doooweeeeooooo

[doooweeeeooooo]

It's so funny when my mother doesn't consider my sexual assault as valid but always makes sure to bring it out for "reasoning" of my attraction to same sex

[doooweeeeooooo]

NO ONE GETS IT. NO ONE KNOWS HOW IT FEELS LIVING IN THIS BODY.

[doooweeeeooooo]

People need to know when to stop "giving advice" because half the time you're just blaming people for the situation they are in/ have been in. You need to allow people to complain without making them feel guilty.

I just saw a post of a person talking about their disabled relative dying before they could get a wheelchair, and the horrible treatment they got, how devastating it was. Assholes are in the comments and reblogs giving unwanted "advice". Its obvious they don't know shit and are just looking down on op. You lack context, you lack knowledge and yet the first instict is to judge?

And yes, if you do this you are assholes. You dont need to add if you dont have something good to add. This isnt a debate, its someones life. A simple "do you want advice?" is where you can go is you legitimately struggle with knowing when to give advice.

I've had similar comments so many times. "Maybe if you said no, he would've stopped" "he didn't know any better" "maybe he didn't realise what he was doing"

"You should try to exercise" "Maybe try a little harder" "do you really need to go to the doctor for that" "do you really need those pain meds?"

Why is your fist respond to blame the victim? Wtf? And don't you dare even try to say this isn't victim blaming because it is.

And this is so violent. You know you ain't the first person who said it and won't be the last, and that makes you even more of an asshole. Be responsible for your actions. At this point you know the impact of your words, there is no more "good intention" when you aren't making efforts to stop hurting people.

[doooweeeeooooo]

other sa survivors, does anyone else hate the trend of people saying like 'im gonna touch you' as a .. joke ??

[doooweeeeooooo]

[doooweeeeooooo]

here’s a friendly reminder for survivors of any sort of abuse that

It wasnt your fault

You are strong

You didnt ask for it

No one gets to invalidate your experience

If someone invalidates your experience, you get to dump their ass

[doooweeeeooooo]

[doooweeeeooooo]

I feel like it's not talked enough about how SA really strips you of your identity. Like someone violates your basic humanity and you're left to deal with the aftermath of having everything you are as a person taken away from you. It makes you feel subhuman.

[doooweeeeooooo]

[doooweeeeooooo]

Devil May Cry is the story of two brothers, probably.

[doooweeeeooooo]

The ships burn and Fingolfin hates.

…the ships keep burning and Fingolfin fears.

Mad cackling can almost be heard a continent away and he can’t figure out whose it is: Morgoth’s, or his brother’s.

In either case, he knows the people Fëanor has just taken to the other side, Fingolfin’s dear nephews most of all, are in great danger. He knows his brother. And he knows what happens to the people around him when his passion meets rage in a merciless, all-consuming flame.

No one deserves to be in that line of fire.

So when his children and remaining nephews and niece cry out their betrayal and curse their uncle and cousins, he turns a firm eye to them.

“If I’d commanded it, would you not have done the same?”

They begin to shake their heads, and he frowns.

“Do not lie to me, children.”

They turn away. Fingon’s relief at his father’s words breaks his heart, his eldest should know he cares deeply for Fëanor’s sons. Surely? Has he become so distant? Would any of them have confided in him earlier if he’d just opened his arms a little more-

No use in what ifs.

He turns back to the burning ships and sends a small prayer to whoever might still listen to keep his nephews safe. Fëanor is gone, mind shattered with his father’s death, and he’s dragging his children down with him to ash and blood and ruin. They just have to survive long enough for Fingolfin to arrive. He’ll talk sense into his brother, he’s the only one who can. He’ll get the children their father back and fix all of this, pride be damned.

The Helcaraxë is the only option. His nine children spit venom at their half uncle, but no longer complain of their cousins. A year following him into this hellscape, a year of leaving the weakest to the blizzards lest everyone freeze yet refusing to turn back, has shown them exactly what they’d have done were the positions reversed.

It’s a sobering thought. He wonders what he’s done to deserve such dogged loyalty.

Wonders when he started taking advantage of the same things he hated and admired most about his brother.

