Oh, Arthur
pairing: Arthur x Reader
summary: Reader lives a high society life and is tired of it. When they meet a man so intriguing they can't help but let him steal a place at their dinner table, they start to hope that, maybe, there is something else to their life. Instead, they hurt him more than they may ever know.
word count: 3026
warnings: non-explicit NSFT, vague descriptions of NSFT
notes: I pulled the prompt for this from a list of phrases. I knew the general idea of what I wanted to do with it, and it took on its own life. Congratulations, Reader, you're Mary 2.0.
link on AO3
Noonday sun pierced between the curtains of the front room. The chatter of the small tea party around you was a distant hum, your focus on the spoon you held in your hand. Absentmindedly, you stirred the sugar into your tea, hardly aware of the soft clinking against the cup. Your mind was elsewhere.
Pressed against the wall, chest heaving, he kissed along your jawline and down your neck, pausing to nibble at the soft space where your neck met your shoulders. You couldn’t help but let out a soft gasp, lips parted, hands gripping the sleeves of his shirt. He smiled against your skin and exhaled, making you shiver.
The sound of your name caused your head to snap up to attention.
“Did you hear what Mrs. Hearst asked you?” Your mother stared at you expectantly. The look in her eyes was begging you to not embarrass her, but you had truthfully missed what the woman in question had asked. Heat rushed to your cheeks and you quickly pulled an apologetic smile.
“I’m so sorry,” you said graciously, dipping your head slightly, “my mind is with the clouds today. Would you mind repeating your question?”
“Oh, I do hope we’re not boring you.” Mrs. Hearst pursed her lips, accentuating the creased lines along her face that had no doubt been created solely from this repeat action. “As I was saying, my darling Charlotte has traveled to the West and is already meeting many men. She has already had three suitors calling at the door! Her brother is beside himself with contempt. Perhaps you, too, would like to go west? Unless there is someone here you have not shared with us?”
Her question hung in the air. The room was full of your mother’s friends and their children, though the rest of them were still too young to have to worry about meeting a potential spouse. You hated this conversation topic. It was always bound to come up when you had tea with these people, it was expected now after more than a few months, and you were tempted to start feigning ill when they came around.
Truthfully, you had met someone. He was the reason you were barely paying attention today. But if your family knew the type of man he was, that you were consorting with him, that you were fucking him… It was a subject you could never mention. It would ruin the family, and that was far too important a reputation to destroy. So, instead, with a barely concealed tartness, you replied, “I have not yet met someone, no, but perhaps I will write your Charlotte and help myself to her leftovers.”
A sharp gasp rang collectively around the room. Even the youngest of the children froze in their quiet playing, turning to see what had caused such a reaction among the adults, and your mother looked downright furious. It was rude to say, you knew that, but it was hot in this room and you were tired of being under a microscope once a week. There was someplace else you would much rather be.
“Perhaps you could do with some fresh air,” your mother hissed, her attempt to sound concerned for your sudden outburst not going unnoticed by some of the others. “The heat must be getting to your head.”
You gratefully took her invitation to leave, excusing yourself to the room in general. As you pushed back your chair and stood, you saw the nasty look Mrs. Hearst gave your mother and felt just a twinge of guilt; it wasn’t her fault you misbehaved. You were simply overwhelmed and didn’t appreciate being pushed around.
The air felt better in the hallway, but you carried on to the back door, stepping out onto the modest deck your father had built last summer. “For entertaining,” he had claimed, but it was primarily used for poker games amongst the men. Bright light hit your face and you blinked rapidly for a moment to adjust. It wasn’t much cooler out here, but the air moved and provided a relief from the prying words.
Taking in a deep breath, you closed your eyes and tilted your chin up, soaking in the shade and breathing in the summer air. Birds twittered in the air around you, fluttering from tree to tree. Carriages pulled by horses trundled by in front of the house, the cobblestones making a distinct clattering sound against the carefully designed wheels. Squirrels scrambled up and down tree trunks in the meticulously landscaped yard.
Flat on your back, you hungrily drank in the appearance of the man hanging over you, desperate to take in every detail of his face. His honey brown hair fell over his forehead, almost reaching his eyes as he trapped your wrists on either side of your head. His intense blue-green eyes matched the hunger in yours as he locked gazes with you. He had stubble on his chin that had been scratching your skin deliciously.
“Are you ready?” he asked, voice rough with impatience and need. You couldn’t even muster up the words to answer him, nodding vigorously as he kneeled closer to you.
“I hope you’re happy!”
The shrill sound of your mother’s voice snapped you out of your reverie. You hoped the redness on your cheeks could be excused by the temperature of the air.
“I hope she’s happy, sticking her nose into peoples’ personal business like that,” you rebutted.
