Chapter Text
Everyone in Dutch van der Linde's gang knew that if you needed the loudest barking dog, you got Arthur Morgan.
Mean, tough and scary.
Not unlike a charging buffalo when he really got going.
But in truth, it was all an act.
Most of the time.
Much like a tired buffalo that couldn't be arsed to run all the way at you, Sean had joked. Unless that particular buffalo knew you were trouble and a quick shot between the eyes did the trick. (Or knee to the crotch, in Sean's case.)
But folk outside Dutch's gang were not privy to this information so, naturally, Arthur Morgan used his God given height and talents to his advantage. Job after job he'd join to lend the well needed muscle or to simply loom over folk that needed a good looming. When it came to talking, he kept his southern drawl of a mouth shut as much as possible, letting others do all the warbling. Especially when working with his adoptive fathers, Dutch van der Linde and Hosea Matthews.
Aside from those jobs, anyone would say he was usually down to earth as anyone could be for a man of his upbringing. Between jobs or chores around camp, Arthur Morgan was more than likely to be in his tent, sketching in that leather bound journal of his and writing whatever he wrote. He was the only one to do so out of the gang, besides the amateur romantic novelist, Mary Beth. The two creatives would share whatever little stationary they had and, on occasion, Arthur would lend an ear to her poem reading. He'd caught John Marston trying to sketch in his journal a few years back, but a quick bark of a warning made the boy scurry off. Arthur had paused when he saw John had been trying to copy his image of a seagull.
It was also a well known part of the outlaw's personality that if a fight would break out, Arthur would tend to intervene with a cool head, telling those folk to stop all that nonsense.
But there were, however, curious days during the month where this would be thrown to the wind and the blonde outlaw would literally go off on one.
Antagonizing and picking fights, seemingly out of no where, particularly with John. The young man, in retaliation, would only add fuel to the fire and screech insults at the top of his lungs from the other tent.
Those very early days of Marston joining the gang were rough, as the boy had a habit of biting when scared or angry. Even worse was when his jaw would lock and John would freak out, whimpering for help. Arthur had been bitten a couple of times, on the hand or arm, adding insult to injury when John's jaw would lock. Last time it had happened, was during a wrestling match that had gotten out of hand. Arthur realized if he could calm John down, the younger outlaw's grip would slowly but surely relax. The other bites where just that, bites of anger in the heat of the moment. Until a quick slap across the face from Hosea, the last time John had gone for someone, had put to rest that wild habit on the surface. But Arthur never forgot how shocked or beat red young John's face had been at the chastisement.
Now though in his mid thirties, and John in his late twenties, a quick throw away comment about Marston's face and how the wolf scars gave him extra brain cells would leave Arthur's lips and John, for his part, would tell Arthur to go and fuck himself. To which Arthur would shout, quite loudly from across camp, for the man to come and fuck him himself.
That got a giggle out of Mary Beth.
Around these times of random emotions, Arthur usually could be found drunk if not absent from camp. The early days of his youth had all manner of alarming wild nights out, drinking and fucking his way around questionable saloons in an alcoholic fog. He'd gotten a few raised eyebrows from the establishment's girls before they happily obliged, seeing payment had been slapped down on the table. But it was upon the real high risk of bedding a fellow outlaw in the dim light, behind some backwards saloon, that would really scratch Arthur's itch. A few black eyes from mistakes or bastards that got too rough had dogged him, but he'd get back to camp afterwards and no one would be non the wiser.
He wasn't sure why this bizarre fog of friskiness would descend upon him but, sure as shit, he'd be on the rag right afterwards. Using that urge to screw as a bell, signalling that he needed to stock up on food and take his ass away from camp, Arthur would pack up and head out. Getting laid was always tricky if he was broke or out of luck at the possible options. But more times than non, he'd use his own initiative, lying alone in his tent, for it was cheap and did the trick.
Until one day he rode back into camp and had Miss Grimshaw nearly pull him from his horse, shoving some revolting tea that he had only seen the local prostitutes drinking (for he apparently needed to drink it right now) down his throat and screaming at him that he was an unbelievable fool. Turned out word had gotten back about his nighttime activities, on this particular occasion, before he did. She had heard what the twenty year old Arthur had been doing, because Bill and Dutch had seen him. Just what the elder men had been doing in that tavern, waiting on some business deal with a rival or something equally shady he guessed, escaped him. But he downed the forced drink and that was that. He ignored the extremely confused look on Bessie's face when he complained that that stuff tasted like horseshit.
