Chapter Text
Clemens Point sat quietly at the edge of Flat Iron Lake, where the water shimmered in the sun and the oak trees stood tall, their moss-laden branches swaying gently in the breeze. The landscape was soft and rich—rolling hills fading into dense woods, with golden light filtering through the canopy in long, lazy rays. The air was laden with the scent of damp earth and wildflowers, and the breeze carried the distant call of loons, the rustle of leaves, and the low murmur of water against the shore.
The Van der Linde gang’s camp occupied a secluded clearing, an open space tucked just within the treeline, shielded from view by the thick woodland that ringed it. The trees stood close like quiet sentinels, their trunks tall and dark, offering shelter and secrecy in equal measure. Beyond the woods, meadows stretched out in soft waves—fields of long grass and wildflowers that caught the wind and shimmered in the sun. The land sloped gently toward the lake, where horses grazed near the shore and the stillness made it easy to forget the world beyond.
Sometimes, in the evening, mist would roll in from the lake, blanketing the camp in a hush of atmospheric comfort. Lantern light turned to glowing halos in the fog, and the night sky above opened wide—so clear and still, that the stars of other galaxies seemed almost within reach. Crickets sang in chorus, and the lake lapped gently at the bank, a lullaby for the drifting hours.
Mornings came slow and golden. Birdsong filtered through the trees, mingling with the quiet splash of fish in the shallows. Wildflowers unfurled in the warmth of dawn, and the scent of pine clung to the air. There was a rare kind of freedom there—found only in the quiet hush of wilderness, far beyond the reaches of civilization and its troubles.
A few miles away sat the nearest town, Rhodes, a place suspended somewhere between faded Southern charm and quiet decay. White-shuttered buildings lined dusty streets, their porches sagging beneath the weight of time. It was a place of subtle tension, where history lingered like smoke—just out of sight but always present. Yet from the cover of Clemens Point, the world felt still, suspended. Peaceful.
****
Arthur had noticed John watching her. Most nights over the fire, and during the day while she moved about camp, chatting with the other girls or preparing ingredients for Pearson’s stew. John saw him noticing more than once, especially after she would get back from bathing in the lake—clothes clinging to her, hair still wet. He’d blushed furiously, apologetically, when he noticed Arthur noticing him staring, but Arthur never said anything about it.
John had been lost since Abigail left the gang, taking her son Jack with her. Something better on the horizon, according to the letter she left behind. And Arthur’s girl and John had always got on, always had an easy way about them. Arthur knew that, had caught them playfully flirting more than once or twice. He didn’t mind, not really. He knew she was his. And he knew how much she liked it when he got a little jealous in their shared tent at night after he'd catch them.
"Ya like John, huh?" he would murmur, voice low and dangerous, his fingers buried deep inside her, moving slow and steady. He always waited until she was helpless to bring it up, gasping, already on the edge, so she couldn't form coherent thoughts.
"W-what?" she would stutter, cheeks pink, eyes bright, clinging to him. And Arthur would push, knowing full well she was too far gone to deny anything.
He knew it turned her on. Hell, it turned him on too.
So, after Abigail left and he could see John really start to miss female companionship, he brought it up properly. He asked her to keep John company. If she wouldn’t mind.
She had blinked at him, a little surprised. “You really want me to?”
Arthur had shrugged, watching her reaction carefully. “I do.”
And that was how she ended up sitting by the fire with John one evening, Arthur off talking to Hosea, not too nearby but close enough. John was quiet, staring into the flames, drinking slow. She could feel his mood, the way he carried himself a little heavier these days. He had never been much of a talker, but since Abigail left, he was even worse.
"You alright, John?" she asked, voice gentle.
He glanced at her, then flicked his eyes toward Arthur, out of habit more than anything. But Arthur wasn’t watching them. He was leaning against a crate, talking low with Hosea, cigarette between his fingers. John exhaled slowly, shaking his head.
"I’m alright." He sighed.
"You sure? You been awful quiet lately, even for you."
"Just ain’t got much to say, I guess."
She hummed, tipping her head slightly. After the recent wolf attack he had somehow managed to survive—with Arthur and Javier’s help—he had been stuck in camp recovering, mostly doing chores instead of out doing the more dangerous jobs he was used to. And, it was obvious, self-consciously getting used to the scars now marring his handsome features.
John didn’t say anything more, but when she reached for the whiskey bottle in his hand, fingers grazing his as she took it, he noticed the way she smiled, the way she held his gaze longer than usual. John swallowed, his throat working. He noticed it again the next day, and the day after that.
She wasn’t being obvious, not really. But there was something about the way she lingered when she spoke to him, the way she laughed at his dry comments, the way she touched his arm when they passed each other by the fire.
And Arthur wasn’t watching.
More than that—Arthur wasn’t bothered.
****
John knew Arthur well, considered him a brother, but this genuinely puzzled him. John had always liked her from the moment Arthur brought her back to camp, and some nights, after she had spent time with him—sharing whiskey, laughing easily before retiring to Arthur's tent with the older man—John cursed his own damn bad luck that Arthur met her first.
Of course, he had Abigail to consider back then. But now… now he was a free agent, and something—he wasn’t sure what—was going on. He knew she would never go behind Arthur’s back. She loved him too much for that, anyone could see it. No, whatever this was, Arthur was on board. That was the part that threw him.
John had found himself alone with her late one evening, when Arthur had retired to his tent for the night, and she hadn’t gone with him. That was unusual in itself, let alone when hardly anyone else was still up. Instead, she and John had ended up by the water’s edge, watching the moon reflect off the lake, sharing cigarettes, talking about their childhoods.
He’d told her before, in passing, about how his father got his mother—one of the girls in the saloon—pregnant, how she died in childbirth, how he ran from the orphanage he was placed in after his daddy passed and ended up with Dutch. But he’d never asked her about hers. That realisation hit him suddenly—how he’d been too wrapped up in his own drama to consider it.
