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annundrielWith a Taste of Your Lips
Joseph Gordon-Levitt/Tom Hardy
NC-17
1350
Many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
perfumaniac.
Tom Hardy has cocksucking lips.
It's the first thing Joe thinks when they're introduced, Tom's hand broad and warm and firm in his own.
Joe's glad that, for once, his brain-to-mouth filter is working.
One pump, two, and then they're disengaging, letting go but not stepping back. Joe can't quite look away from Tom's mouth.
When Tom grins, lips stretching wide to reveal teeth that really should not be attractive but hit Joe like a punch to the gut anyway, teeth that Joe wants to map with his tongue like some new world cartographer, he knows he's fucked.
It's only a matter of time.
Not as much as he thought, it turns out.
It only takes four weeks. Four weeks, and Tom's mouth is slick beneath his own, lips sweet and full and giving, everything Joe's been thinking they would be. Even his teeth. It's everything he's been fantasizing about since that first day, since Tom's fingers spanned the back of his hand and his lips shaped the word pleasure.
Tom lets him take control at first, Joe's sure he does, a surprised huff of breath escaping between parted lips when Joe finally crosses the space between them, tipping forward across the cushions of the couch in his hotel suite and taking what he's been wanting, hands clutching at Tom's shirt and pulling. Tom's mouth opens easily, so easily, as Tom's hands—those broad, firm hands—find Joe's side, his hip, fingers flexing.
"God, your mouth," Joe groans. "Your fucking mouth. You've been driving me crazy."
He feels Tom's mouth curve against his. "Feeling's mutual," Tom says, voice slithering down Joe's spine to coil at its base, hot and rough.
Joe's not sure about the veracity of that statement, but figures it doesn't matter because Tom's tongue is in his mouth and Tom's fingers are in his hair and all of it, all of it, is driving Joe crazy in new and wonderful ways.
Lit up, he feels lit up and burning, aching, blazing, each touch of Tom's zinging through him like lightning.
All they're doing is making out like a couple of teenagers.
But Joe is—god, Tom's mouth—hard already, dick pushing against the front of his jeans, begging for some attention.
"Fuck," Joe pants against Tom's lips. Stubble scratches against his skin; he wants to feel it elsewhere, everywhere, wants those lips on him, wrapped around him, that tongue that's teased against his own put to good use somewhere else.
Fingers twisted in Tom's shirt, Joe doesn't even think about it when he pushes Tom downward, just wants Tom's mouth on him now. Tom pulls away and blinks at him, pupils blown, lips kissed even more tantalizingly full. His breath brushes against Joe's cheeks, his wet lips, making him shiver.
Tom half-grins, half-smirks, his mouth a wicked curve as he leans forward, takes Joe's mouth with his own, turning the tables until Joe feels weak in the knees, until he's really fucking grateful they're sitting down because Tom is a force to be reckoned with.
Joe groans, and when Tom's fingers pry his from their grip on Tom's shirt, Joe lets him go, arches into Tom's wide hand as Tom pushes him back against the cushions and slides away from him, sinking to his knees on the floor.
He plays with the button on Joe's jeans, thumb rubbing back and forth over it, the movement almost hypnotic, and Joe squirms, his breath coming fast.
"Would you—" His voice comes out rough, deep, barely comes out at all; Joe swallows. "Just do it."
Leaning forward, Tom's mouth is there, right there, and Joe can practically feel his hot, moist breath through the layers of fabric between them, can imagine exactly what that will feel like with those layers gone, when Tom's moving, past his cock, back up his body.
"I'll do"—Tom presses a kiss to one of Joe's nipples—"whatever"--a kiss to the other, lips parting to leave the fabric damp and clinging—"I like." Hand on Joe's thigh, Tom pushes himself farther up, mouths at Joe's jaw, nips at his chin, and then he's gone again, hands back on Joe's fly, undoing it, pulling Joe's cock out, pushing jeans and underwear down and out of the way. "You're just lucky I happen to like you."
And then his mouth is on Joe—fucking finally—and Joe is arching off the cushions, back curved, hips pushed forward, seeking the warm, wet, perfect pressure of Tom's mouth.
God, it really is everything he'd thought it would be. More. Better. Tom's mouth real around him, Tom looking up at him with knowing eyes, full lips stretched and pink around him, tongue moving against the shaft as Tom slides down. When the head of his cock hits the back of Tom's throat, Tom swallows around him, swallows him down. Joe yells, can't help it. It's all he can do to keep from moving his hips, from grabbing Tom's head and going for it.
Sliding off with a slick sound, Tom's hand takes his mouth's place. "Like that, don't you," he says, voice even more rough and sex-filled than usual. Not only will Joe not be able to look at him without getting hard—not exactly a new problem—now he won't be able to hear him either, not when Tom's rewiring his brain until Tom equals sex and sex equals Tom and Joe just might be really fucking screwed after this, in all the good ways and bad.
