#inspired by poetry

[cuubism]

i said i might write something based on Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda and well. yeah.

--

“Have you been thinking much of this time?” Dream asks.

They are at the beginning. The ancient, smoky main room of the White Horse, all the way back then, when that sweet, starlit entity had loomed over Hob with challenge and strangeness and then swept away again, leaving the start of a story in his wake. Only this time, Dream is sitting with him, and the rest of the room is faded out, as it had when Hob had first seen him, this collected truth of the universe.

(Dream does not believe in objective truth—of course he doesn’t, he is made of dreams—though he would not articulate it that way if asked. Hob, meanwhile, knows at least one truth, and it’s what he feels when he looks at Dream.)

“Don’t you think of it?” he asks, wrapping an arm around Dream’s waist, fingers over his hipbone. It is a dream, but that distinction does not matter to Hob much anymore.

“I suppose. I think of much.”

“‘Course you do.” He strokes his hand up and down Dream’s side, and Dream hums. “I wondered about following you. Think if I did you’d have been gone into smoke already.”

“Yes. I did not care to stay long.”

“Nor I,” Hob admits.

“Truly?” says Dream, with surprise.

“Was thinking about you too much,” Hob says. “How could I go back to just chatting with my mates when I had seen you?”

“Why did you stay, then?”

“You have to take time with your mates while you have it,” Hob says. “Didn’t need six hundred years of life to know that one. Just a couple dozen deaths. Had the rest of eternity to mull over you, after all.”

“And did you?” Dream asks.

“Oh, yes.” He pulls Dream close. Slides over until he’s half in his lap, straddling his thigh, perfectly placed to kiss him. Hands on his shoulders, his neck, the sharp cut of his jaw. Once, Hob had held him from afar, like a wish. Now, Hob holds him close, as dream, as friend, as lover, in his human way, with sweat and time and hands.

“I mulled over you like fine wine,” Hob says, twisting his fingers in Dream’s hair, and Dream smiles. Hob kisses him again. Sips of his mouth like mulled wine, indeed. But his love for Dream is nothing so fleeting as spice on his tongue.

Or as fleeting as Dream sometimes thinks it will be. Dream is a living love poem to creation. But he does not know how to be loved in the way Hob wants to love him. In the way Hob does love him. Hob thinks that Dream knows how to be loved as a dream is loved, as a hope is loved, as an ideal is loved: held in glass, or in the sky, distant, perfect, disappointing up close. Parts of him are held as bubbles in different souls, but never in entirety.

He knows how to be loved as a nightmare is loved, bloody fear and history, raw closeness, curling in the humors of the body. He has been loved as a story is loved, which is to say, as creation is loved, as transmission is loved, as distance, as connection, as hearts on radio waves, as endings are loved, the pathways of him, container and fill.

Dream does not know how to be loved as a person is loved.

Hob loves him still when he grows teeth, and when a sweet taste comes to his mouth. Hob loves him as potential, as uncertainty. Story unset in stone. In softening belly and uneven step. Hob will show him how to be loved as a person is loved, because Dream is a person, especially when he insists he is not, and Hob loves him as one, has loved him as one, and Dream, who is used to being loved as dreams, cannot comprehend this.

He asks, sometimes. Why? Not even in a hurt, self-hating way. In a genuinely curious way, for he is not used to it. Hob hasn’t had the answer to that. Just trust that I do.

This moment, kissing Dream in the smoke of memory, is an answer. This is the beginning, but a fragment of words comes back to him, read in the between-time, when they were apart.

“You wanted to know why I loved you.” His lips are to Dream’s skin as he speaks, moved to his throat, his chest, pulling open his high collar, as Dream shivers under him. In the Dreaming, things can be like other things in a way that makes no sense in the Waking; Dreaming-sense is like a collage, the distant truth of collected fragments. And so touching Dream’s skin is like stepping out into the earliest morning, before the human world’s woken up, and feeling what’s un-meant to be felt.

“I do not think love needs a why,” Dream says. “Yet I have wondered.”

He gets it, Hob thinks, except that he doesn’t let himself.

He traces the harsh line of Dream’s collarbone with his mouth. Dream is full of harsh lines and seems incapable of letting softness stick to his bones. “‘I love you because I know no other way than this.’”

