Chris likes to think of himself as a good person, as a decent human being, capable, unavoidably, of making mistakes but ultimately quick to amend them; he’s raised by people who instilled in him certain values, values that he still lives by to the t and that he plans to impart to his future children; he’s one of those guys who firmly believes in the cycle of karma, who is kind to others because he wants others to be kind to him back.
So Chris tries his best to be that person, to not roll his eyes when Tom invites his friends over for study sessions that involve them playing jazz music really loudly until three in the morning and shouting snatches of poetry at each other in an absurd game of charades. He tries to ignore the books Tom leaves lying around everywhere from the goddamn bathroom to the couch: Chaucer and Tolstoy, Fitzgerald and Salinger. Even Gaston Leroux in his original French.
Chris tries to be good. He puts in the extra effort. But then late one night Tom comes home from doing a play about eighteenth century Germany or whatever and throws a crumpled ticket at the coffee table and says, “Thanks for coming to see my play, man,” and Christ just loses it. He fucking loses it.
He doesn’t know what comes over him. One minute he’s staring at Tom’s retreating back and the next he’s grabbing him by the shoulder and pinning him against the wall. Tom’s eyes are blown wide and his breath is coming out in rapid pants through his parted lips. He’s sweating a little but even his sweat smells good, with an underlayer of warm skin and soap.
Tom says, “Get off me,” and makes a feeble attempt at shoving Chris off but Chris just grabs his wrists and tightens his grip on them when Tom starts struggling.
“Chris,” Tom says, rolling his eyes. “Seriously. What the hell. Let me go.”
Chris jabs a finger in his face. “You,” he says. “Will shut up.”
Tom looks taken aback, looks frightened for a second until he opens his mouth to respond. Chris doesn’t let him get a word out though and claps a firm hand over Tom’s mouth. He feels Tom’s breathing speed up, his cheeks deepening with color, and then Chris slides his knee between Tom’s thighs to part them and there it is, the randy little fucker has a hard-on.
Chris swallows thickly. “This turning you on?”
Chris doesn’t let Tom’s wrists go. If Tom really wanted Chris to fuck off he wouldn’t be standing there right now letting Chris feel him up, playing the role of pliant victim. Chris lets his hand slip from Tom’s mouth to touch the outer edges of his collar where his clavicles peek out, then runs his hand down Tom’s chest to palm his stomach under his shirt. The skin there is soft, softer than Chris has dared to imagine and Tom inhales sharply but doesn’t speak.
Chris rubs his knee against the inside of Tom’s thigh. “You’re enjoying this,” he says, not without a rush of glee.
Tom’s eyes are defiant. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he says, a soft hiss that devolves into a moan when Chris runs the edge of a fingernail down his ribs. His skin pebbles in goosebumps.
Chris scoffs. “Really?” He steps back abruptly and crosses his arms, not missing the way Tom’s face almost crumples in disappointment. “I’m flattering myself? Mate, you’ve got yourself a hard-on. Don’t even try to lie your way out of this. Just, don’t.”
Tom scowls at him. Chris is torn between wanting to kiss it off his stupid little face and just stomping off in a huff because if Tom won’t acknowledge the obvious attraction between them then he’s just wasting his time.
“Are you going to do anything about it then?” Tom asks after a moment. He’s standing so still Chris almost doesn’t see his lips move.
“What?” Chris says, blinking. He’s not quite sure he heard that one.
“Are you,” Tom says slowly, breathily, eyes growing darker, “going to do anything about it? Are you going to fuck me or something? Fuck me hard or whatever little sordid fantasy you’ve got in that thick skull of yours?”
Chris opens his mouth, shuts it with an audible clink of teeth. “Jesus,” he mutters, rubbing a hand through his hair. Now he feels his ears and neck prickling with warmth.
“I’m not going to--”
“Good, because as if I’d let you,” Tom says, raising a challenging eyebrow.
“What,” Chris splutters. “Well, excuse me. I’m not the one like, gagging for it. I’m not the one with the fucking hard-on. You know what your problem is?”
Now he’s royally pissed Chris off. Chris resists the undeniable urge to grab Tom by the shirt and shake him a few times.
“Well?” says Tom patiently. “Tell me what my problem is Chris since you’re such an expert on figuring people out.”