“I won’t be hosting next week’s tea,” she snapped back. “And I have been very clearly not invited to the next party at the Clemens’. I don’t know where you got this sharp tongue, but you had better put it back! And quick!” With that, she whirled back inside, no doubt to try and garner sympathy from the remaining stragglers. Knowing her, she would be reinvited to the party just in time to get a new evening gown for it. Your father would be relieved at not having to go, and would grumble to you afterwards about having been forced to go anyway.
The predictability of this life was draining. You were exhausted from the parties, the expectations, the demands. Was it not enough to simply exist? Surely there was more to everything than the finest silks, the most expensive meat, the purest horses.
On an excursion you had enjoyed much more than your mother, you had seen a man outside the grocery in Strawberry. He was tall, rugged, and the most handsome you had ever seen. You had made eye contact and he raised his eyebrows, almost challenging you to approach. It had been difficult to stop yourself from smiling as you ducked your head, attempting to return your focus to the trinkets your mother was pointing out to you. His gaze continued to burn a hole in the back of your head.
Later that evening, you ate dinner in the hotel lodge, listening to your mother tear apart the decor of the room and flavor of the food. It was the cheapest meal you had ever eaten in your life, you were sure, but by far the most filling. She excused herself to bed early, leaving you to finish alone. Out of nowhere, the man from earlier slid into her vacant seat, setting a plate of his own at her place.
“Excuse me--” You tried to sound indignant, but he interrupted you.
“Forgive me if I misread your look earlier,” he drawled, “but I took it as an invitation. And I think it’d be mighty rude of you to decline, seein’ as I already have my food.”
The bluntness caused you to laugh, almost involuntarily, and he had been allowed to stay. You got along almost immediately. He was charming, his laugh deep and hearty, his manners surprising you. Up close, you could see the scars on his face, the dirt and grime of a man who rode a horse most of his days, the tanned skin from being outside for hours. He introduced himself as Arthur, but when you asked for his last name, he refused to give it. There was a strange air of secrecy to him that drew you in and made you lose track of time.
Before you knew it, the lights in the dining room were being extinguished. The waiter approached and apologized, but they were closing up and politely invited you to enjoy wine refreshment in the lobby. Nerves suddenly returned to you and you defaulted to the upstanding citizen of society you knew how to be.
“I’m sorry, my mother must be wondering where I got to.”
“Why? She seemed a lot more interested in getting the hell out of here.”
His lack of a filter surprised you, but you realized he was right. She hadn’t once responded to your fruitless efforts to lighten the mood and find the positives. It was clear she had no interest in remaining here much longer. She was probably already asleep and wouldn’t notice you were missing until she was awake again.
“I got my own room.” It was Arthur’s turn to appear shy. Despite his forward statement, he almost seemed to regret it. “We could, uh, keep talkin’ there. If you wanted.”
Talking, you definitely wanted to do. You agreed, joking lightly about your honor as a single person entering the bedroom of a man, but you found yourself following him. His room was on the opposite end of the hall from yours, your mother’s right beside yours. Neither light was on. The giddiness settled in your chest and you played with the buttons on your sleeve.
Talking, you definitely did. For about five minutes. You barely had a chance to blink when Arthur was suddenly kissing you. And you kissed him back. It wasn’t much longer until neither of you were dressed.
It had been three months since that first meeting. You had since learned much more about Arthur. He was an outlaw, running with Dutch van der Linde’s gang. He had been for a long time, and you found out after seeing a wanted poster with names of gang members listed on it. You had learned his last name, too. Morgan. He spilled everything when you brought it up after your third encounter, clothes piled on the floor, blankets mussed up around your two bare forms on the bed. Despite his appearance, Arthur was well-spoken and kind, and he was always aware of your feelings.
Standing on the porch, you wanted nothing more than to see him again, the itch to get away driving you mad. Torn, you debated running away again. Nobody would question your borrowing of a horse, you knew that wouldn’t be difficult, but you dreaded the interrogation you would have to be submitted to upon your return. The summer heat was starting to get to your head.
“A-Arthur,” you moaned, hands clenched tightly on ruffled sheets, not even caring who might hear. The pace was driving you towards the edge, you could feel the build-up in your core. He showed no signs of slowing down as he thrust. His own pleasure was clear on his face and it only served to push you closer.
You nearly left a cloud of dust behind you as you left the porch for a horse. It would be worth the interrogation.
----------------------------
You were barely in the door of the hotel room before you were grabbing at the cowboy’s shirt, tugging him closer to you and kissing him. You felt the chuckle in his chest more than you heard it as he shut the door.
“Slow down, darlin’,” he said between each kiss. “We just got here, there ain’t no rush.”
“Missed you,” you breathed. Your hands pawed desperately, almost like they were trying to uncover some distraction from the turmoil inside. Arthur hadn’t caught on yet; this was the normal interaction. Sex was first, the talking came second. The grin on his face was intoxicating, drawing you in, and you felt your entire body flush.
