Beer and whiskey was flowing aplenty, and for the first time in weeks, the outlook didn’t seem quite so bleak for the van der Linde Gang.
As much as Arthur was loathe to admit it, he had missed Sean. As irritating as the young Irishman was, he did have a certain obnoxious charm. Karen definitely seemed to think so, anyhow, he mused, as he watched the two of them stumble off towards John’s tent, giggling.
Not wanting to hear anymore of their frolicking, Arthur headed off towards the fire, empty bottle of whiskey falling to the ground with a soft thud. He’s had more than a few this evening, feeling loose-lipped and unsteady on his feet. A luxury he rarely allows himself these days, not when there are mouths to feed and jobs to run.
Camp morale seems to have been raised, and Arthur can’t help but be relieved. Good for them, he supposes. And him. The general pessimism had been wearing him down as he tried to keep them all afloat. He doubts that the gang will ever return to what it once was, but hopefully this is a step in the right direction. He trusts Dutch to lead them there, anyway.
So yes, Arthur Morgan is rather deservedly, in his own opinion, tipsy and well on his way to drunk. He mumbles a clumsy greeting at the ladies, tipping his hat as he passes, eyes flickering between all the camp members until they fixate on one particular person.
John fucking Marston.
He's sat at the table they usually use for poker with Uncle, laughing and talking about something. It sounds important, but Arthur couldn’t say what, because all of a sudden the only thing his drunk mind can focus on is John. The way he leans back ever so slightly in his seat, the tight cut of his shirt, the way his hair falls over his eye as he tilts his head.
Arthur wants to run his fingers through that hair and pull .
He swallows audibly. Maybe the booze wasn’t as good an idea as he thought.
He must have been caught staring, though, because suddenly there is a lull in their conversation. Uncle excuses himself to get another drink, almost falling into Arthur as he passes, but Arthur doesn’t even notice because John Marston is looking right back at him with a heat he hasn’t seen since-- Since times he no longer allows himself to think about if he can help it.
They stay like that for a few moments, staring, and Arthur realises that maybe John wants the forbidden fruit just as much as he does.
Before he can say anything, can put a stop to anything before it begins, John is marching-- stumbling off into the woods, in the trees, where he goes to read sometimes, Arthur’s drunken mind unnecessarily supplies, as he watches him disappear into the foliage.
Glancing back at the campfire, he looks to be in the clear. They’re far too intoxicated to notice Dutch’s boys wandering off, all loudly singing now that Javier has appeared with his guitar. Regardless, Arthur waits a few moments before he’s also bumbling after John, feet moving as if on autopilot, cursing under his breath.
Before he can find him, however, he is pushed back against a tree.
“Ooft-- What the shit, Marston!?” He whispers angrily, shifting to move away from the tree only for john to shove him again, bark digging into his back.
“Just shut up, Morgan.” Was John’s hissed response, regarding Arthur momentarily, and then dropping to his knees, hands coming up to unbuckle his belt, taking out his cock and wrapping his fingers around it, squeezing, and Arthur’s breath hitches.
“The hell are you playing at, boy?” He retorts, but it’s weak, and his voice is thick with desire for something he’s long denied himself.
“Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me, Arthur.” John demands, eyes bright and blazing as he looks up at him, challenging.
And he tries, he really does. But looking down at this beautiful, scraggly man, Arthur knows that he can’t lie. Not to himself and not to John. He tries to think of Abigail and Jack, sleeping just a few yards away, but Arthur is drunk, and John is warm and welcoming and it’s all too easy to slip back into old habits.
Instead he bites his lip, looking down at the man before him, and that’s all the confirmation that John needs because moments later his lips are around Arthur’s cock and that’s all it takes for Arthur to melt against the tree, fingers finally threading through greasy locks as a groan spills from his lips.
True to his nature, John isn’t one for foreplay. He takes and takes and right now Arthur is all but happy to give, to let John work over him with his tongue. It's sloppy, uncoordinated, but it has Arthur harder faster than he has been in years, and he has to bring his other hand to his lips, biting down on knuckles to muffle his moans as he tries to resist rolling his hips into the heat of John's mouth.
There's a heat burning rapidly in his stomach already, and years ago Arthur might have been embarrassed by his apparent eagerness, but looking down at John, with John looking right back up at him, pulling back to lap at the slit, leaking with precum, eyelashes fluttering, Arthur Morgan doesn't think he's ever seen a sight quite so beautiful. He wants to sketch John right now, like the work of art he is, eternalise him in this form.
But now John's humming around his prick, vibrations flowing through Arthur, making him shudder, hips beginning to jutter as he nears his climax at an alarming rate. He bites his knuckles harder, a coppery tang reaching his tongue as blood spills from his hand, the other tugging John's head back as his release nears.
Only John is a persistent, stubborn fool who's hands grip Arthur's hips even tighter, swallowing him whole, and Arthur cries out as he spills down the other's throat, John licking and sucking as he cums, stopping only when Arthur is practically trembling with overstimulation.
He slumps against the tree, sliding down until he hits the ground, and then his arms are wrapping around John's shoulders, and their lips are meeting in a kiss that's more teeth than anything else. John shifts, straddling his lap, not once breaking contact with Arthur, and Arthur's hands move down towards to palm John through his trousers, making him hiss and grind against the touch.
“Arthur..!” John moans between fevered kisses, arms wrapping around his neck, holding him close as Arthur finally manages to release his throbbing member, spitting into his palm and slowly working his hand over John's cock, teasing and stroking. It's clumsy, but it must be good because John lets out something close to a whimper.
“Hush, John. I gotchu. Now hush.”
They're both panting now, John letting out small sounds as he rolls his hips against Arthur's hand, bony fingers coming down to press into his shoulder blades.
“A-Arthur, I'm . . !” John is silenced with the persistent press of Arthur's lips against his own, moaning into the kiss as he cums all over Arthur's hand.
They stay like that for a while, a mixture of tongue sweeping across lips in a manner that's far too gentle for what they've just done and Arthur finds himself getting lost in everything that is John Marston.
But all things must come to an end, and after a few peaceful moments, the weight of everything they've just done hits Arthur like a train. He freezes, heart pounding in his chest as he tries to process everything.
“I can hear ya thinkin’, Morgan. Just shut up and enjoy this, will ya?” John murmurs tiredly, turning to rest his head against Arthur’s broad frame, and Arthur finds himself automatically holding him close, running his fingers through John's now sweat-damp locks.
And Arthur thinks that he might sealed his fate of eternal damnation, but in this moment, it's entirely worth it.