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A fine day helped John to herd his care without much hassle. The late noon sun was warm enough to keep him from needing to bundle up, even if he was so close to the mountains.
Most of his day was spent keeping things in line, out in the wilderness like this with just the animals. He’d been told he wasn’t good at herding, though he thought he did fine. All his life he’d been in the company of doubters and judgmental naysayers. In fact, he was sort of enjoying himself, alone for once, out with the cattle.
And did he have quite a bit of time to think while the goats munched on the stray weeds and grass along the mountain base trail. But, truthfully, not thinking seemed better. And he was trying to do as much. If the goats could do it every damn day, so could John. There was a well of energy building in him that left him antsy, and mulling it over wouldn’t make this work end any time sooner.
He flicked his finished cigarette to the dirt– away from the goats– when he heard the tell-tale sign of a nag’s hooves against the gravelly path leading toward the mountain’s base.
John had to wonder who would come out here at such a time of day when he was busy; he had purposely herded his goats just a ways off the trail to avoid others.
After a brief silence, footsteps soon came. Or maybe stomping was more apt. John tried not to think of who could be so mad at him, if it was someone even after him. His fists balled up in his horses’ reins tighter, the leather straps quietly creaking against his fingers.
Into view came a figure John knew all too well. Arthur Morgan, of the Van der Linde gang. John let out an agitated huff, knowing why the man had come to visit him. It wasn’t a good thing at all, but it was John’s fault for willing away the inevitability of the older man’s return.
Arthur’s large frame drawing nearer and nearer in a purposeful stride was enough to scare off his cattle– all five nanny goats, scattering towards the mountains nearby.
“Hey! Morgan!” John shouted over the distance. He was affronted how little effort it took Arthur to undo his own efforts. “You just ran off my goats! What’s your problem?”
“I’ve come for my money,” Arthur said as he approached. It was a sharp tone, one John didn’t like the sound of.
“Yeah, I had a feeling about it, when I saw you.” He tried to stay neutral and cool, but his heart was already speeding up. Arthur had an affect about his appearance that demanded one to respect him, though if asked, he was sure Arthur would say John didn’t do so.
John scratched at his chin, checking for witnesses around them. Would anybody help a lonesome farmhand like John Marston– and would they help him against a feller like Arthur Morgan? John could hedge a pretty obvious bet there, and yet he allowed Arthur to come closer, instead of fleeing, like so many others had surely tried before him.
“I didn’t think you’d be, uh, back, this soon, to be honest.”
The two men kept their eyes on each other, as if breaking contact would set them to be the defeated party. Arthur didn’t mind settling down on his attitude and spoke more evenly, if not a little lost sounding.
“Well… I am. Pay up. Now.”
John gave a large-armed gesture out towards all of the dirt and rocks around them. “My money that was coming in is gone! You just scared it off!”
“You was gonna make money off of some goats?” Arthur questioned, his tone full of derision. “Why not– why not boars?”
“See any pigs ‘round these parts?” John replied snidely. Just because he was a farmhand didn’t mean he couldn’t be insulted by Arthur’s lack of respect for him.
Arthur snorted at this, then reached for the holster at his hip. Immediately, the severity of what John had gotten himself into felt tangible.
“Don’t make me spell it out. I’m robbing you, Marston. You owe me.”
John balked, then glanced back at the gun Arthur unashamedly had aimed toward his chest. No remorse, which, under different circumstances, John could appreciate the level of confidence Arthur gave.
Despite the warning, John slid off of his horse to stand up to Arthur proper, hands up in a show of peace. It was a bad idea, if John was even really thinking, but there was that energy, still roiling within him, giving John that gut feeling that he could fight back against Arthur somehow.
“Hey now… Let’s settle down,” John said slowly, giving his lips a quick swipe with his tongue, feeling dry and warm all over, “you know I can’t pay you back right now.”
“Sure you can. What you got in those pockets?”
“I–” John hesitated, knowing better. He admitted the truth. “I ain’t got anything on me. I was– I was focused. On my cattle.”
“And now they’re gone,” Arthur repeated on his behalf.
John nodded. “That’s right.”
“What kind of lousy ranch-hand are you?”
John gave a withering glare at the debt collector.
Arthur hadn’t come close to losing focus on his aim toward John’s heartbeat. Admittedly, it did beat faster as his would-be-assailer stepped closer, until the gap was bridged enough that the muzzle of Arthur’s gun ran along his ratty vest. It snagged on the button of one of John’s front pockets, and John’s breath hitched for it.
“You don’t got a single thing on you, John.” It wasn’t a question.
John swallowed thickly, then nodded in confirmation. Nice and slow, as not to give Arthur any reason to shoot him point blank.
