#poetry is meant to be read again and again

[927roses-and-stuff]

THANK YOU FOR SAYING IT

tiktok swifties are failing to understand the album is literally an anthology of poetry but to music, so it’s meant to be long and slow processing. you’re supposed to sit and meditate on it. you need to think about the lines, think about the authors life, think about your own, then go back to the song with understanding. it’s not an easy breezy album, it’s taylor swifts poetry collection and we’re all supposed to sit on it

[composeregg]

edit (10/23/2024) now that the poll is over: Original version, with 10 questions, from April 2023 here

And, given that the original is from April 2023, that means I can very easily say:

No, this was not an ISAT reference!

Just because I use parentheses and 2nd person pov and love the same concepts of what a time loop can do to a person doesn't mean it's ISAT

(Yes, I like ISAT, the original poll is why I was recommended the game! But if you look at the original, you can see all the origins of the options to choose from, including what spurred me on with the moss option from the replies)

If I were going to make something for ISAT, I would never be so vague, you can simply look at my ao3 for proof of that

[carnivallsarchive]

.

See the thing is. I know I'm good at writing. Like I have my weak areas or things I need to improve in, but it's not a skill I otherwise spend a lot of time feeling insecure about because a) if I don't believe in my writing literally who will b) if I want to publish my writing I ought to at least feel a resting level of good about it because editors and agents likely will not be cradling my face like a prize cat and telling me how talented I am while asking for their edits c) I've always had an audience for my writing even at its worst– I started sharing my original works online when I was around 16 & that really helped sell to me the idea of 'there will always be someone out there who likes what you do' d) untalented men never think this hard about the quality of their works and they always end up published anyway and e) I don't have many other thoroughly developed skills so why not have one I feel good about. Having said this. Awkward feeling to realize you're one of the authorial weak links in your postgraduate creative writing degree's social circle

[carlatsukinamistolemyhamsandwich]

I wasn't ever planning on posting here again but I was innocently scrolling on Twitter when the latest merch set punched me in the face and I just can't stay quiet about it.

Shin...

What.

Is on.

Your head????

[satosugusbowlofcereal]

hey. hey how do i cope when the trope is two characters who were clearly meant to be together and look deeply into each others eyes every chance they get and know each other in ways no one else can and are very obviously shipped together by the writers and are literally WRITTEN FOR EACHOTHER and desperately in love but they cant be because censorship is a cockblocker please send help soon I'm loosing it

[creatediana]

Oh, man, am I obsessed with you— strawberry soda in a dream, I want to give your coffee cream, I want to toast to you and do a little movie scene. You don't know what I mean— I mutter to you all the time beneath my breath pathetically. I speak to you in reverie, I'm animated and sublime, and you are laughing, too. The corner of my view, the window into joy, you are— you're all things pleasant, interesting, worthwhile. I yammer, draw, and sing and explicate serene, bizarre things freely as they come. I ask you where you're from and where your home is, really, now— still here? You're one thrill-seeking man, experienced traveler. How can the universe I know allow you really to exist? In truth, you're made of mist and I am only on cloud nine. I decorate it like my room and spray the couches with perfume I really don't wear, but it's mine— and you, beloved guest, you know I am obsessed but you approve it. I'm no threat— I love, and I am right to love. I'm caught in the illusions of embarrassments comfortably set on trays for me to eat. You're simply just too sweet.

"Musings" - a poem written 5/18/2024

[oplishin]

i do think it's funny that my Brand in the patho fandom was like. deeply impassioned existentialist analyses of daniil and examinations on how much assimilation damaged artemy's psyche. i was fifteen what the fuck was i doing. i should've been at the club (/j)

[brechtian]

The Waves - Virginia Woolf

[lilianne-tarot]

PICK A CARD: WHO ARE YOU GONNA DATE NEXT? ᯓ★

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦

I. II. III.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦

How to Pick Your Pile: Take a deep breath, clear your mind, and look at the images below. Which one pulls you in the most? Trust your gut! Once you choose the image, The number below your chosen image is your pile. If more than one catches your eye, that just means there’s extra tea for you, go ahead and read both!

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MY MASTERLIST🫶🏻

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦

⋆✴︎˚��� Pile I

OH- OHHHHHHHHH (I HAD to do this🤓) The moment I flipped these cards, I had to take a deep breath because WOW this spread is screaming romance, romance, ROMANCEThe energy here? Soft, dreamy, emotionally available, and actually willing to communicate their feelings like a functioning adult. (Shocking, I know.) This is the kind of person who has main character energy, but not in an obnoxious "look at me" way, more like a "low-key mysterious but actually an absolute sweetheart who accidentally makes people fall in love with them" type. They are also giving ‘hopeless romantic with a heart of gold’ vibes, but also kinda shy and dorky at times.

