cupid ☆♪

18!! Write whenever I can :) Arthur Morgan dedicated Account DISCONTINUED (for now).

[thesweetestapplepie]

I love arthur morgan and this acc is js whenever i have an idea to post :))) don’t know how consistent i will be but pls be nice. if there are any good ideas pls send requests !! cant promise i will always get to them tho

[thesweetestapplepie]

‘heaven’s home’

tags: fluff, girl dad Arthur Morgan <3

authors note: just a really quick one so i can get back to doing some requests..this one has js festered my mind all week.

In 1899, silence was a gift greatly afforded every blue moon. When days were still tarred together in gunpowder residue and the stench of a fresh kill bleeding warm down the side of your horse. The only silence you could be afforded was the head-ringing of a shotgun blast crackling in your ear or the call of buzzards honing in on dead bison in New Hanover. Silence was quick and brief as it was sweet and peaceful. Yet, years later and you found the sound of silence only frightens you from your sheets, white chemise glued to your skin in a cold sweat.

In 1907, silence strung you up from your covers and throwovers. The air was void of that familiar bear snore that shook the four walls of your homely cabin, that disrupted the hanging fixtures of your portraits and pictures. Swimming in your sea of blankets and pillows, your hands scramble to the vacant expanse of Arthur’s side of the bed. With eyelids still glued shut in fatigue and the cold meeting your fingertips, you force your eyes open in lazy fashion when you hear that thick-throated chuckle sound from the corner of the bedroom. It makes your lips twitch up in a smile, opening your eyes with fluttering lashes to the dark silhouette of the lumbering man.

The image of him standing by the window greets you in a sight that is slowly becoming more familiar by the minute. As familiar as it has been since thwarting Dutch and Micah’s ever silver-toothed jaws. His shoulders sit square with the moonlight clinging to the snug fit of his union shirt, highlighting the curvature of his broad frame and tough body. With drawn curtains as sapphire as his eyes, he sways in place with a soft whisper from his throat. Despite his rough voice, he coos a bird’s song into his arms where he cradles the jewels of his endeavors and triumphs in his hands. A baby girl. A baby girl who he holds so close to his chest yet so gently, as if terrified of pulling a hair from her head. You rub your eyes and your vision is blinking stars when you finally hear that thick velvet voice.

“Shh.. Easy, girl.. Easy..” Arthur doubles down his soft cooing and praise, the soft babbling from your daughter quickly waning. Old habits die hard, you suppose. It makes you laugh the amount of times his old, gunslinging tendencies shine in vulnerable moments such as these. Years of pulling on leather reins, stalling down steep, sunrise crested mountains had finally led to those rough and calloused hands to this moment. “Come on, babygirl.. You already woke mama up..” He teases without even glancing at you, yet that crooked smile pulls you from your sheets and you go to grab a thin shawl hanging on your bed frame.

He hears you emerge from your throne of pillows and blankets and shuffles his feet, shifting his back towards you as if trying to keep her all to himself. A sharp exhale escapes you in amusement. “She’s fussy cause she wants her mama..” You say scoldingly, wrapping a soft brown shawl around your shoulders as you pad your way over. He finally gives in, angling your daughter’s head down to your eyes where you’re met with an almost spitting image of Arthur. Well, for the most part. She had his bright, turquoise eyes and his pouty scowl everytime she was awake. Yet, Arthur liked to talk about how much she looked like you when she smiled or babbled laughter. Everytime she wrinkled her nose he’d kiss it with a flowery kiss, gentle as the petals of a flower. He says that also reminds him of you.

It had been 7 years since the two of you had made it on your own. Arthur could’ve sworn he would be closer to a noose around his neck, facing the crowd of the gallows in Valentine or Saint Denis than the days he’d ever see you walking to him in a flowery white gown. Years after the stinging betrayal of Dutch, he had a vivid picture of his impending punishment painted in galleries in his head. Yet, you seem to distract him from that impending, divine punishment. Soon, he had concluded that no punishment will collect its debt, that your hair had gotten longer and your figure fuller as the dewy summer days passed and the howling winter wanes. Scars that webbed your pretty skin slowly faded as did his and grey hairs sprouted from atop of his brown rooted head. He figured he could get used to living without punishment, without fear.

About 7 years ago he had begun to build you your home of blood sweat and love. Purple and white wildflowers spotted the thickets and forest floor, surrounding your homely cabin in a chamber of color and love. Delicate shades of brown paint a flowery wallpaper across your bedroom, just as you had liked it. You reach to hold your baby girl and he’s hesitant to give her up, you could see it in those guilty dog eyes.

“We didn’t wanna wake you up, mama..” He coos. You stifle back another lovestruck giggle as Arthur finally turns to look at you. Moonlight splits his face into sharp edges and lines, wrinkles deboss his sunlined skin, you catch that lazy crooked smile from his teeth and lean against his bicep. “See, I already got her to sleep fa’ you.” Slowly swaying with him, you look over his shoulder to your daughter who shut her eyes tight and seemed to stir in her father’s arms. You can’t help but laugh at his stubbornness.

“She’s gonna start crying again.” You jut your lip playfully.

“No she aint.” As if the stars knew you were correct, her big blue eyes met his with a glossy acknowledgement and as her mouth opened to whine he moved to adjust her into your arms shakily. He keeps his hand on her head where soft locks matching your hair sprout, calloused palm smoothing the strands back into place where he leans down to press a kiss to her hairline. “Guess we all want mama, don’t we?” His voice comes out in a whisper as you begin to rock her in your arms, shushing her with your honeyed voice and smile. You watch his hands instinctively come to rest on your shoulders, adoration in his eyes as he looks down at his two favorite girls. Arthur Morgan had spent the first half of his life devoted to a senseless cause—he was sure he couldn’t have anything as precious as a daughter. Let alone a wife as perfect as you.

His stubble scratches your cheek when he leans down to press a kiss to your cheek—a longing for your skin as though you weren’t asleep beside him moments ago. Ever devoted to you. Yeah. He could definitely get used to this.

[altergoat02]

[thesweetestapplepie]

i don’t usually repost stuff but he looks so beautiful and happy here i couldn’t js let it go 😭❤️❤️

[thesweetestapplepie]

I love your writing and umm if you're doing requests may I please request essentially the reverse of the fwb ones, where she and arthur are partners in crime and they're super sweet and couple-y best friends but are NOT together even though everyone in camp is like 'are they seriously not fucking???' And they're just mutually pining like idiots for years on end. I hope that made sense sorry if its weirdly specific i probably need therapy lol.

wc: 1.9k

tags: FLUFF!! pining Arthur.

Comfortable. Too comfortable. It was almost suspicious. Those were the exact words Susan Grimshaw would use to describe the pair of lovebirds that bumbled around camp as if completely enamoured in their own worlds. Those lovebirds not even being the crude Sean and babbling Karen or even Mary-Beth and the stuttering, nervous mess which was Kieran. No. It was the mere sight of you, the silver tongued bandit with her heart on her sleeve being so shamelessly sought out by the brooding, enigmatic man Arthur Morgan. To be completely fair on Grimshaw’s part, it wasn’t only her who held suspicions on the end of her finger when she would constantly wave it in front of your nose. The very close friendship the pair of you had knitted together came tangled with the inquiries of not only the women of camp, who bargained gossip for gossip by their washboards, but the men in camp who would throw sneaky, offhand remarks at the wind over a drink or game of poker. And yet, not much to everyone’s surprise that the pair of you would deny, deny, deny.

And who can blame them? It had become an almost domestic frame: the pair of you couldn’t help but to give in to the simple pleasures. Simple distractions. Mornings became rich in the same scene of Arthur trailing behind you to your routine which in return had become his routine. Knowing he would be gone on a job for most of the week, he prepares himself for the long departure in his own endearing way. Trailing behind you with ears low tucked behind his hat, he follows you to the glistening shores of Clemen’s Point the very mornings before departure. He’d sheepishly blush and sit on a rock nearby where you had already begun to wash your face in the cold, relieving sting of the water. With a palm tucked under his scarred chin and elbow resting on his knee, his body lumbered over to intently watch you. The use of conversation was pointless in the of quiet elysium which was the Clemen’s point waters so early in the morning that the moon still forged itself to the blue sky–so early in the morning it traps the pair of you in a capsule where no one else seemed to matter or intrude. When he can’t avoid your tickling suspicions, he scratches the back of his neck and hopes you didn’t think of him as any less of a man.

“You’re up early.” You draw first to jab at him.

“Gonna be busy today.. Coffee’s good when it’s hot.” He hides his real reason behind coffee beans and hot water, tipping his hat for extra perseverance.

“Really now?” You’d respond to him with conviction for his dishonesty and he shrugs. You pulled yourself up and rang water from your skirt.. “Could you get me a cup then?”

“Ain’t your dog, woman.” He’d mumble with no real bitterness, walking with a slow lumber towards the campfire where he lets his feelings for you swallow him up in his pathetic attempts to make you smile.

