#such a wild array of posts this evening | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

deniable-masterpiece · 6 months ago

Text

#boyfriend goals | Matt Murdock x Male!Reader

a/n -- this was going to be a short response to an ask from one of my generous and amazing anons, but I lost the plot and wrote literally the longest fic I have ever written... so! I'm posting it as a separate thing from the ask I got because I feel like it deviated too much from that... sorry bow anon. this got wayyy more detailed and plot heavy than I wanted it to be, and the reader kinda comes off as touch-starved/very reserved. matt also does some uh... voyeurism with his enhanced hearing. gif is by @/daredevilhub! not mine!

warnings — kinda cringe damsel in distress moment, dark-ish!Matt Murdock, touch-sensitive/starved!M!Reader, spying, voyeur, mutual masturbation (but only one party knows it's mutual), foot worship (matters receiving), gags, and anal sex (top matt)

summary — After a blind date goes insanely well, you find yourself too scared to actually do the deed with Matt. Who knew he was packing a monster in those pants? As a result, it takes months for you to warm up to having sex with him, since you're very sensitive to the lightest of touches from him, and he gets overwhelmed too.

word count — 11,741

~~~

If you were to compare love to anything, it should only be compared to things that are difficult. You and Matt were so in love that you made the people around you sick at the way you talked to each other, but your actions spoke a different story. In the metaphorical bedroom, since you were too clammed up to actually take him there, you were very hesitant to take things past looking at him. He didn't mind that since he could avoid the big steps in a relationship and just exist with you. He didn't have to worry about always being there for someone and it gave him much more time to focus on his nightly activities as Daredevil—to which you were unaware of. You had no clue about his special part to play in the city's development, so your only caveat for pumping the brakes on the relationship was that you were too nervous, not that he had a secret identity that could possibly threaten your career or life. Where most people were insecure about being seen without clothes—without that forty-five minute long prep-time they spend in the bathroom before a date so you leave the right image of yourself in their mind at the end of it—you were too scared to be felt up by Matt. Weirdly, a set of eyes judging how you take care of yourself and how you choose to present yourself felt more calming than that first touch that comes in a relationship.

On your first date, you didn't even entertain the idea of holding Matt's hand. They were big, warm, gentle as you had seen him handling his cutlery with care at the restaurant on West 45th, and bruised and dried-bloody, to which Matt blamed his white cane for as he said he "usually ended up smacking the backs of his hands against parking meters and crossing signs" during his walks around the city. The truth is that he had spent the past hour fighting the goons in one of Fisk’s hideouts before he came to meet you, his blind date. Immediately, you forgave him for being late, but you would have picked him up had you known that Matt walked through the hustle and bustle of New York to meet you and did it with a walking-stick to guide him. Foggy left that part out about Matt when pairing the two of you together for this date on the west side of Hell’s Kitchen, but it was only due to the fact that he had known Matt for years and didn’t think of it until the date was already set. Thankfully for him, you were more than fine with it because Matt oozed personality and had a wild array of stories to tell. He turned the most mundane thing into something you could laugh about, like having to read him the menu aloud, and he shook his head at anything that he inferred to be an imperfect dish. You barely finished reading the column of appetizers because of how he made each one sound—thanks in part to his hearing, as he was able to hear what other tables ordered and used their comments about the food and his senses to determine what was in the myriad of dishes surrounding your table to figure out if it truly was something to pass up on or something crucial to order.

You never wanted to take things slow with someone, life in the city is naturally hectic and everyone is expected to follow suit. There was something about it though that almost repulsed you—having a type of affection that you had never really had before. He snuck his arm around your elbow to hold on to as you walked out of the restaurant, his cane collapsed and swinging by the wrist-strap on his other side. You would never think that missing something would mean that you would never be open to having it one day, but here you were: linking arms with the man who would be the one at the end of a fairy-tale, sweeping you off your feet. And here you were, hating it. But you couldn't dance around it. Matt touching you was like the air being shared between your almost-kiss at the end of the date: painfully real.

The end of the date would be an inaccurate way to put it, because Matt had no intention of letting you go, not when you were so close to him. Touch, burning hot against your back as his arm wrapped around the lower end, and he was bringing you closer. The cold New York air made your breath visible, seeping out more the closer he got, shrouding his face in a fog of uncertainty. This was the part where the guy kissed the girl in all those movies, but there was no fade to black. No curtain call where all the things you weren’t ready for happen behind the silk screen during the credits. This isn’t the end and you can’t say no, because you’ve fallen in love with Matt before the epilogue of the first date. His apartment towers you like he does in this moment, and thankfully, he doesn’t go in for the kiss. Instead, you’re being lead through the doors of his apartment building. Hands feel you up as you bend the knee to every step leading to his floor, another spot where you feel burned—a passion too hot that it’s scalding.

He only pulled his hands way from you when you reached his front door, where he needed to pull out his keys and shuffled through them until he got to the one for his apartment. He gets the door open and enters, tossing the keys to the side and waiting for you to come in before he turns, slamming you against the door and pressing his lips to you. Then to your neck, giving you the chance to look at the little of his apartment that you can see. Vague neon lighting shines from down the small hall formed by his apartment. You have no clue what’s behind him except a blank wall, and even less of a clue as to what is behind that. The source of the lighting only makes it feel more taboo, as if the neon sign is coating you in incriminating colors like you’re at a sex club, where touch is meaningless and wasted and rules aren’t stated, they’re known.

It was a bold move, bringing you back to his place, turning the gentle Matt you had just met into an explosive and needy horndog. You’re already apprehensive about being touched so intimately but you want things to work, you can’t have him thinking you don’t like him. Because you love Matt and it’s only been a few short hours that you’ve spent time with him, and you’re not ready to be discarded yet for not wanting to have sex so soon. It’s not that you’re not ready, but having sex spells out a kind of commitment and is a step that you could easily trip while taking. What if you aren’t good enough? What if you aren’t as skilled as you could be? What if having sex drives him away because he considers you a one-and-done? But what if pushing him away while he’s got his knee pressing into your crotch and hand gliding up your thigh and his lips sunken into your neck does the same thing? You could push him off, tell him you want to take it to the bedroom and that would give you a few minutes to let your mind run about how to make this perfect while he leads you to his bedroom. Christ, you haven’t even seen his apartment and you’re about to christen it against the pale oak door. The door with a metal slot for mail to fall through that’s now digging into your back because you’ve been pressed up against it for so long. Touch. Everywhere and unknown, like someone is reaching through the mail slot and unwanted fingers start to scale over the small of your back. They are Matt’s but he’s moving too fast for you to feel comfortable with them even heading in the direction he’s thinking of; return to sender.

In the haze, you didn’t see Matt pull out his dick but it was hard to miss when it was out… and holy shit, he’s big. So big that prepping to take him the whole night would never be enough to take him even halfway before you would be begging for him to stop. Suddenly, it’s all happening too fast. All of those what-ifs came rushing back, but you disregarded all of them and their potential answers to instead just push him away. No substitution, no promise for sex so long as you had a few minutes to breathe, no compromise. You simply told him to stop before awkwardly turning around and heading out the door Matt had just played with you against.

One would think it is over when you tell the guy to stop—that’s how most people in the city treat sex, anyways. You either want it then and there and you take it or you might as well be a soggy newspaper headed down the storm drain to live with the rats. One would think it’s over when you walk out of the place in the middle of the fun having just started—when you don’t even apologize for doing what you did. And to top it off, you left a blind man even more in the dark than he already is. If Matt knew what was good for him, he would have never returned your call the next morning, where you asked him on another date with the promise that things would be taken slower. He never would have showed up with flowers at your place, joking that he hopes they aren’t wilted. And if you knew what was good for you, you would know to end it the second you take them from him and your hand touches his and feel a shock. It’s electric. It makes you want to throw yourself against your door and let him come play with you, you owe him that much at least. When you apologized to him, he refused to accept it. He didn’t come in or invade your personal space, and for that entire second date, he didn’t lay a hand on you. But there was more than enough pining radiating from the both of you that it was enough to fill the empty space. By all metrics, it should be over, but Matt was fine with playing the waiting game. He didn’t even think of it as waiting, so much as a surprise for when you would finally be comfortable to let him in you.

Now you were seven dates and two months into a relationship with him. You were worried that you were moving things too slow, or giving him the wrong idea, expecting him to blurt out the dreaded question of "why don't you touch me?" as it comes from some root of his own insecurity. Matt broke the no-touching rule on the fourth date, not that you objected to it. Hand-holding started to feel familiar and the occasional peck on the cheek and lips still made you a firework on the dark New York streets, glowing. You needed his touch and Matt couldn’t keep his word—or his hands—to himself, it was perfect. He was always so flirtatious, making all the moves and caresses along your body that you flinched away from and that you never returned to him. You couldn't imagine the way Matt felt inside because you were so scared to feel him, to both receive and give touch. He had no clue that your heart picked up the second you felt his skin make contact or that your face grew impossibly hot and red from it. He couldn’t know, could he?

But for Matt, it wasn’t as simple as pushing him away. He never saw it like that—never let it be like that, because he could just get a fix for you whenever he wanted and forwent the physical contact issue completely. Sometimes, he would go to your apartment and sit on the rooftop—for a better listening advantage, he insisted to himself, knowing it was a lie—sometimes dressed as Matt and sometimes dressed as Daredevil. His feet never moved off the perched position where he rested, and eventually, he would come to an understanding with himself that he was there to hear you, only to move deeper on to the roof. He was no longer overlooking the city, and no one could see him now. He listened as you came home from your job every day, it was almost always at the same time, but he lingered around enough to know about the few times you arrived home late. Either from errands or getting caught up in conversation or you stopped to get food for dinner instead of making it. You would call him, but he also knew about the times where you held the phone in your hand, thinking about doing it, before ditching it. Matt thought it was because you didn’t want to see him, but the first time you tossed the phone to the side and chose to stay inside, he understood why you had done it. His ears were blessed by your next move, listening as you walked over to your bedroom, leaving your jeans in a mess at the doorway and losing the underwear with them. You climbed on to your bed with your hands and knees before throwing yourself on to your back, letting out a soft huff under your breath. You were masturbating. Good thing you weren’t like him and didn’t have X-ray vision that allowed you to see past your ceiling, because you would see that only a few floors up, Matt was shamelessly tugging on his dick.

This became a routine as Matt became familiar with the times in which you felt the urge to play with yourself. You would think about calling him, decide against it, and then get yourself off in the comforting familiarity of your bedroom. Sometimes you would go at it multiple times a day, more than what the end of seven paltry dates would look like—so you’re definitely horny for him. Matt was guilty of encouraging it, too; he wouldn’t return your calls and he would say he’s busy with a case just so he could take a trip to your rooftop and listen in on your sexual activities. You want him, you just weren’t letting yourself have him. It alleviates his worries because you do want him, you just aren’t comfortable enough to actually indulge in him yet. You’re more comfortable with yourself, living in the fantasy of what you know best: masturbation and desperation. Crying out to no one in your empty apartment, the occasional slip of Matt’s named coming from your mouth—which you barely finish as the mere thought of him sends your mind into too many places, and Matt’s standing on the roof of your apartment building, jerking off. He’s okay with taking things slow because he can still get his fix of you this way until you’re ready to have him in person. Some people need time to believe what they’re seeing, and Matt was sure that you couldn’t believe a man like him was so well-endowed. That was at the center of your thoughts. Hands, feelings, touch, all of that was second to how he could split you open. It makes you truly speechless, like everything else, including your wits, come second to him. You would even cum second to him—that feeling of his big dick shooting an equally big load that was sure to make your belly bulge would be key to reaching your climax. One day, you remind yourself, one day.

But it's when you say his name in full, when the vision of him goes blurry in your mind as he's touching you all over, but you can make out every feeling. His fingers circling over your skin, his hands tugging at your hair, his mouth doing things your hand can only partially replicate the feeling of but your brain makes up for in your mind’s eye. Your mouth can finally say his name, Matt. It’s soft and almost missable, even to you, but Matt hears it loud and clear. But you can't quite verbalize everything he's doing to you in your head, much to his chagrin. He can only conjure it up in his own mind what this fantasy version of himself is doing, likely making it much more dirtier than what you have buzzing through that pretty head of yours. He knows you're laying down, hand buried between your crotch and the denim of your pants. Your toys are still tucked in the dresser next to bundles of socks and folded underwear, leading him to infer one thing: you didn't lay down with the intention to get off, but the thought of him was enough to encourage your hand to slide down into your jeans. The list of incompletes fall on his ears and his ears only, and he wishes he could know what you fantasize about him doing but the other sounds you're making—Matt, oh God. Matt!—are enough. He's still making you do all the things he would have you feeling if he could touch you. To him, this is enough when you want to take it slow. You're holding him to a position he'll have above you soon—godly. You'll revere him soon, and instead of looking to him as your God giving you the gift of a climax, he'll be the devil keeping you in his little box.

Two more dates come and go; a fundraising advent for a client Matt was working for, claiming that he got to bring a plus-one to the event; then it was the place you went to on your second date, an Italian restaurant; and then you went back to your favorite diner. The latter two happened on the same night since Matt’s reluctant communication so that he could listen in on your sexual self-conquests lead to a big miscommunication where you both booked different restaurants on opposite ends of the city for dinner. The night ended in a mad dash to squeeze in both reservations and enjoy both places, since Matt had booked your favorite restaurant and you booked his favorite. You couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate the tenth date, even if it was directly after the ninth and exists as the second part of one date more than it does on it’s own.

Now, it comes time for the eleventh. Finally, you and Matt are on a schedule instead of impromptu dates and voicemails letting the other know that they would like to see them. There was a guarantee—like when you would masturbate—that you would definitely see him at least once during the week. That meant Matt knew when and where you would likely be a few hours before your date, so when he finished up the workday at Nelson and Murdock, he went back to his apartment to change and made it to your rooftop with an hour or two to spare. Usually, he would show up in the Daredevil suit just in case something bad was happening on his way to see you, or if he did have to ditch on your date to make his night like the rest of his week—alone, beaten, still fighting. Being the first scheduled date, he hoped that you wouldn’t be left to eat alone somewhere, he couldn’t let another person down. He didn’t pick up on anything on his way over, so he waited, perched on your rooftop to listen to you and to the city in tandem. He was guilty of arriving very early to pick you up, mostly because Matt’s yearning for you grew. Distance made him grow fonder, and Matt also liked to know what he would be seeing you in during the date. Though, Matt stopped letting himself have the element of surprise, he wanted to know what you were wearing—sheer tops and pants so tight on your ass that his little touches burned even more, and other times it was a suit with a matching pocket square. Well, he would have to take your word on whether or not it actually matches. From the fragrance you wore to the things he could hear you packing in your pockets or a bag were things he needed to know, for his sanity.

The hour passed without much fanfare. Matt could hear a group of rowdy guys a few buildings down that were drinking and being obnoxiously loud. An expected fray of Fisk’s new plan to lower housing costs, which seemed like a good thing until it became clear that Fisk just wanted his men to populate every city block. He could smell the remnants of sulfur on their clothes, he could hear their expensive watches tick and the humming engine of a new sportscar that had never gone so fast down your street before fly down. It stopped in front of the house five buildings down—now, he was counting, he had to pay more attention as he heard you head down the main stairs of your apartment and pushed the door to enter open. You were heading right in the direction of those guys that populated the sidewalk, and they welcomed you a little too eagerly. Matt took a breath, nothing had happened yet and he should have been on his way out too, to make it in time for your date. But all he needed to hear was one catcall to know these guys were trouble.

Matt wished you would fight back or say something to make him feel dumb. Better yet, he wanted to intervene. He could hear the laws he recited in many classes playing through his head—one drunk guy making a comment on the public sidewalk, where the space is supposed to be shared, is not enough to count as self-defense from you, let alone if a vigilante stepped in to break his jaw. Once he started touching you, though, Matt felt a sense of relief. He had the perfect excuse to beat this guy bloody.

You were watching this guy—taller than you, taller than Matt—illuminated by the streetlight that was also fighting to match his size. The rest of his boys had gone inside their house, leaving you alone with him out on the street. He was fathomless, a stranger with a sinister idea swirling in the back of his head and the remaining sips of his bottle swirled in his hand. He lifted it up to his mouth and downed the rest before letting it fall to the ground and smash on impact. Then, placed a hand on your shoulder, and your skin remained cold. Shaking. Just the smallest touch and your nervous system has sparks and misfires running through it. Everything was telling you to run back to the safety of your apartment a hundred or so feet away. He didn’t have you cornered, there was a place to run but your feet weren’t moving. His other hand reached around your frame, not quite holding you in the way that Matt would, but in a way that someone who’s holding something they don’t know how to handle would; in a way that was not considerate to what felt good to you.

“You’re a pretty thing, going somewhere special?” He was trying to rope you in with his actions and the words left his mouth faster than his brain could think. At least a sleaze like him could recognize the effort you put in for date night, but you wish he kept his thoughts to himself as he kept talking. “Why don’t you come into my place? Too many pervs on the street.”

“You can stay right there,” A voice called from behind you. The man looked to him before you could turn and the look on his face was one of pure fear. You turned, the masked figure entering your peripheral sent a wave of relief crashing over you. Daredevil had many names thrown at him, but injustice was never one of them. Surely, he had seen what had gone down and would be more than happy to scare this guy off… but he did more than that.

In what felt like a flash, Matt, using the guise of Daredevil, sentenced the guy still touching you to a plethora of beatings. He came over, walking fast and determined, before landing a right hook to the side of the guy’s jaw. A few more came to his gut, and when he doubled-over, effectively removing his hands from you to clutch his middle, Matt spun around and kicked him in the head. The last part might have been an extra little fuck you to the guy as he collapsed to the ground, and Matt did check to make sure he was alive after it was clear that he wasn’t getting back up.

He was faster to check on you, though. The intentionally deeper voice slipped out, but it still had the same worry in it that you had come to expect from Matt, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, he was just some asshole,” You said nonchalantly, as if you weren’t seconds away from having something bad happen. As if you weren’t talking to one of New York’s finest heroes. “Glad he can stay that way and not a future felon. Thanks for taking care of him.”

“My pleasure.” Matt followed it with a smug laugh. “He deserved it. These guys are no good.”

Then came the hard part, Matt had to lie and pretend as if he didn’t know almost everything about you. “You live around here?”

“Right in that building,” You pointed up and behind him. He turned to look, still pretending.

Matt was going to have a hard time explaining why he was late, and he really didn’t want you walking to your the spot for your date night after this encounter just mere feet from your home had taken place. He wanted you to stay inside, to stay safe, with him. “I think you should head back in, it’s a little late to be out here walking by yourself.”

