#Post Study Work Rights
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
credasmigrations · 9 months ago
Text
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.
Tumblr media
0 notes
phoenixcatch7 · 4 months ago
Text
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 👍 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 ✹thematically✹#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
591 notes · View notes
liones-s · 5 months ago
Text
listen. If you feel like you can’t 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 that’s hanging over your head or eating something healthy isn’t 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. you’re a friend to your future self and you’re starting a new day, but you’re not starting it without help.
86 notes · View notes
caeslxys · 8 months ago
Text
the salt and the skin
Hi! I have been deeply beset by a disease that can only be cured by writing about Imogen Temult’s intensely ingrained mental illnesses. Yeah it’s 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.
Laudna’s 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.
After—as they lay for the first time in a shared space, hands locked together in a promise at their sides—Laudna 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 Laudna’s lightspun gaze.
———
In the time that has passed since that night the same things that have changed about the storm have changed for her and Laudna—which 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 Laudna’s 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 mother’s voice was in a storm.)
———
On the twenty-seventh day of Quen’Pillar, 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 wagons—some sporting their previously won ribbons as intimidating trophies—and various flowery dedications to various different gods.
The Hazel Festival, as her father explained it, is a celebration of love and divine intention—the 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 that’s 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 she’d 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 Delilah’s 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 “I love Laudna,” with the same tense hesitance you would feel pulling a trigger and follows it with a “but” that bursts from her chest like a bullet that precedes “I’m disgusted at the idea of Delilah looking at us all the time.” that leaves her smoking mouth like an accusation. She watches her careless aim land true in Laudna’s chest, sees the conflicted hitch and stutter of her breath from even the short distance separating them.
It ricochets; it strikes her, too.
———
During the trial of trust, when Laudna says she loves her, Imogen’s response is: “I think you’re a doppelganger right now?”
Which is silly. They’ll 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 wasn’t 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 didn’t know. She didn’t know that she was in Issylra—the Parchwood—The Hellcatch—in 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 friend’s minds? To summon a hound to stand between them all as they stood at the very precipice in case? If she’s honest, she doesn’t 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 Hells—maybe her own version of Laudna—drives into her chest like a fist.
But none of that compares to—Laudna’s face, fumbling into disbelief at the accusation; Laudna’s grasping, empty hands; Laudna’s nervous, darting eyes. Laudna’s screams, cutting through the night off the bow of the Silver Sun. Laudna’s bleeding fingers, dripping black onto shattered, pink stone.
If it was sacrilegious of her to doubt Laudna’s 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 Laudna—for her to make Laudna doubt her—
Well. She supposes it’s fair.
She glances at it, her Cerberus. She says, “Hi, baby boy.”
It calms. Across the fountain, face blocked by the angle of her own extended hand, Laudna calms, too. “Yes.” Laudna utters, “Good boy.”
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 Laudna’s 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 doesn’t 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.)
———
When Fearne finally makes up her mind and readies herself for taking the shard, Imogen’s 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 hasn’t been wearing her circlet, has lowered herself once again into the rapid waters of her too-open mind for hours now, but she doesn’t need to be in Laudna’s mind to know what is passing through it.
It makes her sick, the thought of that vile woman in Laudna’s 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 back—when they found her, out at the tree line of the Parchwood—she had run. She had taken a moment to meet Imogen’s 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 doesn’t really register that she has moved until Laudna is already in her arms.
“You can put your head in my shoulder. Til’ it’s over.” She whispers, one hand burying itself in Laudna’s hair and the other wrapping possessively around her waist, “I can tell you what’s happening, if you want?”
Laudna doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and then, into her neck: “You’re warm.”
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, “So are you.”
For a moment it feels—well, intimate in a way she’s slightly embarrassed about displaying in front of the others. Slightly.
But then Laudna is murmuring “shut up, shut up, shut up,” into the skin of her shoulder and—she can’t help it—she smiles. She giggles. It is pure pride. Her brain in three parts: loving Laudna, hating Delilah, wanting to tell Laudna it’s okay to bite her shoulder to drown out the voice if it’s 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 insurmountable—she says, in some dead language or a command—calm.
