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They’re holed up at an honest-to-goodness ranch, for all that it’s abandoned and beat down, and it’s one hell of a difference from the rough living the gang knows. There’s a big house with outbuildings sprawling over a cleared quarter-acre and then the stables, large and long, stretch back towards paddocks and pastures that the horses love. This kind of comfort ain’t meant to last them long; with Dutch and Hosea are planning the next big job, it’ll suit while they case the angles.
Sun’s barely up as Arthur finishes brushing down Boadicea after a long ride through the night. She’s got a fresh bullet graze on her flank that he’s cleaned and treated, murmuring soft apologies to his girl for it all along.
There’re footsteps coming through the stables; he catches the shock of black hair in his peripheral, the form familiar and lanky. Ain’t nothing to alarm about, just John coming in from night watch.
Bo’ shifts and he runs his hand along her back, soothing words murmured to his darling mare; he leans his forehead against her neck and promises her a couple days rest for riding so hard, for tasting the bounty hunter’s lead in his stead. Her being hurt gave him the chance to feed a few bullets back and hell if his bounty don’t go up fifty dollars when the law finds that body torn up on the roadside.
Arthur’s returning the brush to his saddlebags, hung over the side of the stable beside her tack, when he hears the derisive huff of air from John. “Got a problem, Marston?” he calls out, lashing down the last buckle before he glances that way.
“You ever hear yourself?” is his commentary, arms crossed over the stall door as he looks in. “Talkin’ all sweet like that to horses? Folk’ll think you’re sweet on them.”
Arthur turns to face him, brow arched up at the scoffed words. “The hell you goin’ on about?”
John’s scowling, a hand jerked towards Bo’ in irritation. “Callin’ her darlin’?” he mutters. “You treat that horse better‘n you treat me.”
That’s what got him twisted?
Arthur frowns, brow furrowed with his own shift to irritation. “Maybe,” he replies, walking slow up to the stall’s door, “that’s ‘cause she earns it.” He unlatches and pulls it open to step out as John steps back, chin jutted up and out defiantly. This close, he can see it’s more than frustration what set him off, sees them bits of red flushed on his neck; seems he’s flustered from overhearin’ him telling Bo’ what a good girl she is when all he gets is a calling of ‘dumbass’ when he opens his fool mouth.
“You sayin’ I don’t?” John shoots back, defensive.
Arthur chuckles and rubs a hand along his jaw, two days growth of hair roughing the skin. “Let’s me bind her saddle real tight,” he says, latching the door closed behind him. Turns and stalks towards John, who backpedals across the way. “Ain’t ever bitched when I put a bit in her mouth.”
That gives him something to grab at, John levelling him an arrogant smirk. “I let you put something else in mine,” he challenges. “Works out better for ya, don’t it?”
That makes him laugh and the roughness of exhaustion ain’t able to hide his amusement. “What you damn well beg to do when I got you on your knees don’t count.” Arthur’s got him crowded against the far stall by now; he reaches for the latch, getting himself an idea on what to do here. “Don’t think you could take me ridin’ you more than an hour anyway, Marston. Bo’ carries me a full day.”
Intimation sinks in and, way he figures it, the fact that John pales some is sure sign that the blood’s headed down where it’ll be useful. The mouthy bastard still tries to stand up to him, licking his lips quick. “Then maybe you oughta fuck her,” shot out like it’s some ultimatum, threatening to leave Arthur hard and wanting next time they get rowdy.
They both know that ain’t gonna happen.
And Arthur knows that next time? It’s happening now.
Ain’t no better time for it than when John needs him a lesson, needs to be put in his place.
The door pushes open and he herds John backwards into the stall, the stable empty but for Boadicea and a few horses some stalls down; rest of the gang’s asleep or on watch, meaning they got all the time in the world. “Little Johnny Marston,” he says, voice low and dangerous as he crowds in on him until his back hits the far wall, “sounds like you’re jealous of a horse.”
Arthur leans his forearm against the wall, chest flush with John’s and he can see the thick swallow bobbing his Adam’s apple, the sparks that light up a fiery expression that says John’ll both fight him and fuck him on this.
“You want to be treated like that, you gotta earn it,” he adds in a growl. He can feel the way John hitches in a breath and just smirks at him, fingers brushing the crown of the younger man’s hair idly. Taunting him as he leans in close, breath washing over his lips as he waits to see if he’ll rise to the challenge.
John ain’t ever backed down from one, too much a fool to run smart over running his mouth. His hands come up, grabbing Arthur’s collar and jerking him closer, mashing their mouths together defiantly. Hungry as ever, his tongue pushes forward and Arthur lets him, gives back just as good. He pushes his knee between John’s legs and jerks his hips forward. Feels the hard line of an erection and the shudder the pressure of his thigh coming up against it triggers; it ain’t ever take much to get Marston going, so this ain’t special. But the needy way that he breaks the kiss, bites down on his lower lip and pulls back before he lets go? That’s something that sends the heat straight down into Arthur’s gut, rushing the blood down quick with it.