“Yeah, you’re right, but I have a date, and he’ll walk me back if I ask him to.” Matt would if he was here as himself, and he should have come to pick you up instead of insisting to meet there.

“I can hear almost every guy on the street,” Matt started, “Trust me, this guy isn’t the only one.”

That was true, Matt could hear the people inside the building where the other goons for Fisk laid dormant, waiting for a new command. They sounded even worse inside than the did on the street, and Matt felt a building sense of dread at the thought of one of them coming out for a smoke and seeing you. Their priorities shifting from the thick cigar on their lips to the forced press of them to your cheek, Matt shuddered at the thought.

He continued, “I think you should go inside.”

“I guess I should listen to you, you know better than me.” Matt could hear your fingers digging into your pocket, grasping for you phone to call him. He needed to stop that because he had his phone on him, in case he needed to let you know of an emergency. If you called, the automated voice on his phone would spell your name out loud and clear, meaning there was no chance he could convince you that your boyfriend and Daredevil share the same ringtone. “My boyfriend won’t believe this. What are the chances he’ll buy this story when I cancel on our date?”

“I don’t think he’ll mind. If he likes you, he’ll wait as long as he has to in order to see you again.” He would, but your ears aren’t as fine-tuned as his, so you miss the assurance that is typically backing his tone. His words seem to work as you leave your phone in the dark corner of your pocket. “Need an escort back up to your apartment?”

You reassure him this time, finding it strange that a person you don’t know cares so much about making sure that you’re safe. “I think I’ll be good.”

A car horn honks in the distance, it sounds closer to Matt than it does to you thanks to his heightened hearing. He can hear the music inside of the car being honked at—similar to the stuff playing in the sportscar parallel parked a few feet away from you. With the men inside the house and the ones possibly on their way to join them, he didn’t know if it meant more of Fisk’s guys were coming, but he didn’t want to find out. “No offense, but you just walked a few houses down and—”

“I know, I know.” You gave him a satisfied look, like you were testing him. He passed. “You can come up. Check the monsters in my closet.”

Matt put his figurative mask back on again, the one that pretended not to know you from behind his Daredevil disguise, and asked, “Do you live alone?”

“If you’re asking, ‘How serious is my relationship with my boyfriend,’” You added emphasis on the last part. “Then, I think you should know, we’re very serious about each other.”

Matt knows that your apartment is empty, you are the only light filling the place. Even if it was a lie, at least he will be able to learn the inside of your apartment beyond how you trail through it from stories above. All he says is, “Good.”

“Good,” you mirrored, then walked up to the entrance of your apartment building. He stayed in place as you brushed past him. You turn back, feeling like the way he behaves around you is oddly familiar, but that might just be because you already deal with an unreadable Matt most days. “Coming?”

The walk up to your apartment is silent; you’re not sure what to say and from what you can see in the lower half of his facial expressions, he’s contemplative. If only you could know what he was thinking, why he seemed to let words come to the edge of his lips before choosing to remain silent. It is a comforting feeling to have a heavier set of steps following behind you, the latex creaking and making everyone aware that you have a superhero trailing you. Your own personal body guard.

He stands a bit too close to you as you try to unlock the door, causing you to focus on the proximity. It doesn’t get you as flustered like when Matt is by your side, but his presence it more prevalent and dominating than Matt’s. And it became a bit too clear that you were letting a stranger follow you into your apartment. You told him to wait in the living room-slash-kitchen while you went to change. Something told you to go change, because you weren’t putting out for this stranger, and you didn’t want him to look you up and down and get the wrong idea. You saved that special, put-together look for one person: Matt. You kind of wished that he were here to meet the hero standing in your living room and to be your backing muscle if things got weird with him.

You start taking off everything you had put on for your date. Your shoes come off and you consider taking everything off and changing into something less appealing so that hopefully this stranger doesn’t get the same idea as the one you just encountered. But you can hear him saunter down the hallway to your room before you can reach for the drawer full of sweatpants and tee shirts. It wasn’t like when he followed behind you. He takes his own steps, at his own pace, and comes to his own conclusion just as he reaches the door. He started speaking, “I wasn’t sure if I was ready to do this, but I realized that it doesn’t matter when it happens. It just needs to happen, and I need you to know.”

In seconds, Daredevil is no longer standing in your room. It’s Matt, lightly bruised and beaten, the same Matt that always looked that way. But you had never thought of it as a result from fighting. From the chin and down, he is still the devil. Your mind struggles to merge the two heroes together—the Prince Charming that swept you off your feet and the real hero that saved you just moments ago, colliding. It only makes sense, but it feels impossible to understand at the same time. You look over him, and his head is pointed in your direction. Matt can feel your silence and the way your breath doesn’t softly careen into the air—you’re huffing—and how your heart is slow—it sank into the floor. Matt’s head started to fill with what-ifs and questions that he wish you could answer, but you haven’t said a word yet. His cowl slips out of his hands and rolls to a corner in your room. It merges with your own clothes left in a pile next to it.

Ever since you saw his eyes—the eyes of a snake—reveal themselves from under their red-eyed covering, you have been speechless. You try to speak and you try to find something to ask, something that isn’t the millions of questions filling your head. The only words you can say are: “Are you going to pick that up?”

“No, I don’t think I will.” That return was a chance to cut the tension, and Matt took it. “Do you have any,” he paused, taking a breath and a hard swallow of the spit left in his mouth that he can feel going dry, “any other questions?”

You took a seat on the bed before moving to fully lay on it. Your body was inviting him, and you didn’t prod or pry into Matt… yet. “No, I don’t think I do.”

He approaches the bed, ghosting the sheets with his hand. He can sense the material as you shift over the linens, soft, warm, and the smell of you is so potent. He wants to at least have that to comfort him if you’re gearing up to chew him out. “Can I?”

“Of course you can, you’re still… It’s fine.”

“But it’s not good?”

“It’s perfectly fine, Matt.” Sitting up, you grabbed Matt’s hand and pulled him on to your bed. For the first time, you have chosen reached out to him to assure him with touch. You want to touch him, to make him feel better about revealing his secret identity to you.

But it’s more than that. Matt exists in your space now, his cowl is another thing on the floor like it’s dirty laundry casually laying there, waiting to be dealt with like a household chore. He’s breathing your air and expelling his own into the room—his voice echoes through with any word that he says, taking up precious space that you used to fill with your outspoken thoughts. He fills the side of your bed that you aren’t laying on, taking up more than you on the bed with his bulky suit. He is touching the safest of safe spaces and you are more than okay with it. You can see him fitting into your routine, filling in a slot that was missing in every room of your apartment.

For Matt, it’s a bit overwhelming. Matt lays on your bed, laying directly on the pillow he’s heard you rest your head on when you think about him in that special way that you do. The way that causes a fire in your pants. He doesn’t want to smell you like this before you’re ready, but he can smell the lingering sex coming to his senses against his will from the discarded underwear in your hamper. He’s too close and his senses are too high-tuned, too high fidelity to ignore it or act like it doesn’t exist. It’s a smell he can’t get through thick cement walls, he needed to be this close to understand and sense this part of you. You are this close to him, right now, and he wants to tear your clothes you were planning to wear to the date off and make you wear him. Wear his smell of sex and his sweat when it comes off of him from going at it so much. His mind tries to shove that all away though, because he needs to make you trust him first.

“I want there to be a level of trust between us. And for you to know that even when I’m not intentionally trying to hurt you, there’s always a part of me that’s holding back.”

You understand what he’s saying even through dancing around the fact; he’s trying to indirectly say that he could hold back and be gentle with fucking you, it doesn’t have to be as scary as you perceive it in both your fantasies and that first date. But you have seen it—you know that his dick is so big that it will hurt even when he’s not trying to hurt you. It’s just a matter of fact.

“Matt! You tease.” You lightly slapped his bicep, not wanting to actually hurt him. “And nice job making it about your big dick, Matty. How do you even know it’s bigger than mine?”

“Well I do feel it. The way it swings with some heft and trying to get my pants to not show it is hard.” Matt laughs before he can continue with his joke, “It isn’t showing in the suit, right?”

“No, but if I didn’t know you, I’d say you want it to be seen.”

“I already showed you it… on the first date…” He hangs his head, a smile cracking on his face. His mind fills with could-haves and would-haves, it was funny to him because he was so forward, so fast, and if he could have done it over again, he would have made you feel more secure.

“And it was just to show me that you are the one. Trust me, I want your dick as much as your last name.” Matt can feel your heart beating faster, and his starts to pick up, too. “I just knew that I wanted one the night I met you and that the other would have to break me in, Matty.”

In that moment, Matt pulls you in for a kiss and you feel like it’s right. Perfect.

It was a bit weird to have it now, a true and honest kiss that was unlike all of the fleeting pecks he had given you. This second skin didn’t make you wince like the touch of Matt’s beat-up hands or even the brush of his hairy arm around your shoulder. The way his rougher exterior made you feel safer, feel more protected. His devilish look provided a temptation that you were more willing to ease into, but you weren’t quite ready to give yourself to him. The snake hadn’t convinced Eve well enough to bite the apple. You could read his mind and all the sinful places he wanted to go, but you couldn’t accompany him yet. You pulled away and cupped his bristling cheek, “Matt, I’m sorry, but I can’t. Not yet.”

“I understand,” he says without a hint of disappointment. He’s bulging but he doesn’t move his hands down to draw attention to it. Instead, he moves so that the two of you are cuddling on your bed. He’s on his back and you’re laying in the same direction as him, your head placed somewhere between his neck and the chest of his suit. His hands raised and his fingers started to trace over you, little dances of fire linger after his touch but they don’t make you blench like before. It’s a comfort you can live in, breathe in without smoke filling your lungs, and love in as you feel safe.

Matt lets his heart get ahead of him, and as you’re slowly falling deeper into his chest, into a warm sleep that doesn’t burn, he softly says, “Move in with me.”

That was something you actually were ready for, and you gave him an immediate agreement the next day. Through a slew of many hangouts over the ensuing week where you and Matt went over the items in your apartment—keep, toss, keep, wait, no, definitely toss—you ended up with only the bare minimum being needed to be brought over to his place. You didn’t have much to bring with you that couldn’t fit in a couple of boxes. A lot of the furniture was stuff you got for free off the side of the curb—perks of living in the city, there’s a community to lift you up when you don’t have the money to furnish your already expensive apartment. Plus, Matt was a little sensitive to the stuff in your apartment. Some of the things like your carpet had collected a bit too much dust in the ridges of it that set off his sinuses—not enough to set them off on his first night at your apartment, but enough that prolonged exposure to it made him sniffly. He doesn’t smell silicone in your boxes though; you didn’t bring any of your toys for pleasure, which Matt viewed as a step in the right direction.

When he did effortlessly identify what was in the boxes you held under your arms, it reminded you of your one thing to address before moving in with him. Your only stipulation was that you needed to know about his abilities. If there was going to be trust and a bond between the two of you, it had to start at the inception of his second life. He told you everything, spared no detail, even if some of it nearly brought you to tears as to how you weren’t there to give him a shoulder when he needed it, and even when you were in his life, you were completely oblivious to it. He doesn’t blame you, though, or anyone for that matter, because he wanted it to be his burden. You fought against that idea and told him that you were going to handle those things together, and there was no other way that you would let it be.

You liked the style of his apartment, and enjoyed the challenge of trying to make it a space you felt at-home in. You had gone over to Matt’s place shortly after the incident where you pushed him away and not much had changed since now and then, and you didn’t plant to change much. It was a lot to take in, overwhelming because it radiated the personification of him in a way that was similar to how he came on to you. It was his atmosphere, and he was comfortable letting you touch and become familiar with his things.

Leaves sprouted from the branches again, and while they gained coverage over the ensuing months, you have started to dress down for the warmer weather. Matt made it a trend to roll up his sleeves more often than not, and his tie is often loose so it’s not choking him when the spring nights begin to peak. Most nights are still cool—but not cold—so you and Matt favor walking everywhere that’s within a reasonable distance. And he doesn’t come back from patrols feeling like an icicle as he creeps into bed next to you to get his not-doctor-recommended two to three hours of sleep, but you still cuddle up to him and warm his skin with yours all the same.

Tonight, though, Matt hung up the suit—both the professional and the protective one—to spend the night drinking with you, Karen, and Foggy at Josie’s bar. This is the perspective Friday, for all Fridays to come, where you have one-too-many drinks and slow dances to the slow songs filling Josie’s, another night where Foggy and Karen enabled the both of you to drink far past your limits after a week of hell. Matt spent some time complaining, often in tandem with Foggy until they reached the same conclusion and laughed about it. All four of you sat at the bar and mixed-and-matched seating arrangements to talk with each other in both divided and group conversations.

Foggy was sick to hear you and Matt constantly get in each other’s business. The way you talked about him in such a lovey-dovey tone made him wonder if Matt was under the spell of some mind-controller, because he returned it and seemed a bit happier. A couple drinks in and you were letting Matt feel you up. His hands never went past your mid-thigh, but he snuck in a few risqué squeezes at your ass when you were filling the stool next to his at the bar.

His hands were like an electric shock, making you jolt at the slightest touch. It wasn’t burning, but rather, exciting. Like the paddle of a defibrillator making your heart jump every time he touched your chest, like a taser every time the squeezed your thigh under the bar as you speak to him. Charged, the energy has to go somewhere, and you’re buzzing all over with a new sensation. One that doesn’t make you feel hot or unsure. You know what you want and you know that you need it—the ‘it’ being exactly what Matt has wanted since you started dating.

“Matt,” You say. He responds with a soft hum, a little too full of alcohol to articulate a full intrigue. But once you tell him exactly how you feel, he springs up. “I’m ready.”

It happened all so fast; Matt paid the tab and threw a hasty “goodbye” to Karen and Foggy. They wished the both of you a safe trip home but you were already out the door and into the crisp night. It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold enough to make you regret dressing down. He hadn’t even unfolded his cane to pretend to be walking in the dark with direction, he just held loosely on to your inner-elbow. With skin pressing against skin, you can only think about your bodies entwining together when you get home. How he’ll be between your legs and you’ll be put in positions as he works around you. Matt can hear your heartbeat pick up as you fantasize, and he can finally understand what you’re thinking.

The drunken walk back home had turned into the half-sober drag up the stairs. When you reached Matt’s floor, he tugged on your arm, stopping you with the finish line in sight. “Are you sure that you want to do this?”

“I’m sure, I want it to be now.” Truthfully, you were only half-sure. It was a big step and every day that went was another reason to give a greater meaning to your first time having sex with Matt. “The less speciality we put on it, the better.” That part was wholly true, trying to make it work after a date night, where your reaction could ruin things—and this time, you had nowhere to run except his bathroom or away from your home—and it could turn unfavorably awkward. Your things are his things and his thing wants your things, and it sounds easier in your head to make room for his big dick than it will be to actually take it. You understood that it was more than what you wanted, it had to be now.

He trailed behind you, excited but reluctant. He had already been rejected once for making sexual advances, and he worked around that, but if you refused him again this time, there could be something deeper hindering the relationship that is more than sex. Still, even in his doubts, he wanted to keep you safe, to be your protector and ensure that you were happy and walked away from the night having had a good time. Matt knew that even he was capable of hurting you, even unintentionally, so he had to make sure he didn’t get caught up in the moment. He needed you to want this, and you did. You always did.

Matt toyed with the keys in his hand, praying that none of the neighbors heard the way he slams the door shut when you’re finally inside. He’s carnal; he’s worked you over for months, and you let him bring you to the lion’s den. You’re the second person to enter, just like that fateful first meeting, and the second Matt shut the door, he pushed you against it with the same force as that first night. His lips crash into yours, and it’s a feeling you have gotten used to by now, but this time, it feels more needy. It isn’t just a kiss because he doesn’t pull away when his lips press deep into yours. They stay there, his stubble scratching your chin as his head tilts slightly, and his chin just barely grazes over yours. You can inhale his breath, taste the scotch-whisky combo putting Matt in the messy mood he’s in on his lips, and most importantly, feel his passion for you. His hands wander over you and grab at every area that makes you squirm—he knows the ways around your body and where exactly to touch you. It’s both a continuation of loose ends and the start of the second act, but the build to the climax is still a long journey away. He’s waited so long for this, and his dick feels red-hot as it pulses against his thigh, growing yet tucked to one side, so it wasn’t showing. It’s a snake in the weeds—you know it’s there, but it remained elusive until it wanted to be seen; the lurking villain, it becomes.

“You always look so pretty for me,” he moans into the kiss, “I can’t wait to ruin you.”

“Then ruin me.” You didn’t just say it with confidence, you were practically begging him. “I trust that you will. Don’t just break me in, Matt. Break me.”

“I’ll split you right down the middle.”

You wanted him to make you unusable, to be the first and last time you ever fuck. No one else would even think to touch you because this night with Matt is how you get cracked from bending, receiving, and loving him so much. He wanted to make you pay for being so vulnerable to him, to leave your heart intact but everything else exhausted and hurting by the end of this. To leave you so drained that you can’t cum again unless he touches you.

His hand crept around to your ass, trailing over a spot that once felt unfamiliar to you. The small of your back, his fingers trace down from your arch to your crack, teasing you. Now, it made you feel safe, carrying you closer to your climax. He doesn’t want you coming yet, though—he can sense when you’re close, and not having sex with the man of your dreams for months makes you desperate from the slightest touch—so Matt decided that the best course of action was to move you over to the couch.

Matt pulled you away from the door and kept the kiss going, guiding the two of you to the brown couch in the middle of his apartment. Parting from you, he takes a seat and tells you to stay standing, and you listen to him like a little puppy. He lifts up his legs and asks you for a hand to move the coffee table between the couch and the set of chairs on the opposite side of it closer to the couch. He places his thighs and calves on it and lets his feet dangle off the end. Matt dug the toe of his one foot into the heel of his shoe on each foot to slide them off, then did the same with his socks.

“Let’s start at an easy part,” he wiggled his toes to give you a sign. You moved to face them, getting on your knees so you were level with them. He chased your obedience with a soft, “Good boy.”

This was one of your fantasies, and it was like he had gotten into your head. You had always jerked off to his dress shoes—especially when he went out into the night and had a ripe pair sitting by the door with a garnish of fresh smelly dress socks sitting in the hamper. When he touched you without the intention to fuck, but just to hold and spoon, you were always too flustered to speak. You knew his dick could break you, both emotionally and physically. But his feet... they seemed to be something you could warm up to.

