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abellinthecupboard · 1 year

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How to Go to Dinner with a Brother on Drugs

If he's wearing knives for eyes, if he's dressed for a Day of the Dead parade— three-piece skeleton suit, cummerbund of ribs— his pelvic girdle will look like a Halloween mask. The bones, he'll complain, make him itch. Each ulna a tingle. His mandible might tickle. If he cannot stop scratching, suggest that he change, but not because he itches—do it for the scratching, do it for the bones. Okay, okay, he'll give in, I'll change. He'll go back upstairs, and as he climbs away, his back will be something else—one shoulder blade a failed wing, the other a silver shovel. He hasn't eaten in years. He will never change. Be some kind of happy he didn't appear dressed as a greed god—headdress of green quetzal feathers, jaguar loincloth littered with bite-shaped rosettes— because tonight you are not in the mood to have your heart ripped out. It gets old, having your heart ripped out, being opened up that way. Your brother will come back down again, this time dressed as a Judas effigy. I know, I know, he'll joke. It's not Easter. So what? Be straight with him. Tell him the truth. Tell him, Judas had a rope around his neck. When he asks if an old lamp cord will do, just shrug. He'll go back upstairs, and you will be there, close enough to the door to leave, but you won't. You will wait, unsure of what you are waiting for. Wait for him in the living room of your parents' home-turned-misery-museum. Visit the perpetual exhibits: Someone Is Tapping My Phone, Como Deshacer a Tus Padres, Jesus Told Me To, and Mon Frère— ten, twenty, forty dismantled phones dissected on the dining table: glinting snarls of copper, sheets of numbered buttons, small magnets, jagged, ruptured shafts of lithium batteries, empty 2-literes of Diet Coke with dirty tubing snaking from the necks, shells pof Ataris, radios, television sets, and the Electrolux, all cracked up like dark nuts, innards heaped across the floor. And your pick for Best of Show: Why Dad Can't Find the Lightbulbs— a hundred glowing bells of gutted lightbulbs, each rocking in a semicircle on the counter beneath Mom's hanging philodendron. Your parents' home will look like an al-Qaeda yard sale. It will look like a bomb factory, which might give you hope, if there were such a thing. You are not so lucky— there is no fuse here for you to find. Not long ago, your brother lived with you. You called it, One last shot, a three-quarter-court heave, a buzzer-beater to win something of him back. But who were you kidding? You took him in with no grand dreams of salvation, but only to ease the guilt of never having tried. He spent his nights in your bathroom with a turquoise BernzOmatic handheld propane torch, a Merlin mixing magic, then shape-shifting into lions, and tigers, and bears, Oh fuck, pacing your balcony like Borges' blue tiger, fighting the cavalry in the moon, conquering night with his blue flame, and plotting to steal your truck keys, hidden under your pillow. Finally, you found the nerve to ask him to leave, so he took his propane torch and left you with his meth pipe ringing in the dryer. Now, he's fresh-released from Rancho Cucamonga— having traveled the Mojave Trail in chains— living with your parents, and you have come to take him to dinner—because he is your brother, because you heard he was cleaning up, because dinner is a thing with a clear beginning and end, a measured amount of time, a ritual everyone knows, even your brother. Sit down. Eat. Get up. Go home. Holler upstairs to your brother to hurry. He won't come right away. Remember how long it took the Minotaur to escape the labyrinth. Your father will be in the living room, too, sitting in a rocking chair in the dark, wearing his luchador mask—he is El Santo. His face is pale. His face is bone-white. His eyes are hollow teardrops. His mouth a dark, O— He is still surprised by what his life has become. Don't dare think about unmasking your father. His mask is the only fight he has left. He is bankrupt of planchas and topes. He has no more huracanranas to give. Leave him to imagine himself jumping over the top rope, out of the ring, running off, his silver-masked head cutting the night like a butcher knife. When your brother finally appears, the lamp cord knotted at his neck should do the trick, so leave to the restaurant. It will be hard to look at him in the truck, dressed as a Judas effigy. Don't forget, a single match could devour him like a neon tooth, canopying him in a bright tent of pain— press the truck's lighter into the socket. Meth—his singing sirens, his jealous jinn conjuring up sandstorms within him, his Harpy harem—has sucked the beauty from his face. He is a Cheshire cat, a gang of grins. His new face all jaw, all smile and bite. Look at your brother—he is Borges' bestiary. He is a zoo of imaginary beings. Your brother's jaw is a third passenger in the truck— it flexes in the wind coming in through the window, resetting and rehinging, opening and closing against its will. It will occur to you your brother is a beat-down, dubbed Bruce Lee— his words do not match his mouth, which is moving faster and faster. You have the fastest brother alive. Your brother's lips are ruined. There is a sore in the right corner of his mouth. My teeth hurt, he says. He will ask to go to the IHS dentist. At a stoplight, you are forced to look into his mouth—it is Švankmajer's rabbit hole— you have been lost in it for the last ten years. Pull into the restaurant parking lot. Your brother will refuse to wear his shoes. Judas was barefoot, he will tell you. Judas wore sandals, you answer. No, Jesus wore sandals, he'll argue. Maybe one day you will laugh at this— arguing with a meth head dressed like a Judas effigy about Jesus' sandals. Your brother will still itch when you are seated at your table. He will rake his fork against his skin. Look closer—his skin is a desert. Half a red racer is writhing along his forearm. A migration of tarantulas moves like a shadow over his sunken cheeks. Every time the waitress walks by, he licks his lips at her. He tells you, then her, that he can taste her. Hope she ignores him. Pretend not to hear what he says. Also ignore the cock crowing inside him. But if he notices you noticing, Don't worry, he'll assure you, The dogs will get it. Which Dogs? You have to ask. Then he'll point out the window at two dugs humping in the empty lot across the way. Go ahead. Tell him. Those are not dogs, you'll say. Those are chupacabras. Chupacabras are not real, he'll tell you, brothers are. And he'll be right. The reflection in your empty plate will speak, Your brother is on drugs again. You are at a dinner neither of you can eat. Consider your brother: he is dressed as a Judas effigy. When the waitress takes your order, your brother will ask for a beer. You will pour your thirty pieces of silver onto the table and ask, What can I get for this?

— Natalie Diaz, When My Brother Was an Aztec (2012)

#When My Brother Was an Aztec #Natalie Diaz #How to Go to Dinner with a Brother on Drugs #poetry #poem #poet

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sandiegoproperty · 1 year

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Maximize the Chances of Homes for Sale

How would you get top money if you have a house or houses for sale? There are several tips, techniques, and best practises to bear in mind to make sure you succeed in maximising earnings.

Take Personal Effects

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Make Your Bathrooms Shiny

Before you welcome a possible buyer, clean your bathrooms. Buyers pay close attention to restrooms, so you should do the same throughout home preparation. Make sure the restrooms are spotless and smell wonderful.

Think About Your Curb Appeal

By arranging your landscaping, you may ensure that you can really get someone into your Solana Beach Real Estate to witness all of the effort you've done cleaning toilets and tuning light fixtures. Check to see if your lawn has been recently cut. Arrange potted plants along your home's façade. Consider repairing faded sections of your home's exterior. These upkeep efforts are going to go long way.

