It was like pornography
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Lord of the Rings Movies › General › Lord of the Ring Stars
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Adult +
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3
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Category:
Lord of the Rings Movies › General › Lord of the Ring Stars
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
1,229
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.
part two
There were flowers in the attic.
Like large, white ghosts that hovered mournfully over shrouded memories, almost wilting, but in many ways, still very much vibrant in their own colourless, drooping, rotting way. They were shapeless, as far as flowers went, and you couldn't recall ever seeing anything quite like them at the supermarket, sitting under 75 watt suns, frozen temporarily under gentle, flourescent winters. And yet, these flowers were everywhere, splayed all yellowing and sporatic across the striped walls, dripped all liquid and gelatin over the splintered floors, stuffed all crumbling and brittle between the cracked trunks. And yet, they were always presented with such variety, sometimes big and round and spatulate, sometimes long and skinny, and elliptical, sometimes just circular and raised and sticky wet.
But they weren't always there.
They were only there on cold and rainy days when children would take guns and blow the brains out of their dogs for want of something better to do. On days that weren't too wet and dark and hurtful to be crippled but enough so that you'd fill your stomach until you were animal enough to rape your best friend on the beer-stained table. On days that reeked enough of dirt and vomit and alcohol that you'd press your naked hipbones clumsily upon those of your lover's, not quite fitting like a puzzle, or at all, really, but still managing out a choked and desperate:
I love you.
And you'd turn your face to me, all bewildered and disarrayed, eyes wide and bursting with blackness, clouded over with doubt and sex. And you'd open those pale and rough lips as if to speak or to inhale or to bite, I don't know which. And I'd just settle my painfully plain and hard and not really warm or chocolate eyes on the pulsing vein between the jut of your shamless collarbone and the edge of the tense muscle contracting with every word you don't say.
So I'd fill up the things you don't say with strangled gurgles and rasps that whiz past my thoughts and settle into the soft crook of your ear, bleeding gently into your brain.
And you'd vomit out:
No, no you don't.
As the flowers bloomed in the attic.
But there are no flowers today. No guns or dogs or beer stains or.
I love yous.
Or.
Sobbing silences.
Or.
Why didn't you say anything? Why did you leave the silences there, growling lethal and enticing before me, just waiting to be filled? Filled with a tongue dipped gingerly into your navel, a kiss laid fleetingly over your jaw, with worthless words whispered huskily into your ear. Why did yo--
Why did you make me love you?
And today was one of those days where lovers would run their fingers over the handles of their kitchen knives.
And then over the space between each other's ribs.
Like large, white ghosts that hovered mournfully over shrouded memories, almost wilting, but in many ways, still very much vibrant in their own colourless, drooping, rotting way. They were shapeless, as far as flowers went, and you couldn't recall ever seeing anything quite like them at the supermarket, sitting under 75 watt suns, frozen temporarily under gentle, flourescent winters. And yet, these flowers were everywhere, splayed all yellowing and sporatic across the striped walls, dripped all liquid and gelatin over the splintered floors, stuffed all crumbling and brittle between the cracked trunks. And yet, they were always presented with such variety, sometimes big and round and spatulate, sometimes long and skinny, and elliptical, sometimes just circular and raised and sticky wet.
But they weren't always there.
They were only there on cold and rainy days when children would take guns and blow the brains out of their dogs for want of something better to do. On days that weren't too wet and dark and hurtful to be crippled but enough so that you'd fill your stomach until you were animal enough to rape your best friend on the beer-stained table. On days that reeked enough of dirt and vomit and alcohol that you'd press your naked hipbones clumsily upon those of your lover's, not quite fitting like a puzzle, or at all, really, but still managing out a choked and desperate:
I love you.
And you'd turn your face to me, all bewildered and disarrayed, eyes wide and bursting with blackness, clouded over with doubt and sex. And you'd open those pale and rough lips as if to speak or to inhale or to bite, I don't know which. And I'd just settle my painfully plain and hard and not really warm or chocolate eyes on the pulsing vein between the jut of your shamless collarbone and the edge of the tense muscle contracting with every word you don't say.
So I'd fill up the things you don't say with strangled gurgles and rasps that whiz past my thoughts and settle into the soft crook of your ear, bleeding gently into your brain.
And you'd vomit out:
No, no you don't.
As the flowers bloomed in the attic.
But there are no flowers today. No guns or dogs or beer stains or.
I love yous.
Or.
Sobbing silences.
Or.
Why didn't you say anything? Why did you leave the silences there, growling lethal and enticing before me, just waiting to be filled? Filled with a tongue dipped gingerly into your navel, a kiss laid fleetingly over your jaw, with worthless words whispered huskily into your ear. Why did yo--
Why did you make me love you?
And today was one of those days where lovers would run their fingers over the handles of their kitchen knives.
And then over the space between each other's ribs.