She thinks, as the spell leaves her and Laudna’s tense body melts completely—as Fearne’s body rises into the air, encompassed in flame—as Chetney’s grip on the tools he has taken out to hold for comfort, and then on FCG’s raging body, turns white-knuckled—as Ashton flinches and almost doubles over from another shock of pain that passes through them and then as healing energy into Fearne—as Orym bounces anxiously on his heels like a flea or a warrior looking to strike—as FCG’s eyes flicker red and his tiny healing-hands become something violent—as her mother says her name through the roaring of a storm—I’m not running anymore. I won’t 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 Laudna’s hands. She holds the idea in her mind in place of an oath.
———
That night, she gives in.
It’s 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. It’s better that she does it on her terms.
Laudna agrees. It’s good that Laudna agrees. The best, actually, because she was hoping that she’d say no. She was hoping that she’d say no because she doesn’t 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 room—the house—the feywild—this entire situation—and 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, They’ll owe me. She thinks, They’ll free her.
Except, when she gives in—when her friends fall away, as they always do, and she is left alone and cradled and warm with the echo of her desperate mother’s voice ringing in her mind—it’s everything. It’s 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 “purpose”.
She feels like a child. Or what she imagines most children felt like. Weightless. Like if she’s 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 “good night.” Like she could close her eyes and let the darkness swallow her and know someone left a light on.
It’s 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.
It’s not—she’s not really there for the next few seconds—minutes—hours. 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 to—well—Exandria.
The others are—asleep? No, they’ve—that is, she and Laudna—have 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. It’s everything.
Then there is shifting, slow and slight.
“Imogen.” 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 doesn’t ever mention it, but Imogen knows how sometimes kindness exists like a war in Laudna’s 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. “Imogen. Would you like to lie down?”
She doesn’t respond—she doesn’t think she responds—just squeezes Laudna’s cool hand in her warm one and laces their fingers together in lukewarm knots.
She feels Laudna’s hands take and cradle her close—holds there, chests rising and falling against each other like lapping waves for an amount of time Imogen doesn't bother to count—and then she twists and shifts and lays her down like a sleepy child on their shared pillows. She tucks her in. She stands.
“I’ll be back.” Laudna husks somewhere above her. “Rest, darling. I won’t be but a few minutes. I’m sure Nana has a pitcher of water somewhere around here that I won’t have to—I don’t know—make a deal for, or something.”
She thinks she feels the tiniest beginnings of a grin pinning her lips up as Laudna's steps slow near the door, hesitate—begin to close—and then open the door long enough to peek in and say: “PĂątĂ© is with you, okay, I’ll be right back. I’ll try not to bargain what remains of my soul for water, but—you know—as they say—what must be done and all—okay, bye” punctuated by the croaking sound of their door pinching shut.
Definitely a grin, then. “PĂątĂ©,” she says, dream-drunk, “Your mom is the best.”
She feels PĂątĂ© land on her chest with a soft, somewhat wet flop. His tiny feet pitter like he’s excited or dancing. He says, “I know. She’s the whole package.” And then, after letting loose a rattling sound that could be considered a yawn, he asks, “Can I get cozy, then? While we wait for mum?”
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, “‘Course, PĂątĂ©. We’ll wait together.”
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, “You’re warm.”
She is undeniably smiling when she responds, “So are you, buddy.”
———
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 she’s about to burst into tears.
She doesn’t. She instead turns to—softly—shut and lock the door, and then turns soundlessly again in her direction. She takes a breath. She smiles, “I’m not going to lie, I was kind of hoping you’d be asleep when I got back.”
She hums, low in her chest. “Why?”
Laudna looks at her in that somewhat blank way she does when she thinks the answer to something is quite obvious. She says, “Because you need the rest.”
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 Imogen’s cheek—or, maybe, Imogen’s cheek willingly falls into her hand—regardless, 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, “Are you alright, darling?”
Imogen lifts up the barely there distance to press their lips together, sighing into her mouth. “Careful with PĂątĂ©,” she whispers when she falls back, a hand splaying on Laudna’s chest to keep her from fully settling in atop her, “he needs the rest, too.”
