift for you, Danny!”
Danny blinks. “Uh, thanks? Are you going to tell me what it is?”
Aphrodite laughs. “Oh please, where’s the fun in that?”
Danny glances at Athena, who says in ghost-speak, “It’s a good one. You’ll like it.”
Danny chuckles. “Well, I can’t exactly say no to a Valentine’s Day gift from the Goddess of Love.”
The gods and goddesses depart.
Homeroom returns to normal.
Everyone is stunned. Dash whispers, “Did that really just happen?”
Tucker mutters, “So... the goddess of love, the goddess of wisdom, the goddess of marriage, and the rulers of the underworld showed up in homeroom... to thank Danny... for helping souls from The Odyssey move on? And now he’s got a mystery Valentine’s gift from Aphrodite?”
Star, wide-eyed, asks, “Does anyone else want to know what that gift is?”
The whole class erupts with theories. Danny just shrugs. “Whatever it is... I’ll find out when it happens. Not really the kind of thing I can predict.”
And just as things start to quiet down, their homeroom teacher finally arrives to start class—none the wiser to the divine visit that had just taken place.
Note: This is just a prompt idea that I created recently. Feel free to use it for any fanfiction you want to write, but please give credit for the inspiration—just link to the post or mention it in some way. I’m a fan of "Epic: The Musical," so I imagined Paulina as a fan in canon because it seems fitting for her character. I also considered making Sam a fan, but she wouldn’t admit it at all, so it could create an interesting dynamic with Danny knowing about it. If this idea resonates well, I’ll consider making a part two. Let’s just say it may or may not include a crossover with a DC superhero!
the problem with mitsi (or as i like to call it. mitsogyny)
(context: this was written under a youtube video, which i'm sure most of us have at least seen pop up in our recommendeds, in response to many people taking criticism against the new episode. it has been edited a little to be more cohesive as a somewhat-essay)
ok, i wanted to write out a rant/essay/ramble/whatever sort of summarising the criticism against mitsi's plotline because a lot of the people here seem to be misunderstanding the fundamental issue that people have with it, including some of those people themselves.
first off, an analysis that i think tell both sides of the argument very well which i feel should be read before reading the essay: Mitsi: What Makes A Fridged Character (and why y'all are wrong about it) | an AvA essay by InksandPensblog. i will note: i don't care to discuss whether mitsi was fridged or not and that won't be of much importance in this post. the above link gives some insight into some of the fandom's criticism of mitsi and how she was "fridged", defining common tropes for examples. that's what's relevant to this post.
the main issue with mitsi, in my opinion, is less with the fact that mitsi's a girl and moreso the fact that she's one of the only female-coded character in the series, and that her character's main purpose was to further victim's own development. the other arguably female-coded character in the series is pink, who (like navy) only really exists to explain purple's motivations. i don't have much of an issue with that since they're not meant to be important or sympathised with at all. that's not their job in the story.
with mitsi, i've seen people point out that she has more character to her than just victim's love interest and supporter: she invents rocketcorp, she's smart, she's kind, innocent and helpful. narratively speaking, she shows other creations' relationships with their animators, parallels her innocence with victim's trauma, and introduces victim to the outernet (as most fans call the stick realm).
but most of this things imo are either stretches or invalid arguments. she's not really a 2/3-dimensional character in any way; her main character traits boil down to the fact that she likes to be in service of others with no nuance behind why she likes helping people. she hypes up victim for the villagers, she starts a company with him to share his talents with the world, and she helps him overcome his trauma from alan's torture. all of her main plot beats center around victim: and while technically the sticks are genderless and free to be interpreted however the viewer wants, alan and most of his team see all the main characters as male, and that subconciously affects how they're written. mitsi, the first major female-coded character, spends most of her storyline in service of victim, a character not written as female.
there's also the issue of her being victim's canonical love interest. i feel like this statement from alan is important to keep in mind (don't mind the sound effects and edits, this is the only isolated clip i can find at the moment). in particular:
"i just assume that [the ava/m characters] are just a bunch of bros]. i haven't thought of adding any female stick figures but i think it'd be good. i don't want to introduce any romance though, i don't want that to be a theme."
