Warnings: Rimming and a male nightmare.

Disclaimer: I don’t know anything about the inner-workings of the LotR casting. I don’t know these people and this did not happen. This isn’t even speculation – it’s just straight-up fiction.

Betas: Robyn and Jeanette. Thank you!

Dedication: For Reisling.

Stuart arrived for screen tests wearing a new and even greyer wig. He hadn’t seen Sir Ian in his costume yet, but he suspected his faux hair was beginning to rival Gandalf’s. He was becoming Aragorn the Grey. As he stood before the cameras, walking back and forth when they wanted to see how the costume moved and caught the light, he could hear them whispering. Peering through the key lights shining at him, he could see them. Peter and Fran, Phillipa, Barry and Mark, all of them in conference, hissing and gesturing, their eyes darting to him.

Finally, he stopped prancing for the cameras and stood. He crossed his arms across his chest, cocked one hip and stared at them. “Hey, Peter,” he called. “Something you need me for over there?” If there was any subtlety to the irritation in his voice, it was unintentional. He was angry.

Scratching his beard, Peter wandered over to him, his bare feet leaving prints in the fine layer of dust covering the floor. “No, no, Stuart,” he said with a wave of his hand and his eyes on the ground. “We were just deciding what we think of the new wig.”

“And?” Stuart replied dryly. “Do we have to advance to the Yoda phase of the plan?”

Peter laughed and it could not have sounded more forced. If Stuart had been in any doubt, he would have known in that moment which was the actor out of the two of them. “Not yet.” Peter gave a smile that had more in common with a grimace. “Not yet. We’ve got enough footage to decide, I think. You can head on over to weapons.”

Stuart’s face tightened and he forced down the resentment in his throat that told him he’d just been dismissed. “Okay. Let me know if anything changes with my character. Like, if he becomes a blond or something. Or maybe even a woman. I’d just like to know, if that’s possible.”

Peter diplomatically interpreted Stuart’s comments as a joke, forced another laugh and walked away. Stuart strode across the studio, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword so hard he almost expected to draw blood. He snatched his production-issue robe out of the assistant’s hand and threw it over his head. The assistant looked at him with palpable disdain before turning away. Stuart ignored him and started for the door.

“Stuart!”

He froze as Orlando ran to catch up with him just before he left the building. He gruffly straightened the blue fabric across his chest, covering the costume. A captivating blond with sky-colored eyes trotted up to stand beside him. The blue robe was gone and Orlando, in his Legolas form, was stripped of the ridiculous. Stuart stared and felt awed. Truly fair beyond the measure of men, just as the book said.

“Me and the hobbits are going out for dinner tonight. You coming?”

Orlando smiled and there was nothing lusty in the artificially blue eyes. Stuart felt accosted, attacked by the perfection of Orlando’s face, the stultifying loveliness of this creature who simply could not be human because such form and elegance could not be real.

“Aye, sure. Whatever.” He walked out the door, but Orlando followed and caught him on the arm.

“Hey.” Orlando turned Stuart to face him, but his own eyes flashed about and he ducked back under the protective eave of the studio. None of them were supposed to go outside without robes over their costumes, especially the elves and their much-discussed pointed ears. Fans were rabid for news and no one doubted that spies were everywhere; spies with cameras. “You okay?” Orlando asked. His fingers gripped the edge of the door in lieu of gripping Stuart’s arm.

Stuart shook his head, his heart caught in his chest the way it was when he saw a fine work of art that touched something fragile in his soul. “Maybe you should ask Pete,” he said. He walked away, thankful that Orlando couldn’t follow.

Dinner with the hobbits that night was excruciating. They talked and laughed and chattered and not a chuckle or a vowel of it touched Stuart. Oh, he talked with them, even laughed, but it was a performance, if even that. It felt like a dream. Stuart felt he wasn’t even there and when not called upon to directly speak, he stared at the tabletop before him and left the happy environs for the darkness of his own mind.

“Hey, Stuart.”

Stuart looked up from the table to find Sean looking at him and the others sitting strangely quiet, as if taking a moment of silence for the conversation that had just died. He raised his eyebrows slightly, acknowledging that he was ready for the question Sean clearly wanted to ask.

