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.
“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
“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
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
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?”
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
[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.
I rescued a second lint child from the cats a couple days ago, but this one was a little roughed up- had a scratch on his head and stuff. So I made him a little tank thing and gave him food and water to see if he’d live, and he seems fine! I’m gonna release him later today, god bless all these lint babies
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?
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.
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.
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!
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: