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itsallgoodmann · 9 months ago

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I'm going to act like I did not sob throughout the entirety of writing this story holy shit.

"Charles Knew that Love Existed Because Arthur was Love"

Desc: Arthur tells Charles about his condition and they both slowly realize they care a lot more about each other than they originally thought. Apparently loss can really strengthen emotions, especially unresolved ones.

(Heavily implied Charthur, comfort, angst, death, grief, mutual confession of love...You get the idea. Inspired by the fanart above (not mine obvs!))

"Hey Charles," Arthur sat down on the crate next to Charles, overlooking the main campfire. Charles gently rubbed gun oil on his sawed-off shotgun, thinking quietly to himself, like he always did.

"Arthur." Charles nodded at Arthur, glancing at him quickly before looking back at his gun. Arthur put his hands in his lap, clasped together tightly. He closed his eyes briefly, trying his best to gather his thoughts. He had known Charles for less than a year, but somehow Arthur felt more connected to him than Dutch.

Arthur didn't want to tell him. In fact, Arthur couldn't think of a thing he wanted to do less than tell Charles the truth...

Because he was dying. Famous gunslinger Arthur Morgan, taken by a goddamn lung disease. How ironic. Charles deserved to know, he had been so kind to Arthur. Arthur remembered the weeks after the O'Driscolls had kidnapped and shot him, and who stayed by his wagon the longest.

Not Dutch, not John, not even Hosea.

Charles.

"You shouldn't get up," Charles said bluntly, staring into Arthur's blue eyes, glazed over in a Morphine-filled daze. Arthur shook his head like he did every time someone told him not to do something. It didn't stop him from hoisting himself up so his head rested on the back of the wagon. Charles just shook his head, a small smile on his face.

"Swanson's Morphine is certainly doing its job," Charles muttered, mostly to himself, Arthur scoffed in return.

"Why you here anyways?" Arthur took a deep breath and tried not to wince at the stitches from the gunshot wound in his abdomen. Charles chuckled, a lighthearted noise that made Arthur smile...Even if it was mostly because of the Morphine.

"Just, watching... Got nothing better to do." Charles shrugged his shoulders and continued sharpening his knife next to Arthur's wagon.

"I think in the time you've been with us-" Arthur took a moment to think about what he was going to say, his words slightly slurred from the drugs.

"I've never heard you speak more than two sentences to anyone." Arthur shook his head, smiling. Charles rolled his eyes.

"I just don't have much to say, I guess." Charles shook his head, but couldn't help the smile that graced his face.

"Charles...Smith... The lone wolf... A man of few words." Arthur put his hands up and made a gesture like he was reading a newspaper headline.

"If I knew you were going to act like an idiot I wouldn't have given you the Morphine." Charles shot back, but he didn't take any offense. How could someone take offense to the ramblings of a Morphine drunk Arthur? Arthur acted like he had been shot (very fitting), giving Charles an exasperated look.

"The lone wolf does speak!" He said dramatically, drawling out the 'does' to annoy Charles even more.

"You should sleep Arthur," Charles finally said, putting away the knife and other sharpening materials.

"Y'know..." Arthur yawned, the euphoric sensation of the Morphine and the drowsiness that healing cost was really getting to him.

"I'm quite fond of you, Mr.Serious." Arthur slurred, moving his head down to the pillow and looking up. Charles studied Arthur's expression, trying to read his true emotions. Arthur's eyebrows were relaxed, his lips upturned in a lazy smile. He could see the crow's feet that appeared next to his eyes, and the scar that was on the bottom of his chin. Charles meant to ask about it, but never did.

"You've always been the hardest worker in camp," Arthur yawned again, and Charles shushed him.

"Go to sleep Arthur, for god's sake."

"Somethin' on your mind?" Charles' deep voice brought Arthur out of his thoughts, and Arthur nodded. Charles looked at him, narrowing his eyes a little bit. Charles must have had an inkling of what Arthur wanted to speak about. He was quiet, but he wasn't stupid. At this point, no one could deny Arthur looked sick...Real sick. His collarbones were sticking out from his pale splotchy skin, his clothes were now bagged around him. His eyes were bloodshot, and when he ate there was a large coughing fit that followed.

The cough. It made Charles' ears ring, the violent shake of his chest, the crackled wheezes that followed. Charles saw the bloodstains on the inside of Arthur's sleeve.

"You wanna ride with me?" Arthur blurted out, Charles took a second but nodded.

"Always." He said curtly. Charles walked with Arthur over to his horse, before he mounted Taima. Arthur led the way to the outskirts of Annesburg, before riding aimlessly towards the mountains surrounding the Wapiti Indian Reservation.

"Yer a smart man Charles," Arthur started, taking in short breaths, thinking hard about how to word things. This did nothing but make Charles nervous.

