Follow Your Passion: A Seamless Tumblr Journey
OH I LOVE THIS - Blog Posts
Idk why i decided to make this.
AU where A-Qing lives and she be around the same age as the juniors and they be scamming people together
Audio is from Avatar: The Last Airbender
Where have you buried all the children?
wing!famiglia, 2k, GP POV. some things are different- but some things stay the same. (hi! I describe the accident in more vivid detail than I do in the original famiglia, because I'm writing from GP's POV.)
The rain is slamming down in harsh sheets, pasting Gianpiero's feathers down, and his heart is pounding as they pull over to the side of the road, sprinting towards the crash site.
There's cars strewn across the road, twisted metal scattered around them. His hands are shaking, trying to figure out where he needs to go first. There's so many, too many to handle at once, he needs to-
There's a rasping cry from a van, warbling and distressed. It's rolled over, resting on its a side, a mangled mess. Gianpiero runs over, cupping his hands around his eyes to try and see better in the dark, slamming to his knees to try and look inside.
There's bloody feathers coating the car, dark brown and maroon, and Gianpiero feels bile rise in his throat at the twisted bones rising from the man in front of him, shattered and pinched at unnatural angles.
There's a deep gash in his forehead, blood dripping from his mouth and nose, and his eyes are unfocused, one pupil larger than the other. He makes another desperate rasping noise.
His arms are curled around something, cradled tight to his chest, and Gianpiero's heart flips into an ugly pretzel when he hears a soft chirp.
"I'm here, I'm- I'm going to get you both out of here-"
The man lets out another wheezing cry, wet coughs rattling his chest, blood coating his teeth.
"My son..."
Gianpiero can't save him. He's not sure anyone could, but-
There's a fledgling in there.
He shuffles forward on his knees, reaching in through the shattered windshield, and the man drops his arms, head falling to the side with another wheeze.
There's a boy, one wing tucked tight around him, the other resting unnaturally to the side.
The man's fingers land in the boy's hair, weakly ruffling through it, but his eyes drag to meet Gianpiero's, piercing even in their final moments.
"My champion,"
He hacks again, and the fledgling flinches, curling tighter in on himself.
"My Max."
Gianpiero is going to be sick, can't bring himself to meet the eyes of a dying man as he carefully gathers the boy in his arms.
Max.
The fledgling cries out, hands darting forward to tangle in Gianpiero's shirt, and then he's latching to his chest, desperately chirping, pleading for reassurance.
He still has soft hatchling feathers, smeared red, and Gianpiero supports him with one hand, the other coming up to curl gently behind his head as he coos softly, backing away from the car.
His wings are heavy and waterlogged, but he strains his back lifting them anyways, wrapping around the fledgling to shut out the rain.
He doesn't look at the dying man again.
------
The fledgling's name is Max. He's 14, a falcon subspecies, and he's probably never going to fly.
His right wing is shattered, needs hours of corrective surgery that Gianpiero doesn't think twice about telling them to move forward on.
His blood type is A-, he's small for his age, and he's-
"...most likely imprinted on you, Mr. Lambiase. Fledglings at that stage, after a traumatic event, are going to look to the nearest adult to take care of them, and there is a very good chance he's picked you."
Gianpiero blinks at the social worker. First responders wear masks and helmets to avoid accidental imprinting, but Gianpiero hadn't-
He hadn't thought about it. Hadn't allowed himself to consider the idea that there was a fledgling- barely a fledgling, still with fuzzy little hatchling feathers- in that wreckage.
"I, uh,"
He pulls his wings tighter against his back. The warm blankets have helped to dry them back off, but he tries his best to be spatially aware of his surrounds- having a heron wingspan isn't always a helpful thing.
"I need to call my boss."
------
Max is 16, speaks softly, and doesn't fly. He's had more operations than Gianpiero likes to think about, but he won't even try, refuses to even visit common lift off areas.
