#john fitzgerald

The camp's banquet hall was alive once again—the captain had returned from weeks of expedition, along with his men who hadn’t felt safety or camaraderie for weeks. The gathering was to celebrate their successful delivery of pelts, despite some fatalities. Everyone residing within the camp was there, except for the children. Some of the men had women on their arms, wife or not. Others were focused on feasting, drinking, or laughing. But one man sat alone, lost in thought. A man who preferred his own company, cared only for himself, and thought only of himself.

John Fitzgerald sat near the edge of the gathering, remaining quiet while his sharp eyes scanned the room, as if every shadow concealed a hidden threat. Even here, surrounded by supposed allies, Fitzgerald's guard never dropped. Somehow, he was always the captain’s go-to person for every expedition—he was never absent. Despite the risks of these ventures, he would always agree to join, as long as the monetary compensation was sufficient.

Across the room, you sat beside your mother and a few other women, all seated slightly apart from the rowdy men. Your mother leaned closer, speaking low but with firm insistence. “I heard he wanted Glass dead,” she said, clearing her throat and nodding subtly in Fitzgerald’s direction. Hugh Glass was one of the fatalities from their recent quest, along with his son Hawk, after Glass was severely wounded by a bear. Bridger and Fitzgerald had stayed behind to care for him, but he did not survive. “Men like that—they only think about themselves. As long as they get what they want, nothing else matters.”

You didn’t respond, your eyes fixed on the crackling fire. Your mother’s warnings were familiar—a refrain you had heard many times before. What she didn’t know—what no one in the camp knew—was that you had already crossed that line, again and again.

You had heard it from Bridger himself: there was no way Glass could have survived the attack. With the Arikara tribe closing in on them, they had to flee. It explained why they had only just arrived—a few days later than the captain and the others. You wanted to believe he is not that bad.

As if sensing your thoughts, Fitzgerald glanced your way—and your eyes met. His gaze was steady and unreadable. Somehow, it made your stomach tighten, his stare digging deep into your soul. He was a complicated man, and you didn’t disagree with your mother’s assessment of his selfishness. It was true. There was no softness in his expression as he looked at you, but he tilted his head slightly toward the door.

You knew what it meant.

Without a word, Fitzgerald stood and walked to the exit. It was a silent signal, understood only between the two of you. Your pulse quickened in anticipation as you watched him leave. You waited a moment, long enough to avoid suspicion, before rising to your feet.

“Mother, I need to head back home. I’m feeling unwell,” you murmured to her. She nodded absentmindedly.

Clutching your coat around your shoulders, you slipped away from the group. Following the path Fitzgerald had taken, the noise of the banquet faded, replaced by the crunch of snow under your boots with every step. When you reached his cabin, the door was slightly ajar—left open on purpose. Taking a deep breath, you stepped inside and walked toward his bedroom. He was there—no greetings, no words. He simply looked up, his gaze heavy, and gestured for you to close the door.

Another night. The same arrangement.

It wasn’t just fear of discovery; it was the weight of what it would mean if your absence was noticed. The secrecy, the whispers—it could all come crashing down if you weren't careful.

“Be quick... Mother's gonna look for me soon.” You whispered in between your panting as he thrusts into you.

It was a breach of the rules—you were not supposed to speak. That's one of the rules of your set up. Agreed upon the both of you. But the words slipped out, your worry outweighing your fear of him.

Fitzgerald paused for the briefest moment, his sharp eyes narrowing as they met yours.

“I don't pay you to talk.”

You were not able to answer, and just bit your lip to prevent your moans from escaping. Fitzgerald continued, though with an almost unnoticeable shift in pace, he still listened. He soon finished inside you and pulled away, his movements brusque as always. You quickly sat up, with your hands trembling slightly fixing your clothing. You still had time—barely.

Fitzgerald reached for the small leather pouch on the table, his movements deliberate but heavy with fatigue. He tossed the pouch onto the bed where you were gathering your things.

“There,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly. “That outta cover it.”

