forthedog | Gentle impulsion

Entry tags:

hobbes,
pr0n

Gentle impulsion

It's been a long time since he's done this. In some sense he's never done this.

He's had Eostre bound, blindfolded. He's been bound by her in his turn. And there had been the afternoon in her hut, with the belt, with Tom on his knees. And long before that there had been other times, times with a lot less warmth and a lot more disconnect. They hadn't been bad, not really, but they hadn't been close to this.

Or to what he imagines this could be.

It's close to half an hour since he'd left Tom in the compound. He's sitting on his bed, facing the door and waiting. Next to him is a coil of rope, his belt, his hunting knife. He's not sure what he'll use. Maybe he'll use none of it, this time. But he wants Tom to see them, as best he can in the flickering light of the two candles burning in saucers on the makeshift table beside the bed. If he doesn't use them, he wants Tom to be aware that he can. Anytime.

He realizes that it's a lot, that they haven't done much in this vein since the first baby steps that one afternoon weeks ago, that Tom might simply turn and leave if it's too much.

It's a risk he's willing to take, now. He curls his hands into loose fists and waits.

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On the edge of Pinocchio's yard, Hobbes ground to a stop. It had really occurred to him that he'd been almost running all the way from Eostre's, not until he remembered and thought about the burn in his chest and the way that his fingernails had been digging into this palm. He stopped there, on a dime, and caught his breath.

He could almost see the spill of the light from the candles from here. Slowly, he closed his eyes.

Eostre hadn't been angry. She'd taken her daughters and kissed Tom slowly, and looked like she might have been laughing. And then she'd sent him on his way.

Hobbes wasn't afraid. That was the point, the whole damn point. He wasn't afraid, but he couldn't see the limits....and until you could, you had no idea what you were capable of. He understood this without really understanding the words. The reasons couldn't be distilled down into sentences. Instinct wasn't always something you were born knowing. Sometimes it just came to you later on.

Which is why, when Hobbes got to the doorway, he didn't look up. He lingered, head down, and waited.

He wasn't late.

Edited 2007-11-26 01:59 (UTC)

Mike hears him coming before he's at the door, and for a while after he's there he just stares at him, watching his shoulders move when he breathes; watching, with quiet approval, the way he keeps his head down.

The thing about doing this with soldiers is that the basic framework is actually already there.

So. We'll see.

"Strip," he says. It's a single word delivered flatly, barely a hint of any emotion in his voice. Then he amends it. "Slow. Let me watch."

Hobbes raised his hand, still looking down at the ground by Mike's feet, and closed his fingers around his collar, tugging slowly, drawing it over his head. When it hit the ground, it was the loudest noise in the room.

Hobbes flexed, rolled his shoulders, and looked up at Mike from beneath his eyebrows. And then he dropped his hand down onto his belt and started sliding it open, fly easing down. After toeing off his shoes and kicking away his pants he stood in the cool evening in his boxers and hesitated, heart beating in his ears and his chest and his dick.

The candles seem very bright in the darkness, but at this distance they don't illuminate much. Tom's body is mostly gold lines and shadows, and they flicker and dance and make him seem unreal. Mike watches his clothes fall away and then when they're mostly gone he keeps watching, a faintly thoughtful look on his face, letting the hesitation play itself out. Letting it be felt.

"I didn't say to stop," he says finally, and it's still flat and emotionless, and under the surface there's a little twinge of panic. Tom's thinking better of it. He doesn't want it after all. He'll have to be understanding, if it turns out that way, hide his disappointment no matter how keenly it's felt.

But the words come out of his mouth regardless. Almost as if they're coming from a part of him that doesn't care what Tom wants.

Hobbes shivered at the tone of Mike's voice, . at the implication. It wasn't a request, it was a reminder that none of this wasn't really a request, and when his fingers pushed his boxers down, he was blushing. But he wasn't really backing down.

He was hard when he stood there naked, awkward, not exactly sure what to do with his hands. He lifted his head and looked up at Mike for the first time and swallowed. And then...on impulse, with some kind of instinct he hadn't had before, he stepped forward half an inch and...dropped. Down onto his knees on the packed dirt, head bowed. Waiting.

