#do you think about him clinging onto the driftwood for dear life feeling the water burn his fingertips

[tirednapentity]

I see you, canon scene where nya comforts Cole after he turns into a ghost and I raise you nya helping Cole get comfortable around water again when he turns human

[thiswasinevitableid]

1. Siren Indruck NSFW, Duck is hauling supplies for the small town of Kepler on a tiny boat. Due to dangerous storms, Duck takes a longer but safer and less traversed route. He doesn’t know he’ll be passing through a Siren’s territory. A siren who is looking for a strong and sturdy mate

Here you go!

Duck never tells anyone what he finds on the beach that day. 

He’s fourteen, looking for useful flotsam and jetsam tossed onto the sand by an ongoing storm. What he finds is an empty boat and a merman, silvery tail impaled with a spear in a piece of driftwood. Each time he tries to free himself, he winces and is unable to pull the weapon from his body. When he sees Duck, his red eyes widen and he bares sharp teeth in a hiss. 

“It’s okay” the boy kneels in the bloody sand, “I ain’t gonna hurt you. Or, uh, this’ll hurt for a sec, but it’ll be better than tryin to ease it out bit by bit.” He grabs the end of the fishing spear and pulls. The merman shrieks, quickly clamping his hands across his mouth as Duck pulls his handkerchief from his pocket to bandage the wound. 

“There, you should be able to-”

The creature is gone with a whip of his tail, sliding down the sand and into the waves. As Duck stands, a strange song floats from the foam for the briefest instant. A seasoned sailor can tell a siren from a normal mer on sight; Duck has never been to sea. It’s weeks later that he wonders what events resulted in the wounded siren and an empty boat. 

-------------------------------

Any other day, Duck would put off this run until the black clouds no longer hung over the horizon. But the supply run last week didn’t come, so the isolated, coastal town of Kepler is running low on, among other things, the medicine needed to treat an illness spreading from house to house. He could put this off until tomorrow, but he won’t sleep well tonight if he does.

The boat loaded, he starts out to sea under unfriendly skies. Today is a day to follow the coastline and then circle Greenbriar Island to reach Kepler, rather than trying for a straight shot.  It’ll double his travel time, but it’s far safer in a storm and no one but a few locals know how to navigate it. Duck takes this route once or twice most years. This summer alone he’s had to take it six times, with today making a seventh. The abnormal number of storms weighs on the minds of coastal residents. Duck tries not to obsess over it, given that it’s solidly out of his control and there’s no use fussing over wind and rain; there’s only getting through them. 

Halfway through his journey, a rogue swell catches the underside of the boat and drags it along a rock, springing a leak in the hull. He ties off on a thin spire of stone, clambering onto a rock to try and repair the damage. It’s not a big leak, but it’ll be trouble if he lets it go. 

As he’s laying awkwardly with water lapping up his legs, a human head rises from the water a few feet from him. Silver hair, red eyes and, when it smiles, very sharp teeth. Harmless mermaids have teeth much like his own, which means he’s alone in the ocean with a fucking siren.

Duck’s learned many things since that day on the beach; how a song can paralyze a man better than poison, how the bite marks on the skin of certain bodies that wash ashore are called siren kisses

The siren begins swimming closer. Duck sighs, “If you’re gonna drown and eat me, can you do it on the way back?”

Red eyes blink, confused, but the siren stays where he is. 

“If I don’t make it to Kepler, lotta folks’ll get sick, some will even die. And I don’t think you got much use for medicine and canned food.”

The siren shakes his head. 

“Glad you understand.” Duck finishes his repairs under watchful eyes. At one point, the siren swims all the way to the rock Duck is perched on, resting his chin on his hands, as if enjoying the view. 

Duck scrambles back into the boat the moment he’s done, but no cold fingers try for his ankles and no splash announces something lunging upwards after him. A cautious glance as he starts the engine finds the siren sitting on the rock, silver-blue tail still half in the water. When he notices Duck looking, he waves. 

The rest of the journey goes as planned, the relief on folks faces when Duck docks worth the peril. When he reaches the siren’s territory on his return, no song tempts him. A lithe shape keeps pace with the boat, fin breaking the surface now and then. When he hits open water, the siren turns back, disappearing from view. 

-----------------------

There are sex dreams, and then there’s whatever the fuck Duck is having right now. Fingers stroke his hair, cling to his shoulders. Kisses coat his face and a voice whispers his name as the speaker offers themself to him again and again. He sees himself tangled with a man, face always just out of focus, who spreads his legs and lips so Duck can sink himself into the heat of his body. The dream is endless and he doesn’t care, doesn’t ever want to wake up. 

Saltwater in his lungs renders that desire useless. He snaps back to consciousness as another wave hits him; he’s up to his neck  in the cove below his house. 

“The fuck?” It’s only his footprints visible in the moonlight in the sand, so no one dumped him here. 

“Oh dear.”

“Jesus!” Duck stumbles back as glowing eyes peer around a rock. It’s the siren from yesterday, swimming purposefully as Duck wades backwards. 

“Look, uh, when I said I wanted you to wait to eat me, I wasn’t bein serious. Or, uh, I was, but I meant I didn’t want to be eaten ever, not just then. It was a, uh, a joke.”

“I am aware.” The siren stops as Duck topples on his ass in the shallow water, “and I am sorry. I, ah, I did not mean to lure you from your bed. I was not aware my mindless singing was enough to wake you. In most futures, you slept until dawn.”

“Uh huh, sure, because sirens are known to just serenade folks without wanting to drown ���em.” 

“We do it more often than you might think.” The siren sighs, “I came here to keep you safe, and succeeded only in making you afraid.”

Duck, having scooted inelegantly onto dry land, watches the tan upper body of the siren sag. It’s awkward, a word not associated with this kind of mer. That suggests he’s telling the truth. 