"Arthur," Charles said in almost a warning, like he was afraid Arthur was going to beat around the bush and never get to the point. Charles didn't like it when people weren't straightforward. However, Arthur was the only exception to this rule. The only noises that accompanied them through the ride were the clopping of hooves on rock, and the rushing of water from the nearby Dakota River.

"If things go bad, you get yourself out of there, alright?" Arthur coughed but tried to stifle it, which only made it worse.

Charles wanted to get off his horse and punch Arthur in the face. Not because he was angry at Arthur...

But because he was scared. Charles Smith, the fearless lone wolf. It wasn't like Charles hadn't experienced loss before, hell, in the last few months it was constant... Davey, Sean, Kieran, Hosea, Lenny, Molly... Charles was sad, of course, but life went on. The sun still shone the next day, the coffee was still brewed like normal, and the songbirds still chirped their melodies.

"You got... More to lose." Arthur said, his voice softer, more vulnerable. Charles shook his head, immediately shooting back,

"No. Come on. Don't start talking like that." It was obvious though, even when Arthur explained it.

"I didn't tell you before," Arthur took in a wheezing breath.

"I saw a doctor."

Charles wanted to jump into the Dakota River and feel his entire body go numb from the cold. He wanted to push his hands to his ears and hum until he couldn't hear Arthur's words anymore because they cut like a knife. They made him bleed like no one had ever done before. Instead, Charles gripped the reins of Taima tighter, slowing down to a gentle trot.

"It's pretty bad, and it's gonna get worse."

Charles shook his head, but luckily Arthur didn't notice. He bit his lip and tried to make sense of it all.

"Take a left down this trail," Charles said softly, pointing to the slightly worn trail into the thick woods of the Cumberland forest. Charles led Arthur to a clearing, where a thick, lush layer of grass grew, and flowers erupted from the space.

"I don't remember much of my childhood," Charles said, dismounting his horse and motioning for Arthur to do the same. Arthur followed Charles into the clearing and they both sat down on a fallen log, covered in bright green moss.

"My mama though, she taught me all about the herbs..." Charles smiled gently, then motioned to the flowers. Arthur looked at him, confused.

"These are flowers..." Arthur corrected, Charles just shook his head and chuckled.

"She taught me about the flowers too, if you'd let me finish." Charles pointed to the flower with stems that held a few dozen tiny bundles of red flowers, with a bright yellow center.

"Blood flower," Charles said, Arthur nodded, listening intently. Charles then pointed at the other flower that covered the clearing, a stem that held a single, cupped, red flower.

"Field Poppy," Charles informed, Arthur could have probably guessed that, but just hearing Charles talk was enough. There were a few minutes of comfortable silence, the horses quietly grazing near them.

"Did the doctor say how long?" Charles was careful with his words, but he wanted...No, needed to know.

"A couple weeks, a couple months..." Arthur drawled, coughing again. This time the fit was so bad Arthur wheezed for breath afterward. Charles rubbed Arthur's back, hoping the contact would soothe something, even if it was just his soul.

"You're a good man, Arthur Morgan." Charles forced through gritted teeth, afraid if he said more he would have to wipe tears off his face. Arthur chuckled.

"I ain't a good man,"

Charles frowned, if only Arthur could see himself through Charles' gaze. The way he glowed, Arthur's soft smile and kind words. He acted tough, but he loved. Charles closed his eyes and took a deep breath, promising himself he wasn't going to break down.

"I'm only going to say this once, Arthur," Charles warned.

"You're one of the best men I know." Charles smiled bittersweetly like it should be obvious to Arthur.

"You're kind, hard-working, loyal, and smart." Charles removed his hand from Arthur's back, before resting it on his shoulder.

"Hell, you've probably saved my life countless times." Charles sighed, then made eye contact with Arthur. What a horrible choice. Icy blue eyes, bloodshot and tearstained, inflamed with the pain of the human condition. Charles stared back at Arthur with warm brown eyes, trying to keep his equanimity. He was normally very good at it, a skill he prided himself on, but this was different. At that moment, in the clearing, Charles realized something.

He was soft for Arthur Morgan. He wanted to see Arthur happy, he wanted to see him thrive. It took everything in Charles not to scream about how he loved Arthur Morgan... And, more importantly, how much he loved the way Arthur loved. Freely and fully. Arthur rarely shared by the campfire, but when he did it was always a story about saving a man who got bitten by a snake, or a woman who was stranded because her horse died.

"Yer' a good man Charles, one of the best." Arthur choked out, now trying to keep his own composure. Charles just smiled, it was all he could do. But Charles broke when Arthur made eye contact with him again, his face wet with the streams of hot tears that poured down his cheeks. It was instinct as he opened his arms for Arthur, hugging him tightly. In a useless wish, Charles thought about how he regretted not doing this earlier. Arthur clung to Charles and Charles clung just as much back. Arthur wrapped his arms around Charles, burying his head into Charles' chest. In a swift movement, Charles gently brought his hand up to the back of Arthur's head, his other arm wrapped securely around him. They both sat there for a good while, breathing in the scent of each other and trying to memorize the way their bodies fit so perfectly together.

