Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1969722.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Thor_(Movies)_RPF, Marvel_Cinematic_Universe_RPF
  Relationship:
      Chris_Hemsworth/Tom_Hiddleston
  Additional Tags:
      history_of_drug_abuse, Rehab, Age_Difference
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-07-17 Words: 10280
****** Overcome ******
by curds_and_wheyface
Summary
     Chris has been clean for ten years and works in a rehab centre for
     addicted youth. Sixteen year old Tom isn't like any addict he's ever
     met.
Notes
     For rangerdanger.
     Any mistakes are my own.
Chris doesn't like to sound cheesy, but being a sponsor is genuinely rewarding.
He got out of rehab himself ten years ago - which is three thousand six hundred
and fifty days if you're counting, which Chris always is - and there was no
sponsor waiting for him on the other side, no family in the area, not even a
single one of those 'friends' who'd pulled him down into the depths of drug
addiction in the first place.
Every day had been a mental boxing match between the him that wanted to be
sober and the him that felt the world was just too painful to get through
without a hit. Nobody in his corner to pep him up between rounds. Every day
he'd woken up and wondered if that day would be the day he fell off the wagon.
But then Day One had become Day Seven, Day Thirty One, Day Three Hundred and
Sixty Five, and somehow Chris had managed to hang on.
He'd moved to London on a whim, carrying nothing but a backpack full of clothes
because he couldn't afford the extra luggage, and had found an Addicts
Anonymous group within his first week just to keep himself on track. Nearing
two years 'clean' he'd been quickly encouraged into the role of sponsor; taking
on and supporting new members through the initial days of sobriety.
It had been, without a doubt, the most rapid part of his healing process.
Talking through his own methods in order to encourage others had only
reinforced his own determination, and somewhere along the way his sobriety had
become about more than just himself.
Now he runs classes in a Youth Rehab Clinic away from the city, teaching young
addicts how to manage their compulsions and funnel their energy into hobbies
and projects, things to keep their hands and minds busy. Every once in a while
one of them will ask him to become their sponsor. Eight years working in
addiction support and he's never said no.
Tom wasn't like most of the others. He'd come in on a Wednesday six months ago,
school uniform, shaking like there were batteries in him. Sixteen and hooked on
speed of all things, though all of the faculty at his boarding school insisted
it would be 'just impossible' for him to get hold of that sort of thing on
their grounds.
Speed withdrawal tends to bring with it exhaustion, naturally, and depression
due to temporary damage to the brain cells responsible for regulating mood. Tom
had been showing all of the signs the day he came in. His mother had been
allowed to see him up to his room, to sit with him until he'd been signed in
and welcomed. She'd cried as she said goodbye but Tom had already been curled
up on his bunk.
Chris had scheduled a one-on-one session with him right away, unsure that
immediate inclusion in the group sessions would be much help to him.
Tom wasn't jaded like the others tended to be, didn't hold his cards close to
his chest. Chris had asked him how his addiction had started and Tom had let
out a soft little sigh and told him right away. Too keen to please everyone,
too much pressure to get into one of those Oxbridge universities, with his Dad
on his back about drama group affecting his scores in other subjects, and his
Mum getting onto him about socialising with the sister school in order to find
a girlfriend.
So he'd found a way to keep himself awake so that he had enough time to
maintain his work with the drama group, socialise with girls at the sister
school and not let his scores slip.
He was a sweet kid with a cute, elfish face and silly hair, a nervous habit of
pinching the bridge of his nose that was likely born of his addiction. He
talked like an adult, sat with one leg crossed over the other and didn't break
eye contact even once. He told Chris he was gay as if the matter held no shame
for him at all, but then immediately he'd muttered "Don't tell my mother, will
you?"
When Chris had asked, during their third session, how he'd gotten the drugs Tom
said one of the prefects had been using speed for years with no ill effects and
had offered to share with Tom in return for stuff.
Stuff, he'd said, with a shrug. Chris had closed his eyes momentarily.
"Stuff like what?" He'd prodded. It wasn't uncommon for the kids in the
facility to report that they'd been taken advantage of.
Tom had shrugged again. "At first it was just like, you know, I'd write his
essay or pull up the research for his dissertation. And then, um, well, one
night we were in his dorm - prefects get their own rooms - and he said he
wished he had one of the girls from the sister school to suck him off. And he
said I could if I wanted to."
"And did you want to?" He dreaded the answer, the thought of Tom doing
something he didn't want to in order to feed his addiction, but Tom only
shrugged for a third time.
"Yeah."
And there it hung between them; Tom with his palms pressed together neatly
between his knees and Chris with his head full of inappropriate images.
"You liked him?"
Tom seemed to really ponder the question, tipping his face up towards the
ceiling in thought and affording Chris a lengthy look at his long, pale throat.
"Not really. I just wanted to know what it was like. And it's good, I like it."
A forth shrug. "Made me hard."
"Okay," Chris had said, clearing his throat. "I think we can leave it there for
today."
-
Except that he hadn't left it there. The thought of Tom and the Prefect plagued
him, for some reason, much more than any of the other kids who'd used their
bodies to get drugs. Maybe it was Tom's blasé, matter of fact way of talking
about it, or maybe it was just that he'd claimed to like it.
Whatever it was, it kept Chris awake.
It was natural to think about it, he had decided. It didn't mean anything that
the image lingered in his mind.
He invited Tom to his next group seminar and was pleased when he shuffled in
two minutes before it was due to start, swamped in an oversized cardigan and
looking for all intents and purposes like an old man.
Chris always used his hands a lot as he spoke and made a point of making eye
contact with everyone at one point or another, to help drive home the message,
but for some reason he found himself avoiding the corner of the room where Tom
was sitting.
The sessions weren't long, particularly the ones that welcomed newcomers to the
facility, always beginning with a discussion about the dictionary definition of
the word 'addiction' and what it personally meant to them. Chris always let the
conversation arrive naturally at his own history of addiction, speaking as
honestly as he could about life as a recovering addict. And he always closed
with advice.
"So, for me personally, I know that I have a predisposition to addiction. I got
out of rehab and managed to stay away from the people who'd provided my drugs
but I initially compensated for that loss by drinking. The important thing is
to recognise that cycle of addiction beginning again and curbing it before it
takes hold. Which is why I encourage you all to find a healthy hobby and focus
your energies in that direction."