Arthur had been expecting an argument with Dutch soon after, but it was Hosea who had taken him aside and firmly explained that Dutch was indeed beyond livid, because the man Arthur had let mount him last night? Had been none other than Colm O'Driscoll, himself.
And that had put an end to it.
And the tea? Arthur had shuddered at the bullet he'd dodged.
The memories of those some fifteen years ago were nothing like these days. Obviously by now he had more or less a sex education, combined with an army of herbs, teas and yarrow that prevented any life from taking hold within him should he rarely go all out on that itch now. But Arthur had kept his promise to Dutch and refrained from whoring and drinking his way into an early grave.
Gambling though, well that was another story.
But sitting by the camp fire, bottle in one hand, singing with Javier and Uncle all manner of songs about women's nether regions to much snorting and drunken laughter, were as far as it went where drink was concerned. 'Ring-dang-do' was always guaranteed to be played on the banjo when Uncle was around and Arthur would more slur than sing as loud as he could, enough for Miss Grimshaw to throw tin cans at them to shut them the hell up, it was 3am for pete's sake!
Arthur Morgan slapped at a mosquito at his neck, checking his hand and brushing the squished remains down his thigh with a grunt. Things could be worse, he mused at his dusty surroundings in the midday sun. He could be on another job, playing the dumb and angry fool. Like that recent one with Hosea.
Thirty six years old and sweating like a rightful sinner in church, Arthur shifted uncomfortably on his horse, his tanned outer jacket rustling as he shifted left and right in the saddle. He scratched at his bare chin, fingers brushing over that old scar, and felt his clean shaven skin argue back. The ache in his lower back was ebbing and flowing. Like someone was pressing their thumbs on either side between his hips and spine. It had been over three hours since he'd changed the soiled linen and knew he was literally sitting on borrowed time. He looked over his shoulder, feigning searching for that boil that was Micah Bell, keeping them waiting at this vantage point the bastard, but clocked a couple of thick bushes he could take care of business in. Just one thing was stopping him and it looked over it's shoulder at Arthur with a deep scowl on it's scarred face.
"You got lice again?"
"What?"
"You," John Marston shot from atop Old Boy, his raspy voice sounding like he smoked several packs a day to make sure the sun rose, "You're fidgeting like hell."
"Shuttup," Arthur drawled, turning his head away.
John knew, of course. Not through Arthur's own tardiness mind, but through the fact that greasy raccoon just wouldn't leave him alone. Ever since he saved his sorry hide from that hanging, that river, that house robbery, that jail that...ah, too many to count. Then that wolf attack? He was getting sick of saving Marston the Maiden. Arthur noticed that, daily now, the twenty six year old wouldn't be far away from him. Marston had even the gall to pitch his tent literally next to his when they arrived at Horseshoe Overlook.
The dark haired idiot had always been lingering on the outskirts of his person, like a bad smell. How Arthur had kept his body's intimate secret from John had been a fucking miracle, but that all changed two years ago. Barging into Arthur's hotel room to continue some stupid argument they were having about something or other, as the man was changing, and it was as if their worlds turned upside down. After the initial shock of the intrusion, Arthur had been on him in a flash. Using the fact the skinny outlaw was dumb struck to his advantage, Arthur had threaten he'd put a bullet between the young man's teeth then and there if he blabbed and Marston had nodded his head and said he quite liked living, so his secret was safe.
And to Arthur's complete shock, John admitted he already knew. Had for going on nearly five years.
Both outlaws had left that hotel shocked in their own way but pleased the air was clear, as it ever could be between them. If anything though, John was even more clingy after that. Which Arthur found odd at first but his body and ego began purring loudly at, wanting more. And that curious purring never went away. Only intensified when he caught the outlaw staring at him when he thought he wasn't looking. The itch Arthur had put it down too, had turned into something very different when he caught John Marston staring at him.
And it was driving him up the fucking wall.
"Where the hell is that bastard," John asked, scraggly hair framing his face, making Marston look wild as he squinted left and right down the way.
