insp. by this post by @bladeofavernus ♡ / (Shauna Barbosa, Cape Verdean Blues)
AN INSPIRED DECLARATION, BARDIC COLLEGE OF FOCHLUCAN.
I honestly thought my time as an artist had come to an end and all hope for further inspiration was gone. I come from months of fruitless research and abandoned music sheets, any spark of creativity flickering and dying by the time my fingers touched the strings. I was lost and couldn't find my way back home when suddenly, destiny came knocking at my door. Quite literally, I may add. I went to stay at my aunt's cottage outside of the city to see if some peace and quite would do my muse any good and I had the fortuitous chance of offering shelter to a group of weary travelers. They surely were a lively bunch and while I had fun entertaining guests after such a long time spent alone, Tymora's gentle hand came to save me under the guise of a young couple of most curious nature. A tiefling and a devil, by all means a nightmarish union if you were to give the rumors any credits and yet. They spent the night sitting quietly next to each other, letting the others take turns in keeping the conversation alive. I didn't mean to pry but I was mesmerized by the softness of their touches, the tenderness of their gaze. At some point during the night, the young man drifted off to sleep leaning against the girl's shoulder, she raised a hand to caress his scarred face with such unmistakable devotion it almost moved me to tears. It reminded me why I started composing in the first place: to wonder about the nature of simple things like love and companionship. If I ever see them again, I hope they'll know this song is for them.
'I flirted with the idea that instead of being trans that I was just a cross-dresser (a quirk, I thought, that could be quietly folded into an otherwise average life) and that my dysphoria was sexual in nature, and sexual only. And if my feelings were only sexual, then, I wondered, perhaps I wasn’t actually trans.
I had read about a book called The Man Who Would Be Queen, by a Northwestern University professor who believed that transwomen who were attracted to women were really confused fetishists, they wanted to be women to satisfy an autogynephilia. And though I first read about this book in the context of its debunkment and disparagement, I thought about the electricity of slipping on those tights, zipping up those boots, and a stream of guilt followed. Maybe this professor was right, and maybe I was only a fetishist. Not trans, just a misguided boy.
About a year later, on the Internet, I come across a transwoman who added a unique message to the crowd refuting this professor. Oh, I wish I remember who this woman was, and I wish even more that I could do better than paraphrase her, but I remember her saying something like this: “Well, of course I feel sexy putting on women’s clothing and having a woman’s body. If you feel comfortable in your body for the first time, won’t that probably mean it’ll be the first time you feel comfortable, too, with delighting in your body as a sexual thing?”'
pluvi begging you to expand on gojo not wanting what happened to his mother to happen to you 🙏
warnings: it’s all a dream so nothing is real aside from the flashback stuff but pregnancy as horror, (sewing) needles, implied gore/eye trauma, implied child harm, gojo is messed up yo!!! and its bc of his mama!!!
he dreams about her.
it’s an odd thing, really. gojo isn’t much of a dreamer—not much of a sleeper, all things considered, but it’s difficult not to give in when you drag him to bed and curl up in his arms. the soft rise and fall of your chest, the steady thump of your heart, the sound of your breath; it soothes him into slumber.
and he dreams about her. she was always young. he’s older now than she ever got to be. frail, thin; borderline skeletal, robes hanging from her body like webbing. she sits in a chair facing a window, swathed in moonlight, the silver of her embroidery needle glinting with each stab. her face is veiled. her stomach is swollen with child.
she doesn’t turn to him, but she beckons without noise. his feet take him easily to her, and he kneels at her side as she sets aside the embroidery hoop to let him place his head on her knees.
her hand is cold as it threads through his hair. it’s gentle, at first. then harsher a moment later. she grips firm, tugs him up by those electric white threads, stares down at him through all that elaborate lace.
he imagines she’s weeping beneath it. his mother never wept before him, but she was pretty in the aftermath, eyes puffy and pink and shining. they were a cold kind of loving when they regarded him. she must have been beautiful once, elegant and lithe and willowy, cruel like the heartless sea and sharp like a brilliant diamond, but whatever was there is long gone. he thinks all sons must empty their mothers, bleed them dry from within, because his was always a shell.
