Robert Downey Jr/Hugh Jackman. NC-17. ~2100 words.
Hugh manages to hold it for one more click of the shutter before he grins, his entire face changing, his eyes brightening with a shine no one could fake.
“Christ, just look at you,” Robert says, his smile slipping into Tony’s cocksure slant as easily as he slipped into Tony’s designer threads. “So fucking grumpy. Where’d that come from? You carry that snarl around in your pocket, slap it on with some spirit gum?”
Hugh manages to hold it for one more click of the shutter before he grins, his entire face changing, his eyes brightening with a shine no one could fake. “You better watch it,” he says, about as threatening as a caterpillar snug in its cocoon, “or she’s going to march right over here to feed you that camera.”
Robert sizes up the photographer with Tony’s imperious eye. “I can take her. Quick, glower.”
Hugh flips his smile to a snarl just in the nick of time. Five minutes into the shoot Elaine gave up waiting for them to settle into a pose before clicking, instead herding them along with a steady roll of snap-snap-snap. It’s a good rhythm, quick and confident, and Robert can’t wait to get his hands on the shots where Hugh had just given up, thrown his head back and howled.
“C’mon,” Robert says, swinging around for a profile shot with a snap of his fingers, “snikt, snikt. Growl at me, hot stuff.” And as easy as you please, Hugh snags his collar and gets up in his face, lips curled and teeth bared. They might not be able to use this shit for the promos but fuck if it isn’t whole boatloads of fun. “That all you got? Dude, is Logan a mutant poodle or what?”
A sound trickles out from between the clench of Hugh’s teeth, low and rippling. Robert slaps on a smirk, holds it for three clicks and then slings his arm around Hugh’s shoulders. Grabbing his face, Robert lays a big smacking kiss square over his mouth. His smeared laughter tastes of pure minty joy.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Robert calls out, turning Hugh’s broad grin to the camera. “I give you, the Wolverine!”
Elaine, bless her fucking little heart, takes the picture.
“Your dick is.”
Hugh laughs again, and Robert swears to god, no fucking joke, if someone could figure out how to get that to sound as perfect on film as it did in life they’d put an ass in every single seat right across the country for three months straight.
And since counting your chickens before they’ve hatched is the only way to go in a business that eats self-confidence for breakfast, lunch and dinner, Robert doesn’t wait for an opening to slide his arms around Hugh’s neck–he plants himself square in Hugh’s path and makes one. “Heave ho, gorgeous, up I go.”
“Your wife needs to spend a day with mine,” Hugh says, grunting shallowly when Robert doesn’t give him a chance to brace before hopping up into his arms. He staggers forward as Robert’s legs lock around his waist, wincing apologetically when Robert’s shoulder smacks off the doorframe, but it isn’t like Robert gives two shits about a little slap with his tickle. “Deb thinks I’m incorrigible, Susan’ll set her straight.”
“Where the fuck have you been? They’ve been off lunching together for the last three weeks, Susan already thinks you’re a good influence.” He leans back, Hugh’s grip on his ass tightening to compensate. There’s a lot to be said for hands like Hugh’s, even more to be said about the fucking amazing body they belong to and what it feels like to have that body smack right where it is between his legs. “You know what you’re going to do now?”
Hugh settles his weight more firmly against the wall and looks up at him, eyes twinkling like happy little Christmas lights. “I get the feeling you do.”
“Sure do. You’re going to dump me on that couch over there and blow me.”
That light in Hugh’s eyes doesn’t dim but it shifts a few shades darker, like the difference between pleased and pleasured. Making a show of considering it, he glances over his shoulder and hums softly. “That one there, you’re sure? The black leather’s a little mid-eighties coke party.”
“I am so very fucking sure. Besides, been there, done that, but if you don’t plunk me down on it in the next five point five fucking seconds, I’m not letting you come on my face.”
Hugh laughs, the edges of it as rough as the lust that’s been twisting tight in Robert’s gut since Hugh walked out there stuffed into the tightest pair of non-hipster-thank-fuck jeans known to man. When Hugh leans in to kiss him, Robert quickly tilts his face up, mouth twisted to one side. After darting in from the other side and missing again, Hugh makes a vague approximation of Logan’s unhappy face. “I think I should at least get a kiss first.”
“Really? Where’s that written? Did we take a poll?”
The world rocks sideways as Hugh jostles him up a bit higher and steps away from the door. Both his heart and stomach give a pleasant little swoop, the sweet thrill of victory and a future that holds an orgasm by way of Mr. Jackman’s impressively pretty mouth.
Robert sprawls on the couch where Hugh puts him, arms tucked behind his head and a foot stuck out to keep Hugh from sinking straight to his knees. “Take your shirt off first. Show off all those muscles you work so hard on.”
“Didn’t I end up with my shirt off enough during all those photos?”
The only proper response to that idiocy is a raised eyebrow. Shaking his head, his smile turning rueful, Hugh does what he’s told.
“Pants too.” Hugh hesitates, not even needing to glance at the door for Robert to know what’s on his mind, and Robert just shrugs. “Are you seriously going to blame me for wanting to stare at the whole package while you’re sucking me? And I mean the whole package. I’m talking total fucking nudity here.”
Hugh’s hand goes to his fly and lingers there, thumb pressed to the button. “Boots?”