"You'd think he'd show up, considering this was his idea," Arthur huffed, before breathing in and sighing long.
His saddle would probably have blood on it by now.
Arthur Morgan looked up at the blue sky from under his gambler's hat and cursed again. Where the hell was this coach Micah had said was guaranteed to be here? He cast his mind back again further, distracted by John flicking hair out of his face.
Hosea knew the truth, as did Dutch, Bill, John, Tilly and Miss Grimshaw, though the rest of the gang had no idea, it seemed.
But he would always be grateful to Hosea, in particular, for confirming that he wasn't dying the first time it happened and it was normal as it could be for someone of Arthur's build. His adoptive father admitted Bessie had suffered from the Woman's Curse, before pulling out a wad of linen, offering the package to the distraught sixteen year old.
"Put that in your breaches," he had said simply, "Will stop the bleeding. Remember to change it every two hours when it's at it's heaviest. Will only be for a few days."
So that's the way it went.
Arthur was just glad that the older he got, the more infrequent it would happen, and he would be damned if he ever got used to it-
"You got a smoke?" John suddenly asked and Arthur grunted a yes, snapping out of his head. He popped one into his own mouth and then chucked the packet of premium cigarettes over. If they were going to wait then why not have a smoke to pass the time?
"You find a card, Marston-"
"Yeah, yeah I know," John sighed and squinted at the figure of a horse on the card, "Tennessee Walker?"
Arthur waved his hand out dismissively with a drawled "Nah." He'd already got that one.
"Alright then," John shrugged and popped the card in his own jacket.
Arthur inhaled a drag, blue eyes squinting at the other man next to him.
Marston really was becoming quite attractive as the days rolled passed. If only he would take a damn bath every so often and not yell like he was being set on fire each time. But then Arthur remembered the time two weeks ago that John had fallen asleep against his shoulder by the campfire, exhausted from fighting off Miss Grimshaw verbally manhandling him into a bath. His jet black and wet hair soaking Arthur's dark union suit and face nuzzling into his shoulder with mouth slightly parted, deep in slumber. Arthur had stilled at that. Excusing it that he didn't want to wake Marston but in truth he wanted to oddly reach down and softly kiss that unruly mop of hair. Instead, he carefully pulled his discarded tanned coat over John's shoulders, settling him in and being Marston's support as he dried off. The sigh of content that escaped Marston's lips made Arthur's heart clench and afterwards his coat had John's scent on it for the rest of the day.
And Arthur had loved it.
"Hey Fenton, you got your ears open?"
"What?"
"Hah, knew that would work," John smirked widely, the scars across his right cheek stretching as he tossed the box back.
"Only Hosea can call me that, you know," Arthur warned, catching it with one hand, as John chuckled while trying to roll another cigarette between his slim fingers.
"Why does he call you that?"
"None of ya' damn business, is why."
John laughed loudly, the sound going straight to Arthur's crotch.
Arthur hated the fact that when he was alone these days and scratching that itch, it was always Marston's scarred face he pictured above him.
The older man grunted in annoyance, closing his eyes in tiredness, as John continued to guffaw.
He hated that nickname with a vengeance.
Hosea had started calling Arthur 'Fenton' in front of John a few days ago, after Arthur had blown up at the younger man, who had been literally sitting and minding his own business, whittling some wooden cutlery on a log. When Arthur had calmed down from ragging on John, Hosea explained that Fenton was the name of a buffalo he had heard stories about, who would charge stationary horses he was so dumb in anger and pick on anything that was within distance.
And met his end when he charged the horse that Bessie was atop of.
Arthur got the meaning.
But it was damn difficult, for when those hot headed days rolled around, literally anything or anyone could set him off around camp. The other members, once coming to the conclusion he was probably drunk off his face, again, if the periodical stench of cheap booze from his coat was anything to go by, gave him a wide birth. A few times Bill had met that challenge with foolish bravado but it was always incredibly brief those fights, with Arthur ending up more than likely laughing from his position on the floor at the other man's lack of intelligence, as he nursed a split lip Williamson had managed to land on him. Any blood that showed on his jeans was always from a fight, Arthur would say.
Always.
And he prided himself on not seriously hurting anyone in camp.
