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The problem with liking someone, Chris decides, is not being able to figure out exactly what to do.
It's not that he doesn't know where he wants this to go - oh, he does, he wants this to go in the way of nakedness and sweat and more time spent in Tom's bed - but at the same time it's too fast, too abrupt, so he doesn't do anything.
He doesn't do anything with the number that Tom keys into his phone. He doesn't do anything after Tom pins him to the door right before he leaves the morning after they meet - he was too fucked out to go home - and gives him the most spectacular blowjob that he's ever gotten. He doesn't do anything when Shannon calls him back aside from tell her that they weren't a good fit, and she finds him another audition.
After he gets that callback - and it's good paying though it's a one-time gig - things just start to look up.
He gets promoted to night manager at the restaurant and he really enjoys it, enjoys working closely with the cooks and the wait staff, and gets to have more input to the new food and what things they should do. He gets the owner to agree to live bands on Fridays and it's a hit and gets him a raise - which certainly helps his budget.
Every now and then he gets his phone out and looks at Tom's number, thinking about what Tom said to him that night that seems so long ago, but he just doesn't do anything.
It makes him feel cheap, in a way, that even though he agreed to what they did and really liked getting fucked, if he goes back it's all about Tom being in control and Tom being the one that started the whole thing.
He paces around his flat and thinks and sits and then looks at Tom's number, and the more that he looks at it the stranger he feels.
He does this for weeks.
Even his friends notice the difference: "You've gotten quiet, mate," Donny tells him one night, and Matty agrees with him, saying, "You're not that loud Australian we've taken to listening to once you've a few drinks in you!"
He spends the rest of his time - when he's not working, or sleeping, or drinking, that is - at the local gym working out, because it feels good and makes him buzzed, almost drunk on working out. It's something that he enjoys that he can take his time doing and not have to worry about things.
He seems to always end up back at Tom, though - even after getting home from a good kick-boxing match, he'll sit with a glass of water and think of that afternoon and then curse himself after he comes with Tom's name on his lips.
He works up the courage to go and see him two months later, after stewing and thinking and biding his time, and when he's standing outside the building with Tom's flat in it he thinks maybe he should just go home, go to the cafe and thinks things over again, but then he's pressing the buzzer and fuck, when did he do that?
"Yes?"
The voice isn't Tom's (mainly because it's a woman), and he checks to make sure he pressed the right one, and he did, so - "It's, um, Chris - Chris Hemsworth?"
"Do you have an appointment?"
"Um, no?"
There's silence on the other end for almost too long and Chris wonders if Tom is telling this person to tell him to fuck off after two months of nothing, but then she's back.
"He says come on up."
The door unlocks and he trudges into the elevator, poking the button for the penthouse sullenly. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all, he thinks, because god knows what's going to happen now, and when the elevator pings he's tempted to take it right back down and make a run for it.
But Tom's door is right there, and he walks to it and raises a hand to knock but it flies open, and there's a minuscule blond glaring at him. She's at least a full head shorter than he is, but she's fierce and Chris takes a step backward.
"So you're Chris."
"Yes?"
"For god's sake, let him in the door, Emma."
Her glare intensifies but she moves to let him through and he squeezes through sideways, trying to be as far from her as possible because he has the feeling that she has no kind feelings towards him.
She shuts the door and stands before it, arms crossed, face pinched and Chris thinks that this must be the sister, because the resemblance between Tom and Emma is clear.
Chris backs up again, into the wall this time, and Emma snorts and lets her arms drop to the side. "You've got a lot of nerve, coming back around here."
"Emma, for the love of god, leave him be," and Tom comes around the corner - and he looks as good as he did before, maybe a bit skinnier, maybe a bit more scruffy, but he catches Chris by the back of the neck and pulls him into a kiss.
It's soft, nothing like the kisses from that day so long ago, it seems, but he tastes the same - still sweet, still smoky, still good. His lips are soft and Chris relaxes into it, falling into the rhythm of the kiss easily like they hadn't spent any time apart.
