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Disclaimer: This is a non-commercial, non-profit work of fiction under the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged or condoned by the persons whose names are used without permission.

The Sentiment

Author: often_adamanta
Original Story: The Beguilement by itstonedme
Pairing: Orlando Bloom/Elijah Wood
Rating: NC-17
Summary: AU. Modern day. Orlando is not an actor and neither is Elijah.
Notes: The use of sentiment in the title refers to its less common meaning which is "the act of responding to a stimulus."
Post-reveal Notes: Betad by violettefemme


Elijah blinks open blue eyes and lets them drop again, a slow, lazy slide. He stretches, limbs reaching and flexing, muscles shifting beneath porcelain skin. His back arches until it makes the softest sound of giving and then he subsides back onto the faintly damp towel beneath him.

Laughter floats back to him from the front of the not inconsiderable vessel. He's seen Dom's antics when he takes the helm and congratulates himself on finding a good place to relax if even Dom's machinations with the boats motions have left him still safe from the high spray and the sun - sunburn is most unattractive as it heals.

He contemplates a cigarette, but the desire for one is not yet enough to outweigh his comfort and complete relaxation. Instead, it invokes an image of smoke curling from between thin, smiling lips, and Elijah feels lust curling up in his groin at the memory.

He has been trying to exorcise these memories, afraid of them getting to close, afraid of what will happen if his overwhelming anticipation of a repeat performance is dashed, but once again finds his mind slipping back to that night - to Orlando.


Elijah sleeps, physically exhausted and still a little strung out. His legs are splayed across the bed, arms folded up beneath his head and the soft pillows. The sheet over him is rucked down to his lower back, perhaps a touch lower than is modest, and one small foot peeks out the side of the sheet, as well. Although the linens cocooning him are only cream, they look dingy against that expanse of fair skin.

Orlando stands beside the bed and buttons up the collared shirt, not so stiff and formal as it was even at the beginning of the night, but it still gives him the look of the proper businessman he is. The dark blue of the shirt contrasts well with his golden skin, and his heels click against the wood floors.

The scent of their time together is still in the air, sex and smoke and spice, and Orlando wants to linger as it does, but he must go. Still, he cannot resist the urge to touch Elijah one more time.


Their eyes connect, blue and brown, waves of awareness flowing back and forth, back and forth in the small space between them. Elijah moves closer, his leg bending up and sliding against Orlando's thighs. Everywhere they touch is slick and sweat-damped, and this close, they can smell it on each other just beneath the stronger scent of Orlando's come.

Elijah's hand moves back, tracing the curve of his own ass and then in between, fingers finding the wetness there as it seeps out of him. The touch sends a trail of tiny spasms up his spine, still sensitive and aroused, and then he brings his hand forward again and smears the wet all over his deep, red cock.

Every move is simple and practical, no hint of performance, but even without Orlando's quiet exclamation, the expression on his face shows how absolutely gutted he is nonetheless.


The mirror glitters in the candle light as it reflects the utterly debauched scene before it, Orlando prone on his back like some pampered prince and Elijah riding him, hips rising and falling, a glimpse of Orlando's cock at the crest of each move. Elijah's blue eyes lock on that point their bodies join. It looks almost as amazing as it feels, to see exactly what is causing that lash of pleasure between them.

Orlando licks his lips, tastes smoke and Elijah, the scent of the candles and the cushion of the bed beneath him giving way to nothing but the feel of what Elijah is doing to him. Elijah watches him come in the tall mirror, watches him throw back his head, his spine arching and twisting violently. Elijah rests his head against the cool of the pillow and runs his hand over Orlando's legs, the thin layer of hair crackling beneath his fingers, and waits.


Elijah spreads out beneath him, opening widely, and his tongue runs over the smooth skin, smelling very faintly of the soap from his shower. Elijah's cock is hard beneath his mouth, and he moves down over his balls and then lower. Orlando's thumbs press indentations in the firm muscles, resistance and surrender, where he pushes them apart, and then he lowers his mouth again.

