Archive of Our Own

Considering how much grief Arthur gives him on a daily basis, Danse certainly did not anticipate being invited hunting with him. Most of Dutch’s boys are unkind, but he’s practically Arthur’s pet project. The prospect ran through his mind that it was a ploy to get him alone and “dispose” of him, but the chance to prove himself was too big a reward to capitulate to the risk. Arthur wouldn’t really do that, he tells himself. The thirty minutes of uninterrupted silence since they started to ride is just the habit of a stoic man. 

“Mister Morgan? Why’s it that we’re leaving late, ’stead of early? Raccoons on the menu?” He presses his mouth into a thin line to contain his self-satisfied smile, just in case Arthur turns to stare at him flatly for his inaneness. 

Arthur does not turn. “Little lesson for ya, O’Driscoll: good hunters set up in advance. Tracks, scat, whole daily routine of any game—big, small—plain as the nose on your face, if’n you know where to look. No sense wastin’ daylight. Ain’t you been listenin’ to Charles?”

O’Driscoll. That’s who he is to them, even now, even after saving Arthur’s life. Not Victor Danse, just another O’Driscoll.

“Charles doesn’t take me out,” Danse retorts, and tries to drain the disappointment from his voice. “Before now, nobody’s proper asked me to help with anything, save groceries in Valentine with the ladies.”

“You complainin’ about the ladies, O’Driscoll?” 

Victor’s hands tense, and his horse chuffs at the unexpected tug on the reins. He pats her an apology and frowns at the back of Arthur’s hat, eyes wide. “Not at all! They’re a fine group of women, sir. I mean—not fine as to be distracting, or nothing like that. But real fine! Polite-like, real nice, Miss Mary-Beth in particular as she lends me books, but I ain’t got any intentions, and I can promise you that—”

Finally, like the sigh of a breeze, Arthur turns back to meet Danse’s eyes, smiling gleefully the way he always does when he sends the outsider into such a tizzy. “Just pullin’ your leg, boy.”

“Ah.” Victor nods, falls silent, wonders if that’s supposed to make him feel included. Dutch’s gang is all kinds of familiar with one another, after all. A few weeks back, when Arthur would pull one over on him, he sure wouldn’t be smiling like that. No jest, all malice. Now’s different, or at least Danse would like to think so. 

The descending sun keeps track of the time they spend in quiet. Every now and again, Arthur leans forward to praise his horse, and Danse is compelled to wonder if he knows just how loud he’s being when he tells Adonis he’s a “good boy.” Rarely has he felt such gratitude for being far away from Arthur, because Victor is more than positive that if the man is such a great hunter, he’d be able to smell Victor’s crisis if they were too close.

Dusk is not yet done when Arthur points toward an old farmstead, ushering Adonis off the road and onto the overgrown footpath leading to the house. The property stands neatly on the hill’s crest, which overlooks the dips and heights near Valentine to the west and the flat prairie to the east. 

“Bison?” Danse tugs his reins, rubs Melvin’s neck, and hoists himself onto the ground with a grunt. They hitch and unsaddle the mounts for the evening, each getting its very own stall. They deserve a break. So does he, if he’s honest.

“If it works out that way. Expectation’s deer.” Gruffness falls to quiet (as usual), and Arthur leans against Adonis’ stall gate to feed him an oatcake. “Attaboy,” he murmurs, and Danse prays for the cover of darkness to come sooner than later. Can’t have Arthur seeing how his human ears get red for words aimed at a goddamn horse.

Turning to Danse, Arthur gestures at the saddle. “Grab your bolt-action and a shotgun, case of wolves. Clear the house, then meet me to track. Shouldn’t need long; the Heartland’s crawlin’ more than not.” He tips his hat, and Victor frowns as the weight of the world settles into his forehead. “Foot of the hill, northeast. Only one floor to check in the house. Don’t dally, boy.”

If it were not terribly dangerous to half-ass a sweep for squatters, Danse would have done just that. The strap on his rifle is starting to wear, but it holds up, and he nods through an exhale so deep that a stranger would believe he’d never picked up a cigarette in his life. Like a fool, he keeps nodding when he sets off for the house, pretends not to hear Arthur’s chuckle floating down the hill. 

The check is thorough, but efficient. Maybe a little quick, but no point in checking every cabinet when a grown man would have to lose a leg or two to fit in there to hide. He checks the outhouse and the shed too, pleased with himself on Arthur’s behalf even if he never gets the praise for going above and beyond. On the way down the hill, he trots sideways, keenly aware of the fact that there are no trees to grab if his eagerness sends his feet colliding with each other. He will not be falling down this hill. 

“Done,” he announces in a hushed voice when he’s beside Arthur, who looks at Danse with an expression hovering between amusement and endeared pity. “You knew that,” Victor adds, then coughs over a brief laugh; he is not helping his case. Arthur claps a hand on his shoulder with just enough force that his knees feel it, and he narrowly wrestles a noise back into his gut before it reaches his throat. 