Caring for you had become a part of Arthur Morgan’s character. The aspect of grey clouds contorting you to anything but the carefree, happy woman who read to him on quiet nights and splashed in puddles on rainy days leaves him feeling utterly ashamed and bastardized. Arthur doesn’t know exactly when he realized it hurt so much to see you as anything but content and well fed, yet he succumbs to your rule and seems to crush himself beneath your thumb.

“You’re gonna get yourself sick like that.” He scolds you when you prance through the streaking, silver pelts of rain. You chase the rushing chill past the front steps of The Loft, stopped by the simple yearning to play with the riches of nature. If Ambarino could offer Arthur one thing, it was the ability to see you bask in the background of green and meadows of blurred wildflowers.

“So?” Water trickles down your back and seeps through the stitchings of your clothing and much to his prediction you push down the sting of cold with brilliance.

He laughs half-heartedly at that. “So? You whine like a dog for days with a stuffed nose, you ain’t foolin’ me.” He crosses his arms over his chest as if it’ll stagnate the humming in his body. He forces his head down to avoid the sting of his yearning for you. And yet, even when you pull him by his hands into the blur of pelting water he feels nothing but warmth in his vain attempt to preserve your health. And in the end, he’d rather it be both of you sipping hot stew in the quarantine of his tent than you by yourself in yours.

Though, you show you care for him as well, in sweeter and considerate terms of affection. When Arthur Morgan fails to take care of himself in negligence or in carelessness, you make up for it with not a word spoken in between them. With a bowl of fresh stew lightly garnished with creeping thyme personally plucked by you, you take it upon yourself to bring the moping man a meal when he’s too stubborn to grab one himself. When another robbery only left them with a quarter and law men too close to camp, you remind Arthur that he isn’t the cold steel of a gun but he was human.

“You ain’t gotta do that fa’ me.” Yet, when his thumb firmly brushes your hand in exchange, it speaks all the thank yous to you with the life in his eyes coming back.

He speaks thanks especially when he knows you need it. It isn’t uncommon for Grimshaw to have you fold the same 3 loads of laundry at the beginning of every morning, or force you to stick your nose to the mat and collect the dust through your nostrils and a broom. When the days begin to wax at you and you melt over the boil of your pot, Arthur knows he isn’t a smoothtalker yet he pats himself on the back for his saving grace.

He’ll bound up to you, confident with a chest puff of ash and yarrow pollen. Sometimes he’ll find you atop of a discarded barrel, you were already helping Pearson peel at potatoes, fingers tough and printed with the blunt side of the blade; But that thief needs to steal some more of your precious time.

“Put’chu shoes on. Need you to run an errand with me.”

“You busy? Could use a saddle warmer.”

He’ll almost always ask you with hands looped on his gun belt, naval tilting up as if to downplay his own request. However, on occasions where he is self-serving enough to pry you from the comfort of your tent, he’ll ask you to accompany him for no real particular reason. Well, of course he has his reasons. But who were you to say no to that handsome man.

Once in a while, when the brilliant summer sun would even dare to outshine your golden smile, he calls you over just by the banks to serve him in your musical lull. Pulling his sleeves up to the curl of his bicep, he swings an axe overhead with a thunderous strike of lightning and the logs of wood splinter effortlessly in his control and he only pauses to call your name from the crowd. Finger pointing a spotlight to you as you make your way. “You.”

“Me?” You make your way over with a fluttering skirt and the breath of lilac that calls your name in its aroma. “What about me?”

“Need you to read for me.” An awkward hand gestures to the book safely tucked under your arm and with a hell of a lot better to do such as washing and cooking you sit down in a shady patch of lime grass and flip to page 25 of your book. There, with the trees swelling at every gale of bird songs and the smell of oak and cedar, you read to him from your spot where your skirt pools on the floor and makes his heart tick with endearment. When he fails to force his face down into the heat of his work, he allows himself to sneak fleeting glances of you and your pretty skirt. Capturing you in his mind was no different than a fully realized photograph, he knew you well enough to not have to remember which way your hair parted and how you liked to wear ribbons in your clothing. When you do catch him looking, he ducks his head with an apology too quiet for you to hear but just for him to save his pride. And you laugh, because the shades of red that paint his stubble face wasn’t due to the pounding sun in the sky but the drumming of his heart.

Arthur Morgan’s criminality didn’t leave him much room for care and domesticity. The soft blazing skin of a woman had become unfamiliar and alien to him as dreams of Tahiti or god knows what. Death’s waiting arms was by far going to be the closest thing he’ll get to a white lacy wedding, yet when the noose slips and it tightens it’s hold on him, a nagging itch in his body tells him your boot isn’t fitting as it usually did or you’ve been losing track of your rings and dainty necklaces that seem to only fit your perfect skin. And heaven knows he cannot even imagine death's eternal sleep if you were not properly looked out for.

It wasn’t the prettiest sight, though he has to admit it to himself, to tear away trinkets and gold from the hands of anyone unfortunate enough to ride down his trail. With a sinful thumb he wipes sweat lining the indents of his forehead and dismounts with a heavy footfall directed towards your yellow starched tent canvas. He pulls open the canvas but not before announcing his entrance like the gentleman that he was.

And yet, when he’s able to string together enough money he buys you those new amber shaded boots with dark rose embroidery running along its stump. Once in a perfect pale moon he cobbles together enough to buy you a new necklace to replace the one you left in Valentine, and the embellished swelling of your already tinted pink cheeks makes the blood in his hands tingle when he gives you the delicate items. He is adamant on doing it to serve you, to make your life a little easier in the light of the coming summer. Even when you kiss his cheek and whisper your thanks and praise, he dares to let his smile show any more crooked teeth. His reasons are albeit, a little more selfish than he cares to admit.

“Look at that face, Morgan! She gave you a good one this time, ain’t she?” Sean croons from his spot at the table like a crow with a face kissed red in liquor.

“Gave me more than what you’ll get in 10 years, fool.” He deflects with a dismissive hand when he b-lines for his tent. Despite all the accusatory remarks and comments, he bounds to his tent with a smile on those thinly curved lips, because something about everyone assuming you were his as he was yours had only fed into his hopeless desires. Arthur Morgan knew he was out of his mind for yearning for you, but he had lost half of it to the violence. And lord knows he deserves to lose the rest of it to love.

[thesweetestapplepie]

for been really dreading writing because i always seem to compare my writing to other people’s work but comparison is the thief of joy and i still rlly wanna write fics..

[thesweetestapplepie]

will be on an indefinite hiatus due to personal issues in my life. don’t stop arthuring ur morgan’s 💕

[thesweetestapplepie]

‘a cigarette after sex’

wc: 1.8k

tags: fluff, mutual pining. Friends w benefits Arthur PT2. Mentions of sex.

author note: technically an addition to ‘a quiet night’ cause i’m starting to rlly like this friends w benefits Arthur wanting more. will work on requests soon :)

Rich alcohol bubbles laughter from the gang sitting below Arthur’s windowsill, a roaring fire tying together the sound of soft guitar and disorganized melodies. Despite the amusement everyone had danced in, Arthur Morgan had no intention of joining any of them that night on the fun.

What a gorgeous view. Arthur’s mind reels in blanks when he takes a moment to look at you. Back turned to him, he let his eyes drop and rise over you. With a body still slick on the afterglow of sex and sweat, you draped yourself bare over the edge of his springy cot with elbows dug into the linen sheet. The fire dances in your eyes. Peering from where you laid, you gazed down from the window of his Shady Belle room where the two of you laid in the nest of warmth and weakness. Arthur understands that it is weakness that shreds him of his pride and volition everytime you find your way back into his bed. With your body naked, pale moonlight sends a cascading waterfall of silver down the plains of your back. The slight dewy moisture that collects on your skin only sends him reminders of your passionate haze of affection just a few minutes ago. He hopes you’ll stay like this just a moment longer. He lets his mind stray to the vivid recollection of you folded in half beneath him, dirty words and pleads that he pulled from your breath with every rough chase of his hips and heat of his mouth.

Yet, even with the pretty sight of you blissed out, high on the euphoric edge that Arthur seems to teeter you on, he doesn’t think anything can compare to your beauty after the fact. Though, he’ll never admit that to you, not until you tell him it’s what you wanted to hear. With a chest that ached of longing, he revels in the way you soaked in the cold, frosted air of the night as if you had belonged among the banisters of stars. He breathes you in a long moment, a little too long for him to call it friendly. If he were to be more honest to himself, he’d acknowledge full well that there was nothing friendly about the two of you.

He gets an idea. A stupid one, one that’ll surely leave him a foolish man. Even then, he understands that this is a view that he would burn into the skin of his bones if he could. Extending his arm, he reaches for the brown leatherback journal that sits by the side of the bed. His broad shoulders creak like old mahogany wood, the naked planes of his chest chiseled like a greek god. When his pencil lightly taps among the smooth cover, you turn around and he’s met with those punishing, darling eyes of yours that burns his composure to nothing but ash. Arthur knew he was in deep, yet it still makes him ache when you catch him in such a moment of endearment. Your eyes land on his journal and pencil, corners of your mouth twitching into that cherry flavored smile.