“How are you feeling about what’s going on with Aragorn?”

A chair creaked and Stuart sensed Elijah shifting uncomfortably beside him. A quick glance around the table revealed Billy spinning his glass and Dom pushing food about on his plate with his fork. Only Orlando directly met Stuart’s eyes and the look was strong and secure, like an anchor.

“It’s great,” Stuart said, and nonchalantly threw back his ale for a swig. “I fucking love having people talk behind my back.”

Elijah’s chair creaked, Billy’s glass spun, Dom’s fork scraped across his plate. Orlando held Stuart’s stare even when Stuart attempted to break it. Stuart’s jaw tensed at the sympathy and comfort in those brown eyes.

“It’s a valid concern for Peter, I think,” Sean continued, undeterred. “In the book, Aragorn is eighty-seven years-old.”

At that, Orlando’s gaze snapped from Stuart’s. “Oh, come on, man. Age doesn’t matter for shit in Tolkien. I’m playing someone who’s two thousand years old. I don’t think I look that old, do you?”

“I think you do,” Billy said.

Dom nodded in agreement. “You look like the fucking crypt keeper, mate.”

“But Aragorn isn’t immortal,” Sean said, ignoring them.

Orlando shrugged. “Neither are the hobbits and aren’t most of them in their fifties? Does Elijah look fifty?”

“Pippin is Billy’s age,” Dom chimed in.

“Right,” Orlando said to Sean, his voice edged with irritation. “Billy’s the only one who’s playing someone even fucking close to his real age. It’s not about age, mate. It’s acting.”

“Oh, shite, it is?” Billy gripped the edge of the table in a false panic. Dom and Elijah laughed, aiding him in his effort to diffuse the mounting tension. “Bollocks,” Billy said with a worried look on his face. “Can we have both or is it just one or the other?”

“Just one, mate.” Orlando laughed, letting the ire fade from his voice.

Dom shook his head sadly. “You’re fucking screwed, Bills.”

“Damn.” Billy sighed.

Stuart watched as Orlando’s own eyes fell to the tabletop and one training-battered hand rose to turn his glass distractedly. His gaze didn’t rise to Stuart’s again for the rest of the meal, but he came home with him all the same – for a “night cap”, they’d decided with mutual smirks. They bid the others farewell at the restaurant and Orlando drove behind Stuart back to his place.

Orlando looked good enough to eat – better, in fact, than the chocolate biscuits Stuart had hunted down for dessert. His lips formed beautifully around each round sweet and he slouched in his chair, hips canted forward. “You nervous?” he asked.

“About what?” Stuart slid his bare foot up, nestling it in the welcoming heat between Orlando’s thighs.

Orlando lifted Stuart’s foot and rested it atop his leg. He pushed the biscuits away from him and turned his hands’ attention to Stuart’s toes, casually massaging. “About filming, you twat.” He smiled. “You start in two days, right? You and the hobbits?”

“Aye.” Stuart watched Orlando’s strong hands working nimbly across sore tendons.

“What’s your first scene?”

“Weathertop.”

“Oh, nice. They start you out on something easy, eh?” Orlando chuckled.

“Easier than it could have been. It’s just fighting.” Stuart arched against the back of his chair and opened his legs a bit when Orlando’s attention to his foot began to awaken the rest of his body. “They could have thrown me straight into a scene with Arwen or some shite like that.”

“Yeah.”

“And those scenes need to be fucking rewritten.” A familiar bile rose acidly in Stuart’s throat. “Have you read them? They’re bloody lame.”

“They didn’t look that bad to me, but I guess I can see what you mean.” Orlando rubbed his palm across the pad of Stuart’s foot.

“They’re trying so hard to make Arwen into this ethereal beauty, it’s impossible to even fucking understand why any man would want to marry her in the first place. She doesn’t even seem like she’d be that good a fuck.” Stuart felt his own thoughts wandering, flowing away on the flood of rage and discontentment pouring from his lips. Orlando continued looking up at him with wide brown eyes, listening closely and carefully with his hands still poised on Stuart’s toes. “But if that were all Aragorn wanted, he should just go for Legolas. Don’t you think?” Stuart asked.