he seems to have changed his mind on that last part, which is fine, but the notable part for me is that he seems to associate female characters with romance from the getgo. before anyone misinterprets this, i'm not trying to call alan sexist or anything. but there's a common issue with women in stories being reduced to just a romantic partner for the male lead, and mitsi falls under this, with her entire character existing to serve victim. (not to mention people will make things about romance whether you like it or not. that's just basic fandom. search up grapeduo or chodark.) even her death is to put victim on the path of vengeance--- it doesn't need to happen to show the extent of tco and tdl's destruction, because that's already made pretty clear in ava s2 the flashback and the earlier scenes showing various characters escaping burning buildings. when you write a female-coded character whose only purpose is to serve a male character, you're contributing to sexist narratives.
a counter i see many people point out with the idea that she has no character is that she does have character traits, it's just that they're generic ones like "kind" and "innocent". the issue is that she has no flaws to counterpoint this; it's not that she didn't have enough screentime. in ava4 for example, we see tsc's flaws pretty clearly; they can be very mean when they want to, they're petty (albeit for a fair reason), they're a little impulsive. this is shown in 11 minutes (from the moment they come alive to the end of the video).
with mitsi meanwhile… she doesn't seem to have any flaws? she helps victim whenever she can. she's nice to all the villagers. her customers all like her and she's a great leader at rocket corp (to note, specifically as part of a pair with victim. they're a power couple, she's barely given credit for her work alone). she has 13 minutes of screentime, or 10 if you count from her waking up in the outernet. there's plenty of opportunities to show her having flaws; maybe she acts a little selfish during tdl and tco's attack, only wanting to help herself and agent smith, or maybe she overworks herself, or feels awkward at having too much attention (and that could also be why she redirects so much attention to victim, she's shy). you could argue that the episode needs to develop victim and agent smith too, but ava4 shows that's easy to do too: just a few seconds dedicated to showing rgyb fighting over who leaves first shows that they can be selfish and childish. it's very easy to insert a moment like that for mitsi.
it's a little disappointing when the first major female-coded character in ava is completely flawless, with no personality outside of being nice and helpful for others.
also, slightly unrelated, check out this quote from mitsi's plushie website: "her white featureless face seems to ooze mystery and feminine power all at the same time." her main character trait, as a woman, is being feminine. it's irritating as someone who's been raised a woman to see her reduced to just her gender. she feels more plastic than a person, like the concept of what a woman should be (perfect, kind, useful) and not an actual character/person.
i would expect more from the writing in the series seeing as it's not just an independent passion project anymore, and has multiple writers that all could've worked to flesh out mitsi, or at least get a sensitivity reader of sorts to point these issues out. it's extremely disappointing and i can understand why people were upset.
tldr: the problem isn't just that mitsi's a girl, or that she's nice or dating victim, it's that she's written in a misogynistic way.
Needed to get this idea out as soon as possible, thought of this last night (btw this is specifically romantic just so you know!)
Zookeeper!Simon, but not like regular boring zookeeper, like Steve Irwin style. and he’s also technically an animal tamer (I barely know anything about Steve Irwin, so bear with me)
you, a college student, looking through videos of animals- as a biology student, you need to write your thesis, and you only half know what you’re gonna do.
you’re looking through a random playlist when you spot Simon’s channel. yeah, that animal looks interesting enough, so you will watch this informational video, for the animal. Not for the hot guy, why would you assume it’s for the hot guy. Between you and me, it’s for the hot guy this is your favorite animal! :)
Simon starts the video talking about this animal. Their habitat, their diet, fun facts, etc. as you’re absentmindedly taking notes, Simon decides it’ll be a great idea to cut to footage of him actually interacting with the animal.
immediently, you hear the sound of this grown ass man sweet talking a big ass (whatever animal is your favorite), the cameraman trying not to burst out laughing. (Ok actually between you and me, the cameraman is totally Johnny.) even if he sounds goofy, you can’t help but imagine him talking to you like that, making you completely unable to finish your assignment! :(
over the course of the next few months, every time you’re free, you immediately go to this guys channel. Basically daydreaming about this loser. Before you know it, you memorized his posting schedule, and watched almost all of his videos. You’re only half obsessed. Totally not his biggest fan. Bet he doesn’t even notice!
oh, but he notices.
notices how you immediately watch his videos, at least an hour after posting.
notices how your own channel posts edits/art/whatever the hell you’re good at about him specifically. Nobody else. Just him.
even Johnny notices. Johnny for fucks sake!!!
