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THIS WAS WRONG. Oh, so wrong. The crackle of the fading fire echoed in your ears. You could hardly notice the sound as a hand slinked around your waist. Hot breath and the stench of alcohol lingered near you, and when you glanced over, it was John looking back at you. A crooked smile adorned his face as his hand slid up your side. The scars crawling across his cheek seemed to glisten in the fire's glow. His voice was low, raspy as always, "You look cold," he murmured. The blustery wind blew through, whispering from the forest, trying to tell you this was wrong, too.
It was just you two out here now. The sun had long set, and while you thought you were alone with a glass of whiskey, John took it upon himself to disturb your solitude. Occasionally, the sound of snoring could be heard coming from nearby tents. However, all you could focus on was the crackle of flames, the breeze in the tall pines, and the soft breaths coming from the man on your right.
God, he was handsome up close.
You couldn't help but thank the wolves back in Ambarino for their job scarring John's face. It was an awful thought, but the scars had a certain charm. John was three sheets to the wind; that much was obvious. But so were you. Tonight had been a night of celebration, and everyone had been drinking excessively. Sean had returned, and although you were happy, you couldn't help but think about how much you missed Mac. In your mind, Sean's safety came at the sacrifice of Mac, Davey, and poor sweet Jenny. It left a bittersweet taste in your mouth, and though Sean was a nice guy, he was never your friend, not how Mac was.
Perhaps the emotion already stirring in your gut made you hesitate. Under any given circumstance, you would've pushed John away. Abigail didn't deserve this, and neither did Jack. However, the whiskey coursing through your veins, the desire to be rid of all this guilt, and John's stupidly handsome face impaired your judgment quite a bit.
John's grip tightened slightly, possessively. His nose nearly touching yours. His grey eyes held a quiet intensity as if they were pleading. John tugged you closer, pressing his side against yours. "Thought you could use more than a fire to warm you up," he spoke softly, softer than you'd ever heard from the usually abrasive man. You weren't sure what to say. What could even be an appropriate response to this?
Everyone knew John had a bit of a drinking problem. It was an unspoken thing. Sometimes, you listened to Abigail beg John to lay off the booze for once. She'd say he should be present for the gang, for his son. At times, you pitied the woman. John could be immature, always so quick to anger. More often than not, you could spot him nursing a bottle of whiskey and looking miserable and upset as ever. You weren't even sure what John was angry at anymore. When John was sober, resentment settled in his brow, and he appeared distant. You'd never watched him be so relaxed, so easy to admire.
You gave a subtle nod. It was more you processing information than an agreement. You hadn't been cold anyway, but with the closeness, the taboo, it burned you up. There was something to be said about the circumstance. A cruel joke from the world, maybe a cruel joke from John. But the suggestiveness creeping into his eyes told you otherwise. His intent was clear, but why you? If John was looking for an escape, the clear choice would be a working girl, not a fellow gang member. Much less another man.
John leaned in closer, his lips sticky from liquor as they brushed against your ear. "I'd reckon my cot is warmer," he whispered invitingly. He'd pulled back slightly to watch you, examine your every move. John had this satisfied smirk tugging at his lips as your breath hitched. This was all so new, so surprising. Never before had you suspected John thought you were anything more than another new face. Well, not that new anymore. It hadn't been long, though, about a year of running with the Van der Linde gang. John didn't seem interested before. But he emphasized his interest now, rubbing circles along your jacket with his thumb.
Curse the whiskey, curse the intimacy of it all. You were hooked. This was bad, all of it. Somehow, in the moment, things didn't seem so terrible. So you let John lead you away, his hand still resting at your waist. You spoke light-heartedly as if this wasn't a big deal, "I hope you know what you're getting into." You didn't, but you hoped this wasn't a fleeting thought. That you weren't temporary or replaceable. You never wanted to be chosen based on availability. You wanted something real, something tangible. Something cruelly impossible when it came to the life of an outlaw. John laughed. His laughter always did sound painful, as if it scratched up his throat every time.
Whisked away in the night, how cliché.
