#darlingcore

To read my SMUTTY story CLICK HERE!!!!!

For a yandere aesthetics CLICK HERE!!!

For yandere types CLICK HERE!!

For yandere POV scenario pics for you CLICK HERE!!!

For a smutty ''choose your boys'' post CLICK HERE!!!

For a spicy ai chatbot click HERE!!!

To gush about yanderes/dark love CLICK HERE!!!

PLZ CLICK for a bird debate!😭

"I’m not pullin’ up my skirt in front of half the camp so you can stare at my legs."

Arthur smirks faintly. "Fine."

You blink. "Fine?"

Before you can ask what he means, his large hands are already guiding you backwards, firm but careful. You stumble slightly, and the next thing you know, you’re being sat down on an old crate like some misbehaving schoolgirl.

"Arthur-"

"Lemme take a look," he says calmly, crouching in front of you. One hand wraps around your ankle, steady and warm. The other slides up to your calf, rough thumb brushing your skin as he gently but firmly pushes your skirt up past your knee.

You freeze.

Scandalous.

Unthinkable-

"Arthur!-"

"Relax. I ain’t lookin’ at nothin’ you don’t want me to see."

But he’s focused now, all trace of teasing gone, eyes narrowed at the angry bruise blooming across your shin.

You freeze.

"Arthur-"

"Damn," he mutters. "That’s worse than I thought."

"Saw it? Happy now?"

You try to pull your skirt back down. He stops you with a warm palm on your knee.

"You really weren’t gonna tell me?"

"It’s just a scratch!"

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just breathes in slow, jaw tense, thumb ghosting around the tender skin like he’s scared to make it worse.

"You shouldn’t’ve been walkin’ on this," he murmurs finally, voice low and gravel-soft.

"I told you it's nothing, stop," you mutter, but even you know that’s a lie.

Arthur huffs through his nose , not angry, just... aching. Then, before you can react, he leans down.

His lips press softly to the edge of the bruise.

You stiffen, heartbeat thudding so loud you’re sure he hears it. But Arthur doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even look up.

He kisses a little further up, where the swelling dips. Another kiss, right over the worst part. Feather-light, like he thinks love might mend what ointment can’t.

"You’re killin’ me," he whispers between kisses. "Walkin’ around like this... actin’ like you’re made of stone when I know damn well you’re not."

His hand smooths up the side of your leg, never straying, just holding you steady.

"I’d take this pain if I could. Hell, I’d take ten of ’em. Rather me than you."

You swallow, staring at the top of his head. "Arthur..."

His lips press higher, slow, insistent. He kisses the bruised skin like he’s mad at it. Like he could suck the hurt right out of you and spit it into the dirt. Each kiss is a vow.

You open your mouth, something snarky ready on your tongue-

He looks up at you, finally, eyes soft, lips still brushing your skin. "Next time you’re hurtin’, you tell me. I ain’t lettin’ you suffer in silence. Not when I’m here to do somethin’ about it. It’s you. There ain’t such a thing as 'just' when it comes to you."

But he kisses your knee. And it’s not just tenderness now, it’s possession. A quiet, firm declaration:

Mine.

"Arthur, I---OH!"

Sean. Again.

"Didn’t see nothin’, I swear-"

Arthur doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just turns his head slightly, voice cold as a rifle barrel.

"You keep lookin’, Sean, and I’ll make sure you walk funny too."

The poor Irishman turns full-circle on his heel the moment he catches sight of Arthur crouched between your knees, your skirt hiked up to your thighs.

"Already gone!" Sean yells over his shoulder. "Didn’t see a damn thing!"

Arthur sighs, visibly restraining the urge to commit a murder. "I’m gonna kill him one of these days."

"Oh, perfect, I always dreamed of being camp gossip. Really, thanks, Arthur, you lumbering oaf."

Arthur smirks, brushing his thumb gently over the edge of the bruise. "Good. Maybe now someone’ll finally marry you."

You swat at his shoulder. He catches your hand, kisses the inside of your wrist, then the other.

"I ain’t lettin’ you walk ‘round like this anymore. You fall, you yell for me."

"I tripped over a bucket, Arthur."

He leans in, lips brushing the inside of your knee , "Next time you fall,” he murmurs, "I better be the one catchin’ you."

You laugh at the silly line as he wanted you to , choked and shaking, so that he can kiss that, too. And he does. Kisses the sound right off your lips.

