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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"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.

He feels the muscles loosening under his hands, feels Tom relaxing and he smiles to himself. It's perfect, the way he's responding, almost as if he's already been trained. And yet he knows that no one has ever done this to him before. It's a first, another in a long string of firsts for them, and it's a pattern that he's getting to like.

Time to move it along a little, maybe.

"This is gonna hurt," he says quietly, his hands soothing on Tom's back. "I'm warning you because it's the first time. I won't always do that." If there is another time. Another chance for him to warn, or not, as he wishes. Because if there's a point at which it'll be too much...

He reaches over to the table and picks up the belt.

"What's going to..." he starts to ask, but stops, watching him. Seeing. He swallowed hard. The weed had made that afternoon fuzzy, and out of focus, but he remembers the stinging slap of Mike's open hand. But this...was something completly different.

He didn't say anything else. He just ducked his head and braced his arms, eyes a little wide and a little wild.

The belt is a pleasing weight in his hand. It's worn and old; for a long time it was the only belt he had, taken with him when he'd run past the fence that first time, and he'd counted the notches as he'd had to wear it tighter and tighter as years of good meals burned off him. It had marked the time.

Somehow it seems fitting that he'd use it for this. He slides the end through the buckle, loops it around his wrist and curls his fingers around the strap.

Start light. For the love of God.

"Remember your word," he says, and the belt swings almost gently across the back of Tom's upper thighs, barely a slap.

Hobbes jerked forward slightly as the first blow landed. He hung his head and blinked rapidly, making a soft, scraping sound that was entirely breath.

Domini. "I...I remember," he panted, pushing back his hips in anticipation.

"Good boy," he breathes, and this time when the belt hits flesh it's harder, an audible slap, still not hard enough to leave welts but hard enough for Tom to feel it.

When he stops to think about it he still doesn't know why he likes this, why causing pain to someone he loves is this overwhelmingly satisfying. But it is, and he does, swinging the strap lazily through the air. When he sees Tom's hips twitch, his breath catches.

Beautiful.

Now this is the part that hurts, that isn't familiar, and it's all Hobbes can do to brace himself, mouth open in shock or pain.

"I..." he breathed between strikes, the skin already hot, flushed. There's something undeniable about letting go like this, letting the pain mean something than just hurt, letting it hurt so that he didn't have to think. He didn't have to anything except what Mike said.

"I...Mike, I just..."

"Don't speak." That coolness is back again in his voice, the order given dispassionately as the belt connects with the meat of Tom's ass. "Say the word if you have to. Otherwise be quiet." He doesn't want distractions. He wants to hear the sound of leather on flesh, Tom's gasps and hurt sounds, his own shallow breathing.

God, it's been so long since he's done this. It's all he can do to hold it back.

He tries. He does try to be quiet. There's the kind of pain he's used to...the pain of going for too long with out sleep, the pain of being hungry, the pain of a bullet when you thought you were safe...

The stinging slap isn't pain as he's known it...but it's deliberate. It's even. It just makes him want to give in....surrender.

When the next blow lands, he gasps, but nothing else.

He's proud of him. Briefly he wishes that he could just show it. The way he's taking it, the way he's holding himself in check... and it's not hard yet, but at the next strike it's getting there, and when the belt leaves Tom's skin he sees an angry welt rising in the candlelight.

He licks his lips. He wants to leave marks. Marks are sort of the point of this, really.

He's breathing harder, swinging harder, still holding onto his control but it's going to have to stop soon. Part of him is still worried. An even deeper part of him is sleeping. And he has no desire to wake it.

He cries out on the next blow. He can't stop it. Between the thudding of his chest and the look he can feel Mike giving him, resting on his shoulders like a weight, it's no hope. His ass is pink, sensitive, taking more abuse as the belt falls...

It just pushes out of him, like something that had been contained for a long time and fighting, and he shouts, eyes screwed tightly shut.

He trusts Mike implicitly, but that doesn't mean that he has any idea what happens now. Shaking a little, Tom drew a sharp, shallow breath.

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