mini soaps (tom hardy/benedict cumberbatch)
words: under 1000
rating: R?
note 1: i wrote this super tiny ficlet back in early november for yourealwaysmine, who went to work one day seething with "imagined memories of tom and benedict affairing all over london". i subsequently gmailed it to everyone i thought would have the slightest interest (er... 3 people). BUT. now it is 2011 and we are all in love with benedict cumberbatch, right? so, here. have it.
note 2: beta and squick-removal by buckle_berry, of course. cheers, bird.
Tom hangs back at the door for a quick gander.
Benedict's booked the Gore this time, like the upper class prick he pretends he is. The bed's got a tapestry cover, and it's like a fashion shoot the way he's lying back on it, bracketed on his elbows, not even looking Tom in the face. Eyeing the booze cupboard, actually, as if a tot of whisky might make him even sluttier.
It's been a fortnight since the Scratchwood Premier Inn, and Benny looks like someone who needs a cock up his arse yesterday. Tom's cock suggests itself eagerly.
"I'm going to try out the bath."
That made him look. Startled, too, not the eyelashy come-hither.
The bath's a clawfoot, and the water's plumbed so it falls from the taps with a good strong splash and makes big bubbles. Tom lies in it for the time it takes to smoke a Silk Cut, and think about Benedict sitting in the other end, then sticks one of the robes on (waffle, no monogram, posh as fuck), lights another fag, and heads back in with wet feet.
"Free scotch," says Benedict, holding a bottle of Lagavulin. "God, I hope they don't know who we are." His glass is already wet and empty.
"Can't do or they’d definitely've got you a Babycham. I left the water in, in case you want to get yourself all squeaky for me."
"I'm not going to bathe myself in your dirt."
"So precious, sweetheart." He blows smoke out the side of his mouth. "Give me some of that booze, then. And then you can get your knickers off."
A couple of glasses of Lagavulin don't actually make Benedict any prettier or more pale and soft-looking, but they do make it more difficult for Tom to sit on a hard little button-back chair, stranded at least five feet from the bed, when Benedict's uncufflinking his cuffs and the front of his pink shirt is open, offering the glimpse of a sweet brown nipple.
Tom puts his free hand on his cock and gives it an encouraging squeeze, good boy. Benedict catches the movement and looks up at him, mouth open.
"Am I about to get fucked?"
"Properly fucked, I’d say."
His shirt's off and in the expensive light of the hotel room, his skin's like buggering milk with tiny crumbs of toast floating in it. Tom forgoes the glass and takes the bottle of whisky over to the bed.
The touch of a palm to his left tit and Benedict goes down like he’s melting. Tom climbs on board.
It's an old bed, not carefully distressed and waxed over, but properly old. The mattress crunches gently under them. Crunch… crunch… like it's stuffed with paper, and keeping time with the shove of Tom’s cock into Benedict's arse.
Just south of Tom's left ear, Benedict's toes are curled and gripping at the edge of the bedside table, his leg bent back, flexible as a paperclip. Bracing. He’d better be fucking braced.
Tom has one hand at his middle, thumb rubbing against the skin under his navel, soft sweet skin with a crisp residue where ten minutes ago Tom had smeared the sticky end of his cock, obscene and blissed out.
He hits his stride quickly, hot slide, clench and gasp, Benedict's neck stretched out on posh cotton. Tom watches his nostrils flare, shadow of the tash that's always threatening on his upper lip.
"You should... try for a beard," he pants.
Dazed, slant-eyed glance up at him. "Yeah?"
"Manly." He pulls out, punches back in. Benedict’s whole body shudders. "Men’d like you better."
"Just... what?"
"Men. Get a few... fucks."
His dirty talk's working its usual charm. Benedict's fist knocks him in the stomach as he tugs himself off good and rough. Tom's going like a train, tight in the balls and ready to come as soon as he gets the nod.
A foot bashes into his arse, slides down, teasing haphazardly at his crack. They're suddenly both squeaking with sweat and the foot's pulling him in, again, again, crunch, crunch, all legs like a frog. A beautiful fucking leggy lay of a frog. Nonsense in his head. Tom slides his mouth against wet pliant lips, feeling the lurch and shake of that long body, comes abruptly and hard with his teeth round a cheekbone and his fingers slipping in jizz.
He lights a Silk Cut for Benedict, because a fuck like that earns a little TLC. They blow smoke, syncopated, at the ceiling.
"Four Seasons."
Benedict leans over him to flick his ash into the whisky glass on the bedside table. "You should've been a footballer's wife."
He lies back down, propped on an elbow and looking down at Tom, sly eyes. His pansy fringe is straggling limp down one side of his forehead, freckled face damp and blotched with exertion.
He looks fucked within an inch of his life. Tom’s belly makes a feeble attempt to flutter, but it's fighting a losing battle. Tom's a sleeper.
"I've got class," he says, eyes sliding shut. "Put my fag out for me."