One day, Simon has a great idea. he’s gonna do a meet and greet at a con!! maybe if the con lets him, he can even bring one of his animals!! Johnny also thinks it’s a great idea, but for,, a different reason,,,,,,, he kinda wants Simon to finally get goddamn laid (or if you don’t like getting freaky,,,, Johnny will also take Simon getting his first damn kiss)
and of course, the moment you find out, you’re immediately booking a flight. (Unless you already live in Britain ofc)
during the con, you’re there even before Simon begins to set up his stand. Simon doesn’t notice or anything, he’s too busy taking care of the lizard he brought with him, and besides you’re hidden behind a corner. (Even Johnny notices, he’s been looking through your social media calling Simon a lucky damn bastard so he’s practically memorized your face.)
of course, even when the stand is up and there’s a whole line of people, you’re nervous to get in line. How do you talk to the guy who you fantasize about?? You literally had dreams about this kissing guy’s face off and you’re supposed to act like you aren’t obsessed??
with the help of your own overthinking telling you you won’t get another chance to meet him, you get in line, practically shaking the closer you get to the stand.
After a few minutes maybe, you finally reach the front. And somehow, Simon recognizes you.
“Ah, I knew you were gonna be here ‘ventually. You that fan that’s insane abou’ me, correct? (Insert user)?”
immediately you’re embarrassed. He goddamn knows you?? That means he already knows you’re insane about him… oh lord this is gonna be harder than you thought!! Johnny chuckles from nearby.
“Aye, tha’s tha wone! Though’ ya’d neva come ova here!”
Even the stupid camera man knows you.
“Alrigh’, lovie. Since ya’ve done so much for me, why don’t I give ya somethin nice on the house?”
As he says it, Simon signs a picture of him and hands it over to you, for FREE!!! not only is his signature on it, but he writes ‘for my biggest and most gorgeous fan’ on it. Scratch that did hE CALL YOU LOVIE WHAT WHAT WHAT???????
you practically freeze, bright red, staring down at this goddamn paper. Johnny pulls you to the side (partly because you’re blocking the line), whispering to you,,
“Listen, bonnie. Aye need ya ta help me. Aye’m gettin frustrated over Simon bein’ all lonely, he spends too much time takin’ care of his animals and not findin’ someone to settle down with, even though he complains abou’ bein’ lonely. People are usually scared of him, he’s mean outside o’ work, so if ya want, I could introduce ya two. Please, it’s gettin’ annoyin’.”
and of course you’d love to help!! You’d been dreaming about this for months, maybe years now!! And so,,, after the con,,, Johnny (finally) properly introduces you two.
when you two talk, Simon tries his hardest to be nice. You can tell it’s his first time being even remotely attracted to someone. He looks so adorable fumbling over his words and being caught staring for a bit too long! :))
and of course, with the help of Johnny (who is both your and Simon’s wingman now apparently), Simon decides to ask you out on a date!!! With FLOWERS!!!!!!!! you just had to accept!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
the date goes perfectly well!! Simon invites you to a small cafe near his hometown, you two chow down and devour some tasty food, chat over tea (or coffee, or soda, or water, or wtv) you even give him a cute nickname which has him turning bright red like a kid who’s been caught talking in class!!
“.. you.. uh.. I… okay, lovie.”
poor boy doesn’t even know how to respond! :(
A/N: While writing this I found out he died on my birthday,,, Steve Irwin,,, he died on my BIRTHDAY. Not exactly (I wasn’t alive in 2006) but it’s still my birthday.. anyway sorry if it’s kinda ass I literally spent all of first period writing this bcuz I thought of this last night,,, I am TIRED,,,,,, anyway uh hope you liked this also I know I said I was gonna work on other stuff but I thought of this and needed to get it out
(Warning: nsfw under the line! Don’t open if you don’t want it! Subtop!Simon, edging, oral, anal/vaginal [unspecified gender choose whichever lulz], slight degrading, the words good boy I guess)
after your cute little date, Simon invites you back to his place!!! As you two walk together, you can’t help but wonder what his place looks like,, especially his bed and what he’d look like in it for whatever reason!!
the moment you get there, you notice how dusty it is. Probably doesn’t have time to clean with all the videos he posts,, maybe you should help with that!! Before you can mention it, Simon’s walking to the kitchen!!