“Took a minute, didn’t ya? Or did you check the outer buildings?” Danse nods like he’s a broken oil drill, dares a smile. “Smart,” Arthur allows, and turns back to the oh-so-riveting piles of shit on the ground before he can see Victor’s smile grow to shape his whole face. Or maybe he does see it. “Deer.”

“Mhm. Picked up on that,” muses Danse, nudging the line that separates kidding between comrades and insolence, feeling out Arthur’s threshold, and the short chuff has him squaring his shoulders. Progress. “They came from down the plains,” he adds quickly, gesturing at the direction of the tracks. “Turned back, so this looks like the farthest they go.” 

“Smart,” Arthur says again, and the chill evening air takes a brief vacation, makes room for the shock of fire that starts between Victor’s ears and dives down to his abdomen. “There, see those trees by the stream? They post up there come evenin’—saw ’em lay down.” Danse’s tormentor steps back until they’re shoulder-to-shoulder, spurs clinking. “Take a gander,” he instructs, passing his binoculars over. Well, less passing them, and more pressing them into Victor’s chest with thick knuckles fitting far too well against his sternum. 

This time, he can’t quite stifle the noise that slips out through his exhale, but he does as he’s told. Always does as he’s told. Used to be to try to stay in one piece ’til he could get away from Dutch’s gang. These days, more like trying to not have to go away.

“Seems like we got the easy hunt ahead of us this time,” Arthur hums, and Victor can feel that the older man has gotten closer even though he’s still got eyes on tomorrow’s dinner through scoped glass. “I figured you’d be a bit useless out here, O’Driscoll. Guess there’s always next time to see just how smart you are.” 

A moment ago, it was almost too much to hear Arthur’s voice get closer, but it becomes firmly too much when Arthur lays a hand on Danse’s upper back. Feet stuttering backwards, Victor tears the binoculars from his face, thrusting them back towards Arthur. He can’t see properly, not without their lanterns, but he can practically hear Arthur’s frown.

“Sorry, Mister Morgan. I didn’t mean—” Didn’t mean to what? Didn’t mean to imply he doesn’t want Arthur’s hands on him, though that’s all he’s thought about for weeks? Can’t hardly say that, now, can he? “Just a bit jumpy, Mister Morgan. Ain’t nothin’, I promise.” It sure as hell isn’t nothing; it’s absolutely everything, and with that tone, Victor’s not even convincing himself. “Scared of the dark, I reckon?” When in doubt, he can put himself under the heel of a joke and pray.

It works, as Arthur shakes his head the way he does when he’s cracking the tiniest of smiles. “That just well may be, boy. Up the hill, now. Ain’t too late for dinner, if you’re hungry.”

“I am,” Danse murmurs, and privately cheers himself for not letting his voice break.

“Good. You can fix it, then,” Arthur laughs, and pats his shoulder again. “C’mon now, O’Driscoll. Up we go.” 

Arthur sits back, cradled by wavering orange light, and lets his tin bowl clatter gracelessly onto the wooden floor of the barn. Danse isn’t quite sure why they didn’t just use the farmhouse kitchen, but a campfire just outside the barn door did the trick fine. “You know, you best not let Pearson get wise to this. He likes his job as camp cook, and he’s more competitive than he looks.” 

“Pardon?”

“That’s some good food, boy,” Arthur says, low and slow and smiling, gesturing on each word like he’s talking to a small child who doesn’t quite know all his words.

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Now, if you’re about finished, I’ll strike camp and you can set up wherever you wanna sleep. Back of the barn’s cleanest.” Arthur tosses his own bedroll over. “Be a dear and put mine out, too.” Danse stares at him, clutching his bowl with newly white knuckles, and though he has about a quarter of a serving left, he sets it down and does as he’s told. The back of the barn, coincidentally, is an excellent place to quietly scold himself for coming off so simple, and get the labored breathing out of his system, as it’s well out of earshot.

When he ran with Colm’s men, they camped together all the time, and there wasn’t this impossible boulder in his brain keeping him from grasping even one complete thought. He should’ve stepped away from camp and rubbed one out before they departed. Bill would’ve seen, he reasons. Couldn’t do that. If he’d known about all the damn touching Arthur was fixing on doing, though, he would have risked it.

None of Colm’s men were like Arthur, though. Ain’t a man on this Earth like him, Victor figures.

Stood in the middle of the barn’s rear entryway, he occupies himself with looking at their respective setups, making sure it’s all orderly. The leather on Arthur’s satchel, resting at the head of the bed like a pillow (he’s seen Arthur do it before, even when he’s in his own bed and has a proper pillow if he wants it), is worn and veiny on the creases. 

Danse’s ears fill with cotton as he imagines all the days it has spent strapped to Arthur’s body. What it must be like to know a man like Arthur down to every feather he collects, every can of peaches, all the things Arthur Morgan might see fit to make his own.

It knocks all the wind from him when two large hands shove him against the wall. 