The gun wandered further, going south-end. It had a peculiar mind to run along the faint outline of John’s manhood, and he had to keep himself still under Arthur’s now probing ministrations.
His voice turned into a husky rumble, and John wasn’t immune to it. He was already hardening, practically singing for the pathetic amount of attention Arthur was teasing out of him.
“You only got yourself to give, then.”
“No.” John wanted to be firm about this concept. At least, that’s what he wished. It came out weak and soft.
Arthur didn’t seem to mind the declination and toyed a bit more with John’s covered erection, every run along the outline of his cockhead bringing another throbbing pulse, a sensation that made John want to buckle and fall to his knees. But he stood tall, even if he couldn’t control his voice as much.
Despite being roughly the same height, the way Arthur carried himself with his hulking build gave him an air of superiority over John, and it felt like it made the situation worse, like Arthur stood far taller than him, towered over John and his meager build. John was sure Arthur was using this power to his advantage. The way Arthur looked down on him felt devilish, finding amusement from teasing him, watching himself run that revolver so casually along such a sensitive place.
“You’re gonna tell me ‘no’, boy? You owe me. You ain’t getting out of it.”
“But… But you know, I’m– I’ve got a family.”
A harsh bark of laughter came out of Arthur at this statement. “What does that have to do with anything? You gonna go tell your girl you sold your body after I’m through with you?”
“No!” John turned his gaze away from Arthur, cheeks flushing at the mere thought, a pit deep down in his stomach doing flips. “You ain’t doin’ nothing to me. I– I ain’t gonna betray her.”
“Oh, yes I will,” Arthur said. Cruelly, he pulled the gun away from John’s erection to wave it along his lithe torso, then the ground. His voice grew sharp, a demanding tone that brooked no argument. “And you’ll be doing as much, too. Now get down on your knees, Marston.”
Without the gun aimed at him, John grew surly once more, barking out his defiance. “Like hell!”
Arthur was faster than the blink of an eye, holstering his gun and throwing John into the pebbled ground, his prized hat flying off his head in the process. He couldn’t even think fast enough to grunt from the sharp impact, much less turn against Arthur’s rough handling.
A puff of dirt made the air knocked out of him harder to recover, his body unable to curl in on itself defensively as Arthur’s hands shoved him belly-down, then tugged at his wrists, stinging at the pressure of being in an unusual position. Up they went, behind his sides and inward, until the bite of rope began to coil around his wrists, bringing them together tight, warning his muscles to not fight back.
“Arthur!” John shouted in protest, flailing uselessly. He figured to kick his legs as hard as he could upward– toward anything of Arthur’s to stop this from escalating– but it was too late.
Arthur had managed to slither down to his legs, gloves running along the length of them, making quick yet sensuous work of a long path.
His touch turned firm once more as he handled John into prime position for tying his ankles together, the rope far less painful with his jeans protecting his skin from the knot snug between his ankles.
“Goddamn idiot,” Arthur said fondly, his hands running back toward John’s calves with his work finished. He squeezed at the tense muscles, then gave one of John’s ass cheeks a rough grope. John arched taut into the touch with a gasp. “You think you’d want to cooperate better. I saw your excitement, plain as day.”
John spit onto the ground across him, once again in defiance, then bared his teeth. “Bullshit.”
Arthur didn’t seem moved by the display, leaning back up to stand before John’s head, his dusty boots obscuring the world around them.
“You sure about that?”
John was promptly tugged upward by the loose collar of his shirt, dirt puffing around him once more as he was slid forward, like a marionette, and wormed up onto his knees, Arthur giving him no time to protest the harsh treatment.
The ropes bit every time he tried to move against their hold in a meaningful way toward freedom. It made it worse, made him grow more stiff. And at the same time, something about having been made prone like this allowed that tense, frantic energy John was trapped with to ebb out.
Arthur seemed to know his work’s effect– he stepped around his captive, then leaned down to give John’s barely-peeking rear a swat, bringing his prey back to kneeling ramrod straight. John yelped at it, even though it didn’t hurt any worse than the rest of the roughhousing Arthur had done to him. Arthur’s voice felt distant, for a moment.
“Ever been treated like this?”
John licked at his lips, feeling so dry, and so warm. The tightness in his body was loosening further, his morals and responsibilities floating away like strands of broken grass. “No.”
The grin Arthur gave him as he loomed back over into his view made the butterflies jumble around in his belly. John didn’t know what to expect.
“I think you’re lyin’,” Arthur said with finality. He gave John a firm nudge with his boot, a dust-print leaving its place along John’s jeans above his knee. John let his body sway against it. “You look like you know your way with men, just rollin’ over like that. Maybe you know your way around even nastier fellers than me. You got some shameful business you get yourself into, John Marston?”
