#as the poets say

[voidcatofbedlam]

Achilles and Patroclus reuniting in the underworld

Gouache on canvas

Finished reading the Song of Achilles in a day and oh gods it hurt me so much I need to paint the ending scene

[a--ttano]

Saguru searched through Kaito’s bag. It was in a state of organised chaos, engless pockets filled with things inside. It seemed to hold more than it should conceivably fit. Packets upon packets of cards and confetti, mechanical bits and bobs, reels of wire, fistfuls of handkerchiefs,—

“Why do you have a prosthetic arm in here, Kuroba?” He asked withdrawing the arm (and not the promised homework) from the depths.

“Oh, you know,” Kuroba said and took the arm from him. “You never know when you’ll need a hand.”

[king-maven-calore]

Curious why you're split on who Guilty as Sin? would be about for Mare. Is it the aggressive guilt part, or just the context of the rest of the album? (Granted I've already grabbed it for Mareven and squirreled into the trash can where no one can find me so I may be slightly biased in asking this question)

The guiltily horny part for sure. I have a one-shot in my mind from when I first read the books that I'll never write because it would suck for Mareven and Marecal stans equally about Mare's repressed desires and guilt, both intertwining so tightly they become a sort of monster in the attic. You know?... Well, that didn't make any sense I'm sorry lol. But what I'm saying is, there was a time when I used to think a lot about what it would mean for Mare after the war, when she's no longer in survival mode and fighting external forces, to never deal with the fact that she once chose Maven over Cal, and then was forced to kill him and her love for him in one fell swoop. She consummates one urge but never the other.

Like when Tathève Simonyan wrote:

(...) a desire so raw you could still see the specks of blood gathering at seams. / a prayer … / a man on his knees in front of a woman, hands on her hips, holding the cathedral that was neither built nor can be destroyed / lips kissing the source of life / lips kissing the source of light / lips kissing / a prayer! – a body to crawl into! (to grow into?) / a prayer! – a dead language we refuse to let go of, / a language of the dead that we refuse to let go of. (...) Rage, that is love – rotten! / Rage, that is desire – rotten! / Rage! – like a prayer, unanswered, ricocheting from your ceiling and landing right onto your eyes, never quite reaching where it was meant to.

[dailyayao]

[thetriboulet]

finishing the song of achilles literal days before exam season starts has perhaps not been my best move chat i'm not gonna lie

[shoreskept]

𓂃 ଓ ; @malumae / continued from ✦ ( ren & jingliu )

he commands her as though he has any right to, as though the ground they stand upon is any more his than her own. as though it is not drenched in just as much of his own sin as it is her anger.

" i'm afraid i cannot, " her voice is ice, cold and unfeeling as the hollow woman that wields it. but there is a rush to this, a candle to her everfrost, the stirring of anger and— deeper still— grief.

for she has cauterized her every wound that still remembers what it means to mourn, told herself such a thought means nothing to her any longer, but the cold ache of severed limbs is heavier in some moments than others. it is heavy here, before this still-breathing evidence of all that was and is no longer.

but weight is nothing to anger, to hands that clamor hot and hungry up her spine and shoulders, that reach for her eyes. jingliu watches him, wonders if he can see them too— the war she fights every moment, the war she may never have had to were it not for—

" what part, " ice cracks with veins of crimson, teeth bared and voice a low rumble in her throat, " of stay out of my way is so unclear to you? "

she might move to remind him, to tear open old scars and draw a dozen new ones, but she does not. just watches, only watches. mara paints another future in her mind's eye, holds it before her like a glittering fruit, warm and beating and red in its open palm. jingliu's jaw clenches, eyes darting frantically beneath their veil.

her fingers itch for a sword, for the bite of ice against her corpse's palm, the feeling so faraway that she cannot find it. she itches, the violence beneath her pale skin begging to tear free of it.

it takes too much not to tremble. he may well wish to see her suffer, and she does not deign to appease him.

" move, " the word grits in her throat, " i will not warn you again. "

[pearlsinmyhair]

v + m

a moment. a retcon. a release.

when mansk was little, he always told his ma about how the girl he was going to marry was going to be a dancer. she had laughed- not in a mocking way or like she wanted to make him feel smaller. it was the kind of laugh a parent lets out when they understand that their child is pure. it has a bittersweet edge to it, tinged with the knowledge that this pureness is not everlasting. because abigail mansk knew that her son may find a dancer, but she would not be the one he called his.

and she was right, at least at first. mansk found a dancer. she danced right into his heart and mind and danced right out just as quick. she found another boy who could keep up with her rhythm, and mansk was left in the dust.

it was a hard lesson to learn, but he learned it well.

and then he saw her.

it was something about the way she moved, like every plant and animal turned to look. like her arms conducted a symphony that he couldn’t hear, but that he could feel buzzing just under the surface of his skin.

every step. every twitching finger. every lifted arm.