Laudna opens her eyes as if from a good dream—and then rolls them. She lifts a hand to wave in the air as if swatting at something. “He’s dead.” She says, like it’s an obvious thing—which, it is. But. “Besides, if he dies from exhaustion or something else ridiculous then I’ll just bring him back.”
Imogen frowns. “I don’t think he’s dead. Not, like, dead-dead, anyway. ‘Sides, he’s comfy. I’d feel bad if we woke him.”
Laudna hums, then. “Yes, he is. Comfy. And also dead.”
Her turn to roll her eyes. “Where’s his house?”
Laudna sighs like the world is ending—which, well—and leans down for one more soft kiss and then back and up and off of her entirely. Imogen tries—valiantly, she might add—not 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 Imogen’s chest, cups PĂąté’s 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.
“Can I?” she asks, “Please?”
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. “Of course.”
Her body still feels a little gone, a little floaty, as she brings her hands to catch PĂąté’s 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. Laudna’s 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 important—it’s always felt important, but—that 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 Laudna’s most special little gift and drops a tiny, feather-light kiss against his skeletal head. “G’night, buddy.”
He mumbles out a gargled sounding, “G’night, ‘mogen.”
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 that—she can’t help it—she 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 memory—the one that Otohan conjured or summoned or triggered—her 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 overlap—how 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 to—how was it fair to expect her to—is it so evil of her, to wish? She won’t—she won’t—because she knows that it’s wrong no matter how desperately it feels right. But the—the venom she catches pooling in the depths of Orym’s gaze, sometimes, when he talks about the moon and the vanguard and she—she gets it—of course she gets it, of course she understands—but it’s not like she’s ever genuinely entertained the thought of joining the vanguard—of joining Otohan—but the moon, Ruidus, Predathos—she won’t—the silence, the comfort—her body, radiant even among the stars—running, tripping into her mother’s arms—she won’t—
“Imogen?”
A chilled hand on her shoulder, gentle, gentle, gentle.
Breath enters her empty lungs in a shock-sharp inhale. Light enters the world again—natural, silver-white moonlight like a stripe of paint from the open balcony; warm, flickering orange from the candle by the bed—and the temperature goes from freezing to scalding to cool as she collapses back into her body like debris flung from orbit. Laudna’s hand on her skin; she crash-lands back home.
On impact, she whispers, “Laudna.”
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 Imogen’s waist. She asks, again, voice feather-fall soft, “Are you alright?”
A moment of hesitance and then her traitorous mouth, her traitorous heart: “I don’t know anymore.”
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, “That’s okay.”
Imogen finds her hands against her belly and twines them together as tightly as she can—tether, anchor, home. Her breath trembles.
They don’t say anything, holding each other in the space and the silence. Laudna presses gentle, gentle kisses to anywhere on Imogen that she can reach—neck, shoulder, ear, jaw—until Imogen turns to meet her there, barely capturing Laudna’s bottom lip between hers and then moving in again, more insistent. She feels Laudna’s lips pull into a smile against hers. Imogen notes that she’s becoming familiar with the feeling. The thought pulls her own smile forth.
But they haven’t kissed like this before, at this angle, in this room. There are so many other perfect kisses they have yet to discover.
It doesn’t 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 should’ve bought lipstick so she could leave a stain.
Laudna pulls back first, half-laughing and half-sighing at Imogen’s attempt to give chase. She leans back in to press a quick kiss to her nose—new, perfect—and then dips down, seals their foreheads together, looks up at her. She asks, “Would you like to talk about it?”
No, not really. “I think I’d need another week to even begin to process what’s happened to us in the last three days, to be honest.”
Laudna nods. “Yes, understandable. It’s been a lot.” She pauses, as if to see if Imogen will respond, and then says, “Still, I’d like to listen.”
She’s perfect. That’s it, really.
Imogen finds her hand and brings it up to her lips, kissing each finger once and then each knuckle. She whispers, “I’m not sure I know how to.”
Laudna kisses her cheek. “That’s okay, too.”
When she pulls back she also pulls forward, taking Imogen’s 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 Sehanine’s 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 “O” when she notices the little movements. “Hello, there,” she says to the vine, “Sorry to disturb you. Would it be impolite to talk to my girlfriend out here, for a minute?” 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, “Is this, like, your domain?”