His first thought is that he didn’t check the house thoroughly enough, and he thrusts his elbow back and up, throws his head back to catch his assailant in the nose. The coughing and sputtering starts, and Danse turns on his heel, hand on the hilt of his knife. Then, dread. It’s not some squatter holding his nose in pain, but Arthur Morgan himself. Victor frowns, eyes blown open in confusion. “Fuck,” he cries, “Mister Morgan, what in the hell did you go and do that for? Christ, if I’d had my two-shot on me—”

“But you didn’t,” growls Arthur, and tilts his head back, pressing the side of his fingers to his nostrils and pulling them away to see if there’s blood. There is. Not enough that it’s going to last, but it’s smeared on his nose, his mouth, and god, that mouth. “Not too shabby there, O’Driscoll, I gotta hand it to you—should’a known, though, all those reflexes could kick me if they’ve saved me before.”

“Yeah, I—thank you? You ain’t answered my question, Mister Morgan! What in the wild hell was that nonsense for?” Danse still has his back flat against the wall. “I ain’t done nothin’ to you what would earn me that!”

“Weren’t supposed to be nasty,” Arthur laughs, and blood flies in tiny drops across the back of his hand. “Messin’ with you. S’pose I’ve got myself a whole other mess to be dealin’ with, now.” 

While glaring at him, Danse curls his hand tight around the hilt of his knife. “Weren’t very smart of you, Mister Morgan,” he says quietly, breathing hard, trying to calm himself down. 

“You take your hand off that knife, now, boy,” Arthur commands, his voice grave. 

Danse does as he’s told. “Yessir,” he whispers, and the smile returns to Arthur’s face. Thank the Almighty for the lanterns he’d hung up in the rear of the barn, or Victor wouldn’t have caught it. 

“In fact, why don’t you go on, an’ take off that waistband. Don’t need a knife and an empty pistol sleeve; it’s well past nine.” Arthur waves at the leather safety cushion on Danse’s hip, and after a brief but forceful internal debate with his own hackles, Victor unbuckles the holster and drops it on the ground.

“Your nose, Mister Morgan?” If an officer of the law were to ask, Victor would of course insist he was well within his rights. Arthur is about the furthest thing from a sheriff’s deputy, though, so as far as they’re concerned, Danse may well have committed a grievous crime if Arthur decides so.

“Ain’t broke, no need to fret. Got me all mussed up, though.” Chuckling again, Arthur wipes his hand on his breeches, gets proof of Danse’s worthiness all over his thigh. “You gonna apologize for that, O’Driscoll?”

“You gonna apologize for askin’ for it, Mister Morgan?” Something bold settles in him and he frowns, allows himself a sliver of defiance. 

Arthur’s eyebrows rise, and his smirk splits into a bona fide grin. “Well, when you put it like that.” He steps into this upstart defector’s space, keeps closing in until his breath is sticky and hefty on Danse’s face. 

They’re nearly the exact same height, to the point that the former O’Driscoll wouldn’t even be able to say which of the two is taller. Arthur smells like the dinner they shared, like sweat, a little bit like blood, a whole lot like mischief, and most of all, like mistakes about to be made. “I am so very, very sorry, Mister Danse, sir.”

Victor’s mouth drops open and it takes more energy than he’ll ever admit to close it. It drops open again right after. He tries to speak, but can only croak nothing and exhale a distressed groan. That’s okay. He didn’t need his dignity anyway. “Good,” he breathes. 

“Oh? No apology for Mister Morgan?” Arthur crowds him even closer, shrinks the entire world to the man-shaped outline of Danse’s body against the wall and the heat of an impeccable man’s rough palm inches away from his ear. His forearm rests on Victor’s shoulder, on account of their similar heights. Neither of them are close to God right now, though, and that’s a fact. 

Arthur takes advantage of the moment Danse has set aside to collect himself to grab him by the suspenders and yank him two paces away from the wall. He likes to think he didn’t yelp like a dog when Arthur did it. “That’s alright, boy. I don’t need your apology. What I do need is for you to turn your pretty self around and put your hands on that there wall. Clear?”

“As crystal,” hisses Danse, looking into Arthur’s eyes, searching for the validation of bemusement. It’s there right before he turns around, licking into his brain in the form of that quiet, private smile. If nothing else, he can make Arthur Morgan laugh, and he’s just about thankful enough for it that Jesus sometimes hears of it, when it’s late and the first prayers he gave weren’t good enough to justify sleep.

Back heaving with the deepest breaths he’s ever summoned, Danse presses his palms into the wood, pushing peeling paint back in the spaces where it belongs and putting himself where he’s wanted to be. Of course, there’s a chance this isn’t going where he wants it to go, and Arthur’s about to lick him ’til he needs to grow a new layer of skin. 

Being proven wrong by the sensation of Arthur laying hands on his hips and knocking his legs apart with his boots against Victor’s calves? Now, that’s being close to God.

“I sure hope you don’t think you keep your own secrets well,” Arthur breathes onto the back of Danse’s extremely sweaty neck. “Or have you been trying to get my attention, Mister Danse?” One of those hands slides up and around to rest on the younger man’s chest, and the other flips free each of his suspender clips. 