Until one Micah Bell entered his life, that is.
For it was after Jenny had begged Arthur to protect her from someone chasing her. It didn't take much to figure out who she was running from. Bell would strut around camp, shooting his mouth off when he first joined, having Dutch wrapped round his finger or dick, no one was quite sure which, and being generally lecherous. Dutch was the only man who could control him, but even then Arthur and Hosea had doubts. Arthur never forgot the subtle look of hurt in Hosea's eyes when Dutch had spent hours chatting to Micah on con-worthiness of jobs and Arthur knew what that meant. Dutch and Hosea were considered akin to a married couple, at least in the eyes of the gang, but Dutch always had roving eyes with one currently on Molly and the other on Micah.
"He'll get bored and move on. Always does," Hosea had said, referring to those members who joined and left after a few months, wooed into Dutch's gang by the man himself. But Arthur and John hadn't missed the grin they got from Bell as he left Dutch's tent one night. They didn't want to know what it was doing to poor Molly; the woman was slowly losing her mind.
With Micah though, well, it had reached a head when Jenny had broken down in front of Arthur. If asked, Arthur Morgan would say he wasn't cruel, just realistic and loyal to a fault. There were rules around camp, even for a bunch of lawless outlaws such as themselves. But when Jenny had confided in him what Micah had really done...the rage he had felt had been literally blinding as he stormed over and grabbed that useless sack of shit round the neck and squeezed. He never killed in cold blood, but for Micah Bell and what he had done to Lenny's woman, he was willing to make an exception. He cursed he had not been able to save her honor from that predator back in Blackwater. The two cowboys would have torn chunks out of each other had the entire camp not intervened, an army of arms physically pulling Arthur off of the newcomer before blood could be shed.
Dutch had finally stepped in, ordering Morgan to calm the hell down and Micah away from Jenny. Arthur never forgot that shit eating grin he got from Bell's face as he walked back to his own tent, tipping his white hat at them and the rage, Arthur had felt, never left him.
Later, during another period of unstable emotions, he had confided with Mary Beth, once sitting on an upturned barrel, that he thought he was going crazy. To which she lent a helpful ear but wasn't able to offer more advice, sadly. She had no idea about the true nature of his body and Arthur wanted to keep it that way, even if he did try and broach the subject. She looked as confused as Karen did, before he waved the question off.
But then those days of heightened emotion, of anger, aching and wanting to shed treacherous tears, would miraculously vanish and he'd feel like himself again. In control. It was insane and he never knew why or when it would happen but he kept a record in his journal. He hated to acknowledge it was also just before he bled like a God damn wounded animal. So he kept those days as time he spent away from camp, to let off his temper in the wild and deal with the seemingly never ending flow of red from between his thighs. He could holler all he wanted when his hips and stomach would ache, with his horse to keep him company. A few bar fights usually got the tension out, but he kept his promise to Dutch and steered clear of drinking himself into a jail cell.
So the camp got used to his at whim presence and he'd be damned if he let anyone else know the truth of these outings and why he always carried rolls of stained off white linen. This time the pack had been given to him by Tilly, careful not to leave it on his table in case wondering eyes caught it but placing it in his chest, hiding it under his clothes. He gave her a stolen necklace last time as a thank you-
He was brought out of his deep and winding musing when the promised coach finally showed up to much rattling of wooden wheels on hard ground.
John Marston and Arthur Morgan immediately threw their cigarettes away, donned their masks and dealt with business, Micah-late-comer be damned. They said their lines and the robbery went smoother than either outlaw expected. All those being robbed coughed up nicely and no one was in dire need of being shot. Until there was distant gun fire and five white hat law enforcers showed up at the top of the road with uniforms that told everyone around they were Bounty Hunters.
And they had hounds.
The two men had grabbed what they could and ran for their lives, urging their horses to sprint and, knowing the land, they dived into the wilderness, splitting up and disappearing just as fast as the job began.
It was half an hour later that they met up again. John had seen Arthur's knackered horse at the water's edge, drinking it's fill. Arthur came out of the bushes, shifting his belt left and right with an uncomfortable frown. Trying to get comfortable as he slotted a foot into the stirrup and hoisted himself back onto his steed, Arthur hated the fact his linen bag had gotten lost on his gallop into the trees so changing was out of the question.
