Oh my god… How did you know?
I smell like the inside of a Starbucks in October, all year long.
and i continue to be BLOWN AWAY BY YOUR CONSIDERATION AND KINDNESS >A>
fun fact: my face makes all the expressions that I’m drawing. this is why i don’t leave the house.
Oh my god Tumblr is being unbelievably crap right now >:/ I’m having to post on mobile, sorry for slow
😀 aw man, curly hair for sure! (given that I draw it on like, 90% of characters…)
I love drawing hair in general though. Every kind of hair has its own set of challenges and weights and shapes that are really satisfying to figure out. 🙂
I’m probably the worst at drawing long, straight hair. XD I don’t know why. I guess I overthink it. I JUST WANNA PUT CURLS IN XU
:U got any questions for me, the mun, who is currently too lazy to track down a Munday meme?
“How is it an insult when your brother calls me your pearl?”
Eärwen pauses her fingers in Finarfin’s hair, the discarded silver comb at her feet and her lover’s head in her lap. “Because pearls start off as irritants inside the shells, and they must be coated smooth. Eventually the oyster turns the evasive grain of sand into a beautiful part of itself.”
“So I am the annoying Noldo grain of sand who you have softened with prettier words and manners until I fit in Alqualondë?”
Eärwen giggles. “And you might dissolve if dunked in vinegar.”
Finarfin twists his neck so he can look up her. “Where would I be immersed in vinegar?”
She runs a hand over his brow, pushing aside the almost iridescent golden hair. “Tirion is full of sour, quarrelsome people who make you unhappy to be around. It is better for you in Alqualondë. You should stay here. You are beautiful here.”
“Because I am with you, and you are more beautiful than any pearl.”
“You coat me with flattery, marilla.”
Medieval Massive Gold Iconographic Glove Ring with Saints, Spanish, 16th Century AD
A flat-section gold hoop formed as three discoid panels with interstitial square panels and larger bezel; the square panels each with high-relief expanding-arm cross; the discoid panels each with the symbol of an Evangelist, a winged nimbate ox for St. Luke, a winged nimbate man with scroll for St. Matthew, a nimbate eagle for St. John, a winged lion for St. Mark; bezel with pelleted border, reserved image on a hatched field of Corpus Christi with cross and banner above marked ‘inri’ in blackletter script, two nimbate flanking female figures. 29 grams, 29mm overall, 23.93 x 25.21mm internal diameter (approximate size British Z+5, USA 14 ¾, Europe 35.08
Devotional iconographic finger rings were a popular class of personal jewellery in the later medieval period. The present ring features heavy religious imagery.
Hunterston Brooch, c. 700, Hunterston, Ayrshire, Scotland.
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.
He could practically feel the need – the annoyance – the tension – that seemed to surround his brother that day. It would be highly uncouth to mention such a thing in front of their guests and servants however, and so Mairon says nothing….. even though it causes arousal and jealousy to burn within his chest. The thought that his beloved ‘brother’ might go to another to sate his need was simply unacceptable.
When Sauron left, Mairon waited only for a moment to assure their guests that everything was fine with the Lord, and that he would happily check up on him – Make sure that he wasn’t ill – before following Sauron to his chambers.
He had to think now… How would he be able to guarantee that Sauron would find him arousing? Wider hips seemed like a good choice, and so he let his grow the slightest bit to give himself a more feminine curve. His brother loved chubby humans (for some reason) so some softness might be good, though that wouldn’t be noticed unless Sauron TOUCHED him.
Finally he raised a hand to knock on his brother’s door, practically purring as he spoke.
“Are you well, brother? Our guests seem worried that you have caught some form of illness”Sauron hissed through his teeth at the sound of his brother’s voice, which was sultry under normal circumstances, and today practically dripped with coy sensuality– ostensibly for the sole purpose of aggravating him.
He did not wait for a second knock. Flinging the door open he dragged his brother inside by the collar of his thin robe, fangs bared in his face.
“You know very well I am not ill. You know exactly what is wrong with me, or you wouldn’t be here, reeking like a bitch in heat,” he spat.
Something was different about Mairon; the heft of him was off, the drape of his clothes altered in some subtle way… He stood blinking for a moment in confusion, the nearness and heat of the other like a cloud of perfume that fogged over his brain. A rolling growl like thunder left his chest, and he pinned the smaller Maia flush against the door, using the weight of his frame to slam it shut.
“You changed yourself. You brazen little succubus, what have you done,” he rasped, feeling drunk, an awful mixture of temper and lust brewing in his core. His hand thrust under the silk of Mairon’s robes, squeezing the cushion of flesh he found there, just over his usually narrow hips. It was unfair. It was a cheap, cruel tactic to use such a familiar body against him. He filled both hands with the softness of gold thighs, pressing his mouth to the pulse just under Mairon’s jaw, his inhibitions and his breath leaving him both at once.
He gasped as he was tugged inside, arousal burning all the hotter inside him at how close his brother was. His rage made him beautiful and it was as though there was an air of testosterone and phermones surrounding him. He breathed in deeply, eyes glowing brighter as a mischiveous grin played on his lips.
“It seems fitting that I take the role of a bitch in heat seeing as you’re acting and smelling no better than a hound in rut” he purred, licking his lips eagerly.
Yet another gasp was forced out of him as he was pressed against the door and he let out an eager, keening little noise. Yes…!! He had the power here….!! Oh how marvelous it was to see his beautiful brother reduced to such a needy state when it was usually the other way around! He had the upper hand despite his lesser size.
