old and fragile


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.

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.

To anyone wanting a parrot:

imagine a 2 year old extra fragile toddler with a really powerful voice who thinks it’s completely independent and also has sex drives and big emotional needs of that sort. that’s pretty much it. if you can handle it for the next decades, do research and adopt some lonely birbs. don’t buy to support people who egoistically breed animals for profit

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?”

What sort of biographies was Lucretia writing that she got picked for a space mission? 

Our world biographers tend to have an easy time of it these days, or at least aren’t expected to be in on the action directly, but our girl Lucretia was a Fantasy Biographer, and that might mean things were a little rougher. As the McElroys point out, any world where a big portion of the population has devastating magical powers is going to be a little rough and tumble. Therefore I would like to suggest that maybe she was less of a library dweller and more of a low-tech war correspondent. 

She was the girl they sent when they needed someone on hand to document a dragon’s rampage or the defeat of an evil warlord; with enough magic to keep herself safe, an ability to write just about anywhere, and a supernaturally level head in a crisis. Shy little Lucretia was never directly in the action but she saw a lot of it. She started getting attached to adventuring parties as a teenager. Need someone to document your heroic quest? Rather than a loud bard or a fragile old historian you could bring one, low maintenance, fairly self sufficient young woman. Give her food and a bedroll and a sold fifty percent of the book royalties and you have a best seller on your hands. 

Her crew members had her pegged as the sort of person who would faint at the sight of blood, and in fact weren’t quite sure why the IPRE had picked her until there was a food fight in the cafeteria and she was the only person to come out of it unscathed and with a blow-by-blow understanding of who started it. (Taako.) She would scale a three story tree just to get a good vantage point of the test flights of their ship. Every once in a while she would casually name-drop some bloody fight she recorded or quietly and sadly mention the time she was trailing an adventuring team and they all got slaughtered by bandits. (Lucretia escaped by offering to write the bandit leader’s memoirs.) She still cringed at the sight of blood and didn’t talk much, but everyone’s respect for her skyrocketed after that. 

X-Files Fic: What Was Taken, What Was Lost- Chapter Three

Previous Chapters: One | Two

The library, it transpires, is a converted guest room in exactly the same shape as their own, a floor above, complete with its own bathroom and balcony.  But instead of a bed, dresser, and vanity, this room is full of wall-to-wall bookshelves, with a love seat, coffee table, and two wing-back chairs on an Oriental carpet in the center.  The wooden door that divides all of the other hotel rooms is absent here, replaced by a set of handsome glass doors, which are unlocked, though no one is in the library at the moment.

“Is this all hotel history?” Mulder muses, following Scully into the room.  She shakes her head.

“Looks like fiction on this wall,” she says, gesturing to the space between the bathroom door and the corner, where the balcony is located.  Sure enough, Mulder can see some fairly recent releases, surrounded by well-worn paperbacks and older editions of classic works.  He crosses the room, to the expanse of shelving to the right of the balcony.

“Nonfiction over here,” he says.  "Lots of history… lots of books about the history of New York State, in particular.“  He turns around and grins.  "Jackpot,” he says, returning to the wall that holds the door to the hallway.  The books on these shelves are older, less uniform in their sizes.  He and Scully scan them, looking for something helpful.  Mulder’s eyes fall on what looks like a three-ring binder, and he pulls it down, flipping open the cover.

“It’s a scrapbook,” says Scully, as he pages through the assembled photographs and newspaper clippings.  "Of the hotel, when it was a sanitarium.“  Mulder nods, and together, they page through the binder.  There are brochures advertising the sanitarium, though none of them name it as such, or even call it a hospital.  Clearly, the facility had been an exclusive one, a place for the wealthy to rest and recover without the public embarrassment of admitting that they, too, could suffer from the same diseases as the lower orders.  The scrapbook ends with a newspaper article from the local paper, detailing the sale of the building to the Catholic Church in 1931.  Mulder closes the scrapbook and replaces it on the shelf, then reaches for an identical one right next to it, opening it.

"Another scrapbook,” he says.  "From when the place was a home for wayward girls.“

"It’s all very interesting, I’ll give you that, Mulder,” Scully says, stepping back and continuing to scan the books on the shelves, “but I’m not sure what it has to do with our investigation.  Shouldn’t we be trying to get more information from the employees?  Finding out if they’ve seen anything suspicious, if anyone’s been acting strange?”