They’re deeply in touch with their emotions, thanks to all this Cups energy, which means they feel things deeply. We’re talking someone who sends you “thinking of you” texts just because, who remembers tiny details about you that even you forgot, and who probably makes killer playlists based on your mood. (OML😭) They might even be the type to write poetry or play an instrument. (If this person owns a guitar and has ever strummed it while looking out of a window dramatically, I will scream.) They’re also super romantic. They believe in love. Like, BELIEVE believe. They’re not out here for some casual nonsense; they’re here for the feels. If they’ve been hurt before, they’re still hopeful and open to love instead of being bitter. (We love emotional maturity.) Physically i am seeing doe-eyed, soft-smiling, artistic cutie vibes. BABE. BABE. This relationship is so soft, so wholesome, so emotionally fulfilling, if yall are people who had a relationship where you felt like you didn't even exist to the person then this NEXT relationship is totally different. You know how in movies there’s always that one couple who makes everyone else sick with how adorable they are? Yeah, that’s y’all (i’m really NOT jealous) . They’re also a partner in every sense of the word meaning they work with you, not against you. . If you’re struggling, they’re there to support you. If they’re struggling, you’ll actually know about it because they communicate. (A rare species, truly.) They’re most prolly a Water sign/ has strong water placements or just very emotionally intuitive. If you have someone with these placements around you, then this is your sign.  3 out of 4 cards are cups so i believe Y’all might bond over something artistic, music, painting, poetry, photography, film, something that requires emotions to create.They fall fast and hard, so if you’re used to people who are distant or confusing, this is gonna feel like a whole new world. This is the kind of love that feels like a warm hug after a long day, safe, sweet, and real. 

this person is a walking green flag. Soft but passionate. Romantic but stable. Playful but serious about love. This is the kind of relationship that feels safe and exhilarating at the same time, like home, but with butterflies. If you’ve been manifesting someone emotionally available, thoughtful, and ready to go all in for you…well, here they come. Oh, and one last thing, the fact that three out of four cards are Cups? That’s no accident. This person is MEANT to stir up your emotions and bring you into a deeper love experience. It’s not just about dating; it’s about feeling something real again.

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─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

⋆✴︎˚⋆Pile II

First off, this person? Chaotic. But like, in the best way possible. The Fool and Page of Cups together are giving ✨ golden retriever energy ✨ with just a sprinkle of emotionally confused poet vibes. They’re the type to send you ten unhinged tiktok totally out of the blue with no explanation, and then disappear for three hours because they had an unexpected emotional breakdown. I had a friend like that who used to do this, and trust me these kind of people are strangely ADORABLE. They’re playful, optimistic, and have this lowkey naive, wide-eyed way of looking at life, but don’t be fooled, Strength is here, meaning they know how to handle their emotions. They just choose to exist in this dreamy, slightly reckless way.  I’m getting someone with a youthful look, no matter their actual age. Soft features, expressive eyes that basically scream “I have deep thoughts but I get distracted by cute dogs”, 

Okay, so, Page of Cups and 7 of Swords? Babe… this is giving situationship that could turn into a masterpiece or a disaster, depending on how you play it. There’s gonna be a lot of dreamy, flirty, almost cinematic moments where you’re both caught up in the fantasy of each other. But here’s the thing, with 7 of Swords meaning, there’s a hidden element to this person. Not necessarily in a bad way, but you might feel like they’re holding something back. Strength is telling me you might end up being the one keeping this relationship stable, because this person? Yeah, they’re fun, romantic, and spontaneous, but they need someone who grounds them. Otherwise, they’ll float off into whatever alternate reality they live in. You might find yourself teaching them how to actually deal with their feelings instead of turning everything into an inside joke or a quirky monologue.

This connection? It’s got potential. I was getting ‘JUST KISS ALREADY’ vibes from this spread so many times. But also, This person might have commitment issues at first, or they just don’t realize when they’ve caught feelings. This relationship will be fun, unexpected, and maybe a little messy at times. You’ll never be bored, but you might have to decide if you’re willing to wait for them to fully step up and be emotionally present. If you do? This could turn into one of those soulmate-tier love stories that start off as chaotic best friends and then evolve into something real. This person is gonna make you laugh so hard your stomach hurts, and you’re gonna make them feel like home. Just make sure they don’t get lost in the clouds before they realize what they have with you. 

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─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

⋆✴︎˚⋆ Pile III

Picture someone who walks into a room and the air literally shifts, not in a dramatic, "I’m better than you" way, but in that "damn, why does this person feel like a wish come true?" kind of way. The Star as the headliner of this spread? BABY, this person is ethereal. 

They’ve been through their fair share of life lessons, some of them painful as hell, but instead of becoming bitter, they’ve transmuted all that pain into wisdom and grace. (Honestly, teach me your ways, mysterious heartthrob.) They’re a dreamer, but not the delusional kind. I have a strong feeling that pile 3 already know their person at the very least, they’re connected to your past in a really poetic way. The 6 of Cups is screaming, "This ain't no random fling, this is destiny, baby!" There’s a familiarity about them, like the feeling of revisiting your childhood home after years of being away. There’s also a chance that this person is deeply sentimental, they might keep old love letters, hoard little trinkets from meaningful moments, or be the type to remember the exact date you first texted them "lol" and took it as a sign from the universe. They’re romantic, but in a quiet, "let me show you, not just tell you" kinda way.

