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the-unknown-storyteller · 5 days ago

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Be Still My Beating Heart

(Read it here on AO3)

Length: 3.6k

Summary: After melding with the Mansion, its grounds are off-limit to any and all visitors. However, when Oliver, restless and sleepless, is pulled back to the Mansion, Ángel can't help but follow and make sure that he is okay. While it is usually a jarring experience to have people enter what is essentially the inside of Oliver, when Ángel enters the Mansion for the first time, it is frightening how complete it makes him feel instead.

Or: Ángel enters the Mansion for the first time and it affects Oliver differently than he had anticipated. (Post Ending 9: Unwilling Symbiosis)

___

It is a gradual thing. When they leave the Mansion and that horrible night behind, neither of them suspect that they would ever have to return to it. Ángel makes good on his promise to build a secure perimeter around the whole thing, fenced off with no one allowed in, and that is that.

Except that Oliver is starting to feel restless. He starts to pace the rooms of their apartment in the evening then increasingly more often at night. He spaces out during conversations and finds it hard to concentrate. Not even the most exciting case can keep his attention for long and there is this gnawing feeling in his chest, as though a black hole were slowly devouring him. His nights are endless in their sleeplessness and there is this pull in his stomach that makes him hunger for something that is not food. He feels like he is losing his mind, something that he is usually proud to say that he is always in possession of even in the most dire situations.

It all comes to a head during their next trip on one of their days off. They are taking the bus that leads out of the city, intent on visiting that farm a few kilometers off from the Mansion. To feed those chickens and ducks as they had promised.

Except when it is time to get off, Oliver doesn’t move, rooted to his seat. He catches Ángel’s arm as he tries to stand up.

His grip is quite strong, tense and almost cramping with how tight it it. A part of him wants to apologize for clearly hurting the other. But another part - and it feels like this part is trying to swallow him whole right now - is hissing at him to not let Ángel leave.

When he tries to explain that same part claws at his throat and no sound comes out. He hopes the other understands anyway. And of course, his beautiful angel does. If this were not such a terrifying experience currently, then Oliver would give his beloved a kiss but alas.

The other sits down, not reacting to bruising grip on his arm. Oliver doesn’t know what kind of expression is currently on his face but Ángel’s is full of concern. The doors close and his hand relaxes but doesn’t quite leave its place as their journey continues.

They miss the next stop. And the next. But by now they both know their final destination anyway, so there is no reason to pay overly much attention to where they are going.

Oliver gives Ángel a slight nudge when it is time and they both get off the bus.

It would be appropriate to think that the silence that surrounds them is tense but instead it is quiet and gentle, only interrupted by bird song and the reassuring warmth of the sun that follows them to the Mansion. Winter has long passed.

The closer they get to the front door, the more centered and calm Oliver feels. The restlessness that had been with him for the better part of almost six weeks now is lessening with every step they are taking and it worries him. This is where his beloved was so thoroughly and deeply hurt, where he himself has died again and again, and yet he can’t help but feel more at ease the closer they get to the front door.

“Are you sure that you want me to go in with you?” Ángel scrutinizes the walls of the Mansion, being careful not to touch anything. “Would it not just feel like ants walking all over your skin again?” They both remember the breakdown that Oliver had suffered when the connection was first formed. The scratching and clutching at arms that no one was touching. The constant whispering and murmuring in his ears that no one was speaking to. It was his own personal hell.

“I’m not sure… There is just this feeling. It’s hard to explain and I can’t find the right words. But it just feels different.” Oliver walks up to the front door but hesitates before touching it. He hasn’t set a foot in the Mansion since he stepped out of it to find Ángel.

Suddenly, he is wondering. He knows what it feels like when other people walk around (overwhelming, horrible, too many sensations at once) but will it really feel the same when Ángel is the one stepping inside?

He thinks back to those bone-grating sensations but also remembers that Ángel had made them bearable. At least long enough to let the police and inspectors do their thing. His steady warmth at Oliver’s side had let him focus on the difference between the Mansion’s halls and the body that was actually his. His voice, as they laughed and dreamed of the future, had drowned out the words that were echoing through his chest. It had anchored him and made something settle deep in his bones that made him feel content and right.

He can’t shake the feeling that it will be different when it is Ángel that steps inside. No, rather there is this persistent longing inside him that goes beyond the love that he has for the other. A quiet chant of keep him safe, yours, all yours, yours to keep and protect that sometimes makes him scared to touch the other in fear of not being able to let go. It feels dangerously close to devotion, unconditional and all-encompassing yet possessive and volatile in its depth.

“Maybe if I am prepared, it won’t be as bad,” Oliver reasons and gestures for the other to step forward. “And it would generally make me feel better if you went with me.” Also, they both know that it would drive Ángel crazy to let the other out of his sight for however long this will take.

“Let’s get this over with then,” Ángel declares and decisively yet gently grips the door’s handle to open it. Instantly, a shiver races up Oliver’s right arm, which then settles in his hand, not letting go. It makes him twitch and then flinch his hand away from a source of touch that doesn’t exist. Through his sudden movement he almost hits the other in the face. Ángel immediately lets go of the door and turns to check on him.

“Sorry, sorry, I thought I was prepared but...” Oliver rubs at the palm of his hand and shakes it a few times. The feeling that seems both foreign yet familiar is gone. That was intense. But not unpleasant. “Could you try again? Fully open it this time, though.”

“If you’re sure, Beebs,” the other mutters and moves to open the door again, even more careful and gentle than the previous time.

Again, a shiver races up Oliver’s arm, stopping at his hand and settling there like a black cat in a honey-warm spot in the sun. If he closes his eyes and concentrates, he could compare it to the sensation of holding the hand of someone dear. A little bit giddy with a kind of childish joy that permeates his whole being, soothing and familiar down to the bone.

Yet at the same time there is something alien about it that creates an underlying tension which is slowly pulling him under. It makes it increasingly harder to tell where the Mansion ends and Oliver starts or is it the other way around? His hand is clutching Ángel’s shoulder but also being held by him in turn - wait, no, Ángel is touching the door’s handle not my hand - and there is a light breeze of whispered words that are starting to fill his dusty cobweb-filled chest. The soothing timbre of it makes the constant chant inside Oliver turn mournful. He left me, alone, all alone so long.

There is this sudden grief that grips Oliver. He conceptually understands that its source, Ángel, is standing right beside him at this very moment. Ángel, who hasn’t left his side since they escaped the Mansion. Yet he cannot stop. When will he return, gone, all gone.

The whispered words from before grow louder and louder, more insistent as they turn into yelling and then he feels hands on his arms, the ones that truly belong to himself, and something snaps like a rubber band snapping back into itself.

The Mansion opens its eyes with a start. No, not the Mansion, I opened my eyes. Oliver’s other hand grabs at Ángel’s jacket as he steadies himself from the disorienting feeling of being slammed back into his own body. He breathes deeply a few times and glances at the front door that is now wide open. “Sorry, don’t know what happened there, haha.”

“I really don’t think this is a good idea, Beebs,” Ángel softly protests, steadying the other as another shiver goes through him. A light breeze blows through the Mansion’s stagnant halls. It feels refreshing.

Oliver feels like he needs to throw up from the emotional rollercoaster and conflicting sensations that rapidly circle from good to bad to worse to pleasant again.

“I, uh, I’m good.” He just needs to compartmentalize and accept the sensations as they come. Because as stomach-swooping as that just felt, it also further sets something right within him and Oliver can no longer deny that this is something he needs. “Let’s continue.”

A second or two pass where Ángel just stares at him, assessing him and weighing if they should continue or not. His eyes wander around the hallway, catching a glimpse of the Gray paintings, before they center back on Oliver. A look of pain passes over his face, as he comes to the unfortunate conclusion. Because despite his strong reactions just now, they can both tell that Oliver is already feeling better overall.

Ángel relents with a sigh and gestures for the other to go inside but when Oliver doesn’t, he just sighs again and takes a step into the Mansion’s main hall.

The air in the room is still, like a breath held indefinitely. There’s nothing left of the party that had taken place just a few months past, except for empty tables that have held snacks and beverages once but not been moved.

While Ángel would have loved to lock everything up and never touch it again, they both knew that they had to at least let someone clean up the place before it is put under lock and key. So they had the snacks collected and thrown away - Oliver couldn’t stomach another bite of them, no matter how delicious or expensive, which was the real tragedy of the whole ordeal - and all other perishables in the kitchen were removed as well.

Beyond that, the main hall looks the same, as though frozen in time.

Ángel’s steps are soft and slow, as he walks forward, periodically looking back to check on Oliver. The latter hasn’t voiced a destination yet, so Ángel can only trust that the other will lead him where they need to go.

But Oliver isn’t quite paying attention, mechanically following the figure in front of him. He zones out as he his gaze wanders downward. Each gentle thump thump, thump thump on the floor races like electricity up his arms and down his back. It’s nothing like the crawling legs of ants or bugs.

Instead it feels like a slow caress down his neck and a charged touch that zings across his shoulders. The quiet chant stays much the same but is also more insistent than ever before, as though it tries to drown Oliver in its urgency, in its fever-inducing elation and joy. He’s here, yours, all yours, he’s here, he’s home.

Further fragments settle like puzzle pieces in a set and it is frightening how complete Oliver feels right now. How electrifying each of Ángel’s steps are as he walks through their halls. How he can almost feel the movement of the other’s breath through the stagnant air of his rooms. It makes him happy. It makes him so happy he feels almost nauseous with it.

Suddenly, the steady run of electricity peters out and Oliver whips his head up to stare at what he knows is its source. Ángel has stopped walking, using the last of his steps to turn around, so that he can face the other. Oliver hasn’t noticed how quiet it’s been until now. He also hasn’t noticed that he has been grinning like mad until now. His cheeks hurt.

“You’re scaring me, Beebs,” Ángel admits. They are a few paces apart but he doesn’t close the distance between them. Oliver doesn’t either, spellbound and rooted to the carpet as he is. “You know I love you very much but I’m not keen on playing Orpheus to your Eurydice.”

Ángel’s words seem to echo around the room, reverberating endlessly in his ribcage, before they settle and soak into the floorboards. Oliver clears his throat a few times, separating immobile brick from flesh that is able to talk and remembering how to do that. What comes out is more of a wooden creak than a voice but he makes do.

“Didn’t know you knew literature like that, my angel,” Oliver teases but it doesn’t quite land. Silence descends once again. They’re at a stalemate, so they just stare.

There is a searching look on Ángel’s face, as his eyes seem to roam over Oliver and then around the room, and then he sighs again. They should start a counter for that or maybe an average. Ángel sighs per minutes. Or hours? Days? How long have they been here for anyway? Oliver becomes increasingly more aware that the ground floor of the Mansion barely has any windows. Speaking from repeating hallways and half-finished busts and mannequins, it should bother him more. It doesn’t.

“Please talk to me, Ollie.” Another sigh. “You know I would do anything for you... follow you anywhere, no questions asked.” It’s painful how true those words are - tried and tested, however unwilling. “But I also need you to meet me halfway, Beebs.”

Oliver laughs and it feels a bit unhinged. Getting a good grade in mental stability is impossible to achieve and yet he wants it so bad or what was it again? Oliver finds it hard to string his thoughts together right. But he will try. For his angel he will try as many times as it takes.

“Could you, uhh, come over here, though?” He gestures at the few paces between them. “I promise it won’t hurt me. I just… find it hard to explain it without just showing you.” Ángel barely hesitates before he closes the distance in a few soft steps - thump thump thump, a steady heartbeat in his chest. “And I can’t actually promise that my explanation will make sense but just bear with me.”

“Of course. Anything for you, Beebs.” Oh, how I love him so.

“Give me your hands then, my love.” He doesn’t hesitate at all this time and extends both of his hands which Oliver takes. There is that same giddy joy but without the alien tension from the conflicting sensation that the door had kicked loose.

He’s here, close, so close, endlessly lovable and endlessly loved, love, love him so much. The quiet chant purrs in satisfaction at their close proximity. Huh, it’s never reacted that way before. Unbidden a blush reddens Oliver’s cheeks and he lightly shakes his head, as though that would be able to get rid of it.

A light chuckle breaks his chain of thoughts and he looks up to see Ángel with a grin on his face. “Is a mere touch of my hands this enthralling and seductive that it makes you blush?”, he asks, as he waggles his eyebrows at him. He is endearingly bad at it. Oliver avoids his gaze as his blush deepens nonetheless.

“I’m trying to explain something here, Ángel! Just close your eyes now, please.” The other tries to school his face into a more serious expression while he closes his eyes but fails a few times, as a few giggles escape here and there, especially when Oliver glares at him. Made the bunny angry, haha. “Ángel!”

