cupidsbow (cupidsbow) wrote,

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Slash Fic: five scenes of Bohemian life

So, the long-awaited angst-fest. Long awaited by me anyway :)

I'm very, very happy to have this one finally out of my head.

Title: five scenes of Bohemian life
Author: cupidsbow
Pairing: EW/OB, LotR RPS
Rating: NC17 (angst)
Length: 1,800 words
For: msilverstar, rosiegamgee and Talesin, for being constant when I was Dazed and Confused.
Thanks: to my wonderful beta, Bron; you da babe!
Disclaimer: I don’t know any of these people—it’s just a lucid fever-dream.
Summary: Elijah and Orlando are Bohemians.

Notes: God knows what I was thinking with this one. Weird little bunny ahead.

The definitions are adapted from entries.


five scenes of Bohemian life


  1. A process, condition, or period of deterioration or decline, as in morals or art; decay.

  2. Characterized by refined aestheticism, artifice, and the quest for new sensations.

There was something gut-wrenchingly exciting about watching a demi-God fall; it was a fact that struck Elijah anew every time he watched Legolas undress.

It began unprovocatively enough: the first things to go were always the weapons. Legolas would strip his bow, quiver, and sword away with brisk, steady hands; the hands of a warrior.

Elijah was fascinated by Legolas's hands, because there was a kind of magic in the way they moved that went beyond the art of light and camera. While Legolas handled his weapons, they were real: obviously used every day, kept sharp and deadly by a being able to kill faster than a human eye could track. But when Legolas handed his weapons over to the Prop Master—the moment they left his hands—they became unedged fakery. Dull gilt that had never tasted blood.

That wasn't the moment of the fall though. Even unarmed, it was still obviously Legolas. There was no mistaking him for anyone else.

Elijah avidly watched every move. Want blooming in his belly for the sureness of those inhuman hands.

The wig was next. Legolas slid it away with sure, elegant movements; he never looked in the mirror while he did it.

It made perfect sense to Elijah. Legolas's form was unchanging and eternal. What did such a being need of mirrors?

That was Legolas too. Even without the blond perfection of the wig. Flawed but not yet fallen. And Elijah wanted him: the slight not-quite-rightness was infinitely seductive.

The costume came next.

Leaf green and bark brown falling away; a shed skin, revealing an all too human tan.

It would have made sense if that was the moment of the fall. Without the forest colouring, Legolas was almost gone.


But all Elijah had to do was catch a glimpse of those depthless blue eyes to know that Legolas was still there, and Orlando had not yet returned.

By that point, the want was burning so hot, it was all Elijah could do to keep still. Because it was about to happen. The moment he was waiting for, breathlessly...

...Legolas would lean forward, finally looking into the mirror...
...on the other side of the glass would be Orlando...
...looking out...
...and Legolas would flick a sure finger across one immortal eye...

...and the lens would...

...from long fingers into the container on the bench, and Orlando would fumble with the second contact, cursing a little and blinking.

Human. Mortal. Imperfect.

There were no words for telling Orlando of this want Elijah had for Legolas, let alone for expressing Elijah's fascination with the fall. It was a silent, secret, decadent thing.

Inevitably, after Elijah had watched Legolas fall, he would wake sometime deep in the night, having dreamt that Legolas was fucking him.

* * *


  1. The quality that gives pleasure to the mind or senses and is associated with such properties as harmony of form or colour, excellence of artistry, and truthfulness.

  2. One that is beautiful.

"Harder," demanded Elijah, "harder!"

They had done this often enough now that Orlando could read between the lines and understand what Elijah was really asking for. Orlando didn't vary his thrusts at all, but he gripped tighter; his fingers pressing marks onto Elijah's hips.

"Harder, Orli!"

Orlando slid an arm under Elijah's chest and pulled him up...

"God, yes!" panted Elijah. "Do it. Do it."

...until Elijah was sitting in his lap, grinding down onto his dick. Orlando lipped Elijah's shoulder.

Elijah whimpered. "Please, Orli."

Orlando bit hard enough to leave a perfect shell-shaped bite on Elijah's skin. Moved along a little, and did it again.

"Fucking tease!" said Elijah, pressing back into Orlando's mouth. "I said harder!"

"God Elijah," said Orlando, on the brink of orgasm, "love you so fucking much," and came, biting down until he tasted Elijah's blood.

Elijah's throat was a rictus of pain beneath Orlando's mouth, but he didn't make a sound as he came into the hard grip of Orlando's fist.

* * *

In the bright, harsh light of morning, Elijah stood before his bathroom mirror admiring Orlando's marks. He ran a finger over the broken skin of his shoulder; over the rainbow of old bruises beneath the new bloom of violent purple; then down, down to palm the memory of Orlando's hands on his hips, the fingerprints there overlapping like a complex crime scene, dated in colour: yellow to blue-black.

They were so beautiful; a momentary proof of lasting ecstasy.

And for the rest of the day, Elijah could feel the pleasant torture of Orlando's love beneath his clothes.

