old and fragile

Bagginshield - I Sit Beside the Fire (Sansûkh)

“He lifted his other hand and allowed it to drift through the wispy white spiderweb of Bilbo’s hair. ‘I am glad you grew old,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Whatever the reason, I am glad one of us did. Still, I find I hate that you grew old without me. Would you laugh at my grey beard, I wonder? Would we barricade ourselves against each winter, wrapping ourselves in your quilts and complaining about our bones? Would we grow more alike as time passed; my mannerisms becoming yours, your words becoming mine?’”

Fanart for Chapter 10 of determamfidd’s fic, Sansûkh. Thorin expressing regret that he could not grow old with Bilbo broke my fragile little heart ;_; Totes recommend this fic if you’re ready for an EPIC read.


I remember reading a post about Hera and the crew when they got sick… And the one with Ezra… It was perfect.

Give me Hera and Ezra moments goddamnit.

  • raphael: what happened to you? I couldn't find you at the institute after valentine's attack. I thought you were dead
  • simon: UNdead
  • raphael: *glares*
  • raphael: explain
  • simon, walking toward daylight: it's a long story, just watch this
  • raphael: DON'T-
  • simon, coming back in: totally fine, see??
  • raphael: *gently touches his cheek*
  • simon: oh
Fury Road: when there are enough women

When there are enough women in your cast, not every woman has to represent all women and they can have individual flaws and strengths.

When there are enough women, some can fall apart and others can hold things together.

When there are enough women, you can literally name a character Cheedo The Fragile without making a statement about feminine fragility.

When there are enough women, you know the action movie doesn’t have to preserve the one woman in order to ensure you have one woman left in your cast at the end, so women might die, just like men, and the stakes are high and real and the plot is not predictable.

When there are enough women, you can cast women with different ages and looks and body types based on what makes sense for the story - beautiful women who were selected for beauty by a character who valued women’s bodies more than their whole selves, wiry muscular women of middle and older age, built to survive, mothers who were used for the things that come with their fertility and have the fat to show for it, old fragile women who took care of others while rarely stepping outside, disabled women affected by their environment and experiences.

When there are enough women, the world feels real.

EDIT: This post has been validly critiqued a lot for the lack of mention of women of colour and Fury Road’s relative lack of them. I should have mentioned that. Here is something I wrote about the issue and the critiques: http://weareallfromearth.tumblr.com/post/120314203804/weareallfromearth-general-point-of-importance-if

Natsume Yuujinchou AU where Shigeru goes to the funeral of a distant relative, and instead of a junior high schooler, he sees a nine-year-old - all ratty old clothes, and fragile little shoulders curled tightly into himself, trembling lips, and wide grey eyes darting this way and that.

He looks absolutely terrified, and when Shigeru registers the words of the adults standing a few feet away, ugly insults pouring out of sneering lips, he feels white-hot fury crash through his being, so ferocious it’s almost blinding.

Between one heartbeat and the next, his decision is made.

And he knows he should discuss this with his wife first. He knows they need to have a good, long talk about this, about whether they’re ready to make such an enormous commitment.

But he also knows that he’ll never be able to forgive himself if he turns his back on this little lost spirit right now.

So he walks up the child’s current guardian, the one with poison still spewing from his lips.

And within minutes, arrangements have been made.

Without another look back at the vile excuse for a human being he is forced to call his blood, he approaches the child, slow and gentle, as if he were dealing with a frightened animal.

He smiles softly and introduces himself as his new guardian.

The child, Natsume Takashi, doesn’t even blink, as if he’s used to this - being passed around families at the drop of a hat.

Without a word, he takes Shigeru’s outstretched hand, and follows him wordlessly away from the gathering, without so much as a goodbye for the family he’d been staying with until then.

(Shigeru will go back for Takashi’s belongings later, by himself. For now, he just needs to get the child somewhere safe and warm.)

The train ride back home is mostly silent. Takashi looks out the windows with disturbingly blank eyes, and Shigeru worries silently over him. What must a child go through, to end up so timid, so aged beyond his years?

When they finally get off the train, Takashi obediently takes Shigeru’s hand, and walks quietly alongside him. Their house is admittedly a bit far from the train station, but Takashi doesn’t complain once the entire way there.

He smiles politely while Shigeru exchanges pleasantries with one of the neighbours he bumps into outside the gate, and expertly ignores the man’s curious, darting glances every few seconds.

They’ve only taken two steps into the house, when Touko comes bustling out of the kitchen to greet her husband, only to draw up short when she sees the child clinging to Shigeru’s pant leg, looking up at her with soulful silver eyes.

Shigeru can tell immediately how entirely besotted she is.

She doesn’t ask any questions just then, just nudges the child towards the dining room, cooing gently over him.

She coaxes answers out of the boy around his mouthfuls of food, expertly unravelling the tension in his shoulders and teasing the faintest of smiles out of him. And when he sits staring hungrily at his empty plate, not daring to ask for more, she reaches out and heaps another helping of rice into his bowl as naturally as if she’d been feeding him all his life.