“You don’t know me and my business,” John snapped, face still red with anticipation, and a smidge of shame. He didn’t know anyone nearly as nasty as Arthur Morgan, didn’t think it was possible.
For his attitude, Arthur gave no preamble to spitting squarely at John’s scruffy jaw. He winced at the painless impact, but felt his body loosen even more, rather than tense up.
He opened his mouth in incredulity as Arthur grabbed for his jaw, his dirty begloved fingers gripping tightly to keep John focused up on him, their eyes locking.
“I’m your business tonight, boy. And you’re gonna do everything I say.”
“Th– the hell you say, you son of a bitch!” John tried defying. He began wriggling in earnest in the ropes, only to have his hairy wrists pinch harder along his skin, being squeezed together behind him. “I– fuck,” he groaned out, then settled in place again, knowing better than to fight the tightness along his joints.
“Damned fool. You’re a slow one to learn, ain’t you? ”
Arthur let go of his jaw with a shove, and John almost toppled back for the effort. His cock was throbbing in his jeans and he bit down a telling, needy whine, slumping down in some hopes of creating friction along his thighs, since Arthur seemed to care about only himself.
“If you’re not gonna behave yourself fully, you’ll just have to start with this,” Arthur threatened, brandishing his revolver again.
John glared up at Arthur pointing the gun at his face, then scoffed, turning his head away from the muzzle. “I ain’t putting that in my mouth.”
Arthur brought him back to the situation with a rough turn, the tip of his revolver pushing against the tender scars on his cheek. “You will if you don’t want a bullet in your throat instead, boy.”
He didn’t hesitate to give John a too-firm tap to his lips. “Open.”
Instead, John tilted his head further away from the revolver, resisting the serious demand. He couldn’t find the wherewithal to say fuck you to top it all off, but he hoped his glare told Arthur as much.
The gun’s tip ran along his lips, Arthur looking down at John with tempered ferocity- John could tell, anticipating- and suddenly the unmarred side of his face was stinging with a sharp radiating pain, the length of the barrel having slapped him.
“Don’t test me,” Arthur warned with a quiet, steely voice. “Unless you wanna go back to your girl with another mark across that pretty face of yours… This one you won’t be able to excuse away all nice-like.”
Looking up at his assailer from down low on the ground, John’s stomach swirled in sick glee at the thought of being branded as such. What would Abigail say to it– and could John lie his way out of a queer sight as that: a long, red welt on his cheek? Would that be the final straw for her impatience with his immaturity, being caught fooling around behind her back as a masochistic invert?
Instead, John acquiesced, letting his eyes flutter closed in shame over opening his mouth for a gun. It was an odd sensation, nothing like anything else he had put in his mouth before.
Arthur followed along with John’s lips caressing the barrel, letting him catch the jagged front sight with a clack of his teeth before dragging towards the center of his now willing and open mouth. More.
His cheeks continued to burn with embarrassment as he found himself already tonguing the muzzle of the revolver before it had even gone anywhere deeper inside his mouth. Arthur caught it, eagle-eyed, and gave an affirming grunt.
“Good– good boy. Make sure to get it real wet for me. Don’t miss a spot, like you’re cleanin’ it.”
John moaned for the praise, and took it to heart, focusing on teasing the front sight of the revolver like it was Arthur’s own member– like his cockhead. How John managed to deprive himself of toying with it for this facsimile, he didn’t know. He shouldn’t have fought hard for any of this, even if it was for sport.
The gun oil tasted odd and terrible, but it slowly lost any flavor as he worked along the muzzle sloppily, not ingesting a thing, only leaving more spit behind where his tongue went. Arthur approved of this, giving John more length to work with as he made further mess, going so far to comment on it in a pleased, hungry tone.
“That’s it, John. Show me you know what you’re doin’, just like that whore woman of yours. Ain’t that right?”
“Damn you…” John muttered halfheartedly, words broken up by the revolver dipping in and out from his mouth. Acting like he had virtue for his woman was laughable. When Arthur wanted him, he lost himself. And worse was he liked being able to run off like this, even more than the slight stability and sanity having Abigail around managed to do.
A few times Arthur seemed to slip up on focusing– not so much a scary prospect when he had trusted Arthur with his life so many damn times– and the barrel clacked around his teeth, loud in his skull but not loud enough to keep him from hearing those filthy moans he was making himself.
The barrel reached the back of his throat, and, suddenly, John felt like he was going to choke. His arms trembled behind him as he tore his head back and away from the gun with a gag, spit pooling at the front of his mouth until it dribbled down along the scruff of his chin, long having overrun Arthur’s tobacco-flavored spit from earlier.
“Haven’t learned enough from your girl if you can’t take that amount,” Arthur taunted. “I’m not getting my money’s worth just yet.”