Gianpiero wouldn't dream of pushing him- they utilize non-flight spaces as much as possible, and they live on a lower level accommodation, which was both cheaper and easier to access than where Gianpiero had been before.
Most people don't like being so close to the ground. GP doesn't mind- his subspecies means he likes to use his legs, and Max needs the accessibility.
He still works out his back and shoulders. Gianpiero has quietly wondered about it before, why Max chooses to train his flight muscles with no intention to ever use them, but he's never asked.
It's Max's business.
------
Max is 19, leaving Gianpiero's nest for his own place not too far away. There's a light brace fitted around his right wing, overlapping carbon fiber and intricate pulley systems to allow full supported range of motion.
He still doesn't fly.
He'll go up higher into buildings with Gianpiero now- they can frequently utilize skyways and platform spaces up in the sky, as long as Max doesn't get too close to the edge.
He's still Gianpiero's tiny little fledgling, and he still fits perfectly under his wings.
"Dad, you are a heron, I'm always going to fit under your wings."
"Exactly."
------
Max is dating a dove. A high profile, flirty, racing driver dove.
Gianpiero has never approved of anyone less in his life. He'd been a fan of the songbird from uni, now that had been a nice boy.
Apparently, Max and the dove- Charles- have history. Gianpiero doesn't care for him at all, and certainly not for the way he leaves feathers everywhere, bright white against the couch cushions.
------
Charles isn't terrible. He's grown on Gianpiero like a leech, and he's preformed the miracle of at least getting Max within a few meters of a lift-off range before he'd backed out.
It's more progress than anyone else has been able to make.
They've been dating for a few years now, growing into their twenties. Gianpiero sometimes looks at Max and sees a small bloody fledgling, has to bundle him in his arms and wings until tears no longer burn hot on his lash line.
Max tolerates it.
------
They're at a FIA event, all dressed up for hours of self-absorbed speech giving, something Gianpiero has learned to tune out while still looking like he's listening.
Max had taken a few years to catch on, but he's getting better at it, although he still looks annoyed if a camera ever lands on him.
They're mingling up on the aerial platform, and there's drinks flowing, which is a safety violation that's not usually an issue- but the F3 drivers are here tonight, so everyone is being responsible.
They're supposed to be, anyways.
Gianpiero has spotted more than a few young drivers with drinks they shouldn't have, and he's trying to keep an eye out, but there's so many of them- they're playing some ridiculous game of catch, small wings flapping around as they trip over their own feet.
Hugh pulls him into a conversation with a Ferrari engineer, and his attentions drifts.
It's fine.
It's fine until it's not, fine until there's a terrified screech, fine until he snaps his head around just in time to watch a fledgling fall over the edge, time slowing down.
The F3 drivers should be able to fly and glide short distances. They can't pull a recovery dive, not at this hight, not inebriated. Snapping out their wings- it would tear their muscles, snap their joints.
They need- Gianpiero unfreezes the same time as everyone else, darting to the edge- it's been three seconds, four seconds, they need an eagle or a vulture, six seconds, seven seconds, they need-
They need speed, need someone who can make up those seconds, they need-
A flurry of brown and blonde darts past him, arcs gracefully over the edge before wings tuck in, and the towers emergency lights flash on.
There's a small blur dropping fast.
Max is moving faster.
Gianpiero feels like he's going to throw up when the blurs collide, heart in his throat when Max doesn't immediately flare-
He's still diving, but he's extending his wings slowly, twisting into a arching upward curve, bringing himself to a speed manageable by species other than falcons, and he's curving back towards the tower.
Someone has corralled the other fledglings, and they're trying to clear a space for Max to land- a landing that will undoubtedly be messy, because he's never done it before.
Max finally flares closer to the tower, wings snapping out fully behind him, fledgling clutched tightly in his arms as he lands in a staggered run, crumpling to his knees on impact.
Gianpiero is at his side in an instant, hit with a wave of complicated emotions-
Max has his wings curled tightly around the F3 driver, cooing gently.
