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WIP Fic: Unkissed, 1/?

  • Aug. 12th, 2011 at 1:02 PM
toomuchplor: (Default)
Fandom: Inception/TDKR RPF I guess
Pairing: Joe/Tom
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Joe isn’t looking for Tom, he’s looking for ten minutes alone to catch up on Twitter and Tumblr -- but, looking for Tom or not, Joe turns a corner, bumps into him, and is too fucking polite to admit that he isn’t really interested in talking.

A/N: None of this is real, and obviously I have no way of knowing whether I've gotten any facts right about the TDKR shoot in Pittsburgh. This is still a WIP, and sadly I'm on the eve of travelling for several weeks. I'll finish what I can but this may not be properly wrapped up until early September. No hard feelings if you want to wait until then to start reading.

This started as part of [livejournal.com profile] cherrybina's Inception RPF Tom/Joe Fest, but I thought after 6,000 words it was getting a bit ridiculous continuing my comment fic there, so here I am. If you're caught up on that comment thread, though, you can jump directly to Part 2. Also, you should go and prompt and/or do fills on that post because there is a ton of awesome stuff there which I would read the hell out of. :D

Thanks to Bina for starting this whole thing, [personal profile] lately for audiencing/cheering, [personal profile] xenakis and [livejournal.com profile] anatsuno for help with French.

"What do you mean, 'of course you have'," Joe asks Tom, because he likes Tom and all, but sometimes Tom is just incredibly full of shit. "Man, I'm an actor too, doesn't mean I've -- wait, are you counting shit you've done on camera?"

Tom squeezes his juice box, crumpling the little tetra pack in his big fist, a gesture so simultaneously childish and hyper-masculine that honestly, no one but Tom could do it quite the same way. "Course," he says.  "On camera, and off."

"Bullshit," says Joe, grinning, shaking his head. Tom, who's been maintaining his usual cool lack of eye contact, straightens up a little and sharpens his gaze into full-on alpha male mode, calling Joe out. "Bullshit!" Joe persists, unbothered, amused.

"You never did?" Tom presses, scoffing.

"Never did," Joe concurs easily, still grinning and laughing a little. "Look, no offence, man -- not my thing. If it was my thing, I'd say so. Come on."

Tom drops his attention, back to slouching and casual, wings the juice box into the nearest bin with an easy overhand arc. They’re in another one of those no-man’s-land places on the set, maybe fifty feet from the hive of activity that is production. “See, that just tells me you haven't lived, bro."

"Right," Joe says, "no life lived could be complete without macking on another dude, that's just--"

"How would you know if you never tried it," Tom says in that weird inflectionless way he has when he's feeling defensive. "You know, it's really fucking easy to sit in judgement but--"

"Jesus Christ," says Joe, taken aback, straightening up, because Tom is genuinely pissed off, hurt. "I'm not picking a fight, Tom, fuck."  But Tom is already wheeling away in a circular pace, swinging his arms around, taking the toothpick out from behind his ear and jabbing it into the corner of his mouth, restless and huge and if Joe didn't know for an absolute fact that Tom isn't that kind of guy, he might actually legitimately feel freaked out right now. "Tom, chill out, man. I'm sorry."

Tom jams his hat down onto his head and looks back over his shoulder at Joe, visibly calming himself down. "I get this shit a lot," he says by way of apology.

"I know," Joe says, standing up too, edging in closer now that Tom's arms are contained again. "I'm not saying I would never try it, you know."

Tom looks up, pulls at the toothpick in his mouth, twists his smile around and casts Joe one of those patented Hardy under-the-lashes looks that is far too innocent given all the shit Joe knows Tom has done in his life.  "You coming on to me?" he says.

"Yeah," Joe says, calling his bluff but unable to keep from smiling, "yeah, I'm hoping you'll be my first off-screen dude-on-dude kiss."

