pairing: arthur morgan x fem!reader
tags: established relationship, light fluff, mutual pining, NSFW, smut, unprotected piv, oral sex, fem!receiving, one shot
synopsis: arthur rides back into camp long after valentine's day has faded into night, weighed down by dutch's latest scheme and the guilt of leaving you waiting. but once the firelight catches the quiet longing in your eyes, he pulls you away to make up for every lost moment—with roses scavenged from a forgotten meadow, his revolver set aside, and slow, hungry touches that finally let him claim the holiday he owes you.
author's note: this was so fun to write, even though it literally me took a week… life has been so busy. anyways, this is the first nsfw/smut kinda thing i've posted on here, so i hope it's good and hope you all enjoy <3 on a side note, i have another valentine's themed one shot coming out soon (hopefully) that's strictly fluff for the ones who aren't big on smut :)
The moon hung low and heavy in the sky, spilling pale light across the land as if it were a swollen silver coin. It washed the tall grasses in a ghostly hue of blue-silver, every blade shimmering, while the campfires flickered like weary sentinels, their dying glows swallowed by the vast night.
In the distance, a shallow river bent in a dark curve, reflecting slivers of moonlight. Thick pines edged the camp’s flank, their needles whispering against the cool February breeze.
The air carried pine sap, woodsmoke, and the faint metallic bite of cooling iron. The smells clung to everything, even the stars overhead, sharp and countless, as if the sky had cracked open just enough to let the light pour through.
The camp had gone quiet hours ago, the kind of hush that settles over outlaws when the day’s scheming finally catches up with them. The only light left came from the low, ember-gutted fires that popped and sighed like old men dreaming. The only sounds were of distant crickets and the occasional restless stamp from a horse.
Javier’s guitar lay silent against a log, strings still warm from the last mournful chords he’d coaxed out before the night claimed him, too. No more strumming corridos under the stars tonight. Just the faint echo of them hanging in the pine-scented air.
Pearson, sprawled near the chuckwagon like a felled bear, snored loud enough to rattle the wagon boards. Deep, rattling gusts that rose and fell in a ragged rhythm, the sound carrying clear across the countryside.
The rest of the Van der Linde gang had scattered like weary strays after another long stretch of Dutch’s grand promises. Bodies slumped. Dreams restless. Some were curled in tents while others lay flat on the hard ground under thin blankets, boots still on, hats tipped over their eyes.
The whole place felt spent, but the weight of tomorrow still pressed down even in sleep, like it was holding its breath, waiting for the next ride out.
Or for someone like Arthur to slip back in from the dark.
His Arabian was lathered, sides heaving in slow, exhausted rhythm. He’d pushed the horse hard coming back from town, the trail dust still clinging to them both like a second skin.
Dutch’s latest scheme assigned to Arthur personally had gone sideways. And that wasn’t anything new. Just another half-baked promise unraveling at the seams, but the guilt sitting heavy in his gut wasn’t about the botched job, the lost money, or the near-miss shootout that had left powder burns on his coat.
The one day he’d sworn—quietly, to himself, like a fool making a pact with the wind—he’d make right by you.
No grand gestures or store-bought trinkets (he couldn’t afford them, anyway). Just time. Away from the endless grind. A few hours stolen in the confinement of his tent, or maybe a ride out to somewhere quiet with his arm around your waist, keeping you tucked into his side like a puzzle piece.
No Dutch. No plans. No running.
He’d pictured it all day while the boys argued and the lead flew. He imagined your smile when he showed up early and how warm you’d feel when you’d lean into him without a word, cherishing the moment, wishing it would last a lifetime.
Instead, the sun had set without him, and the moon was mocking him from overhead.
He’d seen it all in town earlier, too, while he was supposed to be scouting, keeping his head down.
Valentine’s Day had turned the world into something softer, almost foolish.