They weren't allowed their phones in the facility so he had the attention of
most of them - except for a couple of the girls who were studying their
fingernails and one boy who was rubbing the bridge of his nose and muttering to
himself. Chris made a mental note to tell one of the nurses as soon as he was
finished.
"The most common forms of addiction are probably fairly obvious, right? Aside
from drugs you have alcohol, cigarettes, gambling, excessive eating, shopping
and, the one that sounds fun but probably isn't...sex." Mortifyingly, his eyes
had shifted to Tom's on that last word. He looked away and cleared his throat.
"Nobody is saying don't do those things, but just remember that recognising the
signs of addiction early might prevent you from ending up in another boring
facility like this without your friends or your iPads. Okay? Alright, well,
that's me done, so you're free to go or you can stay for meditation with
Karen."
There was a chorus of voices thanking him, and then the sounds of chairs
squeaking along the floor as they dragged their chairs back to the wall and
stacked them out of the way for the session right after.
On his way back to the shared office Chris spotted Tom heading up the stairs
and called out to him. "Not staying for meditation?"
The facility was large and had a tendency to be cold in the winter months, and
so Tom had pulled his long sleeves down over his hands. Looking down at them
rather than at Chris, he said, quietly, "I think I'll just sleep instead."
Chris watched him go until he disappeared, and then proceeded to worry about
him until their next one-on-one session two days later.
Gregory was the Prefect's name, according to Tom, and he wasn't even gay. At
least, that's what he'd told Tom. After that first time he wasn't interested in
having his essays or his research done. After that first time, according to
Tom, it only took a blowjob for him to get his drugs.
"And how do you feel about that now?" Chris asked one day, with his notepad
carefully balanced on his knee. He'd promised not to write any of it down. The
expectation was that Tom - like many of the others - would say cheap, or used,
or ashamed, but Tom just pursed his lips thoughtfully.
"It was so much easier than writing the essays. Much less time consuming too,
especially towards the end when I'd had enough practice getting him off. And it
made me feel...I don't know, like I had some kind of power over him, I
suppose?"
Part of Chris still thought that there must be more to it, must be that Tom was
blocking out the negative feelings out of self-preservation, but the other part
of Chris remembered being that age - looking at boys and thinking forbidden
things, wondering what it might be like to kiss them the way he kissed girls.
Maybe Tom really had just found a way to get his tablets that was mutually
beneficial to himself and his dealer.
"Did you use protection?"
Tom's nose wrinkled. "For blowjobs?"
It wasn't the first time he'd had that incredulous response to the question,
but still Chris felt a little exasperated. "Come on, I know you're a smart kid.
Do you want me to organise tests for you?"
As Tom thought about it his eyes lifted as though he might find the answer on
the ceiling. "Do I have to?"
Chris had to bite his lip to avoid smiling. "Of course you don't have to, but
I'd advise it. Only for your peace of mind, Tom."
Eventually Tom agreed, and once he'd gone for the afternoon Chris jogged up to
the nurses quarters before his next session.
Driving home he'd thought about it more, tapping his thumbs against the
steering wheel and gazing, almost unseeing, out of the windscreen. The way Tom
talked about it made it easy to believe that he'd enjoyed it; the casual tone
of his voice and the proud lift of his chin. Chris couldn't take his mind off
it.
-
In their next session Tom had been talking about his sisters and how he wished
he saw more of them during the school months when, mid-sentence, had cut
himself off and tilted his head curiously to one side. "Do you really believe
that people get addicted to sex?"
It was so out of the blue that Chris had taken a moment to formulate an
appropriate answer. "People with addictive personalities tend to become
addicted to things that make them feel good, or give them a rush of adrenaline,
so yes I do. You've heard of nymphomania, right?"
Tom huffed a little laugh. "I thought that was just a fancy excuse for being a
slut."
It was such a harsh word, completely alien coming out of Tom's mouth in his
gentle voice, and Chris found himself frowning. "I don't think that's a healthy
word to use. There shouldn't be any shame in enjoying something that feels
good, as long as you do it in a healthy, safe way."
Tom was quiet, chewing at his bottom lip and staring at the floor, and Chris
leaned forward so he was in the boy's line of sight.
"Is that something that worries you, Tom?"
He tried to use a gentle, coaxing tone, but Tom seemed to see right through
that, snapping his eyes up to Chris'. For a moment they only looked at each
other.
"It doesn't worry me at all, but that's probably bad, isn't it? Because I was
doing it as...payment for something, which is hardly healthy. But I liked it
anyway. Maybe that does make me a slut."
"Okay," Chris clapped his hands together, sitting up and trying to put himself
back into his role of casual, cool councillor. "Rule one is that we eliminate
that word from your vocabulary. I don't think your situation with, uh, that
other person was healthy, no, but I don't think enjoying oral sex should be
something that reflects negatively on your self-image. Do you think maybe you'd
benefit from talking about it further?"
Tom lifted his shoulders. "Maybe."
And so they did.
At first it was just the relevant details, like how the first time made Tom
nervous, how it was something he'd thought about for some time before, and how
Gregory had looked at him differently afterwards, with a kind of look that made
heat pool in his stomach. Chris had nodded along, trying to focus on Tom's tone
of voice and mannerisms to look out for signs of distress, but then Tom had
paused.
"The third or fourth time...he, um, started to get a little rougher about it.
And he'd talk dirty too, like saying, I don't know. Things about my mouth. And
the last time, before they found my stash, I think he was actively trying to
make me gag because-"
Chris had held up a hand. "I think this is slightly more detail than I'm
comfortable with."
Tom had only breathed out gently. "Have you ever been addicted to sex?"
At the height of his addiction Chris had engaged in a lot of drug-fuelled sex,
often with multiple people and without protection, waking up more times that
he'd like to admit with no idea where he was or who the naked person beside him
was. He'd been tested at the rehab facility he entered and found to be clean,
but the danger he'd put himself in hadn't been lost on him.
Once he was sober he hadn't ever really attempted to commit himself to any kind
of relationship; particularly because the majority of his interactions happened
with current or recovering addicts and he didn't feel it was a good foundation
for a relationship. With that restriction on himself he hadn't had a lot of
opportunities for sex and so no opportunity for addiction had arisen.
