#WHICH TO BE CLEAR I THINK IS GOOD COMMENTARY

[mythalism]

more me verbally processing my feelings on this game and it's story that i sent in discord but i know reading these things can be helpful to others processing so im sharing them here <3

even though i think i personally am able to find coherent meaning in solas's ending, specifically the status of the veil, and i do think its good and i like it, i really have to work to do it. the way its written is kind of confusing because the message is like ok. let go of your regrets. but you also have to atone for your mistakes. but solas believes he is atoning by taking the veil back down and bringing immortality back and making sure more spirits are not turned into demons? but the story tells us that version of atonement is Wrong, but why is it wrong? because people will die? but people also die because of the veil? mages are mass incarcerated and lobotimized bc of the veil, elves have been enslaved for millenia, PEOPLE AGE AND DIE, BECAUSE OF THE VEIL? so he isnt supposed to atone for that mistake by fixing it he's just supposed to accept it and let go? so are we supposed to atone for our mistakes or not? what determines whether or not we need to atone? he has to atone for what he did to the titans but not what he did by accident to his own people i guess? and he is going to atone by maintaining the status quo that he created because people have gotten used to it?

i think the answer based on the regret prison scene with rook escaping with varric's help and that banger line of varric's is to take accountability and own up to your choices, they are yours and no one can take them from you. rook says something to one of the regret statues (for me it was harding) thats like "i made a choice and so did you and you knew the risks" or something so i think that is the key. solas cannot accept his choices and so he is desperate to undo them no matter what kind of harm it may do. he is trapped in regret and the past to the point that he cant accept them and move forward, and varric is the perfect contrast of this with how readily he accepts his death as a consequence of his love and hope for his friend. even mythal accepts her own choices when she tells solas that she turned him from his purpose. and she doesnt apologize or even express regret at all, partly because shes a crazy bitch (affectionate) but partly because i think her quiet, cold acceptance is part of the lesson solas needs to learn in that moment. solas is constantly saying, "im sorry, but", "ir abelas, vhenan, but i cannot". mythal just states her actions plainly; i forced you to take a body, i brought you into war, these burdens are ours to bear together, i release you. no apology, no rumination, she is at peace with her decision even though it is wrong. i think this works wonderfully on a personal individual level of personal regrets. it is a good lesson; regret does not serve any purpose other than to hurt you. it brings no one back, it helps nothing, it does not make the world a better place. solas has to let go of his regrets so that he can become the hero that varric sees deep down in him. it is an essential part of his personal journey as a character... but it gets stickier when we are talking about systemic change. obvi a lot of dragon age's modern, young audience is very much in favor of "tear it all down!!" and i am too but i think with solas they are trying to tell a very personal and individual story of a man and his regrets rather than make a social commentary on radical change, but they also dont make that clear enough, so the two get muddied together when it comes to the question of the veil in a way that feels like they are advocating for maintaining the status quo, which i dont think was their intention.

i think this is so muddied because inquisition very much makes clear commentary on systems and institutions with the chantry, the orlesian empire, ferelden monarchy, mages and templars, and the inquisition itself being all vulnerable to corruption, and solas has a lot to say about all of this and he is very much presented as being right (like when he tells you about the corruption in your own ranks in trespasser and how hes spying on you lol) and then veilguard does not do this AT ALL, all of the issues are very personal ones of people and their identity, people and their family, people and their regrets etc. so i think a lot of us are in this mindset from inquisition of like.... yeah disrupt the status quo install a puppetmaster elf to rule an imperialist empire, make leliana pope and radicalize the chantry even if its bloody, dissolve the inquisition, abolish the circles etc. etc. and the question of the veil is very much an extension of these philosophical questions about systems and organizations. and for those of us who leaned towards dissolution of all of those corrupt structures, dissolution of the veil is the logical conclusion to a story thats sending us that message. but then veilguard just. does not even engage with these topics at all. like its not even a question. it takes the question of the veil and translates it into a personal issue of solas's psyche (which is super interesting, just different) and connects it to his past actions, his relationship with mythal, and his perception of himself, rather than a macro-level question of what is best for the world when pursuing change, and the answer for solas on a personal level ends up being different from the answer that inquisition was asking us, but it feels disjointed as a result.

so the veil staying up was the right decision because it forced solas to let go of his regrets and the game is about him. so it was an exercise in his therapy session with his two ex-gfs and some annoying kid who wont leave him alone. but the problem is it doesn't answer or engage with the greater questions and themes about systemic change that the series has been building up to.

veilguard is interesting because it wants to be dragon age 2 so bad while simultaneously being terrified of dragon age 2. solas bringing down the veil would have been the answer to the question that anders blowing up the chantry asked, but veilguard decided to ask a completely different question instead. and i think it did a good job in that specific goal, but it doesnt satisfy 15 years of build up and instead just throws it out the window in favor of something else.

[aleksiej]

being eastern european, the portrayal of communism in disco elysium is so special to me.

spoilers for the end of the game as well as some eastern european history tangents i guess

i was raised on a us cartoons and soviet-era cartoons and black-and-white movies about the "good communists" and "bad capitalists" and my parents always made it very clear to me what was propaganda in all of them

the american dream existed to me until i was about 9 years old and it never did since

the situation poland was in during the USSR was better than some (especially ukraine), but it also was miles behind even the western half of germany or the supposedly "punished" japan

the systems in place at the time were no good, as much is clear in any and all movies from the era, especially the comedies, which were the only movies from that time we watched, besides historical fiction pieces

the systems were failing because of USSR's imperialism and totalitarianism and because people would rather cheat their neighbors than play fair, which perhaps is just the human condition, or perhaps we're just particularly mean

all that said, disco elysium is precious to me because it doesn't sugar-coat. yes, communism is an ideal, one that we might never achieve. at the end of the day, we hope and work and work and work harder, maybe to never see results of our labor.

the deserter especially embodies that idea, that communism failed, in disco elysium and in history of the USSR. it feels hopeless, and the feeling is only magnified in the conversation with the guy himself.

he claims communism died with his comrades and that may be true.

but we are (sometimes or never or for the third playthrough in a row) a communist. we argue and everyone looks at us with pity or puzzlement or a conviction that it is all a passing fancy of harry's. of us.

and don't get me started on the communist club that harry can go to in-game. the commentary on excessive labeling and leftist in-fighting and clasist bullshit present still in leftist spaces might be too much for one post to bear. even tho i always end up long-winded and rambling.

point is, disco elysium is great and this post was fueled by the infamous "woke games" list that categorized it as "mentions communism, unsure if in a positive or negative sense".

because duh, it's positive. and realistic. life ain't sunshine and roses and fighting for what you think is right is not easy.

communism won't fix everything, it probably won't even fix you, but it's an ideal. one that we ought to work towards, even, if it's unreachable.

[jhdyuiee]

treasure trove

𓇼 pairing: husband!johnny x fem!reader

𓇼 tags/warnings: fluff, smut!, unprotected sex, tit job, fingering, multiple positions/orgasms, oral (m receiving), tit/breast play, sucking/marking/biting, kissing/making out, dirty talk, breeding kink, cursing, name calling (good girl) & pet names (wife, babe), sex by the beach :0, rough johnny

𓇼 w.c: 2k

𓇼 a.n: hehe, i told ya'll i'd be back very soon and with my first ever johnny fic no less, hehe. anyhow this is the last release of the week, please stay tuned next weekend for my next releases! thank you for your continuous love and support, i truly appreciate it & i love ya'll just so much! until next week, jiji out 🤍

Maldives. 

Nothing beats the ocean side view. The water so clear, so exquisite. You looked out the window of the restaurant you and your husband were dining in for the night. Today marked a day until your honeymoon was over. You were a bit sad, not wanting this to end, not wanting to leave just yet.

You watched as the sun slowly set, illuminating the beautiful ocean. You were always fond of the ocean, it was the center of all your good moments in life. You teared your gaze from the beautiful ocean to the man in front of you.

Your husband: Johnny Suh.

“I’m starting to think you’re on this honeymoon with the ocean rather than with me,” Johnny says as he swirls the wine in his cup.

You couldn’t help but smile at his commentary. “Jealous of the ocean, Suh?” you teased.

“You’re a Suh too now you know,” he answered, taking the cup of wine to his lips. His face scrunches up when he gets a taste. He sets the glass down, using that hand to entwine his fingers with yours.

“Did I ever tell you how magnificent you look tonight?” your husband speaks, a slight blush adorning your cheeks.

“Yes, yes you have… in fact it's all you’ve said to be tonight,” you told your husband who just looked at you like a love struck fool. He was your fool, head over heels for you. In Johnny’s world he always thanked the lord above for letting him meet someone like you.

“Well, what can I say, my wife is simply just the most radiant woman in the whole world!” he says a bit louder, loud enough for other guests to hear.

You slightly shout his name as you see the few guests turn around to your table. Johnny just laughs, bringing your entwined hands to his lips where he kissed it so lovingly.

“I love you,” he mutters, instantly melting your heart.

“I love you too,” you tell him as you then bring his hand to your lips so you could do the same thing.

And so your dinner with Johnny continued, laughter and smiles radiating from your table. Everyone in that restaurant could feel the love surrounding you two– the newly wedded couple. Once it was time to go, Johnny made sure to take your hand–holding it real tight–and walk you to his car. You noticed there was no one else there except you two, Johnny noticed this too. And Johnny for one was someone who wouldn’t miss an opportunity to do something… revolting.

His hands quickly find their way to your waist, holding you as he slams his mouth onto yours. You could taste remnants of his wine from him, intoxicating yourself. You didn’t mean the wine, but Johnny himself, the man was like an addicting drug, something you couldn’t help but intoxicate yourself with.

You find yourself trapped, being eaten alive almost. His tongue fights against yours, dominance overriding Johnny. His hands lingered on your ass, groping it which caused you to moan into his mouth. He lightly smacks one of your cheeks before soothing it. You could feel your panties begin to wetten, yourself begin to heat up.

He parts from the heated kiss first, instead going to kiss your cheek, jaw, before settling on your neck. He uses one hand to brush away any hairs, leaving your neck in full exposure to him. He nips on your skin before sucking on it. You grab onto his brown locks, holding him as he tries marking you. You were sure you were going to be left in a body full of marks by the time ya’ll leave tomorrow. Well, not that you were complaining.

Once Johnny felt satisfied he parts from your neck, meeting you at eye level. And just as he was about to devour you again, you two hear a woman’s laughter in the distance. You two freeze, instantly sobering up. However you didn’t fail to notice the remnants of lust in Johnny's eyes.

“Just wait until we get into the villa,” he whispers into your ear before taking your hand to guide you to the passenger seat. As you take your seat and he begins to drive off, your mind wanders to all the indecencies that are about to unravel.

𓆉𓆉𓆉𓆉𓆉𓆉𓆉𓆉

You two couldn’t make it past the front door before he had you two undressing. You were left in nothing, naked as he sucked on your tits. “How are you so perfect,” he groans against your breast, kissing his way to the other one where he proceeds to suck on your nipple before marking you up. You gripped onto his hair, watching as he loved on your body.

When he’s had enough he brings his lips to yours, pecking them before saying, “why don’t you take care of me now, I’ve been hard ever since the restaurant.” Johnny guides your hand to his hardened member that was still confined by his boxers. You shyly smiled before dropping onto your knees where you then proceed to take them off. His cock springs out, leaking with pre already and the tip looking red.

You licked your lips before inching towards his cock. You dart your tongue out before swirling it around his tip, licking up his pre. You groaned at the sour taste, only focusing on his tip. Johnny looks down at you with an urge to just shove himself down your throat, but he wanted you to do it yourself. He watched as your cute tongue licked his tip before licking his slit. He curses and closes his eyes at the pleasuring sensation.

You looked up, finding your husband in pure ecstasy from just some licking. You felt it was right to now kick things up a notch, so you spit on his cock. You used one of your hands to spread the spit around him, making sure to wet him well. When you felt it was wet enough you begin. 

Johnny opens his eyes again when he feels his cock slide in between something soft, something he knew all too well: your tits.

“Fuck,” Johnny curses as he watches you try to fuck his cock in between your tits. Eventually opting to help you out by thrusting himself in between them, watching as you take his tip inside your mouth.

He knew he wasn't going to last, feeling himself nearing his release. You too could feel it in the way he twitched in between you. So being the caring wife that you are, you helped him out a bit by squeezing your tits a bit tighter and taking him in your mouth more deeper.

Johnny gripped your head, holding it as he came. His warm seeds erupting inside your mouth before you swallowed them. You lick him clean one last time before getting back up. Johnny immediately kisses you, tasting himself on you. You feel as his fingers go to your dripping cunt, he moans at the amount of juice overflowing you right now. He continues, sliding them in between your pussy lips. He barely gets to your entrance before you part from the kiss to say: “Pl-Please Johnny, in-inside… inside me pl-please.”

He groans, “anything for you my wife,” he says, unable to resist your pleas.

He flips your two around, your back against the wall. He takes one of your legs into his hand, holding it as he uses his other hand to bring his cock to your dripping entrance. You watched intently, watched as you swallowed him right up. Your hands fly to his shoulders, holding him as you feel his girth spread your gummy walls apart. He was snug inside you, fitting into you just right.

“So fucking tight, feels so good,” Johnny moans against your ear before kissing it. You mutter a sultry, yes, back to him.

Johnny starts thrusting, in and out, you watched with watery eyes. The pleasure so massive as you feel his cock reach up to your cervix, kissing your womb so nicely. You chant out his name when he continues pumping his length into you ruthlessly. You could feel yourself being fucked into oblivion already. You tightened yourself even more around him. “Fuck, already gonna cum babe?” Johnny asks.

“Mmmm,” you say, unable to cohort a simple sentence. Your fingers scratched Johnny’s back as he continued pounding you against the wall.

Johnny watches you in pleasure, watching the way your tits bounced in front of him. It was a sight he couldn't pass up on. Johnny wraps his mouth around one of your nipples, sucking on the poor thing as you grew closer to your release.

Too lost in the overstimulation from his cock and mouth, you failed to notice his fingers which grazed your clit. It wasn’t until you felt them rub your clit that you felt your eyes widened. Involuntary moans erupted from you as he continued playing with your clit.