Later that night, when Takashi is tucked safe and warm into a futon in Shigeru and Touko’s room, his hair still just the slightest bit damp from his bath, the couple discusses him in hushed tones in the living room.

They discuss many things that night, but never once do they question whether he’ll be staying with them.

The caption labelled this an edible masterpiece, and I can’t disagree! Whether it’s the rich shade of royal blue, the carefully-mastered strokes (brash and dainty) across the fondant, the delicate bucolic gold touches, and best of all, that sugar rose perched oh-so-gently at the tips of the top two tiers. This piece by Nadia & Co. is utter perfection, and so stately. I can only imagine how hard it is to cut into it during the cake cutting ceremony. For me? I’d rather preserve it, and bring it home.


nekocookiechan  asked:

Has no one asked for a story of Hawkmoth and chat noir being a team with ladybug being the villian? It would be pretty amazing to see a father son duo with ladynoir fight scenes. Hawkmoth could send out some assistance for his son.

No, from I knowledge no. And given I like this, here have a oneshot. Also, I’m soooo sorry, this had been in my inbox for over a week, but I was caught with school and had no drive to write anything at all >.> Also I feel like I made Marinette maybe a little to mean in this oops.

Chat didn’t hate Coccinelle. In fact, Chat didn’t hate anybody, not even the ladybug themed thief. But she was annoying him, exasperating him and he certainly had a dislike for his supposed to be partner. Or so he kept telling himself. But more often than not he wondered how would it be if the situation was somehow different. If they were partners like they were meant to be. But whatever alternative universes he might have been thinking off, were kicked out of him. Quite literally. He stumbled back, losing his equilibrium because of her hit. Goddamit, she had good legs.

(In more senses than one, but it wasn’t appropriate for him to think about that.)

The champion of the day appeared in front of Chat guarding him from the next attack. This one wasn’t his father’s best work, but isn’t like people lingered around museums in the dead of the night. The keeper of the museum was the only possible champion around and he wasn’t exactly eager to jump in the fight first thought.

“Oh, I’m not in the mood to deal with you. Can’t you two just chill and let me keep the dress?” she asked, in an almost bored tone, dodging the hits of the akuma easily.

“Why do you want it anyway? Isn’t like you can wear it.” Chat asked finally picking himself off the ground. Seriously now, the dress was a collectible, the first model of the little black dress created by Coco Chanel. That thing was almost 90 years old and extremely fragile. Isn’t like she could wear it at a party.

“Not all dresses are for wearing, you know. A rare piece sometimes just gives you happiness by simply looking at his.” she gave the champion a once over and scrunched up her nose. “Not that I’d expect you to understand.”

The temporary superhero, stopped dead in his tracks and Adrien could have sworn he just heard his father scream in indignation from the other side of Paris. Rolling her eyes, Coccinelle sighed, obviously bored by the entire ordeal.

“Oh, well, it isn’t you I want to play with.” and with that she round kicked the champion, sending him flying down four flight of stairs. Adrien winched. That must have hurt.

Coccinelle turned to him with a smirk, curling her index finger in a come to me motion. “Minou, minou, minou, come here and play with me, pretty kitty.”

Trying to hide his blush (She was beautiful okay? He could stay lost in those blue eyes forever), he attacked. Their fighting had been always more of a dance. Adrien knew enough about the cat and ladybug miraculous to know they were meant to complete each other. And it was quite obvious when they were fighting, Chat being swifter and more defensive while Ladybug was a force to be reckoned with, not pulling any punches. And while they were at it, well, it usually required a big mistake for one of them for the fight to come to an end. And for once, luck was on his side. He managed to catch Coccinelle, sizing her hands behind her back. She looked up at him, obviously surprised, before those really soft looking lips curled in a smug smirk. Adrien blinked in confusion. Why was she smirking? She lost. He got her. He could take her miraculous now.

But before even more question could pass through his brain, she got on her tip toes and captured his lips. Adrien felt his heart jump out of his chest. He closed his eyes, moaning against her mouth. She tasted so sweet, he could feel strawberry and vanilla and honestly, that must be what nirvana tasted like. He let go of her hands, rather pulling her against him and wrapping his arms around her waist. She moaned approvingly, then bit on his bottom lip. Adrien opened his mouth, allowing her tongue to sneak past his lips. Honestly, he could stay like this forever. But sooner than he would have liked, she pulled away from him.

“We should do that more often, chaton.” Coccinelle suggested, while extracting herself from his embrace. Adrien could only nod, his face still hot from the blush and his mind still fuzzy from how wonderful that kiss was. “See you later.”

She blew him a kiss, before grabbing the box with the dress and disappearing through a window, not before dodging the useless attacks of the champion. Chat Noir snapped too late from his little brain shortcircuit to realize what he had just done.

Adrien knew when his father called him in his office to speak with him, shit was about to go down. He looked up at his father, who studied him with a thoughtful look before he sighed.

“Well, Adrien, I think it is time for us to have a discussion about the hormonal drive of you, teenagers.”

Adrien blinked surprised, before the sentence was properly processed by his brain. “What?!”

