Work Text:
Arthur presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and takes a deep breath. Retaliation in anger will get him nowhere here. He knows that. It never has. So he keeps his eyes closed, even as he shakes his head.
“Just a bar fight Dutch.” He says again, careful not to raise his voice. Clemens Point is deathly quiet this early in the morning. The weak sun is peeking through the small gap in Dutch’s closed tent. It begs for hushed speech. He opens his eyes, ready.
“Just a bar fight? Just a bar fight!” Dutch is sat on the bed, legs spread, right forearm resting loosely on right thigh, left hand gesticulating. Arthur is momentarily captivated by the sight.
God, he hates Dutch sometimes.
The distraction of him.
“I remember specifically asking that you do NOT cause a disturbance in this town.” Dutch’s own voice isn’t raised, but as always it is powerful and it cuts to the very heart of him. “What part of that did you not understand, son?”
Oh.
Oh. So it’s like that then.
“Shit Dutch, I don’t get the problem. Some guy tried it on with me, so I beat him.” He shrugs, tries to downplay it. Even as his knuckles are bruised bloody and his right side aches where he got a gut punch in. “Ain’t that what any good son would do.”
Oh.
Oh. So that got a reaction.
“You think you’re a good son?” Dutch’s voice is low. And it’s dangerous. And it’s devastating.
“If that’s who you want me to be today, then sure. I’m a good son. The best.” Maybe it’s not the right thing to say. Maybe it is. Maybe the wrong tone, maybe entirely correct. Arthur gave up guessing a long time ago.
Maybe he enjoys the surprise.
“You’re treading on thin ice Arthur.” Back to Arthur. That’s a good sign.
For what Arthur wants.
He smiles.
“Ain’t that my specialty?”
“Too cocky for your own good.” Dutch spreads his legs just a little more, a half an inch, the smallest infinitesimal amount but Arthur sees it. Clocks it.
Smiles again. Wider.
“You were out all night.” Dutch leans across the bed to pick up a cigar from the small nightstand. Arthur watches as he lights it. He doesn’t feel uncomfortable stood while Dutch sits in command.
It feels right.
“Took a room.” He answers, resting his hands on his gun belt. He sees Dutch's eyes go to them.
Nuances.
They’ve had many years to learn one another.
“Wanted to work off some of that energy?” Arthur wets his dry lips. Dutch is never jealous. He has Arthur. He knows this. Body and soul. These times when he’s irrational are never about sex.
But they were sometimes about loyalty.
And possession is a thing Dutch believes wholeheartedly in.
“I said a room, not a woman.” The corner of Dutch's mouth twitches and Arthur knows its a cross between a smirk and a grimace.
“My, my Mr Morgan, you do have a smart mouth today.” The cigar dangles from his fingers and Arthur lets his gaze be drawn to it. To those hands. To the rings. To the hair on the back of his hand. To the cuff of his shirt. He lets himself look. Lets himself linger. Watches as Dutch stubs the cigar out.
The air in the tent is charged.
A different kind.
One very rarely felt.
In a moment, a split second, before he gives himself time to think, he moves. Dutch lets himself be pushed back onto the bed, smirks up at Arthur as he moves over him.
“What are you hoping to achieve by this?” He asks and Arthur, fuelled by his own confidence, smashes his mouth against his. He breathes his all into the kiss even as he takes Dutch’s hands and yanks them above his head. Holding him there. Pinning him to the bed, catching him between the covers and his own hard body.
Oh goddamn bastard son of a bitch. Praise the god that don’t exist but to have Dutch like this, even for a second in time…
To see this.
Dutch spread beneath him.
His tongue in his mouth.
His legs spread.
For him.
Arthur rears up, one hand still holding Dutch's own above his head, and laughs. Dutch looks up at him, half ruined. Collar popped, sweat pooling at the hollow of his throat.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
He thrusts. Once. Just to test it.
Because when it’s like this…
No. Because it’s never like this.