she trails her hand down the side of his face, and he turns into the palm and closes his eyes, and she is silent as she sets down her embroidery to lift her veil. she is silent and hollow and eidolic as her fingers brush down his jaw and tilt his head up to look at her.
but it’s your face that he sees when he opens his eyes.
it’s your hand against his cheek, your eyes pink and puffy and pretty, your stomach bulging by his own doing. it’s your fingers that pluck up the needle, still attached to a thread of brilliant cerulean, and raise it to his eye.
his mother never was able to pierce him with that needle. she stopped herself, each and every time, dropping it and tugging him close in shame. she never doted, never was kind, but she never did manage to harm him.
you do. he lets you. it’s only fair. whatever thing is in your stomach can’t be human—whether god or demon what does it matter, at the end of the day—and didn’t he put it in you himself? if his mother never got the satisfaction of spilling his blood, shouldn’t you?
but he wakes just as the tip pierces his iris, and you hold him in your lap, eyes wide with concern and not puffy from weeping, and you hold no child within you. your hands thread through his hair and they’re warm, your lips plush when you bend to press a kiss to his brow.
he turns inward to press his face into your (empty, blissfully vacant) abdomen. the wetness he leaves there, falling from his so very coveted eyes, is colorless.
I love her little self soothing palp movement and how she tippity taps things.
Today was the first time she's been out in about 3 weeks- she holed herself up in a nice hammock to molt and just came out a week ago. I fed her once she kicked the molt out, and I've been sitting with her with the cage open daily since. Today she was brave!!
She's also practically doubled in size! She's SO big now compared to her i8 size. She's supposed to move into the bigger enclosure but I still have a few things to get and put in before she can go in, and she couldn't go in there until she was willing to come out of the sling box. I'm hoping she'll come out for a little daily now that she remembers it's okay, so I can move her in before her next molt.
Ok, I already reblogged a post and said this but I know the zelink shippers would appreciate an own post about this, so here we go.
This is the German localization of Tears of the Kingdom. It's the last dragon tear, the moment just before Zelda's dragonification.
In English she says just before she gives up herself for (as far as she knows) forever,
"You must..."
In German, she says,
"Für dich..." which means "For you..."
A very, very different meaning and vibe, don't you agree? And the German voice actor, Julia Casper, manages to captivate such a bandwidth of emotions in two words that it still gives me chills. 👌🏻
Finally got enough energy to talk about Furina's SQ and while I loved her and the troupe, MC and Paimon were .... Not Great. I talked about this with friends but in Paimon's case especially, the way they interact with Furina feels like people who just don't understand trauma and depression and then engage with someone suffering from both in all the wrong ways.
Talking about how much of a downgrade her house is from the opera house, making fun of how she can't cook, pushing her to act when she's set a very clear boundary and then guilt tripping her after she's stuck to her guns, shaming her for not being able to fight well (Paimon literally talks about how second hand embarrassment is overwhelming and I'm just like ?????), telling her she's "not acting like herself" when she attempts to open up and be vulnerable....it's just really rough. That and the MC asking "is something wrong" when Furina gets sad over Poission ..like bro people died and she couldn't save them and she's tearing herself apart over it. Those people are never coming back and you know it and you have the gall to ask her is something wrong??? Of COURSE there is!!
It just feels especially odd because we literally get to see all of Furina's suffering and Paimon in particular is. SO mean? Like she was more understanding with Wanderer and Ei and THEY'VE tried to kill us multiple times!! I don't get it, and honestly I'm very proud of Furina for refusing to waver. Let her rest!! She's tired and depressed and she needs time to heal; and honestly fuck Paimon for trying to make her feel bad. Furina's worked harder than she EVER will.
every time i go looking for harlivy on ao3 i get 500 fics of mommy dom ivy. give me a break. this wilted broccoli floret of a woman cannot maintain eye contact with the grocery store clerk at checkout, what is she POSSIBLY going to dominate. wake up sheeple