You looked up to him from between his toes, drunkenly separating each one just to see how they looked individually. You could see his dick standing tall, and reaching far past Matt’s balled up fist as he held it at the base. His pants were blocking the view of his balls and maybe even some of his dick, but you hoped that there wasn’t more hidden away. It was already so big as is, evident by his hand failing to even wrap around it fully and his stacked digits only adding up to be about half as long as his length.

“They are pretty big. Not big like—,” you paused, “—like that. But big, Matty.”

“I want you to suck on them.” Your things are his things and so is your worry, it has finally spread to him. He wants you and you want it too, because his feet are yours. He’s scared to break you, like you’re the couch frame. “Just so I know I won’t hurt you or your pretty mouth.”

“Is that the only place you’re putting it?” You let go of his toes and looked up to him in a serious manner. You were ready to take him in the places it counts—not just one of two.

“Shhh,” he shushed you with his foot, placing his big toe to your lips. He then curled it, lifting your upper lip and trying to work his way into your mouth. “Suck.”

You pursed your lips around it and let it invade your mouth. It wasn’t even comparable to the tip of his cock—much less the girth of it—but it was good practice to get the motion of bobbing your head up and down and having the feeling of something round in your mouth. His toe tasted bitter, and his feet had a certain stink to them you had come to expect from the soles of his shoes and his socks, only fresher. It was expected since he bore through the work day, and wore his work attire to Josie’s, so for about the past thirteen hours, his feet were marinating in a musk trapped in impermeable dress shoes. His digits were cold, too, likely from the light sweat built up of having socks and shoes on all day before being exposed to that chilly night air in his apartment.

Above, Matt jerked on his dick while his head leaned impossibly far back into the couch. He tilted his head to the side and buried his face into the plush brown leather. That was your sign to keep at the motion, holding his foot in both of your hands, your fingers splayed out over the top of his foot while your thumbs massaged the sole. Your fingers ran over the light smattering of dark hair coating the top, while your thumbs could feel wrinkles in his foot as he curled and flexed his sole. You moved down the line of them, sucking each one until you got to the littlest and just swirled your tongue around it a few times. You repeated this, switching between both feet and sometimes grouping the smaller toes together in your mouth to suck on them together. To mix things up, you dropped them from your mouth after moving through the array and moved down to his heels, sucking and kissing at his blunt ends before sticking your tongue out and laying it flat. Matt lifted his head and watched as you licked as much of his sole from the heel all the way up to the tips of his toes and bobbed down on them to start sucking them again, repeating the pattern of putting them in your mouth one-by-one and two-by-two for the little ones. You only stopped when you returned to his big toe and you could feel it curling in your mouth—Matt was getting close to his climax before he had the chance to fuck you. You pulled your mouth off of his toes and Matt let out a frustrated sigh.

“You’re too close, Matt.” He doesn’t say anything yet, he simply taps his soles against your face, smearing some of the saliva remaining over each side of your cheeks. So, you take a stand by literally raising yourself up, having to steady yourself once you’re on your feet.

You can’t having him reaching his climax yet, but Matt is so hungry for release, especially when he finally has you to please him for a change. No more jerking off to what his senses smelled of you lingering in the apartment—your shampoo and how he could card his fingers through his hair while he fucked your mouth, the musk in your underwear that he would smell on your cock when he imagines sucking you off. He did want to fuck you, but he was content with feeling you worship him and getting off with your help. “We can do it another night.”

“Matt, our foreplay is so seductive, and that’s an issue! I want to cum from you fucking me.” Your heart thumps in your chest. Even standing over him, his dick looks so big. He can tell how bold and brave you feel. “I mean, cumming from your toes is hot, too. But this is our first time!”

His eyes are shut and he ceased all movement to his cock, but it still stood erect, waiting to cum from a few final pumps. He felt needy, and if you made him do this, he would go twice as hard on you without the concern for how his size makes you gape. “What about the prep?”

“I can take it. I won’t suck you off if you’re going to cum too fast.” Truthfully, you didn’t think you could. You felt like you were back on that first date, so desperate to impress him without the thought of considering what you might need. Riding his foot might have been the tame solution, but you could do that tomorrow, or even right after he penetrates you with his beer-can-sized cock. You felt like you could go for multiple rounds with how much he turned you on.

Your inebriated clumsiness led to things not making much sense—you had initially sucked his toes to prepare for sucking his dick, and would likely do the same thing when it came time to get fucked by him. But you had a change of heart and things seemed to be moving faster than your head had always envisioned them to be. There were no slow starts to something that’s been sitting on the back burner, slowly coming to a boil until it was scalding. It’s ready, it’s time, and Matt took you to his bed to finish the deed.

You lay naked on your back, waiting as he walks on the soles of his feet. His toes leave wet little splotches on the floor from your saliva. He circles the bed, taking that time to remove his button-down shirt and dress pants that are already open to let his cock breathe and sway side to side as he walks. All of his work attire is gone, and he’s in his party suit now—a new one that you haven’t yet seen before in completion, and he’s stunning from head to toe. His glasses sit on the nightstand, so you can see his perfectly matured face in its entirety, with the right amount of shadow speckling the lower half of it. It leads right down to his chest, which also has the perfect amount of hair that you have seen every time he unbuttons anything more than the very top button on his dress shirts. He has the perfect form starting at his shoulders and ending at his feet, creating a nice frame to place his picture-perfect cock inside of. It has a certain thickness that complements his thighs as it hangs down, heavy and hard, like the hand of a painter who was intentional with their strokes. Good thing you did make him stop when you did, because it was the perfect mix between being able to be toyed with and being close to shooting ropes of sticky cum.

He got onto the bed, wading on his knees through an ocean of grey sheets to reach you. Lifting your legs up, he sat back on the heels of his feet to readjust them so they were wrapped around his lower back. He leaned down to meet your face, keeping himself just an inch or two away from you.

“Remember, you asked for no prep…” He was sadistic, not even getting a bottle of lube. Though it was a gamble as to when you would let him fuck you, so you can’t entirely blame him for not owning any or a having condom at the ready. He was going in raw, but there was no other way you would have it. “You might need this.”

You were confused until you saw him lift up his hand, and out fell a sock that he had let dangle from his hand upon revealing it. It closed the space between the two of you, and you could smell it in all of its rancid glory.

“Open up,” he said. You obliged, and he stuffed the sock into your mouth with two fingers until it stuck out.

“Speak,” he commanded. You did, and the sound was muffled, his sock acting like a ball gag.

“There’s the boy I know,” he let out a soft laugh. “Always so needy, but he never tells me what he wants.”

Matt sat upright again, moving his hand down to grab his dick. He started jerking it, and teased you as you watched. “I think I know what he wants, though.”

Matt felt merciful, so he did ease up on you before putting it in. He spat into his hand, a soft pah-tew echoing in the otherwise silent room, and then he let it glide over his length to slick himself up with a thin coat of spit, which became the next noise filling the room. Wet skin plapping in his hand as he loosely tugged it over, getting himself ready for you. He grabbed the base of his dick and guided it to your hole, and Matt nearly doubled over when he grazed his tip against your hole. If everyone else has a cluster of nerves at the head of their cock, Matt has that feeling cranked up to the maximum effect. Simply feeling his cockhead press into your hole, which was already starting to give way to him, made him shudder at how good it felt. Naturally, his senses made this feeling a million times more intense, but it also didn’t help that he had withheld from indulging in you for months. He was, at once, too overwhelmed to move, but also, he was fighting his whole body to not slam his full-length balls-deep into you in that same moment.

“I’m going to move, okay? Just say if you want me to stop.” The words come out, but Matt can’t even register that his mouth is moving because all he can feel is you. His hearing temporarily cuts out, and so does his sense of smell, his body so desperately forcing him to focus on one sense at a time because it’s all too much. In the distance, he could hear you nodding—your hair rubbing against the pillow propping up your head—and he could hear the faint muffle of his sock when you agreed with him. Matt kept pushing in, feeling exactly where he was within you and knowing how much of his cock was still exposed and how much was buried in you. Your hole was the tightest part to work through, and he seemed to be filling you out well because he couldn’t hear any passthrough from your hole; he was stretching you. Beyond that, he had a wet, warm ocean of heat to fuck until he was ready to blow his load. Matt was no judge, but judging by how he reacted from doing the bare minimum of penetrating you, he knew he wouldn’t last long.

Another few inches in and he can finally hear you for as close as you are to him. The sock in your mouth is absorbing so many noises that you make, and Matt can barely muster anything beyond a shaky breath. There’s a moment where he forgets to breathe, and that comes when he finally bottoms out in you. You took him all, and you’re okay. He didn’t break you, and he can feel your heartbeat slowing because you feel so full—sated and ready to slip into the food coma he’s eliciting from how much he fills you. Your worries are gone, and so are his, and now, the fun part comes. Matt gets to test the limits of his new confines, to see how much damage he can do now that he’s broken new ground.

He started to reel back, unwinding himself from the knot he made in your stomach, only to slam back in. Just like he did with the door, he’s opening you, closing the distance between, and then grinding against you. He thrusts in, rocks his hips, and really shows how much he’s settled into you, before he pulls back and does it all again. The speed at which he did it started to pick up because soon, Matt needed to find a release. He knew the first round wouldn’t be one where he could last long. He was ready to call this a warm-up before the rest of the night becomes an even longer session of lovemaking because he’s taking that journey to the climax and he’s making it a sprint. Soon, Matt is losing his breath and rocking the two of you against the bed. Each slap is like a foot hitting the ground, another step taken to reach the finish, and you begin to lose yourself to it.

You were speaking—trying to, at least. He could hear the words barely forming around the sock in your mouth, but anyone could recognize that it was too hard to discern with the soaked fabric in your mouth. It was causing spit to flurry up around it where the edges of your mouth didn’t perfectly seal around it. He pulled the sock out of your mouth, letting you speak freely.

“Touch me all over!” You cry instantly, and continue to as his thrusts feel like an endless pounding. “Oh, god—fuck, Matt!”

Suddenly, Matt realizes he isn’t hearing it through a wall anymore. You’re saying it to him, right to his face. He envelops you whole, his chest pressed against yours while your legs are wrapping around his back to pull him deeper, and you could just melt at the embrace. Matt feels like he’s melting around you—sweating and spreading it over your own slick that’s forming. Your hands slide as they claw into his back, feeling the slick of the intense pounding as it’s starting to show its wear on him. It isn’t cold nor drafty enough to cool either of you down, so every single touch is burning. But you don’t pull away. You want him deeper, harder, faster than he could possibly go.

The next thing you know, his hips are pressed against you as much as possible. They shifted back as Matt weakly spasmed and lost his control as he came inside of you. For months, he had been waiting to do this, and it felt better than he could ever imagine. The feeling of him finishing in you calls for your own climax to come, and you end up shooting a load bigger than any of the times you had reached this point with your hand. It becomes a mess as it splatters all over your chest and ropes volley out in waves. Your chest rises and falls, and you finally feel like a new man, like you’re free to conquer anything after overcoming the thing you were the most afraid of. Your chest feels lighter, but each breath continues to feel like another burning sensation from how much Matt exerted you.

You had to take a breather. You only needed a short recovery time between rounds, like boxing, where you had gone to your little corner of the mat—still exposed and still expelling lust and sweat from every part of your body—but you were ready to get back into the fight after a short cooldown. Matt’s thick dick was yours to take, over and over again, without worry. And you planned to take it several times more that night, to make up for every date that ended in a sizzle, not a bang. To make up for the lost time where you were too scared to consummate your relationship.

263 notes · View notes

doujindungeon · 4 months ago

Text

part one of two summary: happily married, your career in journalism thriving, and tasked with traveling the world to cover the journey of mercedes's newfound lead driver during this year's f1 season, there's not much else you could ask for. but what do you do when the subject of your article asks for you to be his? rating: pg-13 (rating will increase to 18+ next chapter) pairing: f!reader/george content warnings: it's going to get Wild™ especially in the next part, but please note that this 2-parter is going to delve into themes of unhealthy possessive behavior, cheating/ntr, blackmail, and age gap (age is undefined but reader is older than george). word count: 2.1k [next chapter]

There was a beauty to George Russell that photographs couldn’t even begin to truly convey.

The captivating brilliance of his deep blue eyes, the chiseled definition of his modelesque face, the towering and broad build of his physique–he truly was a magnificent sight to behold.

This only made your current press assignment of documenting his journey throughout the current Formula 1 season all the more enjoyable.

Throughout your career as a freelance journalist, you’ve had the pleasure of profiling a grand array of notable individuals within the entertainment industry, from reclusive musical prodigies to Hollywood’s anointed royalty. You were used to spending significant time with your subjects, usually for a few weeks to months at a time, making your articles highly regarded and anticipated by your colleagues and the public for your thorough coverage.

In the case of George however, you were set to follow him throughout the entirety of the current F1 season. He was primed to be a mighty contender against his peers this time around since taking the lead for Mercedes and you couldn’t resist documenting what could be the story of the year. From his grueling training to the fierce clashes out on the track, you were always there, camera in hand to document his journey in far more intimate detail than even the crew of Drive to Survive could depict.

After all, while a bit awkward during the earlier races in the season, you had since gotten used to snapping away at a half-naked George marinating in the cold comforts of a post-race ice bath.

Though, you still had yet to fully get accustomed to his sighs and groans of relieved pleasure while he eased his aching muscles.

With this intimate one-one-one time spent together, it was a blessing that you had such an understanding and supportive husband.

Rather than throw a fit over you being away from home for so long–with another man, no less–, he encouraged you to pursue this story and further out your portfolio, even jokingly asking if you could snag a few autographs from the likes of George and other drivers throughout the season.

While you teased back that you would do your best, your husband was well aware that you would never try to use your privileges as a journalist to nab such frivolous items.

That being said, with the close connection you had developed with George throughout the season, you knew whole-heartedly he would be happy to oblige you if you were to ever say the word.

All the time spent together, from right in the hustle and bustle of the paddock on race day to the quiet hushed privacy of an upscale first class airplane lounge, with the casual conversations exchanged to the far more intimate and heartfelt confessions divulged, it was simply natural that the two of you would bond further beyond mere subject and observer. Plus, with the gap in years that put you above as his senior, it felt natural for you to dote on him as an older sister would whenever he confided his burdening woes and restrained frustrations to your ear.

Off-record, of course.

On the other hand, he was ever inquisitive and eager to simply learn more about you.

Whether it was while the two of you were meandering around the paddock in the wee morning of qualifiers, or as he was sleepily gazing at you with content during the post-race ride back to the hotel, he leapt at any chance to hear more of your experiences. Your journalism work certainly--he was especially keen to hear about your firsthand interactions with celebrities--, but he always seemed much more interested to hear you elaborate on yourself: taste in music, preferences in brands, how you like your coffee, to what you’ve encountered and learned in life, especially since he was getting ever closer to his 30s.

You did your best to impart your knowledge to him–one’s 30s was a decade to be embraced rather than feared.

And yet at this very moment, you were currently in the midst of dealing with a problem that anyone regardless of age was fated to experience:

You had lost something important and needed to find it.

In this case, it was your camera’s SD card.

It was halfway through the season and you were in dire need of offloading your photos into your laptop. With the Montreal GP having concluded, it was time for the drivers’ summer break. Having been personally invited by George himself for you to join him at his Monaco residence for a few days before you went back home for your own personal leisure, you knew that shots of him indulging in some opulent rest and respite were going to be among the major highlights for your article.

And would definitely make its rounds across social media by adoring and ogling fans.

That said.

Your laptop–old and reliable as it was–had unfortunately been encountering significant technical setbacks during all of your attempts at exporting photos as of late, with batches of shots failing to transfer. Paranoid over losing any key visuals, it was why you didn’t bother deleting any photos from your SD card up to this point. However, with your recently attained external hard drive now in your possession with the post-race peace to enjoy, now was anytime as ever to finally do a full thorough export.

If you could only just remember when and where you slotted your SD card, as earlier you took it out of your camera to swap out with a new and unused one.

You were currently tearing apart your hotel room in an increasingly flustered panic. All of your photos of George–suiting up for races, meeting with the press and fans, chatting up with other drivers, seizing victories with trophy and champagne in hand, bearing losses with his helmet clutched despondently by his side–were in that card and you just refused to have lost so much valuable work over such a simple misplacement.

And it was as you slammed your luggage shut in frustration that your phone suddenly chimed with a call.

A video call.

Curiously, you peered down where you had set your phone on the floor, your expression turning surprised to see the name of one “George Russell” flash on screen, along with the silly selfie of him posing smugly with sunglasses that he intentionally took on your phone to be used as his contact photo.

Accepting the call, you held up your phone and stared at the screen, bringing a hand to your hair to smooth it out as you greeted with a smile, “Hello George. How can I help you this evening?”

Charming as ever, George–who looked to be in the comforts of his top floor luxury suite–waved as he hummed out your name, “Salutations to you as well. Though—“ Gesturing to himself with the point of his index finger, he elaborated, ”I thiiink I might be the one here to help you.”

You snorted at his initial greeting, even as the corners of your lips lifted further up with amusement. “Is that so?”

“Well, I’m trying to pack before we fly out tomorrow and I found this–” Grinning from ear to ear, George proceeded to bring his hand up into focus.

Pinched between his fingers was your wandering SD card, which looked even tinier when caged by his thick fingertips.

That was right.

You were in George’s luxury top floor suite earlier for some room serviced breakfast and a casual interview about his thoughts on feelings on the past weekend’s race, where he managed to seize second podium. As you were enjoying your orange juice and jotting down his answers in your notebook, he was taking pictures of his pancake stack and cup of tea with your camera.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

You were always happy to have him snap photos on whatever he liked with your camera whenever he asked, as he did this morning. There was something precious and fulfilling as well when he asked for your insight and knowledge on photo composition, rules of thirds, to something as simple as knowing how to properly hold professional-grade equipment.

The amount of times you’ve had to maneuver yourself around his towering frame while your hands rested over his bigger ones as you adjusted the cradle of his fingers on your camera was countless at this point.

Besides, you had plans to feature some of the pictures he took in your article while promising to send everything he captured to him once your editorial was formally published so he could share on social media whenever he wanted to.

Though, knowing George, those photos were going up the moment that article was released.

With all that said, your day had been a blur of calls with your editor, meeting with your press colleagues, and doing some last minute shopping before the flight to Monaco. Tacked on with the recent dizzying anxiousness of misplacing such a small yet crucial item, it just made sense that of course of all places, it would be in his room that you would lose your SD card.

Your eyes immediately widened as your hand fell over your chest with a rapturous gasp of relief. “Oh you’re a lifesaver! I was wondering where it went! I’ll come grab it from you!”