“No, I—I ain’t, Mister Morgan,” Danse groans, and God, is it a nightmare to gather his vocal cords. “Folk like me—us?—ain’t invited to be terribly forthright concernin’ this, uh. This type of, uh. Encounter.” Of course, there’s no way Arthur could know, but this is the first time he’s been touched by another man since before he even left for the road. Two years, now. Every piece of him that earns Arthur’s fingers burns hot and wild with desire, and he tries to lean back, press his behind into Arthur’s jeans.

“You stay still, Mister Danse, you hear me? I decide what you get and when.” It’s the first time Victor has heard a man sound like a thunderstorm. Compliant, he nods helplessly, head full of stories from Arthur’s mythology books. Zeus, they called him. 

“Yessir,” Danse grunts, because it’s either whine like he’s one of the girls at work or sound like a dimwit with more muscles than brains. Though, that’s likely to be the case for him currently. “Anything you want, Mister Morgan, anything, you just tell me and it’s yours, I—”

“If you don’t mind, then, maybe a moment of silence,” Arthur purrs into his ear. “I can’t hardly collect my thoughts, what with all the chit-chat. Gotta decide what to do with you.” Blunt reason spreading through him, Danse nods and presses his lips together, focuses on stilling his knees. No matter how long it’s been, he’s a grown man, and grown men don’t shake like girls on their wedding nights. 

Naturally, Arthur already knows exactly what he aims to do, since he doesn’t even pause before he starts tugging Danse’s undershirt until it’s loose and weightless on the breeze, abandons the grip on his chest to unhook all the fasteners keeping his trousers up. “I’m going to make you feel good, Mister Danse,” he promises, sliding a palm along the fabric, feeling the straining erection waiting for him like a damn Christmas gift. “And you’re going to take what I give you, aren’t you?” 

A question? Does that mean the moment of silence is over? Danse pauses, glances back. “Can I—”

“Go on, boy.”

“I am,” he whispers, barely capable of keeping his voice even. “Whatever you give me.” 

“Good boy,” Arthur murmurs, and Danse can’t catch and quash the needful groan before it escapes his lips. That does give Arthur a moment of pause, but he gets back on schedule after less than a beat, working the obedient outlaw’s pants fully open and pulling his heavy cock from the confines. “That’s you, then? You like being talked to?” He simply lets it rest in his palm for a moment, and Danse is a full bucket of stupid until he realizes nothing’s going to happen until he responds.

“Yes, Mister Morgan, yessir, I do.” There is nothing in this world he wants more than to be told he is a good boy again, so he stands perfectly still. Like an answer to the filthiest prayer, as soon as he’s finished speaking, Arthur closes his fingers around that flushed, horrible traitor between his legs, and strokes him lightly. Inhaling sharply, Danse grunts and huddles his shoulders close to his ears.

“Oh, me. How inconsiderate. You’re all dry, ain’t you?” In what might just be the Devil’s attempt on Danse’s life, Arthur lets go and drags his hand upwards until he’s got his palm held out in front of Victor’s chin. “Why don’t you get this slicked, huh? Wouldn’t want you to chafe, now.”

Briefly, Danse mutters “Jesus,” but he lets one of his hands off the wall to grab Arthur’s wrist. The amused chuckle from behind him indicates that he probably won’t get in trouble for it. Course, he wouldn’t much mind if he did. 

So far, being in trouble with Arthur Morgan isn’t too shabby. 

He trails his tongue up Arthur’s palm, and when he hears the man’s breath hitch, he exhales long and slow. So the great Van der Linde outlaw isn’t completely above the squabbling peasantry of the common man. He can get weak, too. Danse would give anything to make Arthur weak, if he’d give him the chance.

Carefully, he draws shapes up Arthur’s fingers with his tongue before taking them into his mouth, one at a time, then two, then three. He shakes like a fucking leaf when Arthur curls them just slightly and leans them in, and Danse takes them like he’s good, the best, pulls off to nip at Arthur’s little finger and take that right down, too. 

Hard and ready, Arthur rubs against his ass, and Danse would give anything to have that cock filling him. Mouth, ass, he couldn’t care less, he just wants Arthur Morgan to hold him open and claim him.

“Good,” Arthur says on his ear, directly on his ear, his lips are on his skin and that sharp, delightful beard tickles his neck and he nearly coughs for how it makes his cock jump. “Good boy.” He plucks his fingers from Danse’s mouth, holds his palm open expectantly. Victor spits, doesn't even need the order. Look how good he is, Arthur. Just look.

“I’m going to take your cock in my hand, I’m going to stroke you as long as you need, and I’m going to make you come.” Arthur has migrated to make his promises against Danse’s wet neck, presses his lips down to drink in his sweat and leave a dark souvenir mottled on his skin. “Any objections?”

“Absolutely none, Mister Morgan.” This cannot be real, it simply cannot. He knows it is, can’t deny (or ever in a million years forget) the taste of Arthur’s fingers on his tongue, can’t explain away the strangled groan that leaves him when Arthur closes his hand around his weighty, purple-headed dick like it’s nothing. God, a man’s hand on him. It’s everything, it’s everything, and he pleads with himself to not come too soon. If this is the first and last time he’ll ever have this privilege, he aims to milk it for as long as it can stretch.

