Storytime and Brain Doodles

“a rodeo,” he repeated from the kitchen, one hand on the fridge door. “in this heat?”

you sat at the table, chin in your hand. “yes.”

“it’ll be loud.”

“probably.”

“full of folks.”

“that is usually how events work.”

arthur gave you a look and you smiled sweetly right back at him.

he sighed like he had suffered greatly. “parking’ll be a nightmare.”

“you have a truck.”

“so does every other fool in the county.”

“arthur.”

“what?”

“i want to go.”

that did it. you watched the argument leave him in real time, slow and reluctant, his jaw shifting like he was annoyed at how easily you had won.

“fine.”

you grinned. “fine?”

“don’t make me say it twice.”

“you want to take me to the rodeo.”

“i did not say that.”

“that’s arthur for ‘i’d love to.’”

he pointed at you. “watch yourself.”

you laughed, and despite himself, his mouth twitched.

by saturday, for someone who supposedly did not want to go, arthur had filled the truck, checked the tires, packed water, and thrown an old blanket in the back seat.

“you’re awfully prepared,” you said, watching him shut the tailgate.

“heatstroke ain’t cute.”

“you think i’m cute?”

he looked at you from beneath the brim of his hat. “that what you got from that?”

“mhm.”

he shook his head, but his eyes were warm. “get in the truck.”

he opened the passenger door for you, hand steady at your waist as you climbed in. you had changed twice before deciding on a white skirt, boots, and a soft top that had made him look at you for half a second too long when you came downstairs.

on the drive out, the windows were cracked, country music played low from the radio, and arthur’s hand rested warm on your thigh like it belonged there.

“you’ve been to rodeos before, haven’t you?” you asked.

his eyes stayed on the road. “few.”

“few as in watched, or few as in rode?”

he was quiet for half a second too long.

you sat up straighter. “arthur.”

“what?”

“you rode?”

“long time ago.”

“and you didn’t tell me?”

“never came up.”

“i’ve been talking about this rodeo all week.”

“you were excited. didn’t wanna interrupt.”

“with the fact that my boyfriend used to ride in rodeos?”

his mouth twitched.

you narrowed your eyes. “bull riding?”

his silence answered before he did.

“arthur morgan.”

“don’t start.”

“you rode bulls?”

“a few.”

“a few?”

“more than a few.”

you laughed, delighted, and his hand squeezed your thigh once before returning to the wheel.

“are you riding today?”

“hell no.”

“why not?”

“because i ain’t twenty-two and stupid anymore.”

“you’re still a little stupid.”

he glanced over. “sweetheart.”

by the time you reached the rodeo grounds, the sun had dropped low enough to turn everything gold. trucks lined the field, dust lifted beneath boots, and the air smelled like fried food, livestock, summer heat, and beer. music drifted from somewhere near the stalls, mixed with the announcer’s crackling voice and the low, restless sound of cattle behind the chutes.

arthur was right about the parking. naturally, he mentioned it.

“told you.”

“you did.”

“oughta listen to me more.”

“i listen to you plenty.”

“could stand to do it a little more.”

you rolled your eyes, but when he came around and opened your door, you still let him take your hand. inside, he kept close without making a show of it. his hand found your lower back when the crowd thickened. he bought you lemonade and complained about the price. he wiped dust from the bleacher before you sat down. every time someone passed too close, his body shifted subtly nearer to yours.

the rodeo started with roping, then barrel racing, then bronc riding. you cheered more than he did, but he watched everything with a quiet, assessing eye. now and then he leaned close to explain something over the noise, his voice low by your ear, his knee pressed against yours. you were having a good time. arthur noticed.

“you’re starin’,” you said, catching him looking at you instead of the arena.

“am not.”

“you are.”

“just makin’ sure you’re enjoyin’ yourself.”

“that’s staring.”

“that’s supervision.”

you laughed, and his expression softened before he could stop it.

then came the bull riding. the crowd changed for it, louder and sharper, hungry with anticipation. down by the chutes, a bull slammed hard into the rails, making the metal rattle. arthur’s posture changed beside you. his shoulders drew back. his gaze sharpened. his hand flexed once on his knee.