You picked up the pouch without a word, and didn’t count the coins—you never did. It wasn’t trust; it was necessity, tucking it into your satchel and wore your coat, preparing to leave.

As you turned toward the door, you heard Fitzgerald’s voice. “Tomorrow night,” he said. He was already pulling his shirt back on, wincing as the fabric brushed against his wounded shoulder. “Same time.”

Yes, he pays you for sex. Opportunities within the camp are scarce for women, especially someone your age. In your mid-20s, you’ve learned to adapt, taking on demanding tasks to make ends meet—mending clothes, washing laundry, catching fish by the river. But no matter how hard you worked, it was never enough. You have an ailing mother, and two younger brothers. Too many mouths to feed, just one working horse. This idea came up during a casual conversation with Bridger, who was obliviously recounting his experiences during their expeditions, you learned that one of the men would pay good money for a woman, given how long they were gone without one.

It was then you decided to go for it. The decision didn’t come lightly—it never could. But desperation has a way of silencing doubts, like this one.

Months ago, you saw Fitzgerald sitting on a low crate in front of his cabin, sharpening his blade. It was late at night, just the perfect time since you did not want to be seen near him. He was a man with a dirty history. You were shaking as you approached him. It wasn’t until you cleared your throat softly that he looked up, recognizing you, wondering why you're suddenly standing before him. He knew you—knew everyone in the camp, really—but you were not someone who ever came near him. His gaze studied you, seeing how you clutch tightly at your coat while you looked around, hoping that no one sees you there talking to him. The tension in your posture was clear, but you didn’t speak right away. That hesitation made him suspicious.

“What do you want?”

His tone wasn’t unkind, but it carried an edge, a warning not to waste his time. You took a step closer, your eyes flicking to the blade in his hands before meeting his gaze. You knew this man had rabid tendencies based on the stories circulating around the camp.

“I need… I need help,”

Fitzgerald raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “Help?" he asked, evidently skeptical and set the blade aside, his attention now fully on you. “What kind of help?”

“I need money... for my family.”

You gulped down and wished you hadn't come here in the first place. He leaned back slightly, his sharp eyes studying you. “And you think I’m the one to ask?” he said at last, his tone carrying a note of dry amusement.

You nodded nervously, glancing up at him. “I heard you… I heard you pay,” feeling your cheeks burn with embarrassment. “For… for certain services.”

There it is.

He was not a stupid man, the moment you said you needed help, he knew this would happen. Why would he help you? Out of the kindness of his heart? That's bullshit. Everything had a price.

He was a practical man—transactions made sense to him. But desperation had a smell, and it clung to you like smoke. Such young woman, offering herself to him. For a long moment, he said nothing then finally, he nodded toward his cabin.

“Inside,” he said simply.

Hesitation was not off the table, but there was no going back now. You pleaded for his help, and he agreed easily. You moved past him, following his arms showing you the direction where his bedroom is. Fitzgerald followed, his gaze lingering on your figure briefly before closing the door behind. You feel your throat tighten when he closed the door and started stripping himself down. It made you grip to your coat tighter, but he looked at you nastily and commanded you to take yours off as well. You needed the money, right? You were shaking as you took your clothes off, feeling his eyes burn through you in anticipation of what's about to take place. Everything felt heavy at that moment with your heart beating so fast that all you can hear was his voice mumbling for you to lay down and spread your legs for him, passively adhering to what he said.

It was painful to give your first experience as a transaction. He climbed unto the bed as well, positioning himself on top of you as he disgustingly spit on his palm and pumped his cock with it, positioning himself in your entrance. It was painful, but you held unto his sheets as you feel him push inside you. He did not know you were a virgin until he saw you bled for him. You were scared, and he was probably more than 10 years older than you. His dark hair is long and unkempt, tucked under a bandana, adding to his rugged demeanor, which was not helping you relax as well. The sweet innocent you wanted to cry in bed but feared that if you did, he wouldn't give the payment, so you did your best not to make any sort of noise for him. He was not at all gentle; he maximized everything in his power to make the most out of his payment.

