buffett (buffett) wrote in ccfp,

Fic, Lotrips: "te anau"

Title: te anau
Author: buffett
Fandom: Lotrips
Pairing: Sean/Elijah
Rating: R-ish

Why did I pick this fic? I didn't--my FB'er did. This was both the shortest (ha! It's not THAT short) and the most effortful thing I wrote in lotrips. Kind of a writing exercise that ended up a fic. It was also by far the least feedbacked, so I'm glad it was chosen and very curious to see what's said.

oral fixation

Sean stomps through the cabin. He’s angrier than he ought to be.

Where the fuck is Elijah?

Probably off sneaking a smoke somewhere.

When he’s asked about the habit, he bats his big blue eyes and plays it off as something innocent, paints a picture of his own mild corruption by a more experienced costar.

Now he’s sucking down a pack of Marlboros a day. There’s no worldly costar here to egg him on, just Elijah and his addiction.

Sean’s got a bet going with Elijah today: he can’t make it until 10 PM without a smoke. Sean’s sure he’ll win the bet, but he’s got to catch the little shit in the act.

Elijah’s smoking annoys Sean more than it ought to. It’s bad for him, Sean tells himself. It’s a filthy habit. What Sean doesn’t quite say to himself: he doesn’t like the way Elijah looks when he smokes. It’s wrong, somehow, the way it twists his face, makes it suddenly seem composed entirely of concave cheeks and wet lips.

Now there’s the bet to worry about. Sean doesn’t want to think about what will happen if he loses. He’s not sure he wants to think about winning, either. He checks his watch. 9 PM. There’s an hour left before the bet’s over.

Sean huffs around the two-story cabin that’s been rented for the cast in the resort town of Te Anau, looking for Elijah. Orli, Dom, and Billy have all gone out for a beer, so their rooms are all possibilities.

But Elijah’s not in his own room, or Dom’s, or Billy’s. Sean goes upstairs to check the second floor. Elijah’s not in Orli’s room; Sean Bean’s in his, so he can’t check there.

Sean hesitates for a moment--he’s barely met Viggo--before the memory of what’s at stake in the bet propels him down to the end of the hall and to their newest costar’s room.

He knocks. No answer. There’s no light on under the door, and it’s too early for Viggo to be asleep. Sean enters quietly, looks around. There’s an unfinished cup of tea, an empty camera case, books; but no Elijah.

Sweat is starting to mist along Sean’s hairline. The extra weight he’s carrying for the film makes him overheat easily. He’s uncomfortable, and that pisses him off even more. He goes to Viggo’s window, pushes it open, takes breaths of cool air . . . and smells smoke.

Sure enough, Elijah’s out on the balcony, crouched down below the line of sight of the first-floor window. From the second floor, though, Sean can see him just fine. Elijah’s wearing black, and he’s cleanly outlined against the dusting of snow on the pale concrete balcony, furtively squatting on his heels. He pulls on his cigarette like it’s oxygen to him.

Sean watches him smoke. He should be relieved he’s won the bet. He’s still angry, though. Unsettled. Elijah is provocative. He pushes buttons. Sean’s been in this business longer and has developed discipline; he’s outgrown his kid roles. Elijah still has the attitude of a child actor. He gets off on making people react, on claiming their attention.

And Sean hates that.


Take that morning, for instance. Sean and Elijah were the first ones up. Elijah still reeked of smoke from his pre-breakfast nicotine fix, and the smell irked Sean. It polluted the kitchen’s otherwise pleasant atmosphere of coffee and toast.

“Jesus, Lij, a wake-up smoke? That’s disgusting. Are you that addicted?”

Elijah threw him a sharp look.

“No, I just like it. It’s soothing.”

“I bet you couldn’t go a day without it. Hell, I bet you couldn’t even go part of a day without it, from now until bedtime.”

Elijah smirked.