"Well," says Tom, flicking the toothpick away, tossing his hat aside, playing gay chicken or some shit, stepping in closer to Joe. They're of a height, the two of them, but it's hard to remember it when Tom's so close, looking the way he does right now for Bane, like steroids hyped up on steroids, a fucking pillar of muscle. "Since you ask so nicely." Tom's hand comes up, brushes the side of Joe's neck, but Joe's not going to be the one to flinch, fuck that - fuck Tom, too, and his stupid sense of humor, Joe's not going to --

Joe feels his smile falter, like a light flickering before it goes out, because Tom's fingers are curling around the side of Joe's neck and he's not sure if it's a caress or a threat, so much strength just grazing across the bump-bump of Joe's carotid. If it's a joke, if it's a fake-out, Tom is committing to it, and Joe -- Joe has to stop thinking like that, there are no cameras here, no one standing to the left or right holding a boom mic or a reflector dish, no one to see if Joe's mouth opens just a little, in invitation.

There's always that moment of clarity before a first kiss, that brief one-foot-over-a-cliff moment where you think, I'm going to kiss that mouth, I'm going to -- because you know in a few seconds, it will have happened. You can't unkiss someone. It stays there forever, that first kiss, like a mark only the pair of you can see.

Tom has really beautiful lips — there’s a weird fucking thought.

Joe thinks, I'm going to -- but Tom gets there first, and Joe would startle (not bluffing, nope, not bluffing) except for those callused fingertips against his neck, holding him steady without the slightest pressure. So Joe doesn't startle, just holds still for a moment, lets Tom's mouth brush against his, then purses his lips out, chases Tom's mouth as it retreats minutely, returns the kiss for kiss before breaking away completely.

This close, Joe can't look into both Tom's eyes at once, flickers his gaze between one and the other, trying to figure out what the - what the fuck, what the actual fuck had that been -- "Never did that sober before," says Tom thoughtfully.

"Never did that without someone yelling cut," Joe returns, smiling nervously.

"You sort of did," Tom points out.

"I guess I did," Joe says, and reaches up, brushes Tom's hand off his neck.

You can't unkiss someone, Joe thinks, watching Tom go over and scoop up his hat, shove it back down onto his head.  You can't unkiss someone.

***

“Dinner, tonight,” Tom says, Joe just popping by to wave goodbye to everyone because he’s wrapped for the day.

“Tonight?” Joe says, “dinner?” He’s well aware he sounds like an idiot, but he can’t help it. There are people around, tons of people, and Tom kissed Joe a couple of hours ago. Joe kissed Tom. There are people around.

“Steaks,” Tom clarifies. “I know a place.”

“Right,” says Joe, because ‘steaks’ doesn’t sound like — well. It’s not quite the same as dinner, ‘steaks’. “Uh, text me the details? You have my number still?”

“Oh, I have your number,” Tom says, in a certain tone of voice that sends Joe right back to the fact that there are people around, but then he grins and waggles his eyebrows and Joe laughs because Tom is clearly fucking with him now.

“See you later, then,” Joe says, lifting a hand in farewell and then waving it away in amused dismissal. It’s not until he’s walking to the car they called for him that Joe’s throat goes tight with — he’s not sure what. He pulls out his phone on the way back to the hotel and texts Anne.

Do you have dinner plans? Me and Tom are getting steaks.

She must be wrapped for the day too because the answer is almost instantaneous. Wow, am I invited to the sausage party?

Steaks, Joe writes back, smirking, not sausage. I thought you gave up the veggie thing? :0P

Thanks but sounds like a boys’ night out. Say hi to Gary and Christian and Tom for me.

Joe blows out a breath and settles into the upholstery, feeling a tension he hadn’t recognized before bleeding out of him all at once.

***

Annie’s right, it’s a bit of a sausage party that night. Joe doesn’t know Christian or Gary very well yet, not like he knows Tom, but they seem alright, down-to-earth, genuine. Christian’s sticking with his Batman accent, somewhat unevenly, and Tom’s own accent drifts after his, probably without Tom noticing. Gary smirks across the table at Joe, the two of them at least firmly entrenched in their own nationalities. Inevitably, they all start talking about work, about Hollywood.

“Oh, Joseph here has opinions,” Tom says, suddenly very English, drawling, playful, “on the industry.” He slips a sideways smile at Joe.