"I can't claim that one, no," he told Tom, managing a tight smile.
Tom smiled back, no teeth but wider than Chris was used to seeing, and then his
eyes took on a pinched, bright look. "Are you married?"
Usually it was girls who asked, twirling hair around their fingers or
fluttering their lashes. Chris' smile widened without his permission. "I don't
really see how that information is relevant to your rehabilitation."
Tom lifted a shoulder as if he hadn't heard. "I've noticed that you don't wear
a wedding ring, but not all men do."
"Tom," Chris chastised gently, looking at the clock. "Come on, five minutes
left. What do you want to talk about, aside from my marital status?"
In response Tom dropped his shoulders, slumping down in his chair and pouting
like a child. "Fine, keep your secrets. I tell you all about having a cock
shoved down my throat and you won't even confirm for me that you're as sad and
single as I suspect."
Even though it was clear Tom was joking Chris felt the sting of his insult and
made a point of putting a hand to his chest. "Ouch, Tom. I'm kicking you out
early for that."
Tom had seemed pretty pleased with himself as he left.
-
They hadn't really gone back to the subject after that session, since Chris had
determined that it was consensual and felt uncomfortable bringing it up again.
Tom didn't seem to mind. They talked instead about everything else - Tom's
passions, his parents, his sisters that he clearly adored, his plans once
school was over. He talked with a bright, animated face but with his hands
always pressed between his knees. Sometimes he touched his mouth when he was
thinking hard about something and Chris always found something else to look at
when that happened.
All in all Tom was a normal kid, withdrawals aside, and six weeks in the
facility had done him a world of good. He was interacting with the other kids,
taking part in group meetings, showing decreased signs of dependency. His
laugh, a bizarrely crude snigger on such a neat boy, was ever-present by his
last week, and on his second to last day, just as Chris was heading home, Tom
had shot up behind him and asked if Chris could consider being his sponsor.
Eight years and he'd never said no. But he almost said no to Tom.
Almost.
Now they meet for coffee once a week at four in the afternoon, just two roads
away from Tom's new school. It had been his parent's decision more than his but
Tom had been moved to a school nearer to his home where he didn't have to board
and his mum could keep a better eye on him.
Much like their sessions in the centre they talk mostly about the inane stuff.
Tom always takes a long sip of his hot chocolate and then sighs, clinging to
the cup for warmth, before smiling lopsidedly and asking about some of the
other kids. Chris keeps him as up-to date as possible, mostly just for
something to say when they've been through Tom's steps.
And then, twenty minutes before he's due to leave, he always pulls on a more
serious mask and says, "How are you finding it, Tom?"
Today Tom says, "You know, I don't even think about it any more? I think maybe
the school work from this new place isn't hard enough. Barely a challenge. I
guess that's the price you pay for getting addicted to amphetamines."
"I guess." Chris nods, eyes glancing across the rosy pinkness of Tom's high
cheekbones. Winter suits him, leaves him looking fresh faced and awake, a far
cry from the exhausted boy who arrived at the centre. "I'm happy that you're
doing well though."
Tom takes another gulp. His throat bobs as he swallows and an unbidden image of
him slipping to his knees pops into Chris' head. He wants to ask how many
times, how much powder was it worth each time, but he bites his tongue and
eventually Tom says, curiously, "How many days have you been sober?"
Chris doesn't miss a beat. He's been saying this number in his head all day.
"Three thousand, six hundred and fifty one."
Tom scoffs like he was expecting a response like that, as if Chris is entirely
predictable. He doesn't even attempt to hide his eye roll. "And how many years
is that?"
Chris feels the corner of his mouth twitch. He's been dreading somebody asking
and he'd somehow known that Tom would be the one to do it. "Ten years
tomorrow," he says, although it comes out more like a sigh.
Tom sits up straighter. "Chris. That's huge! Are you going to celebrate?"
The answer is yes, but not in the way Tom might think. Chris plans to sit alone
at home and call his mum before settling in to watch his favourite film, one
that got him through many desperate nights. He shakes his head. "A little too
much celebrating is what got me into the mess I got into. So no."
But Tom isn't having any of that. "Come on," he slams his palms down onto the
table, sending foam bubbling down the side of Chris' fresh latte. "You don't
have to have a huge party, just...does anyone besides me even know?"
Chris only shakes his head and looks outside to watch people pass. He's noticed
that it's not really worth arguing with Tom.
-
His tenth year starts like all of the others. The number ticks over in his head
while he makes his first coffee, while he showers, while he neatens his facial
hair. He sets the number aside when he leaves the house. It's his personal
thing, the number. It's between him and the other guy.
He goes all day without anyone finding out his secret, relieved to arrive home
at six o'clock and recite the number again in his head.
His phone call with his mum is a lot shorter than usual because she likes to
pretend that those parts of his past didn't even really happen, and before
eight thirty he's in pyjama pants, hands occupied by a grilled cheese toastie
and a glass of milk as he heads into the living room to start the film. Then
the doorbell rings.
It's Tom - of course it's Tom - tucked into a long black coat, hands deep in
his pockets, and he laughs. "Milk and toast? Now that's just sad."
Against his better judgement Chris lets him in.
He's never felt self-conscious about his house until Tom is standing in the
hallway shrugging his coat off. Tom probably has a huge home, probably has
rooms as big as Chris' entire house, but he doesn't say anything or even pull a
face as he hangs his coat on the banister and looks around.
"You need something?" Chris asks, curling his bare toes against the cool
laminate floor. He still has the glass of milk in one hand and the plated
toastie in the other. All of the people he sponsors have his address, but
nobody has ever showed up out of the blue like this. "Did something happen?"
Tom wanders into the living room as if he belongs there and Chris hears the old
couch shift under his weight as he sits down. "I thought we might celebrate
together," he calls. "Oh cool, what're we watching?"
Chris ends up sitting on the opposite end of the sofa than he usually would,
watching Tom out of the corner of his eye as Tom kicks his shoes off and runs
his fingers across the worn leather. "Can I grab a drink?"
Chris nods, swallowing his food. "Do your parents know you're here?"
"Of course they do," Tom says, hopping up and heading towards the kitchen. It
sounds like a lie.
When he reappears he's got a can of lemonade in each hand and he puts one down
beside Chris' milk. "So either you hide your beer or you don't drink beer."