The vines shake back and forth as if to say knock yourself out or maybe well I can’t stop you.
Laudna grins, “Oh, perfect. Excellent. You're much less ferocious than your feywild-forest-flower friends.” Her brows furrow, a single finger coming up to tap nervously against her lips. “Hm. I hope that wasn’t insulting.”
Before Imogen can stop her she reaches forward and lightly taps the vine with two fingers, sharp teeth exposed in a smile, “You’re perfectly ferocious as well.”
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. “Maybe next time.”
She sighs, all dramatics, “I’m beginning to believe plants hate me as much as people do.”
Imogen knocks their shoulders together. “People don’t hate you.”
“Objectively untrue. Regardless,” she says, waving Imogen’s immediate attempt at a counter aside, “Are you ready? For tomorrow.”
For the key? For Ruidus? For her mother?
She shrugs, “As I’ll ever be. You?”
”Oh, I think so.” She leans her bony hip against the balcony wall. “It’s been a long road. To get here. I never doubted you would.”
Imogen scoffs. She leans against the wall, too. “A long road is certainly one way to describe it. A shitty road, would be another.”
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, “It hasn’t all been shitty, though?”
Imogen heaves a heavy breath. “No,” she says, fingers still digging into her own skin, “No. Not all of it.”
Laudna hums. There is still hair in front of her eyes. “But quite a bit of it.”
”Quite a bit, yeah.”
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, “But not all of it, Laudna.”
”I know,” Laudna whispers, “I agree.”
”About not all of it sucking absolute ass or about it sucking absolute ass in general?”
”Yes.”
“Awesome.” Imogen chuckles, “I’m glad we agree that everything sucks.”
”But not everything-everything.”
”But not everything-everything.”
”This is getting pretty circular,” Laudna steps closer, “How do we make it suck less?”
Kiss me, Imogen thinks. “I have no idea.” Imogen says.
“Because, you know,” Laudna continues as if Imogen hadn’t spoken at all, “I think you’re
so capable. Truly. And I really haven’t ever doubted that you’d make it here—“
”—to the moon?—”
”—from the moment it became apparent it was possible, yes—but, really, even then—anyway. I just
I want to protect you. On the moon, but also here,” She lifts one dainty hand and presses her finger against Imogen’s forehead, “I know the dream was a lot.”
Imogen grasps Laudna’s 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. “It was.”
Laudna shifts closer, still, leaning over her just slightly. “Do you feel any different?”
Imogen finally, finally allows herself the gift of brushing those stray hairs back, lets her fingers linger against Laudna’s gaunt cheek. “Yes and no.” she admits, eyes on the silk-soft hair tangled in her fingers to the side of Laudna’s face, “I’m not sure how to explain it.”
“That’s alright. Maybe I can help you find the words. You just—well, I
don’t want to, you know, but. You’ve just seemed a little—“
”Out of sorts.”
She sees Laudna’s breath stutter and then release. “Yes, I
I didn’t want to pressure you, or anything. It’s been a lot, so much. And you don’t have to—I trust you. I do. But if you
if you need or want help, then I would like to offer it. Is all.”
Imogen swallows. “I meant it, earlier,” bursts from her chest, her heart, “When I—That I love you. That I’m—in love with you. In case that wasn’t, um, clear.”
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, Laudna’s lips part. Her eyes go a bit glassy. She shifts forward slightly, leaning into her palm still on her cheek. She says—whispers, really— “I know.”
Imogen inhales. Exhales. “You—well, that's good. That’s great.”
Laudna smiles against her skin. “You’re warm.” she whispers. She presses a kiss there, to the crease of her palm. “I love you, too.”
Imogen inhales. Exhales. “Well. That’s good. That’s great.”
”Mhm.”
”I don’t—“ she licks her dry lips, “I don’t know what to do now.”
Laudna hums. “Yes you do.”
”Right.” she says, “Okay.” and then she’s kissing her again.
”I’m going to ask you—“ a pause, another kiss, “I’m going to ask you about the dream again, when—“
Imogen pulls back. Laudna’s lips are kiss-swollen and shiny. It makes her want to break something. She asks, “When?”