“Don’t we all,” Joe says cheerily, vaguely, and they laugh appreciative actor laughs, and Joe gives Tom a swift ankle-kick of warning under the table, inclines his head politely when Christian starts going on about what a pain the ass it is to have to read scripts for projects that will never happen in today’s climate. If Christian or Gary give a shit what Joe thinks, they can ask him themselves; it’s clear they don’t care though, because they don’t ask.

They’re all at the same hotel, so they share a car back, Joe offering to take the narrow space beside Tom as no one else can comfortably be his seat mate the way he’s built at the moment. Tom’s never that generous with personal space, but it grates on Joe more than usual tonight, the way Tom spreads his legs wide, cups hands on his knees instead of folding his arms up a little. Tom is very warm, pressed along Joe’s side. He smells like meat and coffee: manly, off-putting.

No one waiting in the lobby for them; Nolan’s production people are doing a good job of keeping their hotel a secret. Gary peels off to talk to someone at the desk about something, Christian races for the elevator because he was supposed to Skype with his wife and kid ten minutes ago. Tom and Joe wait for the next one, Tom not-very-subtly checking himself out in the distorted reflection of the brass elevator doors. He’s still standing too close to Joe.

“Thanks for inviting me out,” Joe says, to fill the silence, hands stuffed in his jeans pockets.

“Thanks for coming,” Tom says, earnestly, “fucking terrifying, dinner with those two.”

The doors open, they get into the elevator. More mirrors, real ones this time, on the walls. Tom leans in and checks out his head stubble up close. “I always look like a weirdo without hair,” he says.

“You’ve got a nice head, man,” Joe reassures him. “I had to shave my head for this movie last year, it wasn’t pretty at all.”

“I’m not meant to be pretty,” Tom says, frowning at himself. “I’m meant to be a scary motherfucker.”

“Oh yeah,” says Joe, snorting, “you’re very scary.” He’s seen Tom kiss dogs full on the mouth, seen him go soft and giggly at the sight of babies, seen him get down on the ground, belly flat to asphalt, to commune with a kitten someone brought on set.

“Am I pretty?” Tom asks, straightening up, looking over his shoulder at Joe, mouth curving up. “At least say I’m pretty.”

Twenty-four hours ago, Joe would have had a reaction for that, something normal and easy and funny, but now he can’t for the life of him figure out what that reaction would have been. He hesitates a little too long, frozen on the need to improvise, and for one, two, three seconds, Joe can only think of saying, no, you’re not pretty, no, like that’s any kind of rational response from one friend to another. His throat unsticks, and the words rush out, uncensored: “You know you’re pretty.”

It’s at least as stupid an answer as his first impulse — it’s not even honest, Tom can be pretty, has been pretty, but pretty is not what he is right now, tired at the end of a long day, smelling of steak, bald and bulky and thick through the neck, in need of a shave, a change of clothes, a shower. Tom Hardy is not pretty, he’s not—

The elevator pings and lurches to a stop, the break of inertia making Joe inhale sharply, realize he’d been — what? Leaning into Tom?

“My floor,” Joe says, and pushes past Tom, gets out, forgets to say anything else. He doesn’t have any of the lines in his head anyway, it’s all just a weird rush of panic that erases his memory of the short walk to his room, the act of getting his keycard out, getting in, turning on the lights. The next thing Joe remembers he’s sitting down hard in the stiff hotel wingback, stomach queasy.

He should know better than to eat so much red meat at bedtime, Joe thinks, and opens his laptop, browses Tumblr until the letters get too blurry to read and it’s easy to get into bed, fall asleep between cool sheets.

***

The fact is, Tom is working harder than anyone on this movie, harder than Christian or Anne or Joe, mostly because his bodyguard or BFF or whatever has him doing push-ups on his knuckles every time there’s a lull. Joe would feel sorry for him except it’s kind of fair turnabout after Joe’s six weeks of bruised everything in the rotating corridor for Inception, Tom not doing anything more strenuous than checking his email while lying on the hotel set carpet with his stubble and his pomaded hair.

Gorgeous, smirking, looking up at Joe through thick lashes.