"You lost something?"
Arthur sighed. John didn't know he was on and didn't want to bring up the subject. The damn thing had probably snagged onto a low lying branch. Perhaps he'd go back for it, or steal some from somewhere-
Faint barking drifted to them from down stream.
John turned to him with panicked eyes.
"Damn it, how'd they find us so fast?!"
"Come on, move!" Arthur had said and kicked his horse into a sprint.
An hour more they galloped, trotted and walked in a circle, trying to out maneuver the law. But every now and again they could hear dogs barking in the distance and there was no way in hell they were leading them back to camp. Had to give 'em the run around first. They had found the white bag he had dropped, but he had no chance to open it. Arthur hated the fact his crotch was warm and wet now with the constant galloping and trotting. With no time to stop and properly sort himself out, he chanced looking down and saw red blooming on his jeans.
Shit.
Their horses began to walk steadily up a steep rocky hill on the Heartlands with crunching hooves, as the sun beat down upon them without mercy. The heat of the day making bugs chirp and the horizon swim in and out of focus.
And Arthur Morgan was exhausted.
He cast his half lidded eyes to John, who seemed like he was fairing okay, but beads of sweat fell down his tanned temple as they rode, his hair starting to mat together even more than it was. He looked filthy, but to Arthur, he suddenly felt more alert as he watched John struggling to deal with the heat. Noticing the subtle way his thighs urged Old Boy on, the way his lean yet strong arms were firmly holding onto the reigns, shoulders tantalizingly strong, lips parted in rasped breath-
A snake suddenly spooked Arthur's horse and it jerked upwards in a rear, the outlaw falling to the side but kept a hold, finally righting himself upon the saddle with a curse. Just when he was back in control, the snake long gone, he saw John flicking his eyes between his saddle and blue eyes in disbelief.
"Will you quit starin' at me?!" Arthur snapped loudly.
"You're on the rag and didn't say?!"
Arthur swore.
"No wonder them hounds is following us," John continued to shriek, "You stink for miles around-!"
"Whadda' want me to do?" Arthur challenged, kicking his horse into a walk, "Shove a God damn cork up ma'self?"
"Maybe!" John shouted after him, urging Old Boy to keep up, "Then we would've given them the slip and not be chasing our damn tails!"
Arthur snapped and yanked at the reins of his horse with a self deprecated laugh, the beast snorting as it came to a stop on the slope. This shouldn't be as hard as it was. They had finished the job, gotten their pay and should be back eating stew or playing poker. It was too hot, he was too tired and he was way too furious for this shit right now.
Arthur shifted as his aching hips sharply made themselves known again and his anger spiked.
"You know Marston, now I really know what Abigail sees in ya'. Got some real charm there, you have. You interrogate her when 'er Grandma from Red Creek arrives too?!-"
"Shut up!" John shouted over him, brow pinched in anger, "I'm not the one bleeding all over their fucking saddle and don't you bring Abigail into this!"
"I told you I didn't want no part of this damn job, but you wouldn't shut your God damn mouth up about it," Arthur continued to bellow, "The only reason I'm bleeding is that I'm not foolish enough to get myself with child-"
John shouldn't have tried to have the last word, really he didn't. But then again, this was John Marston in his twenties and things didn't always go through a mental filter.
"Maybe if you did then we wouldn't be in this mess-!"
There was an inhuman roar and Arthur launched himself at the younger man. Grabbing onto bony arms, the weight of the thirty-six year old was no match for John, as he was pulled from his saddle and the two went crashing to the ground. Old Boy and Arthur's horse neighed at the sudden action and both skittishly trotted out of the way as Arthur Morgan and John Marston fought in the dry dirt, skidding down the slate covered hill, rocks falling. The fight was dirty and brief. And ended up not as Arthur or John intended.
They tussled as they came to a natural stop, each man fighting to get the other on his back but, through size advantage, Arthur Morgan had the upper hand. Hair was yanked, clothes were pulled and buttons ripped clean off shirts. Until a wave of dizziness caught Arthur off guard and John used that opening to flip them, slamming Arthur onto his back, hands gripping wrists at the sides of the blonde's face and pushing down hard into the grey and yellow gravel.
