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last-starry-sky · 2 months ago

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this hungry thing inside me - pt. 1

price x reader - gaz x reader

[MDNI - NSFW - MIND THE WARNINGS: 4.7k, established relationship (price and reader are married), domestication/traditional gender roles, price is a good man but occasionally a terrible husband, relationship problems, arguments, mentions of manipulation, alcohol and smoking mentions, infidelity, dry-humping, kissing, biting, dirty talk, begging, fingering, oral, edging, reader is assuming the worst of her husband through-out most of this part with minimal self-reflection so have fun with that!]

Title is from THIS poem - also, happy 600 followers to me! 🥳

It’s a tragedy in three acts.

You love your husband and you know he loves you. That was given, unquestionable, the foundation you built upon. You wouldn’t have married him if that wasn’t true. That was the form of the first tragedy. Somewhere along the way, in the long years growing more and more familiar with each other, of planning your futures, of just living life, you grew complacent. Bored.

The walls of the nice little house his promotion had bought for the two of you was meant to be your freedom. That’s how he had framed it.

“Know you didn’t have to work anymore if you don’t want, love. Can do whatever you please now,” your husband had said soothingly that first night as he held you in his arms once the passion between you had cooled to a simmer. “Take care of me ‘n the house,” he paused before continuing, “kids, too,” he said with a small laugh, “when we finally get around to makin’ ‘em.” There was a long pause between you. You watched as the gauzy curtains blew lazily in and out. You house breathing in the cool summer night air. “Won’t have to worry over you when I’m away. I’ll know you’ll be here, safe,” he mumbled, a bristly smooch tickled your ear, making you smile. “I’ll be home more now, too.”

“Promise?” you whispered into the dim, blue light of your bedroom. The fumes of new paint wafted up from downstairs. The smell of new beginnings, of hope. He squeezed your hand.

He promised.

You took his offer but, just like any offer that seemed too good to be true, there were catches. You had kept up your end. You quit your job, taking up typical housewife activities: cooking homemade meals, scrubbing baseboards, going for early morning walks followed by falling asleep on the couch to some trash afternoon TV drama. All the usual things. It was John that couldn’t keep his end. While you tore through novels trying to keep from texting him for the fifth time when he would be home, he was just gone.

His new position kept him busy with confidential work most of the time, which also kept him on base. Strangely, you could have dealt with that. You could have grown used to feeling him slip in bed late at night and leave before breakfast the next morning. His job was important to him. He was respected. Most importantly, it afforded you a life most would cut their arm off to have. So, you tried to be patient. Grateful, you told yourself. You should be grateful for the snippets of time you were able to share. Even though he was dog-tired most of the time, spending long hours relaxing on the couch or sprawled across your bed.

You let yourself become a new thing entirely: soft and plain and domesticated. John, though, John remained the same. He still returned home with rough hands and skin tanned from days under an aggressive, blinding sun. Black grease and gun powder wore into the cracks around his eyes, and, most worrying to you, scars collected across his body. He told you when you met that men in his line of work had to be half-crazy to make it; adrenaline junkies, nomads, and it hurt you that he still lived like that. He was your husband, but he was a warrior too. A man without a home; without a reason to live.

You stopped doing things together almost entirely. You cooked dinners for one and ate them alone. You went to the shops alone. You worked out and wandered the city alone. As John put so eloquently in one of your arguments: “You’ve all the time in the world to do that shite when I’m not here. Why are you nagging me on my days off?”

An image came to mind when he said that. The image of the ball-and-chain, of the frazzled, ungrateful housewife, seared into your mind with his words. It rattled you so much that the argument stopped right there, dropping it as you walked away into the kitchen, leaving him alone in the living room. You didn’t want to be that to him. Couldn’t stand even thinking of it. If that’s how he felt, you told yourself, then . . . then you would stop nagging him. It was a bitter pill, but you swallowed it because you loved him. You cared about what he thought of you. The last thing you wanted was to drive him away now with your petty little problems. You loved your husband, you told yourself as you lay awake in the dark, so you pulled away. You threw away your “honey do” list. You deleted websites saved with holiday plans. You did your part. You stopped bothering him.

