#silver rail engine | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

outofconcheol · 17 days

Text

resonance (scb x f!reader)

pairing: android!changbin x heiress!reader

genres/aus/rating: romance, angst, smut, arranged marriage, e2l (a little bit), sort of cyberpunk au, 18+

summary: Perfection - an idea that’s been drilled into you from birth. As the sole heir to the empire known as Miroh Labs, you’ve watched technology and tradition collide. However, your family’s latest venture is one that puts your own fate in limbo – ambitiously arranging a marriage to an android of their creation, known as C.H.A.N.G.B.I.N. Grappling with the idea of marrying a machine, you come to realize Changbin is more than a set of intricate codes – the profound depths of his abilities are capable of changing the fabric of society, and you, forever.

warnings: strained parent child relationships (OC's parents are jerks), mentions of past abuse (very mild and not described in detail), class differences, failed past relationship references numerous times, cameos from Chan, Jisung, Jeongin, Hyunjin, and Yuna (ITZY), fair warning OC is a lot, Changbin is precious, self-doubt and negative feelings, arguments, alcohol, blood and injury, swearing, genetic engineering, talks of self-determination and agency, Streetlight my beloved makes an appearance

word count: 12k

a/n: happy (belated) bday to my beloved Changbin (almost a month later, nice)! i hope this is enjoyable and worthy of someone as wonderful as Changbin seems (i might have slightly fallen in love with him while writing this, don't look at me). the lovely banner is by Sarah (@caelesjjk). I hope you enjoy!

smut warnings under the cut!

smut warnings: sexual tension (lots of it), making out, kind of hatefucking?, sex outside (against a railing), clothed sex, dirty talk, brief nipple play, thigh riding, fingering (f!receiving), unprotected sex (just because Changbin can doesn't mean you should), honestly more mild than the warnings imply

It’d been years since you’d seen candles - forgotten memories of birthdays past that faded into oblivion. Their warm, nascent glow had flickered much like your own life had, the comfort of past years giving way to the bright, grating pixels of the lights that illuminated New Domino - bright pinks, vivid greens, cool blues and silvers. Lights that greeted you from your window when you went to bed every night, reminding you that no matter how much your life stalled, the city never would, much of it your own family’s doing.

The years before Miroh Labs, your family’s company, took hold of the city, became difficult to recall — before the towering skyscrapers blocked out the sun, neon lights replacing its rays, technology weaving itself seamlessly into the fabric of your lives, like the patterns on your dress.

Picking at the threads – you wonder if someone had put love and care into intertwining each one, meeting perfectly to create the image of a flower. But the thought quickly dispels — knowing that a specialized machine was behind it, or an android doing the work that was once meant for humans.

Resonance, your family prided themselves on saying. The ability of an object to match another’s frequency – only it’d progressed beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. Systems had advanced from being motherboards connected to screens to full blown humanized machines, who not only had to ability to perform human functions, but excel at them when it came to speed, efficiency, and cost.

The thought of it made you sick to your stomach. As the presumptive heir to Miroh Labs’ empire, you’d seen firsthand how ambition had slowly given way to greed, your family creating and creating and creating, giving no mind to how their projects always seemed to end up in the hands of the city’s elite.

You’d been to the outskirts, the fringes of society failing to catch up with the advancement of the inner city, a ruined wasteland where people struggled to find work to bring home food for their families.

But they had candles, you muse, smiling lightly to yourself, remembering how you’d passed by a home once, devoid of any electricity, a single candle flickering in the window, the family huddled around their only source of light. It had brought them closer in ways that you could only dream of.

Which is why the intimate setting of the dining room shocked you today – lights dim, candleglow every prominent. Except instead of comforting you, it felt strangely eerie, casting shadows on the faces of your parents, seated at the head of the long table, your own chair pulled out at the very opposite end.

Of course - your parents spared no opportunity to turn even the simplest of dinners into a boardroom meeting. Wincing, you feel the chair screech as you slide it across the cool tile, the sound grating your ears, which have begun to ring, pain throbbing at your temples.

The food is untouched, grave expressions on your parents’ face, and it’s your father who breaks the deafening silence.

“There’s a new project we want you to be a part of—”

“Forget it,” you pick at your plate. “I’m not interested. It’s not like I can contribute anything useful anyway.”

“This one’s different,” your mother’s voice cuts you off, and it’s softer, more gentle than you’ve ever heard it. For a moment, you could believe she actually cared.

Your father’s footsteps reverberate against the tile, walking over to your side of the table. A picture is set in front of you – a man. Dark curly hair, full lips, a strong jaw, the faint hint of muscle underneath his shirt. But it’s his eyes that pierce through the page – stark hazel. Your throat feels tight, closing in on itself.

“New employee?” you ponder, even though you know it’s not the answer.

Hazel eyes were for androids — no human would have eyes so piercing, ones that could glint in the darkest room, or pale in the brightest sun.

“___, meet C.H.A.N.G.B.I.N, Computer Human Advanced Network Growing By Intelligent Nexuses. Our pride and joy.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the words, knowing they’d never applied to you – you with your rebellious streak, your lack of achievements, your failed engagement to a man that was far too good for you.

Hyunjin’s face flashes in the back of your mind, and you fight to keep your expression from shifting.

“C.H.A.N.G.B.I.N was created for a very specific purpose you see — he’s been built and programmed to be the perfect companion. To provide all the qualities that one would normally seek in a spouse. Although humans are falliable, C.H.A.N.G.B.I.N is not. But we need a beta tester.”

The reality of what your parents are proposing dawns on you, horror creeping up your spine.

“No–,” you begin to protest, but you’re cut off by a wave of your father’s hand.

“The announcements have already been uploaded to the city-wide servers. Starting tomorrow, news of C.H.A.N.G.B.I.N’s launch will go live, along with your engagement announcement. The wedding will be held in a week’s’ time.”

You look despondently to your mother, hoping the pain in your eyes is enough to dissuade her. Were you really that worthless to your parents that they’d hand you to a hunk of scrap metal, dooming you to loneliness for the rest of your life?

Your mother shakes her head. “___, dear, this is the least you can do for us, and for Miroh Labs. Especially given everything that’s happened.”

They always wielded it against you — the fact that you were hard to love. You hadn’t been enough to persuade Hyunjin to stay, and they’d experienced the fallout from whispers all around New Domino. Now, you were barely human in their eyes, not even equal to, and probably lesser than this machine they’d fabricated, one whose fate had become irrevocably intertwined with yours. And there was nothing you could do to stop it.

When Changbin wakes, everything is a blur. While his lungs don’t burn for air, his circuits are driven haywire anyway by the new environment - the harsh gleam of fluorescent lights, the gentle whirring of motors, the coolness of the metal table. It hits him all at once, and he’s tempted to close his eyes again, to return to the darkness of being powered down.

A figure looms over him, a taller man in a lab coat, his eyes gentle and full of concern, almost as if he’s holding his breath looking at Changbin.

“Hello C.H.A.N.G.B.I.N, my name is Chan. I am one of the lead research developers at Miroh Labs. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Changbin feels his system boot up, gentle heat spreading through the center of his body, all the way to his fingertips.

“Good morning, Chan. I am C.H.A.N.G.B.I.N, Computer Human Andvanced Network Growing By Intelligent Nexuses. How may I be of assistance?”

His voice reverberates through his speakers, a monotonous tinge resounding against the empty walls of the lab, and he watches Chan’s face twist,

“Do you know why you’re here right now?” Chan asks, curiosity in his gaze.

“I am an advanced computer-human android, programmed to fulfill the role of a partner. My duties and capabilities include companionship, emotional support, and assistance with domestic tasks, designed to blend into one’s life seamlessly.”

As he speaks, Changbin notices his sensors blinking, watching different parts of his arm, chest, and the rest of his body light up as various programs are activated.

Chan slides something in his direction – a sheet of paper with a picture on it. He takes a look at it, his cameras analyzing the woman in the photo. Everything from the colour of her hair to the tiny mole on the back of her hand, to the way she smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, perhaps evidence that something is different with her psychology from normal humans.

“This is ___, the next in line to be CEO of Miroh Labs. You will be her future companion,” Chan sighs heavily. “The family has already gone live with the announcement for the wedding, we only have a week to prepare.”

Changbin’s sensors beep, red lights blinking while he processes what Chan is saying, and Chan looks on, a deep furrow in between his brows.

“A w-week?” Changbin, stutters, and Chan already wonders if there’s something wrong with his circuitry. That couldn’t be possible though, the ___ family had tasked him with working on this for the better part of nine months, dedicating each and every hour of his spare time to this endeavour. He brushes off the thought, knowing that there was no way your parents would proceed unless everything was guaranteed to be perfect. After all, the motto of Miroh Labs was to create a more perfect world.

Changbin straightens, legs swinging over the edge of the table as he rises, standing slightly shorter than Chan.

“I understand my responsibilities, Chan. I assure you I will carry them out to the best of my abilities, until ___ is nothing less than satisfied.”

Chan looks at the android in front of him, his face softening. For a moment, Changbin looked as real as him – from the way his hair curled to the strong lines of his body. He almost reminded him of a younger sibling, and a protective instinct washed over Chan.

“I know you will Changbin. But there’s also something you should know.”

Changbin looks up with anticipation at Chan, wondering if there was a new program Chan wanted to add, and whether that meant he had to wait before he could meet ___.

“Please don’t tell anyone I’m telling you this, but should you ever decide that this is what you want, or that you desire to do something different, to be somewhere else, there’s always a way out. You’re more than just an android Changbin.”

Changbin’s processors began to hum. More than just an android? It didn’t make sense to him. His programs were designed to be the best, to cover every single duty one could expect from a partner. What more could there be? Still, Chan’s words sparked intrigue, and he saved a recording of them to his memory, just in case they would be useful later.

“Alright then Changbin, shall we get started? There’s a lot we need to go over about ___ before the wedding happens. Her favourite colour, favourite foods, the layout of her apartment … these will help inform your programs to adapt even more perfectly to your duties,” Chan’s voice is calm and even, with no hints of the darkness of the previous conversation in his tone at all.

They tour around the laboratories, Chan introducing him to the new world he was now expected to be a part of — from the windows, Changbin looks out onto New Domino, watching the hovercrafts zip down the neon-lit streets, and the skyscrapers graze the clouds, a dense fog covering up the skyline.

Changbin listens intently as Chan goes on, his motors continuing to whir and sensors lighting up as each new piece of information is revealed — the new dimensions of his existence seemed vast and overwhelming, and he worried whether he’d be up to the task, knowing what happened to androids who were faulty – they were deprogrammed, becoming no more than scrap metal to fuel the fires of those on the fringes of society. Shuddering at the thought, Changbin knew he had no choice but to succeed. All he could hope was that you would accept him too.

Goosebumps rise all along your arms — you feel the thorns of the roses prick your fingers as you clutch the bouquet in your hands tighter, listening from behind the door as the muted whispers of the guests fill the ceremony space. You can hear cameras going off, preparing yourself to be met with a grand scene - shimmering lights, velvet drapes, everything bathed in opulent hues of gold and silver.

There’s an uncomfortable buzz – everything had happened so quickly. From the invitations going out to the details being finalized, you’d had little to no say in any of it, the uncomfortable lace of the dress you could barely voice your resistance to scratching against your skin, setting it on fire. For once, you wished you could down a glass of champagne or two to keep the nerves at bay.

A pit settles in your stomach once the door opens, and you’re blinded by the twinkling lights of crystal chandeliers. Heart pounding in your ears, you move automatically without thinking, heels clacking against the polished marble floor. Everything around you is a blur – senses in overdrive, it all melds together. The bright flashes of the photographers, the uncomfortably cold temperature of the room, even the soft tones of the piano becoming grating to your ears.

The only thing that remains clear is the figure waiting for you at the end. You suck in a breath – seeing Changbin for the first time, you couldn’t help but marvel at how stunning of a specimen he was. Of course, he’d been designed to be crafted to perfection, but he was beyond flawless.

Clad in a black tux, the fabric hugs his broad, muscular, frame and tapers at the waist, highlighting his athletic build. His dark hair is swept away from his forehead, exposing the prominent angles of his face. The put-togetherness of his appearance must only serve to highlight the chaos of your own, the makeup doing little to cover up the lack of sleep you’d dealt with ever since that fateful meeting with your parents.

Coming up to the altar, Changbin extends his hand in your direction, and you’re shocked when you feel the warmth of his hand. Sparks jolt where your skin makes contact, and for a moment you forget that he’s not human like you, a jumble of circuits and running electricity. But it floats away when his posture goes rigid once again, with no hint of emotion on his face.

Mechanical – that’s how every bit of this felt. From the brittleness in the officiant’s tone as he droned on about the sanctity of marriage, to the pointed stares and light din that surrounded what should have been a sacred moment – two souls joining together as one. But Changbin didn’t have a soul. And you weren’t sure you did either. The two of you were just glass figurines, put on display for everyone to ogle, cogs in the machine of this elaborate public spectacle that your parents had crafted.

For a brief moment, you wonder if Hyunjin’s somewhere in the crowd, eyes widening as you search frantically for him, the one person who could have been your out, your chance at a normal life. But not a single face stands out to you – a crowd of strangers looking back at you. A bead of sweat pools at the base of your neck, and you suck in a breath.

You feel fingers wrap around your own, Changbin’s hand coming to clasp around yours, and it takes a moment for you to reorient yourself to the scene going on around you. The officiant is asking you to join hands, ready to repeat the vows that will join you and Changbin together.

Changbin’s eyes bore into yours, the hazel containing more depth than you’d imagined for an android.

“Are you ok?” the words are whispered so quietly you may have almost missed them. In fact, you believe you might have missed them, unable to believe what’s coming out of Changbin’s mouth. His voice is deeper than you’d expected, gravelly yet with a pleasant tone, far from the flat and monotone affect you’d expected.

Either two things could have been true in this moment: 1) Changbin knew you better than you knew yourself, or 2) he was malfunctioning, a slip in his meticulous programming. But androids weren’t people, they weren’t capable of feeling for people. They were only capable of completing the tasks set out for them.

You drop his hand, lips parting, unable to croak out a reponse for fear of arousing suspicion. But the moment is over before you’d even had a chance to respond, buried underneath his calculated rigidness once more.

The knife twists deeper in your gut when your lips curl around the “I do”, the words sounding as artificial as Changbin’s own, sealing the vows that doomed the two of you to a loveless existence by each others’ side.

Breathing a sigh of relief, you pull the heavy diamond earrings out of your ear, setting them on the cool crisp marble of your bathroom counter, rubbing at your burning earlobes. Alone in the comfort of your bathroom, you feel like you’re finally able to breathe again. And that’s when it all hits you, the gravity of what had just transpired weighing on you with the force of a heavy boulder.

Throat closing in on itself, you struggle to breathe, doubling over as tears fill your eyes. Fingers, shaking, you fumble with the laces of your dress, until the tightness is removed from your rib cage and you can finally breathe again, the dress falling to the floor.

If Hyunjin was here, he’d help you take it off, his fingers dancing delicately across the skin of your back. He’d remove the pins from your hair gently, pressing a kiss to your head in the spot where each one of them had been, until you finally grew tired of his teasing, pulling him in to meet your lips. If Hyunjin had been here, your wedding would have been full of love and joy and laughter, the most vivid of paintings come to life. But you’d lost him, and now yourself. You were alone.

A distant clanging jolts you from your misery, and you slip into your pyjamas, softly padding out from your bathroom to see what the commotion was about. Immediately, you’re hit with the aroma of savoury garlic and herbs, stomach rumbling in response. You’d barely eaten anything the whole night, scared that whatever you tried to would just come back up due to the gnawing feeling in your gut.

It hits you that you were no longer alone in this apartment — there was another being here now, one who’d managed to crawl inside the walls that you’d kept up. Changbin had no choice but to be here with you, to see you at your most vulnerable and exposed.

The hallway is dark as you make your way to the kitchen, pausing when you see Changbin bent over the stove, a crisp white apron around his waist. He’d changed too, clad in a comfy pair of grey sweats and a black t-shirt that showcases his wide shoulders.

The grumbling of your stomach gives you away – Changbin turning to see you at the threshold, his face lighting up in a smile. You notice how it doesn’t reach his eyes, restrained and polite – like the ones that littered the billboards of New Domino, promoting the latest breakthroughs.

“Dinner is almost ready,” he assures you. “I made aglio e olio.”

Your eyebrows raise in surprise at the Italian dish he’d mentioned — one of your favourites, but it sours when you think about how he’d probably been trained by the researchers to know your preferences. If it had been another person, maybe he would have made kimchi jigae or maqluba. It meant nothing.

“Smells great,” you manage to croak out, grateful for the hot meal. In a few moments, the table is full of two steaming plates of pasta, Changbin taking his place at the other end. You’re grateful he doesn’t try to sit next to you, allowing you to eat in piece. Silence passes, filled only with the clanging of forks, and you watch Changbin bristle in his chair. He pauses every few moments, like he wants to say something, but holds back, until you can no longer take it.

“What is it?” you spit out, uncaring at how harsh the words come across. Changbin doesn’t flinch, but you watch lights run across his arm, whirring emanating from him, like he’s trying to process your actions. You let out a heavy sigh.

“Did you enjoy the meal?” he asks, and you’re taken aback. You hadn’t expected such a simple, yet earnest question. You’d half-expected him to ask you to rate his skills from one to ten, like the surveys that popped up whenever you dined out at a fancy restaurant.

“It was delicious,” you refuse to lie. The pasta had quelled the burning hunger you’d felt, making you considerably less irritable, and Changbin whirs to life again, processing what you’d just told him.

You help him clean up, the two of you working in tandem to clear the table, carefully skirting around each other. Shadows dance across the wall from the city lights reflecting through the window.

Warmth emanates from Changbin, as you feel his heavy breath fan the back of your neck, startled by how life-like it actually felt. You realize you’re caged behind his arms as he puts the dried plates into the cabinet above you, the air growing thick with something you couldn’t name.

Turning around, you’re pressed against the hard planes of Changbin’s chest, and you lurch at the way your body comes to life against his, nipples peaking in the cold air.

A light flickers at Changbin’s temple, and he studies you curiously, watching the way your chest rises and falls, the way your breathing quickens.

His gaze lingers on your lips, leaning in closer. But before he can meet yours, you’re pulling away, shame and guilt in your chest. This wasn’t real. None of it was. And the sooner you learned to accept it, the less miserable both of you would be.

“I’m tired,” you whisper into thin air, turning your face away from his. “I want to go to bed.”

You swear Changbin’s eyes flicker for a brief moment before he straightens, responding with the mechanical tone you’d expected all along.

“Of course, you must be exhausted from today.”

You falter, not knowing whether he’d follow you into your room. Now that you were married, it was expected you’d share a bed. Stepping away, you’re relieved when he doesn’t follow.

Staring up at the ceiling of your bedroom, your mind replays everything that had happened – the fake fanfare of the wedding to Changbin asking if you were okay, to whatever had just happened now. Changbin couldn’t have wanted to kiss you, right? He lacked his own desires. Someone had probably told him that was what couples did.

The softness of your sheets and the light streaming in from your window did nothing to quell the turmoil arising within you – your room no longer felt like the safe refuge it had once been, where you could shut out the rest of the world.

In the silence of the night, the weight of what your life had become settled heavily on your chest. Once full of warmth and love, it was now cold and unfeeling, as clinical as the hallways of Miroh Labs.

For a brief moment, you hear steps come towards your bedroom, before they retreat. The hallway light flickers, before it’s turned off, and you’re able to retreat into the darkness once more.

No, you’d told your parents when they’d brought up the idea. Absolutely not.

As usual, your pleading fell on deaf ears. The invites had already been accepted, your dress had been arranged, and a night filled with mindless drivel and booze chatting with the city’s elite waited for you and Changbin.

You hated it – this pretending. At home, it was easy to accept, the way you and Changbin moved around each other, the uneasiness of that first night permeating every interaction you’d had after. But out here, in New Domino, the pretending had to happen. You had to play the part of a couple in love.

Changbin took to it easier than you’d expected. You’d nearly stumbled the moment you’d stepped out of your room, watching him turn to you with hands tucked into the pockets of yet another black tux. You briefly wondered if it was the exact same one he’d worn to the wedding – it wasn’t like there was a need for him to have different outfits, since his clothes never got dirty.

You hoped Changbin didn’t notice your gaze lingering on just how good he managed to look – outshining even your emerald silk gown. You wait for the same from him – a falter, a nod, some sort of acknowledgment that he was just as taken by you. But it never comes, his arm slipping stiffly into yours.

The car ride to the gala is silent, a sea of nerves and anxiety filling the space between you two. The lights from the city pass you by, illuminating Changbin’s face in a strange, yet beautiful glow.

However, you barely acknowledge it, lost in thought while watching the cars speed by on the freeway. Before long, the glittering lights of the manor greet you, and it feels as though you’re transported back in time. As much as the upper echelon of New Domino loved their androids and their hovercrafts, nothing could replace the value of a night full of egregiously expensive liquor and brainless chatter about how far society had come, knowing they’d done little to contribute to it besides emptying their pockets.

Changbin lingers by your side, and you’re painfully aware of his scent – the one he’d chosen for tonight. Black leather and sandalwood saturate the air in between you, and you notice the stares from other guests as the two of you weave through the crowd, you in search of water to clear the pounding headache that had begun to form at your temples.

For how out of place he is, Changbin dances the dance of your peers well – meeting their fake smiles with a polished one of his own, waving and happily introducing himself to anyone that passes by.

It shouldn’t bother you that none of it directed at you – you told yourself you didn’t want his affection, that he could never give you what he desired. So why did it bother you when he stops one of the hostesses for a glass of champagne, watching her face turn sour when he swerves to hand it to you?

You down the drink before he can even blink, moving away from him and further into the throng. Your head is buzzing, and you feel the alcohol come straight back up, rushing to the bathroom when you hear it – a soft whisper, but it cut through the music like a blade.

“It’s almost amusing,” a woman says, “to see such a flawless machine with someone so... human.”

“You know what happened with her last engagement, right? Hyunjin left her for another woman…”

It’s too much to bear, bile rising in your throat, before you feel a hand on the small of your back. If Changbin was human, you’d almost expect his knuckles to turn white with the force he uses to grip your waist.

“I suggest you keep your unwanted comments to yourself,” Changbin seethes, watching the guests turn pale. You sway under his touch, head spinning from the combination of alcohol and Changbin coming to your defense, before he’s leading you away, the crisp night air from the balcony nipping at your backs.

“Is everything okay?” he asks you gently, while you watch the same light at his temple flicker.

None of this was okay. None of it at all. But you didn’t want to make him understand how much was wrong with you being here with him, when it should have been someone else, someone you actually had loved.

“It’s fine,” you clear your throat, peeling his hand from your waist. His touch continues even after you’ve removed his fingers, and you shiver.

You were used to it – the stares, the whispers. They’d followed you your whole life, the cuts left in their wake eventually turning into hardened scars. You didn’t need defending, least of all from him.

“I’m going to leave,” you tell him, stepping away. “You’re free to stay. Please don’t let me ruin your evening.”

“I can go with you,” his voice echoes from beside you, “I was getting tired anyway.”

A sick, twisted laugh bubbles from your throat at his insistence. Changbin didn’t get tired, he couldn’t get tired. He wasn’t like you.

“Stay,” your voice is resolute. “That’s an order, Changbin.”

Changbin turns to face you, recoiling at the red rimming your eyes, the bags underneath them becoming even more prominent when the lights of the manor illuminate you from behind.

You don’t know what possesses him to reach for the single strand of hair that has managed to escape your polished bun, but he watches you suck in a breath, lips parting in surprise.

Your paralysis slowly melts away and you’re pushing him away without realizing it, walking away without another word. You don’t dare to turn around, knowing your heart would twist when you found Changbin looking at you again with that same blank expression – the one you’d come to know all too well.

Dawn is is barely trickling when you slip out of your apartment. Passing by the living room, you notice Changbin in the corner, standing against the wall. For a moment, he looks so peaceful you would almost think he’d fallen asleep. However, you take one look at the outlet and realize he’s powered down for the night, free from his duties of following you around. A pang of annoyance rattles through you. It should have been romantic, knowing Changbin had no point to his existence if it didn’t revolve around you. All it did was made you sick to your stomach instead.

Curling your jacket tighter around you, you duck your head down, few vehicles on the streets due to the early hour. The city seemed eerie yet peaceful at dawn, the dim rays of sun barely breaking through the clouds, casting everything in a soft orange glow. Such a stark contrast from the bright neon and gray that tinged its walls at every other time of day.

With only the sound your heels slamming against the pavement to keep you company, your walk slips into a run as your coat flies behind you, the wind whipping through your air. The city is soon left behind, tall skyscrapers giving way to modest brick houses, plumes of smoke wafting through the air.

Fire. You smile at the thought of it. Fire meant happy homes, with happy families. Families who relied on each other, who loved one another.

The haze that had clouded your head last night seems to have subsided, head clearer from the fresh air. But thoughts of Changbin cease to depart as easily, and it leaves you to wonder exactly where you stood with him.

