arthur immediately cocoons the two of you in blankets after sex, regardless of how hot and sweaty the both of you are.
touch, touch, touch - he wants to hold you close and feel your skin against his. gentle forehead kisses, tracing soft patterns across your body with his calloused fingers, braiding your hair, spooning, etc.
despite not being super verbal for a long while after sex, arthur will ask to make sure you're okay in that raspy drawl of his. "you alright, darlin'? i didn't hurt ya, did i?" he's a bit overbearing with it, but he just can't stand the thought of accidentally harming you in any way.
arthur always takes the opportunity to sketch you in your blissed-out and half-lidded state. pages of his journal are dedicated to drawings of you curled up in bed next to him flushed, sleepy, and content as hell.
acts of service - arthur does everything in his power to make you feel comfortable afterwards. he'll get you water or food, clean you up with a cool washcloth or draw a bath, massage your sore muscles... literally anything.
sometimes, arthur will hum softly as the two of you are cuddling.
this man definitely keeps some salve on hand for any love bites or marks he might have left on you.
arthur reads to you to help you fall asleep afterwards. he knows how much you love hearing his inner thoughts through his journal entries, so oftentimes he'll read you a recent passage. other times, he'll read from a book the two of you are enjoying together.
also, he definitely uses your chest as a pillow (he’s a silly man that loves boobs).
a/n: i love soft arthur sm, he consumes 98% of my thoughts 😔 howeverrr, i’m thinking of potentially writing some low-honor arthur stuff as well?? idk why that makes me so nervous lol, but lmk if you'd like a low-honor version of this and i will try 👀
Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader
Word Count: 2.1k
Tags: fluff, smut, oral sex (f!receiving), soft!arthur, early relationship dynamics, skinny dipping, summer vibes, lake setting, aftercare
A/N: The way I wanted to finish and upload this in like July because it's such a summer-y one-shot 😭 Technically, tomorrow is the last day of summer (at least in the Northern Hemisphere), so it still works! Hope y'all enjoy <3
Divider Credit: @dollywons (+ all pics from pinterest!)
The amber sun unfurls across the edges of camp, warm and lazy, bringing the kind of heat that makes the air feel thick and heavy with the promise of a sweltering day. Arthur finds you sitting on the edge of your bedroll, nightgown clinging like a second skin while you try to pretend you're not already miserable.
"You wanna get outta here for a while?" he asks, voice still rough with sleep.
You blink up at him. "Where to?"
He glances past the trees surrounding camp, scuffing the dirt with his boot. "Know a lake a ways off. Not too many bugs, nobody else around." There's a pause in his words. "Figure it's too damn hot to be doin' much else today."
A sly smile spreads across your face despite the flutter in your stomach. "Are you tryin’ to court me, Arthur Morgan?"
He snorts. "Ain’t askin’ for your hand, just your company."
"Mhm," you hum while getting to your feet. "You're bringin' lunch."
He grumbles something about you being a demanding little thing, but goes off to start packing anyway.
By the time you're both saddled up, the sun's even higher and burning at your skin. The trail stretches quiet except for the melodic trill of meadowlarks and the few distant caws of crows. It winds through tall grass and scattered trees while your mares move at an easy pace through dappled shade.
When the path finally opens into a hidden clearing, you see Arthur wasn't lying. The spot lies well-hidden behind a stand of cottonwoods, where soft earth gives way to glistening blue water that reflects the cloudless sky like a mirror.
You dismount and stretch your arms overhead, limbs cracking slightly. Arthur ties off the horses with practiced efficiency. His large, calloused hands work the knots with surprising gentleness. He watches you with that look he always gets when he thinks you're not paying attention: eyes half-lidded, softened with something like affection. You pretend not to notice, but warmth spreads throughout your chest anyway.
"This is nice," you murmur, settling into the tall grass and twirling at the slender blades with your fingers. "Real nice."
Arthur grunts in agreement as he lowers himself down next to you, hat tilted low and one leg bent. His shoulder brushes yours on the way down, and the familiar scent of him floods your senses. You don't move away.
A slight breeze picks up, carrying the sweet fragrance of wildflowers from across the lake as sweat gathers at the base of your neck.
"Bring a lot of girls out here?" you ask, half-joking.
Arthur huffs, his expression tightening. "No."
You can't help but grin, pleased with his response, as you lean back onto your palms and tilt your head toward the sun. "Pretty little place like this… thought someone might’ve beat me to it."
He stays quiet for a moment too long, fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves. When he speaks again, his voice comes softer, almost vulnerable. "Only brought you."
The words hit differently than you expected and settle somewhere deep in your chest. You turn to look at him, but his eyes are still hidden under the brim of his hat.
A comfortable silence stretches between you, filled with the hazy buzz of bees working the clover and the distant splash of a fish breaking through the water. You sigh dramatically, flopping back onto the grass with a soft thud.
“Too hot to sit still,” you mutter. “Think I’m gonna melt into the dirt.”
