Digital Grading

Fandom: LotR RPS
Pairing: sb/ew
Rating: PG
Summary: The world is digitally graded.
Disclaimer: Not mine.

Pale skin and clear-flesh lips directly before him.

"Fuck off."

He looks, really looks, at the pleading face angled up at him, the piercing blue eyes and the slightly flicking hair that he is mentally carousing and tousling even as he sends the boy on his way.

"I said no."

The eyes become downcast now, the hands fidgeting. Beautiful imperfect hands that Sean just knows would be unsurpassably wondrous running over his aching skin.

The world is digitally graded. Colour. The sky an intimidating blue, the trees a surreal green, the throat... unbelievable. Lickable cream, hued and shaded, smoothly graphical in its perfection.

He could lean forward, if he dared. Lean forth and taste whatever beautiful fruit Elijah would turn out to taste of, direct from a yielding, softly softly giving oral cavity. The memory of the taste of the fruit attached as a label would inevitably fade into bland insignificance, Sean knows it. Flavour eclipsed unequivocally by the heaven of the essence of a wet clever tongue.

In ages past, when the moon was closer to the earth, solar eclipses were more thorough, and it would be that kind of taste-explosion-eclipse. There had been no halo surrounding the dark impeding disk of the moon so many ages ago, just all the light of the world blocked out, leaving a mystery inconsolable and all-consuming.

The world could be digitally graded, in flavour, but Sean can't bear the thought, so he goes back to looking.

He really looks, looks so hard the effort should manifest obvious sweat it's so physical. Sean looks, but he's not sure how much he sees.

Cheekbones slanting the young face away, rescinding the invitation to that stalling gaze that now slides down to fixate upon that little bit of chest just beneath the armpit. Somehow Sean manages to stop himself from thinking something overtly deifying about the armpit, because surely that would be taking things just that little too far. So he's stuck on that perfect outlining profile of a chest.

Solid colours, solid lines. T-shirt black against a backdrop of grass-green. Just damn beautiful lines.

He swallows.

"I said no, Elijah."

He turns.

"Fuck off."

Posted by Missiedith at January 3, 2004 8:10 PM