prompted by the lovely aimeerosebud on tumblr, who said:
"Hey! I have a prompt for an ArthurxReader fic that I have been wanting to write myself for my own original character and him for a while but damn, where's the willpower lmao? So.. I'm shuffling it onto you instead! What about sort of of Doctor! Reader (or at least Reader with some knowledge within the medical field) having to patch Arthur up after something went bonkers and a shootout ensued? They can be either friends, acquaintances or lovers. Reader is probably bonking his head either way."
In which you realize that having expertise in medicine comes with benefits you wouldn't normally expect.
Arthur Morgan x Doctor!Reader
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Your work is quick, steady and impeccable — or at least has been until now. Stitching wounds shut comes as easy as breathing to you, that testifies just how often and for how long you've been doing it.
But then again, not even breathing comes easily when you're around Arthur Morgan, that damned outlaw — he renders you stupid, and the person you were before, someone that has undergone medicinal training since they've turned fourteen, remains forgotten.
He was the last one to show up to get patched up, and had patiently waited beside the medical caravan until you were done with Strauss, John and Dutch.
Perhaps that was one of the reasons you had grown a liking to him. How considerate and willing he was to put others before himself.
Now he sits on the table, shirt discarded, muscular thighs spread to allow you closer to him, unfortunately however for no other reason than the wound on his upper torso. A bullet has grazed the flesh where his shoulder meets his neck, which would've surely made for an impressive scar if you hadn't been working on stitching it shut that very moment.
"Strauss mentioned something about Leviticus Cornwall?" You speak up, mainly because you start to dread the awkward silence between Arthur and yourself. He shifts on the table when you examine a clumsy stitch you've made closer. He almost seems nervous. "It was the guy whose train you robbed back in Ambarino, that so?"
Arthur swallows (from the slight sting pain caused by your needle, you presume), then nods. "Yeah. They sure raised some hell back in Valentine, alright." He lifts the rag he'd been pressing to his waist, where another bullet had grazed him, nods at it like he's showing you undeniable proof. Well, he kind of is, you suppose. But you're far too distracted to acknowledge it.
Don't look, you tell yourself. Don't look at the perfect, defined muscles on his torso, don't you dare look at how his chest rises and falls as he breathes, at how the candles on the table throw gorgeous shadows over his skin.
But you do, anyways.
Arthur Morgan is the personification of power, hell, anatomy books on muscles should use him as a reference.