“You gonna tell me why you’re playin watchdog at my house?” 

The siren chirps, intrigued, “In all but one future you told me to go away.”

“That’d just leave me with more questions. And so far, you ain’t done anythin other’n watch me; if you say this was an accident, I’m willin to hear you out.”

“Wonderful!” The siren claps his hands together and the tip of his tail flips out of the water. Then he clears his throat and recites, “I am known as Indrid Cold. As you noticed, I am a siren. I am also a gifted seer, artist, and lifeguard when humans are unconscious and thus will not try to kill me for rescuing them. I am an excellent fisher, and well-liked and/or feared by the larger creatures of this coastline. This is why I think I would be an excellent mate.”

“O-kay. Did you call me out here to practice your personals ad?” Duck smirks, charmed by Indrids earnest tone.

“This is not practice. I did a great deal of that earlier today. This is my formal declaration that I would very much like you to be my mate.”

“Ma--hold on.” The images from his near-fatal dream return, “were you singin’ to hit on me?”

Indrid crosses his arms, “For the last time, that song was not for you. It was about you, because I was daydreaming and my formless melody unintentionally conveyed the contents of said daydream into your mind.”

“So everythin in it, all that wild fuckin stuff, that’s stuff you wanna do with me?”

A nod, accompanied by a flash of white light under the water. 

“Why?”

“Because you are strong, and handsome, and capable on the water. I watched your futures yesterday and today and saw you are kind as well, well-liked by other humans but a little lonely at night. You are very nice to that small land-otter that lives in your house.”

“You mean the cat?”

“That’s the word! Yes, you are nice to your cat. You are not brash or cruel, and you look so very nice without a shirt. I...I like you, Duck. You are everything I want in a mate.”

“Feel like I might be missin’ some gills and fins.” He jokes to cover the fact he’s scanning his mind and body for the same dreamy lull he felt during the song. What he finds in it’s place is his ego purring from praise and wondering exactly what a siren would do for his mate.

“There is no rule that says I must choose only my own kind for such activities. I, ah, I know it is strange, given how little we know of each other, but I thought that, ah, since humans will have casual sex with each other maybe we could, or, ah, that is…” He’s watching Duck with such unconcealed hope that the human almost joins him in the water.

“Indrid, I’m real flattered. But I’d be a damn fool if I didn’t point out this feels like a fuckin trap. Pretty easy for you to drag me to my death once we’re, uh, in the middle of things. Not that I’m sayin you would.” He adds when the sirens smile dims. 

“A sensible concern. May I join you on land for a moment? There is something I want to show you.”

Duck pats the sand beside him, eyes following the ripples of Indrid’s tail as he swims, slithers, and slides onto the beach. It reminds Duck of an oarfish, though when Indrid spies him looking the scales flash deep purple. 

“Look there” Indrid points toward the end of the silver ribbon of scales; a round, white scar stares up at Duck. The details of a day over two decades in the past return to him.

“You’re the siren I found when I was a kid.”

“Indeed. I remember you by your eyes, though your face has some echoes of that day in it’s curves. You saved my life, showed me mercy when I expected none. Sirens do not forget a favor, and we do not kill those who once spared us. I will never harm you, even if you turn me away tonight. You will be safe, whether that is in my arms or merely in my territory.”

Duck avoids the stranger sides of life by the sea, citing a lifelong incompatibility with the weird. Turns out all he needed to find his exception to that rule is a handsome siren looking at him like he set the tides in motion. 

The human runs a finger up the sirens tail, sparks of purple and pale blue light igniting in it’s wake. 

“Didn’t know y’all changed colors.” He pets Indrid’s hip and the whole tail lights up this time. 

“I am a deep-sea siren by birth, we use light to communicate emotions.”

“Mind, uh, loopin me in on the conversation?”

“Purple means desire. It’s a common color in mating displays.” Indrid watches Duck’s hand  glide along his scales, and a burst of pale blue reflects across their faces. 

“And that one?”

“Submission.” Indrid murmurs, “it is, ah, not the most desirable color to show. My kind value strength and power; enjoying the opposite is an invitation to mockery.” The siren’s eyes stay downcast, even when Duck smooths silver hair from his face.

“Now, I like to joke as much as the next fella, but that don’t seem like somethin to tease about.”

“No?” Indrid’s gaze flicks onto Duck the instant before the man straddles him. Duck doesn’t even have to push him onto his back; he goes instantly, hands flat on the sand and tail twitching excitedly in the shallows. 

“No. Seems to me a sweet thing like you oughta be takin care of.” 

Indrid snickers, “That is not usually an adjective one uses for meAHahnn” he arches as Duck tugs his hair.

“Let’s get one thing straight, sugar; I decide what you get called. I wanna call you the most perfect creature in the sea, I will. And if I wanna call you a needy little mer who’s good for nothin but gettin fucked into the sand, you’re gonna nod and say ‘yes.’ Understood?”

The blue light flashing up his tail brightens, “Y-yes but, but why do you call me sugar? That is a food.”

Duck giggles, leans down to brush their noses together, “It’s a nickname, call you it because you’re sweet and I can’t wait to get my fill of you.”

“Ohhhh, I see.” 

“You wanna see somethin else?”

“Very much soOH, oh goodness.” Indrid gasps as Duck forces his gaze towards his cock attempting to free itself from his boxers. He grinds on the supple muscle of his tail to take the pressure off, chuckles when the siren whines and tries to kiss his chest. 

“Since you’re the only siren I’d ever even consider fuckin-” Duck pauses as Indrid moans loudly, digging his fingers into the sand, “you gotta show me how to go about it.”

