#power full women

[beresaad]

quick painting of my inquisitor and her future-divine bestie while i get used to clip studio on ipad

[averlym]

fairest of the fair

[acourtofquestions]

There is something powerful to the fact that the “I love you” of A Court of Silver Flames is not Cassian & instead is the Archeron sisters.

… That the first person who replies, "I love you too” to Nesta; a person who has never been able to say I love you, be allowed to love or be safe in that. Let alone have it reciprocated, without being immediately followed by their death (or destruction of some sort). And that that person is her sister; who loved her before & will love her after, who would fight to keep her safe & actually take care of her.

And Feyre finally gets to hear that from her big sister; from the family she thought she never had. It gives a full circle from how she left; feeling out of place among the human world, to end up in Prythian in the first place, she thought she was alone & left out to dry (or more likely freeze to death). To then in her almost end for the family she did find, she is saved by the sister she always had; the one who followed her to the edge of the wall, fought for her & spent days trying to rip into Prythian; to save her no matter the cost, and when the time came she “gave it all back” to pay it.

Feyre loved her, even when Nesta thought she wasn't worthy of it. Nesta loved her even when Feyre thought her sister hated her. And they both finally get to hear it, say it, see it, feel it, know it. They are worthy & they are loved regardless, they have an unconditional family of relatives & found loves. Their story enters a new world, one that is no longer alone. And there's something powerful in THAT as the choice, “I love you”.

+ We all know Cassian LOVES Nesta, even Nesta knows CASSIAN LOVES NESTA!!! It's been shown, thought, practically said (just got cut off)… it would’ve been nice, but it's already known. It didn't need assurance like they did.

[djsherriff-responses]

Search results for Captain Laserhawk be like:

[ghoulishxgraphics]

Also I can’t blame Attuma, I too would simp over Okoye and try to single her out if I fought her like one time. Homeboy fought her once on the bridge and straight up said “she is the one, I ain’t fighting no one else for longer than a second, I won’t even go after the one person I came here to kill, I’m just going to keep fighting her, is she single? Yo her husband in prison??? That’s single right?”

[wraith-caller]

Never been a fan of people trying to shape the Golden Order into conservative Christianity. Reading fics where they talk about women needing to be "traditional" or seen but not heard, when the figurehead of the Order is a woman who has waged loads of wars, had two husbands, makes a point of examining her faith rather than submissively accepting it. Seeing posts that seem to say the GO is villainizing the use of sorcery, a way of deriding the carians, when one of the greatest champions of the Order himself studied sorcery of his own volition, and married perhaps the greatest sorceress ever known. There's nothing to indicate the GO ever had a beef with the practice of sorcery, and it's not like they shuttered Raya Lucaria after the union of the Moon and Erdtree. Cringing every time someone describes Fundamentalism as the "thoughtless extremist" wing of the Order when it's supposed to be about taking a scholarly approach to the examination of the laws of causality and regression.

Idk. It's just, there's so many reasons to be skeeved out by the GO, and it exists within a fantasy with a totally distinct history from our own world. While there are obviously influences from a wide variety of real-world sources on the mythology and world of the game, it's not a direct copy of reality. It's lame to see sth so full of opportunity for interesting world building from fans just turned into a watered down copy of what they despise in reality.

[youssefguedira]

absolute worst part of the women's world cup is the sheer amount of adverts ive had to see that are like 'women. do you want to be Powerful. like Women Football Team. then how about you Buy Product. so you can be Powerful. with Product women can do anything, like Women Football Team.' like what if i start biting instead

[monsterfuckermilligan]

i am not anti sam but i sometimes find myself hating sam because some samgirls are super into bio/gender essentialism whether or not they realize it. sam is a woman and dean is a man and sam is the victim and dean is his abuser like what show are you watching?

[everybodyknows-everybodydies]

The world is white.

The world is always some degree of white in Winterhold, some degree of pale monochrome, but this silence is… wrong. It takes Mirabelle a moment to realize the un-silence is the ringing in her ears muffling everything else.

An unfocused dark shadow interrupts the sea of white. Mirabelle blinks, once, twice; slowly, slowly, her vision clears a little; a hazy Faralda is leaning over her, wild curls haloed around her tight face. Saying something. Something important, surely; Faralda has never wasted a word.

“What? What is it?” Mirabelle tries to say, but can’t work her jaw, can’t hear either of them over the loud echo of nothing in her ears and some awful taste in her mouth and a heat—somehow both familiar and unfamiliar—that has caught her right hand. She tries to spit out whatever is in her mouth and is illogically self-conscious that she nearly chokes on it instead.