This is the kind of shit that keeps floating to the surface of Joe’s mind, troubling him; this is the weird kind of thing that’s making him pull out his phone over and over, distracting himself with Tumblr, with Netflix, with anything at all that can keep his head busy and away from — from Tom.

Tom, who’s doing some sort of masochistic chin-up marathon not twenty feet away, muscles bulging, cheeks red, neck running with sweat.

Joe gets up, heads for his trailer. Someone will find him if he’s needed.

***

“New girlfriend or HitRecord?” Anne asks, inviting herself in later, pushing open the door.

“HitRecord,” Joe admits, looking up, pushing his glasses up his face, blinking at the sunlight that chases in after her. “Sorry, am I anti-social today?” He’s spent most of the afternoon in here, announcing a couple of upcoming shows, tweeting a little frantically — anything he can think of to do, other than sit and be quiet and let his mind wander.

“I was hoping for a new girlfriend for you, Joseph,” she mock-scolds him, coming over, sitting on his couch. “You seemed more intensely distracted than usual, on set.”

“Yeah,” says Joe, smiling. “I think I’ve had too much coffee or something.”

Anne looks quizzically at him, tilting her head. Her eyes are even huger than usual, dark-lined around and around, lashes sticky black with mascara. It’s like being questioned by a Powerpuff Girl. “Really not a girlfriend?”

“Not a girlfriend,” Joe says, in all honesty. He pivots his screen so she can see for herself, the dark Tumblr background, the paused video, the growing list of reblogs underneath.

“You have that sort of,” she waggles her fingers around him, ignoring his laptop, “sort of freshly infatuated air about you.”

Joe considers laughing, denying it, but instead some impulse makes him twist his mouth ruefully. He blames the anime eyes, the hair. He’s a sucker for a girl with pretty eyes and long hair.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she says, leaning over to pat his knee. “Say no more, Jose. I’m needed on set in five. Just wanted to check in on you, make sure you hadn’t actually pined away to nothing.”

“Thanks, Annie,” he calls after her. “You should really knock, though, what if I was naked or jerking off or something?”

“Then it would have been lucky me,” she says happily, and bounces down the stairs, out the door.

***

The next day Joe’s flying back to LA, has the week off while they shoot more stuff with Bane and Batman. All he has to do, when he’s finally wrapped for the day, is to get in a car, go to the hotel, go up to his room, and sleep. That’s it.

Joe is fine with all of it right up to the sleeping part.

He should be tired, was up for a middle-of-the-fucking-night call time today, spent far too much time sitting on his ass, which always leaves him feeling wrung out and bleary by nightfall. Instead Joe lies in his hotel bed and channel surfs, scratching his belly through his t-shirt, hating everything on TV, needing it to be on anyway. He ignores his iPhone, which is lying on the sheets next to him, on silent.

It buzzes around one in the morning.

finally done for the nite. u still up mate.

Joe looks at the message, clicks the phone’s screen off. He has to be at the airport in five hours, after all.

At one thirty Joe sits up and grabs the phone, reckless.

Room 1506.

The answer, which he hadn’t honestly thought about in any detail, arrives before he’s even put the phone down again.

b there in 5

Joe springs off the bed, abruptly knocked from sleepy impulsiveness into actual mind-numbing panic. His room is kind of a disaster, clothes everywhere, computer cords snaking over the floor, the bed unmade, a slap-chop infomercial on the TV. Joe himself is pretty much a disaster too, unshaven, unshowered, still with traces of movie make-up behind his ears, gel in his hair, wearing last year’s HitRecord merch and a pair of boxers that were kind of worn-looking two years ago and are now downright disrespectable.

Priorities: Joe flicks the TV off, finds a pair of jeans, starts pulling them on over his boxers, and reconsiders. Strips off the underwear and tries again, buttoning the fly with hands that are maybe trembling a little, fuck. Quick reapplication of deodorant, a chase around his face with a tissue to catch up any orangey foundation that might linger, combing his hair messy and then neat again as he scowls at his pale exhausted face in the mirror. What the fuck is he doing, what the fuck does it matter if Tom —

The knock at the door is classic Tom, a series of hyperactive raps followed by three heavy thuds: part cartoon character, part bulldozer. Joe rips the door open and tries to look like he hasn’t just been staring critically at himself in the mirror.