Couples were everywhere, even in a mud-churned livestock town that smelled of cattle and cheap whiskey. Young ranch hands walked arm-in-arm with girls from the general store, their Sunday best dusted with trail dirt, but their faces lit up like they’d won something rare. An older couple outside the saloon. The man had tipped his hat low as he offered her a single wildflower he’d probably picked on the way in. She’d laughed soft and sweet and tucked it behind her ear. They’d strolled slowly down the boardwalk like time wasn’t chasing them.
Even the working girls at the hotel had red ribbons in their hair tonight, laughing louder as men bought them drinks and whispered sweet nothings they would forget by morning.
The gang hadn’t let the day pass unmarked either, though their version of romance was rougher, makeshift, like everything else they touched.
Javier had played something slow and sweet on his guitar, a quiet melody that drifted over the fire while he sat close to a couple of the girls, his eyes lingering on one in particular.
Karen and Sean had been at it again with their half-flirting, half-fighting. She’d shoved him playfully when he tried to pull her onto his lap by the main fire, but later Arthur had caught them tucked behind a wagon, her head on his shoulder, sharing a bottle and murmuring low enough that no one else could hear.
Even John and Abigail—Lord knew they fought like cats most days—had stolen a moment. Arthur had seen John slip Jack a small carved wooden horse earlier, and then pull Abigail aside for a rare, quiet kiss while the boy played nearby. No fireworks. No declarations. Just the two of them, holding on like they remembered why they kept trying.
Molly had paced near Dutch’s tent all evening, fussing with her hair and dress like she hoped tonight might be different. Dutch had danced with her briefly (and arguably just for show) around the fire before drifting off to talk philosophy with Hosea, leaving her staring into the flames with that wounded look she wore more and more these days.
Mary-Beth read aloud from one of her romance novels to Tilly and a giggling Karen, the three of them huddled under a blanket, sighing over knights and forbidden kisses.
Pearson had gone out of his way to slip extra honey into the stew pot “for sweetness on account of the day,” he’d grumbled when Uncle and Miss Grimshaw teased him about it.
The camp was alive in its own ragged way with scraps of affection, and it had twisted the knife that had settled in Arthur’s chest when he learned of the convenient last minute mission in town deep enough it hurt to breathe.
Everyone else had found a corner of the night to claim something tender, even if it was fleeting, while he’d been miles away, chasing shadows for a man who’d never notice the holiday unless it could be turned into a sermon.
Now, as he untacked his Arabian with numb fingers, the weight settled heavier.
He glanced toward the main fire—low now, embers mostly—and caught sight of your silhouette still there, shawl tight, knees drawn up, waiting like you always did.
Not angry. Just… patient.
That hurt worse than any bullet.
He patted the mare’s neck once, murmured an apology to her, then started toward you.
The roses in his satchel felt foolish now—wilted, scavenged—but they were all he had. And maybe, just maybe, they’d be enough to start making it right.
His broad, unmistakable shadow fell across you first before his boots even reached the edge of the firelight. You felt it like a change in the wind: the sudden weight of him there.
You looked up. The flames caught in your eyes, soft and heavy-lidded from hours of staring into nothing, a quiet ache tucked behind them. A little hurt, but no anger. Never that with him.
“Evenin’,” he rasped, voice scraped raw from dust and whatever whiskey he’d taken to dull the ride. He dropped to a crouch, elbows braced on his knees so his face was level with yours, close enough that you could smell the road on him.
“I’m sorry I’m late, sweetheart.”
You gave a small nod, lips pressing together. “I know.”
The camp around you had been winding down for hours, but the day itself had left its marks everywhere, soft and stubborn. You’d watched it all while he was gone, sitting here with your knees drawn up under the shawl, the wool scratchy against your arms.
Even earlier, when the sun was still high and the promise of an evening alone with him felt possible, Javier had pulled his guitar close to one of the girls and played something slow, almost tender.
Karen and Sean had bickered their way through half the day like always, but come dusk they were pressed close, her head on his shoulder, when you’d passed by with a bundle of mending in your arms.