Arthur lets out a chuckle, the sound rumbling low in his chest. "Wouldn't want that."
You lift your head and squint toward the lake, its surface glinting in the sunlight like scattered diamonds. “Reckon that water’s callin’ my name.”
“That right?” he drawls lazily.
You’re already unlacing your boots, fingers working quickly at the worn leather. “Damn right.”
He watches as you stand and dust off your skirt before sauntering toward the water's edge. The lake laps at your toes, bitterly cold at first, but soon blissful. You step in deeper, lifting your hem as you go.
“You’re welcome to join me, y'know,” you call back to Arthur, water up to your knees now, sending ripples across the surface.
Arthur shifts in the grass. “Ain’t got nothin’ dry to change into."
“Who said anything about comin’ in with your clothes on?”
That gets his full attention. He sits up straighter, like he’s not sure he heard you right. "You serious?"
Your heart hammers against your ribs, but you force your voice to stay steady as you glance over your shoulder with a smirk. "What? You said no one's gonna find us out here."
His mouth opens, then closes. A pink flush creeps up his neck. The sight only feeds the bold, reckless fire already burning within you.
Turning your back to him, you pull your blouse over your head, the fabric catching briefly before coming free. The humid air kisses your now bare shoulders. You work at the buttons of your skirt, slow and steady despite the slight tremble in your fingers. Arthur's gaze is heavy and warm as the sun on your back.
You fold the clothes neatly on a dry patch of rock before stepping deeper into the lake. The water curls around your hips, and a soft sigh escapes your lips. You’re down to your underthings now, sheer and clinging to your curves.
Behind you, you hear the clink of a belt buckle and the sharp hiss of a zipper. The thunk of his hat hitting the grass. A low curse as he fumbles with the buttons of his shirt before the soft rustle of clothes being shed. You can't help but giggle at his sudden clumsiness.
Looking back again, you catch Arthur stepping into the water, fully bare. Heat curls low in your belly.
Amusement dances in his blue-green eyes when he notices your expression. “You starin’?”
“Maybe,” you reply, trying to sound innocent. “You gonna complain?”
“…Didn’t say that.”
You lift your arms, resting them lightly on his shoulders as he stops in front of you. His hands hover at your waist, not quite touching, while his eyes flick to yours for permission.
You nod, barely, breath caught in your throat.
His fingers find the damp fabric at your hips, slow and careful as he eases the drawers down beneath the water. He takes his time, like he’s unwrapping something precious. The fabric peels away, weightless in the lake, and drifts free as he lets it go.
Then his hands rise again, fingertips brushing your ribs through the soaked camisole.
“This too?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
You nod again. “Yeah.”
Soon you’re standing bare, chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths, skin kissed by sun and lake. His breath catches as if he’s seeing something holy. The reverence in his expression makes your knees weak.
"You're something else," he murmurs, voice low and raspy.
You try to hide your pink-tinted cheeks behind your damp hair. "That so?"
He leans in, just a little, close enough to feel his breath on your face. “It is. Could spend the whole damn day lookin’ at you.”
You roll your eyes, but smile shyly. “Charmer.”
Before the moment can get too heavy, you splash a handful of water right at him.
Arthur sputters, wiping at his face with his hand. “You little—!”
You’re already laughing, the sound bright and clear across the water as you wade deeper into the lake. “What? You looked like you needed coolin’ off.”
He follows, slow and prowling, eyes glittering under his wet lashes. “You keep on like that, I’m gonna have to teach you a lesson.”
You smirk as you back away teasingly. “I might like that.”
Arthur catches you by the wrist, his grip firm but gentle. For a moment, you're both still grinning from the game. But then his thumb brushes across your pulse point and your laughter dies in your throat. His expression changes into something more serious and intent.
He pulls you slowly toward him as his other hand comes up to cradle the side of your face. You lean in without thinking, drawn to him like a moth to flame.
The kiss is warm, open-mouthed, and tastes faintly of salt and longing. His hands anchor at your hips while yours tangle in his hair.
Eventually, you breaks away. He leans his forehead against yours, and the two of you breathe together. “Haven't had a day like this in a long time.”
You’re about to say something back, but he nudges your nose with his, voice going low again, intimate. “Let me take care of you.”
You let him guide you slowly through the shallows toward a flat rock just above the waterline, smooth and warm from the sun. He helps you up and you lean back on your elbows, legs still submerged up to your calves.
From the shallows, Arthur starts to slowly slide his hands up your thighs. He kisses one knee, then higher, and the scrape of his stubble draws a twitch from you, which he doesn't fail to notice. “Don’t want to push… You just say if it’s too much.”
You shake your head as your eyes fall shut. "No... keep goin’.”
His quiet smile curls against your leg.
Arthur continues by kissing along your thighs with lazy devotion. He licks teasing stripes and leaves little love bites while his large hands roam.
And then his mouth is exactly where you need it: hot and eager, like he’s been thinking about this for longer than he’d ever admit. He works slowly, testing what you like and learning every little sound you make. One hand spreads you open further. The other keeps you steady as the lake breeze ghosts over your flushed skin.
