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what a perfect bastard

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The terribly fit blond with a staring problem was wearing a bespoke Ralph Lauren suit. Obviously rich, second generation (no self made man that young and that rich had that much gym time). He looked to be, oh, thirty, at the very most? There was no ring, but Tom couldn’t make out a tan line three meters away across a dimly lit bar, so best to assume married. He was probably an ass, regardless. No man who looked like a bearded Olympian god had good character references. Tom made a show of tossing his hair back before finishing off the dregs of his vodka and tonic, slowly, conscious of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

Let him watch.

Of course the bartender served him another without being asked. Not by Tom, obviously. No. He held it up and nodded toward Mr Fit, while the flustered old barkeep pretended not to notice, and Mr Fit winked back.

And that was his queue. Tom shuffled toward the booths on the far side of the bar, smiling apologetically at the seated patrons who so kindly scooted for him. Odds were he would not be alone, and he was right. Mr Fit was on his heels, clutching a stein (likely locally drafted garbage), flashing that wedding ring tan line. Well.

Tom remained standing. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr…?”

“Hemsworth. Chris.” Hemsworth? Interesting family name. Why not Taylor, if his ancestors sewed? Or perhaps it was originally Helmsworth? “And you know the bit about the pleasure and it being all mine, yeah?” An Australian? And in Texas, no less. Probably in the cattle industry. Yes, he must’ve been sent up and over (by Dad or an overbearing big brother?) to talk semen samples, then Hemsworth was looking for his own, off the clock.

Naughty Hemsworth.

Tom took his first sip of Hemsworth's drink. He could’ve at least told the old man at the bar to give him the good stuff, perhaps Grey Goose? Tch. Rich and stingy was not a good sign. Hemsworth gave him the world’s most practiced look of confusion and Tom had to say something, if not specifically then to the heart of the matter. “What a turn of phrase. Sounds charming, but is it? The pleasure is all yours, inferring I get none. I’m Tom, Tom Hiddleston, in case you were wondering.” Just another wine-mom book club writer.

Hemsworth sat in the opposing bench with all the confidence of a man who was invited everywhere and a child who was never told no. He drank like a horse — literally — taking down half his stein, looking like a damn beer ad. God, Tom could watch the thick column of his neck work for hours as he wondered at the taste and texture of those tendons. Well, wonder was all he was going to do because he was not going to fall into bed with another married bastard -- those were unmistakable tan lines on his left ring finger. “You’re a feisty one, arentcha, Tom?”

Feisty? He thought Tom was feisty? Tom's dick liked that so much it over rode all that high church moralizing about principles. He was a slave to his libido.

Did Hemsworth want to get rough? Would he push Tom around? Slam him up against a wall? Shove him to his knees? There was some kind of gleam in his eyes, this hungry, one might say feral gleam, which seemed to answer back: Yeah

Damn. He really was going to do this, wasn’t he? Tom slid into the booth, ignoring the thrill of Hemsworth’s knees brushing against his. Sometimes Tom wished he was asexual, or at least satisfied by porn and masturbation. Did he crave oxytocin from human contact? Validation from being desired? Or some odd masochistic affirmation on his views on class and privilege? “Let me guess? You like yours feisty.”

“Mine?” Hemsworth flashed a smile designed to tug Tom by the balls. God, he was a bastard, Tom was sure of it, but he was irresistible. “Well, If you insist.” He looked Tom in the eye.

“I have a room at this hotel.”

“I have a place in Alamo Heights.” Whatever that meant? “Big lawn, big fence, nice thick walls. Privacy.” His eyebrow went up. Ah, what a bad boy daddy raised. Was he going to make Tom beg, loudly?

“Any family in residence?”

He shook his head. Of course not. It was a business trip. “Just me.” They were far away, back at the ranch. Mrs Hemsworth probably had an Instagram dedicated to fitness and positive visualization. The kids, heirs were expected among this circle, were holy terrors who went through nannies the way Tom went through novels. Hemsworth looked over Tom’s shoulder for a moment, gaze unfocused. Maybe he was thinking of them right now. Maybe he would think of Tom when he was with them.

Or maybe he was just overthinking it? Just because it was dark didn’t make it true. Hemsworth could’ve just as easily been thinking about using the toilet for all Tom knew.

