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You Keep It All In	By : Sal Category: Lord of the Rings Movies > General > Lord of the Ring Stars Views: 1414 -:- Recommendations : 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.

Chapter List
- 1-You Keep It All In
- 1
Title: You Keep It All In

Author name: Serpentis

Author email: the_evil_lord_Alexander@yahoo.co.uk

Rating: R

DISMER:MER: Not mine, honest guv, apart from late at night and in my dreams.

You know when it hits you, properly. That train crash into your chest, that knocks you off your feet almost literally. The hollow feeling where your internal organs used to be, where they've been pushed into a ribcage that is little more than fractured pieces of bone. Nothing left but this fucking agony that drives you out of your senses because it's so foreign and alien that you're scared and exhilarated and want to die all at the same time and there is nothing you can do other than stare at him because he's so gorgeous he'd never look at you.

And you're friends, which makes it worse. You're with him twenty four fucking seven, having to look at him all the time, when all you want to do is walk over to him, slide your hands to his hips, and kiss him. Even with the Hobbit hair and the bloody feet. Even with all that padding around him, because he's fairly slim in real life. Even with his Manchester lisp hidden by that stupid West-country tha put puts on. Anyway, where the fuck did all these accents come from? Sure there's a precedence for the Dorset drawl, and Frodo's supposed to be sort of posh, but having a Hobbit with a Scottish accent? What the fucking hell?

It's useless, you know, because he'll never see the way you look at him, the want and need in your eyes. He'll never know that it isn't just sex, well, okay, some of it is sex. Who wouldn't want him? He's too fucking lovely for words, isn't he? The promise of the white-hot texture of his skin as he changes from his own clothes into that rough Merry shirt, the one that sometimes slides off a shoulder and shows the wicked curves of skin and muscle. God, what you wouldn't give to tug that shirt out of those little Hobbity trousers and just touch the skin over his spine, tracing the vertebrae and memorising every curve and kink.

Anyway, you know it isn't sex, though that is always welcome and encouraged. It's his voice, and his hands. The way he drinks tea. The crookedness of his smile and the way that he is so surreal that you never know where his mind is. The games you both make up to pass the time. How a thought can slip between you with the smallest of movements, the arch of an eyebrow, a smirk. All those tiny quirks and varieties in speech and movement that once committed to memory you can't escape because they haunt you.

Haunt you. Even when you close your eyes for a rest from looking at him, he's there, smiling and stroking your hair and kissing down your throat to your chest with those beautiful lips. Cocksucking mouth, you always think that and get hard because of it. It's the thought of him above you, fingers soothing on the insides of your thighs as he makes love to you with that sinful and perfect mouth. There's no kink involved, apart from possibly his feet, which was always so blue and cold when the latex feet are peeled away you want to kiss them warm again. Apart from that, every fantasy is vanilla sweet, warm, wrapped around each other and kissing. Whispered words of mutual adoration followed by slow, languid love making of the sort that is not so much physical but on all levels perfect.

Oh yeah, it is an utter joy being a fucking romantic, isn't it?

So you wait and burn and sigh in some Shakespearian sort of way, like Juliet, or Ophelia, in your Gondorian armour. And John's there, looking at you, waiting for you to sing, and that fucking song breaks your heart.

Home is behind

The world ahead

And there are many paths to tread

Through shadow

To the edge of night

Until the stars are all alight

Mist and shadow

Cloud and shape

Hope shall fail< All All shall fade.

And while you're trying not to burst into fucking tears because that gets you a bit too much for comfort, though it'll look bl goo good on screen, all that empathy, you realise that there's someone staring at you from behind the cameras. And he comes over, doesn't he, and puts his arms around you and nudges you in the ribs with a finger. Oh, and it hurts more than just a gentle nudge should. Like a steel spike through your stomach. Because, Jesus, doesn't he realise what this is doing to you? Can't he see? Is he that blinded by friendship and all this to not notice a short Scotsman loves him?

Course he doesn't know, and why should he? No one knows, well, maybe Lijah, and that's because he caught you mooning while they were strapping the love of your life to a fake tree like a bondage victim.

All it would take is one kiss, a tiny movement, a mere second of your lips against his, and you'd know, one way or another. That's the rub, that is. Not knowing. Sometimes, he looks at you and you think the world doesn't matter, because in his eyes is that intensity of feeling that eats you up. And then, most of the time, it's pure comradeship, brothers-in-arms, all that shite. But you know, though it sounds so fucking useless, you live for the former and you get by with the latter.

So it is a shock when one day you're drinking tea, and it's taken away, and instead of the rim of the mug against your lips, it's Dom's mouth. And even though you're a bit upset your tea's gone, because that was a bloody marvellous cup of tea, in the next instant it doesn't matter. Because tea can be made again, and first kisses, well, they last forever, don't they?
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You Keep It All In