You arch, fingers scrambling for grip on the slick rock. "Arthur... Oh, yes..."
He groans at your pleading moans. Now that he’s found the rhythm that unravels you, his tongue begins to move with more pressure and focus. As he moves deeper, his nose brushes against your swollen clit, and profanities pour from you in a breathless rush.
It’s all too much and somehow not enough. The heat coils tighter, pleasure mounting with every graze of his teeth, every breath against your warmth. The world narrows to the slick slide of his mouth. The pressure builds slow and sharp, cresting higher with each stroke, until it breaks. Suddenly, your release rolls through you like summer thunder. You're gasping and weightless in its wake.
Arthur doesn’t stop. He drinks from you like a man starved. It's as if you’re something rare, sweeter than candy, and meant only for him.
He only lets go when you go soft beneath him, weak from his ministrations. One last kiss is pressed to your trembling thigh before he rests his cheek there. "You alright?"
You reach down with a dazed little laugh and slot your fingers into his damp hair. “More than alright.”
Later, you're both sprawled out on a patch of sun-warmed grass, bare bodies still damp in places. The lake glints nearby while cicadas hum lazily in the trees. Arthur lies beside you, propped on one elbow with the tin of wild strawberries he packed between you.
He picks one up and holds it out to your lips.
“Open,” he says, voice gentle. The pad of his thumb brushes your bottom lip.
You let him feed you, tongue catching just the edge of his fingertip as the berry bursts sweet in your mouth.
"Could stay like this forever," he muses. He's not looking at the lake or the sky. Just at you.
“You mean that?” you ask, a little unsure.
His brow furrows a little. “’Course I do.”
Something shifts in the quiet between you once more.
He stretches out flat beside you, arm curled under his head, and you rest your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. The fiery sun starts to dip low in the sky.
A minute passes as Arthur runs his fingers through your hair. Then another.
“Y’ever think about… after all this?” you whisper.
Arthur hums, then nods. “Sometimes.”
“What’s it look like?”
He glances down at you, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Looks a whole lot like this.”
You let yourself smile wild and unguarded.
Before long, your breathing slows, and his does too. The wind rustles the tall grass, the frogs begin their evening symphony, and the two of you stay tangled together in warmth and the weightless kind of love that makes the world feel simple.
a/n: a short 'n sweet fluffy drabble about how arthur morgan might react to you calling him a pet name early in the relationship <3 back to my soft arthur roots, i fear
The morning air is bitter and sharp, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes the fire beside you feel like a blessing.
You don't look up from your book as you pass Arthur the tin of coffee grounds. "Here you go, sweetheart." It slips out before you even realize it, soft and natural, like it’s always been there.
You turn the page, expecting the usual scrape of the scoop against metal, but there's only silence.
You glance up. Arthur's just standing there, unmoving, brows slightly pinched like you just spoke in a language he doesn’t know.
"...What'd you call me?" he asks, voice low and a little unsure.
You blink, suddenly feeling sheepish. "Sweetheart... I'm sorry. Too much?"
He clears his throat, looking down as he rubs the back of his neck. “Nah, I just... didn’t expect it, is all.”
“…Didn’t hate it, though,” he adds quietly after a few moments, eyes still not meeting yours. Then he turns back toward the campfire, ears flushed pink, and starts making the coffee with exaggerated focus, like if he messes this up he might never live it down. His usually steady hands fumble just slightly with the grounds.
You lift your book just enough to cover your smile as warmth spreads through your chest, a different kind of heat than that of the fire beside you, the morning cold long forgotten.
Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader
Word Count: 1.6k
Tags: low-honor!arthur, saloongirl!reader, nsfw, angst-heavy smut (fingering, piv, rough, semi-public), manhandling, overstimulation, possessive!arthur, dominant!arthur, power play dynamics, degradation (dirty talk, hair pulling), breathplay (very light), undefined (and toxic) relationship
A/N: I kinda hate writing Arthur like this, but experimenting with my writing was definitely fun. I've been staring at this for way too long though, so it's finally time to just put it out there. Hopefully y’all enjoy <3
You stared at yourself in the cracked mirror above your vanity, reflection tired and worn down. It had been a long night. Whiskey breath and wandering hands, cowboys who thought a few coins bought them everything, and forced smiles that made your cheeks ache. The usual.
Downstairs, the saloon was beginning to quiet. The piano player slowed to a lazy rhythm, songs soft and half-forgotten, as the other girls took the highest bidders upstairs one creaking step at a time.
You weren't doing that tonight, though you should've been. You desperately needed the money. But you had seen him in town earlier, just across the road. His eyes locked on yours, steady and sharp beneath the brim of his hat.
He doesn't pay like the others. Whatever this was between you, it stopped being about money a long time ago.
You reached for your red lipstick and reapplied it carefully, mouth parted slightly as you traced the curve of your lower lip. Why you bothered, you weren't sure. He always kissed hard enough to smear it. But you wanted to be pretty for him, always had.