Then he said these words: “I’m so alone.” Three dramatic words stuck together like adolescents in secondary school, outgrown angst, too self pitying, too childish to be said, were whispered like a dirty secret. The ridiculously handsome face crumpled into a mock cry topped off with a hand over his head as he looked up with a melting gaze which would have given Michelangelo a hard on for life. And, oh! Did Tom laugh! Like a bleeding ass he laughed. Was it out of shock or amusement? Both, he decided. Who knew Hemsworth was genuinely funny? He stopped when Hemsworth rubbed his foot against Tom’s leg. “You’re adorable,” he said. “Come on, pommie. Finish that drink and I’ll call the driver ‘round.”

“As long as you don’t insist on hoarding all that pleasure.”

“Feisty.”

Tom slogged down the damn drink in one go. “Come on.” He gave Hemsworth a shrug when he stood. “Your driver had better be quick, Mr Hemsworth.”

“Are you gonna keep calling me that?” He was too close when he stood next to Tom. Several patrons looked the other way and one old man shook his head.

He pushed his glasses back and smiled. “All night.”

“If you insist, Mr Hiddleston.”

++

Alamo Heights was a collection of mansions nestled between forested hills, paranoid and gated, and, Tom was sure. And there he was, making those observations in a posh limo. God, his libido made him an ass. He ought to be working, he hadn’t opened his laptop for hours and he had two days to go over his final edits. Two days until he had to let go of the story he wrote to an emotionally distant, newly departed father. Now that his target audience of one was gone, who would he write to?

“You live a lot in here,” said Hemsworth, punctuating it with a gentle touch on Tom’s temple. Not just gentle, but slightly awkward, as if he didn’t know what to do with his hand, next.

He couldn’t focus on his face because it was too close. Hemsworth had rolled the limo privacy window up and all but sat on Tom’s lap. “I don’t say every thought out loud, no.” But Hemsworth was suddenly sure about where he wanted his hands, which was under Tom’s belt, and -- dear god! There was nothing quite like a man with big, sure, hands grabbing you by the cock and balls. Bliss! Warm, firm, calloused bliss! And when Hemsworth nosed up against him and asked if he kissed, and when Tom huffed yeah against his mouth, which smelled of beer and mint, Hemsworth let him have a taste, brushing his tongue against Tom’s.

“What’re your thoughts, Mr Hiddleston?” He tubbed and rugged and smiled against his mouth. “You thinking about something?”

Yes. No. “I’m not sure I’m capable of analyzing hand jobs at the moment.”

“Liar.” Hemsworth thumbs the head of Tom’s cock in salutation as it peeked out. “You were thinking about the reasons you shouldn’t be here and I want to know what they are.” He pulled Tom on his lap when he tried to turn away and caught him by the chin. “Is it something only English public school boys understand? Don’t be a snob, Mr Hiddleston.”

He laughed. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew me.” Imagine Mum's relief if she heard it. Her son taken for one of those toffs from school? She’d faint, grande dame that she was, near a well placed divan. "I know you're married. No point saying you're separated or telling me what a bitch she is, please." He held his hand up when Hemsworth tried to do what was probably a silly variation. "If I really cared, I wouldn't be here."

Slowly, pausing when the limo hit a pothole, or a deer (god knew, in the wilds of San Antonio) Hemsworth slid his hands over Tom’s throat, his chest, under his jacket to shove off the tweed and keep sliding down his chest until Tom wanted to arch his back like a bleeding cat and lean in for more, more, more. “Really?" His voice was deep, hypnotic. His eyes were a magnet and Tom couldn’t look away. And his warm hands, those rough, delicious hands, oh, yes, his hands were going lower. "You must think I'm a complete bastard."

Yes! Yes! Absolutely! And bastards like Hemsworth could do what they liked to his body! “I think you’re good with your hands.” He moaned when they stalled out at his navel. “Come on. What do you want me to say?" Tom tried to pull Hemsworth’s hands lower, but to no avail. He wasn’t strong enough. “Now I think you’re a sadist, too.” He tried to laugh it off but the serious glare he received spoke volumes.