John rasped out a few small coughs from his discomfort, but was quickly silenced again as Arthur stepped further into John’s space, his hand going to the back of his head, fingers digging into his stringy hair to tug him forward, bringing John back to throating the revolver, as deep as it had been when he pulled away with a gag. Arthur’s laugh as John promptly gagged again was cruel for it, a harsh bark, looking down at John with a mix of pride and contempt.
John’s cock ached fiercely in his jeans as Arthur toyed with him, knowing his mind would take these filthy pantomimes for close to the real thing. It was less about mouthing the gun and more about telling Arthur how good he was, willing to throat it, and to show he could give everything to Arthur.
“Feels real good,” Arthur said mockingly, as if reading John’s mind. “Makes me wonder if you can behave now, and let me stick my cock in your mouth. Would you like that? Want the real deal, Johnny?”
“Mmpggnah,” John voiced around the revolver, trying to look up at Arthur above with his brows furrowed.
“You can’t even say a goddamn word and you’re still tellin’ me no.” Arthur shook his head at the sorry display, and pulled his tool out of John’s over-enthusiastic mouth. “I don’t think you understand... You got no room to decide. You get what I give you.”
Deciding to display his power, Arthur kicked at John’s chest, shoving him straight to the dirt. John panted at the cool air free to intake now, thick strands of his own spit and drool painting his scruffy chin once more, this time from where the revolver was ungraciously pulled out from his mouth mid-act.
“But it ain’t enough,” Arthur ground out. He took a step back to observe John’s trembling figure in full, who couldn’t meet Arthur’s eyes anymore, looking disheveled. “I’m gonna have you.”
“Don’t,” John croaked out.
Arthur ignored him entirely, including John’s raging erection vying for Arthur’s proper attention– still trapped in his jeans, so desperate it now bore the tell-tale mark of his leaking excitement. Arthur was no better than him, from what John had glimpsed earlier.
He kicked at John once more, this time at his hind to roll him over without any finesse, like cattle. John went with the movement, unable to move into a respectable position with his arms behind him, and his ankles bound together. As he got onto his belly, he stretched out his legs solely to keep from cramping and making things worse than they had to be.
“Arthur, wait,” John protested again, feeling the heat of Arthur near- his boots, then knees surrounding his thighs, closed in to trap John between him. Not that he was willing to go anywhere at this point, when Arthur said he’d take him.
He moaned again when he felt his jeans freed from the suspenders holding them up, loosening around his narrow waist.
“All I need is your cunt, like this,” Arthur stated, and for showing an example, he tugged at John’s jeans that slid down past his knees without resistance. There was a pause in movement as Arthur eyed his prize, the pale skin of John’s thin thighs and backside contrasting brightly against his dark ratty jeans, his worn, dusty shirt and vest.
“You go around with no drawers on? Just your pants? Now I know you’re foolin’ around too much. This is something whores do– I’d hate to know if you’ve been busy today with another feller.”
John grit his teeth at the insult, only wanting Arthur to touch him properly. Instead, he got the shock of a foreign, rigid tool threatening to press against his hole.
“Wuh– wait a minute!” It was a genuine surprise, and John bucked against the gun, then away from it as it touched the rim of his hole too firmly, threatening to breach him. “I don’t–”
“Shut the hell up, Marston,” Arthur warned. He gave John’s ass a sharp slap to settle him quickly, the revolver dipping into his hole enough to have him gasp out in shock.
“Ah, fuck!”
“That’s the idea, ain’t it? Does your tiny brain even know what it wants?” As Arthur spoke, John realized he had been shaking his head, practically agreeing with his captor. “Sayin’ ‘no’-- fussin’, all while you’re letting some debt collector play with you all willing… You’ll take anything.”
“Just– just, don’t…”
John grew quiet again as the revolver’s cool touch drew away soon after, his breaths coming in heavier. Even though he felt how wet it had made his hole with its quick contact, it wasn’t enough to Arthur that John had sucked it so well, because Arthur spat right between his cheeks. John flinched, but didn’t wriggle around any more, lest he draw Arthur’s ire. He would obey– Arthur was right, he did want anything.
“You tryin’ to tell me you want something specific?” Arthur’s composure was growing more lost as John heard the holstering of his revolver, gun belts clattering to the ground, then the unbuttoning of his pants and underwear.
John’s hands flexed in their bonds, attempting to reach for Arthur near him. He flinched again at being spit on once more, then the unmistakable nasty squelching of what had to have been Arthur’s gloved hand rubbing along his girthy length, spreading along spit and slick, all to fuck John’s pitiful and prone figure.
Even hearing it and not being able to touch it and worship it made John whine softly, like a neglected puppy. Arthur let out a breathy chuckle, and once again gave a cursory glance between John’s supple cheeks with his free hand.
