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fellowshippers2004-09-08 04:07 pm
nienor--niniel.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-09-08 04:07 pm
FIC: Skirmish at Helm's Deep. RPS, Sala Baker/Craig Parker. Rated PG
Title: Skirmish at Helm's Deep
Author: Nienor Niniel
Pairing: Sala Baker/Craig Parker
Rating: PG
Summary: Elf vs. Orc in an epic battle to destroy makeup and costume.
Notes: Damn Craig for doing this to me. *shakes fist!*
Disclaimer: Not real, never happened, won't ever happen.
This is a continuation of the story I posted last night, "A First Time for Everything"
Craig is nervous around Sala these days.
More than a week has passed since what ought to have been a head-butt turned into something else, something so shocking it may as well have knocked him flat on his ass. But what's even more shocking is there wasn't a hidden camera and there weren't any hidden hobbits and so now Craig is stewing in his own juices wondering what the fuck really happened that night and jittering back and forth between "Will it happen again" and "Of course it won't, Sala's no poof."
But the truth of the matter is, Craig doesn't know. He knows what he is, of course-- he's known that for a long time. He doesn't mind a bit of tail and who cares whether the hole is two inches further forward or back? It's all good.
What he doesn't know is what Sala is or why Sala kissed him. They say black men aren't ever poofs but Craig knows that's bullshit. He also knows Sala wasn't drunk. Two beers don't do fuck-all for someone that big. He knows he wasn't drunk either; he'd been hanging about the bar all day bored out of his skull because he wasn't needed yet for shooting. But he'd been pacing himself; that was key. Pacing himself to have a good time and hang out, not get so wasted he had to be hauled back to his hotel and poured into bed and wake up hung over. He'd been a bit tiddly, but not at the hallucinating stage, that was the point.
Craig wraps his hand around the grip of Haldir's bow and gingerly touches his wig, pushing back a stray strand of hair. He isn't comfortable with the way it hangs on top of this heavy cloak; it feels like the cloak is going to snag the hair and drag it off his head. And too, it bunches the hood and the hair all at the nape of his neck and it's fucking hot and damp. He squints up at the rainmaking array, which is presently dormant but promises future misery.
The orcs are all bunched up against the wall forty feet down and a dozen feet to his left, gripping their spears and muttering amongst themselves. Craig knows that their helmets and prosthetics and contact lenses effectively blind them for the duration of the night shoot. They certainly can't see clearly enough to identify who is perched up here; he's safely anonymous and concealed in plain sight.
Sala is with them. Though the stunt men are much of a muchness with their tall, broad bodies and sturdy builds, Craig knows which orc is Sala just from seeing the angles of his body and the way his shoulders move. This is disturbing. It's even more disturbing to realize that he's getting hot just watching Sala stand there in orc gear. Elves aren't supposed to get off on orcs. No sane person would. Slavering beasts, the lot of them.
Craig sighs and shifts his legs to give himself more room. Viggo and John have arrived, slogging across the muddy ground manfully and approaching the ramp up to the wall. They're almost set to begin the shoot. The orcs rattle spears at them, lifting their dark, voices in a shout that makes Craig's skin prickle. Some days he almost believes in them.
Peter lifts his head and squints and gives a thumbs-up. They're ready to go. Craig walks over to hit his mark; he's got his choreography crib notes tucked inside his armor, and as he walks he plays through the first set of moves in his mind. He never knows who he'll face in battle but these days it seems like it's Sala more often than not, and he wonders whether that's Sala's idea or somebody else's. At least Sala's a pro; he hits what he wants to hit and doesn't hit what he doesn't mean to. This doesn't mean he hasn't whacked the piss out of Craig a time or two.
But still, Craig is glad he's on the side of goodness and right which means he doesn't have to deal with fighting somebody like Viggo. Or John, who has put the fear of God into the stunties if anybody has. Maybe that's why Sala asks to fight with Craig, who tries to stick to the moves and doesn't like to hit anybody if he can help it (not least because it opens him up for revenge later).
The rain starts, somebody yells action, and orcs swarm up the ladder. Craig goes through his part of the pantomime-- draw and shoot, draw and shoot, draw and shoot, sling the bow, pull out the whacking great scimitar and lay about. One, three, six. Two, three, five. And there's Sala, taking a hit in the ribs which Craig manages to pull at the last second. Sala crumples dramatically, and Craig jumps over him and promptly loses his place in the melee. They're just doing peripheral fighting anyway; the camera is set for hero shots and will only glimpse Haldir in the background. Maybe. An orc jostles him and he goes to one knee and then he hears someone yelling cut. Good thing, too; he was about to get trampled.
