#thank u art instruction books for my life | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

oftenderweapons · 4 years ago

Text

Mold Me New (3) — Taehyung

A Small Town Swoons Story

Pairing: Taehyung x reader (nicknamed Frog — for now)

Wordcount: 3.7k

Genre: ceramic artist!Taehyung, divorced!reader, Strangers to Lovers, Fluff, Angst, Slice of Life

Rating: 18+ (for future smut and explicit thoughts)

Hello to my readers!!! Welcome to the Small Town Swoons Universe! 🥰✨

In this episode: Terry has given very generic instructions to Frog about how to retrieve her birthday gift. A more then welcome surprise follows.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: None. (Wow. I’m shocked.)

Once more let me thank potter supreme @joheunsaram (I’d be wandering in darkness and despair without you. Lob U)

Here is my complete masterlist and in case you need it, here’s the Spotify music companion.

Navi: Chapter 1 — Chapter 2 — Chapter 3 — Chapter 4 — Chapter 5 — Chapter 6 — Chapter 7

“Hello?”

You felt deeply embarrassed venturing into the backyard of a stranger.

“Excuse me? Hello?”

The heavy sound of something slamming against the floor of a garage had you slightly worried. You were ready to run away when the door opened. The neighbourhood wasn’t familiar to you and Terry’s refusal to tell you anything about the specific address she had given you scared you even more.

You feared you’d end up at one of Terry’s friends with benefit’s house.

You changed your mind, however, when you recognised the man standing out of the door.

“Frog? Is that you?”

“Taehyung?” You said, recalling the name of the man. You had met him only a couple days before, spending a good time with his friends while your own had ditched you.

“Hello Frog!” He exclaimed, incredibly happy to see you. “Are you here for a four pm meeting?”

“All I know is that Terry told me to be here by four. She gave me the address but,” you laughed, shaking your head and touching your hair nervously. “She didn’t mention it was you. She didn’t say anything. She only said it was a surprise.”

Taehyung’s laugh exploded suddenly, deep and loud. “That explains many, many things.” He nodded to himself, waiting for you to get closer. “Welcome to my studio,” he said, letting the door open a bit wider.

The space inside was bright and airy, with a wall that resembled a glasshouse, while the others were made of brick and lined with shelves. In a corner you noticed a strange contraption, like an iron cauldron, and an unfamiliar machine close to a basin. There was also a large table all along the glass wall, like it was waiting for plants to be hosted, but none were found.

“With me you’ll learn the humble, raw art of modelling clay.”

You turned to him with a furrowed brow, completely confused. “Clay?”

“Yes. Clay.”

“You model clay?” You asked, giving him an amused look.

“I am an artist,” he stated clearly. “I also model clay but that’s not all I do.”

“So that’s my gift? A clay lesson?”

“Ten clay lessons. I’ll make you an intermediate.” Taehyung reached a wooden cabinet, opening it and taking out a large block of clay, grabbing something from his apron and detaching a smaller part before putting the clay back in the cabinet. “But first, let me get you an apron.”

You felt your eyes blink in confusion. “You teach?”

“Art should answer anyone’s calls, in my opinion. I help people learn how to call.”

You were positively impressed. The quiet, if a bit Darcy-esque man, seemed relaxed and talkative in his natural habitat.

Taehyung reached a coat hook on the wall, giving a good look at you before choosing a garment suitable for your height. “This should do,” he said, offering it to you and letting you put it on.

You appreciated the independence he allowed you, allowing you to wear it yourself. You hung your tote on the now free hook and slipped your arms and head into the different loops before closing the tie around your waist in a cute ribbon.

“You'll want to fix your hair before your hands get messy,” Taehyung suggested, watching you carefully get it out of harm's way, since the last thing you wished for was dirt in your hair.

“You didn’t mention you teach art the other night.”

He smiled shyly. “The night you introduced yourself, I remembered I had gift lessons booked under your name. I wanted your birthday surprise to stay a surprise.”

You were entirely endeared at the thought. “That’s very sweet of you!” You exclaimed, watching him collect the piece of clay he had previously cut.

“It’s not a big deal,” he murmured, looking away as his cheeks blushed.

He was eager to watch you learn. He already felt like your hands could have so much potential. He had studied them all night after he met you, watching the sinewy fingers arch and straighten and hold and curve. “Okay, let’s start from a little bit of theory.”

He moved to the table by the window, “Would you mind grabbing a bowl with some water, there?” He pointed to a large utility sink in one of the corners, where you found a bowl and filled it halfway with water.

You made a careful work of walking to the table, placing down the bowl and sighing in relief once you realised you had caused no issues so far.

“Two questions. Have you ever used clay before?”

You snorted and shook your head. “Nope.”

“So you supposedly know nothing about it?”

“Exactly.”

He chuckled and bobbed his head. “That’s okay. All you need to know so far, is that clay is a mineral, and it can have different compositions which make it more or less difficult to model and to cook. I’ll have you use very generic clay, which is suitable for beginners, isn’t too picky about cooking and will look a bit plain, but is also pretty easy to shape. You’ll thank me later.”

You raised your eyebrows and smiled.

“It’s easy to work with, it cooks at low temperature and is also cheap, which will make it better if you ever choose to continue this hobby,” he explained. “It will take a fairly long time for you to master several techniques with this one, so no use spending money on fancy stuff. We’ll keep that for when you’re an upper intermediate. All cool?” He asked, checking in on you with his beautiful, dark eyes.

He had very pretty eyes, you noticed.

“Yes, got that.” You confirmed, startling when he slammed the clay against the table.

“Cool.” He replied with half a grin. “Let’s start from zero.”

Once more he extracted a tool from the pocket of his apron, showing it to you. “This is a wire. You’ll find one in your apron too.”

You rummaged in the pocket and found it. “This will help you with step one — Wait. Lemme start from very very zero.”

He walked back to the cabinet and dragged a block of clay out — the one he’d cut a piece from a few minutes ago. “This is called craft clay or potters’ clay. It’s ready-made and you can buy it in any diy shop. Some artists make their own mix, but let’s start with this since it’s specifically made for learners.”

“It looks very tough,” you commented, testing the small amount he’d cut before, prodding it with your finger.

“It just needs some love,” he explained, pouting sadly. “Clay is so misunderstood. It needs to be firm. But it’s pliable, as long as you treat it appropriately.”

You arched your eyebrows. “I just thought it was softer. Messier, somehow.”

“It is once you wedge it and moisturise it.” Taehyung acknowledged. “Clay contains platelets. Platelets make it solid, but also plastic as long as it’s not dry. Right now you have two enemies. Shape memory and air.”

Taehyung’s hands got on the piece instinctively. “Today I’ll only manage to explain wedging and centering. So be careful and pay attention. If you mess up wedging, your life will get ten times more impossible on the wheel. Let’s start.” He brought the main block back in the cabinet. “That one needs to stay fresh.”

Once at the table he settled beside you. “What’s wedging?” You asked, staring at your piece of clay.

“Wedging is your starting point. As you saw earlier, ready- made clay comes in blocks. Which means square. On the wheel, you’ll always start from a cute soft ball. Which means round.”

Taehyung’s hands massaged the clay for comfort. He felt somehow uneasy at the way he was going to interact with you. “Basically clay holds memory of the shape it was in. You want to erase it to make it more pliable. Like… When an introvert is in their comfort zone for too long and you need to get them back in society and you just… force them in several different social circumstances to warm them up, make them more versatile. More sociable.”

God, he felt ridiculous. He was using his inner turmoil to explain pottery.

He was going to defenestrate himself.

“Okay,” you laughed. “I got the introvert thing. I like the parallel.” You smiled and for a second you thought about all the years you’d been there, shaped like a block to fit inside someone’s life — or to fit them in yours.

You could use some wedging too.

“We usually wedge on plaster, or concrete or wood, because they get the extra water out of the clay. You want it to be a tiny bit humid. But not wet.” Taehyung spread his large hands over the small disk in front of him. “You want to make it more homogeneous. Uniform. For today let’s use the ram’s head method. It’s basically like kneading dough.”

His hair fell over his eyes as he bent down, leaning towards the table. “We have a small amount of clay, since you’re starting. You basically want it to become a thick block first.”

He bent the disk in two, turning it in a thicker, longer rectangle before placing his hands to the opposite sides and pressing, making the clay become more compact.

“Okay, try,” he invited you to do the same.

You mimicked his actions, focusing on the cold, solid feeling of the material under your fingertips.

“Use your palms. Don’t be afraid to get your whole hands on it. You’ll need all your strength.”

You nodded and followed his lead, the cold expanding to your palms, the feeling amplifying beautifully. It was somehow reinvigorating after the initial strangeness.

“Good. Now. Ram’s head.” He inhaled and regained his position. “These,” he said, wiggling his fingers, “and these,” he explained circling his hand around his shoulder. “That’s where you want to focus. All your strength resides there. You won’t feel it right now, but you will once you work with larger pieces.” He steadied himself and placed his palms on the sides of the piece. “Palms on the sides. Your wrists will do all the work. Your thumbs wrap around the top of the piece. The other fingers on the back of the piece. Focus on the wrists. You want to push the clay downwards first, then outwards, to the back of the piece. Okay. Position your hands.”

Taehyung stood straight up, allowing you to see his clay, on top of which he was previously bent over.

“I’m not…” You frowned and tried to feel the clay under your hands, trying to recognise the different sides.

“It’s okay. May I?” He asked, bringing his right hand close to yours.

You nodded, waiting for the contact.

It was chalky, somehow, almost dusty with the way the clay was already drying up, but it still held some cold dampness.

He corrected your fingers, staring at them and giving them a slight twist. “This way your wrists should reach just fine.”

He stood at your side, respecting your personal space even though his hand touched you. The smile on his face was the gentlest, most exciting thing you had felt in a while.

“Okay, mirror it with your left,” he told you as he stepped back, regaining his own space.

“This feels nice,” you admitted, giving the first twist of your wrist.

“Let’s see if you still think so after wedging for twenty minutes,” Taehyung chuckled.

“Twenty minutes!?” You said, already worried.

He giggled and shook his head, his curls brushing against his forehead, which you didn’t notice, because you were too busy focusing on the clay under your hands.

“Ten, usually. Twenty if you need very pliable clay. Like if you’re doing hand-building. But we can use something a bit rougher.” Taehyung helped you get out of the position your clay body was stuck in. “Help it with your fingers. Bring it back, yes,” he encouraged you once the position was right. “And now your wrists. Exactly. Look at you. You’re learning!”

He looked excited when you turned to look at him. He was literally shining with the meek sunlight coming from the window.

“I’m learning!” Your excitement mirrored his own.

“Okay, now, watch. This is why it’s called ram’s head.” Taehyung showed you the spiral on the sides, and the elongated triangle on the front.

“That looks fancy!” You said, feeling curious about the shape.

“Keep going and yours will be just like this!” He spurred you on, making you work harder and faster, which eventually led you to the ruthless burning that possessed your arms afterwards.

With his elbow, Taehyung pointed at your shoulder blade. “Just push your body weight into the clay. The whole motion should mimic a wave,” he showed you how. “If your hands are positioned right, you only need to lean in to wedge— Just. Like. That! Good job, Frog!”

You smiled and went on, paying attention to his corrections, and his gentle advice, enjoying the gentleness with which his pinkie finger pointed to a specific direction, or a finger that was in the wrong position, realigning it.

“Nice! Now, tuck the corners in in a cute fluffy ball. See how soft and warm and round it feels now?”

You nodded enthusiastically. There was something in menial tasks that always made you happy with yourself. Seeing the results of your efforts and hard work always made you feel accomplished, productive.

And it’s been a while since you felt that rush, except for seeing an organised shelf in your shop, with books neatly aligned and rated.

“Okay. I’ll show you how to work the wheel. We got little time left, so maybe I can show you the groundwork and then you can toy around with the body I centred, so you can get familiar with the feeling.”

You agreed.

Taehyung gave a few more twists to your clay body and brought it to the wheel. “Okay. Here we go. Forget Ghost, this thing is a lot more difficult than that. And forget all that water. Too messy. Bowl?” He asked.

Your forehead creased as he pointed to a small stand with a basin. It looked like a short version of a vintage stand for those porcelain bowls used in bedrooms.

You moved it closer to him.

“Thank you,” he smiled and caught the clay body, throwing it on the middle of the turning plate, currently still as he hadn’t yet activated the wheel.

“You can aim for the centre. There’s an indentation to show it. See,” he pointed to the plate. “There are all these circles to show you if you’re actually following the shape.”

He dipped a finger in the bowl, letting the extra water drip down, until it was just slightly damp. “You run around the base to seal it. That way you don’t need to slam it down and you don’t risk watching it unstick and mess around with you.”

“Okay. Great!”

“Now. Position is very important. With your legs you hold the holster and the wheel. Don’t worry about getting too close. Check three things. Knees around the wheel. Elbows braced on your thighs — that will stabilise you. And your torso leans forward. Not angled but perpendicular to the wheel. You need to be right on top of it, so your weight sinks down. Not across.” He showed you the correct position, his lean frame protecting the ball of clay like a hen defends her chicks.