she was something that neither him nor his mother had accounted for. she was art, moving at a frequency that he could never quite catch on to. but then she would stop, turn to look over her shoulder, and catch his eye.

and he got it, like a needle on a record player catching the grooves on vinyl, and he knew that his ma was wrong.

because once he caught on to her melody, he couldn’t stop.

when venus had her first heartbreak, her mother told her that there would always be someone that she could never have. it didn’t matter when, and it didn’t matter what. she would love someone so hard it killed her, and there would be nothing she could do to make them stay.

her mother claimed that she had gotten lucky with father. by all accounts, jake could have turned a blind eye to everything neytiri taught him. he could have watched hometree destroyed and never tamed toruk and gone back to the omatikaya. but he had, and while he would say that he did it for eywa, venus knew that it was mostly for his love of her mother.

but they were an odd case, neytiri assured her. it was a natural thing to occur, to have someone that you could never completely hold.

venus had thought that hers was ku’altu. but no, she could have had him if she wanted him enough. jake would have let her go if she begged. she could have stood the shame of abandoning her clan if it was for the sake of her mate.

but no, she had chosen her duty over him. it was a choice, not a forced outcome.

and meeting him only confirmed it.

because the moment she met him, the moment she looked into his eyes, she knew that she was branded. if fate existed, this was it.

and this claim was not for the sake of romantic tragedy or a poetic heart.

no. when venus saw him, her heart felt at peace. when he looked at her, her soul felt bare. he made her feel…

…she didn’t have words. but it felt right. when he touched her, she buzzed and silenced at the same time. she felt like the war was gone and it was only them.

and then she focused on the logo on his shirt, and she remembered her mothers lesson.

she pleaded to eywa selfishly, begging the great mother to give him to her. do not take him away, she asked, make him stay with me.

but just as her duty pulled her away from ku’altu, his pulled him away from her.

but sometimes, when all was quiet and they sat side by side, listening to each others heartbeats, she could pretend like he was hers.

she could pretend like she wouldn’t have to let him go.

mansk didn’t know how to hug people. or how to hold hands. or how to grab something without automatically imagining breaking it. it was a side effect of both his marine training and his new body.

he was powerful in a way that was excessive. carbon reinforced and infused with training on how to jump into action in a millisecond made him a timebomb of destruction. surprise him, and he might just break your arm.

she figured this out quick, and she quickly found a way to let him know she was there without ever saying a word.

one beat. two beats. step. one-two. step. one-two. step.

she was like a deer, always stepping out quietly and elegantly in a way that made you wonder how long she had been there.

and even worse, her long limbs looked so damn breakable next to his. his hands were larger than hers, big enough to hold her forearms in his palms and let his fingers overlap. he was bulky, the human dna making him broader.

she was lithe as a willow. he was as thick as an oak.

and yet she touched him like he would break. like he was the one who could be hurt when their physical beings brushed. so he was even softer- ever hesitant in initiating contact. it was almost always a tap of his tail or the brush of his thumb. gripping her or grabbing her felt like entrapment.

but she found a remedy for this, too. she guided his hands to her, lifted his palms to press her own against.

this is how, she said without every verbalizing, this is how you hold me without hurting me.

he didn’t know everything yet, but he’d learn if it meant feeling her heartbeat next to his.

when venus sees him in her dreams, she knows it is traitorous. she smells the blood before it is spilt, senses her mothers rage before it lights, knows her fathers disappointment before he processes it.

to imagine this man in this way is to be against her people. to think of him in this way is to betray her clan. to crave him like she does is to stab the most sacred part of herself and bleed until she has no more to give.

but oh, how she wants him. his mouth, his hands, his back, his shoulders. she burns with an ache so very consuming that she wonders how she is not ash. when venus looks at him, it’s like her body goes hazy. it forgets where hers ends and his begins, and every bit of her wants to not see the need to know such boundaries.

venus wants to get lost in him, and she wants him to get lost in her.

she wants to know what his mouth tastes like when he says he wants her. she wants to know what his skin feels like in the places that others do not get to touch. she wants to kiss every scar and trace every stripe until his body is a map blazed into her mind.

and venus wants him to do the same to her.

she doesn’t think he knows the power of his palms. he held her hands one night and all she can think of is them holding her waist as he kisses her neck and chest and stomach and-

traitor traitor traitor traITOR TRAITOR TRAITOR-

venus wants to know the depths of his mind in the way only mates can. she wants to be mates with him. eywa, her skin itches with her own blasphemy. but her limbs burn with need. and sometimes her body is more desire than hellfire, and she has to stop herself from wanting to find him when the others are asleep. has to stop herself from taking him to some secluded space to whisper her deepest thoughts.

if not just to see if his own eyes light with the same desperation, or that his body tenses with the same apprehension.

betrayal of her blood. a fool. a beggar at a house that will disappoint her.

but if he doesn’t think the same, then why does he look at her like he’s on fire, too?