Damn. He looked up at limo's sealed moonroof and sighed. This wasn't the first time his attitude and his mouth resulted in this sort of thing. Hell, his last publisher could verify that much, and more. "Understood, Hemsworth. I can get an Uber back to the Hilton but I must insist you drop me at someplace civilized."

Hemsworth lunged forward and attacked -- with the most viscous tickling Tom had taken to the ribs since school days. It was brutal, so bad he could hardly breath as Hemsworth wrapped an arm around his hips, pinning Tom against him there, right there. "Sadist? I'm a sadist? What does that make you?"

He was impossible! He must've been planning then all along when he asked Tom what was bothering him. Tom fell for it, too. That was the rub.

Tom still couldn't breath, even after Hemsworth stopped tickling. He placed his hands under that fine Ralph Lauren (he was sure it was Ralph Lauren) suite and touched the hardest chest. A chest he wanted very much to see. "What I should've said, what I mean to say now, is that I'm not above sleeping with you under these circumstances. What bothers me is how little it matters in the moment."

"All we have are moments."

Was he being philosophical? Tom sighed. "If you say we're all dust in the wind, next, I will eject myself out of your car like a missile."

"Seriously? You know that song?"

"I'm warning you, Mr Hemsworth." He plopped down next to him with absolutely no grace, pushing his glasses up in a huff which felt like both an act and an honest expression.

The limo stopped somewhere between a forest and a modest mountain, pushed back in a cave of evergreens, full of locks, codes, combinations and scans, like a safe with storm windows, a luxury lockbox filled with tasteful minimalist furniture containing the charm of a doctor’s office and the warmth of a museum. Funny how expensive things sterilized an environment. He ran his finger along a white suede sofa.

“You want to fuck there?” Hemsworth’s mouth pressed against his ear. His body pushed against his back, big, impossibly big body — His cock! Dear god! It was, ah, enormous! — was overwhelming. Tom was not a small man, but he felt so diminutive when Hemsworth wrapped his arms around him. “Is it because you like the idea of ruining an expensive piece of furniture?”

“Yeah. Even better, we could break your undoubtedly enormous dining room table.” He closed his eyes as Hemsworth unbuttoned his shirt, then his fly, and kept them closed his clothes fell away. He opened them when Hemsworth turned him around. "Imagine what your wife would say?"

He let Hemsworth take away his glasses. He let Hemsworth slide his hands through his overly long hair, like Tom was a girl, and watched him with careful, watery eyes. "You in for a bit of rough, Mr Hiddleston? What, did you get spanked in that posh English boarding school? Is that why you don't go in for a bit of vanilla sex in bed? Too sweet?"

That was not too far off. He didn't bother pulling away when. Hemsworth cupped his jaw. "Lucky guess that I went away to school."

"I'm going to torture the living hell out of you for calling me a bastards. You know that?" Please do.

“Just stop when I say stop. That’s all.” Tom blindly reached for the blurry shirt and buttons, but Hemsworth made the suit a memory in moments and hauled Tom over a naked shoulder, taking him down a dark hall like a potato sack. “Seriously?”

“So serious!” Hemsworth slapped his arse, then laid him out on a soft comforter in the center of the bed as big as a ship, as soft as a cloud and absolutely not what Tom was promised. He wanted nasty, rough, furniture-ruining sex. He was given no room to lodge a complaint because Hemsworth was on top of him, pinning Tom’s hands over his head, grinning like a fool. “Sorry, I kinda like being sweet and vanilla in bed."

Wait, what? “What?” Panic hit as Hemsworth closed the space between them. No, he didn't want it to be like this. He needed Hemsworth to be brutal, to flip him over, make him cry like a little lost boy with use and abuse. That was how a bastard should've treated him. Instead, he devastated Tom with the warmest, softest kiss. Their beards scraped slowly, their tongues slid gently and Hemsworth’s hands were everywhere. Hemsworth was everywhere, powerful, hot, heavy and slow, never overpowering and yet, somehow overbearing, chuckling whenever Tom squirmed and wiggled and whined in absolute horror and protest. God, why couldn't he keep his hips still?

Hemsworth groaned. “All that bump and grind, Mr Hiddleston! Did you learn that at your posh boarding school?”

“Only because you won't bloody well get on with it! What is this heavy petting? I'm not a damn woman!”

“Patience! Do they teach it at Eton?”

"Another lucky guess."