The dress came next, the one he fancied. He never said it outright. Hell, he rarely said anything kind. But you knew from the way his eyes lingered possessively when you wore it.
You smoothed the black satin skirt, the fabric worn soft with age but still holding its shape. The bodice hugged you tight, laced up at the back and cut just low enough to show the curve of your corset. One sleeve slipped slightly off your shoulder, the lace-trimmed neckline offering just enough to tempt yet never quite enough to satisfy.
Running a comb through your hair, you smoothed it where it had come undone earlier in the night before refreshing the rosewater at your neck.
You looked yourself over once more in the mirror, then perched on the edge of the bed. Your hands were restless in your lap, picking at a loose thread on your skirt, then at the skin beside your thumbnail until it stung. Catching yourself, you pressed your palms flat against the worn quilt, willing them to be still.
You weren’t even sure he’d come. The two of you hadn’t spoken earlier, just exchanged a look. That should’ve been enough to reassure you. It usually was. But now, dolled up and waiting like some lovesick girl, the silence felt heavier than usual. Maybe he got held up. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe you were a fool for waiting.
Just then, there was a creak in the hallway. Then another followed by slow, heavy footsteps. The doorknob turned. Before you could even take a breath, there was Arthur in the doorway: broad shoulders, worn coat, gambler hat still low over his brow as he watched you with dark, hungry eyes.
"Evenin'," you said softly, rising to your feet.
"Y'look like trouble," he rasped in that gritty drawl of his.
"Ain’t that what you like?" You replied with a half-smile, too sharp to be sweet.
That was all it took.
Arthur crossed the room in two long strides, tossing his hat and coat aside, and kissed you hard. It was messy, all tongue and teeth, hands gripping the bodice at your waist and yanking the laces until they loosened. He dragged the neckline lower, shoving aside the lacy edge with enough force to pop a seam.
You gasped, but didn’t fight it. You never did. There was something ugly in the way you needed him. Raw and hurting, like a wound that refused to heal.
He shoved you toward the bed, hands dragging down your sides as he followed. The moment your back hit the mattress, he was on you, skirt pushed up past your hips. He made quick work of the ribbon ties, the split fabric of your drawers falling open.
He slipped two fingers between your legs, already wet and waiting.
"Missed me?"
You whimpered as he curled his fingers, your body clenching around the intrusion.
“That’s right,” he said, voice low and filthy. “Ain’t nobody else fuckin’ you like I do.”
You wanted to tell him to shut up. That you didn't want him saying shit like that when he never stayed. But your mind was fogged, breath catching in your throat as he worked you open with relentless precision.
The pressure of your climax coiled deep in your gut, hips jerking helplessly as his fingers struck the spot that made your thighs tremble. His thumb found your aching clit and circled it slow, just once, and heat ripped through you like a live wire, white-hot and devastating.
"Arthur—" you gasped as you crested, spine arching off the mattress.
You could hear the smug grin in his voice. "Already? That didn't take much."
You hated how true it was. Hated how quick you were to fall apart for him. Every damn time.
"F-Fuck," you stuttered, head falling back. "I—"
He didn't stop, didn't even hesitate. He pressed his palm to your pelvis, keeping you pinned to the mattress and holding you right in your ruin. Your whole body shuddered, nerves screaming with oversensitivity. You reached for his wrist, fingers curling tight, but you didn't push him away.
He smirked at your neediness, then angled deeper. His thumb circled again in tight, cruel little spirals, coaxing every last aftershock from your trembling frame.
Eventually, he pulled his fingers free, slow and deliberate, and brought them to your mouth. You were still panting, dazed and boneless, skin flushed from the aftermath of your release.
“C’mon,” he demanded, voice rough with impatience. “Don’t get shy now.”
You obeyed, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked him clean, tasting yourself on his skin. Your eyes never left his, and something in him stuttered, a breath caught halfway through. He let you work him a moment longer before pulling away.
“Filthy little thing,” he muttered as he wiped your spit across the curve of your breast.
Then Arthur stood and undid his belt, the clink of the buckle echoing throughout the room. He shoved his pants down just far enough to free himself, stroking his cock with practiced ease.
"Turn over."
You did despite your body's protests.
He hauled your hips up, hand pressing flat to your lower back in an unspoken order not to move. You barely had time to brace yourself before you felt his blunt head drag through your slick folds. He drove in with one cruel, unrelenting thrust that split you open and tore a ragged cry from your throat.
"O-Oh God..." you whined, nails clawing uselessly at the sheets.
His hips snapped against your ass again, and again, pounding into you at a brutal pace. The old bed creaked under the force of him, the wooden frame knocking loudly against the thin wall.
You tried to bite back your moans, but he grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked your head up. "Let 'em hear you," he spat. "Let 'em all hear how good I fuck you."
Your body throbbed around him, your second orgasm already building in aching pulses.