"Shouldn't leave things unsaid, should I?" Arthur finally said, breaking the silence. Charles nodded, still holding Arthur close to his chest.

"Then I think I love you, Charles." Charles wasn't going to debate what exactly Arthur meant by this. Charles didn't care. He loved him back.

"I think I love you too, Arthur," Charles murmured, now gently carding his fingers through Arthur's hair.

"I always imagined you were a Bison," Arthur muttered softly, Charles nodded.

"Dutch told me I was like a buck... Unlikely friends." Arthur chuckled, but it ended in a painful cough that Charles tried his best to soothe.

"You think we'll meet in another life?" Arthur looked up at the sky, it was now dusk, and the stars were beginning to appear. Charles nodded,

"I hope so." Arthur smiled at the response, a real nice smile.

"Then I'll look forward to meeting you all over again." Arthur was always the best at bringing out even the most buried emotions. Charles froze, trying not to lose it. He didn't want Arthur to go. He can't let go. He was never able to let go, everything he ever lost is covered in claw marks from when he tried to make it stay. Charles choked back a sob, gently lifting Arthur's head to place a tender kiss on his forehead. Arthur's blue eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, every decision Arthur ever made had spun through his mind, all leading up to this one single exchange. Perhaps death wasn't going to be that bad. Charles brought both of his hands and cupped Arthur's jaw, looking at him, trying to memorize the face.

Charles knew that love existed because Arthur was love.

That's why, when Charles carried the limp, cold, body of Arthur Morgan down that mountain, one arm around his torso, the other around his leg, he made sure to stop by that clearing. He uprooted those flowers and planted them on his grave. It was the least he could do.

"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for Righteousness."

A/N- Woah! First fanfic on this account! Last time I regularly wrote fanfiction was when I was sixteen (I am in my twenties now). Couldn't get Charthur out of my head so I created this (it got very out of hand very fast). Unfortunately, I do not apologize for the amount of heartbreak this may cause you.

If you would like to leave a request, go for it! I am a full time college student, and I do work two jobs, so there's no telling if I'll ever get to it, but if it's a good enough request I'm sure I'll make time. It's weird to be so familiar yet unfamiliar with creating a fanfic post, but alas, I'll stop yapping. Hope you enjoyed the fic!

Fanart used can be found here, credit to conconarts!

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allthemeniveloved · 4 months ago

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Devil

Summary: After she fails to rob him, John Marston finally meets his match.

wc: 5.3k

ao3 link

Warnings: 18+, mdni, low honor John Marston x mean female stubborn pickpocket oc, cocky bastard JM, horrendous pickup lines, dubious consent, oral (m receiving), slight exhibitionism, no abigail or jack

a/n: Trying out third person POV! I had a lot of fun writing this one! <3

The saloon in Rhodes was bustling, its warm lamplight casting long, dancing shadows across the scuffed wooden floors. A haze of cigar smoke hung thick in the air, mingling with the steady hum of conversation, bursts of laughter, and the occasional crash of a glass. In the back corner of the room, the scrape of chairs and the slap of playing cards punctuated the scene.

John Marston leaned back in his chair, a cocky grin stretching across his face as he lazily swirled a tumbler of whiskey in one hand. His other hand rested on his knee, tapping in time with the saloon’s off-key piano. Across from him, Arthur studied his cards with a nonchalant frown, a half-empty beer beside him. To Arthur’s right, Charles calmly lit a cigar, the smoke curling lazily around his head. Sean MacGuire, perched at the far end of the table, was currently ignoring his own hand in favor of loudly heckling a drunk who had collapsed in the corner.

“Come on, ya sack o’ shite!” Sean hollered, slapping the table. “Get up an’ show us yer dancin’ moves again! I’m tellin’ ya, boys, the man’s got the grace of a drunk mule.”

Arthur snorted. “Least he’s got some moves, which is more than I can say for you.”

“Oi, I’ve got moves,” Sean protested, slapping his chest. “Just ask the ladies.”

“The ladies?” John drawled, eyebrows arching in mock surprise. “You sure you didn’t mean the goats?”

The table burst into laughter, Sean glaring daggers at John. “Oh, you can shut yer trap, Marston. I’ll have you know, the ladies love me.”

“Yeah, when you keep your mouth shut,” Arthur added, smirking as he threw a couple of coins into the pot. “Raise.”

Sean leaned forward, grinning wickedly. “Oh, you’re just jealous I’ve got more charm in me pinkie finger than you’ve got in that whole sorry body o’ yours.”

“Sean,” Charles said evenly, his tone deadpan, “you’ve got the charm of a rattlesnake on a bad day.”