“Now,” Arthur drawls, letting the word stretch out as he moves his arm from the wall to press across John’s chest, puts a good portion of his weight there as his other hand loosens the bandana around his neck, “I ain’t never let a horse what bit me done get away with it.” He can feel John struggling for a full breath against the pressure of his arm, hands back against the wall and pushing himself forward like he might unbalance him. “And using teeth sure ain’t the way to get your mouth on my dick, Marston,” he adds, pulling the bandana free.
The cocky little shit just grins at him, dark eyes daring him as he juts his hips forward, grinds himself against Arthur’s thigh. “Think you’re wrong there, Morgan,” he says. “You ain’t never turned down me suckin’ you dry.”
“I ain’t never had you whinin’ about playin’ second fiddle to Bo’ neither,” he reminds him. Arthur angles the arm across his chest, places one end of the bandana in his hand, twists it some few times until it’s more rope than cloth. This he pushes up against John’s mouth, chasing it as he turns his head aside; puts steady pressure across his lips until he can force it into his mouth. John’s eyes are hot with indignation, run about the same with arousal as he lets him seat it deep against his teeth like some training bit, only made of cloth over iron. Pulls it around his head and ties it tight so it don’t fall out none and he watches the haze of need in John’s eyes the whole time, feels his hips twitching against him, whole body intrigued.
“That’s a good boy,” Arthur murmurs, leaned up close so his lips brush the man’s ear as he speaks. Revels in the shudder that ripples through John, that anticipation drawing him fully hard. He reaches down, adjusts himself in his trousers with a low grumble and that just makes John grind forward again, challenging with a choked back laugh. He snaps his hand to the younger man’s hip, pushing him back against the wall warningly: “Now you hold still a minute and we’ll see what you earn.”
The command, to be idle, makes John roll his eyes and it’s only the press of Arthur’s weight that keeps him pinned there, boots scuffing the floor without purchase. He growls deep in his throat, the gag keeping his bitching quieted down to a skin-tingling rumble that Arthur finds himself enjoying real good.
Meanwhile, it’s Arthur’s fingers working loose the buckle of John’s looped gunbelt, his blue eyes intense in their focus on the younger as he reaches between his legs to loose the holster’s ties, palms along the hard cock that’s begging for attention as he pulls his hand back up to let slip the belt down to the ground. Then he’s freed his suspenders and is working at the thinner belt and buckle holding up his dark, slim-legged trousers, loosening it and the laces until he can reach down the front of his pants and under his drawers, fingers curling around the warm, firm flesh as his thumb catches the early damp trickle of desire from the head.
John jerks against him and the needy groan is rewarded with another soft murmuring from Arthur about how good he’s doing. The man fails to hold still long, however, eyes shining bright as he fumbles with his loosened trousers, shoving them down to his thighs, trapped there by Arthur’s leg, all so he can do his best to stare down over the arm on his chest, to see the way the hand on him strokes the full length of his cock to the base. Grunts when Arthur chokes it slightly, knowing that this trembling of barely restrained need means John ain’t about to last if it keeps up.
It’s a heady rush, plying John this way, breaking down his defiance until he’s a moaning mess, fighting for his pleasure as much as fighting to dole it out.
“You like that, Marston?” he asks, smug as he pulls his arm back from his chest, hand resting on the man’s shoulder as he gives him another teasing stroke, pressure dancing to the far side of too much. “Being told you done good, boy?” John’s eyes roll back, focus consumed by a moan that shudders through him, and then he’s nodding shakily, hips jerking forward again, demanding.
Then the idiot strikes a couple braincells together to spark an idea and his hands are working at Arthur’s trousers, scrabbling at buttons and lacings with clear intent to free his cock, return the teasing strokes in earnest.
But this ain’t what Arthur intended.
Arthur lets go of John and smacks his wrists away, a sharp look quelling the noise of complaint into a thick swallow. “You ain’t making the calls here,” he warns him, taking a step back. He pulls John off the wall by his shirt and shoves him around, strips the belt off his trousers before he lets them fall around the younger man’s ankles. He grabs one of John’s wrists and loops the belt around it, snugging the buckle tight against the skin, then holds him there and grabs his other wrist, wrapping the belt around and between them until he’s effectively restrained, arms behind his back and chest pressed up against the wall, cock hard and tip shining with precome.
There’s a frustrated growl and John’s wrists bound together ain’t stopping him, fingers stretching out, rubbing at the taut fabric of Arthur’s trousers, grazing the hardness of his cock and the little bastard smirks. Bound, gagged, and he fuckin’ smirks right over his shoulder at him.