Tom's breathing into the kiss and Chris just melts, slumped against the wall and Tom scoots forward, caging him in with his arms until they're pressed flush, and this was not what he came here for, this was not the point, but it feels good to be touched like this.
Tom's mouth is warm and welcoming, and Chris could kiss him forever, could let him kiss him as long as he wanted because of how right it feels, and he doesn't want to think that because he still doesn't really know Tom, not enough, but he could - he might want to learn him.
Tom finally draws away and when Chris makes a soft sound of loss - just a little whimper in the back of his throat - he smiles a little, a quirk of his lips, and says, "Hey."
"Oh god, I'm still right here," Emma moans, stepping around them. "Honestly, it's like I don't even exist. I'm going home. Mum wants you there for dinner on Sunday. She's got some need to see you more often, though I don't know why."
She swings a bag on over her head and pulls Tom's shoulder back to press a kiss to his cheek. She sends Chris a sharp look, and he takes it to mean hurt him, and I hurt you - and even with her stature, it's enough to make a point - and then she saunters out the front door.
As soon as the door shuts, Tom puts his full weight back onto Chris, pinning him against the wall and licking a path up the side of his neck before he rests his forehead against Chris' temple; he can feel Tom blink, every brush of his eyelashes against his skin.
"You never called," he says, and his voice is so still and so flat that Chris knows that he's hurt, but the reason why he should be is baffling.
"I didn't call back because it didn't - it wasn't right," Chris says, baffled and unsure as to how on earth he is going to proceed from here.
"What wasn't right about it? We both enjoyed it, we had a good time - it was a good night and a good morning, and you didn't tell me no, darling, otherwise I would have stopped, no matter what," and Tom's definitely hurt, even as he nuzzles against Chris' face, pressing soft kisses against his face.
"That wasn't it," Chris says, but he leans into Tom's touch all the same, like a moth to a flame.
"What was it, then?"
"It was that - that - you just, it wasn't special," Chris ends, embarrassed.
Tom pulls away from the mark he's making on he neck with a wet noise and his eyes are just as blue-green as he remembers, his eyebrows arched in surprise.
"Wasn't special," Tom parrots.
Chris lets his head fall back against the wall with a dull thunk. "I had pictured it differently, you know? Not that - not that I didn't like it, that I didn't enjoy it, but it wasn't what you think your first time should be. I always pictured it - differently, is all."
"Different," Tom says.
"Yes, you know - with someone that I was in love with or something, so that it was - meaningful."
Tom's face is flat again. Chris sighs. "That wasn't really how I meant it," he says with another sigh, "I just meant - not that I don't like you, but I didn't know you and I just expected something that didn't happen."
Tom's still silent, pressed up against him and frowning with his eyebrows drawn together.
"I'm just digging myself into a hole, aren't I."
"Quite," Tom says softly. "Nothing you have said is making me any less angry."
"Sorry," Chris says, and wraps his arms around Tom's slim frame, hugging him close because he doesn't know if Tom will let him kiss him just now and he doesn't really want to try, doesn't really want to start something that he might not be able to finish. He feels so horrible, because this wasn't how it was supposed to go.
"How was this meant to go?" Tom asks him, and he must have said that last bit aloud.
Chris lets his head thunk down onto Tom's shoulder. "I don't know, I was supposed to come and we were going to have a talk about things, and I was going to apologize for not calling, and maybe you would apologize for thinking that I wanted to be a hooker. And then I thought we could go out to dinner or something and have a good time. I don't know. I was just being optimistic, I guess."
"Would I be wining and dining you, or would you be wining and dining me?"
"I would treat you, you know, because I left you hanging for all this time."
Tom's arms wrap around his shoulders and he sighs into the side of Chris' head. "I'm not saying that this is all your fault, darling. I should have called you, but I'm used to leaving the ball in your court. After the first week I was itching to call you but then Shannon told me that you had moved on to a different job - and I have to admit, darling, I was rather pleased because that meant that you might have been thinking about taking my offer seriously."
"I didn't want you to think that I was needy."