“you miss it?” you asked.

he did not look at you. “miss what?”

“that.”

he watched as the first rider settled onto the bull’s back.

“sometimes,” he said.

the answer surprised you. then the gate opened. the bull exploded out, twisting hard enough to throw the rider in a few seconds. the crowd shouted as men ran in to draw the animal away. arthur watched with a faint curve to his mouth.

“he leaned too far back,” he said.

you looked at him. “you’re judging?”

“observin’.”

“you are absolutely judging.”

“little bit.”

before you could answer, a man near the chutes spotted him and started grinning. arthur went still.

“do you know him?” you asked.

“unfortunately.”

the man made his way over, far too pleased with himself. “morgan?”

arthur sighed. “tom.”

“i knew that was you. damn, boy, you got old.”

“you got loud.”

tom laughed, then looked at you. “and who’s this?”

arthur’s arm shifted along the back of the bench behind you, casual but unmistakable.

“my girlfriend.”

your stomach fluttered at the simple certainty of it.

tom tipped his hat. “ma’am. you know this man used to ride?”

“i just found out.”

“shameful, keepin’ secrets like that.” tom looked back at arthur. “we’re short one rider for the exhibition round.”

arthur’s answer was immediate. “no.”

“i ain’t even asked.”

“i heard enough.”

you sat up a little and arthur noticed instantly.

“don’t,” he said.

you blinked innocently. “i didn’t say anything.”

“you got that look.”

“what look?”

“the one that gets me in trouble.”

tom laughed. “she wants to see it.”

“she does not.”

you tried to keep your face neutral. and you failed terribly arthur looked at you.

“no.”

“i didn’t ask.”

“you’re about to.”

“you don’t have to,” you said, which was true. then, less helpfully, “but i would like to see it.”

his jaw worked.

“course you would.”

“only if you want to.”

“that ain’t fair.”

“what?"

“sayin’ it sweet.”

in the end, arthur went. grumbling the whole way.

he stripped off his jacket near the chutes, accepted a vest and gloves from tom, and rolled his shoulders like his body remembered before his mind could complain. watching him down there changed something in the air. he looked different with his hat low and his jaw set, broad and calm among the noise, pulling on a glove with his teeth as if fear was something he had met before and never much liked.

your mouth went dry. oh. that was inconvenient.

arthur swung himself down into the chute, settling onto the bull’s back with a practiced ease that made the crowd around you murmur. the animal slammed against the gate beneath him. arthur adjusted his grip, head bowed, one hand tight around the rope.

then he looked up. his eyes found you. and smiled. not sweetly. not softly. a small, knowing curve of his mouth, like he knew exactly what this was doing to you.

the gate opened. the bull came out like a storm. everything happened at once. the roar of the crowd, the announcer shouting, dust kicking up beneath the arena lights. the bull twisted hard left, snapped right, dropped and surged with enough violence to make your stomach lurch.

arthur moved with it. one hand locked around the rope, the other lifted loose in the air, his thighs tight, his body snapping with the motion and finding its balance again. hat still on. jaw clenched. shoulders strong.

you forgot to cheer. you forgot to breathe.

the buzzer sounded.

arthur released and threw himself clear, hitting the dirt hard but rolling with it. the bull kicked past him, men running in to draw it away, and for one terrifying second you lost him in the dust. then he stood. the crowd went wild. arthur pushed his hat back, breathing hard, dirt streaked across his jeans and one sleeve. tom slapped him on the back. arthur shook his head like he was annoyed by the attention, but even from the stands you could see the grin he was failing to hide.

then he looked up at you. you were absolutely staring. he noticed. by the time he made his way back, you had not recovered. arthur climbed the bleacher steps slowly, dust on his boots, sleeves rolled to his forearms, shirt clinging slightly at the collar from sweat. there was dirt along his jaw and a faint flush high on his cheekbones.

“you alright?” he asked, his tone casual. his eyes were not.

“fine.”

“fine,” he repeated.

“yes.”

he rested one hand on the rail beside you and leaned closer. “you got real quiet.”

“i was watching.”

“yeah,” he said. “i noticed.”

heat rushed up your neck.

“you were good.”

arthur’s mouth twitched. “good?”

“very good.”

