There's a reason they call it a need.
by Nora Lennon
M/P Slash, Angst, Masturbation, Rated R
A need.
Him.
A groping hand in the dark.
The way he smiled, his perfect bowed lips pressing together and curving into an angelic arc that filled the room with ethereal light.
Nervous, guilty fingers shake with the anticipation of warm skin.
The way he pouted, his full lashes batting over pools of emerald green, pleading silently for a change of mind.
A groan giving way to a fumbling hold.
The way he laughed, his copper curls bouncing with delight, twirling and twisting together in a mixture of golden glory.
A sickeningly familiar rhythm begins.
The way he cried, his slim hands flexing open, and then closed, against soft material in a painful hallo for comfort.
A shuddering gasp of tears and sweat.
The way he angered, his softy curved jaw locking in dismissive indignation against some heart-felt injustice.
Harder. Faster. Almost. A fire of passion and desire.
The way he coyed, his tiny pointed ears filling with a charming red hue that glowed like hot, lustful embers.
A moan for burning release. So close. Harder.
The way he screamed, his clear voice a resonant echo through the night sky that ripped as heavily and as imponderously as the fading rays of twilight.
A climax. Hot, sticky alleviation.
His lips, his eyes, his hair, his body, his voice.
Inarticulate sobs, shaking the still form. Hot tears, burning flushed cheeks.
My little cousin. My best friend. My Pippin.
A cold, dark regret. Guilty weariness. Sanity's depletion. A profound, abysmal heart ache.
Him.
That's why they call it a need.