#ANYWAYS. that’s enough tags for now goodbye

[kisblle]

Dark Paradise V

Paring: Low Honor Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Word Count: 11,682

Summary: Life after the gang.

Tags: I don't want to tag everything because it will spoil it but angst, mentions of death, smut….

Author's note: So this was supposed to be one big, long final chapter. That is why it is taking me so long; but apparently there is only so many characters you can post - per post. So this is half, so there will be ONE more chapter. I hadn't finished the ending yet anyway, but hey, splitting it up means I get to perfect the ending and give you all another chapter in the meantime!

8 years later...

It was too damn early for this.

Too early in the day for Arthur Morgan to be drowning in whiskey.

Too early to be drowning between a woman’s legs.

But one glance at the morning paper had sent him spiraling, so fast and so deep he didn’t even bother saddling his own damn horse before riding into town. Leaving John to handle the day of ranching on Beecher's Hope to himself - nothing he couldn't handle.

Because right there, on the back page of the Blackwater Ledger, was a photograph.

Your photograph.

Black and white, soft around the edges, like it was taken to be shown off. Your hair falling down your back, long as he always known it to be. Head slightly turned, a tired smile on your lips.

The caption beneath it:

“Miss ________, newly appointed teacher of the Blackwater Parish School.”

He read it once.

Then twice.

And by the third time his appetite for his morning breakfast was gone.

You were alive.

Not just alive, but in god damn town.

Blackwater. Close enough to touch. Close enough to see

Close enough to remind him of every fucking mistake he ever made.

Abigail had smiled when she handed him the morning paper, a muffin in her other hand like a peace offering. Said something about fate, about second chances. Like it was cute. Like it was good news. Like she was excited to see an old friend.

But without a word Arthur shoved the paper back in her hands and rode off before she could finish another sentence. Rode off from his two bedroom cabin on the opposite end of the property, leaving the black haired beauty standing on the porch like a deer in headlights.

He hadn’t meant to find a whore that morning.

Hadn’t done that since the week he spent holed up in that French brothel after you left. Thought he was over that kind of self punishment. Over that kind of self indulgence.

But whiskey wasn’t numbing him fast enough.

And when the pretty woman touched his thigh and asked if he was “lookin’ for company,” he didn’t say no.

Now, upstairs in the saloon, Arthur closes his eyes and thrusts into her mindlessly. There’s no passion, no want, just motion.

Instinct.

Muscle memory.

The warm feeling of his member fucking something a hell of a lot warmer than his right hand.

He finishes with a grunt, pulling out and spilling across the curve of her backside.

It’s over in seconds.

And so is the pleasure.

It vanishes the moment he finishes.

And what’s left behind is emptiness.

His stomach turns.

He pulls up his jeans, not even bothering to take them all the way off in the first place. Tucks himself back in, fingers fumbling from the guilt creeping in behind his belt buckle.

He tosses a few bills on the mattress, doesn't even bother to say goodbye.

The woman doesn’t look back, just stays facedown; Arthur almost preffered it that way.

The cowboy awkwardly coughs.

Not out of sickness, not even from the smoke of the cigarette he lights the moment he steps into the hall.

But from shame.

Guilt.

Plain awkwardness he had just felt.

He hates how familiar it feels.

Hates that no matter what he does, no matter how many drinks or bodies or beds he throws himself into, nothing fills the space you carved out in him when you left. Nothing burns more than knowing you were here, alive, probably spending the day unpacking in that little cottage behind the schoolhouse he knows the parish lets the teachers stay in.

Mindlessly.

But above all....without him.

He frowns.

Downstairs, the saloon’s half empty, sun still high in the sky. Arthur drops into a stool, knocks his knuckles against the bar top without a single word.

The bartender doesn’t ask questions.

Just pours.

Arthur downs the whiskey in one swallow.

It burns.

But not enough.

Not nearly enough to erase the image of your face printed in that goddamn paper. Not enough to forget that you were here, and it'd be inevitable for Abigail not to seek you out.

He stares into the empty glass, jaw tight, cigarette burning low between his fingers.

Knocking once more on the bar top.

You were alive.

Teaching schoolchildren.

Looking just as beautiful as the day you left.

...

The old cottage creaked like it had a soul of its own, one heavy with dust, cobwebs, and the faint rustle of mice somewhere beneath the floor boards. The walls groaned with any slight gust of wind, the windows looked like they hadn’t been opened in decades.

It wasn’t perfect.

Not even close.

But still, you were thankful.

Thankful for the chance to start over.

Thankful that your small parish back in West Virginia had believed you were strong enough to leave.

Thankful that the Blackwater Parish saw something in you worth giving a second chance.

The home you left behind was bigger. Cleaner. Brighter. But it had become a cemetery; each room a trap full of memories, of ghosts you couldn't bear to keep living with. You had scrubbed the floors and repainted the walls, but nothing could wash Wyatt from that house. Not the laughter you once shared, nor the silence he left behind.

Three years had passed since the mine took him. Three years of aching mornings, of laying beside no one, talking to God when no one was listening.

You stayed, because that’s what widows were supposed to do.

You stayed for the school. For the parish. For Father Michael and the sisters who wrapped you in love when you couldn’t find the strength to stand on your own.

But when Sister May said she had prayed for you, and that God had whispered Blackwater into her ear, you believed her.

You had to.

And though Blackwater wasn’t truly new, God knows it held its own kind of ghosts, it was distant enough to be a different kind of beginning. The kind that didn’t press so hard on your grief. The kind that felt just barely within reach.

You remembered the streets, the church, the hotel room where you first gave yourself to Arthur Morgan. You remembered the fear, the chaos, the blood. Jenny. The Callander boys. You remembered all of it.

But now, years later, the town had changed. And so had you.

When Sister Veronica walked you through the old cottage that morning, she had apologized for the state of it. But you didn’t mind. Not really. Not when the teaching job came with free boarding. Not when the church barely paid enough to survive.

But here you were, standing in the middle of a rundown cottage, looking out through dusty windows at a town that once meant something very different. And for the first time in what felt like forever; you weren’t afraid.

…

It took what felt like hours to clean the cottage up, knocking the spider webs down with an old broom, wiping dust of window sills, as mice squeaked somewhere in the background. But it was more than an hour after you rolled up you sleeves, dress covered in dust, mildew, and whatever else lurked in that cottage when you heard a knock at your door.

With a huff, you wipe a gleam of sweat off your forhead and straighten out your skirt. Reaching for the door knob and pulling it back.

A woman with a basket, and a bright smile greets you. Her hair black as the night sky, eyes bluer than the Montana River.

Abigail Roberts.

It takes you a few moments to recognize her, older than you remember but still holds the same charm she always did. She smiles, looking up at you with red cheeks and raised brows.

“I’m sorry to show up without notice but I saw your picture in the paper!” She says.

You look her up and down, saying her name as if it’s a question. “Abigail Roberts?”

“It’s Marston now,” she says gleefully, holding up her ring finger to her jaw. Wiggling her adorned finger a few times, showing off the pretty gold band with a pearl John had gotten from who knows where.

“Goddammit, Abigail. Come here,” you say, stepping forward and pulling your old friend into a long overdue hug. “What in the hell are you doin’ back in Blackwater?”

You pull away, giving her another once over, only then realizing how rude it was not to invite her inside.

But you don’t dare.

Not with mice still scratching in the walls. Not with the linens still reeking of the last tenant. Instead, you step outside, gently shutting the door behind you.

Abigail laughs, easy and bright. “John and I - we’ve got a ranch just north of town. Saw your picture in the paper this morning. Damn near fainted.”

You smile, pulling her in again for a hug that feels like home.

She pulls back after a moment, her eyes drifting down, landing on your left hand, on the wedding band you still haven’t managed to take off. Her smile softens, brows raising in curioisity.

You fold your right hand over your left, thumb tracing the worn gold. “Widowed,” you say quietly, her excitement dimming into quiet sympathy. “Guess I just ain't been ready to take it off yet”

Abigail nods, slow and understanding.

But it's less than ten minutes later, she’s inviting you to dinner at Beecher’s Hope, and you accept without hesitation. An hour after that, you’re sitting in the back of John Marston’s wagon, catching up with the only people in a hundred miles that felt familiar.

On the ride, Abigail talks about what came after you left. She tells you about Hosea’s death, how the gang crumbled, how everything went to hell. And then, almost like it’s just another part of the story; she mentions him.

Arthur.

By the time the warm lights of the ranch glow on the horizon, she’s telling you how if it weren’t for him, they wouldn’t even be alive. How he’s not only alive, but lives at the ranch with them. A part of their family. A brother to John. An Uncle to Jack.

Yet, you tense at his name.

Abigail noticing immediately.

You’ve never really forgiven him. Never even allowed yourself to think about him as more than a memory you tried to bury deep.

“He’s changed,” she promises. “He’s… normal now. Probably won’t even be around for dinner.”

She says he left that morning, conveniently, for reasons she claims not to know. But you feel it deep in your gut that it had something to do with you and that damned photograph Sister Veronica insisted on putting in today’s paper. But you try to not think of it, try to think of how much better things will be with Abigail, John, even not-so-little Jack Marston so near to you instead.

...

Dinner is met with grace.

No Arthur, just like Abigail had promised. But a half-drunken Uncle makes his grand entrance, stumbling into the dining room with his usual charm. A six seat table stands neatly set, the air warm with the scent of slow cooked venison stew and freshly baked cornbread muffins.

John cracks a terrible joke, prompting a warning look from Abigail across the table. Sixteen year old Jack snorts into his drink. Uncle, never one to back down, tries to fire back with a joke of his own, but it falls flat.

Six chairs.

You sit beside Jack. The seat directly across from you remains empty.

His chair.

Empty.

There’s something poetic about it. Fateful, even. Like you were always meant to be back here in Blackwater.

Just as Sister May had once said.

Six seats.

For a family.

Not the family you had with Wyatt, no. But still, as another laugh bursts out of Jack, something tugs at your chest. Maybe everything that’s happened, the grief, the running, the silence, had led you here.

You look down at your bowl, smiling softly as another jab lands on Uncle, this time from Abigail.

Then you hear it, heavy boots dragging across the polished floorboards of Beecher’s Hope.

“Nice of you to finally join us,” John calls, sarcasm coating his voice.

Your eyes snap up.

And there he is.

Arthur Morgan.

Older than you remembered. A little rougher around the edges. Hairy great, beard unkempt. But unmistakably him.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” he mutters, half slurred, eyes glued to the floor like they might give out on him. “What’s for dinner, Abigail? I’m starvin’,” he grumbles, scanning the table full of food, oblivious.

He stumbles toward the empty seat across from you like it’s second nature, dropping into it with a familiar grunt. The table quiets. Everyone watches him.

Including you.

But he doesn’t see you.

Not out of spite.

Just drunk.

Too drunk to register you. Like you’re nothing more than a shadow in his peripheral. Whiskey mixed with women's perfume wafts off of him like he'd taken a bath in liqour and pussy. He looks liked he’d just rolled out of bed, maybe wrangled a pig, or even spent a night out with Uncle.

But Abigail was never one to let things slide, not with you, not when she of all people cared so deeply about family. “Not gonna greet our guest tonight, Arthur?” She asks, placing a bowl of stew in front of him like some mother feeding a child.

Arthur exhales, almost annoyed as he finally lifts his head.

Then his eyes meet yours.

And something changes.

It’s subtle, but you see it. Like he’s suddenly aware of himself again. Like the fog lifts, even if just for a moment.

He expected Sadie.

Maybe Charles Smith.

But instead, he sees you.

Much sooner than he'd expected.

For god's sake he'd been getting drunk all day just to forget the what he'd seen in the morning paper. It hadn't even been a day and Abigail had sought you out - but if he had known...

He would have maybe bathed first, maybe would've shaved, slipped some pomade into his hair, brushed his teeth. But above all; wouldn't have spent nearly the entire day getting drunk at the saloon, let alone having his way not with just one woman that day but two.

His face is red, obviously embarrassed as John lets out a chuckle.

"Arthur," you greet him, your voice as sweet as the day you left. Voice like angel, the prettiest sound he’s heard since the last time he’s fucked you silly.

His eyes survey you, your long hair, deep eyes, plump lips..breasts.

And as his eyes move lower, his stomach sinks, a line forming between his brows like a shield.

“So who’s the unlucky bastard?” Arthur asks, voice deep and jealous as his eyes cling to the wedding ring that still adorns your finger. The same ring that once signified your marriage to your husband, the same husband that was now six feet under for several years now.

“Arthur,” Abigail snaps like an angered mother berating her child. The cowboy let’s out a heavy breath, standing up up from the table with his bowl. Leaving the dinner table as quick as he had entered.

You sit there in silence, indifferent to the feeling.

What had you expected, anyway?

Dinner carries on well enough. John’s teasing, once aimed squarely at Uncle, gradually shifts toward Arthur. And Abigail apologizes for Arthur’s behavior more times than you can count.

The more they laughed at his expense, Uncle, John, even Jack chiming in now and again, the more your anger simmered. Old feelings, buried for over a decade, start clawing their way to the surface.

You loved him.

God, you loved him deeply.

And he left you.

For Mary.

Told you that you’d never be her.

And now, after all these years, he dares to snap at you for getting married? As if he still had a right to care?

It infuriated you.

Still, you smiled through it. Laughed at Uncle’s clumsy joke about John nearly drowning in the Montana River. Nodded when Abigail saw you off, and made small talk with John on the wagon ride back to town.

You did everything you could to pretend you weren’t falling apart inside. Doing everything to shield how you really felt about Arthur.

When the wagon rolls to a stop, John helps you down and walks you to your small cottage. He gives you a side hug, warm and easy, and tells you that you’re welcome at Beecher’s Hope anytime. He invites you to dinner next Sunday.

You accept.

He tips his worn, black leather hat and climbs back onto the wagon, leaving you alone on your front steps, watching as he disappears down the road, past the schoolhouse that was so conveniently placed just a few hundred yards away from your place of residence.

You turn inside with a sigh, already reminding yourself you still need to change the linens before you can fall asleep and forget the day.

Forget him.

...

Arthur’s bowl of stew sits cold at his kitchen table - untouched for hours. Instead, he’s slumped at the edge of his bed, elbows digging into his thighs, an old photograph clutched tight in his hands as he mutters curses under his breath.

It’s the photo you left him all those years ago. Wrinkled. Folded in all the wrong places. He hadn’t framed it until long after he should have, but it was the only piece of you he had left. And it lived in his bedside drawer, pulled out most nights since he built this godforsaken house.

Married.

God damn married.

Arthur wishes he could say he’s happy for you. That he’s glad you moved on. Glad you found peace somewhere else.

But that’d be a lie.

It’s been years. Too many, and he knows whatever you had is long gone. But still, not a single day’s passed that he hasn’t thought about you. Wondered where you were, who you were with, if you were happy.

And now that he knows.

Knows you belong to someone else, it doesn’t spark rage.

It just makes him sick.

He slides the frame back into the drawer just as the front door bursts open like a bullet. Abigail Marston storms in, boots pounding the floor, and without missing a beat, she smacks him upside the head.

“You rotten piece of shit,” she barks, hitting him again for good measure. “She’s a widow, you idiot.”

Arthur blinks, stunned. Guilt immediately wrapping around him like a blanket. His fingers still rest on the drawer handle, and the photograph sits halfway tucked away. Abigail looks down, her anger faltering when she sees it. The photo. Then his face. Not crying, no. But glassy eyed.

She exhales, long and tired, her anger curling into something softer. She sits beside him with a heavy sigh, her hand resting lightly on his back.

“You ain’t ever stopped lovin’ her, have you?” she asks gently, as if coaxing truth from a stubborn child.

Arthur huffs. A sound between a laugh and a groan as he shakes his head back and forth. “What’s it matter now, Abigail? She ain’t ever gonna love a fool like me again.”

Abigail snorts. “Serves you damn right."

Then her eyes narrow, drawn to his neck, where a smear of red lipstick stains his skin like a bruise.

Her expression twists in disgust. “You been whorin’ again?”

Arthur snorts, dragging a hand down his neck, wiping the smear of rouge with his palm. “Would it make you feel better if I said no?”

She glares at him, with a disappointed pout. “Thought you were done with all that, Arthur.”

He nods faintly, guilt settling on his shoulders like snow. Earlier he’d been angry that you’d come to his town. Thought a few drinks and a couple women would make him forget. But instead, like always, his rash decisions made everything a million times worse.

But now, as she sits beside him, half scolding, half understanding, something else takes root. Something raw.

“You think she’d ever take me back?” he asks quietly, like he already knows the answer.

Abigail snorts. “She’s too smart for that. Too smart for you.”

But then, she sighs. And in that same breath, she softens.

“But I can’t say I don’'t wish you both happiness.”

He nods once, lips pursed as he knows she’s quietly giving her blessing.

“I’ll go apologize tomorrow.”

Abigail rises, brushing off her skirt. Before she leaves, she pauses in the doorway.

“And if I hear you’ve been whorin’ again Arthur Morgan, I will knock that smug grin off your face.”