“If, if you just continue as you are a little higher upyes, yes right there” He rolls his hips, purrs with such a blissful expression that Duck is powerless to do anything but kiss him. His affection grows when he notices Indrid clearly restraining his kisses so as not to catch Duck’s mouth or tongue with his sharp teeth. The last guy he fucked shoved his tongue down his throat without any build-up or finesse, and now all he can think is if only Indrid had made his feelings know sooner, Duck could have done away with shitty human dates and had an obedient, eager mer instead. 

“Mmmmm” Indrid licks his lips, runs his fingers up Duck’s sides, “kissing is nice. It is not something sirens often indulge in, so my chances to do it are few and far between.”

“Ain’t that a shame” Duck kisses the corners of his mouth, “lips like these were made to be kissed sore.”

Indrid purrs, wiggling his tail, and Duck looks down to see a slit opening where his clothed cock has been rubbing. 

“Huh. Kinda figured you had-”

“-I have both this and an appendage below it much like your own.”

“Handy.” Duck, in no mood to climb off the purring, otherworldly man, eases the waistband of his damp boxers just under his balls. 

“This, uh, this ain’t gonna actually create a, I mean, I don’t wanna accidentally-”

“Nono, there is no chance of procreation”

“And you’ll be okay with so little of you in the water?”

“Yesyes I will be fine.” Indrid tugs at his hips, bucks his own into the air in frustration. 

“Just checkin’ oh, oh fuck” Indrid is tight and ridged around his dick as it slides in, “fuckin christ, no wonder sailors’ll crash into rocks at the offerin of fuckin a siren, wait, fuck, that was probably rude.”

“I will let it slide” Indrid teases, the end of his tail curling around Duck’s left ankle, “on account of your body is so lovely I would beach myself and die gasping on your doorstep for a chance to touch it.”

“No need for that. All you gotta do is wait here like a good little mer and I’ll fuck you as much as you want.” The slit pulses as Duck slowly fucks in and out, and he knows he’ll have to throw out all his fleshlights after this because nothing will ever compare to the deliciously alien feeling of Indrid around his dick. 

“Do, do not joke about such things.” Indrid whimpers, clinging to his shoulders.

“I ain’t. You wanted a mate, right?”

“Yes, you, so very badly.”

“Well, you got one, and you feel so goddamn good on my cock I ain’t inclined to let you swim off and be someone else’s.”

“I do not want to, I only want you, please, please let me stay.”

Duck stills his hims and the siren writhes as he leans down. The human cups his cheek, “I want you to stay, ‘Drid. I wanna get to know you. Long as you promise you ain’t gonna fuck me unless you want to, and not because you’re scared I’ll turn you loose.”

“I promise.” Indrid initiates the kiss this time, purring when Duck takes his time kissing back. 

“Good. Now that we got that cleared up” Duck sits up, “be a good mate and take what I give you.” He fucks in as hard as he dares, dives back down to kiss Indrid’s lips and throat as the mer’s cock emerges. Duck finds he can grind his ass along the twisting shaft at the same time he drives his own into Indrid’s body, resulting in a wail of pleasure and teeth sinking into his shoulder. 

“Fuck!”

“Sorry!” Indrid squeaks, hiding his face in Duck’s neck, “it, it is a reflex-”

Duck yanks his head back to his shoulder, near the first mark, and holds it down, “Do it again.”

Indrid trills and pain lights up Duck’s body, the perfect counterpoint to the pleasure coursing through him with each roll of their bodies. The siren chirps and moans, nips his arms and ears, slides his tail along his legs as his cock pumps frantically against his ass.

“That’s it sweet thing, cum for me while I fuck you. Show me just what my mate is for.” Duck bites Indrid’s neck and cum splatters the backs of his thighs as Indrid’s repetitions of his name drown out the noise of the waves.  Duck’s orgasm follows fast, sweeps through him like the crescendo of a song carried on the night air. 

Duck stays buried in him well after he’s finished, mind already conjuring images of tying Indrid down in shallow water and keeping his cock warm all day.

“Duck?”

“Yeah, sugar?” 

“I, ah, I need to get back in the water.”

“Oh shit, yeah, sure.” He pulls out, tosses his sea-soaked boxers up the beach as Indrid slides into the sea. Duck wades in, stopping where it’s waist deep as the siren swims lazily circles around him. 

“Such a perfect mate.”

“Glad you still think so.”

Indrid curls up to him, rubbing their cheeks together, “Thank you for indulging me. Do...do you wish me to come back tomorrow? Or to stay tonight? There are no other mers between here and my territory, so there is no reason I cannot count this stretch as mine.”

Duck kisses one of the hickeys blooming on tan skin, “How’s about you stay the night. We got some things to talk about. And, if you’re real good, I might let you fuck me when we’re done.”

Indrid grins, “My dearest one, I believe we have a deal.”

----------------------------------------------

Nowadays, if you ever go near Kepler and the surrounding islands, you may hear people talk about Duck Newton, beloved native son, skilled park ranger, and the only man receive siren kisses and live to tell the tale. 

[mrs-hyperfixed-writes]

Mirrors and Madness

Could you write a oneshot about y/n who is still stuck in the mirror, at the border of madness, and Actor Mark rescues them? Requested by Nekotsuki314159.

And since @the-tragic-hero-and-you wanted more Actor content.

How many years has it been? You didn’t know, for your own sanity you had stopped counting the cycles of sunlight and moonlight that streamed down through the windows.

On the other side of this mirror, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just solid darkness that you were able to stand and sit on. You had watched this mansion fall into a decrepit ruin, home now only to spiders and their prey. Not even vagrants wanted to sleep in this place. They had tried, but as soon as they had glanced at the mirror and glimpsed a misty dark shape banging against the broken glass and making noiseless screams they had uttered shrieks of their own and ran for the hills. You had been well beyond subtlety at that point, the sight of another person had filled you with such an intense hope that you had lost all sense of self-control and started raving for them to help you. But no one ever visited this place twice, afraid of the silent demon in the mirror. You had become the town’s resident Bloody Mary.