Aggressive and messy but devoted.

Like he's scared the world might take you away if he doesn't love you hard enough.

You think you're in the clear.

You think maybe Arthur'll kiss your wrist one last time and let you limp off with whatever pride you have left.

But then he straightens up and, before you can react, hooks an arm under your knees and the other around your back.

“Arthur, NO---ARTHUR, what are you doing?!"

He lifts you off the ground like you weigh nothing, settling you against his chest while your skirt flutters traitorously in the breeze.

"Gettin’ you off that leg before it gets worse."

"WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU-"

"Relax, darlin'."

You glance around, and half the camp has stopped what they’re doing.

Karen drops her coffee. Tilly’s grinning. Charles doesn’t even bother hiding his chuckle. Bill looks confused, but that’s normal.

And Sean? Sean’s somewhere in the distance screaming, "I TOLD Y’ALL THEY WAS CANOODLIN"!"

You bury your face in Arthur’s shirt. "This is humiliating."

"Nah. This is me takin’ care of what’s mine."

Your heart skips. You don’t reply. You can’t.

He lowers his voice near your ear, tone suddenly soft again. "You think I care what they say? I’d carry you every day if it meant you didn’t walk a step in pain.”

You go quiet. Your hand slowly grips the fabric at his chest.

He walks you straight to his tent, ignoring every whistle, every stare, every amused comment.

You hiss again as he gently lowers you onto the cot like he’s handling glass.

"See? Not so bad," he says, brushing your hair from your face.

"I hope you know that I hate you."

He grins. "Love you too, pretty girl".

He props your foot on his thigh once more, knees bent as he kneels beside the cot. The warmth of his palm settles over your shin, and you watch in silence as he unscrews the bottle and soaks the cloth.

"This might sting," he says, voice softer now.

The first dab burns, and you tense , but his other hand immediately slides up to steady your thigh, thumb rubbing slow, absentminded circles into your skin.

"You ever think about being a nurse?"

Arthur chuckles low in his throat. "Only for you, sweetheart."

When the bruise is clean, he tears off a strip of bandage with his teeth and starts wrapping, slow and methodical. His hands are rough from years of gunpowder and rope, but he handles you like you’re something fragile.

He ties the knot off neatly, then rubs his thumb once over the finished wrap like he’s sealing it.

"You didn’t have to do all that," you sigh, thankful it's over.

"Course I did," he says, setting your leg down gently. "You’re my girl. Gettin’ hurt’s not just your problem anymore."

You don’t reply, you couldn't, not with the way your chest aches at his words. So instead, you let him lift the blanket back up over your legs, tucking it around you with the same care he’d give a wounded bird.

Then, without a word, he leans forward and presses a kiss to the bandage. One more to your ankle. And one just over your knee, slow and reverent.

"Better now?".

You nod. But he doesn't move.

Instead, Arthur shifts beside you on the cot. He sits there for a second, head down, thumbs fidgeting, like he's fighting off something stupid. Then he gives in. Always does, with you.

"C'mere, you blind careless woman," he mutters, already pulling you into him.

You don't resist, but do throw a nasty ass look at him. Your body is stiff at first, sore, aching, pride still stinging more than the injury. But Arthur doesn't care. He tucks you right against his chest like it's instinct, arms cradling you with a kind of gentleness most wouldn't expect from a man like him.

One hand finds your hair. The other grips the small of your back. Finally, he sighs in relief as if he's been healed more than you.

You shift a little, face tucked under his jaw now, catching the warmth of his neck, the soft scratch of his beard.

"You are not allowed to hide anything from me, missy."

You press a kiss to his collarbone. It’s an apology. A thank-you...

He hums low in his throat and you feel it vibrate through your chest.

"Reckon you're stuck with me now," he murmurs.

And he means it.

He doesn't move. Just leans back against the cot, dragging you with him, until your weight rests against his, and the world fades out around the sound of his breathing and the slow, steady beat of his heart.

"You rest," he whispers, brushing your hair back again. "I'll be right here, darlin'." His fingers linger there a moment too long, not because he’s unsure, but because he’s not ready to stop touching you.

His hand never leaves your back. Even as your eyes grow heavy.

Even as sleep starts to steal you both. Like he's still making sure you’re here. Still alive. Still his.

And he means it. Because to him, you are the most precious.