#and loves David so deeply | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wojcheks · 1 year ago

Text

High On You — Murdoc x Reader

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: SFW, established relationship, murdoc being so sickly sweet it will rot your teeth (by his standards), suggestiveness, kissing, reader pronouns not mentioned. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.8k 𝐀/𝐍: part 1? this was supposed to be a longer story with reader and murdoc going on vacation where shenanigans ensue. it may yet happen!! special thanks to @jackdelroys for tormenting me with their murdoc analysis, it makes me deeply unwell and they're extremely talented.

There's an unpleasant churning in your stomach, your nerves, the altitude, or lack of breakfast being the possible cause. Sitting there makes you dizzy, unbearably so, the world spinning like a mockery of a kaleidoscope. You lean your forehead on the seat in front, taking deep breaths in an attempt to alleviate some of the discomfort.

The sensation of sticky sweat clinging to your skin grows more intense, heat seemingly rising within the plane. It’s not often you travel this way, monetary constraints making it unviable, the discomfort caused by being that high up in the air a secondary concern.

Usually, that is. Right now, that part of it feels pretty damn pressing.

Within peripheral vision, you notice passing clouds, white on blue, wisps and blurry shapes moving behind thick glass. They're so close, and yet so far, and you're curious what running a finger through them would feel like.

Probably nothing at all, not even pressure to make known you've hit the target.

A small touch on your wrist snaps your attention back to the present, making you acutely aware of every feeling the sensation brings forward, shattering any thought that isn't Murdoc.

It’s not often that the man next to you approaches anything near hesitant, the way he is now, an interesting mixture of tentativeness and eagerness blending in his expression. The very concept seems very far removed as confidence bows endlessly at his command, the man wielding words akin to a blade, with a sea of self-assurance in tow.

There are many uses for such a thing, and he's proven it times before. On countless occasions, he’d caught you off-guard stating unfiltered thoughts with no holds barred and not batting an eyelid, a toothy grin firmly in place as he described what he’d do to make you squirm.

Even now, simply turning your head to give him attention causes nervous jitters and a growing warmth at the very sight of him, pulling your lips into an intuitive smile. It’s ridiculous how much of an effect a simple glance has, making the world around you grow quieter and sharpening it in certain spots, your focus entirely on Murdoc.

Who is of course already staring.

Unyielding, steadfast, and so fucking intense, sometimes you want to turn away from the scrutiny, feeling pinned under his gaze. But you would never actually leave when he’s holding you there, a feeling soul-deep and impossible to describe making it an unthinkable idea.

He sees you, cuts right through you like it's no hardship at all, peers to the very bottom of your being with ease, and his eyes feel like a hot red knife slashing at your most hidden corners.

It's sunrays disturbing the comfortable darkness in which all your flaws and very worst thoughts hide, illuminating the least worthy part of you and covering it in twin blackness. A reflection of what you wish could die being embraced by someone most important to you with no real judgement attached, only the comfort of understanding.

You think he might feel the same when he looks away after you call him caring, twitches when his words cause laughter to bubble out of you, when you look at him in interest as he tells a story, don’t react with disgust when he says something that would unsettle anyone else.

You know he feels the same when you press a kiss to the bottom of his jaw and he closes his eyes, looking for all the world like he’s having a revelation.

Murdoc lets his guard down around you, allows you to see the things he’s not shown a breathing soul before, bared before you in all that he is, and you look right at him and say it's all alright, it's okay, I understand.

Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it's too much. Sometimes you grimace and it's not alright, but for him, just for him, it will have to be.

The aftermath makes it all worth living for.

You could never give it up.

Oh, and now his face shifts into something knowing, as if you’re being obvious, blatant in all your endless sentiment, and he tilts his head just so, displacing a strand of hair. It no doubt tickles him, but he doesn't show it, he never does, stone-faced bastard when he wants to be.

And you’d call his current expression smug except there’s a layer of fondness swimming in his eyes, this gentle, affectionate embrace he has you in, without ever having to move his arms.

“What are you thinking about, darling?"

It’s not obvious, the singular way he looks at you, not for everybody else to see. But you're aware of it when his body moves closer, unconsciously drifting into your space, being pulled into orbit by your gravitational pull. Aware of how deliberate he is in keeping an eye out, keeping you safe and under his protection.

