#RDR2 fanfic

[fxndxm-axg]

so fluffy for this acc but idgaf im CRYING

i thought of you so often.

arthur morgan x reader.

✧ tags : fem!reader (gendered language, explicit use of she/her in reference to reader), children / planning on children, generally sappiness, fluff, au where nothing bad happens to arthur hdskjsdkfhsj.

✧ wc : 2.4k (???)

✧ a/n : arthur morgan.... save me arthur morgan....also not a super original thought but i can't Stop thinking about it.

✧ synopsis : a collection of love letters, all unfinished, tucked somewhere you aren't meant to find them. oh, arthur loves you more than you knew.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

You try to keep out of Arthur's belongings.

He's owed some privacy, for one. More than that, you've never felt any reason to look into it. Arthur isn't a man of many words, though you catch moments of his introspection should you pry. He isn't stoic, neither. And above all things, he's kind. Really truly kind in a way that makes him different from other men.

You don't have any complaints about him is what you mean. Unlike the men you've loved before, there are no short-comings of Arthur that would drive you to wanting to investigate his own personal things. Especially something so personal like his journals, prior or present.

On top of that, you were there with him through everything. You were part of the gang and stayed by him when it all fell apart. It was towards the end of that that Arthur came to you near frenzied, told you his plans, his thoughts. Confided in you and no less than begged to go with him where he ran.

You loved Arthur enough to stay, and so things ended - and you ran. There isn't much his journal could tell that you couldn't surmise on your own.

It's been years now, and you've long since left that life. You live with Arthur quietly, peaceful in the moments with a garden and kitty sweet as sugar.

It's a good life. An honest, quiet one sometimes to the point of being boring. You rarely miss the action, though occasionally you'll take up a bounty just to feel alive and make some money.

Mostly though, you live as unassuming folk. No bloodshed, no wardens, no gunslinging.

Been talk between you both about having a baby, recently. Serious talk. You've made some money between here and there, and you've got a good life. You've traveled too. But it gets a little lonely, and you don't really get your fill with just Jack when John and Abi are ways away.

Before anything like that, though - you need to clear some space. Empty out some belongings and things collecting dust. Living in one place for too long creates all sorts of mess, you find. When Arthur is home to help, he does - but he's been busy lately figuring something out with Charles. Some business venture related to ranching that you know nothing about so far. They'll tell you when its ready.

Usually when you're tidying, you keep to just your things, or your shared things - but Arthur has lived more life than you. It shows in that big closet space filled with nick-knacks he has yet to toss.

You'd mentioned it to him not too long ago and he'd given you permission to go through them.

(A kiss to your forehead from chapped lips and hands holding your waist, Arthur hums in acknowledgement as you ask his permission.

"Ain't nothing I gotta hide from you. Do whatever you need.)

But like you said - you try to keep your nose out of his business if it's not necessary for you to be in it in anyway.

You weren't trying to look through his things, really. You started cleaning, worked your way to that last box. Up on a shelf in his closet, a little too high for you to reach easily. You made a misstep and dropped the damn thing. It barely missed your head as the whole thing fell open, and out came journals and papers and photographs.

You've always known Arthur to be sentimental, so none of it has been particularly surprising. A photo of wolves and him on a horse, the picture from John and Abigail's engagement. Some other scraps of sentimental value.

And then there was a journal. Not Arthur's journal that he's always using, but another you've never seen before. You know Arthur journals, seen the thing plenty though you never look unless he shows you first.

A journal with a dark brown stained leather binding, fallen open and your name scrawled out in pencil lead at the top of it.

The curiosity got the better of you, okay? Not your damn fault.

So you're thinking on it.

The fabric of your skirt is pooled out underneath you as you hold the thing in your hands, sitting down on the ground surrounded by things. You've stowed away everything else that fell out from the box after ensuring it was intact, including Arthur's journals. Everything with the exception of the one you're holding.

Some guilt eats at you. You don't wanna upset him potentially by having looked. Even if he gave you permission, looking in the damn thing is a little different. But your name was there so clearly, and well - you didn't think he wrote about you. Apart from here and there, maybe.

You hold the book out in front of you with a sigh, looking fondly at his name ingrained in the leather. You press your forehead against it with, resigning yourself completely.

"Lord forgive my pryin'," You mumble, hoping it's enough to absolve you.

Your heart feels funny as you let your fingers trace over the hard edge of the front cover, one eye shut as you start to open it slow.

The first few pages are nothing special.

A page outlining who the journal belongs to and when it was started, and some doodles of yarrow and oleander. The pages after that filled with mundane entries. About people he met or things he saw, all endearing to you. The corners of your lips tug up slightly.

You really love this man helplessly.

You flip through a few more pages, many of them blank before writing starts to appear again. Little by little, you find passages. You look to the dates up at the corner (though not all of them have one) and trace the timeline. This is from all the way back in Horseshoe Overlook.

It feels like ages ago now.

You look at a page with no date, and reading the writing in it. There's doodles of flowers and trees along the bottom of the page. The words are easy enough to make out - because Arthur has the most unusually beautiful handwriting.

There's some entries about you. At first, they all include your name in some context. Mentioned in the same way Arthur might mention Hosea or Abigail. The further you go, the less you see it. The more you become her and she.

It's a trend. The longer you read, the less there is about anyone else. Just you and all your silly idiosyncrasies tucked between pages. Something lovestruck and foolish lights its match in you.

Saw a body hanging at the tracks at Valentine. A gruesome sight. I told her about it and she laughed. Asked me to take her to see it. A strange woman, by all accounts.

You feel yourself smile a little as you continue to flip through the pages.

She joined me riding into town today. Said she had some business to attend but would not tell me any details. After, she came with me to purchase a new gun. I engraved a snake into it's handle, per her request.

Another few pages littered with drawings of delicate berries and waterfalls before you stumble across more writing. The more you flip, the longer the passages become you.

You can't tear your eyes away.

Rained today. Nothing too terrible or worth mentioning, except that she nearly caught a cold playing in it. I brought her coffee to keep her warm, but could not scold her further upon seeing her delight.

Another passage, this time written with messier hand writing. A coffee stain splatters on the white of the page.

Your heart tugs on itself. Swells about a thousand sizes. To think he wrote so much of your time together between these pages.

You read and read and read - and each passage is a little more mundane at the last. Some pages go on in vivid detail, but others are so short you aren't sure what to make of the fact he wrote them at all. As if such little details were important enough to keep in mind.

I picked a flower for her. I thought it would suit her taste. It was white with delicate petals. I did not know the name.

She wore it in her hair this evening. I find I can't stop grinning.

One passage on the next few pages, longer than the rest, catches your eye. From later in your time together, written when you were in Leymone. Near Scarlett Meadows and before the mess in Saint Denis.

After Arthur had been kidnapped.

I have gone on and on about the business with Colm O'Driscoll in many entries before this one. Yet, I find it difficult to forget. Many times I have come close to death, and still no experience lingers on my mind quite like this one. Everyone has done their best to look after me. For that I am grateful, though I do not care for being looked after. What use am I like this, I wonder? Perhaps, I should simply be grateful to be alive and in one piece, if a little uglier than I was. Alongside Miss Grimshaw and Miss Tilly, she has been by my side while I recovered. Such a carefree woman and yet I have seen her cry and weep over me countless times in the last few weeks alone. The decent man in me is apologetic for causing sorrow. Perhaps, it is the outlaw in me that feels some strange relief or satisfaction. Her fussing does not give me any grief. If anything, I find myself all the more endeared. Such a decent woman does not belong in a place like this. I hope she is able to go somewhere far away and live peacefully. I am not so shameless to want anything more. The time together we have spent, I will make sure to cherish.

Something painful and pitiful tugs at your heart. Even when Arthur admitted his feelings for you, he had started it on a similar tangent. You tell him often that you're the one who feels out of bounds with him. That a man as decent and as honest as him often feels like too much for you to have so easily.

A tear slips from your eye and you laugh at your own sentimentality, wiping it away before it can splatter onto the pages.

The further you read, the more sporadic entries become. You find that there are pages filled with sketches of you, but many of them are scratched out or half erased - like he did not find them good enough. Of your side profile, of your hands, of you pointing at a target with a gun. You feel a strange feeling of love wash over you.

Instead of concrete thoughts, you're met with Arthur's abstract. Subtle complexities and studies. There's honest tenderness in the way he sketches you and the words he chooses to caption each with. Lighter, thinner lines. Smaller doodles like stray daydreams caught onto a page.

You've never doubted Arthur in his love for you, quiet man he is - but it proves to overwhelm when presented to you in such a way.

You get to back pages. There, you're finally met with more writing. Except, instead of journal entries, there's the start of letters. You find your name at the top of the page.

Over and over. Love letters, all unfinished or scrapped. Written over and over and over, but not completed. There's tens of them at least. You've never received a love letter from Arthur before, though it's nothing you fault him for.

Now you're almost glad. You like this much better.

My darling girl My muse The better half of me, I must find some way to tell you all of what I think of you. It seems no words do it justice, I'm afraid. Still, it is in my best interest to try.

Damn that man.

When you find yourself starting to weep, you don't fight the feeling. You merely shut the book closed and set it in your lap before crying into your hands.

Such overwhelmingly happy tears. You feel off balance. If the whole world turned on its head this very minute, you're unsure you'd notice. What a decent, honest man you've come to love. What a tender one.

In the middle of your crying, you don't hear the door open or close. Nor do you hear Arthur's heavy footfall until he's in the doorway, with a voice worried half to death.

"Sweetheart, what in the hell?"

You turn your head to look at him, watching his eyes widen at your tear stained face. You clamber to your feet hurriedly, book dropping onto the ground next to you as you throw yourself at him as soon as you can.

Arthur is a steady enough man not to stumble when you do, though you can feel his apprehension. Eventually, he circles his arms around your waist. His hugs are strong. Bout strong as him and then some. An arm wrapped around your waist, the other crossed over your back all around your shoulder. Full pressure as he squeezes you tight, patting the back of your head.

"I leave you alone for a few hours. What has gotten into you, little lady?"

You pull back and and look at him, wet lashes and all, before leaning up to kiss him. Arthur meets your lips chastely at first before making a noise of surprise as you kiss him further. You use both hands to grab his face as you do, scruff scratching against your skin. His lips are soft, welcoming. He melts into the touch, so easily - blue eyes lovestruck as you pull away.

"You know I love you, don't you Arthur? More than anyone in this crazy world we live in,"

His face softens visibly. He smiles at you, touching his head to yours.

"Somehow, I do. Though, I'm wonderin' what the hell brought this on."

You tuck your face against his chest, feeling his laughter reverb through you at the way you cling to him so fervently. You sniffle as you talk.

"Found your journal. The one about me,"

He goes stiff, then silent. When you look up again, he's blushing red. He pinches his brow.

"Lord, I'd forgotten all about it,"

You shake your head.

"Ain't nothing for you to be embarrassed about. You are so wonderful,"

He pouts at you. Your heart swells. "You ain't helping with the embarrassment."

You hold him further. Hug him so tight, worried he'll disappear if you don't.

"I love you, Arthur."

"You already told me once, didn'tcha?"

"And I'll tell you one thousand times over," You emphasize, pouting at him. "Really. I love you,"

"I love you too sweetheart," His hand cups your face, thumb brushing along your waterline. "Don't cry no more. Spoils that pretty face."

"I'll try but I don't know if it's all out of me,"

Arthur laughs, pressing a kiss against your hairline. "Guess I'll just have to wipe your tears."

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

[arthurmorganist]

two most wanted — chapter 1: riverdance

summary: “Your whole life, sir. You have followed the wrong star.” - Arthur Morgan should have known that surviving came with a cost.

1899

He had seen that mare before.

He had seen her on the other side of the river bank, the morning Abigail had begged him to spend some time with her son, since his idiot of a father still refused to acknowledge his very existence. The weather had been great that day: the sun had shined brightly, no clouds had dotted the horizon and the air had been warm with the promise of spring. The fishing spot he had discovered just two nights prior was a short ride away, pretty close to the camp hideout Dutch had chosen to settle down for the time being. Arthur had spent most of it asking Jack all sorts of questions, hoping the little one would feel that someone else other than his mother genuinely cared for him.

The book Jack had mentioned, the one forgotten in Blackwater in the hurry of escaping from the hell the gang had left behind, his excitement when he had been handed the pole, the fishing lessons he had tried to teach him and the little bluegill that had bitten the bait first. “It’s almost as small as you!”

The undisturbed view of the landscape, the grass, the trees and the mountains. He remembered it all. If he closed his eyes, he could almost still see everything right in front of him.

You hadn’t been there when they had first reached the clearing, he knew it. The boy had been the one to alert him of your sudden arrival, as he had noticed your ominous presence before he had, pointing at you with his finger in all his eager and innocent curiosity.

“Look, uncle Arthur! Look at that horse!”

He had been too preoccupied staring intently at the current before him, struggling to catch a proper fish to bring back to camp, in hopes that Pearson would cook a decent meal for once. It hadn’t been the sight of the animal what had startled him to begin with. The beast looked rather calm as it drank from the cold water: long shiny hair cascading down her neck, flowing in the gentle breeze, painting the perfect scene of wild nature. An unmistakable black spot standing proudly in contrast of the green foliage.

The reason behind his uneasiness had been her rider: face partially covered by a banana similar to the one wrapped around his own neck and an outfit that matched the color of her mount’s coat. Even from the short distance, he could tell you were a woman. He could see it in the wild wisps of hair sticking out from under your hat, the tightness of your fitted shirt around your chest, the narrow stretch of your waist, the shape of your widened hips as you sat on the saddle.

All those things, only noticeable to a man like Arthur, betrayed the truth of your identity despite your attempts to conceal it.

There was nothing familiar about you, nothing from your outward appearance that he could recognize or recall. He knew it was an impossible task to remember all the folk he crossed paths with every day, but he prided himself in being an observant man, someone who saw things with a deeper understanding and recognized patterns where others didn’t, and he knew he wouldn’t have forgotten the impression of you if he had seen you at some point in his life. For that reason, he committed every single detail to memory, the same way he did with all the things he considered potential threats.

Jack’s voice interrupted his train of thought, when he asked if he could guess what breed the mare was. “An Andalusian.” He replied, confident in his answer, considering the size and the abundant silk like looking fur, the small ears and flat nose. He had seen plenty of horses like this in the open fields, almost managed to tame one of them stallions once, after Boadicea’s passing, following Hosea’s advice. But the animal had been too wild and too fast. Or maybe he had been too young and too slow.

“You alright ma’am?” He hesitated, throat dry and palms covered in sweat. “Looking for something? Someone?”

He hid his face under the brim of his hat least you recognized him, but he still could feel the weight of your sight roaming all over his form as he stood there, pulse shaking in the face of such unexpected encounter. The fact that you were a woman didn’t make him feel any less at ease. The rifle slung over your back and the gun belt around your middle told him he was right in not letting his guard down. You could be anyone: a bounty hunter or a raider. An agent of the law. A member of a rival gang. Someone armed to the teeth like you were couldn’t have good intentions at all.

When his questions were met with nothing but silence, his whole body tensed, almost went rigid with dread. He was sure you had heard him, your bodies were only separated by the width of the river. His Schofield was attached to his hip, his horse not far behind while Jack sat on a rock at close range, now picking flowers from a nearby bush that seemed to have caught his attention. He waited with a bated breath for you to make a move, to command your horse to cross the waters, to aim the barrel of your gun at him and shoot to kill. None of those things happened. You simply sat atop your horse, quietly, staring intently. Always at him, never the child.

(to be continued…)

[fxndxm-axg]

The smut on tumblr is the best I’ve ever read holy shit I don’t need ao3 when I have this app,,, yall be so fucking GOOD at writing like damn I feel both sexually & intellectually stimulated reading y’all’s shit 😝

[moeitsu]

The Dark Tide Siren!Arthur Morgan x Reader Modern AU Ch 2 - The Pearl Does Not Mourn The Shell Summary: Charles performs a delicate surgery on Arthur, carefully removing embedded fragments and stabilizing his condition while revealing startling details about his unique anatomy. As the procedure unfolds, you grapple with the profound connection you've formed with Arthur, confronting both the cruelty he's endured and the overwhelming pull between you. wc: 8k tw: blood, gore, descriptions of monster anatomy Swim Back! ↞ ﹏𓊝﹏ ↠ Sail Ahead!

In the several months I'd been working for Heartland's Aquatic Rehabilitation and Restoration Program, I had never seen Charles Smith—our unshakable, seen-it-all marine vet—look so utterly dumbfounded.

"Christ, John, you seriously weren't kidding." He muttered into his fist, resting his elbow on one knee as he crouched to Arthur's level, eyes scanning every inch of the impossible sight before him.

The minutes leading up to Charles' arrival had been tense, filled with John's grumbling about how much convincing it had taken to get him out here. Apparently, Charles thought the whole thing was a joke—until John's persistence, and maybe the sheer desperation in his voice, finally wore him down.

Now, watching his gaze trace Arthur's long, scaled form with barely concealed awe, I felt only slightly vindicated.

"He's some kind of merman, isn't he?" I asked before I could stop myself. The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them. It sounded ridiculous. Childish, even. Magical sea creatures belonged in bedtime stories, not in the real world—not bleeding out on the beach beneath my hands.

And yet... what else could I call this beautiful beast dying before us?

Charles clicked his tongue, standing up to stretch his back as he slowly walked around Arthur's long torso and tail, taking in every detail. "I'm inclined to say yes." He exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "Or more specifically, a Siren. Though I'm nowhere near qualified to make that call."

Arthur's reaction was immediate. His slitted blue eyes narrowed further, dark and untrusting, watching Charles like a cornered animal sizing up a new predator. He tried to turn his torso to follow Charles' movements, but the motion sent a fresh jolt of pain through his body. He winced, his muscles seizing.

Instinctively I knelt closer, pressing a warm reassuring hand to his shoulder. I could feel John's eyes burning a hole in the back of my head as he took in the familial gesture. But I ignored it, Arthur seemed to welcome my touch, and right now he desperately needed a friend.

"We need to get him back into the water," I said, glancing at Charles. "His gills are drying up, and the salt will help clean the wound."

Charles gave a sharp nod. "Agreed. We can figure out what he is later. Right now, we need to move him." He turned toward the shoreline, motioning to the little pilot boat rocking against the current as it was brought up to the beach. "I've got the medical supplies on the Atlantis. Lenny's waiting for me onboard. If we can get him into the boat I'll take care of the rest."

Lenny Summers was Charles' veterinary technician assistant—a college intern earning credits over the summer. Bright, eager, and probably not even remotely prepared for whatever the hell this was. The more people we brought into this, the more the reality of what we were doing finally settled in. And that frightened me.

Or rather, it frightened Arthur.

The thought of putting him through more discomfort, of forcing him into the unknown with strangers, made my chest ache. But he was in pain, bleeding out and losing strength with every passing minute. I trusted these people with my life. When it came to aquatic rescues, we pulled together like a well-oiled machine. We had to. It was our purpose and our pride.

John, however, was the most apprehensive. And he wasn't sold on the idea of helping him yet.

"We're really doing this?" He shot me a look, exasperation written all over his face as he watched Charles jog toward the boat to push it back into the water in preparation for the move. "We're really bringing this thing back to central? Do we even know if this is .... safe?"

A huff of irritation slipped past my lips before I could stop it.

Thing.

The word felt wrong. Cruel, even. It reduced him to something lesser—something disposable. And yet, how could I call him anything else when I still didn't fully understand what he was? But I did know one thing: Arthur wasn't just some mindless creature washed up on the sand, some anomaly to be studied and cataloged like a rare fish. He was someone.

He had a name.

He had feelings.

He had pain. I could see it in the way his body tensed, the way his gills flared with each labored breath. In the way he reacted to my touch, that brief shimmer of light that sent my heart leaping. I could see it in the haunted depths of his eyes, dark and sharp, filled with something distinctly aware. He wasn't just reacting to the world around him—he was understanding it. He was understanding me.

Not only did he recognize my words, but he had trusted me enough to answer them. To give me his name. That alone meant something. It meant everything.

Because a thing wouldn't have done that. A thing wouldn't have looked at me the way he did, with wariness and fear, but also something softer, something vulnerable. A thing wouldn't have been able to trust. And if he could trust me, then I owed him more than being dismissed as some nameless thing.

"John," I sighed, shaking my head. "Come on. There's a risk that comes with every job, you know this."

He wasn't heartless. Just blunt, practical, and—if I had to guess—mildly horrified by the entire situation. And truthfully I couldn't blame him. John wasn't a marine biologist or a vet. He was a maintenance technician for the rehab center, responsible for keeping the lights, pumps, and filters running. Hell, the guy couldn't even swim! But more than that, he was Hosea's son, and his father had instilled in him the same core values that ran through the foundation of this program. And I'll be damned if that man didn't put his heart into every creature we rescued, no matter their size, their condition, or the risk.

So, I gave him a pointed look and asked, "What would Hosea say about this?"

John opened his mouth to argue, but I beat him to it.

"We save those who need saving. Protect those who need protecting."

John exhaled hard through his nose. I could see the moment he caved, his shoulders slumping in reluctant resignation.

"And give all creatures a fighting chance," he grumbled, finishing the mantra we all knew by heart.

Exactly. And Arthur? He deserved that chance.

I couldn't help but smile. Things were finally coming together—we were going to get Arthur some help, whether John liked it or not.

I glanced down at him. His body was trembling from pain and blood loss, but his focus wasn't on his wounds. He was watching the men's movements like a hawk, his sharp eyes darting between them, tracking every step, every shift in posture. It seemed like the male of my species was only good at setting him on edge.

"It'll be okay, Arthur," I murmured softly.

At the sound of his name, he twitched, his gills flaring slightly.

"We're going to get you the help you need. Just try to relax."

It felt strange, comforting something that wasn't quite human, yet it came as naturally as breathing. I didn't know why his well-being had become so important to me, why the thought of his suffering made my chest ache. He looked utterly beautiful and broken. How could someone do something like this to him? It made my heart fill with anger and a burning need for justice. All I knew was that I wanted to ease his pain. That I needed to.

When Charles returned, we quickly revised a plan to get him to the boat. With his sheer size and the wound sapping his strength, it was going to be nearly impossible to move him without causing more pain.

"Let's try dragging him into the shallows first," Charles instructed. "Once he's in the water, we can maneuver him onto the mat and move it back to the boat." He glanced between John and me, rubbing his chin in thought. "John, you take the tail. I'll grab his, uh... shoulders."

The moment the men stepped forward and took hold, Arthur reacted.

A sharp, fearful cry tore from his throat, the kind of sound that came from deep within the chest—primal, instinctive, desperate. His entire body locked up, muscles rigid as if bracing for a blow. His fingers twitched, then dug into the damp sand, claws sinking deep, scraping against the shifting grains as if trying to anchor himself, to stop whatever was coming.

Panic rolled off of him in waves, his chest rising and falling in erratic, shallow gasps. His gills flared wildly, his breath hitching like a drowning man just barely keeping his head above the waves. His tail trembled, not in pain, but in fear. I felt his mood shift like the wind. A fear so intense it crackled in the air between us like a coming storm.

I could see it in his eyes—wide, dark, filled with something close to terror. It wasn't just the pain making him react this way. It was them. It clicked in the back of my mind, a realization as cold as the seawater lapping at our feet.

He does not trust men. A man must have been the one to do this to him.

Oh, I should have known. Men have always had a way of ruining what they cannot control, of breaking what they cannot possess. I will never understand why—why something as breathtaking as Arthur, something so otherworldly and rare, could be seen as nothing more than something to take. To own. To conquer.

Power and greed have driven men to do unspeakable things—to the land, to the sea, to each other. History is littered with the bones of what was once beautiful, turned to dust in the hands of those who saw value only in domination. Arthur was no different, he was not safe from their cruel hands.

Someone had looked upon him, upon the sheer wonder of his existence, and instead of reverence, they saw opportunity. They saw something to be used, or worse—defiled. And like so many things before him, he had suffered for it.

"Wait! Stop!" I shouted, throwing my arms out in front of them. "He's afraid of you, afraid of your touch."

The urgency in my voice made them freeze, but John let out an annoyed groan. "Are you serious?"

"Talk to him," I insisted, glancing down at Arthur's rigid form. His tail twitched, the thick muscle spasming as if preparing to flee—but there was nowhere for him to go. "Explain what you're doing before you just grab him like that."

John scoffed. "You really think he understands a damn word we're saying?"

"Yes," I said firmly, eyes locked onto Arthur's terrified expression. "He does. He's just scared. I'm afraid whatever he's been through is far worse than we can imagine. Just talk to him, please. I promise he understands. He told me his name is Arthur."

Silence stretched between us. John looked skeptical, but Charles gave me a considerate look before nodding.

"Alright. But we need to move quickly—he's losing too much blood."

I moved into position near Arthur's torso, carefully placing my hands just above where his human skin gave way to shimmering scales. His breathing was uneven, and when I pressed lightly, I could feel the tension running through every fiber of him, muscles wound so tight they trembled. Trying not to stare at his gaping wound, I met his eyes and gave him a soft, reassuring smile.

Charles cleared his throat and crouched beside us. "Uh... Arthur. My name's Charles. I'm a vet. Well, a doctor I s'pose. I–um–I help sea creatures when they're hurt." He spoke slowly, making sure Arthur was watching his mouth, and his hands. "We need to get you into the water. It'll help you breathe better." Charles gestured to the water than to his own neck, inhaling and exhaling exaggeratedly.

Arthur's eyes flicked to him, his expression wary. I could feel his hesitation, his body still rigid beneath my hands.

"Once we get you there, we'll move you onto a rubber mat and tow you to my boat," Charles continued, motioning toward the water where the pilot boat bobbed in the waves. "From there, we'll take you back to the center where I can examine you—make sure you'll be okay."

Arthur didn't move. His shoulders remained tight, his jaw clenched, but something in his gaze flickered—uncertainty, trust warring against fear.

I leaned in closer, lowering my voice. "Charles wouldn't hurt a shark even if it bit his finger off. You can trust him. You can trust us."

To my surprise, John chimed in, albeit gruffly. "Charles is good people," he said. "You'll be safe with him. I can promise that."

Arthur's throat bobbed as he swallowed, his body still coiled with tension—but slowly, ever so slightly, he allowed it.

"Alright," Charles exhaled. "Let's move."

On the count of three, we lifted him.

A sickening suction sound came from the sand as his body peeled away, his thick, sluggish blood turning it into something almost cement-like, making every movement more difficult. Arthur hissed sharply, his claws scraping uselessly at the shifting grains beneath him before taking purchase against my shoulder. His movements were heavy, and I could feel the tips of his claws, but my body was the least of my concerns.

We didn't hesitate. The moment we had him up, we moved as quickly as possible toward the water, uncaring as the waves crashed against our thighs. My legs ached with the weight, but I focused only on Arthur, on his face, the way his dark blond hair fanned out in the wind, strands clinging to his damp skin.

But as soon as the seawater lapped against his wound, everything went to hell.

Arthur sucked in a sharp, wheezing breath, his entire body jolting with pain. His clawed hand squeezed my arm, his fingers trembling violently. I braced for the sting of his claws, expecting him to dig into my flesh again, but instead—

A guttural, pained noise tore from his throat.

"H-hurts..."

The rasping, barely formed word made my stomach plummet.

John recoiled, nearly dropping his lower half. "Holy shit!"

I barely had time to process the horror in John's voice before Arthur convulsed violently.

"Hold on—" I started, but before we could react, his entire body seized, muscles spasming.

And then—he retched. We lost our grip as he lurched forward, vomiting into the water, his entire frame wracked with violent tremors. The sudden movement sent us stumbling, struggling to steady him, to help him, but every jolt of his body sent another agonized groan from his lips. The waves crawled higher, their force threatened to pull us down. John couldn't go out much further or he risked drowning.

This was too much. Too fast. He was already so weak, and this was making him sick.

"We need to move now!" I shouted, my voice laced with panic.

Charles was already running toward the boat, grabbing the rope and pulling it toward us. The rubber mat was secured in a net, the same one we used to transport large animals from the shore to the rescue center. It had carried dolphins and sea turtles home before, but looking at it now, I wasn't sure it would be enough to hold Arthur.