George began to chuckle, “It’s a good thing I forgot to ask room service to clean up the breakfast table!” His blue eyes–splendid as ever–twinkled as he then nodded affirmatively. “Right then–I’ll be waiting for you.”

“See you in a bit!”

And with that, you concluded your call and without thinking much further, you exited out of your room to head to the elevators. Upon the chime of the cabin arriving moments later, it was then that you received another call.

One that had you beaming from ear to ear as you immediately answered joyously with, “Hey honey!”

Your husband.

At once so frazzled with anxious stress, you were put even more at ease to hear your beloved’s voice as he asked what you were up to. Keeping up with George’s rigorous schedule and weaving through all the varying time zones that comprised his itinerary made getting in touch with your husband difficult, with conversations lasting up to 15 minutes at most if you were lucky.

It was why you were so enamored as you remained on call, your expression soft and tender as you listened to your husband talk about his day, all while you made your way over to George’s hotel suite at the top floor.

Upon arriving at the door, your hand lifted up in preparation to knock.

Only for the door to swing open with George’s smiling face being the first to greet you. “And here’s the woman of the hou–!”

Immediately, you brought a finger up to your lips while you gestured to your phone, your eye closing in a wink as you proceeded to say, “–I miss you too, honey! Once I’m done in Monaco, I definitely think a reunion is long overdue for us both!”

So taken by hearing your husband rejoice at your news that you didn’t catch the subtle clench of George’s fist at his side, nor the way his smile fell into a neutral line.

As you then held out your hand for him to drop your SD card onto, he instead shook his head and took a few steps back, gesturing for you to enter with the beckon of his fingers.

You didn’t think too much of it, continuing your conversation with your husband, who soon had to leave for work.

By the time your call concluded, you had stepped well deep into George’s room, having been guided to the very same table you shared breakfast with him earlier.

As you slipped your phone into your pocket, you smiled at George sheepishly as you remarked, “Sorry about that! Husband called and of course I just had to catch up.” A giggle escaped you as you added, “Married people stuff–you’ll understand it eventually.”

Even while he grinned in return, George just didn’t find it as amusing.

Still, ever courteous, he shook his head while he held up your SD card, “All good. If anything I appreciate you making the trek up here for this.”

“It’s nothing, really,” you giggled while extending your hand towards him once again. “I’m just glad that I didn’t lose it. Now that would have been a disaster!”

Yet rather than return your SD card back into your possession right away, George instead replied with the chime of, “You can have it back once you promise me something.”

Your mind crossed through all sorts of Russell-esque promises. Including at least one or two shirtless photos in your article, letting him get to interview other drivers on your behalf so he could jokingly mess with their responses, and so on and so forth.

You giggled at the thought. “And what’s that?”

George continued to smile while his eyes began to narrow, the warmth within his ocean blue eyes igniting with burning desire.

“Leave your husband and stay with me.”

----------------------

ahahaha when u recently watch babygirl (2024) and are also a proponent for yandere male kouhai x female senpai works :~)

but yes

thank u for reading

and

pls prepare for some toxic NTRussell in the finale 👰🙅‍♂️🤵‍♂️

#george russell x reader #george russell x you #george russell smut #gr63 x reader #gr63 x you #gr63 smut #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 smut #formula one x reader #formula one x you #formula one smut #reader insert

68 notes · View notes

blarefordaglare · 2 months ago

Text

Capitalism In Hyrule (Or in other words: Chain plays monopoly)

Technically this was supposed to be posted Sunday... so SURPRISE! Based off of this lovely art by @whomst-dve

Read on AO3 here

As far as Wind can tell, this was not a normal evening. For two reasons.

First off, they finally had the luxury of stopping by an inn. Of course he wanted to complain about how sleeping on the cold, muddy ground twisted his spine beyond recognition, but he still stood straight. He also used up his weekly allowance of 10 lies. In one day.

And secondly, he also witnessed his brothers discover Board Games for the first time. In the past, he held a strong opinion they should be renamed to bored games; he witnessed Aryll take one-minute-too-long turns, and the tense silence, called contemplation, crawled into his skin every time. His knees would lock every minute, as he prayed his consciousness would slip, and as a result he’d achieve the luxury of skipping family time. Sorry, Grandma.

Noticing his thoughts wander, he resumed his observation of the game. Zeldopoly, a classic in his home, was laid across the large wooden table. Bills of rupees, surprisingly not gems, were either haphazardly scattered on the floor, or clutched in a tenacious grip. The sailor could feel the tension of the game rise, pieces practically being slammed onto the board instead of moved.

By the time Legend rolled the dice, the fun game turned to war.

GO TO JAIL was written in bold, blocky letters. The veteran’s piece covered the tip of the ‘J’, before the captain helpfully moved it to the opposite side of the board. Wind didn’t know what language the other was speaking, but the tone sounded furious. He was surprised the game board didn’t combust into flames then and there. Sky slipped out of his chair, muttering some lame excuse about getting a drink of water.

“That’s rough, buddy.” Twilight calmly wormed the dice out of the veteran’s white-knuckled grip, and tossed them onto the board. A one and a two stared at him. The light in his eyes dimmed, and Wind could hear the rancher’s heart crack.

“But I wanted Epona…”

He refused to even pick up one of the Empty Bottle cards.

The Hero of Time clapped his hands, enforcing the game to continue. It was Sky’s turn now, if Wind had been paying attention correctly.

The traveler looked around before resting a fist under his chin,“Where’d Sky go?”

The sailor took this opportunity to butt into the game, “Water. I can play in his place!” If only he chose to play the game as well; he felt stupid for refusing to play originally.

“No. You’d win.” Time rolled his eyes. Of course this game would make the old man turn competitive, “If we’re counting, it’s the champion’s turn.”

The champion in question had his face smushed into the table. Twilight poked his shoulder, but there was no response. Wind came to the conclusion that he was either dead, in the process of crashing out, or asleep. Whatever it was, he was slowing down the game. Do better Wild.

“So do we auction his stuff off?”

“Legend!”

…

Hyrule rolled a twelve. Perfect move. He made two hundred rupees, giving him just enough to afford a Great Deku Tree. That’s what would have happened, if he didn’t land on the Door Fee.

“Yay…” He remarked. Legend cackled.

…

Time landed on LonLon Ranch, and bought it without hesitation, death glaring at his descendant. Twilight strangled his own cash in response. As the old man stole a handful of money from the bank, Wind noted to never let him be a banker again.

…

Sky returned just as Warriors rolled a two, which would land him at Hyrule Castle. Four, fanned behind a colorful array of the paper-rupees, dropped his jaw. Legend owned the Temple of Time. If the captain bought the castle, then he would essentially ruin the veteran’s chance at winning–

The blonde man’s fists slammed against the table, “I’ll buy it!”

“No!” Legend screamed in whistle tones. Wind could hear the wolves bark outside.

Warriors grinned, “I’ll consider auctioning it… maybe.” His piece was still on the King of Red Lions, and the veteran knew he was still salty about paying a measly twenty-five rupees. Still having the dice in hand, he started lifting up each bill, examining it, before counting out loud.

“One… two… three…” his vowels were elongated to the point where he was singing them. Why did the captain have so many single rupees? The Hero of Time and his descendant didn’t blink as the minutes passed, the only sound that could be heard was the counting, “A… hundred… and… three~…”

If Sky had his imaginary glass of water on the table, it would have dropped from the force of Legend’s fist. Wind could hear the wood crack as the adventurer spat, “Move your stupid piece already!” Four glanced between the two heroes, giggling to himself at the drama. Wind couldn’t blame him, for he was invested as well. Sky was still standing at a slight distance from the conversation, his body practically boiling at the tension, “Uh… isn’t it my turn?”

Not even Twilight, with ears that could hear the softest of pitches, heard him above Legend’s breathing.

The captain batted his eyes, “I was just counting my money…” he scrunched his nose, and his eyebrows creased; soon his expression turned from innocent to teasing. “Can’t you be patient?”

Big mistake, Wars. Big mistake.

Legend heaved out a laugh, banging his fists onto the wood once more. The entire room shook– They should have made him take off all his power rings and bracelets before the game. “Oh, you want patience?” his face was red, knees bent as if preparing to pounce, “I’ll show you patience!”

The noise woke the champion up, before quickly knocking him back out as the table flipped. Thank goodness for Time’s quick reflexes– there would be hero pancakes if he didn’t pull the captain and Wind away in time.

Yup, definitely take away power items.

“You did this! Now give me that card!”

“For what? You ruined the game!”

Four took one glance at the mess, and facepalmed. The brothers continued their fight.

“This is all your fault! Your stupid counting ruined everything!” Legend yanked the captain’s scarf, before knocking him to the ground.

“Why you little–”

Warriors tripped the veteran, causing him to topple to the floor as well.

Zeldopoly, as it turns out, is very fun.

#lu wind #lu legend #lu warriors #everybody is here so might as well tag em all #lu time #lu twilight #lu sky #lu hyrule #lu wild #lu four #lu fanfiction #lu crackfic #I hope you guys liked it :))

43 notes · View notes

elendsessor · 5 months ago

Text

OKAY SO BECAUSE OF @nibwhipdragon (and their excellent taste because 4u is peak) I’M TALKING ABOUT THE COLOR DIVERSITY THING BC HOLY HELL IS IT BAD AND I THINK WHAT THEY DID TO NERSCYLLA REFLECTS THIS SO WELL.

they also did gore and shagaru dirty by dulling the gold hues so yeah not forgiving that either

my biggest hot take in all of monster hunter is that some of world and wild’s designs? they’re boring. not in a framing structure way, but color-wise, they’re boring. rise was better at it but they did dull some colors and i stg this is all because of the western realism angle.

let me show you both 4th gen nerscylla and 6th gen nerscylla

they removed aspects of the color palette, and because of the shade of purple they’re going with for the gypceros hide, the actual poison spikes don’t pop nearly as well.

this isn’t to say you can’t make a restricted palette work because in some ways you can. why? because the designers took liberties to compensate, be it through a more cartoonish/wild design or having enraged states that add a splash of color, plus they make the solid colors as bold as possible. some great examples of this are the fatalis trio, yian kut-ku, akura vashimu, gogmazios, the aforementioned magalas, seregios, even basarios. of course there’s exceptions to this (first two gens had pretty meh looking rock monsters save for basarios and diablos), but the vast majority of them do something unique.

this isn’t to say world didn’t have any stand outs—ignoring iceborne’s subspecies, standard pukei pukei and odogaron, kulu ya ku, dodogama, bazelgeuse, along with xeno’jiva are genuinely great. issue is that a lot of these colors do get washed out, save for dodo and xeno. this isn’t to mention how world’s lack of variety hurts it, as a majority of monsters take influence from some form of reptile. this makes the introduction of older monsters even more jarring. there’s an argument to be made about that being the point, but this isn’t in a good way. they look like they belong in two separate franchises, not monster hunter.

you can also say what you will about frontier’s monsters because yes some lean too heavily into spikes, but they’re at least memorable.

it’s hard to describe what makes world’s monsters not hit as hard. the fights themselves are memorable, but designs are consistently generic, and that makes me so upset.

but the color dulling is very obvious when pinning renders of returning monsters next to one another. look at old rathalos. now look at new rathalos. look at old color palettes. now look at new color palettes. i genuinely think the washing makes designs like magnamalo and primordial malzeno lack the extra oomph needed to be truly fantastic.

these don’t make or break the games but i have to stress there is a heavy “realism” push which means god forbid we have color.

it’s especially weird because surprisingly enough, plenty of real world animals do have a wide array of colors, body shapes, or boldness! bright colors are just as important as camouflage, as they can signal “stay away” or attract mates. if you want to argue it goes against camouflage completely, your average red/orange pelted tiger does well in a jungle. so do pandas.

what i’m trying to say is this is genuinely frustrating. i remember seeing a criticism towards rise being “too cartoony” as if the series has never had goofy or standout designs. good stylization will forever and always be more memorable and impactful than total realism. games have shown that a good way to make it work is through color.

new gen mh has really neglected its visual design and i really think that needs to be recognized.

as i’ve said in many posts, this won’t make or break the games, i’m sure wilds will be great, capcom can do whatever with the series, blah blah blah. this doesn’t mean the personality isn’t being sapped, or that there’s no problems whatsoever with frankly increasingly bad color design. the last thing i want is for a series as good as monster hunter to be overlooked because it looks like just another triple a title, but with the rate it’s going on a visual and style front, that might end up being the case if there isn’t any push for change.

(this also isn’t to say you can’t do bad stylization either, but i’d argue the realism without style angle has become a bigger issue.)

#sorry for going off just augh #i love this series i love it so much but dammit #the modern gaming market loves to fucking murder what makes a series great just for an extra dollar #shantien rambles #monster hunter #monster hunter wilds

54 notes · View notes

bloopitynoot · 3 months ago

Text

Reading TGCF: Chapter 65

For those who don't know, I am reading TGCF for the first time and sharing my thoughts!

If you have not read it, there will be spoilers! Consider this a warning.

Also- if you want to follow along, I am aiming to post updates daily. You can find all the posts in the tag Bloopitynoot reads TGCF. You can also check out the intro post for context on my read BUT if you followed along with my SVSSS read, the rules and vibe are the same.

No chapter yesterday because I had union meeting things to do in the evening, BUT today I WFH and woke up early to do laundry. It was the perfect time to read a chapter and enjoy some oolong.

This chapter was TOO MUCH.

Let's go chapter 65:

The wind master and I are going through the same thoughts right now. I also immediately thought of the earth masters arrays and began to rethink every scene they were in. p226

Looking back at all of the small details dropped casually is wild. Especially the spy comments between Hua Cheng and He Xuan. p228

Dang, I'm actually so sad that He Xuan kept the real Ming Yi basically the entire time as a prisoner. p229

This balance is intense! Shi Qingxuan having to pretend "ming yi" is their friend while also trying to dodge devious traps. p233

This BBEG battle is a lot! The way He Xuan just snatched the water master's fan like it was nothing! p235

Shi Wudu is finding out. The karma is rebounding today for sure. p237

Okay but I actually agree with Shi Wudu here, the wind master did nothing in this entire situation except exist. Shi Wudu was the one who ruined He Xuan's life. p241

oof. The ultimatums! The choices that He Xuan is giving the bro's is awful. Though the first option left some wiggle room I think. He said anyone in this crowd. I would have chosen to swap with He Xuan; let him have his OG life back. p245

Holy shit what a turn!! Is Shi Wudu about to murder his bro? How did we get here??? p247

WHAT!? WHAT!? HIS HEAD! p250

I see you mxtx. Mhmmm..."tonguing is the fastest way to draw spiritual energy". [side-eyes] p252

Wait a second. Pause everyone. Okay, so. Xie Lian kissed him to get energy for the soul shift. But like, 2 seconds into the attempt, he was like, "yeah I didn't think the shift would work because Shi Qingxuan is dead or mortal now" WHY THE KISS THEN XIE LIAN HMM. p254

I know this is a very serious chapter and incredibly terrible things happened, but also it's a little funny to me that throughout this entire tragedy Pei Ming is jut on the beach doing carpentry. p257

RIP Qi Rong's eyeballs apparently. p259

Xie Lian is so chill about Hua Cheng's involvement. Like, he didn't even blink. just; yeah shit, you are right. Not my business. p260

[Just rests head on the table]

This was too much. I am not so sad about Shi Wudu, that felt like an inevitable end, but I am actually so sad about Shi Qingxuan. I hope at least we get a resolution on that front. Even if it is just us finding out they're dead :((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((

I gotta take a walk; a rollercoaster of emotions!

#bloopitynoot reads tgcf #tgcf mxtx #tgcf spoilers #tgcf #heaven official's blessing #xie lian #hua cheng #KISSES #shi wudu #rip #he xuan #shi qingxuan #pei mings carpentry skills #mxtx

47 notes · View notes

tribbetherium · 2 months ago

Text

The Late Rodentocene: 20 million years post-establishment

Scrub Suited: The Mixed Scrublands of Easaterra

The continent of Easaterra, in the Late Rodentocene, is a warm, tropical environment conducive to the growth of various vegetation. Here, there are only two seasons: a hot, dry season, when rain is few, and a wet season, where rain comes in pouring droves, and the dry, dusty landscape gives way to lush greenery, influenced by an intertropical convergence zone and its associated rainfall, that shifts north and south of the equator at different times of the year.

One of the most widespread biomes of the continent are the mixed scrublands: a biome dominated by low-to-medium growing plants resembling bushes and shrubs: but are, in fact, a wide array of the various ancestral crop plants seeded into the planet. Some are small plants grown bigger, such as clovers grown into bush-like forms, cabbages that had reverted to herbaceous forms resembling wild brassica, and even dwarfed stonefruit trees that adapted to need fewer resources in the fickle clime of the scrubland, growing no taller than five or six feet at most.

Easaterra, at this point, had not yet been colonized by the hamtelopes, and thus, in the meantime, have been dominated by herbivorous jerryboas, ones that, like many other groups, have grown much larger to fill grazer, browser and forager niches. Some, such as the tawny brushleapers (Xanthosaltocricetus easaterrus), grow to sizes of about twenty kilograms and feed primarily on the grasses and softer vegetation, while others, such as the dwarf kwonkas (Minimacropodimys albacauda), are much smaller at about five kilograms and specialize on the woody stems and shoots as well as seeds and fruit. Small relatives of the kwonkas, the klingaroos (Arbosaltomys tropicus), adapted into agile climbers, able to scale the few, sparsely-spread tall trees with the help of gripping paws and prehensile tails, and eat the leaves out of reach for most other herbivores of the scrubland.

Other species are found here too, while jerryboas may dominate the landscape. Present here are the now-abundant ratbats, which roost in the few trees present but travel far and wide to dine on the abundance of insects attracted to the bounties of flowers and fruit, with a few predatory ones, such as chestnut brushswoops (Aquilonyctus rubropterus) picking off small furbils and duskmice from the ground. Tiny shrubmice (Virgultumys spp.) take shelter in great numbers among the bushes, hiding from predatory ratbats as well as opportunistic rabbacoons, such as the scrubby bushcoon (Procynolagus arbuscula) which may catch and eat small animals on occasion to supplement their diet of fruits, seeds, leaves and insects. Heckhogs, like the shrub thornrat (Paliuruechinomys spinatus) are also prominent in these regions, rummaging through the ground for insects, ground vegetation and fallen fruit, and confidently emerging even during the day due to their sharp quills granting them decent protection.

