#this is the same woman who doesn't wear her wedding ring bc she thinks someone will attack her to steal it off her body

[clonerightsagenda]

Just had to have another standoff with my boss over refusing to call campus security on our students. Lady if you're so desperate to call the cops on kids quit your job and become a fulltime NextDoor poster.

[2demondogs]

HIIIIIII RAHHH

sorry

Im the same anon who asked you to write the latest arthur x m!reader and omgg you envisioned what i wanted so well! you're an amazing author!!

I was also wondering if you were up to write more parts to this specific prompt of the affair? it doesn't have to be smut again, just a continuation of the story ykyk?

Thank you so much, I'm so glad you liked it! <3 Sorry this took so long, I had an immediate plot come to mind bc I'm fuckin' heavy w this AU but then I got nerfed by life. Original work I'm writing rn is affair-based too... I'm on a messy gay bitches kick I guess lol. No smut in this one.

For the uninitiated, part one is here. On Ao3, I've just added this as a 2nd chapter.

Words: 3.6k Tags: pre-canon, extramarital affairs (reader's married to a gal), chalk full of messy drama, this is like a situationship but even more evil

The bruises Arthur left lasted for nearly two weeks.

You're thankful that the soreness wasn't present for quite as long, coming in hard and fast in the morningtime. It felt like you'd sat on hot coals. Riding home was nearly unbearable, and not only because — for some reason that couldn't've been worth what it did to your heart — the man spent the night with you. Maybe he thought it would feel less transactional than an evening together usually must, though you'd not know. Maybe he holds every man he lays with while he sleeps.

The fact you don't know anything substantial about Arthur, sometimes, bothers you. Your wife wanted to lose her virginity on a more special occasion than her wedding day which also, sometimes, bothers you.

Anymore, you twist the ring around your finger and quiet that blackness in your gut by reminding yourself: if she's got someone else, well— haven't I?

She doesn't, you know. Never have you been one to play those petty games of accusation based only in your own sorrows. As you ready for bed, there is no other man undoing the laces of her corset. Nor does he do them up in the mornings, having learned exactly how tight she likes them done; no other woman fixes your ties when you wear one, nor goes to undo the first button of your collar because it looks less stiff this way.

Stiff is the awfulest thing, your wife believes, a man could be. You suppose you're inclined to agree, in most cases. It certainly does not ease the tension in your shoulders to know you're becoming stiff, and for reasons she's not privy to.

She hasn't got another, no.

Have you?

Firstly, it would break her heart. Or at least, you think as much. It felt too fresh to be desired how you were, openly and hotly, by Arthur. A wife should be her man's best friend and her, his, but is she too friendly? You had rolled that one around your head until the purple on your chest began to fade and you were beginning to forget, with a great sense of regret for how fast memories discolor themselves, how Arthur had looked at you that first moment alone. By then, it was beginning to aggravate you how difficult women's clothes are to do and undo.

Secondly, you hadn't been able to shake the idea that she'd find out. Someone saw you, you fear, and felt so bad for your poor betrothed that they're about to risk their own life to out you. Any minute now, two years of marriage and many more of some sort of love will be lost.

It'd been awful enough trying to fall asleep in a place with such a target over its head. It was foolish, you know now that you are no longer aroused and careless, to not find another, safer room to board in for the evening. It was foolish to feel safe because Arthur was beside you, and even more foolish to let Arthur stroke your hair. It'd only been for a moment. Your wife hasn't thought much of your requests for it every night since then, though her slender, soft fingers kept you awake and tense.

Mostly, you feel confused. Torn, more like; ripped apart. It's unavoidable, now, the answer to whether you like men or not. The wonder is so satiated, in fact, you're starting to fear that you used Arthur for your own exploration in a moment of callous selfishness led only by your prick.

It's soothed by the longing, and then you feel the pain of her delicacy. You're beginning to question if you like women or not. The answer is coming into focus the more you look at her, though she only thinks you missed her enough to be crazy for her.

God, does staring truly count as being crazy for someone?

How distant have I been?

How little have I known myself, all this time?

And yet remains the urge to be pleasant for her. To loosen your collar and yourself and have her draped over your arm, because you do still love her, even if only as some odd sort of close friend that lives with you and dotes on you and fixes your hair when it is windblown and looks at you when you light her cigarettes, because she's forgotten her matchbook again.