Arthur leaned in, his breath ragged against your ear. "So fuckin' greedy. Takin' me like the whore you are."
"Bastard..." you cursed incoherently. There was no use in snapping back, no reclaiming the dignity he stripped from you. The stretch of him, the rhythm, the way he filled you so deep it hurt. It was too much and somehow still not enough.
“Quit your whining and give it up already,” he snapped.
And you did, with a strangled sound you didn’t recognize, tension snapping in a tangle of pleasure and pain.
Your limbs were trembling, completely useless, but he wasn't done yet. He dragged you upright with a force that always left you breathless, back flush against his chest. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other settled firmly around your throat. He didn't squeeze. Just held you there, anchored in his grip like that's where you belonged.
He thrust up into you again.
"Arthur, I... I can't," you pleaded, still shuddering against him, tears pricking at your lashes.
"Just hold on a damn second," he grunted. His pace grew frantic as he chased his own finish.
You were already unraveling. One last swipe of his calloused thumb to your swollen clit shattered you completely. You collapsed forward onto your elbows, body convulsing around him.
He followed fast, groaning low as he spilled inside you, fingers bruising your hips.
Then there was stillness. Just the sound of your breaths tangling in the dark, the rustle of the sheets, and the faintest notes of music and laughter rising from the saloon below. Arthur didn’t move, the weight of him heavy and rooted, as if pulling away might undo something deep within him.
When he finally did, it was slow, almost gentle. The emptiness he left behind made you ache in a different way. He sank down beside you on the narrow bed and reached for the cigarette pack on your nightstand, lighting one. After a long drag, he passed it to you without a word.
You took it with shaking fingers as you rolled onto your back, lips curling around the filter.
"That was mean," you said, voice hoarse. It was a dry, pathetic attempt at humor.
He didn't smile. Of course he didn't. Just looked at you, eyes unreadable in the dim light.
"Yeah," he replied finally. "But you liked it."
You didn't argue because you couldn't. He was right, and that truth sat heavy in your chest, the only thing more painful than the dull ache between your legs.
The silence returned. You stared at the ceiling, watching smoke curl toward the cracked plaster. Beside you, he shifted, and for a moment, you thought he was getting up to leave.
But he didn’t. He just raked his fingers through his hair.
"You're the only thing keepin’ me sane some nights," he murmured quietly, like he was confessing to a sin.
And you didn’t know if that made this whole thing between you better or worse.
tags: nsfw, smut (fingering - fem receiving), reader is hornyyy lol, arthur's hands supremacy
a/n: this one's been sitting in my drafts foreverrr, so i finally decided to finish it! i almost never write smut so i'm a little nervous to share this 😭 but it was so fun to work on. hope y'all enjoy <3
you shouldn't be staring at him like this. really, you shouldn't. not after the two of you barely escaped that o'driscoll shootout with your lives, a bullet almost tearing through your thigh and leaving you limp and bleeding.
but goddamn, you couldn't help but watch his hands.
they were weatherworn and commanding from years of rough labor and handling guns, knuckles creased with dirt and grime. and yet as he tended to your punctured skin, they felt like a warm kiss: gentle and reverent, seemingly incapable of the violence that took down ten men only a few moments ago.
you should've been embarrassed, sitting there with your skirt hitched up and your drawers pushed aside, exposed to him. but all you felt was a low and insistent heat, blooming deep within you like an ember slowly catching flame.
arthur worked with a practiced efficiency, nimble fingers deftly patching up your wound. each subtle flex of his hands revealed the intricate map of veins beneath his scarred flesh, pulsing with the same blood he'd nearly lost protecting you.
despite the twisting pierce of guilt you felt, your gaze still slowly drifted up his arms. the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, revealing strong muscles dusted in coarse, unruly hair you could only imagine covered the rest of him just the same. that image alone sent your head spinning, adrenaline roaring in your ears.
"y'alright?" he asked, sensing your tension.
you nodded, internally cursing yourself for being so damn pathetic.
his eyes met yours, lingering for a moment too long before returning to his work. you swallowed thickly as he finished securing the bandage, but he made no move to pull his hand away. instead, arthur's warm palm stayed splayed across your exposed thigh, causing goosebumps to erupt across your skin.
he looked up at you once more, his steel blue gaze clouded with something you couldn't quite place.
you tried to say something, anything, but the words died on your tongue as he began to trace the edge of the gauze with his thumb, slowly and deliberately. the air between you grew heavy, almost humid like the dreaded swamps of lemoyne. you could barely think, and before you could stop yourself, you were leaning toward him.
arthur hesitated, just for a moment. but the way your lips were parted, breathing shallow and uneven, was enough to undo him.
his nose brushed against yours, filling your senses with the smells of blood, tobacco, and gunpowder before his lips found yours in a kiss so soft it was as if he thought the mere contact could break you. they were rough and chapped, but also full and achingly tender as they moved against your own.
he brought his hand up to carefully cradle the side of your face, his callused thumb rubbing soothing circles into the supple skin of your cheek. a needy, strangled sound escaped you as his other hand slipped down to your waist, fingers digging possessively into your hip as he guided you to lay back.