“Gotcha’.” Your words fall husky on his ears and he can’t help but scoff shamelessly at his own mistake, even indulging in the way you shifted your bare body back to face him.

“You got me.” He gruffly responds, lifting his hand that rested on his journal up in the air as if signalling his defeat. Quick woman. He hopes you’re too slow to notice his ears burn in slight embarrassment.

This has become quite the pattern for the both of you. Ever since you had both been aware of Arthur’s slight favoring of you and vice versa. Moments of weakness began to bleed into your camping trips, you two began to sneak away every time the moment was right to satiate each other’s needs–A hotel or into the sweet confines of his canvas tent. Only–the need for you didn’t seem to disappear even after healing his soul to the sweet music of your whines and moans. No, he finds himself hungering for the perfect moments after the fact. Moments such as this one.

“Were you just gonna sit there in silence the whole time?” The words play off of your tongue lightly, head tilted ever so slightly to get a better look at him in the flickering candle light. The lines around his mouth are pulled together into a feigned scowl, crows' feet scrunching up along with the bridge of his nose when he begins to quip at you.

“Nah. Just wondering what you’ve been eyeing down there for so long. Practically burned a hole into the damn windowsill.” His expression rests on its stoic pout that seems to never leave his face, not wanting to give you the satisfaction of amusement. Yet, you could tell he was already quite infatuated. You glance back to the distant chatter of the campfire alone and Arthur can see the thoughts steam from your head by the way your eyes flicker. Shifting comfortably, you melt back into the dark sheets of the bed and he tries to not let his eyes linger on you for any longer than dignifying. He believes that the deep seated fondness he holds for you will eventually fade and dwindle if he chooses to not indulge in it. Yet his contradicting mind and body betrays his pride constantly; and as he gets a better look at you in the candlelight, soft embers illuminating your radiating, halo glow with wildflower petals still colorfully strewn about in your hair. You still smelled of sweet citrus and fruit, all he can do is selfishly long.

“Just thinkin.’” You point to his side of the bed to the box of half empty cigarettes and he doesn’t hesitate to supply you with your bitter relief. You notice how despite the creased line of his forehead and the rough, pinched furrow of his brow that his candid crystalline eyes were nothing short of tender.

“Enlighten me.” He pulls his own cigarette from the box before handing it to you, but you simply pluck the cigarette that he stuck between his fingers and slot it into your own mouth. That earns you that toothy smile, a grin pulls his cheeks into creases and he looks down to preserve any of his composure.

You find the lighter that was sitting on your floor of the bed along with your cream laced clothing and golden brass shoes, ever so carelessly and impatiently discarded in your passionate affair. You can’t help but feel the piercing diamond eyes of your lover scale your back as you lean over the creaking cot. As if the tension in his stare was coated in whiskey and fire, you feel your face burn hot like coal. You pull yourself back up. Giving into the thick and dry pull on his throat, he shamelessly watches the bruises and bites that blossomed along your chest and stomach fade back into view when you have finally retrieved the lighter. Another grin threatens to curve his lips. “Tilly and Beth probably wondering where I am about now..” You fumble with the silver lighter for a second when Arthur’s hand instinctively reaches out to help you, only for you to catch the wispy flame in its last moment, chest puffing in pride. “I won’t hear the end of it from those two like this..” That melodic laugh is pulled in strings from your lips when you gaze down at yourself. Deep violets and red seem to blossom along your flesh like petals, hurting ever so pleasurable.

“You’ll be in your dress, you'll be fine.” The image licks flames at Arthur’s mind and he can’t help but let embarrassment run heat through his body in a hot flash. He had gotten carried away this time. Pulling smoke through your soft cherry lips, you hum softly at his comment, handing the cigarette back to him. He sits up, looking down at your naked figure and he feels his throat tighten. “You can go and join them if you want, y’know.” He rasps, quiet as if his tail was tucked between his legs. Quiet as if he didn’t want you to. He hopes the smoke will get rid of the buzzing in his brain, an electric shock shooting through his body as soon as he tastes the bitter paper on his lip.

You roll over on your side to face him, body still melted so comfortably into the sheets as if you were meant to lay beside him for the rest of your life. And a part of him hopes that is the case. “Do you want me to?”

“To what?” He muses for a second.

“To leave.” You say just as quickly, taking the cigarette from his scarred, hair laced knuckles and fingers.

“Hell no, I don’t want you to leave.” He hopes his answer came out confident, smooth unlike the way the apple of his throat bobbed nervously. He hoped it charmed you, because it earned a soft giggle from your lips. It was those moments of soft giggling, whether it was between sweet, heady kisses or laughter just talking back and forth that made him realize that this relationship the two of you held was far past being friendly.

“No?” You reach for the cigarette, hand deliberately brushing against his hand for another brief, electric moment.

“No..” His voice had gotten a little quieter. “Like I said, you’re fine company.” He watches the smoke fill your lungs, the last remnants of your lipstick smearing onto the cigarette when you had wetly kissed it.

You smile through the smoke and he's quick to notice the red that crawls up your face just as thick and sunny. You let the smoke billow from your body, face turned ever so slightly to the side as to not punish him in your intoxicating air. “I’ll stay then.” He forces his smile down at your answer, trading the rough callous in his hand for a cigarette from yours.

He gets a final look at your body, letting the image burn into his mind as he finally spills back into the cot, eyes finding the ceiling of his room. You both watch the smoke spill from his lips, filling the air above you in a haze of unspoken affection. There was no need for a trade of words right now, anyways. Though he will be sorely disappointed to not have gotten that sketch of you, thick graphite lines shadowing the plush of your hips and the thin flicks of his pencil highlighting the glow of your back—he believes this was just as good. Hell. It was even better.

[thesweetestapplepie]

a quick NSFW thought abt Arthur Morgan…

I have this idea that Arthur Morgan eats pussy like a starved man. We all know that man is devoted to the act of giving. Specifically to those he adores, loves. And god knows he loves you, loves you more than the clouds meets the skies. I can imagine him coming back to camp with fresh prey bleeding on his back, warm and heavy. His back is sore, knees aching and grime caked on his skin thick and dark. And yet, the way Arthur Morgan chooses to unwind and set himself at ease is between the sweet slice of heaven between your thighs. His favorite girl, he had been thinking all day about the sweet, heady taste of your cunt. He indulges in the ache of his cock rubbing against his pants, strained at the button to be touched and nursed of its cum. He indulges in how painfully hard his dick gets when you lower yourself on his face, and he reaps the sweet fruits of his labors and long days of work by dining on the sweet music of your pussy. He would rut his hips in the air, searching for friction almost instinctively to the sounds of your moans. He groans with every lick and suck of his lips, ever so indulging in the image of you riding his mouth with your eyes closed shut and body writhing with pleasure. The rough skin of his palms grinds you down into his mouth, his nose coming to budge against your clit almost sinfully to the way you began to arch your back and sing his name at the top of your lungs. He takes it as initiative to continue, tongue delving into your velvet slit to get that thick taste of you to fill his mouth. When his tongue comes back to pulse under your neglected clit, he relishes in the way you lewdly mewled. He carefully studies the way he flicks his tongue, the way you get louder and looser. He feels warmth pool in his belly when strings of praise fall from your lips and he remembers exactly why he basks in the taste in the first place. In his head, he knows how much you’ll complain about his ego and pride. But he can’t help the fact that only he can get you so close to that edge and ride it so hard down its finish line. That was Arthur’s favorite way to ease himself down after a long days work. Arthur wanted to leave you craving more. He enters every intimate moment of sweet sticky nectar and heated kisses with the intention to leave you wanting his tongue over and over again until you could only repeat his name. He pleasures himself to the thought of you missing his friction, his heat when he’s away for so long, leaving you needy. He doesn’t need to cum either, the taste enough to get him off on an entirely different level. Yes, Arthur Morgan is definitely a giver. No doubt in anyone’s mind about that.

[thesweetestapplepie]

Hi just wanted to know if there is anything you are uncomfortable writing before I request xx

Hi! to be completely honest besides the usual stuff that most blogs don’t allow (cnc, incest, abuse, cheating angst..) I don’t have a lot i won’t write! Smut is tricky for me to write so those might take longer for me to produce but besides that i’d simply ignore the request if the context was too weird ! if there’s specific prompts and ideas please send them to more as more specific the better for me to make ideas with. thank you so much for asking.

[thesweetestapplepie]

Hi I love ur writing... I'm so sorry if ur getting spammed with nofis cuz like, my likes page won't show ur work huhuhu!!! Okay bye I love ur work

thank you so much and please don’t apologize!! <3 i didn’t expect my work to get so much love :,,)) these messages are always so sweet

[thesweetestapplepie]

‘crazy man’

wc: 2.2k

tags: fluff, yearning Arthur, mentions of alcohol use

author note: ngl i didn’t like this one that much and because of school i’ve been having crazy writers block. i’ll be trying to work on smth special and a lot more seriously written whenever that chance comes.. but for now this is something way more simply!