“Bedtime? Fine, let’s say 10 o’clock tonight. What do you want to bet?”

“Just a gentleman’s bet. No stakes.” There was a glint in Elijah’s eye that Sean didn’t like.

“That’s no fun. How about . . . oooh, I know. You lose, you stand on the balcony in your boxers and recite the speech about One-Eyed Willy’s treasure from The Goonies.”

Pushing buttons. He always had to bring up the fucking Goonies. Sean struggled to find a snappy comeback, and ended up with “Suck my dick, Elijah.” Oh, good, Sean thought disgustedly to himself, let him know he’s getting to you.

Elijah grinned like the Cheshire cat. “Okay. If you win, I will. But if you lose, you suck mine.”

Sean gaped angrily at Elijah, but he felt a hot rush of blood to his groin at the thought of it. Seconds ticked by, and Sean realized that the point at which he should have spit out a sarcastic reply had passed. He struggled to come up with one; better late than never.

Before he could, Viggo walked into the kitchen, all long legs and shy smile, looking for breakfast, and Sean lost his chance.

They weren’t alone together after that. Elijah shot scenes with Viggo all day while Sean ran through the forest with a camera crew, shouting for Mr. Frodo.

When they got back to the cabin that evening, Elijah disappeared like smoke into cold air. Billy invited Sean along for an outing with Orli and Dom, but Sean checked his watch—8 PM, just two hours left in the bet—and refused. He had to find Elijah and call this stupid thing off.


Now Sean’s got him.

He’s won the bet. He’ll just let Elijah know he’s busted, and then Sean can say it had been a gentleman’s bet all along, and it’ll be over.

But Sean doesn’t say anything yet. He watches Elijah smoke instead. There’s a little pile of butts in front of Elijah; he’s obviously been there a while. It’s cold, and he’s got the sleeves of his sweater pulled down over his hands, leaving only rounded fingertips exposed. Elijah lights a fresh cigarette from the old one and makes an addition to the pile of butts.

Elijah isn’t a delicate smoker; he wraps his mouth around the soggy filter and takes deep, cheek-hollowing drags. He plays with the smoke when he exhales, puffing it out of his throat into wobbly rings. His face is screwed up in concentration. He forces the rings out with his lips and tongue, obscenely pink against pale skin.

Sean’s mesmerized.

This has to stop, he thinks, and then Sean’s hands move to the windowsill to do something about it for him. They scoop the soft, fresh snow into a loose ball and lob it at the spiky head below. It powders as it strikes, scattering over the dark hair and sweater.

The hand holding the cigarette jerks guiltily down to hide behind a thigh, and the head tips upwards to see where the soft missile has come from.

Sudden white light startles out from another second-floor window, freezing Elijah’s expression in a bright flash that stamps itself on Sean’s retinas.

It’s Viggo and his camera, of course; he’s been quietly aiming it at all of them this week. Sean figures it’s his way of getting acquainted, but it’s a little spooky, and this evidence that he’s still quietly observing them jars Sean.

The expression Viggo’s flash catches on Elijah’s face isn’t one of surprise, exactly. It’s a sharply appraising glance, halfway along to becoming something else.

Sean blinks away the dazzlement from the camera flash, and when he can see into the dark again, Elijah is wearing a little smile. He waggles the cigarette at Sean. That’s right. You’ve got me.

He’s fucking with me, Sean thinks. Something large and lumpy turns over in his stomach. Suddenly he wants to get out of here, away from Elijah. He drags the window shut and hurries out of Viggo’s room. Viggo doesn’t appear in the hallway to catch him. He must be in Sean Bean’s room, Sean thinks, relieved. He hopes Viggo didn’t see where the snowball came from.

Now it’s Sean’s turn to avoid Elijah. He goes to bed early.

He’s fucking with me, he thinks again while brushing his teeth. He’s just trying to make me react. Tomorrow I can laugh it off and he’ll go back to being my annoying little brother.