“I missed you, too.” His hands held either side of your face as his lips came crashing against yours. You couldn’t hold him tight enough, he wasn’t close enough, you wanted so much more. Every place he touched burned, his finger tips at the base of your head, his thumbs brushing your cheeks, it was overwhelming. You fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. He paused, gently grabbing your hands in his. “Slow. Down.”
“I can’t,” you whined, the heat in you bubbling to the surface. “I need this. More. You.”
Arthur hesitated. He studied your face for a moment, looking for...something. With a heart-dropping change in expression, he scoffed, “I’m a goddamn fool. Jesus..” He dropped your hands and stepped away, taking his hat off to run a hand through his hair.
“What..?”
You were still breathing heavily, your body confused by the direction change, hands still searching for something to grab. Brow furrowed, you tried to close the gap between the two of you, but he refused to look at you anymore. You drew a shaky breath to steady yourself.
“Arthur, what is it?”
“I can’t believe this.” The tone of his voice was difficult to place. There was the obvious anger, which you didn’t understand, but there was also a strange touch of sadness. It almost sounded like he was beating himself up about something. “I should’ve known after Mary…”
Mary Linton. You had heard of her, he had mentioned her before, but beyond knowing it was a failed relationship, you had little to no context for her. It had ended on mutual terms, you thought. It still wasn’t enough for you to piece together what was going through his head. You had both been ready to go, this was how it was, you were going to have to wash your underthings when you got home just from the first five minutes.
“Arthur,” you finally snapped, “what’s wrong?”
He stiffened up. You could see his fists clench and unclench before his entire body relaxed and he turned, resigned, to face you. The look of defeat and poorly hidden hurt drove a knife into your chest.
“We can’t keep doing this,” he said. His voice was heavy, laced with context you didn’t know.
“Doing what?”
“This. Sneakin’ off to some hotel, screwing each other, and then going our separate ways like nothin’ matters. Like I don’t matter.”
A pit grew in your gut. Part of you knew what he was saying, but you believed it was deeper than that. Surely, there was more to it than that.
“You do matter,” you managed to say. “You matter to me.”
He laughed, short and derisive, disbelieving. Shaking his head, he made eye contact, gaze sharp.
“All I’m good for is pretending like you’re standing up to your parents.” He shifted his weight, hands coming to rest on his belt, a comfortable position for him. A safe position. “Mommy and Daddy don’t know where you are or what you’re doin’. All you’re doin’ is using me. And I ain’t gonna let it happen again.”
You expected tears to come to your eyes. It was hurtful, what he said, and absolutely not the truth. Instead, anger flared in your chest, rising to your head and making you lightheaded again.
“You’re not just some toy--”
“Oh, I’m not just some toy? How very kind of you to say. Tell me, what did you and Mommy fight about this time? Because you know she’s gonna forget about it before you get home.”
The pattern was suddenly clicking together in your head. Each time you had met up with Arthur was directly after your mother had done something to drive you over the edge. It wasn’t always an argument, but this was your escape. In some secret fashion, this activity was better than just reading a book or meeting with your friends for an hour of gossip time. You were able to let off physical pressure and nobody else knew what you were doing.
Silent for too long, Arthur shook his head and moved to go.
“I hope y’all figure it out,” he told you. “Don’t bother writin’.”
“Wait!” you shouted, much louder than you needed to. He stopped, hand on the doorknob. “It wasn’t-- It wasn’t like that. I care about you, Arthur.”
“Please,” he muttered, a quiet venom lacing his words, “don’t flatter yourself. You’d better get cleaned up before you go home.” A snap of the door was all he left behind.
You felt empty, hollow. There was a strange aching in your chest now, the brief anger gone as quickly as it had arrived, leaving the dull truth of what he had said. You hadn’t wanted to admit it, you had connected so well with him. He was a friend, you rationalized, you had felt more than just a physical connection. You had an understanding. You couldn’t muster up the energy to cry. You had fucked up, you knew that now, but it was too late. Arthur made it very clear he didn’t want anything to do with you anymore.
For a while, you laid on the bed, watching the light shift around the room as the sun descended, eventually bathing the room in an orange glow. You knew the sun would be gone soon, and your mother would raise a huge fuss if you weren’t home for dinner. Gathering your courage, you left the room, thanking the clerk at the desk as you handed back the key. He had a look on his face that you tried to avoid reading into.
You returned to your normal life with a heavy heart that night. Arthur Morgan, the outlaw with a huge bounty on his head, had come into your life like a much needed sunny day. He had invited himself in and you welcomed him with open arms. But you used him as an umbrella, shielding yourself from the storm that was your existence and identity, sure that somehow, this would protect you. You pushed him too far, you realized that now, and, full of holes, he left your life, tired and worn out.