Early carnohams, unsurprisingly, are the top predators of the local ecosystem, including jerryboas, rabbacoons, ratbats and occasionally heckhogs in their diet. Forms found in the scrublands tend to be ones of longer bodied, shorter legged species that are better suited to chase prey in dense bushy vegetation, such as the slender jagsel (Pantheromustelomys brevipus), remaining concealed in the thick vegetation before attacking in short bursts of speed to chase its prey.

The continent of Easaterra thus fills the ecological gaps of species from other continents with its own native species occupying niches of those absent here. Easaterra, thus becomes the birthplace of new evolutionary forms, most notably the oingos: eventually becoming the forebearers of the walkabies and rhinocheirids in the future epochs to come.

--------

#speculative evolution #speculative biology #speculative zoology #spec evo #hamster's paradise

52 notes · View notes

a-tomsk · 11 days ago

Note

After thinking more about the implications behind Narinder imprisoning Shamura despite killing Leshy, Heket, and Kallamar, I began to think that maybe the decision is thematically genius:

Narinder is the sole god in this AU and represents Death. The things that Leshy, Heket, and Kallamar represented -Chaos, Famine, and Pestilence- are unique by themselves, but what they all have in common is that they naturally lead to Death itself - People get killed indiscriminately in great unrest, they can starve to death, and die from disease. Imagine if despite having killed his siblings sans Shamura and took their followers as his own, Narinder opted not to fully indoctrinate them into his religion but instead co-opted their beliefs in chaos, famine, and pestilence to further the worship of death; he'd allow them to keep their original beliefs in exchange for said beliefs becoming subordinate to death, since they naturally point to it. It would be an alternative way for Narinder to exercise and express his supremacy other than enforcing an assimilated and homogenized faith. (And a way to diversify his array of followers and their communities -especially regular enemies and minibosses- within a whole population/land that worships only Death)

In the case of Shamura however, they are a more mixed case. Shamura represents War, and while that too results in Death just like Chaos, Famine, and Pestilence, it's not consistent. Killing is inherent in war, but on the other hand, war or conflict is also waged to protect lives from others that would try to end them - sending one to death in order to help another avoid it. Not to mention that besides death, war can naturally also give way to chaos, famine, and pestilence all at once. Even with 'love' in mind, maybe Narinder locked Shamura away because he also didn't know how to manage them - Shamura would effectively be just as powerful as him in regards to encompassing the other 3 siblings (how both war and death encompass chaos, famine, and pestilence) and less "controllable" than said 3 siblings since war can be waged for and against death simultaneously, which runs counterproductive to Narinder's ethos. I'd wager that in the beginning, Narinder had tried to defeat/kill Shamura before but was unable to due to the latter's power, so imprisonment was his next best option (kinda like in canon). Perhaps in addition, Narinder's indecision could've also extended to Shamura's followers when he took them - if he couldn't find a way to make war fully subordinate to death, he may have purged the belief in war from the land completely by either indoctrinating/reeducating/assimilating them or just executing them outright. Due to the nature of war, Narinder may have thought Shamura and their followers to be too much of a wild card to just leave them be -too many variables, known or unknown- and thus posed a big enough risk to his rule to the point he puts the most attention and effort into suppressing them, even if Shamura is his only remaining sibling still alive.

It would put into perspective why the Goat was executed and became Shamura's vessel. With how much carnage the Goat likes to cause since becoming a vessel along with whatever trouble they caused even before that, they are just as unpredictable as their master Shamura, especially when the powers they possess come directly from said master. That alone would be enough for Narinder to label them a fugitive.

I'm not exactly answering, just posting because I like the way your write it all. Thank you

#askme #cult of the lamb #cotl #interesting reading

25 notes · View notes

puddlestories · 3 months ago

Text

Body Swap AU- Part 1

Four x GN Reader (no gendered pronouns or descriptions); (intended romantic relationship; open ending)

CW: Mention of fights and medical terms used for injuries, nothing too graphic (hopefully); I've never posted on Tumblr so this may look very messed up but I'm trying

Idea: Reader and Four are separated from the rest of the Chain and end up in a situation which leads to them being body swapped, what follows is how they try undo this situation and build their relationship.

8.4k words; not proof-read

To begin with you already knew it was going to be a difficult fight, you had all prepared yourself to the best of your ability, swords freshly sharpened, if two days ago is still fresh, and as much armour donned as time allowed for- Time in a cuirass and gauntlets but legs only protected by cloth, Hyrule who managed to equip his leather cuisse and greaves but not his tunic to cover. Lads such as Warriors and Sky were luckily donned in both their chainmail and multiple thick cloth layers, proven to be lucky when an arrow had shot straight towards them, others raised shields or dodged behind trees and those with shields themselves, whereas poor Sky was struck in the pectoral, hopefully not deep enough to reach his scapula considering he was still able to react, albeit slowly and recover to a defensive position.

Despite popular belief, these monsters were smart, infected or not. Monsters also wore a visage similar to armour and various cloths to protect themselves, however the main threat was they knew how the armour worked- plated armour was, whilst strong against many attacks, weak to slashes and bashes which could dent the armour inward and limit mobility, but good against arrows. Though in this situation, it wouldn’t matter too much if Time’s armour would be effective from arrows as his greatest weakness, even if fully donned, was his unguarded legs and fragile tendons around his joints. Chainmail was good against slashes but weak to arrows, that’s what the extra layers of thick cloth were to help against, not the arrow itself but to help decrease the penetration depth. These enemies knew and they showed that in their battle strategy. Well, what you could consider a strategy, they weren’t fully equipped with proper armour nor battle formations, but they weld good quality weapons and a vast array of them too. Archers and those with spears and crossbows approached towards those like Sky, Warriors and Wild, a larger moblin behind them, obviously meant to be the tank of the formation approaching far closer than the spearmen. On the other division of the campground, others like bokoblins marched quickly and lizalfos skittered low to the ground with larger broadswords and falchions, some weld maces, though luckily those were fewer and more scattered within the swarm. Time, despite his disadvantage and vulnerability to those with maces stood between the group and Hyrule, who was obviously more vulnerable to those with falchions, lizalfos able to move fast and low to the ground were extreme trouble once welding one handed weapons such as this. Wind, Legend and Twilight had been caught towards the edges of the camp, Wind the first who had been able to grab a weapon and buy time for others along with the latter two who had been the ones to spot the small army approaching the camp and had returned to warn the others.

At this time the group had been divided, and worse, divided to group at which they held a disadvantage. Legend and Twilight were able to push back the close ranged enemies but were, too, knocked back by those with range, spears and lizalfos spit struck through the air, gust of wind flapping off the tarps once used as tents and flickering the smoke of the smouldering campfire- others that met their mark flung Twilight’s shield from his grasp; another struck into Legend’s leg tying him with a heavy water bind, attempting to slow his movements. The two were metaphorically pinned to the edges of the campsite, backs towards their comrades and facing further into the forest, bokoblins, lizalfos and moblins instantly in a charge to surround them.

Not far away, though too far when in a battle to be able to provide support, was Time, Hyrule and Wind who had been earlier flung at the initial surge whilst attempting to reach his boomerang that had been pulled from his belt. Time stuck in a belt saw motion, his torso circling forwards and backwards with his feet taking small steps forward and hurried small jumps back, was attempting to disarm a trio of lizalfos, which too, joined his dance of forwards and backwards, all awaiting an opportunity for the other to slip, to make a mistake, an opening- currently it remained a tie, Time unable to properly swing his great-sword, both hands clasped on the handle but no space to unleash an arched swing. Small and restrained gabs and twists of his sword were not enough to knock back the monsters, especially those so quick and agile. Such close quarters fighting too limited Hyrule’s arsenal abilities, magic flickered between his fingers and along his blade, a lightning strike from above was not an option with his brothers so close to the targets, however, small stabs and jabs into the clumped crowds and connected enemies allowed a good distraction for the larger enemies as electricity licked between them and grabbed between close bodies, buckles and weapons; a more deadly voltage for smaller creatures. Wind though, held an advantage, his smaller frame darting between enemies, aware of the sharp flashes of light between clustered formed by Hyrule he kept his distance, but sashed around larger enemies, those with less agility and dexterity, less able to easily grab him. Wind repeatedly slashed at the legs and backs of larger enemies such as moblins and refrained from deeper piercing stabs, not willing to risk his shorter blade becoming stuck between the skin, cloths or simply slicked with the blackened blood of the enemy and losing his weapon. Roars of moblins grumbled and rattled loud across the field, bulging and skewed lizalfos eyes darting between both Time and the source of the sound allowing the former opening needed. A swing of a great-sword slashing through the air so smooth and swift left a trail of hazed white through the air, practically splitting each particle, and splattered red and black among the crowd and glittered onto the forest floor.

Warriors, Hyrule and Wild used a tree for coverage, arrows aimed in only their direction, larger monsters filling the sights of the archers slimming their open view to the trio. Arrows flew, some cut short with an untaught string flying too low into the ground, others, quite literally cut short, slashed and broken among the stomping of feet, cracked and splintered by metal plated shields. Sky guarded his chest with his shield and used it to bash away and stray enemies which tried approach the opposite side of the large tree though most avoided such a fate either through being struck by their own archer’s shower of arrows or being smart enough to avoid that quadrant of the now muddied and bloodied outcrop. Warriors and Wild were both the offensive force using a long bow and his borrowed fire rod from Legend by both Wild and Warriors respectively.

Importantly it was one part of this battle that summoned an unexpected change. The dirt became loose and a black mud of blood and crushed grass. Arrows laid cracked or deeply embedded within the ground, those not embedded upright later partially buried within the mud. Purple mist and larger shards of skin and bone flittered through the air, some dusted upon the floor, others drifting within the movement of bodies and the lightest breeze.

It was this breeze that was different- a slight crackle of electricity, not unlike that of an approaching storm or cold hands on warm skin and tussled textured blankets. This electricity wasn’t coming from Hyrule’s magic like one would think, instead it was focused with a small halo spun and woven above the group. Arrows slowed as a golden powder fell from above, warm and sharp on one’s skin, however the melee assault continued, less monsters still standing but those remaining filled with energy and an untapped blood lust. Woven threats shot skyward, pulled taught with energy and coiled into the coned cloak and small hooked feet of a wizzrobe.

An electric wizzrobe? No, that didn’t seem right- the cloak itself held a blue sheen along the white and gold fabric, almost hovering as if it wasn’t apart of the threads themselves but an extra layer, one not of cloth.

Even stranger was that the being continued to skip and hop above rings of gold and flickering sparkles or energy, skipping towards the edge of the forest and over the arrow littered quadrant and away from the heroes engaged in battle.

Sky hidden behind his shield, slightly learned towards the outer bark of the tree, scraped and torn from sharpened metal to watch the new monster. Arrows continued but in far smaller numbers. He looked from the wizzrobe towards the firing line and saw that the issue wasn’t a lack of arrows, if anything the bundles by their ankles showed far from otherwise; instead they too were watching the wizzrobe. The other heroes were close to finishing off the melee participants, it wouldn’t be long until the archers were attacked front on and defeated- so why were they not giving their all and now firing at the exposed heroes along the entire field? Sky looked on further, scanning the field: Twilight and Legend who had finally managed to join the other group. Twilight with a gash through his thigh too close to his knee, Legend scratched and bruises littering his face and legs, but healing and defensive rings doing their job to prevent and minor slashes, Time who’s trousers and armour were too covered in blood to see any wounds, Hyrule face flushed and panting from magic use, his fingers a greyed blue; then Wind, hobbling on a slashed leg with a deep pulsing gash through his gastrocnemius muscles which would definitely take a few months of therapy to be fully “right” again and smaller tears at his lower arms.

Where were you and Four?

To answer that, although unknown to Sky, you both were in the exact direction the wizzrobe had hopped and skipped with a taunt grin of teeth and twisted leather skin under a veil of fabric.

You’d been pushed back and herded by monsters, you knew this, the smooth movement of the herd interrupted by jagged bodily actions perking and prodding at your base instincts to avoid the danger in front of you. A tight but thin circle of bokoblins and keese circling above wouldn’t have been the biggest threat to you with Four by your side- you were new to this world still, even if some may believe you should have adapted more to the constant prickle of danger and lurking threats within your 6 months of being in this world. The true threat to your small duo (unknown sextet, or hexad if you prefer) was a large lynel at the opening of the hearding circle, although, strangely, it wasn’t attacking you, not with it’s full might at least, it had previously lurched forward and swiped at Four, awarding a nasty headwound for attempting to create an opening for you both.

A failed attempt of using his fire rod to create a fire wall, merely a distraction and cover from the lynel, to then rush past the opening between it’s horse body and the nearest bokoblin. The fire wall was cast perfectly, thick and with slow movement towards the lynel itself to push it back but avoid sudden movements or bucking from the horse legs which may have hit you if you ran through the already small gap. Instead, it was too effective and the lynel too smart, as soon as the wall was cast the lynel stayed in position at the head of the circle and, as planned, moved to the side to see around the wall, however, despite it’s hulking size, it was fast, extremely fast and had positioned itself turned at an angle away from the wall giving more time and opportunity to grab Four as he swiped at the bokoblin. His sword has not even had a chance to form an arc nor thrust forward, instead it was violently tugged backward in defeat, still clasped tightly in his left hand from the force of the lynel’s blow.

Dark red melted into the white of his complexion, face void of colour aside from a thick ribbon of blood along the entire right side of his face melding to his skin, filling the lines by his eyes and slightly straying horizontally across his forehead as his face was scrunched in pain. You locked your hands tight around his biceps and had to place pressure on your spine and wrists to try pull him upwards, quickly you removed one hand and swooped an arm to curl around his back and under his armpit, a hand, again, curled with ashen knuckles from strain of gripping onto the dampened fabric. The blood was damp lower down his torso by his diaphragm, and soaked thick into the green cotton and golden embroidery. That stain probably wasn’t going to be easy to come out.

A silly thought that quickly passed your eyes in the gale winds of stress and heat building under your collar. Four would have to be okay to even worry about that; you’d both have to be okay- it seemed far too delusional to say that it would be okay.

What brought you back was the lynel’s gravely grumble, not a roar nor thrust of a blade, it was standing still. Static and a faint heat entered the air, a heat already there associated with the pounding of your heart and laboured breathes, but now able to be noticed alongside the crackle in the trees.

Another crackle, accompanied by an awful popping sound, like cracking joints; then a flurry of golden dust breezed past. Halo, curl, twirl, pop and pop. Breeze and repeat; breeze and repeat.

With a final pop, echoed around you like you were surrounded- even though you were- a golden halo pulled into taunt strings, and before you a wizzrobe appeared, face gaunt and speckled black, like the blackened blood was trying to spill from it’s pours. Over it bounced, light on the air and over the ring of bokoblins and keese, pitter pattering around the stationary lynel and coming to a twirled stop about six paces before you both.

It didn’t speak, nor make any vocal sound, just another pop of trapped nitrogen.

Until it did.

A garbled, wet, gurgling noisy emitted from low in it’s throat, within those few seconds you swore you saw a small cluster of bubbles pop at it’s curved mouth corners running slightly down the arch and unguided by any facial fat or structure. The wizzrobe let out another gargle, like it was drowning, and began to take tiny, pointed steps towards you. Sudden and with a flourish of expanding it’s cloak, the wizzrobe lurched forward, no ranged spell or attack, it simply flung itself forward- it was heavy.

Attempting to spin with the momentum to throw it off and shaking your body as much as possible without dropping the slumped man in your arms, eyes fluttering open with pupils blown varying sizes. Four in his unaware state managed to push the creature harder than you, despite his condition; with that it fell upon you both, no longer holding itself up. The monster was heavy upon you both, grasping and clawing at your clothes, ash fingers returning red from Four’s clothes. Dark spittle flew at you, turning your head to the side in an attempt to avoid the fluid that was freckled along your cheeks in a dirty unfound constellation of power and that same crackling heat. For minutes the fight, more like a floor-bound scuttle, continued, hands and bone sharpened claws flying towards eyes and plush skin- until it stopped. It stopped, with and unknown reason and lied limp, face almost fully black of spilled ink and black blood with eyes bulging and unfocused.

It was with great delay, that with a thrum and a crack of the wind that it flattened into loose fabric and began to unravel and boil, evaporating into a purple mist of small blue shards and purple power. Remaining low to the ground held in a low crab walk from mental and partially physical exhaustion, your elbows buckled, landing your back to the soil; it would be no time at all for the other monsters to approach, keese to knock you flat and the lynel to land the final blow to you both, that or maybe it would watch the bokoblins slowly beat you both to death.

No noise came: no footsteps, grunts, squawks nor flapping wings; even the air had gone still and stale with the dry electricity of the remaining shards lingering in the air.

Looking around, there were no monsters, yet you never saw nor heard them leave, yes, you’d been in a scrap with the wizzrobe, but you’ve have heard a small horde of monsters leaving or seen from the flashes of your surroundings given during your fight. There were no monsters- they wouldn’t have left without confirmation of your death, a Hero of Hyrule especially was not just left concussed. You truly would have looked around more, or tried to think more, but the heat in the air lingered, dry in your lungs and throat, and… you passed out…

At first, it didn’t feel like you were waking up, it was more a violent thunder in your chest and a hook pulling your head towards the floor; heart beating strong and loud behind your eyes and echoing in your temples. Your limbs felt wrong and hard to describe, heavy lead bones but static skin pulled and separated from the muscle beneath. The left hand smooshed and twisted against the floor, though not broken, wrist cramping and arm numb above the elbow, nerves pulsing from the ulnar to the tips of the fingers; the right static from the pressure of the torso- your body felt so separate from you within.

Pushing from the knees and twisting your torso, you attempted to push yourself upwards from the cold floor, the chipped and dry texture pressing uncomfortably into your cheeks and nose making breathing more laboured, any attempts from your mouth were dry and coated your throat with a fine powdered dust. Another attempt to push yourself up felt like it was assisted this time, strength pulled from your abdomen and twisted in your chest, another twist and pull, knees locked, and feet planted you managed to roll yourself onto a shaking elbow and splayed numb hand.

Finally, you peeled open your eyes, one easier to open that the other, a thin crust clumping your eyelashes. The area you were in was dark, not helped that your right eye was partially obstructed so you, aware your arms were still weak, leant forward onto your left forearm and wiped and grabbed at your eyelashes with your right, slightly wobbly, the metaphorical hook in your head still pulling. The floor felt cold and almost smooth, small cracks and rocks now joined by a small littering of dark brown clumps and a few loose eyelashes- you shouldn’t have been able to see them with the low lighting, a soft unknown glow emanating from an unknown area, like the middle of the room itself had an energy emanating; with that you pushed back with the strength left in your arms and sat back on your haunches, knees lightly spread to assist balance.