Arthur smiles, crooked and tired.

…

You wake early. Light spills through the window, casting golden streaks across your walls like brushstrokes.

With a tired sigh, you remember how much needs doing before school starts next week. You slide out of bed, your bare feet cold against the wood floor. You open the windows, splash your face with cool water from the basin, and braid your hair neatly down your back.

As if right on cue, a heavy knock rattles your door.

"Just a moment, please!" you call, scrambling to throw on something more modest than the thin chemise you’re still wearing. You tug your old blue sundress down over your body, cursing when it catches in your braid, smoothing the wrinkles at your hips as you rush to open the door.

You expected Sister Veronica.

Maybe Father Anthony to finally introduce himself.

Even Abigail Marston before Arthur Morgan of all people.

But there he stands - on your porch, eyes wide, holding a bouquet of Lilies in one hand.

"Hey," he says, voice low, softer than yesterday. Friendly, almost. Like he meant it. Cared.

You can tell he’s cleaned up. He smells like lavender soap - the same one he used all those years ago. His hair is slicked back with pomade, face freshly shaven. His jeans are clean and stiff with starch, forest green shirt buttoned just enough to reveal a few stray chest hairs.

You wish you hadn’t noticed.

But you had.

He cleaned up well.

Not that it mattered.

You were still angry.

Furious.

You scrunch your nose, starting to slam the door in his face, but he’s too fast, lodging the toe of his boot in the frame before it can close. Just enough for your head to poke through the gap.

"Don’t be like this," he says gently, like he’s coaxing a bird from its nest.

You don’t budge. Your frown stays fixed, lips set in a pout as you glare out from behind the door like it’s your shield.

Arthur exhales, long and steady.

"Abigail told me bout' your husband," he says carefully, like it’s some kind of apology. "If I’d known, I wouldn’t have said what I said..."

You throw the door open.

Point a finger straight in his face.

"You piece of shit," you snap. "I don’t want your apologies."

Arthur lets out a breath of laugh, a grim smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He nods. "Can’t say I don’t deserve that."

"You deserve worse."

He just shakes his head, eyes tracing over you in the doorway like he can’t help himself, like he’s wondering how you somehow look even more beautiful now than when he first met you. Even if all you're doing is berating him for trying to apologize. "Don’t say that," he says, half joking like your words don’t sting the way they're supposed to. Like he's trying to come off charming. "I just wanna talk."

Your face stays hard, your tone sharper than before. "And why the hell would you think I’d want to talk to you ever again?"

Your lip trembles. It wasn’t just what he said about Wyatt. It was the whole damn thing, seeing him again, fighting with him like old times. All of it pulling every old wound wide open again. The mess. The fight. The all burning physical attraction.

"I god damn loved you, Arthur Morgan," you hiss, tears burning their way down your cheeks. "And you broke my god damn heart. First time I see you in ten years, and you’re piss drunk, insulting my dead husband... well... well, fuck you."

Arthur’s jaw tightens. He bites back whatever he wants to say at first, but thinks before he finally speaks. His voice is steady, but his eyes are pained. "You don’t think I loved you?" He swallows, vein popping in his neck."Thought about you every god damn day?”

You swallow hard at his words.

"You left me," he says, thumping a finger to his own chest. "Remember?" He growls.

You laugh bitterly, nose flaring, shaking your head back and forth. "Oh, I’m sorry. Was I supposed to wait around while you ran off every other month with Mary Linton?"

Arthur rolls his eyes, like your words cut deeper than he wants to admit. But then he looks back at you, firm in his stance, his words half true, half lie. "I went to break it off with her that day. To tell her I had someone else. That I had you!"

You blink, your voice shaking as it lowers. "You told me I’d never be her." The tears flow harder now. "And you don’t get to make me feel bad for finding a man who actually gave a damn about me. Who loved me the way a woman deserves to be loved."

Arthur’s face falls. He hadn’t come here to make you cry. Hadn’t come here to fight.Not ever wanting to hurt you again. He came to apologize. To make amends. Maybe even invite you to dinner if everything went well.

But no matter what he's never been good at that.

Never been good at showing how he feels.

Instead, he’s stands on your porch, watching your heart break all over again right in front of him.

"Didn’t mean to make you cry," he says quietly.

"Just go, Arthur," you whisper. "Please go."

He hesitates. His lips flatten, and for a second it looks like he might say more. But instead, he offers you the bouquet which you don’t reach for, firm in your stance. And with a sigh, he sets it upon your top step, as if it were some type of offering.

He only makes it halfway down the steps before he stops, looking back over his shoulder at you.

"I won’t stop trying," he says, eyes wide and true. "I’ll do whatever it takes to make things right between us."

And with a frown, you shut the door.

...

The next week passes in a blur.

You’re still trying to settle into your small cottage, though “settle” might be too generous a word. The roof leaks every time it rains, and the persistent scratching of mice in the walls makes it hard to relax, let alone sleep.

During the days, you throw yourself into preparing the schoolhouse. You dig through the dusty church basement for anything useful: books, chalk, ink, even half empty ledgers. Anything that might help your future students.

Sister Veronica is a blessing, helping your rifle through old books and letting you know that most of the children that plan to attend are uneducated farm kids, varying in age. But that doesn’t bother you. It was the same back in Virginia.

You’d taken to teaching not long after leaving the gang. An eighth grade education was all that had been required. And thankfully your poor farmer of a father had insisted you see it through before he passed.

When you left the gang, you had nearly nothing by the time you reached Virginia. You somehow found a job cleaning for the local church; but when Father Michael had found out you were educated, he suggested teaching.

You never had been a very religious person, never knew if God had really existed. But something felt spiritual that day, the day that a parish that had barely known you, took a chance. Believed in you enough to sponsor you through the teaching exams, to hire you as the new teacher just a few months later.

You still wouldn’t call yourself religious, never attended mass regularly. But you had learned something from them; that everyone deserves a second chance.

...

On the last Sunday before your new job, John shows up in his wagon and insists on taking you to dinner at Beecher’s Hope.

Arthur’s there, sober, surprisingly, and even makes a clumsy attempt at small talk with you. Everyone notices, but you do your best to ignore him with cold, one word answers.

The dinner goes on fine.

Awkward, maybe.

Normal enough.

But you still ask John to take you home earlier than you’d like, under the excuse of needing to prepare for the first day of class. But the truth was that you'd preferred dinner without Arthur.

Preferred him gone.

..

You write the letter A on the chalkboard, the high pitched squeak of the chalk making your jaw tighten. It’s the first letter you ever learned, and it feels like the right place to start.

Two hours had passed since sunrise. A handful of children from town and the nearby farms had wandered into your little schoolhouse. Backs straight, eyes wide, surprisingly eager.

You had them introduce themselves first. Just a dozen of children, all under the age of twelve, all illeterate and poor in the eyes of Uncle Sam. But after a small conversation with them, you decide to start with the alphabet.

But just as Bobby, a boy no older than eight, stands to copy the letter A on the board, you notice something off.

Half the class is looking out the window, eyes glued to something far more interesting than your chalkboard.

“Now, children,” you say, smoothing your skirt, trying to keep your tone gentle, “what’s going on out there that’s more important than Bobby’s beautiful letter A?”

Beth, a freckled girl in pigtails, smiles and chirps, “Mr. Arthur’s out there building something.”

You blink. Mr. Arthur?

Arthur Morgan?

You practically sprint to the window to see for yourself, and sure enough, there he is. One knee in the dirt, knocking together pieces of wood, a length of thick rope slung over his shoulder.

You wrinkle your nose.

“I’ll be right back,” you announce with a forced smile, already halfway to the door.

Your boots strike the ground in sharp steps as you march toward him, anger bubbling up in your chest like a pot ready to boil over.

He throws the rope over a low hanging branch just as you reach him.

“What the hell are you doing?” you snap, arms folded tight, nose scrunched in irritation.

Arthur looks up, scratching at his beard like this is casual - normal even.

“Talked to Sister Veronica,” he says, tying off the rope with an infuriating calm. “Figured the kids could use a swing.”

Your posture stiffens. You tilt your chin up like you're trying to rise above him.

“Well,” you say curtly, “you’re distracting them.”

He smirks, the kind of smirk that makes you want to smack it clean off his face. His chest shakes with the threat of a laugh. He’s enjoying this.

“You wanna be the one to go in there and tell those kids they can’t have a swing?” He says with a raised brow.

You don’t. Of course you don’t.

But you don’t want him doing it either.

Because you know exactly what he’s up to. Trying to weasel his way back into your good graces by charming your students - the same children you know you’ll grow to adore.

He’s trying to win you over.

And the worst part?

It was working.

“Can’t you finish building it after they leave?” you ask, annoyance creeping into your voice.

Arthur chuckles. “If you let me take you to dinner.”

You bite your lip, roll your eyes, doing your best to put on the façade that you weren't being charmed by him. “Not in a million years, Arthur Morgan.”

“Then no,” he grins, lifting his hammer again and ignoring you.

Your nostrils flare as you turn on your heel, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Your hips sway with agitation as you march back into the schoolhouse - only to find every child crowded around the window. They’ve seen it all, though they couldn’t hear a word.

You force on a bright, breezy smile. “Alright, children. If we stay focused the rest of the day, maybe tomorrow we’ll take half an hour to play on the new swing Mr. Arthur’s building for us.”

Immediately, they scatter to their desks. Bobby returns to the board, tongue poking out in concentration as he writes the letter B.

...

As the clock hits three, the children pour out of the schoolhouse like water from a bucket - bags bouncing on small backs, laughter echoing as they dart off in every direction. No parents wait for them, but they know the way home. Some walk in groups, others skip ahead alone.

You stand at the door, arms crossed, watching them go with a quiet smile.

It’s a sharp little bunch. You’ll have them reading in no time. But the moment the last child disappears down the road, Arthur appears again, on his flashy white Arabian of course. A smug grin stretching across his face like it belongs there.

He swings down from the saddle, bouquet of tulips in hand.

“I told you I didn’t want to see you,” you say flatly as he approaches.

You turn back inside without another word, straightening chairs and stacking books, hoping the conversation ends there.

But he follows you in, bold as ever, voice low and teasing. “Didn’t say you didn’t want to see me. Just said you wouldn’t let me take you to dinner.”

You glance back at him, trying to hide a grin. “What do you want, Arthur?”

He offers you the flowers. You grab them with a careless hand and toss them onto your desk like they’re nothing.

“Just checking if you’ve changed your mind,” he says.

You laugh under your breath.

The nerve.

Interrupting your first day, now showing up like this, flowers in hand, acting like the years between you never happened.

“I thought we went over this,” you snap.

“We did.” His voice is almost gentle. “But I said I’d keep bothering you ‘til you said yes.”

“I won’t,” you shoot back.

He heads for the door but glances over his shoulder before he leaves. “Told you, I won’t stop ‘til things are right between us.”

...

And just like that, he keeps his word.

Days turn into weeks. Weeks into months.

And like clockwork, Arthur shows up every afternoon after the children leave for home. Always when your shoving books back into shelves, or erasing chalk off the board. Always with flowers in hand.

Tulips. Carnations. Wild lilies. Once, even a handful of orchids he claims to have found himself. Some days it’s just roadside wildflowers, thrown together when he’s running late. But no matter what, he never misses a day of handing you a boquet and asking you to dinner.

And you always say no, even if his routine had slowly started to work on you. You’d even started to briefly look forward to it; his charming smile, the flowers, the way he pined after you like no other woman existed.

You enjoyed it.

But no matter how you felt; you wanted to keep your promise.

To yourself. To your grief. To the memory of a love that never really left.

Because the past still lingers, no matter how many seasons roll by. And even if Arthur feels far away from the man he used to be, the line between him and Wyatt still feels impossibly wide.

Wyatt.

Your husband.

The love of your life.

Your other half, who still feels too close to let go of.

And yet....every Sunday you go to Beecher’s Hope. You start to laugh again, realizing that sixth chair had slowly turned into yours. Starting to realize you'd had family.

And Arthur, starts to turn from a nuisance to something else. Something softer. Still foolish, still stubborn, but loyal, present; dare say kind.

Sunday dinner becomes routine. Jokes with Abigail, teasing Uncle, laughing with John - and Arthur slowly working his way back into your life with every joke, every question, every flower. Every stolen glance, every offer to give you a ride back into town, every time his hand gently brushed yours…

But every time you let yourself wonder what if, your past comes rushing back like a flood.

You remember the promise you made Hosea. And you remember the promise you made yourself all those years ago when you left Shady Belle - that you wouldn't come looking for them again.

But this time, maybe they were the ones looking for you.

...

One evening, Arthur offers you a ride back to your cottage after a longer dinner than usual at Beecher’s Hope.

You sit behind him on his Arabian, arms wrapped around his middle, laughing the whole way back over something ridiculous Uncle had said. You hadn't smiled that hard in years. Laughed with him like those early days at Shady Belle.

When you arrive, he hops off and helps you down, his hands warm and steady on your hips. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, catching your breath as laughter fades from your lips.

Arthur looks at you. Like he’s about to say something that he's been keeping back.

But instead his hand comes up, fingers brushing your cheek, thumb tracing your jaw. Touch gentle. Familiar. Intoxicating. Leaning in, like he's trying to kiss you.

But you stop him.

You catch his wrist and push it away slowly, your voice soft and distant. “Thanks for the ride, Arthur.”

His mouth presses into a line, jaw tight. “See you tomorrow,” he says.

And you give him a small smile, eyes filled with something neither of you name. “See you tomorrow.”

You watch as he rides off again, fading into the dusk as you walk into your small cottage.

Something felt different that time; like he was upset you rejected him when most the time it came off easier.

You started to want him again, but the faint ache for Wyatt still never quite left. No matter how far he felt away now.

You look down at your hand, your wedding ring still adorning your finger like you were spoken for. You tilt your head, realizing it didn’t feel quite right all of a sudden.

But you don’t take it off.

...

The next day, overcast skies settle heavy over Blackwater as you wave your students goodbye. The air smells like rain; thick and metallic as thunder crashes far in the distance.

You step back into the schoolhouse, brushing chalk from your skirt as you tidy the board and pack away the day’s lessons, waiting.

Waiting for Arthur.

You expect him to show up any minute, flowers in hand like always.

But minutes pass, and he's still a no show.

You sit at your desk, fiddling with papers, pretending to work. Pretending like you’re doing something useful as you wait for him.

Maybe he’s just running late?

But half an hour passes.

And still there’s no sign of Arthur Morgan.

You sigh. A dull ache twists in your stomach - not quite sadness, not quite dread. Just something else completely...dissapointment.

Maybe he was done trying. Maybe last night really was the last straw. You’d rejected him again, like all the other nights before, but that didn’t mean you didn’t want him.

Not really.

He should know that.

You lock the schoolhouse door behind you and start the short walk home, thoughts racing faster than your feet. Why didn’t he come? He’d promised he wouldn’t stop. And you knew it wasn't the weather - he’s ridden through storms three times worse.

Bu that’s when it hits you.

The memory.

Wyatt.

You remember that day like it never left you. The day of the mine collapse.

You’d cooked his favorite: chicken and dumplings. Set the table. Lit the candles. Waited for him like the good little wife you were.

You hadn’t worried when he was late. Probably stopped off at the saloon with his coworkers, or maybe visited Father Michael at the church. Maybe he’d stayed behind to work a little longer, earn a few extra dollars; money he knew both of you could use.

But hours passed.

And while you waited with a book in your lap, waiting for him to show up. He was already gone. Suffocating in the dark, buried under rock, dirt, and coal with seven other men.

No one told you.

Not until the next morning, when one miner’s wife heard from another. By then, Wyatt was already far gone. And you - you were just sitting there, mindless, while your husband suffocated under a mountain.

Now, as the sky turns a deeper gray and wind tugs at your hair, panic claws at your chest.

You knew Arthur’s mare was a smart one, not easily spooked. But what if he got thrown? What if he hit his head and he’s bleeding out in a ditch somewhere? What if someone recognized him, an old foe, took their shot?

What if he’s dead?

Your breath shortens. Your chest tightens.

You try to talk yourself down. Try to remind yourself it’s just your mind playing tricks. But you can’t sit still. You won’t.

You grab your bag and rush to the post office, nearly breathless by the time you arrive. You pay for a coach to Beecher’s Hope without thinking twice.

The ride takes only thirty minutes, but it feels like five hours. Every bend in the road could hide his body. Every dip in the grass could be blood. You stare out the window, gripping the edge of your seat so tight your knuckles ache.

By the time the coach rattles to a stop, you’ve already jumped down, paid the driver a few measily dollars, and pushed toward the main house.

Abigail stands at the counter, elbow deep in dough, smiling like nothing’s wrong.

“Didn’t expect to see you today,” she says cheerfully.

“Where’s Arthur?” you ask, throat dry.

She catches the urgency in your voice instantly.

“Good Lord. He didn’t get you knocked up, did he?”

You shake your head like she hadn’t just said that, mind completely somewhere else. “Where is he?”

“In the back with John. What’s going on?”

But you’re already gone, cutting around the house, past the stable, toward the back pasture.