Tom shoots him an expectant look. Chris decides to go for broke and grabs Tom by the back of his head to kiss him.
And that, that shuts Tom up actually who sinks against him with a muffled noise of protest as Chris curls his tongue inside his mouth and tilts Tom’s head back to kiss him deeper. Tom lets out a startled grunt when Chris pulls back seconds later, eyes half lidded and mouth slippery wet.
Chris wants to fuck that dreamy look off his face, fit his cock into that perfect warm little mouth but swallows down the filthy urge to just take Tom then and there.
There’s a time and place for everything, and he doesn’t want to give in this soon into the game. Because that’s what it is, what it has always been since day one, the constant push and pull: a game.
And Chris is nothing if not fucking competitive. He always plays to win.
So he lets Tom go, watching the subtle shift in Tom’s expression as he watches the slow descent of Chris’ hand from his shoulder down to his wrist. Chris turns Tom’s hand over and traces the deep lines of his palms with a finger. Tom shivers, swallows visibly, doesn’t speak.
“You’re going to want it,” Chris tells him in a whisper, leaning in close so that his cheek brushes Tom’s curls. “I’m going to make you beg for my cock. I’m going to spread you open and eat you out and you’re going to like it so much that you’ll come so hard just from it. ”
Tom laughs softly, but the sound is edged with nervous worry. His eyes dart quickly to where Chris’ other hand is curved loosely against his inner thigh. Chris rubs up a few times and a trembling noise escapes Tom who grabs hold of Chris’ shoulder so he could steady himself on his feet.
But Tom meets his gaze squarely. “All bark and no bite,” he says with a wry smile. “If you really want to fuck me...” He leans in forward, a mimicry of Chris’ earlier approach and touches the tip of his tongue to the whorls of Chris’ ear, delighting in Chris’ little shiver. “You’re going to have to work hard for it, Chris. Because I’m not very easy to please, despite what you may think.”
Then he steps back, a spring in his step, watching Chris watch him back.
A beat passes, and then: the two of them lunge at each other, mouths fusing, Tom winding his fingers through Chris’ hair, Chris hoisting Tom’s legs up his waist as he maneuvers the two of them to bedroom and tips Tom into the bed where Tom sprawls, legs spread, panting and grinning wickedly and crooking his finger up at Chris.
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Chris likes to think of himself as a good person, as a decent human being, capable, unavoidably, of making mistakes but ultimately quick to amend them; he’s raised by people who instilled in him certain values, values that he still lives by to the t and that he plans to impart to his future children; he’s one of those guys who firmly believes in the cycle of karma, who is kind to others because he wants others to be kind to him back.
So Chris tries his best to be that person, to not roll his eyes when Tom invites his friends over for study sessions that involve them playing jazz music really loudly until three in the morning and shouting snatches of poetry at each other in an absurd game of charades. He tries to ignore the books Tom leaves lying around everywhere from the goddamn bathroom to the couch: Chaucer and Tolstoy, Fitzgerald and Salinger. Even Gaston Leroux in his original French.
Chris tries to be good. He puts in the extra effort. But then late one night Tom comes home from doing a play about eighteenth century Germany or whatever and throws a crumpled ticket at the coffee table and says, “Thanks for coming to see my play, man,” and Christ just loses it. He fucking loses it.
He doesn’t know what comes over him. One minute he’s staring at Tom’s retreating back and the next he’s grabbing him by the shoulder and pinning him against the wall. Tom’s eyes are blown wide and his breath is coming out in rapid pants through his parted lips. He’s sweating a little but even his sweat smells good, with an underlayer of warm skin and soap.
Tom says, “Get off me,” and makes a feeble attempt at shoving Chris off but Chris just grabs his wrists and tightens his grip on them when Tom starts struggling.
“Chris,” Tom says, rolling his eyes. “Seriously. What the hell. Let me go.”
Chris jabs a finger in his face. “You,” he says. “Will shut up.”
Tom looks taken aback, looks frightened for a second until he opens his mouth to respond. Chris doesn’t let him get a word out though and claps a firm hand over Tom’s mouth. He feels Tom’s breathing speed up, his cheeks deepening with color, and then Chris slides his knee between Tom’s thighs to part them and there it is, the randy little fucker has a hard-on.
Chris swallows thickly. “This turning you on?”
