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Survival Horror Vash who i met in a dream
i had a dream last night where a group of people and i were trying to escape this weird and spooky abandoned facility that kept changing around us as we moved forward and partway through vash showed up and joined us. he was kinda weird, though. he looked a little different and he kept saying morbid things and acting like he knew us well and was always part of the group, and no one seemed to think that was suspicious except me.
at one point he found a couch and kept asking this guy to sit and have drinks with him, but the guy was convinced that if he did he'd get cursed and die.
the one time i interacted with him myself near the end of my dream (i think he was avoiding me) he was taking a knife to the bottom half of his coat, cutting it lengthwise and taking apart the layers. i asked him why he was doing that and he just said that he needed it [like that] and wouldn't elaborate and i couldn't investigate further bc i somehow found myself leading the group.
suspicious and inexplicable behaviour aside, i don't think he was ~secretly a bad guy~ or anything. just kinda weird and lonely and. maybe not entirely human. i do think he was genuinely trying to help us get out and maybe get himself out, too. but god he was kinda unnerving to be around.
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“Oh, keep dreamin' of darlin'
Ooh-ooh, my darlin', you're so fine
Oh, oh, oh…
Don't know if words could say
But darlin', I'll find a way
To let you know what you meant to me
Guess it was meant to be
I hold you in my heart
As life's most precious part
Oh, darlin' (Oh, keep dreamin' of darlin')
I dream about you often my pretty darlin'
Ooh-ooh, my darlin', you're so fine
I love the way you soften my life with your love
Your precious love, uh-huh, oh…
I was livin' like half a man
Then I couldn't love, but now I can
You pick me up when I'm feelin' sad
More soul than I ever had
Gonna love you every single night
'Cause I think you're too outta sight
Oh-oh, darlin' (Oh, keep dreamin' of darlin')
I dream about you often my pretty darlin'
Ooh-ooh, my darlin', you're so fine
I love the way you soften my life with your love
Your precious love, uh-huh-huh…
Every night, oh, darlin'
Gonna love you every single night, yes I will
'Cause I think you're too doggone outta sight
Darlin' (Oh, keep dreamin' of darlin')
I dream about you often my pretty darlin'
Ooh-ooh, my darlin', you're so fine
I love the way you soften my life with your love
Your precious love, uh-huh, oh…”
The Beach Boys “Darlin’”
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another toffee analysis by sage h silentfire
I've been sitting on this analysis for a while, and I was going to touch on it briefly in a project I'm working on, but a talk with my therapist allowed me to put it into words and in greater detail than before. So here it is:
Why exactly do I like Toffee so much? It's a genuine question. He's the target of many different questionable writing choices, barely focused on, and forgotten within seconds of his death. We know so little about him he's basically a generic doomsday villain. The fandom is worse to him: popular interpretations paint him as cruel, arrogant, spiteful, and even, surprisingly enough, stupid. The word "sociopath" gets thrown around a lot, which, ableist. He's emotionless. He has no empathy. He's unable to connect with people. While liking villains is somewhat acceptable nowadays, it's always with the expectation that you like them because they're evil, not for any deeper reason. And with Toffee, because he's so poorly written, that should be the reason you like him. Because he's evil, and that's awesome.
But that's not why I like Toffee.
See, I am autistic, and that's never going away. I get more stereotypically autistic by the year, as I grow and become more independent, and my newfound independence clashes with my family and the society I live in. I'm weird, I'm moderately smart, I'm quirky. But more critically, I have no close friends because I literally don't know how to make and maintain friendships. I feel painfully aware of the potential emotions of everyone around me, but I don't know how to act on that awareness and communicate effectively with people, leading me to assume the worst. I have had meltdowns in crowded spaces that went completely unnoticed because I was "too subtle". I even worry that I'll die without any of the stories I want to tell – without my story – being told, because no one wanted to learn it.
Sound familiar?
So yes, I like Toffee. Even think he's a halfway decent person morality-wise, not just a villain. He expresses emotions weirdly, but he does express emotions. He is staunchly not willing to sacrifice his plans for others, but he still takes time to be nice to other people regardless. He didn't kill Moon and Marco when he could have, even though they were trying to kill him. He is empathetic enough to manipulate people and smart enough to take control of any situation, and he does it while not expressing emotions in ways others would expect. He's so much like my dream self fr.
And he dies the unquestioned villain, never getting the chance to tell his side of the story. The only perspective that we do get is filtered through the lens of his murderers.
"But Sage!" you might be saying. "What about Comet?!"
Well. I do count Comet's death as one of the questionable choices the writers made (it makes very little sense with Toffee's character, wouldn't he manipulate her into a better deal? It feels a little like the writers were like "Oh shoot, we haven't made Toffee evil enough to 'deserve' his graphic death, let's... uh, let's make him kill Moon's mother for no reason!"), but I can understand why Toffee did it, again through an autistic lens.