“I am familiar with the poem,” Dream says, but his voice is caught on Hob's words, his long fingers disbelieving in Hob’s hair.

“Are you?”

“Between shadow and soul is where dreams reside,” says Dream.

“And what about Dream?” Hob says, looking up at him, stressing the singular.

Dream’s lips purse, and Hob goes back to kissing his chest, up his sternum, over his heart. “I know,” he says between kisses, “no other way. Than this.”

Dream tangles him up, long arms, legs curled together, shadow and star around him. Hob’s loved him so long that he doesn’t remember what it was like not to. He has been tangled up in Dream since the beginning. It is what he is.

“A dream resides where it is wanted,” says Dream, finally answering his question. His voice has roughened, his breath has quickened, affected by Hob’s touch, by the words of the poem. Each lick, and kiss, and bite coils the Dreaming closer around them. One day it might be harder to wake up than to fall asleep.

“It’s wanted,” Hob says, and claims his beautiful mouth, pressing him back against the wall. His hair in its uncontrollable frissons, his eyes in their changeable void, his needy starvation of a thousand unanswered love poems—this kiss is a response to those missives. Dream is in the shadowed parts of him, in his turning points, in the words he speaks. Hob sees his answer in the tears that bead along his eyes but refuse to fall, in his darkness and whimsical creations, and his surprised, gentle pleasure when he’s kissed.

Hob loves him so. There’s no moral or end to that story. Hob’s love for Dream is. Full stop. End of sentence.

[maidenofmice]

The slender acacia would not shake

One long milk-bloom on the tree;

The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;

But the rose was awake all night for your sake,

Knowing your promise to me;

The lilies and roses were all awake.

They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,

Come hither, the dances are done,

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,

Queen lily and rose in one;

Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,

To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passion-flower at the gate.

She is coming, my dove, my dear;

She is coming, my life, my fate;

The red rose cries, *She is near, she is near;'

And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;'

The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;'

And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'

She is coming, my own, my sweet;

Were it ever so airy a tread.

My heart would hear her and beat,

Were it earth in an earthy bed;

My dust would hear her and beat,

Had I lain for a century dead;

Would start and tremble under her feet,

And blossom in purple and red.

[excerpt from Lord Tennyson‘s Maud I, XXII.]

So i was briefly exposed to this poem in an art history seminar on the Victorian Era a few months ago, and because I am totally normal, all I could think about was how well it fit Aki on at least two layers. One: the entire linking of Maud with flowers, especially the rose, for obvious reasons works so so well. Especially the title „Queen Rose of the Rosebud Garde of Girls“ makes so much sense. And the second layer is a little deeper but also totally supported by my own confirmation bias. Maud is described to be deceptively beautiful but incredibly cold looking, with a stern expression and a complexion that makes her appear almost dead. I haven‘t read the entire poem down to detail but from what I could gather, the lyrical protagonist falls in love with her (and grows increasingly obsessed) after a disagreement between their fathers lead to his father‘s death, so at the beginning he tries to get back at Maud‘s father through her, but ends up being bewitched by her in the process, eventually dueling and killing her brother etc. etc. it‘s all very Victorian. Maud is mostly passive in this, never actively described to do anything and yet she is said to be both the best thing in the lyrical protagonist‘s life while at the same time being his demise.

Retrospectively one could assume that both of these things are not inherent to her character and just qualities assigned to her by the men in her life. In the Victorian era there was almost a popular belief that there were two opposing kinds of women: femmes fragiles and femme fatales, the first kind being dependent and almost sickly but on the other hand sweet and kind and docile, while the femme fatale as in popular media today is independent yet violent and oftentimes promiscuous.

It‘s an interesting duality that I see in Aki in a way (helped by the image of roses, y‘know, they‘re beautiful flowers with delicate blossoms but also piercing thorns which the show uses actively to characterize this duality in Aki) , but in a way where it has always been decided for her instead of by her. She‘s violent at the start because that is the side of hers that is fostered by Divine and towards the end of the show her caring nature shines through instead. Interestingly enough though, she is less independent when in her „femme fatale“ stage, which is really just her anger and pain towards abandonment as a young teen not being dealt with properly. She was never a true femme fatale to begin with and neither has she ever been and will ever be a femme fragile. She‘s just Aki, with both all the hurt she‘s had to experience but just as much all the times she got to experience genuine happiness, a lot of which comes from being taking care of by and caring for her friends.