Watching him become so tactile and connected with the material under his hands was endearing, but also fascinating, especially with the way his hands wrapped around the body.

“Okay, let me centre it for you, then you can try. It’s a procedure that can go back and forth, so I’ll have you doing this over and over for a few times. It will help you familiarise with it.”

“Thank you,” you replied, watching his fingers sink in the water. “Now, trick. You wet your hands. Let them drip down just a little, so you don’t drench your piece. If the piece is drenched, the platelets will loosen and the walls of your cup, bowl, vase, whatever will collapse. And we don’t want that, right?”

The way his head snapped towards you with an inquisitive look made you shake your head and reply readily, “nope.”

“Exactly. So, we sink our hands in, rest, and— one, two three, drip and—” he moved his hands over the clay body, letting a few tens of droplets fall onto the material. “Nice and wet. Not sodden, of course. We don’t want that, remember?”

You blinked and nodded as his hands started moving.

Taehyung grinned as he noticed your captivated gaze. You were learning. You were curious, interested, completely amazed. It was the most satisfying look he had ever seen. “This is your treasure now. You curl yourself around it and protect it. Like a dragon hoards its gold.”

He leaned down into the piece, his foot looking for the pedal and pressing it down very, very delicately.

“Your pinkies and ring fingers are doing all the work right now. They seal around the base, reinforcing the sealing we did before. Once you gave enough spins around the base — oh, feel the plate with the side of your pinkie and palm!” He reminded himself, showing you the part of his hand and securing it around the wheel once more. He corrected his position. “You will feel the clay push you up. That’s when your palms close in. You want to make sure it goes up.”

The wheel suddenly stopped and Taehyung showed you the result. “See. Cute mushroom shape. A two inch stem, and then the round hat.”

You bent down to check and studied the way the table started spinning slowly again, showing you the consistent shape.

“More water. Same technique.” He repeated the dip-drip process. “Now. Pinkies stay in. Lots of pressure. And your palms are going to push the hat of the mushroom up. You want it to turn into a cone. So once the hat disappears, you’re gonna keep your hands steady, with a lot of pressure, and drag them up, slowly. And bend them inwards slightly, into a tip.” He followed the process with his hands, his fingers steady and his veins thicker at the effort and the pressure. The way his elbows braced against his hands brought even more blood to the back of his palms.

Still, you didn’t let that cloud your focus. You stared at the process, especially once he stopped the wheel and took his hands off.

“Now we’re bringing it downwards with the thumbs. We’re helping it regain the center. This,” he prodded the ball of his thumb, the soft part where the finger could sink, “is the part that gains the centre. You push it down, while your fingers lean over. Like you’re projecting energy from your palms.” He finished showing the procedure, showing how the ball of clay was a perfectly round dome, placed in the exact middle of the wheel.

“Now you take the lead!” He turned to you with a grin.

With a shy blush you watched him stand up and gesture to the seat elegantly.

You settled down and fixed your position around the wheel, following the instructions he had given you previously.

“That’s nice. Closer.” He corrected you helping your seat closer to the holster of the wheel.

“Now we’re ready to go. Wet your hands—” he directed you, helping you count the dip and drip. “Steady.”

You placed your pinkies tightly around the base, feeling the dome a bit too large for your hands. That’s because it was shaped for his large hands.

“Yes. Steady,” he encouraged you. “Go.”

The taglist is open!

Navi: Chapter 1 — Chapter 2 — Chapter 3 — Chapter 4 — Chapter 5 — Chapter 6 — Chapter 7

#taehyung fluff #taehyung x reader #kim taehyung fanfiction #thetruthuntoldnet #thebtswritersclub #Taehyung strangers to lovers

42 notes · View notes

non-plutonian-druid · 3 years ago

Note

9 and 10 for the artist ask game plz 💕

thank u 💕!!!

9. What is your favourite resource?

i mean, the resource i use most often is like. google lol. there are a lot of reference websites and tutorials, and tons of other stuff i dont use that would fall under the category 'resource', out there but i forget about them a lot and make my life harder by using google. although... theres a tumblr post somewhere that documents every corner of Five's bedroom in great detail and I owe that post my life

10. How has your style changed over the years? (Examples welcome!)

oh boy a memory one. lets see... I taught myself to draw using how-to-draw books, most of which had strong influences on my style, at least during the time i was using them. one of the earlier ones was a series of how-to-draw-manga books (that I've since been told aren't very good lol), so for a while even tho i didnt watch anime, my drawing style definitely looked like i did.

(this is my self insert Maximum Ride character from when I was like.... 10ish)

Since then the degree of anime in my art style has waxed and waned lol. At some point i got a book on how to draw fantasy by an artist that was definitely a furry, so the way I drew animals, especially dragons, had that furry-art-style look for a bit. I also had a deviantart wolves period (That second wolf is copied from the instructions in the book, which is why it looks so good lol)

I dont know how much of Seth's art style is present in mine, but I've copied his style since that Lemony Snicket series first came out in 2012 until... now lol (holy shit thats a decade what the fuck).

Another artist that had a huge effect on how i drew animals was Stephanie Pui-Mun Law, who you'll note is the only how-to-draw book artist whose name I remember. Her animals were a lot more realistic, and rather ethereal-looking, but she had (and has tbh) a HUGE influence on how i use watercolor. (I can't find any examples of watercolor so you're not getting any unfortunately)

At this point I also started being online, and found fanartists (mostly Percy Jackson fanartists at this point, tho eventually also Voltron) whose work I liked and whose styles I would borrow for a bit and discard. One of the artists I really liked was a furry, so this is furry art style 2 electric boogaloo

we're starting to understand the concept of proportions, folks!

here, you can see a drawing that is influenced nearly exactly the same amount by the perviously mentioned furry fantasy book, and Stepanie Law.

And of course, Steven Universe was huge for me. Now we're in "some of this art I still like" territory, or the last 3 years of high school

Thats Thanatos and Hypnos btw. Hades did the sleep mask thing too, which amused me when i realized.

This is around when I got my tablet and started doing digital art! My art style is pretty fully formed by this point. I think the main things that have changed since then are that the Steven universe influences have gotten less obvious, i have never settled on how I like to draw eyes, and I've gotten like. better at it lol.

#for the void #trying to construct my vague memory into a timeline was HARD folks!!!#but it was fun #in case you were wondering 9th grade is like. the year my art got 'good'#i went from art in 9th grade being mostly bad with some stuff i still like #to 10th grade being mostly stuff i still like okay with some stuff thats bad #long post #thanks for the ask!!! this was fun #if anybody still wants to ask me any of these i'm still good to answer

4 notes · View notes

bookandcranny · 4 years ago

Text

If You can Change Your Tune

The interloper arrives in a rented moving van, the same sort as all the ones before.

“Are you sure about this?” her friend asks as they pull up to the house. “I know you’ve always had a thing for fixer-uppers but this place might be beyond saving.”

Even as she unlocks the front door the wind whistles a note of warning through its rickety frame. The floorboards beneath their feet crackle and moan at the intrusion.

“All it needs is a little love,” the interloper retorts. Her name is Ann. I remember her from the showing, a woman of insufferably good cheer walking room to room with the equally annoying realtor of the week, a dopey smile hanging from her lips.

I didn’t think much of it at the time. People like her come around from time to time with aspirations in their heads of moving into the rural countryside to rehabilitate my thickets into sprawling gardens or write the next great American novel from within my historic walls. Seeing the reality of the place in person was usually enough to convince them to chase their fantasies elsewhere. However, it appears this particular happy-go-lucky thorn in my side needs a bit more work to dislodge.

“Are you sure you’re not in over your head?” the other one asks. I try to guess at their relationship. Friend? Sister? A lover? I’m sick to death of couples.

“It’s a little late for me to back out now,” Ann laughs, twirling the keys around her finger. “Don’t worry, Nick’s bringing his crew over tomorrow to start on the repairs. She’s a project but the foundation’s sound. Next time you see this place she’ll be a real beauty.”

“’She’?”

“Yeah, you know, like how people call cars or boats a she.” She climbs the stairs and runs her hand along the dusty banister. I think of splinters— with luck maybe she’ll get tetanus- but nothing comes of it.

The house is my body. Two stories, twelve rooms not including the attic, an old-fashioned spiral staircase, and me, the greatest antique of all, left to rot. Once upon a time a family used to live here: a mother and father, a veritable litter of hyperactive young children, uncles and aunts and cousins who would stay with them some summers and during Christmastime, and the wizened pale face of a grandfather who watched over them from above the mantle. It was all very precious, very southern hospitality, very postcard perfect. All very gone. Not even their ghosts remained; just me, and all the better for it.

Chesterfield is the name of the county as well as the nearest town, though from what I understand that’s using the term lightly. Most folks local to the area know better than to disturb me, but sometimes they get bold. Bored teenagers mostly, or suited vultures looking to see if there’s any profit to be squeezed from the property. In its heyday, the house was probably a sight to behold, but I wouldn’t know much about that. Memories of my life, if ever I truly lived, are slippery like oil on the water’s surface, impossible to grasp.

Though without eyes or ears or a mind to make use of them, I can “see” through my many windows— if eyes are the windows to the soul, maybe windows are can be eyes to the spirits— and “hear” any sounds that tremble through my frame. I’m grateful for these senses; they help me keep things in order. If someone starts to get a little too cozy with my corridors, and providing the spiders don’t scare them off first, I just slam a few doors, flicker a few lights, and they go running.

The interloper and her extra finish moving in the last of the boxes. She squeezes her arm and gives her a peck on the cheek.

“I’ll send you pics once I’ve got my room set up,” she says.

“Bold of you to think you’ll survive that long. This place is definitely haunted. Do you get cell service out here? I want to call a coroner and tell them to save your spot.”

“I don’t remember making this big a deal when you moved into your first place.”

“It had bed bugs, but it didn’t have ghosts.”

Ann makes a face. “I’ll take my chances with the ghosts.” She puts an arm around her shoulders. “Kim. You’re acting like I’m dropping off the map. You’re the one leaving the country.”

“For two weeks!” Her expression grows tense. “I feel bad leaving you like this. I should’ve been there for you, there was just so much going on.”

“It wouldn’t have changed my mind.”

She sighs dramatically. “No, nothing can, can it? I fear for whoever you end up tricking into marrying you.”

Ann slaps her playfully on the arm. “Do not start on that. Speaking of which, don’t you have a honeymoon to be on? Go on, get.”

Kim puts her hands up in mock surrender and backs out the front door. I raise one of the loose planks on the porch and she trips, just barely evading a tumble down the front steps.

“See? Cursed!”

“Go!” But she’s laughing as she adds, “Thank you for the help. It means a lot, even if Sophie is gonna kill me for keeping you this long.”

“I’ve got time to talk her down.”

The U-haul rumbles away down the dirt road until it’s a muddled blur in my perception and then, finally, gone. I’m alone with the enemy now. More importantly, she is alone with me.

I slam the door. It’s the easiest most classic trick in the book. Ann jumps and looks around. I know what she’s thinking. Just the wind? Or could it be…?

But no, one small act like that won’t be enough to convince her. With a shrug, she returns to the task of moving in. She shuffles around a few boxes in the foyer and starts moving them one by one up to the second floor. All things considered she hasn’t much to move in, but I’m not fooled. Where one intruder appears, more will follow, and bring all their junk and their noise and their petty living problems with them.

All my original furniture was auctioned off in an estate sale. It took place right here on the lawn, and I watched through my windows as they divvied up my family’s belongings, breaking them down into numbers and measures of worth for the masses. For the most part though I didn’t miss it. The absence of clutter made the space feel bigger, and I got used to the emptiness.

The interloper sets up in the master bedroom and unpacks some supplies to give the room a cursory cleaning. The agency normally sent someone over to prepare the place for new residence, but since the last few rounds of movers had come and gone, they hadn’t bothered. If Ann minds, she doesn’t show it, and I have to admit it’s nice to have someone sweep away the dirt and detritus.

After cleaning to her satisfaction, she starts opening boxes with foreign labels and assembling her furniture from strange little kits, turning sheets of instructions over in her hands as she nibbles on a hangnail. The result is a set of cheap-looking geometric furniture that makes her curse as she accidentally attaches the table leg to the chair and the chair leg to the bedframe. Something about watching her work transfixes me. Probably her comical ineptitude.

After she fixes all the furniture she dresses her new bed and starts cluttering her shelves with all kinds of bizarre toys and knickknacks. Among her affects is a paperback book titled “the art of moving in and moving on”. I scoff.

“This is a temporary arrangement. Very temporary, you got it?” I tell her, though I know she can’t hear me. I know this, but it still annoys me. It feels like she’s ignoring me.

The interloper smiles to herself and takes out a black rectangle that she holds up like a camera, though the shape is far too small and thin. She lowers it, considering, and then from yet another box digs out a string of Christmas lights and hangs them up above the bed.

“It’s June,” I say, dumbfounded.

I look at the string of lights and put pressure on one of the bulbs until it bursts. She jumps, but the moment passes. She spends the bulk of the evening fussing with her camera-thing until she falls asleep.

