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How Long Can International Students Stay in UK After Graduation?
Discover how long international students can stay in the UK after graduation. This blog provides insights into Post study work visa UK opportunities.
#Post Study Work Visa UK#Post Study Work Permit#Post Graduate Work Permit#Post Study Work Opportunities#Post Study Work Rights
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Okay but it's super interesting how
Din = Power = Ganondorf
Naryu = Wisdom = Zelda
Farore = Courage = Link.
Because Din, in the hylian creation myth, created the physical world. Naryu then created the laws - gravity, time, etc. And Farore finally created life - plants and people.
Din created the body, naryu the mind, Farore the soul.
And the triforce and its wielders so perfectly reflect that.
Ganon is physical power, he is big and intimidating and he breaks things. He is cunning and determined, but that's not what he focuses on. He is might makes right.
Zelda is wisdom and cleverness. She is stall tactics and information and team work. She is a powerful mage with a spine of steel, but that's not how she'll win. She is the pen being mightier than the sword.
Link is courage and persistence. He is the wild card sneaking behind enemy ranks, always moving, plunging into terrifying situations head first. He's a phenomenal fighter with a keen wit, but that's not what will get him through his challenges. He is bravery not being the absence of fear but the triumph over it.
They sit in perfect parallels to each other.
And ganon is reborn through his body - his resurrection is immortality. No matter how low he is cast, as long as he has a body he can claw his way back. He can cling to his power, build it ever higher.
Zelda is reborn through the magic of her bloodline. It's the accumulated knowledge handed down for generations, the unique power she must master, the skills she must develop to survive and get her kingdom out the other side intact. Even her name, the knowledge of herself, is handed down from all the way from the very first. Her ancestors knowledge of her future presence, her stability, is what gives her the edge.
Link is reborn in spirit. He is not bound by flesh or blood. Just like his wanderlust soul he can reappear in any time or place. His variation, his unpredictability, is exactly how he fights. It's what makes him so hard to pin down.
Ganons need to build strength means he can't chase after link. Links impulsiveness means zelda can outwit him. Zeldas stationary predictability means she's an easy target for ganon.
But the other direction?
Fire melts ice, ice redirects lightning, lightning burns fire.
And that's the very essence of the triforce.
#It's little details spread across the games like this that just makes it work so WELL it's SO COOL#They're all great at all parts of the triforce but they CHOOSE to focus on the path most meaningful to them#And that's literally reflected in their unique cycles of reincarnation isn't that just AMAZING#And that's why the team up is so important! If they were all working against each other they'd be locked spinning their wheels#If zelda and ganon teamed up link would immediately die and if link and ganon teamed up zelda would instantly perish#It's the link zelda team up that means ganon is the one who kicks it#Also the elemental thing was cool but they do jump around a bit. Like wind is there half the time#In botk the gerudo have lightning and the goron have fire. Farosh still has lightning tho and dinraal fire#In ss lanaryu was the lightning and faron had water like its all over the place thematically. And that's when it's only 3!#Don't even get me started on the 5/7 lots notankyu#But that's the most common group and it's also thematically accurate#Fire being the only one able to self perpetuate with fuel. Can be banked up again. Ice compresses with time but needs the right environment#Lightning go boom đ you can feel the static in the air but you don't know when/where it'll strike and then it's all over#Like fr it's hilarious zelda and ganon are playing the long game and link runs past eats all the pieces and while ganons yelling after him#Zelda checkmates his king. And nobody can prove she wasn't cheating because nobody was looking lmao#Ah the duality of metaphors#ANYWAY isn't that so neat???#Reason no.372 why rhoam was a terrible king he didn't just screw up he did it âšthematicallyâš#If link had been allowed to run off and get dirty and if zelda was allowed to study her interest (like post kingdom fall FOR EXAMPLE)#They'd have won (like aoc) but nooooooo. I've already made a post (or 3) about it lmao I'll be quiet now#loz#legend of zelda#botw#triforce#loz link#the legend of zelda#zelda#loz botw#ganondorf#loz ganon
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listen. If you feel like you canât have a good day today. you can set yourself up for a good day tomorrow.
sometimes if you have a huge amount of work or a bad stomach ache or you just feel bad, it feels like the day is a write-off. and doing the work thatâs hanging over your head or eating something healthy isnât going to fix it or make you feel better today. but it can set you up for tomorrow. rather than thinking of today either as something totally lost or as something that you have to save, let it be a space to make tomorrow better. youâre a friend to your future self and youâre starting a new day, but youâre not starting it without help.
#it also helps give meaning to a day that sometimes feels like it needs some#I say this as someone who has a tummy ache right now#but I can hopefully wake up in the morning without one#and thatâs worth working for and looking forward to#also relevant for studying because future you will appreciate any small thing#studyblr#study inspo#personal#study motivation#academia#productivity#text post#university#for when I need a reminder#positivity#advice
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the salt and the skin
Hi! I have been deeply beset by a disease that can only be cured by writing about Imogen Temultâs intensely ingrained mental illnesses. Yeah itâs contagious. Honestly this fic should probably be labeled as some type of biohazard.
Also on Ao3!
The first time Imogen told Laudna about the storm it was, appropriately, storming.
Laudnaâs eyes had been swallowed by a blackness darker than that of the night surrounding them, catching and reflecting even the most minuscule scatterings of light in a way that made her gaze look full with shooting stars. She had taken her leather-shielded hand to hold in both of hers as she listened. It was the first time she could remember someone taking her hand simply to hold.
She said, here is what she knows of the storm: it is unrelenting, it is violent, it is hers.
Afterâas they lay for the first time in a shared space, hands locked together in a promise at their sidesâLaudna fell asleep before her, eyes wide open. Imogen had spent minutes watching light shows reflect in them, enchanted utterly. She thought, without really considering the weight of it then: beautiful.
When she finally fell back asleep, she did so with the comfort of knowing she was never out of Laudnaâs lightspun gaze.
âââ
In the time that has passed since that night the same things that have changed about the storm have changed for her and Laudnaâwhich is to say, nothing at all.
(Which is to say, absolutely everything.
In the time that has passed since that night Imogen has become familiar with the difference between the chill that follows Laudnaâs skin and the chill that follows a corpse with her face. In the time that has passed since that night Imogen has learned the difference between running from and running to. In the time that has passed since that night Imogen has learned the difference between losing and being left.
Here is what she knows of grief: it is unrelenting, it is violent, it is hers.
It does not escape her that the first time she heard her motherâs voice was in a storm.)
âââ
On the twenty-seventh day of QuenâPillar, as the falling leaves and spines begin to create a shoreline on the bordering forest in a glaze of varying orange and brown shades, Gelvaan celebrates the Hazel Festival.
This, like all other celebrations in Gelvaan, is celebrated with hastily put-up stands and stages and games, the best and biggest cattle and produce hauled in on freshly cleaned wagonsâsome sporting their previously won ribbons as intimidating trophiesâand various flowery dedications to various different gods.
The Hazel Festival, as her father explained it, is a celebration of love and divine intentionâthe concept and promise of soul mates. As the superstition goes, if there exists another half of you, then you would find them here. People would arrive with bouquets of freshly picked flowers, hand-written letters or hand-crafted food, wandering the small stream of Gelvaan townsfolk with the belief that they were about to stumble upon the great love of their life.
It always seemed so silly to her, which means it was something many of the people in that town held very close to their hearts.
Her father told her that they met there. He and her mother. Maybe thatâs why it seemed so silly.
But here, in the dark and with the taste of honesty staining her lips, she has the passing thought that sheâd like to take Laudna one day. Maybe not to the one in Gelvaan; somewhere new, somewhere that feels syrupy sweet and slow and that sticks to your skin like a joyful glaze when it's over. Somewhere that stains. She wants Laudna to have to lick her fingers clean. She wants to bring her a bouquet of flowers.
But, for now, she is in a chasm that might as well be endless telling Laudna things that she deserved to hear in any other way. She should have told her about how she feels about Delilahâs presence in their room, holding her hand, holding her lips to the skin of her throat in a threat and a promise.
She should have told Laudna she loves her at the Hazel Festival.
Instead she says âI love Laudna,â with the same tense hesitance you would feel pulling a trigger and follows it with a âbutâ that bursts from her chest like a bullet that precedes âIâm disgusted at the idea of Delilah looking at us all the time.â that leaves her smoking mouth like an accusation. She watches her careless aim land true in Laudnaâs chest, sees the conflicted hitch and stutter of her breath from even the short distance separating them.
It ricochets; it strikes her, too.
âââ
During the trial of trust, when Laudna says she loves her, Imogenâs response is: âI think youâre a doppelganger right now?â
Which is silly. Theyâll laugh about it later. It also makes her want to die as soon as it leaves her lips.
Because, the thing is, she knows Laudna. She knows Laudna and she would be able to tell if it wasnât Laudna if she had been blinded or deafened or made senseless altogether. Her tether, her anchor. She would know. She should have known.
In the same way she should have known the moment they landed in Wildemount that Laudna was in Issylra. In the same way she should have known the moment she fled that Laudna was in the Parchwood. In the same way she should have known twenty years ago that Laudna was coming to her.
Not that any of it matters. She didnât know. She didnât know that she was in Issylraâthe ParchwoodâThe Hellcatchâin front of her. It feels as close to sacreligious as Imogen has ever truly felt. Heretical. Like she should be punished or brought down altogether. And, really, maybe she should be. The exercise was to trust one another.
What kind of trust was it, to instinctually keep trying to reach into her friendâs minds? To summon a hound to stand between them all as they stood at the very precipice in case? If sheâs honest, she doesnât truthfully feel like any of them deserved to be called victorious.
She wonders, briefly, if the other side is lacking here, too. Ludinus, Otohan. Her mother. Is it trust that binds them? Is it faith?
The brief thought of it, that her mother has found her own version of the Hellsâmaybe her own version of Laudnaâdrives into her chest like a fist.
But none of that compares toâLaudnaâs face, fumbling into disbelief at the accusation; Laudnaâs grasping, empty hands; Laudnaâs nervous, darting eyes. Laudnaâs screams, cutting through the night off the bow of the Silver Sun. Laudnaâs bleeding fingers, dripping black onto shattered, pink stone.