There are a lot more thoughts in my brain about how women were characterized in literature throughout the decades, using the image of the rose — a sort of de-humanization of the woman and at the same time a personification of nature as woman. We talked about this extensively in another seminar on nature songs but that would exceed ALL limits on this post.

So instead just take this little drawing I made of my Queen Rose. She enables me to do things in my art I never knew I could do.

[atths--twice]

Letters of Love

A feeling leads Scully to an Internet café, hoping to hear from Mulder, praying that he is safe.

The other day, I was on TikTok and I saw a video with a poem being read. It was so beautiful and I couldn't help but see it relating to Mulder and Scully, as I do almost everything, and so I had to write a story.

I love the emails that Mulder and Scully send to one another, the love that is held within each of them, and so I thought what if we saw another one?

February 20th, 2002

“I won’t be long,” Scully told her mother, who had come over to visit, bringing dinner with her. “I didn’t realize I was in need of milk. I’ll just pop to the shop real quick.”

“I can go for you,” Maggie said with a smile, drying her hands on the kitchen towel she had been using to dry the dishes.

“No,” Scully said forcefully and her mother looked at her in surprise. She smiled and touched her mother’s arm. “I just meant… I don’t mind going. I could do with a walk, on my own. I don’t get that chance too often. That is, if you don’t mind staying for a bit longer.”

“Of course I don’t. But, it’s cold out, Dana. You should drive.”

“No, that’s okay. The walk will do me good. It’s not very far. Thanks, Mom.”

She grabbed her coat and hurried out the door before any further discussion could take place.

Not sure if her mother was watching her from the window, she began walking in the direction of the little convenience shop around the corner, then doubling back when she knew it would be safe. Heading in the opposite direction, the need for milk a complete fabrication, she checked both ways and then crossed the street.

“Please,” she whispered as she walked, the cold winter air filling her lungs as she took deep breaths. “Please let me be right.”

A few more streets over and she paused in front of Cyber Cafe, the internet cafe near her apartment. Closing her eyes briefly, and pleading with the universe once more, she continued on and pushed the door open.

“Welcome,” a barista said to her as she walked in and she nodded, making only quick eye contact with him.

It was not overly crowded, but many of the computers were in use. Choosing one near the back of the cafe, she passed by others in order to reach it.

Sitting down, she swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Her hands shook slightly as she typed in her information and waited, her heart racing.

Tonight was not the first night she had come in, desperate to see if Mulder had replied to her last email after their planned meeting had been thwarted. Part of her hoped she would not see a message waiting for her. But the other part of her ached to know that he was safe and had found a way to contact her, even as she knew he should be taking precautions to remain hidden.

All through dinner tonight, she had felt an odd sensation in her stomach, an excitement bubbling up. The way a drop on a roller coaster makes you feel, nervous and happy all at once. She could not explain how she knew it meant coming to the cafe, but she did.

Follow the white rabbit. The yellow brick road. The path she had been meant to take even before she had known herself.

The computer beeped, her information entered and received successfully.

Letting out a long, silent breath, she moved the mouse, clicked open her email, and licked her lips.

There were three messages. Two were inconsequential and she barely gave them a glance. But the last one was from an address she had not seen before and tears filled her eyes as she clicked to open the email with no subject, from georgehale@mail.com.

Blinking her eyes and exhaling quickly, she drew in a breath and covered her mouth with her hand to hold back her sobs as she read and then reread the single paragraph.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Breathing brokenly through her nose, she closed her eyes and bowed her head, too many thoughts suddenly crowding her mind.

Nearly four years ago, in a small town ironically named Honey, women had been disappearing. Lines of poetry, from different poets, had been found in their homes, written on paper left on desks, with lipstick on mirrors, and in one case, with rose petals on a bed.

The last one had creeped Scully out more than she had been willing to admit, causing her to triple check her motel lock every night, even going so far as to place a chair in front of it and using a couple of clothespins she had begun to keep with her to keep her curtains shut tightly.

