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Chris has no idea how Tom finds these places.
He’s sitting in some classy speakeasy remake, with smoke and alcohol surrounding him, a lady on the stage crooning the last strains of Gorecki while a man plays on the piano. He’s at the bar, staring at his phone while his dinner jacket hanging off of one shoulder. The bartender places his second gin and tonic of the night in front of him. Meet me here at 10. Dress formal. – TH
Chris traces the pad of his finger around the rim of the glass and looks around the crowd. It’s getting close to ten thirty and he’s wondering if he’s been stood up. Turning his full attention back to his drink, it’s only a moment later, when his mouth just touches the glass, when a figure appears in his periphery.
‘I’ll have a vodka martini,’ and the voice catches Chris’ attention. It’s definitely higher pitched, but he recognizes the throatiness of it and looks over. In hindsight, he really should have expected this.
Tom is leaning against the counter, looking over at him through darkened lashes and mouth covered with dark red lipstick. He is dressed in a peacock blue cocktail dress, sleeveless with a high collar and his Adam’s apple covered up with a forest green scarf wrapped twice around his neck. Chris swallows to wet his suddenly dry mouth, dragging his gaze down Tom’s impossibly tiny waist to his long, smooth legs and matching forest green fuck-me pumps on his feet, shining in the light.
‘Hello, stranger,’ drawls Tom, smiling at him, a wig of auburn curls falling around his cheekbones and nape, only slightly longer than his real hair, and Chris feels self-conscious in his plain white-button up shirt and black trousers, bow tie slightly askew.
‘Hi,’ he croaks out. The bartender returns with the drink. Tom takes a sip. Chris feels his cock twitch.
‘And what’s your name?’ asks Tom, easy and comfortable in this new skin, sitting primly on his seat at the bar, white, long, lean legs crossed with a pump slipping off his heel and hanging by his toes.
‘Chris,’ he says, slowly, tearing his eyes away from those legs, and downing his gin and tonic in one go. Tom is smirking, his lipstick red lips parting for a glimmer of white teeth. There might be rouge on his cheeks, or he’s flushed with excitement, Chris can’t tell. Instead, he watches Tom drink his martini, wanting to slide the scarf off and watch the other’s throat bob.
When Tom finishes, he places his glass back on the table and looks at him pointedly. ‘Buy my drink?’
Hurriedly, Chris pulls out his wallet from his back pocket and hands the bartender money. He feels hot. The woman on stage has switched to French. Tom is humming along with her, eyes half-lidded so Chris can see the makeup he has put on oh-so-carefully. It occurs to him, vaguely, that he is way too aroused to be doing anything other than fucking Tom right now.
The song comes to a finish, and he’s staring at the silhouette Tom cuts in the cocktail dress, when the other looks at him, smiling, ‘so, Chris,’ drawing out the name an extra syllable, ‘why don’t you take me home?’
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Tom is still in character when they’re in the taxi, looking quite dainty, back straight, watching the cityscape pass by, while Chris has his head thrown back against the seat, wanting more than anything to slide a hand up a smooth white thigh to find what’s underneath.
Chris thanks the driver once they pull up to his hotel and pays him. It’s while they’re crossing the lobby that Tom changes. His steps – and he can walk in those damn heels too – become just a little bit more hurried, a bit more rapid. Chris would laugh if his cock wasn’t already half-way to rock hard at the slim, long figure making a beeline to the elevators.
Once they’re in said elevator, the tension is palpable. Neither tries to make eye contact and Chris doesn’t dare breathe out a word. They exit, Chris fumbles with the key, opens the door, steps inside his room, before he’s spinning around, sliding a hand over Tom’s waist and picking him up, kicking the door closed and shoving him right against the wall, feeling Tom’s fingers dig into his shoulders as he kisses him.
Tom moans, tasting like vodka and olives, as he’s pressed against the plaster, shoes being pulled off through force of gravity and his own eager gestures to get his legs around Chris’ waist. Chris makes sure Tom can feel the bump of his hard cock against the man’s leg, grinding up against him, and the moan he gets in return is heady and hot.
He gets a hand on the scarf and pulls it off, letting it drop, and Tom’s throat is bared for his liking, so he surges upwards and bites, leaving marks all over the white skin. Tom is keening, trembling fingers undoing the buttons of his shirt and pushing it out of the way. Sliding a hand up Tom’s thigh, he bunches the dress up hastily, and collides with a pair of lace panties underneath.
‘Tom, fuck, Tom,’ he growls, grabbing the hem and pulling them forward, down the thighs.