If it was sacrilegious of her to doubt Laudnaâs intention, it is damnation she feels take root in her ribs as a hound aparrates at her side. It bursts forth with a growling howl, its decaying hackles raised, its bright green eyes trained on her, sharp and dutiful. For her to doubt Laudnaâfor her to make Laudna doubt herâ
Well. She supposes itâs fair.
She glances at it, her Cerberus. She says, âHi, baby boy.â
It calms. Across the fountain, face blocked by the angle of her own extended hand, Laudna calms, too. âYes.â Laudna utters, âGood boy.â
She closes her eyes as she, Orym, and Chetney breach the barrier surrounding the fountain and drop their ivory sticks into its grasp. She reaches for Laudnaâs mind one final, unsuccessful time, the plea for her not to lunge dying unheard in the folds of her mind.
(In the moment, as Morri applauds their upward failure of a success, she doesnât register the way her now red-scarred fingers come up to brush against the now-bare skin of her temple. She should have known.
Next time, she will.)
âââ
When Fearne finally makes up her mind and readies herself for taking the shard, Imogenâs eyes are on Laudna and how a line of tension shoots up her spine and draws her shoulders together like folding, skeletal wings. How, as Chetney reaches into the bag of holding, she silently steps away.
Imogen hasnât been wearing her circlet, has lowered herself once again into the rapid waters of her too-open mind for hours now, but she doesnât need to be in Laudnaâs mind to know what is passing through it.
It makes her sick, the thought of that vile woman in Laudnaâs mind or soul or presence. It makes her more sick to think of Laudna spending even a moment around her influence alone.
(When Laudna had come backâwhen they found her, out at the tree line of the Parchwoodâshe had run. She had taken a moment to meet Imogenâs exhausted-elated-terrified eyes and sprinted in the opposite direction. She ran for fear of what she was capable of doing, of who she was capable of hurting, of both her lack of control and abundance of power.
She thinks of Laudna running from her and from her and from herself and, briefly, envisions a storm in the place where once she stood.)
She doesnât really register that she has moved until Laudna is already in her arms.
âYou can put your head in my shoulder. Tilâ itâs over.â She whispers, one hand burying itself in Laudnaâs hair and the other wrapping possessively around her waist, âI can tell you whatâs happening, if you want?â
Laudna doesnât say anything for a long moment, and then, into her neck: âYouâre warm.â
She feels the barely-there press of lips to her carotid and tries valiantly not to let the shiver it sparks pass through her. Instead, she takes the hand in her hair and presses lightly, moves so that every point of their bodies that could be connected are. She says, voice silk-soft, lips brushing a metal-armored cropped ear, âSo are you.â
For a moment it feelsâwell, intimate in a way sheâs slightly embarrassed about displaying in front of the others. Slightly.
But then Laudna is murmuring âshut up, shut up, shut up,â into the skin of her shoulder andâshe canât help itâshe smiles. She giggles. It is pure pride. Her brain in three parts: loving Laudna, hating Delilah, wanting to tell Laudna itâs okay to bite her shoulder to drown out the voice if itâs too loud.
She does not do that, and instead whispers the incantation she has all but ingrained on her tongue from countless back-and-forth trips on too shaky gondolas and grief insurmountableâshe says, in some dead language or a commandâcalm.
She thinks, as the spell leaves her and Laudnaâs tense body melts completelyâas Fearneâs body rises into the air, encompassed in flameâas Chetneyâs grip on the tools he has taken out to hold for comfort, and then on FCGâs raging body, turns white-knuckledâas Ashton flinches and almost doubles over from another shock of pain that passes through them and then as healing energy into Fearneâas Orym bounces anxiously on his heels like a flea or a warrior looking to strikeâas FCGâs eyes flicker red and his tiny healing-hands become something violentâas her mother says her name through the roaring of a stormâIâm not running anymore. I wonât run.
She imagines, as Laudna pulls back when things have settled and her taloned grip releases Imogen, that her skin has formed new scars in the shape of Laudnaâs hands. She holds the idea in her mind in place of an oath.
âââ
That night, she gives in.
Itâs inevitable, really, no matter which way you look at it she and the storm and the moon have always been meant to collide. To swallow each other whole. Itâs better that she does it on her terms.
Laudna agrees. Itâs good that Laudna agrees. The best, actually, because she was hoping that sheâd say no. She was hoping that sheâd say no because she doesnât actually want to be swallowed whole by the storm or the moon or the concept of a mother. What she wants is for Laudna to say no, and to take her hand and walk her out of the roomâthe houseâthe feywildâthis entire situationâand into whatever is next. Because the truth of it is, no matter how many people go into her dreams with her, she still feels alone.
In the end, she tells herself as red bleeds into the nothing behind her eyelids, the future she has been fighting for has never been her own. The hope she holds like water in her hands was never meant for herself. Her last fight. Her last hope. She stows them away like weapons. She thinks, Theyâll owe me. She thinks, Theyâll free her.
Except, when she gives inâwhen her friends fall away, as they always do, and she is left alone and cradled and warm with the echo of her desperate motherâs voice ringing in her mindâitâs everything. Itâs twenty years of nightmares and ten of minds on minds on minds and months of grief and love and wrath all wrapped up in a bow and labeled âpurposeâ.
She feels like a child. Or what she imagines most children felt like. Weightless. Like if sheâs simply good enough there will be someone who loves her there to wrap her in a hug or a blanket and tell her she did well. Who will carry her tiny half-asleep form to her room and tuck her in and kiss her forehead and say âgood night.â Like she could close her eyes and let the darkness swallow her and know someone left a light on.
Itâs everything. So when she wakes to her friends hovering, groggy faces she is only guilty for a moment at the spike of disappointment that shoots through her at the sight of them. And only guilty for a second longer when her eyes land on Laudna who is still, also, endlessly, everything.
Itâs notâsheâs not really there for the next few secondsâminutesâhours. All of their voices come through as if she is submerged in something thick that pulls every time she tries to break for air. Or maybe a lack of air altogether. There are still stars behind her eyelids every time she blinks.
At some point in their conversation two things finally register in about the same amount of time. One: her mother had called for her. Her mother had been there. Her mother had sounded like she was crying. And two: Laudna is holding her hand.
Laudna has been holding her hand, maybe. For a few moments and a few years. It's this, her tether, that finally brings her back toâwellâExandria.
The others areâasleep? No, theyâveâthat is, she and Laudnaâhave moved. To their room. They had a room? Have they spent a night here already? If time is a soup then she has made quite the mess.
Regardless, Laudna is holding her hand. Itâs everything.
Then there is shifting, slow and slight.
âImogen.â She hears her whisper, voice dropping to that low husk that her choked, only lightly decayed vocal cords must reach to achieve a tone so soft. She doesnât ever mention it, but Imogen knows how sometimes kindness exists like a war in Laudnaâs body. In the way her throat rebels against the scratchy dip of her voice, in the way her bones ache when embraced. It hurts her to be so soft. For Imogen, she does it anyway. âImogen. Would you like to lie down?â
She doesnât respondâshe doesnât think she respondsâjust squeezes Laudnaâs cool hand in her warm one and laces their fingers together in lukewarm knots.
She feels Laudnaâs hands take and cradle her closeâholds there, chests rising and falling against each other like lapping waves for an amount of time Imogen doesn't bother to countâand then she twists and shifts and lays her down like a sleepy child on their shared pillows. She tucks her in. She stands.
âIâll be back.â Laudna husks somewhere above her. âRest, darling. I wonât be but a few minutes. Iâm sure Nana has a pitcher of water somewhere around here that I wonât have toâI donât knowâmake a deal for, or something.â
She thinks she feels the tiniest beginnings of a grin pinning her lips up as Laudna's steps slow near the door, hesitateâbegin to closeâand then open the door long enough to peek in and say: âPĂątĂ© is with you, okay, Iâll be right back. Iâll try not to bargain what remains of my soul for water, butâyou knowâas they sayâwhat must be done and allâokay, byeâ punctuated by the croaking sound of their door pinching shut.
Definitely a grin, then. âPĂątĂ©,â she says, dream-drunk, âYour mom is the best.â
She feels PĂątĂ© land on her chest with a soft, somewhat wet flop. His tiny feet pitter like heâs excited or dancing. He says, âI know. Sheâs the whole package.â And then, after letting loose a rattling sound that could be considered a yawn, he asks, âCan I get cozy, then? While we wait for mum?â
Imogen, eyes still blissfully closed, let's loose a breathless laugh. Her hand blindly makes its way to the ball of fur and viscera and bone and love on her chest and scritches, ââCourse, PĂątĂ©. Weâll wait together.â
He hums. She feels him turn in one, two, three circles on her chest before finally curling up and settling in on her skin. He makes another rattling noise that could be a yawn or maybe a purr and says, âYouâre warm.â
She is undeniably smiling when she responds, âSo are you, buddy.â
âââ
When Laudna comes back minutes or hours later, Pùté is fast asleep on her chest.
His little body rattles with what she assumes are snores, softly vibrating against her collar. She holds a finger to her lips as Laudna goes to shut the door behind her. Laudna makes a face like sheâs about to burst into tears.
She doesnât. She instead turns toâsoftlyâshut and lock the door, and then turns soundlessly again in her direction. She takes a breath. She smiles, âIâm not going to lie, I was kind of hoping youâd be asleep when I got back.â
She hums, low in her chest. âWhy?â
Laudna looks at her in that somewhat blank way she does when she thinks the answer to something is quite obvious. She says, âBecause you need the rest.â
She hums again. Laudna treks the distance between them and sits softly beside her, her sharp hip just barely pressing against the bend of her waist. Her bony hand catches Imogenâs cheekâor, maybe, Imogenâs cheek willingly falls into her handâregardless, suddenly she finds herself held. A thumb brushes under her eye with the barely there gentleness one uses when full with fear for something breaking in their grasp.