Still, it was our only option.

John and I maneuvered Arthur toward the net as gently as possible, but every shift, every touch made him shudder in pain. He let out low, agonized whines, his hands twitching like he was fighting the instinct to struggle, to flee.

I wanted to tell him it was okay. That we were almost there. That this nightmare would be over soon. But the moment his exhausted body slumped into the net, I wasn't sure if he even had the strength left to believe me.

Now came phase two: getting him somewhere safe.

"I'll take him from here. Lenny's starting the engines now—meet back at central, yeah?" Charles called as he hauled himself into the boat, already jerking the rope-start until the motor roared to life, shattering the stillness of the night with its low, guttural rumble.

The moment the engine flared, Arthur flinched. His entire body tensed, his fins bristling, and before I could react, his hand shot out—grasping for something, for me.

My breath hitched.

His fingers, cold and slick from the seawater, wrapped around my arm—not forceful, not clawing, just holding. Seeking.

My heart thundered in my ears.

He was scared, and he turned to me. He was hurting, and he wanted me. The thought made my pulse race. What the hell am I even thinking?

His grip was firm but careful, as if afraid of causing me more harm. His deep blue eyes, dark as the depths he came from, locked onto mine, wide and pleading. The unspoken desperation in them clenched something deep in my chest. He didn't want me to leave.

"It's alright, honey," I whispered, curling my fingers over his. "I'll be right behind you. It's a short ride—we'll see each other again soon."

But my reassurance wasn't enough. His hand tightened ever so slightly, his silent plea pressing into my skin. I looked up at Charles, who was watching the exchange carefully from his seat in the boat. He saw the look in Arthur's eyes. The same look that was making it impossible for me to let go.

Charles exhaled sharply, then nodded.

"Get in."

I didn't need to be told twice.

I barely registered the way the boat dipped under my weight as I climbed in, my attention still locked on Arthur. Even as Charles revved the engine again, sending a new vibration through the small vessel, Arthur didn't let go until I was fully seated beside him. Only then did his fingers finally loosen, his body slumping slightly, as if the last of his fight had drained from him now that I was here.

John, still knee-deep in the water, didn't question my choice to go with them. He was already wading back to shore, calling out over his shoulder. "I'll head over and get a tank set up—meet you guys out back by the docking station."

Charles lifted a hand in acknowledgment, adjusting the throttle as we started to pull away from the shore.

I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted over the growing distance, "Thanks, Marston—guess I owe you one for not getting eaten!" I teased.

John scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Yeah, yeah—just don't make a habit of rescuing sea monsters with bigger teeth than me!"

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't fight the small smile tugging at my lips.

As we rolled steadily through the waves, the boat cutting a quiet path through the dark water, I found myself unable to look away from Arthur.

The sea cradled him, the gentle rise and fall of the waves lapping at his body as if beckoning him home. His hair, damp and tangled, fanned out around his face, strands clinging to his forehead and cheekbones, catching the moonlight in silvered streaks. He looked otherworldly like this—half-draped in shadow, half-illuminated by the cold glow of the night, a creature caught between two worlds.

I leaned over the side, the salty wind curling around me, and with the back of my finger, I carefully brushed a strand of hair from his face. His skin was damp beneath my touch, cooler than I expected, but solid, real. He didn't flinch, didn't pull away. Only watched me with tired blue eyes.

His tail, impossibly long and heavy, hung over the edge of the net, draped at an awkward angle. Even now, with the weight of exhaustion pressing into him, the powerful muscle beneath the iridescent scales seemed restless, twitching faintly with every shift of the boat. The moonlight danced across its surface, catching on deep purples and midnight blues, reflecting colors I had never seen in any ocean-dwelling creature before. I couldn't help but wonder what it would look like in motion—how it might cut through the water with effortless grace, how the strength of it could propel him through the depths like a phantom of the sea.

He exhaled slowly, a shuddering breath that told me how much pain he was still in, how much energy it was taking just to be here. But even as his body trembled with exhaustion, his eyes never left mine.

Dark, slitted, full of something that felt like a deepening connection. I swallowed against the lump in my throat.

I had no idea what I'd just signed myself up for. But I knew, without a doubt, that I wasn't letting him go.

⋅─⊱༺ 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 ༻⊰─⋅

By the time we arrived, John already had one of the portable rehabilitation pools set up. It was a simple structure—three feet deep, circular, not nearly big enough for Arthur to swim freely. But at this point, rest and medical attention were far more important than movement.

Moving him from the dock to the tank was an ordeal. Excruciating, even. Arthur was heavy, his body limp from exhaustion, and every shift elicited a barely audible groan of pain. It took all four of us—John, Charles, Lenny, and myself—to maneuver him from one place to another. John secured the ropes around the mat, bracing himself as Charles, Lenny, and I heaved with everything we had. Muscles burned. Breath came short. But after several agonizing moments, Arthur finally slipped into the water with a dull splash.

Charles immediately left for the lab to grab his tools, while Lenny darted to his office in search of anything—a textbook, an encyclopedia, a scrap of knowledge that might tell us how the hell to care for this creature. Essentially, we were all grasping in the dark. But we had to try.

Because Arthur's life was slipping away with the tide.

His body barely reacted to the movement anymore, his exhaustion so deep it was as if his mind had already begun retreating. That was not a good sign.

Once we managed to maneuver him onto a small raised platform within the pool—a stable place where we could examine him without fully submerging him—I finally got my first good look at him under the bright lights.

I barely noticed that my clothes were soaked, clinging to my skin in the humid warmth of the facility. All I could focus on was him.

Under the harsh glow of the overhead fluorescents, his iridescent beauty dimmed. His slitted pupils narrowed further, not from fear this time, but as a biological response—filtering the light. My first thought was that his natural habitat must be dark, perhaps underwater caves or deep ocean trenches. Somewhere far from the reach of men.

Then my gaze shifted downward.

Scars.

Not just the fresh wound bleeding sluggishly from his abdomen, but old ones. Evidence of past suffering etched into his skin like an unspoken history. Some were thin, mere whispers of pain long healed, while others were brutal—deep, jagged reminders of wounds that had once bled as freely as the one we fought to mend now.

They shimmered beneath the water, their silvery-blue hue catching the light like polished opal beneath the skin. The edges of some were raised, the texture of thickened scar tissue standing out against the otherwise smooth expanse of his scales. Others had left behind gaps, places where iridescence had been stripped away, leaving dull, uneven patches behind.

Near the base of his tail, where it flared outward in elegant, fin-like extensions, a particularly thick scar curled around the muscle—its shape unmistakable. It wrapped around like a noose, the flesh there rawer-looking than the rest, as if something had bitten deep, tightened, and held. A rope burn. A restraint. Proof that he had been bound.

A sick feeling coiled in my gut. Someone had tried to claim him. To own him.

John cleared his throat, standing on the platform next to the pool. For once, there was no sarcasm, no skepticism in his expression—just grim understanding. For the first time, he was really seeing the extent of the damage Arthur had endured.

"He's in bad shape," John muttered. His voice was quieter than usual, like speaking too loudly might shatter something fragile. "You sure someone did this to him? Could've been an animal—fighting over food, territory, or..." He hesitated, then sighed. "A mate?"

It was a logical assumption. John always saw things through the lens of nature—where creatures acted on instinct, not cruelty. He understood that better than anyone. The scars that marred his chin, cheek, and nose were proof of that.

I knew the story well. A year before I'd come along, John had nearly died rescuing an ancient alligator, an old beast with jaws powerful enough to crush bone. He'd been alone, and in the chaos of the rescue, the gator had turned on him, snapping its massive jaws around his face. Somehow, miraculously, he survived. And yet, not once had he blamed the creature.

Because animals didn't hate. They didn't torture.

Men, on the other hand...

I flexed my fingers, and pain flared up my wrist. The wound Arthur had given me throbbed, likely reopening from the exertion. I made a mental note to change the bandages when this was all over.

I guess now I'd have my own scars to match John's.

I shook my head. "These aren't natural wounds," I said firmly. "They were deliberate. The flesh around his wrists is torn—like he was bound." My voice wavered, anger and grief mixing into something heavy in my chest. "And his tail... there are marks where scales should be, like he was tied to something."

John exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. He didn't argue. Didn't try to offer another explanation. Because deep down, we both knew.

I swallowed hard and let my gaze drift lower, where skin met scales. My stomach clenched as my eyes landed on the gaping slit, the deep, angry wound that should not have been there.

Arthur's mating slit had been mutilated. There was no question about it now. This wasn't an accident. This wasn't nature.

This was human cruelty.

John leaned forward for a closer look—and audibly winced.

"Well..." he muttered after a beat, rubbing a hand down his face. "He's in good hands now."

As if on cue, Charles stormed back into the room, dressed in a wetsuit and carrying a bucket full of medical tools.

"I've gotta get home to Abi and Jack," John said, shaking his head with a humorless chuckle. "They're not gonna believe a damn word of this."

As he turned toward the exit, Charles laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Let's keep this quiet until Hosea gets a look in the morning," he said. "Warden Adler's gonna have a field day with all the paperwork."

John gave a short nod, then disappeared through the door.

As soon as it clicked shut, Charles dropped down into the water, setting the bucket on the platform. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and reached for a bottle of orange iodine. I followed his lead, tugging on my own gloves before laying out his tools. Right now, this was just an examination. Once we understood what we were dealing with, then we could prepare for surgery.

"Lenny's getting the heating pads ready," Charles murmured as he worked, his focus already locked on Arthur's still form. "He's also mixing a small dose of morphine and amoxicillin into the water—should help him relax."

"How's he doing?"

I exhaled. "Bout as good as he looks."

Arthur lay motionless on the platform, his eyes lidded, his breathing shallow. The rhythmic flare of his gills was soft—too soft. His body was struggling to regulate oxygen, the sluggish movement of his operculum suggesting respiratory distress. Shudders wracked his frame at irregular intervals, a clear sign of metabolic exhaustion, likely from prolonged stress and blood loss. His dermal layer, normally slick and hydrated, appeared pallid in some areas, the delicate membrane at the edges of his fins already beginning to dry.

I quickly grabbed a small electric siphon, submerging one end into the water while using the other to gently trickle cool, saline-rich seawater over his gills and along his body. The moisture would help maintain an osmotic balance, preventing dehydration and further physiological strain while we worked to stabilize him.

Charles frowned but said nothing, reaching for the stethoscope around his neck. He pressed the cold diaphragm to Arthur's chest, his brows furrowing almost immediately. He moved it to another spot. Then another.

"That's..." He trailed off, eyes widening slightly. "That's incredible."

I stiffened. "What?"

Charles pulled the scope away, draping it around his neck again as he lifted Arthur's wrist to check a pulse. When he looked at me, there was a strange mix of awe and urgency in his expression.

"He has two hearts. Two separate pulses."

My mouth parted, the weight of the revelation settling over me. Two hearts.

Without thinking, I leaned in, pressing my cheek against Arthur's chest. He was warm, alive. And then—

There it was.

A second beat, a second rhythm—steady yet fragile, like the ebb and flow of the tide. Two hearts pulsing in tandem beneath my skin, their cadence slightly off-sync, creating a melody that was both foreign and mesmerizing. It was deeper than a human heartbeat, stronger. A low, thrumming vibration that resonated through my fingertips, like the distant rumble of waves crashing against the ocean floor. I could feel him everywhere—not just beneath my hand, but in the space between breaths, in the weight of the water around us, in the quiet, unspoken connection passing between us.

Before I could process it, a new sound reached my ears—deep within his chest, muffled. Like listening through water. A rumble of sorts. Soft, rhythmic, soothing even. A sound that felt content, almost like...

Purring.

But before I could make sense of it, Charles cleared his throat. His expression had darkened, his attention locked on the wound below Arthur's abdomen.

His jaw tightened, and when he finally spoke, his voice was grim. "It looks like a deep puncture from a serrated object. The surrounding tissue shows signs of severe trauma, with multiple lacerations radiating outward, suggesting the weapon was forcibly removed. The uneven tearing indicates that barbs or jagged edges caught on the muscle, intensifying the damage. There's significant swelling and inflammation, and given the sluggish bleeding, he's already lost a dangerous amount of blood. We need to clean and close this quickly before sepsis sets in."

I watched as Charles' gentle hands pressed lightly around the torn flesh, his fingers careful but firm as he assessed the extent of the damage. Arthur twitched beneath his touch, a faint tremor rolling through his abdomen, but he didn't fight. The tissue was inflamed, the edges of the wound swollen and raw, the deep gash weeping sluggish, dark blood. When Charles carefully prodded the area just beneath the torn skin, Arthur's muscles tensed, a low, pained whimper vibrating from his chest.

It felt wrong to witness this. Wrong to see him like this, laid out and vulnerable, his body carved open like something to be studied rather than saved. My throat tightened with something dangerously close to guilt, as if my presence alone was an intrusion, as if I had no right to be here. The wound was so personal, a violence inflicted not just on his body but on him. Whoever had done this hadn't just tried to kill him—they had tried to take something from him, to take away some part of what he was.

I had to remind myself that we were here to help. That this wasn't an autopsy or an examination—it was a fight to keep him alive.

As Charles was about to speak again, a deep rumbling voice filled the silence. It was strained, and almost incomprehensible.

"Har—poon." Arthur breathed.

The word sent a chill through me.

Harpoon.

A weapon made for hunting. For killing.

I felt my stomach lurch as the implications settled in. Someone had done this to him on purpose. Someone had looked at Arthur—not as a living being, not as something intelligent or sentient—but as prey. As a trophy.

Charles' jaw flexed, his hands stilling over the wound. His usual clinical detachment wavered, giving way to something darker—something close to anger.

"A harpoon," he echoed, voice low. "Son of a bitch."

I tried to imagine it-the pain and the fear.

The sheer agony he must have endured as cold metal tore through flesh not meant to be pierced. How long had he suffered with it lodged inside him, the jagged edges digging deeper with every movement? How desperate must he have been to rip it out of his own body, his instincts driving him to escape, no matter the cost? Had he been hunted? Dragged from the water, struggling against the ropes that bound him? Had he looked into the eyes of his captors and seen nothing but greed, nothing but ownership?

No one deserved that. No creature, no person.

I glanced at Arthur, watching the slow, pained rise and fall of his chest. He had survived something unthinkable. Something that should have killed him. And yet, here he was-clinging to life, trusting us, trusting me.

Arthur flinched slightly at the curse, his gills fluttering as his breathing hitched. I reached out instinctively, placing a hand on his arm. He was cold to the touch, his body trembling despite the warmth of the water.

"You're safe now," I murmured, my fingers brushing over his damp skin. "No one's going to hurt you again."

His gaze flickered to mine, pupils dilated from pain, exhaustion heavy in his expression. But beneath it all, I could still see the trust lingering there—the fragile, unspoken understanding between us.

Then, a tear slipped down his cheek.

It caught the dim light, iridescent and heavy, like a fragment of the ocean itself. Not the clear, fleeting tears of a human, but something denser, more substantial. It clung to his skin for a moment before falling, landing on the platform with a barely audible plink. When I glanced down, I saw it resting there, round and smooth, like a tiny, imperfect pearl.

My breath caught. Monsters can cry.

The realization sank into me, heavy and inescapable. Arthur wasn't just some enigmatic creature from the depths—he felt. He suffered. He mourned. And there was something hauntingly, devastatingly beautiful about that.

Charles exhaled sharply through his nose and pushed back from the wound. "We need to get this cleaned and stitched now. I don't like how much blood he's lost."

I nodded, steeling myself. "What do you need me to do?"

He gestured toward the bucket of supplies. "Start by flushing the wound. We need to clear out any debris before we even think about sutures."

I reached for a saline bottle and some gauze, carefully pouring the solution over the torn flesh. Arthur sucked in a sharp breath, his entire body jerking at the sensation. His hand shot up, gripping my wrist—not as tight as before, but enough to make me pause.

I met his eyes again.

"It's alright," I soothed, rubbing my thumb over the back of his knuckles. "I know it hurts, but this will help. Just breathe, Arthur."

His fingers twitched, then slowly, reluctantly, he let me go.

Charles worked quickly, his hands steady as he examined the deeper damage. His brows were furrowed in concentration, lips pressed into a firm line as he carefully maneuvered around the torn flesh.

"The good news is that the wound is mostly superficial—no major organs were damaged," Charles said, his voice steady but grim. He paused, lifting a bloodied fragment of jagged metal between his fingers. Small but wickedly sharp, it gleamed under the sterile light, slick with Arthur's blood.

"The bad news," he continued, shifting his attention back to the wound, "is that there's still a significant fragment embedded deeper in the tissue. It's lodged between the muscle layers, likely near the ventral nerve pathways. If we don't remove it, there's a high risk of infection, necrosis, or even nerve damage."

I swallowed hard, my pulse quickening. "We have to get it out."

Charles nodded grimly, wiping his gloved hands on a sterile cloth. "Yeah. But it's deep, and judging by his pain response, it's close to something sensitive." His gaze flickered to Arthur's face, his expression unreadable. "This isn't going to be easy on him."

Arthur let out a low, uneasy sound—almost a growl. He might not have understood every word, but he knew what was coming. His claws flexed slightly, his tail twitching in agitation despite his exhaustion.

I took a breath, pressing my palm lightly against his chest, just above one of his two hearts. His skin was warmer there, the faint rhythmic pulsing steady beneath my fingers.

"We're going to fix this," I promised. "But it's going to hurt. You need to trust us."

For a long moment, he didn't move.

Then, slowly, his gills flared in what might have been a sigh, his body relaxing deeper. A silent surrender. Hopefully it was a sign that the morphine in the water was easing his pain. What he was about to endure would be excruciating.

Charles gave me a quick look. "Hold him steady."

And with that, the real work began.

I focused on keeping Arthur calm as Charles plunged the forceps deep into the wound, his movements precise yet cautious. The slick muscle twitches under the intrusion, his body instinctively trying to recoil, but he held still, his trust in us outweighing his pain. I watched as Charles maneuvered carefully, his brow furrowed in concentration, the metal tool vanishing into the torn tissue in search of the embedded fragment. Arthur's fingers curled against the wet platform, his claws scraping against the slick surface, but he never lashed out, never tried to stop us. His breathing grew more labored, his gills flaring and closing in uneven bursts, as if his body couldn't quite decide whether to fight or surrender. His tail tensed, the powerful muscle twitching involuntarily, and a faint, guttural sound escaped his throat—a noise that sent a pang of guilt straight through me. He was trying to be strong. Trying to endure.

I moved my palm gently down his chest in a soothing gesture, feeling the rapid, unsteady rhythm of his twin heartbeats beneath my fingers. "Almost there honey," I murmured, unsure if I was reassuring him or myself.

Charles exhaled sharply as he dropped the last fragment into a metal dish. "That's the worst of it, but..." His voice trailed off as he turned his attention to the wound itself, examining the torn flesh with something close to fascination.

I watched as his fingers pressed lightly around the top and the edges, his expression shifting from concern to something more analytical.

"What?" I asked, my nerves on edge.

Charles hesitated for a moment, then sighed, his gaze fixed on the wound as if trying to piece together a puzzle. "I've been trying to make sense of his anatomy all night, but I think I understand it better now." He met my eyes with a seriousness that sent a shiver down my spine. "Arthur has both male and female reproductive anatomy."

I blinked, not fully grasping what he meant. "What?"

Charles gestured to the gaping tear in Arthur's abdomen, where the harpoon had torn through flesh that, by human standards, shouldn't have been there. The area was swollen and raw, but the shape of it was undeniable. "When we first examined him, I suspected something was different. Now I'm sure—Arthur is intersex. Specifically, his anatomy mirrors some species of deep-sea creatures, like certain fish, that possess both male and female reproductive organs." He motioned to the area near Arthur's pelvis, where I could now see the distinctive characteristics more clearly. "The slit opening here," he said, "is where you'd expect female reproductive organs to be. But as you move further down, past the injury, there's a separate opening—closer to what we'd see in a male of most marine species."

I stared down at Arthur, my mind racing to keep up with the new reality unfolding before me. "What does that mean, exactly?"

Charles leaned in, his voice low but matter-of-fact. "It means he's capable of both carrying and producing offspring. In the wild, this adaptation allows some species to reproduce even when mates are scarce—survival in extreme environments." He looked at me, gauging my reaction before continuing, "Arthur could potentially mate on his own or with another of his kind—if there are others. But until we study him more, it's hard to know for sure."

I glanced at Arthur's face, searching for any sign that he understood what we were saying, but his eyes were half-lidded with exhaustion. He was barely holding on, too drained to react.

Charles exhaled slowly, looking down at Arthur with a mixture of awe and respect, "But this is the first time I've seen anything like it in a creature so... human in form."

My heart thundered in my chest, beating against my ribs like a caged bird. There was so much more to him than I realized. Oh how I was hurting for him. Was this why he had been mutilated? Did someone try to strip him of his autonomy, of his natural instinct to reproduce and start a family? Someone hadn't just simply wanted to hunt him. They had wanted to take something away from him. Erase something vital. Something sacred.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and reached for Arthur's hand again, gripping it gently.

"You're safe now," I whispered, more to myself than him.

Charles sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Lenny should be back any minute. He and I will finish suturing the wound tonight if you want to go home and get some rest. It's gonna be some time before he's gained his strength back."

I shook my head before Charles even finished speaking.

"I'm not leaving him."

Charles gave me a knowing look, but he didn't argue. Instead, he exhaled through his nose and rubbed his temple as he spoke with a light chuckle. "Didn't think you would. Looks to me like he's bonded with you." He glanced down to where I held Arthur's hand in my own, and I felt my cheeks grow warm. Then he gestured toward the door with a tilt of his head. "I've got some spare clothes in my office. They'll be a little big on you, but they're dry."

It wasn't much of an offer, but it was better than sitting here in wet, bloodstained clothes. My body ached from the strain of the night, and my wrist still throbbed in dull protest beneath the gauze.

"Thank you Charles," I murmured, glancing back at Arthur one last time. He hadn't moved, his body limp in the water, his breathing shallow but steady. He was still with us. That was enough—for now.

⋅─⊱༺ 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 ༻⊰─⋅

I made my way down the dim hallway, my soaked shoes squelching against the tile as exhaustion began to weigh down on me. Charles' office was small but cluttered with medical textbooks, old research notes, and a whiteboard full of scrawled reminders and sketches. A pile of folded clothes sat on a chair, and I grabbed the first set that looked comfortable—a soft, oversized sweatshirt and a pair of worn sweatpants.

I peeled off my damp clothes, wincing at the way they clung to my skin, and slipped into the dry fabric. It smelled like antiseptic and faint traces of cologne.

For the first time since the night began, I let myself breathe.

I sank onto the worn leather couch in the corner of the office, curling my knees to my chest. The room was silent, save for the distant hum of the filtration system and the occasional muffled voices from the lab where Lenny and Charles worked.

The weight of everything pressed down on me at once.

Arthur.

His pain. The way his deep blue eyes had locked onto mine, pleading and vulnerable. His gaze had pulled at something deep within me, a tether that I couldn't quite name but couldn't ignore either. The faint shimmer of light dancing across his wet skin, the soft, rhythmic purring that had vibrated through me, a soothing but bittersweet sound. His presence had settled in me like a force I hadn't anticipated, an undercurrent that kept drawing me closer, leaving me more entangled with each passing moment. I could feel something—something—between us, growing, almost tangible in its intensity, and it both terrified and fascinated me.

The harpoon.

The thought of it sent a tremor through my chest. The sickening knowledge that someone had driven that metal into his body on purpose. They had wanted to hurt him. And the more I thought about it, the more I felt the jagged edges of that cruelty cut into my own soul.

I shuddered, hugging my arms around myself as if that could hold together the pieces of me that were beginning to fracture. No matter how hard I tried to shake it, the image of his torn flesh wouldn't leave me. The helpless sound of his groan, raw with agony, echoed in my mind. His fingers had clung to me, not with force, but with a desperate, trembling need I couldn't ignore. It wasn't just fear I had sensed in him—it was trust. He had turned to me in his darkest moment, and somehow, somehow, I had become the one thing that could make him feel safe.

It was all burned into my memory. A delicate, painful imprint. One I couldn't erase, no matter how hard I tried.

I didn't remember closing my eyes. Didn't remember the moment exhaustion finally won. But at some point, sleep pulled me under.

A hand on my shoulder jolted me awake.

"Hey," Charles' voice was softer than usual. "It's done."

I blinked against the dim light, disoriented. My body felt heavy, my mind sluggish, like I had been underwater myself.

"What time is it?" My voice was thick with sleep.

"Almost dawn," Charles said. "Lenny and I finished the sutures. He's stable, but it's gonna take time."

I pushed myself upright, my heart already pulling me toward the lab. "Is he—?"

"He's still asleep," Charles assured me. "But he's breathing easier now. The pain is more manageable."

That was all I needed to hear.

I stood, giving Charles a nod of thanks before heading back down the hall. The scent of salt and antiseptic filled my nose as I stepped back into the lab.

Arthur lay at the bottom of the pool, his massive tail curled slightly, his body finally still in the way a resting creature should be. The water was dark and calm, gently cradling him in its weightless embrace. I exhaled softly, relief washing over me.

Moving without thought, I stepped onto the platform beside the pool and lowered myself down. The cold tile pressed against my back as I curled up close to the edge, my fingers just inches from the water's surface.

I should have gone home. Should have left him in Charles' capable hands. But I couldn't.

Not yet. Not when he had spent who-knows-how-long suffering alone.

"I won't let them hurt you," I whispered again, more for myself than for him.

And with the gentle sound of the water lapping against the pool's edge, I let sleep take me once more—this time, beside him.

AN: I know we're all wondering what happened with the harpoon, our beloved reader will be getting some answers in the next chapter. As well as some sweet/hot moments that will send her spiraling as she begins to have deeper feelings for our seaboy :)

[multifand0m-gal0re]

So cute😭 Kieran deserved better than he got.

You Could Do Anything | Kieran/Reader

Tags: Love confession in his own bittersweet way, first kiss, shotgunning, gender-neutral reader Word Count: 1k A/N: Quick fill for Kinktober. It is SFW tho. Stream Blew.

Kieran bummed enough cigarettes off of you the past week that you bought him his own pack. He acted like you'd gave him a lock of your hair, grinning big and dumb. Lucky cigarettes were a new concept to him, and he insisted you turn the first one because it feels like it means somethin'.

"Two luckies," he said. "Makes us twice as lucky!"

Nevermind that they weren't so much for luck as a promise, or that no one had ever made him that promise before.

Maybe it does mean something.

That sweet boy seems far away, now. It's late, sure, and you've met him on the riverbank outside the Outlook more than once in the past week — so clearly he isn't sleeping too well.

"Sometimes I wonder why I keep on livin'," Kieran is saying, flicks the built-up ash off his cigarette and onto the grass and sand between his boots. His knees are curled up to his chest, resting easily in the arm that curls around his shins yet still pressed protectively over his vitals. "'S like life wants me to find somethin'... go somewhere."

For his difficulty finding them, he's awful fine with words when he wants to be. You can tell he's been thinking more lately, running the same-old, same-old through his head over and over in a way unlike himself.

You accept it when he offers you the smoke, the man watching the moon cast shadows over your form as you take a drag. His eyes sting the skin of your hand and cheek, burning with the need to express... something.

Normally, his emotions are easy to read from his face. Kieran has been through so much, yet he never has learned how to hide. Or maybe he has always trusted you in some pre-destined way that neither of you cared to resist, and you've learned his language on accident; either way, all you can see in the twitching of his mouth and eyes is uncertainty.

"What do you think that is?" You ask, handing the cigarette back. His fingers linger.

"Dunno," he admits, sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. It sounds like a lie. He looks over the water, the ripples drawn on the surface by rascal fish every now and then, and you follow his gaze. "Jus' seems funny, lookin' back. Ma 'n' Pa die, but I don't? Then everyone else keeps dyin', 'n' I don't. Not even when Arthur had me at the wrong end of his barrel." He makes a face, glances around as if checking that every rock is in the same place as a few seconds ago. "Gotta be some— purpose 'bout me."

You nod, pressing a thumb to your lips. "I think there is," you say after a moment. What you really want to say is: you've got something good inside you, Kieran, something unsoiled.

