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You may colour me unimpressed.
Just watched a terrible movie starring the girl who's going to be in Pirates of the Caribbean with Orli and Johnny Depp as Robin Hood's son. It was very, very painful, but I couldn't take my eyes off it. Kinda like a train wreck. In fact, I didn't watch anything good tonight at all other than the Kumars, which was very funny because it had Ami the Indian grandmother playing off Boy George. Classic. I woke up at 10:30 but just lay in bed until 11:30 today, then finally rolled out, showered, came online for a bit, had lunch and danced around with the radio up loud and blasting everything from Bon Jovi to Kylie to Evanescence. Had to stop to go to uni, though, which wasn't too bad because the lecture was on Pulp Fiction. I got the impression I was the only viewer to never care what was in the damn suitcase. Went to Asian Studies tute, which was good as usual, talked to Alana for a bit (well, bitched about the lectures anyway) and then bumped into the lovely T&N, who I accompanied to Impact. Poor stressed chillun with their exams. Then I got invited to a masked ball party (oooh, a party!) for Nina's birthday, which I will happily attend. Will not be joining them at Matrix premiere, however, as tickets are sold out. Then did some homework and watched TV for no other reason than because it was there. Nothing particularly good was on. And now I'm here.
Sorrowdweller. You are not overcome by anger nor
happiness. Your emotions are pretty well
balanced, but you do tend to get somewhat
emotional at times leaning towards depression
and saddness. You have your own views of the
world and while you do not see the beauty of
life, you are not completely overwhelmed by
darkness. Live and let live just because.
How Emotional Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
I think I got this score because of my answer on the last question, but that's just horrible.
I have three links of the day that go together, and I gacked all three of them from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
buffonia, all three of them livejournals, all three Harry Potter related.. They are potterstinks, just_harry and petitemillicent. Very good for a laugh.
Pics of the day are the icons that inspired the short and somewhat crap fic below plus some...others I made, and a few pics that made me go "awwww!" Rupert pics gacked from Angel's Gal. By the way, the icon images are a bit crap right now, I'll fix that later.
Window to the Soul
The expression goes that eyes are the window to the soul. Well, that may be true, but hands are the key to personality. I notice hands; I say it’s because I realised long ago that they reveal untold secrets, but Bill says it’s because I have a hand fetish. His hands are small and skinny and playful, like him, all knobbly bits and sleek lines. A paradox, a mix of the charming and the offensive. They grip tightly, almost too tightly, as though he’s grabbing hold of you and never wants to let go. Billy doesn’t use his hands a lot while he talks. He’s more likely to keep them controlled, folded quietly away so that they don’t interfere with his thought process. The skin is rough on the back, soft inside. His fingers are usually bent; they wrap themselves around pens, cups, shoulders, themselves. Even when he’s resting them, they fold around each other. He knows how to use them to get what he wants; a grip of one’s hand here, a firm pat on one’s shoulder there; not excessive but calculated, giving him an image of effortless charm. His control slips when he’s feeling mischievous, though, and his hands tense up slightly just before he says something cheeky. He has joker hands, really, just hidden well under his exuberant charm.
Viggo has artist hands. I always remember his hands holding a sword, or a camera, or a paintbrush; they were always filled with the latest whim, the tools of his trade, and when they’re empty they always look wrong to me, somehow. They exude a certain amount of charisma, of quiet power, that comes through in the way he uses them; slow and certain, able to express themselves through a brief touch on the forearm, a warning that burns through and makes you sit up straighter, like your father scolding you. Ian’s share that power, but even more so; Viggo gives the warning, but when Ian grabs your shoulder you know it’s serious. His wisdom and age come through just one touch, and his complete authority. It’s a welcome authority, especially among the more mischievous hobbits and elves, and one loaded with knowledge. Ian’s hands are artistic, too, and wide; almost all-encompassing, an expanse of lines and grace.