“Four?” Your words slightly slurred, luckily not from injury but exhaustion- you heard no response, so tried again, “Four, are you okay?”

A small shuffle sounded from across the room, you were now sure it was a room, what seemed to be dirty stone floors and that slight echoed reverberation of a sound in an empty room which, along with the fatigue, distorted your voice. Slowly, partially from caution, mostly from a lack of ability to move normally, you shuffled towards the sound, what you assumed to be Four. Logic told you that if there were any enemies in this area that they would’ve been much louder, far from a quiet shuffle and much less reserved as to not approach you as soon as you spoke. Still slow, but gaining a new confidence of how effective certain movements where you continued forward, palms flat on the floor, fingers slightly curled, and using your knees with the momentum of your swaying torso to propel forwards, stopping every few paces to avoid teetering forward too far and falling to the stone once again.

You called again, this time receiving a weak call of your name in return. Shuffling further and slightly faster teetering too far to the side, almost falling in your haste, you finally arrived close enough to the weak voice to hear the puffed words “where are we; where are the others?” You couldn’t respond. Instead, you swept a hand out to your right, ensuring to stay within a 45 degree angle of your torso to catch yourself if needed. You swept again, another pace forward, sweeping left to tight until you felt a mass, a body. You felt the woven cotton and a silky overlayer, a singular thicker belt around the waist, until you felt another strap, a thinner sternum strap, one used to carry a bag- Four didn’t wear a sternum strap, he wore a separate tied backpack for easier access to his scabbard, less chance of getting caught and tying his sword, he said once before- Four wore a Sam Browne belt. You called his name again, much less confident, your apprehension able to be easily plucked from your words; then you whispered for others “Wind? Hyrule?” They were the only ones you could think to wear a bag strap.

Instead, your initial call was confirmed, Four replied to you, voice still twisted, light and echoed along the walls, whispering back behind you like a phantom crowd “I’m here, hold on, I should have a light”, further small shuffles, the patting of leather and ruffle of cloth “do you have my fire rod?”

Like instinct, or the pulling of your phantom audience, your hand gravitated to your belt and wrapped easily around the broad handle of a fire rod, hooked nice and proper within a leather notch. Without words you handed over the item, no idea of why you would even have it, you didn’t remember him giving it to you, nor could you even remember having any hoops nor coils along your belt.

Answers were given quite quickly.

No sputter nor hiss or a flame was needed when the rod was within Four’s grasp, instead the gem of the fire rod lit up slowly as to not overwhelm either of your adjusting eyes. If you could delude yourself you would try convince yourself you were still adjusting- perhaps your cornea was scratched from dust, a painful injury but would effect your vision, perhaps you’d unknowingly hit your head in your previous tumble with the wizzrobe and were having visual hallucinations, or maybe it wasn’t your head trauma you were experiencing, but Four’s.

Before you, laid back on a singular elbow, pushing themselves to sit straight, their left hand firmly grasped around the fire rod’s handle, was you. At least what looked like you.

All you could do was stare, thoughts going through your head, some not even your own “are they okay?” came a voice within your own head, it possessed that feeling of disembodiment, a voice unaffected by the environment nor volume changing with their words “were they injured, I can’t remember after that stupid lynel attack?”

“Who’re you?” I asked aloud. My own eyes moved up to meet my own, suddenly widening as they met my own, met my body’s eyes. Unknown to either of them nor the voice the question was meant to be for the latter.

They spoke my name, the person before me, I didn’t answer, instead I looked down at myself, looked down at Four’s tunic, the green soaked with blood, their white leggings somehow untouched by blood nor dirt from the forest and reached to touch my head, his head, the blood now clotted and run dry. Two voices entered the conversation at a similar time, their words mixing together.

“The others aren’t answering, was the head wound that bad? Hopefully they’ll return soon I feel all fuzzy, like I can’t come forward fully to pilot.”

“What’s happening? You’re not Shadow,” their head dropped so fast, chin to their chest, their words perking the attention of the other voice too “why am I you, why are you me? What’s happening?”

“Shadow, what are they talking about, how do they know about--?”

I tuned them both out. I tried to make sense of it all: I was in front of myself, I looked like Four from what I could see and now there was a voice that I didn’t recognise, the deep baritone continuing to question.

“The wizzrobe,” I whispered, recognising the low honeyed voice that emitted from my chest “it did something to us, it didn’t attack normally though, no magic, not normally at least.” He paused. Four, it was hard to look at my own reflection and call him that at first, began to take deep breathes and his eyes unfocused as if deep in thought, then he agreed. Possible theories began to fall from his lips, occasionally interrupted by his own criticisms of logic or herding his own ramblings.

Only when I asked a strange question, one which, like the strength within my core, didn’t feel like my own. My lips moved and tongue curled words forced from between until I relaxed my shoulders, the words pronounced smoother but still with an audible strain, like I was struggling to breathe, “are the colours okay?”

“Colours?” I asked myself, more relaxed yet still breathless, the word falling easier in exhaustion.

It was Four who replied, albeit after a long pause, not the voice from within, beginning with a questioning twist to his face only to relax with clouded eyes and snap back to a strained horror “Blue?”

“I’m here, tell them I’m here” spoke the voice, Blue, Blue spoke to me soft and reserved, exhaustion and emotion sat heavy in my chest, I could practically see a man within my imagination, Four in a different coloured garb, a longer tunic, split down the left side and an extra belt wrapped above the usual, high on his waist, his head turned away. I fulfilled his request, and with that Four relaxed physically, shoulders drooping, body partially slumped and head falling forward; then he began to cry. Small tears welled in his eyes, only a few falling along his cheeks, trapped within the curve of his nose and dripping down into the crevice along the corners of his lips.

Despite the confusion I was still filled with empathy, wishing to reach a hand to them both, but was only able to reach out to Four physically, with choked words he spoke again, more of a ramble than a cohesive explanation. “I, gosh, it wasn’t meant to be explained like this, it wasn’t meant to,” he ran his hands across his face “during my adventure, you know I forged the Four Sword, forged from the broken Picori blade using elemental stones from across Hyrule. It started as projections, magical projections of myself that I could work alongside for short periods, within dungeons mostly; then it evolved, I harnessed those elements again after facing Vaati the first time” I refrained from asking about those specific words, the first time “and when I drew the blade from it’s seal it became the Four Sword, well, not became, it already was, I don’t know what to say, but we became how we are”

“We?” was the only thing I could say, not wanting to break his explanation considering his current struggle.

“Yes,” he laughed, soft and full of tears “we. My brothers and I. Four is us combined, he holds his separate being, but we are there with him, not at the front but we are till there for him, like a conscious voice that you may have, just more of us. We separated are Vio, Blue, Green and Red, though not necessarily in that order,” he laughed again, more heartfelt this time “you currently have Blue”

Without a pause of doubt nor embarrassment, possibly from the mental load of the information provided or just a subconscious expectation planted as a child to be polite, I spoke out loud, eyes slightly lowered away from Four’s, this was for Blue “well, at least it’s nice to meet you now, even if like this,” a nervous laugh as Four looked at me “hello Blue, but also, hello to you all, I’ll look after him, don’t worry.” You did feel a bit stupid but were set in what you’d said, you’d look after Blue, they must be terrified being separated like this, even if it would seem that Blue takes more care of you than the former. You let out a small gasp and exclamation of understanding, the sound reverberated back at you “your head, you hit your head, maybe that’s why Blue got stuck behind?”

Another exclamation, this time of approval and fellow understanding “you might be right” from the now known trio before you and with that an unseen but understood nod within your head completed the quartet. Well, it wasn’t really a quartet, with you it could be a quintet, though no, you were going further, there were six of you that you now knew or hoped to know.

“So, Shadow? When do I get to meet him, is he here?”

“Well,” his eyes flickered back and forth, an occasional pause between his words as if another was interrupting or adding to his sentence, “he is here, however just not the same way.”

“Not like Blue, nor the colours?” You added.

“No,” he shook his head in confidence “he’s more like, well, like that,” he chuckled, voice slightly lower with a hand thrown up casually and a single finger pointed towards your legs; pointed towards your actual shadow.

“I now see the naming theme,” you teased as a slightly white, almost grey arch stretched across the head of the shadow on the floor, a pair or smaller crevices also forming higher on the face- was he laughing? “Hello, Shadow,” you laughed as well, lifting your hand though angled towards your shadow in a mock handshake as you bobbed up and down slightly “lovely to meet you, sir” you finished with a dramatic bow of your head.

Light laughter filled the room, a lighter atmosphere wrapped tight and protected in the orange light of the fire rod- but heroes never get peace; in this situation you also aren’t given peace as a sharp screech pierces from another area, colliding with stone walls and bouncing needles into the room you were all in. Four managed to react in a quick spin, crouched and poised towards a thin, previously unseen corridor- the opening was so thin you both would have to traverse through sideways. At least that was when you were able to move properly, your bones remained heavy and skin a detached static, with a few moments of sluggish movements you felt cold coil around your ankle- Shadow was holding you, two small circles watching you, no mouth to be seen now.

“Are you okay? We should get moving” Blue asked, concern only slightly masked with heroic efficiency. Unsure if it would work I spoke within my own head, thinking and hoping he’d hear it, I spoke about my struggles to mobilise properly, that I felt detached and like I wasn’t fully able to move our body; with that thought I asked for his help, after all this was our body now, thinking back to the strength I felt previous in my abdomen. After silent pondering Blue understood, the previous feeling of a phantom audience looming behind me was pulled away, string pulled taught as they looped through my arms and fingers, coiling around my legs and straightening my spine- it was like I’d been pushed forward and replaced into proper fitting clothes, Blue’s arms solid and strong around my ribs holding me steady. My strength returned in the same sensation of being relieved of a bad episode of pins and needles, yet a slight static remained on the edges of my skin, like I’d slip back within myself.

If we had the choice, we would have been smart and stayed in the room, possibly it would have done us harm and kept us cornered, on the other hand, maybe we would have remained safe and hidden from any danger, the small opening not allowing danger to follow. However, we had no choice- if we remained in the room in our current situation we’d die from dehydration, only my bag strapped to Four’s hip and only two water canisters within, that or we’d starve, I didn’t carry any food rations but we’d last at least a couple weeks if we avoided monsters, any danger would be our end, too weak to fight.

Locking our knees and pushing up with our hands and back we stood tall, back a little too straight and hands loose by our sides but we were managing to move much more efficiently. Together we all moved forwards- Shadow stretching across the floor as far as the light of the fire rod would allow, guarding and searching in case of a nearby threat, with his retreat up the wall as slight wisp of his torso, Four and I advanced forward towards the corridor, if not for the perfect corners and smooth sides of the stone it’s be considered more of a crevasse without the ice sheet, or a fissure within a rock. Stepping sideways, running our backs against the wall and chests almost brushing the other side, we continued. Due to the small size of the opening Four had to keep his sword sheathed, the blade safely cradled within the scabbard upon my back.

Emerging from the wall I unsheathed the four sword, tilting the handle towards Four, the blade itself lightly grazing the floor, the weight not something I know to expect but Blue supporting me and Four’s usual bodily strength compensating from years of swordsmanship. Four grabbed the blade from me, the handle slipping into his grip only to clang onto the floor, he maintained his hold on the hilt, but the blade fell, kissing the floor with sharpened teeth.

With a grunt he said “geez, this has never been so heavy, it’s like being a page again”, at least as a squire, back then he carried equipment often, he had the strength needed but in this body his wrists were strained and biceps compensating for his lack of brachioradialis and superficialis muscle strength in his forearms. “Here,” he tried to hand the sword back to me “you’ll have to wield it, I don’t have the strength, you go melee, and I’ll cover you with my fire rod.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll show you the form to use, you just focus on speed and power, we’ll do this together” Blue reassured me, and ironically the other colours echoed a similar sentiment “Blue, are you able to pull yourself forward?”

Reassurance emanated from us both, explaining we were working together “it’s almost like wearing the same clothes- like a partial split” can an additional comment, unlike before it didn’t feel forced, I was so relaxed and accepting of Blue that it was almost as if I spoke myself despite knowing otherwise. Four nodded in understanding.

“If I could protect you I would, which is why I’ll be right by your side, okay? I may not be able to wield my sword, but I can use my magic to guard us both,” he reassured “a hero’s duty” he added quickly, eyes flickering.

I could feel Blue grinning but with a look that didn’t match within his eyes “Hero’s duty includes going and seeing what that sound was, right, guys?” Shadow flickered on the floor, bouncing between Four and I’s feet. It felt wrong to call him Four at the moment considering it was technically Vio, Green and Red, but that was also a bit too much “may I call you Opal? You know, reflects different colours and rainbows from one piece, it doesn’t feel right calling you Four, it’s like excluding Blue yet also, not like I’m seeing you three, you know?” I plucked at Four’s hair in a slight anxious shame, easy to play with laid by his pointed ears awaiting possible judgement.

With a grin they clasped a hand around my shoulder, lightly squeezed and turned so we could begin traversing the rest of this area we had entered, and to find the source of the noise- a strange but accepting acknowledgement.

Another shrill shriek echoed beyond the veil of darkness, the glow of the fire rod remained a safe blanket, encasing you both in warmth and safety, yet simultaneously limited your visual range, the danger hidden in the darkness beyond, not yet revealed by the light.

Thumping, but not heavy, footsteps continued to echo from what seemed another room over. The group continued on, the walls no longer parallel, turning outwards to welcome a large room, the fire rod’s light no longer reaching the sides. Opal stopped and increased their magic input into the gem, a small sputter of fire released from the flashed increase of heat and magic, another small flame flickered, more controlled but still hovering around the gem- anymore energy and it’d definitely burst forth into a hazardous fountain. With each flutter and burst of flames the aura of light dilated and constricted, like it was breathing. Then we saw a silhouette, then three, then five; only one of the figures was moving, very small thumping steps, hardly moving even a foots worth of distance. The figures were tall and lanky, extremely thin legs, longer than their torso which puffed out into a fat oval, thick arms also protruding hanging low to the knobbles of their knees at their sides. It’s head turned slowly wrapped and constricted in bandages and what seemed like tight leather skin, pulling taut like paralysed muscles and uncut burn scars- the creature looked like it was struggling to move.

Then with a piercing screech the fire rod light went out.

I couldn’t move, Opal made no sound, and neither could I but Blue immediately began to plan- we couldn’t move not due to fear but because our muscles were locked and pain flooded as if the muscles themselves were torn- as soon as we felt we could move we needed to position ourselves and our sword.

The fire rod burst to life again, all magic flow returning at once creating a full burst of flames, they ran and fluttered away from the main stream, getting closer to another creature, that no too began to turn towards us. With each shriek the light burst in and out, the lights flashing, vision obstructed, and eyes dilated too far, it was from darkness to blinding light.

The creature kept getting closer, each moment of movement allowed Blue to enter a defensive stance, the plan changed from offensive to defensive considering it’s unlikely we could have time to attack when the monster had the ability to paralyse us. Oddly enough, he entered what he called a “fool’s stance”, not directly ready to attack but allowing for a strong counterattack if the creature came too close. He remained in a resting guard as the creature shuffled forward, no longer screeching, perhaps thinking we were still paralysed or defenceless- if it could think that far at all, we wouldn’t know. Seven paces away it lurked, body flung forward and legs lagging behind, one leg stretched forward and straight whilst the other bent to provide power to the attack. In that moment, Blue struck, quickly raising the sword in a long point guard, he pushed the hilt upwards and used his back leg too to offer the same power.

Thrust forward he stabbed the sword deep through the torso of the monster, blade sliding through the thin bandages and rotten leather easily, the blade caught among the breastbone and ribs twisting and turning to gain leverage, and air pocket between and a snap of bones freed the blade once again, using the momentum of pulling to place his leg forward and band backwards, creating just enough distance to avoid it’s flailing claws. The distance allowed another swift slash aimed higher this time, aimed towards the throat. A swift slash, a leap forward and another bend backwards; the creatures head fell to the ground.

Simultaneously as our enemy began to turn to dust the others approached, one awoken from the fire rod much closer than the others and approach deceivingly quickly. Opal was already prepared, a molten blast shot straight to it’s target, the creature was undeterred but still effected, the bandages were alight, returning the attack, licking and clawing at the skin beneath, at least what skin remained. Leather skin remained resistant to the lighter flames on the bandages, but with another direct blast began to melt, the epidermis gave way to the dermis, the vulnerable skin and fat beneath melting and bubbling within.

The monster continued on, fat bubbling within the torso and legs creaking with pops of nitrogen, small shuffles becoming staggered strides as skin gave way to movement as it sagged and peeled away. Fat burning fed the fire, the heat increasing as remaining skin began to ash and crisp, subcutaneous tissue and muscle exposed and blackened. Bones revealed yet it continued on, lurched at Opal yet far too weak, magic or not, with an almost non-existent muscle mass, easily pushed away and skull stomped beneath the weight of a heavy boot and body weight, cracks and crunches echoed out, shards and ash sprayed across the floor.

Three more of the creatures approached.

Opal prepared themselves and began to circle the fire rod, flames and sparks danced above us circling in a close distance, a partial barrier but ready for a charged attack- just enough energy to guide their direction and maintain a weak barrier, even if all magic flow was stopped during the enemy’s screeched attack. Blue, close to Opal’s side yet slightly in front, on a diagonal at the right-hand side so as to not block either man’s range of motion. Entering us into a high vom tag stance I focused on placing my body weight and energy into the oncoming swing, the sword placed high above our heads maintaining leverage, but we had to time the strike correctly, if not the position would tire us out too quickly.

Two approached from the left, another from the right; two shrieked. The fire barrier maintained itself although quite weak, one from the left and another from the right began to herd themselves to the middle of the barrier, the second from the left continued forward, passing through weakened fire. Another bright blaze from Opal and a quick position change from Blue, my arms felt like pure static, I wasn’t holding the blade and I was beginning to slip, less energy each second; Blue was having to carry me too much, he was forced forward so far that there wasn’t room for us both.

With a spike of static and stabbing pain of needles and peeled skin, we swung the blade in a downward arc, the blazing monster staggered back and tilted to the side, only to continue forward. I pulled our legs back, our torso slightly keeled forward, Blue’s grip on the sword turning our knuckles white but the blade drooped with us.

Opal leapt forward, danger literally hovering too close, he had to either maintain the barrier to keep the other two away or attack the creature closest and allow the others to advance.