But, again, this was a few months ago. Since then, he’s made you return to his cabin every single night, even before this recent expedition, once most of the inhabitants had settled into their own quarters. The two of you established a few ground rules, and he made sure you adjusted each time.

He hated whenever you were late, his curses became your foreplay whenever you made him wait. His time was too precious for him, considering he had to get up early to work. There was no crossing of boundaries, no asking personal questions about him nor he cares about yours as well. It was simple: you show up his door, he fucks you the way he wants, he fills you up, pays you, then you go back home. It kept your family fed, and prepared for winter.

You two kept your transactions hidden, away from the prying eyes of the people, for the obvious reasons. No one wanted to be associated with the man. Can't blame them though. You once saw him point his shotgun towards your friend, Bridger, and walked away as if nothing happened. The camp was big enough that you see each other everyday, and pretend like you're ghosts. Occasionally, he’d snag a glimpse of you hanging clothes to dry under the sun or crossing the grounds on your way to your next task. You’d catch him watching you sometimes, before he turned away as if he hadn’t been looking at all. Strangely, it felt as though your set up has made the both of you more visible to each other's eyes than before.

---

"Fuck!" he hissed.

It was that time in the night again and you were shocked to see Fitzgerald's shoulder bleeding. It must be from hunting again, but you did not ask. He is sitting on his bed with both of his hands on your waist, with you straddled on his lap riding him up and down. He groans in both pain and pleasure, seeing how his muscles tighten and bleed for each movement you do. You wanted to stop, fully concerned with the look of pain etched on his face, but his hands were guiding you to continue.

"Come on... come... on.." he growled.

So you did. His head tipped back, mouth slightly parted as a low groan escaped him, his brows knitting together in an expression caught between tension and release. Not long after his hands grab your ass and slammed you down deep into his cock followed by his eruption. You shuddered by the feeling ropes of his multiple emissions inside you, patiently waiting for him to finish. His hands slowly loosened their grip, and you finally pulled away from him. As you plopped down beside him, his other hand instinctively reached up to his shoulder, pressing against the wound. You keep glancing back at him as you pull on your clothes, his quiet winces drawing your attention.

But you were not heartless.

"You're bleeding."

He shot you a look that sent shivers down your spine. He rarely looks at you, even when you're doing it, he was just focus on getting himself done.

"Ain't your business." he hissed.

You did not respond and just left his room, his eyes opened wide in both surprise and suspicion when you came back with a basin of water and a clean cloth. Sitting down beside him, you slowly reached out to change the dressing of his wound.

“What’re you doin’? Money’s on the table. Take it and go,” he huffed but did not stop you.

Whatever you did felt far better than the hasty job he’d done earlier. He never had a reason to look at you this closely, yet here you were, sitting in front of him laser focused on treating his wound, showing him a kindness he wasn’t accustomed to—one that no one else had ever offered him. After dressing it properly, he gruffly pulled his shirt back on without looking at you again as you turned to leave.

In the nights that followed, you made it a habit to check on his wound, cleaning it in silence. He didn’t complain anymore, knowing you handled it better than he ever had. Not once did you hear him say thank you—Fitzgerald was far too proud for that. It caught you off guard when his wound was nearly healed, he ordered you to lie on the bed, spread your legs, and fold your knees.

You assumed it was just another routine night, but no—you had something else coming. He never kissed you on the lips; he would always start from your neck to your collarbones, sucking and nibbling on your breasts. It was his trail, but your breath hitched when he continued his peppered kisses down to your stomach, then gravitating it in between your legs, shutting your eyes when you feel his lips dance between your folds, his tongue flicking your clit. It felt so good, so good that you could not hold yourself back from moaning his name as he eagerly feasted on your cunt more until you arched your back when you felt an uneasy feeling building in your stomach. You did not know what it was, but his bearded face scratching your sensitive folds was not helping with what you're feeling either.

Oh god, you gritted your teeth when his tongue eagerly slid in, and a gush of sweet relief came out of you; he cleaned you out well. Breathing heavily, you see him emerge from beneath you; you felt sorry considering you were supposed to do that for him, but when you saw the look of satisfaction in his eyes when he made you cum for the first time, you realized it was his way of saying thank you.