There was a yelp of pain and Arthur wasn't sure why he made it at first.
Arthur coughed harshly as the dust settled and made to throw the weight of the other man off but realized two things in quick succession that set his blood on fire.
Marston was pressing his crotch into his own and using the pressure of his hips and steep gravity of the terrain to hold Arthur down the small slope.
And where Arthur's neck met his shoulder, John had sunk his teeth in.
Arthur jerked his own hips up but that only made it worse, or better he honestly didn't know, as the pressure of Marston's bite increased.
Suddenly Arthur was swamped by the smell that was inescapably John. Smoke, horse and that gun-oil scent mixed with a heavy and iconic musk. Strands of his black hair had fallen across his own blue gaze, sweat plastering them to his face. He was so shocked by the bite that Arthur didn't realize it at first but as time slowed he couldn't deny it. He felt the blunt edge of a thick hardness, shoving into a upper corner of his inner thigh. Arthur tried to blink the sun and John's hair out of his eyes, attempting and failing to ignore the fact that John Marston was hard for him. The taller outlaw made to throw the slightly shorter off, but John had pinned him down good. The slope was doing it's job of having gravity force Arthur's upper body to weigh several times more and fatigue did the rest. He was well and truly immobilized.
Shit.
The two men, not knowing what to do next, panted hard on the gravel slope, hearts hammering and breath heavy. In the fray, Arthur's black bandanna had come lose from his neck, his hat had fallen off and his top buttons were open, exposing a heaving and sweating chest, along with a bare and freckled shoulder that John was currently clamped down on. Arthur tried to ignore how ragged, hot and wet John's breath was against his skin and how it made him shudder to his very core.
This must be what a deer felt like under a wolf as it was about to be consumed.
He started to feel John shaking faintly from adrenaline and Arthur knew from the little whimper in his ear that John's jaw had locked.
"It's alright," Arthur soothed, forcing his voice into a gentle and quiet tone, as if calming a spooked horse, "It's alright..."
Arthur, all trace of fight slowly leaving his system as he caught his breath back, continued to sooth for a few minutes. Until he leaned the side of his face into that black mass, pressing his nose into John's hair.
"You're alright, John...."
John whimpered, nearly inaudible, but ever so slowly relaxed his jaw and, after a few moments more of reassurance, was able to let go. Arthur felt John's teeth leave an indent with a wince as his skin was released.
The younger outlaw slowly pulled back, hands still gripping the blonde's wrists, his stubble brushing against Arthur's own with heavy breaths, their noses brushing.
Arthur didn't know why he did it, but it felt like the right thing to do. He raised his head ever so slightly, so their foreheads touched and gazed into those scared dark eyes.
"You're alright, John....I'm here..."
John Marston gazed down with dilated eyes, his pupils blooming and cheeks red.
A shiver of fear, with heated desire, racked Arthur's body as he realized how wild John appeared with the wolf scars down his face and hair framing his features, like the Old Gods of this land had marked him for their own. A sudden, urgent and sheer animalistic need to be taken by John Marston floored his thinking from the way John was looking at him, and from the hardness pressing into that intimate spot, the possibility he was about to be made the hairs on the back of Arthur Morgan's neck stand up.
The two stared at each other and Arthur knew it was coming as John slowly leaned down.
Arthur couldn't look away.
John tentatively pressed his lips to those softly panting ones and the moment he did, Arthur replied with an uncensored groan of want that surprised even himself. Seeing Morgan answering so positively to this brazen act, spurred John on and he deepened the kiss. The two men continued slowly, wanting to savour this thing between them, whatever it was, that had been unspoken for so many years that tasted of strong tobacco and cheap whiskey.
It was heaven.
Speeding up as each began to sink into lust, moaning into the affection, both urged on by the other's reactions. John's hands released Arthur's wrists and sunk into blonde hair, cradling the elder outlaw's face, as Arthur's fingers threaded through black strands. Seeking more friction, Arthur raised his aching hips in question and John thrust back an instant and desperate answer. Morgan broke away gasping for air at the confirmation, as Marston began to kiss and suck at that newly exposed neck, moaning his name as if in mantra and thrusting that hardness into Arthur's jeans.
