#hesitant

[prince-kallisto]

My severe copium will never die until the last, painful moments that the windows in NRC represent the Evil Queen’s windows first and foremost, but also the cage where Maleficent’s wings were kept 😔

[vox-ex]

WIP poll update and Ficwip 'Fall'

almost there…also thanks to @lifemodeldecoy for the Ficwip tag which helped narrow down what part of this one to post

this one did get the most votes in the poll, which is fun! ….in which the need to hold hands for safety is not always just for safety…an eventual 4+1 fic idea.

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Kara finds her 40 minutes later by the windows, cornered by board members, that smile on her face that means I'm drowning but politely. She waits until she sees Lena’s fingers tighten on her champagne flute — Baccaract crystal, 300 dollars per glass that would take exactly 30.2 punds of pressure to shatter. She knows because she’s calculated it three times already tonight.

Kara appears at her shoulder. Not suddenly. She never arrives suddenly anymore. Always a cleared throat, footsteps deliberately heavy, the rustle of her dress. Warnings. Permissions.

"There you are," she says, like this is something they still do. "You promised me a dance."

She raises an eyebrow, a small smirk. "I did, didn't I?" Turns back to the gentlmen in front of her, "If you'll excuse us."

Her hand drifs toward Lena's elbow, barely touching. Then once they are far enough away, offered between them.  "Lena—"

But before she can decide to take it or not, the lights cut out. Not dimmed. Not flickered. Just gone.

Glass shatters somewhere. Multiple somewheres. Someone's elbow catches Lena's ribs, pitches her sideways. Kara hears her sharp intake of breath, the scrape of her palm against air.

Kara's arm wraps around her waist, hand tightening around Lena's. There's nothing careful in it.

The emergency lights come on and wash the room in a transparent red that makes Lena's pulse visible through her skin. 

She pulls her through the crowd, keeps her pressed against her back until they find a set of heavy doors at the back.

Lena's eyes pinch shut at the sudden intrustion of fluorescent lights as they make it to the service cooridor. The concrete bitting into her bare feet. Her heels lost somehwere behind them.

Kara turns quickly, pulls hard. Lena feels the bones in her wrist move benearth her fingers. Her shoulder burns from the angle, from keeping up. She tastes copper. Has been biting her tongue since Kara's hand first closed around hers.

Another turn. A set of narrow stairs. Kara takes them three at once until Lena stumbles again, almost falls again, her knee hitting something metal. The sound sharp enough that Kara finally stops.

Lena's legs shake. Adrenaline. Proximity. 

"Sorry. I'm sorry, I—" Kara almost drops her hand. 

"Don't apologize. Just—" Lena squeezes, once, hard. 

[howifeltabouthim]

'Can we start over?' It was almost a whisper. 'Or just—again?'

Mariam Rahmani, from Liquid

[redwiddershins]

Every so often, I'm tempted to replay the first Psychonauts game, but then I remember the dreaded Meat Circus

[rainbow-arrow]

some kind of melody (chapter fifteen)

as i said, my little bout of sadness is bringing some good stuff. this update (questionable) being one of the implied good stuff.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/69859611/chapters/207219501

actually i don't like referring to this as 'good stuff'. remember my og author's note where i say i just wanted to Destroy luka couffaine? yeah. that's it, the full thought.

it's nearly 4am i just had to get this out before i leave.

[schrodingerssystem]

It's kind of weird because, on top of plurality, we've also got trans feelings to throw on top of it but even when we were totally in denial about being plural, we knew we weren't the singular us people thought of us as.

We think of the child we used to be as dead. They simply didn't make it out. Some of us are more connected to what happened to them but it comes and goes and in the end, as far as I know, none of us feel explicitly like that was them. That child didn't make it through and we use "deadname" in more ways than one.

We use a different name for us all. We have for awhile. It feels bad in some ways-That kid used to exist and we live in what used to be their body. But it feels worse to use it, feeling disconnected and knowing who people are referring to doesn't exist anymore.

We told ourselves it was simply being trans that created this disconnect but since being more honest to ourselves about our plurality and general mental health, I think we've all known (even if we didn't want to) its more than that.

The name doesn't just bring us dysphoria; that name belongs to a person who existed and who was severed from us due to a frankly absurd amount of trauma. We hear the name and the discomfort is akin to hearing someone speak of a dead relative when you weren't expecting it.

I'm glad we realized it, though, even if it is weird. We always try to honor the kid we used to be, to become someone who would've helped them and I think being honest about our feelings on all of this is important to that. Not sure exactly how, in this scenario, but still.

[ambrosiacoloredsoul]

“I did not like to be touched, but it was a strange dislike I did not like to be touched because I craved it too much I wanted to be held very tight so I would not break”

-Marya Hornacher

And yet, I yearn for it— burn for it I want to be held, to be pieced back together, to be fixed

Please, I beg Please, stay long enough

But these walls are so high, and I am so afraid

Now they’ve stopped trying And here I am, locked inside my own prison, clutching the key,my own jailer, too scared to set myself free