"Well?" Tom asks. He bends forward, runs his lips over the head of his cock, down the shaft to his hand, back up, stubble prickling. Just under the head, his lips part, his tongue darting out, a brief, flickering touch.
Joe groans, closing his eyes against the sight of Tom between his thighs, painting his mouth with his own spit and Joe's precome.
"Fuck," Joe says. "You weren't really asking."
"Not really."
Joe can hear the smile in Tom's voice, can feel it against his dick.
"I just like to hear your pretty voice." His free hand sneaks up, pushing Joe's shirt out of the way, fingers teasing against a nipple. "C'mon, Joe," he says, ducking down to mouth at Joe's balls. "You like it."
Joe shudders, arches into his touch. "Yes," he gasps. "Fuck, yes, I do."
Tom licks a stripe back up his cock. "You've been thinking about it."
"Hard not to." Joe's fingers dig into the cushion, the arm of the couch. "Yeah, I--"
"Me, too," Tom says, and Joe opens his eyes, has to look, has to see as Tom's hand slips from his cock to the crease of his thigh, thumb pressed hard against his balls, and sucks him down again, fully, completely—eagerly—one hand still on Joe's chest, fingers playing over his nipples.
"So good," Joe pants. "Fuck, Tom, so good, so—I wanted so—I want—" Christ. "More. I want more."
Tom hums around him, the vibration of it traveling through Joe's cock to every finger, every toe, the top of his head. Joe's sure it's agreement, and the thought of Tom wanting this, too, of Tom wanting more of this, more of him, is enough to push Joe over the edge, groaning Tom's name as Tom's mouth and throat work around him, hands solid and heavy against his skin.
Joe catches his breath as Tom works his way back up, nipping at his abs, stopping to lick at one nipple and then the other before finding Joe's mouth again. He can taste himself there, can taste himself on Tom's lips and Tom's tongue, against the roof of Tom's mouth, tucked behind teeth like the best kind of secret.
He wants to do it all over again. Wants to finish this and start at the beginning. Wants to kiss and touch and lick and suck, take and give. Wants Tom naked against his sheets, pressed against his skin.
He feels Tom hard against his thigh. He'll get what he wants.
Joe grins, pushes Tom back against the couch cushions. "My turn."
Joseph Gordon-Levitt/Tom Hardy
NC-17
1350
Many thanks to
perfumaniac.Tom Hardy has cocksucking lips.
It's the first thing Joe thinks when they're introduced, Tom's hand broad and warm and firm in his own.
Joe's glad that, for once, his brain-to-mouth filter is working.
One pump, two, and then they're disengaging, letting go but not stepping back. Joe can't quite look away from Tom's mouth.
When Tom grins, lips stretching wide to reveal teeth that really should not be attractive but hit Joe like a punch to the gut anyway, teeth that Joe wants to map with his tongue like some new world cartographer, he knows he's fucked.
It's only a matter of time.
Not as much as he thought, it turns out.
It only takes four weeks. Four weeks, and Tom's mouth is slick beneath his own, lips sweet and full and giving, everything Joe's been thinking they would be. Even his teeth. It's everything he's been fantasizing about since that first day, since Tom's fingers spanned the back of his hand and his lips shaped the word pleasure.
Tom lets him take control at first, Joe's sure he does, a surprised huff of breath escaping between parted lips when Joe finally crosses the space between them, tipping forward across the cushions of the couch in his hotel suite and taking what he's been wanting, hands clutching at Tom's shirt and pulling. Tom's mouth opens easily, so easily, as Tom's hands—those broad, firm hands—find Joe's side, his hip, fingers flexing.
"God, your mouth," Joe groans. "Your fucking mouth. You've been driving me crazy."
He feels Tom's mouth curve against his. "Feeling's mutual," Tom says, voice slithering down Joe's spine to coil at its base, hot and rough.
Joe's not sure about the veracity of that statement, but figures it doesn't matter because Tom's tongue is in his mouth and Tom's fingers are in his hair and all of it, all of it, is driving Joe crazy in new and wonderful ways.
Lit up, he feels lit up and burning, aching, blazing, each touch of Tom's zinging through him like lightning.
All they're doing is making out like a couple of teenagers.
But Joe is—god, Tom's mouth—hard already, dick pushing against the front of his jeans, begging for some attention.
"Fuck," Joe pants against Tom's lips. Stubble scratches against his skin; he wants to feel it elsewhere, everywhere, wants those lips on him, wrapped around him, that tongue that's teased against his own put to good use somewhere else.