He pulls himself up and notices Sala is still down. Frowning with worry, Craig goes to him. "Hey, you OK?"
Sala rolls over and those disconcerting red contacts meet Craig's concerned gaze. Sala groans dramatically and puts up a hand to get a boost. "You hit me," he says. His prosthetic teeth are disconcerting, and there is his tongue behind them-- a tongue whose former presence in his mouth Craig doesn't want to think about right now.
"I pulled the hit," Craig protests, reaching out warily. Surely Sala wouldn't drag him down in the wet and the muck and spoil his costume-- but then again, sometimes Sala acts first and thinks later. A lot of the time, actually. Maybe all the time. But this time, it might spoil two sets of makeup and Sala spent a lot of time getting that stuff applied. So he doesn't, even though it takes all of Craig's strength to try to give him the boost he wants, because Sala's wearing enough gear to sink the Queen Mary.
"You hit me," Sala repeats stubbornly, and doesn't help.
"I was supposed to hit you." Craig enlists a stunt man's aid and together they get Sala balanced on his feet, where he looms at Craig's side, adjusting his bulky helm on his head. The rubber costume makes him seem even broader, and the helm adds at least three inches to his already impressive height.
"He hit me," Sala says dramatically to the second orc.
"Pussy!" the other orc shoves Sala, playful, and they scuffle as Craig backs away, not wanting to get caught and dragged into it at the expense of Haldir's costume. Fuck, the wig alone takes forty minutes to get on.
"What's with them?" Viggo slouches over, laconic as ever.
"I hit Sala," Craig shrugs, helpless.
"Not hard enough, it looks like." Viggo chuckles. "Let John have a go at him next."
"Or you." Craig remembers hearing about the time Viggo hit Sala on the head and split his scalp open. The stunties all agreed at the pub later that they'd never seen so fucking much blood in all their lives. It took some dreadful number of stitches to sew him up, and Craig thinks it's a wonder Viggo didn't split his skull along with his skin. He looks at Viggo's sword, which Viggo has drawn and is still holding in his hand. It's ridiculously phallic.
"Can we have order please?" Calm and bland, PJ's voice through the megaphone nevertheless penetrates the chaos and the orcs straighten up. "I want another take."
"Pansy Elf!" Sala says clearly as he ambles off to climb back down the ladder. It piques Craig's annoyance, and so this time when Sala comes at him he turns the sword in his hand and puts some of his weight behind it, slapping Sala's ribs hard with the flat, catching his ankle with the toe of his boot-- which is NOT in the script of the fight. It interrupts Sala's planned stumble and roll, sending him down with enough force to pull a grunt out of him as he lands.
Oh, and that does it; that pisses him off. Sala's big hand catches Craig's ankle and Craig tumbles down on top of him and fuck the makeup; they're rolling in the muck and the wet, tripping the other stunties and making the Elves curse and hop fast if they don't want their own costumes spoiled.
But Craig doesn't care; Sala is fucking heavy, and they've fetched up against the parapet, and Sala is lying on top of Craig, body half-sunk between his thighs. Even the rubber suit and the armor can't disguise the heat of him, heat rising off him in fucking waves. Sala's heat seeps into Craig in a sharp contrast to the muddy cold water that's absorbing into his costume. Craig stares up into the red-gleaming eyes and wonders how much of what he sees is orc and how much is Sala and whether any of that heat is for him or whether it's all due to the costume and the fighting.
Sala throws back his head and howls, an orc shout that's part growl and part howl and part wail. Then he dives for Craig's throat, and sinks the orc teeth there-- not hard, but hard enough to sting, maybe hard enough to mark, and definitely hard enough to leave Craig hard too, popping a rod so fast he's surprised it doesn't just boing Sala right off him with the recoil. But maybe Sala can't feel it through all the layers. Probably not, but Craig can feel Sala's hot tongue lapping at his throat behind the mock ferocity and the stage-humor of the bite. And that's really it; that's torn it. Craig understands this hazily even as he plays along, yelping and thrashing. Something's going on here, and it's more than a joke; it's more than just taking the piss and setting him up to leave him flailing.