You thought it would feel uncomfortable, that kind of care, his hand on the small of your back, gloves brushing over your cheek, over your wrist, over your pulse point with the practiced ease of a man trained to kill. You thought it would feel like too much, to be treated like something remarkable, something he could never replace.

But when he quietly admits, the two of you pressed together beneath satin sheets, the comforting cover of darkness making words come easier, how his hands shook when he realized he never wants to let you go, you understand it was never the enormousness of his devotion that made you terrified. It was the possibility of it ending.

You used to wonder, every time he'd leave for a job, if it'll be the last time you ever see him.

His silhouette disappearing behind a corner; doors closing with a click; the sound of a car engine growing fainter until all you could hear was the sound of your breathing. The deep breaths you took to stave off the panic.

There was no way for you to see his hands gripping the steering wheel harder as he fought the urge to turn the car around, the frown lines growing deeper whenever he left you behind.

Murdoc, heart on a shattered platter.

It's strange how easy it is to care about him now.

“Feeling alright there?” he asks, the tone of his voice underlined with a melodic quality.

He sounds relaxed, and the effect gets amplified by the more casual attire he has on, a well-fitting black turtleneck splayed over his chest, dark jeans in place of the usual leather pants.

You are back there with him, aching thoughts forgotten, and realize you never answered his previous question. Heaving a sigh, you go with honesty. “No, not really. I'm panicking already and it will only get worse–...”

The sentence trails off as his hand moves lower on your arm, warm leather tracing a tendon, then your veins, then the tender skin of your palm, until it gets to trembling fingers.

He wraps his hand around them, putting gentle pressure at first and then a little bit more, a testing sort of strain, as if he’s checking just how long it takes until you flinch. There's nothing violent about it, and you let him, dark eyes taking your face in greedily, not looking away for even a moment.

You know that he isn't trying to hurt you.

You steel your face however, knowing he's looking for a reaction and unwilling to give it.

A few more seconds pass until it’s enough for him, grip relaxing, stare drifting down as his fingers loosely envelop yours once more. He caresses the redness on your knuckles slowly, methodically, watching it disappear with a small satisfied grin at having made it appear in the first place.

A small mumble of “pretty…” escapes his lips, so quiet it seems unintentional, as though thoughts are compacted in his brain so tightly one falls through unbidden.

You’re distracted now, anxiety forgotten; you observe the way he relaxes into the seat, running his forefinger over your knuckles the entire time, rhythmically, almost like he can feel the heat of your skin even through the barrier of leather and is looking for more of it. You’re comforted by the sensation, used to it by now, seeking out his touch where you can get it.

Murdoc’s eyes are stuck on your entwined hands, watching in avid interest bordering on fascination, as if touching you is the most important thing he could be doing at that moment.

It makes your heart ache, how enraptured he is with you, entirely taken with the smallest of things, even when all you're doing is simply existing.

You have to let him know just how deeply you care about him.

“I... really hate you,” is what comes out.

Your fingers tighten around his, pressing your love into his body wordlessly. Murdoc's eyes light up in amusement, not letting your hand go.

"I don’t hate you, sweetheart.”

The way his voice deepens makes you want to drag him into the nearest bathroom and lock the door. Not sure the other passengers would appreciate that, but you’re also not sure you give a shit.

"Maybe you should," you jokingly add instead, trying to keep the yearning out of your voice.

“Oh, sweets, I could never," his smile grows wider as he speaks, shooting right through your attempt at humor. "What did my favorite person ever do to deserve it?"

You kick your leg out into the seat in front of you before realizing someone probably felt that. Murdoc’s fault.

"Mh, well, I can always hope," you grumble under your nose, then lean over the armrest, twisting your torso uncomfortably to make room for unwieldy elbows.

Murdoc watches with a raised eyebrow until you reach out, pressing your hand to the side of his face. It's a miniscule difference, but he stiffens, even the smallest of microexpressions freezing for a moment.

Then, within the space of a breath, whatever tension remained in his body dissipates, relaxing into it.

He hums thoughtfully, pretending to ponder your words, a sense of dulled awareness making his thoughts more sluggish, the rare sense of solace he gets around you a shock to his senses.

