How To Bed An Elf (In Six Easy Steps)
by Buffonia

Step One: Choosing Your Elf

The first time you see him, Orlando is fresh off the plane and stretching his long arms up into the air. Fingers interlaced, connecting the hands, palms to the clouded sky. He's stretching and stretching until the belly of his shirt rises to flash some skin.

You squint across the landing area, studying the gleefully exposed muscles and hip bones before the hem of his shirt falls back into place, meeting the pants like a curtain crashing upon the stage's lip. Orlando begins tilting his head from side to side until, you assume, his neck gives a few satisfying pops.

While Orlando rolls his shoulders in slow, small circles and charmingly carries on an out-of-earshot conversation with a dufflebag-perched Billy, you decide that you fully enjoy the act of Orlando releasing his tension.


Step Two: On Courting

You tell your fellow hobbits that it will be something of an initiation. A means of welcoming Orlando into your close knit circle. You assuage their skeptical squints with a smile as you speak. Just a trick, a joke, a gag, you tell them. You're all very good at pranks and the newcomer will come to understand how it's really sort of a compliment that any of you would waste your energy on him.

Billy, as usual, needs very little explanation before jumping on board with your plan. He nudges Elijah with his elbow. "C'mon, it'll be a riot."

"What if he freaks out?" Elijah's expression is bordering on fearful Frodo territory.

You slap a hand onto your worried friend's shoulder. "Never fear, my dear. If we're caught, we'll deny you had anything to do with it."

"Jesus, Lij," says Billy, hooking an arm round Elijah's neck. "We're not murderin' his first born."

Elijah nods with a laugh, giving up like you knew he would, as he always does. "Alright, alright. I'm in."

That night, as an unsuspecting Orlando drinks and dines with a conspiratorial Viggo, you lead your mates down the hotel hall. Under your command, the three of you break into Orlando's room. Well, not so much break in, but you do open the door (the door that Viggo promised would be unlocked) damn sneakily. His trash bag eagerly empty, Billy follows you in and Elijah stays behind to keep watch.

Ever obedient, Billy rushes about; rifling through drawers and suitcases, stuffing the agreed upon bounty into his bag. You take your time and touch the knickknacks that Orlando has already unpacked and you wonder why such items were chosen to travel with and how they came into his possession. Because you like to nose around in other boys' things and Billy's getting the dirty work done well enough without you.

Elijah's overly loud "Hey man! How was dinner?" signals the approach of Orlando.

Billy pulls you away from the bureau, laughing and hissing a victory cry in your ear as he drags you out the door. Elijah has skillfully turned Orlando in conversation so that only his back can bear witness to your danced retreat down the corridor.

At the end of the hallway, you spin on your heels and press into the stairwell door, swinging it open with your rear. A wink to Elijah before you disappear behind the click of metal.

Taking the steps two to three at a time, you clamber to the nearest exit, where Viggo ought to be waiting with the car. Billy struggles with the bag that he's slung over his shoulder like a perverse Saint Nick and you desperately wish you could be there to see Orlando's face when he realizes he's missing every single one of his knickers.


Step Three: Practice

Stroke. Tug. Pull back. Release.

Orlando's fingers tickle down the hard shaft before finding a suitable grip. He doesn't even have to look. His hand knows the way after much training. In a slow, deft motion of reaching back and pulling forward, he has the arrow in place.

You smile as he lets it fly because you're watching him again. And it's so easy to do. He leaves himself very open to spectators. Everything he does is like a presentation; big and showy and slow with experience, but always in a subtle way that makes it come off as realistic.

This time you aren't watching from far away. You're right next to him with your hands shoved deep in your pockets like you do when you're trying to act casual. And you're pulling it off rather nicely, even making light conversation. Orlando's eyes never leave the target, yards away and full like a pin cushion with his successful shots.

It's just as well that he doesn't look at you because this way you don't have to hide the way you watch him. You have a dangerous smirk, you can feel it on your lips, and it's comfortable to wear it while you're looking at him. Maybe part of you wants to be caught, wants him to flick his gaze to you and see the intentions that are plainly written on your face with that slutty grin of yours.

His latest arrow is lodged deep in the blue ring, just on the edge of the center circle.

"That was close," you say. "You're getting damn good."

"Could've been better." His words are hard because he's hard on himself. Always the perfectionist. You want him to lighten up a little, not care so bloody much about every little task, not squint and frown and assess every situation. But then he wouldn't be Orlando, so you don't really want that at all.

His sleeveless t-shirt lets you catch the way his muscles flex when he pulls the arrow against the resistant bow. When he holds it there, his jaw tightens in anticipation. You want to lick it. The jaw, the arms and especially the legs that he has in a powerful archer stance.

Your jeans feel tighter, and with your hands in the pockets, they're pressing even harder against your erection. You want to groan. You really do. There are a lot of things you want right now, and all of them are being presently denied to you. It's terribly frustrating.

"Everyone's going out for drinks tonight." You inconspicuously pull each hand backwards in their respective pocket, bringing an even harder press of tension to the front of the stiff fabric.