And there he is.

Just like she said.

Arthur stands by the far fence, across the yard, hammering a new beam into place while John holds it steady. The wind combs through his hair like a kite.

He spots you almost immediately, his brow furrowing as he mutters something to John and walks over the pasture with a confused look. He takes a step up on the bottom rail, resting his arms over the top. His head poking down at you with a confused look as wind blows through his hair.

“What’re you doin’ here?” he asks, puzzled, with a smirk on his face as if he hadn’t already knew.

You exhale hard, the panic bleeding from your chest. “Goddammit, Morgan. Scared me half to death.”

His brow lifts, amused. “You take a coach all the way out here... jus’ for me?” Arthur points at himself with a laugh, like he enjoys giving you a hard time. His voice deepens, “Well shit, I’m flattered.”

You glare with a roll of your eyes. “Oh, shut your mouth.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Didn’t show today, huh?”

“No,” you say as your frown starts to turn into a smile. “You didn’t.”

“Maybe I gave up,” he smirks.

You raise a brow, bite your lip, with you chin raised high. Arms crossed over your chest as if you had something important to say. “And what if today was the day I finally said yes?”

He chuckles shaking his head. “Was it?”

You pout. “No.”

But you’re still waiting for a real answer.

He sighs, reading you like a word on a page. “Bull broke through the fence this morning. Got himself all riled up about a heifer in the other pen. Had to fix it. Figured you wouldn’t mind. Thought maybe you were gettin’ tired of me anyway.”

“I am,” you lie.

Arthur smirks as he looks over the top rail of the fence, watching you with a bemused look. “Right. That’s why you came all the way out here, huh? ‘Cause you’re just so sick of me?”

You don’t answer. Can’t. You just look at him, pouting without even meaning to. And he sees right through all of it.

He sighs again and hops the fence, landing beside you with a heavy thud.

“Come on,” he says, walking ahead ahead of you. “Let’s get you home before the storm rolls in.”

And you follow him without question, like a duckling trailing it's mother.

He helps you onto the back of his mare, then mounts in front of you. With a gentle click of his spurs, you both take off through the winding roads, trying to beat the rain that threatens to spill from the clouds at any second.

Just before downpour breaks, just before lightning forks above Blackwater, you arrive back at your cottage.

You slide down from the horse, boots hitting the damp earth with a soft thud. You shake your head, breathless with relief, a smile curling on your lips as the rain starts to pour at that exact moment.

Arthur nods at you, ready to leave.

But before he can turn away, you say something you hadn’t planned on.

You ask him if he wants to come inside.

“Just wait out the rain,” you say softly, voice nearly lost beneath the distant rumble of thunder.

Arthur nods once, heavy boots thudding as he jumps off his mare. He leads the pretty girl under a thick grove of trees and ties her gently beneath the tangled branches. His figure looms in the doorway a moment later, broad shoulders soaked, hat dripping.

You’d always hated this place. The leaky roof, the constant mice skittering in the walls, the way no matter how hard you scrubbed the floor or dusted the shelves, spiderwebs always bloomed again by morning. It wasn’t a home. Just somewhere to sleep.

But now Arthur Morgan was standing in it.

Thunder cracks overhead just as he steps inside, shaking the fragile foundation. You’re already grabbing the dented buckets you’ve used for months, placing them in practiced spots to catch the water like you’ve done so many times before. He watches you in silence, something heavy in his expression.

You offer him a chair. A beer. Something to break the tension. But he doesn’t take either.

His eyes travel the one room cottage with slow judgment, landing on the leaks in the ceiling, the rot in the roof, the cracks in the walls. “You been livin’ like this all this time?” he finally asks, voice low, edged with something between anger and disbelief.

Shame crawls over your skin. You swallow hard. You thought he wouldn’t care - after all, he’d once made love to you in far worse places than this.

You thought that part of him still existed.

“The church pays-”

“You didn’t ask for a new roof?” he interrupts, tapping a beam with his knuckle. His eyes narrow. “One more good storm and this whole damn thing’s gonna come down on your head.”

Your throat tightens. “I did ask,” you say quietly. “But the church barely has enough to keep the school open. They can’t afford a roof. They can’t even afford ink.”

He exhales hard, jaw tightening. “Get a bag,” he says suddenly. “You’re stayin’ with me ‘til I get this fixed.”

You freeze. “Arthur, I - ”

“I got an extra room. It’s dry. It’s warm. Mice ain’t makin’ families in the walls,” he says, voice firm but not unkind. “Ain’t no trouble.”

You can’t look at him. Your stomach twists, because it isn’t the offer that bothers you - it’s everything that comes with it. The memories. The years. The way he used to make you feel and the way he still does.

“I don’t know. Maybe I can ask Father Anthony again...”

He snaps, “And what? You’ll stay here while the roof caves in on your head before you can even get answer back? Don’t be crass”

“I could sleep at the schoolhouse...”

He steps closer. “Stop. Just stop. Come stay with me.”

The rain hammers the roof in rhythm with your heartbeat as he moves closer to you. His voice softening as he says his next words, “I’ll take you to the school every mornin’, if that’s what you’re worried about."

You lower your head, knowing that he won't give you a choice anyway. “It won’t be....weird?”

He sighs. “It don't gotta be that way darlin'."

You huff out a reluctant smile, eyes burning with something you can’t name. You nod, grateful. And without another word, you pull your bag from under the bed and start packing - the same bag you had packed when you left him all those years ago. A few dresses, chemises, your only good pair of boots. The essentials. The rest can wait until tomorrow. Until Arthur can bring you a wagon, packing the rest of your few belongings then.

The rain grows louder, a steady drumbeat on the sagging roof. Thunder rattles the windows, the building. You sit on the edge of your bed, one leg crossed over the other, bag packed at your feet. Arthur’s in the chair across the room, hands resting between his knees, stealing glances when he thinks you’re not looking.

His stomach aches.

It’s familiar.

“What?” you ask, voice barely audible.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Just wonderin’ if this how you looked...all those years ago, bag packed tight, waiting for that train that took you away from me."

Your breath catches.

That wound still bleeds, even if neither of you speak of it. You never talked about what happened. About how it ended. About how it never really did.

“Ten years older,” you murmur.

He meets your gaze. “Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You roll your eyes, but warmth creeps up your neck, blooming in your cheeks. Damn him.

Maybe all those months of him showing up - flowers in hand, doing small chores around the schoolhouse, taking you home after Sunday dinner - maybe everything had started to work. Maybe you were beginning to believe he meant it.

That he’d changed.

That he wouldn't hurt you again if you gave him the chance.

But then there was Wyatt.

Your late husband still lived in the corners of your heart, tucked in the quiet spaces that were hard to reach. But something else had lived there far before Wyatt had. Far before Wyatt had put a ring on your finger, made your breath catch. Arthur’s blue eyes. Arthur’s mouth. Arthur’s voice when he used to whisper filth into your neck, those memories you had shoved far deeper for far longer. Left the memories suppressed, just as how you were trying to do with Wyatt.

But your thighs clench at the memory, and you curse yourself for it as you look at him across the room. He hadn’t even touched you, but the memories with him made you feel enough.

...

The rain lets up a few hours later. Dusk settling over the land as you ride behind him toward Beecher’s Hope. Abigail’s sets out dinner for five, and when Arthur casually tells her you’ll be staying with him for a while, she nearly drops the plates in her hands. Quickly setting another place for you at the table.

Six seats.

She hides it well, but you see the flicker of delight on her face, an all knowing smile.

Supper passes in a flurry of laughter and warmth. Abigail hugs you tight. She’d once said Arthur had changed, still a nuisance, sure - but not the same man he used to be.

Now you’re wondering if she was right.

Arthur carries your bag without question, leading you across the property, past the barn and fields, toward a cabin you’d never seen up close. It’s smaller than John and Abigail’s house, more modest, but it’s clean.

Quiet.

Private.

He opens the door for you. The place is cleaner than you'd expect for a in his mid forties who lives alone. Just a modest kitchen, a worn table, a few cupboards, a single chair set in the corner, a shelf lined with books, and an unlit hearth. Simple. Quiet. Lived in.

Two doors sit at the back of the main room. He gestures toward one .

“That one’s mine,” he says, then turns and opens the other. “This one’s yours.”

You step inside slowly. A fully furnished room greets you. A real bed. A fireplace. A closet. A small dresser.

“This is… nice,” you say, surprised, setting your bag on the mattress.

He nods and kneels by the hearth in your room, striking a match and starting a fire. The glow casts golden light across the walls, making the space feel warmer than it is.

You watch him, your chest tightening. In the flicker of the flames, he looks like a different man. Like the one who used to own your body, your laughter, your trust.

Your thoughts betray you again. You imagine him pushing you onto that bed right then and there. His body on top of yours. His breath in your ear.

Your thighs tighten again. You shiver.

“You okay?” he asks.

You shake your head like it’ll knock the image loose. “Yeah. Just tired.” You gulp.

He laughs, shaking his head. “You confuse me sometimes,” he says, tossing a fresh log into the growing flames.

You don’t answer. Just begin to unpack, placing dresses in the closet, chemises in drawers. Then, from the bottom of your bag, something falls loose. A photo frame.

You freeze.

Your wedding picture. You’d thought it was gone, left behind in Virginia. But here it is, tucked away, hiding. A ghost. Just never being unpacked in the first place.

You swallow hard. It shouldn't be here. Shouldn’t even still be looking at it with your mind wondering to Arthur Morgan completely undressed just minutes earlier. But your fingers trace the edge anyway before setting it gently on the nightstand beside your bed.

Arthur sees. He doesn’t speak.

Just exhales through his nose.

“I’ll-” Arthur stammers, then clears his throat and looks toward the floor. “I’ll leave you here to get settled for the night.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before backing out of the room like a man who’d just said too much. The door closes with a soft click behind him, and then it’s quiet - just the fire cracking gently at the hearth and the sound of your own breath.

Arthur had thought he’d made progress with you.

All those days bringing you flowers. Taking you home from Sunday dinner. The soft conversations that used to be silence or anger. And now you were here. Living with him. Under his roof. That alone had felt like some small miracle.

But the way you had gently, almost absentmindedly placed that picture of your wedding day beside your bed - it gutted him.

He wasn’t a jealous man. Not of ghosts at the least.

But he feared that maybe you were further away than he’d hoped. That no matter how many flowers he picked or swings he built, he’d never be the man you loved the way you loved Wyatt.

And it scared him - because he feared he'd never stop loving you this time.

...

Rain begins again. Gentle at first, then heavier, until it thuds against the cabin roof in steady, rhythmic drops. You slip out of your day clothes and into a thin, white chemise - nearly sheer in the firelight, the hem brushing against your ankles, your nipples slightly visible through the fabric as the heat from the fireplace reflects off your skin.

You sit at the edge of the bed, combing through your hair as you try to push away the thoughts crawling up your spine. The blankets are warm. The sheets are fresh. Everything about this space feels cared for, well built. The kind of room someone wants you to feel safe in.

Arthur had done this.

And as you lay back against the pillows, you wondered - Had he done this for someone else, too?

Not this room, maybe.

But in his?

Had another woman rested her head on the pillows in his bed? Had another voice moaned beneath his touch? Had someone else seen his face, the way it looked when he came completely undone?

Your stomach turns with jealousy. With longing. With guilt.

You squeeze your thighs together as you find yourself beneath the covers, but it does little to quiet the memory.

Colter.

That freezing night. The argument. The way he apoligized with his tongue.

The way he’d taken you like he needed to remind you - you were his.

You remember his mouth on you. His tongue circling slowly, then harder, deeper. You remember the way he growled when you tugged his hair, the way his voice rasped when you rode him until his completion.

Your fingers move beneath the blankets, sliding between your thighs as you push the memory into full color. Your chemise rises as you part your legs slightly, touch dancing over your swollen clit. You gasp, body responding like it always had to the thought of him.

You imagine his hands - those big, calloused hands - gripping your hips, pinning you down. The way he’d talk to you, wild and filthy.

Your fingers quicken, breath catching. You're close. So close.

But then your mind - traitorous thing - flashes a different image.

Dutch.

Dutch fucking Van Der Linde of all people.

Walking in, eyes wide in shock, beard dripping with snow as he caught sight of Arthur between your thighs. Arthur never stopping. Doesn't even look up. Just grunts against you while you finish right on his tongue - Dutch standing frozen in the doorway.

The memory jerks through you like a slap.

You sit upright, hand pulling away, unsatisfied and shaking.

You can’t do this.

Not here. Not in this room. Not while your wedding picture stares at you like a ghost from the nightstand. You rise from the bed, heart pounding, guilt crawling up your throat as you pace the small space like a caged animal.

You felt like you’d just betrayed someone.

Not Arthur.

Wyatt.

Touching yourself to a memory of another man while your wedding picture sits beside you.

Even after all this time, the thought of him curled beside you on those quiet Virginia mornings. His warm breath. His laugh. His love. Even in death, he felt close.

But Arthur... Arthur feels real.

Arthur is the warmth of the fire and the snow on a mountain. He is the rough of his hands and the way he still looks at you like you belong to him.

He's here.

Real.

And Wyatt?

Wyatt is a memory you can’t seem to bury.

You look at the photo on the nightstand - your smile, his arm around you, frozen in time. Your chest cracks open.

What are you doing?

The guilt battles you - but so does the longing.

You Gnaw at your thumbnail as you begin to pace again, restless energy surging through you. Your eyes flick toward the photograph on the nightstand; a pang of something you cannot name hitting your stomach.

And then.

You do it.

Something that makes you feel ashamed.

Your hand reaches for the bedside table drawer. You grab the frame, your grip a little too tight, a little too desperate, and you shove it inside. The drawer slams shut, rattling louder than you had expected.

It was supposed to help.

Calm you down.

But it doesn’t.

And as if summoned by the thoughts racing through your brain, a knock breakes you from your daze.

A soft, low thud that thrums in your bones.

You freeze, breath caught in your throat.

Arthur.

It could only ever be him.

You crack the door just enough to see him.

And there he stands.

Bare except for an old, red union suit clinging to him like second skin. A few buttons undone, chest rising slow and steady, like he knows what he's doing to you.

You swallow hard.

Your mouth going dry.

“You good?” he asks, his voice husky, curling up at the edge - half teasing, half concerned.

You lie. Your eyes already devouring him, your voice soaked in false innocence. “Yeah. Why?”

He plants his palm on the doorframe, leaning in just enough to make the air shift between you. “You’re makin’ a hell of a lotta noise for someone that's supposed to be sleepin'.”

Your heart skips.

“Oh, I - ” you stammer, a weak excuse tumbling out. “Thought I saw a spider under the bed.”

He frowns, steps forward and into your room without permission. “Where?”

He walks past you, his presence thick in the air, the scent of lavender soap lingering behind him. Before you can stop him, he’s on the floor, chest against the wood, checking under your bed. That red fabric stretches over every ripple of muscle, flexing with every subtle shift, the outline of him almost indecent.

And when he stands…

Oh God.

The loose swing of his manhood beneath the fabric makes your breath hitch in your throat.

“Well,” he says, brushing his hands off. “Looks like it’s gone.”

You stare.

At his face, at the years carved into it.

At the man he’s become.

At the man who still makes your insides ache.

He lingers a moment, nods toward the door. “Alright then. Good night.”

And he turns.

But the moment his hand brushes the knob, the words burst from your mouth. “Wait!”

He freezes. Turning slowly. One eyebrow arched, confusion written in his brows.

You take a step toward him.

The firelight casts your silhouette in gold. Sheer chemise clinging to your frame. Hair long and combed, breath uneven.

An angel. A curse. A prayer.

His jaw tightens. His eyes flicker downwards, to the peaks of your nipples poking through that sheer chemise. He’s trying. Trying so damn hard to be good.

You reach for him.

Softly.

Hand pressed flat against his chest. He doesn’t stop you.

Your fingers trail up the strong line of his neck, find the scruff of his jaw, the warmth behind his ear. Then to the back of his head, fingertips brushing through the curls in the back of his head.

He doesn’t move.

Just exhales, slow, shaky

Like you're a siren louring him to his death.

He's trying to be good as he looks down at you, like every muscle in his body is straining to not pull you in and kiss you.

But he couldn't do that.

He had promised you that moving in with him didn't have to be like that.

So he pulls away. Gently. Slowly. Like it hurts.

Looking down at you with wide, confused eyes. "Goodnight."

He backs away slowly, shutting the door behind him.

You stand there, lips parted, hand still raised toward the ghost of his touch. Your heart is thundering. Your body lit up like lightning under skin.

You gave him permission.

Practically begged him.

And he didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t even dare to touch you back.

A thousand feelings twisted in your gut, so tangled you couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or confusion, or something far deeper, something too wild to name.

And Arthur.

Just on the other side of that door.

He felt it too. Just as confused. Just as wrecked.

Because why the hell had he pulled away so fast when that was all he wanted?

He liked to think it was virtue. That he was trying to do right by you. Be a better man. A respectable one at the very least.

But goddamn it…

He’d never been the one to do things the right way anyway.