John relegated himself to the guest bedroom that night while you waited upstairs, wiping away the bitter, intermittent, tears that streaked down your face. You waited for the sound of his footsteps as they creaked up the stairs, for the door hinge to whine, announcing his entry. If he was good at anything these days, he was good at apologizing.Not with words, naturally, but physically. What John lacked in social skills he made up for with stamina and determination. It was hard to continue a fight with his face between your legs and you couldn’t stay angry for long at a man who could chain together orgasms like he was pulling taffy. Fucked out and sated, you would wake the next morning all the more forgiving and happy.

There was a creak downstairs. Footsteps. The TV turning off. Your heart began to race the second you heard it. You lay still in bed, facing the window as you continued to listen. More footsteps, but they were toward the front of the house. The opposite of where he should be heading. Shuffling. Soft thumping. The shuffling of a coat. The jingle of keys. You held your breath in the quiet dark, unwilling to face the truth of what your senses clearly told you was happening.

The door opened then closed softly. The deadbolt slid into place. Then, silence. Dreaded, nerve-fraying, silence. A few minutes later, long after you knew he had left, your phone vibrated at your side. A message from John. The first one you’d received unprompted in a long time.

“Lads invited me out for a drink. Be back later.”

Action and reaction. That’s the form of the second tragedy.

What’s the saying? “Don’t get mad, get even.” Whatever it was, you thought as you artfully lined your eyes, that was your new mantra. You stared into the vanity mirror and saw a new woman staring back at you. Not the old you, not the happy, professional woman always smiling next to her buff, military husband. No, you were a different animal entirely now. Newborn from the cocoon of the drab, boring housewife he’d transformed you into. You were reformed from months of dishpan hands and laying about on the couch. You would no longer allow yourself to crumble away, mentally and physically. You blotted your lipstick and gave yourself one last look in the mirror before you stood up.

If John couldn’t see how hot his own wife was, then you weren’t going to waste your time chasing after his attention anymore.

You wouldn’t lie. You felt guilty as hell the first few times you went out alone. Guilty that you’d left the little bubble of safety he’d constructed for you. The one he’d abandoned you in and visited rarely. Guilty that you left your wedding band and engagement rings in your jewelry box. Guilty that you were having fun on your own, letting the alcohol melt away the awkwardness of standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers in a strange bar. The music was good though, and so was the beer. You remember snippets of conversations, carrying on with the bartender, whomever was seated next to you, the girls fixing their makeup in the bathroom. You felt young again. Carefree and untethered. You remember leaving, walking home along the dark streets. The thick, syrupy, ball of happiness you’d built all night suddenly plunged into cold water, forming a hard, cracked surface as you steeled yourself at the front door.

John could be in there, you thought. He could be angry. Worried. Disappointed.

You pushed the door open. The empty hook where his coat usually hung and the space where his shoes sat in the hall the first two places your eyes nervously landed on. Empty, you saw. Still gone. Still alone. You checked your phone for the hundredth time that night just to be sure you hadn’t missed a call or text. Nothing. He didn’t know. He didn’t care. You had gotten away with it.

Was that a stupid way to look at it? Absolutely. The more you thought about it, the more ridiculous you felt. You were a grown woman. You could go out without your goddamn absentee husband’s permission. So, you did. You tried to make yourself irregular, harder to track. Random times, days of the week, always a different bar in a different part of the city. Sometimes you even hopped on the train to see what the adjoining towns had to offer. You always came back at the end of the night though, giddy with alcohol and buzzing with excitement, but home. A drip of guilt rolled down your spine. Yours and John’s home.

Still, before you left you would stand in the hall, hand still on the doorknob, keys in your other hand. This was the first hurdle, something within you told you. A part of you that knew better, probably, expected more. A part of you that looked and acted a hell of a lot like your husband. It asked you: If you had known where this road would lead you, this journey of revenge and self-discovery, would you have still done it?

You finally answered that question when you let your first hookup take you back to his place. In between sloppy kisses laced with the alcohol you’d let him buy you and the nicotine he’d shotgunned down your throat in the alley outside, you’d managed to string two brain cells together to tell him enough. He’d agreed quickly. Being under the same influences as you plus the aching erection he pressed against your jeaned thigh, it was a no-brainer.