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Hello, I love your blog :) I'm not a shipper, but I'm curious about your opinion on why people are so hostile towards Reylo and so receptive of Anidala when Anakin was a terrible husband and he pretty much choked a very pregnant Padmé.

Hi, anon. This is a great question and the answer is going to be long.

Anakin Skywalker/Darth Vader is the main character of Star Wars. He is the most important person in the main saga and everything happens because of him. Not only that, Darth Vader is one of the most iconic characters of all time, so people automatically love him even when he does terrible things. Kylo Ren, on the other hand, is a brand new character. He’s still far from being an integral part of our cultural imaginary, and people have less reasons to care about him. 

People have sympathy for Anakin/Darth Vader despite his horrible actions because they already saw his whole story, because he is cool, and because he is often portrayed as a fragile/naïve when he is “himself”. There is a huge dissonance between Vader and Anakin, and people treat them as two different characters (in a way they are, but this is irrelevant here). The first time we see his real face in Episode VI, we meet Anakin-the-old, a fragile man dying in his son’s arms. Then, in Episode I, we meet Anakin-the-slave, a little boy who loves his mother and has a crush on a queen. In Episode II, we meet Anakin-the-teenager, a horny guy full of doubts. Last but not least, in Episode III we meet Anakin-the-Jedi, a war hero who is going to be a father and is desperate to save his wife. He may kill younglings and choke the pregnant wife he’s trying to save, but a big part of the audience ignores it because they don’t want to accept that Anakin-the-old / Anakin-the-slave / Anakin-the-teenager / Anakin-the-Jedi did that. 

With Kylo Ren, we have less character interpretations because we only saw him in Episode VII. He is aggressive, sarcastic and unstable. The first time we see his face, he is interrogating the heroine while being intimidating and arrogant. He is the personification of fear and he kills his own father, but at the same time he is insecure about his own villainy. We know he is Han and Leia’s son, Anakin’s grandson and a legacy character, but a lot of fans have a hard time accepting this. In their minds, he fails to live up as 1) Darth Vader’s legacy 2) Leia/Luke/Han’s legacy. He’s not good enough to be a hero and, at the same time, he’s not evil enough to be a villain. He is labeled as whiny, ungrateful and privileged, when nobody knows what the hell happened to him and why he turned to the Dark Side. His story is not complete, and some people have a hard time appreciating his character.

With all that said, when you put these two characters in the context of romantic pairings, people will try to rationalize Anakin’s behavior while completely trashing Kylo’s based on personal bias.

Add to the mix the fact that Rey is constantly infantilized by the fandom despite being a powerful adult woman who kicked Kylo’s ass. A lot of fans feel a ridiculous obligation to protect her at all costs while completely ignoring her characterization, and this logic is not applied to Padmé. Padmé, despite being a literal kid in Episode I, is seen as an authority figure and, as of Episodes II & IIIa mature woman. So a lot of people are ‘nahhh, she can handle herself and Anakin is not so bad’. 

There’s probably more to it, but I think I made my point? 

A Simple Guide to Fire Emblem Gaiden Units

-news alert: angry racist teenager with inconsistent hair color choices one-rounds all enemies with little effort

-purest white girl you know; a better mage, healer, and dps machine than every other unit on her route

~Alm’s dudes~

-alcoholic in training, slow as molasses

-prime choice bench material

-Lu Bu if Lu Bu was a kawaii magical boy

-tough human torch gets progressively slower until he becomes the bench itself


-early game poker, late game one-shotter

-literal garbage


-stoP FUCking MISSing you blind sHITheaD

-mage; not Kliff, so in the garbage you go

-the only good horse in Alm’s earlygame

-mage; not Kliff, so in the garbage you go


-holy movement range Batman! He is a Char, so of course he moves 3x as fast

-old man solos maps because he thinks kids these days are too weak to help themselves

~Celica’s dudes~

-outranges everything, but not strong enough to survive a brisk wind



-GET IT, CUZ HE USES A SWORD HAHAHA yeah he’s alright

- #big&meaty


-news alert: seafoam colored sword slaughters hundreds overnight

Palla, Catria, and Est
-game breakers

-even with that Str base, still not strong enough to support his family. into the garbage you go

-b e n c h

-edgy and fast, he pokes swords in your ass

-a mage comparable in magnitude to Kliff, finally, except it’s too bad most people choose Deen because he’s badass or because Sonya’d be your fifth f u c k i n g mage

-oh boy another mage and this time he’s old and fragile yaaaaaaaaaay

Can’t wait for Echoes!