Fine. If she wants to play hardball, I’ll play hardball.

In the morning, the interloper’s camera-thing plays a tune to rouse her. Her waking is both a curse and a blessing, for while I was glad to be free of her active meddling, even as she slept I was never able to completely ignore her presence. I feel her like an itch, like a stubborn pimple forming beneath my skin, and I’m glad to sense her rising if only because it means I can get back to business sooner rather than later.

The water heater and other facilities are still in good condition from the last unfortunate newcomers I drove from my doorstep, which frees her to take a long shower, singing obnoxiously all the while. This, however, is a perfect opportunity for me. When the heat from the shower fogs the chipped bathroom mirror, I brandish my loathing like a pen and write her a message. Granted, precision isn’t my forte, so the words come out a little smeared and crooked, but still the intent is clear as can be.

LEAVE

Ann squints at the streaked mirror. “Love?”

“Are you really that stupid?”

She looks around but, seeing no one, shrugs it off again and starts to brush her teeth. When she ducks her head to spit, I quickly try again.

MINE

“Mina? Who’s Mina?”

I groan. Okay, perhaps a more symbolic approach. I will the mirror to shatter, but just then a loud knocking sounds and Ann runs off in a frenzy before she can see the long crack forming down the center.

“Door’s open!” She calls from the landing as she hurries to finish dressing with one hand and wrangle her hair into a towel with the other.

I try to hold it shut, but despite my efforts, the door is forced open and a parade of half a dozen handymen file into the entryway. As they start setting up, a burly towheaded man breaks from the pack and goes to meet Ann as she’s bounding down the stairs.

“Careful, careful. Don’t put your foot through anything before I’ve even had the chance to bill you.”

��Nick,” Ann says fondly. “If these stairs could handle me, Kim, and the fifty-pound mattress we lugged up there yesterday, I think they’re stable.”

“You gals didn’t have to do all that. I could’ve—“

“It’s fine,” she insists. “You’re helping me out enough as it is.”

“Yeah, well, we’re even for that whole thing at Kim’s wedding now.”

“More than even,” she agreed. “I know this was last minute. Dinner’s on me tonight. I’ll order enough pizza for the entire crew.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep. You haven’t seen how much Seth can eat.”

Their easy banter disgusts me. Living people are all the same; wandering around with blind optimism or bemoaning every bad turn, blissfully unaware of how little it truly mattered. One wrong step with those tools of theirs and any one of them could be joining me among the shiftless dead. I don’t have any desire for that kind of company so I decide to wait until they’re done with their renovations before I risk trying to scare anyone again.

As it is they hardly need my help. Ann, it turns out, is more than just clueless, she’s a klutz. If that isn’t enough she insists on “helping” right up until she almost shoots herself in the foot with a nail gun. Nick warns her not to try it again but I don’t feel any anger from him. The crew are all familiar with one another and with her. They chat and toss around jokes between tasks; someone puts on music.

The feeling isn’t quite a tangible one, but then neither am I. It’s an energy I struggle to describe, something like wading in a river and being aware of a splash rippling from upstream. Compared to the sharp tang of fear I’m accustomed to, all this amicability is nauseatingly sweet.

Ann beams, and the high arches of her cheeks dimple and flush darkly, round as apples.

“What exactly do you have to be so happy about?” I hiss in her ear.

As much as I hate to admit it though, I can understand why someone like her moved so easily among the crowd. Even when she was getting underfoot, she’s a difficult person to condemn for it. How could anyone begrudge her excitement when it was so abundant? Or her love when it was so freely given?

Growing impatient with it all, I knock a toolbox off the top of a stepladder and send its contents scattering in all directions. It lands hard and the sounds of work, the music and the laughter, all come to an abrupt stop.

“What was that?” someone asks. A worker crouches down underneath the arch of the ladder to collect some of the scattered screws and I, with great satisfaction, tip the thing over on top of him. The damage is little, but it’s enough to get the entire crew good and spooked.

“I didn’t touch it,” the injured handyman insists as he nurses his bruises with an icepack. “It just collapsed.”

“Maybe this place is haunted,” another jokes, but her smile doesn’t quite cover her nervousness.

“Kim said the same thing,” Ann muses to herself. Nick looks at her and she startles, as if she hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud.

“I was wondering how you were able to afford this place, even with the damage.”

“Oh don’t start with all that black cat broken mirror stuff. You see bad omens in everything.”

“And you don’t see red flags until they’re waving right in the face. Not even then,” he accuses. Her guilty expression says there’s some truth to his words. “Tell me honestly, is this house haunted?”

“That’s silly. Of course not.”

“Then how do you explain what just happened?” I demand with frustration.

“Then how do you explain what just happened?” asks the injured worker.

“Thank you!”

Ann hums thoughtfully and looks up at my aged walls, my decrepit ceilings. “The realtor warned me there were rumors about this place. This house has survived fire, flood, and an attempted demolition; somehow nothing was ever able to destroy it, and every person who’s lived here had reported seeing strange things. Objects moving on their own, strange sounds at night.”

Nick leans forward in his seat. “And what did you say when they told you all that?”

“I told her it sounded perfect.”

He puts his head in his hands. “Ann. Mary-Ann Thorne. Tell me you did not buy an actual haunted house. When Kim told me you just up and bought a house on a whim I thought that was crazy enough but this…”

“I didn’t buy a haunted house,” she says. She stood up straight and spread her hands with a dramatic flourish. “I bought a survivor. Houses are like people. They have personalities, they have their own little quirks, their likes and dislikes. Old houses most of all. I could tell as soon as I walked into this place that… well that she had something special. I can’t explain it, I just felt so drawn to her.”

She places her hand on the wall and holds it there. If I were alive I think I would shiver.

“She’s been through a lot, but with some TLC she’s gonna sing, I can feel it.”

“That’s crazy,” Nick says, but she isn’t listening. Not to him. It’s almost as if… almost…

“Can you hear me?”

She doesn’t respond. Of course she doesn’t. I berate myself for even daring to expect something so deluded. However, her little speech seems to encourage the crew, or else they’ve just calmed down enough to put aside their reservations and get back to work.

Watching them I feel… strange. Even when my house had been lived in before I had never really felt so cared for. It’s all ridiculous of course, a blind act of charity sprung from some silly woman’s misguided and misdirected affection. While the workers patch holes and replace crumbling pieces, the interloper sweeps and scrubs, eager to do her part.

Evening falls, and Ann prepares to head into town to pick up dinner.

“The guy on the phone said they don’t deliver to this address for some reason,” she says. “Weird.”

“Why don’t I go,” offers Nick. “I’ve got the truck. There’s more room.”

“Okay,” she reluctantly agrees. “But I’m still buying, clear?”

“Crystal.” There’s a faint air of nervousness wafting from him, I think. I suspect he’s been hoping for an opportunity to get away from me for a while.

The rest of the crew seem mostly recovered from their brief brush with the supernatural. I intend to fix that.

I start by flickering the lights, another classic. Someone gets up stammering about checking the fuse box in the basement, but as he and Nick each go for the doors I slam them both at once, creating a nice echoing effect that rings all through the house.

“Try writing that off as the wind.”

“I got a better idea,” another someone offers up. “How about we all go into town for dinner? It’ll be nice to get out of— it’ll be nice to get out, let the dust settle here.”

“Come on, Ann,” Nick gestures. “We can swing by the bar after. It’ll be fun.”

She hesitates, a strange look on her face, and takes a step back. “You all go ahead. I’m not that hungry.”

“Ann.” He speaks more sternly now, looking something like an older brother with a neat wrinkle of worry taking up residence on his brow. “Come on.”

“I’m fine here, and you’re being silly. If you don’t believe me, bring me back something after you eat and you’ll see that I’m perfectly safe here alone.”

“But you’re not alone,” I whisper, for nobody’s benefit but my own. “What would you say, if you knew. If you really knew.”

“Besides, I’ve already spent the night here once. If something were going to happen, why didn’t it?” She pulls a smirk, puts her hands on her hips. “Maybe it’s just you guys my house doesn’t like.”

Nick huffs an almost-laugh and relents, not entirely satisfied but not looking to argue the point any longer. He tells her to call him right away if anything changes and then he leaves. The workers file out after him, the last of them gingerly shutting the door behind him, so as not to anger me.

“Why didn’t you go with them?” I ask her. My voice, such that it is, takes on a plaintive edge. Pitiful. I correct myself, refocus my aims. “You’ve had plenty of chances to run, and it’s only going to get worse from here on out. You know that, right? You’ve got to know this isn’t just some twenty-four-hour fever. You can’t get rid of me. It’s my house.”

She starts up the stairs. I follow. I have no other choice.

“Are you really this dense? How can you ignore the signs? How can you believe there’s anything here worth salvaging?"

She walks into the bathroom and stares into the cracked mirror.

“What are you doing now?” I complain. “Looking for answers? I couldn’t give them to you if I had them. Or are you just admiring your pretty reflection?” I stroke the mirror’s surface. “Must be nice, to be young and lively. If you leave now, you could have years and years of perfect ignorance, uninterrupted by those pesky reminders of death. You could have a life, and you’re wasting it.”

She touches her fingertips to the cool glass with a mystic look in her dark eyes.

“Mina?” she whispers.

“My name isn’t Mina.”

Or maybe it is. Might as well be, for all I know. I think I must’ve had a name once. Surely there was a word, a simple sound, some collection of syllables that meant I see you. Surely there had been someone to speak it and make it real in their mouth. But how should I know? And if such a person did exist, what does it matter now? I’m not a person anymore, I’m a thing that happened, a thing that’s happening still. I’m a box built to hold my history, filled up to the rafters with hurt and resentment. That’s as close as I get to living. If I could move independent of my dour walls like her, I think, I wouldn’t be wasting my time moldering in the darkness.

Ann shakes her head. “Silly. I’m being silly,” she tells herself. Looking up at the dim light fixed above her she adds, “I should probably check on that fuse box after all.”

She goes back down and opens the door to the basement. She flicks the switch on the wall a few times but that bulb's been long neglected. Even those who swear up and down they don’t fear the fables or superstition became suddenly shy when it comes to probing the deepest depths of this old house. Ann turns, presumably to seek out a flashlight, when her heel catches on one of the repairmen’s screws that had rolled loose. It’s not even my fault this time, technically.

Like some kind of morbid slapstick, her foot shoots out from under her and she stumbles backwards towards the open basement door. It’s a long drop that awaits her, followed by a fast end if she’s lucky. And I know well enough by now that she isn’t.

Without thinking, I push her. Instead of that foresworn drop down the basement stairs, Ann finds herself tripping backwards into the wall instead. She rights herself, takes in a sharp breath, and then releases it with a sigh. She’s dazed but unharmed. I find myself mirroring her relief.

She smiles. “Thank you,” she says.

Then she closes the door and walks away.

That has never happened to me before. Normally, to manifest, to have any direct impact on the physical world, I have to summon up a great deal of anger. That isn’t too hard for me; I’ve been angry a long time. But in that moment, I hadn’t been angry. I think I’d been afraid. For her safety? No, of course not. More likely I’d been worried she would leave behind a ghost and I’d be stuck with her invading my personal space for eternity. Still, I’d never… never done anything like that before. I’d never helped somebody. I suppose I’d assumed it couldn’t be done, even if I wanted to. Ghosts, spirits, malevolent spectral entities or whatever you like to call it, that’s not what we're for. That wasn’t what I did, until I did it.

I become aware of singing coming from the kitchen. The fool is never not singing or humming or whistling something. I know music; it’s not as if I’m totally uncultured. While I have no lungs nor lips to make sound, sometimes on a stormy night the wind whistles through my walls, each creak and moan playing for me the orchestra of slow degradation I’ve come to know well.

This is not that. This is… I don’t know what to do with this. I don’t know the words. Is it too late, I wonder. I can’t. I’m not ready. Oh but if you can give me time, stranger, I think I want to learn your song too.

#my writing #short story #ghosts #haunted house #paranormal romance #lgbt #horror romance #4k words #first person #original fiction

124 notes · View notes

uwua3 · 5 years ago

Note

hi! first off, congrats on the new blog!! i read that misumi piece and i really enjoyed it hehe,, if it's alright, may i request some domestic fluff with kazunari? mayb looking over old photo albums of each other from when they were kids and laughing and telling stories about what happened in the photos? thank you very much and i hope u have a nice day :D

hi!!! this made me so happy 🥺 thank you so much, i hope to keep this blog running for a long time! also, i saw your reblog of my jealousy hcs and i wanted to say thank you for your sweet comments!!! i go back to it whenever i need motivation, you inspire me to keep writing ♡ thank you! i hope to continue making you proud as a writer :D <3

summary: kazunari had to stop living in the past and make new memories outside of his yearbooks with you

author’s note: this is definitely a much happier piece than my others! this was refreshing to write and i treasure it dearly, it’s definitely much more on the humorous side! no angst today, folks!!! (ok just a little, but it’s barely noticeable!)

this is just a little look into a hoarder named kazunari and his sentimental, nostalgic personality ♡ i, myself, am a marie kondo supporter so i love decluttering! if you are a hoarder like kazunari, honestly go you! you keep those knick knacks that remind you of memories! do whatever makes you the happiest :D

word count: 2,151

music: make you mine – public, tongue tied – grouplove (this song is so Kazunari !!!)

nostalgia.