In bed, Sean tries not to think about Elijah smoking. He fails. Elijah’s mouth fascinates him, all pretty curving softness above the square jaw and strong neck. He pictures the shape the lips make around the filter, pink and round, wet and messy.

Sean shifts uncomfortably, realizes he’s hard.

He reaches down under the sheets and starts to flip through his mental file of standard jerk-off images: Christine’s beautiful heart-shaped ass, a Sports Illustrated image of Christie Brinkley on her knees that obsessed him at fourteen. They slide out of his mind. He closes his eyes, and all he can see is Elijah sucking moistly on a cigarette.

And Sean refuses to wank to that. Blue balls it is, then. He pulls his hand out of his boxers and curls up on his side, groaning.


Viggo’s listening to Sean Bean talk about sword fighting, but half his attention is out the window. There are thin wisps of smoke rising past it.

He had wandered over to Sean’s room with his camera with vague thoughts of capturing him on film, but the longer Sean talks, the more Viggo thinks this small, dark room isn’t the right place to find an image of him. And he’s got the wrong film; the camera’s loaded with black and white. Sean’s sunny, quick to laugh, and he should be someplace colorful and open for his portrait. So Viggo listens instead, storing up impressions of the man: Wood smoke. Pine needles. Friendly yellow dog.

Sean notices Viggo’s wandering attention, sees that his camera is pointing unconsciously at the window. He’s not offended--Viggo’s done this several times in their short acquaintance. Sean stops talking and watches, curious.

Viggo leans over for a better look out the window and all of his attention snaps to the scene that’s laid out for him. There’s a dark figure thrown in sharp relief against the snow-dusted balcony. A hand, white against the dark clothes and hair, rises to the face, trailing smoke. It’s the puppy.

If Sean Bean is a friendly yellow dog, Elijah’s an overgrown puppy that hasn’t yet learned that its teeth are sharp, that its bites can hurt. Weimeraner, Viggo thinks. Hyperactive. Lithe. Spooky blue eyes against smooth fuzz.

Take that morning, for instance. Viggo walked into the kitchen to find a tense standoff between Sean and Elijah. Their expressions shifted into casual unconcern almost instantly, but Viggo caught outrage on Sean’s face and--what? Manic glee, he thought, on Elijah’s. Bad puppy. Down. No biting.

Viggo raises the camera to find the moment, watches through the viewfinder. He’ll need the flash to make Elijah more than a dark smudge against the snow, so he’ll only have one shot before the quiet voyeurism of the scene is lost. He angles the camera carefully so that the window won’t reflect the flash back into the lens and waits.

Elijah raises his chin a little to take a drag, and black eyelashes fan against pale cheeks when he pulls in the smoke. Viggo almost presses the shutter, but hesitates--he wants to capture those spooky eyes.

Then the moment chooses itself for him, the way it sometimes does when he’s lucky. There’s a soft white explosion on the puppy’s head, scattering pallid shrapnel over the sleek, dark form. The pale face swivels up and away from Viggo, the usually wide eyes suddenly shrewd, looking for the source of the missile.

Viggo knows it’s time. He squeezes the shutter, and bright light surprises the scene into holding still for him.

Sharp puppy teeth bared in a surprised near-smile, forehead corrugated, perplexed. Eyes squinted, anticipating the next icy projectile, looking for the source of the first.

“Did you get it?” asks Sean.

Viggo smiles a little, lowers the camera.



Elijah huddles on the cold concrete balcony, trying to smoke an entire day’s worth of cigarettes at once. He hasn’t had one since that morning, and every drag is blessed relief. He’d intended to hold off until ten that night in order to win the bet with Sean, but Elijah has decided that winning isn’t the point anymore.

Sean. Mother hen, bestest buddy, pretentious git--Elijah can’t decide. Right now he’s leaning towards “pretentious git.” He’s sick of Sean’s disapproval. Only Elijah’s mom gets to disapprove of him, and Sean’s not his mom, just a less successful version of Elijah ten years down the line.