Elijah's cry hangs in the air of the room as Orlando tastes here, too, hardly any unpleasantness because of how clean Elijah is, although the taste gets stronger the further in he can reach. He alternates easily between generous licks and deep probing strokes. Elijah is jerking beneath him, clearly luxuriating in this slow, sweet torture.


The containers of food shifts easily between them, the smell drawing them close together over the meal as they lean against soft cushions and cold glass. Orlando speaks softly, filling the space between them and carrying them through the meal. The beer cuts nicely through the spiciness of the Thai, but there is still a low burn on his lips when Elijah lights the rolled joint and he takes the first hit. This too shifts easily between them.

The light breeze is stronger on the balcony, ruffling his robe and twisting the tendrils of smoke in the air. The smoke continues to loop around itself and dart about in the air as they smoke, eyes becoming softer yet brighter, the whole word bending around them in a hazy, smoke-wreathed bubble.

When the joint is gone, they make their way back inside, back to the lust that also curls and grows between them.


The warm cloth wipes its way over Orlando's skin, all of it, even the parts that are often overlooked: the inside corners of his closed eyes, the nape of his neck, each armpit and down to his very toes. The plush terrycloth leaves a path of clean and cool as it runs over his skin.

Orlando turns, and it continues along the stretch of skin on his back, golden and glowing in candlelight.

Then the massage begins, the oil cool against his skin, the exotic aroma of freesia in the air. Elijah's hands move in broad, smooth strokes that unlock every muscle in their wake. He kneads over every surface on Orlando's back, rhythmic and thorough. Elijah's fingers glide over the long, wicked scar one last time as he finishes.


Elijah's full lips tease at Orlando's and then immediately split apart to deepen the kiss. Orlando reels when he pulls away, and then Elijah walks him backward to the bed, low words murmured directly into his ear as they move, Elijah's fingers calmly starting to caress over his body.

It's clear that Elijah means to turn him on, but Orlando doesn't think that Elijah knows how well it's working. The thick, hot phrases and breathy sounds in his ear and the close press of Elijah's body are lighting him up. What Elijah is - prostitute, rent boy, whore - flickers through his mind every few minutes, as it had the entire trip from the bar, and it has him burning far brighter than he'd normally be at this stage.

Elijah effortlessly opens his trousers and pulls him out, but even that slight touch is too much. Orlando's head flies back, and he tries so hard not to come, but he can already feel his hips start to jerk.

A quick movement and Elijah's tie is free and then looped around Orlando's cock, pulled tight, and that thin strip of yellow silk is all that keeps him from embarrassing himself right then.


There is too much to notice: The pale skin contrasting against the navy suit with gold and crisp yellow accents, the faint, earthy scent of Elijah's cologne as Orlando moves to sit near, the sight of those small, warm hands and how they feel beneath his fingers as he thumbs over one slender wrist. There is the bright blue of his eyes, his easy smile with that tiny gap that Orlando wants to run his tongue over as soon as he sees it, the almost boyish quality of his laugh and the low tone of his voice, confident and intimate both.

The rest of the world has subsided into nonexistence as Orlando neither notices or cares about the efficient movements of the bartender or the passage of hotel guests outside the simple, glass doors. Orlando's too aware of his own awkward movements, too much emphasis against the poised elegance of Elijah's own demeanor.

Elijah stands to leave, and there is nothing that will keep Orlando from following.


It didn't have to be this hotel. The head office had booked it for him. He hadn't had a preference since he's only visited Amsterdam a handful of times before.

He didn't have to be in the bar. He might have been convinced to have dinner with his hosts or gone up to his room to change out of the slightly rumpled suit and skipped the drink altogether.

But Orlando was here, now, ordering a Bombay tonic as he settles into the dark leather stool beneath the long, wooden bar. The bartender serves it up promptly, ice clicking gently against the glass, condensation already beading the outside. He picks it up and downs half the glass, long throat working as he swallows, and he can feel the cool liquid sliding down all the way to his stomach. It's a good drink, in that he can actually taste the alcohol as opposed to some of the watered down variants he's had this week. He sets the glass down with a dull thud, surreptitiously wipes his fingers off on the napkin - and turns.


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