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Enough for the Horses

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It started very small, very simple. Kieran corrects Arthur’s command of his horse. Just a slight change in the way he held his reins, touching his wrists in a gentle motion to raise them higher. His fingers scraping against that small gap of skin, between his gloves and his shirt-cuffs. Arthur shoots him a glare and grumbles, dangerous, indignant: “O’Driscoll,” but he follows suit anyway. Because Kieran is good with horses, he reckons, so why wouldn’t Arthur take his recommendation?

But then, one time, Kieran’s hauling bales of hay, and he passes by Arthur. Asks if he minds giving him a hand. Arthur grumbles, but he does. And it escalates from there, achingly slowly, natural as moss creeping over a log, little favors, small requests, firm reminders. And it’s not that Kieran wants Arthur to do all his chores, far from that, because his requests almost immediately deviate from those kinds of things. And Kieran never thought himself the type, and, and, and—

And it starts with Kieran, a little drunk on hard liquor much too late at night around the scout campfire. Sitting knock-kneed on separate logs, asking Arthur to— telling Arthur to kiss him, hard. He does with no question, sucks the whiskey from his tongue—

“Stop.” Kieran says.

Arthur heels. Sits back with his hands in his lap, his palm surreptitiously pressing down on the front of his slacks, watching Kieran with shiny lips and dark eyes. Patiently waiting. Kieran feels his throat go dry. The span of distance between them, filled with Arthur’s breathing, the pop of nearby embers from the fire.

Arthur’s good at taking direction. From what Kieran can gather, he’s been doing so all his life. 

Just, never from someone like him.

Kieran Duffy, former O’Driscoll boot boy, whistling across the Clemen’s Point pasture. Like he’s calling a dog, except it’s Arthur, hat tilted down, making his way careful through the muck. Walking towards Kieran, following him back past the tree line, into the woods.

After a few paces, Kieran turns around. He doesn’t need to; Arthur’s following, of course, but some part of him likes to watch him come at his call. He walks right into an oak tree, back against the bark, and decides that’s a fine enough place to stop. “Mr. Morgan.”

“Mr. Duffy.” Arthur answers.

Back when he was an O’Driscoll boy, the Van der Lindes came up often enough. Arthur was a constant bogeyman, the stuff of nightmares. Slaughtering entire camps singlehandedly. When it was his hand who rolled him over from the face-down freeze of the snow, five-thousand dollar bounty, wanted in more states than not Arthur Morgan, Kieran surely thought he’d die by that hand, soon enough. Still believes he will, in a different way, though.

“C’mere,” Kieran’s voice warbles, still. “Knees. Get on your- your knees.” That’s what baffles him, too. That Arthur is the way he is— all corded muscle, death incarnate— and he takes orders from a nothing like himself, who can’t even keep his voice clear. Sinks to his knees, lets his hands slide down Kieran’s sides, fingers bunching in the fabric of his linen shirt. Arthur Morgan, who cut down every man in Sixpoint Cabin, unbuckling his belt, yanking it down his hips.

Kieran’s hard already, cock jutting forward, bobbing as his pants bunch up around his thighs. Arthur takes him in hand and— hesitates. Looking up searchingly as he fists his cock, those blue eyes shadowed under the brim of his hat.

Arthur swallows with a click; just the tip of his tongue comes out, the barest hint of pink, wetting his lips. Nervous, nervous, as he’s leaning in, brushing his lips against the head, smears precum slick and shiny over his bottom lip.

Kieran sucks in a breath, a buckle to his knees, where Arthur is so handsomely existing between. “Go on.” He reaches out, cradles his cheek. Knocks Arthur’s hat off as an afterthought, and his eyes shift, watching it fall to the lush softness of the forest floor. “You ain’t gotta be coy.”

Arthur’s breathing is audible, heavy and hot against Kieran’s shaft. “Coy?” Kieran can feel the letters against his skin, the drag of his lips. His voice rumbles out lowly, the tip of his tongue catching a taste of Kieran. “That’s a new one. Been called a lot of strange things, recently. Pretty, coy...” Trailing off with a sigh that exhales hot and makes Kieran twitch, Arthur’s lips skate fleetingly down his shaft.

“You’d look awful pretty with—“ Kieran talks and he can see it, with each word, the way Arthur’s eyes get dark and wide, wishes he had the words to talk forever and watch Arthur’s face flash alive and vulnerable against him, “With your lips around me.”

