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cloudyluun · 2 months ago

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Press play (p4) | boyfriend!harry

Summary: Harry has been waiting all day—teased, taunted, and wound up until he’s barely holding it together. Tonight, control isn’t his to keep, and you make sure he knows it. Bound, blindfolded, and completely at your mercy, he learns exactly how it feels to be on the receiving end of every agonizingly slow touch, every whispered command, every ounce of pleasure he’s ever given you. But when the camera keeps rolling, and the idea of sharing his destruction enters the picture, the night takes on an even riskier thrill.

A/N: Listen… I’m not saying Harry might actually thrive in this scenario, but I am saying I had a little too much fun writing it. This was supposed to be a simple little tease, and then my brain went, “But what if we made it worse for him?” And here we are. Hope you enjoy this absolutely sinful mess. Reblog, scream in the tags, and send me your thoughts—I love hearing them!

Word Count: 4,9k

Warnings:

Dom/sub dynamics

Bondage (wrist restraints, blindfolds)

Sensory deprivation

Teasing/edging

Overstimulation

Light power play (control exchange)

Praise kink & degradation

Explicit smut (NSFW, 18+)

Filming during intimacy (consensual)

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The sun has long since set, casting the apartment in a soft, amber glow from the scattered lamps and flickering city lights beyond the windows. The atmosphere is quiet but thick, charged with an energy that’s been simmering all day.

Harry hasn’t been able to sit still since breakfast. Since the second you let those words leave your mouth, his mind has been stuck in a loop, replaying the taunt in every possible iteration.

You better get some rest, H. You’re gonna need it.

That smug, teasing lilt in your voice had made his stomach clench, and it’s only gotten worse as the day dragged on. You’d spent hours dangling the promise of something wicked just out of his reach—brushing your fingers over his skin when you walked by, pressing fleeting kisses to his jaw with a knowing smirk, leaning in like you were about to whisper something obscene only to breathe out the most innocent words.

Every touch, every look, every casual brush of your body against his had been designed to drive him absolutely fucking insane. And it had worked.

Harry is restless now, standing in the middle of the bedroom in nothing but his boxers, running a hand through his curls with a huffed exhale. He can’t focus on anything else. His fingers flex at his sides, aching to grab, to pull, to take back the control he’s always had—but he knows.

Tonight, that control doesn’t belong to him.

He turns when he hears you enter, and fuck, if the sight of you doesn’t nearly send him to his knees. You stand in the doorway, silhouetted by the soft light spilling in from the hall, wrapped in the sheerest little thing he’s ever seen. It’s barely there, teasing at modesty but offering nothing close to it. His throat goes dry, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

You take your time approaching, like you have all the time in the world, and when you finally stop in front of him, you tilt your head, assessing him with those sharp, knowing eyes.

“Been waiting all day, haven’t you?”

The question is a slow drag of silk across his skin, and he swallows hard, already fighting to keep his breathing even. “You know I have.”

Your lips twitch. “Poor thing.”

Harry’s jaw tenses, his nostrils flaring as he watches the slow, deliberate way you reach up to trace a single fingertip down his chest. It’s barely a touch, but it might as well be a goddamn brand. He feels it everywhere.

You lean in, close enough that your breath ghosts over his lips but never touches. “I think it’s time we make something clear.”

His breath stutters. “Yeah?”

Your fingers trail lower, dipping just beneath the waistband of his boxers before pulling away just as fast, leaving him clenching his teeth to keep from groaning.

“Mhm,” you hum, circling him slowly, letting your hands skim along his shoulders, his back, his sides—everywhere but where he needs you. “You like to be in charge, don’t you, H?”

His lips part slightly, but no words come.

You smile, dragging your nails lightly down his spine, enjoying the way his muscles twitch beneath your touch. “You like to call the shots. Like to make the rules. Like to watch me fall apart for you.”

His breathing is heavier now, chest rising and falling just a little too quickly.

You step back around to face him, tilting your chin up as you look him dead in the eye. “But tonight? That’s not your job.”

His pupils dilate.

You reach up, fisting a hand in his curls and giving the slightest, sharpest tug. His mouth parts on a quiet inhale, his lashes fluttering just barely, and fuck, if that isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

“Tonight, you listen,” you murmur, your other hand splaying flat against his chest, feeling the way his heart pounds beneath your palm. “You do exactly as I say. You give me everything I want.”

A sharp exhale leaves him, and you see it—the way his body shudders, the way his restraint cracks, the way his control fractures beneath the weight of your words.

And when you tighten your grip in his hair, pulling his head back just slightly to expose the long, gorgeous line of his throat, you swear you hear him whimper.

Your smirk is slow, dangerous. “Understand?”

His throat bobs as he swallows, his breathing ragged. And when he finally manages to get a word out, it’s barely more than a rasped whisper.

“Yes.”

You hum, pleased, releasing his hair and stepping back. His gaze stays locked onto you, his hands twitching at his sides like he wants to reach for you but knows he shouldn’t. Not yet.

“Good boy.”

The sound that leaves him is a low, strangled groan, his head tilting back slightly, his hands flexing into fists. And god, that does something to you.

You take another step back, eyes dragging over his flushed skin, his tensed muscles, the way his cock is already straining against his boxers, eager, desperate.

Your smirk deepens.

“You’re going to wish you never made me wait.”

Harry’s breath shudders. You can see it—the sharp, involuntary inhale, the way his throat works as he swallows. His entire body is pulled tight, his muscles tensed beneath his flushed skin, his hands still clenched into fists at his sides like he’s trying to keep himself in check.

It won’t last.

You step forward again, slow and deliberate, letting your fingers ghost over his collarbones, down his arms, over the flex of his biceps. His pulse pounds beneath his skin, fast and frantic, and you know that under all that bravado, under all his usual arrogance and control, he’s waiting.

Waiting for you to make your next move.

Waiting for you to break him.

And tonight? You will.

“Hands,” you murmur, holding out yours in silent command.

Harry hesitates, just for a second, and that’s all it takes for you to arch a brow, giving him a look that makes his breath stutter. He exhales slowly, jaw tensing as he finally lifts his hands, palms up, wrists together, offering himself to you.

He’s never done this before—never let you take the lead like this. And it must be killing him, giving up that control. But the way his pupils are blown wide, the way his cock is already straining against his boxers, the way his breath is coming in uneven little pants?

He likes it.

A slow, satisfied smirk pulls at your lips as you reach for the soft silk you’d left on the bed. It’s deep crimson, expensive, cool against your fingers. The same one he’s used on you before, tied tight enough to keep you in place while he had his way with you.