She leans forward and over her, dark hair falling around them like a curtain of ink, blanketing them in shadow, encompassing her entire vision. She asks, breath falling upon her lips like a torrent or a phantom kiss, âAre you alright, darling?â
Imogen lifts up the barely there distance to press their lips together, sighing into her mouth. âCareful with PĂątĂ©,â she whispers when she falls back, a hand splaying on Laudnaâs chest to keep her from fully settling in atop her, âhe needs the rest, too.â
Laudna opens her eyes as if from a good dreamâand then rolls them. She lifts a hand to wave in the air as if swatting at something. âHeâs dead.â She says, like itâs an obvious thingâwhich, it is. But. âBesides, if he dies from exhaustion or something else ridiculous then Iâll just bring him back.â
Imogen frowns. âI donât think heâs dead. Not, like, dead-dead, anyway. âSides, heâs comfy. Iâd feel bad if we woke him.â
Laudna hums, then. âYes, he is. Comfy. And also dead.â
Her turn to roll her eyes. âWhereâs his house?â
Laudna sighs like the world is endingâwhich, wellâand leans down for one more soft kiss and then back and up and off of her entirely. Imogen triesâvaliantly, she might addânot to openly wince at the loss.
She watches Laudna brace her nonexistent weight against the bed in a way that would cause the mattress to dip if it were anyone else, and instead just presses with the barely there imprint of her palms into the silk. She reaches for Imogenâs chest, cups PĂątĂ©âs tiny form in her hands; Imogen brings her hands together overtop them both. When Laudna looks at her, her eyes are full of shooting stars.
âCan I?â she asks, âPlease?â
Laudna stares at her for a few slow heartbeats more, a little like she is stunned. Eventually, she leans down over their joined hands and kisses her fingers. Again. Moves her thumb to run over her knuckles like she is wiping away a stain. âOf course.â
Her body still feels a little gone, a little floaty, as she brings her hands to catch PĂątĂ©âs tiny body in their joint grasp, lifts herself up against the headboard, and then swings her legs over the side of the mattress. She sways to her feet slowly, slightly wobbly, eyes never leaving from the curled-up ball of fur in her hands and on her chest. Laudnaâs hands have moved and are pressing into her biceps from somewhere behind her, steadying.
She lifts her head long enough to find where Laudna had placed Pùté's little home across the room, its golden-brown wood resting silently atop the possibly skin-covered drawer by the archway that opens into a vine-wrapped, flower-lined balcony.
She half-shambles, half-stumbles her way over with Laudna on her bleary-eyed heels. It feels infinitely importantâitâs always felt important, butâthat she is gentle. That Laudna sees her be gentle. It is more important than she has words to describe that Laudna could leave or fall asleep or be elsewhere and feel and know that PĂątĂ© would be put softly, lovingly to bed. That he would be tucked in. That Imogen would leave a little light on for him if he asked. She looks down at Laudnaâs most special little gift and drops a tiny, feather-light kiss against his skeletal head. âGânight, buddy.â
He mumbles out a gargled sounding, âGânight, âmogen.â
She smiles, pulls apart the tiny curtains that act as a privacy sheet to his home, tucks him in as well as she can, runs one last soft finger down the length of his beak and just like thatâshe canât help itâshe starts to think of her mother.
She wonders how gently Liliana held her, when she was so small and helpless and vulnerable. She wonders if Liliana ever sang to her, ever held her little hands and kissed her stubby fingers. That memoryâthe one that Otohan conjured or summoned or triggeredâher mother had caught her as her toddler legs had stumbled; she had smiled and wiped her tear-stained cheeks and lifted her into her arms and held.
The phantom memory of a mother and the phantom memory of Ruidus begin to overlapâhow long had it been, before Laudna, that she was shown gentleness? Before Laudna, two decades into her life, was it her mother? Before her mother, before she was ever given a name, was it the moon?
How was she meant toâhow was it fair to expect her toâis it so evil of her, to wish? She wonâtâshe wonâtâbecause she knows that itâs wrong no matter how desperately it feels right. But theâthe venom she catches pooling in the depths of Orymâs gaze, sometimes, when he talks about the moon and the vanguard and sheâshe gets itâof course she gets it, of course she understandsâbut itâs not like sheâs ever genuinely entertained the thought of joining the vanguardâof joining Otohanâbut the moon, Ruidus, Predathosâshe wonâtâthe silence, the comfortâher body, radiant even among the starsârunning, tripping into her motherâs armsâshe wonâtâ
âImogen?â
A chilled hand on her shoulder, gentle, gentle, gentle.
Breath enters her empty lungs in a shock-sharp inhale. Light enters the world againânatural, silver-white moonlight like a stripe of paint from the open balcony; warm, flickering orange from the candle by the bedâand the temperature goes from freezing to scalding to cool as she collapses back into her body like debris flung from orbit. Laudnaâs hand on her skin; she crash-lands back home.
On impact, she whispers, âLaudna.â
A moment of hesitance and then a soft, cool pair of lips against the curve of her neck and shoulder. Her hands circle to wrap around Imogenâs waist. She asks, again, voice feather-fall soft, âAre you alright?â
A moment of hesitance and then her traitorous mouth, her traitorous heart: âI donât know anymore.â
Laudna presses another, more lingering kiss to the space below her ear, then moves to run her nose along the curve of her jaw. She whispers there, in a way that she feels the words press against her skin, âThatâs okay.â
Imogen finds her hands against her belly and twines them together as tightly as she canâtether, anchor, home. Her breath trembles.
They donât say anything, holding each other in the space and the silence. Laudna presses gentle, gentle kisses to anywhere on Imogen that she can reachâneck, shoulder, ear, jawâuntil Imogen turns to meet her there, barely capturing Laudnaâs bottom lip between hers and then moving in again, more insistent. She feels Laudnaâs lips pull into a smile against hers. Imogen notes that sheâs becoming familiar with the feeling. The thought pulls her own smile forth.
But they havenât kissed like this before, at this angle, in this room. There are so many other perfect kisses they have yet to discover.
It doesnât make sense that she only kissed her a little over a week ago. She should have kissed her a month ago, the moment she came back on the floor in Whitestone, the moment they arrived in Jrusar, two years ago in Gelvaan. She should have kissed her a hundred more times than she did the day that she first gathered the courage to kiss her in the first place and then kissed her some more. She shouldâve bought lipstick so she could leave a stain.
Laudna pulls back first, half-laughing and half-sighing at Imogenâs attempt to give chase. She leans back in to press a quick kiss to her noseânew, perfectâand then dips down, seals their foreheads together, looks up at her. She asks, âWould you like to talk about it?â
No, not really. âI think Iâd need another week to even begin to process whatâs happened to us in the last three days, to be honest.â
Laudna nods. âYes, understandable. Itâs been a lot.â She pauses, as if to see if Imogen will respond, and then says, âStill, Iâd like to listen.â
Sheâs perfect. Thatâs it, really.
Imogen finds her hand and brings it up to her lips, kissing each finger once and then each knuckle. She whispers, âIâm not sure I know how to.â
Laudna kisses her cheek. âThatâs okay, too.â
When she pulls back she also pulls forward, taking Imogenâs hand in her own and guiding her. She twines their fingers together, and then they are on the balcony.
Catha shines more brightly here than she is used to in the Material Plane. There is no bloody red or pink shine of Ruidus to speak of after their work at the key. It is navy-dark, struck through with silver cuts from Sehanineâs light. There are moving, shifting vines wrapped around the stone-skinwork railing of their little alcove, purple and yellow and orange and bright, vibrant green dancing and swirling and alive around them.
Laudna gasps, her lips forming a perfect, excited âOâ when she notices the little movements. âHello, there,â she says to the vine, âSorry to disturb you. Would it be impolite to talk to my girlfriend out here, for a minute?â and then, her hands coming up like claws and her voice deepening to the tone she uses for her most important and dramatic of questions, âIs this, like, your domain?â
The vines shake back and forth as if to say knock yourself out or maybe well I canât stop you.
Laudna grins, âOh, perfect. Excellent. You're much less ferocious than your feywild-forest-flower friends.â Her brows furrow, a single finger coming up to tap nervously against her lips. âHm. I hope that wasnât insulting.â
Before Imogen can stop her she reaches forward and lightly taps the vine with two fingers, sharp teeth exposed in a smile, âYouâre perfectly ferocious as well.â
The vines shutter as if to say fuck off and then pull back and vanish, leaving clean stonework behind.
Laudna pouts. Imogen takes and tangles their hands together. âMaybe next time.â
She sighs, all dramatics, âIâm beginning to believe plants hate me as much as people do.â
Imogen knocks their shoulders together. âPeople donât hate you.â
âObjectively untrue. Regardless,â she says, waving Imogenâs immediate attempt at a counter aside, âAre you ready? For tomorrow.â
For the key? For Ruidus? For her mother?
She shrugs, âAs Iâll ever be. You?â
âOh, I think so.â She leans her bony hip against the balcony wall. âItâs been a long road. To get here. I never doubted you would.â
Imogen scoffs. She leans against the wall, too. âA long road is certainly one way to describe it. A shitty road, would be another.â
Laudna tilts her head at her, raven-like. A rope of black hair falls into her face. Imogen clenches her fingers around her arms in an effort not to reach across the space and brush it behind her ear. She says, with the upward tilting, insecure cadence of a question, âIt hasnât all been shitty, though?â
Imogen heaves a heavy breath. âNo,â she says, fingers still digging into her own skin, âNo. Not all of it.â
Laudna hums. There is still hair in front of her eyes. âBut quite a bit of it.â
âQuite a bit, yeah.â
Quiet. Some likely incredibly fucked-up feywild bird flutters its incredibly fucked-up feywild wings and takes off into the moonlit night. Imogen turns and balances her weight on her elbows, leaning over the wall. The vines from earlier are just over the edge, as if eavesdropping. She says, âBut not all of it, Laudna.â
âI know,â Laudna whispers, âI agree.â
âAbout not all of it sucking absolute ass or about it sucking absolute ass in general?â
âYes.â
âAwesome.â Imogen chuckles, âIâm glad we agree that everything sucks.â
âBut not everything-everything.â
âBut not everything-everything.â
âThis is getting pretty circular,â Laudna steps closer, âHow do we make it suck less?â
Kiss me, Imogen thinks. âI have no idea.â Imogen says.
