Stalking Kurosaki Ichigo/О книжках
So, the fic I told you about in my LJ is based on this entry by
hughes_maes and this entry by nihonhe, and is not of course a total copy of what has been said in these entries, they simply triggered writing this story.
Title: Stalking Kurosaki Ichigo
Warnings: bad language (+ fangirling and squeals)
Summary: two girls nearly bump into a cute guy and after figuring out it was Isaka Tatsuya, they venture to a small stalking mission.
A/n: alright, alright, my Bleach fics tend to become longer, though it’s not an anime-related one.
Hope you’ll enjoy)
“Did you... did you just see?” you exclaim in a half-squeal attracting attention of your traveling companion, namely your friend, supporting the freak-out with gestures, leaping forward and stopping her.
The movement has its effect, at last.
“What? Whom? A UFO? An alien? An anime character alive?” her exasperation has a grounding, but it's no time to in into details as you are almost shaking the girl, desperately trying to make her turn around to look at the cutie who you nearly bumped into.
“Exactly! Damn, come on, quickly!” you're just about mad at such stubbornness. “He’s leaving!”
The other, lazily, grudgingly, swings, rolling her eyes at the same time displaying no wish to see yet another of your constant daydreaming objects who you tend to meet everywhere, because you do tend to see things, trying to pass the desirable for reality.
“Holy crap,” she shuts her mouth with her palm, eyes like two saucers, a smug smile crawls upon your face. “It’s that Ichigo guy!”
And in this position of a pair of statues you've been standing for god-knows-how-long being as you're in no compos mentis to be counting seconds. Only after reality somehow slaps you in the face, you shudder, no rational - or irrational - idea hurries to your heads, though.
“It's him, I’m telling you, it's Tatsuya!” a fit of fangirling suddenly seizes you while the second one attempts to clear out if it is that very Ichigo from Burimyu or a carbon copy of his, and of course the former version outweighs, however, the best way to make sure is check it, and this is the onset of a small stalking mission you venture.
“Ok ok now, I feel like a bonehead following him like this.”
“Luckily, it's no sin, though I feel just the same. Damn! Kurosaki Ichigo!”
“Yappee,” you rummage for the cell phone in your messenger bag cursing yourself for having stuffed it so deeply - of all days you’ve chosen this one to put it as securely as the bottom of the bag allowed.
“Don’t be a copycat, it's Tatsuya's word. Remember Genseishin Justirisers? Say ‘shimatta’ for a change,” the company reproaches while you start to fiddle with the phone eager to take pictures of the unsuspecting subject.
Neither of you knows at what point you'll have to quit spying yet none of you is about to deep-six the hunt. What for? Why? It’s a rhetorical question. Kind of small achievements, tiny miracles destiny grants to make you feel happier, complete. This is a striking example of such wonders, when you get the adrenaline going, like a challenge, a risky task. You have gone too far in your broodings, it seems.
“Jeez, it's like ”Mission impossible”,” your remark, said in whisper, lets her to carry on,
“Except we don't have no black glasses or earpiece or guns,” a pause during which you watch the person sink into the crowd. “It’s priceless. See him like this, walking along the street and no fans' attacks. Know what I value him for? He a leading actor in the musical and is so attractive, but look at him, he's so innocent and adoboral- “
“Adorable,” a correction. “You must be really turned on since you’re tongue-tied.”
Sure enough, you agree with everything just said,
“It’s good to know he didn’t get a swelled head even though so young. Goodness, let's stop, my mouth's watering as I imagine taking off his kimono- “
“And his hakama.”
“Baaaka,” you chuckle.
