I am a Tolkien fan with a long love of the Silmarillion and that’s what my blog is mostly about, but sometimes I post random stuff too, like memes and art and occasional nsfw posts. I also like walking around outside and looking at trees.
I do traditional and digital illustrations of all my favorite elves, and sometimes characters who aren’t elves. Some of my art is x-rated but most is sfw.
my best drawings (according to me) Fingon , Fingolfin , Anairë , Túrin and Beleg NSFW , Maglor , Finrod , Fingolfin , Finarfin , FeaNolvo drawing for my friend , Kidnap Fam commission, Fingolfin’s Challenge Fingolfin and Fingon
I also write fan fiction. My Ao3 is StarShadeEmily. Some of my fics are explicit/dead dove.
My proudest fics are:
Virtus et Scientia, a coming-of-age story in which Anaire and Lalwen join a debate club with Fingolfin. This fic explores sexism and sexual repression among the Eldar. Longfic, 80k.
Gnostic Gnomes: Amrod and Amras start an ascetic mystery cult religion
The End of All that Was: about Anaire’s motivations for staying in Valinor
A Comfort in the Cold: Fingolfin/Lalwen Incest on the Helcaraxe
Impatience: Fingolfin and Anaire, my favorite dysfunctional trad spouses, have guilty oral sex
My blorbos (as you can tell) are Fingolfin, Anairë, and Lalwen. Regarding fandom discourse, I like all the characters. My intention in fandom is to attempt to engage critically with the text while also being horny about elves.
My nsfw posts are tagged as #nsft and my incest shipping posts are tagged either with #cw incest or with the ship name.
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drawing is all sbout becoming good at illustrating one character at 3/4 angle and nothing else no backgrounds no props no furniture no money no job no future
I believe a lot of bad discourse comes from the fact that the framing of hierarchical order in tolkien does not come with the most immediately recognizable nefarious consequences we associate with hierarchy in the real world - aka violence against the "inferior" group is never presented as justified, the "superior" group actually carries a duty of protection toward the lesser one, which may be lower in the hierarchy but still "has its place in the greater scheme" or something. And in that world, while hierarchy certainly has the potential for condemned degeneration, hierarchies themselves are often portrayed as fundamentally good: certain groups are born to rule, lead, teach and protect; others are meant to serve, be instructed and be protected, yet still possess a place and a function within the world. And within that framework there is supposedly nothing wrong with this.
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same goes for things like "bane" "undoing" "foil" "ruin" etc. these are terms of endearment to me. "my ruin" I'm literally moaning and rutting. my flesh aches for the bruising touch of your hands
i do think it's important to realise even if you like the books that when white supremacists really like LOTR they aren't mistaken about the work or misguided or foolishly failing to comprehend the text. they are identifying something very much present in the work that aligns with and expresses their beliefs about the world and connecting with it
Soo..I didn’t think that I’ll write something like that in tumblr,but.
Situation is getting worse every day. People are suffering,dying,and lose their homes in my country.
I’m 14 years old,and I’m from Kyiv.
In June,russian singer held a concert in Mariupol. U don’t understand the problem? That’s fine. I can tell u
This is what it looks like. Or rather,looked like.
russians killed half of the city’s population. Attacks were so horrible that people were forced to bury the bodies of the dead in their YARD.
No,that’s not a horror film,that’s how the population of the port city from 235 thousand turned into 100 thousands. But,why did I say “looked” in the beginning of the paragraph?
Mariupol Drama Theatre, 2022 - - - 2026.
In 2022,russia destroyed it,and killed 300 people, who used it as a shelter. On the first photo u can see a huuuge letters «дети» (it was even written on russian language,in hope that it will stop them) ,and it translates like “children”.
And,the second photo. That’s how it looks now,with russian flag on it. They call it improvement, reconstruction. Killing thousands of people,and transforming a mass grave of a hundred people into a beautiful place,to show their kindness and friendlines.
They “reconstructed” only city centre. Most of the city looks like that,
And a RUSSIAN singer sang a RUSSIAN SONGS in the city,that was destroyed by RUSSIA
————————————————————————-
A lot of cities,villages and houses were destroyed by russia. So much that the number of dead Ukrainians is 525–625 thousands, if you count the missing. russia is a terrorist state. Because of its president,army and people,who don’t want to be considered as a terrorist,and do not want to do something.
They’re sailing apartments,in “reconstructed” houses. And u think,that this houses inhabited by Ukrainians? No! It is inhabited by russians, who's buying an apartment there.russia brought about 60-80 thousand russian civilians and labour migrants from Central Asia. The russian authorities use them to change the ethnic composition of the city and as cheap labour after up to 90% of the housing stock was destroyed during the hostilities. They’re kidnapping ukranian children, Under the guise of summer camp. 50!!!! People were killed by them only this week in Kyiv. And they don't want to be called terrorists. We need to filter,who’s a terrorist and who’s not😳.
