Baby Watch My Blood Boil
Oh. Um, wow. Lookit that.
That was, largely, Elijah Wood's reaction upon finding himself suddenly confronted with Orlando Bloom's orgasm face.
Or, well, near-orgasm-face. Would-be-an-orgasm-face-but-Elijah-wouldn't-let-it-be-face. Whatever, what the fuck ever, all that mattered was that it was really, really hot.
Well, no, it really wasn't. On its own, that face on Orlando might kinda scare Elijah. And possibly make him snicker. The way his forehead had got all lumpy and wrinkly, and his eyes were squeezed tight, and his lips were pulled back. He sounded kinda funny, too, panting through his gritted teeth the way he was.
But the scene, that was hot. It was all about context, like Viggo was always rambling about when someone would get him started. The face Orlando was making, that on its own? Kinda creepy, in an "Orlando, you're a fucking retard", funny way. Except right now, he was wearing that face and, on the subject of what else he was wearing... actually, there wasn't anything else to say on that subject, because Orlando was completely naked.
And his hands were clenched on the board at the foot of the bed, and those little pants through gritted teeth were accompanied by occasional little "eeph"-y, "rgh"-ish, whimpery whiny sounds. And when Orlando had tried, at the beginning, to reach for his own cock, Elijah had made a low noise of protest, and now Sean's hands were atop Orlando's, thicker fingers intertwining with Orlando's.
Pinning his hands down.
Meanwhile, here was Elijah. Here was Elijah, curled up in a really fucking uncomfortable hotel chair, and his eyes feeling as wide as they'd ever gotten throughout the course of filming any role ever, and that was because he was unabashedly staring while Sean fucked Orlando. Elijah's knees -- drawn up 'til they were jabbing his shoulders. Hand -- wrapped around his cock, thumb at the head. Silent, for all intents and purposes, because his own low panting probably couldn't be heard by the other two.
"'s all Elijah's idea," Orlando had said quickly, averting any guilt when they'd first dragged Sean off to a tattoo place on meeting him in New York.
"So," Sean said in the limo later, from the premiere, and the alcohol had made his speech different, somehow, just a little bit, but Elijah wasn't exactly sure how, "were all Elijah's idea?"
"Uh-huh," Orlando said, far drunker than Sean, or at least doing a far worse job of concealing it, his head resting on Sean's shoulder. "All 'Lijah. I was in no way responsible. Absolutely. Swear before Christ."
"You're Jewish, Orlando," Sean said, and his eyes had remained locked with Elijah's.
"Oh. Right. Yeah, well, still."
Elijah stifled a snicker. He'd managed to get a few drinks, himself, but he wasn't as much of a lightweight as Orlando was, and he'd had fewer, anyway.
"So what else's Elijah got in mind, then?" Sean had asked. Orlando managed then to open his eyes enough to peer curiously between the two of them.
And then they were here.
Jesus fucking Christ, were they here. Whatever the fuck that meant. Fuck. Fuck. Fucking, they were fucking, and Sean's face, Elijah hadn't really taken much in the way of notice of that yet. But it was -- less hilarious than Orlando's. And a little creepy, too, but not so much in a grotesque, pathetic, funny way. His eyes weren't closed, for one thing, and his lips were pursed, and he almost looked as though he were pouting, except for the effort it seemed to take him to plant those soothing kisses on the back of Orlando's neck.
Then there were the movements, the way his very very upper thighs, almost his ass but not quite (and his ass, too, obviously, but his legs were what drew Elijah more), would tighten as he thrust, and the intensity that seemed to strain his entire face, and the way his fingers would tighten and loosen, twined in Orli's -- everything in Sean seemed tied together, some how, a whole bundle of too-tight strings that were being tugged with some complicated rhythm.
Elijah's rhythm.
Fucking his rhythm.
Elijah's breath caught at that thought, and his hand jerked oddly, breaking his own rhythm. His hips jerked, thrusting into his fist, and he gave low, keening noise of his own, almost matching Orlando's.
Sean paused then, and he didn't turn to look at Elijah, but he tilted his head just the slightest bit. His eyes closed for the moment, and his forehead was resting against the back of Orlando's head, and he seemed to be listening. Orlando gave a low, almost agonized moan.