mansk does not deserve her. he knows this in his bones. it’s carved into the inside of his ribs, burning and bright.

and yet his heart rebels every time she is near, pounding like a damn freight train, charging like the beats of hooves in a stampede. she’s not his to claim, and yet in the most secluded spots of his mind she is his.

her name echos in the caverns of his skull so often that he can hear it as if said. his banshee often teases him, in their odd bonded way, about the lingering thoughts about her mate’s rider. his desire is no secret to the one that shares his mind, and he has long since ceased trying to make it so.

she saw through it instantly, though he is convinced that she tried to ignore it. mansk understands the reason her eyes glance away and her hands flinch from his.

this is not some love story, sugary sweet and without consequences. there is no true happy ending to whatever this feeling is, however requited it may be.

the other day they paused at a stream and broke from the others, him sent by quaritch as an escort for the ever wandering forest girl.

she had reached above her to brush her fingertips along a leaf, and fan-lizards twisted about her head as she twirled, the trill of her laugh soft and unworried. she held her hand to one, bringing it to him to point out its delicate patterns.

when he traced his own finger along its fans it flew, and he turned to find her face only a breath from his.

this close, he could see the rings of gold in her irises, study the small divots in her skin, see every hair of her eyebrows. his eyes dipped to her mouth, and she inhaled softly.

just as his nose brushed hers, she stepped away and walked straight back to the group, her tail twisting in uncontrolled swirls. she disappeared from his sight, and he only saw her much later when she returned with zdog, who complained loudly that venus wouldn’t emerge from a chilly spring.

they slept on opposite sides of the group that night, and all he could hear as he faded into sleep was the hitch of her breath and the flutter of the fan-lizard.

no, mansk didn’t deserve her. but damn if he wouldn’t fight for her the moment she gave him permission.

war thrums under venus’s skin like a promise. she was born in war, born to it, born out of it. her life has been fight for so long that sometimes she doesn’t know anything else. defense is natural, and her hand finds the hilt of her blade swifter than a nantang closes its jaws around prey.

her mother had praised her for it, but neytiri was also a woman cultivated by war. she understood the necessity of swiftness, of no hesitation. her brothers played at battle and glory, but venus knew only protect at all cost.

so how is it that he so quietly slipped past the cage of her ribs and into her most vulnerable place?

it is a miracle after all she’s been through. after what happened only a year ago, venus was honestly surprised that her heart had the capacity to let another in, let alone another who carried the promise of war at his heels.

and yet he was here, in her mind and in her soul, making himself known to the expanse of her.

the fiery yearning that had stolen into her gut had simmered since the stormy night of her brothers death, but it is still there. now, there is only solemn understanding in her heart of the impermanence of them. because just around the corner, in a matter of hours, she will once again be amongst na’vi. true na’vi, with understanding eyes and criticizing gazes. they will smell her deceit before they see it, and they will most assuredly see it.

so for these final nights, she allows herself clarity.

it’s a terrible thing, to give up something that was never yours to begin with.

he’s confused by the way she looks at him, disturbed at how she pulls back from him. she’s been marked by him, but she has endured the pain of loneliness before.

she sits before him, her thighs brushing his as her forehead rests against his shoulder. they are not visible to the group, their little meeting a secret to scrutinizing eyes.

he hesitates for only a second before his arm is gentle pulling her to him by the waist, and she knows that he understands.

tamar’s quills tickle her back, and with a final breath in and out, she breaks the embrace and pulls away.

———————————————————————————————

my breath of venus readers, i know you have been starving!!! i’m so so sorry 😭 this is just a cute little “get it out of my system” write that i wanted to do for mansk and venus based on some quotes that remind me of them. i hope you enjoyed <3

taglist:

@xstarsdiary @xstarsmvxz @lisedanie @avatar4eva @henhouse-horrors @xylianasblog @knmendiola @isnt-itstrange

[virtute-atrest]

One day I want to be describe the way poets describe spring

[shittygaypornmagazine]

the only heartbreaker by mitski is. um. you know.

[bitchout]

Anybody is ever having a chill time scrolling through your phone and randomly land on a TSOA quote and your chest physically bounces out and feel like your heart and knees are on the floor?

Yeah me neither. Crying on the floor

[fuck-i-like-too-much-stuff]

I am, as the poets say, a burned out little bitch.

[achilles-the-boy-of-gold]

He is half my soul, as the poets say

[highlyincorrect]

I have never in my life watched a millisecond of the hit 2010 medical drama House, but the general impression I’m getting of Dr House himself is he’s like if your transition doctor was great in getting you meds and guiding you through surgery but called you unimaginable slurs the entire time

[deadpoets]

DEAD POETS SOCIETY (1989) dir. Peter Weir

[khorazir]

Inspired by the touching Dead Boy Detectives fic half of my soul, as the poets say by @edwinspaynes

[beaucolics]

brought a poem to the gun fight