It's not really a question that needs answering, Tom has been to Chris'
seminars.
He doesn't make a fuss about it, opening his can with a hiss and talking a long
gulp. "I've never seen Taxi Driver," he says, glancing at the DVD menu.
Chris picks up his milk and drains it in one go and then reaches for the
remote, settling back as the film starts and Tom tucks his feet under himself.
For the longest time they just watch the movie. Tom talks a little but never at
key points, and it's always questions or guesses about the ending that make
Chris laugh a little.
He can't explain why it's his favourite movie so he doesn't try, and as the
movie grows towards its peak Tom becomes so quiet Chris almost forgets that
he's even there. It's a companionable silence that sees them to the very end of
the movie, and then Tom lets out a long breath.
"You like it?" Chris asks, observing Tom's face in the dim light of the tv
screen. His mouth is slightly agape and his brows are drawn, like maybe he's
feeling the way Chris felt when he first saw it.
For a moment Tom says nothing, slumping back in the seat like he's melted
there. "I can see why you like it. It's great, really, I can't believe I've
never seen it before. But...doesn't really seem like a celebration film."
He looks so earnest and confused that Chris laughs a little. "I told you," he
says as he picks up his plate and the glass now clouded white with old milk
stains, "I'm not celebrating."
Tom follows him into the kitchen and talks his ear off about all the reasons he
should celebrate while Chris rinses the glass and wipes toast crumbs into the
bin. Only half-listening Chris opens up the fridge and reaches in for two new
cans.
Fingers hovering over the cold metal, he hesitates. "How late is it?"
Tom lifts his phone out of his pocket. "Hmm...almost eleven. I'll text my mum
and say I'm still out for a bit, okay?" And, before Chris can reply either way,
Tom shoots off a quick text and deposits his phone away.
Grabbing the drinks Chris leads them back into the living room where the DVD
player has gone on standby and washed the room in the blue glow of the TV. He
turns over to some rerun of a panel show. He doesn't notice at first that Tom
hasn't opened his own drink, and by the time he does notice Tom is reaching out
to take Chris' can from his hands.
He watches with a question on his lips as Tom puts both cans on the table,
making sure to use coasters, and then without any warning Tom turns and crawls
into his lap. The question dies on his tongue. He leans back as much as he can,
attempting casual, and crosses his arms over his chest. Tom only stares at him,
unfazed by the silence.
"What are you doing?" He eventually asks.
Tom shrugs, eyes on his own fingers as they lift to map the thick muscle of
Chris' forearms.
"Keeping my hands busy..."
It's something Chris always says - one of his encouragements for taking up
hobbies and exploring healthy interests - and having his own words thrown back
at him makes him want to grab Tom's wrists and squeeze them tight. He's not
sure what else he'll do if he puts his hands on the boy though, so he keeps
them tucked safely beneath his crossed arms.
"Get off."
Tom bites his lip like he's trying not to smile. "Get you off? Is that what you
said?"
It shouldn't be funny, but Chris laughs anyway. "Tom, no. Get off my lap."
"Why?" Tom's fingers grip at Chris' arms like he's anticipating being thrown
off. "You tell us not to deny ourselves fun things, right? But you don't
practise what you preach. I bet you wank every night and just cry, don't you?"
It's once again a startling peek into Tom's vision of him, but it's not
entirely inaccurate. Chris shakes his head, humouring Tom despite his better
judgement. "I never cry during. Only after."
Tom cackles, tipping his head back, and the movement rocks his crotch towards
Chris', a searing heat shooting up Chris' spine at the contact. They both
freeze, Tom nearly choking on his laugh, and Chris uncrosses his arms in order
to grab him by the hips.
"Okay, you actually have to get off now," he says, all-too-aware that the semi
he got from Tom climbing into such a suggestive position is well on its way to
becoming a full-on erection.
Instead of doing as asked, though, Tom rocks his hips down again, and again,
until Chris tightens his hold on Tom's hips so can't move at all.
He huffs, leaning back so that he can stare Chris in the face without
separating their groins. "I know that it's part of your survival process,
denying yourself things that you want...but it's okay to give in sometimes.
Especially when it's going to feel really good."
He lifts his hands to stroke and pet at the sides of Chris' neck, soft
fingertips rubbing at the sensitive skin behind Chris' ear and sending a shiver
through him. It feels nice, being touched like that, and he allows himself for
a moment to close his eyes and soak in the closeness, the warmth of Tom's body.
He must loosen his grip because Tom rocks his hips again.
"It's okay," he whispers when Chris makes a noise of protest. "I want you to."
Clenching his jaw, Chris forces his eyes to open. Tom's bottom lip is wet and
ripe for kissing, his cheeks flushed prettily, and his eyes are heavy with a
soft determination.
"Why?"
"Because," Tom says, leaning on the word as if it's answer enough on his own.
"You're the hottest guy I've ever seen, and you're so nice. You're too nice to
be this cut off from all the good stuff. And I want to know how it feels."
He presses down again and Chris grits his teeth harder to resist meeting Tom's
undulations. "How what feels?"
He isn't going to do it if Tom can't even say it.
But of course, Tom goes above and beyond expectation, lowering his voice to a
throaty whisper. "How it feels to be kissed, and stretched out by fingers that
aren't mine, and fucked by someone I like."
He pets Chris' neck and throat some more, letting his thumbs trail down beneath
the collar of his shirt.
"Or I can just suck you off if you want that instead? Whatever you want. It'll
feel really good for both of us, I promise. I'm good at it."
He's so earnest, all gentle voice and soft eyes, the smooth trail of his
fingertips along Chris' collarbone so relaxing, and Chris finds that his
resolve is slipping, his grip on Tom's hips faltering altogether.
He expects that Tom will immediately begin the seductive grind against him
again, an attempt to entice Chris to full hardness and reach his end-goal
sooner, but instead Chris finds himself being sweetly kissed.
He lets it happen, Tom's lips pressing delicately to his own, because it seems
harmless and he hasn't been kissed chastely like this for a long time. And then
Tom parts his lips.
Maybe it's reflex, but all it takes is the first swipe of Tom's tongue for
Chris' own lips to part.