“I want to eat a fucking piece of bread,” says Tom, t-shirt and dress pants and a baseball cap, looking gritty-eyed and anxious as Joe feels, himself. “I’m hiding from PNut.”

Joe laughs in spite of himself and waves Tom in, making over-the-top spy movie gestures, pretending to check that the hall is clear.

Tom is holding a brown paper bag in his fist that he crumples open, revealing a sandwich that looks like it’s spread with diarrhea and boogers.

“Where the fuck did you find a marmite and pickle sandwich in downtown Pittsburgh?” Joe marvels.

“Made it myself, didn’t I,” says Tom with a conspiratorial grin. “Look, I’d offer you some but I genuinely might be forced to rip it out of your jaws, I’m so fucking hard up for carbs.”

Joe holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “All yours, amigo.” It’s good, it’s normal — normal as Tom Hardy ever is, eating an English monstrosity in fierce ravenous bites in Joe’s hotel room at nearly 2 in the morning. It’s easy to figure out how to act because Tom’s kicked Joe right into his default mode for dealing with him: amusement paired with bafflement, and a healthy dose of mild disgust to top it off.

Tom perches on Joe’s desk, chewing noisily, looking around with clear interest and a just as obvious lack of judgment on the state of the place. “You flying out tomorrow?” he asks, or Joe thinks he asks, around an ambitious mouthful of bread.

“Yeah, first thing,” Joe says. He sits on the edge of the bed, unthinking, realizes what he’s done, pops to his feet again. “You’re still here in a week? I’ll be coming back.”

“Mm,” Tom agrees, swallowing the last of the sandwich. He exhales dreamily, goes into the bathroom and helps himself to a glass of water. “That was heaven,” he says, coming out, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “That was worth a hundred press-ups right there.”

“Glad I could be your carbohydrate speak-easy,” Joe says with a grand gesture, entertained. “Anytime you want to have yeast-based products, I’m your man.”

Tom is licking his teeth, sucking at them a little, scratching behind his ear for all the world like he really is part pitbull. “Are you?” he says, absently, and then looks up, gaze sharp and curious and ten times smarter than Tom usually lets on. “Are you my man, Joseph?”

He always says it like that: Jozeph, the ’s’ almost a ‘z’. It’s never bugged Joe in the least before, he’s the man of a hundred names, but right now Joe can’t stand the sound of it, abruptly and irrationally annoyed with Tom, with everything about him — the space he occupies, how he fidgets incessantly, his childish oral fixation, the sideways baseball cap he’s been wearing lately.

The cap especially, Joe thinks, pulse thudding dully in his ears, angry like he rarely is. He steps forward, knocks the thing off Tom’s head with a swift slice of his hand, thinking that Tom might not be the kind of guy to start a fight but maybe he’s not one to run away from one either. Joe glares at Tom, daring him, bracing himself to get knocked down by one swing of those massive arms, and sure enough Tom’s arm comes up — but not with a fist, with an open palm, fingers grabbing at the front of Joe’s shirt and pulling him forward all too easily because Joe had been back on his heels in anticipation of a shove, a punch, and here Tom is hauling him in close, here Tom is smashing his mouth up against Joe’s.

Joe’s fury metamorphoses instantaneously into a seething hot lust. (Maybe, Joe thinks vaguely, maybe it was never fury at all.) He exhales hard, the sound of it painful, gets his hands on Tom’s face and holds him still for more kissing. This is not the curious platonic stage kiss Tom had offered yesterday, it’s not the head-tilting romantic kiss Joe performs in movies; this is almost savage, this joining of mouths, breathing hard into each other’s lungs, trapped. Tom’s skin is stubbled, his chin scratches against Joe’s; it should be completely repellant, but it isn’t, he isn’t.