“I’m… I’m cumming,” you moaned, as you gushed around his cock. Johnny too moans, loving the way you felt as you came around his cock. He continues his thrusting, overstimulating you into mini orgasms until he finally cums. You still couldn’t get used to how much he would cum, how’d he’d fill you up with such warmth.

However, just when you thought it was over, it wasn’t. Unlike the other nights, tonight Johnny was in a desperation of more. He carried you further inside the villa, rushing to the bedroom. He plops you on the bed, feeling it dip as he climbs on as well. Johnny opens your legs, watching as your and his orgasm mixed together and dripped out of you.

“Say, my dear wife, what if we have a child,” Johnny blurts out.

You didn’t know what to say, was this the cause of his sex driven state or was he genuine? Well, whatever the case, you didn’t mind. You were always talking about how much you wanted a child and were always ready to have one if the time ever arose.

“Do it, get me pregnant tonight my dear husband,” you whispered, pecking his lips. you were testing him, a test Johnny wasn’t going to play by tonight. He backs up a bit, spreading your legs wider before positioning his cock in between your folds. He rubs himself in between them, gathering the remnants of his leaking cum only to push them back inside.

“Y-Yes,” you moaned, “I could feel you so deep.”

Johnny smirks, watching your face twist in pleasure, watching as your eyes glistened with tears. He pistoned his thrust, hips slapping against your ass. He continues his ruthless thrust in and out of your cunt as the squelching sounds echoed in the room. He was wrecking your cunt, trying to make sure he was the only one that could ever leave you satisfied for all your life.

“Keep squeezing me babe and you’ll milk me in no time,” he groans, feeling as you squeezed him. “Good girl, just like that,” he then says as he rubs your clit once more.

“I’m go-gonna cum,” you moaned, tongue lolling out, “Cum wi-with me!”

His thrusting falters, going irregular until he finally cums inside you for a second time tonight. Yet he wasn’t done, he still had a promise to uphold. The promise to make sure you left this trip pregnant with his child, our child. And so he fucks his cum into you deeper, not stopping until he’s sure he’s made you pregnant. 

𓆉𓆉𓆉𓆉𓆉𓆉𓆉𓆉

Once everything seemed all perfect to him, Johnny takes his cock out of your stuffed pussy. Remnants of his animalistic side, subduing and being replaced by a gentle and cuddly husband. Johnny engulfed you into his body, his warmth, as he whispered sweet-nothings into your ear. 

Then everything fell silent, the ocean waves sounding in the distance lulling you to sleep. You peacefully slept in Johnny’s arms, resting after a long day and night. In the midst of you sleep you felt a hand graze your stomach, and a loving whisper in your ear.

“I promise to protect you both, my treasures.”

© jhdyuiee

2024. 11. 10

final a.n: have a great weekend! stay safe! & creds to the person who created the dividers, i lost their tumblr page so i couldn't tag them ahhh

[bougiebutchbinch]

Honestly jimcurly is probably one of my "Wouldn't it be fucked if-?" ships.

I don't think they're cute together, I don't think they can fix each other, I don't even think the sex is good, but you can bet I'm gonna sit my ass on my chair and watch this car crash of a relationship with popcorn in hands and 3d glasses.

They pratically are the definition of toxic yaoi, which makes the hate the fandom has for the ship the most confusing to me.

GOd yes. They're just so messed up. They should never ever ever have gotten together, but they DID and they made it EVERYONE else's problem.

Honestly, I think it's a classic case of Fandom Puritanism in action - everyone says they want toxic queer ships, but as soon as you show them an ACTUAL toxic queer ship with all its somewhat-realistic collateral damage, they're like NOOOOOO that's Too Problematic; we are too pure to be associated with this; you're missing the point of the game.

Like - no??? We're not???? The game made a very clear commentary on the abuses inflicted on women and disabled people - not to mention, on how the intersection of gross capitalist negligence, men/able-bodied people refusing to hold each other accountable (NOT JUST CURLY. ALL THE CREW. I'M LOOKING AT YOU SWANSEA AND DAISUKE), and entitlement complexes, lets this abuse flourish.

I understand that.

I respect that.

I think these themes were cleverly integrated into the game, in a variety of subtle and in-your-face ways.

And now I want to make the scumbag badguy protagonist fuck his enabler best friend.

[supatroopa]

I try not to be a hater because I like have some moral objections and whatever to haterism and also I just don’t really enjoy being a hater but actually try not to have the worst possible misinterpretation of Sisyphus challenge (impossible).

Like you guys know it’s an eternal punishment for trying to cheat death and live forever right? And that the punishment is endless toiling for an impossible task right because death is an inevitability? Not just some guy pushing up a rock?

For the record I think the “one must imagine Sisyphus happy” thing isn’t included in this it is an intentional reimagining and utilization of the myth for a purpose (which is the purpose of myth and fables and whatnot, I do have some grievances but like that’s all me). I mean like people saying Sisyphus can or has or will get the boulder up the hill the point of it is he can’t or that like it isn’t meant as a punishment.

Like it’s a cool story and like yes yes yes use and examine the story and retell it and resuit it to what you want to say but like know what you’re talking about please I will cry

[digitalcarcrash]

i think that you can(and should) enjoy hoffman as a character and also acknowledge that he is an inherently horrible person who has done very bad things. those two things can coexist btw

[askshivanulegacy]

^^^^ This.

I can't emphasize enough that if it isn't published, it isn't canon.

The experience of any piece of artwork, writing included, is inherent exclusively to YOUR interaction with that work. It's about what YOU find in it. It's about what YOU think it says.

If you're going to the author for anything deeper than clarifying a simple point, whatever you're gonna get back is non-canon. At best, you'll receive what THEY think about the work, but the only thing that matters is what YOU think. If they failed to publish their ideas in that work, those ideas might as well not exist. Most people aren't going out of their way to consult with the author to get the secret Part 2 of the story, or to dig up little niche interviews. The story is in the book or it's not there at all.

This is a huge problem in fandom, where people are raising the creators to godlike levels so they can exist or die based on what the creator says.

Star Wars is just one obvious example. Massive sections of the fandom quote every minor thing George Lucas ever said in the most obscure forums in order to form their basic understanding of the universe ... and these things are not written or published anywhere. And then they can't handle when people quote from the real material instead of some other producer's report of what this guy said.

Lucas is not a god, and what he says about Star Wars doesn't matter. It's fun from, like, a concept art perspective. But the concept art is not the finished product, and if you're harping over his quotes as "evidence" to shoot down things drawn from published work, you're wrong.

You HAVE to understand that the author's interpretation, unwritten and unpublished, is no better than yours ... or anyone else's. Stop using someone else to tell you what to think, and stop putting yourself and your special little personal interpretation on a pedestal above other people trying to enjoy things too. What you have is a headcanon. It's nothing more official than that.

If you don't like the published work as it stands, too bad. That's your problem. The published work isn't going away or becoming invalidated because you think one little interview said so.

ALSO if the creator has some stupid opinion on something or has done something stupid, it has nothing to do with their published work and doesn't invalidate any of it. Someone's enjoyment of media doesn't make any statement about whether they support an author. That's a logical fallacy to think so.

Social media as a whole desperately needs to stop their invasive parasocial obsession with authors and creators. You're all fanatical followers even of the people you hate, which is hilarious. You live, breathe, die, and hang upon every word that even your most detested creator says. You talk about other people letting go, yet there you are still obsessing over their every word.

The irony is incredible.

Of course, be a hate!fan if you want to. That's up to you and your enjoyment(???) of life. But stop attacking other people living perfectly normal lives who are not obsessing over the Entertainment Weekly drama of creators. The media people enjoy is not a reflection of their character or personal beliefs. There's no exception. If you think there is, then boy do I have news for you about your favorite ships, tropes, and kinks.

Folks act like "maybe the author isn't the final authority about what their work means" is some wanky post-modern nonsense and not a simple recognition that a lot of authors are perfectly prepared to bullshit about their own work. Like, leaving big-name popular media aside, I have personally encountered authors being actively disingenuous about their own work for all of the following reasons:

A true answer wouldn't fit the image they've cultivated.

They've decided they like the explanation the readers/viewers have come up with better than what they actually had in mind.

Something that was originally intended as a standalone work ended up growing into a franchise or series, and now they're pretending that was the plan all along for some reason.

They don't want to admit that the bit you're asking about is genuinely just a plot hole.

The real answer gets into some shit they don't care to discuss, so they've prepared a cover story to explain away the parts they don't want to talk about.

Their politics have changed since they wrote it, but they don't want to acknowledge that, so they're constantly trying to re-interpret everything they've ever written to be perfectly consistent with whatever their positions are this week.

They wrote it decades ago and they honestly don't remember what they were thinking at the time, so they're just making shit up; sometimes they also don't remember what shit they made up the last time, so the answer is different every time they're asked.

The work in question is at least partly autobiographical and they can't tell the truth without confessing to a crime in the process.

Most of the good bits are plagiarised and they don't really understand it themselves.

They're lying to you on purpose, for evil reasons.

[cumaeansibyl]

The Substance

short version: five out of five stars, I had so much fun, for God's sake read the CWs. there are so many needles in this.

further thoughts: I think the viciousness of this movie rests on Elisabeth (Demi Moore) having built her career on promoting the very same unattainable beauty standards that she finds herself in conflict with. It's no coincidence that she's not just an actress, she's a celebrity fitness instructor. Going on TV every morning to tell us all that our bodies aren't good enough. She threw her lot in whole-heartedly with the beauty merchants, she preened and profited, and then she was shocked -- shocked! -- when they inevitably, predictably turned on her.

It's also telling that once she's injected the titular Substance and generated a new, young, beautiful version of herself, what does she do? She goes right back to the same business as before. Being sexier, fitter, more desirable than anyone else. Telling everyone their bodies still aren't good enough. Well, why not? Even her own body wasn't good enough for her anymore.

Coralie Fargeat has zero fucking sympathy for her and I feel the same. Oh, is it hard now? Is it alienating and dehumanizing and humiliating? Did you never bother developing yourself as a person because you were too busy peddling feminine oppression for Dennis Quaid, of all people? Fuck you! Suffer harder! You are complicit!

I would love to know how this lands for conventionally attractive women -- I never put in a sustained effort of this kind because it was made quite clear to me from a young age that the "right" kind of beauty would not be available to me. That comes with its own pain and its own fantasies about a "perfect" version of myself, but I suspect it's a different set.

I also wonder what trans women think of it, because while it's a very cis woman story (in that Elisabeth has always been a conventionally attractive girl and woman) it's also like... about transforming into a more desirable version of yourself, which, come on.

Finally, I feel like there's some disability commentary to be had in here, though that's not a subject I'm well versed in. I did find myself thinking, from time to time, that to many people it would be very tempting to have a body with no pain, a body that always moved easily and performed all its functions with no trouble. Even if only sometimes.

[mychapel-004]

I think the most interesting and under-explored part of gf canon is the formation of the blind eye and I'm tired of pretending it isn't: a long post

Because hear me out here, if we really take a look at the timing of the only concrete source we have (mcgucket's video diaries), it doesn't... line up at all?

The clear implication here is that he started making the diaries after the first portal incident on January 18th 1983, so this would be our "day one"

"For the past year I have been working as an assistant for a visiting researcher... But something went wrong. I decided to quit the project, but I lie awake each night, haunted by the thoughts of what I've done... Test subject one: Fiddleford."

But this makes no sense. We know from J3 that the memory gun was actually invented after a series of traumatic events with Ford, months before he left the project. Further, the timeline the video diaries set up of the blind eye show that he began to deteriorate and founded the blind eye on day 22, which would be February 9th, but in J3 the blind eye is already a full blown cult by then.

In addition, where is he in this video? we know from TBOB that he isn't on good terms with his wife after Christmas of 1982 and he likely didn't leave GF after the portal incident, but he was living with Ford up until this so where is this room? If he had somewhere else to stay, why only stay there now?

Now, realistically the answer here is that the lore was changed and slightly retconned between the writing of this episode and the publishing of the book (which alex discusses in some of the commentary for this episode when discussing fidd's character), but I think a more interesting theory to solve this contradiction can be found in the source material.

If we play this all completely straight, there are two options here, both involving Fiddleford lying in his diaries. this isn't entirely new to the series, unreliable narration is a big theme, especially in Journal 3 and TBOB. the only real explanations are that:

A) Fiddleford was lying about this being the first time he used the gun, meaning this video diary takes place after the portal incident.

B) Fiddleford was lying about leaving the project, and was filming these diaries while still working with Ford.

Now, either of them is plausible, but ultimately Fiddleford is a scientist. He has dedicated his life to engineering, and it seems to be his lifelong passion considering it's one of the only character traits that he continues to practice after losing his mind. Would a man who is this talented, this dedicated, really lie about testing results in a video diary he chose to make?

If he had used the gun before, any kind of result he is trying to observe would be ruined. It would be a pointless venture, since we know for a fact that by the time he leaves the project he has used the gun on himself, Ford and other civillians multiple times. It's a complete failure of the scientific method, and I don't think it makes sense for the character we know, the man who quadruple checks his own calculations just to be sure they're right.

However, the other explanation feels like something he might do. We know he invents the gun after the Gremloblin incident likely sometime in August, and seems to use it immediately as evidenced by J3, on both himself and Ford. We know from the audio commentary that for Fidd, the memory gun is very much an addiction, it's something that he uses to curb his anxiety and appear like a better partner, to try and keep himself together until the project is over. But ultimately, he's known something is wrong with the project for a long time, and Ford mentions his tendency towards self destructive anxiety when Fidd rips out his own hair after Ford reveals the tip of the weirdness iceberg to him.

All this to say, I think it's far more realistic for Fiddleford to lie about leaving the project rather than his results. He knows that something is wrong, that he should leave and be with his family, and on the other side of that we know that Bill is using this anxiety to whisper into Ford's ear that Fidd is unreliable and will leave. He's been through a severely traumatic event with the Gremloblin, trapped for days in his worst nightmares, to the point where he is prepared to cause himself potential brain damage to un-see it.

But despite all of it, he doesn't leave. He is determined to stay, maybe out of loyalty, maybe out of fear for Ford's safety, maybe he needs the money from the project for his family. He has a wife and son who need him and we know that he feels guilt for his treatment towards them, he even cites them as his sole reason for backing out of using the gun immediately before he does it anyway, and uses it on Ford to cover his mistakes up. Fiddleford is a man who is wracked by anxiety and shame and is such a bad way by this point that he is absolutely willing to self-destruct and lie to just get through this project.

