home scrap

your father was an inventor. you knew better than to trust him in the center of town. he came home with scrap metal and built ships to glide on the grass. when you were young, you loved him for making. for a brief five years, you hated him, embarrassed of the town loon, embarrassed of what raised you.

but time shifts things. the man in town wants to marry you. a beautiful man by every account, and you hear many accounts. your nose in books doesn’t stop the stories of him: Gaston, bright, young, proud. Gaston, who could hunt and carve and flex his muscles. who forgot even himself what was true and what was fiction. it is a small village in paris, at the base of a kingdom. he is the bachelor you should have your heart set on. 

you try to teach yourself to love him. he grins at you over beer mugs. never reads the books you suggest to him, drops one in the mud. and one night you hear him, drunk and singing, laughing with the others about your father, the crazy.

that night your father brings you a single white rose from a garden. you kiss your father and think of Gaston’s log cabin, where you could live in comfort.

they come for your father in the night. he is the property of the prince, on account of theft. his hands should be cut off and sewn to the walls of his house, to remind him of his failures. an inventor without hands is a death sentence. they come with fire and hatred. rip you out of bed. your knees hit the mud. you’re too small to fight them. they tear your father away from you, and your heart out of your chest.

you run to gaston. tall, fast, manly. you beg him. it’s a mistake, you cry, you must help - you gulp - and then we will marry. 

gaston laughs and slams oak door against nose. you stumble back, feeling like a knife is in your throat. you take the wagon horse and ride improper, legs spread and bent forward, none of the lady your mother would have wanted. you ride for the life of your father.

at the door of the castle you stop. it is raining. you shout and rave and beg anything. take me, you scream, if you’re listening i’ll do anything. what do you promise on that doorstep, crying yourself empty? what do you promise to keep him alive, to keep him whole, to keep him healthy?

the door opens late. no one is there. you remember, suddenly, the tale of the beast who lives here, who ate the prince, who is terrifying. you think you hear your father and suddenly you are running, following his voice down dark hallways with no ending. 

he is in a cell. his head is bleeding. you feel your breath hitch. 

“will you?” a voice says, “will you trade yourself for your father, take responsibility for his sin?”

“he’s innocent,” you snarl, “you animals.”

“the rose, belle,” he whispers, and you stare at him. a white rose that is wilting beside your bedside would have been the death of him.

“take me,” you say, somehow empty and full at the same time, “if that’s what you need.”

the first night is ugly. you spend it crying. 

over time, the castle learns you, and you learn it. you think you are imagining the talking furniture for most of it. invisible hands whisk food in and out, bring you ball gowns and petticoats and delicate flowers. 

and always, the beast. at first, you were terrified of it. always in the shadows. moving like a ghost, prowling. tall, slim. menacing. never showing any skin, any proof it might be human.

but time and comfort destroy fears. you don’t run when it is in the room, you no longer shield your face in fear. it wears a mask, and this is how you know it really must be beastly. 

it is the second winter when you, playing snowball fights with the statues - you manage to hit the beast in the face. you freeze, and the panic from the day they took your father returns in a firework.

but then the beast is throwing back. and you are laughing. the next morning it is at breakfast with you, and lunch. it comes and goes, and never speaks. laughs, sometimes, you think. talks with its hands. the furniture translates. you learn, because you are good at learning. the hands that mean can i come in? the hands that mean are you hungry? the hands that mean is it okay if i read next to you, here this book is good, i found this for you.

each morning you wake up with white roses by your bedside. you learn to talk a little louder than you’re used to, to move your own hands in a way that acknowledges the beast. it is strange that you were a quiet girl and now you are comfortable shouting. the two of you have your own language, together. it teaches you swordfighting, you teach it dancing. it teaches you archery and you teach it cooking. you walk through the gardens together. there are moments where your hands touch and for some reason you blush like it was kissing. you’ve never had someone who understands you so completely. sometimes you tell it about far-away stories. sometimes you tell it about your village. and sometimes, when you are raw, you tell it about gaston and the marriage you didn’t want and your father and his insanity

one of these nights the beast brings you the mirror. you cry when you see your father. and the beast is pulling you, running, picking out a horse from the stables, gesturing. go, go. you cry when you leave.

you save your father. tell him you’ll bring him back to the beast. do you talk too loud? is gaston only mad you never belonged to him? when the raid starts, you are still taking care of your father. outside, voices, ringing. kill the beast. you think of hands, dancing in the air to speak, and you think you have never heard something so ugly. you’re ashamed to be this species.

you ride in their wake, your father safe. you ride that same panicked race as three years ago to the day. 

you fight, because the beast taught you how. the castle fights, because it is protecting its life. and the beast - you watch the flash of a blade, careful not to kill - the ability you once mistook for savagery. 

it isn’t enough. gaston, and a gun. the three of you stand on the balcony, you in between. again you are begging this man, who means nothing. “leave the beast,” you say, “take me.”

