(work got boring so i accidentally a hiddlesworth drabble)
A pile of mattresses does not a bed make, but that’s easily overlooked with Tom squirming against his chest, his broad grip still heavy on the slender neck.
“You alright?” Chris asks, and realizes he’s used that voice. The voice. The seductive rumble reserved for lazy sunlit mornings when they’re both barely awake, warmth spreading wherever their skin touched, tangled bare legs dragging along the crumpled bedsheet.
He sees Tom giving a curt, uneasy nod before getting off the mattress. There are cameras around and too much is at stake.
He will have that neck to himself later.
In their room, on a proper bed.
He will have it in any way he can: hand clasped for support around a stark blue jugular stretched along the white throat as he rides and rides the deliciously freckled pale body below it to the ground—a greedy marking bite on the base just deep enough to draw blood and stifle a moan as he’s being stretched slowly open—teeth grazing along the sensitive dip below one ear as his moist chest rubs against a long spine that quakes and curls as he pushes inside—