“Call me Arthur.”

Well, that threw a wrench in his plans, because those three words cut his timeline down by about half. “Now?”

“Now, Victor,” Arthur groans, and he’s rutting into Danse at this point, biting down on his shoulder, and Jesus Christ, Danse is seeing stars.

“Fuck, Arthur!” It’s louder than he thought it would be, startles them both before sending them into a momentary stint of laughter. Arthur fucking Morgan leans his weight on Victor fucking Danse, and he could take a running jump and fly all the way across the Heartlands. Those rough fingers, stained with Arthur’s blood and dripping with Danse’s spit, curve over the head of his cock like magic, and he howls. “Arthur, please, I’m—”

“Do it, Danse—just do it, right into my hand, all of it, you better,” Arthur blathers, and that sheer lack of control from a man so often shrouded in stoicism is what makes Danse go just a tiny bit insane, and he hooks his foot around Arthur’s ankle, reaches back to grab the man’s hip (or whatever the hell he can grab), and grinds back onto Arthur’s cock. Fucks forward, too, like he’s fifteen again and hiding in an alley with a boy who told him he’d show him whatever he wanted. 

“I can’t, Arthur, I—” It’s almost there, but he’s still waiting, waiting like he always has to, and how the hell is Arthur supposed to know this is how it is, the surge and the abatement and the fucking waiting, just for a moment—

“You’d best finish into my hand, or I swear to the Lord above this is the last time,” Arthur threatens, and that’s all Danse needs for his orgasm to shake through him, wrecking everything in its path and growing each second like a forest ablaze.

There’s not even a fraction of a reason that Danse would worry over it, because Arthur has made quite clear that he desires him, but as he just keeps bucking and his cock keeps throwing spurt after spurt of cum into Arthur’s hand, he grows increasingly anxious that Arthur will regret, or change his mind, or be reviled. But all he gets is groaning sighs, and Arthur closes his fist again and strokes him more, smears the thick white reward all over him. “Arthur,” he rasps, “let me, please, let me finish you, however you want, I just—”

“Quiet, boy,” Arthur says, and Danse falls quiet. “Danse,” Arthur corrects himself, which infects the younger man with a smile. “Not tonight. Maybe on the ’morrow,” he grunts, and steps back. Danse turns around, watches Arthur wipe his hand on his breeches again, smearing all that white over all that red, worthiness atop worthiness, and if he hadn’t just let loose a month’s worth of orgasm, he’d be bouncing right back. Fuck. 

Danse is still hanging out of his pants like an animal, and it takes a few breaths to muster the motivation to tuck himself back in. Tomorrow, Arthur said. Not a promise, but a possibility, and that’s enough. Few evenings in Danse’s life have concluded with such a stinging absence of energy. The wall is his home, at least until he’s convinced himself that he has simply imagined the cartilage in his knees melting to nothing, and that his legs are in fact in perfect health. Slowly, he steps away, reminds his feet what the ground feels like under his weight, and sits on his bedroll. 

Arthur extinguishes the lantern, his career of robbery coming to a peak in the moment he allows darkness to steal his face from Danse’s sight. Eyes adjust, but they are seconds he will not get back. The shape of Danse’s fixation floats until it settles supine. “Well, ’night, then.” It’s smooth as fresh coffee, harsh like the grounds at the bottom, more painful than burning your tongue from drinking too soon.

Put a gun to his head, and Danse still wouldn’t be able to tell you there exists a time too soon to drink in Arthur Morgan.

Fidgeting is his norm until he ends up in the same exact position night after night, but Danse expects to have a head full of everything, maybe for his cock to spring back with a vengeance. What he did not expect was to fall asleep as soon as he hits that sweet spot, on his right side, right hand laid over his waist, left hand crowding his neck to thread itself into his hair. With great orgasms come great physical tolls. 

———

The night rarely ends before Danse slides out of sleep, and today is no exception. The barn’s windows offer only pitch darkness when he sits up to peer out; neither the dim grey cover of dawn nor bright threads of sunrise have beat him to the chase. Arthur is snoring, and it domineers the whole barn. The absurd volume has Danse rubbing his eyebrows and clenching his jaw to keep from laughing. Say what you will about Arthur Morgan, he supposes, but the man has a set of lungs. 

Climbing to his feet, Danse leans his head back, stretches his shoulders, lets loose a tiny “oof” when they crack just a smidge too hard. If it weren’t the only way he could fall asleep, he’d change his ways, but either one or the other’s gotta give. Better well-rested and sore than sloppy from exhaustion. Not in their line of work, no sir. Plus, his gun arm’s never failed him, so it can’t be that bad.

While he muses on the balance of the human body and the quiet weight in the seat of his abdomen, Danse approaches the corner, pulls his cock out to piss on a pile of old hay. It’s already moist with rain or rot, he figures, so what’s a little more mess? It’s not like the horses wait for an outhouse. 