“i’ll have both,” he says, and shoots. you feel the bullet streak by you. the beast is all movement, has pushed you out of the way. they grapple, and you scream when the beast falls, skittering. gaston marches over and you move without thinking. he falls into the night silently. 

you can’t get there quick enough. you gather the beast into your lap, begging be okay. at the mask, you whisper something, and then say it again with your hands. i love you, you say. you were the best thing to happen to me.

the mask slips. a voice says, “belle,” and you are hit with the full force of something that feels like music. you can’t breathe. 

the girl beneath the mask is beautiful. her blonde hair spills across your legs. she touches your face and her hands say i’m okay, and you’re laughing. you kiss her and roses open up in you. 

“i thought you were a beast,” you say with hands and lips a hair above hers, “and here you are, the beauty.”

she smiles sheepishly. it is hard when you are like me. 

your are sobbing. you kiss her again, because you can, because she’s here and perfect and the answer to questions you didn’t know you had been asking. 

her hands, curious, worried, search for your wet cheeks. i’m okay, really, belle. you saved me.

funny, your hands dance, i was about to say the same thing.

Made of skin and bones

(not my gifs!)

Pairing: Alpha!Bucky x Omega!Reader

Warnings: Language, A/B/O dynamics, obeying the alpha? 

Summary: Due to the premature death of the King of your clan, his son, the alpha James Barnes, must assume his destiny and lead his people. As the tradition commands, he must choose some worthy omegas to make their his wives and with which he will ensure the subsistence of your clan. All the omega women are obliged to appear before their king, including you. Luckily for you, you would never be chosen… right?

1. Wolves

Your feet barely touch the grass while you run through the wet fields breaking the silence with your heavy breath. Your lungs hurt because of the effort and the moon shines upon you enlightning your path even if you don’t need it to guide your steps, you know those woods better than the palm of your hand so you don’t have any trouble in to sorting the rocks and the fallen trees.

Your legs threathen to give up in any moment and you slow down your race, taking deep breaths when you spot a light at the end of the path. You stop completely, watching carefully where do you step, not wanting to make a sound or break a futile twig that gives you away. Reaching the rustic houses you make your way through the large orchads until a small house that you know too well. 

Knocking two times on the wooden door you start to get nervous when you don’t hear a sound inside the house. Nervous you look around searching for wondering eyes that could reveal your position. You shouldn’t be here… if someone catches you…

- Y/N?? - a red head woman, Natasha, opens the window on a burst

- SHHH! - you hush her - Let me in - jumping over the ledge you enter in her home

Behind you, Nat closes the small door on a hurry knowing very well that you are making something really dangerous coming to his clan. Your clan and hers are faced since the two leading alphas get in to a bloody fight a lot of years ago. It has been so long since that fight that no one remembers anymore why you are still vexed, the king alphas had changed many times since then but the hate remains. 

- What are you doing here? - you best friend wrap you with her arms tighly, it has been nearly a month since the last time you saw her

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empty eyes - 3/3 [KHR]

- Promise -

“Tsuna-kun, where did you get this jacket?” Nana lifts the jacket Ricardo gave him the day before up. Tsuna pauses mid-bite, suddenly remember he hadn’t given the man his jacket back before rushing inside yesterday. He should fix that today.

“A friend gave it to me yesterday,” Tsuna says. “His name’s Ricardo. He’s nice, Mom!”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you made a friend, Tsuna-kun. I’ll dry the jacket, and you can return it later on once you get Ricardo-san’s address, okay?”

“Okay!” Tsuna agrees. “I can ask him.”

Iemitsu, previously absorbed in his food, seems wary of the jacket as Nana tucks it over her arm and walks out to the clothes line. “Say Tunafish, what’s this Ricardo fellow like?”

Tsuna ponders the question. “Well… he’s really tough-looking. And he does this a lot,” he arches an eyebrow in an imitation. Iemitsu’s mouth twitches and he hastily covers the smile.

“What’s he look like?”

“Tall, long hair, pretty red eyes–”

“Red eyes?” Iemitsu interrupts, and there’s alarm in his voice. “Tsuna, are you sure?”

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anonymous asked:

How much does Poe love Rey

How much does Poe love Rey? So much, man. So much.

Poe doesn’t realize he loves her. But he does.