He groans without meaning to, chest tightening as he loses his breath into
Tom's mouth, and then Tom's hands move from his neck up to his jaw to hold him
in place while he deepens the kiss.
It's obvious that he's a novice, his tongue too-eager as he opens his mouth
wide and presses it inside, but he's so enthusiastic about it that it somehow
only makes it hotter. Their teeth clash for a moment until Chris raises one
hand to tip Tom's jaw and alter the angle.
For Chris, most kisses have been short-lived preludes to meaningless sex but
Tom lingers at his mouth, exploring and learning as Chris guides his tongue and
nips at his soft lips. He'd forgotten how good it could be, how arousing, to be
so intimately intertwined with someone with most of your clothes still on.
Tom is particularly overwhelming, and Chris feels like he's willingly drowning
in the taste of sugary lemonade that trips off the boy's tongue and the hint of
expensive cologne that lingers on his skin.
He angles Tom's jaw up more, kissing hotly down his chin and throat, tongue
laving across smooth skin and the defined ridge of his Adam's apple. He revels
in the sounds Tom makes and the way he tips his head back in complete
surrender.
Deep down he knows that it's wrong, but on the surface nothing much exists
except for Tom.
One of those thin-fingered hands slides up into Chris' hair to squeeze and pull
while the other begins a downward motion, fingers mapping the muscled bumps and
ridges of Chris' bare chest, the pads of his thumbs seeking out and swiping
over hardened nipples as he goes.
Instead of lingering there as Chris would've liked, Tom lowers his touch
further and goes straight for the bulge between his legs.
While the kissing is clearly new it's more than obvious that Tom has dealt with
a cock before, the way he smooths his palm down with just the right amount of
force to create friction before immediately seeking out and massaging the
sensitive head of Chris' cock through the cotton pants.
Chris can't do anything to stop his hips surging up, and the motion jostles
Tom's mouth away from his own.
They both laugh a little, awkwardly, as Tom rights himself and goes back to
licking at Chris' mouth.
"Can I suck your cock?" he whispers, and sounds so turned on by the idea,
breathless with anticipation, that Chris agrees.
He struggles to control his breathing as Tom dips his head to lick and suck
along his jaw, lips and teeth catching on day-old stubble, before scooting
backwards on Chris' lap in order to move his mouth down further.
Reaching Chris' throat he latches on to one nipple, lapping curiously at the
nub, humming softly. Chris lets his head fall back against the sofa cushions,
blinking up at the ceiling as Tom plays and nips at his flesh, still working
those talented fingers over his cockhead. Paying no attention to the other
side, Tom's damp, pink lips trail further still, Chris' abdomen jumping beneath
open mouthed kisses. He pays particular attention to Chris' belly button, which
Chris thinks he must've seen in a porno.
Impatiently, he reaches beneath Tom's pointed chin to tug loose the drawstring
of his pyjamas pants and presses his palm against the top of Tom's head in
encouragement, and Tom's laughter huffs out hotly against his stomach.
"Pushy," he complains, but he drops to his knees regardless, and between the
two of them they get Chris' pyjamas down and around his thighs.
Tom groans at the sight, reaching out to take him in hand, and Chris bites down
sharply on his own lip at the feel of Tom's warm palm. For what seems like the
longest time Tom simply strokes him from base to tip, watching intently as the
shiny, dark pink head is revealed and covered again.
His fingertips only just meet around the thick base but at the tip he twists
his wrist, palm slicked by precum, and Chris can't help fucking up into it.
Without much warning Tom strokes back Chris' foreskin and leans forward to
swirl his tongue around the bared head, just once, before leaning back on his
heels and dragging Chris' pants the rest of the way down past his knees.
After kicking them off the rest of the way Chris parts his knees and leans back
to watch as Tom settles between them, taking hold of the base again and angling
it towards his mouth.
"Have you thought about this?" he asks, lips brushing the head.
Chris wants to say no, wants to play like this isn't anything he's considered
before, but in the face of Tom's expectant gaze he can't lie, so he nods.
Tom smiles slowly, not in a smug way but in an entirely pleased one, and says
"I knew that."
And, with that, he parts his lips and takes the tip of Chris' cock into his
warm, wet mouth.
He wasn't lying when he said he knew how to make it good, and right away he
begins to bob his head, tongue playing against the underside and around the
crown, humming pleased sounds as Chris' taste must flood his mouth.
Chris knows then that it was never a lie when he claimed to enjoy blowing that
prefect for his fix, and he can't take his eyes off Tom's wide mouth as he
sucks him in as far as he can, using his wet fist to stroke what he can't reach
and twisting his fist up and along the length as he pulls off with his mouth.
He strokes up and down with his fist as he plays his tongue around the head,
other hand weighing and massaging Chris' balls.
It is, without question, the most skilled oral sex Chris has ever received, and
it's all he can do to keep his hands to himself as Tom pulls off and licks,
kitten-like, at the head and up the underside of the shaft with the flat of his
tongue.
When he reaches the tip again he lays a kiss there, playful, and a short line
of spit connects his wet lip to Chris' cock. It's almost too much, just too
debauched a sight for Chris to handle, and so he grabs Tom beneath his arms and
pulls him back up.
Tom scrambles back into his lap and Chris drags him forward until their mouths
meet again. This time Tom's taste is sugar-sweet with the added heady musk of
Chris' cock. It's weird, maybe, that he enjoys the kiss even more for it.
"Will you fuck me now?" Tom asks when they part again, nose nudging against
Chris' cheek and hands gripping at his shoulders. "It's all I've thought about
since I got out."
Chris wants to say yes, more than he's wanted anything in a long time, but he's
hit with the sudden realisation that he has no condoms, no lube, and he can't
with good conscience attempt to take Tom's virginity with nothing but spit to
ease the way.
"I don't have anything." His voice is soaked in regret, his hands rubbing a
gentle rhythm along Tom's sides so that it doesn't seem like rejection. "I
wasn't planning on this happening or I'd have bought stuff."
But, of course, Tom reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and, like a
magician pulling ribbon from his closed fist, reveals a line of connected lube
sachets. There are maybe six or seven in total, Chris is too busy staring open-
mouthed at Tom to count them.
"Will that be enough?" Tom raises a brow, dropping them all on Chris' abdomen.
Huffing out a laugh, Chris lifts them to eye level. Silky Smooth, the logo
reads, for personal pleasure.