As for Astin…well, if I never remember the day I met everyone else, I’d remember meeting Astin just for the hug I received. Just for being Merry, for existing, for being there, and that was pure Astin, the way he was open and inviting. His hands were big, and yeah they got fatter as he did to play Sam, but they never lost their warmth or kindness. They were so real, too, when his nails were lined with dirt and his hands clenched to keep out the cold. He used his hands to talk, but in a different way to everyone else; he’d watched and learnt from the best how to use them like a politician, and when he gave speeches his hands were mesmerised. I remember them best when the held mine, though; the time I was so scared of that damned tree I threw up for hours and he kept his hand in mine, rubbing my back and comforting for hours, nevermind how late it got when we had feet the next morning; or when he reached over Elijah and squeezed my hand and winked at me when we saw the first screening. Kind and gentle, always and invariably.
Orlando’s hands are beautiful, and it’s not rare for me to wonder quickly what they would feel like sliding across my skin, slick and strong. They carry chunky jewellery perfectly, sculpting it into the skin and making it look like it had always belonged. It’s when they’re completely naked that they’re most breathtaking, though. Big and strong, perfectly smooth, nails cut just so. They showed no sign of weakness. When he holds a bow, the veins in his hand stand proud, still perfect, showing terrific control and power. With Orli’s arms wrapped around you, hand firmly placed on your side or back or shoulder and squeezing just enough, the world fades to black and it’s all you can feel, all you can sense. That’s just what’s wrong with them, though, their perfection. They can make you feel like a million dollars, but at the same time they can make you feel small, insignificant and unworthy, like somehow they’re better than everything. They hold their own ego like Orli’s; well-earned for their beauty, and often genuine, but often too dressed up, too wonderful and too aware of the fact; especially when covered in big silver rings and that bangle that completely encompasses his wrist. My hands are dwarfed by the magnificence of his, but it always feels slightly superficial. Too good to be completed by another’s.
Elijah’s hands are small and cherubic, with nails bitten to the quick. Young and old at the same time, round like a child’s but strong like an adult’s. They’re affectionate and friendly, drawn almost against his will to other people. He pats their arms, rubs their backs. Sometimes, when I sit in front of him and we’re watching a movie together, they make their way absent-mindedly to my hair, twisting it or slithering through like a snake in the grass. They’re twitchy, nervy, and he has to keep them occupied, which is one of the many reasons he smokes so religiously. Elijah also uses them to talk. Not just to help him to talk, but actually to do some of the talking for him, because they always seems to be two steps ahead of his mouth. They’re warm and soft and often sweaty when he’s nervous. They often betray his emotions when he’s in public, wandering over my back or finding their way to my thigh if we’re sitting beside each other, and they have to be reminded to behave. Fortunately enough people don’t notice hands so much, unless they’re waving about in the air, and since Elijah’s unoccupied hand is usually being fairly expressive the other gets ignored. Neither is ever ignored when we get home, though; they roam over my neck, my back, play me like a violin, tune me and stroke me to perfection. They’re firm and gentle and everything you could hope for, and afterwards they run up and down my arm lazily until he falls asleep.
My hands are my lifeline. I use them to write, to emote, but most of all as a noticeboard. On occasions I write messages to the world, but usually they’re private messages; messages to myself, reminding me to pick up the laundry or to write about the sunset I saw or to be nicer to Orlando next time I see him, dammit, because it’s not his fault he’s in love with Elijah. Who wouldn’t be? I write carefully, with the important reminders in big, perfectly formed letters. Different ideas have different colour codes. I was always reminded on set to wash my hands before a shoot and not write on them anything that would show up on screen. I think my hands are ugly. My knuckles are too big, my finger’s aren’t the right length for my palm, and the big rings don’t sit the same way as they do on Orli’s hands, but Elijah says they’re wonderful. I love the way my hand fits into his; it’s perfect and electrifying every time. I hate that they shake when I’m cold, but I love the size of them, so I guess it balances out. My hands are a bit like Billy’s in their roughness, and I don’t use them to talk to the world; I use them more to talk to myself. Best of all, I love that they can explore every inch of Elijah. I love to run my hand through his hair, or over his stubble, whichever mood he’s in at the time; run them down his neck, his arms, back, chest, stomach. I let them roam freely and do what they like, because when I’m good to them they’re good to me, sending messages of smoothstickysoft to my overstimulated brain and sending heat through me the likes of which I’ve never felt before. I love to feel my fingers intertwined with Elijah’s, without rings or bracelets or watches, just skin on skin.
Of course, I haven’t even begun to mention my oral fixation.