He was too close to read but his pause said enough. “Was I right?” Ugh.

“Didn't I just say so?"

Hemsworth nibbled at his neck with soft open mouthed passe, his beard tickled. Damn! Tom tried to keep himself from giggling, like a perfect ass, but Hemsworth must’ve picked up on it and he kept doing it, and — ugh! Tom kicked and laughed and cursed this bastard to hell and back. “You absolute idiot! Haha! Will you stop messing about and -- oh! Ehehe…"

“I know! I know! Where are the whips and chains? How dare you be subjected to this treatment! I'm an absolute bastard!"

He shrieked like his little sister -- forget dignity! -- when flipped over and propped ass-up, complete with a pillow between his belly and the cloud-mattress. “Please say you’re going to spank me or I’m going to — “

That wasn’t his hand but it was warm and wet and surrounded by rough hair. Oh, fuck. Tom moaned as Hemsworth sucked on the skin of his inner thigh. “Why?” His breath was hot and his voice was low. “Seem to like this sort of thing better, mate.” He pulled Tom’s ass cheeks apart and chuckled. “You’re thrusting into the pillow. Did you know that?”

He stopped.

“Feisty.”

His face, his mouth, his tongue were pressed up against Tom’s ass, lathing him over and over like he was the most delicious meal and Hemsworth was going to savor him. His tongue, dear god! The things he did! Tom had his fair share of this sort of thing but men tended to do a cursory pass just to be sure he was willing to let them put their cocks inside. Hemsworth was different. His knowing laugh rumbled deep in his chest. He enjoyed a man’s body, touching it, tasting it, almost cherishing it as he cupped and rubbed Tom’s ass. “That’s it. Keep moaning like that.”

He didn’t realize he was making noise. He didn’t give a damn. It just felt so good, he felt so good, and Hemsworth was the absolute worst for being so damn… sweet, which was dangerous.

Shit.

And when Hemsworth turned him back around and hooked Toms legs over his shoulders, when he held his stare as he dipped down and took Tom’s cock into his mouth, Hemsworth had the nerve to reach up to touch his cheek. “You’re despicable for this,” Tom said just as heat enveloped him. He sucked on his thumb like a petulant child as he watched this beautiful, rich smug bastard from the depths of hell make a mockery of Tom’s best efforts not to sob — but damnit! When he nuzzled his balls and kissed his way all the way back down to his ass Tom was a blubbering mess.

“You don’t even know me.” Hemsworth was sitting up, sliding on a condom, then messing about with a tube of lubricant that felt cold until he rubbed it over Tom’s skin. “You want to hate me but you don't know anything about me."

“Does this feel like hate, Mr Hemsworth?” Tom opened his legs wide and offered himself up like a human sacrifice.

He braced the head of his cock, blunt and slick and god knew how it was going to fit, against Tom. But he waited. “It kind of, yeah. At least a good try.” He pressed their foreheads together and sighed. “I’m rich, married and cheating, yeah?"

“The sky is blue. And you're a bastard."

Hemsworths hands braced his hips and he frowned in concentration as he pushed forward. It felt like the man was trying to cram his entire body inside. Tom hadn’t felt a sting since college days when he met that terrible boy from Manhattan who was hung like a horse. He held his breath as he studied Hemsworth’s frown. “So are you."

“You’re! Ah! And you're fucking me!!” He exhaled, he tried to bear down a bit. Oh, bloody hell! Tom smacked his shoulder. “Or are you? Come on!"

“Shh!” Hemsworth was cupping his balls, thumbing the base of his cock and suddenly things were bearable. “That’s it. That’s our Mr Huddleston. All he needs is a little touch.”

And then his body gave in, just enough for him to bump and slide over that spot— yes! It was more of a yelp than an actual word. He couldn’t help it, nor could he stop his hands from clawing up and down Hemsworth’s arms, probably leaving marks he would have to explain to his wife. Good. “Fuck me, you entitled bastard.”