"You're unbelievable," he laughs, putting them aside on the sofa and taking
hold of Tom's hips again. He can see that he's hard too, the zipper of his
jeans tented unnaturally. He sighs. "We still don't have condoms."
"I'm clean," Tom says in a rush, leaning forward to kiss at Chris' mouth again.
"My tests all came back clean, I swear."
And Chris knows that. It's not exactly allowed but he'd asked the nurse about
Tom's results and she'd told him without question, probably assuming the
information was pertinent to their sessions. The truth is just that Chris had
been worried about it.
"You are too, right?" Tom nods for him, reaching down between them again to
stroke at Chris' cock despite the awkward angle. "Come on, please. We both want
it."
Several times in his life Chris has come upon a crossroads, with a choice to
make between what he wants to do and what he should do. For ten years he's
chosen to do what is right.
He reaches for the buckle of Tom's belt.
It's easy after that to leave the weight of guilt behind and rid Tom of his
jeans, helping him stand and tug his belt free, slip his buttons loose. He
kisses noisily at Tom's abdomen as the soft skin is revealed, breathing in the
scent of Tom's clean skin. As soon as his jeans are kicked free of his feet Tom
presses Chris backwards and straddles his thighs again.
"Is it easier like this?" He asks, scooting forward on his knees until his hard
dick brushes up against Chris' abs. "With me on top?"
Chris nods. "Whatever you want."
He can't help but palm at the underside of Tom's pretty, pink cock, sliding his
other hand up underneath Tom's shirt to lift it up and over his head. Tom's
body is lean and pale, his chest flushed with excitement, and Chris drags him
close to fasten his mouth over one rosy nipple.
"Fuck," Tom gasps, clearly never having been touched there. That explains,
Chris thinks, why he was so quick to bypass Chris' nipples earlier. As
perverted as it may be, Chris likes that there may be things he can teach Tom -
perhaps it appeals to the side of him that has spent almost a decade in a semi-
educational role.
Tom's knees clench around Chris' thighs as he moves across to the other nipple,
licking and sucking with vigour and using his finger and thumb to roll and
manipulate the other that's still slick from his mouth.
"Feels good?" He asks, looking up and resting his chin against Tom's chest.
It's marked up now where Chris' stubble has rubbed his skin but he doesn't seem
to mind, moaning some more as Chris takes the bud between his lips again.
With Tom distracted he reaches out for a sachet, disconnecting it from its
brothers and sisters with some difficulty since he's only using one hand, and
pulls it around behind Tom. Blindly he tears it open and squeezes as much out
onto his fingers as he can before tossing it aside and using the other hand to
part Tom's pert arse cheeks.
Tom gasps, instinctively arching his back, and Chris leans away for a moment so
he can watch Tom's face as he strokes a slick fingertip along the furled skin
of his hole. He makes a wonderful sound, uninhibited and unashamed, pressing
back further still against the pad of Chris' index finger.
"You said you've touched yourself here?" Chris murmurs, still studying Tom's
face, and when he gets a nod in return he begins to press inside.
Tom keens so prettily as his muscle gives and Chris' finger slides fully inside
of him. Chris mouths at his chest distractedly, focused on the sudden, hot pull
of Tom's hole.
He begins a gentle thrust, the angle awkward on his wrist. "Arch your back for
me baby," he whispers against Tom's skin. "Let me fuck you open."
Tom does as asked, leather creaking beneath his fingers as he grips the back of
the sofa behind Chris' head. "I like that," he lets out a little laugh,
dropping his head to Chris' shoulder. "Baby. I like it when you say that."
It had slipped out, really, but Chris nods and turns his head to kiss softly at
his cheek. "Tell me all the things you like. Whatever you want."
Tom shudders. "More. I want more."
Letting his finger slip loose Chris kisses Tom some more while he squeezes the
rest of the sachet on to his index and middle fingers.
It takes more pressure to press both fingers past the tight resistance, and Tom
instinctively moves away from the touch. Chris grips his hip with the other
hand, trying to be soothing as he presses inside.
The sounds Tom makes are so lovely, airy and intimate, and Chris wishes he
could hear them always.
By the third or fourth thrust of his fingers Tom is riding the movement,
rocking himself back and down onto the intrusion, breaths quickening.
"Gonna need you to take another one." Chris' cock is twitching and leaking,
anticipating being welcomed into Tom's heat. "Think you can do that for me?"
Adam's apple bobbing around a nervous swallow, Tom nods, arching back
impossibly more, legs slipping open further as his knees give on the sofa.
He doesn't know why he does it, but Chris can't resist pulling free and tapping
lightly at Tom's hole with his wet fingers, making the boy jolt and whine. The
light slap, slap, slap of skin on skin has Chris groaning.
"I can't wait to fuck you," he murmurs, voice shaking and broken, and he means
it.
"Do it now," Tom whimpers, eyes squeezing shut as he reaches back to paw
impatiently at Chris' hand. "Please, I might come if you finger me any more."
As hot as it is to hear Tom beg for his cock Chris shakes his head, grabbing
Tom's wrist with his free hand. Holding it tightly he presses it against the
small of Tom's back, forced to hold it in place to stop him from manoeuvring it
out of his reach. It's clear he's desperate for it, mentally prepared, but
physically Chris doesn't want to hurt him.
Rubbing gently at Tom's entrance with three fingers now, Chris tilts his chin
up in an attempt to catch his eye. "Take it easy, you'll hurt yourself."
Tom huffs, trying to grind down against Chris' fingers. "I'm ready. Just put it
in, fuck me."
"I'm going to fuck you." Releasing Tom's wrist from behind and using that hand
to grip his chin, Chris makes sure this time that they're eye-to-eye. "Remember
what I said? Safe and healthy, yeah? Let me prep you properly."
Watery, bright eyes hold on his, softening the longer they stare at each other.
And then Tom nods, leaning down to kiss at Chris' mouth. "Okay," he whispers.
"Sorry, I just-. I don't want you to change your mind before it happens."
Chris tugs him back in for a kiss, licking into Tom's mouth and petting at the
back of his neck in what he hopes is a reassuring manner.
Three fingers don't go in with the same ease but Tom doesn't complain, only
sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and biting down as Chris works them
inside. He's still tight, still resisting, but the noises he makes don't sound
like noises of discomfort.