“You can, ah, speak if you say the right things… Go on, sweetheart.”
“Want it,” was all John thought to say.
“Is that right?”
“Yeah– ah– God– God,” John blurted out as Arthur came to lay above him, his thick cock throbbing against his hole. He couldn’t press up against that pressure even if he wanted to, Arthur smothering him above, firm into the ground, having mounted him like an animal. Like the bitch John was, he laid and took it, practically melted into it. “Yeah, that– more…”
“That’s it, boy,” Arthur rumbled above him, his scratchy pants rubbing along John’s bare thighs with each teasing movement, precise twitches of his hips letting his cock snag along the rim of John’s hole. He kept threatening to press down and bury himself deep inside his prize. The slipperiness of it kept John from breathing, desperately wanting to feel Arthur inside him.
Arthur knew exactly what he should do, but he was trying to draw out the moment. “Say it.”
“Arthur,” John started, his panting harsh and ragged, as if he had exerted all of his strength just to lay there and be pressed upon. “Arthur, please. Please.”
The pressure grew stronger, on the precipice of penetrating him properly, and John groaned long and low for it. Before he could be breached, Arthur inched his cockhead away and left John empty and whining. “No!”
“Say it, you goddamn little bitch,” Arthur growled out. He leaned forward to angle his cock into pressing against John’s hole once more, tempting it upon himself, John unable to squirm onto the pressure with Arthur’s weight keeping his hips down for him.
Without John speaking coherently, Arthur shoved him down at the crown of his hair with one hand, raising the other hand and letting his ass have it.
The sharp stinging pain echoed far after Arthur had slapped him, and John cried out when Arthur came down several times on the same spot, the rain of blows leaving him beyond breathless.
“You’re so useless like this, Johnny–” Arthur gave no warning as he shoved at John’s head once again, rubbing his face against the ground, before plunging his cock into John’s twitching hole.
The resistance was beyond belief, even with John’s spit, sweat, and pre-come slicked hole. John’s muffled cry was almost feminine in its pitch, compared to the usual tone of the man. It couldn’t be helped in the circumstance, and Arthur seemed pleased by it, rather than off-put, but that could’ve been for having subdued his target.
“Fuck, you’re tighter than all be,” Arthur rumbled, loud enough over John’s drawn out groans of pain. “You need all the help you can get if you’re trying to pass off this cunt for sale.”
“Shut– shut up,” John ground out under him. It was an empty bite, mostly because he didn’t even know if he said it properly, having his non-scarred side of his face rubbed into the dirt under him. He must’ve, because Arthur promptly gave him another slap to his ass before burying himself further inside, until the hem of his pants met flush against John’s cheeks.
“Nngh!” John kicked at the dirt underneath him, the toes of his boots slapping against the dirt louder than Arthur’s thick cock had when meeting up with his hole. It didn’t matter how many times Arthur had ridden him like this, the man was difficult to take inside himself even when they grew frenzied and fucked multiple times a fortnight.
“Don’t back-talk me, boy,” Arthur warned as an afterthought. A hand came to grasp at Marston’s ass, the soft skin being played with roughly, pulled apart for his hole to be shown gripping hungrily around Arthur’s cock.
His movements were steady to come– painfully so, every inch palpable with how aggressive he fucked into John. It was exactly what John had wanted, though, down to expecting Arthur to grow forgetful in his own pleasure. It was a different type of agony compared to the too-full pain of Arthur buried inside him, and John caught himself sniffling back unbidden tears at the over stimulation, the pain, the ecstasy.
“You crying, boy?” Arthur taunted.
John’s moans in response were undignified, pathetic little things. He was completely unraveled at the attention, the punishment. It was all he had wanted: what he left behind for Arthur to use was this dirtied, spit-slick hole, and nothing more. He wasn’t John Marston– farmhand or member of the Van der Linde gang. He was solely a filthy receptacle for seed.
“That’s it– good boy, let me hear you cry for it,” Arthur continued after the enthusiastic response. His voice sounded so slurred in lust that John moaned again, his teary whimpers peppered between it. Arthur’s pleasure was his own, when they did this. Being taken by his brother and given anything pleasurable was a blessing in a devilish disguise.
“If I wanted, I could– ah– shoot a hole in you still. Yeah– right here, where you’re taking me– don’t test me…” He continued to threaten John below him, his words being broken up by grunts as he rocked in and out of John who stayed frozen and prone, his wet cries garbled in the dirt. “Gonna– leave you, right here– out on this road… All tied up, like a– god– damn– present… Let all the– menfolk have at you–”
John came unbidden, a harsh gasp being punctured out of him by Arthur’s staccato rhythm, his weight pressing along John’s back, except for where he had kneeled around his thighs– taking to John like he was racing on a debauched rocking horse.
John wasn’t in a position to rear himself back, though he knew Arthur could tell he had come, probably through his hole squeezing wildly around the intrusion. It sent Arthur over the edge, and he came with a growl, lost for words like John.
His grasp on John’s head tightened, keeping him pressed fully into the dirt as he let John’s hole squeezing around his cock milk him through orgasm, having turned fully wild and harsh in his movements.
“That’s it… Good... Good boy, Johnny…”
When he finished having spent inside of John without second guessing, he grew heavier and calm. Arthur’s hand rubbed along John’s head where he had been too rough with it just moments before: it was a tenderness that Arthur only gave him when they finished fucking.
Even when John was just a stupid kid, and Arthur gave him more leeway, he’d rarely get that affection. But it was okay, because John wanted the gratification of their sins more than the familial comforts.
As they had grown, only Arthur found out how to handle John’s needs when he felt caged. Their desires dovetailed; Arthur’s unspoken tendencies ran toward bossiness– he was a natural at leading, cajoling, and bringing out the worst in John, which he supposedly wanted if he kept seeking John out. Maybe Dutch took it out on Arthur the same way at some point, and it lingered inside him. John didn’t know for certain, and didn’t really care, more invested in having his own bossiness beaten out of him for a few hours.
They laid together in their mess- an unsightly, uneven sweaty pile- for a bit, coming down from their union with heavy breaths. Arthur hadn’t stopped petting at his head. It was like a little slice of heaven, coming back down to the world.
Finally John let out a wheezing grunt, signaling for Arthur to pull off and out of him.
“You’re too damn big sometimes,” John coughed out when Arthur tugged himself upward, still connected to him.
“Sorry,” Arthur said, not sounding as much.
“Yeah, yeah…” John wriggled against Arthur, still bound, and now stiff. “Christ. Help me out, Morgan.”
When Arthur pulled out, John winced over the stinging sensation of having been too rough. It was worth the ride, and in a way, it was a nice reminder of their time together. As long as we don’t make marks, John used to warn him. And Arthur never did, at least cooperative before they made up ridiculous ideas to play out.
Most of their combined imagination ran towards Arthur being uncooperative. It was all in good fun, as if what they did day-to-day wasn’t already devious and underhanded enough. But that was the devil in them both, what drove them to their hustling– an unceasing lust for all wretched and cold. In that sense, John enjoyed letting go of that evil part of him to take the womanly role. He didn’t look it, and didn’t really feel it, but being cleared of the responsibilities he was used to was ideal. Nobody else had ever dared to approach him the same way Arthur had managed to.
“Whatchu think, was that a hundred dollar’s worth?”
John simply nodded in affirmation, unable to continue playing along.
“Not gonna thank me for my hard work?”
“Thank you.” John weakly wriggled in his bonds, his words softer than the petulant frown across his lips. “Arthur, c’mon…”
Pleased, Arthur lazily cut at John’s bonds, ignoring the shreds of rope he left in his wake. He tucked himself back into his pants, watching over John slowly coming out from his prone position while buttoning up.
It was a miracle that Arthur could always look so put together. He still had his hat firmly atop his head, clothes practically clean and unwrinkled– only his boots showing scuffs and settled dust from their semi-planned altercation. John did his best to ignore the tiniest darkened wet patch right along the man’s fly, the circular pattern giving away that it was from where Arthur had pressed flush against John’s messy ass to fuck him, rather than impatience in his own excitement.
“Shit,” John admonished him with a questioning, wide gesture now that he was freed. “You weren’t gonna get straight to business, putting me on asking all those stupid money questions?”
“Don’t you start, little Johnny Marston,” Arthur bit back, “you got no room calling me dumb– not out of anyone on this earth.”
“I felt put on the spot. You got an excuse for that or what?”
“Yeah, well, I did too. You think your reasons are special? And all for these dumb games?” Arthur’s tone brooked no argument. It wasn’t as fun to deal with the wet blanket of his personality when they had both released their pent up lust.
“Okay, okay. Whatever you say, friend.” John wasn’t going to tolerate this so soon after reaching bliss.
As he finally moved about, he felt the wet, uncomfortable trickle of Arthur’s spend leaking out from his hole to run down his balls and heaved out a sigh. He didn’t bother attempting to clean up, at least not thoroughly. Beyond mindlessly wiping spit, dust, and dried tear tracks off of his face, he felt exhausted in the aftermath of their madness, once again. Everything would catch up to him before long.
“Not sure how we’re gonna clean this up,” he said. “I was honest earlier– I don’t got nothing on me right now.”
“You can do that later, at camp. It’s gonna get dark real soon, and we shouldn’t stay gone much longer.”