When you approach bills like such a stove top, your new house ideas may be put on the backburner. Late payments, particularly on credit cards, are among the most destructive behaviours for your credit rating and, as a result, your potential to buy Scripps Ranch Homes For Sale. But don't worry, they're likewise one of the simplest to fix.

Simply put, you must pay your payments on time, every time, in order to protect your credit score & your accessibility to 92131 Homes For Sale. Agents will inform you that being one day late can lower your score, thus plan ahead.

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let-me-love-you-loki · 3 years

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In A Day or Two--Ch. 35

Chapter 35

“Shaye, come in here,” my father said, standing at the door of his study. He was in his shirtsleeves, his tie loose around his neck.

I looked up from the sofa in the formal sitting room. Since that night with Kenny, I’d taken to using the formal room just to spite my mother. Damon and I played card games on the Persian rug, milkshakes and coffees sitting next to us. We ate greasy burgers and fries over the six hundred dollar polished coffee table. My mother hated it. She fumed every time she saw us, but my father just laughed and joined us most nights when he was home.

“Sit down,” he said as he shut the door to the study. It wasn’t often that I ended up in the study. “We need to talk.”

“What about?” I queried, plopping into one of the plush leather armchairs in front of his heavy mahogany desk. “Am I in trouble?”

He grinned. The father I remembered from my childhood hadn’t been one who smiled often. He was the hard-ass absentee father who spent more time in his company office than he did at home with us. Jeremy Pitzer lived up to the pure reputation of a New York City banking mogul, right down to the delinquent son in a military boarding school.

“No, you’re not in trouble. I wanted to talk to you about your trip to Japan.” My father stripped off his tie and rolled his sleeves to his elbows. “Did you like it? Other than meeting Kenny. Obviously.”

I laughed and tucked my knees up against my chest. “Obviously,” I replied. “He made it better, of course… showed me around the city. Made me feel more at home. But yes… I liked it. I liked practically everything about it.”

“Good. Would you want to go back?”

“To visit? If I didn’t have to work… if I had the time…” I looked away, thinking of Kenny and his two toned curls. “I’d love to be able to go back.”

My father’s head cocked to the side. “Just to visit?”

I felt my brow crinkle in confusion. “I don��t think I get what you mean, Daddy.”

He let his head fall forward for a split second. “You haven’t called me that since you were little, Shaye.” A smile spread over his face. “It makes me second guess what I’m about to ask you.”

***

The phone rang. And rang. And rang. I’d accounted for the time difference between New York and Los Angeles. Or, at least, I thought I had. I did the math again and made sure I’d checked for the time for the end of their show. When Kenny didn’t answer after the third time I tried to call, I could feel worry starting to burn in my chest.

I scrolled through my phone, looking for the number I wanted. The person on the other end picked up after two rings. “Hey, Shaye,” Nick Jackson said playfully. “To what do I owe the honor?

For some reason, the sound of his voice loosened some of the anxiety. “Uh… is the show over?”

“Yeah?” he replied, curiosity in his voice. “It ended half an hour ago. I’m on the road back to Rancho now.”

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry! That drive’s like an hour, right?” I huffed. “Eyes on the road, Jackson.”

“Don’t worry, Shaye. I’ve got one of those Bluetooth things. Completely hands free.” I could practically hear the smile in his voice. “Totally safe. Besides, it’ll help keep me awake.”

“Matt’s not with you?”

“No.” He answered quickly. “His girlfriend came down for the show—they rode back together.”

I curled up against the headboard, a pillow in my lap. “You don’t sound too happy about that.”

“Nah, I’m just used to putting miles on my Nissan with my brother. Feels weird without him.” Nick sighed. I heard horns and the annoying click of a blinker. I knew New York traffic. I couldn’t even imagine what LA traffic was like.

“How was the show?” Moment by moment the anxiety in my chest worked free.

He laughed, and I could see his bright blue eyes and his grin. I remembered how kind he was to me. “Don’t you know that’s the worst thing to ask a professional wrestler? It was a banger. We tore the house down, Shaye. It was one of the best matches we’ve ever had.”

I found myself laughing too, asking question after question about the show and the match. Before I knew it, I looked at the clock and it was almost four in the morning. One o’clock in LA. “Nick, are you home yet?”

“I’ve been home for an hour, Shaye.”

“Oh my God, go to sleep! Go!”

Nick chuckled, even as he tried to hide a massive yawn. “I will. I just have to get off the phone with you. You know, you never told me why you called.”

Guilt slipped into me as I thought back a few hours. “Crap. I’m a horrible person, Nick. I tried calling Kenny but he didn’t answer. I actually called you to see if you were with him.”

“He left before I did. I don’t know which hotel he’s at. I offered to let him crash at my place, but he said he already paid for it.”

My heart slipped sideways just a little. Kenny wasn’t answering his phone. He wasn’t staying with Nick. Part of me wanted to be sick. And part of me couldn’t figure out why. “Thanks, Nick,” I said quietly… almost dejectedly. “Go get some sleep, okay? I’m sorry I’ve kept you up so long.”

Once again, I could see his smile in my mind. “It’s fine, Shaye. We don’t get to talk enough anyway. And I’ll get on Kenny as soon as I talk to him.”

“Thanks,” I replied. “Night, Nick.”

“Good night, Shaye.”

***

The next morning, my head throbbed as I dragged myself down the hallway to the kitchen. My father was at the coffee maker, pouring his steel cup full. He looked up at me when I came around the corner. “You look rough.”

I rolled my eyes and yanked a cup from the cabinet. “Late night. Life of a long distance relationship halfway across the world.”

“How is Kenny?” my father mixed creamer and sugar into his coffee before screwing the lid on top.

“I don’t know,” I replied as I lifted the pot and poured a straight black cup. I didn’t even bother to let it cool off before I took a drink. It was strong and bitter. Enough to wake my sleep-deprived brain. “He didn’t answer his phone. I was talking to Nick.”

My father nodded in a way that made it clear that he thought that was odd. He didn’t say much, but I could tell that he didn’t know what to think about that. He leaned against the counter and took a long drink of his coffee.

“So, did you think anything about my offer?”

I scrubbed my hand over my forehead. “It’s only been twelve hours, Daddy. Can I at least have a day or two to decide?”

“Don’t take too long. I can’t hold the position too long.”