“You know Adrien, the talk, the bees and all that nonsensical excuses parents like to use. Your sex drive had obviously taken a tool on you and it is affecting your performance as a superhero and it should be discussed why villans aren’t the proper people to share your sexual desires with. Look, I even got flyers.” he said shoving a bunch of coloured papers onto his desk.

Adrien was mortified. “FATHER NO!”

“How you teenagers are saying nowadays, father yes!” he adjusted his glasses before opening a flyer. “I’m also considering creating a quality condom line, had you seen the colours they use for these? No son of mine will ever use a neon orange condom, that’s so five seasons ago.”

Adrien slammed his head on the desk.

Woe is me, he thought bitterly.

I write to grow.
To experience things from someone else’s point of view. I try to think of how others see the world and see things through their eyes.
I write to become.
To be whoever I want to be. I can become old and wise, timid and fragile, strong and independent, I can be in love, I can be a lover, I can become any part of me that does or does not exist.
I write to escape.
To run away to far off places. I can paint a new surrounding; where I’d rather be and what I’d rather be doing.
I write because it allows me to live as many different lives as I want to. It allows me to be free.
—  Prompt, 2
“Why do you write?”
Lovely Langst Week Day 3- A Mother Never Forgets

A mother never forgets.

A saying that everyone knows but laughs at. 

It was a funny saying that Lance used to tease his mother with when she forgot to do something.

“Mama,” Lance would say, a hand swaying in the air, “You forgot to pick up Laine!”

His mother would laugh back, only to throw down what she was working on and shout, “Oh Dios mío!”

Lance’s laughter filled the room, “And they claim that a mother never forgets.”

A hand slapped him up the head, “Well at least I know your birthday!” His mother exclaimed, her hand resting on her hip, “Unlike you.”

“That was one time, Mama!” Lance shouted back, waving his hands in the air, “How do you even remember that? It was like-”

“Four years ago?” His mother smirked back, “Hijo, a mother always remembers and never forgets.”

“Except for her five-year-old granddaughter who just got out of school three minutes ago,” Lance retorted back. 

Lance’s mother would shake her head and start out the door while the teen would stay back and take care of his younger nieces and nephews while she was gone.

Now Lance’s mother stands in an empty room where the laughter was no more and quiet ruled. She ran her hand across the top of a chair where her youngest would sit. She watched the clock turn from 09:12 to 09:13. She drew in a breath, ready to start her morning when a knock sounded from her door. 

She dusted herself off and hurried to the door, yelling a small, “Coming!” to alert her company.

“Mrs. McClain?” a familiar voice called to her. 

She paused, taking in the sight before her. 

“Hunk?” she whispered, “Oh my!  ¡Gracias a Dios! ¡Oh, gracias a Dios! ¡Estás bien! ¡Estás bien!” She placed her hands on the other’s cheeks, “Are you alright?”

Hunk had tears in his eyes, “W-we have… a lot to, uh, explain.”


Six people sat in her kitchen, “He jumped in front of the cannon to save us.”

She was silent.

“Mrs. Mcclain?” A black haired boy whispered out, his gloved hand hesitantly reaching over and landing on her shoulder, a trait he must have learned from Lance.

“When I first got the news, I was devastated,” She started, “My husband had died only weeks before and my family was grieving.”We held the funeral two weeks later than due,” She choked out, “because we had to dig another grave. That one was so much heavier than my husbands. We knew of his time, but Lance… He wasn’t meant to go so soon.”

A much larger man stood up, a scar running across his nose, “We’re sorry for your loss.”

“My son is he…?”

A younger person shook their head, “We couldn’t retrieve his body. He just- we- I-” They studdered out. 

Lance’s mother lets out a small sob, “How will I tell the kids? Their Tío, who they thought was dead, was alive… only to be told he’s now..gone.”

Hunk wrapped his arms around the old lady’s fragile body, “I’ll tell them. They should hear his other stories as well.”

She nodded, “You two,” she looked over at the white and orange haired duo, “You’re aliens?”

“Alteans,” corrected the one in white with a polite tone, “From the planet Altea.”

Lance’s mother nods in understanding. She gets up, pulling the attention towards her. She watched the clock change once more, from 23:59 to 00:00.

She placed her hand on the calendar on the wall next to the fridge, the paladins, and Alteans watching her closely.

She tore the top to reveal a large 28 on the sheet.

‘Happy Birthday, Lance.”

anonymous asked:

i share a birthday with deadmau5 and once bought a deadmau5 tshirt at a thrift store with that being my only knowledge of him

my mom once got off the phone with some elderly canadian relatives and was like “they said they lived next door to that musician u like! deadmow-five or whatever!” and i was like “COOL who was it?? which relative?” and she couldnt fuckin remember

so like over the course of a week she called up each of our canadian relatives and none of them knew what she was talking about so she’s certain that whoever it was obviously forgot about it bc, yknow, old people. fragile memories.

but then 3 weeks later we get an envelope in the mail, containing an autographed deadmau5 postcard, signed to my mom. still no idea which relative lived next door to him, no idea how he got our address or her name or who told him to send it, but she gave it to me and i hung it up in my room even though it’s signed to my mom lmao.