Laudna sighs. Her eyes open to find her slowly, and then stop half-way, hanging over her iris’ heavily. Her eyes are dark. Hungry. She says, “When I’m done.”
Imogen’s eyes fall back to her lips. “Right.” She whispers, “Okay—“ and then the rest of her sentence and the rest of her breath and the rest of her thoughts are stolen from her.
———
“Now, then.” Laudna starts. She wipes the back of her hand across her uptilt lips. “What’s different? Do you have gills? Webbed fingers? Though, I supposed I’d have noticed that much by now—”
”Laudna—“ she heaves a laugh, lungs still desperate, voice a little hoarse, “God, let me catch my breath first.”
Laudna’s 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. “Shit, Laudna,” she whisper-giggles, “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”
Laudna stutters and then grins, all too-sharp teeth. She says, teasingly, ”It’s nice to not be the breathless one for a change.”
Imogen’s laugh leaves her like a strike to the chest, “Oh, that’s a good one.”
”I thought so.”
Laudna leans down, kisses her again. Imogen sighs into her.
This—the intimacy of it—is still so new and beautiful and exciting and—well—frankly, they've both discovered that they’re ravenous. For each other and for love and for touch. That first night—at Zhudanna’s, her body still thrumming hours later with the electric echo of their first kiss—Imogen had taken Laudna’s 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 then—suddenly—this. 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.
Except—well.
Imogen falls back, separating them. “Sorry,” she whispers, “What were—what were you sayin’?”
Laudna pouts. ”Asking.” She corrects, “Well—maybe theorizing, but mostly asking. You said—earlier—it feels different?”
Imogen nods. She reaches up to brush her fingers over Laudna’s cheek. “Yeah.”
”Is it
good different? Or bad different?”
Imogen nods. “Yeah.”
Laudna nods, too. Imogen watches something like self-consciousness settle on her shoulders. She isn’t 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. “I love you.” She says. Somehow, it sounds like a plea. “And I’ll support whatever it is you decide you want to do.”
Imogen turns on her side to mirror her. “Even if—if it’s giving in completely?”
Laudna's eyes are dark. Hungry. “Whatever you decide, Imogen.”
Imogen swallows. She feels like she’s choking. Something is rising in her, clawing at her chest and stomach and ripping its way into the world. Laudna’s 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, “My mom was there.”
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.
That’s 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, isn’t that a form of love? Isn’t that what a mother would do? She felt so held, there at the center of Ruidus, in the eye of the storm, in Predathos’ hand or maybe its jaws. Her mother had screamed for her. Her mother had cried for her.
And she can’t remember the feeling of her mother’s warmth, but she can remember the sound of her voice: Run. Imogen.
Does Predathos have a voice? Would it mourn her? Would it leave?
“What did she do?” Laudna—like a thunderclap, or a resonating howl, or a hand on her heaving back—takes and wraps their bodies together like twisting vines. She presses their foreheads together. Her eyes are still dark. “Imogen. What did she say?”
Laudna would. Laudna would mourn her. Laudna would tuck her corpse into bed before leaving her.
”I don’t—she just—called for me. My name. She said no. Laudna.” Laudna’s hands on either side of her clenched jaw, Laudna’s lips centimeters from her own, Laudna’s hand in hers in the middle of the storm. “She sounded like she was crying.”
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. “Imogen. Imogen, I’m sorry. Imogen.” She pulls back. The dark in her eyes is gone. “Darling, what can I do?”
Imogen shakes her head. They’re close enough that each passing arc causes their noses to bump. “I don’t know.” She says, voice tight. “I don’t know. What if I fucked up? What if she left to protect me and I wasted it? I don’t know anymore, Laudna.”
Laudna kisses her, lightly, a barely there press of their lips and then gone. Like she isn’t sure how else to respond. “What happened? When you gave in? What did it feel like?”
Imogen trembles. “I—you all—left. Were pulled away. It brought me in and then—my mama—but it—“ here, she sobs, “it was warm.”
Laudna’s body stiffens around her, arms locking like rigor mortis around her waist. She doesn’t exhale for a long, long time. When she does, it passes over her lips like a torrent.