Finally the stunties manage to haul Sala off Craig and stand them both up, and Craig winces at the flat look on Peter's face as he gestures for another Elf in pristine costume to come take Craig's place and sends Craig and Sala both off for makeup and costume repairs. Craig winces again as Ngila and the wig wrangler glower at him. From his side, Sala chuckles, but he's not out of the woods either as the makeup people dart up, tutting with dismay and scolding him soundly. He's managed to tear his latex suit and has to be put in another one. Meanwhile hands are working to strip Craig and he's batting at them uselessly because he doesn't want to let Sala see the rod he threw when Sala fell on him.
"What the hell is this?" Ngila tosses the wet cloak she's holding over to one side and fingers Craig's throat. "Did somebody... bite you?"
"That orc wanker bit me," Craig agrees. "The caterers aren't feeding him enough man-flesh."
"Man-flesh!" Sala bellows, shaking his fist, and Craig feels a *frisson* shoot through his spine, making him shiver and making the woman who's trying to touch up his eyeliner jump back and curse.
"Make-up, be sure you cover that; his tunic won't go that high," Ngila snaps. "Craig, be still." She's jerking Craig's pants down, blasé about it all. At least she's between Craig and Sala, blocking his line of sight, because Craig is sporting plenty of man-flesh and is about to poke Ngila in the eye. She pulls back far enough that he can't and starts to grumble under her breath, but all he can hear is 'bloody adrenaline' and 'crazy bastards' or something very like it. And there, that was definitely something involving 'saltpetre.' Craig flushes to the roots of his hair-- which is showing; his wig is being re-combed by the harassed wrangler.
Sala is ready a long time before Craig is, and goes stumping back out into the fray just as Craig is stepping into a new pair of trousers and tugging at his boots. When Sala's gone, Craig sits back carefully in his new outfit and lets them gum the wig onto his head. His mind is turning over; the ball's in his court and the next move is up to him.
He wants to make it good.
Author: Nienor Niniel
Pairing: Sala Baker/Craig Parker
Rating: PG
Summary: Elf vs. Orc in an epic battle to destroy makeup and costume.
Notes: Damn Craig for doing this to me. *shakes fist!*
Disclaimer: Not real, never happened, won't ever happen.
This is a continuation of the story I posted last night, "A First Time for Everything"
Craig is nervous around Sala these days.
More than a week has passed since what ought to have been a head-butt turned into something else, something so shocking it may as well have knocked him flat on his ass. But what's even more shocking is there wasn't a hidden camera and there weren't any hidden hobbits and so now Craig is stewing in his own juices wondering what the fuck really happened that night and jittering back and forth between "Will it happen again" and "Of course it won't, Sala's no poof."
But the truth of the matter is, Craig doesn't know. He knows what he is, of course-- he's known that for a long time. He doesn't mind a bit of tail and who cares whether the hole is two inches further forward or back? It's all good.
What he doesn't know is what Sala is or why Sala kissed him. They say black men aren't ever poofs but Craig knows that's bullshit. He also knows Sala wasn't drunk. Two beers don't do fuck-all for someone that big. He knows he wasn't drunk either; he'd been hanging about the bar all day bored out of his skull because he wasn't needed yet for shooting. But he'd been pacing himself; that was key. Pacing himself to have a good time and hang out, not get so wasted he had to be hauled back to his hotel and poured into bed and wake up hung over. He'd been a bit tiddly, but not at the hallucinating stage, that was the point.
Craig wraps his hand around the grip of Haldir's bow and gingerly touches his wig, pushing back a stray strand of hair. He isn't comfortable with the way it hangs on top of this heavy cloak; it feels like the cloak is going to snag the hair and drag it off his head. And too, it bunches the hood and the hair all at the nape of his neck and it's fucking hot and damp. He squints up at the rainmaking array, which is presently dormant but promises future misery.
The orcs are all bunched up against the wall forty feet down and a dozen feet to his left, gripping their spears and muttering amongst themselves. Craig knows that their helmets and prosthetics and contact lenses effectively blind them for the duration of the night shoot. They certainly can't see clearly enough to identify who is perched up here; he's safely anonymous and concealed in plain sight.