He listened as she talked about her abusive father, her alcoholic brother, the night he attacked her in a drunken rage, how she fled, ending up on the roadside before Arthur picked her up, rescuing her, all those months ago. She had never looked back. John was genuinely interested, but as she spoke, his eyes kept drifting—watching the way her lips moved, how the moonlight hit her skin, how her full bosom rose and fell with every slow breath. She was a little older than him, closer to Arthur’s age, but whereas Arthur looked older than his years, she looked younger.
When she trailed off, he realised he was staring. He felt his cheeks get warm as she considered him for a moment.
"You wanna kiss me, John?"
Her voice was teasing but kind, her eyes dark, her expression soft, watching him carefully. His handsome profile, his scarred face, the way his fingers clenched around the cigarette like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.
He could only nod, mute.
And when he kissed her, it was tentative at first, soft and unsure. Then something broke in him, and suddenly he was pawing at her like a man starved.
His hands were rough, eager, running over her waist, her full hips, tugging at the fabric of her blouse. When he freed one soft breast and sucked her hard nipple into his mouth, she made the most delicious sound he had ever heard—one he had only ever caught in whispers before, muffled through the canvas of Arthur’s tent at the edge of camp.
But now she was close and willing, and the sound escaping her was because of him.
John shook his head, trying to clear the memory.
That night had haunted him, lingered in his mind like the scent of her skin, the feel of her on his tongue.
He had stopped suddenly, guilt spiking in his stomach. He had been so close to pulling her blouse open entirely, to dragging her back to his tent, to taking what she was so freely offering. But he had to ask.
"What about Arthur?"
She had smiled, patient, like she had expected the question.
"Arthur knows." Her fingers had brushed his jaw, her touch light, careful. "He just wants you to relax. Have a good time."
And for a brief moment, John had been offended.
"So, what, ya just doin' me a favour?"
She had sighed then, tying her blouse back up, shaking her head. "No, no, nothing like that... I like you, John. I’ve wanted this for a long time. But I love Arthur. And you had Abigail—until now."
John had wanted nothing more in that moment than to pull her back in, to kiss her senseless, to push her down into the muddy earth at the water’s edge, shove her skirts up, rip her underthings away, and bury himself deep inside her.
But his head had been swimming.
So instead, he had swallowed hard, exhaled sharply through his nose, and muttered, "I’ll—I'll talk to ya about it soon."
And then he had left.
Now, sitting by the fire, watching her across camp, he felt that same gnawing hunger settle back in his gut. Her words replaying in his head on a loop—I like you, John.
Arthur had been right, damn him.
John was wound too tight. And she… she was something else, something dangerous. Not because she was off-limits—she wasn’t. Not because Arthur would kill him—he wouldn’t.
But because John already knew, deep down, that if he gave in to her completely, he might never find his way back out.
****
The weight of Arthur’s presence settled beside him, heavy and solid like everything about the man.
"You okay, Marston?"
John startled, having not realised Arthur was back from hunting. He had been lost in his own damn thoughts, in her, in the way she moved about camp, how she had looked at him earlier, that same knowing little smile playing on her full lips.
It was awkward—at least, John felt awkward.
They made small talk, Arthur talking about the hunt, John nodding along, trying to seem normal, trying not to look at her. But Arthur looked—openly, boldly watching her—and John felt an ugly, possessive jealousy surge up, twisting his stomach.
Eventually, Arthur exhaled through his nose, shaking his head like he was amused.
"It really is fine, ya know."
John baulked, unable to speak, unable to move, before Arthur continued.
"If ya want to, I mean. She definitely does... Hell, sometimes I think she’s about to say your name instead of mine when—"
Arthur let the unfinished sentence hang between them, and John’s mind went white-hot with possibilities. His body reacted before his brain could catch up. He wanted to hear it. Wanted to hear her moan his name, the way he had heard her moan Arthur’s, again and again, through the thin canvas when John lingered a little too close to their tent some nights.
Arthur clapped a strong hand to his shoulder then, easy, familiar.
"I’m off out with Charles for a few days tomorrow. Just… take care of her for me, would ya?"
Arthur had never asked him anything like that before. But the way he said it, so matter-of-fact, so sure—John felt something inside him settle.
They both wanted it. This was real, this was happening.
****
That night, long after everyone else had gone to bed, once again, John found himself closer to their tent than he should have been. He lingered at the water’s edge, smoking, unable to sleep, his mind alive and his body thrumming in a way it hadn’t in years.
And then it started. Soft, breathy moaning, Arthur’s deep voice a low murmur of approval. John knew he should move. Should turn away like he had so many times before. But now—after everything—he found himself stepping closer.
Jesus. The noises she made.
John felt heat pool in his gut, his cock already starting to strain against his jeans.
Arthur’s voice rumbled, deep and low, the same way he soothed the horses, but different—rougher, raw with possession, with desire.
"That’s it, girl. I got ya."
More moaning.
She gasped Arthur’s name like her voice was about to break, and then—
"C’mon now, that ain’t what we talked about."
There was hesitation, a sharp intake of breath, filthy, wet sounds filling the night air—Arthur’s fingers or his cock inside her, John couldn’t tell, didn’t care.
And then—soft, unsure, shy—he heard it.
"John."
His name. From her lips. John’s breath caught. His heart pounded against his ribs, his pulse roaring in his ears, his cock throbbing against the rough denim of his jeans. Arthur murmured something too low for John to make out, but then she said it again—louder this time, needier, like she was feeling it now, like it wasn’t just for Arthur anymore.
"John—oh, John."
John squeezed his eyes shut, his head tilting back, the sky spinning above him.
Fuck.
****
Arthur set out at daybreak, lingering for one final kiss before he hoisted himself up into the saddle and was gone.
John avoided her all day.
He busied himself with chores, chopping wood, brushing down the horses, anything to keep his hands and mind occupied. But he still saw her everywhere.