Orlando exhaled a laugh and smirked. “You think Legolas would be a good fuck?”

“Oh, god, yeah. He seems like a cool and collected fellow, but I’ll bet he’s a wildcat. Fuck you so hard, you couldn’t see straight for two weeks.”

Orlando’s eyes glinted. “You think?”

“Well, that’s just one interpretation. You know how many different ways there are to read a character. How do you think Aragorn would be?”

Orlando thought about it, honestly thought about it. Stuart pulled his foot from Orlando’s grasp and grabbed up the biscuits. He took them into the kitchen and when he returned, Orlando had an answer.

“I think,” he began, licking his lips. “I think he could be pretty intense. In a good way, you know? Detailed.”

“Should we fuck as our characters then?” Stuart asked, stalking forward. “Consider it an acting exercise?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Orlando lifted a foot and rested it on the rung of Stuart’s empty chair. The movement opened his legs and set those trim thighs apart. “Aragorn’s great and all, but I’d rather fuck you.”

Stuart smiled almost bitterly and walked to stand between Orlando’s parted legs. Orlando instantly sat up, bracketing Stuart between his knees, and sliding his hands along Stuart’s hips. His dark eyes flitted up to Stuart’s face for only a heartbeat before settling appreciatively on his groin as if treasure lay hidden beneath the smooth fabric of his trousers. Orlando lifted the shirt and pressed his mouth to the stomach beneath. Stuart closed his eyes and tensed, grinning when Orlando moaned to feel the ridges of muscle tighten. His tongue immediately started tracing each dip and rise of Stuart’s abs and all the exercise Stuart had been doing to create those dips and rises suddenly seemed quite worthwhile.

“Aw, fuck,” Orlando breathed. “You feel fucking amazing.” He stood up, bending at the knees to still stoop, but lifting Stuart’s shirt higher. He tugged the cotton up, lapping across a nipple. Stuart hissed and felt the skin hardening under Orlando’s tongue. He slid his fingers into Orlando’s hair and smiled when one lone curl closed possessively around his thumb. He held Orlando there, Orlando’s hands stroking at his waist, Orlando’s tongue laving his chest and he felt powerful and wanted. He pulled Orlando up and locked their mouths. Sinking his tongue between Orlando’s lips felt like slowly slipping into a warm bath; all hot and wet and comfort, delicious in its pure pleasure.

Orlando pulled at his shirt again and Stuart released his hold on his hair to raise his arms. Orlando swiftly pulled off the fabric and returned his mouth to Stuart’s. Between nips and licks, Orlando pulled his own shirt off over his head, exposing his body to Stuart’s hands. Stuart wanted to step back and look because Orlando’s body was always wonderful on the eyes. But it was even better against the skin. He slid his hands over Orlando’s stomach, edging at the top of his jeans and felt hard muscles, tensed for his enjoyment. And enjoy them he did, trailing his fingers up and down, across them as if playing the harp.

Stuart slid his hand down to Orlando’s hip, noting for the first time that Orlando was taller than he was. “Top or bottom?” he panted in the spare second he was willing to part their mouths.

“Hm,” Orlando said thoughtfully between licks. “I’ll let you choose.”

“Well, isn’t that gracious of you.”

Orlando grinned. His lips were swollen and pink from use. “It is. Just this once, though.” He pecked lightly at Stuart’s bottom lip. “Next time, it’s all me.” Stuart turned Orlando in his arms and pulled his round arse tight against his groin. Gripping Orlando’s hips, he rolled his own, grinding his erection between them. Through a staccato moan, Orlando choked out, “Top then?”

“Actually...” Stuart squeezed his eyes shut at the frantic pleasure building in his body and reached around to palm Orlando’s crotch. “I think I might like to see that beautiful cock of yours in action.”

“Beautiful?” Orlando gasped. He bent his head back on Stuart’s shoulder and shivered when the hand cupping him twisted. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my cock.”

