The King hmmm's in assent and turns his attention to the Kid's pack. It's heavy, but if he's a drifter, there's no reason for it not to be. He decides it isn't nosy to open it up, just to see what he's carrying with him, and a photograph flutters to the ground. Heart pounding, the King stoops and picks it up, turns it over in his hands. It's a poloraid of Butch, arms draped around another kid, a handsome black man with thick glasses and a dopey grin. They're posing in front of some sort of enormous ship, and the sky behind them is a steely grey to match. They look teenagerish and young, not more than 20 years old. The King turns the picture over again, it's undated, nothing written on the back.
"That's Gene," Butch says. He's standing in the doorway, a towel around his waist, a pained expression on his face.
The King startles for the second time in 12 hours, and the picture drops from his fingers and flutters noiselessly to the ground.
"I didn't mean--" the King says, but Butch cuts him off.
"We ran together, out east. Then he got himself killed saving everyone." He speaks emotionlessly, a simple recitation of fact.
"I'm sorry," the King says. "You must have been good friends."
"More than," Butch says hoarsely, and the King's stomach twists again. "He died a' radiation poisoning, and before he went, he told me that his only regret was not getting to see the Atlantic. So I promised him I'd take his ashes west, spread 'em on the sea."
"I'm sorry," the King repeated. There's nothing else to say.
"I don't wanna talk about it." Butch crosses the room, sits next to the King on the heart-shaped bed. "So," he says, "You gonna fuck me, or we gonna sit here and cry like a couple of girls?"
"If you still want me to," the King says, returning the photo to Butch's pack.
"I do," and he laughs at the formality of it. The King leans over, kisses him gently, tugs at the towel around his waist. Stripped bare, Butch leans into the kiss, pressing his naked chest against him. He's warm and still a little damp from his bath, and he shudders when the King draws his fingers down his spine, coming to rest at the small of his back.
He breaks the kiss, pushes Butch down on the mattress. He doesn't resist, laying back and tucking his hands behind his head. He grins like a pin-up, and the King runs his hands over the younger man's body, tracing scars and lines of muscle. He's fit and trim, not an ounce of fat on him, muscular but not overtly so. This is a body accustomed to hard living.
He wraps one hand around Butch's cock and presses a kiss to his collarbone, another to his sternum. He works his way down until he reaches the dark tangle of hair at the junction of Butch's legs. He hesitates there, running his fingers up and down Butch's thighs, never quite reaching his crotch. He keeps one hand on the younger man's cock, but he doesn't stroke or squeeze, simply holds it.
Butch shifts underneath him, works his hands free and places them on the King's shoulders. The King runs his tongue along the underside of Butch's dick, but doesn't take him into his mouth. Butch groans. "You're killing me," he mutters.
In response, the King grins and releases his erect cock, kisses the tip, and turns his attention to Butch's asshole. He brushes his thumb gently over the pucker of muscle, and Butch shudders. "Chrst," he says. "Just do it already."
Butch/The King, "Jailhouse Rock," 5a/5
"That's Gene," Butch says. He's standing in the doorway, a towel around his waist, a pained expression on his face.
The King startles for the second time in 12 hours, and the picture drops from his fingers and flutters noiselessly to the ground.
"I didn't mean--" the King says, but Butch cuts him off.
"We ran together, out east. Then he got himself killed saving everyone." He speaks emotionlessly, a simple recitation of fact.
"I'm sorry," the King says. "You must have been good friends."
"More than," Butch says hoarsely, and the King's stomach twists again. "He died a' radiation poisoning, and before he went, he told me that his only regret was not getting to see the Atlantic. So I promised him I'd take his ashes west, spread 'em on the sea."
"I'm sorry," the King repeated. There's nothing else to say.
"I don't wanna talk about it." Butch crosses the room, sits next to the King on the heart-shaped bed. "So," he says, "You gonna fuck me, or we gonna sit here and cry like a couple of girls?"
"If you still want me to," the King says, returning the photo to Butch's pack.
"I do," and he laughs at the formality of it. The King leans over, kisses him gently, tugs at the towel around his waist. Stripped bare, Butch leans into the kiss, pressing his naked chest against him. He's warm and still a little damp from his bath, and he shudders when the King draws his fingers down his spine, coming to rest at the small of his back.
He breaks the kiss, pushes Butch down on the mattress. He doesn't resist, laying back and tucking his hands behind his head. He grins like a pin-up, and the King runs his hands over the younger man's body, tracing scars and lines of muscle. He's fit and trim, not an ounce of fat on him, muscular but not overtly so. This is a body accustomed to hard living.
He wraps one hand around Butch's cock and presses a kiss to his collarbone, another to his sternum. He works his way down until he reaches the dark tangle of hair at the junction of Butch's legs. He hesitates there, running his fingers up and down Butch's thighs, never quite reaching his crotch. He keeps one hand on the younger man's cock, but he doesn't stroke or squeeze, simply holds it.
Butch shifts underneath him, works his hands free and places them on the King's shoulders. The King runs his tongue along the underside of Butch's dick, but doesn't take him into his mouth. Butch groans. "You're killing me," he mutters.
In response, the King grins and releases his erect cock, kisses the tip, and turns his attention to Butch's asshole. He brushes his thumb gently over the pucker of muscle, and Butch shudders. "Chrst," he says. "Just do it already."