* * *


  1. The condition of being free of restraints.

  2. Liberty of the person from slavery, detention, or oppression.

  3. Exemption from an unpleasant or onerous condition.

  4. The capacity to exercise choice; free will.

  5. Frankness or boldness; lack of modesty or reserve.

  6. The power to engage in certain actions without control or interference.

Orlando didn't so much press the off button on the phone, as punch it. Someone who didn't know him well might have assumed that the call had been bad news.

Elijah knew better.

"Congratulations," he said. "I know what it means to you."

"Yeah," said Orlando, still staring at the phone. "Can't be an actor without a gig, right?"

"Right," said Elijah, soothingly. "And Ned Kelly! I mean, the only thing cooler than gangsters, are pirates, and there's no chance in hell of that so—"

"Not gangsters," Orlando corrected, smiling the kind of smile that's a mask for too-close tears. "Bushrangers. Only American thugs are called gangsters."

The smile was almost enough to break Elijah, but he'd had a long time to prepare for this moment. He'd known the world would want Orlando that very first day he'd ever set eyes on him; he'd known long before Orlando had; he'd known before the mohawk; before he'd ever seen Legolas fall; before Orlando had kissed him; long before they were lovers...

He'd known.

But Orlando's smile was still almost too much to bear.

"It'll be so great," said Elijah, his voice hitching a little, despite all his preparation. "Heath Ledger."

Orlando finally stopped staring at the phone and looked at Elijah.

"I don't fucking want Heath Ledger," he said. "I want you."

Elijah had known he'd have to let Orlando go; but he hadn't known how much it would hurt; and despite his best efforts to prepare, he now discovered that the bites and bruises really hadn't helped him get used to the pain. It was an anguish too big to be contained by something as simple as his body.

"I know," Elijah managed, squeezing the words past the choking grip that was closing his throat. "I want you so much it fucking kills me, Orli. But you can't have me and be a... a fucking bushranger too! You know that. We both do."

Orlando sighed and looked back down at the phone. "I used to believe in free will," he said, sadly. "But what's the fucking point of all the fucking money we earn if we can't have what we want most?"

Elijah put a gentle hand on Orlando's arm, forcing himself not to grab and hold on so tight that nothing would ever pry him off. "If we start saving now," he said, "when we're Ian's age maybe we can afford it."

And then Orlando's smile did break him.

* * *


  1. Promiscuous sexual relations.

  2. A mixture of diverse or unrelated parts or individuals; a hodgepodge.

When Philippa left, Legolas got up and locked the door to the trailer.

"This is the only chance we'll ever get," he said.

"What?" asked Elijah, trying to ignore the reference to passing time, because the end was close enough to feel; a constant pressure against his skin.

"To do it while we're in costume," said Legolas. "I don't know about you, but I've wanted to fuck Frodo since day one."

Elijah's mouth went dry, and his dick was so hard he wouldn't be surprised if seams were coming undone. "Fuck!"

"Yeah," said Legolas, undoing the fastenings on his leggings. "Come here little hobbit."

Elijah went.

* * *

Elijah felt like he was caught in some immense vise; time was pressing down on his skin like the gravity from a black hole. But Legolas was pushing into him, pushing him towards some impossible ecstasy; filling him too full of feeling that had nowhere to escape.

"Fucking love you so fucking, fucking much," said Legolas, in Orlando's passion-roughened voice. "Love you, Lijah. Love you."

And even though he'd always sworn he'd never say it; never make it real; Elijah was too full. There was no keeping it inside.

"Fucking hate you, fucking bastard," Elijah sobbed, "fucking love you for fucking ever." And he came while looking into the deceptive contact-lens blue of Legolas’s eyes.

It was impossible to believe the being behind those eyes could ever fall for anyone as small as Elijah.

* * *


  1. Human effort to imitate, supplement, alter, or counteract the work of nature, as found in works of beauty or aesthetic value.

  2. The conscious production or arrangement of sounds, colours, forms, movements, or other elements in a manner that affects the sense of beauty, specifically the production of the beautiful in a graphic or plastic medium.

Elijah, of course, had been given copies of the DVDs of The Lord of The Rings.

He never watches them. Especially the extra features.

He'd stupidly watched the extra features once, when they'd first arrived. But that one time was all the lesson he'd needed. Every fucking scene, they were laughing. Like it was the best time of their lives.

So he doesn't watch that anymore. Ever.

But sometimes, maybe once a month...

...those three scenes.

The moment after Gandalf's death, on the hill outside the mines of Moria.

The moment before the battle at Helm's Deep, when Legolas questions why they are staying to fight a hopeless battle.

The moment during the final battle, when Legolas is so Legolas it makes Elijah want to cry.

Because in those scenes—just those scenes—it is possible, for a moment, to believe that Legolas is a real creature. That he's life, not art. Not some thin smear of ink from Tolkien's pen; not some young wannabe actor waving fake weapons, in a stupid wig, wearing contact lenses that hide the devil-take-you look that's always in his eyes.

And it's possible, for a moment, and despite Legolas's immortal perfection, to believe that this amazing otherworldly creature might, if the right catalyst came along, might—like Arwen—might...

...might choose the forbidden road...
...might choose to give up forever...
...might choose to embrace the end of time...

...might choose to...

* * *
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