“that all?”

you looked back at him. that was a mistake. he was close enough now that the dust and sweat and adrenaline of the arena clung to him, sharpening every familiar thing about him into something almost unbearable.

“what do you want me to say?”

arthur’s eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.

“nothin’.”

that was a lie. you stood because sitting still had become impossible.

“you’re being smug.”

“am i?”

“yes.”

“maybe i just like knowin’ my girl enjoyed the show.”

my girl. your stomach dipped and arthur saw it happen. his expression shifted, not into a grin exactly, but something quieter and far more dangerous.

“you did, didn’t you?”

you swallowed. “maybe.”

“maybe,” he repeated, unimpressed.

his hand moved to your waist, thumb pressing once, slow, against the fabric of your top.

“you wanna walk?” it sounded innocent.

the two of you ended up wandering the edge of the grounds, where the crowd thinned and the lights glowed warm against the evening sky. you tried to look at stalls. belt buckles. leather bracelets. anything that was not arthur.

“you been awful quiet since the ride.”

“i’m tired.”

“liar.”

he stepped closer behind you, chest nearly brushing your shoulder. “you mad i rode?”

you almost laughed. “mad?”

“you look bothered.”

“i am bothered.”

his hand settled at your hip, guiding you out of the path of people passing behind you.

“bad bothered?”

you turned your head and found his face much closer than expected. the teasing slipped back just enough for something gentler to show through.

“no,” you said softly. “not bad.”

his gaze lowered to your mouth.

“good.”

eventually, you stole his hat. mostly because he bent to pick up the straw you’d dropped from your lemonade, and temptation presented itself. when he straightened and saw it sitting on your head, he went very still.

you smiled. “what?”

his eyes moved over you slowly. the hat. your face beneath it. your mouth trying not to smile. the rest of you in jeans and boots and soft evening light.

“give it back.”

“no.”

“that’s my hat.”

“i know.”

“you got your own.”

“i like yours.”

his jaw shifted. you had meant to tease him. you had not expected that look. arthur stepped closer, the crowd noise fading around you until there was only him.

“you like testin’ me tonight?”

your pulse jumped.

“maybe.”

there was that word again. his eyes darkened.

“careful.”

“or what?”

arthur looked at you for a long moment. then he took your hand and started walking.

“arthur,” you said, trying not to laugh. “where are we going?”

“truck.”

“why?”

he glanced back at you once, expression unreadable beneath the lights, his hand warm and firm around yours.

“because you’re wearin’ my hat and lookin’ at me like that.”

your mouth went dry.

“like what?”

he gave a low laugh.

“don’t play innocent now.”

the rodeo grew softer behind you as he led you through the rows of parked trucks. the sky had darkened fully, stars faint above the field, dust lifting beneath your boots. arthur’s truck sat near the back, half-shadowed beneath a tree. he opened the passenger door for you out of habit, but when you turned to climb in, he did not step back. instead, he stayed close.

one hand on the open door, the other on the truck beside your waist, not touching you yet but boxing you in just enough to make your breath catch. you looked up at him from beneath the brim of his hat. his eyes dropped to it again.

“you know what that does to me?”

your voice came out softer than intended. “the hat?”

“you in it.”

your stomach flipped. arthur lifted a hand and adjusted the brim, pushing it back just enough to see your face properly. his fingers lingered there, then traced lightly down to your cheek. there was still a streak of dirt near his jaw from the arena, and you reached up before thinking, brushing your thumb over it.

“you’re still dirty,” you murmured.

his mouth curved. “you complainin’?”

“no.”

“good.”

his hand slid to your waist then, warm and certain, drawing you closer.

“you were showing off,” you said.

“little bit.”

“for me?”

his gaze held yours.

“who else would i be showin’ off for?”

your hands found the front of his shirt, fingers curling lightly into the fabric.

“you looked good,” you admitted.

“yeah?”

“you know you did.”

he leaned in slightly, his nose brushing yours.