“’Tis slander, I tell ya!” Sean thumped the table, earning a warning glance from the bartender. “Pure jealousy, all of ya. But enough of yer yammerin’. I’m in too.” He tossed in his coins with a flourish. “Let’s see what ya got, Morgan.”

Arthur rolled his eyes but played along, laying his cards on the table. “Three of a kind.”

Sean groaned, slumping back in his chair. “Of course! What about you, Charles?”

Charles calmly placed his cards down—two pair. Sean perked up. “Ha! Finally, some justice. What about you, Marston?”

John grinned like the cat that got the cream. “Read ‘em and weep, boys.” He flipped over his hand—straight flush.

“Damn it!” Arthur muttered, tossing his cards down in disgust. “You’ve been smug all night. You’re cheatin’, aren’t ya?”

“Cheatin’?” John said with an exaggerated gasp, his grin only widening. “Arthur, I’m hurt. You think I’d cheat my closest friends out of their hard-earned cash?”

“Yes,” Arthur, Sean, and Charles said in unison.

John chuckled, leaning back in his chair and stretching. “Well, you can think what you want, but I’m just lucky tonight, is all.”

“Lucky, my arse,” Sean muttered. “I swear, you’ve got horseshoes shoved up where the sun don’t shine.”

“Maybe,” John replied with a wink, pocketing the pot.

“What’re you so happy about, Marston?” Arthur drawled, shaking his head as he reached for his beer.

John shrugged, swirling his whiskey lazily. “Just enjoyin’ myself. Ain’t a crime, is it?”

“Not yet,” Arthur muttered, though the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

As the group’s banter continued, no one noticed the elegant figure slinking through the crowd. She moved like a shadow, her dark hair pulled back beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Her gown, though simple, was impeccably tailored, hugging her figure in all the right places. But it wasn’t her appearance that drew attention—oh no. It was her sharp eyes, like polished obsidian, scanning the room for an opportunity.

And she found it.

The loud-mouthed cowboy in the corner, leaning back in his chair like he owned the place, was an easy mark. The flash of his belt buckle and the bulge in his coat pocket told her he had more than enough to spare. He was clearly drunk—arrogance practically radiated off him in waves.

Perfect.

She made her way across the room, her steps light and deliberate. As she passed behind his chair, her fingers worked deftly, slipping into his coat pocket with practiced ease. She almost had it—a roll of cash tucked neatly inside. But just as she began to pull away, a rough hand shot out, grabbing her wrist.

“Well, well,” drawled a voice, tinged with amusement. “What have we got here?”

She froze, but only for a moment. When she turned to face him, her expression was calm, her lips curling into a sardonic smile. His hazel eyes met hers, glinting with mischief.

“Let go of me,” she said, her voice smooth as honey but sharp as a blade.

John didn’t budge. Instead, he leaned closer, the scent of whiskey and leather rolling off him in waves. “You’re quick, I’ll give you that. But not quick enough.”

Arthur glanced up from his beer, raising an eyebrow. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Lady here was tryin’ to relieve me of my hard-earned money,” John said, holding her wrist aloft for emphasis. He didn’t sound angry—if anything, he sounded impressed.

She rolled her eyes. “Hard-earned? From the looks of you, I doubt you’ve done an honest day’s work in your life.”

That earned a laugh from Sean, who slammed his hand on the table. “Oh, I like her!”

John smirked, releasing her wrist but not taking his eyes off her. “Feisty, huh? I like that. But if you wanted some cash, sweetheart, all you had to do was ask.”

She scoffed, brushing off his remark. “Spare me the charm, cowboy. I’ve heard better lines from drunks passed out in the gutter.”

That only seemed to amuse him more. He leaned back in his chair again, watching her with an almost predatory grin. “You’ve got some nerve, I’ll give you that.”

She straightened her hat, giving him a withering look. “And you’ve got more money than sense. Lucky for you, I’m in a good mood tonight.”

“Oh, you’re doin’ me a favor, are you?” John’s grin widened. “Well, ain’t that kind of you.”

She ignored him, turning on her heel to leave, but his voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Wait a second, darlin’. Least let me buy you a drink. Call it a peace offering.”

She turned back, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not interested.”

“Not interested in free whiskey?” John feigned a wounded expression, placing a hand over his heart. “Now that’s just cruel.”

She crossed her arms, her gaze unwavering. “I’m not interested in you, cowboy. Keep your drink—and your money.”

The table erupted in laughter, with Sean nearly falling out of his chair. Even Arthur chuckled, shaking his head.

But John wasn’t deterred. If anything, her sharp tongue only seemed to spur him on. “You’re a tough one, ain’t ya? I like a challenge.”

“Good luck, then,” she said coolly, before disappearing into the crowd.

But John Marston wasn’t one to give up so easily.

John watched her as she disappeared into the throng of saloon-goers, her hat tilted just enough to conceal the sharp glint in her eyes. She walked with a confidence that caught his attention, her hips swaying in a rhythm that seemed deliberate, a silent declaration of triumph despite the failed pickpocketing attempt.