Tom huffs a laugh in his ear and then muscles him - though Chris goes without resistance, so it's not much of a challenge - over to the over-sized armchair in front of the television. He curls around Chris, chin hooked over his shoulder, and Chris finds himself thinking that he could get used to Tom's warmth behind him, pinning him, even though Chris has an inch and quite a bit of weight over him.
"I don't mind needy, darling. I mind being left out to dry."
Chris wiggles uncomfortably, because he knows the words are true and he should have called Tom, told him that he was sorry but he needed a little time to think things over, that he needed to make sure that he could do this, but he didn't, because he was scared.
"I'm sorry, Tom."
Tom searches for his hands and joins their fingers, and with a squeeze, Tom murmurs, "I forgave you the moment I saw you, darling."
Chris blushes and Tom must see it, because he chuckles in his ear and whispers, "You're positively glowing, darling, it's nothing to be embarrassed over."
"You're not on this end! You can't just - you can't just say shit like that to me, I'll never get over it."
Tom laughs, a full laugh this time, and Chris is carried along with him until they're both laughing, squeezed together in an ugly chair, until they're wheezing and chuckling intermittently.
"I," Chris starts when they've calmed down, but he doesn't know what he was going to say, not really.
"You what, darling?"
"I - ah - I got promoted at work. And I got a raise," he says, and he hears Tom's voice in his head, panting out, "And if you’re a good boy, if you get a good job, I’ll fuck you whenever you want, just like this, any way you’d like."
Tom must remember what he said that long ago afternoon - and later, similar things, panted in Chris' ear as Tom writhed on top of him, bent in half as he rode Chris like there was no tomorrow - because he makes a low noise and wraps his arms around Chris' waist, fingers pressing in softly.
Tom tucks a knee between Chris' legs and he sighs, before nipping at his ear and saying, "Good boy, Christopher."
Chris sighs and relaxes - and he doesn't know what it means, that Tom saying those words means that he's done well, even if Tom doesn't know him like Chris wants, but it's clear that Tom wants to know him, too - and Tom nuzzles against him, the stubble of his beard rubbing against his neck and Chris thinks that he wants beard-burn all over him, the places that are covered when he does photo shoots, because it would mark him as owned, and where did that come from?
"What else have you been good about, Christopher?"
Chris squirms, because this is making him so hot and Tom has to feel it, because his thumbs have hooked into Chris' belt loops and one set of long fingers is tracing over the fly of his jeans.
"I, ah, I've been going to gym," he gets out.
"I noticed, darling. You look good. Is it for me?"
"No, but, yes - I want to look good, it makes me feel good - so maybe?"
"Mmm," Tom hums, pressing his fingers down a little harder, "just like this is for me?"
"Yeah," Chris says, pressing his hips up into the hand but Tom pushes him back down.
"Not yet, darling. You haven't earned it, yet. Tell me more things that'll make you my good boy."
"I - I made some new friends?"
"At the gym?"
"Yeah, we spot each other - they're nice, we go out for drinks, sometimes. And I remembered to send birthday cards to my brothers back home," Chris adds, "because I always forget, but I put it in my phone and they got there in time."
"Back in Australia?"
"Yeah," Chris says, tilting his hips back to press against Tom and tom allows it, he thinks, because he's pleased with what Chris has done, "their birthdays are close together so you would think I would remember, but I never do."
"But you did this year," Tom says, lips brushing against the shell of Chris' ear.
"Yeah," Chris says again, and it seems like that is only thing that he can manage to get out, because Tom's started doing these little flexes of his hips, barely moving back and forth against Chris and just that makes him want to arch his neck and submit - but he doesn't know how or why or how to tell him that.
"I think that deserves a reward," Tom says, and Chris can't help it when a moan spills from between his lips as Tom presses his hand firmly against his cock, still trapped in the confines of his pants, and Chris is embarrassed with how needy he is right now.
"But you'll have to choose," Tom continues, pressing his hips snug up against Chris' arse, holding him still, nudging his nose behind his ear again.
"I either fuck you in bed - like last time - or I ride you, right here."
"Oh," Chris moans, "I have to choose?"
He can feel Tom smile against his neck, that fucking tongue tracing the pulsing vein in his neck before pressing a kiss to the curve of his jaw.