He loves her enough to let her sprawl on his bed and take up most of the room, because she never had to luxury of sprawling in her sleep. He lets her drool on the pillow and doesn’t mention it, and lets her hide her shoes under the bed, and bring home pieces of scrap that should go to recycling, but she keeps in case she needs it. He doesn’t mention it when she uses all the hot water in the shower, because she hasn’t been able to have hot water showers in so long. He lets her bring home little plants she finds and keeps on the window sill, because she loves the plants, and he loves the way she cares for all of them.

Poe loves Rey enough he lets her pick over Black One when she can’t sleep, pulling out parts and replacing them with pieces of scrap she’d fixed and now work better than anything he could get from the spare parts pile. He lets her borrow BB-8, who adores her as much as he does, and it’s something special when he sees his little droid rolling quickly behind her. He lets her wear his jackets all day, because she’s never worn anything like it before and likes the way it feels and smells.

Poe loves Rey so much sometimes he thinks she deserves better than him, a scruffy pilot with issues. She deserves so much more, so much better, someone like Finn, warm, kind, brave Finn, who’s a hero and a Jedi. Who has more in common with Rey than he ever could. Who doesn’t wake up shouting and frantic that this is all just a trick of the mind. Who doesn’t wake early and work late into the night because he is afraid to close his eyes. She should have someone who is gentle and soft to her. Someone who can fight back-to-back with her and not have to risk her life to save them.

Poe loves Rey so much he grows distant, for her, for him, for Finn, for the Resistance - all excuses - all lies. He knows she is hurt, and Finn is angry at him, and he feels like a terrible person, but only throws himself into the Resistance, worrying even Leia Organa. He protects her from the sky, when she’s on the ground with Finn, and can’t help but notice the look she has when she looks at his retreating x-wing. He loves her so much he crashes and nearly dies trying to protect her from Kylo Ren’s ship. When he wakes, she leaning over him and gripping his hand.

Poe loves Rey so much he doesn’t realize he does, until he’s half-carrying her back to the Falcon after her fight with Snoke, and she’s bleeding and there’s a nasty mark on her collarbone where it was touched by a lightsaber. And he realizes that he loves her so much it hurts, and he could never love anyone as much as he loves her. He almost falls over at the realization.

He loves her so much he feels like he can’t hold it all in, and at night when they’re curled up together, he can’t help but tell her so.

Force, does Poe love Rey.

Little gift for my bud @pandut, featuring his iksar gal, Vexa. She’s one of the party members in the D&D campaign I DM <3

In our setting (my version of Norrath), the iksar people are considered a myth at best, and ancient, hated conquerors to be snuffed out at worst. Through a set of circumstances that even she’s unsure of, Vexa was sequestered away (as a young child) from her hidden home continent, and displaced into a world wholly alien to her. Without memories of her home, the only scrap left from her former life is a mysterious metal shard, which she keeps carefully hidden from prying eyes. Always hiding, and forever on the run, she leads a lonely existence which even her new party members do little to fix.

Hope you like, Pan!

Character @pandut
Art @nimtai

anonymous asked:

Do you have any Rorschach headcannons?

My goodness I have many, but I can’t say how in character they are.

1) he keeps a couple of newspaper clippings of some of his big busts with Nite Owl in the corresponding pages of his journal. He goes on about how sentiment is weak but we all know he’s full of shit and he misses the old days.

2) his hygiene is awful (canon) and he usually doesn’t care because he doesn’t really give two fucks about what people think of him as long as they’re intimidated - HOWEVER I think in front of Daniel he becomes pretty aware of how bad he smells and it bothers him a tiny bit because Daniel is pretty much the only person he cares about significantly.

3) He actually quite liked dogs before The Roche Case. He admired their loyalty and simplicity. If he’d had the money when he was younger, maybe he would have got one (not because he wanted COMPANY don’t be RIDICULOUS. The locks on his apartment are shoddy, it would have been useful to have a guard dog, obviously).

Now he’s probably more of a cat person, if anything.

4) He used to take home scraps of fabric from work that he thought looked or felt particularly nice. He burned the small collection later.

5) He made that purple pinstripe suit with his own two hands because I cannot see him walking into a store and taking that thing off a rack and just fucking buying it. Imagine being the cashier that sold Rorschach his suit.
Anyway he probably got the material from work and altered a suit pattern.

strangelock221b  asked:

Sleepover weekend -- Strangebatch headcanons, please and thank you. :)

This ask is like a dream come true @strangelock221b!  Thank you, thank you…now lemme see what I’ve got tucked away in my noggin’–and be sure to keep reading, ‘cuz I saved the best for the last. 😍

  • As a child, he easily saw through the magician’s tricks at birthday parties, sometimes spoiling them for the other children by explaining exactly how the tricks were done. He never believed for a single moment in “magic”.
  • He showed his manual dexterity early on, quickly becoming the consistent top scorer in all the games he frequented at the video arcade. Once he conquered a game, he grew bored and swiftly moved on to something new.

Originally posted by itsjustsuperheroes

  • Stephen was a big fan of old sci-fi movies of the 50′s & 60′s; he enjoyed their ridiculous campiness, as just plain fun. However, from the first episode of Star Trek TOS, he was hooked, catching them in their syndication runs on late night television, as an adolescent.  He loved the optimism of the series, with it’s promise of a brighter future, filled with adventure, for mankind.  He also enjoyed the reboot of the alternate timeline movie series for the most part–although as a doctor, it bothered the hell out of him that a character named Khan Noonien Singh, presumably hailing from the Indian subcontinent, had skin nearly as pale as a loaf of white bread.

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cool teeth

I met a boy

I once met a boy, and his eyes were one of the first things that I had noticed about him. His eyes looked like they were constantly weaving stardust into dreams, and scattering them over my eyelids in the same span of breath. They looked just like the fairy tales that I had begged myself to not believe in, anymore.

This boy had a smile, that damn near disarmed me the first time I witnessed it. Slow. Unsure. Blooming. He smiled the way a rainbow does, bending his spine to capture the small bubbles of joy life sent his way, and preserved them over his whiskey laced tongue as souvenirs of nights he wouldn’t remember later.

And over the years, when I first started noticing the cracks, I forgot to look for the sunshine that he might have stored within them. Darkness was all I had looked for, and darkness was what I lost him to. Forever.

It doesn’t overpower me anymore, you know. The loss. It isn’t staggering, and I breathe much easier nowadays. But on days when the road leading home decides to elude itself and abandon me, I often find myself wandering back to the place that once held a boy with unsteady eyes, rumpled hair and a fragile smile. I sit there for hours sometimes, trying to read an old earmarked book and lose myself to water spots that blurred and blobbed itself into existence maybe years ago.

I don’t hold myself to promises of faraway places anymore. For I have known, places that reek of peace, of hope, and sparkling sunshine, somehow seep through a crack and escape the shadows, only to become one in the end. I have also learnt to not try and build a home out of scraps that make a human, our human. They never last anyway.

And yet, I don’t let go. I don’t want to go home. Maybe it’s his words that linger around, or maybe it’s my remembrance of the way he would place his lighter over the pages so they couldn’t fly in the wind, I find myself not reading the words or understanding them anymore. Instead, I hungrily absorb the shapeless blob of ink, and try to make sense of its being, immersing myself in his thoughts once again.

Soon, a nameless number is all he will become in my memory. I carry this knowledge everywhere with me, because I already am losing the details of his face, one part at a time. Shadowy fingers and crumpled sheets, maybe that’s what the last stage of grief does to people? It takes away the person, and reduces them to a sum of body parts, like fallen soldiers at the mercy of life, no longer winning, no longer willing. And I know, eventually, he will find his way to my diary, maybe as a nameless entity. Maybe as “the boy”. Maybe.

Someday, he will, though.

For I will write about the boy who I once met, the boy who smelled like burnt out cigarettes, shattered dreams and untold stories over countdown clocks.

I will write about how I have never met a boy who smelled more like himself, even when he was unsure of his own existence.

And on days when I will still ask myself why I don’t want to head for my home, maybe I will understand then, that I don’t have one, anymore.

~Sreyoshi Saha #Fanpost( storyteller via

anonymous asked:


i must give the people what they want

This is Tessie.

When Merlin came home from his final tour in the S.A.S., he came home to his parents and a new edition to the house: a terrorist of a puppy who enjoyed chewing on any piece of furniture she could. Merlin’s father bought Tessie from a neighbor in town. He said he got her to go hunting with him now that Merlin was out of the house – Pointers are great gun dogs – but boy, did that puppy have a long way to come. 

After almost a year of being away training, Merlin was finally accepted into Kingsman and when he returned home on holiday, Tessie was a year and a half and didn’t recognize him in the slightest. He walked through the door and she bit his pants so hard, she ripped the slacks to ribbons. 

And thus, the precedent for their future interactions was set.

Merlin would come in, say hi to Tessie, and Tessie would snap at him.

No pets from you, Q-ball.

She’s older now, graying around her snout slightly, but she’s loyal and smart and still meaner than ever.

Tessie never liked Merlin, honestly, until he brought that nice new lady who smelt nice and gave her table scraps home on night. And even then, Tessie liked you, not Hamish the Ham-bone. Especially when you scratched her right behind the ears. Tessie would give you kisses gladly. You were nice.