The merry pattering of tiny footsteps and heavy feet pour out of the swinging doors of the Smithfield’s Saloon, alcohol as thick as the laughter and singing in the crisp air. The repugnance of horse manure and vomit had reached Arthur’s nose first, a signature reminder of where he was. The frigid bite of the star spangled sky had practically rolled off of your skin like water off of a duck’s back with alcohol so thick in your blood. And yet, even as you had babbled incoherently in his ear with a warm breath of liquor, he absentmindedly found his eyes sticking to your lips with a hand around your waist.

“Where we off to now, Morgan?” The way you lazily slurred over his shoulder did nothing for his biting smile. You had smiled hard too, cheeks sore with the high of euphoria and the cool taste of bitter, heady drink. Mud cakes onto the bottoms of your boots, the gentle hum of crickets stirring the hazy, sickly sweet air.

“Where are we off to?” Arthur echoes you, tilting his head West of the rough edged town. His voice threaded with a hint of mirth. “We're off to sleep, you drunk. That’s what.” If he was smarter he would avoid the teasing chase of your eyes that tried so desperately to get him to crumble. It was as if you preyed on his ever so approaching downfall, taking advantage of the yearning that runs through his blood naturally. How he had tried so hard over the course of months to not grow fond of you.

“Grimshaw gonna murder me..” The defeated whisper pulls a chuckle from the outlaws lips and he finds himself invulnerable to your ramblings.

“Not yet, she ain’t. You ain’t gonna be puking your guts out on the side of my horse.” That one got a good laugh out of you, hearty and colorful like paint splattered to a canvas and he does his best to not pay any attention to the music you had sung.

And yet, it is care and attention that leads the man to the front door of the warmly lit and quaint hotel; only sitting so quaint as the bustling and roar of townsfolk had snuck to their homes for the night to sleep. He steadies you up the creaking timber steps, hand ever so gentlemanly to rest on the soft trail of your waist that lead to the soft slope of your hips which he tried so adamantly to ignore.

“Welcome! You need a bath? Can fix one right up for ya-”

“One room, please.” He’s simple, straight to the point. It doesn’t even cross his mind that the hotel manager may have been quipping on the state of your drunken slobber or his usual rugged persona. With a clatter of pennies, he drags you with the heavy heartache and sincerity that seems to constantly torment him whenever he’s around you. Your heated breath fogs his brain in dense clouds and his wrist turns impatiently to jerk open the handle, you hummed over his shoulder.

This man didn’t know what the hell he was getting himself into. What he always gets himself into every time your venomous vipers catch him in your web. He’d watch you through the smoke of his cigarette and the shadow of his black worn hat, stealing ever so innocent glances from you whenever you made your rounds around the work in camp. Even as your work would result in both of your path’s kindling, this new friendship seared a burning mark into Arthur’s heart even as he tried so hard to not. Arthur had assumed a woman such as yourself was nothing but further trouble. A lady who lies like it was second nature and bats her lashes to swear an oath. You were a woman who prided herself on a big heart and vivid livelihood, as if youth were immortalized in your breath. Flowers grow where you stood and weeds die where you threaded. And yet, Arthur can only believe that a woman with such calculated beauty and compassion could only be so greedy. He believes it was your greed that made you call his name in tender fondness, as if you had found great solace in stealing him of his intellect and senses. As if he had any more of those, Arthur Morgan knew he was too much of an idiot to keep himself away from you.

“Arthur, it ain’t even 1 yet! Come on, can’t we live a little.!” Your voice trailed with enthusiasm that made him exhale through a gentle scoff and thinly veiled chuckle.

“Will you be quiet, woman?” The irritation and indignation of his voice is only betrayed by the soft furrow of his brow, his thinly closed lips threatening to break his perpetual scowl. Even if you were clearly so disillusioned in your liquor, you could understand the reckless beat of his heart.

Arthur Morgan was a fool, that he knew full well as he had thoughtfully situated you onto the bed, your legs hanging off the edge as you spilled back into the sheets. It smelled of freshly washed linen with the trace of lilac petals that seemed to ease the ache from your head. Arthur steps back to drink in the look of you, hoping your inhibited state could allow him ever so selfish glances of your face. He appreciated the gentle divots and marks that spotted your face, the soft curve of your lips and the slopes of your nose; Arthur’s eye’s poured adoration into every crevice and plane of your face but it hinged on a sense of fear. Fear for the hills and mountains he’ll need to climb to prove how damned of a fool he is. Your lips twitch up at the pressure of his gaze resting on you. Because lord knows you did just the same.

“Beautiful..” Your playful smile did nothing to hide the raw admiration in your voice when you had softly cooed your praise.

“Who, me or the liquor?” Despite the teasing question, Arthur’s eyes dilate behind his turquoise irises and you watch him drop to his knees, a sight that sends a gentle shiver up your back. He runs a hand over his face, scratching his whiskers with a teasing smile that threatens to stretch too wide. He ever so kindly pushes the hem of your dress up to your calves. His free hand takes a hold of your ankle, gentle as if you were a bird’s wing and delicate as he balances your boot on his knee, fingers working to unbuckle the cold golden brass buckles. Arthur’s eyes stop at the cream ruffles of your dress, throat thick with boyish fantasies and dreams. And yet, Arthur purified his mind in the sweet, sanctity act of laboring over you. He keeps his eyes low, as if the sight of you looking down at him couldn’t be good for his aged heart and the erratic beat of its rhythm.

“Who do you think?” You slurred back, the gentle candlelight flickers orange and yellow flames to dance across the shadows of your face and he steals a glance to watch them as they do.

“I think you’re a damn fool, girl.” His voice poured from his throat low and dangerous as if mixed in poison, eyes resting on the trail of your ankle and up your calf as the boot slips from your feet in a gentle thud to the floor. He struggles to pull a coherent thought from his mind, head going blank at the heavenly sight. His lips pressed together, suffocating the intoxicating smoke you filled his lungs with. The rough edge of his thumb dips to softly graze the skin of your knee as he pulls his hands back, even if he wishes to indulge the supple gloss of your legs. How intimate for such a simple, degrading act he had put himself in. And yet, it venerates that deep fondness he feels for you that seems to overtake any of his self respect. He refocuses his attention to the other boot, hands working meticulous to gently uncoil you from the stress and tension of leather.

“Is it a crime to be a fool?” His hands slip over the shape of your ankle again, the last boot dropping to the wooden floors. “Can’t I sing my praises and affections? That a crime?” You rasped through a strained breath, positioning your elbows on either side of you to look at him below your knees where he had silently admired you like a sinner to a cross. He steadies himself to his feet, that familiar figure framed to tower over you, eclipsing the candlelight that stirred on the dresser behind him.

“‘Affection.’ You can’t even spell that word.” He huffs with the heavy fall of his chest, plucking the hat from his head and dropping it on the nightstand. “Too burned up on whiskey to make any sense-”

“I know damn well how to spell affection.” It had taken you a moment longer to process his sly comment and it flicked another chuckle from his breath.

“Well, if you know that much you’ll know you sound like a bleating lamb, sweetheart.” His tone picked up the serious essence of his eyes which steeled cold of vulnerability, refusing to let you take such an advantage over his words and twisting his mind. He fishes a cigarette from his pocket, hoping the electric shock will clean him of his impervious turmoil. He pulls the smoke through his teeth and runs a hand through the ashy flecks of his brunette hair.

Frustration bubbled in your belly at his dismissive tone and humorless remarks. This bubbling liquid courage only twisting a deep seated affection in your stomach. “Well–if you don’t like it I won’t talk like that no more.” It doesn’t come off sincere, as if something in your heart yearned to keep plucking praise and affections from the air. He watches you through the smoke and you open your mouth to scold him on smoking indoors when he’s quick to cut you off first.

“Now, I didn’t say that.” He responds stoic to that, looking off to the side where his face cuts the flickering candle’s lights into panes. Something thickened in Arthur’s throat, not expecting the words to spill as if he had drunk talk. Your gaze sweeps down his face and you had expected his usual mean glare, the harsh intensity of his smoulder and the sharp fanged scowl of his teeth. But your eyes don’t find that. You look up at Arthur whose face rested on something serene. Eyebrows ever so tilted up in the slightest and hands coming to fiddle with his gun belt, cigarette still pouring smoke through the edge. “If you’re gonna be talking bout me, just don’t bullshit it.” His voice pulls back any chance and resemblance of composure, keeping his tone light on his last word.

“So I gotta pass it all by you, sir?” Your slurred honeyed speech pulls him from his brooding daze. He wasn’t sure if you were trying to compel him further or if you were trying to punish him for his stubborn nature and the stoic line of his lip. “What about pretty?”

That comment rewarded you with Arthur’s eyes going blank of thought, as if his usual code and instinctive wit had malfunctioned to the mere sound of your flattery. “Sure, if you want folk to think you’re crazy.” His hand falls over his face again, cascading down his stubble and he peaks through the ever so tight lined eyelids of his eyes. “Can’t just be goin’ round saying that.” He grumbles something incoherent under his breath and the whiskey aftertaste boils back in your throat.

