anonymous asked:

Ohhh my God, Dramione shippers say the most hypocritical things on the planet. I really should not visit their blogs again. The Ron bashing pisses me off so much. "Ron sucks because he makes Hermione cry so many times and treats her like dirt and abandons Harry blah blah blah I hate him he should have ended up with Pansy so that Hermione could have Draco and he would have been jealous of Hermione's accomplishments anyway." I hate this so much aogsfoubjhsoin. Sorry I needed to vent.

Oh Anon; never, ever go onto a conflicting shipping blog. All it will do is raise your blood pressure to unhealthy levels. And I agree, the Ron bashing is hard to take, because I’ve seen in other fandoms where they can be decent enough to have a couple end on good terms, without totally destroying the character. 

Hermione…..cries a lot. She gets emotional, and there’s nothing wrong with that. And Harry made her cry plenty of times, but they conveniently ignore that. And not only do they fail to take basic humanity into account for Ron’s actions, but if Ron had truly been meaning to abandon Harry, he wouldn’t have noticed that he couldn’t get back because of the wards. Nearly everyone has stomped off in anger at some point. Good lord, why the hell Pansy? Can you actually see Ron being with her after she was ready to turn Harry over? No. And as for being jealous of Hermione’s accomplishments, that makes no sense at all. Hermione has been accomplished since day one, and Ron has always been one of the first people to show admiration for her, and was never jealous about it. The only times he was ever irritated when it came to her intelligence was when she tried to exert authority over him and Harry that she didn’t have, which would tick anyone off. 

It’s gotten bad enough that I don’t go into the ship or even the character tags any more, and the Ron haters even pretty much spoiled the Rupert tag, since they insist on tagging him, even when it’s not movie related. Basically, I try to stick to my own small circle, and even that can be problematic enough.

asgardianwarriorr asked:

3, 5, 14, 20

3. Favourite class of magic (destruction, restoration, etc)?

Restoration, saves my ass all the time

5. Favourite shout?

Fire Breath

14. Thieves’ Guild or the Dark Brotherhood?

Thieves all the way ;)

20. Solitude or Riften?

As much as I love Thieves guild, I will go for Solitude, it has much nicer structure and in overall it’s much better looking.

anonymous asked:

So...I heard ur sending dragons, im currently facing a lot of prejudice and hate because of how I dress, may I have a dragon friend?

Hey there! Of course you can have a dragon, and I am very sorry to hear that you’re facing prejudice because of the way you dress. I’ve decided to send you a dragon called Pepper. He’s a little bit larger than a puppy and has scales the red-orange color of fire, which matches his personality perfectly– he is extremely fierce and fiery. Pepper has a bit of a temper and get a little riled up sometimes, but he’s also very protective. He’s decided that he’s going to be your friend and walk around with you wherever you go, and if anyone is rude, he’ll just breathe fire at them and scare them away. If you want to make Pepper happy, just feed him spicy food!

Pepper is very determined to help you, and he will stick by your side no matter what <3 

Imagine how awesome tattoos must be in the wizarding world. Moving, color shanging, practically a gif in your skin. Imagine Dumbledore getting, like, a huuuge dragon that actually breathes fire. Or being able to get your patronus done, and it moves as it actually would, or changes throughout your life. Or a Phoenix that cycles through its life cycle.

anonymous asked:

63, 41, 28

63. what is cooler, dinos or dragons? dragons, i wanna be so hot i can breathe fire upon my enemies

41. answered

28. you discover a beautiful island upon which you can make your own society. you make the rules. what is the first rule you put into place? no mcdonald’s allowed to be built there

i got tagged by absentcacophony

Rule 1: Write down the rules.
Rule 2: Answer the questions from the person who tagged you.
Rule 3: Make up 11 new questions and tag 11 new people.
Rule 4: Tell tagged people that you tagged them.
Rule 5: Tell the person who tagged you that you answered the questions.

  1. what’s an irrational fear of yours?

elevators, not being good enough, lost in dark space

  1. if you could be friends with one musician/band, which musician/band would you choose and why?

um ..artic monkeys beacuse i like all their songs

  1. what’s your favorite thing about yourself?

i can bring you experiences you would never find with anyone else

  1. if you gained one superpower based on your personality and skill set, what would it be? (for example, if you’re enthusiastic and happy, you might be able to fly, or if you’re often angry, you might breathe fire, etc.)

causing shockwaves for some reason or floods

  1. if you could travel through time, would you visit the future? or the past? why?

the past because id tell my younger self what to do/not to do so ill not live with the pain of the bad choices for the rest of my life

  1. how would you describe your aesthetic?

abstract art,or a pastel box with some inspiring words in it,,idk

  1. what do you think is the most noticeable thing about you?

my weird emotions

  1. what are your thoughts on aliens?

they dont exsist

  1. what fictional character do you relate to the most?

damara medigo

  1. if you could gain any skill set such as drawing skills, social skills, athletic skills, etc., which skill set would you choose?

art and math maybe

  1. what’s your favorite kind of weather?


here are the tags: blackoutgnostic sn9ps goraturtle the-official-nevy-nervine dr-eww godpenis

y’all don’t have to do this too you know,

and i dont know any questions im sorry i guess just use my questions

But the truth is, it’s not the idea, it’s never the idea, it’s always what you do with it.
—  Neil Gaiman

Breathing Fire

Sherlock Holmes takes a deep breath.