Something shifted after that night. What had once been a one-sided act, purely for his satisfaction, began to stir something between the two of you. The ground rules were still heavily implied. However, the pleasure, no longer entirely his, started to feel mutual—he made sure you left his cabin appeased as well.

As you found yourself beginning to anticipate your nightly 'transactions' with him, your mother’s condition was deteriorating. The camp was no longer a place where she could recover—its limited resources and harsh environment offered little hope. She needed more care, a better place to heal, and staying here was no longer an option. So you asked him to meet you by the creek, a place where no one could hear you both during the daylight. Fitzgerald crouched by the creek, his knife scraping against the edge of a pelt his focus remained fixed on his task even as you approached, though his shoulders tensed just slightly. Both of you knew better than to seem familiar—not here, where watchful eyes could twist curiosity into rumors.

So you stood a short distance away.

“We’ve found a place,” you said, starring at the rippling water rather than at him. “A place where Mother can get the treatment she needs. Real treatment.”

“That right,” he said flatly, his voice carrying no indication of surprise. “Good for her. She needs it.”

You hesitated, unsure if the conversation was over or if he was waiting for you to say more. Hell, you were not even sure why you bothered telling him in the first place, but it felt like you owed him an explanation if you're going to stop visiting his cabin at night. “We’ll be gone in a week. Maybe less,” you added. “We’ve saved enough to start. It ain’t much, but it’s somethin’.”

This time, the knife stopped for real. He set the pelt aside slowly, the blade still in his hand as he rose to his feet. His eyes flicked to yours. “Somethin’,” he repeated, his tone skeptical. “How long you figure somethin’ll keep you goin’? A week? Two?” He gestured with the blade, emphasizing the fragile logic of your plan. “Treatment costs. Travel. Feedin’ all them mouths. You’re gamblin’ with money you ain’t got and outcomes you can’t guarantee.”

“I don’t have a choice. This is for my family, Fitzgerald. They need me.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head in frustration. Is he the only practical person in this camp?

“They need you to keep providin’,” he said. “That’s what’s kept ‘em alive this long. Money for food, clothes, whatever keeps ‘em warm at night. You leavin’ don’t fix nothin’, and sure as hell don’t make life easier for ‘em.”

“I can’t just sit here while she—”

“Are you God? You think you can heal ‘er?” he cut in, his words sharp as the edge of his blade. “You wanna help ‘em? Let 'em go. You stay. Do what you’re good at.”

His voice carried no malice, but there was no softness, either. He spoke like a man who had seen too much, someone who knew the world didn’t deal in kindness.

“And what exactly do you think I’m good at?” you asked quietly, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You didn’t come to him for advice, and yet you found yourself here, drawn to the one person who seemed immune to the illusions you tried to build for yourself. Fitzgerald let out a low, humorless chuckle, shaking his head as if the answer was so obvious it didn’t need saying.

“You already know." His eyes flicked back to the pelt in his lap, his hands finding their rhythm again. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with survivin’. If survivin’s what keeps them goin’, then that’s what you do. Feelin’ good about it don’t matter none.”

He turned back to the pelt, crouching again as though the conversation was done. But as he resumed his work, he continued. “I been around long enough to know,” he muttered, almost as if to himself, “It'll chew you up ‘fore you realize your mistake.”

You stood there as you struggled with what to say, if anything. You hated that part of you agreed with him, hated the way his logic seemed to pull the ground out from under you. But more than that, you hated that, deep down, he might be right.

“I’ll think about it,” you said before turning and walked away. He didn’t watch you go, but his hands stilled for a moment as his thoughts lingered. He told himself he was doing you a favor, sharing what the world had taught him to do. But as he returned to the steady scrape of the blade, the image of you walking away stuck in his mind longer than it should have.

Your family began preparing for the journey—sorting supplies, packing clothes, and gathering just enough food to get by. Your mother had started saying her goodbyes, her parting words spreading like ripples through the camp, and you knew it was only a matter of time before the news reached everyone. Fitzgerald included.