“I doubt that. I’ll bet you’ve heard a couple, ‘Oh, god! Oh, god!’s before. It was a pissing spiritual movement for them.”

“Oh, right.” Orlando laughed and nudged Stuart away from him suddenly. After taking a moment to catch his breath, he turned and pushed Stuart backwards toward the sofa, his eyes still sparkling with desire. “Well, then, let’s see if I can change your religion, yeah?”

Stuart chuckled and lay back on the soft cushions. They sank beneath his weight and he sank beneath Orlando’s, losing himself in the heady, incomparable sensation of having a warm body fully against his; the nearly too-hot press of skin and limbs. He felt sweat beginning to trickle from where their chests met and were it caused by the weather, he would have complained, but he welcomed this heat wave. Orlando smiled devilishly as he clambered off the sofa to tug on Stuart’s trousers, pulling them and his boxers off in one swift move before dropping his own to the floor and stepping out of them. Stuart admired the hang of Orlando’s cock, the length and color. It was firm and jutted out proudly, flushed red and pink. It was easily the best-looking cock Stuart had ever been privileged to suck. He wished he’d been able to see it better in the car.

Orlando walked back toward the couch and as soon as he was near enough, Stuart reached out to grasp his arching erection. Orlando’s legs trembled as Stuart gave a few confident twists and tugs, all with the aim of bringing him closer. Stuart raised his head and snaked out his tongue, desperate to feel the rasp of taut skin. At his coaxing, Orlando lowered to one knee on the cushions and Stuart swallowed him. He supposed that’s how the ancient Greeks might have done it; the bottom gets the top all wet and slippery before they really get to it. Orlando’s hips shook at the effort to stay still and Stuart heard his fingernails scraping dully on the upholstery with the force of his grip. “Ah, fuck yeah, Stuart,” Orlando hissed. Stuart pumped his head back and forth, not milking frantically like before, but performing, pleasuring. He raised his eyes and found Orlando’s heated face. Orlando panted, his lips parted and his eyes locked on Stuart’s, but flinching with the intensity of the sensation. His large hands skidded across his chest, rubbing at his nipples.

Stuart wanted to tell Orlando to use him, but he was not willing to take his mouth from the hot length against his tongue. Instead, he nudged Orlando’s knee with his elbow and grabbed hold. He pulled and pushed, directing Orlando’s body into position, straddling his head. This position was better on Stuart’s neck, but what made his body heat with fulfillment was how servile he felt. Orlando towered over him, an imposing stretch of muscle and sinew. He looked up and could feel Orlando trying to hold his gaze, trying to maintain contact, and with it, that personal connection of truly fucking the person he’s with. But Stuart didn’t want that. He shook his head on a down stroke and closed his eyes. “What?” Orlando asked.

Stuart slid his hands up Orlando’s taut body and attempted to push him forward, over the arm of the couch. He whimpered around Orlando’s cock.

“What? You want – do you want me to fuck your mouth?” He almost sounded as if he didn’t believe it.

Stuart moaned appreciatively and unmistakably yes. He peered up again and could see nothing but couch cushion and Orlando’s belly; Orlando had leaned over too far, hands braced on the sofa’s arm, for Stuart to see his face anymore. And the cock in his mouth began to thrust in and out. Stuart’s eyes rolled back in his head, blissful, and he held his mouth still, lips curled over his teeth, saliva pooling on his tongue to lubricate with every pulse in and out. Orlando chose quick, shallow strokes, just popping in and never pushing too far. Polite fucking, that’s what it was, and that’s not what Stuart wanted. He grabbed onto Orlando’s hips and tried to force him faster. Orlando complied and Stuart felt the gratifying thump of his head against the frame of the sofa, but Orlando only allowed it to happen once. Stuart gripped Orlando’s hips nearly hard enough to bruise, but the thrusts only continued to lighten in their intensity. Hurt me, Stuart screamed in his mind. Just fucking do it.

“Stu – ”

Stuart grunted and pushed back until he could free his mouth. His tongue shoved out Orlando’s cock almost in disgust. “Roll over,” he commanded.

