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fellowshippers2005-09-12 05:35 pm
kogoroshi.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2005-09-12 05:35 pm
It was like pornography (pt. 1+2)
Title: It was like pornography
Author: [info]kogoroshi
Pairing: Orlando/Elijah
Type: Angst, vague, mm
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not true. I'm a pervert.
Summary: Orlando describes his relationship with Elijah in a sad, mournful perspective
Warning[s]: Lots and lots and lots of angst. I'm so sorry! Also, the white flowers that are being talked about in part two is semen. Just thought you guys would like to know.
Comments: My first LOTRps fic. I hope that you all will forgive me for wrong facts and whatnot.
[part one]
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.
[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.
Author: [info]kogoroshi
Pairing: Orlando/Elijah
Type: Angst, vague, mm
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not true. I'm a pervert.
Summary: Orlando describes his relationship with Elijah in a sad, mournful perspective
Warning[s]: Lots and lots and lots of angst. I'm so sorry! Also, the white flowers that are being talked about in part two is semen. Just thought you guys would like to know.
Comments: My first LOTRps fic. I hope that you all will forgive me for wrong facts and whatnot.
[part one]
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.
[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.