âBecause, you know,â Laudna continues as if Imogen hadnât spoken at all, âI think youâreâŠso capable. Truly. And I really havenât ever doubted that youâd make it hereââ
ââto the moon?ââ
ââfrom the moment it became apparent it was possible, yesâbut, really, even thenâanyway. I justâŠI want to protect you. On the moon, but also here,â She lifts one dainty hand and presses her finger against Imogenâs forehead, âI know the dream was a lot.â
Imogen grasps Laudnaâs wrist where it is in front of her face, leans forward to press a kiss against the veins there and then again at the tip of that same finger. âIt was.â
Laudna shifts closer, still, leaning over her just slightly. âDo you feel any different?â
Imogen finally, finally allows herself the gift of brushing those stray hairs back, lets her fingers linger against Laudnaâs gaunt cheek. âYes and no.â she admits, eyes on the silk-soft hair tangled in her fingers to the side of Laudnaâs face, âIâm not sure how to explain it.â
âThatâs alright. Maybe I can help you find the words. You justâwell, IâŠdonât want to, you know, but. Youâve just seemed a littleââ
âOut of sorts.â
She sees Laudnaâs breath stutter and then release. âYes, IâŠI didnât want to pressure you, or anything. Itâs been a lot, so much. And you donât have toâI trust you. I do. But if youâŠif you need or want help, then I would like to offer it. Is all.â
Imogen swallows. âI meant it, earlier,â bursts from her chest, her heart, âWhen IâThat I love you. That Iâmâin love with you. In case that wasnât, um, clear.â
Laudna, for her part, looks genuinely surprised. Which is itself surprising. Not in the least because she had said she loved her, too; but, also that Imogen realizes that she very simply is not super good at hiding it.
Quietly, softly, Laudnaâs lips part. Her eyes go a bit glassy. She shifts forward slightly, leaning into her palm still on her cheek. She saysâwhispers, reallyâ âI know.â
Imogen inhales. Exhales. âYouâwell, that's good. Thatâs great.â
Laudna smiles against her skin. âYouâre warm.â she whispers. She presses a kiss there, to the crease of her palm. âI love you, too.â
Imogen inhales. Exhales. âWell. Thatâs good. Thatâs great.â
âMhm.â
âI donâtââ she licks her dry lips, âI donât know what to do now.â
Laudna hums. âYes you do.â
âRight.â she says, âOkay.â and then sheâs kissing her again.
âIâm going to ask youââ a pause, another kiss, âIâm going to ask you about the dream again, whenââ
Imogen pulls back. Laudnaâs lips are kiss-swollen and shiny. It makes her want to break something. She asks, âWhen?â
Laudna sighs. Her eyes open to find her slowly, and then stop half-way, hanging over her irisâ heavily. Her eyes are dark. Hungry. She says, âWhen Iâm done.â
Imogenâs eyes fall back to her lips. âRight.â She whispers, âOkayââ and then the rest of her sentence and the rest of her breath and the rest of her thoughts are stolen from her.
âââ
âNow, then.â Laudna starts. She wipes the back of her hand across her uptilt lips. âWhatâs different? Do you have gills? Webbed fingers? Though, I supposed Iâd have noticed that much by nowââ
âLaudnaââ she heaves a laugh, lungs still desperate, voice a little hoarse, âGod, let me catch my breath first.â
Laudnaâs tongue runs lightly between her lips. She is above her, still, grey-ish arms bracketing either side of her. There is hair in her face again, sweat-stuck to her skin. Imogen is too mesmerized by the way that it splits her into like running ink and catches the nearby moonglow in a contrasting showcase of light to bother to want to brush it away. Chiaroscuro personified.
She tilts her head, bird-like and uncanny. Her eyes, shooting stars. It makes Imogen want to pull her back in. âShit, Laudna,â she whisper-giggles, âYouâre so fuckinâ beautiful.â
Laudna stutters and then grins, all too-sharp teeth. She says, teasingly, âItâs nice to not be the breathless one for a change.â
Imogenâs laugh leaves her like a strike to the chest, âOh, thatâs a good one.â
âI thought so.â
Laudna leans down, kisses her again. Imogen sighs into her.
Thisâthe intimacy of itâis still so new and beautiful and exciting andâwellâfrankly, they've both discovered that theyâre ravenous. For each other and for love and for touch. That first nightâat Zhudannaâs, her body still thrumming hours later with the electric echo of their first kissâImogen had taken Laudnaâs hand after they passed the threshold of their little makeshift and borrowed home and led her to their windowless room, their small bed. She had asked: Can I kiss you again?
It was indescribably wonderful, and took approximately two lung-heaving, feather-light minutes in the aftermath to discover that Laudna was starving. Voraciously hungry. Thirty years of nothing and thenâsuddenlyâthis. Suddenly them. Imogen could hardly stand the handful of weeks apart.
Which is to say, Laudna has a tendency to lose herself in her, a little bit. It has quickly become one of her greatest prides.
Exceptâwell.
Imogen falls back, separating them. âSorry,â she whispers, âWhat wereâwhat were you sayinâ?â
Laudna pouts. âAsking.â She corrects, âWellâmaybe theorizing, but mostly asking. You saidâearlierâit feels different?â
Imogen nods. She reaches up to brush her fingers over Laudnaâs cheek. âYeah.â
âIs itâŠgood different? Or bad different?â
Imogen nods. âYeah.â
Laudna nods, too. Imogen watches something like self-consciousness settle on her shoulders. She isnât sure what to do about it.
Laudna braces to press a kiss to her cheek and then rolls over. When her skin hits the light it makes her look made of marble. Like a statue. A work of art.
She bends across the space and tugs the blanket up and around them both, reaching around Imogen to make sure she is covered completely. Imogen uses the opportunity to press her lips to the skin of her bicep in passing thanks.
She settles back against the sheets. âI love you.â She says. Somehow, it sounds like a plea. âAnd Iâll support whatever it is you decide you want to do.â
Imogen turns on her side to mirror her. âEven ifâif itâs giving in completely?â
Laudna's eyes are dark. Hungry. âWhatever you decide, Imogen.â
Imogen swallows. She feels like sheâs choking. Something is rising in her, clawing at her chest and stomach and ripping its way into the world. Laudnaâs eyes are so dark. There is a hound in her chest. Imogen swears she hears the echo of its howl, somehow, in her own chest. In the breaths between heartbeats, something is growling.
The howl, her eyes; it rends her completely. With blood in her teeth, she says, âMy mom was there.â
It leaves her like a strike of lightning, seeking the quickest way to earth, splitting and bursting apart her ribcage as it rips from her lungs. Or like a hound, pent-up and caged, let loose to hunt and sprinting, snarling to the nearest indicator of meat. Or like sickness, like bile, burning.
Thatâs the bursting, bleeding, burning truth of it: her mother was there. On Ruidus, at the key, in her dreams for as long as she has had them. Guiding her or warning her. In the end, isnât that a form of love? Isnât that what a mother would do? She felt so held, there at the center of Ruidus, in the eye of the storm, in Predathosâ hand or maybe its jaws. Her mother had screamed for her. Her mother had cried for her.
And she canât remember the feeling of her motherâs warmth, but she can remember the sound of her voice: Run. Imogen.
Does Predathos have a voice? Would it mourn her? Would it leave?
âWhat did she do?â Laudnaâlike a thunderclap, or a resonating howl, or a hand on her heaving backâtakes and wraps their bodies together like twisting vines. She presses their foreheads together. Her eyes are still dark. âImogen. What did she say?â
Laudna would. Laudna would mourn her. Laudna would tuck her corpse into bed before leaving her.
âI donâtâshe justâcalled for me. My name. She said no. Laudna.â Laudnaâs hands on either side of her clenched jaw, Laudnaâs lips centimeters from her own, Laudnaâs hand in hers in the middle of the storm. âShe sounded like she was crying.â
She feels the well in her eyes overflow, cutting down her cheeks. Laudna makes some gasping sound and leans in, pressing her lips to the skin and the salt. âImogen. Imogen, Iâm sorry. Imogen.â She pulls back. The dark in her eyes is gone. âDarling, what can I do?â
Imogen shakes her head. Theyâre close enough that each passing arc causes their noses to bump. âI donât know.â She says, voice tight. âI donât know. What if I fucked up? What if she left to protect me and I wasted it? I donât know anymore, Laudna.â
Laudna kisses her, lightly, a barely there press of their lips and then gone. Like she isnât sure how else to respond. âWhat happened? When you gave in? What did it feel like?â
Imogen trembles. âIâyou allâleft. Were pulled away. It brought me in and thenâmy mamaâbut itââ here, she sobs, âit was warm.â
Laudnaâs body stiffens around her, arms locking like rigor mortis around her waist. She doesnât exhale for a long, long time. When she does, it passes over her lips like a torrent.
âMy mother taught me to sew.â she starts. âDid I ever tell you that? We didnât often have enough money to go get new clothes so we made our own. Anyway, the first time it was because I ripped a hole in one of my shirts out in the woodsâI was digging for wormsâand when I came back I was all in a huff, expecting to be in so much trouble and felt so terrible for ruining clothes I knew she made for me.â
She pauses to press a kiss to Imogenâs hairline, âShe took the ruined thing out of my hands and taught me how to fix it.â
She inhales. Thereâs the tiniest stutter in her chest that makes Imogen want to level another city block. âI used to think about her quite often. Everytime I found myself trying to sleep on the floor of some cold, abandoned cabin, all alone, I remember wishing she were there to teach me how to fix it.â
Their eyes find each other again, snapping together like magnets or puzzle pieces. Laudnaâs eyes are full of shooting stars again. âI justâIâm just sorry, Imogen. Iâm sorry I donât know how to fix this. Iâm sorry she doesnât.â
No longer the snapping wolf, no longer the lightning strike or the thunderclap or the bile or the hand; Imogen breaks.