"y'sure about this?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
you hummed softly before tugging him toward you, the ache in your core impossible to ignore now.
he kissed you again. it was rough this time, more desperate and sure as he pushed apart your legs with his knee. you didn't resist.
his hand drifted down your body, fingers trailing softly over the exposed skin of your stomach. he didn't hesitate when he reached the edge of your drawers, immediately pulling them down with a low grunt.
"fuck..." he muttered under his breath as he pressed his thumb against your clit in a firm, lazy circle. "didn't even touch you proper yet and look at you... already so worked up."
your hips bucked at the contact, seeking more friction. arthur couldn't help but chuckle.
"don't worry, darlin'. m'gonna take care of ya." he dipped a finger between your folds, slick and hot, and eased it inside of you. a broken moan spilled from your lips as your body yielded to his touch.
arthur rested his forehead against yours, cursing again. "just like that... christ, you feel so good..."
he gave you a moment to feel the weight of him inside you before sliding his finger out to the tip. then he pushed it back in, inch by inch, until he was once again buried in you to the knuckle. he moved with a quiet control, as if he had all the time in the world to unravel you from the inside out.
then came the second finger. you gasped when he curled them both inside you, legs trembling as your hands flew to his shoulders, desperate for something to ground you.
"that's it..." he rasped, pulling back to see your pretty face. "you're doin' so damn good for me."
with unwavering focus, he laid you out bare, fingers thrusting deep and thumb coaxing you toward the edge. the pressure coiled in your core until it snapped with a soft cry of his name, your body clenching hard around his fingers as waves of pleasure crashed over you.
arthur continued his slow, deep strokes as you rode out your high, his thumb easing its rhythm until it was nothing but soft, slow circles that made you twitch from the sensitivity.
only when your breathing began to slow did he gently pull his hand away. "doin' okay?" he asked, his voice rough, almost shy now.
all you could do was nod, eyes half-lidded in your dazed state.
he shook his head, a wry smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he reached for the canteen and cloth in his satchel. "guess i'm on nurse duty a little longer." even with the teasing tone, his touch stayed just as careful, just as steady, as he cleaned you up once more.
forget-me-not: knight!arthur morgan x princess!reader
a/n: this is so self-indulgent lol, but i'm a sucker for the knight x princess forbidden love trope. inspired by this absolutely breathtaking art by @phantomnotghost.
tags: angst, forbidden love, tragic romance, medieval au
in medieval times, forget-me-not flowers symbolized remembrance, loyalty, and faithful love despite separation. ✿
he knelt before your lifeless form, hands trembling beneath his metal gauntlets despite his stoic expression. arthur had vowed to protect you; that was his duty, his life’s purpose. and he failed.
for the first time, the weight of his armor felt crushing as he regarded your now pierced flesh with a reverent gaze, rivers of blood pooling from your lacerated figure into the soft earth below. the jewels from your crown lay strewn and shattered, a sickening reminder of the end of all that arthur once knew.
he reached out a tentative hand before pulling back. it felt cruel to touch you with such harsh metal, as if the mere act would somehow wound you more. but he was forbidden from ever feeling you with his bare hands. a knight was never to share something so intimate with the princess; he was to be just a distant shield.
except, he wasn’t just that. foolishly, arthur was helplessly yours. utterly and completely.
soft droplets of rain began to fall as the sky seemed to share in his grief. he was watching them pepper your paling skin when a delicate, sky-blue petal tucked in the pocket of your gown caught his eye: a forget-me-not.
his throat tightened. of course you’d carried one with you. you always did.
they were a secret language of longing and devotion between the two of you. arthur would pick the dainty buds from sunlit fields and leave them hidden between the pages of your books. in turn, you would have them be planted all over the kingdom. once, in a bold act of defiance, you ordered for an entire garden to be planted right outside of his living quarters. there had been whisperings about it in court, and he thought you had gone completely mad, but you didn’t care. you needed him to know that your heart was his and his alone.
he took a shaky breath and, following in your bravery, removed a single gauntlet. with bare, calloused fingers, he gently placed the forget-me-not behind your ear. his love for you was deep-rooted, just like the flowers you had sewn for him. he would never forget, he could never forget, the tender bloom of romance with each lingering look and exchange of soft petals.
Pairing: Clark Kent x Female!Reader
Word Count: 860
Tags: softdom!clark, workplace power dynamics/role reversal, smut (piv), aftercare
Synopsis: At the Daily Planet, Clark Kent answers to you, but at night, he's the one in control.
Read on Ao3
You spend every day telling people what to do: assigning stories, chasing deadlines, and smoothing out drafts that should’ve been clean two rounds ago. As Managing Editor, you’re Perry’s right hand and largely responsible for wrangling the Daily Planet’s chaos into something printable. Junior and senior editors alike defer to you, interns fear you, and even the most seasoned reporters know better than to test your patience.