“Okay, okay, doing it now.” As Ángel closes his eyes and just stands there, so still and trusting, a bout of protectiveness and possessiveness surges through Oliver but he holds himself back. He promised to give an explanation, some direction. Bad choice of words.

“Good, now focus on your hands and how they are being held by mine. Just, really pay attention to the way it feels where they touch.” He lightly rubs his thumb over the other’s knuckles, back and forth. “Now believe that we are not actually touching. Believe that despite what you can currently feel, your hands are not in mine right now and you just have your hands raised in the empty air.” Oliver can tell that Ángel doesn’t quite get what he means but going by the furrow in his left brow, he is trying very hard to.

Oliver lightly taps his fingers against the other’s palm, a steady staccato back and forth, and then lightly brushes over his hands, which he knows Ángel likes as made evident by the twitch and shiver that seemingly races up his arms. “Now, although I told you to imagine and believe that, you logically know that I am actually touching you. That your hands are in mine. That you can feel these light touches…” He lightly taps his palms again, which makes the other twitch. “…because I am the source of them.”

“Now multiply that sensation and that dissonance from what I told you to believe tenfold and flip it around.”

“What.” Ángel opens his eyes in confusion but Oliver already knew that he wouldn’t get it. That this analogy doesn’t make any sense.

“That’s what it feels like for me. Logically and visually, I can see and I know that you are not touching me - that is, the me that is Oliver - but interacting with the Mansion. That when you are holding a door’s handle, you are not holding my hand. That when you take steps through these room, you are not actually providing the steady heartbeat in my chest.

“But just like you instinctively connect the sensations on your hands with my touch and react to it…” Here he taps Ángel’s palm a few times again and the other positively melts at the gentle caress. Oliver can’t hold back a grin at that. “That same connection is made between me and the Mansion and I can’t help but react as well… sorry, it’s hard to explain it, I’m not making any sense.” It quickly slips back off again, though.

All throughout his monologue, Oliver hasn’t let go of Ángel’s hands. Tap tap tap. Steady and constant, like his own version of a heartbeat. He wishes Ángel would understand but he knows that he doesn’t. And how could he? Oliver doesn’t even quite understand it himself. Maybe I just want someone to be able to explain it to me. I hate uncertainties.

“But yeah, there you have it. An explanation or something like that. At the very least the part of me that is the Mansion is very pleased that you have returned and that you are here now, protected and safe.” Silence again. And then-

“I won’t lie and say that I understand, Ollie,” Ángel says at last. “But I can understand this.” Here, he lightly taps Oliver’s palm in the same way that the other had done. “And I can understand the exciting feeling that comes with it.” He moves their hands a bit and pulls Oliver closer than they had been before. “The joy that comes with being close to your love.” He raises a hand and quickly snatches Oliver’s hat away. Before the other can protest, he plants a small kiss on Oliver’s forehead and then plops the hat back down.

“And lastly, I can understand the want to cherish and protect.” He intertwines the fingers of their right hands and moves Oliver’s left hand to his shoulder before placing his own on the other’s hip. “Maybe the Mansion and I are not all that different after all.” He takes a small step back and watches the tension leave Oliver’s shoulder. Not because he disliked how close they were before but because his heart is beating again. Ángel has an idea.

“Dance with me, Ollie.”

“Wh-what?” The other feels caught off-guard but clumsily follows as Ángel takes another, bigger step back, leading them into a dance. “I’m not that fond of dancing.”

Nonetheless, Oliver follows as Ángel slowly leads them around the room and with every step the restlessness from all the previous month drains out of him. Thump thump, thump thump.

As they dance and sway, the click and scratching sound rings through the room before it is filled with music. Oliver can feel that the record player one room over has turned itself on.

“That’s not creepy at all,” Ángel laughs and twirls Oliver, who almost trips at the sudden movement. “But no amount of creepy house symbiosis will be enough to keep me away from you now, Ollie.” Oliver blushes again at that. Maybe they should also start a Beebo blush counter.

The dance through the song and then the next and then the one after that and it settles Oliver enough that he knows that they can leave now. But when he looks at the joy and obvious adoration on Ángel’s face, as he attempts to twirl him in revenge, Oliver can’t bring himself to end this dance just yet. Instead he gives his beloved a kiss and watches him beam even brighter.

His beautiful angel, his, all his.

#detective beebo #detective beebo fanfic #detective beebo night at the mansion #detective beebo spoilers #oliver beebo #ángel valdivia

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the-unknown-storyteller · 12 days ago

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What is your banner image?

oh, I really like mechanical stuff, robots and horror ^^ and it's kind of like a weird half-self-portrait thingy that i drew a long time ago haha, there is actually an alternate version of this with another person in the shot but I changed it a bit, so that I could use it as my banner

#anon ask #ask

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the-unknown-storyteller · 17 days ago

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hello again ^^ i'm still dissecting your game in my mind and was wondering what engine you used to make it? oh, and what dialogue system (if it was even a separate thing)? bc the one that i used for my last project was kind of a struggle haha

also also i realised that i came across your stuff a bunch of times in the past but never realised that it was the same person haha, the earliest thing of yours i saw was the sanders sides fangame and then the doomsday sim, so cool!

- unknown storyteller

Hewwo again!

I used Godot! At that time it was freshly turned over to version 4.3 I think? The thing is all dialogue tutorials used an older version that didn't work on mine so I Frankenstein the ones that I found to make a working JSON based language switching dialogue system 🎉

My fangame backstory.,.. finally recognized

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the-unknown-storyteller · 23 days ago

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Feathers Light as Wind

(Read it here on AO3)

Length: 1.8k

When everything is finally said and done, Oliver and Ángel finally have the time to relax and feed those chickens.

Or: a small snippet of Oliver and Ángel's life after Life Cycle (ending 1)

Or: they finally go on that date

___

Despite everything has been said and done until now, they cannot actually leave immediately. The bomb squad comes to talk to Oliver and then Marigold returns to quickly talk to Ángel about the company again. Then there are medics checking them over and treating Oliver’s actually-broken-and-not-just-sprained ankle. They are then brought to a hospital to get it properly cast and taken care of. Oliver jokes that they should get ice cream next if they want to stay on script.

But by the time, they are done, they are utterly exhausted, leaning heavily against each other as they ride the bus to Oliver’s apartment. When they get there, they stumble up the many many steps (Oliver will have to find something new or just never look outside his windows again).

With trembling hands and various curses Oliver unlocks the door. They leave a trail of snow-damp clothes on the floor on their way to Oliver’s bed and if Ángel were in a better physical and mental state, he would make a joke about that.

But instead, they lie down, sharing the singular blanket as both are too tired to get a second one. The bed is a bit of a tight squeeze, especially with Mozilla Firefox taking up most of the bed’s leg space. This does not matter, however, because both shuffle to get as close to the other as physical possible anyway.

There is some more fidgeting and muttered apologies as they clink knees and put elbows into stomaches but then they both settle. Outside the world has just woken up, lively with people going about their business and cars clogging up the streets, but within Oliver’s bedroom the only sound that can be heard is the quiet sound of their intermingling breaths and a cat’s purr.

They fall asleep like that and do not wake until the morning of the following day.

The following weeks are a bit of a blur for the both of them. Vivi’s article is released and creates another uproar, marking the death of Eugene’s company, which is fine because Marigold had decided to build a new company from the ground up.

The Mansion, structurally unsound due to one of the bombs going off during the investigations (no one was hurt luckily), is being torn down, which they are both secretly very glad of.

During all of that, Oliver and Ángel mostly stay home, waiting for Oliver’s ankle to mend. Or rather, Ángel is forcing Oliver to stay home as much as possible, anxious that he will irreversibly hurt himself if he forces anything too early. And since he can’t bear to let Oliver out of his sight for more than an hour at most (the whole ordeal had affected him as well), he stays as well, only going out to get groceries.

By the time, they are both (physically and mentally) well enough again to properly go out and not just on fetch quests for groceries or Ángel’s clothes, winter has turned to late spring. Oliver decides it is the perfect time to fulfill one of their promises.

And that’s how they find themselves on a small farm for their promised date. The day is sunny with a refreshing breeze that allows them both to comfortably wear a light jacket with a scarf. After getting some direction on the layout of the farm, they slowly make their way down a well-trodden dirt path. It is silent between them.

“You’ve been rather quiet today, love.”

“Ah, just taking in the sight, Beebs. No need to worry,” Angel says, poking the furrowed crease between Oliver’s brows to distract him from the blush that is creeping up his cheeks.

The crease grows more pronounced and Ángel puts both of his hands on the face of his beloved to straighten it out. They then wander down to cup Oliver’s face, who is now pouting. Squish, squish, so cute.

“If you say so.” Eyes narrowed Oliver scrutinizes him for a moment, then gently removes the other’s hands from his face. Before Oliver can react, Ángel snatches his hat away and places it on his own head. Oliver rolls his eyes and sighs but just interlaces his right hand with Ángel’s left and pulls him further along the dirt path.

A giddy feeling rises up in Ángel’s stomach at that and he lightly squeezes their interlocked hands. Oliver squeezes back, a little bit more forceful than he had been. Not one to be outdone, Ángel puts in even more force. And Oliver reciprocates. Oh, it is on.

They trade squeezes back and forth, as they walk, desperately trying to keep a straight face. But when Oliver suddenly turns around to squeeze Ángel’s hands with both of his, unintentionally scrunching up his whole body, as though that would help him put as much force behind this squeeze as possible, yelling, “Hah! How about that!”

Well, Ángel can’t quite help himself and he bursts out into laughter. They really are nothing if not weirdly competitive about the most inconsequential things.

“Can’t beat that, Beebster. It deserves a passing grade, a D or D+ at least.”

“What! That was top-tier hand squeezing. Your delicate city boy hands were about to breaking, I’d say.” There are actually the faintest indentations on the back of his hand and if they were not still holding hands, which Ángel enjoys much more, he would be tracing them.

“Fine, a C then.” There is grumbled muttering about his supposed meanness but then he is suddenly pulled forward again, as they have seemingly reached their destination. Forgetting all about the previous academical injustices, Oliver opens a small gate to let them into a fences off area. A chicken coop stands on dry, even ground. The small door at the front of the coop is closed.

Oliver moves them to the middle of the field and then Ángel is being abandoned with a quick “wait here”. He is about to protest but Oliver quickly return with a small bucket in hand.

“Here, hold your hands out like this, love.” Oliver moves Ángel hands into a bowl-like shape. Before he can wonder what for, Oliver dumps a cup of seeds into his hands and takes a small step behind them.

“Now what?” He can hear the sound of footsteps and then of wood pieces sliding against each other.

“You just let it happen.”

“Let what ha-“ Before he can finish his sentence, a smattering of feathers and pinching sensations are overrunning his hands. There are chickens in front of him, digging their beaks into his hands, there are chickens coming up from behind him, pecking at the cuff of his jeans in search of seeds. Oliver had opened the chicken coop.

Ángel tilts his hands a bit forward and they further flock to him. One chicken energetically flaps its wings and almost knocks him over in his surprise.

He can hear muffled laughter behind him but he is too spell-bound by all the excited movement around him. It feels smooth and fluffy at the same time, as the chickens brush up against his hands. It is so chaotic. And so so lively. And above all else it feels strangely… peaceful.

The sun is warm on his back and there is a slight wind that ruffles his hair that is peaking out from underneath Oliver’s hat. The seeds quickly dwindle down into nothing but Oliver makes sure to top it up once more when it starts to run low.

Ángel looks up at him and-

Oliver beams at him, a rosy blush high on his cheeks from all the laughing he had been doing at Ángel’s expense. There is a light in his eyes that is growing day by day, slowly overtaking the lingering anxiety and uncertainty that the Mansion had left there. His heart does something funny at that.

This is what I’ve been fighting for. Just me and Ollie. Just a simple afternoon like this with the one I love. My most pressing worries are feeding Mozilla Firefox in the evening and somehow keeping Ollie from hogging all the blankets at night.

He glances back at the chickens as they continue to peck, peck, peck at his hand. It tickles slightly. For some reason, he thinks back to the plans and promises they had made back at the Mansion. And then he thinks about this morning when Mozilla Firefox had screamed them out of bed, demanding food.

He thinks about Oliver’s bed head, as he half-walked half-stumbled into the kitchen to open a can of cat food. He thinks about the sleepy “thanks” and kiss that he had received when he had served up breakfast and coffee.

He thinks about the matching scarf that he had gotten Oliver some time ago and that he is wearing right now and it is like something unravels within him.