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#in a day or two #kenny omega #kenny omega fanfiction #aew #aew fanfiction #multi-chapter #ofc #oc #japanese #travel #strangers to friends to lovers #japan #romance #kenny omega x shaye walker #kenny x shaye

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narcosmx · 4 years

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Could I make a Pacho request? Please :) Could you do a H/C about travelling to Mexico with him as an associate for work? Somewhat protective of you? Dancing? Drinks? Thanks xxx love your writing 😊

a/n: i’m usually not too good at writing like ‘you as an associate’ stuff bc it’s hard for myself to put myself in a boss bitch mindset when i am just a humble school teacher anyWAYS hope i did well pls love me regardless 🥺

traveling with pacho sounds like an absolute dream h o l y shit i cannot because like traveling but make it fucking high end fashion

being his associate, with pacho in the cali cartel

i can see it as like you were kinda a pety drug dealer in the beginning, nothing too big but gilberto always saw potential in you

like you did this as a teenager and that’s kinda when the cartel brought you under their wing and kinda raised you to be this effective drug dealer

gilberto always always says that you have something none of them have, a pretty face to hide behind, an innocent face to hide behind and most importantly the mind to make it happens

anyways being a younger member, you soon become close to pacho and i just cartel best friends 🥺

and wherever pacho goes, you have to go too; ya’ll are a fucking package deal at this point

gilberto sees it as like okay pacho’s the one to come in bring the hammer down in negotiations but you’re actually the one doing the work to bring the people to the table; charming them, taking down their guards :)))

so when you catch wind that pacho is going down to mexico for some shit with miguel, you’re instantly packing your bags

pacho would tease you being like “this isn’t a big deal, you know, you could just stay home” and the little smirk he gets telling you

you rolling your eyes at him and being like “pero luego, quien te va cuidar, hm pachito”

probably like “hm me encuentro alguien por ahi”

immediately gets a pillow to the head

god the private jet that you both take to mexico can you imagine how fucking beautiful that plane is

honestly the whole plane ride is like you guys drinking like mimosa with expensive ass champagne

try to throw pop corn into each other’s mouth and other stupid shit

discussing shit about mexico; kinda going over the game plan but like i see these plane rides are ones where you and pancho discuss things big picture like what you guys think miguel is really up to... trying to keep three steps ahead of him

plans to fuck up miguel angel mixed with you guys telling each other about your sexual conquests i am done

getting to mexico and going to the most beautiful fucking hotel IF THAT BECAUSE PANCHO ISN’T ABOVE HAVING A RANCHO OR LIKE MANSION DOWN THERE

wow getting ready with pacho is my favorite image wow i just want to be best friends with pacho

walking around each other half naked, him trying on shirts and waiting for you to approve of one

him being like “yeah that looks great on you but just know you’ll be responsible for me shooting everyone who stares at you for more than 5 seconds” and protective pacho mode being activated means you’ve got the perfect outfit

ALRIGHT so i’m imagining this at miguel angel’s birthday party and the fucking scene you two cause when you walk in

not everyone knows who you are but the amount of confidence and the way other people who do know who you are are reacting people take fucking notice

walking in beside pacho, looking all the plaza leaders up and down the same fucking way you know they’re looking at you

when you guys stop pretty much in the middle of it all, pacho is wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you closer and kissing the top of your head but smirking and whispering for you to cool it before you have them on their knees for you

yall waiting for miguel to come over because you sure as hell not going over to him

him greating pacho normally, you know hand shake and all that

probably kisses your hand though when he greets you and pulls you in for a kiss on the cheek because miguel already knows how this works, you’re the one worth buttering up

miguel being quick to like take you guys to talk business but in this situation i see pacho wanting to make miguel sweat it out a little bit more

he can see how nervous and uneasy he is so he’s just going to flex a little bit more by being like “apenas llegamos, miguelito, dejanos a disfrutar de su fiesta”

before miguel angel can even answer, pacho is pulling you away from him with a devilish smirk almost as big a yours

navegante chuckling as he walks behind you guys

you two finding a place to sit, looking like you fucking own the place as you know everyone else is whispering amongst themselves

probably, as always, trying to figure out if you two are together or not

half of miguel’s guys are somewhere in the process of eye fucking you, like amado’s eyes havENT LEFT YOU SINCE YOU WALKED IN he’s staring at you and hitting miguel’s arm and being like “y esa reshulada quien es?”

the lower level guys trying to make it not too obvious that they’re drooling over you

ramon out here about to risk it all after he saw your ass in that outfit

sinaloa being like she’s the only thing that could outsage the fucking tiger

you but are acutely aware of it but as you deal with it by winking at them playfully just to see the way they nearly cum in their pants, pacho isn’t necessarily too happy about it

he’s contorting his face into annoyance, like gritting his teeth, holding on to the glass a little too hard, pursing his lips as he’s calling everyone an hijo de puta under his breath

gets fucking FED UP and shoots out of his chair and is telling you that you two are going to go dance now which is code for my protective ass can’t handle everyone looking at you

putting out his hand for you and you take it without hesitation, more than ready to tease him to all hell and back about being so jealous

on the dance floor, pacho is immediately pulling you to his chest wrapping his arm tightly around you as you start dancing

and you’ve danced together so much it’s like you don’t even have to think about it, the music and your body take over

like you’re movements are flawless together, you know each other like the back of your respective hands

using this time for you to tease him about being so jealous and protective, that you can protect yourself

and he gets to whisper about how he couldn’t handle watching the fantasy of you literally developng in their mind as you sat there and they’re lucky he didn’t have navegante kill every single person

pacho deciding he’s had his fun making miguel shit bricks and as he goes to go tell miguel, i swear to god amado and ramon are ready to swoop in expecting you to be left waiting for pacho to come back as they talk business

you murmuring to navegante asking if he’s noticed the guys staring her down and he chuckles and nods and raises his eyebrow like asking if he needs to take care of it

and you just shaking your head as you wave to them as miguel angel comes over to get you and lead you to the meeting room

#Anonymous #narcos imagine #narcos imagines #narcos #pacho herrera #pacho herrera x reader

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

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for monster march, ghost + indruck + nsfw?

Here you go! I borrowed some ideas we’ve tossed around on the Discord

A sketchbook, new pens, a Hershey bar, and a bag of jumbo marshmallows. A small but lively fire. And a new, huge, fuzzy sleeping bag waiting for him in the tent.

Not a bad camping set up for a city-boy art goth (as Barclay likes to call him).

Indrid sticks another marshmallow on the fork, roasting it until it’s deep brown, the smell of burning sugar curling through the air and settling in his hair. He’s never liked Graham Crackers, so he jams a square of chocolate into the molten center of the marshmallow and shoves the entire thing into his mouth.

Kepler is small. Barclay hadn’t been kidding about that. He’d also been right that one of the two tattoo shops in town was willing to hire Indrid after looking through photos of his work and confirming he completed his apprenticeship.

He’s been living in the Eastwoods campground in the Monongahela National Forest while he apartment hunts, and the tattoos he’s done so far netted him enough cash to buy his luxurious new sleeping bag. He might be waiting on a place for some time, so he may as well camp in style.

Three “s’mores” later, the moon is up and the night is chilly enough that he wants his sweatshirt. Ducking into the tent, he can’t find it on his pillow, where he swears he left it this morning. Maybe he accidentally buried it getting dressed.

A splashhiss interrupts his rummaging. Scrambling from the tent, he discovers his fire is now a pile of soaked ashes and logs being angrily stirred by a thick piece of kindling.

“Excuse me, but what the fuck?”

A man in a ranger uniform appears, the stick falling through his hand as he gives Indrid a disapproving stare.

“Look here, I know you’re new here, maybe to campin entirely. But you can’t just leave a fire burnin when you go to bed.” He doesn’t sound mad, more like he’s a disappointed big brother scolding his sibling.

“I wasn’t-”

“And all this” he gestures to the food on the table, “has gotta go in the bear box. Black bears are real good foragers and we don’t want ‘em comin’ into camp and gettin to comfy around humans.”

“Of course, but-”

“You didn’t take any food into the tent, right? Wouldn’t want somethin to decide to join you ‘cause it smelled a snack.”

