Women Fandom Hates - Day 2 [Terra]
Title: wax statue
Fandom: Teen Titans
Summary: Terra has not been a little girl for a long time.
Notes: Written for day one of the Women Fandom Hates - Love Fest comm.
It’s a delicate balance that she must maintain.
This girl who she has grown into upon her emergence from her stone cocoon and the remains of the one she once was, constantly juggled and turned about in her hands, each decision a troubling task of what can stay and what will be crafted new. Telling people what they want to hear and twisting little things to create an entirely new story.
In a sick way it’s an art, the way she still spins the threads of her life into just the shape, just the costume she wants, setting the others aside on hangers to gather dust and holes from the moths. A button here, a thread there, snipping away loose ends and sewing patches on top of each little tear.
Each little nuanced performance lies in her mind, each bit of stage direction underlined and given special care, filed away next to empty shelves were best of and most committed and most likely to fuck everything up awards should probably be. Even long after the curtain’s closed and the applause dies to a dull roar she can still close her eyes and recall each delicate movement and each change to make her a completely different character.
Not a little girl. Not a child. No, all at the same time, she is a politician, a seamstress, an actress, but never a little girl.
Every thought or action remains carefully plotted.
After all the lives she’s lived, she can’t afford to change her tune this late in the game.
She can’t afford to mix up and let all the different Terras crash together.
Because she’s afraid of what will emerge from the wreckage.
Fandom: Teen Titans
Summary: Terra has not been a little girl for a long time.
Notes: Written for day one of the Women Fandom Hates - Love Fest comm.
It’s a delicate balance that she must maintain.
This girl who she has grown into upon her emergence from her stone cocoon and the remains of the one she once was, constantly juggled and turned about in her hands, each decision a troubling task of what can stay and what will be crafted new. Telling people what they want to hear and twisting little things to create an entirely new story.
In a sick way it’s an art, the way she still spins the threads of her life into just the shape, just the costume she wants, setting the others aside on hangers to gather dust and holes from the moths. A button here, a thread there, snipping away loose ends and sewing patches on top of each little tear.
Each little nuanced performance lies in her mind, each bit of stage direction underlined and given special care, filed away next to empty shelves were best of and most committed and most likely to fuck everything up awards should probably be. Even long after the curtain’s closed and the applause dies to a dull roar she can still close her eyes and recall each delicate movement and each change to make her a completely different character.
Not a little girl. Not a child. No, all at the same time, she is a politician, a seamstress, an actress, but never a little girl.
Every thought or action remains carefully plotted.
After all the lives she’s lived, she can’t afford to change her tune this late in the game.
She can’t afford to mix up and let all the different Terras crash together.
Because she’s afraid of what will emerge from the wreckage.