Minutes pass. The further it continues the more you comprehend how wrong it is: wrong because you're chasing him and therefore intruding into Isaka-san's life (what if he decides to use men’s room? Are you ready to accompany him there too?). Wrong because you've jumped at the idea all of a sudden without having considered possible consequences (what if he stops to lace up the sneakers and you run into him, what are you gonna say?). Hell, you don't even have a notion why you're doing this - that's why it is wrong! But then again, it's so much fun, to be doing it right now, off the cuff, without preparation, having broken the initial schedule. Life doesn't have to be measured, let’s break routine every once in a while. Stalking your idol seasons it up, doesn't it? Stalking-wise, you don't actually get it how come you're so into it at the moment, like a red flag to a bull. Poor Ichigo, he'd better not turn around, else he risks seeing obsessed - and possessed - fangirls who don't case about anything but watching a pair of baggy jeans on a good a-
“Say it again,” she breaks into the sweet fantasy of yours, sweet and pretty daring fantasy, by the way. “Did you just say “good a- “
“Shh!” you cut her short not letting finish the word, though you can't believe you just voiced your thoughts. “He might hear you.”
“Me? Don’t be ridiculous. It’s too noisy here to hear even if I whoop “Buricchi saikou! Isaka Tatsuya aka Kurosaki Ichigo wa sugoi!”” which certainly sounds very loud, honest and emotional, yet too loud to...
‘Oh gosh. Heck, dammit, shit, fuuuuck,’ you've run out of bad language by the time the guy in front of you slowed down his pace and half-turned. ‘We’re dead.’
It is one of such crucial moments called ‘all or nothing’ when the wiser would opt for acting on his own, so the ball is in your hands. A silly smile which you try to replace with a sincere one lingers on your face and a small wave of the hand to mark that you've recognized and are now greeting the actor, who, in his turn, presents you with the best - and absolutely disarming - of his smiles' collection, making you want to melt and soak the asphalt right now and then, or moan his name in a feeling you define as ecstasy, before in an instant he returns you both to the earth and walks away as if nothing had happened, leaving you with your hand raised... and indescribably satisfied, but satisfied nonetheless.
“Rakiii,” the female voice squeaks. “I was taking a video of him all the while. Yatta!”
Still, you're strangely silent, feels like a snowball that had been rolled uphill has fallen off the top, and nothing is there, no excitement nor expectation for it is over, warm glow as the only reminiscence of the meeting. And a couple of pictures as well. You have not found out the reason for stalking yet, though its meaning, its essence is getting clearer after each new experience. It's not those things you've got used to receiving from a celebrity, not their signatures, not their photographs - it's a simple genuine smile that means much more than any material stuff, a little bit of attention given to you as a sign of being noticed, a gift that serves as a torch to light up the road, that infuses with hopefulness, desire to go ahead.
“Tacchan...” ever-so softly you pronounce his name, seeing him off with your what-seems-like-watery eyes while the corners of your lips curve into a tenderest smile.
Зазвеневший в 6:05 будильник лишил начисто всякого сна. Мой моб на громкости «2» способен разбудить спящего в дальней комнате, так что представьте ощущения от звонка прямо в ухо: моб лежал прямо на подушке, мое ухо тоже на ней. А сейчас сижу с чашкой кофе, пить который мне совершенно не свойственно (все-таки плохо на голосовые связки действует) и размышляю, зачем вообще понадобилось заводить часы на 6:05 - суп сварить я и так успею. Хотя вон кому-то в соседнем доме приспичило посверлить с утра пораньше.
Выбрала книги для прочтения в ближайшее время: Мураками, Мопассан, Бунин. Компания разношерстная, но тем интереснее. Мураками прочла в рекордное кол-во времени, сама не понимаю, как получается так быстро его читать? Новеллы (ну, спросите меня, я бы назвала их ужастиками) Ги де впереди, а за Бунина села вчера. Отыскав в дальних рядах книжного шкафа «кирпич», открыла содержание и с удивлением и недовольством осознала, что, млин, все это уже прочитано. Черт. Мораль? Хорошо же нас «классически» поднатаскали в школе!))
Сегодня на дороге валялись книги классиков... Хотела подобрать, но стало жутко неудобно, причем в обоих смыслах: потому что руки были заняты пакетами со шпаклевкой; и потому что народ сновал туда-сюда, и останавливаться и привлекать внимание не сильно хотелось. А вообще жалко Гоголя - желтые потрепанные страницы печально перелистывал ветер...
hughes_maes and this entry by nihonhe, and is not of course a total copy of what has been said in these entries, they simply triggered writing this story.