“Do you think I’m crazy, Arthur?” The question crossed his mind amusingly and he curled an eyebrow to you, where you laid on the bed still basking in his eclipsing figure. Arthur relishes in the sinful act of letting his gaze fall over you, blanketing you in something that you didn’t quite understand or have a name for. Through the haze of your liquor courage, you squint into the deep pools of blue that permeate his eyes. The rough blue shades of his crystalline gaze was ever so delicate, a loose cigarette hanging from his lips when he lumbers to the bed. The mattress dips down below his weight as he sits on the edge of the bed. He keeps a tab on the gentle rise and fall of your chest and the dreamy smile paints a rosy, flowery image for him to pocket. He lets his hand fall to your head, thumb ever so gently pulling hair from your forehead and sweeping it behind your ear. If he’s lucky, you won’t remember this conversation at all in the morning. But if he’s even luckier, you’ll remember it well and not regret a single thing you’ve said. And the thought of you meaning every single thing you repeated that night–it might drive him across the United States mad. He bites the bullet of your question, resolving to weaken it.

“Nah. Reckon I’m the one that’s crazy.”

[thesweetestapplepie]

i have another yearning arthur x reader fic in mind..one for a more drunk intimate moment and one for the story line ‘night of debauchery’ but lately i’ve been dreading writing 😫 can’t decide i have so many ideas. i js love that man sm.

[thesweetestapplepie]

‘sunlight on the mountain’

wc: 960

tags: fluff and angst, mentions of sex and death

author note: after this i promise it’ll be nothing my sunshine’s and fluff i’ve js been so angsty lately.. also can technically be a PT2 to my last fic! ‘to remember by’ :)

Arthur Morgan has an unspoken, passionate fire for art. You’d say his passion is one of the many things you loved about your lover. Even in the rough prints of his fingers, the harsh sculpture of his palms melded to mash heads in with the bony structure of his fist, once dried of blood they spindled and crafted such delicate pieces of art. Though his ability with a pencil was as beautiful as a photograph, you’d argue that his way with words was neglected by praise and grandeur.

Quite shy with words before the two of you began to become a pair, when he had become yours he had wasted no time in spoiling you with praise.

A trace of fire in his fingertips, he pulls a strand of hair behind your ear and tucks it beneath the shell, his gaze melting into the skin of your body as he takes in the curve of your neck. Your flesh was still sticky with the afterglow of sex. “Damn..” He murmurs to himself, half assuming you won’t hear. But you do.

“What?” You pick your face up from where you peered down into a book, a fondness lining the teeth of your smile. A lazy, muscular arm laced in vein and webbed with scarring wrapped around your waist, thumb and finger toying with the heated texture between rough pads.

“Like a goddamn painting..” He shifts in the cot, large presence tilting the thin plush of the bed roll under the two of you, hand coming to drape hair over your shoulder and back down your spine. “Must’ve taken ages to spin you from the lord’s thread.” Arthur wasn’t a religious man. Didn’t know a damn thing about even holding a scripture, but lord did he believe in a god at the sight of you. Pure proof of divine creation.

“Darling, you’re the air that fills my lungs.” He says harshly, rugged inhales through his mouth, tongue wet with liquor. Alcohol thick in his blood, yet he sings his praises for you like a damn canary.

“Sweet angel, you know you’re not too smart for my misdeeds.” He’d say almost scolding.

“Gorgeous girl, what flower did you bloom from?” Rough and thick voice was cut with his cooing, affectionate ramble.

You’ve learned to laugh at his praises, the sickly sweet songs of his affection tightening your breath. Sometimes, you believed he was playing it up purely for a reaction. The way he’d pull away from kisses and passionate connection just to flush in your presence. In your light. He’d coo into your ear, a vulnerable sound from the burly, unshaken man. Letters written in deep black ink, tucked into the pockets of your aprons and sometimes sun hats.

“Leaving you so early in the dawn never sits right in my soul. I carry a piece of you everywhere, and you travel the devastating terrain beautifully in every sunrise and sunset. I look to you to guide me in the dark purge of night and it is your warmth I feel when the sweet music of morning comes.”

He means every word of praise he sings, even if you don’t believe it.

He knew he didn’t have to prove it to you directly. He knew it, because he felt that praise deep in his bones as he dragged himself to that mountain ledge.

His body had burned like fire growing off wood, splintering his body painfully as the bruises blossomed over his eye and face. No use in fussing, for it will be over soon.

Arthur’s mind panics anyways, frantic for cold air in his lungs or the weightless relief of sun on his back. He’s scared. Instead, he finds the last amount of strength to turn himself over, the sun beginning to cascade down his face.

There, in the illuminating, devastating glory of the sun, the overbearing rays blanket the thick forest and dense pale mountains in sick, unbridled tenderness. In Arthur’s reflective moments, the panic in his heart only flashes in a hot, painful realization of the rising dawn, that the sun was so mercifully warm. His back had relaxed, hearing the vibrant sound of your laughter that he gorged himself on, the first beginning chords of his favorite song. In the last bit of mercy he is graciously allowed to bathe in, he feels the blood on his hands peel from his fingernails when he catches the sun rising above the crown of trees. As he squints, struggling to pull in those last breaths, he feels the warmth of your lips kiss the trail between his brows, the sunlight sprinkling over his head. ‘What a fool I’ve become,’ the fading sensations almost elicit a humorless chuckle from his dry mouth. He knew it would take an army of men to pry you off of his body once you found him, the emotional thing you were. Sensitive. The image does nothing but make his eyes prickle in tears, yet it’s an image he holds guiltily close to him as his breath escapes his chest. To be loved so dearly is a painful blessing. He believed he had truly lost it all and yet won everything. Aching. Then, nothing but peace.

You and Charles had recovered the disintegrated body, only remains of a soldier lost in the ashes of war. Despite the lack of color on his skin and the marbling of his barely intact flesh, the sight only ripping sobs from your chest, he turned to face where the rising sun would’ve come to greet him. You couldn’t help but believe Arthur’s words about the sunrises and dusk beckoning dawn, for you know in the last moments of his blazing glory, he has immortalized an image of you. And he wasn’t too scared when he welcomed the light in.

[thesweetestapplepie]

‘to remember by’

mc: 2.2k

tags: angst and fluff, mentions of weight loss and brief mentions of sex

Arthur Morgan couldn’t sleep. On the long list of reasons Arthur Morgan can’t sleep, it isn’t a single one. Even on account of him not sleeping most nights to begin with, the many reasons Arthur had to be restless despite being so sore all the damn time is extensive to say the least. There was the stress of the coming week’s volatile air, the worry Dutch and his ramblings are causing, the Marstons and their ever so narrowing predicament; he felt a solitary bead of sweat slink down the side of his face. Hands clammy, pinched a graphite pencil which sat rigid over the smooth clean paper. Then, as if guilty of debauchery, he steals a glance from you as you sleep peacefully in his cot. Just as you had looked 7 minutes ago when he last stared at you—ever so beautiful and peaceful when you’re granted the grace of rest. Even the under circles of your eyes, flushed in red, swollen from tears, Arthur held every little piece of you close to his chest and even deeper in his heart. Though, he supposes those tears are only for him to blame, for you had not stopped crying ever since hearing of his diagnosis.

Arthur supposes that is the other reason for his restless nights. He was a sick man. Dying. Living a regretful, deceitful life has a tendency to catch up to someone no matter how many train cars they hop and how many strangers they aid. Nonetheless, even then that wasn’t the reason Arthur Morgan couldn’t lay his head down to rest.

No, it was you. It’s always you. Even as the very foundations of his reality and world twist to spin poison in his ears. And yet, he does it all for you. He'd run the entire New Hanover with bodies on top of bodies on the back of his horse just to pay tribute to the sounds of your infectious laughter. He had thought of ripping the skin from his bones when the Colter snow left you pale and sickly. He lived to split men in half, to burn down families and foundations to ash all to earn the security of your smiles when he sleeps so soft against your skin. Soft turquoise eyes stick to your red nose and heavy heaving chest and he feels the familiar guilt hang in his ribs. Two weeks ago the two of you had argued long about the issues of you sleeping in his cot when he was so contagious. Even as he had argued his way into a fair point proven, he could not scold you further seeing you cry so much.

You didn’t deserve to live like this. It frustrated him and plagued his brain to no end. To be picked up down on your luck by a group of degenerate criminals, taken from your soft, warm bed to sleep on a rickety, springy cot. To live such a dishonest life as such a happy, compassionate woman. A woman made of honeycomb and goodness, meant to live a comfortable, gentle life. All just to be tethered to a family that had slowly lost their ties moons ago, a family with only a last name to share. And now, here you were, sleeping in the hot and humid terrain of a swamp with nothing but a dying, penniless man to show for it. A man who could never be a doctor or a farmer. A man who could never give you the life that you would read about in your books and marvel at in the movies. A man who dragged you into this mess and is now going to die leaving you in it. If he could at least write you this goddamn letter could his mind stop running with these senseless noises.