🌻🎨 miyoshi kazunari

it was that time of year again

kazunari hated spring cleaning with a passion. so what if his art supplies were all over the dorms? he knew where everything was! uh, mostly...

(if you ignore his daily panicked house searches which kept everyone up way too late if he couldn’t locate a very specific paint shade for a big project he definitely procrastinated)

so, it took, so much bribery to get kazunari to even consider cleaning out his entire dorm room

(muku was a very Good Boy and already had his side of the room perfectly dusted and organized)

yes, you had to promise to pose as a model for one of his paintings one day (hopefully, not the type of class you were thinking) (kazunari’s suggestive wink didn’t help)

the thing about kazunari was he was somewhat of a, putting it politely, hoarder

as an extremely sentimental person, it would take the whole mankai company to even force him to throw something away

(“no! it has a special meaning to me! i remember what happened when i got this~” kazunari would whine, holding the useless item between his hands with no intentions to ever look at it again)

so the boys employed you to be kazunari’s rational judgement when cleaning that day

(“please actually make him do something.” sakyo looked like he was on the border of begging; kazunari’s abundance of random knick knacks and shopaholic addiction problem was becoming an issue that affected everyone)

rule #1 of cleaning kazunari’s storage room: don’t open anything because kazunari will become very sentimental and nothing will get gone

so therefore, as a team, you two tackled the rather spotless room. the interior was minimal and modern, just like kazunari liked it with pops of color here and there

(he had one blank white wall and you realized it was the backdrop he used to film all his social media posts [dancing tik toks, fashion #ootds on instagram, daily vlogs on his growing youtube channel])

at first, you were confused where all his stuff went until you opened a closet against his terrible and unconvincing distractions

without time to react, you found yourself buried in tens of books you couldn’t even fathom how it all fit

(“i’ve played way too much tetris.” kazunari would admit later on when asked about his immaculate stacking)

“you’ve got to be kidding me!” you groaned, pushing your head above the surface of book covers that have either never been opened or were way too old to even be functionable

“i’m sorry~ please, forgive me!” kazunari pleaded, immediately pulling you out of his own mess and using all his cuteness to make you roll your eyes fondly at your best friend

you almost started ranting at him about the dangers of taking up too much closet space with useless items before you realized:

wait! stop! he’s trying to get you to forget about throwing these books out! you thought suddenly, crossing your arms as you stared at the pile, trying to figure out how to approach the situation

“you cannot distract me. we are going through this mound and you will be getting rid of something today.” you ordered, seeing his shoulders drop in defeat as he nodded solemnly, but accepting his fate without any arguments. thank god for that

you two bent down and organized all the books into categories. popular photography instruction guides, creative advice columns, and all his past art textbooks kazunari couldn’t sell were put into a seperate group because luckily, they were relevant to his art school

things like old newspapers with funny comics were recycled (you refused to let kazunari read them in fear of invoking some form of nostalgia) (also because he had the whackiest sense of humor ever and would die laughing)

it was going well, until you reached the thickest photo books of them all (you had almost forgotten what you and kazunari’s school mascot was)

but unsurprisingly, kazunari had every single yearbook from each year of his education all the way until his last year in high school piled high to his chest

even he looked somewhat shocked from his mass accumulation from his teen years

“ah! i’m so old now~ look at all this! what else can i do except die?!” kazunari dramatically flopped onto his bed, tired of lifting so much weight. hey! his arms weren’t meant for exercise, he was a painter!

lifting his head to see you were distracted from alphabetically sorting the first section lovingly dubbed, “art shit”, kazunari mischeviously grinned as he leaned down to snatch a random yearbook

flipping to a random page, kazunari smiled as he realized it was the first time he ever met you back in elementary

kazunari sang your name as he sat upwards, having a shit–eating look on his face as he started swinging his legs back and forth

oh no, he was up to something no good, you knew it but humored him anyways

“yes, kazu?” you turned your line of sight to the most horrible picture possible: you with the ugliest haircut in the entire world with kazunari’s black hair taking up the entire photo as you two sheepishly smiled for the camera. it was not a proud moment

okay, maybe it wasn’t that bad, you just couldn’t help but shriek at the sight of your hair

“oh my god! you can’t just jumpscare me like that!” you laughed despite yourself. you knew you had to be serious and focused on decluttering, but one look at your past made you remember all the good times before so–called “adulthood”

“look at your hair!” you cackled, reaching up to playfully yank at his mullet as he yelped and lightly smacked your hand away. rubbing the back of his neck, kazunari huffed childishly and pouted like he was back in his youth

“come on! this was the pinnacle moment i realized, i should not be a hair dresser.” kazunari commented, making you remember how you just let a random 8–year–old boy waddle up to you with safety scissors and advertise his salon business like a professional

(yes, you bought into it right away. your teacher had a heart attack when she saw you with a majority of your hair on the floor and kazunari keeping small talk like an actual hair stylist)

thinking back after the haircut incident, you weren’t allowed to chat with the funny class clown anymore as you were forced to wear a hat every day

(it was either that or go completely bald to fix the job kazunari did to your head)

it wasn’t until you received a very creative and colorful apology letter with tons of sad faces drawn with waxy crayons that you snuck out to play with him on the swings in recess

“i can’t believe we became friends because i wanted free hair cuts for the rest of my life.” you added, staring at the picture with a sense of nostalgia. you kinda got where kazunari was coming from, memories were fun to look at every once and a while

at least, eleven years worth of memories after being inseperable from that moment forward

(maybe, you should’ve held onto it, you thought, not knowing that would be the first of many art pieces you would be gifted by him)

kazunari knew he won. excited, he dropped down to lay on his stomach as you leaned against the bed, watching as he thumbed through the pages with ease, leaning his head on yours comfortably

it was rare to find kazunari quiet, he must’ve been like this all the time when going through his stuff, you thought, at peace for once

lazily smiling, kazunari put his finger against your yearbook pictures as he reminisced on the past. something about everyone ever in your grade, how kazunari knew everyone and had a special memory with each person, no matter how big or small

“—and here, the teacher somehow caught a pic of us swinging wayyy too high for kids our age!” kazunari laughed, breaking your train of thought as you snickered at the absolute joy radiating from both your faces as you two competed to see who could reach the clouds

(kazu won. you fell off right after and had to get picked up from your parents after badly scraping your knee. it took another sorry letter and art of you two holding hands with a heart for your parents to forgive kazunari)

“let’s go back.” you interrupted him, making him sit up confused as you swung your keys out from your back pocket. it didn’t take any convincing for kazunari to nod right away and took the elementary yearbook into his arm

you two only had to exchange a secret look before formulating a plan to sneak out, leaving music on from kazunari’s speakers to act like kazunari was still cleaning

you two giggled amongst yourselves before clambering into your car, speeding off and laughing loudly from your successful getaway. the manager was none the wiser!

during the short car ride, you and kazunari played your favorite mixtape of all time

(“you kept this?!” kazunari yelled, giddily bouncing up and down from excitement when he discovered the mixtape stash)

he slipped the disc in as you two yelled along to childhood favorites with the windows rolled down, letting the entire neighborhood know the best duo were back in town

(seriously, there were so many you stashed away in your glove department. all labeled in sharpie with compelling titles connected to the inside jokes only you two found funny)

arriving at the destination, you two exited the vehicle to see the play pen was abandoned as the teaching staff went home for the day

the sun was setting and it felt like the playground was in another rift of time as you approached it, hearing the weak movement of the swings going back and forth on their own. you sat down, holding onto the chains. you hadn’t been back ever since you graduated. it hadn’t changed at all

kazunari opened the elementary yearbook back to the original page, pulling out his tripod and phone he always had on hand in his backpack as he set it up right across the swing set

“what are you doing?” you inquired, tilting your head as he fumbled around pressing different buttons and filters too complex for you to remember

looking up, kazunari grinned as he set a timer for 10 seconds before sprinting back to the swing next to you

“swing contest right now! i bet i could swing higher than you ever could!” kazunari challenged childishly, quickly kicking his legs for the momentum. you narrowed your eyes, refusing to lose as you two laughed over the sound of his phone taking a burst of photos

you realized what he was doing. he was re–creating your memories together

but you turned to look at him and your heart skipped a beat. you never remembered him looking this, different, in the purple lighting. for a flashing moment, you swore you saw the silhoutte of his black–haired, child self sit next to you before you blinked and saw him. kazunari was the same, just older now

you slowed down your swing by dragging your sneakers against the wood chipped ground. you grabbed both the swings’ chains to hold them together

you didn’t want to live in the past anymore. you wanted to grow up with him, too

“what—” kazunari started, matching your pace before being cut off by your lips against his, the phone going off for one last time

you pulled yourself in close enough just to smile. he smelled the exact same as he did when he discovered cologne for the first time. he never changed

you pulled away first even if he tried leaning forward for more, like he was waiting all these years just for that one moment. like he saw you in the same light, too

“i wanted to do that for years.” you confessed, watching as he took your hand carefully, like he was afraid you were going to leave. for once, he didn’t know what to do, which face to show

“me too...” kazunari agreed, seemingly speechless before straightening his back, like he was about to run away. the hair on your neck stood up, what was he about to do?

“i promise i won’t cut your hair anymore, unless?” kazunari winked dramatically, mimicking the shape of scissors with his fingers as he tried snipping at your hair

he laughed as you shoved him with all your might, hopping off the swing to chase him throughout the school parking lot

now this was a memory kazunari would never throw away, no matter what

(no one thought the two of you escaped until kazunari posted the pics on his instagram, both of you getting a scolding from sakyo this time)

(busted!)

#miyoshi kazunari #kazunari miyoshi #a3! act! addict! actors!#a3!#act! addict! actors!#a3! actor training game #a3! headcanons #act! addict! actors! headcanons #mankai a3!#mankai company #a3! x reader #a3 x reader #kazunari x reader #a3! kazunari #a3 kazunari

61 notes · View notes

kitahara-rei · 5 years ago

Text

Start of Something New

Based off the long, long headcanon I have of how Reiji and Ranmaru met and how they (kinda) got together.

This fic takes place during their Marriage/I'm Your Life photoshoot, a few years after QUARTET NIGHT was formed.

A mini collaboration project between my friend @pineappuu-pineappley and I, she drew bombass art for the fic!! Check it out below!!!! I sure hope I did the colouring some justice weeps- It took me a while to put it all together ;u;;; so much effort ajsdklasd