Arthur groans and Kieran can feel that, too, feels it zip up his spine and rattle every single vertebrae on the way up; must rattle his skull, too, because he just about loses his senses when Arthur parts his lips and swallows down, groaning loud and pushing his hands into Arthur’s shaggy hair. 

Kieran’s arrested, watching himself disappear on that plush tongue. Arthur lays his palm flat against the hollow of Kieran’s stomach, head bobbing; he’s inexperienced and it shows in the mess he’s making, saliva pooling in his mouth and dripping from the corners of his lips. Slick and soft noises. Wet and hot and all encompassing. Arthur Morgan, arguably the third in command of the Van der Lindes, lips hugging around his cock.

It’s a wild thought. Vulgar. Kieran keens against his knuckles, bites hard until the pain of it pulls him back from the edge. Keeps his other hand buried in Arthur’s hair, flexing his fingers, blunt fingernails scraping against his scalp.

“Arthur—“ Praising, panting, “Jesus— s-so-so good—“

Arthur swallows, shudders, a shadow of gag against the back of his tongue, swallowing reflexive against Kieran thick in his mouth. Looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes. He’s only able to make shallow movements, but makes up the rest of the distance with his fingers, stroking down where he can’t sink to. And his spit, dripping from his mouth slipping down his cock, sliding slick down his shaft, towards his balls. 

Filthy, filthy— the wet sounds of his lips, sucking, soft— Kieran’s hips jerk, and Arthur’s fingers flex warningly against his hipbones, pinning him back against the tree.

“So good,” Kieran croons, letting his fingers slide down to smooth over his pinched brow, “Arthur—“

He pulls off with a wet gasp. “Stop.”

Kieran’s fingers halt. “What?” His cock twitches in the warm Lemoyne air, breaking a thread of spit connecting him to Arthur’s swollen lips. He’s still holding him by the base, fingers loosely circled around, and it’s doing nothing but making him want to arch up into his touch.

“Th’ talkin’—“ His tongue is thick in his mouth, jaw popping, “S’not true. It’s distracting.”

Kieran’s smile’s lopsided. It’s startling how stern Arthur still manages to look, even glowering behind the shadow of his cock. But he’s not shaking him off, either, as Kieran idly runs his nails behind Arthur’s ear.

“What part ain’t true?”

The tips of Arthur’s ears go red as Kieran plays with them, runs his fingers over the shell.

“You’re one of the most handsome fellers I’ve ever met, Arthur,” He continues, voice low, watches Arthur school his face to something steady and closed. “Can’t help it, the things I’m saying. You try not to tell a man like this, doing— doing these sorts of things.”

“You could help it.” Arthur grumbles. Leaning in, like he’s forgotten he’s supposed to be mad, idly running his lips over Kieran’s aching erection, brushing them back and forth. His lips are all soft now from the motion of it. Kieran’s found Arthur’s lips softer than not nowadays. 

He puffs out a wry breath, tries not to let his nails bite too hard in the fragile skin under the curling hairs at the back of Arthur’s head. “I-I can stop.” Kieran offers. “But it won’t make it any less true.

Arthur glares up at him, huffs hotly against his skin.

“You want me to stop?”

Arthur licks his lips. Mumbles, eyes falling downward: “Naw. Go on.” There’s no preamble; Arthur swallows him down, throat spasming; there’s a noise of suction as he pulls up, and wrings his fist downward with a twist. He repeats that motion, lips and fingers meeting halfway, again and again and again—

Kieran says it like a prayer, babbling uncontrollably, watches Arthur’s face go red: C’mon, you’re so good, w-wish you could see yourself like this, mouth around me like this. Keeps his hips still, from fear of really choking Arthur, but inches his leg forward, nudges the toe of his boot towards the front of Arthur’s work jeans and puts pressure down. He watches Arthur’s eyes flutter, nearly roll, and the resulting groan he makes when Kieran presses vibrates through him. Kieran chokes on air, doubles over Arthur with his hands buried in his hair and comes so hard he’s seeing stars.

Arthur swallows. When he pulls away, he’s gasping, coughing. Kieran leans over him, presses a sloppy kiss to his forehead, a cheekbone, his panting, parted lips. Tells him how good he is, how good he really is, and Arthur swallows the words down.