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joshfutturman · 7 months

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'oh, memories, where'd you go?'

mini oneshot - mike schmidt receives a package in the mail. it's his younger brothers orange toy airplane. touching the plastic, he feels strangely connected to certain emotions, leaving michael confused and scared. (1k words) pairing - mike schmidt (five night's at freddy's) + gn reader (brief mention of reader) tags: (for a writing project im a part of, but thought you guys might like it too!) angst, all the angst, poor mike, pre-established relationship with reader (brief) tw: vomiting, emetophobia warning

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

things had been going pretty well for mike. well, about as well as they could be going in a dead-end job that meant he only just made rent every month. he actually felt. . . happy for the first time in a long time. he’d find himself smiling, abby would catch him and tease him. she was happy to have her big brother back, even if it was just in little glimpses. he had even started playing with her again.

so when mike heard a gentle rattle at the door, he perked up from the dining room and a small smile played at the corner of his lips - had you come to surprise him? he felt silly for assuming it was you, but who else could it possibly be?

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

opening the door, he was greeted by not a person, but a smallish cardboard box at his feet. with all his recent uncharacteristic optimism of late, mike thought it a gift. picking it up, he brings it inside, setting it down on the dining room table with that same smile splayed on his lips.

carefully, he peeled back the tabs of the box and peered inwards. mountains of tissue paper obscured the object inside. tossing them over his shoulder, mikes smile quickly faded, his expression turning to one of pure horror.

inside the little inconspicuous box lay a little orange toy plane.

mike felt bile rising in his throat, an overwhelming urge to throw up overcame him. that was garretts plane. his little brother. it was his. or a replica, or something. with his heart jackhammering in his chest, michael felt his vision leave him and he falls back into one of the chairs next to the table.

every night for the last thirteen years he’d dreamed of the day garrett was taken from him, the day he failed as a brother, the last day he saw his little brother alive. he’d been playing with the orange plane when he was taken. mike had it tattooed on his wrist too, a simple linework piece. it had been a set of three, mike had a blue one and a red one was kept in their family cupboard for the next child. abby never got hers. mike couldn’t bring himself to give it to her.

so how was this here, in a box on his doorstep?

peering into the brown box, mike is confronted once more with the toy and waves of nausea lap inside his belly. what was this? a message? a threat? a joke? his hand reaches in hesitantly, gently lifting the plane.

for a split second when he makes contact with the plastic, mike almost wants his mom, to hide behind her - but the opportunity for that had long passed, dead and buried in the ground. a longing for his parents, either one, sparked in his chest causing tears to prick at the corners of his eyes. but his parents weren’t coming. they couldn’t come.

it felt as though he were a little boy again, desperately tugging at his mom's sleeve to be lifted, wanting to be as close as possible. or scrambling into his father's study to tell him he had a nightmare. but his breath hitches, his parents weren't here to comfort him about silly nightmares anymore.

fear wells up like a crashing roar of thunder in his limbs telling him to run, run anywhere, run so he can’t catch you. something was coming, looming. and no one was coming to save him.

big heaving breaths are pushed from his lungs, gripping the toy with so much force that the material begins to strain under the pressure making the plastic whine. that same sickly feeling returns. there’s something itching at the back of his throat, he wants to scream but he can’t. instead the fear grows, slowly at first like poison weaving it’s way through liquid before completely marring everything within its path.

mike wants to plead for this feeling to stop, to begin praying to a god he doesn’t believe in. he grips the plane tighter, shaking sobs rattling his body.

the anxiety builds. up. up. up. higher and higher. a ringing in his ears obscuring all sounds like it longs to be heard. it’s getting too much. it was already too much from the moment he laid eyes on that fucking thing.

it was like he needed to escape, but to where? where the fuck could mike go to escape? it always came back to this, didn’t it? he’d never be able to resolve any of it. garrett was gone. he wasn’t a step closer, not even an inch. was he just torturing himself every night? reliving his worst memory over and over in the hopes of catching a glimpse of something new, something long forgotten.

and the fear was too much. mike was scared. he was fucking terrified.

the dread bubbled to anger and without thinking, he threw the toy at the wall. a wing snaps as it hits the ground with a pitiful thud.

that same fear begins to dissipate, leaving only simmering rage and waves of upset. his eyes trail down to the broken pieces of his little brother's beloved plane. the nausea returns, fiercer than ever and mike runs to the bathroom.

throwing himself over the toilet, he vomits, body trembling and shaking. a thumping began at his temples, mouth dry, body impossibly hot, mind a scrambled mess.

as he hangs his head over the bowl pathetically, mike’s mind begins to clear slightly, though still clouded by his emotions. what did this mean? who would send this? who would even know to send this?

clenching his fists, he rises to his feet and stumbles against the wall. feeling like he’d just ran a marathon, he gives in to the sobs inching closer up his throat. michael hides his face, gripping at it like he was trying to rip away a mask. but when his eyes open to himself reflected in the mirror to his horror, he was still michael. there was no escaping his past. there was no escaping this or his slipping sanity.

mike turns off the bathroom light, not able to confront his own face in the mirror, and slips out of the bathroom towards his bedroom where he firmly closes the door.

alone.

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shrimshrim4fun · 3 months

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Funny Scenerio: Honkai Star Rail Characters in Kindergarden

Just imagine it: Dang Heng walking with Boothill as they have recess and Dan Heng accidentally steps on Robins feet. This makes her cry as Dan Heng apologizes. But Robins all huffy puffy and mutters What can an apology do. (I know it’s out of character for her to say but they are like very young and probably Sunday bought it for her/ it’s new)

Boothill catches this and pulls out a water gun. “Are you trynna start a fight?!” As Dan heng pulls him back.

Robin frowns and tells them “And? My brother is the director of this kindergarten!” (the person kinda running the whole thing.

Dang heng gasps and tells her “And my brother is the leader of a company!” (Just Jing yuan standing in front of an airplane because Xianzhou Luofu is floating and have those floating thingies)

Robins brain is running as she stutters out “M-my brother…isn’t afraid to eat poo!”