He glimpsed her laughing with Tilly and Mary-Beth over some book or another, saw her at the water’s edge, preparing fish for Pearson, her skirts hitched slightly to keep from getting dirty. He couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye.
Because every time he did, the memory of the night before came roaring back, white-hot and all-consuming. The way she had gasped his name, her voice wrecked and needy while Arthur coaxed it from her lips.
John had barely made it back to his own tent before he was yanking his jeans open, gripping himself tight, working himself rough and fast. He had come apart quickly, Arthur’s voice low in his mind—That’s it, girl, I got ya—and her desperate, broken whimpers of John ringing in his ears.
He wasn't sure he had ever felt anything this intense.
Evening fell before they finally spoke.
John was at the fire, picking at his supper, when she sat beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“How was your day?” she asked, and before he could answer, she reached for his spoon, stealing a bite right out of his bowl.
She ate without hesitation, licking her lips, her throat working as she swallowed, and John’s mind betrayed him instantly.
What would she look like with her mouth on him?
His cock twitched traitorously, and he cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his seat.
“Let’s go for a walk later,” she said then, casually, like she wasn’t setting his entire world on fire.
She looked at him—soft, innocent, if he didn’t know any better. Those big dark eyes, her cheeks pink from the heat of the fire, the curls escaping her pinned-back hair framing her face like a halo.
John swallowed hard, nodded once. “Where?”
“Just meet me by the lake,” she said, voice soft. “Where we sat the other night... same time.”
John felt his stomach tighten at the memory—the desperate way he had kissed her, his hands pulling at her clothes like he couldn’t get enough of her, how he had stopped just short of taking her right there in the dirt.
She blushed then, just slightly, but held his gaze steady.
Then, before he could even react, she leaned in, kissed his cheek, her lips warm and soft against his skin. He almost flinched from the surprise of it, but then she placed her hand on his arm, fingers light but firm, grounding him.
“John.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Please stop overthinkin’.”
Then she was gone, and John was left counting down the damn minutes until he was due to meet her.
****
John was already there, waiting. She saw him as soon as she reached the lake, facing out toward the water, cigarette in hand, shoulders tense. She wondered how long he had been standing there, how long he had been thinking about this—about her.
She smiled fondly.
He seemed so nervous about this whole thing.
She knew he wanted it, wanted her. That much was obvious in the way he looked at her, and the way he tried not to look at her. But she also knew John, knew that despite his rough edges, his outlaw ways, he wasn’t the type to take something like this lightly.
And she supposed it was a lot to consider—for anyone.
John had pretty much only ever been with Abigail before, save for a few fumbles with the saloon girls here and there. And now? Now he was here, standing at the edge of a lake, about to cross a line with Arthur’s partner.
His brother’s partner.
When she stepped closer, John turned to her, and she saw it—an odd mix of relief and apprehension in his face, like part of him had been afraid she wouldn’t come. She sat beside him, close enough that their knees brushed, and for a while, they just talked. She told him that nothing had to happen, that he didn’t have to do anything if he didn’t want to.
John listened, but at the thought of stopping, of walking away, he felt his stomach sink.
"No—no, I wanna. I really wanna," he admitted, voice rough. "I guess this whole thing is just… I don’t wanna upset Arthur."
She sighed, soft and understanding, before shaking her head.
"John, Arthur isn’t just okay with this. He’s into it. He likes it. The whole thing was his idea."
John swallowed, hard. He knew. Deep down, he had already known, especially after what he had heard in their tent the night before. But some part of him had needed to hear it from her—one last time, no room for doubt.
Something snapped in him then.
He kissed her—hard, fierce, like he had been holding back for too damn long.
She gasped against his mouth, first in surprise, then in pleasure, melting into him like she had been waiting for this just as much as he had.
After a few moments, she pulled back, breathless, her lips swollen and wet.
"Come with me."
She took his hand, led him through the thicket of trees to the nearby meadow, not too far from camp but far enough.
Far enough that no one would hear them.
****
The meadow was quiet, save for the gentle lap of the lake against the shore and the distant chirring of cicadas in the warm night air. She had brought a blanket, but the ground was firm and dry, the warmth of the day still clinging to the earth beneath them.
John barely noticed any of it.
Because the moment they settled down, he was kissing her again—hungry, eager, in a way he hadn’t felt since he was a damn teenager. Now that he had finally decided to let go of his doubt, there was no stopping it. It was bursting out of him, months of want, of hesitation, of wondering what if all crashing down in one fevered rush.
He was already hard—had been pretty much since they started talking—but now it was unbearable, the heat of her body pressed to his, her scent enveloping him, her hands smoothing over his chest. She laughed softly against his lips when he pulled her closer, tried to get her beneath him, desperate to get more, all of her.
"Slow down, John. We got time."
She kissed him, pushing him back gently, making him wait, making him feel it; God, it wrecked him.
She straddled him then, settling over his lap, and he let her, his hands gripping her hips, his breath coming fast. Then, right in front of him, she began to untie her blouse. John watched, mesmerised, his hands loosening on her as she pulled the fabric from her shoulders, the moonlight spilling over her bare skin.
"Jesus," he muttered, reaching for her, unable to help himself.
He dragged her down to him like a starving man, mouthing at her plush breasts, kissing her neck, her collarbones, his hands roaming up and down her back like he couldn’t believe she was real. She sighed against him, warm and wanting, and then she kissed him again, deep and slow, before shifting lower. John’s breath hitched when she moved down his body, her fingers working at his gunbelt, his jeans.
"Shit—"
His head tipped back, his body tight, every nerve in him firing at once; he thought he might come right there and then. The sight of her between his legs, her hands undoing the buttons of his jeans, her eyes dark and full of something he had never seen directed at him before—when his cock sprang free—heavy, flushed, aching—she looked up at him through her lashes, her lips parted just slightly. Then she smiled, and before he could even process how wrecked he already was, she leaned in and pressed a soft, teasing kiss to the leaking tip.