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.


Crowley’s little girl. Part I.

Characters: Demon!Reader, Crowley, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Claire Novak

Parings: Demon!Reader x Crowley (Daughter and Father), eventually Demon!Reader x Dean/Sam Winchester, not sure yet.

You are one of Crowley’s crossroad demons, but not any demon, no.. you are his daughter. A so called Cambion. Half demon, half human. When a girl named Claire summoned you, everything changed.


I wrote this the other night, ‘cuz I couldn’t sleep for hours. Thought I separately could start a new series. Hope you enjoy. :)


Hell was a dark and cheerless place, but you loved it. It matched your cold, rotten soul perfectly. You walked down the endless seeming hallway, running your fingers along the fragile, old walls. The smell of burnt flesh ran through your nose. Passing cell after cell, filled with tortured people you turned to the right at the very end and stopped at a big door. You opened it, closing it behind you, with a creaking sound coming from it. The slam of the door let the chains on the wall rustling.

The room was filled with red burning candles, they gave you a warm feeling. The feeling of being home. It was your own little kingdom. There was a bed, a closet and a dressing table. Your hellhound, Diwo, laying in the corner taking a nap. He was a present from your dad on your 12th birthday, to always keep an eye on you. Diwo was kinda the only friend you had down here. The rest of the other demons were just here to keep you entertained, trying to act like human beings.. trying to act like friends to you. I mean, you were a Cambion. Half human, half demon. So you definitely had human needs.. and a soul, even though it was pitch black.

Y/A (your age) years back.. your dad had something going on with this human woman. He got her pregnant and left. Because he wanted to „build“ a super strong weapon. You. Exactly 9 months later, he had a weird feeling. The now king of hell knew.. a special child was born. His child. Mom unfortunately was a Hunter, recognized your black eyes, knew what kind of monster you were and wanted to kill you. Your dad showed up and rescued you. Rest is history. He raised and trained you. Gave you, almost, everything you ever needed. And here you are. Settling yourself down on your bed, being bored to death. Listening to the screams coming from outside, you closed your eyes.. You almost fell asleep, when you suddenly heard a noise coming from outside the door.

*knock knock*

„Enter“, you said annoyed.

The heavy door opened and a deep British voice came to your ears, „Hello, darling. Seems like you had a rough day“

„Oh, hey Dad.. No, it wasn’t rough at all, I‘m just so bored most of the time, I hate being a stupid crossroad demon. Why can‘t I just go out and kill people myself instead of sending Diwo their way. I can help earning souls for you by myself“ you folded your arms, making a pout.

„Well, princess.. I don‘t think you are aware of how powerful you are, you need a little tiny bit more time to face this world full of hunter. I don‘t want my precious child to get hurt. See your crossroad-duty as a training.“ he replied, settling himself down next to you.

„I can take care of myself. I‘m Y/A now, not a child anymore, dad. And to be honest, I never really was.“

„I know, I know..“ he continued, as he patted your shoulder. „just give it a few more weeks and you‘ll be ready to face this world, promise.. but you have to take Diwo with you. At least the first few times, to keep an eye on you. I started as a crossroad demon too, and look at me now“ he complacently smiled down at you.

About 2 weeks later, you were strolling around through the halls of hell again. Kicking a few little rocks around.

„Damn it, this is more torture than actually being a prisoner here.“ you said, rolling your eyes in boredom. „I‘m way too old for this shit.“ you tought to yourself, making your way to the exit.

„Where do you think you‘re going, young lady?“ your father said, suddenly appearing next to you, scaring the shit out of you.

„Let me go, I‘m bored and since you kinda stole my teleportation skills for most of my travels, I have to take the normal way. This fucking door.“ you angrily replied, grabbing the door knob.

„I actually have a job for you to do. Well, it‘s a crossroad deal again.“ You stopped, not looking at your father“ A young girl is on her way to summon one of my demons, I thought you might need something to do.“ he insisted strictly.