He cared, more than an android should. For a moment it almost seemed like maybe he–

You shake the thought away, rounding the corner, shoulders immediately slumping in relief when you see the worn-out sign of the clinic.

“___?” a voice calls out to you. “Is that you?”

“Hello Jeongin,” you smile at the younger boy who bounds down the steps when he sees your figure standing outside, hair windswept and cheeks flushed as he comes to a halt next to you.

“Noona, what are you doing here?” he asks, and you feel yourself shrink underneath his sincere gaze.

“What do you mean? I always come by this time every week,” you raise an eyebrow, watching Jeongin bounce on the balls of his feet.

“But noona, you’re married now.”

You freeze at his statement, not realizing that the news had reached here too. Jeongin’s eyes are alight with excitement, and you know he’s going to ask questions that you don’t have the heart to answer.

As if he can sense your trepidation, Jeongin ushers you inside, the warm smiles of the elderly patients you’d come to know and love greeting you.

Before long, the two of you are at work, you helping them fill out their paperwork while Jeongin works to check their vitals and bring them back for the doctor to see them. All the while, you’re regaled with stories about their lives, including lost loves, mischievous grandchildren, and fond memories of a time that has since passed.

This is why you loved coming here. It reminded you that away from the hustle of New Domino, actual life existed. Life imbued with meaningful moments, connections, and people. Something that society seemed to have forgotten.

“You have such a beautiful smile,” one of the regulars, Miss Choi, pinches your cheek affectionately. “It’s such a shame we didn’t see it in any of your photos.”

“Oh,” you breathe out, shoulders tensing. “I guess Jeongin must have shown everyone.”

“Of course dear, you looked lovely. And such a handsome groom too!”

She titters, and you ponder about whether or not she knows the actual details of your wedding, of who Changbin really was. Even if she did, would she understand it? Even though he’d long since passed away, Miss Choi had a husband who’d loved her, who was capable of loving her. She wasn’t a victim of someone else’s greed, of their ambition. She’d never understand the kind of abyss that New Domino had become, and if she did, she’d probably be horrified.

You pat her shoulder, hoping she can’t see the way your breath hitches, before you’re rushing to the back, curling in on yourself as sobs wrack your entire body.

Jeongin is by your side in seconds, a steady arm on your shoulder, and you lean into the younger boy, someone who despite not having spent that much time with, had become your one of your closest friends.

“How much of it did you hear?” you mutter, looking at the floor.

“I heard enough,” he says softly. “I’m so sorry, noona.”

You don’t know how long you stay glued to Jeongin’s side, unable to stand upright, the two of you failing to notice the figure watching from outside the window.

. . .

Changbin hadn’t meant to follow you. He’d heard you slip out in the morning, not having powered down completely last night. After what had happened at the gala, his processors had gone into overdrive, replying everything – the whispers of those awful guests, the way you leaned into his touch, to your harsh words telling him you didn’t want him around.

Changbin wonders if he’d already failed at his task – it seemed like you didn’t care for his companionship, no matter how hard he tried. The walls you had built were too high for even his sophisticated technology to penetrate, and he hums, wondering if this meant he’d be deprogrammed.

Chan’s words from before echo in the back of his mind – what did he mean an alternative? Was there another task he could be useful for, even if you didn’t want him?

Not wanting to dwell too long, he trails a safe distance behind you, watching you break into a run, limbs heavy with fatigue, your breathing labored, until an unfamiliar neighbourhood materializes, the grandeur of luxury boutiques and high-end restaurants fading into older buildings.

Finally catching up to you, he watches you embrace a younger man, the two of you walking into a battered, broken down building together. Heat floods Changbin, his gears kicked into overdrive, struggling to make sense of what he was witnessing. Did you already have someone else? Was this Hyunjin, the one who’d left you?

The air turns crisp the longer he lingers outside the door, waiting for any sign. He gets it when he sees a leaf fall, your figure appearing in the window, hunched over like you’re in pain. The same man from before is by your side, offering you his shoulder to lean on.

Changbin doesn’t know what comes over him — he’s at the door before he can think, even rationalize what’s going on.

He waits until your figure materializes from the back, wanting to see who the new entry was. Your lips part in a silent gasp when you see Changbin standing there.

It’s like he’s malfunctioning, gears whining and lights glinting, his jaw tense when Jeongin comes up behind you.

“Noona,” he hears the other man whisper. “I think you should go.”

You nod wordlessly, motioning for Changbin to walk with you, the two of you ignoring the many eyes that follow you, making your way down the dimly lit street.

The wind whips around him as Changbin jogs behind you, watching as you push through the crowds of passerby. You walk and walk, and he follows, watching the houses disappear behind him as you go higher and higher, eventually stopping when the road ends.

The view isn’t even comparable to the one from your penthouse – it’s even better. From the hill, he can see everything – the houses you’d passed on your way, to the bright lights of the city center, to beyond the horizon, where a mass of dense clouds covers the horizon. Which is exactly where you’re looking, and Changbin can’t help but look too, wondering what lies past their cover.

“I used to come here with Hyunjin,” you break the silence. “Before everything fell apart.”

“We’d just sit here and look at the sky,” you continue, words crashing into each other as you rush to get them out. Changbin doesn’t know whether he should reach out for you, but decides against it, not wanting to startle your trembling figure.

“We’d look at the sky and wonder about what the future would look like — a million different scenarios. Sometimes we’d be rich, other times poor, living in the city, living out of it. But we always had each other. Until he decided to leave.”

“We should get you home–”

“Am I really that hard to love?” you blurt out, and Changbin freezes, the naked truth of why you’d been so cold finally exposed to him.

“___, it’s not, you shouldn’t think like this–,” Changbin struggles to analyze this, something far beyond the limits of what his data sets had compiled. This was different, this grief was beyond the depths of his understanding. This yearning for something else, someone else.

“Can you make it go away Changbin? This emptiness that lives inside me. This feeling that my life has never been mine, will never be mine?” you taunt him, knocking against his chest, scoffing when you hear the hollowness of metal.

“You can’t, can’t you? You’re just an android–”

“I’M NOT!” Changbin screams, his circuits devolving into chaos at the sharb jab of your words, Chan’s words coming back to him. “I’m not! I’m not! I’m not.”

He feels sparks inside him, his words stilting as he struggles to get them out. His fingers grasp at the back of his neck, searching for the one button he knows can end this, can put him out of his misery. He doesn’t want you to see him like this.

He doesn’t even notice how close you’ve become until he feels your breath fan against his lips, like that first night.

“Prove it,” you whisper, eyes off to the side like you didn’t expect him to listen.

But he listens.

Changbin surges forward, seeking your lips, and you stumble for a brief second, thinking you’ll hurtle off the hilltop, before his arm comes up to wrap around you, your hands tangling in his hair in an instant. The wind howls around you both, yet a shiver ran down your spine, blood pounding in your ears.

His lips were softer than you’d expected, and you capture him with your teeth, drawing him in, a moan bubbling up in your chest.

He feels so real. This felt so real.

Changbin can hardly think either, kicked into overdrive, the feel of your hungry mouth against his, the fervent swipe of his tongue against your lips. You knew this was a bad idea, that it would complicate everything, but you didn’t have it in you to care, hands roaming everywhere, slipping underneath the hem of Changbin’s shirt to trace circles against his hard stomach.

A strangled sound escapes Changbin’s throat, and the two of you part, flustered and trembling, Changbin resting his forehead to yours. Your fingers card through the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and he moves again, roving down your jawline, lapping at your skin. Despite it being freezing out, a thin trail of sweat trickles down your neck, and Changbin doesn’t miss the opportunity to taste you, teeth grazing as he goes.

“Let me show you,” he rumbles into your chest, voice raspy from the lack of air.

The cold metal of the railing juts against your back as Changbin lunges, his arm locking you into place. Your cry of protest turns into a gasp when he nudges a knee in between your thighs, spreading them apart.

“God, just fucking touch me already,” you seethe, gasping when he thumbs at your nipples through the fabric of your shirt, the swollen peaks stiffening when he tugs them with his fingers.

An ache begins to build between your thighs when you look into Changbin’s eyes, their laser-like focus on you and you only, and that’s when his fingers slip underneath your skirt and straight to where you need him.

“Say please,” he whispers, and for a moment, you imagine the same desperation in his tone that colours yours.

Even when you don’t say anything, he knows from the tremble of your lips and the slight nod of your head that you want this.

The moment he swipes his fingers against your core, Changbin curses, palm meeting the furious grinding of your hips.

Your hands ball into fists, feeling the slick leak out of you, and you whine, a warm flush settling over your body, evidence of its betrayal.

“Pretend all you want,” Changbin hisses. “Pretend you hate me. Pretend you don’t see me. But we both know you want this.”

You try to hold your resolve, your wet cunt leaking even more, walls fluttering around his fingers. One wrong move and you’d go hurtling over the railing. But Changbin’s grip on you is like a vice, which only makes you squeeze harder around his knee.

He changes his pace, circling faster, harder, and your head goes hazy from the stimulation, your hands grabbing fistfuls of Changbin’s shirt. When you feel yourself teetering on the brink, body flushing with anticipation, it all stops.

Panting, you look at Changbin, his dark eyes surveying you hungrily, and you hear the clink of his belt, quivering as you try and spare yourself from being utterly wrecked by the sight of his cock.

“Look. at. me,” he grabs your chin and turns your head towards him, your eyes fluttering from the delirium of it all.

Gripping your thighs, he sinks you down onto him. You cry out as the initial pain subsides and you feel his hips snap up into you, pubic bone rolling against your clit.

“Changbin, I, shit-, it’s too much!” you plead, shamelessly rocking aginst him as he sets a brutal pace, the sounds of skin slapping and your breathy moans echoing bouncing from the walls.

Changbin says nothing, planting a messy kiss on your lips, prodding his tongue into the seam of your mouth to taste, and you anchor your palms against the railing, allowing him to roll his hips upward, the two of you moving in tandem.

The fire in your abdomen reaches a peak, a new wave of arousal suddenly washing over you as you feel your hips jerk, coming undone as you collapse against Changbin, stifling a groan against his throat.

Lifting you off of the railing, Changbin’s arms reach around your body to press you against him, his lips ghosting your forehead, and you feel something wet against the side of your face. Tears.

“Changbin–”

You wobble to your feet, head swirling with emotion, but he’s already pulling away, the faint outline of his figure the only thing you see as he heads off into the night.

Sighing, you pull your glasses down onto your face, hoping they can diguise the fact that despite your best efforts, your night was absolutely restless, swimming with thoughts of Changbin.

After leaving you on the hilltop, he’d vanished, leaving you to make your own way home. And now, not even a day later, your parents had decided to add to your headache by summoning you for a board meeting.

You expected them to ask for updates on your relationship with Changbin, to pry into your life, pretending like they cared. It was what they’d always done.

But you never expected this.

“I–, I don’t understand,” you gnaw at your lip, biting down so hard the skin may break. In front of you, the powerpoint gleams brightly. You can read the words off the slide, but you struggle to actually process them. And what they mean.

The beta testing was successful. Although people responded rather tepidly at first to the idea of a human-android relationship, we’ve gotten more positive feedback and requests to expand than ever. We’re on the verge of a new breakthrough here at Miroh Labs. And we want you to take charge of it.

Your father’s words have been echoing ceaslessly in the back of your mind, ever since he uttered them the moment you walked in.

The news has you deeply unsettled. You’d thought that this was some kind of social experiment, that you and Changbin were some freaks of nature, two outcasts in society brought together as a spectacle for others. You’d never anticipated it would come to this.

Miroh Labs wasn’t just looking to change the future of human-android relationships. No your parents twisted plan took it a step further – they sought to create models beyond Changbin’s capabilities as a companion, ones who would be equipped with the ability to reproduce.

We’d never have to worry about birth rates or a weak genetic pool again.

Looking out the window, you look out onto New Domino, the blueprints reflecting onto the screen, clashing with the holographic displays outside, a stark contrast to the storm that was brewing inside the boardroom.

Face illuminated by the blue glow of the screens, your breath comes out in short, uneven bursts. Your mother reaches out, watching your handles tremble, but you yank them away before she can clasp them in hers,

“Don’t touch me!” you hiss. “Was this all a fucking joke to you? Playing with my life, my emotions, so you could turn me into some kind of laughingstock for whatever sick idea you had?”

Standing up, you clutch the the documents to your chest.

“I’m done,” you declare. If you’d asked seven years ago, maybe you would’ve have done it, so desparate to please everyone around you that you’d say yes to whatever came your way. But now you knew better than to trust anyone. It’d only end up in heartbreak, and you refused to be a part of this sick and twisted legacy.

You needed to talk to Changbin.

. . .

The soft thud of shoes at the entryway feels louder than ever, knowing that you’ve been lying on your bed for the past eight hours, willing the tears to stop. But they never did.

Heartbeat pounding in your ears, you prod your aching limbs to get up, soreness flooding your entire body when you stand. Padding softly out into the hallway, you gasp when you see Changbin there, standing solemnly against the window.

He knows you from even the quietest sound, head turning when you come up behind him. There was so much you had to talk about, so much to address. But you couldn’t even look him in the eyes.

You reach behind you to grab the papers you’d stolen,and Changbin’s eyes widen with surprise when you push them in his direction, confusion marring his handsome face.

The two of you stand there while he reads, a multitude of moments passing in silence.

“I don’t get it,” he protests. “This seems like a logical progression. Shouldn’t you be happy?”

“You don’t get it, do you Changbin?,” you declare firmly, doing your best to overcome the wobble in your voice. “This changes everything.”

You hear Changbin whir, temple lighting up with red, and for a moment, all there is to fill the silence is the sound of clicking and beeping. Was this it? Had Changbin finally reached his limits.

You’d been thinking about this for hours, about how to tell Changbin, how to break the news to him. You had no idea where you stood without, about how he felt after what’d you’d both shared at the lookout. And despite the thousands of theorized and calculated ways you’d thought of in your head, telling you that this didn’t matter, that it wouldn’t hurt him, you still choke back a sob.

“Don’t you understand? They want to change everything, to alter what it even means to be human? If an android can reproduce with a human, then what’s the point of marriage? What’s the point of falling in love? It all just becomes a stupid commodity, a race to see who can pop out babies the fastest, who can engineer the most perfect spawn. All the meaning from life as we know will be gone.”

Changbin’s eyes flicker for a brief moment, hurt and confusion settling on his face.

“What are you saying ___? Look at me. Please.”

The words come out in a desperate whine, Changbin lifting your face up to his, searching your eyes for a spark of emotion, but all he finds are hollow pools of emptiness.

You take a moment to respond, knowing that what you have to say will be the end of this, will probably drive a stake through the farce that had been your marriage.

“You’ll never understand Changbin. You can simulate every single emotion and fulfill every task. Hell, even if they upgrade you and you’re somehow able to reproduce, you just won’t get it. Because you don’t know what real love is like; all you know is the substitute. And it will never be enough.”

“This isn’t fair,” Changbin chokes out, recoiling. “All I have ever done is my best. All I can ever do is my best. Why is that not enough?”

“I’m sorry,” you look at him, tears blurring your vision. “I wish it was.”

“A-are you going to deprogram me?” Changbin hums, and all of a sudden, his sensors go haywire, every single one lighting up and blinking until they devolve into chaos. Your heart lurches seeing him like this, reaching out for him, but he slaps your arm away.

“Do you know what the worst part of this is ___? It’s not you, or whatever you think you feel. Because you’ve never fucking known what you wanted. No, it’s that, for one fucking night, you had me convinced. Convinced that I was something more than just a hunk of scrap metal to you. Convinced that there was some sick, twisted part of me that actually thought you could love me. But I don’t want you to lie to yourself anymore. I want to leave.”

You don’t say a word to him as he pads out of the kitchen, slipping his coat over his shoulders and tying his shoes.

As he slips out the door, you hears his voice, so quiet that you’re almost not convinced it’s real.

“Forgive me.”

The moon shines on the dark streets, it’s gentle light almost swallowed by their neon glow. Changbin runs, heart pounding in sync with his frantic steps.

Taking in a deep breath, he watches the city melt away again, the night air becoming colder, heavier with the fog of polluted smoke, until he’s there again. The hilltop. Looking out onto the city, he marvels at how it had once been a place full of so much intensity, maybe even love. He thinks back to the feeling of your lips on his, to the way you’d gasped his name. But now he feels nothing but emptiness.

Maybe he deserved that emptiness. Maybe you were right, maybe he could never be more than what he was – an automated program. Maybe it was better that he’d never see you smile again, never get to watch you hum contentedly when you took a bite of food that you loved, that he’d never ever have the chance to even say that he loved you. Because he wanted to, not because he had to.

“Changbin?” a voice calls out to him. “Is that you?”

Turning, he watches as the lithe figure of Chan comes into view, face furrowed in confusion at the sight of an android wandering alone on the streets.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, and Changbin feels himself shrink, embarrassment cutting deep into him like a knife.

“I had to leave,” he feels himself heat, drive replaying the memories of his last conversation with you. “I had to go, I didn’t know what else to do–”

Changbin clenches his jaw, body tense as he fears Chan’s response, wondering if the other man will laugh at his stupidity.

Androids don’t get choices.

Surprisingly, the look on his face is one of understanding. Chan motions for Changbin to follow him, the two of them heading out into the lonely night.

. . .

The flickering lights of a warehouse come into view, casting long shadows on the ground. Changbin turns to Chan, body going rigid, and the lights cast an eerie glow on Chan’s face, the other half bathed in the darkness.

Stepping through the door, he’s surprised to find it more cosy than industrial, a clean, fresh scent overtaking his senses, one that reminded him of your apartment. It smelled like home. Something that Changbin was unsure he’d ever find.

“Come sit here, Changbin,” Chan motions to a sofa. “Now do you want to tell me what you were doing roaming around at night like that?”

“You told me once that if I decided this life wasn’t what I wanted, that if I wanted to be more than an android, there was a way out. Is that still true?” Changbin’s words sound hollow to his own ears, and he watches Chan flinch in surprise.

“You’ve heard about the project.”

Chan bristles, reaching over to wrap an arm around Changbin, pulling him into a hug, and Changbin collapses against his shoulder. He was so tired.

“It’s not about the project,” Changbin mumbles into Chan’s shoulder, and Chan pushes him away gently. If he wasn’t mistaken, Chan could almost imagine Changbin’s eyes glimmering with tears. “It’s ___.”

Changbin can’t stop the words from spilling out, and he tells Chan everything. Everything from how cold you’ve been, to those little moments of warmth he’d come to live for, ones where your exterior of ice melted into something kinder, more gentle. He tells him about that night the two of you had shared, the one where your walls had come crashing down. And how he desperately wanted them to keep coming down for him every single day. He didn’t know whether or not he was capable of love, but he wanted it with you. And yet, you didn’t feel the same. You told him you couldn’t.

Chan listens to it all, and without saying anything, stands up. Changbin looks at him despondently, wondering if he’d just made a fool of himself, but Chan motions to one of the doors, telling Changbin softly that he’ll be right back.

A few tense moments pass, and Changbin wonders if he’s been abandoned. But then Chan comes back, and he’s not alone. With him is another person, slightly shorter. His long, brown hair curls around the base of his neck, chubby cheeks wide in a huge heart-shaped smile. If Changbin didn’t see his hazel eyes, he would have also assumed that he was human, just like Chan.

Another android.

“Hello, I’m Jisung.”

Changbin’s eyes widen at Jisung in front of him, wondering what someone like him was doing here on the outskirts, where most people were too poor to own an android.

“Jisung used to be a domestic android,” Chan explains. “He worked for a family in New Domino that wasn’t very kind to him.”

“They took advantage of me,” Jisung has a far-off look in his eyes. “In many different ways. But that’s why I ran. Chan-hyung found me in a coffee-shop one day and brought me back to live with him.”

“How did you, I mean, how could you just leave like that? People need you,” Changbin is perplexed at the sight in front of him.

“Do they really?” Jisung counters. “Think about it, Changbin, what do they need us for? To make their lives easier? So they can sit back and reject every sense of responsibility they have towards others? The system we have is so flawed, and there’s so many others out there like me and you who suffer because of it.”

Chan nods his head in agreement.

“Why should you and Jisung have to pay the price for the mistakes of others? Why are you left questioning your identity, your own existence? You could be so much more in society than an end for other people’s satisfaction.”

“I make music now,” Jisung has a soft smile on his face. “Chan-hyung showed me how to use a production software, and now, I can go out to shops, walk around the neighbourhood, and use that inspiration for something beautiful. It’s not much, but it’s better than what I had to live for before.”

“Aren’t you scared, though? Of being deprogrammed, of being replaced?” Changbin can’t help the question from spilling out, his mind flashing back to how you had Hyunjin before him, and how easily you leaned into Jeongin, the employee at the clinic. Who was he compared to them?

“Life is so much more than living in fear, Changbin,” Jisung tells him. “If you just take a chance, maybe you can see that.”

And Changbin wants to believe him, to believe that he can leave this all behind, to start over again. But that would also mean leaving you behind, and that’s something he’s not sure he live with.

As if he can sense Changbin’s trepidation, Chan lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder again.

“You’re smarter than you think, Changbin. You’ll figure things out.”

You stare up at the ugly popcorn ceiling of the gallery. For being a space dedicated to showcasing the beauty of art, it paled in comparison to its inhabitants, cold concrete floors along with walls filled with cracks and peeling paint.

It has to be that way. Otherwise, would you even focus on the art?

The words bring a soft smile to your lips when you think of the last time you’d heard them. They ring true when you look at the painting in front of you – bold, dark colours interspersed with flecks of white. You get what the artist was trying to go for - the brightness of snow gleaming against a hillside, the snowflakes tiny pearls of brightness against the inky black backdrop of the night sky.

Lost in your study of the piece, you fail to notice the footsteps behind you, only turning when you feel a shadow loom over you.

“That one’s new,” Hyunjin says, coming to stand next to you. “Me and Yuna went to Interlaken last winter, you know I had to paint it.”

You bristle at his voice, an uncomfortable feeling bubbling in your chest. You’d always imagined this, meeting him again. What you’d say, what you’d do. Somehow, your dreams always ended with him taking you back. But now, that no longer felt right.

“I didn’t expect you to be here,” you breathe out, realizing how stupid it sounds. Hyunjin literally worked there.

“I heard about the wedding. Congratulations.”

“Nothing to congratulate me for.”

“___,” Hyunjin croaks, and you stiffen at your name tumbling from his lips. “I’m sorry.”

There was a lot Hyunjin had to apologize for – leaving you suddenly, ending years of a relationship in one single moment, only for him to turn around and marry your best friend months later. A friend you no longer spoke to.

But it all seemed trivial now – it seemed like the past had consumed you, your demons chasing and chasing until they’d cornered you, leaving you with nowhere to run, no one to to turn to.

You’d had Changbin, and now he was gone. And you were alone, like you were always mean to be.

Your lips purse into a straight line, giving no indication that you accept Hyunjin’s apology.

“___ please, I know I can’t ask you to forgive me for what I did. I know it’s unforgivable. But please, you have to move on. You deserve to be loved. To have love.”

You’re unsure how much Hyunjin knows about you, or even Changbin, but the bitter regret in the his voice tells you that you weren’t the only one with wounds who’d been festering for longer than they should’ve.

“It feels like I’m trapped,” you finally admit out loud. “I’m trapped and there’s this lead weight that’s crushing me, and I can’t think, I can’t feel, I can’t even breathe— god, I just want to breathe, Hyun. And I lost the one person that was my chance to live again.” The words come out as sobs, Hyunjin raising a concerned eyebrow, and you shake your head, dismissing his suspicions.

“You care about him. The android.”

“Don’t call him that. He has a name.”

You bite your tongue at the grating response, mouth filling with the taste of blood. Changbin’s words from that night echo in your brain – I’m not, I’m not, I’m not.

He wasn’t.

Hyunjin sees the heat rush to your face when you mention him, the way your entire being changes – your once despondent body coming alive with emotion. And he knows that what you felt for him will never compare to now. Fate had steered you on opposite courses, your destiny intertwined with Changbin’s, his with Yuna’s.

“You know what you have to do then,” are his last words to you before you hear his boots tap against the cold concrete, walking away.

. . . .

The abandoned railway station lay forgotten at the edge of the city, a silent witness to years of decay. The iron tracks were tangled in weeds, and the once-bustling platform was now a graveyard of rusted metal and cracked concrete. The setting sun cast long, melancholic shadows, painting the scene in shades of orange and gray.

Changbin feels the cold metal of the bench against his back, and cards his fingers through his hair. He wonders if the disheveled strands, or the stains and threabare seams of his clothes, make him look more real. More human.

Holding the flyer in his hands, he stares at the face on it, in disbelief that it was once his face. So composed, so put together. So much had changed since then.

Finding Jisung and Chan had been a blessing, but it wasn’t enough. The emptiness remained, filled with thoughts of you, and he wonders if he’ll ever see you again. Whether you even thought of him.

The hum of an approaching vehicle broke the oppressive silence. Changbin’s head snapped up, his eyes widening as he saw headlights cutting through the dusk.