You fear, despite this love, you are using her.

There is still a certain, adoring pride you take in knowing how tightly to lace her corset, that she's absentminded but always remembers the dates of things, that she'll be happy if you lay out that food for the stray cats and make sure to feed her favorite one — that calico that looks like it's ninety years old — an extra slice of salami every time she goes to her sister's house for the weekend. Salami, always, because he doesn't like ham like the others do. She can tell if you're lying, somehow, so you always make certain to do it.

You aren't sure why she doesn't bring them inside the house. Sometimes you feel more kinship with the crowd of strays than you'd like.

It's an hour past noon when you hear the approaching of hooves from the parlor. Too spacious, with little to soak up the sound as it wafts in through an open window, cracked to let the summer breeze blow through the stuffy downstairs. Perfect timing, all things considered: you'd just finished a chapter of your Wilde collection.

While you sat the hardcover volume on the coffee table before the couch, you found it odd to hear hooves on second thought. Used to it, anymore, but unless your horse got out of the pasture again — possible, and very tiresome — your wife had not left on horseback.

Her friend's husband had driven by to take your ladies into town, which you declined because you did not care for the man and your wife didn't either. The thought of him wandering the city alone while the women shopped together was amusement of a cynical variety. She didn't want you to bicker with him, anyways, so you'd given her perhaps too much of your week's pay and a kiss on the forehead. She looked like a painting, which of course you told her, in her fine afternoon dress and those earrings her friend had made for her on her last birthday.

Sometimes you consider the very fine line you walk between comfort and wealth, and find yourself a little off-put by it. The house was a wedding gift, and much of it is empty still from your meager pay.

The foyer is rugged, though it needs a wash from the dust and dirt staining it. Door creaking, you try not to walk fast down the steps, though that changes when you see her being helped down from riding side-saddle on an unfamiliar horse by a man you don't recognize— right away. Talking, and she laughs, but it is strained and thick as though she's upset. You last heard that voice out of her when her father passed away.

"Sweetheart?" The brief worry flashes in your mind that she has found someone else; it's your guilt speaking. "What's goin' on?"

Her face appears from behind the broad shoulders, and she starts to meet you where you approach them. You wish your gun were not left in the bedroom, tucked into its holster on the nightstand, because there is something about all of this that is already twisting your gut.

What it is becomes clear soon enough. With her face in your hands, its makeup run down her cheeks and tracks of skin showing through her ruined rouge and eyeliner, you look over her shoulder at the man who's turned around. That thing coils tighter in your belly, twists into something even uglier than fear or anger: excitement.

His skin is beaten freshly red by the sun and his clothes are stained in traildust, but it is Arthur all the same. You should've known by that black hat, though it was too dark to have seen the scuff marks that would've told you from behind, or maybe by the way he stands. Missing the heat but as certain as he had stood staring down at where you were pressed to the wall.

Recognition flashes across his face, too, but he handles it with more grace. You realize she's began to speak, and afix her with all the confusion and sympathy you have.

"—chasin' me! Mister— oh, I didn't even ask your name," she's saying, looking back at Arthur.

He gives her a soft expression, as though she's a wounded animal. "Kilgore," he says. "Arthur Kilgore."

Had that been his name?

Perhaps it's his middle name, or his last. You could've sworn it was Callahan, but maybe in your overwraught mind the last month and a half has morphed it the same it's done to the visions of that evening. It wasn't entirely farfetched to think he might've lied in such a place, either.

She turns back to you, brows scrunched. "Mister Kilgore got them boys off my trail. God, I never should've left them two, they'll surely be worried to death, but I— I jus' wanted to be home, 'n' I hadn't any idea where they was by then." She sighs, shuts her eyes as if she can't bear to say it with her gaze on your face. The mahagony shadow is still painted on her lids. "Oh, I wish I would'a asked you to come with us, honey. I hate bein' alone in that godforesaken town."

Burying her face into your collar, she squeezes around your ribs tighter than you've ever felt, and you stroke her hair. "It's a'right," you soothe, rocking her. "You're home, now."

With her in your arms, Arthur standing awkwardly to the side, it feels— everything feels wrong. You find again that there is something missing from the way you hold her, and this is an awful moment to notice it.