Physically? ELEGANT. LUXURIOUS. GOURGEOUS. 10/10. I also have the feeling that for some of you, this person might be quite rich as well. They could be successful or at least super stable and independent, but there’s something soft and sentimental about them like they love deeply but don’t fall easily. One thing i would say that they don't fall easily. 4 of the Pentacles is telling me that they guard their heart like a bank vault. Not in a "toxic, emotionally unavailable" way, but in a "I don’t just give my energy to anyone, I need to be sure" kinda way. They might be financially stable or working towards major success, so they protect what they’ve built. At first, they might be reserved, taking their sweet time to open up, but once they do? BABY, THEY’RE ALL IN. Slow-burning but SO rewarding. This is the kind of love that feels like déjà vu, like you were meant to find each other.  And the thing is, you’re worth the risk to them. Your connection makes them feel safe enough to let go of their tight grip on control. This isn’t a surface-level situationship, this is intentional, slow-burning, "I want to build something real with you" love.

(Also, be ready for someone who spoils you subtly, not in a flashy, Gucci gifts every day kinda way, but in "I remembered you liked that indie artist, so I got us front-row tickets" kinda way. 🥹) BUT one more thing, also think They’re going to be verrryyy slow to say ‘I love you’—but when they do? Oh, it means something. This is the kind of person who will show you they love you 100 different ways before they ever say it out loud.

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Note: tarot cards provide guidance and possible insights into what could happen based on current energies, thoughts, and actions. the cards can highlight potential paths or outcomes, but they do not fixedly predict the future. this is a general reading so take what resonates!

[multific]

The One He Writes To

Johnny MacTavish x Reader

Summary: You were only meant to write one letter. A gesture of support. But when Soap writes back, it begins a chain of letters.

You never thought anyone would read it.

The paper felt too clean. The words are too stiff.

But you wrote it anyway, one letter, addressed “To any soldier who needs it”

You wrote about the sky that day. The rain on your window. You thanked them for their service. You told them, whoever they were, that you hoped they were safe. And then you signed it.

Sincerely,

Someone who still believes in letters.

You never expected a reply.

Until one arrived a month later.

Dear ‘Someone,’

Didn’t expect a letter like that, not gonna lie. Most mail we get is dull as shite, but yours made me laugh. Real rain-on-the-glass kind of stuff. I liked it. Made things feel a bit more real. Anyway. My name’s John, but everyone calls me Soap. No, I won’t explain why. That’s classified.

Write back? It’s quiet as hell out here when the bullets stop flying.

Yours (sorta),

Soap.

That was how it began.

One letter turned into two. Then three. Then dozens.

You never even saw his face, he never sent a photo, but his handwriting became something sacred. The sharp angles.

The occasional smudge from a dusty glove.

The way he always signed off: “Yours.” Sometimes “Yours, always.”

He was funny. Witty. Crude in places.

But sometimes, something deeper slipped through. Memories of home. Things he’d lost.

The way he’d describe the sky over foreign mountains like it was poetry, even if he claimed he was shit at writing.

And over time, you started writing about yourself too.

The real things. The ache of being alone. Your fears. Your dreams. Your secrets. And he listened, even through ink and distance.

And then… the letters stopped.

A week went by. Then two. Then five.

You checked the mailbox obsessively, fingers trembling every time it was empty.

You told yourself he was fine. That maybe the base moved. That maybe mail was delayed.

But there was a part of you that wondered if he’d died.

If your last letter, the one where you wrote “I think I might be falling for you” in shaky script, had never made it.

It had been two months.

You were on your porch one late afternoon, arms wrapped around yourself, rereading his last letter.

The sky was gray. Your chest felt empty.

And then you heard it.

Boots on gravel.

And there he was.

Soaked in rain. Hair shorter than you'd imagined. A duffel on his shoulder. Drenched, exhausted, and very much alive.

You dropped the letter.

He didn’t say a word at first.

You barely breathed. “J-John?”

A flicker of relief crossed his face. He nodded, once. “It’s me.”

You ran to him before he could say more, arms flying around his shoulders as he dropped the bag and caught you. You were crying. He was shaking.

“I thought y-you…” you choked.

“I didn’t,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

To really see him. His eyes were tired but they lit up when he saw you.

“I got shot,” he said quietly. “So, I couldn’t write. Thought about it every day, about you.”

You touched his face, breathless. “I d-didn’t even know w-what you looked like.”

He gave you a soft, crooked smile. “Disappointed?”

You laughed through tears. “N-no. Never.”

His hand found your waist, gentle. “You said in your last letter that you were falling for me.”

You nodded, afraid to speak.

“I fell too,” he whispered. “Months ago.”

He kissed you before you could reply.