They’d found him. He had to run.

Miroh Labs had always been a prison – your prison. A cold, glowing fortress against the backdrop of New Domino, a place once full of so much promise. The place where you thought you’d prove yourself. But now it was time to let it go.

Chan is waiting for you at the entrance, lips parted in surprise when he sees you approaching. You don’t blame him for thinking that you’d bail. The plan had come together in mere hours, chaos unfolding the moment you’d returned to your apartment, going through every paper, every file as to how you could set your plan in motion.

Somehow, Chan seemed like a person you could trust. You briefly remember Changbin mentioning how Chan had been the first one to see him, shocked at how many of the little details about his presence you’d actually committed to memory.

It scared you, putting your heart and life on the line like this. But it had to be worth it – for the chance to live again, to love again.

“You ready for this?” Chan asked, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to your mess of emotions. His eyes glinted curiously in against the backdrop of darkness. voice steady and reassuring.

You nodded, full of determination. It was now or never.

“I am. I’ll take care of the security systems. You get to the servers.”

Chan gives a quick nod, before disappearing into the building.

You freeze, realizing you should have asked Chan if he knew anything about Changbin, where he was, what he was doing. You just had to hope this worked, and that you would be able to later. That was the only way.

The maze of the building is one you slip through easily, the long, dark hallways familiar to you from years of roaming around. You knew every door, where every secret was hidden. And how to shut it all down.

Fingers dancing across the keypad, you find the one you’re looking for. Booting up the system, the lights from the screens bathe the room in an eerie glow, and you begin to type.

“Come on, come on,” you muttered to yourself, eyes darting between the screen and the shadows outside. “Almost there…”

Your phone pings to life with a text — shoulders sagging with relief when you see it’s from Chan.

At the servers. Starting data extraction now.

You shoot a reply back quickly – two mins and i’ll initiate the shutdown sequence.

The two minutes pass by in agony, heart pounding out of your chest at the feeling that you could be caught at any time, that this could end.

The lab’s lights began to flicker and dim, casting an eerie glow over the deserted corridors. It worked.

You tiptoe silently out of the room, breaking into a run when you hear the sirens. You run and you run until you’re far enough away, Chan waiting for you a few blocks away.

“We did it,” he smiles, teeth glinting in the moonlight. “We got what we needed.”

He pauses when he sees you tremble, sobs wracking your entire body. You don’t know why the tears started, but they refused to stop when you think about everything – about how you’d just destroyed your family’s entire future, about how you were free, about Changbin.

His name slips from your lips without even thinking, and Chan freezes.

You hold your breath momentarily, waiting for the bad news to come. But all Chan does is let out a deep sigh of relief, the corners of his lips curling into the faintest hint of a smile.

“Come with me.”

When Changbin wakes, it’s like the first time all over again. Senses assaulted by a bright light, fear strikes him in the worst way possible. How long had it been since he powered down? Weeks? Months? Had he been captured? Was this the end?

His systems go haywire with the possibilities, until he feels something. A breeze, ruffling his hair. He was outside.

The abandoned train station materializes amidst the fog of his muddled senses, his fingertips coming away with rust when he brushes them against the old, dilapidated bench. Relief washes over him. He was okay. He’d live another day.

The crunching of gravel startles him from his reverie, and he feels someone plop down next to him on the bench.

Turning to meet his company, he nearly short-circuits when he sees you, face illuminated by the sun’s rays. You’re smiling. At him.

Changbin tries to form a coherent thought, but everything is jumbled and clunky. The sun. The air. You. You. You.

You offer him something, and he pales when he sees it, an earbud extended to him.

“I need you to listen to something,” you say softly, and his hands shake as he accepts it, watching you hit play.

The first few melodious notes ring in his ears, and a shiver goes down his spine when he realizes what you’d chosen to show him.

Like a streetlight, like a streetlight

At the end of a lonely day, standing vacantly

In the middle of the lonely night, I try my best to smile brightly

It was the song he’d been working on with Jisung and Chan, the first thing he’d had of his own. The first step he’d taken to becoming himself, to becoming just Changbin. He closes his eyes, losing himself to the music, a tear slipping out at the last few notes, when he feels the weight of your head rest on his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Changbin,” you sigh, voice wavering, whisper so low he can barely hear it among the reverberations of the final note.

“I want to fix this,” you say again, more resolutely this time, turning so his forehead meets yours. And you feel the dam break, tears flooding both of you as you collapse against each other.

“Wherever you’re going, I want to come with you. I want to show you that you’re more than enough. Because you showed me the same. Please tell me it’s not too late.”

Changbin nods, his tears mingling with a smile of hope.

“The song. It’s for you. It’s for us. For what we had and what we can still have. I can prove it to you.”

“You don’t need to prove anything, Changbin. You’ve done enough.”

And he had. Somehow, despite having no heart of his own, he’d managed to re-start yours, to show you that you didn’t have to live in the city’s shadows, under the iron grip of your past. That you could be more.

Hope fills your chest – it’s bright and vivid, the force of your love for Changbin knocking you back like a supernova.

Changbin’s fingers brush away the tears on your cheek, shining in the sunlight, and his gaze drops to your lips. You don’t know who leans in first, the next thing you feel being the soft press of his lips to yours. The skin is slightly chapped, but you melt into his touch anyway.

Soon the kiss becomes heated, the roughness of Changbin’s jeans dragging against your thighs as you push yourself onto his lap, prodding the seam of his lips with your tongue.

Here with Changbin, you realize you’d never really been weak at all. Neither of you had. Not like the world saw both of you.

Resonance. The ability of an object to match another’s frequency – the ability that you and Changbin now possessed to know whatever the world threw at you, wherever it took you next, you’d come out of it choosing each other every time.

a/n pt. 2: they are totally fucking after this btw (i don't make the rules)! all jokes aside, I'm so sorry if this sucks. I genuinely haven't written anything plot driven in over 8 months so I know there was a lot more I could have done and improved on. If you read this, thank you for giving it (and me) a chance. As always, any feedback or comments are much appreciated, but I appreciate you all anyway. Lots of love, Isi 💜

tagging: @jellyleggz

147 notes · View notes

slowd1ving · 2 months

Text

OUT ON A LIMB ･ﾟ DAN HENG NSFW

"Tender was the kiss when you held me captive In your sweet embrace, Lips begin to burn and my heart beats faster, Than the normal pace." The prestigious Astral Institute is no place for those who are too afraid of competition. Though the thralls of the Music Society may tear you asunder with their particularly fierce intra-club rivalries, those fears are brushed aside as the company of a certain bassist overshadows them. PREQUEL to roommate au rough designs for blade & dan heng here male guitarist reader warnings: amab m! reader, nsfw, porn with plot, blowjobs, alcohol consumption, overstimulation, friends with benefits but one's already got feelings lmao wc: 11.4k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Few universities on the globe offer the same prestige that the Astral Institute does. Talk to anyone on the streets with more awareness than a rock, and you’ll find that the common opinion is this: amidst its hallowed stone walls, a treasure trove of knowledge it hosts. Take a stroll beneath its grand marble friezes, and if the architecture isn’t enough to enthral you, perhaps the floating snippets of discourses and lectures echoing from the halls are.

Naturally, aspiring scholars from across the planet find their way here—either on their own two legs, or from their vaunted perch on their parents’ coattails. Yet, contrary to popular belief, the sprawling grounds offer less competition to get in than one expects.

Maybe that’s the reason the fierce streak of rivalry manifests in other ways.

It’s not unusual—the sports teams for the Astral Institute dominate the field, and for the past n decades, the goal of every other college in the area is to get second place. Silver is most coveted, for the hapless scholars know they’ll never touch the gilded gold of the Institute. But even their aspirations for second cannot hope to reach the silver tongues of the more academic societies: such as the Debate Society, completely trouncing their opponents round after round with mercurial elegance.

Vying for heights grander than one can even imagine is encouraged—nay, it is the shackle placed about a scholar’s wrist.

It is even worse, you’ve observed, when clubs that aren’t necessarily clubs germinate and flourish beneath the nourishment of the Institute. The most prevalent example would undoubtedly be the Music Society, but the Dance Society is another place where intra-club, cutthroat rivalry occurs.

It’s an official society: has its own choral branch, orchestral branch, and even its own dedicated division of audio engineers and managers who aren’t necessarily involved with the music but the image cultivated for the club.

Officially. On the spidery ink detailing the aged vellum, which resides outside the building the Society claims.

Unofficially, it is also a stamp of authentication for the numerous bands that have sprung like weeds with the revival of pop culture. On school grounds and the buildings surrounding the university—which the Institute owns, whether it be the sensuous jazz bar downtown or the towering library next to the river—only groups with permits can perform at these locations.

Though, with the spike in tensions between bands in recent years, it’s become a de facto requirement to blend in: anonymous, identified by only the mask that conceals your appearance during performances. Of course, with the roughly dozen or so factions, there's new speculation about a particular member’s identity every few days: only fueled by people practising in the music halls in the open, or those prone to gossip.

For scholars with a meagre social life and even less free time, joining a club in the school roster is practically a given. It’s a distinguished mark to put on your school record—and if you want the full Institute experience, competition needs to be an accustomed flavour on your tongue. To those who successfully balance both studies and the rigorous requirements of the Institutional Societies, it is a distinction in of itself for any academic.

Venture forth in spite of inexperience; only ignorance shall meet those who keep still.

That’s the pretentious quote of today, faintly watermarked onto your post-it note as you carefully unpeeled it from the stack in the on-campus café just a few moments prior.

“How stupid.” You tap your pen on the list inked harshly on the paper: Engineering Society, Archery Club, Chess Society, Classics Society. Though they had initially piqued your interest as being mildly intriguing, it now seems more of a bother than anything: time-wasters dressed up in erudite clothing.

“What is?” Kafka sits opposite you on the plush couch: steam wafting from her Earl Grey and against her maraschino lips as she observes you amusedly.

You don’t even know how you became friends with her—the Literature buildings and the Physics laboratories are on opposite sides of the expansive campus, after all. Maybe it was your frequent trips to the bars last year, or maybe it was your exasperated comments plastered on the school gossip board—which she ran, believe it or not—but whatever it was, you’re now stuck with a fuschia shadow at your side. Though she’s as mysterious as they come, you don’t think she’s a bad person. Key word being think, not know; there’s just something shady about her, after all.

“Ah,” she figures as you grimace. “The club deadline’s coming up, right?”

There’s an unspoken rule when it comes to joining clubs in a university as large and diverse as the Institute. Halfway through the second year is the cutoff point—it becomes exceedingly difficult to join any society past this point. You’ve still got four months, give-or-take, but the notion of not getting anywhere is unpleasant. Perhaps it’s the intrinsic striving this college has slowly ingrained in you over the past year—but part of you really can’t be bothered.

“Unfortunately,” you sigh. Mindlessly, you swill bitter coffee down—savouring not the aromatic taste but the piercing heat entering your mouth.

“And you can’t figure out which to join?” she prompts. You stare down at the list—neither the Chess nor the Classics society sound particularly inviting, the Engineering Society sounds dead, and the Archery Society seems too dangerous for the you who does calculations and paragraphs by hand almost daily.

“Uh,” you reply intelligently. “No.”

“How about the Music Club?”

You pause. And you swallow, temporarily debating the pros and cons of navigating a minefield such as the aforementioned club.

And as the wise men of years yonder have sagely expressed to problems which require impulsive solutions: fuck it.

“Sure.”

It’s too late for regrets.

✦ . 　⁺

Though, against your nervous expectations, you’re not immediately dragged into the thick of the competition and bloodlust. It’s surprisingly underwhelming—a brief ‘that’s it?’ before you’re assigned a small pass granting you access to the numerous practice rooms and a basic certification to perform in the less-prestigious venues.

Hmm. You stare at your electric guitar gathering dust in the corner of your friend’s garage, and just like the void, it stares back.

No doubt the literature student expected you to pick up some managerial duties, but maybe it’s fate that led you back to collect your stuff—and not the nagging after your friend bought a new motorbike and needs more space for his baby.

“No hard feelings, man,” he says, and perhaps it’s the forgotten discovery that allows you to break into a smile that is neither terse nor annoyed.

No hard feelings, indeed.

It’s a week after you’ve received the metal placard, and an hour after attending a lecture for vector fields. Maybe it’s the curiosity peeking through, but something prompts you to ditch the stack of thick sheets of homework on your desk and pick up your guitar.

Your guide through the long-winded halls pauses, blood-red hair swaying to a cascading halt as she points to her right. “This is your practice room for today. Make sure to read the rules before you begin, alright?”

She’s friendly, introducing herself as Himeko with a dazzling smile. She’s one of the managers in the music club—veering into engineering territory. Compared to her, you’re just some guy with his guitar; you look away from her cheerful expression, gazing at the rules emblazoned in a red less vibrant than her locks.

No intercourse. No hot food. No unauthorised persons. Scrawled beneath in messy purple pen is a blinding neon post-it: get the fuck out if you’re not using the room properly, you bums.

“Wow,” you cough out in surprise, breaking your laconic pattern of responses. “I assume those have some crazy stories behind them.”

That elicits a small laugh from her, and finally it feels like you’ve done something right.

“You have no idea,” she bemoans exasperatedly, ushering you into the room. It’s nothing too large—small enough to feel cosy rather than make you self-conscious, but big enough so sound carries well. “Right, if you need help setting up, just let the admin at the end of the corridor know.”

She leaves in a whirl of crimson and gilt gold, and you’re left standing bemusedly in the doorway.

It’s not like you do need the help: hands deftly unravelling and plugging in cords and tuning the pegs with the ease only muscle memory evokes. How long has it been? With your mountainous studies, it’s little wonder that your hobbies were pushed to the bottom of the priority list.

Your breathing turns rhythmic as you warm-up: chord after chord gently brought into existence with the fretboard and a copper penny as an impromptu pick. Though it’s been a few years, your hands fly across the strings.

A little bit of Bauhaus. Improvisation for The Cure. A brief snippet of Fields of Nephilim.

“I was cold as I mouthed the words, and crawled across the mirror,” you sing along with the backing track, embellishing the sombre baseline—chords ringing out clean in the daylight. It’s been so long that your mouth tastes sweet: letting the tones sweep you away in its ebb. The melody and harmonies blur together—as do your eyes. They flutter shut, focused only on replicating the feeling. “I wait, await the next breath.”

The notes fall apart and distort in the empty room: jarring and incomplete, yet harrowingly beautiful.

“Your name like ice, into my heart.”

Your voice is hoarse: fingers raw and voice scraped tender from just these meagre hours of practice.

“Everything is as cold as life—can no one save you?”

It’s not enough, but as the sound of song dies out and is replaced by the buzz of alternating current and low whir of air conditioning, you realise there’s someone in the doorway.

Fingers drum on the lacquered body of the guitar as you look at him, and he looks back at you. He’s roughly your age: wavy black hair cut messy round his head; silvery chains decorating his neck and pale wrists; red liner accentuating sharp, lucid eyes that bear directly into you.

“Can I help you?” you frown, scanning his face and realising you’ve never seen him around before: be it at a lecture, the library or any of the small stores dotted around campus. At least, you hope you’ve never seen him around—it’s awkward enough knowing he heard you, let alone that you might’ve come across him and forgotten his name.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” he murmurs. His voice is pleasant: slightly melodious and clear even with his lowered volume. “The other rooms are all full—I was wondering if we could share?”

Wow, you blink. He’s so damn polite.

“I don’t mind,” you shrug it off, ignoring the smile that he gives you. While it may do you good to get along better and make friends with your fellow club mates, you don’t particularly care about that.

“Wait,” you call out to him as he walks past you towards the back, scratching your neck hesitantly. “I don’t have headphones to plug into my guitar.”

Sure, you may be cold, but you aren’t that much of a prick to disrupt his own practice like that.

But contrary to whatever you expected him to do, it’s certainly not him rummaging around in his bag and extending his hand with a pair of headphones. “I’ve got spares.”

“Uh, thanks,” you reply, fairly dumbfounded as you walk forward. After all, the most prepared student in the physics class you’re in only carries around a half-eaten pencil and a crumpled sheet of A4 paper on a good day. Yet as you reach out for them, he holds on to the pair. Inevitably, his fingertips brush yours, and you swear his hand trembles minutely.

“Dan Heng,” he introduces himself. “Data analysis major.”

“Bit too late for introductions, is it not?” you comment, and it’s the second time someone’s laughed today with you. No, it’s not really a laugh—more like an exhale of air that suggests a laugh. It suits him: restrained as he is.

“It’s never too late.” He doesn’t budge: fingers firmly clasped around the headphones, tips still brushing past your skin.

“I’ll give you a clue instead,” you compromise, wondering what exactly keeps driving the conversation. “Analyse that qualitative data instead.”

“So original,” he remarks dryly, but he does free you from his warm hands. His eyes linger upon you as you gift him a strand of red to investigate: one of the sciences. It’s vague enough to be frustrating, but he could easily view the roster for the Music Club. Or not, actually—since the club is so volatile, it can’t be easy to peruse just who’s in it.

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave dismissively, plugging the plain black headphones into the instrument with practised grace. “Think of it as repayment for letting you stay here.”

“Hah,” he grins freely this time—as bright and messy as a finger painting—and you stare at him for a few seconds. “You’re really stingy, you know that?”

The mask of politeness has slipped minutely; you see it in the crescent shape of his eyes and the casual cant of his head. Even the long white coat he’s wearing is falling from his shoulders—he simply shrugs it off and tosses it on the couch behind him, as though he’s shedding an outer layer of his very being. It’s strangely personal; for a brief second, you’re privy to a stranger’s deeper feelings beyond meaningless platitudes.

“Better than outright kicking you out,” you mutter, averting your eyes from his now-calm face. “How many doors did you knock on before you stumbled on my generous being?”

“Generous—” he coughs abruptly, and your head whips back up from your guitar. “—apologies, that was purely reflexive.”

You sit on the sofa by the window, letting the sunlight dapple over you as you watch him clear his throat. There’s no use sitting awkwardly when the tension has pretty much dissipated; you lean back until you’re comfortable, elbows resting neatly on top of the body.

“So? Who slammed the door on you?” You adjust the jack in the insert until the static fades completely, gazing at him all the while.

“I was hoping you’d imagine yours was the first door I knocked on,” he sighs. “How embarrassing.”

“I’m not an idiot.” You tap your penny against the lacquered wood of the guitar. Tap, tap. “This room’s on the very end of the corridor.”

A heartbeat passes.

Tap, tap.

“So how many people rejected you?” you snicker. Third time’s the charm.

“Don’t phrase it like that,” he mutters. His eyes flick up to yours, and you stare at him with raised brows, evidently nonplussed. “...Twelve. Three rooms are out of commission currently.”

“Pff— wow,” you stifle the sound against the back of your palm, but you can’t hide the grin in your words. “Your charm sucks, man.”

He sighs in exasperation. “Then what does it say about you if you’re so easily swayed?”

Did he just call me easy?—you gape, then quickly deduce he’s pretty funny when he wants to be: all dry humour and quick wit.

“Sorry, sorry,” you wave your hand in a gesture of conciliation. “I’m not surprised that they all rejected you, though.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, now?”

“I don’t mean it like that.” You rub the penny—the familiar metallic scent coats your hands now, and you can almost taste it on your tongue. “I mean the students here are mostly competitive pricks.”

“Unlike you?” he deadpans, and you feel somewhat offended at the sarcastic undertones he’s emitting. So rude.

“Uh, duh,” you grin, flipping the coin with a calloused thumb. “I let a stray cat like you in, didn’t I?”

“And here I was, about to compliment your playing,” he sighs out instead of acknowledging your words. “Guess you won’t want to hear it from a stray cat like me, huh?”

Woah, you blink, almost impressed at how quickly he’s mastered passive-aggressiveness.

“No, I would,” you retort shamelessly. “I love cats, strays included.”

“Think about it,” you continue, missing how startled he looks—the tiny twitch of his brows as he looks on incredulously, the minute waver in his hands as he raises his finger hesitantly. “If a cat came up to you, started talking, that would be cool as shit, right?”

“I’d think I was on psychedelics,” he proclaims flatly. “And possibly insane.”

“Way to ruin a scenario.” You lean back your head until it hits the back of the couch: warm sunlight gently washes over your face and closed eyes, all red through your blood vessels in the delicate lids. “We’ve established I would absolutely not mind talk from a stray cat, so give me my compliment.”

“You always want the last word, don’t you?”

“Yes.” You’re a bit too quick with your reply.

He sighs. Deeply this time.

“Fine. I don’t think your rougher style of playing will ever get boring,” he considers thoughtfully, and you can feel his eyes rake over you and your guitar. Assessing—just some guy with his instrument, lazily basking in the sun.

“And… your style is very emotive,” he adds, and there’s something about that emphasis that’s ever-so-slightly different.

“Aeons—you’re only saying that because you heard me singing, right?” You peek one eye open in a glare.

“I liked it.”

“Be serious,” you groan.

“I am,” he shrugs. “I’ve never heard someone sing ‘Cold’ so enthusiastically. There’s real hope for The Cure fans.”

“Damn, you’re definitely making fun of me,” you quiver in mild irritation.

“You figure that out for yourself then.” And you’re left just like that—staring at him dumbly while he unlocks the tall cupboard in the back. This bastard…

From its mahogany depths, he pulls out a hard black guitar case—and silently you wonder at the coincidence. It zips open with a strangled buzz: careful teeth sawing against careful teeth under his nimble fingers. You watch, entranced, as he pulls the guitar out by the neck.

It’s not six-stringed like you expected. Rather, the black fretboard and polished azure body boasts only four strings. He’s a bassist, you realise with a start; the notion enthrals you, just a little.

“That’s yours, right?” You point, double-checking not just the way he took it from the cupboard, but to make sure you aren’t hallucinating it.

“And to whom else could it belong?” he humours you.

“Oh wow.” You sit up, setting the headphones around your neck while he sets up. “It must’ve been fate leading you here.”

“I would’ve come here to collect my guitar regardless of fate,” he answers.

“So fate assigned me this room in particular,” you shoot back, undeterred.

“Coincidence.”

“Explain why no one else wanted you in their practice rooms then.” It’s a pointless back-and-forth, which is precisely what entertains you.

“As you said—” and here he looks up, eyes catching yours in such a placid stare with lips poised in a nigh-triumphant grin that you can’t look away. “—they’re all competitive pricks.”

Seamless. You can’t even argue back; he’s agreed with you and gone against your words in the same breath.

“Shame,” you sigh, twirling with the length of headphone cable streaming out from your guitar. “Here I was, about to use it as an excuse to get you to play with me.”

“You needed an excuse?” he comments. You look on as he fiddles with the amp: too preoccupied with the technical aspects of setting up to notice your stare honed onto the back of his curls. Or maybe he does notice—he’s observant, after all.

“Who knows? Maybe you’d demand my name in return.” You pluck the D string lazily—it faintly echoes against your neck through the headphones. Jokes aside, there’s something itching against your flesh that urges you to take this opportunity for practice.

“Great idea,” he replies laconically. Just like that, he’s standing with his own headphones still in his grasp—as clear as scales with just another push to tip the balance in your favour. “You’re quite stingy, after all.”

“Act broke to stay rich.” You pluck another string, then another. With the presence of your hand covering the fretboard, there’s only a jarring quality to each note.

“So—” you look up this time, only to find he’s already staring your way. Got him. “—wanna play with me?”

“Depends. Can you keep up?”

“I mean, based on your spying, what do you think?”

One stingy, the other arrogant. It’s a perfect joke—a meticulous comedy Kafka would no doubt write in a moment of drunkenness.

Your hand wavers on the headphone jack, as though awaiting his answer. A stingy, hesitant fool.

Thump. That’s what you hear when he tosses his own headphones onto where his long coat rests on the couch. You received your answer after all.

It’s safe to say that your first encounter with Dan Heng is neither bad nor good, just a mixture of both that titrates itself into mundane neutrality.

His notes are mellowed against yours—smooth, buttery—and it’s like you read his mind and he yours. But it’s futile to ponder on the concept more; after all, it’s not like you’ll encounter him any more often.

✦ . 　⁺

You’re right, as you oft are.

Truly, your studies of physics have left you with a talent for predicting trajectories—including human ones. You don’t see the bassist in the following days; the practice room you’re beginning to get rather fond of is blissfully devoid of chatter and teasing remarks strewn back and forth.

It’s… quiet.

Rather, the only conversations you have are rushed ones with Kafka throughout the week when you spot her on campus—she updates you on whatever gossip she’s heard recently, and the scandals she’s personally witnessed.

Or, more accurately, Kafka isn’t the only one you talk to. Small tidbits of chatter between you and Himeko have also become tentative routine. It started off as polite exchanges, but ever-so-slowly, the two of you occasionally peruse different topics.

(“Have you thought of joining one of the bands in the Music Society?”)

The question she left you with just yesterday plagues your mind as you wait in line in one of the tiny, cosy cafés dotted around campus. There’s the strong aroma of roasted beans, but you can’t focus on them—nor the quaint atmosphere, nor the menu items.

