Just an idea I’d been fiddling around with for some time. It was supposed to be a teeny tiny headcanon, but it got a bit longer than that along the way. Just… take it for what it is: a non-specific adoption!AU (though still a middle-earthian one), nothing more, nothing less.

It starts with light chatter at the market, casual inquiries from this plump lady or that older wrinkly one.

The child in Kili’s arms must draw attention – flaming red hair she has, and where did she get it?, they ask, a calloused finger tickling the underside of her chin, the precious spot only he and Fili have the divine right to tickle until she is able to state otherwise. Did she get it from her mother?, they wonder out loud, and for all it’s worth, the urge to swat those hands away is even stronger than the beer Dori brews these days.

Such green eyes, they remark, all downy faces and honeyed voices and pursed lips, and for all that is good and sweet in this world, don’t they have linen to choose or heavy velvet to smooth down with their bejewelled fingers? Shouldn’t they be otherwise occupied, than demanding answers he may never have?

Kili holds the baby a bit more snugly against his chest, stubbly cheek finding her fluffy curls in a most delightful chance meeting.

“She’s one of a kind,” he tells them all, and when his girl waves her tiny fist at them and concurs with a ‘oooh, he kisses her temple with all the pride his heart can contain.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, as they leave nosy matrons behind, and her tacky hand curling around his jaw is more than enough reward for his fatherly tribulations.

It starts with light chatter and ends up as a bedtime story; the best one Kili himself has ever heard, in fact - it could very well rival the ones Dis used to make them all drowsy with.

She might as well know, Fili says softly; before she grows up and starts doubting the shape of her nose, questioning the bow of her eyebrows and the curve of her lips, wondering why they find no match on her parent’s faces. And since know she must, she’ll know from them.

That is how they first sit together by the hearth, a small family with two heavy hearts and one gleeful set of kicking legs; their baby girl cradled in Fili’s arms, a sweet tale flowing from his lips like a lullaby.

The tale of how he and daddy stole the fire from Mahal’s forge to put in her hair, and when clumsy daddy got them both busted – “Because he’s silly just like that, isn’t he, your daddy?”, Fili coos, and she agrees so readily and joyfully Kili could feel almost touched - Mahal was so impressed by their courage and so moved by their love for her, that not only did he forgive them, but also cut two of his purest and sparkliest emeralds for her eyes.

It doesn’t take long for the child to fall into a content sleep, and when she does, Kili’s head is already leaning on his brother’s shoulder, relief and heartbreak weighing with equal force on his chest.

“I don’t want her to be unhappy, Fili. I don’t want her to grow up and wonder if she was raised in the wrong family.”

“I know,” Fili whispers, a flutter of lips against the top of Kili’s head. “But she shall never need to wonder if she’s loved.”

Their hands find each other soon after, a loose, tender tangle nestled on Fili’s thigh, and Kili can finally take heart again.

Fili will sit almost every night to tell his tale once more, Kili knows that like he knows the back of his hand.
And maybe in time the story will expand on its own accord, as often stories do; details will be added, some words will be changed, but their meaning won’t shift nor waver. Maybe one day their daughter will be scolding Fili for skipping a scene or forgetting a character, but the one thing she will never fail to know, the one thing they’ll be sure to teach her always, is that blood doesn’t matter. Not if you’re willing to face Mahal himself for your loved ones.

reposting cause i want this one to be a part of #reclaimthebindi #coachellashutdown little rant about cultural appropriation: using a bindi/henna as a fashion statement while south asian people have to face racist remarks and offensive slurs on a daily basis for wearing anything that represents their culture is so ridiculous. you can’t take out the pretty bits and ignore everything else. i don’t care if it’s summer-y or trendy, you’re being extremely disrespectful.

at a downtown stoplight tonight while on my way home, a little boy had his arm hangin out of his backseat window and he told me he liked my car. i thanked him and then the light changed so we parted ways.

lo and behold, after getting onto 35 and driving all the way back near my apartment, i stop at another light next to the same car! little boy turns to me again, ignoring the fact that we hadn’t seen each other in 10 minutes, and asks “does it go fast?” i said yes and he smiled real big. then as his lane started moving while mine was stuck, he told me to have a good night and saluted me.

it was cute, it made me happy

Stories for Liz - Number Thirteen

“And 3, 2, 1… <snap> wide awake and ready for whatever happens next!”

I blinked and realized I hadn’t actually closed my eyes. There was the enchanting black and white spiral still rotating at me. For a second, I thought I’d slide right back in as the waves of spirals came back at me. 