He gasps when it happens. It's not loud, just a sharp little hiss of breath, and he can't hold it back. Just for a moment he's literally shocked; he'd been expecting obedience, maybe, but on this level...

Hobbes is anticipating him. That's new.

And the thing is, even anticipation is disobedience.

"I didn't tell you to do that either," he says quietly. "Look at me." His hands are still in those loose fists, but every muscle is tense.

Hobbes looked up, and his eyes were crystal clear and his face flushed, mouth half open.

He met Mike's stare without flinching.

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to tell me if you want this or not," he says, without hesitation. "And I want you to be honest."

He doesn't know how well Tom can see his face. But it's like he's trying to force the subtext out through his eyes. If you don't, let me off the hook now. If you do, reassure me. Just this once. Let me be the weak one for sixty seconds.

Slowly, slowly, his hands begin to uncurl.

A brief look of confusion crossed Hobbes's face, a little frown line popping up between his eyes. Like he'd be here, naked and on his knees, if he wasn't sure...like he couldn't trust Mike this much.

"I want this," He breathed out, looking up, feeling very exposed on the ground, naked. There was a draft coming in from the door. He closed his eyes.

"I think about this..."

He doesn't gasp this time. He lets out a slow breath, not quite a sigh, and he feels the rest of the tension slipping out of him. Just the words are enough, but the look on Tom's face is more, and even with the dimness he can see it, and it's like a warm breeze in his hair.

"I think about this too," he says. "Have been forever. Used to sit up on watch and look at you and think about it. When I'd let myself." He holds out a hand and points to a spot on the floor at his feet. "Come here." His eyes narrow just a little. "Crawl."

At first it's almost as though Hobbes doesn't understand. All he can think about is Mike with is dick in his hand and thinking about him, long before Tom knew any of the rest. But then Tom bit his lips and, yeah, he crawled forward on hands and knees, feeling a flush of shame and a flush of want make every hair on his body pebble with goosebumps. He stopped when he could see Mike's boots.

He doesn't lower his hand while Tom's crawling, and when he's there, kneeling at Mike's feet, it uncurls again, lowers and threads into Tom's hair, slow and so gentle, guiding his head up to Mike's knee.

"I love you," he murmurs. "Look." He inclines his head to the things laid out next to him. Weapons. Tools. He could have more, maybe, but this'll do to start with. He keeps his hand gentle. He keeps his voice low. He remembers reading, once, an actual honest-to-God manual about this.

Start lighter than light. Build slower than slow.

Hobbes let him lean against Mike's hand without realizing it, feeling some of the fear and nerves soften in response to the tone.

"God," he murmured when he saw what was laid out, without really understanding, without a clue. Some of the tension crept back into his spine and he straighted, aware of each piece of grit digging into his palms and his shins.

"What's it for?"

"Depends what I feel like," he says, his fingers still working lightly over Tom's scalp, and his eyes flick to the smooth expanse of Tom's back, gently curved and lovely in the candlelight. Inviting. "Depends how much I think you can take." Which isn't entirely accurate; he knows Hobbes can take a lot. He's seen it. But there are things he doesn't want to put him through.

The important thing about this is that there are limits.

The other important thing is that this is a completely different kind of sex. It doesn't even have to be sex at all. It's a human body reduced to a toy, objectified in the purest sense of the word, and yet underneath it all infinitely precious, infinitely loved.

Wanna play?

"I can take it," Hobbes said, still speaking quietly, leaning up into that touch, back arching. He couldn't look away from the table, not at first. He should feel exposed and he does, strangely. Mike's standing in front of him and Mike is totally clothed, and there's that array of things on the table...

But he doesn't. He can feel the way Mike's looking at him and, knowing that, he's not afraid.

He swallowed. "I can."

"You don't even know what I want yet," he says, and his fingers slide down the side of Tom's face, tracing the line of his jaw, one fingertip settling under his chin and tilting his head up with slight pressure.

The truth is that he doesn't know either. Not yet. He's feeling this out, adjusting as he goes. It seems better than an actual plan.