Elijah takes a long, throat-searing drag and realizes he’s smoking filter, harsh and plasticky. He lights another from the smoldering butt, sucks in more smoke, mulls over new ways to piss Sean off.

It’s not that he likes seeing Sean pissed off, he tells himself. Sean’s a good guy, a great friend. But sometimes Sean’s also a pain in the ass--the older-and-wiser kind. The I-directed-an-independent-short-so-I-know-better-than-you kind. Sometimes he needs to be taken down a notch, and Elijah’s good at doing that.

Bringing up The Goonies is always effective. Elijah has considered that fair game ever since Sean described the crack-baring scene from North to Peter. Horrible, embarrassing scene, in which Elijah becomes the Coppertone baby, bathing suit pulled coyly down to show off a slice of pale ass. Goonies references bring a gratifying flush to Sean’s face and put a temporary end to all commentary on Elijah’s smoking or taste in music or swearing or whatever it is Sean’s bitching about.

The bet has turned out to be an even better way to shut Sean up. Elijah had considered just running out the clock; winning would be easy. But where’s the fun in that? Sean never promised to pay up if he lost. Elijah did. It started out as just another way to piss Sean off, but the bet has turned out to be the best way to keep Sean off-balance that Elijah’s yet found. Losing the bet will leave the question of payment open, and leaving the question open is guaranteed to keep Sean unnerved. Elijah doesn’t care about winning anymore.

For Elijah, it turns out, it’s more fun to make Sean squirm.


Take that morning, for instance. Sean and Elijah were the first ones awake. Elijah heard Sean brushing his teeth as he slipped out the door for a morning cigarette in the chilly breeze off Lake Te Anau. The sky was gray, promising snow. Too cold out to be smoking. He sucked down the cigarette in six hungry breaths and headed for the warm kitchen.

Sean would have the coffee brewing by now; he was dependable that way. Sure enough, coffee was perfuming the kitchen, warm and welcoming. Unlike Sean.

“Jesus, Lij, a wake-up smoke? That’s disgusting. Are you that addicted?”

This again? Elijah looked at Sean and barely restrained an eye-roll.

“No, I just like it. It’s soothing.”

Sean kept after him, aggressively chipping away at Elijah’s sweet nicotine buzz. “I bet you couldn’t go a day without it. Hell, I bet you couldn’t even go part of a day without it, from now until bedtime.”

In the wake of annoyance, inspiration struck. Elijah had an idea of how to get Sean off his back, punch a hole in the superiority complex, stop his incessant fucking nagging.

“Bedtime?” Elijah asked. “Fine, let’s say 10 o’clock tonight. What do you want to bet?”

“Just a gentleman’s bet. No stakes.” Sean was already starting to back off. Smelling blood, Elijah reached for his favorite weapon. The Goonies was so reliable.

“That’s no fun. How about . . . oooh, I know. You lose, you stand on the balcony in your boxers and recite the speech about One-Eyed Willy’s treasure from The Goonies.”

Sean flushed and his mouth dropped open, and Elijah’s throat tightened a little at the sight. So pissed off. Sean had completely forgotten his little anti-smoking lecture. Elijah had him.

“Suck my dick, Elijah.”

Oh, it was just too easy. Elijah tried to force his face into amiable unconcern, failed. He was grinning. Didn’t care, really.

“Okay. If you win, I will. But if you lose, you suck mine.”

Sean’s face said it all: shock and embarrassment and, fuck yeah, anger. Elijah watched him, fascinated. Sean’s face was red, his ears nearly purple. Sweet. Better than nicotine, caffeine, alcohol. Elijah felt a little warm thrill in the pit of his stomach just waiting for Sean’s retort.

After a moment, he realized that Sean was too discombobulated to come up with one. Elijah tried to stop his grin from widening, failed again.