John had been quieter about it. He’d carved a little wooden horse for Jack earlier and when the boy ran off to play, John had pulled Abigail aside and kissed her. Just two of them, holding each other still while the world kept moving.
Molly had managed to steal a dance with Dutch around the fire, the skirts of her best dress drifting with the wind when he spun her, all before he decidedly walked off to Hosea to talk of big plans. She’d sat down after, staring into the flames with that faraway look, fingers twisting in her blouse. You’d felt a pang for her, sharp and familiar.
Mary-Beth had read from one of her little books to Tilly and Karen, voices hushed and dreamy over knights and roses and impossible promises. They’d sighed in unison at the good parts, blankets pulled tight, giggling like girls who still believed in endings that didn’t hurt.
Not with expectation, exactly.
Part of you had known he’d be late. Dutch’s schemes didn’t bend for calendars. Jobs didn’t care about dates circled in secret. You’d told yourself that from the moment the sun started sliding west. He’d ride in when he could, like always. And if he didn’t… well, tomorrow was another day.
Still, you’d hoped. The way you hoped for rain in drought, for a letter that never came. You’d watched the trailhead every time a horse moved, listened for his Arabian’s distinctive gait, and felt the ache settle deeper with every false alarm.
How could you be angry at a man who carried the weight of the whole gang on his shoulders? Who came back bruised and hollow-eyed every time, yet still found ways to look at you like you were the only soft thing left in his world?
You were just… tired of waiting.
Arthur reached into his satchel then, movements careful, almost reverent, like whatever he carried might shatter if he moved too fast.
Out came a small bundle of wild roses wrapped with a short piece of rope, their stems still damp from the meadow. The red petals faded to white at the edges, a few bruised and curling from the long ride in his bag. They were scavenged on the fly, no doubt, as he worked his way back to camp, to you.
“Ain’t much,” he muttered, voice dropping even lower as he pressed them into your hands. The thorns bit your fingertips and he winced like he’d felt it himself. “There was a patch up near the river. Thought… hell, I don’t know. I thought they looked like you. Pretty even when everything else is tryin’ to kill ‘em.”
Your fingers closed around the stems. You lifted them to your nose, letting the sweetness cut through the stubborn scent of dust. Something in your chest loosened just a fraction. Your face softened without permission.
He stood slowly and offered his hand. “C’mere.”
His palm swallowed yours, skin warm and rough, callouses catching on your skin like always. He led you away from the dying fire, past the wagons and the easy snores, into the treeline where the pines swallowed most of the camp’s glow. Moonlight filtered through the branches in thin silver stripes, painting the ground in soft patterns.
A little ways out, where the grass gave way to open ground and the stars felt closer, he stopped.
With deliberate care, he set his revolver down on a flat rock nearby, the soft metallic clunk louder than it should have been in the hush. The action carried weight—him setting aside the one thing that never left his hip, the one thing that spoke before he did.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, low and rough, as he turned to face you. “For leavin’ you waitin’. For always leavin’ you waitin’.”
You stepped closer, fingers brushing the open collar of his shirt, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath the fabric. “You’re here now.”
“Yeah.” His voice cracked then, just the smallest hair. “I’m here.”
He cupped your face gently with both hands, like you were made of spun glass that might shatter under too much pressure. His thumbs traced your cheekbones, following the curve as if committing it to memory, as if you might vanish into the night air like campfire smoke.
His gaze held yours in the moonlight, blue eyes stormy with want and something softer like regret, or maybe just the raw ache of too many miles between you.
“And I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
It started soft, almost apologetic. His lips grazed yours like asking permission he already knew you’d grant. When your mouth parted for him, a quiet groan rolled low in his throat, vibrating between you both, and he took the invitation deeper. His tongue sought yours with that familiar taste of bitter coffee, faint tobacco from an earlier cigarette, and the freedom of the open road.