Kieran goes quiet with the cigarette perched between his lips and you fear scaring him off with that intensity. Smoke comes out of his nostrils with each breath. You're somewhat impressed that he can already handle so much tobacco in and out at once. He told you never smoked much, too broke to buy and too unliked to bum.

Watching his face again instead of the night, his eyes look tired, bagged heavily. You want nothing more than to reach out and touch his hair, to smooth your hand down his freckled neck and bring his head to your chest.

Something about him always triggers this instinct to protect. He can hold his own, but does he really deserve to need to?

What is—

Shit, what is love if not this overwhelming need to carry the weight for someone else?

Kieran turns as you're studying him, his face flickering through a reel of feelings before settling on one familiar, yet unnamed. He opens his mouth and plucks the smoke from his lips in one smooth movement, then pauses before speaking; green eyes glaze over with sudden inhibition looking at yours, then break away to study his own fingers and how they hold the orange filter of the cigarette.

"Thinking so hard you forgot what it was?" You tease, brows raised.

His laughter is nervous, cheeks rosy as you lean in closer. He glances up. "Thinkin' was gettin' hard, in fact," he says, takes a drag and rubs the back of his neck.

Ash falls as he does it, and you reach over to brush it off the back of his coat. It happens as quickly as the gray stuff fell and smeared its mark down the dark fabric beneath your fingertips: his hand loops around your wrist and he breaths hard before he is breathing you, those exhausted eyes softened with affection and inches from your own, wide with amused surprise.

Heat finds your face even before he quickly takes another drag — to boost his confidence, probably not even thinking it through — and smoke is half-exhaled into your mouth as his presses to yours in a sloppy attempt at shotgunning you a suave first kiss. Your spine itches with the gesture, as poorly executed as it is.

Yanking his hand towards you by your captured wrist, you grab his scruffy jaw in the other to keep him close. He tastes like tobacco and something metallic; he needs to eat more, tastes like empty. Lips part and brush as you retreat enough to let the smoke wisp from between your faces, lashes tickling each other.

The cigarette falls to the ground, his eyes roaming over your face in a near-panicky search. Kieran is looking at you like he's just killed you and doesn't know what to do with the body — he seems to have used all his confidence in one fell swoop, the air tangible with how his brain flounders as you press a second, short kiss to his lips.

"I— I think..." he begins, voice shakey with the sheer force behind it. He leans back, clears his throat and takes another hard breath. "Think you're part of it. That somethin'. You know?"

Your chest feels squeezed. "Yes," you say. "I do know."

[messrmoonyy]

- The Forbidden Fruit

Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader

Request- I NEED ARTHUR TO STEAL DUTCHS GIRL AND SHOW HER A REAL MANS LOVING. FILTHY PASSIONATE LOVING. WORK YOUR MAGIC

A/N- I got incredibly carried away with this. Is basically prawn with no plot honestly. And far softer smut than I think you intended it to be but. Here we are. Enjoy.

Warnings- 18+ | implied toxic relationship ( reader is in love with Dutch van der Linde what can you expect here ), smut: affair, Arthur being desperate to please!!!, fingering, oral ( reader receiving ) , unprotected p in v and he accidentally finishes inside oops, like the tiniest amount of cockwarming ( WC-8.9k )

AO3 | Masterlist - requests are open :)

Arthur didn’t involve himself in Dutch’s relationships. He stayed polite to whatever young woman he had hanging off his arm at the time, but that was about it. He’d seen too many girls come and go- usually in floods of tears at being dismissed by the man that had seduced and charmed them into loving him. Just working his way through shiny new plaything to plaything, hiding his unending sorrow for Annabelle under the skirt of some new girl. 

Unfortunately you were no different. 

In your defence, he supposed, you had lasted far longer than the rest. The only real exception to that being the famed Annabelle herself. But as was almost inevitable, your time in the honeymoon phase was slowly crumbling down around you. 

Arthur did wonder if it was simply because of the current stress levels in camp. They had all been on the run for longer than he cared to try and count, but after the mess in Blackwater they had reached new heights of being hunted. It had never been this bad. Nothing had ever gone this wrong. Because before everything had gone to complete shit, he’d actually seemed quite taken with you. In truth Arthur actually had begun to consider the idea that Dutch really did love you. Had finally been able to move on from the weight on his heart of his dead lover. 

But no. 

Arthur was observing the same pattern as always, it had just taken far longer with you. And that just seemed to make it all the more cruel. 

He barely even looked at you most days now. Barely uttered a few words in return to any question you asked. 

And the arguing was growing ever more fierce. It was practically everyday. 

Arthur didn’t like it. Didn’t like the way Dutch treated you. Didn’t like the way Dutch was treating anyone lately. But you in particular had never been anything but nice to him, kind. Sweet. Incredibly naive but sweet. To Arthur too. Some of the girls Dutch had strung along had been vile, rude and entitled and stuck up. But you? You were a genuinely nice person it seemed. And maybe that was your greatest flaw, for someone like that did not belong with Dutch Van Der Linde. 

In fact Arthur had come to like you from a distance. The times he had spoken to you you had been interesting, intelligent. Far cleverer than him and he had always liked that in a woman if he was honest. 

But still you clung to Dutch. Though your patience with him of late seemed to finally be wearing thin. 

Dutch had never really been one to be ashamed or afraid of airing his dirty laundry within the gang. Whether that be packing on the PDA in camp in a way that often made Arthur want to vomit up his breakfast, or the even more puke inducing sounds of the two of you making up all night long. So arguing was no exception to that either. 

And today was no different. 

“ you barely even look at me! I’m right here! I always have been, I’ve always been such a good girl haven’t I? I do as you say. And look at how you repay me! “ Arthur sighed as he dropped a stack of bills into the box, successfully recovering yet another of Strauss’ debts for him. You were both screaming at each other again, the tent flaps pulled down as if that would over any form of soundproofing. It was the camp's regular ambience now it seemed. 

He did feel sorry for you, he really did. You’d left everything you had for Dutch. Some beautiful, intelligent, well spoken girl. Heiress to her daddy’s mining fortune up north, used to the finer things but seeking some adventure. And Dutch had offered you both. Drowned you in jewels and gifts- though unlike the ones you had once owned the ones he gave were not his to give- Shown you off like a shiny new toy on his arm. Expressly informed Miss Grimshaw that you were not to be lifting a finger, that you would not have to earn your keep with chores like the others. 

You earned your keep by looking beautiful beside him, by boosting his ego with your constant devotion to him, by letting Dutch use you for his own source of pleasure and by the sounds of things- that Arthur truly had no choice but to overhear- not getting very much back in return. 

“ You know I don’t think I’ve ever met a more selfish woman in my life! “ Arthur sighed and sat down on his cot, debating whether or not to make some attempt to get the sleep he had been planning the entire long journey back to Clemens Point. But his tent was but a stone's throw from Dutch’s. 

“ I have needs too Dutch Van Der Linde!” Everyone else in camp didn’t seem to mind it though, most of them preparing to settle in for the night. Whether that be passing out on their bedrolls or drinking by the fire. But Arthur wasn’t sure he could put up with another moment of the damn yelling. 

“ oh? You have needs? “ Dutch’s voice was condescending. Mocking “ I give you everything! You are acting like a spoiled child”

“ a child? A child!? “ Arthur stood back up again, deciding he’d fare better trying to sleep on the damn ground rather than next to the likes of you and Dutch. So he headed out towards the edge of camp, hiding himself in the woods by the water. He slumped down against a tree with a heavy sigh and wished he’d thought to pick up a bottle of beer on the way. 

But it was no matter. He was far enough away that he couldn’t hear the fighting anymore, but close enough that if he was needed anyone calling his name would be heard. 

He looked out across the water, enjoying his rare moment of peace. It was a clear night and a full moon, the reflection bouncing off the water in the most beautiful way. He pulled out his journal and started to sketch it, wishing he could capture its beauty better. 

‘ Dutch and the girl were arguing again. Got out of earshot for a bit to try catch some sleep. Thought the water and the moon looked mighty pretty ‘ 

He scrawled underneath when he was done, tucking it back into the satchel discarded at his side. Javier's guitar had silenced back in camp now and he figured everyone had gone off to bed. But he was quite content there by the water, so dropped his hat over his face and settled in to try and catch a few hours himself. 

He was just dozing off when he heard the sound of boots marching quickly through the undergrowth, snapping twigs as they went. And then the soft sound of someone mumbling to themselves. He silently hoped whoever it was would keep well away from him. But the boots grew nearer and came to a halt not so far away. The crackle of a match being lit and a heavy sigh. 

“ thinks he can talk to me like that? Bastard. Bastard he is. I’m a lady I deserve better than. Than that “ 

You. 

He cleared his throat lightly to inform you that he was there, but unfortunately still seemed to startle you. 

“ Christ! Gave me a damn heart attack Arthur “ he placed his hat down with his satchel with a sigh and looked up at you. In the light of the moon reflecting off the water he could see your cheeks were tear stained, the glow of the end of your cigarette illuminating your face further and showing your makeup in streaks. 

He couldn’t lie that it made his heart ache for you. He didn’t particularly have any solid feelings for you, but he did feel sorry for you. It was hard not to feel sorry for the woman seduced by Dutch. 

And you truly were a cut above the rest in his opinion. Beautiful as the early morning sun and, when you weren’t screaming at Dutch, as kind and warm as it too. But maybe that was fitting. Because much like the sun you could bask people in warmth, but burn them too. Beautiful and bright but scalding and he found he couldn’t look at you for too long, no matter how many times he wanted too. Simply blinding his eyes with your flaming beauty and having to turn away. 

But maybe he was just getting caught up in his metaphors. 

“ shouldn’t be out this far from camp “ you simply shrugged, taking another drag of your cigarette “ ain’t no one nice lingerin’ in woods at night miss” even if no Lemoyne raiders were sneaking around the trees, there were plenty of species of wildlife that would happily do a number on you. Chew off a leg or bite you with poison fangs. You didn’t know how to take care of yourself. You couldn’t handle a gun, didn’t have a single survival instinct in you. 

Dutch had quite made sure of that, he’d heard you ask once or twice. And had been denied. Charming you with some string of words about how you were far too delicate to be handling a gun. To leave it for the men. 

“ you’re lingering in the woods aren’t you Mr Morgan? “ he chuckled and shrugged. 

“ and I ain’t that nice. Point proven lady “ 

“ not like Dutch would care if someone took me anyway. He’d probably be thankful “ your voice was hoarse from the shouting and he couldn’t tell if you were going to cry again or not. You took a long drag of your cigarette before seeming to suddenly remember something, dipping your hand into the waistband of your skirt and pulling out a pack “ sorry my manners. Want one? “ he took one with a nod of thanks “ can I sit? “

You sat down carefully beside him then with a long sigh, tucking your legs beneath you, and leant forward so he could light the cigarette between his lips with the end of yours. 

“ thanks “ you both sat quietly for a short while. Smoking and watching the ripples in the water. He didn’t mind it actually, as much as he had been slightly annoyed at you disturbing his attempt to sleep. You were decent company. 

You rarely strayed from Dutch’s side, but on the odd occasion you had and Arthur had stumbled upon you having a moment to yourself at the edge of camp it had been quite nice. So he didn’t mind sitting there with you, company. For you both. 

“ I think you’re nice. By the way “ you said to break the silence, refrenching his previous comment of bad men lingering in the woods. 

“ No offense to you Miss, but you’re in love with old Dutch. I don’t think you’re particularly qualified to be sayin’ whether folk is nice or not “ he said it teasingly in some hopes of making you smile. And it did. A little. 

“ maybe not “ he watched you bring your cigarette to your lips again, glancing at your hands. Nails perfectly trimmed and not a single speck of dirt or sign of a scar. Hands that had never had to lift a finger. Ever. It was an interesting contrast to his own. Calloused and scarred and bruised “ but Dutch he… he…Can I ask you something? “ 

“ Sure “ he said and flicked his cigarette away. 

“ Do you think I’m beautiful Arthur? “ you asked meekly. Your face was sad. Lingering innocence yet to be wiped away by life somehow, the kind that only remained because you had lived a life so sheltered. Even with Dutch you were as sheltered as could be “ and don’t lie. Please “

“ I think you’re beautiful, sure “ you turned back to the water again, tossing your own cigarette before promptly lighting another. 

“ Dutch doesn’t. Not anymore. Barely even looks at me “ Arthur ran a hand over his face, not entirely sure what he was supposed to say to you in the situation. At all “ I know I know I don’t expect you to agree. You two you’re…you’re like two peas in a pod aren’t you? “ you said with a small laugh, but it held no humour. You took a long drag of your cigarette. 

“ me and Dutch it’s… we go back a long way. But… I will agree the way he’s been treatin’ you. Ain't nice. Not when you done nothin’ but be loyal to him for so long “ you turned back to him again and gave a small smile. It was like a wave of relief had washed right over you. 

Someone was finally listening. 

“ I think he’s got his eyes on Mary-Beth “ you mumbled, red stained lips wrapping around your cigarette again. Much like how he had found himself admiring your hands he now found himself admiring your lips. Soft and plump and stained red in the way they often were. 

He blamed it on his fatigue. 

“ he’d be a fool to give you up. You’re kind, loyal, hell you might jus’ be the most beautiful woman I know. He’s in a weird place right now. He’ll snap outta it, be back to readin’ you Evelyn Miller in no time. You’ll see “ maybe the last part wasn’t entirely true. But the first part was. And you seemed to bask in his compliments. He wondered when the last time Dutch had said something nice to you had actually been. 

“ Thank you “ you looked as though you might cry again. And he really hoped you wouldn’t. He didn’t like to see you cry. And he really wouldn’t know what to say to you then. Once again you turned your attention back to the water and gave a small sigh “ maybe I chose the wrong outlaw “ you said with a small laugh “ always have thought you were quite handsome “ 

He nearly choked on his own saliva, clearing his throat in hopes to pass it out smoothly. He didn’t know if it had worked. 

“ Really? “ 

“ Hmm “ you mused, tilting your head inquisitively to the side “ but you were oh so hung up on that Mary girl when I found Dutch”

“ Yeah well. Mary she’s- that’s all done with now “ maybe Mary was the reason he seemed to sympathise with you so. Because he too had had a broken heart. Though he was sure his was not as brutal as yours. 

“ Guess we both have bad taste don’t we Mr Morgan “ he chuckled and nodded. 

“ That we do miss. That we do “ he placed a gentle hand to your shoulder and squeezed in some form of comfort “ don’t worry bout Dutch though. Really. He’ll come to his senses and if…if he don’t then. Any man would be lucky to have ya “ you sniffled and he figured you’d started crying again “ I didn’t mean to upset- “

“ No. No I’m fine. It’s just…you mean it all don’t you? All these kind words? “ he shrugged and then nodded. 

“ Sure I do. You’re a beautiful woman. Inside an out “ something seemed to flash across your face, a million and one things whirring away behind your eyes. He’d never been that good at reading people, never one for knowing what people were thinking. And the look on your face was the most confusing he’d ever seen. 

The next part happened far too quickly for him to process it. Maybe because he was tired, maybe because he truly hadn’t even slightly suspected you to do it. You flicked away the butt of your cigarette and leaned forward, one hand to his leg and the other to his neck. And kissed him. 

He was taken aback and you pulled away before he could make any attempt to figure out what you’d just done. 

“ Sorry “ you sighed in slight annoyance, seemingly at yourself, sitting back beside him again. Like it was no big deal. Just something that had happened and had no real consequence “ shit- sorry “ Arthur scratched the back of his neck awkwardly and shrugged with a small laugh. Attempting to play it as cool as you clearly were. 

Maybe he’d finally cracked and entered some weird fatigue induced psychosis, hallucinations and hearing voices. And kissing Dutch’s woman. 

“ S’okay. No harm done “ he was bewildered. Trying to process the last 30 seconds and coming up completely blank. 

“ Just the way you talk about me I- Lord forgive me “ he was certain he must have looked half dense. Still completely confused at what on earth was happening with you. And maybe, just maybe, a tiny bit flustered at having a woman like you kiss him. Even if you were begging the Lord for forgiveness right after it “ no one’s spoken to me like that in a long time and…and I wish they had. I want to be told I’m beautiful again. I want to be kissed. I want I want…I want a lot of things “ 

Maybe Arthur was a stupid, idiotic fool. Maybe too many gunshot wounds and bumps to the head had finally caught up to him. Maybe he too wanted to act on his ever growing annoyance with how Dutch was behaving. But he found himself reaching out, fingers tucking under your chin to turn your face to look at him. Your eyes were so beautiful up close. Practically sparkling in the moonlight.

Oh he was such a fool. 

“ could’a jus’ asked “ a small smile tugged at your lips and you laughed a little. 

“ Yeah. Of course. Because you’d have said yes Arthur? “ he shrugged. He didn’t know if he would’ve actually. But now the thought was in his head “ alright “ you whispered and shuffled a little closer to him “ indulge me “ 

His thumb was absentmindedly brushing over your jaw, looking at you in the light of the moon and wondering how on earth Dutch wasn’t constantly begging for your attention. If he had a woman like you constantly hanging off his every word he wouldn’t know how to act. Would be like a mangy dog trailing around after you for food.  

“ I might’ve “ you gave a roll of your eyes but you were smiling still, a beautiful, tempting smile.

You were a temptress. A siren. Luring him in with your beauty to do something terrible. And you were vulnerable. Sad and seeking appreciation. And he was truly debating it. 

“ Well…“ you started quietly, looking up at him through your long lashes in a way that made his chest go tight “ there is… still time for you to say yes “ 

“ we ain’t gonna tell no one bout this y’hear? This it’s… it’s jus’ between me and you. Okay? “ your eyebrows furrowed for a second looking up at him intently, as if trying to figure out if he was joking or not. If he was serious. He wasn’t entirely sure himself, needed you to agree or disagree to put the thought to rest.  His thumb continued to brush along your jaw tenderly and your eyes fell closed for a moment. 

How long had it been since someone had touched you with such care? That something as simple as that seemed to mean so much to you. 

“ I understand “ you whispered, eyes flickering down to his lips again. He pulled you in close, barely an inch between your lips and then spoke again “ you’ll give me what I want? Don’t treat me like him “ 

“ Anythin’ ya want. You got it. I’ll give ya what you deserve “ you let a shuddering breath escape and gave a small nod before closing the gap between you both again. 

He hadn’t kissed anyone in a while, but he sure found his footing quickly. You kissed him like he was your source of air, climbing your way into his lap and slipping your hands into his hair. You tasted of cigarette smoke and something almost sweet. Whatever it was, it was an intoxicating mix. You were like a siren singing your call in his ear, drawing him in and taking him for your own. The weight of you in his lap was almost familiar, welcoming. Just… nice. 

He had almost forgotten just how fun it was to kiss a woman. How so many men seemed to shun it as boring, pointless- Dutch obviously included. But Arthur had always loved it. Had spent many a night as a youngster sneaking his way into Mary’s room just to kiss her. To spend hours kissing and talking and kissing some more. 

Kissing you was something else. Addictive. Intoxicating. 

Eventually he had to pull away, his lungs screaming at him for air. Your hands slipped out from his hair and down to grasp at the collar of his shirt, resting your forehead on his. 

“ Anything I want you say? “ you asked quietly, breathless. 

“ Anythin’ “ you smiled and lifted your head, a quiet determination settling over you. Your lipstick had smeared and he wondered how much of it was now on his own face. 

“ okay… undress me then “ you softly commanded, shifting slightly in his lap “ please. Dutch never- he makes me do it myself, barely even looks I- Please “ 

He almost laughed to himself about now he immediately thought getting you naked was entirely too risky. As if the entire situation alone wasn’t risky anyway. But he didn’t want to think too hard about that, instead simply channelled his recent annoyance towards Dutch into his actions. Tried to tell himself he was doing a good thing, taking care of you. 

You watched his face carefully as he gently untucked your shirt from where it was tucked into your skirt, some silky soft thing that probably cost more than everything he owned in his clothing trunk put together. He undid every pearl button slowly, eyes darting up to your face as he did. Your chest was heaving in long, heavy breaths. You were nervous. Or excited. He couldn’t tell which. 

You shivered lightly when he pushed it from your shoulders, now only the soft cotton of your chemise between his hands and your chest. Your nipples had hardened, from the slight night chill or lust he couldn’t say. But he found himself unable to resist the sight, leaning forward and capturing one between his lips through the cotton. You gasped softly, a sound so beautiful it made him groan. You sounded delicate. Innocent. You’d never made such sounds when he’d overheard you with Dutch. In fact a majority of the time you almost sounded in pain. 

But this sound wasn’t that. This sound was beautiful. And he wanted to hear more. One hand pushed at your back to bring you closer, the other palmed at your neglected breast in hopes you’d make the sound again. And you did. Gentle, soft gasps as his tongue dampened the material of your chemise, teeth tugging at you gently through the material. Your hand found his hair again, raking your fingers through it and arching your back into his touch. 

He couldn’t imagine why Dutch had never wanted to do such a thing. How could he not want to hear you make those pretty pretty sounds? How could he not want to feel you writhing in his lap and yearning to be touched. Maybe Dutch was more of a fool than he had originally thought. 

“ Need you to touch me- properly I- take this off “ your sentence was choppy, like you weren’t focussed enough to truly articulate the words you wanted to say. But he understood, pulling your chemise over your head and dropping it to land with your shirt. 

He took a moment just to look at you, not even entirely because he knew you’d want him to. Just because he wanted to. He’d be a liar if he said he hadn’t wondered what was hiding under your expensive clothes once or twice. How could he not when he had to try sleep through the sounds of you and Dutch of a night. 

“ God damn “ he said softly, hands soothing over your waist as you basked in his admiring stare, taking in the feeling of finally being looked at. Properly. 

“ like what you see Mr Morgan “ you asked, voice sultry and low in a way that made his cock twitch in his pants. 

“ Dutch is a damn fool “ is all he could say, leaning forward to kiss you again, his hands moving to grab at your chest. You moaned into the kiss as he squeezed and massaged your breasts with his large hands, seizing the opportunity to dip his tongue into the warmth of your mouth. Your fingers in his hair, twisting strands around your fingers and tugging lightly. He felt like he was on cloud nine. Certain he’d somehow taken a stumble through the veil and ended up at heaven's gates. 

He wasn’t a particularly religious man, but the way he was prepared to worship and praise you could truly be considered blasphemous. 

He couldn’t resist the temptation of getting his mouth on you again much longer, dragging his lips from yours and wrapping them around a pebbled nipple instead. You rolled your hips against him, those beautiful soft moans still falling past your lips. This was what you had wanted from him. To be worshipped. To be looked at as the beautiful temptress of a woman you were. And not merely glanced at and then used like some two dollar whore in a saloon. 

He wanted to nip at your skin, bite and soothe it with his tongue. But he knew he couldn’t. Couldn’t risk Dutch seeing it if he felt the need to stop ignoring you for a short while for his own needs. But oh how he wanted to. To mark up your smooth skin with reminders that you were desired. That you could look at as they faded and be reminded that you were wanted. 

“ I need more “ you whispered “ Arthur please. Give me more “ another roll of your hips followed by a small whimper told him enough. 

“ I know I got ya “ he murmured against your skin, pressing kisses up your sternum and your neck. Nose brushing at the underside of your jaw and working his way back to your lips again “ stand up. Lemme get you out of these damn clothes “ he caught the smile on your face as you stood up, he stayed seated and ran his hands over the fabric covering your hips. Something seemed to blaze in your eyes as you looked down on him. He realised it was most probably you that was usually being leered down on, but not now. 

Not with him. Not with Arthur. Arthur looked up at you like the goddess you were, looked up at you with what he knew was a silent pleading in his eyes. Dutch would never ask he knew it. Dutch took. Stole. Used. Arthur didn’t. Wouldn’t. 

“ I like how you look at me “ you said quietly, hand soothing over his hair “ you make me feel beautiful “

“ Cause y’are “ he murmured, hands reaching to the ties of your skirt. He wanted to see more. Wanted to see all of you. 

You helped him with the slightly tedious task of getting your skirts and undergarments off, but all so slowly. Taking his time. Making sure he appreciated every single layer of clothing you removed for him, right down to unlacing your boots and holding your leg gently to help you out of them. Until you stood there as naked as the day you were born, illuminated by the moonlight on the water. 

“ well ain’t you a sight “

Your skin was so smooth. Soft. Not a single scar that he could see. The skin of a woman who had never had to lift a finger. Had never known the hardships that he had. The only true blemish on your skin was the almost completely faded bruises on your hips. Fingertips. Dutch. 

He soothed his hands up your legs, pressing soft kisses to the pillowy flesh of your thighs as he went, and stopped as he reached them. 

“ He can be a little rough. It’s how he likes it “ you answered before he could even ask. Arthur too had been known to have his rougher moments. But he could never hurt you. Never mark you in anyway other than that of affection and care. 

“ I ain’t like that “ 

“ I know. That’s why I want you “ he pulled you back down into his lap, his large hands splaying over your hips as he took yet another moment just to look. To admire. To thank whatever stupid damn God may exist for placing such a heavenly body in his presence “ I feel a little like the odd one out here though “ you said with a small smile, tracing a finger down from the open top buttons of his shirt to his pants. 

He’d been far too occupied with you to even really notice the fact that he was ridiculously overdressed in comparison. 

“ Can’t have that now can we darlin’ “ your smile grew and you made quick work of the buttons on his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders with a gentle sigh. You ran your fingers through the hair on his chest, nails scratching lightly at his skin and peppering lipstick stained kisses as you went. Littering his collarbones, his sternum.

“ much better “ your hands kept roaming and your lips kept kissing. Hands seemingly wanting to touch him all, scratching lightly up his sides and over his waist, his stomach and his ribs. Slowly moving to slide over his shoulders and loop around his neck. You rolled your hips against him again and whined softly. He was so hard it was growing painful as he stayed restrained by his pants. But he wasn’t selfish. Not like Dutch. And he wasn’t about to seek out any form of pleasure himself until he had you seeing the stars you deserved. 

“ tell me what y’want “ he murmured, peppering soft kisses across your jaw. 

“ touch me “ you sighed blissfully “ please touch me “ 

His hand slipped down in between your bodies, brushing past the soft curls between your legs and couldn’t contain the groan of a sound that left him when he felt how warm and wet you were. 

“ Christ “ he muttered as your head dropped to his shoulder with a shuddering breath “ he ever touch you like this? “ he asked lowly, already knowing the answer. Why would he? He didn’t get anything out of it. 

But Arthur did. Oh Arthur did. 

“ no “ you whispered “ no never…please. More “ he tested the waters, pressing lightly against your clit and revelling in the squeak of a sound that it caused you to make. 

“ or like this? " You shook your head again, breathing shakily as he dragged his finger through the wetness and drew light circles around your entrance. 

“ Arthur “ you moaned his name in the most delicious way as he pushed his finger inside, burying it to the knuckle 

“ yeah and what about this darlin? “ he again knew the answer. Dutch didn’t care about your pleasure. Didn’t care about wasting time on something as simple as making you whimper and whine for more “ he touch you like this? “ 

“ no “ 

“ think ya can take one more for me? “ you nodded again and he withdrew his finger, gathering your slick on his other before pushing them both past the resistance of your entrance “ that’a girl “ he pumped his fingers in and out steadily, curling and probing at your velvety soft walls to test what you liked. 

“ This is so… oh god. This isn’t proper at all “ you laughed slightly, melting into a soft moan. Arthur chuckled, lifting your face up so you’d look at him. 

“ Ain’t proper at all? It’s damn right filthy darlin” your cheeks were aflame and you closed your eyes for a moment, grinding yourself against his hand “ look at ya. Drippin all over ma fingers like that. Ain’t proper. Not one bit “ you smiled, a cheeky, devious smile that made him lean forward and kiss you again. 

You were so wet it was obscene. He couldn’t tell where the sounds of you kissing stopped and the sopping sounds of his fingers began. You continued to grind down against his palm, practically riding his fingers, his whole hand wet and sticky with you. 

And he wanted to taste it. To taste you. To flood his mouth with the slick, liquid gold covering his fingers. It was an almost primal desire, like a desperation as strong as needing air. He needed to. He had to. 