“Ya like eggs, lovie? Nah, don’ care that we’ve already eaten, it wasn’t enough anyways. It was barely a snack, you need to eat more than that.”
while he’s cooking, you can help but watch him. He has a fat ass, how could you not stare!!!!
It’s enough to make you walk up behind Simon and hug his waist!! Your arms wrap around him, making him take a deep breath.
“Lovie, what are you-“
before he can finish, you cup the bulge in his pants, making him gasp and buck into your touch. He’s so cute, begging for your touch like this!!! :))
“.. l-lovie..”
Before you know it, he’s sitting you down on the counter, take out his big cock, groaning as you stroke him!! This isn’t how you expected to be spending your Saturday! :(/ref
“Lovie… I want to feel you… please…”
Simon groans as you slowly bring it inside your hole. Slowly, are you trying to torture him?? :(( your walls feel so tight and slick,, if he didn’t learn to control himself years ago,, he would’ve came!! :((
he lets you take the lead, of course! He’s big and long, he’d hate to accidentally hurt you!! you slowly pull him inside, quickly push him out, and slowly pull him in again,, making Simon whine.
“Lovie.. please.. I need you.. don’t do this to me..”
as you pick up the pace, Simon grabs your hips, moaning and whining like a little bitch! He’s a cute little bitch tho :)) he’s already close to cumming inside you, but the moment he gets too close, you pull out. He groans, and before he gets time to complain, you drop to your knees and take him into your mouth.
“Ah- fuck!”
your mouth feels better than he’d ever imagined, and he’s already close again!! But you won’t let him cum!! :((
“Please.. I’m.. hah, fuck- I’m so close…”
Since he’s begging and being patient like a good boy, you decide to give him what he wants, by deepthroating him until he cums in your throat. He earned it :))
(A/N #2: idk what possessed me to write this. I don’t usually write nsfw,, or at least not anymore,, but yeah. Again sorry if it sucks, haven’t written nsfw in a while,,, bleh bye bye)
Thank you to the lovely person who requested this!! Sorry if these are shorter than my Chance hcs😓 i haven’t played the game so i was scrambling all over YouTube to try and find Fanita’s routes!! i tried my best, i hope you guys enjoy!!
Edit: almost forgot to mention that my requests are open!
Wc:936
Sfw:
Fantina is over the moon when you introduce the idea of being together.
Though in her eyes the two of you have always been together, ever since you brought her into your home she has been yours forever, unbeknownst to you.
Before you and Fantina got together she would get so jealous whenever you used the other objects around the house, even the ones she couldn’t see, she just knows you're cheating on her– you just don’t know it yet!
Even after you start to officially date she still gets jealous even though you need to use the other objects just to live, she knows you aren’t doing it on purpose just out of necessity, but that doesn’t stop her feelings from bubbling up.
If you seem to be hanging out with a few objects more than usual she’ll take matters into her own hands and give them a little push and shove, no one else can capture your attention, only her!
Fantina does NOT like Hector at all, she doesn’t like that he's always watching you. Your hers! She’s supposed to be the only one able to watch you sleep! Maybe she’s just jealous she can’t see you from all the angles Hector can see you from.
She's the one that’s supposed to make you feel all cool and collected on a hot summer day, not that damned HVAC system. Forget about winter, it's her absolute nightmare! The thought of you not using her all season drives her up the walls. Don’t be surprised when you wake up to see Fantina scoot her way into your room without you noticing.
She just misses you so much! You can’t blame her, she just loves you soooo much! A little too much it creeps you out a bit, but you can’t tell her that she’d spiral.
She loves it when you draw on her and place stickers all over her, it's a little part of you all over her. She doesn’t care if you can’t make out the design of the sticker anymore because it's so worn out she’s keeping it there, you gave it to her why throw it out!
Her favorite love language is all of them! Just to be in your presence is a dream come true for her, to feel you is like frolicking in a flower, to receive a gift from you it feels like Christmas– and she’s immediately putting it in her shrine, she doesn’t want to ruin her gift by using it even if thats why you gave it to her– she must keep it in pristine condition. Since she doesn’t have a job (she’s not realized just yet) she can’t just go to a store and buy you whatever you've been raving about so that's where her love for you turns into creativity! She'll draw you, make you into mini sculptures with trash from around the house (she doesn’t care if that’s technically considered stealing from Jerry and Cam) if you like it then she is passing out from excitement.