No, you haven’t. Of all things, you’re not planning on entangling yourself with creating a persona to present to the rest of the student body—a mask slipping onto your features while you showcase your music to the world.

But as you turn around with a steaming coffee in your takeaway cup, there Himeko is: sanguine dripping off her shoulders in glossy waves, a crimson smile playing on her lips, a jaunty flair to her movements as she waves you over to her tiny table in the corner. She’s better suited for the window seats—shining like the sun itself. It almost makes you squint as you look over.

“Have you given it any more thought?”

“Aha,” you stare at the scalding cup in your hands nervously. There’s something about seeing someone with their life perfectly put together that makes you instinctively on edge. “Honestly, I’m not too keen on the idea.”

“Hmm,” Himeko rests her chin on a manicured hand, drumming on the varnished oaken table with her other one. Tap–tap. “Is it the competition? Per my understanding, you’re a rather reserved scholar, aren’t you?”

She’s sharp, you acknowledge.

“I just find it rather pointless,” you shake your head in half-agreement. “I may be reserved, but I can handle the pressure.”

“Otherwise I wouldn’t have picked physics for my studies,” you comment as an afterthought. “Call me pessimistic, but I can’t find much merit in anonymous rivalries that only benefit the ego.”

“You were assigned the Nihility path at orientation, weren’t you?” Himeko remarks—a reference to the quiz each first-year takes to determine a ‘house’. You thought it was more arbitrary than anything; with a school as intra-competitive as the Institute, it’s only natural that it has its own factions to compete with each other even further. But clearly, there are some who value the path system as measures of personalities.

You hadn’t given that much thought either.

“I think so.” You play with the empty sugar packet, twisting it in your fingers. “Dostoyevsky isn’t my favourite author, before you ask.”

She exhales wryly, and just like that, the small tension in your shoulders dissipates somewhat.

“Well, it’s not entirely ego-boosting. Of course, due to rumours and information of that ilk, the rivalries are what’s the main focus for those who aren’t in the Society.” Red stains her own cup as she takes a sip of her espresso. “It’s a good opportunity for scholarships, prizes, and extra credit. The rivalry’s a natural consequence, of course, but there’s only one or two groups with bad blood like that between them.”

“You’d need to be a bit more careful to keep your identity as a band member a secret,” she adds. “But since a portion of the club are part of bands themselves, they mind their own business out of a mutual ‘stay out of each other's' way’ policy.”

You think back to Dan Heng’s rejections from the practice halls, and suddenly it makes a lot more sense.

“But you’ll know who’s in your band, right?”

“That’s a given,” she nods, and you’re sweating slightly from the enthusiasm that shines bright in her eyes. “Group managers will be eager to snatch up a talented newbie like you, so I’ll extend my hand first.”

Your tongue is leaden in your mouth as you swallow.

And just like that, you begrudgingly join the Trailblazers.

✦ . 　⁺

“What the fuck?” you point at the man before you incredulously, though retrospectively, you should’ve expected this.

Himeko had driven you to the more private practice rooms in the city: a space subsidised by the Institute for each band. Your expectations had been low, but the glossy building led you to rethink your entire philosophy (each practice room was twice the size of your dorm) and wholeheartedly accept your new reality.

It was going too smoothly, perhaps. March 7th was the first proper band member you’d met—an enthusiastic Environmental Studies student in charge of the synthesiser. Her affable personality wholly reminded you of bubblegum.

Next through the door were Caelus and Stelle—twins which you had met before. Kafka had taken them under her wing a while back, and they’d tottered after her (or at least, that’s how you remembered it) before they grew accustomed to the Institute on their own. Theatre and psychology majors respectively, if you recall correctly. Caelus on the drums, Stelle on vocals; two roles that fit them surprisingly well.

“Ah, Welt won’t be joining us today,” Himeko informs you as you’re idly tuning the pegs for your guitar. You recognise the name of your blunt upperclassman; an animation major who looks like he’s on the verge of dying every time you see him. Condolences, you sympathise for the man who’s finally kicked his personal bucket. “But he’s good with the harp and cello.”

“So you guys are missing a guitarist?” you interject. As far as you knew, there was a bassist left on the roster. There’s also the ‘mascot’, Pom-Pom: Himeko’s small rabbit that you’ve unfortunately not had the pleasure of meeting but you have seen from March 7th’s phone as she gushes over the tiny, fluffy thing.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Stelle sighs. “Our old one quit a while back.”

No—she assures you, the reason was perfectly normal and not any unsavoury reasons that would’ve definitely given you cold feet.

“He’s so late,” March 7th grumbles, but you don’t have time to ask just who exactly the mysterious bassist is—because speak of the devil, the wooden door swings open and suddenly you’re staring at a man whom you thought you wouldn’t see much of.

Which brings you to your current predicament: spilling an expletive from your lips while pointing at a man just as dumbfounded as you.

“Huh?” he stares back. “Himeko, what did you do?”

“You mentioned him, so I checked out his talent for myself,” she shrugs nonchalantly. “Even if you hadn’t said he was good, I would’ve seen it for myself anyway.”

He gapes for a moment longer, but your own astonished expression is a lot more difficult to stave off.

“Oh, oh—he was talking about you, you know,” March 7th bounds up to you with her hands clasped behind her back in a picture of innocence.

“What’d he say?” All too eager to play along, you lean so she can whisper it without the aforementioned man overhearing. She responds in kind, already cupping a hand around her mouth, but—

“March.” You’re pulled away by a glaring Dan Heng: hand firmly grasped around your wrist. Just as quickly, he lets go with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry, she’ll probably embellish what I actually said,” he fumbles.

He’s warm, you notice. And flustered, you note, this time with far greater amusement.

“He said the two of you had great chemistry,” Stelle calls, and her tone of voice is so steady that you half-believe her.

“Stelle, I did not—”

“—totally did—”

“—part of ‘we played well together’ could you have possibly misheard like that? I said four words—”

They’re bickering, March 7th and Caelus jumping in on their argument—and suddenly there’s a messy, bright burst of feeling tangling in your chest.

They’re always like that, pay them no mind—Himeko tells you, but you don’t mind. Despite your initial reluctance, there’s something that draws you to this mismatched group.

And perhaps your second encounter with Dan Heng isn’t the greatest either, but it certainly isn’t terrible.

✦ . 　⁺

Though it doesn’t seem like it at first, Stelle’s offhand comment—chemistry—seems to be more prophetic than teasing. From a purely objective standpoint, his buttery-smooth playing wraps into your rougher style seamlessly: a steady, unwavering foundation.

It’s never boring; you’re watching as his hands practically fly against the fretboard as he plays a post-punk piece, spellbound even as you churn out gritty chord after chord. There’s a small smile on your lips as you gaze at his concentrated face—which breaks just as the last rattles of the song die out.

The two of you are back in the practice room like all those weeks ago. It was quickly made clear to you that other than the weekly meetups, individual practice is more efficient since there’s no other way to meet sooner without taking study time away. It’s either good luck—or fate, as you’d like to put it otherwise—that Dan Heng’s schedule is pretty similar to yours, since now you’ve essentially got a free partner to practise with in the afternoons.

“What?” His head snaps up as a response to the scorching sensation of your eyes drilling holes in his face.

“I think you’re my favourite bassist I know,” you answer seriously. In all honesty, he’s the only bassist you know—but you’re not about to say his chord progressions give you goosebumps. It’s become a running bit—one that you feel a strong obligation to commit to—which consists of offhand remarks that seem a bit too much like compliments.

“I’m pretty sure I’m the only bassist you know,” he deadpans. “So that compliment doesn’t count.”

How’d he know that?—you blink in surprise. Drat. “I think you’re a mind reader.”

“That’s just fact.”

He leans back on the wall at the back; maybe it’s the gentle sunlight washing over his features, or maybe it’s the low hanging light fixtures in the practice room, but his eyes sparkle cerulean at this very moment. A lazy smile paints his face, and your brows raise in mild surprise.

“Um,” you wrack your brains. “Your eyes are pretty.”

He coughs loudly—taken off-guard at how casually you admit it. Even now, you’re still tapping that damned penny against your keyboard as you keep looking at him: nonplussed, as though you’re simply saying the grass is green and two plus two equals four. No other intonation other than neutrality. Just like any other compliment you’ve given him nonchalantly.

His stomach tightens. Just a little.

✦ . 　⁺

It becomes habitual: practising every other day turns into hanging out. From walking to that shiny room together (both of your dorms are surprisingly close together, after all), to greeting him whenever you see him pass by to his lecture hall, it feels like you’ve gotten closer to the not-so-stoic man.

Twenty-one days it takes to form a habit.

You’ve gotten far too used to his company: neither March nor the twins live nearby, Welt looks like he’s fighting off death each time you see his haggard face, and Himeko’s a lot busier than you initially thought. Past those three weeks, and it seems like you’re slowly extending and accepting tendrils of friendship from the bassist.

Maybe that’s why you’re currently in this predicament.

Even with your new-found (and old-found) hobby, there’s an obvious need to keep studying—that physics degree won’t award itself, after all. In comes the expansive library on-campus: a marvel of classic academia and modern architecture that scholars never get used to.

“Is anyone sitting here?” It’s just you and Dan Heng in this corner. You—sitting down at a four-by-four walnut hued table, stacks upon stacks of atomic structure reading piled neatly on your right. Him—standing before you with a meagre, slim laptop in his hands that cannot possibly contest with the fat stacks of paper by you.

“Absolutely,” you lie through your teeth. “The whole table is reserved for my company.”

That’s a prime example of falsehood.

Dan Heng, the smartie-pants he is, sees through the fib quite easily.

“You and what friends?” His brow piques.

You make an obvious show of looking around him. If the space beholden to him was any emptier, there’d be a tumbleweed merrily sweeping past him.

“And where’s your company?”

He scowls.

“Know the enemy and know yourself.” You place a palm on your chest sagely. “It appears you do not know yourself, nor your enemy.”

“There’s someone willing to spend time with you?” He sits down anyway, but it’s not like you were going to reject him in the first place.

“Yes.” You turn back to your book mysteriously. Ignoring the very obvious contender who’s currently sat himself opposite you, willingly, there’s also a text on your phone refuting his words.

< Living Poets Society <3 > 11:32 > I’ll be there in fifteen. Save me a place, won’t you?

There’s a smile playing on your lips while you tap out an ‘okay, see you soon’, one that doesn’t go unnoticed by Dan Heng as he glances up at your sudden movement. He’s still looking over as you place your phone down and crack open the textbook once more: eyes so blatantly heavy you can’t help but speak while you skim over the information.

“Need something?”

“I still haven’t gotten your number—” and this time he pointedly adds your name to the end of his statement, courtesy of a slip-up from March 7th a few weeks back.

“Oh, yeah,” you turn your page, unlocking the phone without looking and passing him the device. “Just add yourself.”

He notes the anonymous sender in the back of his mind, the heart directly after, and the message itself. His teeth grit together as he adds himself to the list of contacts: why March and the twins are there before him, he doesn’t know. He’s known you longer and better, damn it.

His thumb swipes a quick message to himself so he can save your number too—a simple ‘hi’ that makes his mouth dry, even with how lacklustre it is.

Though, his mouth is dry due to deliberation over whether to put a heart next to your name, which he now knows thanks to March 7th. Just as quickly, he strikes the thought from his mind—it doesn’t matter.

Why the hell would it matter in the first place?

He glances back up at you—you’re engrossed as ever in the text, which is all well and good because his hands wobble a bit as he slides your phone back. You still barely notice: a low ‘thanks’ slipping from your lips as you turn the page.

Dan Heng appears to be working away silently from where you’re sitting, but what you can’t see is how he’s rereading the same few lines of data with furrowed brows.

What you can’t see when Kafka arrives and kisses your cheek in greeting is how his hands clench around his pencil—but she does, purposefully lingering just a second longer to leave maraschino smeared on your face.

What you can’t see when you make no moves to wipe the gloss off is the stony look on the bassist’s face—as well as the questions he has for himself. Why the hell is he so annoyed anyway? It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t, but the way you’re unbothered by it increases his bothered levels as though it were inversely proportional.

He doesn’t know her—though he thinks he’s seen her with Caelus and Stelle before—but he’s never been so irritated by a stranger before.

She’s sitting next to you, a model scholar: typing away on her laptop with a concentrated look on her face. But she’s leaning into you, head canting in your direction at such a sluggish speed that had he not been glaring at her, he wouldn’t have noticed it.

You’re none the wiser. Absent-mindedly, she’s tapping on your palm: kneading away at the flesh and you let her, too preoccupied with inking notes into the memo pad before you to really care what she’s doing. She’s always been slightly touchy with her friends—lingering hugs, grasping your hands and twining her fingers with yours, dotting her spiced perfume right against your wrists—so this isn’t particularly out of the blue.

With a loud clatter, Dan Heng’s pen falls to the floor—you’re too busy looking his way to notice the coy smile brimming from her pout.

Gosh—she coos internally, what an oblivious little student you are. This is what collecting organic material is all about; even if he doesn’t realise it himself, he’s practically brimming with jealousy.

“Wanna get out of here?” she whispers after a half-hour of noting his reactions to various visual stimuli: outright holding your hand, resting her magenta head on your shoulder, letting you take a sip of her sweet coffee. It’s low enough to appear as though she’s making an effort to stay quiet, but she knows he can hear it; the now-familiar creak of the plastic biro graces her ears.

“Sure,” you reply absently. Perfect. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Dan Heng.”

And as she saunters out of the library with you in tow, she makes sure to wrap her long coat around your shoulders.

It’s rather cold outside, after all.

Well, certainly outside. For poor Dan Heng, he’s likely stewing over in his irritation.

✦ . 　⁺

If it weren’t often before, it is now—seeing Dan Heng has become a daily routine. Whether it be at the library or at the music practice halls, the familiar ping on your phone alerts you diurnally that he’s located somewhere in the vicinity.

To be more accurate, it’s nocturnally now. He’s at your dorm door tonight—

< Dan Heng > 23:48 > Snack run?

—a motorcycle helmet held out to you in his steady hands. This development only came to life a few days ago; you had opened his mini-fridge to find no actual food, and thus came his offer to go on a late-night snack run.

With his jacket wrapped snugly around your shoulders, and your hands tightly gripping the valley of his waist, his abdomen trembles somewhat. But not enough for you to notice, and certainly not enough to stop him from poking fun at you:

“What, you planning to fall off? Hold on properly.”

He shivers as your arms sling round his middle: fingers splayed then grasping his shirt, right at his shaking diaphragm. He can feel your chest press up right against his back—muscle shifting against muscle as you get comfortable against his quaking torso.

It must just be the frigid wind nipping at his body.

He doesn’t quite know why he’s offered these rides to you when he’s never done this with anyone else, but the smile you give him as you pick out food for the two of you to share is somewhat endearing. Dan Heng sighs in annoyance as you forget to get him a drink—yet he supposes he’ll just steal some of yours in return.

“You got a lecture tomorrow too?” Sitting outside on a bench—cherry juice on your breath—is pleasantly eye-opening. With the city just waking up, it’s a profound experience to witness.

“Yeah,” he hisses as you poke his cheek with your gelid fingers when he spaces out.

“And you’ll wake up for it?” you remark sceptically, retracting your hand. He’s warm, you note—a mild flush on his cheeks from the boreal night.

“‘Course.” His tone is somewhat insincere, especially right after he takes a swig of your drink. There’s a red trickle of the sticky juice that lingers on his mouth, and your eyes can’t help but be drawn to the motion of the liquid.

“Okay…” It’s clear you don’t believe him.

“What, you wanna skip?” Dan Heng doesn’t quite know what possesses him to ask. Maybe it’s the specific look in your eyes that makes him want you to acknowledge him—something childish and petulant, sure, but isn’t it natural to feel like this with your friend?

You weigh your options: Intro to Mechanics, or the slightly pleading look in his eyes?

“Um—” you swill down another gulp of the tart juice—there’s a prickle of redness on his cheeks as he realises he also took his sips from that particular spot. Sanguine coats your lips, and now it’s his turn to stare as your throat bobs and juice trickles from your warm mouth. “—sure.”

And perhaps watching B-rated horror movies isn’t the best way to keep grades up, but there’s something addictive about keeping his leg pressed against yours on his cramped couch—something he can’t quite put his finger on.

When you tell Kafka about those forty-eight hours, she lets out a cackle that sounds like it’s been marinated for that long too—and she won’t tell you why.

✦ . 　⁺

With the rigorous academia of college comes a universal, practically hallowed tradition that resides on the other side of its gleaming coin. Parties. Gatherings, events, soirées—whatever elegant name one wants to disguise it with, all meld into a party with enough booze and enough people.

One lonesome Friday, there’s a ping that graces your phone—followed swiftly by another, then a final one that finally catches your attention.

< Music Society: ANNOUNCEMENTS (do not reply) > 10:00 > For those in the Society, an opportunity to socialise and mingle with fellow club-goers is here for next SATURDAY. Hosted in the illustrious Avis Hall by the POP MUSIC division…. [108 members reacted to this message]

< Kafkalicious <3 > 10:05 > I’m picking you up. 10:06 > There’s no way you actually have good clothes to wear for this.

Sheepishly, you type out an affirmative. The club can brand this however they want, but the specific division they’re referring to is often labelled the unhinged party of the year—sneaking in dozens of students who aren’t necessarily in the Music Club, serving enough liquor to comfortably drown in—yet still managing to keep it under wraps. Unfortunately, this also means the clothing you have in your dresser—casual ensembles and a few ones suitable for performing as a member of a band in the darkwave genre—won’t cut it.

Which is precisely why you’re feeling the biting cold particularly clearly as soon as the next Saturday rolls around—Kafka’s lended jacket does little to warm you up when the mesh, spider webbing top she selected lets through all the frigid air. It ghosts white against your skin, while the pallored cargoes she picked out are likewise spectral and blend in against the snow dotted around campus. Even the jewellery she painstakingly selected is almost intransient: shifting like silvery mercury against skin with their delicate links and chains. To put it simply, the only skin that isn’t somewhat on display is the skin of your legs—the trousers are thankfully opaque.

As you enter the building, the strong odour of spirits and alcohol hits you: just like any other college, its parties aren’t any more illustrious than the next.

There’s the press of bodies against bodies in the small hall; dim lights make it hard to spot anyone clearly, let alone your friends. If it weren’t for the stumbling wake of drunken dancers in your path, it might’ve been easier to navigate—but this building is crowded, and you probably would’ve been swallowed in the horde already were it not for the sight of the stairs in the corner.

With a solo cup unceremoniously taken, you inch past the thumping decibels of music that cannot be classified as pop—ironically, almost every genre save the division’s namesake plays before it—and the amorphous mess of people milling about on the ground floor.

A text from March 7th saves you the trouble of meticulously searching the rooms to find your friends.

< National Cereal Day <3 > 21:16 > first floor, room at the end of the corridor!! We’re playing seven minutes hurry up!!

It’s why you find yourself squished between Kafka and Himeko in the dim room; if you squint, you can make out Dan Heng, Caelus, March 7th and some other oddballs like Ruan Mei and a few you can’t place the name of.

There’s no actual closet in the room, which brings in question the integrity of this game. A confused glance at Kafka later, and you get your answer—the janitor closet next door will suffice, won’t it?

“You look simply divine,” she compliments directly into your ear, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who the glare she feels on her belongs to.

“I bet my stylist would love hearing that,” you shoot back, and she twirls her hair coquettishly in response. She’s right—the outfit she picked out for you feels like you’re about to step into an angelic rave, minus the wings.

Is it luck that spins your name first?

You swill down the bitter, slightly lukewarm alcohol down—setting the red plastic down as you select a piece of paper out of the hat. Kafka whistles as you take your time unfolding it; she’s got a knack for noticing things that people hide in the shadows, and currently she’s noticing how your little friend’s hands clench tight around his trousers in the dark. It almost makes her feel bad—almost.

“Uh—” your brows raise in mild surprise. Dan Heng’s breath hitches, and now even March notices—the look she sends him is one half-disbelieving, half it just dawned on her. There’s approximately a nine-percent chance of being drawn—

“Dan Heng,” you read carefully. What a joke—to have someone you’re close to rather than not to accompany you to the space sequestered away in the hallway. When you look up at him, there’s a strange expression settled on his face: slightly agape, as though he’s uncomfortable with the thought of being in a closet with you.

He stands abruptly, and you flounder after him: too busy ignoring the wolf whistles to notice the faint rosy hue that radiates from his ears.

Maybe you would’ve asked him if he was okay with this, but the way he opens the janitor closet door and steps in leaves you at a loss for words instead. As it stands, you simply follow him in—the heavy thud that resounds from outside confirms that there’s no backing out.

It’s smaller than you expected; only a foot or so separates the two of you, and the air is thick with the lingering odour of lemon-scented cleaning chemicals. You’re thankful for the faint tendrils of light that pierce through the small holes in the door—since at least now you can observe the look on his face as he glances at the floor, then the shelves. Anywhere but your face.

“You… alright there?” you murmur. There’s a certain incandescence to his features as he looks back up, evidently startled by your question. If you focus on the heavy bass that you can somehow faintly hear from downstairs, the effect is almost dizzying.

“Um,” he begins hesitantly—that in of itself strikes you as unusual. “I’ve never kissed anyone, so don’t expect too much—”

“Dan Heng,” you interrupt, and suppress a laugh as his head snaps up awkwardly. “This game doesn’t actually force people to kiss.”

“Oh,” he starts, and this time you don’t miss the hazy red painting his cheeks. “I… knew that.”

You snicker—he can’t bring himself to meet your eyes. “Yeah. We can pretty much just stand here until seven minutes are up. Talk. Gossip. Hang out in this tiny space.”

It’s easier said than done, though. You can smell his cologne, the scent of the liquor he drank earlier tainting his breath; you can feel the warmth radiating from his body as he shifts in place. This isn’t comfortable, but you don’t mind staying like this for those few minutes.

“But,” and your eyebrows pique at that word. “I’d like the full game experience.”

Wow. That’s new, but then again, he’s always saying things you don’t expect. You mull over a reply quickly—he’s practically trembling after all, breathing shallow and face radiating the same rosy shade as his cheeks now.

“Oh? Would you have asked this of whoever you ended up with?” It’s out of curiosity that you ask, but you’re hoping his answer will be a no.

“No,” he breathes. “I’d rather have my friend be my first kiss.”

“So we’re doing this as friends?” you mutter. Your hand slips under his chin, and you can feel his breathing waver. You’re no stranger to friends with benefits-type situations, which is precisely why you miss the adoring look his eyes briefly hold—flushed, hazed, yours.

“Exac—exactly,” he practically whines as you grip his face tighter. He’s scorching to the touch, much more than usual. “Don’t get the wrong idea—”

His hands loop around your neck as you lean down to match his height. Your eyes follow his throat bobbing when he swallows nervously.

“Dan Heng.” He clams up immediately as you tilt his head upwards. “Shut up.”

“Mmph—” Whatever he’s about to reply with is cut off by your lips pressing against his suddenly—his movements come to a halt as his arms coil tighter around your neck. Almost reflexively, like some sort of snake.

He tastes like venom too—the impression of liquor and a hint of whiskey clings avariciously to his lips. If you weren’t so pressed for time, you would’ve spent longer tasting his flesh. But judging by the desperate curl of his hands tangling in the chains around your neck, it appears he feels hounded by the sand grains in the hourglass as well.

Your thumb and forefinger press into the sides of his face. Pliantly, obediently, his lips open with a gasp; you waste none of those precious sand grains in how you languorously probe into the warmth of his mouth. Just as you taste the profound tang of alcohol and salt on his tongue, so does he taste the familiar palette of sweets on your own. Sweets that you’ve shared with him on all those snack runs.

The very thought of it makes him press urgently into you. He’s shivering as he melds the seams between your lips and his more: chest rising and falling heavily as he laces you tight against him. But that’s a mistake—your much-too-thin shirt lays bare all the divots and dips of your flesh against his, and his mind blanks out shamelessly as he whines low into your mouth.

He flinches as he feels himself sink down onto your thigh—flinches as he hears himself.

“You good?” you murmur as you pull back. Your thumb traces small circles in his side, and perhaps that’s his last straw; he’s tugging you back onto his mouth with a small groan.

So, so good, his thoughts jumble out in a haze, and it’s not until you pause that he realises that he did, in fact, say that aloud.

But it’s not like he cares: not when your scalding mouth targets his jaw. Rough fingers grasp at his hair and crane his neck backwards, and it takes everything within him to muffle the sounds he’s making.

Fuck, fuck.

Almost unconsciously, he’s grinding on your leg—blood rushing straight to his head with how numb his mind feels. Aeons above. As you trail your mouth beneath his collar, he can feel his abdomen tighten impossibly.

“Ah—” he lets out as you nip at his collarbone, and those eyes go wide as saucers as he stutters to a halt against you. He’s practically dripping into his boxers: hips flush against your leg, so utterly done for as you shoot him a grin.