It was slow. Real. The kind of kiss you only give someone who knows your soul before your face.

When he pulled back, you were smiling.

He brushed your cheek with a calloused thumb. “Write me again?”

You took his hand and pressed it to your heart.

“Stay,” you said softly. “And I’ll say the words in person from now on.”

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[flwrkid14]

Love, Scribbled in the Margins

Tim keeps journals—pages filled with scattered thoughts, half-formed ideas, reminders hastily scribbled in the margins before they slip from his mind. His penmanship is erratic, sometimes neat, sometimes a barely legible scrawl. There’s no structure, no careful curation—just the unfiltered chaos of his thoughts, poured onto the pages with reckless honesty.

Danny finds them everywhere.

There’s one on Tim’s desk, filled with quick notes and unfinished sketches. Another by the bed, pages warped from where Tim has knocked over his coffee more than once. One tucked into his jacket, carried with him wherever he goes. And when Danny opens them, he finds something unexpected.

Not plans for patrols. Not mission reports or Gotham’s latest conspiracies.

No, these journals are something else. Something just for Danny.

There are messy, hurried notes—things Tim meant to tell him but hadn’t yet, thoughts that slipped his mind in the rush of the day. Scattered reminders: Tell Danny about the ghost dog that stole my sandwich. Ask Danny if ectoplasm works the same way as Lazarus water. Danny likes lemon biscuits. Find a good recipe?

There are doodles, too. Little sketches of Danny in the margins, some more detailed than others. A rough, unfinished one of him asleep on the couch, another of his hands, a quick, cartoonish scribble of Danny sticking his tongue out with the words annoying boyfriend scrawled underneath.

It’s messy. It’s chaotic. And it’s so Tim.

Danny had always imagined love as something poetic, something grand and beautiful, the kind of thing written in sweeping verses that promised forever. The kind of love you read about in stories, in letters written with elegant penmanship, every word crafted with care.

Tim’s love isn’t like that. It isn’t neatly composed or carefully written.

It’s raw. It’s real. It’s a thousand little moments captured in ink-stained fingers and smudged notes. It’s love scribbled into the corners of his life, unpolished and unfiltered.

And Danny? Danny wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Because love, he realizes, isn’t always the kind you find in poetry. Sometimes, it’s a journal filled with half-finished thoughts and silly drawings. Sometimes, it’s a name written absentmindedly in the corner of a page, over and over again. Sometimes, it’s as simple as a note that says, Thinking of you.

Love doesn’t have to be perfect to be real. It doesn’t have to be grand to mean everything.

And like honey pulled straight from the comb, love is sweetest when it’s raw.

[iris-qt]

For You, Only

You find it on an ordinary Tuesday.

A flower — but not one from any Hogwarts greenhouse you recognize. Its petals shimmer faintly under the torchlight, an impossible color somewhere between pearl and starlight, perched neatly atop your Charms textbook like it had simply grown there.

You glance around the common room.

No one looks your way. No snickering pranksters. No dreamy admirers writing sonnets in the corner.

Just…stillness. Homework. Whispered conversations. The crackle of the fire.

You touch the stem carefully. The bloom doesn't wilt under your fingers. If anything, it leans toward you.

There’s no note. No explanation. Just the flower: strange and perfect and left for you.

You glance around again, slower this time. Watching.

The prefect flips a page in his book. A few younger students argue over wizard chess.

No one watching. No one smiling. No one suspicious.

You tuck the flower carefully into your satchel, pretending you aren’t blushing like a fool.

You tell yourself it’s probably some Herbology project gone wrong. A mistake. A coincidence.

But later that night, as you fall asleep with the flower resting in a jar by your bedside, you can’t shake the feeling that someone had meant for you to find it. Someone who was watching.

And somewhere, deep inside Hogwarts’ winding halls, someone is.

And he is smiling.

...

The flower doesn’t wilt.

Days later, it sits proudly on your bedside table still glowing faintly, still leaning ever so slightly toward you whenever you look its way. You've poked it with your wand, whispered spells at it, even tried to press it between the pages of your Charms textbook, but it refuses to die, or even droop.

By Friday, you’ve convinced yourself it must be magical. And whoever gave it to you… well, they knew what they were doing.

You tell yourself you aren’t waiting for something else. You tell yourself you aren’t looking around every corner. (You are. You absolutely are.)

So when you find the book, you nearly trip over your own shoes.

It’s sitting right on your usual library chair: old, leather-bound, the title too faded to read. A piece of parchment sticks out from the top like a crude bookmark.

You glance around wildly. Madam Pince is hunched over the circulation desk, scribbling furiously. A few students mutter in the back, heads together over a shared essay. No one’s looking at you. No one seems to care.

Heart hammering, you slip into the chair and pull the parchment free.

It’s not a love note. It’s not even a full sentence.

Just two words, written in an elegant, slanted hand:

"For you."

You stare at it. Then the book.

Slowly, you crack the cover open. It smells like old paper and wild places, filled with poetry, the kind that sinks into your ribs and stays there.

You clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle a ridiculous little squeal. Someone left this. Someone knew.

You immediately whip around in your seat, heart racing. Your eyes catch on Eddie Clearwater from Herbology leaning against a shelf across the library. He’s not looking at you. He’s arguing with someone over a potions chart. But still. He is sort of nice. Sort of...awkward.

You eye him suspiciously. Maybe it’s Eddie.

He did let you borrow his notes once. And he wears shoes that squeak. You did hear squeaking earlier.

You huff a laugh into your sleeve, cheeks burning. It’s definitely Eddie.

You don’t see the real culprit, the boy lingering in the deep shadows between the Divination and Dark Arts sections, arms folded, an unreadable expression on his sharp, beautiful face.

Tom Riddle watches you tuck the book into your bag. He watches you smile to yourself.

And though he feels a sharp, unfamiliar twist of irritation at your spectacularly wrong guess, a part of him, dark and greedy and pleased, already wonders:

What will I leave her next?

...

You make a point to smile at Eddie Clearwater in the corridor the next morning.

It’s not even a romantic smile. More of a polite, thank-you-for-the-poetry-book smile. But Eddie looks so bewildered that he crashes straight into a suit of armor, sending a clattering echo through the hall.

You wince. Maybe not Eddie, then.

Still, you’re sure the gift-leaver is someone sweet and bashful. Someone harmless. Someone ordinary. That certainty lasts exactly twenty-four hours. Because the next night, tucked neatly into your bag between your Arithmancy notes, you find it:

A pendant. No — not just a pendant.

It hums faintly in your hand, cool and heavy, the chain finer than spider silk. In the low candlelight, the stone at its center gleams dark red, almost alive. You don’t need a textbook to know it’s enchanted, powerful, old.

Tied to the chain is a tiny scrap of parchment, the same slanted hand as before:

"To keep you safe."

Your stomach flips.

This isn’t something a clumsy boy from Herbology would have access to. This isn’t even something a professor would hand over casually. You glance around the common room, heart rattling against your ribs. No one’s paying you any attention except, for the briefest second, a pair of dark eyes across the room.

Tom Riddle sits by the fireplace, alone as usual, a book balanced on one knee. His expression, as he flips a page, is unreadable. You tear your gaze away, feeling suddenly foolish.

Tom Riddle doesn’t notice girls. Everyone knows that.

(But you also can’t help remembering how the pendant's stone glinted ... the exact color of his eyes when they catch the firelight.)

You clutch the pendant tighter, heart hammering. The pieces aren’t fitting together, not yet.

But you have a sinking feeling they will. Soon.

...

You hatch the plan over pumpkin juice and poor life choices.

It’s simple. Elegant. Foolproof, really. You’ll pick a spot, somewhere quiet but public enough to not seem suspicious. You’ll leave your books unattended, just so, like bait in a snare. Then you’ll wait, hidden, to catch whoever it is, and you can put this ridiculous mystery to rest.

Easy.

So you choose the far alcove in the library, the one with the broken sconce and the creaky chair. You pile your books just messily enough to seem believable. You arrange yourself behind a nearby shelf, heart thudding like a war drum.

And then... you wait.

Five minutes.

Ten.

You fiddle with the hem of your robes, nerves sparking. Maybe this was a terrible idea. Maybe you should—

A faint sound breaks the silence. Soft footsteps, so quiet you barely catch them.

You press yourself against the bookshelf, breath held tight in your chest. Someone rounds the corner. Not Eddie. Not some shy sixth-year with ink-stained hands.

Tom Riddle.

Tall. Composed. Unreachable, like some terrible and beautiful thing from another world.

He moves toward your abandoned books without hesitation, as if this was always the plan. You peek, just barely, between the shelves.

He glances once over his shoulder (you almost faint on the spot), then slips something between the pages of your topmost book. Something small. Another note?

Your heart skitters. You’re so distracted you almost don’t notice—

For the briefest second, after leaving the gift, he pauses. Looks at the flower, still alive, tucked carefully in your bag. Looks toward where you’re hiding.

His lips curve in the slightest, most devastating smirk.

He knows.

You slap a hand over your mouth to stifle a tiny, horrified squeak. And then, like a dream dissipating, he’s gone. You stumble out from behind the shelves, heart a frantic, tangled mess. The flower glows softly. The poetry book hums faintly in your bag. And tucked between your Charms notes, on fresh parchment, another line of that beautiful, slanted handwriting:

"You're cleverer than the rest. I hoped you would be."

You press the note against your chest, dizzy. This isn’t some bumbling, blushing schoolboy. This is Tom Riddle.

And he's been watching you.

...

A/N: what a man

...

[lscullzthegreat]

Headcanon that:

the Fëanorians HATE Beleriand, not its peoples but the land itself. It's too cold and too wet.

Maedhros misses being warm, he misses not being in pain, he misses the quiet steady drama of the court in Valinor, he'd trade anything to deal with pettiness again over the cruelty and death he encounters now.

