#anna's writing

[drowning-in-cacophony]

an electric kiss

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial Prompt 277: Silver Sparks

“This,” she says, “is going to be the death of me.”

A swallow, thick in his throat. His fingertips, blue and shivering, press against his thigh. His knees graze against hers, for how close they are sitting. If he looks – and he’s looking – he can see every flick of her crystal lashes, gently brushing against delicate cheekbones. Porcelain, her face has always been comparable to. A fragile china dish, the sort so fancy it has to be kept on display in a glass cabinet, highly elegant and breathtaking. That’s her. Breathtaking, because when he’s around her, he doesn’t always remember how to breathe.

Her hand rests on her thigh. A gentle flex of her fingers, and the glints catch his eye like always. The silver sparks, embers off a fire, dancing a final trail through the air. The molecules fizzle, twitching out currents until he feels the electric chills in his kneecaps too.

“Then we shouldn’t do it.” Even as he says it, he knows it pointless. They’re going to do it. Of course they’re going to do it, because he’s never going to be able to resist her. How could he, this once in a lifetime sort of thing? This once in a universe sort of thing. She could resist, maybe – made of stronger stuff, a supernova’s crush of element versus gravity – but why should she? This is what she’s known would happen from the start. Inevitable, for her.

Her eyebrow twitches in that vein, and he sighs the acceptance. It’s going to happen, that’s not going to change.

“Is there anything you want to know, first?” The light from distant fireworks splash out across her skin, a refraction through glass. Or maybe that’s just his imagination, because she’s the spectacle he’s been waiting to absorb his whole life. He could probably spend eternity drowning in her; her eyes, her words, all the intentions in between. His fingers drag a line into his jeans, the fabric rough under his touch. Inside the wrapped bone of his chest, his heart skips a small beat.

“I don’t think so.” Anything he needs to know, he should feel, he thinks. Flooding through him, a river bursting a dam. It’s the last obstacle before the aria’s explosion. Passing it over feels like locking himself into something serious, chains with the padlock’s key tossed far away, no way back from this. She doesn’t bother pressing him more, always one to take the first answer as gospel. He takes a breath, catches it under his tongue.

When her hand lifts, the sparks go with it. Lazy circles that run down her knuckles and wrists, a comet hitting the stratosphere. The colour lights up her eyes, a sun’s corona, and he doesn’t care about going blind as long as it’s her he sees last. His neck curves in, subconscious in certainty, one of his hands sliding from rough jeans to her icy cold skin. A flower’s petal in moonlight: her eyes hold his for a moment, before her hand moves to his jaw and her lips touch his.

The sun’s bloom around the turning Earth; he’s witnessing something so beautiful and awe-inspiring. Gravity of the ground loses out, and it’s hers he latches into, falling into the core of her burning heart. Her fingers splay out across his cheek, the sparks spiralling up and splashing out across his skin. A gentle fizzing at first, hot pan sparks catching hands. Her mouth, soft and supple, just like calm ocean waves always look to feel. Serenity, written out on flesh, bound into his particles. His fingers twitch, a small spasm when the heat spreading over his cheekbone gets hotter. Uncomfortable, yet he doesn’t pull back from her, digging his grip into her leg tighter as if to tie them closer together. His eyes squeeze, a tight seal, no squinting, maximising the time for his exposure. A thundering beat pounds in his chest, sickeningly quick. The ice of her leg stops feeling cool to his fingertips. A flush creeps up his neck, heatstroke’s pounding brush.

It’s too late now, falling deep into her orbit. By the time his eyes shoot wide open, the pain of the sparks no longer drowned out by the peace of her lips, she’s already gotten hold of him, drawn him into her and taking everything she has to. Silver explodes a cacophony across his vision and even now, his heart screaming as electric crackles through his nervous patterns, he doesn’t try breaking away. If it’s her, it’s worth it. There was never going to be another way for him.

If the pain is horrific, he doesn’t acknowledge it through the silver sparks ricocheting through him. It’s for her, so it’s worth it. It’s for her, it’s worth it.

He comes to his final crash, yanked through the layers of her skies until he’s a pool on the surface, the power of her gravity too much for him. Her legs cup his skull, her palm half-stuck to his cheek still. Rolling up into the darkness, he doesn’t see her anymore.

“The next time this happens,” she whispers, a voice like fresh water springs, “you’re going to die, and that’s never going to leave me.”

But there’s the crux. She knows it has to happen, the death of her unblemished soul. He knows he’d give it all just for her.