The spinning wall of fire grew thicker, orange bursting out from the coil, flickering towards the cloth drapes of the two figures, bone thin legs shuffling back and forth, heavy torsos leaning forward towards the fire. Their torsos twist back, shoulders tilting their bodies, their legs remained straight but their upper bodies slumped sideways, chest faced forward to the flames, but bodies creased at the hip, the jutted bone of their pelvis shifting the lower rib beneath the skin. One let out a scream, pitched lower with a grating hollow bass, diaphragm, or whatever was inside squished between ribs and pushed forward into an extended abdomen by the pelvis.

The noise sent a chill through Opal’s body, down the muscles of their back and looped around under their arms to radiate through their chest then tingling into their arms at rapid speed. Luckily for the group the altered pitch and volume of the scream avoided the previous paralysis effect, Opal shivered again, despite the sweltering heat of the fire ring around them- the creatures were watching.

The previous two defeated monsters showed no signs of black blood, though they didn’t seem to show much sign of anything, one slashed and headless with another burnt to ash; it showed they had muscle and skin layers, bone and most likely organs beneath that too thick skin, but no blood, none they’d seen.

They kept staring. Black, wide iris, no white of the sclera to be seen within deep, deep sunk eyes- the eyes were so deep it almost seemed like not only did they have no nose cartilage, that was clear to see, but that the nasal and lacrimal bones were gone or damaged, or perhaps the shadows simply fell too deep defying the bright flame before them. They weren’t that delusional; the thought wasn’t even comforting. Did they know something? The monsters from the forest had seemed smarter than usual, but Four had attributed that to them being black blooded- these monsters weren’t showing outwards signs of intelligence, per say, but they were acting different; it would’ve been far too easy to paralyse you both, not at the start of the fight, you’d been even numbered with a delay to one of the enemies, but now they could’ve paralysed you both and attacked.

Nothing felt right, something was deeply wrong, and it didn’t help that he was stuck maintaining the barrier whilst you and Blue were struggling.

Towards the other side of the circle, you and Blue continued to maintain yourselves. Four’s body didn’t lean any further forward than previous, you no longer felt your skin, the static layer completely fizzled out, yet you still felt the digging of his thick buckle jabbed into your stomach, only a slight roll of fat protected the metal from sliding into the curve of your breastbone. If you could be more concerned, you’d have unlocked your knees, the risk of restricting blood flow to your head too dangerous of a prospect during a fight, but right now it was only your locked knees that prevented you both from buckling to the floor- an even worse scenario.

Blue yelled in your head, more a cry of concern and stress than anger, “are you okay? I feel you slipping backwards but I still can’t take full control, what’s happening?”

He tried step back, dragging their legs in sluggish movements tied down by another’s feet, strings not taught but loose and wrapping around, tying your ankles together. He called your name again, more desperate and rising in volume shouting over the gap of your detachment.

“I’m okay,” you slurred out loud, Opal’s fingers twitched in you direction unable to look over and break focus, “I can’t feel our hands, or arms,” you continued adding on small areas of concern “just need to focus, the flashing light disorientated me a bit too much.” It wasn’t really an excuse but a reason, or, well, maybe a slight excuse, you felt like you were reassuring yourself rather than responding.

The body fought with you, mentally dizzy and being pulled side to side, gravity strong against your conscience. You struggled to feel anything, at times you’d get a hint at the cold static and muscle torn numbness from before only to lose the sensation again. Waves pounded back and forth, pins pushed in and out, energy struggling to return to your limbs. With great effort, you pulled out the metaphorical needles from your skin, knuckles white and joints stiff, strings looped and pulled, all tangled and knotted, you threat the needle, thick and blunt and forced it through your skin. Elastin and collagen separated, cells giving way, skin pooled around the edges, pulled taught at the point, until it gave way. Threadbare string tore past, electricity coiled again, your fingers puppeteer inwards, nails pushed into your palms.

The creature stood above your bent form, eyes unseeing, yet so aware, staring through a fogged glass. Sharpened bones raised, fingers craned with an arm hung low, and swung outwards.

Claws grated across the floor, deepening grooves within the stone, pebbles hopping away. It wasn’t a flash of light but more of a reflection, glass shards flickered bright on the floor a deep red in the blackened scry. Shadow flickered across the floor, pulled thin and swung violently with the twist and turn of the fire rod, the shadows should have doubled, one darker behind us and another split to the side following the rod’s gleam, but Shadow himself remained unwavering, his form moved and constricted in different ways, his dark presence remained unchanged.

With another shock of energy, strings frayed and knotted, you pulled taught and united. It lacked power, but with the assistance of Shadow the monster fell low to the ground, still hunched and clawing at the man in the shadows. Sword held over your shoulder, blade held at a diagonal, slumping slightly backwards rather than straight, you released control of your body weight to gravity, feet planted firm and back bolted, the sword arched forward and cleaved into the creature’s shoulder. With this revelation Opal released the barrier, a charged fountain of magic constricting around the two remaining monsters, fire burning bright, a deep glow remained within the gem of the fire rod, magic depleted from Opal’s body, yet the gem remained bright with the forged heat of a newly formed blade. Dark hands clawed at the face of the one on the floor, skin falling in ribbons and burning into purple dust among all three. Our own trio moved slowly around the walking fire pillars, slow shuffles and emanating dust, until they fell, far from our retreating feet.

---

Thank for reading, all feedback is welcome, have a fun fact about the story for your troubles:

The story was originally meant to have Four and Reader separated and focus first on the bond between Reader, Shadow and Blue which would have then opened the next step of a relationship with Four overall- learn and bond from within approach

#linked universe #lu four #lu four x reader #x reader #gn reader #first post #colours x reader #four colours x reader #legend of zelda x reader #legend of zelda #bodyswap au #puddlewrites

30 notes · View notes

ibijau · 5 months ago

Text

mdzs daemon AU / On AO3 It's likely the last thing I'll post for this AU because much as I love it, I just don't know what more to write in it. So we're closing with some JC have a bad time, because that's always fun!

The first time it happened, Jiang Cheng shrugged it off as a coincidence.

He was in Yiling, helping clean up the last traces of the siege on the Burial Mounds. Jiang Cheng had left the living spaces to the other sects, refusing to be the one destroying the cave where Wei Wuxian had lived and, presumably, been happy at last with people who weren’t Jiang Cheng.

Because they weren’t Jiang Cheng, a part of him still thought. That was why Wei Wuxian had come there, because it was the only place he could go where Jiang Cheng couldn’t follow.

Wei Wuxian had chosen death over Jiang Cheng. That said it all, didn't it?

His thoughts filled with rage and grief, Jiang Cheng didn't look around him as carefully as he should have. He knew there were traps everywhere, created to protect those people Wei Wuxian had loved more than him, and yet Jiang Cheng didn't look where he was going.

Later, he reflected that if he had stepped into that array, he would have been torn apart from limb to limb. But he didn't take that last step. He didn't, because he heard a familiar voice crying out his name, and saw from the corner of his eye a flurry of dark feathers.

A wild hope had seized Jiang Cheng, because he knew that voice, that shape, and they hadn't found Wei Wuxian's body. If he had survived after all, if he had tricked them, if he had sent Pashou to warn Jiang Cheng… but no trace of the daemon could be found aside from that voice no one else heard, that dark shape no one else saw.

At least, Jiang Cheng hadn't told anyone what he’d been looking for, hoping to protect Wei Wuxian even when it was unearned. Even Fengyu hadn’t known, he’d had her supervise another part of the clean up process.

From this shame he was spared.

The second time he saw Pashou, Jiang Cheng was tracking a demonic cultivator causing trouble near Yunmeng. Not an uncommon occurrence. Since the raid on the Burial Mounds, all those shady characters who used to gather there had now moved closer to Yunmeng. There was a rumour going on that Jiang Cheng had captured Wei Wuxian and was keeping him alive, hidden away in the Lotus Piers.

To counter that rumour, Jiang Cheng had gotten in the habit of being merciless toward any demonic cultivator he encountered, nearly to the point of savagery. It worked, to a point. Now, instead of saying he was hiding Wei Wuxian, people were starting to say he was looking for him. A small difference, but it mattered and let him keep face in front of other sects. Once or twice, some small sect or other had even reached out to him to help deal with demonic cultivators in their own area of influence.

Being a merciless killer was better than being a fool, Jiang Cheng figured.

But the particular demonic cultivator he was tracking that day had more skill than he’d expected. The man had no qualms killing civilians and cultivators alike. Took pleasure in it, even, and it wasn’t until he’d seen it that Jiang Cheng realised how bad Wei Wuxian had become, near the end. He’d had that same crazed look in the Nightless City, that same terrible smile after Jiang Yanli had died and he’d no longer cared who got hurt by his antics. When he’d no longer remembered that Jiang Cheng was still alive, could still be killed. But of course, Jiang Yanli had always been the one Wei Wuxian truly loved. Jiang Cheng just happened to also be there.

“Focus,” Fengyu hissed at him.

Jiang Cheng glared at her, then at the man they were hunting. He was standing in a lotus pond, doing who knew what over the water, half obscured in that moonless night. Jiang Cheng and his most skilled disciples had encircled him, but they were waiting for the right moment to strike, unsure what horror that man could unleash if he felt threatened. No matter what, the pond would have to be cleansed, Jiang Cheng thought. Whoever owned it would have to be reimbursed for the loss of their harvest. More money coming out of his always fragile finances, all because Wei Wuxian hadn’t known when to stop messing with things he shouldn’t have.

“He’s trying to create a waterborne abyss,” a familiar voice said behind Jiang Cheng. “He’s almost managed now. If you don’t attack now, you’ll lose men.”

Jiang Cheng refused to turn and look. Fengyu did, and she let out a soft whine, as if she’d been kicked. So she’d heard it too, she could see it too. It was a relief. It had to be a relief, Jiang Cheng thought, and yet he just felt furious.

Rage was good, though. Rage got things done.

Rage allowed him to lunge at that demonic cultivator before he could cause more damage. Rage let him take down that man and leave nothing of him but a bloodied corpse, barely recognisable anymore.

When the fight was over, Jiang Cheng finally dared to look back.

Pashou wasn’t there anymore, but that was no surprise. She’d flown away somewhere, back to wherever Wei Wuxian was hiding.

Perhaps Jiang Cheng ought to feel grateful that Wei Wuxian still cared enough to send his daemon to help.

But gratitude was a hard commodity to come by these days, and Jiang Cheng had run out of it long ago.

On some nights, Jiang Cheng and Fengyu discussed it. Only if Jin Ling was in Carp Tower and wouldn’t risk overhearing. Only if they were drunk enough, to dull the pain.

Over the years, they’d seen Pashou a few more times. It was Pashou as she used to be before the war, they’d noticed. Not the dull little pet she’d become since the Sunshot Campaign, but the proud and clever black swan from before. She never stayed long, and only appeared if there was danger ahead that they hadn’t noticed.

Of Wei Wuxian himself, they’d never seen a trace. He had to be hiding well, supposing he was alive.

At first, Jiang Cheng had assumed that Pashou being around meant that Wei Wuxian had survived somehow. But one day Pashou had appeared while there were others around, humans and daemons both, and none of them had noticed that black swan standing next to Jiang Cheng. She’d spoken, and only he heard her. She moved, and his eyes were the only ones following her.

“It’s not just that,” Fengyu told him one night as they reminisced, her head on Jiang Cheng’s lap. “It’s really like she’s not there.”

“What do you mean?”

“She smells of… not even of nothing,” the dog daemon explained. “She’s like a negative smell. Like the absence of something.”

“Like a ghost,” Jiang Cheng said, who had heard his daemon and others try to explain that concept before. “But daemons don’t have ghosts. They can’t, they just dissipate when their person dies. I’ve never heard of a daemon ghost.”

“Me neither,” Fengyu admitted, nervously climbing on his lap even when she was too large for it. “But Wei Wuxian liked to do the impossible.”

Jiang Cheng said nothing, and just scratched her ears to comfort her, to comfort himself. What could be said? Wei Wuxian had been so insane near the end, it wouldn’t have been impossible for him to do something terrible to his own daemon.

Ten years had passed since the disappearance of Wei Wuxian, and then more. Jiang Cheng had grown used to his old friend’s absence, and to Pashou’s spectral appearances. His life wasn’t what he’d ever thought it would be, but it wasn’t a terrible life by any means. He’d reached a balance that would have seemed impossible at the time of the Sunshot Campaign. His reputation was that of a dangerous but just man, which he liked. His sect was as great as it had been in his father’s time, greater perhaps. He had no wife, no children, but he had a first disciple who would succeed him someday, and he had a spoiled brat of a nephew whom he loved more than anything in the world.

Things weren’t bad.

Then Wei Wuxian returned.

Initially Jiang Cheng wasn’t sure that it even was Wei Wuxian. The manners were the same, the fighting style too, but this was a different body, and that Mo Xuanyu person had a raven daemon at his side instead of Pashou.

But as Jiang Cheng tried to get that Mo Xuanyu handed to him for interrogation, he’d spotted Pashou nearby.

On instinct alone he’d tensed, because Pashou never appeared unless there was danger. But she didn’t warn him of anything that time, didn’t point at someone’s hidden weapon. She only stood behind that Mo Xuanyu person and stared at him looking as angry as a black swan could be. Jiang Cheng had forgotten how Pashou could be, when she was furious.

What had Wei Wuxian done to his daemon to anger her like that?

And this was Wei Wuxian, Jiang Cheng knew it the moment he saw Pashou. Only her own human could have provoked such intense emotions in her.

Wei Wuxian was back.

He was back, and still trying to hide away from Jiang Cheng.

Some things really never changed.

Jiang Cheng remained alone on the pier, Suibian in hand.

He’d gone back inside of course, and asked some passing people to try and unsheathe the sword, in vain. Nobody could. Nobody could, except him.

He’d left to be by the lake, fighting a growing nausea.

He’d known Wei Wuxian had grown insane toward the end. He’d never realised that the insanity had started long before anyone could notice. And it was insanity, what Wen Qing and Wei Wuxian had done. Something like that…

Jiang Cheng clenched his fists. Fengyu, concerned, licked his knuckles, trying to comfort him. Trying to process it herself. She couldn’t have stopped it, not with the state she’d been in after Jiang Cheng had lost his golden core, but he could feel her guilt anyway, his own guilt for never noticing what had been done.

He should have known. He should have guessed. Now that he knew the truth, everything made sense. Wei Wuxian’s odd behaviour, his refusal to use his sword, Pashou’s state, and…

Pashou…

Without thinking, Jiang Cheng turned around and found the black swan daemon standing behind him. She was silent, looking at him as if she’d never seen him before.

“I didn’t remember,” she told him. “I didn’t remember anything except taking you to Wen Qing.”

The barely controlled rage in her voice led Jiang Cheng to believe her. And with the way she’d been during the Sunshot Campaign and after…

“Did you think I was him?” Jiang Cheng hissed. “Is that why you followed me, all these years?”

Pashou tilted her head, and laughed. She’d never been one to laugh much, unlike Wei Wuxian. She’d always been too serious when they were young, before turning too quiet after the war.

“I knew who you were, Jiang Cheng” she claimed. “I just didn’t understand why I was still here. I suspected it had something to do with our golden core, but I couldn’t be sure, and I didn’t have Wuxian to discuss it with. But if Suibian reacts to you, then it makes sense I do as well. He’ll be fascinated when he hears about it.”

Without thinking, Jiang Cheng nodded. Of course Wei Wuxian would be excited. Anything new and ill-advised excited him.

“Why haven’t you shown yourself to him?” he asked.

“I don’t know if I can,” she said, then paused and shook her head. “No, that’s not… truly, I’m angry at him. I know why he did what he did. I understand, you were more important. But he never took a moment to think what it would do to me. He destroyed me and never cared that he did, because he never cares about anything.”

In his heart, Jiang Cheng knew this to be wrong. He hadn’t understood at the time, but he remembered how concerned Wei Wuxian had been about his daemon in the early days of the war, and then for a while after the Sunshot Campaign. Every trick that could be thought of to strengthen a daemon, Wei Wuxian had tried it, then written down the result it’d had on Pashou. None, usually. But it hadn’t stopped him from trying and trying and trying again, putting more effort into that than he ever did in helping Jiang Cheng rebuild his sect.

He’d done the same, trying to fix Jiang Cheng’s broken core.

What did it matter, though, when the result might have done worse damage than the problem they had before?

“What will you do now?” Fengyu asked. “Are you trying to be Jiang Cheng’s daemon, now that you have a right to it?”

That suggestion startled Jiang Cheng, who immediately put a protective hand over his dog daemon’s head. She was his. She would always be his. Even when she’d been half killed by Wen Zhuliu’s core melting hands, turned into nothing more than a weak pet, she’d still been his, and nothing, nobody could replace her. No matter whose golden core was inside his body, Fengyu was Fengyu, she was his and he was hers.

“I’m not his daemon,” Pashou replied, preening haughtily. “I’m not Wei Wuxian’s, either. At least, I don’t think. He has that raven now. He doesn’t need me.”

“He doesn’t get along with Mo Xuanyu’s daemon,” Fengyu protested.

“Then he should have thought of that before doing… whatever it is he did to me,” Pashou retorted. “I feel no connection to him now. I’m not even there most of the time, anyway. I don’t even know where I am when Jiang Cheng isn’t in danger. Those are the only times I still exist.”

“He has to miss you,” Fengyu insisted. “I know you miss him too.”

Pretending not to hear, Pashou went on preening herself, pulling too hard on her feathers and messing them up instead of smoothing them.

As angry as he still was at Wei Wuxian, Jiang Cheng felt sorry for Pashou at least. Poor thing, turned into a monster. It was terrible, what had been done to her, to him. That it had been done out of love didn’t make it any less horrific. Perhaps it made it worse, in fact.

Wei Wuxian had loved them and abandoned them. Jiang Cheng, Pashou, even Suibian, if a sword could feel… and it could, to some degree, or it wouldn’t have sealed itself.

Remnants of Wei Wuxian’s love, left broken by his affection for them now that he was moving on to better things. Why should Wei Wuxian care about the horrors that remained of his first life, when he’d found better people to stand with him in this second chance he’d obtained?

But Jiang Cheng was his mother’s son. He wouldn’t let himself be so easily discarded.

“Let’s find out when Wei Wuxian and those other two have gone,” he said. “We’re going after them.”

“What for?” Pashou asked. “It’s pointless. He doesn’t want us.”

“He’ll get us anyway,” Jiang Cheng retorted. “His daemon, his sword, his shidi, I’m giving all of them back to him. He might be willing to move on, but I won’t let him forget us that easily.”

