Month: March 2017
crocordile
replied to your post “*wakes up from a dead sleep, covered in sweat* I KNOW HOW THE…”
Enlighten us plis
siadea replied to your post“*wakes up from a dead sleep, covered in sweat* I KNOW HOW THE…”
TELL ALL AT ONCE (or after you get more sleep depending)
outerspacekake replied to your post“*wakes up from a dead sleep, covered in sweat* I KNOW HOW THE…”
I’M DONE WITH CLASSES LET’S HEAR IT (you’re already up…)
–Soon, my pretties. Soon. I must draw the thing, then all will be revealed.
*wakes up from a dead sleep, covered in sweat* I KNOW HOW THE SINDARIN ECONOMY WOULD WORK
Sometime in the night, longing crept under his skin, and a state of distraction hounds him throughout his day.
He catches himself leaning closer to people as they speak, falling half in love with the expressions of strangers. A need for touch burns like an itch in the back of his thoughts; inconvenient and frustrating. He envies the errant brush of a hand across another’s throat, the silk hem of a constricting frock.
Seeking the relief of solitude, away from the storm of exchanged glances and wind-caught scents, he is driven to his chambers; but the yearning haunts him still, and he finds himself pacing like a lion in a cage, half hoping, half dreading that someone will intrude upon his suffering.
Sometime in the night, longing crept under his skin, and a state of distraction hounds him throughout his day.
He catches himself leaning closer to people as they speak, falling half in love with the expressions of strangers. A need for touch burns like an itch in the back of his thoughts; inconvenient and frustrating. He envies the errant brush of a hand across another’s throat, the silk hem of a constricting frock.
Seeking the relief of solitude, away from the storm of exchanged glances and wind-caught scents, he is driven to his chambers; but the yearning haunts him still, and he finds himself pacing like a lion in a cage, half hoping, half dreading that someone will intrude upon his suffering.
It wasn’t unusual for her to disappear, and then simply pop back into her cousin’s realm. After all, the court as well as atmosphere hardly suited Lothuialneth. The only pull it had was that Tyelpe resided here, and more recently a blond half-Maia that she wasn’t sure if she like or despised.
It was her habit to check on her cousin upon her return. No matter how late it always seemed like she could find him in his forge or workshop burning the lamp oil to work upon some piece or project. It never interested her to ask. She didn’t always understand what he meant. Although this night upon her arrive, Tyelpe asked for a favor. A rather simple one if she was honest with herself. He asked that she run a set of plans for a project they were working on to his chambers.
She didn’t refuse the errand, and Tyelpe gave her simple enough directions before going back to work. Perhaps she should warn Annatar that he’d likely find her erratic cousin asleep in the forge in the morning. As she came to the door, she rapped carefully upon the door before sticking her head in. “Annatar? Tyelpe asked that I drop this off for you to look over.”
A muffled, bitten-off sound came from inside the chambers, like someone who’d stubbed their toe in a library and was trying not to shout.
“….M-Mormiriel! What a pleasant surprise! Ah… forgive me, I fear you’ve caught me at an inopportune moment. I was just… changing.”
Well, it was only half a lie. He had been changing into an older, more comfortable form, discarding both clothing and his Vanyarin disguise– though he had not precisely intended to put either back on until he’d purged mind and body of the heat the plagued him.
What a disaster… Mormiriel was the last person in Eregion save for Celebrimbor himself that he wished to be caught trousers down by, so to speak. He was quick to grab a nearby coverlet to preserve what was left of modesty– he’d hate to shock her. Such a pretty, gold-headed girl, willow-thin, with the strong arms of a bowman; was she the sort that blushed easily? He didn’t know. A part of him wished he could find out.
He gave himself a mental slap. It was this sort of thinking that made it especially dangerous to have prying guests around while his imagination was so inflamed.
Sometime in the night, longing crept under his skin, and a state of distraction hounds him throughout his day.
He catches himself leaning closer to people as they speak, falling half in love with the expressions of strangers. A need for touch burns like an itch in the back of his thoughts; inconvenient and frustrating. He envies the errant brush of a hand across another’s throat, the silk hem of a constricting frock.
Seeking the relief of solitude, away from the storm of exchanged glances and wind-caught scents, he is driven to his chambers; but the yearning haunts him still, and he finds himself pacing like a lion in a cage, half hoping, half dreading that someone will intrude upon his suffering.
The servant keeps his head low and never looks anyone in the eyes, he doesn’t believe anyone would recognize him anyway. The Maia has seen the master’s pet watch meaningless souls with longing.
Arradir knows very well the ease of manipulating those seeking to fulfill a need. It’s now that he’s chosen to follow, he’s spent to much time dawdling without a chance to move forward. The lieutenant should have access to plans, plans which he was interested in.
He gives a solid knock at the door of Sauron’s chamber and stands back.