Hemsworth began with shallow strokes; slowly, carefully, with the most shallow thrusts, as if Tom would break, like he was a virgin, full of fragile hopes and dreams. It didn't feel like a joke even though he knew it was, of course it was. He forgot to remember that when Hemsworth angled his hips and hit the spot -- ! His hands were like fairy wings gliding his skin. His lips were the roughest soft, the lightest huff of air as he pressed his way home, thrusting his tongue deep into Tom’s mouth. He held him down, carefully rocking as he shushed his lips and stroked his cock and filled him, fully, deeply, to the hilt. His fingers, finally rough, dug into his hip for a moment as he kept Tom that way. “Am I entitled to this, Tom?”

“Hiddleston —“

”Tom,” he said it again. “Am I entitled to this?"

“Yes.” He hissed it out.

“Oh, look at you, you glorious creature. Beautiful, angry, and so fucking sweet.” Hemsworth, keeping Tom’s face framed in one hand as he reached down, one more time, and this time, Tom could only answer with a fucking shout, shaking as he felt the end crashing all around him.

Thank god they didn’t do this in his hotel room.

++

Tom wasn’t one for a mess. No goodbye meant no awkward moment where the newly minted one-and-done said something awful like, it was fun, or see you later. They never saw Tom later so why bother hearing it?

He was relieved to see Hemsworth make a quick exit for what he presumed to be the toilet, which gave Tom an opportunity to arrange an Uber and dress.

“What’re you doing?”

He spun around to be greeted by the sight of Hemsworth in all his glory. Jesus, he was going to regret not spending time mapping out that body with his tongue. But, no! Hemsworth was full of mind games Tom didn’t have time to play. And besides, he had a book to pour over. “Ah, back to the hotel. Work deadlines.” More time to say goodbye to the father he never understood. He motioned vaguely, as if his editor’s manic face would be summoned through the ether. “Look, I know it was a bit antagonistic but overall I think we had a lovely time.” Christ! Did he really say that?

”Lovely time? I literally made you cry tears of joy when you came.” Slight exaggeration. Tom’s eyes tended to water when he wasn’t wearing his lenses or exerting himself — which included sex. “You even called me by my Christian name.” No. That was impossible. That never happened. Then Hemsworth gave him the most horridly camp heart clutch. Ugh.

He snorted. “Are you done?”

“Ah! No, actually. I'm not. I'm not done.” Hemsworth strode toward him, cupped his nape and smiled. “You’re gonna wanna cancel the ride.”

Tom forgot, entirely.

They had sex in on the leather sofa. Chris bent him over, working two fingers in and out of Tom, priming his cock. He’d stop every once in a while, driving him insane with this absurd instance that Tom take his kisses as if they were medicinal. Then he took some sort of perverse turn and whispered: “I think my wife bought this sofa, actually.” Tom arched his back and christened the fucking thing with a shout loud enough to bring down a house. Well, a typical one at least.

Then they had sex in a glass tile shower where Tom slid to his knees and did his damnest to wrap his lips around that enormous pink cock and suck him off. Hemsworth hummed low and deep, watching him with unreadable eyes as Tom licked and sucked and gagged a bit too much. “Do you like sucking the entitled bastard’s dick, Tom?”

His name again? “Yes, Mr Hemsworth. I quite like it, even the bastard variety.”

“Especially the bastard variety, hm?”

“Hm.” Tom licked his way up his shaft. “Will you fuck me like a bastard, though?”

“If you mean sweetly, yeah.” Hemsworth picked him up off the tile with one arm and turned him around. “This is about my pleasure, Tom. All about pleasure."

++

He wasn’t ready to give up his book, no matter what his damn editor said. The protagonist still had so much to say to his father, the antagonist. So damn much, and Bobby (Robert Downey jr, as he was known to his creditors) would never understand, having been hatched to a family of reptiles. “You need to give me another week,” he said into his phone. “Come on, Bobby. You know it’s not finished.”

“Consider this an intervention.” Robert thought he was funny — and it was a lie. He was annoying, especially when he was being pushy. Tom nearly fell over trying to hop into his sock when Bobby hit him with the sledgehammer: “My office, Wednesday. I bring the check. You bring your signature hand. No more procrastinating, no more playing Blues Clues with the subtext. You’re done.”

No. It was never going to be done. “I mean it. I need more time to edit. The book isn’t there yet — “ he stopped to see the sunrise beam behind Hemsworth as he briefly stopped to stretch in front of the picture window like a dream and waved at Tom, articulating every finger like an absolute knob. “Don’t you dare do anything with my book or I will kill you,” he muttered as he clicked off the call and busied himself with a second attempt to exit.