You followed him back to his apartment, a nice little flat only a few blocks away, wrapped around him the whole way. It wasn’t until then that you realized how much touch you craved. John had been distant since his promotion. Sex had become less spontaneous, less fun. His lingering touches disappeared and the almost daily lovemaking had slowed from a stream, to a drizzle, to drops, before shutting off entirely. Now that you had another man, and a stranger at that, returning your nuzzles against his chest with loving strokes of strong, rough fingers through your hair, you could have sang. Could have cried.

He asked you what you wanted once he got you inside. Deliriously fuzzy and half-drunk, you were confident. You asked him to undress you and he followed your instruction without question. You closed your eyes and drank in the feel of his calloused palms against your skin: the way he reverently kissed your neck when he tossed your blouse to the floor, how he squeezed your ass in both hands after peeling your pants down your thighs.

“Bet your pussy tastes as good as you look, luv,” he breathed in your ear as he ground his trapped cock against the soaked silk of your panties. You whined, pulling him out of your neck by his short curly hair to stick your tongue down his throat. You couldn’t remember the last time John had talked to you like that and fuck me if you couldn’t get used to it.

“’s that what you want?” you slurred, hands roaming boldly up under his shirt. He had a gorgeous body from what you could feel; all planes of hard muscle from his groin up to some nicely defined pectorals. His biceps bulged under the grip of your wandering hands, making you flush as he groaned. His fingers wound in the fabric hugging your hips, threatening to use just an ounce of that strength to rip them away, to be done with it already.

“I want . . .” he said, lingering to a pause as he pulled away. His brown eyes half closed as he ran his hands appreciatively up your curves. Even in the weak city light, mostly blocked out by haphazardly-drawn blinds, you could see the warm brown of his skin. His hands stopped under your bra. Whatever thought preoccupied his mind until then had run through, prompting him to lean back in and place a kiss on your clavicle.

“Want whatever you want,” he said as he pulled away, trailing a line of kisses back up your neck. You were putty in his hands, uselessly moaning, pinned between him and the wall as you let him touch you as he pleased. “I’s just . . .” he trailed off again, hand swiping up your clothed pussy, making you squeak. “You’re actin’ like you haven’t been touched in years, luv,” he breathed against your ear with a biting kiss. God did you wish he wasn’t so bloody close to the truth.

You thought you saw sparks behind your eyes as he hitched your leg up around his hip. He effortlessly supported you, letting you wind your arms around his neck.

“Can’t have that,” he said soft yet authoritative, pressing a kiss to the hinge of your jaw. The tickle of his mustache faintly reminded you of John. You whined, rocking forward, searching blindly for pressure; for any relief for the need throbbing hot and wet between your thighs. He kissed your cheek, then your nose.

“Now now,” he soothed gently, a hand cupping your flushed cheek. “Stay with me. Tell me what you want,” capping his sentence with a kiss that sucked your top lip between his teeth. You groaned at the difference between the sharp pain of his teeth as they nipped again and again at your lip and his bubblegum-soft words filling your head. The way he held you so sure and strong but wouldn’t take anything from you. Not until he was told.

You didn’t think they made guys like him anymore. Your half-drunk brain swirled as he paused, the two of you breathing the same air. How the hell had you gotten so lucky?

“Kyle,” you breathed, light and airy. Your arms flexed around his neck, pulling him closer. “I’m so close,” you whined pitifully, eyebrows pressing together. “However you want to do it, just please,” you trailed off with another whine. His hands pressed divots into the soft flesh of your hips, a small betrayal of his slipping control. You sucked in a shuddering breath, willing yourself to continue; to get it all out. “Then . . . then I want you to fuck me,” you rambled out, tears welling up every time you blinked. He looked down on you with dark satisfaction, a pleased hum vibrating between his lips. “I need it. Fuck, do I need it, Kyle. Whatever you want. I can take it,” you begged against his lips, voice cracking. “Promise.”