It’s poetic, really.

The hunter becoming the hunted.

The predator becoming the prey.

You loop the silk around his wrists, wrapping it securely, knotting it tight enough to make sure he feels it. Tight enough that every little twitch, every failed attempt to reach for you, will remind him exactly where he stands tonight.

His breathing is heavier now, the rise and fall of his chest growing more pronounced. His fingers flex slightly, like he’s testing the binds, like he’s already restless.

Good.

You let your hands drag down his arms, featherlight, trailing lower—along his ribs, down the hard lines of his stomach, stopping just at the waistband of his boxers. His muscles jump beneath your touch, his entire body pulled taut like a live wire. You can feel the anticipation rolling off him, thick and tangible, crackling like static in the air.

He’s waiting for the next move.

For your next command.

You reach for the second piece of silk—the blindfold.

His jaw tenses as he watches you, eyes flicking between the fabric and your face.

“Problem?” you murmur, tilting your head.

Harry exhales hard through his nose, his fingers curling into his palms before he shakes his head. “No.”

Your lips twitch.

“Good.”

You lift the blindfold, pressing it over his eyes, securing it behind his head with a slow, practiced knot. The moment the fabric settles into place, stripping him of his sight, his entire body reacts—his breathing stutters, his shoulders tense, his throat works through another swallow.

He’s not used to this.

Not used to being the one left in the dark.

Not used to not knowing.

And fuck, if that isn’t the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

You step back, taking a moment to admire him—standing there, bare except for his boxers, arms bound in front of him, eyes covered, every muscle tight with restraint.

Waiting.

It would be so easy to drag this out. To tease him. To make him beg.

But first, you want to make sure every single moment of this is captured.

You turn, reaching for the camera—already set up at the foot of the bed, perfectly angled. The red light blinks steadily, waiting to be turned on.

Your finger hovers over the button for just a second before pressing down.

Record.

The soft beep fills the silence, and Harry shifts. His head tilts slightly, like he’s trying to follow the sound, like he’s listening in a way he never usually has to.

He’s so used to watching. To seeing. To drinking in every little reaction, every shift in your expression, every tremble, every gasp.

But not tonight.

Tonight, all he has is what you let him hear. What you let him feel.

And the camera?

The camera will see it all.

You step forward again, letting your fingertips just barely graze the waistband of his boxers. He jolts slightly, his breath catching, his fingers twitching against the silk binding his wrists.

“Mm,” you hum, tilting your head as you watch his reaction. “So responsive.”

His throat bobs.

“You always watch me, don’t you, H?” Your voice is nothing more than a low, taunting whisper. “Always studying me. Reading me. Seeing everything.”

A sharp exhale leaves him, his fingers flexing again.

“But not tonight.”

You drag a single fingertip up the center of his chest, slow and deliberate, tracing over his sternum, up his throat, stopping just beneath his jaw. His breath shudders at the contact, his head tipping back slightly.

“You’re not going to see anything.” Your voice is a slow drag of heat against his skin. “You’re just going to feel.”

He lets out a quiet curse under his breath, and fuck, you haven’t even done anything yet.

His wrists flex against the silk bindings, muscles straining beneath his skin. The blindfold is firm over his eyes, cutting off his sight, leaving him in darkness, forced to rely on every other sense—every rustle of fabric, every slow inhale, every shift in the air around him.

You watch the rise and fall of his chest, the way his body twitches, already on edge before you’ve even touched him. It’s intoxicating.

You reach for the first tool of your torment—a feather, soft and teasing between your fingers.

The first touch is light, barely there, trailing down the column of his throat.

Harry inhales sharply.

You drag it lower, across his collarbone, letting the fine strands skim over his flushed skin. His body jerks, but he stays still, just as you commanded.

“See?” you murmur, letting the feather dance down the center of his chest. “Not so easy, is it?”

His jaw clenches.

You smile, moving lower, circling his navel, then dipping just below it. Not touching where he wants you most—where he’s already hard, already aching, cock pressing against the fabric of his boxers—but teasing close enough that he can feel it, that it drives him insane.

A shaky breath escapes him. His fingers curl, his knuckles turning white against the bindings.

You switch tactics. The feather is gone, replaced by something sharper—ice.

He barely has time to register the shift before you press the melting cube just beneath his ribs. He hisses through his teeth, his stomach muscles flexing beneath the sudden chill.

You drag it lower. Down his abdomen. Along the crease of his hip.

“You’re so fucking reactive,” you hum, tilting your head as you watch him. “I wonder if you even realize how desperate you look right now.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. His lips part slightly, but he stays silent, obeying the rule you gave him. No speaking unless given permission.

You grin. “Good boy.”

The cube melts against his overheated skin, leaving trails of wetness in its wake. You lean down, dragging your tongue along one of them, tasting the contrast between the cold water and the warmth of his body.

Harry shudders. His hips jerk just slightly, an instinctual movement, a plea without words.

But he still doesn’t speak.

You press your lips to the side of his throat. “You’re holding back so well,” you whisper, brushing your mouth over the shell of his ear. “But tell me, H… how does it feel to be the one waiting?”

His entire body tenses. His head tilts slightly toward your voice, breath uneven.

“Every time you made me beg,” you continue, trailing your fingers lightly over his stomach, over his thighs, skipping where he needs you. “Every time you made me fall apart before giving me what I wanted… was it this frustrating?”

His exhale is sharp, ragged. His fingers twitch in their bindings.

You click your tongue. “Nothing to say?”

He grits his teeth. His self-control is fraying. You can see it in every tremble of his muscles, in the way his cock twitches beneath the thin fabric of his boxers.

You decide to break him further.

A vibrator—small, powerful—presses against the inside of his thigh.

Harry jolts.

You smirk. “Didn’t expect that, did you?”

His breathing turns shallow. His thighs tense beneath your hands as you move the toy slowly, so fucking slowly, up his leg. You keep it just off to the side, letting the vibrations buzz against the sensitive skin, but never where he really needs it.

He groans, his head tilting back against the pillows. His hands pull against the silk binding, fighting the urge to grab, to take control.

You turn the setting higher.

His breath stutters.

You trace the toy up and down, teasing the crease of his hip, the dip of his lower stomach. He’s so hard now it has to be painful, his cock straining against the fabric, leaking at the tip. But you don’t touch him there.

Not yet.

His body twitches beneath you, muscles flexing, every inch of him practically vibrating with need.

Finally, you lean in close, lips brushing his ear. “All you have to do is ask, baby.”