Chris goes as slowly as he can, but before long Tom is impatiently shoving back
onto his fingers again, hard dick bouncing between his legs as he goes. Looking
up at his face Chris finds that his eyes are glazed over, his mouth slack, and
he wonders if this is what Tom looks like as he's coming down from a high.
The sounds, both the wet sound of his hole accepting Chris' fingers again and
again, and the high-pitched little whimpers, have Chris wishing he could touch
himself, and when he pulls his three fingers free experimentally Tom's hole
grips at them as if loathe to let go. Chris suspects that Tom is surely too
tight to enjoy what's next.
"We don't have to," he says, watching Tom's face carefully, sees Tom's brows
twitch with the threat of a frown. "It's not that I don't want to, I just don't
want to hurt you. How about I just use my fingers?"
In response Tom lifts up onto his knees properly and reaches for the lube,
taking Chris' cock in hand once he's emptied some onto his palm. It's good, Tom
slicking him up with a tight fist, but then it's over, and Chris feels almost
as if there's nothing to do but hold on as Tom inexpertly lines the thick tip
up with his hole and begins to push downwards.
"Okay, okay, let me help." Chris gasps, reaching between Tom's legs to take
himself in hand, nodding encouragement. "Spread yourself for me."
Tom relinquishes his hold on Chris' cock and uses his oily fingers to hold
himself open while Chris fingers at his hole again before lining up. It takes a
moment, Tom's mouth open in a small 'o' as he tries to seat himself onto Chris'
cock, bearing down until there's give and Chris' fat cockhead slips inside.
They pause then, both of them, breathing heavily for different reasons, and
Chris rubs his slick fingers up and down Tom's thighs. Tom is slack jawed, his
pink tongue poking out just slightly to rest on his bottom lip, and his brows
are creased into a pinch at the middle.
"Give yourself a minute," Chris whispers, nodding even though Tom's eyes have
dropped shut.
But Tom raises up just a little, until the unyielding rim of his hole catches
on Chris' cock, before lowering himself even further. He sinks down slowly, so
slowly, thighs shaking with the effort, and Chris can't do much but tip his
head back and grit his teeth. His reflex is to lift his hips and fuck up into
the tight, wet heat, but he resists, waiting patiently until Tom finally
settles all the way down.
Tom pauses, only briefly, to rest his head against Chris' shoulder and his
breaths are hot and quick against Chris' throat.
"You alright?" Chris quietly asks, fingers slipping down to the top of Tom's
thighs, muscles vibrating beneath his palms, and Tom nods as a little moan
slips free of his lips.
Somehow they end up with joined hands; Chris isn't sure if he reached for Tom
or the other way around but by the time Tom is lifting up again their fingers
are threaded and Tom is using their hold as leverage to pitch himself up and
down. He gets bolder as he goes, murmuring constantly as he lifts and rocks and
rides Chris, pace quickening as he gets more comfortable.
Unable to help himself, Chris finally gives in to the urge to fuck upwards into
the hot heat, and Tom's mouth drops open as he's rocked upwards by the motion.
He's like a little jack-rabbit then, using his thighs and their clenched hands
to drag himself up and down the hard length of Chris' cock with quick, shallow
movements.
"So good," Chris croons, sinking back into the sofa so that he can see more of
Tom, can watch his bouncing cock and his peaked nipples as he enjoys the ride.
It gives Chris' feet more stability on the floor and the next time he thrusts
up it changes the angle just-so, just enough for him to brush Tom's prostate.
His whimper becomes a wail, eyes flashing open.
"Oh, fuck yes," he hisses, one hand letting go of Chris' to run through his
hair. It's such an effortlessly sexy thing, and Chris has to reach up and drag
him in, press their mouths together. It's not much of a kiss, just an exchange
of breath really, but it's hot and intimate.
For long minutes they fuck like that, the air filled with their fraught noises
and the potent scent of sex, but eventually Tom's rhythm begins to falter, pace
slowing incrementally until he stops almost entirely. He stops attempting to
kiss Chris, instead resting his forehead down on Chris' shoulder again while he
catches his breath.
"You okay?" Reaching up to stroke at Tom's damp neck, Chris follows the trail
of perspiration down until he's rubbing smooth circles into the middle of his
back. Tom feels warm all over and his legs are noticeably shaking.
He huffs hotly against Chris' shoulder. "It's harder work than I thought it'd
be. My thighs are-" He breaks off with a groan as Chris' hips twitch up into
him of their own volition.
It's easier to lift him and deposit him on the carpet on his back than it is to
lead him half-fucked upstairs, so Chris does just that, all too aware of the
desperate noise Tom makes as Chris' cock slips free of his hole.
"Shh," he croons, getting down on all fours above Tom's prone form and taking a
moment to just look down at his beautiful, flushed body. "Hold on, lift your
hips for me."
Shoving a sofa cushion beneath Tom's hips leaves him at the right angle, and
all he has to do is let his knees fall apart for Chris to have easy access to
him again.
He'd intended to get right back to fucking but Tom's hole is puffy and pink
now, well-stretched, and Chris has the sudden, unfamiliar urge to taste him.
Tom squawks as Chris takes hold of him beneath the thighs and doubles him over
so that his knees are caught up by his head and his hole is on full display.
"Can I taste you here?" Chris says hotly, barely able to recognise his own
voice, tracing Tom's entrance with the pad of his thumb.
Tom's hands come up to hold on to Chris' thick wrists. "I don't know," his
voice is muffled by the position. "Isn't it weird?"
Shaking his head, Chris bends closer to mouth at Tom's inner thighs. "How about
you let me try and then you can decide for yourself?"
He'd been fucking a girl once, both of them high as hell and going at it in a
daze for what felt like hours, when a guy had joined them, just lying on the
bed at first and touching them both - smoothing his fingers down her thighs, up
Chris' flank. Touching had turned to kissing but Chris was so used to having
unsolicited hands and mouths on him that he let it happen.
He'd barely had time to register the cool fingers spreading his cheeks before
there'd been hot breath against his hole. He'd come like a rocket with just a
few short swipes of wet, seeking tongue.
He'd never forgotten it, and the idea that he can make Tom remember this
forever too is almost even more of a motivation than his desire to know Tom's
taste.