(Zoom in one Sunday with a shocked expression as he has a his lunch in his hand)

(And the “Jade Abacus” is actually kinda like a wallky talky, so when you press the button the other side can hear anything you say)

Dan heng presses the button and tells Robin “My brother isn’t afraid to eat po”

His words get cut off as Jing yuan rushes to him and tells him “I AM AFRAID”

(Don’t question how he got there so quick he’s Sonic :) Also it would be funny if he was right those kinda electric motorcycles but not really a motorcycle)

Extra details:

-Boothill’s uniform is dirty like his shirt is a darker shade compared to everyone else’s.

-The kids are all wearing these really cute yellow hats.

-One thing I like to imagine is that Jing yuan is sitting on the toilet as Dan heng presses the walkie talkie. Just scrolling his phone.

-Also that when Sunday is eating you can imagine him eating some type of meat so it kinda look like he’s eating shi-

Sunday and Jing yuan would actually be pretty good friends in my opinion.

#gotta feed the shrimps #honkai star rail #jing yuan #jingyuan hsr #sunday hsr #sunday honkai star rail #robin hsr #dang heng #hsr #boothill #boothill hsr #random drabbles

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brooklynisher · 5 months

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Heyyy so I see ppl asking u things so I’m here too,

i have a headcanon of my own that Lily (Airheart) and Jimmy like to sit on clouds and watch people down below, and they’re always sitting up there watching during spg shows (Jimmy thinks the robots are funny), but my question was

1. Do you think Lily literally is part airplane or it’s just a metaphor for how good she was at flying, and

2. Do you have any of your own favorite headcanons for Airheart?

Oh, she was absolutely part airplane. Her mother was a plane!

Now, I don't exactly have many hcs about her since she has yet to rotate around my brain, but I do have a couple of fun little tidbits about her

Like how she was inspired by Bunny and David's childhood

[x]

And how she's literally living a whole 'nother story

[x]

I don't know about you, but I find that whole thing to be particularly insane (/pos)

Like how can you ignore THAT

#steam powered giraffe #spg #spg info #ask #godblessthisfuckingfandom #lily airheart

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gerrystamour · 8 months

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you are my destroyer [gift fic]

Explicit★OMC Ship★1924 words★Complete

Hey remember that really sad fic I wrote a while back with two OCs? Well those characters are back and you get to see some of their epic lovestory for the birthday of my beeloved Bee @tboygareth!

Happy Birthday Bee!!!!

Sam: mine

Dom: @patchworkgargoyle

CW: Rough sex, idiots in love (they're so frustrating)

Sam sat on the patio of a small cafe, across from a post office where he’d tracked the PO box he’d been sending letters to for two years. He had landed the day before, got himself a hotel room, and had a fitful night of sleep. The plan was to wait until his mark arrived, and then engage. That was it, and yet Sam’s stomach was in complete knots about it.

It was risky, going to Cuba and finding Dom. D’Amore would have his head if he found out, that was for sure. Worse, Dom might side with his father on that. The fact that Dom even went along with this forced exile meant that he agreed on some level that Vincenzo D’Amore had a good enough reason to send him here.

Vincenzo Junior had other opinions on the matter, and Sam always liked following Vinny’s gut feelings more than his own.

He was about to flag down a server to order another coffee when finally, Sam saw his mark.

The man hadn’t changed at all, and yet Sam almost didn’t recognize him. Dom’s dark hair was longer, falling to his shoulders in curls that Sam wanted so desperately to tangle his fingers in. He was still pale, too, despite the sunny locale, and Sam couldn’t help the chuckle that bubbled up in his chest as Dom slipped into the post office.

With an excited grin, Sam stood up and tossed a pile of bills on the table and crossed the street, following Dom inside.

By the time Sam crossed the threshold, Dom was already standing at the wall of mailboxes, his lockbox still open while he rifled through the mail he’d received. Sam watched him for a moment, taking a silent, fortifying breath when Dom’s shoulders seemed to slump.

Reaching into the breast pocket of his own coat, Sam pulled a letter out and leaned close to Dom. “Excuse me, sir, I think the mailman dropped this,” he said, tone teasing and yet far more earnest than he would have liked.

Dom’s reaction was quick, and the world spun until Sam was slammed back against the wall of lockboxes. His free hand barely caught Dom’s other hand before the man could sink one of his favourite knives into Sam’s gut.

“Watch where you put that thing, Kitten,” Sam purred, smirking down at Dom as understanding and disbelief dawned on his expression. “Unless I’ve been reading your letters completely wrong, I don’t think you want me bleeding out all over the floor, yeah?”

Dom backed away quickly, almost as if he had been burned, looking Sam over as he tucked his knife away somewhere hidden. “How the fuck are you here?” he asked, and Sam was pretty sure Dom intended the question to sound sharp, cutting, but it missed the mark a bit.

Sam smirked, stepping closer to Dom. “Well, you see, Dom, we have these amazing contraptions called airplanes, right?” he said slowly, his mouth splitting his face with a proper grin as he towered over Dom, who was trying very hard not to smile and failing. “You get on them? And they fly you across oceans and shit? Surely, you’ve heard of them?”

“You asshole. Fuck off,” Dom bit out, the corners of his mouth ticking upward.

“I would rather fuck you, if given the choice,” Sam teased, and Dom’s eyes looked him over again.

This time, his gaze was hungry, especially with the way it lingered on Sam’s shaggy hair and beard. Stepping into Sam’s space, Dom grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down, just enough to growl in his face, “Come with me.”

Without further ado, Dom let go of Sam and spun on his heel, leaving the post office with a huff. Meeting the curious looks of the post office workers behind the counter, Sam winked and hurried after Dom, following him to a house that looked far too large for just one person to live in alone. Something sad and lonely twinged in Sam’s chest, a painful moment of empathy that had him wanting to hold Dom. The man would never allow it, so Sam would do the next best thing.