Indrid pinches the bridge of his nose, “I am aware of all of these rules, and plan to follow them. Once I actually go to bed instead of ducking into the tent for my sweater. But since my evening appears to be over…” he grabs the marshmallows, roasting fork, and chocolate, carries them to the bear box, and slams it closed.

When he whirls back around, the ghost is still there, chagrined.

“Uh, sorry. I kinda jumpy about people leavin fires alone.” In the lantern light, his smile is as charming as his drawl. His stocky, bearish shape and unassumingly handsome face command Indrid’s focus, which is why his revelation comes so quickly.

“You...there’s a statue of you at the visitor center. Which makes you, ah, damn it what was the name-”

“Duck. Duck Newton. They put my legal name on there, even though Juno tried to stop ‘em. But my name’s Duck.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Duck. I’m Indrid.”

“Nice to meet you too. Uh, sorry for ruinin your campfire, looks like you were havin a nice time.”

“It’s alright. I suppose I’m grateful there’s someone haunting the campsites to keep them in order.”

“You’re takin me bein’ a ghost surprisingly well.”

“I’ve always been interested in strange things, to the point that I earned the nickname ‘mothman’ in high school.”

“Huh” Duck watches him a moment, then shrugs, “well, guess I better be goin’. Have a nice night, mothman.”

With that, he’s gone.

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

“Hello again.” Indrid says as the campfire smoke curls around a human form, “Doing your rounds?”

“More or less. I like my job, and ain’t about to give it up just because I beefed it and turned into a ghost.” A creak as Duck joins him on the picnic bench. When he materializes, he floats slightly above the worn wood, watching Indrid draw.

“That’s incredible, it’s so realistic it’s like you pressed the leaves into the pages instead of colored them.”

“Thank you.” adds depth to the leaf, “you know, I looked at the statue again today. It hardly does you justice.”

From this close, he can see a blush spread up semi-opaque cheeks. Then he starts fading.

“Oh, ah, I’m sorry. I was aiming for a benign compliment, not to make you uncomfortable.”

“S’alright, just surprised me. Not many folks wanna flirt with a dead guy.”

“I’m more interested in what the ‘dead guy’ wants.” Indrid smiles, hoping to convey he would submit to spectral touches as readily as he’d keep talking.

Duck floats closer, “Kinda curious about your other drawin’s.”

Indrid turns the sketchbook back to the beginning, “they’re half portfolio and half travelogue. Here” he holds up a fade, detached piece of paper, covered by an Morpho Butterfly that looks ready to fly away, “this is the first tattoo I ever designed.”

“Damn. Guessin’ that means you did this one” he touches the Rosy Maple Moth on Indrid’s forearm (or tries to). It’s chilly, but not in the way Indrid feared. More like taking a cool shower on a sweltering day.

“I did. Here, it gave me an idea for my first series of flash tattoos…”

They go over the illustrations page by page. Slowly, Indrid weaves in questions to Duck who, instead of recoiling from discussion of his mortal life, tells him rambling stories about the woods and which places serve the best food in town.

The conversation doesn’t end until the fire goes out on it’s own, Duck standing automatically, grabbing a water bottle, swearing, and then disappearing so he can pick the bottle up.

“Do you think that’s part of why you’re still here? Some unfinished business having to do with the woods?”

“Nah.” The water bottle thunks back on the table as Duck reappears, “I tried to live a normal life, improve the world the way I knew how, make some kind of difference to this town. Then I had to go play the goddamn hero.”

“I would say saving two dozen people from a forest fire makes a considerable difference in the world.”

A sad huff of a laugh, “Yeah, guess you’re right. Just...I meant to do somethin’ with my life, not my death, even if it was a small somethin’, and the closest thing I got to unfinished business is a model ship.”

“I...what?”

“It was four-masted and everything! I had Leo order it in special and everything and then I never, I never got to-” He tilts his head up, sniffs once, “never mind. I better let you get to sleep.”

By the time Indrid calls “goodnight,” the ghost is gone.

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

“Please tell me you’re gettin a place soon so you stop eatin everythin outta a can?” Leo bags the last of groceries.

“No such luck. Ah well, there are worse things than canned soup and Pop-Tarts.”

“At least let Barclay feed you, half the point of havin a friend who can cook is to let ‘em do it for you. You need stamps or anything?”

“N-” A box behind the counter catches his eye. It’s at an odd angle, as if whoever put it there is hoping no one will see it. Indrid can just make out an illustration of a four-masted ship.

“Is that for sale?”

Leo looks where he’s pointing, and for a moment something in his gruff affability wavers. Then he nods, “Yeah, suppose it is.”

“Can you ring it up for me?” Indrid nearly bounces on his toes when Leo sets the box on the counter and confirms his hunch.

The older man sets a gentle hand on the cardboard, sliding it across to Indrid, “Don’t worry about that, kid. It’s yours.”

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

“Duck?” Indrid turns in a circle by the picnic table, “Duck, I have something for you!”

He saw the ranger briefly last night, but he didn’t hang around. Gingerly, he sets the box on the table, tearing off a piece of sketch paper to write a note in case the ghost stops by while he’s asleep.

“Holy fuck.” Duck floats across the table from him, “‘Drid, where did, how did--why?”

“Leo still had it. As for why I, ah, it seemed like you still wanted it. If you can douse a fire and over my camp stove, I figure you can build a model ship.”

Duck disappears and Indrid’s heart sinks; that must have been too much. Then he’s squished in an invisible, wonderful bear hug.

“Thanks, ‘Drid.”

From then on, Duck spends every night at his campsite, building the ship while Indrid draws, reads, or talks with him. The model lives in the safest corner of the tent during the day.

“I mean, I’m up durin the day too, but I scared a few folks on accident and I don’t want people avoid the forest because of me.”

Indrid also learns that Duck is stuck within a certain radius of where he died, and that his attempts to talk with Juno when she was in his part of the woods only lead to his friend thinking she was hallucinating and Duck feeling miserable for three solid days. Indrid offers to act as messenger and invite Duck’s friends (many of whom have, by chance and by proximity to Barclay, become his friends) to the campsite to see him. The ranger is quiet for some time after that offer.

“Not yet. Maybe someday, but not yet. I, it ain’t even been a year, ‘Drid. I think a lot of ‘em are still hurtin. And, and maybe this is selfish but...I ain’t ready to deal with them findin’ out I aint fully gone. It’d be so much all at once.”

Indrid doesn’t bring it up again. More than once, when Aubrey tells a story about Duck only for her eyes to sadden halfway through, or when he sees Juno looking at Duck’s statue a little too long, he struggles to keep his promise.

A cold front blows into town and, since he’s still in the tent, he pops into Kepler Thrift N Find in search of an extra sweatshirt. Tucked in between one reading “Ranchos” and one with a picture of Garfield is a soft, well-loved hoodie with “Monongahela National Forest” on the front. He buys it and wears it home, the fact it’s loose in the arms making it even easier to tuck in his hands when he gets cold.

He stops by the visitor center out of habit, checking out the new plush wild animals. There are also hints of Duck here and there; his name on displays, his face in group photos. As he contemplates a small, squishy black bear, he notices Juno looking at him more than usual.

