It was like pornography
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Lord of the Rings Movies › General › Lord of the Ring Stars
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Category:
Lord of the Rings Movies › General › Lord of the Ring Stars
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
1,231
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is work of fiction! I do not know the celebrity(ies) I am writing about, and I do not profit from these writings.
It was like pornography
DISCLAIMERS: THIS DIDN'T HAPPEN. IT'S FICTION!
He was pretty.
And I told him so.
It was something about his eyes. Or maybe it was the structure of his face, all angles and edges, jutting like lovers’ legs from bubbling bathtubs, all slippery and soapy and glistening with lewd, seductive cleanliness. Or maybe it was the curve of his mouth, all straight and thin, grim like grave plots shimmering under the early summer sun, reflecting off the moist young grass rising over the newly dead. Or maybe it was the bridge of his nose, all roman and sharp, like a rusted pagan sword growling quietly against supple flesh, drawing vibrant crimson all warm and gruesome and sweet like unripe strawberries staining the tender tongue.
But really, it was something about his eyes.
It was how they were big and blue and clear and hollow like the sky on the day my grandmother died, all empty and bright and ironic. And it was how those pinpoint pupils were dull and black but somehow piercing and how when he was passionate, they would grow and morph in odd ways that reminded me of the crows that fed over her wreathed grave. And it was how they bothered me, those brilliant eyes, to know that despite the radiant and innocent blue, the blue that seemed to absorb the sky, the sun, and the fleshy springtime flowers, the only part that mattered, that part that saw for him, took the world in for him, was black.
But it wasn’t darkness. It was black.
Just black.
And it wasn’t the calm, quiet, soothing sort of black. And it wasn’t the rumbling, growling, restless sort of black. It was the indifferent sort of black. The sort of black that would suck you in like a not-quite black hole, hurling you through a blackness where you’d be torn and broken in shreds of your not-quite former self. And it was a not-quite sort of black, where you’d stare and stare and stare, thinking to yourself that this couldn’t be it, because there had to be something warm and choking and beating inside, and that you were just too slow to catch it.
But there was still something there.
There had to be.
There just had to be.
And.
They didn’t sparkle either.
His.
Eyes.
He was pretty.
And I told him so.
It was something about his eyes. Or maybe it was the structure of his face, all angles and edges, jutting like lovers’ legs from bubbling bathtubs, all slippery and soapy and glistening with lewd, seductive cleanliness. Or maybe it was the curve of his mouth, all straight and thin, grim like grave plots shimmering under the early summer sun, reflecting off the moist young grass rising over the newly dead. Or maybe it was the bridge of his nose, all roman and sharp, like a rusted pagan sword growling quietly against supple flesh, drawing vibrant crimson all warm and gruesome and sweet like unripe strawberries staining the tender tongue.
But really, it was something about his eyes.
It was how they were big and blue and clear and hollow like the sky on the day my grandmother died, all empty and bright and ironic. And it was how those pinpoint pupils were dull and black but somehow piercing and how when he was passionate, they would grow and morph in odd ways that reminded me of the crows that fed over her wreathed grave. And it was how they bothered me, those brilliant eyes, to know that despite the radiant and innocent blue, the blue that seemed to absorb the sky, the sun, and the fleshy springtime flowers, the only part that mattered, that part that saw for him, took the world in for him, was black.
But it wasn’t darkness. It was black.
Just black.
And it wasn’t the calm, quiet, soothing sort of black. And it wasn’t the rumbling, growling, restless sort of black. It was the indifferent sort of black. The sort of black that would suck you in like a not-quite black hole, hurling you through a blackness where you’d be torn and broken in shreds of your not-quite former self. And it was a not-quite sort of black, where you’d stare and stare and stare, thinking to yourself that this couldn’t be it, because there had to be something warm and choking and beating inside, and that you were just too slow to catch it.
But there was still something there.
There had to be.
There just had to be.
And.
They didn’t sparkle either.
His.
Eyes.