âGod, Laudna. It feels likeâlike I'm mourning her.â She sobs. The words loose from her throat like an arrow held taut for too long, aimless. âBut, Laudna, she isn'tâshe was never gone."
It is an ugly, sharp, irrational thing, her grief; she feels it drive like icicles into Laudnaâs already chilled skin and dig rot-guilt up from under the warmth of her own when the weight of it tugs her over and into Laudna further. She wishes, fleetingly, that she could wear her grief as prettily as she thinks Laudna does. Laudna slips into hers like an old coat or an old blanketâscratchy, filled with holes, utterly familiar in a way that settles onto her shoulders in some poor facsimile of comfort.
Imogenâs is always, always this: an implosion. An excavation of the self. Her body nothing more than a dig-site of scars with histories older than she is.
âSheâs my mama, Laudna.â It is a pathetic plea, it drops with the weight of a stone into water from her lips, âShe was always with me. I never knew her. I love her and I loved her. She was dead. I have to kill her. I have mourned so why am I still mourning?â
The last word rips out of her in two tones, caught in the hiccup-choke of a sob into Laudnaâs shoulder.
"Oh, darling." Laudna whispers, her lips against Imogenâs temple petal-soft in a way that makes the guilt dig deeper, sugar and salt. For a moment she only holds her. Presses kisses to the side of her head. And then Imogen feels air fill her chest, hears her lungs expand with the accompanying sound of bones like a creaking ship at sea or a growling hound. She says, with all the wisdom of someone who has lived and died and lived again, "Mourning is justâŠlove in a transitive state.â
She shifts, catching the wet guilt dripping from Imogenâs face and forming lakes of grief at her collar, rivers of it down her chest. It makes Imogenâs breath catch, watches the moonlight catch in the momentary proof of her on Laudna. She continues, more softly, âIt isâŠan adjustment to distance. Not goneâjust far."
At this, Imogen glances away from the stain of her to meet Laudnaâs eyes. She hesitates, breath a pathetic stutter in her lungs. She asks, âAre we still talking about my mother?â
Laudna watches her. And watches her. And then, voice like a bleeding wound or creaking branches or whining rope: âDeath could not take me from you.â
âDonâtââ she begs, âDo notâLaudnaââ
âIt canât, Imogen. She canât.â
Imogen sobs, reaches up desperately to cradle Laudnaâs face in her hands. âI donât want you to be another voice in my storm, Laudna. I canât. I wonât.â
Laudna's gentle, cool hands gather her own callous, warm ones together at their collar. She asks, "Can I tell you something you don't want to hear?"
A laugh breaks out of Imogenâs lungs, desperate and sad. âYou already are.â
Her grip on Laudna's hands is not gentle, it is clinging. Clawing. She imagines that when Laudna pulls away, her wrists will bear the bruise of her.
She says, in that same creaking branches voice, "You would have been fine without me."
She pulls awayâtries toâhears her voice from outside her body saying, "NoâNo, Iâ" but then Laudna's fingers are entangled in hers like roots and Imogen isâshe'sâclinging, too.
"Don't say that." She cries. There is thunder in her voice. A precursor and warning. "I love you. Donât say that.â
Laudnaâs hands release hers to wrap around and claw at the skin of her hip, dragging them close again. Her eyes are swimming. âYouâre so strong, so capable, and you are going to live. Your storm wonât take you. You will outgrow it.â
âYou are, too.â Imogen demands. Because it is a demand, of herself and of the world. âYouâre going to live, too.â
Laudna says nothing. Imogen continues, âI wonât let her have you, Laudna. If I can outgrow my storm, you can outgrow her.â
Laudnaâs face is choked up in grief, now, in a way that Imogen has never really seen. âI just meanââ she starts, chokes, starts again, âI just meanâmy mother taught me to sew. And I did. And I think maybe your mother taught you to run. And you did. And I donât think itâsâŠitâs understandable, that you wish she had taught you how to sew instead.â
Something in her, some roaring thingâthe storm, maybeâcracks her skin at the words. She thinks if she were to look at her hands right now there would be new scars.
Laudna takes her ruined hands into her own; she tries to fix them. âBut I can teach you how to sew, Imogen. I canâand then when I'mâgone. You can still sew. Or cook orâor paint orâwhatever it is, Imogen. Imogen.â
Imogen rushes in; she kisses her. What else is there to say? What do you say when I love you isnât big enough anymore? How do you say I donât want you to teach me how to sew, I want you to teach me how to hunt?
Maybe there arenât enough words to encompass them. Maybe theyâve created their own expanse of love and devotion here, between them. Maybe theyâve spent two years carving a space for the other in the ether of the world.
Everything theyâve found, all of the information they've picked up on the Gods and what makes or breaks or conjures them in these past monthsâfaith. Both the call and the creator, the word around which divinity molds itself. And her faith, her divine call into the darkâher unanswered pleas on her knees in Gelvaan, on her knees at the altar of the Dawnfather Temple in Whitestoneâif they can pick and choose whose faith they deem truthful, then what does it mean to be truly faithful?
The confidence in the callous hands of a blacksmith as he brings the hammer down, striking metal into shape. The gentle hands of a gardener digging into the soil, preparing it for life, removing that which would otherwise ruin and rot. The small hands of a child held in the soft, guiding hands of their mother. Are these not examples of divine faith?
Would the Dawnfather's hands hold her face so gently? Would the Wildmother's lips press so softly to her brow? Would the Changebringer's fingers dig just so into the skin of her shoulders, sweaty and heaving in the aftermath of her storm?
What could the gods offer her that Laudna hasn't? What would they ask in return for what Laudna freely gives? What faith of hers have they earned?
If faith is the ultimate test of love and passion and trustâthan whose altar but Laudna's would she kneel to?
If godhood, then, is as simple as a state of faith and belief then maybe she alone can love her to the point of divinity. Immortality. Imogen could make a God of her. Maybe, she thinks with Laudnaâs bottom lip caught between her teeth, maybe one more kiss will do the trick. Maybe one more. One more.
Eventually a sobâImogenâs, of courseâbreaks them apart. Her head falls into Laudnaâs neck. Laudnaâs arms cross behind her back and press her close. She runs her taloned fingers over the bare skin at Imogenâs shoulder blades, the base of her neck, down every popping vertebrae. She is breathing at the normal human rateâfor her it is heaving. She kisses Imogenâs temple.
âNo one can take away the love for the mother you wanted. Not even the mother you have." She says into her hair, and then pulls away and downâkisses her. Keeps kissing her. When she separates to speak it is by centimeters, âAnd no one can take me away from you. Not Delilah. Not Otohan. Not Predathos or The Matron.â
And then, into her trembling mouth, âIf we are apart, then I am within.â
Imogen lets out a wreckedâchokingâdying sound, âYeahâYes. Laudna, Iââ desperate and clumsy and broken, she brings her shaking hand up to Laudnaâs face and presses her finger to Laudnaâs forehead, âHere. As long as youâre here.â
Laudna nods, brings her own talons up to Imogenâs face in a mirror-gesture, âHere. As long as youâre here.â And what is left for Imogen to do besides to rush up and in and in and in. Again and again and again.
Here, in Jrusar, in their room at Zhudannaâs, in Zephrah, in the Feywild, in Bassuras, on the moon, in the storm. In the evening, in the morning, in the middle of the day, in the depths of the night. Crying, laughing, bloody, triumphant. Again and again and again and again.
Better halves, Imogen thinksâinto Laudnaâs head and then, endlessly, into her own, Better wholes. I love you. I love you.
âI love you.â Laudna gasps aloud, ripping away and then rushing back in, âImogen. Imogen. As long as youâre here. I love you.â
Imogen nods, gasps, and then neither of them say much at all.
âââ
In the end, Imogen doesnât say: I lied. When I promised to move on. I lied to you. Nor does she say: Iâm sorry. Iâm not disgusted by you. I could never be. I love you so deeply that every time I look at you I am remade. She doesnât say: I sundered her once. Iâll sunder her again. If youâll let me, Iâd plant a new sun tree in your mind. One that makes you think of picnics and not nooses. One that makes you think of the view and not the fall.
She does not say: I donât think I can do it. I donât think I can kill her. Will you do it? Can we trade?
She tucks these confessions away in the divots of her mind right alongside her circlet. She hopes the weight of them, the promise of them, will help to keep her runaway feet firmly rooted.
âââ
(After, Laudna falls asleep before her, eyes wide open.
Imogen lays next to her, one hand softly running up and down Laudnaâs exposed navel, the other curled under her own head as she allows herself to trace the profile of her face.
It is late enoughâor, early enough, maybeâthat Cathaâs light cannot breach the shared darkness of their space. Or maybe it does, and is swallowed entirely by the pitch of Laudnaâs eyes.
Laudnaâs eyesâthe empty, dark swirl of themâImogen remembers her gaze full with starsâcaptures her attention. The shadows in the room paint Laudna an even deeper dark, cutting her features into shapes that catch the barely there impression of light that Imogenâs weak, mortal eyes require to capture form.
With no light, with nothing to reflect in her sky-locked, sleep-awake stare; Laudna appears hungry. Like even in sleep, she is hunting. In the dark, she takes the form of a predator.
Watching her, Imogen thinks of Ruidus and of the storm there and of the one in her mind and of the one that takes the shape of her motherâreaching and watching and waiting for her, the entirety of her lifeâlike an animal, like something waiting in the grass for her to make a mistake or lose her footingâwaiting on the opportunity to close in on herâto consume her or to change herâ
She reaches across the space.
Gently, mournfully, she closes Laudnaâs eyes.)