For the first,learn to filter your land from someone else's! Learn to speak,learn to feel something finally! Don't make excuses that you can't do anything. U can. And people in Ukraine need ur voice.
Killing people is not normal at all. Invading their land is not normal too. Raping people,torment them,and then tell everyone that u are saving someone is not normal ESPECIALLY!
Every person who died because of our neighbouring country had their life,dreams,opinion,history and soul. Every person had their plans for the future,and wanted to live. And not to be buried in someone’s yard,with the sign “unknown body. Date” instead of a tombstone.
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thank you ever so much @riding-with-the-wild-hunt for the WIP tag! enjoy the opener to my ‘it is on a visit to the forests of Doriath that young adult elrond and elros make the Peredhel choice’ ie ‘what biases are we replicating in the way we talk about conservation?’ and ‘interrogating the uncritical mythos of Tolkien-the-environmentalist’ mild environmental horror fic… zero pressure tags @queerofthedagger @starshadeemilyart @thescrapwitch @melestasflight @mircallaruthven 🤝
Once you could walk the Esgalduin's banks and count the birch and beech Melian herself had blessed. You could watch the deer move through undergrowth so ancient it bitched and barked in your ear about those who passed through a hundred years before you. That was Doriath, old-Doriath, the Doriath that was sacked, that Doriath who was first built within a clearing and widened it clear. It is uncertain whether Doriath had permitted the forest, or whether the forest permitted Doriath. However, it is certain that the uncertainty persists because Doriath is no more.
For the girdle is gone and the trees are still frantic all these decades later, not knowing yet what to do with the freedom of their limbs and thus warring with each other. Brambles have taken the throne room for their own, snarling up the pillars. There are vast, empty birds’ nests on the roof, enormous and awe-inspiring in their sheer breadth, proof of the ability of little creatures to make lives out of ravaged spaces, their emptiness a testament to the rapid disappearance of such interstitial refuges. It is almost like Sirion has made a home in the heart of old Doriath.
Elms grow where colonnades stood, their roots finding in the foundations of the city a richer soil than the surrounding wood ever offered. Richer, Elrond suspects, for reasons the loremaster within him already cannot stop asking about. There are small traces of a breed of fern that grows only where iron has rusted into the ground, its fronds a green so dark it reads as black in low light, and the old Doriathim had called this fern by a name that translates roughly to grief-tender, though whether it fed on grief or whether the grieving tended to it, no one now living can say. Following the traces would lead you deep into the darkest part of the woods, where it twists around the feet of the forest’s crown, two identically vast, towering firs in the heart of the wild, their tips gilded with sunlight.
Amongst what had survived of Doriath in Sirion, there had been a painting in the dining hall of one of the last of Doriath’s marchwardens. When this picture was painted, the two great firs had not been firs, though they had already been twins. In the painting, the warden is standing at the treeline with instruments that seem near superstitious in their simplicity. In one hand, a rod for testing the depth of leaf-mold, a blade for reading the age of bark by its give. Elwing had told them that this fellow used to claim he could tell from the slump of a fallen trunk whether a tree had died of age or of rot. Skills passed down until there was no one left to receive them. His last documented find had been a burl of wood so perfectly spiraled around a discarded hunting-knife that it was displayed for years in the court at Menegroth before the court itself became the thing displayed, spiraled by nothing but time, pinned to the ground by the same. Elwing, the sticky-fingered toddler, had pilfered it from beside her father’s seat before she was whisked away to Sirion, where stickier-fingered Elros had taken it from her bureau and kept it in his pocket, where it became all of Doriath that would survive Sirion.
Looking at that burl, you might sense the whole forest inside it: the light that fell before the girdle and the light that falls now, the undergrowth's negotiations with stubborn roots. In the burl, growth and decay are the same process enacted across different seasons. It was mesmerising, and why would it not be? To look upon tempered steel is to see your own intention reflected back wrong, bright-eyed and warped. To look upon wood that has reclaimed a blademaster’s work is to watch the world watch you pass by, wrinkling its nose in revulsion.
The regrowth, where Doriath had been left alone, has been immediately strange and beautiful in ways even the old kingdom, for all its careful tending, never was. There are others now, in the emptied realms nearby, attempting similar restraint, letting the ground decide what to remember and what to forget. Even as new grief finds new ground to test itself against, the twin firs of Doriath watch to see which of the old growth shaped for a world with Melian's girdle still around it, might find a way to endure a world without one.
In another life, Elrond and Elros might have found out together.