“My mother taught me to sew.” she starts. “Did I ever tell you that? We didn’t 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 woods—I was digging for worms—and 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.”
She pauses to press a kiss to Imogen’s hairline, “She took the ruined thing out of my hands and taught me how to fix it.”
She inhales. There’s the tiniest stutter in her chest that makes Imogen want to level another city block. “I 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.”
Their eyes find each other again, snapping together like magnets or puzzle pieces. Laudna’s eyes are full of shooting stars again. “I just—I’m just sorry, Imogen. I’m sorry I don’t know how to fix this. I’m sorry she doesn’t.”
No longer the snapping wolf, no longer the lightning strike or the thunderclap or the bile or the hand; Imogen breaks.
“God, Laudna. It feels like—like I'm mourning her.” She sobs. The words loose from her throat like an arrow held taut for too long, aimless. “But, Laudna, she isn't—she was never gone."
It is an ugly, sharp, irrational thing, her grief; she feels it drive like icicles into Laudna’s 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 blanket—scratchy, filled with holes, utterly familiar in a way that settles onto her shoulders in some poor facsimile of comfort.
Imogen’s 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.
“She’s my mama, Laudna.” It is a pathetic plea, it drops with the weight of a stone into water from her lips, “She 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?”
The last word rips out of her in two tones, caught in the hiccup-choke of a sob into Laudna’s shoulder.
"Oh, darling." Laudna whispers, her lips against Imogen’s 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 just
love in a transitive state.”
She shifts, catching the wet guilt dripping from Imogen’s face and forming lakes of grief at her collar, rivers of it down her chest. It makes Imogen’s breath catch, watches the moonlight catch in the momentary proof of her on Laudna. She continues, more softly, “It is
an adjustment to distance. Not gone—just far."
At this, Imogen glances away from the stain of her to meet Laudna’s eyes. She hesitates, breath a pathetic stutter in her lungs. She asks, “Are we still talking about my mother?”
Laudna watches her. And watches her. And then, voice like a bleeding wound or creaking branches or whining rope: “Death could not take me from you.”
“Don’t—“ she begs, “Do not—Laudna—“
”It can’t, Imogen. She can’t.”
Imogen sobs, reaches up desperately to cradle Laudna’s face in her hands. “I don’t want you to be another voice in my storm, Laudna. I can’t. I won’t.”
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 Imogen’s lungs, desperate and sad. “You already are.”
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 away—tries to—hears her voice from outside her body saying, "No—No, I—" but then Laudna's fingers are entangled in hers like roots and Imogen is—she's—clinging, too.
"Don't say that." She cries. There is thunder in her voice. A precursor and warning. "I love you. Don’t say that.”
Laudna’s hands release hers to wrap around and claw at the skin of her hip, dragging them close again. Her eyes are swimming. “You’re so strong, so capable, and you are going to live. Your storm won’t take you. You will outgrow it.”
”You are, too.” Imogen demands. Because it is a demand, of herself and of the world. “You’re going to live, too.”
Laudna says nothing. Imogen continues, “I won’t let her have you, Laudna. If I can outgrow my storm, you can outgrow her.”
Laudna’s face is choked up in grief, now, in a way that Imogen has never really seen. “I just mean—“ she starts, chokes, starts again, “I just mean—my mother taught me to sew. And I did. And I think maybe your mother taught you to run. And you did. And I don’t think it’s
it’s understandable, that you wish she had taught you how to sew instead.”
Something in her, some roaring thing—the storm, maybe—cracks 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. “But I can teach you how to sew, Imogen. I can—and then when I'm—gone. You can still sew. Or cook or—or paint or—whatever it is, Imogen. Imogen.”
Imogen rushes in; she kisses her. What else is there to say? What do you say when I love you isn’t big enough anymore? How do you say I don’t want you to teach me how to sew, I want you to teach me how to hunt?
Maybe there aren’t enough words to encompass them. Maybe they’ve created their own expanse of love and devotion here, between them. Maybe they’ve spent two years carving a space for the other in the ether of the world.