Maglor misses his language, he's grown to despise Sindran, it feels blunt and obvious, it provides no subtlety, no place to hide poetry in the corners of the words. he can't remember how long has it been since he's heard his real name.

Celegorm misses Orome, it's as simple as that he misses the wild safety of knowing your god loves you, he misses hunting as a form of worship rather than just to survive.

Curufin misses his father father's forge how the fires never went out, he misses the collection of knowledge that had been available to him at home, he misses the ability to be a craftsman, not a sword smith.

Caranthir misses quiet, the peace to read book, to work out a math problem or a technical issue in silence, without it being an emergency or someone breathing down his neck for it.

The Ambrussar miss their mother, they miss her work shop, they miss the safety of her arms, the closest thing they have seen to her face in centuries is their own, they should have listen when she entreated them to stay behind.

But the Nolofinweans oh they love Beleriand. from the moment they saw the first sunrise out on the ice of the Helcaraxë they loved it.

Fingon can feel in his bones he's become who he was always meant to be, he holds his head higher than ever, the cold stinging his nose and the tips of his fingers merely reminds him he is alive and that the sun will always rise again.

Aredhel has more space to roam, to ride to explore than she could ever imagine, the deep forests are hers, the coasts are hers the sky is hers, she is freer than ever before and twice as wild.

Turgon has done more good than he ever thought, with his secret white city, a hidden jewel tucked away in the mountains. He has seen crafts perfected, he has seen healers save lives. He lives in ardent worship of the gift of life.

For the line of Fingolfin is ever destined to rise to occasions where the line of Fëanor falls and fails. They are indomitable even in death, they are hopeful when hope is gone.

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Where the Cider’s Warm

summary: you and joel finally talk about what happened in his office that night.

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

contents: 18+/NSFW/MINORS DNI, get together fic, fluff, a little angst, food mention & consumption, kissing, smut, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v

wc: 1,675

an: they’re so awkward and cute and hot, and i adore them. hope yall enjoy 🥹

set the table masterlist | pedro pascal character masterlist

There’s a knock at your door just after six.

You peek through the peephole even though you already know who it is—call it nerves. Joel Miller stands there in his flannel and jeans, a foil-covered plate balanced in one hand, the other shoved awkwardly in his pocket. His beard is a little more trimmed than usual, hair still damp from a shower, and he’s wearing his glasses again. The ones you haven’t been able to stop thinking about since the night he bent you over his desk and ate you out like you were his last meal.

When you open the door, he clears his throat. “Ellie and Dina made brownies,” he says, holding the plate out like an offering. “I supervised.”

You grin, warmth bubbling in your chest. “Brownies, huh? You didn’t burn anything?”

He exhales a soft laugh, a little sheepish. “Almost. Ellie told me I was stirrin’ the batter like I wanted to start a fight with it.”

You step aside. “Well, come on in before they get cold. I made dinner.”

Joel’s eyes flicker to yours, uncertain for a beat before he nods and steps over the threshold. There’s a tension in his shoulders you can’t quite name, but you feel it too—this is the first time you’ve been alone since that night, and neither of you has mentioned it.

You pass him a plate of roasted root veggies, lentils, and the last of your cornbread and pour two glasses of that cider Maria dropped off last week.

He takes a bite, chews, nods like it’s the best damn thing he’s ever eaten. “You cook like you read blueprints. Precise as hell.”

You laugh, a small huff into your wineglass. “I thought you hated my blueprint reading.”

“I don’t,” he says. “Not really. You just get all up close with your mouth and start sounding out numbers like they’re poetry, and I can’t think straight.”

You blink, a smile pulling at your lips as your cheeks warm. Joel flushes and looks down at his plate, jaw working. The silence stretches, but it’s not tense. It’s warm and golden like the candle that flickers between you.

You can’t help it. You have to know some semblance of what’s going on, have to know if you were that vulnerable with him for no reason.

Eventually, you ask, “Did you regret it?”

He looks up, sharp.

“The other night at the site,” you clarify. “It’s just…I hadn’t heard from you since then, not until Ellie said you would drop by tonight.”

Joel’s jaw ticks. He sets his fork down carefully, formulating his response. “Didn’t regret a damn second of it. I just—didn’t wanna show up here like some asshole who thought it meant nothin’. Been tryin’ to figure out what to say.”

His words allow the tension in your shoulders to drain away. You reach for his hand across the table. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away.

“I didn’t regret it either,” you say. “I’ve… never done something like that, so open and risky. Not with someone I actually care about and not in a long time.”

“I don’t take it for granted.”

Joel’s thumb brushes the back of your knuckles. His glasses glint in the candlelight.

“I think about you,” he says quietly. “More than I probably should.”

Your pulse stutters and you squeeze his hand. “Then stay.”

His eyes lift to yours, excitement at their center with frayed edges of hope.

“Please.”