They barely cleared the threshold before Sam was slamming the door shut and crowding Dom against it. In a moment of blind, desperate desire, Sam dipped his head as if to kiss Dom, and the other man seemed to tip his mouth upward to accept it. But Sam caught himself, stopped short and rested his forehead against Dom’s, letting their breath mingle in the small, nearly nonexistent space between their mouths. Sam glanced down at Dom’s lips before meeting his eyes. Or he tried to meet Dom’s eyes, but the other man was also looking at his lips.

The fragile moment shattered as Dom sucked in a sharp breath and shoved Sam to his knees. “Put that mouth to proper use.”

Smirking, Sam reached up and literally ripped Dom’s pants open, letting them fall in a tattered heap around his ankles. “As you wish, Kitten,” he said, leaning in as Dom kicked one of his feet free to sling a leg over Sam’s shoulder, sealing his mouth around Dom’s perfect little dick.

From there, it was all heat and desperation, Sam wetly sucking Dom’s dick and licking into his cunt while Dom’s fingers twisted painfully in Sam’s hair. Above him, Sam could hear the thump of Dom’s head against the door as he let it fall back—high, shattered moans exploding from his throat.

Sam lost track of how much time he spent on his knees, as was often the case when he got to have Dom at his mercy like that. He couldn’t even be sure just how many times Dom came before he was being pushed away, Dom gasping a broken little, “Samuele, fuck, need your cock.”

“As you wish, Kitten,” Sam replied thickly, surging to his feet and picking Dom up.

They didn’t make it far, with Dom clinging to him and biting at Sam’s throat. As he stumbled past the living room, Sam turned abruptly and bent Dom over the back of the couch, one hand holding him down while he got his own belt and fly open with the other. When his cock was finally free, Sam wasted no time in lining up and shoving his cock into Dom’s cunt, bottoming out with a slick slap.

At Dom’s sharp hiss, Sam waited, trying to let Dom adjust to the intrusion, but it was certainly a test of patience. “Fuck, Kitten, you’re so fucking tight,” he gasped, hips twitching. He didn’t remember the fit being this snug before.

“Haven’t been fucked lately,” Dom admitted shakily, his nails digging into the leather seat of the couch. Sam tried not to think too much into that statement— it’s not like Dom was waiting for Sam, or that Dom was too hung up on Sam’s cock to have flings in Cuba— but there was still a part of him that was thrilled that he had no “competition” for Dom’s pleasure.

“Well,” Sam started, grabbing Dom’s hips tightly and slowly pulling out. “I’m gonna fix that for the next two weeks.”

The pace Sam set was punishing, brutal and relentless, chasing his own release at that point. He was close, desperate to spill his load inside Dom, hungry to watch his spend drip out of his cunt and down his thighs. Beneath him, Dom was noisy with almost shrill, punched out sounds as he just took what Sam gave him.

Leaning over Dom, Sam propped himself up with his hands on the seat of the couch and pressed several biting kisses to the back of Dom’s shoulder. When Dom threw his head back, Sam shifted his weight so he could gently wrap a hand around the base of Dom’s slender throat, making him arch his back dramatically. Grinding his cock into Dom’s cunt, Sam leaned as close to his face as possible and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

At the soft caress, even as Sam ruthlessly ground his cock down into his g-spot, Dom turned his face toward Sam. With each roll of Sam’s hips, their lips would brush against each other. Not a kiss, but so fucking close it had desperate tears springing to Sam’s eyes.

Blinking the tears away and hoping Dom didn’t notice them, Sam moaned, “Dominik.”

“Samuele,” Dom whined back, his eyes half-lidded and hazy as he tried to meet Sam’s thrusts before he tensed up and clenched almost painfully hard around Sam’s cock.

Dom’s orgasm was intense, the wet heat of him becoming impossibly tight while a hot gush of water spilled around Sam’s cock, down both of their legs, and onto the floor. It wasn’t long after that Sam followed him noisily over the edge, pumping his seed deep into Dom’s cunt as he held their hips flush together.

“Christ, almost fucking forgot how fucking good of a lay you are,” Dom said hoarsely as he shuddered through the aftershocks of his release.

Sam just chuckled and pulled out, dropping to his knees behind Dom to pull his cunt open with his thumbs. “I’m not even close to being done with you today, sweetheart,” he said before licking a firm strip up the messy seam of Dom’s cunt, from dick to taint.

The sun had set by the time they found themselves on the bed, sweat cooling on their skin as they caught their breath. Sam was stretched out on his back, eyes closed with one arm tucked up under his head while the other was wrapped around Dom’s lithe body. The other man was pressed up against Sam’s side, his chin resting on his hand on Sam’s chest. Sam didn’t have to open his eyes to know that Dom was staring, and if the grump was staring he was probably overthinking something.

“Can smell those gears in your head overheating with all that thinkin’,” Sam grumbled, laughing and squirming away when Dom harrumphed and bit one of his nipples.

After they settled again, Dom asked, “Seriously, Sam, how are you here?”

Grunting, Sam shrugged before squawking when Dom bit him again. With a sigh, he kept his eyes closed as he said, “Vinny.”

Dom frowned. “Vinny?”

“Your old man went to Italy for a funeral,” Sam elaborated, shrugging. “So Vinny sent me here.”

There were several beats of silence, and Sam could feel Dom’s gaze on him. It went on long enough that Sam was about to open his eyes to finally look at the man in his arms, but then he felt Dom’s lips against his chest. It wasn’t quite a kiss either, but it was close enough to make that part of Sam that was in love with Dom ache.

“I’m glad you came,” Dom mumbled against his skin, and Sam finally opened his eyes to look down at him.

“Yeah?” he asked, smiling lightly.

“Yeah,” Dom hummed before rolling his eyes with a huff. “It was getting boring here.”

At that, Sam laughed. “Happy to be of service, sweetheart,” he said, and Dom smirked.

“Mm, like the sound of that. Service…” he purred, reaching down and wrapping his hand around Sam’s soft cock, squeezing until Sam hissed. “How quick do you think you can get this back up?”

With a sighing groan, his cock twitching already in Dom’s grip, Sam rolled them so that he was on top of Dom, his hips slotting between pale thighs. “As quick as you want it, sweetheart.”