A gossamer string of precum clung to her full lips as she pulled away, and fuck, John gasped, his whole body jolting like the air had been punched from his lungs. He nearly fell back, his hands gripping at the blanket, at the earth beneath him, trying to keep himself grounded.
But he had to touch her.
Reaching down, he cupped her warm cheek, his thumb brushing over her skin, rough against soft. She turned into his touch, kissing his calloused palm—tender, grounding him. She focused her attention back on his cock then, wrapped her fingers around the base, stroking him slow, teasing. And then, finally, she took him into her hot, wet mouth.
John groaned, deep and raw, his whole body tensing.
His arms gave out, and he fell back onto the blanket, his breath coming fast, eyes squeezing shut at the intensity of it. Jesus. Months of nothing—just his own rough hands, rushed and unsatisfying. And now this. Now her.
Warm and wet and perfect, her tongue swirling around the sensitive head of his cock, her lips sliding lower, her hands working what she couldn’t fit. He choked on a curse, his hips twitching up before he could stop himself.
She hummed around him, and the vibration nearly killed him. This—she—was heaven.
John pulled her away before long, he had to, because if he didn’t, it would all be over far too soon. He wanted this to last, wanted her for as long as possible.
Not just for himself, but because he needed to make her feel as good as Arthur made her feel. He wanted to hear those same breathless, wrecked sounds Arthur always seemed to pull from her so damn easily. So, he kissed her, deep and desperate, flipping their positions until he was above her, pressing her down into the blanket.
She gasped softly as his mouth moved lower, dragging over her throat, her collarbone. And then lower, to her breasts, her nipples already hard from the cool night air. John groaned, filling his mouth with one, his hand with the other, wishing he had more hands, more ways to touch her, to claim every inch of her.
She squirmed beneath him, breath coming faster, and when she reached down, fumbling at the layers of her skirt he realised, she wanted more. They grappled with her skirts together, hands working frantically to undo ties, push fabric away, until she was finally, completely bare beneath him.
The moonlight shimmered on her skin, making her look almost ethereal—soft and inviting and willing.
His breath caught when she reached for him then, guiding his hand between her thighs, showing him where she wanted him. And he touched her, really touched her, his fingers sliding through slick, aching heat—Jesus Christ. She was so wet, so ready—far beyond his wildest dreams, all for him.
John shuddered, his head spinning, because he could have this. He could touch. He could taste. He could take. And it was okay. His mind reeled at the possibilities, at just how far she would let him go. He had to taste her. He couldn't wait any longer. He had imagined it a thousand times—the feel of her against his lips, the scent of her, the tangy musk of her arousal.
Nothing had ever made him ache like this before.
He moved his hand from between her thighs, resisting the urge to suck the wetness from his fingers. Not yet. He wanted to taste directly from her cunt the first time. Instead, he smoothed it onto his own aching cock, stroking himself slow, a few deliberate pumps just to ease the unbearable tension. But even that was almost too much. The sight of her slick on his cock, shining in the moonlight, was enough to end him. He groaned, forced himself to stop, his body strung so tight he thought he might snap.
Then—her hand, warm and soft, reached out to touch his flushed cheek.
"John," she murmured.
The way she said his name—sweet, breathless—it made his whole body ache.
He swallowed thickly, pushing her thighs apart with both hands, bracing them open so he had full view of her. Christ.
She was soaking, spread bare before him, her folds deep pink and glistening, her swollen clit just barely visible. A thick droplet of her arousal trailed down to the very bottom of her cunt, pooling there. John’s stomach tightened, muscles clenching as he salivated, so hungry for her he ached.
He realised then—he was staring.
She was watching him look at her, her cheeks coloured with a soft blush, but she wasn’t embarrassed. No—she was letting him.
Letting him take his time, letting him do whatever he wanted with her. His cock twitched, unbearably hard now. He leaned in, finally pressing his lips to the soft, plush skin of her inner thighs.
She shivered beneath him, her head falling back against the blanket.
John kissed her again and again then, everywhere but where he truly wanted to—trailing his lips along her thighs, up to the crease of her hip, just shy of her core. He lingered there, breathing her in, his fingers tightening against her skin. Draw it out, he told himself. Make her need it.
It felt like forever—like he was holding himself back, stretching out the moment until the tension became unbearable. But in truth, John knew it couldn’t have been more than a moment or two before he gave in. He had to taste her. He pressed his mouth to her, finally, dragging his tongue through her slick heat, slow and reverent. The taste of her, the wetness, the softness—it was too much.
He groaned against her, drinking her in, kissing and sucking gently, and God, the way she reacted—she gasped, her body twitching under him, her fingers sinking into his hair, gripping tight as her moans spilled into the night air.
John realised—he was drawing the same sounds from her that Arthur did. That soft, breathy pleasure he had heard before, but this time, it was because of him. A surge of pride swelled in his chest, hot and electric with the knowledge he was giving her as much pleasure as she was used to.
He tightened his grip on her thighs, pressing her open for him, keeping her still as he worked her over with his mouth, licking into her, drawing every sound from her lips like a reward. Then—finally—he sucked the swollen bundle of nerves at the apex of her folds into his mouth and held it there, sucking gentle but firm.
The effect was immediate.
Her whole body shook, her back arching, and—
"Oh, John—you—you’re gonna make me come—" she could barely speak, and Jesus Christ. John groaned, nearly coming undone at those words falling from her lips.
He was spurred on by her words, by the way she gasped for him, by the desperate, breathless oh, John still ringing in his ears. He had to hear her come undone completely—had to push her until she broke for him. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, holding him against her as her hips bucked up, grinding against his face, using him for her pleasure. God, he loved it.
He slid his fingers inside her, desperate to feel her inside, how wet, how ready she was for him. The moment he curled them against that soft, sweet spot inside her, her whole body jerked. She gasped—his name, high and frantic—so he did it again, and again.