As soon as the tent flap came down behind you, John pounced. His hands made their way under your wrinkled button-up, grasping your flesh like you'd evaporate. Like you weren't really there. John pressed drunkenly sloppy kisses to your neck. Of course, you didn't just stand there. Your hands tangled in his black hair. Almost as dark as the moonless night, almost. Then, he bit you. A sharp, stinging pain to the tender skin of your neck. A hiss escaped your lips, but you didn't complain. John hummed, the vibration tingling against you. He seemed pleased with your compliance. More bites, more hisses of discomfort, the cycle repeated. It wasn't uncomfortable or even unlikable. There are things in this world that are made uncomfortable simply by the fact that you enjoy it.
His scarred fingers were like sandpaper on your skin. John slipped his hands out from your shirt, undoing the buttons carelessly. As much as you hated to admit it, the rough callouses on his palms and lingering pain from his teeth sinking into you felt pleasant. He tugged off your shirt, the fabric falling down ungracefully. John's hands returned to your waist, suddenly hotter than you'd remembered them feeling. He pulled you toward him, pressing your chests firmly together. You could feel how hard and fast his heart pounded. John stopped nipping at your neck, staring into your eyes with an insatiable hunger. You'd never seen him like this, passionate, lustful, desperate. It was beautiful, in a way, to watch a man driven by nothing but impulsiveness.
John's lips surged towards yours, kissing you with unexpected fervor. Some part of you wondered if he'd thought about this before. If this passion was built up from something instead of spontaneous. You were as keen to kiss him back, your teeth gnashing together messily. You passively wondered if you'd damage his still-healing scratches by kissing so harshly. John's teeth ground against yours hard enough for you to taste the blood flooding your gumlines.
Once, before, you'd prided yourself on your control. Your ability to hold back, observe, and keep a level head. It all looked like a farce now. The gnawing feeling of being a hypocrite would eat at you later. This was anything but controlled. This couldn't be more foolish and would never yield positive results. It was reckless, you and John, but that's what truly stoked the flames. It was trouble; John was trouble.
But with his fingers digging into you so roughly it left crescent-shaped divots, it didn't feel like trouble. Good Lord, this was heaven, a small taste of salvation. His lips stayed on yours, gasping for breath against you but never pulling back. John backed himself up, taking you with him. When his calves hit the side of the cot, he allowed himself to fall backward, yanking you down with him.
Your hands were on either side of him, hips precariously settled between John's thighs. John's back was flat against the cot, forcing you to loom over him to keep your lips locked. His hands explored your chest, tracing along your ribs. But his hands always returned to the curve of your waist. If you hadn't been drunk, you may have had the upper body strength to hold yourself up and unbutton John's shirt. Yet still, you weren't so drunk that you didn't recognize that you'd collapse onto the poor man if you tried that. Funny, that's what you identified as a problem here. It was like John read your mind because his hands stopped kneading at your sides and shifted to work on discarding his shirt.
His ankles hooked around your thighs, pulling you, pinning you to him. Thoughtlessly, John's hips bucked up into yours. He groaned against your lips, abandoning them and peppering your neck with bites and soothingly soft pecks. It was needy and filthy, you knew it, but you instinctively rolled back into him.
Every breathy gasp, encouraging word, and reciprocal action made your blood hot within you. You were burning up a fever, and you silently hoped it wasn't so obvious how bothered you were.
John sat up, gently cradling the small of your back and guiding you up. He was practically in your lap, his hair draping over his eyes. Your hand brushed the strand away, tucking it behind his ear. John didn't give you time to study his features, hurriedly pressing a kiss to your lips. He was desperate in every sense of the word. John rolled into your hips, the denim from your pants making a scratching sound. He groaned against your lips, too loud for your liking. His thighs squeezed tighter, locking you in place.
He pulled from the kiss, hastily kissing along your neck. John's kisses were filled with urgency. They were short and forceful, firm presses of his chapped lips to your skin. It felt like every peck set your nerve endings alight. His lips trailed down to your sternum, continuing down to the fuzz that crept up your abdomen. John was not delicate, but there was something benevolent about every movement. There was more beneath the surface than just hopeless lust.