The link to the fic (with no art) on AO3 [here] or you can read it (and look at art!!) after the read more:

~~~~~

Beautiful. Everything that his eyes laid upon was a work of art. Marble pillars lined the long hallway, ascending up into an arch that melded together to form the high ceiling of the chapel. An array of golden flecks splattered across the ceiling shone like stars where the sunlight hit the painted dome, casting a shimmery glow in the air that seemed almost magical.

The sound of his footsteps reverberated around the empty hall with each step he took, reminding him how quiet it was without anyone else around. It had been bustling with so much activity earlier during their photoshoot with staff members at every corner, packing equipment and shouting instructions. All in all, it was a busy day and Reiji was glad to have some peace at last.

Golden hues from the setting sun painted the ground with the image of the stained glass in front of him, reminding him that night was soon to fall, and that he should be heading back soon with the others. But he didn't want to go back just yet. As he approached the altar, he reached out to touch the slab of cool marble, marveling at the inscriptions in a language he couldn't understand. He traced them with his finger, wondering what it all meant.

This chapel had been abandoned once, but their boss had it restored within a week to its current state of glory. The theme of marriage had been swimming around in his mind since the moment that it was proposed to them. Closing his eyes, he hummed the chorus of the song.

To stand here with his beloved, looking into their eyes as they exchanged vows, promising their everything to each other for eternity... Reiji couldn't picture that in his mind. There was too much baggage that he carried in his heart to let anyone else in, let alone think about marriage. A certain person's face floated up from the depths of his memory, and he wrenched his eyes open, falling back against the altar. He grabbed onto the cold surface to find his steady ground again, sucking in a shaky breath before letting the air out between gritted teeth. That could have been them once, but thanks to him, on this day ten years ago...

The sound of the waves crashing against the shore outside was faint, but it was piercingly loud in the silence. It was a bad idea, now that he thought about it, to wander off on his own. With nothing else to occupy his mind, the thoughts that he squashed down on a daily basis came crawling back out, gripping his very being, claiming him as their prisoner.

"Reiji?"

That one voice rang out clear in the chapel. He had heard it many times, be it on stage right next to him or in the dressing room, always in a low, gruff tone. Reiji turned his eyes onto the figure walking towards him, who had his hands stuffed in the pockets of his dress pants. He usually saw him in casual clothes (with the exception of their group costumes) but he had to admit, Ranmaru looked very good in a fitted white suit. The fabric hugged his figure well, accenting his broad shoulders and slim waistline, the pressed pants making his long legs seem longer. Their costume designer had done a great job this time round.

"I thought you went home, Ran-Ran," Reiji said, tucking his hair behind his ear. "You disappeared right after we ended."

Ranmaru stopped right in front of him, a couple steps down from where he was at the altar. Now that he had a closer look, his suit was wrinkled from sleep. "I took a nap here for a bit. Heard you walking 'round," he said, yawning. The look that he gave Reiji was tinged with sleepiness, which reminded him very much of a housecat. "What are you doing here?"

"I just wanted to take a look at it all again. Shiny-san found such a treasure sitting by the seaside, I'm surprised that the locals didn't know about it." Reiji looked back up at the painted baby angels on the ceiling, which had a very remarkable features reminiscent of his Very Strange Boss. He was pretty sure that wasn't originally there. "There's something about a chapel that just brings about certain feelings, doesn't it?"

The other man let out a low hum. Reiji wasn't sure what it was supposed to mean. Silence fell between them.

"Have you ever thought about it?" Reiji asked.

"'Bout what?"

"Marriage." He caught Ranmaru glancing to the side, frowning deeply. "I guess it's still too early for you." Reiji laughed, leaning back against the altar. "Any girl would be lucky enough to marry you, but they have to get past all these spikes first," he teased, reaching out to tussle Ranmaru's unruly hair. It felt softer than it looked, despite the innumerous amounts of hair wax he used to keep it styled.

He almost flinched when Ranmaru grabbed his wrist in a firm hold out of nowhere. It was as if the air around him went still the moment Ranmaru's unusual eyes met his, and Reiji could almost feel the intensity of his gaze burning. "I haven't," Ranmaru admitted at last.

Reiji let out the breath he was holding, though he noticed that Ranmaru still hadn't let go of his hand. "Ah, I-I see," he said. "Well, like I said, it's still too early for-"

"But I have someone in mind."

The words cut through his own cleanly like a sharp knife. Reiji swallowed as he saw, no, felt his hand taken gently in Ranmaru's own, his breath catching in his throat when Ranmaru brought it up for a gentle kiss. The back of his hand burned hotly where the imprint of Ranmaru's lips had imparted upon it. The words that he never thought Ranmaru would ever say left his lips.

"Reiji," he said, softer than he had ever heard the man before. "Your smile brings so much warmth into my life. I am yours, so will you be mine?"

It was like a scene out of a classic romance movie, with the setting sun casting a golden glow upon Ranmaru's handsome features, catching gold in his silvery strands. Ranmaru was watching him carefully, waiting for his reply. He wasn't the type to joke around, as Reiji knew, and he had suspected the younger man had a growing crush upon him ever since that night he drunkenly confessed to liking him.

Reiji could admit to sneaking a glance now and again, but he had known Ranmaru as a troublesome kid who knew nothing of the idol world. He hadn't thought about him romantically before. In a way, he suspected he might have, but had been too afraid to pursue those feelings any further.

"I..." He was at a loss for words. His pulse must be skyrocketing right now from how loud his heart was beating in his ears. Every sound was drowned out except for his heartbeat and his short breaths. It was all too much for him; the thought alone that Ranmaru, who had seen him at his lowest, still harboured such feelings for him was staggering. A certain face that flashed into his mind made he pull his hand back. No, he just couldn't. His heart was barely held together with cheap tape made from false cheerfulness and it couldn't take much more.

"I'm sorry."

The last thing he saw was Ranmaru's shock before he booked it, running out the door. He felt like his heart was overflowing with all the overwhelming thoughts, the feelings, the pain from the past. His legs were taking him further and further away on the sand, the wind whipping past his face and into his hair. He didn't know where he was going; anywhere was fine, as long as he could escape from all the mess that was in his head.

A hand grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks, and he almost fell backwards. He struggled to get his arm free, prying at the strong grip that refused to let go. His hand was caught by the other and he looked up to see the pained look on Ranmaru's face.

Oh no, he did it again. No matter what he did, someone was going to get hurt.

"Let me go." He was surprised to find his voice as steady as it was, even though his hands were trembling. His eyes found themselves glued to the sandy ground, unable to bring himself to look up at Ranmaru.

"Reiji, please-"

"Let me go!"

The world lurched and he found himself in Ranmaru's embrace. No matter how much more he struggled, Ranmaru's grip on him was tight, as if the man was afraid of letting him go and carry out another disappearing act. Honestly, Reiji would have done that, just to avoid the entire resulting mess that was to come, the awkward silence and distance between the two and the eventuality of them drifting apart.

But the thought of Ranmaru going back to his distant self pained him, as if their time together meant nothing: the many nights shared under the influence of many beers in Ranmaru's dinky little apartment, the tender way that Ranmaru would stroke his hair as he slept, the way one look could tell him what was on Ranmaru's mind, the little things about the man that no one else seemed to pick up...

Reiji realised that he didn't want to lose all that too. The tears were flowing before he knew it, and he found himself crying into the shoulder in front of him, digging his fingers into Ranmaru's clothes, not wanting to let this man go.

"I'm scared, Ran-Ran. I'm scared that I can't give you the happiness you deserve. I'm scared I can't return the same feelings as you do, I'm-"

"I don't need all that. I just want you."

Ranmaru's hand moved to caress his cheek, his thumb wiping away the tears from his eyes. Reiji didn't know when, but when he opened his eyes, Ranmaru was there, his brows knitted into a frown. He was breathing hard and so was Reiji; Ranmaru must have run out after him right after he bolted.

He didn't deserve the man in front of him who deserved so much better. He deserved someone he could pour all his love into and get back so much more, a less difficult person to love. Someone that wasn't him.

"Reiji, look at me." How could such piercing eyes hold such a warm and soft gaze for him? His touch was so gentle. "I love you just the way you are. You don't need to give me your answer right now. My heart will always belong to you."

He felt his heart clench. Reiji wanted to do it, but he was too scared to take that first step and bungle it all up like he did before with Aine. But, he wanted Ranmaru so badly. Maybe this time, it would end well. He couldn't help the tiny, tiny glimmer of hope flickering within that maybe, he wouldn't screw it up this time. Maybe, he could be happy with Ranmaru.

The wind was loud in his ears, drowning out the sounds of ocean waves crashing against the shore. His breath was caught in his throat at how striking Ranmaru looked at this moment.

He closed the distance between them first. Reiji kissed him softly, carefully, a little hesitant. It was the barest touch of their lips but it sent his heart racing, and he drew back, wondering if what he did had been a good idea. Ranmaru's lips stole the rest of his thoughts and his breath away as they came for his own, sending his mind into a tizzy. And suddenly, Reiji found himself wanting more. Hands found themselves pulling him in closer, fingers were tangled in the mess that his hair was, anything to keep him within his hold. Ranmaru kissed him once, twice and again, and Reiji could barely catch his breath before being engulfed once more.

And then he was panting hard, his thoughts scattered across the beach like sand. Ranmaru was still holding onto him tightly, so close that he swore could hear the thrumming of his heartbeat. Or was that his own? Reiji didn't know.

"I... still don't know if this is what love is, but I want to give it a try. I want you so much, Ran-Ran." And there it was, the smile that sent his heart fluttering at the beginning.

"I'll wait for you until you're ready," Ranmaru said, touching his forehead to Reiji's. "I'll always be here for you."

Ranmaru's love for him was so warm, it filled up his heart close to exploding. The tears fell before he could blink them back, but this time, he was smiling through them, feeling a weight off his shoulders. "Thank you," he said, "for everything."

#utapri #uta no prince sama #kotobuki reiji #kurosaki ranmaru #ranrei #rei's fics #rei's art #friendo's art #long post #this took me a while because my hand hurted #and also like #I'M SO TIRED I CAN'T THINK PROPERLY #i hope yall likely

25 notes · View notes

pompiijean · 4 years ago

Text

tag game

thank u em for tagging me @sokkigarden

Instructions: answer the questions and tag 10 followers you’d like to get to know better.

Name: claire

Gender: cis she/her

Star sign: aries sun, aquarius moon, cancer rising

Height: uhhh like 5’4” to 5’5”

Sexuality: pan

Favorite book: i can’t remember if i have a favorite bc i haven’t read anything in a fat minute but i really like Simon vs The Homo Sapiens Agenda and Frankenstein lol

Current time: 9:43

Average sleep: anywhere from 6 to 10 hours

Dogs or cats: both! i have 2 cats and a dog rn and i love them all, they’re my boys

# of blankets I sleep with: one. i either use my comforter or my sheets, never both at the same time

Dream job: teaching abroad i think. like i’ve seen a ton of people with jobs either teaching english or as an on base teacher for military kids in japan or korea and i think that would be neat. anywhere but here

Favorite animal: fox

Blog established: around this time in 2014 bc i got my special 6 year bday card from tumblr a month ago lmao

# of followers: tbh no fucking clue, it says i have like 45 but half of those blogs don’t fucking exist so???

update on the follower situation— i actually checked and it says i have 84 followers but only 6 of them show up but i also KNOW that there are ppl not showing up that actually follow me bc they are mutuals

Reason for URL: the nickname my brother and his friend gave me when i was little. i’m pretty sure he spells it differently but i’ve always thought of it this way. pronounced pomp-ee-jean (like the french name not pants or a middle aged white woman)

Something I’m greatful for: honestly, youtube and anime. they both shaped me a ton as a kid and helped my creative process. they even motivated me to get better at improving my art and making it my own. they helped develop my own sense of being and personality at an extremely important time of mental development. also they both acted as great distractions and coping mechanisms throughout my entire life.

Tagging: anyone that may stumble upon this and want to do it. it was really fun!

#personal #long post

4 notes · View notes

doodling-doodler · 6 years ago

Photo

THE LOUDEST SHOW FANFIC

(PLEASE READ THROUGH THE WHOLE POST)

Woah Woah Woah Woah Woah Woah Woah Woah Woah

Ladies and gents, this is the moment you've waited for (woah)

Doodling Doodler here with a special message for all you guys! I. AM. BACK!!! I also have exciting news. Remember that little project I got? What was it… ah! The Loudest Show! Well guess what! The first chapter is out now!!! What are you waiting for? Looking at the art? Thank you by the way. Part of the first chapter is just down here. Oh wait before you do I give you ivanthestoryteller who wants to give you all 2 special messages. One just down here and the other all the way at the end of this post.

1vanth30s0m3/ivanthestoryteller: I’m not going to take up your time too much here. It’s been awhile since my last story wrapped up and here I am again. I’d like to thank doodler for the opportunity to work on this story. I understand that someone else has also been writing about this AU from doodler and I want it to be known that I’m not trying to steal ideas or even ride that person’s coattails. I simply wish to tell a good story. Hopefully you’ll stick around for the ending notes since I want to use that space for a more productive reason and will try to stick to those when I write out any more notes. Please enjoy the first chapter.

(Please come down and visit)

Story: https://www.fanfiction.net/u/8482143/

Tumblr: https://ivanthestoryteller.tumblr.com/

Chapter 1 What is a man?

A young Lincoln waited on the couch in the reading room, just as his mother had instructed him. He tugged at the collar on his shirt, trying to loosen it so he wouldn’t feel strangled. The day was warm and the manor was just as such. He finally heard the clacking of shoes on the wood floor and turned to see his parents leading a girl who appeared two, maybe three years older than him. They all stopped in front of the couch, the girl standing in front of them. She had buckteeth and her hair was drawn into a braid. Lincoln didn’t know why she was there and eagerly awaited.