It’s clumsy at first, the way you kiss in the kitchen like two people trying not to knock over every emotion inside them. But once your hands find the back of his neck and his mouth opens to yours, it becomes something else, full of need and memory and promise.

You stumble to the couch, breathless and laughing between kisses. Your skirt is already riding high on your thighs, and Joel’s palms slide up and under the hem to cup your ass, like he needs to feel all of you at once.

“You been thinkin’ about this too, haven’t you?” you whisper teasingly against his mouth.

His breath is labored. “Every damn day. You always wear skirts to torment me?” he asks.

“You and only you,” you breathe.

He bends you over the arm of the couch and drops to his knees behind you like it’s a prayer. Your skirt stays on, bunched around your waist, and Joel groans like a man starved when he slides your panties aside and sees how wet you already are for him.

“Fuck me,” he mutters. “Prettiest fuckin’ thing I ever seen.”

His glasses stay on. Fog at the edges, a little crooked, but you catch sight of them when you glance back over your shoulder—and the sight of him like this, glasses low on his nose, face buried between your thighs, has your breath catching.

His tongue finds your clit first, slow and wet, a filthy little circle that has you keening and bracing yourself against the couch. But he doesn’t stop there. He licks higher, messier, spreading you open and tasting everywhere like he needs your taste imprinted on his tongue.

His thumbs hold you open, and then his tongue dips even higher—slick and careful—until it brushes against your other hole. You gasp, a sharp, startled sound, but your body doesn’t pull away. If anything, it arches closer.

Joel freezes for a breath, glancing up like he’s checking for any sign of no. You’re already panting, already rolling your hips back toward his mouth.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “You like that, baby?”

You nod, moaning when his tongue slides back to your clit. The contrast makes your whole body light up, nerves sparking like kindling. You clutch at his hair, ride the wave of his tongue and lips and filthy, reverent devotion.

He gives you all of it. Mouth working you open, tongue returning again and again to every sensitive place he can reach, building the pressure so sweet and unbearable.

“Joel—Jesus—”

He growls, tongue flattening against you again. “Ain’t holy, baby. Just hungry.”

Your moans turn wild; high, desperate, needy. You grind back into his face, and he groans like he can’t help it, his hands bruising-tight on your thighs to hold you there.

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters. “Missed this. Missed you.”

His glasses press against your thigh, fogging with every exhale, and your hands tangle in his hair as he flicks his tongue over your clit again and again until you can’t hold still.

“So fuckin’ good for me. Sound like a dream,” ge rasps. “

You cry out, eyes rolling, fingers tugging at his soft hair. He devours you, groaning against your skin, tongue relentless until your legs shake and your body locks up around an intense, wrecked climax.

When you collapse into his lap afterward, panting, he kisses you deep and lets you taste yourself on his tongue.

In this moment of still and tenderness you wonder.

“Are you sure?” you whisper, nose brushing his. “You still want this?”

Sure, you want to know if he wants to have sex again, but it’s more than that. There’s weight behind your question, asking if he wants all of this.

All of you.

Joel’s eyes darken behind his glasses. “More than anything.”

You move, reach between you, and tug your panties aside again, letting his cock slide through your slick folds. “Then let me have you, baby. Please.”

Something in the air shifts. It’s no less hungry but he feels himself sinking into your couch, sinking into you. And when you ask him to have him— to have your chance to claim him—his chest hitches, but he nods, eyes roaming you like he doesn’t know which part of you he wants to look at more.

When you sink onto him, you both moan, the sounds melting together.

It’s slow, filthy, and sweet. You ride him with gentle rolls of your hips, taking your time, whispering soft, dirty nothings against his mouth as his hands clutch at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You feel so good,” you murmur. “M’so full, Joel. You were made for me.”

He grits his teeth, head tipping back against the couch. “Fuck. Keep sayin’ it.”

You continue spewing that sweet filth into his ear—how perfect he is, how full you feel, how much you missed him. He groans into your mouth. You kiss him slowly and delicately, swallowing the moan that slips from his lips as you roll your hips.

You ride him gently, hands in his hair, letting the heat curl between your legs again, unhurried this time, thicker. He holds your hips and watches your face, his eyes soft behind his glasses, mouth parted in awe.

When you come again—quiet, shaking, forehead pressed to his—it undoes him. He spills into you with a low growl, arms wrapping tight around your waist, breath faltering against your skin.

Joel breathes hard, glasses askew, beard wet from earlier. He looks completely wrecked. Precious. You smile and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Afterward, he carries you to the bathroom with eass and cleans you up with a warm cloth and smooth murmurs. He helps you back into your panties, presses a kiss to your knee.

Then he carries you back to the couch, stopping in the kitchen to grab you a brownie so he can feed it to you right from his hands.

He tells you how beautiful you are, how lucky he feels to be with you, how next time he’ll cook you dinner.

You lick chocolate from his finger and raise an eyebrow. “You supervised this?”

“Ellie did most of the supervising. I just took credit.”

You laugh. “As long as she supervises dinner, too.”

He grins. “What, you don’t trust me in the kitchen?”