"Well," Arthur says, settling his hands on his belt only to lift them in some gesture of that's enough for me. "I best be movin' on, now. I got—"

Your wife draws back, steps away to swing her body to face him. Her fingers clutch in your shirt's back, and then loosen, though her arm stays around you.

"You must stay for dinner," she says, palm open to him as if to display the offer. "It's the least we can offer. You might'a saved my life."

She turns to you, smiles and drops her tone the way she always does when she's sweet-talking. Her lashes are black and thick with mascara as she looks up through them. "And I don't know what you'd do without me."

For better or worse, you don't know either. You realize that is precisely the problem.

You flush, anyways.

Arthur begins to speak, eyes flicking between the two of you and your house, the stables out back. His face is unreadable, artfully so. You've never been more thankful, nor more curious as to how a man keeps his composure in a situation that's got you feeling like some part of you might implode, toe of your shoe antsily bouncing on the grass.

"I s'pose a hot meal does sound nice," he sighs, humble as ever. He takes his hat off, lays it over his chest. You look at your girl's hair instead, until he speaks, seeing him gesture with the gambler to her out of your peripherals. "Thank you, miss." Arthur finds your eyes, and you think maybe you see some of the tension you feel returned in them. There's a silent pointedness in how he returns his hat to his head instead of waving it towards you. "'N' you, o'course."

Feeling as though it's the right thing to do, you bring her closer by her bicep, sliding a hand around to squeeze comfortingly at the softness that her off-shoulder dress exposes of her arm. "Thank you, mister."

You'd insisted on helping with the cooking, and she insisted you keep Arthur company. It was your expected duty as the man of the house, but what a terrible choice it had seemed, and what a terrible choice it's coming to be.

Some young men had scared her half to death chasing her through the city street. She's alright, physically speaking. You'd been worried when she described it, but she swore she was untouched, which eased your concern only a little. Arthur affirmed as much.

You didn't and don't ask what he did to the boys. A feeling that he is more than he appears comes crawling up your neck, but you disregard it. A man who would stop and whisk your wife away from danger is not a man that you fear, let alone the way he'd treated you.

All you do is wonder if he realizes, based on the blasé expression on his face, the lives he touches. The way he's touched yours, twice now— you're uncertain on how it feels but, nonetheless, he has done it.

A man less keen on disturbing peace and quiet might have spoken up and said the man's got places to be, darling, and sent him away instead of inviting him inside. Punishment must make you feel better, you think, because that seems an even more terrible choice than allowing things to complicate themselves further in the name of your own relief.

Inside, once more. It was beginning to get easier to swallow the inklings of lust and the afterimages burned into your mind, but there is little to stave them off, now. Two weeks' worth of repression is brewing beneath the pressure of the half-dignified face you've kept sealed over top.

He apologizes for tracking dirt in while slipping off his boots, and that gentle consideration strikes you as too-familiar. Your wife laughs and says what a great idea before toeing off hers; all you can think of is jeans pooled around socked feet and smooth, exposed hip-bones. You clear your throat and lead them towards the sofa by a hand on her waist and his elbow.

How many lives has Arthur touched without knowing the burn he leaves behind? It's muggy in your throat, the want and the dismay and the horrible, no-good pleasure of being near him again.

As she disappears into the kitchen, he settles a respectable distance from you on the couch. The idea that he is not interested in any more fooling around makes you want to tear the skin off your hands, forcing yourself to settle for picking at the dirt gathered beneath your nails.

He looks out of place in the tidiness. You study him openly, and Arthur doesn't appear to mind. His eyes are wandering the paintings and scattered photographs on the walls. Fresh freckles are formed along his arms, or maybe you've merely forgotten them; his stomach has lost some of its fullness, which makes you glad dinner was offered and yet leaves you with questions; his his socks are holed against clean hardwood floor.

There's an awkwardness that lays only in how stilted both of you feel, though his own is considerably more concealed. It comes through in the air, a tightness in his spine. There's a thick blanket of oxygen between your bodies that you have no idea how to approach, although you know you shouldn't approach it at all.

"Nice home," Arthur says. His voice seems fuller indoors, warm and rough.

"Nice house," you agree. It's very unlike you to say such a thing. "Cigarette?"

Something ugly inside you wants to plead with him that you are not a cheater nor attached to him, though he didn't seem to care about either possibility with the promise of your warmth, and to lie and say you are only a heartless hedonist. By all accounts, most think the latter is better for a man to be.