[mournfulroses]

Marina Tsvetaeva, from The Essential Poems of Marina Tsvetaeva; "For Anna Akhmatova,"

[asoftepiloguemylove]

"I BELIEVE THERE IS A GOD. BUT I'M NOT SURE HE STILL BELIEVES IN US." // MUSINGS ABOUT GOD

Vi Khi Nao Fish in Exile // pinterest // Ada Limón The Echo Sounder, from "Lucky Wreck" // Mitski Bug Like an Angel // Margaret Atwood Half Hanged Mary // Ethel Cain American Teenager // Supernatural (2005-2020) cr. Eric Kripke // Elle Emerson Regarding the Röttgen Pietà // Yves Olade Belovéd // Kim Addonizio Wild Nights from "Tell Me" // Jensen McRae Machines // Supernatural (2005-2020) cr. Eric Kripke // Anna Kamienska A Nest of Quiet: A Notebook (tr. Clare Cavanagh) // Tom Waits Day After Tomorrow // pinterest // Lauren Camp Upon Taking the Universe One Thing at a Time

[sharp-fanged13]

What a wonderful occassion to remember this happened and is canon af:

[feral-ballad]

Everything is still. I lie still at the center of the hunger that is actually grief,

Anne de Marcken, from It Lasts Forever and Then It's Over

[anna-scribbles]

calling all miraculous fans who watched anime in middle school

PLEASE tell me what you think adrien’s favorite anime is. bonus points for characters you think he would relate to / want to be friends with

[spaceorphan18]

Alright. So. This is a thing that happened....

I... maybe have written my first real X-Men - Rogue/Gambit fic. Inspired by an interview X-Men 97 Gambit Voice Actor did. And then, it got posted to Twitter. And then said Gambit Voice Actor reblogged it, READ IT, and commented.

I am so... shellshocked you guys. I cannot believe this happened. I just... I was shaking when I found out today. This is wild and amazing and I'm so flattered and wow. I just can't even believe it.

I have literally been smiling all day.

<3

[elialys]

ANNA TORV as Dr. Wendy Carr (Mindhunter) | 1.04

[avaults]

false pretense

✒︎a bridgerton au starring suguru geto

pairing: suguru geto x female reader (zenin)

general summary: dearest gentle reader yet another season containing utmost pride, pretense and pursuit descends upon us. after only mere hours of entering society, you make sure to leave a lingering impression behind as you are caught wandering far from the masquerade ball by no other but suguru geto. lord geto, whom is heir to duke geto and prides himself as such, is certainly more than displeased to find you far off the ballroom and has his opinion on the matter at hand already set regardless of your desperate tries to explain the misunderstanding. as your identity is about to be revealed by him, a sudden commotion bares you the opportunity to slip away. following the rather unpleasant beginning of the season, you pray that suguru geto may not find pursuit in uncovering your pretenses. 

content/warnings: bridgerton au, regency era au, angst, fluff, eventual smut, misogyny, bullying, jealousy, mentions of alcohol and explicit contents, mental health issues, death,  academic themes, breaking society’s norms and expectations, geto is as prideful as ever, reader pretending to be someone else, both being a pain 

author’s gossip: bonjour, my name is anna and i’m this season’s host. behold as this is my first time hosting in general - so please bear with me. quick disclaimer: indulgence and interactions are deeply appreciated. please enjoy :) 

[my-own-personal-dragon-horde]

That fucking hospital scene…that is a sequence that I’m glad it didn’t feel like playing the game. Instead, I felt like I wasn’t breathing the entire time. That was one of the most effective sequences of television I’ve ever seen, from the acting to the emphasis on the brutality.

The way Joel seemed to be walking through a dream…that’s the part that hit the hardest. We as the audience were hyperaware of his actions, while he was barely there at all—Sarah and his grief and Ellie were the only things on his mind.

Neil Druckmann really wrote a story that turned a mirror on humanity, and my god am I thankful for both the game and this adaptation.

[perfectquote]

It is good people who make good places.

Anna Sewell

[drowning-in-cacophony]

gentle like a wave

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt 269: Living Weapon

[Summary: it's not as easy as thought to use this weapon]

“Bloody hell,” one of the men breathe, bug eyed and gaping. She sighs and places down her shears – her flower dead-heading is clearly a job that’s going to have to wait for another day.

They’d burst through the waterfall with gleaming guns and preposterous postures. The same story, then, and she reads that truth in the leader’s eyes as he blusters his way forward, a demand already tracing the shape of his lips. There’s an ugly-looking moustache quivering above his upper lip. She crosses her legs, tucking her ankles neatly away, backed against her latest crop of flowers. Sitting down, she’s found, puts them on the back foot constantly. They expect one image; have no idea what to do with what she gives them.

They’re all clearly shocked by what they’ve discovered here. What story was it this time? A push through the water and there would lie a sword, enchanted beyond all measure. Splash droplets from hair and wrap a hand around the greatest machine gun in history. Wipe eyes and find a bomb that’d end all wars. The leader – a commander, by the badge on his lapel – has begun to put together the pieces. Behind the water, behind all the strife to get here, and you’ll find a weapon. And well, it’s not bloody likely to just be her shears now, is it?