All they saw was a dark shape, but on the other side of the mirror you could see yourself clearly. The colour of your skin, the length of your hair, your fingernails. You were still wearing the clothes you died in - a white shirt and simple dark trousers. Everything was still there on this side of the mirror, only visible to you. That made it worse, knowing that no one would ever see the person behind the dark shape.

So, stuck in this hell, all you could do was think. And you had been thinking for so long. It had been one hundred years, not that you would have known that. And for the millionth time, you thought of Damien. You thought of the Colonel. You thought of Celene. You thought of Abe and Chef and Benjamin.  And you thought of Mark.

You had been so angry when they had shut you in the mirror. At everyone. Even today you still were, anger and pain were old friends. Damien was supposed to be your best friend, but that had meant absolutely nothing in the end. Him and that bitch Celene had condemned you to something you wouldn’t have wished on your worst enemy. The Colonel had killed you, the evidence of his crime still a fresh wound in your stomach that never healed. Whatever Damien and Celene had become probably sported the scar, but you had no body to heal it. Your soul was bare, and the wound had gone right down through it. You had grown used to the pain. Your white shirt had been glued to your skin with the dried blood.

Finally, your thoughts had turned to Mark. You had hated him most of all at first, angry at his entire failed plan for revenge. But all this time to think had brought sorrow into the equation. The Colonel had gone mad. Damien and Celene had had no choice you supposed - even if you still held hate in your heart for that Seer. And Mark. A poor heartbroken fool whose wife had hadn’t even had the decency to leave him before fucking his best friend. So you had forgiven them. . . Most of them.

And sometimes, like today, you entertained the thought of Damien coming back for you. Taking you out of this place.

You almost laughed. The idea was so hysterical that it might as well be a cruel joke. It was almost a guarantee that you weren’t even on Damien’s mind. You were forgotten. You probably weren’t even important enough to be a thought in the back of his mind. And then you were laughing, so hard that tears were running down your face in great big drops. You hugged yourself, your ribs beginning to ache. From a certain point of view the situation was so funny! So funny that you couldn’t stop the shrieking laughter that bubbled up from your throat.

Then laughing gave way to sobbing.

You fell on your knees, hugging yourself even tighter to keep from falling apart. Then the sobs turned to screams. Screams of unbridled anguish that threatened to tear your throat apart. You gripped fistfuls of your own hair and pulled, trying to use physical pain to distract you from the mental torment. But it was useless. Your head was a whirlpool of negative thoughts, a volatile mix of the desire for someone to help you, the anger and lust for revenge, and a degree of self-blame for staying here and getting caught up in the situation. But you were Mark’s friend just as much as Damien was. How could you just leave after what had been done to him?

I’m such a fool Mark, you thought to yourself.  

You raked your nails down your face, stinging red marks rising in their wake. You screamed even louder. You were hanging on so tight to that last shred of sanity that you possessed. You clung to it like a man lost at sea clings to a piece of wreckage. But as you screamed and cried you wondered if letting go would be such a bad thing? Losing your mind had been your bogeyman when you had first been imprisoned here, it had been the only thing you had. But as you sat there, trying desperately to hurt yourself, you seriously considered just letting go. Just sinking down into the comfort of insanity, where these thoughts couldn’t reach you.

Let go, a voice whispered inside your head. And you were prepared to. You calmed yourself as you felt your fingers slipping from the piece of driftwood holding you aloft, as you started to slip into the abyss.

SLAM!

You yelped, clinging back on for dear life in fright. That had been the door. Someone was in the house, and by the sounds of their footsteps they were coming towards the shattered mirror. You picked yourself up from the floor, prepared to throw yourself against the glass and beg for their help, shame overcoming you at the thought of how easily you were going to give up. But as you rose and came face to face with the person that had saved you from giving into the madness you paused. You knew that face.

It was Mark.

And he was staring right at you with a look of utter devastation on his face. He was staring at you as if. . . as if he saw you. Not that dark shape that others saw, but you. He was scanning you, taking in every detail. His eyes lingered on that gunshot wound, and he winced.

He looked awful. He had bags under his eyes and dark circles to match that spoke of many sleepless nights. He had lost weight, and it looked like he hadn’t shaved in a month. He wore a red jacket, so some things never changed. And his eyes. His eyes were full of such sorrow that it broke your heart. You had never seen him like this. Never seen him vulnerable. Before, he had used his arrogance and pride to shield him, but now he was strppied bare and exposed to the world. Exposed to you.

And with all the questions that raced through your mind, all the conflicting emotions that threatened to cleave your heart in two, you could only think to ask, “Why did you come back?”

And he heard that. You, who had spent so many years in alone with your own screams, were heard. And you were heard by the very man that had been involved with this. But regardless, relief ran through you when he answered you. Oh, to hear a voice that wasn’t afraid. To hear a voice that wasn’t your own.

“I missed you. . .” he trailed off, seeming to know that it was a poor reason to come back after all this time.

You wanted to laugh again. But if you did you might again descend into that pit of madness and never be able to climb back out. And the thought of scaring him off with that insanity grounded you. Instead a single tear rolled out of your cheek. He had missed you? The idea that he had been thinking of you at all sent conflicting emotions racing through you.

“You left me,” you whispered. “Damien left me. The colonel left me. Everyone left me.”

“I’m sorry (y/n).”

Another tear fell. He had meant that apology with everything in his being. The Mark you had known wouldn’t have apologised if you had tortured him for it. What had happened to him? What had broken him.

“I should never have left you here (y/n),” he said with watery eyes.