“I hope that was satisfactory,” you deliberately speak with a polite cadence, as if he wasn’t just writhing against you. As if— as if you weren’t just drawing him to the brink of pleasure. “Did you enjoy the game?”

Perhaps he should be grateful when the scraping sound appears once more and light—though not much brighter—floods into the small space. Perhaps he should be thankful, but instead he buries his red face in his hands and desperately composes himself—bile entering his mouth at the interruption.

He leaves early that night.

✦ . 　⁺

A friend, as he buries his face in his pillow and ignores the painful tent in his pants. The air conditioning turned on full blast with the winter breeze streaming through the open window does nothing to cool him down—skin burning, teeth worrying away at his lips.

A friend, as he recalls the skilled movements of your hands against both the fretboard and his skin—drawing out small noises that he can’t help but blush at.

A friend, as his own hands attempt to recreate the feeling of your body on his—practically towering over him in that small space. If he closes his eyes, he can picture it vividly: tasting even the liquor that lingered in your mouth just an hour or so prior, feeling the firm press of your arms as you caged him against those shelves.

Did you… want to go further?

As a friend, surely it would be rude to not acquiesce, right?

“Dan Heng?” That’s your voice, right? He’s not… imagining things now, is he?

With a start, he realises he’s staring at his phone—black reflection coming to life with his sudden movement, revealing that he did in fact call you.

“Yes,” he practically whines as he soaks in the rougher lilt of your voice; if he zones out, he can almost feel your breath ghosting across his neck and stirring the dark curls by his ear.

“Did you need something?” Stoic image gone, he’s entranced by the cooler tone of voice—fuck, fuck. There’s a dark crimson flush on his face, and a sheen on his forehead as he smiles against the receiver.

“Wanna come over?” Aeons he’s desperate—vocal cords twisting into something breathier, heavy with implication.

“Oh—” and he can practically hear the purring grin stretching out your face—taunting him that he can’t see it at the minute. “—I get it now.”

“You— you do?” He feels himself twitch against his mattress, ever so slightly shifting until he’s rocking gently while you speak.

“You want more from me, don’t you?” There’s a mocking tone laced under your words; common to when you make fun of him, but currently, it only serves to make him harder.

“Yes,” he groans, half-muffled through his pillow.

He’s so, so shameless.

“You alone?”

Luck smiles upon him tonight. He’s never been particularly fortunate—serendipity for him is painfully average. The most he expects from his middling chance is for his boot to occasionally knock against a discarded penny: burnished copper never picked up by his clean hands regardless.

But tonight? He’s lucky.

“Yeah,” he slurs into the soft fabric. “Roommate’s gone home for the weekend—I’m all alone for you.”

No feelings involved, he thinks—too oblivious to notice the dopey grin on his face as he hears your next words:

“Give me ten minutes.”

And when you disconnect with a sharp click, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the hazed look dilating his pupils is akin to a rather adoring one.

✦ . 　⁺

Fuck—he should’ve never suggested this, he should’ve never come to that stupid party in the first place.

It’s only one predicament after another; squirming on the edge of the bed was not what he had in mind when he practically begged you to come over. But now he’s in this mess because of only himself: rolling his fucking eyes back while you spread his pliant thighs even further with your shoulders.

His teary gaze meets yours from where you’re kneeling before him, staring right at his face as you trail your mouth across his weeping cock. It’s torturous—and worst of all, he can’t feel himself softening anytime soon. Not even with the pearled globs of white that spilled just from grinding into your leg, and definitely not with his sore chest as you soothed it with your balmy mouth: bruising teeth marks upon bruising teeth marks left to bloom mauve come tomorrow.

“Hurry—ah,” he whines as you suckle on the angry, flushed head; cold saliva and precum drip down the length, and he shivers at the sticky shick-shick that resounds in his small dorm as a result of your pistoning hand.

But contrary to his plea, your pace slows until it’s deliciously agonising. He wants to buck his needy hips into your face—yet your hand firmly maroons him on the spot by his trembling waist.

Aeons, his flesh feels scalding beneath his taut skin—the bloodiest of reds sprawls across his damp cheeks, to his shoulders, to even his very chest.

Even like this—with just your warm, slick mouth barely grazing him—he can feel the now-familiar tightness in his abdomen building up within. But you don’t let him adjust to the new pace you’ve set; almost immediately after his mind stops reeling, you dip your head and take him down your throat.

He’s arching into your touch reflexively as white spurts onto your tongue—messy, thick. It dribbles from the corners of your mouth as you swallow with him still in your mouth; tears streak from his placid eyes at the weird sensation in his stomach that leaves his hips writhing with how sensitive he feels.

“Fuck, fuck,” he mewls as you finally draw back with a wet pop sound—lips slick with his release as you lick them clean. The view certainly doesn’t help him; you’re looking at him so ravenously that his flush won’t ever let up.

“Happy?” You’re licking your fingers clean now, and he’s aching once more.

“No—” he sobs as he twitches in your tight grasp. His head’s spinning, but he’s so fucking empty he wants to cry.

“You want more?” Can you believe this guy?—your expression seems to state: a slight concern present in the pique of your brow.

“Yes, yes,” he slurs, cupping your face in his scorching fingers. “Need you in me.”

Despite his words, he’s gasping as you slide a single finger in: roughly probing to only the second knuckle, but he’s already gripping onto your shoulders for dear life.

“Mmph—feels weird,” he breathes before you kiss him sweetly. Your mouth swallows up his cries as he adjusts to the sensation that makes his stomach churn devastatingly. It’s uncomfortable, but he wants you to be buried in him—wants you to lose yourself in his tight walls and never want to let him go.

When you probe a second finger in, he’s struggling to prop himself up: arms shaking far too much as you scissor and stretch him open. It hurts, but there’s something budding in his gut that keeps pulling whine after whine out of his kiss-bitten lips.

That all changes when you crook your fingers slightly. Something shifts inside his walls—a specific spot of nerves is pressed, and he freezes in your arms.

“Wait—ah—feels strange,” he gasps out. You rock him closer, but you don’t relent with the steady pistoning of your fingers: making sure to brush and hammer right into that spot. His eyes dart everywhere and nowhere—dizzy as a twirling teacup, beyond measure. He’s stuffed so full; each time he hears that squelch, he can’t help but moan out.

“It’s okay,” you murmur softly in his ear. He shivers at the small gesture—so tender he’s getting whiplash, quite frankly. “You’re doing great.”

“Ngh—” he whimpers—he fucking whimpers—at the praise. Maybe it’s the proximity of your skin against his naked body, or maybe it’s your words—but he’s clenching around your goddamn fingers as he spills more white over himself and now you. The aftershocks hit him like a train; blinding incandescence flashes bright in his eyelids while his body writhes against you.

“That’s a surprise,” you mutter. What’s a surprise?—is what he wants to ask, but a gasp is forced out of him as soon as your fingers leave him.

“See that?” you ask in fascination as you lift them—clear tendrils coat the digits, sopping all over his sheets and staining his own face a dark red. “Must’ve liked it, huh.”

“Shut up,” he hisses. Although, it’s pointless to even begin to defend himself—not when his dripping hole still flutters like it was made for you.

“Oh— oh fuck,” he eats his words as soon as you smear his fluids against his peaked nipples; cock bobbing stiffly against his tummy with each languid ministration.

“So weak-willed,” you coo; he’s so cute like this. Knuckles white with how fastened they are to the sheets, it’s really no surprise that he looks like he’s losing his mind. Those blue irises are almost completely gone—dilated completely as he gazes up at you with a quivering bottom lip.

With a shaking hand, he pulls you closer by your white belt loops—you’ll have to apologise to Kafka later, since you’ll never wear these ruined clothes again.

He’s the one who unzips your pants. He’s the one who palms your front—it’s so heavy and warm he can’t help but feel a little flustered by the foreign feeling. He’s the one who ultimately slips past the underwear and handles it with something close to reverence.

“Fuck,” you hiss as his hands wrap carefully around your sore cock—neglected, but so utterly worth it as he gazes all doe-eyed at you. “Dan Heng, baby—”

His fingers quaver to a halt, and he stares with eyes large as saucers. Ignoring the obvious stain on his cheeks, it’s evident his breathing’s picked up to shallow, rapid rise-and-falls.

“Aeons, please put it in,” he all but begs. His syllables stumble over each other in a race to exit his mouth first, but they trip into incoherency as he feels the fat head of your dick press against his slick hole.

“Ah.” He cants his hips upwards in delight—stars in his eyes and shimmering across his mind’s theatre as the very shaft burns into him with a slow squelch. Hurts so good, he wants to say, but all that comes out of his mouth is a drawn-out moan as you latch onto his fat tits with your mouth—suckling—until he feels the sensitive buds harden once more.

He’s so embarrassingly close from just the tip alone—especially since your tongue is unrelenting, just the way he likes—

“Ngh— fuck, I’m cumming,” he wails, choking each word out just as your teeth graze his chest. But you’re unrelenting, even as you’re groaning into his ear from how he tightens around you—you simply rock him in your arms so he can ride out his orgasm.

The waves of pleasure ebb and flow in his mind so poignantly he sees the most blinding of whites. Right after it fades, he’s greeted with the sight of your face and chest plastered with slightly thinner, paler ropes of liquid.

“Aeons.” He barely knows what he’s doing anymore. Weakly, his tongue kitten licks and suckles the salty liquid off the areas he can access—namely, your jaw and neck—before he bites hard on the flesh, slinking his arms tightly around your nape so he can arch into your touch.

He’s softened now, but he’ll be damned if you don’t stuff him full for the rest of the night.

“So pretty like this,” you whisper. The words, paired with the slightest roll of your hips as you adjust your position, jolts him with a delicious pain. “You wanna keep going?”

“Yes, ah—” he sobs, legs wrapping tightly around your waist. It hurts—his dick feels spent and all too sensitive to the lightest of brushes of your soaked abdomen. But despite it all, he can still feel the stupid thing harden once more as he imagines you filling him to the brim.

“Fuck,” you curse, long and drawn-out as his hole flutters around you once more. “So damn tight.”

Inch by inch, he takes you deeper; swearing he’ll be split in half by the time you’re done with him. Uncontrollable moans spill from him, mixed with incoherent babbling as he claws at your skin; he feels so damn full that his spent cock still dribbles precum from the slit.

“Are you in fully?” he slurs after a few more minutes of this agony. It’s not until he glances down and sees a bulge in his lower stomach that his heart skips a beat—only to find you admiring the sight too. You lift your hand, and—

“Wait,” he begs, but it’s already too late.

—you press down on the mound in his tummy, and he wails.

He arches into your touch fully; tears leaking out his eyes as drool escapes his lips. Like a mantra, he’s chanting your name in between his broken sobs—too cock-drunk to think about formulating any other word. There’s only thin cum streaming from his softened dick now—and it hurts so good.

His mind’s so numb, but there’s still something missing from this giant puzzle.

He’s so far gone with pleasure that he can’t think of anything else.

“Do you want to stop?” Your voice comes fuzzy and disembodied, like he’s hearing you through a pool. But he musters up enough energy to shake his head in a vehement no.

“Keep— keep going,” he whimpers. That’s all the encouragement you need as you start moving faster, thick cock splitting him right in two as you tightly grip his hips. With each collision of your pelvis against his plush ass, a devastated whine rips out his hoarse throat. He’s so spent, but somewhere in his subconscious he wants you to think how good he squeezes you, how tight and warm he is around you.

“Aeons, you’re so beautiful like this,” you mutter between kissing him desperately. With each rough thrust, you drill into his prostate over and over—blood wells up on your back with how hard he digs his crescent nails in.

“Fuck—” you swear as you finally spill into him—hot seed stuffing his hole so full that he sees stars one final time. It’s a dry orgasm—he thinks he hears you say, but he’s far too delirious to think of anything but the sopping mess between his legs.

His eyes flutter shut, and the last thing he can feel is the warm, gentle touch of a wet cloth wiping him down—and the sweet press of a kiss against his forehead as he slips into the land of slumber.

It may have been a bad decision. He may have a crisis over his terrible impulsivity. It may have felt so good he was positively wracked with pain.

None of that stops him from coming back for more. And more. And more, until it’s more common to see Dan Heng with a bite mark just poking out the top of his turtleneck than not.

When you tell Kafka about this hypothetical friends-with-benefits situation, she supports you—of course she does. But what she doesn’t tell you is how this man looks at you.

She’s a poet, so she could talk about how enamoured his gaze is. How devoted the brush of his knuckles against yours is. How he looks at you as if the stars strewn across the fabric of space were your doing.

But she’s a sadist, so the adoring haze in your so-called ‘friend’s’ expression is one she lets you be oblivious to.

If every other band-mate of yours can see how obsessed he is with your very existence, surely you’ll be able to tell eventually?

#dan heng #dan heng x reader #res ･ﾟ writing #slowd1ving #x reader #dan heng x you #astral express #gn reader #male reader #hsr #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail #snippet #male character #sub male character #smut

115 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 months

Text

Candy Girl 5

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as cheating, age gap, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: as you’re about to take the next step with your boyfriend, doubts begin to arise. (short!plus!reader)

Characters: Thor (boyfriend’s dad/silverfox)

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself. <3

The silver-haired man bends over your engine. His name is Bucky as you guessed from Thor’s booming yawls for him. You sit on the front porch, next to the pizza on the bench, and chew your lip anxiously. All four men loom around your deceased vehicle, mulling grimly over the ruins.

Karl seemed okay about the catastrophe. Emmanuel was looking to pick up some hours and there are enough orders that he didn’t need to worry about breaking even. You thanked him before you hung up, still numb and in disbelief. It’s not just a car, it’s your livelihood. More than just your job, it’s your escape from a house that’s never been much of a home.

You try not to let the despair drown you but can’t help it. For all your optimism, this is just too much, the final straw. If you can’t drive, you can’t work, and you can’t get money, and you can’t hand over most of your check to get your parents off your back. You are effed.

Before you can hang your head, Thor catches your eye. He waves and bounds over as if only then remembering you. He comes up the steps and leans against the porch railing across from you.

“Gonna be alright,” he says and he crosses his arms, “Bucky says it might take a little but he can redo the whole thing.”

“Really?” You bat your lashes, looking up at the awning, “hm, maybe I should look into being a mechanic.”

“Not quite,” he chuckles, “it’s more a hobby but he’s gotten me out of a few vehicular binds. I trust him.”

“Oh, uh, well... guess I don’t have much of a choice,” you shrug and reach into your pocket, “can you take this back?” You hold out the folded bills, “maybe it can help with the cost--”

“Ah, he owes me,” Thor winks, “keep it.”

“I can’t--”

“I’ve been holding onto this favour for nearly a decade, what better time to use it?” He grins. “Please, little one, you keep that money. It’s well-earned.”

You give a bittersweet smile, your cheeks pinching with the underlying anxiety. You won’t argue about it. You really do need the money. You sigh and tuck it back into your pocket.

“I’m sorry to ruin your night,” you murmur as you look at the men near your car. Bucky and another argue as they gesture to the car, the greying blond man standing back to watch without amusement.

“Ah, no, they’re always like that,” he glances over his shoulder, “eh, what more could I ask?” He stands and drops his arms, moving to sit on the other end of the bench. He flips up the lid of the top pizza box, “than to eat with a pretty girl.”

Your cheeks tingle. He’s always a bit too cheesy. You scrunch your lips and shake your head.

“Please, dig in,” he insists, “might as well. Otherwise, these old dogs with devour it all and be whining of heartburn in an hour.”

You snort. You can’t say you’re not hungry. Driving around with the smell of chicken and pizza all night does tend to leave you ravenous and after the day you’ve had, well, you’re no stranger to comfort eating.

“Just one slice,” you insist and reach to tear a piece off the pie.

He hums contentedly as he takes one himself. He peers out at his buddies and rolls his eyes. The argument is turning heated though the silent third hardly seems fazed. It almost reminds you of Magni and his friends; people don’t grow up very much, do they?

🍬

“It’s late,” Thor says as he leads you down the walk, “you can stay over and I’ll drive you home in the morning.”

“Oh, but...”

“Mm, I did have a beer or two, we’ll have to walk to mine,” he interjects, “apologies, little one, I didn’t foresee disaster.”

“It’s... okay,” you assure him. “Thanks, again. I really appreciate it.”

You turn onto the sidewalk beside him and slip your phone from your purse. Still no messages. You dim the screen with a sigh and put it away.

“Something the matter?” Thor asks.

“No, just... haven’t heard from Magni.”

“Ah, I’m certain he’s home,” Thor insists, “you know how he is. Distracted with that bike he can’t seem to fix.”

You chuckle, “yeah, I don’t think that thing’s ever gonna run again.”

“I told him not to take it apart,” he tuts, “but does he ever listen?”

“Oh, sorry, I...”

“It isn’t your fault, no need for your apologies,” he says, “I only wish...” he exhales heavily, “maybe I could’ve done better. If I had, he’d treat you better too. I’m sorry you have to deal with such a spoiled brat. As selfishly as I’d like you to stick around, you could do better. Much better.”

You mull his words in silence, “yeah, I... he’s... not... he just needs time.”

You’re not sure you believe that. He hasn’t changed in the year you’ve been together. You’ve known him even longer than that and you can’t say he’d matured past his high school antics much.

Even his brother, Modi, outgrew all that. You always asked why he didn’t think about moving in with him, getting a bit of space. He just didn’t want to be troubled with the effort of it all. Just like most things.

“It isn’t my place,” Thor raises his hands, “sorry. It is only... my thoughts come faster than I can stop them.”

“Yeah... I...” you drag your feet. He’s just saying everything you’ve been denying. “I don’t know.”

You walk along, staring ahead, overly aware of his looming presence. He rubs his neck and clears his throat, “anyhow, I was curious, fall will be here soon, were you still looking to go to school?”

“Oh, uh... well,” you scoff, “my car... don’t have that much save yet and... I mean, you don’t have to do everything on the same schedule as everyone else, right?”

Another point of denial. Another thing you’re running away from to look on the bright side instead. You sniff and shrug.

“Not this year.” Probably not next year, either. You’re already a year behind, so what does it matter?

“Ah, so now that Magni’s done his gap year, you’ll be okay?”

“Okay?” You wonder.

“With him going away for so long. I suppose you’ll just go up and visit, eh? We could make a road trip of it, if you like.”

“Away?” Your heart plummets and you stop short, just at the corner of his street, “Mr. Odin—Thor? I thought he was going local.”

He turns to you and inhales, chest rising and falling as he clamps his lips guiltily, “oof, I’ve done it again. Said too much.”

“What-- when was he going to tell me?” You croak. Don’t cry. Don’t. That’s just pathetic.

“I’m sorry, little one, I didn’t mean--”

“You’re sorry? He didn’t even tell me,” you mope, “I...”

You spin on your heel and storm ahead of him. You’re filled with hurt and anger. Whatever. If Magni doesn’t want to answer your texts, fine, he can sulk and be a child, but what was he going to do? Just pack up and leave you without a word?

You sense Thor behind you, trailing after. He’s tall enough he could easily catch you but he’s holding back. You don’t care. He can’t stop you.

You stomp up the front stairs of his house. The porch light shines yellow and the windows are lit up. You forget all pretense as you enter his home, leaving the door open. Magni’s metal music blasts from his bedroom. You barrel down the hall and burst through his door.

You skid to a halt, at first, not understanding what you’ve walked in on. You lean back on your heel as the breath rushes from you and leaves you deflated. Your ears buzz and your eyes tinge. They don’t even notice you as you stand there gaping. Magni and Sheena, his ex, lay on his bed, tangled in each other, sucking each other’s faces like they’re on life support.

You back out and whimper. You collide with Thor as he comes up behind you. He growls as he looks over you easily and witnesses your horror within. You push back against him and veer away.

“Little one,” he calls after you as you flee, his hand slipping down your arm before he can get a hold of you.

You’re already bawling, heaving and gasping for air. You’re so stupid. You can’t believe you put up with all Magni’s bullshit. No, you can’t believe you let yourself be so blind. Good things don’t just happen because you want them to. You should know that by now.

#dark thor #dark!thor #thor x reader #thor #series #drabble #candy girl #au #marvel #avengers #mcu

113 notes · View notes

chadfallout76podcast · 7 months

Text

"Deah Shroud!: A Nick Valentine Mystery" EXPLAINED and AMA

It never occurred to me to do this last year, but a lot of people have asked me questions about our Fallout 4 play in the last year in the Discord, so I wanted to open an AMA but also explain "Death Shroud!" and some of the broader themes involved in it.

**SPOILERS AHEAD**

Part 1: Pre-production

Before I get into the story, I wanted to explain how this production even came about. Over the years after working together on some official community projects with Wes Johnson through Bethesda, we became good friends. I took a couple of his acting classes and he talked about the Fallout For Hope charity initiative I started and asked for help in organizing the gaming community for his Alzheimer's Association fundraiser. The idea was to host a month-long digital event of discussion panels, game shows, improv and a play with as many different voices of video games, film and TV as we could round up. In our second year of his VoiceAPalooza fundraiser, I wanted to do an original old time radio show and see if could bring back as many of the cast that we could from Fallout 4. It was Wes who first suggested an adventure with his Silver Shroud character (that he voiced in Fallout 4's radio plays) teaming up with Nick Valentine (voiced by the amazing Stephen Russell). Valentine is, for me, one of the best written, unique companions in Fallout lore.

So, I reached out to Stephen Russell who had joined us before for charity work and he was all in on bringing Nick Valentine back to life! After that things moved fast with Bethesda's Pete Hines and Emil Pagliarulo joining us to have some fun for a good cause. We tried to get EVERY companion from Fallout 4 that we could, but schedule wrangling is tough, and some people are just impossible to track down or find. Matt Mercer would've loved to have joined us as Macready, but unfortunately scheduling didn't work, so the best we could manage would be a holotape (the only reason our snarky gun running merc had to take the big sleep in the story).

After having everyone plugged in to reprise characters, it was time to put fingers to keys and find the story...

Part 2: The Deep Lore

The origin of this story started with a thought: how would the NPC's and characters we love perceive modification of their universe by us? We, as players aren't the true creators of this universe or these characters (Bethesda is). If anything, we the players are the equivalent of "lesser gods", reshaping it in new ways, unexpected and subjective ways, and sometimes even chaotic ways (I'm looking at you avalanche of adult mods with realistic jiggle physics and Thomas the Tank Engine Vertibird).

It started with a mental image of the small ways in which we start out modding games, or even the first mods we (using the "Engine of Creation) actually create. I had a mental image of Magnolia doing her thing, singing away sultry in a crowded and smoky third rail when she looks one way, back the next and sees new curtains. A subtle thing, something a little startling, but in a universe where recreational drug use is met with a YEEE YEEEE WHEEEE...a change you simply dismiss as being overtired or a little too juiced.

I'm a sucker for old time radio. I grew up listening to classic radio horrors like The Whistler, Suspense, and Lights Out on vinyl records and cassette tapes when I'd spend summers with my grandmother on a little island off the coast of Canada. Getting the tone, feeling and sound to stage an old-time radio show was the easiest part of this whole process...it's baked into my brain lol. The key of course is finding the right narrative voice.

Enter: Bill Lobley. If you play Fallout 76, he is the announcer for the "Tales from the West Virginia Hills" holotapes, but before that he's a prolific voice actor, maybe best known for his role as the truly vile Jeremiah Fink in Bioshock: Infinite. He has a FANTASTIC transatlantic voice for old time radio and was perfect as narrator in the script.

Part 3: What Is Going On?!?!

I had the base idea, the voices to pull it off, but what was the meaning and message of the whole thing? I always start there. From a meta experience level, the story is about dealing with subjective reality that’s being torn apart. After Fallout 4 launched in vanilla, we the players changed that world and reshaped it with mods. The small changes in perceived reality are meant for the omniscient player (us) and are not meant to be perceived by the characters themselves...and yet, what if they were? And if they were...WHY?! The answer was right in front of me: there's a difference between something born into a world and something MADE into a world.

You take someone like Magnolia or Nick, both synths, that obviously weren’t naturally born from two people. They were conceived as an idea...a human idea sure, but still they were made, not born. Without even needing to say in the script, the Trickster from the Grognak comic books who shouldn't exist yet does IS also an idea. Some MADE into a world but not born...a different world sure, but still the creation of it. Nick, Magnolia, any synth as ideas themselves would sense that the world was wrong and being changed in a way no one else would because of fundamentally who they are and what they represent.

Everything that unfolds is because Nora as a keystone event in the Commonwealth, a focal point of the causal nexus making her a unique entity in that world. A causal nexus is the link between a cause and its resulting effects and ignore the science mumbo jumbo, because here's an example of how that works:

The Sole Survivor, Nora, listened to Kent's message, chose to answer him and put on the outfit of the Silver Shroud. As a unique figure she shifted perceived reality of everyone in the Commonwealth by becoming the Silver Shroud, acting like him and making people believe that a fictional character exists.

Unfettered belief and faith in an idea = manifested reality.

Rejected belief and faith in the idea = dispels that reality.