Time passes. He wakes one day to a coldness in his fëa and sends another desperate prayer. A bad feeling takes route that grows day by day, fear and a strange fire dancing in his periphery urging him and his people on.

Time is running out Nolofinwë.

Ice slowly gives way to solid rock, then slush, then grass and he arrives at Mithrim in relief, all but running to the fortress, only to see little Makalaurë greeting his host. Eyes hardened, crowned in silver, heavy shoulders draped in a frayed red cloak-

And he knows it’s far, far too late.

Agony and despair are hidden behind a stony mask that he sees right through but can no longer reach. His open arms greeted with caution. Watching. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. His kind words with narrowed eyes, all but daring pity, and Fingolfin could weep.

There’s no reconciliation that can prove his love, his understanding, now.

Fëanor is gone.

His children are being consumed in the blaze left behind.

…and Fingolfin doesn’t know how to fix this.

[doooweeeeooooo]

The ships burn and Fingolfin hates.

…the ships keep burning and Fingolfin fears.

Mad cackling can almost be heard a continent away and he can’t figure out whose it is: Morgoth’s, or his brother’s.

In either case, he knows the people Fëanor has just taken to the other side, Fingolfin’s dear nephews most of all, are in great danger. He knows his brother. And he knows what happens to the people around him when his passion meets rage in a merciless, all-consuming flame.

No one deserves to be in that line of fire.

So when his children and remaining nephews and niece cry out their betrayal and curse their uncle and cousins, he turns a firm eye to them.

“If I’d commanded it, would you not have done the same?”

They begin to shake their heads, and he frowns.

“Do not lie to me, children.”

They turn away. Fingon’s relief at his father’s words breaks his heart, his eldest should know he cares deeply for Fëanor’s sons. Surely? Has he become so distant? Would any of them have confided in him earlier if he’d just opened his arms a little more-

No use in what ifs.

He turns back to the burning ships and sends a small prayer to whoever might still listen to keep his nephews safe. Fëanor is gone, mind shattered with his father’s death, and he’s dragging his children down with him to ash and blood and ruin. They just have to survive long enough for Fingolfin to arrive. He’ll talk sense into his brother, he’s the only one who can. He’ll get the children their father back and fix all of this, pride be damned.

The Helcaraxë is the only option. His nine children spit venom at their half uncle, but no longer complain of their cousins. A year following him into this hellscape, a year of leaving the weakest to the blizzards lest everyone freeze yet refusing to turn back, has shown them exactly what they’d have done were the positions reversed.

It’s a sobering thought. He wonders what he’s done to deserve such dogged loyalty.

Wonders when he started taking advantage of the same things he hated and admired most about his brother.

Time passes. He wakes one day to a coldness in his fëa and sends another desperate prayer. A bad feeling takes route that grows day by day, fear and a strange fire dancing in his periphery urging him and his people on.

Time is running out Nolofinwë.

Ice slowly gives way to solid rock, then slush, then grass and he arrives at Mithrim in relief, all but running to the fortress, only to see little Makalaurë greeting his host. Eyes hardened, crowned in silver, heavy shoulders draped in a frayed red cloak-

And he knows it’s far, far too late.

Agony and despair are hidden behind a stony mask that he sees right through but can no longer reach. His open arms greeted with caution. Watching. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. His kind words with narrowed eyes, all but daring pity, and Fingolfin could weep.

There’s no reconciliation that can prove his love, his understanding, now.

Fëanor is gone.

His children are being consumed in the blaze left behind.

…and Fingolfin doesn’t know how to fix this.

[doooweeeeooooo]

Sons of Feanor running out of reasons to justify their father's behavior

[doooweeeeooooo]

looooooooming maedhros + maglor 🤍

[doooweeeeooooo]

I spend a day drawing&drinking tea with @yonetee and then six hours on the train. I had a lot of time doodling weird over-rendered textures. So this image... happens to be.

For me, the most heartbreaking scene of Silmarillion: Maedhros and Maglor in the camp of Valar x_x

[doooweeeeooooo]

[doooweeeeooooo]

“Maitimo,” he said, “Nelyo, I am sorry. I lost everyone.”

So, so moved and delighted by this beautiful illustration I commissioned from @starshadeemilyart for the final chapter of And Love Grew.