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May. 22nd, 2009 09:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vervaceousTitle: Resignation
Fandom: Harsh Realm
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1,348
Summary: Bathing in the river turns into something else. Which turns into something else. It's a little confusing for at least one party.
"Don't talk," Mike whispers, and Tom doesn't talk. Tom can follow instructions when he has to. They don't have a lot of time, just a slow-moving river and just enough cover.
They also don't have any clothes. That isn't so weird. They're supposed to be bathing, taking a few minutes to wash off the dirt and grime of a couple of weeks, grabbing with slippery hands at the kind of luxury that just being clean represents, a luxury they can't very often afford anymore. But Mike grips his shoulder with a soapy hand and whispers "Don't talk" and Tom doesn't. Tom freezes. Tom lets it happen.
That's just how things work now, apparently.
Mike's already close when he says it and two seconds after it's said he's even closer, dropping a hand between Tom's thighs and tracing it over him almost as though he's inspecting something, weighing the sac of his balls, squeezing lightly, curving his hand around Tom's cock and squeezing again as though just to see what will happen.
What happens is that Tom moans, a moan that's immediately stifled by Mike's other hand, and he feels hot breath in his ear. "Don't. Talk."
"Wasn't," Tom manages, just above a whisper, but Mike gives him another squeeze and he thinks he can feel himself starting to dissolve from the toes up, tipping his head back and letting out a breath. Overhead, the sky is a stunning crystalline blue, like a solid thing hanging over them, and for all Tom knows, maybe it is. There are trees on the banks and their branches sway in the breeze with a kind of hypnotic gentleness, the movement of the leaves like a thousand lights winking and flashing in the sun. It's pretty, he supposes, in as much as anything is.
Once he took Sophie to a place like this, a river in the countryside, a picnic, a little slice of perfection. She'd had a bathing suit on, a green one, and he'd laughed because her name was Greene, and she'd kissed him, but she hadn't had her hand wrapped around his dick. The hand covering his mouth had slipped away but then it's back, slapping him lightly, and he blinks.
"Pay a-fucking-ttention," Mike growls, but he's grinning, grinding against the jut of Tom's hip, fumbling for Tom's hand and putting it where he wants it, and Tom lets it happen.
It's resignation. It's a little more than that. A little. It's knowing that you can't fight something and not wanting to anyway, because you're too tired, because death is always too close. It's a little like death, actually, or like he's always imagined death to be. Easy, in the end. You just... let it happen. It occurs and you kind of just go along with it. Roll with the fucking punches. He's pretty sure his drill sergeant said that. If his drill sergeant could see him now.
He's always so goddamn distracted. He almost doesn't notice when he starts to get close. Mike is hot and slick against him, something powerful and primal and distant all at once. Mike Pinocchio doesn't let himself get involved and it's only natural that the policy would extend to sex. And maybe Tom is grateful. Maybe that ends up being easier. It's easier to just let go under Mike's very capable hands, stroking him in firm, confident slides. He's doing the same, or he's trying to, but with Mike's hand gripping his wrist like that it's also easy to feel like it's not even his anymore. Mike has borrowed it. Mike will give it back when he's done.
Pay attention. Which seems a little odd when he's not even that sure he needs to be here for this.
He's seen no indication that Mike is treating this like a race but he's still annoyed when Mike beats him to the finish, shuddering abruptly into him and coming hot and sticky over his fingers, breathing in an open-mouthed gasp against the crook of Tom's neck. Tom's close, managing to ignore just about everything else, but Mike pulls his hand away so suddenly it almost hurts, like a rapid transition between temperatures. He's moving back with the water swirling up to his thighs, glistening wetly in the thin sunlight, and something grabs hold of Tom's spinal column and twists. It isn't fair. It isn't fair. If Mike wants this now and then, he's not going to argue, but he has to play fair.
"The fuck're you doing?" he growls, and Mike tosses his head back and laughs.
"Fucking jerk off if you have to. What, you need me to hold your hand?"
Tom lunges at him.
Later, he'll wonder why. Mike's said worse things to him before, Mike's insulted him, humiliated him, treated him like a goddamn child. Mike's given him lots of reasons to be angry before this point. Later, he'll come to the conclusion that everyone has a breaking point, and some shit doesn't wash off so easy.