Then Viggo walked into the kitchen, all quiet alertness, looking for breakfast, and the moment was gone.

They weren’t alone together for the rest of the day. Sean was off in the woods somewhere filming Sam’s pursuit of his Mr. Frodo. Elijah spent the day with Viggo, shooting leaving-the-Fellowship scenes.

Elijah was careful not to smoke on any of his breaks, keeping the bet going. Keeping Sean off-balance. And when they got back to the cabin, Elijah avoided Sean. That was easy. He just hid in the kitchen, which Sean always avoided like the plague at night; Elijah supposed it was habit from long years of staying slim for potential jobs. When Elijah was bored of sitting on the kitchen countertop, he slipped through the balcony door and pulled out his cigarettes.


Elijah’s gleeful and a little nervous, waiting to be found. He’s sure Sean will figure it out soon--he’s making an awful lot of noise stomping around the cabin. He’s really pissed, Elijah thinks with a little electric tingle, and runs the flintwheel of his Zippo lighter restlessly along his jeans, watching the trail of sparks it leaves against the dark denim.

Sean will find him soon, and then Elijah will milk the situation for maximum discomfort. He thinks he may never have to suffer through another Sean Astin anti-smoking PSA.

Elijah plots his upcoming scene. When Sean finally comes out on the balcony, Elijah will try to hide the cigarette. He’ll be surprised and embarrassed. Wide eyes, sad mouth, yeah, good--he could play that scene in his sleep. Elijah will pointedly avoid bringing up the bet, and he’s sure Sean will be relieved to be let off the hook.

Once Sean’s relaxed a little, gone to bed, maybe half fallen asleep, Elijah will slide under the covers and proposition him. Script: It’s only fair--you won, I lost, I’ve got to pay up. Elijah plans to make it convincing. He’s had a little taste of what it’s like to make Sean really squirm, and he wants more.

Elijah blows experimental smoke rings and wonders for a millisecond if he’s pushing things too far. Then he remembers the color rising in Sean’s face that morning, and thinks that Sean’s reaction tonight might be even more satisfying. He’s not cold anymore, but he shudders anyway.

Suddenly, something fragile breaks open on his head, scattering a soft chill into his scalp, down his neck. A snowball. Sean, Elijah thinks. Elijah’s hand remembers the scene he plotted before he does, and it tries to hide the cigarette behind his hip. His face isn’t in character yet, though. Before he can shape it into soft vulnerability, it jerks up, sniffing for Sean’s reaction.

Unexpected bright light half-blinds him, but Elijah thinks he can read Sean’s expression through the lingering dazzle. Disapproval. As always. Screw plan A; Elijah’s going with plan B. He smiles tauntingly, and pulls his hand out from behind his thigh, showing Sean the cigarette with a little Queen Elizabeth wave. You won, he thinks. How do you like it?

That does it. There’s a flash of something like horror across Sean’s features. Flushed cheeks, yeah, outraged eyes, fuck yeah, but it’s all too brief for Elijah’s taste. Sean vanishes into the dark room, leaving him shivering on the balcony.


Elijah lies in his bed, waiting for the noises of wakefulness in Sean’s room to die down. The walls are thin, and he’s listened through the ritual sounds of water running, heels thudding on bare floor, bedsprings creaking.

There’s only the occasional rustle of bedsheets now. Then more creaking of bedsprings in a familiarly rhythmic pattern--could Sean be . . . ? Huh. . . . No, the creaking’s stopped, and it didn’t go on nearly long enough to be what it sounded like. Then there’s silence, and it’s time. Elijah’s heartbeat quickens. He mentally reviews the little scene he’s got planned, and quietly slips out of bed to creep into Sean’s room.

Sean’s curled up on his side; he seems to be asleep. So far so good. Elijah moves quietly to the bed behind Sean, lifts the covers, slips in behind him. He slides his hand around to Sean’s belly and whispers mournfully into Sean’s ear.