#critical role#imogen temult#laudna#imodna#liliana tumult#writing#I donât think I love this anymore BUT. at least it is Finished and I can Move On. To Other Equally Distressing WIPs#i have a full blown liliana character study locked in the chamber of my brain. she is in there.#and delilah is right next to her. in a away i am just like the gay girls#also sos. this is the first time iâve posted fic anywhere but especially on here in YEARS and why the FUCK#did they take away being able to simply add a line break. or am i dumb. i couldnât get the HTML to work either orz#Also post-posting update. I am now recognizing a collection of formatting errors specifically on this version that I am like. h about.#But Whatever. The Show Must Go On#crit role fic
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hi, i completely agree that the fandom has a problem with misogyny and often fails at self-introspection. my question is, do you have any resources/tips/thoughts on how to be better about it? even, how to recognize it in yourself the first place? "ok i'll stop being a misogynist now" is a lot easier said than done, especially for people who might not be that educated on the subject, and majority of the people in this fandom are quite young as well.
this is long as fuck and possibly somewhat incoherent bc it took so long to write but i did my best
my biggest tip for people who don't know much about misogyny is to look at your own behavior and learn how to clock what you're doing as sexist.
are you criticizing a female creator? think about why you're doing it, what the actual beef you have with them is. if it seems to be just a sense of discomfort or thinking they're annoying or overly loud or pushy, think about male ccs who act the same way and why you dont consider them annoying. are you annoyed with them for being on a male cc's stream? why? does it feel like theyre taking up too much attention? do you get annoyed with them for talking too much or flirting with guys? for gaming especially-- do you get annoyed with them for not knowing something or being "bad" at a game? think about why that is and why its just funny when a male cc is bad at games or doesnt know something.
a HUGE problem i see in this fandom is the Madonna-whore complex, repackaged as the little sister-racist dichotomy (kudos to @yourlittlemenace for that phrasing).
if a female cc is deemed to be "playing nice" (doesnt talk too much, is "nice", streams with male ccs but doesnt flirt with them, isn't "overtly sexual"), she's the little sister of the group. all the male ccs "protect" her, she literally folds their laundry, she doesnt call out how people treat her, and the fandom pretends that this is a normal and cool way to treat women who are public figures. this also goes for mom/big sister/etc. if you think you haven't done this, think about all the aus where you've forced puffy into some kind of maternal or sisterly role when it made no sense. then think about how pissed people got when she decided not to be the server therapist and was "mean" to Tommy (in lore, with permission. that she didnt even need to get. see that clip i rbed earlier from her podcast.)
if the fandom decides she doesnt play nice, if she flirts with male ccs too much or stands up for herself or points out how unfair it is that she's being treated this way, she gets demeaned, harassed, and shunned by the fandom. consider, again, puffy. consider how niki flirted with wilbur and talked about misogyny and got called a racist for *checks notes* "speaking to schlatt and fundy" and "not being a native english speaker". she got called a slut and a queerbaiter for kissing another woman despite being bisexual.
consider how hard people went down on hannah for having said the r slur several years back versus how hard they went on dream for the same thing. and how people dug it up as a direct response to her being on stream with dream. consider how every time hannah talks about how unfair it is that the mcc subreddit treats her like trash, she has to delete all her tweets bc they harass her to hell and back and act like she's an asshole for pointing out their hypocrisy.
the fandom doesnt do this across the board; i shouldnt have to say this, but its not an everyone versus no one issue. some people do this outright and loud, some dont seem to realize theyre doing it, and a few people dont do it at all (incredibly rare, i can count on one hand the number of people who genuinely seem to try to avoid these issues, which is why im complaining).
in terms of lore, have you ever once done analysis on a female character? why do you think you haven't? the bechdel-wallace test is an (imperfect) way of gauging how a piece of media ignores women and prioritizes men. think about the fact that there are FOUR female ccs on the DSMP and they are continually ignored in favor of male characters. consider that puffy and aimsey both talked about trying to do genuine lore and getting shafted, either because no one was online and wouldn't put in the effort to stream with them or because they received insane amounts of criticism for breaking anything on the server, despite the clear lack of "no griefing" rules and the precedent that you can blow other people's shit up (tommy leveling one of puffy's builds, amongst many other examples).
a quick thing about ships: have you ever wondered why m/m ships are so popular? the general consensus amongst people who care about feminism and are into fandom studies is that for a long period of time, m/m was hugely popular because women are so rarely written as full and complete characters in any media. so people took to engaging with m/m ships and writing about them because they were the most fulfilling relationships, and because misogyny led them to be predisposed to be uninterested in female characters.
say an m/m ship is incredibly popular, something like, i dunno, john watson and sherlock holmes from bbc sherlock. lets also say the canonical media presents one or both of the characters with a female love interest. how do you think a fandom that prioritizes m/m ships and is primed to be disinterested in women as characters (either because of our society's role in teaching people that women do not matter or because of fandom's history in assuming female characters are not fleshed out) is going to react? if you said theyre going to send undue amounts of criticism her way and act like its an act of homophobia to give a canonically straight character a female love interest, congrats, you've figured out a huge component in fandom misogyny. take this, amplify it over several decades, and add the psychic damage that supernatural gave society. queerbaiting is bad but mistreating female characters in service of nonexistent queer relationships is also bad.
this is relevant in general but i also believe its relevant for the dsmp because of the complete lack of m/f ships. aside from phil and kristin, who are literally married irl and kristin isn't even on the server, there are no m/f ships that involve female creators. this is not, despite what you may think, due to the inherently yaoi nature of minecraft roleplay. this is because the creators, including the male ones, are afraid of the blowback of m/f flirting and how fucking awful people are to female ccs anytime it happens. once again look at niki. as another example, consider how notfounders harassed the living daylights out of mxmtoon for flirting with gnf on twitter. if i was a cc i would avoid it like the plague too considering how happy people are to dig shit up about them or accuse them of being a slut or an attention whore/"pick me girl" for speaking to a man.
one last thing, this is more about fanart than anything else but stop drawing women to look like teenage boys. the amount of fanart i see where i literally cannot tell if someone has drawn niki or tommy is fucking insane. niki has curves. draw her with them. if you cannot draw women or people outside a very specific body type you cannot draw. fatphobia and misogyny have a clear overlap.
i cant think of anything else and ive already spent forever on this. look into feminist media analysis. think twice about how you react to female ccs & female characters. consider not just what characters have interesting stories but who is allowed to have interesting stories. you might be neglecting someone who has a lot going on because you're dismissing a female character as inherently less likely to be interesting. you might not even know someone has an interesting story because the fandom neglects it so completely.
as a final little note: like i said earlier, if you're not familiar with gender & sexuality studies, you may not know this, but homophobia and transphobia are rooted in misogyny. the idea that gender is immutable and rigid is because of the patriarchy. this is why gendered slurs are used against queer people and why queer men in particular get accused of and demeaned for being feminine. your understanding of queerphobia is incomplete without considering how sexism plays a role.
also go read everything rayne fisher-quann has ever written but especially this piece on getting woman'd and listen to you're wrong about
#asks#anons#misogyny in fandom#i cant think of a ton of specific links to provide because my understanding of feminism is like. so entrenched#like ive been doing it basically since i got on the internet#and i also studied it in university so i dont want to send like. meaty academic texts necessarily#ill look and see if i can find any other helpful sources though and feel free to add on#also i want to note on that last bit that every time ive talked about this ive mentioned that this fandom runs quite young#and i acknowledge that i literally studied this for like six years#so i have a leg up. but it does feel genuinely like people are putting on blinders to avoid talking about it#which is why it feels like its bc feminism is cringe right now or something#this is. not well written but im honestly so sleepy i stayed up til 3 working on orders ahhhhh#banger posts
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congratulations to Mme. Pascale Leclerc, who has surely just experienced both the funniest and most unhinged weekend a mother could ever have. Dear fucking christ, I hope your middlest son brought you a bottle of champagne for yourself, ma'am.
#kazoo noises#charles leclerc#cl16#monaco gp 2024#zoomies posting#sports posting#like man. where to begin. one of your racecar children is back in town for the weekend. he has yet to have a truly good work#weekend it seems in town. now this year. we're feeling ourselves a bit. we're feeling optimistic even. and then ur son becomes talk of town#because he keeps doing fucking bits on twitter about adopting his coworker who is friends with your youngest son. this goes on long enough#for actual reporters to comment on it. no one is willing to blink first so by friday night we've yes-anded ourselves to a grandson#(congratulations mme leclerc)#things go well. and then at qualifying they go DAMN WELL#BETTER THAN EVER REALLY! but man. im superstitious. i dont trust shit until its over and the dust has cleared#(the adoption jokes have continued by the way) and MEANWHILE everyone is eyeing that starting grid. were humming. we're making vague hand#gestures when commenting. we're all thinking. Maybe? (the streets can hear u tho. keep it down)#race starts. lap one CHAOS. so many fucking crashes. i'd faint if i had a child even in karting honestly.#(every parent in this sport deserves a prescription for laudanum)#but he's not in it. hes at the front. and he. well. he just Stays There. Through It All. and the laps tick down. until the race is run. and#there he is. your middlest son. cross the line and into the books. first place. home town. what curse indeed. thats your boy!!!!!!!! THERE!#they play the radio of him winning and the audio is peaked because he screams out so loudly. you can hear the water in the laughter.#later theres gonna be videos and photos taken of him pushing his boss into the harbor and diving right in after the man. those photos are#gonna be fucking studied in photography classes one day. and STILL! everyone involved with that goofy joke about him adopting his coworker#(who. despite all the silliness of the race stayed second place and got a podium) is still carrying the bit like a baton relay. Do you have#him over for family dinner? might as well add a plate i guess! people are joking about your youngest son having two nephews? a dog born#maybe a month ago and a man born about... what twenty three years and about a month ago? fuck it! family dinner#sorry this bit got away from me but as someone who loves my homecity and my mom so much it might actually be like.#a visible growth inside my body if they do an autopsy on me at time of death or like. my love will eat me alive. sometimes the charratives#gets to me#anyway cheers mme leclerc i hope you party so fucking hard this week
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Turns out snapping turtles are super hard to draw. Oh well
(Extremely lose "lore" thoughts in tags i guess lol)
#lo rambles#ok i'll try to make sense of this#100% would have benefited from doing some studies on turtles but alas. i have a day job#and i wanted to get it done#anyway snapping turtles kinda freak me out with that SUPER sharp beak and all. i think thatd work pretty nicely#for strag the design is rather straightforward#i distinctly remember thinking the hair was straight up just stylized locs so thats what i went for#i thiiiink there was something with the underneaths' culture around mushrooms/molds too?#i thought itd be fun if thats what gives it the colour. different strands of fungi/molds and all#also some more scars cause i am pretty sure i remember his job being described as the most dangerous one out there#so it only makes sense#might have to make another post to really show that off if theres interest but yes#overall battlescars#blinded in the right eye cause why not thats always interesting and fun to see someone adapt to#especially someone who fights a lot#yea i think thats kinda all#mightve been the first ever blorbo i loved that shit when i was 6. a lot#i dunno how to tag this dont look at me#magi nation#strag
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FINALLY got you on my dash again, only to discover you've written an AC fic that you are giving us dribs and drabs of, heathen *shakes prison cell bars* please tell me more about "Miles" before I combust
HI UR MY NEW FAVORITE (part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4)
  âYour name is not Miles.â
  Desmond tenses for a barely a moment before relaxing again, and doesnât bother to look up from the hidden blade heâs tweaking to have a faster release. Even if he didnât recognise the voice, the dark blur leaning against the doorjamb out of the corner of his eye would tell Desmond sure as anything who had come to haunt the armoury at his side. âOf course it isnât,â Desmond eventually mutters to Francesco Vecellio, the only one of Ezioâs brotherhood to wear dark gray instead of white.
