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The room is warm, wind rattles the windows outside, flinging up sprays of dust too loud and too violent but Arthur can’t find it in him to care. Not while he waits, knowing and not knowing what’s to come.
He tries not to seem too eager when he hears the soft rap on the door. But there he is, strong and vital and there. Perfectly dressed, perfectly poised. Lust fills Arthur already.
“Mr Killgore. So good to see you.” Dutch tips his hat to him and strides into the room, leaving it to Arthur to lock and secure it. He does so, and as he does realises he can hear his own breaths. The wind has died down.
Everything always seems to listen, in hushed reverence, when Dutch is there.
“I seem to remember a promise I made.” Arthur smiles, goes to him. He presses his hands to Dutch’s chest, slipping his fingers down the open collar of his shirt.
“Sure.” Down further, opening one button, then another. Dutch lets his head fall back. Lets him set to work. For a while.
The waistcoat is off, then the shirt. Arthurs already half hard with anticipation. He lets his touch linger on the gun belt, and his breath quickens when hands, those goddamn hands, cup his face slowly. Fingers stroking through his short hair.
He leans forward. He has no choice. He can’t help but be drawn and drawn.
The kiss is soft, surprisingly so, until he realises that’s part of Dutch’s plan. They don’t always kiss. They don’t always look at one another, or speak, or do any of that normal stuff. But sometimes, when Dutch is in this mood, when Arthur is receptive. Sometimes, the kiss,
It makes him falter.
Fall into his arms.
Just as Dutch will have wanted.
He hears himself moan, wanton, when Dutch presses his lips to his ear and tells him to undress and get on the bed. He should feel shame, he thinks as he drops his clothes into a pile besides Dutch’s, but he never does. Not with him. With others, sure, when the act was done and his moans and theirs mingle in his head like some sort of shameful echo.
Never with Dutch.
He sits on the bed, faces him, smiles when he watches him rid himself of the last of his clothes. He never looks diminished naked, does Dutch. Clothes project an air to the outside world that can rarely be carried into the bedroom.
Not so. Here.
“Open your mouth.” Arthur smiles.
“So it’s like this then.” Dutch strokes his own cock, presses forwards, and answers his smile with a grin of his own.
“It’s like this.” Arthur opens for him, wide and willing, takes him all. He feels him in the back of his throat and swallows convulsively but it’s only for a moment before Dutch pulls out.
“You can do better than that.” The word is there, on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t call him son here. That’s for the world outside. So that they know.
Fingers grip his chin, forcing his mouth wider, a thumb presses in. Arthur looks up, meets his eyes and sees the need there, the desperation barely held in. He reaches up, to pull him forward but Dutch chuckles, and grips his hands in his.
“Just your mouth will do fine.” Arthur nods, leans forward and licks a stripe from base to tip. Dutch’s fingers entwine with his as he sets to work.
Who would have thought sucking cock could give him so much pleasure?
“These hands…” He hears Dutch mumble above him as if from some place far away, concentrating as he is on the taste, the scent of him. “These killers hands. Blood under the nails Arthur tut tut, you’ll never get that off.” He sounds too composed. He always does when it’s like this.
Arthur uses his teeth and earns a hiss.
He smiles.
“Yes, killers hands. You’ve killed for me, haven’t you, bare hands...doing my work…” Arthur pulls off him, the wet sound of it suddenly loud in the ensuing silence. He looks up into Dutch’s eyes.
“I ain’t your hired killer Dutch.” Dutch laughs then. Laughs and wraps a hand around Arthurs throat, pushing him down on the bed.
“Of course not.” He’s over him, pressed hard against him, one leg between his spread ones and it takes everything Arthur has in him not to rut up against it like a bitch in heat. “But you are mine.” Naked skin to naked skin, stiff cock to stiff cock. Arthur arcs his head back against the hard pillow and wraps himself around Dutch.
“Just…” He stops himself in time. Bites back what he’s about to say.
It’s not like that tonight.