We made it. We’re okay.

He watches as Oliver throws some seeds across the ground to lessen the fluttering feeding frenzy around his angel. His cheeks suddenly feel vaguely wet and cold as a chicken flaps some wind into his face in its haste to get to the new source of food. Another actually manages to hit him in the face and knocks off the hat that had been hiding his face. He gets why Oliver likes it to much.

We’re really okay. I’m so glad.

“Wait, wait, why are you crying?! Did the chickens hurt your sensible city boy hands?” Ángel just laughs roughly at that which then turns into a sob, as more tears continue to flow.

“Hey, uh, my love, look at me?” He does and then there are hands on his face and then Oliver actually makes deliberate eye-contact with him, which sends a funny feeling through his stomach this time and also makes him sob more.

Tender hands wipe at his cheeks but it is futile really.

“I-I’m okay,” he chokes out, knowing that it must seem like the opposite. But right now, his heart feels so so light that he could float away like a down feather on a light breeze. “I’m j-just really ha-happy right now.”

“Oh, so those are happy tears. I can work with happy tears. I’ve actually got a degree in them,” Oliver rambles, as he wipes at Ángel’s eyes with his scarf now. The matching scarf.

They are so close that it his hard to tell where his ends and Ángel’s begins and Ángel’s heart might burst any moment now. He moves to say something but his voice dies in his throat, choked by happiness and tears.

“I love you too, my angel.” His love understands him anyway.

And that did it. That was the last straw and his heart has burst and he is dead now.

And if he is, then he is definitely in heaven now.

___

A/N: as much as I love the horrors that have put their claws into oliver (which i will definitely write more about), i also constantly think about how much ángel has gone through even if he hasn't died once during the loops

man's been going through it but hey, they made it! they are on the mend ^^ anyway, hope you enjoyed :3

#detective beebo #detective beebo fanfic #detective beebo night at the mansion #detective beebo spoilers #oliver beebo #ángel valdivia #detective beebo ending 1

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the-unknown-storyteller · 25 days ago

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currently reading the webcomic version for detective beebo (it's really good) and it goes into much more detail for the fortune telling thing and what they were like as kids, agh

oh well, let's just say this takes place in a universe where everything is just slightly off

Natal Home

(Read it here on AO3)

Length: approx. 2.9k

Summary: Nina loves her brother. Or rather, she feels like she owes him her love because the sacrifices that he has made for her are too many to count.

Or: everything that led to Natal Home (ending 6) from childhood to adult years from Nina's POV

___

Nina finds it hard to remember what her parents look like. No, that is wrong. She knows exactly what her parent looks like (it’s only ever been her and her brother, how could she not know?). So it is more accurate to say that she does not know who the people that are ghosting through her childhood memories look like. Always there for a morning or a night and immediately gone again. It’s actually easier to recall the glares that her brother usually sends them when they are there than the color of their eyes.

Nina is five years old when she first notices that others seem to think that something is off about her family. She is standing in the front yard of her kindergarten, as were all the other children and their teacher, Ms Cortés, as one after another, parents come to get their kids. It has been a great day, Nina has spent a significant portion of it drawing and gotten many compliments on it.

(“What are you drawing, dear?” Ms Cortés comes up from behind and leans over the desk that Nina is drawing at. All kinds of colored pencils and markers are strewn across it. There are several pages of paper already full of color. Several have stick figures in green and orange on them. The green ones are clearly Nina since all of them are labeled “ME” in big sprawled letters. The other teacher, Mr Cremins, had shown her how to write that.

“A house,” Nina answers, deeply concentrated as she colors in the walls in purple.

“That looks great! What kind of house are you drawing then, little artist?” Nina gives her a beaming smile at that. She is a little artist.

“A big one just like our house! With many, many rooms. The biggest one has a giant bed. But it is always empty.”

“I see. And who is that?” Ms Cortés points at the orange stick figure that she is now drawing. Mr Cremins had also shown her how to write her own name and her brother’s but she forgot how.

“My brother, Gene! He dislikes when I am in the empty room.” She had once gotten in and had jumped on the bed until her brother had found her and scolded her. The room’s door is always tightly closed now.

“I see…”)

So here she waits, a (for a five-year-old) big stack of paper in her hands, her day’s work. She whips back and forth on her feet, glancing left and right and humming a small tune. She plays with one of her braids that her brother did for her that morning.

Minutes tick by and her friends walk away one by one, holding the hands of their mother, father or both as they make their way home. Nina waves until they disappear behind car doors or the bend in the road.

“Oh, how adorable! Look, her brother is fetching her, how mature of him.” There are a few mothers of newer students that had stayed to talk with the teacher and who are now pointing at Nina’s brother as he comes up to the building. They all laugh except for Ms Cortés who knows that it is always her brother who fetches her in the evening and drops her off in the morning. He is never on time but the red in his cheeks tells her that he always comes as fast as he can.

“Gene!” Nina calls and excitedly runs up to him, pages of drawing proudly held up in front of her chest. “Look what I made you!” With a practiced pose, Eugene braces for his sister as she almost runs him over, steadying her as she shows off her works. He smiles at her. It would take her a long time and until she is much older to realize that her brother’s smiles are always tired.

“Oh, she seems to like her brother a lot, her parents must be jealous of all the attention he gets,” one of the mothers chuckles. But Nina can only tilt her head in confusion at that. It’s only ever Gene who is with her? Who else should she give her attention to?

Nina is nine years old when she perceives her family how others do. When the other children at her school mention their parents, it is always with such warmth or the kind of annoyance that children at that age feel when they don’t get a second serving of desert. They proudly display new pencil cases that they got for their birthdays or talk about family trips that they went on on the weekend.

In return, Nina mentions how her brother had taken her out for ice cream last week and taken her shopping the day after and had allowed her an extra chocolate bar then. She doesn’t find this strange until the kid at the desk in front of hers taunts her for only talking about her brother. Why is he doing all this stuff? Isn’t that the job of her parents?

Nina doesn’t mention her brother as much after that. It’s the first time that she feels that she is lacking something. No, it is more complicated than that because in her eyes she had everything that she could want. In the eyes of others she is lacking something. Something that her brother seemingly couldn’t make up for and she hated that others would think so.

Nina is thirteen years old when they move out of their home. Gene has told her to stay in her room since he has to talk with their parents about something but she isn’t stupid. Gene hated their parents and would never willingly discuss anything with them. Even when he needs their signature, he just forges it instead of asking. He had it done enough times on the permission slips that Nina needs for school. So she eavesdrops.

The fight is a quiet one or rather it is very one-sided. She would have preferred if it was more of a screaming match, as grand and dramatic as those in the books that she reads. She wishes that her parents would put up even a token of a fight, to show that they actually cared about their two children that they had left alone since Nina was barely two years old.

But it isn’t and they don’t and Nina hadn’t expected differently anyway. Instead Gene’s ice cold voice rings through the dead quiet halls of their too big house, explaining step by step what will happen in the following days and what he demands of their ‘parents’. Transferal of guardianship, money and a no contact agreement. He was moving out and taking Nina with him.

(As she gets older, Nina likes to think that she had seen that coming back then and in a way she had but not like this.)

Standing behind the half-closed door to their living room, shocked tears are running down her cheeks. She isn’t grieving for her parents that had never cared anyway. She is grieving for the house that by all means is their house, their home. Why do they have to leave and not these people that were never present anyway.

The fight has come to a close by then and before her brother can spot her, she runs back to her room and hidden in the blankets of her bed. Gene finds her like that shortly after and probably assumes that she had fallen asleep because he does not talk to her and that was that.

Nina is fourteen when she drags her brother to a carnival when it is his town. Coincidentally, it is his birthday as well, so she tells him to go on as many rides as he wants with a cheeky grin. Her treat. He rolls his eyes but humors her. They get cotton candy, Gene wins her a stuffed animal and they ride their roller coaster so many times that they both feel like throwing up. Her brother’s smiles and laughs seem lighthearted that day.

“Look, a fortune teller, Gene!” Nina tugs at her brother’s sleeves as she points at the small tent covered in moons and stars.

“I told you to not call me that, Nina,” Gene sighs but moves them towards the tent.

“Ah, come on, you don’t actually mind it, do you? Good evening, please read the fortune of this grump.” She pokes at Gene’s cheek with her left hand, which he lightly slaps away.

“Of course, dear. Sit down, sit down. What would you like to know?”

“I don’t know. About my fortune?”

“Don’t be rude, Gene.”

“No worries, dear. We can just do a general fortune and then go from there, yes?”

Gene lets out a sigh but obediently sits down, sending Nina a suffering look before directing his attention to the fortune teller. The reading is nothing special, they are both aware of the tricks involved and will later have a laugh about it, Nina is sure.

But then the fortune teller moves on to his future life and possible death and that’s when everything goes downhill. Dying young. The fortune teller tells Eugene that he will die young.

Her brother laughs it off but she can tell that this is affecting him in some way. She pays and they leave but Gene doesn’t seem as attentive anymore. There is this pensive look on his face that deeply furrows his brows and his mood gets more grim the longer they stay.

Nina tries to cheer him up.

“You know that those are just scamming you, telling you that this and that will happen, so that you come back to find out more. Just forget about it, Gene, here have some ice-“

“I told you to call me Eugene, Nina!” Her brother interrupts and her mouth closes with a click. He never yells at her. “Sorry. I’m just feeling a bit nauseous from those roller coasters.” He’s never gotten sick from those and he doesn’t look particularly ill right now.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t now.” Nina shrinks back a bit.

“Let’s just forget about it and go home.”

“Of course, sorry, Eugene.”

Nina is sixteen when she truly realizes what a burden she must be on her brother. The carnival had been bad but he had seemed fine the day after and they had talked no more of it. However, it gets her thinking.

It happens while she is hanging out with her friends. Ice cream in hand they were walking down the street and talking how mean Mr Rojas is. He did not have to tear into me like that just because my essay was bad. Yeah, that was uncalled for. I heard he made a student cry in one of his previous classes. Hey, I heard that too, something about calling them incompetent or stupid.

And on and on it went until their conversation moved to the topic of family and siblings since Emma’s brother had just gotten his driving license, meaning free rides wherever she wants. Her brother had promised her so.

“Except that he’s barely home now, so he isn’t even there when I need those free rides” Emma complains with waving hands, dripping parts of her half-melted ice cream on the burning asphalt beneath their feet. It is sweltering out. “But I get that. If I had my license, I would get out of the house and explore the world as much as I can too.” Another flick of her wrist and some droplets hit Nina on the arm which Emma carefully wipes off with a sheepish smile and an apology. Nina pretends the blush on her cheeks is from the heat.

“But it’s still nice that he offered,” Ana says, rolling her eyes at their antics. “My sister told me upfront that she would not be my personal taxi and that I need to wait until I have my own license.”

“What a jerk.” Emma bites off the bottom part of her waffle cone and sucks all ice cream through the hole before devouring the remainder of it whole. Crumbs fly everywhere and she leans forward to avoid dirtying her shirt.

“Could you eat a bit more cleanly?” Ana hands her a tissue. “And yeah, she is a bit of an ass but she can be kind of okay sometimes.”

“What a glowing review.” Emma laughs, wiping of her mouth. It is a nice laugh. “What about you, Nina? You have an older brother, right? What is he like? Would he offer you a ride?” She crumbles up the tissue and aims it at a trash can close to them. Perfect dunk, a three pointer at least.

“Hm?” Nina, who had been watching Emma, startles a bit, as she is suddenly pulled into the conversation. She clears her throat and thinks. What is Gene like (in the privacy of her thought )? He has changed drastically the last two years and it scares her a bit. He quit studying marine biology for one. She barely sees him smile anymore.

“Ah, he actually dropped me off, so that I can hang out with you, before he went to do his own thing,” Nina explains, scratching at her cheek. “He always drives me actually. He dislikes it when I take the bus alone.” Now that she thinks about it, she can’t remember an instance where her brother hadn’t accompanied her to her outings or dropped her off as close to the location as possible. Gene never mentions it but his schedule is filled to the brim with extracurriculars and housekeeping tasks now. How does he have the time for her on top of all that? Does he force himself to? She shouldn’t have taken him to that carnival, he is drowning himself with work to “get it over and done with before it’s too late”.

“As for what he is like, he is a bit of a nerd. He’s studying - what was it - business management? Oh, and he is doing a bunch of extracurriculars for extra credit points and… uh yeah, and he drives me everywhere I need to go.”

“Woah, how does he do that? I can barely manage to get my homework done on time.” Yeah, how does he do it? How does he have the time?