If you wanna love me then darlin' don't refrain
Green Queen
Just watched a terrible movie starring the girl who's going to be in Pirates of the Caribbean with Orli and Johnny Depp as Robin Hood's son. It was very, very painful, but I couldn't take my eyes off it. Kinda like a train wreck. In fact, I didn't watch anything good tonight at all other than the Kumars, which was very funny because it had Ami the Indian grandmother playing off Boy George. Classic. I woke up at 10:30 but just lay in bed until 11:30 today, then finally rolled out, showered, came online for a bit, had lunch and danced around with the radio up loud and blasting everything from Bon Jovi to Kylie to Evanescence. Had to stop to go to uni, though, which wasn't too bad because the lecture was on Pulp Fiction. I got the impression I was the only viewer to never care what was in the damn suitcase. Went to Asian Studies tute, which was good as usual, talked to Alana for a bit (well, bitched about the lectures anyway) and then bumped into the lovely T&N, who I accompanied to Impact. Poor stressed chillun with their exams. Then I got invited to a masked ball party (oooh, a party!) for Nina's birthday, which I will happily attend. Will not be joining them at Matrix premiere, however, as tickets are sold out. Then did some homework and watched TV for no other reason than because it was there. Nothing particularly good was on. And now I'm here.
Sorrowdweller. You are not overcome by anger nor
happiness. Your emotions are pretty well
balanced, but you do tend to get somewhat
emotional at times leaning towards depression
and saddness. You have your own views of the
world and while you do not see the beauty of
life, you are not completely overwhelmed by
darkness. Live and let live just because.
How Emotional Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
I think I got this score because of my answer on the last question, but that's just horrible.
I have three links of the day that go together, and I gacked all three of them from
buffonia, all three of them livejournals, all three Harry Potter related.. They are potterstinks, just_harry and petitemillicent. Very good for a laugh.Pics of the day are the icons that inspired the short and somewhat crap fic below plus some...others I made, and a few pics that made me go "awwww!" Rupert pics gacked from Angel's Gal. By the way, the icon images are a bit crap right now, I'll fix that later.
Window to the Soul
The expression goes that eyes are the window to the soul. Well, that may be true, but hands are the key to personality. I notice hands; I say it’s because I realised long ago that they reveal untold secrets, but Bill says it’s because I have a hand fetish. His hands are small and skinny and playful, like him, all knobbly bits and sleek lines. A paradox, a mix of the charming and the offensive. They grip tightly, almost too tightly, as though he’s grabbing hold of you and never wants to let go. Billy doesn’t use his hands a lot while he talks. He’s more likely to keep them controlled, folded quietly away so that they don’t interfere with his thought process. The skin is rough on the back, soft inside. His fingers are usually bent; they wrap themselves around pens, cups, shoulders, themselves. Even when he’s resting them, they fold around each other. He knows how to use them to get what he wants; a grip of one’s hand here, a firm pat on one’s shoulder there; not excessive but calculated, giving him an image of effortless charm. His control slips when he’s feeling mischievous, though, and his hands tense up slightly just before he says something cheeky. He has joker hands, really, just hidden well under his exuberant charm.
Viggo has artist hands. I always remember his hands holding a sword, or a camera, or a paintbrush; they were always filled with the latest whim, the tools of his trade, and when they’re empty they always look wrong to me, somehow. They exude a certain amount of charisma, of quiet power, that comes through in the way he uses them; slow and certain, able to express themselves through a brief touch on the forearm, a warning that burns through and makes you sit up straighter, like your father scolding you. Ian’s share that power, but even more so; Viggo gives the warning, but when Ian grabs your shoulder you know it’s serious. His wisdom and age come through just one touch, and his complete authority. It’s a welcome authority, especially among the more mischievous hobbits and elves, and one loaded with knowledge. Ian’s hands are artistic, too, and wide; almost all-encompassing, an expanse of lines and grace.