I think he absolutely would start documenting his use of the memory gun, even if that meant lying that he had followed his instincts and left the project when he should have done. After all, he says himself that he wants to use this gun on a wider scale as a therapy tool, assuming the gun doesn't turn his brain to mush, surely the tapes of his initial testing will need to be peer-reviewed? He's presenting the reality he wishes was true, the one where he is brave and stands on his principles and doesn't fall into step beside Ford on his path to destruction.

So, where does this leave the timeline?

Finding exact dates is difficult, mostly because the only concrete numbers in J3 are few and far between, but we do have the dates of the tapes to go off as follows. This isn't concrete but it's a fun way to recontextualise the events of J3:

Day 1:

First usage of the gun, followed by it being used on Ford

Sometime after the Gremloblin incident, Fidd's arm is either healed or on the mend from the incident as his cast is gone, so likely towards the end of August.

Note on the cast: It could also be gone as a result of him removing it too early, he doesn't seem to take a lot of time to recover from the incident before he gets back to work in fear of disappointing Ford.

The room he is in is likely his bedroom in the Shack, or whatever location he initially uses to form the blind eye, maybe a room in the museum? The "probability of failure" graph in the back is the same one that he shows Ford the night before the Portal test, albeit a bigger version, meaning he has likely been tracking the output results for a while.

Day 5:

Still exhibiting postive results, no deterioration yet.

Day 22:

First signs of mental deterioration

First mention of the blind eye, Fidd draws the symbol onto a notebook but it is already scribbled in the background over a diagram of the portal. The blind eye symbol is first mentioned in J3, when Fidd hands it to the carny who becomes the eventual leader of the cult, so this diary likely takes place after he has begun using it on other people.

Official formation of the blind eye as a group to help people forget traumatic memories.

His room in the shack is in a state of disarray, his plants are dead and there are handprints in oil or ink on the walls. Notably, he seems to be connecting the idea of a single eye and the portal despite not being aware of Bill at this point, which I'll touch upon later.

The carnival is likely in September according to the timeline by @fordtato

Day 74:

Slight physical deterioration, more physical anxiety

It seems that Fidd has been regularly using the memory gun at this point, to erase even minorly distressing images from his head, and his anxiety has taken a nosedive. Likely explanation is that this diary is after the bunker, where he had another severely traumatic experience (kidnapped by a shapeshifter and reduced to mute from anxiety) and seemed to become obsessed with doomsday planning. During the bunker arc he also used the gun on multiple workmen and Ford once again.

Likely takes place in October/November

His room is a complete mess by now, with the walls covered in papers and "Help Me" scrawled on the walls.

At this point in J3, Ford has made his deal with Bill and is allowing him to possess his body whenever he pleases. Bill has also sucessfully driven a divide between the other two by making Ford doubt that Fidd will be able to make it to the end of the project, and Ford describes his frustration with him.

According to Ford, Fidd is just as agitated and nervous before the portal test as he was during the Gremloblin attack, and obsessively checks and rechecks his calculations, causing Ford to worry for his resolve.

In between this diary and the next are the stolen pages from J3 that are in TBOB, which give us slight insight into Fiddleford during this time but not much. We see that he tries multiple times to reach out to him the only way that Fidd knows how, through invention and creation, with the snowglobe and the six-fingered gloves. Ford, however, treats them carelessly as a result of his increased attention to his muse. At the same time, he tries to visit home but is kicked out by Emma-May after he forgets to get her a Christmas gift. This is played as an example of his connection with Ford, him remembering two gifts for the man and none for his wife, but if he really is suffering from his use of the gun at this time, the forgetfulness makes even more sense and his argument with his family means he doesn't have a support system outside of Ford who is paying all of his attention to the project. After this, Fiddleford is more reclusive than ever as he spends early January compiling a thesis for Ford to publish

Day 189

Physical deterioration is in full effect and he can't hide the result of his addiction any more, even just to keep up appearances.

His arm is broken, likely due to the car accident he mentions accidentally causing, but its the same arm he broke during the Gremloblin attack and could be a result of him taking his cast off too early for it to have healed right in the first place which could explain why he wears it for so long.

Significant mental decline as he has started exhibiting signs of brain damage or swelling (decreased vocabulary, forgetfulness, loss of motor functions) however, he is seemingly lucid enough to question if the memory gun is causing negative side effects.

There are actually bottles visible in the back of the room, possbly referencing the addiction metaphor being used here

This would take place after the portal test, likely late January. Ford is at the height of his paranoia, Fiddleford has left the shack and taken every trace of his research with him except his college picture with Ford, and the blind eye is a fully established and seemingly self-governing cult.

Day 273

At this point, Fidd has relocated to a motel and is seemingly completely mentally gone, ripping out his hair and developing his hunched posture. This likely takes place after the blind eye takes his memories, or he continues erasing them himself. It's possible that the blind eye continues visiting him and taking his memories even after he is ejected as a member, or at least until they forget who he is after using the gun on themselves too many times.

It appears to be snowing outside? Which doesn't line up with either the canon timeline or this timeline, so potentially the days on the video diaries could be incorrect assuming he isn't filming them every day, or has lost so much of his mind by this point that he isn't labelling them right and has lost track of time

The final two entries are a similar story, serving only to show us the end of his decline and him eventually becoming fully homeless, retreating to the junkyard he lives in for the next 28 years (jesus, he really deserved that mansion).

Ultimately though, this timeline asks a lot of interesting character questions.

Why did Ford not realise how bad Fiddleford's decline was becoming? Maybe a mix of circumstances, he was falling deeper into his worship of Bill at the time, to the extent that he was regularly being possessed and judging by the lack of journal entries at the time, very pre-occupied. We also know that Fidd used the gun on him at least twice in canon, and possibly used it more than we know in order to convince Ford he was okay.

If Fiddleford was erasing parts of Ford's memory, did Bill know? Personally, I feel that Bill was aware but knew that ultimately it would serve him. Fiddleford, without ever encountering Bill at this point, created the blind eye symbol which is eerily close to Bill's symbolism, how would he know that when we know Ford is possessive of his muse and doesn't share anything with Fidd about it? How does Ford have visions of Fidd in a red cloak without ever knowing that the cult and Fidd are directly connected? My thoughts are that Bill, who we know has erased Ford's memory himself before when he stole the journal pages we see in TBOB, was using most of this as fodder to drive a divide between the two, mentally creating associations in both of their minds so they stop trusting the other. Chess but with troubled gay men.

All in all I think Fiddleford's decline is such an interesting way to approach a theme of addiction, particularly a high-functioning addiction. If this really is how things played out, we know that throughout his use of the gun and even 30 years later when he is considered a write-off, the one thing he maintains is his engineering prowess and his smarts. It makes sense that even when actively using the gun and hiding it from Ford he would be able to keep up in terms of building the portal, especially when we know he secretly hired workers. It's also a great example of someone drawing others into their addiction, even if it was unintentional and he didn't believe they would be hurt in the long run.

I feel like sometimes there's a lil bit of a push to see Fidd as a naive or morally good character even through his mistakes and to demonise Ford in response, but ultimately both of them are very morally grey and have their own vices that they develop and grow from.

Anyway, interested in this idea?

Well, good news if you are or my condolences if you hate it and want me dead, this is also an au I'm working on and writing at the moment! My fic link is below, the introduction is up right now and the next chapter will be coming out tomorrow with updates every few days now I've finally gotten this post out. The tag for this fic is 'Geiger counter au', hopefully I'll be able to get out some other headcanons I have for this idea because it's been floating around in my head since J3 came out.

Thank you for reading!

[thesiltverses]

A very big thank you

I posted this on Patreon, but really wanted to share it here as well:

Post-show life begins

For a long while now I’ve been getting up at 4.30 or 5am, grabbing myself the first coffee of four, and then coming to sit at my desk.

I open up the assembly cut of the newest TSV episode.

I listen to it, I try and pin down which scenes I need to be going back over today. I try and push through the entire morning without a break because when the momentum stalls, that’s what kills your release schedule. (I also worry endlessly about just how much of my hair is falling out, and how spending 12 hours a day wearing headphones could be contributing to that.)

Today was different. I still woke up early - it’s a hard habit to shake off, and probably a useful one going forward. But I didn’t go to my desk, and I didn’t put my headphones on.

I went to the rocking chair we bought for our son when he comes, and I sat there - gently swaying and trying not to spill my coffee all over it, because for some reason it’s fucking beige - and looked out over the city skyline. 

I slugged back my coffee surrounded by all the stuff we’ve panic-bought for the baby, and I got to take all of it in - washcloths and the changing table and romper suits - with a sudden focus and a clarity and a rising excitement that I really hadn’t allowed myself to feel until today, because until today the work was still unfinished and there was still much left to be done.

All at once I felt very free, and fully sated, and happy and proud for everything that’s coming next.

There’s so much to feel grateful for from the past three years of working on this show. But what’s probably going to sit with me the most is being able to arrive at that moment and those feelings today, - and we have all of you incredible people to thank for that.

Not just in terms of listenership or financial support, although that’s been truly invaluable and a lifeline for us that’s enabled us to actually make the show - but also your enthusiasm, your passion, your jokes and comments and everything that’s helped to keep us motivated and working on it.

So - with as much feeling as words can convey, thank you so, so much for everything.

What’s coming next, in rough order

#1: Parentdom is going to take over our lives for a while! I also want to write the final Patreon episode commentaries in the next few days, while I have the time and the clear memories. #2: The next thing we’ll organise will be the post-season Q&A (we’d also like to do some kind of off-camera cast party if we can make schedules work, just to say thank you to our amazing VAs and celebrate with them). Please do ask us questions! #3: We have long-unfinished commitments to the Patreon which I need to complete: the last two episodes of So Long, Good Luck, and rounding off Sid Wright’s story. As ever, huge thank-yous for your patience with these; they’ve just been impossible to polish off while also working on the main show so much. #4: Something I’ve been thinking about for a long time is the possibility of going back to Season 1 and redesigning it from scratch to try and bring it closer in style to S2 and S3. We have the raw audio files - some of the mic quality will just be rough no matter what, but we can certainly try.  This is something I want to be conscientious and careful about; I very much want to respect the sound design work that’s already taken place, and ensure we’re not overriding anything. But I do know that the initial quality still sometimes puts new listeners off; we were learning a lot about direction and mastering from scratch, and our designers were working with limited budget and a total lack of plugins, so there’s simply a lot more we can achieve now. (This would also be a good opportunity for me to finally rework the transcripts, another fallen hurdle). #5: A few months back, we were contacted by a literary agent in NYC who was interested in us adapting the show into a series of novels. There’s a long road ahead to actually get published, but I'm thrilled to say that I have signed with them and I’m really excited to hopefully start work on the first book once I’ve settled into dad-dom. I’ll need to check what’s possible, but if it doesn’t interfere with any contract condition I’d obviously love to share excerpts on here as it’s written. #6: Then there’ll also be another larger audiodrama project - we’ve spoken about the different possibilities before! Excited to get started on our final choice.

Just one last word about endings

God, endings are scary. Because endings are impossible.

How many serialised stories actually end in a way that’s received unequivocally well?  People yelled at The Sopranos for its ambiguity and open-endedness. People criticised Breaking Bad for treating Walt too sympathetically at the end and relying on a generic mob of snarling Nazis to act as his final foe.

Endings are either too pat and neat, or too inconclusive to be satisfying, or too surreal and dreamlike, or they simply make what feels like the wrong choices for the characters we care about. We’re all caught in that barbed wire, creators and audience alike, weighed down by the baggage of what’s come before and we've already spent so much time anticipating the infinite possibilities of how it could all turn out - it’s like we can’t get free of the story that’s trying to end. 

And the beautiful thing about these longform, iterative works is that they insist upon becoming completely ungovernable. No matter how much of a planner the creator claims to be, how much prepwork they carry out - they were never really in control. There’s spontaneity and surprises and dead ends and beautiful distractions that come spilling out along the way (I was baffled and delighted to learn that people really - at the end of the show, with such limited time to spare - wanted to find out what had happened to Eddie*). 

So they can’t end. Not really. There’s too much wonderful mess in them to ever be reasonably disentangled.

And, of course, for every ending people remember with frustration or dissatisfaction, there’s another hundred endings that nobody remembers at all, because we lost our enthusiasm along the way and it feels better to keep going back to the start and avoiding the slow decline. (Who the fuck remembers how the umpteenth X-Files reboot ended? What increasingly tired post-modern antics was Alan Moore getting up to in the final League of Extraordinary Gentlemen books?). I really just didn’t want the show to end up in that latter category.

All of that probably sounds like I’m warding off criticism about the show's ending, but for me it’s actually been the opposite. 

For an ending which is all about narrative dissatisfaction, and failed potential and missed opportunities, and how we need to come to terms with the lack of existential fairness and certainty and narrative control in our lives and keep ploughing forward all the same for as long as we possibly can, I’m massively stunned at just how positive the reception has been on here and elsewhere, and that’s something I’m actively having to process, because I think I was fearfully anticipating much more pushback.

But, look - the Eskew finale was originally quite poorly-received and then people came back around to it over time. So I’m not going to pat myself on the back too hard, because maybe it’ll ultimately be the opposite with this show, and that’s OK. For 200 years everyone was convinced King Lear was improved by having everyone survive at the end and get married. Endings take time to settle into their final condition.

For now, I am incredibly relieved that the ending we chose seems to have landed for most people, and I’m incredibly grateful for the lovely messages we’ve got about it and for the trust in us that you’ve all shown throughout the story.

So, yeah, let’s end with another thank you, because that’s what I feel so deeply and so forcefully at this point.

Thank you so much again, and speak soon.

Jon

*My take? We’ve established that the guy is in some kind of blue-collar job and has been pushed into constant overtime due to the reduced workforce. We’ve seen that the so-called ‘national holiday’ doesn’t actually rescue workers from their commitments. So I personally imagine that Eddie was working during the parade somewhere on the city outskirts, and is alive and well.

