fic: his sins they were forgiven him, or why do flowers run (Jensen Ackles/Tom Hardy, NC-17)
This is entirely and absolutely the fault of smutjunkie, and possibly also that pear cider and three shots of ouzo I drank at 4pm today. Whoops.
INSANITY.
Also, these two men are both in Vancouver right now. I'm just saying.
Title: his sins they were forgiven him, or why do flowers run
Pairing: Jensen Ackles/Tom Hardy (WHAT)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: LIES
Summary: Beer and the darkness and those cocksucking lips. That's about it.
Tom's got a mouth like a pickpocket's, too plush and too smart, gleam of the slick inside around the neck of his beer. It's shit, so he says, cold from the bottle, not like the stuff he's used to, but it doesn't seem to stop him, eyes heavy on Jensen as he drinks. He holds it like a pro, Jensen thinks - hell, like a Londoner.
"Ackles. Little bit of English in you, then? Little bit of Irish? Little bit like me?"
He winks, slow, tongue curling out all teasing, and Jensen isn't the slightest bit like this guy, not anything like. He finds that his chin is in his palm, his head tipped to the side.
"Little bit," he says, vaguely. Thinks, Why? You offering?
But Tom has something else in mind: the o of his mouth hollowing out around the bottleneck, thumb tracing circles through the moisture on the glass.
"Hey," he says; licks around the opening of the bottle with his tongue, pokes it inside, investigating. "Is it always so fuckin' cold in Vancouver, or just today?"
He's sweating. Jensen can see the shimmer in the hollow of his throat. His eyes have darkened, eyebrows raised in invitation.
"Just today," Jensen tells him. "Specially for you."
The wall behind the bar is chilly, unforgiving, rough against his back as Tom's arm brackets him there by the collarbone.
"I don't," says Jensen; "I don't - " And he doesn't; he doesn't.
"Eh," says Tom, flash of white teeth in the dark. "Never mind, buttercup. I know just what you need."
And fuck, yes; the o of those lips is just as practised, just as slick around Jensen's cock, sliding down over his heat the way it slid down the bottleneck, as far as Jensen can tell through the shock of it. Heat and wetness and "Fuck - !" curl of his hips away from the wall; press of Tom's fingers like brands into the hollows of his pelvis.
"I've got you," Tom says around his cock, and Jensen doesn't know how it's intelligible, seeing as it's only a tonal sort of mumble. But that's Tom all over, the rush of his voice like a poem half-understood, comprehended at leisure afterwards; Eliotesque in his roughness, in that gutterboy lilt.
Jensen presses his hand against his mouth as Tom's tongue finds the vein and pushes up, unrelenting. It's quick, too quick, but he's coming through a haze of beer and incredulity, gasping like he's drowning.
Standing, Tom is all swagger, unworried, unfurling; his tongue in Jensen's mouth tastes like come and cockiness and the old country.
"I don't," says Jensen, ragged, while his mind reassembles itself.
"Yeah, I know," Tom says, pressing the heel of Jensen's hand against his cock.
For a moment, they just stare at each other, glare of the streetlamp glancing off the surface of their wide-open eyes.
Jensen jacks him quick in the shadows, drunk on his unconcern.
They round out the night drinking ale with some fucking stupid name, and it tastes like hops and earth on Jensen's tongue.
"Attaboy," Tom says, thumb tracing the inside of Jensen's wrist. There's a delicacy to him, under the broadness, the bold challenge of his tattoos. Soft mouth, soft heart; sharpness and swagger and sweat.
"Yeah," Jensen says. He raises his glass, and knocks it back.
*
It's like, 500 words or something. Don't ask me to run a word count; it's 5.45pm and I'm drunk.
INSANITY.
Also, these two men are both in Vancouver right now. I'm just saying.
Title: his sins they were forgiven him, or why do flowers run
Pairing: Jensen Ackles/Tom Hardy (WHAT)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: LIES
Summary: Beer and the darkness and those cocksucking lips. That's about it.
Tom's got a mouth like a pickpocket's, too plush and too smart, gleam of the slick inside around the neck of his beer. It's shit, so he says, cold from the bottle, not like the stuff he's used to, but it doesn't seem to stop him, eyes heavy on Jensen as he drinks. He holds it like a pro, Jensen thinks - hell, like a Londoner.
"Ackles. Little bit of English in you, then? Little bit of Irish? Little bit like me?"
He winks, slow, tongue curling out all teasing, and Jensen isn't the slightest bit like this guy, not anything like. He finds that his chin is in his palm, his head tipped to the side.
"Little bit," he says, vaguely. Thinks, Why? You offering?
But Tom has something else in mind: the o of his mouth hollowing out around the bottleneck, thumb tracing circles through the moisture on the glass.
"Hey," he says; licks around the opening of the bottle with his tongue, pokes it inside, investigating. "Is it always so fuckin' cold in Vancouver, or just today?"
He's sweating. Jensen can see the shimmer in the hollow of his throat. His eyes have darkened, eyebrows raised in invitation.
"Just today," Jensen tells him. "Specially for you."
The wall behind the bar is chilly, unforgiving, rough against his back as Tom's arm brackets him there by the collarbone.
"I don't," says Jensen; "I don't - " And he doesn't; he doesn't.
"Eh," says Tom, flash of white teeth in the dark. "Never mind, buttercup. I know just what you need."
And fuck, yes; the o of those lips is just as practised, just as slick around Jensen's cock, sliding down over his heat the way it slid down the bottleneck, as far as Jensen can tell through the shock of it. Heat and wetness and "Fuck - !" curl of his hips away from the wall; press of Tom's fingers like brands into the hollows of his pelvis.
"I've got you," Tom says around his cock, and Jensen doesn't know how it's intelligible, seeing as it's only a tonal sort of mumble. But that's Tom all over, the rush of his voice like a poem half-understood, comprehended at leisure afterwards; Eliotesque in his roughness, in that gutterboy lilt.
Jensen presses his hand against his mouth as Tom's tongue finds the vein and pushes up, unrelenting. It's quick, too quick, but he's coming through a haze of beer and incredulity, gasping like he's drowning.
Standing, Tom is all swagger, unworried, unfurling; his tongue in Jensen's mouth tastes like come and cockiness and the old country.
"I don't," says Jensen, ragged, while his mind reassembles itself.
"Yeah, I know," Tom says, pressing the heel of Jensen's hand against his cock.
For a moment, they just stare at each other, glare of the streetlamp glancing off the surface of their wide-open eyes.
Jensen jacks him quick in the shadows, drunk on his unconcern.
They round out the night drinking ale with some fucking stupid name, and it tastes like hops and earth on Jensen's tongue.
"Attaboy," Tom says, thumb tracing the inside of Jensen's wrist. There's a delicacy to him, under the broadness, the bold challenge of his tattoos. Soft mouth, soft heart; sharpness and swagger and sweat.
"Yeah," Jensen says. He raises his glass, and knocks it back.
*
It's like, 500 words or something. Don't ask me to run a word count; it's 5.45pm and I'm drunk.