A deep, wrecked noise leaves his throat. His fingers curl tight, his body trembling.

But he doesn’t speak.

You smile against his skin. “That’s what I thought.”

And with that, you pull the vibrator away completely.

His entire body tenses—his breath catching, his head snapping forward as if to search for you through the blindfold.

You don’t say a word. You don’t touch him.

You just leave him there.

Waiting.

The silence is suffocating. The kind that stretches, thick and heavy, wrapping around his body like a vice. Every nerve in his skin is burning, still buzzing from everything you’ve done to him—and from everything you haven’t.

Harry swallows hard. His lips part slightly, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. He’s teetering right on the edge of breaking, right on the brink of snapping, and he knows it.

But he also knows you know it.

You’re watching him. Studying him. Taking in the way his muscles tense, the way his fingers twitch against their bindings, the way his cock is so painfully hard against his stomach that he’s sure it’s leaving a damp spot on the fabric.

Still, you wait.

Still, you make him suffer.

And fuck, it’s working.

A strangled groan tears from his throat, his jaw clenching, his head falling back against the pillow in a mixture of frustration and submission. His hips jerk slightly, instinctively seeking friction that isn’t there, and when that gets him nothing, he finally exhales a shaky breath.

“…Please.”

It’s quiet. A whisper. A ghost of a plea.

You smirk.

Your hands finally move—slowly, deliberately—dragging the tips of your fingers down his chest. The touch is featherlight, barely there, but after everything, it feels like fire against his overstimulated skin.

You trace the ridges of his stomach, your nails scraping just lightly enough to make him shudder, before your fingers dip lower—down the sharp line of his hip bones, toward the waistband of his boxers.

He sucks in a breath.

Your fingers hook into the fabric. You tug them down, exposing him completely, watching the way his cock twitches as it’s freed. He’s flushed, aching, so fucking hard it must be painful.

You hum in approval, letting your fingers ghost up his thighs—still not where he needs them.

“You look so pretty like this,” you murmur, tilting your head as you take him in. “So desperate. So fucking needy.”

A frustrated noise escapes him, his arms flexing against the restraints, and you know he’s fighting every instinct, every urge to take control.

You drag a single fingertip up the length of him, barely a touch, just enough to send a shiver through his entire body.

His breath stutters.

You wrap your fingers around him, finally giving him what he wants—but it’s slow. Torturously slow. Your grip is barely there, your strokes light, teasing, dragging this out for as long as possible.

Harry groans, his hips lifting slightly into your touch.

Immediately, you stop.

His entire body jerks, a strangled noise catching in his throat.

You lean in close, your lips grazing the corner of his mouth. “No,” you whisper. “You don’t get to take.”

A sharp exhale leaves him, his head tilting forward slightly, as if he’s trying to chase the touch of your lips.

You smile. “You wait until I say.”

And then you start again.

Your hand moves, slow and steady, working him up, pushing him right to the brink before stopping. Again. And again. And again.

Each time, his moans get rougher. His breathing gets more ragged. His body trembles beneath you, muscles clenching, thighs shaking.

By the third time, he’s wrecked.

By the fourth, he’s pleading.

His voice is strained, thick with desperation, edged with something wrecked and ruined. “Please. Fuck—please, baby—”

You hum, dragging your thumb lazily over the head of his cock, watching the way his stomach flexes, the way he twitches beneath you. “Please what?”

A growl rumbles in his chest, but it’s weak, a last-ditch attempt at control. “Need—”

You squeeze him just slightly. He gasps.

You tilt your head. “Need what, H?”

His lips part, but no words come out at first. He’s shaking now, his breath unsteady, his body barely able to keep up with the pleasure you’ve denied him.

And then—finally—he breaks.

His voice is barely a rasp. Barely a whisper.

“Need to come.”

A satisfied smile spreads across your lips.

You reach for the blindfold, sliding it off slowly, watching as his lashes flutter, his pupils blown wide, his lips swollen from biting back moans. His entire body is wrecked, ruined, trembling beneath you.

And still—you’re not done.

You reach for the camera, tilting it slightly, adjusting the angle so it captures every last bit of his destruction.

Then you grip his jaw, tilting his face toward it.

“Look at the lens,” you murmur. “Tell them what you want.”

His throat bobs. His fingers curl into fists. His entire body is pulled so tight it’s a miracle he hasn’t snapped yet.

He shakes his head slightly, still fighting, still resisting even now.

You click your tongue, leaning in to press your lips just beneath his ear.

“Tell them,” you whisper. “Or I stop.”

His breath stutters. His stomach clenches. He’s silent for one more second—one final, useless attempt at control.

Then, he caves.

His voice is hoarse, wrecked, barely above a whisper.

“Please… let me come.”

You smirk.

“Good boy.”

And then, finally, you give him what he wants.

The second your grip tightens around him, Harry lets out the most wrecked, guttural sound you’ve ever heard. His body tenses, every muscle coiled so tightly that he looks like he might snap apart from the sheer force of restraint he’s been clinging to.

But now?

Now, you’re tearing that restraint away.

Your hand moves with a new intensity—firm, deliberate, slick and merciless as you stroke him, dragging him past the brink he’s been teetering on for what feels like eternity. His hips lift instinctively, but this time, you let him. Let him chase, let him need, let him take because you know he can’t hold back anymore.

Not when you finally wrap your lips around the head of his cock.

The sound he makes is devastating. A choked, desperate groan, his head snapping back against the pillows, his hands flexing uselessly in their bindings. His thighs shake violently beneath your touch, his entire body shuddering with overstimulation as you take him deeper, your tongue swirling, your mouth working him with obscene, filthy precision.

You glance up, and fuck, the sight of him alone could make you come.

His lips are parted, glossy and swollen from the way he’s been biting them. His face is flushed, a deep, intoxicating pink spreading down his throat, across his chest. His eyes—blown wide, dark, glassy—are locked onto the camera now, completely undone, completely gone.

And it’s all yours.

You moan around him just to watch him shudder, just to watch his stomach clench, his fingers twitch, his entire body tremble beneath you. You work him ruthlessly, your hand and mouth moving in tandem, swallowing every wrecked noise, every desperate plea that spills from his lips.

“F-Fuck—” His voice is barely there, strangled, raw. “Gonna—fuck, baby, I’m—”

You don’t slow.

You don’t stop.

You push him further, letting the camera capture every second, every sound, every fucking moment of him falling apart for you.

Until finally—finally—he breaks.