Arthur’s voice broke his focus. “Let it go, John. She’s not interested.”

“Since when do I take advice from you about women?” John shot back, smirking as he tossed back the rest of his drink. “She’s just playin’ hard to get.”

“Hard to get?” Sean barked a laugh, wiping tears from his eyes from the lingering hilarity. “She damn near gutted you with that tongue of hers, and you’re callin’ it playin’?”

“She’s a challenge,” John said, his grin widening. “And I like challenges.”

“Challenges like tryin’ to stay upright after your fifth whiskey?” Arthur muttered, tipping his bottle in John’s direction.

Charles chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re gonna regret this, John.”

“Regret?” John leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms. “I don’t regret nothin’. I’ve got charm. She’ll come around.”

“You’ve got something, all right,” Arthur muttered. “A death wish, maybe.”

John ignored him, standing up and dusting off his coat. He grabbed his hat and planted it firmly on his head, the cocky gleam in his hazel eyes unwavering. “Y’all enjoy your game. I’ve got some business to attend to.”

“Yeah, sure. Go on,” Sean said, waving him off. “But don’t come cryin’ to us when she slaps that smug grin off your face.”

“She won’t slap me,” John said confidently. “She might kiss me, though.”

“Get outta here,” Arthur grunted, waving him off as John sauntered toward the bar.

The crowd parted slightly as John moved through, his eyes scanning the room for her. It didn’t take long. She was leaning casually against the bar, her elbow resting on the wooden surface as she nursed a glass of something dark. Her expression was cool, disinterested, but her sharp gaze flickered across the room, cataloging every detail like a predator stalking prey. She had clearly noticed him before he even reached her, though she didn’t turn to acknowledge him.

“Fancy meetin’ you here,” John said, sliding up beside her with a grin that could rival the devil’s own.

She didn’t even glance his way. “The saloon isn’t exactly exclusive, cowboy.”

He chuckled, tipping his hat back slightly as he leaned an elbow on the bar. “Well, I figured you’d be long gone after your little… failed venture.”

Her lips quirked, but it wasn’t a smile. “You’re awfully smug for someone who almost got robbed.”

“Almost,” he repeated, emphasizing the word. “Key word there, sweetheart. You didn’t get away with it.”

She finally turned her head, her dark eyes meeting his with a cool defiance. “You sound proud, but let me guess—you’d have handed over that money if I batted my lashes at you.”

“Depends on how convincing you were,” John admitted, his grin never faltering. “But I’m more interested in you now than I was before.”

“Oh, lucky me.” Her tone dripped with sarcasm. She took a slow sip from her glass, her gaze flickering over him before returning to her drink.

John leaned closer, undeterred. “What’s your name?”

“Not interested,” she said simply, her focus still on the bar.

“Funny name,” He quipped, earning himself the faintest flicker of a smile, though it disappeared as quickly as it came.

John leaned against the bar, his grin unwavering. “Name’s John, in case you were curious.”

“Are you always this annoying, John?” she asked, finally turning to face him fully.

Her retort earned a bark of laughter from John. “You’ve got a real gift, you know that? Not everyone can insult a man so pretty.”

She glanced at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Why don’t you find someone else to waste your time on?”

John’s laughter lingered as he leaned a little closer, his elbows resting casually on the bar. “Tell me somethin’, sweetheart,” he drawled, his tone teasing but not unkind. “You always this tough, or am I just lucky tonight?”

She didn’t look at him, but the corner of her mouth twitched—so quickly it might’ve been imagined.

“You mistake stubbornness for luck, cowboy.”

“Oh, it’s luck all right,” he said, tapping the bar with his knuckles again. “No way I’m this lucky twice in one week.”

Her lips pressed into a line, the faintest suggestion of amusement flickering in her dark eyes before she schooled her expression. “You’re too full of yourself.”

“Maybe,” he conceded with a lazy shrug. “But you’re smilin’. Almost.”

Her head turned sharply, her gaze cutting to his. “I am not.”

That earned a crooked grin from John, his hazel eyes sparkling with mischief. “Ain’t no shame in it, darlin’. I’m a funny guy. People tend to like me eventually.”

Her composure faltered just slightly, the faintest huff escaping her lips before she caught herself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously persistent,” he shot back, the grin widening. “But hey, you’re still talkin’ to me, so I must be doin’ somethin’ right.”

She rolled her eyes, finally lifting her drink and taking a slow sip, if only to avoid answering. But John caught it—a split-second softening, a crack in the armor that had him feeling a little too proud of himself.

“See that?” he said, leaning closer again. “You can’t get rid of me. You don’t hate me as much as you want to, do ya?”