"Keep touching me and I might consider it," he murmurs at last, eyes half-closed. His chest rises steadily with every breath and you long to splay your fingers over the center of it, to feel the warm skin and flowing blood beneath it, every movement of his beating heart.

"Well, I think you're bluffing so I won't pull my hand away," you answer with an embarrassingly sappy smile, entirely too wrapped up in him to school your expression.

Murdoc makes an offended noise, all the while leaning closer toward you in the seat. His hand lands on your knee as he does, grasping at the material possessively, the silent ask contradicting his next words.

"When have I ever asked for affection?" His nose wrinkles unhappily. “Unthinkable.”

Examples come flooding into your mind, starting with the particularly embarrassing instance of Murdoc stumbling into your room unannounced. He's clearly delirious with exhaustion after days of travel, crusted blood in the corner of his mouth and matted down the front of his neck, every step he takes a struggle, and he collapses into bed, demanding to be held.

“Let’s say… how about that time you were practically begging me for a hug?”

Murdoc flinches at the first few words, already knowing what you're about to say.

"And I recall you even said "pretty please", weren't you just so nice, bab—"

He presses his palm over your mouth, effectively shutting you up. "I think you have the wrong guy, sweetie. Doesn't sound like me you’re talking about, nuh-uh."

You know the teasing is getting to him by the way his fingers twitch against your cheek, an involuntary reaction to bouts of heightened emotion. They rest on flushed skin, manicured nails lightly pressing down, leaving small moon-shaped imprints behind.

For a few seconds, you glare at him, met only with a relentless pressure, and any attempts at shaking him off end in failure to the man’s visible amusement. Finally, you grumble unhappily, rolling your eyes so hard they hurt, and relax into his grip.

Some slyness returns to Murdoc’s features when you accept your fate, eyes darkening as he leans another inch closer. "Well, isn't this just way nicer, dear? Cozy, quiet, how very pleasant for me—"

Keeping deliberate eye-contact, you bite down on his middle finger, just hard enough so he feels it. He lets out a startled breath, interrupting the taunt as it was being said. There’s satisfaction in seeing him caught off-guard, no matter how little it actually affected him. You were not above admitting delight at the way his eyes widen whenever you surprise him.

“If you wanted me to let go, you could have just said so," he answers finally, the big liar that he is, moving his hand away.

Cutting the banter off, you close the gap between you, pressing a kiss into his lips.

They part immediately and move against you, softness in the motions, but with an intensity that accompanies everything Murdoc does. He shudders, clear enjoyment at having you so close and all his. His hand goes to the back of your head, long fingers grasping and caressing it, unsatisfied with only one point of contact.

He shuts his eyes tight, mind quieting into low background noise, taking in your presence, your smell, something fresh, like crisp laundry, a familiar undertone that he's grown used to. Whenever he holds you he finds it’s easy to just be and enjoy the way you move, your hand on his shoulder, your mouth chasing after him, tangible proof of how much you want him.

You squirm slightly when he bites down on your lower lip, not breaking skin, only gently teasing the flesh.

He pulls away with a chuckle and you slap his shoulder with a disgruntled expression, stomach fluttering from the way he’s looking at you, eyes alight and eager.

Looking away to take a breath, you can’t stop a giggle. “Would you please just stop teasing?”

"Do you really want me to do that?" The tone is flat, but his eyes betray just how serious he is.

You hesitate, possibilities of wandering hands and heated kisses running through your head at a rapid pace. You can almost feel it, Murdoc's touch just where you want it.

You're in a plane, you're in a plane, you're in a plane. With a short shake of your head, you pull away.

Murdoc presses a hand to his chest and sighs loudly. “So you dish it out but can’t take it, huh? No no, I get it, I’m a lot to handle. Would you rather I shut up completely? I can shut up.”

Your silence is answer enough and he huffs out a breath, “Okay, fine, that’s not true. But why would I ever want to stop talking to my darling flower?”

“Maybe so I could have some peace?” You offer up, but he knows that’s a lie, knows how much you love to hear him speak.

“Noooo, I don’t think that’s right,” his smile grows even wider, eyes crinkling in the corners and around his mouth, small wrinkles spattering the planes of fair skin.