“wanted to hear you say it.”

you inhaled, but it caught somewhere in your chest. arthur kissed you before you could answer. it started slow, almost controlled. that was the dangerous thing about him. even when he wanted, he held himself back like restraint was built into his bones. his mouth moved against yours with a heat that built gradually, his hand tightening at your waist as you leaned into him. then your fingers slid up into his hair, knocking the hat slightly back. arthur made a quiet sound against your mouth.

after that, the restraint thinned. he pressed you back against the side of the truck, one hand braced near your head, the other firm at your waist. the metal was still warm from the day. he was warmer. you could taste lemonade on him, dust, summer, something unmistakably arthur. when he broke the kiss, he did not move far.

his forehead rested against yours. both of you were breathing harder than before.

“we should go,” he said.

you opened your eyes. “home?”

his thumb moved slowly at your waist.

“unless you wanna go back and watch more bull ridin’.”

you laughed breathlessly. arthur’s eyes warmed, but the heat in them did not leave. you touched the brim of his hat, still on your head.

“can i keep this on?”

his expression changed so quickly you almost felt powerful. arthur opened the passenger door wider.

“get in the truck.”

you grinned. “bossy.”

he leaned close, mouth brushing your ear.

“sweetheart,” he murmured, low enough to send a shiver through you, “you ain’t seen bossy.”

then he stepped back and helped you into the truck like a gentleman, as if he had not just kissed you senseless against the passenger door. because that was arthur.

half tenderness. half trouble. all yours.

the truck had barely cleared the rodeo parking lot before arthur’s hand tightened on the wheel. you noticed.

“arthur?”

he glanced over, eyes dropping once more to the hat still sitting low on your head. then he looked back at the road and exhaled through his nose, almost like he was trying to behave and losing the fight.

“you keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said, voice low, “we ain’t makin’ it home.”

your stomach dipped.

“like what?”

arthur gave a quiet, rough laugh and pulled the truck onto the shoulder, dust lifting in the headlights as he brought it to a stop.

“there you go again,” he murmured, killing the engine. “playin’ innocent.”

before you could breathe, his hand shot across the console, gripping your waist and hauling you over the center console. you gasped, your legs sprawling across the leather as you landed straddling his lap. the hat tipped forward, nearly covering your eyes, but you didn't move to fix it. you liked the way he looked at you from under that brim.

arthur’s large hands clamped onto your hips, bruisingly tight, pinning you against him. he could feel you soaking through your clothes, and a low, guttural sound escaped his throat.

“look at you,” he murmured against your throat. “been teasin’ me all damn night and actin’ like you don’t know it.”

"“that ride get you all worked up, sweetheart?” he asked, mouth brushing your ear. “or was it the hat?”

he reached down, fumbling with his belt and zipper with an urgency that bordered on desperation. when he freed his cock, it was thick and pulsing, straining against the air. he gripped the base of his shaft, guiding the head to your entrance, and then, with one powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside you.

you screamed into the crook of his neck, your fingers digging into the dusty fabric of his shirt. the fit was tight, stretching you open, filling every inch of you.

"fuck," arthur groaned, his head falling back against the headrest. "you're so tight... like a vice."

you began to move, lifting your hips and sliding down onto him in a slow, grinding rhythm. every time you sank down, the brim of the hat wobbled, but it stayed firmly on your head, a constant reminder of who you belonged to in this moment.

arthur’s hands moved from your hips to your breasts, squeezing them hard through the fabric, his thumbs rubbing your nipples into hard peaks. he started talking dirty, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated against your chest.

"ride it, sweetheart. just like a pro," he teased, his hips bucking upward to meet your descent. "take it all. I want you to feel every inch of me stretching you out. you like being my little rodeo girl, don't you? taking this big cock while we're right here in the dirt?"

the pace quickened. the truck rocked on its suspension, the rhythmic thud-thud of the chassis matching the wet, slapping sound of your bodies colliding. you were breathless, your vision swimming, the scent of leather, dust, and raw sex filling the air.