Fingers twisted in Tom's shirt, Joe doesn't even think about it when he pushes Tom downward, just wants Tom's mouth on him now. Tom pulls away and blinks at him, pupils blown, lips kissed even more tantalizingly full. His breath brushes against Joe's cheeks, his wet lips, making him shiver.
Tom half-grins, half-smirks, his mouth a wicked curve as he leans forward, takes Joe's mouth with his own, turning the tables until Joe feels weak in the knees, until he's really fucking grateful they're sitting down because Tom is a force to be reckoned with.
Joe groans, and when Tom's fingers pry his from their grip on Tom's shirt, Joe lets him go, arches into Tom's wide hand as Tom pushes him back against the cushions and slides away from him, sinking to his knees on the floor.
He plays with the button on Joe's jeans, thumb rubbing back and forth over it, the movement almost hypnotic, and Joe squirms, his breath coming fast.
"Would you—" His voice comes out rough, deep, barely comes out at all; Joe swallows. "Just do it."
Leaning forward, Tom's mouth is there, right there, and Joe can practically feel his hot, moist breath through the layers of fabric between them, can imagine exactly what that will feel like with those layers gone, when Tom's moving, past his cock, back up his body.
"I'll do"—Tom presses a kiss to one of Joe's nipples—"whatever"--a kiss to the other, lips parting to leave the fabric damp and clinging—"I like." Hand on Joe's thigh, Tom pushes himself farther up, mouths at Joe's jaw, nips at his chin, and then he's gone again, hands back on Joe's fly, undoing it, pulling Joe's cock out, pushing jeans and underwear down and out of the way. "You're just lucky I happen to like you."
And then his mouth is on Joe—fucking finally—and Joe is arching off the cushions, back curved, hips pushed forward, seeking the warm, wet, perfect pressure of Tom's mouth.
God, it really is everything he'd thought it would be. More. Better. Tom's mouth real around him, Tom looking up at him with knowing eyes, full lips stretched and pink around him, tongue moving against the shaft as Tom slides down. When the head of his cock hits the back of Tom's throat, Tom swallows around him, swallows him down. Joe yells, can't help it. It's all he can do to keep from moving his hips, from grabbing Tom's head and going for it.
Sliding off with a slick sound, Tom's hand takes his mouth's place. "Like that, don't you," he says, voice even more rough and sex-filled than usual. Not only will Joe not be able to look at him without getting hard—not exactly a new problem—now he won't be able to hear him either, not when Tom's rewiring his brain until Tom equals sex and sex equals Tom and Joe just might be really fucking screwed after this, in all the good ways and bad.
"Well?" Tom asks. He bends forward, runs his lips over the head of his cock, down the shaft to his hand, back up, stubble prickling. Just under the head, his lips part, his tongue darting out, a brief, flickering touch.
Joe groans, closing his eyes against the sight of Tom between his thighs, painting his mouth with his own spit and Joe's precome.
"Fuck," Joe says. "You weren't really asking."
"Not really."
Joe can hear the smile in Tom's voice, can feel it against his dick.
"I just like to hear your pretty voice." His free hand sneaks up, pushing Joe's shirt out of the way, fingers teasing against a nipple. "C'mon, Joe," he says, ducking down to mouth at Joe's balls. "You like it."
Joe shudders, arches into his touch. "Yes," he gasps. "Fuck, yes, I do."
Tom licks a stripe back up his cock. "You've been thinking about it."
"Hard not to." Joe's fingers dig into the cushion, the arm of the couch. "Yeah, I--"
"Me, too," Tom says, and Joe opens his eyes, has to look, has to see as Tom's hand slips from his cock to the crease of his thigh, thumb pressed hard against his balls, and sucks him down again, fully, completely—eagerly—one hand still on Joe's chest, fingers playing over his nipples.
"So good," Joe pants. "Fuck, Tom, so good, so—I wanted so—I want—" Christ. "More. I want more."
Tom hums around him, the vibration of it traveling through Joe's cock to every finger, every toe, the top of his head. Joe's sure it's agreement, and the thought of Tom wanting this, too, of Tom wanting more of this, more of him, is enough to push Joe over the edge, groaning Tom's name as Tom's mouth and throat work around him, hands solid and heavy against his skin.
Joe catches his breath as Tom works his way back up, nipping at his abs, stopping to lick at one nipple and then the other before finding Joe's mouth again. He can taste himself there, can taste himself on Tom's lips and Tom's tongue, against the roof of Tom's mouth, tucked behind teeth like the best kind of secret.
He wants to do it all over again. Wants to finish this and start at the beginning. Wants to kiss and touch and lick and suck, take and give. Wants Tom naked against his sheets, pressed against his skin.
He feels Tom hard against his thigh. He'll get what he wants.
Joe grins, pushes Tom back against the couch cushions. "My turn."