#gerry writes #mafia!au #oc.fic #samdom #gerry.oc

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corpsentry · 1 month

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ao3 mirror

fandom: your name engraved herein rating: t starring: birdy, a-han

It's three am and you’re barreling down a deserted road at the speed of fast. He’s gripping the handles for dear life; you’ve let go. You’re not wearing anything under your suspenders and your voice is hoarse from shouting. His shoulders are shaking with laughter. “DO YOU LIKE THE COLOR OF MY NEW BIKE?” What color was it again? “IF YOU LIKE IT I DO TOO."

Birdy, on flying.

11.

You stare at him the whole way to the beach. What else are you gonna look at? Any time the two of you go somewhere the whole world narrows down to just him and whatever else happens to be there. It’s always been that way. Him and the old lady snoring in the seat across the aisle. Him and the street papered with calligraphy and movie posters the size of airplanes. Or tonight, him and the cramped sleeping quarters on the overnight ferry, the plasticky curtains and the three-centimeter mattress.

It’s like— here’s the thing, right. The world’s always been plenty interesting to you. You like how it’s full of contradictions. You like the sting of knowing you’ve gotten under someone’s skin, the way anger slides off you like cold water. All your life you’ve lived like that, running backwards and laughing at the moon.

He was the first thing you didn’t have to put on goggles to look at and still found beautiful. When he showed up that day in the pool you forgot you were in a movie for a moment and tried, like a big fucking idiot, to live. God, shit, you could die in that light. But the laws of the world dictated your graduation, your marriage, your first kid. You couldn’t hang out forever between bus rides and train rides, sleep curled up in KTV rooms until you got kicked out by the waitstaff.

Well. You probably could. But he couldn’t. Even now, after everything (and by everything you mean everything, you mean the hell you’ve unleashed on this miserable fuck of a boy for no good reason at all), he’s still— you’re still— You follow him across the country like a damn hoot, buy whatever tickets he buys, yell at him in that voice that you know makes him self-conscious because it attracts too much attention, and he doesn’t do a thing.

He could tell you to fuck off. He could walk away from you, take a sharp turn and start running, though he’d have to really put his heart into it to lose you because you’re better than him at sprinting and long distance and worse than him at everything else (you get distracted by pigeons when you’re playing basketball). He could kill you, for all you care. Might as well. You’re basically asking for it.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t have it in him to be cruel, even now, pushed to the edge of the water.

That’s why you left. That’s why you’re leaving.

10.

“You see, I was the one who stole the balloon and strung it up,” you tell his parents, sitting on the lumpy green chair in their lumpy green living room. “But he said it was him.”

His mom is wounded. His dad is mega pissed off. You’re just there.

They do that for a while— his dad getting more and more mega pissed off at the table, his mom fretting her sleeves to pieces against the wall.

“Fuck. Piece of shit son. Fuck.”

You do not lift your gaze from your hands, which you hold unnaturally still under the table.

“Dear, let’s wait for him to tell us his side of the story…”

“What side of what story? Fuck. He’s not gonna have a damn mouth to talk with when I’m done with him. Goddamnit.”

The floor is tiled with medium-sized white squares. The ceiling light is a single bulb covered with a frosted panel of concave glass. Out of the corner of your eye, leaning against a cabinet, you see a potted plant with big scalloped leaves, mostly dead.

“Which girl was it? What class?” A pause. “Hell, who are you? What class?”

“Dear, we know Po Te, remember?” Muted shuffling. His mom is scuffing her slippers on the floor. You imagine her wringing her hands together the way her son does, bringing them to the back of her neck and looking away. “They’re friends.”

An irreverent amount of time later, he shows up with a bloodied collar and eyes like marbles with bits of gold in them and you have to fight all twelve apostles of god to stay angry. You think you might be one of the biggest pieces of shit the universe has ever produced. You think that your shitbag dad was right about one thing, just one, his whole life.

“What,” he says slowly, like it hurts him to speak, “do you want me to do?”

You rip your gaze away from the floor. “What do you want from me?” He takes one step forward. You take two back.

“What?” What. “What do you want?”

You want, um, let’s see. You want to watch a really good movie, one of those western ones, with violins and guns and lots of crying. You want to eat roasted peanuts out of a shallow dish. You want to go skinny dipping, to tear down the street on a 3 am motorbike, to climb out a broken window and keep going up, up, up, until you punch through the atmosphere and into the stars.

You want to cry.

“I want—” you spit, and you’re all fucked up now but because your throat is closing up the words come out cold and mean, which is exactly what you want and terribly unfortunate.

“—I want you to leave me the fuck alone.”

One time when you were little your sisters took you to the public pool. You were something like seven; they were eight and nine and eleven. There was this giant slide, three storeys tall, that all the kids were lining up to go on. Your sisters wanted to go too but you were too young to follow so they took turns watching you in the kiddy pool. The kiddy pool had a mini slide which you slid down over and over again, pretending you were on the giant slide with everyone else. Your eldest sister was doing handstands in the water when you went down the slide wrong. You hit your head on the edge of the pool, right where the slide should have dumped you into the water. You floated aimlessly for a while before walking over to your sister to tell her what had happened but she ran over before you got there and asked, all panicky: what happened? Where does it hurt? She touched the side of your face, right below where the blood was starting to dry. Only then did you start to cry.

A-han looks you dead in the eye and it’s a little like falling off a motorbike.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

There’s some shouting from both sides. His mom pleads to the air to stop fighting, you’re the best of friends and you think here is someone who could have done something and then keep throwing punches because she should’ve but she didn’t and now it’s too late. His dad is so pissed it’s actually moved him to inaction, although he’s shaking hard enough that the ceiling light is doing a little jig. Or maybe it’s you that’s shaking, you can’t really tell. Your vision’s a little shot through right now. You’re a little in over your head.

A-han inhales and all the air in the room leaves with him.

“Mom, dad—”

Oh no, he’s actually stupid.

“The person I like is—”

You’re so choked up his name comes out more like a scream than a shout. But he hears it, and stops.