You moaned in annoyance. „Fine, I‘ll do it.“


You popped up on a little crossroad, somewhere in Kansas. It was dark out and you saw a young blonde girl standing in front of you. She didn’t look scared at all.

„Claire Novak.“ you said surprised. „The little girl whos dad got vessled by an angel of the lord.. What can I do for you?“ winking your eyes, let them turning pitch black.

„How do you know my name?“ she started to yell at you.

„Well, lovely.. I‘m a Demon.. remember? Plus your… ‚dad‘ is pretty well-known down there, you know..“ you replied. „but back to the important things. What do yo….“

„Shut your mouth and listen to me, demon!“ she snapped, pulling out a gun to give her self a bit of safety.

„How sweet.“ you chuckled, moving your right hand fast to the side, throwing her gun at the ground.

„Bring me my mom back! I can‘t stand being alone much longer, Take my fucking soul and just bring her back.“ she stuttered, almost starting to cry.

You grinned „you know the deal, right? We kiss to make the agreement count, then 10 years from now on, my hellhound is gonna come for your ass.“

Claire waited a few seconds, then nodded. She stepped forward to you. Your lips came closer, when suddenly you heard two men yelling and storming towards you, the taller one of them tackling down Claire. „No! Don‘t do that!“

She writhed in the arms of the man, screaming at him. „SAM! Let me go! This is my choice“
„Sam? Sam and Dean Winchester?“ your eyes opened wide.

„Yeah, why would you care you piece of hell-shit?“ the younger brother yelled at you snottily.

„Wow, easy cowboy, just doing my job“ you laughed.

„What kind of a crossroad demon are you? Your eyes are black and not red.“ he looked at you angry.

„Let‘s say it‘s just my part time job“, you winked at him, letting your black eyes turning to your normal Y/E/C again. „Dad‘s other demons are not of any good use.“

„Dad? You mean Crowley?“ Dean frowned at you full of disgust, when suddenly Claire got out of Sams grip, and ran towards you to give you a kiss.

„No! Claire god damn it!“ the younger brother shouted at you, pulling out the colt. „Nullify the deal! Now!“

„Sorry, handsome.. can‘t do that.“ you said with a smug on your face, snapping your fingers you disappeared from them.

„FUCK!“ Dean fell on his knees, hitting the ground with his fist. „I‘m gonna kill that bitch!“ he shouted.

You found yourself in your room again, when you suddenly, heard someone clapping behind you. Turning around you found your father standing there.

„Congrats Y/N.. You just got the soul of the little wannabe Winchester girl.“ he told you proudly, with a big smile on  his face.

Our souls are fragments of cloth constantly getting woven and unwoven by the fragile, old hands of destiny.
Sometimes, when she decides we’re better off not being together, she lifts her scissor and cuts the stitches that bind us together, and we’re left with parts of each other embedded into our skin, becoming parts of the coloured strings we’re made of.

It all sounds so simple until the pain of the sharp needle being constantly woven in and out of ourselves starts setting in.
And suddenly, our hearts get too heavy for us to hold and we come falling apart, crumbling like paper, aching all over.

When destiny cuts us off, we lose parts of ourselves.
The memories turn into wounds, the places where their hands have touched turn into nostalgia, closure becomes another excuse to talk to them again, stale love turns into obsession.

How do we learn when to heal?
When to let go of the things that used to love us?
When to stop loving them back?

We search for homes in empty bedsheets.
Both, as a part of them and within their unfamiliar frigidity.
We tend to old wounds while stitching up new ones.
Our paradoxes are curses of being utterly human.
We drown our pasts in bottles of liquor.
Hoping they’ll hold the future together when we can’t anymore.

It is not easy to heal but we use poetry as bandages and immerse ourselves in work so deeply that numbness is all that fills our chests.
We’re awfully human.
But we’re learning how to mend ourselves.
And we must get used to the fact that by the time we’re done, there’d be so many scars over our body that the tales of the fate we fought to embellish them will be the only colour illuminating our skin.

—  Tamarind Fall; Writing Prompt: About trying to heal. Trying to tend to old wounds while simultaneously stitching up new ones. Trying to forget the past and searching for home, wherever it may be.