Work Text:
Title: In Stride
Pairing: Arthur Morgan/John Marston
Word Count: 2020
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: AU - canon divergence, older Morston, PWP, fluff, established relationship, endearments, slice of life, erectile dysfunction, dry humping, masturbation, anal fingering, comeplay, present tense
A/N: I was struck with a vision of John coming all over Arthur and this was the result. Also, dialogue and narration is written in the "cowpoke" drawl.
Summary: Arthur makes sure John still gets his.
Sometimes he ain't exactly...up for the occasion.
Sure, Arthur's heart is damn near pounding, breath all caught up in his chest from the wet, lazy kisses John tongued into his mouth. John's straddled 'cross his lap, naked, sweaty, and stiff as a board. All the makin's of a good time, but he's still soft under the slight curve of John's ass.
Though it don't bother John none. Still relentlessly pushing the solid length of his cock against Arthur's belly with every shift of them narrow hips. Murmuring swears whenever he gets a pinch of air to.
Arthur tucks a handful of grays back behind John's ear, dragging his lips across the long since paled scars on John's cheek. “Jus' like that, Johnny,” he drawls, cupping the side of John's neck and pettin' John's shaking thigh with his other hand.
“You sure?” asks John, leaning into Arthur's palm, bristly jaw scraping along Arthur's thumb.
Snorting, Arthur nods. “Course, git yers,” he says, pulling John close and catching his mouth. Smiles against John's lips when John groans and throws an arm around his shoulders, holdin' on. They part, and he tilts his chin to his chest, watching John slip up over his bellybutton, body hair shiny with John's precome and all twisted up from John's movements.
“Don't gotta tell me twice,” mutters John, folding both hands over the back of the sofa and grinding hard against Arthur.
Lifting a brow, Arthur cants his head, pooling saliva in his mouth and then lettin' it dribble out over John's dick. John groans, and Arthur reaches for him, but John wraps them long fingers 'round himself, spreading his spit with a loose fist. “There y'go,” he says, voice a low rumble it near disappears between 'em.
“Yeah?” asks John, eyes flicking between the slow, measured strokes of his hand, and Arthur's heated gaze. He lets go of the sofa and curls his hand around Arthur's nape, Arthur's hands dipping to steady his waist.
Humming, Arthur rubs his thumbs along the cut of John's hips, John shiverin' under the feather-light graze. He's sensitive, his John. Battered to hell all their lives, from brawls, from bullets, more pain than a person ought to suffer, yet the gentle caresses still get John quiverin'. Ghosts his calloused palms along John's flanks, and John's abdomen tenses right up, breathing stuttering on a gruff moan.
“Arthur.”
He lets more spit spill out his mouth, John eagerly adding a twist of his wrist with the extra slickness. Arthur tries to take over again, but a slight shake of John's head has his hand drawin' back to John's waist. “Alright, John, your rodeo.” John narrows his eyes, yanking his hair, and he swallows a swear.
The sofa takes all his weight as he slumps back, gaze rakin' up and down John's body. Can't settle on any one bit. The pretty perk of John's nipples. The wild bob of his Adam's apple. The clench and heave of John's belly. John's cock. There's somethin' about John allowin' him to watch and not help. He knows exactly how John likes to be touched. How tight. The speed. S'poses it won't never be the same as John's own hand. Decades used to that grip, could get himself there in seconds, but John's drawin' it out.
John rocks his hips, fuckin' his fist more than stroking. He pulls Arthur's hair again, tippin' Arthur's head back and keeping their eyes locked. His teeth dig into his lower lip, brows furrowing before “hell, Arthur” practically explodes out his mouth.
“Whatchu need?” asks Arthur, smoothing his palms up and over John's fuzzy pecs, thumbing his nipples. There's only one thing John could need from him if John don't want him playin' with his dick. He ain't about to do it without John showin' or tellin' him, though. And it only takes half a second for John to show him, snatching his hand and sucking his fingers down to the base, steadying his wrist as John slurps and licks. “Oh, so now you want my help,” teases Arthur, still rubbin' John's chest while John wets his digits.
Glaring, John lets his teeth scrape over Arthur's knuckles, that sly tongue sliding sloppily between his fingers after. It ain't really gonna be enough, but Arthur ain't about to fight John off his lap to collect proper slick. If Johnny wants it so bad, who is he to say elsewise?
John shifts, near straddlin' Arthur's abdomen, now, hips lifted and knees spread. He gropes 'round John's body with his dry hand, grabbing at a cheek and revealing that tight little opening. With a groan, John guides his spit-slick fingers down his crack, mouth hangin' open around his panting breaths as John leers at him.
Arthur don't waste a moment, barely makes a full circle with his fingertip before sinkin' the length of his middle digit inside. John curses, thighs clamping around his sides, palm slappin' down onto his chest. He chuckles, “That real nice, sweetheart?” S'been a bit since they done even this much, but John's quick to let out a slow breath and push his hips back, last knuckle bumpin' up between John's cheeks. He watches John's cock twitch between them, then looks up at John, smirking.
Another huff of breath 'fore John ducks down for a kiss, pitchin' between the friction of Arthur's torso and the pressure of his finger. Arthur lets him guide their kissin'. Focuses on crookin' his finger at the perfect angle more'n stretching John out. It's obvious when he finds that spot; John jolts on his lap, nails digging into the meat of his chest.
“Right there, Arthur...” confirms John, anyway, stilling to keep Arthur exactly where he wants 'im.
“How 'bout that,” he says in mock-wonder, finger twitchin' back and forth, rubbin' and rubbin', John's brow all scrunched up as he gasps and squirms.
