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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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.

"I..." Tom said, and almost moved. He stopped the impulse at the last moment to pull away. His mouth was dry, and for a long moment there was real fear. Fear, but trust there too. How far can one man go? This far, at least, and maybe farther. Again, he didn't move, but his adam's apple bobbed, and he looked up at Mike, almost for reassurance.

He keeps his face impassive, and for a few seconds longer he doesn't move. He can feel the skin giving very slightly under the pressure of the blade, and the solid bone underneath. The fact is, even if he broke the skin here the bone would stop him from doing any serious damage at all.

Not that he would. God, not ever. But he remembers that first moment, circling with guns pointed at each other, and then he'd been ready to do it if he had to. No matter who this kid was.

The knife moves, jerks up sharply, and the ropes fall loosely away from Tom's wrists, leaving faint red marks behind.

A heavy, burdened breath goes out of him, deep and deepest relief, release from the word that he'd almost said, that was nearly on his lips. Domini. Not now, not yet.

He finds himself looking at Mike's knees, breath heaving out of him, his arms dead weights at his sides. He's almost in shock, an on sudden island of calm in the middle of all of this.

"I didn't..."

"I know." He's standing, zipping his pants up, looking down at Tom on his knees and smiling very faintly. So far, this is... exemplary. Close to perfect. He hadn't dared hope it could be like this.

It almost feels like a shame to walk away.

He reaches down with one hand and strokes it gently through Tom's hair. The smile widens, becomes fond as his eyes roam over welts and faint bruises, marks that he hopes won't fade too soon.

"You okay?"

A grin on his own face echoes Mike's look, and deliberately, Hobbes nodded, letting his body go lax and unresisting against him. He suddenly feels very, very drained.

"M'okay." His eyes fluttered closed. "Achy."

"Good." There's still come spattering Tom's face and for a second he feels an almost overwhelming urge to drop to his knees and clean him, with his lips and tongue and fingertips. And then... take care of him. However he wants.

But that's not where they are right now.

He hesitates for a few seconds, then releases Tom's hair and steps past him, toward the door, leaving him there on his knees.

Tom's eyes drifted open after a few moments of loss, and he tracked Mike's movements, turning around as far as he could without crawling.

"I...?" he said, not understanding, so obviously not understanding. "Pinocchio? Did I do something...wrong?"

"No." He turns in the doorway, still with that faint smile. "You did good. Real good." But this is the last little bit of torture, and the one he's most nervous about. Because this is the hardest to explain. Either Tom will understand it, or he simply won't.

He inclines his head slightly. "We're done. I'm going to Eostre's." His eyes flicker down to Tom's cock, still hard, and to his unbound wrists.

"Use your hand if you need to," he adds, and in his smile there's a sharp little edge of cruelty. "'S what it's for."

"It's what it's...?" Hobbes asked, his eyes round with disbelief. His hand dropped down over his dick, cupping himself, ignoring the ache in his arms and his legs.

"I thought that's what yours was for."

He laughs, dry and soft. "Not so much at the moment. Told you. We're done." He turns again, like he's about to walk out of the hut, and then turns back with his eyes glittering and fastened on Tom's face. His palms are sweating and he closes them into fists at his sides.

"Sometimes," he says, very quietly, "it's really just about me."

Hobbes watched Mike's shoulders and fists, biting his bottom lip. He grinned then, lopsided, fingers tightening around himself.

"No way, Pinocchio. Not anymore."

He smirks then, crooked and cocky, just like he used to. This kind of spirit shouldn't surprise him; it's been there since the beginning.

It's just that it didn't use to actually make him want to fuck Hobbes's brains out.

"What're you gonna do?" He arches an eyebrow. "Make me fucking stay here?"

And then, in complete silence, Hobbes stood. Slowly. There was something in him that knew how long Mike had been watching him, for so many miles and years. And then he trailed his palm up his dick, rubbing a slow circle at the top with the pad of his thumb, not taking his eyes off Mike once.

So this is interesting.

He stays there, still with that little smirk on his face, still with that eyebrow raised, making every appearance of being nothing more than faintly amused.

But he knows that Hobbes can see through him by now. So it's a pretty safe bet that he isn't fooled.

Even so. He stays there, and his eyes glide slowly down to Tom's hand and cock and then back up again. There might be a challenge in it, just a little.

With a thin, sighing moan, Hobbes closed his eyes, tipping his head back. Back arched, hand moving slowly...a lot of it was unintentional, a lot of it he was barely even aware of, but there was a thread of intent there. He knew what this was doing, what he was asking.

It really was amazing how fast one can learn.

He folds his arms over his chest and leans against the doorframe, a hundred different things flitting across his face. He'd said they were done, but are they? This feels like a more genuine clash of wills than anything previous to it, and he finds himself reveling in it, wanting to push it further.

When Hobbes moans he echoes it. It's a soft sound, barely audible, more a sigh than anything else. But it slips out before he can stop it and hangs there in the air between them.

Still touching himself, still moving his hips in small ways, standing, Tom opened his eyes just a little. He was grinning, now, trumphant, cocky. It slanted across his face. He took two slow steps back to the bed.

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