#jiang cheng #wei wuxian #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #daemon au #jau writes

38 notes · View notes

mychlapci · 3 months ago

Note

Ive been thinking about... chase finding out chief burns did porn when he was younger. Maybe for a brief moment a few years ago, when he was raising his kids alone and was either lonely or wanted a little bit of extra money for the kids, he recorded himself a little bit yknow. In the end he gave up because it wasnt really working out for him but he also never really got rid of the videos or the account because he figured no one would ever be interested enough to find out

Cue chase doing some.... research. He's been speeding through what humans consider to be pornographic material because... because.... well............. maybe he's been thinking about the chief in an inappropriate manner and thinks he should stop but also wants to be able to have those inappropriate thoughts properly. So here he is

He skims through a lot of it, not finding any of them particularly interesting. Until he stumbles across a set of videos that immediately match his databases for the chief. Which doesnt make sense. There is no reason for the human in the videos to be the chief, and yet, the frequency of his voice and the general structure and build of his body seems to match the chief perfectly

Intrigued, chase ends up combing through all the videos by this user. There is no way for him to confirm that it is the chief, but its making him go wild nonetheless. Every breathy moan triggers an image of the chief in his processor, sending charge sparking through his frame

It makes him curious. Chase starts cataloguing every sound the chief makes. He creates a database to match the sounds with the videos he has found. And, fortunately or unfortunately, all of them match

Chase spends an embarrassing amount of time watching those videos every day, thinking about the chief in all of those compromising positions, feeling guilty about it but not guilty enough to get his servo off his spike

Oh and then he starts to get a little but jealous. And then a little bit disgruntled about the fact that there are only videos of a younger chief, and none of the even more arousing man he knows now. He's still never seen the chief without his human clothing on, at least not in person. He can imagine, now, having seen what he believes is a younger chief online, but he still would never know what he looks like now. The thoughts plague him and he finds himself trying to sneak inappropriate looks at the chief. Every time the charlie's uniform gets snagged in a mission or they get drenched yet again, chase is Looking

The next time they get banged around a bit in a mission, the chief grunts and chase goes wild. His engine revs as he feels charge immediately pool in his array, all those inappropriate memories of the chief grunting and rutting into his own hand come flooding in and chase nearly crashes into a lamp post

pornstar chief burns should be a blog-canon thing at this point. chase doing a deep dive and finding the videos is sooo good he's going to be so horny for charlie from now on. he's trying so hard to not think about it but it just keeps creeping up on him. when he closes his yes he sees man ass and cock. he's just like me fr.

#valveplug #texty #scheduled

28 notes · View notes

sepublic · 2 years ago

Text

In lieu of my latest reblog about people taking compelling characters and projecting their writing onto some other (usually white) dude, I want to bring up a post I had drafted all the way back from April, but never posted because at the time I still had enough patience not to. But now is different. I do think this analysis is a bit outdated because it doesn’t consider the mediocre white dude angle of Belos that I find paramount, but it’s good enough for my repurposed point.

I find it funny when some people complain that the narrative was unfair to Belos despite his “trauma” and circumstances, like there aren’t multiple characters out there who parallel his issues, and get sympathy AND a redemption, in all but one case! Belos is narratively condemned not for what he has in common with others, but for what sets him apart, particularly his stubborn ego. Cases in point;

“Belos deserved to have sympathy for having an unhealthy attachment to his more confident sibling that was mixed with resentment over being abandoned for someone else, culminating in guilt over hurting them and regretting it!”

Lilith exists. She’s motivated by a massive inferiority complex with Eda, Gwen favors her. She’s clearly salty about Eda going off to have fun with Raine, and claims to Luz that she’s Eda’s ‘real’ family. She cursed her sister and felt enormous guilt over it… But in the end, Lilith IS given sympathy by the narrative, and the chance to redeem herself. And she takes just that.

A lot of the people claiming Belos deserved better theorize that stabbing Caleb was an accident, and you know what? So was the permanence of Eda’s curse, Lilith expected it to only last a day and certainly not transform her sister. But Lilith still owned up. And she learned to make other friends while respecting Eda’s boundaries.

“Belos was an orphan raised in a culture that encouraged genocide and a hatred of wild magic!”

Caleb exists, he went through the exact same childhood as Philip, but still chose to change. And while they weren’t orphans at the time, Hunter and the Collector were also raised on genocide, taught to find wild/Titan magic apprehensive. But they loved it instead.

“But Belos actually lost his brother, his loved one died!”

So did Hunter’s! And he was shown to be snappy and aggressive, pouring himself into a mission to cope! But he still owned up, apologized to Willow for rebuking her. He lost Flapjack, and instead of making replicas of his lost loved one to keep to himself, discarding anyone that wasn’t close enough, Hunter made a diverse array of palismen for other kids, to give them the loving relationship he lost! Even his own palisman was clearly carved to be different from Flapjack, reminiscent but still their own thing.

Then there’s Darius, who lost his mentor the previous Golden Guard; His own ‘Caleb’, so to speak! And he was also unpleasant about it, he took his grief out on Hunter, who had nothing to do with this! The canon audio diaries even confirm the apprehension has been going for a while… But Darius realized he was wrong to have projected onto Hunter, made up for this by practically adopting the kid and giving this kid the happy ending his mentor didn’t have; Passing the cycle of kindness the Golden Guard started. And his own grief is pointed out to the audience by Hunter himself.

“They should’ve shown how having a hero complex and a desire to live out a fantasy can corrupt anyone!”

Luz and the Collector. Luz herself makes these comparisons for Belos, and there were times where she hurt her friends trying to live out her fantasy, and/or planned to leave them under the impression she was doing the ‘right thing’. Luz makes a legitimate consideration that she could’ve been Belos, if she refused to listen to others and change. But Luz owned up! As did the Collector, whose escapism and wish to play the role of the ‘hero’, in this case Luz, causes them to do some pretty terrible things. But they still change after being called out, and are still given sympathy over the loneliness and trauma that fueled their escapism, as was Luz.

"Philip struggled with getting over a different type of fantasy, one that relied upon him conquering and hurting others!"

As did King! And King got over that, he quickly learned that other people would always be more important than his fantasies, even if the 'sacrifices' were a lot more minor. King started off the same, the difference is that he still grew up and that's why we judge his antics as so much more light-hearted.

“Well that’s not fair, Philip’s examples were more extreme!”

How about Eda’s curse? Belos never brings up his other sources of trauma as an excuse for his actions, but you know what he does invoke? His curse, claiming to Hunter and Luz that it forced him to act certain ways. But we see Eda, who got a rawer deal with her curse; She didn’t bring it upon herself, as Belos did. She legitimately loses control when it takes over. She scarred and disabled her father because of it, and you know what?

Eda never uses her curse as an excuse. She never lets that justify what she’s done to people, and she even befriends the creature at the source of her curse, the Owl Beast. The curse she deals with is objectively worse, objectively more unfair, than Belos’. But it’s only Belos who actually cites his curse as an excuse, and the palismen at the source of it? He kills them.

“Belos’ cursed form is treated as ugly and evil!”

The palismen amalgam in his mind looked almost exactly the same, to the point where Hunter, who had seen Belos’ cursed form in person before, thought they were identical. But in the end, the palismen amalgam, despite resembling Belos’ cursed form, is a sympathetic and tragic victim who is murdered. Luz and Hunter mistaking him for Belos is justified, but it’s also still regrettable that they are judged by appearances.

“It hurts people to sacrifice their morals for the greater good, you know!”

Raine did that, they felt compelled to drag Darius and Eberwolf (one of whom was a childhood friend) into a murder-suicide, because as far as they knew, they were already going to be caught and executed, so may as well take their oppressors down with them! And they aren’t called out for it, because they couldn’t have known about Darius’ actual intentions…

Because in the end, sometimes you have to punch a fascist, and sometimes you have to oppose a friend or loved one because they took the fascists’ side. It’s why Lilith is expected to change for Eda, not the other way around. Raine is not the aggressor here, it’s all from the principle of self-defense for themselves and the isles as a whole.

And in the end, it’s because Raine is approaching from a place of actual good intent and moral concern that there are lines they still refuse to cross; As soon as they learn about Luz and King, they sabotage their own plans because they refuse to orphan these kids they just found out about for the ‘greater good’. When one of those very kids, Luz, makes Raine promise to keep Eda safe, you can see the conflict between their morals and their obligations in their eyes as Eda accepts the Bard sigil, and ultimately Raine powers through the draining spell to save Eda’s life, simply because Luz asked them to.

I’ve talked since their debut of how Raine has some similarities to Belos, in particular how they both work their whole lives to infiltrate a group from within to topple it, even as they publicly support it as a celebrated leader. They both had to lie and work under the radar, and make effective rhetoric; They each wear their own masks. Raine has to constantly lie to and rebuke Eda about being brainwashed, and we can see the moral agony it gives them!

But Raine is opposed to a legitimate threat, whereas Belos is completely making one up; Raine has to work under the micro-management of tyrants with control over them, Philip has been free from his colony for centuries, and even after finding out Gravesfield gave up on its witch hunting mission in the present, still traps himself of his own will. Belos feels no guilt for any of his ‘necessary evil’.

Raine had actual morals unlike Belos that they did sacrifice, for an actual greater good, and they actually hurt over these choices. They dedicated their whole life to stop a dark and twisted parallel, which makes their inclusion in the finale as the only person outside of the core trio to help against Belos all the more deserved; They even help deliver the killing blows. And Raine is rewarded for all of their effort, allowed to see it come to fruition and rest happily afterwards, because they really were sincere, and actually did make sacrifices, something Belos preaches but never follows. Most importantly, Raine knew they couldn’t justify everything even for their morally-justified mission.

“Belos was still legitimately wronged by Caleb for nothing, he didn’t deserve to be abandoned!”

Even if we believe Caleb did ‘abandon’ Philip or whatever; The Collector was legitimately wronged by the Titan, imprisoned and isolated for millennia despite being innocent. But while he justifiably calls the Titan a bully, he never takes this out on King, or any other Titan for that matter, remembering the rest with love. Nor is the Collector expected to forgive the Titan; The Titan accepts she made the wrong call. After all, imprisoning the Collector left them in a vulnerable state to be exploited by Belos, and give him the draining spell…

The Titan and Caleb’s mistakes were very much that, but the Collector matured for others, without needing an apology from the dead person who wronged him. And based on what we see of Belos’ memories, Caleb probably DID get to deliver that apology when he was alive, and Philip still insisted on being bitter!

“His only childhood friend just ditched him for someone else!”

That’s what happened to Willow, and that’s how she understood it for most of her life; Amity leaving her behind because she was too weak, and kids like Boscha and Skara were more popular, stronger, etc. But not only does the show say her rage against Amity is totally warranted and that the onus is on Amity to apologize, even if she didn’t choose to leave Willow (keep in mind she still saw Willow as a weak person to protect without input, as we later see in Labyrinth Runners)…

Willow is still kind. She still opts to be compassionate to Gus, and to Luz, and in general a nurturing person despite her abandonment. And when Willow is given the chance to take revenge on Boscha by stealing her glory in Grudgby, she doesn’t kick the girl while she’s down to do so; But Willow is also allowed to still hold anger towards Boscha, as we see in Season 3. And assuming Caleb wasn’t malicious about leaving Philip behind, we clearly see how he welcomes his brother back and wants things to get better, just as Amity does; He had his own side of the story. And Willow doesn’t kill Amity despite being primed to very easily do so…

"But imagine finding out they CHOSE to leave you, when you thought they didn't!"

Camila?!?! In fact, Camila was THE precedent for this, and people went and applied her tragic scene to Philip to make HIM into some angsty sadboi! And last I checked, Camila didn't exactly murder Luz... Plus, Philip had infinitely more time to see Caleb and Evelyn interact, and thus figure out that Caleb wasn't being kidnapped or brainwashed; Compare that to Camila who is just dunked into that situation out of nowhere, and is barely even adjusting to Vee's existence on top of finding out Luz was someplace else the entire time, and dealing with Jacob.

"A lot of family members at least start off as well-intentioned when hurting loved ones, they could've shown that!"

Bold of you to assume that Belos' selfish entitlement towards Caleb is the same as Camila or Gwen's legitimate concerns for their daughters; They did unconditionally love and they were misguided. But when shown they were causing pain, they actually shifted gears instead of focusing on how they were fight because they knew better. And what they were doing WAS still harmful, even though they DID care.

“Belos was probably a weirdo himself, and suffered from internalized hatred for his deviancy!”

Lilith dyed her hair to fit in with the coven, and be taken seriously. Amity suppressed herself to be a stoic perfectionist, constantly trying to justify her own existence as she says; She had to work to be good at magic while others like Gus, Emira, and Edric were naturally talented, and was made to hate those who weren’t successful as witches. Hunter too loathed his own lack of bile magic!

Most tellingly, Camila herself was taught to hide her weirdness, grew up thinking she was successful for doing that, and even tried to impose the same on Luz because of that misconception! But Camila realized what was done to her was wrong, and the same applied to her daughter; Accepting Luz’s weirdness meant accepting her own.

“Even if he still chose to double down in villainy, Belos could’ve at least been given a moment where he was sympathetic, where his sadness was shown, before nevertheless deciding his fate!”

Kikimora had an entire episode where she agonized over her obligations to a mother that seemed low key abusive, given her threat to disown her. We see her hesitate, cry, and be legitimately disappointed when she’s rewarded for staying with Belos by ‘getting to live’, a reward that doesn’t even last by the Day of Unity! Even after Kikimora makes her choice to betray Luz and Amity, we still get a final scene of her looking uncertain and even regretful of her decision, before she commits. Kikimora isn’t redeemed but is still humanized, despite being less human than Belos, so to speak.

She’s even a dark parallel to Lilith, having jealousy towards the Golden Guard, an emotionally abusive mother, and an inferiority complex towards other members of the coven despite working directly with Belos! And she is given many chances to escape Belos, a few months where she is legitimately free from him, and chooses to remain in her ways because Kikimora’s difference with Lilith isn’t that life was more unfair to her, it’s that she refused to change.

Now this is a bit out there, but there’s also the other Coven Heads! Mason, Vitimir, Hettie, and Osran! The show was shortened, so who knows what they could’ve provided for the story… Mason, Hettie, and Osran especially, since they’re not included amongst the coven head loyalists who still cling to power, even after Belos’ death. The show could’ve easily set up sympathetic moments to indicate a possibility of change, paying off in the epilogue; But because of Disney, you can’t blame the writers for not delivering everything they could’ve.

“How about a character who was just… an asshole, no outside reason given?”

Boscha, who was popular and privileged. While she does allude to some pressures that motivate her, as far as we know, there wasn’t really anyone or anything that made her be so cruel towards those she perceives as lesser. But despite this, Willow doesn’t see any point in trying to take Boscha’s spotlight as a Grudgby captain, when offered by her teammates; She doesn’t kick Boscha when she’s down. And Boscha is ultimately still recognized as unhappy with the loss of her friends, so even if she does do egregious things during the Collector’s reign, Amity offers Boscha the chance to become better and improve, as she did. And she takes it!

“Well, none of these characters had to grapple with having done things nearly as bad as Belos!”

And why do you think that is? Why are Belos’ sins so monumental in comparison, how did they get so bad? Because he kept refusing to change, kept refusing each opportunity, and got worse because of that. His first confirmed murder was Caleb, who right beforehand embraced his brother during what appeared to be a manifestation of the curse. But Philip still chose to commit his first sin despite receiving such unconditional sympathy, because he wanted control, not happiness. He didn’t start off as a genocidal dictator, he worked his way up to that over centuries.

“They make it seem like Belos was born evil!”

Our earliest chronological appearances of Philip are as a happy, carefree child who plays games with the brother he loves and looks up to; That isn’t the portrayal of someone ‘born’ evil. This is the portrayal of someone who became that way, over time, because he refused to concede anything to anyone, and wore away what decency he had across centuries, until we see the Emperor that Belos is when the show starts.

An evil dictator who ravaged an entire world for hundreds of years came from an innocent little kid, and Luz becomes self-aware of how this can apply to her, even as she’s reminded that she also ISN’T like Belos because of this critical reflection and willingness to listen. Belos, on the other hand, consciously cultivated an echo chamber for centuries, killing any Grimwalker he felt disagreed with him, despite their unconditional love and support. He deliberately shut himself off from the isles and ignored the kindness of others.

Bump reminds Faust that it’s disingenuous to project malice onto children who often simply don’t know any better, and just need to be given a chance to be taught and educated. But kids also have to take initiative to mature when they get older, hence why we hold adults more responsible; The established logic is that Belos wasn’t an evil child, he was simply a child who never grew up and that’s where his evil came from, rather than being some pre-existing source.

To be honest, I think the narrative doesn’t bother showing sympathy to Belos over his trauma because he’s already HAD more than enough sympathy, across centuries, from his brother, the Grimwalkers, his followers, even Luz and the Collector! So the story doesn’t feel the need to waste tears on someone who already got them, and instead focuses sympathy to characters who haven’t received as much, if any; People like Lilith, Amity, Hunter, etc.

Belos is the culmination of other characters’ traumas (who prove you can still choose to be better and happier despite these things), and was practically coddled by the people in his life for it. But he still chose to be bitter, never opened up to accept help, and his rejection brought even more pain that he could only blame on himself. Belos’ only tragedy is his refusal to change for the better; Even the narrative has made it clear he had chances, tears wept for him by people he knew.

He is a mirror to so many characters, what could’ve happened if they looked at their own pain and used it as justification to continue lashing out, because clearly they are the underdog heroes who have been wronged and are fighting against an injustice, right? The hero of their own story, if you will. Hell, we still also get that with Kikimora, as I just said! What I’ve listed is not a double standard, but rather proof that Belos was not uniquely condemned by his circumstances, for he is alike many characters as I mentioned. And Belos does not need to be portrayed “sympathetically” in order for the audience to understand the relevance of these parallels; Namely, that Belos has no excuse to still be like this when those similar nevertheless choose not to be cruel, and will accept others’ compassion.

And besides, with how the show was shortened… Who’s to say the writers didn’t plan to throw Belos a sympathetic moment of genuine loneliness, before doubling down? Not that they really would’ve needed to. But if they planned it, the writers had to leave it out to prioritize the weirdos this show is actually about, due to the shortening.

#the owl house #emperor belos #philip wittebane #lilith clawthorne #caleb wittebane #the owl house hunter #darius deamonne #Luz Noceda #the owl house collector #king clawthorne #Eda clawthorne #edalyn clawthorne #raine whispers #camila noceda #the owl house boscha #fandom salt #white favoritism

245 notes · View notes