She can’t move. Why can’t she move? The warm tell-tale glow of restoration magic at her chest, where it feels like a mammoth has sat down. Ah—she recognizes, or remembers, or it only starts now that everything hurts. Pain clenches through every muscle. There, at least: sound beginning to seep faintly, barely, back in. “…going to need at least another three hours of this,” Colette is saying, her reedy voice on edge as ever, but with a sincere and tearful panic Mirabelle is unused to hearing from her. Take deep breaths, she wants to remind her, but her tongue is heavy in her mouth and tastes of metal. She can’t take a deep breath. “It’s too much. It’s too much. I haven’t got enough magicka to last that long.”

“Use mine. Take mine.” Faralda sounds utterly grim. That isn’t what she’s supposed to sound like, Mirabelle thinks vaguely as the world fades out again. Where has her eternal wry humor gone?

 ---

This is already much longer than she should have been able to go. The light keeps sputtering out in her hands, her magicka taut and ragged and wispy as a fraying thread on the verge of snapping. “I can’t,” Colette chokes. “I need both hands here. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.”

Poor Savos was already dead before any of them could reach him. It will be much worse, she imagines, a little distant from herself, to have Mirabelle die like this, under her own ineffective shivering fingertips.

There’s too much to knit together where she can’t see, too much displaced, misaligned; she’d straightened out the spine first to try to help get everything else closer to where it belongs, but Mirabelle had only opened her eyes to spit out a horribly solid chunk of something bloody with an awful gurgling sound and gasp, frighteningly shallow. Lungs. Ribs. The heart at least seems fine for now, and thank Mara for small miracles, but the abdominal cavity, which is disorganized on a good day—she thinks with a sudden fierce passion that she has always hated the abdominal cavity—

Faralda’s mouth is a grim line across from her. “You have to,” she says, never looking up. “You have to. This isn’t—it’s not—”

A shadow. A hand on her shoulder. She prepares to snap that she has told everyone to stay well away to let them make their futile attempt in isolation, terrified at the thought of the whole College audience to her impending certain failure, but it dies in her throat. Uncharacteristically pale and unsmiling, Kharish kneels beside her. “The thing in Labyrinthian,” she says, quieter than Colette has ever heard her, “knew how to siphon. I hadn’t…” She shifts her jaw. “I know what it feels like, now. I can try to—to replicate it, in reverse. To help. So you can cast uninterrupted.”

“You won’t last long enough either,” Faralda says, voice hard and glinting. She thrusts out a hand, palm upwards, long fingers rigidly straight. “I said use mine and I meant it. You can’t let her—” She snaps her teeth together suddenly and doesn’t finish the thought, as if biting off the word could prevent its happening, as if it isn’t already hanging in the air ready to outlast all their scrabbling efforts. “You will not,” she says at last, with a terrible finality, and says no more.

“I’m sorry I’m not very good,” Kharish admits, an embarrassed little tremor to her voice, “at dual casting.” She takes Faralda’s outstretched hand.

The rush of foreign magicka blazes so hot and so sudden that for half a second Colette is convinced there will be a print on her shoulder forever, and the end of a curl that has fallen into her eyes briefly catches fire—but it’s there.

Lungs first. She pulls the ribs straight, smooths out the tissue, moving with the airflow. Follow a breath in and out: less ragged, less wet. Good. Again. Again.

Again.

---

It is much later than she would have expected when it shifts and the wild heat burns out at last, replaced by something else, soft in the way of freshly-sanded wood. Faralda huffs out a breath, shivering—Colette has never seen Faralda shiver before—and says, hoarse, “I’ve got it. I can keep on.” She has not let go of Mirabelle’s hand. They will be here all night, and Faralda will not let go of her hand. The way her mouth is set, she looks as though she might never let go again.

“Take a moment to recover,” Colette says through gritted teeth, concentrating on the way the liver fits into place. “She and I can manage just fine until then.”

“How—how much longer do you think…” Kharish wets her lips. Her grip on Colette’s shoulder tightens for a moment.

She’s afraid to look, Colette thinks. “She’s breathing fine now,” she tells her, which does not really answer the question but is all she can do for now. And that is good. She sets after the tangle of the abdominal cavity, which she has decided lamentingly is her archnemesis. It does not seem nearly so insurmountable as it had when the sun was still up, though, and holding fast to the thought that whatever else she manages, Mirabelle has time now, she presses on.

Kharish’s magicka runs dry much sooner than Faralda’s had. Colette has barely begun knitting the intestines back into shape when the wood-soft feeling splinters away, leaving only her own, unaugmented. Immediately Faralda is there again, scorching. “Sorry,” Kharish croaks out, alarmed, “I didn’t ask if you were ready—”

“Yes. Yes.” Faralda shakes her head once, hard, as if waking up. “Please.”