He hadn’t forgotten you. He saw you. He heard you. He came back for you. Late perhaps, but he came back.  

“I forgive you.”

Because you did. There was a voice that told you to try to reach out and grab him. Pull him in, take his body and be free. But you ignored it, because he came back. He hadn’t forgotten about you. And that whirlpool of pain and anger began to settle again. It wouldn’t be calm waters yet, not for a long time. You both still had issues to work through, but now you had each other.

“Take me with you?” you begged, letting the raw desperation creep into your voice.

He nodded and reached out a hand, his fingertips stopping short when they gently thudded against the glass. You stared for a moment, unsure of what to do, and when you looked at his face for guidance he gave you a smirk. That smirk was so familiar that it nearly sent you sobbing again. Apprehensively, you reached out your hand too. It also thudded against the glass from your side, but there was something else. You could. . . feel his fingertips against the glass. He was so warm. Mark worked his entire hand closer to the glass, never once breaking contact with your skin.

You nearly fainted when his hand reached right through the glass to fully grasp yours tightly.

Then he pulled.

And the feeling of euphoria when he pulled your hand right through the mirror towards him was indescribable. You cried out, unable to keep these feelings to yourself, tears of joy instead of anguish streaming down your face as you looked at him. He was pulling you through slowly, a look of intense concentration on his face. He never let go of your hand, and when your arm was fully free of the glass he used his other hand to grip onto it.

And as you were pulled out into the biting air, you solidified. You were developing a body. You could feel the air and dust against your bare skin. Against your shoulder. Against your face. He didn’t take a moment to stop, only hooked his arm under your shoulders when your top half was out. Soon your legs followed, and with a final pull and an arm hooked under your legs, you were out.

The Actor fell to the floor, grunting as your weight fell on top of him. You did sob then, but this time it was because of the feeling of the air and dust, and most importantly the feel of Mark’s warmth underneath yours. You wriggled around, lying on top of him so that you were chest to chest.

“I’ve missed you so much (y/n),” he whispered, pulling you closer to him as if afraid you would disappear, a hand gently running through your hair.

You drew back suddenly, going to feel those gunshot wounds. But you didn’t. They weren’t there anymore. All that existed in their place were scars. Mark traced them with his fingers, something like wonder on his face.

You pulled yourself away from him and attempted to stand only to collapse again. After so long without a physical body learning to walk again was going to be difficult. Mark chuckled, whispering something that sounded like baby deer to himself. Instead of helping you up, he stood and hooked one arm under your shoulders and the other under your leg, carrying you in his arms.

You snuggled into his chest, murmuring about how he would never be alone again. He murmured back the same thing.

[whirlybirbs]

     ✪ —— 2. OF EVADING ARREST (AND OTHER FORCES)

summary: following the botched kidnapping of the supposed bride-to-be, you and the outlaw you come to know as arthur morgan are stuck wandering the woods along the dakota river trying to evade the o’driscolls. turns out your sister is not longer in van der linde custody.

word count: 3.8k

pairing: high honor!arthur morgan x female!reader, turner as a placeholder last-name.

listen to: “trinity: titoli” by annibale e i cantori moderni

a/n: been a bit, hasn’t it? lovely gif done by @muse-of-nightmares​ as a part their rdr2 scenery series! thank you so much again for reaching out! 

PREV. CHAPTER   |   ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN   |   SPOTIFY 

This isn’t good.

Arthur Morgan realizes, mid-plunge into the Dakota River, that he’d forgotten to ask if you knew how to swim.

Your shrieks on the way down, as the train roars by overhead, give him a pretty good indication of the answer.

(He’s not one to talk. His own screams echo off the rocky walls along the riverbank as the river rushes up to meet him.)

The outlaw hits the water with a hard splash and he hopes, off-handedly, that Sugarcube is alright. She’s a good horse, no doubt quick enough to outrun the iron steam engine. The feeling of the impact alone is like a hammerin gunshot to the chest — the river is freezing, spurring a startling amount of energy into him. Arthur breaks the surface of the water with a fish-like gasp, treading as the sudden current begins to sweep him down-stream. The riverbank flies by on either side of him.

Arthur suddenly feels a bit guilty about hurling you to your potential death.

With a sputtered groan, his eyes dart across the rapids as he tries to keep his head above water.

He sputters, eyes scanning the rapids wildly. “Where are you, lady?!”

“You — ergh! You idiot!”

There you are.

Oop. Gone again.

The panic in your chest is nothing akin to the weight of your skirts— they drag you down, head bobbing beneath the water, and you can’t help but think that this is the last way you saw today going.

Being strangled to death by your dress, beneath the rapids of the Dakota River? Well, that seemed much less plausible than being strangled to death by your own mother, especially considering the rather grand failure of this morning.

Hours earlier, you’d been bound by propriety and politeness to meet with the one Mr. Waylon Robbins... Not by your own volition, of course. Most things nowadays were never on your own accord. With the impending deal — a finely crafted strangulation of your freedom, orchestrated by your father and his greed — of your marriage, it’d been thought best to introduce the two soon-to-be-newlyweds to one another over a breakfast of eggs and biscuits and tea...

Well, Christ, you’ll take this over that anyday. A thousand times over.

Even still, drowning is the last way you’d thought you’d ever die. I mean, sure, Jenny had pushed you through a hole in the ice up at the lake one winter and as horrible as it was, you’d been hauled out by your father and lived. It was cold and horrible but it happened in a blink.

You’re beginning to realize, as you spot the impending rapids down the river, this is just the start.

And Arthur realizes, with an annoyed sense of moral responsibility, he can’t just let you drown. That would just be... unbecoming. And rude. And probably get him chewed out by the likes of Dutch and Hosea. And... I mean, that’s just bad business. You were still worth something, soggy or not.