“Not your Uber driver, was it?” His voice was close, muffled, as if from a closet. Walk in, naturally. His wife probably had it redone with custom cabinetry for her duplicate shoe collection. (Nothing worse than forgetting the Gucci shoes are at the summer beach house!) He probably had two feet of space, maximum.

“No.” He needed to stop filling the blanks in this man's life, it was none of his business anymore, but he couldn't help it, as it was his trade. Ugh! What he wouldn't do now for a good ciggie and a proper coffee drink. These days he made due with a small black coffee and a run, like a responsible adult and they seemed like terrible replacements for a nice Benny and mochaccino. He fibbed to himself that he would get himself a pack and all he could drink once he left this bleeding temple to paranoia and selfishness. The allure of the forbidden would surely do.

“So when do they get here?” Hemsworth reappeared from another room, shorts and gym shirt on. Ah, so Tom was intruding on his sacred morning routine. Was his trainer about to arrive? Someone who wasn’t supposed to know Tom was here? Maybe he and his trainer were lovers, too. Damn — he needed a coffee of some kind for this minor hangover and to get back to his book. “Don’t worry, they’re coming. I’ve got to get back to work.”

“What do you do?” His voice was too close.

“I work in publishing.” He found the door despite being followed by a disturbingly close Hemsworth through a confusing maze of hallways, and turned to face him one last time.

Hemsworth boxed him in with his big hands pressed against the door and his big body pressed against his. “You’re a writer.” He smiled. “I heard your phone conversation. Kind of woke me up.”

Tom didn’t like telling people he was a writer. “Let me guess, you’re going to read my books now that we’ve had sex?” They always said they'd read his books, as if reading them did him a kindness.

“Wrong.” He tilted his head and grinned. “But you’re gonna write about me, arentcha?”

Bastard. He closed his eyes. "Why would I do that?"

"Every story needs a good villain, right?"

Tom didn't want to listen to anymore or this mind fuckery. He didn’t want to make room in his head for the entitled likes of him. He had demanded too much attention as it was. “I’ve got to go.” And not because his Uber arrived. Tom would’ve sprinted through the pine colonnades as if the sunlight on the other end wasn’t too bright.

Being a complete slave to his libido, Tom turned to see if the door he failed to close remained open. Hemsworth stood in the doorway. Tom stayed there, watching Hemsworth watching him, flinching when his phone pinged, breaking contact when he turned away. “Good bye, Mr Hemsworth.” He said it to himself.

Ugh. He needed coffee. “Actually, could you take me to Starbucks?” He asked the driver as he slid into her Honda. “I’ll reroute us. Sorry for the trouble.”

The women giggled like a girl half her age. “I like your accent.”

++

That night he laid himself out on a divan, wrapped in a robe and a bottle of Grey Goose when a knock interrupted his meditation on neuvo riche terrorists. He muttered something like, leave me alone, Bobby, when the door revealed the last person he expected.

"Tom."

He was dressed in a sweater and scarf set Mum would've envied and he still looked like a god. It was obscene. "I hate everything about you, you know that?" He backed up as Hemsworth caught his flailing hands and put them on his glorious chest. "You think -- " Hemsworth nuzzled his ear "-- you can bother me in my room?"

"I wanted to confess to a lie, Tom."

He snorted but he couldn't stop Hemsworth from sliding his hands into his robe. Not at all. "What does it matter?"

"I'm not married."

Hemsworth let him pull his left hand out and pushed up his glasses. There was no tan line, not one hint of indentation to even suggest this man ever put a ring on this finger. Tom frowned. "Oh."

"This is the part where I ask you if I'm still a bastard." Hemsworth should've stepped away from him but he tipped Tom's chin up, instead. "Well?"

"An absolute bastard." Damn his watery eyes. "Absolute, bloody bastard."

"Will you still put me in your next book?" His hands were back, and they were insidious.

Tom suddenly saw his future mapped out, a short distance, in a story with the perfect villain. He would let go of his finished book, say goodbye to his father and move on, because he was a man with an audience, again. "I'll crucify you."

"I don't doubt it."

"You had better read it." It was a whisper. "You had damn well better read the thing."