"i'm gonna... i'm gonna fill you up," arthur gasped, his grip on your waist tightening until his knuckles were white. he began to thrust upward with violent intensity, driving himself into you with a force that threatened to break you. "i'm gonna cum so deep inside you that you'll feel it for a week. you're mine. every fucking bit of you."

the friction became unbearable, a white-hot tension building in your core. you felt your walls clench around him, milking him, and that was the breaking point. with one final, devastating surge, arthur let out a loud, guttural roar, his body stiffening as he blasted hot ropes deep into your womb.

you collapsed against him, sobbing for air, your chest heaving. arthur held you there for a long time, his heart hammering against your ribs, his breath ragged. he reached up, gently tipping the brim of the hat back so he could see your flushed, ruined face. he kissed you deeply, tasting the salt and the heat, before whispering against your lips.

before he started the truck again, arthur reached across and fixed your shirt with a gentleness that made your chest feel strange after the heat of him. then he adjusted the brim of his hat on your head, thumb brushing your cheek.

“you alright?” he asked, quieter now.

you nodded. his eyes searched yours for another second before he leaned in and kissed you once, slow and soft.

“good,” he murmured. “let’s get you home.”

you leaned back in the seat, still wearing his hat. he noticed every time

thank u all for reading! i hope you enjoy some tasty modern!arthur! i enjoyed writing this one and exploring this! all feedback is welcome🥺💕

Arthur Morgan was not the type of man you just...walked up to, not without consquenses.

An intimidating man, one who could shoot you a look that was enough to know not to approach him, and there were only a couple reasons for ANYONE to approach him at all.

Either you knew him, personally, and knew you weren't someone he planned on punching, or you were dumb enough to believe that you could take him on in a fight.

if someone thought the second...they were always in the wrong.

In fact, the amount of men who'd tried to take on one Arthur Morgan over the years was astonishing.

Looking at Arthur, it was easy to tell that he could take a few hits no problem, he was wide shouldered and tall, and not one bit of him was something you'd use the word small for.

Why people seemed to think they could take him in a fight was always lost on him.

That's not to say there weren't a few hard fights over the years. He'd had his nose broken more times than he could count, hence why it'd healed crookedly, a few scars and broken bones is all he'd ever recieved, which is much better than what he can say the other recieving end had gotten.

You pick a fight with Arthur Morgan and you either walk away with brain damage or permanent bodily damage at the least...or, you don't walk away at all.

If you asked Dutch, he would tell you Arthur is nothing more than a killing machine, and that to cross him is a death sentence. Which, isn't entirely wrong.

If you were to ask Hosea...He would say something similar, but he'd be sure to tell you that Arthur was always fair before he dished out a punishment.

He didn't go around punching people for fun. Not like he used to anyway.

When he was younger, just growing into that body of his, that strange growth spurt between skinny and large, he spent a lot of time boxing for fun. At the time, it made him feel unstoppable to be able to know that he could knock out opponent after opponent without breaking a sweat. As he got older and his knuckles got worse he got more selective with when he threw a punch.

Not to say he stopped loving the thrill of it. No, he loved the thrill of it...sometimes. When it was someone who deserved a good punching anyway.

Still, the same principal applies, you don't approach the man, not unless you have a death wish, or you know him.

So when you approached him one day, without previously knowing him, or a look of determination on your face, you thoroughly confused him. What purpose could you have to approach him if it wasn't to start something?

When you started talking to him, like you'd known him all your life, you confused him further, if that was possible.

It didn't make much sense to him.

You were a lot different than he was. Patient and kind, and...not really outgoing per-say, but you made conversation a hell of a lot easier than he did.

After a while he stopped being so skeptical and let you talk to him without giving you a look.

Eventually he started talking back, and you found out very quickly that he was funnier than he looked.

And, at some point, you found out he’s a lot sweeter than he lets on too. More often than not he’d bring you coffee when he knew the chances of you c’mon around were higher, plus his little comments here and there he never truly admitted he said.

Don’t let it fool you though. He was still guarded. He looked at you funny when you’d sit too close, or when you’d touch his shoulder while you laughed.

It truly confused him.

It only took him about three months to realize it was because you LIKED him. Granted…someone else told him that…so he probably wouldn’t have figured it out.

He wasn’t quite sure what there was to like, and he WAS sure that if you saw him fight you’d stop liking him real quick.

When he figured out why you were hanging around he started to get more confident again, as he usually was, without the confusion he could…relax.

Everything seems to be going well until one day he comes back to camp, knuckles bloody, split lip, and bleeding nose. Pissed off and fists bared.

