#｡° anna — 「 musings 」

[anthomaniacs]

nobody asked but!! new character lore unlocked ✔️ : narcissa malfoy is very talented at apparition. according to wiki the more skilful a wizard/witch is, the quieter they are able to apparate. and this is a snippet from half blood prince:

narcissa can apparate almost silently as compared to bella's 'louder pop'. it also makes sense to me that narcissa would appreciate the art of apparition. it gives her an advantage in situations where she needs to escape; she is very much the silent but deadly type as compared to bella's hasty and bold character.

[inafieldofdaisies]

[sciencegothic]

very quick initial feeling, i want to say, i adored ellen and anna’s relationship. i think in a story that is so otherwise donna it’s by men, having another female figure for ellen to fall back on - someone who, despite her own faith and beliefs, is always so willing to be ellen’s rock in the face of the unknown. someone who gives up her own cross - a symbol so important to her - for ellen’s own comfort. someone who does not think her a burden. that’s not to day their aren’t men in the film who are kind, but when there are so many male figures trying to dominate and take charge of the narrative, i think having that solidarity is something that ellen really deserves. her father spoke of sin about her, the doctor had her tied up, orlok tormented her, thomas was gone - and anna just lay with her

and i just think, how lovely that was. and then, how devastating

[emmatriarchy]

X-Treme X-Men V1 #18

[xaviers-school-dropout]

I think the ideas that

“Raven is a bad parent”

And

“Raven loves their children”

Can and should co exist. I will never sit here and say Mystique is a good parent, but I think acting like they don’t love their children is just being willfully ignorant of their characterization since the 80s.

I see a lot of people try to claim Raven doesn’t care about their kids. I actually think they care a LOT, it just, doesn’t deter their actions. And they’re not a good parent, don’t get me wrong, but that doesn’t mean they don’t love Kurt and Rogue and I think trying to claim they don’t actually does away with a lot of Raven’s character nuance.

A lot of the tragedy and depth of their relationships come from the fact that Raven DOES love their children, but it’s not enough. And Kurt and Anna Marie know that, and that’s part of the tragedy of it too.

I’m not a Mystique defender, but I am a Raven Darkhölme characterization realist. A lot of people flatten their character to add more sympathy to Kurt’s story especially, which feels kinda iffy to me. But that’s for another post.

From a storytelling perspective, it adds so much more depth and tragedy to all characters involved to not make the relationship so shallow and one sided as “Oh Mystique doesn’t love them”, and even to juxtapose Raven’s relationship to them with Irene’s is a whole other thing I may talk about one day. But like, you do the story injustice to flatten it down to just “Oh Mystique sucks”

Tl;dr - Raven Darkhölme is a shitty parent but they do love their kids. And that’s the whole tragedy of the thing

[smartypantsshow]

🧠TONIGHT! A new episode of Smartypants launches on Dropout at 7PM ET / 4PM PT.

Join host Rekha Shankar and speakers Anna Garcia, Sara Nahusenay, and Ryan Creamer to get your degree in big brain energy.

[dungbeatposse]

hey guys

whatever you do, DON’T think about how norah’s character designs include her wearing buskins and having a lyre with several masks and leaves on it, which can be attributed to the melpomene, the muse of tragedy

DON’T think about it :’)

[a-perfect-parisian-day]

Anna Karina on the set of Alphaville, 1965

[pearlwithgirl]

Wordless Conversations

John Price x gn!reader

Fluffy fluff - 1200 words

(a subtle hint of smut, but in the way that a La Croix seems like it has been flavoured by sitting in the same room as a strawberry)

~

A syrupy sweet drabble about words spoken without the need for speech.

It’s hard not to stare. The late summer glow slides across the expanse of your property, and John is leaned up against a quaintly crooked fence post, knitting his brow in mild exertion. Cushioned muscle draws your eye as he lifts his shirt to wipe the soil and dew off his face. He always loves a sun shower, gentle sheets of rain dyed golden by a low-hanging sun.