“ Darlin’ “ he murmured, lifting your head from where it had fallen to his neck again “ gotta let me taste you. You gotta “ the look on your face only made him want it more. Your skin flushed and eyes blown out with nothing but pure lust and desire. He’d never needed anything more. Nothing else mattered, not the painful hardness in his pants, not the realisation that you were very much Dutch’s girl. He didn’t care about any of that. He just needed to be between your thighs. 

“ really? No one’s ever- oh god. Yes. Yes. Please Arthur “ he withdrew his fingers making you whimper and quickly grabbed his discarded shirt and lay it down on the ground. Then he kissed you again as he wrapped his arms around your waist, gently turning you to lay back on the shirt. It still couldn’t have been particularly comfortable. But you didn’t seem to mind, tugging at his hair and lifting your hips up against him as he hovered over you. 

He took his time moving down. Leaving a long and slow trail of hot, wet, kisses on your skin. You writhed underneath him, whining softly and twisting your hands in his shirt underneath you. He took extra time with your thighs. Kissing up from the inside of your knee and stopping before he could place his mouth where he really wanted to, then repeating with the other. 

“ Arthur “ you whined, still squirming around and desperate. 

“ I know. I got ya. Gonna make those pretty sounds for me again yeah? "You nodded, pushing yourself up onto your elbows to watch him as his head sank lower, spreading your legs wider to give him full access to the centre of you “ that’s a good girl “ he spread you open with his fingers, in awe of the way you parted for him. Like petals on a flower, dripping with the morning dew. 

But you were far more delectable. A forbidden fruit begging to be tasted. 

And oh was it pretty. Even in the dark, in nothing but the light of the moon on the water, it was pretty. Begging to be tasted, touched. Admired. 

The sound you made as he dragged his tongue from your weeping hole to your clit was like music to his ears. He didn’t know how he managed to not come in his pants just at the sound of it. 

You still kept it quiet, but loud enough for him. 

His own, deep, guttural moan escaped from his chest as he licked again. Your taste flooding his mouth in a way so so much better than he could’ve imagined. 

He ate you like he was starved. Like a savage predator that hadn’t seen meat for days, like a man ready for the gallows enjoying his last meal. His arms wrapped around your thighs, keeping your legs apart for him as you bucked and squirmed against his face. It was visceral. Carnal. You made him feel like his grip on his own composure and control was weaker than ever, that he was holding on to it with nothing but his fingertips. 

“ Arthur “ he dipped his tongue into the welcoming warmth of your cunt, his eyes falling closed for a moment as he felt you clench around him, desperate for more. Desperate for him. And he would give you more, would give you anything you asked of him. But not until he made you come first. 

He let go of one of your legs and brought his fingers back to their previous position, wanting to feel you again. To be inside of you, as close as he could get. To make you see stars. 

The flat of his tongue found your clit again, certain he could feel you pulsing against him. Desperate and full of desire for him. He felt honoured, privileged. That you were so loyal to Dutch, glued to his side. Never even batting an eye at anyone else. And yet you had broken that for him. Had sought him out because you knew he would treat you well. 

Your back arched off the ground as he sunk them back into you, slipping in with a welcome ease. His thick fingers pumped into you at a steady pace, his tongue diverting all its attention to your clit. Lapping and sucking and letting you press his face harder against you as you tugged on his hair. 

“ don’t stop please dont- Arthur “ he had no intentions of stopping, none at all. In fact he simply honed in on his ministrations, working harder to push you closer and closer to the edge of the orgasm he knew you had been craving for weeks. 

“ Not gonna stop darlin. Ain’t stopping until you come for me. Taste so good, so good “ he murmured against you, curling his fingers and hitting a spot that made you gasp and your body shudder “ there we go, right there “ 

He flicked his tongue over your sensitive bundle of nerves, looking at you as best he could to gauge your reaction. You were pulling a little painfully at his hair, squirming and rolling your hips against his face. He let you do it. Let you be the one using a man for your pleasure, rather than being the one used for once. 

Your sounds were sinful. Melodic. He took it all in. Basked in the noises you made for him, the delicious taste of you on his tongue, drunk on you. On your taste. Your smell. 

“ Arthur- Arthur please I- “ you babbled, a slightly smug smile working its way onto his face as he watched your prim and proper facade melt away “ don’t stop “ 

He hummed an assurance that he wouldn’t, your hips bucking against his face as he did. You were so unbelievably wet, dripping out around his fingers and soaking the hair of his beard. He would never have thought it of you. The way you held yourself around camp, so poised and prim. The accent when you spoke that made everyone else around you sound so common. And yet there you were. On your back in the woods, chasing an orgasm being offered to you by an outlaw. Repeating his name like a mantra. 

And not even that of the outlaw you were in love with.

“ Arthur- “

Only seconds later it happened. You held a hand over your mouth as your orgasm hit you, muffling your choked moans, back arching off the ground and walls clamping down on his fingers as he worked you through it. Tongue still working diligently at your clit until you pushed your hand at his head, squirming away a little. 

He almost didn’t want to stop. Could’ve happily stayed there a while longer, but moved back, an obscene wet sound in the late night silence as he withdrew his fingers. 

He took his fingers to his mouth, sucking the remnants of your climax onto his tongue. Unable to control himself. You watched him do it, mouth slightly agape and eyes half open with some desperate undeniable look of utter desire. He could almost see the way it made you feel, could see you unable to contain the overwhelming feeling of realising you were desired. Wanted. 

“ God. You are unbelievable “ you whispered, pushing yourself up onto your elbows and grabbing at his arm. Your fingers looped around his wrist and tugged his hand towards your own mouth. He shook his head with a chuckle, slightly in awe as you took those same two fingers between your red lips. 

Your tongue swirled between his digits, plush lips wrapping around them and sucking. Your eyes locked on his as you did. It made his cock ache. He wanted your lips on him, wanted your tongue swirling around his length and milking him dry. He could imagine it if he thought hard enough. The way you hummed slightly in appreciation as you sucked his fingers clean, sent vibrations straight through his bones. Rattling him to the core. But he would never ask that of you. But the thought was one he would hold onto. It made him shift slightly. 

“ you ain’t so prim and proper lady “ he murmured as he withdrew his fingers, a string of saliva connecting his fingertips and your lips “ This ain’t very proper of you miss “ Arthur said with a small smile, teasing “ rollin’ around in the dirt with the likes of me “ 

“ Oh to hell with being proper if it means I get to feel like this “ you said with a small laugh and he kissed you again for what felt like the millionth time. He wondered if you could taste yourself on his lips, smell the heady delicious smell of you on his beard.

He would’ve been more than happy to leave it at that. No matter how badly he wanted to sheath himself inside you and stay there for eternity. His goal had been your pleasure and he had achieved it. 

But as he kissed you your hands began working at the buckle of his gun belt, opening it with a skilled ease that made him pull back. 

“ Darlin’ you ain’t gotta do that- “

“ shush “ you pushed at him lightly so you could sit up and went to work on the buttons on his pants next “ I want to. I- Arthur take them off “ he made far quicker work of his own clothes than he had of yours and you leant back on your elbows to watch him. 

You looked like a pinup girl. Like something he’d seen drawn come to life. Your eyes seemed hungry as you looked at him, dragging down his body and lingering on his rock hard cock. He was practically throbbing with want, the tip an angry shade of pink and leaking precum slightly embarrassingly “ come here. Please. Back down here “ 

He did as he was asked, crawling back over your body as you eyed him greedily. 

“ We really don’t…I mean, If y’don’t wanna- “ his words stuck in his throat as your fingers wrapped around the length of him with a small sigh. 

“ I want you to I just…can I ask one thing? “ he couldn’t get the word yes to escape his mouth, your fingers squeezing him softly in a way that made him see flashes of white in his vision. So he simply nodded “ don’t fuck me. Dutch fucks me, make love to me “ you seemed a little embarrassed at the request. But he didn’t think it was embarrassing. In fact he had had no plans to use you as brutally as Dutch. He was almost a little offended you thought he might. 

“ Told you, anythin’ you want. You got it “ you smiled softly and pressed another kiss to his lips before laying back down again. He positioned himself over you, caging your head in between his arms. And it truly was incredibly intimate. He wondered when the last time you had had such intimacy was. If you’d ever received such a thing from Dutch. 

He spat on his hand and grabbed a hold of his sensitive cock, stroking himself a couple of times to get himself slick. Not that he really needed to, you were already wetter than he’d ever known a woman to be. But the last thing he wanted was your discomfort. He lined himself up with you, eyes trained on your face as he dragged his weeping tip between your folds. You gasped as he caught your clit, still sensitive and alert from your first orgasm. 

“ Arthur please “ you whimpered rolling your hips up against him, so desperate to have him inside of you. 

“ So God damn wet for me “ he murmured “ such a good girl ain’t ya? “ you whined in answer, fingers wrapping around what you could of his bicep and digging your perfectly trimmed nails into his skin “ gonna make you feel so good I promise darlin’ jus’ like you deserve yeah? “ you whispered out a yes and brought your other hand to the back of his neck. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, still running his cock along the length of your slit. Teasing. 

“ Keep looking at me. Please look at me Arthur “ he continued to do as asked. Again. Though his eyes had barely strayed from your face anyway “ I need you so badly “ Eyes locked on yours, he finally pushed into you, he took it slow. Letting you take it inch by inch, watching the look of ecstasy wash over your face. Your eyes fell closed. 

He fought to retain his own composure, overwhelmed by the tight, wet, warmth of your walls enveloping him. He could feel every unique ridge and bump that made your cunt oh so perfect, feel every muscle stretch and contract as you adjusted to him. 

“ god- oh god “ 

“ shh shh easy there. I got ya “ he paused once he was seated inside of you, grabbing at your hip with one hand to angle your hips better. Allowing you to comfortably take all of him in. He waited, let you adjust to his size, not daring to move before he got the go ahead from you “ there you go, look at you, takin’ all of me like that. So good f’me “ you basked in his praise, a dopey kind of smile spreading across your face.

“ so much bigger than him “ you whispered with a small laugh and Arthur couldn’t help the smug smile on his face. Kissing you and touching you and making you come on his tongue had been one thing. But having you like this? Having his cock buried to the hilt inside of you, so unbelievably close together. And to then be told that? To know he was about to do you better than Dutch ever had. Ever could. It felt like the biggest fuck you to the man that had been not only mistreating him of late, but also the goddess of a woman beneath him “ I’m good. You can move. Please move “ 

He didn’t need telling twice. Pulling out almost completely and thrusting back in in one smooth motion. The pace he fell into was just as you’d asked. Loving. Tender. But hard and deep, making sure his hips were flush with yours with every stroke. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulled his face back down to kiss him again. 

If anyone had spotted you they’d have easily mistaken you both for a lovesick couple having a private moment to yourselves. The entire thing intimate and passionate. No one would assume it was an affair in motion, hidden away in the woods by the shoreline in fear of your lover finding the pair of you there. 

But it was what you wanted. What you had needed. And he felt privileged to provide. 

He pulled back from your lips to watch you again, enthralled by the way your face relaxed and twisted in the pleasure he was providing you. You continued to spill those angelic sounds from your throat, growing breathier and higher pitch as he continued to drag his cock against the sopping, sensitive heat of your cunt. He had to focus hard not to finish in seconds. So much build up paired with being practically celibate for months was truly doing him no favours, but he focussed. He wasn’t letting this end until you came once more. You deserved it. 

“ Keep those pretty eyes on me “ he murmured as they fell closed again “ that’s it darlin’, look at me there ya go “ everytime he spoke the slightest word of praise you practically beamed, so desperate to hear it. To be told you were good. Beautiful. So different to Dutch constantly yelling at you about how annoying you were, how much your mere presence bothered him these days. So he kept it up. 

“ Doin’ so well for me. This pussy it’s perfect, ain’t that right? C’mon tell me “ he urged, still fighting off his ever looming orgasm. The sounds alone was enough to make him want to burst. Sweat slicked skin on skin, the wet sounds of your cunt dripping around the swollen intrusion of him. And those sweet sweet moans of yours. 

“ yes “ you whimpered “ it’s perfect “ 

“ That’s a good girl “ he increased his pace ever so slightly and your hands slipped from his arms to his back, dragging your nails down him to try to pull him impossibly closer to you. 

He moved a hand down between your bodies, rubbing your clit in time with his thrusts, grunting and choking back his own moans as you squeezed him. Like your body never wanted him to leave, gripping his cock with your cunt and making it ever more harder to hold back. He couldn’t help but have a look, glancing down to see the way you stretched around him, mesmerised at the way you took him in so deep. 

“ tell me I- oh. Tell me I’m beautiful “ you whimpered, sounding almost like you might cry. From pleasure, from upset. He didn’t know. But he continued to do as asked. 

“ you’re beautiful “ he murmured picking up his pace a little more, his sweat slick skin slapping against yours. He was desperate to see you come again. Wanted to see your face up close this time, watch your eyes roll back and your kiss swollen lips part in ecstasy “ so beautiful darlin. Doin’ so well f’me, takin’ me so well “ 

“ don’t stop, don't stop “ he dropped his head to your neck whispering every word of praise he could think of into your ear, your body arching up against his and whimpering and whining with every word. 

“ ain’t ever looked prettier than this “ he whispered, his own voice becoming breathless with the effort “ shit- look at ya, takin’ my cock so well. So pretty darlin’ “ 

Your second orgasm seemed to shock you as much as him, clawing at his skin to hold him close as your body trembled beneath him, biting at his shoulder to muffle your moans. 

He didn’t mean to finish inside of you, had fully intended to pull out. But the way your cunt had squeezed him, the sounds you had made as he pushed you over the edge for the second time.

He muffled his own groan of pleasure in your neck, fingers digging into the dry earth beneath you, spilling load after load whilst fully sheathed inside of you. His entire body tensed, a pleasure he hadn’t felt in an incredibly long time. His heart was hammering in his chest, blood rushing loudly in his ears as it seemed to drag on forever. 

And then he came to his senses. 

“ m’sorry. Shit. Sorry “ he panted as he tried to compose himself and pushed himself up onto his hands to pull out. But you yanked him back down, arms wrapping around his back again and legs tightening around his waist. 

“ no. Please. Stay. Stay right there. Just a moment would you “ he had come to realise in the past.. how long had you two even been out there? However long it was, he’d come to realise he was terrible at saying no to you. Could never possibly even dream to deny you of anything you wanted from him. And so he slumped back down onto his forearms, dropping his head against your shoulder for a moment. Your chest heaved beneath him and you caught your breath, fingers tracing gentle strokes along his spine. He felt he could stay there for hours. 

“ You doin’ okay? “ he asked, pressing a light kiss to your jaw when he had composed himself a little more. 

“ marvellous Mr Morgan “ you whispered with a small smile “ truly. Marvellous “ he couldn’t help but kiss you again, the long lingering kind meant for two lovers. 

After a few minutes you both finally moved, re dressing in silence and then sitting back in your original position against the tree. He handed you a cigarette, lighting it and placing it between your lips. 

He wondered what he looked like. Wondered what evidence you had left on him. Had he sweated off the lipstick prints on his chest or were they still there? He knew you had scratched his back up good and proper and would have that reminder there for a few days at least. 

“ Thank you. Mr Morgan '' you said quietly after a few silent moments of smoking, blowing out a long stream of smoke “ I mean it I- i'm not sure what I’m supposed to say “ 

“ Don’t say anythin’ “ he said with a small wave of his hand, appearing as blaise as he possibly could but in reality knowing he wasn’t about to forget that night anytime soon “ its fine. Really. Anytime y’need me, for anythin’, you know where I’ll be “ you smiled and he watched your body relax a little more. 

“ you know, i might just take you up on that “ 

He sincerely hoped you would. 

Update: I currently have ZERO intentions to ever write a second part to this. I have been asked so many times since uploading this originally that I’ve lost count. But I have absolutely no ideas or inspirations for a second part at any point in the near. Or far. Future. It was always meant to be a stand alone like all my one shots are. But tysm for the love <3

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

✧ Fantasies in the dark - I

✦ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader ✦ Summary: In which Arthur catches a glimpse of your intimacy, the vision driving him into madness until he finally decides to give in to his urges. ✦ Warnings: SMUT 18+, MDNI! Masturbation, nudity, voyeurism (reader not aware he's staring), self-depreciation, and lots of shame from this poor man. Arthur's pov. ✦ Words: 2,7k Arthur's pic is mine, others are from Pinterest. And as always, as English isn't my first language, prepare for some possible misspellings. Read on AO3

Part I - Part II

Lately, Arthur had a problem. An incessant, disturbing, haunting problem.

He couldn’t sleep at night.

This could have been related to the gang’s precarious situation, being hunted down by the Pinkertons and surrounded by enemy gangs, O’Driscolls and Lemoyne raiders everywhere. Or even because of some older wounds, the loss of Eliza and Isaac amongst others, reminded almost every day by the complicated family portrait John painted with Abigail and Jack. Or the hurtful thought of the life he never had with Mary that was always following him since he had seen her again near Valentine. Life doomed from the start by his inherent violence and the mountain of corpses he was responsible for.

Arthur had plenty of reasons not to sleep at night. But this wasn’t because of any of that.

He couldn’t sleep because of you. 

Not that it was your fault. In fact, you didn’t even know about any of that and Lord have mercy, he was praying that you’ll never find out; because he would never be able to look at you in the eyes then.

A few weeks ago, the gang had settled at Clemen’s Point. A rather pretty spot just near the lake, and not so far from town. But it wasn’t exactly the place that was causing him trouble. It was the unexpected view he was having from his tent.

For some unknown, mystical reasons, Miss Grimshaw while deciding the camp’s ajancement had decided to place your tent right next to his. Not so big of a problem at first sight, right?

Except that you were a night owl combined with the suffocating warmth of the place. Making you get to bed naked.

Oh, Arthur knew you do, because every night, every single one, you let a candle lit to read, or write, or God knows what before sleeping. The light casts your shadow against the tent’s canvas. The shadow of your very much nude body.

The first night Arthur had noticed, he had come back exhausted from a job in the middle of the night and laid on his cot without even taking the time to remove his boots or hat. A very usual and typical slice of his life, which lately felt more and more like a terribly used one. As if all these slices were repeating again and again. An accumulation of jobs and missions and robberies and fights; deceiving, lying, stealing, killing. Over and over again, going round and round. At night, he was reduced to a slumbered mind in a spent body, that was definitely becoming old and rusty. Already half asleep, mud and twigs surrounding his tired limbs, his thoughts all tangled up like a ball of wool, he had turned his head to his left, reaching from instinct for his pack of cigarettes on the little table next to his bed. Another slice of bad habits from a bad life.

That’s how his eyes had met with this quite erotic shape displayed on your tent.

Said eyes had grown so big that it had fully woken him up all of a sudden, as quickly as if someone had dumped a bucket of iced water on his shocked face. After half of a second of pure stabbing surprise and incomprehension with his hand hanged in the air, his breath stuck in his throat as if really being punched in the gut, he instantly turned his eyes back to the ceiling of his own tent. Cheeks burning red, heart pounding, as if someone had caught him in the act of doing a terribly shameful thing. Exactly as if he had really seen you naked.

He had feverishly grabbed the cigarette pack without looking at it, gaze refusing to turn again, these two blue diamonds locked on the ceiling of his tent, and had messily pulled one out of it, his shaky fingers fumbling, almost spilling everything on the ground.

He must have looked so damn ridiculous.

The smoke helped him to calm down, its soothing and comforting feeling spreading and burning through his lungs. He had fallen asleep, turned to the other side facing the wagon, trying not to think too much about the peek of your intimacy he had witnessed, telling himself it probably was going to be an isolated incident. 

But of course, of course the Lord had to torment him even in the rare moments of peace he could have enjoyed.

Turns out this was apparently a habit of yours. 

To be honest, he probably deserved to be tormented. But this was years from what he had in mind when it came to the Lord's punishment for his life of crimes.

And Arthur, even though a hardened man in many ways, able to lock lips during torture, kill men with bare hands, and stay emotionally strong in any kind of situation, was still only, after all, a man. A man with needs.

Filthy, disgusting needs.

He had tried to resist. Had tried not to let his eyes slip in your direction like that first night. Sometimes he would allow himself a quick glance, just to check if you were wearing any clothes for once, like a normal person. And maybe the night after would be different? Every evening spent at camp, his pupils would end up brushing the sinful silhouette in just a soft, slight sight, as if not to scare you, as if not to feel too bad about it.

But it was getting harder and harder not to stare. The easy lies about just checking on you or looking at anything else in the same area as your tent to have the chance of winning a glimpse of you would soon not be enough.

Just the mere fact that he knew you were completely bare, only a few meters away from him, singly the thin and superficial fabric of the tent between the both of you, was getting him hard and sweaty, and making his blood boil as a virgin teenage boy would. He could almost physically feel it, like a burning presence in his back when he was sleeping head against the wagon's wall.

The Human mind may be well designed for a lot of things; it forgets an event too hard to carry or can trick you into thinking you're not experiencing any physical pain in extreme situations. But Arthur had learned that it was extremely poorly made when it came to ignoring something. The more he was trying to not think about his unholy urges, the more he ended up being plagued with them. As sure as the seasons always turned in circles, you would come back to his effusive psyche.

And Oh, he was ashamed. Ashamed and revolted by himself. This was absolutely not in his habits, all the contrary. Yes, he was an old miserable bastard who had killed and plundered. But for God's sake, he had never acted obscene towards a lady before.

But the shame wasn't enough for him to stop. On the nights when the guilt was at its lowest —when the tediousness of his days was nibbling at his patience, he had let his eyes wander to your sinful figure, telling himself that maybe if he did, he could just go on with his night and finally rest. Just a quick taste, not too long.

But it only made things worse. It made him dream of you. 

Dream of you stripped, his imagination taking the lead of what the tent’s fabric was preventing him from seeing. Dream of you moaning, taking him so tightly, welcoming him in your warm body and into your arms. Dream of the feeling of your skin under his fingertips, of the sight of your naked body squirming with pleasure. He would now often wake up frustrated and angry, if he had succeeded in sleeping at all, his member hard and throbbing on its own, his heart beating powerfully in his chest as if it had been real. His pants and blanket had even been damped one or two times. 

What was he, a fifteen-year-old boy again? He was so angry and mortified by the physical obsession his body was having with you that he was constantly in a foul and fiery mood;  bitter with everyone, his tension leaking into every movement and every word he spoke. He started missing targets when shooting, getting even more reckless and hot-headed during jobs, jobs often ending up missed or taken care of negligently, yelling at people when they weren’t fast enough, or clever enough, or silent enough, breaking things, breaking rules. The lack of sleep was making his deadly efficiency fade away, replaced by sloppy and messy gestures, stopping enemies from falling dead at his feet like his lethal skills always did, castrating the only thing that was left of his masculinity.

And yet, he couldn’t stop watching you from afar during the time he was at camp, telling himself he knew, or at least had an idea, of what you looked like without these clothes on; feeling a twisted sensation of pride imagining he was the only one who did. On top of that, your sweet personality and beautiful face weren’t helping him at all with his addiction. Filthy old bastard, stop it- he had to mentally slap himself to prevent staring at you for too long, especially staring at your chest that this goddamn dress you had chosen to wear wasn’t covering at all; or your ass these goddamn pants were fitting way too well.

Tonight, Arthur is avoiding going to bed too early. He knows he would just lay in it waiting for you anyway. Instead, he goes for a walk along Flat Iron Lake’s shores, bringing his journal with him. Two entire pages are already dedicated to your shadow. He had no idea a picture exclusively made of black and white flats on a sheet could have such a powerful erotic effect. Or maybe he is a complete degenerate —which, he is sure, is more and more true.

He has to be honest with himself, he could just go to a hotel, or out of camp for a few days to sleep under the stars, and the matter would be settled.

But he doesn’t want to. Because deep down inside, his urges are winning, making him feel like the most foolish and weakest man alive. He enjoys watching you. He enjoys seeing those forbidden plumped curves cast on this canvas. He feels like you're not leaving him any mercy, pitiless, his days dictated by the wait for his taboo rendez-vous, his nights by your sensual apparitions in his dreams.

He is trapped, you have completely tamed him, and irony of it all, have absolutely no idea you are making him feel like this.

This woman is drivin' me insane.

After a few hours on the cold shore's sand, his fingers only capable of creating quick little sketches and scribbles, his feet lead him back to camp. What a surprise. He finds most of the gang's members already asleep, apart from the ones on guard duty and some late campfire enjoyers talking about life, about love, grief, the future, the past. He briefly nods at them without a word and walks to his private space. He already knows what’s waiting for him there, your tent looking like it’s still illuminated, his thoughts and body avid for it.

No, don’t be a fool, Morgan.

He sits down on his cot. Mumbles to himself orders and curses to try and stay reasonable. Takes off his hat, runs a hand through his hair, sticky with sweat and dirt from his busy day, as all the other ones, as always. Scratches his beard and his ears with a sniff, tells himself he needs to take a swim into that lake. That he’s as dirty on the inside as he’s on the outside. Pulls down his suspenders before stretching his shoulders, a pained groan escaping him. A cigarette joins his lips, a match lights it, and he breathes in slowly. He tries to calm down, focusing once again on this homey feeling it brings him. 

But his brows furrows. His lips tighten. He knows he won’t be able to hold on much longer. He needs to sleep properly. Even being the all-mighty Titan he is, he still needs a good night of sleep from time to time to keep the engine of his body turning, and you have kept it from him for days.

He lies to himself promising this is only for his health.

That this is the only way for him to stay focused during the day; the only way to rest properly and be at his best again tomorrow.

That this will be the only time he’ll do that.

His only moment of weakness. 

The still-lit cigarette and his good conscience fall to the ground as he lies on his cot, settled on his left side, his right hand already roaming on his lower belly. 

His eyes drop on the scene he had fantasized about for what seems like years to him at this point.

Lord have mercy…

Your shadow looks so perfect. He takes his sweet time to notice every detail of it, enjoying to the maximum his sinful behavior, now that he had succumbed to it. How you’re laying on your back, reading your book with your legs crossed. The curvaceous shape of your body looks divine to his insatiable gaze. Your hair messily tangled around your head. The silhouette of your chin and throat making him hungrier than any feast he could have attended. Your belly, rising and falling with your chest and breasts, gives the shadow an organic appearance. Your delicate legs, from the base of your thighs to your calves, to your feet, your toes mindlessly curling as you get lost in your story. And of course, the blurry outline of what was between them…

Damn it.

His hand quickly reaches his belt, unbuckles it,  fiddles with his pants, opens them carelessly in an urgent grip. He spits in his palm, lashes out at himself when the desire of it being your wetness instead crosses his mind, and slips it between the buttons of his union suit. It finally wraps around his desperate shaft, gorged with blood, and he wonders if he already had been this hard before.

The moment he feels the pressure of his own fingers around it, he can’t help but sigh deeply through his nose, and has to physically block the groan he was about to let out.

Make no noise, moron.

He bites his lips to stop any other immoral sound from crossing through his mouth. Last thing he needs right now is to get caught. He slowly rubs one languorous time from up to down, then up again, his fingers brushing his swollen head right where he needs to. He instantly knows he won’t last. He had dreamed about this, about you, both during days and nights. His eyes are locked on your tantalizing silhouette, this deiform delicious flesh. Goddess of the night, Queen of his desires.

His hand rubs once again and his muscles tighten. He starts to stroke in a rhythmic pace, his moves are efficient, messy, careless. He masturbates the same way he takes care of himself —quickly, roughly, as if matching his disgust towards his own self. The exact opposite of what he would do to you if he could. This is pure physical relief.

Yes, God, yes…

Your name turns in his mind between blasphemous curses as he pleasures himself, stroking faster and faster, delightful warm sensations spreading through him. Finally. The burning is no longer in his back or mind; it's right there around his erection, flames licking all around it.

He wants to be able to join you there, so badly. He wants to discover the tone of your bare skin in those places you never show to anyone. He wants to whisper sweet things in your ear and you to sigh back, your voice high and softly shaking from pleasure. He wants the lewd intimacy, the shared tension and the electric, exciting touch of two foreign skins discovering each other for the first time. He wants to see your hardening nipples he can only have a glimpse of through the fabric. 