Title: Stalking Kurosaki Ichigo
Warnings: bad language (+ fangirling and squeals)
Summary: two girls nearly bump into a cute guy and after figuring out it was Isaka Tatsuya, they venture to a small stalking mission.
A/n: alright, alright, my Bleach fics tend to become longer, though it’s not an anime-related one.
Hope you’ll enjoy)
“Did you... did you just see?” you exclaim in a half-squeal attracting attention of your traveling companion, namely your friend, supporting the freak-out with gestures, leaping forward and stopping her.
The movement has its effect, at last.
“What? Whom? A UFO? An alien? An anime character alive?” her exasperation has a grounding, but it's no time to in into details as you are almost shaking the girl, desperately trying to make her turn around to look at the cutie who you nearly bumped into.
“Exactly! Damn, come on, quickly!” you're just about mad at such stubbornness. “He’s leaving!”
The other, lazily, grudgingly, swings, rolling her eyes at the same time displaying no wish to see yet another of your constant daydreaming objects who you tend to meet everywhere, because you do tend to see things, trying to pass the desirable for reality.
“Holy crap,” she shuts her mouth with her palm, eyes like two saucers, a smug smile crawls upon your face. “It’s that Ichigo guy!”
And in this position of a pair of statues you've been standing for god-knows-how-long being as you're in no compos mentis to be counting seconds. Only after reality somehow slaps you in the face, you shudder, no rational - or irrational - idea hurries to your heads, though.
“It's him, I’m telling you, it's Tatsuya!” a fit of fangirling suddenly seizes you while the second one attempts to clear out if it is that very Ichigo from Burimyu or a carbon copy of his, and of course the former version outweighs, however, the best way to make sure is check it, and this is the onset of a small stalking mission you venture.
“Ok ok now, I feel like a bonehead following him like this.”
“Luckily, it's no sin, though I feel just the same. Damn! Kurosaki Ichigo!”
“Yappee,” you rummage for the cell phone in your messenger bag cursing yourself for having stuffed it so deeply - of all days you’ve chosen this one to put it as securely as the bottom of the bag allowed.
“Don’t be a copycat, it's Tatsuya's word. Remember Genseishin Justirisers? Say ‘shimatta’ for a change,” the company reproaches while you start to fiddle with the phone eager to take pictures of the unsuspecting subject.
Neither of you knows at what point you'll have to quit spying yet none of you is about to deep-six the hunt. What for? Why? It’s a rhetorical question. Kind of small achievements, tiny miracles destiny grants to make you feel happier, complete. This is a striking example of such wonders, when you get the adrenaline going, like a challenge, a risky task. You have gone too far in your broodings, it seems.
“Jeez, it's like ”Mission impossible”,” your remark, said in whisper, lets her to carry on,
“Except we don't have no black glasses or earpiece or guns,” a pause during which you watch the person sink into the crowd. “It’s priceless. See him like this, walking along the street and no fans' attacks. Know what I value him for? He a leading actor in the musical and is so attractive, but look at him, he's so innocent and adoboral- “
“Adorable,” a correction. “You must be really turned on since you’re tongue-tied.”
Sure enough, you agree with everything just said,
“It’s good to know he didn’t get a swelled head even though so young. Goodness, let's stop, my mouth's watering as I imagine taking off his kimono- “
“And his hakama.”
“Baaaka,” you chuckle.
