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A good huntress respected her partners instincts, even if he was socially ignorant.

Ann Aguirre

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Ann Aguirre
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: August 27
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
the United States of America
Ellen Connor
Ava Gray
Good
Huntress
Socially
Instincts
Respected
Partners
Ignorant
Instinct
Even

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Most people can’t stomach silence it provides too much opportunity to think about things they prefer to avoid.
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I'm Sirantha Jax, and I have had enough.
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Beautiful. And ugly. The world is always both.
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No matter how interminable something feels, there is always, always an ending. Sometimes that's good, and sometimes it's bad sometimes it's a matter of indifference, and sometimes it's heartbreaking, and your life is never the same thereafter.
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With my partner beside me, I fear nothing, not even death.
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I’ve lost so many people. Some I left on purpose and never looked back. Some were taken from me, and I never said good-bye.
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For love to flourish there has to be trust. Promises don’t matter as much as personal choice.
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It's only a sure defeat when you stop trying.
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I’d never known it was possible to love as he did— with complete devotion yet devoid of promises.
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Time is fluid, so the moments where everything feels perfect pass in a wink, and those where you're on your knees in despair drag on like the death of a thousand cuts.
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The whole world is like Whitewall's razors I burst out. It cuts us, and we bleed but there's no purpose to it.
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A divided heart offers a strange sensation.
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I admired Stalkers style. He was incredibly fast using two small blades strapped to the backs of his hands. Slash slash slash. Fighting him you wouldn’t die of one great wound but instead bleed out slowly surprised to find yourself weak and dying after a thousand cuts.
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Each time Stalker called you 'dove', I wanted to hit him. Because you're not a little gray bird... you're all the light in the world.
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If this is the last time, let me say it so you never forget. I will always love you, Deuce. No matter where souls go, mine will be looking for you, solnyshko moyo. No. I want a promise instead. Promise you'll fight like you never have, so when the dying stops, you'll be on your feet looking for me here. I swear.
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She carries chaos like an overcoat.
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I don’t like anyone knowing anything about me that I didn’t choose to tell them.
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He's never going to sit at my feet and write me poems, which is good because I hate poetry, except dirty ones that rhyme.
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While sight may deceive you, touch rarely does.
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Is that love? It seems like a pale word, too easily tossed about by people who don’t know the meaning of it, who twist it for their own ends. I’m afraid of it now, right up there with clowns, close spaces, and open flames.
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