He wants to have you, to take you, consume you, all to himself. He wants you to think about him the same way he is now, wants you to come while thinking of him, only him, your mouth to moan, whimper, scream even, all thanks to him. 

He wants your hand instead of his, around his cock right now, pressing harder, moving faster.

Yes, yes, jus’ a bit more darlin’… -

A movement from you, a real one, makes his pace slow down and his heart stops, afraid you might have by some sort of divine knowledge understood what was happening. But you’re just shifting in your bed, positioning yourself on your belly with your book open against your pillow, and Arthur’s balls spasm; he now has the most perfect view of your ass, its gorgeous, decadent round and plumped contour making his member twitch in his fist.

Ahh, shit… So god damn perfect… 

Pearls of sweat leak from his forehead to his neck. His ears shut close to the outside world, his surroundings completely disappearing. Now, there’s only you and your perfect back beautifully arched ending with your perfect bottom and him, and no one else’s on Earth. His breath is jerky, his entire face completely crimson, his fingers pumping so hard and fast he’s basically fucking his hand —your hand, with those wet and unmistakable noises filling the air.

His breath speeds up as Arthur feels his deliverance coming, blood rushing in his veins. He sees himself behind you grabbing fistfuls of your cheeks, he sees his erection diving deep between them. And it's the last straw. His brows are crunched in an exquisite expression of pure sexual delight, jaws so tensed he’s about to break his teeth, your pleasure-filled voice screaming his name in his head, dragging every sensation out of him. His orgasm hit him with the strength and speed of a thunderstorm, lightning bolts of satisfaction striking every fiber of his body.

 Yes! Yesss  —Damnit! 

He comes hard with a low and throaty growl he forgot to —or couldn't repress, silently repeating your name again and again, his lower lip almost cut open from how hard he had bit himself, an enormous vein on his forehead where sweat covers his skin. His thick, hot cum spills messily in an indecently large amount, the aftermath of having held himself back for so long, leaking on his pants and fingers and staining his cot; a dash of white contrasting with the darkness of what he just did.

He’s praying to the Lord and the Devil, any mystical forces known to man, that nobody had heard his final relief sound, especially not you. It was louder than what he would like to admit.

Shit, so damn good…

Using his black bandana, he roughly cleans himself then tosses it somewhere on the floor, his cock finally softening as he shoves it back under his clothes, balls empty. And it feels good. So good a wave of shame and guilt crashes onto him once more. What a pig he was for jerking off while ogling you. What an old bastard he was to mingle you and his filth. But at the same time, he feels like his muscles are thanking him, his restless flesh satisfied, even though he almost hurt himself with how fast he had stroked, lost in his haze.

His bittersweet and contradictory feelings accompanied him as he took a last glance at your tent before drifting off to sleep, his breathing still a bit raspy as if he had run for hours. You had closed your book and taken the candle between your hands to blow on it, the little flame flickering before fading. And then, darkness.

The curtains falling on the stage at the end of this private decadent act.

Eyelids heavy, Arthur knows he will finally sleep tonight.

But he also knows this isn’t the end of his torments at all; the conflicting thoughts paint his mind just as the sun pierces through the dark ebony clouds of a thunderstorm, creating those abruptly dazing shapes and color, pitch black laced with blinding light.

Never in this life or the Other he will forget the form of your naked body, no matter how wicked he feels. Because when it comes to you and only you, Arthur Morgan is, indeed, a very weak man.

Part II

tagging : @a-court-of-valkyries and @zae-heeyyy

[midnighvtm4ss]

Oh you sweet, poisonous thing

summary: just Arthur yearning and being jealous of reader and Javier. Enjoy😽

pairing: arthur morgan x fem!reader

content: fluff, jealousy, a hint of angst maybe ?? idk

wc: 1,8k

a/n: *taps into the mic* heyy,,, how y’all doing *voice echoes, crickets can be heard in the distance* so i kinda disappeared from tumblr ik. I went through a rough period and I thought a lot about what to do with this account. I lost all motivation to write for a while ngl, but after some thinking i decided that no matter what I’ll keep writing and posting here. After all this was and still is my little safe space where i can just forget about my life and post silly things about cowboys sooo yeah have some Arthur yearning because we should bring back yearning in 2025. ok i yapped enough bah byee

The cracking sound of the campfire travels softly in the center of camp, casting long, flickering shadows that stretch and shift over the familiar faces of the gang, dancing on their features to the sound of the soft music leaving Javier’s guitar.

It had been a rare, uneventful day—the kind where, surprisingly, nothing went wrong, and the world seemed to hold its breath afraid to burst the serene and quiet bubble that engulfed all round the camp. The stillness settled over the gang’s members like a balm, soothing old wounds and lifting everyone’s spirits. By evening, an easy carefree air had taken root, boosted by a few shared drinks and Javier’s guitar.

You sit near the fire, sandwiched between Karen and John, the blonde slouched lazily at your side, her cheeks flushed from the too many whiskey glasses she downed. Javier is in a contagious good mood, sitting on the ground near John strumming another lively tune as he leans toward you, his bronze skin glowing in the campfire’s light and he’s grinning like at you like the charmer he is.

“Why don’t you sing with me, cariño,” he says, his voice playfully teasing. A chorus of groans and exaggerated complaints come from around the campfire, the gang all too eager to tease you about the first and fortunately the last time you sang around the campfire in Horseshoe Overlook after you had too many to drink. You remember waking up the morning after with a terrible headache and the sweet memory of laughter shared around the warmth of the campfire.

You laugh at their reaction, shaking your head. “I think I’ll save everyone’s ears this time, thank you.”

Javier chuckles and with that resumes playing, his voice low and smooth. His energy is infectious, pulling easy smiles and a few soft laughs from everyone. But in the back of your mind, you can feel that there’s a subtle shift in the air—a pull, a presence that tugs at your attention like a ping you can’t ignore. It’s faint at first, almost imperceptible, but it grows stronger, undeniable, familiar. You glance toward the edge of camp, and as suspected there he is.

He’s leaning against one of the wooden posts near the horses, half swallowed by the shadows, the dim firelight barely reaching the brim of his worn hat. His broad shoulders are hunched, arms crossed tightly over his chest like he’s trying to protect himself, to keep something away though you’re not sure he even knows what it is. His aqua eyes are sharp even in the shadows, and they’re fixed directly on you.

As the weight of his gaze settles over you like a heavy fog, thick and tangible, despite the distance between you, a shiver runs down your spine. Your chest tightens, as if the very air around him has thickened with unspoken things.

You’ve known him long enough to feel a quiet storm building in the depths of his quiet, unshakable composure. It’s not indifference nor anger. It’s something else—something raw and unspoken but you can’t, and maybe won’t, put a name on it.

When Javier nudges you playfully, you force yourself to focus back on him, offering him a smile that you hope conceals the tension swirling inside of you. Still, the weight of Arthur’s gaze doesn’t leave you, not even as the evening stretches on.

As the night deepens, the fire crackles low. One by one, people begin to drift off, leaving just you, Tilly, Lenny, Javier, and Karen around the fire. Tilly, who had joined your little circle a few hours earlier, is lively chatting with Lenny about some gossip she’d overheard in town, her voice bright with excitement seemingly unphased by the late hour. Meanwhile, Karen has fallen asleep with her head resting on your shoulder, undoubtedly drooling a bit on your blouse. This leaves you and Javier alone, the conversation between you two flowing easily, until he eventually sets his guitar aside with a stretch, breaking the comfortable atmosphere.

“Already going to bed ?” you tease, nudging him gently on the side. “Won’t you play me another song before you go to sleep ?”

He smirks, shaking his head with a wink.

“Tomorrow.” He promises winking at you. He stands up and disappears into the shadows of the night. After a few minutes Karen stirs awake, mumbling something about needing another drink before bed, lazily getting up on her feet, shuffling toward the camp’s supply.

After that it’s just you, Tilly and Lenny sitting near the dying fire. From your peripheral vision you can see the dark silhouette of Arthur sitting at the worn wooden round table under the tall tree in camp. You don’t look at him, not directly, but you feel his presence like a thread pulling between you. You sit there, looking at the fire contemplating if approaching him or calling it a night.

When you finally stand, your feet move before your mind can catch up with your actions. You carefully walk towards him, finding him hunched slightly over the table, his broad shoulders tense as he stares down into the nearly empty glass in his hand.

“Mind if I join you ?” you say pausing a few feet away. The sound of your voice softly filling the cold air around you both.

Arthur doesn’t immediately look up, his focus still fixed on the amber liquid swirling in his glass. You nearly contemplate leaving when after a long moment, he tips his head in a slow, deliberate nod. “Suit yourself.”

You take a seat across from him, your hands folding in your lap playing with a few loose threads as you settle into the quiet. For a long moment, neither of you speak. The noise of the evening has faded away, leaving the camp wrapped in the soft rustle of trees and the distant sound of crickets.

“Tired ?” you finally ask, your voice hesitant, breaking the silence.

Arthur huffs a low breath, his eyes never leaving the glass. “Long day,” he mutters, a simple response that tells you nothing.

You nod, though his answer feels like a wall, a quick, easy way to avoid revealing something deeper. There’s something bothering him, and maybe it’s the alcohol in your system or maybe you simply care too much for him but you’re determined to find out what.

“Javier kept everyone entertained tonight,” you say lightly, your words casual, trying to spark a conversation, though you’re watching him closely.

Arthur’s grip on his glass tightens just enough for his knuckles to go pale against the clear glass. “Yeah,” he replies, his tone flat. “He’s good at that.”

The space between you feels heavier now, filled with something unspoken, a tension that neither of you acknowledges directly. You lean back in your chair, letting the silence settle between you, but you can’t ignore the flicker of his eyes as they meet yours, then quickly shift away like he’s afraid of what might show if he stares at yours too long.

“What’re you drinking ?” you ask after a moment, breaking the quiet.

“Whiskey.”

“‘S that the good whiskey Pearson’s been hiding, or the usual watered down crap ?”

Arthur’s lips twitch, almost imperceptibly, clearly fighting a smile. “Usual crap,” he murmurs. “Pearson ain’t that generous.”

You laugh softly, the sound easing some of the tension that’s built between you. But still, it lingers, just beneath the surface, like something you both know but can’t put into words.

“You seemed quiet tonight,” you say after a pause, studying him closely.

Arthur shrugs, lifting his glass to his lips, the movement slow, as if every motion is carefully measured.

“Didn’t feel like talkin’.”

You watch him, your gaze tracing the line of his jaw, his wet lips and the way his fingers absently trace the rim of his glass. He’s not being completely honest—that much you know, but you’ve learned to read between the spaces of his words.

“Or maybe you just didn’t like the company,” you offer, your tone playful but with an edge to it.

Arthur’s eyes snap to yours, sharp and unmoving. “I didn’t say that,” he replies, his voice low, almost a growl.

He holds your gaze a beat longer than necessary, and you feel the weight of it settle deep in your chest, making your breath hitch. There’s something in his eyes, something raw, vulnerable that makes your heart stutter. You’re not sure if he sees how your composure falters, but he’s the first to look away, tipping his hat lower over his brow to shield his expression.

You’ve always hated when he does that—you’ve always hated the way he uses it to put a distance between you, but now more than ever you hate it because it feels like the wall between you is growing thicker and you’re not sure if you can get through anymore.

“You’re a hard man to figure out Arthur Morgan,” you say softly, the teasing edge gone from your voice. He doesn’t answer right away, and when he does, it’s in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Maybe that’s for the best.”

You bite your lower lip in frustration but then you force yourself to swallow down your disappointment. The conversation shifts then, moving toward more trivial things like the weather, the horses, Pearson’s latest disaster with the stew. But even as you talk, you know that there’s another conversation happening in the spaces between words, in the glances you exchange, in both your body language, in the way the silence sometimes wraps itself around you both.

You don’t speak of it. You don’t name it. Neither of you can, but you know it’s there.

“Good night Arthur,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended. You give him a sweet smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, before you stand, the weight of your own tiredness forcing you to seek the sweet embrace of your bed.

He doesn’t reply right away, just gives a slow tip of his hat. “Night.”

As you start to take a few steps away from the table, you feel his gaze on your back—steady, unwavering. It feels like it’s burning into your skin.

You glance over your shoulder, just once, and meet his eyes. For a moment, they’re distant, almost lost, like he’s somewhere far away in thought. But as your gaze lingers, you catch something else, something in the way his eyes soften, the barely perceptible softening of his eyebrows. It’s not a look of anger or frustration that he gives you, no, he’s looking at you with something deeper, something raw.

It’s the kind of look that makes your chest tighten, a sweet warmth settling between your ribs. He doesn’t need to say anything, you can feel it in the glance between you—the weight of all the things neither of you will dare to speak aloud.

In that brief moment, you understand. And it’s enough to leave you walking away with butterflies storming in your stomach and the strange sense that you’ve just shared something deep, something fragile with him without ever needing to say a word.

[onyxlune]

just finished chapter 13 and i’m dying for more 😭 “thank you sheriff axolotl” we all say in unison

Bleed, Survive, Remember (Chapter list) Arthur Morgan x Reader

Summary:

A hardened outlaw tied to a gang that's as much family as it is trouble, and a drifter searching for something she can’t name, find their paths crossing by chance. As Arthur shoulders the weight of the gang’s choices and the drifter continues to wonder, trust becomes a gamble earned through grit, gunfire, and mistakes neither can outrun. In the end, they’ll have to decide what kind of people they want to be. For now? It’s just bad decisions, sharp words, and worse company.

Chapter 1 : How Did I Get Here?

Chapter 2 : A Day to Remember

Chapter 3 : A Place to Rest

Chapter 4 : Bar Fights and Hats

Chapter 5 : Crossing Paths

Chapter 6 : Fading Footsteps

Chapter 7 : Weight of Words

Chapter 8 : Through His Eyes

Chapter 9 : Blood on the Saddle

Chapter 10: Tangled Words

Chapter 11: A Stranger Among Strangers

Chapter 12: Between Laughter and Silence

Chapter 13: Doubts and Worries

[johnpriceslamb]

𝓽 𝓱 𝓻 𝓮 𝓪 𝓭 𝓮 𝓭 𝓮 𝓵 𝓮 𝓰 𝓪 𝓷 𝓬 𝓮

🪡 Before you joined the gang, you used to be a tailor. An event was coming up soon which involved looking fancy, meaning that you had to take his measurements for a new suit.

𝓑𝓔𝓕𝓞𝓡𝓔 𝓨𝓞𝓤 𝓟𝓡𝓞𝓒𝓔𝓔𝓓 ! ⋆ female ! reader ⋆ hyper-feminine ! reader ⋆ very suggestive content w/ javier ⋆ close proximity ⋆ reader is mentioned to be physically smaller than said chars ⋆ poorly google translates spanish >.> ⋆ not proof read nor edited ⋆ wrd count/1.2k

🪡 arthur morgan ⋆ charles smith ⋆ john marston ⋆ javier escuella (sep) x f! reader

🪡 𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓱𝓾𝓻 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓰𝓪𝓷,

“stand still!”

You prattle on for the umpteenth time this evening. The loyal enforcer of the gang grunts at the feeling of the cold tape measure wrapped around his bare waist, as he begrudgingly lifts his arms up to avoid messing up the measurements.

“For someone so little,” He groans at the feeling of the flexible measure tightening deliberately around him, “You sure do have a lot of attitude.”

You ignore him, of course. You scribble down the exact number of his measurement down on a piece of paper with a slight hum. The beads of your delicate necklace hang delicately off your neck as you bend over the edge of the table a bit, elbows propping your demure head for support. Arthur couldn’t help but boredly take a peak of what you were writing down, before ultimately sighing as he hopes for this to go a little quicker.

the cigar in his mouth hangs low on his bottom lip, embers flying out from the tip. He takes another slow drag, before letting it out with a gentle sigh- to your direction. You throw the man a puffed-cheek glare, your little nose scrunching up at the smell.

He wouldn’t admit the fact that he felt warm when your fingers would touch his body so subtly when measuring him. Or when your face was so close to his ragged skin, he could really feel your soft breath. Did you always look that pretty when you’re concentrated?

“Hey, Arthur?” That familiar high-pitched voice catches his attention. His hands lazily grab ahold of his low-hung belt, before leaning in.

“Mh?” He lowly grunts, squinting his eyes at the sight of your beady eyes staring up at him. He chews at the end of his cigarette, letting out a huff when the smoke unexpectedly enters inside his body.

You cheekily smile, tinkering your dewy lashes at him to feign innocence. The pencil in your grip is tapped multiple times on the paper, “Wouldn’t pink be a suitable colour choice for your suit?”

“[name].” You’re lucky you were blessed with a cute little face, otherwise he’d have no issue throwing you in the lake nearby.

🪡 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓵𝓮𝓼 𝓼𝓶𝓲𝓽𝓱,

“..I’m not familiar with getting measured, I apologise if I make anything difficult.” Charles quietly explains to you in that baritone voice he had. You can’t help that sweet fluttering in your chest at the apology.

“Nonsense!” You wave him off with a toothy smile, “All you’ll have to do is stand still.”

The gentle giant in-front of you slowly nods. He’s not uncomfortable, but he’s kind of on the edge since this was new to him. But since it’s you, he can feel some of the tension in him melt. Usually, he tends to avoid interacting with other people at camp.

But you? Something about you made him draw closer.

“Just a matter of standing still? I think I can manage with that. No trouble with me.” A ghost of a smile slowly etches onto his dark skin at your expression. Almost.. puppy like.

You’re about to measure his full height to ensure the exact proportions of the suit are balanced, only to realise..

Your height (lack thereof.. oops.) comes in as a bit of an issue here. For plot purposes, there aren’t any stools around nor could you go on your tippy toes to measure him fully.

“..Ah.” Charles blinks at the situation. Amusement crosses his face, before gesturing to hand over the end of the measuring tape. He holds it just at his head, patiently watching you peak at the number it falls down to at his ankles.

“Oh my..” You let out a tiny squeak at the number, a shy smile appearing on your sweet face before scribbling it down on a piece of paper nearby.

“Oh my?” He repeats you, “What? Is that.. Is that bad?”

“No, no!” You stammer, meekly brushing your hands over your light pink petticoat, “You’re just.. Y’know. You’re tall.”

“Oh?” He smiles lightly, lovingly looking at your light expression, “I hope that won’t be too much of a problem.”

“It’s not a problem. Quite the opposite, actually.” You quietly mumble the last part. Oh dear, you can feel his gaze, practically warming up your soul, staring at you as if you hung the stars. You feel your cheeks heating up.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing!”

🪡 𝓳𝓸𝓱𝓷 𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓷,

never in your life have you wanted to smack a man in the face so badly.

“Woah,” John grins like a newly wet dog from running through a puddle, “Y’here to take my measurements or to feel me up?”

All you did was just wrap the tape around the swell of his hips. Your cheeks puff out, purposefully tightening the tape to get your point behind.

“I mean, I wouldn’t mind either way.” He cheekily smiles, before scoffing at the feeling of the measuring tape deliberately tightening around him.

You swear you can smell the scent of booze. You ignore it, before straightening your back to measure his waist. What you can’t ignore however, was that raspy drawl his voice had which somehow makes you fall for him over and over again.

He may be as dumb as rocks, but his little antics drew you in.

“Hey,” He calls out to catch your attention. You sweetly tilt your head up, and to the side when he looks down at you.

“You gon’ pick the colours of my suit, or do I get to?” He asks curiously.

You ponder, “Well.. Do you want to?”

He thinks about it for a moment, before coming up with an answer. “Nah. Reckon you should. You’re the professional, after all.”

You can’t help but let out a soft giggle, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

When you’ve finished his measurements, you excitedly turn to him to discuss the colour choices which’ll be appropriate for the event coming up soon. Both of your eyes meet and he peers down at you with a loving gaze, it catches your breath a bit before you force yourself to look down at the notes which contained your notes.

“I think your suit should have a low v cut to really show that upper-body of yours. Perhaps a classic navy blue as your primary colour, and— Hey! Are you even listening to me?”

He blinks a few times, a bit sheepish. “I am, I just don’t got a clue on what you’re saying, sweetheart.”

You can feel your hand tighten.

🪡 𝓳𝓪𝓿𝓲𝓮𝓻 𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓾𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓪,

“Ah.. Quite close there, aren’t you?” He has this.. devilishly handsome smile you want to wipe off badly. He peers down at you as if you were nothing but a little dollie while you measured his chest.

“‘M not trying to be!” You whine, going just a bit lower to wrap the measuring tape around his waist now. You hum delightfully as you find the exact number, squinting your eyes to see where the tip of the measurement tape lands on.

While you’re busy with your own little thing, you don’t notice the way Javier admires you from above. He can’t help but comment on it too.

“You know,” He starts of with a slow, lazy smile. Mischievous, even.

“You’re looking very pretty working down there.” He puts a lot of emphasis on the word ‘very’ in his sentence. It’s subtle, but if you were to be paying attention to him you’d get it immediately.

You tilt your head up to innocently thank him with a small smile etched on your pretty little face, before realising what his words were implying. That little..

“Javier!” You scold him with a very high-pitched tone. You feel your dignity fading away as soon as he replies with a mocking laugh to your whining.

“You know I’m just playing around, chica. Don’t take it so seriously.” His hand goes down to cheekily pinch your squishy cheek to get his point through. You frown.

“You’re horrible.” You babble, begrudgingly taking his last measurement. You’re very tempted to give him the cold shoulder, but decided against it.

“You’re too kind.” He sarcastically replies, that same lazy grin on his face from the start as when he sees you scribbling down some notes about his measurements and preferences. You throw a tiny glare at him, “I’m the one creating your suit here, be nice!”

“Mhm? I haven’t gotten to express my gratitude yet have I?” He takes the notepad away from you, setting it aside before easily picking you up by the waist and setting you on the table, your legs dangle off the edge easily as he nears you.

“Permiteme que, querida.”

[grugruel]

Big Iron

Pairings:

bounty hunter!Arthur Morgan x outlaw!f!reader

NSFW/MDNI

Masterlist

Summary: She's escaped a robbery, and bounty hunters have been sent out after her. They'd made no problem so far– that said, the notorious Arthur Morgan set upon her trail.

Word count: 5.7k

Warnings: Arthur Morgan, pinv sex, rough sex, soft sex ish, lap/bulge-riding, praise, petnames (girl, sweetheart, ma'am), creampie, overstimulation.

AN: 3rd person pov, trying it out. Not yet proofread!

A campfire blazed in the night, casting a warm glow over the small, temporary hideout.

Smoldering flakes of ash rose skyward in tired swirls, and the woman's face lit up, sizzling embers of spent coal entrancing her.

The fires of a bright building shouldered It's way into her mind, stealing precious space from all else.

Trees around her rustled, and she leaned back against the rockwall. An overhanging cliff sheltering her.

Guard lowered, at last. She let herself slide down the wall until she felt the ground beneath her thighs. Then dove deeper into the memory.

Money was all she had needed. But the simple, well practiced heist escalated. Attempted arson had suddenly been added to her list of offences, robbery another one among them. Which she could admit to, and proudly so.

But the fire. . . Now the fire was not her fault.

Not only was the law after her, but they'd also sent out money hungry bounty hunters aswell. She'd already tied two of them down yesterday, big brutish men they were. All muscle and no brains. Still, they proved to be quite the nuisance. But they wouldn't be a problem anymore unless they died of starvation, which would indeed be u fortunate.

She gritted her teeth at the memory, her eyes interanally. She doubted it, seeing as they were curently tied to the fence of the sheriff's office.

Which left only one real threat.

One man, one singular man; a notorious outlaw himself. He was the sheriff's most resent hire. Big, deadly, tall and muscled. From long days of hard work killing and robbing she imagined.

She'd actually seen him in person once, and she could admit, he looked dangerous, and devilishly handsome. The rumors had been right about that, she was only hoping that his volatile reputation along with the Van Der Lind gang's would turn out to be folly.

She shivered at the thought, shaking her to the very bones. If it were from the thought of him or the cool of the night, she did not know. She closed her arms around herself, stroking them for warmth as she pushed the unpleasant thoughts away, her gaze snapping to the treeline beyond.

Back to reality, and suddenly accutely aware of the black darkness that lingered between the thick stems beyond. Her vision was good, and she was quite hidden after all. No one would be sneaking up on her.

"Ma'am."

From the shadows, a man appeared at the edge of the campfires domain, vaguely illuminated by its warmth. Broad and tall in frame, the deep night clung to his back. His sudden prescence was the only evidence of his arrival, he'd made no sound nor been seen before he'd needed to be.

Her eyes snapped in his direction, widening with recognition, the eerie sense divulged itself to her body. Like poison, it spread quickly, crawling into every blood vessel and turning them ice-cold along its journey.

"Mister," she greeted, doing her damndest to stay calm.

His hat covered his eyes, but the smile he dealt was unmistakable. 'There's quite the bounty on you, girl.' The drawl of his accent sunk into her skin like the warmth of the fire.

"There's no doubtin' that," she nodded in admittal, slowly moving away from him, "Although im only worth half of it, I assure you."

She moved slowly, eyes meeting his as they poked out beneath his hat. He tilted his head to face hers, regarding her silently. Eyes flickering over her, the way her hair fell over her shoulders, and how her blouse revealed the hills of her chest. ". . . 'S that so?. . ." He took a step closer, the rope in his hands now excruciatingly evident to her.

She got to her feet in one swift motion, hesitantly gesturing for him to stay calm. "Mister, I'm not a murderer. The sheriff framed me." She took a few steps to the left, placing the fire between them.

The man chuckled. "I belive ya' ma'am." His hands pulled on the lasso, adjusting its length. Gripping it roughly from time to time, trigger fingers readying themselves for any sudden movement. "But the law can be a crooked thing sometimes." His eyes narrowed in on her, then shrugged nonchalantly. "But, a bounty 's still a bounty girl."

The birds sang above them, and the world blurred around her, her knees suddenly weak. Unfortunately for her, he would be there to catch her in a sense too literal for her liking.

"And I can say the same for myself ma'am, I'm a bad man. . ." His voice imposed, yet, the gravely tone vibrated perfectly well in her ears.

Gulping her nervousity, she assessed her options. . . And then ran.

Trees rushed past in peripheral whirls as she made her way along the cliff wall. Rope flexed behind her, threads wringing against eachother as it was swung and thrown with a woosh.

The air caressed her cheeks, pulling tears from her eyes and whistling in her ears. She gave it all she had, but it wasn't enough to stop the lasso from capturing her with deadly accuracy. It fell over her shoulders and tightened around her waist, pinning her arms to her sides.

The rope pulled taunt–and the world stopped moving for a short second, with a yank, her body whipped forward, and her feet was swept from under her–then, just as suddenly, it sped up again.

Like a tree cut down for its timber, she fell. The ground rushed up to greet her face as she stumbled to the ground with a hard thud. She panted, smelling the earth and feeling the wet grass tickle her face as she struggled against her entanglement; wriggling and thrashing like a stranded fish.

Well-used leather chaps groaned behind her as he stalked closer, winding the rope up with friction she was sure could start a fire, her stumache churned the thought.

The woman rolled onto her back to get a better layout of the situation–and there he stood. Just by her feet, he loomed over her. With his back to the fire, it cast a back-lit glow around him, framing the big man as he filled her sight. Fear and desire fought for the helm, conflicting her mind terribly.

He crouched down, bending over her as he circled the rope around her waist, foirtyfying her restraints and securing his valuable bounty tightly.

He grabbed the lasso and pulled her up diagonally. It pinched her midriff painfully and pulled her body flush against his, just so he could level her head with his. ". . . And I've done bad things," he whispered, lips brushing against her ear. A dull pulse appeared where there ought to be no pulse. She screwed her eyes shut, and lust for this man was the last thing she should be feeling. But oh. . . How his breath raised goosebumps and spread like a wildfire over her skin.

He straightened his legs and stood back, pulling her with him while keeping their bodies close together.

Her breath fanned over his lips as they stood a mere inch apart, one bound and the other free. A smirk made its way onto his lips, his hands sliding along the tied rope around her abdomen until they were at her waist. And in one strong motion–he threw her over his shoulder.