“In a week, maybe less.”

That night, when you showed up at his door, he barely looked at you. He didn’t have to—not when his hands already said everything his voice couldn’t. He slipped double the payment into your palm without a word. You understood. Twice the pay, twice the time. He would make you slip outside of his cabin before the sun rises as he counts down the days you have left with him.

The last night with John Fitzgerald.

Far from his usual roughness, he moved inside you slowly, as if prolonging the time he's able to hold you like this. You have been in service of him long enough to know how his emotions often translate in how he is in bed. Right now, he was gentle, taking his time, and each thrust was deliberately given that way. Lying underneath him, your eyes lifted to see his, breaking one of the unspoken rules you’d both clung to. His gaze met yours. Slowly, your hand reached up, brushing against the knot of the bandana tied around his head. His breath hitched, his shoulders stiffening, but he didn’t stop you.

“You don’t gotta do that,” he muttered in between his breath. But even as he spoke, his eyes stayed locked on yours and movement continues.

Ignoring his words, you untied the bandana, the fabric slipping loose between your fingers. It fell away, revealing his hair—messy, uneven, and entirely him. You two were naked, but what you did made him feel bare. For the first time, you let your touch linger, your fingers tracing the curve of the scar on his scalp, brushing his hair back from his face with deliberate care. He was beautiful.

So so beautiful.

"John..." you whispered.

Something about you calling his name, made his chest tighten. Overwhelming him in ways he couldn't understand.

“Don’t,” he said again, his voice faltering as feel himself melt in your touch. “Just... don’t.”

But you didn’t stop. You leaned in, your lips brushing against his in a kiss he returned with a gentleness you never knew he had. Slowly, his hand rose to prop up your face, his calloused fingers rough yet achingly careful as they rested against your skin, deepening the kiss. In that moment, the lines blurred—it wasn’t a transaction anymore, just the two of you. The kiss broke off when you felt him lunge inside you deeper as you moan his name. He didn't pull away, and his forehead rested against yours. His hand stayed on your cheek, his thumb moving in soft, absent patterns, as though memorizing the feel of you before the moment slipped away. You shifted closer, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck, giving him more access, making him grip unto your hips again. His eyes locked on yours as you moved together. You two stayed in this position until the both of you came, and he didn’t pull away. He stayed there, his breathing uneven, his hands still resting on your hips as though he couldn’t bring himself to let go. You noticed his lips parted, as if he wanted to say something, but the words never came.

“Do you need more time?” you asked softly, breaking the silence.

He nodded, the motion small and almost hesitant. “Yeah,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, I do.”

You stayed there the whole night, complying to his every request, whatever he wanted to do to you or with you, it was given without any hesitation. He was breaking every rules you had about your transaction, but neither of you cared. It did not matter tonight. Honestly, you were spent, but he wanted to keep going, tossing some more coins into the table as the time goes by, saying "don't go yet" at least twice during that night.

You gave in, all the time, not thinking about the money.

Everything would eventually come to an end, of course, as his expression darkened when he caught sight of the faint rays of sunlight hitting your bare shoulders. He let out a sharp breath, leaning back slightly but still keeping close. “Sun’s comin’ up,” he muttered, his voice thick with something you couldn’t quite place.

Anger? Sadness? Resignation?

You hesitated, your hand lifting to brush lightly against his hair, still messy from the long night. “I should go...” you began, but his hand moved to catch yours, holding it tightly, as if the moment you let go, everything would break.

“You ain’t gotta go. Least... think ‘bout what I said,” He said, but you did not respond, not with words.

You leaned in, pressing a brief, tender lingering kiss to his lips. Then, without a word, you pulled away, rising from the bed as the first light of morning crept through the cracks. You began to dress, his gaze following you in silence as you fastened the last button on your shirt and slipped your shoes back on. Fitzgerald stayed where he was, seated on the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, watching you without a word. His hand moved to the sheets, his grip tightening and loosening, like he was fighting to keep himself still.