“Lincoln, as you know,” his father began, “we have considered how to go about your education. We finally have decided that a private tutor is the best option for you. However, we also know that you need other children to play with,” his father looked down and gestured towards the girl, “so we also decided to hire an apprentice to the maids. She will live here with the rest of the staff and fulfill her duties, but she will also be here to help keep you from feeling lonely.” The girl was wide-eyed, looking very nervous at the prospect of the future that awaited her. Lincoln only looked curious, stuck in a state of wonderment.

“Go on, Lincoln, say hello,” his mother instructed.

“Hi, I’m Lincoln,” he said.

“Hello, my name is Luan,” the girl said with a curtsy.

“Now, I do think it best for the two of you to get to know each other, so would you kindly show her around, Lincoln?” his father requested. Lincoln got off the couch and began an impromptu tour of the manor. He showed her every room, asking bits and pieces, not sure of what to really say. She was just as quiet, unsure of herself when responding. She noticed he was developing buck teeth, even if it was early, much like her. That was something they at least had in common.

“Why did you want to become a maid?” Lincoln asked. It was the only thing that felt right to say when he exhausted what little small talk he knew. She waited for a moment.

“My mom made me,” she replied, saddened. Lincoln only grew more curious to the answer.

“Why did she make you?” They had stopped in the middle of the hallway on the way to the north wing.

“She wanted to see me in a better place that would help take care of me,” Luan said. Lincoln was sure that he didn’t want to press that issue too much.

“Do you want to be with her?”

“Yes.” Luan looked at the floor. Lincoln thought quickly.

“Where are you from?” She looked up, her face reverting back to nervous.

“Royal Woods,” she spoke quietly, her voice distracted from her mother.

“Oh, that’s a quick train ride away,” he stated with realization.

“Have you been there?” Luan asked.

“No. I haven’t been able to go many places and my parents won’t let me visit places with them. But that’ll change in a few months.” He was jovial with the date for then.

“Do you want me to tell you about it?” He nodded fervently. They began their tour again, with her describing her hometown to him. He listened, marveling at her stories. She looked comfortable, as if she were in her own home and they were lifelong friends. Her voice was nice, as if he could listen to it for hours on end.

Lincoln enjoyed this memory, as he loved to remember meeting his best friend for the first time at the age of five. He enjoyed the games they played, although he enjoyed her company always, particularly when ditching their responsibilities. Though it had been a month on from when they met, they hid in a den that was rarely used by his family and just as touched by the staff. He didn’t like the schoolwork he had to do and she was trying to buy time before she had to do anything. She wore a white frilled cap, a simple gray dress, and the apron was not too far off from the cap in design. He was wearing an orange suit that was more to impress the tutor than to be comfortable.

“I don’t know why I ever have to wear this stupid suit. It does nothing but choke me,” Lincoln complained. Luan giggled a little.

“I like it. Orange seems to be your color.” He looked at her with an empty warning in his eyes.

“If you like it, then why don’t you wear it?” he jested. She laughed a little.

“I would but I’m afraid I would be mistaken for a savage, much like you,” she delivered with a wide grin. He laughed, knowing her words were meant only for tickling him.

“I’m still wondering who took the pies from the kitchen,” he rhetorically declared.

“I don’t know, but three butlers certainly found them.” Lincoln laughed harder, remembering how all three were covered in the varying pie fillings. She joined him in laughter, enjoying her handiwork. “I wish everyone could laugh like this all the time,” she said in between giggles. He looked over at her, coming down from the giddiness.

“You want to see the world happy all the time?”

“Yeah. I only wish to make the world happy,” she spoke with a bittersweet tone.

“That’s what you’d love to do, huh?” He never knew before now.

“Yep.” She pulled out something small from her pocket. He saw it had many sides, all of which were yellow, dangling from a small string. “I’ve got my wish right here: to see everyone happy and to bring it to them.” She was smiling grandly. He saw her conviction of wanting to carry out the dream and saw the item go back into her pocket. He looked on at her, wondering if her dream could ever be fulfilled.

He stared, still, his face solemn and stony. He saw the caskets, ready to be lowered after some final words. He held the hand of Lily, his newborn sister. Lincoln wanted her to be able to see their parents one last time before interment, helping to build a chair for her carriage so she could look at them. His mother’s words were always fresh whenever he saw Lily. Promise me you’ll look after Lily, he heard her say with a voice growing weaker and weaker, all happening right after her delivery of her daughter. He promised her and she gave one final breath, smiling as she heard his words. He made sure he would keep his promise, always checking on her and tending to her if he heard her.

Luan was right beside him, looking worse than he was, tearing up but not sobbing, unlike some of the staff who were. He told them it wasn’t mandatory to attend and he would understand if they wished not to, but all of them came. The mourners at the funeral were clothed in black garb. The crowd heard the pastor clear his throat and begin the last step of his job for the event.

“These poor souls were taken from us, beginning with the passing of Lynn Loud, of whom had passed away on the twelfth of April, in the year of our Lord eighteen-hundred and eighty-two. On the nineteenth of April, in the same year, Rita Loud passed away and has joined her husband. They were kind souls in life and so shall be in Heaven.” The sky was gray but no other sign of rain coming was present. “I do believe that the book of Ecclesiastes has some important words for all of us and are most fitting for any occasion. I shall now recite chapter three, verses one through eight.” He cleared his throat again. “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance...”

Lincoln listened to the pastor. He waited for the man to be done, carefully observing each word he spoke. The words brought some comfort, but he wished not for comfort. He wished he could carry on with his parents being there for when he needed them most. And now he needed to be there when they needed him most. The pastor finished his services and approached Lincoln.

“My condolences, Mr. Loud,” he spoke, voice filled with the same solemnity he kept from before.

“Thank you, Pastor Mannard,” Lincoln replied. His voice was low.

“I’ll go ahead and retrieve the gravediggers for their burial. Are you sure you wish to stay around?” the pastor asked.

“I wish to see things through and give them the first shovelful of dirt,” he replied, still low with his voice.

“Then I shall be back in a moment.” The pastor left, going to where the diggers were. Luan put a hand on his shoulder.

“Do you want me to take Lily back to the mansion?” Her voice sounded broken, trying hard to keep itself together. She noticed the staff heading back and wondered what Lincoln would like to do.

“No, let her be until I head back myself.” He moved toward their gravestones, Luan pulling her hand away. She moved closer to Lily, staying within arm’s reach of her. Lincoln stood before the deceased, looking over their gravestones to check for any imperfection.

A good wife and perfect mother, letting no one else say otherwise, he read on the stone for his mother. He made sure the words were perfect, wanting to never disrespect her memory.

A kind husband and an even greater father, he read on the stone for his father. The same case could made here. The pastor returned with his two assistants, spades in hand. They lowered the couple into the holes, taking extreme care with doing so. True to his word, Lincoln gave the first portion of dirt to his mother and the next portion to his father, handing back the spade. He walked away, Luan and Lily in tow. He could hear the movement of dirt until he could hear no more, mostly since a set of walls blocked the sounds.

“Take Lily to her wet-nurse and please tell the staff that I don’t wish to disturbed for the rest of the day,” he told Luan after entering the foyer, the door barely being closed behind them. She nodded and he went to the den his father used almost all the time. Luan did precisely as instructed, informing those who needed to know and ensuring that Lily was to be taken care of before leaving her to see Lincoln. She opened the door with no warning and stepped in.

“May I come in?” she asked, unsure if he would entertain the thought of having her there at this time. He turned to see that it was indeed her before turning back and giving his response.

“Please do,” he spoke quietly from his seat. She moved in farther after shutting the door with a soft thunk. “It’s quite surreal, sitting here,” he spoke again.

“How so?” she indulged the pleasantry, sure of what the answer might be.

“He would always sit there,” Lincoln gestured at the giant, empty seat on the other side of the desk in front of him, “tending to any and all matters that were for business. I never saw him within this room without his presence on that side.” He rested his head in one hand as he looked at the floor. “I’ll never see him standing there again. He filled that seat, but now...” He turned to Luan and she saw his facade slowly breaking down. “But now… I’m not even sure I can fill it. Not even sure I want to fill it.” She stood behind him and clasped a hand upon his shoulder.

“I’m sure you’ll figure this out in due time,” she said, trying her best to comfort him. “Maybe so, but… there’s just so much to do,” he voiced with grave concern. “I have to assume control over my father’s business ventures, I have to make sure the estate isn’t just suddenly taken away, I have to make sure Lily is taken care of, all the while with me needing to put bread on the table for everyone here.” He looked back down. “Luan, I’m ill-prepared to be Master of the Estate.”

“We all have faith in you, Lincoln,” she said to soothe his woes. “You might not be prepared but I know you’ll succeed. You always do.” She finished with a giant smile showing off her buckteeth. He returned one that was weak, but it was still a smile nonetheless.

“Thank you, Luan, for your kind words,” he said. “However, I must ask you follow suit with the other staff and allow me to be alone for the rest of the day. I apologize if I sound unreasonable.”

“Not at all. I’ll let you know if an emergency arises and requires your attention,” she said and gave truth to her words by letting him be. With the door closed behind her, she set off for her normal rounds, checking to see if anyone was in need of company or wished to check on their employer’s emotional state. She left each room since not one spec of dust or dirt could found and everyone was given the same information when she encountered them. Finally, she walked into Lily’s room, sure there was something to pass the time there.

“How is Master Lincoln fairing?” the woman holding Lily as she herself sat in the rocking chair asked. Her age was certainly not large in number, though it was possible for her to be a grandmother (albeit, a young one at that), her hair reflecting this slightly and the formation of wrinkles barely taking root.

“He seems to be doing better than yesterday but the toll is still plain to see,” Luan responded from a chair stationed near the door. “I’m assuming that tomorrow, Lincoln will wish to be left alone in his room.”

“That’s Master Lincoln. He’s the head of the estate now; you must show him the proper respect his position carries,” the woman scolded her.

“I am showing him respect. He had the title thrust upon him and is still trying to get used to holding it. He wishes that his father still held it,” Luan said, defending her choice in words. The woman sighed.

“I suppose your words have merit, but that does not mean you should be used to speaking with a lack of title in your address of him.” Luan couldn’t argue her words. For as much as Lincoln was her friend, it was inevitable that he would simply become less so and then she would either have to leave or deal with it as her only paths.

“Fair enough,” Luan submitted. “But for now, it’s reasonable.” The older woman chuckled.

“That stubbornness will either put you on the streets or take you to the top of society,” the woman said as she stifled her laughing.

“And I’ll gladly accept such a fate, Ms. Agnis,” Luan spoke with confidence. With the time passing by quickly the more she conversed, night soon fell and she, along with all other members of the manor (to her knowledge), turned in so as to rise in the morning.

However, the next day was still as dreary as the previous one. Lincoln refused to have her as company, something she had expected and so she waited for the next day, and then the next day. And the one after that. It was at long last on the fourth day that she set her mind to disturbing her good friend in his time away from it all.

“Lincoln?” she called from her side of a large door after a quick rap. There was nothing. She repeated her actions, calling a second time, still gaining no response. “I’m coming in,” she warned as she tried the knob. It gave no resistance to her entrance. She entered and saw Lincoln slumped in a chair, his clothes still surrounding him as if he had been productive through the night. He had severe bags under his eyes and the occasional snore let her know he was still breathing. “Wake up, Lincoln.”

“What’s the time?” he asked as he roused at her hand’s behest.

“Time for breakfast,” she answered. He rubbed his eyes to rid them of sleep.

“Send it up then,” he responded, beginning to sit up and get some life into his limbs.

“Everyone’s worried about you,” she informed him. He paused and looked at her, his eyes barely focused.

“I’ll be down in a few minutes, then,” he conceded, slumping forward in the seat. She began to make her way out of the room so as to give him the space for his own needs but was stopped just before the door. “Tell everyone they’re more than welcome to join me, though I suspect I won’t be down there for long,” he added on. She nodded and went to spread the news. Almost all of the staff declined such an offer, the only one willing to accept being Ms. Agnis, on the conditions that she not be served anything.

Enough time passed to cause Luan to wonder if she would have to go back to retrieve her friend when he showed up. His clothes were more put together and fresher looking, but he still had a disheveled look to his head. She knew better than to point it out, seeing how him arriving was an achievement in and of itself. He took his seat and bowed his head so as to stare at the table. Luan delivered his breakfast directly to him.

“How’s the meal, Lincoln?” she asked after a few bites were taken. It was a simple testing of the waters, meant mostly to be done in stealth behind kind words.

“Quite good. Thank you,” he replied with little life in his words. She had taken a seat beside him, something she was rarely afforded a chance to do.

“That’s good to hear,” Luan said, unsure what else to truly do. He continued to eat the meal in peace, leaving with barely a word at the end of it. Luan followed him, even after he ducked into his room and tried to shut the door behind himself.

“I wish to be in peace,” he spoke with slight annoyance, turning around and seeing who he had given such a command to. “My apologies. I didn’t see you there.”

“There’s no need to be sorry. I completely understand,” she replied. He turned back to sit in his chair once more.

“I do wish to be alone,” he said in a much calmer tone. She ignored this and went directly to him, standing by his side as he sat at his desk.