“That’s because you always procrastinate until the last minute, Emma.” What about himself? When has Gene ever been selfish?

“Hey! Why worry about it now when I can worry about it later, you know?” A terrible feeling is spreading through her stomach and she doesn’t feel like eating anymore. She offers her ice cream cone to Emma, who takes it with a beaming smile.

“Sounds nice, I wish my brother was actually like that but it’s always empty promises with him and then he is off enjoying life, forgetting all about me.” Emma sighs. Nina wishes her brother would be more like that.

The following years are not very memorable. Nina, encouraged by her brother, decides to become a teacher. Her brother, never one to take a break now, works himself to the bone and founds a company. Neither ever brings up their parents.

Nina is nineteen when her brother meets Marigold Margulis. Marigold Margulis has a cold and calculating beauty about her that aids her brother well as he expands his company. She is intelligent and patient in all that she does, seeing the bigger picture where her brother would barely consider the details and just rush in. They compliment each other well.

Her brother smiles a bit more again and Nina tries to not feel too guilty about that. There is this exhausted edge to his smiles that worries her, however.

Nina is twenty-one when her brother marries and she couldn’t be happier for him. He smiles as he takes his vows and Nina thinks that might have been the most genuine one in years. The Coli family is getting growing and then growing again when they first have a daughter and then a son. Nadia and Simon and they are both so perfect that Nina could cry.

Nina is glad to see Eugene so happy.

However, the years pass and Nina feels like something is slowly breaking within her brother. His smiles are turning tired again. Actually, they are turning strained with something and there is a tension around his eyes that never goes away. There is a breaking point somewhere that she must have missed because suddenly everything is happening so fast.

She spends more and more time with her niece and nephew because Eugene can’t be bothered to. It goes so far that they call her mama.

She can see the way that tiredness is creeping up on Marigold as well and when she finds some papers in her office, she knows that her brother’s happiness is coming to an end. Or what she had perceived as his happiness.

It feels like she knows him less and less these days.

Nina is thirty-eight when her brother is put in jail. She bails him out with the help of their parents. She doesn’t like talking about how she did it but the no contact agreement is null and void now.

Nina is still thirty-eight when she finds out that her brother is even more broken than she thought. She watches him monologue, the grandfather clock ticking down the time that her brother always fears that he doesn’t have, and Nina makes a decision.

Thinking back, he has sacrificed his whole life for her. It is time to return the favor.

As long as it will bring her brother some peace of mind, she will do anything.

___

A/N: This was meant to go in a totally different direction but oh well, maybe I'll write another version. There is no set timeline in the game for all of this and also, the ages of Nina and Eugene are unknown. Eugene only mention that he had to sacrifice a lot to be were he is now and that fortune teller told him that he would die young, so I compressed everything as much as I could.

The ending is a bit rushed, I would have loved to go into more detail about the relationship between Mari and Nina and how it forms but mayber another time.

But yeah, I think Nina is a very interesting character. She very clearly loves her brother a lot (despite all he has done) and I wanted to explore that a bit.

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the-unknown-storyteller · 25 days ago

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oh my gosh, thanks for reblogging my fic, i hope you liked it!! just know that i love your game so so much, like it is unreal the grip this game has on me, i've got like a whole document for all the endings and how the haunted houses work (which is so cool btw, love the whole concept)

ending 5 and 9 are my absolute fav, i loooove the quiet horror of them, so so good

but yeah, just wanted to drop by to let you know, thanks again ^^

- the-unknown-storyteller (this is a side-blog hence the anon)

It was a good read! You should be proud!

Also. Tragedy enjoyer :points_at_you:

#haha very much so #love me a good tragedy

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the-unknown-storyteller · 25 days ago

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Natal Home

(Read it here on AO3)

Length: approx. 2.9k

Summary: Nina loves her brother. Or rather, she feels like she owes him her love because the sacrifices that he has made for her are too many to count.

Or: everything that led to Natal Home (ending 6) from childhood to adult years from Nina's POV

___

“A house,” Nina answers, deeply concentrated as she colors in the walls in purple.

“That looks great! What kind of house are you drawing then, little artist?” Nina gives her a beaming smile at that. She is a little artist.

“A big one just like our house! With many, many rooms. The biggest one has a giant bed. But it is always empty.”

“I see. And who is that?” Ms Cortés points at the orange stick figure that she is now drawing. Mr Cremins had also shown her how to write her own name and her brother’s but she forgot how.

“I see…”)

(As she gets older, Nina likes to think that she had seen that coming back then and in a way she had but not like this.)

“Look, a fortune teller, Gene!” Nina tugs at her brother’s sleeves as she points at the small tent covered in moons and stars.

“I told you to not call me that, Nina,” Gene sighs but moves them towards the tent.

“Ah, come on, you don’t actually mind it, do you? Good evening, please read the fortune of this grump.” She pokes at Gene’s cheek with her left hand, which he lightly slaps away.

“Of course, dear. Sit down, sit down. What would you like to know?”

“I don’t know. About my fortune?”

“Don’t be rude, Gene.”

“No worries, dear. We can just do a general fortune and then go from there, yes?”

But then the fortune teller moves on to his future life and possible death and that’s when everything goes downhill. Dying young. The fortune teller tells Eugene that he will die young.

Nina tries to cheer him up.

“You know that those are just scamming you, telling you that this and that will happen, so that you come back to find out more. Just forget about it, Gene, here have some ice-“

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t now.” Nina shrinks back a bit.

“Let’s just forget about it and go home.”

“Of course, sorry, Eugene.”

“Could you eat a bit more cleanly?” Ana hands her a tissue. “And yeah, she is a bit of an ass but she can be kind of okay sometimes.”

“Woah, how does he do that? I can barely manage to get my homework done on time.” Yeah, how does he do it? How does he have the time?

“That’s because you always procrastinate until the last minute, Emma.” What about himself? When has Gene ever been selfish?

Her brother smiles a bit more again and Nina tries to not feel too guilty about that. There is this exhausted edge to his smiles that worries her, however.

Nina is glad to see Eugene so happy.

She spends more and more time with her niece and nephew because Eugene can’t be bothered to. It goes so far that they call her mama.

It feels like she knows him less and less these days.

Thinking back, he has sacrificed his whole life for her. It is time to return the favor.

As long as it will bring her brother some peace of mind, she will do anything.

___

The ending is a bit rushed, I would have loved to go into more detail about the relationship between Mari and Nina and how it forms but mayber another time.

But yeah, I think Nina is a very interesting character. She very clearly loves her brother a lot (despite all he has done) and I wanted to explore that a bit.

#detective beebo fanfic #detective beebo #detective beebo spoilers #just to be safe #nina coli #eugene coli #detective beebo ending 6 #detective beebo night at the mansion

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the-unknown-storyteller · 27 days ago

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Antibiotic Treament

(Read it here on AO3)

Length: approx. 1.9k

Summary: Oliver Beebo, once private detective, now personal assistant to Mr Eugene Coli of Coli Industries, is a broken man, scarred by events that he cannot remember but that his heart cannot forget. When he meets a mysterious yet very beautiful man at a bar, he reflects on everything that makes him less than he once was.

Or, the Antibiotic Treatment (ending 5) from Beebo's POV.

___

Today was exhausting once again. Oliver Beebo, once private detective, now personal assistant to Mr Eugene Coli of Coli Industries, is walking down the streets. Or rather dragging himself down the streets.

Mr Coli had been especially demanding today, repeatedly sending him to get multiple copies of the same documents due to a small typo and then due to incorrect formatting on the fifth and tenth sheet. Then he sent him down to the first floor to let Everett know of the new meeting times for the next week.

A more courageous man would have protested since an email would be sufficient and achieve the same. But Oliver is no courageous man (at least not anymore), so he went down the twenty flights of stairs (the glass elevator is a no go) to inform Everett of the new times, who then sent him back to rearrange the times on Wednesday since they clashed with his team’s retrospective meeting that day. Mr Coli, incensed at the late notice, sent him back down (Oliver only conveyed the content of the message, the original was rather strongly worded).

At no point did either man consider simply calling or going up to the other’s floor to discuss the matter. Oliver did not suggest any of this either. Instead he dutifully went up and down those many many flights of stairs, stopping to drop off other papers and tasks in the interim floors. While Oliver may have lost his bravery, he could still work efficiently. He has also gotten very good at reading and answering emails while walking.

As a result, he was dead tired by the end of the day (this is not an isolated incident). Still, he is grateful to Mr Coli, willing to hire a man with his mental and physical disposition and as his personal assistant no less. Thus, Oliver will endure and work without complaint. He is dislikes to disappoint Mr Coli.

(If he were more honest with himself, he would admit that it is Mr Coli’s stare he is afraid of.

“It is impolite to not meet the eyes of your superior, Mr Beebo. This is a serious matter that we need to discuss, so that it does not happen in the future.”

There is something piercing about it. Something that makes his hairs stand on end and his eyes prickle with tears that he holds back. Something like terror creeps up his spine at those eyes but that is absurd. Mr Coli is a kind man.)

He drags his feet further down the street, aimless and restless and not wanting to go home just yet. There are several storefronts and restaurants lining the street but none interest him.

As he continues his aimless wandering, the sun slowly starts to set behind him and terror inexplicably grips his heart. No, what time is it?? Why did he not pay attention?! In a panic, he enters the next best location that appears to be open.

As he whips the door open, two lone faces turn to him, startled. He spots several shelves full of liquor, a few tables with chairs and a dart board. A small bar. His fingers, shaking, are itching for a distraction, so he reaches for the cigarettes inside his coat.

Half-remembering his manners, he mutters, “Excuse me. Does this place allow smoking?” The bartender kindly invites him inside but before he can take so much as a step, a very beautiful man approaches him…

Actually, he is approaching him at a very fast pace. Oh, that is very close. And now he is gripping his shoulder. His hand feels very warm, as does his face. What? What?

The beautiful man is yelling something at him but Oliver has a hard time parsing it. He should probably panic more at being suddenly gripped by this very hot person and he does in fact yell a bit out of shock.

But at the same time all he can think about is how calm he suddenly feels. What is happening? Who is this person?

“You completely disappeared! Why would you do that, Oliver?!”, the beautiful man continues and Oliver realizes that he should probably say something as well. Social scripts, social scripts, just what could he want from him? Why does he know his name? Ah, he wants to hire Oliver for his detective work. Too bad…

“Sorry to disappoint, but I quit that job months ago,” Oliver explains with a shrug, hiding his own disappointment when the beautiful man takes a step back, lowering his arm from his shoulder. His shoulder feels strangely cold now.

“What?! But you loved it! …I think. That’s what the website said.”

“I did, I really did. But some issues arose.” It feels like his heart is breaking anew, as he explains. He should be over it but as he said he really did love it… He finally fishes out his cigarettes and suppresses a flinch as he flicks on his lighter to light it. His eyes glance off the flame.

“It seems that the mental load of my years in the field piled up and combusted. Things that I often see in my work.” Bad word choice. He takes a drag. When did it get this bad and how could he not notice? What broke him?

He takes another drag, watching the smoke curl up and rise to the ceiling. He still wonders who this man is but somehow, Oliver feels like he can spill anything in front of this very pretty man. All his grievances and grief for what has been and currently is. For what he has become. Oliver lists his cowardice, his weaknesses one after another:

“One day I found myself too scared of… many things. Heights -“

(Oliver can never take the elevator at his workplace, as it is one of those trendy ones made out of glass to showcase its very modern open floor concept. He had tried it on his first day when Mr Coli had given him a tour of the office floors but one glance down and his legs had given out at the sight of the ground so far away, too far. I am falling. The glass is breaking and cutting me to ribbons. I can’t breathe. My lungs are collapsing, just like this elevator. Please, please. Not again.

That first month at Coli industries was hell on his legs, unaccustomed to taking that many stairs at once. Luckily, Mr Coli never comments on how long it takes him to deliver certain papers, merely greeting him with a polite smile at his return. At least he thinks it is a polite one.)

“- weapons, knives -“

(All the knives at his apartment are butter knives now - the sight of steak knives especially makes his chest hurt for some reason, a piercing pain that makes him want to sob . Which is fine because he cannot stomach meat anymore, having switched over to a vegetarian diet after that party at Mr Coli’s mansion. Something about the smell of sizzling flesh - too similar, much too similar to another smell but he cannot quite grasp what it is - makes him nauseous.

Also, he has become unnaturally good at cleanly ripping anything that might usually require scissors - they cause an almost seizure-like cramp that goes through his hand when he holds a pair, pulsing out in waves from the center of his palm .)

