“What the hell are you doing?”
“Stealing props. What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Looks to me like you’re asking for a shitton of trouble,” Tom slits his eyes at the metallic silver sheen of the object barely hidden in Chris’ overlarge hand, wondering if perhaps they'd both had a bit too much to drink at the afterparty.
The smirk on Chris’ lips promises nothing good and Tom barely has time to close the door before he’s trying to avoid the Australian’s long arms as Chris attempts to capture him in either a bear hug or a headlock.
“Oi!” Tom yelps as Chris finally tackles him around the waist, sending them both tumbling to the plush carpet of Tom’s hotel room.
They grapple with one another on the floor, fingers curling into fists in articles of clothing and limbs lashing out in a vain attempt to free themselves. Two shirts get lost in the scuffle, as well as two pairs of shoes and a single sock. Then, everything goes still once Chris utilizes his superior weight and pins Tom to the floor, one hand holding a lithe wrist and the other holding the finally revealed muzzle over Tom's mouth, prompting the Brit's steely blue eyes to snap open even wider than they already were.
"Just .. stop," Chris tells him, keeping both hands firm and unmoving. "Stop with the excuses. Stop with the lying to my face when I know you're lying. Stop running away from me."
Tom makes a sound like he would like to argue that accusation, but Chris growls and pushes the muzzle more firmly against his mouth. "No. You're going to fuckin' listen to me and stop trying to talk around me. Yeah?"
Silence falls and the tension in the room stretches taut. Chris knows how Tom feels about the muzzle in terms of their characters, and he wonders if this is going to push him too far. But, after holding eye contact for several prolonged moments, Tom relaxes slightly, the lines of his muscles softening enough to indicate that he's not going to bolt.
Chris frees his wrist and fastens the muzzle properly with both hands before leaning back on his haunches, balanced carefully over Tom's waist. There's nothing restrictive on the inside of the muzzle aside from some soft padding that prevents chafing but it's still plenty effective enough.
He doesn't say a word as he goes about stripping his jeans and boxers off, tossing them aside and out of the way. He can see Tom's eyes flick momentarily to his cock, half hard against his thigh, but he doesn't say anything about that either. Instead, Chris lays his hands on the waistband of Tom's loose flannel bottoms and starts slowly dragging them off.
The slim hips lift to help, almost of their own accord, and Chris can't help smiling as he snags Tom's boxer-briefs and drags them down too. Once clothes are a thing of the past, he settles between Tom's legs and leans down to begin mapping out the lithely-muscled chest before him.
"You keep acting like I'm going to tell you to fuck off and you've decided to start shutting me out to do it for me," Chris muses idly, thrusting his tongue into Tom's navel and earning a muffled whine. He can feel Tom's cock hardening bit by bit against his collarbone, the sensation heady and not a little addictive. "I'm not stupid. I can tell what you're doing and I want you to stop because it's stupid."
Tom twitches beneath him and he starts dragging his tongue down the left half of the V of muscle leading to the apex between Tom's legs. Chris tongues at the base of his cock, then bypasses it entirely to lick at Tom's perineum until the man starts shuddering and tossing his head against the carpet, eyes shut tight. The breath coming fast and shallow through his nose tells Chris that things are going very well indeed.
He pulls away and leans back to balance on his knees, staring down at Tom's flushed body, taking in the faint tremors running down his limbs. It's crazy. He's been thinking of this for a long time, but never had the balls to take the initiative. Of course it's alcohol that gives him the extra boost. How terribly cliché. Then, Chris reaches into the nearby pocket of his jeans and extracts the small plastic tube, smearing the KY over his hand in order to begin rubbing it between Tom's legs, coating his inner thighs and perineum.
That prompts the steely blue eyes to snap open again and Tom stares at him like he's lost his mind. The fuck are you doing? he manages to say even without words, the frown lines on his brow emphasizing his confusion enough.
"Shush," Chris rumbles quietly, smearing a bit more of the lube between Tom's legs before deeming it suitable. "Turn over."
There's a beat where he can see the wheels turning in Tom's head, the realization of what it is he wants to do, followed by a rearranging of those ridiculously lanky arms and legs until Tom has himself splayed out on the carpet, his groin protected from potential rugburn by a soft pillow placed there by Chris a few seconds before he'd settled down on his stomach.
"Keep your legs tight together," Chris orders again, pausing a moment to admire the way that Tom obeys without tossing a well-timed quip back at him. Silence isn't something he's grown used to being in Tom's company so often, but it's not unenjoyable. It's ... different.
After slicking his cock thoroughly, Chris braces himself over Tom and guides himself into the tiny space between Tom's inner thighs, the skin made slick by a combination of sweat and KY. He groans throatily at the sudden relief of friction against his cock. There's an answering noise from Tom, a pitched whine of sound that's almost swallowed by the muffling effect of the muzzle.
Then, Chris starts moving, thrusting his hips at a steady, even pace. Tom rocks forward with every thrust, both hands scrabbling weakly at the plush carpet as he tries to find something to ground himself with in this unexplored territory they've found themselves in.
Chris bites possession and punishment into Tom's skin in equal measure; littering the tops of his shoulders and the knob of his spine with reddened imprints of teeth and tongue. Tom whimpers helplessly when Chris bites an already sensitive patch of skin, a shiver running the length of his body and forcing his legs to tighten unconsciously.
By now, Chris' rhythm has gone haphazard and ragged. He is lost to the pursuit of the final leap over the edge, driving himself against Tom almost ruthlessly as he chases his release.
Tom can't do anything but hang on, fingers twisted in what he can hold onto of the carpet, scarcely-felt tears running down his cheeks as he feels the beginning of his orgasm uncoiling deep in his gut. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what they've done, or where they stand now. Does Chris know why he's been trying to put an appropriate amount of distance between them again?
He cries out in surprise as Chris sinks his teeth into the meat of his shoulder, the sound muffled by the muzzle. Then, Tom becomes aware of the sudden rush of warmth between his thighs, the quivering of Chris' muscles as he just about collapses on top of him.
Unsure and overwhelmed, Tom gives in as his own orgasm slams into him, forcing his eyes shut again.
When he opens them, he finds Chris kneeling over him again, removing the muzzle with an extraordinary amount of care. Sometimes, he doesn't know how hands the size of Chris Hemsworth's are capable of being used for gentle things, but here is yet more proof. And he doesn't understand why. Why does he deserve gentle?
He peers at Chris for a long moment, silently begging for answers and receiving nothing. Chris looks away once he's got them both cleaned up (as cleaned up as they can be, anyway) then gets to his feet in order to start putting his clothes in order again.
They're both far more sober (and yet not at all) than they were, and Tom can't find the energy to push himself off the floor yet. Even when Chris is fully dressed and staring out the window, he's still naked on the floor. It feels like whatever had been mooring him before has been cut away and he's been left adrift.
Their eyes meet in the glass and Tom still can't think of the words to say. He wants to. But they won't come. The muzzle works pretty effectively even when it's nowhere in sight.
He wonders he'll ever be able to pull it free.