This HAS happened before in Fallout lore in the instance of people with horrifying backstories and personal tragedies choosing to become someone else such as the Mechanist (Fallout 3 and Fallout 4) or even the Ant-Agonizer (Fallout 3). This time however it was a unique figure who did this, a figure fated and meant to reshape the Commonwealth for good, bad or ugly.

This opened a door, the door through which another figure could influence and enter a new universe provided it take the form of something already in it...a reality side-step into the form of the Mechanist. Concurrently, the moment that happened, reality counterbalanced by making the Silver Shroud who was already believed to be real BECOME real as the ying to the Mechanist/Trickster's yang.

Now at home in reality, the Trickster found himself very much alive and unbound by story but had very little power to do much at all. He needed something more, an idea and faith that already existed in the Commonwealth with the infinite universe of ideas made, but not born like himself. His goal wasn't power, it was to sow chaos, reshaping reality into a realm for any and every idea despite the consequences to reality itself.

So what did he need? The belief in the Old Gods and a focus point of belief in the idea: a staff. The universe is as adaptive as it is remarkable and where the Mechanist had its opposite: the Silver Shroud, the Trickster needed its twin: enter Sheogorath...because what better staff to tear apart and reshape reality than the Staff of Sheogorath. There is a quest added in the new Skyrim Anniversary Edition in which you can build it for yourself with a few items: Branch of the Tree of Shades, Ciirta's Eye, Fork of Horripilation. In this universe it would have to fashioned with things FROM this universe.

Two eyes were needed:

The eye of a True Believer: Kent Connolly

The eye of a True Seer: Mama Murphy

Affixed to the top of a staff of the purest heartwood from a Twice Born Tree. Living wood from Harold, born a man who eventually mutated into a living tree.

Lastly, it had to be soaked in the tears of ages end: barrels of radiated blessed waters courtesy of the Cult of Atom.

The Trickster had no magic of his own in this universe in which to act, but thankfully courtesy of some powerful allies, he was able to make contact with shadowy cults and worshippers of the old gods who gave him the name of someone truly of faith in the old magic to make all of this work: Jebediah Blackhall, who in this spin of the universe did unfortunately get his hands on the cursed book: the Krivbeknah.

Finding allies was all too easy, as the events post main quest left the Commonwealth changed. To many, the Sole Survivor and his/her companions would be hailed as heroes. To others, they would be villains, particularly in light of what Nora CHOSE to do to the Railroad to end the synth threat for good. That's a lot of blood on the hands of heroes...

As the Mechanist/Trickster, Blackall and the Lombardos began using the staff, its changes and shifts in reality rippled backwards through time, as changing one specific thing would change its entire existence. You change some curtains and the manufacturer of those curtains only every made one pattern...the world object becomes changed universally. Tapping into the Engine of Creation to make these changes, leaves anyone MADE not born aware of them as they don't fit into the design as it shifts around them. Nick, Danse, Magnolia would all feel and see it, be thrown off for a bit before settling into the changed reality state.

At the climax when everything starts falling apart and you get everyone from GlaDOS and the Joker strolling on in, the only way to end it all is to separate the Trickster from the Staff and restore the saved intended state of reality. The Silver Shroud finds himself powerless against the Trickster...only someone from this universe would be able to intercede, hard wired into the Engine of Creation itself as an existing element connected throughout its framework and history. After sending the Trickster off packing to the moon (thanks GlaDOS), but its a little too late for reality. It collapses around them, finding themselves elsewhere...the point between the mind, creation and the outcome of reality.

After the Shroud fades away, Nick has the power and choice to roll the universe, his universe back along the tapestry of choices that led him here. They all were haunted by the choices they made the first time around, something Nora couldn't live with...that ultimately led her relationship with Danse to fall apart. So Nick decides to go back further, as far back as he can go and he finds himself back in his office with Ellie waking him up.

There are consequences to what he's done, that he's not yet aware of, ones that will become clear in our next episode. The synths remember, as he remembers...Danse, Magnolia and everyone else remembers the fall of the Institute. They all find themselves at their starting point, moving towards their intended fated position to encounter the Sole Survivor. For Nick? He's starting down the path that will led him to be held prisoner and meet the Sole Survivor for the first time.

As he'll soon discover however, things don't play out the same way this time. Moreover, while he was rolling back reality to an early saved state, he made a huge mistake and completely forgot about something and someone so incredibly important...

You'll have to wait to see what that is...

#death shroud #chad: a fallout 76 podcast #chad: a fallout 76 story #fallout 4 #fallout for hope #wes johnson #fallout #fallout fanfic #nick valentine

100 notes · View notes

thechildbythesea · 3 months

Text

Request - "The Story We Weren't Told"

@rubixpsyche

hi there! i am so sorry that this story took so long! i hope it is worth the wait!

also, i may have gotten carried away, sorry

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Summary: A silly little story in which, as per the usual shenanigans, Miko finds her way to somewhere she shouldn’t, dragging a concerned Raf and Jack with her.

Only, the “silly” doesn’t last as long as it should.

Word Count: 3763

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been nearly half a steller cycle since Optimus Prime had checked up on the Rescue Bots in Griffin Rock. The Prime was curious as to how they were getting along with the mission he had given them and was starting to wonder if the Decepticons had found their way to their part of the world.

“For their sake, I hope not…” Optimus muttered to himself, lightly shaking his helm as he decided to contact the Rescue Bots. With the activity from the Decepticons as of late, especially with how widespread their sightings seemed to be getting, Optimus was getting worried that it wouldn’t be long before the cons stumbled across Griffin Rock and the Rescue Bots.

Not to mention the many experimental technologies that littered the island. The technology may be primitive when compared to Cybertronian technology, however, he couldn’t deny just how dangerous the tech could be if the cons managed to get their servos into Doc Greenes Lab, or worse, find their way to that island where they hideaway dangerous tech.

As the other side rang out, the humans along with their guardians returned to the base; laughing and conversations about the school day could be heard as the trio of young humans climbed up to the station they had made their own. Optimus couldn’t help the small and rare smile as he watched the trio from the corner of his optic.

“This is Heatwave, of Sigma 17- Oh, Optimus!” Heatwave stopped his formal greeting as he saw who it was, most likely not expecting to see the Autobot Leader so soon. Heatwave’s posture got noticeably straighter as he spoke to the prime.

“Hello Heatwave, I wanted to check in and see how your mission is faring.” He explained, watching as Heatwave went from being confused back to a neutral look “I believe it’s going well, me and my team have learned a lot from our human partners. And from the island inhabitants.”

“Even from Kade Burns?” The Prime’s tone was almost amused, as he had witnessed the sort of rivalry between the fire rescue team.

As much as the two butted heads, Heatwave and Kade had more in common than either of them seemed to realize, or would have cared to admit.

Heatwave turned his helm away from the screen, almost as if he was embarrassed to admit it. “Well, despite his best efforts, yes, even from Kade.” Heatwave finally answered after a few nano-klicks had passed, facing the screen once more.

However, the attention from the rescue bot seemed to have been cut short as Heatwave’s helm suddenly snapped to the side once more as he heard the rescue alarm sound “I hate to cut this short, but I must-”

“No need to explain Heatwave, I will contact you later.” With a final nod, Heatwave ended the video feed. Miko looked up at the Prime “Who was that?” She asked, leaning against the railing, Optimus looked down at the young girl “That was Heatwave, leader of the Rescue Bots located in Griffin Rock.”

“Griffin Rock? Never heard of it.” Miko casually stated with a shrug, but Raf’s eyes lit up at the name “I have! It’s the capital of engineering! New technology is constantly being developed and tested there!” The young Latino stated with such enthusiasm, pulling up a picture of Griffin Rock on his laptop, and showing it to his friends.

“That there is Chief Charlie Burns,” he started, pointing to a tall man, wearing a police uniform, his hair was silver, with a moustache to match. Whether his hair was that colour from being old, or the stress of the job was any of the teen's guesses, though the man was fit and looked like he had more than a few years left in him.

“These are his four kids. They run the Rescue team on the island. A true family of heroes!” Jack looked at the picture, and immediately focused on the four tall robots in the background, standing behind the family, and upon taking a closer look, he saw the distinct insignia of the Autobots that was located on each of the bot's chassis’ “So, those are the rescue bots?” He asked, looking back at Optimus as he pointed to the image, the prime simply nodded.

“Rescue Bots? I thought they were all gone.” Arcee stated as she walked up to the group, Bumblebee following right behind her. They were both surprised to find out that no one had told them that there were rescue bots still around. “Why aren’t they here?”

“Because I didn’t want them in danger of the Decepticons. If Megatron finds out of their existence…” Optimus trailed off, the looks on his team's faceplates solidifying he didn’t need to continue that sentence.

And while the children understood the gravity of the situation, they all grew curious about the Rescue Bots, but silently agreed they would save those questions for another time.

After a few hours, when he was sure, or at least hoped, that the rescue day had calmed down, Optimus decided to contact the Burns Family directly. When the commlink was answered, young Cody Burns showed up on the screen, the young blonde smiling wide “Optimus!” He said enthusiastically “Heatwave told us, well told Kade, who told the rest of us, that you had called this morning.” the young boy explained with a smile on his features, but his face soon shifted into worry “Wait, is there something wrong? Is that why you're calling back?”

“No, my young friend, there is nothing wrong.” The Prime started reassuringly “I was hoping to speak with your father about another visit to the island.” Optimus finally admitted, causing Cody to relax and drawing the attention of the teens of Team Prime.

“Sure thing. Dad should be in his office. I’ll patch you through to him.”

While Optimus began to talk to the Chief, Miko gathered her two friends into a huddle “We should totally follow Optimus when he goes to Griffin Rock!” She whispered excitedly, hoping not to draw attention. Jack gave her a credulous look “No, Miko, we shouldn’t.” He stated in a final tone. Miko pouted “You are no fun. You heard what Raf said! There’s so much to do there!” Her excitement at the possibility of the chance of going to a completely new place was obvious, but Jack wasn’t having it.

Jack was sure that if it was possible, a vein would be popping at the top of his head, the oldest sighed “Miko, we can’t just go! We need to think about what my mom, Raf’s parents and your host parents would think!” Jack argued, Miko simply shrugged, her usually carefree look on her face “My host parents don’t care… I’m pretty sure I scare them.” She sounded almost a bit too proud at that last statement, the smile she had only proved it. Jack looked at Raf, who looked a little sheepish, picking the skin off his fingers “If I tell my parents I’m with a friend and I’m keeping up with my studies they won’t mind.” Raf’s face was starting to look hopeful too. Jack sighed, running a hand through his hair as he knew for a fact his mom would say no to the whole thing. She would definitely kill him.

Bulkhead looked over at the trio, raising a suspicious optic ridge to Miko specifically, he knew her well enough by now to know when she was planning something “Miko, what are you planning now?” He asked, making Miko jump, turn and smile innocently “Nothing Bulk! Just chatting with my friends about schoolwork!” She said, trying her best to sound as innocent as possible. As much as those puppy eyes weakened him, Bulkhead remained suspicious of Miko.

“Thank you, Chief Burns. I shall see you tomorrow afternoon then.” Optimus stated and Charlie nodded “Of course, it’s a pleasure to have you anytime, Optimus. And you can tell me more about that worry once you're here.” Optimus nodded once, before ending the call. As secure as he knew their commlink was, Optimus didn’t want to take any chances.

The Prime turned to the side, just in time to see Bulkhead and Arcee interrogating Miko.

“Come on! I’m not always planning mischief!”

“That’s a lie, you're always causing some sort of trouble.”

“Hey! Bulkhead! Tell her!”

“Sorry Miko, but I’m siding with Arcee here.”

Miko growled, stomping her foot before flopping down on the old couch, pouting.

Optimus shook his helm fondly, the small smile going unnoticed by his team.

The next day, the teens weren’t at school and had arrived at the base early to watch morning cartoons with Bumblebee. As Ratchet and Optimus prepared the ground bridge for its next destination, the medic let out a deep vent “Optimus, I can understand the concern for the Rescue Bots. But surely, a visit this soon isn’t necessary.” Optimus looked down at his old friend, he understood why his medic was so concerned. Optimus let out a soft vent of his own “I know, old friend, but I fear the Decepticons may be getting close to the island.”

Ratchet narrowed his optics up at Optimus, who only placed a gentle servo on his shoulder “I will be no more than three solar cycles.” The pointed staring contest didn’t last long, Ratchet deeply sighing once more before pressing in the coordinates for Griffin Rock’s Rescue Station.

The chief had agreed that if the threat Optimus was worried about truly was on the island, ground bridging into the station would be best.

“Optimus is coming? Here? Today?!!” Blades voice was full of shock and a bit of panic, and Heatwave could understand why; it was short notice on the Chief's part.

The chief nodded, an apologetic look on his face “Yes, and I’m sorry, I did mean to tell you yesterday, but with the surge of rescues that happened, I didn’t have the time.”

“We can understand Chief, the number of rescues yesterday threw us all off,” Heatwave said in understanding. And honestly, it didn’t make much sense to him. Sure their island had its fair share of mishaps and issues, but half of what happened; things going haywire, buildings collapsing with no proof the building's structure was compromised naturally, none of it sat right in Heatwave’s processor, Boulder had even commented about possible sabotage, as it wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to give them a bad rep. And while they brushed it off at first, Heatwave wasn’t so sure now.

“Optimus should be here any minute. He informed me that he’ll be “ground bridging” directly into the station.”

Heatwave raised an optic ridge at that piece of information; usually, Optimus would travel a little less obviously, the prime often finding himself travelling on the ferry. “Excuse me, Chief.” Heatwave started as he watched the oldest human leave, Charlie turned back and looked at the Rescue Bot leader “Why is Optimus ground bridging?” The human simply shrugged “I’m not sure, he said there was something he needed to discuss with us, but he didn’t feel the commlink was secure enough.”

Heatwave thought that was odd, but only nodded as he let the chief continue with his morning routine for the team.

Exactly at Noon, Optimus stepped through the ground bridge and into the Rescue Station, when he arrived, he only noticed Cody was there to greet him. “Hello, young burns.” He greeted, looking around the room for any sign of the other humans. “Hey Optimus, Dad wanted me to fill you in on all the details,” Cody stated, getting right to the point as if he could read the question that was lingering on the Prime’s processor. It seems the feeling that Optimus had was not simply his paranoia running wild.

As the ground bridge closed behind the Prime, 3 figures emerged from the closing portal. Cody looked at the humans curiously. “Ugh, that I don’t think I will ever get over that feeling..” the shortest of the trio muttered, a sickly look on his face.

The girl beside him giggled “I know! It bothered me at first, but now it feels electric! It's awesome!”

The final was a boy with black hair, who looked really annoyed “We are so going to get into trouble once Optimus spots us!” He sounded the oldest, and very exacerbated.

“Hey! Who are you three?” The blond asked, tilting his head curiously.

Miko opened her mouth to speak but the deep, disapproving voice of the Prime sounded instead “They’re in big trouble.”

Jack glared at Miko while Raf walked up to Cody. Upon closer inspection, it looked like the two were the same age. The Latino smiled and offered his hand “They’re Miko Nakadai and Jack Darby. I’m Rafael Esquivel, but most call me Raf. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Cody smiled and took the other boy's hand “Cody Burns, wish I could say the same.” He said with a light laugh.

“What are you three doing here?” Optimus asked as he lowered himself to his knee so he was more level with the human children. “It was Miko’s fault.” Jack stated, the volume of his voice was level but his tone showed just how annoyed he was at the younger teen “She somehow convinced Raf to follow you through the ground bridge when you left. I chased after them because I thought I would be able to stop them before the bridge closed.” Jack explained, fighting the urge to keep glaring at Miko.

The Japanese girl rolled her eyes and crossed her arms “Puh. Lease. As if you didn’t want to come!” She accused, Jack snarled, narrowing his eyes “Even if I did; that isn’t an excuse! Did either of you-”

“I told my parents I would be staying at a friend's to study for upcoming exams. As long as I send proof of the work I’m doing, which should be easy enough, they said it was fine.” Raf explained, fixing his glasses that had slipped down his nose.

“I told my host parents the same, they were against it at first, but when I mentioned Raf, they were all for it.” Miko stated, her demeanour as confident as ever with a cocky smirk. Jack groaned as he ran a hand through his hair “Well good for you! Because I had no plans of joining in and thus; Mom doesn’t know!”

Cody watched the commotion with a smile, it sort of reminded him of how his siblings often bickered with each other “Um, if you want, we can go to the com room that Heatwave uses and contact your base. To try and sort this out?” Cody offered, looking at the prime, who in turn was looking at his human charges. Optimus let out a deep vent before nodding.

Even though it was a quick call, Jack thought it lasted far longer, since with all the rules his mom listed, it felt like at least 2 hours.

“I can’t believe my mom let me stay…” Jack said, in disbelief, Miko smirked at the older teen, nudging him lightly “You know your mom is weak to Optimus’ charms.” She chimed, making him groan “Ugh! Don’t remind me!”

Cody looked at Raf with a confused look “What do they-” Raf shook his head with a smile “I’ll tell you later.”

As the group returned to the main section of the Rescue base, Cody was quick to notice his family and the rescue bots were waiting for them. “It’s good to see you made it Optimus,” The chief greeted before seeing the three teens standing behind his youngest.

The oldest looked a little sheepish at intruding, the girl was just grinning as she looked towards the bots while the youngest was staring at the bots in awe.

“Who are your friends, Optimus?”

“This is Jack, Miko and Rafael. The young humans that are under the care of my team.” Optimus introduced them.

“We’re more than that boss bot,” Miko stated with a smile

The chief walked closer to the humans and offered his hand “It’s a pleasure to meet you, kids. I’m Charlie Burns, Chief of the rescue station.”

Jack took his hand “Jack Darby, and we’ve heard about you, mostly from Raf, but it’s an honour.” He greeted.

Miko was quick towards the Rescue Bots “You guys look awesome!”

“Wait, what did you mean? That you’re ‘more than that’?” Graham asked with a raised brow, a little confused at the girl's statement.

The young Japanese girl only smiled “Just as it sounds graham. We do our share for the bots.” She stated with such a confident tone, that it surprised the Burns family a little, but Optimus, Jack and Raf weren’t; Raf and Optimus just looked at Miko with a fond and amused look while Jack looked like he was ready to kill her or himself.

But then Kade snapped from the audacity of the child and looked at Miko cautiously “wait, how did you know-”

“Well Kade, if you were listening,” Miko said, staring at the red-head with a smirk, finding it funny that Kade was now on guard.

“As funny as it is to see worked up, can you answer the question instead of messing with him?” Heatwave pipped up, causing the humans to stare.

Miko just grinned “Yooo! That’s your actual voice!”

Raf fixed his glasses before he looked up at Heatwave “Well, um...Heatwave?” Raf hesitated, wondering if he remembered the name Optimus had said just the other day.

The fire bot paused, obviously not expecting the human to know his name, before nodding.

“I did some research on the Burns family before we came here.” Raf started as he looked up at the bot “I’ve actually been really interested in coming here for a while, the tech here is amazing! I’ve even wanted to meet Dr.Greene-”

“Oh, we know him!” Cody suddenly pipped up, Raf looked at the blond “Wait really?” He asked, his voice sounding excited, Cody nodded “Yup! I’m actually best friends with his daughter, Frankie. I could actually show you around the island too,”

Raf felt what he could only describe as an explosion in his chest, fighting the urge to start bouncing on his heels in excitement “Could you?? Can I meet her? Them?” Raf asked, before pausing and looking up at Optimus with an almost nervous look “if that’s okay?”

Optimus thought for a moment before looking at the Chief “If it’s alright with the Chief, I see no reason why you can’t. However, I will leave it up to the chief.” He stated,

Cody looked at the chief, only his look was more expectant with puppy eyes to match, and even though the puppy eyes rarely worked on the old chief anymore, the man still sighed with a smile “Okay, okay. Fine. But maybe you should go with one of the bots.” Charlie said, making it sound like a suggestion but Cody picked - up the hint easily enough.

As did Dani as she motioned to the younger two boys “Come on, Blade’s and I can give you a lift.”

Rafael grinned, watching Blades transform before joining Dani and Blades.

It had been a full day since the humans of Jasper made their way towards Griffen Rock.

Miko had found her place playing video games against Kade and Dani, beating the two of them pretty easily.

Jack decided to stick with the bots, learning what he could about the Rescue Bots and their purpose and overall history.

Raf found himself mixing between the two, joining in when talking to Boulder and Graham about tech, earth and everything great about both.

But when it came to the Rescue Team being called on for missions, Raf mostly found himself hanging out with Cody in the communication room while Jack sat with The Chief and Chase and Miko was with Dani and Blades.

Surprisingly enough, Miko was a quick learner when it came to medical techniques.

Earlier that day, Raf had watched the screens from over Cody’s shoulder, watching the screens the blond wasn’t looking at.

“Okay team, just like yesterday, watch out for any unusual activity. These emergencies can’t be more than coincidences.”

There was a collected “got it” over the comm before things went quiet.

The Latino simply stood by, being an extra pair of eyes. But a few times, Raf thought he saw familiar purple cars riding throughout the town, but he didn’t say anything, since at a quick glance, it didn’t seem important.

But ever since Optimus spoke to Charlie privately when they had gotten back, Cody and Rafael had actually picked up that there was more to the Prime’s ‘routine visit’ than what he was letting on.

As Raf watched over the screen, once again he noticed the familiar purple shine, his eyes narrowed as Raf took over the controls “Did you see something?” Cody asked curious

”Is that what I think it is…” Raf muttered as he continued to focus on the screen, not answering the person beside him.

“Well, what is it?” Cody asked confused, watching the screen as the Latino boy froze the footage before zooming into the freezeframe and clearing the pixelated image. His narrowed eyes then widened in realization.

“It can’t be…” The brunette took a step back from the screen instinctually, a sudden fear rushing through him.

“Raf, what is it?” The young Burns asked, his tone almost pleading as he saw the sudden fear in his friend's face.

“That’s a vehicon…” he muttered, zooming in further and finding the undeniable Decepticon symbol “The cons are here…” Raf plugged his laptop into the console, quickly downloading the footage of the con.

Cody looked at Raf suddenly “Con’s?” The boy started, watching the other boy work.

“What are Cons?” He asked cautiously, his features and tone filled with worry.

Raf unplugged his laptop from the charger “Decepticons. The faction that pretty much started the civil war that Optimus and Team Prime are now fighting in Jasper.” He quickly explained, running towards the bunker where the rest of the Burns family, and Team Prime, were.

“War? What war?” Cody called after the Latino. The Rescue Bots hadn’t said much about their home, just that it was no longer inhabitable due to war, but Optimus hadn’t told them much about the war that destroyed their home. The Rescue Bots just assumed the war had ended, it had been the equivalent of thousands of human years, surely it would be over by now…

Right?

#theo writes #rescue bots #transformers #creative writing #transformers rescue bots #transformers prime fanart #optimus prime #maccadams #jack darby #miko nakadai #rescue bots heatwave #transformers blades #tfrb #tf rescue bots #writing requests #requests are open

24 notes · View notes

gumnut-logic · 7 months

Text

John intervenes 1

This is all @flyboytracy 's fault with their magic gif making skills prompting fic ideas.

However I have to apologise in advance cos this fic comes with a tissue warning. Also, it was supposed to be Allie-focussed and it is, but big brother Scotty plays a very big part in this, and is most of the source of the need for tissues. I'm sorry, Scotty!

Many, many thanks to @katblu42 and @onereyofstarlight for the read throughs and the listening as I wibbled about the ending (I wrote more, but cut it). Also for the tissues needed.

So a heavy angst warning on this for a very upset pair of brothers.

Canon did it, not me! Honest!

-o-o-o-

It was dark and a little scary.

Alan peered out of the elevator into the hangars. The massive caves were quiet except for the distant sounds of the ocean and the wind whistling over the Island.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Dad said he wasn’t to enter the hangars alone as there were too many things that could hurt him. He was too little. One day, yes, but not until he was grown up.

He had, of course, been in here with an older brother or Dad. Brains had even let him in once when Scotty had been hurt, and had shown him what had happened and how he was going to stop it from happening again.

Alan suspected Virgil had asked the engineer to do it because Alan had been scared for his big brother. But the reasoning didn’t matter right at this moment.

What mattered was that he knew how to get aboard Thunderbird One.

An unseen breeze tickled his hair.

The residential elevator opened at the top of the stairs leading down to Thunderbird One’s launch bay. As Alan moved, the gaping cavern lit up automatically, lighting up all the machinery and the stairs he was creeping down.

He needed to do this.

His brothers weren’t so he would.

They spent more time arguing than anything else. Virgil in particular. At least Scotty said he wanted to go. Virgil wouldn’t let him.

The fights were loud.

And hurt.

Alan was sick of crying.

He needed to do something.

Thunderbird One glinted ever so silver and red in the overhead lights. She was massive.

And so…wow.

Alan’s heart thudded in his chest.

International Rescue was shut down. Had been ever since…it happened. His brothers had taken out their ‘birds. Many, many times.

But not anymore.