You walked home wrapped in a daze, only noticing Kyle had left you a few blocks later. It took another block or so to piece everything together: he’d kissed the top of your head, squeezed your shoulders in a hug, asked you something you barely remembered, then pushed you forward across the crosswalk alone. You looked around, strands of sweaty hair itching at your skin. From the landmarks and style of houses you guessed you were near your own neighborhood. The functioning part of your brain kept your body walking on autopilot, forcing yourself forward. The rest of your mind was still occupied, reliving the wonderful night you’d just passed with him. With Kyle.

He’d given you exactly what you’d wanted, no further begging required. Pinned between the wall and his warm body, his strong fingers had efficiently worked an embarrassingly quick orgasm out of you. Boneless and panting against the cool wall, he’d chuckled into your neck; leaving little love bites as he waited for you to come down from your high.

“’s all you got, luv?” he’d goaded, gently stroking your already sweat-slicked thighs, “Tappin’ out already or are’y ready f’ more?”

Your hands around his neck weakly grabbed at his head, nails barely catching the close shaved curls at his nape. It was only now that you realized he must have been acting, just letting you think you’d pulled his head out of your neck in order to speak face-to-face.

“More,” you’d groaned, no bite left to your voice, as both of his hands palmed your ass to lift you away from the wall, “Need it.”

The street names became more and more familiar as the sun broke through the clouds, scattering the early morning fog. Around and around you traveled until you came to the familiar turn that marked your road. Your quaint, quiet little street lay in front of you. Thankfully, it was far too early on the weekend for anyone to be up and about. Every house you passed still had their curtains drawn, windows dark. As you drew closer to your home you instinctively reached for your house keys, finding them right where they always were, tucked safely in the first pocket of your purse. Your purse, you thought, your keys. He had made sure you had everything before you left.

Your stomach flip-flopped as you paused on your front step, key in hand halfway to the lock. He had been far too wonderful to just be a one-night thing. You blushed as you shoved your key in the lock with a shaking hand. The phantom of a thought crossed your mind that this could be yours and his house. He could be coming home to you. As you opened the door and crossed the threshold, you snuffed out the thought. Breathing in the familiar air of yours and John’s home; scented with his favorite laundry detergent, the mix of his colognes and your perfumes, the faint smell of lavender wicking into the stale air from the oil diffuser, it felt almost sacrilegious to think of another man like that.

It was just a one-time thing, you told yourself. Just a fling and nothing more.

You shook your head at yourself as you stripped off your jacket and shoes, your purse discarded haphazardly on the table. You checked the space where John’s jacket and shoes usually were. Still gone. The house was untouched from how you had left it last night. Strangely, it didn’t bother you that you had slept with another man. You searched your heart for guilt as you robotically went about your usual routine, but it just wasn’t there. You should have stopped right there, questioned yourself, maybe even called your husband to work through what should have been a turning point; a huge breach to the contract of your relationship. You didn’t, though. In that moment, you just couldn’t find it within yourself to care.

John had hurt you. He was growing more and more emotionally distant by the day. He had cut you off from your friends and family when he moved you out here and then severed your last tie to the outside world when he convinced you to stop working. You had been such a fucking fool to fall into his trap. You had nothing and he had everything. Money, power, control, it was all in his hands. Fuck him, you told yourself as you pushed open the door to the downstairs bathroom; the one John used when he slept in the guest bedroom. He did this to himself, you fumed. He deserves it.Deserves to be hurt for once.

Kyle, though, Kyle had cared about you.

You struck the invasive thoughts from your mind as you shut yourself in the tiny, tile-lined bathroom. You needed to take a shower, to wash him from you and be done with this petty journey of revenge. You needed to be cleansed of the outside world to return purified into this one again. Stripping off your clothes, though, you were struck with the sinking reminder that it wouldn’t be the easy task you’d imagined. Your thighs were marred with irritated red blotches and tiny, almost imperceptible, semicircles of dents. Plain evidence of the bites your fling had scattered around your sex.

He’d stopped to do that every so often; pulling away just as he’d worked you to that delicious, spiraling peak right before you tipped over into bliss. The wet heat of his tongue on your clit replaced with sharp nips of teeth that had you begging please let me cum please please, Kyle, please.

