Title: Elements Author: Haleth halethhaladin@yahoo.co.uk Type: RPS Rating: R Pairing: Bloom, Wood, and a hungry watcher. Disclaimer: I honestly do not believe that Orlando Bloom and Elijah Wood have ever been stalked by a bloodthirsty and horny demon who is only allowed to feed from humans on Hallowe’en night. But then, I’ve been wrong before. Summary: A demon is offered an unusually difficult choice. Elementally delicious, so to speak. Who will get sucked? Elements I smell them before I hear them, and I hear them before I see them. The thick, startling scent of young men. Two entwined voices rising and falling in waves. Syncopated footsteps unmatched in stride and weight but moving at the same speed. Moving them within my range. The small one is dark spikes and pale skin, barely-subdued energy contained in a fluid package. It surges through him ready to burst at the seams. His pants are a size or so too large, his T-shirt at least one too small. He has a high pitched giggle, like water bouncing on smooth stones. I like that. The tall one is golden. Long and lean and supple. And glowing in the night air. This energy is expansive, but continually so. Not explosive. Constant vibration at an invisible, enchanting frequency. Stunning. Either one will do. On this one night of the year when I am allowed to feed, I can take only one. I will not be able to subdue one to take the other. I must be patient and wait until they separate. It will not be an easy choice, but it will be delicious. They are walking through the park, a short cut. They must be headed to the houses on the other side of the hill. I track them silently, breathing in their scents to stir my hunger. It is rare this night presents me with such promise. So very much to look forward to. If I take the spiky one it will be over quickly. He will fight hard and fast, exploding in my embrace. A dam bursting. He will resist with every fibre of his being, all at once, and the sweat will sting my eyes, but I won’t notice. His blood will taste fresh and sharp. Invigorating. If I opt for the golden one the fight will last longer. It will tire me, but win I will. When he realizes all is lost, that he is to be taken whether he desires it or not, he will try to draw whatever pleasure he can from it to the very end. That’s the way he is. His surrender will taste bitter to me. Intoxicating. I’m quite sure I have never had such a delicious choice in all my long days. They do not share an abode. They smell overly different. If they were roommates they would share the scent of their home: their food, their cleaning products, their laundry detergent, their houseplants. These two come from different places. Although they have spent the evening in the same place. A place with smoke and alcohol and music, for I can feel the thrum of a bass line in the tall one’s pulse. He responds to music like that. I would like to feel it closer to me. They are not together in a romantic fashion; they walk too far apart. They do not touch each other intimately; they do not even look at each other intimately. When the golden one puts a large hand on the spiky one’s slight shoulder, I can see it is in friendship. There is no leaning into the touch, not is it shrugged off. This is a comfortable friendship. They tell jokes about the inappropriate behaviour of others at the party they were at on this, the last night of one of their lives. They talk of the woman they were both attracted to, and of the woman she left the party with. They share the disappointment, yet they did have fun. It was a good final night for one of them. They drank, they smoked, and they ate something that contained hot peppers, probably salsa. I happen to like salsa, so this is acceptable. One will walk the other one home. I can see that now. I know not which and care not. As I stated, either one will do. They turn up a driveway. I follow, silent as death. And that metaphor makes me smile. They stand on the porch. Someone lives here, but I can’t tell which. The house is closed up tight, so I can’t smell the inside of it. It shows no signs of an individual touch. No landscaping details reveal a penchant for a particular colour or scent or variety of tacky lawn ornament. It must be a rental property. The spiky one leans against the wall beside the door. Perhaps this is his home. He touches the wall from shoulder to hip, slim legs planted at an angle that displays them most agreeably. I imagine he knows this, although there seems to be no artifice to the stance. Most likely, he does this out of habit, displays himself to the best advantage. The golden one rises up on his toes and back down, repeatedly. If his jeans were not there I know I would be watching sleek calf muscles flex under smooth skin. I can feel every hair standing up along my spine. The saliva begins to flow, lubricating my prominent fangs so they will slide through skin without friction. The itch in my belly is stronger than hunger. There is a new scent in the air. One of them is aroused. At first I suspect the golden one. He is sensual. He requires touch to affirm his existence. This is a proclivity that can get out of hand easily. He may not even be aware of it. But there is an undercurrent to the aroma, of a smoky spice like burning cloves and something akin to spring water. It must come from the spiky one. The other would smell of light, not water. I feel the desire in my blood as well. It courses through me, warming my chilled flesh. Hunger is hunger, but hunger coupled with desire is bliss when sated. This is about more than nourishment. The spiky one fishes into his back pocket and retrieves a single cigarette. “Last one,” he giggles. The golden one moves closer with a grace that blinds, hips rolling as he steps closer. “We’ll have to share.” It has been perhaps a decade, perhaps a century, since a voice alone has sent a spark that hot to my loins. Low and greedy, just the way I like it. I hope this is the spiky one’s house. I find myself desiring this voice above all else. I want to take this being when he walks home. The spiky one lights the cigarette and pushes himself lazily off the wall. He is being casual to a fault. And then, to my shock, he tilts up, on his toes. The golden one slouches. That tilt of the pelvis. There ought to be a law. When their lips meet, the flash of light is enough to singe my sensitive eyes. The spiky one exhales slowly, and the golden one sucks in the smoke through pursed lips. When they part, when the lips part, tongues are still touching as if they can’t bear to let go. Eyes locked. “Well.” That’s all the golden one says. The spiky one smiles. A sweet innocent smile I know is pretence, and so does the other man, but no one is complaining because it is the sort of smile that melts resistance. When their mouths meet again there is no smoke to keep them apart. They meet from top to toe, one stretching up and the other curving around so they meet where it counts most, at mouth and groin. I can feel them both swell from my hiding place, blood pounding as it is trapped in turgid flesh. It would spurt, if you bit it just right. Deafening. The cigarette falls to the concrete floor unnoticed. Those hips again. They are lethal. A single, ardent undulation. The spiky one responds by groaning around the tongue thrust into his mouth. The want is palpable. His thin fingers with bitten nails clutch at wiry biceps. His thighs are shaking. His eyes are clenched tight with need. If the golden one walks away from this, he deserves to die at my hands. He does not walk away. He reaches down, large hands cupping firm buttocks and pulls toward his pelvis. He slides one hand under the spiky one’s loose waistband and I can see fingers moving under the faded fabric. I can see the spiky one shudder at the touch. I can see now. I cannot see how I was so wrong. They pull apart, a little breathless. They are looking only in each other’s eyes. They are both smiling, the golden one a little shyly in spite of his bold moves, the spiky one with a fire I would not have expected. He is not water after all. I was so wrong. “Come inside?” the spiky one whispers. The golden one nods. And the golden one makes a deep, slow noise of assent and sends out an earthy scent. He was not expecting this either, but he hoped it might happen. Wrong. I will have to go elsewhere, to find some other prey. The night is young, and there is plenty of time to find another. But I will not find one nearly as desirable as either of these. Fin