Tom’s fist still has Joe’s shirt balled up, stretching the worn cotton of his shirt, dragging the collar down and the tail of the shirt up, but somehow it’s still a shock when Tom’s other hand lands on the skin of Joe’s belly. Joe jumps, pulls back, panting, but doesn’t go any farther. He stands there where Tom’s holding him pinned, one hand high on his chest and the other hot and gentle against the flat lightly furred planes of Joe’s stomach. “We can stop,” Tom whispers. His lips are red-swollen and his gaze keeps flickering down to Joe’s mouth, like Joe’s lips might look the same.

“I’m thirty, you know,” Joe says, because he’s been thinking that a lot lately, when he’s not able to successfully think of anything else. “You’d think I’d have — I’ve never wanted to, before.”

Tom’s brows gather and smooth out in a quick flicker of emotion. “It’s bisexuality, Joseph, not juvenile onset diabetes or schizophrenia. It can strike at any age.”

Joe explodes into a helpless chuckle in spite of himself. “You should,” he says, and hiccups a little, fuck, “you should do a PSA maybe.”

Tom laughs and his grip loosens a little, like he’s less worried Joe is going to squirm away. His hand goes flat in the center of Joe’s chest, hot and big and friendly. “Should I stop?” he asks, voice still, serious.

Joe thinks about it for a second, really thinks. Tom’s hands feel familiar, now he’s used to them. They’re just bodies, after all, and as bodies go, Tom’s got kind of a nice one — okay, more than kind of nice — and Joe is surprised to find that he doesn’t have any particular objection to Tom’s body this close to his. Joe shifts his weight from one foot to the other, aware of his half-hard cock up against the denim of his jeans. It’s maybe even a little better than ‘no objection’, he admits. “No,” Joe says, “don’t stop. Just — I don’t know if I. I might have, you know. Another existential crisis.”

“I’ll get you through it,” Tom says warmly, and his mouth is still curving a little as he moves in to kiss Joe again, tender open-mouthed kisses that set Joe’s pulse racing all over again.

Once he’s acclimated to Tom’s size, it’s not that different, really. Hands are hands, mouths are mouths, genderless and sexy all at once. Tom peels Joe’s shirt up over his head; Joe shoves down the urge to say something about how he’s a skinny motherfucker, he knows it, because he’s never apologized for it to a girl and he’s not going to start now just because Tom’s built like a mack truck. Besides, Tom doesn’t seem to have any objections or hesitations. His arms go around Joe and hold him steady as he kisses Joe’s shoulders, his chest, pauses for a while on Joe’s right nipple while Joe tries to decide (with only about half his brain cells firing) if it’s socially acceptable to hold onto your partner’s bald head. Joe throws politeness to the wind and grabs on, skates his fingers down over the soft downy stubble, winds up with his hand tucked under the collar at the back of Tom’s t-shirt. “Take this off,” Joe says.

Tom straightens up and pulls the t-shirt off seemingly without looking away from Joe, which should be physically impossible. The slightest smugness plays across Tom’s face as Joe helplessly looks down, takes it in: Tom’s immensely muscled chest, the black ink over skin.

It’s actually, Joe thinks dizzily, blood rushing out of his head and down into his jeans, it’s actually really fucking different, being with Tom. There is not a single plane of that body that could be anything but male.

“Existential crisis time?” Tom asks, the smug look slipping into real concern.

“No,” Joe says, shaking his head, “no, actually, can I just,” and he steps closer, glides his arms around Tom’s narrow waist, drags him in until their chests and stomachs are pressed together, until Joe is close enough to feel the quick animal in-and-out of Tom’s abs as he breathes faster, until Tom’s arms come up again and circle Joe’s waist too. Skin on skin, it’s electric, it’s insane, how could Joe only be figuring this out now, and he’s moving in to kiss Tom’s mouth again when Tom’s hands slip down just a little onto Joe’s hips, holding him steady as Tom pushes his own hips forward.

Joe knows that move, he’s done that move a lot in his life, has never once been on the receiving end of it. That move is called feel how hard you’re making me, baby, and Joe has to admit, he’s more than a little impressed with what Tom is demonstrating. He upgrades ‘impressed’ to ‘fucking amazed’ when Tom shimmies his ass a little and shows Joe that this move, in this instance, can actually be called ‘feel how hard we’re making each other’.