“Jesus, do both.” John sighs at the reprieve of Arthur easing out his finger. He inhales deeply and braces his other hand on Arthur's chest, rockin' against Arthur's belly as Arthur edges two fingers around his hole.
It's a tighter fit, two near dry fingers, and John don't shy from grumblin' about it. Arthur pats John's ass, says, “Easy, Johnny, yer alright.” He snickers when John gives him the stink eye, pressing inside, John's head falling back between his shoulders. “Good boy,” he soothes, jerking from the wicked tweak John gives his nipple.
“Ain't one'a your horses,” says John, staring down at Arthur as he rolls his hips.
“And I'll tell ya again and again and again: ain't my problem you get hot for the same sweet words.” Arthur raises his brows at the mess of slickness all over his stomach, John's cock leakin' steadily. He lets go of John's asscheek and swirls his fingers through John's precome, smearin' his fingertips together.
“Shit,” groans John, eyes goin' half-lidded as Arthur takes his fingers into his mouth, suckin' 'em clean before lickin' his lips. “Alright, you ain't wrong,” he murmurs, pushing Arthur's hand aside and hunchin' to slide his tongue into Arthur's mouth.
Arthur stills his fingers and folds his other arm around John's waist, hauling him closer. John buries his hands in his hair and wrenches his head back, anglin' him to John's apparent likin'. He lets John do as he pleases, meeting each drag of John's tongue, groanin' whenever John tugs his bottom lip with his teeth when they need to catch their breath.
“C'mon, Arthur, keep goin',” urges John, wriggling his hips and sighing when Arthur catches that spot.
“Then quit hoggin' my attention with yer mouth.” He kisses the scar through John's lips and resumes the rhythmic flutter of his fingertips. John gasps and curls down over his head, forearms braced on the back of the couch, chest hoverin' over Arthur's face. Ain't even gotta adjust to loll out his tongue and swipe it over a nipple, teasin' that tight nub until John shoves into it.
“Drivin' me crazy,” says John, panting into the nest he's made of Arthur's hair.
“Then m'doin' my job.” Arthur sucks on a mouthful of John's pec before switching his attention to the other taut bud, tongue lappin' gently. John's barely moving his hips, now, small hitches that paint precome up along his sternum. He keeps mouthin' at John's chest. Keeps nudgin' against John's prostate. Keeps pushin' John closer n' closer to that peak.
John oughta be gettin' there, now. Quiet aside from his harsh breathing. Jus' lettin' Arthur finger 'im and mark up his pecs. “C'mon, Johnny,” he whispers, rubbing his scruff against John's kiss-bruised chest, “give it up.” Them arms clutch the back of his head, bringin' his face flush against John. He stinks like sex. Like sweat, spit, and spunk. Arthur's mouth waters.
“A-Arthur,” John chokes, sittin' up and dropping a hand to his cock. His fist flies along his length, breaths sharp and hitching. They both watch as he works himself over, and Arthur don't let up on the massage of his fingertips. “Goddamn. Goddamn,” he hisses, meeting Arthur's eyes, back bowing as his stomach flexes and his balls tighten. He squeezes the base of his dick and quakes, release splatterin' all over Arthur's soft belly and chest.
Watchin' John come and feelin' him clench around his fingers makes heat throb valiantly in Arthur's gut, but it jus' ain't in the cards for him. As John steadies his breathing, he eases his fingers outta John and then finally gets his other hand 'round John's dick. Pulls slow and easy jus' to make John whine and shudder, one last fat glob of spunk drippin' onto his belly.
“Christ's sake,” laughs John, shivering and pullin' Arthur's hand away from his cock. He slouches on Arthur's lap, meeting Arthur's smirk with a dopey grin of his own. They kiss soft and chaste, and he pushes Arthur's mussed hair off his forehead when they separate. “Shit, I'm still feelin' that,” he says, trembling with aftershocks.
“Done good,” says Arthur, loosely winding his arms around John's waist and petting the small of John's back. John's head tilts, bottom lip disappearin' between his teeth as John reaches down to swipe a finger over his stomach. He frowns at the upside down pattern once John's done, rollin' his eyes when he makes out the 'JM.' “You real proud of yerself?”
“Sure am, Sunshine,” says John, tracin' Arthur's lips with that same finger and then sliding it inside. Arthur clasps his wrist, tonguin' his finger like he's tonguing somethin' else, and John's dick gives a spent kick.
Arthur laves John's finger clean, pulling it out with a wet pop. He lets John have his hand back, then, with a grunt, tosses John sideways onto the couch. John near squawks at the sudden change of position, and he crowds between John's splayed legs to lie on top of him. The way their bellies stick together makes John wrinkle his nose.
“Gone'n messed up my masterpiece,” moans John, tucking his left arm behind his head and slingin' the other around Arthur. He settles in, shifting so Arthur fully blocks him from the breeze comin' through the cracked open window.
“A goddamn shame,” murmurs Arthur, sighing into John's neck. He lets his eyes fall closed, enjoyin' the scratch of John's fingers between his shoulder blades.
“You good?” asks John, weakly buckin' up against him.
“Peachy. Ain't like yer gonna be much use after all'a that anyway,” he says, notin' how lax John has gone underneath him.
“Hey!” John halfheartedly swats Arthur's ass, making Arthur thrust down against him. “I still got it in me, old man.”
Arthur scoffs, “Well too bad you ain't gonna get it in you.”
John tugs his hair, and he lifts his head, meeting John's mouth when John parts his lips for a kiss. “Day ain't over yet,” John smirks before kissing his hairline, “and there's always tomorrow anyhow.”
“Guess we'll see,” says Arthur, nippin' a fresh bruise into John's shoulder. With the way John arches beneath him, that ember in his belly flares again, a little hotter. There's always tomorrow, but maybe they shall see sooner after all.