Time seemed to stretch until the blonde, in a cool part of his brain, felt a warm wet patch snake up his lower back, slowly creeping up the skin on his spine and knew instantly what had caused it. But he didn't care, maybe later he would, but not right now. He squeezed his eyes shut as the midday sun shone down on them, with John's breathless grunts and whines in his ear; it was one of the most beautiful sounds he'd ever heard.
"Need you," John rasped into an ear, biting at a lobe and Arthur let out an obscene moan at how right it all felt.
He reached up and pulled at John's waist, seeking the edges of breeches to pull them down. He wanted this, wanted Marston to take him. Right here, right now, before common sense prevailed for both of them. But as he did, that common sense began to seep in and, even if John wanted sex as much as he did, it ...shit, it couldn't be like this. He was in no condition too. Arthur begrudgingly stopped trying to free John and instead fingers settled into the hoops of his jeans, before there was a grunt of impatience and John reached down to Arthur's belt, quickly unbuckling him.
"But I'm-"
"I don't care," was all Marston could say in a whoosh of breath, as he began to desperately push clothing and gun belts out of the way. Damn it, now the hounds will definitely know they where right here if they did this, Arthur tried to mentally fight with himself. Maybe he could shimmy them onto his coat or something. But Arthur didn't have time to voice this as Marston slammed his mouth onto his own, yanked off anything that was in the way, and forced the outlaw's hips to line up with his own.
They broke apart, pulling air into their lungs, and pressed their foreheads together painfully as John pressed his erection in, both watching before he thrust a couple of times, gently testing. Like Arthur was china or he'd get a slap across the face for being too rough.
"I ain't Abigail, John," Arthur growled with spite and John took him at his word. Self control on Marston's part didn't last long, it never did, and he shoved himself in harshly before rapidly withdrawing, shoving Arthur's knees up to his chest as his pace increased to go deeper. Arthur, for his part, grabbed onto that scraggly mane at the back of John's head and pulled with a grunt of pain as the other man buried himself to the hilt. He would have let John continue at his punishing pace, but turned out the gravel they were on was not as understanding to his lower back, as it scraped painfully with every shunt to his body.
"Easy, Marston, easy!" he ground out between clenched teeth, fists at John's scalp, eyes squinting with strain up at the other man before he shut them at the repeating penetration, sweat dripping down his temple. John instantly relaxed his grip on those thighs, letting the blonde outlaw move his hips away onto softer gravel. Before eagerly gripping the body below him and returning to that brutal pace.
Arthur let his head fall back on the earth with a thud and let the sensations wash over him, as John pressed his forehead to a strong chest, his raspy voice half muffled with punched out sounds of effort and want. The sounds of their intense love making was loud, echoing off the white rocks of the Heartlands around them, making a few white tailed deer look up at the commotion.
It was everything and nothing like Arthur had imagined as John leaned up and over him, with a hoarse and strained, "Look at me."
Arthur obeyed and locked his sky blue eyes onto ones full of love and affection. Both men trying to desperately tell the other outlaw things neither of Dutch's boys could say out loud. All those days when he had imagined whatever scenario would befall John taking him were always too outlandish, too impossible, too far from reality that he'd always bet on it never happening. Hell, he would have bet real dollar and dime money on it.
Turns out, he had just busted out of that game spectacularly.
Arthur watched with fascination as the stimulation was too much for the outlaw above him as John shut his eyes in a cry of pleasure, brow furrowed in concentration, his jerks becoming shorter, keeping himself at the deep point as he reached his peak. Arthur felt himself rising to his own orgasm, closing his eyes, when he heard his horse snort. Momentarily distracted, Arthur opened up his eyes to see the two beasts looking at them with indifference until Old Boy suddenly jerked up and bayed at something on their left.
A figure moved next to Arthur's vision and he turned his head in a daze just as John thumped a hand down on his tanned coat with eyes clenched tightly shut, gripping onto the fabric for dear life as he began to orgasm. But Arthur wasn't paying attention because he could have died right then and there the way his heart stopped.
For a couple of feet away, panting in the plain's dry heat and staring directly at them was a large and brown law dog.
Oh, fuck.
John paused as he felt Arthur's body go oddly ridged as a statue, hands gripping his upper arms, squeezing painfully. He looked up at Arthur's face from between his slowing thrusts, gasping for air with a bewildered frown, then over and saw.