Pressure from his fingers sends him right into about seven hours ago, and he forces himself to breathe evenly. He’s not a teenager anymore, and his stupid dick won’t get in the way of his morning leak. After, he promises himself, and in the moment in-between, his bladder seizes victory. The mere thought of Arthur’s hands on him won’t conquer his morning routine. There is some dignity left for him; Danse refuses to sacrifice every piece.

In retaliation for its insolence, Danse banishes his cock back into his pants. No use rubbing one out now if Arthur decides he does want him in the morning. Maybe, if he’s good, Arthur would even fuck him. He’s got the sunflower oil. Always has it, for cooking. Could be put to better use, if Arthur wants. 

Well, the grand plan to keep his cock shut away in the nunnery of his long johns has promptly failed. Thankfully, he can listen to the wet, violent snoring. Hypnotic, and dreadfully effective at calming his rowdy imagination. Maybe he can just recall these noises the next time Arthur seems like the most important and impressive man in the entire world. 

They give way to grunts before long, though, when the sky has allowed a shade or two of leeway, beginning its slow bow to the morning. It’s like watching an exhibit at a circus, discovering something brand new about this natural world, because Arthur stretches like an agitated cat and kicks his blanket off of him, just to roll onto his front and sigh like the malaise of a thousand poets possessed him. Still no sign of actual consciousness, so Danse just observes.

By the time Arthur joins the land of the living about twenty minutes later, the clouds are greying and the coffee is hot. Maybe he rose for the coffee. Danse will have to try brewing it earlier next time, just to see. En route to the whisper of a percolator well-handled, Arthur stops to greet Adonis, feed him a cube or two. And Arthur wonders why his horses get bulky. Danse snorts, shakes his head, fills his mug. “Game’s still sleepin’ out there,” he calls. “Another hour, seems like. Maybe more.”

The mighty man shuffles over, scowling. “Were you hollerin’ over somethin’ in that barn earlier, O’Driscoll?”

The name stings, but the surly face on a man so clearly unprepared to step into the day sends Danse into laughter, big and bright and stained with coffee. “Not at all, Mister Morgan. Just took a piss and back to bed—can’t ever get back to sleep, me, but just to rest. You were havin’ some wild dream though, I can tell you that. Spooked Melvin, you were so aggravated.”

“Melvin is an easily-spooked steed,” Arthur retorts, and fills his cup to half with his daily habit. He’ll have another at noon, Danse knows, and the dregs before dinner. 

Quiet holds them comfortably, the way they both prefer. Especially in the mornings. Arthur’s a nightmare until he’s had time to orient himself into proper wakefulness, and Danse just prefers solitude—or at least the sound of it—when it comes time to greet the changing of the guard in the great overhead, when grey shrinks into color and everything is as sharp as it is soft. 

The stirring, the soft exhale, the abrupt glance at his coffee like Danse’s soul forgot where his body was and just made it back, is all the cue Arthur needs. “You comin’ around, boy? Head back on your shoulders?” 

Danse raises an eyebrow at him and holds his arm out, pausing until he knows Arthur can see what he’s doing, and then turns his tin mug upside down, letting almost half of a perfectly good cup of coffee splatter onto the ground. 

“You are a little shit,” Arthur grumbles, kicking dirt onto the puddle so he doesn’t have to look at such a grisly crime scene. 

“Ain’t you out here tryin’ to tell me things I don’t know, Mister Morgan?” Danse leans back, feels his abdomen pull his weight, stretches his arms to wingspan. “Tell you what,” he offers, straightening his back to sit properly again, “I’ll make you a whole new pot when we’ve got our game.” He waits until Arthur turns those silvery blues towards him, then slides his finger around the inside of his mug until it’s coated in thick remnants and grounds. “Sound good?” Calm and steady, he returns the stare and puts his finger on his tongue. 

Yes, it’s a risk to behave like a tart in a dime novel, but it looks like it may be going his way, because Arthur’s lips part just barely and that frown loosens. “I’ll think on it,” he gruffly replies, but doesn’t move. “You fixin’ to get yourself in trouble, there, boy?”

“Not at all,” Danse echoes their earlier conversation, though this time it’s a lie. “Just trying to make it up to you for my doin’ a thing so terribly dreadful as wasting morning coffee.” He braces his hand on the ground, aiming to push himself to his feet, but Arthur stands up quicker, and he’s somewhere lovely between anger and amusement. Just the way Danse likes him.

“You want to make it up, huh?” Arthur’s smile is all mischief, no kindness, and it sends Danse back to the night before. Hands on him, that voice in his ear, teeth on his shoulder, squeezing his tit like he’s got nothing else to hold onto—but he’s more disciplined than that, and there’s a tangible Arthur right in front of him with all those parts available, warm, present. Snap out of it and focus, Victor, goddamn. 

“Sure do, Mister Morgan.” Danse steps towards Arthur, who’s still in his underclothes, thin wool all over. Cold, too, or so say his insistent nipples underneath. “Nothin’ I want more, and that’s my word.” Not a lie. Not that it matters. 