Everything they’ve found, all of the information they've picked up on the Gods and what makes or breaks or conjures them in these past months—faith. Both the call and the creator, the word around which divinity molds itself. And her faith, her divine call into the dark—her unanswered pleas on her knees in Gelvaan, on her knees at the altar of the Dawnfather Temple in Whitestone—if 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 trust—than 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 Laudna’s bottom lip caught between her teeth, maybe one more kiss will do the trick. Maybe one more. One more.
Eventually a sob—Imogen’s, of course—breaks them apart. Her head falls into Laudna’s neck. Laudna’s arms cross behind her back and press her close. She runs her taloned fingers over the bare skin at Imogen’s shoulder blades, the base of her neck, down every popping vertebrae. She is breathing at the normal human rate—for her it is heaving. She kisses Imogen’s temple.
“No 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 down—kisses her. Keeps kissing her. When she separates to speak it is by centimeters, “And no one can take me away from you. Not Delilah. Not Otohan. Not Predathos or The Matron.”
And then, into her trembling mouth, “If we are apart, then I am within.”
Imogen lets out a wrecked—choking—dying sound, “Yeah—Yes. Laudna, I—“ desperate and clumsy and broken, she brings her shaking hand up to Laudna’s face and presses her finger to Laudna’s forehead, “Here. As long as you’re here.”
Laudna nods, brings her own talons up to Imogen’s face in a mirror-gesture, “Here. As long as you’re here.” 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 Zhudanna’s, 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 thinks—into Laudna’s head and then, endlessly, into her own, Better wholes. I love you. I love you.
“I love you.” Laudna gasps aloud, ripping away and then rushing back in, “Imogen. Imogen. As long as you’re here. I love you.”
Imogen nods, gasps, and then neither of them say much at all.
———
In the end, Imogen doesn’t say: I lied. When I promised to move on. I lied to you. Nor does she say: I’m sorry. I’m not disgusted by you. I could never be. I love you so deeply that every time I look at you I am remade. She doesn’t say: I sundered her once. I’ll sunder her again. If you’ll let me, I’d 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 don’t think I can do it. I don’t 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.
———
(After, Laudna falls asleep before her, eyes wide open.
Imogen lays next to her, one hand softly running up and down Laudna’s exposed navel, the other curled under her own head as she allows herself to trace the profile of her face.
It is late enough—or, early enough, maybe—that Catha’s light cannot breach the shared darkness of their space. Or maybe it does, and is swallowed entirely by the pitch of Laudna’s eyes.
Laudna’s eyes—the empty, dark swirl of them—Imogen remembers her gaze full with stars—captures 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 Imogen’s 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 mother—reaching and watching and waiting for her, the entirety of her life—like an animal, like something waiting in the grass for her to make a mistake or lose her footing—waiting on the opportunity to close in on her—to consume her or to change her—
She reaches across the space.
Gently, mournfully, she closes Laudna’s eyes.)
87 notes · View notes
atthebell-moved · 2 years ago
Note
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
774 notes · View notes
Text
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
45 notes · View notes
nightskyfoxyy · 3 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
Turns out snapping turtles are super hard to draw. Oh well
(Extremely lose "lore" thoughts in tags i guess lol)
18 notes · View notes
crispyjenkins · 3 months ago
Note
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)
  “Your name is not Miles.”
  Desmond tenses for a barely a moment before relaxing again, and doesn’t bother to look up from the hidden blade he’s tweaking to have a faster release. Even if he didn’t 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. “Of course it isn’t,” Desmond eventually mutters to Francesco Vecellio, the only one of Ezio’s brotherhood to wear dark gray instead of white.
  Francesco snorts, eyeing Desmond from under the beak of his hood, Desmond’s own pushed down around his shoulders to better see by lantern-light. “You should have thought to pick a more common name if you did not want others to question it.”
  “ ’Should have thought to pick anything before I showed up.” 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.
  “You didn’t have one prepared?”
  Desmond blinks up at Ezio’s highest-ranked protĂ©gĂ©, not sure if he should feel embarrassed or not. “I, uh. Didn’t think that far ahead?”
  And for someone who had managed nine years evading Templars and Assassins both, you’d think he’d have known better.
  The look Francesco gives him tells Desmond he feels the same. “You’re smarter than that, fratellino.”