He comes with a shattered moan, his entire body jolting, his stomach tensing, his thighs trembling beneath your grip. You take it all, swallowing everything, letting him ride it out, dragging him through every last second of pleasure until he’s whimpering, gasping, his entire frame quaking with the force of it.

And even then—you don’t let up.

Your mouth stays on him, your tongue flicking over the most sensitive spots, your hand milking every last drop from his exhausted body. His noises turn wrecked, overstimulated, raw—half-groans, half-pleas, too fucked-out to form real words.

You finally pull back, pressing a soft, satisfied kiss to the inside of his thigh, and sit back to admire your work.

He’s a mess.

Fucked-out, wrecked, panting, struggling to even hold himself together. His chest is heaving, his skin is damp with sweat, his curls are an absolute disaster against the pillows. His wrists are still flexed against the bindings, as if his body hasn’t realized he doesn’t have to fight anymore.

You smirk, reaching up to trail your fingers through his damp hair, tugging just enough to make his dazed eyes flutter open.

“That’s one,” you murmur, thumb brushing along his cheek.

His breath stutters.

You lean in close, letting your lips barely ghost over his.

“Hope you’re not too tired, baby.” A slow, wicked smirk spreads across your lips. “This is only the beginning.”

Harry makes a sound—somewhere between a whimper and a groan—his body still twitching beneath you, aftershocks rolling through him like waves. His chest is rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths, his lips parted, glossy from where he’s been gasping and moaning your name.

But his eyes—fuck, his eyes.

Blown-wide pupils, dark and glassy, flickering between your face and the camera that’s still rolling, still capturing every tremor in his ruined body. He looks completely wrecked. Helpless. Gone.

And you love it.

You drag your fingers through his curls again, tugging lightly, watching the way his lashes flutter, the way he tilts his head toward your touch without thinking. His body is still begging for more, even when he’s barely recovered from the last round.

A smug smirk tugs at your lips. “What’s wrong, baby?” you murmur, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Too much for you?”

Harry lets out a weak, breathless laugh, his voice hoarse. “You’re fucking evil.”

You hum, tilting your head. “Am I?” Your fingers trail lazily down his chest, over his stomach, feeling every little twitch and shudder beneath your touch. “Because you seemed to like it.”

His throat bobs. His fingers curl into fists against the bindings. His entire body is still betraying him, even as he struggles to collect himself.

You lean down, lips brushing over his jaw, over the shell of his ear. “You looked so pretty coming for me,” you whisper. “The camera got every second of it. Every sound. Every shake.”

A deep, wrecked groan rumbles in his chest. His arms tense, muscles flexing as if he wants to grab you, flip you over, reclaim control—but he can’t.

You don’t let him.

Instead, you take your time, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down his throat, his chest, letting your hands wander, letting your nails scrape lightly over the most sensitive spots you’ve mapped out so well.

And when you settle between his thighs again, you feel him jolt.

“Fuck—” His head snaps up, eyes wide, body tensing as he realizes what you’re about to do.

You smirk.

“You didn’t think we were done, did you?”

His breath shudders. His hips twitch instinctively, his entire body caught between sensitivity and lingering arousal.

“I—” His voice catches. His jaw clenches. His head falls back against the pillows. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He’s still catching his breath, sprawled out on the bed, body twitching from overstimulation, sweat dampening his curls. His chest rises and falls in uneven gasps, skin flushed, muscles trembling. He looks wrecked—completely, utterly ruined. But even in his haze, his mind is racing.

Between deep breaths, he finally mutters, “You know… people would lose their fucking minds over that.” His voice is hoarse, thick with exhaustion but laced with something darker.

You pretend not to know what he’s talking about, running your fingers lazily down his chest, feeling the way his skin jumps under your touch. Your fingertips trace over his sternum, then lower, following the slick heat of his body. The camera is still recording, its tiny red light blinking steadily beside you. You let your nails scrape lightly down his stomach before dragging them back up.

“Over what, H?” you murmur, tilting your head as if you don’t already know.

His smirk returns, slow and knowing, despite the wreckage of his body. It starts at the corner of his lips before spreading, that signature, lazy grin that always spells trouble.

“Over you,” he says, voice a little steadier now. “Over the way you just ruined me on film.”

Your breath catches, thighs pressing together at the way he says it. The way his accent curls around the words. He shifts, propping himself up slightly, green eyes dark and heavy-lidded as he watches your reaction.

A thrill runs through you, sparking at the base of your spine, igniting something dangerous. The idea of putting one of your videos online—of letting strangers see just how completely he falls apart for you—sends a shiver through you.

You bite your lip, pretending to think about it, but you both know you’re already considering it. The temptation is there, thick in the air between you.

“We could do a test run,” you suggest lightly, reaching for the camera. He watches you, expression unreadable, as you scroll through the recorded clips, replaying snippets from the night.

His moans, the way his body tenses, the raw need in his voice—it’s all there, captured in crystal-clear detail.

“This one,” you murmur, hovering over the first video you ever made together. The lighting is low, the angles perfect, the chemistry undeniable. It’s art, in its own filthy way.

His breath catches. He wasn’t expecting that. He thought you were teasing again, pushing his buttons just to watch him squirm. But now? Now, you’re serious.

The video is right there. One click. One upload. A whole new world of possibility.

You exchange a look, your fingers hovering over the button.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

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knight-a3 · 1 year ago

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Just some pre-triple changer Blitzwing and his best buddy Astrotrain.

Some ideas for what happened to the other triple changers(aka every successful experiment has a few failures preceding it)

I ramble on under the cut

SO! I know the S4 plans had it outlined that Black Arachnia was the one who did the triple changer procedure on Blitzwing, but it doesn't totally make sense for her to do it imo. None of the S4 plans were ever set in stone anyway, so it's not actually canon. I just don't see much precedent for her to do that. Where did this medical skill set come from?

Historically, iterations of Shockwave have been the resident unethical scientists. In TFA, he was shown to be capable enough to restore Arcee's memory, so I think there's grounds to believe he can still play that role.

Whoever it was, Blitzwing couldn't be the first test subject. What other triple changers do we know of that could potentially meet a tragic fate? 🤔

So my idea was that the Decepticons captured three autobots and decided to use them as test subjects for this revolutionary new triple changer idea. Two alt forms? Truly a game changer!

Broadside was a former con(due to his jet alt form) turned autobot. He was a total failure. Never made it off the operating table.

Sandstorm lasted a little longer. But his body soon rejected the modifications, and he went offline.

Springer lasted long enough to be rescued/escape. But his mental stability gradually declined until the mods failed and he also died.