Only because you've been paying attention do you notice that there's a bit of a delay in Orlando's arrow loading technique. "You're going?"

You shift forward, further grinding into your secretly sinful wall of denim. "I'm game if you are."

Orlando nods and releases the arrow. It lands closer to the bullseye than all the others. He reaches back for another attempt at perfection.

Stroke. Tug. Pull back. Release.


Step Four: The Chase

The bar of the night isn't nearly as dark and gritty as what you would have chosen. But it was Elijah's pick and you'll have your turn next weekend. And the atmosphere isn't important, tonight is all about the execution. You're leaning against the bar, one elbow propped up on the counter and your other arm snaked around a cute girl's waist.

A clear path lies between Orlando's seat at the table and your cozy arrangement at the bar. He's chatting with Elijah. Actually, the poor bastard is listening to Elijah ramble on after far too many drink specials. Elijah's very into whatever he's going on about, using his hands emphatically, his eyes widening when he enunciates a word that you can't make out over the crowd. Orlando is nodding and occasionally grinning, but the latter is probably out of amusement at Elijah rather than with him.

You know all this because you're taking liberal glances at them out of the corner of your eye whenever the git of a girl looks down and gulps some of the fruity drink you bought her. You also know that Orlando has been stealing looks towards the bar at exactly the spot where you stand. You know that everything is going to work out just the way you hoped and so it's easy for you to flirt with this Chrissy or Krista or Kinny bird. Her name's not important.

She giggles and calls you, "Duminic" and playfully slaps your chest. Her hand lingers where it hits and her little sly smile makes you grin. She's perfectly adorable and couldn't have been doing a better job if you'd paid her and explained the circumstances. And all it cost you was three little drinks.

You lean in to kiss her and you can almost taste the berry liqueur on her lips until a hand on your shoulder pulls you out of the embrace. When you turn to see who it is, you almost fall on your arse with a victoriously evil cackle. You settle for a surprised yet curious expression.

Orlando is kind of shifting from one foot to the other and he's got one hand rubbing the back of his neck. "Hey, man, sorry to interrupt but we best get Elijah home. He's absolutely tanked."

You both look over at your group and Orlando winces while you stifle a laugh. Elijah is demonstrating some form of Russian line dancing on the tabletop, all crouching and kicking and popping up at certain points to throw up his arms and exclaim "Hey!"

Everyone's laughing; even John has got a stuffy smirk. Viggo and Sean are clapping to keep Elijah in rhythm and Billy takes a pause from his laughter to animatedly insert some bills into Elijah's pants.

Your snicker dies and you feign concern at Orlando's worried frown. "You're right, mate," you say. "Let's get him home." You step away from KellyChristaCarrie with an apologetic smile. You really deserve a bloody Oscar for this, screw the movie. "Sorry, pet, I've got to help a friend in need."

She pouts and you toss a few more bills on the bar and nod to the tender to buy her another round or two. Her kitten eyes are so disappointed that you almost feel bad. But Orlando's nervous presence behind you chases away anything close to regret and leaves you with only a lingering anticipation.

You and Orlando make your way to the table and you almost hate to put an end to the situation because now Elijah's gyrating mock-seductively to the faint jukebox music and Billy's singing along and sipping a beer.

Hopping up onto the table you hold on to one of Elijah's arms. "Showtime's over, Madonna." You grin and haul him off the table. The boy's legs are like liquid and he nearly collapses to the floor upon landing. Orlando's on Lij's left and you're on the right and you both drag him to the door.

As you stand outside in the light two a.m. rain with a practically limp Elijah fumbling for a clove cigarette at your side and Orlando trying to wave a cab at the bend of the curb, you glance from one boy to the next and you wonder how you possibly convinced Fate to make it all so terribly easy.


Step Five: Resisting Temptation

The rain has hardened from a drizzle into sheets of blinding precipitation. It was a warm, slow ride to Elijah's place with Elijah seated between Orlando and yourself. Both of you stare out your windows at the slick, black pavement because anything beyond that is near impossible to see. Thanks to the fuzzy, wet glow of the streetlights, Orlando's profile is reflecting in your window and you can entertain yourself with that for most of the way.

With the tinted, bulletproof glass shut and separating the front and back halves of the taxi, the quick rhythm of the windshield wipers is nothing more than a series of muffled thuds. Neither you nor Orlando have spoken a word, but Elijah's still singing "Like a Virgin" sleepily while fondling his unlit cigarette, so it's not complete silence.

The rain has anything but lessened as the vehicle rolls to a halt in front of Elijah's house. A sharp push on the door and it gives too easily, making you realize you never shut it tight enough.

"Hold the cab," you instruct Orlando as you slide out of the seat and into the cold downpour.

"You sure you've got him?" Orlando looks skeptical, and for good reason at that. There's a pretty drunk boy with his arm around your neck, leaning on you, practically into you.

"Oh he's got me, captain," says Elijah, giggling, cigarette dangling from his lip. His free hand, the one not resting on your shoulder, explores the depths of his jacket pocket before triumphantly emerging with a lighter. Despite the beating rain, he attempts to spark a flame.