“Okay,” he repeats, dry as an Arizona summer. Something in him is giving but not in the direction you want. It is possible that you are crying. You’re a little in over your head. You’re a little in over your head.

You stand in the Chang family’s living room for a moment, counting the number of leaves on the dead plant.

Then you follow him out. There’s nowhere left for you to go, after all.

It made you angrier that he came, actually. You didn’t want him to see you like this. You didn’t want him to see you at all. If he saw you then you might see him and then it would all come flying out of you like week-old chickenshit, miles and miles and miles of want pouring out of your eyes, ears, teeth. You’d made an art out of hiding the shiny thing in you. Worked yourself to death to make it happen. It’s like— say this whole thing was a movie, right. Then Taichung would be the stage and A-han’s eyes would be the camera. This being one of those sprawling epics, you couldn’t break the fourth wall and let the audience know you were in on the big secret so to prevent that from happening you decided to stop looking at him altogether. Easy. Just don’t look. Don’t look at him, Birdy. Don’t look.

But God is cruel and mysterious in his ways. By the time A-han wheels into the staff room, wild-eyed and frantic, you’ve already lost. And then your shitbag dad clocks him over the head with a chair and your vision flares red and— then, well, it’s really over.

We can’t talk about this.

We can’t talk about what happens in the shower. What would we say?

Before: He hadn’t wanted to give you his motorbike (he never wanted to give you his motorbike) but you asked anyway. It had become a litmus test of sorts; how much could you take from him before he punched you in the face? You’d set this rule for yourself when the new school year began where you were only allowed to talk to him if it’d make things worse. So you asked again. And again. And again, but this last time, you didn’t do it for Ban Ban. It was a Tuesday. You’d dreamed about him the night before, which was the first mistake. Your limbs were heavy and disconnected and your head felt like a watermelon full of bits of other fruit but you wheeled the bike out anyway. The meaningless gray sky followed you around like a dog no matter how fast you went and it was so frustrating, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop even when the road started to spin— the second mistake. You saw it happen through a wide-lens shot like it was someone else who totaled the bike. Then there was noise, chatter, bright spots in your vision. The guy from the stall up ahead insisted on calling an ambulance though you cussed him out hard enough to make your shitbag dad flinch. Eventually they left you alone. You were angry and hurt and bleeding. The fruit cup of your brain was getting put through a blender, as was most of your left arm. In a moment of bottom-of-the-barrel despair, left with nothing but your body, which was ruined, and your heart, which you had yourself broken, you— the third mistake— reached for your phone.

After: You couldn’t stop crying for hours. At some point, he left.

You have this theory that the bigger the gesture is the longer the feeling will last. You are telling yourself this as you haul ass towards the massive balloon that will surely fix everything. You’re not sure how exactly it will fix everything. All you know is that you’re playing an important role and you need as many people as possible to believe it. In that regard, the balloon makes sense. Once you’ve got it up at assembly no one’ll be able to look away even if they want to, although you frankly do not care what anyone wants. You care what Ban Ban wants in a faint, geographical way. You care a little what Father Oliver wants because he gives just half a shit less than all the other adults, which is impressive in a world this boring and dumb. As for the rest of them— whatever. Tomorrow is your confessional. All they have to do is watch.

A-han is here because someone needs to make sure you don’t get caught. That’s all.

“Hey, uh— are you done yet?”

He sounds far away and annoyed.

“Almost,” you reply, look down, and regret it instantly.

You’re grateful A-han’s such a caring and conscientious friend. He wouldn’t let you get caught because one, he’s a nice kid and two, he’s got common sense. If you got in trouble then he would, thus implicated, also be in trouble, which would be bad for him, so…

He wouldn’t do that to himself. He’s stupid, but not that stupid.

“Hey, you know, the thing I wanted to tell you—”

“Yeah?” you say, working your way through the river of knots. Your brain catches up a few moments later. You remember, suddenly, how you tricked him into coming out here in the first place.

There is a brief, meaty silence in which he works up the courage to keep talking while you rip your fingers to shreds getting the rope loose.

“Actually, I—“

You have not done it but you start whooping anyway. The sudden rush of oxygen leaving your lungs makes you light-headed. Five meters down, A-han is trying to tell you the words that will undo you. But all you can hear is the cicadas.

Now you’re tearing down the street on a 3 am motorbike, the helium balloon rippling behind you like a deep-sea jellyfish. Now you’re gripping the edge of the seat and howling at the moon. Now you’re sneaking off during morning assembly, crouching in the grass, setting it afloat.

It’s just a murmur at first but it quickly grows into a storm. Six hundred eyes go wide with wonder.

A-han can barely look at you. You see the emotions flit across his face from your place in line, the rest of your body turned towards Ban Ban, who is blushing like the sweetest dusk. Surprise, curiosity, confusion. Then the click of realization, the shuttering of the eyes.

As the crowd goes wild with the ecstasy of young love, you feel a sick thing surge through you. This must be what people feel like when they take home 100% on a test and their parents give them extra pocket money.

God, you’ve never tried so hard for anything in your life. He’d be so grateful, if only he knew.

Here is the part of the story where you change your mind.

It wouldn’t have taken much to stop you. You wanted to be saved. You wanted to stay on the dark, uneven path that led into the woods. You were just waiting for someone to tell you it was okay to keep going like this, anyone at all, and then it would— it really would be— okay.

But no one did, no matter where you went and how far you wandered.

So it wasn’t okay. You had to go.

If asked, years later, you’d probably say this moment was the worst.

Not the fighting. You’d been beaten up before and you’d get your ass beat again no matter how you tried to avoid it. Not the name-calling, either, though that did reach a new and unprecedented level once they realized no one was going to make them stop. You were just schoolboys being schoolboys, punching each other in the face, screaming each other’s ears off. Standard coming-of-age stuff.

It’s not that everyone within a fifty meter radius was watching. You don’t mind attention. You always liked the sound of your own voice more than anything. It’s not the way the metal grill of the gate dug into your hands and left them red and stinging. It wasn't the moment of free fall, or the impact, or the way you walked funny on your right side for two weeks after. You didn’t make it this far in life on faith alone.