“No, no…. wake up.” 

My hypnotist reached over and turned off the animation. I took a second to get my bearings. They had this remarkable expression on their face. They looked at me, searchingly. 

“Wha-.. .what happened?”

“Well… how much of that session do you remember?”

“Um… I remember you asked me to look at this really cool animation, and then you started talking… and then… I woke up? How long was I out?”

“It’s been an hour and a half.” 

I visibly blanched. I was trying to pull myself together, and was so distracted. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but notice that they were looking at me… funny. They adjusted their glasses.

After a few seconds of waking up, I made eye contact. That’s when I noticed it. They were blushing. Now, they are not someone to blush. I’ve heard stories of the contortions and contusions they has put their subjects and slaves through. And yet, sure as I’m writing this, they were blushing. 

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Did something happen while I was under?” And that’s when I realized I didn’t even remember what we were supposed to be doing under that trance. 

They didn’t answer, but removed a thumb drive from a laptop and handed it to me. We recorded all of our sessions, but usually they emailed them to me. 

“Here. When you get home… listen to this. You might want to skip the first 60 minutes or so. It’s mostly the induction and me placing a few triggers in you. In fact…” They checked their notes. “Start at the 68th minute mark. That should do it. Anyway, I have some things to take care of, and you need to be on your way.“ We bid each other good-bye. I admit I was too eager.  In the parking lot, I uploaded the file to my own laptop, put it on my smartphone, and set it up to play through the car stereo. After I found the 68th minute mark, I pressed play, put my car in gear, and headed to the freeway. 

“-and so you let the last little bit of resistance fade away. And you let the last filter fall away as you fall even deeper. And now you realize, as you stare at that screen that the spinning spiral has blown all of your inhibitions and filters away. So that there is nothing standing between your unconscious mind and me. And you will find yourself answering any question I ask you honestly and fully. Do you understand?”

“Yesss.” It was the very first time I had actually heard my voice in trance; although I have recordings of prior trances, I had never actually listened to them. It was very strange. I also had absolutely no memory of these words the hypnotist was saying. 

“Good. Very good. Now I want to ask you a question. It’s a simple question, but it might be hard for you to answer. That’s why I’ve put you in this state. Are you ready to answer the question?”

“I am ready.” My voice sounded, somehow, both brighter and lazier than I usually do. 

“Good. What is it that you want?”

I nearly drove into the car next to me. This is always one of my most difficult questions to answer. I can be very frustrating for my friends, not even being able to give a solid answer on what type of burger I want from Five Guys. 

“What to I…. want?”

“Yes. From hypnosis. And.. from me.”

“What do I want.”


I admit I was flabbergasted. I had no memory of this at all, and, now sitting in rush hour traffic which creeped up on me suddenly, I don’t even know how I would answer the question. And then…. my own voice began to answer.

“I want…. I want…”


“I want to be taken. I want to feel the power of your words consume me. I want you to hypnotize me slowly, over hours, because I want to feel your attention on me.” 

Already, my voice was picking up speed. My voice continued.

“I want your words to fill me up. I want your words to take my words over. I want to use your words everyday and be owned and used and collared by your words. I want your words to pin me to a wall, naked, and I want to feel the pressure and beat of your words on my skin like a cleansing shower rinsing the dust and the mud of a long day off my body. 

“I want to be the best hypnotic subject I can be and be pushed to the limits of what a mind can do. I want to be bent and broken mentally, and then built up again in whatever way would please you

“I want you to install triggers so deep inside of me that I will never suspect that I was even hypnotized. I want to lie prostrate before the very altar your words create within me. 

“I want your words. I crave them. But that’s not enough. I want to be trained to be addicted to your words.

“I want to be made to serve. Which isn’t quite right, because you can’t be made to do something you want to do. But even so-I want your words to force me to my knees at the unmitigated power of them. 

“I want… what any sub wants. I want to serve. I want to be dominated. I want to hurt. I want to show you that I can take whatever you dish out. I want to show you how gratified I can be to act on your behalf. To act for you. 

“I want to be fucked by your words. I want to be bent over and made to scream while you sit there and merely talk. Or whisper. 

“I want to have my mind be emptied and vacant until all I am is a drooling wreck of a human being. I want you to take that wreck and fill it with desire and passion until I beg you for release. I want to be your horny fuck toy, if that notion pleases you.

“I want you to use every part of me for your pleasure, whether I am allowed to remember it or not. I want to be your instrument of desire, always open and willing for whatever you want to do. 