“- darkness, small spaces -“

(It should embarrass him how many night lights are scattered around his apartment but he’d rather have guests (no one comes over, he doesn’t have any friends) question his interior design than break down in his own home again.

That one blackout a few months back was hell - he had been getting a glass of water when the lights went out. His chest had constricted in terror, it had felt like he was dying. He can’t remember a time in his life when he had cried so much, big heaving sobs that were taking the last of his breath. He had passed out like that and awoken a few hours later. The lights were luckily back on by then.

All his night lights are battery powered or run on charged electricity now. He checks them obsessively every time he comes home.)

“- loud sounds, bombs, fire…”

(He had already been sensitive before but it’s as if someone had turned up his hearing to the max and broken the dial. A glass had slipped out of his hand once and broken on the floor and it had felt as if he had shattered with it - it felt as though the sound was ripping through his head. His chest caving in at the almost physical weight of it that was bearing down on him.

He can tolerate big crowds even less now and has taken to wearing ear muffs - the kind that construction workers wear. He would feel silly about it if it did not bring him such relief.

It is also not lost on him how ironic it is that he smokes now. The small fire, the glow of the cigarette so close to his face, the smoke and the ash it produces. And yet, he cannot stop because while his hands shake, his mind feels blissfully empty as he can concentrate on the sensations that burn him from within instead, blocking out the ones that come from the outside.)

“I simply couldn’t continue my job.” What an understatement. He twirls the cigarette before taking another drag. His hands have steadied somewhat. The beautiful man watches him as he does this. Ah, manners. He keeps forgetting those. “Sorry, I needed a smoke.” The other does not seem to mind, so he continues.

The conversation turns to his current employment which he is not particularly interested in discussing. In the most private corners of his thoughts he can even admit to himself that he hates it.

“But it’s not like I can decline. No one would hire a shivering mess like me.” The beautiful man - just who is he? - looks at him with something akin to disappointment but he cannot quite pinpoint his expression. There is a certain sadness to it that almost feels as though it is directed at him. It makes him feel decidedly bad.

“Uh, I might not be able to help you investigate, but if you tell me your issue, I can deduce something?”

The beautiful man stares at him. One beat, two beats. Oliver takes another drag from his cigarette and then puts it out in an ashtray on the bar and then-

“Quit your job. Work for me.” What.

“Huh?!” Now it is Oliver’s turn to stare. Surely, he has heard wrong. But the beautiful man is praising him - a man of his intelligence? - and he has a hard time keeping up once more - double the pay??

“Wh- But! My mental state…!” Oliver can’t help but protest. Who is this guy?? If he were a more cautious person, he would decline this offer - he could not come up with a more obvious scam if he tried - but then he remembers the calm that spread through him when the other had touched him with surprising gentleness. How steady he has felt since entering this bar.

“…Please. I need you by my side,” the other says and Oliver feels breathless in a way that he had forgotten how to be.

“…Who are you?”

“I’m the very successful CEO of Seraphim Industries.” The other smiles at him. It is a very charming smile, only dampened by what Oliver thinks might be tears in the other’s eyes. “Ángel. For any of your needs.”

#detective beebo #oliver beebo #ángel valdivia #detective beebo fanfic #detective beebo night at the mansion #detective beebo spoilers #detective beebo ending 5

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the-unknown-storyteller · 1 month ago

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I am back from the dead and obsessed with link click ^^

I absolutely looove the end section from HollowNightmare's fic 五夜一早上 (please read it, it is very good) and wanted to draw fanart for it, so here it is!

Here is the excerpt that inspired this:

"He slides his right hand towards the centre of the bed, slowly, and keeps it there. He doesn’t want to make things hard for Lu Guang, doesn’t want to touch him if he can’t be completely sure Lu Guang welcomes it; but he can offer to meet him halfway. If he outstretched his pinky, he’d be grazing Lu Guang’s shoulder – they’re so close, and yet so far away.

Cheng Xiaoshi waits. It’s been almost ten minutes, he thinks, since he asked his question, when Lu Guang moves his hand and places it underneath Cheng Xiaoshi’s, intertwining their fingers. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t move; he looks at their hands, then at Lu Guang, who is staring blankly at nothing in particular.

“Lu Guang,” Cheng Xiaoshi calls.

Lu Guang’s gaze snaps back into focus. He reaches out with his other hand, wraps it around Cheng Xiaoshi’s wrist – gently, impossibly gently – and pulls it towards him."

#link click #link click fanart #shiguang fanart #shiguang daili ren #lu guang #cheng xiaoshi

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the-unknown-storyteller · 2 years ago

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Finished my newest project! A turtleduck for the fantastic @the-unknown-storyteller ✨☺✨ They were totally awesome during the whole Salvage bookbinding process and I just wanted to make them a little something extra as a thanks. Thank you so much!! 💖

#thank you so much!!#it was wonderful working with you :>

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the-unknown-storyteller · 3 years ago

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Burn My Lungs and Drown Me

(Read it here on AO3, inspired by KlarionTheWizard’s and Blue_Sunshine’s fics on AO3)

Summary: After being stuck in his glorified fishbowl for a century more, Dream of the Endless returns to a realm that is as abandoned and desolate as he feels and it changes him.

Or: Dream is remade into Desolation.

In one universe, Dream is caught in 1915 and confined for 106 years. The son as cowardly as his father was cruel and his lover is kind.

(A smudged circle sees to it that the King of Dreams returns to his realm. The sight of all the Dreaming had been and all it is now is enough to bring unshed tears to its Lord’s eyes, but he persevers and heals.)

In another, Paul is not as kind nor as weary of it all and the confinement lasts a three decades more. And three decades more is all that was needed, really.

For the first decade, Dream is hopeful. The son may need time to think, but there was doubt in his eyes. The servants of Burgess Old are the only thing holding him back.

No matter, they will leave him soon when they realise that he desires not the same as his father.

After another decade, that hope dwindles. The prisoner tentatively taps against the glass of his prison. The air has run out just a few months after his imprisonment but only now does his lungs’ hunger turn inward, slowly burning their Lord’s body from the inside out. Every being has a limit, he just didn’t think that he would reach his so soon.

Soon after, his hope flickers out like a candle when Alex decides to leave his prisoner to rot. Youthful and content in their love and wealth, Paul and him have decided to leave, selling everything within the mansion and boarding up the windows and the front door before they leave. Alex is not as frightful in this universe and deems it enough to simply brick up the entrance in the cellar and then board up the rest.

Down below, the burning consumes the Lord of Dreaming, abandoned and deprived of his realm for much too long. In twisted way, the biting cold keeps him warm.

Five years later, rumors go around that the old mansion at Fawney Rigg is haunted. Banging can be faintly heard beneath the floorboards, as though someone were hitting metal or glass.

By the end of it, the Dream Lord’s hands are bruised and broken, his very being burned up with the lack of all that he is and the knowledge that Alex truly meant it when he said he wouldn’t be coming down here again.

(The circle is not broken by the wheel of a chair, but rather decays with the humidity of the basement. The King of Dreams returns to his realm. It seems as lifeless and desolate as its Lord.)

(And yet he dares hope that the gates of his realm hide from his sight what has been taken from him.)

The beginning of this part of the story as it will be does not differ much from the story as we know it.

“I fear, my Lord, the Dreaming is not as you have left it,” Lucienne explains. “The millennia have taken their… toll and I fear there is not much left for you to return to, sir.” She fidgets with her hands in a way that does not disgrace her status as the Head Librarian of the Dreaming.

(It must be known that the Lucienne of this universe is dependable but not as self-assured and confident in her function as most of her counterparts across the multiverse are.)

Morpheus listens but does not respond much as he approaches his realm’s gate. It is one of the few things that is constant in their function and design, standing tall and proud as its Lord had once been. He reaches out towards the roughened stone. This is where the story as we know it unravels, and shapes something new entirely.

“I must warn you that the Dreaming has suffered much during your confinement and its people.... If I may, my Lord, I advise you to rest first. And eat. And then rest some more,” Lucienne stalls, taking a step forward. She does not dare to hold her King back, however.

(In a moment, she will wish she had.)

“I have made this realm once, Lucienne,” Dream-As-He-Still-Is says. Unshed tears cling to his lashes, determined not to disgrace their King. “I will make it again.”

“Your realm is not what was broken, my Lord, but rather the faith and will of its-”

His hand brushes against the gates with the softest of touches and the determined look on his face turns to one of devastation, as it reveals a desolate wasteland behind its once ivory facade. It would have been a mercy if barely anything remained. If he had returned to a land that is ruined beyond recognition. Rise from the ashes and all that. Instead the castle stands cold and empty, as are the surrounding fields and houses. Not a single dream remains within the Dreaming, abandoned and lifeless in its emptiness. A true reflection of its Lord.

The oppressing silence weeps in the presence of Dream-Who-Will-Not-Be-Much-Longer.

Desire stands before their mirror, posing with their newly acquired cat ears and tail, when they feel a shift in the universe that tells them of their insufferable brother’s freedom. Never one for patience, they approach their gallery for a little chit-chat. Just to see how their brother dear is faring. If he has changed at all or not.

(If only they knew how much he is changing right this very moment.)

Truth be told, the length of their brother’s imprisonment had been longer than intended. But he did not call for help, so his pride must be well and intact, as it had ever been.

(Desire was usually one to care for details, but in this case they completely missed the rune of silence in the upper left corner of the spell circle. Despair felt the quiet devastation of her older brother when the circle had choked him of his words. In the grand scheme of things - it is 1916 and the Great War has not ended as of yet - it barely blips on her radar.)

The call to their dearest brother is never made on the account of the Dream Lord’s sigil melting in Desire’s hands, running through their fingers and collecting on the floor in a puddle. It shifts and stretches, crawling up the wall towards its frame where it settles in sharp and jagged glass pieces. It lashes out at Desire when they attempt to touch it, leaving burn marks along the palm of their hand.

(A second attempt at a call is neither made nor heard as the Thing-That-May-Be-A-Sigil will not let itself be held.)

(Desire has many wants. Having their brother broken was not one of them.)

While the galleries are much faster on the uptake - Delight’s daisy had exploded into a myriad of colors hours before she had - Dream’s change is gradual and slow much like the decay of his kingdom had been. The burning in his lungs persists despite the abundance of air in his realm.

(If only the Lucienne of this universe were as unafraid to reprimand her Lord as most of her counterparts are. If only she dare step forward and stop showing her Lord the devastation that has befallen his realm.)

“Have truly all of them gone?”

Lucienne watches as her Lord’s shoulders tense. His shadows deepen with grief and anger. Usually, Dream’s outward appearance is closed off and composed. The weather and condition of the Dreaming are the only thing displaying the true extent of his emotional turmoil.

Now, however, the Dreaming lay silent and bare, not even a breeze ruffles at their hair, and instead Dream’s cloak billows and shifts as if it were a living thing - sharp edges claw at the ground where luscious grass and flowers should grow, as though digging for them - and she involuntarily takes a step back. Something is off here.

“Did they not think me loyal to my function? Have they so little faith in my name?”

Lucienne knows to tread carefully. She has seen the exhausted glint in her Lord’s eyes when he had arrived and the devastated slump in his shoulders at the sight of his realm. She contemplates just staying silent on the matter and leading her Lord to food and rest instead when there is a sudden coldness in her chest. She shivers and shakes, watching her breath fog up as it leaves her lungs and compels her to speak truthfully.

“Well, my Lord, most of them were still present after the first millennium, hopeful that you would soon return. But after you did not show in the following years, most of them…” Lucienne pauses here, trying to find a kinder truth in the coldness, but she comes up empty. The truth of the Dreaming’s fate was not kind, after all. “They left, sir, and took with them much that makes this realm.”

“Very well, then they shall be their own, I have no need for them anymore…”

(A young boy abruptly plummets into darkness, ripped from his heroic deeds, as Gault feels for her connection to the Dreaming. It has been severed.)

(The Corinthian lovingly strokes the cheek of his latest victim when he feels something break. He stabs his dagger more violently than usual and curses when he cuts the eye. What a waste.)

(Fiddler’s Green understands the implication behind the empty feeling in his chest and mourns what he truly is and can never be again.)

(They all feel abandoned.)

Dream-Who-Is-No-More leaves.

(And yet all of them mourn and regret.)

Destiny keeps his eyes on the pages of his book even as they singe and burn with the anger of his younger brother. He closes it when the fire reaches sections that are not his to burn before reopening it to follow its written word once again.

“Is it worth it?” Green leaves turn red and golden as they crackle and break underneath footsteps that had once been so quiet and careful in their making. “Does it fulfill you to devote yourself so fully to your rules and function?”

