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bodice_lacesI don't know where this came from. It's all about Rosie, wherein I've paired her - or rather, she's paired herself - with various people.
Sometimes, late at night, long after respectable folk had slipped into the warm respite of dreams, Rosie lay awake and restless in her narrow, rickety bed, the slats groaning and protesting as she shifted awkwardly from side to side in search of a comfortable place to lie. She would clutch the blankets tight about her, the sheets having slithered down underneath them more often than not to pool about her knees in ruched-up folds of damp cotton, and think.
She would trail a hand lightly up the length of her body sometimes, when sleep was elusive, tracing a gentle line with a fingertip from the base of her belly up over the soft skin of her stomach to the ridge of her ribcage. She'd dance trembling fingers across the dips and peaks of her own bones through the skin, and imagine that the tentative hands were somebody else's.
Sometimes it was Sam's hands that she felt; strong, bronzed hands that moved with such surety in the garden, cautious and awkward now with inexperience and shyness. He was wonderfully shy sometimes, her Sam, and she saw his face sometimes above her, chewing at his lip as he drew his hands near-reverently up her smooth flank, perhaps dipping now and then to bestow a bashful kiss on her jaw, her cheek, her mouth.
Sometimes the hands were Mr Frodo's, almost as small as her own and far whiter, and that thought sent delightful thrills dancing up and down her spine, for she knew how much more dangerous this was than her dreams of sweet, shy Sam, the gardener's boy. Mr Frodo's hands, she had decided long ago, would be surer than Sam's for all his experience in these matters was smaller again, splodges of ink on his fingers as he cupped the various curves of her body in his palms. And his eyes, she thought; his eyes would be bright and dark and half-feral, their intensity almost frightening, and his mouth would be forceful and inexpert on her own.
Sometimes it was somebody else again, somebody whose very presence in these midnight fantasies had sent ripples of guilt and fear darting in and out of her chest like sparks. Sometimes the hands were smaller than Sam's, smaller than Frodo's, smaller even than Rosie's own, but they were rough, homely, worker's hands, hands that had fed children and stroked kittens and pounded washing. These hands belonged to somebody whose hair was long and soft and copper-bright, and sometimes Rosie could feel strands of it tickling her shoulders and face in the darkness. The somebody was at once slender and curvaceous; soft and supple and strong against Rosie, hands everywhere they should be and warm mouth pressing heat on her own. Rosie had often tried to stop dreaming about this particular somebody; she'd told herself sternly that even unattainable dreams of Mr Frodo were less improper, but the somebody had only laughed in her head and slid those beautiful hands into Rosie's thick curls.
Rosie would never talk to Marigold about these dreams when she asked, not even when Mari offered to tell her all about what that lovely Took lad from Overlithe party had done to her the previous night. Marigold would plead and smile and throw pouting glances, but Rosie would only blush, fingers fumbling as she pegged her brothers' breeches onto the washing line, and say that Marigold really wouldn't be interested.
Rosie knew, however much the knowledge confused her, that sleep always came more quickly when it was Marigold's name she breathed into the cold black darkness on restless nights.
END
Because Rosie, like, rocks and deserves introspective randomfic
Sometimes, late at night, long after respectable folk had slipped into the warm respite of dreams, Rosie lay awake and restless in her narrow, rickety bed, the slats groaning and protesting as she shifted awkwardly from side to side in search of a comfortable place to lie. She would clutch the blankets tight about her, the sheets having slithered down underneath them more often than not to pool about her knees in ruched-up folds of damp cotton, and think.
She would trail a hand lightly up the length of her body sometimes, when sleep was elusive, tracing a gentle line with a fingertip from the base of her belly up over the soft skin of her stomach to the ridge of her ribcage. She'd dance trembling fingers across the dips and peaks of her own bones through the skin, and imagine that the tentative hands were somebody else's.
Sometimes it was Sam's hands that she felt; strong, bronzed hands that moved with such surety in the garden, cautious and awkward now with inexperience and shyness. He was wonderfully shy sometimes, her Sam, and she saw his face sometimes above her, chewing at his lip as he drew his hands near-reverently up her smooth flank, perhaps dipping now and then to bestow a bashful kiss on her jaw, her cheek, her mouth.
Sometimes the hands were Mr Frodo's, almost as small as her own and far whiter, and that thought sent delightful thrills dancing up and down her spine, for she knew how much more dangerous this was than her dreams of sweet, shy Sam, the gardener's boy. Mr Frodo's hands, she had decided long ago, would be surer than Sam's for all his experience in these matters was smaller again, splodges of ink on his fingers as he cupped the various curves of her body in his palms. And his eyes, she thought; his eyes would be bright and dark and half-feral, their intensity almost frightening, and his mouth would be forceful and inexpert on her own.
Sometimes it was somebody else again, somebody whose very presence in these midnight fantasies had sent ripples of guilt and fear darting in and out of her chest like sparks. Sometimes the hands were smaller than Sam's, smaller than Frodo's, smaller even than Rosie's own, but they were rough, homely, worker's hands, hands that had fed children and stroked kittens and pounded washing. These hands belonged to somebody whose hair was long and soft and copper-bright, and sometimes Rosie could feel strands of it tickling her shoulders and face in the darkness. The somebody was at once slender and curvaceous; soft and supple and strong against Rosie, hands everywhere they should be and warm mouth pressing heat on her own. Rosie had often tried to stop dreaming about this particular somebody; she'd told herself sternly that even unattainable dreams of Mr Frodo were less improper, but the somebody had only laughed in her head and slid those beautiful hands into Rosie's thick curls.
Rosie would never talk to Marigold about these dreams when she asked, not even when Mari offered to tell her all about what that lovely Took lad from Overlithe party had done to her the previous night. Marigold would plead and smile and throw pouting glances, but Rosie would only blush, fingers fumbling as she pegged her brothers' breeches onto the washing line, and say that Marigold really wouldn't be interested.
Rosie knew, however much the knowledge confused her, that sleep always came more quickly when it was Marigold's name she breathed into the cold black darkness on restless nights.
END
Because Rosie, like, rocks and deserves introspective randomfic
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