Gianpiero had done that once.
Someone has gotten the medical team, and they're making their way onto the upper deck as Max uncurls his wings- it doesn't escape Gianpiero's notice that his right side moves stiff and slow.
There's a flash of vibrant white in the corner of his eye, and then Charles is crouching next to them as well, cooing softly to coax the fledgling out of Max's arms.
It's careful work to disentangle them, but the fledgling finally works with them, moving over with the medical team.
Gianpiero wraps his arms around Max gingerly, wings curling over them both, giving Max the privacy to drop his head onto his shoulder.
"Max,"
Max makes a soft noise, and something hot and wet drops onto Gianpiero's skin.
"Hurts, dad."
"We'll fix it."
He'd worried, as soon as he'd seen Max flare his wings- he has anchors and stabilizers in the muscle and bone, but the speed of the dive, the force of the flare-
There's a chance the muscle is shredded.
Max buries his head further into Gianpiero's shoulder.
"It felt so nice, for a second."
Gianpiero tightens his wings, nudging the sides of their heads together.
"I'm sorry, Max."
Sorry that none of them had gotten off the platform sooner, sorry that Max had put the pieces together faster than the rest of them, done the math in his head, sorry that all the surgeries in the world will never fully repair his wing, sorry that he'll never experience flying the way he should-
He's sorry for all of it. If he could cut off his own wings, give his boy a chance, he would. He'd do it in a heartbeat.
He squeezes the back of Max's neck gently.
Max sniffs, sitting back up as Gianpiero slowly lowers his wings.
"Is Kimi okay?"
The F3 driver is tiny- Gianpiero had heard gossip about one of the junior drivers being a pygmy owl, and it must be this one- but he's standing on his own two feet, dutifully listening to the medical team.
"It looks like it."
Max's shoulders slump in relief, but his right wing stays hitched up behind him, trembling in place.
Gianpiero opens his mouth to say something about it, but a brilliant white wing extends underneath the curve of Max's sharply angled one, offering a rest.
He shares an appreciative glance with Charles, unspoken that in this they're on the same team.
They always are, when it comes to keeping Max safe.
Max laughs softly, looking at GP.
"Maybe if that German hospital had a songbird you could've not ended up baby trapped by imprinting."
Gianpiero narrows his eyes, feathers bristling.
"Don't say that. I could never regret you, Max. I wouldn't have wanted someone to pull you away- imprinting goes both ways."
Hadn't that been a surprise, the first time someone had offered to watch Max while Gianpiero went to a meeting and he'd puffed up, wings spread wide threateningly.
The first few years had been a learning process for them both.
He leans forward, knocking their heads together briefly.
He's so proud of his boy, all grown up and out of the nest, and he hasn't quite processed yet that Max had flown.
"But maybe no more jumping off buildings? I'm getting too old for you to be doing that to my heart."
Max grins weakly at him.
"I think the fledgling rescue thing just runs in the family."
It's not the worst family trait Gianpiero can think of.
"Maybe it does."
Leaked footage from Museum Arc Novelization
mabel helping martin out with his workplace romance
One of my submission for Float : Mob Psycho 100 Fanbook! I had so much fun drawing this piece. Shout out and a big thank you to @bigumbrella for the opportunity!!
Go and get the book here :^D
“Keep up, sweetheart. At the rate you fly on that old thing you’ll never catch the snitch.”
@hdcandyheartsfest Day 1: “sweetheart”
WE ARE BLOWN AWAY BY THE RESPONSE TO THIS SHOW! WE CAN’T BELIEVE THAT YOU HELPED US SMASH OUR FIRST GOAL IN UNDER FIVE HOURS!
BETWEEN THE TEXTS I’M GETTING AND THE LOVE FROM LONDON AND THE RATE AT WHICH PEOPLE ARE BACKING I CAN’T KEEP UP!