After these three experiments failed, they turned to some of their own troops.

Octane was not a particularly well respected Decepticon, which is why he ended up being a test subject. He survived, but suffered severe mental damage and was deemed useless. Probably tossed out like trash and left to rust. If not outright killed.

Astrotrain: Considered the first success. The mental damages were minimized and he was initially fairly stable, but his transformation abilities became more sluggish over time. And he suffered increasingly severe mental lapses. He'd either stare vacantly or suddenly drop into recharge mode. They were worse if he didn't get enough energon, gradually requiring more and more to keep him going. Weapons capabilities were lost to conserve energy. He was on a transport mission when a lapse got him killed and Blitzwing injured(which made him the next triple changer test subject).

(Also, I don't like drastic mass shifting, so Astrotrain is bigger than the others. And I think I'm gonna treat him more like he's a portable space bridge, rather than big enough to carry multiple Decepticons. He can bridge others from the decepticon base to himself, or to base from himself (it's still a strategic disadvantage compared to the autobots' large network of space bridges). This requires Astrotrain to still physically travel places in order to transport others. And losing weapon capabilities requires an escort to travel with him. The other option is a pocket dimension like Swindle's)

Blitzwing: His personality was fractured, leading to erratic behavior. Turns out the fracture eased the processing load caused by the triple changing modification. But otherwise in working order physically and mentally. He's lasted longer than the others, and his condition hasn't deteriorated since.

ANYWAY, this has been my attempt to reconcile some headcanons with canon. While also maybe tweaking canon a little to fit

#transformers #Blitzwing #tfa blitzwing #transformers animated #tfa #astrotrain #fanart #a3 art #traditional art #sketches #headcanons #triple changers #Train boy and friends

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reboundttv · 4 months ago

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Another one of these posts? Yeah sure why not.

So I know that there's a sort of, tongue in cheek joke about how the AU that Ekko ends up in, is WAY better because Vi is dead. That's a big one that people love to harp on: "oh Vi is dead in this universe and everything is okay HMMMMMMM how INTERESTING perhaps VI was the jinx after all HMMMMMM"

and like. no. shut up.

Because there are (no less than) TWO specific canon divergences that we are aware of in S2E7 that contribute to the way the cities are in that universe. The first is, obviously, that Violet dies in the heist in S1E1.

As an aside, I 100% agree with/believe the wiki entry that says that Vi and Caitlyn are soulmates in every universe, which means that Caitlyn probably also died in the Hextech explosion.

So Vi (and Caitlyn) dies and Hextech doesn't get developed. Neither Jayce nor Viktor are shown in this universe, so one or both of them are dead (Jayce likely via suicide if he wasn't imprisoned or exiled, and Viktor because he doesn't ascend to be Super Jesus with the Hexcore).

But there is another, less obvious one that gets a fair bit of screentime but isn't really like, touched on. And that is:

ZAUNDADS.

Silco and Vander are cool with each other. That's really important. It means that either:

They didn't fight because Silco found the note from Vander (S2E6), OR

They DID fight, but stopped themselves before they did something they regretted.

See, because in the main universe, neither of those things happen. Silco nearly gets drowned and gets bunch of sump water all up in his face, so he becomes dependent on Shimmer to keep the bacteria in his eye from killing him. He would assumedly lean on Singed to iterate on the formula, which is why he becomes the kingpin and rules over the Chembarons. The production of Shimmer, and its propagation through the streets of Zaun, contributes to things being arguably EVEN WORSE for the Zaunites.

But in the AU universe, he doesn't need Shimmer. I would argue that Singed is probably still on some fuckshit, but isn't helping anyone make Shimmer or chemtanks. This means that a lot of the industrial waste and runoff that's a byproduct of Shimmer production is also not there. Zaun isn't just better off because there's no Hextech, but also because there's no Shimmer.

Now, I'm gonna point a third thing out and I'mma use big ass letters so you can't miss it:

PILTOVER STILL DOES NOT SEE ZAUN AS EQUALS.

The heist still happens in this universe, which means that Vi and the other kids are still adopted by Vander. Which means that bridge riots or something similar still happened. There is still inequity and injustice in this universe; it's just not as dire as it is in the main one. They're still talking about Piltover like "yo fuck those guys" but it's less "they're hunting us for sport and killing us in the streets" and more "we're gonna show 'em up in this STEM contest that we're doing."

They're basically farther along in the "things will get better" timeframe than the main one is after S2E9.

#arcane #caitlyn kiramman #vi arcane #arcane season 2 spoilers #caitvi #arcane season 2 #violet arcane #timebomb #ekkojinx #zaundads #vander #silco #arcane silco

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zayne-s · 7 months ago

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promise you forever

steddie ☆ 971 ☆ cw: none ☆ appalachian eddie ☆ao3

“phone for ya, eds,” wayne chuckles as he comes out of the house to the front porch where everyone’s sitting. “think your boy’s had one too many.”

eddie frowns and stamps down the worry bubbling inside him. steve rarely ever drinks anymore. doesn’t smoke anymore, either. not since starcourt. eddie slides off the porch swing where he’d been sitting with his aunt pep and goes inside to the wall phone in the kitchen, the receiver laying on the counter.

“steve?” he says, lifting the phone to his ear.

“country boy, i love youuuuuuuu!”

steve’s words are slurred, which doesn’t make eddie any less panicked. what happened? was he okay? eddie leaves to visit his family for one week and he can’t seem to escape the horrors that hawkins, indiana seems to breed every day.

“stevie? baby, you okay?” eddie tries to keep his voice from shaking.

there’s a laugh on the other line and steve flat out yells into the phone, “eddie! hi!” yep. he’s definitely drunk. eddie strains to hear any background noise that would give any hints as to where steve is at, but it’s silent.

eddie’s knuckles grip the phone. “where are you, sweetheart? are you safe?”

steve makes a grumbling noise, like he’s talking to someone else and eddie doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or worse.

“i’m fiiiiiine, eds,” steve says after another second of grumbling. “teds. teddy. teddy bear.” he starts listing ever iteration of eddie’s name, and eddie doesn’t want him to stop. if he keeps going, then eddie knows he’s not in immediate danger.

“dingus! stop hogging the phone!”

wait.

“robbie, i’m trying to talk to me boyfriend,” steve whines and there’s sounds of a scuffle and “no—hey—robin, it’s still my turn—!”