She had not slept well during the entirety of that case.

Without much of a lead, and feeling as though they had hit a brick wall, Mulder had suggested visiting the local library. Asking to see all the books of poetry they had on the shelves, the librarian soon had a table filled with them.

They had been silently reading through them for a few minutes, looking for a pattern or anything to help, when Mulder had begun to read random passages aloud. Scully had sighed and tried to ignore the uneasy feeling in her stomach, when familiar words caused her to tense up and her breath to catch.

“I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off,” Mulder had read quietly. She had closed her eyes for a moment before raising her head, her brows furrowed, and stomach clenching. “I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.” He looked at her and smiled before looking back at the book. “I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.”

“Mulder,” she had said, shaking her head as she pictured the bright rose petals that had been arranged with meticulous care on the dark blue comforter.

“Wait, it’s nearly finished,” he had said, holding up one finger, not aware of her reaction. “I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. Hmm, that’s really beautiful.”

“Is it?” she had whispered, shivering slightly as she imagined those words left behind by a possible murderer.

“You don’t think so?” he had asked, looking at her. “It’s Pablo Neruda, Scully.”

“Yes, I know. And I can also see that for myself,” she had said, nodding toward the book and he had smiled as he too looked at the cover.

“You didn’t like it?”

“Not in this context,” she had said, gesturing to the books around them. “I like poetry, I really do. I always have. Just…” She had shaken her head and sighed as she had picked up another book and began to look through it. “It feels more disturbing than romantic at the moment.”

“Oh. I… I suppose I wasn’t thinking about it that way. It just… I thought it was…” he had quietly replied. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

She had felt his eyes on her and she had looked up at him.

“It’s okay,” she had said again, smiling tightly.

“It’s not,” he had said, shaking his head and looking down at the book.

“It is a good poem and one that I actually really like,” she had said softly.

“You do?”

“Yeah. We studied poetry for a few weeks when I was in high school and Neruda became one of my favorite poets.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Well, I don’t think we’ve ever really discussed it.” She had shrugged and turned a page in the book she held. “I like that sonnet, but it’s the last part of it that I like best.” She had looked at him and drew in a breath, reciting it from memory. “I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.”

He had stared at her as she forced away disturbing thoughts, instead thinking of how she had felt when she read that poem for the first time, her gaze becoming unfocused and faraway.

“Straightforward. No complexities. Not existing without the other. Falling asleep in sync,” she had whispered as she had shaken her head, remembering the rather juvenile dreams she’d once had. “Does anyone ever really find that kind of love? Is it even possible?”

Inhaling, she had blinked and then met his eyes. He had not said anything, and as she had shrugged and exhaled, her attention returned to the book in her hand as his had returned to his own, no further words spoken.

Months later, after the mentally exhausting days spent with Daniel, thoughts of her past blending with her present, she had lain warm and naked with Mulder in his bed. Sleep had nearly claimed her, when she felt his fingertips gently caressing her forehead.

“I love you because I know no other way than this,” he had whispered and she had opened her eyes tiredly, his thumb rubbing softly at her temple as he stared at her intently, his eyes dark. “Straightforwardly, without complexities or pride.”

“Mulder,” she had breathed. Closing her eyes again, she had shifted closer to him and he enveloped her in his arms, her hand resting above his heart.

“So close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep,” he had spoken in a low tone against her ear and she had hummed, his scent and the warmth of his body making it nearly impossible to form coherent thoughts. “I love you, Scully. Without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Mulder,” she had murmured against his skin, kissing his neck as she exhaled and he had held her tighter, kissing the top of her head.

“Excuse me, is anyone using this computer?” Scully heard someone ask the person to her left and she opened her eyes as she raised her head, almost confused to find she was sitting at a table in front of a computer and not in bed with Mulder.

She drew in steadying breaths and looked at the screen. Reading the paragraph again, she smiled through her tears.

He was safe. Alive.

Quickly, she opened a new message and began to type. Knowing the likelihood of him risking his safety again to check his email was nearly nonexistent, she knew she had to at least try.

To give to him what he had given her.

Sending it, she reopened her email from him and selected to print it. Logging out of her account, she hurried to the printer, picked up her paper, and walked out of the cafe.

