LOTR Behind the Scenes fics
Jun. 18th, 2021 04:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roselightfairyI haven't done a fic update on here in a long time, so I thought I'd mention that I've compiled a series of my fics inspired by the LOTR behind-the-scenes cast interviews here on AO3. Basically, I've taken situations that happened to the actors (usually Legolas and Gimli-focused) and written them happening to the characters.
I thought the series was done with one for each installment, but then DeHeerKonijn sent me the sweetest picture of Orlando Bloom holding Brett Beattie's hand while he got his Fellowship tattoo (pic linked in this article, which I highly recommend) and I couldn't resist it. It's not ready to upload to AO3 yet, so I'm sharing the text below the cut.
Also, as a treat for me, Gimli can for once in fic not have a superhuman pain tolerance. ;)
“I see now why you insisted on privacy,” Legolas remarked.
“Do you?” He needn’t sound so smug about it, but the needle was tracing its way over Gimli’s hip again and he gritted his teeth against the spike of pain, unable to release any of his desired remonstrations. He could not bring himself to look, but he could imagine the raised redness of the skin, like a burn.
Every time he had this done, the pain came as a surprise.
Beside him, a smile was playing over Legolas’s lips. He was not so altruistic, then, as to refrain from indulging in a friend’s misery. “I had been led to believe,” he said lightly, “that dwarves’ tolerance for pain was nearly beyond comprehension. That their skin was like leather, near impervious to any wound or prick” –
“You know that is not true,” Gimli grunted, and was gratified at least by Legolas’s ensuing blush. He could still rattle the elf’s composure, then, even lying on his side as the mannish tattoo artist traced carefully – far too carefully! – over his hip with his inked needle. Perhaps it was the man’s hand, lacking the confident speed of a dwarf who had mastered the craft, his hesitancy drawing out the fire over Gimli’s skin –
If his friends from home were here, they would roar with laughter at that excuse. No, every time he convinced himself it would be different, and every time it was just the same.
“I suppose not,” Legolas conceded. “Else you would not need those thick-soled boots in the forest, or that coat of mail.”
“You know that is not what I meant,” Gimli began. Perhaps Legolas might flaunt the lightness of his feet, but some others preferred to feel more sure-footed when prancing about in the forest. And anyway, he had not spoken of the touch of pebbles beneath his feet but Legolas’s light fingers on his skin, making him shiver with every caress –
“No,” Legolas said, and now his eyes danced. “But perhaps it is. Perhaps that is the reason you wrap yourself in layers of metal and leather – to hide the flesh beneath. Perhaps that is the reason . . .” He lifted Gimli’s hand from the pad on which he lay and traced a gentle circle over his wrist – right in the spot where his own inking had been completed earlier, which he had sat through with hardly a blink.
Gimli’s skin was nowhere near so impervious: even the touch of Legolas’s bow-callused finger tingled. A shiver ran through him and he bit back a sigh.
“Hold still,” said the man above him, his gloved hand tightening on Gimli’s hip. That touch, stiff and unfamiliar, felt like the intrusive fingers of some strange creature, and Gimli scowled – then grimaced as the needle sent another wave of spikes rippling through him.
“My apologies,” murmured Legolas, but he did not release Gimli’s hand. He clasped it between his own, instead, bowing his head to bring his lips to Gimli’s fingers. “The more do I admire the canvas of your body, then, so dearly was each design won,” he said. The motion of his lips felt like a blessing, cool water to soothe the burn in Gimli’s hip. “They say that it is not tolerance of pain that is to be admired, but persistence through it. Your dedication to beauty must be beyond question.”
Dearly won, indeed. The memory of the pain dulled after each inking was completed, but Gimli could still remember the process of each one – how carefully he had chosen each design before finally sitting for the drawing, long and thoughtful conversations with each artist who would make his skin their canvas. And though this man was no dwarven artist, this design had been no less carefully chosen – Frodo’s design, a drawing for each of them to remember the trials they had undergone for love of one another and for Middle-earth. And though the process pained him now, Gimli would be glad of it when it had ended, as he was glad of every other mark his body bore.
“It is, indeed,” he said in response. “Each mark has a tale, each tale a beloved memory. Would you like to hear them?”
“I would.” Legolas lifted his head from their joined hands, but did not release his clasp. His eyes fixed on Gimli – even seen thus, sideways from his reclined position through a haze of pain, Gimli could recognize their intensity: the way Legolas stared at you, the way he listened as though he had forgotten all the rest of the world existed. “Tell me each one. I want to know every story etched upon your skin.”