So as fast as he’d shut that door behind him, he rips it back open, like a madman.

You hadn't moved. Still standing exactly where he left you. Wide eyed, confused.

He storms forward, grabs you rough, his palm cupping your jaw as he hauls you into him.

“You make me god damn crazy, woman,” he growls, and then he’s kissing you.

Hard.

Hungry.

Wild.

Tongues tangling, teeth grazing yours like he wants to consume you. His mouth devouring yours like he’s starving - like he hadn't ate for days and you're the sweetest apple in the gardne.

And you melt. You fold into him like you belong there, letting him push you back until the bed hits the backs of your knees and you fall, breathless.

His lips never leave you - only travel. Down your neck. Across your collarbones. To lobe of your left ear.

He sucks at your bottom lip again, bites it, rough and aching with years of restraint.

Years.

It’s been years since you were touched like this. Since someone kissed you like you meant something.

You tremble.

You haven’t had anyone since Wyatt.

And that’s been ages.

“Arthur,” you breathe, eyes rolling back as his hands slip up under your chemise - fingers finding your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples with the perfect pressure to make you moan, to lift your hips into his like an animal in heat.

You’re soaked. Flooded.

And he can sense it.

“Gotta get you outta this damn thing,” he growls in your ear, gripping the hem of your chemise and yanking it over your head in one swift motion.

And now you’re bare. Laid out for him.

Arthur’s eyes roam you, tracing every curve, every soft line from your breasts to the course hair that sits above your vulva.

He leans down again, kissing you like you’re made of sugar. Then he drags those kisses down your neck, your chest, suckling at your breasts as your thighs press tighter together.

“So damn beautiful,” he murmurs into you.

And then lower. Down your ribs, your belly, your thighs - until his head is fully between your legs.

It’s been a ong time since Arthur Morgan’s mouth touched a woman’s cunt.

Longer still since he wanted to please.

To worship.

He’d taken his share of whores since you - quick and meaningless fixes. The last woman he made true love to had been a widow up near Brandywine Drop, but even that didn’t work out.

All because of you.

Always you.

But now…

Now he’s here, lapping at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered. You taste sweet and intoxicating, his tongue swirling around your clit with steady, practiced need.

Your little gasps are like birdsong. The way your thighs tremble against his beard drives him insane.

It’s heavenly.

All those years wondering why he never married. Why nothing ever felt right?

Now he remembers.

Because nothing - not a single damn woman - could ever compare to the taste of you on his tongue.

And he hates himself for even ever taking another woman after you.

Minutes.

That’s all it takes before you’re finishing on his tongue - legs quivering, breath hitching as you let yourself into his mouth, grinding into him like you can’t bare to let go.

But he’s smiling when he finally rises from the inside of your thighs, looming over you as if he wants to see the look on your face from above.

But you’re not finished with him.

Not even close.

You kiss him again, tasting yourself on his tongue, fingers flying to the buttons of his union suit, wanting him naked - now.

Nothing more than animals.

Wild things.

You struggle with the buttons, impatience overtaking you, until you start tearing at the fabric, popping them loose in every direction, just trying to get to him. Buttons flying every which direction as you bite at his neck.

But suddenly he stops you.

His hands catch your wrists.

You look up at him - panting, confused with need. The suit hangs open just enough for the unkempt hair above his member to make an appearence.

But he doesn’t move.

“I can’t,” he whispers, voice hoarse, eyes wide.

And then he’s standing up, gently pushing you back.

You freeze. Heart racing. Body burning.

You weren’t done. You needed him.

Needed him burried inside you.

You stare up at him, eyes wide and worried. Bottom lip between your teeth in confusion. Had you done something wrong?

But he sees it, senses all of it. Cups your face with a gentle, calloused hand.

“I wanna do it right this time,” he says softly. “Leas' for me girl.”

You swallow hard, a confused pout forming on your face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He smiles, broken and sweet.

“I-I ain't gonna have you girl." He breaths as he looks down at you. "Not until you're my wife."

And just like that, he backs away. Leaving you naked and undone, laid bare on the bed, your heart pounding so loud you can barely hear yourself think.

Arthur shuts the door, the taste of you still on his lips as he walks into his own bedroom.

Sure.

He's never done anything right in his whole damn life.

But this time he would.

To prove to you that he's changed.

But more to prove to himself; that he could be a righteous man.

But holding out on you didn't stop him from spitting in his own hand that night, stroking himself to completion with the taste of you still on his lips,

[suzieloveships]

Accidently came up with Megop Snowing au:

D-16 is a young miner, just living his life, trying to make ends meet, when one day he is contacted by the royal guards. 

Turns out this whole time he had a twin brother. Their creators gave both of them up for adoption before dying and while Dee would eventually end up in the mines, his brother Megatron was adopted by Lord Megazarak, King of Kaon, who needed an heir. 

Unfortunately Dee never gets a chance to meet his brother as Megatron was recently killed by a sparkeater. Now here is a problem. Megatron was suppose to slay this sparkeater and sparkboand with Starscream, the eldest son of Vos's Winglord as a way to unite two kingdoms. 

basically Megazarak needs Dee to become Megatron and do all of that and in exchange he promise that a Dee's small village will be gifted with enough money to feed everyone for years. So obviously Dee agrees.

he says goodbye to his previous life, his only souvenir, small ring with a diamond found in the mine he used to work at. The shopkeeper claims that "true love follow" this ring, which is some childish fairy tale, but it could be a nice engagement present for Starscream.

so anyway, on his way to Vos, the transport gets attacks by bandits and D-16, sorry, Megatron, gets into a fight with one of them. The bandit, who has the prettiest blue optics, ends up punching Meg in a face and steal his ring, his only reminder of home and we get our first, iconic "I will always find you!"

now, who was that blue optics bandit? While Orion Pax, of course. Well, his real name is Optimus Prime, a beloved Sparkling of Iacon decease rules, Prima and Megatronus. Decease because they, as well as other Primes, were betray by their royal adviser Sentinel who made a deal with Quintessons to kill all of the Primes so he can take the throne of Iacon for himself 

the original plan was for Optimus to die with his family but something went wrong, he survived, so Sentinel pay a sword for hire name Deadlock to take Optimus to a forest and kill him

Deadlock however ends up bonding with a young prince and instead helps him fake his dead and run away. Believing Optimus is dead Sentinel crowns himself king of Iacon

part of Sentinel deal with Quintessons was to give them Energon and other riches of Cybertron which why his first royal decree is to double taxes. Obviously the poorest cybertronians are affected the most by this and Optimus cannot stands for this. And so Orion Pax is born, a outlaw who steals from the rich and gives to poor (and Deadlock tags along, the whole thing becomes his redemption so he can go back to the name Drift, basically he is both Graham and Ruby in this au)

overtime Orion little bandits group grows (typical Autobots members, Ratchet, Wheeljack, Elita, Prowl, Jazz ect, back ground Dratchet of course)

going back to Megatron, he sworn that he is going to find Orion and so he does, next thing you know Orion is hanging from a tree in a net. Megatron asks for his ring back but Orion doesn't have it, he already gave it to a small group of predacons in exchange for dark Energon (which he plans to use to kill Sentinel) but "if Prince Charming is feeling brave we can go and try to get it back" "it's Megatron" "I prefer Charming"

so anyway they go get that ring and there is banter and bonding and of course they each end up saving each other lives "because it's an honourable thing to do". Unfortunately Orion ends up using dark energon to save Dee but no worries he will find another way. Also the ring ends up fitting on Orion digit like a glove but he can’t keep it because “it’s not his style”. 

they go their separate ways and both of them looks back as they walk away

here where I’m going to make a small change because as much as I love Snowing it always bothered me they were ready to run away together after like one meeting so instead we are postponing Megastar wedding. After all Megatron needs at least few royal lessons before entering life of the prince and also they first need celebrate the engagement. So Megop meets at least few more times, for example when Dee sneaks out because all of this is so overwhelming or when Orion and his group sneaks in during the ball

also Sentinel is at that ball and this is where everyone finds out Orion is Optimus. He escapes in the last seconds and this was the moment Dee realise he is in love

cut to 2 days before the wedding and Dee cannot stop thinking about Optimus much to Megazarak dismay because "your spark can't belong to Starscream when it's held by another mech and don't denied I know that look".  (Starscream couldn't care less, he also doesn't want to be here)

so, to make sure he isn't making a mistake, Dee sends a message to Optimus where he confess his feelings, "Dearest Optimus I've not heard from you since our last meeting and can only assume you found the happiness you so desire but I must let you know not a day goes by that I not thought of you. In two days time I am to be married. Come to me before that. Come to me and show me you feel the same and we can be together forever. And if you don’t, I'll have my answer"

meanwhile Optimus does feel the same. He thinks his prince charming all the time and it's very distracting. "If only there was a way to get him out of my head" this thought gives Optimus an idea. He goes and visit Shockwave, the local dark wizard, for an elixir that will make forget he every knew Prince Megatron 

just as he is about to drink the elixir Optimus gets the message from Dee and of course they can run away together, boys we are breaking into the castle

unfortunately once Optimus breaks in he is capture by Megazarak. Imprisoning or killing Optimus won't help him because that won't stop Megatron from loving him "which is why I need you to break his spark, tell him you don't love him" "or you will kill me?" "No, I will kill him". So Optimus has no choice, he tell Dee he doesn't love him and that they need to forget about each other and leaves

"you didn't find him?" "Worse. I lost him"

next morning Ratchet ran into Optimus room telling him that the wedding is off because Dee ran away from the alter "your prince isn’t getting married.” “Who?" Ratchet looks in horror as he realise that Optimus took that elixir Shockwave gave him

so Dee, our boy is on the run, forces of Kaon and Vos behind him. Once he is almost caught but save by a last person he was expecting, Starscream, who is a little offended that he was left at the alter but at the same time is glad wedding didn't happen as his spark also belong to another 

turns out Starscream was once engaged to his true love, Skyfire, but unfortunately once when Vos royal family was traveling they were attack, Skyfire jumped in front Starscream to protect him from a rouge spell and was turn into an ice like statue as a result. True love kiss didn't work but Starscream has one more idea. 

there is this lake and legends claim its water can heal anything but it is also guard by a powerful beast that no knight have ever survived it. "So either I get you water to save your fiancé or I’m dying trying. Either way one of us won't be sparkbroken after that"

turns out this beast is a siren that lures knights into their doom while pretending to be the person they love. So obviously for D-16 siren turns into Optimus and Dee almost gives in, believing real Optimus doesn't love him but in the end his is able to fight because he "wants the reality not an illusion". He slays the siren and gets the healing water, Starscream frees Skyfire and so now Vos has no reasons to chase Megatron and Starscream own him a favour. And with a new motivation Dee decides to go and find Optimus.

While looking he comes across Drift who is confuse about everything "because Optimus loves you, why would he told you he doesn't?" "..." "Unless someone forced him". Realising what must have happen D-16 is now even more motivated

part 2

[justmossyaps]

*rocking back and forth* just have to make it through this week just have to make it through this week just h

[a-host-of-dancing-daffodils]

And because I recently read the Chocolate Box...Please enjoy one of the only things I feel like the show did right with this particular story...

Poirot looking super dapper in his Belgian police uniform:

The cut of this uniform is very flattering on him, I must say...especially with the way it accentuates his chest, his waist, and his ''''''''seat''''''''

And I love the design on the collar/sleeves. Very fancy/official

also. please look at his very silly official hat

Gotta say. Hugh Fraser may have been the eye candy of this show, but. David Suchet sure knows how to be pretty, too

[only-lonely-www]

So basically ATLA brain rot has hit me like a truck

[salsa-di-pomodoro]

Has anyone ever thought of the possibility of people in hisui getting a magazine from AFTER ingo and akari go home with either or both of them on it. Like they've already left and lo and behold in the tail end of the entire mess a magazine appears with one of them on the cover looking fresh stunning and most importantly happy. If it were Ingo i feel like he'd be all dressed up goth on the cover of like Vogue or something lmao (i don't think he wouldn't get famous if he wasn't already after coming home. Theyd want the publicity+cool extint Pokémon on the cover). If it were akari shed probably be like posing all badass like the badass teenager she is, scars in full view (she's a survivor!!!!!!). Inside is a little tidibit of their life after coming home. It would be both funny as hell to see them react to how they are in their element and like connect the dots for their strange behaviors AND bring closure to the people they left in hisui. They may never know this but the people in the past do

If anyone uses this idea tag me i may or may not read it but i want to know if you liked it enough to do something with it. I'll probably just keep daydreaming to myself about it lol

Edit: btw there's a whole section talking about everyone's battle prowess and the battle subway for the funnies. Just so you know

[scionshtola]

all of my casters are at 100 now \o/

[intotheelliwoods]

So basically would you rather have "larger 2 to 3 part updates with a longer hiatus" or "smaller 1 to 2 part updates with a shorter hiatus"

[yuckydraws]

(Click for better quality)

Healing & Growth

(gif made by my friend @robanilla-arts is below - slight warning for flashing! Thanks again, Rob!)

[gorvamp]

related to my previous posts. oooo you want to stop worrying about the aesthetics or shareability of your sketchbooks and just allow them to be a place where you can mindlessly doodle or brainstorm ideas or do whatever you want so bad

[stunie]

i just WOKE UP !!?????!!!!!!

2024.07.15 — dinner date with Ume. ♡

(hands up if you know where the reference photo’s froooommmmm!!!! >:3 aju nice.)

[buckytakethewheel]

it's been a long, long time [part 1]

Summary: Sergeant Bucky Barnes from the 107th gets injured a lot. And when he does, there's only one nurse he lets touch him. Pairing: 40s!Bucky Barnes x Female Nurse!Reader Warnings/tags: Bucky is injured (shoulder gunshot, not very detailed because this is my first time working with medical terms); unrequited crush (for now and only if you kinda squint); no use of Y/N; unbeta'd Word count: 2.5k Notes: so, I don't know how many years after i last wrote a thing...... i am back to writing things! i've had this idea for a while. i apologize for typos, i wrote this in a couple of hours and really wanted to get this first part out there asap :) hope you guys like it!

War breeds misery. You are of the opinion that it could never bring anything good; it won't even bring peace, not a real one. War breeds misery and soldiers, who go back home broken and bruised, and not just physically. Many of them don’t even return home. Those who do, leave a part of them behind.

But you’re a silly little girl, and you had read once in a book that the best thing a girl could be in this world was a beautiful little fool. So you spoke to no one about your disdain for war. No one would want to hear a pretty woman talk about it, anyway. And you did your part, as everyone else in the country did.

You were a nurse back home. Lived to see too many people die on your hands, many of them from stupid, small things. When the war comes, you tell your family goodbye and you’re sent off to England. Things are worse, there. Your knowledge doesn’t feel enough. Every week, more people die than you could have ever saved in a lifetime working at the local hospital.

Today, however, there has yet to be death on your hands. You're tending to a wounded soldier who's not going to die from his injury. Some shrapnel lodged in his arm, but by the time you finish disinfecting it, he'll be good to go and fight some more. Probably die another day, from another injury. Maybe in your hands, maybe in another nurse’s.

You’re chatting casually with the soldier while you clean his wound when you recognize a very familiar, particularly loud voice in the tent.

"No one's gonna have a look at it unless it's her." The voice hisses through clenched teeth, and it couldn't sound more annoyed while, simultaneously, annoying.

Sergeant Barnes has been a difficult pain in your side at camp. Whenever he's wounded, he'll come crawling to you — says you're the most capable nurse in camp, won't let any other nurses tend to his wounds, but you know he's being impossible on purpose.

The first time Sergeant Barnes was brought to the field station, he had been near a loud explosion and lost part of his hearing for a few hours. He was terrified it would be permanent. He landed on your hands and you watched over him, did some tests, didn’t find anything particularly wrong that would dictate permanent damage.

Next time, a blast injury to the leg. Jessica, another nurse, was supposed to tend to him. He asked for you. You weren’t busy with any other soldier, so you obliged.

From the third time on, it was like clockwork. No other nurse could touch him - it was either you, or no one, to the point the Captain once walked into the tent already yelling your name. “Nurse, check out Barnes immediately!”

It doesn’t take a lot of brains to figure Sergeant Barnes out. He thinks you’re pretty, and this is his way of flirting his way to you. And you’re not blind - he’s a handsome man. But you’re not looking to find romance in the middle of war, where he could leave tomorrow and never return. No, you wouldn’t go down that path.

Back to the present, you excuse yourself from the soldier you're taking care of, and you walk in the direction of the Sergeant's voice. Barnes is half-sitting on a chair, shirt covered in blood around the right shoulder area, and Nurse Beth is giving him an exasperated look as she tries to convince him she is just as capable as anyone else in here. "Sergeant Barnes, you were shot, I need to take a look at—"

"No." He interrupts immediately, his voice stern. Then, he sees you and his expression lightens up almost in a second, a boyish grin settling on his lips.

"Beth," you say softly. "Could you please finish tending to Corporal Johnson? It’s a simple injury. I’ll care for Sergeant Barnes."

