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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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.

It's a test, really. All of this is a test. Every single line pushed past, every barrier that comes down; until he knows, it's a test.

But maybe he's having trouble holding onto that.

"Good," he says, soft again. Tom's dick is hot in his palm, twitching slightly when he strokes it all the way down to the root, the tip leaking a slick trail onto his wrist. He wants, so suddenly and so violently that it almost makes him gasp, to go down on his knees, take it in his mouth, taste.

So he kisses Tom to make it stop. It seems like the thing to do.

Hobbes wants to lift his arms, wrap them around Mike's waist, haul them together and get more of that friction against his dick, feel more of Mike's need against him. But it's not an option, not tonight, anyway, and he just crumbles against the unexpected kiss. It's not even that he didn't expect kissing - he simply expects nothing. He can't predict more than a few seconds ahead.

So he leans into the kiss while he has it, and makes a low, needy sound.

He times the length of it carefully. Long enough that by the time he breaks it they're both breathing hard, short enough that he's aching for more, pressing against the inside of his jeans, and he knows it has to be worse for Hobbes.

Perfect.

Slowly he moves back, gaze falling over the lines of Tom's body, up and down. It's easier to see with him this close. He's looking at him like he's never seen him before, like this is new. "You're so beautiful," he whispers, reaching up and slowly tracing Tom's collarbone with his fingers.

Hobbes' breath goes out of him all at once, shaking him, leaving him empty, shivering. Wanting. It wasn't really a void, exactly. It was just the promise of something that could fill it up.

The way that Mike is looking at him goes through him, down to his atoms, pulling shallow breaths and a single muttered fuck out of him.

"You are," he said quietly, in reply, leaning into the fingers on his chest.

"Don't talk back to me," he says, but he's smiling faintly and his voice is fond. There's not as much need to keep back the emotion now.

He's not as afraid.

The hand at Tom's collarbone finger-walks up to his throat, curls around the back of his neck and as Mike steps away and to the side he pushes down, not quite pressing Hobbes onto his knees but bending him, instead.

"Bend over the bed," he murmurs. "Legs straight. I know it's hard to hold yourself up with your hands like that. Do your best."

It is hard, it makes him bend his elbows at an awkward angle and he winces, trying to balance his weight. He wonders how Mike knows, who Mike has done this with before, who's done it to him, and does it matter?

He curls his fingers in the sheets and opens his eyes, looking back at Mike warily, evaluating. Looking at the way that Mike was looking at him.

No. It didn't matter. And it probably hadn't for a very long time.

Even after Hobbes bends, Mike holds him there with his hand on the back of his neck, firm without being too hard. He knows from experience that there's something about that touch in that place that feels ultimately controlling, even if little pressure is used. And it can be calming, too.

He stands there with Hobbes bent over in front of him and he just looks, not meeting Hobbes's eyes. Not acknowledging him.

When his hands finally start to move they're unhurried and businesslike, sliding down the lines of back and hips, gripping Tom's ass firmly, slipping between his thighs to cup hard cock and heavy balls before moving on to his chest and shoulders.

It's like he's examining. Like Hobbes is livestock that he's considering buying. But the touch itself is a form of ownership.

The touch itself isn't erotic. It's not light. It's not teasing. It doesn't necessarily make Hobbes feel he's supposed to put on a show. It just...washes over him, comforting. He breathes out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, easing into the touch and making a soft, needy sound.

It's not as if it's a burden to endure, and even if the touches don't feel like sex, he skin sops up the contact and the heat, and he presses back into Mike without thinking about it, a noise pressing past his lips.

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