Until she was convulsing around his fingers, thighs clenching, body shaking, her moans turning into broken, breathless pleas. John never, never wanted to stop. But finally, when she couldn’t take anymore, she pushed at his shoulders, panting, whimpering from overstimulation.
John pulled back, reluctantly, his chin slick, his breath ragged.
He crawled up her body, kissed her hard, and she pulled him against her, wrapping herself around him. Her body was hot beneath him, still thrumming with aftershocks, her skin damp, her lips parted as she sighed into his mouth.
"Christ—" he moaned, his whole body tight, aching.
Then—her hand, warm, soft, reaching down, grasping him.
John choked on a gasp, the relief almost too much, his cock so hard it was almost painful. She guided him lower, pressing the thick head of him against her slick, hot entrance, teasing him with the promise of it.
"Please, John," she whispered, her voice wrecked with pleasure. She used her hand to urge him forward, and John couldn’t stop himself. He sank into her in one slow, deep thrust, groaning against her neck as she stretched around him, as he finally—finally—felt all of her.
"Jesus—oh, fuck—" he gasped, gripping her hips, trying to still himself, to savour the moment. But he was too far gone.
His body moved instinctively, his hips jerking forward, burying himself deep inside her over and over, his breath coming in ragged, desperate pants. His mouth open, tongue hot against her skin, his hands gripping her like she was the only thing in the world. John buried his face in her neck, groaning, his entire body trembling as the pressure coiled impossibly tight inside him.
"I— I’m gonna—" he stuttered, his voice ragged, barely coherent.
She moaned his name in response, wrapping her legs tighter around him, pulling him closer, urging him on. That was all it took. His hips stuttered, his rhythm faltering as he broke, a guttural, desperate sound ripping from his throat. And then he was coming, harder than he ever had before, what felt like every orgasm he had ever had rolled into one.
Heat flooded between them as he filled her, his hands gripping her hips tight as he pushed himself deep, fucking it into her in short, mindless thrusts, like he needed to make sure she had all of him.
He gasped against her skin, trembling as the aftershocks rolled through him, leaving him utterly spent.
Above them, the stars blossomed in the night sky, endless and bright.
And John—John had never felt so alive.
****
Upon his return, Arthur noticed the difference immediately.
It was subtle—so subtle that no one else in camp would have picked up on it. But Arthur knew them both too well. He felt it in the warmth that had blossomed between them, the quiet ease in their movements, the way John’s shoulders were looser, his usual tension less.
And the way she looked—glowing, more alive than when he’d left.
The moment he dismounted in camp, she threw herself into his arms, and he chuckled, catching her with ease, lifting her right off the ground like she weighed nothing at all.
"Missed me, huh?"
He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her, savouring the way she clung to him, how her fingers curled into his coat like she never wanted to let go. Even as he held her, breathed her in, he noticed—John, just out of the corner of his eye. Watching. Not nervous or guilty, no—curious.
Arthur caught his gaze, lifted a hand in greeting, and John gave him a small smile and a brief wave back before busying himself with something else, his cheeks ruddy, his whole body humming with something just under the surface.
Arthur smiled to himself. The rest of the day, it was everywhere. The way she and John moved around each other—more familiar, more at ease, a quiet fondness between them that hadn’t been there before. They weren’t obvious, but Arthur saw it. And he felt it settle deep in his chest—an odd, satisfied jealousy. Not unpleasant. Not at all. But still, something possessive stirred in him. That night, after camp had settled and they were alone in his tent, he had to ask.
"So," he murmured, unbuckling his gunbelt and holster, hanging it up as she sat on their bedroll, stretching. "How was it?"
She smiled at him, a blush rising in her cheeks, knowing immediately what he meant.
"John was nervous," she admitted. "Didn’t wanna upset you. Wanted to be sure it was what we both wanted."
Arthur grunted, sitting down beside her, watching her closely.
"And after that?"
She laughed softly, shaking her head.
"After that, he couldn’t get enough."
Arthur smiled again, reaching to cradle her cheek.
"That right?"
She leaned against him, fingers tracing up his strong denim-clad thigh, already hungry for him. God she was unbelievable.
"Dragged me off every chance he got. Asking me to help with the horses, taking me on fishing trips that never ended with any damn fish—"
Arthur huffed a laugh, shaking his head.
“Well, that don’t surprise me. Who could resist huh? My sweet girl.”
But that feeling was still there, curling low in his gut.
She was still his girl. His. John might be enjoying himself, but Arthur owned her in a way no one else ever could. Even as her needy hands trailed his thigh, always wanting, always ready for him, and as she spoke, he reached for her, needing to remind her of that.
He tipped her chin up, kissed her jaw, her blushing cheeks. Arthur moved then, pushing her back down beneath him, caging her there with his broad frame, his weight pressing her into the bedroll. She barely had time to gasp before his lips were on hers, bruising, possessive. He kissed her hard and deep, claiming her with his mouth, his hands, his touch.
She moaned against his mouth, her body immediately pliant beneath him, soft and warm, arching up into his touch like she couldn’t get enough, like she hadn’t had any attention for weeks.
His greedy girl. God, he loved her.
Arthur growled low in his throat, grinding against her, feeling the heat of her even through their clothes. It had only been a few days, but it felt longer—felt like something raw had settled between them, something he had to reclaim.
He took her twice that night—once slow, deep, stretching her out on his cock like he had all the time in the world, making sure she felt him, knew she was his.
And then again—harder, rougher, his hands gripping her tight, pulling those breathless, needy moans from her lips like she couldn’t hold them back.
By the time he was done, she was wrecked, her body spent, her voice hoarse from gasping his name, and still—still, she clung to him. Arthur knew then—even though she had been with John, even though she had more than had her needs met, she still craved him, just as much as he craved her.
The thought warmed him from the inside out, settling deep in his chest as he held her close, his thick cock still pressing against her, half-hard again already, even as sleep tugged at his bones.