“What?”

“Come on, little ghost. Roll over.” Stuart steered Orlando as he sat up and stepped off the sofa to make room.

“What about the cushions? Do you want to get a towel or something?”

“Just roll over.”

With a confused look clouding his face, Orlando turned over and stretched out flat across the cushions. He reached under himself to adjust his cock comfortably and rested his head on his folded arms. “I thought you wanted to bottom.”

Stuart knelt over the pale and prone form, ghosting his hands over Orlando’s arse and the bend and straight at the tops of his thighs. He felt almost hypnotized. “I changed my mind,” he said. He leaned over and pressed his lips to the smooth skin at the base of Orlando’s spine. Orlando breathed in and raised his hips into the contact. Stuart extended his tongue and trailed it downward, following the natural curves of body and bone until it met the top dip of Orlando’s arse.

Above, Orlando let out the rush of breath he’d been holding. “Christ,” he whimpered. “God, that feels good.”

Stuart barely heard him. He focused on the dark cleft splitting the rounds of flesh before him. He palmed and spread them, letting his attention narrow to the small hole hidden in between. He leaned in and rasped his tongue across the creased skin. Orlando’s whole body tensed and he panted desperately as though this were the most arousing experience of his life, as if his body could barely contain it. “God,” he gasped.

Such a simple detail, Stuart thought. Would Legolas be so easily undone? Would Aragorn do this to him? Could he make love to Orlando the way Aragorn would?

Stuart’s hands trembled. A wave of panic swept through him as his skin broke out in a sickening sweat. And his cock began to soften between his legs. Every muscle in his body seemed frozen, too frightened to move or misguidedly hoping that if he ceased to move, his penis would cease to wilt. He glanced down and just as quickly looked away again. He was soft, and the churning in his stomach became hollow and violent.

“Hey, that was just getting good,” Orlando joked.

Stuart felt hot tears rising in his eyes.

Orlando lifted himself up on his elbows and turned to peer over his shoulder. His forehead creased at what Stuart knew must be the look of anguish on his face. “You okay?” And then, Orlando did what Stuart feared: he glanced down. Almost instantly, his demeanor changed. “Jesus,” he breathed, stunned. His body relaxed, no longer tense and demanding.

Orlando turned over on the couch and sat up, no doubt hoping that Stuart wouldn’t notice as he discreetly pulled a pillow over his still hard and able cock. But Stuart did notice. Stuart noticed and it infuriated him.

“It’s all right, mate,” Orlando said. “I mean, it happens, you know?” He slid over to sit beside Stuart comfortingly.

Stuart shoved Orlando away. “Get the fuck off me.” The rough tingling in his arm told him just how hard he’d hit. “Stupid fucking elf. That obviously doesn’t help.” Stuart propelled himself off the couch and snatched his trousers off the floor. He wrestled to free his boxers from the tangle of fabric.

“Sorry, I just – I was just – I didn’t mean - ”

His face a flustered red, Orlando had no idea what to say or do and Stuart hated him for it. Fastening his trousers, he grabbed up Orlando’s and threw them at him. “Get dressed.”

Orlando flinched as his jeans hit him full in the face. “Hey, don’t get mad at me, mate. I didn’t do anything.”

“That would be the problem, wouldn’t it?”

“What?”

“This has never happened before. I’m the same person, so what do you think is different, huh?”

Orlando let out a short breath of astonishment and stared, eyes wide in disbelief. “Uh...I’m sorry?”

“You bloody pansy.” Stuart paced. “Barely two months into training and you’re here like this. Jesus, look at yourself. You don’t even know me.”

The hurt in Orlando’s face softened into disappointment, even pity, and Stuart’s gut wrenched. Orlando quickly slid his legs into his jeans and zipped up, throwing his shirt on over his shoulders and wadding his boxers up in his hand. Stuart stood, breathing in a fury and unable to take anything back as Orlando breezed past him and grabbed his keys. The door slammed shut a moment later.

Stuart felt nausea bubble in his throat. Still shirtless, he lay down on the sofa and fell asleep, refusing to let his mind think.