When you were thirteen you decided your name was Birdy. After that, the world became way more interesting. You couldn’t leave it alone— you were always prodding at it or shoving it around, trying to find the limits. You were a one-man circus trying to redefine what it meant to be young and alive in a country that had almost, almost made it out of the dark. Only the rest of them were coming into an age of power, while you were slowly growing aware of a deficit in yours.

The other boys were wrong about one thing: You never wanted to fly. All the living things with wings had already been doing it for thousands and thousands of years; there was no point in starting now when you’d never be able to catch up. You didn’t need to fly, but you couldn’t break. Birdy was a prayer that had to hold no matter what came.

You considered your options. You could try to really do one of the guys in— but you were fast, not strong, and you were terribly distracted by all the noise. You could ask for help, but that would be humiliating. You could try to run, but the hallway was so narrow and there were so many of them and there was so little of you. You’d already gone for the grill once and that seemed to have only made things worse. A-han was this close to socking one of his thug friends in the face. You couldn’t drag this out any longer.

So you climbed onto the railing.

No, this isn’t the worst part.

All their anger liquefied into fear the moment you stood up. One of them, you forget his name, was pleading with you. Look, we’re sorry, come down, come down, please, or whatever. It was so abrupt it was almost funny. You wondered if anyone had ever been this afraid for you before, and concluded that they hadn’t. It occurred to you that maybe your humanity really was this thin, that they’d never regret it unless you died in the saddest, most miserable way possible. You thought: This is fucked as all hell, and I am quite sad.

Then you forgot all about this stuff, because you saw him.

“Birdy?”

Oh, how you hated that he saw you. It would’ve been shitty if he weren’t there but you’d dealt with shitty before and you’d deal with it again. It didn’t matter what happened to you as long as you got to keep Birdy. Birdy was fun and loud and a little crazy. Birdy could outrun the police and out-laugh the gods and got distracted by pigeons in basketball games. Birdy was untouchable.

You flapped your arms, just in case they turned into wings. What do you know, it was a lie all along.

Then you jumped.

There comes a point in everyone’s life when they realize the limits of their own abilities and, simultaneously, the inherent cruelty of the universe.

It sucks that you found out so early. You should’ve stayed young for five, ten, a hundred more years. You deserved to grow up wild and carefree, ricocheting down empty streets and turning in absolutely none of your homework.

But you found out. Okay, now this is the worst part.

At no point did you betray each other. You loved that boy like nothing you had ever known. It lit you up from the inside like a goddamn firework.

You knew. You were aware of the beating of your own heart. It didn’t matter.

Three times you pretend to be asleep.

One: The middle-aged women sitting both in front of and behind you on the bus to Taipei keep you awake for most of the ride. It’s not their fault, not really, and you don’t get mad; you’re just a light sleeper. Always have been. A-han is the opposite. He’s out like a rock the whole time, even when one of the women makes a particularly bad pun and her friend lets out a shriek of laughter just as the bus jolts to a stop at a red light and someone’s baby starts howling its toes off. Meanwhile you nod off a hundred times, tensing awake each time at the sudden warmth of his head, his shoulder, his neck. When the bus pulls into the station, he’s energetic and well-rested. You’re doing everything in your power to let go.

Two: The KTV is his suggestion. You were all like, let’s just get something from a street stall and squat on the stairs until dawn but he noticed you acting funny and correctly inferred your exhaustion. He pays for both of you at the counter. It agitates you a little, though you don’t know why. Later, halfway through your noodles you ask him what would you do if I died and he says don’t think about such dark shit and you think that’s a good answer. Then you lie down and close your eyes because you’re tired. You think maybe sleep will come for you this time but instead you just become deeply, frighteningly aware of his body in the room. He sits for a while in silence— probably thinking about french horns or something. You start to drift. The rustling of fabric jolts you awake. The sofa shudders where he presses his hand into it, centimeters from your neck. You feel him getting closer, a bright bloom of heat traveling through the dark. It dawns on you, suddenly, that he is going to kiss you. Then there’s a sharp knock on the door— just like that, he’s gone.

Three: You were cold, that's all.

You were cold even with your jacket and the half of his body pressed into your side and the jukebox at your back. He was like the first time you jumped into a pool and learned that you could float. The voice of a dead man was ringing in your ears like a hymn, saying our world isn’t as bad as you think, so why are you so sad, why are you so sad…

“I glanced across the room,” Father Oliver is saying, his voice somber and low. Everyone in the room gawks at him without blinking like a bunch of damn ghosts, as if by watching him talk about love they will understand a little more of it themselves. Ha! If only it were that easy.

A-han’s fiddling with the mouthpiece of his trumpet, distracted. Your gaze travels from his hands to the sleeves of his uniform, his collar, his left ear.

“I was looking at him—”

His hands still. He lifts his gaze to the blackboard, eyes unfocused. Father Oliver’s voice fades into the static of the afternoon.

“—and he was, also, looking at—”

And there you are, and have been, all along.

Your love language is gifts. You give him everything you have and then some. Steamed buns, peanuts, the physics exam sheet.

Your love language is acts of service. You feed him juice when he’s supposed to be standing to attention. Cut his hair on the basketball court.

Your love language is physical touch. You clap him on the shoulder, punch him in chest, flick him between the eyes, sling your arm around his neck, sidle up next to him at lunch, high five him for breathing, lie next to him on his tiny mattress eating snacks you stole from the superintendent’s office, clap him on the shoulder again, your hand lingering on his skin while you think about difficult questions like what happens when we die and where do we go after and it wouldn’t be that bad if this is all you ever had. You’d go like this willingly. A whole life pissing into the dorm head’s car while A-han cusses under his breath at silly, crazy Birdy, oh Birdy—

Is this the moment where it ends?

Or is it when the dorm head finds snack wrappers in your bag and he steps into the hallway while you’re down on your hands and feet, getting your ass whipped to pieces? Or is it the first time you show up in his room at night and you watch him give in to you in real time, his whole body deflating as he sigh-laughs and gestures for you to come up to his bunk?