Smell is the first human sense to develop.

Sherlock exhales.

Even in the womb humans recognise different odors.

Sherlock takes another chest-filling breath.

Our ability to discern odors is higher at night than in the morning.

The small, humid room in which he stands alone smells like a clean, straw-filled stable.

With six million scent receptors, a human being remembers scents more accurately than sights.

As his brain frantically retrieves olfactory facts for which he has no use, Sherlock Holmes presses a fist to his chest and for a long moment he does not breathe.


“—I was very young, but I remember the smoke always smelled like cherries.”

John Watson bends over the glass-topped counter, gazes at the display of gleaming pipes. The sales clerk lingers a polite while, then just a little longer. Finally she turns toward a less nostalgic, more well-heeled customer.

John smiles to himself. If he’d been fractious, very gloomy with his important four-year-old problems, the scent of his grandfather’s pipe smoke always soothed him.

It was years before John realised that grandad Ideal would come seek him out on those childish, ill-tempered days. Then he’d light his pipe, John would cuddle close, and surrounded by the smoky-sweet scent of cherries, together they’d grow calm.


Standing in the tobacconist’s glass-walled humidor, Sherlock opens his mouth wider, takes a ragged breath, then does it again, again, againagainagainagain until he’s woozy with the scent of pipe tobacco and cigars. But it still isn’t helping. This time it doesn’t calm.

Because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter how much he tells them about how much he sees, they still don’t believe him, they still refuse to see.

Sherlock fists at his shirt, and moaning he thinks I could do it, who would care? I could buy a thousand pounds worth of cigars and I could breathe and breathe and breathe until I couldn’t breathe.


No one stops John from roaming, grinning reminiscent, touching pricey lighters, deep-bowled pipes, shiny wooden boxes.

Drawn to an earthy scent and the amber and russet glow of open cigar boxes, John enters the tobacconist’s humidor and—

“—can’t, can't—”

One stride across the tiny room and John’s got his hand on the gasping man’s belly, whispering in his ear. “Breathe here, right here. Breathe deep until you feel it here.”

Bent double, sweaty hands sliding slick on his knees, Sherlock tries, he tries to breathe but he—


John pushes him to his knees, then his back, lays his other hand on the man’s chest. “Look. Look at my hand. Do you see it? Make it go up. Do that for me, make my hand go up. Slow. Slow.”

Sherlock grunts, he can’t, he—

John grabs Sherlock’s chin, turns him so they look right in each other’s eyes. He makes a hissing sound through pursed lips and nods like this, like this.

Sherlock presses at the small hand on his chest, mimics with his mouth, pushes out a long, wheezy…slow…slower…slowest breath.

“That’s it, just like that. Can you get it down here?” John rubs at a suit coat-covered belly. “Right on down, deep and slow and…”

“…yesssss.” Sherlock’s eyes drift closed on the exhale and he counts the heartbeats thrumming away beneath their hands. OneTwoOneTwoOneTwo…

Long minutes later the small man shifts, sits back on his heels. “Good job,” he murmurs. “Good. Thank you. Thank you, that’s good. I’m John.”

Sherlock breathes deep, lets it out sibilant and slow, “Shhhhherlock.”

Another long minute, two. Sherlock releases the hand on his chest. The one on his belly withdraws. Sherlock sits up, looks around.


“I know where I am.”

John nods, pulls into himself in a way no one ever sees because no one sees the doctor who saves them, not really. And it’s fine, it’s all fine, John understands that people need plausible deniability of their own fragility.

“Good. Good. Well, I’m going to call—”

“No.” Sherlock frowns at the open boxes of Nicaraguan cigars, then at the Cubans, too. He stands slowly, looks at the wall.

After several silent seconds John nods again, rises. “Right. Good. You should—” He stops. Starts again. “I'd—” No. Never mind. He knows when people will hear.

Another nod at nothing and John takes hold of the humidor’s brushed silver door handle, tugs, feels the soft whoosh of cool shop air.


John turns. The door whispers closed again. Sherlock’s still looking at the wood paneled wall and it’s to it he speaks. “Why did you thank me?”

John knows when people will hear. Yet even when he knows they won’t, sometimes he talks anyway because sometimes it’s he who needs to hear what he has to say.

“Because you let me help. It’s good you know, helping.”

Sherlock wants to say things right now. A dozen things about helping, about trying to help and how they don’t let him they don’t want him and Sherlock wants to talk about the stupid spot on his stupid lung, the one they thought for months was cancer, the one that made him finally stop smoking but sometimes he can’t stand it, sometimes, sometimes he just can’t breathe unless there’s smoke and fire and—

Sherlock puts a hand on his belly, another on his chest, and he says small and soft between small, soft breaths, “Help me.”

John steps close, his hand settling over one with long fingers. And gently, gently they tell one another…


 Previous: Pardon My French | Forgettable

This was inspired by a wee line about tobacco shops in chapter two of MyCapeIsPlaid’s marvelous Corpus Hominis, and then later by an hour-long visit to a London tobacconist where a lovely young man told me all about cigars. Note: All The Day They Met, are on AO3, too.