“hi, eddie!” robin’s voice is suddenly in his ear and sounding just as drunk as steve. jesus christ, eddie’s never leaving them unsupervised again.

eddie sighs and runs a hand down his face. “robin, where the hell are you? and why are you drunk?” these two are gonna finish what the bats started and put him in an early grave, he swears it.

on her end, robin groans. “dingus!” she scolds steve. “you didn’t remind him?”

“remind me of what, bobbie?” eddie asks. now that he’s sure the two of them are somewhat coherent and probably not in danger, he feels so fucking tired all of a sudden.

“it’s my birthday, doofus!”

well now eddie feels awful. steve reminded him before he and wayne left, but in all the excitement of seeing the rest of his family again, it slipped eddie’s mind.

robin continues, “and you, theodore munson!”

if eddie thought he was off the hook, he’s dead wrong. he’s never hearing the end of this now. it’s not likely, but maybe luck will be on his side for once and she’ll forget this conversation ever happened.

“you owe me a birthday breakfast, lunch, and dinner when you get back. and you have to buy me a present.”

eddie rests his forehead on the wall as a laugh bubbles up out of his chest at the ridiculousness of the situation. “alright, birdie,” he promises. “as soon as i get back, i’ll start right on it and get you the most expensive present i can afford.”

“it better break your bank account, munson!” she threatens, but eddie knows she’s bluffing.

“alright, birthday girl, can you put steve back on?”

robin yells out for steve. “you better not be doing any hanky panky on my birthday, dingus,” she warns before steve comes on the line.

“hi, baby.” he’s definitely still drunk, but he’s quieter, not yelling into the phone like he was a few minutes ago.

warmth fills eddie’s chest and he leans his shoulder on the wall, angling himself away from the door to give himself a sense of privacy in case anyone comes inside. “hey sweetheart,” he says just as softly. “you two having fun?”

he can practically see steve’s nod. “mhm,” he confirms. “miss you, though. wish you were here.”

eddie’s gonna marry this boy someday, just you wait.

“i miss you, too, sugar,” eddie tells him. “wayne said he thinks you’ve had a little too much to drink.”

“no i haven’t!” steve’s voice raises for a second before dropping back down again. “just had one… three… four beers, i promise.”

eddie hums, not bothering to hide the amused grin on his face. “uh-huh. s'at why you sound drunker than a skunk, right now, sweet thing?”

steve huffs and eddie wants so badly to kiss the pout off his boyfriends lips. “m'not drunk,” he says without any real argument.

“alright, i believe you,” eddie concedes. he can’t help but to let a little worry back in. he bites his lip. “can you promise me something, stevie?”

steve’s answer is immediate and almost shatters eddie’s heart. “i’ll promise you forever, teddy.”

eddie takes a breather to calm himself down so he doesn’t jump in wayne’s truck and make the five hour drive back to hawkins. “promise me you’ll call nancy if either of you start to feel weird?”

steve hums in his ear, like a purring cat. “i promise, baby. cross my heart ‘n everything.”

eddie grins and wishes he was there in front of him so he could touch him. “thank you. i won’t keep you any longer, then. i’m sure birdie’s getting impatient.”

“she’s always impatient,” steve huffs. “it’s her best quality.”

there’s no argument there.

“i love you, stevie. call me tomorrow when you wake up?”

steve sighs softly. “i love you, eddie.” he makes exaggerated kissing noises over the phone until he hangs up.

eddie hangs the receiver up. he’s here in his grandmother’s kitchen, surrounded by his family, but his heart has never felt as full as it does in this moment.

buy me a ☕?

#steddie #steddie ficlet #appalachian eddie #.txt #.doc

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alilobsessive · 3 months ago

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To quote DC.com:

'As a young child, Jonathan Crane was subjected to sick and twisted experiments on fear conducted by his own father. Emotionally scarred and mentally unstable from the ordeal, Crane spent his childhood living in fear until he made an important realization—if he could control fear, it would never again control him. Over time, this interest in fear become an obsession.'

Do you think Crow accidentally reminds Jon of his own childhood? From the 'training', negligence, abandonment, and how it twisted him? Does he see himself in Reader? Does it feel like healing himself when he teaches Crow how to be a villain? Do you think he cried, in private, realizing he broke the cycle of abuse when Crow called him dad the first time? That he's proud he's a better father than his ever was?

Do you think Scarecrow hated himself, as much as he did his father, the first time a canister of Fear Gas leaked and he found Crow in a fetal position? That he had, even inadvertently, made his child as afraid as his dad did to him?

BRO! Omg bro! Yes! Absolutely yes! Holy shit, I didn’t even know that about Jon! But I want to add a bit onto the abuse and that is no one not one of the Batfam members or Reader themselves realized the training was abuse.

Bruce was harsher on Reader not because of a hatred, taking out his anger on them or any of the usual reasons abuse occurs. This man genuinely believes he was helping and was able to convince Dick and Jason of that to whenever/if they pointed out the difference in treatment. He didn’t believe in Reader for a second, no matter how much reader provided themselves all he saw was a weak child. He was harder on them because he thought the normal training methods would never work on them. It got worse after Jason’s death because he was scared they would die just like him if they were ever on the field. Bruce completely gave up on them the second Tim came in. He finally had an excuse to fully cut them off. He loves reader, just not in any way that mattered. In a sense he was correct without that cruel training he wouldn’t have created on of his worst villains.

Reader understood that training was meant to be difficult. They never realized that what Bruce was doing was straight up cruel until they started working with Jon. Even then it took Jon pointing it out to them to realize it was abuse. Reader already grew to hate Bruce, but this? This realization truly made him dead to them.

Scarecrow finding them trembling in fear from a leaking canister? Absolutely devastating, his first instinct isn’t even to get the antidote, it’s to comfort his child. He only does so once Reader tries to scratch his face off while high on the drug. After that every iteration of the Crow suit has a built in gas mask and they carry around antidotes for the serum, so that nothing like that can happen again.

#crow reader

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meanbossart · 8 months ago

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Now I’m thinking about Astarion sitting on Bhaalist DU Drow’s chest and having to pause before and after every cut because there’s a bit of him that fucking hates what his life has become he’s not free, not really, he’s in a gilded cage with a jewel encrusted collar and it’s all the luxury he’s ever dreamed of but it’s not what he wanted

But also… this is the best he’s going to get, isn’t it? He can just sit back and look pretty, and that’s what he did before but at least with Bhaalist Drow he doesn’t have to worry about saying something wrong and being flayed and fed rotten rats.

Would Bhaalist Drow see it? Would he care? That fractional moment of indecision as Astarion thinks a bit too long and a bit too hard about how to handle the blade. That cut that ends/begins right at the corner of his eye, the same eye that held the tadpole that brought them together in the first place.