Beth seems happy to run from this hell-given situation, and she leaves without making a fuss. You approach Barnes with a stern look. "Sergeant. You cannot keep doing this. All nurses at camp are perfectly capable of tending to all your wounds."

"None have your hands," he says with a stupid grin. "And I thought we agreed you'd call me Bucky."

You raise an eyebrow while you find the necessary tools for treating his wound on a nearby cart. "We didn't agree to anything. You made a request, and I ignored it."

"Shouldn't be ignoring Sergeant's orders," Barnes says, and he sounds way too smug for his own good. You'd like to slap him out of it, but that wouldn't be much of a good idea.

"Thankfully, I'm not a soldier, so I'm not under your orders," you reply, and that seems to throw him off balance for a minute before he regains his composure and is smirking again. You wish that smirk didn’t mess you up as much as it did. It would make this easier if you were a little more impermeable to his obvious flirting.

"Lord, I missed your quick wit. Had to get myself shot to find an excuse to come talk to you again," he answers, and something about his tone really feels like he's being way too honest.

You ignore that specific remark.

"Relax, Sergeant. Let me take a look at your wound." You put on a pair of gloves before you slowly move his shirt down. On his shoulder, there's a small bullet wound, the skin slightly pushed in with a ring of red around it and some gunpowder staining the skin. On his back, there's an exit wound — bigger, tissue pushed out, an irregular shape. You hum in quiet approval, like the sight isn’t as bad as all the blood on his shirt would have led you to believe. "Good news, the bullet came out and it didn't leave fragments behind. We just have to disinfect the wound and patch you up, and you'll be ready to go."

"So I won't have to stay overnight for observation?" Barnes almost sounds hopeful, but you shake your head no with a chuckle. "I really need to learn to get shot in more dangerous places. What could get me killed? Femoral artery?"

"Sergeant Barnes," you call out, and there's a clear hint of scolding in your tone. "Don't joke about things like that. I deal with a lot of serious injuries every day. They're ugly and nasty, and worst of all — they really do get you killed."

"You could stop me from being reckless if you just told me I am your favorite patient," he answers, smug again, like he's just downplaying your scolding. "And do I have to beg to get you to call me Bucky? I'll do it, I'm not against the prospect of getting on my knees for you." The double entendre in his last sentence isn't lost on you, but you ignore it. Mostly. Your body does not, because your cheeks turn a light shade of red, and Bucky absolutely notices. Oh, he notices. Bastard even sits a little more upright on his chair, eyes trailing over your face.

"I can't have favorite patients," you say, and then you add, like something in you has cracked a little, "—Bucky."

That seems to crack a bit of his smug exterior, too. Like, somehow, he wasn’t truly expecting you to actually follow suit and call him by his preferred nickname. And now he thinks that name will never sound as pretty in anyone else’s mouth.

"I won't tell if you won't," he murmurs to you, and it sounds a little too sinful to be appropriate. You ignore it. Lord, you're doing a whole lot of ignoring when Bucky is around.

"Lean back. I'll take care of that wound now," you say, trying to sound as calm and professional as you can. Your fingers work masterfully over the wound, careful, disinfecting with alcohol and cleaning the blood with a white, soft rag before you give him a pitiful look. "The stitches will sting a bit, Sergeant Barnes."

He gives you a mischievous grin. "Glad I have your pretty face to keep me distracted, then."

There's a certain soft touch in the way your hands work on stitching his skin, a softer touch than you would normally use with the other soldiers. No, you would never admit that Bucky was your favorite patient, but you can't help but have a certain tenderness in the way you take care of him. You're not sure he realizes it. But you also have a very specific sense of humor, and you don't try to hide when you pinch his skin a little harsher than necessary the first time the needle goes through the skin.

Bucky doesn't make a full noise, but he hisses through his teeth. "I thought my pretty face was distracting you," you comment, clearly amused. He squints his eyes at you, like he's realizing you did it on purpose.

“Didn’t think you had a mean streak in you.” He says back, but after a moment of slight sting in his body, he’s grinning at you. Again. “I like it.” Is all he says before he goes quiet, watching you work.

You finish the stitches relatively fast, and then you cover them with some gauze, protecting them from possible infection.

“You’re all done, Sergeant.” You say, patting him on his good shoulder. He doesn’t seem to appreciate how you’re back to calling him that instead of Bucky. You open the medicine cabinet and grab a bottle of pain killers before handing them to him. “These will help you manage the pain. In a normal situation, I would give you some antibiotics, but we are trying to ration those for more serious situations. I think you’ll heal just fine. In any case-” A deliberate pause, because you know the next part is going to elicit a reaction from him. “-I would recommend you come in every day to change the bandage, so we can keep it clean and lower the risk of infection. At least for the first week.”

And you were right about the reaction, because Bucky is smiling, ear to ear, as he grabs the bottle from your hand. His fingers brush against yours when he does, the touch a little rough, and they linger on your skin for a little longer than necessary.

“So I will have an excuse to come see you every day.” He says, like he’s suddenly a kid who has been offered the biggest piece of candy in the store.

“It’s not an excuse. You do need to come in every day to change the bandage. I would prefer if you let all the nurses take care of you, though.”

“No.” He answers way too quickly, and his expression is not hard, but there’s an uncomfortable shift to it. It’s quieter when he speaks again. “Just you. If that’s okay.”

If that’s okay.

Well. It’s not like you mind it. You find it strangely affectionate that since June, the first time Sergeant Barnes stepped foot in this camp, there is a sense of routine and normalcy to your life. Soldiers come and go, almost too many different faces to remember. And then, a few days every week, in comes Sergeant Barnes. The one face that is always the same in the mess. His ocean blue eyes, staring at you like you’re God sent in this hell of a place. Hands that sometimes try to reach half-way and see if your own cross the rest of the way. You never did. Even though a part of you wanted to.

“Okay.” You say, after a moment of silence that definitely stretched too long. “Let whichever nurse receives you know that I gave you the okay to ask for me specifically.”

He seems content with that answer. Slowly, he stands up from his chair and dresses the half-destroyed shirt over his torso again, the blood dry and brown staining his right shoulder. He slides the bottle of pills inside the back pocket of his pants and, for half a second, there’s a look in his eyes. A shift, something softer than the usual flirting. Inquiring. There’s a question behind his eyes.

“We are having a get together tomorrow night.” He finally says when he figures he is tired of holding it back. “Bonfire, stupid music, the whole lot. A part of the unit is returning to camp and we like to welcome back the survivors with some good times.” It takes him a second to continue, and it feels like he’s reaching for the right words. You feel slightly uncomfortable, but you don’t make anything of it. “You should join us.”

Of course you know what he’s talking about. It isn’t the first time, and surely won’t be the last, that the soldiers do this. It’s good for morale, they say, and you think you believe them. Anytime soldiers come back, a lot of dead come with them. But the living are there by their side, dreading, seeing their future laying in a gurney next to them. They need to be reminded of a little happiness, even if fleeting.

Nurses will usually be in attendance, too - they look pretty while they sit on soldier’s laps, singing some happy songs about better times. They dance together, make them happy for a night. Some of them will disappear into the nearby woods for an hour or two. Come back with their hair disheveled and their clothes messed up.

You don’t usually go. Not because you’re not invited - in fact, you didn’t need the Sergeant’s invitation, and you know his words mean something closer to ‘I’d like to see you there’ - but because the fleeting happiness didn’t particularly work for you. Never in your life did you feel as hollow as you do these days, working to save people who could be killed tomorrow, or the day after, in an instant. It feels pointless and stupid to sing along to pretty little tunes while people are dying for things you don’t defend.

Sergeant Barnes says your name and you’re brought back to your senses, realizing you were a little lost in thought.

“Sergeant Barnes-” You begin, and in a second, his hand wrapping around one of your wrists. It’s soft and quick and you are a little startled because he’s never been this direct. Of course you have noticed him staring, of course you’ve heard his thousand different ways of flirting and saying you have a pretty face - but the touch was new. He never touched you before.

“Bucky. Please. I mean it.” Your stomach does a flip at the way he speaks, because does Sergeant Barnes - well, Bucky - sound… vulnerable? “You don’t have to say yes right now, but, maybe, don’t say no yet?” Hopeful. Vulnerable and hopeful.

“Bucky-,” you start, finally giving into his request fully. He smiles at that. “I will think about it.”

And you do. Tonight, when you go back to the sleeping tent and you lay in the hard mattress, under the cold sheets, you think about sitting by the bonfire with Bucky by your side.

[twstedfreak]

Not Even the Gods Can Keep Me from You — g. satoru

Ꮺ ⋮ pairing — odysseus!gojo satoru x fem!reader [greek au]

Ꮺ ⋮ synopsis — ❝ you were never supposed to fall for the prince of ithaca—especially not when war was on the horizon and the gods had already written tragedy in the stars. but you did. and any now, years have passed, the sea has swallowed his name, and you're left raising his son in a kingdom that’s slowly forgetting him. across cursed islands and shattered battlegrounds, gojo satoru is fighting his way back to you—but after all this time, will love be enough to bring him home? ❞

Ꮺ ⋮ c&w — 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—kinda ooc, kinda slowburn too, war, violence, death, grief, emotional manipulation, long chapters(?), separation, implied infidelity in the context of war and distance, strong language, betrayal, intense emotional conflict, Satoru’s inner turmoil and struggles with guilt, longing, and regret. tags might be added along the making of this Ꮺ ⋮ notes — it’s finally here… slowly but surely, i’m going to start uploading this series I’ve been working on for what feels like forever. seriously, the on-and-off relationship i’ve had with this story and the thought process behind it? Yeah, it’s been a ride. you wouldn’t believe half the stuff that went into it (just kidding, maybe you would). anyway, i’ll be posting the first chapter soon! just tweaking a few things here and there. upload times might be a bit inconsistent, as well as expect (ig)slow updates, idk it really does depend on my mood, so please bear with me while I get everything in order. thanks for sticking with me, y'all!! if you want to be added to the taglist, make sure to comment before i close it! i’m currently sorting out my tumblr theme (you know, the usual chaos of customization), but i’ll be back to posting soon. thanks so much for your patience and support, can’t wait to get this rolling! teaser post here! Ꮺ ⋮ status — new & ongoing

masterlist | drabble | headcanon ˚ 　 ⤹ 　 ❝ ©twstedfreak

TABLE OF CONTENT . . . . !!

PROLOGUE — BEFORE THE STORM The moment the thread was spun

01 | The Prince & the Spartan  ⤷ A diplomatic visit. A shared glance. Their world begins to shift. 02 | The Lasting Days  ⤷ He falls fast. She builds walls. But the heart doesn't always obey. 03 | The Archer in the Crowd  ⤷ A masked suitor. A silent promise. A choice she never saw coming. 04 | Athena’s Watchful Eyes  ⤷ Athena watches a child become a man—driven by love, tested by fate. 05 | The Ninth Dawn  ⤷ Nine days. One child. One goodbye. Neither ready to let go.

MORE TO BE ADDED..... !!

Ꮺ ⋮ reminder — inspired by epic the musical by jorge rivera herrans. The banner and divider design is created by me. Please do not use, alter, or modify the template/design without permission. Do not steal, modify, tweak, translate, or plagiarize anything from my blog. Do not use / copy my template or theme. Respect my work, love u guys. 🚨

Ꮺ ⋮ TAGLIST OPEN comment to be added to the official list —

@sims-4lifers. @spiritkittten. @crystal-freak24. @not-aya. @n1vi. @kinkyvitch. @twistedbitcc. @abeitriz. @sims-4lifers. @artist1936. @ratedrrrr. @barbare2. @sheep-infog. @tojideckmuncher. @midnightlunasworld. @lovely-maryj. @the-queen-yn. @dairyfaerie. @qnqwr @poopooindamouf. @theanaoevre. @blueemochii. @tinykryptonitefairy. @thesimppotato11. @kyungjunnies. @tamishadawn. @corvid007. @linaaeatsfamilies. @borntoexplore11-blog. @dainslumi. @rjreins. @perffff0. @sillysushi. @bluepanda08. @joyfulweaselbananapanda. @crsdf4everr. @lem-hhn. @leave-rae-alone.

— ©twstedfreak

[wcnderlnds]

last dance | choi seung-hyun (t.o.p)

・❥・ summary: turns out you both want different things but seunghyun has to give you the perfect goodbye ・❥・word count: 2.5k ・❥・warnings: 18+. smut. oral (m receiving), unprotected p in v, swearing, angst. female reader. ・❥・ authors note: this took me all day to write and now i go hide like i always do when i write smut because i will always be forever nervous to write it. but there might be a part two to this. maybe. we'll see. also, didn't add my taglist because idk who wants tagging in smut so <3

As you sat there watching your friends have their very first dance together as a married couple, your heart clenched in your chest. You had to tear your eyes away instead focusing on the glass of wine you had in your hand. Today wasn’t supposed to be like this; it was supposed to be a happy day celebrating your friend’s love but how could you celebrate love when your own love life had just crumbled apart mere hours ago? The conversation with Seunghyun replayed over and over in your head.  

It had been like any other day – the excitement of watching your two friends finally tie the knot hanging in the air. It had spurred you on to wonder about your future with Seunghyun. You had been together for four years now. They hadn’t been the easiest four years but somehow, someway, you always made it through the other end stronger than ever. This was what true love felt like. Every single day with him made you fall even more in love. There was no doubt that you wanted to be with this man for the rest of your life so, you had voiced that to him. The second you had said that you wanted to get married one day, maybe even have children, he had turned pale. His whole body had gone rigid, his hands dropping from the tie he was trying to tighten. As he looked at you and said ‘I don’t think that’s going to ever be in the cards for us. Marriage isn’t something I’ve ever wanted’, your heart had plummeted into your stomach.

Really, it should have been conversation early on in your relationship but you had been so caught up in each other that some of the important conversations like that got lost along the way. His words had cut you deep, so deep that it had resulted in the two of you arguing. It made you think he didn’t love you enough even as he tried to explain why he didn’t want to get married. So, as you left for the wedding, all the hurt and scalding words that had been said between you hanging in the air, you knew this was the beginning of the end. 

Sitting at the table, you swirled around the last remains of your drink in the glass, bringing it up to your lips to swig it off. As you did, you locked eyes with Seunghyun who had been sitting at the table over talking to his bandmates. You didn’t tear yours away as he said something to them then made his way to you. 

“Hey,” he said quietly, holding his hand out to you. “Dance with me?” 

Your eyes glanced at his hand, hesitation coursing through your body but you took it anyway. He led you to the dancefloor, his hands finding your hips, placing yours around his neck. A slow song was playing, Seunghyun gently swaying the two of you to the beat. It was too painful to look at his face right now, focusing on his shoes instead but he didn’t let that last too long, his slender fingers reaching out to lift your chin up to look at him. As you met his eyes once more, you could see the pain in them mirroring your own. He knew as well as you that this was it for the two of you. God, it hurt. Your heart physically felt like it was breaking in two. 

“Seunghyun...” you started but he cut you off. 

“Let’s just... have this moment, yeah?” His voice broke as he spoke, the gentleness combined with his deep tone penetrating right through your broken heart. 

He tugged you closer to him, your body pressed against his with your head laying on his chest. His heart was beating just as rapidly as yours, his hand gently reaching up to your head to stroke your hair. It was soothing but it wasn’t enough. This was just hurting you more. Knowing this would be the last time he’d ever hold you like this, that he’d ever be this close to you? It was enough to bring you to tears. As you let them fall onto his suit jacket, he knew you were crying, squeezing his own eyes shut. Seunghyun wasn’t afraid of crying, he never had been but right now he needed to be strong for you. When he was alone later, he’d let the tears fall but right now making sure you had one last bit of comfort from him was his main priority. 

As the song ended and you pulled back to look at him, he kept his arms around you, his thumb running along your lower lip. “...I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want.” 

“I know,” you whispered. 

He looked at you so intensely, like he was memorising all of your features knowing that he would never be able to look at you this way again. Before he could even control himself, he was leaning in and his lips met yours in a slow, passionate kiss. His arms wrapped around your body; his hands splayed across your back as he poured every ounce of his love into the kiss. Love wasn’t the problem; his own commitment issues were. Your fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck, Seunghyun letting out a sigh. He didn’t say any words as he pulled away, he didn’t need to. Instead, he simply took your hand in his and lead you outside. If he was going to say goodbye then he was going to make sure it was one you could both remember. 

That was how you ended up in the backseat of the car, Seunghyun’s shirt half open, yours somewhere in the front of the car as you straddled his lap, hands cradling his face as you kissed him hungrily. His hands slid up your back, unhooking your bra. It was quickly discarded somewhere in the car, his eyes instantly falling to your chest. His head dipped down, his tongue swirling around your nipple. Your hand tangled in his hair, a breathy moan passing your lips as he worked his magic. Slowly, you grinded your hips against his feeling his growing length rubbing against your core. Thank the stars you’d decided to wear a skirt, only the barrier of your underwear in the way. It was good but it wasn’t enough. You needed him, you needed him like you needed air. 

