Crackfic
by Trianne
Pairing: Elijah Wood/?
Rating: PG15
Summary: Elijah's pissed off. Set after principal filming, perhaps 2002... Please note, this is crackfic, which in my case means it was written straight off, no beta'ing, no editing, no second thoughts. All mistakes are my own.
Warnings: Humour
Author's Notes: My friend, Bunniewabbit, wanted an angry Elijah and this is what she got. Not quite what she had in mind, but that's the nature of crackfic
Disclaimer: I do not know either of these people and make no claims as to authenticity or accuracy. No offence is intended nor profit made.
Elijah Jordan Wood slammed on the brakes and just about remembered to put the fucking car into "park".
If Elijah had been born Eliza, he would have been described as pre-menstrual. But no such luck. To hell with agents, to hell in a handbasket with PR, to hell with consultants of any shape or form. And mostly - to hell with Mr. Nice Guy... he was gone, dead, extinct, no more. Grr...The first person he bumped into today was going to get it. Thank God his Mom and Hannah and Zack were all out of town cos Elijah really loved his family.
He slammed into the house and threw his keys down on the hall table. Leaned against the wall and breathed out. Then in. Then out again. Bringing it all down...yep.
No! Not good enough. He picked up the chunky glass ashtray from the hall table and threw it against the wall... in his mind's eye he saw every damned New Line Suit in existence shatter into a bazillion pieces of crystal, shards writhing on the floor in agony... fuckers.
Elijah tried desperately to control his breathing. He had been dealing with just this kind of shit for years, why was now suddenly any different? Cos now the Suits were laying down the law as to who he could and could not see. As in the romantic, rather than the strictly visual sense. And it stank. Like week old herring in a cat bowl. Or cat litter that hadn't been changed for days... anyway, it was an assault on the olfactory senses.
Elijah made his way into the kitchen and ignored the burnt offerings he had left there that morning. One day he would learn to cook. Or hire a cook. Or fuck a cook. Or something...
The kitchen surfaces gleamed brightly - at least the bits whereon dead things did not lurk and decaying things did not, well, decay.
Sunlight streamed through the chinks in the blinds and bounced off the metal of the sink and the kettle (present from Dom's mother) and the coffee maker (present from Sean Astin). It did not bounce, however, but rather was absorbed by the man standing in the middle of the kitchen, arms folded.
"What the hell are you doing here?" demanded Elijah, scowling.
"I came to apologise for everything." The visitor made to move towards Elijah. He reached behind him and held out a bunch of flowers.
"And you think that's going to make everything all right? Do you?" Elijah's fists balled at his sides.
"No, I don't. But what else can I do?"
"Shove your flowers where the sun don't shine!" Elijah was usually better at thinking of witty invective, but he was tired and hours of pummelling at the hands of studio execs and corporate gits had left him ragged and inarticulate.
His visitor let the flowers fall to the floor and took a step towards Elijah. The blue eyed boy took him completely by surprise by suddenly pouncing on him, knocking him to the floor.
"God, this is so unfair! I want you so much, and those bastards say I can't have you, that our love will taint the film! What the fuck!" Elijah pinned his victim to the floor, which was no mean feat considering his opponent was heavier. "I love you, I want you, I need you... and the PR fucks say no..." he wanted to cry now.
Beneath him, panting, the man he loved was trying to free his arms so he could embrace him.
"I love you too, Elijah. We just need to be patient, get all three films out of the way. Then we can be together, forever..." he said, soothingly. He was getting hard with the beautiful boy straddling him like that. Elijah's eyes, wedgwood/sapphire/azure/ blue, bored into him, pinning him to the kitchen floor like a butterfly on a collector's board.
"Elijah, make love to me, please..." he begged.
Elijah, seething, dipped down and kissed his captive thoroughly, delighting in the older man's helplessness. He delved deep with his tongue, enjoying the familiar scents of mint and rosemary.
He unzipped the pants beneath him, freeing the hardness... yes.
All his anger dissipated as Elijah held his lover's twitching cock in his hand, his own arousal unbearable and begging for release.
"Fuck PR", he whispered.
"Yep, Elijah," Peter replied. "Fuck PR. But me first..."
The End