“I want to be taught the best way to serve. I want to be displayed as a good example. I want to stand as tribute to your power. 

“I want my mind to be splayed in front of you, to do with as you will, so that I have no choice in the matter. 

“I want to give you every choice I can ever make, and make them as you would have me do. 


My voice wavered here. I had pulled to the side of the road, my mouth hung open in shock at what my voice was saying. I could never imagine in a million years saying words like this; it wasn’t me. And yet….

And yet. 

And yet there is no other way to say it…..

These words felt like home. 

“I want to make you proud. 

“I want to be the best tranceslut, hypnoslave, boy toy, girl toy, fucktoy, servant, slave, butler, switch, pal…. that I can be. 

“I want to serve…..

“I want to serve you.”

There was a long pause on the tape. I could tell my hypnotist was thought collecting. 

I sat there in my car, by the side of the road, staring into space.

It was only after a few seconds that I realized I was crying. 

“That’s….” there was coughing.

“In a minute I’m going to wake you up and, eventually, send you on your way. Your unconscious will hide this session in a white room inside your mind that only I can get to; you will not remember it. I will give you a recording of this which you will listen only when it is safe to do so. When you get to this point, your conscious self will have to deal with this confession. But… as you deal with it, know this….”

I held my breath. 

“If this is what you want. If this is what you truly desire, return to me tonight. Be at my door at 6 pm. Knock four times. And if you come inside, I will make this happen.

“All. Of. It. 

“And more.”

I looked at my car’s clock. It was 5:30, and I was 20 minutes away. I turned the car around.

Life is too short not to embrace your needs, your desires…. your self. 

I was already half-way there, when I heard the voice on the recording. 

“3, 2, 1, <snap!>… wide awake, and ready for whatever happens next.”

An update to my beautiful pink child, Mam! See his previous stuff here

<3 I’m so happy I could capture both his childlike amazement and his off-kilter nose in this drawing. I normally have a bit of a hard time with both with this bloke, but he looks good!


      Bill looked up at the other blonde [ almost excitedly ], wrapped his arms
      tightly around the boy. He had absolutely no clue who he was; but hell, the
      demon wasn’t one to push away the attention he was receiving!

“I haven’t seen you around in a long while, Bill,” Octavian remarked fondly, pressing his face lightly into the other’s hair. “You should have visited– I’d have made time for you, you know I would have. How have you been?

el-soldxdo 𝄄 CONT.

            I fail to see how having a fucked up leg CLASSIFIES
              as COOL, but whatever you did, it PROBABLY serves
              you right.

                                                         …are you going to be OKAY? ❜

Oh and just a heads up

to anyone who has an issue with the fact that pictures were taken at my grandfather’s funeral and assume you know everything, you don’t. It all started when I said that I wanted a nice picture of my dad and my boyfriend in their suits since that doesn’t happen too often. Or ever. So my dad suggested that we go outside for good lighting. As I was taking pictures of them, my dad said “make sure you get a good picture of you and Finn together too!” So why don’t you try and tell my dad what he can and can’t do at his own father’s funeral.

And go fuck yourself while you’re at it. Stop concerning yourself with what I do and worry about whatever issues you have since clearly there’s something going on that you feel the need to make snide remarks but hide your face.

Petty petty petty.

Litquake is proud to host the San Francisco launch of Bruce Barcott’s newest work, Weed the People. Book sales and signing to follow.

“Will the rest of the country follow suit? To judge by Barcott’s useful book, you’d do well not to bet against it.” —Kirkus Reviews

Washington State and Colorado have established the world’s first legal and state-regulated marijuana industries and, in doing so, have carried out one of the most remarkable about-faces in American history. Weed the People, the new book from TIME Books/Time Home Entertainment, Inc., traces the history and legalization of marijuana in the United States and investigates the question, “Have the past 75 years of marijuana prohibition been wholly unnecessary, or are we deluding ourselves about the harm we’re about to unleash?”

Author, journalist and cannabis industry expert Bruce Barcott, a Guggenheim Fellow in nonfiction, chronicles how marijuana is changing from a demonized drug to a medicine and mild intoxicant. In 2012, Barcott reluctantly voted for legalization in his home state of Washington; the next morning he wondered, “What have we done?” Weed the People answers that question with an insightful and often funny dive into the booming pot industry and a look at the legal, social, cultural, and personal changes brought about by the changing status of the world’s most controversial plant.

Buy tickets