[eoieopda]

tidal.

but vernon has a point to make, so that’s precisely what he does: “i don’t need a sales pitch. you will never — ever — have to convince me to fuck you.” 

pairing: vernon x afab!reader type: one-shot (fluff n’ smut) au: est. relationship wc: 4.8k rating: 18+ a/n: i didn’t plan this whatsoever, but i felt so weirdly compelled to write it that i avoided eye-contact with all of my wips, and now… here we are, lol. cw: pov switch, reader is afab + on their period, gender identity + pronouns aren’t designated, blood mention (obvi), unprotected p in v penetration (ill-advised!!), wee bit of dry-humping (ig?), a lil massage, pet names (baby, sweetheart), self-indulgent ref to a favorite docu of mine, and lastly — vernon (yes, this is a warning 🧍🏻) 🔞 MINORS WHO INTERACT WITH ME AND/OR MY CONTENT WILL BE BLOCKED, WHETHER OR NOT THE CONTENT IS NSFW. I’M AN ADULT WRITING EXCLUSIVELY FOR OTHER ADULTS.

Vernon isn’t blind. 

He can see you out of the corner of his eye, laying flat on your back, several unexplained centimeters away from his side. With the duvet clenched in your fists, you stare intently up at the ceiling, like you’re waiting for it to move — or trying to move it yourself, telekinetically. You keep your bottom lip pinched between your teeth, as if you expect it to make a run for it.

So, yes, Vernon can see you. 

He just can’t figure out what’s wrong with you.

For a few minutes, he attempts to pay attention to the documentary lighting up the screen on the wall ahead. You were the one that picked it — some wild tale about mother-daughter recluses in New York — and he finds it hard to give a shit about it without your usual commentary. Your hot takes are his favorite part of any movie night, after all.

He’ll be the first to admit that he’s never been good at keeping his eyes off you. Try as he might, he can’t glue his gaze to the television; each glance in your direction sticks longer than the one before it, testing the waters. Minutes slip away just like this until he completely caves, turns his head fully, and stares at you outright. 

You still don’t seem to notice.

His brow scrunches up as he watches you, caught in the middle between concerned, confused, and amused by how absolutely ridiculous you look right now. When he speaks, he tries to sound stern, like he isn’t fighting the urge to laugh.

“Baby?”

“Hmm?” is all he gets in response. 

You don’t even look his way. If anything, you tense harder now that his attention is on you. 

None of it makes sense. Not the weird gap you’ve left between your body and his, your total refusal to look him in the eye, or the fact that there wasn’t an argument to precipitate any of this distance. It’s a symptom with no apparent cause, and it’s totally baffling. Brain-breaking, even.

Frowning, Vernon scoots himself across the bed to get closer to you. 

You don’t reciprocate. 

He tugs gently at the hem of your sweatshirt in a silent plea for your attention and receives radio silence in response; unless he counts the way you swallow thickly.

Which, for the record, he does not.

This close, Vernon can feel the anxious energy pulsing out of your tensed-up body in waves, so he leans away and props himself up on his elbow. Desperate to know what broke you and how to fix it, he mutters, “What is happening right now?”

Ope. 

It comes out harsher than it was supposed to, reading more like annoyance than worry, so he immediately clears his throat. Gently and with a brush of his knuckles against your hip bone, he tries again: “Are you okay? Did I do something to make you mad at me?”

A fly on the wall might get the wrong impression and think he stroked you with a live wire instead.

“Oh, my god. No!” You sputter with a jolt, shifting gears quickly from vaguely on-edge to horrified. You shake your head so frantically that Vernon fears you’ll detach it. “No, you haven’t done anything. I’m fine, I just —”

He interjects with a laugh, “— I don’t necessarily believe that —”

Visibly cringing with every muscle in your body, you cover your face with your hands. Not long after you take a deep breath does a meek voice slip out through your fingers, sounding beyond embarrassed.

“I’m so incomprehensibly horny right now that I can’t even look at you.”

For a second, it’s dead silent because he can’t quite process how much of a weirdo you are, or how completely and hopelessly enamored he is with you. But then the dam breaks. His laugh comes out so forcefully that you pull your hands away from your face, eyes wide.

“Is that so?” He smirks, nodding his head towards the television. “Grey Gardens really gets your motor running, huh?”

Absolutely aghast, you swat at his bicep. Then, you sling your arm over your eyes and groan, “I got my period. It has turned me into a sex-crazed monster, I fear.”

Vernon nods in understanding, even though you can’t see it, and hums, “Ahh.”

And he leaves it at that, only because you seem to have more that you want to say. Something you want to ask, maybe, or a reason you may want to give for not jumping his bones at the first opportunity. He’s down, he thinks without hesitation, so long as you are.

But you don’t say anything.

Maybe you aren’t actually down after all, and that’s why you won’t look at him. Shit, are you embarrassed? Should I say something? Silence falls overtop like a weighted blanket, smothering the two idiots who can’t tell whose turn it is to talk. 

Do you or do you not want this right now?

You mumble something that he can’t catch, so he nudges your side gently with his knuckles to encourage you. Just as nervous, you repeat yourself without looking at him, “Period sex is supposed to help with cramps, I think.”

He thinks he’s read the exact same article you have. More than that, he wishes you’d look over at him and see for yourself how completely unbothered he is by this concept.

“If you think about it, it’s kind of like a natural lubricant,” you add in a voice that’s even smaller than before.

Your shyness really might kill him, so he reaches over to grab your hand and gently pull your arm away from your eyes. It’s the first time you’ve looked at him since you laid down — since you put your self-imposed no-contact order in place — and he feels his stupid heart swell.

For what it’s worth, he feels his dick twitch, too.

You open your mouth to speak again, likely to continue your unnecessary campaigning; Vernon is having none of it. He tugs your wrist just enough to tilt you inward, then he kisses you hard enough to shut you up. A tiny whimper slips out of your lips when he pulls away, and it almost makes him regret his decision to do so. 

But Vernon has a point to make, so that’s precisely what he does: “I don’t need a sales pitch. You will never — ever —  have to convince me to fuck you.” 

Your eyes crinkle at the corners, like this is somehow news to you. It shouldn’t be. He’s told you a thousand times in as many different ways how thoroughly crazy you drive him just by existing so closely to him, but maybe you didn’t take him seriously then.

To emphasize his point, he slips his hand under the hem of your sweatshirt and finds your bare waist with the pad of his thumb. It spirals slowly against your warm skin, making both of you dizzy. Then, sick of the distance, Vernon dips his head down to press a kiss to your temple. 

“Like, ever,” he murmurs, lips following the curve of your jaw. 

Soft, slow kisses trail behind him as he travels down to your lips. Your head tilts further backwards with every single one, providing him with more and more access. 

He states it matter-of-factly because, to him, it is. “I’m down so bad for you that it might be terminal.”

“Oh?” 

You try to laugh but turn to putty when his palm rests fully on the curve of your waist and pulls you flush against him. The surprised gasp you let loose confirms his suspicion: You can feel how serious he is, affirmation throbbing against your abdomen in time with his heartbeat. 

Vernon smirks to himself, relishing your reaction, and bypasses your mouth entirely. A moan escapes from you, soft like an exhale, as his lips move slowly down the length of your neck. Every so often — just to feel you shiver — he flicks the tip of his tongue along the delicate skin he finds there.

“It might be messy…” 

The rest of your needless warning gets lost in a dreamy sigh as he suckles at the spot where your neck meets your shoulder. Shifting even closer, your desperate fingers reach out and cling to his t-shirt.

Vernon licks a stripe over the galaxy blooming on your skin. He hums, hand traveling upwards from your waist, “Don’t care about a mess.”

And he means it. 

Mindful of any soreness, he smooths his hand over your left breast and massages it tenderly, swearing to himself that he’ll throw the whole fucking mattress out if that’s what it comes down to. For you, he’ll race across town on foot to buy another one, and — fuck it — if the store is closed, he might just break in.

You’re growing impatient; your fingers let go of his shirt and tangle themselves in his hair.

“So needy,” he chuckles low in his chest, teasing. “You know, I think you’re lying. I think it is this bat-shit insane documentary that’s driving you wild, and you’re too embarrassed to admit it.”

“Stop,” you whine, dragging out the vowel sound. 

You don’t, though; you throw your left leg over his right thigh and shimmy forward until your cunt grazes his dick. Involuntarily, he groans at the warmth radiating off your core. Every part of you drives him just the slightest bit insane. You seem to know it, he thinks as he watches your pupils dilate in real time.

But he can play games, too, so he rolls his hips forward and grinds against you. He pushes you further, “Don’t get me wrong, baby. I’m not kink-shaming you —”

“Hansol Vernon Chwe!”

Oh, shit. Government name?

“— I’m just a little surprised, I guess.” He sighs with a shrug. “Think you know somebody…”

Your impatience is scribbled all across your scrunched up face. It seeps into your voice when you crash back against the pillows and huff, “Can you please stop fucking with me and start fucking me?”

“Sex-crazed monster, huh?” Leaning over, Vernon punctuates his question with a quick press of his lips to yours.

You whimper, “I’m so serious. I might explode.”

“Then go take care of whatever you need to take care of.” He kisses you again, smiling so fondly that his eyes may even be twinkling. “And I’ll go get a towel.”

You wait until Vernon clears the threshold before launching yourself out of bed at breakneck speed. Stumbling all the while, you race off to the adjoining bathroom and shut the door forcefully behind you. When it clatters against the frame, you finally admit to yourself that you might be a little bit eager.

Maybe.

Opting to keep your baggy, bleach-stained sweatshirt on, you wiggle out of your shorts and — what he refers to as — your crisis diaper. The high-waisted, frumpy, beige panties are utilized exclusively during your period, and to your surprise, they’ve remained spotless. It’s only ever the pretty and expensive pairs that wind up as collateral damage, isn’t it?

As they pool around your ankles, you can’t help but think that Vernon’s nickname for them is pretty spot on. That’s partly why you figured he might need to be talked into this. Unsated arousal aside, you feel as far from sexy as you can possibly get.

You shake your head to clear your thoughts, kick what you’ve discarded into a pile near the hamper, and let your sweatshirt shift down to cover as much of your ass as it’s capable of managing. You grab a square of toilet paper; then, you go to work excavating the wad of cotton that separates you from everything you want in this life. 

It is within the realm of possibility that you’re a little bit eager and a little bit dramatic. 

Perhaps.

After discarding the evidence in the small trash can under the sink, you wash your hands as if you’re about to step into an operating theater and not the bedroom you spend half your life in. When you finally feel sterile, you lift your head and catch your reflection in the mirror. Instantly, you make eye contact with the painful, hormonal pimple on your chin — the one you’ve been waging a retinoid war against for days.

“Bitch,” you mutter, like calling it names will be the one thing that finally gets it to shrink. Of course, your plan doesn’t work, but you feel a little less powerless. That’s good enough, you think. At least, as good as it’s going to get.

Now half-naked and certifiably unobstructed, you tiptoe back to your bedroom much more carefully than you left it. Vernon enters from the opposite doorway at the same time, jumping slightly the second he notices you. You ignore his frightened eyes and glance down at the crisp, white towel he’s clutching.

You open your mouth to suggest anything otherwise, but he beats you to it. His eyebrows shoot up his forehead as his mouth widens outwards, a self-aware rectangle. Otherwise expressionless, he lets go of an atonal, “Aaaaaaah”, that tells you he’s caught on.

He says nothing else before turning around and walking back the way he came. You have to bite down on your lips to keep from cackling.

That one’s mine, you think, still as infatuated as you were at the start. I chose that one.

While he’s gone, you try not to move, not to breathe too heavily. Vernon said he didn’t care about a mess, but when he said it, he was speaking theoretically with his hand on your tit. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d spoken recklessly with your body melting under his touch.

As far as you know, he hasn’t had any experience with this mess in practice. He could wind up finding you about as sexy as you currently feel — to wit: not at all. So, erring on the side of caution, you turn yourself into a statue and wait for the boy and his towel to find you again.

When he comes back, he plants a drive-by kiss on your unsuspecting mouth before skirting right around you. With shocking finesse, he grabs the corners of the — thankfully — black towel, which unfurls in the seconds before he flicks it upwards. It lands perfectly in the center of the bed, flat without needing to be fussed with.

“Wow,” he mutters to himself, taking in his clean work with raised eyebrows.

The impressed look is still on his face when he turns around, but you don’t have time to comment on his feat because he laughs as soon as he sees you.

“Kinda look like Donald Duck with the whole top-on, bottom-off situation.”

I chose this one?

You pout with an indignant gasp, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m not wearing a sailor hat, so…. bad analogy. Rude, even.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs as he snakes his arms around your waist and pulls you in close. You stumble a little on your way into him; the jury’s still out about whether it’s his hushed tone or the sudden movement that trips you up.

Between his thumb and index finger, he gently captures your chin. You follow along with his unspoken direction, tilt your face up to meet his. This close, you can see your own reflection in his pupils, black dilating against the warmest shade of brown you’ve ever seen.

Vernon takes a moment of silence as he takes in your features, and he studies them so intently that his eyebrows crinkle on their own. He sighs, sounding so completely serious. “You might get prettier every time I look at you.”

It’s unclear if you’re melting, or gushing; and if it’s the latter, you can’t say which biological process is at fault. Thankfully, the hand at the small of your back keeps your weak knees from buckling when his lips brush over yours.

“Even if you’re dressed like Winnie the Pooh.” 

You feel him smirk even before you hear him laugh at his own joke. Then, you feel his hand slide down to cup your bare cheek, squeezing affectionately. You want to tell him that this analogy is still inaccurate because you’re not wearing a crop-top; but he gently instructs you to ditch the sweatshirt and get on the bed, and your body moves automatically. No questions asked.

Carefully, you crawl up onto the mattress, then you center yourself on the towel. Still on your knees, you tilt your head curiously and ask, “Where do you want me?”

“Anywhere,” he breezes, pulling his shirt off and tossing it onto the dresser nearby. He amends, “Everywhere. All the time, and then some.”

“Better be careful,” you tease. “Talking like that might have consequences. You may never be able to get rid of me.”

His joggers are the next to go. Your sanity follows shortly thereafter, hungry eyes lingering on the imprint of his cock underneath his boxer briefs. You have to clamp your mouth shut to keep from drooling.