  Francesco snorts, eyeing Desmond from under the beak of his hood, Desmondâs own pushed down around his shoulders to better see by lantern-light. âYou should have thought to pick a more common name if you did not want others to question it.â
  â âShould have thought to pick anything before I showed up.â He grinds his chisel a little deeper into the metal casing of his blade, and then nearly cuts himself slipping on it when Francesco gives a startled laugh.
  âYou didnât have one prepared?â
  Desmond blinks up at Ezioâs highest-ranked protĂ©gĂ©, not sure if he should feel embarrassed or not. âI, uh. Didnât think that far ahead?â
  And for someone who had managed nine years evading Templars and Assassins both, youâd think heâd have known better.
  The look Francesco gives him tells Desmond he feels the same. âYouâre smarter than that, fratellino.â
  Desmond scowls. âWell, obviously Iâm not.â
  â... You snuck into the main headquarters of the Italian Brotherhood in less than an hour and then fooled us all into thinking you were supposed to be here for nearly a week â Machiavelli isnât sure even our Padrone could have managed that.â
  Swallowing uncomfortably, Desmond scoffs and tries to return to his hidden blade, but that still leaves his entire profile in view of Francescoâs far-too-discerning gaze. And heâs the only one other than Desmond to have been training for this since childhood: his observation skills are beaten only by Ezio, and even that is mostly thanks to his Eagle Vision.
  Actually, Francesco is a born Assassin, too, does he have EV?
  âMilesââ
  âDo you have the Sight?â
  They blink at each other, and Desmond isnât sure who is more surprised by the interruption. Snarky he may be, Desmond has also had politeness beaten into him, and deference besides, and everyone in the Brotherhood had clocked it.
  âTo an extent,â Francesco eventually admits, sounding puzzled, âNothing so refined as il Padroneâs.â He looks away, crossing his arms over his chest. âIt is... finicky, I can only use it while motionless, and it really only tells me if someone means me harm.â
  Desmond bites back the offer to help train his EV into something far more useful â it would never reach the level of AltaĂŻrâs, or Ezioâs, or RatonhnhakĂ©:tonâs, because that had more than a little to do with Isu fuckery. However, the Levantine Assassins (at least until AltaĂŻrâs death, though it was Al Mualim who started the practice) were able to train most initiates to have at least some grasp of the technique, as long as they had that genetics-dictated spark to start with. Desmond was lucky enough for his time in the Animus to awaken his own Vision, and living as Ezio slowly mastering it into Eagle Sense had improved it in leaps and bounds for Desmond on the outside, and prepared him for experiencing RatonhnhakĂ©:tonâs advanced form of it. Though that, and Eagle Sense, never actually awakened in Desmond Miles.
  But âMilesâ hasnât told this Brotherhood that he has AltaĂŻrâs Sight, Ezioâs Gift, partly because Desmond forgot they didnât know, but now itâs also an active decision, because it would without a doubt make them insist heâs Ezioâs son with even more conviction. And until Desmond has figured out what heâs going to tell Ezio about the whole time-travelâthing, he isnât going to confirm or deny anything the other members cook up.
  Except Desmond watches Francesco tilt his head, and then his eyes burn golden for just a moment. âWhy do you ask?â
  Heâs smart enough to guess, but heâs also smart enough not to assume, and patiently waits for Desmondâs response.
  Ahh, fuck it, heâs already screwed up this whole identity thing by talking with Claudia (not that he meant to reveal so much to her but, well, sheâs Ezioâs baby sister. And [redacted]. Fuck, time travel is so weird).
  He looks up from his carving again to flash his eyes right back, and is more than gratified to see Francesco glow a steady, deep blue. He tends to avoid looking at the Brotherhood with his EV, heâs too much of a coward to confirm just what they actually think of him, and heâs only looked at Ezio once, before they properly met.
  Francesco smiles in the shadow of his hood, seemingly pleased with Desmond trusting him with such a secret. âDoes il Padrone know?â he asks without judgement, and Desmond winces as he looks back down at his tinkering.
  âNo, I... I became so used to it that I didnât think to mention it, and then it had been so long that it was... awkward?â He chuckles nervously at admitting such a weakness, especially when heâs pretty sure this is the longest conversation heâs had with Ezioâs star pupil. He has double blades, for Christâs sake, despite not being a Master Assassin.
  Oh. Is Desmond jealous of Francesco? Hm, something to think about.
  âAnd then you did not want the others gossiping,â Francesco agrees, nodding like that is the obvious conclusion. Desmond still doesnât relax, but heâs glad he didnât have to spell that out for him.
  Desmond scratches the bridge of his nose awkwardly. âIâm not Master Ezioâs son, but I donât think any of our siblings would believe me if I tried to tell them that.â And hadnât finding out his real parentage been an absolute trip; heâs still scarred mentally and physically from it. Which reminds him, he should respond to his motherâs last letter before she begins to worry about him taking too long.
  Having a mother to care about him is... still an experience heâs getting used to. Itâs only been, what, two years since he found her again?
  She had glowed a blue so dark it was almost black, a colour Desmond hadnât seen even once in either of his lives, or the lives heâd lived in the Animus. He knows she kisses her letters before sending them from the indigo left behind like lipstick.
  ... Which is also how Desmond found out he had progressed from Eagle Vision to Eagle Sense, which was also the point he realised he hadnât told Ezio about his EV in the first place.
  âI believe you.â
  Itâs said so simply, Francesco even gives a little shrug, but Desmond whips his head back around and is... absolutely floored. As dehumanised and used as he was in the 21st century, his little jaunt to the past has almost been worse, if he lets himself think about it too hard (and he never does). People donât just... believe in Desmond.  Something must show on his face, because Francesco offers him a tight smile. Then, blessedly, he changes the subject and nods to Desmondâs hands, âWhat are you working on?â
-
#real talk tho im so happy you asked about this fic#i haven't worked on it in quite some time just due to shifting fandom interests but i love it to absolute PIECES#and it was good to revisit it again#also love being called a heathen by someone with witch in their user wheeze (/lighthearted /genuine)#savage price#crispy writes#cj answers#wearethewitches#all posts are linked in my masterlist which is my pinned post!#i have an assassins creed sideblog crispybureau!!#yoinking some tags from the last posts:#this whole fic is based on the trope of time travel des not knowing how to lie for shit and people making assumptions#(Ă la esamastations' study of flight)#except their assumptions turn out to be mostly right#des isn't ezio's kid tho đ#title from poor isaac by the airborne toxic event#which was my second most-listened-to song last year
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masumi arakawa vogue momence
#rgg#rggo#ryu ga gotoku online#ryu ga gotoku#ryu ga gotoku 7#yakuza series#yakuza 7#yakuza like a dragon#masumi arakawa#snap sketches#i NEEEEEDED to draw him in the RGGO outfit i NEEEEEDED to#really tried going for a 'stacy's dad' kind of energy.... did it work.... the tags will let me know#i wanna try to draw arakawa more.... his face confuses me...#i always end up drawing his face in a way thats Not Right to me so i wanna get better at that#should prob do a Fatter study than the one i posted last time but oh well#just wanted to do these real quick before i went back to comm work#this IS propaganda for the drip wars btw. vote papakawa
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"Any assessment of the emotional component of the reconciliation of [Empress Matilda and Geoffrey of Anjou] remains speculation: the chroniclers are silent on the issue of whether [they] grew to love, hate, or like each other. We do know, from their movements and actions, that Matilda and Geoffrey eventually arrived at a businesslike arrangement with a united viewpoint toward the dynastic, geopolitical goals that had dictated their marriage in the first place."
"Matilda and Geoffrey effectively transitioned from a Divide and Rule model to a Collaborative Union from 1144 onwards, in which they worked together throughout their marriage to ensure rulership over their territories and gained their rightful lands, as well as ensuring the inheritance for their children. Matilda and Geoffreyâs political partnership can effectively be argued as the most successful through applying different models of rulership. Ultimately the Plantagenets regained Matildaâs inheritance through Henry, conquered Normandy, and produced several male heirs."