A shadow looms over ink that drips, then dries, then fades, as though years have passed in seconds. “Do you think yourself above it all, my brother? Do you absolve yourself of guilt and responsibility through your inaction?”

The hand that grips tightly at his wrist is scorching in its frigidness. Destiny does not raise his head however, transfixed by the ink that drips then dries then fades then drips again. Caught in an eternal cycle of being remade from the same as it had ever been and never will be again. It reminds him of how Delight had sent bends and ripples through the pages that scrambled the letters and left behind text that shifted as you read. Transformative. Avoidant. Remade.

“The writings are not mine to divert, Desolation,” Destiny explains.

His wrist feels numb when Dream-Who-Burnt-Away releases it with a scoff.

“Of course not. That would break the rules and we do not desire such a thing. Is that not right, my brother?”

The silence suffocates with its implications and the shadow steps away, leaving behind ink that drips as it usually does.

(He is the second sibling Destiny has forsaken in favour of his function.)

(Destiny wonders who will be the last.)

(At least this sibling had been furious with him. Had been direct in his anger and feelings of betrayal.)

(Delirium had gifted him butterflies made out of Delight’s last laughs and tumbled from his realm without another word.)

In a small apartment, a woman is ripped from her endless dreaming as she chokes on ash and smoke. Her belongings go up in heatless flames and - in a nonsensical and brain-melting way - the pouch of sand in her right hand turns over and into itself and vanishes.

(It does not reappear at the hip of a certain Dream Lord. He has no need for such a thing as simple sand.)

(A few streets away, Johanna Constantine plots and plans for her next job. A potentially possessed bride and an unwilling husband are having a private wedding. Her mind is filled with lists, and phone numbers she needs to call. Her ex-girlfriend of six months stays forgotten.)

(There is no Dream Lord that necessitates a conversation between the two and so Johanna stays oblivious to the raging fire in Rachel’s apartment and the emaciated corpse wrapped in blankets.)

(The fire brigade wonders at the chunks of ice among the ash.)

Hob Gadling sits at a small bar table. Across from him sits a figure dressed in a long black coat, beneath it a simple shirt with dark jeans and black combat boots.

He chuckles to himself. He wonders if his Stranger would have dressed like this. It doesn’t matter either way, though. He is here to give his student pointers and feedback, not to reminiscence.

“The introduction to your essay was quite solid, however, the latter half of your main body is where things start to fall apart…”

In one universe, Dream does not bring a certain Raven with him to Hell and illusions of hope and love shatter along with their host, who becomes Disillusionment. The Oldest Game is never played.

This universe is much the same and yet entirely different.

In this one, they sit over a table filled with tea and biscuits for three quarters of an hour.

Lucifer returns the helm with barely a word exchanged. She sees the scorching emptiness within the Being-That-Was-Once-Dream and knows that she finally has the alley she had desired so.

(It is one of the few universe where Lucifer lets the other leave without a threat.)

Before he can even step a foot into the diner, John Dee feels as though the world has dropped away from under his feet. He stands above a chasm that is endless in its depth and so perfect and pure in its darkness that he mindlessly drops the ruby. He reaches for that perfection. That truth he has always yearned for.

The darkness reaches out and yanks at him and he falls.

The people inside the diner remain unharmed, oblivious to the middle-aged man in front of the dinner. Up until said man begins to laugh and scream, as ice crawls up his arms and his hair burns away and falls of in chunks. The people inside the dinner are left with the horrifying singed corpse of a man in blue pajamas and a too-big coat. It is hard to tell if his hand is fused to the door’s handle or the other way around, as both are bent and melted and covered in crystals of ice.

Throwing the ball back, Death sits down at a lone parking bench, winking her companion off. She will come for him later when it is his time.

There is a ripple in the fabric of space next to her and suddenly, she sits not as alone as she had been before. Her peripherie is tinted in darkness and she blinks several times to get rid of the feeling of being half-blind. How strange. The presence of her brother is a soothing one, not usually one to deprive.

“Hello, my sister, how are you? How have you been keeping?”

“Aww, Dream, I have been well. Thank you for askin- ” Death turns and finally beholds the entity that is not the brother she once knew. She puts on a bright smile, nonetheless, having always played the sun to his moon and asks a simple question that breaks her heart. "Who is it that I sit beside? What may I call you?"

There are pleasantries and protocols to be followed and exchanged and while Death had always been casual with her younger brother… this entity is not him and she knows that first (and usually last) impressions are important.

"Desolation", Dream-Who-Now-Blinds-The-Sun murmurs. He rips at the baguette in his hands and feeds it to the flock of pigeons in front of them. His posture hunched forward and slightly closed off.

Death's smile wavers. Some things never change. It’s bad how much she wishes they did. It’s bad how much she wishes they hadn’t in the first place.

(At least Delirium had a drastic change in personality and appearance.)

“Would you like to accompany me, Desolation?” She can’t bring herself to call him brother just yet. Maybe her connection to the humans has been too deep recently, making her mournful and sentimental and all that.

“Very well.” She inclines her head and leads them down the park’s path. Desolation is almost as quiet as Dream had been. But while Dream had kept his silence to instead listen and observe, Desolation seems distant, separate from his surrounding and the people that keep him company. His boots crunch loudly against fallen leaves.

(It’s the beginning of summer, there shouldn’t be any fallen leaves, especially not ones that are bone-dry and crumble at the slightest touch.)

Despite that, it feels as though he disappears whenever Death turns her head. The partial blindness makes her unstable in a way she hadn’t been for several millennia.

(When she embraced her function, she had found stability and strength in that.)

Death repeatedly brushes against him to reassure herself that he is there. Each time she is shocked at the frigidness of his skin. His skin had always had a slight chill to it, but it had been a soothing chill like a breeze on a hot summer’s day. This is not that.

(He is not who he was.)

(Death doesn’t give him a lecture on purpose and connections between people like most of her counterparts do.)

(Desolation doesn’t need it like Dream would have. No one can give him what he truly needs.)

Hob chokes on his drink when a certain Stranger enters his humble, little bar.

(Had anyone been there to visit him in the last few years to ask that all-familiar question… Hob isn’t sure if he would have been able to say yes.)

(He never realised how exhausting it is to exist. To exist alone and abandoned without an anchor. Without anyone to so deeply and fully share his joy of life with.)

(He had been bitter those first few decades.)

(And then slowly, he had become melancholy with the occasional bouts of anger in between. He knows his worth and he didn’t deserve that.)

(Still, he had felt abandoned and he had mourned.)

Hob is about to ask his Stranger some questions (he has accumulated a lot of those over the years, over the almost two centuries he had been gone), but stops when their eyes catch.

He had first noticed it in 1789. When his stranger had grinned at him so (compared to his usual expression, that was very much a grin) and the twinkle in his eyes had revealed themselves to be what they really are: galaxies. And stars. And nebulas. A whole universe contained within the shining eyes of his Stranger.

The galaxies and stars in his Stranger’s eyes were always steady and reassuring in their motion, barely moving at all, really.

Now, they appear as a rapid stream, ever-shifting, fast-flowing and caught in a never-ending cycle of implosion and expansion. Stuck in an Endless Remaking. The sight of it makes him dizzy and he chokes at the sudden dryness in his throat. The glass of cold lemonade does not much to alleviate it. Quite the opposite, actually. It scorches his body with a freezing cold that trumps even the coldest night during the 1600s.

He expels a desperate breath to get rid of the ice in his lungs and finds that he cannot. He looks up at his Stranger, who has since averted his gaze and settled it on the glass of lemonade.

“Tell me, Hob Gadling, do you still wish to live?”

In his mind, Hob had always compared his Stranger to the moon, reflecting back the light and joy at whoever sits across him. He lets them partake in both their own beauty and his, giving his attention freely and generously. His eyes held a universe and all it had to offer and he would offer it to you. One would always become the Sun to his Moon and Hob had always enjoyed that exchange.

Now, Hob thinks that he’d rather be anything else that the Sun to the being who is not the Moon anymore. He finds that he cannot help himself and so he asks: “Just who are you?”

(Normally, this question would have been asked with a mischievous glint in his eye and the excitement of a young puppy. In most universes, it is asked like that.)

(This is not one of those universes.)

“Apologies, I have never properly introduced myself. I am the Decay of all Things Precious, the Shadow at the Edge of all Things Forsaken. I am the Dream Who Burnt Away and Drowned. I am Desolation of the Endless.”

(Hob Gadling has long since learned to trust his gut and he knows that there is a wrongness to that introduction. They both know that this introduction would have gone very differently, had his Stranger come to their appointment in 1989.)

(But Hob Gadling is nothing if not optimistic and maybe a bit foolish and thus he starts to talk.)

(He talks and laughs until he feels the ice in his lungs thaw the slightest bit and then he talks and laughs some more.)

(He had always been good at icebreakers.)

#the sandman #the sandman fanfic #dream of the endless #remade dream of the endless

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the-unknown-storyteller · 3 years ago

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Bookbinding Fanfiction: A New Adventure Begins

and thus I rise from the dead (with no new fics of my own making though). Anyway, I'm gonna talk a bit about my process binding Salvage by @muffinlance. Thanks @necrotic-bones for (unknowingly) inspiring me to get into this (they were to first to ask to fanbind Salvage and I wanted to do it as well)

Before I begin, here are the guides/tutorials that I used:

- How To Make A Book From An AO3 Page by @armoredsuperheavy

- Bookbinding Resources Master List by members of the Renegade Bindery discord server (found through the previous guide)

- r/bookbinding has a nice beginner’s introduction to bookbinding

- the Case Bound Book series by DAS Bookbinding on youtube is very helpful as well, I specifically used Part 6 Casing In

I also found this amazing program, called Bookbinder (on quantumelephant.co.uk), that takes your pdf and formats it into proper signatures and flips every second page for you etc, so that you can print it at home (if you have the proper printer for it)

this post is probably going to be kind of long, so the entire thing is under the cut, but here’s a preview:

Anyway, I think it's been close to over two weeks since the start of my bookbinding projects, but they’re both done! I first did a kind of test run with a collection of detroit become human fanfics, which taught me four things:

- don't forget to choose natural white paper at the print shop (books never use pure white paper)

- the edges will be irregular and that is ok, do under no circumstances try to level them by hand as you will definitely not succeed in getting smooth edges, just leave the signatures as they are, trust me

- thin endpapers are horrible to smoothly glue down, so take some paper that's a bit thicker and it'll be easier

- finish watching a tutorial before doing the thing, eg. I forgot to put extra paper between the endpapers and the first two and last two pages of the DBH collection got a bit of a wave now, oh well

I might make another post properly detailing my first fanbinding journey with the DBH fics, but second things first: Salvage

Chapter 1: The Beginning

I did dip my toes into bookbinding a few years back, but did them japanese style with an open spine, so doing a proper case bookbind with a spine and all was new to me, ArmoredSuperHeavy’s guide helped a lot

Chapter 2: Getting Materials

Step 1: Read both guides mentioned above, then go to the city to find what you need, don't really find what you need, order a bunch of shit instead

Step 2: Only partially read through the bookbinding guide and forget to order half the stuff you need, try to make do with what you have (big mistake)

Step 3: Try to make bookcloth yourself with this guide, don’t follow it properly and fail at making it, find out that buying bookcloth is dirt cheap (comparatively)

Step 4: regret buying all that cloth and unnecessarily expensive thin paper for the backing

Step 4: buy cheap bookcloth while sighing through the pain of being inconvenienced by your own stupidity, patiently wait for all of your stuff to arrive

Step 5: harvest and format your choosen works according to @armoredsuperheavy‘s guide, run it through the bookbinder program

Step 6: let a website print your script for you since your printer is barely good enough to print one (1) page if you’re lucky, let alone 64 (DBH) or flippin’ 103 (Salvage), front and back

Step 7: wait some more

Chapter 3: Binding the Book

Now sadly I barely took any pictures (read: none), except for the finished product, so I wont go into too much detail, I’ll mostly talk about my thoughts behind choosing the colors and design with a slight detour into the layout and formatting of the fic

The Design:

I knew that I wanted the book to be blue (since Salvage takes place at sea) and that I wanted to find some paper that had some kind of blue wave design on it, I went on ollilypaperware and found this really nice chiyogami paper with a blue wave/scale design on it:

I wanted the round parts to point upwards, but I got it all turned around while glueing it down and now they point downwards instead, but thats fine

I wanted the spine to be blue as well, but when I looked at my red bookcloth (I ordered a few different colors since shipping was a bit expensive and I wanted to get my money’s worth) and thought “red like fire, oh OH that would look fucking awesome and reflect the content of the fic much better”, so I used that instead, I also bought some blue, purple and yellow ribbons in the city and used the blue one for a bookmark by gluing it into the spine

Because of that I made a kind of template, I used Baskerville Old Face for the body, Garamond for the front matter (AO3 tags, summary etc) and Bodoni MT for the front title and chapter titles

The Formatting:

Now I did format a few works before ordering the materials, the materials were getting quite expensive and I wanted to make sure that I had more than just one fic I wanted to bind, I made a whole list and all

I pretty much just followed SuperArmoredHeavy’s guide on how to harvest and format AO3 fics and my layout is the same, meaning the first page is just the title, then title and author in bigger font with the AO3 tags and the summary on the back, then the fic and lastly the author’s notes in an appendix

Chapter 4: The Finished Book

My trial run was a great success in terms of learning what to do and what not to, which means that my Salvage fanbind is the best it could be (except for the endpaper at the back, which I slightly failed at gluing down smoothly, but its behind two empty pages and at the end of the book, so I dont really mind, no one will see)

I’m incredibly happy with the finish and hope that the exterior does the interior justice, but without much further ado, here are the promised pictures:

#fanbinding #salvage binding #muffinlance #salvage #atla #avatar the last airbender

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the-unknown-storyteller · 4 years ago

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come on, guys, he’s just trying to look cool

here’s a version without the text:

Red: “this is a bit awkward...”