A subtle twitch of muscle as Astarion imagines for a moment the blade slipping to the wrong side of the socket…

(This got a bit away from me I think)

Hey glad you're having fun with the concept 👹

DU Drow would definitely see it, and he would definitely care, but ever since his pre-tadpole days he's had a supernatural skill for self-inflicted delusion and justification like none other. Once he makes his mind up about someone, it takes truly drastic measures to make him reevaluate his assumptions - this is especially true about romantic interests. Orin was just stubborn, but she would never dream of hurting him and will come around one day to accept his affections. Astarion isn't always satisfied with the limitations imposed upon him, but that's because he's ornery, and a little spoiled, of course he knows deep inside that this is for his own good, that they're soulmates.

All iterations of DU Drow believe in "tough love" and the idea that sometimes, you must do things that hurt your lover for their ultimate benefit. Campaign/post-tadpole DU Drow practices this a lot more reasonably, but as a Bhaalist and the all powerful slayer of the world the concept would be taken to it's worse extreme. Of course Astarion is often unhappy; that's because he doesn't understand the sacrifices that he must make for them, but he will eventually and then he will fall into place.

What he definitely wouldn't do is betray him in any way, just sulk and whine - anything beyond that is a complete impossibility in Du Drow's mind (and that goes for all versions of him, really).

#ask #bhaalist du drow #du drow and astarion

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purrgiri · 3 months ago

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So i just saw a post that brought up how sonic caused an international incident stealing the crown jewels on his way to cause a different worse international incident and someone brought up how sonic is uncheckable and knows it and now i can't stop thinking about it

Yeah it's really nothing new not for fictional heroes and definitely not for sonic in most iterations if sonic decides he wants to wipe out everyone or take over the world he doesn't even need a full hand to count the number of people who could even try to stop him he is so far ahead of nearly everyone in power it's not even funny

And that list Gets even shorter counting the number of people on it who aren't even around for most of the time

And this is especially true for movie sonic really the only one who could stop him are knuckles and shadow but considering knuckles loyalty to sonic and shadow not having a great opinion of the government to begin with if sonic decided he wants to overthrow the government out of his own free will they are more likely to help then actually try and stop him

And really only made worse because while every sonic is well aware they are pretty much untouchable they don't tend to really flant it like movie sonic does movie sonic breaks laws for the hell of it because he knows they can't touch him

If Jim won't come back as eggman and we'd have someone else like G.U.N build metal sonic this could be a good reason for it and a nice little subplot for sonic 4

Yeah sonic is a hero we as the audience know they have nothing to fear from sonic but to most normal people it's gotta be terrifying to know mankind continued existence depends on a teenage alien hedgehog not deciding to wipe out every government on earth in an afternoon jog and with sonic definitely being public knowledge now (he fought shadow in the middle of Tokyo and across multiple countries gun cannot cover this up) it's definitely something i can see as a conflict for the future

Thoughts?

#sonic movie #sonic movie 3 #sonic movie 4 #sonic 3 spoilers #sonic movie 4 theory

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m0dernchr0n1cles · 2 months ago

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Golden Child vs Scapegoat (Pre-Canon, cont.)

[set in the Black Myth, New Gods AU.]

In my previous post, I made a "Ao Bing = Adora; Nezha = Catra" analysis.

TD;DR: Ao Bing can do no wrong, or else. Nezha can do no right.

So, their reincarnations going to be a continuation of this unstable Catradora dynamic (still haven't decided if it will be romantic or not), and the twist is that they inevitably switch places.

(I will also be using/drawing inspiration from other iterations of Nezha, like LEGO Monkie Kid)

I got to watch Nezha 2, and was shocked by how little I had to change to my story. I actually got more inspiring material work with, especially for other characters, like Ao Guang and Shen Gongbao

This is how their story continues after the War of Deification.

[WARNING: mentions of child abuse, racism, workplace abuse, suicide]

In Heaven

In Heaven, their extreme positions are pushed a bit closer. Ao Bing might not be so praised, and Nezha might receive a bit more prestige.

In Investiture of the Gods, a bunch of people that Nezha killed were resurrected and defied.

Ao Bing was one of them, and became the God of Imperial Canopy Star (華蓋星 huāgàixīng), working under the Ziwei Emperor (紫薇大帝 Zǐwēi Dàdì), or the Great Emperor of the North Star.

He's also the Jade Emperor's personal umbrella carrier.

Nezha becomes the Marshal of the Central Altar (中壇元帥 zhōngtányuánshuài) and the Third Lotus Prince (蓮花三太子 liánhuāsāntàizǐ), a respected warrior and leader of armies.

Ao Bing

Ao Bing is working under one of the Jade Emperor's direct subordinates, but he is still a dragon (a demon) who was wrongfully bestowed with the Spirit Pearl. He'd receive the bare minimum respect, if any. He's disdained for existing, and yet is still expected to do his job, and is harshly criticized just for every imagined thing.

(I also doubt that Ao Bing is able to do anything to help the Dragons, and is mocked when he tried to bring it up).

Ao Bing has finally got what he's (supposedly) wanted, what he worked his life for, what he was born for, and is repaid with workplace abuse.

Shen Gongbao's warnings about, "They'll never accept us" comes true. As a result, Ao Bing feels alone, unsafe, in an extremely hostile work environment.

Nezha, on the other hand, becomes a respected general in the Celestial Army. He's given more opportunities to succeed, and more second chances when he fails. Yes, he's still the Demon Pill, but he has the support of the respected Taiyi Zhenren, which boosts his social standing. He ends up making new friends (Sun Wukong, Yang Jian, etc.) and he is finally able to reach his full potential.

But, now due to his new status, he's given more responsibilities (Celestial soldier, Child protection diety, Filial son, etc.), and he has actual reasons to not let people down.

Nezha finally gets freedom, second chances, and the approval that he desperately craved his whole life. Now, he has to not screw it up. This is compounded by his reputation of being "the Demon Child" and how easy it would be to lose all the prestige that was given to him.

Thus, he gains a bit of a martyr complex, willing to throw himself at into the battle, willing to fight to the end, all to make up for his (mostly imaginary) sins.

We already see that he has an unhealthy need to self-sacrifice in Nezha (2019) and LEGO Monkie Kid

Despite this, they still try to be friends, since they're still new to the whole "immortal member of Celestial Court), but the cracks are showing.