The band of his arm was iron-fast around your middle, his hands strong around your thighs. He had you right where he wanted and seemed more than satisfied to keep you there for the time being. He bit at the skin of your mons, right above your clit; right where you really wanted him. Through your squirms and whines, he simply held you down and shushed you quietly – soft and gentle kisses replacing bites as your pleasure receded – until your pleas faded into sighs and his bedroom fell silent once more.

You scrubbed shampoo through your hair, unaware how long you’d been standing under the cool spray. You rinsed and quickly worked conditioner through the ends of your hair before slathering yourself with body wash, intent on finishing your shower before the last of the hot water ran out. You couldn’t afford to stand in the stall any longer: daydreaming about how many times he brought you right up to that blissful high before cruelly pulling away just to work you back up again. You needed to wash him off of you. His heady, slightly sweet, cologne. The smoke and nicotine that decidedly wasn’t your husband’s cigars. Needed every particle that wasn’t your own, normal smell gone before-

There was a sound from somewhere in the house: the shuffling and clicking of something achingly familiar. You shut the water off in a panic. Over the dripping from the shower head you could barely hear it. The front door closing. The little sounds continued: shoes dropping onto the boot tray, keys jangling as they clattered against the counter, a jacket softly shuffling as it was dropped over a chair and not on it’s place on the empty hook in the hall. Everything added up to only one possibility: John was home.

Fuck, you swore over and over as you scrambled out of the shower; at yourself, at him, at the guy who fucked your brains out last night, at god. Someone had to be to blame for the royal mess you were in. You toweled yourself semi-dry in a whirlwind, stopping only to listen with baited breath for where John was, what he was doing. Nothing unusual, from what you could hear beyond the bathroom. You wiped off the mirror, glaring back at the misty reflection that greeted you like you were both Medusa and Perseus. You checked both sides of your neck quickly. No redness. No bites. You breathed a sigh of relief that somehow wasn’t relieving at all. Still, you grabbed John’s ugly plaid robe off the back of the door and rolled the collar up until it dusted your jaw. You couldn’t be too careful.

Chucking your towel in the bin with your clothes, you finally made your exit. With an extravagant plume of steam following you, you opened the door intending to quickly steal upstairs where you could dress and avoid your husband for the rest of the day. He was waiting for you though. Eyes soft and full of love, slouching lazily against the back of the couch to catch you as soon as the door opened.

“There she is,” he purred, gathering you in the inescapable embrace of his arms. You let out a gasp at his suddenness as he kissed the wet crown of your head, a hum of satisfaction on his lips. “There’s my lovey,” he said stroking down your back, as if he was trying to convince you this is how he was, how it always was. “How was the shower? Relaxing?” he asked, loosening his grip. You took your opportunity, possibly the only one he would give you, and slithered out of his grasp.

“Fine!” you called behind you as you thudded up the stairs.

You didn’t stop running until the door to the master bedroom slammed shut behind you. You lay your back against it; panting and heart hammering in your chest as you waited. John didn’t follow you. You heard him walk around downstairs; making something to eat in the kitchen before turning on the TV. He probably thinks you’re still mad at him, you told yourself. Good. You dressed in your usual lounging-about-the-house clothes while inspecting the rest of your body for any errant love-bites or marks you might have missed before slipping back downstairs.

You and John shared a terse, awkward morning. You floated around each other, never lingering too long in each other’s presence. If you entered a room, he left it. Beyond that, he followed his usual routine: laundering his bag of gross gym-clothes, making up the guest bed, paper, lunch, out for a smoke, a football match. It wasn’t until he wandered in the kitchen while you were making dinner for the both of you – by force of habit – that he spoke to you again.

“’m sorry f’ how I’ve been lately,” he said laying his large hands on the stone counter top behind you, the one he wanted, his shoulders squared forward. His apology was a shock, making you pause at the food in the pan you were stirring. You looked back at him, waiting for something else. What else, you didn’t know. You suspect he didn’t know either, because his pale blue eyes plead with you to shore up the difference, finish his own apology because he’s not good with words, love, go on ‘n make this right to yourself.

You turned back to your mushrooms sizzling in the thickening gravy. Silence fell for only a moment before John sighed behind you.