He’s harvested the last of the herbs and vegetables for tonight’s dinner - leeks, potatoes, sweetcorn, and dill. They’ll meld together so nicely, mellow and hearty as the whitefish flakes apart on your tongue. He’ll melt into his chair after polishing off the soup (an old family recipe) and give you a warm look, eyes crinkling, hand on his belly. The expression will say “This is just what I needed. This - and you.”

You’re busy getting a head start on dessert, fragrant steam from bubbling berries curling through the air in a saccharine wisp. Sweetened red currants, loganberries, and crab apples stew before you as John pops a cherry tomato into his mouth. The fruit will pair well with chilled cream and buttery shortcake - dessert with a nightcap before you meet in the shower and tumble into bed together. 

John’s face smooths out and he smiles as he watches Laska dart over patches of clover and between berry bushes - she’s always chasing butterflies. He snacks on a few pilfered strawberries as he reclines against the cedar planks, crossing his legs in front of him. Your pup playfully bows before she leaps into the air once again, arcing gracefully before barrelling into John’s side. He ruffles her fur as she wiggles in his lap and his laugh rings out above the tinny sound of the heirloom radio. 

You remember this song. So does he. The melody wafts through the window and he turns to face you, illuminated by tinted shafts of sunlight and whirling fractals cast out by the stained glass rim above your swimming head. Those strong brows quirk up and you know he’s thinking the same thing as you are.

“Remember that night in Copenhagen?” He asks you silently, grin turning sentimental and wry. 

Of course you remember. That’s where it all began - on glistening cobblestones outside of a cafe from a past life. Somehow, his eyes light up even more as your face grows dreamy, and that sarky smile goes saccharine - syrupy sweet.

You’ll never grow tired of that look. It says “You are my sunshine, my favourite thing in the world,” “You and I - it’s as easy as breathing,” “I miss you,” even though you’ve been apart for scantly more than a single chime of the clock. A lazy grin peels across your face and you catch a gentle quake in his shoulders.

He takes you in, chuckles, and brings two fingers up to tap his nose. - “You’ve got a little something right here, sweetheart.” 

Your face heats up as you wipe the smear off your face and suck the vanilla-speckled sweet cream from your thumb. You savour the little honeyed cloud, and with a tilt of your head, you beckon him toward the house.

It’s funny, isn’t it? The extensive communication that happens without a single utterance - hidden meanings and professions flowing easily over crags and cobbles that would have been hindrances for a pair less bonded. 

To others, he may come off as coarse or abrasive, while you could be glinting, sharp - but you’re nothing more than frosted sea glass to each other. Rare finds - blushing rose and stormy violet. You’ve smoothed each other’s edges, found yourselves moulded seamlessly to one another. 

Sweet words are shared in abundance, vocalized, but they’re not necessary much of the time. The two of you have learned to move in tandem, to have conversations with heated looks, gentle hands, vice versa, and everything in between.

“I need you, John,” as you walk through the door, face steeped in sorrow, little diamonds clinging to your lashes and tumbling down your cheeks.

“I’ve got you - I’ll always take care of you, sweetheart,” as he wraps you up in his arms and rocks you back and forth, rain playing a staccato lullaby while he cradles your head right next to his heartbeat.

“You’re mine,” in the midnight umbra, where heated breaths are exchanged and swallowed up greedily. 

“You fit so perfectly into my arms,” as he cages you in, bracketing you in between bulky forearms. You feel it again when he draws you in close, head tucked neatly under his chin, sleepy and satisfied.

“You are my comfort, my safety, my home,” while you blink slowly up at him, lashes fluttering around dripping adoration.

“You are the joy of my life,” as he levels you with a look of reverence and a mouth full of cake, legs touching under the table. Every hellish moment you’ve endured together holds nothing more than the weight of a papercut in comparison to the magnitude of what you feel for each other, what you've built. 

You delay the post-dinner cleanup so you can sway back and forth in the timber swing out back. With Laska tucked under one arm and you under the other, he downs the last sip of rhubarb cider, enjoying the view beside him in lieu of the remnants of rainbow and sunset. You know this expression too - better than any other. It paints a more colourful image than the one on the horizon. It holds memories, devotion, proclamations, and vows. He wore the same look on your wedding day - a strawberry-sweet smile and glassy eyes to go with the rosy pocket square from Copenhagen. 