“You are such a good boy,” Robert says, and Hugh gives him a look that’s three parts sardonic and one part tail wag. He gazes up at the truly hideous spackled ceiling while he pretends to think about it. “Leave ‘em on. Shove the whole works down to your ankles.”
And once again Hugh takes him at face value, popping the button and unzipping, bending at the waist to push his clothes all the way down without a single scrap of artifice. He drops to his knees right after, controlled and easy, and keeps his thighs spread wide to give Robert that nice long look he’s been craving.
Leaving one arm stretched out along the back of the couch, Robert undoes his belt one-handed. The eager anticipation that’s been coiled up tight inside him slowly unfurls, wicked hot and tingling, as Hugh leans in to lick at his knuckles. The tip of his finger grazes Hugh’s mouth and he catches it between his teeth, his tongue warm and soft and deliciously wet.
“Fuck the foreplay,” Robert says, wrenching his zip open. “No, no, wait. Forget I said that. Save the foreplay. Store it all up, and when I’m done with that thing in Toronto, I’m coming right back here so you can just hit me with it.”
Hugh looks down at his cock, leans in to give it a wide sloppy lick that sets fireworks off in the base of Robert’s brain like it’s Chinese New Year. “I’ll think about it.”
Screwing up the side of his mouth, Robert slaps a hand over Hugh’s and squeezes his cheeks. “What was that?”
The saucy shit bites him.
“You are such a pushy bitch,” Robert says, not even trying to keep a grin off his face as he rubs his thumb over Hugh’s lips, slides it right on in between them. “A pushy bitch that can just suck on what he’s already got in his mouth.”
Even before he says it, he knows Hugh’s not going to have any objections, and it doesn’t take Hugh long to prove him right. The best thing about Hugh is sometimes the thing that worries Robert the most: he’s all give, give, give. At times like these though, when Hugh’s on his knees and making that noise that says he’s happy to be there, that’s not what Robert’s really worrying about. He’s too busy wondering if this is the time he’s going to blow it before he gets a proper feel of Hugh’s mouth on him.
Hooking his thumb over Hugh’s bottom teeth, he drags Hugh forward, forcing his jaw wide. It’s as good as a command for as fast as Hugh switches from sucking his finger to sucking on his cock through his shorts, big hands pushing his clothes out of the way so as soon as there’s bare skin he can just jump right to that.
If anybody had the balls to ask how it goes from there, Robert would probably drop hints like atom bombs that it’s the big guys like Hugh that get off on a good ol’ fashioned facefuck. But it’s not like that. Hugh is too fucking good at what he does for that sort of shit to go down. Robert talks a good game–started running his mouth once and then up and let all the dirt he could think of come tumbling out of it when he figured out Hugh liked that sort of thing–but fuck if it doesn’t feel amazing to just slump back and let Hugh bring him off nice and sweet as liquid sugar running through his veins.
He stays like that for a couple of minutes, one side of his mouth quirking as Hugh goes from cock back to fingers, tiny little licks and nips that aren’t meant to do much more than make sure Hugh’s still got his attention. Lazily opening his eyes, he looks down and says, “Not going to beat off for me?”
“Didn’t want you to miss the show,” Hugh says, and fuck if his palm isn’t slick with spit and Robert’s come when he wraps it around his dick. When Robert moves to cup the side of his face, he turns his head to follow, biting at the fleshy base of Robert’s thumb. His tongue drags over it smooth as wet satin a second later, and it isn’t more than a handful more after that when his brow furrows and his mouth opens against Robert’s palm. His whole body tightens, muscles standing out in beautifully stark relief, and Robert’s so caught up in staring at his face that he doesn’t notice Hugh’s grip on his thigh until it starts to hurt.
When Hugh goes lax, Robert reaches for the sidetable, flailing a little in an attempt to nab a few tissues. He holds one out, a single eyebrow raised just for the breathless laugh it gets out of Hugh and says, “Tissue, dear?”
“How about another kiss, too?” Hugh asks as he plucks the Kleenex from Robert’s grasp.
“Yes,” Robert says, with about five tons of emphasis. “I love it when your mouth tastes like spunk. Crawl on up here and lay one on me.”
“Only one?” Hugh questions, but Robert’s not really paying attention anymore, too busy basking in the smooth flex of all that solid muscle. He sinks lower into the cushions and tilts his face up, lets Hugh lick straight into his mouth and spends the next eight and a half minutes in one of the best post-blowjob makeout sessions he’s had in months.
He’d have let it go on for the next half an hour or so if Hugh wanted, too, except he did have that pesky plane to catch. “So,” he says, a little slurred because Hugh hasn’t exactly given up his mouth yet, “gonna be here when I get back?”
“Maybe,” Hugh says, and then just as quickly amends it to, “yes,” because he likes to tease but he’s never been so good at the long haul. He’s too instant gratification for that shit. “Can’t see anything coming up between now and the wrap party.”
“Awesome. Fantastically awesome.” Robert drapes an arm around Hugh’s neck and stretches lazily, a nice little kick to his ego when Hugh doesn’t try to keep his appreciation of it out of his eyes. “Five more minutes of your tongue in my mouth and then I’m outta here. Ten. Ten minutes.”
Like he doesn’t believe it, Hugh says, “Ten minutes,” and Robert can’t really blame him. If he were Hugh, he wouldn’t believe him either.
But that doesn’t stop Hugh from kissing him again.