Well, as long as he is a hedonist for another woman. You do not contemplate that, or else you'll truly go mad.

Arthur nods, a thanks under his breath. Your fingers fumble with the lighter once you've fished the carton from your breast pocket, almost dry and tasting bitterly of scraped up fuel when you drop the lever to ignite the end of your smoke. Patiently, he accepts the flame when you light his.

You feel terrible, but you yearn. He looks at your hand and he is gorgeous beneath brown lashes.

Oh, how you yearn. There is and there isn't— of so much. Does he understand what his presence is doing to you? He must, for how he turns his eyes up at you across the flame, easy and open and unspeaking but knowing.

"Wife's a pretty gal," he says, once he's settled back into the cushion. You can't decipher his tone, only to decide it's mere polite conversation. "Real sweet. Didn't think she'd ever stop thankin' me." He shrugs. "Jus' scattered some fools for her."

How pompous. You're delighted to hear so many words from him.

"She was scared," you say, as if you were the one who was there. Nothing else comes to you, so you reach over and slide the glass ashtray across the coffee to sit between you, flicking the end of your cigarette into it.

"Dunno what's wrong with fellers these days," Arthur says. He blinks and sighs, face suggesting it isn't just these days as he leans his elbows on his knees. You're inclined to agree, twisting at your wedding band with the cigarette tucked between your lips. "Lonesome lady mindin' her own business." He gestures with his hand, smoke trailing after it. "No reason to bother her."

Silence passes with ash dropped in tray, though not internally. The conversation settles and your mind is back ablaze, with a fresh coat of guilt-paint. God, she could've been kidnapped, and you're—

"Does it bother you?" You're murmuring, eyes set on his. They are clearer in the day, shades of green shining through their blue, set above dark undereyes. "That she's in the other room?"

Understanding crosses his face immediately. You aren't sure if it's an offer, if it's a question, if it's even something you should have spoken aloud. But that strength is there, that odd and nuturing kind that you simply don't have or comprehend, and you feel better that Arthur seems to know what you mean.

"No," he whispers. His voice is gravelly. "You?"

"Yes," you reply. It's the truth.

Despite it, you move closer; so does Arthur.

His hand finds your thigh and the touch sears so strongly you might jump from your skin the moment it leaves, his palm hot, back of his hand covered in hairs bleached blond by the sun. He must be a trailblazer of some sort. Somehow, the urge to know him dies.

It's more exciting this way. How quickly you've leapt from whatever aching, heart-bursting thing that was begging him back to you and straight towards skin-shallow lust. It is hot in your gut as he kisses you, cigarette pinched between his fingers as they trace your jaw, fall to rest on your neck. He tastes so familiar despite the distance between now and then, time and miles. The parlor fades and only the bar would exist, save for the daylight that threatens your hastily shut eyelids, so you squeeze them tighter and place your nose against his throat.

She's making dinner. The sounds of it haven't stopped, idle metal clicking and the sound of fresh-lit crackling in the fireplace. The racing of your heart is enough of a reminder, the anxiety that makes your hand twitch where it clings to the coarse fabric of Arthur's flannel shirt, nails digging in and slipping against it.

You withdraw, even though you want. There are not definite words for the desire, none at all, except maybe consumption or licking him clean down to the bones.

He is everything a man ought to be and Jesus, you want a man.

In the face of him the first time, the worst parts of this new self-discovery had fled and gave way to the goodness of it. All those terrible parts simmering inside you for so long flee again now that he is here, now that his stubble has roughed your chin and his spit dries on your lips once more. You were starting to fear they'd never leave, that the rot would grow stale in you and sour for as long as you lived.

You kiss him again to lick into his mouth, haphazard, all prowess lost in the celibacy since you had sex with him. He accepts it as openly as before, shows you another thing or two. Hot breath grows too loud and you withdraw despite yourself.

What to do now lingers.

You've broken whatever remaining restraint was keeping you sat at the other end of the sofa, and his hand is feeling at the softness of your inner thigh through your jeans. If you don't decide quickly, you'll be explaining a hard-on to your wife, and that thought sobers you.