Folding the paper, not wanting anything to happen to it, she placed it in her pocket, where she kept a hold on it. Needing a second, she stepped into the mouth of an alleyway and leaned against the wall with a deep sigh.

“Thank you,” she breathed, lifting her face to the sky. “Please continue to keep him safe.” Quickly making the sign of the cross, she stepped back onto the sidewalk and continued home.

“They didn’t have milk?” her mother asked when she walked through the door and Scully froze, completely forgetting the reason she had given for her need to leave the apartment.

“Oh… no. There was a mix up with their shipment and uh… they’ll have it tomorrow.”

“I could go to the other grocery store and get you some now if you’d like…”

“No. That’s okay, Mom,” Scully said, her thumb caressing the piece of paper in her pocket. “I’ll be alright. I can get it in the morning.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am. You head on home and I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Dana.”

“Night, Mom. Thank you for dinner. And thanks for staying.”

“Of course.”

They embraced and her mother left, zipping her coat as she walked out. Scully sighed as she locked the door and took off her coat, removing the paper from her pocket.

She checked in on William, smiling at his rosy cheeks as she watched him breathing deeply. Not wanting to risk waking him, she refrained from touching him and quietly left the room.

Once she was in bed, she propped the paper up against the pillow beside her, staring at the words until her eyelids began to droop.

For the first time in weeks, her sleep was peaceful and undisturbed.

_____________

Three days later, entering a busy Internet café, timing it perfectly to blend in with the crowd, a rather disheveled looking man in a beat up Dodgers cap, sat down at a computer. He watched the room as he logged in to his account, wary of everyone around him.

He had four emails. Three of which were spam and meant absolutely nothing to him.

Clicking on the bottom one, the one that made his heart beat almost painfully, he read the single sentence and he grinned as eleven words caused him to feel more loved and less alone than he had in a very long time.

Without knowing how, or when, or from where… I love you.

[uptoolateart]

Robin Redbreast in a Cage (One-Shot)

A more detailed take on Adrien's prison nightmare in 'Sandboy', with inspiration from William Blake's poem 'Auguries of Innocence'

Preview:

Adrien woke with a jolt, lifting his head off the desk. He must have fallen asleep while studying.

A slamming sound made him twist in his seat, his eyes widening as he watched the thick iron bars drop down over his bedroom windows.

Heart racing, he turned to his door – but there were bars there, too. He was surrounded by them.

‘What’s going on?’

He leapt from his chair, nearly tripping over his feet as he scrambled to his bed. ‘Plagg! Wake up!’ He yanked the covers off his bed – then gasped.

On the pillow lay a black sock with buttons for eyes.

His blood ran cold. ‘Plagg – no! Who turned you into a sock?’

The only response was the shimmering of metal coming down from the ceiling, at the edges of the room – like where he stood.

Paralysed, he stared up at the bar descending above his head – then jumped out of the way, dropping to the floor and rolling aside, breathless as the bar impaled his pillow. Synthetic stuffing flew everywhere, filling the room like snow.

That could’ve…that could’ve been….

Read at Ao3

[hp-poetry-fest]

April round-up

Unheeded (Three Sonnets) by NoFlyApterygidae || 343, G || Albus/Minerva

Dumbledore's spirit occasionally appears within Hogwarts, not a ghost but a sort of echo of devotion. Now, he considers an almost-romance with McGonagall that never was in the form of three Shakespearean sonnets.

Ouroboros in Tribute by @serenaew || 790, T, Podfic || Snape & Harry

Blood, I have learnt, is thicker than water. The life of a fallen Prince, as remembered by the father he had never known. Severitus(-ish).

Great Wine, Beautiful Sentences by @patriceavril || 4k, M || Wolfstar

The war outlook is bleak, but Sirius and Remus remind each other of all the joy left in the world.

it's complicated by @wavingfromtheside || 143, G || Greengrass family

A haiku and a free verse poem on mothers and daughters.

Engulf by @maesterchill || 216, T || Drarry

Gathering potions ingredients in the Forest, trainee Professor Draco Malfoy stumbles across the Resurrection stone. Whilst examining it, he unwittingly Summons the shade of his former lover. Engulfed by grief, he begs Harry for a way for them to be together again. It will take ancient elemental water magic to achieve that which he craves so desperately. But can Draco conquer his lifelong fear of the Black Lake and all that lies within her to do what needs to be done?