“On behalf of the United Squadrons, I am requesting your use,” the Commander says, wobbling himself to his full height. She presses fingertips against the seam of her trousers.

“That’s not how we do things here, Commander,” she says flatly, and continues before she has to listen to any bluster. “Tell me what you want.”

His eyes water. At his side, his hand flexes, though the handgun tucked in his holster remains sheathed. She hopes it stays that way: threatening their way to what they want never works out well. “You are the thing we’re looking for?”

How am I meant to know if you won’t tell me what it is? But it’s obvious, since no-one other than old Nana ever comes here for other means, so she gives him a gentle incline to blow his heartbeat wild. A bead of sweat hangs like a pearl, suspended at his temple.

“Then you must understand,” he begins, quick-paced, a little sanctimonious. “There is a war going on out there and-”

“No. I said tell me what you want. Not what’s going on.”

The man blinks. Behind him, his soldiers too. She sees the nervous licks of their lips, the hungry ones too. How long have they travelled to find her? There’s a hollow sort of look to their cheeks, but then she finds the soldiers often do end up concaved in face. Cheeks first, then the skulls. Once, such a man had stumbled in here and died before he could even tell her anything. His broken skull, along with his better condition bones, lie underneath the oak tree some stone throw’s away.

At least, despite the blinking, he gets to the point. “I want your power.”

“To?”

“To-? To destroy the enemy, of course! To bring justice to the land, to restore order, to-”

“No.” She nods to herself. “Next.”

The Commander stares at her, mouth hanging open. It’s quite an unseemly look to the man, so she glances to the man hovering a few steps behind. Maybe he’s the next-in-command, standing slightly closer to denote that; mostly, she just finds the next face she can. One hand reaching up, she beckons him forward with a twitch of her fingers, a raise of her brow when his step falters. His eyes dart to his Commander, uncertainty spoiling blue eyes like a damn rainstorm.

“What do you mean next?” the Commander blurts out with, cheeks going steadily red. “Didn’t you listen to me? I said-”

“I heard.” Her tone creaks, an old floorboard in distaste. “I’m not convinced by you.”

“Not convinced? Lady, do you know who you are talking to?”

She blinks, once. “Next. I won’t ask again. Either it’s next, or you’ll all leave.”

“We most certainly will not, not until you have-”

“Remember what you have come for.” Her voice now is gentle, in the way the sea goes before a massive wave rushes in to sweep a land clear. The Commander freezes, a man well acquainted with the gentle sort of danger. His throat throbs, a pulse she can see, easy enough to rip out. His eyes bulge, fish-like; she watches his thoughts go through him like the water from the waterfall.

There is this: the Commander might be the sort she doesn’t deal with, but he knows when to step back.

Stiffly, mind you, with his own distaste echoing around his face, loud as a church’s bell. Bewildered for a moment, his second is left standing on the precipice. There is a space to be filled, and she waits with expectation.

This second man takes a deep breath and a small step forward. His gun, which had been mostly lowered from the moment they’d all locked eyes with her, goes completely slack to his side. She reads his threading nerves, pounding a sickening drumbeat behind his skin.

“Tell me what you want,” she says.

The man exhales, a gust of wind to graze her cheek. “I want you to help us free the people.”

She says nothing. The gap in which to be filled, and he does not disappoint in understanding the intention. Cautious words, stalking a deer through a crispy field, he keeps on speaking.

“They suffer under a regime. I don’t know if what we intend will be better – I can’t predict it – but I know I want to try and make a place better than what it is. I want to improve things, for them.”

She taps her fingertips against the seam. “Thank you for your inquiry,” she says, and purses her lips. The man understands this too, bowing his head and waiting in silence, even as his Commander makes a few huffing noises somewhere behind him. She flexes her other hand, fingers weary already.

But this is how the agreement must go. They can ask, and if they give her an answer that meets her requirements, then she has to say yes, weariness or not.

A weapon cannot be too tired to fire, after all.

She raises her head, and gives him the answer.

[mournfulroses]

Anna de Noailles, translated by Norman R. Shapiro, from Poems; “Dazzled, Precise,”

[odraziduse]

He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.

Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

[thorias]

s2g, we're all gonna get fat as hell with how much Gail Simone is feeding us.

Holy gods, it is refreshing to finally have a writer who actually likes Romy together, doesn't write them as dysfunctional or treating each other like shit, etc. They actually get to be a happy, loving, affectionate married couple now. See how easy that is, Tom Brevoort? lol

Inject this issue into my veins, Gail. You're doing the lord's work.

[feral-ballad]

I don’t miss my name and I haven’t bothered to replace it. I miss your name. I’m sorry, but I have forgotten it, too. I don’t look for it on the walls. The thought that I might read it and pass it by, just go on to the next name, is terrible. Like meeting you in another life and failing to recognise you.

Anne de Marcken, from It Lasts Forever and Then It's Over