Be in film three, please.
“Irene is my hero! Indirectly aiding terrorism, her willingness to work with a man who blows people up for fun and the way she seeks to control and abuse the people in her power, while trivializing it as “misbehaving”- now that’s female empowerment.”
Fictional women are not required to:
- be good;
- be powerful;
- be ethical;
- be easily sympathetic;
- be nice, with attractive hobbies.
What fictional women are required to do:
- have goals and lives of their own;
- be whole human beings;
- make decisions for themselves;
- have attributes other than physical ones;
- have flaws.
A feminist story shows female characters as people with personalities making mistakes just like its male characters do.
If we’re going to demand something from popular culture, I’d rather we ask that female characters are portrayed as complete human beings with lives rather than as ethical feminist superheroes. Pedestals aren’t for human beings. They’re for statues. I don’t want a feminist statue. I want to see women doing their thing as legit, believable characters in stories.
Now that Sherlopalooza is officially over, I am allowed to post this pictures! Irene, Henry and Jim were all used for the tickets, each to represent an episode of series 2 of Sherlock. Enjoy them!
Queen of Bones
For the longest time, I felt incredibly self-conscious whenever anyone referenced anything I’d written for Irene during the Karachi arc. No, scratch the “for the longest time” bit—I still feel self-conscious. When Mal quoted a line from it in the Texts tribute video, my cheeks went bright red and I wanted to put my head down on the desk.
It’s not because I think what I wrote is bad in any capacity. It’s just that sometimes you write and you give little pieces of your soul away to other people, and seeing them exposed in front of your eyes makes you want to hide, like you’re standing there naked.
I don’t know if I reblogged this incredible piece of art by Paula to this blog before, but I’ll do so now, because it captures Karachi brilliantly along with the feeling I’ve just described.
The cuffs she uses are leather, and safe. He makes a face and expresses a preference for living dangerously, on the edge. She expresses a preference for him with two wrists instead of none. He acquiesces. She cuffs him to the bed.
They’re still learning each other’s kinks. Feathers are too soft-core for him. He likes the riding crop, though. Family resemblance. She flogs him red—his torso, his thighs—and he gets hard from it. Expected. She finishes him off with her fingers. He’s not quiet about it. He arches up to meet her like the sea.
She releases him. He’s so full of energy after orgasm that it’s hard to explain to him that parts of her feel old, even though she’s younger. Scarred parts, broken parts. Most of those parts are covered up by her robe, but there are some marks, faded, on her wrists and ankles, from when she struggled against ropes and cuffs. He’s noticed, likely, but said nothing. Chivalrous, in that way. His own way.
He wants to pay her back regardless. Also expected. She’s always wary. Sometimes she refuses outright. Other times she lets him use his hands, or a toy. He wants to use his mouth, but not yet. She doesn’t want his eyes down there. Doesn’t know what he might notice. Everything, maybe. At least enough.
So it’s the vibrator this time and he kisses her while he holds it against her. She urges him on by digging her long nails into his upper back. His mouth is on her jaw when she comes—and it’s a gasp, not a moan. She’s surprised, and when she blinks she finds her eyelashes are dewy.
He cleans up (like a good boy) and leaves, only to return with two steaming mugs of tea, uncharacteristically hospitable when he’s with her (or so his caretaker says). She cups hers gingerly and sips, and after a few sips she says, “We should talk.”
“Okay,” he says, eager but wavering. He wants whatever she gives him, but even for people like them, there’s a lot of ambiguity in the word “talk.”
“Not today, though,” she clarifies.
“Oh, god, no,” he replies, grinning at her. “Not today.”
He has a winner’s smile, and it warms her up even more than hot tea on a cold day, perhaps because she’s been worshipped, but never loved.