Or is it that day in the pool, when he tells you his name and his class and the whole world slides sideways to make way for him?

You’re seventeen and you know nothing. You know you hate your shitbag dad for raising you angry. You know you hate people who beat the shit out of others for no good reason. You have a lot of hate in you for someone so young, and very little else.

Well. You also have Birdy. And Birdy has A-han, but that’s later. Later you’ll run wild through the deserted streets of youth and laugh until you’re dead. Later you’ll grow up, and it’ll be the worst thing that’ll ever happen to you.

Nothing will hurt after that. Nothing will move you, either.

One time when you were young you transferred schools. You were seventeen and full of anger and loneliness; he was seventeen and shimmered when he moved. There was this thing everyone was talking about back then, this feeling of being able to do anything you wanted. It was 1987 and the world was on its way out. The more the adults said they couldn’t have it the more all the young people obsessed over it. They hopped over gates and made out in cemeteries after midnight. They got in trouble like clockwork.

For what it’s worth, you didn’t give a shit. You were perfectly satisfied with your one-man circus, running around after dark and sneaking snacks out of the superintendent’s office when no one was looking. Sometimes someone was looking and you got caught and it was kind of shitty, but you’d dealt with shitty before and you’d deal with it again. You were the kind of reckless that invited trouble. You knew. You liked it.

One time when you were little your sisters took you to the public pool. It was the first day at your new school and your name was Birdy. When you saw him in the water it felt like you’d been swimming in the deep all your life and been dragged, abruptly, to the surface.

One time when you were little you hit your head. One time when you were young you broke your heart.

You floated aimlessly for a while before walking over to the phone. There were so many things you wanted to say to him but he started talking before you could find the words. He was always braver than you. He would have never jumped, but then and again, you would have never let him get there. Anyway, he said I— my senior wrote this song. I’m gonna play it for you, okay?

He touched your skin right below where you had fallen off the motorbike and cut yourself open, where the blood had begun to dry. He was so worried about you. The water in the shower was running, running, running.

What happened? Where does it hurt?

Only then did you start to cry.

999.

In which year do they fix the world?

In another universe someone sticks their neck out for you the way you did for that other kid. It’s messy, of course. He gets his ass beat for it right along with you but you guys get in a few more good hits too. It’s super worth it. Maybe he’s also— you know. Maybe he isn’t. Doesn’t matter.

Anyway, it’s in the small things. The small thing this random stranger does for you is enough to stop you from ruining the next three decades of your life. It’s absurd, looking back, how easy it was. All he did was say something.

This sets off a chain reaction of random strangers doing small and insignificant things for each other. Maybe five people’s lives are changed. It is revolutionary, though none of them know this. When the thing you are fighting against lives in people’s hearts and grows like a disease, anything you save is a triumph. If you can save anything at all, you celebrate.

In this other universe Zhang Jia Han dials W-A-N-A-N and you dial it back after a period of terrible, but necessary, contemplation. In this other universe you keep going to movie theaters and eating roasted peanuts out of shallow dishes. In this other universe you go back to Taipei.

You go to film school, both of you. You make movies, he writes the songs.

Someone has written this story, I’m sure. Someone fixed the damn motorbike. Maybe you did too, in your dreams, the only place where you could forgive yourself.

But we can’t.

We can write your story, but it has to stay the same.

—.

You’re barreling down a deserted road at the speed of fast. He’s gripping the handles for dear life; you’ve let go. You’re not wearing anything under your suspenders and your sling bag and your voice is hoarse from shouting. His shoulders are shaking with laughter.

“DO YOU LIKE THE COLOR OF MY NEW BIKE?” he shouts.

“IF YOU LIKE IT I DO TOO,” you shout back.

Remember this moment. Remember it when he calls you a year later and plays you the song that will undo you for the rest of your life. Remember it when you graduate, get married, file for divorce, get fired, move to a new city, lose everything.

Remember it when you see him for the first time in three decades and decide that this time you will do things right, because it’s not coming back and it’s not going anywhere: your wild, blemished youth. You were young once and you’ll never be young again. You can start living now, and god, you will But you died once when you were seventeen.

It wasn’t your fault. You searched under every fucking rock and paperweight; you looked for signs in the clouds. But the world failed you. At every juncture in the story, in every scene where someone other than you and A-han was standing there pointing and laughing, it failed you. They were always pointing and laughing at you.

It would have taken so little to change your mind. But even that small, pathetic amount of hope— they couldn’t give it up. You were young once, you were Birdy and A-han and A-han and Birdy, and they let you die.

You lived a subpar life until forty-seven, but at least you lived.

So remember this moment. Look for the laughter lines in his face, the crow’s feet. Notice his old habit of touching the back of his neck when he’s nervous and covering his mouth when he smiles. Remember the feeling of his warm breath on your face, the dim red lights of the KTV room. Remember how it felt when he pulled you out of the water and you emerged, spluttering and coughing into the back of your hand.

"Are you an idiot?" he said, incredulous.

"No," you grinned. "I'm Birdy."

It’s 1987, and you’re unstoppable.