Mike sees him coming and manages to get his arms up, but the water is throwing him off-balance, throwing both of them, but Tom has the advantage of forward motion. He shoves Mike back and hooks an arm around his neck and hangs on, snarling something incoherent. Mike is punching at his side but it's weak, clumsy and poorly aimed, and another thing he'll wonder later is if Mike even really meant to try.
Everything dissolves into confused grappling and the splashing of water, and when it solidifies again he's staring down at Mike, because Mike is on his knees with the water up to his chest, one hand hard on Tom's hip. But he isn't struggling anymore. Tom's got his short hair clenched in one fist, dragging his head back, and as he stares down he's oddly distracted by the sight of his own cock, swollen and glistening and dark. Something angry about it. Something about the proximety of it to Mike's mouth, his bottom lip swollen and bloody.
"Suck," he growls, and it's like the word isn't even coming from him, except on a very fundamental level it is. He yanks at Mike's hair and Mike winces, and at the same moment there's a rustling in the trees overhead and Mike leans in, curls his lips around the head of Tom's cock in a way that makes him sure he's done this before. And something else he's sure of: Mike is smiling when he does it. Just a little, just a hint of a curl at the corners of his mouth. Then he's swallowed, heat and wet and a kind of softness he never would have thought Mike had in him, and as he tips his head back and moans the rustle turns into an explosion of black birds, rising out of the trees like a cloud of smoke.
Sometimes you let things happen. Sometimes you make them happen.
He's still close already and it doesn't take that much. A buck of his hips, tension in his spine that coils and releases hard and sharply, and when he next looks down Mike is pulling away, shaking his head free, lifting a hand to catch a drop of come at the corner of his mouth. Tom is breathing hard and entirely wrongfooted. Maybe he should be sorry. Maybe he should apologize, because it's so unlike him. There's a bruise forming on Mike's jaw. But there's no anger in his eyes.
"There you go," he murmurs, and gets to his feet, water streaming down his body in little shining rivers. He flashes Tom a grin, even with the split lip, and Tom stares at him. "Was wondering what the fuck it'd take to get you outta that shell."
"You're an asshole," Tom breathes, and Mike turns to head back to the bank.
"And you love me."
Tom opens his mouth to respond but there's nothing to say, and after a second or two he closes it again. It's a little hard to know what's true.
Later, he'll wonder about that too.
Fandom: Harsh Realm
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1,348
Summary: Bathing in the river turns into something else. Which turns into something else. It's a little confusing for at least one party.
"Don't talk," Mike whispers, and Tom doesn't talk. Tom can follow instructions when he has to. They don't have a lot of time, just a slow-moving river and just enough cover.
They also don't have any clothes. That isn't so weird. They're supposed to be bathing, taking a few minutes to wash off the dirt and grime of a couple of weeks, grabbing with slippery hands at the kind of luxury that just being clean represents, a luxury they can't very often afford anymore. But Mike grips his shoulder with a soapy hand and whispers "Don't talk" and Tom doesn't. Tom freezes. Tom lets it happen.
That's just how things work now, apparently.
Mike's already close when he says it and two seconds after it's said he's even closer, dropping a hand between Tom's thighs and tracing it over him almost as though he's inspecting something, weighing the sac of his balls, squeezing lightly, curving his hand around Tom's cock and squeezing again as though just to see what will happen.
What happens is that Tom moans, a moan that's immediately stifled by Mike's other hand, and he feels hot breath in his ear. "Don't. Talk."
"Wasn't," Tom manages, just above a whisper, but Mike gives him another squeeze and he thinks he can feel himself starting to dissolve from the toes up, tipping his head back and letting out a breath. Overhead, the sky is a stunning crystalline blue, like a solid thing hanging over them, and for all Tom knows, maybe it is. There are trees on the banks and their branches sway in the breeze with a kind of hypnotic gentleness, the movement of the leaves like a thousand lights winking and flashing in the sun. It's pretty, he supposes, in as much as anything is.
Once he took Sophie to a place like this, a river in the countryside, a picnic, a little slice of perfection. She'd had a bathing suit on, a green one, and he'd laughed because her name was Greene, and she'd kissed him, but she hadn't had her hand wrapped around his dick. The hand covering his mouth had slipped away but then it's back, slapping him lightly, and he blinks.
"Pay a-fucking-ttention," Mike growls, but he's grinning, grinding against the jut of Tom's hip, fumbling for Tom's hand and putting it where he wants it, and Tom lets it happen.
