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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He makes a sound that's closer to a muffled growl than a groan. He presses in with his tongue. One hand drops from Tom's hip and reaches between his spread legs, cupping his balls and weighing them briefly before moving on to stroke clumsily at his dick. Not enough to let him come. Enough, he hopes, to make the pleasure overtake everything else.

He's about to be cruel, he thinks. Maybe very much so.

"You like this?" he gasps, pulling back and licking his swollen lips as his hand gropes and jerks. "Tell me. Tell me, you little bitch."

There's a heavy, breaking break that pours out of him when Mike's hand slides over his dick, jerking him. It's something, god, it's something that he needs. For the moment, it's just enough.

He sobs quietly, choking on it. But he does manage to nod.

He nods, even though Hobbes can't see him. He's satisfied.

At least one of them should be.

It's too easy to get lost in just looking at this. The candles turn everything warm gold. Tom's back curves in a graceful line when he arches, the muscles of his shoulders standing out in abnormally sharp relief. He's seen him from this angle so many times now.

The first time he'd looked like fucking marble. Perfect. Pristine.

He'd taken care of that, hadn't he?

"Get up." His hand slips away from Tom's cock and lands hard on his ass again. "On your knees. Don't make me tell you twice."

He feels the look, through everything else, the pain, the pleasure, the shame that's not quite shame. He feels that look, and knows that he's submitting, letting this wash over him, but it's still him that's in control. He couldn't stop it when ever he wanted.

Which he doesn't, not even now, scrambling down onto his knees, so hard he's aching, so naked that he's forgotten how to blush. He closes his eyes and opens them, looking up at Mike, still fully clothed, perfect. Cold now, but he knew the other side enough to keep any fears locked firmly away.

He steps back to give him room and stares down. Tom's cock is jutting up between his thighs, first time he's really seen it properly, it feels like, hard and glistening and darkly flushed. He's glad he's tied Tom's hands. It prevents him from doing certain things to himself.

But like this he can also see his face, and the look on it, the pleading, the sheer, achingly open trust... It brings all the gentleness back. He reaches out with one hand and slowly combs his fingers through hair that's damp with sweat. With the other hand he fumbles the button of his jeans open and starts to pull his zipper down.

"God, I love your mouth," he breathes, smudging his thumb against swollen lips.

For a second, a split second, all Hobbes wants to do is press his face into Mike's thigh and stay there, cheek pressed against his skin and totally at ease. For a moment, only, because then the pad of Mike's fingers are against his lips and it's all Hobbes can do to suck them into his mouth, lips and tongue ghosting over Mike's knuckles. He doesn't say anything, but he's watching Mike's face as he sucks his fingers, feeling dirty, used. Incredible.

He's not entirely surprised by the wet curl of Hobbes's lips around his fingers, but he's not completely expecting it, either, and his inhales lightly as it happens. Softness of lips and tongue and the blunted points of his teeth. He moves like he's exploring Tom's mouth, care and a kind of awe behind the coolness, rapidly dissolving through.

He still can't really believe this.

"Christ," he whispers, sounding nothing but reverent.

Hobbes can only stare up and him as he flicks and whorls his tongue slowly, like Mike showed him, like Mike had done to him. He moved his head forward, still sucking slowly, staring up at Pinocchio and watching his face, in awe of what he could do to him.

It's like his fingers themselves are erogenous zones, as Tom's tongue moves over them, and he keeps them there until it's too much, the fingers of his other hand inside his fly and lying against hot, hard flesh.

He doesn't ask permission. He pulls his fingers away, tugs his cock free of his pants, gently pull's Tom's head forward with a hand at the back of his skull.

He doesn't give any instruction. Tom should know what he wants.

Tom knows. This, at least, is something he's done before and enjoyed doing. But he hasn't even been bound like this, helpless like this, and when he feels Mike's dick against his lips he opens his mouth and closes his eyes, tension seeping out from between his shoulders.

He moans at the familiar heat and weight and taste, moving his tongue in slow sweeps along the bottom of his dick. He takes a moment to enjoy the moment, opening his eyes to see the reaction on Mike's face.

Feeling it makes him realize how much, how fucking much he's wanted it. He keeps one hand against the back of Tom's skull and drops his own head back, eyes fluttering half-closed as a groan works its way up his throat. It's good. It always is, has been since the beginning, even when Tom was new at it and a little clumsy, but so goddamn eager.

Tom's taking a moment and he lets him take it, feeling the heat surge up under his ribcage as he holds him there, gentle and deeply firm.

"Yeah," he breathes, a little strained. "Fuck, that's it."

Tom grins like he's proud of himself, like he knows, and sets to work, bobbing his head slowly, sucking, trying to keep his balance without his arms. he wanted to pull back and say things, like "I love you," and "I love this," but that was off the playbook. Thrown out the window with the rest of the rules.

Leaning forward, he almost choked, trying to take him too deep, too far. Still regaining his balance, his eyes watered slightly and he looked up at Mike as if in apology, resuming his earlier rhythm.

He catches the deeper slide, feels himself hit the back of Hobbes's throat, hears the hitch in his breath, the soft sound close to a gag. When he looks down he catches Hobbes's eyes, sees the tears welling there. The apologetic look.

It doesn't belong there. That's exactly what he'd wanted. When Hobbes slips back into the shallower rhythm Mike's hand tightens on the back of his head and pushes him deeper, forcing him into the new pattern.

"Take it," he says, close to a growl. "I know you can."