A bouquet of kisses by @patriceavril || 10k, T || Jily

There was a glint of indignation in her eyes, and a flush bloomed in her cheeks, contrasting with the smudge of earth. James had never wanted to kiss her so badly in his life – quite a feat, considering he had spent a good part of the last few years daydreaming about kissing her. Five times James wants to kiss Lily and one time he does.

Don't Go Into The Library by @acanadianmuggle || 600, G || Vikmione

Viktor Krum's Impression of the Hogwarts Library. Inspired by Alberto Rios' Poem "Don't Go Into The Library".

Vertices, Or Something by @floydig || 1k, NR || Drarry

Harry is a hitman who can’t die. Draco tried to kill himself last year. Harry returns from a mission, Draco wears bright pink boxer briefs, and Harry calls Death a cunt because he can. Or: we’re taking a deep dive into Harry’s head. Malfoy asks if I died this time. It’s a joke because I can’t die. Turns out when you cheat Death too many times, the cunt doesn’t want you back. What does that mean for me, that not even Death wants me anymore. Yeah I call Death a cunt. Malfoy wants Death and Death doesn’t want me and we’re in a fucking love triangle like in the movies.

Deathflight Blues by @autumnsup || Tom Riddle

When Tom Riddle dreams, he dreams in green.

Desiderium by @thehoneybeet || 6k, E || Drarry

Their club, their loo, their writing on the wall—it has to be enough. Until it isn’t.

Sunny skies look dreary when you’re far from me. by @mkaugust || 0.3k, NR || Wolfbucks

All my firsts are with you, Even still, even now With you hidden from my view.

[emilyhufflepufftlk]

Excerpt from Aftermath by Siegfried Sassoon

For the @tlkafterparty celebration.

Prompt: battlefield ⚔️

@morosemagick @lauwrite1225 @solinarimoon @magravenwrites @93xdiagonxalley @trenko-heart @blah-blah-blah-bla @illjustgositinthecorner @medievalfangirl @persephones-journey @amuddleofnervouswords @anotherwinchesterfangirl @saint-helga @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie

[nahri-e-nahid]

another poem-inspired image series for @tlkafterparty

Poem is from Rainer Maria Rilke, with the last lines transposed because that’s how my silly brain memorized it.

This poem has gotten me through a lot; it made sense to put it with Aethelflaed’s arc from season 2.

[hhimring]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Tom Bombadil/Goldberry Characters: Tom Bombadil, Goldberry (Tolkien) Additional Tags: Inspired by Poetry Summary:

Quirky Tom is stumped in his investigation; his partner delivers the goods. (Deliberately misleading summary inspired by the challenge prompts! See Notes for more reliable information.)

[nowandevermore]

Change is terrifying... It means leaving behind what Goh knows, it means understanding that the person he is may no longer be the person he becomes. Maybe that's for the best.

Maybe it's time for a change.

Sinnoh calls, and it calls Goh away from his home.

Home is not where 

you are from,

it is where 

you belong.

Some of us 

travel the whole 

world to find it.

Others,

find it in a person.

The Explorers, Beau Taplin

[leaving-tomorrow-ao3]

Lan Xichen prepared a gift for Jin Guangyao during the months that they have been apart. Though it is not extravagant or necessarily difficult to obtain, he wants to express his true romantic feelings in a meaningful and sincere way.

Jin Guangyao gets sentimental.

[thoughtcascades]

idk how to flirt but i can make things awkward if you're into that

[emotionalwords]

[poetryforall]

[thehopefulquotes]

The bravest thing I ever did was continuing my life when I wanted to die.

Juliette Lewis

[thoughtkick]

You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering.

Ernest Hemingway

[emilyhufflepufftlk]

Assorted lines from Rendezvous by Alan Seeger

@morosemagick @lauwrite1225 @solinarimoon @magravenwrites @93xdiagonxalley @trenko-heart @medievalfangirl @persephones-journey @illjustgositinthecorner @blah-blah-blah-bla @amuddleofnervouswords @anotherwinchesterfangirl @saint-helga