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Eddie’s probably not learning the lesson Roland intends to teach him.
In fact, how this happened is a bit of a mystery, even to him. One minute, they’d been shooting targets and trading insults, the same way Eddie did once upon a time with the gang back in New York. The next, Roland had said one cryptic statement and then fucked off to go get some rope.
You need to learn patience for your father’s sake.
Well Eddie’s father ain’t ever got a lesson in patience like this.
“Take your clothes off, Eddie.”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
Roland’s expression barely changes, but Eddie thinks he sees the slightest twitch of an eyebrow. It’s a sign of amusement or impatience, either way, Eddie’s not entirely sure whether he prefers Roland half-dead or alive and twirling his fucking fingers at him in a sign to get moving.
“Do you hear yourself, Roland?” Eddie asks, lowering his voice and putting on his best Schwarzenegger impression. “Your clothes… give them to me now. You sound like the fuckin’ terminator.”
“Or stand here blathering like a fool till the world’s moved on,” Roland offers dryly.
Eddie’s not sure fighting Roland’s gonna do a damn bit of good. He’s already so tough looking, he’s had to survive a couple apocalypses. And he’s already seen Eddie wearing a helluva lot less than a Chippendales dancer while fighting off his old pal Balazar.
What does he have to lose?
“Alright, Roland. Have it your way. But you know what happens when you open the forbidden ark, right?”
“For the love of your father, I’m not asking about an ark.”
“Indiana Jones. Raiders of the Lost Ark? The Nazis open the ark and then…”
Roland crosses his arms over his chest. Eddie deflates.
“You’d like it if you saw it,” Eddie mutters to himself, whipping off his shirt. “Lots of gratuitous violence, guns, and snakes. Right up your alley.”
“Eddie,” Roland scolds.
“Sounds to me like I’m not the only one who needs to learn to be patient.” Eddie punctuates that statement by undoing his belt and letting his jeans fall to the ground. Then he puts both hands on his hips and looks Roland square in the eye. “Now what, Mr. Miyagi?”
“Close your eyes.”
Eddie nearly tells Roland to fuck off. Then he remembers that dangerous look of his, the one that sends both alarm bells ringing and liquid heat to his gut. The way he handles those guns like they’re just as much a part of him as his hands, the same way he could handle Eddie in many ways, and thinks better of it.
“I’m going to tie you up, Eddie. Then I’m going to issue you commands. If it’s too much, you’ll say ‘long days,’ do you ken?”
“You’re gonna — Christ, Roland. What are you gonna do once I’m tied up? Take my virtue?”
“Do you have virtue left to steal?” Roland questions calmly. “We are an-tet, Eddie Dean. I will not harm, nor give you nothing but what you need. I will set my watch and warrant by it.”
Eddie’s gotta give him that. Any virtue he could lay dubious claim to went straight out the window around the time he took his first hit. There’s a danger in the gunslinger, yes, but also…
He trusts him. Fucking hell, Eddie’s gotta trust him. There’s something here, ain’t there? He’s not the only one that feels it.
“Fine,” he grumbles, offering both wrists. “Do your worst.”
Eddie swears he sees Roland’s lips twitch upwards. Then the gunslinger steps quickly around him, jerking Eddie’s arm up until he hisses.
“Hey, watch it. I need these hands, you know.”
“So you do,” Roland murmurs right against Eddie’s ear. He hadn’t realized he was so close. More to the point, he hadn’t realized the idea of him being so close would make him weak in the knees
Fucking hell. Next thing you know, Eddie will be swooning on top a tower while some gigantic lobstrosity holds him hostage and Roland dodges barrels to rescue him.
Like Roland can read his mind, he releases a dry laugh that sends shivers down Eddie’s neck, makes his cock twitch with interest. Eddie grits his teeth, tries to think of other things. The batting stats of the New York Mets. Names of all the Ghostbusters.
Then Roland’s broad, deadly hands smooth over Eddie’s ribcage and all thought flies all the window.
“Jesus Christ, Roland.”
Eddie pulls at the ropes binding him. They hold tight, and that shouldn’t make his cock stiffen, but it does. By the time the rough pads of Roland’s fingers skim Eddie’s thighs, Eddie’s hard enough to fuck a wall.
“Patience,” Roland counsels, beginning his torturous journey back up his body. “Concentrate.”
“Concentrate on what?” Eddie asks. “The sand? The sense of impending doom? The —”
Roland’s hand wraps around his cock and Eddie chokes on the rest of his protests. His hips jerk, thrusting into Roland’s loose grip, and Roland growls against his neck.