There was a pause where no creature moved.
BARK!
"There they are!" a voice down the canyon shouted.
"Shit!" John blurted, seeing a mass of six men in uniform all now staring up at them.
And some of them were opened mouthed at what they saw.
"MOVE!" Arthur roared and, like lightning, shoved Marston off of him, wincing as the man pulled out sharply.
Both men scrambled to haphazardly pull jeans and breeches up, grabbing at pistols, as they climbed the small slope frantically as gun fire rang out. Running over to their panicking horses, bullets flying, Arthur skidded in the gravel as he grabbed his previously abandoned hat, shoved it on his blonde head and leapt on his horse. The beast skittered over the lose stone, wild hooves kicking in the dust, nearly colliding into John and Old Boy.
Over the crest of the slope they surmounted and both outlaws kicked their horses into a gallop. Faster they rode, flattening plants and surprising rabbits out their path with John leading the way in a thunder of hooves. As the wind and scenery whipped passed them at break neck speed, Marston kept checking over his shoulder to make sure the blonde was following as token gun fire was returned by Arthur. They ran and ran, through forests and roads with the odd traveller coming the other way telling them to slow the hell down, until the sun started to dip below the horizon and their horses couldn't take it anymore. They hit upon a river somewhere in Ambarino, letting their steeds grab their breath, both horses steaming in the low temperature with white sweat dripping down their coats, sides heaving from the effort.
"Christ, Arthur," John finally said as he watched Morgan get off his horse, adrenaline from the escape and what they had done, making him shiver with goosebumps. Or was that from the cold? John wasn't entirely sure. But he sure as hell felt on cloud nine.
"Don't worry, we lost 'em-"
"No, I mean you," John said with a raspy voice from exhaustion, adding a small and embarrassed smirk to his features as he grabbed his rolled up cigarette from a dark coat pocket, "Looks like you've just skinned a deer."
Arthur frowned in confusion until he saw Marston gesturing to his jeans as he lit up.
"Son of a bitch,' Arthur grumbled, having taken a quick glance. Enough of this bullshit, he was changing right here, right now. And getting rid of any trace that those bastard hounds could latch onto. It was just a damn coach with a couple of rich folk inside, what the hell had they stolen or done to warrant this kind of attention? Well, there was that Blackwater Ferry fiasco, he said to himself, the five thousand dollar price on his head, not to mention the fact that the law probably took offense he woke up this morning and had a shit.
Arthur coughed up phlegm and spat onto the ground, as tiredness made his vision wobble, watching as Marston took a deep drag, exhaling a large cloud into the cold air. Arthur didn't blame him; the boy was probably smoking to steady his nerves after the flight and-
Arthur paused as he saw John looking skittish, not meeting his eyes.
Marston.
John Marston.
John-he-literally-just-fucked-you-Marston.
'Oh, Arthur, you moron,' Arthur heard a voice in his head berating him, that sounded suspiciously like Mary Linton. What the hell had he been thinking?! Was what happened ten years ago a joke? For fuck sake, Morgan, you've not changed and you've just messed everything between you and John up for good. The boy will probably run off again now when it sinks in what he's done.
And what if this got back to camp?
To Hosea?
To Dutch?
Arthur pinched his thumb and forefinger between his eyes briefly, ignoring the stab of panic in his chest that John would leave again, before nodding that they needed to keep moving, nothing else mattered. Even if he wanted to sleep this entire day off and deal with the inevitable fallout from John later, as he saw the younger man carefully watching him, keeping close to Old Boy. Probably in case Arthur fully grasped what he'd done and go for him. The blonde shook his head at the situation before Arthur stopped and snorted at John, chucking an amusing finger at the man's own crotch.
"You forget that you were, er...," Arthur said with an amused grin to lighten the mood, "...skinning the same damn one?"
John tilted his head at the words with a hoarse 'Huh?', but finally got the meaning and didn't look down too long at the state of his own dark jeans. His face flushed red as Arthur suddenly stood up straight, walked the short distance over to him and slapped him on the upper arm with a tired smile. Marston watched entranced as Arthur took the lit cigarette from his lips, popped it between his own teeth and nodded at something over John's head.
"I have an idea."
~