And, so, he snags a log as he flies by the riverbank, carried by the current, and hauls himself towards you with it in tow.

You bob up finally, gasping for air as the outlaw’s hands find you. They pull you up, knotted in the back of your waist-coat — you claw at the sudden kick of the summer air as you break the surface, hands clinging to his vest as he yelps; your hands plant on his broad shoulders and you push him down in a rush to get your head above water. His blonde head disappears in a flash of limbs, and then reappears with a wet cough. His voice sounds like a deadly bark.

“Quit tryna drown me, woman!” he bites, “Grab on!”

The stray log is damp and soggy and nearly gives way when you grip it tight — but it manages to keep you both afloat; it gives you enough time to sweep the mess of hair that’s hanging in your face aside, catch your breath, count your lucky stars and give the outlaw beside you a look that could kill.

“I oughta kill you!” you seethe.

“Don’t make me regret savin’ you,” Arthur starts, voice rising as he raises his finger as his other arm grips the log tightly, “Do not —”

The sound of the approaching roar sends both your heads whipping to the rapids ahead.

“Just hold on!”

“What the hell do you think I’m doin’?!”

You both hit the rapids faster than you thought.

The ten foot plunge is fast and you both scream on the way down (though, Arthur will probably deny that fact until the day he dies) — right into the plumes of water roaring over the rocks at the high point of the river. Your grip is locked onto the driftwood as you sputter, spitting the water out of your face as you’re hit again and again with the rapids.

“This!” you bellow as you cough, “is all your fault!”

“I am aware!”

Another scream. Another drop, this time cracking the log in half and sending you both down separate trajectories. Arthur scrambles, trying to grab your log but a stray rapid clocks him in the side of the face and sends him reeling as you screech, clawing onto the oak limb for dear life.

It must be rather comical, to see two people clinging to logs as they ride through the rapids. The current is so fast it zips you by a family of deer — they remain undisturbed, raising their heads in question for a moment as you pass.

There’s a break in the rapids, then, water settling slowly as you try to catch your breath — only to be cut short by the outlaw’s panicked bellow:

“HOLD ON!”

Waterfalls.

Beautiful in photos, art, and from a viewing distance.

Terrifying when you’re plunging down one at a breakneck speed.

Luckily, the drop is short enough that you survive, plopping you unceremoniously into a shallow pool at the base of the Dakota. Your dress acts like a parachute and on impact, it nearly drowns you. Amidst the floating skirts, your struggle to tread your way to the surface.

Heaving, you haul yourself from the water and drag you and your skirts ashore — you must look like a drowned rat of sorts, plaits run loose and hair dangling in your face. Your dress weighs a metric ton, bogged down with water and various debris.

You collapse on the riverbank, breathless.

The outlaw follows shortly after.

He crawls onto the shore, braced up on his elbows. You watch, spotting the water running off the beginning of a beard along his chin. His hair, once a lighter blonde, has gone darker from the swim — strands hang in his face as he plants his forehead on his wrist and groans.

For a few moments, there’s silence.

Between the two of you, there’s just the roar of the river and the labored breaths of lungs aching from the pummel of the rapids.

Slowly, you sit up.

“Who th’ hell do you think you are, then?” you seeth, pushing the thick tendrils of hair from your face like a curtain parting a stage show, “Huh?”

You struggle with the weight of your dress. You don’t think you’ve ever been this soaked in your life. This dress... as if you hadn’t cared for it before. Prying at the high collar, you snap the top button off and rub at your neck.

“Right,” the cowboy drawls sarcastically, water dripping from his scowl — he hauls himself up from the dirt, hands pushing back his soaked blonde hair before he momentarily realizes his hat is gone. With a growl, he waves his hands as he speaks and looks around the riverbank, “Sure, lemme jus’ climb up on m’ horse an’ bring y’ right on back t’ ma and pa...”

For a moment, you’re stuck staring at the now maskless stranger before you. Up on the bridge, when he’d pulled that ink black bandana down from his face, you hadn’t gotten a good look at him. Now, you’re staring straight at the outlaw with a slack jaw, trying your best to ignore the blaring reality that he is very handsome.

“You were the one that threw us off a bridge!” you guffaw, throwing your hands as you voice splinters into a shriek.

“Oh, m’ sorry, lady, next time I’ll let y’ get flattened by a caboose. How’s that?”

He’s standing now, long legs carrying him towards the rocks by the shore. As you desperately try to wobble yourself to your feet and wring out what water you can from your dress, you hear him make a surprised snort before drawing out a quiet “there you are”.

When the cowboy stands to full height, he’s got his hat in his hands.

“You best take me back now.”

You spy the wrinkle of his nose as he drops the gamblers hat on his head — dark lashes narrow as his eyes are cast in the shadow of the brim. As he nears, you finally realize how big the outlaw is. He’s tall, and he’s broad. You can see the shape of muscles beneath the dark shirt sticking to him. He rips the bandana from his neck, moving to wring it out as he speaks. There is sun kissed skin there along his neck.

(A part of your brain stutters at the sight — the large rugged outlaw... Surely he’d be the subject of whispered chatter by ladies in parlors everywhere. Handsome, gruff, big... His type was certainly romanticized enough in those books of yours —)

“I could leave y’ here, all alone in th’ wilderness,” he says, tone biting back, “Or take yer high society behind t’ th’ nearest railroad station ‘n’ dump ya...”

He swats the banada against his leg before tying it around his neck once more. His finger darts into your face. He waggles it, emphasizing his point.

“But there’s one thing I ain’t gonna do,” he prods your shoulder, “An’ that’s take orders from some spoiled brat.”

When he pushes past you, you don’t move.

You... well, you’re tied between wanting nothing but to rear up and slap the man and wanting to run.