A few hundred yards away, John lay awake in his tent, listening.
The familiar sounds—her whimpering moans, Arthur’s deep, gravelly voice—echoed softly in the quiet night, barely audible above the bullfrogs and cicadas, but to John it was as loud as if they were next door; and he squeezed his eyes shut, aching.
He wished—more than anything—that she was with him again.
That it was his name she was gasping, his hands gripping her thighs, his cock buried deep inside her. He knew Arthur would be gone again soon. The man was never at camp for more than a few days at a time.
Hell, John was already counting down the minutes.
****
A little less than a week later, the night before Arthur rode out again, she came to John, her expression unreadable in the dim light of the fire.
"Stop by our tent later, after the others are asleep," she said, voice soft but firm, her hand brushing his arm before she turned and walked away. John had stood there, watching her go, curious. Frustrated. The last few days had been agony.
Unable to touch her. Seeing her everywhere. Hearing her and Arthur at night, the sounds slipping from their tent—her moans, Arthur’s deep voice, approving, commanding.
Christ, he felt like he was going insane.
When he approached their tent that night—late, the camp quiet with sleep, just as she had asked—he heard it. The familiar muffled whimpers, the unmistakable rhythm of bodies moving together. John froze, that now too-familiar mix of arousal and jealousy coiling hot in his gut. He should turn away. Come back in the morning. Jesus, why had she asked him to come by if they were going at it?
And then it struck him—this was by design. She wanted him to hear. Maybe even to see. Christ—Arthur probably did too. This whole damn thing was his idea, after all.
John swallowed thickly, feeling like his boots were glued to the dirt.
Then, his body moved before his brain could catch up. He stepped closer, cautiously, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one could see him being this much of a goddamn pervert. There was a gap in the tent flap. Convenient, he thought absently. And then, feeling unable to resist—he looked. His breath caught.
Arthur’s broad back was to him, his strong buttocks tight as he thrust into her. And she—her head lolling back, her chest flushed, her lips parted, babbling Arthur’s name when she could manage it. John couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.
And then—Arthur shifted, and John saw.
Saw her—spread wide, dripping, swollen—and Arthur’s cock wasn’t buried there. No, he was lower. The tight, puckered hole beneath her cunt stretched impossibly around his girth. Christ. John had scarcely let himself think about this in his most depraved fantasies.
And now—now it was playing out right in front of him. He watched, mesmerised, unable to move, as Arthur reached down, hooking two thick fingers into her glistening cunt, filling her in both places, stretching her even more. She made a broken, desperate sound, her body jerking at the overwhelming sensation.
John watched—watched as her hands cupped her own breasts, kneading them, mindless, like she couldn’t form a single coherent thought.
She convulsed. A burst of thick, hot fluid rushed from her cunt, covering Arthur’s rough hand as he worked her through it, murmuring low and approving.
“Thats it, that's my good girl,” he bit out, his voice ragged with lust.
John lurched back. It was too much.
The jealousy. The arousal.
His cock was aching, throbbing against the rough denim of his jeans, and he barely made it back to his own tent before he was freeing himself, his mind a tangled mess, the image of what he had just seen playing on an endless, rabid loop.
His hand moved furiously, roughly, his breath coming in short, strangled gasps, and he came so hard he nearly saw stars, his whole body trembling as he spilled over his fingers, her name falling from his lips like a prayer.
****
The next morning, Arthur stopped by the campfire where John sat alone, lost in thought. John was so deep in his own damn head, thinking about her, about what he had seen, that he didn’t even notice Arthur until the man was already sitting down next to him, coffee in hand. John startled slightly, blinking.
Arthur raised a brow, amused. "You look like hell, Marston."
John huffed, looking away, shifting uncomfortably. "Didn’t sleep much."
Arthur just took a slow sip of his coffee, watching him. He had spent the entire night torturing himself with the memory of what he had seen, of what Arthur had done to her. John had made her sound like that before, that much he knew—but he had never left her dumb, speechless, left her so wrecked she couldn’t even speak, couldn’t even think. And she had never come like that for him, that pulsing squirt of fluid that he couldn’t stop thinking about.
He wanted that.
Wanted to push her, to see how far she would let him take her, how far she wanted to go. Arthur broke the silence first, speaking casually, like he wasn’t about to take John’s breath away all over again.
"She’ll do whatever you want, ya know."
John stiffened.
"She wants to. She loves it." There was pride in his voice. Of course, John thought. Of course, Arthur had meant for him to see.
John swallowed, laughing awkwardly. A heavy pause.
"She really likes it?"
But what he was really asking was something deeper. Was it okay for him to do that? Was it okay for him to push her like that, to take her to those limits? Did she want him to? Arthur studied him for a moment, then gave a small, solemn nod.
"I’d never make her do anythin’ she didn’t want." He said simply.
And John realised then—he had always known that.
Arthur loved her, of course he did. He would never coerce her into anything she didn’t crave just as much as he did. John exhaled slowly, heart pounding.
That meant it was okay. It meant she wanted it. It meant that the next time they were alone—John was going to do his best ruin her.
****
John couldn’t wait any longer.
Arthur had left later that morning, kissing her deep before he rode off, leaving her breathless and smiling, her fingers pressed to her lips as she watched him go.
And John—John had been waiting, watching.
Finally, when she gathered her things and made her way toward the trees, disappearing into the forest like she often did, he knew where she was going.
To the secluded area she favoured, that one particular spot by the lake. To bathe. This was his chance.
John followed after her, moving quiet, purposeful, his heart already hammering against his ribs. The dappled sunlight filtering through the trees did nothing to cool his raging desire. By the time he reached the clearing, she was already at the water's edge.
He watched as she stepped out of her clothes, revealing the soft curves that haunted him day and night. Watched as she waded into the lake, her body tensing for a second before she sighed, pleasure washing over her features as the cool water lapped at her skin. Her nipples hardened in the summer air, goosebumps rising across her arms, and fuck—John felt them rise on his own skin, too.