Brown eyes sparkling, he steps closer to you, kicking his pants aside as he goes. “Be careful,” he echoes, not a hint of cockiness to be found — just softness. “Saying it like a threat doesn’t make me wish it’s not a promise.”

I choose this one.

Crossing all the way to you, Vernon reaches the bed and climbs up with significantly more grace than you did. The mattress dips under his weight as he kneels right in front of you, mirroring your posture and causing your stomach to flip with anticipation.

You can’t help yourself; you lick your lips and look up at him with half-lidded eyes. “Naked, please. Like, right now.”

“Damn, I gotta do this myself?” Incredulous, he holds his hands up while glancing pointedly down at his underwear, then back at you. 

You arch an eyebrow, unfazed. 

“Depends.” You shrug. “Do you want to keep them? Because I really will rip them off of you.”

He concedes quickly; he always does. Sighing, he shakes his head and tuts, “Sex-crazed monster,” before pushing his briefs down his thighs. His length hangs heavy between you, but you swear you can feel its perfect ache inside you already.

You have a one-track mind, so you don’t hesitate to reach out and wrap your hand around him. A groan crawls up from the bottom of your chest when you feel the weighted warmth of his cock in your palm. You don’t hold that back, either.

“Fuck,” he sighs, head tilting as far backwards as it’ll go. Unexpectedly, he laughs. He doesn’t catch the quizzical look you shoot him, though he explains himself anyway, “Your hands are so fucking cold, but it feels so good.”

Swiping your thumb over his tip, you spread the pre-cum you find there down his shaft and stroke him slowly. He grows harder with every gentle squeeze, every pass of your fist. 

“We’re learning a lot of new shit about each other today.” You lean forward to pepper kisses across his collarbones. The hum of your mouth against his skin when you talk makes his cock twitch in your hand. “You might have a temperature kink and a thing for Winnie the Pooh.”

He snorts, nowhere near serious, “Shut the fuck up.”

“Make me,” you counter smugly, and you do mean it.

Vernon tilts his head forward to stare back at you. You’re already turning into a puddle, but if the look he gives you says anything, it’s that your melting isn’t enough for him. His voice is low and velvet-lined when he responds, “How about I just make you cum instead?”

“That could work, yeah.” You shrug.

He runs the pads of his fingers down each side of your waist to your hips, then back again; and each time he does it, you shiver. Reflexively, your back arches, chest pressing against his.

At this, he smirks, “It could? Maybe?”

“We can workshop it.”

“Or,” Vernon so generously offers, “You can turn around and lay down on your stomach. You know, if that’s sufficient.”

It’s not until you whip around and flop down onto the towel that you realize you never responded with words. Oh well. You figure he gets the point, judging by the quiet laughter you hear as he settles with his knees on either side of your upper thighs.

You don’t know what his next move will be — you don’t care, either, as long as he moves in your direction — so you don’t anticipate his palms flattening against your bare back, applying perfect pressure with his thumbs while he rubs away the soreness at the very base of your torso.

“Oh, shit,” you moan, eyes fluttering shut as the heels of his hands work out the tension in your muscles. “Have you always been good at this?”

You feel his chest brush against your shoulder blades when he hovers over you. Against the nape of your neck, he murmurs, “Nope.”

He kisses down your spine, mouth trailing after his hands as they work their way back down your body.

“Lemme guess — you read an article? Studied up?”

You get a snicker, then an affirmative hum, then another kiss. This time, it’s at the curve of your spine, just above your ass. Seconds later, he’s kneading the doughy flesh of your cheeks until your whole fucking body tingles.

That’s when it hits you:

Under normal circumstances, Vernon would be face-first in your pussy by now. Devouring you in earnest, like he’s starving. He can’t do that now — and you don’t blame him — so he’s making up for what you both view as a loss.

God, you want him.

One hand disappears from you, but you don’t have to guess where it went. You can hear the barely-there hiss of breath through his teeth when he takes his cock in that hand; as well as the very faint shift of his palm while he pumps himself.

“You’re gonna have to navigate, baby. I dunno how sensitive you are like this, what’s too much — any of that, so you need to tell me how you want me to move.”

Suddenly dizzy over how badly you need him, all you can muster is a nod. Vernon must want a verbal acknowledgment, though, because he leans back over you with one hand bearing his weight beside your head.

He kisses your shoulder and urges you, “Please say so if you need to stop or switch it up. Don’t wanna hurt you, sweetheart.”

“I will,” you breathe. “But I can’t even articulate how much I need you inside of me right now, so please — pretty please — fuck me.”

The tip of his nose bumps your temple affectionately. Right beside your ear, he teases, “With a cherry on top?” And it vibrates down your whole goddamn spine.

“Vernon!” You whine, burying your face in the comforter. It’s muffled, but you warn him nonetheless, “Don’t make me come back there.”

“Aish. Calm down, sex monster.”

The instinct to twist around and glare at him over your shoulder is strong, but every feral urge you feel is stronger. So, when he tells you to spread yourself open for him and tilt your hips back, you do so without even a hint of complaining.

With the crown of his cock slipping through your folds, inching towards your entrance, you hear him curse under his breath. Suddenly self-conscious, you finally crane your neck to the side and glance back at him. 

“We don’t have to,” you whisper. “If it’s gross and you don’t want to anymore, I get it —”

He balks at your suggestion without letting so much as a beat pass. “None of that, sweetheart; no spiraling. I’m just trying to figure out the logistics of, like… how to survive how good this already feels.”

Struck dumb, all you can muster is a peep, “Oh?”

“Shit, yeah.” His response comes in a low groan. “Can you take a deep breath for me?”

It’s a good call on his part, a suggestion you’re glad to have taken, because the pressure of him entering you is intense enough to knock the wind out of you. Empty lungs likely would’ve led to your untimely demise.

You whimper, already overwhelmed with the combination of pain and pleasure; the best kind of ache. The little, breathy moans must freak him out, however, because his fingertips caress your waist as he checks in: “This okay?”

Your limp arm lifts off the mattress, which you’ve melted fully into, and you form a circle with your index finger and thumb to indicate that you’re okay. The light is bright fucking green; you’ve just maxed out your capacity for speech.

Vernon continues his slow thrust forward, giving you ample time to adjust to his size.

“Oh my god,” he grunts, “This is — shit, I can’t believe we haven’t done this before. If I knew how good you’d feel like this, I wouldn’t have waited around for you to ask me.”

That hits like a truck.

He was waiting on you. 

You spent months convincing yourself that he’d need to be convinced, and chickening out before you could raise the idea. Months, and months, and months, of craving him during your werewolf transformation; wasting away over a shitty assumption that Vernon is anything like the people you’ve been with before. 

Christ. 

His credit for putting up with you is long overdue.

Too tongue-tied to speak any of that out loud, you settle for a summary that you hope conveys the message: “I love you so fucking much.”

Mindful of how deep it will push him into your cunt, he leans down over you carefully. Weight balanced on his knees and forearms, he envelopes you in his body heat, trails kisses across your shoulder, and echoes your words back at you between each one.

“Is this too much?” He whispers, rolling his hips slowly.

You feel him everywhere, with every drag of his cock along your walls; and you can’t tell where that throbbing sensation is coming from, him or you. 

You shake your head and sigh, “‘s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Like he knows it’ll unravel you, his large hand comes to rest over the back of yours. His fingers slip through the spaces between and squeeze you much more gently than the vice grip you hold on the bedding below you. He keeps holding you — just like this — through every movement.

The sensation of being this surrounded, this loved, this whole crashes over you like a wave and knocks you off balance.

“I’m so close,” you pant, voice as ragged as your breathing. There’s nothing that he isn’t already giving you with every deep, deliberate thrust into your heat; but you beg nonetheless, “Please, please, please —”

His speed doesn’t increase, but the intensity does. The smack of his hips colliding with your ass does, too, and you feel it reverberating in your bones. Buried as far inside of you as he can be, cock tip kissing your cervix with every high tide, length rolling across your g-spot with every low.

You cum so hard — so completely, invoking every single muscle you have — that you forget how to breathe. With a choked-out gasp, you squeeze your eyes shut and let your orgasm devastate you. 

“Fuck!”

Vernon gets caught up in the current, too, grinding desperately against you until he’s swept up in your wake. You feel him twitch inside you as his release floods, leaving you so lost in his warmth that you feel boneless underneath him.

His face winds up hidden in the crook of your neck, somewhere amidst the baby hairs that cling to the sheen of your sweat. You feel his lips fluttering against your skin when he laughs, “Oh…my god.”

“Mmphf.” You nod weakly in agreement. Beyond blissed, your body still tingles too much to move.

Slurring, you add, “‘s good. ‘s really…”

The rest of that thought dissolves into something between a moan and a yawn.

Just as tired, Vernon pats your ass cheek affectionately and mumbles, “Well said. No notes.”

You tilt your head far enough to free your face from the sheets. When you do, you find your boyfriend fighting a losing battle to keep his eyes open. In the rare seconds he can, he looks back at you in a daze that seems even more adoring than it does fuck-drunk.

“I think I need to hibernate now,” you announce. “Think you just fucked me so well that I need to take a sabbatical.”

He counter-offers, “Shower first, then sabbatical?”

You wiggle so that you can pull your joint hands to your mouth. You can’t kiss him properly while he’s laid out on top of you, but you can press your lips to the back of his hand and hope he feels how much of you that you pour into it.

“Okay, but, like…. who’s carrying who?”

[flawseer]

Ok, these time rate me the Jade WInglets

I've been sitting on this work-in-progress picture for so many months now. Maybe if I post it here, I'll finally sit down and finish it.

Very long post incoming.

Discussing the Jade Winglet

Okay. So, you want me to rate the Jade Winglet group. That’s going to be very easy: I love all of them.

It’s also going to be extraordinarily hard because... well... I love all of them. How am I supposed to put them into an ordered list? It can’t be done. So I guess what I’m going to do is: First I will put them into a tier list, and then I’m going to just talk about each of them individually for a bit.

But on account of aforementioned adoration I have for all of these guys, said tier list is going to be very lopsided. The tiers are going to be “I adore them with the intensity of seven suns”, “I really like them”, and “I very much like them, but...”. You’re going to have to imagine that there are five or so more unused tiers below that.

Let’s unceremoniously get that ranking out of the way first. From top to bottom, the tiers are:

I adore Turtle, Qibli, and Winter.

I really like Moonwatcher, Kinkajou, and Peril.

I very much like Umber and Carnelian.

As for more in-depth commentary, here is a disclaimer: When I think about these guys I mostly consider books 6 (Moon Rising) to 9 (Talons of Power) and the first half of 10 (Darkness of Dragons). The second half of 10... if I’m being honest, I didn’t really enjoy it. I don’t want to go into it too much here, if you really want me to talk about my misgivings with the second arc finale, put a message about it in my inbox (it’s not just the obvious thing; it actually mostly pertains to Winter and the absolute nightmare ending he got saddled with, and some very unfortunate character implications).

Some of my musings are also going to be a bit critical. I just want it to be clear that I make these observations as a fan of the series. It’s a good practice to think critically even about media that you like. It helps you better understand why you like it in the first place. Also, I make no demands to be agreed with. This is just how I see it.

Anyway, enough stalling, let’s get into it. Not in order:

Turtle

CW: Parental abuse

Turtle is the most wonderful thing to ever happen in the history of the universe. I wake up every morning and the first thought in my head is “Ugh, another day in this backwards reality where Turtle is not real! No thanks!!” Then I go right back to sleep disappointed until the next day. Okay, maybe that’s a bit hyperbolic. But I do think that everyone’s lives would be greatly improved if Turtle was real.

Turtle is a very vibrant and insightful character who, much like Winter, is unfortunately cursed with a pair of malicious and incompetent "parents". Some of his scenes really hurt to get through if you’re a parent yourself or have ever had parental feelings. The first scene he is in, when Moon observes him arriving at the academy, his mother makes a passing comment about how Turtle has no value because he cannot inherit the throne. Turtle is within earshot when she does this. And he has no overt reaction to it, which to me hints that Coral asserts this about her male children so frequently that he has accepted her line of thinking and internalized it. He just accepts it as the truth. That is heartbreaking.

And then there is his father, mild-mannered and ostensibly gentle Gill, who killed Turtle’s budding interest in writing as well as the entirety of his self-confidence back when he was a kid, by assigning a little boy a task that was well beyond him (and only to him, even though there were more people present who could have helped), and then made him believe he killed his unborn sister when Turtle inevitably couldn’t do what he was asked. The narrative really tries to make Gill sympathetic in that moment by insisting he’s speaking in anger and doesn’t really mean it, but um, no. I don’t buy it, dude. You just gave a little kid a lifelong guilt complex because you couldn’t think of asking more people for help. Or taking the egg with you while you left the hatchery. Or telling Turtle to take a message to the palace guard so someone who didn’t still have their milk teeth could mount a proper, organized search while interim guards were posted in the hatchery. Or literally any of the thousands of other options that didn’t require traumatizing your own son.

As a result, Turtle became emotionally reclusive. He registers to others as dull, placid, unpassionate, and boring, like he cares about nothing and is content to never strive for or achieve anything in his life. He himself explains that writing used to be something he was into at some point, but then lost interest in. But I don’t think he has. He still loves literature and thinking about stories, he's still doing it in his internal monologue. He just denies it because he subconsciously feels the need to punish himself. I imagine he still gets that drive sometimes, to sit down and start writing again. But every time he thinks about it, or catches himself wanting anything, his father’s voice resurfaces in his mind, telling him that he killed his sister and doesn’t deserve it. And then he self-punishes by depriving himself of everything he loves doing and every positive emotion associated with it. Because he is convinced he is guilty for failing his father, when in actuality, the opposite is true.

The tragedy is that, if Gill had known how much damage he caused and wasn’t in a situation where he needed a flowchart to keep his 30+ sons apart, he probably would have apologized. He doesn’t strike me as malicious, just horribly, horribly incompetent as a parent. But as things played out, Gill is no longer able to fix his mistake. The only person who can now grant Turtle the forgiveness he needs is himself. I hope he will be able to do it.

Turtle truly is an endearing character and a wonderful son undeserved by his parents. If I could adopt him right now I would. In fact, I’m gonna do it. Hold on while I get the papers. Wait, I have to finish? Uh... okay.