That includes Clark Kent.
You’ve returned several drafts to his desk, each sea of red-penned critiques sending a faint blush creeping across his cheeks. But he never argued, just gave you that bashful smile of his before hurrying to make the changes.
That’s Clark in daylight: obliging, mild-mannered, almost shy. He lingers like a shadow in the bullpen while everyone else fills the space.
But at night, it’s different. He’s different.
Because in Clark’s apartment, underneath his sheets, you don’t want to be the one in charge. Not anymore, and he knows it.
“Hands up for me,” he murmurs, voice low in your ear. His glasses are abandoned on the nightstand, hair mussed from your grip. You obey without hesitation and rest the backs of your hands against the cool surface of the wooden headboard.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Just like that.” Clark praises you, his mouth grazing the column of your throat. One strong hand pins your wrists in place, the other braces by your head, the solid wall of his body a stark reminder of how easily he could overpower you. How impossible it would be to fight him, not that you would ever need to.
“You’ve done enough today,” he whispers, his lips trailing lower until his teeth catch gently between your breasts and draw a gasp from you. “Let me take care of you.”
“Yes, please—“
He swallows your desperate plea with a heated kiss as he presses into you slowly.
The sound that escapes you is nothing like the sharp, controlled voice you use in the newsroom. Rather, it’s raw and unbridled, breaking around his name. He moves with patience, each thrust deep and measured.
Clark sinks in deeper, the headboard knocking softly with his steady rhythm. Sweat beads along his brow, a few strands of dark hair falling loose as he watches you with a reverence that unfurls something deep within your chest. His lips part with ragged breaths, whispering your name like a prayer.
“You feel so good,” he groans against your skin as he lowers his mouth to your shoulder, kissing the hollow there before dragging his lips higher to your jaw. “So perfect.”
You try to move your hands to his back, desperate for something to ground you, but he only holds your wrists tighter. His free hand slips to your hip, guiding you against him, urging you closer to the edge.
You wrap your trembling legs around his waist. “Clark, I’m gonna—“
“That’s it, honey,” he coaxes softly. “Let go for me.”
Your warmth clenches around him as you release, your cry muffled in your own ears by the white-hot rush surging through you. Clark holds you steady as tremors shudder through your body and kisses you quiet once more. His hips keep driving into you until he follows you over the edge with a deep moan of your name.
For a long moment, all you can do is cling to him, arms finally free to wrap around his shoulders. Clark rests his face against the crook of your neck, breathing hard, his weight sinking you further into the mattress. It’s just you and him. No Planet. No stress. No feeling like you’re carrying the weight of everything on your shoulders alone. Just him anchoring you to peace, quiet, bliss.
When the haze begins to clear, he eases back just enough to see you beneath him. His hand comes up to cradle your face, thumb warm against your damp cheek.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rough but tender.
At your little nod, he smiles. It’s that same boyish smile from the newsroom, but sweeter now, private. He kisses your forehead, then your nose, and finally your lips before reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand. He holds it up to your lips while you drink.
You barely rest back against the pillows before Clark is already up and preparing a wet washcloth. A faint curve tugs at your lips as you watch him move, the muscles of his back caught in the dim lamplight, softened by shadow.
He returns to your side and his touch is careful and unhurried as he cleans between your thighs, where the ache of him still lingers.
Afterward, he presses a kiss to your knee before pulling the sheets up around you both. Clark tucks you against his chest, the steady beat of his heart against your back lulling you toward sleep.
You let out a content sigh. “You still have to fix that draft tomorrow.”
He can’t help but laugh as he intertwines his legs with yours. “I will. But for now, just rest, sweetheart.”
Wrapped up in his strong arms, the curve of your body resting perfectly in his, you let yourself do exactly that.
Pairing: Clark Kent x Female!Reader
Word Count: 1.1k
Tags: mirror sex, dom/sub dynamics (f!dom, sub!clark), power play, praise kink, oral sex (m&f!receiving), piv sex, semi-public sex (elevator)
Synopsis: Stuck in a stalled elevator, you watch Clark unravel across every reflective surface: eager, obedient, and desperate to please.
A/N: Written for Kinktober Day 20: Mirror Sex (plus a healthy dose of the wall sex bonus prompt).
The staff meeting had been a joke. Perry’s voice droned on in the background, but all you could focus on was the way Clark kept trying not to look at you. Poor thing had been wound tight the entire hour, fists clenched in his lap, jaw locked so tight it looked painful. You could practically see the pulse hammering at his throat. It was pathetic, really.
So, just to be funny, you brushed your knee against his. The touch was light, barely there, but he flinched like you’d burned him.
Worse, his cock twitched in his slacks, obvious enough that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. You didn’t do anything else. Just let the tension simmer. Let him squirm.
Now, it’s just the two of you in the elevator, side-by-side once again. He’s perfectly still, eyes fixed ahead, like the floor buttons are suddenly fascinating.