‘You like it when I go all the way,’ pants Tom, laughing, unhooking his legs and Chris gets the panties off one leg before letting it hang off Tom’s ankle. Without even a pause, Tom’s legs are wrapped around his waist again, a hand reaching down between them to press against the outline of Chris’ cock. ‘You’re so hard.’
‘Have you seen yourself?’ he gets out, hand grasping the base of Tom’s cock under the dress and stroking it once, twice, before sliding his fingers underneath the man’s balls and finding his entrance. He feels something wet, and smooth, and he groans out, ‘oh, fuck, fuck, you didn’t,’ when a finger slides in seamlessly.
‘I did,’ whispers Tom into his ear as his hips roll onto the finger, ‘god, Chris, should have seen me,’ and Chris replies by insinuating another finger in, ‘I was on the bed with those heels on – just those heels,’ and he pulls out his fingers, fumbling at his zipper, letting his pants fall around his ankles, ‘I fucked myself with my fingers, thinking about it, what would happen after you saw me.’
Chris grasps his cock and gets the tip of it into Tom, making the man’s nails dig into his shoulders. ‘Shut up, shut up, fuck,’ he groans, feeling the tightness grip each inch of his dick in a slow slide.
‘Yes, fuck me, god,’ pants Tom, a hand coming up to get the dress right above his thighs so his hard, leaking cock is in view, ‘oh, get it deep in me, I want to feel it for days.’
Tom jerks himself off as Chris pulls out and shoves back in, ruthlessly, fucking him brutally against the wall, with the dress between them a constant reminder of what Tom looked like just half an hour ago – dressed and dolled up. Now, he’s back to being Tom, throaty low voice spilling filth into his ears with that accent that shouldn’t make everything that much hotter but it does.
‘Yeah, c’mon, Hemsworth,’ he mocks, and Chris grunts, hands on the man’s waist before ramming right into him, ‘oh, yes, more, fuck me more.’ They build up a frantic rhythm and vaguely, Chris thinks Tom might be getting something like wall burn the way his shoulders shove against the plaster with each thrust, but Tom doesn’t seem to care, his hand moving in tune over his cock as Chris rocks into him.
They’re making enough noise for anyone passing by to hear, but he doesn’t care, not with Tom moaning unabashedly, and Chris fucking in and out of him, the tip of his dick pressing insistently against some place that makes Tom hitch his breath each time. Chris growls when Tom begins to rolls his hips and becomes more relentless, his balls are slapping loudly against the back of Tom’s thighs.
Chris is going to come soon – can feel it right in his thighs that begin to tremble. He shoves ruthlessly into Tom, wanting him to orgasm first. Wanting to see come splattered all over that dress. His hands are busy holding Tom’s waist and the back of his thigh for leverage so he can thrust deep and hard into him, so he makes do with his voice, hoarse and ruined, ‘jerk yourself off for me, that’s right, faster.’
Tom whines, hips twisting, and his fingers go tight around the base, before he strokes himself faster, the flushed head of his cock beading precome. He rolls his foreskin up and down the head, thumb pressing against the slit as he fucks into his fist. ‘C’mon, Tom, c’mon,’ encourages Chris, never pausing in his thrusts, ‘come, come all over my cock.’
‘Fuck,’ snarls Tom, twisting his wrist and flicking the ridge of his cockhead, which pushes him into orgasm. Semen spills over the edges of the dress that is around the base of his cock and all over his fingers. His ass ripples and Chris can feel Tom trying to milk his cock, but doesn’t let himself come. He shoves into the warm, tight heat, faster and harder, making the man moan.
His cock grinds right into Tom, dragging out each thrust, sliding hot and thick, out and back in as Tom’s ass clenches and unclenches with the last dregs of orgasm. ‘Shit, just, Chris,’ says Tom in a breath, and Chris tightens his grip before screwing deep inside of him and coming hard – filling Tom right up.
They catch their breath, Chris easing Tom back onto his feet from the wall, and laughs at how the man still has the wig of curls still on. Tom touches it and laughs too, sliding it off so his own dirty blonde hair comes into sight.
‘That was good,’ he says, leaning against the plaster, picking off the lace panties – a dark red – from his ankle. ‘You know, I don’t think anyone recognized me except you.’
Chris buries his face into the crook of Tom’s neck and smells a hint of perfume. ‘God, you do go all the way. Have a bra under there too?’
‘Mm, you’ll have to fuck me again to find out,’ he replies, wrapping his arms around Chris’ shoulders, and hums happily when he is carried to the bedroom.
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