I’m on fire - Arthur Morgan/fem!abused!reader
Intro: basically I’m writing on my phone for the first time, it’s 1:00 am, and I have a headache. So bear w me. This fic is based off of Bruce Springsteens song of the same name ;) This fic will hopefully be chaptered and is loosely inspired by aspects of my life.
CW: mentions of non-graphic abuse, age gap (Arthur is 36-40, reader is in early 20s)
Ok now that’s out of the way I hope you enjoy it :P
You scrub the dishes, occasionally looking back at your father who rests in his recliner, TV far too loud, watching the news and grumbling. Your pruny fingers slip on the sponge as you swipe it over the dirty plate your father berated you for not cleaning last night.
Memories of his shouts entered your mind. How your heartbeat made your body tremble so hard that you saw you hair bounce in tandem with its increased rhythm. He never hit you. Not once.
He seemed oddly proud of that fact, as if that weren’t the bare minimum for a parent. But every wall he punched and “forgot” to patch was just to show you how much he wanted to replace that wall with you.
Even though he never laid a hand on you, every single time he shouted it felt like that was the day. The day his meager self control would snap. The day you’d officially sport a bruise. Maybe then it would be abuse. Maybe after you’re black and blue, you can call it what it’s always been. Abuse. But until that happens… it’s just your life.
You take deep breaths to remember that it’s all in the past. Well, if you consider a few hours ago to be the past. A knock on the door pulls you to reality. You wipe your hands on a towel and walk up to the scuffed door that never looked cleaner no matter how many magic erasers you used on it.
You cautiously opened the door, only to spot your neighbor. He hasn’t been around long, just over a few years. He somehow took one of the worst mobile homes in “Southside Estates” and turned it into a right livable place. He was still a man, bare yard accented only with a homemade sign reading “Nothing Inside worth dying for” decorated with a few bullet holes.
Your grandmother owned this doublewide, and your mother inherited it after she passed. With your mom gone since you were a kid, it was just you and your dad. The back yard had a big tree and a picnic table. Whenever being inside felt anything but safe, you’d climb the tree and whisper stories to yourself.
“Hey, little girl,” Arthur smiled softly, “is your daddy home?”
His southern drawl was further west than your accent, the difference perceptible only to other southerners.
“Uhm, uh-“ you took a deep breath, “yes. But… I don’t know if he up to-“
“Girl! What are you doing?” Your father shouted.
“Arthur’s at the door, daddy.” You sighed.
You heard the leather creak as he got up, “Well hello there, Arthur. How’re you gettin on?”
Watching the switch flip on your father’s personality never failed to tighten your throat, eyes stinging.
“I got that motor running for ya, just though I’d-“ Arthur often helped your father with his old truck he refused to let go of. Your brain turned off when they spewed jargon.
Admittedly, you stared at Arthur. You knew you had no right or reason, but you had a few mental fantasies attached to him. Nothing crazy, mainly domestic ideas to comfort yourself before bed. To think about when you woke up shaking with cortisol in the morning.
You sat on the concrete steps that led to your front door, tank top straps threatening to slip off your shoulders. Jean shorts barely covering your thighs against the hot concrete pressed against them.
You watched as Arthur stood with his hands on his hips, occasionally rubbing his stubble with his calloused hand.
He looks in your direction with a wink so quick you nearly miss it. That small gesture would be enough to keep you going for days.
You blushed and bit your tongue to keep from smiling, tilting your head away from them in an effort to hide.
“Alright, sir. Thanks for all this, how much I owe ya?” Your father smiled charismatically, making your stomach twist.
“Naw, ain’t gotta do all that. Got a glass a water?”
That was the worst part. Arthur was none the wiser to your father’s true nature. The one person you convinced yourself saw you was just yet another prison guard.
“Girl, get Mr. Morgan a water, will you?”
You nodded silently and did as he told you, not too worried about him lashing out in front of someone else. It wouldn’t be the first time, but it was pretty rare.
Your fingertips brushed his as you handed Arthur the glass, suddenly making you hyper aware of the heady heat of midday.
You didn’t want to leave, but you could tell your dad wanted you to go back inside. You slinked away dismally, peeking through the kitchen curtains to watch Arthur longer. He lingered in the yard, conversing.
He looked to the window, catching you in the act. You quickly disappear, but not without noticing the small smirk he donned after spotting you.
Your stomach flipped. You knew he was simply teasing you, your 10+ age difference rendering you sister-like. He’d practically seen you grow up, even if he moved here when you had just turned 18.
You knew it was all in your imagination, but these days, what else does a girl have?
You watch as they part ways, your father making his way inside. Arthur opens your front gate, only to look back and wave at you. He can’t see you from this angle, but he knew you were still there.
Your heart thumped in your chest, this time with excitement instead of fear.