He swallowed hard, forced himself to move forward, stepping closer until he was near the edge of the water.
"Hey." His voice was soft, careful not to startle her.
She turned, smiling when she saw him, looking so genuinely pleased it made something in him ache.
"John," she said, his name sweet on her lips.
His fingers tensed at his sides. He sat on a weathered log set back a little from the water's edge.
"Go on, darlin’. Act like I ain’t here."
She tilted her head at him, curious, softly amused, and then—slowly—she did as he asked. She turned back to the water, continuing her bathing, the bar soap gliding over her wet skin, deliberate, teasing, though he wasn’t sure if she was doing it on purpose or if she was just that damn mesmerising.
John’s breath came heavier as he watched her drag the soap lower—lower—and then, her hand reached between her thighs. She winced, the smallest flicker of a flinch. But he saw it. He knew what that was. A ghost of tenderness left behind from last night. Arthur had fucked her good, and now she was sore from it.
John’s cock throbbed painfully in his jeans. All he could think about was making her feel that way again, breaking her like Arthur did.
She ducked underwater, disappearing beneath the surface for a moment, rinsing all the suds from her soft, slick skin. John waited, sitting at the water’s edge, barely breathing, his whole body tight with restraint.
When she surfaced, droplets clung to her, beading down her arms, trailing along the swell of her breasts, down the soft, womanly curve of her stomach, catching in the dark hair below. She waded toward him, unhurried, completely unashamed, reaching for the cloth she had left on the shore.
John just watched.
Watched as she slowly dried herself, the fabric brushing over her damp skin, soaking up the moisture but leaving her just wet enough to glisten in the dappled sunlight. He thought she was so beautiful it damn near hurt him. She looked up then, meeting his eyes, standing fully bare before him, her hair dripping down her back, strands clinging at her neck and collarbones.
John reached out a hand. A simple gesture—come here.
She did. No hesitation. Obedient. Willing. John’s fingers twitched. His cock pulsed, pressing against the rough denim, already achingly hard, and she knew it—of course she did.
She knew what she did to him, watching him, reading him like a damn book, knowing exactly what he needed even before he did. And right now, he needed her—desperately. The days apart from her had felt like weeks.
She took his hand, moving into him, straddling his lap so that her bare body pressed flush against his clothed one. John groaned, his breath shuddering at the hot, wet press of her core against his confined cock, the contrast of skin against rough fabric almost too much.
Then she kissed him. Slow and deep, like she had missed him just as much as he had missed her, in spite of Arthur ruining her night after night. John kissed her back, sloppy, desperate, fingers tightening on her hips as he ground up into her, unable to stop himself. But she cradled his face, slowing him, calming him, kissing him like they had all the time in the world.
The water lapped gently at the shore behind them, the warm breeze carrying soft dandelion fluff, catching in her hair. She leaned into him, her nipples pressing against his chest, her skin soft and damp, aching for him. The hum of insects was lazy, slow, and John let himself breathe, let himself feel it—feel her, fully.
"I saw you and Arthur." His voice was rough, thick with need, with want.
She blushed then—not from being bare in his lap, not from the heat between them, but because of his words. Because he had seen. John kissed her again, sucking at her bottom lip, feeling her shiver against him.
"You like that?" He wanted to see her blush again, more, her embarrassment colouring her cheeks, her chest.
She let out a small, shy breath against his lips, nodding fervently, her hands curling into his shoulders, her body already moving against him. Slow. Deliberate.
She ground down into his lap, her slick pressing against his erection through his jeans, rubbing herself against the hardness of him, her breath catching with every slow roll of her hips. John exhaled sharply, his hands pressing into the curve of her back, holding her there, helping her move, his cock twitching dangerously at the feel of her.
"Jesus Christ, darlin’…" he murmured, already aching to be inside her, but not yet. He wanted to prolong her desperation, wanted to see it match his own. She kissed him again, hungry, needy, her hands reaching to push his suspenders off his broad shoulders, then lower, fumbling with his jeans. He held her hands for a moment, stopping her, and she whimpered his name, small and desperate.
That broke him; all at once, John was only too eager to help, shifting slightly, pulling at the leather, yanking his jeans open just enough to free himself. His thick, aching cock sprang free, and she moaned at the sight, her fingers immediately wrapping around him. John jerked, nearly bucking into her grasp, his breath hissing through his teeth. She wanted this—hard, fast—like she was starved for it. And if he didn’t know any better, he’d think she hadn’t been getting fucked every damn night.
But she had. And still, she wanted more, she wanted him.
John groaned, watching her shift, adjusting herself, the head of his cock nudging at her soaked entrance. She held him there just for a moment, teasing, before sinking down onto him—inch by agonising inch.
John gritted his teeth, his hands tight on her hips, forcing himself to stay still, to let her take it slow. She winced, gasping at the stretch, still tender from the night before, the burn of taking him after being used so thoroughly by Arthur.
And fuck, that thought nearly ended him right there.
His fingers twitched, his instincts screaming to grab her, to pull her down, to fill her in one deep thrust—instead, he just watched, jaw tight, muscles taut with restraint. Watched as his cock disappeared inside her, achingly slow, as her tight heat fluttered around him, stretching to take him, sucking him in.
The relief was instantaneous, so intense he let out something almost like a dry, wrecked sob at the feeling of her surrounding him.
“Jesus—”
She whimpered, pressing herself fully down, her thighs trembling as she settled onto him, adjusting to the stretch.
Then she moved.
Slow at first—testing, teasing—before she started grinding down on him, riding him hard, taking him deep, her breath coming in sharp little gasps. John held her, his grip iron-tight on her hips, panting into her hair, soaking in the scent of her, lost in the feeling of her using him.
And in the back of his mind—
That image burned bright.
The night before.