"Keep going," Elijah managed, and his voice, hoarse and low and hungry, starving hungry, almost cracking from hunger, would've surprised him, except he wasn't exactly concentrating on the sound of his own fucking voice right now.
And then Sean's lips pressed a quick kiss against the back of Orlando's head. "All right, then," he said softly. Orlando gave another low, unintelligible but somehow clearly grateful moan as Sean started to move again, and Elijah found himself laughing at that, his laughter ending on a higher, desparate note, his hand jerking again, oddly, breaking the pattern. Sean was smiling, too, just the slightest bit, but with the same intensity as before.
Orlando's right hand, the one on Elijah's side, jerked then, and the muscle in Sean's arm seemed more tense. He was, Elijah realized, struggling to keep Orlando's hand down.
"You fucking bastards," Orlando finally managed, a whining tone to his voice. "Bastards," he repeated, apparently not sure they'd heard him the first time. This time, Elijah didn't laugh. Although it was kinda funny. But he didn't really have much breath to spare. Sean's movements were more erratic now, as was Elijah's hand. And just as Sean seemed to be thrusting a little harder, as Orlando's groans grew a little more pathetic each time, so did Elijah's hips jerk a little more often, did his hand catch oddly or his breath hitch in his throat.
"Bastards," Orlando whimpered again, sweating and his eyes closed tightly and practically crying.
"Elijah," Sean said softly. His voice was tight too, and there was a warning tone to it.
"Move your hands," Elijah forced himself to say, and then, voice short not because he was angry or frustrated or planning (because, yeah, like his brain could manage that right now when pretty much all of it was focused in his cock and his balls and his hand) but because he could barely breathe, he added, "not you, Orlando."
"Fucking -- " Orlando began to cry out, and then it turned into a moan, because Sean had understood, somehow, and his hand had gone around Orlando's cock.
And Sean did look at Elijah, then, tilting his head, but keeping his eyes open, and Elijah nodded a little. His breathing was shallow and short and he managed to breathe "okay", and wasn't even sure he'd been heard.
Except that Sean whispered something to Orlando, and closed his eyes. This time, Orlando's moan sounded different, because he was coming. And yeah, okay, his orgasm-face? Looked every bit as ridiculous as the previous faces. But again where that wasn't really the point, because the entire scene, though it definitely had ridiculous elements, was just. Fuck. Fucking hot.
And then Sean was groaning, too, lower and harsher, and his eyes were still closed, and someone must've been pulling and twisting on the strings.
Elijah must've been fucking pulling and twisting.
"Fuck," he managed to squeak -- oh, god, Orlando would probably mention that later, but Elijah was only aware of it in the most distant possible sense that he could be aware of it right now. Because he was coming, too, hot and tense and desparate and all him.
Somehow, later, it didn't quite matter when they all sprawled on the bed because they were too drunk and tired to pick up their clothes and go back to their respective rooms. Besides, Orlando's bed was big enough for them all to fit, if not too comfortably.
"You got this huge bed, and I'm the one getting blamed with everything?" Elijah asked, lifting his head to peer across the expanse of Sean's chest at Orlando, who blinked. "Skank," Elijah added, just to make sure everyone got his point.
Orlando snorted. "What about that chipmunk voice of yours when you come?" he asked, his eyes closing again. "Ooooh, fuuuuck!" he said in a falsetto, breathy voice.
"Shut the fuck up," Elijah retorted.
"Both of you, shut up," Sean grumbled, not opening his eyes. "Put you both across my bloody knee if I have to."
Orlando opened an eye at that. "Yeah?" he asked.
"Go to sleep, Orlando," Sean said.
"Skank," Elijah added, but more quietly. Orlando made a few mocking falsetto noises. Sean gave a low snort of laughter as his breathing evened out.
Elijah curled up on his side. He wasn't sure what had changed, that they could go from everything meaning something and everyone needing something to laughing and joking and drifting off to sleep and just being, without someone else's purpose driving them, but as long as they could, he guessed as he fell asleep that why didn't really matter.