She yelped in surprise. "You brute!" Kicking wildy in hopes of getting free. But one of his arms circled around her legs and gripped the back of her thigh to keep them still, while he laid the other on the small of her back to stop her from falling. "You keep your hands to yourself Mister!" She shouted, struggling against his bullish strength.

"Yes, ma'am." He assured as he began walking, not paying her futile thrashing much mind. "That's not the kind of bad man I am."

She cleared her throat and huffed, expecting more of a reaction. She didn't quite know what to do in this situation, she hadn't planned this far ahead. She didn't think she'd ever be properly cought. "Well, good," she said curtly, calming herself.

Being a nuisance and making this whole situation worse would be a bad idea, and she hadn't made any progress thus far, seeing as his grip was solid steel. So she'd have to settle her mind with the feeling of his strong back beneath her instead. In fact, she was reveling in the feeling of his hand on her thigh.

He stomped out the campfire before moving to where he'd hidden his horse. "Sittin' or layin'?" He asked, being nice enough to hand her to option of sharing his saddle or to be stored over his horses ass.

She huffed, "what a gentleman. Take a guess Mister," she muttered.

He nodded, "Sittin' with me it is." His hands moved to her waist, and easily transfered her from his shoulder and onto the saddle. She scoffed for the sake of scoffing, eyes narrowing as she looked down on him, and if it had the power to, her look could certainly have killed him. "Quite presumtions of you."

With a low chuckle and a shake of his head, he gripped the saddle before climbing on. Placing his hands on either side of it, one hand on the pommel and the other on the cantel. Which just so happened to be between her thighs, and just behind her ass. Almost grazing her on both sides as he braced himself against the saddle, eyes meeting hers with a satisfied smirk, "Much more attitude from ya' girl and I'll have to take meassures."

Shock sprung itself on her, feeling dizzy all over again. The knuckle of his thumb was an inch away from brushing against her cunt. Her eyes widened at the fact, and the implications his words carried. Her loins burned, but she simply cleared her throat and neutralised her expression, "Id like to see you try." And faced away from him, turning her nose upward.

He climbed onto the horse, placing himself close intil her back and leaned over her shoulder. "I will if you'd let me, respectfully, ma'am," he whispered in her ear and then spurred his horse. Shivers shook her at that, her entire body vibrating with a dull sense of need.

They rode silently for a long while, and she wanted to sass him, she wanted it terribly. But was both afraid and hoping he'd take action, just as he'd stated.

The miles wound on, oh it felt never ending. Especially with the man behind her, rutting his hips against her with every step of the horse. He was a blessing against the cold, but pure torture as his heat soaked into all the wrong spots of her body.

Finally, it came time to rest. They'd ridden nonstop from the early morning of her capture to the next night. If that weren't enough, a heatwave had been raging for the entirety of the day as well, and the setting of the sun had barely made a difference.

He set her on the ground, binding her feet and hands before starting on the camp. Making quick work of the fire and tent as she sat down on a rock, silently watching the man work, and very much enjoying the show.

His skin was slick with sweat, much like herself. The cool light of the moon and the warmth of the fire made him glisten in every sense of the word, and oh, the way he toiled away.

He'd removed his vest and chaps as he got to work, respectively rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, which now stuck to his skin. A nuisance for him to be sure, but a dream for her, she could practically see the muscles of his chest rippling.

A drop of sweat trickled down her temple, tickling her skin and drawing focus away from the view. Her eyes widened as she realised how she stared at the stranger and shook her head, attempting to clear it.

Goodness, focus. She needed to hatch a plan.

Running would do her no good, he would be too fast. He wouldn't accept bribes either and was very hard to persuade. No attempts had been successful so far.

At that thought, unavoidably, abashedly her eyes snapped back to him as he pulled his shirt off and reached for a new one in his saddlebag. She clenched her jaw to keep it from falling, his strong chest was adorned by hair, trailing down his abdomen and disappearing under, the waist of his pants.

She swallowed. In that exact moment, she wanted nothing more than to see where that trail ended.

Her jaw began aching, she fought to tear her eyes away from him. Managing to direct her gaze to the ground instead, a d impatiently waited for him to put a fresh shirt on.

After a short while, she dared look up again. He'd pulled a log to opposite side of the fire and sat down, a cigarette had been placed between his lips, and was currently being inhaled with fervor. Tilting his head back, he released the cloud of smoke with a sigh.

Her eyes followed his movements intently, studying them as she hoped that perhaps he'd notice her and offer one–

"Want one, girl?" He nodded toward her, gesturing with the match box.

"I do, yes," she answered expectantly, holding her hands out for him to untie.

But to her surprise, he scoffed, then stod and walked around the fire. He crouched onto one knee in front of her, his arm bracing on top of the other. "You'll have to do better than that," he said.

He plucked the cigarette from his lips and offered it to her, holding it an inch from her mouth. She hesitated, observing him with disdain. "Go on," he nodded.

Reluctantly, she followed his orders, but met his eyes to make sure he knew how unhappy she was about it, and then leaned in.

Closing her lips around the cigarette, she could feel the dampness where his own lips had been moments before, and sucked the toxic smoke into her lungs, as if it were air.

She swore she saw something glint in his eyes, studying her pouting lips. And a plan struck her suddenly, but–

"Good girl," he hummed.

Again, shock gripped her. The praise rose right to her head, sending waves of heat cascading through her body. Then she coughed, the smoke settling wrong in her airways. She pulled back, letting him retrieve his cigarette while she worked to regain her composure. "You alright there, sweetheart?" He asked with a grin and patted her back before replacing the cig between his lips.

"Just fine, mister," she hissed, still reeling. "You got anything stronger? Whiskey, bourbon?"

He nodded and pulled out an old bottle of bourbon from his bag, "Could you?" She held her hands out to him again.

He studied her, stroking his stubbled jaw in thought. "Got somethin' for me, then?"

Insinuations led her down a path of filthy thoughts, but she instead opted for a simple, "Please?" Instead, attempting it cheapishly.

His hands slipped down to his hip, pulling the knife from its hilt. "That's more like it," he mumbeled with his cigarette clad lips.

And cut the rope around her hands and feet, stopping at the rope around her waist and met her eyes. "Try anythin'. . ." He raised his eyebrows and lowered his voice to a mocking tone. ". . . Run, hurt me, trick me." His eyes narrowed, the corner of his lip tugging. "And there'll be a steep price to be paid."

Swallowing, she nodded enthusiastically, "I just wan't a sliver of freedom before im locked up, you could understand that."

He nodded. "S'pose so. . ." And began untying. "The difference is, girl–" The lasso loosened and slid down her sides. "–that I'd never get caught." He gathered it and pulled it over her body, his fingers accidentally brushing against her hips, the sides of her breasts.

Her breath hitched, and their eyes met. Her skin tingled desperately as fluttering wingbeats set off in her stumache. Such a small thing, building into such a big reaction.

He cleared his throat, handing her the bottle as he threw the rope into the fire and put the lasso bag in his saddlebag. Finally replacing himself on another log, not as far away from her this time. He leaned back against the tree behind it and spread his legs wide. His bulge was enough to make her salivate. "It's not easy, you know, for a woman like me, when there's men like you, Mr Morgan."

Arthur quriked an eyebrow in question. "You know me?"

"I know of you," she corrected, taking a big swig of the fluid, then handed it back to him for him to do the same.

He nodded silently, a sigh escaping under his breath. "All bad I hope." He took another swallow, not to bothered by her statement. Probably used to hearing it by now.

She shook her head, taking the bottle and another gulp. "Many of the ladies say you're handsome."

At this, he looked up at her, chuckling. "Well, I don't know 'bout that."

"It's true. . ." Antoher sip, followed by a hiccup. "They say you can be quite the gentleman too."

His eyes bore into hers, his tone serious but expression joking as he humored her. "Depends on the lady." He reached for the bottle, and she stood up to give it to him. Walking closer, she handed it over, fingers brushing against each other in the motion.

His eyes met hers, and she brushed her hand under his chin. "You know what else they say, Mr Morgan?"

"No . . . What do they say about me, sweetheart?" A smirk made its way onto his lips. The liquor seamingly starting to affect the pair of them.

"That you're good in bed. . ." he stepped between his thighs, her hand falling from his chin to his neck, scratching at the nape gently.

He hummed appreciatively, then took another sip of the bourbon and set the bottle aside. His hands reached for her, coming to a rest on either side of her thighs, pulling her closer to him, squeezing them at his pleasure. "They're only rumours girl." He tilted his head backward, resting it against the tree to get a better look at her, eyes fastening on her lips.

With her other hand, she hiked her skirt up, revealing her thighs as she stepped over his legs. One at a time, then slowly sank down on his lap, while his hands automatically slid to her hips.

She placed herself on top of his bulge. He grunted from the pressure. The pulse within her began strumming at her nerves, turning them jittery.

"See, I doubt that, Mr Morgan." She whispered. "Women do not lie to eachother of such things." His bulge beneath her grew harder, luring a hidden smile from her. It took strength to will it from her lips and only reach her eyes. "They say you're rough, or gentle. Dependin' on your mood." As she said that, she could've sworn she detected the faintest red creep up his cheeks. Arthur Morgan, blushing? Now, she couldnt help herself and the smile reached her lips.

The man cleared his throat, acting as if it had never happened. "That's told of me in everythin' I do." He smirked, the grip on her hips hardening, knuckles turning white.

"But you're always sweet 'n caring." She continued, her own words were building the lust within her, making the pulse ever stronger. It grew harder to focus. She needed to release some of the pressure building inside her. Evaluating the consequences, and deaming them minor in conparison to her needs, she rocked her hips downward–grinding into his bulge.

Simultaneously, she whimpered and he hissed. She leaned against him, her lips brushing against his ear as shenuzzled his cheek. "Apparently, It's also true what they say 'bout ridin' cowboys-"

"Girl," he interrupted with a chuckle. "Dont think I dont know what you're doin'. . ." He breathed. "Seducin' me." With the tight grip on her hips, he rocked her hips against him, the rough fabric of his pants grinding against her core.

With a gasp, one of her hands shot out to burry itself in his hair. She leaned into him, the other hand grabbing his shirt for support as she rested her head against his shoulder. He nuzzled his cheek against hers, returning the gesture and muttered. "You use your sweet talkin', then get me drunk 'n run off, that your plan?"

Her eyebrows furrowed, hips grinding down harder, her ruts becoming more frantic, needy. She screwed her eyes shut from the copious amounts of pleasure washing over her. All she could do to answer him was hum in admittal as she strained hard to focus.

He chuckled. "Easy girl. . ." His voice commanding, low and raspy as he slowed her hips, but keeps the pace hard. "Use your words." He ordered, loving the way she fell apart for him.

She nodded hastily, hoping it'd be enough satisfy his request. But he pinched her hip through the fabric of her skirt, and her eyebrows furrowed in pain. However, not having the energy to even make a sound. Her thoughts were a blur, she couldn't tell what to keep hidden anymore. "Yes– yes. . ." She moaned, the coil inside her tightening impossibly hard.

"Thought so," he breathed, the words curt on his tongue, but lust evident in his voice. Suddenly, his hands left her hips, snd one arm snaked around her waist, his hand placing itself at the small of her back to push her against him.

Then he stood, drawing a whine from her. She did not quite understand what was going on as the loss of movement gradually undid all the progress she'd made. "Mr Morgan?" She inquired, hesitantly wrapping her legs around his hips.

He walked them toward the tent. "Arthur," he corrected, carrying her with ease. Pushing the tent flap to the side, he kneeled, bending over her as he placed her on the ground.

"Arthur," she smiled, worry seeping out of her as she realised he was making them more comfortable.

His knees slid apart, hooking her legs upon them as they spread. Her hands shot up in response, grabbing onto the collar of his shirt to pull him closer, close enough for his lips to hover over hers. Their eyes met. "Please. . ." She whimpered, one hand sliding downward. ". . .Please." She said again, fingertips trailing down his abdomen, suddenly grabbing hold of his bulge with a firm hand, his member rock hard. "Outlaw or gentleman?" She asked, smiling a wicked smile.

A grutn escaped him while his lips brushed over hers. "Neither." And grabs her wrist, pulling her hand away from his crotch and catching the other in the same motion. His free hand reached over her head, and the hauntingly familiar groaning of strong rope sounded above her. She shook her head, "Arthur, please. . ." Panic moved into her voice, the repeated words carrying a completely different meaning this time.

He held both wrists with one hand and tied them together with the other, the rope stinging her skin. She cried out unhappily.

But he chuckled, in a matter of factly kind of way. Stroking the burn gently as ge corrected her, "Should've behaved." And when done, he sat back. Observing her as she laid tied up, legs spread in front of him, and circled around his hips. Much to his dismay, he wouldn't be enjoying the sight as much as he wanted to. "It's late."

"Arthur. . ." She pleads, attempting to appeal to him, one last time.

He turns his head just enough to see her in his peripheral. "Get some sleep. You got a long day ahead of you tomorrow." He flashed his eyebrows smugly. "Night, sweetheart." Then exited the tent without another word.

She huffed, unbelievable.

Sweetheart. . . But how could she be annoyed when he called her such a thing. She dreamed herself away, with imagines of a shirtless Arthur Morgan and the feeling of him inside her. But she'd not given up, make no mistake, he would fall asleep and she would leave. . .

The night carried on and the temperature finally began dropping, a shiver shook her pleasantly. It was a welcome change. Her body strained as she raised her neck to get a look of the outside. Through the flap she saw Arthur, sitting, snoring, hat covering his face as he leaned back against the tree he'd previously been sitting on.

Now, she needed to get rid of her restraints. Rolling over, she crawled toward the opening, her eyes never leaving Mr Morgans sheathed knife.

The fire had been reduced to embers at this point. Crackling and sizzling lowly as the cool moisture in the air riddled the grass with dewdrops, dampening her hands and skirt as she approached her goal. She sat on her knees, then moved to grab the knife carefully, gnelty sliding it out. The sound of it unlatching nearly had her yelp.

No movement in Arthur.

Shallow breaths, she exhales. Relief flooding through her begoee she began working the knife against her entangled wrists with her fingertips. Carefully regarding the vicious man for any signs of waking. But her thoughts slid, perhaps, if he caught her, he would be kind. Or would he be angry? She could truly not decide werther which reaction she'd most prefer–

The rope snapped, and exhilaration filled her. Gaze snapping between her free hands and the hunter, imagining her prospects. She stood quietly, holding her skirt tightly around her to keep the fabrics from rustling. Slowly, knife still in hand, she backed away. On careful tiptoed steps she faded into the night, the fire dwindling in the distance.

The darkness made it hard for her to see much of anything, at its height the tree-crowns silhouette were visible against the blue summer sky. Branches moved, leaves swished in the gentle wind. She grew paranoid, head snapping in every direction, reacting to every little noise around–

A branch broke behind her, she jumped, turning around so fast she almost ripped– a Buck. She froze, a god damned buck? She had expected it ro be Arthur, but she seemed to have ogtten the better of him. The animal looked at her, ears twitching as it chewed on grass– suddenly hopping away. She sighed and turned back.

Only to collide with something hard. Her thoughts raced, she knew, she knew. She looked up, eyes tracing along his body until they met his, half hidden under his hat. Reflexes prepared her to run, but before she had as much as taken a step back, a hand grabbed her wrist and yanked her back to him. Again, she thumped into his strong chest. Held against him with the familiar iron grip, she fought, as usual; but to no avail, as usual. He snaked an arm around her waist to hinder her from breaking free, yet she kicked and punched violently with her free limbs. But it made no dent in the man. He couldn't even spare her a reaction as he half carried, half dragged her back into the low light of the burnt out fire. He spun her around and pushed her up against the cliff wall, grabbing the wrist closest to him and pinning it above her head. "I warned you, girl." He snarled, the look in his eyes doing just as good a of job pinning her to the wall as his hands. He reaches for the second–

When something sharp digs into the soft flesh of his throat, he froze. His chest was the only thing moving between the two of them, heaving breaths of annoyance.

"Thrid times the charm." She smirked.

He raised his eyebrows and chuckled, "That so?" His voice mocking, and before she could comprehend what had happened, he'd captured both wrists with one hand and slammed them above her head and into the wall. And the knife had appeared in his free hand, she noticed this because it was now held against her own throat. "Repeat that for me girl."

Her lips struck a thin line as she attempted a neutral expression, although fuming on the inside. She shrugged her shoulders, "No." Was all she said, but stubborn in tone.

He nodded, looking her up and down, studying the buttons on her blouse. "Ought to teach you a lesson sweetheart."

She cleared her throat, deciding that to act nonchalant was her best option. "Yeah? What ya' gunna do, huh? Ravage me?" She asked half joking, but still hoping there'd be some truth to it.

At this, the corner of his mouth turned up, a wicked grin developing on his lips. "I just might." He breathed, tracing the tip of the knife downward, along her collarbone and then along the front of her blouse, coming to a stop at the first button. She gulped, feeling the knife poke through the thin fabric against her chest, making goosebumps run amock in reaction and the pulse reheating in her core. He leaned forward, pushing his body against hers until there was no room left between them, his head hovering just above the crook of her neck. "May I do with you as I please?"

This was it, the sweet balance between a hardened outlaw and a tender gentleman. "Yes– yes, Arthur please." Her voice near a cry, it took everything in her to control her tone–

Her blouse ripped, from top to bottom he cut it open, and she wasn't wearing a brasier. Her chest laid bare before him, and he groaned happily at the sight.

With her go-ahead he wasted no time, he let go of her hands and cut her skirt too. Cutting a slit as far as he reached with the knife then threw it to the side, and the tore the rest. She gasped, every nerve in her body on edge. In an instant, his lips were upon hers. Hungry, hungry lips devouvered her as hands roamed her body, groping and grabbing wherever they got purchase. Her own hands greedily searching for a steady hold in his hair, she grabbed a fistful and pulled gently. He moaned at the feeling, such a beautiful sound. His hands slid over her breasts, squeezing them, then pushed the remains of her blouse off of her shoulders.

Except for her undergarments, she stood completley exposed for him. She could practically feel him salivating when he cupped her clothed mound, and finding her clit with expertise and rub it through the fabric.

She tore herself free from his kisses, she had to breathe. A deep gasp brought oxygen to ger lungs once again, allowing her to whimperand moan in equal measure as he worked her clit. The pressure made her knees week, she wriggled, attempting to rut against his hand. But she was too unsteady to make progress. Noticing her difficulties, his other hand slid behind her back and held her steady. Allowing her to chase her pleasure. And left with no lips to kiss, he latched onto her neck instead, to suck at her sweet spot.

She hummed appreciatively, unable to keep a big smile from her lips as pulses of pleasure washed through her. She slid her hands from his hair and unbuttoned his shirt, running her fingers along his strong chest and abdomen, gingerly feeling all of him as her hands worked themselves lower. Finally unbuttoning his pants. She did no longer have to wonder were his happy trail dissapeared too, she bit her lip. He was huge. She stuck her hand into his pants and stroked him eagerly. "Need ya' Arthur, please." She panted.

He let out a strained grunt against her shoulder, and his hand left her clit. She whined, but didn't have to stay displeased for long.

Both his hands slid down her sides, and she tried to breathe steadily, but it proved hard. The feeling of his calloused hands on her skin was too heavenly. Suddenly, he lifted her. Pinning her against the cliff wall with his arms and the weight of his body, allowing her to wrap her arms and legs around him. She hadn't known, but he had wordlessly obided her request. He pulled her garments to the side, and line himself up with her entrance. "Sure about this?" He asked, a final reassurance.

"Yes." She purred, no hesitation in her answer.

And so he pushed inside her, the sheer size of him was making her want to scream–

"Good girl." He moaned, and directed his eyes to hers. She repressed a moan, biting her lip hard to hinder it as heat flashed through her. It was two words, yet she could've come undone from them alone, when said by him alone.

He gazed upon her softly, one of his hands left her thigh to gently stroke a strand of hair from her face. She smiled, and so did he. He was just giving her time to adjust, but her heart soared at the simple gesture.

God how could she feel so strongly for a stranger?

Her hands retangled in his hair as Arthur slid out of her, she furrowed her brows– but in a rough, quick thrust. He shoved himself back inside of her, filling her to the brim. He set a cruelly pleasurable, unrelenting pace. Any trace of gentleness gone.

She felt the pressure tightening within her, building snd building until she was on the verge of coming once again. Her hands sunk to his back, clawing and scratching because she did not know what else to do, he was too much, too good, too big. He overstimulated her with his mere prescence. And he knew when her walls tightened around him, adding extra pressure onto his already throbbing member. "You close girl?" He grunted, his gruff voice breathed against her ear and his hand squeezing her thigh roughly beneath her. God it was sublime.

"Mhm. . . So- close.'" She murmurs, her words coming out jagged as her body rocks with Arthurs thrusts. Pushed closer to her release with each thrust, once again, she shut her eyes and spots speckled her eyelids. Breathing turns frantic, she could no longer tell who was who as they mixed, moans and curses spilling from them both.

With a flash of pleasure, searing hot it soured through her, making her whimper uncontrollably. His thrusts slow, holding her securely, caressing her face and kissing her lips as she rides out her high. "You're alright girl." He breathes reassuringly, "Well done Sweetheart."

Overstimulated tears roll from her eyes, "Oh Arthur, you sweet, sweet man." She sighs happily, and he comes a mere second later. His seed filling her and oozing out.

They'd clean themselves tomorrow, since tiredness plagued them currently. He backed away from the wall and she clung to him, desperatley not wanting to part with him.

He carried her back to the tent, this time not bothering to tie her up as they laid down facing eachother. Arthur, grabbed her chin between his index and forefinger. Studying her thuroughly before they finally succumbed to sleep. She could escape if she wanted to, he wouldn't stop her this time. Her plan had worked, they both knew it. But they felt something else too, and they both knew it.

Hooded eyes blinked, blushing at Arthurs intent eyes and searching gaze. Her eyelids weighed down by exhaustion, It'd been a long few days, and before she knew it–

The light dawns, rays of dusty sunlight shone through the flap of their tent as the morning wakes. Bringing warmer tempratures and calm birdsong.

He opens his eyes, and immediately meet hers. She'd just been admiring him. "Surprised?" She asked, biting her lip and stopping herself from reaching out to touch him.

He smiles, "Naw, I was hopin' I'd wake up to you girl."

[twola]

Arthur definitely grips the headboard

Softness

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

Somehow you always had known he could be like this. One doesn’t get the reputation that he does by handing out flowers and being gentle.

Deep down, you had also known that this side of him simmered beneath the surface. Though he has been nothing but a gentleman to you through this courtship, or whatever you’d call it, you knew there would be a moment when he snaps, taut like a rope.

The pillow mercifully muffles your hoarse voice, strung out and breathless as you are completely under his control, pressed down into the mattress as if you were to melt into it.

Thoroughly used and fucked out, your moans and cries have become guttural as you smother them by shoving your face into the pillow, having lost your fight with gravity long ago.

Although you can do nothing more than accept, he on the other hand is still full of energy he is taking out on you. Your arms have gone useless, unable to hold you up for some time now. Having fallen forward into the pillow, your back is arched and hips held up by one of his large hands.

“Tha’s it,” he grunts above you, throwing his hips into yours, mercilessly pumping his cock into your cunt. You groan again into the pillow as he slams into you hard.

“Take it, fuck - take it,” he hisses as he leans further over you, one of his hands leaving your hips and clutching at the headboard of the bed. It’s been banging against the wall for the last several minutes, surely alerting the other guests of the hotel what you were up to.

You mewl piteously. You won’t be able to ride a horse for a week at this point. Your cunt is sopping wet as he pounds into you, bruises from his fingers already blooming across your skin. You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve come; from the second he shut the door behind you in this hotel room, he’s been on you like a man possessed.

Maybe he’s riding the high of the score. Maybe it’s taking frustration out.

“Ngh, Arth- agh - Arthur-”

Hearing his name muffled into the pillow seems to drive him wild, clenching your hips with one hand and pressing you down, down into the mattress as his cock hits spots so deep inside you you swear you’re going to pass out.

“Fuck, you’re such a good girl-” he pants as his breakneck pace begins to falter, leaning heavily on the headboard, his knuckles white from gripping it.

“Gonna fill you up, g-gonna-”

His babbling devolves into a low moan as he slams his hips down into yours one final time. He remains still for a moment, breathing heavily as he finds his release deep into your waiting cunt.

Arthur groans as he pulls out, his cock near dripping with his spend and your slick. He flops down next to you in the bed as you slowly roll onto your side.

He breathes out through his nose, and chuckles softly as he turns his head toward you, “Well that was different there, darl-”

“Shit, shit -” his satisfied grin drops as he sees your tear- streaked face, “Oh, oh honey - I didn’t - shit.”

He draws you into his embrace, cupping your cheek as his brow furrows, you can see in his eyes the guilt overtaking him.

“ M’okay-”

“Jesus, what a bastard I am-”

“Arthur-” You press your hand against his sweat-dotted sternum, “I’m fine. Seriously. Maybe just gonna a bit sore riding.”

He clenches his jaw, obviously not thrilled with your answer.

“Christ, I’m sorry. Last thing I ever want to do is hurt-”

You cut him off by surging forward and pressing your lips to his, pressing your tongue inside, throwing your leg over his hip to plaster yourself against him.

He’s breathless by the time you pull away, one arm tight around your waist.

You smile, reaching up and brushing a lock of his hair from his forehead.

“Just warn a girl next time, Mister Morgan.”

His cheeks blaze red for a moment before you lean in and kiss him again.

[millieisawriter]

Workin' girl

arthur morgan x reader

summary: the one where arthur pulls a john — falling in love with a working girl. it was never supposed to happen, yet it did, and now arthur is left with two choices. either he, again, walks away from a woman that loves him, or tries to fight for her.

wc: 2k

all pics taken from pinterest

♡this wasn't requested, but if you wish to request something you're more than welcome♡

a/n: i see this happening in blackwater in case i decide to write a 2nd part, but when i started writing i imagined saint denis, didn't see any town/city names mentioned as i was proof-reading, lmk if you see something i missed <3

Life has never treated you kindly so eventually, as soon as you could leave your family home, you turned to the oldest profession in the world. Even if that kind of life was better, it still wasn't ideal, but it was the best you could do. Eventually, you started to like it because even with its issues and dark sides it wasn't that terrible. Some would even dare saying it was 'easy money', which you actually knew wasn't true.

Luckily for you, you ended up in one of the more expensive brothels. Maybe it was the 'splendor' of the place, the luxurious interior, that made you feel somewhat safe. Safer than you would feel in some cheap saloon where the patrons consisted of drifters with a questionable past.

You had your regular patrons, ones that you got along with well — one of the reasons why they were your regulars. These were the men that could stay a bit longer after the service itself was done without making it awkward. Ones that you could have a conversation with, ones that saw you as another human being, not just an item to relieve their frustration.

It was a normal evening, the building was neither empty nor full. You didn't have that much on your hands, you and a fellow working girl were entertaining a group of men. They sat by a table, a drink in one hand, a cigar in the other, and two of these men had a companion in their lap — you and your friend. Ending the evening in the bedroom wasn't certain, for now you were just trying to make them spend as much money as possible on the drinks.

Then, Arthur walked in. One of your regulars, one you were particularly fond of. The chemistry between the two of you was so strong sometimes you wanted to tell him he didn't have to pay.

His eyes immediately found you, and he would be lying if he said he didn't feel jealous seeing you in the man's lap. But you, as if on command, turned to look at Arthur and as you noticed your favorite patron, you excused yourself from the table.

"Mister Callahan," you beamed, approaching the man, "so good to see you again."

He tipped his hat to you, his lips curling into a soft smile. "Evenin' darlin', thought I'd stop by again. You been keepin' busy?"

The way he always called you darling, every time, made you feel so warm and bubbly. Of course, he wasn't the first man to do that, but when it came from him, it felt almost sincere.

"Busy enough," you replied, glancing over your shoulder at the table of men you just left, "but I'll always make time for you, mister."

"Well, reckon I'll take you up on that. How bout we find a quiet spot?"

"Your wish is my command." Giggling, you took Arthur by the hand to lead him upstairs where your room was. Even if he already knew the way well enough.