After the dishes are done (he washes, you dry), you linger under the arch of the threshold, finger stalled over the brass switch as you look around the room. Your nostalgia-laden gaze roves from John’s grandmother’s old pie plates to the moss green tiles he installed around the picture window. Trinkets are scattered across the hearth, a lovely landscape filled with photos of found family and homemade knits and ceramics. Every bit and bauble, down to the simplest fruit-stained recipe card, has been carefully curated and cherished over years of blissful benediction. You think you’ve found heaven on Earth, and it’s not a place - it’s him.

He slings an arm around your middle and you rub a soothing thumb over his hand, leaning back into the crook of his neck. Your eyes fall shut as he presses his lips to the crown of your head. There’s a shared sentiment in your mutual touch.  

“Thank you for giving me this life.” 

You exhale in unison, shimmying around to face him, placing a palm on his cheek. His larger hand eclipses yours, and the expression on his face goes downy-soft. Right now, his baby blues hold your favourite look of all. It flickers warm and bright, comforting and exhilarating all at once, and it’s mirrored in your own half-lidded eyes. You know exactly what it means - it flavours every interaction and perfumes the room along with viridian herbiness and the sweet tang of berries. 

Three little words hang softly in the air as you flick the light off and stride down the hall hand-in-hand.

[sugajimin]

‘on the street’ poster

03.03 | 2PM KST

[bothsidesofaquestion]

Understand what I've become

It wasn't my design

'Cause we were raised

To see life as fun and take it if we can

@amazing-nightcrawler

day 5: family

nightcrawler week

[anthomaniacs]

bellatrix: sometimes i like to place my hands on someone’s cheeks, look into their eyes… bellatrix: …and violently jerk their head until it snaps. narcissa: …that took an unexpected turn. andromeda: so did their neck.

[annahanover]

happy birthday to this brilliant civil engineer <33

[sciencegothic]

i love how so many of the shots in nosferatu are framed as being very wide, often with only one person in the shot, cutting between that and a similar shot of whoever they’re talking to. for me, that really adds to the unease of everything, because it feels like everyone is sort of alienated from each other, which is not at all useful in the face of a great evil. but also, it makes the scenes where the framing is different so much more impactful. ellen and thomas taking up most of the screen when they’re holding each other tenderly, the same with anna and friedrich. ellen and anna being pressed in close by the edges of the screen when they share that quiet moment in the bedroom. ellen and von franz dominating the farm, side by side when they come to the agreement about how to stop orlok. it matters, framing and cinematography matters because it tells us things that aren’t always stated blatantly. it mimics when the characters feel alone or when two have a rift between them, and it makes it clear when there is a deep love or understanding present. i really hope with this film, we see a rise in people really caring about cinematography

[emmatriarchy]

X-Men '97 (2024) #3

"My Rogue"

[rosesonbreeze]

@confusionism | Aiden and Anna, Late Night of Christmas Day at the Ricci's House in Westchester, New York

He is absorbed into the Ricci Christmas Traditions within minutes of their arrival. The extroverted clan of Italian-American Ricci's welcomed him into the fold with hugs, a million questions, and copious amounts of food. It's not an easy crowd for any guy, especially one like Aiden, and Anna won't pretend like a bundle of nerves didn't knot in her stomach. But Aiden's quiet dignity managed to speak louder than any proclamations. It didn't hurt that he managed one of the top football teams in the league, and that he called everyone "mam" and "sir" like their lives depended on it.

The events are long over now. After a morning of ripping open presents, watching Christmas movies, and playing games - The Ricci house is finally quiet. Her parents off to bed, her brother back on the road to head back to work the next day. There is one gift left to open, and Anna's had it hidden away in her room until it's just her and Aiden. It's eleven in the evening when she texts him from her bedroom, asking if he's still awake.

Walking through the familiar halls of her family's house, Anna leans against the guest bedroom in her pyjamas (a frilly robe covering her bright red T-shirt and shorts). "You alright?" She asks, eyes bright with excitement when he opens the door. "Can I come in?" Her Christmas gift is burning excitedly in her hands, waiting to be unfurled.