Pearl
of Great Cleevage
Registered: Mar 2002
Location: The Linden Woods of Tol Eressëa
Posts: 1371 |
Hobmom's Screencaps, Ariel's Photomanip
My Renaissance Hobbit Boy lives forever in my heart. 
Oh, and yum. Yummy yum yum. 
Comments on frosting, beating, stiffening etc.
Ladies, I am shocked and appalled.  
Narya!!!! What's got into you?! I love it. 
A bit of Harem History ...
Remember when you all started writing vignettes? Who wrote the first? Was it Stormyday? Anyway, the vignette-writing thing began in earnest in spring 2002 and it really cheered me up, after the aggro on the old thread in January of that year.
I found a vignette of Elda's this morning, from Feb 2003. Here's an excerpt, I hope you don't mind, Elda. 
From Elda's 'Made for Sleep':
He is lying face-down with his right cheek resting against the white pillow and his mouth is in a soft pout and his lips are just barely parted. And his dark curls are in disarray against his fair forehead and against that cloud-white pillow. His arms are bent at the elbows and his right arm is thrown over his head while his left hand is hidden beneath the pillow. And his right leg is straight but his left leg is bent at the knee and canted upwards, a very comfortable way to spend an August afternoon made for sleep.
Now the interesting thing is that the sheets beneath him are so very white that his skin looks almost honey-colored against it, no not really like honey, but like honey mixed with a bit of cream, as if he’s not really a living thing at all but some wonderful confection laid out on a bed of linen. And if you leaned forward a little you would just be able to detect his soft scent, like honey and cream and a bit of linden, that warm, sweet smell of him, always a little heavier in sleep, especially on a hot day. And if you reached your arm out you would just be able to trace your hand over the smooth curve of his back, as warm as toast and as soft as velvet. And if you got up from this chair and knelt over him you would just be able to rest your cheek between his shoulder blades and feel the rise and fall of his breath and listen to his heart beat. And if you did none of those things, not one of them, you could sit here for who knows how long, until all light is gone from the room, you could just sit here and watch him sleep.
So hot it was today that the windows are thrown wide open, and that fresh seabreeze that you felt in the garden finds its way into the room, stirring the heavy air. It moves like a spirit from the window, across the room, past the hearth where a fire would be blazing if it were winter, across the bed and over him, and to you. And as it passes over him you watch a ripple of gooseflesh raise on his back but it is not enough to wake him. And how extraordinary it is that you can know him as well as you do, inside and out, in fact, and yet still be utterly fascinated by an innocent shiver of goosebumps on his skin.
Another breeze comes through the window, a little stronger than the first and oh, but that’s chilly! you think, and you notice a white sheet folded at the foot of the bed. And even though you came in here to wake him, dinner is still quite a way off, you reason, and why should he be awakened by a chill draft? And so quietly, quietly, you reach down and lift the sheet and lay it over him, up to his shoulders. And you sit back in your chair and watch as the sheet settles down slowly, and when it is completely settled you can just make out the shape of his body beneath it, and the curve of his back and his left leg, bent at the knee and canted upwards.
And oh, what a wonder he is. And oh, how you adore him.
You stay in your chair for a while and then you rise from it and you sit down on the floor at the side of his bed. You lay your arm on the bed and you lay your head upon your arm and you are eye-level with him, or you would be if his eyes were open. And now you do touch him, just to pass your hand over his hair, as soft as spun silk as it glides through your fingers.
And oh, how beautiful he is. And oh, how you love him.
From outside this room and down the hall, from the dining-room comes the soft bell-like ringing of plates as they are set out on the table, and plates? plates? you think, plates seeming somehow more suitable for a winter supper than the end of this hot day when one should be sitting on the lawn and eating out of a basket. And tomorrow we will have a picnic, you think, but that is tomorrow and tonight there is Frodo, sleeping underneath his white sheet with his mouth in a soft pout and his lips just barely parted.
And finally you raise your head and you close the distance between you and you kiss him, very softly, and you kiss him again, and again until he stirs and takes a deep breath and his mouth curves into a smile against yours. And you open your eyes and see that his eyes are open and they are lavender in the soft blue twilight of this room.
“Is it very late?” he asks drowsily.
“It is dinner-time,” you answer.
“Oh,” he says, and he turns on his back and puts his left arm over his head along with his right and stretches lazily, like a cat who has been sunning himself in a window all afternoon. “I only meant to sleep for an hour or so, but it was so hot!” he says.
“It was much too hot to do anything else,” you say.
“Well,” he says. “August afternoons are made for sleep.”
“Yes,” you answer with a smile. “They are.”
PS. Aragorn is freakin' hot.
PPS. And so is Frodo.
__________________
'Instead of a Dark Lord you will have a HOBBIT! Dark-curled, yes, as swirls of Galaxy ripple! Swoonier than the depths of the abyss! Hotter than the Cracks of Doom! All shall love me and turn to goo!' Niphredil
He has taken us down into what he once called "the back-kitchen" of the unconscious, where the dream kettle boils the brew of what we really care about. Preface to 'The Wind in the Willows'
History will attend to itself. It always does. Delenn.
Last edited by Pearl on 07-19-2003 at 05:24 AM
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07-18-2003 12:42 PM