Her glass clinked softly against the bar as she set it down with deliberate care. When she turned to him, her eyes had narrowed, her smirk sharp and cutting. “If you’re waiting for me to admit anything, don’t hold your breath. In fact…” She leaned closer now, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. “You might wanna think real hard about how far you push this before I embarrass you in front of the whole saloon.”

John raised his hands in mock surrender, though the grin never left his face. “Careful now, angel. You’re startin’ to sound like you care about my feelings.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she snapped, though her tone lacked the venom it carried earlier.

“Oh, I don’t need to,” he replied smoothly. “You’re doin’ it for me.”

Her jaw tightened, her nails tapping a sharp rhythm against the wood of the bar. “I’m about five seconds away from throwing this drink in your face.”

John tilted his head, his grin somehow growing even more infuriating. “Go on then. Might cool me off, ‘cause darlin’, you’re hotter than the Lemoyne sun.”

That did it. She huffed sharply, the sound almost a laugh before she quickly bit it back. Her lips pressed together, but the slight color in her cheeks betrayed her.

John’s eyes widened slightly in mock surprise, and he pointed at her triumphantly. “There it is! You’re blushin’! I knew it!”

“I am not!” she snapped, turning her head sharply away.

“You are too,” he teased, laughing now, unbothered by the heat of her glare when she whipped her head back to him. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. It’s cute.”

Her lips parted to retort, but she found herself momentarily speechless. She wasn’t sure if it was his persistence, his nerve, his utterly stupid pick up lines, or the fact that her cheeks really were starting to feel warm. Whatever it was, he’d found a crack, and she hated that he knew it.

Her gaze lingered on him for a beat too long, and she hated herself for the way her pulse quickened. The worst part was, he could probably see it. But she wasn’t going to let him have the last word. Not yet. With a sharp tilt of her chin, she picked up her drink and downed the rest in one go, slamming the glass down before fixing him with an icy stare. “Keep pushing, cowboy. I promise you’ll regret it.”

John only laughed, tipping his hat to her as she stormed off toward the other end of the saloon. But she didn’t miss the way his eyes stayed on her as she walked away.

And damn it all, she hated that she didn’t hate it.

John lingered by the bar for a moment, watching her retreat with a slow shake of his head. She moved with purpose, shoulders stiff and head held high, but the faintest hesitation in her stride told him she knew he was watching. He chuckled under his breath, downed the last of his drink, and turned toward the exit.

“Don’t do it, John,” Arthur called from the poker table, barely glancing up from his hand.

“Let her go, Marston!” Sean chimed in, leaning back in his chair with an exaggerated laugh. “She’s gonna skin you alive.”

“You’ll be lucky to keep your dignity intact,” Charles added evenly, though there was the faintest trace of a smile on his face.

John waved them off with a lazy flick of his hand. “Y’all just keep losin’ your money over there. I’ll be fine.”

He pushed through the saloon doors, the humid night air hitting him like a blanket after the haze of whiskey and cigar smoke inside. The faint clinking of harnesses and the soft murmur of crickets filled the quiet. He didn’t have to look far—she was out back, untying her horse with quick, efficient movements, her head slightly tilted as though she were listening for footsteps.

“Leavin’ so soon?” he drawled, the sound of his boots on the dirt cutting through the stillness.

She froze for half a heartbeat before continuing to untie the reins. “You’re a persistent bastard. I’ll give you that.”

“Gotta be, sweetheart,” he said, walking closer but keeping a casual distance. “Someone like you doesn’t make it easy.”

“Good,” she shot back, her voice steady but lacking the same bite as earlier. “I’d hate to be accused of goin’ soft.”

He grinned, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to laugh. “Don’t worry, darlin’. ‘Soft’ ain’t the word anyone’d use for you.”

She finished untying her horse and turned to face him, her dark eyes sharp but unreadable in the low light. “You’ve had your fun. Go back to your poker game.”

He took a step closer, his grin softening into something warmer. “Maybe I’m havin’ more fun out here.”

She opened her mouth to fire back, but no words came. For the first time that night, she seemed caught off guard. Her eyes flicked to his face, narrowing slightly as if searching for some crack in his playful facade. But there wasn’t one. He was just… watching her, his hazel eyes steady and open, his grin more genuine than teasing now.

“Well,” she finally managed, her voice quieter than before. “Good for you.”

He was closer now, and his expression was different—less cocky, more… sincere. The shift threw her off balance, and for once she had no witty retort.

John noticed. Oh, he noticed. The faint hesitation in her eyes, the way her lips parted like she was searching for something to say. His grin returned, slow and lazy, and he leaned just a little closer, lowering his voice. “You all outta insults, sweetheart?”

She stiffened, her jaw working as if she were trying to summon some kind of biting reply, but nothing came. Her silence only seemed to embolden him.

“Thought so,” he murmured, his tone rich with amusement. “I gotta say, I kinda like you like this. Quiet suits you.”