“Hello again” he sets the bear on the counter.

“Howdy. This all?

“Yes, please. Are you alright? You look, ah, tired.”

“Yep. Or, uh, just noticed that sweatshirt. It was one that got made special for staff a few years ago.”

Indrid fidgets with the cat-bitten drawstring, “It was Duck’s, wasn’t it?”

“Uh huh. He put that patch on the sleeve. Guess it startled me to see it on someone else.”

“I understand.”

“Knew him since we were kids. Hell, he’s my daughter’s godfather. Still don’t feel right, bein’ here without him.”

Indrid pushes the bear towards her and she pets it.

“What was he like?”

In the empty visitor center, Juno tells him. In her stories are echos of every conversation he’s ever had with anyone who knew Duck. When it’s time to close up, she asks if she can hug him, and thanks him for listening to her.

“Guess you weren’t kiddin about wanting to sleep with a bear” Duck teases as Indrid sets his new purchase inside the tent. Indrid whaps at him, arm going through his torso. The ranger floats nearby as Indrid heats up ravioli and opens a can of Mountain Dew. Indrid tells him about the conversation with Juno.

“Huh, guess that is my old one. Glad someone is gettin some use outta it. And it looks good on you.”

Indrid sets down his bowl, “We talked a lot, Duck. And it made me think about what you said to me one of the night after we met. You said you wanted a chance to make the world, the town, a little better. Everyone I’ve talked to, and I mean every one, has a story about you. How you helped them, how Kepler is worse off with you gone. You did so much, even with your time cut short. I, I wanted you to know that.”

The ghost looks away, “I wasn’t done tryin to help.”

“You still aren’t. You do what you can to keep the forest and the visitors safe. And you, you’ve made my life immeasurably better Duck. Seeing you is the best part of my day and I think I’m falling--ah, that is, you’re not done making a difference.”

Duck hasn’t moved since Indrid started talking about his feelings. When Indrid tries to meet his eyes, he disappears. Hurried, he reaches out to offer a reassuring touch and gets only air.

“Duck?”

Nothing, even after he calls his name three more times.

He slumps onto the bench, “well, fuck me I guess.”

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

This is a terrible idea. But it’s his last, and therefore his best.

Indrid even asked Barclay’s boyfriend, Joseph, if anything in his impressive library of the paranormal advised the reader on dealing with upset ghosts. A few did, always from the perspective of trying to get the specter to go away. They said nothing about what to do if your upset ghost was missing, leaving an ache in your heart you didn’t know you were capable of feeling.

Instead, after a week of silence, Indrid changes tactics: if he can’t coax Duck back, maybe he can annoy him into appearing.

Tonight, he finishes dinner and cleans his dishes, puts the bulk of the food in the bear box, and then tears open a bag of chips, scattering them across the table. He eats one, then leaves the open bag laying amongst the potato shards.

Next, he dumps his remaining water on the fire, which takes it down to embers but does not extinguish it. When none of that gets a reaction, he decides to narrate.

“Hmm, that should be fine, it’s not that dry and I don’t think sparks can go over the edge.”

“Should I leave these juice pouches out? Yes, I think I should, in case I get thirsty at night. Maybe I’ll take one into the tent, just to be safe.”

He already feels silly and like no one is listening, and so he escalates.

“I know I shouldn’t leave food out for the wildlife, but since there’s no handsome, ghostly ranger here to punish me for my transgressions, I am just going to leave some nuts out for the raccoons. I like raccoons. They deserve nice things. Hell, how about I just leave them a whole buffet since no one is stopping me!”

All he gets in reply are the few bugs awake this early in the spring and the crack of brush as a small mammal runs away from the weird bipedal thing yelling at his camp fire. He doesn’t leave out food for the raccoons; he climbs into his tent in a huff. What a bad idea, to think this of all things would bring Duck back to him. He’s being childish and bratty and selfish; Duck doesn’t deserve that, no more than he owes Indrid his company.

He changes into his pajamas pants and sleep shirt, intending to go back out to make the site safe and tidy. Except.

Except something just opened the bear box. The chip bag crinkles and the fire hisses out a minute later. He should be running outside to apologize, but his mind has simultaneously registered the full darkness of the night , the possibility that Duck is not the only paranormal thing in these woods, and the fact the nearest other campers are on the other side of the campground, meaning he is very, very alone.

The zipper on the tent moves, the flap falling open so his lantern shines on nothing but April air.

“Duck? Please say that’s you.”

A low chuckle, “It’s me, ‘Drid.” The fly zips shut, “mighty peeved about that trick you pulled.”

“I’m, I’m sorry. I missed you, but that was a bad way to communicate that.” He can’t see him, and the lantern only picks up the odd shift of sleeping bag or tent floor, so Indrid’s eyes’ dart about trying to pinpoint him.

“Oh, you communicated plenty, sugar. Like what you want a certain, uh, ghostly ranger to do to you.”

“Oh god” he winces, “please, forget I said that, it’s humiliating.”

“Not all that surprisin, truth be told. I mean, you and I flirted now and then. And you told me enough about yourself for me to suspect that you’re a kinky little weirdo who’s dyin to get fucked by a ghost.”

“I, I feel I should point out that I only want to fuck one ghost. You. I want to fuck you and that means fucking a ghoOOOst.” He gasps as cold lips press into his neck.

“I can make that happen, darlin, all you gotta do is say it. You were a pain in the neck earlier, so now I expect you to be real polite and use your words.” Duck’s voice has never been like this before, rough and possessive yet still, under all of it, the same warmth draws Indrid in like a flame.

“I want you, Duck.”

A bite to his ear, strong arms wrapping around his waist from behind him, “Want me to do what?”

“Fuck me” this is like every wet dream he had as a teenager, the supernatural being coming for a fellow outsider.

That gets him a tender kiss on the cheek, “That’s better. Though, if I’m rememberin correctly, word you used was punish.”

Indrid yelps as Duck turns and shoves him to lay across his lap, kicks his legs out in surprise when his waistband slides down to his upper thighs.

“Yesss” he wiggles his ass as Duck palms it, “yes, Duck, pleaseAHgod” the first strike stings, and Duck doesn’t let him recover before delivering five more, three to each side. His cock perks up at the pain. Stranger still, because Duck is invisible, all Indrid has to do is tilt his head to watch it harden and twitch with each slap.

Twenty strikes later Duck pauses, hand rubbing soothing, cool circles on the burning skin, “Learned your lesson?”

“Mmhmm.” Indrid presses an awkward kiss to Duck’s knee.

“Glad to hear it.” Duck hauls him up onto his knees, slides a hand under his shirt and up his chest, “I’m rarin’ to feel more of you--holy fuck”

“AH!” Indrid arches as Duck toys with his left nipple piercing, his other hand quickly finding the right.

“God, fuck, you’re fuckin hot, if I were alive I woulda taken you home first time I saw you.” Messy kisses cover his neck as Duck tugs the piercings.

“Gaahnnyes, that’s, that’s very flattering.”

“Ain’t flattery, sugar, it’s the truth. Never could turn down some skinny punk with piercin’s and messy hair, not when I was a teen burnout hidin in the woods and sure as hell not now.” He moves Indrid onto his back, rucking up his shirt as his legs twist in his half-down pants. The ranger cups his face, and Indrid is positive he’s meeting his eyes, “tell me what you want sugar, tell me so I can treat you right.”