Chris doesn’t let Tom’s wrists go. If Tom really wanted Chris to fuck off he wouldn’t be standing there right now letting Chris feel him up, playing the role of pliant victim. Chris lets his hand slip from Tom’s mouth to touch the outer edges of his collar where his clavicles peek out, then runs his hand down Tom’s chest to palm his stomach under his shirt. The skin there is soft, softer than Chris has dared to imagine and Tom inhales sharply but doesn’t speak.
Chris rubs his knee against the inside of Tom’s thigh. “You’re enjoying this,” he says, not without a rush of glee.
Tom’s eyes are defiant. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he says, a soft hiss that devolves into a moan when Chris runs the edge of a fingernail down his ribs. His skin pebbles in goosebumps.
Chris scoffs. “Really?” He steps back abruptly and crosses his arms, not missing the way Tom’s face almost crumples in disappointment. “I’m flattering myself? Mate, you’ve got yourself a hard-on. Don’t even try to lie your way out of this. Just, don’t.”
Tom scowls at him. Chris is torn between wanting to kiss it off his stupid little face and just stomping off in a huff because if Tom won’t acknowledge the obvious attraction between them then he’s just wasting his time.
“Are you going to do anything about it then?” Tom asks after a moment. He’s standing so still Chris almost doesn’t see his lips move.
“What?” Chris says, blinking. He’s not quite sure he heard that one.
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Chris opens his mouth, shuts it with an audible clink of teeth. “Jesus,” he mutters, rubbing a hand through his hair. Now he feels his ears and neck prickling with warmth.
“I’m not going to--”
“Good, because as if I’d let you,” Tom says, raising a challenging eyebrow.
“What,” Chris splutters. “Well, excuse me. I’m not the one like, gagging for it. I’m not the one with the fucking hard-on. You know what your problem is?”
Now he’s royally pissed Chris off. Chris resists the undeniable urge to grab Tom by the shirt and shake him a few times.
“Well?” says Tom patiently. “Tell me what my problem is Chris since you’re such an expert on figuring people out.”
Tom shoots him an expectant look. Chris decides to go for broke and grabs Tom by the back of his head to kiss him.
And that, that shuts Tom up actually who sinks against him with a muffled noise of protest as Chris curls his tongue inside his mouth and tilts Tom’s head back to kiss him deeper. Tom lets out a startled grunt when Chris pulls back seconds later, eyes half lidded and mouth slippery wet.
Chris wants to fuck that dreamy look off his face, fit his cock into that perfect warm little mouth but swallows down the filthy urge to just take Tom then and there.
There’s a time and place for everything, and he doesn’t want to give in this soon into the game. Because that’s what it is, what it has always been since day one, the constant push and pull: a game.
And Chris is nothing if not fucking competitive. He always plays to win.
So he lets Tom go, watching the subtle shift in Tom’s expression as he watches the slow descent of Chris’ hand from his shoulder down to his wrist. Chris turns Tom’s hand over and traces the deep lines of his palms with a finger. Tom shivers, swallows visibly, doesn’t speak.
“You’re going to want it,” Chris tells him in a whisper, leaning in close so that his cheek brushes Tom’s curls. “I’m going to make you beg for my cock. I’m going to spread you open and eat you out and you’re going to like it so much that you’ll come so hard just from it. ”
Tom laughs softly, but the sound is edged with nervous worry. His eyes dart quickly to where Chris’ other hand is curved loosely against his inner thigh. Chris rubs up a few times and a trembling noise escapes Tom who grabs hold of Chris’ shoulder so he could steady himself on his feet.
But Tom meets his gaze squarely. “All bark and no bite,” he says with a wry smile. “If you really want to fuck me...” He leans in forward, a mimicry of Chris’ earlier approach and touches the tip of his tongue to the whorls of Chris’ ear, delighting in Chris’ little shiver. “You’re going to have to work hard for it, Chris. Because I’m not very easy to please, despite what you may think.”
Then he steps back, a spring in his step, watching Chris watch him back.
A beat passes, and then: the two of them lunge at each other, mouths fusing, Tom winding his fingers through Chris’ hair, Chris hoisting Tom’s legs up his waist as he maneuvers the two of them to bedroom and tips Tom into the bed where Tom sprawls, legs spread, panting and grinning wickedly and crooking his finger up at Chris.
The game is on.
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