The running part... it’s not born out of fear. There’s a part of you that’s beginning to wonder how much of this grand plan was his... The outlaw before you certainly didn’t have to whisk you away from the firefight, nor haul you off a bridge to escape impending flattening. Even still, as he digs through his satchel by a nearby rock, you can spy the irritation set in his features. Not anger.

Even more so... running from everything that had happened this morning?

You wonder if your father will even worry.

If this man’s little gang of bandits thought they were gonna get money out of snatching you, well... So be it. You weren’t going to break the news to the outlaw before you until you were safe. Outta the woods.

... Was getting out of the woods even an option?

It’s gonna be a hike.

... Your dress is going to be a problem.

It was a problem this morning, then in the carriage and... Christ alive, it doesn’t even take a moment of consideration before you busy yourself with prying at the sogged woolen bodice at the top of your gown — you can feel that damn crinolette digging into your backside. No doubt the dress’ understructure has snapped... As you wobble in the mud and curse, you can feel the outlaw’s eyes on you.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

In response, you turn and whip the soggy black overcoat at his chest. It hits him square with a hardy slap. He sputters. You move on, digging beneath your petticoat and unceremoniously tearing the already ripped seam where the whalebone of the crinolette had poked through. The charcoal colored heap of a cage is kicked aside by your heeled boots.

Arthur is... well, looking away, but also stuck with a bit of shock on his usually sour expression. The material in his hands is heavy — and well embroidered. No doubt expensive. Your dress was fashionable, seemingly plucked from some Saint Denis mannequin in an attempt to impress. Yet, here you are, shedding it like a snake sheds its skin: with not a care in the world for keeping it.

The summer heat isn’t as bad now — the billowing white sleeves of your white chemise stick to your arms and your corset feels looser than before, but you’re considerably more comfortable in your two layers of petticoats and corset cover.

So, you hike your skirt up, step out of the mud, and begin to walk. Chin high, strides wide.

You spare the outlaw behind you a snarl.

“I am not a spoiled brat,” you say, moving along the sunny riverbank. You blink back at him, not hearing footsteps, and narrow your eyes. He’s standing there, still holding the bodice, “And that isn’t your size.”

He throws the bodice to the mud before cursing; there’s some satisfaction in that, at least.

“Where,” comes the frustrated growl as he throws his head back to the sky, “do you think yer goin’?”

“Downstream,” you throw your hands as you move to hike up the rocks and into the grass embankment overlooking the sandy riverbed, “Someone’s oughta have a farm around here —”

“Right, since you seem to be so well versed in the lay of the land...”

Suddenly there are two hands on your shoulders that abruptly turn you and steer you in the direction of the woods to your left. You snarl. Quickly, you yank your shoulders from his grip.

“Get yer hands off of me —”

“Lady, we ain’t goin’ downstream because th’ O’Driscolls are gonna be lookin’ fer y’ downstream.”

“Who th’ hell are you, again?” you can’t help but turn on your heel. Your words come out as hot as fire, accompanied by the ugly rearing of your own finger prodding his chest, “And remind me why I should listen to a damn thing you say?”

He swats your hand away and tightens his jaw. “Them O’Driscoll’s are bad news —”

“Yea, well you ain’t exactly peachy either, Mister...”

You wave your hand like a water mill, trying to coax the name out of him.

“Arthur,” he narrows his blue eyes sharply, “Arthur Morgan —”

Arthur. He looks like an Arthur. Certainly no Knight of the Roundtable but... Sturdy. Strong.

You drop both hands to your hips. “I didn’t ask for this, Mr. Morgan. Not to be snatched up and dropped in the middle of some Wild West fairytale — dueling gangs and... and wild horse chases...”

You scoff.

You wave your hands and begin to walk. Again.

There’s a gruff laugh behind you that shatters in a pained grumble of cursing. You begin to walk along the riverbank once more, ignoring his direction.

“I assure you, Miss Turner,” comes the biting remark, “This ain’t no fairytale — an’ them O’Driscolls aren’t gonna be as nice as m’bein’.”

“Surely. As you’re the picture of a modern gentleman, Mr. Morgan.”

God almighty, he... All Arthur can think of is of course this is what would come of a simple job the others put together. Of course he’d get stuck with some hoity-toity lil’ lady on the edge of the damn Heartlands. Of course, because when do jobs ever go wrong? Only when he’s there t’ clean them up, apparently.

“Yer testin’ my patience, lady.”

“Th’ feeling is mutual, then.”

“Stop walkin’.”

“No.”

“Yer gonna get us both killed —”

You swat at a bug on your neck and scowl. “I am sure.”

Suddenly, there’s something that loops around your back foot. A sharp tug sends you reeling towards the grass, and you blink down at the ankle of your boot to find it’s a rope — and attached to said rope is one smug looking cowboy.

The look of shock on your face is rather satisfying.

Arthur Morgan then flicks his wrist, managing to tangle your other ankle as you kick your leg.

“I told you,” he musters with a cock of the head, a bit too lighthearted for your liking, as he nears, “That I was bein’ nice...”

In a blink, there’s a loop of rope cast around your arms, halting you from reaching for your ankle. In a flurry of skirts, you wiggle — spitting incredulous curses all the while.

“My, my,” Arthur mutters and rounds your backside, the only sound besides his voice being the tinker of spurs, “What colorful language for a lady.”

He makes quick work of tying your wrists behind your back.

“Let me go.”

You can hear the smugness in his voice.

“I think not.”

He yanks, and the ropes get tight. Tight enough that you can’t move your arms. Tight enough that he helps you up with two hands under your arms before dusting off your shoulders with the smuggest of smiles, and tight enough that when he unceremoniously hauls you upwards and proceeds to throw you over his shoulder, all you can do is curse and wiggle like an earthworm freshly pried from the soil.

