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99% of queer discourse stops right before they define the true difference between bisexual and pansexual!

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has YOUR favorite fictional woman over the age of 30 experienced fandom misogyny from people who are mad at Their Mom From Real Life? call our offices, toll-free, day or night. we're the nation's #1 law firm that specializes in defending adult women who make choices and have character traits. if the prosecution has started calling her a selfish bitch, pick up the phone today!!!

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pregnancy not being considered a temporary disability literally haunts me. it's ignored in so many disability spaces and so many feminist spaces fail to properly address accomodation for pregnant people because they don't have the knowledge of disability justice to discuss it.

but if you look at pregnancy in the light of disability justice, it clears up so much. there are so many types of accomodations that should be accessible for pregnant people, so many changes to the system and ways to implement them.

it also brings to light the ableism pregnant people often face while pregnant, from the frequent claims of "lazy pregnant people" to the lack of accessibility and options to deal with side effects like pain and loss of mobility.

the lack of intersectionality in both disability and feminist spaces leaves things like pregnancy slipping through the cracks and it's so painful to see.

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I can understand how "modern person thrown into the past gets by pretending to be a healer/doctor" is as surprisingly common of a trope as it is. I mean I'm fluent enough at bullshitting to be pretty sure I could pull it off to impersonate a doctor in any time pre-1800s. If I have no idea what something is or how to treat it, I could just get the opinion of the other whatever-passes-as-medical-professionals around, but if their suggestions sound like bullshit I'm not doing it. And I'll beat the shit out of anyone suggesting bloodletting or mercury. With my healing stick. I've tied little bells on it, that jingle comically with every smack.

The awesome curative powers of my healing stick come from two separate sources: Placebo, and me using it to beat anyone trying to give my patients mercury.

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“Be at peace, Son of Gondor… They will look for his coming from the white tower, but he will not return.”

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I know that—objectively—this is bullshit, but I have chosen to believe that the reason the US hasn't formally changed to the metric system is for the poets. When the going gets tough you can still claw your way forward inch by inch, but centimeter by centimeter just doesn't quite carry you. You're in love/excited/nervous/scared and your heart is beating a hundred miles per hour, whoa that sounds fast and dangerous! But a hundred kph? I've been passed by people going faster than that coming out of downtown on capital boulevard. The pound of flesh they take from you is raw and bloody and full of pain, the kilogram of flesh is impersonal and excised in laboratory conditions under strict observation. Liters are okay tho, if only because they sound like meter and a meter is used to measure things, so the measure of a man can be siphoned (as a byproduct of the kilogram) into a bottle with a screw cap lid and stored in a dark cool room until he is found wanting. A gallon would be wasteful, a quart too unserious, and a cup not enough to keep him from withering in the desert sands under 100 degree faeghreignheit sun. ...Okay maybe celsius gets a pass too.

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yes maglor did sooo many murders and war crimes but have you ever actually considered that he’s cool and sings sad songs and wanders the seashore for eternity repenting and driving himself insane . and has also done bad murders

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Mereth Aderthad an artwork for this year's @tolkienrsb, in collaboration with @sweetteaanddragons !

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I think Fingon should just be bafflingly good at sneaking into places. Like obviously there’s the whole rescuing Maedhros thing, but I think he should break into/out of other places. He spends his childhood sneaking away from adult supervision. He regularly sneaks into Formenos during Feanor’s banishment to visit Maedhros. He regularly sneaks out of Dor-Lomin and Barad Eithel despite his father constantly increasing defenses to prevent him from doing so. He breaks out of Mandos one day, refuses to explain himself, and comes back sometime later with a Maedhros he just broke out of Mandos.

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Kindred Flames

My art for this year's @tolkienrsb 2025, featuring Maedhros' encounter with a dog who reflects himself. Accompanying fic is written by the amazing Anne_Wolfe and will be available to read soon (but I already know it's incredible!)!!

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After the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, a parcel makes its way to the Lord of Himring from an anonymous messenger. Just a smallish box left on the outskirts of what remains of his host. Inside is a hand. A right hand. But not his hand—it still hangs from Thangorodrim.

This hand still wears its ring upon the index finger, a matching set to the one Maedhros now wears on his left. There is a gold ribbon tied around the wrist and a single piece of paper with a note written in a language that only Maedhros would know how to read.

A gift, Nelyafinwë. I thought you may wish to bury the remains of your beloved High King.

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that day, elwing saw something truly terrifying

@tolkienvillainsweek

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My third S&D submission for this year's @fall-for-tolkien! Hurin brings forward his request to leave Gondolin, but maybe Turgon's more conflicted on that than either of them realize XD

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The Cradlesinger

i am 80% going to be cutting this part out of a longer piece but it reads perfectly fine standalone and ngl i like it way too much to not share, so enjoy a little snippet of Elrond (canonverse, this time!) continuing to win the gold medal in anxious parenting.

It is only after singing the same secondhand song to three of his own children and one of another that Elrond realises that lullabies are as repetitive and physical as the rest of childcare, mundane as changing their soiled linens or washing their little faces. And from experience, he knows that the voices of those who raised you are the first things to vanish from the memory, long before the face or the scent. Still, the tune endures, and the words, so he sings it for what he tells himself is convenience.

Lullabies do not make kinslayers. This too he knows. And yet, it doesn’t stop the fear from curdling in his chest, the only constant in all the cradles he has sung beside. For the tune endures after all, and nothing empty endures: every vacant hroä holds a fragment of the fëa that forsook it. Can a song be washed of meaning? Is tenderness immune to ideology? Casting about blindly in the face of their infantile distress, Elrond worries that he is not planting seeds for his children to harvest, but salting the earth in the dark of their dreams.

“You worry too much, beloved,” Cel had tried to soothe him, a long time ago when he told her of his fears. “Look how peacefully they sleep through it.”

“Do you think children behind siege walls do not play knucklebones with their brothers?” he’d replied, low and terrible. “Children have slept beneath rubble.”

Now, he tells himself for the hundredth time that he is overthinking it. A cradle song is no Noldolantë. And the inherited nature of lullabies makes it very unlikely that Maglor had written this one specifically for he and Elros, unlikely that he’d written it at all. By the balance of probabilities, one of Maglor’s parents must have sung him the very same tune when he was very young. One of his parents must have repeated it into his ear so often it became almost muscle memory, cycling over and over again.

Which parent? he wonders idly, rocking the half-asleep Estel in his arms, patting his feverish back. He stops short in the hallway, and the tune dies in his throat. Oh god—which one?