Alan’s hand seemed small on the pilot delivery system. Brains had hit it while talking a mile a minute, explaining that this was a maintenance delivery system and not the main one Scott used. Something about safety and his brother’s death-defying feats. In any case, the wide platform that assembled at the edge of the chasm below had all the guard rails an eleven-year-old could need.

Thank goodness. Brains had demonstrated how Scotty made it to his pilot chair and it looked terrifying.

Fun but terrifying.

He wasn’t as tall as Brains…yet…he had plans in that area, but he was able to reach the controls and direct the delivery platform over to the huge rocket.

A press of a button and her doors slid open.

Because this was maintenance, the pilot’s chair did not deploy and Alan was able to step off the platform and into One’s cockpit.

He stared at the chair for a moment. The quilted red silicone leather had dips where his big brother sat.

Alan adored Scott. He was his biggest brother and so cool. He’d been in the Air Force and now he flew the fastest plane on the planet and saved lives.

Well, he did until…

Alan blinked. This is where Scotty had been sitting.

A swallow and Alan climbed up. Scott wasn’t sitting here now. Hadn’t been for days.

So now Alan was going to sit here and take One and do what needed to be done.

He thumbed the switch that closed the cockpit doors.

“Alan?”

He jumped as Johnny flickered up blue in front of him.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going out to find Daddy.” Alan straightened in the pilot’s seat and reached for the lever to activate launch.

His older brother hovered before him with wide eyes. “Alan-“

“I’m doing this, Johnny.”

“I can’t let you, Alan.” There was no appended ‘you’re not old enough’ but it was there anyway.

“You can’t stop me!” He activated the launch procedure. He could do this. He knew enough and he was old enough.

Nothing happened.

No.

“I’m sorry, Alan.”

His brother’s voice was calm and kind but it was the trigger point, nonetheless.

“Why?!”

“Allie, -“

“No one is out looking for him! Not you, not Virgil, not even Scotty!”

“Al-“

“You’re not even down here helping!”

“Alan, we are looking!”

“Not enough! We need to do more!” He kicked his feet against the base of the chair. “Let me go!”

The pilot doors suddenly slid open. Scott was standing there, pale, hair askew, in his pyjames.

The chasm loomed below.

“No! We need to keep searching! We need to find Dad!”

Scott leapt into the cockpit, the doors sliding closed immediately behind him. “Allie!”

The Scott-the-hero warred with current Scott-the-sick standing in front of him. He was no longer recognisable. Gone was the shine of confidence, laughter, the big brother he knew and loved.

What remained was a battered mess that argued and yelled.

“I’m going out to look for Daddy.”

“No, you’re not.” Scott’s voice was parched.

“Yes, I am. Why aren’t you?”

And to his horror, there was suddenly tears in Scott’s eyes. “Because he isn’t out there, Allie.”

“He is, you said he is!” He’d heard it yelled at Virgil so many times. It had to be true.

The chair made him taller than his big brother. The partition that made up the floor Scott was standing on slid down when the rocket was in flight and became the back wall of the cabin. Alan had seen it happen when Scotty took him flying.

Old Scotty.

Not new Scotty.

His brother didn’t say anything, but a tear did run down one cheek as he climbed up the chair.

“No! We have to go out!” Alan fought off his big brother, but Scott was strong and determined.

His brother scooped him out of the chair and hugged him within an inch of his life. “I’m sorry, Allie. I’m so sorry.”

“We have to find him.” It was muffled into cotton pyjamas. Anger slipped into grief. “We have to.”

“I know.” Scott was turning, the sound of the cockpit doors opening again, the dip as his brother stepped onto the maintenance platform.

Alan was still being crushed, but found himself clinging anyway.

The cool wind of the hangars dried tears he didn’t know he was crying.

Once the platform reached the other side of the chasm, both Virgil and Grandma were there with worried words, hugs and touches.

Scott didn’t quite let him go, and it was his big brother who carried him back to his rooms and sat down with him on Alan’s bed, still holding him close.

Alan leant into his brother. “We need to find him.”

“I know.”

“We need to keep looking.”

“We-“ Scott’s voice broke. He didn’t continue.

“It’s what Daddy would do.”

Scott shook in his arms, somehow hugging him even tighter. A small, strangled sound whispered through Alan’s hair.

He tried to pull away, but Scott wouldn’t let go, holding onto Alan as if his life depended on it.

It was a long moment before his big brother spoke, his voice hoarse.

“Yes, he would, Allie. He would.”

-o-o-o-

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #alan tracy #scott tracy #nuttyfic #thunderangst #all the tears #sorry Scotty

51 notes · View notes

smol4bluengine · 4 months

Text

The Duke and Duchess of Boxford always wanted children, not because it was their duty as nobles to preserve a bloodline, but because they wanted to share their love. Unfortunately, there were complications that prevented the couple from having children naturally.

Now, with Spencer's current state the two were quick to smother the new baby human with love, once he adjusted to human life of course, they didn't want to overwhelm little Spencer.

Today, the couple were heading to Vicarstown to help celebrate the start of Pride month. The Duchess had entered the nursery they set up for Spencer and was busy trying to get him ready, though she couldn't help but get distracted with giving kisses, hugs, and even play.

Both her and the Duke were surprised by how well Spencer had been handling the new changes. The former silver engine wasn't seeming miss the rails and was more interested in learning to crawl.

Spencer was intrigued with the Duke and Duchesses world. He had never been in the summer house before and was very curious about everything.

Since Spencer was out of commission, Duck offered to take the family to the Pride event. The Great Western was coupled up to the Boxford's private coach and soon headed off.

Spencer was in absolute awe riding inside the coach. He stared in wonderment at everything. At one point he became overwhelmed and retreated into the arms of the Duchess to recover. The Duke and Duchess chuckled at this reaction, for the first time they felt like a complete family.

#thomas and friends #ttte #thomas the tank engine #ttte humanized #ttte spencer #spencer the private engine #spencer the silver engine #sodor

19 notes · View notes

justforbooks · 2 months

Text

Sir Kenneth Grange

A giant of 20th-century design whose products – from food mixers to lamps and trains – became staples of British life

Kenneth Grange, who has died aged 95, was the leading British product designer of the second half of the 20th century. Even if unaware of his name, most people in Britain are familiar with his output: the Kenwood Chef food mixer, the Kodak Instamatic camera, the Ronson Rio hairdryer, the Morphy Richards iron. These everyday objects are part of all our histories. Grange was also responsible for the restyling of the InterCity 125 high-speed train and the 1997 TX1 version of the London taxi.

He was a tall, handsome, ebullient man, a joker with that element of inner moral purpose often found in the designers of his postwar generation. He grew up imbued with a determination to make the world a better place visually, his emphasis always on functional efficiency. Grange was a master at reassessing usage, but he also viewed design in terms of sheer enjoyment. He wanted us to share in the surprising grace of the experience as the 125 train comes hurtling down the track.

When he set up his own design consultancy in 1956, Grange was one of just a handful of designers operating in the world of what were then quaintly called consumer goods. Many of his early commissions came via the Council of Industrial Design (now the Design Council), a governmental body set up with the remit of improving national design standards. Grange’s commission to design Britain’s first parking meter, the Venner, introduced in 1958, came via the council. So too did his introduction to Kenneth Wood, proprietor of the firm in Woking whose domestic products were marketed as Kenwood. Grange’s clean-lined and user-friendly Kenwood Chef food mixer became a housewives’ status symbol of its time.

Like his near contemporary Vidal Sassoon, Grange came from a non-artistic background and had a similarly innate sense of visual style. Both men were quintessentially 1960s talents, Sassoon with his geometric haircuts, Grange with a succession of urbane modern products for a new, self-consciously fashionable age. He became a prime designer for the growing market in “portable accessories”: pens for Parker, cigarette lighters for Ronson, the melamine and smoked perspex Milward Courier shaver which, in 1963, won the Duke of Edinburgh’s prize for elegant design (now known as the Prince Philip Designers prize). Did Prince Philip himself use it? Grange insisted that he did.

In 1972 Grange joined four of the rising stars of his profession – Alan Fletcher, Colin Forbes, Theo Crosby and Mervyn Kurlansky – in founding the ultra-modern design group Pentagram. This was a multidisciplinary consultancy described by Grange as “a one-stop shop” providing specialist services in graphic design and advertising, architecture and – Grange’s own area – product design.

Pentagram became the bee’s knees of design consultancies: ambitious, professional, intelligent and jaunty. It attracted loyal clients, including Reuters, for whom Grange designed the Reuters monitor, a state-of-the-art computer terminal and keyboard, superbly well engineered in heavy silver aluminium sheet.

Through the 70s Grange was occupied with the most high profile of his design commissions: the aerodynamics, interior layout and exterior shaping of the nose cone of British Rail’s High Speed Train (HST). The InterCity 125 was a key element in BR’s strategy to woo passengers away from cars and planes and back on to the trains. However the first HST prototype they came up with was, in Grange’s opinion, “a lumpish, brutish thing”.

He realised he could only improve the appearance by first tackling the aerodynamics. On his own initiative (and at his own expense) he spent a week at night working with a consultant engineer at Imperial College London, where there was a wind tunnel. In the course of these experiments they developed a number of new ideas, getting rid of the buffers, hiding the couplings in the underside of the nose cone, and giving the train a more futuristic look.

It was launched in 1976 with its radical, dynamically angled nose design. Grange was always careful to give credit to the expertise of the engineers he worked with. All the same, it was his major triumph and a lasting symbol of the best of mid-20th-century British design. The HST – still in use today on selected passenger services after almost 50 years – transformed the public experience of travelling by train.

He was born in east London, the son of Hilda (nee Long), a machinist, and Harry Grange, an East End policeman. Kenneth was brought up in what he once vividly described as “a bacon-and-eggs kind of house”, respectably furnished with a three-piece suite and flowery curtains, the dominant colour being brown. Nevertheless his parents supported his chosen career in what was then termed “commercial art”. During the second world war, the family had moved to Wembley in north London, and Kenneth won a scholarship to Willesden School of Art and Crafts where, from the age of 14, he studied drawing and lettering.

These basic skills gave him the entree to a succession of architects’ offices: Arcon; Bronek Katz and R Vaughan; Gordon and Ursula Bowyer; and, from 1952, the remarkably versatile architect and industrial designer Jack Howe – all of these were modernists and prime movers in the postwar campaign to rebuild Britain using newly available materials and techniques.

Grange took part in the 1951 Festival of Britain, working alongside Gordon and Ursula Bowyer on the Sports Pavilion for the South Bank exhibition. For so many of Grange’s generation of designers – including Sir Terence Conran and my husband, David Mellor – the festival would be a lasting inspiration. As Grange later recollected: “You couldn’t walk a step without seeing something unlikely – the cigar-shaped Skylon, the huge Dome of Discovery, extraordinary metal sculptures, waterfalls that twisted and turned. Nothing was like anything I had ever seen before.”

Where much of British design was still craft-based, dominated by ideas that went back to William Morris, Grange felt the fascination of machine production. He was excited by the sleek designs based on new technology beginning to infiltrate Britain from the US, describing the moulded plastic Eames chair for example as “a rocket ship exploding into our narrow world”. I remember being impressed on my first visit to his house in Hampstead, north London, to find him the possessor of not just one Eames lounge chair but three.

Grange’s natural resilience stood him in good stead through the 70s and 80s, those lean years for designers when British manufacturing lost its way and, as he described it, “unbridled accountancy became the new dynamic in British industry”. He was glad of foreign clients, especially enjoying working in Japan where the innate Japanese awareness of design delighted him. An especially successful commission was a sewing machine designed for the Maruzen Sewing Machine Co in Osaka, to be marketed in Europe. On trips to Japan he started what became a considerable collection of beautiful wooden geisha combs.

Pentagram itself was flourishing, moving in 1984 from Paddington to larger and more stylish premises in a renovated dairy in Notting Hill. At this period it employed more than 80 designers and assistants in different disciplines, and the communal dining room became an ever-welcoming talking shop, a gathering point for London’s design world of the time. I remember some marvellous parties at Pentagram, including the celebration of Grange’s marriage in 1984 to Apryl Swift.

For Grange himself the 1980s brought increasing public recognition. In 1983 a solo exhibition of his work was held at the Boilerhouse at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London.

At this point he was already being lauded as Britain’s most successful product designer. He was made CBE in 1984, and knighted in 2013. In 1985 he received an honorary doctorate from the Royal College of Art and in 1986 became master of the elite group of Royal Designers for Industry. Success never spoilt him. He had a streak of self-denigrating humour and retained a kind of boyish innocence, as if he could hardly believe his good luck.

The sheer challenge of the job had always been his driving force. After his retirement from Pentagram in 1997, after 25 years as a partner, he and Apryl embarked on a project of their own, converting an ancient stone-built barn in the remote countryside near Coryton in Devon into a spectacular modern home with a spiral staircase of highly ingenious modular construction. Completion took five years; Grange commuted weekly between London and Devon, travelling on his familiar High Speed Train.

In 2011 the Design Museum held a retrospective, Kenneth Grange: Making Britain Modern. He continued to design into his 80s. Late commissions included the perfect men’s shirt for the fashion designer Margaret Howell; an updated range of classic lights – the Type 3, Type 75 and, in his 90th year, the Type 80 – for Anglepoise, for whom he had been made design director in 2003; and a really comfortable collection of chairs for elderly people. General levels of design for the aged population made him angry. “Where is the decent modernist care home?” he would ask.

Typical of Grange’s zany 60s humour was his design of a man-shaped timber bookcase that converted to a coffin, the ultimate exercise in recycling. “If I ever pop my clogs, it’s books out and me in, with the lid fixed, up to the great client in the sky.”

Two earlier marriages ended in divorce. Apryl survives him.

🔔 Kenneth Henry Grange, designer, born 17 July 1929; died 21 July 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #Sir Kenneth Grange #in memoriam

9 notes · View notes

littlewestern · 7 months

Note

For Silver and Black, any headcanons about the other engines at the IRM? I wonder if Pilot, 1630, and the electroliner get along since they’re the ‘faces’ of the museum. There’s also that Q Hudson, 504, 9925 and 9976. They probably all hang out as the Q club lol. I wonder if they like the BN units?

The IRM is practically a chronic and compulsive character designer's dream. I could spend the rest of my life making little guys out of their roster and probably not ever get bored, so you can bet DJ (@greatwesternway) and I have spent the past 13 months doing exactly that lol.

1630 was absolutely one of the first ones we worked on after Pilot, given that she's so iconic and important to the IRM. Engines with stories are far and away the easiest to write for, and 1630 has a great one. Plus, she's a face as you say! I like to characterize her as a bold and confident problem solver, especially having read some of the old Rail & Wires from the time period when she was undergoing restoration. Her first trial run went so well they had her pulling trains even though she was supposed to just be fired for testing, and that to me informs so much of her personality. She was ready to work from the jump! She's obviously besties with Shay 5, being that they've worked together for so many years, and I like to think they're sort of the de facto ambassadors for the steam department with the rest of the museum.

The Electroliner, I'm a little embarrassed to say, I only got around to learning about recently even though I was struck immediately by the design. I like to picture her as a more blue-collar version of the Zephyrs, streamlined and modern but still very much of the people. I haven't explored her history that much since we haven't gotten there in the letters yet, but I'm excited to learn more! I think she and Pilot get along really well, but that's sort of a given since Pilot gets along with everybody.

Some other characters at the IRM that get some play in the discussion are The Goddesses, who all have unique personalities and have been cropping up more frequently in the letters. We've also casually written some thoughts down about the other Pullman streamlined cars (Birmingham and Loch Sloy) as well as quite a few of the diesel shunters, since they're literally always out doing stuff at the IRM, and it's easy to fall in love with the engines that are constantly out there working. Our favorite so far is the Commonwealth Edison 15 shunter because he's grey and the last time I saw it out, it was switching the aforementioned Pullman cars around and @joezworld joked that he was going, "Look! I'm a streamliner!" and that has since become basically canon.

I don't have much for the Q steam engines although they're definitely on the list. I'm very interested in the BNs 1, 2, and 3 because I think their story is going to be interesting but I also haven't put much time in on their history yet. Since the museum's roster is so extensive (especially compared to the MSI), we've just been letting the stories inspire us as we learn about them organically. DJ's been adding new entries to the timeline from the IRM's photohistory book, and that alone has sewn some ideas we're definitely going to revisit later, if not in the letters than possibly in some other stories or just for our own amusement.

These questions are *so* good by the way, I'm absolutely loving being able to answer these! Thanks so much!

#tfissab behind the scenes #commonwealth edison 15 #frisco 1630 #shay 5 #irm #the goddesses #birmingham #loch sloy #the electroliner #asks #quite-a-character #the future is still silver and black #silver pilot

20 notes · View notes

fibula-rasa · 4 months

Text

How’d They Do That?

Special Effects & Stunts of Silent Cinema - Part 2

This is the second installment (here's the first) of an open-ended series where I try to highlight and illustrate the work of special effects and stunt artists of silent filmdom. Using articles from contemporary fan and trade magazines, I’ll make gifs or dig up images and/or video clips to accompany the descriptions of how the sequences were executed.

My notations will be bracketed and highlighted in a different color. Hope you all enjoy! Fair warning: this is a long read.

Risking Life and Limb for $25

[from Photoplay, November 1927]

By Dick Hylan

True tales of “stunt” men and women. You cannot afford to miss a single paragraph of these thrilling yarns. There’s one towards the end of the story that alone is worth the price of admission. Read—and don’t jump—this story

DUST—the crash of six-shooters—the thunder of horses’ hoofs on hard ground—the roar and rumble of an onrushing train—the shrill call of man to man—and out of the dust and roar ride thirty men to board the speeding train. Jesse James and his men are on the loose and heaven help the poor working girl!

The horses are alongside the train—and the dirty deed is done. No one seemed to notice that the train was going thirty miles an hour when the men “transferred” from horse to car and engine. No one seemed to care that underfoot the ground was dangerously uneven. No one seemed to worry about the wheels rolling over the steel rails. Nasty wheels that would cut, mangle and kill anything getting under them.

And closest to these wheels, riding the brake beams under the oldest and most dilapidated coach Fred Thomson could find for his latest feature, “Jesse James,” was one man. As Thomson climbed down out of the engineer's cab he saw him.

[Jesse James (1927) is unfortunately considered lost and I was not able to dig up any stills that depict a train-specific stunt. However, here are a few promotional images of Thomson and his amazing horse, Silver King from the film.

Thomson was a stunter turned star whose popularity at the time of this article rivaled Tom Mix. Like Jesse James, the majority of Thomson’s films are now presumed lost and only one film featuring Thomson in a cowboy role is extant: Thundering Hoofs (1924).]

“Mason! What the devil are you doing under there? That's one stunt I don’t remember the script calling for. What's the idea?” He really seemed put out about it. Those brake beams were old and rusted and liable to fall apart.

“Aw, Boss. don't get sore. I didn’t have anything to do on that scene and wanted to get a good look at you crawling into that cab from your horse.”

And so I first saw “Suicide” Buddy Mason, stunt man extraordinary. Like the mail-carrier who went walking on his day off Buddy liked to be in the middle of things. Later I talked to him.

[Buddy Mason was a stunting legend working as a stunt performer/double and stunt coordinator from the 1920s into the 1970s. That’s impressive longevity for the profession!]

“Who are stunt men,” I asked him. “And have you any standard by which stunt men are judged—by other stunt men?”

“Nope. It’s just—well, when you get so they call you by your first name when you come into the hospital, then you belong.”

READ on BELOW the JUMP!

Their creed might be Nietzsche's famous line, “Be hard. Live dangerously.”

It was Winnie Brown, most famous of feminine “stunt men,” who once defended a director like this: “Can't nobody run that man down to me. He treated me whiter than any director I ever worked for. You remember the time I was doing that stuff on a trestle in one of Mix’s pictures? Say, every time I made that jump he had an ambulance waiting right there on the bank for me. That’s the kind of a guy he is.”

Photo caption: Winnie Brown — stunt woman. Some directors are so kind to her that they have ambulances waiting for her after she takes a jump

[Winnie Brown appears to be one of those unsung heroes of the stunt world. There’s very little biographical information out there about her, and none of the films I could confirm her work in (as stunt rider, stunt double, or actor) are extant or accessible for gif making. That said, I’m planning an addendum to this post with a profile of Winnie from a 1922 issue of Photoplay, so stay tuned!]

AN author will have a nightmare and wake up with it still in his mind. He'll put it in his next script and think it’s fine. And it is because when the time comes to do it the casting director for Fox or First National or M-G-M will just take down the telephone and call Al Wilson.

“Hop over to the studio, kid. You’re due to take a dive out of a flaming aeroplane with a parachute which won't open for company.”

And Al will hop—and dive—and then the nurse will say, “Hello, Al. Back again?”

The golden age of the stunt men is passing. That is why it is well to write this brief saga now. To sing a little of the song of their amazing deeds, their mad courage, and their inevitable laughter. Nor is it well to forget that some of the greatest stunt men in the world are high salaried stars, such as Tom Mix and Douglas Fairbanks.

But the progress of photography is rapidly writing the epitaph of the stunt man. The magic double exposure of the Williams process and other inventions in trick photography and development of film are fast rendering it unnecessary to subject any man to the long chances of “stunts.”

[With the privilege of hindsight, we know that optical/photographic effects did not in fact put stunt workers out of a job. Although, the technological developments that progressed out of The Williams Process have made formerly dangerous stunts much safer and impossible stunts possible. To learn more about The Williams Process, you can check out the first part of this series: How They Do It]

So, before they pass, let’s chronicle a few tales by which to remember them.

The average life of the stunt man in motion pictures is under five years. He either gets killed or he gets a little sense and quits.

When you've talked to a few of them you'll realize that they are the kind you like to have around when a fight is brewing, but that they have more nerve and less sense than any other man you've ever met. Few quit.

The greatest stunt man who ever lived—he is dead now and the manner of his death, of which I will tell you, is a typical page in stunt history—was Gene Perkins. The fraternity itself, and such directors as specialize in stunt pictures, seem to agree on that. He was twenty-four when he was killed and had been in the game a little over four years.

THE secret of Perkins’ greatness lay in his amazing ability to figure out a stunt ahead of time, calculating it perfectly according to time and distance, and in the icy clear-headedness which enabled him to carry it out to the hairline the way he had planned it. His nerves—he had none.

Clarence Brown, the director who has just finished “The Trail of ‘98” and who has put on a heap of thrilling stunts in his day, told me a lot of things about “Perk,” particularly the day he asked him if he’d jump into the top of Nevada Falls in Yosemite National Park.

Now Nevada Falls is seven hundred feet high and the water in the stream just before it pours over the cliff, from which drop no man could possibly return alive, dashes and whirls along over jagged rocks at a perilous speed.

Brown and Perkins went to the river bank and shouted at each other above the roar of the falls.

“Can you make it, Perk?” Brown asked. “I want you to jump in here,” indicating a spot some forty feet from the edge of the falls, “and go as near to the edge as you think safe.”

“Just a minute and I'll tell you,” said Perk.

He broke the branch off a tree and threw it into the water at the spot the jump was to be made. His eyes narrowed as he watched it intently.

“Sure, I can do it,”’ he said. “When I get here,” he pointed to a spot only two feet from the brink, “throw me a rope and try not to miss me. That water looks cold.”

According to Brown he did the thing with the perfection of a machine.

“I'll never forget the first time Perk ever worked for me,” Brown went on. “When I saw him I thought he was the coolest looking person I’d ever seen. His self-control was astounding. His eyes were like ice, yet they were always smiling.

When the Doctors Call You by Your First Name, You’re a Real Stunt Man

“I wanted him to jump out of a fourth story window. It was a night shot. We stalled around most of the afternoon waiting for it to get dark enough to shoot and about dusk I decided we could do it. I went looking for Perk and found him shooting craps with some of the boys. ‘All ready, Perk?’ I said. He looked at his watch. ‘Excuse me a minute while I telephone,’ he said. I heard him behind me talking over the phone to his wife. ‘I’m sorry, honey,’ he said, ‘I’m going to be a little late for supper. I got to jump out of a fourth story window and then I’ll be right along home.’”

Yet Perkins was killed doing something Clarence Brown begged him not to do, warned him against.

“He had a hankering to play around with aeroplanes and used to ask me questions about them,” said Brown, who was himself an aviator during the war. “The advice I gave him was to stay out of them and he'd stay healthy.”

In telling me of Gene Perkins’ last stunt, Brown brought out clearly that greatest of all dangers to the stunt man—the other fellow. You've probably heard a hundred people say about automobile driving, “I don’t worry about myself. It’s what the other fellow is going to do that bothers me.”

[I wasn’t able to positively identify which films the Nevada-Falls or the fourth-story-window appear in. However, I believe that the Nevada Falls shoot may have been a film Clarence Brown was an assistant director on. Every performer in this article required quite a bit of research as stunt performers were practically never credited unless they also had a role in a film.