"I can handle one boy," you reply with a smirk, shutting the door on one last glimpse of Orlando's pensive expression. "C'mon Lij, use your feet now. Excellent. Just a few more steps."

Not producing so much as a flicker from his lighter, he shakes it furiously and tries some more. "Fuck," he mumbles, the sopping wet cigarette still perched between his lips. He shakes the Zippo a few more times.

"Here we are then." The eaves are splashing some excess water onto the doorstep and it takes some effort to avoid it. Not that you aren't soaked through already.

Elijah grumbles something about fire and water before spitting the cigarette to the ground and throwing the lighter like a baseball into some bushes. He turns to stare at the knob and blinks a few times. "Keys."


"Keys, keys, keys." He pats down his jacket and his pants, repeating the word over and over. Elijah bites his bottom lip and winces at you. He looks like he's going to laugh too. "Wanna hear something funny?"

"Oh, Christ. Elijah, tell me you have your keys."

"You have your keys. Man, that's a funny word. Keys. Keeeeeys."

"Elijah." You do your best to not growl out the word.

"Waitaminute, I remember something," he says, index finger raised pointedly in indication of an idea. The tip of his tongue curls up over his top lip and he dives his hand into his rear pocket. "Keys!" The exclamation is met with a soft jangling of metal. He holds them up proudly.

With a sigh of relief you take them from him and make to open the door, leaving him to solidly rest against the house.

"Funny, funny word," he mutters, shaking his head with a chuckle. He closes his eyes and his head tips back. You think he might fall asleep right then and there. But when the locks click with success and the door gives in after a turn and a push, his eyes open and he grins, falling back onto you for stability.

On your way to the living room, because there's no way in hell you're even going to attempt to drag his sorry arse up the stairs to his bed, his weight seems to increase tenfold. You think maybe he's passed out, until you realize he's pushing you. Into the wall.

Your back meets with a closet door and his mouth finds yours. It's a sloppy kiss, and flavored with gin, but it's warm and biting and there's still rainwater on both of your faces. He nudges your nose affectionately before moving his cold, wet lips and warm, generous tongue down over the curve of your chin.

When his knee meets the wooden door behind and between your legs, his thigh pressing into your crotch, you wonder where the hell this coordination of his was a minute ago. God, he feels good against you. And if this were another night, any night you didn't have Orlando waiting in the backseat of a car, you'd have Elijah on the couch and screaming every name in the goddamned bible.

It takes some mental discipline to push Orlando's worried look to the front of your mind. But once it's there, it's clear and your gut responds quicker than anything in your pants ever could. A pang of guilt in your belly gives you the strength to push Elijah off, not hard enough to shove him down, but enough to break his lips' contact with your neck.

His smile falls to confusion at your apologetic wince. "Not tonight, man. Can't."

Elijah steps back, blinking at you a few times; his expression is blank. Maybe he's thinking. You can't quite tell. Unsure of his reaction, you swallow and wait. Finally, after an agonizing moment, his face breaks into a bright, lopsided grin. "No worries. That was just a thank you."

You grin back, glad that he can understand through his stupor. "Well, then you're welcome."

He stumbles towards the sofa, jacket sliding off his arms and to the floor. He simultaneously steps out of his shoes, standing on the back of one while pulling his foot out, and peels off his shirt before crashing onto the cushions. You watch him curl up to the pillow and you know he'll be asleep by the time you let yourself out.


Step Six: Enjoying Success

For an actor, Orlando doesn't hide his relief very well. Or maybe he just doesn't calculate his emotions like you do. But when you slip into the cab, water dripping off of you, it's fairly obvious that he's surprised you actually came back.

"Where to?" You ask the million dollar question because you might as well be obvious too.

Orlando's nervously turning a penny over in his fingers. He shrugs. "Doesn't matter."

"Bet it matters to him," you say, nodding to the driver.

"Doubt it. I already paid."

You can feel the arch in your brow. "How much?"

"Enough." He looks up from fidgeting with the coin, a smile highlighting his cheekbones. "I'm an excellent tipper."

As the car pulls from the curb and sets off down the slippery street, you realize that there is now a muffle of music playing over the speakers. "Lucky for him."

"Yeah, lucky." Orlando leans in, his hand meeting your thigh, his lips meeting your own. His mouth presses softly, keeping still a moment and then opening to take your bottom lip. A perfectly sober kiss; you nearly forgot what those were like and how well-executed kisses could be when you have your wits about you.

A groan you've been reserving for him and repressing for days, finds its way to freedom into his mouth. He laps it up, his tongue appreciating all you have to offer. His hands are warm on your chest under your heavily drenched shirt and you're grateful for the lustful fever his touch sends throughout your chilled body.

He moves slowly, letting you recline under him. Orlando's very gentle with his control and it's something you're not used to. But you're pretty sure you like it enough to grow accustomed to it. You're an adaptable fellow like that.

Your hands hold his hips, their bones buried beneath layers of fabric. He's so eager, his movements fluid and seemingly not impulsive. It almost makes you wonder who had been playing who all along.


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