The youths are embarrassingly lost almost from the moment they step foot in the forest. The Eldar are used to excavating the past, because that is where just cause lies waiting for forensic patience and the light to hit it just right. But in Doriath. In Doriath, the past sits on the surface of the earth. In Doriath, the past is viscerally unavoidable, laying in wait to trip little boys up. In Doriath, Elrond and Elros are not fifty eight years old but eight. Here, they have a sister, and they are wailing in the woods and failing to outrun the rustling of the underbrush. They have been left behind after the sacking of their home, taken to the woods by kindly-cruel men. They are twin sparkles of bones in the snow. They are made of the stories people tell about them. Their deaths are towering firs. They are made of the stories that matter most to those who tell them. They are made of Maedhros and Maglor Fëanorian’s moments of remorse. They are two sets of twins in one, four endless permutations of possibilities made feeble bookends to atrocity.
For the anon who requested Fingolfin months ago , I’m really sorry it took so long 😭
It didn’t turn out the way I originally planned .I wanted to do a full illustration, but ended up making a simple black and white drawing instead. I hope you like it 💙💙
I am not in the mood for writing RN unfortunately, but enjoy a short piece about Galadriel musing on her relationship {explicit content under the cut}:
Galadriel, Galadriel. Maiden crowned with a radiant garland. So beautiful a name, the name of a queen. More beautiful for sure than Nerwen or Artanis would ever be. Artanis: the name of the daughter of a prince, nothing more, nothing less. Nerwen: the name that in theory wanted to be a proof of her physical prowess, but too often sounded like mockery in the mouth of many a Noldorin lord. Celeborn had paid no heed to them both, and had found another for her, a name that talked not of what she was supposed to be, but of what she wanted to be.
Galadriel, he had called her, and the way he had whispered such a name made her blush even harder than thinking about his cock buried inside of her. Such a thought followed her in her dreams as much in her wake, leaving her musing long on it.
When she had met him in Doriath, she had found herself admiring him, for he was beautiful and brave and bold, and even if he was not among Thingol’s captains, people talked well enough of his valour, for he had defended his people against the attack in the North, in the great Battle-Under-the-Stars. She had started looking at him with liking, musing often about his beauty, especially alone at night in her bed, imagining his clever hands upon her.
To seduce Celeborn had never been her first intention. If anything, at first, Artanis had told herself that she had to forget such a childish infatuation, for she was not a young girl anymore, eager to fall into the traps of love and easily idealizing a man that would prove to be all too different from her fantasies. And how could she ever think about falling in love, after the Doom, after the Helcaraxë?
And yet, and yet. Celeborn was proud, aye, but also able of kindness, prone to tell what he thought with very little care for second ends or for what people might think of him. Some could have mocked the way he wore his heart on his sleeve, but Artanis appreciated that.
He was so different from the Noldorin princes she was used to, who hid their intentions under faces like masks and used words as weapons even before Fëanáro had started to forge his swords.
Maybe it was so that, in that far away land that had never seen the Light of the Two Trees, she had finally found the one she had always longed for, all unknowingly, the one that she had thought long extinct save for her girlish fancies, who could love her with no second end and who would never try to lock her in a cage, as many before him had tried to do more than once. Even dear Findaráto, whom Artanis loved more than anyone else, had by time to time tried to command her.
And often enough in the secrecy of the bedroom, Celeborn had accepted to submit to her, in a way that none would have expected from such a proud prince as he was.
Oh, and how she had loved to mark his body with her nails and teeth, red and blue marks appearing like a field of flowers on his skin, and he had not only allowed that but had also enjoyed it. She had been careful to bestow those signs on him only in places that he could easily hide under clothes, and so the very idea that during the day he would go on his duties at court with the signs of her affection on his skin, albeit well-hidden to anyone’s eyes, made her still shiver in pleasure.
He had been hers to mark, to hurt, to claim. But had she not also been his too? The exchange had been equal, for passion had reaped its due earning in her heart. Hers had not been the dominion of an uncaring mistress, but rather every bruise that she had inflicted on Celeborn’s body had marked her very soul too. For Artanis had no half measure in passion, and if to love her was to despair, now it was her turn for despairing as well.
I am glad I’m not pregnant but why must my period be SO heavy. fucking hell. There can be no evolutionary advantage to bleeding like a stuck pig. Walking and I can feel fat clots falling out WHY
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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ICE killed another person in maine today, just days after the murder of lorenzo salgado araujo in houston
the maine immigrants rights coalition has released a statement confirming he was a 26 year old columbian man who was authorized to work in the US and had a valid social security number
will update this post with a gofundme link if/when one becomes available
his name was joan sebastian guerrero. his 3 yr old daughter was in the backseat of the car in her bluey pajamas. after he was shot, witnesses saw ICE agents pull him from the car and cuff him as he died
If you can’t donate to the gofundme for any reason, you may also consider supporting Presente, which supports Latin American and Afro-Latin people in Maine: https://www.presentemaine.org/
Presente! Maine
Or the Immigrant Legal Advocacy Project (ILAP): https://ilapmaine.org/
ILAP Maine
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