“Marks, I want marks anywhere you’ll give them.”

A growl from above him, then lips smashing into his, drinking him in before continuing down his throat, biting and sucking hard enough that he cries out every time. Duck pauses, teasing his nipples with his tongue as he rakes his nails up his sides. He sits up and for a horrible moment Indrid loses him. Then with glee he watches five red marks drag down his chest. He moans, rolling his hips and discovering just how closer Duck’s clothed cock is to his own. The contact only feeds the rangers eagerness, and Indrid is tosses and turns as he sucks, bites, and scratches, laying claim to the illustrated expanse of his body.

“More, please, god that all feels so good.”

“Don’t worry darlin, still got plenty of you to mark up, but we’re gonna do somethin else while I do.” He eases Indrid onto his stomach, slaps his ass fondly, “don’t go nowhere.”

Indrid’s duffel bag unzips, clothes and pens moved aside until a bottle of lube hovers in the air. The tube compresses and drips coat the rough outline of fingers. When the two digits press into him he sighs, eyes closing as he melts under Ducks watchful eyes.

“That’s it ‘Drid, relax for me. Got well over a year of horny to work out, so this cute ass needs to be ready to take it.”

Indrid pushes his hips back in reply, taking as far as the fingers will go and whimpering excitedly when he presses in the tip of the third. Duck works that one more carefully, kissing Indrid’s face and shoulders as he whispers about how good he is, how much he’s wanted this.

“I want it too so for, for goodness sake please fuck me soon or I’ll leave my entire cooler out for the bears.”

“Only one bear in this campsite tonight darlin.” Duck laves his tongue down the base of his spine, bites down hard on his ass. Indrid’s still moaning from the pain when his cock pushes in.

“Fuuuckme that’s good. Shoulda snuck into your tent sooner, sugar, made you a fuckin cocksleeve you feel so fuckin good.”

“Ohgod” is all Indrid, voice muffled by the sleeping bag he’s biting, manages before Duck adjusts them so Indrid is on his knees. The ranger isn’t gentle, pounds into him like he’s nothing but a warm hole and chuckles whenever Indrid moans.

“H-handprints, Duck, want hand prints GAHyesyesyes” he struggles to move in time with the ghost as the air fills with ear-splitting slaps. He’s so close, the pain and the sensation of phantom fingers claiming his body making his body beg for release. When he slides a hand down to jerk himself off, the arm twists up and stays trapped against his back.

“You wanna cum, you know what to do.”

He blinks away the ecstatic tears, words raw in his throat, “Please let me cum, Duck. I want to, need to cum while you fuck me pleaseplease-” he cuts off into whine as the ghost works his cock hard, all the while jamming into him hard enough that the smooth fabric of the sleeping bag burns his knees. When he cums it’s with a weak cry of Duck’s name, which is swallowed up by hungry lips as Duck kisses him over and over, repeating Indrid’s name like an incantation as he pumps his hips and cums, pulling out as he does so it splatters on the reddened patches of his ass.

A final kiss to the top of his head, and then there’s no contact between them and the zipper is moving.

“Oh no you don’t” Indrid scrambles, sweaty and exhausted, between the tent fly and the invisible man somewhere in front of him, “for goodness sake, Duck, I thought you liked me enough to at least let me fall asleep before you ran.”

The ranger finally appears, hair a mess and cheeks noticeably pink, “‘Drid, all that was amazing, but it’s all I can give you. I, I can’t...you said you were fallin for me and I can’t give you that.”

Indrid cocks his head, “Why not?”

“Because I’m a fuckin ghost, ‘Drid! You deserve to be with a livin’ fella, you deserve someone who can be a real part of your life.”

He crosses his arms, “Duck, you are a real part of my life. Honestly, what part of all the nights we spent together, all the ways we take care of each other, all of this” he points at the rumpled sleeping bag, “suggests otherwise?”

The ghost doesn’t speak, simply hugs himself (or tries to).

“If this is too much, if I’m offering something you do not want, then please tell me. But if this is you thinking that some paranormal quirks keep you from being a worthy partner for me, kindly think again.”

Duck disappears and Indrid is gearing up to try and tackle a supernatural entity when a familiar face buries itself in the crook of his neck. The ghost clings to him, and Indrid clings right back.

“You really wanna give it a go?”

“More than anything.”

Duck lifts his head so their cheeks rest together, “Then fuck it. Let’s see what happens.”

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

Indrid finishes hooking up his lightly used Winnebago, AKA his solution to the lack of available apartments. He’s in a different section of Eastwoods, but he’s happy with his new spot. He opens one of his few boxes, gently lifts the completed model ship into a place of honor, and waits, humming happily, for an unseen hand to knock on his door.

#indruck #monster march #indrid cold/duck newton #reader request #ghost au

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everyhowlmarksthedead · 4 years

Note

Could you do 40 and 59 with Taza? It could be were he comes home while the reader is making a cake or any dessert and it leads to some smutty time! ❤️

Author comment: English is not my first language, sorry for grammar mistakes!

Prompts:

40. “What if I put chocolate on you?”

59. “I'm pregnant?” “What?” “I'm kidding, but I want a baby”.

Spend your free day at the rancho is simply perfect.

You wake up early, taking some time to see how Taza continues sleeping peacefully, leaving caresses on his hair. Your head is resting on the pillow, a leg around his waist and his arms tangled wrapping your body, next to him. Before the alarm starts to sound, you put it off 'cause you know how much he hates waking up with that horrible song. Leaving the phone away on the nightstand, you give him dearly kisses all around his sleepy face, knowing that he's waking up when you hear some whinings, pushing you closer to him.

“Buenos días, mi amor”. (Good morning, my love). You say in a whisper, with a soft smile on your lips.

“Llama a Bishop y dile que estoy muriéndome”. (Call Bishop and tell him I'm dying). He replies with a sigh, opening his eyes.

“It's your free day, Che”. Rolling your eyes, you bury your lips on his neck continuing there with the kisses. “What if you feed the horses, while I make breakfast, uh?”

“What if they wait and I fuck my beautiful wife, uh?” You laugh shaking your head, resting it again back to the pillow.

“Feed the horses, I'll make breakfast”.

“I want the divorce”. He says, watching carefully as you get out of bed, naked.

“You sure?” You ask raising an eyebrow, taking his shirt from the floor to wear it. He's lying on the mattress, with one elbow nailed to it and his chin resting on the palm of his hand.

“Ni muerto nos divorciaríamos”. (Not even dead we would divorce).

You walk through the rustic hallways on your way to the kitchen, with a craving of pancakes. Quick and easy recipe. While the coffee maker is on the fire, with the delicious smell flooding the house, you look for all the ingredients you need. Flour, eggs, milk... All on the worktop. It takes you less than thirty minutes to have everything ready, even the melted chocolate served on top of the pancakes. Taza is on time too.

On the kitchen island, he finally finds the breakfast sitting next to you. He drinks from his mug, staring at you as the man in love he is.

“What? Is it cold?” You ask then a little confused.

“No it's perfect. I just was thinking...” After leaving the coffee next to yours, his warm hand runs your tight slowly, starting to give you some kisses on the neck. “What if I put some chocolate on you?”