John rubbed at his wrists, and came to kneel as he pulled up his jeans, tucking in his shirt, frowning. He felt grimy all over, from the inside out. “Not very convenient for me.”
He was given a slight shrug for his troubles. “Whole thing’s never been convenient.”
“Yeah, I guess,” John said. He pointed to the already fading red mark from the revolver’s barrel having slapped him earlier. Arthur was, as John predicted, watching over him with one of those enigmatic expressions, not doing much of anything as John continued to make himself presentable to the world around them once more. “Think this’ll go away by the time we make it back?”
Arthur gave him a dark chuckle, which threatened to excite John all over again. “Sure. Nobody’ll see it.”
His voice grew almost shy, still raspy even in a quieter tone. “Why don’t we just stay out here tonight? We can go back tomorrow with something to make up for it.”
“Nah,” Arthur denied him, immune to his charm, or lack thereof. “Got to get back for a job. Dutch was on to something, last I heard– God willing.”
John frowned. “You ain’t worried about me having your mess all inside– in front of the missus and the boy?”
“That’s your damn problem,” Arthur said, his tone getting a bit defensive. Or maybe jealous. “Don’t bring me into it.”
John knew to drop the subject immediately. He wasn’t going to win… Again.
A black bandana landed square on his bare chest where his shirt and vest didn’t cover, his sweatiness helping to keep it from fluttering away before he grabbed it. Arthur gave him a curt nod. “Keep yourself stopped up on the ride home– since you ain’t wearin’ drawers.”
“Oh.” John felt another sting radiate along his back as he straightened his posture, working out the remaining cold needles pricking at his arms and calves, placing the warm cloth between his legs, nestling against his puffy, well-worn stinging hole.
He grinned at Arthur, content to leave behind the stresses of real life again, though this was a poor, temporary solution. “You’d never get it... But there’s something about that pain and the mess– all of it, that makes this worth it.”
Arthur shot back a wry grin before mumbling under his breath, coming to stand. John’s smile faltered as he worked his suspenders back on to his jeans. He took Arthur’s proffered hand and was pulled to stand, eyeing him warily.
“What’s that?”
“I said: you wouldn’t know the pain anyone feels smelling you as-is.” Arthur continued after a short whistle for his nag, unable to leave well enough alone. “Can see a trail where you’ve been– worse than a damn dead animal. I have doubts you would clean yourself up even if you had the chance.”
After reaching for his hat, John waved off Arthur dismissively. “Says the feller who came to camp one time doused in pig shit like it were a suit. Now come on.”
The trail was as empty as when John had arrived, long before Arthur met up with him, thankfully. It was all intentional, but there were some things one couldn’t count on going right all the time– passers-by being the biggest.
It wouldn’t have been the first time a stranger got quite a sight (and not the first time they’d had to silence a man for being outraged by it), but it never made John feel any better having it happen. In fact, he knew better than to keep being so reckless with Arthur.
There was nothing wrong with letting off steam when it had been a long time coming, but John couldn’t honestly say he was dry with his home life. John was playing both sides, even if he didn’t feel it was right, deep down. He just couldn’t help himself, not really having a good reason to be so greedy.
Abigail probably deserved better– she was no saint, but John wasn’t sure he was properly equipped to deal with her nagging toward what little bit of morality they supposedly needed as a proper couple, with little Jack and all.
John tried not to mull over the particulars too long, especially where Abigail thrusting fatherhood on him came into play. It just annoyed him, and riled him up further, and made him want more of whatever this was that he and Arthur did together. Upping the stakes on their liaisons was something only Arthur could make interesting and worth seeking out as a parallel to freedom. He could trust that man to take care of him even when the going got rougher than hell, even when they were kids all those years ago.
By comparison, he didn’t trust Abigail to feed him even if he was starving– Pearson had her beat out ten miles over, and that wasn’t saying much on the cook’s behalf. It was hypocritical for her to go on and on about how useless he was when she was, more so. And it was her fault he caused a ruckus– a whole thing, him having ran away a few years ago. Only Arthur had brought him back, though neither of the two men would admit as much, never speaking on it.
“So, uh...” Arthur’s gruff voice full of discomfort brought him out from his woes. He had lit a cigarette and proffered it to John, who ungratefully snatched it up. Arthur set about pulling out another cigarette for himself. “Whose goats were those?”
“No one’s,” John replied on an exhale. He made sure to give Arthur a dirty glare as he attempted to sit upright on his horse. “What, you goddamn doubtin’ Thomas– I rustled them myself, and you ran them off!”
“You can’t rustle goats,” Arthur said with a laugh. “You know, just like you can be, them goats do what they want and don’t give a damn.”