Moonwatcher

In a sense, Moonwatcher may be the most interesting character in the entire cast. She certainly had the potential to be my favorite character period. But there are a few points holding her back.

The thing about Moonwatcher is that, more than any other character, she requires meticulous care and attention to detail to be written well. The reason for this is that, when you’re writing for Moon, you also technically write for every character she interacts with. She is written brilliantly in her own book, since the narrative is allowed to focus on her; Moon Rising may thus actually be my favorite book of the second arc. It’s very enrapturing, seeing her navigate the academy’s social dynamics after growing up as, essentially, a feral jungle child, and battling with her own feelings of loneliness and inadequacy.

The thing is though... Wings of Fire has a bit of an odd quirk. Something I’ve noticed with regards to its writing is that, whenever a character is not particularly in focus during a scene, they often get reduced to their most basic traits and will rigidly act according to them regardless of prior context or external factors. I call this phenomenon “Auto-pilot”. If you’ve read my Mail Call #3, this is what I think happened to Tsunami during the second arc—Tsunami’s basic traits are that she is bossy, emotional, and blunt, so she spends the entirety of her page time as a deep-sea-themed wrecking ball who yells at everyone and dismisses everything as “ugh, nightwing powers” and “Peril was bad in book 1 once, I hate her forever”, despite having other, more pressing matters to prioritize.

Whenever Moonwatcher gets set to auto-pilot, it is very depressing. She needs careful, attentive writing to shine, and whenever she doesn’t get it she turns from the most interesting character into a dull brick that recites exposition and occasionally exists to be fawned after by boys. Tragically, the auto-pilot hits her bad after Winter’s book is done, and she never manages to escape it afterwards, save for maybe one or two scenes. There is a particularly egregious example in book 10 that, in my opinion, does permanent, irreversible damage to her character. It’s all a bit soul-crushing if dwelt on.

So yeah, I like Moonwatcher. I really do. I just wish the strong way she was written could have carried through the entire arc.

Winter

CW: Parental abuse

I initially didn’t really know what to make of Winter when I read Moon’s book. He seemed kind of like a buttface who was needlessly hostile and unapproachable. But he really comes into his own in his book, and looking back at his earlier scenes with that new context makes it all make sense. He became one of my stand-out favorites after that.

Winter really has a lot in common with Turtle, so much so that I wish those two actually had some deeper interactions with each other. Like, at one point Turtle saves his life, you’d think they would want to talk about that some time. Where Turtle’s parents are one half malicious, one half incompetent, Winter’s are pure malice AND incompetence. Blessed with three children, they managed to completely ruin one of them, almost ruin the other, and then the third one is kind of out of focus so I don’t know how he is faring, but I doubt there is a lot of love there either.

In a way, you can draw a lot of parallels between Winter and Icicle, and Zuko and Azula from Avatar: The Last Airbender—The unfavorite who tries to do right but constantly fails to live up to his father’s/parents' warped standards, and the prodigy who seemingly has her father’s/parents' approval but secretly suffers from the abusive parenting just as much, but in different ways. Hailstorm then tries to take on the role of Iroh, an older figure that acts as a source of positivity and genuine love, and offers a reprieve from the abuse. But where Iroh is an adult drawing from a lifetime of wisdom, Hailstorm is just the slightly older sibling who comes from the same abusive household battling the same demons, so his effectiveness in countering the toxicity is limited.

Where Zuko pursues honor, Winter strives to be strong. Both his parents and his sister perceive him as weak and label him irrelevant. While this hurts him deeply, I don’t think Winter fully surrendered to his inferiority complex until he heard his brother mirror the same sentiment at him. Winter is repressed and struggles with processing his emotions—Thus he heard the words Hailstorm only said to save his life and took them at face value. Even the person he loves the most, the only source of affection and affirmation in his life, thinks he is weak. This is what drives Winter to feverishly desire strength and thus adopt a persona of the strongest thing he knows: a stoic Icewing warrior.

This is why he acts the way he does in book 6: aloof, threatening, unapproachable, invincible. But all of these traits are diametrically opposed to his actual personality, which is warm, compassionate, and just wanting to be loved for who he is. So whenever Moon reads his mind, he comes across as a confused mess of conflicting emotions. Because he is pretending to be something he isn’t.

The interesting thing here is that Winter actually is genuinely strong. He is just unable to recognize his own worth, due to the toxic way royal Icewings are raised, warping his perception of what strength means. When he meets Foeslayer, who is said to be an ancient enemy of his people, his mind cuts through the veneer of tradition and old bullshit justifications and sees her imprisonment for the cruel injustice that it is. He then undoes that injustice and frees her. It takes an incomprehensible amount of personal integrity and willpower to just casually defy the will of your entire country like that. This is equivalent to treason; by aiding her, Winter risks becoming an enemy of his people on par with Foeslayer herself. And he does it anyway, because it is the right thing to do.

This dissonance in his perception of strength with regards to his Icewing upbringing, and the actual strength he embodies and has embodied all this time, is something I would have liked to see explored more in the finale or something. As it stands now, he got pressured into putting his life on the line in the battle for Jade Mountain, has sworn loyalty to a people that mistreated him and tried to ruin him from a young age, and then got saddled with an existential nightmare of an ending that leaves me baffled to this day.

In terms of personal misfortune, he certainly is the Starflight of his group.

Qibli

CW: Parental abuse

Qibli is a very charming and versatile character. It is easy to imagine him in a variety of different situations and the scenes almost write themselves, especially when there’s another person with him whom he can bounce off of (figuratively, though I wouldn’t put it past him to try to literally bounce off of someone too). The 10th book posits him as some kind of parallel to Darkstalker; the latter even overtly states this and tries to recruit him as a manner of apprentice. It’s interesting because I think they are actually pretty different.

Qibli excels in situations where his options are limited. He is great at thinking on his feet and coming up with solutions to problems within a restricted framework. He'd be great in an escape room. This ability of his is shown throughout the arc, but it is especially visible in Moon Rising, where his presence in a scene often makes Moon stronger, or more adept at solving problems, because his mind is breaking down the situation for her in a way she would be unable to see on her own.

The twist then comes in when you take Qibli out of that limited framework, by giving him power. His pronounced intellect is very peculiar; it needs limitation to be brilliant. When he has unhindered access to all-powerful magic (i.e. doesn’t have to clear his ideas with another person), he turns into a colossal idiot who buries cities in sand and almost blows up inhabited mountains.

It only follows that, if you were to give Qibli what he wants and make him an animus, it would absolutely ruin him. The great intellect he cultivated would wither and, unshackled from the limitations that forced him to think critically and be his most excellent self, he would end up destroying himself, and likely others too.

Another interesting facet of Qibli is how he works as a parallel to Winter and Turtle (and Peril to an extent). All of these characters come from broken homes and have suffered under abusive parental figures. Qibli’s case in particular is interesting because it showcases how your circumstances can make a difference in how well you handle that issue. Qibli suffered under a tyrannical mother and a pair of cruel siblings, but in contrast to his peers, someone from the outside noticed his suffering was able to intervene—Thorn saved him from his hell and became his rescue parent, restoring his confidence and sense of self-worth.

Because of this, when his turn comes to confront his demons, while it is still difficult and painful (because trauma always is), he is able to navigate the confrontation with comparatively more grace and control than the others. The contrast really shows how difficult it is to escape a toxic relationship if you are still mired deeply within it, and how you need to put some distance between yourself and it before you can see where you are and what needs to be done with improved clarity. That is the path to healing.

I could probably keep talking about Qibli for 15 more paragraphs, but I’ll spare you.

Kinkajou

Every protagonist (and a good deal of side characters) in Wings of Fire is broken, usually has some kind of gut-wrenching past (often due to terrible parents), and struggles to find their place in the world. Luckily here is a pink-and-yellow Rainwing who is just happy and everything is fantastic and wholesome, right?

CW: Forced starvation

Nah, Kinkajou had it pretty rough too. The story plays it like it’s a humorous quip when she finds out Moonwatcher is her roommate and bemoans that nobody is taking her “trauma” seriously, but... yeah, it actually is legitimate trauma. She was captured, bound, and trapped on a hell island without sunlight for several weeks. While there, she was not fed, and she helplessly watched people whom she knew from early childhood starve and die. Death by starvation is not pretty, she likely had to witness her friends slowly being driven mad by hunger until they withered away, and couldn’t do anything about it. Then she was rescued and returned to a home that didn’t believe her pain was real, that claimed she made it up for attention, and that some people who she thought of as friends didn’t even notice she was gone. The only one who believed her was a stranger whom she had met maybe a few hours ago.

Personally, if that happened to me and I came home to that, I’d likely have pulled a Chameleon and said “Screw the Rainwings, I’m moving to the desert.”

That Kinkajou is still able to be positive and full of energy after that is a testament to her immense mental fortitude. She might actually be one of the most stable and resilient characters in the story. Some things shake her up for a bit, but nothing can crush her.

Still, I imagine there are some times, after a really bad day maybe, where she wakes up in the middle of the night. And there, for just a moment, she is scared to open her eyes... because she might be back on the Nightwing island and has to watch someone else die.

Peril

Peril is a bit of an odd case in arc 2. She gets grouped with the protagonists of that arc and the ending implies she is integrated into the Jade Winglet as their new Skywing. I have no real problem with that, in fact it’s good on her that she’s made a little less isolated. But to me, Peril always felt like an awkward appendix to that group. Her only real friend in there is Turtle; for the rest of them they feel more like vague acquaintances, like she's tolerated for being Turtle's friend.

To be fair though, that friendship with Turtle is really strong; it’s an exciting and deep character dynamic. But if I was forced to tie Peril to a group of protagonists, my first instinct would be to associate her with the first arc protagonists instead.

This poor girl has been through it. Everyone seems to hate her and wants her to leave, sometimes for understandable reasons and sometimes it just seems bizarre. I already went into Tsunami’s disdain for her in an earlier post, but I also vaguely remember a point in Escaping Peril where she meets Qibli and he gives her a withering glare for some reason. That confused me, to be honest. I thought “What’s YOUR problem with her? Have you ever even met??” Like, I guess the Outclaws were in direct conflict with Burn since they lived in the same country, and Peril was an infamous elite combatant under the command of one of Burn’s allies, so maybe Peril killed people he knew? But then he gets over his disdain really quickly and with no comment, so whatever happened can’t have been a big deal after all.

My favorite part in her book is when everyone--after having learned about Turtle’s powers--chews him out for not having helped his country during the war, and Peril cuts through the tripe by saying something along the lines of “So if he uses the power he was born with to serve his Queen it is honorable, but when I do the same for my Queen I’m a murderer and deserve to have things thrown at me?” I love all of these guys, but they really deserved to be called out for their double standard and feel stupid for a bit.

But yeah, I really enjoy her friendship with Turtle in the end. And since he accidentally made himself virtually indestructible, it means Peril can now get all the friendly hugs she craves.

Umber

Umber is cool. He has a potentially interesting relationship with Turtle, which is implied in the latter’s book when it is mentioned that they sleep with their backs touching to comfort each other about their respective siblings not being there.

Unfortunately he gets written out of the story arc very quickly. I wish I knew more about him.

Carnelian

I like Carnelian. I feel like she had a lot of potential that gets wasted by her death, for not much gain. It is used to give Queen Ruby a reason to come to Jade Mountain and kickstart the events of Peril’s book, but the same could have been accomplished by having her learn that the Academy is housing Peril and going there to demand the extradition of a (in her eyes) dangerous and murderous fugitive.

