vault ink

vanguardpaladinkeith  asked:

Think you could throw some angst-filled Deacon headcanons out into the void for me?

Here you go! Finally got around to making some more Deacon headcanons for you! ^.^ I tried to do angst like you wanted, but I think I’m better at the fluffs ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Oh well, I tried.

FYI guys, The next few updates might be headcanons because I’m pretty busy until Thursday night, and headcanons are quicker to write! And I’ve got some Cait and X6 headcanon requests to work on. Yeah, I didn’t forget about you two sweet people, I’ve just been waiting for the right time ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

1.       Deacon loves carding his fingers through Sole’s angel soft hair. The Old World has left it a lot smoother than native wastelander tresses, and since he’s constantly shaving his head and covering it with ratty wigs, the silky texture between his fingers is a foreign but welcoming sensation. Deacon especially enjoys sleeping with Sole’s hair resting against his face at night; it’s the closest he’ll get to a pre-war pillow he supposes. Plus, Sole’s hair smells really nice.

2.       Deacon is a loner. Always has been ever since Barbara passed, and as a result his relationships within the Railroad are strained. Glory humors him because they’re on the same side, Desdemona tolerates him because he does his work well, and Carrington obviously could not give two cares if he bit the dust. Honestly, Tinker Tom is the only person that genuinely likes him, but likes everyone; plus, he’s a little crazy. Deacon refuses to acknowledge it, but the seclusion had eroded his connection with his emotions. He’s trained his face in the mirror for so long that the vacant eyes staring back at him feel like an accurate reflection of his soul. However the reality is that he’s not empty, just hurting, but he won’t let anybody get close enough to tell him so.

3.       Sole finds time between voyages to visit their deceased spouse in Vault 111. While they grieve, Deacon reclaims his old post at the top of the hill overlooking Sanctuary with a cigarette and a lukewarm drink. He likes to believe he’s watching over them, providing security, but really, he likes reliving the best moment of his life whenever Sole reemerges from the earth.

4.       Deacon sleeps alone. Always. Period. Except for that one time a snowstorm trapped him in a shack with only Sole and a single sleeping bag. He was so, so ready to sleep on the floor, but it was winter, there was snow climbing up the walls outside, the wooden floor was back-breakingly hard, and Sole practically forced him inside the bag with them. Something about sharing body heat or whatever. He grumbled but ultimately compromised. Curling up, he wedged himself deep into the seams of the bag and reluctantly drifted off.

Deacon never told Sole, or anyone else for that matter, about his nightmares. Luckily he wasn’t a screamer, but he did jerk awake that night. He was surprised Sole hadn’t woken up already with him gasping in their ear and clamping his arms down around their waist. Wait… Damn, tear stains blotched up the back of Sole’s shirt. He hoped they would dry by morning.

They didn’t.

“Woah! What’s so wet on my back Deacon?”

“Sorry boss, should’a warned you that I drool in my sleep!”

5.       It’s taped underneath a pew in the Old North Church: Deacon’s journal. He writes poetry in the Sanctuary because the place feels sacred, safe. He enjoys when the sunlight trickles through the holes in the roofing tile and dapples light across his ink.  Before Vault 111 released its frozen prisoner, Deacon scribed his hurting soul onto the coffee stained pages, forever begging for relief. But now his poems are lighter. Now his poems are hopeful.

Now his poems are about Sole.

anonymous asked:

ronan

a knife’s edge, a fist, a fire, a bottle, brake lights, ravens, ravens, ravens, scars, sharp teeth, knuckles, almost crashing, smoke, nightmares, tossing and turning at night, the heat of a kiss, black ink, the vaulted ceilings of a cathedral, deep blue eyes, silence, the countryside at night, the heartbeat of a mouse, words you can’t get out of your mouth, want, need, the pull at the pit of your stomach, a kick drum heart, war, worship.

I am not "Sexy"

Next time you call out:
“Hey sexy!”
And expect me to act
Like you gave me the world,
I will happily remind you,
That I am not sexy.

I am a goddess ,
Placed on this earth
To tear down the walls society builds
And cover the sky with my name,
I create infinities in my mind,
And with brush strokes long enough
To surpass time, I paint a self portrait,
Of Cleopatra and Joan of Arc reborn.

I create firestorms with my name,
And with my breath I set ships on adventures
And dash them against rocks,
I am made of the stone of the earth,
And the shine of the stars.

And when you look into my eyes,
You should see angels and demons
At war with themselves,
Over battlegrounds strewn
With the bodies of legends.

Because I am not sexy,
I am not merely sexy,
And I owe you nothing.
No matter how you address me.