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.

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?”

Keep reading

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

godforsakenthing  asked:

[kisses lips] You’ve got the kissing disease!! spread it by kissing the next ten people on your dash

                    never  has  there  been  a  slower  and  more  ominous  turning  of  a  head  to  stare  someone  down  in  the  HISTORY  of  the  human  race.   for  a  moment,  the  vagabond  is  so  prevalent  that  he  might  as  well  be  wearing  the  mask.

 and  then,  of  course,  he  stutters.    “  s  —  ah,  stuh  —  hm.  “    for  a  moment,  he  briefly  considers  whether  whatever  verbal  jab  he  was  going  for  is  WORTH  stumbling  through  to  its  conclusion,  and  then  proceeds  to  just  shake  his  head  in  bewilderment  and  beat  a  hasty  retreat.

chaosloved replied to your post:

ryan! are you gonna’ keep being an asshole? you really wanna’ be an asshole right now? do you know i didn’t sleep last night? i can get real cranky real quick.

               keep  —  i’m  not  being  an  asshole!   christ,  lindsay,  i  went  out  of  my  goddamn  way  to  LEGITIMATELY  COMPLIMENT  the  asshole  and  this  is  the  thanks  i  get?   i  don’t  fuckin’  know  the  guy,  what  am  i  supposed  to  do,  suck  his  dick?


cool teeth

fakesqueen  asked:

I know you’re trying to manipulate me, and it’s not going to work. Get your hand off my shoulder.

 brow  creases,  a  valley  that  betrays  the  depth  of  his  confusion,  his  genuine  surprise  at  the  bite  to  her  tone,  the  ANGER  in  her  voice,  the  stiffness  in  her  posture.   painted  lips  part  for  a  moment,  black  and  white  giving  way  to  a  sliver  of  pink  as  he  tries  to  search  for  something  to  reply  —  what  are  you  talking  about,  i’m  not,  what  does  that  mean  —  but  the  answer  glares  down  on  him  like  a  solitary  streetlight  overhead,  an  unhappy  and  cruel  fluorescence :  she  doesn’t  trust  him.

                                 why  does  that  STING?   why  does  that  sink  through  him  like  a  lead  weight  through  molasses,  a  heavy  and  damning  presence  that  leaves  a  sour  note  on  his  tongue?   when  did  that  knowledge  become  so  alien  to  him,  when  did  he  let  it  become  anything  other  than  expected?   jack  doesn’t  trust  him.   he’s  the  fucking  vagabond,  nobody  trusts  him,  and  he  trusts  nobody.   that’s  how  it’s  always  been.   that’s  how  it  is.

 teeth  snap  together  with  an  audible  click  as  ANGER  is  the  first  to  come  crashing  up  from  the  burning  pit  in  his  chest,  the  caldera  where  a  heart  should  be.   bare  fingers  tighten  momentarily  on  her  shoulder,  a  half - thought - out  notion  to  spin  her  around  to  fucking  look  at  him  halted  before  muscles  can  carry  it  out.   what  the  fuck  is  your  problem  burns  up  his  throat  before  he  chews  it  back,  physically  forces  it  down  like  cough  syrup  and  refuses  to  let  it  out.   there’s  no  POINT.

                       volatile.   insane.   bloodthirsty.   heartless.  

             and  it’s  to  be  expected,  yes,  but  the  vitriolic  beast  that  digs  claws  down  his  spine  roars  for  answers,  DEMANDS  them  with  violence  so  latent  that  it  tastes  like  metal  in  his  mouth,  a  coppery  bitterness  that  insists  what  reason  have  i  given  you  to  think  of  me  like  that,  how  many  times  must  i  prove  myself  to  you  and  your  fucking  crew  —  YOUR  crew,  not  mine.   evidently  not  mine.

 his  hand  withdraws,  fingers  closing  briefly  into  a  fist  before  he’s  harshly  tugging  his  glove  back  on,  boots  loud  against  the  floor  as  he  steps  away  from  her.   all  empathy,  all  softness  has  been  erased  from  his  face,  laid  bare  without  the  mask  that  rests  against  his  hip,  all  the  heavier  now  for  how  much  its  absence  leaves  EXPOSED.   nothing  but  edges  remain,  eyes  like  glass,  like  ice,  like  steel,  honed  to  hostile  points  that  scrape  coldly  across  her  face  and  fix  just  over  her  shoulder,  on  the  rest  of  the  crew  where  they  stand  laughing  and  bickering,  getting  ready  for  the  heist.   (  how  many  of  them  don’t  trust  you  either,  haywood?   not  fully,  a  given,  but  not  ever?   how  many  of  them  look  at  your  back  the  way  jack  looks  at  you  now?  )

                                “  my  bad.  “    the  vagabond  is  coolly  professional  to  the  end,  with  clipped  words  and  an  empty  smile  that  doesn’t  come  anywhere  close  to  reaching  his  eyes.   it  drops  as  fast  as  it  appears.    “  ‘scuse  me.  “    a  wide  berth  is  granted  as  he  steps  around  her,  knuckles  white  beneath  the  safety  of  his  gloves  where  hands  have  clenched  into  savage  fists.   he  doesn’t  look  back  as  he  walks  away.

           he  hardly  takes  three  steps  before  he  puts  on  the  MASK  again.

@fakesqueen  /  always  sunny  starters  !

WBJ Day 12b - Pets

Pets are rather common, as many people get attached to animals. Among the poor they usually serve another purpose (cats and dogs catch vermin or guard the home, pigeons can eat scraps, etc.). A lot of these pets are born from a friend’s pet or found on the street and tamed. These make them mangier and scruffy.

The wealthy have specially bred dogs or more exotic creatures, such as tiny dragons or brightly plumed birds. There is always as much care put in with the animal’s appearance as there is the wealthy person’s, and among one circle in Vaelia, having a menagerie of well cared for, beautiful, and exotic pets is seen as a mark of class and wealth.

Using Heat to Repair Faux Fur

I get the most questions about this! Try it on scraps for yourself and see! This is the technique that I get the most questions about and the most reactions to. I am not joking around and am quite sincere that it really works!

I have a special tag with all my tests on using heat and faux fur to repair, straighten or restore it using controlled heat. See that here: http://matrices.tumblr.com/tagged/damaged-fur

The advantage to this technique is that it can restore faux fur damaged or wrinkled in transit, stored improperly, aged or worn fur, some dryer-damaged fur.


I absolutely can’t stress this enough: Try this for yourself at home with scraps! See it for yourself! See what happens when you use a hairdryer on fur for yourself! There is a huge difference in this technique and throwing a fursuit in a dryer on high. That difference is Controlled Heat versus Uncontrolled Heat. A clothes dryer is uncontrolled heat and compression. It heats up and compresses fur with the tumbling action. This technique is controlled heat. You are touching and brushing the fur as you do it, you see the results as they happen!


Tips for getting started!

  • Start with clean, dry fur! Your faux fur should be dry when you begin.
  • Use a regular hairdryer, feel free to test other heat application methods, but a standard hairdryer from the hair care section of the store is perfectly suited for this task.
  • You will need to do more than one pass. One shot is not enough. You have to go over it several times and be thorough for good results.

Here is my clean dry fursuit butt that is getting restored:

Next it is brushed, a slicker brush or a straight comb works:

Controlled heat is applied all over the affected area:

It is brushed again in the direction I would like the fur to lay:

After several passes of controlled heat and brushing, the fur is completely restored! For the full tutorial and more information, check out my guide here:


Share this with your friends! Encourage them to try it on scraps or an inconspicuous location. With this new knowledge restore all the fursuits to their fluffy glory!