“What?” The lieutenant barked irritably through the closed door. He had just resigned himself to dealing with this frustration alone, this fascination with flesh that had haunted him throughout the day, and now someone disturbed him?
He could not bear to face even a courier in this state; whoever it was would only come bearing new responsibilities or temptations, both of which he dreaded while his body and soul were so… suggestible.
The presence on the far side of the door felt permeable, liquid, unfamiliar. A Maia, he wagered, but one he had never met. This made him curious enough to add “…I am in a foul mood for introductions, but if we are Cousins, I will hear you out.”
I’m so curious about ppl who reblog my roleplays, who don’t run an RP blog and don’t leave any tags
like, :’D wow! it’s not even a finished thing? it’s not a fic or anything! there’s no art in there? And you’re saving it to your main blog? That’s… that’s fantastic! It’s weird, and flattering, and I have no idea why you’re doing it? It’s cool tho! Wow
a messy masterpost of an AU I created while mentioning to @mcmanatea I was watching Outlander, and she told me she’d love to see Thorin wearing a kilt! So I ended up drawing it on a stream, and it became a Thing in my patreon and streams x3
please note that I have barely done any research on this time period, and this is literally just based on a series, so it’s not meant to be a serious depiction!
people on the stream chat baptized it the 18th century nobles AU, which is fitting! @emsiecat‘s working on a fic for it based on the lake picture above, too!
Sometime in the night, longing crept under his skin, and a state of distraction hounds him throughout his day.
He catches himself leaning closer to people as they speak, falling half in love with the expressions of strangers. A need for touch burns like an itch in the back of his thoughts; inconvenient and frustrating. He envies the errant brush of a hand across another’s throat, the silk hem of a constricting frock.
Seeking the relief of solitude, away from the storm of exchanged glances and wind-caught scents, he is driven to his chambers; but the yearning haunts him still, and he finds himself pacing like a lion in a cage, half hoping, half dreading that someone will intrude upon his suffering.
The vampire went through his day with suspicions, finding that the very atmosphere of emotion and half-transient memories embedded in this place to be suddenly bitter and filled with longing. Something, someone whose affinity burned holes in the reality had kindled them, stirring them up like so much dust across the stone.
Yualie continued his work, or attempted to focus. It was difficult. He plodded along, every gesture filled with purpose. Yet his concentration kept slipping. Not only do the inedible emotions fill his nose and throat, teasing his hunger, he finds himself changing. A caress of the cheek of a patient, a brushing of lips on a thorny orc brow. Words stirred on a page, distracted and unlike his other composed reports. It would have been one thing to declare his being interrupted. It was wholly another to realize that his distractions were wholly his own, catching fire.
The vampire ran his hands through his hair, and with a deep sigh, knocked.
A scent like dead leaves accompanied the knocking; a dry, autumnal rot that was not entirely unpleasant. He recognized the presence, but not intimately. It took a long moment to recall the servant who it belonged to; a flesh tailor, a collector of whispers that flew in on little leathery wings, a creature not unlike the messenger he’d befriended long ago, as Thû.
He couldn’t imagine what had brought the petty necromancer up from his cave, unbidden. Was it a dreadful coincidence that brought him this company, when every stray thought made his heart race and memories of past lovers rise in his mind’s eye, or was it fate laughing at him?
But the breathy sound from the other side of the door was one of sympathy, not mockery, and the aura surrounding the fey servant (not Maiar nor Eruhini) seemed to mirror his own– distracted and tender.
He did not know what to make of his guest’s appearance, except that it eased for a moment his loneliness. With a gesture of his hand, the door swung open.
“You may enter, if you wish,” he beckoned from where he sat by the window, voice almost melancholy. “Yualie, isn’t it? What brings you here without a summons?”
someone turn this into a fic, i’ll pay you with my endless love
Sometime in the night, longing crept under his skin, and a state of distraction hounds him throughout his day.
He catches himself leaning closer to people as they speak, falling half in love with the expressions of strangers. A need for touch burns like an itch in the back of his thoughts; inconvenient and frustrating. He envies the errant brush of a hand across another’s throat, the silk hem of a constricting frock.
Seeking the relief of solitude, away from the storm of exchanged glances and wind-caught scents, he is driven to his chambers; but the yearning haunts him still, and he finds himself pacing like a lion in a cage, half hoping, half dreading that someone will intrude upon his suffering.
It was probably a bad thing to be this comfortable in the seat of the dark lord’s empire. Which was why she worked very hard not to think too much about it as she strolled freely through the halls and wandered unbothered through the sooty courtyards of Mordor. In fact, it was probably even worse that she was making her way to the Dark Lord himself, as though meeting up with an old friend.
Yes, time to stop thinking on that. More important things to consider, after all, as she gave a courtesy knock before strolling into his quarters without waiting for permission to enter. “Don’t mind me,” she said in greeting, an Elf on a mission, “Just coming to raid your bath. What is it you use to get the bubbles just so? It was like mountains.”