You wake up with the sheets soaking wet, what feels like a freight train running through the middle of your head. You look outside, seeing it still dark. Your skin feels like it’s on fire. Slowly, your dream comes back to you. You and Arthur. He’s holding you tenderly, kissing tears off your cheeks and petting you as though you were an injured lamb.
Your heart crumbles, a sob threatening to rip through you. You feel suffocated, but keep the tears in regardless.
The longing you feel is almost ridiculous, especially considering how little you truly know about him. You know small details. His favorite cigarette brand. His favorite flannel, how he only wears Levi’s. What time he wakes up in the morning and the exact time the light shining in his bedroom turns off.
But you don’t know his middle name or what his mother looks like. Where he lived before or if he looked just as adorable growing up as he does when he writes in his journal.
You roll up your T-shirt, letting the cool air hit your sweat-damp skin. But you weren’t entirely sure that you’d be able to go back to sleep.
So you do something risky. You sneak onto your front stoop and take a cigarette from your secret stash. You rarely ever do, you don’t even consider yourself addicted. Simply a treat on stressful days, despite its destructive nature.
You go to light it before realizing you didn’t bring it with you. It sits snugly under your mattress, not your sleep shorts pocket. You sigh and hang your head in your hands. To risk your father hearing you move through the creaky house was too much.
“Need a light, little girl?” Arthur’s gruff voice utters just at the edge of your yard.
You grow nervous, mouth drying up, “Yes, sir… but I really shouldn’t. Not lady like.”
He chuckles, “We all deserve to relax at the end of a long day, baby.”
Your heart stutters at the name he gave you, both of them. You simply hold the death giving “treat” between your lips and watch as Arthur steps forward, bringing a gas station lighter to your lips.
He sadly steps back a bit after successfully lighting the cig. “You alright, though?”
You feel the vulnerability of the moment sting at your eyes, but you clear your throat to will it away, “Yes.”
You said it so quietly, sadly, that you aren’t sure he believed you.
He looks down at you for a moment before sitting next to you, “Ya sure?”
You huff, “I’m okay.” You manage to sound slightly more confident.
Arthur places his large hand on your thigh, engulfing it, “I worry ‘bout you, little girl.”
“I’m not a little girl anymore, Arthur.” You shift in your seat, feeling the warmth of his hand all too keenly.
He stroked his thumb slowly, “I know that… I know. I just-“
He pauses, and you look straight at him, “I just don’t like how he treats you.”
“Who? Daddy?” You slip out.
“Is he good to you?” His brow furrows, expression stern.
You pause, the lie ready and waiting on your tongue. Ready for its usual deployment. But you can’t bring yourself to lie to this man. But the words…
You hand your head and shake it, bring the cig to your lips for a long drag.
He lightly squeezes you, “… Could treat ya better…”
“Hm?” You don’t think you believe your ears.
“I’ve been watchin you.” He says softly. “Wish you could read my mind.”
“I watch you, too. ‘M sorry…” you look away shyly.
“Don’t be sorry baby…” he rubs up and down your thigh, “not when I do it too. If anyone should be sorry, it’s me.”
“Why…?” You lean towards him instinctively.
“‘M so much older than ya… and I’ve known you for a couple a’ years already.”
“Wait… how do you watch me Arthur? Like- like when I-“
He almost chokes, “No, no! Jeez I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean I watch you… livin’.”
“Oh, good. I don’t watch you… like that either.” You smile deprecatingly, “Just so you know.”
He chuckles and tucks a stray hair behind your ear, “You’re real pretty, little girl. You know that?”
You blush and look away, “Don’t tease, Arthur…”
You stare at his clear blue eyes, hazy with desire, before taking a drag and trying to forget what his eyes look like.
“You’re a big girl now, aren’t you? Guess I shouldn’t call you little no more.”
“Calling me fat?” You joked.
“I ain’t saying that…” he smirked, “Not that I’d mind.”
You whip your head to his, unable to read his emotions.
“I-I gotta go back to bed before Daddy knows I’m gone. And he’s gonna smell the smoke.”
“What would he do if he found out?” Arthur frowns.
You sigh, “Not now, Arthur.”
He nods, understanding that it’s not time for you to tell him.
“Promise me you’re safe when you shut that door.” He grabs hold of your arms.
You nod again, “I’ll be okay, Arthur. Physically.”
He sighs but nods his head with meager satisfaction. You hand your cigarette to him to finish. You walk back inside, not without stopping at the threshold to shyly wave at him.
He sits on his porch and smokes until he reaches the filter. Until the faint taste of your lip balm has long faded.
HEHEHHE did you like it? The abuse itself is based on my own father, the trailer an exact replica of my grandmas, and everything else is made up. Lmk if you need a part two. This has been on my mind for months, not quite ready to put my feelings about my dad into words.