With what could pass as a genuine wolf snarling, Arthur tosses back the rest of his coffee like it’s particularly nasty moonshine, drops the cup on the ground, holds out his hand. “Come with me, Mister Danse,” he beckons.

That’s his fucking name, that’s the one his pathetic insides have been singing to him since he first heard it, the one that marked the only night in his life worth remembering. “Yes,” Danse agrees, and follows closely. On a whim, he matches Arthur’s stride until their hands bump together, and Arthur grasps his wrist so smoothly it’s like instinct.

The benefits of height, Danse cheers privately, include the few seconds sooner that they have to walk anywhere to start using their hands and their nastiest words and, if he’s lucky, their faces. The time saved on travel, though they’re just crossing a yard, almost makes up for the seconds he lost the night before, seeking Arthur’s face in nascent darkness. 

When Arthur pauses just in front of the farmhouse porch, Danse looks at him expectantly, but receives no specificities. Frowning, he shakes his head and scales the three steps. As soon as he keeps going, heading for the door, Arthur holds his wrist firm. “Sit,” he growls. “Sit your ass down on those stairs.”

Rather than speak, Danse does as he’s told, watching Arthur’s face while he lowers himself to take a seat. Arthur reaches for him, grabs his sides, scoots him back just a little, then those unbelievable hands fall to the crest of his pants. Neither of them are fully dressed, but Arthur’s a decent man, so he hooks his fingertips between the buttons holding Danse’s modesty intact, and grunts at him in a wordless, obvious question.

“Yes,” Danse breathes, and rushes to assist, but Arthur slaps his hands forcefully. “I’m sorry,” he croaks, but it’s either inaudible or irrelevant. Both, most likely. The freer his cock becomes, the fuller it gets, and he’s become a mess in the name of staying still.

Arthur rests a knee on the second step, leans close until they are competing for air. “You’re gonna do just what I tell you to, isn’t that right?” He grasps Danse’s shaft, simply holding its weight until he gets his answer. 

God, the both of them are going to hell. Directly. “That’s right, yessir, I—just as I’m told, Mister Morgan.” He can smell the coffee, yesterday’s cigarettes, and he has to draw from his deepest wells of self-control to not pitch forward and chase those scents until they become tastes.

“That’s lovely. You know I love a good boy, Mister Danse. So you just stay still, ’less you really, truly cannot help your dirty little hands. I’m going to use my mouth and you are going to be as loud as you need to be, do you understand? Ain’t no one for miles. And if there is,” he sighs, giving Danse’s cock a few merciless pumps until the first noise pours from him, choked and stammering, “I s’pose they’re just going to hear, ain’t that right?”

In a feat of pure linguistic mastery, Danse takes the word “yes” and stretches it into three long, lingering syllables. The first rides out the last of those harsh jerks, the one where Arthur twists his hand at the tip. The second is the song accompanying his mild panic when Arthur backs up, plants his knees in the dirt, breathes on the slit of his cock while squeezing him just right. The third crests when Arthur takes his cock down and down and down, and the word rounds out his shame in an inhuman hiss, and god does he feel like the Serpent in Eden, or maybe he’s Eve and Arthur is the slithering origin of sin.

That tongue trails and twists like the path to hell, marks the path they’ve walked so far and goes on to promise so much more, and Danse does nothing to stop it, wouldn’t dare. His nails are stripping paint from the wood, and he’s absolutely certain that he’ll be stuck like a pincushion with splinters, but he cannot care because he cannot move, because Arthur told him to be still.

It is a hardship all its own, like nothing he has ever faced. Near-frostbitten on the back of Arthur’s horse, taking his insults with nowhere to run, that was child’s play. The gang’s gleeful threat of gelding him is lives away now, and it says something mighty complimentary about Arthur’s skills that Danse’s erection doesn’t flag even a smidge when he’s thinking about geldings. Arthur is his own compliment, needs no encouragement, he knows exactly what he’s doing. Stunned silence breaks in a pleading yelp when Arthur pulls off, tugs Danse’s pants down to his ankles. That’s what Arthur wants, he reminds himself, he wants noise, and he’ll get it.

The cool air batters his cock with the sharpness that only wet skin awards, and Danse is halfway through a shaky “Arthur, please, please keep going—” when he realizes that Arthur has only stopped to lift his legs up and shimmy between them. He’s never held his thighs so wide, but those shoulders command him. “God,” he grunts, exhaling as harshly as he can to gather himself. “Arthur, please—”

“Please what? What do you want, Victor? Say it to me, you filthy little shit,” Arthur growls, and grasps just the base of Danse’s cock. He spits on him carelessly; some of it lands on his cock, but most of it hits his thigh and Arthur’s own hand. 