You practically corner him until he lets you treat his wounds.

You wrap his knuckles silently, frowning when even the smallest hint of staining shows up on the white cloth.

“…Jus’ how I am.” He mutters softly. “Get into fights. Cause problems. I don’t always start the fight but I end ‘em.”

“Why’d this one start?”

“Guy was ooglin’ Tilly while we were in town…Tilly’s practically a child, I…swooped in.”

“…I fail to see the issue.” You murmur.

“Maybe this one didn’t have an issue, but..most fights I get into cause I’m a stubborn bastard.”

“Yeah? Is that so?”

“Tha’s so.”

“Bet you looked good doin’ it though.”

“Excuse me?” His eyes flick up to you, an incredulous look in his eyes.

“You heard me.”

“I heard ya, but ya sound crazy.”

You offer him a soft laugh and finish cleaning up his wounds, then, in a rather bold move on your part, you bend down and kiss his forehead.

“Maybe. But I still think you’d look handsome…well…hot is a better word, layin’ out some idiot.”

Arthur just…stares. Like you’ve bewitched him, a look of pure bewilderment in his eyes.

“What? What’s that look for?”

He simply shakes his head and stands, groaning as he pushes that large body of his upright.

“Darlin’…you are the craziest person I’ve ever met.”

“What? Why-“

“Nothin’ don’t worry about it.”

He chuckles softly and then pats your shoulder before he starts to head out.

“Thanks for patchin’ me. I won’t forget it.”

He returns to his normal behavior, for the most part, he seems a bit more relaxed now, he even flirts with you, at least you think it’s flirting. He seems…happy, which is new for him.

He doesn’t smile much around camp but when he sees you? He lights up like a lantern. Warm and slow.

People comment, say he’s gotten soft. Say he’s not as tough as he used to be, which typically lands the commenter on the ground, clutching their jaw, or, at the very least, a scared look in their eye as they move out of Arthur’s path.

None of it stopped him from hanging out with you though.

The longer it went on, the more he seemed to fall into the idea of having more with you.

The nickname calling only grew more and more often, ‘darlin’’, ‘sweetpea’, ‘sweetheart’. Not that you were complaining.

Eventually he even started asking you to come and go on his little adventures outside of camp. Packing up tents and supplies and heading out on horses at the crack of dawn.

It’s on one of these trips where you finally confess your feelings to him, though it was fairly obvious.

It was a soft confession, quiet in comparison to how you usually speak to the man. Like you were afraid that finally admitting it was more than a physical attraction thing made it real. Made it…scarier.

“…and it’s something I’ve been too…nervous to tell you.” You state quietly, poking the fire in front of you with a stick you’d found nearby.

“Nervous? You ain’t never nervous to tell me somethin’.” Arthur snorts, still finishing up his tent.

“Well it’s…big.”

“Big? What like…what you…you leavin’ the gang or somethin’?” He asks, and there’s a quiet sadness within the words. So quiet you’re lucky you notice it.

“No. No, nothing like that.” You take a deep breath, and swallow, hoping you didn’t stutter of your words.

“I like you. Arthur.” You mumble. “More than I should.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Tilly pointed it out months ago.”

“And you never said anything!?”

“Didn’t wanna rush you.”

“You should have!”

Arthur chuckles and makes his way over to you, sitting down with a groan next to you.

“You WANTED me to pressure you into confessing?”

“Well I coulda kissed you already if you knew-“

“Or you could jus’ do it right now.”

That’s when your face warms, and before you can really say anything he grabs your face, and kisses you.

It’s softer than you expected. Gentler than you thought.

It’s sweet.

You’re lost. Lost to him, any thought is out the window and you kiss him back, harder, with more want.

Your hands move across his chest, and then down his torso, then to his thighs.

He didn’t seem to mind.

And you didn’t seem to mind when his hands wandered under your shirt.

Neither of you seemed to mind when the two of you ended up naked and tangled together in the tent, breathing hard and both of you spent.

And it turns out he was…sweet. As a lover. The whole time he talked you through it. Told you how good you were doing, how good you made him feel.

Much…different than you expected, for a man of his size. Though…he never ceased to surprise you with his kindness.

You were happy.

He was happy.