Hobbes isn't sure he can. He's almost sure he knows he can't. But maybe it's not what he thinks he can do...maybe that was the whole point. You won't go as far as you can without someone pushing, just like there's only so far you'll go in the dark when you're alone.

So Hobbes trusts Mike's possibly misplaced confidence, and took him, still gaggging, but slowly, slowly getting used to it. Adapting. He'd spent most of his life being told what to do by large men, drill sergeants, who'd screamed at him and pushed him and took joy in torturing him, but they'd never looked down at him with a look like the one Mike's giving him now.

He doesn't force him to go fast. He sets the depth, but he lets Tom set the pace, letting him take the time he needs to get used to it. At some point he might want to make him gag, make his eyes stream tears, humiliate him like that. But he's starting light, now, and they aren't quite there yet.

"Good," he murmurs, his head falling loosely back again, and with the pleasure he feels that deeper rush of pride. In Hobbes. In what he can do. It, and everything else, pushes him closer, until it's all he can do to keep his hips still, and he's pulling in shallow breath through his parted lips.

He gets caught up in it, the ebb and flow, stepping back and accommodating, accommodating...

He can do this. He always had it in him, in the end. It's a frame of mind he's getting used to. Looking at the from the outside, Mike would seem the focus, the control. But go deeper, father down, falling through layers, and Tom is at the core, given over but still, on his knees, in control. Loved.

When Mike went still he looked up at him with concern in his eyes, worried he'd done something wrong.

He feels a little like his skin is trying to turn itself inside out, like something in him is trying to force its way through. He shudders faintly, bites at his bottom lip. Not yet. God, not yet.

But in the end maybe even he doesn't have any say.

"Don't stop," he growls, forcing his eyes open and staring down, the hand on the back of Tom's head tightening. "Christ, don't you... don't you fucking stop."

It's an order. Underneath it is a plea.

There's a thread in that voice that's familiar, not quite so strange and new as the rest of this, as the rest of all of this, and it doesn't make Hobbes smile. But it does make it easier to take the pain, let it be what it was, and follow direction easily, without resistance.

He rolls his tongue, bobs his head, does everything that Mike ever showed him, which was all he could do.

So this has been a bit of a lesson. He's been teaching Tom, though he doesn't seem to need much in the way of fundamentals, teaching him that he can trust this way, open up to discomfort and pain and still feel safe.

But it's not just a lesson for Tom. This has to flow both ways. He has to realize that at some point it isn't even up to him anymore.

"Shit, I'm close," he grates, still looking down, lips parted and wet. It comes out less as a warning... and more as a promise.

Tom made a soft noise, barely there, a slight indication of assent. It's a plea, very nearly. He wants to do this for him, he wants to bring him off, he wants, he wants...

Everything. This. He pushes forward, taking Mike as deep as he can, and makes another noise, harsh, in the back of his throat.

His breath stops as he's taken deep, and that's enough, and he knows he has bare seconds.

This is cruel. Not even necessarily this, but what's following it. What this is is a demonstration, that there's no place for pride here, that any hold on it has to be released. He loves Hobbes more than his own life, but that doesn't preclude him being an object. An object of pleasure, yes, but an object all the same.

He wrenches in a breath, yanks Tom away from him with fingers tight in his hair, and as he starts to shudder helplessly he grasps himself with the other hand and spills, hot and sticky, onto Tom's lips and chin and cheeks.

He stares down as it happens, and even through the faint stab of guilt, the sheer naked perfection of it steals what breath he has left.

He doesn't see it coming, which is to say the least. When Mike jerks away, Tom is left unsteady, unsure, and utterly confused. But only for a moment, a moment just. Then Mike's come was hitting his face and it was hot and lewd and demeaning and, on his knees, Tom sat there and took it, every last drop. Which is not to say he didn't flinch - he did. It surprised him. After a moment, he opened his mouth and caught what he could. He made no noise whatsoever. On his knees with his hands bound before him, Tom laid himself bare and took the humiliation that Mike gave him, making no sound.

When Tom opens his mouth, when he actually tries to catch it on his tongue, it's too much. He can't see anymore. He moans, low and thick, and when his eyes fall closed the hand cupping the back of Tom's head turns gentler, encouraging.

Fuck, he's wanted this for so long. And felt sure that he shouldn't want it. Felt that it's close to blasphemy.

It still feels like that, a little.

It starts to fade. He can open his eyes again. Slowly his hand loosens, combs forward through Tom's hair and trails over his cheekbone to his chin, slicking his fingers. He stays that way for a second, breathing hard, and then steps back, falling onto the mattress, sitting up with his fingers moving up to his parted lips. Tasting himself.

It's all Tom can do to watch him, yearning and leaning forward, watching him. He's all too aware how hard he is, the ache the longing has become. He looks up at Mike and his fingers, how his lips move, and makes a soft, whimpering noise. A plea. He wants something, anything. To be touched like Mike had just been touching him. To come.

He leaned forward without exactly moving, trying to get close as he could.

He watches the lean. The need. There's barely a flicker of warmth before the coldness settles in again. This is... part of him is just hoping like hell that this isn't going to ruin things.

But it feels right.

He reaches over to the table without looking and his hand finds the handle of the knife. The blade shines redly in the candlelight, like he hasn't cleaned it since its last use. But he has. It's pristine.

He reaches down with his other hand and pulls Tom's wrists up, sliding the knife under them and between his forearms. Held like that the point of the blade just pricks the skin of Tom's sternum. And he holds it there, not quite breaking the skin.

But close. God, so close. His mouth almost waters at it.

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