He thrusts again, works his way between those thighs and thinks if Dutch just lets him, just lets him rut, he’ll come. He’ll come in his pants with Dutch’s moans in his ears, and Dutch’s cock pushing against his own.
If Dutch just lets him.
And for a while he does. For a while, Dutch gazes up at him, eyes unfathomable even as he answers his thrusts with his own. Expression caught between pleasure and something deeper. And Arthur realises that in this moment neither of them knows really what to do.
It doesn’t feel right.
But it does feel good.
Even so, he is almost relieved when Dutch suddenly moves, shoving him backwards with a strength people forget he has. He stumbles onto the floor, catching himself with one arm thrust behind him when Dutch advances.
“That’s enough.”
Dutch is unbuckling his belt, pushing his shirt out of the way, reaching inside his own pants
And Arthur...Arthur tilts his head back in joyful supplication.
Because Dutch always knows, in the end, what he wants.
But then Dutch’s hand, that beautiful, strong, wicked hand is around his throat, strong enough to make him lose breath. Arthurs own hand reaches up, fingers curl around Dutch's wrist…
And applies more pressure.
Dutch smiles down at him.
“Good boy.”
Then all he can see is Dutch's eyes, even as he hears him jerk himself off. Even as he hears him grunt in pleasure. All he can see is his eyes. And all he can really hear, if he thinks about it, is divine silence.
The hand threatens to cut his breathing from him.
Until it moves, until it knows he’s given enough. Then it grips his hair, and Dutch is pressing closer. Each stroke of his hand brushing his knuckles against Arthurs lips. The salt taste of him, barely there and he wants more.
He’s so hard it hurts.
His head is pulled forward.
“Close your eyes.” He does.
Dutch is silent when he comes and in Arthurs minds eye he can see what he looks like. Head thrown back, body taut, thighs trembling. He’s seen Dutch come a hundred times but even so, he wishes he could have seen this one.
He feels it though. Across his lips and his cheek. Dripping down his jawline and mingling into his beard. Warm and sticky. He darts his tongue out to taste.
He doesn’t have it in himself now to feel shame.
He opens his eyes and gazes up at him.
Dutch's hand strokes down his cheek, dips his fingers into his mouth.
It’s affected him. That Arthur can see.
“I’m sorry Dutch.” Dutch moves away, tucking himself back into his trousers.
“Don’t be.” He throws a rag at him. “Clean yourself up.”
“Okay.” He swipes it across his face. He sighs.
When it’s like this, even orgasm can’t stop Dutch from thinking.
“You won’t go back to Rhodes for a few days. Until this all blows over. You understand me?” Arthur nods, shifts uncomfortably, waits. “I have plans for this place. Plans for us, Arthur. Please.”
“Sure Dutch.”
He puts the rag down on the chair and turns to go. He knows he’s going to get nothing now. And he knows he only has himself to blame.
“Did you come?” He turns at the tent flap. He is still obviously, terribly, uncomfortably hard.
“No.” Dutch looks at him, and smiles.
“Do you want to?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” And then...then Dutch comes close, and he smells of sex and cigar smoke and Arthur can’t decide whether he wants to grip onto him and try this whole thing all over again or…
All thought is lost as Dutch’s lips brush his ear.
“Because after this little stunt Arthur, you can want all you like.” Arthurs knees buckle when Dutch reaches down and cups him over his jeans. “No woman, no hand, no whore of any kind. Nothing. You come when I say. When I let you.”
“Just so I know…” He hides a smirk when Dutch tilts his head to look at him. “Which stunt are we talking about? The fight, or the bed?”
“Go to sleep Arthur. You’re becoming troublesome.” Dutch pushes him away, out of the tent. Messy face and hard cock and all. Desperate and wanting and knowing that, when it’s like this, Dutch isn’t going to allow him any concessions. No begging, no wanting. Nothing. It’s Dutch’s way, Dutch’s plans, Dutch’s choice.
Arthur knows not to argue any more.
He likes it better this way anyhow.