You lean into him. “I trust you. But I’ve seen you wield a hammer not a spatula.”

He pulls you into his lap again, smiling against your shoulder. “I’ll make you dinner and it'll be damn good,” he says.

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Looking forward to it.”

> pt. III

lmk if you’d like to be on the joel miller taglist!

nsfw joel miller taglist: @lesbianhotch, @ozarkthedog, @lowrisemiller, @iamthatonefangirl, @campingwiththecharmings, @stargazingcarol, @megamindsecretlair, @nerdieforpedro, @fakeplasticfeels, @for-a-longlongtime, @bubblybubbubs, @jxvipike, @veritable-trash, @yesjazzywazzylove-blog, @lowrisemiller, @ficsavin, @diedorleft, @meetmeatyourworst, @amyispxnk, @marc-spectorr, @luzhesrozes

[askdacast]

I’m not the biggest Star Wars fan around but I second this analysis and also note that it’s a worrying trend for people in fandom to idolize self-indulgence above all else, especially attempts (however imperfect) to curb it.

a lot of anti-Jedi rhetoric is deeply strange to me because a lot of it mostly amounts to sounding a lot like they think that the concepts of self control, NOT acting on your impulses or feelings the second you experience them makes you an inhuman monster

its a very strange fandom phenomenon and while I don't think its exclusively the result of people overhyping the concept of romance as something essential to the human experience (and disregarding the ideas of asexuality or simply that people might have bigger priorities than wanting to smooch someone), I do think that you see a lot of deeply strange conclusions that ultimately feel like people grasping at straws to find an excuse to hate the Jedi for basically existing.

One big example is the tendency for people to imply that the Jedi Order deserved their fate, or that their actions in the past led to it. Not only is this objectively incorrect, and not only is it specifically framed as a horrific tragedy and the capstone on the galaxy having a boot on its throat until the events of the original trilogy, the biggest issue there is the subject of Vader. A LOT of people like to insist that Anakin was demonized for having feelings, but Star Wars as a setting doesn't really do villainy like that, but Anakin often comes off as incredibly entitled and even childish in the prequel trilogy. In Clone Wars, conversely, he comes off as less annoying but at the same time his willingness to abandon Jedi doctrine, focus on his personal friends and loved ones over his greater duty and other character traits, though seemingly admirable, ultimately point to this:

That these are the same exact traits that define Darth Vader. Anakin, in a lot of ways, doesn't change that much.

People like to imagine that the Sith have the potential to be more good than the Jedi because they value passion. This flies in the face of the Sith's dogma, the on-screen behavior of every canonical Sith, and even the source of their power. Anger can be a tool, but being DEFINED by anger, in practice, means lashing out, simmering in resentment, storing up your desire to harm others or destroy for your own satisfaction. It's about a LACK of discipline, of acting upon your feelings as destructively and violently as possible.

There's a reason they almost died out; the reason they kept constantly backstabbing each other even in the middle of a war against everyone else is a result of their philosophical approach. This is the inevitable consequence of their outlook. Conversely, the Jedi's own doctrine (the harmony of all things, flowing with the currents of the Force, having it as an ally rather than something you brute force into whatever you want) avoids this.

It just keeps coming up again, this idolization of the Sith, the demonification of the Jedi, and it ultimately amounting to be people being really inappropriate about religious ideas clearly inspired by Buddhism and overvaluing romance. In all honesty, the Jedi's doctrine makes perfect sense especially when the point is clear; "Anakin fixated on his romantic love and personal feelings above anything else. Look what happened to him; he became the personal hand of the biggest tyrant in the universe. And also he murdered his wife in a fit of rage, because that is the inevitable conclusion to what the Sith are like."

[celestialowlbear]

Just Gale romance things.

Waking up to the aroma of freshly cooked breakfast, which he brings you in bed.

Laying his head in your lap as you play with his hair, asking you about your day.

Cozy evenings reading by a crackling fire, sitting in comfortable silence.

Gale softly reciting poetry as you lay in bed together, holding you close, his intimate words only meant for your ears.

Watching the sunset over a glass of good wine as Gale tells you about a new spell he’s learning.

Gale’s hand always finding yours, squeezing gently and finding it hard to let go.

Playful kisses on the cheek when you aren’t expecting it.

Bookstore dates, thumbing through old texts and buying way more books than you could ever read.

Gale smelling of leather and well-worn pages of a book as he kisses you in the back of the shop.

Catching Gale staring at you, his eyes full of warmth and awe at you, even when you’re doing the most mundane things.

Trying new recipes together, laughing in the kitchen.

Gale whispering between passionate kisses that he wishes he could marry you again and again and again, how his love for you goes beyond all planes and dimensions, your love so profound not even the most prolific poet could put on paper.

Dozing off in one another’s arms, Gale’s heart beyond full, knowing you loved him for him, He could be his true self, the real Gale Dekarios with you.

And he wants nothing more than you and him, like this, forever.

Help, I love him.