He feels Dutch tense and then relax, when he doesn’t speak.
And then, in a moment, a split second, Dutch’s hands are all over him. Lips and teeth and fingers. A cross between worship and lust.
Reverence and possession.
He thinks he likes this way most of all.
Arthur tries to pay him back in kind, but he soon realises it’s not needed. Sometimes Dutch wants him pliant. Sometimes rough. Sometimes he wants him on his knees and begging. Other times he wants worship.
Loyalty.
And Arthur only wants him. At any time. In any way.
Arthur would allow him anything.
He rears up when he feels fingers pushed into his mouth, sucks them in, wetting them, knowing it’s all he might get. Dutch moans above him, propped over him with one arm beside his head. He drags his fingers out of Arthurs mouth, and reaches down to palm his cock.
Arthur sees those stars again. He closes his eyes to follow them.
There’s vaseline this time. Arthur has a second to thank Dutch for that before he feels him opening him up. A slick finger still wearing a ring.
“Please.” He hears it, whispered out from his own lips.
Dutch shoves two in. Hard. Arthurs hands scrabble for purchase.
“Please.” A laugh, both good and bad and then the fingers are gone and replaced with something much, much bigger.
They both moan, when he’s fully inside, seated in him to the hilt.
Dutch gives him no time to adjust.
Arthur doesn’t want any.
He fucks him in earnest. Hard and fast. Sweaty and desperate. Arthur can’t take it for a moment, he thinks. It’s too much. Dutch is too much. He’s going to fall apart. He’s going to break. He can’t. He can’t.
But he wants
And he’s over him, whole body warm and slick and his. All his.
When it’s like this.
He wraps his legs around his waist. And he begs. He only ever does, with Dutch. He’d never beg another soul in this world for anything. But for Dutch, he’d scream the walls down if it meant he never stopped. He feels tears in the corners of his eyes and he knows that later, he might feel the smallest shame for them. Dutch likes it. Fucking him until he cries.
“If you ever betray me. I will unleash hell on you.” The words come out of nowhere, breaking through into his conscious, breaking through the need and the pleasure and the pain. Arthur looks up, shocked silly by it, by such a stupid, stupid notion. He looks up, into his eyes as he pounds into him, as their bodies meet, as he gets closer and closer to climax, even as he feels Dutch twitch inside him.
“I ain’t never gonna betray you, Dutch. Never.”
He’s tried, not to betray but to leave. To get out. To live a ‘normal’ life. When the pressure, the burden, of Dutch’s love became too much.
But he always came back.
And the welcome he always received...
He reaches up, even though it wasn’t supposed to be like this tonight. Reaches up, strokes his fingers through the curls at the nape of Dutch’s neck, brings him down to him, kisses him soft and slow. He doesn’t always get to do it like this. They don’t really kiss like this. But
But
He feels Dutch melt.
He feels Dutch fall apart.
He feels Dutch come
A shocked gasp, a prolonged groan, fingers digging into his jaw, his throat. Dutchs mouth on his, swallowing him down. The stutter in his body, hips jerking. Arthur keeps his lips on his, keeps kissing him, whispering words, stupid fucking desperate words, rocking up against him, wanting to come with him still inside.
Please, please, please.
Dutch lets him, for once. Forehead pressed to his, hand on his cock, jerking him rough. Telling him that he’s his, that he’s good, that he knows, knows, he’ll come for him, just him, only him. And Arthur keeps a hand in his hair. He fists his fingers in the jet black curls, cries out into Dutchs palm when he comes. Eyes on his.
“Fuck, Dutch.” He pushes him away, just to let himself breathe.
Sometimes, just sometimes, it’s all too much for him.
“Next time,” He murmurs with a groan sometime later, watching Dutch smoke in the rooms only armchair, laid on his back spent and ruined. “Next time we’re doing it how I want.”
“Oh really?” He sees the glint of something in Dutch’s eyes and smiles to himself.
“Maybe.”