"I have a night shoot tonight, and I have to leave at half-seven. I'll be back late and if you follow the rules, I'll give you which ever one you don't choose now when I get home. If you don't follow the rules, though, I'll tie you down, smack your ass until it's on fire, and leave you there 'til the morning."
"Fuck," Chris whimpers, "I think - I think - will you ride me?"
Tom hisses, "I had hoped you would choose that first."
Tom squirms out from behind him and walks to his bedroom, and when Chris makes to follow Tom just looks at him and Chris sinks back into the chair.
"You will be undressed when I come back."
Chris is naked so quickly he doesn't really know how he got that way, and he has just sat back down when Tom comes back - and his mouth goes dry, because he had forgotten how glorious Tom was, how fucking beautiful he was.
Tom stops in front of him and though he doesn't know if he's allowed - fuck it, he doesn't even care if he is - he reaches out to press his thumbs in the divots above Tom's hips, because they're even more pronounced than they were the first time.
"You haven't been eating," Chris mumbles, looking up at Tom through his lashes. "You've lost weight."
He leans forward and mouths along the skin of his stomach, presses soft kisses to whatever he can reach, and Tom's hands slide into his hair, petting him as he touches him. Tom's cock nudges the bottom of his chin, and Chris vividly remembers how Tom tastes on his tongue - bitter and salty but better than Chris could imagine - and his mouth waters at the thought of blowing Tom again, but before he has the chance Tom's pulling him away gently.
His thumbs stroke over Chris' cheekbones and they just look at each other for a moment, and then Tom smiles softly.
"Edge of the chair, reclined. Don't move unless I tell you. Don't come until I tell you. If you're close, you will tell me. If you come without permission, I will punish you."
Chris turns his face to press a kiss to Tom's palm, followed by a lick, and Tom laughs. "Feel free to be as loud and verbal as you want. I want to hear you. Understood?"
"Yes," Chris says against his palm.
"Yes, what?"
Chris isn't sure what to say, because the hand that isn't occupied with his mouth is passing through his hair again, pulling out the tangles, stroking along his forehead.
Finally, he says uncertainly, "Yes, um, sir?"
"Good boy," Tom breathes, and he steps away for a moment to the coffee table a little closer, and Chris sinks down into the chair, into the position that Tom told him to hold.
Tom sets a condom wrapper on the arm of the chair and turns so that his back is to Chris - and Chris doesn't know what's going on, at least until Tom smirks at him over his shoulder and says, "Remember - don't move. More truthfully, don't touch yourself. Patience."
It's then that Tom raises one leg and plants his foot flat on the table - and it comes up to Tom's knees, so it's quite a stretch, even for him, and Chris suddenly understands.
"Oh fuck," Chris whines, and Tom laughs as he reaches back with two lube-slicked fingers, not even bothering to start with one.
"Patience, darling," Tom says, and Chris doesn't think he could get any harder than he is at this moment.
He can only watch - he's only allowed to watch - as Tom beings to prep himself, long fingers circling his entrance slowly - and Chris knows this is for his benefit, or for his torture, because the last time Tom took all of a few minutes before he was sliding down on Chris' cock while whispering filth.
Tom takes forever, or it seems that way, until he finally adds the third finger and then he must crook them just right, because his hips stutter back onto his hand and he moans, and Chris was wrong, he could get harder, because he thinks his cock might just fall off from how hard he is.
"Please," he hears himself say, "please, Tom, please, I've been good, please," but Tom doesn't listen, just continues to fuck himself with his fingers until Chris thinks that Tom is going to renege on his promise and leave him there to die.
"How badly do you want this?" Tom breathes out, and Chris can't stop the involuntary jerk of his hips as Tom pulls his fingers out with a wet noise and turns, then wraps them around his cock to pump it slowly.
"So badly," Chris whimpers, watching, not allowed to touch, but pretty soon he thinks he's going to come untouched just from watching Tom.
Tom seems to read his mind, because he smirks and asks, "Do you think you could come just like this?"
"But, but - you said, you said," Chris stutters out, because Tom isn't this cruel, he can't be, he said that he would fuck Chris if he was good, and he has been, he's been so good.