Sala is with them. Though the stunt men are much of a muchness with their tall, broad bodies and sturdy builds, Craig knows which orc is Sala just from seeing the angles of his body and the way his shoulders move. This is disturbing. It's even more disturbing to realize that he's getting hot just watching Sala stand there in orc gear. Elves aren't supposed to get off on orcs. No sane person would. Slavering beasts, the lot of them.
Craig sighs and shifts his legs to give himself more room. Viggo and John have arrived, slogging across the muddy ground manfully and approaching the ramp up to the wall. They're almost set to begin the shoot. The orcs rattle spears at them, lifting their dark, voices in a shout that makes Craig's skin prickle. Some days he almost believes in them.
Peter lifts his head and squints and gives a thumbs-up. They're ready to go. Craig walks over to hit his mark; he's got his choreography crib notes tucked inside his armor, and as he walks he plays through the first set of moves in his mind. He never knows who he'll face in battle but these days it seems like it's Sala more often than not, and he wonders whether that's Sala's idea or somebody else's. At least Sala's a pro; he hits what he wants to hit and doesn't hit what he doesn't mean to. This doesn't mean he hasn't whacked the piss out of Craig a time or two.
But still, Craig is glad he's on the side of goodness and right which means he doesn't have to deal with fighting somebody like Viggo. Or John, who has put the fear of God into the stunties if anybody has. Maybe that's why Sala asks to fight with Craig, who tries to stick to the moves and doesn't like to hit anybody if he can help it (not least because it opens him up for revenge later).
The rain starts, somebody yells action, and orcs swarm up the ladder. Craig goes through his part of the pantomime-- draw and shoot, draw and shoot, draw and shoot, sling the bow, pull out the whacking great scimitar and lay about. One, three, six. Two, three, five. And there's Sala, taking a hit in the ribs which Craig manages to pull at the last second. Sala crumples dramatically, and Craig jumps over him and promptly loses his place in the melee. They're just doing peripheral fighting anyway; the camera is set for hero shots and will only glimpse Haldir in the background. Maybe. An orc jostles him and he goes to one knee and then he hears someone yelling cut. Good thing, too; he was about to get trampled.
He pulls himself up and notices Sala is still down. Frowning with worry, Craig goes to him. "Hey, you OK?"
Sala rolls over and those disconcerting red contacts meet Craig's concerned gaze. Sala groans dramatically and puts up a hand to get a boost. "You hit me," he says. His prosthetic teeth are disconcerting, and there is his tongue behind them-- a tongue whose former presence in his mouth Craig doesn't want to think about right now.
"I pulled the hit," Craig protests, reaching out warily. Surely Sala wouldn't drag him down in the wet and the muck and spoil his costume-- but then again, sometimes Sala acts first and thinks later. A lot of the time, actually. Maybe all the time. But this time, it might spoil two sets of makeup and Sala spent a lot of time getting that stuff applied. So he doesn't, even though it takes all of Craig's strength to try to give him the boost he wants, because Sala's wearing enough gear to sink the Queen Mary.
"You hit me," Sala repeats stubbornly, and doesn't help.
"I was supposed to hit you." Craig enlists a stunt man's aid and together they get Sala balanced on his feet, where he looms at Craig's side, adjusting his bulky helm on his head. The rubber costume makes him seem even broader, and the helm adds at least three inches to his already impressive height.
"He hit me," Sala says dramatically to the second orc.
"Pussy!" the other orc shoves Sala, playful, and they scuffle as Craig backs away, not wanting to get caught and dragged into it at the expense of Haldir's costume. Fuck, the wig alone takes forty minutes to get on.
"What's with them?" Viggo slouches over, laconic as ever.
"I hit Sala," Craig shrugs, helpless.
"Not hard enough, it looks like." Viggo chuckles. "Let John have a go at him next."
"Or you." Craig remembers hearing about the time Viggo hit Sala on the head and split his scalp open. The stunties all agreed at the pub later that they'd never seen so fucking much blood in all their lives. It took some dreadful number of stitches to sew him up, and Craig thinks it's a wonder Viggo didn't split his skull along with his skin. He looks at Viggo's sword, which Viggo has drawn and is still holding in his hand. It's ridiculously phallic.
"Can we have order please?" Calm and bland, PJ's voice through the megaphone nevertheless penetrates the chaos and the orcs straighten up. "I want another take."
