transientmoons

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the fact that aegon is looking at his son in these stills with so much love and adoration.... i am so not ready he is so special to me.

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There's an art to everything. Even turning away. How eventually even hunger can become a space to live in.

— Carl Phillips, from “Civilization”

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words from class of 2013 by mitski

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Every 18th Day

Every 18th of the month, I take a seat in an armchair inside the library and place down an ink, a pen, and a piece of paper against the hardwood desk of flower motifs. In front of my field of vision is a ceiling-to-floor window with arched drapery and a layer of lace curtains concealing the view of a wide and sublime garden brimming with wildflowers in various shapes and textures and lush greenery.

Every 18th of the month, I let the ink softly and slowly emerge within the pale paper as I write a letter of reminder and love; of poured emotions made tangible; of overflowing thoughts that ought to be heard. 

There are times that I cannot restrain myself from writing the thoughts of my beating heart. All that occurs within the span of weeks in my life is written on that one piece of paper, raw and consciously true. Even the worst of things are there, never to be buried. 

Today is the 18th of the month. At the hour of dawn, the letter will be sent through a dove bird. It’ll fly with purpose. It’ll wind through the sombre skies with my ardent affections.

At the right corner, I write the date. August 18th. 

Dearest, I begin the letter.

I hope you are faring well, my love. I miss you. Truly. But before all that, I shall remind you of a few things, for you are forgetful when situations are out of your hands. 

My dear, you must not neglect your meals. Eat. It is arduous work and there might be times when food stocks are not enough for the entire lot, but if there are foods, even just a simple bread, do eat. Do not skip. Keep your health sane (As I keep myself the same) and you shall come back to my arms with strong bones and wide smiles. 

Cooking has been lonely without your compliments; Your back hugs; Your presence in the kitchen, sitting and leaning on top of the counter, awaiting for the food I pour all my efforts to make. 

Truth be told, it seems like my cooking has gone awful, for it does not taste the same when I eat it solely by myself. In fact, even the restaurants we have eaten before, too. They began to taste the same. Plain, dull, and empty. No longer savorish. Desserts weren’t as sweet as they were before. Snacks from our favorite bakeshops do not fulfill the craving of my stomach in the middle of the night. The heat and juice of meat no longer melts in my mouth and its aftertaste was nearly like water. I could have just ordered water and it would save me from cracking a wound on my wallet. 

All is not the same without you. The kitchen, the food, the table, and our chairs, they all long for your company, the same just as I. 

Hence, you must not forget your safety. The thought of you in peril pains me. You are resilient, courageous, and you have strength that I have always admired. And the most loving part of you is that you are selfless. You put others in care before yourself. It worries me that you will go to such an extent and forget that you are someone to take care of, too. Being selfless is one thing; forgetting and unconsciously neglecting yourself amid unselfishness is another. 

You are my person, my love. Do not forget that. At the farthest lands, I am waiting for you to come home in utmost patience. Thus, you shall be safe and sound.

On the brighter side, my dear, I shall not forget to tell you that I have adopted a stray cat. I named him after you because it won’t stop clinging to me just like you do. He responded to it immediately with a cute, soft meow. Adorable little thing. 

I found him often recently outside our backyard, looking lost and solemnly wanting to be found. I thought it was one of the neighbor’s cats, so I did not pay heed to it at first, lest it might fire an argument between that old Grandma and I. She might accuse me of stealing one of her pets again. 

He stayed there like the backyard was his home. Of course, I was not entirely heartless and gave him food at first. When I gathered the courage to ask that old Grandma if he’s one of her pets, she exhaled an enormous “no” and told me that her cats are far healthier and handsome than our cat. It was quite insulting, however, it was the truth…

For the past weeks, I have been taking good care of this new baby boy in our household. I bought him his necessities two weeks ago. He will be “far healthier and handsome” than those old Grandma’s pets. 

There’s a little bed for him, too, but he likes to curl up next to my side. I sleep thinking he’s in his bed, then I wake up with this little cat next to my side. 

However, I cannot help but feel rather lonely nonetheless. There is peace in these lands but my mind is at war with you. My heart doesn’t forget to beat with ache and yearning for my beloved. 