Tom holds up a hand and then reaches down to bracket Chris' face in his hands, and Chris doesn't even care that one of them was just recently deep inside of him, pressing a kiss to the side of his nose.
"It was a rhetorical question, darling. I'm still going to fuck you. I just think we'll have to try it, someday."
"Oh," Chris says, "okay."
Tom smiles and reaches over for the condom and rips it open with his teeth - and how is that even possible, that even his teeth make Chris hot, make Chris want him - and before Chris can do anything Tom's rolled the condom on him and is reaching back to grab the lube from the table.
Before he touches Chris again, Tom pauses and leans down into Chris' space, kissing him again before barely pulling away and asking, "What are the rules?"
It takes a moment for Chris' brain to catch up, and he really has to think about the answer. "Um, no moving, and no - no coming, 'til you say," and Tom smiles and licks a stripe up his cheek.
"What are you allowed to do?"
"Be, uh, noisy?"
"Good boy," Tom rumbles, and Chris whines as Tom kisses him, a meeting of lips and teeth and biting that Chris thinks Tom does just to show his dominance, but Chris doesn't mind the tang of copper from where Tom has nipped his lip just hard enough to draw blood.
There's a hand around his cock then and it takes everything he has to not strain up, fuck the circle of his hand that Tom has given him, but as soon as it's there it's gone, and Tom's clambering up into the chair on his knees, hovering over Chris.
"Ready, darling?"
"Yeah, fuck, I'm so ready, sir," and the honorific just slips out of his mouth, because Tom liked it before, and Chris wants Tom like he wants to breathe and live and it makes Tom make this little noise in the back of his throat, like he's trying to catch a moan.
"Good boy, you're such a good fucking boy, darling," Tom says, and reaches back to align Chris' cock with his entrance and then - and then -
Chris thinks he might be dying.
"Oh, oh, Tom, please," he manages to get out, fingers biting into the arms of the chair because this just might be over rather quickly because he's never wanted someone like he wants Tom right now, wants his hips and his arms and his stupid smile and the way that he tilts his head back, mouth open and eyes closed as he sinks down on Chris' cock.
Tom's fully seated then, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against Chris', breathing deep as Chris pants and tries not to let his hips twitch up into Tom's burning heat, because Tom told him not to, and he wants to be good.
"Please," he says again, and Tom's eyes flicker open, blue-green and pupils blown, and he smiles, just a little, just a quirk of his lips.
"Put your hands on my hips," and Chris obeys immediately, nails scrabbling against Tom's skin, thumbs pressing into those little dips again, and when Tom begins his slow rise, Chris helps him and Tom lets him.
It goes that way for such a long time, slow, measured, and Chris' need to come has faded to an ache rather than a pain, and Tom has let his head tilt back as he pants and swallows and moans, and Chris can never get tired of this.
"You're gorgeous," Chris whispers, and Tom smiles and looks down at him as he rises - almost letting Chris fall out of him before beginning a slow descent again - and Chris continues.
"I couldn't stop thinking about you, how you made me feel, fuck, even when I tried not to you were there and I wanted, but I didn't know how this could work, but I want - oh, fuck, yes, Tom - and I wanna - I wanna have this all the time - oh, god," and Tom swivels his hips once before pausing for a moment, eyes bright and shining.
He leans forward, bending himself in half and oh god, Chris forgot that he could do that, and then Tom says it.
"Flip us over and fuck me," and Chris levers them up, rolls over, and slams Tom back down, hikes his legs up over his shoulders - because if Tom's going to show off how fucking flexible he is, Chris is going to take advantage of the opportunity - and Tom laughs, breathless, and says, "I take back that you're not allowed to move, darling, now fuck me like you mean it."
Chris doesn't hold back.
Tom's a fucking tease but he loves it, loves the way that he makes Chris pant and moan like a whore, because he never knew that it was okay to be like this, to want something as badly as Chris wants Tom in as many ways as Tom is willing to let him.