"Pansy Elf!" Sala says clearly as he ambles off to climb back down the ladder. It piques Craig's annoyance, and so this time when Sala comes at him he turns the sword in his hand and puts some of his weight behind it, slapping Sala's ribs hard with the flat, catching his ankle with the toe of his boot-- which is NOT in the script of the fight. It interrupts Sala's planned stumble and roll, sending him down with enough force to pull a grunt out of him as he lands.
Oh, and that does it; that pisses him off. Sala's big hand catches Craig's ankle and Craig tumbles down on top of him and fuck the makeup; they're rolling in the muck and the wet, tripping the other stunties and making the Elves curse and hop fast if they don't want their own costumes spoiled.
But Craig doesn't care; Sala is fucking heavy, and they've fetched up against the parapet, and Sala is lying on top of Craig, body half-sunk between his thighs. Even the rubber suit and the armor can't disguise the heat of him, heat rising off him in fucking waves. Sala's heat seeps into Craig in a sharp contrast to the muddy cold water that's absorbing into his costume. Craig stares up into the red-gleaming eyes and wonders how much of what he sees is orc and how much is Sala and whether any of that heat is for him or whether it's all due to the costume and the fighting.
Sala throws back his head and howls, an orc shout that's part growl and part howl and part wail. Then he dives for Craig's throat, and sinks the orc teeth there-- not hard, but hard enough to sting, maybe hard enough to mark, and definitely hard enough to leave Craig hard too, popping a rod so fast he's surprised it doesn't just boing Sala right off him with the recoil. But maybe Sala can't feel it through all the layers. Probably not, but Craig can feel Sala's hot tongue lapping at his throat behind the mock ferocity and the stage-humor of the bite. And that's really it; that's torn it. Craig understands this hazily even as he plays along, yelping and thrashing. Something's going on here, and it's more than a joke; it's more than just taking the piss and setting him up to leave him flailing.
Finally the stunties manage to haul Sala off Craig and stand them both up, and Craig winces at the flat look on Peter's face as he gestures for another Elf in pristine costume to come take Craig's place and sends Craig and Sala both off for makeup and costume repairs. Craig winces again as Ngila and the wig wrangler glower at him. From his side, Sala chuckles, but he's not out of the woods either as the makeup people dart up, tutting with dismay and scolding him soundly. He's managed to tear his latex suit and has to be put in another one. Meanwhile hands are working to strip Craig and he's batting at them uselessly because he doesn't want to let Sala see the rod he threw when Sala fell on him.
"What the hell is this?" Ngila tosses the wet cloak she's holding over to one side and fingers Craig's throat. "Did somebody... bite you?"
"That orc wanker bit me," Craig agrees. "The caterers aren't feeding him enough man-flesh."
"Man-flesh!" Sala bellows, shaking his fist, and Craig feels a *frisson* shoot through his spine, making him shiver and making the woman who's trying to touch up his eyeliner jump back and curse.
"Make-up, be sure you cover that; his tunic won't go that high," Ngila snaps. "Craig, be still." She's jerking Craig's pants down, blasé about it all. At least she's between Craig and Sala, blocking his line of sight, because Craig is sporting plenty of man-flesh and is about to poke Ngila in the eye. She pulls back far enough that he can't and starts to grumble under her breath, but all he can hear is 'bloody adrenaline' and 'crazy bastards' or something very like it. And there, that was definitely something involving 'saltpetre.' Craig flushes to the roots of his hair-- which is showing; his wig is being re-combed by the harassed wrangler.
Sala is ready a long time before Craig is, and goes stumping back out into the fray just as Craig is stepping into a new pair of trousers and tugging at his boots. When Sala's gone, Craig sits back carefully in his new outfit and lets them gum the wig onto his head. His mind is turning over; the ball's in his court and the next move is up to him.
He wants to make it good.
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Glad you're enjoying it! :-D Thanks for the feedback.
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Sala should be used more; he's hot as the very devil. Nnnnngh!
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Damn, he's hot.
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And btw, the biting/licking... I clutched my heart and started giggling like an idiot.
More please! The slash gods demand it!
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I looked for Craig/Sala and didn't find any; do you know where some is? They should be slashed to pieces; they have a lot of chemistry.
I'm glad you enjoyed! I've just posted another piece and I hope you'll find it as interesting. ;-)
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After I read your fic, I went off to try to find some Sala/Craig fics and couldn't find any. So disappointing! But if I do, I promise to send the url your way. ;)
*runs off to read the next piece*
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