That did it. She snapped her head toward him, her glare sharp enough to cut. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Too late,” he said with a wink. “I’m already pushin’ it.”

John’s grin softened, but he didn’t step back. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step forward, closing the space between them inch by inch. She stiffened immediately, her fingers tightening around the reins of her horse.

“You’re awfully close, cowboy,” she said, her voice steady but edged with warning.

He stopped just short of touching her, his hazel eyes locked onto hers. “Close enough to make you nervous?” he asked, his tone teasing, though there was a new, hushed quality to his voice that made the air between them feel heavier.

Her lips parted, ready to bite back with some sharp retort, but his scent reached her before she could. Tobacco, whiskey, and leather—all laced with the faint, earthy musk of sweat from the long day. She hated how intoxicating it was, how it seemed to settle low in her chest and linger there. She straightened her shoulders, forcing herself to meet his gaze with a defiance she didn’t fully feel.

Before she could respond, he leaned in closer, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek. Her heart stuttered against her will, a traitorous little skip that she prayed he couldn’t hear. The tip of his nose nearly grazed her temple as his lips hovered by her ear.

“Oh Angel,” he murmured, his voice a velvet rasp, “I see the way you’re starin’ at me.”

The words rolled over her, slow and deliberate, sending a shiver down her spine that she couldn’t suppress. Goosebumps rose along her arms, a betrayal she hoped the dim light concealed, but she knew he noticed. He didn’t pull back, didn’t gloat—just stayed close enough that the space between them felt unbearably small.

She inhaled sharply, a protest forming on her tongue, but it never made it out. Her body betrayed her again, leaning the faintest bit toward him, caught between wanting to push him away and pulling him closer. Her silence only seemed to spur him on, his lips curving into the faintest smile.

“That’s what I thought,” he whispered, the words brushing against her skin like a touch.

“John,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper, thick with warning and something dangerously close to surrender.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice soft but steady, like he was willing to wait forever for whatever she wanted to say.

“Shut up,” she said, but the words were breathless, lacking the bite she wanted them to have.

He grinned, a quiet, self-assured thing that stole the last bit of air from her lungs. And then he closed the distance.

His lips met hers in a kiss that was nothing like the teasing banter they’d exchanged all night. It was raw, desperate, and consuming, his hand coming up to cradle the side of her face as if anchoring himself to her. She froze for half a heartbeat, every nerve in her body alight with shock and something she couldn’t name. And then she kissed him back.

The reins slipped from her fingers as her hands found the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. He pulled her closer, his other hand settling on her waist as the kiss deepened, a slow, heady tangle of lips and breath that made the world tilt. She hated how much she needed it, hated the way her body melted into his, as if she’d been waiting for this all along.

When they finally broke apart, her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, her forehead resting against his. His eyes were half-lidded, his grin softer now but still insufferable.

“Well,” he said, his voice rough and quiet, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Her glare returned, though it lacked its usual fire. “You’re such a bastard.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, brushing his thumb lightly along her jaw, “but you’re still kissin’ me.”

She shoved him back, though not with as much force as she could’ve. “Don’t get used to it.”

Her lips still tingled from the kiss, the burn of him leaving her aching for something she refused to name. She hated the way her body betrayed her, leaning in before her brain could stop her. And she hated even more that he noticed.

“Oh, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower as his hands found her waist, drawing her back in. “You ain’t foolin’ either of us.”

Her resolve crumbled when his lips brushed hers again, softer this time, coaxing rather than demanding. It was slower, deeper, and she leaned into it with a desperation she could no longer fight. Her hands slid upward, curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, as though she needed him more than air. Her mind raced, grasping for excuses, and the warm haze of the whiskey she’d downed earlier felt like the easiest culprit. It’s just the alcohol, she told herself, trying to ignore the way her hands still clung to him like she didn’t want to let go.

His grip on her waist tightened, his thumbs pressing into the curve of her hips like he was anchoring himself to her. The kiss grew more urgent, a clash of heat and want that left her dizzy, her knees threatening to buckle under the weight of it.

The rough wood of the saloon's exterior pressed against her back as John pushed her against the wall, the impact forcing a soft gasp from her lips. John swallowed the sound, his mouth hot and insistent against hers as he pressed closer, one hand braced against the wall beside her head. The other slid down her side, fingers splaying wide across her hip, his touch searing even through the fabric of her dress. His lips never left hers, the kiss deepening as one of his hands tangled in her hair, knocking her hat askew.

She knew she should push him away, should maintain some semblance of the cool detachment she'd clung to all night. But her body had other ideas. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as a soft, involuntary moan escaped her lips.

John broke the kiss, his breath coming in ragged pants as he rested his forehead against hers. "God damn, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. "You're somethin' else."

"This doesn't mean anything," she breathed, even as her body arched into his touch.

John's lips curved into that infuriating smirk. "Sure it don't," he drawled, his thumb brushing her lower lip. "You always kiss strangers like that when it don't mean nothin'?"