You're smiling like an idiot, feeling the tickle he provokes you with the minimal touch. He know that has that power and how he should use it.

“Che, we have to talk”.

The caresses stop. He takes some seconds to incorporate on the stool. He frowns confused, 'cause those words never bring anything good. He's staring at you waiting.

“I'm pregnant”.

“What?” His face is a fucking poem and you're pretty sure he is about to have a heart attack.

“I'm kidding, but I want a baby”. This is like a roller coaster to him, who is trying to say something but he doesn't have enough words to express himself. “You know... We have never had this ‘talk’, but I would like us to have a family”.

“But we already have”. He says a little bit in panic. “With... horses, cows, chickens...”

“C'mon, Taza! That's not a family”.

“Mi amor, we fuck like damn rabbits. And you've had never got pregnant. Don't you think my age has something to do with it?”

“It's not because of you. I have a IUD”. You confess having a sip of your coffee.

“Sorry, what?” He shakes his head wanting not to have heard that. “Since when?”

“Since four years ago. You were... a little bit drunk, talking with Tranq and Bishop about having children, god knows why. And you said that, and I quote, ‘never ever in my fucking life I would have one of those demons’, so... I called my doctor”. Your husband is freaking out in silence. He cross his arms at the same time he rubs his nape heavily.

“You have to be kidding me”. You know he's angry by the look he gives you. With pursed lips and shaking the head slowly, you let him know that you're not.

“The idea of losing you, if I ever told you that I was pregnant, scared me more than anything”. You're trying to justify yourself, but everything is getting worse with every word.

“The fuck you think I am, (Y/N)? Even if I didn't want kids, if you tell me you're pregnant, I'm gonna be the father I have to be. And I would be delighted, 'cause is my fucking kid”.

“You sounded so sure that...”

“I was fucking drunk, c'mon!” He gets up of the stool, walking away some steps, turning you his back. “Shit, this has to be a fucking joke”.

The man take his phone of the pocket, typing something before put it on his left ear.

“Hey, brother... Nah, 'am good... Yea', she's too. Listen, I need tomorrow free too... I'll tell you on friday... Yea', sure, everything is ok, no worries. Gracias, hermano”.

You're trembling about to cry, knowing that he was talking with Bishop. And you're hoping he didn't ask for that to call the lawyer and really get divorce. He sighs leaving the phone on the worktop, supporting his waist there staring at you upset.

“Che, I'm sor...”

“Call your fucking doctor”.

“... What?”

“Call your fucking doctor and tell him to... take off that shit”.

You're confused, turning on your stool to be in front of him. You're not understanding what is going on.

“And I wan'it done before tonight”.

“So... you want to... have a baby?” You frowns, getting up to walk towards him But he doesn't say anything, turning his head to nearest window. “Why did you ask for the day off?”

“You want a baby? I'm gonna give you a fucking litter”. Taza replies with an impassive grimace. “And tomorrow, we're gonna stay in the bed all day”.

A smile start to grow on your face, even if you can't believe that this is happening. Having a family with him is one of the things you want the most. And knowing he wants the same makes you the most happy on earth. You hug him, wrapping your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his chest. Che leaves a kiss on your head, supporting his chin there.

“I don't know why you believe anything that I say when I'm drunk. I don't even remember my name”. He clicks his tongue, pushing himself away some inches enough to look at you.

“I'm sorry...”

“Don't do it something like that again, ok? There are no secrets between us”.

“And I promise this is the only thing I have hidden you, since we met”. You add just in case. “What if... you give me a preview of tomorrow?”

You don't have to ask again. He's gonna do it delighted. Grabbing your hand, he guides you back to your room, throwing you to the bed so he can takes off his shirt. You do the same, being fully naked letting him some seconds to enjoy the views, before gets between your legs. He's to anxious and angry, devouring your lips without giving you the option to play. Che thrusts his hardness inside you, making you arch your back because of the pleasure. Mostly you two prefer to take your time, pleasing the other and enjoying every moan. But not this time.

The frantic movement his waist does drive you crazy, diggind his fingers on your hips to make sure you don't move more than necessary. One of your hands is tangled on his hair, pushing him closer, while the other scratches his back with every pound that makes you cry out his name as he loves.

“Tomorro' night, you won' be... able to walk, 'you hear me?” He growls against your lips, catching your lower lip between his teeth in a strong bite before kiss you.

Every time he drowns his cock inside you, so angry and rubbing your clit slightly, feels like you could touch the sky. You can't never get bored or tired of him, being needy all day. No matter how many time he takes to please you, or wich position he choose. Everything he does, he does for you. The moves begin to be faster, harder, continues. He doesn't need to hear you say that you're about to cum, 'cause he knows pretty well your body and every reaction it makes.

His teeth dragging the skin of your neck, leaving a wet bite on your collarbone, while he forces you to put your legs around his waist. That lets him thrusts you deeper, making his moans get louder to your own pleasure.

“Fuck, mi amor... You're always so tight...” Those words sounds like the sweetest melody to you, feeling how the tickles grow in your low belly.

You push him next to you with your legs wrapping strongly around him. Che loves your face when you're about to have an orgasm because of him. The fingers of one of his hands grab your neck, by the time his free arm takes your body into his.

“Cum for me, mi amor”. He asks you directly over your lips.

Your eyes are on his when your back arches for inertia, feeling that delicious sensation flooding your body, with the name of your husband being cried out. One of the best thing of live out of town is that no one can hear how noisy you are. But he doesn't stop until you're able to feel how he empties between your legs with the same fury he's fucking you. Taza's moans are the best with difference. You love hear him falling apart with every caress you make him, no matter when or where.

Your legs are trembling, resting now on the mattress, but you don't want him to pull himself out. The warm his body gives you it's everything for you, and he likes how soft you're skin is, leaving some caresses on it. His lips finds yours, a little bit tired and your breath shaking.

“What if you bring breakfast here?”

“I made it”. You complain between laughs.

“But I'm gonna give you a baby. Or two. Or three... Who knows?”

“And I'm gonna carry it for nine months”.

Taza growls 'cause he know that you have won. But, before he can pushes away himself, you wrap his waist with one leg getting him deeper inside you.

“Shit, baby...” You gasp biting your lips for a moment. He chuckles softly. “Don't fucking move until I tell you, Che!”

“Feels good...?

“As always”.

#mayans mc imagine #mayans mc x reader #mayans x reader #che taza romero x reader #taza romero x reader #taza romero imagine #promptsehmtd

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desertdollranch · 4 years

Text

Take a tour of Kirsten’s cabin

Welcome to the Larson family’s home! This little house on the the Minnesota frontier may be rustic and humble, but it’s cozy and full of love. It has lots of reminders of their old home in Sweden, and some other things that remind them of all they have to look forward to as they make their new lives in America.

Kirsten is here to show you around her house and tell you about everything in it. This is definitely a labor of love and has been a work in progress for a long time. I decided to make this little space for Kirsten since I have collected so many things for her over the years. A lot of these pieces have been around since I was about Kirsten’s age. A few are from thrift stores. Others were made by me, my mother, or my late grandfather. I’m so pleased with how it has turned out.

