Inopportune
Arthur Morgan x F!Reader MDNI (18+), Smut
So anon that broke their silence on @honeycoyotes' blog saying that Arthur comes fast and gets flustered?
Yeah. I couldn't let that one go. Thanks for invading my waking thoughts all night wooosh 💦
Merry Christmas Eve y'all, twola is horny.
The wind howls like a hungry wolf through the trees, dragging cold beneath the seams of the canvas tent. You’re bundled in your coat, arms tucked tight to your chest, and still it creeps in — that mountain chill that gets into your bones, turns your skin to ice.
Arthur’s beside you in the small tent, broad as a goddamn draft horse, shedding his gloves with stiff fingers. His breath clouds the air. “Ain’t much room,” he mutters, not looking at you as he starts laying out the bedrolls.
You’ve ridden hard all day, up out of the valley and into the high timber. The horses are staked and fed, the fire’s out, and now it’s just the two of you in this thin-walled shelter, hearts beating steady in the silence.
Your knees touch when you both lie down, facing opposite ways at first — like it’ll help anything. But your bodies give you away. The heat between you starts to rise, quiet and curling like smoke from a banked fire.
“Damn cold,” you say, your voice little more than a whisper.
Arthur swallows. “We… could share for warmth. If you’re alright with it.”
You nod. You shouldn’t. But you do.
He shifts, turning toward you. You roll to face him. You’ve never been this close — not like this — and his eyes flicker down to your mouth. His fingers twitch at his side. He smells like smoke and saddle leather, like pine needles and sweat. You press a little closer and feel the tremble in him when you do.
“Don’t think I can sleep, it’s too cold,” you murmur.
His hand finds your hip. Slow. Careful. Like he’s waiting for you to tell him no.
You don’t.
You lean in, and that’s all it takes. His mouth meets yours with a groan that sounds like it was dragged from the deepest part of him, like it’s been waiting weeks to get out.
The kiss is rough. Hungry. His hands are clumsy, big palms working up your ribs as though he's still afraid you’ll vanish. You moan into his mouth, and he swallows it whole, his hips pressing forward against yours in a fast, involuntary jerk.
He’s already hard. Straining against the rough weave of his trousers. And when you arch into him, threading your fingers into his hair, Arthur gasps like a man who’s been dunked in cold water.
“Shit,” he breathes. “You sure about this? ‘Cause I- fuck, I want to, but…”
You kiss him again to shut him up. You tug him close until he groans and his forehead presses to yours. “I’m sure,” you whisper.
Your clothes shift in stuttering, fumbled pieces. He’s got callused hands, and they snag on your underthings as he yanks your cotton bloomers down. He mutters an apology when he nearly rips your chemise as he’s hiking your skirts up and over your hips. He works his trousers down just enough to pull himself out, desperate for you, and nearly stumbles as he climbs over you.
You press your thighs open for him, and he lets out the most desperate sound — almost a whimper — as he lines himself up and notches against your heat. You’re slick already, aching. Wanting.
“Christ, you feel…” He doesn’t finish. Just presses in.
It’s thick. He’s thick. But not slow enough. You gasp as he pushes in with a shaky grunt, barely giving you time to adjust before he starts moving — a stutter of hips that grows frantic fast.
“Oh—god,” he mutters, burying his face against your neck. “I—fuck—I’m sorry—I can’t—”
He slams in deep once, twice more, and then he’s groaning low and wrecked, arms trembling as he shudders through it. His whole body tenses as he spills inside you, breath hitching. It’s a lot. Hot and thick and fast. Too fast.
Arthur freezes. He stays inside, still breathing hard. Then slowly pulls out, his face a bright red mess of shame.
“I—I didn’t mean to—damn it, I ain’t—shit, that was… awful.”
You’re still blinking, half-dazed and unsatisfied, legs wet and still parted. He’s looking anywhere but at you now, jaw clenched, like he wants to crawl into the dirt and die.
“I ain’t done this in a long time,” he mumbles, grabbing the blanket like it might shield him from humiliation. “I swear I’m not—usually—I mean I’m—”
“Arthur,” you say gently.
He finally meets your gaze. His eyes are wide, scared, like a spooked colt.
You take his hand. Guide it downward. “Get back over here.”
His breath catches. “Y—you want me to…”
You nod. Slide his big, rough fingers through the slick between your legs, show him where and how. Your other hand finds his wrist and keeps it there. Your hips lift to meet him.
He swallows hard and starts to move them — unsure at first, but watching you closely. Watching how your breath hitches. How your mouth parts. How your eyes flutter.
“Little slower,” you whisper. “Just… like that. Yes. There.”
He moans under his breath like it’s him feeling it. He’s still flushed, still hardening again from watching you fall apart in front of him. You clutch at his forearm as your pleasure builds, stomach clenching, thighs trembling.
“Faster,” you gasp. “Right there—don’t stop—don’t—”
Your orgasm rushes through you like wildfire through dry brush, sudden and searing. You clamp your hand over your mouth to keep from crying out too loud, and Arthur’s eyes go wide with awe.
“Jesus,” he murmurs, reverent, still moving his fingers as your body twitches and bucks.
You shudder through the last waves of it and collapse back against the bedroll, panting, twitching, whimpering as the aftershocks roll through you, and he slows his hand, easing you down. He slips his fingers free, wet and trembling, and stares at them like he’s still not quite sure what he’s done.
“You alright?” he asks softly.
You nod, breath hitching as you reach for him, pulling him close until his body blankets yours, warm and solid.
“You were perfect,” you whisper into his throat. He freezes awkwardly in response.
His arm curls under your shoulders after a moment. He’s half-hard against your thigh, but he doesn’t move to do anything about it. Not yet. He just holds you—quiet, reverent.
“Let me try again,” he says after a moment, rough and low. “Next time. I’ll last for you.”
You hum against his shoulder. “Deal.”