“I merely wished to help you, beloved brother” he cooed, moaning shamelessly as Sauron groped at him and kissed his neck. He knew how to be sensual and attractive and OH he was going to use it….!
“I need you, my lord brother~ Please give it to me…~!” He breathed, tilting his head further to the side to expose his neck in a most submissive way, his mouth open just a fraction.“I beg of you~ Take me~”
So viciously did he hate Mairon in that moment… every inch, every pre-meditated flattery, every licentious word that dripped from him made him want to spit fire like a balrog and roar to shake the earth. For a moment steam rose from his gritted teeth.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You creeping parasite, you reprobate–”
He wrenched smaller Maia around by one shoulder and slammed him back face-first into the door so that the frame of it rattled and creaked dangerously.
“You think this–” he grabbed a fistful of his Brother’s soft stomach and twisted it savagely, “is enough to make me forget what you are? You think I’d let you climb over me with that stolen body, sink your golden claws into my back?”
Silk rent easily in his hands, falling in shreds around Mairon’s figure, exposing his freckled back and newly rounded hips, their shape so familiar and agonizing. His breath hitched for long second– was it really Mairon’s intent to wear this shape, this forbidden, torturous shape? Had he even known what a betrayal it was? He had never seen Melkor, the way he had; mother of monsters, all voluptuous gold and thorns. Mairon’s master had been another.
No, this could be no accident. There he was, naked and framed by the entryway, molten hair streaming over his strong, angled shoulders down to the dip of his back, bowed like an instrument; the way his thighs met and kissed at the center, their sweet curves leading up to a perfect, heavy cheeks like ripe fruit waiting to be bitten. But was it his memory or this depraved need that lent the image such power over him? Every breath Mairon took made his plump flesh tremble and Thû was suddenly beyond caring. It was still a deception, still a ploy to make him lose control, give his Brother everything he wanted without thinking about the price…
He shook his head, wrath seething to a boil inside him once more; there was nothing he would put past his Brother, no sin he’d not commit to get the upper hand.
“I will have you,” he growled, loosening his belt and opening the front of his leggings, “but I’ll kiss the foot of Manwë before I’ll suffer you around prow.”
He spat in one hand and slicked the fold of Mairon’s ass, hefting his cock in the other, letting it settle ponderously between its cheeks and slide up towards the small of his dappled back. He tried not to let the relief escape him as a groan, but his chest heaved nonetheless, and Thû gripped the Maia’s hips, hauling him backward at his need.
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.
Already he bowed, so very eager to carry out his Master’s message and let his words be known. Cool blue eyes continued their aloof assessment, somewhat detached from the tension in this room. A tension that seemed to grow, to build, but ever so softly. Gently almost.
It felt improper and Mordu shifted slightly, trying to find the reason, to make sense. Quickly he picked up on that detached look in all too bright eyes, they seemed to flicker a low burning flame… Maybe that was because Lord Sauron’s jaw open, ever so slightly. It depraved the flame of oxygen. A thought that would have made him grin had the situation not been so strange.
He felt scrutinised, every detail of his being absorbed by those hungry eyes. While he remained unmoving on the outside, he shivered gently on the inside, that very gaze cutting right through him. Mordu felt like he was seen /truly seen/. It was as uncomfortable and horrible as it was awe inspiring. Embers glowed in his stomach, blooming into a teasing warmth that was desire more than anything else.
“… My Lord?” Pale skin burned where it was touched, the raw power in those digits vibrating against flesh and bone. Though what exactly was this? Never before has he seen Sauron this way… so painfully human. “Parties do not amuse me, I would deem them a waste of time if the cause wasn’t so important.” His voice too sounded somewhat distant, hollow and yet filled with the alien warmth within him.
“The cause is important, yes…” he repeated, almost as if to remind himself, “but the revelry will be a sacrament to the Giver, with or without my presence. They do not need the help of a high priest to enjoy food, wine, and each other.” His thumb traced over the herald’s lower lip. “Forget what I said before– you needn’t tell them anything. Particularly as you seem to disdain the company of drunks and merrymakers.”
What a strange bird this young man was… ink black hair and eyes, features so prominent and bird-like he was almost ugly, so striking he could be nothing but handsome. There was something delicate to his sharpness; Sauron fancied he could see the pulse of his blood under the skin. Fascinated, the tips of his fingers followed his gaze, down the lines of Mordu’s neck to where they met in a ‘v’ at his sternum. He unfastened the first clasp of the herald’s tall black collar, then the next, peeling back the dark garment to reveal a triangle of parchment-white flesh, so pale as to be nearly translucent, as if he had never seen the sun, like something waxy and beautiful that had grown in a cave.
(Certainly, he had seen the man’s soul well enough to know that whatever he resembled, it was poisonous. He’d chosen him for that– the lack of empathy that let him carry secrets deadly to his fellows, the inner isolation that drove him apart from the crowd downstairs. It was good to have a few in one’s service who would flinch at nothing).
“…If you do not wish to rejoin them, herald, you are welcome to stay here with me. I would not mind your company,” he murmured, blinking slowly as if in a stupor. The curve of that throat, the masculine jut of larynx, the way it dipped each time the lad took a nervous swallow, it was all exquisitely sensual in his current state. What did the rest of him look like under that raven mantel? Would he stand at attention just as he did now, and submit himself to inspection? Sauron licked his lips, his fingers lingering on the third clasp like an unasked question.
MisbehavingMaiar: Tumblr Archive 