As for Astin…well, if I never remember the day I met everyone else, I’d remember meeting Astin just for the hug I received. Just for being Merry, for existing, for being there, and that was pure Astin, the way he was open and inviting. His hands were big, and yeah they got fatter as he did to play Sam, but they never lost their warmth or kindness. They were so real, too, when his nails were lined with dirt and his hands clenched to keep out the cold. He used his hands to talk, but in a different way to everyone else; he’d watched and learnt from the best how to use them like a politician, and when he gave speeches his hands were mesmerised. I remember them best when the held mine, though; the time I was so scared of that damned tree I threw up for hours and he kept his hand in mine, rubbing my back and comforting for hours, nevermind how late it got when we had feet the next morning; or when he reached over Elijah and squeezed my hand and winked at me when we saw the first screening. Kind and gentle, always and invariably.
Orlando’s hands are beautiful, and it’s not rare for me to wonder quickly what they would feel like sliding across my skin, slick and strong. They carry chunky jewellery perfectly, sculpting it into the skin and making it look like it had always belonged. It’s when they’re completely naked that they’re most breathtaking, though. Big and strong, perfectly smooth, nails cut just so. They showed no sign of weakness. When he holds a bow, the veins in his hand stand proud, still perfect, showing terrific control and power. With Orli’s arms wrapped around you, hand firmly placed on your side or back or shoulder and squeezing just enough, the world fades to black and it’s all you can feel, all you can sense. That’s just what’s wrong with them, though, their perfection. They can make you feel like a million dollars, but at the same time they can make you feel small, insignificant and unworthy, like somehow they’re better than everything. They hold their own ego like Orli’s; well-earned for their beauty, and often genuine, but often too dressed up, too wonderful and too aware of the fact; especially when covered in big silver rings and that bangle that completely encompasses his wrist. My hands are dwarfed by the magnificence of his, but it always feels slightly superficial. Too good to be completed by another’s.
Elijah’s hands are small and cherubic, with nails bitten to the quick. Young and old at the same time, round like a child’s but strong like an adult’s. They’re affectionate and friendly, drawn almost against his will to other people. He pats their arms, rubs their backs. Sometimes, when I sit in front of him and we’re watching a movie together, they make their way absent-mindedly to my hair, twisting it or slithering through like a snake in the grass. They’re twitchy, nervy, and he has to keep them occupied, which is one of the many reasons he smokes so religiously. Elijah also uses them to talk. Not just to help him to talk, but actually to do some of the talking for him, because they always seems to be two steps ahead of his mouth. They’re warm and soft and often sweaty when he’s nervous. They often betray his emotions when he’s in public, wandering over my back or finding their way to my thigh if we’re sitting beside each other, and they have to be reminded to behave. Fortunately enough people don’t notice hands so much, unless they’re waving about in the air, and since Elijah’s unoccupied hand is usually being fairly expressive the other gets ignored. Neither is ever ignored when we get home, though; they roam over my neck, my back, play me like a violin, tune me and stroke me to perfection. They’re firm and gentle and everything you could hope for, and afterwards they run up and down my arm lazily until he falls asleep.
My hands are my lifeline. I use them to write, to emote, but most of all as a noticeboard. On occasions I write messages to the world, but usually they’re private messages; messages to myself, reminding me to pick up the laundry or to write about the sunset I saw or to be nicer to Orlando next time I see him, dammit, because it’s not his fault he’s in love with Elijah. Who wouldn’t be? I write carefully, with the important reminders in big, perfectly formed letters. Different ideas have different colour codes. I was always reminded on set to wash my hands before a shoot and not write on them anything that would show up on screen. I think my hands are ugly. My knuckles are too big, my finger’s aren’t the right length for my palm, and the big rings don’t sit the same way as they do on Orli’s hands, but Elijah says they’re wonderful. I love the way my hand fits into his; it’s perfect and electrifying every time. I hate that they shake when I’m cold, but I love the size of them, so I guess it balances out. My hands are a bit like Billy’s in their roughness, and I don’t use them to talk to the world; I use them more to talk to myself. Best of all, I love that they can explore every inch of Elijah. I love to run my hand through his hair, or over his stubble, whichever mood he’s in at the time; run them down his neck, his arms, back, chest, stomach. I let them roam freely and do what they like, because when I’m good to them they’re good to me, sending messages of smoothstickysoft to my overstimulated brain and sending heat through me the likes of which I’ve never felt before. I love to feel my fingers intertwined with Elijah’s, without rings or bracelets or watches, just skin on skin.
Of course, I haven’t even begun to mention my oral fixation.
If you wanna love me then darlin' don't refrain
Green Queen