Blue: “yeah, are you done yet or what?”

Creator: “you two are impossible to work with”

a message from the Creator

#untitled fanart #unknown art #i saw this post and thought 'this square needs a suit!'#so i spent the last two and a half hours making this #at first it looked ominous and foreboding and then i added the text #and now he just looks annoyed and done #lets hope i wont find any mistakes as soon as i post this

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the-unknown-storyteller · 4 years ago

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these wings of mine (pt 1)

Summary: Philza likes places that are high off the ground. Ranboo looks at Phil's broken wings and at the way, his eyes longingly trace the sky and he can think of several reason why that may be the case.

But this Sunday morning is not the right one to get into that just yet. For now, Techno cooks for them and Tubbo almost breaks Pickboo. For now, they ignore the issues that run as deep as the scars on Philza's back.

It is a lazy Sunday morning. His hands wouldn’t quite cooperate when fetching some bowls from the cupboards, the cutlery slipping from his fingers. He rubs at his eyes, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and flicking some hair away from his face. It was getting kind of long. He bunches it up into what vaguely resembles a bun and ties it down with a hair tie and some hair pins. He can deal with it later. He massages his hands and wrist, shaking them out a bit before peeling and chopping some potatoes. He stares at the sizzling potato cubes in his pan, stirring it with sluggish arms. Coming out of hibernation sucks. Half a week awake and he can’t shake this feeling of tiredness still deep in his bones in the morning. His body probably needs to catch up with his mind.

Techno moves over to some shelves on the wall, taking out various spices and three tea bags. The sun has just peeked over the top of the surrounding mountains when Techno hears loud footsteps fast approaching. The door to his little cottage is thrown open, as Tubbo bursts through it, an exhausted Ranboo right at his heels. A cold gust of wind rushes through the room, waking up Techno’s tired body.

“Tubbo, please,” Ranboo begs, holding his right hand out for whatever it is that Tubbo is holding behind his back. The small ram hybrid just sticks out his tongue and runs around the table.

“What’s the government doing here?” Techno asked, pulling out a fourth tea bag and another set of cutlery. Might as well make enough for everyone. He sidesteps Tubbo, who skids past him and hides behind the kitchen counter, taking a short peek over it every so often. How childish.

“Pickboo is at incredibly low durability and I offered to mend it for him, but Tubbo won’t give it to me, saying ‘it’s none of your business if it breaks’,” Ranboo explains, trying to cut off Tubbo’s escape route, but he just dives between his legs and runs off, laughing.

“Well, it is none of your business,” Tubbo says, attaching the pickaxe to his belt and climbing up the ladder to Techno’s room.

“It really is, though,” Ranboo complains, trying to grab his leg to pull him down, but missing by mere inches. “Tubbo!!” They can hear a window being opened and then a muffled thud, as the ram hybrid lands on the roof of the stable outside.

“That’s what you get for marrying the government. Now instead of chasing after him - which we both know is futile - could you get Phil? He’s probably on the roof or something.” Techno flips the potato slices and stirs in some eggs.

“On the roof? Did something happen? Do you need help with repairs?” He hadn’t heard any explosions going off during the night and hadn’t smelled any gunpowder either when he approached the cottage.

“Nah, he just likes it there.”

Ranboo nods and walks out the door and sure enough, he could see the iridescent black-grey of Philza’s wings. Getting an idea, Ranboo grins mischievously and closes his eyes. He blinks away, leaving purple particles behind.

He appears right next to Phil, startling the older man. “Oh fuck!” Philza yells out, jumping away, his fluffed up wings spread out to both regain his balance and to intimidate. “It’s kind of scary how good you’ve gotten at the whole teleportation thing in just a month.” His wings smooth out again, but stay unfolded behind him. His feathers move gently in the arctic winds.

“Techno’s cooking breakfast and asked me to fetch you.” Ranboo’s eyes move towards Philza’s back. It’s almost as if he were trying to catch the winds in his ruined feathers.

“Oh, alright. You go on ahead, I’ll be right down with you guys. I just,” Philza looks out over the snowy plain of their lands, a wistful look in his eyes. He flaps his wings a few times, as if he were to take off at any moment. “I just need a moment.”

“Okay, Phil... Just don’t take too long or Techno will get mad. He got up extra early to cook for us.” Ranboo gives his wings one last look before blinking away.

“I will.” Phil lays down on the roof, feeling the wind rush over his feathers. He closes his eyes and imagines himself gliding through the air, catching the air currents and being pushed upwards high into the sky. He slowly opens his eyes again and looks at the atrophied muscles of his right wing. The break never healed right. He watches a murder of crows fly past and wishes he could go with them.

Wishful thinking.

#dream smp fanfiction #dream smp fanfic #dsmp technoblade #dsmp philza #ranboo #dsmp tubbo

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the-unknown-storyteller · 4 years ago

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now’s not the time

Summary: Tubbo watches from afar each day, as Tommy paces back and forth in endless circles. Ever since the watchtower has been finished, Tommy's been staying at the old dreamon hunter campsite, staring down the prison during the day and sleeping with one eye open during the night. He can't miss any details, any block out of plays that may hint at Dream's escape. Because he can't escape. He won't. Tommy is going to make sure of that.

Tubbo, on the other hand, is going to make sure that his friend will be okay. They'll both be okay.

It’s been a week and Tommy’s been staying at the watchtower ever since it got finished. He stares down the prison during the day and sleeps with one eye open at night. He doesn’t want to miss any details, any block out of place that may hint at Dream’s escape. Because Dream can’t escape. He can’t. Tommy is going to make sure of that. He climbs up the ladder with tired limbs and heavy eyes.

Tubbo watches from afar, frowning at the way his best friend paces back and forth in endless circles at the top of the watchtower. He fidgets with the fur trimming of his winter coat, that is much too warm for the warmer climate around the prison, before he decides that he will have to intervene. Just… not right now. Michael needs him in Snowchester.

The nights have become colder and Tubbo’s winter coat has become more and more appropriate, as the sun falls from the sky. The watchtower is empty and instead he can see a prick of light, probably a campfire, further down the coast. Walking closer, he can make out a small silhouette huddled dangerously close to the flames. It is Tommy.

Tubbo approaches slowly from the right, watching his friend shiver in the crisp night air with his thin shirt. At least his neck was protected by his bandana. He rips his gaze from the deep green of its fabric, focusing instead on Tommy’s face. The empty look in his eyes scares him. He averts his gaze once again, directing it at the dying fire instead.

He stares into it until he sees white spots flicker in his vision. The flames remind him of burning craters, created both by his enemies and by his own hands and he wonders if… he shakes his head and looks towards Tommy again, whose eyes are dead set on the prison. He wonders if the flames remind him of the same thing.

“Hey, Big Man,” he says, sitting down to his left. He ignores the scar that peeks out underneath his dirty hair, he ignores the images of Dream striking Tommy down again and again, that go through his mind. Now’s not the time. “What’re you up to?” No response. “Hm, guess I’m just gonna fill the silence for the both of us.” He fidgets with the sleeve of his jacket and watches his friend shiver in the cold.

“Do you know Foolish? A few weeks ago, I commissioned him to build us a mansion, so that Ranboo, Michael and me can live together in one big house and all that. I know that you’re not that fond of Ranboo, but he makes me happy. They both do and I can’t wait to move in with them. To live under the same roof that I own and paid for. Well, I guess Ranboo pays for it and technically owns it, but that’s besides the point. The reason why I actually brought this up is… Tommy, would you like to live with us? There’s more than enough space for you an-”

“SHUT UP, TUBBO!! Can’t you see I’m trying to concentrate here. This is important,” he yells out, interrupting his friend. He doesn’t notice the way Tubbo flinches at his sudden yelling, shrinking in on himself. Now’s not the time. “This is important…” He rubs at his eyes, looking exhausted. Tubbo stops talking, lowering his hands which he had raised in excited gestures. This is okay. They’ll be okay.

“Okay,” Tubbo mumbles, watching the dying embers in front of them. He hadn’t even noticed how fast time was passing. He slowly gets up from his sitting spot and retrieves some more logs and kindling from a chest close to the watchtower. He looks up at its top with a frown, shaking his head as he returns to the campsite and throws the logs and the kindling onto the embers. The kindling catches fire and soon the whole thing lights up in flames and burning heat. Tommy doesn’t move an inch. Not until Tubbo tugs at his shirt again and again, until he finally moves with a glare.

“I’ll be right back.” He leaves for a few minutes, returning moments later with a bag full of steaming hot baked potatoes. “Eat.” He offers Tommy a potato wrapped in some tin foil.

“Not hungry,” Tommy replies, blinking frantically as he continues to stare. His vision feels a bit blurry.

“It wasn’t a question. Eat.” He shoves the potato into Tommy’s hand and leans back, as he tears into his own. He can feel the warmth of the food and the fire spread through his body, making him feel much better. At least physically. He glances to the side and watches Tommy take a small bite. A surprised look spreads across his face and he, too, tears into the potato, eating it in mere minutes.

“Good. Now sleep,” Tubbo instructs, taking off his jacket and wrapping it around Tommy’s shoulders. He knows that Tommy won’t actually follow his order, but he tries all the same.

“Are you fucking crazy, Tubbo?? There’s no way I can go to sleep now,” Tommy argues. He doesn’t take off the jacket. “What about ‘this is important’ did you not understand?! This- this is so much bigger than the both of us and- and I can’t afford to sleep when he is in there, plotting and shit and oh god, what if he actually escapes, what if he-”

He is interrupted by a sudden almost burning heat on the left side on his face. It was a potato.

“What the fuck, Tubbo! Get that shit away from me, now’s not the time!!”

“I know,” he says, moving closer and leaning against Tommy. “I know, Tommy. But if you don’t sleep, then I will. So try to keep it down.”

“What th- you are the one talking my fucking ears off and-”

“Sshhh.”

“Oh fuck off.”

Tubbo closes his eyes, shifting a bit to get more comfortable against his friend-shaped pillow and promptly dozes off. Tommy scoffs, but doesn’t wake him. He doesn’t try to move him, either. He moves his eyes back to the prison, watching the lava encased in the watchtowers lazily flow down, down, down.

It only takes a few moments for him to finally fall asleep as well.

#dream smp fanfic #dream smp fanfiction #dsmp tommyinnit #tommyinnit #dsmp tubbo #tubbo #emotional hurt/comfort #kind of

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the-unknown-storyteller · 4 years ago

Text

i will keep you safe

(sequel to a matter of trust)

Summary: Ranboo’s never thought about it, but the Nether is never really dark. There’s no sun, no moon, only the lazy lava rivers far below and the glowstones high up on the ceiling of the Nether, but they’re enough to keep everything bright and lit up. There was just one small problem with that.

After months of building up trust and bonding with the little zombie piglin, Ranboo brought Michael to the overworld. He was dead set on providing him with a house, food and a family. Especially after he saw Michael’s “home” two or three weeks after they had met. His chicken had recovered enough to flap its wings and run around again, though Ranboo didn’t miss the way one of its wings would only respond sometimes, hanging limply at its side most of the time.

But Michael was happy all the same and trusted the half-enderman enough to show where he lived, so that the other could come find him there if he wasn’t in any of his usual spots.