Arthur loved you to death and he knew that with every good beat in his body. Even as he absentmindedly watches you stir in your sleep on the cusp of a dream, he hopes you’re somewhere warm and sunny. His hand instinctively ghosts over your cheek, lingering to capture the warmth of your skin as you softly shudder in your sleep. The image tightens the corners of his lips. Still, Arthur found himself at a complete loss of words or a sliver of idea on what to write for you. He thought it would be nice, though thinking does nothing for him anymore. Arthur chews on the memory for just a moment, the way something in your eyes had shattered when he pushed you away to cough blood into a handkerchief. The horror followed by the tears when he tried to explain, to soothe the blow that must’ve splintered through your body. You were too wise to know Arthur could see the pure denial and despair in your barely composed hands and speech, offering to take care of him and love him even as the cough takes over his lungs. There was an ironic, cruel amusement lulling in Arthur's mind when you’d cry far more than he had.

.

How you tried to not be emotional at every thought of your lover’s condition, the way his body withered no matter how many hot meals you spooned to him. The eruptive coughing fits coated with crimson blood and shuddering breath. The loose fit of his work shirts became too much to process. You’d sit with him, somewhere where the sun hit and the streams ran, trailing fingers over his chapped lips and sunburnt skin. There was always that bitter pang in him whenever he saw your eyes begin to gloss up. You’d try so hard to smile as you kissed the corners of his mouth, trying so hard to make him better again. You held him as if you had a greater trade to sacrifice, your laughter for the air in his lungs, your body for the relief of his fatigued lumbering frame. The very ugly, bad in him was ever so comforted by the prospects of your tears. Yet, he knew that the sight of your sorrow had only withered him further, another grey hair sprung from his head.

“My sweet girl, wastin’ tears over me..” He’d say through faded breath, a heavy hand coming to urge you closer to him.

“Oh–I try so hard not to, Arthur..” Your voice drops sincerely as your volition is only so strong to stifle your cries. Small tears pearl down your cheek and he’s quick to run a calloused finger under it. So gentle, you’d akin him to something of a deer.

“Not even dead yet, darling—you’re gonna be all out of 'em the time that comes..” He tries to keep his voice light, the affectionate jest in his tease brings you closer. He knew you’d only scowl at his darkly playful attempts to make you smile, and it's the bad man in him that loves the way your face scrunches at his remarks.

“I'm so scared, Arthur.” The thick pain in your tone had spoiled his composure, and he fumbles. “Can’t imagine how you could begin to joke about this–” Your voice clips into a soft pitched cry, trying to look away from him when he gently takes your wrists. Your hands instinctively flex around something larger on account of his declining weight and health and it does nothing to heal your heart. “How can it not scare you–you—oh–it's all too soon” You trailed off, face coming to bury into the lining of his shirt, shuddering like an animal licking a wound.

“I’m terrified, baby. Hell, I’m a mean bastard for talking like that..” You’d lower your head to his chest, succumbing to the warmth of his solace and the creaking, slow beat of his heart.

“I’m sorry.. You know I just don’t know when to quit..” He’d speak with remorse heavy in his voice. Because the truth was, Arthur was extremely terrified. Scared even as he kissed away the tears that ran down your cheek. Even if it were bitterly ironic of him to comfort you, the emotions you bore had satiated his yearn for consolation.

.

He teeters in his chair as a cough rakes over his body, like a bullet splintering in his ribs. Coughing into his left hand, his right hand reached out to instinctively run over your head softly, as if in a vain attempt to protect you from his illness. You still laid in your deep slumber, exhaustion embedded into the crevices of your wrinkled face. It’s starting to hurt thinking about you, thinking about how much he cared for you. It hurts to realize how much he’ll lose when death does eventually come to take his head.

Hurt floods his veins when he runs his thumb over your lips, selfishness in his eyes. So long was Colter when your cherry pink lips were frozen blue from the angry ice storm. How he’d sit with you in the back of the wagon for hours at a time, your warmth bleeding into his side when he kept you tucked under the overbearing wing of his arm. He couldn’t move at the sight of your shivering slowly melting into a satisfied hum, and how he couldn’t stop smiling when you had reflexively pulled him closer. His mind fantasizes of that first so intimate encounter with a reflective fondness. How time had only crystallized your beauty and metamorphosed you into one brilliant, gorgeous thief. The hurt only blossoms into his affections for you, so delicate and yet ever so painful in his chest.

He knew to treasure the rich jewels of your laughter when he’d kick the dirt off of paths. His horse would dash to the sounds of your colorful voice, the way you’d sing praises on the back of him with hands locked around his waist. You’d giggle oh so innocently in his ear and how he had hoped you wouldn’t notice his ever so slipping glances. It was as if by some miracle his brain told him to remember such simple times, the water dribbling down your jaw tastefully as you had replenished the energy of your spirit. It only made him thirst. There he had immortalized the lightness of your laughter and the sick thrills of your adventure, your constant search for sensation and emotion.

How the closest he had felt to heaven was at the mercy of your flesh and body. When you had allowed his tongue to externalize his deep seated crave for your closeness. Every open mouthed kiss breathed word of his devotion. He finds the sensational slope of your hips and he relinquishes his addictive need for your essence in deep thrusts that make your body burn. The ever so pitchy cries of your swollen lips as he had taken you over and over, holding you through it with the sincerest need to have you tethered by skin. His heart burned like hot coal when he had looked down at you ever so lovingly, a swelling in his chest that he feels every time he dines to the sound of your pleasure.

You had filled his life with so many sensations, so much thrill and light that he had been so blind to for the better of thirty years. And he had felt selfish for still wanting to keep it so close to him even now. Even when he knows he doesn’t deserve it. He cannot help but give into the urge to kiss the top of your head, such a gift and such a mistake to have you walk into his life. Such a gift is your voice that seems to always play his favorite love song when you’d kiss him so sweet. Such a gift are your ever so warm hands that always know how to make his ears burn when you’d lather his worn body in foam and soap with a scolding tongue. A gift are your eyes which sing a color that lulls him to sleep each night. How he will willingly cut himself on the merge edge of your wit, that mind of yours always perplexing him with the darndest of things. He’ll miss the ever presence of your life around him. The way more of your items began to make an appearance in his tent. The way he’d find your hair around his cot. He’ll yearn the way you barrel rush to his arms at the first sight of his horse, tripping over yourself to have him catch you in his sturdy safe grasp. How he’ll miss laying next to you, covered in dewy lime grass with an oceanic blue sky hanging over your heads. Nothing but dreams in the clouds and hopes for better lives. How Arthur Morgan treasures every bleeding strand of his life with you.

And he’ll continue to share that life with you, even to the very end. And he doesn’t dare want to waste a second of it when he has such little of it left. He closes his journal—maybe he’ll think of something tomorrow night. With a weak hand he turns the dial of his lantern, the flickering yellow light smoking into nothing but ash and ache. So he lays next to you for another night in hopes that more will be just like this, even if he won’t be allowed the peace for too long.

When he turns back to look at you, he lets the image of you ever so peaceful soak into his mind one more time, with your hair free of ties and bandanas. Your body unrestricted by cloth and corset, natural and unfolding for his gaze. Your fountain of bliss and youth floors him in every regard and the sweet vibrance of your person and livelihood replenishes him of the air that was stolen from him in sickness and health. Oh, he was going to miss you oh so much.

His eyes rest on your face for another moment. And yet, he pockets the soft peaceful lines of your face again to treasure for his last dying breath.

[thesweetestapplepie]

‘a quiet night’

wc: 1.7k

tags: fluff, mutual pining? arthur morgan wanting to be more than a fwb wink wink

author note: i didn’t like this much as I thought I did but maybe i’m my own harshest critic. :) also ik the indents are super inconsistent i was on my phone.

“What’chu doing up so late?” The snapping and crackling of the fire burned embers into your vision. Spotty as you blinked. That voice would’ve been drowned out by the thrum of the flames if it wasn’t for that heavy southern accent and the soft chime of spurs brushing against the ground. As you turn, you’re met with the looming silhouette of a familiar man, your gaze trails from his knees up the path to his eyes. Seems he had just gotten back from an outing. There is a husky laugh in his question, a heavy tension in his shoulders as he looks down at you. Soft music whirs from Dutch and Molly’s tent, they had forgotten to turn off the player.

“I like to appreciate good music before someone wakes up and starts their tyrades about laundry, again.” Both your minds immediately go to Grimshaw, earning a groan from the brunette haired man as he took his black worn hat from his head. The soft tufts of hair from his brown head were painted in flecks of ash and grime. Arthur Morgan releases a pitiful chuckle to your complaint, his moonlight golden spurs ringing that satisfying and familiar sound to your ears.

The quiet melody of classical music sweeps the camp in a tranquil star blanketed night. You find your body slightly swaying to the gentle keys of a piano like a glass wind chime swaying with the wind. Arthur’s eyes rest on the back of your neck, such a domestic image in his head bringing an alien feeling to his chest before he finally speaks again.

“If I knew you wanted to listen to this more often, I would’ve brought you back something..”