His lips trailed wet kisses along your chest and collarbone until he reached your neck, biting down to leave his mark. It might be the last time he’d get to have you like this but he still wanted the world to know you had been his. You tugged at his hair, pulling him back up to meet your lips. “If this is the last time just... give me everything, please.” 

“Whatever you want, baby,” he mumbled, thumb brushing against your cheek as he crashed his lips back onto yours. His hand slid underneath your skirt, dipping beneath your underwear. The second his fingers touched your sensitive core, he bit back a moan at how wet you were. “You're always so ready for me.” 

His fingers slid between your folds, coating his fingers in your slick before he pushed two digits inside you. The intrusion had you gasping, his fingers setting a slow, torturous rhythm. He pumped them in and out, your head falling onto his shoulder as you ground against his hand. “Seunghyun, please.” 

“Please, what?” His voice was a deep, reverberating whisper in your ear only making your arousal worse. “Use your words, baby.” 

“More. I need more. I...” Words seemed to escape you especially when he suddenly sped up his movements, his fingers plunging in and out of your tight heat. You whimpered, hips rocking with him. He was nothing but determined to bring you to the brink of ecstasy, his free hand tangling in your hair, tilting your head back roughly as his lips found your neck. The feeling of his fingers deep inside you and the soft bites along your collarbone were enough to send you spiralling. 

You moaned out his name, biting down on his shoulder as you came all over his fingers. He didn't let up, working you through your orgasm until he felt your body slump against his. Only then did he pull his fingers out of you, bringing them up to his lips. He made a show out of pushing them into his mouth to taste you. His eyes almost rolled to the back of his head, a breathy sigh passing his lips. “You always taste amazing, princess.” 

His swollen lips brushed against yours, the sweet taste of you lingering on his lips. He gently tugged at your bottom lip, grinding his hips up into yours. You could feel how hard he was, how desperate he was and God, did you want him inside you so badly. The feeling was very mutual, his cock aching to be buried deep inside you. He lifted your hips off him momentarily, popping open the button on his slacks as he lifted his own hips to tug off his pants and boxers down his legs enough to free himself. He hissed as the cool air hit his erection.  

Licking your lips, you leaned your head down, his hand instantly coming to push you closer to his length. Your tongue darted out, teasing along his tip, the taste of his precum filling your mouth. He groaned, a deep husky noise; it was almost enough to send you spiralling again. The throbbing between your legs back yet again as he lost all his patience and pushed your head onto him. Your lips wrapped around his cock, taking as much of him into your mouth as possible. What you couldn’t fit, you wrapped your hand around. You began to bob your head up and down, hollowing out your cheeks. With lidded eyes he watched as you took him deep into your throat, holding your head there. He let out a strangled moan, his hips instinctively pushing up into your mouth causing the tip of his length to hit the back of your throat. The choking sound you made was almost enough to make him come there and then. Instead, he pulled you off him, his thumb wiping at the corners of your mouth. You looked picturesque, the way your lips were swollen, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. This was one of the ways he was always going to remember you on lonely nights when he couldn’t have you anymore.  

“I need you so much,” he whispered, the pain in his voice like a knife to your heart. “Even if it's for the last time, I just... I fuckin’ need you.”  

You didn’t say anything, instead you slid your underwear off down your legs, moving to straddled him yet again. You took him in your hand, positioning him at your entrance before you sank down onto him. You moaned as you took all of him inside you, sitting on his thick length to give yourself time to adjust. His fingers dug into your hips; head tilted back as he looked at you. “You’re so beautiful. I... love you.” 

You rested your forehead against his, eyes squeezing shut as if it was too painful to even look at him after saying that knowing what was going to come after this was over. Regardless, you replied softly. “I love you, too.” 

“Don’t move. Not yet. I...just want to look at you... so I can keep this picture in my head,” his finger trailed along your jaw, his eyes piercing into yours now that you’d opened them. “You were always the best thing that had ever happened to me and nothing will change that.” 

You let the moment linger between you, knowing that you both needed it. Your eyes scanned his face, committing his dark, gorgeous eyes, strong jawline and perfect lips to your memory. Slowly but surely, you began to lift your hips up then back down. His hands on your hips guiding your movements, small breathy groans coming from the beautiful man in front of you. He leaned up, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss. His tongue slipped between your parted lips, tongue tangling with yours as you picked up your pace. Seunghyun’s own hips bucked up into yours, his lips never leaving yours. One of your hands cupped his cheek, his soft skin flushed beneath your touch. The grunts and groans coming from him were some of your favourite sounds, ones that you’d miss so very much.  

“I’m so close, baby,” you panted, your hips beginning to lose the rhythm. Seunghyun took this as his cue to wrap his arm around your body, laying you back on the plush seat of the car.  

“Shh, let me take care of you,” he rasped, his body covering yours as he lifted your legs to wrap around his waist. He thrust into you hard and fast, your body moving with the force of his movements. Nails raked down his back (your turn to mark him as yours now), the sting of it causing him to moan. He had always loved when you did that. 

He could feel your walls squeezing him, letting him know you were close. So, he brought the pad of his thumb down, rubbing tight, small circles against your clit. His lips whispering “I love you” against yours as he changed to slow, deep thrusts. That was it. You couldn’t take anymore, your walls clamping down around him, your lips singing his name like a prayer as you came undone. He didn’t take his eyes off your face as he watched your orgasm hit you, it was one of the hottest things he’d ever seen. He kept up his rhythm but soon faltered when he heard you whisper you loved him. He stilled, his hips flush against you as he came, emptying himself inside you with a deep groan. 

He collapsed on top of you, your sweat slicked bodies pressing together. You ran your hand through his hair as he nuzzled into your neck. Why couldn’t you stay this way? Just wrapped up in your own little bubble with the man you loved. But, no. Reality wasn’t that kind to either of you. You both wanted different thing and as selfish as Seunghyun wanted to be, he couldn’t do that to you. No matter what, you deserved to find everything you’d ever wanted but he wasn’t the one that could give you that. 

He lifted his head, a sad frown on his beautiful face. “I’m staying at Jiyong’s tonight but... I’ll drive you home and come get my stuff tomorrow.” 

“Okay.” 

That was all you could say otherwise you’d break down. The fact that this was really it was all consuming pain. And, as much as this had been the perfect way to say goodbye to each other, it made it all the much harder. 

How were you supposed to ever let him go? 

[joemama-2]

"are you the fairy?"

pairing: gojo x fem reader

synopsis: You meet Gojo Satoru in a place untouched by time, where his laughter rings through empty streets and his hands chase yours like a promise he fully intends to keep. He is younger, reckless with his love, blind to the weight of the years that separate you—years that have taught you that love is not always meant to be kept. You let yourself have him anyway, knowing all the while that his future is stretching toward a horizon you cannot follow. When the time comes, you do what must be done—let him free.

wc: 7.3k

tags/warnings: angst, eventual comfort, suggestive content, older! reader, dividers by @/cafekitsune, HOPEFULLY PROOFREAD ENOUGH :(

Aging. A fear most people have. The fear of growing old, growing weaker, needing others to rely on for simple tasks, no longer being in your ‘prime’, and of course—the grey hairs. While it can be argued that aging is a natural, human process; it can also be argued that no one ever really wants to grow old. No one wants to see everything they knew and loved vanish before their own two deteriorating eyes, no one wants to become just a distant memory. But no one wants to be immortal either. It’s a weird push and pull, leaving humans with only one choice: enjoy it while it lasts, and make the most of your life.

And so, that’s what you have been doing.

Graduating, getting a nice paying job, having a good place, traveling the world, making a name for yourself, being…happy. Sure, you’ve made friends and connections, but none of those amount to being in the peaceful solitude of your lonesome. You’ve faced adversaries in your life, and you’ve overcome them—that’s what making the most out of your life means. But you know what doesn’t fall under that category?

Allowing yourself to fall in love with a man almost two decades younger than you. 

But with life comes spontaneous events, debating the pros and cons and wondering the ‘what ifs’. 

And what if—against all logic, against every carefully laid plan—you let yourself have him? What if you ignore the whispers in your mind that warn of fleeting youth, of inevitable goodbyes, of the cruel march of time that will leave you grasping at something you were never meant to keep? Gojo Satoru is reckless in his affection, undeterred by the years between you, pressing himself into your life with an audacity that makes it impossible to push him away. He tells you that love doesn’t care for numbers, that age is nothing more than an arbitrary construct, and when he looks at you with that unwavering gaze, you almost believe him.

Almost.

You’re forty-five when you meet him, he’s nothing but a young and adventurous thirty-year-old. You remember being thirty. 

“Are you from here?” you asked, resting your palm against your cheek. The coldness of the bar’s countertop sits underneath your elbow—you regard him with a curious gaze. The first thing you noticed was the pretty eyes he had. The next was his smile—that handsome smile that was doing weird things to your heart. You remember your late husband smiling at you like that every day, every chance he got. Your lip quirks up. 

“No, I’m from Japan,” he replies smoothly, jutting his chin in your direction. “And you?”

You tell him. 

“Oh, that’s nice. So, what are you doing all the way here?”

“Vacation.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Pretty well. Italy is beautiful.”

“Almost as beautiful as you.”

A cheesy pick-up line you’re more than accustomed to. You save his awkwardness with a small laugh, eyebrow raising. “Thank you,” you glance down at the dark liquid in your cup, swirling its contents. “Though you aren’t the first to tell me that.”

The words hang in the air between you, thick with the weight of history you’ve long since buried. It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? To be flattered but not fooled, to hear compliments that once would have made your heart race but now only bring a faint ache, like a ghost brushing past your skin. You didn’t expect to be here, sitting in this foreign bar, in this foreign city, drinking away the remnants of a life you thought you’d left behind—no more waiting for a man to come home, no more running on borrowed time. And yet, here he is, his smile still holding the weight of something undeniably fresh, something he hasn’t yet had time to tarnish with the passing years.

He chuckles, and it’s sincere. Like he knows how to handle this situation and like he’s done it a hundred times before—charming the older woman, never realizing the danger he’s flirting with. You can’t help but notice how easily he fits into this moment, how the energy between you feels almost too comfortable for something so unexpected. His youth, his vitality—it’s intoxicating, and yet, you know it’s only a matter of time before you have to draw the line, to remind yourself that he’s playing with something far more fragile than he understands.

You meet his eyes again, and for a second, you let yourself indulge. He’s not just handsome; he’s magnetic. And though you’ve seen his type before—young, reckless, full of life—there’s something different about him. It’s that smile, that easy confidence as if the world is nothing but a playground for him to conquer. Your heart stirs involuntarily, the edges of something you thought was long gone starting to flutter back to life.

"So, do you always travel alone?" you ask, your voice a little softer now, more curious than before.

His grin widens, pleased by the shift in your tone. “Not usually, but this time I decided to take some time for myself. I needed a change of scenery.” He leans in a little, dropping his voice to something almost conspiratorial. "It's nice to get away from it all, you know? To meet people who don't know your story."

The irony of his words doesn’t escape you. Here you are, a stranger in a new city, with a lifetime of stories you no longer tell, and yet, his openness makes you feel like you’re both speaking the same unspoken language. You could tell him everything, share the years of love and loss, of heartache and healing, but you don’t. You keep it hidden, tucked away where only time and memory can touch it.

“That sounds familiar,” you say quietly, glancing down at your glass again. Your fingers trace the rim absently. “Sometimes it's the only way to find peace." You don’t know why you’re telling him this. It’s not as though you’ve shared your soul with a stranger in a bar before. But there’s something about the way he looks at you, something open and unafraid, that makes you think—just for a moment—that maybe this conversation, this meeting, isn’t entirely by chance. Something you haven’t felt in…a long time.

“Do you usually travel alone?”

You hum. “I do now.”

“Why now?”

“Because my husband doesn’t come along with me anymore.”

“Oh, yeah? And why’s that?” He sips from his own cup, but when he puts it back down, its fizziness tells you it’s just coke. 

You take a moment to reply, unsure if you should trauma dump on a stranger. But he did ask. “Because he’s dead,” you simply comment, leaning back in your stool and gauging his reaction. 

But he doesn’t show a face of surprise or a face of regret. He doesn’t offer his unwanted apology. He nods, humming softly in thought. But his eyes change—and you think for a second that it looks like a silent sense of understanding—like he’s lost someone too before. “And what was his name?”

Your cheeks pinch up, smile widening in fondness. Looking down at your left hand that once housed a beautiful, golden ring. “Masamichi.” 

There’s a stillness in the air for a second, the kind that doesn’t feel heavy but rather reverent, as if time itself paused to acknowledge the weight of your words. You look at him through the corner of your eye, seeing how his gaze softens—not with pity, but with something deeper, something far more intimate. It’s the kind of understanding that doesn’t come from words, but from shared experiences, and you’re struck by the thought that perhaps, in some quiet corner of his heart, he knows what it’s like to lose the love of your life.

He doesn’t speak for a while, but there’s something in the way he leans forward that tells you he’s listening in a way that feels different than the usual casual conversations you’ve had with strangers. His eyes are fixed on you, almost as though he’s waiting for you to continue, to say something more, but he doesn’t push. He waits—patiently, and respectfully. "Masamichi," he repeats the name softly, as if he’s testing it on his tongue as if it’s a secret he’s now been entrusted with. “That’s a really cool name, sounds like he was a hardass.”

You chuckle lightly and nod, not trusting yourself to speak again for a moment, swallowing the lump in your throat. “He was, but he had his moments.”

“When were those?”

“When he’d call me pretty names.”

“Like?”

You bite your lip, smile wavering a bit as you recount ever beautiful name he used to call you. One always stuck out. “Well, he used to call me a fairy.”

He chuffs. “Why a fairy?” 

"He told me I was delicate, elusive, like something too beautiful to be real. He used to say I’d flown in from some distant place, where the sky was always clear and the air was always fresh." The words feel like they’ve drifted in from a different lifetime, a time when love was a constant companion, not a faint, distant echo. You tilt your head, the corners of your mouth turning up. "I think he liked that idea, that I wasn’t tied down to anything—just... floating through life, free. He said I made him believe in things he never thought possible."

His gaze softens as he watches you, leaning a little closer now as if drawn into the quiet weight of your story. "That’s beautiful," he says, his voice low, almost reverent. "It sounds like he saw you in a way no one else could."

You nod, the memory of his warm words filling the space between you. "He did. And sometimes... sometimes I felt like I was a fairy, too. Like I didn’t really belong to this world. But when he called me that, it made me feel like I was meant to be somewhere, meant to be his." A quiet moment hangs between you, the air heavy with the soft intimacy of shared vulnerability. You meet his eyes, feeling an unexpected connection—the kind of unspoken understanding that can only exist between people who have known the depths of love and loss.

Then, just as you’re about to pull back, he asks, with a gentle curiosity, “Do you still believe in fairies?”

You blink at him, a little taken aback. The question seems simple enough. You shrug, half in amusement, half in disbelief. "I don't know if I believe in them, but... I like to think that maybe they’re real, in some way. In the things we can’t see, in the moments that take our breath away."

His eyes seem to light up, almost as if he’s surprised by your answer. There’s a long beat of silence before his lips curl into a smile that reaches his eyes. "Maybe you’re still a fairy, then," he says, voice warm with something like wonder.

You shake your head. "Yeah, maybe."

The words hang between you, filled with something gentle, something fleeting but real. You feel the stirrings of a connection, fragile and unexpected, like the wingbeats of a fairy. There’s a hollow space in your chest where his memory used to sit, and it takes everything in you not to let it show, not to let the quiet ache spill over. The ring on your finger is long gone, but the phantom of it lingers—an unspoken promise that can never be fulfilled, a history you no longer share with anyone. “What about you?” You shift the conversation, trying to keep the tears at bay, trying to pull yourself back from the edge of vulnerability you’re teetering on. “Do you have someone, someone you’ve loved the way you were loved?”

His smile falters a tad, a flash of something—pain, perhaps, or nostalgia—passing through his eyes. It’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the easy grin you’ve already grown accustomed to—the one that doesn’t let anyone get too close. But the silence that follows speaks volumes, and you almost feel like you’ve crossed some invisible line. Fearing that you’ve peeked into a part of him he didn’t mean nor want to reveal. "I did," he says quietly, almost to himself, the words hanging between you both like a secret. “But sometimes, we love people in ways they can’t love us back.”

The weight of his words sits heavily in the space between you. It’s raw, vulnerable in a way that contradicts his earlier bravado, and you find yourself wondering how much more of him there is behind that smile, behind the charming facade. In that moment, you see something that mirrors your own grief, your own loneliness, and it’s unsettling. “Is she still around?”

“He’s not,” he shakes his head.

You take a sip from your glass, the sharp bitterness of the alcohol grounding you, and give him a small, knowing smile. “Well, I suppose we all have our stories.”

His eyes lock onto yours for a long, unspoken moment. You wonder if this is one of those rare moments in life where people truly see each other—not just for the faces they wear, but for what’s buried beneath. What they carry in the silence. “I think you’re right,” he finally says, his voice soft, but there’s an edge to it now, a quiet tenderness that wasn’t there before. "But not everyone’s story is meant to be told in one night."

