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That which is done out of love always takes place beyond good and evil

[oofpoetry]

It’s a fitting punishment for a monster. To want something so much—to hold it in your arms—and know beyond a doubt you will never deserve it.

Renee Ahdieh, from The Wrath and the Dawn (via oofpoetry)

[sicarians-blog]

A known anomaly after Drifting is called "Ghost-Drifting"; confirmed by the likes of Dr. Caitlin Lightcap herself. "Ghost Drifting" is said to be "unanticipated consequence" of the Neural Handshake. Pilots are said to find that their link remains somewhat active, though muted, after they’ve disconnected from the hardware. Pilots who Drift with one another long enough begin to adopt certain personality traits of their partner, but their own core personality and consciousness remains intact. They also have an uncanny way of knowing what the other is feeling or thinking without the expression through words.

Pacific Rim Wiki

[throughart]

John W. Waterhouse (1849-1917), La belle Dame sans merci, 1893.

[pencap]

You love him,  you do, and here’s the miracle: he loves you too. You are allowed to lick off the colour from his lips to listen to the hymns in his pulse to bask in the sunlight of his voice You are allowed  to have him. You love each other, you do, and here’s the tragedy: it’s not enough. You are allowed to watch the sun swallow him whole and burn him up to stain your fingers to the bone holding him together to count the constellations in his eyes as they blink out You are not allowed to save him.

you can love him, but you can’t keep him ( j.p. )

[sicarians-blog]

aesthetic; benandanti, caulborn, nightwalkers. 

[sicarians-blog]

It is very hard for evil to take hold of the unconsenting soul.

Ursula Le Guin, A Wizard of Earthsea

[chiquicow-deactivated20210504]

Never presume that I will not act on my worst instincts.

Cesare Borgia

[sicarians-blog]

aesthetic; the bloodline marks of the zabini

[sicarians-blog]

aesthetic; the valley, rainy season Memories of the outside world will never have the same tonality as those of home and, by recalling these memories, we add to our store of dreams; we are never real historians, but always near poets, and our emotion is perhaps nothing but an expression of a poetry that was lost.

[sicarians-blog]

The gods are strange. It is not our vices only they make instruments to scourge us. They bring us to ruin through what in us is good, gentle, humane, loving.

[sicarians-blog]

Why can I never set my heart on a possible thing?

URSULA K. LE GUIN, The Left Hand of Darkness

[sicarians-blog]

“By royalty. I suppose you can try to teach him to ride in Hyperion’s saddle. Horus would appreciate it rather more than my horse, I’m afraid. But you are welcome to bring him along. I should be a little more content to see you leave, perhaps, if you did not leave alone. 

My floor is a study in post-medieval magical metalwork. How could that possibly bother me.”

[finscealta-blog]

“I shall have to ask him, then. If I can manage to do so before he falls asleep on me — again. Of all the ambitions I have ever had, human pillow was never one of them.

Hm, very well. If you’re certain. Considering the current deplorable state of my health, I thought it a good time to clean and maintain my gear. Though I rarely wear that particular suit of armour anymore; it’s not exactly appropriate for the work I do now. Beautiful, yes. Durable, certainly. Practical and easy for the modern day vigilante to move in… Hardly.”

[sicarians-blog]

“Horus may unfortunately be a reincarnated canine. It can’t be helped. You do make a very fine pillow.

“I’m quite certain that when Mihail said absolutely no strain, what he meant was not ‘thoroughly inventory and repair the innumerable pieces of war equipment you possess.’ In my study, and elsewhere. I’m not certain i approve of our dining table being covered in khanjar. Incidentally, is there a region of the world you haven’t sourced for weaponry? I did not think so.

What ambitions did you have?”

[sicarians-blog]

metaphor: draco and blaise

[sicarians-blog]

“Valiante, why is there armor spread across the floor of my study in many small pieces. Horus is delighted, he seems to think you put them there for his entertainment, and I am disinclined to correct him. I hope you didn’t need that ailette for anything important.” 

[finscealta-blog]

”Hm, while there are accounts in both Mage and Sleeper history of felines being used for the art of war, I somehow doubt Horus would have the required attention span for such an occupation. His loyalties are also rather… set in stone. Perhaps there is some merit to bringing him along with me next time…

——— Is it bothering you, love? I can clean it up if you need me to.”

[sicarians-blog]

“By royalty. I suppose you can try to teach him to ride in Hyperion’s saddle. Horus would appreciate it rather more than my horse, I’m afraid. But you are welcome to bring him along. I should be a little more content to see you leave, perhaps, if you did not leave alone. 

My floor is a study in post-medieval magical metalwork. How could that possibly bother me.”

[sicarians-blog]

aesthetic: the tremaine twins. [balian] ---- [christian]

[sicarians-blog]

aesthetic: pre-raphaelite redheads

[finscealta-blog]

Scotland, 4 October 1996, sixth year

The rules of curfew do not apply to the common room. 

Or so Draco had decided all the way back during the first week of his first year in the castle. There’s an almost serene quality to sitting in the deserted common room late at night, crackling fire in the hearth and flowing lake water pressing against the windows. The room is hardly inviting (this is Slytherin, after all), but it’s the perfect place and the perfect time of night for solitude and reflection.

France. It makes sense, and he had expected his mother’s letter, this letter, to arrive weeks ago. No matter; the timing is off, but the content is exactly as anticipated. He thought he’d feel more relieved than this. He is, on some level, has enough self-preservation and tactical knowledge to realise running, hiding, is the only truly smart thing to do. He doesn’t care about what he’ll be called (coward, turncoat), knows too well how to use words as weapons to let them affect him much in turn (he’s no Gryffindor, far too easily goaded into doing something foolish with a few well-placed words here and there).

There’s a ripple in the air, and he glances up, looks into the fire before holding the letter up with an imperious gesture. He wants to ask, where were you, knows the real question is who were you with, and decides he has little desire to ask and hear the answer. It doesn’t matter, his mind tells him, at odds with the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach, with the sharp sting of envy in his chest. He’s usually more composed than this, knows he has Blaise in ways no one else ever will, blames the letter and the late hour for throwing him off balance.

“It appears you will get your way, after all,” he says quietly, voice not nearly as aloof as he would like it to be. “Mother expects me in France before the year’s end.”

[sicarians-blog]

Blaise stops in the shadows by the wall, arrested by the lines of tension in Draco’s body, outlined against the fire, the only light in the deserted common room. It is very late. He has a second to see the letter, a second to forget to breathe, as the moment comes into sharp, sudden relief. The quiet, terse words take a second to sink in, and then he closes his eyes, putting out a hand to brace lightly against the wall. France. Hoped for, but never a certainty. A gamble on Narcissa Malfoy’s heart, in truth, her courage. He promises himself silently to remember that he owes her, even if she never knows it.

“Your mother is a brave woman,” he says quietly, stepping closer, endavoring to keep his voice steady. France means something other than just Draco, safe, and they both know it. He had intended to sit down next to Draco, changes his mind and kneels on the floor next to the couch instead, eyes straying to the fragile piece of parchment in Draco’s grip. Crossroads. He looks up, searching Draco’s expression, feeling already like it’s harder to breathe, already colder. 

“When do you leave?”