One hand slid to the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair to hold you steady while the other drifted down your spine, palm splaying across the small of your back, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left, just heat and heartbeat.
You felt every inch of him pressed close. His broad chest that rose and fell under faded flannel, the hard planes of muscle earned from endless days in the saddle, the heat rolling off his skin like a banked stove on a cold night. He smelled like the wild: leather, clean sweat, sharp pine resin, and that faint, ever-present metallic edge of gun oil that never quite washed out no matter how many rivers he crossed.
The kiss lingered unhurried, his mouth exploring yours like it was the first time. Or maybe the last.
The night was vast around you. Pines whispered in the breeze, stars winked overhead, an owl called in the distance. There were no walls or tents. Only the open field, damp grass under your boots, and the thin treeline that hid nothing from prying eyes if anyone cared to look.
You pulled back just a breath, heart hammering. “Arthur… What if someone sees? Anyone could wake up and wander out.”
He paused, forehead resting against yours, breath warm on your lips. His eyes searched yours, no hesitation in them, no desire to pull back. A small, crooked smile tugged at his mouth, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
“Let ‘em look,” he murmured low, voice rough as gravel, but soft for you. “I’ve waited too damn long to care.”
His thumb brushed your lower lip, gentle and coaxing. “But if you want to stop… we stop. Always.”
You swallowed, glancing back toward the faint glow of the campfires, the wagons like hulking shadows. The hesitation lingered—a flicker of worry about whispers in the morning, eyes that might judge—but his touch grounded you, warm and sure.
The want won out, like it always did with him.
You shook your head, fingers curling into his shirt. “No. Don’t stop.”
He kissed you again, gentle and more reassuring this time, then trailed his mouth along your jaw, lips mapping the line down to your throat. He nuzzled there, breath hot against your pulse, teeth grazing just enough to send a shiver racing down your spine. “Been thinkin’ about this,” he murmured against your skin, words slightly muffled. “All damn day. Every damn day. You, like this. Mine to take care of.”
His hands moved carefully yet sure, fingers finding the buttons of your blouse, undoing them one by one with a patience that made your breath hitch.
He didn’t rush or tear, just let each button give away with a soft pop, the cool night air kissing your skin as he parted the fabric. Calloused fingertips skimmed your collarbone, light as a feather, tracing the hollows and rises like he was learning you anew. He trailed down to your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts until you gasped, arching instinctively toward him.
He paused then, eyes lifting to yours in the silver moonlight, always searching and checking. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said, voice low and steady.
“I don’t.” Your words came out breathy, needy. “Don’t stop. Please.”
Instead, he pushed the blouse off your shoulders with gentle hands and let it slide down your arms to pool at your elbows, exposing you to the night.
The air was cool on your bare skin, raising gooseflesh, but his mouth followed warm. He lowered his head to take one nipple between his lips, his tongue circling slow and reverent.
You arched into him, fingers threading into his hair. He hummed his approval, the vibration shooting straight through you like a spark, heat pooling low in your belly.
He lavished the same attention on the other side, hands steady on your waist, holding you close. He was gentle, always gentle with you like you were the one precious thing in his rough world he wouldn’t risk breaking.
When your breaths came shorter, he eased back, pressing soft kisses down your sternum, your stomach, until he was kneeling before you.
The ground was soft under your feet, all damp earth, wild grass, and the raw feel of the Heartlands. He looked up at you from there, hands sliding up your thighs, bunching your skirts slowly. Rough palms on soft skin, callouses rasping lightly, sending sparks up your nerves. “Gonna take care of you first,” he said, voice husky.
Your hesitation flickered again. “Out here? What if—”
He shook his head, gentle but firm, thumbs stroking circles on your inner thighs. “Ain’t no one comin’ this way. And if they do… well, they’ll turn right back around.” His eyes held yours, that quiet confidence easing the knot in your chest. “Trust me, darlin’. I got you.”