  Desmond scowls. “Well, obviously I’m not.”
  “... 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 — Machiavelli isn’t sure even our Padrone could have managed that.”
  Swallowing uncomfortably, Desmond scoffs and tries to return to his hidden blade, but that still leaves his entire profile in view of Francesco’s far-too-discerning gaze. And he’s 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?
  “Miles–”
  “Do you have the Sight?”
  They blink at each other, and Desmond isn’t 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.
  “To an extent,” Francesco eventually admits, sounding puzzled, “Nothing so refined as il Padrone’s.” He looks away, crossing his arms over his chest. “It is... finicky, I can only use it while motionless, and it really only tells me if someone means me harm.”
  Desmond bites back the offer to help train his EV into something far more useful — it would never reach the level of AltaĂŻr’s, or Ezio’s, or RatonhnhakĂ©:ton’s, because that had more than a little to do with Isu fuckery. However, the Levantine Assassins (at least until AltaĂŻr’s 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©:ton’s advanced form of it. Though that, and Eagle Sense, never actually awakened in Desmond Miles.
  But “Miles” hasn’t told this Brotherhood that he has Altaïr’s Sight, Ezio’s Gift, partly because Desmond forgot they didn’t know, but now it’s also an active decision, because it would without a doubt make them insist he’s Ezio’s son with even more conviction. And until Desmond has figured out what he’s going to tell Ezio about the whole time-travel–thing, he isn’t 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. “Why do you ask?”
  He’s smart enough to guess, but he’s also smart enough not to assume, and patiently waits for Desmond’s response.
  Ahh, fuck it, he’s already screwed up this whole identity thing by talking with Claudia (not that he meant to reveal so much to her but, well, she’s Ezio’s 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, he’s too much of a coward to confirm just what they actually think of him, and he’s 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. “Does il Padrone know?” he asks without judgement, and Desmond winces as he looks back down at his tinkering.
  “No, I... I became so used to it that I didn’t think to mention it, and then it had been so long that it was... awkward?” He chuckles nervously at admitting such a weakness, especially when he’s pretty sure this is the longest conversation he’s had with Ezio’s star pupil. He has double blades, for Christ’s sake, despite not being a Master Assassin.
  Oh. Is Desmond jealous of Francesco? Hm, something to think about.
  “And then you did not want the others gossiping,” Francesco agrees, nodding like that is the obvious conclusion. Desmond still doesn’t relax, but he’s glad he didn’t have to spell that out for him.
  Desmond scratches the bridge of his nose awkwardly. “I’m not Master Ezio’s son, but I don’t think any of our siblings would believe me if I tried to tell them that.” And hadn’t finding out his real parentage been an absolute trip; he’s still scarred mentally and physically from it. Which reminds him, he should respond to his mother’s last letter before she begins to worry about him taking too long.
  Having a mother to care about him is... still an experience he’s getting used to. It’s only been, what, two years since he found her again?
  She had glowed a blue so dark it was almost black, a colour Desmond hadn’t seen even once in either of his lives, or the lives he’d 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 hadn’t told Ezio about his EV in the first place.
  “I believe you.”
  It’s 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 don’t 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 Desmond’s hands, “What are you working on?”
-
15 notes · View notes
todayisafridaynight · 2 years ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
masumi arakawa vogue momence
159 notes · View notes
wonder-worker · 5 months ago
Text
"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 Geoffrey’s political partnership can effectively be argued as the most successful through applying different models of rulership. Ultimately the Plantagenets regained Matilda’s 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
15 notes · View notes
liquidstar · 8 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
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
24 notes · View notes
digimon--kaiser · 1 year ago
Text
People (me) don't want P5T they want
They want
Tumblr media
Does this. Make any sense. Does it describe what i want
94 notes · View notes
artemis-howl · 21 days ago
Text
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?
5 notes · View notes
bibuckleykinard · 4 months ago
Text
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)
7 notes · View notes
cult-of-the-eye · 6 months ago
Text
AHHHHHHHHHHHHG
8 notes · View notes
a-crystalclearsquid · 6 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
at this point, whenever i have exams, just expect me to post new art
11 notes · View notes