Mary this love of domestic ot3 fix-it aus is ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT.
I REALLY NEEDED THIS TODAY :D
domestic ot3 fix-its for life
knuckle tatts that spell HAPPY SHIRE ENDING
"You are the only person I’d like to say goodbye to when I die, because only then will this thing I call my life make any sense. And if I should hear that you died, my life as a I know it, the me who is speaking with you now, will cease to exist."
“Excuse me while I throw this down, I’m old and cranky and tired of hearing the idiocy repeated by people who ought to know better.
Real women do not have curves. Real women do not look like just one thing.
Real women have curves, and not. They are tall, and not. They are brown-skinned, and olive-skinned, and not. They have small breasts, and big ones, and no breasts whatsoever.
Real women start their lives as baby girls. And as baby boys. And as babies of indeterminate biological sex whose bodies terrify their doctors and families into making all kinds of very sudden decisions.
Real women have big hands and small hands and long elegant fingers and short stubby fingers and manicures and broken nails with dirt under them.
Real women have armpit hair and leg hair and pubic hair and facial hair and chest hair and sexy moustaches and full, luxuriant beards. Real women have none of these things, spontaneously or as the result of intentional change. Real women are bald as eggs, by chance and by choice and by chemo. Real women have hair so long they can sit on it. Real women wear wigs and weaves and extensions and kufi and do-rags and hairnets and hijab and headscarves and hats and yarmulkes and textured rubber swim caps with the plastic flowers on the sides.
Real women wear high heels and skirts. Or not.
Real women are feminine and smell good and they are masculine and smell good and they are androgynous and smell good, except when they don’t smell so good, but that can be changed if desired because real women change stuff when they want to.
Real women have ovaries. Unless they don’t, and sometimes they don’t because they were born that way and sometimes they don’t because they had to have their ovaries removed. Real women have uteruses, unless they don’t, see above. Real women have vaginas and clitorises and XX sex chromosomes and high estrogen levels, they ovulate and menstruate and can get pregnant and have babies. Except sometimes not, for a rather spectacular array of reasons both spontaneous and induced.
Real women are fat. And thin. And both, and neither, and otherwise. Doesn’t make them any less real.
There is a phrase I wish I could engrave upon the hearts of every single person, everywhere in the world, and it is this sentence which comes from the genius lips of the grand and eloquent Mr. Glenn Marla: There is no wrong way to have a body.
I’m going to say it again because it’s important: There is no wrong way to have a body.
And if your moral compass points in any way, shape, or form to equality, you need to get this through your thick skull and stop with the “real women are like such-and-so” crap.
You are not the authority on what “real” human beings are, and who qualifies as “real” and on what basis. All human beings are real.
Yes, I know you’re tired of feeling disenfranchised. It is a tiresome and loathsome thing to be and to feel. But the tit-for-tat disenfranchisement of others is not going to solve that problem. Solidarity has to start somewhere and it might as well be with you and me.”"
"She hated the namelessness of women in stories, as if they lived and died so that men could have metaphysical insights."
"Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the grey feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns."- Adam Zagajewski, Translated by Renata Gorczynski
I know during season 1 a lot of my meta was about the women of Red Dragon but fuck, I just love Wendy and Reba so much, and Molly too in that same kind of way I love Ophelia or Juliet, because Molly does absolutely nothing to deserve her shit except having the misfortune to have been created to be half of the romance at the heart of a tragedy.
I just, I dunno, part of my talk at the con last month touched on how this one academic wrote about how pgy is really focused on domestic concerns and how they thought that was surprising, and I said that maybe that’s due to the way I’m so into telling the stories that are left untold by the central narrative of things — that’s why all my protags are outsiders to a greater or lesser degree, too. I want the margin stories.
And Wendy and Reba are that. In a story about chasing down giant theatrical baddies with names like Hannibal the Cannibal and The Minnesota Shrike and The Tooth Fairy, they are absolutely and utterly heroic and complex and complicated and brave, in such small human ways.
In a story with less precision quality, they’d be nothing but ‘the girlfriends’, one for Freddy and one for Francis, there to inject a little sex into the mix. But in Red Dragon they are absolutely not able to be reduced to that. They — in all their rounded humanity — are integral to understanding everything that happens around them.