Arthur splitting her open, his fingers deep inside her while she gasped dumbly for him.
"I want—I wanna do that with you," John bit out, his voice somewhere between a stammer and a moan, wrecked and shaking beneath her.
She whimpered at his words, at the sheer desperation in his voice, her body tightening in response.
"Yes—yes—" she moaned, moving faster, chasing her pleasure, riding him like she needed it, like she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to.
"Later—tomorrow—any time, I wa—I have to feel that."
John wasn’t even thinking, was barely aware of what he was saying anymore. Any other time, he would be embarrassed, ashamed of the neediness in his voice, of the way he begged for it without hesitation, without pride. He was broken, exposed, raw. She had wrecked him, had torn him open, stripped him completely. He would bare his soul at a look from her if she wanted. She wouldn’t even have to ask.
"I want that too, John," she stammered, her voice wrecked, her rhythm faltering slightly, as she kissed him softly, sweat beading at her forehead, her breath coming in short, frantic gasps.
“Want you inside—any—everywhere I can take it."
John groaned, his hands tight on her hips, his whole body trembling as her words clouded his mind, wrapping tight around his already fragile control.
Jesus Christ, he was so close.
Her chest was flushed, her thighs quivering, her slick soaking him, the sound of her taking him filthy and perfect. John watched her, completely entranced, his breath coming in short, rough gasps as she desperately rode him, chasing her high with reckless abandon. She was so close, her body already shaking, trembling, making a mess of him.
And then—he remembered Arthur’s words from the night before. He had to see if it would have the same effect.
"Th—that’s it, take what ya need…good girl."
The reaction was almost instantaneous. Her entire body seized, her breath catching in her throat as the words sent her over the edge. She shattered around him, convulsing so tight that it nearly hurt, her cunt milking him, pulling him deeper, an impossible heat coating his cock and spilling over his balls as she rode it out.
"Fuck—" John groaned, gripping her hips like she was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
She was so beautiful, completely wrecked, completely his in that moment. It didn’t take long for him to follow, his stomach muscles tensing, his vision blurring as his climax hit like a freight train.
"Shit—oh, shit—"
He dragged her against him again and again, filling her up, moaning her name, gasping good girl over and over like a prayer.
****
They lay in the long grass for a while afterward, the late afternoon sun warming her skin as she rested against John's chest. His arm was heavy around her, his fingers smoothing, rough against her soft back, and for the first time in days, he felt settled—like the hunger in him had finally been sated. For now.
It wasn’t gone. Not by a long shot.
There was something about her like this—bare, soft, completely unguarded around him—that was intoxicating. Somehow both wanton and innocent at the same time, like she had no shame at all in what they had just done, still glowing with a softness that made John’s stomach tighten in ways he didn’t fully understand.
Eventually, they had to move.
She dressed, taking her time, and John just watched, still stretched out in the grass, memorising every little detail—how she smoothed her skirts down, how she twisted her damp hair into something almost presentable. They walked back to camp through the dappled woods, John’s strong arm loose around her shoulders, their bodies bumping comfortably as they strolled slow, neither of them eager to rush back.
Back to where they couldn’t be like this openly. Not yet.
The scent of spring blossoms hung heavy in the air, and in the golden afternoon light, she looked… John swallowed.
"Can I see you again tonight?" he asked, his voice quiet, rough at the edges.
She smiled, soft and happy, and kissed him, lips warm and tasting of sun, and him and something sweeter.
"Of course," she murmured. "Come after camp's asleep."
John exhaled, relief and anticipation blooming deep in his chest.
"Gotta be quiet, though," she added softly. "Can't be too obvious, not yet."
John nodded. She was right—the gang weren’t exactly a judgmental lot, a mixed-up band of outlaws, working girls, and criminals, all of them with past sins that would make most folk baulk to think about.
But this—what was growing between them—was still something private. Something special. Something just for them. For now.
She went ahead of John, slipping back into camp a little before him, worried it would look too suspicious if they arrived at the exact same time. John hung back, took his time, then busied himself with chores, throwing himself into camp work like he wasn’t distracted as hell. He heaved heavy bags of grain for the horses, the strain burning pleasantly in his arms. He skinned the deer Charles had brought back, dressing it for Pearson’s stew, the familiar work keeping his hands busy, even though his mind wasn’t there at all.
Because she was still everywhere.
Every time he looked up, he saw her.
At the table, chopping vegetables, a little crease between her brows as she focused on her task. At the water’s edge with the other girls, scrubbing clothes, laughing at something Karen had said, her skirt hitched up just slightly to keep from getting too wet.
He knew she could fish, could hunt, could track if she had to. But she didn’t like it. She was too fond of nature, too soft for the blood and the gutting, for watching something die by her own hand. She had told him so once, not long after they first met, her voice quiet, almost apologetic, like she thought he might think less of her for it. But John hadn’t. Not at all.
And now, as he leaned under the big oak tree that towered over camp, wiping his bloody hands on a rag, he watched her, and that same warm fondness tugged at his insides again.
Because hell, that was just one more thing about her that was so damn easy to love.
And John realised then—he loved a lot of things about her.
Not just her softness, not just her looks, though Christ knew he did love them. But more than that. Her kind nature, the way she loved the plants and the animals, how the horses gravitated toward her like she was something gentle and good in a world that had no right to it. Her complete devotion to Arthur—though it made him jealous as hell, though it burned inside him, he respected it, admired it, even if it made his stomach twist. The way she was somehow innocent and at the same time so damn lustful, her body so willing, so eager—yet she still blushed when he said certain things to her, still giggled when he kissed her just the right way.
John swallowed hard; his throat suddenly dry. He was getting in deep. That realisation hit him with a jolt, settling into his gut like a weight. Because this wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just filling a void left behind by Abigail. It wasn’t just what Arthur wanted. John worried then that he liked her, really liked her.
He pulled his gaze away from her, pushed the thought aside for now, buried it deep.