I close my eyes and sleep with the memories of you next to me, holding me close inside your arms, stealing kisses on my neck. Even the black curtains of slumber do not know how to conceal my endless yearning. 

Then, I wake up in solitude without your presence. 

My love, you have been far away from my hands for too long. Too far from where my eyes could see. There are times that I wonder if you are still there, reading these letters, or even waiting for it. 

I crave for your presence. Your words. Your humor. Your lips. 

Albeit the doubts, for uncertainties are inevitable, I do have trust and belief that you are there looking up at the same sky with me. You are there, somewhere, bearing the same sentiments and memories as I. 

Above all else, I love you. 

Day and night may fly past in a blink, but my constant thinking of you remains untouched by time. 

Every 18th of the month, these letters are made by a spot of ink and a hand of a person yearning to be heard and seen by her one and only—it is I, with the purpose of conveying a message to my lover in war.

Forevermore,

Your dearest beloved.

-

Every 18th of the month, I wait in the places where nobody else could see. A dove would often come by wherever I am, as if it’s an instinct. It flies by at night and it glows beneath the moonlight.

That’s what my fellow soldier used to babble about while boasting around. 

Today is the 18th. He brought me plenty of times to accompany him while waiting. So many times to an extent I have become familiar with when the dove will arrive. However, at this moment, there is uncertainty if it’ll ever come—if it’ll ever sense the absence of its owner.

There’s a deafening silence across the lands with built-in traps, wires in disarray, and dugged out paths with wooden barriers for men to peacefully rest in. Only the hush of wind blew and the rushing cry of rivers nearby echoed, a comforting presence amidst the horrors of this place.

A moment of seconds passes by as I sit beneath an enormous tree with the gloomy forest lurking behind, waiting. On my lap rests a worn-out black jacket, besmirched in dirt and blood, dried in filthy waters. It’s his. The sole remnant of his existence. 

Then, I begin to hear the familiar soft flapping of wings above my head. I look up and a paper, folded and closed with a stamp, plummets like a leaf on my face. Grabbing it, I held it towards the sky, letting the moonlight shine upon it. 

To my dearest, it says on the back of the paper with soft and cautious strokes. My heart unfurls an indescribable ache. 

A beat.

I didn’t open the letter. I let it rest upon my rough, calloused hands. Unmoving, unwavering.

Then, with a blink of a tear, I placed the paper inside the pockets of the worned-out jacket—just like what he would’ve done after reading it, engraving every word from his wife’s pen into his heart, and bringing it everywhere he went. This way, they’re together—her love in the form of a letter, and his existence in the presence of a cloth. 

It’s beautiful how love transcends the distance and time apart between two lovers. Not even war can halt love. 

War just halts people who love and are loved.

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I recently started writing a gojo x reader fic after brainstorming three ideas out of boredom (I chose the last idea that popped up in my head during a bath LOL) and here’s a snippet of it. It revolves around the harshness of the Gojo clan, Satoru’s upbringing, and the cutest trope that I’m so excited to write about. heheh, I’ll be posting it on my ao3 soon enough.

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Jane Austen, from Sense and Sensibility

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Angela Carter, from "The Lady of the House of Love", The Bloody Chamber & Other Stories

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dd__boon

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Intergalactic Wanderer in Lynx © ESA/Hubble

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#quotes

“Because tenderness depends on how little the world touches you. To stay tender, the weight of your life cannot lean on your bones.”

— Ocean Vuong, from On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous

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archive moodboard for @oathome 🍷🍒

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beauties in journey to the west by 东君之桃

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WHAT A GODSENT. THANK YOU SO MUCH

I need gojo satoru ao3 fics recos with plot and multiple chapters to distract myself from the ongoing pressure and stress from acads thank u :(

[transientmoons]

I need gojo satoru ao3 fics recos with plot and multiple chapters to distract myself from the ongoing pressure and stress from acads thank u :(

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You, a supervillain, answer a knock at your door, only to find your superhero nemesis shivering, bleeding, scared, and slightly dazed (as if drugged). They appear to have been assaulted. The hero mumbles “…didn’t know where else to go…” before collapsing into your arms.