“I know it’s hard, love. Trust me, I know,” he said, the counter creaking as he leaned against it.

You steeled your back; not answering, not turning around. Oh, he knew what it was like to be left alone now? That was rich. He was the one always leaving you. Promising you he would be around more once you got married, once you bought the house, once he got his promotion. Promises, promises, promises. How much longer would it go on? When would you be able to believe him? Once you had your first child? Your third? In five, ten, fifteen years? Or would you be a widow by then?

His hands skimming your hips interrupted your stewing. He groaned as he pressed himself to your back, a gentle kiss ghosting your ear. “Miss you so bad, love. Miss bein’ home with you.”

Miss you. Miss you. Miss you. You thought, body drawn taught and dangerous under his wandering hands. So easy to be missed, John, when you’re never fucking here.

You clicked off the burner, shoving the bubbling skillet of gravy away as you slipped out of your husband’s arms for the second time today. He didn’t fight to keep you there. You knew what he was planning, knew all of his old tricks already. He would butter you up with soft words and half-apologies, pour you a few glasses of wine while watching your favorite movie for once before whisking you upstairs to make it all better in bed between your thighs. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat. Everything would be back to how he liked it: his nice, pliant wife happily tucked away in his bungalow while he was out saving the world. If even that was true.

You weren’t out of the kitchen before John was sputtering, “But what about-”

“Not hungry anymore,” you muttered, tears spilling down your cheeks as you ran back upstairs, emotions rapidly fraying apart. You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t let him touch you. Not now.

Not anymore.

#mw2 #price/reader #price x reader #gaz/reader #gaz x reader #starry writes #cod fanfic #cod mw2 #call of duty #this will have at least one more part so for everyone cheering me on to make this a one-shot: im sorry #((eventually it will be all of 141 but i feel bad tagging for characters that haven't appeared (to fuck lmao) yet))#also: over halfway through april and this is my first fic posted? like goddamn i'm SLACKIN

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crows-king · 6 months ago

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I've been thinking a bit about how Galinda and Fiyero work as foils(?), and the contrast between their goals, personality, and their relationship to social influence individually change how they navigate their specific social situations.

And why it puzzles me when people judgmentally compare them and what they'd do in "What-If" scenarios as a gotcha to make one seem better/worst. Because in my mind they are similar but not comparable, because they fundamentally have very different personal stakes.

Primarily because of the difference in how they act in an Active (Galinda) vs Passive (Fiyero) approach to social engineering. And also, because one of them in writing is more developed as an individual than the other.

I'LL MOSTLY BE TALKING ABOUT: WICKED MOVIE - PART 1

Galinda is inherently Active. She has wants and desires that she's driven to achieve, and so actively plays the part of the good socialite because it will help her become more popular and to eventually become "Galinda the GoodSorceress". "It's not about aptitude, it's about the way you're viewed", and so on. It’s the one thing she knows she’s good at.

Of course, she also likes the attention and validation, but her charms doesn't come as naturally as she wants others, and probably herself, to believe. (I love that quote Ariana said somewhere about how "Galinda sees herself as a graceful swan, when she's actually a very stiff, but still beautiful swan", or something of that sort). She's insecure that she’ll lose people's favour and thus her most important asset, so she continually appeals to them. It's an act that she simultaneously enjoys doing for the most part, but also traps her from ever being truly close to anybody for fear of being known and not meeting expectations and losing that adoration. Until Elphaba that is.

Because of her drive to fulfill her dreams and to keep her best asset, and personal desperate need for validation, she has a much more obvious internal conflicts when she has to choose between Elphaba/the moral good vs keeping with the good graces of authority and/or the public. She's more prone to being influenced by others, and many of her choices become a calculated risk. She’s often times selfish and chooses her own desires, but it’s what makes her such an interesting and very human character. The struggle she balances when she’s forced to choose for better or worse.

In contrast

Fiyero is Passive. Dancing Through Life is literally him telling others that being lazy and not thinking is the best way to cope and enjoy life by ignoring problems. He is discontent with his life, but doesn't really acknowledge it until Elphaba reads him. Much like Galinda he is also playing a part, but it's not as tightly controlled as Galinda because he doesn't have an end goal for it.