See, autistic people like me aren't taken seriously. Not about our areas of knowledge, not about our views and beliefs, and especially not about matters of our physical and mental health. We're treated like weird baby dolls that are expected not to have meltdowns or criticize their "superiors". Or we're embarrassments, time bombs just waiting to go off and mortify whoever we're with. Growing up, I was never able to be right, or even have a point. Oh, there were minor disagreements my guardians let me "win" and then would weaponize during the more serious arguments, but whenever we got into screaming matches, I was always the one in the wrong. We didn't even apologize or talk it out after arguments; it was always expected that I would realize I was wrong eventually and it was swept under the rug with all the other skeletons of long-dead arguments and left to simmer into resentment.
But there was one surefire way to make a dent, one I discovered recently and that has actually saved my life.
In the summer of 2022, I was put on a new medication. Long story short, I did not sleep for two weeks. I was in shambles, and I needed my mother to raise hell from me, because she would not let me do it myself – my psychiatry goes through my guardians, and I didn't even have the psychiatrist's number at the time. But she wouldn't do anything. The psychiatrist thought things would level out eventually, and my mother thought what the psychiatrist thought, nevermind that I was actively getting worse and my sleeping pills were getting less effective by the day. I begged her to raise hell like I knew she could, and she sent a mild phone call gently suggesting that things still weren't ideal. I could feel myself slipping away as everyone who was ostensibly taking care of me sat and twiddled their thumbs.
So I got personal. I deliberately started a big blowout. I convinced her that things weren't going well, and this little game of chicken with my health wouldn't result in the perfect, uncritical, angelic autistic daughter she so desperately wanted. I got into a screaming match, I listed everything she had ever done wrong, and I told her to shut up and stop spewing weak justifications on how my pain wasn't her fault, actually. I hit her where it hurts. I hurt her back. I hurt her.
And it worked. Hurting her made her take me seriously and I was back on my old meds before sunset. I slept well that night. And I will never regret it.
So maybe Toffee's plan to overthrow his colonizers with the death of Comet didn't end in monster victory. But if it weren't for the eleventh-hour dark magic, it would have. And Toffee's people were oppressed and the victims of genocide for ages. They were the small band of rebels fighting an evil colonizing empire. They were ideologically in the right. They kicked and clawed and bit until they found something to hurt, and then they didn't hesitate. Because no one took them seriously, and they still wouldn't have taken them seriously unless they did something damaging. Comet sure didn't; her chapter is a continually escalating series of microaggressions. Moon didn't; she doesn't seem to care about the conflict at all before Comet's death. Who else would take him seriously? Mina? The High Commission? Glossaryck?
So while I don't think he was totally in character in killing Comet, I do understand more than others why he might have done it.
Because Toffee is like me, for better or for worse. And he could have been great for me and people like me. But he wasn't. He was assumed to be evil and left to die immediately. Because people like me are always the bad guys.
In short,
Exhibits:
Toffee's emotions, courtesy @butterflyeffectiveless:
Comet's continually escalating microaggressions:
Additional source for Toffee being autistic:
because i'm autistic and i like him
the end.
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At the Time of Sight
Fic by @souverian-are-we | Art by @greenfiend
Mature | 15k words
November, 1963. Will Byers and Mike Wheeler are two rangers stationed at a remote fire lookout tower in the mountains. When Mike returns to their 100-foot high home and discovers Will missing, he has a few leads. One is the paranoia Will has been exhibiting over the past few weeks, insisting he sees something in the trees. The other lead is the growing tension between them, their affection for each other becoming hard to hide as they spend every day and night in the same glass room.
Warnings: Major Character Death, Graphic Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Mental Health Issues
Read on Ao3 | View Art
Read an excerpt below:
The skyline above Mt. Hawkins was clear, and the setting sun cut through the cold November sky, bathing the fire station’s cab thickly in orange light.
Will Byers' long khaki-clad limbs curled into a chair by one of the south side windows, glass extending from floor to ceiling on every side of their home. Will balance binoculars in one hand and a notebook in the other, scribbling. On the other side of the room, Mike Wheeler flopped onto his bed, radio in hand. After dinner, the pair had settled into comfortable silence, retreating to opposite walls and finding their own occupations.
Mike and Will had been stationed in their mountain perch for a little more than eighteen months. They shared the same duty, to keep vigil over the peaks and valleys that surrounded their tower, to know every contour and dip of the landscape so impossibly well that they could instantly detect signs of fire in the trees.
For at least three days out of seven, both beds in the 160-square-foot fire tower were filled, and Mike had someone to keep him company beyond news transmissions and pulp novels.
Mike’s radio crackled as he tuned it, the dial buttons smooth and worn under his hands. The stiff mattress creaked beneath him as he shifted his position, extending the radio’s antennae. He caught the end of an advertisement, and then the familiar sound of CBS Evening News filled the little cab.
"This is Walter Cronkite in our newsroom; and there has been an attempt, as perhaps you know now, on the life of President Kennedy."
Mike sat up, turning up the volume on his radio.
"He was wounded in an automobile driving from Dallas Airport into downtown Dallas, along with Governor Connally of Texas. They've been taken to Parkland Hospital there, where their condition is as yet unknown."
“Will,” Mike tried to find Will’s eyes, but he was looking down, writing at almost a frantic pace in that little book. “Will, Kennedy was shot.”
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