In the split-second of lucidity before he twitches into his first doze, Tom prides himself on his level of trust.
rating: R?
note 1: i wrote this super tiny ficlet back in early november for yourealwaysmine, who went to work one day seething with "imagined memories of tom and benedict affairing all over london". i subsequently gmailed it to everyone i thought would have the slightest interest (er... 3 people). BUT. now it is 2011 and we are all in love with benedict cumberbatch, right? so, here. have it.
note 2: beta and squick-removal by buckle_berry, of course. cheers, bird.
Tom hangs back at the door for a quick gander.
Benedict's booked the Gore this time, like the upper class prick he pretends he is. The bed's got a tapestry cover, and it's like a fashion shoot the way he's lying back on it, bracketed on his elbows, not even looking Tom in the face. Eyeing the booze cupboard, actually, as if a tot of whisky might make him even sluttier.
It's been a fortnight since the Scratchwood Premier Inn, and Benny looks like someone who needs a cock up his arse yesterday. Tom's cock suggests itself eagerly.
"I'm going to try out the bath."
That made him look. Startled, too, not the eyelashy come-hither.
The bath's a clawfoot, and the water's plumbed so it falls from the taps with a good strong splash and makes big bubbles. Tom lies in it for the time it takes to smoke a Silk Cut, and think about Benedict sitting in the other end, then sticks one of the robes on (waffle, no monogram, posh as fuck), lights another fag, and heads back in with wet feet.
"Free scotch," says Benedict, holding a bottle of Lagavulin. "God, I hope they don't know who we are." His glass is already wet and empty.
"Can't do or they’d definitely've got you a Babycham. I left the water in, in case you want to get yourself all squeaky for me."
"I'm not going to bathe myself in your dirt."
"So precious, sweetheart." He blows smoke out the side of his mouth. "Give me some of that booze, then. And then you can get your knickers off."
A couple of glasses of Lagavulin don't actually make Benedict any prettier or more pale and soft-looking, but they do make it more difficult for Tom to sit on a hard little button-back chair, stranded at least five feet from the bed, when Benedict's uncufflinking his cuffs and the front of his pink shirt is open, offering the glimpse of a sweet brown nipple.
Tom puts his free hand on his cock and gives it an encouraging squeeze, good boy. Benedict catches the movement and looks up at him, mouth open.
"Am I about to get fucked?"
"Properly fucked, I’d say."
His shirt's off and in the expensive light of the hotel room, his skin's like buggering milk with tiny crumbs of toast floating in it. Tom forgoes the glass and takes the bottle of whisky over to the bed.
The touch of a palm to his left tit and Benedict goes down like he’s melting. Tom climbs on board.
It's an old bed, not carefully distressed and waxed over, but properly old. The mattress crunches gently under them. Crunch… crunch… like it's stuffed with paper, and keeping time with the shove of Tom’s cock into Benedict's arse.
Just south of Tom's left ear, Benedict's toes are curled and gripping at the edge of the bedside table, his leg bent back, flexible as a paperclip. Bracing. He’d better be fucking braced.
Tom has one hand at his middle, thumb rubbing against the skin under his navel, soft sweet skin with a crisp residue where ten minutes ago Tom had smeared the sticky end of his cock, obscene and blissed out.
He hits his stride quickly, hot slide, clench and gasp, Benedict's neck stretched out on posh cotton. Tom watches his nostrils flare, shadow of the tash that's always threatening on his upper lip.
"You should... try for a beard," he pants.
Dazed, slant-eyed glance up at him. "Yeah?"
"Manly." He pulls out, punches back in. Benedict’s whole body shudders. "Men’d like you better."
"Just... what?"
"Men. Get a few... fucks."
His dirty talk's working its usual charm. Benedict's fist knocks him in the stomach as he tugs himself off good and rough. Tom's going like a train, tight in the balls and ready to come as soon as he gets the nod.
A foot bashes into his arse, slides down, teasing haphazardly at his crack. They're suddenly both squeaking with sweat and the foot's pulling him in, again, again, crunch, crunch, all legs like a frog. A beautiful fucking leggy lay of a frog. Nonsense in his head. Tom slides his mouth against wet pliant lips, feeling the lurch and shake of that long body, comes abruptly and hard with his teeth round a cheekbone and his fingers slipping in jizz.
He lights a Silk Cut for Benedict, because a fuck like that earns a little TLC. They blow smoke, syncopated, at the ceiling.
"Four Seasons."
Benedict leans over him to flick his ash into the whisky glass on the bedside table. "You should've been a footballer's wife."
He lies back down, propped on an elbow and looking down at Tom, sly eyes. His pansy fringe is straggling limp down one side of his forehead, freckled face damp and blotched with exertion.
He looks fucked within an inch of his life. Tom’s belly makes a feeble attempt to flutter, but it's fighting a losing battle. Tom's a sleeper.
"I've got class," he says, eyes sliding shut. "Put my fag out for me."
In the split-second of lucidity before he twitches into his first doze, Tom prides himself on his level of trust.