Work Text:
Usually when Dutch hurts someone she doesn’t feel so good about it. Not that she doesn’t get a certain sense of pride, of job satisfaction out of a little well deserved ass kicking. But fierce enjoyment at being tougher, better, badder isn’t the same as feeling good. Hurting someone she cares about probably shouldn’t fall under that category, filed away with contentment and peace and maybe something like joy.
But Dutch is on borrowed time. So people keep telling her, and if her clock is ticking down then a little contentment is less than she deserves. So she hurts Alvis and she feels good about herself.
It helps, of course, that he feels good about it too. That his mouth falls open in soundless pants for breath, his skin flushing hot and pink under her where she straddles his waist. She can feel him hard and eager against her thigh where she straddles him. Precum wets her skin and she grinds down against him in a lurid roll of her hips. She feels him groan under the hand she presses flat against his sternum, leverages her weight to hold him flat against his mattress. If he presses up against her hold, fights her steady weight it’s only because her nails bite into his chest, because the flash of that sting makes him close his eyes. A wrinkle forms between his eyebrows when he nearly grimaces at the feeling. His cock twitches against her thigh and Dutch knows she hasn’t gone too far.
He’s so pretty like that, his eyelashes a dusky shadow on cheeks flush with arousal. Dutch can relate, she feels flushed herself. Her skin so hot she feels like she should burn him. He’d probably like that too. The thought makes her smile and she leans forward, relishes his moan as the movement grinds her down against him again. She brushes her mouth against the furrow in his brow. Teases a flick of her tongue across it until it vanishes, his face calm and relaxed as she trails kisses over his brow bone. She bites bluntly at the top of his cheekbone. Sharper when he rocks his hips up for friction. She pushes back up to survey her handiwork.
The delicate tracing of red on his chest (safe, familiar red) from her knife. The flush of his pale skin between her thighs. Dutch smears the beads of hot blood off a cut low on his abdomen, smiles at his whole body shiver of pleasure.
“C’mon,” she says, her own voice rough and gravelly with wanting him. She maybe living on borrowed time but she’s got enough to test both their patience, “give me those pretty eyes.”
He listens without having to be asked again, blinks up at her with eyes so soft a grey Dutch doesn’t totally believe this is real. He leans up into her, into the unyielding press of her knife against his hip. His steady progress towards her presses the edge into his skin, must hurt but his eyes go stormy dark with wanting her and he catches her mouth in an eager kiss. It’s all lips and tongue and the soft, soft pull of whatever this singular heat between them is. Not the blaze of lust but something warm, soothing. A candle beside her bed not the dangerous rush of the forest fire.
His hands skim up the outsides of her arms and she can feel the muscles in his stomach work to keep himself upright like this. He nips her lip, a playful flash of teeth and Dutch lets him roll her onto her back. They both know he manages it because she allows it. The move presses him right against the heat of her and he hisses at the slick slide of her wanting him. She lets the blade spill off the edge of the bed, tangles her fingers in his tight braids instead and licks her way into his mouth. Alvis drags blunt nails up her thighs, tickling not scratching and she rocks up against him. His cock presses against her clit and gives them both the friction they're looking for as he hikes her leg over his hip.
“Are you waiting for an invitation, scarback?” she asks, mouths the sharp line of his jaw. Her fingers find scars on his shoulder blades, trace them down towards his spine.
“Prayer’s a supplication,” he chides her, tips his head back to let her bite the soft bend of his throat. He takes her words for the invitation that they are, though.
He rocks his hips back until she almost can’t feel him any more. Until she wants to whine with missing his heat and length against her. And then he’s pressing in, the blunt head of his cock a stretch at first, eased by how wet she is, how eager. He braces one hand near her head on the bed, the other on her thigh and gives her his eyes. They wrinkle in the corners when he smiles at her, when his mouth turns up in the corners even though it’s fallen open in a half pant, half moan. His hand flexes on her thigh and she digs her heel into the soft of his ass, drives him forward with a flex of muscles.
The both groan when he settles balls deep inside her, leaving Dutch at once achingly full and desperate for more. Alvis is nothing if not obliging though and gives her exactly what she’s looking for. He drops his forehead against hers and she’d miss the sight of him, the boyish smile that doesn’t quite suit his fuck dark eyes, but he’s kissing her, sure and easy. Dutch thinks it’s worth the trade. Her hands cup his cheeks with both palms, feel the work of his jaw as he kisses her. She digs her fingers against the hinge below his ear, presses until he has to open his mouth to her and bits his lip.
“If you keep doing that,” he warns, words husked out against her throat when he tucks his face against her skin, lips her pulse point, “I’m going to disappoint you.”
“We can do the marathon next time,” She tells him, tugs his hair, sharp and eager and makes him look at her.
Alvis kisses her like he wants to lose himself. He presses so close she can feel the slide of his blood against her skin and wonders if her sweat stings all those little cuts she left behind. She’ll ask him some other time, when stars aren’t building behind her eyes. His hands drag up her sides, press up her arms until their fingers are locked, hands pressed into the pillows above their heads.
When Dutch comes it’s with his jaw under her teeth, safe and happy in the knowledge that for once he knack for causing pain can do some good. He shudders against her, flexes his hands in her grip when he comes shortly after her. Alvis tucks his face into the bend of her shoulder, shivers his breath across her sweat damp skin and relearns his heartbeat. His hands stay up over her head when she slips her fingers from his, trails a soft edge of her nails down the inside of his wrists, up his arms.
He makes a sweet, kitten noise against her collar when she scrapes up against the sensitive skin below his armpit and she takes pity on him. She butts her head against his hair and doesn’t tickle him, cups his ribs instead and just feels him breathe against her. His ceiling is a soft warm yellow, his lights low and intimate. Laying there Dutch feels soft warm and yellow too. The easy yellow of waking up just as sunlight is streaming in across a lover’s skin. She closes her eyes and doesn’t open them again until Alvis kisses her eyelids, her eyebrows, the bridge of her nose.
She meets his soft grey eyes when he kisses her mouth and is hopeful. If all that violence in her can do some good here, maybe it can do some good in the Quad too.
R: Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.
J: Have my lips then the sin that they have took?
R: Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.
Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet. 1.5.105-110