Arthur pulls himself out, stroking his length twice, then pushes himself up against John, where his bound hands can close around his cock and the bastard gets the idea quick, jerking him loosely. There’s friction from the lack of slick, but he don’t mind it none. Arthur spits into his hand and reaches around, starts stroking John’s cock slow, with that twist at the upwards squeeze that leaves the man writhing with an impatient noise.
“C’mon, Marston,” he growls in his ear, teeth grazing the skin where it stretches down into John’s neck. “You need me to call you sweetheart? Darlin’?” Arthur grinds his hips forward into his bound hands with each endearment, building his pace until he’s fucking into John’s grasp. “Want me to tell you how good your hands are? How I’m gonna fuck them ‘til I come? How then, maybe, I’ll pull you off for being such a good boy for me?”
The rough feel of John’s hands, fingers flexing and trying to hold him, is damn near overwhelming and Arthur’s words lag, his hips thrusting harder and faster. There’s that measure of pain, too, against his sensitive cock and it’s what pushes him to the edge, his life not worth the gentle touches that please others; he’s soon grunting, spend striping white along John’s fingers, hitting and trailing down the small of his back.
Takes him some time to catch up his breath, leaning heavy against John and his own hand stilled in the steady stroking he’d been giving. It sets off an annoyed growl from John, who’s bucking back to remind him that there’re two of them here and that rouses Arthur from his post-orgasm stagger, has him baring his teeth and biting down against his neck, revelling in the muffled yelp. “Didn’t know better, I’d think you’re wanting me to break you in, Marston,” he mutters, drawing his hand back, tucking himself away before he pulls John back towards him.
Arthur turns him around and shoves him back against the wall; meets his dark eyes, sees that fiery lust flaring up in them as he sinks down to his knees, hand moving to choke the base of John’s cock again. It’s usually John on his knees, the devil’s sins made manifest by the way his tongue and mouth can work him, but Arthur ain’t no slouch neither. Proves it as he runs his tongue up from the base, along the underside where the veins run thickest, ridged and rigid, then his lips are sealing over the head and getting that first taste of precome on his tongue. Plies just enough suction as he works himself over John’s cock inch by inch; hears Marston’s gagged curse, the hard thud as his head knocks back against the wall at the sensation.
Arthur laughs deep in his throat, a rumble that has John trembling, and starts to move up and down the length in his mouth. Puts a hand against his hip to keep him from pushing forward, training John to hold still if he wants to finish. His other hand comes up between John’s legs, fingers trailing up along his ass, picking up the murky slick of Arthur’s spend from where it had dribbled down between his cheeks. His fingers become coated with it before he moves his them to press one up into John, at that same time taking the full length of his cock into his mouth. Feels the touch of it pressing into his throat and the bastard’s smugness shatters with a jerk, a loud groan. Works in and out of him a bit with his hand, until he’s got two fingers inside that he curls about, feeling that trembling, the jerking up against the hand on his hip. Arthur knows he’s near as done and so takes him deep one last time, fingers crooked to hit that one sensitive spot as he swallows around the head of John’s cock.
That does him in.
When John comes, his shout muffled hardly by the gag, Arthur pulls back and swallows all but the final, weak pulse of it as he pulls his fingers out. There’s a grin he shoots John as he gets back to his feet, pulling the man’s drawers and trousers back up, haphazardly fastening them. He wipes his hand on John’s leg, earning a disgusted glare, then moves to pull down the gag and let the fabric drop around his neck.
John pushes at him for a kiss, shoving his tongue in his mouth and then recoils at the lingering gift therein, spitting it out that last trace of his own come. “That’s fuckin’ dirty, Morgan,” he growls, glaring daggers at Arthur when he laughs, deep and hearty.
Arthur reaches around to unbind the belt, rubbing gentle at the red welts where the smug bastard rubbed himself raw. “That’s my boy,” he murmurs against his ear, pulling John against him and the younger’s annoyed by the come-laced kiss, but sated. “You done good.”
“Shut up.” There’s defiance in it, but the irritation that’d been rife in his voice is gone and John almost sounds pleased about it.
“Now you ain’t want me talking sweet?” Arthur snorts and uses a hand to free up his bandana, soaked with spit now; he shoves it into John’s hands. “Here. You oughta clean up. You’re a damn mess.”
“Yeah, and who’s fault is that?”
There ain’t no way to win that argument without another fucking and Arthur ain’t got that stamina in him the way he done in his early twenties. All-night riding, running from the bounty hunter, and then having John in the stable the way he’s gone and done? He’s spent in all them ways that matter. “Shut up, Marston,” he grumbles, stepping back. Heading towards the stall door. “Get your ass cleaned up and inside. Way I see it, we both gone and earned a good day’s sleep.”