After a moment spent studying her haggard face, Colette says, “You are both keeping a reserve so I don’t have two more people to worry after, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

“Ye-es,” winces Kharish, which is so painfully and clearly a lie that Colette would laugh if she didn’t also have much more concerning things at hand.

“Don’t worry about me,” says Faralda; “I will be as irresponsible about it as I need to be.”

This is not reassuring in the slightest, but it does get them through the abdomen.

---

The sky has begun to grey into dawn when Colette shakes Kharish’s hand off her shoulder and says, “Give me her hand, that’s all now.”

Faralda’s expression contorts about thirteen different ways in the span of half a second before she lets go. “That’s all,” she says, almost disbelieving.

Kharish opens her eyes. “We did it?”

“Well—it will be a few weeks before we should expect to see her in the halls, certainly, but,” she swallows and sits back on her heels, rubbing her palms on her thighs where they’ve gone numb from the constant channeling, “yes.”

Faralda laughs, far higher than usual, and then says suddenly, “Oh. I’ve got to sit down.”

“You are sitting down,” Colette says, exasperated. “I told you to hold back a reserve—”

“I’m not sitting down. I’ll go to tell—to tell everyone.” A stupid giddy smile on her face, Kharish pauses halfway to her feet, swaying dangerously, like a drunkard. “Oh,” she says. “Hang on. I’ve got a really good one to celebrate. Do you know the difference between a joke and a rhetorical question?”

“This is not the time for your nonsense,” Colette begins to bark, and then with a whuff Kharish pitches backwards into the snow. Mouth agape, Colette stares for a moment, then whips her head around to Faralda, who has only prevented her own collapse by propping herself up against the stone wall of the bridge first. “Really!” She stands, knees wobbling most unfortunately, and sends up the flimsiest magelight that possibly ever was cast. It does the job, at least—a shout, and a handful of dark shapes come running from town. “I have to do everything myself!”

---

Mirabelle opens her eyes to the soft glow of candlelight. Colette freezes in the doorway. “Oh, your timing is awful.” She hurries to amend, “That is—I am very glad to see you awake. But I’ve just gotten her to leave—are you really awake this time? Say something, and I’ll tell her you said hello or—whatever it is you like!” And then she’s sniffling violently, which is alarming, and says with startling intensity, “None of you are ever scaring me like this again! Promise me, Mirabelle!”

Mirabelle, bewildered, tries to sit up and finds she has been buried under what appears to be every blanket in the building. She opens her mouth—there was a foul taste, or something, she recalls, but it isn’t there now. “I think,” she manages around the dryness of her tongue, “I need some water, and then you can explain what exactly… happened.” She licks at her lips, thoughtfully flexing the fingers of her right hand. Something warm there, too, she remembers, and something tingles at the back of her neck. “And if it’s alright,” she pushes at the mountain of blankets, “I think I would rather a fire.”

[albertayebisackey]

“A woman is the full circle. Within her is the power to create, nurture, and transform.” - Diane Mariechild

[flebus]

obviously many things frustrate me abt how music bro critics talk about the beatles, but one that irks me in particular is like. how much the religious fans want to dismiss their earlier albums as being forgettable/insignificant, or make excuses for why they "had" to make trite cheesy love songs. it doesn't bother me from a Beatles Disrespect angle, but it does as a particularly early permutation of teen girls being treated like they aren't a "real audience." like its just such an annoying bias to me. girl the 1963 fujos were the backbone of your favorite teenybopper group's success. show some respect.

[vilsoo]

male jjk “fans” on twitter are so fucking weird and annoying and this applies to every male shounen fanbase out there 🙃 just a cesspool of incels that love hating on women that genuinely enjoy the series

[butchviking]

those women who are like "yeah i thought i was a lesbian for a long time but then i realised i was actually always attracted to males i just didnt really recognise what it was because there were so many different social issues and personal issues i had around the idea of being with men. but eventually i realised that what i was experiencing was definitely attraction and i'd actually been bisexual all along" well they're one thing. but the women who are like "yeah i just literally wasn't into dudes my whole life but then one day i realised i was attracted to this one specific guy, and since then it was like a door opened or something and i've been attracted to plenty of men." ? yeah they fuck me up

[coulson-is-an-avenger]

rwby volume 5 is so fucking good EXCEPT for the entire final battle and that i think sucks so much ass

[starlooove]

Never gonna forgive season 1-3 bloom haters

[medievalcat]

I know who you are.......Now they see you as you are..........hhhhmmmmmmmKHSBDSJGHNM!!!!!