I will love myself, and my body, for what it can do — because it is strong enough to lift, to walk, to ride a bicycle up a hill, to embrace the people I love and hold them fully, and to nurture a new life. I will love myself because I am sturdy. Because I did not — will not — break.
—  Jennifer Weiner, Good in Bed
2
cs fic: my heart unfolding my home

Summary: Emma needs to move, move, move.

a/n: I needed to write - I’ve been in such a rut, and my fingers were demanding it. Then, my beautiful sunflower bemusedbicycle left on her cross country roadtrip, and well…this happened.

cs fic: my heart unfolding my home

She thought she’d tamed this part of her, filled this particular void, when she’d claimed Storybrooke as hers, accepted home and all that encompasses (people, objects, earth). 

It’s not an itch, so much as a rattle that keeps her tracing the lines of the ceiling, the corners where the room meets and parts; a vibration in her bones that is saying move move move, and drowning her on dry land. 

“You all right there, Swan?” his murmuring question stumbles across the pillow. She doesn’t turn, and he’s still, too.

“What if I’m wrong?”

“About what?”

“No,” she shakes her head. It’s an acute, barbed fear she’s never voiced (words made flesh and all that).  “What if I’m missing something? What if, after all of this - saving my family, finding Henry, finding a home - what if I’m just… broken?”

He seems to measure her words against his sleep-addled mind, a silence just this side of gnawing.

“I spent three centuries in Neverland,” she feels the shadow of his mouth and how it craves contact with the curve of her shoulder, “And I never once grew tired of the sea.” 

When the softness of his mouth meets her skin she exhales, shaky and bowed with the weight of her small shard of emptiness.

“Come on, then,” breath and scrape and warmth, and he rolls from the bed in a languid motion, shuffling in tired movements across the floor.

“Where are you going?” his fingers skim the top of her dresser, and she’s sitting up now, watching the night bend about his back, the angles and lines of his neck and jaw.

There’s a metallic clatter to the right of her feet and it takes a moment for the action to register - car keys. 

“I don’t know, love,” he steps into a pair of jeans left vacant on the floor, “where are we going?”

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Being a successful person is not necessarily defined by what you have achieved, but by what you have overcome.
—  Fannie Flagg, The All-Girl Filling Station’s Last Reunion

anonymous said:

"Man is the only creature that kills to kill." A useful line for the show, but it's been shown that domestic cats will also toy with prey and kill it for fun, without eating the animal. ;D

see also: baboons, chimpanzees, elephants, killer whales, dolphins, wolves, dogs, foxes, &c. but that’s not the point because when the characters of hannibal speak about the world, they’re not telling you about our world. they’re telling you about their world, a world of fiction. 

a world which radically violates our laws and norms of physics, biology, government, justice, and society. a world ruled by deviance and destruction and the weltering chaos of metamorphosing matter. a world where our rules don’t apply. 

a world where an elderly man can build a totem of corpses dozens of feet high; where a frail and wasted girl can carve a victim’s face clean in half; where a man with terminal cancer can hoist his mutilated body into the rafters to become a blood-clad angel; where a single person can disappear forty-seven individuals unmarked and unregarded; where innumerable serial killers seep out of america’s woodwork like an infestation of moral rot, all within a stone’s throw of the fbi’s headquarters. where the media interest in this plague of psychopaths amounts to a single disreputable blogger. 

a world where hannibal lecter himself can violate the laws of time & space by seeming to be in multiple places at once, by traversing distances with frankly impossible speed. where he can make a full-grown tree appear in a car-park, fused with the corpse of a man; or murder a judge and hang him from the ceiling of his own courthouse

this isn’t magical realism. this is gothic horror; this is the pitch-blackest fantasy. this is all-pervading strangeness and grotesquerie and dread. in this surreal absurdist land with its legion of horribles, there’s predators and there’s prey. and within the mythos of hannibal animals aren’t cruel; cruelty is reserved for humans alone—a point of view first voiced by hannibal right back in “coquilles" [1.05]. you can nail hannibal to the mast for internal inconsistencies: if it breaks its own rules, if its characters seem wildly out of joint. but you can’t find it wanting because it’s unrealistic. unrealism is the point. 

i mean. of all the wild frightening uncanny divergences between the natural order of our world and the [un]natural world of hannibal you could single out, this is the one you choose…?

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