“You can– I had, just now!” Despite his prowess being questioned, John started laughing too, Arthur’s own hearty chuckles contagious. “I got five of them, and that’s a lot for some goats.”
“Oh, sure. I haven’t seen more than a couple grouped up.” Arthur genuinely mulled this information over, rubbing at his neatly-trimmed beard. “Maybe you’re onto something.”
John felt a jubilant smile tug at his lips, following along Arthur close enough to see his face focused off on the horizon, a whole lot of nothing to be concentrating on. It was incredible that a grown man could look so guilty for being kind.
“Arthur Morgan, are you complimenting me?” John teased out, guffawing. “Have I died and gone to heaven– or has hell frozen over?”
Arthur cleared his throat. “Now I wouldn’t go that far. Last I saw of it, hell was still hot.”
“Don’t I know it,” John agreed.
They grew into companionable silence as John tried to stay comfortably situated in his saddle. As the land gave way from jutting mountainside to swaths of tall, crunchy grass, Arthur tried to lighten the mood. He must’ve known from John’s stuck-on frown that he was aggrieved from being denied further pleasures. It was back to being barked at and doubted before long.
“If you died, but came back as a fish,” Arthur started, and John groaned in annoyance, “whatchu think you’d be back as?”
“My God, you was more tolerable all sour and cold,” he groused. A part of him refused to let Arthur’s odd conversation lapse, despite knowing it meant nothing and would go nowhere. “I ain’t a fish now, and I ain’t plannin’ to be one at any point.”
Arthur clucked at him, and with how close they trotted together along the trail made it easy for him to shove at John’s shin with his boot. “Don’t be a stick in the mud, Marston.”
John rolled his eyes, then tried to think it over. There was a long silence before he spoke again, Arthur for some reason waiting patiently.
“I– Arthur, I don’t rightly know.”
Arthur laughed. “Spent all that time thinking, or trying to?”
“It’s a dumb fool of a question, from a dumb fool of a man,” John hissed at him, attempting the same shove back Arthur had done earlier. He missed entirely and got a wave of pain riding along his back for his troubles. Despite the frustration, he realized his lips were curling into a smile.
“You’d be a salmon,” Arthur said. “Only got enough brains to swim up the current for when you want to spawn.”
A chuckle rose from John when he realized he couldn’t argue that logic. He shook his head, then pointed at his brother. “Well, if that’s the case, you’d be one of them too.”
Arthur scoffed. “You can’t pick the same one, now.”
“Why not?” John asked with sincerity, to which Arthur replied just so.
“That’s cheatin’, saying the same thing. It don’t come off thoughtful– be original, John.”
John rolled his eyes, and took another moment to be original. “Okay… You’re a largemouth bass.”
“For clear reasons, huh?”
“That’s right. It’s pretty clear, if you ask me.”
“At least you’re playing along now,” Arthur replied with a laugh. “I’ll take that. Better’n a catfish.”
“I can still make you a catfish,” John warned. “Shit-eatin’ fool you is.”
“And you like it.” That dark tone that never ceased to send John into a flustered mess came and went in the blink of an eye. Arthur gave his nag a click and rode ahead, his laugh music to John’s ears as he tried to catch up, snapping his mouth shut from looking like the salmon he was paralleled to.
“Hey! Get back here, you– you nasty, dirty old bass!”
They made it back to camp without incident. Hosea was sitting squarely in the middle of all the hubbub at the camp’s table, placing down his newspaper– that he surely couldn’t read anymore, in the growing darkness– being the first to greet his boys warmly.
“And what did you two get up to?” He bothered to ask.
“Tried to catch some salmon,” Arthur said breezily. John’s neutral mask slipped as he held back a laugh, turning it into a choked out cough.
“Well, it’d certainly be the right season for it,” Hosea said with a nod, approving Arthur’s explanation.
“Sure.”
“I’m just not sure if there’s an area close around here that fits their breeding ground.” Hosea looked over at John, eclipsed behind Arthur’s broad shoulders then. He had an odd, knowing smile gracing his features, but didn’t speak on anything after that, given Arthur stopped playing along.
It was any wonder the conversation stopped without tension, because John wasn’t clever enough on his feet to speak on their behalf; he wasn’t sure he’d like the idea of defending himself with a lie.
Dutch swept in out of nowhere to take Arthur aside for God-knows-what new scheme he supposedly had in mind, and that was it.
All in all the two of them got away with too damn much. There was honor among thieves and all, but what he and Arthur did felt like a bad enough crime to be avoiding jurisdiction. It weighed on John.
And yet… At the end of his light musing, he decided he didn’t give a good god damn about the issue, or even the consequences.
John tipped his hat in greeting to Abigail as he came up to their tent, and used the chance of hiding a nasty smirk with his hand along the brim.