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.

  • 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

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.

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?”

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


she’s self-destruction crafted from forty-year-old merlot; leaving burgundy lipstick stains on your pillowcase with a hint of poison in the air. her eyes feel like knives as they carve through his chest and straight to the heart. his blood pumping and all thoughts a blur, she’s a loaded gun directly between the eyes as wind blows through her hair, waving it around in all directions. a chaotic laugh so venomous the clouds dissipate in fear.


she’s warmth and beauty in a baby pink sweater with freckles on her cheeks. rose petals float to the floor wherever she walks, gracing the world with her presence. her smile, contagious and inviting; a beaming white ray of hope through every thunderstorm they face. friendly hugs without malice or demands - a true saint in a time of shallow, money-driven criminals. sometimes she thinks fairies visit her in the dead of night, sprinkling glitter on her pillows and shielding her from evil thoughts. angelically twirling in a field of tall grass and daisies. she’s giggling with every bird in the sky, singing one love song at a time.


she’s boring chocolate hair and baggy t-shirts running from the responsibilities of her mother’s creation. getting high off the smell of her best friend’s sheets at four in the morning, body sticky with sweat and sloppy kisses at the nape of her neck. she’s naked with arms wrapped around her waist, too thin for the rest of the world, too thick for her own condemnatory black eyes. she hears whispering trees as she walks, begging her to come back to earth. her face is red and blotchy, ugly crying in front of a jury. defending herself through pity and subconscious self-loathing. the sun, she feels its burning rays on her bare shoulders. her wrists, suddenly freed of all shackles. she jumps off the bridge.


she’s got odd scratches and dots of ink on her arms; she never remembers how she got them. her mother gifted her ralph lauren perfume that smells like flowers and morning dew for her fifteenth birthday, an apology of her lengthy absence. she wears it every day, a sad smile on her face. with a rising moon, she’s climbing trees to highlight quotes from her personal copy of macbeth in peace; only the sound of squirrels climbing across the branches can soothe her-


“i am taking what is mine.” she stares at the man beneath her, in between her thighs. he’s old, fragile, dying. not bothering to look him in the eye, she pulls the trigger. an open wound trickling crimson. she steals his wallet.

“i am wishing for peace in a dream.” she’s strumming a guitar while rabbits weave her a crown of moss and lavender buds. her song ends, and she skips back home with a basket of freshly picked lemongrass and a bouquet of wildflowers.

“i am hoping i’ll wake up from this nightmare.” she wakes up in blinding white. thin, scratchy covers caressing her body. needles in her arm. she tries to tear the cords from her body. they scream, and six figures in nurse toned blue rush in to stop her.

“i am only as much as i become.” she’s standing at the podium speech in hand. her eyes lock with a woman near the back. she can feel the tears coming. with her shoulders back, chest out, chin up, she proudly smiles at the crowd of her peers. she walks off the stage, never addressing the older woman she so desperately desires approval from.


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

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.


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.