Tom's not as noisy as Chris, who's panting and moaning and mumbling Tom's name, but Tom's making these little fucked out noises as Chris bucks into him, until Chris finds his prostate and nails it, and Tom lets out a wail that Chris has never heard before - not that he's really had the chance.
"Oh fuck, darling, there, fuck me," and Chris does, because he's a good boy, and he wants to make Tom happy.
His control begins to slip, and he remembers in a brilliant flash what Tom told him, and - "Tom, please, I'm close, please."
"Not yet," Tom tells him, pulls him closer by the shoulders until he really is folded in half, panting into Chris' ear and biting his earlobe, "not yet, just a while longer, darling."
"Please, Tom, please," and Chris doesn't care if he's begging, doesn't care about anything other than his cock and Tom's arse and Tom's cock pressed between them, the way that every time Chris hits his prostate Tom whines, high pitched and needy.
Tom wraps one arm around his neck and pulls him so close that he can only make short jerks into him, shallow but good, and Tom sinks his teeth into Chris' shoulder and then snarls, "Fucking come," and Chris obeys.
It's the best orgasm he's had since he's last seen Tom, and he sinks down onto him and his world greys out for a moment - just the feeling of Tom's hands stroking up and down his back, waiting for him to come to, and when he does he can't help but blush scarlet.
Tom just smiles, soft and tired and he pulls Chris back down for a kiss - the softest kiss that they've shared yet - and lets Chris move back and pull out, discarding the condom in the wastebasket next to the couch.
He flops back down, mindless of the come that's covering them, and presses tired kisses to the swell of Tom's shoulder until Tom rolls so that they're facing each other.
"You're so good, Christopher."
It makes him blush again but he smiles, because he likes the praise, and Tom kisses him again.
"I want to ask you something," Tom says after they've kissed for a few minutes, tongues tangling and breath shared.
"What?"
Tom twirls a lock of Chris' hair around his finger, quiet for a moment, and then opens his mouth and shuts it a few times. It takes a few times before he starts again.
"I could get used to this, Chris, but I want to know where we stand. I deserve to know what you want from me. I know what I want from you, but - I have no idea what you want from me or don't want from me."
Chris chews on his lip. "What do you want from me?"
Tom tugs on the lock of hair. "I want you to be my good boy, Christopher. I want to come home to you, I want to make you sob and beg and come all over the place. I want to take you out to dinner and then teach you everything I know. I want to fuck you and I want you to fuck me, and I want it for as long as you're willing to give it to me."
No one has ever looked at Chris like Tom is right now - open and clear and wanting, wanting Chris for who he is and not what he pretends to be - and Chris doesn't know how to answer for a moment, because he doesn't want to use the wrong words and have things go all pear-shaped.
Chris reaches out and tugs on a lock of Tom's hair, watching as it springs back into place, and he's never seen hair so curly. It distracts him for a moment, but then he locks eyes with Tom and sighs.
"I want," Chris starts, but then shakes his head. That's not what he wants to say.
"I'd like that very much, Tom. Sir," he amends, and it's almost painful to admit that he does want to be a good boy - because he's not a boy, he's not small but Tom makes him feel tiny in all the right ways, just by his presence alone, the way that he can take over a room without even trying.
Tom's grin widens until it threatens to split his face, and he bowls Chris over onto his back and presses kisses all over his face, until he sits back to rest on Chris' thighs. "You don't have to call me that all the time, you know. I'll tell you when I want you to, darling. I don't get off on it like other people would."
"Okay," Chris says, and raises his hands to squeeze Tom's hips again. "I'd like everything you said. But most of all, I'd like you to start taking care of yourself again. I'll take care of you, if you want me to," he finishes, blushing madly, because he knows that it's his fault that Tom lost weight - too much weight, he thinks, because Tom's so thin already - and he knows he wants to fix it.
"You already have, my good boy," Tom says, and Chris preens with the praise and Tom laughs.
"Come on, let's shower. Then bed before I go."
Chris lets him up and trails behind him, watching the sway of his hips, and as Tom walks he looks over his shoulder, and with a smirk asks him, "What do you think of snowballing?"
"Fuck," Chris says. Tom's grin is wicked.