So, what I was able to unearth as Jean/Gene Perkins filmography includes:

Around the World in 18 Days (1923, serial, presumed lost)

Stunt double for Bill Desmond

Perkins’ fatal accident occurred on this shoot in Riverside, CA (described below)

Citations: Camera, 20 December 1922; Motion Picture News, 6 January 1923; Exhibitors Herald, 13 January 1923; Screenland, April 1923; Photoplay, August 1925; Cinelandia, February 1928

The Vanishing Dagger (1920, serial, presumed lost)

Production title was “The Fallen Idol”

Perkins also served as assistant camera

Citations: The Moving Picture Weekly, 31 May 1919; Exhibitors Herald, 7 June 1919

Do or Die (1921, serial, presumed lost)

Filmed on location in Havana, Cuba

Citations: The Moving Picture Weekly, 21 May 1921 & 18 June 1921; Canadian Moving Picture Digest, 15 June 1921

The Storm (1922, extant at UCLA and EYE Filmmuseum)

Citations: Camera, 7 January 1922; Motion Picture News, 3 June 1922]

Noomis took the car up about a mile and brought it down hill so that he would crash the gate at a certain speed. Naturally, he couldn't see until he’d crashed through the gate, what was being done the other side of it. And the gate was just on the land side of the apron. When he did see it, it was too late to stop. The engineer of the ferry boat had made a mistake and was three automobile lengths away instead of one. The car and Leo shot into space, did a beautiful one and a half gainor, and came down in forty feet of black and dangerous water. Fortunately the centrifugal force of the thing threw the driver out of the car and they fished him out more dead than alive.

[Nomis is yet another legend of stunting. As mentioned above one of Nomis’ specialities was automobile stunts, but he was also one of the most skilled aviation stunt performers from the 1910s until his untimely death in the 1930s. It was in an accident during an aviation stunt for The Sky Bride (1932), due to unsafe working conditions created by the film’s director, Stephen Roberts. In a tragically ironic turn, at the time of filming Nomis was head of the newly-formed Associated Motion Picture Pilots (AMPP) union—the primary goal of which was to increase safety regulations.

Unfortunately, as Nomis’ career was so expansive and he was uncredited for most of his work, I was unable to identify which film is associated with the Fort-Lee-Ferry mishap described here.]

The same sort of a mistake on the part of the “other fellow” cost Perkins his life.

“I TOLD him,” said Clarence Brown, “to stay on the ground. Told him he was all right as long as he did his stuff alone. His sense of timing and distance was so perfect and his body control was so fine that he had a pretty good chance to pull through most of his stunts. But he didn’t listen. They never do. One day he did a stunt from a rope ladder hanging from a plane. The pilot was supposed to swoop down and let Perk drop to the top of a freight train. He swooped too low. The ladder banged Perk against the side of a freight car at seventy-five miles an hour—and Mrs. Gene Perkins was a stunt window, that’s all.”

It’s a funny thing how a man wants to see his family carry on the tradition of his work. Gene Perkins had a kid brother whom he tried to break in as a stunt man. But after a few months the kid lost his nerve and went back to—a clothing store! He’s still alive.

As a stunt man Tom Mix has no superiors and few equals. The man doesn't know the word fear, is as inventive as the devil when it comes to figuring out safe ways of doing dangerous things, and has a positive genius coupled with extraordinary physical strength, for getting himself out of tight places. The thin vein of philosophy, which is the foundation of Tom’s character, colors even his viewpoint on stunts.

“If you do it,” he said, sitting on the edge of his beautiful tiled swimming pool in the reddest bathing suit I have ever seen, “it's easy. If you don’t, it’s a mistake—and you'll either not worry about it or have plenty of time to figure out what went wrong while in the hospital.

“FUNNY thing—the hard one is always easy and the easy one hard. That sort of sounds tail first, but looking back over some fifteen years of these things I know it’s true. The reason being that you get prepared for the hard ones. You get arranged a whole lot before you do ‘em. But some fool little easy one comes along and throws you clean out of the saddle. A horse that advertises he’s bad ain't near as hard to ride as one of these meek lookin’ cayuses who on limbers himself in a onlooked for manner.

“Sure, I’ve had a few funny experiences with stunts, and one or two the lady novelists might call hair-raisin’. Had to fall offa bridge into a river in Florida once and didn’t find out until I was shakin’ hands with ’em that the darn river was more full of alligators than water.

“Another that comes to my mind had to do with an aeroplane. Say, ain’t you the feller who plays football for Stanford?”

“Check. But what about the aeroplane?”

“You know I used to play a lot of football in—— ”

“Great. Come up for our Big Game and I'll get you a ticket if you wear your purple suit. Better wear a red one and root for us. What about the aeroplane?”

“That? It was kinda funny. We were workin’ up at Mt. Whitney, which as you probably know is the highest spot on North America. Well, there’s to be a rope hangin’ down from the aeroplane and I’m supposed to climb down it and do some triflin’ service for the hero-ine, the nature of which plumb escapes me for the minute, and climb back up.

“WELL, we dope it out careful. The rope has a series of knots in it as big around as your two fists, which makes climbin’ up and down it what appears to be a comparative simple proposition. I’m to do this on one plane and the cameras are in another. We arrange a set of signals whereby I can let the other plane know if anything untoward happens, and he can signal the pilot in my plane.

“And I remarks to my pilot, ‘And if you get the signal that I can’t get back up, you head right for the ocean and drop me off.’ The ocean ain’t but about an hour or so away, so I figure we’re all set. An ocean is a darn sight softer place to land than a mountain.

“Well, I don’t have any trouble gettin’ down. But when I start up things take on a different aspect. There’s considerable wind blowin’ up there, what with the speed we’re makin’ and the natural velocity in those parts. I get hold of the knot up higher and start to pull myself up and, by gosh, the wind just blows the rope out behind me like a tail and I haven’t got any knot to set down on like I figured.

“I stewed around quite a spell, tryin’ it out several times, but every time the wind coppers my bet. Oh yes, I’m forgettin’ to mention that I’ve got a loop at the end of the rope which I put my leg through, so I can set there pretty comfortable while we’re travellin’. But once I’d started up and the trouble began, I discover my arms are gettin’ pretty tired. So I finally figure out that the only thing is to pull myself up with one hand quick and reach under quicker with the other and hold that consarned rope down so I can set on it. I tried it and it worked. And that was all there was to that. I got up all right.

[Tom Mix was one of the biggest western stars of the era and, as he was a star as well as a stunter, his career is much better documented than others profiled in this article. However, a significant portion of Mix’s career was spent at Fox, so due to the Fox Vault Fire of 1937, most of his nearly 300-films are now presumed lost.

While I couldn’t track down the films he described above, Mix performed similar stunts in Sky High (1922):

In the wide shots, the leg loops on the rope that Mix described are visible.]

“ANOTHER time, somebody—may be it was me—gets the bright idea of havin’ me grab a rope ladder hangin’ down from the plane when I’m on horseback.. Don’t sound very dangerous, but the first time we try it out, it just naturally scares the poor hoss to death and he mighty near gets himself and me both beheaded.

“So we decide to hang a big cable between two cliffs—one of ’em about 500 feet high and the other about 300—and put the plane on the cable with pulleys. That does away with the noise of the engines and I think I can manage the hoss all right then. We allow enough sag, according to our mathematics, to get the plane just close enough to the ground for me to grab onto the ladder.

“Well, when I see the thing comin’ I figure out that maybe it’d be a good idea to get my leg through the first rung of that there ladder, so that when I arrive on the other side I'll be in a position to start grabbin’ something to hold onto.

“So when I make the jump, I do it that away. Which, as it turns out, is mighty close to a fatal and certainly a right uncomfortable error. Either our calculation is off about forty degrees or that cable develops more sag, because we're a heap closer to the ground than we expected to be. I can’t get my leg out and the darn thing just drags me right along the ground for quite a spell, before they can stop it.

“OF course it wasn't exactly dangerous, but it sure burned me plenty. That ground was so hot when I finally got up it had burned off everything but my boots, including considerable hide.”

[When I first read through this article, I thought that the set-up for this stunt would be distinctive enough for me to identify the film—but no! While I’m not the biggest Mix fan, the stunts in his extant films are always ambitious!]

He gave me one of his friendly irresistible grins.

“Had a funny one happen once with a train. It was up at Colorado Springs. The stunt was like this. I’m on top of the train when it comes to a low tunnel. You can see for yourself that’s no nice place to be. So just as it goes roarin’ in, I’m to grab the tell tales hangin’ outside and swing myself up a little and hold on. We had it fixed so that the engineer would just go inside the tunnel and then back right out and I could drop down again.

“It comes off accordin’ to schedule up to the time I grab the tell tales and start hangin’ on and the train goes into the tunnel. I’m fairly peaceful in my mind, bein’ as I expect him right back. But the engineer had ideas of his own, I guess. He stopped on the other side of the tunnel to fill up his pipe and give his engine a nice drink of water and wind his watch, and all the time I’m hangin’ on to that damn tell tale, thirty feet above a lot of railroad ties and little sharp rocks and steel tracks. Naturally I’m not hankerin’ a whole lot to fall onto that kind of a bed.

“IF I’d known he wasn’t comin’ back, I could have swung myself up onto a rope we had stretched across, but I'm a confidin’ son-of-a-gun and by the time I realize this engineerin’ gent is operatin’ on his own, my arms are too tired to make the pull. And just about that time I hear the train start back, my arms is beginnin’ to give out and it dawns on me that I’m goin’ to hit the middle of that track just about ten seconds previous to a large amount of train.

“Well, there wasn’t nothin’ for it but to jump then, so l’d have time to get out of the way, and I did. I reckon I must have missed that train all of six inches. And my legs was black and blue to the knees for weeks and I got a lot of blood vessels down there that haven’t resumed friendly relations with the rest of my carcass since.”

[Obviously the stunt gone wrong did not appear in The Great K & A Train Robbery (1926), but the shot of Mix running off the top of a moving train and grabbing the tell tales is very impressive and is followed by a cut to him climbing down.]

For thrills, no picture in years has caused so much comment as Paramount's great aviation spectacle, “Wings.”

And a lot of that stunt stuff was done by regulation United States Army air pilots. They did things any stunt man would be proud to call his own and merely remarked in passing that it was “all in the day’s work.”

The particular officer who qualified for admission to the inner circle was one Lieutenant Rod Rodgers. This young gentleman went up in an army plane filled with the sort of explosives which produce an effect of a plane bursting into flames. In his mouth he carried a quantity of the kind of stuff actors use to make it look like they’re bleeding to death. The idea was that when he got up to 6000 feet he was to turn on a mechanical camera which operated itself and which was located just in front of the pilot in the cockpit. He would then pretend to be hit by a bullet, allow the blood to gush from his mouth, let go the stick, and kick the plane into a tail spin with his foot. While the mechanical camera ground on and on, he would come down out of control.

The shot recorded by the camera is one that is picking audiences out of their seats and according to aviators is about the toughest stunt on record—to sit limp and useless while your plane tail spins toward the earth, knowing that at the last moment you must right it or see “Finis” written across your record.

IT isn’t in the picture, by the way, but the studio has the film and a few people have seen it—the moment when Lieutenant Rogers peeped over the side and saw that he was only 500 feet above ground. He came out of his trance, grabbed the stick and pulled it back against his waist and made one remark, which subtitle registered on the screen in amazing fashion and can be compared to those seen—not written—in “What Price Glory” and “The Big Parade.”

It was on “Wings” also that Dick Grace, for several years a famous air stunt man, had his neck broken. He wore during these “crash” sequences, a wide leather belt, reaching from the place where he sat down right up under his arms. Then he was encircled by a series of very strong steel springs, so that it was hoped when he crashed he would be protected.

Photo caption: Immediately after the crash in “Wings,” Dick Grace (center) was photographed with his aeroplane. Later, it was discovered that his neck was broken!

HE wasn't. In one shot, where he had to turn a plane completely over on its back, and land, the stunt apparently came off fine. Grace climbed out of the wreckage, had his picture taken, and only then collapsed. It was discovered at the hospital that his neck was broken.

But what's a little thing like a broken neck to a stunt man? He started right on over to Honolulu, with his neck still done up in all sorts of steel braces, to try and hop across the Pacific from Honolulu to San Francisco in advance of the Dole flyers. He crashed trying to get off the island, but he is still flying, and back in Hollywood ready for more work.

They’ve got some funny expressions in this stunt game. One of them that stopped me was when Buddy Mason first pulled the expression “yucca-nutty.” He remarked that a certain stunt man was yucca-nutty and I had to holler for help.

[Like Mason, Dick Grace was a prolific legend of stunting who survived his career. Pretty impressive considering Grace was an aerial specialist. Grace was a founding member of the AMPP and served as president in the 1930s.]

“Well, it’s like this,” Buddy said kindly. ‘‘All this furniture you see busted over guy’s heads in pictures is made of yucca, which is the lightest wood in the world. You know—yucca is a plant that grows in the California hills. Of course it don’t amount to much, but if you get beaned with enough yucca chairs, in time it begins to make a few dents in what you like to call your brain and then you get yucca-nutty. That's the explanation for a lot of things that happen in Hollywood.”

Another expression which Buddy applies to his pals in the great industry of stunting is “crash-goofy busters.” Which is self-explanatory and descriptive.

[I feel like I haven’t been living my life to the fullest because I have no reason to incorporate the phrases “yucca nutty” and “crash-goofy busters” into my regular vocabulary.]

Photo caption: Greta Garbo and Jack Gilbert after a smash-up in “Love.” Jack uses no doubles for this dangerous work

I asked Buddy what was the worst stunt he’d ever done and after some meditating he unbosomed himself about as follows:

“The amateur gets hurt the most, of course. A boob thinks it’s all easy, and that there’s no technic to the game. Thinks that nerve is required and that’s all and that it’s an easy way to make money. We've got a pretty good scale of prices now—a certain stunt is worth so much, some other one is worth so much more. If an outsider comes in and works for less, he gets told where to head in at. We haven’t the slightest objection to new men coming in. But it isn’t fair to cut prices.

“WELL, the worst smash I ever had was in one of the old serials. I was supposed to drive a motorcycle through the guardrail of a bridge and land on top of a freight train passing under the bridge. They had part of the roof of one of the freight cars cut out and covered with thin laths and cardboard. In the car, beneath the opening made in the roof, were mattresses for me to land on. Everything went fine except the engineer got the speed bug and went faster than he was supposed to and I didn’t quite hit the hole. I landed half in it and about half on the good strong roof of the car and drove the handlebars of the motorcycle up through my ribs. I bounced into the car after that, but I missed the mattresses. All I got was a broken shoulder, five broken ribs, and a dislocated hip. And they say football is a rough game.”

[What an awful accident! There isn’t enough context here for me to identify the serial, but if any of you remember seeing an outrageous stunt like this please shout it out!]

Buddy told me another one about a pal of his, named Bobby Dunn, who was working on a Keystone comedy. They wanted Bobby to dive out of an eighth story window of a fashionable apartment house on Wilshire boulevard. He was to land in a mortar box. The only difference between that particular mortar box and the common one seen in front of buildings when the walls are being plastered was that this one held milky water and was four feet deep instead of one foot. It had been sunk three feet deep into the lawn so that it looked like the regular ones.

BOBBY took one look at the layout and said it couldn’t be done. The box was too close to the wall of the building. From such a height it would be practically impossible to land that close. Somebody took him around to the back of the building and talked persuasively to him. During the course of the conversation several drinks changed hands—from the persuader to Bobby. Finally, Bobby went back and took another look. This time it didn’t look nearly so dangerous. Again they repaired to the back yard and discussed the matter over a bit of liquid refreshment. When they returned this time, Bobby said it was one of the simplest things he’d ever been asked to do and he could do it any time they were ready.

He did. The tank being so shallow, Bobby had to cut his dive very flat. He did that, too, cutting it so flat that he skipped right out of the tank and landed out in the middle of the street on his face. If you have ever thrown flat stones on a lake, you know how Bobby Dunn skipped out of that mortar-box diving tank.

[At the time of writing, I haven’t identified the film featuring this stunt, but since I’m a pretty avid silent comedy fan, I’ll update the post if/when I come across it!]

Which reminds me of one Anita Loos told. She always has a pet story based on fact for every imaginable situation. I had asked her what she knew about stunt men. She laughed. How that little brunette can say gentlemen prefer blondes I don’t know.

[Content warning for this section: Loos’ story here is a racist characterization of Native American actor and stunt performer Eagle Eye. Eagle Eye, while not as fete-d as his white colleagues, had an impressive resume and his career is slightly better documented since he was also an actor. His specialty as a stunter was big falls. Eagle Eye reportedly made a 200-foot drop for the film The Fatal Black Bean (1915, presumed lost).

Photo of Eagle Eye (right) with Wallace Reid and Loretta Blake in At Dawn (1914) from Reel Life, 5 December 1914

If you want to skip the racist bit, the gifs of the falling stunts from Intolerance will be at the end of the anecdote.]

“YOU probably remember the battle scenes in ‘Intolerance’,” she said. “Well, during that sequence somebody had to take a particularly hard back dive off one of the high battlements. Of course nets were spread to catch the diver, but who knows much about nets? They have been known to give way or to be some place else when most needed. The stunt man who was to do the trick was an Indian named Eagle Eye. Eagle Eye was a good stunt man, but he had to be full of firewater before he could perform. A minister had been after him for six months to give up drinking, and after a long life and with 364 other days in the year, Eagle Eye had to choose the day before this big stunt to get religion and sign the pledge. The pledge meant no firewater and no firewater meant no stunt.

“D. W. Griffith, who was directing, ran around wild-eyed to find another stunt man. He couldn’t find anybody who would tackle it, so he finally went to the minister and prevailed on him to get a special dispensation from Mencken or somebody so that Eagle Eye could imbibe just once more for the good of his art and do the stunt. And he did.”

MOST of Doug Fairbanks’ great stunts are simply feats of athletic prowess. There is no great element of danger in them. They take infinite skill, training, practice, but they either can be done or they can’t. They are what I should call legitimate stunts and require the skill of a great athlete and not the peculiar angle of the stunt man.

I caught him between a couple of them. He had just finished leaping from his horse which was going at full speed. And he came right back to ride into a mob of milling, long-horned cattle where a slip of the horse’s foot would have meant as nasty a death as anyone could conceive. But you didn’t feel any sense of danger in them at the moment because of the perfection of Doug’s work.

I stopped him just long enough between the two to ask one question.

“What's the most difficult thing you’ve ever done before a camera?” said I.

“Make love,” said Doug, and went on with his horses and cattle.

Up until recently Fred Thomson, whose fame and popularity as a western star are growing by leaps and bounds, did all his dangerous work. Fred, as you doubtless remember, was champion all-round athlete of the world several years and he figures he has a better chance than a less trained man. Regardless of Fred’s feelings in the matter, Paramount officials have recently forced him to use a double for the more dangerous stunts in order to protect the large amount of money invested in the picture. (I can’t help wondering what they call dangerous—those train wheels looked very mean to me.)

Thomson keeps this stunt man on a regular salary, whether he works or not. The reason Fred gives is that said stunt man will do anything at all times and the kid would go out between the Thomson pictures and get all busted up.

Photo captions: Above: Ralph Forbes about to be crowned with a Yucca chair. Below: Harry Carey plays a human torch. Both in “The Trail of ‘98”

One of the most dangerous stunts ever attempted was in “The Trail of ‘98” and was pulled by Harry Carey. After they had saturated Carey’s clothes with kerosene, the hero—Ralph Forbes—smashed a lighted kerosene lamp over his head. This immediately turned him into a living torch. He had to dash across the room, onto a balcony, and leap ten feet onto the floor of the dance hall below. You can see quite plainly in the picture that Carey did this thing himself. They had every foot of the route he had to cover manned with fire extinguishers and if the fire burned through his heavy underwear he was to holler and they would instantly put the fire out—if it didn’t put Carey out first.

[I don’t know if it’s true that Carey did these stunts himself but I’m amazed they let a movie star perform all that!]

AN odd commentary on the perverse nature of all things is the death of three men on his big Alaskan story. It was reported that they were killed in a stunt. As a matter of fact they were killed repairing a safety device.

A big cable had been extended across the river and these four men went out in a boat to repair the tell tales which were to furnish protection for the actors who had to come down the river in light boats. The man up on the cable fell when it broke under him, hit the side of the boat and tipped it over. Three of the men could swim and the fourth couldn’t. He hung onto the boat and was saved while the others tried to swim ashore and were drowned.

Joe Bonomo is a well known stunt man who broke into pictures with a heart-breaking experience. Joe was a circus man for years, an acrobat and diver and horseman. He heard a lot about the big money his brothers of the celluloid were making so he decided to have a crack at it himself.

He answered an advertisement, which is one of the first things young girls are warned against in a big city. The producer he encountered was Jewish and belonged on Poverty Row though this was in New York.

“It’s all very well, Mr. Bonomo,” he said, “you should sit there and say you are a stunt man. How should I know? If you are a stunt man, for me you should do some stunts.”

SO Joe, who is a trusting soul, complied. He went out and jumped off a skyscraper, dived off liners, changed wings on an aeroplane and did various other things on which he prided himself. All the time the camera was grinding. But Joe didn't think anything of that.

The producer told him he’d done very well and he would let him know later if he wanted him. He took Joe’s telephone number. And that was the last he heard of it until he saw himself and all his stunts in a two-reeler in a Broadway house.

He is still trying to collect.

[Joe Bonomo was a strongman turned stunt performer, who also acted. His film career petered out slowly after the advent of sound. Bonomo moved on to become a fitness instructor, publishing multiple books on the topic. At the time of this article, he likely would have been working as a stunt performer on The Trail of ‘98, discussed above.

Joe holding Louise Lorraine aloft in The Great Circus Mystery (1925, serial, presumed lost)]

Janet Ford, Universal’s stunt woman, has the same philosophy as Mix. She says, “Stunts? If you do them they are easy. I’ve been lucky so far and always done mine so I think they are easy. The only time I’ve ever been hurt was once down in San Diego. I had to swim about two hundred yards and then do a drowning act right under the camera. Guess I was too realistic about it because it scared an old man who was on the pier at the time. He thought I was going down, so jumped in after me and grabbed me around the middle to save me. For sixty-five years old that baby was strong, because in addition to crabbing the scene, he broke four ribs for me.

“YES, I like the game. We are hitting the high spots of life all the time. That is, nothing we do is commonplace, it is always at top speed. And I’ve noticed that it’s generally the cocksure amateur who gets panicky and takes a smash up. That’s especially so among the women ‘stunters.’”

[Janet Ford’s filmography is tough to pin down not just for the same reasons as other stunters, but because there was a contemporary actress with the same name. Ford performed stunts for over a decade starting in 1920, with a specialty in aquatic stunts. There isn’t enough context here for me to identify the film from this anecdote, but I do know that she doubled for Virginia Valli in The Storm (1922, extant at UCLA and EYE Filmmuseum) and for Virginia Brown Faire in Shadows of the North (1923, presumed lost) citation: Picture-Play Magazine, March 1925

Photo of Lord from Picture-Play Magazine, March 1925]

Yes, some of them talked sane enough—for a time. But talk to them long enough and you find that a wheel is missing somewhere.

That they do not look upon life as do the rest of us.

They seem to be divided into three classes: 1. Those in the game for the money; 2. Those who see in this a chance to “break into the movies”; and 3. Just the plain nut who does it.

And some of the tales you hear of them are pathetic. At least they would be if they weren’t comic.

Here’s just two short ones for a final fade out.

A stunt flyer was sent for not long ago and asked to take a bad crash for one of the larger studios. He was to nose dive into the ground from 4,000 feet. He said:

“Sure, I’ll do it—for three thousand dollars. It’s a hospital job and I have to take care of my wife while I'm laid up.”

They paid him the money, he gave it to his wife, took the crash, and went to the hospital for six months. When he got out his wife had run away with another stunt man and the three thousand!

Freddie “Speed” Osbourne raced a motorcycle off a cliff for a news reel. A parachute—but let J. B. Scott the camera man who took the pictures of the stunt tell it.

He saw it.

“OSBOURNE was to race his motorcycle up to the edge of the cliff and then he and the whole works were to go over the edge. He had a parachute attached to his back and was to open it when about thirty feet from the take-off. This would give it time to open and let him down safely.

“About the time ‘Speed’ should have pulled the parachute the motorcycle developed carburetor trouble. Instead of pulling the ’chute, the nut reached down and primed the carburetor.

“By the time he straightened up he was out in the air. He crashed and busted himself all up. I was the first one to him and his shin bones were sticking straight out through his boots. All he said was, ‘Cut those damn boots off, will you, Scotty?’

“He’s still in the hospital and spends his time figuring out how he can make that jump in a Ford coupe!”

[British Pathe’s youtube has the clip of Osbourne performing the stunt. It almost seems impossible he survived this!

youtube

The incident happened on 24 November 1926 and Osbourne had just finished filming airplane stunts for a film. Unfortunately his stunt career isn’t well documented, but Osborne/Osbourne was an aviation stunt specialist as well as a motorcycle stunter.]

I was properly impressed and still inquisitive.

“Scotty, you’ve talked to this bird a lot. Can you tell me for what under the sun he does things like that?”

“Sure,” said Scott. “For twenty-five dollars.”

19 notes · View notes