You nodded, breath catching as his fingers curled into the waistband of your underthings and drew them down with deliberate slowness. Inch by inch he peeled them away, eyes locked on your face the entire time like he needed to see every flicker of reaction, every sign that told him you were right there with him. The fabric slid cool over your skin until the night air kissed the slick heat between your thighs.
A soft gasp broke from you at the sudden exposure before you stepped free, nudging the damp scrap aside with your foot.
For a long heartbeat Arthur simply stared, breath rough and uneven, chest heaving slow and steady. “Beautiful,” he murmured, voice low and almost awed, like something sacred. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”
He guided you down with careful hands, easing you first to sit, then to lie back in the grass. Cool blades brushed and tickled your bare skin, the earth firm yet yielding beneath you like a living bed. Nothing between you and the ground now but the wild itself—the damp, loamy scent of soil rising, twining with pine and the warm, unmistakable musk of him. He knelt between your legs, broad shoulders nudging your thighs wider, one rough palm spreading steady across your hip to anchor you there.
Then his mouth was on you.
He licked slow at first, tongue flat and warm, tracing the seam of you like he was memorizing every delicate fold. No hurry, just patiently savoring the taste as though each second held something new to learn. He listened with his mouth: to the soft sighs that slipped from you, to the tiny, helpless twitch of your hips seeking more. When they bucked up on instinct, he eased one strong forearm across your pelvis, pinning you gently, just enough to hold you open and steady beneath him.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he murmured against your skin. “Just let go and breathe.”
His free hand parted you with careful reverence, fingers gentle as they spread you open to the cool night air and the heat of his waiting mouth. His rhythm deepened, tongue sweeping broad and slow at first before curling pointed, circling your clit with steady, unhurried pressure that built like a slow-burning fire.
The stars overhead smeared into silver streaks as pleasure surged through you. Your fingers twisted tight in his hair, pulling hard without thought. He answered with a low, rumbling groan straight against your core. Raw satisfaction vibrated deep inside you, lifting your back clear off the grass in a helpless arch.
“Arthur—” His name broke from your lips, ragged and pleading.
He eased back just enough to rasp the words against your inner thigh, lips dragging slow and deliberate over flushed skin. “Come for me, darlin’. Let it go. I’ve got you—give it to me.”
Hot breath fanned your soaked folds for a moment, then he was back, plunging two thick fingers deep, stretching you open, curling firm and precise against that swollen, sensitive ridge inside. He stroked it with ruthless patience while his mouth sealed over your clit again. He sucked harder now, tongue lashing in tight, filthy circles that matched every pump of his hand.
Everything collapsed to sensation: sharp grass biting into your shoulder blades, cool night air kissing sweat-slick skin, his leather-and-pine musk thick around you, the lewd, wet squelch of his fingers fucking into your dripping cunt echoing in the stillness. Pleasure twisted low and vicious in your core, a spring pulled tighter and tighter until it shattered. You came hard—back bowing off the earth, a broken, desperate cry tearing from your throat, thighs clamping around his head as you pulsed and gushed around his fingers, drenching his hand and chin while he drank every shuddering wave.
He didn’t stop. His fingers and tongue kept working you through every wave, milking every last tremor until your whole body ached, oversensitive and wrecked. Your hands shoved weakly at his broad shoulders, half plea, half surrender, thighs trembling helplessly around his head while slick aftershocks rippled through you.
Only then did he relent, easing off with slow, tender kisses pressed along your inner thighs while your chest heaved. He rose over you, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, wiping away the shine of you. His eyes burned dark and ravenous, pinned to yours like he couldn’t look away. Then he claimed your mouth, tongue sliding in, letting you taste every drop of your own release still coating his lips.
As your mouths crashed together in a messy, hungry kiss, both of you reached down between your pressed bodies, fingers scrambling to undo his belt. Yours trembled hard from the lingering aftershocks, clumsy but desperate; his were steadier, rougher. The leather finally gave and he shoved his pants down in one impatient yank, freeing his cock. It sprang heavy and thick into the cool air, the head already flushed dark and slick, beading thick pearls of precum that caught the moonlight like liquid silver.