Minutes pass. The further it continues the more you comprehend how wrong it is: wrong because you're chasing him and therefore intruding into Isaka-san's life (what if he decides to use men’s room? Are you ready to accompany him there too?). Wrong because you've jumped at the idea all of a sudden without having considered possible consequences (what if he stops to lace up the sneakers and you run into him, what are you gonna say?). Hell, you don't even have a notion why you're doing this - that's why it is wrong! But then again, it's so much fun, to be doing it right now, off the cuff, without preparation, having broken the initial schedule. Life doesn't have to be measured, let’s break routine every once in a while. Stalking your idol seasons it up, doesn't it? Stalking-wise, you don't actually get it how come you're so into it at the moment, like a red flag to a bull. Poor Ichigo, he'd better not turn around, else he risks seeing obsessed - and possessed - fangirls who don't case about anything but watching a pair of baggy jeans on a good a-
“Say it again,” she breaks into the sweet fantasy of yours, sweet and pretty daring fantasy, by the way. “Did you just say “good a- “
“Shh!” you cut her short not letting finish the word, though you can't believe you just voiced your thoughts. “He might hear you.”
“Me? Don’t be ridiculous. It’s too noisy here to hear even if I whoop “Buricchi saikou! Isaka Tatsuya aka Kurosaki Ichigo wa sugoi!”” which certainly sounds very loud, honest and emotional, yet too loud to...
‘Oh gosh. Heck, dammit, shit, fuuuuck,’ you've run out of bad language by the time the guy in front of you slowed down his pace and half-turned. ‘We’re dead.’
It is one of such crucial moments called ‘all or nothing’ when the wiser would opt for acting on his own, so the ball is in your hands. A silly smile which you try to replace with a sincere one lingers on your face and a small wave of the hand to mark that you've recognized and are now greeting the actor, who, in his turn, presents you with the best - and absolutely disarming - of his smiles' collection, making you want to melt and soak the asphalt right now and then, or moan his name in a feeling you define as ecstasy, before in an instant he returns you both to the earth and walks away as if nothing had happened, leaving you with your hand raised... and indescribably satisfied, but satisfied nonetheless.
“Rakiii,” the female voice squeaks. “I was taking a video of him all the while. Yatta!”
Still, you're strangely silent, feels like a snowball that had been rolled uphill has fallen off the top, and nothing is there, no excitement nor expectation for it is over, warm glow as the only reminiscence of the meeting. And a couple of pictures as well. You have not found out the reason for stalking yet, though its meaning, its essence is getting clearer after each new experience. It's not those things you've got used to receiving from a celebrity, not their signatures, not their photographs - it's a simple genuine smile that means much more than any material stuff, a little bit of attention given to you as a sign of being noticed, a gift that serves as a torch to light up the road, that infuses with hopefulness, desire to go ahead.
“Tacchan...” ever-so softly you pronounce his name, seeing him off with your what-seems-like-watery eyes while the corners of your lips curve into a tenderest smile.
Зазвеневший в 6:05 будильник лишил начисто всякого сна. Мой моб на громкости «2» способен разбудить спящего в дальней комнате, так что представьте ощущения от звонка прямо в ухо: моб лежал прямо на подушке, мое ухо тоже на ней. А сейчас сижу с чашкой кофе, пить который мне совершенно не свойственно (все-таки плохо на голосовые связки действует) и размышляю, зачем вообще понадобилось заводить часы на 6:05 - суп сварить я и так успею. Хотя вон кому-то в соседнем доме приспичило посверлить с утра пораньше.
Выбрала книги для прочтения в ближайшее время: Мураками, Мопассан, Бунин. Компания разношерстная, но тем интереснее. Мураками прочла в рекордное кол-во времени, сама не понимаю, как получается так быстро его читать? Новеллы (ну, спросите меня, я бы назвала их ужастиками) Ги де впереди, а за Бунина села вчера. Отыскав в дальних рядах книжного шкафа «кирпич», открыла содержание и с удивлением и недовольством осознала, что, млин, все это уже прочитано. Черт. Мораль? Хорошо же нас «классически» поднатаскали в школе!))
Сегодня на дороге валялись книги классиков... Хотела подобрать, но стало жутко неудобно, причем в обоих смыслах: потому что руки были заняты пакетами со шпаклевкой; и потому что народ сновал туда-сюда, и останавливаться и привлекать внимание не сильно хотелось. А вообще жалко Гоголя - желтые потрепанные страницы печально перелистывал ветер...