Same as with Umber, really, I wish I knew more about her. I already said this during my Smaugust drawing session, but I like to pretend that she and Bigtail didn’t die, and instead had a mini arc about recovering from their injuries. It also has the side effect of averting some very unfortunate implications that come with Bigtail’s death.

~~~

I think that’s all of them. Good lord I talk too much. Please don’t throw crocodiles at my face for it. Tumblr is my queen, and--much like the Queen's former champion--I was made to do it.

[mavcancees]

compilation post of commentary youtubers talking about dream, no drummyaches edition !

note, i might not exactly like 100% of the things said in these videos BUT they ultimately redeemed dream to a very large audience

starting with i think is the most viewed video right now, Will Dream's Response Actually Fix Anything? by Lessons in Meme Culture. it's 2:40 minutes long and the point is simply to open conversation about him being able to successfully redeem himself, but it has a lovely comment section if you want to scroll through that

Dream Just Responded To Everything by AugustTheDuck, had already spoken about Dream pretty positively, lovely guy, lovely summary [ touches earpiece the main studio is telling me august actually was a dream hater but turned around recently, so noting that down ]

Dream's Response was Perfect, But... by EntLaiser, who previously made a video actually speaking negatively of Dream, completely changed his opinion and talked about how meme culture is being used to justify mass harassment, along with being nice to Dream stans and defending them

Pyrocynical made a video. its bad. don't watch it. he gets cooked in the comments though so that's okay. Acheeto also made a video but i don't like the guy so i'm not linking that either, but it was a good video

Dream Finally Responded To The Allegations by sensitive soci3ty. i really like this video but i especially like the comments that bring up a lot of great points, it was refreshing scrolling through them

LIES! by Omni. Omni is really big on the commentary community so his input is valued, this video is long and goes through a lot of unrelated stuff because it's a news segment, but i linked to the timestamp he talks about Dream. it is long, it is thorough, he READS THE DESCRIPTION which i haven't seen anyone do, pretty good

Dream Might Actually Be Innocent by Saverino. this guy is like, the perfect representation of "i only consumed Dream content through social media for years", the most passive onlooker in the world. and his video is awesome, he took a lot of notes, he resumed Dream's video pretty well, and i feel the way he thinks of Dream is how people will look at dream from now on

Dream Finally Responded by Dolan Dark. it's a slob but it's fucking Dolan Dark and he says he believes he's innocent so who cares W for us

other creators we already know and knew they believed Dream, Hot Sauce Beats did a live reaction and so did Nate Alyn if you'd like to go and support them

Dream's Response Was Actually Good by Saamuel. dream hater admitting he was wrong. all is good in the world

Dream Finally Responded To The Allegations by Optimus. don't watch this video lol. he says a bunch of stupid shit, his comments call him out for it, but i am linking it because this guy is huge on the community, a lot of people were waiting on this video on twitter, and he's very clear on saying the allegations are fake, along with shaming twitter antis for their behaviour

Dream's Response Wasn't Good Enough by luhrix specifically talks about the reaction from antis on twitter to the video and how unreasonable some expectations are when it comes to responding to allegations

Does Dream's Response Make Him Innocent? by Blissolic who VERY BRAVELY calls out coyglone ( the guy behind the dreamwastalen account ) for being a piece of shit

Dream Responded... by Repzion. excellent video no notes, less about dream himself and more a critique of how people consume serious topics as "drama" and farm engagement through it

I Was In Dream's Video by orangepeanut. it's kind of ass but he is in dream's video ! he's the "dream sucked his own dick" guy. he says sorry for baiting and actually apologises to dream which is kind of funny, and he does say dream is innocent. just noting it down for reference

Dream's Response Was GREAT! by TekuToji. another excellent video, nice summary. he did thought the poki xqc dms were real but he corrected himself on the comments lol

Dream Has Returned ( and why you should be excited ) by PurpleMatter. sweet video ! go leave a nice comment :D

this is a different one as it is a full reaction, but it is by Kenji, a VERY famous vtuber, and he was awesome about it and called out his chat several times when they spoke misinformed shit. it's very fun and i'm glad a completely different audience now has a positive view of Dream

[forpiratereasons]

all right. i'm ready to talk about izzy.

izzy is a great character. in s1 he sits in this great position as an antagonist that's close to the main characters, and in s2 he sits in this great position as an antagonist who's gotten everything he wanted, and found that actually - fuck! - that's not it at all. the world changes enough in s1 that there's no satisfaction in izzy getting what he wants out of blackbeard. and it's not just ed that's changed, it's not just the crew, izzy himself is fundamentally changed too. even before s2, and that change continues to grow and flourish through the series.

in reality, death is cruel. and death is senseless. and death is unfair, and shitty, and it happens to the wrong people at the wrong time, too early, with too much to live for, who mean too much to too many. it happens.

maybe izzy's death is all of those things, but i don't think that's the point. it's not meant as a lesson in mortality; it's not meant as retribution for past crimes; it's not meant as a commentary on who deserves to live and who deserves to die. it's not about deserving. if anything, it's about the fact that deserving doesn't come into it at all.

the point is that izzy healed.

a lot has been made of the fact that izzy is the only character who bears visible scars from the kraken era - the scar on his head, as well as the leg. but i don't think they're meant as a reminder of the injury, or as a sign that izzy is "damaged" post-kraken era. they're representative of the fact that izzy healed. the scar is there to remind you that izzy survived. you see it heal over multiple episodes because that's the work izzy is doing - he's healing from blackbeard's actions, from his own actions, from his history, from his constraints.

it's not too late to heal. it's not too late to find your place. it's not too late to come out. it's not too late to let people in. it's not too late.

and all those things are worth doing despite the fact that our time here is limited. we are all going to die. but we are here right now, which means it's not too late, and it is worth it to free ourselves to be who we need to be regardless of who we have been and who we are now and what time we might have left.

izzy isn't suicidal in ep 8. he's healed from that. izzy isn't abused or depressed or alone in ep 8. izzy is strong, and competent, and respected, and loved.

and some folks have been disappointed it's not romantic love. i get that. but i think it's super important too that izzy's healing is worth it without romantic love. familial, platonic love is so fundamentally important to the queer community. found family. friends. solidarity. the look when some stranger sees you and you see them and you both know the other is family, that they're safe. the way we fight for each other - for our rights to love who we want, fuck who we want, to marry, to adopt kids, and also for housing, for jobs, for healthcare. for our rights to use the bathroom, for our rights to choose our own names and our own bodies and our own families. we're fighting for our right to exist and that, guys, it's not romantic. the foundations of our community is about - well, i'll let izzy say it:

it's not about glory, it's not about getting what you want. it's about belonging to something when the world has told you you're nothing. it's about finding the family to kill for when yours are long dead. it's about letting go of ego for something larger. the crew.

ed and izzy, following s2e3, interact and communicate on izzy's terms, and that's made clear. that's the last relationship for izzy to heal. when izzy finally approaches ed in ep 6, it's - not great. it's a start. you gotta start somewhere. he lets ed apologize, in their very closed, guilty way of speaking to each other, but then goes back to the crew, back to his safety.

he finally finishes his healing arc with the drag performance and la vie en rose, and then he and ed DO have good moments. he teases ed about stede. he directly reverses his previous actions in s1 and tells ed to listen to his good feelings. that's where djenks is getting this (imo, still a bit weird) father-figure business. the scene in the republic where ed's watching fishermen and izzy comes to say hey, it's all right, hey, listen to your gut. they don't need to directly come out and have some deep serious conversation about their relationship because that's just not like them, man. they're doing their healing their way. i think it would be nonsensical to expect these two to be open and honest with each other regardless of how they are with everyone else because their relationship is not like their relationships with anyone else.

until they run out of time.

and this, i think, is important. izzy controls this last conversation because it's what ed needs to hear, because izzy no longer needs to hear it. izzy doesn't need to hear that ed's sorry, izzy knows ed's fucking sorry. ed's whole arc this season is about the guilt he's carrying. izzy says what he says because he knows ed needs to hear it. ed, you weren't a monster all on your own. ed, i saw you. i saw you outgrowing him, and i didn't want that to happen because i was worried about what it meant for me, but i see now that it could have meant this all along - family. balance. something to die for, sure, but something to live for.

you could argue that ed and the crew don't think of each other as family. i think it's a bit more complicated than a yes or no on that one, but when izzy says, ed, you're surrounded by family, maybe it doesn't matter whether that's fact. maybe it's a statement of possibility. look at this family who can love you if you let them. look at this family who will forgive you even when you don't deserve it. look at all the ways you can still heal. look at how worth it it all is.

just be ed, izzy says, there he is.

he says it to ed because izzy already knows he can be just izzy. izzy already knows he's dying surrounded by family. izzy already knows that love and belonging and family are worth it, and he uses his dying moments to make sure ed knows it too because despite everything, despite everything he did and despite everything ed did and despite not being ed's romantic choice, he loves ed. it's worth it to use his dying moment to make sure ed knows this because izzy loves him.

it's worth it.

izzy is the stand-in for the stereotypical pirate, the villain - the representative of how repression and oppression work together, of how race and class and colonization interact with each other, of the lines between love and obsession and power and rage and fear blurring beyond recognition - and he heals. guys, the point of his story is not that he was all those things and paid that price. the point of his story is that he could grow beyond all those things and that growth and healing was all worth it despite the fact that yeah. our lives will inevitably end.

historically, israel hands is said to be one of the only major pirates who survives the golden age of piracy, and he doesn't survive it well - according to the contemporary account of "captain charles johnson" (almost certainly a pseudonym) in A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the most notorious Pyrates, published 1724, hands dies a beggar in london sometime between 1719 and 1724. it has been suggested by some pirate scholars that hands may have actually been the source for much of the information johnson is able to relay regarding blackbeard - and that johnson's apparent wealth of information contributed significantly to the legacy blackbeard left behind and his lasting fame. i had actually really hoped to see this play out in ofmd - izzy protecting ed and stede through perpetuating stories about blackbeard's 'death' (fake, i'd hoped) and legacy.

but i think - he is. in his way. he's there on the hillside, keeping watch. he's there to hold all the stories and all the memories of pirates and what it meant to belong to something, even as the golden age of piracy sets. he's there to show what it is to love and to be loved in return: eternal.

i don't like that izzy died. i think he's a great character, i think he's great fun to have in the ensemble, i think his dynamics with ed and stede are so fucking chewy and delicious. i think con o'neill has done the work of a lifetime on this character and, i hope, had and continue to has the experience of a lifetime with this fandom. my heart goes out to those of you who are devastated; i've been there in past fandoms, i know how achingly difficult that is. i'm so sorry.

but izzy's story is worth telling. izzy's story is worth celebrating. izzy is about making mistakes - bad mistakes! - and finding your way back to something better. izzy is about healing, and about community, and about hope that even when things are shit and people are shit - they can change. things can change.

and maybe - yeah. it's about the role stories play in our lives. about using fictional little scenarios to deal with our traumas. we're here. we're alive. we're coping. we will heal.

not moving on is worse.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

you really dont see any red flags about the "cheese pizza" for child porn thing? that started on 4chan over pizzagate. "good faith" doesnt mean you take an obvious fascist painting a (possibly fake) trans woman as a predator at their word.

That sure is a lot of assumptions that have nothing to do with anything I've said! I don't believe I've expressed any direct opinion of my own (out loud on here--my DMs with friends have been FULL of extremely opinionated commentary on that post, both today and when it originally hit my inbox). That is my normal way on this blog--I don't state my own opinions because I don't matter, it's the comments section that gets to matter.

But since you've asked, just to be clear, I think the submitter of that post is a thoroughly unpleasant person, has slanted that story in every possible way, and is painting a picture that may have very little in common with reality. I think they are a transmisogynist who took someone's actions and read them willfully in the wildest, worst faith way possible. Like the pool thing? I genuinely do not understand how they got from "she wants to throw a pool party for the neighborhood kids" to...whatever the hell they were implying there. I genuinely do not. And overwhelmingly, the comments agree! They are rightfully calling the submitter the asshole. Which is what this blog is here for. The system works!

That is not, and has never been, what I mean by "good faith" on this blog. I have been VERY clear (today even! in so many words!) that you are perfectly welcome to question anyone's portrayal of events. What you're not welcome to do is call the post wholesale fake and bait. As has always been the case.

[annwrites]

—you shook me all night long

working double time on the seduction line. she's one of a kind, she's just mine, all mine. — student!billy x fwb!reader ; ❀.·:·

He’d been what you had been waiting for. Egotistical, self-centered, and superficial. Not that everyone at school wasn’t. But there’d also been his reputation amongst the other girls that he’d so quickly garnered that had caught even your attention. It was after hearing that he’d made his way through three girls in as many weeks that you made your decision final.

Perhaps he would reject you. You’d, after all, not spoken to him even once since he’d come to Hawkins High. And he seemed to like attention. And you were certainly about to offer him some. But to give it to him so freely…perhaps he preferred a chase.

You have little patience for such meaningless social practices, however.

After…what happened, you now have a low tolerance for a great many things. Immaturity and juvenile antics chief among them.

You’d been watching him for the last few days, observing, thinking, fantasizing. It wasn’t about him, though. And that didn’t exactly make you feel good about what you were about to do—use him, essentially, which made you feel not entirely different from the man from last summer…

But, you had to remind yourself, that, so long as he consented, that made all the difference.

You’d both be getting what you wanted. Him another notch in his belt, which seems to be all he’s after, and you…a piece of yourself being taken back on your own terms.

You’ve been rehearsing and re-rehearsing this conversation mentally during every waking hour for the last week, playing through the different scenarios. His predictable flirtatious replies and commentary—you cutting straight to the point, making clear what you want.

He can either take the offer, or leave it.

You calmly make your way over to Billy Hargrove, who’s standing at his locker, putting his things away, ready to head home and start his weekend. At least you’ll be helping him start it with a metaphorical ‘bang’, if nothing else.

Despite your best efforts to remain calm, your heart pounds and palms become sweaty at the simple prospect of him laughing in your face at what you’re about to ask of him. All your foolish planning and hoping…down the drain in an instant.

“Hello, Billy,” you say quietly, politely, clasping your hands behind you. Then wondering if such a position makes this seem too much like a business deal.

You tell yourself you’re just overthinking things.

Billy’s arm jerks as he goes to slide his last textbook onto the top shelf of his locker—surprised, if not also pleased, that you’re finally speaking your first words to him. He’s been waiting for this moment since he first came to Hawkins High. You’re the one girl in all the school that’s hardly had any amount of interaction with him since his first day, and he’d, initially, humored himself by brushing it off as you clearly playing hard-to-get, until the weeks went on and you still had yet to even glance in his general direction.

You seemed reluctant to notice him, but he had certainly noticed you. You were…quiet, lonely, but definitely attractive. Perhaps you needed just the right amount of male attention to get you to come out of your shell.

He’s certainly the man for the job.