“Oh fuck,” Joe says stupidly, and kisses Tom’s plush lips with something of their earlier desperation, getting one hand between them so Joe can feel up that wall of muscle: traps and pecs and abs and all sorts of anatomy Joe hasn’t ever known in quite this way. When he pulls back this time, Tom is looking at Joe with that stupid unfocused look guys get when they’re really literally mind-numbingly hard — sort of tender and dimwitted and heated all at once.

“Can I touch you,” Tom asks, downward inflection of his voice that’s thoroughly English, “can I — would it really weird you out if I wanted to suck you off?”

“You want to suck me off?” Joe asks, shaking himself a little to get out of his own tender-dimwitted-heated trance. “Really?”

Tom huffs a laugh, humorless. His hand drifts down Joe’s chest, over his stomach, stops at the top button of his jeans. His thumb taps the metal once, twice. “You haven’t thought about it?” he asks, curiously. “I thought — I thought you must have thought about it, the way you came at me tonight.”

“I came at you?” Joe repeats.

Tom bounces his head, midway between yes and no. “I thought you were,” he amends amiably enough. “If I was mistaken, I can”—

—“I would really, really, really,” Joe interrupts, “like it if you wanted to go down on me.”

Tom’s smile is genuine this time, and he just sinks to his knees like it’s nothing at all even as Joe’s pulse suddenly leaps and thuds in his achingly hard cock. Joe closes his eyes, drops his head back, because no, he hasn’t thought about it, but he’s pretty sure he isn’t quite up to watching Tom open his pants, watching Tom pull him out and stroke his cock with his loose fist, watch Tom’s mouth open in a lewd kiss over the head of Joe’s cock. At least, Joe doesn’t think he can watch all that and keep some modicum of self-control. He fists his hands at his sides and struggles for air as Tom sucks, capacious sure mouth, tongue smacking along the underside and then slipping up and down, pointed and clever, playing that little sensitive spot that girls never seem to notice.

Tom pulls off then, and Joe blinks his eyes open, looks down, wondering if Tom’s changing his mind, but no, Tom’s just working Joe’s cock with a loose fist and a truly appreciative look on his face. “Nolan’s costumer has a thing for this, you know,” he says.

“For blowjobs?” Joe asks stupidly, because the sight of Tom kneeling in front of him is as good as he feared.

“For your cock,” Tom corrects mildly. “Well, for cock in general, but yours in particular. Did you never notice how fucking tight she made Arthur’s trousers? And you’re downright obscene in this film too.”

Joe is kind of amazed he can spare the blood to blush, but he feels his cheeks heat up. “You were looking? At my dick? I mean, way back then?”

“Just because you never thought about it,” Tom scolds, flashing crooked teeth, and leans back in, sucks Joe down farther this time.

Joe wants it to last, because it’s crazy fucking hot, and good, and Tom seems to like doing it, but of course that means it’s over sooner than he’d like. One second Tom’s bobbing up and down, sucking, tugging gently at Joe’s balls, and then Joe’s scrabbling for Tom’s ears, his cheeks, trying to warn him. Tom backs off, but only a little, and Joe gets to come into Tom’s mouth with Tom’s pink plump lips still stretched around his cock, still sucking gently.

“Oh my fucking god,” Joe says, when he really can’t take more. He pushes Tom away gently by the forehead, takes a couple of staggering backwards steps, hobbled by half-down jeans, to land bare-assed on the hotel bed. Tom gets up, goes back into the bathroom, has his second glass of water for the night, and emerges with his pants open and his boxers tented out impressively in the gap of his open fly.

“Don’t worry,” says Tom, “you don’t have to put it in your mouth.”

“I’m not worried,” Joe says with more bravado than sense. Even his scalp is tingling, still.

“Yeah, well,” Tom says, and comes to stand between Joe’s spread knees, slips the elastic down over his cock and frees it. Joe’s seen some dicks in his day, but never one that’s hard and this close to his face at the same time. It’s — it’s a nice dick, as dicks go, Joe thinks fuzzily. It curves up a little, it’s not monster-sized to match Tom’s Bane body, it’s — it’s nice. It’s wet, too, and as Joe watches it flexes a little and gets wetter. “I’ll just have a wank,” Tom says, still adjusting his boxers and pants. “If you — if you don’t mind just sitting there. I promise I’ll — I won’t be messy.”