You told him it bothers you that you are not alone, so he does not question it, despite his obvious disappointment, when you slide inches back to your original seat. Not all the way, but enough that when your wife pokes her head from the kitchen and asks what the silence is about, she suspects nothing more than that stiffness she dislikes so much.

[quietlyblooms]

hc + 👗 for a clothes-themed headcanon hc + 💕 for a loved-themed headcanon hc + 🌇 for a headcanon about morning- or evening rituals hc + 🤕 for a pain-themed headcanon

thematic headcanons | @goldcnpeaks wanted to hear me ramble <3

clothes

while chiyo will experiment with different styles ( alternative and light academia aesthetics are likely the most common ), if she's just running errands, working at home, or casually hanging out with friends/family, you will see her dressed comfortably and casually. imagine a large rotation of hoodies, sweatshirts, and graphic tees paired with a smaller rotation of sneakers that are very well-kept. she wears shorts and skirts ( sometimes paired with tights ) a lot more than jeans/sweatpants/leggings bc she finds them more comfortable while still looking nice and put-together. even when she's dressing for comfort, she wants to look good!

other lil details to notice: chiyo accessorizes a ton when she's dressing up, but when she's not? she keeps earrings on, and that's it. she wears rings only if she knows she won't draw that day, and she's still liable to take them off at some point. she owns a bunch of patterned socks, a ton of tights and stockings, and a decent collection of shoes. chiyo also has a handful of different winter coats she'll pick through depending on the outfit she's wearing that day.

bottom line? her closets are bursting bc she enjoys expressing herself through fashion :' )

love

within her own canon, chiyo doesn't believe she's experienced romantic love, and i don't think she has. when she dated kojirou, they were teenagers; she may have been infatuated and loved him as his friend first, but romantic love would have been a very strong way to describe her feelings at the time. from then on, she's never allowed herself to get that close to someone. we know this!

chiyo's understanding of romantic love, then, centers around the example her parents and grandmother give her. her parents are best friends; they tease each other and joke constantly; they're freely affectionate with each other; when they're angry, they eventually talk it out; when one cries, the other holds them; and above all else, they go out of their way for each other. they prioritize the other's happiness over their own. and her grandmother? she is a devoted wife even after her grandfather's passing all that time ago. she visits his grave every week and fondly speaks of him if given the chance, still cooks his favorite foods during holidays, still wears her wedding ring.

chiyo understands that romantic love can manifest and present itself in many ways, but when she finally loves someone, she expresses it the way she's always watched it unfold before her. love is a safe place, a constant warmth that never leaves your bones. love is knowing that someone is waiting for you. always. forever. it's surprisingly idealistic for a woman who is typically kind of... pessimistic and cynical to a certain degree. still, this is the sort of love she hopes to give someone else -- and receive, but again, she understands not everyone loves the same.

morning/evening rituals

mornings are not wasted, but they are not rushed, either. it's different if she has somewhere to be, but if it's a normal work or rest day, chiyo will put something on in the background, be it a show she's seen before or music, and get herself looking presentable. there's a simple skincare routine ( heavy on moisture bc ma'am has dry skin ) that she commits to even if she's exhausted bc self care is important, and once she's dressed, she reads a book or manga while she eats breakfast ( there's gotta be hot coffee!! ). after that, she takes jun for a nice walk, and then she's off to work! at home

i have to note that chiyo doesn't like silence when she's alone. her morning especially feels eerie and off if she doesn't have something playing the whole time.

her evenings suffer bc chiyo often stays up late working. sometimes she works best that way, buuuut she doesn't tend to spend a lot of time on herself or any routine at night bc she's mentally drained at that point. then again! self care is important, so at the very least, she's taking the quickest shower ever and slapping on moisturizer and praying she can tame her hair in the morning.

pain

considering chiyo didn't get any tattoos prior to what she has now, she wasn't fully prepared for the pain :' )) it's one thing to read about what to expect and actually experience it. her tattoos took a lot of sessions i'm sure, and she tried to keep them relatively close to each other bc 1. she didn't want to give herself time to chicken out, and 2. she really just wanted it all done. as you can imagine, a good chunk of chiyo's skin was sensitive and healing up and um. she definitely slipped up on some of the aftercare asdfg a patch or two got a lil infected ( owieee ) and had to be treated and later touched up as a result.

does chiyo love her tattoos now? yup!! but beauty truly is pain :' )