"You have some control here," he says softly, close to whispering. "I can give you a word. If you can't take it, if it gets to be too much or if you're just not comfortable with something, you can say it and I'll stop. Immediately."

"You want me," Hobbes said, swallowing, nervous. Not really all that unsure, though.

"I trust you." He looked up at Mike, like a damn statue in the light, perfect down to every shadow. "But...yeah. I think...yes. I'd like that."

He found himself watching Mike's mouth. "What should I - what's the word? Stop?"

"No." He shakes his head. He's almost smiling now, very faint, and under the lust and the want and the nerves is a something that can't move away from God I fucking love you so much. "You might say that and not mean it. It has to be something you'd never say normally."

He pauses. He's actually had this part planned out. What had brought it to his mind makes him roll his eyes a little, and what it means also makes him roll his eyes a little, because from some angles it looks like he's trying too hard to be clever. But a small corner of his mind appreciates poetics, and this pleases it.

"The word is 'Domini'," he says, and when he doesn't cringe at the sound of it he knows it's okay.

Domini. God. Lord.

Master.

"Domini," Hobbes repeated, feeling the weight of it in his mouth. Domini. Hobbes never took Latin in school, but he liked the way this sounded. Old. It was suddenly a secret, something only him and Mike knew and that...that made it almost harder to be here on the ground, hard but not being touched. He licked his lips and looked up at him. God, he's beautiful.

"Mike...."

He hadn't asked Hobbes to repeat it, but hearing the word slip out like that from between his lips makes him shiver. He can't help it. There's power in the room, buzzing around them like stray electricity, almost crackling in the air.

"Stand up," he says, leans over to the table and his hand finds the short length of rope without him needing to look for it. "Hold out your arms. Wrists together."

The orders just come. Once he gave them for a living. It's easy to fall back into that, use it again.

Turn it into something new.

Hobbes clamored as he stood, sudden too eager to get all his joints to collaborate in one easy movement. He watched Mike warily, breath coming fast enough and deep enough to make his chest tight. There was even a flush from his cheeks down onto his chest.

Still watching Mike, he held out his wrists and shifted his weight. He was hard to the point of pain, and Mike was warm and solid and it would be so easy to step in beside him and press against his thigh...

No. He didn't. He held out his wrist and he waited.

As Tom stands Mike's eyes follow him, and it's then that he realizes that his gaze has been largely centered on Tom's face and head and back. And there's more. So much more. He should acquaint himself with it.

Maybe in more than one way.

Still. First things first.

He's good with knots by now, and the tie is fast and efficient, wide across the wrists so as not to cut, tight enough to prevent him wriggling free but not so tight that he'll lose circulation. And if something goes wrong, he has the knife. He's sharpened it this morning.

"You're being very patient," he observes, releasing Tom's bound hands, and his right hand drops immediately between Tom's thighs, under his cock to cup his balls roughly. "That's good," he murmurs. "You'll need that."

"Jesus," Hobbes hissed at the man-handling, the pain, but also the friction he'd wanted for so long. Patient? He doesn't feel patient now. He pressed his hips forward into Mike's palm and made a soft, begging noise even as he tested the restraints.

He bit his bottom lip hard.

"Jesus, Pinocchio. Like that..."

"Don't you fucking tell me how you want it," he hisses, the fangs coming out finally as his hand tightens, and he knows it's enough to hurt now, Tom's balls squeezed heavy in his hand. "I decide how you want it."

He holds on long enough to make his point, his other hand curling around Tom's bound wrists and holding him close, and then, almost at the point where he thinks it might be getting close to too much, he releases him, slides his hand up and over the smooth, hot skin of his cock, stroking every bit as lightly as he'd been rough.

"Right now," he whispers, "what you want doesn't matter. Get it?"

Hobbes entire body lurched to get away from the spike of pain, the hurt, and it was too much. It was almost scary. Domini. All he had to do was say it...

But then, he steeled himself and drew a breath and...it was done, Mike's hand was gentle as it traced up his dick. He nodded shakily.

He didn't even try to speak.

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