Charles Beem, The Lioness Roared: The Problems of Female Rule in English History / Gabrielle Storey, Co-Rulership, Co-operation and Competition: Queenship in the Angevin Domains, 1135-1230
#WHAT I'VE BEEN SAYING!!! (in my head)#empress matilda#geoffrey of anjou#my post#historicwomendaily#It's very common for historians and historical novelists to overly focus on the emotional component of their marriage#usually by presenting it as wholly negative and dysfunctional#Which is honestly...incredibly counterproductive and misleading when it comes to studying them as historical figures.#We don't know what their marriage was like. We don't know what they felt about each other or if that evolved over time#As Beem says any assessment of their personal dynamic has to necessarily remain speculative.#(and honestly: Matilda offering donations to Godstow abbey for his safety in the 1140s and founding an abbey soon after his death in#honor of him and her parents - without mentioning her first husband - does open the door for potential reassessments of their relationship)#However: what we DO know for sure is that they had an exceptionally successful partnership#demonstrably the most effective from all Angevin rulers of England#And unlike all female rulers & their husbands from 12th century Europe they did not present threats to each other's authority#They also seem to have more or less respected each other's chosen titles (Empress and Duke of Normandy respectively)#And contrary to the popular idea that they fought for control over their sons#they actually seem to have been very cooperative in that regard - especially where Henry was concerned#See: Geoffrey sending Henry to Matilda with Robert of Gloucester#Matilda sending Henry back to him after his conquest of Normandy#Both of them originally fought for their own rights/power but eventually decided to transfer the dynastic succession to Henry#Matilda dropped the title 'domina Anglorum' from 1148 and Geoffrey relinquished his title of Duke to Henry in 1150#in order to promote him as the heir and king-claimant in the war#It was clearly a joint decision and it wouldn't have worked had their views and goals not been united and cooperative#and honestly I find this demonstrably successful partnership SO much more interesting for both of them than needless - and baseless -#speculations on their personal dynamic#that have influenced and warped popular views of them as historical figures
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a friend who'd wait :)
#im posting this very late because i was sort of weary of how it came out and ended up messing w it until it was like 4am oops.#and i have plans tmrw so... oh well! i did my best and ill put it out while i can!#and i tried to make the scene match barnard's colors lol#finn's ocs#finn's art#i know i said id do more sillay stuff with the simpler screentone only style but i had a couple more of these in me#and this is the first piece im making thats like an actual part of the story too rather than just setting stuff for fun#i wanna write something to go with it too but for now ill just sort of briefly explain the context in the tags here:#barnard has a pretty bad case of OCD and his compulsions have made it difficult to make friends in the past#he was never outright bullied or anything but people just didnt really have the patience to deal with it#he has compulsions that include stuff like walking through doors until it feels right and needing things to be perfectly aligned#which in group settings has lead to people having to wait for him to finish his rituals and join them#they might find it tolerable at first but eventually they grow impatient and hes just... not invited to stuff anymore#but juno is a newer member of the guild who ends up frequenting the same library. hes also kinda a little weird#and they dont become fast friends or anything but just sort of naturally spend time in the same place#though they never plan meetups they eventually fall into a routine. around the same time theyd just both be at the library#and read next to each other. and maybe talk a bit. and eventually they end up walking back to the guildhall together#since theyre going to the same place after all. and juno always waits for barnard outside the door#eventually barnard asks if this bothers him. juno kinda just tells him 'of course it does' without any malice or anything. just a statement#barnard is surprised and apologizes and juno says not to. but the next day juno doesnt show up at the usual time.#barnard assumes hes committed somekinda more by bringing it up. he ends up staying there late reading to get his mind off it & not ruminate#but when he leaves juno is in fact still waiting for him down the hall (see pic) having collected a bunch of books literally abt ocd#he fell asleep bc barnard stayed later than expected. and hes an eepy guy generally. and also one very bad at expressing himself#but now barnard gets that juno's 'of course it [bothers me]' had the implication of 'but its worth it' which no friend has previously done.#and from the interaction juno was also able to understand that this isn't something barnard just does for the hell of it so. he studies.#and checks a bunch of stuff out because he thinks it could help his friend too (theres ocd workbooks and such- i remember working w them)#and thats the point where they became more ''friends'' than ''pleasant library acquaintances''#from there on they also do get into juno's problems. whole other bag of worms. but this specific scene is more about bernard from his pov#sorry about when i said briefly explain. i lied </3#but compared to the whole sequence im picturing its brief so shhh
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People (me) don't want P5T they want
They want
Does this. Make any sense. Does it describe what i want
#also yes i know thats not how fime works shut up pq3/j#also I lowkey hate this but I'm shoving jt at you anywahs#persona 5#persona 5 strikers#persona 4#have I spoken about persona 5 strikers and how//SHOT#Uh. character tags#Zenkichi Hasegawa#he's great i love him#Goro Akechi#i want to study him under a microscope#Shirogane Naoto#the silly who's outfit i NEVER DRAW RIGHT JFC#Don't look at this too hard#my art#....where did akechi's chair go hOLD ON#FIXED. HAHA I CAUGHF THAT BEFORE POSTING
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I know everyone else probably unfollowed her already, but did you see what Meghan Murphy posted on Instagram yesterday? I'm rarely on the app and I usually just post to my story and check on my friends' stories, but I was still following her even though she was pivoting to the right bc I thought she still had some things of value to say and I'm interested in how a self-proclaimed feminist and former socialist activist views right-wing politics and media as the superior choice. But I did just see her recent post and I am honestly so baffled. I know her and other women have felt abandoned by the left (not that we have a leftist party in the US) and the Dems, and we have been, the Democrats do not care for us and are unwilling to stand up against systemic misogyny, but to say that trump will be better for women? That he will be better for the working class? I honestly don't know how an intelligent person can listen to what he says, can look at what he did in his first term, and come to that conclusion. I understand women becoming disillusioned by liberal politics and abandoning political activism altogether, but genuinely can someone explain to me why they fall into the arms of right-wing rapists just because they want to flee the left?
#Anyway I don't think that her perspective is of any value anymore because she is so woefully disengaged from facts and reality#The same thing she berates liberals and democrats for#She had one sentiment that I agreed with in her post which was that we democrats journalists political scientists need to genuinely#Investigate what caused people to vote for trump because he definitely spoke to a deep dissatisfaction with the current status quo#And if the Dems want those votes back they should work on addressing those issues not by capitulating to the racist reactionaries#But by addressing the underlying fear of immigration like economic stability and food insecurity#Idk this is just my initial thoughts on seeing that insane post#I need somebody to do a theory paper or study on why seemingly progressive gc women are turning to#Right wing politics and conspiracy theories and anti-vax/Gweneth paltrow-type nonsense
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how many times do we need to learn as people that irony and hyperbole can be harmful because 'jokes' aren't easily distinguished from genuine thoughts and feelings until we stop rewarding people for speaking or posting about violence
like even if you're joking/don't actually believe that/think whoever you are insulting is bad/immoral/fictional therefore deserves it - ad hominem attacks always do more harm to the people who share those characteristic then the individual you intend to cause harm to or discredit
#discourse#long post#its genuinely erased so much of my enjoyment of 911blr knowing i have to check accounts or risk seeing bullying/hate#l like its an odd feeling to know that so many people in the same fandom as you actively hold hate or find hate funny against your communit#like tired of people saying others are too sensitive because we dont want to hear or see a person say they want to hurt themself or others#like sorry i put in the work everyday to not let my mental health backslide and to enjoying being alive and accept my queerness#while others seemingly have not#and i know the content i post/share is not all in the same circles as that certain blog and i hate that it still grinds my gears but#its so frustrating to see the cruel glee people have#saying things they would never say to anyone's face irl and only to other blindly devoted/similar bullies#like do these people realise that they are on a razor's edge between 'ironic jokes' and just outright bigotry and threats - like do they#literally the only thing seperating That and conservative bigots is that the bigots are honest about their hatred towards minorities#like a lot of people in the fandom seemingly still need to deal with a lot of intenalised homophobia/racism and just outright hate-#especially regarding queer men and men of colour#because i can not be emphasise enough#It is NOT GOOD OR HEALTHY to be a fully grown adult that actively derives joy from the idea of enacting hate crimes#like you can hate tommy you can want him off the show even want him to die like weird but go off#but its such a next step to unprompted talk about [a character i dislike/hate/dont ship/disrupts my fanon endgame] in derogatory ways -#with rhetoric that straight up is out of terf/rel. right/homophobic/racists bigots and evokes violent hate-crimes......#well i feel sorry for those people cause what a miserable life to spend so much of it unable to enjoy your own life that you target others#anyways I know this is too long but I'm just a very tired man who has studied history and education and working with kids i have seen it -#too many times- harmful words coming from harmful environments or creating harmful actions and thereby perpetuating the cycle of violence#also not super relavent but as Latino Australian i am genuinely appauled at how many people have in their bio they are also Australian-#while actively liking/reblogging and engaging with post that find homophobic violence a funny haha joke - as if activist in our country -#aren't actively trying to dismantle homophobic and transphobic laws regarding issues like conversion therapy#like I know professors that actively got fired for being gay while teaching in religious education context - and its still happening!#so for people to forget so quickly what progress has been made and how much it took and how easy it is to loose - disappointing#(and its the same people who wanna pretend mardi gras is nothing but a party as if 78rs didn't risk their jobs/safety/lives)
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AHHHHHHHHHHHHG
#feeling like ive been run over by a lorry#partly cause i woke up this morning after a horrific nightmare#so i tried to be nice to myself and sort of just keep going with my day#and then i feel so shit after doing a bit of studying that my arms start to stop working#and my brain feels like its melting#and im like ooh those are warning signs right#that means i need to take a break and do some self care#so i go into my siblings room and try and do some work there#and then it doesnt work cause i just cant concentrate and im shutting down#then i realise im on my period#so then i have a 2 hour nap#and now ive eaten something and drank something and taken paracetamol and have a heatpad and am not alone#so we're getting towards better đ#maybe ill try and do some maths or maybe ill do something else to make me feel better#i want to cry and possibly explode#but its fiiiiine#anyway#rambles#cult rambles#tw vent#vent post
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at this point, whenever i have exams, just expect me to post new art
#alex does art#i keep saying that iâm supposed to be studying while posting new art#itâs basically a ritual for me as of now to have art instead of having studies crammed into my head#the poppy war series#fang runin#yin nezha#chen kitay#whatâs their ship name?#rinezhakitay?#idk man#and ofc itâs a wip#i canât finish bc colors#iâm afraid to work with it#does anyone else still post poppy war art except me? idk#but iâm already reading babel (on hiatus rn) so maybe art for that soon#also yellowface#i have it on my shelf right now#to be read soon
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