Pale thighs shake beneath his mouth as Tom nods his agreement, and then Chris
dips his head further. He drags the flat of his tongue across Tom's hole, a
slow, hot lick, but tastes nothing but skin and lube. Tom whimpers a little,
trying but failing to shift in Chris' solid hold.
This time Chris stiffens his tongue and pressed the tip into Tom's pucker until
it gives just a little, and that's when the heady, musky taste hits him.
There's a saltiness to it, not unlike giving head, and he greedily takes
another lick.
Tom's hands scramble up toward his head, fingertips curling into his hair,
either trying to push him away or pull him closer.
"Good?" Chris whispers hotly against him. "You like it?"
Tom's only response is to release a guttural sound and hump his arse up; the
effect of which is that Chris' stubble rubs over his hole. Tom makes another
incredible noise at the contact.
"Gonna eat you out," Chris growls, finding himself inordinately pleased that
Tom likes it. "Hold on."
But there's nothing for Tom to hold on to save Chris, and his hands scramble
from his hair to his shoulders and then down to his arms again, fighting for a
solid grip as Chris tongues his hole in earnest. Between licks he bites and
nips at the meat of Tom's arse, the underside of his thigh, licks wet stripes
up his perineum.
His chin is wet with his own spit by the time he's able to get his tongue all
the way inside, his jaw aching from stiffening his tongue.
He's so into it, shoving his tongue deep, thick muscle stretching Tom's hole
again and again with an almost animal-like determination, that he almost
forgets Tom is supposed to be the one deriving pleasure from the act.
It takes him a moment to realise that Tom's whimpers have become words.
Chris has to pause to listen, tongue slipping out to rest wetly against Tom's
hole as it tightens again.
"Don't make me come like this, don't make me come like this," he's begging,
short fingernails digging crescent moon shapes into Chris' arms. Part of Chris,
some mean, hungry part, thinks for a moment about doing just that. Making Tom
come on his own face with his arse in the air.
Tom breathes a sigh of relief as Chris sits back, lowering Tom's legs only
enough to hook his elbows beneath his knees. He lines himself up right away,
taking just a moment to slick himself up again before leaning his weight down
to slide inside.
The hum Tom let's out is accompanied by a full-body shiver and his thighs
attempt to tighten around Chris as soon as he's fully seated inside. It's
easier to set a pace with Chris on top, more able to power in and out of Tom.
Sweat drips down into Chris' eyes as he focuses on Tom's face, twisted in
pleasure, and when he lets go of one of Tom's legs to wipe his brow Tom pulls
that calf tight around his hips as if keeping him in place.
"That good?" Chris asks, wanting to tempt some words out of Tom's usually busy
mouth. "You like being fucked?"
Tom's fingers curl into fists, chest rising and falling in a quick rhythm
contrary to Chris' thrusts. "I like being fucked by you," he nods, blinking. "I
love it."
When Chris leans down to take Tom's mouth in a kiss he makes a surprised sound,
probably tasting his own arse, but then sucks Chris' tongue hungrily into his
mouth. They make out hot and messy like that, biting and licking between
breaths while Chris pounds into him over and over, arm still hooked under Tom's
knee.
Tom's fingers are in constant motion, clutching at Chris' jaw or sliding
through his hair, running nails down his shoulder blades and spine. Tom's left
foot bounces wildly as Chris fucks into him again and again, the heel of his
right foot tucked beneath Chris' arse and helping him to lift up and meet Chris
almost thrust for thrust.
By the time Tom comes Chris is almost frenzied, fucking into him more roughly
than he'd intended. It's been so, so long since he's felt this good at the
hands of another person, and with his teeth clenched and knuckles white he
chases his orgasm even though he feels there's a great chance he'll cease to
exist once he reaches it.
Breathing rapidly Tom takes hold of his own cock and strokes himself hard and
fast, out of time with their fucking. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes
to his temples and Chris lifts his chin to mouth at them.
"You're so good," he says softly, dragging his nose along Tom's cheek. "Do you
know that?"
Tom comes then, a choked off cry escaping his throat as he releases into his
own hand and Chris' lower abdomen. His hole clenches tightly as his entire body
stiffens up, back arching and toes curling. His muscles milk at Chris' cock as
if hungry for his come, and after a few more thrusts Chris gives it to him,
clenching his teeth as he releases deep inside, filling Tom up.
Afterwards they come apart with little grace; Tom whining as Chris pulls
himself free, untangling his legs awkwardly from Chris' hold, groaning as if
he's sore as he lowers them. They're both damp with sweat and striped with
come, and as Chris flops over onto his back he feels his muscles begin to
loosen.
The panel show is still playing quietly in the background, now on its final
round, and a buzzer goes off a couple of times as questions are answered
incorrectly. Chris can't believe that he'd managed to block out the sound.
"Sorry, but that is incorrect. We go to a bonus question for five points," the
host announces, sounding pompous. "What is the capital of Venezuela?"
Chris searches the far reaches of his mind for the information but comes up
short.
On the floor beside him, Tom sighs and says, "Caracas."
Chris rolls his head to the side, looking at Tom's relaxed profile. "How the
fuck did you know that?"
Tom's eyes pinch at the corners as he smiles, but as he's opening his mouth to
respond a phone begins to chirp across the room. Once at first, and then again,
followed by another in quick succession.
It's not Chris' phone so it must be Tom's. Probably his mother. And maybe the
realisation should bring Chris back down to earth with a crash but he's still
floating in post-coital haze, can't find it in himself to regret a thing.
"I bet that's my mum," Tom says slowly, slight pout in his tone. He sighs. "I
guess I should go soon."
Quietness falls over them again, companionable like earlier, and Chris rubs a
hand across his face to stop himself from falling asleep. "I'll drop you off in
a minute. Just let me... recuperate."
When Tom laughs it's definitely at his expense, but he doesn't mind. And then
Tom rolls onto his side and scoots closer, throwing one leg over Chris' hip.
"Can we do it again before I go? How long until you'll be hard again?"
"Jesus, Tom," Chris breathes, running his fingers through Tom's damp curls. Tom
sniggers and rolls fully on top of him again, pressing their mouths together.
Three thousand, six hundred and fifty two days, and Chris worries that he's
found a new addiction.
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