AT THE TIME OF WRITING THIS WE HAVE RAISED 283.5K IN UNDER 7 HOURS! WE CAN’T WAIT TO MAKE THIS THE MOST EXCITING AND MONUMENTAL PRODUCTION OF THE GUY WHO DIDN’T LIKE MUSICALS WE POSSIBLY CAN!!
PLEASE KEEP SHARING AND VISITING OUR KICKSTARTER PAGE! WE ALSO HAVE EXCITING LIVESTREAMS PLANNED EVERY SATURDAY FOR THE NEXT MONTH ON OUR YOUTUBE!
Theory: Chamber and Neon’s “Misunderstanding”
Another theory: Chamber and Neon’s misunderstanding is pretty personal *wink wink*
Sorry this feels so shallow but my guess is she thought he was going for the more-than-friends route, but it was all part of his schemes.
Neon has some major electrical powers plus involvement with Kingdom/radiants because of the parents’ work (looking at her dossier), so she likely was of some value to Chamber’s plans
I’d be hella broken too as a 19 (18?)-year-old if some charming guy was pouring attention and talking to me the way he does only to find out I’m being used for some selfish business-y goal. That is–if it is true that Neon was 19 when she got into the VP.
Chamber describing her to Reyna as an “impressionable young mind”. This himbo knew what he was doing.
From a fellow Asian girl, yeeeee the parents often want us to be pretty sheltered lmao I wouldn’t know better than to stay away from this dude
Also saw this Tumblr post somewhere saying Neon’s family would probably tease her whenever Chamber drops by AND I BELIEVE IT’S CANON
“OI TALA YUNG BOYFRIEND MO ANDITO” and all that stuff. I’d be annoyed into believing maybe there is a shot if she were me HAHAHA
Chamber’s voicemail to Brim: “Appeal to her sense of service, she gets that from her family.”
EXCUSE ME MONSIEUR—how do you know she gets it from her family?? That’s pretty personal. And the way he says it in the voicemail, idk if I’m digging into it too much but omg (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KhMd7i2Zu8k)
Not Chamber being scared to fetch her in Manila lolololol
No Chamber-Neon voice interactions (except for that line where she tells him to leave her out of his schemes)? Not even during the whole strike team with Fade thing? Damn, y’all rly ain’t on speaking terms?
Cuz yeah I don’t think she wants any of Chamber’s BS after all that
Neon when killing an enemy Chamber: “Bye Monsieur!” —You can’t tell me that doesn’t have “boy, bye” energy
[PHOTO NOT MINE] Not me fangirling either aaaa who made this??? But lol if I were Chamber and I saw a girl with mad powers looking like Neon in the photo like sheeshhhhh, I’d be smooth talking too (Who’s the artist? Pls tell me if you know so I can credit)
neon: no more being the bigger person i will be biting people who disagrees with me from now on
God is something passed on by word of mouth, like fire from wick to wood. If I wasn’t given Him, would I find Him in a lightning strike? A stray spark, struck by steel? Would I overhear the word for Him in a conversation between the wind and the woods? Or the sparrow and the sun? A word is shared and a spark grows - what lies at the root of it? Silence, heavy loam, the thing shared by everything before we share it.
To the Curiosity Rover
We named you after that which is best and brightest within us, that turns stars to constellations, planets into neighbors, and noise into song, but they tell me you can't sing this year. Creating vibrations using your sample-analysis unit costs power, and your nuclear battery can't run forever. For entropy, for the finitude of the universe, and the death of all things, I am sorry. But I wanted to tell you the party's still on, the next planet over, and for making that distance seem just a little shorter, we have you to thank. We haven't forgotten you. We still write poems and make memes in your name. If the aliens find you, and they wonder how or why we sent you on this journey, they need only read your name.
---
I wrote this four years ago, after reading somewhere that the Curiosity Rover once sang Happy Birthday to itself to celebrate the anniversary of its Mars landing, but to conserve battery, it never did it again.