“I’m a man of my word, Sean. You got me. I’m here to pay my debt.”

Elijah bites his lip, stilling his anticipation with pain, and waits for the outraged explosion.

Instead, there’s a little groan that sounds like


and Sean shifts position slightly. His cock, hard and shrouded in the damp fabric of his boxers, pushes at the heel of Elijah’s hand once, twice, three times. Elijah’s hand jerks back a centimeter in surprise.

Then there’s an agonized moan and a flurry of bedsheets as Sean scrambles away to the edge of the bed, turning to gape at Elijah in wounded panic. In his haste, he bumps the bedside table with his elbow, and a framed photo that’s perched there thunks to the floor.

It’s much more than Elijah had bargained for. Annoyance, embarrassment, great; anger, even better for the adrenaline rush, for making Sean think twice before lecturing him, no damage done. But there’s no anger here at all; Sean’s wearing a betrayed Sam-face, and the sheet is tented up over his crotch, and he looks as if he might cry.

Maybe he was jerking off and I interrupted it, Elijah thinks hopefully, and pushes away the pissy little logic-voice in his head that disagrees with that analysis. Of course. How embarrassing. Better just let him off the hook now.

Elijah sits up and chokes out a high-pitched guffaw.

“Kidding!” he says, forcing a grin. “Man, your face! Ha! It’s . . . whoo, boy.” Elijah’s desperately willing relief or anger or exasperation or anything to wipe the painful vulnerability off Sean’s face. “That was . . . Hee! Anyway, like you said, gentleman’s bet. Shake on it,” and Elijah holds out a hand, maintaining a façade of innocent glee.

Sean’s mouth shuts. He blinks, and attempts a chuckle. It’s a lame one, though, and his eyes remain wary. He shakes the proffered hand and bunches the sheets self-consciously around himself.

Elijah keeps talking, can’t seem to stop.

“Done! Ha. That’s that, right mate? Hey,” Elijah bends over to pick up the fallen photo, suppresses a wince, forces continued cheeriness. “Here’s your family, the picture fell. Bet you’re missing them, huh? How’s Alexandra, is she excited about getting fitted for her hobbit feet? Yeah?” Sean just takes the photo, holding it to his chest, and nods dumbly. He watches as Elijah starts to back out of the room, gabbling mindlessly.

“Well, send them my love, kisses to both of them. I’m going to bed. No more smoking tonight, I promise, heh. G’night, now.”

There’s a weak “’night” as he shuts the door behind him.

Elijah crawls into bed, shaken. The pissy little logic-voice is now jumping up and down and screaming for attention. Shut up, he thinks. The poor guy was just having a private wank and I interrupted him. That wasn’t “lij” he said, it was . . . something else. I’m sure he didn’t realize that was my hand there on his stomach, and he wasn’t humping my hand, just getting comfortable in bed or something. Or he was asleep. Having a wet dream. Not about me, either, because that wasn’t my name he said.

He closes his eyes and sees Sean’s outraged expression from earlier in the day, feels the little pulsing motion of Sean’s dick against his hand. He shivers uncomfortably. That warm thrill he’d gotten from pissing Sean off has, against his will, relocated to his groin.

He squirms over onto his back, feeling the sheets tug against his erection with the movement. He moves a hand experimentally to his crotch, squeezes, strokes just a few surprisingly effective times before he snatches his hand away, opening his eyes wide to replace the images of Sean’s heated face with a view of the ceiling. He forces himself to picture the family portrait Sean keeps by his bed instead.

God, I’m a pervert, he thinks. And an asshole.

There’s a faint, rhythmic creaking coming from next door.

Elijah holds off for as long as he can, but it’s no use, especially when he hears Sean’s groan vibrate through the wall. He closes his eyes and slides his hand back down under the sheets.
  • Post a new comment


    default userpic