Of course, while he probably doesn't want to lose his princely privileges. His passive "brainless" approach doesn't really put him in risky situations that would put him in conflict leading to losing things he cares about, because he really doesn't have a lot to lose. (Which is a byproduct of the fact he is primarily written as a love interest side character without much of an arc or motives outside his love triangle relationship to Elphaba and Galinda).

What confounds me is when people compare them and judge what their choices would be in if they were placed in pivotal moments, because we never really see them in situations with similar stakes.

For example, the Lion Cub scene. Most people interpret this scene as an act of braverism and heroics by Fiyero. And in some part it is, he's spurred on to save the cub, and he and Elphaba do. But it's telling that he only does this after everyone is asleep and there are virtually no risks. Any present social or physical conflicts that could arise? POOF! Gone. The worst that could probably be done to them is being punished, or even kicked out, if they’re discovered afterwards. Which Fiyero is not new to and doesn't really care about, and while maybe uncertain for Elphaba, is also unlikely because she's Morrible's irreplaceable pupil.

Some people use this scene as evidence that under his facade, Fiyero is secretly valiant like Elphaba thinks so. But I think in actuality tells the opposite. It reveals that Fiyero does care about the Animals, yes. But, the fact he only acts when prompted and there are no longer any present risks initially makes him seem less brave than Elphaba, and even Galinda. Because it contrasts with the Ozdust dance scene between the girls. Where Galinda had to make an active choice to do the risky and brave thing as an apology for hurting Elphaba, and offer to truly connect with her in front of everyone with the possibility of social out casting. She has an obvious internal conflict and risk assessment where she ends up picking the moral good over her personal comfort and social appeal. I'm genuinely curious on what kind of choices Elphaba, Galinda, and Fiyero might have done in that situation if they weren't given the perfect out by the magic poppies.

Would Galinda have helped in with the lion cub if she were awake? Probably, but who knows? Because in the narrative, Galinda isn't really put in a situation where she could choose good without being watched or without someone breathing down her neck. The prospect of being punished and kicked out from Shiz would also be most plausible and ruinous for Galinda. Morrible would definitely use it as an excuse to kick her out, or at the very least punish her, if she could, and it could throw away her only chance of achieving her dream of becoming a sorceress. She would have probably joined them in the end, though. If only to make sure they were safe. Compared to Fiyero, she has more conflicts of interests because she has personal aspirations and influence based on her reputation, and thus have more fears and consequences to consider in losing it.

Would Fiyero have joined Elphaba on the broom? Maybe, mostly likely. Because narratively, he’s never given a reason why he shouldn’t. He doesn’t see his worth and his skills intrinsically tied to public influence and opinion. He doesn’t have any wants or wishes he would have to abandon. He’ll have to leave his friends and family, but it’s not shown how close they really are to him outside Feldspar, his Horse friend, and he’s probably joining them anyway. He’s definitely more equipped to survive on the run compared to Glinda. Unlike Glinda, who is proven right in the end to being most useful when she can wield her powerful social influence For Good, Fiyero would probably be most useful as a sidekick to Elphaba. He was always written to be Elphaba’s follower, it’s no surprise. It’s also easier to take risks when you don’t have much to lose. But I think most people would agree that would make a less interesting story.

#wicked #wicked 2024 #wicked movie #character analysis #galinda upland #glinda upland #fiyero tigelaar #elphaba thropp #elphaba #glinda #galinda #fiyero #long post #me ruminating and writing this at 3am when I should be sleeping #If this doesn’t make sense then I blame my sleep deprived self #No hate to either characters i like them for different reasons; although I do have a fav preference #I tried to be neutral in my analysis; Idk how this came off as tho #like I said the judgmental comparisons puzzles me because they have more differences in circumstances that it first would seem #even if they're both privileged #Oh I haven't even discussed the comphet of it all regarding Glinda #Reminder this is primarily based on the wicked movie: part 1 and movie characterizations btw #While I know what happens in act 2 these character don’t yet and this is an analysis of their behaviour and choices in part 1 #i'm open to other's opinion this; even if you disagree; this is just me rambling at the end of the day #non zero chance I might delete this in the future

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