The doors close with a sharp ding, and the hum of the lift kicks up beneath your feet. Then—click—you hit the emergency stop.
The elevator groans to a halt, and the overhead lights stutter.
Clark’s head snaps toward you, eyes wide behind his fogged-up glasses. “What are you doing?”
You lean back against the mirrored wall, feigning innocence. “Nothing.”
He doesn’t believe you for a second. His gaze drops to your mouth, then your neckline, and then lower. When he looks back up, he’s already breathing harder. His hands twitch like he doesn’t trust them.
“Don’t,” he says. It sounds like a warning. A plea.
You take step closer. “Don’t what?”
His voice cracks. “Please. You’re gonna ruin me.”
You place a few teasing kisses along his jaw. “Already have.”
That’s all it takes. His mouth crashes into yours, messy and frantic, like he can’t think anymore, can’t breathe unless it’s into your mouth. His hands are everywhere—your hips, your ass, your tits—as he pushes you back into the wall.
Your hands are already at his belt, tugging it loose. His hips jerk forward, helpless, like he’s trying so hard to be good but unraveling anyway.
Then you spin him so he’s against the wall now, and he lets you.
“Turn around,” you murmur.
“What—?”
You grip his shoulder and guide him firmly. “Mirror, Clark. Face it.”
He obeys instantly.
He braces his hands against the reflective surface, chest rising too fast. You tug the waistband of his slacks and boxers down just enough for your fingers to curl around him. He’s already leaking.
You stroke him once—slow and cruel—and watch his knees almost give out.
“Eyes up,” you command. “Watch yourself.”
His gaze lifts to meet yours in the stainless steel. He looks wrecked: lips parted, face flushed, glasses slipping. His breath stutters when you speed up, hand unyielding in its movements.
“Just like that,” you whisper. “Good boy.”
He whimpers.
“That feel good?” you murmur into his shoulder. “You like watching me do this to you?”
He can barely nod in response.
“Look at you,” you breathe. “So sweet. So sensitive. Getting off in an elevator like some needy little thing.”
“God,” he groans. “Please—I’m gonna—”
“Then do it,” you say, stroking him harder. “Come for me. Let me see.”
He chokes on a moan as he shudders apart in your hand, forehead pressed to the wall. The metal fogs with his breath, streaked with sweat and the heat of his release.
You hold him through it, slowing your hand, murmuring soft filth into his ear. “That’s it. So good. So pretty when you break.”
He’s still trembling when you let go. Then, voice low and unsteady: “Your turn.”
Before you can answer, he turns and drops to his knees.
“Clark—”
“Shh.” He hikes your skirt up and slides your thong aside, pressing reverent kisses to your inner thigh. “You let me come. Let me return the favor.”
Your back hits the wall. His mouth finds your aching cunt as your hands tangle in his curly hair.
He licks your folds like it’s oxygen, tongue strokes thick and greedy. His grip on your hips is tight, anchoring you while he works you open.
“Clark—fuck—” You can’t stop watching him in the reflection: his head bowed, shoulders moving in that desperate rhythm as he works his mouth over you. To have a man so patient and composed to the world on his knees for you, at your beck and call, it’s exhilarating.
He groans when you grind against him, and the deep vibration undoes you. The world blurs in a white-hot and overwhelming haze. Your thighs shake, and you come apart against his mouth as your breath stutters.
He stays against you, gentle licks and soft kisses easing you down from the high. When you finally tug him up by the hair, he’s panting and half-lidded. He kisses you open-mouthed, tasting of everything he just did.
“I need to be inside you,” he rasps against your lips, voice wrecked with need.
You line him up to your pulsing entrance, his length warm and thick in your hand. Your leg hooks tight around his hip. “Then do it.”
He presses in with a groan, one arm at your waist, the other braced beside your head. You both gasp. The elevator rattles with each frantic thrust, and he leaves feverish kisses along the column your throat.
“You’re doing so good,” you gasp. “So deep—fuck, Clark—”
He whines. “Please—I’m so close—”
You tighten around him, nails raking down his back. “Be a good boy and come inside me.”
He breaks at your words. A sob tears from his chest as he spills inside you, hips stuttering, face buried in your neck.
You don’t move for a while after that. Neither does he. You both try to catch your breath, chests pressed together, the steel behind you still fogged.
Eventually, you reach behind him and flip the red switch back into place. The elevator jolts alive again and begins its long climb upwards.
Clark pulls back slightly. His eyes are dazed, his voice soft. “Thank you.”
You glance over, arching a brow. “Don’t thank me.” Your voice is cool as you adjust your skirt. “That was for me. Not you.”
He swallows hard, nods. The color in his face is already rising again.
The doors slide open with a polite chime. You step out first, already composed. Behind you, he’s still adjusting his clothes, trying to tuck himself back into the version of Clark Kent everyone else sees.
You don’t look back because you don’t need to. You already know he’s watching you go.
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated <3 Not a part two, but if you're craving more desperate Clark, check out Buried Lede (Kinktober Day 1: Masturbation).