He shuts his locker—screaming at himself to act casual—and leans a shoulder against it, other hand on his hip as a smirk crawls across his lips. He lets his eyes flit up and down your body before settling on your own that’re waiting patiently for him—for his ridiculous bit of peacocking to come to a close so you can address the matter at-hand.

“Hey yourself, sweetheart. Somethin’ you need? Maybe a ride home?” He asks with a raised brow, hoping you fucking say yes.

“Are you busy tonight?”

His lip twitches. Good. You’re finally coming around.

He shrugs. “Not as far as I know. You got something in mind you want to go do? Maybe hit the mall and—”

“Are your parents home?”

He blinks at you. Surely you aren’t about to make things that fucking easy on him.

“Not until later tonight. Both have work, then their usual date night. So, the house is all ours if you want to come over,” he states, leaning in toward you. Max had told him during lunch that she’s going to a friend’s for the night—which he now thanks God for.

You nod, smiling. “I’d like to.”

He grins—entirely surprised; him having thought you different. No work involved, huh? He could do with that. After all, sex is sex. Even better with a pretty girl.

He nods toward the end of the hall, which leads out of the school. “Let’s go then, doll.”

You don’t pay your classmates any mind as you walk with Billy out to his car. They’ll think what they want about you being seen with him. Most likely that you’re another doe-eyed girl he’s suckered into his bed. As if you don’t have a mind of your own about you, and because he’s a man he’s calling all the shots while you follow along aimlessly.

As if this isn’t all your idea.

You play along to an extent with Billy as he shows off in his car—quickly reversing out of the lot, as if he can’t hurry you away to his house fast enough. Blaring music and shifting gears and generally being a guy all the while. You simply sit in the seat next to him with a pleasant smile and laugh accordingly at the appropriate times, eager to be alone with him in his room.

Once the front door is shut behind you, you give him a pleasant smile, while he grins. “You uh—”

You interrupt. “Can I see your room?”

He raises a brow. “Y-Yeah, sure.”

You follow him back that way, admiring all his assests. His beautiful, curly blond hair, his broad shoulders, his muscled arms…his tight ass.

He really is very good-looking. Pretty, even.

He leads you into the requested room, awkwardly leaning back against his dresser, watching as you look the small space over.

His open closet that has a number of button-ups hanging within, a few pairs of jeans, some boots thrown onto the floor. His unmade twin-size bed—dark blue sheets stretched across it—a bookshelf with records and used novels organized crudely. And then there’s his dresser that has a couple hairbrushes, a comb, hairspray, a random men’s shaver, cologne strewn across an oakwood surface.

You pad toward him, smiling softly. “Do you want to have sex?”

His eyes widen and he shifts on his feet, gripping the edge of the dresser behind him in each of his palms. “You…you want to?”

He can’t believe how fucking forward you’re being. No guessing games, no flirtations, no forcing him to take the lead. Just…jumping right in.

Immediately into the deep-end he goes, he thinks.

You nod, stepping closer, taking one of his hands in yours. “Yes, I do.”

He clears his throat nervously. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

You cock your head slightly to the side. “If you don’t want to it’s okay. You can tell me.”

He shakes his head, smiling slightly, looking down at his socked feet, soft curls falling forward—they really are very adorable.

“No, I do. I…I have for fuckin’ weeks. Most girls just aren’t so… I’m always the one who has to y’know…ask for it.”

He looks at you from under his golden head of hair.

“You haven’t talked to me since I came here and now you want me inside of you?”

You loop your index finger between two of the buttons in the middle of his shirt. “I’m sorry. I just…it has nothing to do with you. I just have a hard time making friends, I think. I can be shy. But I do really like you.”

You press the front of your body to his. “You’re really handsome.”

He smiles, shaking his head. “You know what the hell you want, don’t you?”

He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear, fighting against the way his hand shakes from nerves.

You nod, standing on tiptoes, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“I want you,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his.

His heart skips a beat , pounding painfully in his chest. He slides his arms around your waist, slipping his hands under the back of your shirt, moving higher and higher until he has the clasp of your bra in his fingertips. And, with one pinch, it comes undone.

He flicks his tongue against yours, teasing you, tasting you.

He grips either side of your shirt, easing it up, revealing your feminine curves, and the two of you break your kiss for only a moment as he tosses it onto the floor.

He reaches down, wanting to work on getting your shorts off next, until your hands overtake his, stilling them.

“Can I undress you?” You ask, looking up at him with flushed cheeks—your breasts entirely exposed now.

His lip twitches and he nods silently.

You take your time unbuttoning his shirt, tugging it out from where it’s tucked into his jeans.

You fold it, setting it atop his dresser, then moving to unbuckling his leather belt. You carefully unbutton and unzip his jeans next, Billy watching you all the while with bated breath.

You really…seem to know what you’re doing. Surprisingly calm, collected, every move measured, as if it’s been rehearsed.

Maybe you get around a lot, even if he’s seemingly witnessed otherwise.

But God if it doesn’t get his dick rock-fucking-hard: a girl taking the lead for once.

You get on your knees and his heart jumps into his throat as you ease his pants down his legs.

He steps out of them, and you fold them as well, reaching up, setting them atop his shirt before you meet his eyes, hooking your fingers under the waistband of his boxers.

“Can I?” You ask, blinking sweetly up at him.

He knows he’s not going to deny you anything this evening.

He nods.

You pull, and his boxers pool around his feet.

You begin kissing his muscled thighs, dragging the tip of your tongue through smatterings of dark hair, and his cock twitches at the heated feel.

You scoot closer, gripping his hips in either of your hands, rubbing soothing circles with your thumbs against them as you move your lips to his abdomen—kissing down, down, even the thick patch of hair above his cock. And then you take him in your hand and you begin to firmly stroke him.

He sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth and you look up at him, watching as he throws his head back, curls falling over his smooth shoulders, his eyes fluttering closed.

You kiss the velvety skin of his cock, gently licking along the length of it, kissing the tip, swiping your wet tongue along it before easing it into your waiting mouth inch-by-inch.

You start firmly sucking, looking up at him, feeling satisfaction when he slams one of his palms down against the dresser, muttering a quiet curse.

You release him with a ‘pop’. “Can you hold my hair? Just don’t yank it, please.”

He eases an eye open, then the other one and he smiles. “Sure thing, baby.”

He scoops your hair into a ponytail with both his hands, holding it in one, the other returning to gripping the dresser as you put him back in your mouth—not stopping until you feel him in the back of your throat.

You drool along the length of him and he moans.

“Fucking shit—”

You swirl your tongue around and around, bobbing your head contentedly before you release him once more, standing.

You twine your fingers between his, leading him over to his bed, which you lie back on comfortably.

He climbs on top of you, unbuttoning your shorts and removing both them and your panties in one fell swoop, tossing them across the room.

He reaches behind you, wanting a condom, until he freezes, watching as you run your fingertips down his chest, craning your neck upward as you press kisses along his pectorals, down his abs, back up his neck, which you wrap your arms around.

You grab his hips, rising up yourself, and he sits.

You seat yourself in his lap, kissing him passionately, your lips smacking together as you run your fingers through his hair, your tongue exploring his hot mouth, and you sigh softly against his lips.

You pull back slightly. “You’re a really good kisser,” you say quietly, returning your lips to his.

He pulls you closer, loving whatever the fuck it is that you’re doing. He’s never had foreplay like this before. Ever.

It’s always been right down to business. No ‘playing around’ involved.

You kiss down his chin, then his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, and then his neck.

He ignores the tears stinging his eyes at the tender gestures from you.

What the fuck is happening? He doesn’t…sex doesn’t stir any emotions within him. Fucking is fucking. It doesn’t mean shit. It’s just physical release.

But this isn’t fucking.

It’s making… No. It isn’t. He doesn’t know you. It’s nothing.

You place your lips next to his ear. “I want you inside of me.”

He reaches across the way, wrapping an arm around your waist as he lays you on your back, grabbing a silver wrapper from atop his bedstand.

He tears it open with his teeth, and then you gingerly take it from him.

“Can I put it on you?” You ask in a quiet whisper.

His lips twitches. “You know how?”

You glance down to his erection, then back to him. “I’d like to try, if that’s okay?”

It’s adorable how you keep asking permission for everything.

He takes himself in-hand and you place the rubber over his weeping tip, rolling it down the length of him, until it’s properly in-place.

And then he hesitates.

“Do you not—” You start, until he smirks.

“I should return the favor real quick. Just make sure you’re ready for me.”

Your brows furrow, until he cranes his neck downward, kissing each of your breasts, licking your nipples before gently rolling them between his teeth, causing your back to arch and a moan to escape your lips, which makes his cock twitch with want.

He grips your waist in his hands, holding you, and he presses wet kisses down your stomach, until he’s reached your dripping pussy.

And then he devours you.

He flicks his tongue against your clit, shoving the speared tip of it between your hot folds, lapping at you, kissing, sucking and you writhe under his tight grip, tangling your fingers in his hair.

“Oh, Billy,” you say, moaning and he does the same in return at the sound of his name spilling from your wanton lips.

And then he finally crawls back on top of you and you take him in your hand and he pushes his hips forward, slowly easing inside of you.

You lift your own hips to meet him, closing your eyes, throwing an arm around his neck, slipping your fingers into his hair.

Once he’s submerged himself between your tight walls, he lowers his chest to your own, kissing you once again, smoothing hair from your face.

You slide your calves along his own, humming in satisfaction in his arms.

He speaks against your lips. “That feel good?”

You nod, smiling. “It’s perfect. Everything is. Thank you, Billy.”

His brow twitches. That’s a first. Being thanked.

He kind of likes it, though.

He smirks, easing in and out of you pleasurably. “I’ve wanted to fuck you since the first day we met.”

You push your hips against his own, wanting as much of him inside of you as you can take. Can get. “Oh, yeah? You wanted this that badly?” You say, sighing, your voice breathy.

He kisses your lips. “Wanted you,” he mumbles, taking a nipple in his mouth.

You kiss the top of his head.

“Can I—” You swallow thickly. “Be on top. Like…in your lap?”

His eyes meet yours. “Show me, baby.”

You keep your hips connected to his as you sit up, straddling him, his back pressed to the wall behind him, feet hanging off the edge of the bed as you wrap your arms around his neck.

You start rocking your hips slowly against his own, sighing, smiling. “Feel so good,” you whimper, growing so wet you can hear it.

He slides his hands down your soft curves, making you shudder at his pleasing touch, and he grips your bottom in each his hands. “Fuck, tell me about it, sweetheart.”

You press your lips to his shoulder, whining against it. “Oh, God, Billy.”

He eases his head back against the wall. “You close, babydoll?”

You nod, kissing his neck, flicking the tip of your tongue against the soft tanned skin. “I am. Mm, yes.”

He goes to reach between your legs—to start playing with your clit—until you shake your head.

You pull back, staring into his hooded eyes, smoothing curls from his handsome face. “No. Just you.”

He bites his lower lip. “You want to come on my cock, baby? That it, honey?”

You nod. “Yes, please.”

He shakes his head lightly. “So fuckin’ polite, baby girl.”

You grin and kiss him again. “You’re so pretty.”

He snorts quietly. “Oh, yeah?”

You tenderly kiss his stubbled cheek. “Yeah.”

“Not too bad yourself,” he says, cupping the back of your head, pressing your forehead against his.

The two of you grow quiet then, only the sound of sheets shifting beneath him, the bed quietly squeaking, your ragged breaths, your wetness—his long cock between your thighs pleasuring you.

He twitches, then strains for a moment before his member calms again, but only briefly before twitching once more.

“I’m so fuckin’ close, baby.”

You nod, tears stinging your eyes. “I am, too. Mm, Billy.”

He wraps his arms around you, holding you close. “Come on. Come with, honey. C’mon. Good girl, c’mon. Come all over my cock. That’s it.”

You squeeze around him, liking the things he’s saying to you—that he’s encouraging your orgasm forward. Wants it.

 You start to bounce against his thighs, desperate for your release, which is continually growing with every thrust of his hips, bringing both of you closer and closer.

“Oh, Billy, please. I want it.”

He groans in the back of his throat. “Fuck. Fuck. Yeah, almost there. C’mon, baby. Come on. Come on it.”

You begin dragging in ragged breaths, your toes curling under your bottom, muscles tightening, eyes squeezing shut. “Yes, yes, Billy, al—almost. I want it so bad.”

He slaps your bottom gently. “Fuck, that’s it. Come with me.”

You bite down lightly on his shoulder, your body shuddering as you scream quietly against his warm skin, suddenly feeling lightheaded as your walls squeeze him tightly, urging him to follow you along, your ogasm washing over you with powerful force.

And then he does the same.

He throws his head back, slamming it into the wall, holding you in a vicelike grip against his chest, moaning your name loudly, slamming his cock into your soaked pussy repeatedly. “Oh, fuck, baby. So fucking good. Good fucking girl. Yes!”

Slowly, the two of you calm, his straining cock finishing with filling the condom, and you slump against his chest, desperate to catch your breath while your eyes flutter closed.

You fight back tears at finally having righted such a horrible, evil, revolting wrong.

You’ve taken back a part of yourself on your own terms—every moment had been absolutely perfect. Everything you’d ever wanted it to be. Had needed it to be the last few months.

You kiss him achingly slowly.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “Thank you, Billy. So much.”

You’re making it seem like he’s done you some unspoken favor, but he’ll take it anyway, gratefully.

“I think…” He starts, wondering if he should say it.

And then you cup his cheek, kissing his opposite one so sweetly. “What is it?”

He goes for it, living in the moment—wanting you to know how good a lay you are.

“That was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

Once Billy has popped the VHS tape into the player, he flops back onto the couch, pressing fast-forward to get through all the previews, and once the main feature starts, he lets it play before glancing to you.

You scoot a bit further down, resting the back of your head atop the arm of the sofa, then rolling it to the side so you can watch something you’re sure will give you nightmares tonight.

And then you’re taken promptly by surprise when Billy lies down as well, wrapping his arms around your waist, resting his head between your breasts.

Yours eyes widen and your now-lifted arms hover over him.

“What’re you doing?”

He snuggles closer. “Trying to get comfortable. What’s it look like?”

You remain silent.

You’re sure that your pounding heart, which lies directly under his left ear, is doing all the talking for you, however. He says nothing about it, though.

“You going to lay your arms down, or is that some new exercise Fonda came up with?”

You rest them atop his back then, your palms splayed against it.

You don’t see the soft smile that spreads across his lips at the feel of you practically holding him.

“Got a bit of a headache comin’ on. Would you mind rubbing it for me?”

You hesitate for a moment, then slide your dominant hand higher, submerging your fingers in his thick curls, gently massaging his scalp.

If he were a cat, he’d be fucking purring in your lap right now, he’s sure.

His eyes flutter closed, and he falls asleep with a feeling of safety he hasn’t felt since he’s not sure when.

Billy is woken almost two hours later by you gently shaking him and softly calling his name.

He groans, shutting his eyes again, and holding you impossibly tighter, burying his face between your breasts.

“The movie’s over,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t reply.

“You might want to head—”

“I’m sleeping here,” he grumbles.

You raise a brow.

“I don’t know—”

“I’m fuckin’ exhausted. I’m not driving.”

You grow quiet for a moment, wondering if maybe you should retrieve a Yellowpages and offer to call him a cab, then.

“We’ll just sleep in your bed,” he states.

You blink down at him in surprise. “We…what?”

He doesn’t repeat himself.

The summer before senior year something unspeakable happens to you when leaving a video rental store one night. Afterward, you withdraw further and further into yourself until you’re all you have left.

And then Billy Hargrove comes to Hawkins High, and you, along with the rest of the female student population, quickly take notice of him. But for you, it’s not due to some juvenile crush. You see him as a way to gain back a part of yourself. A means to an end—no matter how insensitive that may sound.

And so you have a one-night stand. Or what was meant to be. Until he comes to you asking for more.

The two of you agree up-front that no commitment or feelings will be involved. That it’s about one thing and one thing only: mind-blowing sex.

And then he starts having movie-nights with you, afternoons at the arcade, evenings driving around town in his car, eating at local diners, among countless other interactions that most-certainly aren’t dates.

Because Billy doesn’t do feelings. Or so he thinks…

headcanons:

billy is the first & only person reader tells what happened to her.

all the times they hang out is almost always at billy's invitation.