Without fail every time you go up to her she gets so excited she overheats, quickly getting embarrassed by her body’s reaction she tries to hide or cools herself down by fanning herself. No matter how many times she’s seen you she still can’t stop to think about what she says, the only thing occupying her mind is you and you only.
Nsfw:
I feel like it would take some time before you and Fantina partake in any sexual activities, she wants to make sure she is perfect for you before thinking about laying a hand on you.
Fantina in my eyes would be a switch, but no matter what you would like she is at your very command. She lives to see you pleasured, her meer existence is to make sure you’re comfortable and in bliss.
She’s reluctant to let you go down on her. Mainly because she’d rather be giving you head but if this is what brings you pleasure then who is she to deny you.
She loves it when you mark her up, knowing that the other objects can see the hickeys that you left for her makes her fan spin faster than usual. She especially loves it when you draw on her skin with a marker, write something crazy, she doesn’t care, she finds it endearing!
She isn’t one to bring toys into play because she wants you to feel good just because of her not because of some lousy vibrator or dildo, she wishes to make you feel all sorts of pleasure just because of her. But if you really wish to bring them into your intimate life, who is she to argue with you, you’re her darling, how could she disappoint you and leave you dissatisfied.
She’s the type to watch you in your sleep and get all hot and bothered, seeing you blissfully unaware that she is lurking in the shadows makes her fans whirl!
Fantina is scared that her best isn’t enough for you, no matter how many times she has you squealing she must do better for you, she always puts in more effort than the last time you two were in bed, she may burn herself out but as long as you’re okay her exhaustion doesn’t matter.
She is sooo into body worship, your body is her temple, you are her goddess/god, to see you in such a sensitive state is what motivates her. She loves to pepper you with light little kisses, watching your body flutter and twitch due to her lips brings such joy to her.
I posted about this, but I wanted to make a longer post explaining my thoughts because who else to tell than strangers on Tumblr right? Lol. When I saw that Taylor Swift was releasing like, seven to eight different versions of her album - different cover but no new material - yeah, I thought it was a little much, but I have been a huge fan for a long time and that wasn't going to drastically affect me. My genuine thought process was "well it would be dumb to buy all those variants." The first album I ever bought was Speak Now. I've been a fan for a long time and tacky marketing isn't going to affect whether or not I like the music, right? Right. And then I open Instagram and see that she's doing acoustic versions of the album. I was SO excited because I didn't love the album and I thought I would like the acoustics more! All good, right? Well, she split them up so that you get two or three acoustics per cd for a total of four cds. I cannot explain how disheartened I felt. Yes, the music industry is a business and yes, Taylor Swift is a smart businesswoman but isn't there a line to be drawn somewhere? She's at the top of the music industry, whether you love her or hate her, does she really need to divvy up the tracks like this? Because remember, I am a fan. I want to hear the acoustics and she didn't just put them behind a paywall; she put them behind four. And every other time I opened Instagram, it was the same thing, but now with voice memos. I don't even know how many different cds she put those on. Don't I have the right to be upset? As a fan? Yes, she's not putting a gun to my head and forcing me to buy the music, but isn't she restricting access to her music to those who can afford to get behind more than thirty-eight paywalls? And even though I've never considered myself a stan of Taylor Swift or any other artist (I am against the idea of idealizing people you don't know), I'd be lying if I said I didn't stream the Taylor's Version of her music only because I knew that she cared about her masters - her masters don't affect me at all. And the reward that she's given her fans as a collective is - again - more than thirty-eight paywalls. There's an Olivia Rodrigo lyric that says "you have everything but still want more" and man, I feel it applies to this situation. Taylor Swift did not need to do this to get to the top of the charts. It's pretty much expected that every time Taylor Swift puts out an album, it'll go number one. So what was the need? More money than the billion she already has? And to top it all off, the album has now broken Adele's record for the biggest first-week sales. Adele put out one album, 25, with a deluxe edition later on. That album charted because of pure talent. And Taylor Swift has now taken it over due to cheap, superficial, and greedy marketing tactics. Technically, Taylor Swift broke the record. But did she deserve to? Was it that important to get to number one, or to break records, or whatever else? I'm sure that Adele doesn't care that her record is broken, and yes, I suppose it doesn't have any real world effects either. But there's something so wrong about the fact that now, when you look up biggest first-week sales, it isn't Adele's universally lauded album. It's Taylor Swift's album. Or should I say thirty-eight albums?