I felt such immense grief for a robot I've never met and for once my tears transmuted perfectly into nice words. I'm still happy with this, even if I'm not really a poet.
Happy Birthday, Curiosity.
Whiteman’s lounging with a whisky, looking comfortably casual in a pair of chinos and a t-shirt—blazer combination. He might be taken for any young, up-and-coming London professional out for a drink to celebrate the long weekend. Hillinghead, by contrast, looks like he should be at a wedding- the man’s in a three piece suit and the most complexly knotted tie she’s ever seen. Still, Shahara’s hardly going to judge him for feeling more comfortable completely covered up and the man is (she still can’t really wrap her head around this) a Victorian. He’s got a pint of beer in front of him, though it doesn’t look like he’s touched it.
She takes the first of the two empty seats at their table, her coke sloshing over the side of the glass as she sits, and remarks: “You two found your way around alright then?”
Whiteman sniffs sharply and half shrugs. “Fine. Nice to see the place not bombed to bits and rationing over.”
“It’s so- loud,” Hillinghead murmurs. “And crowded, and it smells-”
“It’s always smelled,” Whiteman interjects. “What, was it all roses in your time? I don’t believe that.”
“No,” Hillinghead stresses. “But it is- more.” he rubs the bridge of his nose. “Have you heard from-” He freezes, staring at something just over Whiteman’s shoulder. Shahara can read a shift in to flight-or-fight posture easily and from the way he’s suddenly more alert, Whiteman’s clocked that something’s got Hilinghead spooked as well.
“Problem?” he asks quietly, in his clipped, cockney accent; a half-strangled vowel slips from Hillinghead’s throat and Shahara turns to see what he’s looking at. There’s two men enjoying what’s clearly a date, holding hands and locking lips. Shahara sighs internally, bracing herself for a slew of Victorian attitudes- “Yeah,” she says, a little sarcastically- Hillinghead’s knuckles have gone white, he’s clenching his fist so hard. The gold of his wedding band stands stark against it. “That’s allowed, nowadays- we don’t care.”
“Hm?” Whiteman glances around- there’s a moment where Shahara thinks she’s gonna have to deal with 1940s attitudes as well, but Whiteman turns back, uninterested. “Fair enough.” he starts patting himself down, like he’s looking for something in his pockets.
“They can-” Hillinghead murmurs. “I could…” He swipes for the beer and downs a quarter of the pint in one. Now Whiteman looks interested, he pauses his search, leans right forward and says, smirking, “Detective Inspector Hillinghead. Do you have a fancy man?”
Hillinghead sputters and brings down the glass. “Are you twelve?” he demands, something of the outraged parent seeping into his tone as– he’s blushing, Shahara realises. He’s actually blushing.
“Are you-?” She asks, leaning forward, and she knows it’s rude and none of her business, but still. “Are you gay?” The wedding ring. “Bi?”she suggests, as a follow up, and then: “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“I- what? I-” he looks back at the couple, then grabs his beer again. “I have- I have a- I have Henry,” he downs more of the beer. “It-it would be nice, to- to not…” he trails off, his eyes drifting away from both of them.
“See, I’ve always been a bachelor- a bachelor bachelor, not a confirmed bachelor, myself, but I - fuck, I left my cigars and my lighter in the other jacket-”
“Language,” Hilinghead reprimands at the same time as Shahara says: “You can’t smoke in here anyway.”
Whiteman drops his elbow to the table and points at her. “You what?”
“No smoking in public places, it’s banned.”
Whiteman flops back in his seat and grabs for his whisky. “The future is bollocks.” he drains the glass and slams it down. “Good whisky though. So. While we wait for Maplewood to join us….Hillinghead can kiss blokes, and I can’t smoke in a pub. What else should we know about this 2023, then…?”
Uta no Prince Sama: Maji Love 1000% Anime Illustration Works Art books scans!
Masato trying to blow up a water ring (in color)