Both of you tried to maintain quietness, but it didn't stop the occasional whimper and groan. The loud stick of sweaty skin, the ragged breaths, and the rubbing of the Oxford cloth cot permeated. It had gotten to the point where your blue jeans were strewn on the ground with John's pants beside them. Your back was on the cot, John's hands on your thighs, gripping tightly. His brown eyes sought out yours, staring longingly as his tongue swirled around your tip. Good Lord, the bobbing and the saliva dripping from his mouth would've made you weak alone. It was so obscene; you'd never seen anything quite like it. John was such a pretty sight, putting that feisty mouth to good use. The small scar on his lips, which still looked raw, stretched along with the rest of John's mouth.
Your back arched slightly, pushing a bit more into the back of John's throat. He sputtered, gagging from the pressure. But that didn't stop him as he continued working his mouth down your length further, causing himself to gag amorously. Spit dripped down from his lips, embedding itself in the hairs of your groin and the cot below. A strangled sound spilled from your lips. John glared at you, silently telling you to keep your voice down. So, you did. One of your hands found its way to John's hair again, tugging gently. It was enough for the breath to catch in John's throat, tensing up subtly. The other hand brought the thin wool blanket to your face to bury any other sound that dared escape you.
John got bolder, touchier. His hands smoothed over as much as he could reach. The roughness of his palms was a stark contrast to the gentle exploration. It was curious and exploratory. John's mouth popped off your dick, making an obscene clicking sound. He wiped away any excess spit from his mouth with the back of his hand, looking wickedly into your gaze. Without any prep, John straddled your hips and slid your cock into himself. Your voice was slightly panicked, although hushed, "Wha- but you didn't even stretch-" "I like the burn."
Well, there was no arguing there. You stared at John, half feeling wonder and the other half bewilderment. At the very least, you were going to let John adjust despite the way he was already rocking his hips. Your hands settled on John's waist, forcing him to stop for just a moment. John looked down at you, annoyed as always. His brows were furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. But he understood and wasn't about to chew you out for caring about him.
"You know I'm fine, right?" He teased lightly, the raspiness of his voice more pronounced. An exasperated huff escaped you, "Clearly." Your grip loosened, allowing John to do as he pleased. And that was precisely what he did. The very moment you stopped pushing him down, he raised his hips, crashing down repetitively. John had to slap his hand to his mouth in an attempt to quiet himself. Small moans and gasps still slipped through the cracks of his fingers. You propped yourself up on your elbows, gazing at John as he did all the work. He wanted this more than you knew, and it was becoming more and more plain to see as things carried on.
Your knees were bent up, and John took full advantage of it. His back rested against your legs, occasionally sticking from the sweat, causing the friction of his movements to pull at your skin. John grasped onto your thighs for support, needing it so he wouldn't topple over while riding you. Although watching John use your body for his own satisfaction would've made you perfectly content, you decided against it. Your own hips met with his, clapping lewdly. John threw his head back, the ends of his hair brushing against your knees. With his hand no longer covering his mouth, John was louder. Under normal circumstances, you would've encouraged this or even found pride in it. But not when you were in a camp surrounded by people just trying to sleep.
With another snap to John's ass, you hissed out, "Quiet down, will you?" John wasn't paying attention at this point, but he did attempt to keep it down to a dull roar. His breaths were ragged, the rising and falling of his chest growing more uneven by the second. John's length was aching severely, leaking at the tip and begging for attention. Of course, you were more than happy to please John in any way you could. Your fingers wrapped around his dick, stroking it just enough for John to let out a low groan and buck into your fist. The continuous thrusting, the hand working at his dick, it had to be too much. Breathy sounds left your lips, consisting of soft whimpers and gasps.
Soon enough, it was proven to be too much. John gave no warning, only humming deeply as thick ropes of cum dribbled down your digits. The sight was enough to make you come undone. The alcohol wasn't doing either of you any favors. You were practically seeing stars. It was hard to tell if John was typically this good in bed or if the whiskey was doing the heavy lifting.
You pulled out of John, desperately stroking yourself until you finished on your stomach. Both you and John were struggling to regain consistent breaths. John was the first to collapse, taking himself off your lap and crashing down on the cot next to you. He buried his face in the pillow. John sighed through his nose, already looking exhausted.