Your heart flutters for a reason you can’t quite place, and for the first time in a long while, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, fate isn’t as cruel as it’s always seemed. Maybe, in this strange twist of events, you weren’t meant to run away from the past after all—but to face it, alongside someone who understands what it’s like to love and lose.

“I’m too old for you,” you laugh off his subtle suggestion, looking over to the opposite corner of the small, dim-lit bar. There are two girls sitting at the booth with obviously wandering eyes toward your new, unexpected companion. “Maybe them.”

He follows your gaze, his eyes flickering briefly to the two girls in the corner, before turning back to you with that signature, easy grin—unchanged, unaffected. The playfulness in his smile doesn’t reach the depths of his eyes, though. You wonder if he’s seeing something entirely different than the charming stranger you’ve made him out to be. You can feel the shift, subtle but undeniable, as if he’s testing the waters of your words, gauging how much of this is just casual banter and how much of it has an undercurrent you aren’t ready to acknowledge.

"Maybe," he replies, leaning back slightly, but there’s a glint of something else in his expression now, something that makes the air between you feel heavier. "But you know, I’m kind of having some fun with you right now." His voice drops, a playful edge softening into something more serious, and it makes you wonder if he’s teasing or if there’s something deeper in his intentions that hasn’t fully revealed itself yet.

“I don’t think we’re having fun.”

“Then what are we having.”

“A simple conversation, nothing more, nothing less.”

He chuckles, leaning closer and tilting his head towards you. “Just how old do you think I am?”

You meet his gaze, noticing a small twinkle. Your eyes move down, analyzing his features. He lets you do so in an untimely manner and when he sees that you’re looking lower at his arms, he playfully flexes. An amused snort that almost sounds like a scoff leaves your lips. “Young enough to be my son.”

“Do you have children?”

“And if I do?”

“Then that’s even better because I love MILFS.”

You scoff for real this time, eyes narrowing at him. “I don’t, but what you just said further proves my point.”

The air between you both shifts, like a quiet storm brewing, though neither of you is quite ready to acknowledge it. His words hang there, an almost careless suggestion laced with mischief, but they are impossible to ignore. You try to brush it off, laugh it off, but something about the way he leans in—his proximity, the way his gaze never wavers from yours—makes it harder than it should be. There’s something in his demeanor that says he’s not just playing, not just following the familiar rhythm of flirty banter. It feels like he’s pushing against the boundaries you’ve set, testing them in a way that catches you off guard.

He watches your every reaction carefully, his smile just a little too knowing, a little too calculated for someone so young. You can feel the heat of his gaze as it lingers, catching you off guard in a way that leaves your words hanging in your throat. His comment about MILFs—joking or not—makes your skin prickle uncomfortably, and for a second, you wonder if he’s being more sincere than you care to admit. But you can’t show it, not when you’ve already drawn the line, already told yourself this was just a fleeting moment in an unfamiliar place.

You clear your throat, trying to bring the conversation back to familiar ground, but the awkwardness lingers. “I’m sure you have better things to do than sit here with a woman who could be your mother.”

“Maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be,” he says, the playful edge in his voice softened by something deeper. There’s a sudden, subtle weight to his words, as though he’s no longer speaking just to entertain or to flirt, but to convey something more. It’s fleeting, but it’s there, and it catches you off guard. His eyes meet yours, steady and unwavering. The playful front cracks, revealing a hint of something you can’t quite name.

You shift uncomfortably, your thoughts creeping in again. "Well, you’ll find plenty of people who can keep you entertained around here." You gesture vaguely to the bar, the people milling about, the noise, the chatter. "I’m not the one you’re looking for."

His expression dampens. “Maybe you’re right. But maybe I’m just looking for someone who sees me, you know?”

The words hit you harder than they should, a soft pressure in your chest that you quickly try to dismiss. What is he saying? He doesn’t know you, yet he’s almost acting like he does. "I see you," you respond, your voice quieter than before, the weight of the statement hanging between you both like a truth neither of you is willing to face.

He doesn’t say anything right away, but his eyes darken, the smile fading into something more thoughtful, more introspective. You begin to think he might say something that cuts through all the barriers you’ve put up, something that challenges the notion that this is just a casual encounter between strangers. But instead, he shifts in his seat, taking another long sip of his drink. “I don’t know if you do,” he finally says, his voice lower now, the playful lilt gone. 

When he puts his drink down, you blame it on the alcohol from the way your skin flushes in a girlish way as he leans in—his breath fanning your ear. You also blame it on the alcohol when you’re reciprocating his advances, meeting his stare with an equally heated one of your own. And finally, you blame it on the alcohol when you tilt your head to whisper something in his ear. 

“Do you want me to look harder?”

That was the first night you went home with him—the first night you indulged in the warmth and pleasure a man—Satoru—can bring you. And even after sharing your ages, that never stopped. It somehow…never stopped you either. You found yourself giving in—almost craving the way his hands grip your hips, the way his slim and long fingers dance along your ribs in a soft manner. 

You didn’t expect yourself to be falling over the edge, finishing on just the tongue of a man younger than you. You always prided yourself on wanting—needing—an older man. And god, you were really missing out, weren’t you?

But it wasn’t just the way he touched you, the way his mouth knew exactly how to undo you piece by piece—it was the way he looked at you. Like you were something untouchable, yet here he was, holding you, ruining you, worshipping you in ways you hadn’t let anyone do in years.

It was intoxicating.

You told yourself it was just a fling, something fleeting, something fun. A vacation romance, a secret indulgence that you’d tuck away once you boarded your plane back home. But Satoru wasn’t the kind of man you could forget easily. His touch lingered, his voice echoed, and before you even realized it, you were answering his calls. Responding to his texts. Finding yourself in his arms again, even when you swore it would be the last time. You found yourself smiling at him when you believed he wasn’t looking, stifling a peal of laughter at his stupid jokes that he only said so he could see the way your eyes crinkle at the edges—you were finding comfort in him. 

A warm, tentative comfort that only one other man had brought you before. 

There were times you felt guilty, believing you were still bound to your late husband even in death, and at times—you almost compared the two. However, you know Masamichi would’ve wanted you to move on and care for yourself in ways he couldn’t do anymore. He would’ve smiled and encouraged you to find pleasure in your life. 

And you did. 

Because somewhere between those nights tangled in silk sheets and the hushed laughter over shared meals, you forgot to remind yourself of the one thing that mattered most: this was never meant to last.

But at the same time, you almost didn’t want it to end. You enjoyed the way he kissed your knuckles, moved strands of hair out your face, and complimented you when you felt at your lowest. He was seeing every part of you—the good and the bad, the pretty and the ugly. You were letting him. 

One night, after a particularly passionate session, he’s running his fingers along the curve of your spine. Naked bodies huddled next to one another, and the sheets offer a nice little coverup. The moonlight peeks through his blinds, the plush mattress sinking further underneath your weights. He kisses the top of your head softly before moving to your temple. Once again, you’re smiling. Tracing mindless circles on his bare chest, your foot rubbing up and down his calf. No words are spoken, there usually aren’t. But the silence doesn’t feel deafening; it feels comfortable. You found yourself snuggling closer to him.  “Satoru?”

“Mhm?” he hummed back, sighing lightly, his smile never wavering. 

“Where do you…see yourself in ten years?”

He hums again, this time in thought, his fingers never ceasing their lazy tracing along your spine. You feel the way his chest rises and falls beneath your palm, steady and unhurried. You wonder if he’s really thinking about your question, or if he’s simply enjoying the feel of you against him. “In ten years?” he finally repeats, voice hushed, as if speaking too loudly might break the fragile moment. “I don’t know…Happy, I guess. Settled down; I’d like to have kids by then.”

Your fingers pause against his chest. You don’t know why, but his answer catches you off guard. Not because it’s shocking—he’s young, full of life, full of potential—but because it’s something you’ve stopped thinking about for yourself. “Kids?” you echo, tilting your head up to look at him. His pale lashes flutter slightly as he meets your gaze, and there’s something soft in his expression, something almost wistful.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, a small chuckle escaping him. “A couple of ‘em, maybe. A little girl who’s just as stubborn as me, a boy who’s just as curious. Someone to pass everything down to, y’know?” His hand moves from your back, up to your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he exhales. “I think I’d be a good dad.”

You don’t doubt that. Satoru is many things—annoying, arrogant, childish at times—but he’s also deeply caring. He loves with his whole heart, even when he pretends he doesn’t. You can see him being the kind of father who carries his child on his shoulders, who spoils them with sweets, who makes bad dad jokes just to hear their laughter.

And yet, you can’t bring yourself to say that out loud. Instead, you settle for a noncommittal hum, lowering your head back onto his chest, letting the weight of his words settle between you. Ten years from now, he’ll have a family. He’ll have everything he wants. And you won’t be part of it.

That’s when reality hit for you. You’re holding him back. You can’t give him what he wants, what he longs for. It’s a bittersweet, brutal reminder that this little world you’ve built was only meant to be temporary. That the laughs, touches, kisses, the sex, it’s fickle. You’ve blinded yourself and let yourself sink too far deep to understand that what Satoru wants…he can’t experience with you. 

And so, it started small. Days spent out with him, your eyes would flicker around, moving from one woman to the next. Pointing them out to him in an encouraging way. 

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” “Maybe you should go ask for her number.”

“You’re both tall, you would go well together.”

It honestly hurt to push him away—to open his eyes to the other fish in the sea while a small part of you wished he could only be yours. But you’d never ask him to stop following his dreams of becoming a family man for your own selfish desires. 

At the start, he humors you. Rolls his eyes, scoffs, plays along like it’s just another one of your little jokes. “She’s alright, I guess,” he shrugs when you point out a woman at the café, her long legs crossed elegantly as she sips on a cappuccino. “But I prefer my women a little more…experienced.” He flashes you that cocky grin, the one that always makes your stomach flutter.

You laugh, but it’s forced. You ignore the way your chest tightens, the way your fingers twitch with the urge to reach for him. But then you do it again. And again. And again.

It doesn’t take him long to catch on.

One evening, when you offhandedly comment on the cute waitress who just served your drinks, something shifts in his expression. His smile dims, his fingers drum idly against the table. “Y’know,” he says, tone too casual, too light. “You’ve been doing this a lot lately.” 

You feign ignorance, sipping your wine. “Doing what?”

“Trying to set me up like some kind of matchmaking service.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, gaze sharp. “You got tired of me already?”

You force back a sigh. The way he says it—half-joking, half-serious—makes your stomach twist. “Satoru—”

“No, really,” he cuts in smoothly, tilting his head. “Is that what this is? You pushing me away? Guilt-tripping me into realizing you’re too old for me or whatever bullshit you’ve been telling yourself?”

Your fingers clench around the stem of your glass. He sees right through you. You swallow, trying to keep your voice even. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”

His laugh is sharp, humorless. “Looking out for me?” He leans back, stretching his arms along the booth. “Or making decisions for me?”

You hate how much that stings. You hate how right he is.

“I just…” You exhale, setting your glass down. “I just don’t want to hold you back, Satoru.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes search yours, and for a moment, you think he’s going to argue. You think he’s going to tell you you’re being ridiculous, that he wants you, that he doesn’t care about the future you keep running from.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re really that convinced this can’t work, huh?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

His lips press into a thin line. He nods once, slow and deliberate. “Alright,” he mutters, reaching for his drink. “Message received.”

And just like that, the air between you shifts.

Colder.

More distant.

Like the beginning of the end.

Your heart drops, looking back down at your wine. For a second, you felt like you ruined things. But it’s better to nip things in the bud than let them bloom, is it not?

Even after that, he was still adamant about seeing you. You let him, deciding to relish in these last few tender moments you may have with him. The sun was shining and beaming down on you two as you ate your brunch. It was a pleasant day. She was beautiful—the kind of beautiful that made you wonder how someone like her could even exist in this world. The type of beautiful that turned heads and left impressions. The type that had Satoru slowly following her with his eyes. You tell yourself this is a good thing. That this is what you wanted. That you should feel relieved that, finally, he’s looking at someone else the way he shouldn’t be looking at you.

But it doesn’t feel like a relief. It feels like a knife twisting in your gut.

You lift your mimosa to your lips, taking a slow sip, pretending you don’t notice the way his gaze lingers on her. She’s stunning—long legs, flawless skin, a radiant smile that could stop anyone in their tracks, and long black hair. She looks like she belongs in a magazine, not in a small café, laughing at something her friend just said.

You force yourself to smile. “She’s exactly your type.”

Satoru’s attention snaps back to you, and there’s something unreadable in his expression. He blinks, then exhales a laugh, shaking his head. “You really don’t quit, do you?”

You tilt your head, feigning confusion. “I’m just saying, you should talk to her.”

He scoffs, pushing his fork around his plate. “Yeah? And then what?”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

Satoru sets his silverware down with a quiet clink, resting his arms on the table. “Let’s say I go up to her. Get her number. Take her on a date.” He shrugs, giving you a half-smile. “Then what? I sleep with her? Take her on more dates? Marry her?”

You stare at him, not sure where this is going.

“And then we have kids,” he continues, his tone light, but his eyes—his eyes are sharp, cutting right through you. “That’s what you want, right? For me to find someone younger, someone who can give me the future I want.”

Your throat tightens.

He leans forward, resting his chin on his palm. “So, tell me something.” His voice drops, softer now, almost vulnerable. “If I wanted all of that with someone else, don’t you think I’d already be doing it?”

Your breath catches.

He waits.

But you don’t have an answer.

All you can do is encourage him to go up to her.

And he did.

He was reluctant, of course. Only doing it to shut you up. 

But you saw the way his expression softened, the way his dimples poked out when he’d talk about her. You were there on the side, watching what he once thought would be a simple meeting, to finding a woman he’d started to fall for. 

It was like watching a slow-moving car crash—one you orchestrated with your own hands. You had done this. You had led him to her, pushed him in her direction, knowing full well what it would mean. And yet, knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

The texts started. Little mentions of her here and there. You caught the way his face lit up in a way you hadn’t seen before, the way he spoke about her with that quiet sort of wonder like he was trying to piece together a puzzle he never expected to solve. You were still a part of his life, still, someone he made time for, but something between you had shifted irreversibly. The stolen moments, the lingering touches, the whispered confessions under moonlit sheets—they grew fewer and further between, replaced by something… distant.

She was such a kind and lovely woman, her voice made of butter when she spoke to you about him. And when you caught him smiling at his phone one evening, thumb idly tapping out a message to her, you knew.

He had found what you wanted for him. What he deserved. What you couldn’t give him.

So why did it feel like you were the one being left behind?

“Are you happy?” you had whispered, holding him tight in a hug, eyes beginning to water.

He held you back, arms secure around your waist. His icy hair tickled your skin, and he planted a soft, reverent kiss on your cheek. Pulling back to look at you, he didn’t have that fiery, teasing sparkle in his eyes like usual. No, this time, all that was there was just…him. Just Satoru. 

“I am,” he had said with a genuine finality. 

The trickle of warm tears slid down your cheeks, his thumbs swiping softly at the skin. “Good, I’m…I’m happy too.”

Truthfully, you were. Because if you had to let Satoru go, if you had to let him be the man he should be, you knew he was doing it beside a woman that was worth it. She was worth it. And you were beginning to be okay with the fact of being a memory to him, as long as it meant his wishes came true.

You left him, never once looking back, answering his texts or his calls. 

You don’t know how you had the strength to do it, how you managed to pull yourself away from the man you’d poured so much of yourself into. There was a time when you thought you’d never be able to let go—when you believed you’d somehow convince him that the life he envisioned with someone else wasn’t worth pursuing. But the truth was, you couldn’t keep holding onto him, not when the weight of your love was slowly suffocating him, not when you knew that he needed to step into a future that wasn’t tied to a past that could never fully be his. You didn’t want to be the one who held him back, no matter how much it hurt.

The hardest part was the silence that came after. You told yourself it was for the best, that you were doing him a favor, letting him breathe, letting him live without your shadow hanging over him. But the quiet was unbearable. Slowly, the hole he left inside you grew wider, the void left by his absence swallowing you whole. It felt like a slow, silent death—a death that had to happen for him to thrive, even if you weren’t ready for it.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months.

But somehow, that was for the best. He was with her now—his beautiful, young, hopeful future. And you? You were learning to accept the peace that came with being the past. The bittersweet relief of knowing that you had let him go, even when it felt like a piece of you was missing forever. You were learning to find happiness and acceptance with that. But you knew deep down, a part of you would always love him. And that part would remain tucked away, hidden, safe in the quiet recesses of your heart where no one could touch it. Because, no matter how much time passed, no matter how much life moved on, Satoru would always be the one who made you believe in the fleeting beauty of something that could never truly last.

Seven years had passed, and time had etched its marks on both of you. You were different now—wiser, perhaps. Life had moved on, as it always did, carrying you forward in unexpected ways. You found a home in Japan, a little place tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, a perfect reflection of the peace you had slowly cultivated within yourself. It was the kind of home you never thought you'd need after him, but somehow, it filled the emptiness that had lingered for so long.