Below the cut, I’ll give a photo tour and talk about how I put it all together. At the end, there’s a peek at a bonus room!

The house itself is just one room. Here’s a wide shot of the whole thing.

This obviously isn’t a one-room log cabin, but a bedroom just for Kirsten. I prefer to think of it as a representation of the Larson family’s new home that they buy at the end of Changes for Kirsten. The one with two stories, four rooms, lots of windows, and wooden floors. Kirsten and her three siblings would share a room, and it might look a little something like this.

This whole setup is tucked into a corner of my living room. The walls are three pieces of foam core with scrapbook paper forming the paneling. The windows are also scrapbook paper cut into shape and with white poster board dividing the window panes. For the floors, I set up six long wooden planks resting on stacks of three bricks each. The planks are four feet long by one foot wide, and are lined up three planks deep. There are six planks, each about four feet long and one foot wide. So the whole floor setup is eight feet long. Three feet of length is used by Kirsten’s home. The remaining five feet are used by Josefina’s rancho.

So yes, Kirsten actually has a next door neighbor!

Josefina’s sala is directly to the left of Kirsten’s room. Their beds share the same wall. You can tour Josefina’s room here.

Back to Kirsten’s room. Let’s look at the bed area first.

The bed was modeled after the real thing, but is not a genuine Pleasant Company item. My grandpa made this for me when I was eight or nine. He was always looking for new woodworking projects to work on, and this was easy for him. My mom chose the paint color and painted it. She also made the patchwork quilt, as well as the mattress and pillow. The mattress is made in the same fabric as the pillow. Her doll Sari sits on the bed next to Kirsten’s in-progress quilt square and an appliqued pillow I made. In the left corner you can see the Larson family’s portrait in a frame. Below that is a piece of chicken scratch embroidery I made. And to the right above the bed is a cross-stitch sampler that I also made. Next to the bed is the nightstand, and there’s a braided rug on the floor.

At the foot of the bed, there are nails in the wall that serve as pegs where Kirsten can hang her school bag (made by me), her spoon bag (made by my mom when I was 8), and her two shawls (official American Girl items).

At the foot of the bed on the floor is where Britta’s cradle is set, as well as some storage.

The blue container is Kirsten’s toy box that I found at Dollar Tree and painted blue to match her bed. I also painted the heart and flower motifs. The small tan colored container is her school lunch tine that I made by hand painting a baking powder container. The red container used to be a container of salt, but I trimmed it down, made a lid, and stenciled the lid. For the bottom part, I wrapped it with decorative duct tape.

At the end on the right is Kirsten’s foot stove! Can you believe I thrifted this? I found it at Savers in Santa Fe. I spotted it from six feet away and knew exactly what it was. It’s a beautifully made product, metal and wood only.

Britta’s cradle is made from painted foam core. I looked at and copied the illustration of the cradle seen in Happy Birthday, Kirsten! Britta is a thrifted Berenguer baby doll. I made her gown and bonnet.

At the side of the bed is a braided rug I made from fabric scraps too small or thin to make into anything substantial. The directions for it come from Kirsten’s Craft Book. Her slippers, or sockor, were made by me using the technique of wet felting. That involves agitating the wool in hot soapy water until the fibers start to crumple together. When I read in the American Girl Ultimate Visual Guide that originally Kirsten’s Pleasant Company sockor were handmade by a woman in Sweden, I thought.... why not make my own that way?

Her nightstand was made by me from foam core. I looked at pictures of listings on eBay to get a detailed view of the decorative painting on the door. I used wooden beads for the door handle and the drawer pull.

The candle on her nightstand is a birthday candle stuck into a drawer finial that I pulled off one of my kitchen drawers. Her book is a printed reproduction of Peter Parley’s Book of Fables, which came with her original nightstand accessories. The stuffed kitty is a toy I sewed and filled with baking soda so it’s got a nice squishy feel to it.

I printed the cover and the interior pages, then bound them together by stitching up the spine.

The text is small but readable!

The drawer on the nightstand pulls out. Inside are Kirsten’s paper dolls from Godey Lady’s Book. These are actual images from a real copy of that magazine. You can download and print your own here. On the left side is the little spinning toy called a thaumatrope that John left for Kirsten in the window when the Stewart family moved out of their house. You can make your own by following my tutorial here.

The door opens too.

You can never have enough rugs in a drafty house in Minnesota. This is a hooked rug I made following the directions in Addy’s Craft Book. I dyed the yarn myself, which I thought was appropriate for Kirsten’s home, where yarn and fabric would be dyed using natural materials.

On the wall to the right of the nightstand are two shelves I made from craft sticks. They’re supported by nails stuck into the walls. I bet Kirsten would have a place in her room for her Swedish mementos. On the bottom shelf are her Dala horse toys. Tutorial to make those is here. In front of those is a painted spoon. I painted four of these spoons but this one is Kirsten’s favorite. On the top shelf are her two tomte gnomes, a straw angel, and a yarn doll. I made all of these.

Facing the bed are Kirsten’s closet and her rocking chair. Between them are her snowshoes and a barrel. Her cats sit on the chair, and the blue thing they’re sitting on is the table runner from Kirsten’s birthday dishes.

Kirsten can sit there with her favorite kittens! The cats are the older Pleasant Company version that are made from some hard material covered with rabbit fur. The rocking chair was something I found at an antique store last year. Based on the name on the sticker underneath, it was made by a local woodworker.

Next to the rocking chair are Kirsten’s snow shoes and and an empty barrel. The barrel actually a coin savings container and has a logo on the other side that says "Bank of Belen” (Belen is a town south of Albuquerque). But I think it looks so cute in here that I’m not going to bother rationalizing why it’s in a child’s bedroom.

Her closet is another piece of furniture my grandpa made for me. It’s actually the top half of what my mom and I have always called the tea cabinet. It was modeled after Felicity’s clothes press, but it’s much much bigger. The detachable bottom half is a stack of three drawers. The whole unit was way too big and heavy for Kirsten’s room; it’s probably twice her height. So I keep the drawers elsewhere in my house.

Inside are Kirsten’s clothes, socks, shoes, and sunbonnet.

On top of the closet are Kirsten’s honey pots that I made for her from baby food jars. The crate is made from wooden sticks. The blue crockery is another jar I painted. Behind that is the salt box full of flowers that I made for Kirsten’s birthday table.

Sisters!! That’s it for the house.

But I have a bonus room, and that is Powderkeg School!

I made all of her school supplies, but my grandpa made the benches. The background is a scene from her scenes and settings book.

Back when I first got Kirsten, my grandpa had a cherry tree in his yard that had caught a disease and was dying. He knew he’d have to cut it down anyway, so he saved a piece of the trunk and made these benches. They’re coated with varnish on the top side but underneath is the original bark.

This isn’t even all of the doll furniture that my grandpa made! He built a trunk for Kirsten, just like the original one from her collection. I keep it in my doll room closet. He also made a trunk for my mom’s Molly’s stuff. He made two other beds just like Kirsten’s for Felicity and Molly (painted red and pink respectively), plus a trestle table and chair set that my mom gave away a few years ago. He also made lots of furniture for my cousin, who had Addy and Samantha.

#kirsten larson #kirsten's house #diy #doll crafts

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