It makes him look older, more his age, youthfulness of being contrasted with the marks of time.

A mosaic of miniscule scars peppers his skin, only a few standing out harshly under the overhead light, most of them faded and translucent looking. It's a map that you know the layout of intimately, vast layers upon layers of history written into his skin by means of violence.

You know what they feel like under your fingertips, having traced them again and again, your head on his shoulder after a long day at work, barely audible whispers filling the space between you two.

Then there's patching up myriads of cuts after a mission gone wrong, closing the more gaping wounds and tending to smaller abrasions with salve; afterwards it's checking his temperature when a fever wracks his body, hand pressed to burning flesh, worry shooting through you alarmingly at how bad it's gotten, not calmed down in the slightest by the man's assurances that he's peachy and ready to shoot the fucker who did this; in the end it's lips moving over them as he gasps your name out, pressing kiss after kiss into the crevices of old battle marks, giggling when you manage to tickle him.

Murdoc grins, "I think you're happy to have me."

He looks so pretty you turn away.

The truth in his words rings loud and clear, and you're defeated, entirely unwilling to argue further. Denying doesn't even feel right when all you want is to be with him.

Enveloping his hand again, you close your eyes, waiting for the plane to land.

He holds it there for the rest of the flight, not letting go even when you give into exhaustion, a small smile dancing on his lips the entire time, watching you fondly, his favourite.

You find that with him right there, you could want nothing more.

#murdoc x reader #david dastmalchian #dennis murdoc #murdocposting #macgyver 2016 #no plot just reader and murdoc being so deeply in love it makes them act stupid

100 notes · View notes

ingravinoveritas · 2 years ago

Text

(Putting this in a separate post because I sort of scattered my thoughts across two different posts last night.)

So by now we've all probably seen the Ask that Neil answered saying that the kissing scene in GO 2 required only one take. There were a couple of things that came to my mind when I read this, and perhaps the most immediate was that the OP asked how many times the scene had to be filmed, and that means the scene entire--the confession, the pleading, everything--not necessarily just the kiss itself. To that end, I wonder how Neil was answering--i.e., referring to the entire scene, or just the kiss. Because as it stands, the question (and answer) are a bit ambiguous/confusing, and lend themselves to greater discussion.

Assuming that this is all true, however, and that the kiss/scene was filmed in one take (though I'm not sure I believe this was actually the case, given the multitude of camera angles and other cinematographic necessities), I'd like to share a few thoughts. I keep seeing people say that Michael and David are actors, consummate professionals, and how could one underestimate their abilities so as to think they would need more than one take. The thing is, we do know that they are actors. Two of the finest this world has ever seen, even. But it is also abundantly clear that if the kiss was achieved in one take, it was not simply because they are actors, but because it was Michael and David. Together.

To stand across from someone and give/react to such an emotional performance involves so much intimacy and trust, in a way not many of us can understand. If we draw a comparison to OFMD, Rhys Darby and Taika Waititi talked about their kiss in season 1 being awkward, even though they have been friends for a long time. Michael and David, by contrast, have been close friends (if not more) for only a few years, yet there was not a moment's hesitation in that kiss. David, who was nearly blind in that scene from the combination of contact lenses and sunglasses, found his way to Michael's lips with a practiced ease, an approach borne of both skill and familiarity. And Michael trusted David so fully in that moment--trusted him enough to be vulnerable, to let himself be kissed and give up control to David.

The gasp when their mouths met. The hands coming to rest on David's back. The way Michael seemingly leans up partway through, leans into David while expertly conveying the myriad of emotions Aziraphale is experiencing. Could it all have been done in one take? Perhaps. But that still doesn't mean there wasn't more to it. The accumulation of so much that had built between Michael and David over the intervening years between season 1 and season 2, further adding to their already incredible on-screen chemistry. All there for us to see, to make us want more. To make us ache.

Whatever the case may be--whether the kiss truly was accomplished in one take, or was the result of countless rehearsals between Michael and David in the days/weeks/months beforehand (be it at the S2 table read, while working on scene blocking, or the two of them "rehearsing" on their own) we are beyond fortunate to have witnessed something so precious and rare. And hopefully we'll soon get to hear Michael and David themselves telling us all about what it was like...

100 notes · View notes