#your name engraved herein #yneh #the acronym in englihs is SOOOO FUNNY #刻在你心底的名字 #ok lets go with these #i would strongly recommend reading on ao3 as i just dumped the text into this post under a read more cut #i am back #i would say more...... however i cooked dinner and my noodles r congealing in real time #i also have this epic plan to watch a vivian sung movie tonight so. gonna ggo do that #if u woudl LIKE me to talk more baout this fic. or about this movie in general. send me an ask or a dm #and i will yap for literally 900 years #ok. thank u for ur time #adios #my writing #my stuff

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nocternalrandomness · 2 years

Photo

Russian manufactured 1944 Polikarpov Po-2

#Vintage aircraft #Bi wing #Polikarpov #Po-2 #Trainer #Utility aircraft #Aerial reconnaissance aircraft #Ground attack #Airplane #Aviation

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breadbox-draws · 6 months

Note

KK LOOKS SO GOOFY AS DJ F-LIGHT/pos!!!! I WANNA HEAR MORE ABOUT THE TWO CHARTER AUS!!!!!

i'll be honest, i'm a little (pleasantly) surprised to see enthusiastic interest in these silly ideas- not as a self-deprecatory thought, mind, but more of an unexpectedness since this is a space where i just toss random doodles to the wind hdowjfjdk

i appreciate it very much though! yall folks and friends have been very kind <3

onto the ask at hand, i'll start with some preliminary details. Both iterations are some years older!, meaning that KK would be around his early thirties when he becomes a charter with a newly built district to his name (he's currently 27). Maxismum, the district, is relatively thin in width, and would likely be located on the outer rim of the city. While KK didn't originally want to become charter, in these AUs he's pushed or motivated to aim higher, so that he can provide a happy space for his friends and for Vinyl City. He takes this in two different ways, explained under the read-more!

(Foreword: these ideas are a wip, so the designs of the costumes and districts might change later on)

DJ F.Light

Route A is the Normal Route. Here, KK keeps his old stage name, DJ Dragonflyte, and just shortens it into an alias sometimes (the exact reason why is still pending, maybe as a way to get around without his reputation preceding him). KK continues with his philosophy of living the PLUR life (rave acronym for peace-love-unity-respect) and utilizes his status + district as a means of bringing attention to smaller and/or up-and-coming artists! It's sort of why his outfit is less flashy and looking like an ordinary event organizer, with some design inspirations coming from the look of aircraft marshallers.

Maxismum A:

This Maxismum has a topside and an underside, with the former being split up in quarters by cardinal direction.

The east and west quarters are long sections of bright neon roofed mall space, called Holiday Row East and West, respectively. They primarily function as a space where people can acquire 1) party paraphernalia (think Party City vibes) and 2) reasonably priced materials that can help someone kick off their own music career! So like instruments, costumes, sound equipment, etc, etc. The items are sort of generic though, since the inventory has to cater to a wide variety of people, so he encourages folks that do more specialized work, like costume and set designers, to advertise their wares at Holiday Row :]

The north quarter connects to an airport! Maxismum and Holiday Row also act as sort of touristy place, to be the first impression of Vinyl City (the airport + air tram access is also because it fits with his theme- he thought it would be cool). (i might not keep this idea)

The south quarter is residential, and while the apartments are well maintained, they're a bit tight on space and see a lot of foot traffic outside.

The underside is specifically used for performances, plural. It works similarly to underground warehouse raves back in the day, where there are separate "rooms" (buildings, at this size) that musicians can rent out for performance venues, and he'll accept any and all genres to take a crack at a real stage. The atmosphere of this layer is always generally dim, with streetlamps and blacklight fixtures and neon lights that decorate the area and lead people to places with 'ascension' motifs (airplanes, rockets, rising stars...you know, for Rising Stars).

DJ F.Light's venue, called the Blacklight Runway (a slight nod to a track by the same name from Dirty Androids), is the largest one there, and when he holds a concert, he never does it alone. He always invites other DJs or artists of similar genres to perform with him, where they cycle out the person playing after a certain amount of time. Each DJ is credited when it's their turn to play, and F.Light is always the last one to go. Anyone unfamiliar with his concerts might be surprised to see that...he was both the ticket guy at the door and the guy in the crowd that was *really* going ham with the cheering during everyone else's performances.

== ==

DJ Apotheotic

Route B is the "Bad" Route. This KK lets his nerves get to him and takes on the theme of the Sophisticated Techno Night Club. He transitions out of his old Dragonflyte theme completely and feeds into the idea that he *has* to look and act more "professional" in order to be taken seriously. Initially, that was in the spirit of benefiting Vinyl City, but he soon got lost with his vision and aimed for power and popularity instead, becoming dead set on being the Best.

Maxismum B:

Instead of "Party City Music Mall", the district looks much more like a futuristic minimalist, with architecture consisting of high rise polyhedral towers plated with sleek, black chrome and neon strips. (Think Tron: Legacy, for those that have seen the movie).

Instead of topside being split into quarters, there are just two halves: the business and residential districts.

Maxismum's offices are chic but practical, with a primary focus on digital equipment, like monitor screens, sound programs, and even gaming hardware. While not as artistically fancy as Dream Fever, there's definitely an energy of trying to be like 'what is sold or served here is of high quality, furnished with the latest upgrades and reputably sourced, and deserving of respect'.

The residential district is like...brutalism's chrome and neon cousin. Though the apartments are a little pricey, but they're close to air tram stations that connect to other parts of the city, and the living conditions and spaces are great, as long as you're okay with moving into a. block. It's all in the name of efficiency.

(The district sounds a bit bleak but it does have something of an active nightlife, with entertainment in darkness-themed establishments like arcades, laser tag, and bowling alleys. he hasn't completely gotten rid of his roots ey).

What stands out the most in the district is his venue, called...I'm less solid on this name (pun intended), but it's something along the lines of The Perfect Prism. It's a large building built on tall supports with an outer facade that changes its shape into different simple polyhedrons, like pyramid, cube, diamond. Sometimes a sphere. His concerts are the *only* official concerts allowed to happen in his district, and he runs his shows like he's the hottest thing in the city. I almost hesitate to say he's like a priest at his turntable pulpit because he's not...giving sermons or holding some kind of 'music Mass', but in the those calm breaks in the music when the DJ talks, he's definitely saying stuff like "my music will save your fucking soul (metaphorical)". And he doesn't just have his finger on the pulse of the party, his music *is* the pulse of the party, and he's "gonna deliver you from your troubles with a lotta noise, baby".

#bread art #art #oc art #nsr #nsr oc #no straight roads #KK #once again kinda proud of being able to knock out environments a little faster these days #doing the interior of Holiday Row and the exterior of Maxismum B took like 30 mins tops?#the writing took much more work to organize- welcome to the first of the text walls on this blog KJFDLASKF #i also- dont know why these images are so massive apologies #Charter AU

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