“…Lin!” Sauron nearly choked. “Lin… Hells…” he whispered to the observatory ceiling through gritted teeth before turning to his unwelcome guest.
“Happy as I always am to see you, I must say my dear, that on this day you have incredibly poor timing.” His usually pristine smile was somewhat forced. He tried very, very had not to look directly at his friend, hands folded discreetly at his front, sleeves obscuring what he hoped was not an especially noticeable change in his profile.
Not Lin. Why Lin. Why now? At this moment when his skin practically blistered with yearning, and all his senses betrayed him…. He didn’t want to look with new eyes on the minstrel’s boyish figure, or her wide, becoming grin. It was too much: she was a friend, and spoken for, and not entirely trustworthy, and so many other things that made this encounter unbearable.
“I was about to begin a project which, ah, requires my utmost concentration, so regrettably, I cannot offer you my hospitality until after it is completed. What was it you needed? Bubbles?” He laughed, distracted. “You’re welcome to abscond with any of the luxuries in the bathhouse, so long as you take them elsewhere for now.”
✏
Sometime in the night, longing crept under his skin, and a state of distraction hounds him throughout his day.
He catches himself leaning closer to people as they speak, falling half in love with the expressions of strangers. A need for touch burns like an itch in the back of his thoughts; inconvenient and frustrating. He envies the errant brush of a hand across another’s throat, the silk hem of a constricting frock.
Seeking the relief of solitude, away from the storm of exchanged glances and wind-caught scents, he is driven to his chambers; but the yearning haunts him still, and he finds himself pacing like a lion in a cage, half hoping, half dreading that someone will intrude upon his suffering.
HURRIED STEPS carry him away from the gathering, away from dignitaries of far lands and well known allies. The thick clusters of people would not have alienated him much, he was a predator walking among husks, though what bothered him were the conversations. Lies hissed from behind concealing hands, smiles and social butchery. Mordu was good at crafting words, though this he was not trained for. Which is why must endure… as a Herald to be.
The absence of the host was noted — of course it was, people had their eyes everywhere they shouldn’t be and he could answer with half-truths and straight out lies. Truth is he did not know where the Master was, it seemed as though the very ground has swallowed the Úmaia. Which was strange, was it not? Excusing himself unhurriedly Mordu thought that the very best way to start the search would be Sauron’s quarters.
Long legs carried him quickly through the hallways and corridors ‘til he reached the embossed doors where he skidded to a stop. He has not come here yet, would not ever dare to come here without an explicit request. Alas, desperate times required desperate measures, no? Using the rapper he let his hand rest still. “ My Master? The people wonder about your whereabouts, it seems you are direly missed at this soiree. ”
The shuffle of feet alerted him before he could be surprised by the knocking, but he drew a deep breath all the same.
He could decide not to answer, and lurk in silence behind the door– but what a coward that would make him. It was his fête after all, a celebration of the temple’s lavish gifts, and he’d run away like a petulant child.
The voice was familiar; one of his disciples, the one that sounded like wet silk drawn over slate. Sauron steadied his breath, tucking his hands in the sleeves of his dark robe, and rose to answer.
“Ah, Mordu. The excitement of the evening grew somewhat tiring; I sought a moment of peace to clear my head,” he intoned with practiced tranquility. “Please relay to them that I hope they will forgive my absence, that I am contemplating the greatness of the Giver amidst this revelry. I will return… return shortly.” He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.
It had been a mistake to open the door. If he’d only given his message from afar, he would not have had to look the dark haired youth in the eye, noticing for the first time how his spidery figure cut such elegant lines through space, and how sharp the planes of his hawk-like face became when accentuated by shadow and lamplight. He damned the sensitivity of his own perceptions, willing himself to look away, though it was too late to disguise the slackness in his jaw, or his wandering gaze.
Had the young herald always been this striking? So thin and hungry-looking; long, strong fingers poised in waiting, a faint bluish shadow under his eyes, and the blush of recent exertion rising in his cheeks and throat and lips…
He put a hand to the herald’s jaw, thumb resting lightly against his pointed chin, hardly knowing what he was doing. “…You do not seem one for parties,” he said, low; a silent invitation to ignore assigned duties.
Sometime in the night, longing crept under his skin, and a state of distraction hounds him throughout his day.
He catches himself leaning closer to people as they speak, falling half in love with the expressions of strangers. A need for touch burns like an itch in the back of his thoughts; inconvenient and frustrating. He envies the errant brush of a hand across another’s throat, the silk hem of a constricting frock.
Seeking the relief of solitude, away from the storm of exchanged glances and wind-caught scents, he is driven to his chambers; but the yearning haunts him still, and he finds himself pacing like a lion in a cage, half hoping, half dreading that someone will intrude upon his suffering.
MisbehavingMaiar: Tumblr Archive 