“Concentrate on keeping yourself still. Controlling your mind. Your body. Or have you forgotten the face of your father?”
Eddie doesn’t want to even think of dear old Da, not when Roland’s fingers trail over his length. Instead, he grits his teeth and resists the urge to chase the slightest contact.
The press of bare skin to his back shocks him. Makes him look over his shoulder. Roland meets his gaze calmly, cooly, his free hand smoothing up Eddie’s stomach, his ribs. There’s a spark of lust that is quickly controlled as Roland circles Eddie’s nipples.
Roland’s skin is rough on his back. A patchwork quilt of scars. Combined with the sensation of his rough fingers on his nipples, and that strong hand slowly pumping up and down his cock, Eddie can’t resist panting and writhing against the ropes holding him.
The slap on his thigh startles a moan from Eddie’s throat. But it’s nothing compared to the low snarl in his ear.
“So eager to cry off. If you don’t learn to stand true, I may as well leave you here.”
Eddie whimpers. It’s a threat, an empty one. Roland is right, Eddie can already feel it. They are an-tet. This was the inevitable conclusion the moment Roland jumped into his head on that fucking plane.
All he has to do is wait and endure.
For some reason, that fucking chant of Roland’s is what comes to his head. Eddie clutches at it like a mantra, like one of those fucking cults where they all drink the kool aid.
I do not aim with my hand; he who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his father.
Roland hums in approval as Eddie regains his equilibrium, allowing the gunslinger to torment him with slow, careful swipes of his fingers. His blood boils with screaming need, but Eddie clings to the fraying rope of his sanity, the litany in his head unceasing.
I do not aim with my hand; he who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his father.
As if from far away, Eddie hears something pop open. That’s when he realizes that one of Roland’s hands have disappeared. The next thing he feels are those rough fingers dripping sun warmed oil over his ass.
Eddie nearly makes a joke about a prison gang called The Sisters that Henry used to spread scary stories about, but all capacity for thought has gone out the fuckin’ window. Roland clearly knows what he’s doing with that oil, not just when he’s using it on his guns. A full shudder goes through Eddie’s body as one finger easily impales him.
I shoot with my mind. I do not kill with my gun; he who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father.
Even the litany can’t stop the gasp that falls from Eddie’s lips as Roland slides another finger inside, curling them just right so that his knees turn to jello. He closes his eyes and tries to control himself while Roland’s other hand abandons his cock to splay over his stomach and hold him firm.
“Just like this, Eddie. You’re doing fine.”
He’s a fucking goner is what he is, because that just makes him more desperate to rut into nothing but air. His muscles tense and he fights the urge to struggle in the rope, take himself in hand, and masturbate furiously into the sand at his feet.
I kill with my heart.
Roland does something. Fuck if Eddie knows what it is, except that it lights every nerve on fire with pure pleasure. He almost screams, bucking wildly.
“Long days!” he half-sobs. “Long days you fucking bastard.”
Roland withdraws quickly. “And pleasant nights. Do you want me to untie you, Eddie?”
“No!” he shouts. “I want you to fuck me.”
A moment of silence. And then another dry laugh from the gunslinger. Eddie turns around to glare into those cold, dark eyes only to feel something hard press insistently in his ass.
“As it does you,” Roland says softly.
And then Eddie can do nothing but moan as Roland bends him over and begins to split him, sinking into him with hardly any resistance at all. His fingers clutch at the ropes binding his wrists and he whimpers while Roland gently guides him to his knees in the sand.
Strong fingers circle his cock once more, the other hand digging into his hip, and it’s Roland who sounds more than a bit impatient this time.
“Eddie,” he growls. “Eddie—”
It’s madness to think that Eddie could listen to that the rest of his fucking life, but right now, there’s nowhere he’d rather be than getting fucked into the ground by the gunslinger, his cock leaking, each stroke hitting just right.
Eddie cums with no warning, just a great shudder and gulping for air. Roland follows not long after with a snarled curse and a grip that will certainly bruise.
The quiet that follows is steady. Calm. Eddie is more at peace with himself than he’s been for a long time.
“Gonna untie me?” he finally rasps, wiggling his fingers.
Roland makes a noise that must be agreement, because he begins to tug at the ropes soon after.
“I do have a question, Eddie Dean.”
“'Course you do,” Eddie says dryly, feeling the ropes sag. “What is it this time, Roland?”
“What is a ‘fuckin ter-min-nay-tor?’”
Eddie starts laughing and doesn’t stop for a good, long while.