He wrapped a fist around himself, gave a few slow, firm strokes—spreading the wetness, groaning low in his throat—then guided the blunt tip to your soaked entrance, rubbing it once, twice along your slit before pressing forward, ready to sink in.
“Look at me,” he said roughly yet edged with desperation and care.
His eyes churned, stormy and soft, brimmed with every desperate need he didn’t voice.
He pushed in slow and deliberately. Inch by thick, veined inch, stretching you with that delicious burn, filling you until you felt split open and whole at once, complete in a way only he made you. He stilled when he bottomed out, buried so deep you swore you could feel him everywhere. A raw, broken groan tore from his chest, his forehead dropping to your shoulder for a heartbeat.
“You feel that?” he whispered, voice wrecked. “That’s you and me. God, darlin’…”
Slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, grinding deep so every inch of his cock dragged over that swollen, spongy spot inside you, lighting sparks behind your eyes with each measured thrust. One rough hand clamped lightly to your hip, tilting you just right to take him deeper while his fingers traced paths along the curve of your waist. His other hand found yours, pinning it to the grass above your head, holding you open and steady. His thumb stroked slow circles over the racing pulse at your wrist, matching the unhurried rhythm of his cock sliding in and out, stretching you full again and again.
“Missed you,” he panted between bruising kisses, mouth dragging over your lips, your flushed cheeks, down the sensitive column of your throat. “Missed this. Missed bein’ inside you.”
The grass rustled and gave beneath your bodies, blades scraping your spine while the earth cradled every roll of your hips. You hooked your legs high around his waist, heels digging hard into the flexing muscle of his back, spurring him deeper, faster. He gave it to you—pace climbing, hips driving forward with heavier, hungrier snaps, yet still controlled, never cruel. Every thick inch plunged deep and deliberate, stretching you wide around his cock, claiming you completely without leaving a mark. The lewd, wet slap of skin on skin filled the still night air, mingling with your broken gasps and the low grunts that tore from his throat.
His mouth found your neck again, teeth grazing, marking with lips and breath. When he felt you start to tighten around him, walls fluttering, he reached between you, his thumb finding that bud of nerves, circling in gentle, insistent strokes that matched his thrusts.
“Come on, sweetheart. Let go. Let go for me.”
You clenched hard around him, shattering with a high, broken keening cry you muffled into the crook of his shoulder. Your nails scored down his broad back, carving red trails he’d wear without complaint tomorrow.
He broke right behind you—hips jerking erratic, burying himself deep as he came with a groan, flooding your cunt with thick, hot spurts that made your whole body shudder and clench around every pulse.
He kept rocking slow and shallow through the aftershocks, drawing out every last tremor until you were both shaking, breathless messes. Then—with a reluctant hiss—he eased out, leaving you empty and dripping with a mix of both of your releases. He fumbled for his discarded shirt, balled it tight in one fist, and pressed the fabric between your thighs. He wiped you gently, careful and thorough, eyes flicking up to watch your face when the cloth grazed your puffy clit and pulled a tiny, helpless whimper from your lips.
When he finished cleaning the sticky mess from between your thighs with careful strokes, he tossed the shirt aside and dropped heavily onto the grass beside you. One strong arm hooked around your waist, dragging you flush against his sweat-damp chest until your back molded to him, skin to skin.
You burrowed in close, cheek pressed to the warm hollow beneath his chin, the steady thunder of his heartbeat filling your ear while his rough palm traced slow, soothing circles down the length of your spine.
“Next year…” he murmured into your hair, voice low and raw. “I’ll do better. Swear it.”
You smiled against his skin. “This year’s already perfect.”
He let out a soft, rumbling laugh, lips brushing the crown of your head.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, darlin’.”