Perhaps he meant it; perhaps he merely meant to distract Gimli from the pain of the process. Either way, Gimli stared into his dark eyes and felt himself submerged in cool water – to drown the flame of the pain. “Of course,” he said. “Then let us begin.”
I thought the series was done with one for each installment, but then DeHeerKonijn sent me the sweetest picture of Orlando Bloom holding Brett Beattie's hand while he got his Fellowship tattoo (pic linked in this article, which I highly recommend) and I couldn't resist it. It's not ready to upload to AO3 yet, so I'm sharing the text below the cut.
Also, as a treat for me, Gimli can for once in fic not have a superhuman pain tolerance. ;)
“I see now why you insisted on privacy,” Legolas remarked.
“Do you?” He needn’t sound so smug about it, but the needle was tracing its way over Gimli’s hip again and he gritted his teeth against the spike of pain, unable to release any of his desired remonstrations. He could not bring himself to look, but he could imagine the raised redness of the skin, like a burn.
Every time he had this done, the pain came as a surprise.
Beside him, a smile was playing over Legolas’s lips. He was not so altruistic, then, as to refrain from indulging in a friend’s misery. “I had been led to believe,” he said lightly, “that dwarves’ tolerance for pain was nearly beyond comprehension. That their skin was like leather, near impervious to any wound or prick” –
“You know that is not true,” Gimli grunted, and was gratified at least by Legolas’s ensuing blush. He could still rattle the elf’s composure, then, even lying on his side as the mannish tattoo artist traced carefully – far too carefully! – over his hip with his inked needle. Perhaps it was the man’s hand, lacking the confident speed of a dwarf who had mastered the craft, his hesitancy drawing out the fire over Gimli’s skin –
If his friends from home were here, they would roar with laughter at that excuse. No, every time he convinced himself it would be different, and every time it was just the same.
“I suppose not,” Legolas conceded. “Else you would not need those thick-soled boots in the forest, or that coat of mail.”
“You know that is not what I meant,” Gimli began. Perhaps Legolas might flaunt the lightness of his feet, but some others preferred to feel more sure-footed when prancing about in the forest. And anyway, he had not spoken of the touch of pebbles beneath his feet but Legolas’s light fingers on his skin, making him shiver with every caress –
“No,” Legolas said, and now his eyes danced. “But perhaps it is. Perhaps that is the reason you wrap yourself in layers of metal and leather – to hide the flesh beneath. Perhaps that is the reason . . .” He lifted Gimli’s hand from the pad on which he lay and traced a gentle circle over his wrist – right in the spot where his own inking had been completed earlier, which he had sat through with hardly a blink.
Gimli’s skin was nowhere near so impervious: even the touch of Legolas’s bow-callused finger tingled. A shiver ran through him and he bit back a sigh.
“Hold still,” said the man above him, his gloved hand tightening on Gimli’s hip. That touch, stiff and unfamiliar, felt like the intrusive fingers of some strange creature, and Gimli scowled – then grimaced as the needle sent another wave of spikes rippling through him.
“My apologies,” murmured Legolas, but he did not release Gimli’s hand. He clasped it between his own, instead, bowing his head to bring his lips to Gimli’s fingers. “The more do I admire the canvas of your body, then, so dearly was each design won,” he said. The motion of his lips felt like a blessing, cool water to soothe the burn in Gimli’s hip. “They say that it is not tolerance of pain that is to be admired, but persistence through it. Your dedication to beauty must be beyond question.”
Dearly won, indeed. The memory of the pain dulled after each inking was completed, but Gimli could still remember the process of each one – how carefully he had chosen each design before finally sitting for the drawing, long and thoughtful conversations with each artist who would make his skin their canvas. And though this man was no dwarven artist, this design had been no less carefully chosen – Frodo’s design, a drawing for each of them to remember the trials they had undergone for love of one another and for Middle-earth. And though the process pained him now, Gimli would be glad of it when it had ended, as he was glad of every other mark his body bore.
“It is, indeed,” he said in response. “Each mark has a tale, each tale a beloved memory. Would you like to hear them?”
“I would.” Legolas lifted his head from their joined hands, but did not release his clasp. His eyes fixed on Gimli – even seen thus, sideways from his reclined position through a haze of pain, Gimli could recognize their intensity: the way Legolas stared at you, the way he listened as though he had forgotten all the rest of the world existed. “Tell me each one. I want to know every story etched upon your skin.”
Perhaps he meant it; perhaps he merely meant to distract Gimli from the pain of the process. Either way, Gimli stared into his dark eyes and felt himself submerged in cool water – to drown the flame of the pain. “Of course,” he said. “Then let us begin.”
no subject
Date: 2021-06-28 11:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-06-29 04:44 pm (UTC)