“You son of a bitch —”

“I’ve been called much worse,” he offers as he begins to walk towards the wooded area to the left of the river. The shade casts the pattern of the leaves along the back of his charcoal colored dress shirt, “By ladies much nastier than you, Miss. Might have t’ try harder if yer tryna hurt my feelings.”

You grunt, wincing as he readjusts you on his shoulder. His hand is rough on your leg, pinning the limbs in place as your struggle slowly decreases. It’s apparent he’s not going to let up, so you sag in defeat and grit your teeth.

“Where th’ hell are you taking us, then?” you bite, head turned to stare at the back of his head, “Gonna throw me off another bridge?”

“Keep that mouth a’ yours runnin’ an’ I might consider it.”

— ✪ 

He walks for a while.

Long enough for you to see the same tree three times over, and long enough that your hands have started to go numb from their spot behind your back.

You’re genuinely surprised the outlaw has managed to keep you slung over his shoulder as long as he has with nary a single complaint. It makes you wonder if being this brutish was simply his job within his little gang of ne’er-do-wells.

He passes that same rock — the one that looks like an upside down pony — and you heave a sigh.

“You’re lost, aren’t you?”

Arthur tries not to sound as sheepish as he feels.

The Heartlands are still new to him — it’s been a handful of weeks now that they’ve settled in... With Sean back, and the Micah licking his wounds from his brief stint in the Strawberry jail, this job was supposed to be one that could send them onto the next little pretty piece of land.

Still, Arthur hadn’t ventured this far West of Valentine for anything more than hunting once or twice with Charles. With the looming threat of the O’Driscolls sniffing about South of them, towards the grasslands and open streams... Well, Arthur was mostly trying to figure out what to do next.

Stealing some poor farmer’s horse was probably their best bet. Could get them outta harms way quick enough to dart back up to Horseshoe Overlook...

But with Miss Mouthy over his shoulder, there was no tellin’ she wouldn’t scream wolf the moment the shepherd was within sight.

Arthur huffs a sigh to match yours. Then, he hauls you up off his shoulder and places you gingerly on the ground. It’s a rather comical sight — you sit there, in the grass, glaring daggers into him as he perches himself on a nearby rock and digs out his satchel.

The waterlogged map in his hands flops sadly.

“Why didn’t you use that earlier, then, huh?”

“My hands,” he mutters, “were preoccupied.”

You watch him attempt once more to flip it up and watch it sag with the pulpy disappointment only river water can bring. Your brow quirks.

“Looks like it ain’t legible anyways.”

The ink has run all over the page.

You groan, dropping your head into your lap as best you can. Arthur bites his tongue, swallowing as he shoves the useless little bit of paper back into his satchel and taps his foot. You squint up at him in the afternoon sun, watching a glimmer of hot light flare around his hat like a halo.

“You at least got somethin’ t’ eat in there?”

“Snacks ain’t my biggest concern right now —”

Suddenly, there’s a snapping of twigs.

Both of your heads turn owlishly to the noise.

Arthur is fast to slip off the rock to his knees, his hand roughly seizing itself across your mouth as he presses a quick finger to his lips. Your eyes are wild, anger flashing in your gaze as you tear yourself from his grip. You stare incredulously at him before turning back to the wilderness and listen.

Arthur is quick to brandish his pistol, one hand balancing his low crough on the rock beside him. You watch as he peeks over the rock, only to curse tightly when he spies two O’Driscoll boys wandering —

“Why should I be quiet?”

It’s a whisper, but loud enough that Arthur lunges for you. You kick him in the shin, sending him groaning as he topples next to you in the grass; you roll onto your side, trying your best to wriggle away.

“You untie me now, I’ll be quiet,” you hiss when he hauls you back behind the rock, “If not, I’ll holler —”

“Shut up,” he reaches around, hauling you up against the rock and pinning you there with a hand over your mouth, “Shut up now an’ I’ll untie you —”

You are a damn minx.

Arthur is cursing you six ways to hell when the two near the rock...

“Listen, boss keeps tellin’ us that the girl is worth a lotta money —”

“Yeah, well, if th’ Van der Linde’s were after ‘er too ‘e must be right.”

“Awful lotta work for a ransom if y’ ask me,” mutters the other in an Irish lilt, “‘Specially since Colm is just gonna put a bullet between ‘er eyes once ‘e gets th’ money.”

Your eyes are wider than a mile, Arthur reasons. It’s fear, there. The first time he’s really seen it on your face since this all began... well, save from haulin’ you off the bridge before. Your eyes dart around, like you’re tryna make sense of what you’re hearing.

“We got th’ sister —”

“We find ‘er, it’s double the pay.”

Their voices begin to trail off. Slowly, the conversation drifts into the wind, and you realize the two men have disappeared from Arthur’s immediate sight.

You let out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Arthur slackens his grip on you, exhaling slightly before peeking over the rock once more. When he leans back down, he brandishes his knife from his boot.

He spins you around roughly.

The knife glints in the sunlight.

“You try anything funny, an’ I’ll throw y’ t’ those wolves myself.”

Christ, it feels good when he snaps the rope off from around your wrists.

“Who were they?” you ask, swallowing roughly as you rub the tender skin along your chemise’s lace sleeves; your voice wavers and you regret the way it sounds instantly, “The O’Driscolls?”

“You bet,” he mutters, bending to cut the rope from your ankles, “Like I said, they ain’t nice.”

“The Van der Linde’s, then?” you follow up with, voice leaning high into your curiosity, “That’s... well, you’re the ones who jumped our carriage.”

“S’ right.”

There’s a pause. You furrow your brow.

“They said they had m’ sister.”

Arthur squints down at you, watching worry sweep across your face like the rush of the oceans tide.

“... Seems so.”

And that isn’t good.