It was just a hole dug into the netherrack. Ranboo could spot a small pile of half-eaten crimson fungi and gnawed on warped roots. The chicken probably lived off of the nether sprouts that were growing in the far right corner of the “room”. There was also a bed, mostly consisting of weeping vines and some strange red leaves. It was decided at that moment that Michael would live with Ranboo and Tubbo.

It was an oversight on Ranboo’s part, really, bringing a baby piglin to the overworld without thinking about any of the effects it may have on the child. He’s never thought about it, but the Nether is never really dark. There’s no sun, no moon, only the lazy lava rivers far below and the glowstones high up on the ceiling of the Nether, but they’re enough to keep everything bright and lit up. There was just one small problem with that.

When they brought Michael to the overworld, the first thing the baby piglin did was shriek in pain. The long whining sounds that escaped his adopted son distressed Ranboo greatly, who awkwardly stood in front of the piglin, too scared to touch him and not really knowing what was hurting him. There were tears running down his face, while Michael put his hooves in front of his eyes.

It’s too bright out here, Ranboo suddenly realized, looking up at the sun that was mercilessly burning down on their backs and pierced their eyes. The light is way too harsh.

He took off his suit jacket and wrapped it around Michael’s head, making sure to block off as much light as he could. The whining stopped and all that remained were quiet sniffles and the rustling of fabric, as Michael wiped at his eyes.

“Ok, ok, I can work with this. Everything will be alright, Michael. I am so sorry,” Ranboo muttered, cradling him against his chest to block off even more light. He lightly stroked his ear that poked out from underneath the suit jacket. “I’m sorry, Michael…”

There was a small grumble and a shift, as the baby piglin settled in Ranboo’s arms. “Just hold on tight, Michael, I’ll fix this.” He carefully put Michael’s chicken into the messenger bag at his side. With hurried steps, he ran towards the snow capped roofs of Snowchester in the distance.

In the end, Michael adjusted. After just a few hours in the dimmed attic of Tubbo’s house, he could not only open his eyes fully, but also risk a few glances outside the window. From then on, he would sit on the window sill and look outside as often as he could. The light wasn’t hurting him as much anymore. Ranboo stayed with him, only leaving to get him a loaf of bread and some meat. The chicken settled on the bed, clucking quietly in its sleep and ruffling its feathers every once in a while.

As the sun set, Michael’s posture sagged, slumping against the window.

“Getting sleepy, huh?” Ranboo chuckled, picking the baby piglin up and depositing him on the bed next to his chicken. He snuggled into the soft woolen blankets, breathing deeply.

“I guess that journey was pretty taxing, but I’m glad you’re here, you know? With us, with me.” He smoothed out the blanket, tucking him properly in. The sun set completely, plunging Snowchester in darkness. “You can’t imagine how much I love you, Michael. I really, really do.” He gave him a small kiss on his little head, carefully getting up from the bed. He put out the lantern above the bed, before he left.

“Goodnight, Michael.”

Not only was the light in the Nether very warm and easy on the eyes, but it was also constant. While the mobs in the Nether did have some type of aligned sleeping cycle, there wasn’t really a night-day cycle in place that would dictate when it was time to sleep and when it was time to wake. It was all based on instinct.

The clock struck midnight. Tubbo had given Ranboo a temporary sleeping spot on an old mattress on the floor until they could get another proper bed into the house. It was a bit short for his long legs, but he didn’t mind. He wanted to be close to Michael.

As he laid there facing the ceiling and listening for the light sounds and snores of Tubbo next to him and Michael in the attic, he heard some quiet whimpering from above him. It was faint at first, growing louder and more panicked. Within minutes, Ranboo was out of bed, scrambling to climb up the ladder when he heard crying.

He lifted the trapdoor and saw a small form curled up on the bed, covered in the woolen blanket. “Michael?” More sniffling. “Michael, is everything okay?” There was a high whine, only interrupted by the sound of stuttering breath. Ranboo ran over to the distraught piglin.

“Hey, hey, Michael, what’s wrong? Is something hurting again?” He reached out towards the ball on the bed, carefully enveloping it with his long arms. He squeezed lightly.

“Did you have a nightmare?” He could feel movement against his chest in a clear no. He could feel him shiver next to him. “Did something scare you?” Looking around the room, he couldn’t really find anything. It was almost too dark to see.

Too dark to see. “Michael, is it too dark right now?” A nod. Of course, I’m such an idiot. Ranboo reached over to the lamp above the bed and relit it with a practiced flick of his wrist. Michael immediately calmed down, peeking his head out from underneath the blanket.

“There we go. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I leave it lit from now on.” Michael gave him a relieved grunt, as he climbed into his lap and curled up there, tightly wrapping his blanket around him. “Oh, okay! Let me just…”

Ranboo laid down on the bed, hugging his son tight. His breath soon evened out.

“Goodnight, Michael.”

#dream smp fanfiction #dream smp fanfic #dsmp ranboo #ranboo #dsmp michael #dsmp big bang bootcamp #hurt/comfort

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the-unknown-storyteller · 4 years ago

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concern for a friend

(week #1, prompt 3: excitement)

tw: mentions of derealisation, panic

Summary: Ranboo is working on the watchtower, as Ghostbur wanders off as the self-designated snack man. When the ghost doesn't return for quite some while, Ranboo is starting to worry for his friend. Just where is Ghostbur?

“I will be the snack man and get us some snacks. You work on that tower real good and I’ll get us something, alright? Do you like savory or sweet things? You know what, I’ll just get a bit of everything. I’ll be right back, oki?”

Before Ranboo has a chance to react, Ghostbur is up and running in the direction of Tommy’s dirt shack. Dusting off his pants from the climb, the ghost waves enthusiastically from the top of the hill, then disappears behind some trees and shrubbery. Ranboo releases a sigh, smiling fondly at the antics of the ghost. He gets out a stack of spruce logs and starts building up the pillars to the skies. He wonders why Tommy needs the watchtower to be this tall. Surely, it would have been enough if it was one or two thirds of its current height, it’s not like none of them have tridents. He’s pretty sure most of them have access to enderpearls as well.

Nonetheless, he keeps to the height given by Tommy, diligently placing the spruce logs and replacing the strange purple planks at the sides with dark oak instead. It won’t be the prettiest watchtower, but it’ll be enough. Maybe Ghostbur can improve its design.

Speaking of the ghost, he’s been gone for quite a while now. Ranboo knows that he is more than capable of taking care of himself. But then he thinks of the ghost’s memory issues and his own problems with keeping himself tethered to the real world sometimes, blinking the wrong way and suddenly finding himself in an unfamiliar place. It’s happened one too many times for the enderman hybrid to be quite comfortable with this situation. (If Tubbo hadn’t found him that one time, he doesn’t know what would have happened. He doesn’t like to think about it.)

Ranboo begins to pack up his things, putting away the spruce logs in a chest and strapping his sword and axe to his back instead. Tommy will forgive him if the tower isn’t finished by tomorrow. He hadn’t given him a deadline, anyway.

He begins his journey up the hill, rounding the trees and shrubbery he saw Ghostbur disappear behind a couple hours ago and following the path towards Tommy’s abode. He keeps an eye on his surroundings and mentally takes note of anything that appears out of place. The air gets significantly colder, as the last rays of the sun disappear behind the horizon. It was getting late. He adjusts the leather straps of his weapons.

“Ghostbur?”, Ranboo calls out, knocking at the wooden door of Tommy’s shack. No answer. He opens the door with a creak and looks inside. There are some chests along the wall, a few of them placed smack in the middle of the place. He can hear the vrwooping sounds of an enderchest nearby, but no humming of a particularly musical ghost. He takes a step inside and makes his way down the stairs on the right, but nothing. The place is empty.

He leaves the dirt shack behind and runs down the prime path, frantically turning his head from side to side, in the hopes that he spots the yellow of Ghostbur’s sweater or the red of his beanie. But no such luck.

“Ghostbur?!!” Ranboo starts calling the ghost’s name, noting how eerily empty and abandoned this place is. He spends all his time in the Arctic Commune or, more recently, in Snowchester, so he’s never stayed here long enough to notice, but this place feels dead. He can feel something crawl up his arms, shooting through his hands and making him shake them violently.

“Ghostbur, where are you?!” He sends out a quick message to his friend, but there’s no response. Something isn’t right. The ghost should have responded by now. One might think that he would lose his communicator often, with his spotty memory and his clumsy tendency to lose most other things. But he’s actually never lost it and he always answers.

“It’s fine, he’s fine. He probably just got fixated on a flower or went overboard on the snacks. He gets over-excited like that,” Ranboo reasons, taking the path down towards L’Manhole. The glass, preserving what was never meant to be, reflects the darkening sky above. He keeps a wide distance to the blown-up city, eyeing the red vines at its edges with worry. He sees neither yellow nor any red nor any blue, so he turns around and leaves the dead space to its own.

“Ghostbur??” Why isn’t he answering?! Night has fallen completely by now, the new moon trying its hardest to plunge Ranboo’s surroundings in complete darkness, but he just takes out a torch and lights the matchstick with a practiced flick of his wrist against the ground.

The half-enderman roams the perimeters around Eret’s museum, focusing his hearing towards the near distance. Besides the undead groaning of zombies and the quiet clattering of skeletons, he can’t make out much more. Except for a quiet hiss. He barely has time to react, as he hears an explosion go off in the distance. Before he knows it, he is up and running in that direction. Images of a hurt Ghostbur, running through his brain. “Ghostbur!!”

And then, he hears yelling and noises that sounds like sobbing and it makes him vwroop in panic and distress. His friend is in danger, his friend is in danger. He feels a lurch in his stomach and blinks across the field, reappearing at the steps of Eret’s museum. Doesn’t Eret usually spawn-proof his builds? Doesn’t matter right now. Ranboo runs up the steps, skipping the last flight, as he blinks out and appears in the middle of the build. Not here. Further away, beyond the wall. He takes out his trident and places some water, jumping the wall.

During the highpoint of his jump, he can make out yellow and red and a lot of blue just beyond the river. He lets out a series of distressed noises and blinks away. His hands are starting to shake from jumping this often, but his friend is hurt, hurt, hurt and he has to hurry.

He stumbles through his landing and tridents across the river, landing close to what is definitely Ghostbur hunched over, surrounded by blue, why is there so much blue?!! “Ghostbur??” He tentatively reaches for his friend and touches his shoulder lightly. The ghost snaps his head up, staring at the enderman hybrid. He flinches back in shock, blinking away a few metres further.

“Ranboo!!”, the ghost calls out, jumping from his position on the ground. “Oh my goodness, I must have totally lost track of the time. You see, I was walking along the prime path, looking for some snacks when I saw- oh, the snacks, Ranboo! I totally forgot about the snacks!! ” The ghost pats down his pants, then shuffles through the bag at his side. “Sorry, bread is all I have on me. You want some?” Ghostbur offers some fluffy bread rolls, but Ranboo is too stunned to react. Adrenalin is still running high in his bloodstream, making him tense and freeze up. What is happening?

“Not a fan of bread rolls? Oh well, more for me and friend- oh my gosh, Ranboo, look who I found in the woods!!” Getting off-track again, Ghostbur whirls around and pulls something blue and fluffy towards the perplexed enderman. “I found friend!! He was just grazing on some grass and when he saw me, I saw that look in his eyes that told me that I should follow him and so I did! I don’t quite understand why he brought me here, this just seems like a normal clearing to me, but I mean, I trust him, he knows what he’s doin-” The excited rambles of the ghost are cut off by the heavy weight of two hands on his shoulders. He looks up and is met with the shiny wet eyes of a certain enderman hybrid. “Ranboo? What’s wrong?”, come the soft questions, as the ghost realizes that something must be wrong.

“Please never do that again.”

“Never do what again, Ranboo? I was just getting some snacks like I told you when I met an old friend, haha-”

“I understand that you are more than capable of taking care of yourself, but you have to understand that you didn’t return for hours and hours until the sun set.” Ranboo takes a shuddering breath. “You didn’t return and you didn’t respond to my messages and then I heard an explosion go off in the distance and then I saw all that blue and I thought you got hurt and I-” His tail flicks nervously from side to side, thumping against the ground every now and then in distress.

“Ranboo, Ranboo. Listen, listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise that it was getting this late. I got distracted by friend and didn’t look at my communicator for a while.” The ghost takes out a light blue rock from his bag and hands it to the other. “Here, this will calm you down. Take some blue.”

“Thanks, Ghostbur.”

#dream smp fic #dream smp fanfic #dsmp ranboo #dsmp ghostbur #emotional hurt/comfort #dsmp big bang bootcamp #ranboo #ghostbur #dream smp

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