“Don’t be a dumbass,” Joe says, and brings his hand up, wraps it around Tom’s cock. It feels like skin, soft and silky, and it leaps a little in Joe’s hand. It’s Tom. “Here, hold onto my shoulder or something.” Tom’s hand closes on Joe’s shoulder a moment later, and Joe begins to stroke, weird at this angle, from this side of things, but Tom’s resettling his weight so his legs are farther apart, he’s making a pleased humming-sighing sound, so Joe must be doing alright anyway. It’s too much, still, again, to look up at Tom, so Joe looks at Tom’s cock, at his neat dark blond puff of pubic hair, at the treasure trail pointing up to his navel, at the ’til I die’ tattoo on Tom’s right hip.

Joe doesn’t remember making the decision to do it, but he finds himself pressing a fond open-mouthed kiss to the ink, then over farther, where the skin is lightly furred and Joe can feel the way Tom’s hips are making tiny involuntary jerky thrusts into Joe’s fist. From there it’s nothing at all to just lift his head up again and put his mouth over the head of Tom’s cock. Feels bigger than it looks, tastes bitter and slick and completely unlike pussy, the pre-come of a dedicated meat-eater, of Tom. Joe hears a low hungry sound and only realizes afterwards it came from him. Tom’s hand in Joe’s hair, shaky but gentle, and then Tom is crying out fast and low, and Joe doesn’t even need the warning, feels it in the heel of his hand, the bump-thud at the base of Tom’s cock. Joe backs off just in time, his hand warring with Tom’s to catch the hot wet pulse of come slipping over the webs between fingers.

Tom tumbles Joe back onto the bed before Joe has time to react, his heavy hard body over Joe’s, his mouth kissing Joe’s mouth, his neck, sloppy and happy and affectionate. “Are you serious,” says Tom into the skin of Joe’s shoulder, still kissing, “how are you so — fuck, Joseph.”

“I was going to wear these jeans on the plane tomorrow,” says Joe as the wet seeps through, but he’s laughing anyway, feeling drunk with fatigue and giddy with release. It’s a fucking adrenaline high is what it is, he admits to himself, palming Tom’s head with familiarity now, it’s like pulling off a perfect stunt, like running flat-out and then stopping for no good reason.

Tom hauls himself up on his palms like he’s going to do another set of push-ups with Joe right under him, but instead he kisses Joe’s mouth, twice. “That was brilliant,” he says, sincerely.

“Yeah,” says Joe, nodding, kissing back, “I, uh, I’m starting to see your point about this whole, guy on guy,” and it’s so utterly stupid that he has to laugh, and Tom laughs too, even though he probably doesn’t know what’s so funny.

Tom gets up after another minute, pulls his shirt on, zips up his pants. “Right, have a good flight then, mate,” he says, while Joe sits up and buttons his pants too.

“Shit, I have to be up in, like, three hours,” says Joe, looking over his shoulder at the clock on the bedside table.

Tom flashes a mischievous grin at Joe. “Good fucking luck with that.”

Joe groans and stands up, stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets and resists the urge to slouch his shoulders inwards, suddenly conscious of his bare chest again. “See you next week,” Joe says, not sure how to proceed.

“Next week,” says Tom, digging his keycard up and picking his hat off the ground, heading for the door.

And then Tom’s gone, and the room is quiet, and Joe sits down on the bed again and thinks, you can’t unfuck someone either, can you.

***

Part 2

Comments

aidara: Rainbow-painted man (Default)
[personal profile] aidara wrote:
Aug. 14th, 2011 10:45 am (UTC)
Holy crap. Seriously one of the hottest things ever. And their voices (especially Tom's, omg) are just perfect.
aidara: Rainbow-painted man (Default)
[personal profile] aidara wrote:
Aug. 14th, 2011 10:47 am (UTC)
Of course this was meant to go on the second part. *sigh* Must remember, never write a comment in the wee hours of the morning...

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