She couldn't speak, her breath coming in short gasps as she tried to regain her composure. But John wasn't done. His lips trailed along her jaw, then down her neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. She tilted her head back, giving him better access, her fingers threading through his hair.

"John," she breathed, barely recognizing her own voice, husky and thick with need.

He hummed against her skin, the vibration sending shivers down her spine. "Say it again," he murmured, his teeth grazing her pulse.

"John," she repeated, louder this time, almost desperate.

He continued his assault on her collarbone as he breathily moaned out, "Tell me to stop," he said, his voice low and rough. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll walk away right now."

She met his gaze, her dark eyes blazing with a mix of defiance and desire. "Don't you dare stop," she growled, her voice low and husky.

John's grin widened as he expertly unbuckled his gun belt, the leather sliding free with a soft hiss. His belt buckle followed suit, the metal clinking as it came undone. She watched, transfixed, as he let both fall to the ground with a dull thud.

Before he could say another word, she dropped to her knees in front of him, her fingers already working at the buttons of his trousers. John inhaled sharply, his hand coming to rest on the back of her head.

"Well now," he drawled, his voice rough with desire, "ain't this just a sight?”

She silenced John's remark by swiftly freeing his aching and swollen cock from his jeans and taking his length into her mouth. John gasped, his fingers tightening in her hair as she worked him with practiced skill. His cocky demeanor melted away, replaced by soft groans of pleasure. She glanced up, meeting his heated gaze, and felt a thrill of satisfaction at reducing this arrogant cowboy to a quivering mess. John's legs trembled as she took him deeper, his bravado completely forgotten as he surrendered to her ministrations. Though she'd never admit it, she reveled in the power she held over him in this moment, turning the tables on his relentless pursuit.

John couldn’t help but to throw his head back at the feeling of her warm wet mouth hugging his cock. It was a rare kind of victory, sweeter than any pot won at a poker table or any bank robbery gone right. She was sharp and untouchable, fire and steel, and yet here she was—on her knees in front of him with her mouth stuffed full of his cock, gagging on it every time it reached the back of her throat.

And the best part? They both thought that they'd won.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this, darlin’, when you’re not running your goddamn mouth.” He spat out as he began thrusting his hips furiously, but she couldn’t deny his harsh words sent an ache straight to her pussy as she squeezed her thighs together in a horrid attempt to subdue the pressure. She wasn’t the kind of woman who was often put in her place, and only now was she realizing how desperately she craved it.

She doubled her efforts upon hearing his fucked up praise, moving to cup his balls with her hand as she flattened her tongue against his shaft, feeling his member twitch under her tongue. Between her lewd gags and John’s desperate moans and pleas, anyone within 10 feet of the saloon no-doubtedly heard exactly what was going on, and it only drove him that much more insane.

With one last harsh thrust, John’s orgasm ripped through him as he held her head tightly in place, painting her throat with copious amounts of his warm, salty seed. She held intense eye contact with John through his entire climax, her expert tongue swirling around his tip, swallowing every last drop and forcing him to the point of overstimulation.

John let out a string of curses before yanking her off of him by her hair, a string of saliva trailing from her mouth to his cock as John hauled her to her feet. He held her head in his hands, his calloused thumb brushing the drool from the side of her mouth, never breaking their intense gaze.

“Didn’t think I’d crack you, did ya?” he teased, his voice low and edged with playful arrogance, his grin practically daring her to prove him wrong.

She huffed, her hands loosening their grip on his shirt only to shove lightly at his chest again, though there was no force behind it. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here we are,” he shot back as he tucked himself back in his trousers before sliding his hand to her hip, his thumb grazing the fabric there in a way that sent a shiver up her spine.

The sound of the saloon doors swinging open cut through the tension, followed by the heavy tread of boots and a familiar burst of laughter.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Sean’s voice rang out, loud and incredulous. “You’ve got to be shittin’ me, Marston!”

Arthur followed close behind, shaking his head with a wry smirk as his gaze landed on John, still standing far too close to her, their flushed faces and tousled appearances telling the whole story.

“You actually pulled it off? Thought for sure she’d have knocked you on your ass by now.”

Charles trailed a few steps behind, crossing his arms with nothing but an amused chuckle.

Her face burned as the men’s laughter echoed through the night, every word making her want to sink into the ground. She glared at them briefly, her lips parting to fire back some cutting remark, but nothing came. The smug grin on John’s face didn’t help matters—if anything, it made it worse.

With an exasperated groan, she gave up the fight entirely and buried her face against his chest, her hands fisting the fabric of his shirt to muffle her mortification. “I hate you,” she muttered, her voice muffled but dripping with frustration. John’s laughter rumbled low in his chest, his arms wrapping around her with infuriating ease. She just muttered a half-hearted curse into his shirt, which only made his grin widen as he held her closer.

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