Ao Bing clings to the one person who makes him feel safe in the Celestial Court, where everyone is against him. He sees his only friend splitting time with other people, which makes him anxious that Nezha would ditch "the inferior demon dragon who stole his destiny as the Spirit Pearl" for "better" friends (Yang Jian/Erlang Shen, Princess Iron Fan/Rakshasi, etc.).

Even as an adult with a 9-to-5 job in the government, his father's and master's teachings are still prevalent. What's worse, he is now getting external confirmation of his deepest insecurities.

But he still wants to be Nezha's friend, so he bottles up his feelings for the sake of others, like he always does. We see Ao Bing "shut down" in the movie, when Nezha invites him to his birthday party. Judging by the resigned look and how well he concealed his true feelings means he has a lot of practice.

In many cases of emotional abuse, "shutting down" is a major symptom. It was likely a survival mechanism, since expressing his true feelings would earn him a harsher punishment. From a young age, Ao Bing learned that lying was necessary to staying safe (not just hiding his dragon identity, but avoiding Ao Guang and Shen Gongbao's wrath). He also believe that it will benefit everyone if he stops "complaining" since it would be "selfish" of him to express himself.

The problem is that this isn't making those negative feelings or insecurities go away. It causes them to bottle up and fester, and eventually that comes out in negative ways.

Sound familiar?

What’s worse is that Nezha is just going through life, making friends, having fun, as if nothing happened. He even tries to introduce Ao Bing to some of his “other friends”, which goes predictably poorly.

From Ao Bing’s perspective, Nezha is being flippant and callous. He doesn’t see how Ao Bing is sacrificing his own emotional and mental wellbeing for his best friend. He doesn’t see how Ao Bing is being mistreated in the workplace. He doesn’t see how they are growing more distant from each other.

He especially doesn’t see how Ao Bing desperately needs his best friend during an extremely trying part of his life.

This growing resentment, compounded by his already existing trauma and baggage (thanks Ao Guang and Shen Gongbao) begins to simmer (and eventually boils over).

You know where this goes...

Ao Bing has a lot of pent up rage, and this is make even more clear in Nezha 2

Nezha

Now for Nezha's side of the story...

Nezha is now a member of Heaven's military, a commanding officer responsible for millions of lives: those of his soldiers, and those that he fights to protect. If he falters, he is responsible for millions of casualties. When he makes a mistake, the consequences aren't just him, they're for everyone.

He needs to shape up, to be the bigger man, since it's not about him anymore. It's about the Three Realms, the Heavenly Court, the soldiers, and those that he fails to save. Following his father's role model, he shuts down emotionally, trying to be "the stern soldier", since that's all he knows.

Despite this, there are some benefits. As a respected soldier and deity, he's believed and respected. It's easier to make friends. He tries to be more open and sociable, and is met with open arms and validation. But, on some level, he knows that all this "love" is conditional, tied to his status and skills. With the exception of a few, he becomes disillusioned with the Court of Heaven.

Still, he has opportunities that Ao Bing does not. He does make friends, like Erlang Shen and Princess Iron Fan. As far as everyone is concerned, he has stepped up in the world.

While Nezha is making new friends, he still wants Ao Bing in his life. Ao Bing was the first friend, a stranger who unconditionally wanted him for him. No powers, no political butt-kissing, no manipulation, just unconditional love.

So when Ao Bing starts acting strangely, it confuses him. What's worse is that Ao Bing refuses to talk about his insecurities, meaning Nezha isn't aware of them (or aware of the full extent of Ao Bing’s insecurities), so he doesn't know how to handle them.

Nezha does know that there is a problem, he just doesn't know the root of it. Considering his upbringing, he wouldn't even know how to solve it.

I mentioned in the last post that while Li Jing isn't abusive (a take that I personally love when done well), he is emotionally neglectful and doesn't fully explain what Nezha is doing wrong or how to fix it. As a result, Nezha doesn't have a role model for how to "fix" interpersonal relationships.

I think the best solutions he could come up with is:

A) Pretend the problem isn't there B) Try to get Ao Bing to open up about his issues C) Try to solve the (perceivable) issues on his own

Now, here are the problems with each "solution"...

A) He can't just ignore the problem, it will only cause things to get worse B) As previously mentioned, Ao Bing is "no talk about feelings", so getting him to open up is like pulling teeth (with the risk of causing him to blow up) C) This is the one that causes the most problems...

From Nezha's perspective, Ao Bing is understandably uncomfortable in an unfamiliar situation. Nezha tries to help him, but Ao Bing ends up shutting Nezha out.

Nezha is a "fixer", as we see, he is willing to give his own life for the sake of others (his parents, Jade Emperor, etc.). While he doesn't always express it in the best way, he does want to help people.

Nezha doesn't fully understand what is going on. He wouldn't be fully aware of the discrimination and oppression that Ao Bing and the Dragon Clan have experienced for centuries, but he does realize his friend is being mistreated. But the hostile work environment gets to Nezha as well. Nezha's attempts to help Ao Bing or protect him are likely shut down by Heavenly Bureaucracy, and probing the issue could make things worse for Ao Bing.

There is also the idea of "staying quiet for your own safety", and while Nezha wouldn't do that when standing up for his friends and loved ones, Ao Bing would encourage it to keep Nezha from getting into trouble, since it seemingly keeps things from getting worse.

Expect me to make a post about this later

It’s a classic “Try to please everyone, you end up pleasing no one” situation. Now that Nezha gets a taste of external validation, he’s desperate to keep it. But he also wants Ao Bing to be his friend.

So, he tries to integrate Ao Bing into his new friend group, which goes disastrously. All it does is end up further alienating Ao Bing, who likely lashes out, possibly blaming Nezha for stirring the pot and creating more problems for him.

Nezha tries to help his best friend, only for it to backfire horribly, confirming his own deep-seated self-loathing of being the "Demon Child", who is constantly failing and destroying everything he touches.

This is all compounded by his new military responsibilities.

He is losing his best friend, and he's only making it worse. People are getting hurt and its all because he isn't doing enough. He is letting everyone down, and it's all his fault. He isn't doing enough to be a "good soldier".

Does this sound familiar...

Eventually, Nezha begins to realize the corruption of Heaven, and decides he won't stand for it, which causes further problems between him and Ao Bing. But that's another post...

TL; DR: Thanks to Heaven and how they were each raised, Ao Bing is becoming Catra. Nezha is becoming Adora.

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werepuppy-steve · 1 year ago

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promise you forever

steddie ☆ 971 ☆ cw: none ☆ appalachian eddie ☆ ao3