Your room was just like any other room in that brothel — furnished with the most luxurious-looking furniture, tastefully decorated with expensive ornaments, every little detail taken care of.

As the door to your room clicked shut behind you, the world outside seemed to fade miles away. In that moment right there it were just the two of you, bathed in the dim light by the fireplace's glow.

Arthur's hat found its usual place on the small table by the door and he turned to face you, "I can never stay away for too long." Shortly, his hands landed on your waist, resting on the corset of your dress.

"Then maybe you should visit more often..." You suggested, your own hands finding their way to the man's shoulders.

"I'm afraid it ain't a good idea, darlin'. I always look forward to seein' you. But sayin' goodbye..."

"I get what you mean," you chuckled, "so what's it gonna be today? Just the regular service, or you want something extra? It'll be on the house."

Every time Arthur visited you, it was both blissfull and painful for him. You were so good at what you were doing it felt like a religious experience, but the attachment he held for you left a hole in his heart each time he had to say goodbye.

He had always wished he could just ask you to leave this life, and join the gang, but which woman would agree for this? Your current life, your current job, as oppressing as it was, couldn't be worse than living on the run. In Arthur's eyes at least.

In the brothel you had your own room, a wardrobe with many dresses. You had a somehow stable income, it didn't seem as if money were any issue to you. All this, compared to what you could have in the camp, was much worse. And you didn't even know his real last name, there was no reason for you to leave this life you had for a criminal.

Why did Arthur even fall for a working girl? The exact same thing happened to John, which Arthur would often make fun of him for. Maybe life just decided to pull a joke on Arthur now. But he just couldn't control himself, from the first time he saw you, you were different. With other women it didn't take long to notice they're just playing a role, but you... from the first time you even smiled at Arthur, he was drawn to how genuine it looked. And now, you had become not just a pretty face to entertain him, but someone he felt at ease with.

This time, as many times before, Arthur didn't hurry to get dressed and leave the room, return back to camp after getting what he wanted. Instead, he stayed under the covers in your bed, smoking a cigarette as you kept going on about something that happened a few days ago.

He didn't mind, he could let you yap his ears off, your voice was such a calming sound. It was almost hard to believe you weren't just a hallucination he made up. How could such an ethereal being just lay there, next to him, head propped on your palm as you lay on your stomach, talking about whatever nonsense? How could this happen to a man like Arthur Morgan?

"...so then," you paused to take the cigarette from Arthur, take one puff and hand it right back, "you'd think a man like him would have some sense, right? Well, no, he was so damn thick in the head, she just told the guard to throw him out!"

Arthur chuckled, exhaling a stream of smoke. "Bet he didn't see that comin'. I'm glad I ain't made it onto your list of thick-headed fools yet."

"Yet!" You playfully reminded him. "You seem to have more sense than others, although I can't say I'm some weak little girl. I don't even need a guard, but the madam insists it's for safety."

A thought lingered in the back of Arthur's mind. It was weird, in a sense, to know there's a guard right outside your door whenever you had a man up there. Even right then.

"I don't doubt you could handle yourself, darlin'," Arthur smirked, taking one last drag from his cigarette, "but it don't hurt havin' someone lookin' out for you."

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. "Guess you're right, mister."

Arthur stubbed out the ciragette into the ashtray that stood on the bedside table, knowing what it meant. His time was up, he extended the time of his visit as long as he could. Now that his usual cigarette was finished, it was the time for him to go.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed to stand up. You watched as he reached for his clothes that had been thrown onto the floor, and for the first time a single tear started to burn the corner of your eye.

With his jeans already on, and his shirt for now unbuttoned, he reached to the pocket, retrieving the usual payment. You wiped the tear away as it escaped your eye. It was always the same routine, but it didn't make it any easier to watch him go.

"Here it is." He said almost robotically, placing the money next to the ashtray, throwing in a little tip.

You looked at the money with sadness in your gaze, then your eyes shifted to look at the man. "You know, you shouldn't have to pay, because you don't make it feel like work."

There they were, the words Arthur was so afraid to hear. Him having a more romantic kind of attachment to you was one thing. However, knowing that you reciprocated the feeling, made it more difficult.

"Good," he nodded, "cause you don't make me feel like the bastard I am," as he buttoned up his shirt.

You sat up on the bed, pulling the sheets harder around you, since you were still naked. "Arthur..." You sighed, the rest of the sentence dying in your throat.

The fact that for the first time you had used his actual name instead of calling him mister as always, made it only more difficult.

"No, darlin', don't."

"You know you don't have to leave, right?"

Oh, he had to leave. If he overstayed his welcome too much, the guard at your door would become highly suspicious. And that would only cause issues for you.

"I have to, don't wanna make it harder." Arthur replied.

"Harder for who? I know a man's nature well enough, and I can tell there's something more in the— the way you fuck me, Arthur."

He thought maybe playing dumb would help him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that if you were to ask me to... to abandon this life for you... I would."

Arthur gulped. It was just what he wished for, but what he couldn't allow to happen. "I've got nothin' to give you. I live on the run, it ain't somethin' you wanna be a part of, trust me."

"You think I'd rather keep fucking strangers to survive, than travel the world with a man I lo—"

"You don't." Arthur interrupted you. "You don't know what you're talkin' bout." Love was a word of huge weight, there was no way it was what you felt for him.

You insisted. "I know what I feel, and I know what you feel, I see it in your eyes, I feel it when you're in my bed, Arthur. I wanna leave this life for you."

"It ain't gonna be no escape, though, just another kind of trap. You deserve better than fuckin' strangers to get by, but you also deserve better than runnin' and not knowin' which day will be your last."

"I don't want better!" At that point you didn't care if the guard outside will hear. "I want you, Arthur!"

"I want you too, darlin'," he admitted, his voice breaking slightly, "but... you're safer here. I can't sentence you to a life of eternal wanderin'."

His words had a final tone, but as well as you could read his eyes, you could tell he regrets saying what he had just said. You could have had a roof over your head, and locks in your door, but it wasn't safety. It was survival.

You stepped closer, reaching out to grab Arthur's hand. You knew he didn't want to leave, you were sure he wants you just like you wanted him. "Arthur..."

His heart ached when he saw the way your beautiful eyes looked at him, but still he decided to kiss you. It only made it worse, making another cut in Arthur's already damaged heart.

"I gotta go." He stated, freeing his hand from yours.

"No." You refused as if you had any say in that matter. You could demand he takes you with him now, wherever he's headed, but what would it do?

"I can't make promises," he continued, putting his boots and jacket on, then his hat, "but I'll figure somethin' out."

You stayed silent, watching him leave the room, not knowing if he's going to keep his word. All you had now was the money, that you didn't even want from him, and the promise that could have been empty.

[springtyme]

𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬, 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬

Arthur Morgan x afab!reader || Masterlist || Arthur playlist

summary: Since joining the Van der Linde gang, you have felt yourself gravitate toward Arthur Morgan. Like a moth to a flame, this rugged yet kind man has captured your attention. On an unusually cold night, your infatuation finally comes to a head.

word count: 5.3k

warning/tags: Smut! (18+, mdni!) Fluff. Grinding. Cunnilingus. Unprotected p in v. Arthur is a gentleman. This is my first time writing for Arthur and it's been a while since I played the game, so I hope I captured him okay.

𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞: 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟎) 𝐇𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐭𝐡

The moon hangs high in the star-speckled sky, casting a silvery glow on the encampment of the Van der Linde gang, with the biting chill of the night air settling in like a thick blanket. The crackling of the campfire fills the air, chasing off the chill that has settled in once the sun dipped below the horizon. Arthur sits across from the flames, his usual bravado softened by the flickering light. He gazes into the fire, lost in thought, the shadows dancing across his strong features.

You sit a short distance away, bundled in a blanket, and you shiver despite the flames dancing before you. Your eyes flickering between him and the fire. The chill in the night is more biting than you had expected, and it has settled right into your bones. You glance at Arthur, his shoulders broad and inviting; an idea sparked in your mind.

Since you joined the Van der Linde gang, you have felt pulled towards him. Like a magnet to a magnetic field, strong and irresistible. You couldn’t even fight it, not that you would want to. There is something about Arthur—a mix of strength and vulnerability—that drew you in like a moth to a flame. And, despite his immediate ruggedness, he has been so kind to you, a much gentler man than his reputation would let on. 

It had all accumulated within you about a week ago, when you saw him by the river, you hadn’t meant to stumble upon him. You hadn’t seen much, you left almost immediately, not wanting to invade his space, but the view of his bare backside had been burned into your memory ever since. 

There was a rawness to him in those moments of solitude, something unguarded, something real. It left you breathless and a little envious of the water that cascaded over his skin, the way it dripped and glistened under the sun. That day, you realized your feelings for him went deeper than mere admiration.

Now, amidst the crackling flames and the pull of the night, you find yourself sorting through those emotions like kindling. You wrap the blanket tighter around you, contemplating your next move. The fire pops, sending a small spray of embers into the air, momentarily illuminating the dark before they vanish into the vastness above.

“Arthur?” you call softly, hesitating for a moment.

“Yeah?” he replies, glances up from the tin cup he is nursing, his eyes sparkling with the firelight. 

“Do you think… maybe I could sit closer? It’s getting pretty cold,” you say, the honesty spilling easily from your lips.

He raises an eyebrow but nods. “Sure…” You move closer, feeling a bit shy but determined to warm up. As you settle next to him, the warmth from the fire is immediately replaced by the heat radiating from his body.

“You’re freezing,” he comments, noticing how you hug your arms around yourself, still not quite warm enough. 

“Yeah… I guess I underestimated how cold it would get,” you admit with a shy smile.

Silence envelopes you for a moment, but it isn’t uncomfortable. The crackling of wood and the distant calls of the night echo around you, creating a serene backdrop. Arthur shuffles a little closer, his eyes flicking toward yours, as if assessing the situation.

“Here,” he says, leaning in a bit more and draping his arm across your shoulders. “That should help.”

Your breath is caught in your throat as his warmth seeps into you, a protective barrier against the cold. You stiffen for a moment at the sudden intimacy, but his presence is steady and comforting. It feels right.

“Thanks,” you mumble, leaning into him, instinctively seeking the heat the flames couldn’t provide.

“You’re really cold,” he murmurs, his breath trailing over your ear, making you shiver for an entirely different reason. “You shoulda said somethin’ sooner.”

You nod, reveling in the closeness, a soft warmth spreading in contrast to the chill of the evening. “I didn’t want to bother you. You seemed… deep in thought,” you say, glancing up at him sideways.

Arthur chuckles quietly, the sound deep and rumbling. “Not that deep… Just thinkin’ ‘bout what’s next. You know how it is,” he replies, his gaze returning to the flames. There’s an unspoken weight in his voice, a hint of the burdens he carries. You don’t push him for more; you know better than to pry. Instead, you shift slightly, fitting into the curve of his side, embracing the warmth he offers.

“I get it,” you say softly, looking into the fire. The flames crackle and pop, sending sparks dancing into the night. You steal A glance at him, but just as you look up, he looks down at you, a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as if he caught you in the act of admiring him. It makes your heart skip just a little and heat creeping up your cheeks. You quickly return your gaze to the fire, feigning indifference.

The atmosphere shifts slightly, the warmth between you growing with each passing moment, and you can almost feel the magnetic pull of his gaze. Arthur doesn’t need to say anything; the silence is filled with everything unspoken, the tension hanging like the starry sky overhead.

“Cold as it is, it sure is peaceful tonight,” he remarks, glancing up at the stars for a brief moment before his gaze slips back to you. You nod, the serenity of the night cloaking you, but it’s the closeness with him that makes the stars shine brighter. There’s something intimate about sharing a moment like this amidst the chaos of the world, just the two of you, together under the vast expanse of stars.

“Yeah, it is,” you agree, your voice barely above a whisper. A warmth blooms in your chest, and you allow yourself to lean a little further into his side, breathing in the scent of him—leather, smoke, and something distinctly Arthur.

“Y’know, sometimes I wonder how we ended up here,” he says, his tone contemplative, stirring your curiosity. “This life… it ain’t pretty, but it’s moments like this that keep us going, I reckon.”

You turn to look at him, noting the way the firelight casts shadows across his face, highlighting the rugged lines that tell stories of hardship and resilience. “It is,” you respond, then add playfully, “I guess it beats freezing alone out here.”

He chuckles softly, and the sound vibrates through you. You can’t help but study him closer, the way his mouth curves when he smiles, the tenderness that lies beneath his hardened exterior. “You got a point. Just don’t go gettin’ too used to me keepin’ you warm,” he teases, his tone playful but his eyes betraying something deeper.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you reply, attempting to sound nonchalant, though your heartbeat quickens at the thought of sharing more than just warmth.

A moment passes, and the atmosphere shifts again, charged with an electric tension. You feel his breath against your skin, each inhale igniting a flicker of desire deep within you. Tentatively, you glance up again, catching his eyes locked onto yours, and your heart races.

You look up at him, wanting to reach out and bridge the unspoken gaps between you and In that moment, as the warmth of the fire flickers and the world outside of your little bubble fades away, something shifts. Arthur’s fingers brush against your arm, a gentle caress that sends shivers down your spine. The air feels thick with unspoken words, an invitation hanging between you both.

“Y’know… I actually wouldn’t mind if you got used to me keepin’ you warm,” Arthur murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, laced with an undeniable sincerity that makes your breath hitch in your throat. The shift in his demeanor—more serious, more vulnerable—sends a rush of heat through you.

Your heart pounds against your chest, and you can’t tell if it’s from the warmth of his body or the pull of desire igniting between the two of you. “Arthur…,” you start, but the words escape you as his gaze drops to your lips.

Without fully realizing how it happens, you shift closer, your breath mingling with his. In the space of a heartbeat, he closes the gap, his lips capturing yours in a heated kiss. It’s soft at first, a gentle exploration filled with a sweet urgency, but soon turns more fervent, fueled by a longing that has been building unnoticed until this very moment.

Your hands find their way to his hair, fingers tangling in the surprisingly soft strands as you deepen the kiss, leaning into him, feeling the heat radiating off of his body. Arthur responds in kind, wrapping his arm tighter around you, pulling you against him, as if he never wants to let you go.

The world around you fades away, leaving only the warmth of the fire and the heat of each other. You lose yourself in the sensation—his lips moving against yours, his fingers skimming over your back, igniting every nerve in your body. 

As the world outside dims, it feels like nothing else exists but the two of you. You feel his body against yours, the roughness of his hands juxtaposed with the fire’s warmth. The chill of the night fades completely, leaving only the heat that surges between you.

“Arthur,” you breathe, pulling back slightly to catch your breath, your forehead resting against his. His eyes are dark and intense, a mixture of longing and something deeper.

“Yeah?” he replies, that low rumble of his voice sending tingles down your spine. His gaze stays locked on you, filled with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt about how he feels.

“Are you gonna keep me warm tonight?”

Arthur’s breath hitches slightly at your question, a playful spark lighting in his eyes. He searches your gaze as if looking for the truth behind your inquiry, the shadows of the fire dancing across both your faces, bathing you in its warm light.

“I reckon I can manage that,” he answers, his voice low and full of promise, steadying himself as he leans even closer. The intensity of the moment is electric, wrapping around you like the embrace of the night.

With a slow deliberation, he shifts his body, creating a more intimate cocoon around you. His hand runs gently down your arm, sending waves of warmth pulsing through your skin. You feel the weight of his gaze on you, heavy yet inviting, as he moves slightly, his lips brushing past your ear.

“Why don’t we head to my tent, then?” you suggest, a nervous thrill coursing through you at the thought of such proximity. The air hangs between you, thick with possibilities.

“Lead the way, darlin’,” his voice gravelly and coaxing, a hint of mischief threaded through his words. The intimacy of the proposition sends a shiver down your spine—not from the cold this time, but from excitement.

You stand, heart racing, and reach for Arthur’s hand, your fingers intertwining with his as you lead him away from the warmth of the fire and the potential curious eyes of the camp. The chill of the night air bites against your skin, but Arthur’s presence is a comforting blanket around you. The way he moves beside you, the strength of his hand enveloping yours, intensifies the fluttering in your stomach.

As you approach your tent, the world outside fades into silence, just the two of you amidst the stillness of the night. You pause just outside, your pulse quickening as you glance back at him. His gaze is dark, heated, full of expectation, and it sends a thrilling rush through you.

Without thinking, you lean in slightly, brushing your lips against his, a teasing caress filled with anticipation. He responds instantly, his hand moving to cradle your face, deepening the kiss as his other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you against him.

“Let’s not waste any more time,” he murmurs against your lips, his breath hot and mingling with yours as he nudges you into the tent. You stumble in, laughter spilling from your lips as he follows, his gaze intensely focused on you.

Inside, the dim light casts a cozy glow, illuminating the space where your bodies stand mere inches apart. The air is thick with tension, the scent of leather and smoke surrounding you as Arthur steps closer, a predatory glint in his eye. It sends another wave of excitement coursing through you.

“Closer,” he says, voice low and commanding, and you obey instinctively, stepping into his personal space. You can feel the heat radiating from him, and the electric spark between you intensifies.

His hands find your waist, gripping you firmly as he leans down, capturing your lips again with a fierce need. This kiss is different—hungry and demanding. You melt against him, losing yourself in the taste of him, the warmth of his body enveloping you. Your fingers tangle in his shirt, pulling him closer, urging him on.

Arthur’s hands roam your back, gently urging you towards the edge of the small cot amid the tent. You gasp against his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to explore further, trailing kisses down your neck as you tilt your head back in delight.

“Damn,” he murmurs, his voice ragged with desire. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” His breath is warm against your skin, sending shivers down your spine as you pull him back up to you, crashing your lips together again.

The feeling of him—his rough hands, the weight of his body—intensifies the urge coursing through you, the desire to surrender to this moment. You tug at his shirt, muscles straining beneath your fingertips. With deft hands, he works it free, his shirt falling to the ground as your hands roam over his bare skin, feeling the heat radiate off of him.

“You’re incredible,” he breathes out as you touch him, exploring every inch of his toned torso as he leans over you, the power dynamic propelling your heart rate even higher. His lips find your collarbone, brushing over the sensitive skin, making you gasp.

“Arthur,” you murmur, your voice a combination of need and admiration. He pulls back slightly, his blue eyes dark and full of intent as he studies you. There’s a possessive heat in his gaze that makes your insides curl with anticipation.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers, his breath hovering over your lips. The way he speaks sends a ripple of excitement through you, the possibilities stretching out like the night sky above.

“I want you,” you admit, surprise mingling with clarity. The words tumble from your lips, bold and unguarded. “I want all of you.”

Arthur grins, a slow, wicked smile that sends a rush of heat through you. “Then you’ll have me,” he declares, and in an instant, he’s on you, capturing your mouth again, deepening the kiss as he pushes you back onto the cot.

The world around you fades away, engulfed in the warmth of the moment as his body presses against yours, igniting every nerve with a fervor you hadn’t anticipated. Your breath quickens as he trails kisses down your jaw, over your neck, and back to your lips, again and again, each exploration sending electrifying sparks shooting through you.

His hands roam freely, brushing against your skin while his lips do their own wandering, every touch stirring a primal need in you that’s impossible to ignore.

“Arthur,” you breathe, tugging him closer as you arch against him, the heat between you both rising like wildfire. “Please,” you beg. You need him, need him to touch you without anything between you, no clothes, no barriers.

He pauses for a fraction of a second to meet your gaze, seeking confirmation—desire laced with care—and in this moment it is as if can read your thoughts. You don’t need to voice your wish, only to confirm to him that it is okay. 

“Please, Arthur,” you repeat. It is all he needs to hear. Calloused hands start to undress you, helping you shred your garments and expose your skin to the chill air of the night.  

The cool air rushes over your bare skin, contrasting sharply with the heat radiating from Arthur as he leans over you, his breath warm and steady. A shiver runs through you, not from the cold, but from the heady anticipation swirling in the air. With every piece of clothing that falls away, a new layer of vulnerability is revealed, but instead of feeling exposed, you feel a sense of liberation, a boldness surging from within.

Arthur’s gaze is intense, roaming over your body as if committing every curve, every scar, and every inch to memory. His exploration is slow, deliberate, full of reverence, and it ignites a fire within you that dances just below the surface. You watch as the flickering light from the fire outside casts warm shadows across his rugged features, illuminating the desire etched in his expression.

In one swift motion, he discards your last garment, and a heat flushes through you, both from exposure and the rawness of the moment. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice a low rasp that tugs at your heartstrings. There’s an honesty in his eyes that makes you feel cherished in a way you never expected.

“Arthur, I—” you begin, but he silences you with a kiss, capturing your words and folding them into the intensity of the moment. His lips move over yours with a tender ferocity, igniting a hunger that spreads like wildfire throughout your body. You respond eagerly, your hands pulling him closer, craving his touch against every inch of your skin.

He breaks the kiss, leaning down to press his lips against your collarbone, trailing soft kisses down to the swell of your breasts, his breath warm against your skin. Each movement sends jolts of pleasure coursing through you, every kiss igniting a spark that sets your nerves alight.

“Arthur…” you breathe, arching your back instinctively, wanting more of him, needing him to explore every inch of you. His hands roam freely, caressing your curves, memorizing the way your body responds to him.

“Easy, darlin’,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rich with warmth and desire. “I got you.” There’s a sweetness to the way he speaks, a reassurance that only deepens the connection between you. He lifts his head to meet your gaze, and in that moment, the world outside, the gang, the chaos of life fades entirely. All that matters is the quiet, intimate space you’ve created together.

With a gentle touch, his hands guide you back down towards the cot, his body following, pressing against you, enveloping you in his warmth. You feel the weight of him against you, the sensation almost overwhelming in its intensity as he leans down, kissing you deeply once more. The kiss deepens, both of you lost in the surge of desire that envelops you.

You pull him closer, your hands exploring the muscles of his back, tracing the lines of his form. He moves with a mix of urgency and reverence as he grinds against you, cultivating a rhythm that makes your pulse race. You feel every press of his body against yours, the heat soaring higher with each passing moment. you gasp as you feel the curve of his hardened cock through the rough denim of his jeans.

“Darlin’, I want to taste you,” he murmurs, the growl of his voice promising things that make your breath hitch. The implication sends a thrill up your spine, desire surging through you like fire. You can hardly respond, only nodding breathlessly, caught up in the intensity of his gaze and the heat radiating from his body.

“Please,” you manage to whisper, the plea escaping your lips with a mix of eagerness and urgency.

With skilled hands, he begins to move lower, trailing kisses along your body, down the gentle curve of your waist, following the soft dips of your hips. Each kiss sends ripples of anticipation coursing through you, and you arch towards him, craving more. Arthur moves with deliberate slowness, taking his time, savoring every moment, the intent in his eyes making you feel cherished and desired.

“Trust me,” he whispers, his breath ghosting over your skin, and you can hardly muster a reply as he reaches your thighs, the heat of him only intensifying your longing. You can feel the weight of his gaze as he looks at your body, and a breathless shiver runs through you; he's memorizing you, relishing each curve.

His hands part your thighs gently, and you feel an exhilarating rush of vulnerability and excitement. With a teasing touch, he trails his fingers along your inner thigh, barely brushing against your skin, igniting sparks of electric sensation. The anticipation builds within you, a tantalizing chord strumming tighter and tighter, waiting for him to play the melody that will make it snap.

“Arthur,” you breathe, the urgency of your need unmistakable now.

“Gotcha,” he replies, the smirk evident in his voice before he dips his head. As soon as his lips make contact, you let out a soft gasp, your body responding instinctively to his mouth. His warm, firm lips explore and tease – deliberate, unhurried – and the world outside the tent melts into nothing.

Every flick of his tongue sends waves of pleasure crashing over you, and you feel yourself lose track of everything—the camp, the stars, the night—nothing matters but this moment, this connection. He revels in the taste of you, eyes locked onto yours as if wanting to drink you in not just physically, but soulfully.

“Just relax, darlin’,” he murmurs against you, and the sound vibrates through you, only adding to the swirling sum of sensations. You feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin, knowing just how responsive you are to him, and that realization sends a ripple of heat coursing through you.

His movements become more fervent, focused on every inch of you, and as his tongue works its magic, you feel your body tighten, shaking at the intensity of the pleasure he’s drawing from you. “Arthur…,” you gasp again, surrendering completely to the waves of ecstasy that just keep rising and rising.

“Feel good?” he teases, glancing up briefly, and the rogue glimmer in his eyes tells you he knows just how much you're enjoying this.

“More than good,” you reply, your voice trembling with need. “Don’t stop.”

“Trust me, I won’t,” he promises, and his focus returns, deepening the intimacy of this moment. He immerses himself fully, your body moving instinctively in rhythm with his expert ministrations. The sensation becomes addictive, and with each flick, each pull of his lips, you feel yourself teetering on the edge, ready to leap.

You can feel the tension building, each wave of pleasure rolling higher within you, and you fight to hold on, pleading with him through moans and gasps. With a final, deliberate stroke against your most sensitive spot, you shatter, the world erupting in a shocking brilliance as you crest over the edge and fall into bliss.

“Arthur!” you cry out his name, your body trembling, stars exploding behind your eyes, and you lose yourself completely in the overwhelming pleasure. The waves of ecstasy roll through you, and it feels like everything fades away—nothing but you and him, anchored together in this intimate cocoon.

He continues to tease and coax you through your high, savoring every moment, every sound you make. The connection between you both deepens in this exquisite stillness—passionate and primal, a sweet collision of souls in an unforgiving world.

When the tremors finally subside, you pull him back up to your lips, hunger evident as you kiss him deeply, tasting yourself mixed with the warmth of his breath. Arthur responds, diving into the embrace, arms wrapping around you, pulling you close as you share this sacred moment.

“Goddamn,” he breathes into your mouth when you finally part, his voice rich with both awe and hunger, the need between you still pulsing like a living thing. “You’re incredible.”

You manage a breathless laugh. “I could say the same about you.”

He smirks, brushing a palm gently over your cheek, his thumb lingering against your cheekbone. “And trust me, darlin’, I’m just gettin’ started.”

Your heart races again at his words, the promise of more sending a thrilling shiver down your spine. As you pull him closer once more, ready to explore every depth of this connection, nothing seems daunting anymore—just the two of you, the embers of the fire outside, the stars above, and the wild world fading beyond the complexities of your shared intimacy.

“Then get out of those boots, and those jeans, and take me, Arthur.” Your statement hangs heavy in the air between you, a daring challenge laced with vulnerability. Something primal glints in his eyes as he gaze down at you, igniting a spark that sends butterflies swirling in your stomach

With a swift motion, he frees himself from the restraints of his jeans, the sound of the fabric falling to the earth blending into the chaos of your racing hearts. You glance down, taking in the sight of him, and a rush of lust surges through you. He’s strong, and rugged, the embodiment of passion entwined with a rugged charm that makes your pulse quicken.

Arthur positions himself between your legs, leaning forward to kiss you deeply again, his body pressing against yours, reminding you of the heat that you both share. His hands roam over your body, exploring every curve and contour, igniting sparks wherever he touches.

“Damn, you feel good,” he murmurs, his voice rough with need as he trails kisses down your body, savoring every taste, every gasp that escapes your lips. The way his lips move on your skin makes it nearly impossible to hold back, your body arching and twisting beneath him as you crave more of his touch.

“Arthur, please…” you whimper, the urgency in your voice unmistakable. You need him, need him to fill the void; you crave the connection that you both share. He meets your pleading gaze, and the sincerity in his eyes sends warmth flooding through you.

With a steady, commanding hand, he guides himself to your entrance, hesitating for only a moment as he seeks your permission. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly, a mix of concern and desire lacing his words.

“Yes, I’m sure,” you reply, breathless, your heart racing as you nod fervently. The moment stretches, the tension palpable as the air between you thickens with promise and anticipation. Arthur doesn’t need to be told twice.

In one fluid motion, he fills you, pushing deep within with a slow, deliberate intensity that leaves you gasping. Every nerve in your body ignites, overwhelmed by the sensation of him surrounding you, overwhelming you with pleasure. You feel fullness, desire, and unyielding connection as your bodies meld together as one.

“Shit,” he breathes, his voice strained as he begins to move within you, the rhythm developing as he finds a pace that balances urgency and sweetness. Each thrust sends shockwaves of pleasure erupting inside you, a blissful spiral that pulls you closer to the edge.