When you saw him again, it felt like a thousand memories rushed back to you in a single moment. His shock was palpable—eyes wide with disbelief, brows furrowed as if trying to make sense of the woman standing before him. The same Satoru, yet different in small, subtle ways. His features had softened, a few lines around his eyes that spoke of time passing, of laughter shared, of a life fully lived. He was healthy, vibrant, the man you’d once known and the one who had continued his journey without you. "Y/N?" His voice was quiet at first, unsure if this was real or just a figment of his mind. His gaze swept over you as if trying to understand how you could still exist in his life after everything.

And then, he smiled. It wasn’t the same playful grin that had always been there, the one that had once made your heart race. This one was softer, warmer—gentler. It carried the weight of the years apart, but also the familiarity of someone who had once been an integral part of your soul.

And you smiled back again.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, the embrace as natural as it was unexpected. It wasn’t just a hug; it was a reunion, a silent acknowledgment of everything that had passed between you both. For a moment, you let yourself lean into him, feeling the comforting strength of his hold, the warmth of his body that you once thought you'd never feel again. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation, just the undeniable connection that had never truly disappeared. It was as though time had been kind to you both, erasing the pain and replacing it with something softer, something more peaceful.

“Satoru,” you muttered softly, almost in relief. 

"You look good," he said softly, pulling away just enough to look at you, his hands lingering on your arms as if testing the reality of this moment. 

You feel something cold pressed against your arm, looking down…there’s a golden ring on his left ring finger. Your lips parted with mild surprise before looking up at him with a sense of blitheness. You couldn’t help but chuckle, eyes crinkling in the way he loved—loves. “...is it her?”

He nods, glancing down at your own hand. And look at that; he’s not the only one with a gold ring. “And what about you?’ he asked, a softness in his voice.

Your cheeks flushed slightly, bringing your hand up and admiring the band around your finger, the diamond saying hello once more. Memories of your husband’s gruff voice, his frown that he tried so hard to keep etched on his face, the spiky black hair you loved to comb your fingers through, the scar on the corner of his mouth that you loved to kiss. “His name is Toji.”

He nodded with a wave of approval. “How long?”

“Three years. And you?”

“Four.”

You guys laughed simultaneously.  The sound of your shared laughter fills the quiet space between you two, and for a moment, it feels like no time has passed at all. There’s an ease to it, an old familiarity that you never quite lost, even with the years between you. The weight of everything that had happened—your separation, his journey, your own—seems to melt away, leaving only the lightness of the present moment. It feels almost surreal, standing there with him, both of you changed yet still the same in many ways.

You glance down at your left hand again, the ring catching the sunlight that spills through the window. The cool metal seems to hum with its own kind of quiet significance. Toji. 

But now, standing here with Satoru, there’s a strange sense of nostalgia mixed with contentment. You never imagined this—standing side by side with him, sharing your worlds as they are now. When you look up at Satoru, you see the same softness in his eyes that’s always been there, but now it carries with it the weight of time. He has a family, a future that doesn’t include you, and that’s okay. There’s peace in that. He’s found what he was always meant to have, the thing that once felt like an impossibility between you two.

“Four years,” you repeat, your voice soft, taking in the new ring on his finger. “That’s beautiful, Satoru. I’m…I’m so happy for you.”

He grins, that same playful glint in his eyes, but this time it feels like it’s tempered by something deeper, something more sincere. “Yeah,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “She’s incredible. I’m really lucky.”

The warmth that spreads through you isn’t jealousy, or bitterness, or anything like that. It’s something else entirely—pride, maybe. Or relief. You always knew that Satoru was meant for something bigger than what you two could have together, but seeing him happy now, seeing him settled with someone who makes his eyes light up the way they used to with you, it’s the closure you never thought you needed. 

“You?” he asks again, as though sensing the unspoken question between you two. His gaze shifts to your hand again, then back up to your face. 

The words come out easily now. “He’s my rock,” you say simply, the affection in your voice unguarded. “He makes me better, makes me whole.”

Satoru’s expression softens, and you see the flicker of that old tenderness—the way he used to look at you before everything got complicated. But it’s not painful, this time. It’s not heavy. It’s just… understanding. Like he’s happy that you’ve found that kind of peace. The kind of peace he’s found with her. “You both deserve it,” he says with a nod, as though sealing the quiet approval between you two. “You deserve everything good that comes your way.”

It’s a simple statement, but it carries so much weight. The unspoken acknowledgment that the two of you, after all this time, have moved on, and have created lives for yourselves that reflect who you’ve become. And for all that has happened, all the loss and the love that came and went, there’s something beautiful in knowing that this chapter—this shared history—is now something you both cherish without needing to hold on to.

He invited you over that day and you accepted. 

His wife runs up to you, hugging you like you’re an old friend. “Oh my god!” she exclaims in a gasp, her red-tinted lips curved up into a wide smile. You hugged her back, mirroring his reactions. “It’s so great to see you again, Miss. Satoru and I have never forgotten you.”

“Utahime…” he mutters with slight embarrassment. 

You chortled and patted her back. “I haven’t forgotten about you too either.”

She pulls back, removing her arms from you. Satoru places a warm arm around her waist and brings her to his side. The display of affection has you melting on the inside, head tilting in fondness. Satoru looks at you. “So, there’s someone we want you to—”

The sound of little pitter-patter against the hardwood cuts him off, all of your attention being dragged to the little girl with white hair and auburn eyes like her moth bounding up to you in excited familiarity. Her tiny gasp as she looks up at you with wide, innocent, twinkling eyes. She looked up at you as if she had known you her whole life, bubbling with a sense of jitteriness, cheeks glowing with a youthful flush. You couldn’t help but crouch down to her height, head tilting. Your eyes glazed over with tears, holding a hand to your mouth to hold back the broken laugh you almost let out at the question she asked you. 

“Are you the fairy?”

a/n: this story is inspired by "a love not made for me" by aryana rose. please go hear her speak it, she tells it so beautifully :(((. anywho, thank u guys for 2k really. i love u all and I'm incredibly grateful for all the support and love and patience :))

i couldn't do it without yall. <3

[wonallofme]

pinching!

tw and tags: bully!heeseung x plus size!fem!reader, descriptions of bullying, a lot of physical contact, noncon then heavy dubcon, oral sex (f receiving). word count: 2.3k note: originally written with a different idol in mind, this fic was already posted in my old blog. while talking to one of my best friends in the app we decided to re-post old fics for fun and idk why but while checking some of them I felt this one fitted Hee. I changed it a lot tho. anyway, hope someone here likes the concept. i’m a big fan of plus size/chubby reader but haven’t had the opportunity to talk about it here in the blog yet so, if you like it too, please don’t hesitate to hit my (empty) inbox! special thanks to fairy for being my first-ever beta reader ❤️

You have a couple of memories from that place, like how good it felt to hug your grandmother before bed, how there was a little stall in front of your school that always had tasty sweets, and how there was a little boy you used to walk home with after classes finished.

There wasn’t much objection once your mother said you would go back and live together in your grandmother's place not to leave the house empty. You had a couple of friends, but it was nothing special, so you said goodbye to them and moved with your mother without problem.

You had to admit you were kind of happy to move. Yeah, you wouldn’t be able to hug your grandmother, but at least you would feel her presence with the old floors and flower decorations that surrounded every room. Perhaps you could eat those sweets again, and there was the chance of making new friends too. Good things could come, you thought.

If you’re honest, you just hoped you could see him again.

You should've known at that point in your life that having expectations only leaves the sour aftertaste of disappointments.

The stall wasn’t there anymore, the entire house had changed because of your mother's decision, leaving no trace of your grandmother behind, and the sweet boy that used to follow you with a smile now followed you to make fun of you.

It was easy to recognize him. He had the same eyes and shiny smile, and you were elated to see a good, old friend all grow up into a real man. Sadly, he wasn’t as happy as you to see you again, showing you a disgusted face once you told him who you were.

‘’Don’t fucking talk to me,’’ he said, and you didn’t understand what you had done wrong. Perhaps you were too confident, your perfume wasn’t to his liking, or your hand was sweating too much when you touched him. You honestly had no idea why he reacted like that, but you understood that, just like his appearance, he had changed too. 

After all, that sweet boy you used to know would’ve never talked to you that way.

That interaction alone was enough to make you never want to approach him again. You didn’t want to hear that tone or see that expression again, so you did your best. You avoided him in the hallway, you stayed in your seat not to cross his way during breaks, and you didn’t look his way when you recognized his voice. 

It was all useless though.

You had become his new favourite thing.

At first, he was all words and no bite. He’d throw comments every now and then about your physical appearance, like comparing you to a pig when you ate your lunch in the cafeteria or mocking your uniform for being bigger than normal because of your size. 

His friends only laughed at these comments, and those who weren’t his friends stayed silent. They were different groups but shared one same trait– None dared to approach you, afraid of receiving the same treatment from him.

Then, he started to touch you.

He pinched your arm, telling you to give him your homework to copy it. Later, it was your cheeks, telling you to stop eating if you didn’t want to gain weight. Finally, one day, when everyone had left for the PE class while you were searching for your towel in your seat, approaching you silently from behind, he pinched your waist.

Scared, you turned to him. It had hurt a lot more than when he did it to your cheeks. You knew that, more than to bother you or call your attention, like on the other occasions, he had done it with all the intention of hurting you.

When you looked at his face, you noticed that his typical grin wasn’t there, replaced by a surprised expression and curious eyes instead. Somehow, you felt that something bad was about to happen, so you pushed him out of the way and walked out of there as soon as you could without caring that you were leaving with empty hands.

‘’Where’s your towel?’’ your teacher asked you.

‘’I forgot it,’’ you answered, not wanting to return to the classroom.

Later, Heeseung arrived with your towel in his hand, and you got punished for not bringing all the obligatory material.

He got worse.

if he crossed you in the hallways, he would shamelessly pinch your waist until you hissed, and when he found you in the library, between shelves, he would pinch your ass, grinning from ear to ear at the picture of you biting your lips not to make a sound so you wouldn’t get in trouble again.

As if everything he did was an innocent game, he smiled at you after nipping different parts of your body, like the side of your ribcage when you decided to walk away from his teasing, the back of your hand when you tried to push him away, or your thighs when he sat beside you in the cafeteria or the study room.

‘’Why are you doing this?’’ you whispered, pushing his hand away from prying under your skirt and pinching your upper leg.

‘’Look at all that skin,’’ he answered, grabbing your round hand with force to stop you from getting away. ‘’Your body is begging for it.’’

When you tried to do it again, to get away from his hands, he pinched the space of your chest that your bra didn’t cover.

Making you whimper in pain, he laughed at your hurt expression.

‘’It really hurts!’’ you tried to reason with him, but he was a lost cause. It didn’t matter that you were full of little purple and green spots, flinching at the mere sight of him lurking around, he wanted more.

This is going to end at one point, you tried to tell yourself.

He’d get tired and leave you alone when he found a new toy. It was impossible he only focused on you the entire time, and even if it was like that, it was your last year. After that, you prayed, you’d never see him again.

Everything comes to an end.

Your house was the only safe space you had. Even if it wasn’t anything like the warm memory you had about it, it was a place that had never been tainted by Heeseung, unlike your school, or the streets you walked to arrive there.

Sometimes, he would follow you while murmuring insults, pretending to be a good friend walking you home. Nonetheless, once you opened your entrance door and saw that he stayed feet away, you would exhale, relieved that he didn’t try to follow you inside, too.

‘’Your friend is waiting for you in your room,’’ your mother smiled. ‘’I’ll go and buy something for you to eat later’’ 

She, unlike you, was excited to have him there, and you, trying to breathe properly not to show how the panic was consuming you, nodded.

‘’He’s become such a handsome man,’’ she murmured before leaving.

There was nothing you could do to run away, it was your house, and opening your room door, you saw him calmly looking at your stuff.

Your pillow wasn’t where you left it, so it was impossible to deny he had been roaming around for a while, invading your space and doing whatever he wanted, like he always did.

Standing in front of your bookshelf, one of your diaries open in his hands, he sensed your presence.

‘’Didn’t know you took so many walks, thought you would never come,’’ he said, passing the page and inspecting its content as if there was something in particular he was looking for. ‘’It doesn’t explain why you still look like that though.’’

‘’Heeseung, I’ve done nothing to you,’’ you sounded as if you were begging at that point. ‘’Why– I just don’t get why.’’

‘’I have my reasons,’’ he answered, closing the book and leaving it where it previously was.

You flinched when he showed the intention of getting close to you. Your hands became fists behind you, fully alert, one of them gripping the knob, ready to run into another room in case he tried to hurt you again.

‘’We were friends,’’ you said, lower lip slightly trembling. ‘’Please, stop. It hurts, Heeseung. It hurts a lot.’’

He saw you like that, broken, vulnerable, and he beamed.

Walking towards you, you thought your body would listen to you and escape, but it didn’t.

As you remained frozen in your place, caging you with his body, he finished closing the door behind you. Too late, you only reacted after hearing the loud click the secure did.

You started trembling as you realised he had blocked the only way of running away you had.

‘’But if I don’t touch you, who else will?’’ he whispered, taking your shaking hand in his. 

Not pinching it this time, he interlocked his fingers with yours and pulled you closer to him. Your torso compacting his made you more conscious of how you were completely alone in your room, and, therefore, of how unrestrained he was allowed to act.

‘’If you’re good, I’ll stop being so hard on you. What do you think about that?’’ he offered.

You didn’t understand him. Being good with what? 

Looking up at him, you couldn’t move your chest from pressing his because his other hand, forcing you to stay in your place, went to rest over the small of your back, the generous curve from your ass to your waist that was the object of so many of his jokes.

You could see where his actions were going. 

You felt yourself get nauseous with his body temperature and his aroma suffocating you due to the inexistent distance between your bodies.

‘’My mom will come back in any second…’’ you didn’t know what other excuse to use.

‘’I’ll be quick,’’ he smiled, wetting his lips, unconsciously sending a signal to your brain that screamed for you to just be good and get it over with.

‘’Will it hurt?’’ Your face betrayed you, plainly showing all the fears you had, giving him, once again, the upper hand.

‘’Not anymore,’’ he assured you. His hand that used to bring you so much pain suddenly became gentle and trailed up, caressing your arm with multiple marks created by him before finding your chest, and groping it with obvious satisfaction a few times, he felt them until he decided he wanted to touch more of you.

His hands continued their way until he found his new goal.

He cupped your face with a tenderness you had never met from him before, and not wanting to provoke him in any way, you muted yourself. 

To his unpleasant care, thumbs caressing your cheeks, you didn’t make a single noise, not the hiss you always let out when he pinched you, nor the cry when he painfully rubbed your soft skin.

‘’Well done,’’ he praised you, proud of what he recognised as your acceptance.

He expected you to continue being so obedient when he obliged your thighs to open with his knee.

Quickly, he found his place.

You didn’t know what to expect, but you never imagined the situation would end with him ditching your pants somewhere in your room and desperately dropping to his knees so he could accommodate between your trembling legs, slurping all the involuntary wetness your body made you drip not to suffer when the moment of taking him arrived.

Not being able to call his name properly, you whined when his palms gripped your meaty thighs a bit too hard and his tongue found your entrance, penetrating it with sloppy stabs.

The sensation of the tip of his nose bumping against your clit and his fingers separating your plump folds made you bite your lips to stop what felt like a moan.

He was eating you out like a starved man.

Your hands went to his hair, and you have no idea what flooded you, but you felt free to hurt him too. 

You wanted him to suffer too.

Full of unknown courage, you pulled his hair and moved your hips to crush his face, using him instead of the other way around.

Then, it felt good– To hurt him felt way too good. 

You thought, maybe this is why he does it, because you had never felt so powerful and in control before, especially, with him.

Looking down, you two made eye contact even with your chubby stomach prodding out. 

His eyes had nothing of the mockery they always showed. Instead, they were completely lost, drunk and unfocused. You couldn’t contain your moans anymore when his eyes batted and he seemed pleased to have your attention on him.

Not much after he started fucking you harder with his tongue, the knot in your stomach started to feel so tight you knew it would snap in any second.

Without intention, or maybe with all the intention, you closed your large legs around his head, not caring that you were crushing his face as you strongly came over his mouth and nose. 

He mewled, hugging your legs as you asphyxiated him for many seconds before your orgasm finished and you inevitably relaxed. 

Just after giving him everything you had, you finally allowed him to breathe. 

You freed him from your hold, but he didn’t move away immediately.

Gulping your remaining juices, he hardly inhaled once through his nose before he started licking the drops of your orgasm inside your thighs, leaving a trail of kisses along the way until he found his new favourite thing.

With both hands on the back of your thighs, he blinked multiple times before his tongue found its way between your folds, searching for your clit to leave a last loving lick.

As if he was proud you had abused him, only separating forcedly because of your hands pushing his head away from your sensitive clit, he took open-mouthed deep breaths with a still dazed expression.

Regaining some of his senses, he talked with the lower half of his face glistening.

‘’See? This didn’t hurt, right?’’ he smiled.