“You can make it up for me with a dance.” The affectionate and at the same time teasing request sent a slight tug to his throat. He wasn’t sure if it was nerves or the deeply embedded fondness he has for you that manages to get under his skin and bones. A simple request, but it creased his face into a smile.

“Ain’t someone with laundry to fold oughta have some sleep to catch?” Despite the soothing drawl of his teasing, he holds out his hand, drowning the tension in his muscles and fatigue in his back with the soft flow of your skin against his. Tenderness melding together perfectly despite the minimal contact at first. It makes your cheeks heat up like the flat smooth side of a stone basking in the sun. He hopes the peak of his tattered hat shadows the heat crawling up his face when you let out a slight laugh, light and airy.

“When’s the next time Dutch gonna leave the old thing on overnight?” You knew he didn’t need the convincing, his left hand already taking your right palm, large and almost overwhelming in warmth. Right hand gently caressing the small of your back as he brings you closer. You don’t observe his blue gaze catching your lips at first. Running along the soft lines of your plush flesh with his eyes, you turn to him, and he looks away just in time to regain any lost composure.

“Ahh-Maybe he’ll let it if you ask him. Old fool’s got a soft spot for women.” You can’t help but think he meant, ‘beautiful,’ women, with the way he fixated his gaze down at you. His attention seemed drunken on the soft state of you. Everyone in camp, whether it was the drunken and rambling Uncle or the observant but private Charles, every outlaw in camp could tell Arthur Morgan had the tiniest soft spot for you. Well, quite the expansive one. It had only grown in size as the two of you got closer. This closeness had only externalized when the two of you began to go to each other for intimacy. Warmth in body. One that he would never admit to anyone but to the crisp, cream white pages of his journal paper and graphite chipped pencil.

Your chest merely grazes his, and the only chivalrous thing he could do was avert his boyish glance. Though, he did pay mind to the way the orange and crimson flames flickered and melded with the color of your white chemise, the material highlighting the slope of your back and the way the fabric hung off of your breasts without support. He admired the natural state of your body in a way that still honored your dignity. Mind filled with slight admiring glances, he swallows down the intrusive thought as the two of you begin to sway in a slight, intimate rhythm.

“I’m shocked he ain’t send it to the fence for a few quick bucks in the name of Tahiti or god knows what.” He said almost exhaustively. Shaking his head, you catch a glimpse of his blood stained clothes, now dried and some almost faded into soft dark brown stains in the blue stitched fabric. Your left hand instinctively finds the span of his chest, the lining of his shirt under your fingernails. His warm body is grounding, steady. He only dips you to the music ever so gingerly as to not get any grime on your perfect white gown.

“So that’s what this is all for.. Wanna know what I think?” Your eyes find the steel blue gaze of his once more.

“You don’t think much, sweetheart.” You ignore his playful jest, not that he cared as he smiled to himself a mischievous grin.

“I think Jack better start singing for pennies if Dutch thinks we’re gonna make enough money to get away to coconut dreams.” Your instigative, sarcastic comment only warrants a gruff, rumbled laugh from his chest. Dim light cuts his face into sharp planes of greases and wrinkles, yet you couldn’t help but admire how perfect he was. He always appreciated your humor.

“Well y’know how it goes.. Donate some to the camp, gotta do supply runs, the constant moving.. It’s just part of the process. Slow.” Arthur wasn’t sure he believed his own hope, you yourself could hear it in the hesitant choke of his last word.

“Is that why you’ve been running off all week this week?” You asked, tilting your head ever so slightly, his gaze wandering up your jawline and back to your eyes as he shudders. He can’t tell if its from chilling cold nipping at his skin, or the way your warm hands flattened and pressed through the material of his clothing.

“You ask that as if I’m never running off.. Like you barely know me.” That comment sends a feigned, offended swat to his chest and he smiles at your reaction.

“Oh, shut it.”

“I would appreciate hospitality for being the one putting some food in your belly!” He had to moderate the volume of his voice, not wanting to wake the other members of the camp deep in their slumbers, only shielded with canvas and tent flaps. Yet, his voice was thick with what you were very aware was deep seated affection.

“And what about greeting you with a slow dance? That not hospitable enough for your liking?” He knew you were simply teasing, trying to elicit a reaction from him. Yet, his eyes seem to shudder in something painful. No. Needy. Yearning. The way you challenge him both charms him in every fold and sets him knocked out and fallen apart. He doesn’t rip his gaze from you this time, you willingly swim in that deep lake blue hue.

“You are a pain in my ass, woman.” An arm pulls you closer, swaying you gently to the music.

“Well—I don’t mean to be such a nuisance to your splitting head, Mr. Morgan.” You flash an incredulous grin.

He drinks in the planes of your face, the way the vibrant colors of the roaring light danced across the perfect skin. Skin you would claim was imperfect, full of creases, a slight wrinkle bridging the corners of your mouth to your nose. Moles patterned you in places you’d rather not. Yet, the dilation of his pupils pulled you into the abyss of his gaze.

“You aint. I think you’re just perfect..” The words leave his mouth before he could register them. Red heat rushed from your chest and up your face out of the blue. Yet, he doesn’t avert his boyish, bashful gaze, even as he bites the inside of his cheek. He lets the words flow, face swept in thinly veiled admiration when his right hand breaks from yours, brushing against the skin of your cheek and softly pulling a strand of hair behind your burning ears. You looked at him perplexed. “I-in good company, I mean. Perfect company.” He corrects himself. The thin lines of his stern mouth threatened to break into a smile that would reveal his heart. You could tell that this moment was intimate in ways you couldn’t describe, intimate as his hand snakes down the side of your face and hooks under your chin, pulling you close to his face as he kisses your chin with a feverish stutter in his lips.

Whenever you and Arthur had sex, whether it be through moments of weakness or in passionate nights far from camp, together, he has always kissed you with animalistic instinct. With a need to consume the warmth of your body, to feel every slope of your skin and every stretch of your limbs when he folds you down. Yet, his innocent kiss only leaves you burning in desire and conflict.

“I’m a bit too tired to do anything but dance tonight, Arthur.” You mused, head tilting back as he pressed his warm kisses along the pulse of your neck before swooping back to the under of your earlobe. He audibly groans at your comment.

“This ain’t about that. Just—” He stammers for a second and it makes the apples of your cheeks burn. “Will you just let a poor, wounded man have this?” You couldn’t deny the buzzing of butterflies and heat in your belly as his voice came out in a gentle riverbed demand. So, you let him shower you in affection. Affection that some may find more than platonic between the two of you. He whispers soft, affectionate words into your skin, words that can only come out of the mouth of a sleep-deprived, touch hungry outlaw. His left hand still warms against your back as he pulls you in and you realize you’re deeper than you thought you were.

author note pt 2- thank you sm for the support on my last fanfic :,)) the kind compliments and words have been amazing to read and so encouraging to keep writing arthur stories for yall

[thesweetestapplepie]

‘his favorite’

WC: 3.5k i think.

tags: fluff! pure fluff! semi reverse comfort?

These days, Arthur Morgan would be lucky to get a break to hunt. It isn’t usually like this, but the recent events, transitioning from Clemen’s Point to Shady’s Belle, Arthur was run dry of any energy to even clean the sweat off his own brow. Day’s began to fade together, the beating hooves against the ground bleeding into his mind as he rode countless miles, all to rob, steal, cheat people of their hard earnings and savings. Honest people or low life criminals only just as fickle as him, they all became nothing but dirt below leather boots if they stood between Arthur and his obligations. He wouldn’t even mind the burning of the sun against his neck, or the way his lower back ached like rotting wood everytime he got off his horse, if it wasn’t for the entire damn gang squawking down his throat for help. For missions. For goods. For money. Strauss was the worst offender, barely moved in and he’s already got new poor and fickle folk to pick on. Alas, even as their squandering and squabbling left him bled of thrill and sensation, today, he rode with an urgent, feverish pace around the outskirts of Valentine, his white Arabian making a haste gallop towards the cabins that speckled the north end of the town. Despite the venom spat in his ears by Strauss and Dutch for money and some worthless gold, his mind was only adamant on thinking about you.

His horse rode at a steady pace as he peaked the dirt path that led him straight to the familiar sight of the dark oak cabin. His hands patted his thigh for a second, as if making sure he was still in tact, before dismounting the saddle and walking up the creaking wooden panels to your front door, decorated with potted flowers and a new matt that wasn’t there before. The sky was swallowed in darkness for night to come and take its shift, the moon the only constant beacon in the sky beside the speckles of white scattered across the blindingly gorgeous canvas. This beautiful night left a tiny sense of dread in Arthur at the prospect of you not being awake, so he knocks his fist a gentle pound. He took his hat off just as quickly at the sound of the doorknob rattling.

“Arthur–” You were slightly taken aback by the intrusion so deep into the night, the soft creases under your eyes suggesting you were asleep moments ago. If Arthur had to describe the feeling he gets whenever he sees you, he would describe it as love at first sight every time he sees that glimmer in your eyes. His expression softens, the tense furrow between his brow dropping at the sight. You were in your nightgown, the material soft and delicate with your hair pulled back and slick as if you had just taken a bath. The smell of soap and delicate petals off of lavender suggests it as well, and Arthur couldn’t help but take a larger inhale of the scent, though a bit like a guilty dog.

“Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.” His voice was gruff on the brink of his exhaustion, feet acting on their own as he took a step forward. He placed his hat back atop his head as his feet carried him forward. Without hesitation, throw your arms around his neck, tugging down the absolute hulking stone wall of a man and pressing your lips against the tender wrinkled flesh of his neck.

“Arthur.” Your voice drops sinfully and it's enough to make his knees buckle, like an angel with the tongue as silver as the edge of a blade. If Arthur had to choose a single word to describe how he felt about you, it would be ‘desire.’ ‘Need.’ An instilled need hardwired into instinct, flesh and blood that led his horse to your cabin everytime the world stopped long enough for him to escape. His large arms wrap around your back, right hand on the back of your head as he cradles you softly against his neck, the ache in his back dissipated.

“Look at you, handsome as the day you left.” As if you knew he needed the praise, you feel him release some of his weight onto your figure. The beautiful woman you are, you hold him upright and he feels a pang of guilt in his chest for your pure goodness that seemed to exude from your being everywhere you went.

“You ain’t gotta flatter me jus’ cause I’m paying a visit.” He lets you help him to the table, pulling one of your chairs along the scratching wood floors as he sits down. “Long overdue one at that.” He grumbles almost guiltily. As you stride towards him, he feels the haze of fatigue linger before dropping entirely. He smelled like the outdoors, like the wet stone of a pond or the bark off of a tree. You reach up to brush a hand against his face and it sends a pang of affection blossoming in his chest.

“Can’t I admire you after you've been gone for so long?” You pluck his black, tattered hat from his head, hand ruffling his matted and coarse locks. Your eyes trace the scar above his eyebrow, the deepened eye bags under his sockets and the new scarring on his knuckles. “Good lord, what on earth have you been doing?”

“I missed you, sweet girl.” His voice drops and his eyes flicker to meet yours. Soft turquoise gaze soaking in your presence, like a dog basking in the sweet bliss of the morning sun. He didn’t deserve the way you looked after him, his hand coming to press your palm flat against his cheek, contradicting his own inner conflict. This walking folk tale, the brutal enforcer of the west was now exhausted, vulnerable to the soft palms of your hands and the mercy of your affection.

“I missed you, too, Arthur.” You announced his name deliberately. His left hand wrapped around your thigh, fingers calloused and rough as he brings you closer. “But— don’t deflect, cowboy, what have you been doing out n’ about?” He turns his face to kiss your palms, his stubble scratching against the soft planes. His lips trail to your wrist, and he’s either trying to apologize for being away for so long, or he really missed you this badly. “You look tired.”

“Oh, so tired, baby. ‘M sorry if I ain’t my usual self.” He spoke in between kisses, lips brushing against the curve of your wrist once more before placing your hand back against his cheek. “We moved camps again, damn bounty hunters sniffing us out like bloodthirsty wolves..” There was an edge of paranoia to his words and bitter irony as he let out a sharp exhale from his nose. “They.. They got Sean.. Foolish kid.. Damn bastards…” His words began to trail with an edge of affliction to them. An edge of pain that only flickered in the icy cool pools of his eyes momentarily.

“Oh Arthur—.” You never met Sean more than once, he had popped into the Valentine saloon every now and then when you worked. But it didn’t dull the tightening in your chest. “He ain’t suffer, I hope. Just a kid..” Your voice drops apologetically and he chases your touch, leaning into your palm.

“No use in worrying about it now, what happened happened. Buried the poor bastard somewhere nice as a parting gift.” Despite the rough rumble in his voice, his eyes mellowed in thinly veiled grief. He knew he was transparent to your doubt, your thumb brushing over the wrinkled planes under his eyes, a small smile on your lips as you looked down at him. So beautiful. Kind. Like if an angel had the misinformed request of walking as a human for their life, and came to bless him despite the many atrocities and sins he had committed. Yet, basking in your altar he was nothing but a saint. “Found you something.” He breaks his gaze for just a moment, fishing something from his satchel.

Pulled from the leather folds of his bag, a pretty decently sized leatherback novel, red cover with orange stitching running along its sides.

“No–” Your voice drops dramatically and hyperbolically in disbelief.

“Yup–found it while cleaning out them empty homesteads by Rhodes.” His voice held an air of pride to it. It only immortalizes in his heart as he watches you brush your fingers over the neat, delicate cover. Perfect condition. “Something for you to practice that reading of yours.” He beckons your eyes back to him, finger hooking under your chin as he brings your sights closed in on his. There was a soft husk hum to his words, like they melted into one another as he took the time to digest your features, thumb brushing against your bottom lip.

“Mhmm.. How was that? Exploring, that is..” You began to slip into his lap, the subtle shift of your hips letting him know to make room. And he does, without hesitation, spreads his lap. He was tall enough, legs thick enough to support your weight on one thigh as he held you, straddling his leg with your hands tucked around the nape of his neck, lulling his tense shoulders back down. It was normal for this to happen, especially during times the gang kicked up too much dirt. Arthur, with little time to even journal his thoughts, comes back to your cabin with the hopes of making up for lost time. In desperate need to prove himself good, and to prove his love, to feel loved, he slips back to your cabin just when the time is right. Only, they never go as planned. Instead of Arthur coming back to take care of you, you find Arthur coming to you in comfort. His lips brush against your neck gently, but it was affectionate in nature as his butterfly kisses trail your jaw.

“Y’know I ain’t got much to complain about nature.. The constant lent requests I get put on the damn problem.” There was a gruff snarl at the thought, your hand instinctively scratching the back of his neck. “Found ya’ that in this cabin up near Rhodes. A damn bloodbath down there, husband and wife strewn across the house like a goddamn bomb went off.” You couldn’t help but chuckle at the way he described everything, despite the graphic detail his voice was husky, hot breath still fanning your neck as he wrapped his right hand around your hips, holding you in place.

“Oh no–a pack of outlaws robbed them poor bastards before you.” He let out a soft laugh at your comment, his thumbs coming to rub circles into the padding of your hips in feigned annoyance.

“Well okay–not exactly–” He chuckles in between his words and the sound causes your chest to flutter at the prospect of lifting his spirits. “Went round the back and found a woman dead behind the house. Seems she couldn’t handle the man being loyal to his wife after shacking her up. Took herself out after them both.”

“Well ain’t that just silly, what the hell the wife do to her?”

“Reckon nothing but love, darling. Bastards can be real ugly and cruel.”

“I reckon if she would’ve just waited a few more years, she would’ve had a new feller on her arm and forget that slippery eel! All a girls needing was some time and a new warm bed. Sad.” If there was one thing Arthur loved about you, it was the way you spoke. The way you invested yourself so deep into every intricate string of his life, the way you kept him light and airy.

“Is that how women work, now?” His southern drawl dropped playfully at his last syllable as a deep chuckle escapes his breath. “Reckon that’s what you’ll do, once I’m too old and beat.” Despite the playful fervor of his lips, still sending affectionate tickles up your neck, the self deprecation of his words were often stated in thinly veiled truth. He would never admit it, but a part of him says it not only because he believes it, but because he wants you to prove him wrong.

And you do. His eyes catch a glimpse of the silver on your wrist, bracelets he snagged for you months ago, your hands cradle his face once again. Soft padded thumbs brush against his slightly prickled stubble, only this time you pull him from your neck and his breath hitches ever so slightly. In intricate and tender nature, you steal kisses from both of his eyelids, they both close shut on instinct at the hazy touch of your butterfly lips.

“I reckon I’ll drag you out of your bed every morning when you’re old and beat.” The gentle thrum of your fingers against his face and the affectionate beckoning of your voice was enough for his chest to ache with adoration. “You must be a damn fool if you think I’ll let you get away from me just because you get a few new scars and wrinkles.”

“Oh, a hopeless fool, sweetheart.” His voice dropped pitifully at the last syllable. The exhaustion in him has no time for witty banter, no incentive to be crass or teasing. He simply longed for you. In his words, in his actions. His hands, calloused and rough, caress gentle circles into the soft flesh, head coming back down to kiss at your collarbone. “You reckon you’ll still kiss me like this in those mornings, too?” Arthur asked, almost hopeful as if your answer could be anything other than yes.

“I’d kiss you when we're old and breathless, Arthur.” That painful blue gaze returned back to you, this time big, his eyebrows furrowed up with desperation of your affection. “No matter how many moons pass, I was born for loving you.”

Arthur Morgan would never let himself cry on most occasions. He barely liked it when you would see him cry. But on tender nights like these, he lets his head fall back to your shoulder, the words you say lapping back at his mind. And you feel him let out a shaky exhale, his grip on your hips and waist tighten.

“Don’t think I’ve ever met a woman as good as you.” And he declares it with a slight shaky breath. Because this exhausted, emotionally bottled and short tempered outlaw found you to be such a good woman. The best. His favorite girl in the world.