You dig your nails into his back, urging him on, pushing him deeper as waves of delight crash over you with every plunge, every grind of his hips against yours, the sounds of skin meeting skin echoing in the quiet tent. Your breaths mingle, chaotic and desperate, amplifying the heat that races between your bodies.

“God, you feel incredible,” Arthur gasps, his forehead pressed against yours as he moves, each thrust igniting your senses, the pressure building within you. You can feel the heat between you boiling over, a feral need surging through you, driving you closer to the precipice.

“Arthur, I’m so close…” you cry out, the urgency of your release bubbling over as you cling to him, urging him on. With each powerful thrust, he drives you higher, pushing you toward the brink of ecstasy.

“Let go for me, darlin’,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. “Let it all happen.”

That encouragement is all it takes. With one final thrust, your body shatters in bliss, waves of passion crash over you as you cry out his name, the world around you dimming into nothing but pleasure and warmth.

“Yeah, just like that,” he groans. He pulls out at the last minute, spilling rope upon rope of warm, white cum over your skin, his own ecstasy evident in the way his body tensed against yours. The two of you crashing together in a flurry of shared ecstasy that sends both of you spiraling into pure delight. 

As the waves of pleasure ebb away, you both lie tangled in each other’s arms, breathless and elated. The world outside fades into an echoing silence as the fire crackles softly, illuminating the tenderness of the moment shared between you.

Arthur holds you tightly, your bodies entwined beneath the warmth of the blankets and the remnants of the heat you’ve both created. In the aftermath, an intimate silence settles between you, the sound of your breathing mingling with the gentle crackle of the fire outside, a calming cadence that feels sacred in its intimacy.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with a mixture of concern and tenderness as he brushes his fingers along your skin. He grabs his shirt, his long, strong arm reaching it with ease, and gently wipes his cum from your thigh and stomach, the gesture both intimate and caring.

You nod, a soft smile playing on your lips, feeling cherished in this vulnerable moment. “Yeah, I’m more than alright,” you reply softly, your heart swelling with a warmth that eclipses even the fire’s glow. You glance up to meet his piercing blue eyes, shimmering with sincerity and a hint of vulnerability that makes your chest tighten. It’s a contrast to the fierce man you had known; in this moment, he’s not just rugged and wild, but tender, caring.

A shy smile breaks upon his lips, and you can’t help but mirror it. “Good,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a gentle kiss on your forehead. The sweetness of the gesture sends a wave of warmth flooding through you, solidifying the bond that had cemented itself in the fiery passion of just a few moments ago.

The quiet feels different now—less charged with tension and more filled with understanding—a blank canvas where something beautiful can unfold. The shadows in the tent off the flickering light dance around you both, echoing the intricate tapestry of emotions woven from the intimacy you just shared.

He leans down, capturing your lips in a gentle kiss that speaks of more than just passion; this was special, it meant something. You both share a lingering smile before settling into the quiet once more, a sense of peace enveloping you amidst the chaos of the outside world.

As time drifts lazily onward, you let your eyes wander deeper into the safe haven of his presence, the warmth of your intertwined bodies gradually creating a sanctuary against the chilling night air. The crackle of the fire outside serves as a soothing soundtrack to the warmth surrounding you, and you revel in this moment—a blissful interlude that feels entirely yours.

“Let’s rest,” Arthur murmurs, stealing another kiss before pulling you closer, cocooning you in his embrace. You nod against him, content to let the exhaustion of reality slip away for a while.

As sleep intertwines with the serenity of the night, you feel his heartbeat against your cheek—a steady reminder that, for now, you have everything you need. Together, you drift into dreams, the warmth of each other’s presence cocooning you as the chill of the world outside feels light years away.

Thank you for reading! Reblogs and comments are always greatly appreciated ♡

[red-dead-disaster]

AI WARNING:

There's an account going around that does not tag AI art in our fandom! You may have seen pictures like this:

Floating around, and it's ai! There's no soul in it! It's slop and you are being lied to. They do not tag their crap with #ai because they actively want to mislead you into believing any effort or care went into this. AI generators source (read, steal) from YOUR fan works and generate trash like this. While they state that it is AI in their bio, it can't be foudn anywhere else, which is incredibly misleading.

[photo1030]

This is so weird and so incredibly beautiful!!

I’ve never really read any monster au romance, so this is totally new for me.

Ok so going into it, I knew it would be well written because it’s you. BUT! That is where your skill really shines. This is a hard enough thing to try to imagine, but as usual the descriptive language is amazing. He is SO magnificent! And the wounded condition and trying to connect with him is very heartfelt.

Totally taken in by this now……

The Dark Tide Siren!Arthur Morgan x Reader Modern AU Ch 1 - The Ocean Need Not Seek Water Summary: As a marine biologist working for a rehabilitation center, a late-night call pulls you to the shoreline, where an unusual creature has washed up on the beach. What you find is beyond anything you’ve ever encountered—both mesmerizing and deeply unsettling. As you examine the wounded monster, fascination wars with horror, and one thing becomes clear: whatever he is, someone hurt him first. wc: 4.6k tw: blood, descriptions of monster anatomy ﹏𓊝﹏ ↠ Sail Ahead!

AN: This is just me throwing words at the wall while I dramatically crawl on my hands and knees to get out of a writing slump. Nothing like a good ol’ Monster Romance to spice things up.

~Enjoy the chaos <3

There’s nothing worse than waking up before sunrise.

Scratch that—there’s nothing worse than being woken up at the witching hour for work.

My phone buzzes violently on the nightstand, dragging me from a restless sleep. The first call I ignore. By the second, I’m groaning into my pillow. By the third, I’m sitting up, glaring at the screen as it lights up with an endless stream of texts. Each one vanishes before I can read it, replaced by another.

Kicking the damp sheets off my legs, I sit up, cursing the heat. Even in the dead of night, this tiny island off the coast of the Outer Banks feels like a furnace. The glow of my phone makes my eyes squint in protest as I swipe it open.

*3 missed calls from John ‘Scar Face From Work’ Marston*

Big ass fish washed up in Clemens Cove. ~JM

Still alive too. ~JM

Think it might be some kind of manatee or something. It’s fucking huge. ~JM

I snort at the messages and type back, stifling a yawn.

The manatees should’ve migrated south by now. It’s probably just some driftwood blown in from the storm. Are you drunk?

Three dots appear as John types back. Then they vanish. A moment later, they return, followed by his reply.

No, I’m not drunk. Hosea sent me out here. Couple locals said they saw it crawl to shore. Think it’s injured. ~JM

I frown, rereading his words. Crawl to shore? My brain struggles to imagine what kind of fish crawls.

Fish don’t crawl. You’re probably just seeing things. Goodnight, John.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s sent me a bizarre late-night text. Since joining Heartland National Park’s Ocean Rescue and Rehabilitation Program a few months ago, John and I have struck up an unlikely friendship. He’s charismatic, rough around the edges, and occasionally texts me drunk ramblings about his failures as a father. Tonight, though, he seems sober—just…weird.

My phone buzzes again, and this time it’s a picture. The image is dark and blurry, like John couldn’t bother to use his damn flashlight. I pinch the screen to zoom in. Even with the poor quality, I can make out the unmistakable silhouette of something.

A creature.

Its massive, long body lies sprawled on the beach. The tail—wide and powerful—is still being lapped by the waves, while its upper half is tangled in seaweed and debris. I squint harder, recognizing the jetty and lighthouse in the background. Sure enough, John’s at Clemens Cove—a tourist hotspot and one of the park’s most visited beaches.

Well…is that proof enough for you? ~JM

I stare at the photo, my mind racing. What the hell kind of fish is this? Its size alone is staggering. Too big to be a seal, too streamlined to be a whale. And those limbs—no, fins?—almost look…

That thing looks like it could eat you.

I reply, half-joking, though unease prickles at the back of my neck.

His response is immediate.

Would you just hurry up and get down here? Hosea wants to bring it back to the rehab center before dawn. ~JM

I hesitate, the logical part of my brain insisting this is some bizarre prank. But the photo tells a different story. Whatever’s out there isn’t normal, and yet it still needs our help. 

My job, after all, is to rehabilitate marine life for the program. Heartland’s ocean rescue and rehab center is one of the most renowned in the state, funded and overseen by Hosea Matthews—a man whose passion for conservation is matched only by his eccentricity. When I was offered a position here, fresh out of grad school, it felt like a dream come true. I traded the bustling labs of Boston for this small island town off the coast of North Carolina, surrounded by rocky shores and endless ocean. It was a quiet life, but one filled with purpose. My job wasn’t just about studying marine wildlife; it was about protecting it, healing it, and ensuring it had a fighting chance in an increasingly hostile world. Every seal we saved, every stranded dolphin we rehabilitated, felt like a victory—not just for the creatures but for me, too.

I’ll be there in ten.

Throwing on a hoodie and grabbing my keys, I head out into the humid night, the salty air clinging to my skin. The streets are eerily quiet at this hour, the occasional flicker of a porch light or the distant crash of waves the only signs of life. Adrenaline courses through my veins as my mind churns over what John could have possibly found. An injured shark? A stranded whale? But that photo—it didn’t fit anything I’d seen before. Its shape, its size. It defied all logic.

Whatever John found, it’s unlike anything I’ve seen before. And I’m not sure whether that excites or terrifies me.

⋅─⊱༺ 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 ༻⊰─⋅

The tailgate of my truck slammed open with a thud, the sound echoing down the length of the beach and bouncing off the jagged walls of the rocky cove. The quiet that followed was profound—the kind of silence that feels alive, wrapping itself around you and pressing into your chest. It was a stillness that made every breath feel too loud, every heartbeat drum in your ears. Even the ocean, its waves gently crashing against the rocks, seemed softer, as if it too was holding its breath. As if the cove itself was waiting.

I parked my truck close to the jetty where John stood silhouetted in the glow of his headlights, which cast long  shadows across the sand. At least he had enough brains to position his truck to illuminate the scene, the pale beams cutting through the darkness like lanterns in a dream. Leaping into the truck bed, I grabbed my gear, my boots crunching over the gravelly sand as I jogged to meet him.

“Glad to see you’re still standing. I take it this thing doesn’t prefer human flesh?” I teased, trying to mask the nervous energy coursing through me.

John turned, shooting me a glare, though I caught the flicker of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he muttered, nodding toward the creature.

My reply died in my throat as my gaze followed his. Under the orange glow of the headlights, the thing lying before us stole the breath from my lungs.

It was massive—easily 300 pounds, with a tail that spanned six feet at least. The sheer power contained in that muscle was undeniable. But it wasn’t the size that left me stunned; it was the color.

In the dim light, its scales shimmered like a living galaxy, hues of deep blue and violet melding together in perfect harmony. The moonlight caught the edges, transforming droplets of water into stars scattered across its body. Each ripple, each shift of its form, sent patterns of light and color dancing like auroras. Stripes of iridescent silver curved along its sides, vanishing into the delicate, translucent fins that flared from its tail.

I stepped closer, my flashlight casting its harsh beam across the creature. The light revealed intricate details: the smooth tapering of its ventral fin down its back, the elegant sweep of its pectoral fin along its side. The tail, partly submerged in the restless waves, was even more mesmerizing up close. Wading into the water, I could see the wide caudal fin rippling in the currents like a silk tapestry caught in the wind. The blues and purples deepened into indigo and violet near the edges, where the fin split into twin lobes that curled and flared as if the sea itself were breathing life into them.

The beauty of it all held me captive, but awe quickly gave way to alarm. A dark stain marred the perfection of its body. Thick, crimson blood seeped from a wound along the side that was pressed into the sand, mixing with the waves in slow, swirling tendrils. The contrast between the vivid colors of the creature and the stark, raw red was jarring.

“John…” I murmured, my voice barely audible over the whisper of the surf. My heart tightened as I crouched by its side. Whatever this thing was—this impossible, ethereal creature—it was alive. And it was hurting.

As if sensing my alarm, John joined me at the creature’s side, and together we worked to clear away the seaweed and debris tangled over its body. Using a switchblade I cut away at the knotted ropes and fishing lines that were cutting into its flesh. We moved with a tender care I usually reserved for the most fragile of rescues, each motion precise and deliberate. My fingers brushed against its scales, and I hesitated, startled by the unexpected softness beneath my touch. They were smooth and cool, gliding like silk under my hand as I ran it down the powerful swell of its tail. Beneath the delicate surface, the muscle was solid and strong, humming faintly with a tension that made me uneasy.

Without warning, the tail jerked.

“Shit!” John leapt back, nearly toppling over as I lost my balance, landing hard in the wet sand. My heart raced as I scrambled upright, the shock still buzzing in my fingertips.

Before either of us could speak, a low, resonant groan rolled through the air. It was deep and otherworldly, vibrating through my chest like the rumble of a distant storm. The sound was raw, filled with pain, and something else I couldn’t name. My pulse quickened, a strange mix of fear and protectiveness coursing through me.

“We have to move faster,” I said, my voice tight with urgency.

Together, we cleared the remaining debris, working as fast as we could. My hands trembled as I brushed away the last of the seaweed, uncovering the creature’s upper half—and then I froze.

John gasped beside me, his flashlight slipping from his hand and landing with a dull thud in the sand.

It wasn’t a manatee. And it certainly wasn’t a fish. 

What lay before us was a man—or something that only resembled one. Broad shoulders rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths, his powerful chest marred with scars and open wounds that glinted faintly under the moonlight. His arms lay draped limply at his sides, their sinewy muscles taut and corded, veins running beneath skin that shimmered faintly—human, yet not. It had the tone of a man weathered by sun and sea, rugged and pale, yet laced with the same iridescent hues as his tail.

Long, tangled strands of dark, blond hair clung to his face, and curled over freckled shoulders, dampened by the salty seawater. Beneath the mess, sharp, angular cheekbones jutted out, their contours almost skeletal, framing a face that was both arresting and alien. His brow was strong, ridged in a way that made him seem perpetually caught in a grimace or scowl, shadowing a pair of deep-set eyes.

Small, fin-like structures jutted where his ears should have been, thin and translucent, fanning out slightly as though they could pick up vibrations in the air. Gill slits lined the sides of his neck, opening and closing faintly as he struggled for breath, and I caught a glimpse of more tucked beneath his arms as I moved closer.

“Be careful—“ John warned, but his voice sounded tiny and distant. This creature had my full curiosity and attention. I had never seen something so magnificent. 

Despite his monstrous features, there were undeniable traces of humanity. A scruffy beard clung to his jawline, patchy but coarse, with a small scar on his chin. And his nose—dimpled and slightly crooked—had the imperfections of someone who’d lived a hard life. Wrinkles creased the corners of his mouth and forehead, signs of age and experience that added to the rugged, weathered look of him.

And then, his eyes opened.

There was no white, like human eyes. Only a piercing, unnatural shade of blue, like the color of an iceberg under the depths of the sea. Cat like irises flicked to mine, the slits were sharp and alert despite his obvious pain. In that instant, I knew this creature, this man, was no passive beast. He was alive, aware, and studying me just as closely as I was studying him.

⋅─⊱༺ 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 ༻⊰─⋅

John grabbed my arm and yanked me back just as I reached out again, fingertips barely grazing the creature’s cool, slick skin. His grip is like iron, digging into my skin.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” His voice was rough with concern, but it still made me flinch. “I’m calling Charles. We don’t get paid enough to deal with—” he gestured sharply at the figure half-buried in the sand, his face contorted with disbelief, “—whatever the fuck this is.”

Charles was our muscle and our medic, the guy we called in when a rescue was too big, too broken, or too strange to haul into the truck bed. His boat had saved our asses more times than I could count, hauling dolphins, sharks—hell, even a beached whale once—back to deeper waters. For an aquatic veterinarian, he was also a walking encyclopedia of marine life. He had the mind of a scientist and the grit of a fisherman. If anyone knew what this thing was, it was Charles Smith.

But I barely registered John’s words. My mind was consumed by the creature sprawled before me. I wasn’t thinking about anything but him.

He never looked away from me.

The merman’s eyes were dark slits cut through irises of eerie, luminous blue. Willing me to understand something I couldn’t quite grasp. They shimmered like the ocean at sunrise, and in their depths, I saw everything at once—fear, rage, a primal seething, and something desperate. A silent plea. Blood seeped into the wet sand beneath him in sluggish streams, a stark contrast against his iridescent scales. There was no question he was suffering.

John cursed under his breath and stalked toward the truck, holding his phone up as he tried to get a better signal. “I’ll be right back—gonna use the truck’s radio. Whatever you do, don’t touch that fucking thing.” He pointed at the creature in warning with an almost comical amount of emphasis before stomping away.

I ignored him, of course.

Slowly, I crouched closer, hands raised in a wordless gesture of peace. Would he understand? Could he understand? My gut twisted with a darker thought—did this creature eat people? He was beautiful, no doubt, but in a way that was almost wrong. Alien. Extraordinary. His form was monstrous, and yet I wasn’t afraid.

“H-hello,” I tried, my voice small.

God, what was I even doing? Talking to a fish? 

“I won’t hurt you,” I continued, forcing the words out. “John and I—” I pointed to myself, then toward the truck, “—we’re here to help. You’re, uh… you’re bleeding pretty bad, m-mister…?”

I sounded like an idiot. What was I even expecting, a handshake? A name?

The creature didn’t react. No flicker of recognition. Just that same unyielding stare, watching me like I was the strange one. And maybe I was.

I chewed my lip, thinking. If he had any trace of humanity in him, there had to be a way to communicate. Speech wouldn’t be much use underwater. But gestures—gestures were a universal language anyone could understand.

I extended my thumb, and placed it over my palm as I lifted it, slowly tracing the sign for help. 

Then, hooking my fingers together, I made the sign for friend.

Finally, I pointed to myself, mouthing my name, before extending my hand toward him, offering the chance to do the same. An invitation to communicate something. Anything.

Silence. 

With a sigh, I leaned back on my heels trying to puzzle together a way to make him understand. The sound of the waves hitting the shore filled the silence and cleared my mind. I shot a glance toward the truck. John was pacing the sand, and still on the phone.

Movement flickered in the corner of my vision.

The merman shifted, rolling onto his side with a low, pained hiss. His muscles trembled under the effort, gills flaring as his tail dragged through the blood-soaked earth. Sand clung to his iridescent skin, his breath coming in ragged gasps. It hurt to watch.

I acted without thinking. Instinct overrode all common sense. I reached out, pressing a hand gently against the curve of his tail, silently urging him to be still. To offer some kind of reassurance. 

A mistake.

Before I could blink, his hand shot out, fingers closed around my wrist in a vice-like grip, digging into my flesh. A guttural growl rumbled from deep within his chest, vibrating through my bones. 

My breath hitched. The fear hit me second. First came the fascination. God, his hands.

Webbed fingers, the skin stretched translucent between them, shaded in the same deep blues and purples as his tail. More fins jutted from his forearms, glistening in the low light. And there—on his wrists—raw, red wounds, like he’d been bound. Shackled. Trapped.

I barely had time to process the sight before a sharp burn flared, white-hot and searing, as something sharp dragged through my flesh. 

His claws.

I gasped as warmth dripped down my skin—my blood, mingling with his in the sand. His grip tightened for a fraction of a second before I could even register the pain. Then just as suddenly, he released me.

“Fuck!” I yelped, stumbling backward, clutching my wrist as crimson spilled between my fingers. Pain pulsed hot and sharp beneath my palm. “Jesus fucking Christ, that stings like a motherfucker.”

I let out a string of curses that would’ve made a sailor blush, I hardly notice John’s continued absence as I fumbled for the med kit, my good hand shaking as I tore through its contents. Everything I touched was instantly smeared in red.

The pain was pulsing, stinging, but it was nothing compared to the knowledge that he had let me go. If he wanted to kill me right then, he could have. Instead, he watched me, his expression unreadable.

John still hadn’t returned. He probably hadn’t heard a damn thing.

“Great. Thanks for having my back, Marston,” I muttered bitterly, yanking out gauze and pressing it hard against the wound. “Glad to know that the second this thing decides to eat me, you’ll be completely useless.”

I bit down on my lip, wincing as I tightened the bandage. But really, I knew this was my fault.

John had warned me. This creature—this monster—was utterly dangerous. That much was crystal clear.

It was like that old saying; curiosity killed the cat— And yet, even as my wrist throbbed, even as my blood stained the sand, I couldn’t ignore the truth pressing against the back of my mind. 

— But satisfaction brought it back. 

I hadn’t imagined it. In that brief moment before he let me go…his grip hadn’t just been threatening.

It had been desperate.

Like a drowning man, clutching at anything to keep from slipping beneath the waves.

As I finished wrapping my wrist in gauze, a pained whimper reached my ears. The creature had shifted onto his side, his body curling slightly toward me. His eyes were clenched shut, his bloodied fingers dug into the damp sand as another shudder wracked his frame. The movement sent a fresh surge of dark, viscous blood spilling from his wounds, painting the grains beneath him in a sickly crimson.

I swallowed hard, pushing past the sting in my wrist as I grabbed the flashlight. My heart pounded as I traced the beam down the length of his body, following the shimmering iridescence of his scales. Then I saw it.

Just below his navel, where human flesh gave way to the intricate, mesmerizing hues of his tail, was a deep, ugly slit. The wound was raw and swollen, its edges puffed with inflammation, the inside an angry shade of pink. Sand and debris clung to the festering wound. Thick, slimy blood oozed sluggishly from the torn flesh, dribbling down his scales like ink in water. A violent tremor wracked his body, his tail curling in on itself as another soft, choked groan escaped his lips.

My chest tightened at the sound.

God, he was in agony.

For a moment, I forgot about my own injury, forgot about John’s warnings, forgot about everything except the helpless, suffering being before me. He hadn’t lashed out at me because he was some mindless monster. He had been terrified—wounded, vulnerable, and in unimaginable pain.

I slowly lowered the flashlight, setting it on the sand. Carefully, I eased onto my knees, inching just a little closer.

His eyes snapped open at the movement.

“Shh… it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay,” I murmured, my voice soft, soothing, instinctual—like I was speaking to a frightened animal.

His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, those piercing blue slits locked onto mine. There was no mistaking the fear and confusion swirling in them. But something else flickered there too. Something fragile.

“I won’t hurt you, honey. These hands will never hurt you,” I promised, my tone gentle as I lifted one hand and slowly ran it over my own arm in a petting motion. A sign of reassurance. A promise of peace.

His tense muscles eased, just a fraction.

Encouraged, I reached out again, inching my fingers toward him. He flinched. I froze, my breath catching as his gaze flickered to my wrist—the one now wrapped in gauze, steadily darkening with my own blood. His expression shifted. Guilt.

“S’okay,” I reassured him softly. “I’m sorry for scaring you before. I shouldn’t have touched you like that. I only want to help… will you let me?”

I wasn’t sure if he understood the words, but when his fingers slowly uncurled from the sand, I took the chance. I reached out, brushing my fingertips against his. The same fingers that had clawed into my skin only moments ago.

He didn’t pull away. He only stared down at my hand, watching my touch with a wary sort of reverence—like I was the strange, alien thing here. 

Feeling bolder, I traced my fingertips along the delicate webbing between his fingers, marveling at the smooth, almost translucent quality of it. His skin was slick with seawater, cool to the touch, yet beneath it, I could feel the subtle thrum of life, a quiet, steady pulse. My fingers drifted over his knuckles, I felt the faint scars and firm ridges that were oddly human, then trailed up the sinewy expanse of his wrist. There, just above the joint, my touch hesitated as I brushed over raised, raw bands of flesh—scarred, irritated, like something had once been bound tightly around him. Shackles. My stomach twisted at the thought. What had he endured? 

My breath remained steady, but the electric pulse of adrenaline coursed through my veins, making my fingers tingle. Beneath my touch, his body reacted—his gills flared, releasing a shaky, uneven breath. His fins trembled, their delicate edges fluttering like the petals of a water lily caught in the wind. And then, something incredible happened.

A ripple of light, faint but undeniable, coursed beneath his skin, tracing through the veins along his arm like bioluminescent ink spilling into the dark. It flickered for just a moment, a ghostly shimmer of color vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. Was it some kind of involuntary response? A defense mechanism? Or something more?

"I would never hurt you," I promised with a whisper, my voice barely more than breath against the salt-heavy air.

My fingers continued their path, skimming up the damp, cool expanse of his shoulder. Beneath my touch, his muscles twitched, tensed, then slowly, cautiously, softened. The warmth of his chest contrasted sharply with the slick, chilled smoothness of his tail, the divide between his two halves as stark as the man and creature he seemed to be.

"You’re in so much pain," I murmured, pressing my palm flat against him, feeling the rhythm of his breath and pulse of his heart beneath my fingers. A silent offering. A bridge between us.

His chest rose in a slow, measured inhale, then fell, easing beneath my touch. As if testing me. As if, for the first time, he was allowing himself to believe, to trust human touch.

"See?" I coaxed gently. "There’s no need to be afraid."

He let me guide my hand lower, toward the gaping wound. The closer I got, the clearer it became—this wasn’t just a natural injury from a predator or the harsh elements of the sea. It was something deliberate. The edges of the slit were ragged, swollen, as if torn or cut open rather than the result of an accident. My stomach twisted as I studied the inflamed tissue, my mind racing through possibilities, dissecting what I knew about marine biology and the anatomy of aquatic species.

Half human, half… something. Surely this creature had a means to reproduce. Even in the animal kingdom, marine mammals had evolved complex reproductive systems adapted to life in water. Dolphins and whales possessed mammary slits that housed their genitalia, hidden beneath layers of smooth skin for both hydrodynamic efficiency and protection. Some deep-sea fish had external reproductive openings that expanded and contracted depending on their mating cycle. Could this be something similar?

Was this…? Could this be… his species’ sex?

I swallowed hard, the realization settling in like a weight in my chest. If this was an intimate, biological structure—if it had been forcefully damaged—it meant that someone had done this to him. That someone had intentionally hurt him in a way that was both cruel and deeply violating. My fingers trembled as I hovered over the site of his pain, torn between scientific curiosity and a deep, instinctive sorrow.

I swallowed thickly.

Whatever it was, this wasn’t natural. Not in this state.

“Did… did someone do this to you?” I asked hesitantly, my voice barely rising above the crash of waves hitting the jetty.

His breath hitched.

Slowly, those slitted blue eyes met mine. The sharp, blade-thin irises had softened into something rounder, more vulnerable—like the shape of a waning moon. The depth of pain in them was staggering, but there was something else there too.

Trust.

And then, to my utter astonishment—he nodded.

My heart nearly stopped. Holy shit. He understood me.

My mind raced with the implications. This was more than just some cryptid discovery. This was an intelligent life. An entirely new species, communicating with me, acknowledging me—I forced the thought away. Now wasn’t the time for awe.

“Can you—um—speak?” I tried.

Silence.

“Do you have a name?”

Before he could answer, the distant slam of a car door made us both flinch.

I turned sharply toward the truck. John was jogging toward us, waving his phone in the air.

"Charles is makin’ his way around the bend! He’ll be here with the boat any minute!" he shouted.

Relief crashed over me like a wave. Finally, we could get this poor thing some help. Maybe, just maybe, I’d get the answers I so desperately wanted.

As John slowed his pace, something warm and rough brushed against my wrist.

I looked down.

The creature was touching me—gently this time, his clawed thumb sweeping over my wounded skin. His expression was pained, remorseful, as if my suffering had become his own.

Then, something low and raw rumbled from his throat. A sound like stones grinding together beneath the ocean’s weight.

I held my breath.

And then, in a voice hoarse and unfamiliar, he rasped—

"Ar-thur."

AN: If you enjoyed this, first of all, I love you. Thanks for reading the shit my twisted brain comes up with. It means a lot. Second, don't get too attached to this, I honestly have no idea where this is going and I do NOT have an outline. I'm just writing it as it comes to me. All you need to know, is that if you want to fuck and fall in love with merman that looks like Arthur Morgan then you're in the right place. I hope this doesn't come as a shocker to anyone that I read monster romance. Its a guilty pleasure that I will not be quitting anytime soon. Although this is my first time writing one, so take it with a grain of salt! Thanks for reading :)