“I want your mouth on me,” Danse gasps, strains his hips up. “I want it, Arthur, I’d—please, I want to feel your throat on my cock, I’ll be so loud, I’ll scream for—”

Arthur stares up at him, smears the spittle on his knuckles along Danse’s shaft, holds both his balls in one of those gorgeous hands. “Well, Mister Danse, why didn’t you simply say so?” Cruel beyond understanding, Arthur gets back to work on his newest project, hitches his breath through his nose so he can push even further. And then the worst starts, because Arthur starts to pull off and then take him down again, fucking his own mouth on the good boy who stays still and does what he’s told and shouts on every forward movement, base and primal and desperate. Just the way Arthur likes him, if his suspicions prove true.

“Arthur—Mister Morgan, I... please, let me, I want to use my hands, please let me touch you, I—fuck, Arthur!” If the answer were going to be no, that cry must have won Arthur over, because it’s when he’s loudest that Arthur reaches up to snatch his hand, nearly breaking skin that Danse couldn’t care less about, and burying it in his hair. “Jesus, my—Arthur, thank you, I’ll be so good, I’ll—”

Arthur pushes back against Danse’s hand, pulling off until he can rub his coarse facial hair along the side of that sloppy, deep-red, well-serviced dick, and yet it’s still not enough, he’s still not quite there. Arthur’s beard almost hurts. Almost. “Boy, you better shut your slut mouth, put those words away, and start telling me how you like it with your throat, not your tongue.” 

Danse nods, can’t stop nodding again, goddamnit, bucks his hips and whines until there are tears in his eyes, and he throws his head back, trying to swallow them back into his skull. “Pl—” No, he begs himself, shut that slut mouth like Arthur said to do. He’s good, he’s going to be good, and his cock is so fucking lonely even with Arthur’s nose nestled into the crease between the head and the shaft. 

Hazy with need, still staring at the beams and the spiders above them, he runs his hand over Arthur’s hair until his thumb brushes his forehead, and Arthur freezes for just long enough for Danse to start panicking, but takes him down to the fucking root before panic bubbles into words and prayers. There is nothing like this, Danse decides, and he will never be able to impress his own cock ever again.

No words mean no warning, but with Arthur’s hand still cupping his balls and passing them gently between his fingers, he can feel when it’s coming. Pulls back, just enough to jerk Danse’s shaft while keeping his lips firmly closed around the head, and Danse throws an arm over his face in a feeble attempt to wipe any stray tears before he leans up, jaw slack with need, frenziedly searches for those eyes that have killed him and revived him a thousand times, in daylight and in his dreams, and when they meet his, that’s it. He’s done.

As though he needs to, he clenches Arthur’s hair in his fist, fingers sending the clear message of begging him to stay where he is, keep doing what he’s doing. The scream hovers on a pant for just a moment, instinct instructing it to stay deep within him, but he remembers what Arthur told him, looks into those eyes that are about to kill him all over again, and he fucking bursts. 

It would be everywhere, and he expects it to be, but to his mortification and awe, Arthur is just as steadfast as he was before, taking all of it into his mouth. He has to break eye contact, but Danse doesn’t mind when he sees it’s to make room for Arthur’s eyelids blinking too quickly to be voluntary, his eyes rolling just briefly towards the heavens they’ll never see. “Hah... oh, my god, Arthur,” Danse croons, letting his—mentor? friend? cause of death?—have his hair back. “That was—”

They’re not finished yet, though, because Arthur tosses Danse’s legs back from over his shoulders and cages the younger man in, mouth still closed and surrounded by precum, saliva, and sweat, and Danse stares at him stupidly. He hasn’t spit, and he hasn’t swallowed, and Danse does not know what’s next until Arthur grabs his chin and crushes their mouths together. And god, if not for Arthur’s mouth, that cry would have scared away all the dinner they planned to catch today.

Danse tightens his grip on Arthur’s hair again, opening his mouth like a damn common girl and greedily licking his own cum from Arthur’s lips. “Christ,” he says into Arthur’s mouth, like his or any other god would take pity on him now. The hand on his chin migrates to the nape of his neck, holding him up like he’s precious, and he believes it. 

It stays there, holding him up, when Arthur pulls back, ignores the whining, and spits some of it right onto Danse’s face. He still feels precious, feels seen. Hell, he feels understood. And then the kissing comes back, and he feels special .

Passing it back and forth like perverts and harlots, it grows thinner until it is gone, a shared meal that has permanently changed Danse’s life. Arthur gives them both some air, and though they are hot as a fire in July, Arthur’s nipples are still practically poking holes in his shirt. “Arthur, Mister Morgan, I can get you off too, sir, I—”

“Not today,” Arthur grins. Just firmly enough to be effective, but with enough restraint to be tender, he starts wiping the cum-spit from Danse’s face onto the side of his thumb, offers it to him with pressure on his lower lip. The whole thumb disappears into Danse’s mouth, teeth scraping the bottom knuckle and a vile, slurping sound joins the creaks of old wood.

Once it is shiny and clean, Arthur’s hand thumps against Danse’s chest and he stands up. “Well, the deer aren’t likely to wait for us,” he announces, and adjusts his clothing. “Get yourself together, O’Driscoll. You’ve got a keep needs earnin’.” 

Ironic, that Arthur plans to shoot him dinner afterwards.