It's resignation. It's a little more than that. A little. It's knowing that you can't fight something and not wanting to anyway, because you're too tired, because death is always too close. It's a little like death, actually, or like he's always imagined death to be. Easy, in the end. You just... let it happen. It occurs and you kind of just go along with it. Roll with the fucking punches. He's pretty sure his drill sergeant said that. If his drill sergeant could see him now.
He's always so goddamn distracted. He almost doesn't notice when he starts to get close. Mike is hot and slick against him, something powerful and primal and distant all at once. Mike Pinocchio doesn't let himself get involved and it's only natural that the policy would extend to sex. And maybe Tom is grateful. Maybe that ends up being easier. It's easier to just let go under Mike's very capable hands, stroking him in firm, confident slides. He's doing the same, or he's trying to, but with Mike's hand gripping his wrist like that it's also easy to feel like it's not even his anymore. Mike has borrowed it. Mike will give it back when he's done.
Pay attention. Which seems a little odd when he's not even that sure he needs to be here for this.
He's seen no indication that Mike is treating this like a race but he's still annoyed when Mike beats him to the finish, shuddering abruptly into him and coming hot and sticky over his fingers, breathing in an open-mouthed gasp against the crook of Tom's neck. Tom's close, managing to ignore just about everything else, but Mike pulls his hand away so suddenly it almost hurts, like a rapid transition between temperatures. He's moving back with the water swirling up to his thighs, glistening wetly in the thin sunlight, and something grabs hold of Tom's spinal column and twists. It isn't fair. It isn't fair. If Mike wants this now and then, he's not going to argue, but he has to play fair.
"The fuck're you doing?" he growls, and Mike tosses his head back and laughs.
"Fucking jerk off if you have to. What, you need me to hold your hand?"
Tom lunges at him.
Later, he'll wonder why. Mike's said worse things to him before, Mike's insulted him, humiliated him, treated him like a goddamn child. Mike's given him lots of reasons to be angry before this point. Later, he'll come to the conclusion that everyone has a breaking point, and some shit doesn't wash off so easy.
Mike sees him coming and manages to get his arms up, but the water is throwing him off-balance, throwing both of them, but Tom has the advantage of forward motion. He shoves Mike back and hooks an arm around his neck and hangs on, snarling something incoherent. Mike is punching at his side but it's weak, clumsy and poorly aimed, and another thing he'll wonder later is if Mike even really meant to try.
Everything dissolves into confused grappling and the splashing of water, and when it solidifies again he's staring down at Mike, because Mike is on his knees with the water up to his chest, one hand hard on Tom's hip. But he isn't struggling anymore. Tom's got his short hair clenched in one fist, dragging his head back, and as he stares down he's oddly distracted by the sight of his own cock, swollen and glistening and dark. Something angry about it. Something about the proximety of it to Mike's mouth, his bottom lip swollen and bloody.
"Suck," he growls, and it's like the word isn't even coming from him, except on a very fundamental level it is. He yanks at Mike's hair and Mike winces, and at the same moment there's a rustling in the trees overhead and Mike leans in, curls his lips around the head of Tom's cock in a way that makes him sure he's done this before. And something else he's sure of: Mike is smiling when he does it. Just a little, just a hint of a curl at the corners of his mouth. Then he's swallowed, heat and wet and a kind of softness he never would have thought Mike had in him, and as he tips his head back and moans the rustle turns into an explosion of black birds, rising out of the trees like a cloud of smoke.
Sometimes you let things happen. Sometimes you make them happen.
He's still close already and it doesn't take that much. A buck of his hips, tension in his spine that coils and releases hard and sharply, and when he next looks down Mike is pulling away, shaking his head free, lifting a hand to catch a drop of come at the corner of his mouth. Tom is breathing hard and entirely wrongfooted. Maybe he should be sorry. Maybe he should apologize, because it's so unlike him. There's a bruise forming on Mike's jaw. But there's no anger in his eyes.
"There you go," he murmurs, and gets to his feet, water streaming down his body in little shining rivers. He flashes Tom a grin, even with the split lip, and Tom stares at him. "Was wondering what the fuck it'd take to get you outta that shell."
"You're an asshole," Tom breathes, and Mike turns to head back to the bank.
"And you love me."
Tom opens his mouth to respond but there's nothing to say, and after a second or two he closes it again. It's a little hard to know what's true.
Later, he'll wonder about that too.