“I’m worried about you,” she said, her tone showing it. “I haven’t seen you smile in an eternity.”

“Luan, now is not the right time–”

“I’m not leaving until I see a smile on your face, Lincoln.” She delivered the ultimatum and he knew that he was in for a fight to be rid of her. “Did you hear about the man wandering a police station? Apparently when he was stopped and asked why he was there, he said he didn’t have the faintest clue.” She saw the twinges of a smile touch the edges of his mouth and used this as a hope to keep pressing on. “Did you hear about the other man wandering the police station? He was trying to find someone to talk to about his pole’s lease”, she delivered, allowing a smile to touch her lips. Lincoln was trying quite hard to suppress the smile he was developing.

“Please, Luan,” he begged. She ignored him.

“Three men and a dwarf walk into a bar,” she began. A knock at the door to the room interrupted her. They both looked toward the door.

“Enter,” Lincoln called. The door opened to reveal a member of staff, a butler by the name of Drewson.

“There’s someone here who requests to meet you, sir,” he spoke, his very voice unsure if he should have even alerted the Master of the Estate to this guest and instead to have sent the person packing at the door.

(Go see the other half of the story at https://www.fanfiction.net/u/8482143/)

1vanth30s0m3/ivanthestoryteller: That was quite something. If you enjoyed it, then hopefully you’ll stick around for the rest of the story. I’ve never written an AU nor have I ever dreamed I would. I’d like to take this time to say that I’m probably going to get these chapters released very slowly, so hopefully I’ll be able to keep to a schedule of no more than every three months (I’m not joking). At least until I finish everything and then I’ll up the releases. I’d also like to take this time to recommend stories to you, dear reader. The first two stories go against my personal criteria for this section, but I’ll also be putting in two instead of one, so nothing will be as I want it to be in the future as I have it now. The first story is “Loud Like Love” by ThisAccountKillsFascists. I think I forgot to mention them in the last story I wrote and so I’m just being safe here. The second story I want to recommend is “A Sister’s Love” by (current name) Outsider316. Both can be found on fanfiction.net and are great stories. I really think you should check them out. In the future, I’ll be aiming for stories with under 50 favorites and 50 follows as well as less than 100 reviews from the same site. Other than that, tell me or doodler what you think about this story either here or on fanfiction.net. Reviews and/or pm’s are greatly appreciated.

Doodler here, now many of you fine ladies and gents know I had been absent for a while well that’s because recently I have been out of a job and had been struggling to make ends meet which is not a good thing when you are the constant whipping boy of that jerk called depression. I apologized for the delay and what I am about to do. I will be setting up some of the old fundraising sites like patreon. Not looking for much nor do I have a plan. All I will ask is just some small amount like a dollar, not even per month just a one time donation to help keep the lights on.

But have no fear! I will still be producing more content regardless!

The Loudest Show is a go!!!

112 notes · View notes

useless-bulgariafacts · 6 years ago

Note

hey im bulgarian, i chose to write this in english so others could profit from this maybe. do you know any books about bulgarian or slavic culture? even if its mythology or carpet-making or embroidery and stitching or songs... lmao. or if not any books do you have any films that are more ethnography-oriented? i grew up in a family that had no ties to the rural parts of bulgaria so i didnt get to see much of our traditions. thanks even if u dont have these resources :)

Hello! Firstly, I’d like to say I can very much relate to people who feel disconnected from Bulgarian traditions due to leading a more “urban” lifestyle and I’ve always wanted to know more about how life used to be (and in some cases still is) in the more rural regions of the country. So I genuinely hope I can help.

On mythology/folklore/religion:

“Българска народна митология” (pdf file) by Ivanichka Georgieva;

“Жива Старина” by Dimitar Marinov, which is among the oldest Bulgarian works of this nature. It’s a series of books, and of the currently available editions I advise you to look into “Народна вяра” and “Религиозни народни обичаи”;

“Традиции и празници в България”, “Достигнало до нас” and “От извора: Фолклорни студии” by Elena Ognyanova.

Really just Helikon’s entire section on Folklore and Folk Studies tbh, there’s too many books to list and it’s a great place to start.

On traditional medicine:

“Българска народна медицина” (another pdf) by Petar Dimkov, this is the most comprehensive book on folk medicine that I know of.

On textiles:

“Българската везбена орнаментика” by Ivan Koev;

“Знаци от везба” by Eli Gutseva (this is an album);

“Български народни шевици” by Elena Todorova (another album);

“България в шевици” by Iren Velichkova-Yamami, this one is a bit pricier but it comes with various templates, should you want to try out the embroidery patterns yourself. It’s also trilingual (Bulgarian/English/Japanese);

If you’re more historically minded, “History of Bulgarian Costume” is a look at Bulgarian attire from the Medieval period up until the early 20th century;

Unfortunately I’m not aware of any books specifically on carpet-weaving, but there are some documentaries on yt if you look up “килимарството в България”.

On folk music/dancing:

[Disclaimer: my sources on music are mostly academic and I’m not sure how interesting or helpful they would be to the average layperson, that’s why I left some of them out]

“Български народни песни” (pdf), the Miladinovi brothers’ famous compilation of Bulgarian folk songs from the Macedonian region;

“Българска народна музика” by Lidia Litova, this is a textbook and it’s also available at the National Library;

“Българска народна музика” and “Българската многогласна народна песен” by Nikolay Kaufman;

“Свирачът във фолклорната култура” by Svetlana Zaharieva;

There is a series of books titled “��ългарски народни танци” by Krasimir Petrov which gives detailed instructions on folk dancing (each book covers a specific region) but imo you don’t need books for this, there’s lots of videos on yt dedicated to self-teaching that are nice and easy to follow.

I’m afraid I can’t help much with films, all I can think of rn is “Voices from the Holocene”, a documentary about the Bistritsa grannies, but I have no clue where it’s available to watch :/ Again, something could turn up on youtube or similar video sharing platforms, but I don’t know anything beyond that.

Lastly, some general advice - the best way to reconnect is through immersion, so visit open-air museums, and especially folk festivals - Жеравна, Пирин пее, etc., because that’s where you can hear more authentic folk music, see people wearing traditional clothes, folk arts and crafts displays, and engaging in all of that helps city kids not feel like outsiders.

So yeah, I hope this has been helpful, if you have more questions feel free to ask :)

#anonymous #answered #resources #culture #long post #oof this took so long to compile i hope someone appreciates it

59 notes · View notes

rum-and-shattered-dreams · 7 years ago

Link

Chapter 11: Novel Ideas Summary: Exhausted, Stan is finally set free and rushes the surgery center. Ford struggles to come to terms with the reality he's been avoiding. Stan employs a solid coping mechanism in an attempt to help.

Notes: Warnings: emotional breakdown, restraints, arguing, nightmares

Thanks to everyone for your comments, questions, and input. It's all an inspiration and a huge help in building this AU. :D

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven (with illustration) Part Eight Part Nine (With link to more art!) Part Ten More fics An illustration (from part one) Stan wanted to wrap Dipper and Mabel in a crushing hug when they released him from public imprisonment. But, he held back, mostly, because he figured they wouldn't want to be smothered in bits of tomato and old man sweat, but partly, because his back teeth had been floating for the past few hours and the slightest squeeze could be disastrous. He jogged to the nearest bathroom as fast as his simultaneously numb and aching legs would carry him. Every step sent a jolt through his sore soles but he made it to an outhouse and not a moment too soon. Once relieved, he pumped a bucket of water from a Pioneer Day prop and dumped it over his head, half amazed that the pump functioned and half unsurprised, given the town's obsession with the event. He pumped and poured another bucketful, despite his rubbery arms, scrubbing dried tomato from his hair, brows, and stubble. He mentally thanked Soos for stopping by that afternoon and cleaning the bulk of the tomato mess off before it could bake in the sun (and, he had to admit, for keeping him company for a while). After drying his glasses with a cloth from his pocket, he rushed back to the car and kids. "We gotta get out of here!" he said, both out of sheer desperation to leave and because, by this point, he'd broken his promise to Ford. Visit in the morning? It's going to be night by the time I get there at this rate. Once buckled in the driver's seat, he cranked up the heat, shivering as cold water dripped from his hair and soaked through his coat. On the way home, he spun a story about how he had been planning to take photos of creepy looking things in the woods for a new exhibit in the shack and how he'd have to go out tonight to do it since this was their only day off for the rest of the week. "Heh, might be better anyway," he embellished his lie, "Things look a lot spookier at night." "Oh can I come with you?!" Dipper asked, his seatbelt stretching as he leaned forward in his seat. "There are so many weird things out there, and I have this book that can probably help us find some of them!" "Thanks, kid, but no thanks. I-uh..." Stan pondered a minute, knowing very well that if these kids were anything like he and his brother were, giving them a flat no would only make them more determined to follow him. "Hey, maybe next time," he reasoned, "but this time I could really use your help making banners and decorations for the shack's fair this weekend. Mabel, you think you're up for that?" "Are you kidding?! I have buckets of paint just waiting for a project like this! Dipper, can we?!" she begged, grabbing Dipper's vest and shaking him. "Please please pleeeeaaaase?!" "Yeah. Alright, I guess," he answered, tipping his hat back into place only to have it knocked off when she stretched over to hug him. "Great," Stan said with a relieved sigh, "Give Soos a call when I drop you off. He's got the plans for everything. Tell him I'll let him rig up the dunk machine if he comes over to help you." **** With the kids safely back at the shack, Stan careened through the wooded roads. Shit shit shit shit shit, his mind chanted, his heart thumping in double-time to the rhythm. His eyes squinted in the setting sun's glare but he plowed forward, the Stanmobile practically flying off the peaks of hills as he left Gravity Falls and the valley behind. He sped around corners, nearly tipping up on two wheels, his hands crushing the steering wheel in his grip. The sky shifted from hues of orange and pink to electric blue while buildings replaced towering trees along the roadside. Ten minutes into the city, Stan searched for 5th street and the distinct, domed roof of the surgery center. He cursed as he passed the turn anyway. I like this doctor's style, though, he thought, hiding in plain sight. He pulled an illegal u-turn in front of a honking pickup truck that he swore wasn't there a second ago. As he swerved into the parking lot, the surgery center's neon sign lit up against the darkening sky. He spun the wheel, parking haphazardly next to one of two other cars in the lot, Dr, Braum's SUV. "Ugh. Ow! Son of a-" He moaned as he climbed out of the car. His back cracked as he straightened it, muscles protesting from his shoulders straight down through his to thighs and calves. It felt like the soles of his feet were bruised and bleeding from being stuck on them all day. In the car's heat, it seemed like his hair and coat had nearly dried but the evening breeze cut through him as if he'd just dumped a pitcher of ice water over himself. In a series of grunts and groans, he hobbled to the sliding glass door. When it refused to open, he pounded on the glass, hoping someone would hear him. The janitor looked up from cleaning behind the reception desk and nodded. She hurried to the door and unlocked it, sliding it open manually. Stan sped through the moment he could fit. "Dr. Braum told me you might show up tonight," She said, closing and locking the doors. Stan pushed, pulled, and tried to slide open the double doors leading back to the surgery and recovery rooms but they refused to move. "Hold on and I'll let her know you're here." The janitor said, stepping behind the reception desk. She picked up the phone's headset, her gloved fingers prodding at the phone's buttons. Dr. Braum picked up on the first ring. "He's here," the janitor explained, "Yeah, the old guy in a suit and fez. Yeah. Alright. I'll buzz him through." She pulled off the headset and pressed a button behind the desk. "You can go on through now," she instructed. Stan rushed into the back hall, past dark and empty rooms, prepped for surgery the next morning. He nearly ran into the door that opened on the hall's left side, his shoes' soles squeaking against the hardwood floor as he stopped. The door closed revealing a woman nearly larger than it with rainbow streaked hair pulled into a bun. "Oh, Dr. Braum. I-" "Where the HELL have you been?" she reprimanded, her arms perched on her hips as she towered above him. "You said you'd be here as soon as you could!" "This IS as soon as I could!" He retorted, looking up to her with bloodshot eyes. "When you told my assistant that this morning, we assumed it meant less than thirteen hours later." "It did-" "We called you twelve times today and couldn't get a hold of you." "Why? What's going on? Is Ford alright?" Stan blurted, shifting his body to peek down the hall past Dr. Braum. "Did he do something?" "Your brother's been having some nightmares that are affecting his heart rate and blood pressure," Dr. Braum explained, her hands lowering from her hips, one settling in her lab coat's pocket. "The few times one of our nurses caught him awake and tried to talk to him, he told us to go away and, to be honest, she doesn't know him well enough to determine if it was him saying that or... the other him." Nightmares were normal for both Ford and Stan, himself. That was no surprise, though, he figured, it might be alarming to someone who's not used to it... And even more alarming to him as he realized that he and Ford were used to it. How had things gotten to the point where nightly nightmares were just a part of life? Stan sighed and said, "Look, this has been one of the worst days of my life," he exaggerated, though not by much, "and, believe me, that's saying something, so can you let me by so I can see my brother, already?" With a determined wrinkling of his nose, he bumped past the doctor, unsure of where he was going but willing to find out. "Wait, there's something I need to tell-" Before she could finish her sentence, Stan spotted a door on the right marked "maintenance" and grabbed the latch, rattling it when it wouldn't budge. Dr. Braum sighed and said, "Hold on. I have to unlock it from the nurses station." Her lab coat billowed behind her as she stepped around the desk and pressed a button. The door buzzed and Stan was inside before she could say another word. The room was notably smaller than the others and smelled of disinfectant. Darkness set in as the door closed behind him, the room lit solely by the strip of light under the door and illuminated numbers on a screen to the right. From what Stan could tell, there were cabinets, a wash station, and a door standing ajar to his left. To his right was Ford's bed, a rolling table, and various machines and monitors. Beside the bed was a blocky chair. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Stan stepped forward, reaching for the nearest arm of the chair. "Ford," he said in a husky whisper, using the chair to guide him to the bed. "Stanford?" No answer came aside from the rise and fall of breaths. The back of the bed was raised about halfway and a blanket covered his brother's body up to his shoulders. As Stan's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see Ford's head was turned away, his unbandaged eye clenched closed. "Ford. I can tell you're not asleep," Stan said, with a muffled moan as he eased himself into the chair. "I got here as soon as I could. What happened? How are you?" "Nothing. I'm fine," he answered flatly. "Are you alright?" he muttered in a detached tone, "And the kids?" "The kids are fine but it's been a Hell of a day for me. I'm a bit sore but otherwise alright." "Good. That's good." "Ford. What's wrong?" Stan asked, the wooden legs of his chair scraping as he angled it closer to the bed. "Nothing. I was just worried about you when you didn't... Nevermind." "Ford, I can explain-" "I said it's nothing!" He snapped, his limbs tensing against the restraints beneath his blanket. "Just go away. Please." Stan sighed, placing a hand on the bedside bar. "No. I'm not leaving until you talk to me. What happened during surgery? They said Bill didn't make it easy for them. What did he do? Has he been bothering you today?" Stan rattled off questions, his tone becoming more on edge as he spoke until a grim chuckle silenced him. "Oh sure," Ford said, "You're fine not being here all day and now you won't leave." "That wasn't my fault! I-" "Get out," he demanded. "Leave me alone!" "Bill...? Or me?" "Both of you!" "Ford..." "Where were you all day?!" he shouted, his eye closed tight as if to prevent the flood of emotions. "You promised... And I TRUSTED you! And you just left me here alone. With him!" "Ford, I'm sorry!" Stan shouted, bolting up from his chair. "I tried to get here but I got arrested!" "Arrested?" Ford, asked, concern woven into his inflection, as he turned to face Stan. His hand reached for the light switch on the bedside rail and he pressed it once for its dimmest setting. "For what?" he asked, the machine beside him registering his quickening pulse as he dreaded the answer. Did Rico turn him in? Did one of his aliases catch up with him? I never even considered- "Ironically, for trying to get here faster," Stan explained. "What?" Ford asked, his shoulders relaxing and pulse slowing. His head lulled back against the pillow, nausea and sleepiness draining him. "I tried to drop the kids off in town but it was Pioneer day. My car got stuck in the mud and when the mechanic wouldn't help me, I got angry and the cops thought it would be cute to lock me in the stocks all day." In a groggy half-yawn, his inhibitions obliterated, Ford corrected, "Pillories." "Huh?" "Stocks are for your ankles. Unless it's changed over the years, the ones they use on Pioneer Day are-" Ford's slurred words trailed off into another yawn. "And here I was worried about you all day, you pretentious-!" Stan paused as his brother's eye slipped shut, his breaths deep and rhythmic. "Did you seriously just fall sleep?" Stan whispered in annoyance. Exasperated, he flopped back into his chair, massaging his eyelids as he listened to the beeps of the monitor behind him. In less than a minute their pace quickened again, nearly blurring together. Stan leapt up, turning to look- "Wait..." Ford mumbled, drawing Stan's attention back to him, "Why can't I...? I can't... I can't move!" He jolted awake, his breath coming in heavy pants, sweat drenching his face. "It's alright," Stan said, using the bed rail to lift himself out of the chair. "Ford, it's alright. It was another nightmare. It's alright," he reassured him in as calm a tone as he could muster, his hands reaching over the bedside bar to wrap around Ford's. The door slammed open and Dr. Braum rushed in. "Dr. Pines?!" She blurted, jogging to his bedside. "Another nightmare," Stan explained, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced in the dim light as he looked up to her. "It's him," Ford panted, "He won't let me sleep. He keeps-. Every time I fall asleep, he-." "Wait," said Dr. Braum, leaning over the bed, "How can that be? Lottie and the nurses said you were mostly sleeping today." She flinched back as Ford opened his eye, yellow and slit down the center by black. "He's almost as good of an actor as the con man, here," Bill answered, nodding to Stan. "Funny. This whole set-up is too good to be true! All I had to do was make sure he was awake for it all." Stan's eyes widened at the implication. "All? What do you mean, all?" "That surgery thing was an interesting experience," Bill said with a laugh, "Pretty great, I thought. But I didn't want to hog all the fun so I just dropped in from time to time to make sure Fordsy, here, didn't miss anything." "I had a feeling," Dr. Braum whispered, shaking her head. "We warned him there was a possibility he could wake up, especially under his circumstances, but he still said to go through with it. "Wait. You're telling me he was awake during surgery?!" Stan barked. As Ford's eye dimmed and closed, his head tipping to the side in slumber, Stan hushed himself to an angry hiss, "And you didn't know it?!" "We could tell when that demon showed up for a split second every so often and accommodated it the best we could but otherwise, it's nearly impossible to tell in any patient. The paralytic in the anesthesia immobilizes the body and maintains a lower heart rate and blood pressure." "That's what your assistant meant when she said he didn't make it easy, then?" Stan asked, pinching his nose. "Yes. We didn't want to mention it to you over the phone since we weren't actually sure. It made no sense to worry you since we thought you were pretty much on your way." She paused, finally taking in the sorry sight of the man standing before her. "What happened to you, anyway. You look like you need a few stiff drinks and about a week's worth of sleep." "A cuppa coffee would be a life saver right n-" "No..." Ford croaked. "No. Please! Stanley, I'm sorry!" He thrashed under his blanket, bucking against his bonds. His eye peeled open, his breath coming in short bursts. "Ford, it's alright. I'm alright," Stan assured him, "I'm safe." He looked up to Dr. Braum and requested, "Can you give us a minute?" "Of course," she said, her steps nearly silent as she approached the door. "I'll be in my office finishing up some dictation if you need me." The door clicked against it's frame, its motorized lock latching behind her. "I can't do this anymore," Ford croaked, looking up to him with dampness welling in the corner of his eye, "I'm tired. I'm so tired." "Yeah. You've been through Hell," Stan empathized. "More than that," he said, turning his head away, "I'm tired of all of this. It's gone, Stanley. My eye is gone. It's GONE! I'm tied to a bed because a demon might make me hurt myself or someone else. I've destroyed thirty years of both of our lives! Probably forty of yours-" "Ford, you can't blame yourself for that," Stan's words went unheard as Ford continued. "And now, I finally get to be someplace other than the house for the first time in twenty of those years and all I want to do is go back to the basement. And to top it all off, I don't want to do this because I can't even wipe my own damn nose!" His breath hitched, coming in ragged gasps. He sniffled, his face burning as he fought the impending flood. "I just want to sleep." "I wish I knew what would help you get some rest," Stan mumbled, uncertain of what else to say. Ford turned his head to face his twin, his cheeks flushed and eye bloodshot. His voice trembled as he asked, "Stanley, do... Do we look anything like each other anymore?" Stan thought for a moment. Their ears were the same size and shape, but Ford's left ear now had two notches cut into its helix thanks to an unexpected nap more than twenty-five years ago. At one time, their noses were identical, now they'd both been misshapen by breaks, scars, and old age. As for everything else, well... There were few similarities anymore. Ford's hair had turned a darker shade of gray, streaked with the near-white of Stan's. Stan's arms grew muscular and his tummy, round, but Ford's legs retained muscle while the rest of him thinned. After considering it all, he answered, "We're still the same height, I guess. But, no amount of differences is gonna change that we're still family. If it bugs you, though, do you want to try the shave and hair cut idea?" "Maybe..." Ford debated aloud, sniffling and stifling his outburst. "Yes. Probably." "Ford," Stan said, resting his hands over his brother's, "I'm sorry I wasn't here for you today." "I'm sorry you had such a terrible day." "Says the man still going through Hell." "It's not like it's a shitty day contest," Ford said, forcing a crocked smile. "I guess," Stan said with a shrug. "Well, you know about my day," Ford said, leaning his head back in the search for comfort and prying for the distractions he'd sorely missed all day, "Tell me about yours?" "Sure," Stan said, his aching back forcing him down into the chair with a grunt. He animated the story of his day through exaggerated hand motions and expressions in true showmanship style. Ford sneered at the mention of Gideon, mentioning that the kid still creeped him out. He gasped over the first tomato pelting and almost laughed when Stan revealed he kept a bobby pin under his fez for emergencies. His eyes widened as Stan spun the tale of nearly picking the lock and losing the pin, and he gasped audibly, "Oh no!" "Yup. Tumbled right to the ground. And of all people, Preston's kid, Pacifica, happened to be standing right there to see the whole thing. She offered me a deal to get the pin back; said I had to say her family is the best." "Stanley, you didn't. Not after how she treated Mabel at the party." "Hell no!" He bellowed, his hands slapping his knees, "I asked if she wanted it in writing and wrote 'You stink' with a pen stuck in my mouth!" Ford managed a laugh, "Excellent. I'm proud of you, holding your ground like that. But, I'm not surprised. You've always been-" "A stubborn old fool?" "Stubborn. Yes. But that's not a bad thing. I have your stubbornness to thank for you sticking around, after all." "Heh. Yeah. I guess. Anyway, I'd say it was worth the extra tomato pelting." "Oh, Stanley..." he said with a sympathetic lilt. "Eh, it's alright. Soos came by and kept me company for a bit then the kids showed up later and broke me out with some magical key they found during the day. Mabel, heh, her and her imagination, I tell ya. She had on this top hat and said it was 'cause she's a senator now. But, hey, she 'pardoned' me and the town didn't object so, whatever, I guess." "She sounds like quite a pistol, alright." "Sure is. I think you two will get along well," Stan added, his tone showing nothing but absolute certainty that they'd meet someday. Ford's answer, however, was not so certain. "I hope so." "Well, enough about me, how about you? With all this time stuck alone like this, you got any new ideas for that novel of yours for me to write down?" he asked, digging in his coat pocket for a battered notepad with a dripping, black question mark on the cover and a What is the Mystery Shack? pen. "... Yes. Actually." "Alright," Stan said, clicking the pen and holding it above an empty page, "ready whenever you are." Ford cleared his throat, thankful that the smolder of his cheeks had dulled to an awkward stiffness but annoyed at the headache setting in. Even so, he breathed deeply and began, picking up at a seemingly random point in a story inspired by nearly being dragged into the portal all those years ago, by his own fears, and by imagination; the story of a man traveling between dimensions. "In his journey, he stumbled upon a world of two dimensional beings. He found himself stuck in an uncomfortable position, his eyes above their dimensional plane but his mouth below, rendering him unable to explain his circumstances and barely able to perceive the edges of the startled shapes surrounding him. Fearing his presence, the residents attacked. Their razor sharp edges sliced into his flesh repeatedly, but he was trapped, utterly helpless, his pleas for mercy bellowing outside of their frame of existence until his vision darkened and he lost consciousness. He awoke seemingly moments later laying among plush pillows and soft blankets, his wounds cleaned and bandaged. An unearthly woman towered above him, her seven stunning eyes filled with concern as they gazed down to him. Though his experiences had left him on edge, something about her set his mind at ease. Perhaps it was her posture, proper but not too stiff, the way her hands folded gently over her lap as she sat beside him, or the kindness in her voice as she welcomed him to her mountaintop shrine. She introduced herself as an oracle and claimed he would be safe by her side. His instincts screamed for him to get up and run, that no one could be trusted, yet, he remained a resident in the shrine as he recovered." Ford yawned, his eyelid drooping as his words trailed off, "Eventually, he realized, the oracle had earned his trust... Stan looked up from his scrawled writing, leaning forward to the edge of his seat as he awaited the rapid beeps and panicked pleas of the next nightmare. Several minutes passed and nothing happened. He stood, his own heart picking up tempo in place of Ford's as he leaned over the bed. "Gah!" He jumped back as Ford's eye flew open, yellow glare piercing through. His head and limbs thrashed against the restraints, blanket flapping over his body. Bill growled and huffed, "Guess I tired him out too much. Human bodies have so little endurance. Yeesh. A bit of trauma and a night or two without sleep and they're useless." Stan gave a deep sigh, falling back into his chair. His hands draped over his knees, barely keeping hold of the notepad and pen. Embittered, he asked, "Don't you have anything better to do, Bill?" "Thanks you you two, no. Not at the moment. You really have no idea how boring it can get being immortal and stuck in only one dimension, do you? But, I've got my eye on some new prospects. Aw, don't think that means I'll neglect you two. But for now, Sweet dreams! Hope those restraints hold up. Wouldn't want anything bad happening, now would you?" With that, Ford's eye dimmed, the lid slipping closed as he slept. Stan breathed deeply, leaning back in his chair. "Hope you get some rest, Ford," he whispered. In his own exhaustion, Stan fell asleep before his head hit the chair's padded back, the notebook resting on his chest and pen clattering to the floor.

Notes:

Wkdw Jlghrq nlg lv suhwwb fuhhsb, lvq'w kh?

Don't worry, Ford isn't holding anything against Dr. Braum. If anything, she was a kind and comforting presence to him during the whole ordeal.

Personal note: Apparently I'm such an insomniac that I woke up under general anesthesia once. The incredibly vivid memories I have of it are partly what inspired this. Thing is, I didn't realize it was something that can profoundly affect your life until reading up more on it for research for this. I never even told anyone about it because I didn't realize it was something I should tell. So yeah, my doctors didn't even know about it. Reading up on it is already explaining a lot but I probably haven't even scratched the surface yet. I just never related anything to it before, possibly because the one effect I don't have is nightmares (about that in particular). (Also, sorry, but I don't want to go into detail at the moment because even that is an issue wrapped up in it that I haven't solved yet. It wasn't a serious procedure or surgery, though, so no worries. Anyway, I just wanted to mention where the inspiration came from and show that writing like this actually *is* therapeutic and can uncover real life issues.)

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanfiction #stanford pines #stanley pines #bill cipher #ford pines #stan pines #the man downstairs au #the man downstairs fic #mo's writing and such

25 notes · View notes